Rath Hall was a rambling white building of two stories, set in the midst of a little park, so thickly wooded that the house was invisible from the road; and since the main entrance to the estate was a very commonplace gate, without lodge or visible drive beyond, Gonsalez would have missed the place had he not recognized the man who was sitting on the moss-grown and broken wall who jumped down as Leon stopped his car.
“Mr. Meadows is at the house, sir. He said he expected you.”
“And where on earth is the house?” asked Leon Gonsalez, as he went into reverse.
For answer the detective opened the gate wide and Leon sent his car winding between the trees, for close at hand he recognized where a gravel drive had once been, and, moreover, saw the tracks of cars in the soft earth. He arrived just as Mr. Johnson Lee was taking his two guests in to dinner, and Meadows was obviously glad to see him. He excused himself and took Leon aside into the hall, where they could not be overheard.
“I have had your message,” he said. “The only thing that has happened out of the ordinary is that the servants have an invitation to a big concert at Brightlingsea. You expected that?”
Leon nodded.
“Yes: I hope Lee will let them go. I prefer that they should be out of the way. A crude scheme—but Oberzohn does these things. Has anything else happened?”
“Nothing. There have been one or two queer people around.”
“Has he showed you the letters he had from Barberton?”
To his surprise the inspector answered in the affirmative.
“Yes, but they are worse than Greek to me. A series of tiny protuberances on thick brown paper. He keeps them in his safe. He read some of the letters to me: they were not very illuminating.”
“But the letter of letters?” asked Leon anxiously. “That which Lee answered—by the way, you know that Mr. Lee wrote all his letters between perforated lines?”
“I’ve seen the paper,” nodded the detective. “No, I asked him about that, but apparently he is not anxious to talk until he has seen his lawyer, who is coming down tonight. He should have been here, in fact, in time for dinner.”
They passed into the dining-room together. The blind man was waiting patiently at the head of the table, and with an apology Leon took the place that had been reserved for him. He sat with his back to the wall, facing one of the three long windows that looked out upon the park. It was a warm night and the blinds were up, as also was the middle window that faced him. He made a motion to Mr. Washington, who sat opposite him, to draw a little aside, and the American realized that he wished an uninterrupted view of the park.
“Would you like the window closed?” asked Mr. Lee, leaning forward and addressing the table in general. “I know it is open,” he said with a little laugh, “because I opened it! I am a lover of fresh air.”
They murmured their agreement and the meal went on without any extraordinary incident. Mr. Washington was one of those adaptable people who dovetail into any environment in which they find themselves. He was as much at home at Rath Hall as though he had been born and bred in the neighbourhood. Moreover, he had a special reason for jubilation: he had found a rare adder when walking in the woods that morning, and spent ten minutes explaining in what respect it differed from every other English adder.
“Is it dead?” asked Meadows nervously.
“Kill it?” said the indignant Mr. Washington. “Why should I kill it? I saw a whole lot of doves out on the lawn this morning—should I kill ’em? No, sir! I’ve got none of those mean feelings towards snakes. I guess the Lord sent snakes into this world for some other purpose than to be chased and killed every time they’re seen. I sent him up to London today by train to a friend of mine at the Zoological Gardens. He’ll keep him until I’m ready to take him back home.”
Meadows drew a long sigh.
“As long as he’s not in your pocket,” he said.
“Do you mind?”
Leon’s voice was urgent as he signalled Washington to move yet farther to the left, and when the big man moved his chair, Leon nodded his thanks. His eyes were on the window and the darkening lawn. Not once did he remove his gaze.
“It’s an extraordinary thing about Poole, my lawyer,” Mr. Lee was saying. “He promised faithfully he’d be at Rath by seven o’clock. What is the time?”
Meadows looked at his watch.
“Half-past eight,” he said. He saw the cloud that came over the face of the blind owner of Rath Hall.
“It is extraordinary! I wonder if you would mind—”
His foot touched a bell beneath the table and his butler came in.
“Will you telephone to Mr. Poole’s house and ask if he has left?”
The butler returned in a short time.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Poole left the house by car at half-past six.”
Johnson Lee sat back in his chair.
“Half-past six? He should have been here by now.”
“How far away does he live?”
“About fifteen miles. I thought he might have come down from London rather late. That is extraordinary.”
“He may have had tyre trouble,” said Leon, not shifting his fixed stare.
“He could have telephoned.”
“Did anyone know he was coming—anybody outside your own household?” asked Gonsalez.
The blind man hesitated.
“Yes, I mentioned the fact to the post office this morning. I went in to get my letters, and found that one I had written to Mr. Poole had been returned through a stupid mistake on my part. I told the postmaster that he was coming this evening and that there was no need to forward it.”
“You were in the public part of the post office?”
“I believe I was.”
“You said nothing else, Mr. Lee—nothing that would give any idea of the
