“I don’t think we can do any more here,” said Collins.
“You’ve searched all these books and the furniture for any documents?” said Sinclair.
“What do you expect to find?” said Boyce.
“One never knows,” said Sinclair hastily.
The man addressed said, “Yes, sir, and we have been through all his papers as you told us; there appears to be nothing of importance. He was very methodical, and did not appear to keep any private documents here. Perhaps they are in Devonshire.”
“We are trying to find the whereabouts of the new Baronet, who was last heard of in Monte Video,” said Sinclair.
“I see you are,” said Boyce; “but I should have thought that would have been for the relatives to do. It does not seem a Home Office matter.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sinclair; “but as he was Home Secretary?”
“Exactly, as an act of courtesy, perhaps,” and Boyce assumed a manner of importance. He had become a prominent man in the last few days. Sinclair breathed a sigh of relief. He was thinking of the letter which he had no intention of showing to anyone else.
There was a ring at the door, and the policeman on duty brought in a telegram.
“For you, sir,” he said, handing it to Collins.
He read it while the others watched. Not a muscle moved.
“No answer, thanks,” he said to the policeman, and put it in his pocket.
“Anything important?” said Boyce, officiously.
“Oh, no,” said the other.
He turned into the library, and looked round.
“What the devil is he doing with telegrams sent to this house?” said Boyce, irritably.
The remark called for no answer.
The telegram was from Miss Watson to say she was coming to Town that afternoon, and would he meet her.
It did not ask for an answer, which pleased him somehow. He strolled out of the room, and said:
“What a pity some of our spook merchants cannot come and make an incantation or beat tom-toms or something, and conjure up the scene for us. It would be most interesting.”
“What is more important than mere interest,” said Boyce, “is to bring the criminal to justice.”
“Oh, I suppose so, but it’s so dull when the problem is solved, especially if it turns out banal. It’s like a game of cricket, when you expect an exciting ending, and the other side all get out for about 20.”
“I am afraid I do not play cricket,” said Boyce, curtly.
Collins eyed him, “No, you wouldn’t,” he said, and made an enemy of him forthwith.
VII
Valuable Information
Collins was punctual to the minute at Paddington. He had dressed himself up for the occasion, though he felt contempt for so doing. The express from Wilton-on-Sea was up to time.
From a first-class compartment Mabel Watson descended. Her face was white and calm, but she wore no veil. Collins walked towards the door and stopped. After the girl, a man descended from the carriage. He was tall and dressed in good taste, but had a weak looking face, with a wandering light moustache and straw-coloured hair.
His eyes were a cold blue. He was the sort of man that women “rave about.” Collins took careful stock of the man, and then advanced with raised hat. The girl gave a smile of recognition, and shook hands.
“It is very good of you to come and meet me,” she said. “This is Mr. Eric Sanders, Mr. Collins.” The men shook hands and exchanged a look not too friendly. They were antipathetical.
“I have brought my old nurse with me, and John. I shall go to an hotel, of course. I suppose our house is in the hands of the police,” and she shuddered. “We stayed at Ackroyd’s when we had let our house one year,” she said.
“A very good hotel, and quite convenient,” said Collins.
“John, tell the porter to get a taxi, please,” she said.
“I have brought my car,” Collins interposed, “and if you care to come with me, the servants can come on with the luggage.”
“That is very kind of you, but I will bring Nurse, if you don’t mind.”
Sanders had been standing by, gloomy and resentful.
Collins led the way to the car.
“Will you come with me, then?” said he.
“I should like to,” she replied. “Eric, will you take care of Nurse?” She got into her seat, and Sanders, with not too good a grace, helped the old nurse into the back seat.
The drive was all too short. In spite of the terrible cloud hanging over her, her youth was strong, and she felt the relief of getting away from Devon and her thoughts there.
They had tea in a private sitting room, and Collins laid himself out to keep her mind off the tragedy.
“You must come to a theatre tonight,” he said.
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she answered.
“If I may say so, I don’t agree with you. I know what is in your mind. You don’t think it would be right after what has happened, but if you stay in, you will only brood over things and make yourself miserable, and,” he added earnestly, “I am sure your father would not have wished you to do that. I am not asking you to forget him, but you have had a bad ordeal to go through, and must keep yourself going.”
“What do you think, Eric?” she said, addressing Sanders, who had been silent during the meal.
“Of course, you must please yourself, but I should hardly have thought it was quite the thing,” he said.
There was something in his tone which annoyed her.
“Why not?” she said.
“Well,” he said, floundering. “I suppose it’s a matter of taste, but in the circumstances—”
She gave a toss of her head, and turned to Collins.
“Thank you; yes, I will accept your kind invitation.”
“I hope you will join us, too,” said he politely to Sanders.
For a moment he was about to refuse, then he said, “Thank you, very much.”
“Then I will get a box for four. Of course, Nurse will come as well.”
“That is very kind of you. It would be a great treat for her. Only in
