“Ho-ho, is that it? Fancy our friend Collins. He doesn’t fit in with marriage bells, somehow. I expect if there’s anything in it, he will give up amateur detective work.”
“Mr. Sylvester Collins to see you, sir,” said the messenger.
“Show him in,” said Boyce. Then in a whisper—“Not a word about this, he will only start arguing.”
Collins entered. He was neatly dressed as always, but he had a gaunt look and the lines on his face suggested sleepless nights.
“Where have you sprung from?” said Boyce, with affected geniality of manner. He was not anxious to go over the whole case with this man whose keen intellect he feared.
“Oh, I have been first in Devonshire and for the last three days on a walking tour.”
“You look it,” said Boyce.
“I really came to see Sinclair, but heard he was with you, so came on.”
Boyce looked uncomfortable. “Would you two rather be together? I have finished with him.”
“I suppose you have just settled the case of Sir James to your satisfaction, eh?” he said with a laugh.
“Oh, I know you do not agree with our conclusions, but I would much rather not go into the whole matter.”
“I don’t wish to discuss it. I think you have come to the wisest decision you could under the circumstances.”
“Now you are trying to be sarcastic.”
“Not at all. I had an idea of my own, but I don’t think it is worth following up. I have finished with the case, and am quite satisfied with the way things have turned out.”
The other two looked at him in astonishment.
“Well, you have changed your opinion. I am very glad,” said Boyce, with genuine satisfaction.
Sinclair looked bewildered.
“So your clue proved a fraud, did it?” he said.
“It did not lead where I expected,” he answered.
“This is all Greek to me,” said Boyce; “won’t you tell us?”
“No; it would only introduce the name of a man who has nothing to do with the matter.”
“You wanted to see me?” said Sinclair, still puzzled.
“Any time will do. By the way, Boyce, how long do you think it will be before your case is finished? I mean, all settled?”
“I can’t say, you know the course of the law is not swift.”
“Shall we say a month?”
“I should think that will easily cover it.”
“Why are you so anxious to know?”
Collins flicked the ash off his cigarette into an ash tray.
“Nothing much, only I know who the murderer was, and I wanted to know how long it would be before your man was convicted.”
The other two gazed at him in utter astonishment.
“Do you mean to say that you think you know who murdered Sir James and you are not going to tell who it was?” said Boyce.
“I never had any doubt in my own mind at all. But to give him up—no, I am afraid that would be impossible. You see, he doesn’t exist.”
“Doesn’t exist? What nonsense. Are you trying one of your jokes on us?” said Boyce, crossly; he hated mysteries.
“He’s gone, disappeared, vamoosed.”
“Do you mean he’s dead?” said Boyce.
“The question is, did he ever exist?”
“Oh, I’ve no patience with this sort of talk,” said Boyce. “If you know anything, for goodness sake say what it is; if not, don’t talk in riddles.”
Sinclair had been watching keenly. His face was grave.
“Yes, I think I know what you mean,” he said.
“Oh, you, too. What on earth are you getting at?”
“I shall be in a position to say in a few days’ time, to tell you more,” said Sinclair.
“I wish you two would not be so confoundedly mysterious,” said Boyce.
“If you’ve got anything to tell me, do so. As for you, Sinclair, I expect loyalty from you at any rate.”
Sinclair replied with some stiffness.
“I shall not take any action without consulting you, sir, and I may be quite wrong.”
“Very well,” said Boyce, with a gesture of dismissal.
Alone together Collins and Sinclair went to the latter’s room.
“What an ass that man is,” said Collins. “He hasn’t the brains of a rabbit.”
“I wonder,” said the other, “whether he is quite the fool you think him.”
“What are your plans?”
“Do you know a place called Wilton-on-Sea?” said Sinclair. Collins looked keenly at him.
“Yes, I know it,” he said.
“I am thinking of running down there,” said Sinclair.
“What on earth are you going there for?”
“I have been told that it is very good air, and as I have a few days’ leave, I thought I would try it.”
Collins thought for a moment.
“Well, you probably don’t know, but it is quite close to Sir James Watson’s place—in fact, it is the station for it.”
“Really?” said Sinclair. “Then of course you know it well?”
“If you are really going there I will run you down in my car. You might like to see Sir James’ place.”
The men looked at each other.
“I would like to see inside your head, and find out what there is there,” said Sinclair. “You’ve something concealed.”
Collins laughed. “That’s just what I was thinking. What are you after? Well, we will each keep his own counsel.”
XV
The Crisis
Beyond Wilton-on-Sea, there is a bare hill standing gaunt above the surrounding country.
On the seaward side the cliff is sheer, and to the West a sudden drop into a quarry pit makes for danger. On the East a very steep path leads to a semi-ruined church, surrounded by a church yard, and some little distance away is a tower where once stood an ancient castle.
The church forms a landmark for miles.
From a distance it appears to be an imposing edifice. On near approach there is a tiny chancel which still retains a roof, and a nave with no roof. It is all very small, like the chapel of a stronghold in days gone by. At the base of the hill is a public-house of mean appearance, and also some straggling houses.
It was here that Sinclair and Collins had taken up their residence. For three days they had been glued to the spot. A fretful distrust of each other was growing
