There had been no talk of going to Sir James’ house. Collins would sit in the little sitting room upstairs, reading, with one eye on the window. Sinclair was more restless; he wandered outside, prowling round the base of the hill but never going up.
He appeared to be drinking more than was good for him, and evidently suffering from the strain of waiting. Each was sure that the other was keeping something to himself, but whatever it was it had drawn them to this spot. Evening was coming on after a grey autumn afternoon, and a thin drizzle was falling. It was a time when a wise man hugs his fire, and is glad to draw the curtains and light a cheery lamp.
There was no light in the small upper room where Collins sat like a sphinx. Sinclair was glowering in the armchair, his face slightly grey, and a worried look in his eyes.
The hillside was getting dark, and the church on the top stood out black against the western sky. A straggling group of people were coming down the steep path. There had been a service in the tiny chancel, and curiosity had drawn visitors to attend.
Perhaps a dozen or so were descending the steep pathway.
Collins gave a slight movement, and drew in his breath quickly.
“At last!” he said, almost involuntarily.
He sprang to his feet, and took his mackintosh from a chair.
Sinclair got up, too. “Well?” he said.
Collins laughed. “Come on then. I see you want to be in at the death.”
Without a word Sinclair put on his coat, and followed.
At the point where the steep path wound upwards there was a lychgate. Here in the shadow they waited while the rain dripped off the tiled roof. The people had passed, and a solitary figure was approaching in the gathering gloom.
He was scarcely a yard off, when Sinclair made an exclamation, and sprang forward. He laid his hand on the other’s shoulder and looked straight in his face. “Ah,” he said, “Lewis at last! I arrest you for the murder of Sir James Watson, and I warn you—but of course you know all about that.” The other made no movement of protest or resentment. Collins came forward smiling blandly.
“Steady, Sinclair, don’t let your professional zeal run away with you. You haven’t a warrant to start with, and you are mistaking your man.”
“What do you mean?” said Sinclair, turning to him.
“You are mistaking your man, that is all. Let me introduce you. This is Sir Ronald Watson, Baronet, Superintendent Sinclair.”
A look of blank astonishment was on Sinclair’s face, and he looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
“What on earth do you mean?” he said.
The other man turned to Collins, “Hast thou found me, oh mine enemy?” he said, with a smile, which belied his words.
“Come on,” said Collins; “let’s get indoors, it’s beastly out here.”
“So be it,” said the other.
They crossed the road where the mud was splashing, and entered the house. Once in the room, the stranger turned to Sinclair.
“Yes; I am Ronald Watson, though how Mr. Collins has run me to earth is a mystery. And what you are doing in the matter, unless you knew my identity, is more than I can say.”
“I don’t understand it at all,” said Sinclair, who was inclined to be sulky at the turn of affairs. “It seems to me there will have to be a lot of explanation.”
“You shall have it. The time has gone by for this concealment. It was a mistake. Only let me tell you I had nothing to do with the murder of my poor father.”
“I can answer for that,” said Collins.
“Look here,” continued Collins, “I have my car here, and I suggest that we run over to The Vale, and have a full explanation there.”
“Yes; that will be the best thing,” said Watson, or Lewis. A sudden thought crossed Sinclair’s mind. “Oh, of course. That will do,” he said. Collins was watching him keenly.
“Will you settle up here then, while Watson and I get the car ready?”
Sinclair was about to demur, but after all this was Collins’ capture, and he could not very well insist on keeping the man with him, and as Collins had said he had no warrant.
Without waiting for an answer, the other two went out.
In a few minutes the humming of the car was heard, and Sinclair, having paid their bill, went to the front door.
The small luggage they had brought was always ready packed, for each had felt they might have to move in a hurry.
At the door Collins and Watson were already in the car, and Sinclair got in behind with none too good a grace.
They set off into the night at a rapid pace.
Old John came to the door in answer to their ring, and Collins got down, leaving the others in the car.
In a matter-of-fact voice he asked whether he could see Miss Watson—he would not come in, he had some friends in the car.
John said he would ask her to come. Whatever astonishment he felt he did not show. Warned by some premonition she could not master, Mabel came at once. She had just been going up to dress.
“How do you do, Mr. Collins?” she said. “John tells me you won’t come in.”
“I wanted to speak to you first,” he said. “Don’t be alarmed, I have your brother here with me. I brought him over from Wilton.”
She turned white and caught hold of the post of the door.
“My brother?” she stammered.
“Yes; he feels, and I agree with him, that the time has come for a full explanation.”
She lifted her head proudly. “There is nothing shameful or underhand.”
“I know that,” said Collins quietly, “but I have Superintendent Sinclair here, an old friend of mine from Scotland Yard, and he would like to hear the whole thing.”
“Scotland Yard?” she said. “He has not—?”
“Arrested him. Oh, no, there’s nothing of that sort.”
A figure came from the car.
“It’s all right, Mabel, don’t be
