She shook her head.
“I don’t know. He has been telephoning all the morning—I went to his room just now and it was locked, but I heard his voice. And, Mr. Reeder, you didn’t tell me the terrible thing that happened the night I left London. I saw it in the newspaper this morning.”
“Terrible thing?”
J. G. Reeder was puzzled. Almost he had forgotten the adventure of the spring gun.
“Oh, you mean the little joke?”
“Joke!” she said, shocked.
“Criminals have a perverted sense of humour,” said Mr. Reeder airily. “The whole thing was—um—an elaborate jest designed to frighten me. One expects such things. They are the examination papers which are set to test one’s intelligence from time to time.”
“But who did it?” she asked.
Mr. Reeder’s gaze wandered absently over the placid countryside. She had a feeling that it bored him even to recall so trivial an incident in a busy life.
“Our young friend,” he said suddenly, and, following the direction of his eyes, she saw Olga Crewe.
She was wearing a dark gray knitted suit and a big black hat that shaded her face, and there was nothing of embarrassment in the half smile with which she greeted her fellow guest.
“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. I think we have met before this morning.” She rubbed her arm good-humouredly.
Mr. Reeder was all apologies.
“I don’t even know now what happened,” she said, and Margaret Belman learned for the first time what had happened before she had made her appearance.
“I never thought you were so strong—look!” Olga Crewe pulled back her sleeve and showed a big blue-black patch on her forearm, cutting short his expression of remorse with a little laugh.
“Have you shown Mr. Reeder all the attractions of the estate?” she asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone. “I almost expected to find you at the bathing pool this morning.”
“I didn’t even know there was a bathing pool,” said Mr. Reeder. “In fact, after my terrible scare last night, this—um—beautiful house has assumed so sinister an aspect that I expect to bathe in nothing less dramatic than blood!”
She was not amused. He saw her eyes close quickly and she shivered a little.
“How gruesome you are! Come along, Miss Belman.”
Inwardly Margaret resented the tone, which was almost a command, but she walked by their side. Clear of the house, Olga stopped and pointed.
“You must see the well. Are you interested in old things?” asked Olga, as she led the way to the shrubbery.
“I am more interested in new things, especially new experiences,” said Mr. Reeder, quite gaily. “And new people fascinate me!”
Again that quick, frightened smile of hers.
“Then you should be having the time of your life, Mr. Reeder,” she said, “for you’re meeting people here whom you’ve never met before.”
He screwed up his forehead in a frown.
“Yes, there are two people in this house I have never met before,” he said, and she looked round at him quickly.
“Only two? You’ve never met me before!”
“I’ve seen you,” said Mr. Reeder, “but I have never met you.”
By this time they had arrived at the well, and he read the inscription slowly before he tested the board that covered the top of the well with his foot.
“It has been closed for years,” said the girl. “I shouldn’t touch it,” she added hastily, as Reeder stooped and, catching the edge of the board, swung it back trap fashion, leaving an oblong cavity.
The trap did not squeak or creak as he turned it back; the hinges were oiled; there was no accumulation of dust between the two doors. Going on to his hands and knees, he looked down into the darkness.
“How many loads of rubble and rock were used to fill up this well?” he asked.
Margaret read from the little notice board.
“Hum!” said Mr. Reeder, groped in his pockets, took out a two-shilling piece, poised the silver coin carefully and let it drop.
For a long, long time he listened, and then a faint metallic tinkle came up to him.
“Nine seconds!” He looked up into Olga’s face. “Deduct from the velocity of a falling object the speed at which sound travels, and tell me how deep this hole is.”
He got to his feet, dusted the knees of his trousers, and carefully dropped the trap into position.
“Rock there may be,” he said, “but there is no water. I must work out the number of loads requisite to fill this well entirely—it will be an interesting morning’s occupation for one who in his youth was something of a mathematical genius.”
Olga Crewe led the way back to the shrubbery in silence. When they came to the open: “I think you had better show Mr. Reeder the rest of the establishment,” she said. “I’m rather tired.” And with a nod, she turned away and walked toward the house.
Mr. Reeder gazed after her with something like admiration in his eyes.
“The rouge would, of course, make a tremendous difference,” he said, half speaking to himself, “but it is very difficult to disguise voices—even the best of actors fail in this respect.”
Margaret stared at him.
“Are you talking to me?”
“To myself,” said Mr. Reeder humbly. “It is a bad habit of mine, peculiar to my age, I fear.”
“But Miss Crewe never uses rouge.”
“Who does—in the country?” asked Mr. Reeder, and pointed with his walking stick to the wall along the cliff. “Where does that lead? What is on the other side?”
“Sudden death,” said Margaret, and laughed.
For a quarter of an hour they stood leaning on the parapet of the low wall, looking down at the strip of beach below. The small channel that led to the cave interested him. He asked her how deep it was. She thought that it was quite shallow, a conclusion with which he did not agree.
“Underground caves sound romantic, and that channel is deeper than most. I think I must explore the cave. How does one get down?”
He looked left and right. The beach was enclosed in a deep little bay, circled on one side by sheer cliff, on the other by
