“Sixty miles from here is France.”
He had a disconcerting habit of going off at a tangent.
“I think I will do a little exploring this afternoon. The walk should freshen me.”
They were returning to the house when he remembered the bathing pool and asked to see it.
“I wonder Mr. Daver doesn’t let it run dry,” Margaret said. “It is an awful expense. I was going through the municipality’s account yesterday, and they charge a fabulous sum for pumping up fresh water.”
“How long has it been built?”
“That is the surprising thing,” she said. “It was made twelve years ago, when private swimming pools were things unheard of in this country.”
The pool was oblong in shape; one end of it was tiled and obviously artificially created. The farther end, however, had for its sides and bottom natural rock. A great dome-shaped mass served as a diving platform. Mr. Reeder walked all round, gazing into the limpid water. It was deepest at the rocky end, and here he stayed longest, and his inspection was most thorough. There seemed a space—how deep he could not tell—at the bottom of the bath, where the rock overhung.
“Very interesting,” said Mr. Reeder at last. “I think I will go back to the house and get my bathing suit. Happily I brought one.”
“I didn’t know you were a swimmer,” smiled the girl.
“I am the merest tyro in most things,” said Mr. Reeder modestly.
He went up to his room, undressed and slipped into a bathing suit, over which he put his overcoat. Olga Crewe and Mr. Daver had gone down to Siltbury. To his satisfaction, he saw the hotel car descending the hill road cautiously in a cloud of dust.
When Mr. Reeder threw off his coat to make the plunge there was something comically ferocious in his appearance, for about his waist he had fastened a belt to which was fastened in a sheath a long-bladed hunting knife, and in addition there dangled a waterproof bag in which he had placed one of the many little hand lamps that he invariably carried about with him. He made the most human preparations: put his toes into the cold water, and shivered ecstatically before he made his plunge. Losing no time in preliminaries, he swam along the bottom to the slit in the rock which he had seen.
It was about two feet high and eight feet in length, and into this he pulled his way, gripping the roof to aid his progress. The roof ended abruptly; he found nothing but water above him, and he allowed himself to come to the surface, catching hold of a projecting ledge to keep himself afloat whilst he detached the waterproof bag from his belt, and, planting it upon the shelf, took out his flashlamp.
He was in a natural stone chamber, with a broad, vaulted roof. He was, in fact, inside the dome-shaped rock that formed one end of the pool. At the farthermost corner of the chamber was an opening about four feet in height and two feet in width. A rock passage that led downward, he saw. He followed this for about fifty yards and noted that, although nature had hewn or worn this queer corridor at some remote age—possibly it had been an underground waterway before some gigantic upheaval of nature had raised the land above water level—the passage owed something of its practicability to human agency. At one place there were marks of a chisel; at another, unmistakable signs of blasting. Mr. Reeder retraced his steps and came back to the water. He fastened and resealed his lamp, and, drawing a long breath, dived to the bottom and wormed his way through the aperture to the bath and to open air. He came to the surface to gaze into the horror-stricken face of Margaret Belman.
“Oh, Mr. Reeder!” she gasped. “You—you frightened me! I heard you jump in, but when I came here and found the bath empty I thought I must have been mistaken. Where have you been? You couldn’t stay under water all that time.”
“Will you hand me my overcoat?” said Mr. Reeder modestly, and when he had hastily buttoned this about his person: “I have been to see that the County Council’s requirements are fully satisfied,” he said solemnly.
She listened, dazed.
“In all theatres, as you probably know, my dear Miss—um—Margaret, it is essential that there should be certain exits in case of necessity. I have already inspected two this morning, but I rather imagine that the most important of all has so far escaped my observation. What a man! Surely madness is akin to genius!”
He lunched alone, and apparently no man was less interested in his fellow guests than Mr. J. G. Reeder. The two golfers had returned and were eating at the same table. Miss Crewe, who came in late and favoured him with a smile, sat at a little table facing him.
“She is uneasy,” said Mr. Reeder to himself. “That is the second time she has dropped her fork. Presently she will get up, sit with her back to me—I wonder on what excuse?”
Apparently no excuse was necessary. The girl called a waitress toward her and had her glass and tableware shifted to the other side of the table. Mr. Reeder was rather pleased with himself.
Daver minced into the dining room as Mr. Reeder was peeling an apple.
“Good morning, Mr. Reeder. Have you got over your nightmare? I see that you have! A man of iron nerve. I admire that tremendously. Personally, I am the most dreadful coward, and the very hint of a burglar makes me shiver. You wouldn’t believe it, but I had a quarrel with a servant this morning and she left me shaking! You are not affected that way? I see that you are not! Miss Belman tells me that you tried our swimming pool this morning. You enjoyed it? I am sure you did!”
“Won’t you sit
