He looked thoughtfully at the clergyman. “Gregory Dones! That is it—Mr. Gregory Dones! It is beginning to come back to me now. He had an angel tattooed on his left forearm, a piece of decoration which one would have imagined sufficient to keep him to the narrow paths of virtue, and even to bring him eventually within the fold of the church.”
The Rev. Mr. Dean got up from the table, put his hand in his pocket and took out some money.
“You lost the rubber, but I think you win on points,” he said. “What do I owe you, Mr. Reeder?”
“What you can never pay me,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head. “Believe me, Gregory, your score and mine will never be wholly settled to your satisfaction!”
With a shrug of his shoulders and a smile, the hard-faced clergyman strolled away. Mr. Reeder watched him out of the corner of his eye and saw him disappear toward the vestibule.
“Are all your knaves masculine?” asked Olga Crewe.
Reeder nodded gravely.
“I hope so, Miss Crewe.”
Her challenging eyes met his.
“In other words, you don’t know me?” she said bluntly. And then, with sudden vehemence: “I wish to God you did! I wish you did!”
Turning abruptly, she almost ran from the hall.
Mr. Reeder stood where she had left him, his eyes roving left and right. In the shadowy entrance of the hall, made all the more obscure by the heavy dark curtains which covered it, he saw a dim figure standing. Only for a second, and then it disappeared. The woman Burton, he thought.
It was time to go to his room. He had taken only two steps from the table when all the lights in the hall went out. In such moments as these Mr. Reeder was a very nimble man. He spun round and made for the nearest wall, and stood waiting, his back to the panelling. And then he heard the plaintive voice of Mr. Daver.
“Who on earth has put the lights out? Where are you, Mr. Reeder?”
“Here!” said Mr. Reeder, in a loud voice, and dropped instantly to the ground. Only in time; he heard a whistle, a thud, and something struck the panel above his head.
Mr. Reeder emitted a deep groan and crawled rapidly and noiselessly across the floor.
Again came Daver’s voice.
“What on earth was that? Has anything happened, Mr. Reeder?”
The detective made no reply. Nearer and nearer he was crawling toward where Daver stood. And then, as unexpectedly as they had been extinguished, the lights went on. Daver was standing in front of the curtained doorway, and on the proprietor’s face was a look of blank dismay, as Mr. Reeder rose at his feet.
Daver shrank back, his big white teeth set in a fearful grin, his round eyes wide open. He tried to speak and his mouth opened and closed, but no sound issued. From Reeder his eyes strayed to the panelled wall—but Reeder had already seen the knife buried in the wood.
“Let me think,” he said gently. “Was that the Colonel or the highly intelligent representative of the Church?”
He went across to the wall and with an effort pulled out the knife. It was long and broad.
“A murderous weapon,” said Mr. Reeder.
Daver found his voice.
“A murderous weapon,” he echoed hollowly. “Was it—thrown at you, Mr. Reeder? How very terrible!”
Mr. Reeder was gazing at him sombrely.
“Your idea?” he asked, but by now Mr. Daver was incapable of replying.
Reeder left the shaken proprietor lying limply in one of the big armchairs and walked up the carpeted stairs to the corridor. And if against his black coat the automatic was not visible, it was nevertheless there.
He stopped before his door, unlocked it, and threw it wide open. The lamp by the side of the bed was still burning. Mr. Reeder switched on the wall light, peeped through the crack between the door and the wall before he ventured inside.
He shut the door, locked it, and walked over to the cupboard.
“You may come out, Brill,” he said. “I presume nobody has been here?”
There was no answer, and he pulled open the cupboard door quickly.
It was empty!
“Well, well,” said Mr. Reeder, and that meant that matters were everything but well.
There was no sign of a struggle; nothing in the world to suggest that Detective Brill had not walked out of his own free will and made his exit by the window, which was still open.
Mr. Reeder tiptoed back to the light-switch and turned it; stretched across the bed and extinguished the lamp; and then he sidled cautiously to the window and peeped round the stone framing. It was a very dark night, and he could distinguish no object below.
Events were moving only a little faster than he had anticipated; for this, however, he was responsible. He had forced the hands of the Flack confederation, and they were extremely able hands.
He was unlocking the trunk when he heard a faint sound of steel against steel. Somebody was fitting a key into the lock, and he waited, his automatic covering the door. Nothing further happened, and he went forward to investigate. His flashlamp showed him what had happened. Somebody outside had inserted a key, turned it and left it in the lock, so that it was impossible for the door to be unlocked from the inside.
“I am rather glad,” said Mr. Reeder, speaking his thoughts aloud, “that Miss—um—Margaret is on her way to London!”
He pursued his lips reflectively. Would he be glad if he also was at this moment en route for London? Mr. Reeder was not very certain about this.
On one point he was satisfied—the Flacks were going to give him a very small margin of time, and that margin must be used to the best advantage.
So far as he could tell, the trunks had not been opened. He pulled out the rope-ladder, groped down to the bottom, and presently withdrew his hand, holding a long white cardboard cylinder. Crawling under the window, he put
