He heard a scampering of feet below, but dared not look out. By the time the first tender load of detectives had come flying up the drive, the grounds were deserted.
With the exception of the servants, there were only two persons at Larmes Keep when the police began their search. Mr. Daver and the faded Mrs. Burton alone remained. “Colonel Hothling” and “the Rev. Mr. Dean” had disappeared as though they had been whisked from the face of the earth.
Big Bill Gordon interviewed the proprietor.
“This is Flack’s headquarters, and you know it. You’ll be well advised to spill everything and save your own skin.”
“But I don’t know the man; I’ve never seen him!” wailed Mr. Daver. “This is the most terrible thing that has happened to me in my life! Can you make me responsible for the character of my guests? You’re a reasonable man? I see you are! If these people are friends of Flack, I have never heard of them in that connection. You may search my house from cellar to garret, and if you find anything that in the least incriminates me, take me off to prison. I ask that as a favour. Is that the statement of an honest man? I see you are convinced!”
Neither he nor Mrs. Burton nor any of the servants who were questioned in the early hours of the morning could afford the slightest clue to the identity of the visitors. Miss Crewe had been in the habit of coming every year and of staying four and sometimes five months. Hothling was a newcomer, as also was the parson. Inquiries made by telephone of the chief of the Siltbury police confirmed Mr. Daver’s statement that he had been the proprietor of Larmes Keep for twenty-five years, and that his past was blameless. He himself produced his title deeds. A search of his papers, made at his invitation, and of the three tin boxes in the safe, produced nothing but support for his protestations of innocence.
Big Bill interviewed Mr. Reeder in the hall over a cup of coffee at three o’clock in the morning.
“There’s no doubt at all that these people were members of the Flack crowd, probably engaged in advance against his escape, and how they got away the Lord knows! I have had six men on duty on the road since dark, and neither the woman nor the two men passed me.”
“Did you see Brill?” asked Mr. Reeder, suddenly remembering the absent detective.
“Brill?” said the other in astonishment. “He’s with you, isn’t he? You told me to have him under your window—”
In a few words Mr. Reeder explained the situation, and together they went up to No. 7. There was nothing in the cupboard to afford the slightest clue to Brill’s whereabout. The panels were sounded, but there was no evidence of secret doors—a romantic possibility which Mr. Reeder had not excluded, for this was the type of house where he might expect to find them.
Two men were sent to search the grounds for the missing detective, and Reeder and the police chief went back to finish their coffee.
“Your theory has turned out accurate so far, but there is nothing to connect Daver.”
“Daver’s in it,” said Mr. Reeder. “He was not the knife-thrower; his job was to locate me on behalf of the Colonel. But Daver brought Miss Belman down here in preparation for Flack’s escape.”
Big Bill nodded.
“She was to be hostage for your good behaviour.” He scratched his head irritably. “That’s like one of Crazy John’s schemes. But why did he try to shoot you up? Why wasn’t he satisfied with her being at Larmes Keep?”
Mr. Reeder had no immediate explanation. He was dealing with a madman, a person of whims. Consistency was not to be expected from Mr. Flack.
He passed his fingers through his scanty hair.
“It is all rather puzzling and inexplicable,” he said. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
He was dreaming sleeplessly, under the watchful eye of a Scotland Yard detective, when Big Bill came bursting into the room.
“Get up, Reeder!” he said roughly.
Mr. Reeder sat up in bed, instantly awake.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
“Wrong! That gold lorry left the Bank of England this morning at five o’clock on its way to Tilbury and hasn’t been heard from since!”
XIII
At the last moment the bank authorities had changed their minds, and overnight had sent £53,000 worth of gold for conveyance to the ship. They had borrowed for the purpose an army lorry from Woolwich, a service which is sometimes claimed by the national banking institution.
The lorry had been accompanied by eight detectives, the military driver also being armed. Tilbury was reached at half-past eleven o’clock at night, and the lorry, a high-powered Lassavar, had returned to London at two o’clock in the morning. It had been again loaded in the bank courtyard under the eyes of the officer, sergeant, and two men of the guard that is on duty on the bank premises from sunset to sunrise. A new detachment of picked men from Scotland Yard, each carrying an automatic pistol, loaded the lorry for its second journey, the amount of gold this
