When Reeder reached the hall, it was empty. He met none of the servants (he learned later that the majority had been discharged that morning, paid a month’s wages, and sent to town by the first train). He ran out of the main entrance on to the lawn, but the man he sought was not in sight. The other side of the house drew blank. One of the detectives on duty in the grounds, attracted by Mr. Reeder’s hasty exit, came running into the vestibule as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Nobody came out, sir,” he said, when Reeder explained the object of his search.
“How many men are there in the grounds?” asked Reeder shortly. “Four? Bring them into the house. Lock every door, and bring back a crowbar with you. I am going to do a little investigation that may cost me a lot of money. No sign of Brill?”
“No, sir,” said the detective, shaking his head sadly. “Poor old Brill! I’m afraid they’ve done him. The young lady get to town all right, sir?”
Mr. Reeder scowled at him.
“The young lady—what do you know about her?” he asked sharply.
“I saw her to the car,” said Detective Gray.
Reeder gripped him by the coat and led him into the vestibule.
“Now, tell me, and tell me quickly, what sort of car was it?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Reeder,” said the man in surprise. “An ordinary kind of car, except that the windows were shuttered, but I thought that was your idea.”
“What sort of body had it?”
The man described the machine as accurately as possible; he had only made a superficial inspection. He thought, however, it was an all-weather body. The news was no more than Reeder had expected; neither added to nor diminished his anxiety. When Gray had returned with his three companions and the doors had been locked, Mr. Reeder, from the landing above, called them to the first floor. A very thorough search had already been made by the police that morning; but, so far, Daver’s room had escaped anything but superficial attention. It was situated at the far end of the corridor, and was locked when the search party arrived. It took less than two minutes to force an entrance. Mr. Daver’s suite consisted of a sitting room, a bedroom, and a handsomely fitted bathroom. There were a number of books in the former, a small empire table on which were neatly arranged a pile of accounts, but there was nothing in the way of documents to reveal his relationship with the Flack gang.
The bedroom was beautifully furnished. Here again, from Reeder’s point of view, the search was unsatisfactory.
The suite formed one of the angles of the old Keep, and Reeder was leaving the room when his eyes, roving back for a last look around, were arrested by the curious position of a brown leather divan in one corner of the room. He went back and tried to pull it away from the wall, but apparently it was a fixture. He kicked at the draped side and it gave forth a hollow wooden sound.
“What has he got in that divan?” he asked.
After considerable search Gray found a hidden bolt, and, throwing this back, the top of the divan came up like the lid of a box. It was empty.
“The rum thing about this house, sir,” said Gray as they went downstairs together, “is that one always seems on the point of making an important discovery and it always turns out to be a dud.”
Reeder did not reply; he was too preoccupied with his growing distress. After a while, he spoke.
“There are many queer things about this house—” he began.
And then there came a sound which froze the marrow of his bones. It was a shrill shriek; the scream of a human soul in agony.
“Help! Help, Reeder!”
It came from the direction of the room he had left, and he recognized Daver’s voice.
“Oh, God—!”
The sound of a door slamming. Reeder took the stairs three at a time, the detectives following him. Daver’s door he had left ajar, but in the short time he had been downstairs it had been shut and bolted.
“The crowbar, quick!”
Gray had left it below and, flying down, returned in a few seconds.
No sound came from the room. Pushing the claw of the crowbar between architrave and door at the point where he had seen the bolt, Reeder levered it back, and the door flew open with a crash. One step into the apartment, and then he stood stock still, glaring at the bed, unable to believe his eyes.
On the silken counterpane, sprawled in an indescribable attitude, his round, sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, was Daver. Mr. Reeder knew that he was dead before he saw the terrible wound or the brown-hilted knife that stuck out from his side.
Reeder leaned down and listened for a heartbeat—felt the still warm wrist, but it was a waste of time, as he knew.
He made a quick search of the clothing. There was an inside pocket in the waistcoat, and here he found a thick pad of banknotes.
“All thousands,” said Mr. Reeder, “and ninety-five of them. What’s in that packet?”
It was a little cardboard folder and contained a steamship ticket from Southampton to New York, made out in the name of “Sturgeon,” and in the coat pocket Reeder found a passport which was stamped by the American Consul and bore the same name.
“He was ready to jump—but he delayed it too long,” he said. “Poor devil!”
“How did he get here, sir?” asked Gray. “They couldn’t have carried him—”
“He was alive enough when