The stout, hard woman in black silk, who Dick had thought was Mr. Cody’s housekeeper, followed her husband into the study and closed the door behind him.
“Who was he?” she asked. Her voice was uneducated, strident, and complaining.
Mr. Cody resumed his place behind the heavy writing-table and smiled blissfully as he lowered himself into the padded chair.
“His name is Dick Martin,” he said, “and he is a detective.”
Mrs. Cody changed colour.
“Good Gawd! Detective! Bertie, what did he come here for?”
She was agitated; the fat, beringed hand that went up to her mouth was trembling.
“You’re sure?” she quavered.
Mr. Cody nodded.
“A clever man—but I expected him. I have at least three photographs of him. I wonder,” said Mr. Cody softly. “I really wonder!”
He slipped his hand under the heap of papers to find the little notebook, and suddenly his face went pale.
“It’s gone—my book and the key—my God! the key!”
He reeled to his feet like a drunken man, blank terror in his face.
“It was when he showed me that map!” he muttered hoarsely. “I’d forgotten that the fellow is an expert thief. Shut that damned door. I want to telephone!”
IX
Dick drove a six-cylinder coupé whose bodywork had seen better days, though he claimed for its engine that the world had not seen its equal. With his screen-wiper wiping furiously, he came cautiously along the Portsmouth Road, his big headlamps staring whitely ahead. The rain was pelting down, and since he must have a window open, and that window was on the weather side, one arm and part of the shoulder of his rainproof coat were soon black and shining.
“107, Coram Street,” said his subconscious mind; and he wondered why he had connected this satisfactory visit of his to Mr. Bertram Cody with that trim girl who was so seldom absent from his thoughts.
From time to time his hand sought his pocket and the flat leather book that reposed at the bottom. There was something hard inside that purse; he thought it was money at first; and then, in a flash, he realized that it was the touch of this notebook which recalled Sybil Lansdown. He pulled the car up so quickly that it skidded across the road and only missed a ditch by a matter of inches. Straightening the machine, he switched on the interior light and examined his “find.” Before he unfastened the thin flap of the purse he knew what it contained. But he was unprepared for the shape and size of the key that lay in his palm. It was an almost exact replica, in point of size, of that which Sybil Lansdown had shown him in the train, and which was now in the strongroom of his bank.
Dick whistled softly to himself, replaced the book in his pocket, but slipped the key under the rubber mat beneath his feet. The enterprising gentlemen who had made such strenuous efforts, and gone to such expense, to secure Sybil Lansdown’s key would not hesitate to hold up a car.
Dick was beginning to have a respect for the brethren of the keys, and had found for himself an adventure which surpassed in interest the chasing of peregrinating noblemen. He turned off the interior light and sent his car forward along the rainswept road, meditating upon the weird character of his discovery. Cody had denied he was in communication with this strange Lord Selford—why? And what was the meaning of the key? Dick had seen the oily man push the book under the papers as he entered, and, out of sheer devilment and his love for discovery, had seized the first opportunity of extracting the case. He would compare the two keys in the morning.
In the meantime it would be well for him to keep his mind concentrated upon the road ahead. Once a lumbering lorry had almost driven him into the ditch, and now, with twenty miles to go, he saw ahead of him three red lights, and slowed his engine till he came within a dozen yards of them. They were red lamps, placed in a line on the road, and if they meant anything it was that the road was under repair and closed. And yet—he had passed the lorry going at full speed only a mile away. That must have come along the forbidden stretch of road.
He peered through the open window and saw on his right a dilapidated wall, the top of which was hidden under a blanket of wild ivy. He saw, by the lights of the headlamps, a gap, where there was evidently a gate. All this he took in at a glance, and he turned to the scrutiny of the road and the three red lamps.
“Yes, yes,” said Slick to himself, switched out all the lights of the car, and, taking something from his hip pocket, he opened the door quietly and stepped into the rain, standing for a while listening.
There was no sound, except the swish and patter of the storm. Keeping to the centre of the road, he advanced slowly towards the red lamps, picked up the middle of these and looked at it. It was very old; the red had been hastily painted on the glass. The second lamp was more new, but of an entirely different pattern, and here also the glass pane had been covered by some red, transparent paint. And this was the case with the third lamp.
He threw the middle light into the ditch, and found a satisfaction in hearing the crash of the glass. Then he came back to his car, got inside, slammed the door, and put his foot on the starter. The little motor whined round, but the engine did not move. There must be some reason for this, he thought, for the car was hot, and never before had it failed. Again he tried, without success; then, getting down from the machine, he walked to the back to examine the petrol tank. There was no need,
