“Any man, I mean.”
“No, sir,” said the caretaker. “Wait a minute; I’ll get a light.”
Selford Manor was illuminated by an old-fashioned system of acetylene lamps, and the caretaker turned on a burner, emitting a whiff of evil-smelling gas, before he lit a jet that illuminated the hall very effectively.
The detective’s first thought was of the room in which the girl had seen the stranger, and this he entered, but when the lights were lit there was no sign of any bearded man, and as this door was the only exit and had been locked and bolted on the outside, his first thought was that the overwrought girl had imagined the incident. But an examination of the wide chimney-place caused him to change his mind. Leaning against the brick wall of the fire recess, he found an old ashplant walking-stick, its knob glossy with use.
“Is this yours?”
The caretaker shook his head.
“No, sir; and it wasn’t there last night. I swept up this room before I went to bed. I do one room a week, and I’ve been rather busy today in the garden and hadn’t time until after tea.”
“I suppose this house is full of secret passages?” asked Dick ironically. He had a detective’s proper contempt for these inventions of romantic novelists.
To his surprise the man replied in the affirmative.
“There’s a Jesuit room somewhere in the house, according to all I’ve heard,” he said. “I’ve never seen it myself—the old housekeeper told me about it, but I don’t think she’d seen it either.”
Dick went along the walls, tapping each panel, but they seemed solid enough. He threw the light of his lamp up the chimney. It was fairly narrow, considering the age of the house, and there were iron rungs placed at intervals, up which the chimney-sweeps of old times had climbed to perform their duties. He examined the wall of the fireplace carefully; there was no sign of recent scratching, and it seemed impossible that the intruder could have escaped in that direction. Carrying the stick to the light, he examined the ferrule; there was earth on it, new and moist.
“What do you make of it?” asked Sneed.
Dick was scowling at the fireplace.
“I’m blest if I know what to make of it.”
He was anxious to be alone with the girl, to hear from her the story of her escape, and, cutting short his investigations, he took her into the room in which they had been received on their first night and settled her before the fire which the caretaker had lighted.
Although the night was by no means chilly, Sybil was cold and shivering, and he saw that she was nearer to collapse than he had at first supposed. Not until the caretaker came back from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of coffee and toasted bread did he attempt to question her about the night’s adventures. She ate and drank ravenously, for now she realized that she had eaten nothing since the previous day’s luncheon.
The two men, sitting one on each side of her on the settee, which had been pulled up to the fire, listened without comment until she had finished her story. Only once did Dick interrupt, and that was to ask a question about the red pellets. She had thrown them away in her flight, however.
“That doesn’t matter. We shall find the bottle when we take Stalletti,” said Sneed impatiently. “Go on, Miss Lansdown.”
At last she finished.
“It sounds to you like the ravings of a madwoman,” she said ruefully. “I don’t know why Mr. Cody kept me. Did anything happen to him?” she asked quickly.
Dick did not answer at once.
“I heard someone scream—it was terrible!” She shuddered. “Was it anything to do with Mr. Cody?”
“Possibly.” Dick evaded the question. “You say that Cawler is still in the park? You saw somebody following you—did you hear any sound of a struggle?”
She nodded, and he walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The dawn was here, and to search the grounds would be a simple matter in daylight.
As he looked, two bright lights came into view. It was a motorcar coming up the long drive.
“Did you send for more police?” he asked Sneed over his shoulder.
“No,” said Sneed in surprise. “There is no phone attached to this old-fashioned mansion, and I could not have sent if I wanted. Seems to me I know the sound of that flivver.”
They walked out to the portico as the dust-covered car came to a standstill before the door and Mr. Havelock jumped out.
“Is everything all right?” he asked anxiously. “Is Miss Lansdown here?”
“Yes; how did you know?”
“Is she safe?” insisted the lawyer.
“Quite safe. Come in.” Dick was mystified, as the tall man followed him into the hall. “Why did you come?” he asked.
For answer, Havelock searched his waistcoat pocket, and taking out a folded sheet of paper, handed it to the detective. It was a letter bearing the embossed crest of the Ritz-Carlton, and was written in a hand with which he was, by now, familiar.
Dear Havelock,
I cannot explain all I have to tell in this letter. But I beg of you to go immediately to Selford Manor. Somewhere in the neighbourhood is my cousin, Sybil Lansdown, and she is in deadly peril. So is everybody associated with her—so also are you. For God’s sake get the girl to the house and keep her there until I arrive. I cannot possibly get to you until the early hours of tomorrow morning. Again I implore you not to allow Miss Lansdown or her friends to leave Selford Park until I arrive.
“My front door bell rang about one o’clock in the morning, and rang so persistently that I got out of bed to discover who was the caller. I found this in my letter box, but no messenger. At first I thought it was a hoax, and I was going back to bed when Selford rang me up and asked
