“There was something of importance in that box which has been taken out; probably a bundle of papers, more likely two bundles. The rubber bands suggest two. Anyway, they’re gone.”
He glanced around the room.
“And the green lacquer box has gone,” he said. “I know it was here, because I put it on the mantelshelf with my own hands.”
He opened the door leading to the vault and satisfied himself that nobody had gained admission to the underground room.
“We had better go along and see this police critic,” he said grimly.
It appeared that he had done Mr. Stott an injustice, for greatly fearing, he had crossed the road whilst the people were in the house, and he had made honest attempts to find a policeman, having sent the toothachy Eline on that errand, which was successful, if the success was somewhat belated, for the policeman arrived with her whilst the Inspector was talking to the merchant.
“I not only crossed the road,” said Mr. Stott, “but I went inside the garden. They must have seen me, for the light in the dining-room went out suddenly, and they came flying down the steps together.”
“And passed you, of course?”
“They did not pass me,” explained Mr. Stott emphatically, “because I was on the other side of the road before they were out of the gate. I do not think anything would have passed me.”
“What was the woman like?” asked Carver again.
“I have an idea she was young, but I did not see her face. She was dressed in black and as far as I could see, veiled. The other man was small; he only came up to her shoulder.”
“That is that,” said Carver disconsolately, when they came away. “They ought to have been caught, if that man had the spunk of a rabbit. You are very silent, Tab—what are you thinking?”
“I am wondering,” said Tab truthfully, “just wondering.”
“What are you wondering?” growled the other.
“I am wondering whether old Trasmere was a much worse man than any of us imagine,” said Tab calmly.
XIV
Early in the morning Tab paid a fruitless visit to Stone Cottage. The woman who acted as caretaker told him that the young lady had returned to town, and it was at the Central Hotel that he saw her.
Never had he approached an enquiry, professional or otherwise, with such reluctance. On most matters Tab had very definite views. His mentality was such that he never hesitated to form a judgment, or wavered in his convictions. That type of mind cannot understand in others the vacillating hesitancy, which so often distinguishes them in their judgment of people and things. And yet, strive as he did, he could not reduce to a formula, his own chaotic feelings in relation to Ursula Ardfern. One thing he knew. It was no vicarious interest he was showing—he did not even in his own mind regard himself as standing for Rex Lander.
Tab thought best with a pen in his hand, yet when in cold blood he endeavoured to reduce to writing the exact state of his mind in relation to Ursula Ardfern, the white sheet of paper remained white to the end.
The moment he entered her sitting-room, Tab felt that Ursula knew the object of his visit.
“You want to see me very badly, don’t you?” she said, without preliminary, and he nodded.
“What is it?”
Unless he was dreaming, her voice held a subtle caress, and yet that was a ridiculous exaggeration: perhaps “kindness” were a better word.
“Somebody went into Mayfield last night, accompanied by a Chinaman, and they got away just before the police arrived,” said Tab awkwardly, “and that isn’t all; that same somebody has been in the habit of visiting Trasmere between eleven at night and two in the morning, and this practice has been going on for a considerable time.”
She nodded.
“I told you I did not know Mr. Trasmere,” she said quietly. “It is the only lie I have told you. I knew Mr. Trasmere very well, but there were reasons why it would have been fatal for me to have admitted my friendship with him. No, not one lie—two.” She held up her fingers to emphasize her words.
“The other was about the lost jewel-case,” said Tab huskily.
“Yes,” she replied.
“You didn’t lose it at all.”
She shook her head.
“No, I didn’t lose it at all; I knew where it was all the time, but I was—panic stricken, and had to make a decision on the spur of the moment. I do not regret it.”
There was a pause.
“Do the police know?” she asked.
“About you? No. I think they might find out—not from me.”
“Sit down.” She was very calm. He thought she was going to explain, and was quite satisfied that the explanation was a very simple one, but she had no such intention, as her first words told him.
“I can’t tell you now the why of everything. I am too—what is the word? Too tense. I am not so sure that that is the word, either, but my defences are in being. I dare not relax one of them, or the whole would go. Of course, I knew nothing of the murder—you never dreamt I did?”
He shook his head.
“I did not know until Sunday morning, when I was driving out to Stone Cottage,” she said. “It was only by accident that I bought a paper in the street, and then I made my decision. I went straight to the police station with my story of the lost jewel-case. I knew it was in the vault and I had to find some explanation.”
“How did it come to be in the vault?” Tab knew that the question was futile before it was half out.
“That is part of the other story,” she smiled faintly. “Do you believe me?”
He looked up at her quickly, and their eyes met.
“Does it matter whether I believe or not?” he asked quietly.
“It matters a great deal to me,” she said in the same tone.
It was his
