He smoked enjoyably for half-an-hour, watched the Manders return from the theatre and duly noted that Mr. Trammin, who lived three doors away from him, returned home in a state of intoxication and offered to fight the cabman for his fare. He saw old Pursuer’s car stop at “Flemington” and when these interests were exhausted, and his cigar was nearly through, he saw two men walking slowly toward him along the opposite sidewalk. He failed to identify them and had ceased to be interested in their movements, when they turned into the gateway of Mayfield.
Instantly Mr. Stott was alert. They might be police officers, only—the sound of a large voice came to him.
“Let me tell you, my dear fellow, that Wellington Brown is a good friend and a bad enemy!”
Mr. Stott nearly fainted. Wellington Brown! The man whose portrait had been in the newspapers; the man for whom the police were searching.
The other said something in a voice which did not reach the balcony.
“I am not threatening,” said the strident voice of Wellington Brown.
They walked up the steps to the door of Mayfield and disappeared from view.
Mr. Stott rose with knees that trembled. In the shortest space of time he was at the telephone. Carver’s number he knew, he had been on to him several times in connection with the unfortunate little disagreement he had had with the police. But Carver’s number was out of order. The operator could not get any reply she said.
Strong as was Mr. Stott’s repugnance to assist the police in the lawful execution of their duty, he dashed back to his bedroom, pulled on his trousers over his pyjama-legs and with trembling fingers buttoned himself up. There was no time to get into boots and it was in his bedroom slippers that he shuffled down the street in search of a cab, looking back fearfully from time to time lest the mysterious men who had entered Mayfield should be upon his track with murder in their hearts.
After an unconscionable time a taxicab came past and Mr. Stott flung himself into the interior.
“Central police station,” he gasped, “quick! Double fare if you get me there in ten minutes.”
He knew that was the usual thing to say in such circumstances. As even a slow taxi could have covered the distance in five, Mr. Stott’s instructions were misplaced.
“They’re at it again,” he quavered as he fell into Carver’s arms.
XXII
“At what again?” asked Carver quickly.
“Mayfield,” gurgled Mr. Stott, “two men!”
“Two men have gone into Mayfield? When?”
“I don’t know how long ago I saw them. One was Brown.”
“Wellington Brown? Are you sure?”
“I heard him speak,” said the agitated Mr. Stott, “I’ll swear to it in a court of law. I was sitting on the balcony smoking a cigar, a box which a friend of mine has given to me—perhaps you know Morrison of the Morrison Gold Corporation—”
But Carver had gone back into the station with a rush, to reappear almost immediately.
He bundled Tab into a taxi and shot a direction at the driver.
“I had to go back to get our own key,” he said, “and—” he took something from his coat pocket and Tab heard the snick of an automatic jacket being pulled back. “Unless this man is suffering from delusions, we are going to see developments tonight, Tab.”
He looked back through the peephole at the back of the cab. The other taxi was following at a distance.
“I brought out every available man,” he said. “I wonder if they found room for Stott? Anyway he can walk,” he added cruelly.
Mayfield was in darkness when the cab drove up to the gate. Carver sprang out, ran across the concrete yard and up the steps to the door with Tab at his heels. He flashed a pocket lamp upon the keyhole, flung the door wide open, as the second cab drew up at the gate to discharge half-a-dozen police officers in various stages of attire.
The hall was in darkness, but they had the lights on in a second and Carver ran into the sitting-room. The door leading to the vault was open.
“Oh!” said Carver thoughtfully.
He came back to give instructions to his posse and then, followed by Tab, he went down the stone steps, and along the corridor. The door of the vault was closed and locked and the room was unlighted. Carver felt in his pocket, took out the duplicate key, that upon which Walters had worked so industriously and snapped back the lock. At touch from his thumb and the vault was flooded with light.
He paused in the open doorway and looked. Wellington Brown was lying face downward in the centre of the room, blood was flowing from under him, and on the table, in the exact centre, was the key of the vault!
Carver picked it up. There was no doubt about it; the old bloodstain was still upon it and he looked blankly at his companion.
“Well, what do you think of that, Tab,” he asked in a hushed voice.
Tab did not reply. He was standing just inside the doorway looking down at his feet, and between his feet was something, the sight of which deprived him of speech. He stooped slowly and picked it up, laying it upon the palm of his hand.
“Another new pin!” said the detective thoughtfully. “This time, inside!”
A thorough search of the house failed to discover the second man. He must have made his escape just before the police arrived, for the smoke of the pistol’s explosion still hung in the vaulted roof.
When the doctors came and the body was moved Tab spoke what was in his mind.
“Carver, I have been a fool,” he said quietly. “We ought to have been able to prevent this. We should have done it if I had only remembered.”
“What?” asked
