“You go on and finish your beat, Constable,” said the sergeant suddenly, “and I’ll ride up to the old devil’s house and see what’s doing.”
He mounted his bicycle and trundled up the hill, dismounting before Weald Lodge, and propped his bicycle against the wall. He looked for a long time toward the open French windows, and then, jumping the wall, made his way slowly across the lawn, avoiding the gravel path which would betray his presence. He got to a point opposite the window which commanded a full view of the room.
Though the window was open, there was a fire in the grate. To the sergeant’s satisfaction, John Minute was alone. He sat in a deep armchair in his favorite attitude, his hands pushed into his pockets, his head upon his chest. He heard the sergeant’s foot upon the gravel and stood up as the rain-drenched figure appeared at the open window.
“Oh, it is you, is it?” growled John Minute. “What do you want?”
“Alone?” said the sergeant, and he spoke as one to his equal.
“Come in!”
Mr. Minute’s library had been furnished by the Artistic Furniture Company, of Eastbourne, which had branches at Hastings, Bexhill, Brighton, and—it was claimed—at London. The furniture was of dark oak, busily carved. There was a large bookcase which half covered one wall. This was the “library,” and it was filled with books of uniform binding which occupied the shelves. The books had been supplied by a great bookseller of London, and included—at Mr. Minute’s suggestion—The Hundred Best Books, Books That Have Helped Me, The Encyclopedia Britannica, and twenty bound volumes of a certain weekly periodical of international reputation. John Minute had no literary leanings.
The sergeant hesitated, wiped his heavy boots on the sodden mat outside the window, and walked into the room.
“You are pretty cozy, John,” he said.
“What do you want?” asked Minute, without enthusiasm.
“I thought I’d look you up. My constable reported your windows were open, and I felt it my duty to come along and warn you—there are thieves about, John.”
“I know of one,” said John Minute, looking at the other steadily. “Your constable, as you call him, is, I presume, that thickheaded jackass, Wiseman!”
“Got him first time,” said the sergeant, removing his waterproof cape. “I don’t often trouble you, but somehow I had a feeling I’d like to see you tonight. My constable revived old memories, John.”
“Unpleasant for you, I hope,” said John Minute ungraciously.
“There’s a nice little gold farm four hundred miles north of Gwelo,” said Sergeant Smith meditatively.
“And a nice little breakwater half a mile south of Cape Town,” said John Minute, “where the Cape government keeps highwaymen who hold up the Salisbury coach and rob the mails.”
Sergeant Smith smiled.
“You will have your little joke,” he said; “but I might remind you that they have plenty of accommodation on the breakwater, John. They even take care of men who have stolen land and murdered natives.”
“What do you want?” asked John Minute again.
The other grinned.
“Just a pleasant little friendly visit,” he explained. “I haven’t looked you up for twelve months. It is a hard life, this police work, even when you have got two or three pounds a week from a private source to add to your pay. It is nothing like the work we have in the Matabele mounted police, eh, John? But, Lord,” he said, looking into the fire thoughtfully, “when I think how I stood up in the attorney’s office at Salisbury and took my solemn oath that old John Gedding had transferred his Saibach gold claims to you on his death bed; when I think of the amount of perjury—me a uniformed servant of the British South African Company, and, so to speak, an official of the law—I blush for myself.”
“Do you ever blush for yourself when you think of how you and your pals held up Hoffman’s store, shot Hoffman, and took his swag?” asked John Minute. “I’d give a lot of money to see you blush, Crawley; and now, for about the fourteenth time, what do you want? If it is money, you can’t have it. If it is more promotion, you are not fit to have it. If it is a word of advice—”
The other stopped him with a motion of his hand.
“I can’t afford to have your advice, John,” he said. “All I know is that you promised me my fair share over those Saibach claims. It is a paying mine now. They tell me that its capital is two millions.”
“You were well paid,” said John Minute shortly.
“Five hundred pounds isn’t much for the surrender of your soul’s salvation,” said Sergeant Smith.
He slowly replaced his cape on his broad shoulders and walked to the window.
“Listen here, John Minute!” All the good nature had gone out of his voice, and it was Trooper Henry Crawley, the lawbreaker, who spoke. “You are not going to satisfy me much longer with a few pounds a week. You have got to do the right thing by me, or I am going to blow.”
“Let me know when your blowing starts,” said John Minute, “and I’ll send you a bowl of soup to cool.”
“You’re funny, but you don’t amuse me,” were the last words of the sergeant as he walked into the rain.
As before, he avoided the drive and jumped over the low wall on to the road, and was glad that he had done so, for a motor car swung into the drive and pulled up before the dark doorway of the house. He was over the wall again in an instant, and crossing with swift, noiseless steps in the direction of the car. He got as close as he could and listened.
Two of the voices he recognized. The third, that of a man, was a stranger. He heard this third person called “inspector,” and wondered who was
