He went to a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau, pulled it open and took out the identical sword which Michael had seen hanging above the mantelpiece at Griff Towers. It was spotlessly clean, and had been so when Mr. Longvale took it from the brown man’s hands. And yet he did not expect it to be in any other condition, for to the swordsman of the East his sword is his child, and probably the brown man’s first care had been to wipe it clean.
Michael was taking his leave when he suddenly asked:
“I wonder if it would give you too much trouble, Mr. Longvale, to get me a glass of water? My throat is parched.”
With an exclamation of apology, the old man hurried away, leaving Michael in the hall.
Hanging on pegs was the long overcoat of the master of Dower House, and beside it the curly-rimmed beaver and a very prosaic derby hat, which Michael took down the moment the old man’s back was turned. It had been no ruse of his, this demand for a drink, for he was parched. Only Michael had the inquisitiveness of his profession.
The old gentleman returned quickly to find Michael examining the hat.
“Where did this come from?” asked the detective.
“That was the hat the native was wearing when he arrived,” said Mr. Longvale.
“I will take it with me, if you don’t mind,” said Michael after a long silence.
“With all the pleasure in life. Our friend upstairs will not need a hat for a very long time,” he said, with a whimsical little smile.
Michael went back to his car, put the hat carefully beside him, and drove into Chichester; and all the way he was in a state of wonder. For inside the hat were the initials “L. F.” How came the hat of Lawley Foss on the head of the brown man from Borneo?
XXVII
The Caves
Mr. Longvale’s two patients were removed to hospital that night, and, with a favourable report on the man’s condition from the doctors, Michael felt that one aspect of the mystery was a mystery no longer.
His old schoolmaster received a visit that night.
“More study?” he asked good-humouredly when Michael was announced.
“Curiously enough, you’re right, sir,” said Michael, “though I doubt very much whether you can assist me. I’m looking for an old history of Chichester.”
“I have one published in 1600. You’re the second man in the last fortnight who wanted to see it.”
“Who was the other?” asked Michael quickly.
“A man named Foss—” began Mr. Scott, and Michael nodded as though he had known the identity of the seeker after knowledge. “He wanted to know about caves. I’ve never heard there were any local caves of any celebrity. Now, if this were Cheddar, I should be able to give you quite a lot of information. I am an authority on the Cheddar caves.”
He showed Michael into the library, and taking down an ancient volume, laid it on the library table.
“After Foss had gone I looked up the reference. I find it occurs only on one page—385. It deals with the disappearance of a troop of horsemen under Sir John Dudley, Earl of Newport, in some local trouble in the days of Stephen. Here is the passage.” He pointed.
Michael read, in the old-fashioned type:
“The noble Earl, deciding to await hi∫ arrival, carried two companie∫ of hor∫e by night into the great caves which exi∫ted in the∫e times. By the merciful di∫pen∫ation of God, in Who∫e Hands we are, there occurred, at eight o’clock in the forenoon, a great land∫lide which entombed and de∫troyed all the∫e knights and ∫quires, and ∫ir John Dudley, Earl of Newport, ∫o that they were never more ∫een. And the place of this happening is nine miles in a line from this ∫ame city, called by the Romans Regnum, or Ciffancea∫ter in the ∫axon fa∫hion.”
“Have the caves ever been located?”
Mr. Scott shook his head.
“There are local rumours that they were used a century and a half ago by brandy smugglers, but then you find those traditions local to every district.”
Michael took a local map of Chichester from his pocket, measured off nine miles, and with a pair of compasses encircled the city. He noted that the line passed either through or near Sir Gregory’s estate.
“There are two Griff Towers?” he suddenly said, examining the map.
“Yes, there is another besides Penne’s place, which is named after a famous local landmark—the real Griffin Tower (as it was originally called). I have an idea it stands either within or about Penne’s property—a very old, circular tower, about twenty feet high, and anything up to two thousand years old. I’m interested in antiquities, and I have made a very careful inspection of the place. The lower part of the wall is undoubtedly Roman work—the Romans had a big encampment here; in fact, Regnum was one of their headquarters. There are all sorts of explanations for the tower. Probably it was a keep or blockhouse. The idea I have is that the original Roman tower was not more than a few feet high and was not designed for defence at all. Successive ages added to its height, without exactly knowing why.”
Michael chuckled.
“Now if my theory is correct, I shall hear more about this Roman castle before the night is out,” he said.
He gathered his trunks from the hotel and took them off to his new home. He found that the dinner-table was laid for three.
“Expecting company?” asked Michael, watching Jack Knebworth putting the finishing touches on the table—he had a bachelor’s finicking sense of neatness, which consists of placing everything at equal distance from everything else.
“Yuh! Friend of yours.”
“Of mine?”
Jack nodded.
“I’ve asked young Leamington to come up. And when I see a man of your age turning pink at the mention of a girl’s name, I feel sorry for him. She’s coming partly on business, partly for the pleasure of meeting me in a human atmosphere. She didn’t do so well today as
