When they reached Whistlefield, they were shown into the study where they found Ernest Shandon and Stenness waiting for them.
“Now you might give me the whole story, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton requested as soon as he had greeted the two. “It may be a case where time means a good deal; and we want to get our hands on these fellows at once, if we can.”
Ernest pulled out his cigarette-case. He seemed to be in a very nervous condition.
“D’you mind if I smoke?” he demanded, perfunctorily. “It soothes one, I always think; gives you a better chance of putting things calmly and not getting mixed up in your story.”
He peered thoughtfully into his case for a second or two before he could make up his mind which cigarette to take; but at last he found one to his mind and set it alight. Wendover fidgeted slightly, but Sir Clinton evidently recognised the uselessness of trying to hasten Ernest in his operations.
“There’s been a burglary here last night,” he announced at last. “Or rather, when I say last night, I really mean this morning because it was a good deal after midnight when it happened.”
“Can you give me the exact time?” Sir Clinton asked.
Ernest looked at him owlishly, reflected for a moment or two, and then shook his head in a careworn fashion.
“No, I don’t think so. I didn’t look at the clock, you know. It was after midnight, that’s all I can remember.”
“Begin at the beginning, then, Mr. Shandon, and give us all the details you can. Anything may turn out to be useful for all we can tell.”
“I usually go to bed quite early,” Ernest began, “but last night, after you went away, I thought I would have another look over Roger’s papers. You interrupted me, you remember,” he said, as though in explanation of his activity. “I got quite interested in some of them. Roger had so many irons in the fire. I hadn’t realised before what an amount of energy he must have had. You’ve no idea of the amount of things he was mixed up in.”
“Yes?” said Sir Clinton, trying to hasten the slow progress of the narrative.
“Such an amount of things,” Ernest went on. “It took me all my time to make head or tail of the papers I looked at. I must have been hours and hours, turning them over and reading bits here and there—files of correspondence and that sort of thing. His chequebook stubs were there, too, and I looked at them. I’d no idea so much cash passed through his hands, no idea at all. By the way, I noticed something funny about his last chequebook. I’ll tell you about that again, though. It was rum, I thought; but I’d better be getting on with the story.”
Sir Clinton nodded patiently and waited for more.
“I’d just been looking over the chequebook when I heard a noise,” Ernest pursued. “Of course, in an old house like this one often hears sounds at night, furniture cracking and doors rattling, and all that sort of thing; so I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time. It was only afterwards that I remembered I’d heard it; and perhaps it had nothing to do with the burglary at all. I just mention it, because you said I was to give you all the details I could, you know.”
“What sort of sound was it?” Sir Clinton asked.
Ernest looked bewildered.
“What sort of sound was it?” he repeated. “Oh, a noise, you know. A … a …” he seemed to find the English language too limited. “It was a sound, you understand.”
“A voice?” suggested Sir Clinton.
“No, not a voice. A sound, just like a snick or a rap or something of that sort, if you see what I mean.”
“And then?”
“Oh, I paid no attention to it. In a house like this one often hears queer noises at night. It didn’t really draw my attention. I was interested in this thing about the chequebook. So I didn’t trouble about the sound.”
Wendover was surprised at Sir Clinton’s patience, for no sign of boredom appeared on his face. In fact, he seemed keenly interested.
“The next thing I remember,” Ernest continued, “was feeling sleepy. I put away the papers, put them all back in the safe again and locked it up. Then I thought I’d go to bed. I always go out for a breath of fresh air before I go to my room at night—if it isn’t raining—so I went to the window and looked out. It was quite dry; so I made up my mind to go for my usual stroll. I don’t go far, you know, just up and down a little near the house. It seems to me that a breath of fresh air clears your lungs and makes you sleep better after you’ve had it. I’m a great believer in fresh air. I hate sitting in a stuffy room—must have the windows open always.”
“So you went out?”
“Yes. I put on a light overcoat and a cap and I opened the front door. It was locked when I found it—I suppose that’s important?”
Sir Clinton made no audible comment.
“I went out into the garden and strolled round the house. That took me under the window of the room where Neville—my brother—had been sleeping during his stay here. And, d’you know? I found a ladder sticking up against the wall there and resting against Neville’s windowsill. And when I looked up, there was the window open!”
Sir Clinton interrupted him.
“Was there a light in the room?”
Ernest blinked hopelessly for a moment or two.
“Was there a light? There may have been. Did I say anything about a light to you, Stenness, when I waked you up? No? Well, I don’t think there was a light. There may have been, but now I come to think of it I don’t remember seeing a light. No, I’m almost sure the electric light
