“You think they may have got away into the house and been hidden there while Stenness and Co. were breaking into the room?”
“Well, you can lock a door from either side, can’t you?”
Wendover reflected for a moment.
“It’s a pity Stenness didn’t think of searching the house when they found no one in the room.”
“Much too late by that time, Squire. No hunted burglar would wait on the premises a second longer than he could help. He’d be off downstairs at once and get out of the ground floor windows on the opposite side of the house.”
“But then he’d leave an unlatched window behind him.”
“So he may have done. No one can swear that all the windows were made fast yesterday evening. They’re a careless lot up at Whistlefield.”
Wendover’s mind fastened upon the thing which seemed to him of most importance.
“What did the burglar want? What was he after, Clinton?”
Sir Clinton’s face became inscrutable, though Wendover could not help seeing irony in his reply.
“ ‘What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture,’ ” he quoted. “Sir Thomas Browne knew what he was talking about. What thing the burglar sought, though puzzling is not beyond conjecture, Squire. The field’s open, if you wish to enter for the competition.”
Wendover accepted the irony as a proof that Sir Clinton had got over his fit of annoyance completely.
“Well, then, I conjecture that the burglar was in Hackleton’s pay—like the murderer—and that he was hunting for more of Neville Shandon’s notes for the case. Look how everything was turned upside down. Look at the fact that the money was left intact. That wasn’t what one expects from a normal burglar.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Sir Clinton agreed. “But I’m not going to be drawn. Go on with your conjecturing, Squire; and if that fails you might take to surmising or speculating as a change of occupation. Thinking exercises the brain, so you won’t really lose in the end.”
“You’re an exasperating beast at times, Clinton,” Wendover affirmed, without a trace of irritation.
“If that’s the first result of thinking, I don’t think I’d take it up as a hobby,” Sir Clinton responded cheerfully. “It might lead to peevishness among the neighbours.”
He walked over to the window, possibly to conceal his expression, before communicating his next piece of information.
“I had time to drop in on your friend Ardsley, too, on my way home.”
Wendover rose to the bait at once.
“Oh, indeed! I hope he showed you his best specimens; a pithed frog, perhaps, or a mangled dog? It’s no good lifting these eyebrows of yours, Clinton. I don’t like the fellow.”
“One could almost guess it from the way you talk. But bear in mind, Squire, that even the meanest of God’s creatures may have its uses. I’ve got a use for Ardsley,” he added carelessly, “so don’t go making things too unpleasant if you come across him any time.”
Wendover gave a half-suppressed growl.
“One rubs up against a lot of queer fish when one begins mixing with the police, it seems,” he complained, half in fun and half in earnest.
Before Sir Clinton could reply, the bell of the telephone rang sharply.
“Bet you nine to four that’s Whistlefield ringing up,” the Chief Constable offered. “Here, I’ll go myself.”
He left the room and Wendover waited uneasily for the result of the conversation. It took a minute or two and he knew from this that it must be something relating to Whistlefield, for Sir Clinton had no friends in the neighbourhood. When the Chief Constable returned, Wendover looked up with a certain foreboding. News from Whistlefield of late had never been encouraging; and he feared that something more might have happened.
“Did you take that bet?” inquired Sir Clinton. “If so, you owe me a note or two. It was Whistlefield at the other end of the line, just as I expected. If this goes on, we may as well tell the Exchange to leave their plug in our hole permanently and save bother to all hands.”
“What’s happened now?” demanded Wendover anxiously.
“An attempted murder this time. Your friend Ernest rang up to tell me about it. They’ve tried to get him next; but he fled like a lamb from the slaughter and seems to have saved his bacon. But he’s in a pitiable state,” Sir Clinton went on, a tingle of contempt coming into his tone. “Quite blue with funk, I should judge. He nearly wept into the mouthpiece, and I could hear him gasping for breath at the other end of the wire. Quite a shock to his nerves, it appears. We’ll have to go across and comfort him. Come along.”
“You don’t seem much worried over his troubles,” Wendover commented.
“I’ve no great use for a cowardly little beast. You should have heard him on the phone, Wendover. Sounded like one of those things they used to run in the Grand Guignol.”
“Even the meanest of God’s creatures may have its uses,” Wendover quoted, sarcastically.
Sir Clinton’s temporary cheerfulness seemed to have passed away.
“That’s a true word spoken in jest, no doubt. You’re perhaps right after all. We may find a use for even friend Ernest before we’re done. But on the face of it, it doesn’t look probable, does it?”
When they reached Whistlefield they were shown at once into the study where they found Ernest in a state of nervous collapse. A syphon and a decanter stood on a tray at his elbow; and the moving surface of the whisky showed that he had just finished pouring out a drink. As they came in, he poured some more liquor into his empty tumbler.
“I think I’d leave it at that, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton suggested, coolly. “We’d better not run any risk of your memory getting confused.”
Ernest took his hand away from the tumbler obediently. Wendover could see
