“I wonder if that devil is wound up far enough to make a final effort?” he reflected in some perplexity. “I believe he is. At any rate, I’ll take the chance of it. He’s had it all his own way so far, and this ought to encourage him.”
Ardsley came into the room and smiled on seeing that Sir Clinton was alone.
“I’m in a hurry, Ardsley. Stenness has taken up a lot of valuable time with his woes. What I wanted is this. Will you be at the house-door here at half-past six o’clock tomorrow morning without fail? I’ll need you, perhaps.”
He paused, then as an afterthought apparently, he added:
“I don’t suppose you could give a death certificate in the case of a death by misadventure, could you?”
Ardsley shook his head.
“I’d need to know something about the case before I could venture on that sort of thing. The Coroner would want to have a say in business of that kind.”
Sir Clinton reluctantly agreed.
“Now suppose we pick up Wendover in the other room. No one will want to see Miss Hawkhurst tonight?”
“I’ll see to that,” Ardsley assured him. “Another doctor will need to be called in, and so forth. Until he turns up, I think no one need go into that room.”
XVI
The Last Attack in the Maze
When Ardsley and the Chief Constable entered the other room they found Wendover with Ernest Shandon and Arthur. In the stress of his emotion, Ernest seemed to have flown to his usual comforter, for he had a decanter and a syphon at his elbow. Arthur Hawkhurst seemed to be endeavouring to restrain his feelings to the best of his ability; but it was obvious at a glance that his nerves were all on edge.
“Miss Forrest isn’t here?” Sir Clinton inquired, though the question was needless.
“No,” Ernest hastened to explain. “She’s not here. I think she must be somewhere else—upstairs in her own room, perhaps, or else somewhere about the house. Or she may have gone out with Torrance. He’s gone for a walk. Quite possibly she went out with him. Very thoughtful of them to leave us to our grief, very thoughtful. I don’t know how we’ll get over this; I really don’t know. Sylvia was so useful about the place—made things run so smoothly, you know. We’ll miss her terribly.”
He drank some of his whisky and soda.
“Where’s Stenness?” demanded Arthur, as though to show that he had himself under control.
“He’s busy,” Sir Clinton explained.
“He’s lucky to have something to be busy with,” Arthur commented. “I wish I’d something to do to take my mind off this business just now.”
Ernest drank some more whisky and soda thoughtfully, then put his hand into his pocket and seemed to feel for something.
“I’ve lost my cigar-case,” he announced disconsolately. “Really, everything seems to be going wrong together, these last few days.”
Wendover opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as he caught Sir Clinton’s frown and remembered the Chief Constable’s caution to him about the case.
“Lost your case?” Sir Clinton inquired. “That’s a nuisance.”
Ernest was still feeling vaguely in his pocket as though he expected to unearth the cigar-case in some remote corner.
“It’s been missing for a day or two,” he complained. “I can’t think what’s become of it. I’ve hunted through all my other suits, and it isn’t there. And I’ve searched all over the house, too; and yet I can’t find it. I suppose I’ll have to buy another. And that’s such a nuisance, you know. One gets accustomed to the thing one uses. A new one won’t feel the same for long enough.”
“You can’t remember where you put it down last, I suppose?” Sir Clinton asked. “It’s always a good plan to go back to the time you can remember using it last. If I’m not mistaken, you had it with you in the Maze when you were attacked. You told me you took out a cigar then. Does that suggest anything? You may be able to pick up the thread now and remember using it again after that.”
Ernest Shandon’s face lighted up with a certain dull satisfaction.
“No. Now I remember quite well. You’ve reminded me of it. Isn’t it funny how one can forget a thing and then, if one gets a jog to one’s memory, the whole thing comes back again? I often find that, quite often.”
“So you know where it is now? Well, that’s always a relief.”
Ernest’s face fell again.
“Yes, I remember where I dropped it. But I can’t get it tonight, that’s the worst of it. I dropped it in the Maze when I was shot at. I was sitting there in Helen’s Bower, and when I jumped up the thing fell off my knee. It must be lying there yet. I’d forgotten all about it. Those cigars won’t be much good now,” he ended, regretfully.
“Why not go and get it?” Wendover asked, with a tinge of malice. He had not forgiven Ernest for his pusillanimous display on the night that Sylvia was shot.
Ernest looked round at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. He took off his glasses, polished them carefully, replaced them on his nose, and continued his staring examination of Wendover.
“Well, really,” he managed to say at last, “that’s a very strange suggestion, Wendover, very strange. Do you imagine that I’d go out in the dark, down to the Maze, and hunt about for my case? Why, it would be foolhardy, positively tempting Providence, to do that. This murderer fellow may be lurking outside the house-door, for all we can tell; and you calmly propose that I should walk straight out and put myself in his way! Well, really …”
He turned to the decanter at his side and poured out a fresh stiff glass.
Arthur Hawkhurst had listened to his uncle’s exhibition of caution with unconcealed contempt; and he now broke in with all the brutality of youth.
“Cold feet, eh?”
Ernest seemed to resent the imputation with a certain dull animosity.
“It seems
