“Come along, the lot of you,” Arthur cried. “We’ll nab the beggar this time. He can’t be far away yet.”
“Sit down!” Sir Clinton ordered calmly. “He’s had any amount of time to get clear away. We’d never catch him in the dark. I must hear how it happened, first of all. Now give me every detail you can think of.”
Arthur seemed sobered by the matter-of-fact air of the Chief Constable. He sat down and began his story without more ado.
“I took out the two-seater from the garage,” he explained, “and bucketted down to the Maze as quick as I could. It’s a dark night outside, not even a star showing. I left the headlights on when I stopped the car; and I left the engine running as well. It wasn’t going to take me any time to get to Helen’s Bower. I got out, and crossed over to the entrance to the Maze that’s nearest the road. It was pretty dark; but I could find my way all right.”
“You heard nobody about?” asked Wendover.
“Nothing but the beat of the engine. Just as I got to the entrance and was going inside, I heard an airgun go off quite close to me—no distance at all, I should say—and I felt something hit me about the breast-pocket.”
Sir Clinton leaned forward.
“Don’t touch!” he said, pointing to the side of Arthur’s dinner-jacket. “You hadn’t a coat on, I see?”
Arthur looked down. The feathering of one of the lethal darts was protruding from his jacket.
“Oh, it stuck, did it?” he said. “I thought it had failed to get through the cloth. It’s driven into my leather cigar-case, I expect.”
Sir Clinton made a rapid examination and then cautiously withdrew the dart. Inspection of the cigar-case showed that the point of the missile had embedded itself in one of the cigars.
“That saved you a nasty prick,” was all the comment the Chief Constable made. “Let’s hear the rest.”
“I was just going to start after the beggar,” Arthur went on, “when suddenly there was a yell from the road. When I looked round, there was old Mrs. Thornton having a fit of hysterics or something over on the road, right in the beam of the headlights.”
“Who is Mrs. Thornton?” inquired Sir Clinton.
“She’s the wife of the lodge-keeper at the East Gate.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the Thorntons,” Wendover hastened to interject. “I’ve known them for twenty years and a decenter old couple you couldn’t find anywhere.”
Sir Clinton made a gesture as though brushing aside the interruption.
“And then?” he demanded.
“Well, there she was, screaming her head off,” Arthur continued. “She’d heard the sound of the airgun; and of course airguns aren’t liked hereabouts nowadays. So she’d just started to yell at once. She thought it was meant for her, it seems. I hustled her into the car and drove her home, full tilt. Then when I’d got rid of her, I put up the hood and side-curtains and came back here again, hell-for-leather. I guessed that the side-curtains would stop anything, if the beggar had another try; and I had the throttle about full open as I passed the Maze, so he hadn’t much of a mark, anyway.”
Wendover’s opinion of Arthur went up considerably during this narrative. The youngster seemed to have had sense enough to take precautions, once he was convinced of the reality of the danger. And there was no doubt about the attack. Wendover had seen the depth to which the dart had penetrated the cigar-case and its contents. It must have been fired at very close range indeed.
“H’m!” said Sir Clinton. “Now I think we’ll take your advice and get down to the Maze.”
Much to the surprise of them all, Ernest got to his feet with the rest. He evidently saw their expressions, for he seemed rather shamefaced.
“I think I’ll come along with you,” he said, diffidently. Then, with an assumption of confidence he added: “I know you’ve all been sneering at me for taking care of my skin. I’ll just show you that it was caution and not because I was afraid. I can take the same risks as the rest of you!”
On reflection, Wendover was hardly so much impressed by this offer. Obviously, the murderer, having made his attack, would at once set about getting away from the neighbourhood of the Maze; and by this time he would probably be far enough away to avoid pursuit. Ernest, therefore, was risking very little by joining the party.
“Take out the limousine, Arthur,” he suggested. “It’ll hold the lot of us—and the glass will give us good cover.”
Wendover smiled at the return of Ernest’s caution, though he admitted that the choice was sound enough. They hurried to the garage and Arthur drove them down to the Maze.
Once there, Ernest seemed to feel that he had perhaps been over-courageous.
“Somebody ought to look after the car,” he suggested. “If we leave it here the fellow may steal up and go off with it, suppose he is lurking about. And where should we be then? He’d have got clean away and left us standing. I think I’d better sit in the car while you hunt about, and then we’ll know. …”
At the sight of the open contempt on Sir Clinton’s face, he let his proposal die away before it was completed, and crawled reluctantly out of the car with the others. He even made a show of eagerness and led the way to the Maze entrance.
“You’re off the line a bit, uncle,” Arthur pointed out.
“I can’t see very well in the dark,” Ernest complained. “And this grass is simply soaked with dew. I’ve got my feet all wet. Such a nuisance. …”
He tripped over something and came heavily to the ground. A heartfelt oath reached their ears.
“I’m wet all down the front, now,” Ernest wailed. “I fell over some damned thing or other and I’ve hurt my toe. I hope it hasn’t split the nail. What is this thing,
