He seemed to be feeling about in the dark.
“Why! It’s the airgun!”
Sir Clinton’s flash-lamp suddenly shot out its glare; and in the cone of illumination they saw the grotesque figure of Ernest kneeling on the ground with the airgun clutched in his hand. He rose to his feet laboriously.
“I’m soaking with that dew. Very heavy it’s been tonight. Wasn’t it a godsend that I had a spot of whisky just before coming out? That’ll keep a cold away. I’ll have another one—a whisky hot—when I get back again.”
Sir Clinton paid no attention to Ernest’s babble. He took the airgun gingerly from its discoverer’s hand and held it out to Arthur in the glare of the flash-lamp.
“One of the local armoury, I suppose?”
Arthur examined it for a moment.
“Yes, that’s one of ours.”
The honours of discovery, however, seemed destined to fall to Ernest.
“Here,” he demanded, “turn that light over this way, will you? There’s something round my foot.”
They could hear him kicking in the obscurity. Sir Clinton swung the beam round and stooped down.
“It’s a bit of black thread you’ve got tangled up in. Wait a jiffy.”
He freed Ernest from the fibre and began to trace along the thread with his light. It seemed to be merely the end of a long tentacle extending out from the entrance to the Maze.
“Ariadne’s clue!” exclaimed Wendover, when he saw the direction in which the filament lay.
Sir Clinton nodded briefly.
“You people had better get back to the car,” he said. “I don’t want the ground trampled here. We can look at it in the morning. I’m just going to follow up this thread. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
Holding his light low, he disappeared into the intricacies of the Maze, while Wendover shepherded the others back to the car. Once round a corner or two and well out of sight of the rest, Sir Clinton ceased to trouble about the thread and made his way direct to one centre of the Maze. He sought about for a time, evidently fruitlessly; and then made his way to the other centre. Here his search was more successful. Among some bushes in the enclosure, he unearthed a suitcase.
“Well, that was a long shot,” he admitted to himself, though with evident satisfaction. “He’s evidently not too sure that he’s taken me in with his soft sawder, and he’s provided for contingencies. Let’s see.”
He opened the suitcase and scrutinised one or two of the garments in it.
“Complete change of clothes and no marking on so much as a handkerchief. Quite right!”
He re-closed the suitcase and put it back into the hiding-place in which he had found it. Then he retraced his steps in the Maze until he came to the black thread which he proceeded to follow to the end.
“Now we’ll go back to the house,” he proposed, when he rejoined the others at the car. “That thread led me to the boathouse.”
“So the attack was made from the river?” Wendover asked.
“It’s strange that he didn’t pitch his gun into the water, isn’t it?” Sir Clinton said. “One might have expected him to get rid of it in the easiest way.”
“I expect he got a bit of a shock,” Arthur suggested. “He must have known that he hit me squarely and yet nothing happened. That would be a bit of a surprise to him, wouldn’t it. Perhaps he got rattled.”
“Lucky for you there wasn’t a second shot,” was Sir Clinton’s comment. “You could hardly expect your cigar-case to save you twice running.”
When they reached Whistlefield again, they found Ardsley talking to Torrance, who had returned from his walk. He had been out alone, it appeared. Vera had gone to her own room when Ardsley had given his news about Sylvia and had not reappeared again.
Sir Clinton took Ardsley aside for a moment.
“You’ve got a nurse upstairs in that room?”
Ardsley assented.
“One of them’s going to watch all night. There’s a superstition some people have that one shouldn’t leave a dead person alone. I don’t mind being superstitious for once, if it’s in a good cause.”
“No one must get into the room, of course.”
“No one shall,” said Ardsley, definitely.
Sir Clinton seemed to be satisfied; and Ardsley left the room. The Chief Constable had one more private conversation still to carry through. He took Ernest Shandon into the study and closed the door.
“I can put my hand on the murderer now, Mr. Shandon, so you needn’t be nervous about that. But I’m rather troubled about one point. This is going to lead to the devil of a scandal if I arrest him. Are you anxious for that?”
Ernest seemed staggered by this way of looking at things.
“Well, really, I don’t quite see what you mean. It’s a bit obscure, isn’t it? I must confess I don’t quite follow you, if you understand me?”
“I’ll put it this way. I could arrest the fellow tonight. I know where he is. I’d have no trouble over that. But I think I can make surer of him if I wait till tomorrow morning. I’ve got to risk his bolting. I’ve that possibility in view. He might get away. But if he got away, would you worry much? Think of the scandal it would save—and it’s going to be a big one. And the trial will be a most laborious affair, too. What do you think? Shall I arrest him now, or wait till the morning and risk his getting away?”
Ernest pondered over the problem, but he seemed incapable of giving any help.
“I really don’t know,” he said. “You’re too deep for me, really. I can’t make out what you’re driving at.”
Sir Clinton’s face showed disappointment.
“There are some things that a police official can’t put into plain words, you know. I can’t say outright that I’d be glad to see the beggar off the premises. Can’t you see what I mean?”
But Ernest shook his head dully; and Sir Clinton gave up the effort.
“Oh, very well,” he said. “The responsibility’s mine in any case. I’ll wait till
