“Just so,” Sir Clinton interrupted. “I watched him leaving the house.”
“He went into the Maze, sir; and as soon as he was well inside, we followed your orders and put the padlocks on all the gates. He’s tried to get out once, sir; but as soon as he saw us he ran back into the Maze.”
“You didn’t try to catch him, of course?”
“No, sir. Your orders were strict about that; and we kept to them.”
“Quite right. Now you’ve got the stuff up, haven’t you?”
“It’s over there, sir.”
“Well, bring me the megaphone. We’ll need to talk to him before we can do anything further.”
While the constable was fetching the instrument, they got out of the car. Wendover, when he found himself on the road, gazed across at the green barriers of the Maze, behind which the murderer was lurking. Sir Clinton’s tactics were plain enough in their final phase, though Wendover could not understand how the Chief Constable had been so sure of running the miscreant down in the particular way he had chosen. He turned at the sound of steps, to find the constable had come back with the megaphone, a battered instrument which had probably seen service at police sports in the past. Sir Clinton took it from his subordinate and then called the attention of the group about the car.
“I want you people to take careful note of what happens, from now onwards. You may have to give evidence about it, so please pay attention to everything that happens.”
Wendover noticed that Sir Clinton’s voice had lost its usual tinge of humour. Quite obviously he regarded the situation as grave; and his tone was that of a man who sees difficulties ahead, but means to overcome them if possible. As soon as he was certain that all the group were on the alert, the Chief Constable raised the megaphone and spoke towards the Maze.
“Ernest Shandon! I have a warrant here for your arrest. I call on you to surrender. Come to the gate nearest the road within five minutes and give yourself up.”
“He’s got a pistol, sir,” the constable hastened to add to his previous report, “and an airgun, too. He had them in his hands as he went into the Maze.”
Sir Clinton raised the megaphone again.
“Before you come to the gate, you must throw your weapons over the hedge. You can’t get away, Shandon, you may as well come out quietly.”
His voice echoed across the lawns, but from the recesses of the Maze came no reply.
“Five minutes from now,” Sir Clinton said finally, and put down the megaphone. He glanced at his wristwatch as he did so.
“He won’t come out, of course; but I’m anxious to do everything in a justifiable way,” he explained. “He’s had fair warning.”
They stood uneasily about, furtively consulting their watches until the five-minute period had elapsed; but no sign came from the Maze. Wendover was completely puzzled by the turn of events. How could Ernest Shandon be the murderer? When the attempt had been made on Arthur, Ernest Shandon had been sitting within ten feet of Wendover himself, under the eye of Sir Clinton; and the attack had been carried out here, at the entrance to the Maze. Then, floating through his mind, came a recollection of Sir Clinton’s hint that a man might be “on both halves of the map simultaneously.” But that was impossible! No man could be in two places at once. The whole affair seemed to verge on a nightmare inconsistency. And yet, Sir Clinton had evidently foreseen the attempt to escape and had taken precautions to prevent it being successful. And undoubtedly it must be Ernest Shandon in the Maze, for the local constables must have recognised him from their hiding-places as he went in.
When the five minutes’ grace had elapsed, Sir Clinton turned round; but as he did so, his eye was caught by a new figure which was advancing over the lawns.
“Oh, damnation!” he exclaimed angrily. “Here’s the very thing I wanted to avoid.”
Wendover, following Sir Clinton’s glance, recognised Arthur Hawkhurst hurrying towards them; and as he approached, the Squire could see that he was carrying a sporting rifle in his hand.
“You gave me the slip,” Arthur said reproachfully, as he came up to them. “But I spotted what you were after. Heard you moving about and dressed in next to no time. I’m a bit out of breath with the hurry.”
Sir Clinton looked at him sternly.
“If you come here at all, Mr. Hawkhurst, you come under my orders. If you can’t agree to that, I’ll have to see that you’re sent back to the house.”
Arthur frowned heavily; then, after a moment’s thought, he evidently made up his mind to accept the inevitable.
“Very well, then. If you put it like that, there’s no more to be said. But if the beggar attempts to escape, I suppose I may wing him?”
He touched his rifle as he spoke.
“You’ll do exactly as you’re told.”
Sir Clinton evidently had no wish to be distracted from his main problem. His voice had a ring in it which impressed even Arthur.
“What’s it all about?” he demanded from Wendover, in a lowered tone.
“Your uncle’s the murderer, it seems; and Sir Clinton’s got him trapped in the Maze.”
Arthur looked at him in amazement.
“I say, you know, Wendover, that’ll take a bit of thinking over, won’t it?”
He said no more; and Wendover could believe that Arthur, like himself, was conning over the whole of the Whistlefield case, and being brought up against the apparent impossibilities of the Chief Constable’s solution of the problem. At length Arthur lifted his head again.
“Well, if he didn’t do it, he has only to come out and say so. If he didn’t do it. …”
His voice died away into silence. Then he added:
“I promised myself to square up for Sylvia, and I’ll do that, no matter who the man is.”
He dropped his rifle to the order and waited patiently for the next move, keeping his eyes fixed on
