They had almost reached the heavy iron-studded door which led into the hall, when a smothered exclamation from the girl made him stop suddenly and look up. The next instant he had stepped back into the shadow of some overgrown laurels by the house and drawn the girl back after him.
Out of the garage, silent as a cloud of smoke, had come the incredible old car which Abbershaw had noticed on the previous evening.
The manservant who had created the scene with Mr. Campion not an hour before was at the wheel, and Abbershaw noticed that for a man who had been murderously drunk so recently he was remarkably fresh and efficient.
The car drew up outside the main door of the mansion not ten paces from where they stood, hidden by the greenery. The man got out and opened the door of the car. For some minutes nothing happened, then Gideon appeared followed by Dawlish and Doctor Whitby, bearing between them a heavy burden.
They were all fully dressed, and appeared to be in a great hurry. So engrossed were they that not one of them so much as glanced in the direction of the laurel clump which hid the two onlookers. Whitby got into the back of the car and drew the blinds carefully over the windows, then Dawlish and Gideon lifted the long heavy bundle in after him and closed the door upon it.
The great car slid away down the drive, and the two men stepped back noiselessly into the house and disappeared.
The whole incident had taken perhaps three minutes, and it had been accomplished with perfect silence and precision.
Meggie looked up at Abbershaw fearfully.
“What was that?” she said.
The violence of his reply surprised her.
“Damn them!” he said explosively. “The only piece of real evidence there was against them. That was the body of Colonel Coombe.”
VIII
Open Warfare
Breakfast that morning showed every promise of being a gloomy and uncomfortable meal.
Wyatt had discreetly announced his uncle’s death, and the news had circulated amongst the guests with inevitable speed.
The general opinion was that a tactful farewell and a speedy departure was the obvious procedure of the day. The story of the old man’s last wish had not tended greatly to alter anyone’s decision, as it was clear that no party was likely to be a success, or even bearable in such circumstances. The wishes of the dead seemed more kindly in intention than in fact.
Wyatt seemed very crestfallen, and a great deal of sympathy was felt for him; events could not well have turned out more unfortunately for him. He sat at the end of the table, a little paler than usual, but otherwise the same graceful, courteous scholar as ever. He wore the coloured tie of one of the more obscure Oxford clubs, and had not attempted to show any outward signs of mourning.
Albert Campion, looking none the worse for his nocturnal adventure, sat next to Anne Edgeware. They were talking quietly together, and from the sullen look upon Chris Kennedy’s handsome face it was evident to anybody who cared to see that the irrepressible young lady was indulging in the harmless feminine sport of encouraging one admirer in order to infuriate and thereby gain the interest of another more valued suitor—even though the occasion was so inauspicious. Mr. Campion was amazingly suited to his present role, and in low tones they planned their journey back to town together. Coming departures were indeed a subject for the general conversation of the rather dispirited assembly in the big sunlit hall.
Michael Prenderby was late for breakfast, and he came in, a trifle flushed and hurried, and took his place at the table between little Jeanne Dacre, his fiancée, and Martin Watt, the black-haired beaky youngster whom Meggie had described as “Just a stray young man.” He was, in point of fact, a chartered accountant in his father’s office, a pleasing youth with more brains than energy.
Neither Gideon nor Dawlish had appeared, nor had places been set for them, but the moment that Prenderby sat down and the number of the guests was completed, the door opened and the two men who most interested Abbershaw in the house that day walked into the room.
Dawlish came first, and in the sunlight his face appeared more unprepossessing than it had seemed on the evening before. For the first time it became apparent what an enormous man he was.
He was fat to the point of grossness, but tall with it, and powerfully built. The shock of long grey hair, brushed straight back from the forehead, hung almost to his shoulders, and the eyes, which seemed to be the only live thing in his face, were bright now and peculiarly arresting.
Gideon, who came in behind him, looked small and insignificant by comparison. He was languid and sinuous as before, and he glanced over the group of young people round the table with a thoughtful, mildly appraising eye, as if he were estimating their combined weight—or strength.
Wyatt looked up as they came in and bade them a polite “Good morning.” To everyone’s surprise they ignored him.
Dawlish moved ponderously to the top of the table, where he stood looking round at the astonished faces, with no expression on his own.
“Let there be silence,” he said.
The words were so utterly unexpected and out of keeping with the situation that it is probable that a certain amount of amusement would have greeted them had not the tone in his deep Teutonic voice been singularly menacing.
As it was, the silence was complete, and the German went on, his expression still unchanged so that it seemed that his voice came to them through a mask.
“Something has been lost,” he said, dividing the words up as he uttered them and giving equal emphasis
