Meggie looked at Abbershaw.
“If we could only get out,” she murmured. Abbershaw nodded briskly. Conjectures and theories could wait until afterwards; the main business in hand at the moment was escape, if not out of the house at least back to the others.
He turned to the old woman.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting out through there?” he suggested, indicating the inner room in the doorway of which she still stood.
She shook her head.
“There’s nobbut a fireplace and a door,” she said, “and you’ll not get through the door because I’ve bolted it and he’s locked it. You can have a look at the fireplace if you like, but the chimney’ll only land you up on the roof even if you could get up it; best wait till Wednesday till my son comes.”
Abbershaw was inclined to enlighten her on the chances her son was likely to have against the armed Herr von Faber, but he desisted, and contented himself by shaking his head. Meggie, ever practical, came forward with a new question.
“But do you eat? Have you been starved all this time?” she said.
Mrs. Meade looked properly aggrieved.
“Oh, they bring me my victuals,” she said; “naturally.”
Apparently the event of her being starved out of her stronghold had not occurred to her. “Lizzie Tiddy brings me up a tray night and morning.”
“Lizzie Tiddy?” Abbershaw looked up inquiringly. “Who’s that?”
A smile, derisive and unpleasant, spread over the wrinkled face. “She’s a natural,” she said, and laughed.
“A natural?”
“She’s not right in her head. All them Tiddys are a bit crazed. Lizzie is the wust.”
“Does she work here?” Meggie’s face expressed her disapproval.
Mrs. Meade’s smile broadened into a grin, and her quick eyes rested on the girl.
“That’s right. No one else wouldn’t ha’ had her. She helps Mrs. Browning, the housekeeper, washes up and suchlike.”
“And brings up the food?” There was an eagerness in Abbershaw’s tone. An idiot country girl was not likely to offer much resistance if they made an attempt to escape as soon as she opened the door.
Mrs. Meade nodded.
“Ah, Lizzie brings up the tray,” she said. “She sets it on the floor while she unlocks my door, then I pull the bolts back and open it ever such a little, and then I pull the tray in.”
It was such a simple procedure that Abbershaw’s spirits rose.
“When does this happen?” he said. “What time of day?”
“Half after eight in the morning and half after eight at night.”
He glanced at his watch.
“She’s due now, then, practically?”
Mrs. Meade glanced up at the window. “Shouldn’t be at all surprised,” she agreed. “Light looks about right. I’ll go back to my own room, then, if you don’t mind. Best not to let anybody know that I’ve been havin’ any truck wi’ you.”
On the last word she turned her back on him, and after closing the door, connecting the two rooms, silently, they heard her softly pressing the bolts home.
“What an extraordinary old woman,” whispered Meggie. “Is she mad, do you think?”
Abbershaw shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I almost wish she were. But she’s certainly not crazy, and I believe every word of her story is absolutely true. My dear girl, consider—she certainly hasn’t the imagination to invent it.”
The girl nodded slowly.
“That’s true,” she said, and added suddenly, “but, George you don’t really believe that those dreadful men didn’t kill Colonel Coombe?”
Abbershaw looked at her seriously.
“I don’t see why they should, do you?” he asked. “Think of it in the light of what we know.”
“Then that means that either Albert Campion or—oh, George, it’s horrible!”
Abbershaw’s face grew even more serious.
“I know,” he said, and was silent for a minute or so. “But that is not what is worrying me at the moment,” he went on suddenly, as though banishing the thought from his mind. “I’ve got you into this appalling mess, and I’ve got to get you out of it—and that, unless I’m mistaken, is Lizzie Tiddy coming up the stairs now.”
The girl held her breath, and for a moment or two they stood silent, listening. There was certainly the sound of footsteps on the stone landing outside, and the uneasy rattle of crockery on an unsteady tray. Abbershaw’s hand closed round the girl’s arm.
“Now,” he whispered, “keep behind me, and at your first opportunity nip out of here into the room immediately on your left and go straight for the chest I told you of. You can’t miss it. It’s in the corner and enormous. I’ll follow you.”
The girl nodded, and at the same moment the key turned in the lock, and whatever hopes Abbershaw had entertained vanished immediately. The door opened some two inches, and there appeared in the aperture the muzzle of a revolver.
Abbershaw groaned. He might have known, he told himself bitterly, that her captors were not absolute fools. The girl clung to him and he could feel her heart beating against his arm. Gradually the door opened wider, and a face appeared above the gun. It was the stranger whom Dawlish had addressed as Wendon on the day before. He stood grinning in at them, the gun levelled directly at Meggie.
“Any monkey-tricks and the girl goes first,” he said. “It’s the Guvnor’s orders. He’s reserving you, mate, for ’is own personal attention. That’s one of the reasons why he’s feeding you. Now then, my girl, push the tray under and hurry about it.”
The last remark was addressed to someone behind him, although he never for a moment took his eyes off Abbershaw and the girl. There was a scuffling in the passage outside, and then a narrow tray appeared upon the floor. It came sliding towards them through the crack in the door, and Abbershaw was suddenly conscious of a pair of idiot eyes, set in a pale, vacant face, watching him from behind it.
His impulse was to leap forward and risk the revolver,
