This announcement was news to some of his hearers, and his quick eyes took in the expressions of the little group before him. “I concealed that murder,” he continued deliberately, “because at that time there were several very excellent reasons why I should do so. It would have been of very great inconvenience to me if there had been an inquest upon Coombe, as he was in my employ, and I do not tolerate any interference, private or official, in my affairs. Apart from that, however, the affair had very little interest for me, but I should like to make it clear now that although I do not know his identity, the person who killed Gordon Coombe is in this room facing me. I say this advisedly because I know that no one entered the house from outside that night, nor has any stranger left it since, and even had they not perfect alibis there is no reason why I should credit it to one of my own people.”
His inference was clear, and there was a moment of resentment among the young people, although no one spoke. The German went on with inexorable calm.
“But as I have said,” he repeated, in his awkward pedantic English, “that does not interest me. What is more important to me is this. Either the murderer stole a packet of papers off the body of his victim, or else Colonel Coombe handed them at some time or other in that evening to one of you. Those papers are mine. I think I estimate their value to me at something over half one million pounds. There is one other man in the world to whom they would be worth something approaching the same value. I assume that one of you here is a servant of that man.”
Again he paused, and again his small round eyes scrutinized the faces before him. Then, apparently satisfied, he continued. “You will admit that I have done everything in my power to obtain possession of these papers without harming anyone. From the first you have behaved abominably. May I suggest that you have played hide-and-seek about the house like schoolchildren? And at last you have annoyed me. There are also one or two among you”—he glanced at Abbershaw—“with whom I have old scores to settle. You have been searched, and you have been watched, yet no trace of my property has come to light. Therefore I give you one last chance. At eleven o’clock tomorrow morning I leave this house with my staff. We shall take the side roads that will lead us on to the main Yarmouth motor way without passing through any villages. If I have my property in my possession when I go, I will see that you can contrive your release for yourselves. If not—”
He paused, and they realized the terrible thing that was coming a full second before the quiet words left his lips.
“I shall first set fire to the house. To shoot you direct would be dangerous—even charred skeletons may show traces of bullet fractures. No, I am afraid I must just leave you to the fire.”
In the breathless silence that followed his announcement Jeanne’s sobs became suddenly very audible, and Abbershaw, his face pale and horror-stricken, leapt forward.
“But I told you,” he said passionately. “I told you. I burnt those papers. I described them to you. I burnt them—the ashes are probably in my bedroom grate now.”
A sound that was half a snarl, half a cry, broke from the German, and for the second time they saw the granite composure of his face broken, and had a vision of the livid malevolence behind the mask.
“If I could believe, Dr. Abbershaw,” he said, “that you could ever be so foolish—so incredibly foolish—as to destroy a packet of papers, a portion of whose value must have been evident to you, then I could believe also that you could deserve no better fate than the singularly unpleasant death which most certainly awaits you and your friends unless I am in possession of my property by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Good night, ladies and gentlemen. I leave you to think it over.”
He passed out of the room on the last words, the smirking Gideon on his heels. His men backed out after him, their guns levelled. Abbershaw dashed after them just as the great door swung to. He beat upon it savagely with his clenched fists, but the oak was like a rock.
“Burn?” Martin’s voice broke the silence, and it was almost wondering. “But the place is stone—it can’t burn.”
Wyatt raised his eyes slowly.
“The outer walls are stone,” he said, and there was a curious note in his voice which sent a thrill of horror through everyone who heard it. “The outer walls are stone, but the rest of it is oak, old, well-seasoned oak. It will burn like kindling wood in a grate.”
XXII
The Darkest Hour
“The time,” said Mr. Campion, “is nine o’clock.”
Chris Kennedy stretched himself wearily.
“Six hours since that swine left us,” he said. “Do you think we’ve got an earthly?”
There was a stir in the room after he had spoken, and almost everybody looked at the pale-haired bespectacled young man who sat squatting on his haunches in a corner. Jeanne and Prenderby were alone unconscious of what was going on. The little girl still supported the boy’s head in her lap, with her timid little figure crouched over him, her face hidden.
Albert Campion shook his head.
“I don’t know,”
