“Scoundrel!” muttered Miss Boler; and I agreed with her most cordially.
“It was an infamous thing to do,” I exclaimed, “and the act of an abject fool. I suppose you have no idea or suspicion as to who the idiot might be?”
“Not the slightest,” Miss D’Arblay replied. “I can’t even guess at the kind of person who would do such a thing. Boys are sometimes very mischievous, but this is hardly like a boy’s mischief.”
“No,” I agreed, “it is more like the mischief of a mentally defective adult; the sort of half-baked larrykin who sets fire to a rick if he gets the chance.”
Miss Boler sniffed. “Looks to me more like deliberate malice,” said she.
“Mischievous acts usually do,” I rejoined; “but yet they are mostly the outcome of stupidity that is indifferent to consequences.”
“And it is of no use arguing about it,” said Miss D’Arblay, “because we don’t know who did it or why he did it, and we have no means of finding out. But I shall have two brakes in future, and I shall test them both every time I take the machine out.”
“I hope you will,” said Miss Boler; and this closed the topic so far as conversation went, though I suspect that, in the interval of silence that followed, we all continued to pursue it in our thoughts. And to all of us, doubtless, the mention of Churchyard Bottom Wood had awakened memories of that fatal morning when the pool gave up its dead. No reference to the tragedy had yet been made, but it was inevitable that the thoughts which were at the back of all our minds should sooner or later come to the surface. They were, in fact, brought there by me, though unintentionally; for, as I sat at the table, my eyes had strayed more than once to a bust—or rather a head, for there were no shoulders—which occupied the centre of the mantelpiece. It was apparently of lead, and was a portrait, and a very good one, of Miss D’Arblay’s father. At the first glance I had recognized the face which I had first seen through the water of the pool. Miss D’Arblay, who was sitting facing it, caught my glance, and said: “You are looking at that head of my dear father. I suppose you recognized it?”
“Yes, instantly. I should take it to be an excellent likeness.”
“It is,” she replied; “and that is something of an achievement in a self-portrait in the round.”
“Then he modelled it himself?”
“Yes, with the aid of one or two photographs and a couple of mirrors. I helped him by taking the dimensions with callipers and drawing out a scale. Then he made a wax cast and a fireproof mould, and we cast it together in type-metal, as we had no means of melting bronze. Poor Daddy! How proud he was when we broke away the mould and found the casting quite perfect!”
She sighed as she gazed fondly on the beloved features, and her eyes filled. Then, after a brief silence, she turned to me and asked:
“Did Inspector Follett call on you? He said he was going to.”
“Yes, he called yesterday to show me the things that he had found in the pond. Of course, they were not mine, and he seemed to have no doubt—and I think he is right—that they belonged to the—to the—”
“Murderer,” said Miss Boler.
“Yes. He seemed to think that they might furnish some kind of clue, but I am afraid he had nothing very clear in his mind. I suppose that coin suggested nothing to you?”
Miss D’Arblay shook her head. “Nothing,” she replied. “As it is an ancient coin, the man may be a collector or a dealer—”
“Or a forger,” interposed Miss Boler.
“Or a forger. But no such person is known to us. And even that is mere guesswork.”
“Your father was not interested in coins, then?”
“As a sculptor, yes, and more especially in medals and plaquettes. But not as a collector. He had no desire to possess; only to create. And so far as I know, he was not acquainted with any collectors. So this discovery of the inspector’s, so far from solving the mystery, only adds a fresh problem.”
She reflected for a few moments with knitted brows; then, turning to me quickly, she asked:
“Did the inspector take you into his confidence at all? He was very reticent to me, though most kind and sympathetic. But do you think that he, or the others, are taking any active measures?”
“My impression,” I answered reluctantly, “is that the police are not in a position to do anything. The truth is that this villain seems to have got away without leaving a trace.”
“That is what I feared,” she sighed. Then with sudden passion, though in a quiet, suppressed voice, she exclaimed: “But he must not escape! It would be too hideous an injustice. Nothing can bring back my dear father from the grave; but if there is a God of Justice, this murderous wretch must be called to account and made to pay the penalty of his crime.”
“He must,” Miss Boler assented in deep, ominous tones, “and he shall; though God knows how it is to be done.”
“For the present,” said I, “there is nothing to be done but to wait and see if the police are able to obtain any fresh information; and meanwhile to turn over every circumstance that you can think of; to recall the way your father spent his time, the people he knew, and the possibility in each case that some cause of enmity may have arisen.”
“That is what I have done,” said Miss D’Arblay. “Every night I lie awake, thinking, thinking; but nothing comes of it. The thing is incomprehensible. This man must have been a deadly enemy of my father’s. He must have hated him with the most intense hatred, or he must have had some strong reason other than mere hatred for making away with him. But I cannot imagine any person
