The Footsteps at the Lock

to catch the three-twelve. It was essential for him, he said, to see the solicitors; possible that he would have to break his journey at Wallingford on the way back. Mr. Quirk unexpectedly asked him for a lift into Oxford; it was his idea that something might be done towards tracing the movements of the man in the punt before he reached the river at all. His purchases, probably made at Oxford, of provisions for a river tour might yet be remembered by the shop people. Leyland agreed that such investigations would be best carried out by private effort; he was not anxious to start false alarms, still less true alarms, as to the suspicions entertained by the Force. Bredon also applauded the expedition; he himself had a commission for Mr. Quirk to execute in Oxford; as to its precise nature, Angela was pertinaciously inquisitive, her husband obstinately dumb.

Once they were left to themselves, he insisted that they must take a holiday. He was bored, he said, with the very name of Burtell; he had long since ceased to feel the smallest interest as to the whereabouts of either cousin, in this or in a future existence; they would forget their solicitudes, and spend an afternoon mud-larking on the Windrush. Angela had the gift, rare in her sex, of falling in with masculine moods without affectation; and their day was all the more pleasant for being totally unworthy of record. If Thames banishes care by his easefulness, the tributary Windrush is an even more certain remedy; that tempestuous rush over the shallows, those sudden windings, those perils of overhanging trees, demand entire concentration if you are to make headway against the unruly stream. An afternoon spent on the Thames is spent with an old, tried, mature companion, who refreshes you even by his silence; an afternoon on the Windrush is like an afternoon spent with a restless, inquisitive child; you find in perpetual distraction the source of repose. Both Miles and Angela had been stung with nettles, scratched with brambles, tormented by thistles underfoot, lashed with willow-branches, wetted by sudden inundations, tired out by ceaseless paddling, punting, and towing, before they returned to the Gudgeon; the Burtell mystery seemed, by that time, a remote memory of the past, so much of mimic struggle and of miniature history had been fought through in the interval.

Mr. Quirk met them on their return, at about a quarter-past six, cool, polite, and inexhaustibly loquacious. His success with the shops had been only partial; at one large store there had been distinct memories, fortified by “the books,” of a stranger who had made considerable purchases with a view to camping on the river; the date tallied, but unfortunately no mental picture survived of “Mr. Wallace,” still less any legend as to his previous movements. At the same time, in answer to a raised eyebrow, Mr. Quirk was happy to assure Mr. Bredon that his commission had been carried out. Nor was Angela left long in suspense. Dinner was no sooner over than four packs of cards appeared from nowhere, and her husband sat down to his interminable and intolerable game of patience.

“Miles,” she said reprovingly, “you know you aren’t allowed to play patience when you’re on a job! Does this mean you’ve given it up altogether?”

“No, it means that I want to smooth out the creases in my mind. Too much accumulation of evidence always means tangle and brain-fag. I must take my mind off the thing if I’m to see it at arm’s length, and that may mean seeing it from a new angle. Remember Mottram, remember the Load of Mischief, and try not to edge those cards off the table by leaning against it. I shall retire to bed punctually at eleven; have no fears. But meanwhile, leave me to my pasteboard. Go and tell Quirk what a handsome fellow I was when you first knew me.”

The Ingle-room was still a welter of unintelligibly disposed cards, Miles was still wandering to and fro, ruffling his hair as he controlled their destinies, when Leyland looked in next morning. His errand was an urgent one. Ever since Nigel Burtell’s disappearance, the police had naturally intercepted all the correspondence which reached his Oxford lodgings, but hitherto their curiosity had gone unrewarded. There was a healthy crop of bills, but never anything in the nature of a private missive. By that morning’s post⁠—it was Tuesday morning⁠—a single post card had arrived, the address printed in block capitals, the postmark Paddington, the back covered with a series of apparently unrelated figures, which clearly indicated a cipher. “I don’t deny that I had a try at it myself,” confessed Leyland, “though I never was much use at ciphers. It beats me, anyhow, and I thought your husband might make a better job of it. Of course, if he’s taken to patience⁠—”

“I’ll take it in to him,” said Angela. “He can’t do worse than kick me out. You’ve got a copy, I suppose? Very well, I’ll give him the original, and you and I and Mr. Quirk will put our heads together over the copy.”

Bredon hardly looked up when she came into the room. “What? A cipher? Oh Lord! Never mind, prop it up against that inkstand on the table there; I’ll look at it from time to time when I want a rest. Better give me a pencil and a clean sheet of paper, in case it happens to arouse my interest. But it’s probably one of these insoluble ones. Good. And don’t forget to shut the door gently.”

“We mustn’t hope for much from him,” admitted Angela as she returned to the parlour⁠—“the refectory” Bredon always called it. “Do they use ciphers much in the States, Mr. Quirk? Now, let’s have a look at it.”

The cipher, in case the reader cares to try his hand at it, was not at first sight very illuminating. It consisted of a row of figures, with no other mark, no spacing even, to