“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael good-humouredly; “you must give me an idea of the questions which she asked you. What did she talk about?”
But Mr. Boltover’s mind was a blank.
It was his boast that he did not know there was such a thing as yesterday.
“Did she ask you to give her any information about things you are interested in?”
“My dear fellow,” said Reggie Boltover, shaking his head, “if she did I have forgotten it. All I know is that she very seriously compromised me. I have not been to Sebo’s since.”
“As you are such a perfectly hopeless person,” said Michael, “will you give me a note to your secretary or your factotum or whatever human substitute for mentality you possess, instructing him to give me a full list of your properties?”
“With the greatest pleasure in life, with every happiness,” said Reggie earnestly, “with the greatest alacrity!”
Armed with this, Michael called the next morning at the office of one who was frequently referred to by journalists as a “merchant prince,” and when he came out into Threadneedle Street his step was lighter and his eye was brighter than it had been for weeks.
“Now, Kate,” he said between his teeth, “this is where you finish!”
He could have had all the men he wanted but he preferred making his investigation without assistance. He went home and changed into a knickerbocker suit, took his oldest overcoat, a walking stick and a Browning pistol with two spare magazines. He did not ask for a special engine, but travelled to Pinham Heights station by ordinary train. He showed his authority to the stationmaster who, however, recognized him.
“I don’t want anybody to know that I am down here,” he said, “and I must rely upon your discretion to see that my wishes in this respect are carried out. Am I likely to meet any platelayers or people on the line between here and Tolbridge?”
“You will meet nobody until you come to Tolbridge box, but be very careful,” warned the stationmaster, “the down express goes through the tunnel in ten minutes. I should advise you not to leave until that has passed.”
This advice Michael thought it expedient to accept and not until the rocking train had shrieked through the station and the receding red lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking tunnel.
He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep hole beyond.
He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust. Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red of rust.
He walked back, carefully examining every inch of the rail until he found what he sought. At one place by the side of the actual rail was a little red spot. It was no larger than a threepenny piece and it was, to all appearance, rust. But rust does not develop on a wooden sleeper and he found the counterpart of this spot, a trifle larger on the wood. Again he wetted his finger and was satisfied.
For this was not rust, but a very common form of distemper employed by builders.
He went back to the buffer and the sagging rail and climbed down the hole which was about six feet deep. He had noticed that a quantity of green stagnant water at the bottom of the hole advertised its age. Again he drew his hand along the water and examined his palm. It was green, but his strongest magnifying glass (and he had one of peculiarly high power) failed to reveal any sign of that florescence which forms on the surface of water and gives it its peculiar vivid green. Instead, he saw a number of irregular specks, which were undoubtedly crystals.
“Which means,” said Michael to himself, “that Kate is an artist even if Fonso isn’t.”
The green scum which had deceived him at first had been artificially created. Some chemical had been dissolved and had re-crystallised on the surface. He dug into the soft earth on the other side without securing any data as to when the hole had been made, but nearer the surface and on the rim, he saw the white tendrils of growing coltsfoot, which were still humid. One tentacle had been shaved away, but the plant had not yet begun to die, nor the exposed root to blacken.
“This hole was dug on the night of the robbery,” said Michael, “and the earth was artistically removed. Kate would depend upon the railway officials not having bothered to inspect this bit of line.”
As matter of fact, this was so. It was on private property, and after it left the edge of the railway land it ceased to be their responsibility. The buffer was also newly erected. He found this when he had dug down to its foundation. The wood was still dry and there were blades of grass and tiny fragments of plant in the earth beneath. He walked round the little pit and reached the rails on the opposite side. They were rusted as artistically as their fellows. The line twisted and curved across level country for a mile before it turned the shoulder of a hill and disappeared into a gorge, evidently excavated in the course of the working.
Behind this was another
