“I was only just in and out like a flash, sir. But when I got back to the stairs, the clock there said five past eleven, sir—I remember it perfect. I wasn’t lookin’ for the time reely, only some’ow I saw it and couldn’t forget it like.”
Anthony repressed elation. “Thanks,” he said, and got to his feet.
Belford jumped up. “Are you—going, sir?”
Anthony nodded.
“But what—what are you goin’ to—to do about me? About what I told you, sir?”
Anthony looked down benignly. “Nothing.”
Belford’s mouth fell open. “Nothing! Nothing? But—”
“What I mean, Belford, is this. I’ll keep you out of trouble. You’ve told me one thing that makes all your confession of nothing worth while. You may, later on, have to give evidence; but that’s the worst you’ll have to do as far as I’m concerned. And don’t worry. And for the Lord’s sake don’t walk about as you’ve been doing lately, looking like Charles Peace with a bellyache.”
The little man smiled all over his wizened face. Anthony looked at him curiously. Somehow, when talking to him as a man and not a servant, one found something so far from being sly as to be almost lovable.
Anthony gave the narrow shoulders a reassuring pat and strolled away, making for the house. He had covered perhaps twenty yards when he stopped, turned on his heel, and walked back.
Belford was seated again on his log. His face was buried in his hands. Anthony stood looking down at him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
The other dropped his hands with a cry, bounding to his feet.
“I—beg your pardon, sir. You—I—”
Anthony soothed him. “Steady, man, steady. Take your time. Lots of it.”
Belford looked up at him, tried to speak, failed, and hung his head again.
“Just now,” Anthony said, “you told me something about being desperate. What is it? Money?”
Belford nodded. “You’re right, sir,” he muttered. “It’s—it’s my wife, sir. Been very ill, she has. And is still. I was goin’ to ask the master to ’elp me; but when it come to the point, I couldn’t. That’s why I was after pinchin’, sir. I would ’ave asked ’im, I would reely, sir; but I knew he’d ask Miss Hoode about it, and that’d ’ave made it ’opeless. You see, sir, the missus was in service here before we was married—and, well, sir, she ’ad—’ad to leave in a nurry. And through me! You understand, sir—our nipper—” He broke off, looking up appealingly. “We’re very fond of each other, sir,” he finished. “And it’s ’ard to see ’er so ill like!”
“How much d’you want?” Anthony felt for his notecase. “Here, you’d better have twenty now. And I’ll fix you up properly tomorrow. Now, for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together!” he added sharply.
For Belford’s shrivelled, sharp-featured little face was working in a way which was not good to see. Gratitude is sometimes more terrible to watch than baser emotions.
Anthony thrust the notes into one limp hand and beat hurried retreat.
Belford stood where he was left. His lips moved soundlessly. The banknotes in his hand crackled as the stubby fingers clenched upon them. Presently he raised his head and looked with blurred vision along the path through the trees.
“Gawd!” he said, the refinement of the servants’ hall now completely gone. “Gawd! What a bloke! What a bloody good bloke!”
Anthony took the terrace steps three at a time. He was elated. The elation was short-lived; before he had reached the house, despair had taken its place. After all, this playing at detectives was foolery. Why, such a day as this, with its hot, clean peace, its drowsiness, its little scented breeze—was it not a day for a lover to lie at the feet of his mistress? Was it not a day for hot, sun-warmed kisses?
He shook himself, laughing bitterly. “Affectioned ass!” he said to himself.
Sir Arthur came out of the house. “Lovely day, Gethryn. Early, aren’t you?”
“It is and I am. I am also a detective of the greatest. Do I look it?”
Sir Arthur grew eager. “What d’you mean? Have you got anything? Found out anything important?”
Anthony nodded. “Yes, twice.”
“But what, man? What?”
“One, the butler suffers from hay-fever. Two, the murder was committed at as near eleven o’clock as I am to you.”
“Damn it all, Gethryn,” said the elder man, “I don’t think it’s quite fair to pull my leg like that. Not about this. I don’t really!”
“You’re right, it isn’t. I’m sorry.” Anthony was contrite. “But you know, I’m not as silly as I sound. You must think I’m telling you things you knew before; but I’m not really. What I think these things mean, I’m not going to say just yet. Not to anyone.”
“I see. That’s all right, Gethryn. You must forgive me if I seem touchy.” Sir Arthur smiled forgivingly.
“Seen Deacon lately?” Anthony asked.
“This morning. In fact, I’ve just come back. He’s wonderful, that boy!”
“He is,” agreed Anthony. “I’m just going to see him now. Walk to the gate with me, will you? I want you to help me.”
“My dear chap, with pleasure!” He put his arm through Anthony’s as they walked.
“I want to know,” said Anthony, as they reached the end of the house, “whether anyone in any way connected with the household does any playing about with carpenter’s tools. Amateurs, professionals, or both.”
“Funny you should ask that, Gethryn? I’ve been thinking about that. But it’s no help. You see, the place is full of ’em—carpenters, I mean. There’s Diggle, the gardener, he’s really an excellent rough-job man. Then there’s the chauffeur, he made that shed over there—and a splendid bit of work it is. And John, well, it was his one hobby as it is mine. You know that set of three small tables in the drawing-room?”
“I did notice them. They puzzled me rather. Couldn’t place ’em.”
“John made those,” said Sir Arthur, with a touch of pride, “nearly twenty years ago. I remember I was very jealous at the time. I couldn’t ever have done anything so
