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CHAPTER I SIR JOHN DENE RECEIVES HIS ORDERS

I

"John!"

"Yeh!"

"Don't say 'yeh,' say 'yes,' Dorothy dear."

"Yes, Dorothy de – "

Sir John Dene was interrupted in his apology by a napkin-ringwhizzing past his left ear.

"What's wrong?" he enquired, laying aside his paper and picking upthe napkin-ring.

"I'm trying to attract your attention," replied Lady Dene, slippingfrom her place at the breakfast-table and perching herself upon thearm of her husband's chair. She ran her fingers lightly through hishair. "Are you listening?"

"Sure!"

"Well, what are you going to do for Mr. Sage?"

In his surprise at the question, Sir John Dene jerked up his head tolook at her, and Dorothy's forefinger managed to find the corner ofhis eye.

He blinked vigorously, whilst she, crooning apologies into his ear, dabbed his eye with her handkerchief.

"Now," she said, when the damage had been repaired, "I'll go and sitdown like a proper, respectable wife of a D.S.O.," and she returnedto her seat. "Well?" she demanded, as he did not speak. "Yes, dear."

"What are you going to do for Mr. Sage, now that Department Z isbeing demobbed? You know you like him, because you didn't want toginger him up, and you mustn't forget that he saved your life," sheadded.

"Sure!"

"Don't say 'sure,' John," she cried. "You're a British baronet, andBritish baronets don't say 'sure,' 'shucks' or vamoose.' Do youunderstand?"

He nodded thoughtfully;

"I like Mr. Sage," announced Dorothy. Then a moment later she added,"He always reminds me of the superintendent of a Sunday-school, withhis conical bald head and gold spectacles. He's not a bit like adetective, is he?"

"Sure!"

"If you say it again, John, I shall scream," she cried.

For some seconds there was silence, broken at length by Dorothy.

"I like his wonderful hands, too," she continued. "I'm sure he'sproud of them, because he can never keep them still. If you say'sure,' I'll divorce you," she added hastily.

He smiled, that sudden, sunny smile she had learned to look for andlove.

"Then again I like him because he's always courteous and kind. AtDepartment Z they'd have had their appendixes out if Mr. Sage wantedthem. Now have you made up your mind?"

"Made it up to what?" he asked, lighting a cigar.

"That you're going to set him up as a private detective," she saidcoolly. "I don't want him to come here and not find everythingplanned out."

"He won't do that," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "He's nolap-dog."

"I wrote and asked him to call at ten to-day," she said coolly.

"Snakes, you did!" he cried, sitting up in his chair.

"Alligators, I did!" she mocked.

"You're sure some wife;" he looked at her admiringly.

"I sure am," she laughed lightly, "but I'm only just beginning, Johndear. By the way, I asked Sir James Walton to come too," she addedcasually.

"You – " he began, when the door opened and a little, silver-hairedlady entered. Sir John Dene jumped to his feet.

"Behold the mother of the bride," cried Dorothy gaily.

"Good morning, John," said Mrs. West as he bent and kissed her cheek.

She always breakfasted in her room; she abounded in tact.

"Now we'll get away from the eggs and bacon," cried Dorothy. "In thelanguage of the woolly West, we'll vamoose," and she led the way outof the dining-room along the corridor to Sir John Dene's den.

"Come along, mother-mine," she cried over her shoulder. "We've got alot to discuss before ten o'clock."

Sir John Dene's "den" was a room of untidiness and comfort. AsDorothy said, he was responsible for the untidiness and she thecomfort.

"Heigh-ho!" she sighed, as she sank down into a comfortable chair."I wonder what Whitehall would have done without Mr. Sage;" shesmiled reminiscently. "He was the source of half its gossip."

"He was very kind to you, Dorothy, when John was – was lost," saidMrs. West gently, referring to the time when Sir John Dene haddisappeared and a reward of 20,000 pounds had been offered for newsof him.

"Sure!" Sir John Dene acquiesced. "He's a white man, clean to thebone."

"It was very wonderful that an accountant should become such aclever detective," said Mrs. West. "It shows – " she paused.

"You see, he wasn't a success as an accountant," said Dorothy. "Hewas always finding out little wangles that he wasn't supposed to see.So when they wouldn't have him in the army, he went to the Ministryof Supply and found out a great, big wangle, and Mr. Llewellyn Johnwas very pleased. You get me, Honest John?" she demanded, turning toher husband.

Sir John Dene nodded and blew clouds of cigar smoke from his lips.He liked nothing better than to sit listening to his wife'sreminiscences of Whitehall, despite the fact that he had heard mostof them before.

"Poor Mr. Sage," continued Dorothy, "nobody liked him, and he's gotsuch lovely down on his head, just like a baby," she added, with afar-away look in her eyes.

"Perhaps no one understood him," suggested Mrs. West, withinstinctive charity for the Ishmaels of the world.

"Isn't that like her," cried Dorothy, "but this time she's right,"she smiled across at her mother. "When a few thousand tons of copperwent astray, or someone ordered millions of shells the wrong size,Mr. Sage got the wind up, and tried to find out all about it, and inWhitehall such things weren't done."

"They tried to put it up on me," grumbled Sir John Dene, twirlinghis cigar with his lips, "but I soon stopped their funny work."

"Everybody was too busy winning the war to bother about trifles,"Dorothy continued. "The poor dears who looked after such thingsfound life quite difficult enough, with only two hours for lunch andpretty secretaries to be – "

"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West reproachfully.

"Well, it's true, mother," she protested.

It was true, as Malcolm Sage had discovered. "Let us concentrate onwhat we know we have got," one of his chiefs had once gravely saidto him. "Something is sure to be swallowed up in the fog of war," hehad added. Pleased with the phrase, which he conceived to beoriginal, he had used it as some men do a titled relative, with theresult that Whitehall had clutched at it gratefully.

"The fog of war," General Conyers Bardulph had muttered when, forthe life of him, he could not find a division that was due upon theWestern Front and which it was his duty to see was sent out.

"The fog of war," murmured spiteful Anita McGowan, when the prettylittle widow, Mrs. Sleyton, was being interrogated as to thewhereabouts of her husband.

"The fog of war," laughed the girls in Department J.P.Q., when athalf-past four one afternoon neither its chief nor his dark-eyedsecretary had returned from lunch.

"But when he went to Department Z he was wonderful," said Mrs. West, still clinging tenderly to her Ishmael.

"He was," said Sir John Dene. "He was the plumb best man at his job

I ever came across."

"Yes, John dear, that's all very well," said Dorothy, her eyesdancing, "but suppose you had been the War Cabinet and you had sentfor Mr. Sage;" she paused.

"Well?" he demanded.

"And he had come in a cap and a red tie," she proceeded, "and hadresigned within five minutes, saying that you were talking of thingsyou didn't know anything about." She laughed at the recollection.

"He was right," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "I've comeacross some fools; but – "

"There, there, dear," said Dorothy, "remember there are ladiespresent. In Whitehall we all loved Mr. Sage because he snubbedMinisters, and we hadn't the pluck to do it ourselves," she added.

Sir John Dene snorted. His mind travelled back to the time when hehad been "up against the whole sunflower-patch," as he had onceexpressed it.

"But why did they keep him if they didn't like him?" enquired Mrs.

West.

"When you don't like anyone in Whitehall," Dorothy continued, "youdon't give him the push, mother dear, you just transfer him toanother department."

"Like circulating bad money," grumbled Sir John Dene.

"It sure was, John," she agreed. "Poor Mr. Sage soon became the mosttransferred man in Whitehall. They used to say, 'Uneasy lies thehead that has a Sage.'" She laughed at the recollection.

"But wasn't it rather unkind?" said Mrs. West gently.

"It was, mother-mine; but Whitehall was a funny place. One of Mr.Sage's chiefs went about for months trying to get rid of him. Heoffered to give a motor-cycle to anyone who would take him, it was aGovernment cycle," she added; "but there was nothing doing. Wecalled him Henry the Second and Mr. Sage Becket, the archbishop notthe boxer," she explained. "You know," she added, "there was oncean English king who wanted to get rid of – "

"We'll have it the sort of concern that insurance companies can lookto," Sir John Dene broke in.

"What on earth are you talking about, John?" cried Dorothy.

Whilst his wife talked Sir John Dene had been busy planning MalcolmSage's future, and he had uttered his thoughts aloud. He proceededto explain. When he had finished, Dorothy clapped her hands.

"Hurrah! for Malcolm Sage, Detective," she cried and, jumping up, she perched herself upon the arm of her husband's chair, and rumpledthe fair hair, which with her was always a sign of approval. "That'shis ring, or Sir James's," she added as the bell sounded.

"Now we'll leave you lords of creation to carry out my idea," shesaid as she followed Mrs. West to the door.

And Sir John Dene smiled.

II

"In the States they've got Pinkerton's," said Sir John Dene, twirling with astonishing rapidity an unlit cigar between his lips."If you've lost anything, from a stick-pin to a mountain, you justblow in there, tell them all about it, and go away and don't worry.Here you've got nothing."

"We have Scotland Yard," remarked Malcolm Sage quietly, withoutlooking up from the contemplation of his hands, which, with fingerswide apart, rested upon the table before him.

His bald, conical head seemed to contradict the determined set ofhis jaw and the steel-coloured eyes that gazed keenly through largegold-rimmed spectacles. Even his ears, that stood squarely out fromhis head, appeared to emphasise by their aggressiveness that theyhad nothing to do with the benevolent shape of the head above.

"Yes, and you've got Cleopatra's Needle, and the pelicans in St.James's Park," Sir John Dene retorted scornfully. He had neverforgotten the occasion when, at a critical moment in the country'shistory, the First Lord of the Admiralty had casually enquired if hehad seen the pelicans.

For the last half-hour Sir John Dene, with characteristicimpulsiveness, had been engaged in brushing aside all Malcolm Sage's"cons" with his almighty "Pro."

"We'll have a Pinkerton's in England," he resumed, as neither of hislisteners took up his challenge, "and we'll call it Sage's."

"I shall in all probability receive quite a number of orders forshop-fronts," murmured Malcolm Sage, with a slight fluttering at thecorners of his mouth, which those who knew him understood how tointerpret.

"Shop-fronts!" repeated Sir John Dene, looking from one to the other,

"I don't get you."

"There is already a well-known firm of shop-furnishers called'Sage's,'" explained Sir James, who throughout the battle had beenan amused listener.

"Well, we'll call it the Malcolm Sage Detective Bureau," replied SirJohn Dene, "and we'll have it a concern that insurance companies canlook to." He proceeded to light his cigar, with him always a signthat something of importance had been settled.

Sir John Dene liked getting his own way. That morning he hadresolutely brushed aside every objection, ethical or material, thathad been advanced. To Malcolm Sage he considered that he owed alot,¹ and with all the aggressiveness of his nature, he overwhelmedand engulfed objection and protest alike. To this was added the factthat the idea was his wife's, and in his own phraseology, "thatgoes."

Passive and attentive, his long shapely hands seldom still, MalcolmSage had listened. From time to time he ventured some objection, only to have it brushed aside by Sir John Dene's overwhelmingdetermination.

For some minutes Malcolm Sage had been stroking the back of his headwith the palm of his right hand, a habit of his when thoughtful.Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked across at his would-bebenefactor.

"Why should you want to do this for me, Sir John?" he asked.

"If you're going to put up a barrage of whys," was the irascibleretort, "you'll never cut any ice."

"I fully appreciate the subtlety of the metaphor," said Malcolm Sage, the corners of his mouth twitching; "but still why?"

"Well, for one thing I owe you something," barked Sir John Dene,"and remembering's my long suit. For another, Lady Dene – "

"That is what I wanted to know," said Malcolm Sage, as he drew hisbriar from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. "Will you thank LadyDene and tell her that I am proud to be under an obligation to her – and to you, Sir John," he added.

"Say, that's fine," cried Sir John Dene, jumping to his feet andextending his hand, which Malcolm Sage took, an odd, quizzicalexpression in his eyes. "This Detective Bureau notion is a whale."

"The zoological allusion, I'm afraid, is beyond me," said MalcolmSage as he struck a match, "but no doubt you are right," and helooked across at Sir James Walton, whose eyes smiled his approval.

"It's all fixed up," cried Sir John Dene to his wife as she came outinto the hall as the visitors were departing.

"I'm so glad," she cried, giving her hand to Malcolm Sage. "You'llbe such a success, Mr. Sage," and she smiled confidently up into hiseyes.

"With such friends," he replied, "failure would be an impertinence,"and he and Sir James Walton passed out of the flat to return to whatwas left of the rapidly demobilising Department Z, which had madehistory by its Secret Service work.

In a few days the news leaked out that "M.S.," as Malcolm Sage wascalled by the staff, was to start a private-detective agency. Thewhole staff promptly offered its services, and there was muchspeculation and heart-burning as to who would be selected.

On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage'ssecretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room, her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of MalcolmSage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that"M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the mostembarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it wasequally well-known that he possessed a "blind-side" to his vision.They called it "the Nelson touch."

James Thompson, Malcolm Sage's principal assistant, and WilliamJohnson, the office junior, had also been engaged, and theirenthusiasm has been as great as that of their colleague, althoughless dramatically expressed.

A battle royal was fought over the body of Arthur Tims, MalcolmSage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and achauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's.Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was anunnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet tojustify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at thesame time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, andauthorising him to select a car, find a garage, and waitinstructions.

Tims did not do a barn-dance. He contented himself for the timebeing with ruffling William Johnson's dark, knut-like hair, a thingto which he was much addicted. Returning home on the evening of hisengagement he had bewildered Mrs. Tims by seizing her as she stoodin front of the kitchen-stove, a frying-pan full of sausages in herhand, and waltzing her round the kitchen, frying-pan and all.

Subsequently five of the six sausages had been recovered; but thesixth was not retrieved until the next morning when, in dusting, Mrs.Tims discovered it on the mantelpiece.

CHAPTER II THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. CHALLONER

I

"Please, sir, Miss Norman's fainted." William Johnson, known to hiscolleagues as the innocent, stood at Malcolm Sage's door, withwidened eyes and a general air that bespoke helplessness.

Without a word Malcolm Sage rose from his table, as if accustomedall his life to the fainting of secretaries. William Johnson stoodaside, with the air of one who has rung a fire-alarm and now feelshe is at liberty to enjoy the fire itself.

Entering her room, Malcolm Sage found Gladys Norman lying in a heapbeside her typewriter. Picking her up he carried her into his ownroom, placed her in an arm-chair, fetched some brandy from a smallcupboard and, still watched by the wide-eyed William Johnson, proceeded to force a little between her teeth.

Presently her lids flickered and, a moment later, she opened hereyes. For a second there was in them a look of uncertainty, thensuddenly they opened to their fullest extent and became fixed uponthe door beyond. Malcolm Sage glanced over his shoulder and sawframed in the doorway Sir James Walton.

"Sit down, Chief," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the girlsitting limply in the large leather-covered arm-chair. "I shall befree in a moment."

It was characteristic of him to attempt no explanation. To his mindthe situation explained itself.

As Miss Norman made an effort to rise, he placed a detaining handupon her arm.

"Send Mr. Thompson."

With a motion of his hand Malcolm Sage indicated to William Johnsonthat the dramatic possibilities of the situation were exhausted, atleast as far as he was concerned. With reluctant steps the lad leftthe room and, having told Thompson he was wanted, returned to hisseat in the outer office, where it was his mission to sit inpreliminary judgment upon callers.

When Thompson entered, Malcolm Sage instructed him to move theleather-covered chair into Miss Norman's room and, when she wasrested, to take her home in the car.

Thompson's face beamed. His devotion to Gladys Norman was notorious.

The girl rose and raised to Malcolm Sage a pair of dark eyes fromwhich tears were not far distant.

"I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip tremblingominously. "I've never done such a thing before."

"I've been working you too hard," he said, as he held back the door.

"You must go home and rest."

She shook her head and passed out, whilst Malcolm Sage returned tohis seat at the table.

"Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumedhis seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," headded musingly, "but beautifully loyal."

Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of MalcolmSage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his latechief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end andproceeded to light it.

"Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined thelighted end.

"They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing SirJames Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days whenthey had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered thoseheads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as somethingbetween a punishment and a misfortune.

"Busy?"

"Very."

For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to beseated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise thefact.

"I've just motored up from Hurstchurch," began Sir James at length, having assured himself that his cigar was drawing as a good cigarshould draw. "Been staying with an old friend of mine, GeoffreyChalloner."

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"He was shot last night. That's why I'm here." He paused; butMalcolm Sage made no comment. His whole attention was absorbed in anivory paper-knife, which he was endeavouring to balance upon thehandle of the silver inkstand. More than one client had beendisconcerted by Malcolm Sage's restless hands, which theyinterpreted as a lack of interest in their affairs.

"At half-past seven this morning," continued Sir James, "Peters, thebutler, knocked at Challoner's door with his shaving-water. As therewas no reply he entered and found, not only that Challoner was notthere, but that the bed had not been slept in over night."

Malcolm lifted his hands from the paper-knife. It balanced.

"He thought Challoner had fallen asleep in the library," continuedSir James, "which he sometimes did, he is rather a night-owl. Petersthen went downstairs, but found the library door locked on theinside. As there was no response to his knocking, he went round tothe French-windows that open from the library on to the lawn at theback of the house. The curtains were drawn, however, and he couldsee nothing."

"Is it usual to draw the curtains?" enquired Malcolm Sage, regardingwith satisfaction the paper-knife as it gently swayed up and downupon the inkstand.

"Yes, except in the summer, when the windows are generally keptopen."

Malcolm Sage nodded, and Sir James resumed his story.

"Peters then went upstairs to young Dane's room; Dane is Challoner'snephew, who lives with him. While he dressed he sent Peters to tellme.

"A few minutes later we all went down to the library and tried toattract Challoner's attention; but without result. I then suggestedforcing an entry from the garden, which was done by breaking theglass of one of the French-windows.

"We found Challoner seated at his table dead, shot through the head.He had an automatic pistol in his hand." Sir James paused; his voicehad become husky with emotion. Presently he resumed.

"We telephoned for the police and a doctor, and I spent the timeuntil they came in a thorough examination of the room. TheFrench-windows had been securely bolted top and bottom from within,by means of a central handle. All the panes of glass were intact, with the exception of that we had broken. The door had been locked onthe inside, and the key was in position. It was unlocked by Peterswhen he went into the hall to telephone. It has a strong mortice-lockand the key did not protrude through to the outer side, so thatthere was no chance of manipulating the lock from without. In thefireplace there was an electric stove, and from the shower of sootthat fell when I raised the trap, it was clear that this had notbeen touched for some weeks at least.

"The doctor was the first to arrive. At my urgent request herefrained from touching the body. He said death had taken place fromseven to ten hours previously as the result of the bullet wound inthe temple. He had scarcely finished his examination when aninspector of police, who had motored over from Lewes, joined us.

"It took him very few minutes to decide that poor Challoner had shothimself. In this he was confirmed by the doctor. Still, I insistedthat the body should not be removed."

"Why did you do that, Chief?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who haddiscarded the paper-knife and was now busy drawing geometricalfigures with the thumb-nail of his right hand upon the blotting padbefore him.

"Because I was not satisfied," was the reply. "There was absolutelyno motive for suicide. Challoner was in good health and, if I knowanything about men, determined to live as long as the gods give."

Again Malcolm Sage nodded his head meditatively.

"The jumping to hasty conclusions," he remarked, "has saved many aman his neck. Whom did you leave in charge?" he queried.

"The inspector. I locked the door; here is the key," he said, producing it from his jacket pocket. "I told him to allow no oneinto the room."

"Why were you there?" Malcolm Sage suddenly looked up, flashing thatkeen, steely look through his gold-rimmed spectacles that many menhad found so disconcerting. "Ordinary visit?" he queried.

"No." Sir James paused, apparently deliberating something in hisown mind. He was well acquainted with Malcolm Sage's habit of askingapparently irrelevant questions.

"There's been a little difficulty between Challoner and his nephew,"he said slowly. "Some days back the boy announced his determinationof marrying a girl he had met in London, a typist or secretary.Challoner was greatly upset, and threatened to cut him out of hiswill if he persisted. There was a scene, several scenes in fact, andeventually I was sent for as Challoner's oldest friend."

"To bring the nephew to reason," suggested Malcolm Sage.

"To give advice ostensibly; but in reality to talk things over," wasthe reply.

"You advised?" When keenly interested, Malcolm Sage's questions werelike pistol-shots.

"That Challoner should wait and see the girl."

"Did he?"

Malcolm Sage was intent upon outlining his hand with the point ofthe paper-knife upon the blotting pad.

Again Sir James hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, however.

"Yes; but unfortunately with the object of endeavouring to buy heroff. Yesterday afternoon Dane brought her over. Challoner saw heralone. She didn't stay more than a quarter of an hour. Then she andDane left the house together, he to see her to the station. An hourlater he returned. I was in the hall at the time. He was in a veryexcited state. He pushed past me, burst into the library, bangingthe door behind him.

"That evening at dinner Challoner told me there had been a veryunpleasant scene. He had warned the boy that unless he apologisedto-day he would telephone to London for his lawyer, and make a freshwill entirely disinheriting him. Soon after the interview Dane wentout of the house, and apparently did not return until late – as amatter of fact, after I had gone to bed. I was feeling tired andsaid 'good night' to Challoner about half-past ten in the library."

For some time Malcolm Sage gazed upon the outline he had completed,as if in it lay the solution of the mystery.

"It's a pity you let the butler unlock the door," he remarkedregretfully.

Sir James looked across at his late chief-of-staff keenly. Hedetected something of reproach in his tone.

"Did you happen to notice if the electric light was on when youentered the library?"

"No," said Sir James, after a slight pause; "it was not."

Malcolm Sage reached across to the private telephone and gave the"three on the buzzer" that always galvanised Miss Gladys Norman intoinstant vitality.

"Miss Norman," said Sage as she entered, "can you lend me the smallmirror I have seen you use occasionally?"

"Yes, Mr. Sage," and she disappeared, returning a moment later withthe mirror from her handbag. She was accustomed to Malcolm Sage'sstrange requests.

"Feeling better?" he enquired as she turned to go.

"I'm all right now," she smiled, "and please don't send me home, Mr.

Sage," she added, and she went out before he had time to reply.

A quarter of an hour later the two men entered Sir James's car, whilst Thompson and Dawkins, the official photographer to the Bureau, followed in that driven by Tims. Malcolm Sage would cheerfully havesacrificed anybody and anything to serve his late chief.

"And how am I to keep the shine off my nose without a looking-glass,Johnny?" asked Miss Norman of William Johnson, as she turned toresume her work.

"He won't mind if it shines," said the youth seriously; and MissNorman gave him a look, which only his years prevented him from interpreting.

II

As the car drew up, the hall-door of "The Cedars" was thrown open bythe butler, a fair-haired clean-shaven man of about forty-five, withgrave, impassive face, and eyes that gave the impression of allowinglittle to escape them.

As he descended the flight of stone-steps to open the door of thecar, a young man appeared behind him. A moment later Sir James wasintroducing him to Malcolm Sage as "Mr. Richard Dane."

Dark, with smoothly-brushed hair and a toothbrush moustache, hemight easily have been passed over in a crowd without a secondglance. He was obviously and acutely nervous. His fingers movedjerkily, and there were twitchings at the corners of his mouth thathe seemed unable to control. It was not a good-tempered mouth. Heappeared unconscious of the presence of Malcolm Sage. His eyes werefixed upon the second car, which had just drawn up, and from whichThompson and Dawkins were removing the photographic paraphernalia.

Peters conducted Sir James and Malcolm Sage to the dining-room, where luncheon was laid.

"Shall I serve luncheon, Sir James?" he enquired, ignoring Dane, whowas clearly unequal to the strain of the duties of host.

Sir James looked across at Malcolm Sage, who shook his head.

"I'll see the library first," he said. "Sir James will show me.Fetch Dawkins," he said to Thompson, and he followed Sir Jamesthrough the house out on to the lawn.

As they entered the library by the French-windows, a tall, sandy manrose from the armchair in which he was seated. He was InspectorGorton of the Sussex County Constabulary. Malcolm Sage nodded alittle absently. His eyes were keenly taking in every detail of thefigure sprawling across the writing-table. The head rested on theleft cheek, and there was an ugly wound in the right temple fromwhich blood had dripped and congealed upon the table. In the righthand was clutched a small, automatic pistol. The arm was slightlycurved, the weapon pointing to the left.

Having concluded his examination of the wound, Malcolm Sage drew asilk-handkerchief from his pocket, shook out its folds and spread itcarefully over the blood-stained head of Mr. Challoner.

Sir James looked across at him, appreciation in his eyes. It was oneof those little human touches, of which he had discovered so many inMalcolm Sage, and the heads of government departments in Whitehallso few.

Malcolm Sage next proceeded to regard the body from every angle, even going down on his knees to see the position of the legs beneaththe table. He then walked round the room and examined everythingwith minute attention, particularly the key of the door, which SirJames had replaced in its position on the inside. The keyhole onboth sides of the door came in for careful scrutiny.

He tried the door of a small safe at the far-end of the room; it waslocked. He then examined the fastenings of the French-windows.

Finally he returned to the table, where, dropping on one knee on theleft-hand side of the body, he drew a penknife from his pocket, andproceeded with great care and deliberation to slit up the outer seamof the trousers so that the pocket lay exposed.

This in turn he cut open, taking care not to disturb the bunch ofkeys, which, attached to a chain, lay on the thigh, a little to theleft.

The others watched him with wide-eyed interest, the inspectorbreathing heavily.

Having assured himself that the keys would not slide off, Malcolm

Sage rose and turned to Dawkins:

"I want a plate from the right, the left, the front, and from behindand above. Also an exposure showing the position of the legs, andanother of the keys."

Dawkins inclined his head. He was a grey, bald-headed little man whohad only one thought in life, his profession. He seldom spoke, andwhen he did his lips seemed scarcely to part, the words slipping outas best they could.

Happy in the knowledge that his beloved camera was once more to beone of the principal witnesses in the detection of a crime, Dawkinsset himself to his task.

"When Dawkins has finished," said Malcolm Sage, turning to theinspector, who had been watching the proceedings with ill-disguisedimpatience, "you can remove the body; but leave the pistol. Give Mr.Challoner's keys to Sir James. And now I think we might lunch," hesaid, turning to Sir James.

Malcolm Sage's attitude towards the official police was generallydetermined by their attitude towards him. In the Department Z days,he had been known at Scotland Yard as "Sage & Onions." What thephrase lacked in wit was compensated for by the feeling with whichit was frequently uttered. The police officers made no effort todissemble the contempt they felt for a department in which they sawa direct rebuke to themselves. Later, however, their attitudechanged, and Malcolm Sage was brought into close personal touch withmany of the best-known officers of the Criminal InvestigationDepartment.

He had never been known to speak disparagingly, or patronisingly, ofScotland Yard. On the other hand, he lost no opportunity ofemphasising the fact that it was the head-quarters of the mostefficient police force in the world. He did not always agree withits methods, which in many ways he regarded as out-of-date.

As Malcolm Sage left the room, the inspector shrugged his shoulders.

The whole thing was so obvious that, but for the presence of Sir

James Walton, he would have refused to delay the removal of the body.

The doctor had pronounced the wound self-inflicted, and even if he had not done so, the circumstantial evidence was conclusive.

Luncheon was eaten in silence, a constrained and uncomfortable meal.Malcolm Sage ate as he always ate when his mind was occupied, withentire indifference as to what was on the plate, from which his eyesnever lifted.

Sir James made several ineffectual efforts to draw Dane intoconversation; but at each remark the young man started violently, asif suddenly recalled to his surroundings. Finally Sir James desisted, and the meal concluded in abysmal silence.

Malcolm Sage then announced that he would examine the variousmembers of the household, and Dane and Peters left the room.

One by one the servants entered, were interrogated, and departed.Even the gardener and his wife, who lived at the lodge by themain-gates, were cross-questioned.

Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, was incoherent in her volubleanxiety to give information. The maids were almost too frightened tospeak, and from none was anything tangible extracted.

No one had any reason for being near the library late at night.

When Peters' turn came, he told his story with a clearness andeconomy of words that caused Malcolm Sage mentally to register himas a good witness. He was a superior kind of man, who had been inhis present position only some six months; but during that time hehad given every satisfaction, so much so that Mr. Challoner hadremarked to Sir James that he believed he had found a treasure.

According to Peters' account, at a quarter-past eleven on theprevious evening he had gone to the library, as was his custom, tosee if there were anything else that Mr. Challoner required beforehe locked up for the night. On being told there was nothing, he hadaccordingly seen to the fastenings of doors and windows and gone tobed.

"What was Mr. Challoner doing when you entered the room?" enquiredMalcolm Sage, intent upon a design he was drawing upon the surfaceof the salt.

"He was sitting at the table where I found him this morning."

"What was he actually doing?"

"I think he was checking his bankbook, sir."

"Did you notice anything strange about his manner?"

"No, sir."

"When you found that his bed had not been slept in were yousurprised?"

"Not greatly, sir," was the response. "Once before a similar thinghappened, and I heard from the other servants that on severaloccasions Mr. Challoner had spent the night in the library, havingfallen asleep there."

"When you told Mr. Dane that his uncle had not slept in his room, and that the library door was locked on the inside, what did hesay?"

"He said, 'Good Lord! Peters, something must have happened.'"

"Mr. Dane knew that on previous occasions his uncle had spent thenight in his study?" enquired Malcolm Sage, smoothing out the designupon which he had been engaged and beginning another.

"I think so, sir," was the response.

"The pistol was the one he used at target-practice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did he keep it?"

"In the third right-hand drawer of his table, sir."

"He was a good shot, I think you said?" Malcolm Sage turned to Sir

James.

"Magnificent," he said warmly. "I have often shot with him."

"Do you know of any reason why Mr. Challoner should commit suicide?"

Malcolm Sage enquired of Peters.

"None whatever, sir; he always seemed very happy."

"He had no domestic worries?"

Peters hesitated for a moment.

"He never mentioned any to me, sir."

"You have in mind certain events that occurred during the last fewdays, I take it?" said Malcolm Sage.

"That was in my mind, sir," was the response.

"You know of no way by which anyone could have got into the libraryand then out again, other than through the door or the window?"

Malcolm Sage had relinquished the salt-spoon and was nowmeditatively twirling a wineglass by its stem between his thumb andfirst finger.

"There is no other way, sir."

"Who has access to the library in the ordinary way? Tell me thenames of everybody who is likely to go in at any time."

"Outside Mr. Challoner and Mr. Dane, there is myself, Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, and Meston, the housemaid."

"No one else?"

"No one, sir, except, of course, the guests who might be staying inthe house."

"I shall want the finger-prints of all those you have named, including yours, Sir James." Malcolm Sage looked across at Sir James

Walton. "I can then identify those of any stranger that I may find."

Sir James nodded.

"It would be quite easy for Mr. Challoner to let anyone in throughthe French-windows?" enquired Malcolm Sage, turning once more toPeters.

"Quite, sir."

"What time did Mr. Dane return last evening?"

"I think about a quarter to eleven, sir. He went straight to hisroom."

"That will be all now. Tell Mr. Dane I should like to see him."

Peters noiselessly withdrew.

A few minutes later Dane entered the room. Malcolm Sage gave him akeen, appraising look, then dropped his eyes. Dane was still acutelynervous. His fingers moved jerkily and the corners of his mouthtwitched.

"Will you tell me what took place yesterday between you and youruncle?" said Malcolm Sage.

Dane looked about him nervously, as an animal might who has beentrapped and seeks some means of escape.

"We had a row," he began, then paused; "a terrible row," he added,as if to emphasise the nature of the quarrel.

"So I understand," said Malcolm Sage. "I know what it was about.Just tell me what actually took place. In as few words as possible, please."

"A week ago I told my uncle of my engagement, and he was very angrywhen he knew that my fiancée was – was —

"A secretary," suggested Malcolm Sage, without looking up.

"Yes. He ordered me to break off the engagement at once, no matterwhat it might cost."

"He referred to his pocket rather than to your feelings, I take it?"said Malcolm Sage.

"Yes." There was a world of bitterness in the tone in which the wordwas uttered. "I refused. Four days ago Sir James came and, I think, talked things over with my uncle, who said he would see Enid, thatis, my fiancée. She came yesterday afternoon. My uncle insisted onseeing her alone. She stayed only a few minutes."

His voice broke. He swallowed rapidly several times in succession, struggling to regain control of himself.

"You walked back to the station with her," remarked Malcolm Sage,"and she told you what had taken place. Your uncle had offered tobuy her off. You were furious. You said many wild and extravagantthings. Then you came back and went immediately into the library.What took place there?"

"I don't remember what I said. I think for the time I was insane. Hehad actually offered her money, notes. He had drawn them out of thebank on purpose." Again he stopped, as if the memory of the insultwere too much for him.

"And you said?" suggested Malcolm Sage, twirling the wineglassslowly between his thumb and finger.

"I probably said what any other man would have said under similarcircumstances." There was a quiet dignity about the way in which heuttered these words, although his fingers still continued to twitch.

"Did he threaten you, or you him?"

"I don't remember what I said; but my uncle told me that, unless Iwrote to Enid to-day giving her up and apologised to him, he wouldtelephone for his lawyer and make a fresh will, cutting me out of itentirely. I was to have until the next morning to decide, that is,to-day."

Malcolm Sage still kept his eyes averted. He contended that to lookfixedly into the eyes of anyone undergoing interrogation wascalculated to confuse him and render the replies less helpful.

"And what would your decision have been?" he asked.

"I told him that if he gave me ten years it would be the same."

"That you would not do as he wished?"

"Certainly not."

"Until this episode you were on good terms with each other?" MalcolmSage had got a dessert spoon and fork to balance on the blade of aknife.

"Yes."

"You know of no reason why your uncle should take his life?"

"None whatever."

"This episode in itself would not be sufficient to cause him tocommit suicide?"

"Certainly not. Sir James will tell you that he was a man of strongcharacter."

"Do you believe he shot himself?" Malcolm Sage seemed absorbed inthe rise and fall of the balancing silver.

"But for the locked door I should have said 'no.'"

"What were you proposing to do in the light of your refusal to breakthe engagement?"

"I had everything packed up ready. I meant to go away this morning."

"By the way, where did your uncle bank?" enquired Malcolm Sagecasually.

"At the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank, Lewes," was the reply.

"Thank you. That will do, I think, for the present. You had betterrun round to your doctor and get him to give you something to steadyyour nerves," said Malcolm Sage, with eyes that had lost theirprofessional glint. "They are all on edge."

Dane glanced at him in surprise; but there was only a cone ofbaldness visible.

"Thank you," he said. "I think I will," and he turned and left theroom. He still seemed dazed and incapable of realising what wastaking place.

Malcolm Sage rose and, walking over to the door, removed the key, examined the wards intently, then replaced it and, opening the door, walked across to the library.

CHAPTER III MALCOLM SAGE'S MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS

I

Malcolm Sage found that Dawkins had completed his work, and the bodyof Mr. Challoner had been removed.

Seating himself at the table, he took the automatic pistol in hishand and deliberately removed the cartridges. Then placing themuzzle against his right temple he turned his eyes momentarily onDawkins, who, having anticipated his wishes, had already adjustedthe camera. He removed the cap, replaced it, and then quicklyreversed the plate.

Pulling the trigger, Malcolm Sage allowed his head to fall forward, his right hand, which held the pistol, dropping on the table beforehim. Dawkins took another photograph.

"Now," said Malcolm Sage to Sir James. "You shoot me through theright temple, approaching from behind. Grip my head as if youexpected me to resist."

Sir James did as he was requested, Dawkins making another exposure.

Malcolm Sage motioned Thompson to draw the curtains. Then droppingon to his knees by the library door, he took the small mirror he hadborrowed from Miss Norman and, placing it partly beneath the door, carefully examined the reflection by the aid of an electric torch.

When he rose it was with the air of a man who had satisfied himselfupon some important point. He then turned to Sir James.

"You might get those finger-prints," he said casually. "Get everyonetogether in the dining-room. See that no one leaves it for at leasta quarter of an hour. Thompson will go with you."

"Then you think it was murder?" questioned Sir James.

"I would sooner say nothing just at the moment," was the reply.

Whilst Sir James Walton and Thompson were occupied with a room-fullof domestics, talking in whispers as if in the presence of death,Malcolm Sage was engaged in a careful examination of the bottoms ofall the doors in the house by means of a mirror placed upwardsbeneath each. He also removed the keys and gave a swift look at thewards of each.

He moved quickly; yet without haste, as if his brain had entirecontrol of the situation.

One door in particular appeared to interest him, so much so that heentered the room and proceeded to examine it with great thoroughness, taking the utmost care to replace everything as he found it.

From the middle-drawer of the chest-of-drawers, he extracted fromunder a pile of clothes a thin steel object, some five or six inchesin length, wound round with a fine, strong twine. This he slippedinto his pocket and, going down into the hall, rang up the managerof the Lewes branch of the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank.

Passing into the library, he searched the drawers of the table atwhich Mr. Challoner had been found. In one of them he discovered thepass-book. Seating himself at the table, he proceeded to examine itcarefully. Turning to the pockets at either end, where cancelledcheques are usually placed, he found both were empty.

When a few minutes later Sir James and Thompson entered with thefinger-prints, Malcolm Sage was seated at the table smoking, hisgaze concentrated upon the nail of the fourth finger of his righthand. With him a contemplation of his finger-nails in generalindicated thoughtful attention; when, however, he raised the handand began to subject some particular finger-nail to a thorough andelaborate examination, it generally meant the germination of someconstructive thesis.

Taking the sheets of paper from Thompson, he went through themrapidly, then drawing a sheet of note-paper from the rack before himhe scribbled a hasty note, enclosed it with one of the fingerprintsin an envelope, which he sealed, addressed, and handed to Thompsonwith instructions to see that it was delivered without delay. Healso told him to send Peters and Dane to the library.

Three minutes later Tims swung down the drive, his face beaming. Hewas to drive to Scotland Yard and "never mind the poultry on theroad," as Thompson had phrased it.

"Have you the key of the safe, Mr. Dane?" enquired Malcolm Sage asthe young man entered, followed by Peters. Dane shook his head andlooked at Peters.

"Mr. Challoner always wore it on his key-chain, sir," said thebutler.

"Have you any objection to the safe being opened?" enquired Malcolm

Sage to Dane.

"None whatever."

"Then perhaps you will open it?" said Malcolm Sage, turning to Sir

James.

In the safe were found several bundles of letters andshare-certificates, and an old cash-box containing some loosestamps; but nothing else.

Malcolm Sage dismissed Peters and Dane, saying that he would bereturning to town after dinner. In the meantime he and Sir Jamesstrolled about the grounds, discussing the remarkable rise in thechess-world of Capablanca, whilst Dawkins was busily occupied in adarkened bath-room.

Dinner proved a far less sombre meal than luncheon. Malcolm Sage andSir James between them succeeded in placing young Dane more at hisease. The haunted, shell-shock look left his eyes, and the twitchingdisappeared from the corners of his mouth.

It was nearly nine o'clock when the distant moan of a hooterannounced to Malcolm Sage's alert ears the return of Tims. He rosefrom the table and walked slowly to the door, where for some secondshe stood with his hand upon the knob.

As the car drew up he slipped into the hall, just as Peters openedthe door.

A moment later the butler started back, his right hand seemed to flyto his left breast pocket. At the same moment Malcolm Sage sprangforward. There was a flash, a report, and two bodies fell at thefeet of Inspector Wensdale, of Scotland Yard, and another manstanding beside him.

In a second, however, they had thrown themselves upon the strugglingheap, and when Malcolm Sage rose to his feet it was to look downupon Peters pinned to the floor by the inspector, with the strangeman sitting on his legs.

II

"There is no witness so sure as the camera," remarked Malcolm Sageas he gazed from one to the other of two photographs before him, onerepresenting him holding an automatic pistol to his own head, andthe other in which Sir James was posing as a murderer.

"It is strange that it should be so neglected at Scotland Yard," headded.

Silent and absorbed when engaged upon a problem, Malcolm Sageresented speech as a sick man resents arrowroot. At other times heseemed to find pleasure in lengthy monologues, invariably of aprofessional nature.

"But we use it a lot, Mr. Sage," protested Inspector Wensdale.

"For recording the features of criminals," was the retort. "No,Wensdale, you are obsessed by the finger-print heresy, quiteregardless of the fact that none but an amateur ever leaves such athing behind him, and the amateur is never difficult to trace."

He paused for a moment; but the inspector made no comment.

"The two greatest factors in the suppression of crime," continuedMalcolm Sage, "are photography and finger-prints. Both are in use atScotland Yard; but each in place of the other. Finger-prints areregarded as clues, and photography is a means of identification, whereas finger-prints are of little use except to identify pastoffenders, and photography is the greatest aid to the actual tracingof the criminal."

Malcolm Sage never failed to emphasise the importance of photographyin the detection of crime. He probably used it more than all otherinvestigators put together. He contended that a photographic printestablished for all time what the eye could only dimly register forthe moment, with the consequent danger of forgetfulness.

As the links in a chain multiplied, it was frequently necessary torefer to the scene of a crime, or tragedy, and then probably someimportant point would crop up, which the eye had not considered ofsufficient importance to dwell upon. By then, in the case of amurder, the body would have been removed, and everything about iteither re-ordered or obliterated.

Malcolm Sage proceeded to stuff his pipe with tobacco which he drewfrom the left-hand pocket of his jacket. He had discovered that arubber-lined pocket was the best and safest pouch.

He picked up a third photograph and laid it beside the others. Itwas a print of Mr. Challoner's head, showing, marked in ink, thecourse of the bullet towards the left of the frontal bone.

"A man shooting himself," began Malcolm Sage, "places the pistol ina position so that the muzzle is directed towards the back of thehead. On the other hand, anyone approaching his victim from behindwould have a tendency to direct the muzzle towards the front of thehead. That is why I got Dawkins to take a photograph of me holdingthe pistol to my head and of you holding it from behind. Thesephotographs will constitute the principal evidence at the trial."

Sir James nodded. He was too interested to interrupt.

"On this enlargement of the wound," continued Malcolm Sage, "youwill see an abrasion on the side nearer the ear, as if the head hadsuddenly been jerked backwards between the time of the muzzle beingplaced against the temple and the actual firing of the shot."

Thompson leaned across to examine the photograph.

"If the eyes of someone sitting at a table are suddenly andunexpectedly covered from behind, the natural instinct is to jerkbackwards so that the head may be turned to see who it is. That isexactly what occurred with Challoner. He jerked backwards, and thebarrel of the pistol grazed the skin and was deflected still moretowards the frontal bone."

Sir James and Thompson exchanged glances. Dawkins stood by, a lookof happiness in his eyes. His beloved camera was justifying itselfonce more. Inspector Wensdale breathed heavily.

"Apart from all this, the position of the head on the table, and theway in which the hand was holding the pistol, not to speak of thecurve of the arm, were unnatural. You get some idea of this from thephotograph that Dawkins took of me, although I could only simulatedeath by relaxing the muscles. Again, the head would hardly belikely to twist on to its side."

"The doctor ought to have seen that," said the inspector.

Another thing against the theory of suicide was that the secondjoint of the first finger was pressing against the trigger. Mr.Challoner was an expert shot, and would instinctively have used thepad of the finger, not the second joint.

"The next step," continued Malcolm Sage, "was how could anyone getinto the room and approach Challoner without being heard or'sensed.'"

"He must have been very much absorbed in what he was doing,"suggested Sir James.

Malcolm Sage shook his head, and for a few seconds gazed at thephotographs before him.

"You will remember there was nothing on the table in front of him. Ishall come to that presently. It is very unlikely that a man sittingat a table would not be conscious of someone approaching him frombehind, no matter how quietly he stepped, unless that man'spresence in the room were quite a normal and natural thing. Thatgave me the clue to Peters. He is the only person who could be inthe library without Challoner taking any notice of him. Consequentlyit was easy for him to approach his master and shoot him."

"But the locked door, sir," said Thompson.

"That is a very simple matter. An ordinary lead-pencil, with a pieceof string tied to one end, put through the ring of the key to act asa lever, the cord being passed beneath the door, will lock any doorin existence. The pencil can then be drawn under the door. This willshow how it's done." Malcolm Sage reached across for a sheet ofpaper, and drew a rough sketch.

[Illustration]

"That is why you examined the under-edge of the door?" suggested Sir

James.

Malcolm Sage nodded. "The marks of the cord were clearly defined andreflected in the mirror. Had the key not been touched, it would havehelped."

"How?" asked Inspector Wensdale.

"By means of the string the key is turned only just to the pointwhere the lever falls through the hole to the floor. The fingerswould turn beyond that point, not being so delicate."

"Mr. Sage, you're a wonder," burst out the inspector.

"I then," proceeded Malcolm Sage, "examined all the other doors inthe house, and I found that of one room, which I after discovered tobe Peters', was heavily scored at the bottom. He had evidentlypractised fairly extensively before putting the plan into operation.He had also done the same thing with the library door, as there weremarks of more than one operation. Furthermore, he was wiser than totake the risk of so clumsy a tool as a lead-pencil. He used this."

Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket the roll of twine with the thinsteel instrument down the centre. It was a canvas-needle, to the eyeof which the cord was attached.

"This was absolutely safe," he remarked. "Another thing I discoveredwas that one lock, and only one lock in the house, had recently beenoiled – that of the library-door."

Sir James nodded his head several times. There was something ofself-reproach in the motion.

"Now," continued Malcolm Sage, "we come back to why a man should besitting at a table absorbed in gazing at nothing, and at a time whenmost of the household are either in bed or preparing for bed."

"Peters said that he was checking his pass-book," suggested Sir

James.

"That is undoubtedly what he was doing," continued Malcolm Sage,"and Peters removed the passbook, put it in a drawer, firstdestroying the cancelled cheques. He made a blunder in not replacingthe pass-book with something else. That was the last link in thechain," he added.

"I don't quite see – " began Sir James.

"Perhaps you did not read of a case that was reported from New Yorksome eighteen months ago. It was very similar to that of Mr.Challoner. A man was found shot through the head, the door beinglocked on the inside, and a verdict of suicide was returned; butthere was absolutely no reason why he should have taken his life.

"What actually happened was that Mr. Challoner went to his bank todraw five hundred pounds with which he hoped to bribe his nephew'sfiancée. He trusted to the temptation of the actual money ratherthan a cheque. When he was at the bank the manager once more askedhim to return his pass-book, which had not been balanced for severalmonths. He was very dilatory in such matters."

"That is true," said Dane, speaking for the first time.

"That evening he proceeded to compare it with his cheque-book. Isuspect that Peters had been forging cheques and he saw here whatwould lead to discovery. Furthermore, there was a considerable sumof money in the safe, and the quarrel between uncle and nephewto divert suspicion. This, however, was mere conjecture – thattrouser-pocket photo, Dawkins," said Malcolm Sage, turning to thephotographer, who handed it across to him.

"Now notice the position of those keys. They are put in headforemost, and do not reach the bottom of the pocket. They hadobviously been taken away and replaced in the pocket as Challonersat there. Had he gone to the safe himself and walked back to hischair, the position of the keys would have been quite different."

Instinctively each man felt in his trousers pocket, and found in hisown bunch of keys a verification of the statement.

"The whole scheme was too calculated and deliberate for an amateur,"said Malcolm Sage, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on to a brassashtray. "That is what prompted me to get the fingerprints of Peters,so that I might send them to Scotland Yard to see if anything wasknown of him there. The result you have seen."

"We've been on the look-out for him for more than a year," saidInspector Wensdale. "The New York police are rather interested inhim about a forgery stunt that took place there some time ago."

"I am confident that when Challoner's affairs are gone into therewill be certain cheques which it will be difficult to explain.

"Then, again, there was the electric light," proceeded Malcolm Sage."A man about to blow out his brains would certainly not walk acrossthe room, switch off the light, and then find his way back to thetable."

"That's true enough," said Inspector Wensdale.

"On the other hand, a murderer, who has to stand at a door for atleast some seconds, would not risk leaving on the light, which wouldattract the attention of anyone who might by chance be in the hall,or on the stairs."

Inspector Wensdale caught Thompson's left eye, which deliberatelyclosed and then re-opened. There was a world of meaning in themovement.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't get you down on a fool's errand, Sage,"said Sir James, rising. "I wonder what the local inspector willthink."

"He won't," remarked Malcolm Sage; "that is why he assumed it wassuicide."

"Did you suspect Peters was armed?" enquired Sir James.

"I saw the pistol under his left armpit," said Malcolm Sage. "It'swell known with American gunmen as a most convenient place for quickdrawing."

"If it hadn't been for you, Mr. Sage, he'd have got me," said

Inspector Wensdale.

"There'll be a heavy car-full for Tims," remarked Malcolm Sage, ashe walked towards the door.

CHAPTER IV THE SURREY CATTLE-MAIMING MYSTERY

I

"Disguise," Malcolm Sage had once re-marked, "is the chiefcharacteristic of the detective of fiction. In actual practise itis rarely possible. I am a case in point. No one but a builder,or an engineer, could disguise the shape of a head like mine;" ashe spoke he had stroked the top of his head, which rose above hisstrongly-marked brows like a down-covered cone.

He maintained that a disguise can always be identified, although notnecessarily penetrated. This in itself would be sufficient to defeatthe end of the disguised man by rendering him an object of suspicion.Few men can disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how cleverthey might be with false beards, grease-paint and wigs.

In this Malcolm Sage was a bitter disappointment to William Johnson, the office junior. His conception of the sleuth-hound had beentinctured by the vivid fiction with which he beguiled his spare time.

In the heart of William Johnson there were three great emotions: hishero-worship of Malcolm Sage, his romantic devotion to Gladys Norman, and his wholesome fear of the robustious humour of Tims.

In his more imaginative moments he would create a world in which hewas the recognised colleague of Malcolm Sage, the avowed admirer ofMiss Norman, and the austere employer of Tims – chauffeurs never tookliberties with the hair of their employers, no matter how knut-likeit might be worn.

It was with the object of making sure of the first turret of hiscastle in Spain, that William Johnson devoted himself to the earneststudy of what he conceived to be his future profession.

He read voraciously all the detective stories and police-reports hecame across. Every moment he could snatch from his official dutieshe devoted to some scrap of paper, booklet, or magazine. He stroveto cultivate his reasoning powers. Never did a prospective cliententer the Malcolm Sage Bureau without automatically setting intooperation William Johnson's mental induction-coil. With eyes thatwere covertly keen, he would examine the visitor as he sat waitingfor the two sharp buzzes on the private telephone which indicatedthat Malcolm Sage was at liberty.

It mattered little to William Johnson that error seemed to dog hisfootsteps; that he had "deduced" a famous pussyfoot admiral as acomedian addicted to drink; a lord, with a ten century lineage, as aman selling something or other; a Cabinet Minister as a companypromoter in the worst sense of the term; nothing could damp his zeal.

Malcolm Sage's "cases" he studied as intimately as he could from hisposition as junior; but they disappointed him. They seemed lackingin that element of drama he found so enthralling in the literaturehe read and the films he saw.

Malcolm Sage would enter the office as Malcolm Sage, and leave it as

Malcolm Sage, as obvious and as easily recognisable as St. Paul's

Cathedral. He seemed indifferent to the dramatic possibilities of disguise.

William Johnson longed for some decrepit and dirty old man or womanto enter the Bureau, selling boot-laces or bananas and, on beingperemptorily ordered out, to see the figure suddenly straightenitself, and hear his Chief's well-known voice remark, "So you don'trecognise me, Johnson – good." There was romance.

He yearned for a "property-room," where executive members of thestaff would disguise themselves beyond recognition. In his moreimaginative moments he saw come out from that mysterious room afull-blooded Kaffir, whereas he knew that only Thompson had entered.

He would have liked to see Miss Norman shed her pretty brunettenessand reappear as an old apple-woman, who besought him to buy of herwares. He even saw himself being transformed into a hooligan, or asmart R.A.F. officer, complete with a toothbrush moustache and"swish."

In his own mind he was convinced that, given the opportunity, hecould achieve greatness as a master of disguise, rivalling thehighly-coloured stories of Charles Peace. He had even put histheories to the test.

One evening as Miss Norman, who had been working late, was on herway to Charing Cross Underground Station, she was accosted by ayouth with upturned collar, wearing a shabby cap and a queer CharlieChaplain moustache that was not on straight. In a husky voice heenquired his way to the Strand.

"Good gracious, Johnnie!" she cried involuntarily. "What on earth'sthe matter?"

A moment later, as she regarded the vanishing form of William

Johnson, she wanted to kill herself for her lack of tact.

"Poor little Innocent!" she had murmured as she continued downVilliers Street, and there was in her eyes a reflection of the tearsshe had seen spring to those of William Johnson, whose first attemptat disguise had proved so tragic a failure.

Neither ever referred to the incident subsequently – although fordays William Johnson experienced all the unenviable sensations ofDamocles.

From that moment his devotion to Gladys Norman had become almostworship.

But William Johnson was not deterred, either by his own initialfailure or his chief's opinion. He resolutely stuck to his ownideas, and continued to expend his pocket-money upon tinted glasses, false-moustaches and grease paint; for hidden away in the innerrecesses of his mind was the conviction that it was not quiteplaying the game, as the game should be played, to solve a mysteryor bring a criminal to justice without having recourse to disguise.

It was to him as if Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar in a softhat and a burberry, or Wellington had met Blücher in flannels andsilk socks.

Somewhere in the future he saw himself the head of a "William

Johnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.

William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of characters that would rival a Dickens novel, with another legend reading, "Mr.

William Johnson as he appears."

With these day-dreams, the junior at the Malcolm Sage Bureau wouldoccupy the time when not actually engaged either in the performanceof his by no means arduous duties, or in reading the highly-coloureddetective stories from which he drew his inspiration.

From behind the glass-panelled door would come the tick-tack of Miss

Norman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony of

London, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying away again as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.

From these reveries William Johnson would be aroused either byperemptory blasts upon the buzzer of the private-telephone, or bythe entry of a client.

One morning, as he was hesitating between assuming the disguise of anaval commander and a street-hawker, a florid little man with purplejowl and a white, bristling moustache hurtled through the swing-door, followed by a tall, spare man, whose clothing indicated his clericalcalling.

"Mr. Sage in?" demanded the little man fiercely.

"Mr. Sage is engaged, sir," said the junior, his eyes upon theclergyman, in whose appearance there was something that causedWilliam Johnson to like him on the spot.

"Take my card in to him," said the little, bristly man. "Tell himthat General Sir John Hackblock wishes to see him immediately." Thetone was suggestive of the parade-ground rather than a London office.

At that moment Gladys Norman appeared through the glass-panelleddoor. The clergyman immediately removed his hat, the general merelyturned as if changing front to receive a new foe.

"Mr. Sage will be engaged for about a quarter of an hour. I am hissecretary," she explained. She, also, looked at the general'scompanion, wondering what sort of teeth were behind that gentle, yetfirm mouth. "Perhaps you will take a seat," she added.

This time the clergyman smiled, and Gladys Norman knew that she tooliked him. Sir John looked about him aggressively, blew out hischeeks several times, then flopped into a chair. His companion alsoseated himself, and appeared to become lost in a fit of abstraction.

William Johnson returned to his table and became engrossed, ostensibly in the exploits of an indestructible trailer of men; butreally in a surreptitious examination of the two callers.

He had just succeeded in deducing from their manner that theywere father and son, and from the boots of the younger that hewas low church and a bad walker, when two sharp blasts on thetelephone-buzzer brought him to his feet and half-way across theoffice in what was practically one movement. With Malcolm Sage therewere two things to be avoided, delay in answering a summons, andunnecessary words.

"This way, sir," he said, and led them through the glass-panelleddoor to Malcolm Sage's private room.

With a short, jerky movement of his head Malcolm Sage motioned hisvisitors to be seated. In that one movement his steel-coloured eyeshad registered a mental photograph of the two men. That glanceembraced all the details; the dark hair of the younger, greying atthe temples, the dreamy grey eyes, the gentle curves of a mouth thatwas, nevertheless, capable of great sternness, and the spare, almostlean frame; then the self-important, overbearing manner of the olderman. "High Anglican, ascetic, out-of-doors," was Malcolm Sage'smental classification of the one, thus unconsciously reversing theWilliam Johnson's verdict. The other he dismissed as a pompous ass.

"You Mr. Sage?" Sir John regarded the bald conical head andgold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been unpolished buttons onparade.

Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly, and proceeded to gaze downat his fingers spread out on the table before him. After the firstappraising glance he rarely looked at a client.

"I am Sir John Hackblock; this is my friend, the Rev. Geoffrey

Callice."

Again a slight inclination of the head indicated that Malcolm Sagehad heard.

Mr. Llewellyn John would have recognised in Sir John Hackblock thelast man in the world who should have been brought into contact withMalcolm Sage. The Prime Minister's own policy had been to keepMalcolm Sage from contact with other Ministers, and thus reduce thenumber of his embarrassing resignations.

"I want to consult you about a most damnable outrage," exploded thegeneral. "It's inconceivable that in this – "

"Will you kindly be as brief as possible?" said Malcolm Sage, fondling the lobe of his left ear. "I can spare only a few minutes."

Sir John gasped, glared across at him angrily; then, seeming to takehimself in hand, continued:

"You've heard of the Surrey cattle-maiming outrages?" he enquired.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"Well, this morning a brood-mare of mine was found hacked about inan unspeakable manner. Oh, the damn scoundrels!" he burst out as hejumped from his chair and began pacing up and down the room.

"I think it will be better if Mr. Callice tells me the details,"said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "You seem a little over-wrought."

"Over-wrought!" cried Sir John. "Over-wrought! Dammit, so would yoube if you had lost over a dozen beasts." In the army he was known as"Dammit Hackblock."

Mr. Callice looked across to the general, who, nodding acquiescence, proceeded to blow his nose violently, as if to bid Malcolm Sagedefiance.

"This morning a favourite mare belonging to Sir John was foundmutilated in a terrible manner – " Mr. Callice paused; there wassomething in his voice that caused Malcolm Sage to look up. Thegentle look had gone from his face, his eyes flashed, and his mouthwas set in a stern, severe line.

"Good preacher," Malcolm Sage decided as he dropped his eyes oncemore, and upon his blotting pad proceeded to develop the PonsAsinorum into a church.

In a voice that vibrated with feeling and suggested greatself-restraint, Mr. Callice proceeded to tell the story of thelatest outrage. How when found that morning the mare was still alive,of the terrible nature of her injuries, and that the perpetrator haddisappeared, leaving no trace.

"Her look, sir! Dammit!" the general broke in. "Her eyes havehaunted me ever since. They – " His voice broke, and he proceededonce more to blow his nose violently.

Mr. Callice went on to explain that after having seen the mare putout of her misery, Sir John had motored over to his lodgings andinsisted that they should go together to Scotland Yard and demandthat something be done.

"Callice is Chairman of the Watchers' Committee," broke in Sir John.

"I should explain," proceeded Mr. Callice, "that some time ago weformed ourselves into a committee to patrol the neighbourhood atnight in the hope of tracing the criminal. On the way up Sir Johnremembered hearing of you in connection with Department Z and, as hewas not satisfied with his call at Scotland Yard, he decided to comeon here and place the matter in your hands."

"This is the twenty-ninth maiming?" Malcolm Sage remarked, as heproceeded to add a graveyard to the church.

"Yes, the first occurred some two years ago." Then, as if suddenlyrealising what Malcolm Sage's question implied, he added: "You haveinterested yourself in the affair?"

"Yes," was the reply. "Tell me what has been done."

"The police seem utterly at fault," continued Mr. Callice. "Locallywe have organised watch-parties. My boys and I have been out nightafter night; but without result. I am a scout-master," he explained.

"The poor beasts' sufferings are terrible," he continued after aslight pause. "It is a return to barbarism;" again there was thethrob of indignation in his voice.

"You have discovered nothing?"

"Nothing," was the response, uttered in a tone of deep despondency.

"We have even tried bloodhounds; but without result."

"And now I want you to take up the matter, and don't spare expense,"burst out Sir John, unable to contain himself longer.

"I will consider the proposal and let you know," said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "As it is, my time is fully occupied at present; butlater – " He never lost an opportunity of resenting aggression byemphasising the democratic tendency of the times. Mr. Llewellyn Johnhad called it "incipient Bolshevism."

"Later!" cried Sir John in consternation. "Why, dammit, sir! therewon't be an animal left in the county. This thing has been going onfor two years now, and those damn fools at Scotland Yard – "

"If it were not for Scotland Yard," said Malcolm Sage quietly, as heproceeded to shingle the roof of the church, the graveyard havingproved a failure, "we should probably have to sleep at night withpistols under our pillows."

"Eh!" Sir John looked across at him with a startled expression.

"Scotland Yard is the head-quarters of the most efficient andhighly-organised police force in the world," was the quiet reply.

"But, dammit! if they're so clever why don't they put a stop to thistorturing of poor dumb beasts?" cried the general indignantly. "I'veshown them the man. It's Hinds; I know it. I've just been to seethat fellow Wensdale. Why, dammit! he ought to be cashiered, and Itold him so."

"Who is Hinds?" Malcolm Sage addressed the question to Mr. Callice.

"He used to be Sir John's head gamekeeper – "

"And I discharged him," exploded the general. "I'll shoot a poacheror his dog; but, dammit! I won't set traps for them," and he puffedout his cheeks aggressively.

"Hinds used to set traps to save himself the trouble of patrollingthe preserves," explained Mr. Callice, "and one day Sir Johndiscovered him actually watching the agonies of a dog caught acrossthe hind-quarters in a man-trap." Again there was the wave offeeling in the voice, and a stern set about the mouth.

"It's Hinds right enough," cried the general with conviction. "Theman's a brute. Now will you – ?"

"I will let you know as soon as possible whether or no I can take upthe enquiry," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I fear that is the best Ican promise."

"But – " began Sir John; then he stopped and stared at Malcolm Sageas he moved towards the door.

"Dammit! I don't care what it costs," he spluttered explosively."It'll be worth five hundred pounds to the man who catches thescoundrel. Poor Betty," he added in a softer tone.

"I will write to you shortly," said Malcolm Sage. There wasdismissal in his tone.

With darkened jowl and bristling moustache Sir John strutted towardsthe door. Mr. Callice paused to shake hands with Malcolm Sage, andthen followed the general, who, with a final glare at WilliamJohnson, as he held open the swing-door, passed out into the street, convinced that now the country was no longer subject to conscriptionit would go rapidly to the devil.

For the next half-hour Malcolm Sage pored over a volume ofpress-cuttings containing accounts of previous cattle-maimings.

Following his usual custom in such matters, he had caused thenewspaper accounts of the various mutilations to be collected andpasted in a press-cutting book. Sooner or later he had determined todevote time to the affair.

Without looking up from the book he pressed three times in rapidsuccession a button of the private-telephone. Instantly GladysNorman appeared, note-book in hand. She had been heard to remarkthat if she were dead "three on the buzzer" would bring her to lifeagain.

"Whitaker and Inspector Wensdale," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes stillon the book before him.

When deep in a problem Malcolm Sage's economy in words made itdifficult for anyone but his own staff to understand hisrequirements.

Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, WilliamJohnson placed Whitaker's Almanack on the table, then he in turndisappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.

Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied thepages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closedthe book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, thesignal that he was through to the number required. Drawing thepedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.

"That Inspector Wensdale? – Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about thecattle-maiming business. – I've just heard of it. – I've not decidedyet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spotof each outrage indicated, and the date. – To-morrow will do. – Yes, come round. Give me half an hour with the map first."

Malcolm Sage replaced the receiver as the buzzer sounded, announcing another client.

II

"So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from themap before him.

"Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," said

Inspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.

Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.

"Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst outexplosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready madefor 'em."

"To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He nevercould resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints asclues instead of means of identification.

"It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector, confidentially. "Last time The Daily Telegram went for usbecause – "

"You haven't found a dust-pan full of clues?" suggested Malcolm Sage, who was engaged in forming geometrical designs with spent matches.

"They're getting a bit restive, too, at the Yard," he continued. Hewas too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maimingbusiness that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referringto Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Nowthe general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with theCommissioner."

For some seconds Malcolm Sage devoted himself to his designs.

"Any theory?" he enquired at length, without looking up.

"I've given up theorising," was the dour reply.

In response to a further question as to what had been done, theinspector proceeded to detail how the whole neighbourhood had beenscoured after each maiming, and how, night after night, watchers hadbeen posted throughout the district, but without result.

"I have had men out night and day," continued the inspector gloomily."He's a clever devil whoever he is. It's my opinion the man's alunatic," he added.

Malcolm Sage looked up slowly.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"His cunning, for one thing," was the reply. "Then it's so senseless.

No," he added with conviction, "he's no more an ordinary man than

Jack-the-Ripper was."

He went on to give details of his enquiries among those living inthe district. There was absolutely nothing to attach even theremotest suspicion to any particular person. Rewards had beenoffered for information; but all without producing the slightestevidence or clue.

"This man Hinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking about for morematches.

"Oh! the general's got him on the brain. Absolutely nothing in it.I've turned him inside out. Why, even the Deputy Commissioner had ago at him, and if he can get nothing out of a man, there's nothingto get out."

"Well," said Malcolm Sage rising, "keep the fact to yourself that Iam interested. I suppose, if necessary, you could arrange for twentyor thirty men to run down there?" he queried.

"The whole blessed Yard if you like, Mr. Sage," was the feelingreply.

"We'll leave it at that for the present then. By the way, if youhappen to think you see me in the neighbourhood you needn't rememberthat we are acquainted."

The inspector nodded comprehendingly and, with a heart lightenedsomewhat of its burden, he departed. He had an almost child-likefaith in Malcolm Sage.

For half an hour Malcolm Sage sat engrossed in the map of the sceneof the maimings. On it were a number of red-ink crosses with figuresbeneath. In the left-hand bottom corner was a list of the variousoutrages, with the date and the time, as near as could beapproximated, against each.

The numbers in the bottom corner corresponded with those beneath thecrosses.

From time to time he referred to the two copies of Whitaker'sAlmanack open before him, and made notes upon the writing-pad athis side. Finally he ruled a square upon the map in red ink, andthen drew two lines diagonally from corner to corner. Then withoutlooking up from the map, he pressed one of the buttons of theprivate-telephone. "Tims," he said through the mouthpiece.

Five minutes later Malcolm Sage's chauffeur was standing oppositehis Chief's table, ready to go anywhere and do anything.

"To-morrow will be Sunday, Tims."

"Yessir."

"A day of rest."

"Yessir!"

"We are going out to Hempdon, near Selford," Malcolm Sage continued, pointing to the map. Tims stepped forward and bent over to identifythe spot. "The car will break down. It will take you or any othermechanic two hours to put it right."

"Yessir," said Tims, straightening himself.

"You understand," said Malcolm Sage, looking at him sharply, "youor any other mechanic?"

"Yessir," repeated Tims, his face sphinx-like in its lack ofexpression.

He was a clean-shaven, fleshless little man who, had he not been achauffeur, would probably have spent his life with a straw betweenhis teeth, hissing lullabies to horses.

"I shall be ready at nine," said Malcolm Sage, and with another

"Yessir" Tims turned to go.

"And Tims."

"Yessir." He about-faced smartly on his right heel. "You mightapologise for me to Mrs. Tims for depriving her of you on Sunday.Take her out to dinner on Monday and charge it to me."

"Thank you, sir, very much, sir," said Tims, his face expressionless.

"That is all, Tims, thank you."

Tims turned once more and left the room. As he walked towards theouter door he winked at Gladys Norman and, with a sudden dive, madea frightful riot of William Johnson's knut-like hair. Then, withoutchange of expression, he passed out to tune up the car for its runon the morrow.

Malcolm Sage's staff knew that when "the Chief" was what Tims called"chatty" he was beginning to see light, so Tims whistled loudly athis work: for he, like all his colleagues, was pleased when "theChief" saw reason to be pleased.

The following morning, as they trooped out of church, theinhabitants of Hempdon were greatly interested in the break-down ofa large car, which seemed to defy the best efforts of the chauffeurto coax into movement. The owner drank cider at the SpottedWoodpigeon and talked pleasantly with the villagers, who, onlearning that he had never even heard of the Surrey cattle-maimings, were at great pains to pour information and theories into hisreceptive ear.

The episode quite dwarfed the remarkable sermon preached by Mr.Callice, in which he exhorted his congregation to band themselvestogether to track down him who was maiming and torturing God'screatures, and defying the Master's merciful teaching.

It was Tom Hinds, assisted by a boy scout, who conducted MalcolmSage to the scene of the latest outrage. It was Hinds who describedthe position of the mare when she was discovered, and it was he whopocketed two half-crowns as the car moved off Londonwards.

That evening Malcolm Sage sat long and late at his table, engrossedin the map that Inspector Wensdale had sent him.

Finally he subjected to a thorough and exhaustive examination thethumb-nail of his right hand. It was as if he saw in its polishedsurface the tablets of destiny.

The next morning he wrote a letter that subsequently caused Sir JohnHackblock to explode into a torrent of abuse of detectives ingeneral and one investigator in particular. It stated in a few wordsthat, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, MalcolmSage would not be able to undertake the enquiry with which Sir JohnHackblock had honoured him until the end of the month following. Hehoped, however, to communicate further with his client soon afterthe 23rd of that month.

CHAPTER V INSPECTOR WENSDALE IS SURPRISED

I

Nearly a month had elapsed, and the cattle-maiming mystery seemed asfar off solution as ever. The neighbourhood in which the crimes hadbeen committed had once more settled down to its usual occupations, and Scotland Yard had followed suit.

Sir John Hackblock had written to the Chief Commissioner and aquestion had been asked in the House.

Inspector Wensdale's colleagues had learned that it was dangerous tomention in his presence the words "cattle" or "maiming." Theinspector knew that the affair was referred to as "Wensdale'sWaterloo," and his failure to throw light on the mystery wasbeginning to tell upon his nerves.

For three weeks he had received no word from Malcolm Sage. Onemorning on his arrival at Scotland Yard he was given a telephonemessage asking him to call round at the Bureau during the day.

"Nothing new?" queried Malcolm Sage ten minutes later, as theinspector was shown into his room by Thompson.

The inspector shook a gloomy head and dropped his heavy frame into achair.

Malcolm Sage indicated with a nod that Thompson was to remain.

"Can you borrow a couple of covered government lorries?" queried

Malcolm Sage.

"A couple of hundred if necessary," said the inspector dully.

"Two will be enough," was the dry rejoinder. "Now listen carefully,Wensdale. I want you to have fifty men housed some ten miles awayfrom Hempdon on the afternoon of the 22nd. Select men who have donescouting, ex-boy scouts, for preference. Don't choose any with baldheads or with very light hair. See that they are wearing darkclothes and dark shirts and, above all, no white collars. Take withyou a good supply of burnt cork such as is used by niggerminstrels."

Malcolm Sage paused, and for the fraction of a second there was acurious fluttering at the corners of his mouth.

Inspector Wensdale was sitting bolt upright in his chair, gazing atMalcolm Sage as if he had been requested to supply two lorry-loadsof archangels.

"It will be moonlight, and caps might fall off," explained MalcolmSage. "You cannot very well ask a man to black his head. Above all,"he continued evenly, "be sure you give no indication to anyone whyyou want the men, and tell them not to talk. You follow me?" hequeried.

"Yes," said the inspector, "I – I follow."

"Don't go down Hempdon way again, and tell no one in theneighbourhood; no one, you understand, is to know anything aboutit. Don't tell the general, for instance."

"Him!" There was a world of hatred and contempt in the inspector'svoice. Then he glanced a little oddly at Malcolm Sage.

Malcolm Sage went on to elaborate his instructions. The men were tobe divided into two parties, one to form a line north of the sceneof the last outrage, and the other to be spread over a particularzone some three miles the other side of Hempdon. They were toblacken their faces and hands, and observe great care to show nolight colouring in connection with their clothing. Thus they wouldbe indistinguishable from their surroundings.

"You will go with one lot," said Malcolm Sage to the inspector, "andmy man Finlay with the other. Thompson and I will be somewhere inthe neighbourhood. You will be given a pass-word for purposes ofidentification. You understand?"

"I think so," said the inspector, in a tone which was suggestivethat he was very far from understanding.

"I'll have everything typed out for you, and scale-plans of whereyou are to post your men. Above all, don't take anyone into yourconfidence."

Inspector Wensdale nodded and looked across at Thompson, as if toassure himself that after all it really was not some huge joke.

"If nothing happens on the 22nd, we shall carry-on the second, third, and fourth nights. In all probability we shall catch our man on the23rd."

"Then you know who it is?" spluttered the inspector in astonishment.

"I hope to know on the 23rd," said Malcolm Sage dryly, as he roseand walked towards the door. Directness was his strong point. Takingthe hint, Inspector Wensdale rose also and, with the air of a mannot yet quite awake, passed out of the room.

"You had better see him to-morrow, Thompson," said Malcolm Sage,"and explain exactly how the men are to be disposed. Make it clearthat none must show themselves. If they actually see anyone in theact, they must track him, not try to take him."

Thompson nodded his head comprehendingly.

"Make it clear that they are there to watch; but I doubt if they'llsee anything," he added.

II

At eleven o'clock on the night of July the 23rd, two motor lorriesglided slowly along some three miles distant from one another. Fromtheir interiors silent forms dropped noiselessly on to the moon-whiteroad. A moment later, slipping into the shadow of the hedge, theydisappeared. All the previous night men had watched and waited; butnothing had happened. Now they were to try again.

Overhead the moon was climbing the sky, struggling against masses ofcloud that from time to time swung themselves across her disc.

In the village of Hempdon all was quiet. The last light had beenextinguished, the last dog had sent forth a final challenging bark, hoping that some neighbouring rival would answer and justify avolume of canine protest.

On the western side of the highway, and well behind the houses, twofigures were standing in the shadow cast by a large oak. Their facesand hands were blackened, rendering them indistinguishable fromtheir surroundings.

One wore a shade over a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, a precautionagainst the moonlight being reflected on the lenses.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half passed. They waited.Presently one gripped the arm of the other and pointed. At the backof the house immediately-opposite there was a slight movement in theshade cast by a hedge. Then the line readjusted itself and theshadow vanished. A moment later it reappeared in a patch ofmoonlight, looking like a large dog.

Stooping low Malcolm Sage and Thompson followed the dog-like form, themselves taking advantage of every patch of shadow and cover thatoffered.

The mysterious form moved along deliberately and without haste, nowdisappearing in the shadow cast by some tree or bush, nowreappearing once more on the other side.

It was obviously taking advantage of everything that tended toconceal its movements.

Once it disappeared altogether, and for five minutes the twotrackers lay on their faces and waited.

"Making sure he's not being followed," whispered Thompson, and

Malcolm Sage nodded.

Presently the figure appeared once more and, as if reassured, continued its slow and deliberate way.

Once a dog barked, a short, sharp bark of uncertainty. Again therewas no sign of the figure for some minutes. Then it moved out fromthe surrounding shadows and continued its stealthy progress.

Having reached the outskirts of the village, it continued itscrouching course along the western side of the hedge flanking theroadside.

Malcolm Sage and Thompson followed under the shadow of a hedgerunning parallel.

For a mile the slow and laborious tracking continued. SuddenlyMalcolm Sage stopped. In the field on their right two horses weregrazing in the moonlight. It was the scene of the tragedy of themonth previous!

For some minutes they waited expectantly. Suddenly Malcolm Sagegripped Thompson's arm and pointed. From under the hedge a darkpatch was moving slowely towards the nearer of the two animals. Itwas apparently the form of a man, face downward, wriggling alonginch by inch without bending a limb.

"Get across. Cut off his retreat," whispered Sage. "Look out for theknife."

Thompson nodded and slid away under cover of the hedge separatingthe field in which the horses were from that along which thewatchers had just passed.

Slowly the form approached its quarry. Once the horse lifted itshead as though scenting danger; but the figure was approachingupwind.

Suddenly it raised itself, appearing once more like a large dog.Then with a swift, panther-like movement it momentarily disappearedin the shadow cast by the horse.

There was a muffled scream and a gurgle, as the animal collapsed, then silence.

A minute later the form seemed to detach itself from the carcase andwriggled along towards the hedge, a dark patch upon the grass.

Malcolm Sage was already half-way through the second field, keepingwell under the shelter of the hedge. He reached a spot where theintersecting hedge joined that running parallel with the highroad.There was a hole sufficiently large for a man to crawl through fromone field to the other. By this Malcolm Sage waited, a life-preserverin his hand.

At the sound of the snapping of a twig, he gripped his weapon; amoment later a round, dark shape appeared through the hole in thehedge. Without hesitating Malcolm Sage struck.

There was a sound, half grunt, half sob, and Malcolm Sage was on hisfeet gazing down at the strangest creature he had ever encountered.

Clothed in green, its face and hands smeared with some pigment ofthe same colour, lay the figure of a tall man. Round the waist was abelt from which was suspended in its case a Gurkha's kukri.

Malcolm Sage bent down to unbuckle the belt. He turned the man onhis back. As he did so he saw that in his hand was a small, collapsible tin cup covered with blood, which also stained his lipsand chin, and dripped from his hands, whilst the front of hisclothing was stained in dark patches.

"I wonder who he is," muttered Thompson, as he gazed down at thestrange figure.

"Locally he is known as the Rev. Geoffrey Callice," remarked Malcolm

Sage quietly.

And Thompson whistled.

III

"And that damned scoundrel has been fooling us for two years." SirJohn Hackblock glared at Inspector Wensdale as if it were he who wasresponsible for the deception.

They were seated smoking in Sir John's library after a particularlyearly breakfast.

"I always said it was the work of a madman," said the inspector inself-defence.

"Callice is no more mad than I am," snapped Sir John. "I wish I weregoing to try him," he added grimly. "The scoundrel! To think – "His indignation choked him.

"He is not mad in the accepted sense," said Malcolm Sage as hesucked meditatively at his pipe. "I should say that it is a case ofrace-memory."

"Race-memory! Dammit! what's that?" Sir John Hackblock snapped outthe words in his best parade-ground manner. He was more purple thanever about the jowl, and it was obvious that he was prepared todisagree with everyone and everything. As Lady Hackblock and herdomestics would have recognised without difficulty, Sir John wasangry.

"How the devil did you spot the brute?" he demanded, as Malcolm Sagedid not reply immediately.

"Race-memory," he remarked, ignoring the question, "is to man whatinstinct is to animals; it defies analysis or explanation."

Sir John stared; but it was Inspector Wensdale who spoke.

"But how did you manage to fix the date, Mr. Sage?" he enquired.

"By the previous outrages," was the reply.

"The previous outrages!" cried Sir John. "Dammit! how did they helpyou?"

"They all took place about the time the moon was at the full. Therewere twenty-eight in all." Malcolm Sage felt in his pocket and drewout a paper. "These are the figures."

In his eagerness Sir John snatched the paper from his hand, and with

Inspector Wensdale looking over his shoulder, read:

Day before full moon.. 4

Full moon… 15

Day after… 7

Second day after… 2

–

Total 28… 28

"Well, I'm damned!" exclaimed Sir John, looking up from the paper at

Malcolm Sage, as if he had solved the riddle of the universe.

The inspector's only comment was a quick indrawing of breath.

Sir John continued to stare at Malcolm Sage, the paper still held inhis hand.

"That made matters comparatively easy," continued Malcolm Sage. "Theoutrages were clearly not acts of revenge upon any particularperson; for they involved nine different owners. They were obviouslythe work of someone subject to a mania, or obsession, which grippedhim when the moon was at the full."

"But how did you fix the actual spot?" burst out Inspector Wensdaleexcitedly.

"Each of the previous acts had been either in a diametricallyopposite direction from that immediately preceding it, orpractically on the same spot. For instance, the first three werenorth, east, and south of Hempdon, in the order named. Then thecunning of the perpetrator prompted him to commit a fourth, not tothe west; but to the south, within a few yards of the previous act.The criminal argued, probably subconsciously, that he would beexpected to complete the square."

"But what made you fix on Hempdon as the headquarters of theblackguard?" enquired Sir John.

"That was easy," remarked Malcolm Sage, polishing the thumb-nail ofhis left hand upon the palm of his right.

"Easy!" The exclamation burst involuntarily from the inspector.

"You supplied me with a large scale-map showing the exact spot whereeach of the previous maimings had taken place. I drew a square toembrace the whole. Lines drawn diagonally from corner to corner gaveme the centre of gravity."

"But – " began the inspector.

Ignoring the interruption Malcolm Sage continued.

"A man committing a series of crimes from a given spot was bound tospread his operations over a fairly wide area in order to minimisethe chance of discovery. The longer the period and the larger thenumber of comes, the greater the chance of his being locatedsomewhere near the centre of his activities."

"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Sir John for the second time. Thensuddenly turning to Inspector Wensdale, "Dammit!" he exploded, "whydidn't you think of that?"

"There was, of course, the chance of his striking in anotherdirection," continued Malcolm Sage, digging into the bowl of hispipe with a penknife, "so I placed the men in such a way that if hedid so he was bound to be seen."

Inspector Wensdale continued to gaze at him, eager to hear more.

"But what was that you said about race-memory?" Sir John had quieteddown considerably since Malcolm Sage had begun his explanation.

"I should describe it as a harking back to an earlier phase. It isto the mind what atavism is to the body. In breeding, forinstance" – Malcolm Sage looked across to Sir John – "you find thatan offspring will manifest characteristics, or a taint, that is notto be found in either sire or dam."

Sir John nodded.

"Well, race-memory is the same thing in regard to the mental plane,a sort of subconscious wave of reminiscence. In Callice's case itwas in all probability the memory of some sacrificial rite of hisancestors centuries ago."

"A case of heredity."

"Broadly speaking, yes. At the full moon this particular tribe, whose act Callice has reproduced, was in the habit of slaughteringsome beast, or beasts, and drinking the blood, probably with theidea of absorbing their strength or their courage. Possibly thesurroundings at Hempdon were similar to those where the act ofsacrifice was committed in the past.

"It must be remembered that Callice was an ascetic, and consequentlyhighly subjective. Therefore when the wave of reminiscence istaken in conjunction with the surroundings, the full moon andhis high state of subjectivity, it is easy to see that materialconsiderations might easily be obliterated. That is why I watchedthe back entrance to his lodgings."

"And all the time we were telling him our plans," murmured theinspector half to himself.

"Yes, and he would go out hunting himself," said Sir John. "Damnfunny, I call it. Anyway, he'll get seven years at least."

"When he awakens he will remember nothing about it. You cannotpunish a man for a subconscious crime."

Sir John snorted indignantly; but Inspector Wensdale nodded his headslowly and regretfully.

"Anyway, I owe you five hundred pounds," said Sir John to Malcolm

Sage; "and, dammit! it's worth it," he added.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders as he rose to go.

"I was sorry to have to hit him," he said regretfully, "but I wasafraid of that knife. A man can do a lot of damage with a thing likethat. That's why I told you not to let your men attempt to take him,Wensdale."

"How did you know what sort of knife it was?" asked the inspector.

"Oh! I motored down here, and the car broke down. Incidentally Imade a lot of acquaintances, including Callice's patrol-leader, abright lad. He told me a lot of things about Callice and his ways. Aremarkable product the boy scout," he added. "Kipling calls him 'thefriend of all the world.'"

Sir John looked across at Inspector Wensdale, who was stronglytempted to wink.

"Don't think too harshly of Callice," said Malcolm Sage as he shookhands with Sir John. "It might easily have been you or I, had webeen a little purer in mind and thought."

And with that he passed out of the room with Inspector Wensdalefollowed by Sir John Hackblock, who was endeavouring to interpretthe exact meaning of the remark.

"They said he was a clever devil," he muttered as he returned to thelibrary after seeing his guests off, "and, dammit! they were right."

CHAPTER VI THE STOLEN ADMIRALTY MEMORANDUM

I

"Well," cried Tims, one Saturday night, as he pushed open thekitchen door of the little flat he occupied over the garage. "How'sthe cook, the stove, and the supper?"

"I'm busy," said Mrs. Tims, a little, fair woman, with blue eyes, animpertinent nose, and the inspiration of neatness in her dress, asshe altered the position of a saucepan on the stove and put twoplates into the oven to warm.

This was the invariable greeting between husband and wife. Tims wentup behind her, gripped her elbows to her side, and kissed hernoisily.

"I told you I was busy," she said.

"You did, Emmelina," he responded. "I heard you say so, and how'shis Nibs?"

The last remark was addressed to an object that was crawling towardshim with incoherent cries and gurgles of delight. Stooping down,Tims picked up his eighteen-months-old son and held him aloft, chuckling and mouthing his glee.

"You'll drop him one of these days," said Mrs. Tims, "and thenthere'll be a pretty hullaballoo."

"Well, he's fat enough to bounce," was the retort. "Ain't you,

Jimmy?"

Neither Tims nor Mrs. Tims seemed to be conscious that withoutvariations these same remarks had been made night after night, weekafter week, month after month.

"How's Mr. Sage?" was the question with which Mrs. Tims alwaysfollowed the reference to the bouncing of Jimmy.

"Like Johnny Walker, still going strong," glibly came the reply, just as it came every other night. "He was asking about you to-day,"added Tims.

"About me?" Mrs. Tims turned, all attention, her cooking for thetime forgotten.

"Yes, wanted to know when I was going to divorce you."

"Don't be silly, Jim," she cried. "What did he say, really now?" sheadded as she turned once more to the stove.

"Oh! he just asked if you were well," replied Tims, more interestedin demonstrating with the person of his son how an aeroplane leftthe ground than in his wife's question.

"Anything else?" enquired Mrs. Tims, prodding a potato with a forkto see if it was done.

Tims was not deceived by the casual tone in which the question wasasked. He was wont to say that, if his wife wanted his back teeth, she would get them.

"Nothing, my dear, only to ask if his Nibs was flourishin'," andwith a gurgle of delight the aeroplane soared towards the ceiling.

Mrs. Tims had not forgotten the time when Malcolm Sage visited herseveral times when she was ill with pneumonia. She never tired oftelling her friends of his wonderful knowledge of household affairs.He had talked to her of cooking, of childish ailments, of shopping,in a way that had amazed her. His knowledge seemed universal. He hadexplained to her among other things how cracknel biscuits were madeand why croup was so swift in its action.

Tims vowed that the Chief had done her more good than the doctor, and from that day Malcolm Sage had occupied chief place in Mrs.Tims's valhalla.

"Quaint sort o' chap, the Chief," Tims would remark sometimes inconnection with some professional episode.

"Pity you're not as quaint," would flash back the retort from Mrs.Tims, whose conception of loyalty was more literal than that of herhusband.

Supper finished and his Nibs put to bed, Tims proceeded to enjoy hispipe and evening paper, whilst Mrs. Tims got out her sewing. Fromtime to time Tims's eyes would wander over towards the telephone inthe corner.

Finally he folded up the paper, and proceeded to knock out the ashesfrom his pipe preparatory to going to bed. His eyes took a last lookat the telephone just as Mrs. Tims glanced up.

"Don't sit there watching that telephone," she cried, "anyone wouldthink you were wanting – "

"Brrrrrrr – brrrrrrr – brrrrrr," went the bell.

"Now perhaps you're happy," cried Mrs. Tims as he rose to answer thecall, whilst she put on the kettle to make hot coffee to fill thethermos flasks without which she never allowed the car to go out atnight. It was her tribute to "the Chief."

II

In his more expansive moments Malcolm Sage would liken himself to ageneral practitioner in a diseased-infected district. It is truethat there was no speaking-tube, with its terrifying whistle, a fewfeet from his head; but the telephone by his bedside was alwaysliable to arouse him from sleep at any hour of the night.

As Tims had folded up his newspaper with a view to bed, Malcolm Sagewas removing his collar before the mirror on his dressing-table, when his telephone bell rang. Rogers, his man, lookedinterrogatingly at his master, who, shaking his head, passed over tothe instrument and took up the receiver.

"Yes, this is Malcolm Sage – Speaking – Yes." Then for a few minuteshe listened with an impassive face. "I'll be off within tenminutes – The Towers, Holdingham, near Guildford – I understand."

While he was speaking, Rogers, a little sallow-faced man withfish-like eyes and expressionless face, had moved over to the othertelephone and was droning in a monotonous, uninflected voice, "Chiefwants car in five minutes."

It was part of Malcolm Sage's method to train his subordinates torealise the importance of intelligent and logical inference.

Returning to the dressing-table, Malcolm Sage took up another collar, slipped a tie between the fold, and proceeded to put it on.

As he did so he gave instructions to Rogers, who, note-book in hand, and with an expression of indifference that seemed to say "Kismet,"silently recorded his instructions.

"My address will be The Towers, Holdingham, near Guildford. Be onthe look-out for messages."

Without a word Rogers closed the book and, picking up a suit-case, which was always ready for emergencies, he left the room. Twominutes later Malcolm Sage followed and, without a word, entered theclosed car that had just drawn up before his flat in the Adelphi.

Rogers returned to the flat, switched the telephone on to his ownroom, and prepared himself for the night, whilst Malcolm Sage, having eaten a biscuit and drunk some of Mrs. Tims's hot coffee, layback to sleep as the car rushed along the Portsmouth road.

III

In the library at The Towers three men were seated, their faceslined and drawn as if some great misfortune had suddenly descendedupon them; yet their senses were alert. They were listening.

"He ought to be here any minute now," said Mr. Llewellyn John, the

Prime Minister, taking out his watch for the hundredth time.

Sir Lyster Grayne, First Lord of the Admiralty, shook his head.

"He should do it in an hour," said Lord Beamdale, the Secretary of

War, "if he's got a man who knows the road."

"Sage is sure – " began Sir Lyster; then he stopped abruptly, andturned in the direction of the further window.

A soft tapping as of a finger-nail upon a pane of glass was clearlydistinguishable. It ceased for a few seconds, recommenced, thenceased again.

Mr. Llewellyn John looked first at Sir Lyster and then on towardswhere Lord Beamdale sat, heavy of frame and impassive of feature.

Sir Lyster rose and walked quickly over to the window. As heapproached the tapping recommenced. Swinging back the curtain hedisappeared into the embrasure.

The others heard the sound of the window being raised and thenclosed again. A moment later Malcolm Sage appeared, followed by SirLyster, who once more drew the curtain.

At the sight of Malcolm Sage, Mr. Llewellyn John's features relaxedfrom their drawn, tense expression. A look of relief flashedmomentarily into Lord Beamdale's fish-like eyes.

"Thank God you've come, Sage!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, with a sighof relief as he grasped Malcolm Sage's hand as if it had been alifebelt and he a drowning man. "I think you have met LordBeamdale," he added.

Malcolm Sage bowed to the War Minister, then with great deliberationremoved his overcoat, carefully folded it, and placed it upon achair, laying his cap on top. He then selected a chair at the tablethat gave him a clear view of the faces of the three Ministers, andsat down.

"Why did you come to the window?" enquired Sir Lyster, as he resumedhis own seat. "Did you know this was the library?"

"I saw a crack of light between the curtains," replied Malcolm Sage."It may be desirable that no one should know I have been here," headded.

"Something terrible has happened, Sage," broke in the Prime Minister, his voice shaking with excitement. He had with difficulty containedhimself whilst Malcolm Sage was taking off his overcoat andexplaining his reason for entering by the window. "It's – it's – "His voice broke.

"Perhaps Sir Lyster will tell me, or Lord Beamdale," suggested

Malcolm Sage, looking from one to the other.

Lord Beamdale shook his head.

"Just a bare outline, Sir Lyster," said Malcolm Sage, spreading outhis fingers before him.

Slowly, deliberately, and with perfect self-possession, Sir Lysterexplained what had happened.

"The Prime Minister and Lord Beamdale came down with me on Thursdaynight to spend the weekend," he said. "Incidentally we were todiscuss a very important matter connected with this country's er – foreign policy." The hesitation was only momentary. "Lord Beamdalebrought with him a document of an extremely private nature. This Ihad sent to him earlier in the week for consideration and comment.

"If that document were to get to a certain Embassy in London no onecan foretell the calamitous results. It might even result in anotherwar, if not now certainly later. It was, I should explain, of aprivate and confidential nature, and consequently quite franklyexpressed."

"And you must remember – " began Mr. Llewellyn John excitedly.

"One moment, sir," said Malcolm Sage quietly, without looking upfrom an absorbed contemplation of a bronze letter-weight fashionedin the form of a sphinx.

Mr. Llewellyn John sank back into his chair, and Sir Lyster resumed.

"Just over an hour and a half ago, that is to say soon after eleveno'clock, it was discovered that the document in question was missing, and in its place had been substituted a number of sheets of blankpaper."

"Unless it's found, Sage," cried Mr. Llewellyn John, jumping up fromhis chair in his excitement, "the consequences are too awful tocontemplate."

For a few seconds he strode up and down the room, then returning tohis chair, sank back into its comfortable depths.

"Where was the document kept?" enquired Malcolm Sage, his long, sensitive fingers stroking the back of the sphinx.

"In the safe," replied Sir Lyster, indicating with a nod a smallsafe let into the wall.

"You are in the habit of using it for valuable documents?" queried

Malcolm Sage.

"As a matter of fact very seldom. It is mostly empty," was the reply.

"Why?"

"I have a larger safe in my dressing-room, in which I keep my papers.During the day I occasionally use this to save going up and downstairs."

"Where do you keep the key?"

"When there is anything in the safe I always carry it about withme."

"And at other times?"

"Sometimes in a drawer in my writing-table," said Sir Lyster; "butgenerally I have it on me."

"When was the document put into the safe?"

"At a quarter to eight to-night, just as the second dressing-gongwas sounding."

"And you yourself put it in, locked the door, and have retained thekey ever since?" Malcolm Sage had exhausted the interest of thesphinx and was now drawing diagrams with his forefinger upon themorocco surface of the table.

Sir Lyster nodded.

"I put the key in the pocket of my evening vest when I changed," hesaid. "After the other guests had retired, the Prime Minister raiseda point that necessitated reference to the document itself. It wasthen I discovered the substitution."

"But for that circumstance the safe would not have been opened untilwhen?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"Late to-night, when I should have transferred the packet to thesafe in my dressing-room."

"Would you have examined the contents?"

"No. It is my rule to cut adrift from official matters fromdinner-time on Saturday until after breakfast on Monday. It was onlyin deference to the Prime Minister's particular wish that we referredto the document to-night."

"I take it that the rule you mention is known to your guests andservants?"

"Certainly."

"There is no doubt that it was the document itself that you put inthe safe?"

"None; the Prime Minister and Lord Beamdale saw me do it."

"No doubt whatever," corroborated Mr. Llewellyn John, whilst Lord

Beamdale wagged his head like a mandarin.

"Does anyone else know that it is missing?" asked Malcolm Sage aftera short pause.

Sir Lyster shook his head.

"Only we three; and, of course, the thief," he added.

Malcolm Sage nodded. He had tired of the diagrams, and now satstroking the back of his head.

"Has anyone left the house since the discovery; that is, as far asyou know?" he queried at length.

"No one," said Sir Lyster.

"The servants, of course, have access to this room?"

"Yes; but only Walters, my butler, is likely to come here in theevening, except, of course, my secretary."

"Where does he dine?"

"Miss Blair," corrected Sir Lyster, "always takes her meals in herown sitting-room, where she works. It is situated at the back of thehouse on the ground floor."

Again Malcolm Sage was silent, this time for a longer period.

"So far as you know, then," he said at length, addressing Sir Lyster,"only three people in the house were acquainted with the existenceof the document; you, the Prime Minister, and Lord Beamdale."

Sir Lyster inclined his head.

"You are certain of that?" Malcolm Sage looked up swiftly and keenly."Your secretary and Lady Grayne, for instance, they knew nothingabout it?"

"Nothing; of that I am absolutely certain," replied Sir Lystercoldly.

"And the nature of the document?" enquired Malcolm Sa'ge.

Sir Lyster looked across at Mr. Llewellyn John, who turnedinterrogatingly to Lord Beamdale.

"I am afraid it is of too private a nature to – " he hesitated.

"If you require me to trace something," said Malcolm Sage evenly,"you must at least tell me what that something is."

"It is a document which – " began Lord Beamdale, then he, too, paused.

"But, surely, Sage," broke in Mr. Llewellyn John, "is it notnecessary to know the actual contents?"

"If you had lost something and would not tell me whether it was adog or a diamond, would you expect me to find it?"

"But – " began Mr. Llewellyn John.

"I'm afraid we are wasting time, gentlemen," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I would suggest Scotland Yard. The official police mustwork under any handicap imposed. I regret that I am unable to doso."

He walked across to the chair where lay his cap and coat.

"Now, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John tactfully, "you mustn't let usdown, you really mustn't." Then turning to Sir Lyster, he said, "Ican see his point. If he doesn't know the nature of the document, hecannot form a theory as to who is likely to have taken it. Perhapsunder the circumstances, Grayne, we might take Sage into ourconfidence; at least to such extent as he thinks necessary."

Sir Lyster made no response, whilst Lord Beamdale, whose economy inwords had earned for him the sobriquet of "Lord Dumbeam," sat withimpassive face.

"Perhaps I can help you," said Malcolm Sage, still standing by thechair on which lay his cap and coat. "At the end of every great warthe Plans Departments of the Admiralty and the War Office are busypreparing for the next war. I suggest that this document was theAdmiralty draft of a plan of operations to be put into force in theevent of war occurring between this country and an extremelyfriendly power. It was submitted to the War Office for criticism andcomment as far as land-operations were concerned. Another power, unfriendly to the friendly power, would find in this document a veryvaluable red-herring to draw across the path of its ownperplexities."

"Good heavens!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, starting upright in hischair. "How on earth did you know?"

"It seems fairly obvious," said Malcolm Sage, as he returned to hischair and resumed his stroking of the sphinx's back. "Who else knewof the existence of the document?" he enquired.

"No one outside the Admiralty and the War – " Sir Lyster stoppedsuddenly.

From the corridor, apparently just outside the library door, camethe sound of a suppressed scream, followed by a bump against thewoodwork.

Rising and moving swiftly across the room, Sir Lyster threw open thedoor, revealing a gap of darkness into which a moment later slid twofigures, a pretty, fair-haired girl and a wizened little Japanesewith large round spectacles and an automatic smile.

"I'm so sorry, Sir Lysier," faltered the girl, as she steppedtimidly into the room, "but I was frightened. Someone had switchedoff the lights and I ran into – " She turned to the Japanese, whostood deprecating and nervous on the threshold.

"I lose my passage," he said, baring his teeth still further; "I goto find cigarette-case of my master. He leave it in beelyard-room. Igo – "

With a motion of his hand, Sir Lyster dismissed the man, who slippedaway as if relieved at getting off so lightly.

"You are up late, Miss Blair," he said coolly, turning to the girl.

"I'm so sorry," she said; "but Lady Grayne gave me some letters, andthere was so much copying for you that – " She paused, then addednervously, "I didn't know it was so late."

"You had better go to bed, now," said Sir Lyster.

With a charming smile she passed out, Sir Lyster closing the doorbehind her. As he turned into the room his eye caught sight of thechair in which Malcolm Sage had been sitting.

"Where is Mr. Sage?" He looked from Mr. Llewellyn John to Lord

Beamdale.

As he spoke Malcolm Sage appeared from the embrasure of the windowthrough which he had entered, and where he had taken cover as SirLyster rose to open the door.

"You see, Sage is not supposed to be here," explained Mr. Llewellyn

John.

"Your secretary has an expensive taste in perfume," remarked MalcolmSage casually, as he resumed his seat. "It often characterises anintensely emotional nature," he added musingly.

"Emotional nature!" repeated Sir Lyster. "As a matter of fact she isextremely practical and self-possessed. You were saying – " heconcluded with the air of a man who dismisses a trifling subject infavour of one of some importance.

"Diplomatists should be trained physiognomists," murmured Malcolm

Sage. "A man's mouth rarely lies, a woman's never."

Sir Lyster stared.

"Now," continued Malcolm Sage, "I should like to know who is stayinghere."

Sir Lyster proceeded to give some details of the guests and servants.The domestic staff comprised twenty-one, and none had been in SirLyster's employ for less than three years. They were all excellentservants, of irreproachable character, who had come to him with goodreferences. Seventeen of the twenty-one lived in the house. Therewere also four lady's-maids and five men-servants attached to theguests. Among the men-servants was Sir Jeffrey Trawler's Japanesevalet.

There was something in Sir Lyster's voice as he mentioned this factthat caused Malcolm Sage to look up at him sharply.

"The man you have just seen," Sir Lyster explained. "He has been thecause of some little difficulty in the servants'-hall. They objectto sitting down to meals with a Chinaman, as they call him.

"He seems intelligent?" remarked Malcolm Sage casually.

"On the contrary, he is an extremely stupid creature," was the reply.

"He is continually losing himself. Only yesterday morning I myself found him wandering about the corridor leading to my own bedroom.

Walters has also mentioned the matter to me."

Sir Lyster then passed on to the guests. They comprised Mrs. Selton,an aunt of Sir Lyster; Sir Jeffrey and Lady Trawlor, old friends oftheir hostess; Lady Whyndale and her two daughters. There were alsoMr. Gerald Nash, M. P., and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Winnington, oldfriends of Sir Lyster and Lady Grayne.

"Later, I may require a list of the guests," said Malcolm Sage, whenSir Lyster had completed his account. "You said, I think, that thekey of the safe was sometimes left in an accessible place?"

"Yes, in a drawer."

"So that anyone having access to the room could easily have taken awax impression."

"Sir Lyster flushed slightly.

"There is no one – " he began.

"There is always a potential someone," corrected Malcolm Sage, raising his eyes suddenly and fixing them full upon Sir Lyster.

"The question is, Sage," broke in Mr. Llewellyn John tactfully,"what are we to do?"

"I should first like to see the inside of the safe and the dummypacket," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "No, I will open it myself ifyou will give me the key," he added, as Sir Lyster rose and movedover to the safe.

Taking the key, Malcolm Sage kneeled before the safe door and, bythe light of an electric torch, surveyed the whole of the surfacewith keen-sighted eyes. Then placing the key in the lock he turnedit, and swung back the door, revealing a long official envelope asthe sole contents. This he examined carefully without touching it, his head thrust inside the safe.

"Is this the same envelope as that in which the document wasenclosed?" he enquired, without looking round.

The three men had risen and were grouped behind Malcolm Sage, watching him with keen interest.

"It's the same kind of envelope, but – " began

Sir Lyster, when Lord Beamdale interrupted.

"It's the envelope itself," he said. "I noticed that the right-handtop corner was bent in rather a peculiar manner."

Malcolm Sage rose and, taking out the envelope, carefully examinedthe damaged corner, which was bent and slightly torn.

"Yes, it's the same," cried Mr. Llewellyn John. "I remember tearingit myself when putting in the document."

"How many leaves of paper were there?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Eight, I think," replied Sir Lyster.

"Nine," corrected Lord Beamdale. "There was a leaf in front blankbut for the words, 'Plans Department.'"

"Have you another document from the same Department?" enquired

Malcolm Sage of Sir Lyster.

"Several."

"I should like to see one."

Sir Lyster left the room, and Malcolm Sage removed the contents ofthe envelope. Carefully counting nine leaves of blank white foolscap,he bent down over the paper, with his face almost touching it.

When Sir Lyster re-entered with another document in his hand MalcolmSage took it from him and proceeded to subject it to an equallyclose scrutiny, holding up to the light each sheet in succession.

"I suppose, Sir Lyster, you don't by any chance use scent?" enquired

Malcolm Sage without looking up.

"Mr. Sage!" Sir Lyster was on his dignity.

"I see you don't," was Malcolm Sage's calm comment as he resumed hisexamination of the dummy document. Replacing it in the envelope, hereturned it to the safe, closed the door, locked it, and put the keyin his pocket.

"Well! what do you make of it?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John eagerly.

"We shall have to take the Postmaster-general into our confidence."

"Woldington!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John in astonishment. "Why."

Sir Lyster looked surprised, whilst Lord Beamdale appeared almostinterested.

"Because we shall probably require his help."

"How?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"Well, it's rather dangerous to tamper with His Majesty's mailswithout the connivance of St. Martins-le-Grand," was the dry retort.

"But – " began Mr. Llewellyn John, when suddenly he stopped short.

Malcolm Sage had walked over to where his overcoat lay, and wasdeliberately getting into it.

"You're not going, Mr. Sage?" Sir Lyster's granite-like controlseemed momentarily to forsake him. "What do you advise us to do?"

"Get some sleep," was the quiet reply.

"But aren't you going to search for – ?" He paused as Malcolm Sageturned and looked full at him.

"A search would involve the very publicity you are anxious toavoid," was the reply.

"But – " began Mr. Llewellyn John, when Malcolm Sage interruptedhim.

"The only effective search would be to surround the house withpolice, and allow each occupant to pass through the cordon afterhaving been stripped. The house would then have to be gone through; carpets and boards pulled up; mattresses ripped open; chairs – "

"I agree with Mr. Sage," said Sir Lyster, looking across at the

Prime Minister coldly.

"Had I been a magazine detective I should have known exactly whereto find the missing document," said Malcolm Sage. "As I am not" – heturned to Sir Lyster – "it will be necessary for you to leave a notefor your butler telling him that you have dropped somewhere aboutthe house the key of this safe, and instructing him to have athorough search made for it. You might casually mention the loss atbreakfast, and refer to an important document inside the safe whichyou must have on Monday morning. Perhaps the Prime Minister willsuggest telephoning to town for a man to come down to force the safeshould the key not be found."

Malcolm Sage paused. The others were gazing at him with keeninterest.

"Leave the note unfolded in a conspicuous place where anyone can seeit," he continued.

"I'll put it on the hall-table," said Sir Lyster.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"It is desirable that you should all appear to be in the best ofspirits." There was a fluttering at the corners of Malcolm Sage'smouth, as he lifted his eyes for a second to the almost lugubriouscountenance of Lord Beamdale. "Under no circumstances refer to therobbery, even amongst yourselves. Try to forget it."

"But how will that help?" enquired Mr. Llewellyn John, whose naturerendered him singularly ill-adapted to a walking-on part.

"I will ask you, sir," said Malcolm Sage, turning to him, "to giveme a letter to Mr. Woldington, asking him to do as I request. I willgive him the details."

"But why is it necessary to tell him?" demanded Sir Lyster.

"That I will explain to you to-morrow. That will be Monday,"explained Malcolm Sage, "earlier if possible. A few lines will do,"he added, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John.

"I suppose we must," said the Prime Minister, looking from Sir

Lyster to Lord Beamdale.

"I hope to call before lunch," said Malcolm Sage, "but as Mr. LeSage from the Foreign Office. You will refuse to discuss officialmatters until Monday. I shall probably ask you to introduce me toeveryone you can. It may happen that I shall disappear suddenly."

"But cannot you be a little less mysterious?" said Sir Lyster, witha touch of asperity in his voice.

"There is nothing mysterious," replied Malcolm Sage. "It seems quiteobvious. Everything depends upon how clever the thief is." He lookedup suddenly, his gaze passing from one to another of the bewilderedMinisters.

"It's by no means obvious to me," cried Mr. Llewellyn John, complainingly.

"By the way, Sir Lyster, how many cars have you in the garage?"enquired Malcolm Sage. "In case we want them," he added.

"I have two, and there are" – he paused for a moment – "five others,"he added; "seven in all."

"Any carriages, or dog-carts?"

"No. We have no horses."

"Bicycles?"

"A few of the servants have them," replied Sir Lyster, a littleimpatiently.

"The bicycles are also kept in the garage, I take it?"

"They are." This time there was no mistaking the note of irritationin Sir Lyster's voice.

"There may be several messengers from Whitehall to-morrow," saidMalcolm Sage, after a pause. "Please keep them waiting until theyshow signs of impatience. It is important. Whatever happens here, itwould be better not to acquaint the police —whatever happens," headded with emphasis. "And now, sir" – he turned to Mr. LlewellynJohn – "I should like that note to the Postmaster-general."

Mr. Llewellyn John sat down reluctantly at a table and wrote a note.

"But suppose the thief hands the document to an accomplice?" said

Sir Lyster presently, with something like emotion in his voice.

"That's exactly what I am supposing," was Malcolm Sage's reply and, taking the note that Mr. Llewellyn John held out to him, he placedit in his breast pocket, buttoned up his overcoat, and walked acrossto the window through which he had entered. With one hand upon thecurtain he turned.

"If I call you may notice that I have acquired a slight foreignaccent," he said, and with that he slipped behind the curtain. Amoment later the sound was heard of the window being quietly openedand then shut again.

"Well, I'm damned!" cried Lord Beamdale, and for the moment Mr.

Llewelyln John and Sir Lyster forgot their surprise at Malcolm

Sage's actions in their astonishment at their colleague's remark.

CHAPTER VII THE OUTRAGE AT THE GARAGE

I

When Mr. Walters descended the broad staircase of The Towers on theSunday morning he found two things to disturb him – Sir Lyster's noteon the hall-table, and the Japanese valet "lost" in the conservatory.

He read the one with attention, and rebuked the other with acrimony.

Having failed to find the missing key himself, he proceeded to the housekeeper's room, and poured into the large and receptive ear of

Mrs. Eames the story of his woes.

"And this a Sunday too," the housekeeper was just remarking, in afat, comfortable voice, when Richards, the chauffeur, burstunceremoniously into the room.

"Someone's taken the pencils from all the magnetos," he shoutedangrily, his face moist with heat and lubricant.

"Is that your only excuse for bursting into a lady's room withoutknocking?" enquired Mr. Walters, with an austere dignity he hadcopied directly from Sir Lyster. "If you apply to me presently Iwill lend you a pencil. In the meantime – "

"But it's burglars. They've broken into the garage and taken thepencils from every magneto, every blinkin' one," he added by way ofemphasis.

At the mention of the word "burglars," Mr. Walters's professionalcomposure of feature momentarily forsook him, and his jaw dropped.Recovering himself instantly, however, he hastened out of the room, closely followed by Richards, leaving Mrs. Eames speechless, theoval cameo locket heaving up and down upon her indignant black-silkbosom. A man had sworn in her presence and had departed unrebuked.

On reaching the garage Mr. Walters gazed vaguely about him. He wasentirely unversed in mechanics, and Richards persisted in pouringforth technicalities that bewildered him. The chauffeur also cursedloudly and with inspiration, until reminded that it was Sunday, whenhe lowered his voice, at the same time increasing the density of hislanguage.

Mr. Walters was frankly disappointed. There, was no outward sign ofburglars. At length he turned interrogatingly to Richards.

"Just a-goin' to tune 'em up I was," explained Richards for thetwentieth time, "when I found the bloomin' engines had gone whonky, then – "

"Found the engines had gone what?" enquired Mr. Walters.

"Whonky, dud, na-poo," explained Richards illuminatingly, whilst Mr.Walters gazed at him icily. "Then in comes Davies," he continued, nodding in the direction of a little round-faced man, with"chauffeur" written on every inch of him "and 'e couldn't get 'isblinkin' 'arp to 'urn neither. Then we starts a-lookin' round, whenlo and be'old! what do we find? Some streamin', saturated son ofsin an' whiskers 'as pinched the ruddy pencils out of the scarletmagnetos."

"The float's gone from my carburettor."

The voice came from a long, lean man who appeared suddenly out ofthe shadows at the far-end of the garage.

Without a word Richards and Davies dashed each to a car. A minutelater two yells announced that the floats from their carburettorsalso had disappeared.

Later Richards told how that morning he had found the door of thegarage unfastened, although he was certain that he had locked it thenight before.

This was sufficient for Mr. Walters. Fleeing from the bewilderingflood of technicalities and profanity of the three chauffeurs, hemade his way direct to Sir Lyster's room. Here he told his tale, andwas instructed instantly to telephone to the police.

At the telephone further trouble awaited him. He could get no replyfrom the exchange. He tried the private wire to the Admiralty; butwith no better result.

He accordingly reported the matter to Sir Lyster, who was by thenwith Lord Beamdale in the library. It was the Minister of War whoreminded his host of Malcolm Sage's strange request that whateverhappened the police were not to be communicated with.

"But Sage could not have anticipated this – this monstrous outrage,"protested Sir Lyster, white with anger. He had already imperiouslyput aside Lord Beamdale's suggestion that the whole affair might bea joke.

"Still, better do as he said," was the rejoinder and, as later Mr.

Llewellyn John concurred, Sir Lyster decided to await the arrival of

Malcolm Sage before taking further steps.

One by one the guests drifted down to breakfast, went out to thegarage to see for themselves, and then returned to discuss theaffair over coffee and kidneys, tea and toast.

It subsequently transpired that without exception the cars had beenentirely put out of commission. From each the pencil had beenremoved from the magneto, and the float from the carburettor. Fromthe bicycles the pedals had been taken away, with the exception ofthose belonging to Miss Blair and one of the housemaids, the onlytwo ladies' machines in the place.

"A veritable Claude Duval," someone remarked; but this broughtlittle consolation to the owners of the wrecked cars. It was a fineday, too, which added to their sense of hardship.

As Sir Lyster left the breakfast-room he encountered Miss Blaircrossing the hall. She looked very fresh and pretty, with a demure, almost childlike expression of feature. Her cheeks were flushed withhealth and exercise.

"Would you like me to cycle over to Odford to the police?" sheenquired. "My machine is quite all right. I have just been for aspin."

"No – er – not at present, thank you, Miss Blair," said Sir Lyster, alittle embarrassed at having to refuse to do the obvious thing. Hepassed across the hall into the library, and Miss Blair, havingalmost fallen over the Japanese valet, "lost" in a corridor leadingto the billiard-room, went out to condole with Richards and tellhim of a strange epidemic of mishaps that seemed to have descendedupon the neighbourhood. She herself had passed a motor-cycle, twopush-bicycles, and a Ford car, all disabled by the roadside.

All that morning the Prime Minister, Sir Lyster, and Lord Beamdalewaited and wondered. Finding the strain of trying to look cheerfultoo much for them, they shut themselves up in the library on theplea of pressing official business; this, in spite of Sir Lyster'swell-known week-end rule.

Hour after hour passed; yet not only did Malcolm Sage fail to put inan appearance, but nothing was heard or seen of the promised bogusofficial messengers.

At luncheon more than one guest remarked upon the distrait andabsent-minded appearance of the three Ministers, and deduced fromthe circumstance a grave political crisis.

The afternoon dragged its leaden course. Throughout the house therewas an atmosphere of unrest. Among themselves the guests complainedbecause no action had been taken to track down the despoiler oftheir cars. Walters had rendered the lives of the domestic staffintolerable by insisting upon search for the missing key being madein the most unlikely and inaccessible places, although in his ownmind he was convinced that it had been stolen by the errant Japanese.

In the library sat the three Ministers, for the most part gazingeither at one another or at nothing in particular. They were waitingfor something to happen: none knew quite what.

Dinner passed, a dreary meal; the ladies withdrew to thedrawing-room; but still the heavy atmosphere of foreboding remained.It was nearly half-past nine when Walters entered and murmuredsomething in Sir Lyster's ear.

An eager light sprang into Mr. Llewellyn John's eyes as the FirstLord rose, made his apologies, and left the room. It was only by theexercise of great self-control that the Prime Minister refrainedfrom jumping up and bolting after him.

Two minutes later Walters again entered the dining-room, with arequest that Mr. Llewellyn John and Lord Beamdale would join SirLyster in the library.

As Walters threw open the library-door, they found Malcolm Sageseated at the table, his fingers spread out before him, whilst SirLyster stood by the fireplace.

"Ask Miss Blair if she will come here to take down an importantletter, Walters," said Sir Lyster.

"Well?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, as soon as Walters had closed thedoor behind him. "Have you got it?"

"The document is now in a strong-room at the General Post Office,"said Malcolm Sage without looking up. "I thought it would be saferthere."

"Thank God!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, collapsing into a chair.

Malcolm Sage glanced across at him and half rose.

"I'm all right, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John; "but coming afterthis awful day of anxiety, the news was almost too much for me."

"Who took it from the safe then?" enquired Sir Lyster. "I – " hestopped short as the door opened, and Miss Blair entered, notebookin hand, looking very dainty in a simple grey frock, relieved by abunch of clove carnations at the waist. Closing the door behind her, she hesitated for a moment, a smile upon her moist, slightly-partedlips.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Blair," began Sir Lyster, "but Mr.

Sage – " he paused.

"It was Miss Blair who removed the document from the safe," saidMalcolm Sage quietly, his eyes bent upon the finger-tips of hisright hand.

"Miss Blair!" cried Sir Lyster, his hand dropping from themantelpiece to his side.

For the fraction of a second the girl stood just inside the door; then as the significance of Malcolm Sage's words dawned upon her, the smile froze upon her lips, the blood ebbed from her face, leaving it drawn and grey, and the notebook dropped from her fingers.She staggered forward a few steps, then, clutching wildly at theedge of the table, she swayed from side to side. With an obviouseffort she steadied herself, her gaze fixed upon her accuser.

Slowly Malcolm Sage raised his eyes, cold, grey, inflexible, andfixed them upon the terrified girl.

The three Ministers appeared not yet to have realised the truenature of the drama being enacted before them.

"Miss Blair," said Malcolm Sage quietly, "what are your relationswith Paul Cressit?"

Twice she essayed to speak, but no sound came.

"I – I – er – know him," she faltered at length.

"I wondered," said Malcolm Sage slowly.

"What does this mean, Mr. Sage?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"I will tell you," said Malcolm Sage, whilst Lord Beamdale placed achair into which Miss Blair collapsed. "Last night whilst you wereat dinner Miss Blair opened your safe with a duplicate key made froma wax impression. She abstracted a valuable document, putting in itsplace some sheets of blank paper." He paused.

"Go on," almost gasped Mr. Llewellyn John.

"She took the document to her room and hid it, a little uncertain asto how she should get it to her accomplice. This morning she saw SirLyster's note on the hall-table, and emboldened by the thought thatthe theft had not been discovered, she cycled out to Odford andposted the document to Paul Cressit at his chambers in JermynStreet." Again Malcolm Sage paused and drew from his pocket a note.

"In the envelope was enclosed this note." He handed to Mr. Llewellyn

John a half sheet of paper on which was typed:

"Paul, dearest, I have done it. I will ring you up to-morrow. Ishall ask for Tuesday off. You will keep your promise, dear, andsave me, won't you? If you don't I shall kill myself. – G."

"Miss Blair," said Sir Lyster coldly, "what have you to say?"

"N-nothing," she faltered, striving to moisten her grey lips.

"If you will tell the truth," said Malcolm Sage, "you still have achance. If not"; he paused significantly.

She gulped noisily, striving to regain her power of speech.

"You – you promise?" She looked across at Mr. Llewellyn John.

"Whatever Mr. Sage says we endorse," he replied gravely.

"Both of us?" she repeated.

"Both," said Malcolm Sage.

"I – I love him," she moaned; then after a pause she added: "It wasto save the disgrace. He promised, he swore he would if I did it."

"Swore he would do what?" said Malcolm Sage.

"Marry me."

Malcolm Sage raised his eyes to Sir Lyster, who was standingimplacable and merciless.

The girl's head had fallen forward upon the table, and her shoulderswere heaving convulsively.

Rising, Malcolm Sage walked across and placed his hand upon her arm.

"It will be better for everybody if you will try and controlyourself," he said gently, "and above all tell us the truth."

As if surprised at the gentleness of his tone, she slowly raised herdrawn face and looked at him in wonder.

"Now listen to me," continued Malcolm Sage, drawing up a chair andseating himself beside her, "and tell me if I am wrong. Whilst youwere acting as Sir Lyster's secretary you met Paul Cressit at theAdmiralty, and you were attracted to him."

She nodded, with a quick indrawing of her breath.

"He made violent love to you and you succumbed. Later you took himinto your confidence in regard to a certain matter and he promisedto marry you. He put you off from time to time by various excuses.You were almost distracted at the thought of the disgrace. Hepersuaded you to take a wax impression of Sir Lyster's key, on thechance of it one day being useful."

Again she nodded, whilst the three men listened as if hypnotised.

"Finally he swore that he would marry you if you would steal thisdocument, and he showed you a special license. Am I right?"

She nodded again, and then buried her head in her arms.

"I suppose," said Malcolm Sage quietly, "he did not happen tomention that he was already married?"

"Married!" She started up, her eyes blazing. "It isn't true, oh! itisn't true," she cried.

"I'm afraid it is," said Malcolm Sage, with feeling in his voice.

With a moan of despair her head fell forward upon the table, andhard dry sobs shook her frail body.

"Miss Blair," said Malcolm Sage presently, when she had somewhatregained her self-control, "my advice to you is to write out a fullconfession and bring it to me at my office to-morrow morning. It isyour only chance: and now you must go to your room."

He rose, assisted her to her feet, and led her to the door, which heclosed behind her.

"That I think concludes the enquiry," he said, as he walked over tothe fireplace and, leaning against the mantelpiece, he began to fillhis pipe. "Unless," he added, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John, "youwould like to see Cressit."

The Prime Minister looked across at Sir Lyster and then at Lord

Beamdale. Both shook their heads.

"What we should like, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn John, "is a littleinformation as to what has been happening."

With great deliberation Malcolm Sage proceeded to light his pipe.

When it was drawing to his entire satisfaction, he turned to Mr.

Llewellyn John and, with the suspicion of a fluttering at the corners of his mouth, remarked:

"I hope you have not been inconvenienced about the telephone."

"We could get no reply from the exchange," said Sir Lyster, "and thewire to the Admiralty is out of order."

"I had to disconnect you after I left this morning," said Malcolm

Sage quietly. "My chauffeur swarmed up one of the standards.

Incidentally he wrecked an almost new pair of breeches."

"They'll have to go in the Naval Estimates," cried Mr. LlewellynJohn, who was feeling almost jovial now the tension of the pasttwenty-four hours had been removed.

"From the first," proceeded Malcolm Sage, "it was obvious that thistheft was planned either at the Admiralty or at the War Office."

"That is absurd!" cried Sir Lyster with heat, whilst Lord Beamdaleleaned forward, his usually apathetic expression of indifferencegiving place to one of keen interest.

"I accepted the assurance that only three people in this house knewof the existence of the document," Malcolm Sage proceeded, as ifthere had been no interruption. "There was no object in any of thosethree persons stealing that to which they had ready access."

Lord Beamdale nodded his agreement with the reasoning.

"Therefore," continued Malcolm Sage, "the theft must have beenplanned by someone who knew about the document before it came here, and furthermore knew that it was to be here at a certain time. Toconfirm this hypothesis we have the remarkable circumstances thatthe blank paper substituted for the original document was, inquality and the number of sheets, identical with that of thedocument itself."

"Good," ejaculated Lord Beamdale, himself a keen mathematician.

Mr. Llewellyn John and Sir Lyster exchanged glances.

"It was almost, but not quite, obvious that the exchange had beeneffected by a woman."

"How obvious?" enquired Mr. Llewellyn John.

"'Few women pass unperfumed to the grave,'" quoted Malcolm Sage. "Ithink it was Craddock who said that," he added, and Mr. LlewellynJohn made a mental note of the phrase.

"The handle of the safe door was corrugated, and the lacquer hadworn off, leaving it rough to the touch. When I kneeled down beforethe safe it was not to examine the metal work, but to see if thethief had left a scent."

"A scent?" repeated Sir Lyster.

"On the handle of the door there was a distinct trace of perfume, very slight, but I have a keen sense of smell, although a greatsmoker. On the document itself there was also evidence of a ratherexpensive perfume, not unlike that used by Miss Blair. Furthermore,it was bent in a rather peculiar manner, which might have resultedfrom its being carried in the belt of a woman's frock. It might, ofcourse, have been mere chance," he added; "but the envelope did notshow a corresponding bend."

Again Lord Beamdale nodded appreciatively.

"Although several people have had an opportunity of taking a waximpression of the key, the most likely were Miss Blair and Walters – that, however, was a side issue."

"How?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"Because primarily we were concerned with making the criminalhimself or herself divulge the secret."

"That's why you would not allow the loss to be made known," broke in

Mr. Llewellyn John.

"The thief," continued Malcolm Sage, with a slight inclination ofhis head, "would in all probability seize the first safe opportunityof getting rid of the plunder."

"But did you not suspect the Japanese?" broke in Lord Beamdale.

"For the moment I ruled him out," said Malcolm Sage, "as I could notsee how it was possible for him to know about the existence of thedocument in question, and furthermore, as he had been in the houseless than two days, there was no time for him to get a duplicatekey."

"What did you do then?" queried Sir Lyster.

"I motored back to town, broke in upon the Postmaster-general'sfirst sleep, set on foot enquiries at the Admiralty and War Office,in the meantime arranging for The Towers to be carefully watched."Malcolm Sage paused for a moment; then as none of his hearers spokehe continued:

"I had a number of people in the neighbourhood – motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians. No one could have left the house and groundswithout being seen.

"Miss Blair found the morning irresistible, and took an early spinon her bicycle to Odford, where she posted a packet in a pillar-boxsituated in a street that was apparently quite empty."

"And you secured it?" enquired Mr. Lewellyn John, leaning forwardeagerly.

"I'm afraid I quite spoilt the local postmaster's Sunday byrequesting that a pillar-box should be specially cleared, andproducing an authority from the Postmaster-general. After he hadtelegraphed to head-quarters and received a reply confirming theletter, he reluctantly acquiesced."

"And it was addressed to this man Cressit?" enquired Sir Lyster.

"Yes. He is a temporary staff-clerk in the Plans Department.Incidentally he is something of a Don Juan, and the cost of livinghas increased considerably, as you know, sir," he added, turning tothe Prime Minister.

Mr. Llewellyn John smiled wanly. It was his political "cross," thiscost-of-living problem.

"And what shall we do with him?" enquired Sir Lyster. "Thescoundrel," he added.

"I have almost done with him as a matter of fact," said Malcolm Sage.

"Done with him?" exclaimed Lord Beamdale.

"I sent him a telegram in Miss Blair's name to be at Odford Stationto-night at seven: then I kidnapped him."

"Good heavens, Sage I What do you mean?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John, with visions of the Habeas Corpus Act and possible questions in theHouse, which he hated.

"We managed to get him to enter my car, and then we went throughhim – that is a phrase from the crook-world. We found upon him themarriage certificate, and later I induced him to confess. I am nowgoing to take him back to my office, secure his finger-prints andphysical measurements, which will be of interest at Scotland Yard."

"But we are not going to prosecute," said Mr. Llewellyn Johnanxiously.

"Mr. Paul Cressit will have forty-eight hours in which to leave thecountry," said Malcolm Sage evenly. "He will not return, becauseScotland Yard will see that he does not do so. There will probablybe an application to you, sir," Malcolm Sage continued, turning toMr. Llewellyn John, "to confirm what I tell them."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Llewellyn John. "I congratulate you, Sage.

You have done wonders."

"But I failed to understand your saying that you would be here thismorning," said Sir Lyster, "and under an assumed name with – "

"A foreign accent," suggested Malcolm Sage. "The thief might havebeen an old hand at the game, and too clever to fall into a ratherobvious trap. In that case I might have been forced, as a foreigner,to salute the hands of all the ladies in the house. I learnt toclick my heels years ago in Germany." Again there was a suspiciousmovement at the corners of Malcolm Sage's mouth.

"But – " began Sir Lyster.

"To identify the scent?" broke in Mr. Llewellyn John.

Malcolm Sage inclined his read slightly.

"The Foreign Office messengers?" queried Lord Beamdale.

"I decided that pedestrians and cyclists would do as well. I merelywanted the house watched. There were quite a number of casualties tocars and bicycles in the neighbourhood," he added dryly.

"But why did you cut us off from the telephone?" enquired Mr.

Llewellyn John.

"The accomplice might have got through, and I could afford to takeno risks."

"Well, you have done splendidly, Sage," said Mr. Llewellyn Johnheartily, "and we are all greatly obliged. By the way, there'sanother little problem awaiting you. Someone broke into the garagelast night and wrecked all the cars and bicycles – "

"Except two," said Malcolm Sage.

"Then you've heard." Mr. Llewellyn John looked at him in surprise.

"The man who did it is in my car outside with Cressit."

"You've got him as well?" cried Mr. Llewellyn John excitedly. "Sage, you're a miracle of sagacity," he added, again mentally noting thephrase.

"The missing pencils, floats, and pedals you will find on theleft-hand side of the drive about half way down, under a laurelbush," said Malcolm Sage quietly.

"And who is this fellow who did this scandalous thing?" demanded Sir

Lyster.

"My chauffeur."

"Your chauffeur!"

"I could not risk the thief having access to a fast car."

"But what if this fellow Cressit refuses to go?" enquired Lord

Beamdale.

"He won't," said Malcolm Sage grimly. "D.O.R.A. is still inoperation. I had to remind him of the fact."

Malcolm Sage picked up his hat and coat and walked towards the door.

"I must be going," he said. "I have still several things to attendto. You won't forget about the plunder from the garage?" he added.

"But what am I to do about Miss Blair?" asked Sir Lyster.

"That's a question I think you will find answered in the Gospel ofSt. Luke – the seventh chapter and I think the forty-seventh verse";and with that he was gone, leaving three Ministers gazing at oneanother in dumb astonishment.

Had a cynic been peeping into the library of The Towers a fewminutes later, he would have discovered three Cabinet Ministersbending over a New Testament, which Sir Lyster had fetched from hiswife's boudoir, and the words they read were: "Wherefore I say untothee, Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."

"Strange," murmured Lord Beamdale, "very strange," and the othersknew that he was referring not to the text, or to the unhappy girl – but to Malcolm Sage.

"We are always surprised when we find Saul among the prophets,"remarked Mr. Llewellyn John, and he made a mental note of the phrase.It might do for the "Wee Frees."

CHAPTER VIII GLADYS NORMAN DINES WITH THOMPSON

I

"Tommy," remarked Miss Gladys Norman one day as Thompson entered herroom through the glass-panelled door, "have you ever thought what Ishall do fifty years hence?"

"Darn my socks," replied the practical Thompson.

"I mean," she proceeded with withering deliberation, "what willhappen when I can't do the hundred in ten seconds?"

Thompson looked at her with a puzzled expression.

"My cousin Will says that if you can't do the hundred yards in tenseconds you haven't an earthly," she explained. "It's been worryingme. What am I to do when I'm old and rheumaticky and the Chief doesthree on the buzzer? He's bound to notice it and he'll look."

Malcolm Sage's "look" was a slight widening of the eyes as he gazedat a delinquent. It was his method of conveying rebuke. That "look"would cause Thompson to swear earnestly under his breath for therest of the day, whilst on Gladys Norman it had several distincteffects, the biting of her lower lips, the snubbing of Thompson, themerciless banging of her typewriter, and a self-administered rebukeof "Gladys Norman, you're a silly little ass," being the mostnoticeable.

For a moment Thompson thought deeply, then with sudden inspirationhe said, "Why not move your table nearer his door?"

"What a brain!" she cried, regarding him with mock admiration. "Youmust have been waving it with Hindes' curlers. Yes," she added, "youmay take me out to dinner to-night, Tommy."

Thompson was in the act of waving his hat wildly over his head whenMalcolm Sage came out of his room. For the fraction of a second hepaused and regarded his subordinates.

"It's not another war, I hope," he remarked, and, without waitingfor a reply, he turned, re-entered his room and closed the door.

Gladys Norman collapsed over her typewriter, where with heavingshoulders she strove to mute her mirth with a ridiculous dab of pinkcambric.

Thompson looked crestfallen. He had turned just in time to see

Malcolm Sage re-enter his room.

Three sharp bursts on the buzzer brought Gladys Norman to her feet.There was a flurry of skirt, the flash of a pair of shapely ankles, and she disappeared into Malcolm Sage's room.

II

"It's a funny old world," remarked Gladys Norman that evening, asshe and Thompson sat at a sheltered table in a little Sohorestaurant.

"It's a jolly nice old world," remarked Thompson, looking up fromhis plate, "and this chicken is it."

"Chicken first; Gladys Norman also ran," she remarked scathingly.

Thompson grinned and returned to his plate.

"Why do you like the Chief, Tommy?" she demanded.

Thompson paused in his eating, resting his hands, still holdingknife and fork, upon the edge of the table. The suddenness of thequestion had startled him.

"If you must sit like that, at least close your mouth," she saidseverely.

Thompson replaced his knife and fork upon the plate.

"Well, why do you?" she queried.

"Why do I what?" he asked.

She made a movement of impatience. "Like the Chief, of course." Thenas he did not reply she continued: "Why does Tims like him, and theInnocent, and Sir James, and Sir John Dene, and the whole blessedlot of us? Why is it, Tommy, why?"

Thompson merely gaped, as if she had propounded some unanswerableriddle.

"Why is it?" she repeated. Then as he still remained silent sheadded, "There's no hurry, Tommy dear; just go on listening with yourmouth. I quite realise the compliment."

"I'm blessed if I know," he burst out at last. "I suppose it'sbecause he's 'M.S.,'" and he returned to his plate.

"Yes, but why is it?" she persisted, as she continued mechanicallyto crumble her bread. "That's what I want to know; why is it?"

Thompson looked at her a little anxiously. By nature he was inclinedto take things for granted, things outside his profession that is.

"It's a funny old world, Tommikins," she repeated at length, pickingup her knife and fork, "funnier for some than for others."

Thompson looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. There weretimes when he found Gladys Norman difficult to understand.

"For a girl, I mean," she added, as if that explained it.

Thompson still stared. The remark did not strike him as illuminating.

"It may be," she continued meditatively, "that I like doing thingsfor the Chief because he was my haven of refuge from a wicked world; but that doesn't explain why you and Tims – "

"Your haven of refuge!" repeated Thompson, making a gulp of amouthful, and once more laying down his knife and fork, as he lookedacross at her curiously.

"Before I went to the Ministry I had one or two rather beastlyexperiences." She paused as if mentally reviewing some unpleasantincident.

"Tell me, Gladys." Thompson was now all attention.

"Well, I once went to see a man in Shaftesbury Avenue who hadadvertised for a secretary. He was a funny old bean," she addedreminiscently, "all eyes and no waist, and more curious as towhether I lived alone, or with my people, than about my speeds. So Itold him my brother was a prize-fighter, and – "

"But you haven't got a brother," broke in Thompson.

"I told him that for the good of his soul, Tommy, and of the girlswho came after me," she added a little grimly.

"It was funny," she continued after a pause. "He didn't seem a biteager to engage me after that. Said my speeds (which I hadn't toldhim) were not good enough; but to show there was no ill-feeling hetried to kiss me at parting. So I boxed his ears, slung his owninkpot at him and came away. Oh! it's a great game, Tommy, playedslow," she added as an after-thought, and she hummed a snatch of apopular fox-trot.

"The swine!"

Thompson had just realised the significance of what he had heard.

There was an ugly look in his eyes.

"I then got a job at the Ministry of Economy and later at theMinistry of Supply, and the Chief lifted me out by my bobbed hairand put me into Department Z. That's why I call him my haven ofrefuge. See, dearest?"

"What's the name of the fellow in Shaftesbury Avenue?" demandedThompson, his thoughts centring round the incident she had justnarrated.

"Naughty Tommy," she cried, making a face at them, "Mustn't get angry andvicious. Besides," she added, "the Chief did for him."

"You told him?" cried Thompson incredulously, his interest stillkeener than his appetite.

"I did," she replied airily, "and he dropped a hint at Scotland Yard.I believe the gallant gentleman in Shaftesbury Avenue has somethingmore than a smack and an inky face to remember little Gladys by. Hedoesn't advertise for secretaries now."

Thompson gazed at her, admiration in his eyes.

"But that doesn't explain why I always want to please the Chief, does it?" she demanded. "In romance, the knight kills the villainfor making love to the heroine, and then gets down to the same dirtywork himself. Now the Chief ought to have been bursting withvolcanic fires of passion for me. He should have crushed me to hisbreast with merciless force, I beating against his chest-protectorwith my clenched fists. Finally I should have lain passive andunresisting in his arms, whilst he covered my eyes, ears, nose and'transformation' with fevered, passionate kisses; not pecks likeyours, Tommy; but the real thing with a punch in them."

"What on earth – " began Thompson, when she continued.

"There should have been a fearful tempest on the other side of hisribs. I should – "

"Don't talk rot, Gladys," broke in Thompson.

"I'm not talking rot," she protested. "I read it all in a novel thatsells by the million." Then after a moment's pause she continued:

"He saved me from the dragon; yet he doesn't even give me a box ofchocolates, and everybody in Whitehall knows that chocolates andkisses won the war. When I fainted for him and he carried me intohis room, he didn't kiss me even then."

"You wouldn't have known it if he had," was Thompson's comment.

"Oh! wouldn't I?" she retorted. "That's all you know about girls, Mr.

Funny Thompson."

He stared across at her, blinking his eyes in bewilderment.

"He doesn't take me out to dinner as other chiefs do," shecontinued; "yet I hop about like a linnet when he buzzes for me. Whyis it?"

She gazed across at Thompson challengingly.

A look of anxiety began to manifest itself upon his good-naturedfeatures. Psycho-analysis was not his strong point. In a vague wayhe began to suspect that Gladys Norman's devotion to Malcolm Sagewas not strictly in accordance with Trade Union principles.

"There, get on with your chicken, you poor dear," she laughed, andThompson, picking up his knife and fork, proceeded to eatmechanically. From time to time he glanced covertly across at Gladys.

"As to the Chief's looks," she continued, "his face is keen and taut, and he's a strong, silent man; yet can you see his eyes hungry andtempestuous, Tommy? I can't. Why is it," she demanded, "that when awoman writes a novel she always stunts the strong, silent man?"

Thompson shook his head, with the air of a man who has given upguessing.

"Imagine getting married to a strong, silent man," she continued,"with only his strength and his silence, and perhaps a cheapgramophone, to keep you amused in the evenings." She shuddered."No," she said with decision, "give me a regular old rattle-boxwithout a chin, like you, Tommy."

Mechanically Thompson's hand sought his chin, and Gladys laughed.

"Anyway, I'm not going to marry, in spite of the tubefurniture-posters. Uncle Jake says it's all nonsense to talk aboutmarriages being made in heaven; they're made in the Tottenham CourtRoad."

Thompson had, however, returned to his plate. In her present mood,Gladys Norman was beyond him. Realising the state of his mind, shecontinued:

"He's got a head like a pierrot's cap and it's as bald as afivepenny egg, when it ought to be beautifully rounded and coveredwith crisp curly hair. He wears glasses in front of eyes like bitsof slate, when they ought to be full of slumbrous passion. His jawis all right, only he doesn't use it enough; in books the strong, silent man is a regular old chin-wag, and yet I fall over myself toanswer his buzzer. Why it is, I repeat?" She looked across at himmischievously, enjoying the state of depression to which she hadreduced him.

Thompson merely shook his head.

"For all that," she continued, picking up her own knife and fork, which in the excitement of describing Malcolm Sage she had laid down,"for all that he would make a wonderful lover – once you could gethim started," and she laughed gleefully as if at some hidden joke.

Thompson gazed at her over a fork piled with food, which her remarkhad arrested half-way to his mouth.

"He's chivalrous," she continued. "Look at the way he always triesto help up the very people he has downed. It's just a game withhim – "

"No, it's not," burst out Thompson, through a mouthful of chickenand sauté potato.

She gave him a look of disapproval that caused him to swallowrapidly.

"The Chief doesn't look on it as a game," he persisted. "He's out tostop crime and – "

"But that's not the point," she interrupted. "What I want to know iswhy do I bounce off my chair like an india-rubber ball when hebuzzes?" she demanded relentlessly. "Why do I want to please him?Why do I want to kick myself when I make mistakes? Why – Oh! Tommy,"she broke off, "if you only had a brain as well as a stomach," andshe looked across at him reproachfully.

"Perhaps it's because he never complains," suggested Thompson, as heplaced his knife and fork at the "all clear" angle, and leaned backin his chair with a sigh of contentment.

"You don't complain, Tommy," she retorted; "but you could buzzyourself to blazes without getting me even to look up."

For fully a minute there was silence; Gladys Norman continued togaze down at the débris to which she had reduced her roll.

"No," she continued presently, "there is something else. I'venoticed the others; they're just the same." She paused, thensuddenly looking across at him she enquired, "What is loyalty,Tommy?"

"Standing up and taking off your hat when they play 'God Save the

King,'" he replied glibly.

She laughed, and deftly flicked a bread pill she had justmanufactured, catching Thompson beneath the left eye and causing himto blink violently.

"You're a funny old thing," she laughed. "You know quite well what Imean, only you're too stupid to realise it. Look at the Innocent – for him the Chief is the only man in all the world. Then there'sTims. He'd get up in the middle of the night and drive the Chief toblazes, and hang the petrol. Then there's you and me."

Thompson drew a cigarette-case from his pocket.

"I think I know why it is," she said, nodding her pretty headwisely. She paused, and as Thompson made no comment she continued: "It's because he's human, warm flesh and blood."

"But when I'm warm flesh and blood," objected Thompson, withcorrugated brow, "you tell me not to be silly."

"Your idea of warmth, my dear man, was learnt on the upper reachesof the Thames after dark," was the scathing retort.

"Yes, but – " he began, when she interrupted him.

"Look what he did for Miss Blair. Had her at the office and then – then – looked after her."

"And afterwards got her a job," remarked Thompson. "But that's justlike the Chief," he added.

"Where did you meet him first, Tommy?" she enquired, as she leanedforward slightly to light her cigarette at the match he held out toher.

"In a bath," was the reply, as Thompson proceeded to light his owncigarette.

"You're not a bit funny," she retorted.

"But it was," he persisted.

"Was what?"

"In a bath. He hadn't had one before and – "

"Not had a bath!" she cried. "If you try to pull my leg like that,

Tommy, you'll ladder my stockings."

"But I'm not," protested Thompson. "I met the Chief in a Turkishbath, and he went into the hottest room and crumpled, so I lookedafter him, and that's how I got to know him."

"Of course, you couldn't have happened to mention that it was aTurkish bath, Tommy, could you?" she said. "That wouldn't be youat all. But what makes him do things like he did for Miss Blair?"

"I suppose because he's the Chief," was Thompson's reply.

Gladys Norman sighed elaborately. "There are moments, JamesThompson," she said, "when your conversation is almost inspiring,"and she relapsed into silence.

For the last half-hour Thompson had been conscious of a feeling ofuneasiness. It had first manifested itself when he was engaged upona lightly grilled cutlet; had developed as he tackled the lowerjoint of a leg of chicken; and become an alarming certainty when hewas half-way through a plate of apple tart and custard. GladysNorman's interest in Malcolm Sage had become more than a secretarialone.

Mentally he debated the appalling prospect. By the time coffee wasfinished he had reached an acute stage of mental misery. Suddenlylife had become, not only tinged, but absolutely impregnated withwretchedness.

It was not until they had left the restaurant and were walking along

Shaftesbury Avenue that he summoned up courage to speak.

"Gladys," he said miserably, "you're not – " then he paused, notdaring to put into words his thought.

"He's so magnetic, so compelling," she murmured dreamily. "He knowsso much. Any girl might – "

She did not finish the sentence; but stole a glance at Thompson'stragic face.

They walked in silence as far as Piccadilly Circus, then in theglare of light she saw the misery of his expression.

"You silly old thing," she laughed, as she slipped her arm throughhis. "You funny old thing," and she laughed again.

That laugh was a Boddy lifebelt to the sinking heart of Thompson.

CHAPTER IX THE HOLDING UP OF LADY GLANEDALE

I

"More trouble, Tommy," remarked Gladys Norman one morning as JamesThompson entered her room. He looked across at her quickly, a keenflash of interest in his somnolent brown eyes.

"Somebody's pinched Lady Glanedale's jewels. Just had a telephonemessage. What a happy place the world would be without drink andcrime – "

"And women," added Thompson, alert of eye, and prepared to dodgeanything that was coming.

"Tommy, you're a beast. Get thee hence!" and, bending over hertypewriter, she became absorbed in rattling words on to paper.

Thompson had just reached the third line of "I'm Sorry I Made YouCry," when his quick eye detected Malcolm Sage as he entered theouter office.

With a brief "Good morning," Malcolm Sage passed into his room, anda minute later Gladys Norman was reading from her note-book themessage that had come over the telephone to the effect that earlythat morning a burglar had entered Lady Glanedale's bedroom at theHome Park, Hyston, the country house of Sir Roger Glanedale, and, under threat from a pistol, had demanded her jewel-case, which shehad accordingly handed to him.

As the jewels were insured with the Twentieth Century InsuranceCorporation, Ltd., Malcolm Sage had been immediately communicatedwith, that he might take up the enquiry with a view to tracing themissing property.

One of Malcolm Sage's first cases had been undertaken for thiscompany in connection with a burglary. He had been successful inrestoring the whole of the missing property. In consequence hehad been personally thanked by the Chairman at a fully attendedBoard Meeting, and at the same time presented with a gold-mountedwalking-stick, which, as he remarked to Sir John Dene, no one buta drum-major in full dress would dare to carry.

Having listened carefully as she read her notes, Malcolm Sagedismissed Gladys Norman with a nod, and for some minutes sat at histable drawing the inevitable diagrams upon his blotting pad.Presently he rose, and walked over to a row of shelves filled withred-backed volumes, lettered on the back "Records," with a numberand a date.

Every crime or curious occurrence that came under Malcolm Sage'snotice was duly chronicled in the pages of these volumes, whichcontained miles of press-cuttings. They were rendered additionallyvaluable by an elaborate system of cross-reference indexing.

After referring to an index-volume, Malcolm Sage selected one of thefolios, and returned with it to his table. Rapidly turning over thepages he came to a newspaper-cutting, which was dated some fiveweeks previously. This he read and pondered over for some time. Itran:

DARING BURGLARY

Country Mansion Entered

Burglar's Sang-froid

In the early hours of yesterday morning a daring burglary wascommitted at the Dower House, near Hyston, the residence of Mr.Gerald Comminge, who was away from home at the time, by which theburglar was able to make a rich haul of jewels.

In the early hours of the morning Mrs. Comminge was awakened by thepresence of a man in her room. As she sat up in bed, the man turnedan electric torch upon her and, pointing a revolver in her direction, warned her that if she cried out he would shoot. He then demanded toknow where she kept her jewels, and Mrs. Comminge, too terrified todo anything else, indicated a drawer in which lay her jewel-case.

Taking the jewel-case and putting it under his arm, the manthreatened that if she moved or called out within a quarter of anhour he would return and shoot her. He then got out of the window onto a small balcony and disappeared.

It seems that he gained admittance by clambering up some ivy andthus on to the narrow balcony that runs the length of one side ofthe house.

Immediately on the man's disappearance, Mrs. Comminge fainted. Oncoming to she gave the alarm, and the police were immediatelytelephoned for. Although the man's footprints are easily discernibleupon the mould and the soft turf, the culprit seems to have left noother clue.

The description that Mrs. Comminge is able to give of her assailantis rather lacking in detail, owing to the shock she experienced athis sudden appearance. It would appear that the man is of mediumheight and slight of build. He wore a cap and a black handkerchieftied across his face just beneath his eyes, which entirely maskedhis features. With this very inadequate description of the ruffianthe police have perforce to set to work upon the very difficult taskof tracing him.

For some time Malcolm Sage pondered over the cutting, then rising hereplaced the volume and rang for Thompson.

An hour later Tims was carrying him along in the direction of Sir

Roger Glanedale's house at a good thirty-five miles an hour.

The Home Park was an Elizabethan mansion that had been acquired bySir Roger Glanedale out of enormous profits made upon the sale ofmargarine. As Tims brought the car up before the front entrance withan impressive sweep, the hall-door was thrown open by the butler, who habitually strove by an excessive dignity of demeanour to removefrom his mental palate the humiliating flavour of margarine.

Malcolm Sage's card considerably mitigated the impression made uponMr. Hibbs's mind by the swing with which Tims had brought the car upto the door.

Malcolm Sage was shown into the morning-room and told that herladyship would see him in a few minutes. He was busy in thecontemplation of the garden when the door opened and Lady Glanedaleentered.

He bowed and then, as Lady Glanedale seated herself at a small table,he took the nearest chair.

She was a little woman, some eight inches too short for the air sheassumed, fair, good-looking; but with a hard, set mouth. No one hadever permitted her to forget that she had married margarine.

"You have called about the burglary?" she enquired, in a tone shemight have adopted to a plumber who had come to see to a leak in thebath.

Malcolm Sage bowed.

"Perhaps you will give me the details," he said. "Kindly be as briefas possible," his "incipient Bolshevism" manifesting itself in hismanner.

Lady Glanedale elevated her eyebrows; but, as Malcolm Sage's eyeswere not upon her, she proceeded to tell her story.

"About one o'clock this morning I was awakened to find a man in mybedroom," she began. "He was standing between the bedstead and thefarther window, his face masked. He had a pistol in one hand, whichhe pointed towards me, and an electric torch in the other. I sat upin bed and stared at him. 'If you call out I shall kill you,' hesaid. I asked him what he wanted. He replied that if I gave him myjewel-case and did not call for help, he would not do me any harm.

"Realising that I was helpless, I got out of bed, put on a wrapper, opened a small safe I have set in the wall, and handed him one ofthe two jewel-cases I possess.

"He then made me promise that I would not ring or call out for aquarter of an hour, and he disappeared out of the window.

"At the end of a quarter of an hour I summoned help, and my stepson, the butler, and several other servants came to my room. Wetelephoned for the police, and after breakfast we telephoned to theinsurance company."

For fully a minute there was silence. Malcolm Sage decided thatLady Glanedale certainly possessed the faculty of telling a storywith all the events in their proper sequence. He found himself withvery few questions to put to her.

"Can you describe the man?" he asked as he mechanically turned overthe leaves of a book on a table beside him.

"Not very well," she replied. "I saw little more than a silhouetteagainst the window. He was of medium height, slight of build and Ishould say young."

"That seems to agree with the description of the man who robbed Mrs.

Comminge," he said as if to himself.

"That is what the inspector said," remarked Lady Glanedale.

"His voice?"

"Was rather husky, as if he were trying to disguise it."

"Was it the voice of a man of refinement or otherwise?"

"I should describe it as middle-class," was the snobbish response.

"The mask?"

"It looked like a silk handkerchief tied across his nose. It wasdark in tone; but I could get only a dim impression."

Malcolm Sage inclined his head comprehendingly.

"You know Mrs. Comminge?"

"Intimately."

"You mentioned two jewel-cases," he said.

"The one stolen contained those I mostly wear," replied Lady

Glanedale; "in the other I keep some very valuable family jewels."

"What was the value of those stolen?"

"About 8,000 pounds," she replied, "possibly more. I should explain, perhaps, that Sir Roger was staying in town last night, and so far Ihave not been able to get him on the telephone. He was to havestayed at the Ritzton; but apparently he found them full and wentelsewhere."

"You have no suspicion as to who it was that entered your room?"

"None whatever," said Lady Glanedale.

"The police have already been?" he enquired, as he examined withgreat intentness a rose he had taken from a bowl beside him.

"Yes, they came shortly after we telephoned. They gave instructionsthat nothing was to be touched in the room, and no one was to gonear the ground beneath the windows."

Malcolm Sage nodded approvingly, and returned the rose to the bowl.

"And now," he said, "I think I should like to see the room. By theway, I take it that you keep your safe locked?"

"Always," said Lady Glanedale.

"Where do you keep the key?"

"In the bottom right-hand drawer of my dressing-table, under a pileof handkerchiefs."

"As soon as you can I should like to see a list of the jewels," said

Malcolm Sage, as he followed Lady Glanedale towards the door.

"My maid is copying it out now," she replied, and led the way up thestaircase, along a heavily-carpeted corridor, at the end of whichshe threw open a door giving access to a bedroom.

Malcolm Sage entered and gave a swift look about him, seeming tonote and catalogue every detail. It was a large room, with twowindows looking out on to a lawn. On the right was a door, which,Lady Glanedale explained, led to Sir Roger's dressing-room.

He walked over to the window near the dressing-room and looked out.

"That is the window he must have entered by; he went out that way,"explained Lady Glanedale.

"You spoke of a stepson," said Malcolm Sage. "He is a man, Ipresume?"

"He is twenty-three." Lady Glanedale elevated her eyebrows as ifsurprised at the question.

"Can you send for him?"

"Certainly, if you wish it." She rang the bell, and a moment laterrequested the maid who answered it to ask Mr. Robert to comeimmediately.

"Do you sleep with lowered blinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"The one nearest my bed I always keep down; the other I pull upafter putting out my light."

"Did you awaken suddenly, or gradually – as if it were your usualtime to awaken?"

"It was gradual," said Lady Glanedale, after a pause for thought. "Iremember having the feeling that someone was looking at me."

"Was the light from the torch shining on your face?"

"No, it was turned to the opposite side of the room, on my right as

I lay in bed."

At that moment a young man in tweeds entered.

"You want me, Mater?" he enquired; then, looking across at Malcolm

Sage with a slightly troubled shadow in his eyes, he bowed.

"This is Mr. Sage from the insurance company," said. Lady Glanedalecoldly. "He wishes to see you."

Again there was the slightly troubled look in young Glanedale's eyes.

"Perhaps you will place Mr. Glanedale in the exact position in whichthe man was standing when you first saw him," said Malcolm Sage.

Without a word Lady Glanedale walked over to the spot she hadindicated, young Glanedale following. When she had got him into thedesired position she turned interrogatingly to Malcolm Sage.

"Now," he said, "will you be so kind as to lie on your bed in thesame position in which you were when you awakened."

For a moment Lady Glanedale's eyebrows indicated surprise. She usedher eyebrows more than any other feature for the purpose ofexpressing emotion. Without comment, however, she lay down upon thebed on her right side, closed her eyes, then a moment later sat upand gazed in the direction where Glanedale stood looking awkward andself-conscious.

"Perhaps you will repeat every movement you made," said Malcolm Sage."Try to open the safe-door exactly as you did then, and leave it atthe same angle. Every detail is important."

Lady Glanedale rose, picked up a wrapper that was lying over achair-back, put it on and, walking over to the safe, turned the keythat was in the lock, and opened it. Then, standing between the safeand Glanedale, she took out a jewel-case and closed the door.Finally she walked over to where her stepson stood, and handed himthe jewel-case.

"Thank you," said Malcolm Sage. "I wanted to see whether or not theman had the opportunity of seeing into the safe."

"I took care to stand in front of it," she said.

"So I observed. You allowed the quarter of an hour to elapse beforeyou raised the alarm?"

"Certainly, I had promised," was the response.

"But a promise extorted by threats of violence is not binding," hesuggested as he pulled meditatively at his right ear.

"It is with me," was the cold retort.

He inclined his head slightly.

"I notice that the ground beneath the windows has been roped off."

"The inspector thought it had better be done, as there werefootprints."

"I will not trouble you further for the present, Lady Glanedale,"said Malcolm Sage, moving towards the door. "I should like to spenda little time in the grounds. Later I may require to interrogate theservants."

Young Glanedale opened the door and his stepmother, followed by

Malcolm Sage, passed out. They descended the stairs together.

"Please don't trouble to come out," said Malcolm Sage. "I shallprobably be some little time," this as Lady Glanedale moved towardsthe hall-door. "By the way," he said, as she turned towards themorning-room where she had received him, "did you happen to noticeif the man was wearing boots, or was he in stockinged feet?"

"I think he wore boots, she said, after a momentary pause.

"Thank you," and Malcolm Sage turned towards the door, which washeld open by the butler.

Passing down the steps and to the left, he walked round to the sideof the house, where the space immediately beneath Lady Glanedale'swindows had been roped off.

Stepping over the protecting rope, he examined the ground beneaththe window through which the burglar had entered.

Running along the side of the house was a flowerbed some two feetsix inches wide, and on its surface was clearly indicated a seriesof footprints. On the side of the painted water-pipe were scratchessuch as might have been made by someone climbing up to the windowabove.

Drawing a spring metal-rule from his pocket, he proceeded to take aseries of measurements, which he jotted down in a notebook.

He next examined the water-pipe up which the man presumably hadclimbed, and presently passed on to a similar pipe farther to theleft. Every inch of ground he subjected to a careful and elaborateexamination, lifting the lower branches of some evergreens andgazing beneath them.

Finally, closing his notebook with a snap, Malcolm Sage seatedhimself upon a garden-seat and, carefully filling and lighting hispipe, he became absorbed in the polished pinkness of the thirdfingernail of his left hand.

A quarter of an hour later he was joined by young Glanedale.

"Found anything?" he enquired.

"There are some footprints," said Malcolm Sage, looking at himkeenly. "By the way, what did you do when you heard of the robbery?"

"I went to the Mater's room."

"And after that?"

"I rushed downstairs and started looking about."

"You didn't happen to come anywhere near this spot, or walk upon themould there?" He nodded at the place he had just been examining.

"No; as a matter of fact, I avoided it. The Mater warned me to becareful."

Malcolm Sage nodded his head.

"Did the butler join you in your search?" he enquired.

"About five minutes later he did. He had to go back and put on somethings; he was rather sketchy when he turned up in the Mater'sroom." Glanedale grinned at the recollection.

"And you?" Malcolm Sage flashed on him that steel grey look ofinterrogation. For a moment the young man seemed embarrassed, and hehesitated before replying.

"As a matter of fact, I hadn't turned in," he said at length.

"I see," said Malcolm Sage, and there was something in his tone thatcaused Glanedale to look at him quickly.

"It was such a rippin' night that I sat at my bedroom windowsmoking," he explained a little nervously.

"Which is your bedroom window?"

Glanedale nodded in the direction of the farther end of the house.

"That's the governor's dressing-room," he said, indicating thewindow on the left of that through which the burglar had escaped,"and the next is mine."

"Did you see anything?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who, having unscrewedthe mouthpiece of his pipe, proceeded to clean it with a blade ofgrass.

Again there was the slightest suggestion of hesitation before

Glanedale replied.

"No, nothing. You see," he added hastily, "I was not looking out ofthe window, merely sitting at it. As a matter of fact, I was facingthe other way."

"You heard no noise?"

Glanedale shook his head.

"So that the first intimation you had of anything being wrong waswhat?" he asked.

"I heard the Mater at her door calling for assistance, and I wentimmediately."

Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the water-pipe speculatively.

"I wonder if anyone really could climb up that," he said. "I'm sure

I couldn't."

"Nothing easier," said Glanedale. "I could shin up in two ticks,"and he made a movement towards the pipe.

"No," said Malcolm Sage, putting a detaining hand upon his arm. "Ifyou want to demonstrate your agility, try the other. There are markson this I want to preserve."

"Right-o," cried Glanedale with a laugh, and a moment later he wasshinning up the further pipe with the agility of a South Seaislander after coker-nuts.

Malcolm Sage walked towards the pipe, glanced at it, and then at thefootprints beneath.

"You were quite right," he remarked casually. Then a moment later heenquired:

"Do you usually sit up late?"

"We're not exactly early birds," Glanedale replied a littleirrelevantly. "The Mater plays a lot of bridge, you know," he added.

"And that keeps you out of bed?"

"Yes and no," was the reply. "I can't afford to play with the

Mater's crowd; but I have to hang about until after they've gone.

The governor hates it. You see," he added confidentially, "when a man's had to make his money, he knows the value of it."

"True," said Malcolm Sage, but from the look in his eyes histhoughts seemed elsewhere.

"By the way, what time was it that you had a shower here lastnight?"

"A shower?" repeated Glanedale. "Oh! yes, I remember, it was justabout twelve o'clock; it only lasted about ten minutes."

"I'll think things over," said Malcolm Sage, and Glanedale, takingthe hint, strolled off towards the house.

Malcolm Sage walked over to where an old man was trimming a hedge.

"Could you lend me a trowel for half an hour?" he enquired.

"No, dang it, I can't," growled the old fellow. "I ain't a-going tolend no more trowels or anything else."

"Why?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"There's my best trowel gone out of the tool-house," he grumbled,"and I ain't a-going to lend no others."

"How did it go?"

"How should I know?" he complained. "Walked out, I suppose, same astrowels is always doin'."

"When did you miss it?"

"It was there day 'fore yesterday I'll swear, and I ain't a-going tolend no more."

"Do you think the man who took the jewels stole it?" enquired

Malcolm Sage.

"Dang the jools," he retorted, "I want my trowel," and, grumbling tohimself, the old fellow shuffled off to the other end of the hedge.

Half an hour later Malcolm Sage was in Hyston, interviewing theinspector of police, who was incoherent with excitement. He learnedthat Scotland Yard was sending down a man that afternoon, furthermore that elaborate enquiries were being made in theneighbourhood as to any suspicious characters having recently beenseen.

Malcolm Sage asked a number of questions, to which he received moreor less impatient replies. The inspector was convinced that therobbery was the work of the same man who had got away with Mrs.Comminge's jewels, and he was impatient with anyone who did notshare this view.

From the police station Malcolm Sage went to The Painted Flag, where, having ordered lunch, he got through to the Twentieth CenturyInsurance Corporation, and made an appointment to meet one of theassessors at Home Park at three o'clock.

CHAPTER X A LESSON IN DEDUCTION

I

Mr. Grimwood, of the firm of Grimwood, Galton & Davy, insuranceassessors, looked up from the list in his hand. He was a shrewdlittle man, with side-whiskers, pince-nez that would never sitstraight upon his aquiline nose, and an impressive cough.

He glanced from Malcolm Sage to young Glanedale, then back again to

Malcolm Sage; finally he coughed.

The three men were seated in Sir Roger Glanedale's library awaitingthe coming of Lady Glanedale.

"And yet Mr. Glanedale heard nothing," remarked Mr. Grimwoodmusingly. "Strange, very strange."

"Are you in the habit of sitting smoking at your bedroom window?"enquired Malcolm Sage of Glanedale, his eyes averted.

"Er – no, not exactly," was the hesitating response.

"Can you remember when last you did such a thing?" was the nextquestion.

"I'm afraid I can't," said Glanedale, with an uneasy laugh.

"Perhaps you had seen something that puzzled you," continued MalcolmSage, his restless fingers tracing an imaginary design upon thepolished surface of the table before him.

Glanedale was silent. He fingered his moustache with a nervous hand.

Mr. Grimwood looked across at Malcolm Sage curiously.

"And you were watching in the hope of seeing something more,"continued Malcolm Sage.

"I – " began Glanedale, starting violently, then he stopped.

"Don't you think you had better tell us exactly what it was yousaw," said Malcolm Sage, raising a pair of gold-rimmed eyes thatmercilessly beat down the uneasy gaze of the young man.

"I – I didn't say I saw anything."

"It is for you to decide, Mr. Glanedale," said Malcolm Sage, withan almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, "whether it isbetter to tell your story now, or under cross-examination in thewitness-box. There you will be under oath, and the proceedings willbe public."

At that moment Lady Glanedale entered, and the three men rose.

"I am sorry to interrupt you," she said coldly, "but Sir Roger hasjust telephoned and wishes to speak to Mr. Glanedale."

"I fear we shall have to keep Sir Roger waiting," said Malcolm Sage, walking over to the door and closing it.

Lady Glanedale looked at him in surprise.

"I do not understand," she began.

"You will immediately," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "We were justdiscussing the robbery." He slightly stressed the word "robbery."

"Really – " began Lady Glanedale.

"Mr. Glanedale was sitting at his window smoking," continued MalcolmSage evenly. "He cannot remember ever having done such a thingbefore. I suggested that something unusual had attracted hisattention, and that he was waiting to see what would follow. I wasjust about to tell him what had attracted his attention when youentered, Lady Glanedale."

Glanedale looked across at his step-mother and then at Malcolm Sage.

His misery was obvious.

"Last night, soon after twelve," continued Malcolm Sage, "Mr.Glanedale happened to look out of his window and was surprised tosee a figure moving along towards the left. It was not the figure ofa man with a handkerchief tied across his face as a mask; but awoman. He watched. He saw it pause beneath the second window of yourbedroom, Lady Glanedale, not the one by which the burglar entered.Then it stooped down."

Malcolm Sage's fingers seemed to be tracing each movement of themysterious figure upon the surface of the table. Lady Glanedalegazed at his long, shapely hands as if hypnotised.

"Presently," he continued, "it returned to the first window, whereit was occupied for some minutes. Mr. Glanedale could not see this; but the figure was engaged in making footprints and marking thesides of the water-pipe with a shoe or boot as high up as it couldreach. It – "

"How dare you make such an accusation!" cried Lady Glanedale, makingan effort to rise; but she sank back again in her chair, her faceplaster-white.

"I have made no accusation," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "I amtelling what Mr. Glanedale saw."

A hunted look sprang to Lady Glanedale's eyes. She tore her eyesfrom those magnetic fingers and gazed about her wildly as ifmeditating flight. Her throat seemed as if made of leather.

"Would you be prepared to deny all this in the witness-box underoath, Mr. Glanedale?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

Glanedale looked at him with unseeing eyes, then across at hisstep-mother.

"The woman had put on a pair of men's boots that the footprintsmight be masculine. They were so much too large for her that she hadto drag her feet along the ground. The boots were those of a manweighing, say, about eleven and a half stone; the weight insidethose boots shown by the impression in the mould was little morethan seven stone."

Lady Glanedale put out her hand as if to ward off a blow; but

Malcolm Sage continued mercilessly, addressing Glanedale.

"The length of a man's stride is thirty inches; between these stepsthe space was less than fifteen inches. Skirts are worn verynarrow."

He paused, then, as Lady Glanedale made no reply, he turned to

Glanedale.

"I asked you this morning," he said, "to climb the other pipe forthe double purpose of examining the impress of your boots on themould as you left the ground and when you dropped back again on tothe mould. Also to see what sort of marks a pair of leather bootswould make upon the weatherworn paint of the pipe.

"As you sprang from the ground and clutched the pipe, there was adeep impress on the mould of the soles of both boots, deep at thetoes and tapering off towards the heel. On your return you madedistinct heel-marks as well."

Lady Glanedale had buried her face in her hands. She must blot outthe sight of those terrible hands! Glanedale sat with his eyes uponMalcolm Sage as if hypnotised.

"There was a shower of rain last night about twelve, an hour beforethe alleged burglar arrived; yet the footprints were made before therain fell. In two cases leaves had been trodden into the footprints; yet on these leaves were drops of rain just as they had fallen."

The hands seemed to draw the leaves and indicate the spots of wateras if they had been blood. Glanedale shuddered involuntarily.

"In the centre-part of the pipe there were no marks, although therewere light scratches for as high up as the arm of a short personcould reach, and as far down from the bedroom window as a similararm could stretch. These scratches were quite dissimilar from thosemade on the other pipe."

Lady Glanedale moaned something unintelligible.

"Although there had been a shower and the mould was wet," proceededMalcolm Sage, "there were no marks of mud or mould on the pipe, onthe window-sill, or in Lady Glanedale's bedroom, which, I understand, had purposely not been swept. A man had slid down that water-pipe; yet he had done so without so much as removing the surface dust fromthe paint.

"He had reached the ground as lightly as a fairy, without making anymark upon the mould; the footprints were merely those of someoneapproaching and walking from the pipe."

Glanedale drew a cigarette case from his pocket; opened it, took outa cigarette, then, hesitating a moment, replaced it, and returnedthe case to his pocket, his eyes all the time on Malcolm Sage.

"I think," continued Malcolm Sage, "we shall find that the burglarhas buried the jewel-case a few yards to the right of the pipe he issupposed to have climbed." His forefinger touched a spot on theextreme right of the table. "There are indications that the mouldhas been disturbed. Incidentally a trowel is missing – "

Glanedale suddenly sprang to his feet, just as Lady Glanedale fellforward in her chair – she had fainted.

II

"It's a very unpleasant business," remarked Mr. Goodge, the GeneralManager of the Twentieth Century Insurance Company, as he looked upfrom reading a paper that Malcolm Sage had just handed to him. In itLady Glanedale confessed the fraud she had sought to practise uponthe Corporation. "A very unpleasant business," he repeated.

Malcolm Sage gazed down at his finger-nails, as if the matter had nofurther interest for him. When his brain was inactive, his handswere at rest.

"I don't know what view the Board will take," continued Mr. Goodge,as Malcolm Sage made no comment.

"They will probably present me with another walking-stick," heremarked indifferently.

Mr. Goodge laughed. Malcolm Sage's walking-stick had been a standingjoke between them.

"What made you first suspect Lady Glanedale?" he enquired.

"She had omitted to rehearse the episode of the burglary, andconsequently when it came to reconstructing the incident, she failedin a very important particular." Malcolm Sage paused.

"What was that?" enquired Mr. Goodge with interest, as he pushed abox of cigars towards Malcolm Sage, who, however, shaking his head, proceeded to fill his pipe.

"She had already told me that the key of the safe was always keptbeneath a pile of handkerchiefs in one of the drawers of herdressing-table; yet when I asked her to go through exactly the samemovements and actions as when the burglar entered her room, she rosedirect from the bed and went to the safe. The dressing-table was atthe other end of the room, and to get to it she would have had topass the spot where she said the man was standing."

Mr. Goodge nodded his head appreciatively.

"The next point was that I discovered it was Lady Glanedale whosuggested to the police inspector that means should be taken toprevent anyone approaching the water-pipe by which the man wassupposed to have climbed. She was anxious that the footprints shouldbe preserved.

"Another point was that young Glanedale happened to remark that hisstep-mother was much addicted to bridge, and that the stakes weretoo high to admit of his joining in. Also that men who havethemselves accumulated their wealth know the value of money. SirRoger disliked bridge and probably kept his lady short."

"Most likely," agreed Mr. Goodge. "He has the reputation of being abit shrewd in money matters. When did you begin to suspect LadyGlanedale?"

"From the first," was the reply. "Everything rang false. LadyGlanedale's story suggested that it had been rehearsed until she hadit by heart," continued Malcolm Sage. "It was too straightforward, too clearly expressed for the story of a woman who had just losteight thousand pounds' worth of jewels. When I put questions to hershe hesitated before replying, as if mentally comparing her intendedanswer with what she had already told.

"Then she was so practical in preparing a list of the lost jewels atonce, and in warning her stepson not to go near the spot beneath herwindow, as there might be footprints; this at a time when she wassupposed to be in a state of great excitement."

"Did you suspect young Glanedale at all?" queried Mr. Grimwood.

"No," said Malcolm Sage, "but to make quite sure I cast doubt uponthe possibility of anyone climbing the pipe. If he had beenconcerned he would not have volunteered to prove I was wrong."

"True," said Mr. Goodge as he examined critically the glowing end ofhis cigar. "Lady Glanedale seems to have done the job very clumsily, now that you have explained everything."

"Even the professional criminal frequently underrates theintelligence of those whose business it is to frustrate him; butLady Glanedale's efforts in marking the water-pipe would not havedeceived a child. A powerful magnifying-glass will show that on allsuch exterior pipes there is an accumulation of dust, which would beremoved from a large portion of the surface by anyone climbingeither up or down. Lady Glanedale had thought marks made by a bootor a shoe would be sufficient confirmation of her story. She israther a stupid woman," he added, as he rose to go.

"I suppose she got the idea from the Comminge affair?"

"Undoubtedly," was the response; "but as I say, she is a stupidwoman. Vanity in crime is fatal; it leads the criminal to underratethe intelligence of others. Lady Glanedale is intensely vain."

"The Board will probably want to thank you personally," said Mr.Goodge as he shook hands; "but I'll try and prevent them from givingyou another walking-stick," he laughed as he opened the door.

CHAPTER XI THE MCMURRAY MYSTERY

I

Of the many problems upon which Malcolm Sage was engaged during theearly days of the Malcolm Sage Bureau, that concerning the death ofProfessor James McMurray, the eminent physiologist, was perhaps themost extraordinary. It was possessed of several remarkable features; for one thing the murderer had disappeared, leaving no clue; foranother the body when found seemed to have undergone a strangechange, many of the professor's sixty-five years appearing to havedropped from him in death as leaves from an autumn tree.

It was one of those strange crimes for which there is no apparentexplanation, consequently the strongest weapon the investigator has, that of motive, was absent. As far as could be gathered the deadprofessor had not an enemy in the world. He was a semi-recluse, withnothing about him to tempt the burglar; yet he had been brutallydone to death in his own laboratory, and the murderer had made goodhis escape without leaving anything likely to prove helpful to thepolice.

One day as Gladys Norman, like "panting Time," toiled after her workin vain, striving to tap herself up to date with an accumulation ofcorrespondence, the telephone-bell rang for what seemed to her theumpteenth time that morning. She seized the receiver as a dog seizesa rat, listened, murmured a few words in reply, then banged it backupon its rest.

"Oh dear!" she sighed. "I wish they'd let him alone. The poor dearlooks tired out." She turned to William Johnson, who had justentered. "Why don't you hurry up and become a man, Innocent," shedemanded, "so that you can help the Chief?"

William Johnson looked vague and shuffled his feet. His admirationof Malcolm Sage's secretary rendered him self-conscious in herpresence.

"Sir John Dene and Sir Jasper Chambers to see the Chief," heannounced, obviously impressed by the social importance of thecallers.

"Sure it's not the Shah of Persia and Charlie Chaplin?" she askedwearily as she rose from her table and, walking over to the doormarked "Private," passed into Malcolm Sage's room.

Reappearing a moment later she instructed William Johnson to showthe visitors in at once.

As the two men passed through Miss Norman's room, they formed astriking contrast, Sir John Dene short, thick-set, alert, with thestamp of the West-End upon all he wore; Sir Jasper Chambers tall, gaunt arid dingy, with a forehead like the bulging eaves of anElizabethan house, and the lower portion of his face a riot of shortgrizzled grey hair that seemed to know neither coercion norrestraint. His neck appeared intent on thrusting itself as far aspossible out of the shabby frock-coat that hung despairingly fromhis narrow shoulders.

"I wonder," murmured Gladys Norman, as she returned to her typing,"how many geraniums he had to give for those clothes."

"Morning, Mr. Sage," cried Sir John Dene.

Malcolm Sage rose. There was an unwonted cordiality in the way inwhich he extended his hand.

"This is Sir Jasper Chambers." Sir John Dene turned to his companion."You'll be able to place him," and he twirled the unlit cherootbetween his lips with bewildering rapidity.

Sir Jasper bowed with an old-world courtliness and grace that seemedstrangely out of keeping with his lank and unpicturesque bearing.Malcolm Sage, however, held out his hand with the air of one wishingto convey that a friend of Sir John Dene merited specialconsideration.

He motioned the two men to seats and resumed his own. Both declinedthe box of cigars he proffered, Sir John Dene preferring thewell-chewed cheroot between his lips, whilst Sir Jasper drew a pipefrom the tail-pocket of his frock-coat, which with long fleshlessfingers he proceeded to fill from a chamois-leather tobacco-pouch.

"I've brought Sir Jasper along," said Sir John Dene. "You've heardabout the murder of his friend Professor McMurray. He didn't want tocome; but I told him you'd be tickled to death, and that you'd getit all figured out for him in two wags of a chipmunk's tail."

Malcolm Sage looked across at the eminent philanthropist, whosewhole attention seemed absorbed in the filling of his well-wornbriar.

Sir Jasper's wise charities and great humanitarianism wereworld-famous. It was Will Blink, the Labour demagogue, who had saidthat of all the honours conferred during the century, Sir JasperChambers' O.M. had alone been earned, the others had been eitherbought or wangled.

The McMurray Murder was the sensation of the hour. The newspapershad "stunted" it, and the public, always eager for gruesomesensation, had welcomed it as if it had been a Mary Pickford film.

Four days previously, Professor James McMurray of Gorling, in Essex, had been found dead in his laboratory, his head fearfully batteredin by some blunt instrument.

It was the professor's custom, when engaged upon important researchwork, to retire, sometimes for days at a time, to a laboratory hehad built in his own grounds.

Meals were passed through a small wicket, specially constructed forthat purpose in the laboratory wall, and the professor's servantshad the most explicit instructions on no account to disturb him.

A fortnight previously Professor McMurray had retired to hislaboratory to carry out an important series of experiments. Heinformed his butler that Sir Jasper Chambers, his life-long friend, would visit him on the third day, and that dinner for two was to besupplied in the usual way, through the wicket.

On the evening in question, Sir Jasper Chambers had arrived andstayed until a little past nine. He then left the laboratory andproceeded to the house, where he told the butler that his master wasquite well, and that in all probability his researches would occupyhim another week.

Eight days later, when the butler took the professor's luncheon downto the laboratory, he noticed that the breakfast-tray had not beenremoved from the shelf just inside the wicket. Convinced that theprofessor had been so absorbed in his researches that he hadforgotten the meal, the butler placed the luncheon-tray beside thatcontaining the breakfast, thinking it better to leave the earliermeal as a reminder to the professor of his forgetfulness.

At dinner-time the butler was greatly surprised to find that bothbreakfast and luncheon had remained as he had left them; still, remembering how definite and insistent the professor had been thathe was not to be disturbed, the butler had, after consulting withthe housekeeper, decided to do nothing for the moment, and contentedhimself with ringing several times the electric-bell that was thesignal of another meal.

An hour later he went once more to the wicket, only to discover thatnothing had been touched. Hurrying back to the house with all speedhe had conferred with Mrs. Graham, the housekeeper, and, on herinsistence, he had telephoned to the police.

Sergeant Crudden of the Essex County Constabulary immediatelybicycled over to "The Hollows," Professor McMurray's residence, and, after hearing the butler's story, he had decided to force the door; there are no windows, the laboratory being lighted from above, inorder to secure entire privacy.

To the officer's surprise the door yielded readily, havingapparently been previously forced. Entering the laboratory he washorrified to discover the body of the professor lying in the centreof the floor, his head literally smashed by a terrible blow that hadobviously been delivered from behind.

Acting on the instructions of the police-sergeant, the butler hadtelephoned the news to the police-station at Strinton, with theresult that shortly afterwards Inspector Brewitt arrived with adoctor.

The police had made no statement; but there were some extraordinaryrumours current in the neighbourhood. One was to the effect that itwas not Professor McMurray's body that had been discovered; but thatof a much younger man who bore a striking resemblance to him.

"You have seen the accounts of my friend's terrible end?" enquiredSir Jasper, as he took the box of matches Malcolm Sage handed himand proceeded to light his pipe.

Malcolm Sage nodded. His gaze was fixed upon Sir Jasper's greyworsted socks, which concertinaed up his legs above a pair ofstrangely-fashioned black shoes.

"He was about to enter upon a series of experiments with a serum hehad discovered, his object being to lengthen human life."

Sir Jasper spoke in a gentle, well-modulated voice, in which was adeep note of sadness. He and Professor McMurray had been life-longfriends, their intimacy appearing to become strengthened by thepassage of years.

"You were the last to see him alive, I understand." Malcolm Sagepicked up his fountain-pen and began an elaborate stipple design ofa serpent upon the blotting-pad.

"Eight days before he was found I dined with him," said Sir Jasper, his voice a little unsteady.

"What happened?" Malcolm Sage enquired without looking up.

"I arrived at seven o'clock," continued Sir Jasper. "From then untilhalf-past we talked upon things of general interest, after which wedined. Later he told me he was about to enter upon a final series ofexperiments, the result of which would, in all probability, eitherbe fatal to himself, or mean the lengthening of human life."

He paused, gazing straight in front of him, ejecting smoke from hislips in staccatoed puffs. Then he continued:

"He said that he had recently made a will, which was lying with hissolicitor, and he gave me certain additional instructions as to thedisposal of his property."

"Did he seem quite normal?" enquired Malcolm Sage, adding a pair offormidable fangs to his reptile.

"He was calm and confident. At parting he told me I should be thefirst to know the result."

"Have you any reason to believe that Professor McMurray hadenemies?" Malcolm Sage enquired.

"None," was the reply, uttered in a tone of deep conviction, accompanied by a deliberate wagging of the head.

"He was confident of the success of his experiments?"

"Absolutely."

"And you?"

"I had no means of knowing," was the reply.

"You were his greatest friend and his only confidant?" suggested

Malcolm Sage, adding the sixth pair of legs to his creation.

"Yes."

"And you were to be the first to be told of the result of theexperiments?"

"Those were his last words to me."

There was a suggestion of emotion in Sir Jasper's otherwise evenvoice.

"Can you remember his actual words?"

"Yes; I remember them," he replied sadly. "As we shook hands he said,

'Well, Chambers, you will be the first to know the result.'"

Again there was silence, broken at length by Malcolm Sage, whostroked the back of his head with his left hand. His eyes hadreturned to Sir Jasper's socks.

"Do you think the professor had been successful in his experiments?"he enquired.

"I cannot say." Again Sir Jasper shook his head slowly anddeliberately.

"Did you see the body?"

"I did."

"Is there any truth in the rumours that he looked much younger?"

"There was certainly a marked change, a startling change," was thereply.

"But death plays odd tricks with years," suggested Malcolm Sage, whowas now feeling the lobe of his left ear as if to assure himself ofits presence.

"True," said Sir Jasper, nodding his head as if pondering the matterdeeply. "True."

"There was an article in last month's The Present Century by SirKelper Jevons entitled 'The Dangers of Longevity.' Did you read it?"enquired Malcolm Sage.

"I did."

"I read it too," broke in Sir John Dene, who had hitherto remainedan interested listener, as he sat twirling round between his lipsthe still unlit cheroot. "A pretty dangerous business it seems to me, this monkeying about with people's glands."

"It called attention to the danger of any interference with Nature'scarefully-adjusted balances between life and death," continuedMalcolm Sage, who had returned to the serpent which now sported apair of horns, "and was insistent that the lengthening of human lifecould result only in harm to the community. Do you happen to know ifProfessor McMurray had seen this?"

"He had." Sir Jasper leaned forward to knock the ashes from his pipeinto the copper tray on Malcolm Sage's table. "We talked of itduring dinner that evening. His contention was that science couldnot be constricted by utilitarianism, and that Nature would adjusther balances to the new conditions."

"But," grumbled Sir John Dene, "it wouldn't be until there had beenabout the tallest kind of financial panic this little globe ofmisery has ever seen."

"The article maintained that there would be an intervening period ofchaos," remarked Malcolm Sage meditatively, as he opened a drawerand took from it a copy of The Present Century. "I wasparticularly struck with this passage," he remarked:

"'It is impossible to exaggerate the extreme delicacy of themachinery of modern civilization,' he read. 'Industrialism, thefood-supply, existence itself are dependent upon the death-rate.Reduce this materially and it will inevitably lead to an upheaval ofa very grave nature. For instance, it would mean an addition ofsomething like a million to the population of the United Kingdomeach year, over and above those provided for by the normal excess ofbirths over deaths, and it would be years before Nature couldreadjust her balances.'"

Malcolm Sage looked across at Sir Jasper, who for some secondsremained silent, apparently deep in thought.

"I think," he said presently, with the air of a man carefullyweighing his words, "that McMurray was inclined to under-estimatethe extreme delicacy of the machinery of modern civilization. Irecall his saying that the arguments in that article would applyonly in the very unlikely event of someone meeting with unqualifiedsuccess. That is to say, by the discovery of a serum that wouldachieve what the Spaniards hoped of the Fountain of Eternal Youth,an instantaneous transformation from age to youth."

"A sort of Faust stunt," murmured Sir John Dene.

Sir Jasper nodded his head gravely.

For some minutes the three men sat silent, Sir Jasper gazingstraight in front of him, Sir John Dene twirling his cheroot betweenhis lips, his eyes fixed upon the bald dome-like head of MalcolmSage, whose eyes were still intent upon his horned reptile, which hehad adorned with wings. He appeared to be thinking deeply.

"It's up to you, Mr. Sage, to get on the murderer's trail," said SirJohn Dene at length, with the air of a man who has no doubt as tothe result.

"You wish me to take up the case, Sir John?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking up suddenly.

"Sure," said Sir John Dene as he rose. "I'll take it as a particularfavour if you will. Now I must vamoose. I've got a date in thecity." He jerked himself to his feet and extended a hand to MalcolmSage. Then turning to Sir Jasper, who had also risen, he added, "Youleave it to Mr. Sage, Sir Jasper. Before long you won't see him fordust. He's about the livest wire this side of the St. Lawrence," andwith this enigmatical assurance, he walked to the door, whilstMalcolm Sage shook hands with Sir Jasper.

II

"Johnnie," said Miss Norman, as William Johnson entered her room inresponse to a peremptory call on the private-telephone, "InspectorCarfon is to honour us with a call during the next few minutes. Givehim a chair and a copy of The Sunday at Home, and watch the cluesas they peep out of his pockets. Now buzz off."

William Johnson returned to his table in the outer office and thelurid detective story from which Miss Norman's summons had torn him.He was always gratified when an officer from Scotland Yard called;it seemed to bring him a step nearer to the great crook-world of hisdreams. William Johnson possessed imagination; but it was theimagination of the films.

A quarter of an hour later he held open the door of Malcolm Sage'sprivate room to admit Inspector Carfon, a tall man, with smallfeatures and a large forehead, above which the fair hair had beensadly thinned by the persistent wearing of a helmet in the earlydays of his career.

"I got your message, Mr. Sage," he began, as he flopped into a chairon the opposite side of Malcolm Sage's table. "This McMurray case isa teaser. I shall be glad to talk it over with you."

"I am acting on behalf of Sir Jasper Chambers," said Malcolm Sage."It's very kind of you to come round so promptly, Carfon," he added, pushing a box of cigars towards the inspector.

"Not at all, Mr. Sage," said Inspector Carfon as he selected a cigar."Always glad to do what we can, although we are supposed to be a bitold-fashioned," and he laughed the laugh of a man who can afford tobe tolerant.

"I've seen all there is in the papers," said Malcolm Sage. "Arethere any additional particulars?"

"There's one thing we haven't told the papers, and it wasn'temphasised at the inquest." The inspector leaned forwardimpressively.

Malcolm Sage remained immobile, his eyes on his finger-nails.

"The doctor," continued the inspector, "says that the professor hadbeen dead for about forty-eight hours, whereas we know he'd eatena dinner about twenty-six hours before he was found."

Malcolm Sage looked up slowly. In his eyes there was an alert lookthat told of keen interest.

"You challenged him?" he queried.

"Ra-ther," was the response, "but he got quite ratty. Said he'dstake his professional reputation and all that sort of thing."

Malcolm Sage meditatively inclined his head several times insuccession; his hand felt mechanically for his fountain-pen.

"Then there was another thing that struck me as odd," continuedInspector Carfon, intently examining the end of his cigar. "Theprofessor had evidently been destroying a lot of old correspondence.The paper-basket was full of torn-up letters and envelopes, and thegrate was choc-a-bloc with charred paper. That also we kept toourselves."

"That all?"

"I think so," was the reply. "There's not the vestige of a clue that

I can find."

"I see," said Malcolm Sage, looking at a press-cutting lying beforehim, "that it says there was a remarkable change in the professor'sappearance. He seemed to have become rejuvenated."

"The doctor said that sometimes 'death smites with a velvet hand.'He was rather a poetic sort of chap," the inspector added by way ofexplanation.

"He saw nothing extraordinary in the circumstance?"

"No," was the response. "He seemed to think he was the only one whohad ever seen a dead man before. I wouldn't mind betting I've seenas many stiffs as he has, although perhaps he's caused more."

Then as Malcolm Sage made no comment, the inspector proceeded.

"What I want to know is what was the professor doing while the doorwas being broken open?"

"There were no signs of a struggle?" enquired Malcolm Sage, drawinga cottage upon his thumbnail.

"None. He seems to have been attacked unexpectedly from behind."

"Was there anything missing?"

"We're not absolutely sure. The professor's gold watch can't befound; but the butler is not certain that he had it on him."

For some time there was silence. Malcolm Sage appeared to bepondering over the additional facts he had just heard.

"What do you want me to do, Mr. Sage?" enquired the inspector atlength.

"I was wondering whether you would run down with me this afternoonto Gorling."

"I'd be delighted," was the hearty response. "Somehow or other Ifeel it's not an ordinary murder. There's something behind it all."

"What makes you think that?" Malcolm Sage looked up sharply.

"Frankly, I can't say, Mr. Sage," he confessed a little shamefacedly,"it's just a feeling I have."

"The laboratory has been locked up?"

"Yes; and I've sealed the door. Nothing has been touched."

Malcolm Sage nodded his head approvingly and, for fully five minutes, continued to gaze down at his hands spread out on the table beforehim.

"Thank you, Carfon. Be here at half-past two."

"The funeral's to-day, by the way," said the inspector as he roseand, with a genial "good morning," left the room.

For the next hour Malcolm Sage was engaged in reading the newspaperaccounts of the McMurray Mystery, which he had already caused to bepasted up in the current press-cutting book; he gathered little morefrom them, however, than he already knew.

That afternoon, accompanied by Inspector Carfon, Malcolm Sagemotored down to "The Hollows," which lies at the easternmost end ofthe village of Gorling.

The inspector stopped the car just as it entered the drive. The twomen alighted and, turning sharply to the right, walked across thelawn towards an ugly red-brick building, screened from the house bya belt of trees. Malcolm Sage had expressed a wish to see thelaboratory first.

It was a strange-looking structure, some fifty feet long by abouttwenty feet wide, with a door on the further side. In the red-brickwall nearer the house there was nothing to break the monotony exceptthe small wicket through which the professor's meals were passed.

Malcolm Sage twice walked deliberately round the building. In themeantime the inspector had removed the seal from the padlock andopened the door.

"Did you photograph the position of the body?" enquired Malcolm Sage,as they entered.

"I hadn't a photographer handy," said the inspector apologetically,as he closed the door behind him; "but I managed to get a man tophotograph the wound."

"Put yourself in the position of the body," said Malcolm Sage.

The inspector walked to the centre of the room, near ahighly-polished table, dropped on to the floor and, after a moment'spause, turned and lay on his left side, with right arm outstretched.

From just inside the door Malcolm Sage looked about him. At the leftextremity a second door gave access to another apartment, which theprofessor used as a bedroom.

A little to the right of the door, on the opposite side, stood thefireplace. This was full of ashes, apparently the charred remains ofa quantity of paper that had been burnt. On the hearth were severalpartially-charred envelopes, and the paper-basket contained a numberof torn-up letters.

"That will do, Carfon," said Malcolm Sage, as he walked over to thefireplace and, dropping on one knee, carefully examined the ashes, touching them here and there with the poker.

He picked up something that glittered and held it out to theinspector who scrambled to his feet, and stood looking down withkeen professional interest.

"Piece of a test tube," remarked Malcolm Sage, as he placed thesmall piece of glass upon the table.

"Moses' aunt!" gasped the inspector. "I missed that, though I saw alot of bits of glass. I thought it was an electric bulb."

"Somebody had ground it to powder with his heel, all except thispiece. Looks as if there might have been more than one," he addedmore to himself than to the inspector.

"These are not letters," he continued without looking up.

"Not letters?"

"The paper is all of the same quality. By the way, has anyonedisturbed it?" He indicated the grate.

"No one," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage rose to his feet. For some minutes he stood lookingdown at the fireplace, stroking the back of his head, deep inthought.

Presently he picked up the poker, a massive steel affair, andproceeded to examine the fire-end with great minuteness.

"It was done with the other end," said the inspector. "He must havewiped it afterwards. There was no sign of blood or hair."

Malcolm Sage ignored the remark, and continued to regard thebusiness-end of the poker. Walking over to the door, he examined thefastenings. Having taken a general survey, he next proceeded to adetailed scrutiny of everything the place contained. From thefireplace he picked up what looked like a cinder and placed it in asmall box, which he put in his pocket.

The polished surface of the table he subjected to a carefulexamination, borrowing the inspector's magnifying-glass for thepurpose. On hands and knees he crawled round the table, still usingthe magnifying-glass upon the linoleum, with which the floor wascovered. From time to time he would pick up some apparently minuteobject and transfer it to another small box. At length he rose tohis feet as if satisfied.

"The professor did not smoke?" he queried.

"No; but the murderer did," was the rather brusque reply. InspectorCarfon was finding the role of audience trying, alike to his nervesand to his temper.

"Obviously," was Malcolm Sage's dry retort. "He also left his pipebehind and had to return for it. It was rather a foul pipe, too," headded.

"Left his pipe behind!" cried the inspector, his irritation droppingfrom him like a garment. "How on earth – !" In his surprise he leftthe sentence unfinished.

"Here," Malcolm Sage indicated a dark stain on the highly-polishedtable, "and here," he pointed to a few flecks of ash some four orfive inches distant, "are indications that a pipe has remained forsome considerable time, long enough for the nicotine to drainthrough the stem; it was a very foul pipe, Carfon."

"But mightn't that have trickled out in a few minutes, or while theman was here?" objected Inspector Carfon.

"With a wet smoker the saliva might have drained back," said MalcolmSage, his eyes upon the stain, "but this is nicotine from higher upthe stem, which would take time to flow out. As to leaving it on thetable, what inveterate smoker would allow a pipe to lie on a tablefor any length of time unless he left it behind him? The man smokedlike a chimney; look at the tobacco ash in the fireplace."

The inspector stared at Malcolm Sage, chagrin in his look.

"Now that photograph, Carfon," said Malcolm Sage.

Taking a letter-case from his breast-pocket, Inspector Carfon drewout a photograph folded in half. This he handed to Malcolm Sage, who, after a keen glance at the grim and gruesome picture, put it in hispocket.

"I thought so," he murmured.

"Thought what, Mr. Sage?" enquired the inspector eagerly.

"Left-handed." When keenly interested Malcolm Sage was more thanusually economical in words.

"Clean through the left side of the occipital bone," Malcolm Sagecontinued. "No right-handed man could have delivered such a blow.That confirms the poker."

The inspector stared.

"The sockets of the bolts, and that of the lock, have been loosenedfrom the inside with the poker," explained Malcolm Sage in amatter-of-fact tone. "The marks upon the poker suggest a left-handedman. The wound in the head proves it."

"Then the forced door was a blind?" gasped the inspector.

"The murderer was let in by the professor himself, who wassubsequently attacked from behind as he stood with his back to thefireplace. You are sure the grate has not been touched?" He suddenlyraised his eyes in keen interrogation.

Inspector Carfon shook his head. He had not yet recovered from hissurprise.

"Someone has stirred the ashes about so as to break up the charredleaves into small pieces to make identification impossible. This manhas a brain," he added.

The inspector gave vent to a prolonged whistle. "I knew there wassomething funny about the whole business," he said as if inself-defence.

Malcolm Sage had seated himself at the table, his long thin fingersoutspread before him. Suddenly he gave utterance to an exclamationof annoyance.

The inspector bent eagerly forward.

"The pipe," he murmured. "I was wrong. He put it down because he wasabsorbed in something, probably the papers he burnt."

"Then you think the murderer burnt the papers?" enquired theinspector in surprise.

"Who else?" asked Malcolm Sage, rising. "Now we'll see the butler."

Whilst the inspector was locking and re-sealing the door, MalcolmSage walked round the building several times in widening circles, examining the ground carefully; but there had been no rain forseveral weeks, and nothing upon its surface suggested a footprint.

CHAPTER XII THE MARMALADE CLUE

I

AS Malcolm Sage and Inspector Carfon crossed the lawn from thelaboratory, Sir Jasper Chambers was seen coming down the drivetowards them.

"There's Sir Jasper," cried the inspector.

When they reached the point where the lawn joined the drive theypaused, waiting for Sir Jasper to approach. He walked with long, loose strides, his head thrust forward, his mind evidently absorbedand far away from where he was. His coat flapped behind him, and ateach step his trousers jerked upwards, displaying several inches ofgrey worsted sock.

"Good afternoon, Sir Jasper," said Inspector Carfon, steppingforward and lifting his hat.

Sir Jasper stopped dead, with the air of one who has suddenly beenbrought to a realisation of his whereabouts. For a moment he staredblankly, then apparently recognition came to his aid.

"Good afternoon, inspector," he responded, lifting his black felthat with a graceful motion that seemed strangely out-of-keeping withhis grotesque appearance. In the salutation he managed to includeMalcolm Sage, who acknowledged it with his customary jerky nod.

"We have just been looking at the laboratory," said the inspector.

"Ah!" Sir Jasper nodded his head several times. "The laboratory!"

"Will you oblige me with your pouch, Carfon," said Malcolm Sage, drawing his pipe from his pocket. "I've lost mine."

Inspector Carfon thrust his hand into his left-hand pocket, thenbegan to go hurriedly through his other pockets with the air of aman who has lost something.

"I had it a quarter of an hour ago," he said. "I must have droppedit in the – "

"Allow me, sir," said Sir Jasper, extending to Malcolm Sage his ownpouch, which he had extracted from his tail-pocket, whilst theinspector was still engaged in his search. Malcolm Sage took it andwith a nod proceeded to fill his pipe.

"Looks like Craven Mixture," he remarked without looking up from thepipe which he was cramming from Sir Jasper's pouch.

Malcolm Sage was an epicure in tobacco.

"No; it's Ormonde Mixture," was the reply. "I always smoke it. It issingularly mellow," he added, "singularly mellow." He continued tolook straight in front of him, whilst the inspector appeared anxiousto get on to the house.

Having completed his task, Malcolm Sage folded the tobacco-pouch andhanded it back to Sir Jasper.

"Thank you," he said, and proceeded to light his pipe.

Apparently seeing nothing to detain him further, Sir Jasper liftedhis hat, bowed and passed on.

"Regular old cure, isn't he?" remarked the inspector as they watchedthe ungainly figure disappear round the bend of the drive.

"A great man, Carfon," murmured Malcolm Sage, "a very great man,"and he turned and walked towards the house.

The front door of "The Hollows" was opened by the butler, agentle-faced old man, in appearance rather like a mid-Victorianlawyer. At the sight of the inspector, a troubled look came into hiseyes.

"I want to have a few words with you," said Malcolm Sage quietly.

The old man led the way to the library. Throwing open the door forthem to pass in, he followed and closed it behind him. Malcolm Sageseated himself at the table and Inspector Carfon also dropped into achair. The butler stood, his hands half-closed before him, the palmof one resting upon the knuckles of the other. His whole attitudewas half-nervous, half-fearful, and wholly deprecating.

"I'm afraid this has been a great shock to you," said Malcolm Sage.

Inspector Carfon glanced across at him. There was an unaccustomednote of gentleness in his tone.

"It has indeed, sir," said the butler, and two tears gathered uponhis lower lids, hung pendulous for a second, then raced one anotherdown either side of his nose. It was the first sympathetic word theold man had heard since the police had arrived, insatiable for facts.

"Sit down," said Malcolm Sage, without looking up, "I shall not keepyou many minutes." His tone was that one might adopt to a child.

The old man obeyed, seating himself upon the edge of the chair, onehand still placed upon the other.

"You mustn't think because the police ask a lot of questions thatthey mean to be unkind," said Malcolm Sage.

"I – I believe they think I did it," the old man quavered, "and – and

I'd have done anything – "

His voice broke, the tears coursing down his colourless cheeks.

"I want you to try to help me find out who did kill your master,"continued Malcolm Sage, in the same tone, "and you can do that byanswering my questions."

There was no restless movement of fingers now. The hard, keen lookhad left his eyes, and his whole attention seemed to be concentratedupon soothing the old man before him.

With an obvious effort the butler strove to control himself.

"Did the professor ever have visitors at his laboratory?"

"Only Sir Jasper, sir. He was – "

"Just answer my questions," said Malcolm Sage gently. "He told you,

I think, never on any account to disturb him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you ever do so?"

"Only once, sir."

"That was?"

"When Mrs. Graham, that's the housekeeper, sir, set fire to thecurtains of her room. I was afraid for the house, sir, and I randown and knocked at the laboratory door."

"Did the professor open it?"

"No, sir."

"Perhaps he did not hear you?"

"Yes, he did, sir. I knocked and kicked for a long time, then I ranback to the house and found the fire had been put out."

"Did Professor McMurray ever refer to the matter?"

"He was very angry when I next saw him, sir, three days later."

"What did he say?"

"That neither fire nor murder was an excuse for interrupting him, and if I did it again I would have to – "

"Quite so," interrupted Malcolm Sage, desirous of saving the oldservitor the humiliation of explaining that he had been threatenedwith dismissal.

"So you are confident in your own mind that no amount of knocking atthe door would have caused your master to open it?"

"Quite certain, sir," the butler said with deep conviction. "If hehad heard me murdering Mrs. Graham he wouldn't have come out," headded gravely. "He used to say that man is for the moment; butresearch is for all time. He was a very wonderful man, sir," headded earnestly.

"So that to get into the laboratory someone must have had aduplicate key?"

"No, sir, the professor always bolted the door on the inside."

"Then he must have opened it himself?"

"He wouldn't, sir. I'm sure he wouldn't."

"But how did Sir Jasper get in?"

"He was expected, sir, and when he went to the laboratory, themaster always ordered extra food. He was very absent-minded, sir; but he always remembered that. He was very considerate, sir, too. Henever forgot my birthday," and he broke down completely, his frailbody shaken by sobs.

Rising, Malcolm Sage placed his hand upon the old man's shoulder. Asif conscious of the unspoken message of sympathy inspired by thetouch, the butler clasped the hand in both his own.

Inspector Carfon looked surprised.

"He was so kind, sir, so kind and thoughtful," he quavered. "I don'tknow what I shall do without him." There was in his voice somethingof the querulous appeal of a little child.

"Were letters ever taken to the laboratory?" enquired Malcolm Sage, walking over to the window and gazing out.

"Never, sir," was the reply. "Everything was kept until theprofessor returned to the house, even telegrams."

"Then he was absolutely cut off?" said Malcolm Sage, returning tohis seat.

"That was what he used to say, sir, that he wanted to feel cut offfrom everybody and everything."

"You have seen the body?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you notice anything remarkable about it?"

"He was more like he was some thirty years ago, sir."

"Rejuvenated in fact."

"I beg pardon, sir?"

"He seemed to have become suddenly a much younger man?" explained

Malcolm Sage.

"Yes, sir. I've been with him over thirty years, and he looked verymuch as he did then, except, of course, that his hair remainedgrey."

"Apart from the food not being taken in, you noticed nothing elsethat struck you as strange?" queried Malcolm Sage.

The old man puckered up his eyebrows, as if genuinely anxious toremember something that would please the man who had shown him somuch sympathy.

"I can't think of anything, sir," he said at length, apologetically,"only the marmalade, and that, of course, wouldn't – "

"The marmalade?" Malcolm Sage turned quickly.

"It was nothing, sir," said the old man. "Perhaps I oughtn't to havementioned it; but the morning before we found him, the master hadnot eaten any marmalade, and him so fond of it. I was rather worried, and I asked Mrs. Graham if it was a new brand, thinking perhaps hedidn't like it; but I found it was the same he always had."

For fully a minute Malcolm Sage was silent, gazing straight beforehim.

"He never smoked?" he asked at length.

"Never, sir, not during the whole thirty years I've been with him."

"Who cleaned the laboratory? It did not look as if it had beenunswept for a week."

"No, indeed, sir," was the reply, "the professor was very particular.He always swept it up himself each morning. It was cleaned by one ofthe servants once a month."

"You're sure about the sweeping-up?" Malcolm Sage enquired with akeen glance that with him always meant an important point.

"Quite certain, sir."

"That, I think, will be all."

"Thank you, sir," said the butler, rising. "Thank you for being sokind, and – and understanding, sir," and he walked a littleunsteadily from the room.

"I was afraid you wouldn't get anything out of him, Mr. Sage," said

Inspector Carfon, with just a suspicion of relief in his voice.

"No," remarked Malcolm Sage quietly, "nothing new; but an importantcorroboration of the doctor's evidence."

"What was that?"

"That it was the murderer and not Professor McMurray who ate

Wednesday's breakfast, luncheon and dinner."

"Good Lord!" The inspector's jaw dropped in his astonishment.

"I suspect that for some reason or other he returned tothe laboratory; that accounts for the rough marks upon thedoor-fastenings as if someone had first torn them off and then soughtto replace them. After his second visit the murderer evidently stayedtoo long, and was afraid of being seen leaving the laboratory. Hetherefore remained until the following night, eating the professor'smeals. Incidentally he knew all about his habits."

"Well, I'm blowed if he isn't a cool un!" gasped the inspector.

Malcolm Sage rose with the air of one who has concluded the businesson hand.

"Can I run you back to town, Carfon?" he asked, as he walked towardsthe door.

"No, thank you," said the inspector. "I must go over to Strinton andsee Brewitt. He's following up a clue he's got. Some tramp who wasseen hanging about here for a couple of days just before themurder," he added.

"Unless he is tall and powerful, left-handed, with something morethan a layman's knowledge of surgery, you had better not troubleabout him," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "You might also note that themurderer belongs to the upper, or middle class, has an iron nerve, and is strongly humanitarian."

For a moment Inspector Carfon stared at Malcolm Sage with lengthenedjaw. Then suddenly he laughed, a laugh of obvious relief.

"At first I thought you were serious, Mr. Sage," he said, "till Isaw what you were up to. It's just like the story-book detectives,"and he laughed again, this time more convincingly.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders. "Let me have a description ofthe man when you get him," he said, "and some of the tobacco hesmokes. Try him with marmalade, Carfon, and plenty of it. By the way, you make a great mistake in not reading The Present Century," headded. "It can be curiously instructive," and without another wordhe crossed the hall and, a moment later, entered his car.

"Swank!" murmured Inspector Carfon angrily, as he watched Tims swingthe car down the drive at a dangerous rate of speed, "pure, unadulterated, brain-rotting swank," and he in turn passed down thedrive, determined to let Malcolm Sage see what he could do "on hisown."

II

Three weeks passed and there was no development in the McMurrayMystery. Malcolm Sage had heard nothing from Inspector Carfon, whowas busily engaged in an endeavour to trace the tramp seen in theneighbourhood of "The Hollows" on the day previous to the murder.

Sir John Dene had called several times upon Malcolm Sage, whom hehad come to regard as infallible, only to be told that there was nonews. He made no comment; but it was obvious that he was greatlydisappointed.

Interest began to wane, the newspapers devoted themselves to other"stunts," and the McMurray Mystery seemed fated to swell the list ofunfathomed crimes with which, from time to time, the Press likes totwit Scotland Yard.

Suddenly the whole affair flared up anew, and Fleet Street once moredevoted itself and its columns to the death of Professor JamesMcMurray.

A brief announcement that a man of the vagrant class had beenarrested in London whilst endeavouring to sell a gold watch believedto be that of Professor McMurray, was the first spark. Later thewatch was identified and the man charged with the murder. Heprotested his innocence, saying that he had picked up the watch bythe roadside, just outside Gorling, nearly a month before. Therewere bloodstains upon his clothes, which he explained by saying hehad been fighting with another man who had made his nose bleed.

Inspector Carfon, unable to keep a note of triumph out of his voice, had telephoned the news to Malcolm Sage, who had asked forparticulars of the man, his pipe, and a specimen of his tobacco; butday after day had passed without these being forthcoming. Finallythe man, against whom the police had built up a damaging case, hadbeen committed for trial.

Two weeks later he was found guilty at the assizes and sentenced todeath.

Then it was that Malcolm Sage had written to Inspector Carfon curtlyasking him to call at eleven on the following day, bringing with himthe information for which he had asked. At the same time he wrote toSir John Dene and Sir Jasper Chambers.

Punctually at eleven on the following morning the inspector calledat the Malcolm Sage Bureau.

"Sorry, Mr. Sage," he said, as he entered Malcolm Sage's room, "I'vebeen so rushed that I haven't been able to get round," and hedropped into the chair on the opposite side of the table.

Malcolm Sage pushed across the cigar box.

"That's his tobacco-box," said Inspector Carfon, placing on thetable a small tin-box.

Opening it, and after a swift glance at the contents, Malcolm Sageraised it to his nose: "Cigarette-ends," he remarked without lookingup.

"And that's his pipe." The inspector laid on the table a black clappipe, with some two inches of stem attached to the bowl.

Malcolm Sage scarcely glanced at it. Pulling out a drawer heproduced a small cardboard box, which he opened and pushed towardsthe inspector.

"That is the tobacco smoked by the murderer. The makers are preparedto swear to it."

"Where the deuce did you get it?" gasped the inspector.

"Grain by grain from the linoleum in the laboratory," repliedMalcolm Sage. "That is why it was necessary to be sure it was swepteach day. It also helped me to establish the man as middle or upperclass. This tobacco is expensive. What is the man like who has beencondemned?"

"A regular wandering willie," replied the inspector. "Oldish chap, gives his age as sixty-one. Five foot three and a half, thin as arake, twenty-nine inch chest. Miserable sort of devil. Says hepicked up the watch about a quarter of a mile from 'The Hollows'early one morning."

"Does he eat marmalade?"

"Eat it!" the inspector laughed. "He wolfs it. I remembered what yousaid and took a pound along with me to Strinton, just for fun." Helooked across at Malcolm Sage a little shamefacedly. "I afterwardsheard that there was only the jar and the label left; but I don'tsee what all this has to do with it. The fellow's got to swing forit and – "

"Carfon, you've made a fool of yourself."

The inspector started back in his chair as if someone had struck him.

"I gave you a description of the man who had killed ProfessorMcMurray; yet you proceed to build up a fantastical case againstthis poor devil."

"But – " began the inspector. He was interrupted by the door beingburst violently open and Sir John Dene shot into the room.

For a moment he stood staring at the two men, Gladys Norman and

William Johnson framed in the doorway behind him.

"Sir Jasper's killed himself," he cried.

"Moses' aunt!" cried the inspector, starting to his feet.

Malcolm Sage sat immovable at his table, his eyes upon hisoutstretched hands. Slowly looking up he motioned to Miss Norman toclose the door, then nodded towards a chair into which Sir John Denesank. The inspector resumed his own seat. It was obvious that thenews had considerably shaken him.

"You knew?" Sir John Dene interrogated, his voice a little unsteady.

"I expected it," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "But how, Mr. Sage?"enquired Inspector Carfon in a whisper, his throat dry withexcitement.

"Because I wrote to him yesterday saying that I could not allow thecondemned man to be sacrificed. It was Sir Jasper Chambers whokilled Professor McMurray."

For a moment Inspector Carfon's eyes looked as if they would startout of his head. He turned and looked at Sir John Dene, who withunsteady hand was taking a cheroot from his case.

Malcolm Sage drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it.

"On the Tuesday night," he began, "it is obvious that Professor

McMurray admitted someone to the laboratory. That man was Sir Jasper

Chambers.

"When the two had dined together a week before," proceeded MalcolmSage, "an appointment was obviously made for a week later. Theprofessor's last words were significant: 'Anyway, Chambers, you willbe the first to know.' If the experiments had proved fatal, howcould Sir Jasper be the first to know unless an appointment had beenmade for him to call at the laboratory and discover for himself theresult?"

The inspector coughed noisily.

"When Sir Jasper learned of the unqualified success of theexperiments, and saw by the professor's changed appearance proof ofhis triumph, he remembered the article in The Present Century. Herealised that in the lengthening of human life a terriblecatastrophe threatened the world. Humanitarianism triumphed over hisaffection for his friend, and he killed him."

Sir John Dene nodded his head in agreement. The inspector wasleaning forward, his arms on the table, staring at Malcolm Sage withglassy eyes.

"The assailant was clearly a tall, powerful man and left-handed.That was shown by the nature of the blow. That he had some knowledgeof physiology is obvious from the fact that he made no attempt at asecond blow to insure death, as a layman most likely would have done.He knew that he had smashed the occipital bone right into the brain.In his early years Sir Jasper studied medicine.

"The crime committed, Sir Jasper proceeded to cover his tracks. Withthe poker he loosened the sockets of the bolts and that of the lockin order to give an impression that the door had been burst openfrom without. He then left the place and, to suggest robbery as amotive for the crime, he took with him the professor's gold watch, which he threw away. This was found a few hours later by the trampwhom you, Carfon, want to hang for a crime of which he knowsnothing." There was a note of sternness in Malcolm Sage's voice.

"But – " began the inspector.

"I suspect," continued Malcolm Sage, "that after he had left thelaboratory, Sir Jasper suddenly realised that the professor hadprobably recorded in his book all his processes. He returned, discovered the manuscript, and was for hours absorbed in it, atfirst smoking continuously, later too interested in his task tothink of his pipe. It must be remembered that he had studiedmedicine."

The inspector glanced across at Sir John Dene, who sat rigidly inhis chair, his eyes fixed upon Malcolm Sage.

"I rather think that he was aroused from his preoccupation by theringing of the bell announcing the arrival of the professor'sbreakfast. He then realised that he could not leave the place untilnightfall. He therefore ate that meal, carefully avoiding themarmalade, which he disliked, and subsequently he consumed theluncheon, and dinner, passed through the wicket."

Malcolm Sage paused to press down the tobacco in his pipe.

"He burned the manuscript, tearing up letters and throwing them intothe waste-paper basket to give the appearance of Professor McMurrayhaving had a clearing-up. He then destroyed all the test-tubes hecould find. Finally he left the laboratory late on the Wednesdaynight, or early Thursday morning."

"But how did you find out all this?" It was Sir John Dene who spoke.

"First of all, Sir Jasper and the murderer smoke the same tobacco,'Ormonde Mixture.' I verified that by picking Inspector Carfon'spocket." Taking a tobacco-pouch from a drawer Malcolm Sage handed itacross the table. "You will remember Sir Jasper lent me his pouch. Ihad picked up some tobacco on the floor and on the hearth.

"Secondly, the murderer was left-handed, and so is Sir Jasper.

"Thirdly, the murderer does not eat marmalade and Sir Jasper had thesame distaste."

"But how – ?" began the inspector.

"I telephoned to his housekeeper in the name of a local grocer andasked if it would be Sir Jasper who had ordered some marmalade, asan assistant could not remember the gentleman's name. That grocer, Isuspect, got into trouble, as the housekeeper seemed to expect himto know that Sir Jasper disliked marmalade."

"Well, you seem to have got the thing pretty well figured out,"remarked Sir John Dene grimly.

"Another man's life and liberty were at stake," was the calm reply,"otherwise – " he shrugged his shoulders.

"As Sir Jasper did not come forward I wrote to him yesterday givinghim until noon to-day to make a statement," continued Malcolm Sage,"otherwise I should have to take steps to save the man condemned."

Then after a short pause he continued: "In Sir Jasper Chambers youhave an illustration of the smallness of a great mind. He hasdevoted his vast wealth to philanthropy; yet he was willing to allowanother man to be hanged for his crime."

"And this, I take it," said Sir John Dene, "is his reply," and hehanded a letter across to Malcolm Sage.

"Read it out," he said.

Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly through the pages and then read: —

My Dear Dene, —

By the time you receive this letter I shall be dead. I have justreceived a letter from Mr. Malcolm Sage, which shows him to be a manof remarkable perception, and possessed of powers of analysis anddeduction that I venture to think must be unique. All he says iscorrect, but for one detail. I left the laboratory in the firstinstance with the deliberate intention of returning, although I didnot realise the significance of the manuscript until after I hadtampered with the fastenings of the doors. Had my servants foundthat my bed had not been slept in, suspicion might have attacheditself to me. I therefore returned to remedy this, and I left a noteto say that I had gone out early for a long walk, a thing Ifrequently do.

In his experiments McMurray had succeeded beyond his wildestimaginings, and I foresaw the horrors that must inevitably followsuch a discovery as his. I had to choose between myself and thewelfare of the race, and I chose the race.

I did not come forward to save the man condemned for the crime, as Iregarded my life of more value to the community than his.

Will you thank Mr. Sage for the very gentle and humane way in whichhe has written calling upon me to see that justice be not outraged.

I am sending this letter by hand. My body will be found in my study.

I have used morphia as a means of satisfying justice.

Very sincerely yours,

Jasper Chambers.

"It was strange I should have made that mistake about the reason forhis leaving the laboratory," said Malcolm Sage meditatively. "I madetwo mistakes, one I corrected; but the other was unpardonable."

And he knocked the ashes from his pipe on to the copper tray beforehim with the air of a man who is far from satisfied.

"And I might have arrested an O.M.," murmured Inspector Carfon, ashe walked down Whitehall. "Damn."

CHAPTER XIII THE GYLSTON SLANDER

"It's all very well for the Chief to sit in there like a five-guineapalmist," Gladys Norman cried one morning, as after interviewing theumpteenth caller that day she proceeded vigorously to powder hernose, to the obvious interest of William Johnson; "but what aboutme? If anyone else comes I must speak the truth. I haven't an unusedlie left."

"Then you had better let Johnson have a turn," said a quiet voicebehind her.

She span round, with flaming cheeks and white-flecked nose, to seethe steel grey eyes of Malcolm Sage gazing on her quizzicallythrough gold-rimmed spectacles. There was only the slightestfluttering at the corners of his mouth.

As his activities enlarged, Malcolm Sage's fame had increased, andhe was overwhelmed with requests for assistance. Clients bore downupon him from all parts of the country; some even crossing theChannel, whilst from America and the Colonies came a flood ofletters giving long, rambling details of mysteries, murders anddisappearances, all of which he was expected to solve.

Those who wrote, however, were as nothing to those who called. Theyarrived in various stages of excitement and agitation, only to bemet by Miss Gladys Norman with a stereotyped smile and the equallystereotyped information that Mr. Malcolm Sage saw no one except byappointment, which was never made until the nature of the would-beclient's business had been stated in writing.

The Surrey cattle-maiming affair, and the consequent publicity itgave to the name of Malcolm Sage, had resulted in something like asiege of the Bureau's offices.

"I told you so," said Lady Dene gaily to her husband, and he hadnodded his head in entire agreement.

Malcolm Sage's success was largely due to the very quality that hadrendered him a failure as a civil servant, the elasticity of hismind.

He approached each problem entirely unprejudiced, weighed theevidence, and followed the course it indicated, prepared at anymoment to retrace his steps, should they lead to a cul-de-sac.

He admitted the importance of the Roman judicial interrogation, "cuibono?" (whom benefits it?); yet he realised that there was alwaysthe danger of confusing the pathological with the criminal.

"The obvious is the correct solution of most mysteries," he had onceremarked to Sir James Walton; but there is always the possibility ofexception.

The Surrey cattle-maiming mystery had been a case in point. Evenmore so was the affair that came to be known as "The GylstonSlander." In this case Malcolm Sage arrived at the truth by arefusal to accept what, on the face of it, appeared to be theobvious solution.

It was through Roger Freynes, the eminent K.C., that he first becameinterested in the series of anonymous letters that had createdconsiderable scandal in the little village of Gylston.

Tucked away in the north-west corner of Hampshire, Gylston was avillage of some eight hundred inhabitants. The vicar, the Rev. JohnCrayne, had held the living for some twenty years. Aided by his wifeand daughter, Muriel, a pretty and high-spirited girl of nineteen,he devoted himself to the parish, and in return enjoyed greatpopularity.

Life at the vicarage was an ideal of domestic happiness. Mr. and Mrs.Crayne were devoted to each other and to their daughter, and she tothem. Muriel Crayne had grown up among the villagers, devotingherself to parish work as soon as she was old enough to do so. Sheseemed to find her life sufficient for her needs, and many were thecomparisons drawn by other parents in Gylston between the vicar'sdaughter and their own restless offspring.

A year previously a new curate had arrived in the person of the Rev.Charles Blade. His frank, straightforward personality, coupled withhis good looks and masculine bearing, had caused him to be greatlyliked, not only by the vicar and his family, but by all theparishioners.

Suddenly and without warning the peace of the vicarage was destroyed.One morning Mr. Crayne received by post an anonymous letter, inwhich the names of his daughter and the curate were linked togetherin a way that caused him both pain, and anxiety.

A man with a strong sense of honour himself, he cordially despisedthe anonymous letter-writer, and his first instinct had been toignore that which he had just received. On second thoughts, however,he reasoned that the writer would be unlikely to rest content with asingle letter; but would, in all probability, make the samecalumnious statements to others.

After consulting with his wife, he had reluctantly questioned hisdaughter. At first she was inclined to treat the matter lightly; buton the grave nature of the accusations being pointed out to her, shehad become greatly embarrassed and assured him that the curate hadnever been more than ordinarily attentive to her.

The vicar decided to allow the matter to rest there, and accordinglyhe made no mention of the letter to Blade.

A week later his daughter brought him a letter she had found lyingin the vicarage grounds. It contained a passionate declaration oflove, and ended with a threat of what might happen if the writer'spassion were not reciprocated.

Although the letter was unsigned, the vicar could not disguise fromhimself the fact that there was a marked similarity between thehandwriting of the two anonymous letters and that of his curate. Hedecided, therefore, to ask Blade if he could throw any light on thematter.

At first the young man had appeared bewildered; then he had pledgedhis word of honour, not only that he had not written the letters, but that there was no truth in the statements they contained.

With that the vicar had to rest content; but worse was to follow.

Two evenings later, one of the churchwardens called at the vicarageand, after behaving in what to the vicar seemed a very strangemanner, he produced from his pocket a letter he had received thatmorning, in which were repeated the scandalous statements containedin the first epistle.

From then on the district was deluged with anonymous letters, allreferring to the alleged passion of the curate for the vicar'sdaughter, and the intrigue they were carrying on together. Some ofthe letters were frankly indelicate in their expression and, as thewhole parish seethed with the scandal, the vicar appealed to thepolice for aid.

One peculiarity of the letters was that all were written upon thesame paper, known as "Olympic Script." This was supplied locally toa number of people in the neighbourhood, among others, the vicar, the curate, and the schoolmaster.

Soon the story began to find its way into the newspapers, andBlade's position became one full of difficulty and embarrassment. Hehad consulted Robert Freynes, who had been at Oxford with his father, and the K.C., convinced of the young man's innocence, had soughtMalcolm Sage's aid.

"You see, Sage," Freynes had remarked, "I'm sure the boy is straightand incapable of such conduct; but it's impossible to talk to thatass Murdy. He has no more imagination than a tin-linnet."

Freynes's reference was to Chief Inspector Murdy, of Scotland Yard, who had been entrusted with the enquiry, the local police havingproved unequal to the problem.

Although Malcolm Sage had promised Robert Freynes that he wouldundertake the enquiry into the Gylston scandal, it was not untilnearly a week later that he found himself at liberty to motor downinto Hampshire.

One afternoon the vicar of Gylston, on entering his church, found astranger on his knees in the chancel. Note-book in hand, he wastranscribing the inscription of a monumental brass.

As the vicar approached, he observed that the stranger wasvigorously shaking a fountain-pen, from which the ink had evidentlybeen exhausted.

At the sound of Mr. Crayne's footsteps the stranger looked up, turning towards him a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, above which abald conical head seemed to contradict the keenness of the eyes andthe youthful lines of the face beneath.

"You are interested in monumental brasses?" enquired the vicar, ashe entered the chancel, and the stranger rose to his feet. "I am thevicar," he explained. There was a look of eager interest in the palegrey eyes that looked out from a placid, scholarly face.

"I was taking the liberty of copying the inscription on this,"replied Malcolm Sage, indicating the time-worn brass at his feet,"only unfortunately my fountain-pen has given out."

"There is pen and ink in the vestry," said the vicar, impressed bythe fact that the stranger had chosen the finest brass in the church, one that had been saved from Cromwell's Puritans by the ingenuity ofthe then incumbent, who had caused it to be covered with cement.Then as an afterthought the vicar added, "I can get your pen filledat the vicarage. My daughter has some ink; she always uses afountain-pen."

Malcolm Sage thanked him, and for the next half-hour the vicarforgot the worries of the past few weeks in listening to a man whoseemed to have the whole subject of monumental brasses and Normanarchitecture at his finger-ends.

Subsequently Malcolm Sage was invited to the vicarage, where anotherhalf-hour was occupied in Mr. Crayne showing him his collection ofbooks on brasses.

As Malcolm Sage made a movement to depart, the vicar suddenlyremembered the matter of the ink, apologised for his remissness, andleft the room, returning a few minutes later with a bottle offountain-pen ink. Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket his pen, andproceeded to replenish the ink from the bottle. Finally he completedthe transcription of the lettering of the brass from a rubbingproduced by the vicar.

Reluctant to allow so interesting a visitor to depart, Mr. Craynepressed him to take tea; but Malcolm Sage pleaded an engagement.

As they crossed the hall, a fair girl suddenly rushed out from adoor on the right. She was crying hysterically. Her hair wasdisordered, her deep violet eyes rimmed with red, and her moist lipsseemed to stand out strangely red against the alabaster paleness ofher skin.

"Muriel!"

Malcolm Sage glanced swiftly at the vicar. The look of scholarlycalm had vanished from his features, giving place to a set sternnessthat reflected the tone in which he had uttered his daughter's name.

At the sight of a stranger the girl had paused, then, as ifrealising her tear-stained face and disordered hair, she turned anddisappeared through the door from which she had rushed.

"My daughter," murmured the vicar, a little sadly, Malcolm Sagethought. "She has always been very highly strung and emotional," headded, as if considering some explanation necessary. "We have to bevery stern with her on such occasions. It is the only way to repressit."

"You find it answers?" remarked Malcolm Sage.

"She has been much better lately, although she has been sorely tried.

Perhaps you have heard."

Malcolm Sage nodded absently, as he gazed intently at the thumb-nailof his right hand. A minute later he was walking down the drive, histhoughts occupied with the pretty daughter of the vicar of Gylston.

At the curate's lodgings he was told that Mr. Blade was away, andwould not return until late that night.

As he turned from the gate, Malcolm Sage encountered a pale-faced, narrow-shouldered man with a dark moustache and a hard, peevishmouth.

To Malcolm Sage's question as to which was the way to the inn, henodded in the direction from which he had come and continued on hisway.

"A man who has failed in what he set out to accomplish," was Malcolm

Sage's mental diagnosis of John Gray, the Gylston schoolmaster.

It was not long before Malcolm Sage realised that the village ofGylston was intensely proud of itself. It had seen in the Londonpapers accounts of the mysterious scandal of which it was the centre.A Scotland Yard officer had been down, and had subjected many of theinhabitants to a careful cross-examination. In consequence Gylstonrealised that it was a village to be reckoned with.

The Tired Traveller was the centre of all rumour and gossip. Hereeach night in the public-bar, or in the private-parlour, accordingto their social status, the inhabitants would forgather and discussthe problem of the mysterious letters. Every sort of theory wasadvanced, and every sort of explanation offered. Whilst popularopinion tended to the view that the curate was the guilty party, there were some who darkly shook their heads and muttered, "We shallsee."

It was remembered and discussed with relish that John Gray, theschoolmaster, had for some time past shown a marked admiration forthe vicar's daughter. She, however, had made it clear that thecadaverous, saturnine pedagogue possessed for her no attractions.

During the half-hour that Malcolm Sage spent at The Tired Traveller, eating a hurried meal, he heard all there was to be heard aboutlocal opinion.

The landlord, a rubicund old fellow whose baldness extended to hiseyelids, was bursting with information. By nature capable of makinga mystery out of a sunbeam, he revelled in the scandal that hummedaround him.

After a quarter of an hour's conversation, the landlord'sconversation, Malcolm Sage found himself possessed of a bewilderingamount of new material.

"A young gal don't have them highsterics for nothin'," my hostremarked darkly. "Has fits of 'em every now and then ever since shewas a flapper, sobbin' and cryin' fit to break 'er heart, and thevicar that cross with her."

"That is considered the best way to treat hysterical people,"remarked Malcolm Sage.

"Maybe," was the reply, "but she's only a gal, and a pretty onetoo," he added inconsequently.

"Then there's the schoolmaster," he continued, "'ates the curatelike poison, he does. Shouldn't be surprised if it was him that doneit. 'E's always been a bit sweet in that quarter himself, has Mr.Gray. Got talked about a good deal one time, 'angin' about arterMiss Muriel," added the loquacious publican.

By the time Malcolm Sage had finished his meal, the landlord waswell in his stride of scandalous reminiscence. It was with obviousreluctance that he allowed so admirable a listener to depart, and itwas with manifest regret that he watched Malcolm Sage's cardisappear round the curve in the road.

A little way beyond the vicarage, an admonitory triangle caused Timsto slow up. Just by the bend Malcolm Sage observed a youth and agirl standing in the recess of a gate giving access to a meadow.Although they were in the shadow cast by the hedge, Malcolm Sage'squick eyes recognised in the girl the vicar's daughter. The youthlooked as if he might be one of the lads of the village.

In the short space of two or three seconds Malcolm Sage noticed thechange in the girl. Although he could not see her face very clearly, the vivacity of her bearing and the ready laugh were suggestive of agaiety contrasting strangely with the tragic figure he had seen inthe afternoon.

Muriel Crayne was obviously of a very mercurial temperament, hedecided, as the car swung round the bend.

The next morning, in response to a telephone message, Inspector

Murdy called on Malcolm Sage.

"Well, Mr. Sage," he cried, as he shook hands, "going to haveanother try to teach us our job," and his blue eyes twinkledgood-humouredly.

The inspector had already made up his mind. He was a man withmany successes to his record, achieved as a result of undoubtedastuteness in connection with the grosser crimes, such astrain-murders, post-office hold-ups and burglaries. He was incapable, however, of realising that there existed a subtler form oflaw-breaking, arising from something more intimately associated withthe psychic than the material plane.

"Did you see Mr. Blade?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Saw the whole blessed lot," was the cheery reply. "It's all asclear as milk," and he laughed.

"What did Mr. Blade say?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking keenlyacross at the inspector.

"Just that he had nothing to say."

"His exact words. Can you remember them?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"Oh, yes!" replied the inspector. "He said, 'Inspector Murdy, I havenothing to say,' and then he shut up like a real Whitstable."

"He was away yesterday," remarked Malcolm Sage, who then told theinspector of his visit. "How about John Gray, the schoolmaster?" hequeried.

"He practically told me to go to the devil," was the genial reply.Inspector Murdy was accustomed to rudeness; his profession invitedit, and to his rough-and-ready form of reasoning, rudeness meantinnocence; politeness guilt.

He handed to Malcolm Sage a copy of a list of people who purchased"Olympic Script" from Mr. Grainger, the local Whiteley, volunteeringthe information that the curate was the biggest consumer, as if thatsettled the question of his guilt.

"And yet the vicar would not hear of the arrest of Blade," murmuredMalcolm Sage, turning the copper ash-tray round with his restlessfingers.

The inspector shrugged his massive shoulders.

"Sheer good nature and kindliness, Mr. Sage," he said. "He's asgentle as a woman."

"I once knew a man," remarked Malcolm Sage, "who said that in theannals of crime lay the master-key to the world's mysteries, past, present and to come."

"A dreamer, Mr. Sage," smiled the inspector. "We haven't time fordreaming at the Yard," he added good-temperedly, as he rose andshook himself like a Newfoundland dog.

"I suppose it never struck you to look elsewhere than at thecurate's lodgings for the writer of the letters?" enquired MalcolmSage quietly.

"It never strikes me to look about for someone when I'm sitting onhis chest," laughed Inspector Murdy.

"True," said Malcolm Sage. "By the way," he continued, withoutlooking up, "in future can you let me see every letter as it isreceived? You might also keep careful record of how they aredelivered."

"Certainly, Mr. Sage. Anything that will make you happy."

"Later I may get you to ask the vicar to seal up any subsequentanonymous letters that reach him without allowing anyone to see thecontents. Do you think he would do that?"

"Without doubt if I ask him," said the inspector, surprise in hiseyes as he looked down upon the cone of baldness beneath him, realising what a handicap it is to talk to a man who keeps his eyesaverted.

"He must then put the letters in a place where no one can possiblyobtain access to them. One thing more," continued Malcolm Sage,"will you ask Miss Crayne to write out the full story of the lettersas far as she personally is acquainted with it?"

"Very well, Mr. Sage," said the inspector, with the air of onehumouring a child. "Now I'll be going." He walked towards the door, then suddenly stopped and turned.

"I suppose you think I'm wrong about the curate?"

"I'll tell you later," was the reply.

"When you find the master-key?" laughed the inspector, as he openedthe door.

"Yes, when I find the master-key," said Malcolm Sage quietly and, asthe door closed behind Inspector Murdy, he continued to finger thecopper ashtray as if that were the master-key.

CHAPTER XIV MALCOLM SAGE PLAYS PATIENCE

I

Malcolm Sage was seated at a small green-covered table playingsolitaire. A velvet smoking-jacket and a pair of wine-colouredmorocco slippers suggested that the day's work was done.

Patience, chess, and the cinema were his unfailing sources ofinspiration when engaged upon a more than usually difficult case. Hehad once told Sir James Walton that they clarified his brain andcoordinated his thoughts, the cinema in particular. The fact that inthe surrounding darkness were hundreds of other brains, vital andactive, appeared to stimulate his own imagination.

Puffing steadily at a gigantic meerschaum, he moved the cards with adeliberation which suggested that his attention rather than histhoughts was absorbed in the game.

Nearly a month had elapsed since he had agreed to take up theenquiry into the authorship of the series of anonymous letters withwhich Gylston and the neighbourhood had been flooded; yet still thematter remained a mystery.

A celebrated writer of detective stories had interested himself inthe affair, with the result that the Press throughout the countryhad "stunted" Gylston as if it had been a heavy-weight championship,or a train murder.

For a fortnight Malcolm Sage had been on the Continent in connectionwith the theft of the Adair Diamonds. Two days previously, afterhaving restored the famous jewels to Lady Adair, he had returned toLondon, to find that the Gylston affair had developed a new anddramatic phase. The curate had been arrested for an attemptedassault upon Miss Crayne and, pleading "not guilty," had beencommitted for trial.

The incident that led up to this had taken place on the day thatMalcolm Sage left London. Late that afternoon Miss Crayne hadarrived at the vicarage in a state bordering on collapse. Onbecoming more collected, she stated that on returning from paying acall, and when half-way through a copse, known locally as "GipsiesWood," Blade had sprung out upon her and violently protested hispassion. He had gripped hold of her wrists, the mark of his fingerswas to be seen on the delicate skin, and threatened to kill her andhimself. She had been terrified, thinking he meant to kill her. Theapproach of a farm labourer had saved her, and the curate haddisappeared through the copse.

This story was borne out by Joseph Higgins, the farm labourer inquestion. He had arrived to find Miss Crayne in a state of greatalarm and agitation, and he had walked with her as far as thevicarage gate. He did not, however, actually see the curate.

On the strength of this statement the police had applied for awarrant, and had subsequently arrested the curate. Later he appearedbefore the magistrates, had been remanded, and finally committed fortrial, bail being allowed.

Blade protested his innocence alike of the assault and the writingof the letters; but two hand-writing experts had testified to thesimilarity of the handwriting of the anonymous letters with that ofthe curate. Furthermore, they were all written upon "OlympicScript," the paper that Blade used for his sermons.

Malcolm Sage had just started a new deal when the door opened, andRogers showed in Robert Freynes. With a nod, Malcolm Sage indicatedthe chair opposite. His visitor dropped into it and, taking a pipefrom his pocket, proceeded to fill and light it.

Placing his meerschaum on the mantelpiece, Malcolm Sage produced awell-worn briar from his pocket, which, having got into commission,he proceeded once more with the game.

"It's looking pretty ugly for Blade," remarked Freynes, recognisingby the substitution of the briar for the meerschaum that MalcolmSage was ready for conversation.

"Tell me."

"It's those damned handwriting experts," growled Freynes. "They'rethe greatest anomaly of our legal system. The judge always warns thejury of the danger of accepting their evidence; yet each sidecontinues to produce them. It's an insult to intelligence andjustice."

"To hang a man because his 's' resembles that of an implicatingdocument," remarked Malcolm Sage, as he placed a red queen on ablack knave, "is about as sensible as to imprison him because he hasthe same accent as a foot-pad."

"Then there's Blade's astonishing apathy," continued Freynes. "Heseems quite indifferent to the gravity of his position. Refuses tosay a word. Anyone might think he knew the real culprit and wastrying to shield him," and he sucked moodily at his pipe.

"The handwriting expert," continued Malcolm Sage imperturbably, "istoo concerned with the crossing of a 't,' the dotting of an 'i,' orthe tail of a 'g,' to give time and thought to the way in which thewriter uses, for instance, the compound tenses of verbs. Blade wasno more capable of writing those letters than our friend Murdy is oftransliterating the Rosetta Stone."

"Yes; but can we prove it?" asked Freynes gloomily, as with theblade of a penknife he loosened the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe."Can we prove it?" he repeated and, snapping the knife to, hereplaced it in his pocket.

"Blade's sermons," Malcolm Sage continued, "and such letters of hisas you have been able to collect, show that he adopted a verydefinite and precise system of punctuation. He frequently uses thecolon and the semicolon, and always in the right place. In aparenthetical clause preceded by the conjunction 'and,' he uses acomma after the 'and,' not before it as most people do. Beforesuch words as 'yet' and 'but,' he without exception uses a semicolon.The word 'only,' he always puts in its correct place. In short, heis so academic as to savour somewhat of the pomposity of theeighteenth century."

"Go on," said Freynes, as Malcolm Sage paused, as if to give theother a chance of questioning his reasoning.

"Turning to the anonymous letters," continued Malcolm Sage, "it mustbe admitted that the handwriting is very similar; but there alllikeness to Blade's sermons and correspondence ends. Murdy has shownme nearly all the anonymous letters, and in the whole series thereis not one instance of the colon or the semicolon being used. Thepunctuation is of the vaguest, consisting largely of the dash, whichafter all is a literary evasion.

"In these letters the word 'but' frequently appears without anypunctuation mark before it. At other times it has a comma, a dash,or a full stop."

He paused and for the next two minutes devoted himself to the gamebefore him. Then he continued:

"Such phrases as 'If only you knew,' 'I should have loved to havebeen,' 'different than,' which appear in these letters, would havebeen absolutely impossible to a man of Blade's meticulous literarytemperament."

As Malcolm Sage spoke, Robert Freynes's brain had been workingrapidly. Presently he brought his hand down with a smack upon hisknee.

"By heavens, Sage!" he cried, "this is a new pill for thehandwriting expert. I'll put you in the box. We've got a fightingchance after all."

"The most curious factor in the whole case," continued Malcolm Sage,"is the way in which the letters were delivered. One was thrown intoa fly on to Miss Crayne's lap, she tells us, when she and her fatherwere driving home after dining at the Hall. Another was discoveredin the vicarage garden. A third was thrown through Miss Crayne'sbedroom window. A few of the earlier group were posted in theneighbouring town of Whitchurch, some on days that Blade wascertainly not there."

"That was going to be one of my strongest points," remarked Freynes.

"The letters always imply that there is some obstacle existingbetween the writer and the girl he desires. What possible objectcould Blade have in writing letters to various people suggesting anintrigue between his vicar's daughter and himself; yet these letterswere clearly written by the same hand that addressed those to thegirl, her father and her mother."

Freynes nodded his head comprehendingly.

"If Blade were in love with the girl," continued Malcolm Sage, "whatwas there to prevent him from pressing his suit along legitimate andaccepted lines. Murdy frankly acknowledges that there has beennothing in Blade's outward demeanour to suggest that Miss Crayne wasto him anything more than the daughter of his vicar."

"What do you make of the story of the assault?"

"As evidence it is worthless," replied Malcolm Sage, "being withoutcorroboration. The farmhand did not actually see Blade."

Freynes nodded his agreement.

"Having convinced myself that Blade had nothing to do with thewriting of the letters, I next tried to discover if there wereanything throwing suspicion on others in the neighbourhood, who wereknown to use 'Olympic Script' as note-paper.

"The schoolmaster, John Gray, was one. He is an admirer of MissCrayne, according to local gossip; but it was obvious from the firstthat he had nothing to do with the affair. One by one I eliminatedall the others, until I came back once more to Blade.

"It was clear that the letters were written with a fountain-pen, andBlade always uses one. That, however, is not evidence, as millionsof people use fountain-pens. By the way, what is your line ofdefence?" he enquired.

"Smashing the handwriting experts," was the reply. "I was callingfour myself, on the principle that God is on the side of the bigbattalions; but now I shall depend entirely on your evidence."

"The assault?" queried Malcolm Sage.

"There I'm done," said Freynes, "for although Miss Crayne's evidenceis not proof, it will be sufficient for a jury. Besides, she's avery pretty and charming girl. I suppose," he added, "Blade musthave made some sort of declaration, which she, in the light of theanonymous letters, entirely misunderstood."

"What does he say?"

"Denies it absolutely, although he admits being in the neighbourhoodof the 'Gipsies Wood,' and actually catching sight of Miss Crayne inthe distance; but he says he did not speak to her."

"Is he going into the witness-box?"

"Certainly"; then after a pause he added, "Kelton is prosecuting, and he's as moral as a swan. He'll appeal to the jury as fathers ofdaughters, and brothers of sisters."

Malcolm Sage made no comment; but continued smoking mechanically, his attention apparently absorbed in the cards before him.

"If you can smash the handwriting experts," continued the K.C., "Imay be able to manage the girl's testimony."

"It will not be necessary," said Malcolm Sage, carefully placing anine of clubs upon an eight of diamonds.

"Not necessary?"

"I have asked Murdy to come round," continued Malcolm Sage, stillintent upon his game. "I think that was his ring."

A minute later the door opened to admit the burly inspector, moreblue-eyed and genial than ever, and obviously in the best of spirits.

"Good evening, Mr. Sage," he cried cheerfully. "Congratulations onthe Adair business. Good evening, sir," he added, as he shook handswith Freynes.

He dropped heavily into a seat, and taking a cigar from the box onthe table, which Malcolm Sage had indicated with a nod, he proceededto light it. No man enjoyed a good cigar more than Inspector Murdy.

"Well, what do you think of it?" he enquired, looking from MalcolmSage to Freynes. "It's a clear case now, I think." He slightlystressed the word "now."

"You mean it's Blade?" enquired Malcolm Sage, as he proceeded togather up the cards.

"Who else?" enquired the inspector, through a cloud of smoke.

"That is the question which involves your being here now, Murdy,"said Malcolm Sage dryly.

"We've got three handwriting experts behind us," said the inspectorcomplacently.

"That is precisely where they should be," retorted Malcolm Sagequietly. "In the biblical sense," he added.

Freynes laughed, whilst Inspector Murdy looked from one to the other.

He did not quite catch the allusion.

"You have done as I suggested?" enquired Malcolm Sage, when he hadplaced the cards in their box and removed the card-table.

"Here are all the letters received up to a fortnight ago," said theinspector, holding out a bulky packet. "Those received since haveeach been sealed up separately by the vicar, who is keeping half ofthem, whilst I have the other half; but really, Mr. Sage, I don'tunderstand – "

"Thank you, Murdy," said Malcolm Sage, as he took the packet. "It isalways a pleasure to work with Scotland Yard, It is so thorough."

The inspector beamed; for he knew the compliment was sincere.

Without a word Malcolm Sage left the room, taking the packet withhim.

"A bit quaint at times, ain't he, sir?" remarked Inspector Murdy to

Freynes; "but one of the best. I'd trust him with anything."

Freynes nodded encouragingly.

"There are some of them down at the Yard that don't like him," hecontinued. "They call him 'Sage and Onions'; but most of us who haveworked with him swear by Mr. Sage. He's never out for the limelighthimself, and he's always willing to give another fellow a leg-up.After all, it's our living," he added, a little inconsequently.

Freynes appreciated the inspector's delicacy in refraining from anymention of the Gylston case during Malcolm Sage's absence. After all, they represented respectively the prosecution and the defence. Fornearly half an hour the two talked together upon unprofessionalsubjects. When Malcolm Sage returned, he found them discussing theprospects of Dempsey against Carpentier.

Handing back the packet of letters to Inspector Murdy, Malcolm Sageresumed his seat, and proceeded to re-light his pipe.

"Spotted the culprit, Mr. Sage?" enquired the inspector, withsomething that was very much like a wink in the direction of Freynes.

"I think so," was the quiet reply. "You might meet me at Gylston

Vicarage to-morrow at three. I'll telegraph to Blade to be there too.

You had better bring the schoolmaster also."

"You mean – " began the inspector, rising.

"Exactly," said Malcolm Sage. "It's past eleven, and we all require sleep."

II

The next afternoon the study of the vicar of Gylston presented astrange appearance.

Seated at Mr. Crayne's writing-table was Malcolm Sage, a smallattaché-case at his side, whilst before him were several piles ofsealed packets. Grouped about the room were Inspector Murdy, RobertFreynes, Mr. Gray, and the vicar.

All had their eyes fixed upon Malcolm Sage; but with varyingexpressions. Those of the schoolmaster were frankly cynical. Theinspector and Freynes looked as if they expected to see producedfrom the attaché-case a guinea-pig or a white rabbit, pink-eyed andkicking; whilst the vicar had obviously not yet recovered from hissurprise at discovering that the stranger, who had shown such aremarkable knowledge of monumental brasses and Norman architecture, was none other than the famous investigator about whom he had readso much in the newspapers.

With quiet deliberation Malcolm Sage opened the attaché-case andproduced a spirit lamp, which he lighted. He then placed a metalplate upon a rest above the flame. On this he imposed a thickerplate of a similar metal that looked like steel; but it had a handleacross the middle, rather resembling that of a tool used byplasterers.

He then glanced up, apparently unconscious of the almost feverishinterest with which his every movement was being watched.

"I should like Miss Crayne to be present," he said.

As he spoke the door opened and the curate entered, his dark, handsome face lined and careworn. It was obvious that he hadsuffered. He bowed, and then looked about him, without anysuggestion of embarrassment.

Malcolm Sage rose and held out his hand; Freynes followed suit.

"Ask Miss Muriel to come here," said the vicar to the maid as shewas closing the door.

The curate took the seat that Malcolm Sage indicated beside him.

Silently the six men waited.

A few minutes later Miss Crayne entered, pale but self-possessed.She closed the door behind her. Suddenly she caught sight of thecurate. Her eyes widened, and her paleness seemed to becomeaccentuated. A moment later it was followed by a crimson flush. Shehesitated, her hands clenched at her side, then with a manifesteffort she appeared to control herself and, with a slight smile andinclination of her head, took the chair the schoolmaster movedtowards her. Instinctively she turned her eyes toward Malcolm Sage.

"Inspector Murdy," he said, without raising his eyes, "will youplease open two of those packets?" He indicated the pile upon hisleft. "I should explain," he continued, "that each of these containsone of the most recent of the series of letters with which we areconcerned. Each was sealed up by Mr. Crayne immediately it reachedhim, in accordance with Inspector Murdy's request. Therefore, onlythe writer, the recipient and the vicar have had access to theseletters."

Malcolm Sage turned his eyes interrogatingly upon Mr. Crayne, whobowed.

Meanwhile the inspector had cut open the two top envelopes, unfoldedthe sheets of paper they contained, and handed them to Malcolm Sage.

All eyes were fixed upon his long, shapely fingers as he smoothedout one of the sheets of paper upon the vicar's blotting-pad. Then, lifting the steel plate by the handle, he placed it upon theupturned sheet of paper.

The tension was almost unendurable. The heavy breathing of InspectorMurdy seemed like the blowing of a grampus. Mr. Gray glanced acrossat him irritably. The vicar coughed slightly, then looked startledthat he had made so much noise.

Everyone bent forward, eagerly expecting something; yet withoutquite knowing what. Malcolm Sage lifted the metal plate from theletter. There in the centre of the page, in bluish-coloured letters, which had not been there when the paper was smoothed out upon theblotting-pad, appeared the words: —

Malcolm Sage,

August 12th, 1919.

No. 138.

For some moments they all gazed at the paper as if the mysteriousblue letters exercised upon them some hypnotic influence.

"Secret ink!"

It was Robert Freynes who spoke. Accustomed as he was to dramaticmoments, he was conscious of a strange dryness at the back of histhroat, and a consequent huskiness of voice.

His remark seemed to break the spell. Instinctively everyone turnedto him. The significance of the bluish-coloured characters wasslowly dawning upon the inspector; but the others still seemedpuzzled to account for their presence.

Immediately he had lifted the plate from the letter, Malcolm Sagehad drawn a sheet of plain sermon paper from the rack before him.This he subjected to the same treatment as the letter. When a fewseconds later he exposed it, there in the centre appeared the samewords: —

Malcolm Sage,

August 12th, 1919.

but on this sheet the number was 203.

Then the true significance of the two sheets of paper seemed to dawnupon the onlookers.

Suddenly there was a scream, and Muriel Crayne fell forward on tothe floor.

"Oh! father, father, forgive me!" she cried, and the next moment shewas beating the floor with her hands in violent hysterics.

III

"From the first I suspected the truth," remarked Malcolm Sage, as he,Robert Freynes and Inspector Murdy sat smoking in the car that Timswas taking back to London at its best pace. "Eighty-five years ago asomewhat similar case occurred in France, that of Marie de Morel, when an innocent man was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment, andactually served eight before the truth was discovered."

The inspector whistled under his breath.

"This suspicion was strengthened by the lengthy account of theaffair written by Miss Crayne, which Murdy obtained from her. Thepunctuation, the phrasing, the inaccurate use of auxiliary verbs, were identical with that of the anonymous letters.

"Another point was that the similarity of the handwriting of theanonymous letters to Blade's became more pronounced as the lettersthemselves multiplied. The writer was becoming more expert as animitator."

Freynes nodded his head several times.

"The difficulty, however, was to prove it," continued Malcolm Sage."There was only one way; to substitute secretly marked paper forthat in use at the vicarage.

"I accordingly went down to Gylston, and the vicar found me keenlyinterested in monumental brasses, his pet subject, and Normanarchitecture. He invited me to the vicarage. In his absence from hisstudy I substituted a supply of marked Olympic Script in place ofthat in his letter-rack, and also in the drawer of his writing-table.As a further precaution, I arranged for my fountain-pen to run outof ink. He kindly supplied me with a bottle, obviously belonging tohis daughter. I replenished my pen, which was full of a chemicalthat would enable me, if necessary, to identify any letter in thewriting of which it had been used. When I placed my pen, which is aself-filler, in the ink, I forced this liquid into the bottle."

The inspector merely stared. Words had forsaken him for the moment.

"It was then necessary to wait until the ink in Miss Crayne's penhad become exhausted, and she had to replenish her supply of paperfrom her father's study. After that discovery was inevitable."

"But suppose she had denied it?" questioned the inspector.

"There was the ink which she alone used, and which I couldidentify," was the reply.

"Why did you ask Gray to be present?" enquired Freynes.

"As his name had been associated with the scandal it seemed onlyfair," remarked Malcolm Sage, then turning to Inspector Murdy hesaid, "I shall leave it to you, Murdy, to see that a properconfession is obtained. The case has had such publicity that Mr.Blade's innocence must be made equally public."

"You may trust me, Mr. Sage," said the inspector. "But why did thecurate refuse to say anything?"

"Because he is a high-minded and chivalrous gentleman," was thequiet reply.

"He knew?" cried Freynes.

"Obviously," said Malcolm Sage. "It is the only explanation of hissilence. I taxed him with it after the girl had been taken away, andhe acknowledged that his suspicions amounted almost to certainty."

"Yet he stayed behind," murmured the inspector with the air of a manwho does not understand. "I wonder why?"

"To minister to the afflicted, Murdy," said Malcolm Sage. "That isthe mission of the Church."

"I suppose you meant that French case when you referred to the'master-key,'" remarked the inspector, as if to change the subject.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"But how do you account for Miss Crayne writing such letters aboutherself?" enquired the inspector, with a puzzled expression in hiseyes. "Pretty funny letters some of them for a parson's daughter."

"I'm not a pathologist, Murdy," remarked Malcolm Sage drily, "butwhen you try to suppress hysteria in a young girl by sternness, it'sabout as effectual as putting ointment on a plague-spot."

"Sex-repression?" queried Freynes.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders; then after a pause, duringwhich he lighted the pipe he had just re-filled, he added:

"When you are next in Great Russell Street, drop in at the BritishMuseum and look at the bust of Faustina. You will see that her chinis similar in modelling to that of Miss Crayne. The girl wasapparently very much attracted to Blade, and proceeded to weave whatwas no doubt to her a romance, later it became an obsession. It allgoes to show the necessity for pathological consideration of certaincrimes."

"But who was Faustina?" enquired the inspector, unable to follow thedrift of the conversation.

"Faustina," remarked Malcolm Sage, "was the domestic fly in thephilosophical ointment of an emperor," and Inspector Murdy laughed; for, knowing nothing of the marriage or the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius, it seemed to him the only thing to do.

CHAPTER XV THE MISSING HEAVYWEIGHT

I

"Mr. Doulton, sir. Very important." Rogers had carefully assimilatedhis master's theory of the economy of words, sometimes even to thepoint of obscuring his meaning.

Taking the last piece of toast from the rack, Malcolm Sage withgreat deliberation proceeded to butter it. Then, with a nod to thewaiting Rogers, he poured out the last cup of coffee the potcontained.

A moment later the door opened to admit a clean-shaven little man ofabout fifty, prosperous in build and appearance; but obviouslylabouring under some great excitement. His breath came in short, spasmodic gasps. His thin sandy hair had clearly not been brushedsince the day before, whilst his chin and upper lip bore obvioustraces of a night's growth of beard. He seemed on the point ofcollapse.

"He's gone – disappeared!" he burst out, as Rogers closed the doorbehind him. Malcolm Sage rose, motioned his caller to a chair at thetable, and resumed his own seat.

"Had breakfast?" he enquired quietly, resuming his occupation ofgetting the toast carefully and artistically buttered.

"Good God, man!" exploded Mr. Doulton, almost hysterically. "Don'tyou understand? Burns has disappeared!"

"I gathered as much," said Malcolm Sage calmly, as he reached forthe marmalade.

"Pond telephoned from Stainton," continued Mr. Doulton. "I was inFed. I got dressed, and came round here at once. I – " he stoppedsuddenly, as Rogers entered with a fresh relay of coffee. Without aword he proceeded to pour out a cup for Mr. Doulton, who, after amoment's hesitation, drank it greedily.

Rogers glanced interrogatingly from the dish that had contained eggsand bacon to Malcolm Sage, who nodded.

When he had withdrawn, Mr. Doulton opened his mouth to speak, thenclosed it again and gazed at Malcolm Sage, who, having superimposedupon the butter a delicate amber film of marmalade, proceeded to cutup the toast into a series of triangles. Apparently it was the onlything in life that interested him.

For weeks past the British and American sporting world had thoughtand talked of nothing but the forthcoming fight between CharleyBurns and Bob Jefferson for the heavyweight championship of theworld. The event was due to take place two days hence at the Olympiafor a purse of 40,000 pounds offered by Mr. Montague Doulton, theprince of impresarios.

Never had a contest been looked forward to with greater eagernessthan the Burns v. Jefferson match. A great change had come overpublic opinion in regard to prize-fighting, thanks to the elevatinginfluence of Mr. Doulton. It was no longer referred to as"brutalising" and "debasing." Refined and nice-minded people foundthemselves mildly interested and patriotically hopeful that CharleyBurns, the British champion, would win. In two years Mr. Doulton hadachieved what the National Sporting Club had failed to do in aquarter of a century.

Long and patiently he had laboured to bring about this match, whichmany thought would prove the keystone to the arch of Burns's fame, incidentally to that of the impresario himself.

"And now he's disappeared – clean gone." Mr. Doulton almost sobbed.

"Tell me."

Malcolm Sage looked up from his plate, the last triangle of toastpoised between finger and thumb.

In short staccatoed sentences, like bursts from a machine-gun, Mr.

Doulton proceeded to tell his story.

That morning at six o'clock, when Alf Pond, Burns's trainer, hadentered his room to warn him that it was time to get up, he found itunoccupied. At first he thought that Burns had gone down before him; but immediately his eye fell on the bed, and he saw that it had notbeen slept in, he became alarmed.

Going to the bedroom door, he had shouted to the sparring-partners, and soon the champion's room was filled with men in various stagesof déshabille.

Only for a moment, however, had they remained inactive. At AlfPond's word of command they had spread helter-skelter over the houseand grounds, causing the early morning air to echo with their shoutsfor "Charley."

When at length he became assured that Burns had disappeared, Alf

Pond telephoned first to Mr. Doulton and then to Mr. Papwith,

Burns's backer.

"I told Pond to do nothing and tell no one," said Mr. Doulton, inconclusion, "and when I left my rooms my man was trying to getthrough to Papwith to ask him to keep the story to himself."

Malcolm Sage nodded approval.

"Now, what's to be done?" He looked at Malcolm Sage with the air ofa man who has just told a doctor of his alarming symptoms, andalmost breathlessly awaits the verdict.

"Breakfast, a shave, then we'll motor down to Stainton," and MalcolmSage proceeded to fill his briar, his whole attention absorbed inthe operation.

A moment later Rogers entered with a fresh supply of eggs and bacon.Mr. Doulton shook his head. Instinctively his hand had gone up tohis unshaven chin. It was probably the first time in his life thathe had sat at table without shaving. He prided himself upon hispersonal appearance. In his younger days he had been known as "DandyDoulton."

"The car in half an hour, Rogers," said Malcolm Sage, as he rosefrom the table. "When you've finished," he said, turning to Mr.Doulton, "Rogers will give you hot water, a razor and anything elseyou want. By the time you have shaved I shall be ready."

"But don't you see – Think what it – " began Mr. Doulton.

"An empty stomach neither sees nor thinks," was Malcolm Sage'soracular retort, and he went over to the window and seated himselfat his writing-table.

For the next half-hour he was engaged with his correspondence, andin telephoning instructions to his office.

By the time Mr. Doulton had breakfasted and shaved, the car was atthe door.

During the run to Stainton both men were silent. Mr. Doulton wasspeculating as to what would happen at the Olympia on the followingnight if Burns failed to appear, whilst Malcolm Sage was occupiedwith thoughts, the object of which was to prevent such a catastrophe.

"They're sure to say it's a yellow streak," Mr. Doulton burst out onone occasion; but, as Malcolm Sage took no notice of the remark, hesubsided into silence, and the car hummed its way along thePortsmouth Road.

Burns's training-quarters were situated at Stainton, nearGuildford. Here, under the vigilant eye of Alf Pond, and with thehelp of a large retinue of sparring-partners, he was getting himselfinto what had come to be called "Burns's condition," which meantthat he would enter the ring trained to the minute. Never didathlete work more conscientiously than Charley Burns.

As the car turned into a side road, flanked on either hand by elms,

Mr. Doulton tapped on the wind-screen, and Tims pulled up. Malcolm

Sage had requested that the car be stopped a hundred yards before it reached "The Grove," where the training quarters were situated.

"Wait for me here," he said, as he got out.

"It's the first gate on the right," said Mr. Doulton.

Walking slowly away from the car, Malcolm Sage examined with greatcare the road itself. Presently he stopped and, taking from hispocket a steel spring-measure, he proceeded to measure a portion ofthe surface of the dusty roadway. Having made several entries in anote-book, he then turned back to the car, his eyes still on theroad.

Instructing Tims to remain where he was, Malcolm Sage motioned to Mr.

Doulton to get out.

"This way," said Malcolm Sage, leading him to the extreme left-handside of the road. Turning into the gates of "The Grove," they walkedup the drive towards the house. In front stood a group of men invarious and nondescript costumes.

As Malcolm Sage and Mr. Doulton approached, a man in a soiled whitesweater and voluminous grey flannel trousers, generously turned upat the extremities, detached himself from the group and came towardsthem. He was puffy of face, with pouched eyes and a moist skin; yetin his day Alf Pond had been an unbeatable middle-weight, and thegreatest master of ring-craft of his time; but that was nearly ageneration ago.

In agonised silence he looked from Mr. Doulton to Malcolm Sage, thenback again to Mr. Doulton. There was in his eyes the misery ofdespair.

The preliminary greetings over, Alf Pond led the way round to alarge coach-house in the rear, which had been fitted up as agymnasium. Here were to be seen all the appliances necessary to thetraining of a boxer for a great contest, including a roped ring atone end.

"He was here only yesterday." There was a world of tragedy andpathos in Alf Pond's tone. Something like a groan burst from thesparring-partners.

With a quick, comprehensive glance, Malcolm Sage seemed to take inevery detail.

"It's a bad business, Pond," said Mr. Doulton, who found the mutedespair of these hard-living, hard-hitting men rather embarrassing.

"What'd I better do?" queried Alf Pond.

"I've put the whole matter in Mr. Sage's hands," said Mr. Doulton.

"He'll find him, if anyone can."

A score of eyes were turned speculatively upon Malcolm Sage. In nonewas there the least ray of hope. All had now made up their mindsthat Jefferson would win the fight by default.

Slowly and methodically Malcolm Sage drew the story of Burns'sdisappearance from Alf Pond, the sparring-partners occasionallyacting as a chorus.

When all had been told, Malcolm Sage gazed for some moments at thefinger-nails of his left hand.

"You were confident he would win?" he asked at length.

"Confident!" There was incredulity and wonder in Alf Pond's voice.Then, with a sudden inspiration, "Look at Kid!" he cried – "look athim!" and he indicated with a nod a fair-haired giant standing onhis right.

Malcolm Sage looked.

The man's face showed the stress and strain of battle. His nose hadtaken on something of the quality of cubism, his right eye was outof commission, and there was an ugly purple patch on his left cheek, and his right ear looked as if a wasp had stung it.

"He did that in one round, and him the third. Kid asked for it, andhe got it, same as Jeff would," explained Alf Pond proudly, amomentary note of elation in his voice. There was also something ofpride in the grin with which Kid stood the scrutiny of the others.

"Do you know of any reason why Burns should have left his room?"

Malcolm Sage looked from one to the other interrogatingly.

"There wasn't any," was Alf Pond's response, and the others noddedtheir concurrence.

"He knew no one in the neighbourhood?"

"No one to speak of. A few local gents would drop in occasional tosee how he was getting on, and then a lot o' newspaper chaps camedown from London." There was that in Alf Pond's tone which seemed tosuggest that in his opinion such questions were foolish.

"Did he receive any letters or telegrams yesterday?" was the nextquestion.

"Letters!" Alf Pond laughed sardonically. "Shoals of 'em. He'd turn'em all over to Sandy Lane," indicating a red-headed man on theright.

"He wasn't much at writing letters," said Sandy Lane, by way ofexplanation.

"His hands were made for better things," cried Alf Pond scornfully, and the sparring-partners nodded their agreement.

"Did he turn over to you the whole of his correspondence?" asked

Malcolm Sage, turning to Sandy Lane.

"Sometimes he'd keep a letter," broke in Alf Pond, "but not often.

Sort of personal," he added, as if to explain the circumstance.

"From a woman, perhaps?" suggested Malcolm Sage, taking off his hatand stroking the back of his head.

"Woman!" cried Alf Pond scornfully; "Charley hadn't no use for women,or he wouldn't have been the boxer he was."

"He was quite himself, quite natural, yesterday?" asked Malcolm Sage.

"Quite himself," repeated Alf Pond deliberately; then, once moreindicating Kid, he added, "Look at Kid; that's what he done in oneround." There was in his tone all the contempt of knowledge forignorance.

Malcolm Sage resumed his hat and, taking his pipe from his pocket, proceeded to stuff it with tobacco, as if that were the only problemin the world. On everything he did he seemed to concentrate hisentire attention to the exclusion of all else.

"No smokin' here, if you please," said Alf Pond sharply.

Malcolm Sage returned his pipe to his pocket without comment.

"Now, what are you going to do?" There was challenge in Alf Pond'svoice as he eyed Malcolm Sage with disfavour. In his world men withbald, conical heads and gold-rimmed spectacles did not count formuch.

"How many people know of the disappearance?" enquired Malcolm Sage, ignoring the question.

"Outside of us here, only Mr. Papwith," was the response.

For fully a minute Malcolm Sage did not reply. At length he turnedto Mr. Doulton.

"Can you arrange to remain here to meet Mr. Papwith?" he enquired.

"I propose doing so," was the reply.

"You want to find Burns, I suppose?" Malcolm Sage asked of Alf Pond,in low, level tones.

Alf Pond and his colleagues eyed him as if he had asked a mostastonishing question.

"You barmy?" demanded the trainer, putting into words the looks ofthe others.

"You will continue with the day's work as if nothing had happened,"continued Malcolm Sage. "No one outside must know that – "

"But how the hell are we going to do that with Charley gone?" brokein Alf Pond, taking a step forward with clenched fists.

"Your friend here," indicating Kid, "can pose as Burns," was MalcolmSage's quiet reply, as he looked into the trainer's eye without theflicker of an eyelash.

"You, Mr. Doulton, I will ask to remain here with Mr. Papwith untilI communicate with you. On no account leave the training-quarters, even if you have to wait here until to-morrow evening."

"But – " began Alf Pond; then he stopped and gazed at thesparring-partners, blinking his eyes in stupid bewilderment.

"Have I your promise?" enquired Malcolm Sage of Mr. Doulton.

"As far as I am concerned, yes," was the response, "and I think Ican answer for Papwith. It's very inconvenient, though."

"Not so inconvenient as having to explain things at the Olympiato-morrow night," remarked Malcolm Sage drily. "Now," he continued, turning once more to Alf Pond, "I suppose you've all got somethingon this fight."

"Something on it!" cried Alf Pond; then, turning to thesparring-partners, he cried, "He asks if we've got somethink on it.My Gawd!" he groaned, "we got our shirts on it. That's what we goton it, our shirts," and his voice broke in something like a sob.

"You had better post someone at the gate to tell all enquirers thatBurns is doing well and is confident of winning," said Malcolm Sageto Mr. Doulton, "and keep an eye on the telephone. Tell anyone whorings up the same; in fact" – and he turned to the others – "as far asyou are concerned, Burns is still with you. Do you understand?"

They looked at one another in a way that was little suggestive ofunderstanding.

"Did Burns wear the same clothes throughout the day?" asked Malcolm

Sage of the trainer.

"Course he didn't!" Alf Pond made no effort to disguise the contempthe felt. "In the daytime he used to wear flannel trousers an' asweater, same as me, except when he was sparrin', then he put ondrawers. Always would have everythink same as it was goin' to be, would Charley – seconds, referee, timekeeper. Said it made him feelat home when the time came. Quaint he was in some of his ideas."

"Then from the time he got up until bedtime he wore the sameclothes?" queried Malcolm Sage, without looking up from theinevitable contemplation of his finger-nails.

"No he didn't." Alf Pond spat his boredom at these useless questionsinto a far corner. "He was always a bit of a nib, was Charley. Afterhe'd finished the day's work he'd put on a suit o' dark duds, awhite collar, a watch on his wrist, an' all that bunko. Then we'dplay poker or billiards till half-past eight, when we'd all turnin." The look with which Alf Pond concluded this itinerary plainlydemanded if there were any more damn silly questions coming.

"Now I should like to see Burns's room."

Malcolm Sage and Mr. Doulton followed Alf Pond upstairs to a largeroom on the first floor, as destitute of the attributes of comfortas a guardroom. A bed, a wash-hand stand, and a chest of drawerscomprised the furniture. A few articles of clothing were strewnabout, and in one corner lay a pair of dumb-bells.

The windows were open top and bottom. Malcolm Sage passed from oneto the other and looked out. He examined carefully each of thewindow-ledges.

"Are these the clothes he wore when he got up?" he enquired, indicating a sweater and a pair of flannel trousers that lay on achair.

Alf Pond nodded.

Swiftly Malcolm Sage felt in the pockets. There was nothing there. Aminute later he left the room, followed by the others. Descendingthe stairs, he passed along the hall and out on to the short drive, accompanied by Mr. Doulton and Alf Pond.

Half-way towards the gate Malcolm Sage stopped.

"You will hear from me some time to-day or to-morrow," he said. "Doexactly as I have said and, if I don't telephone before to-morrowevening, go to the Olympia as if Burns were to be there. You mighthave sent out to my car a pair of drawers and boots in case I findhim."

"You're going to find him then?" Alf Pond suddenly gripped Malcolm

Sage's arm with what was almost ferocity.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders.

"If you do as I tell you, it will help. By the way," he added, "ifyou have time, you might put twenty-five pounds on Burns for me. Mr.Doulton will be responsible for the amount. Now I want to look aboutme," and with that Malcolm Sage walked a few steps down the drive, leaving two men staring after him as if he had either solved orpropounded the riddle of the universe.

For some minutes he stood in the centre of the drive, looking abouthim. Stepping to the right, he glanced back at the house, and thentowards the road. Finally he made for a large clump of rhododendronsthat lay between the road and the house.

Motioning the others to remain where they were on the gravelleddrive, he walked to a clear space of short grass between therhododendrons and the hedge bordering the road.

Going down upon his knees, he proceeded to examine the ground withgreat care and attention. For nearly half an hour he crawled fromplace to place, absorbed in grass, shrub, and flower-bed. Finally hepenetrated half into the privet-hedge that bordered the road.

The sparring-partners had now joined the other two on the drive, andthe group stood watching the strange movements of the man who, intheir opinion, had already shown obvious symptoms of insanity.

Presently Malcolm Sage emerged from the hedge, in his hand a longcigar, round the centre of which was a red-and-gold band. For fullya minute he stood examining this with great care. Then, taking aletter-case from his pocket, he carefully placed the cigar in thehinge, returned the case to his pocket, and rejoined the group ofwide-eyed spectators.

"Found anythink?" enquired Alf Pond eagerly.

"Several things," replied Malcolm Sage.

"What?" The men grouped themselves round him, breathless withinterest.

"By the way," said Malcolm Sage, turning to Alf Pond, "does Burnshappen to smoke long Havana cigars with a red – "

"Smoke!" yelled Alf Pond in horror. "Him smoke! You blinkin' wellbarmy?" he demanded, looking Malcolm Sage up and down as ifmeditating an attack upon him. "I'd like to see the man who'd somuch as dare to strike a match here," and he glared about himangrily, whilst the sparring-partners shuffled their feet andmurmured among themselves. There was just the suspicion of afluttering at the corners of Malcolm Sage's mouth.

"I'm afraid Pond is rather excited just at present," said Mr.

Doulton tactfully. By now he had entirely regained his own composure.

"Burns is a great lover of tobacco, and Pond takes no risks. You were saying that you had discovered several things?"

Again the group of men drew closer to Malcolm Sage, their headsthrust forward as if fearful of missing a word.

"For one thing, Burns left his room last night to meet a womanby – "

"It's a lie!" cried Alf Pond heatedly. "It's a damned lie! I don'tbelieve it."

"A rather dainty creature, small and well dressed. She wasaccompanied by several men, one of them rather stout, very carefulof his clothes, and an inveterate smoker. The others were bigger, rougher men. They all came in a car, which arrived after the motorbicycle, which in turn arrived later than the small car."

The sparring-partners exchanged glances, whilst Alf Pond stared.

"Subsequently they drove off in a very great hurry. Incidentallythey took Burns with them; but against his will. On the way down thegirl was in the tonneau; but on the return journey she sat besidethe driver. As Burns was in the tonneau, it was no doubt aprecaution."

"I don't believe a word," interrupted Alf Pond. "He's makin' it allup."

Without appearing to notice the remark, Malcolm Sage turned andwalked towards the gate, Mr. Doulton following a step in the rear.

"Liar!" growled Alf Pond, as he turned towards the house. "Ruddyliar!" he added, as if finding consolation in the term. "He'llnever find old Charley."

"Tell me, Sage, were you serious?" asked Mr. Doulton, as theyreached the gate.

"Entirely."

"I'm afraid poor Pond thought you were making game of us," he addedapologetically. "Do you mind explaining how you arrived at yourconclusions?"

"Behind that clump of rhododendrons," began Malcolm Sage, "there iswritten a whole history. The marks of boots, or shoes, with veryhigh heels suggests a woman, the size and daintiness of the footweartell the rest. As Burns appeared, she stepped towards him. Her veryshort steps indicate both fashionable clothes and smallness ofstature."

"And the man who was careful about his clothes?"

"He stood behind a holly-bush with an umbrella – "

"But how did you know?"

"He had been leaning upon it, and there was the mark where it hadsunk into the soft turf up to the point where the silk joins thestick. A man who carries an umbrella on a kidnapping adventure mustbe habitually in fear of rain – none but a well-dressed man wouldfear rain.

"Then, as he had a cigar in his hand with the end bitten off, itshows the habitual smoker. He was only waiting for the end of thedrama before lighting up. His height I get from his stride, and hissize by the fact that, like Humpty-Dumpty, he had a great fall. I'lltell you the rest later. I'm afraid it's an ugly business."

"But the girl riding beside the driver?" burst out Mr. Doulton, bewildered by the facts that Malcolm Sage had deduced from so little.

"At the edge of a side-road there is invariably a deposit of dust, and the marks where they all got out and in are clearly visible. Thehurry of departure is shown by the fact that the car started beforeone of the men had taken his place, and his footsteps running besideit before jumping on to the running-board are quite clear. I'll ringyou up later. I cannot stay now." And with that he hurried away.

"Back along your own tracks, Tims," said he on reaching the car. Hethen walked on to the main road.

With head over right shoulder, Tims carefully backed the car,

Malcolm Sage signalling that he was to turn to the right.

Instructing Tims to drive slowly, Malcolm Sage took his seat besidehim, keeping his eyes fixed upon the off-side of the road. Hestopped the car at each cross-road, and walked down it some twentyor thirty yards, his eyes bent downwards as if in search ofsomething. At the end of half an hour he instructed Tims to driveback to London at his best speed.

II

That afternoon in his office Malcolm Sage worked without cessation.

Both telephones, incoming and outgoing, were continually in use.

Telegraph girls and messenger boys came and went.

Gladys Norman had ceased to worry about the shininess of her nose, and William Johnson was in process of readjusting his ideas as tolack of the dramatic element at the Malcolm Sage Bureau as comparedwith detective fiction and the films.

About three o'clock a tall, clean-shaven man was shown into MalcolmSage's room. He had a hard mouth, keen, alert eyes, and an airsuggestive of the fact that he knew the worst there was to be knownabout men and acted accordingly.

With a nod Malcolm Sage motioned him to a seat. Six months before hehad saved Dick Lindler from the dock by discovering the realcriminal in whose stead Lindler was about to be charged with aseries of frauds. Since then Malcolm Sage had always been sure ofsuch "inside" information in the bookmaking world as he required.

"How's the betting now?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"Nine to two on Jefferson offered; and no takers," was the reply."There's something up, Mr. Sage; I'll take my dying oath on it," hesaid, leaning across the table and dropping his voice.

"Any big amounts?" enquired Malcolm Sage.

"No, that's what troubles me. The money's being spread about so. Thefunny thing is that a lot of it is being put on by letter. I've hada dozen myself to-day."

Malcolm Sage nodded slowly as he filled his pipe, which with greatdeliberation he proceeded to light until the whole surface of thetobacco glowed. Then, as if suddenly realising that Lindler was notsmoking, he pulled open a drawer, drew out a cigar-box, and pushedit across, watching him closely from beneath his eyebrows as he didso.

Lindler opened the box, then looked interrogatingly at Malcolm Sage.

"Didn't know you smoked the same poison-sticks as the 'Downy One,'"he said, picking up a long cigar with a red and gold band, andexamining it.

"Who's he?"

"Old Nathan Goldschmidt, the stinking Jew."

"I'm sorry," said Malcolm Sage; "that should not have been there.

Try one of the others."

Lindler looked across at him curiously.

"Personally, myself," he said, "I believe he's at the bottom of allthis heavy backing of Jefferson."

Malcolm Sage continued to smoke as if the matter did not interesthim, whilst Lindler bit off the end of the cigar he had selected andproceeded to light it.

"Several of his crowd have been around this morning trying to loadme up," he continued presently, when the cigar was drawing to hissatisfaction. "Must have stayed up all night to be in time," headded scathingly.

"Have you seen Goldschmidt himself?"

"Not since yesterday afternoon."

"Does he usually carry an umbrella?"

Lindler laughed.

"The boys call him 'Gampy Goldschmidt,'" he said.

"You really think that the Goldschmidt gang is Backing Jefferson?"

"They've been at it for the last week," was the response. "Theyknow something, Mr. Sage. Somebody's going to do the dirty, otherwise they wouldn't be so blasted clever about it?"

"Clever?"

"Putting on all they can on the Q.T.," was the response.

"Find out all you can about Goldschmidt and his friends. Keep intouch with me here if you learn anything. Incidentally, keep on thewater-wagon until after the fight."

"Right-o!" said Lindler, rising; "but I wish you'd tell me – "

"I have told you," said Malcolm Sage, and with that he took theproffered hand and, a moment later, Dick Lindler passed through theouter door. As he did so, he almost collided with Thompson, whohad just jumped out of Malcolm Sage's car and was dashing towardsthe door. Thompson rushed across the outer-office, through theglass-panelled door, and passed swiftly into Malcolm Sage's room.

"It's the car right enough, Chief," he said, making an effort tocontrol his excitement. "I picked it up outside Jimmy Dilk's. Therewere three men in it."

Malcolm Sage nodded, then, opening a drawer, produced a sealedpacket.

"If I'm not back here by half-past four," he said, "ring upInspector Wensdale, and ask him to come round at once with a coupleof men and wait in the outer office. Give him this packet. There's aletter inside. If he's not there, get anyone else you know."

Thompson stared. In spite of long association with Malcolm Sage, there were still times when he failed to follow his chief's line ofreasoning.

"If I telephone or write cancelling these instructions, ignoreanything I say. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Chief," said Thompson.

Malcolm Sage picked up his hat and stick and left the room.

Tims, who had been waiting at the outer door, sprang to his seat and, almost before the door of the car had closed, it jerked forward andwas soon threading its sinuous way towards Coventry Street.

Five minutes later Malcolm Sage pressed a bell-push on the fifthfloor of a large block of flats known as Coventry Mansions. The doorwas opened by a heavily-built, ill-favoured man. In response toMalcolm Sage's request to see Mr. Goldschmidt, he was told that hecouldn't.

"Tell him," said Malcolm Sage, fixing his steel-grey eyes upon theman in a steady gaze, "that Mr. Malcolm Sage wishes to see him aboutsomething that happened last night, and about something more that isto happen to-morrow night. He'll understand."

A sudden look of apprehension in the man's eyes seemed to suggestthat he at least understood. He hesitated for a moment, then, with agruff "Wait there," shut the door in Malcolm Sage's face. Threeminutes later he opened it again and, inviting him to enter, led theway along a passage, at the end of which was a door, which the manthrew open.

Malcolm Sage found himself in a darkened room, from which the lightwas excluded by heavy curtains. For a moment he looked about him, unable to distinguish any object. When his eyes became accustomed tothe gloom, he saw seated in an armchair a man with a handkerchiefheld to his face.

"Mr. Goldschmidt?" he interrogated, as he seated himself in thecentre of the room.

"Well, what is it?" was the thickly spoken retort.

"I came to ask your views on the fight to-morrow night, and toenquire if you think the odds of nine to two on Jefferson arejustified."

There was an exclamation from the arm-chair.

"If you've got anything to say," said the thick voice angrily, "getit off your chest and go – to hell," he added, as an afterthought."What do you want?" the voice demanded, as Malcolm Sage remainedsilent.

"I want you to take a little run with me in my car," said Malcolm

Sage evenly. "Fresh air will do your nose good."

"What the – " the man broke off, apparently choked with passion, then, recovering himself, added, "Here, cough it up, or else I'llhave you thrown out into the street! What is it?"

"I want either you, or one of your friends, to come with me to where

Charley Burns has been taken."

There was a stifled exclamation from the chair, then a howl of agonyas the hand holding the handkerchief dropped. At the same momentthree men burst into the room. Malcolm Sage's back was to the door.He did not even turn to look at them.

Somebody switched on the light, and Malcolm Sage saw before him thepuffy face of a man of about sixty, in the centre of which was ahideous purple splotch that had once been a nose. A moment later thehandkerchief obscured the unsavoury sight.

"What the hell's all this about?" shouted one of the men, advancinginto the room, the others remaining by the door.

Slowly Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the three men, whoseappearance proclaimed their pugilistic calling.

"I was just asking Mr. Goldschmidt to be so good as to accompany meto where Charley Burns is – "

He was interrupted by exclamations from all three men.

"What the hell do you mean?" demanded he who had spoken, a dark, ill-favoured fellow with a brow like a rainy sky.

"I will tell you," said Malcolm Sage. "Last night Mr. Goldschmidt, accompanied by certain friends, went to Burns's training-quarters tokeep an appointment made in the name of a girl friend of Burns. Hecame out quite unsuspectingly, was overpowered, and subsequentlytaken in Mr. Goldschmidt's car to a place with which I amunacquainted, so that he shall not appear at the Olympia to-morrownight."

He drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. His airwas that of a chess player who knows that he can mate his opponentin two moves.

"It's a damned lie!" roared one of the men, whilst Goldschmidtshrieked something that was unintelligible.

"You drove out by way of Putney Hill, Esher, and Clandon Cross Roads.

You backed the car to within two hundred yards of 'The Grove,' where you all got out with the exception of the driver. You then entered

'The Grove,' taking cover behind a large clump of rhododendrons."

"It's a damned lie," choked Goldschmidt.

"By the way," continued Malcolm Sage, "your fair friend drove out inthe tonneau; but returned seated beside the driver, and one of youwas nearly left behind and entered the car after it had started."

The men looked at one another in bewilderment.

"You, Goldschmidt, carried an umbrella," continued Malcolm Sage,"and took cover behind the holly bush; but you came out a little toosoon, hence that nose. Burns was playing possum. You were ratheranxious for a smoke too. I am a smoker myself."

A stream of profanity burst from Goldschmidt's lips.

"You see I am in a position to prove my points," said Malcolm Sagecalmly.

"Oh! you are, are you?" sneered the spokesman, as he moved a littlecloser to Malcolm Sage, "and I am in the position to prove thatwe're four to one."

"Three to one," corrected Malcolm Sage quietly. "Your friend,"indicating Goldschmidt, with a nod, "is scarcely – "

He was interrupted by a stifled oath from the armchair.

"Good old Nigger!" murmured one of the men by the door.

"Well, and what about it?" demanded Nigger.

"If Burns is delivered over to me within two hours, unharmed and infighting trim, and a cheque for 1,000 pounds is paid to St.Timothy's Hospital by noon to-morrow, there will be no prosecution, and I will not divulge your names. If not, during the nexttwenty-four hours, London will probably have its first experience oflynch-law."

With that Malcolm Sage struck a match and proceeded to light hispipe.

"That all?" sneered the man. "Ain't there nothink else you'd like?"

"I cannot recall anything else at the moment," said Malcolm Sageimperturbably, as he looked across at the fellow over the top of theburning match.

"You dirty nark," burst out the man by the door, who had hithertoremained silent. "A pretty sort of stool-pigeon you are."

"Spyin' on us, wasn't you?" demanded Nigger, edging nearer to

Malcolm Sage.

"It's ten minutes past four," remarked Malcolm Sage coolly, as heglanced at his wrist-watch.

"Oh, it is, is it?" was the retort, "and in another hour it'll beten minutes past five."

"I have to be back at my office by half-past four." Malcolm Sagelooked about for some receptacle in which to throw the spent match.

"You don't say so." Again Nigger edged a little nearer; but Malcolm

Sage appeared not to notice it.

"Well, I may as well tell you that you don't leave here until eleveno'clock to-morrow night, see?"

There were murmurs of approval from the others.

"Then, perhaps, you will send out and buy me a tooth-brush," was

Malcolm Sage's quiet rejoinder.

CHAPTER XVI THE GREAT FIGHT AT THE OLYMPIA

I

Never had the Olympia seen such a crowd as was gathered to watch thefight between Charley Burns of England and Joe Jefferson of America,Never in its career of hybrid ugliness had it witnessed suchexcitement.

For thirty-six hours the wildest rumours had been current. CharleyBurns had broken down, run away, committed suicide, and refused tofight. He had broken a leg, an arm, a finger, and had torn moretendons than he possessed. He had sprained ankles, wrung withers, been overtrained, had contracted every known disease in addition tomanifesting a yellow streak.

The atmosphere was electrical. The spectators whispered amongthemselves, exchanging views and rumours. The most fantasticalstories were related, credited, and debated with gravity and concern.

If some ill-advised optimist ventured to question a particularlylugubrious statement, he was challenged to explain the betting, which had crept up to six to one on Jefferson offered, with notakers.

The arrival of the Prince of Wales gave a welcome vent for pent-upexcitement. Accustomed as he was to enthusiastic acclamation, thePrince seemed a little embarrassed by the warmth and intensity ofhis greeting.

The preliminary bouts ran their course, of interest only to thoseimmediately concerned, who were more truly alone in the midst ofthat vast concourse than some anchorite in the desert of Sahara.

The heat was unbearable, the atmosphere suffocating. Men smokedtheir cigars and cigarettes jerkily, now indulging in a series ofstaccatoed puffs, now ignoring them until they went out.

Slowly the time crept on as by the bedside of death. If thoseridiculously bobbing figures in the ring would only cease theircaperings!

"Break! Break!" The voice of the referee suddenly split through a"pocket" of silence. Everyone seemed startled, then the curtain ofsound once more descended and wrapped the assembly in itsimpenetrable folds. The gong sounded the beginning and the end ofeach round, and so it went on.

Mr. Papwith sat in the front row near the Prince. Smiling, smiling, for ever smiling. He was a dapper little man, with a fiery, clean-shaven face, and a fringe of grizzled hair above his ears thatgave the lie to the auburn silkiness with which his head was crowned.Next to him was Mr. Doulton, who chatted and smiled, smiled andchatted; but his eyes moved restlessly over the basin of faces, asif in search of an answer to some unuttered question.

At length the preliminary bouts were ended. As the combatants hadarrived unheralded, so they departed unsung. Although no oneappeared to be watching, a sudden hush fell over the assembly. Thedramatic moment had arrived. A few minutes would see the rumoursconfirmed or disproved. Men, seasoned spectators of a hundred fights, found the tension almost unbearable.

The M.C. climbed through the ropes and looked fussily about him. Heappealed to the spectators for silence during the actual rounds andfor the discontinuance of smoking. A black cardboard box, sealed asif it contained duelling-pistols instead of gloves, was thrust intothe ring. Men took a last fond draw at their cigars and cigarettesbefore mechanically extinguishing them.

All eyes were directed towards the spot where the combatants wouldappear.

The referee turned expectantly in the same direction. A group of menin flannels and sweaters was seen moving towards the ring. Amongthem was a sleek, dark-haired man in a long dressing-gown of bottlegreen. It was Joe Jefferson.

Suddenly a great roar burst out, echoing and reechoing continuouslyas the group approached the ring and Jefferson climbed through theropes.

Then came another hush. A second group of men was observedapproaching the ring. There was a shout as those nearest recognisedAlf Pond among them. It developed into a roar, then died away as ifstrangled, giving place to a hum of suppressed inquiry. Everyone waseither asking, or looking, the same question.

"Where is Burns?"

Alf Pond and his associates moved to the ringside as if bound for afuneral.

Their gloom seemed suddenly to pervade the whole vast concourse. Mentalked to one another mechanically, their eyes fixed upon the group.

There was a strange hush. The men reached the ringside and stoodlooking at one another. The audience looked at them. What hadhappened?

None seemed to notice three men moving down the opposite gangwaytowards the ring. The man in the centre was muffled in a heavyovercoat that reached to his heels, a soft felt hat was pulled downover his eyes. One or two spectators in their immediateneighbourhood gave them a hasty, curious glance.

Suddenly Alf Pond gave a wild whoop and, breaking away from hisfellows, dashed towards the three strangers. In a moment theovercoat and muffler were thrown aside and the hat knocked off, revealing the fair-haired and smiling Charley Burns.

Gripping Burns's hand, Alf Pond broke down. Tears streamed down hisbattle-seared features, and he sobbed with the choking agony of astrong man.

Then suddenly everything became enveloped in a dense volume of sound.Men and women stood on their chairs and waved frantically, madly, anything they could clutch hold of to wave. The whole Olympiaappeared to have gone mad. Noble peers, grave judges, sedategenerals and austere philosophers acted as if suddenly bereft of therestaining influences of civilisation and decorum.

Hugged and fondled by his seconds, Burns reached the ring andclimbed into it. The black cardboard box was opened, the men's handsbandaged, the gloves donned. Still the pandemonium raged, now dyingdown, now bursting out again with increased volume.

Jefferson and Burns shook hands. The referee stood in the middle ofthe ring and, with arms extended aloft, appeared to be imploring theblessing of heaven. The crowd, however, understood, and the greatuproar died down to a hum of sound.

Then for the first time it was noticed that, in place of thehabitual smile that had made Burns the idol he was, there was a grimset about his jaw that caused those nearest to the ring to wonderand to speculate.

Charley Burns's "battle-smile" had become almost a tradition.

"If he'd only fight more and box less," Alf Pond would saycomplainingly, "he'd beat the whole blinkin' world with one hand."

Suddenly a hush fell upon the assembly, a hush as pronounced as hadbeen the previous pandemonium. The referee took a final look round.Behind Burns, Alf Pond could be seen sponging his face over a smallbucket. He was once more himself. There were things to be done.

Almost before anyone realised it the gong sounded; the fight hadbegun.

"God!"

The exclamation broke involuntarily from Alf Pond, as he dropped thesponge and gazed before him with wide-staring eyes.

"He's fighting," he cried, almost dancing with excitement. "Did everyou see the like, Sandy?" But Sandy's eyes were glued upon the ring.His hands and feet moved convulsively – he was a fighter himself.

Discarding his traditional opening of boxing with swift defensivewatchfulness, Charley Burns had darted at his man. Before anyoneknew what was happening his left crashed between Jefferson's eyes, ablow that caused him to reel back almost to the ropes.

Before he could recover, a right hook had sent him staggeringagainst the ropes themselves. For a second it looked as if he wouldcollapse over them. Pulling himself together, however, he strove toclinch; but Burns was too quick for him. Stepping back swiftly, hefeinted with his left, and Jefferson, expecting a repetition of thefirst blow, raised his guard. A white right arm shot out to the mark, and Jefferson went down with a crash.

The timekeeper's voice began to drone the monotonous count; at eight

Jefferson gathered himself together; at nine he was on his feet.

Once more Burns was upon him, and Jefferson saved himself byclinching. It was clear that he was badly shaken.

Three times during the first round Burns floored his man. Theonlookers were mad with excitement.

Back in his own corner, Charley Burns was sitting, a hard set lookin his eyes, his jaw square and firm.

Alf Pond fussed about him like a hen over a chick.

"Shut up, Alf! I know what I'm doing," said Burns sharply.

"He knows what he's doing," repeated Alf Pond ecstatically. "Hearthat, Sandy? He knows what he's doing, and so does Jeff, I'll lay apony to a pink pill," he added.

Once more the gong sounded; once more Burns sprang up and darted athis man. Jefferson tried first to dodge and then to clinch; butwithout avail. He was unnerved. His strategy and tactics had beenplanned in view of Burns's usual methods; but here was an entirelydifferent man to deal with – a great fighter.

Twice more Jefferson went down, taking a count of nine on eachoccasion. He seemed to share with the spectators the knowledge thatthere would be no third round.

On rising the second time he seemed determined to change his tactics.He rushed forward, fighting gamely, apparently in the hope ofgetting a lucky knock-out blow. Without giving an inch, Burns threwoff the blows and, feinting with his left, crashed his right full onthe point of his opponent's jaw.

Jefferson's hands fell, and for a second he stood gazing stupidlybefore him; then his knees sagged and, with a deliberation thatseemed almost intolerable, he crashed forward on his face, one armoutstretched as if in protest.

Again the timekeeper's voice was heard monotonously counting. Burnsturned to his corner without waiting for the conclusion of the count.He knew the strength behind that blow.

II

Later that night, just as Big Ben was taking breath preparatory tohis supreme effort, Malcolm Sage was seated in his big arm-chairsmoking a final pipe before bed, and turning over in his mind thehappenings of the day and the probable events of the morrow.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a hammering at theouter door of his chambers, followed by the sound of loud andhilarious voices as Rogers answered the summons.

A moment later the door of the sitting-room burst open, and thereflowed into the room Charley Burns and his entourage, all obviouslyin the best of spirits. In the background stood Rogers, withexpressionless face, looking towards his master.

Malcolm Sage rose and shook hands with Burns, Mr. Doulton and Mr.

Papwith, Alf Pond and his assistants.

"Sorry, Mr. Sage," cried Burns, with a laugh; "but the boys wouldn'twait, although I told them calling time was four till six," and helaughed again, the laugh of a man who has not a care in the world.He also gripped Malcolm Sage's hand with a heartiness that made himwince. The others in turn shook hands in a way that caused MalcolmSage to wonder why America had not long since ceased to be aRepublic.

The men dropped into chairs in various parts of the room, and Rogers, who had disappeared at a signal from Malcolm Sage, now returned witha tray of glasses, syphons, and decanters. Soon the whole companywas drinking the health of Malcolm Sage with an earnestness whichconvinced him that on the morrow there would be trouble with ColonelSappinger, who lived above and cherished Carlyle's hatred of sound.

"And now, Mr. Sage," said Alf Pond, "we want to know how you foundCharley. He won't tell us anythink. Wonderful, I call it," he added, and there was a murmur of assent from the others, as they proceededto light the cigars that Rogers handed round.

"It was not very difficult," said Malcolm Sage, stuffing tobaccointo his pipe from a terra-cotta jar beside him. As he applied alight to the bowl the others exchanged glances.

"From the first," he continued, "it was obvious that some message,or letter, had been conveyed to our friend Burns." He gazed acrossat the champion, who looked uncomfortable.

"As he had not mentioned the fact to any of his friends," continuedMalcolm Sage, a little slyly, "it seemed obvious to assume thatthere was a lady in the case."

Alf Pond looked reproachfully at Burns, who reddened beneath theunited gaze of seven pairs of eyes.

"That the appointment had been for the evening," proceeded MalcolmSage, "was obvious from the fact that Burns disappeared in the bluesuit he always changed into after the day's work."

Alf Pond looked across at Mr. Doulton, nodding his approval of thereasoning.

"It was Kitty, or I thought it was," burst out Burns. "She saidsomething terrible had happened and that she must see me," he added.

Kitty Graham was shortly to become Mrs. Charley Burns, but duringthe period of training she had been rigorously excluded from allintercourse with her fiancé by order of the autocratic Alf Pond.

"The meeting was arranged for the further side of the large clump ofrhododendrons, which acted as a screen," continued Malcolm Sage."When Burns arrived there, he saw a girl standing a little distanceaway. Before he could reach her, however, he was seized and achloroformed pad held over his mouth. The suddenness of the attackdazed him; he did not struggle, but held his breath; he – "

"How the blazes did you know that, Mr. Sage?" burst out Burns.

"You are always a quick-thinker in the ring," said Malcolm Sage,"and you were a quick-thinker then. You smelt chloroform, held yourbreath and thought. It was a sort of instinctive ring-craft."

"But you – " began Burns.

"There were no marks of a struggle where you were seized. Youprobably realised that your only chance lay in letting the enemythink you were losing consciousness?"

Burns nodded.

"Seeing that there was no sign of trouble," continued Malcolm Sage,"the principal in this little affair stepped out from where he hadbeen taking cover just at the moment when Burns broke loose and letout. Movement has always a primary attraction for the eye, and Burnsgot this man full on the nose and ruined it. He also sent him cleaninto the privet-hedge, where he collapsed."

"Who was it?" demanded Alf Pond fiercely.

"There were, however, too many of them for Burns," continued MalcolmSage, ignoring the question. "They had planned the attack verycarefully, each clinging to a limb. Soon they had him unconsciousand bound in the car. Then they turned their attention to theirleader."

"Yes; but how did you find Burns?" asked Mr. Doulton eagerly.

"I didn't," said Malcolm Sage. "They showed me where he was."

"But – " began Mr. Papwith, whose shiny cleanshaven face, normallysuggestive of a Turner sunset, now looked like a conflagration.

"After half an hour's fruitless effort to track the car downside-roads, I returned to London as fast as my man could take me,"proceeded Malcolm Sage, "and I immediately set enquiries on foot asto the betting on the Stock Exchange, at Tattersall's, the NationalSporting Club, and other places. By three o'clock that afternoon Iknew pretty well who it was that had been laying heavily againstBurns. That simplified matters."

Alf Pond and Burns exchanged admiring glances.

"As you know, for more than a week previously the betting had madeit clear that heavy sums were being laid on Jefferson. In the courseof ten days it had veered round from 5 to 4 on Burns to 9 to 2against. As there were no rumours detrimental to his condition orstate of health, this could only mean that a lot of money was beingput on Jefferson. I found out the names of the principal layers andthe amounts. I discovered that all were extremely active with theexception of one. That I decided was the man with the umbrella."

"Who's he?" demanded Sandy, whose mouth had not ceased to gape since

Malcolm Sage began his story.

"The man Burns knocked out. He had been leaning rather heavily onthe handle whilst taking cover behind a holly-bush, and the metalcap at base of the silk was clearly marked on the ground. He wasalso holding an unlit cigar in his hand, which he left in the hedge.By great good chance this was recognised by someone I happen to knowas a brand smoked by a certain backer of Jefferson."

"Well, I'm damned!" broke in Alf Pond, with intense earnestness.

"So you see, I had quite a lot to help me. I was searching for awell-dressed man – "

"But how did you know he was well-dressed?" queried Mr. Doulton.

"His footprints showed that he wore boots of a fashionable model,"explained Malcolm Sage. "He also carried an umbrella, even on anoccasion such as this.

"I had to look for a well-dressed man who always carried an umbrella, and who smoked large and expensive cigars and, most important of all, whose nose had been smashed out of all recognition."

"But how could you tell I got him on the nose?" demanded Burns, leaning forward eagerly.

"There was quite a pool of blood beneath the hedge," explainedMalcolm Sage. "He was probably there for some minutes while hisfriends were making sure of you, Burns. Blood would not have flowedso generously as a result of a blow from the fist except from thenose."

"You're a knock-out, that's what you are, Mr. Sage," said Alf Pond, with admiring conviction. "I'd never have thought of it all," headded, with the air of one desiring to be absolutely fair.

"Finally," continued Malcolm Sage, "there was the car. It was alarge car, a defect in one of the tyres enabled me to determinethat by a steel rule. It was obviously heavily laden and the nearback-wheel was out of track. This fact, of course, was of no help onthe high-road, where other cars would blot out the track; but if Icould show that someone who had been heavily backing Jefferson hada nose badly damaged, and a car with a near back-wheel out of trackin just the same way that this particular wheel was out of track, and that its tyres were the same as those of the car that drew upoutside Burns's training-quarters, then I should have a wealth ofcircumstantial evidence that it would be almost impossible toconfute.

"From a friend at Scotland Yard I obtained the number of the carbelonging to the man whom this evidence involved.

"As Stainton is off the Portsmouth Road, I telephoned to theAutomobile Association patrols at Putney Hill, Esher, and ClandonCross Roads. I was told that on the previous evening thisparticular car was seen going in the direction of Guildford. Thesepatrols take the numbers of all cars that pass. As it had not passedLiss, where the next patrol is stationed, it was another link in thechain."

"Well, I'm blowed!" The exclamation broke involuntarily from Kid.

"As the patrols go off duty at dusk, I could get no further helpfrom them," continued Malcolm Sage. "I sent a man to watchJefferson's training-quarters, although I was fairly certain that heand his party were in no way involved."

Malcolm Sage went on to narrate his call upon Nathan Goldschmidt, carefully omitting any mention of the name or address. His hearerslistened with breathless interest.

"I concluded that they had taken their prisoner to some lonely, empty house," he explained, "but there was not time to search allthe empty houses in the home counties, so the man with the damagednose had to come with me in my car, and his friends followed inhis."

"But how did you manage it?" gasped Mr. Papwith.

"At first they showed fight," said Malcolm Sage, "and threatened tokeep me prisoner until after the fight."

"Gee!" exclaimed Kid.

"I anticipated some such move, and had instructed my people thatunless I were back by half-past four, they were to deliver certainpackets to the editors of well-known London papers. In these packetswas told the story as far as I had been able to trace it. This Iinformed them."

"What did they say to that?" asked Mr. Doulton.

"They insisted that I telephone countermanding my orders; but as Iexplained that I had told my man Thompson he was to disregard anytelephone message, or written instructions, he might receive from me, they realised that the game was up. I also informed them thatInspector Wensdale and two of his men were waiting at my office inanticipation of a possible hold-up."

"Well, I'm blessed," exclaimed Alf Pond. "If you ain't it."

"I pointed out," continued Malcolm Sage, "that whereas by producingBurns they would have a fight for their money, if the truth becameknown not only would their bets most likely be forfeited, but theywould probably have to go to law to recover their stake-money. Ifurther pledged Mr. Doulton, Mr. Papwith, and Burns not to take anylegal action. I rather suspect that in this I was technicallyconspiring to defeat the ends of justice."

"But weren't you afraid they'd do a double cross?" asked Burns.

"They heard me instruct one of my assistants that unless I were backby nine o'clock that evening, the notes I had written and addressedwere to be delivered. Incidentally the inspector was present, unofficially of course."

"You oughter been in the ring with a head like that," said Alf Pondsorrowfully.

"We found Burns fairly comfortable in the wine-cellar of an emptyhouse near Ripley. They had left him food and water and beer. In allprobability on awakening to-morrow morning, had we not found him, hewould have discovered the door unlocked and himself no longer aprisoner." Malcolm Sage paused with the air of one who has told hisstory.

"But why did you keep Papwith and me at Stainton until late thisafternoon?" enquired Mr. Doulton.

"In the first instance, to be in charge and to see that Burns'sdisappearance was kept secret. It was obvious that every endeavourwould be made to put a lot of money on Jefferson before the factbecame known. This would lead to rumour, and later to enquiry.Subsequently I decided that you were both better out of London, asyou would have been interviewed and bound to give something away, inspite of the utmost caution."

"And now, Mr. Sage," said Mr. Doulton, "who are the scroundrels?"

"I have promised not to give their names," was the quiet reply.

"Not give their names?" cried several of his hearers in unison.

Malcolm Sage then proceeded to explain that unless the gang had seena loop-hole of escape they would not have thrown up the sponge. Hadexposure been inevitable in any case, they would have brazened itout, knowing that, whatever happened to themselves, Burns could notappear at the Olympia. The knowledge that their identity would notbe divulged tempted them to risk the loss of their money. "Apart fromthis," he added, "the details I was able to give seemed to convincethem that they had either been watched or given away."

"You must remember that they have lost enormous sums of money,"Malcolm Sage went on, "and there will be another 1,000 pounds for St.Timothy's Hospital. It was further understood that, if I coulddiscover anyone of them had inspired a covering bet, I was releasedfrom my promise. This is why the odds got to six to one.Incidentally they ensured the defeat of their man. When Burnsentered the ring tonight, it was to fight, not to box."

"That's true," said Alf Pond, nodding his head and reaching foranother cigar. "He never fought like it before in all his puff."

"And where were you last night?" enquired Mr. Papwith of Burns.

"In my bed," said Malcolm Sage, "and my friend Inspector Wensdale of

Scotland Yard and I slept here. Burns has never been out of

Wensdale's sight until we handed him over this evening."

"I've been having police protection," laughed Burns.

"Still, you didn't oughter have gone two days without doinganythink," said Alf Pond.

"Oh! I had a bit of sparring with Mr. Sage," said Burns, "in spiteof the glasses. If you want to see some pretty foot-work, Alf, youget him to put the gloves on."

"I knew it," cried Alf Pond, with conviction; then, turning to theothers, "Didn't I say he oughter been in the ring?"

And Malcolm Sage found relief from the admiring eyes of his guestsin gazing down at the well-bitten mouthpiece of his briar.

"But why did you let me think that Jefferson and his crowd were init?" enquired Burns, with corrugated brow.

"Well," said Malcolm Sage slowly, "as I had put twenty-five poundson you to steady Pond's nerves, I didn't want to lose it."

And Alf Pond winked gleefully across at Mr. Doulton.

CHAPTER XVII LADY DENE CALLS ON MALCOLM SAGE

"Lady Dene wishes to see you, Miss."

"Sure the Archbishop of Canterbury isn't with her, Johnnie dear?"asked Gladys Norman sweetly, without looking up from the cleaningof her typewriter. In her own mind she was satisfied that this wasa little joke inspired by Thompson.

"No, Miss, she's alone," replied the literal William Johnson.

"Show her Ladyship in," she said, still playing for safety. "Da – sh!" she muttered as, having inadvertently touched the release, thecarriage slid to the left, pinching her finger in its course.

William Johnson departed, his head half turned over his rightshoulder in admiration of one who could hear with such unconcernthat a real lady had called to see her.

As her door opened for a second time, Gladys Norman assiduously kepther eyes fixed upon her machine.

"No, Johnnie," she remarked, still without looking up. "It's no good.Lady Denes don't call upon typists at 9.30 a.m., so buzz off, littlebeanlet. I'm – "

"But this Lady Dene does."

Gladys Norman jumped to her feet, knocking over the benzine bottleand dropping her brush into the vitals of the machine.

Before her stood a fair-haired girl, her violet eyes brimming withmischievous laughter, whilst in her arms she carried a mass of redroses.

"I'm so sorry," faltered Gladys Norman, biting her lower lip, andconscious of her heightened colour and the violet-stained glovesthat had once been white. "I thought Johnnie was playing a joke."

Lady Dene nodded brightly, whilst Gladys Norman stooped to pick upthe benzine bottle, then with a motion of her head indicated toWilliam Johnson that his presence was no longer required.Reluctantly the lad turned, and a moment later the door closedslowly behind him.

"I want you to help me," said Lady Dene, dropping the roses on tothe leaf of Gladys Norman's typing-table. "These are for Mr. Sage."

"For the Chief?" cried Gladys Norman in astonishment. Then shelaughed. The idea of a riot of red roses in Malcolm Sage's roomstruck her as funny.

"You see," said Lady Dene, "this is the birthday of the Malcolm Sage

Bureau, and I'm going to decorate his room."

"I don't – " began Gladys Norman hesitatingly, when Lady Deneinterrupted her.

"It's all right," she cried, "I'll take all the responsibility."

"But we've got no vases," objected Gladys Norman.

"My chauffeur has some in the car, and there are heaps more roses,"she added.

"More?" cried Gladys Norman aghast.

"Heaps," repeated Lady Dene, dimpling with laughter at theconsternation on Gladys Norman's face. "Ah! here they are," as thedoor opened and a mass of white roses appeared, with a florid facepeering over the top.

"Put them down there, Smithson," said Lady Dene, indicating a spotin front of Gladys Norman's table. "Now fetch the vases and the restof the roses."

"The rest!" exclaimed Gladys Norman.

Lady Dene laughed. She was thoroughly enjoying the girl'sbewilderment.

"He's not come yet?" she interrogated.

The girl shook her head.

"He won't be here for half-an-hour yet," she said. "He had to godown into the city."

"That will just give us time," cried Lady Dene, stooping and pickingup an armful of the white roses. "You bring the red ones," she criedover her shoulder, as she passed through Malcolm Sage's door, justas Smithson entered with several purple vases.

Picking up the red roses, Gladys Norman followed the others intoMalcolm Sage's room. Her feelings were those of someone constrainedto commit sacrilege against her will.

"Now get some water, Smithson."

"Water, my Lady?" repeated Smithson, looking about him vaguely, as

Moses might have done in the wilderness.

"Yes; ask the lad. Be quick," cried Lady Dene, with deft fingersbeginning to arrange the roses in the vases. "Oh! please help me,"she cried, turning to Gladys Norman, who had stood watching her asif fascinated.

"But – " she began, when Lady Dene interrupted her.

"Quick!" cried Lady Dene excitedly, "or he'll be here before we'vefinished."

Then, convinced that it was the work of Kismet, or the devil, Gladys

Norman threw herself into the task of arranging the flowers.

When Thompson arrived some ten minutes later, he stood at the doorof Malcolm Sage's room "listening with his mouth," as Gladys Normanhad expressed it. When he had regained the power of speech, heuttered two words.

"Jumping Je-hosh-o-phat!"; but into them he precipitated all theemotion of his being.

"Go away, Tommy, we're busy," cried Gladys Norman over her shoulder."Do you hear; go away," she repeated, stamping her foot angrily ashe made no movement to obey, and Thompson slid away and closed thedoor, convinced that in the course of the next half-hour there wouldbe the very deuce to pay.

He knew the Chief better than Gladys, he told himself, and if therewere one thing calculated to bring out all the sternness in hisnature it was flippancy, and what could be more flippant thandecorating the room of a great detective with huge bowls and vasesof red and white roses.

Regardless of Thompson's forebodings, Lady Dene smiled to herself asshe put the finishing touches to the last vase, whilst Gladys Normangathered up the litter of leaves and stalks that lay on the floor, throwing them into the fireplace. She then removed the last spots ofwater from Malcolm Sage's table.

Lady Dene took from her bag a small leather-case, which she openedand placed in the centre of the table opposite Malcolm Sage's chair.It was a platinum ring of antique workmanship, with a carbuchon oflapis lazuli.

"Oh, how lovely!" cried Gladys Norman, as she gazed at the ring'sexquisite workmanship.

Presently, the two girls stepped back to gaze at their handiwork. Ina few minutes they had transformed an austere, business-man's roominto what looked like a miniature rose-show. From every point redand white roses seemed to nod their fragrant heads.

"I – " began Gladys Norman, then she stopped suddenly, arrested bya slight sound behind her. She span round on her heel. Malcolm Sagestood in the doorway, with Thompson and William Johnson a few feetbehind him.

Slowly and deliberately he looked round the room; then his eyesrested on Lady Dene.

"How do you do, Lady Dene," he said quietly, extending his hand.

For a moment she was conscious of an unaccustomed sensation of fear.

"You're not cross?" she interrogated, looking up at him quizzically, her head a little on one side. "You see, it's the Bureau's birthday, and – " She stopped suddenly.

Malcolm Sage had dropped her hand and walked over to his table.

Picking up the ring he examined it intently, then turned to Lady

Dene, interrogation in his eyes.

"It's from my husband and me," she said simply. "You have suchlovely hands, and – and we should like you to wear it."

Without a word he removed the ring from the case and put it on thethird finger of his right hand, which he then extended to Lady Dene, who took it with a little laugh of happiness.

"You're not really cross," she said, looking up at him a littleanxiously.

"To me they stand for so much, Lady Dene," he said gravely, "that Iam not even speculating as to their probable effect upon the faithof my clients."

And Malcolm Sage smiled.

It was that smile Gladys Norman saw as she closed the door behindher, and which Thompson resolutely refused to believe.