Max Carrados Mysteries E-Book

Ernest Bramah

• Herausgeber: Ernest Bramah
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Parkinson, the unquenchable stickler for decorum, paused after receiving the general instructions for the day just long enough to create a sense of hesitation. Mr Carrados, merely concerned with an after-breakfast cigarette, divined the position with his usual unerring instinct. 'Yes, Parkinson,' he remarked encouragingly; 'is there anything going on?' A clumsily-folded newspaper enabled the punctilious attendant to salve his conscience as he returned slowly to the table. He shook out the printed sheets into a more orderly arrangement by way of covering the irregularity. 'I understand, sir,' he replied in the perfectly controlled respectful voice that accorded with his deliberate actions 'I understand that this morning's foreign intelligence is of a disquieting nature.' The blind man's hand went unfalteringly to an open copy of The Times lying by him and there a single deft finger touched off the headlines with easy certainty. '"On the Brink of War." "Threatened German Mobilization",' he read aloud. '"The Duty of Great Britain." Yes, I don't think that "disquieting" over-states the position.' 'No, sir. So I gathered from what I had already heard. That is why I thought it better to speak to you about a trifling incident that has come under my notice, sir.'

Leseprobe

Ernest Bramah

Max Carrados Mysteries

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Table of contents

I. — THE SECRET OF HEADLAM HEIGHT

II. — THE MYSTERY OF THE VANISHED PETITION CROWN

III. — THE HOLLOWAY FLAT TRAGEDY

IV. — THE CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE TWO LEFT SHOES

V. — THE INGENIOUS MIND OF MR RIGBY LACKSOME

VI. — THE CRIME AT THE HOUSE IN CULVER STREET

VII. — THE STRANGE CASE OF CYRIL BYCOURT

VIII. — THE MISSING WITNESS SENSATION

I. — THE SECRET OF HEADLAM HEIGHT

Parkinson, the unquenchable stickler for decorum, paused after receiving the general instructions for the day just long enough to create a sense of hesitation. Mr Carrados, merely concerned with an after-breakfast cigarette, divined the position with his usual unerring instinct. 'Yes, Parkinson,' he remarked encouragingly; 'is there anything going on?' A clumsily-folded newspaper enabled the punctilious attendant to salve his conscience as he returned slowly to the table. He shook out the printed sheets into a more orderly arrangement by way of covering the irregularity. 'I understand, sir,' he replied in the perfectly controlled respectful voice that accorded with his deliberate actions 'I understand that this morning's foreign intelligence is of a disquieting nature.' The blind man's hand went unfalteringly to an open copy of The Times lying by him and there a single deft finger touched off the headlines with easy certainty. '"On the Brink of War." "Threatened German Mobilization",' he read aloud. '"The Duty of Great Britain." Yes, I don't think that "disquieting" over-states the position.' 'No, sir. So I gathered from what I had already heard. That is why I thought it better to speak to you about a trifling incident that has come under my notice, sir.' 'Quite right,' assented Mr Carrados. 'Well?' 'It was at the Museum here, sir—a very instructive establishment in Market Square. I had gone there in order to settle a small matter in dispute between Herbert and myself affecting the distinction between shrimps and prawns. I had always been under the impression that prawns were unusually well-grown shrimps, but I find that I was mistaken. I was directed to the cases of preserved fish by a gentleman with a cut across his cheek. Subsequently I learned from the hall-keeper, to whom I spoke about the weather, that the gentleman was the assistant curator and was called Vangoor, being a native of Holland.' 'Vangoor,' mused Mr Carrados. 'I have never heard the name before.' 'No, sir. When I saw the gentleman last we were at Kiel, and he was then a Lieutenant von Groot. I thought perhaps I had better mention it, sir.' Carrados's half-smiling expression did not change in its placid tone and he continued to smoke with leisurely enjoyment. His mind turned back to the details of the Kiel visit of a few years previously as one might turn to a well-kept diary. 'The man you mean called on me once with a complimentary message from the Admiralty department there. I was not in the hotel at the time and he left his card with a few words of explanation in perfect English. We never met and I cannot suppose that he has ever seen me.' 'No, sir,' acquiesced Parkinson. 'You sent me the next day to the Dockyard with a reply. That is the only time I have ever seen the gentleman before today.' 'Have you any reason to think that he may have remembered you again?' 'I formed a contrary opinion, sir. On the other occasion, although it was necessary for us to hold some slight conversation together, Lieutenant von Groot did not seem to be aware of my presence, if I may so define it, sir. I received the impression that the gentleman imagined he was talking to someone taller than I am, sir; and I doubt if he really saw me at all.' 'You are sure of him, though?' 'I was then making a study of detailed observation under your instruction, sir, and I have no misgiving on the point.' 'Very well. It was quite right of you to tell me of this; it may be really important. We are only five miles from a vital naval port, we must remember. Don't say anything to anyone else and I will consider it meanwhile.' 'Thank you, sir,' replied Parkinson, modestly elated. In the past, whenever the subject of the English Secret Service came up it was patriotically assumed on all hands that nothing much was to be expected from that quarter, and we were bidden to lift our admiring eyes to German and other continental models. As a matter of history, when the test came the despised organization proved itself signally efficient. In a small way there was evidence of this that same July day, for within a couple of hours of sending a curiously-worded telegram to an official whose name never appeared in any official list Mr Carrados received an equally mysterious reply from which, after a process of disintegration, he extracted the following information: Ref. Fff. C/M.107. Carrados read the decoded message twice, and then thoughtfully crushing the thin paper into a loose ball he dropped it upon an ash-tray and applied a match. 'A telegram form, Parkinson.' With his uncanny prescience the blind man selected a pencil from the rack before him, adjusted the paper to a more convenient angle and, not deviating the fraction of an inch beyond the indicated space, wrote his brief reply: 'We will investigate Mr Vangoor for ourselves a little first,' he remarked, passing across the slip. 'London will have its hands pretty full for the next few days and we are on the spot.' 'Very well, sir,' replied Parkinson with the same trustful equanimity with which he would have received an order to close a window. 'Shall I dispatch this now, sir?' 'Yes—from the head office: head offices are generally too busy to be inquisitive. Read it over first in case of an inquiry....Yes, quite right. Something of a feather if we can circumvent a German spy off our own bats, eh, Parkinson?' 'Yes, sir.' 'At all events we will open the innings without delay.' 'I quite appreciate the necessity of expedition, sir,' replied Parkinson, with his devastating air of profound wisdom. It is doubtful if anyone had yet plumbed the exact limits of the worthy fellow's real capacity. There were moments when he looked more sagacious than any mortal man has any hope of ever being, and there were times when his comment on affairs seemed to reveal a greater depth of mental vacuity than was humanly credible. Carrados found him wholly satisfactory, and Parkinson on his side had ignored a score of hints of betterment. 'Pack a couple of bags with necessaries,' was the instruction he received on his return from the post office. 'Von Groot may likely enough remember my name, and I can't very well change it while staying at a public hotel. We will keep on our rooms here and go into apartments at the other end of the town for a time. There my name will be Munroe and yours can be—say Paxton. I will tell the office here all that is necessary.' 'Very good, sir,' assented Parkinson. 'I did not think the woodcock toast sent up for your breakfast entirely satisfactory, sir.' In years to come generations now unborn will doubtless speculate how people lived in those early days of August, 1914. The simple truth, of course, is that to the vast majority external life went on almost precisely as before. It is as exacting for the moving machine to stop as for the quiescent one to start, and 'Business as usual' was one of the earliest clichés coined. The details of the situation that most impressed the citizen of 1914 are not the details to which the inquirer of 2014 will give a second thought. Individually, it was doubtless very intriguing to have to obtain change for a five-pound note by purchasing postal orders to that amount and immediately cashing them singly again.... Mr Carrados found the Castlemouth Museum open as usual when his leisurely footsteps turned that way on the following morning, and, as usual, the day being fine, deserted. Before they had—Parkinson describing as they went—made the circuit of the first room they were approached by a sociable official—the curator it soon appeared—drawn from his den by the welcome sight of two authentic visitors. 'There are a certain number of specimens that we have to store away for want of space,' he remarked hopefully. 'If there is any particular subject that you are interested in I should be very pleased—' This suited Mr Carrados's purpose well enough, but before committing himself he not unnaturally preferred to know what the curator's particular subject was. An enthusiast is always vulnerable through his enthusiasm and no man becomes curator of an obscure museum in order to amass a fortune. 'I understand,' he replied tentatively, 'that you are rather strong here in—' An impatient gesture with the expressive fingers conveyed the speaker's loss. 'Dear me—' 'Palaeontology?' suggested the curator. 'My predecessor was a great collector and our series of local fossils is unsurpassed. If you—' 'Ah,' replied Mr Carrados; 'very instructive no doubt.' His alert ear recognized the absence of the enthusiast's note. 'But somehow there always seems to me about fossils a—' 'Yes, yes,' supplied the curator readily; 'I know. No human touch. I feel just the same myself about them. Now flints! There's romance, if you like.' 'That is the real thing, isn't it?' exclaimed Mr Carrados with unqualified conviction. 'There's more interest to my mind in a neolithic scraper than in a whole show-case-full of ammonites and belemnites.' The curator's eyes sparkled; it was not often that he came across another. 'Brings you face to face with the primeval, doesn't it?' he said. 'I once picked up a spearhead, beautifully finished except the very last chippings of the point. Not broken off, you understand—just incomplete. Why? Well, one might risk a dozen likely guesses. But there it was, just as it had dropped from the fingers of my prehistoric forefather ten thousand years before—no other hand had touched it between his and mine.' 'I should very much like to see what you have here,' remarked the affable visitor. 'Or, rather, in my case, for I am practically blind, I should ask to be allowed to handle.' There were occasions when Mr Carrados found it prudent to qualify his affliction, for more than once astonished strangers had finally concluded that he must be wholly shamming. In his character as an American tourist of leisure—a Mr Daniel Munroe of Connecticut, as he duly introduced himself—the last thing he desired was that ex-Lieutenant von Groot or any of that gentleman's associates should suspect him of playing a part. For the next half-hour Mr Lidmarsh—his name marked the progress of their acquaintanceship—threw open cabinets and show-cases in his hospitable desire to entertain the passing stranger. Carrados knew quite enough of flint implements—as indeed he seemed to know enough of any subject beneath the sun—to be able to talk on level terms with an expert, and he was quite equal to meeting a reference to Evans or to Nadaillac with another. 'I'm afraid that's all,' said the official at length, '—all that's worth showing you, at any rate. We are so handicapped for means, you see—the old story with this sort of institution. Practically everything we have has been given us at one time or another—it has to be, for there is simply no fund to apply to purchasing.' 'Surprising,' declared Carrados. 'One would have thought—' 'We arrange lectures in the winter and try to arouse interest in that way, but the response is small—distressingly small. A great pity. Theatres, cinemas, dancing halls, all crowded—anything for excitement. If we get nine adults we call it a good meeting—free, of course, and Mrs Lidmarsh has tried providing coffee. Now in Holland, my assistant tells me—' It was the first mention of the absent Karl, for Carrados was too patient and wily a tracker to risk the obliquest reference to his man until he knew the ground he stood on. He listened to a commonplace on the unsophisticated pleasures of the Dutch. 'But surely you have more help for a place like this than a single assistant, Mr Lidmarsh? Why, in the States—' 'It has to be done; it's as much as our endowment and the ha'penny rate will run to,' replied the curator, accepting his visitor's surprise in the sense—as, indeed, it was intended—of a delicate compliment to his own industry. 'Vangoor, myself, and Byles, the caretaker, carry everything upon our shoulders. I count myself very fortunate in having a helper who makes light of work as Mr Vangoor does. Englishmen, unfortunately, seem mostly concerned in seeing that they don't put in half an hour more than they're paid for, Mr Munroe. At least that's my experience. Then he just happens to be keen on the subjects that I'm most interested in.' 'That's always nice,' admitted Mr Carrados, unblushingly. 'Well, it all helps to give an added interest, doesn't it? Not that any department of the work here is neglected or cold-shouldered, I hope—no, I am sure it isn't. For instance, neither of us really cares for natural history, but we recognize that others will think differently, so natural history in all its branches receives due attention. As a seaside town, of course, we give prominence to marine zoology, and our local fishermen and sailors are encouraged to bring in any curious or unusual specimen that they may light upon.' 'Do they much?' inquired the visitor. 'I am afraid not. Lack of public spirit and the suspicion that something is being got out of them for nothing, I suppose. Why, I have even found Vangoor rewarding them out of his own slender pocket to encourage them to come.' 'Fine,' was Mr Carrados's simple comment. 'Yes—when you consider that the poor fellow is none too well paid at the best and that he sends a little every week to his old people away in Holland—all that he can save, in fact—and he lives in a tiny, out-of-the-way old cottage quite by himself so as to do it as cheaply as possible.' 'Vangoor,' considered the blind man thoughtfully; 'Vangoor—there was a fellow of that name I used to meet at times up to six months ago. Now I wonder—' 'In America, you mean?' 'Yes. We have a good sprinkling of Dutch of the old stock, you know. Now what was my man's front name—' 'Then it couldn't have been this one, for he has been here just a year now. I wish he was about so that I could introduce him to you, but he won't be back yet.' 'Well, as to that, I've been thinking,' remarked Mr Carrados. 'I've had a real interesting time here, and in return I'd like to show you a few good things in the flint line that I've picked up on my tour. Could you come around to dinner tomorrow—Sunday?' 'That's very kind indeed.' Mr Lidmarsh was a little surprised at the attention, but not unflattered. 'Sure it won't be—' 'Not a shred,' declared the new acquaintance. 'Bring Vangoor along as well, of course.' 'I'll certainly give him your invitation,' promised the curator; 'but what his arrangements are, naturally I cannot say.' 'Seven o'clock tomorrow then,' confirmed Mr Carrados, referring to the fingers of his own rather noticeable watch as he spoke.'"Abbotsford", in your Prospect Avenue here, is the place. So long.' At the slightest of gestures Parkinson broke off his profound meditation among Egyptian mummy-cloth and took his master in charge. Together they passed down the flight of stairs and reached the entrance hall again. 'Let them know at the house that I expect two guests to dinner tomorrow,' said Mr Carrados as they crossed the hall. 'Mr Lidmarsh will be coming, and very likely Mr Vangoor as well.' 'I don't think you'll find the last-named gentleman will favour you, Mr Carrados,' said a discreetly lowered and slightly husky voice quite close to them. 'Not much I don't.' Parkinson started at the untimely recognition, but Carrados merely stopped. 'Ah, William,' he said, without turning, 'and pray why not?' Mr William Byles, caretaker, doorkeeper, and general factotum of the Castlemouth Museum, disclosed himself from behind an antique coffer smiling broadly. 'So you knew me, sir, after all?' he remarked, with easy familiarity. 'I thought to surprise you, but it's the other way about, it seems.' 'Your voice has much the same rich quality as when you looked after my cellar, a dozen years ago, William,' replied Mr Carrados. 'Making due allowance for a slight—erosion. One expects that with the strong sea air.' 'I wondered what you was up to, sir, when I hear you pitch it to the governor you were Mr Munroe from America. Made me laugh. Now that you're inviting Mr Dutch Vangoor to dinner I can give a straightish guess. You needn't trouble, sir. I'm keeping an observant eye on that identical piece of goods myself.' 'Come to the door and point out the way somewhere,' directed Mr Carrados, moving on from the dangerous vicinity of the stairs. 'What do you know about Vangoor?' 'Not as much yet as I'd like to,' admitted Mr Byles, 'but I can put two and two together, Mr Carrados, as well as most.' 'Yes,' mused the blind man reminiscently, 'I always had an idea that you were good at that, William. So you don't exactly love him?' ''Ate isn't the word for it,' replied the caretaker frankly. 'Too much of the bleeding Crown Prince about Jan Van for my vocabulary. Ready to lick his superior's boots three times a day if requisite, but he's done the double dirty on me more than once. And I don't forget it neither.' 'But why do you think he won't come tomorrow?' 'Well, if it's going to be war in a day or two, as most people say, depend on it, sir, Jan Van knows already and it stands to reason that he's busy now. And so shall I be busy, and when he least expects it too.' 'Then I can safely leave him in your hands, William,' said Mr Carrados pleasantly. 'By the way, how do you like it here?' and he indicated the somnolent institution they were leaving. 'Like?' repeated Mr Byles, swallowing with difficulty. 'Like it! Me that's been butler in superior West End families the best part of my life to finish up as "general" in what's nothing more or less than a sort of mouldy peep-show? Oh, Mr Carrados!' The blind man laughed and a substantial coin found its billet in the caretaker's never-reluctant palm. 'Not "Mr Carrados" here, William, remember. Please preserve my alias or you'll be doing Mr Vangoor a kindness. And whatever you are at, don't let him guess you're on his track.' Mr Byles's only reply was to place a knowing forefinger against an undeniably tell-tale nose and to close one eye significantly—a form of communication that was presumably lost on the one for whom it was intended though it shocked Parkinson not a little. But the tone and spirit of the whole incident had been a source of pain to that excellent servitor all through. Another member of Mr Carrados's household—though in point of miles a distant one—was also adversely affected by his employer's visit to the Castlemouth Museum. Less than an hour after Mr Byles's parting gesture a telegram addressed 'Secretary' was delivered at 'The Turrets' and threw Annesley Greatorex, who was contemplating a bright week-end, into a mild revolt. 'My hat, Auntie! just listen to this,' exclaimed Mr Greatorex, addressing the lady whose benevolent rule as Mr Carrados's housekeeper had led to the mercurial youth conferring this degree of honorary relationship upon her. 'Here you have M.C.'s latest: Borrow few dozen flint implements any period but interesting and dispatch fully insured post or rail to reach me first tomorrow. Try Vicars, Bousset, Leicester (Oxford Street), Graham, etc. Wire advice; then stand by. Stand by! That means ta-ta to mirth and melody by moonlit streams, until our lord returns, forsooth.' 'And not a bad thing either, Mr Greatorex,' declared the lady, without pausing in her work. 'If there's going to be a war any minute and that German family in Canterbury Road who've got an airship hidden away in their coachhouse fly out and start dropping bombs about, you're much better here safe in bed than gallivanting up and down the open river.' 'Then what about Mr Carrados right on the coast and near a naval harbour?' 'I'm no' troubling about Mr Carrados,' replied the housekeeper decisively. 'If the Germans come they'll come by night. So long as it's in the dark Mr Carrados won't be the first one to need the ambulance, ma lad.' Carrados duly received his few dozen flints and smiled as he handled them and removed the labels. Promptly on the stroke of seven the curator arrived, but he came alone; whatever the true cause might be, William Byles was right. 'I'm sorry about Vangoor,' apologized Mr Lidmarsh as they greeted. 'He quite intended to come and then at the last found that he had an appointment. I'm sorry, because I should like you to have met him, and he isn't having the pleasantest of times just now.' 'Oh! How is that?' 'Foolish prejudice, of course. People are excited and regard every neutral as an enemy  or . And the irony of it is that Vangoor hears positively that Holland will be in on our side within a month.' They fell to talking of the war-cloud, as everybody did that day. It was known from the special issues that Germany had formally declared war on Russia, and had launched an ultimatum against France; that here and there fighting had actually begun. The extent of our own implication was not yet disclosed, but few doubted that the die was irrevocably cast. 'Will it make any difference to you up at the Museum?' inquired the host. Enlisting had suddenly become a current topic. 'I don't see how it can,' replied Mr Lidmarsh, with regret expressed very largely in his tone. 'At my age—I've turned thirty-nine, though you mightn't think it—I'm afraid there would be no earthly chance of being accepted even if the war lasted a year.' 'A year,' repeated the blind man thoughtfully. 'Well, of course, that's an absurdly outside limit. Mrs Lidmarsh comes of a military family, and she has it privately from an aunt, whose daughter is engaged to the nephew of a staff officer, that the Russian commander-in-chief has sent a map of Germany to Lord Kitchener with the words "Christmas Day" written across Berlin. Naturally everyone at the War Office can guess what that means!' Carrados nodded politically. Every second person whom he had met that day had a string leading direct to Whitehall. 'Vangoor would go like a shot if they'd raise a Foreign Legion. But of course—Then there's only old Byles—So I'm afraid that we shall have to carry on as usual. And, after all, I don't know that it isn't the most patriotic thing to do. People will want distraction more than ever—not hectic gaiety: no one would dream of that, but simple, rational amusement. Soldiers on leave will need entertainment and somewhere to pass their time. A museum—' Mr Carrados got out his flints and the curator brightened up, but something was plainly on his mind. He hemmed and hawed his intention to confide half a dozen times before the plunge was taken. There's one thing I should like to tell you about, Mr Munroe, although in a sense I'm—well, I won't say bound to secrecy, but confidentially placed.' 'Of course anything that you might say—' encouraged his auditor, discreetly occupied with the cigars. 'Yes, yes; I'm sure of that. And you have been so extremely kind and—er—reciprocal and would, I know, be deeply interested in the find that—well, I feel that if you went away without my saying anything and you afterwards—perhaps when you are back in America—read of what we had been doing, you would think that in the circumstances I had not been quite—eh? Certainly, I know that I should in your place.' 'A find,' commented Mr Carrados, with no very great hope in that direction—'a find is always exciting, isn't it?' 'Well, perhaps I spoke prematurely in the fullest sense—though something we undoubtedly shall find—Did you ever hear of the golden coffin of Epiovanus?' 'I'm afraid,' admitted the other, 'that I never even heard of Epiovanus himself. Stay though—doesn't Roger of Wimborne mention something of the sort in his ?' 'The tradition of an early British chief or king being buried in a gold coffin seems to have been curiously persistent, and that would go to give it a certain degree of credibility. Personally, I take it, I am quite prepared for a gold-mounted coffin or a coffin containing certain priceless gold adornments or treasure of gold coin. I question if the richest tribe could at that time disclose sufficient gold to fashion a solid case of the size required.' 'There was fairly extensive gold coinage at that period, and then the metal practically disappears from the mints for the next thousand years,' suggested Carrados. 'It having gone into the manufacture of royal coffins? I should like to think so, for we believe that we are in fact on the track of something of the kind.' 'You are?' exclaimed the sympathetic listener. 'That would be great—real unique, I suppose. But I don't quite take it home, you know.' Actually he was only bridging conversation out of politeness to a guest. All the treasure of the Indies was of less interest than Vangoor's moves just then. 'Perhaps it sounds too good to be true, but Vangoor is thoroughly convinced, and he is exceptionally well up on the subject and has a veritable craze for digging.' 'Go on,' said Carrados mechnically. For one concentrated moment he even forget his American citizenship in the blinding inspiration that cleft without warning, shapeless but at the same time essentially complete, into his mind. 'I'm tremendously intrigued.' 'Nothing is known of Epiovanus beyond the existence of a unique copper coin reading EPIOV. REX. But among the country-people back in the valleys here—the peasants and labourers in whose names you can trace a Saxon ancestry—you will often get a shamefaced admission that they have "heard tell" from their grandfathers of a golden coffin containing the bones of a great chief. But where? That was the difficulty, Mr Munroe. But, to cut short a long story—nearly two thousand years long, in fact—I may say that we have at last linked up the golden coffin legend with Epiovanus, Epiovanus with this part of the land, and now, finally, Vangoor has established that the solitary mound on Headlam Height is undoubtedly an early British sepulchural barrow of very unusual size and importance.' 'Headlam Height?' 'It is a small, rugged promontory a mile or two along the coast here. The barrow is almost on the edge of the land, for the cliff has been falling away for ages—indeed, in another fifty years or less the tumulus would have gone over and whatever it contains been dumped into the sea.' 'And you have opened it?' 'We have made a start. There was considerable difficulty in fixing up a reasonable arrangement at first. You would think it a simple and harmless enough undertaking, but there was the lord of the manor to be approached, the landlord to be got round, and the farmer—well, he had to be bought over, and I am sorry to say that Vangoor in his scientific zeal has in the end promised him the greater part of his own share.' 'Of the golden coffin?' remarked Mr Carrados. 'A very weighty argument.' 'Well, of course, we should hope to retain the best things for the Museum, but there would have to be some pecuniary adjustment. If it turns out at all as we anticipate, the find would create a stir beyond anything of the kind before—at least, it would have done if it hadn't been for this wretched war.' 'It opens dazzling possibilities,' admitted the blind man. 'Have you found anything yet?' 'Nothing important but plenty of encouraging trifles—burnt bones and other remains of a funeral feast, fragments of pottery, and so on. We have only been at work a fortnight, and partly from motives of economy, but more because of the extreme care that must be taken, Vangoor has done nearly all the work himself.' 'Driving a tunnel from the shore side?' suggested Mr Carrados. 'Why, yes,' admitted the curator, looking rather surprised, 'but surely you haven't heard it spoken of?' 'Not at all,' Carrados hastened to assure him. 'Merely an interested guess.' 'I hoped it wasn't getting about generally or we shall have all sorts of prying busybodies up there. As it is, we have railed off the part and placarded it "Dangerous"—which it really is. But it struck me as curious you saying that, because at first we thought of making a sectional cutting right down. Then it was only after trials that Vangoor found the seaward side the safest to tunnel in.' When Carrados decided that there was nothing more of value to be learned—a few aimless remarks elicited this—the conversation imperceptibly slid off to other and less personal themes. The wary investigator had no wish to stir the suggestion that he was curious about Vangoor, and, indeed, the impression that Mr Lidmarsh took away with him was that his host's real hobby in life was the promulgation of phonetic reform. But what had before been merely a general precautionary suspicion on the blind man's part had now fined down to a very definite conviction, and from whichever side he approached the problem the road led to Headlam Height His first impulse was to investigate that secluded spot at once, but a moment's reflection suggested that the chance of encountering Vangoor there was too substantial to be risked at that stage of the quest. Mr Byles's rather burlesque intervention now began to wear another and a more important face. Was it possible that the disgruntled caretaker knew anything definite of what was going on at Headlam Height? 'This is your affair, Parkinson, and you ought to know all that I do,' said Mr Carrados five minutes later, as he retold Lidmarsh's disclosure. 'On the one hand we have a harmless Dutch scientist, wholly taken up with investigating a lonely burial mound; on the other a dangerous German spy, constructing to some hostile end a retreat that directly overlooks the Channel while it is itself cunningly hidden from every point of land. What do you think about it?' 'I apprehend that we ought to be prepared for the latter eventuality, sir,' replied Parkinson sagely. 'I quite agree with you,' assented his master, with all the air of receiving a valuable suggestion. 'We will stroll round by the Market Square, as any casual visitors might before turning in. If we encounter Mr Byles it may lead to something further. If not, another time will do.' They made their leisurely perambulation, but nothing came of it. Not only did they fail to encounter Mr Byles but the small curtained upper windows that inevitably suggested his modest suite of rooms displayed no light. The two outstanding hypotheses had to be dismissed, for William had never been an early sleeper in the past, while the public-houses had now been closed some time. Plainly there was nothing left but to retrace their steps. 'Tomorrow morning we will come again,' arranged Mr Carrados. 'Fortunately the Museum will be open as usual, so that William cannot very well elude us. Afterwards ... I expect it will be Headlam Height.' 'Tomorrow' was the last day of peace—Monday, the 3rd of August, and thereby a bank holiday. 'Five Nations at War', 'Invasion of France', and 'British Naval Reserves Mobilized', ran the burden of the morning papers. It was no longer a question of peace trembling in the balance: it was merely the detail of when it would kick the beam. But 'Business as usual' was now held to be the thing; and Castlemouth's business being largely that of providing amusement for its visitors, there was very little indication of stress or crisis on its joyous sands or along its glittering front that day. At the railway station perhaps the outward trains were crowded and the inward ones were light, while in every chatting group a single word prevailed, but so far Castlemouth was resolved to take war peacefully. 'I believe, sir,' reported Parkinson, as they crossed the Market Square—'I believe that the place is closed.' 'The Museum, you mean?' 'Yes, sir. The outer doors are certainly shut.' 'Curious. I made a point of asking about today. Mr Lidmarsh was explicit.' 'There is Mr Lidmarsh, sir. He has just come up. He is fastening a paper to the door.' Carrados's heart gave a thud, but his pace did not alter, and the curator, looking up, judged the meeting accidental. 'Oh, Mr Munroe,' he exclaimed, 'this is a shocking business. Have you heard?' 'Not a solitary word,' replied the blind man. 'What is it?' 'Poor Byles. He was found dead on the shore this morning.' 'Where?' dropped from Mr Carrados's lips. A good deal might depend on that. 'Just below Headlam Height, I understand. "", and all that, you know, but the man certainly had himself largely to blame, I fear. He wasn't supposed to know anything about our work up there, but he had evidently got wind of something. He was a curious, secretive old fellow, and, as I read it, he went up there in the dark last night, and, prying about, he either slid on the slippery grass or did not see the edge. And late at night Byles was sometimes just a little—you understand? However, we have closed the Museum today as a mark of respect. But of course if you want to go in—' 'Thank you,' replied Mr Carrados, 'but I guess not. I was thinking.... Where have they put him?' 'In the mortuary close by. He's fearfully knocked about. He had a couple of rooms up there'—indicating the windows Parkinson had observed the night before—'but he has no wife or people; and in any case the mortuary is the proper place. There'll have to be an inquest, of course; I've sent Vangoor to make inquiries now.' 'I was thinking'—he had undoubtedly been thinking, but he had not yet had time to review every possibility—'this Byles did me a service as we left the Museum on Saturday—saved me perhaps from what might have been a nasty fall—and a few friendly words passed afterwards. And now.... Dear me; how sad! ... Well, I'm not up in the customs of your sarcophagi, but if a trifling bouquet—Why, I've a notion that I'd like to.' This impressed Mr Lidmarsh with the sentimentality of masculine America—an attribute he had frequently heard it credited with. 'Why, of course,' he replied, 'there could be no difficulty about that if you wish it. But did you mean—right now?' The last two words were in the nature of a spontaneous tribute to the visitor's nationality. 'Sure. You see, I might have moved on tomorrow or the day after. There seems to be a flower store open that we passed just back—' Even as he purchased the sheaf of lilies to lay on William Byles's shroud, Carrados was not altogether free from an illusion of sharing a rather exquisite joke with that mordant individual. How would William have regarded the touching act on the part of his old employer? By whatever means it reached his insight the blind man's mind immediately envisioned the flashlight of a tight-closed humid eye and a nose and finger placed in close conjunction. But, in truth, Carrados had felt the necessity of investigating further, and no other excuse occurred to him at once. He could hardly affect that he wished to see the doorkeeper once more.... The sudden intuition that Parkinson was tentatively regarding a wreath of white moss-roses hastened their departure. 'One curious feature is the time this must have happened,' remarked Mr Lidmarsh as they walked on. 'He was found by the merest chance early this morning—almost as soon as it was light, in fact—and his clothing was not wet. That shows that he could not have fallen down before midnight at any rate. Now, whatever possessed the man to be there at that hour when nothing could be seen? He had the whole of Sunday on his hands if he wished to look about.' 'Singular, isn't it?' assented Carrados. 'No one saw him up there, I take it?' 'Oh, no—at least we have heard of no one. Who would be likely to be there? Even Vangoor doesn't dig on Sunday—he wouldn't think it right.' The mortuary proved to be quite near—a corner of the market hall in fact. Mr Lidmarsh procured the key from the police station, with no more formality than a neighbourly greeting on either side, and Carrados was free to perform his thoughtful office. The body lay, outlined beneath a single covering, on one of the two stone benches that the place contained. On the other were arranged the dead man's clothes, with the few trumpery belongings that his pockets had yielded set out beside them. 'They told me that his watch, purse, and keys were taken for safety to the station,' remarked their guide, as Carrados's understanding hands moved lightly to and fro. 'The rest is of no consequence.' 'String, pipe, tobacco-box, matches, small folding measure, odd cuff-link, silver mariner's compass, handkerchief,' checked off the leisurely fingers. 'How stereotyped we he-things are: my own pockets would show almost the same collection—in a liberal sense, of course.' 'It is rather odd about the book,' volunteered the curator, pointing to a worn volume of pocket size. It was lying a little apart, and apparently the gesture was for Carrados's eyes to follow—and strangely enough they did seem to follow, for he picked up the book unfalteringly. 'It was still tightly held in Byles's hand when he was found. Now, why should the man be holding a book in his hand—one that would obviously go into his pocket—on a dark night? If there was any mystery about the case I suppose this ought to be one of the clues that those wonderful detectives we read about, but never meet in real life, would unravel the secret by.' Mr Carrados laughed appreciatively as he turned the pages of the book. ',' he read aloud. 'At all events this throws some light on the literary calibre of our departed friend.... The only thing that would seem to be missing from the average pocket is a pen-knife.' 'Pen-knife?' repeated Mr Lidmarsh looking about. 'To be sure he had a knife generally; I've seen it often enough. Well, I don't suppose it matters—a shilling at the outside.' Everything had been seen—everything except the chief 'exhibit' lying beneath the merciful coverlet. The curator understood that his new friend relied chiefly on a highly-trained sense of touch—he had marvelled more than once during this short intercourse at what it told—but he was hardly prepared to see Mr Carrados raise the sheet and begin to pass his hand over the—his own eyes perforce went elsewhere—over the dreadful thing which the day before had been William Byles's face. 'I think,' said the blind man, turning away suddenly, 'that this is rather too much—' His left hand came into contact with his attendant's sleeve and Parkinson felt himself detained by a robust grasp. 'Is there anywhere, Mr Lidmarsh, where ... a glass of water?' 'Yes, yes.' Almost with a feeling of self-reproach that he had allowed the mishap Mr Lidmarsh was off to the nearest house. He ought to have warned.... 'The book, Parkinson,' said Carrados in his usual easy tone, and before Parkinson (who would carry his own blend of simplicity and shrewdness to the grave) quite knew what was happening,  had disappeared into his master's coat pocket. 'I don't think that there is anything more to detain us here,' remarked the strategist dispassionately. 'We may as well await our friend outside.' He closed the door, locked it, and took out the key in readiness. When Mr Lidmarsh returned with the water he found Carrados seated on a market truck. 'I am glad you came away from the ghastly place,' he declared. 'I ought to have thought of that.' Still accusing himself of some remission, he insisted on accompanying the two half-way through the town and hoped that they might meet again. As they stood there, exchanging these amiable formalities, an acquaintance of the curator's passed along on the other side of the road and could not forbear to give the news. 'The Germans have invaded Belgium,' he called across. 'They've just got it at the post office. I bet that means we're in the soup!' 'What happened, Parkinson, is as clear as day,' explained Mr Carrados. 'The important thing now is to decide what to do ourselves.' They were seated in the private sitting-room at 'Abbotsford,' a table between them and on the table, with Mr Carrados's eerie fingers never long away from it, the copy of . 'We know from Byles's own lips that he only had a general suspicion of Vangoor's business here. Doubtless last night he watched the secluded cottage, and when Jan crept out about midnight he followed him to Headlam Height. Or, of course, he may have gone there earlier and waited. Evidently he did not know what he was going to see or he would have gone better prepared. As it was he had no pencil and he had no proper paper.... We are overdue at Headlam Height, Parkinson.' 'Yes, sir,' acquiesced the model confederate. 'Obviously there is some ground from which Vangoor's signals can be seen, carefully as he has planned his burrow. Byles saw something, and recognizing the importance of what he saw he tried to take it down. These cuts and pricks made with a pocket-knife (which we shall doubtless find up there) on the covers of this book represent quite intelligently a rendering of morse. What that meant he did not know; what this means we do not know, but Byles has done his bit and passed on the responsibility to us.' 'I think I appreciate the obligation, sir. Mr Vangoor should not be allowed to remain at large.' 'That is the difficulty. We can have a spy snapped up and possibly hanged for murder, or, what would be simpler, he might slip on Headlam Height—in the same way that William Byles did. But we must not lose sight of the fact that the man has been signalling out to sea. That definitely suggests a submarine—a submarine lying off Pentland Harbour, full of battleships. What has he signalled, and, if we give him rope, ?' The blind man came to his feet and strode to the window, where before him lay the broad waters of the Channel still carrying their wealth of shipping—the panorama he would never see again. Seldom before had Parkinson known his master so visibly concerned as he stood there in the hot sunlight, moodily beating his palm with the thin edge of the book. 'Here in my hand are the very words he flashed—the key to every other message he may send—and we cannot read a letter of it. The system is capable of a thousand changes and ten thousand shifts of code. And the time is slipping by. It's maddening, maddening....Suggest something, Parkinson, there's a good fellow.' Parkinson might be conscious of a complete mental destitution at that moment, but he had never yet failed to comply with an order reasonably given. 'I recollect, sir, reading about a Bristol baker who murdered his wife because she had been communicating with a young gentleman by means of secret marks on the rolls delivered at the house. He discovered—' 'Enough!' exclaimed Mr Carrados, making for the writing-table with his indecision vanished. 'That's it. You were inspired, Parkinson. Clifton Baker, of course!' 'Thank you, sir,' replied Parkinson, much gratified. In those days the name of Clifton Baker appeared on the frosted glass of the outer door belonging to a small top-floor office in Chancery Lane. There was nothing more to indicate who Clifton Baker was or the nature of the business carried on there. Few callers appeared at the dingy office, but those who did almost invariably left instructions to proceed, and as each order meant a substantial cheque eventually, Clifton might be assumed to be not so unsuccessful after all. In almost every case the new client experienced a mild shock on opening his business. Generally he had been sent there by a firm of responsible solicitors, and the matter on which he required assistance was confidential, extremely technical, and beyond the capacity of any other specialist. He expected to see—well, at all events he did not expect a slight, sallow-complexioned, glad-eyed, deep-browed young woman who dressed rather skittishly and struck him as being more than a shade rattle-pated. He might have left the commission somewhat dubiously, but he did leave it, and it was duly carried out: done to time, done as required, and done perfectly. At the age of fifteen Clifton Baker had made up her mind—a considerable achievement of itself in that era. At twenty-five she spoke all the most useful living languages and wrote the four most important dead ones. Eight letters (which she never by any chance used) after her hermaphroditic name were some evidence of a scientific grounding, while the recital of her attainments in the higher planes of mathematics made elderly professors who were opposed to the movement ooze profusely in the region of the collar. Then chance, in the shape of a baffling testamentary puzzle, threw destiny across her path, and on the assumption that there was room for one professional lady cryptologer in the world Clifton took an office and passed the word round among her friends. Up to that time the girl had never really done her hair, and she regarded boots merely as things to protect the feet. Suddenly it dawned on her that she was considered plain and that she diffused an atmosphere of intellectual frost. A morbid terror of being thought learned seemed from that moment to possess Clifton, and to make up for her neglected youth she began to outflap the veriest flapper in a stern resolve not to be taken seriously. Had she been less brilliantly efficient it might have ruined her business; had she been less impossibly absurd it would have spoiled her pleasure, but the two things simply antidoted one another. Everybody smiled indulgently and said how typical a product of the age Miss Baker was, and how hopeless it would be, except in this London of nineteen-dash, to look for such another. Thus it came about that Mr Greatorex, dutifully 'standing by' on Monday afternoon, was startled to receive a duplicated telegram as follows: 'Whew!' ejaculated Annesley, who was not altogether ignorant of the lady's personality, 'that puts the top-knot on the pan-lid with a vengeance! Bank holiday, too, ecog!' He went through the various rooms of the almost empty house vainly bleating for suggestions. 'Where on earth am I to find Clifton Baker, on this of all days, Auntie?' The housekeeper looked up over the top of her reading glasses a trifle dourly. She had a niece at school somewhere near Dinant.... 'What should you want Miss Baker for?' she asked. 'I don't want her; I fear and shun her. But Mr Carrados does. He's just wired.' 'Oh, that will be all right then. Well, my laddie, I can't tell you where Miss Baker is, but I can tell you this; if she's not verra hard at work somewhere she's somewhere verra hard at play.' It was at breakfast-time that Greatorex delivered her. Mr Carrados was standing in the loggia of the Hotel Beverley when a not unfamiliar sound claimed his attention. It announced to him the arrival of his own touring car, and the next moment a squeal of maidenly delight indicated that Miss Baker had espied him. 'You monster!' she exclaimed vivaciously, while a dozen yards away. 'To inveigle me into travelling all night with that delightfully wicked-looking young secretary of yours! I declare I don't know what people will say when I get back.' 'I thought it better to bring her down by car, sir,' explained Annesley in an aside of moody resignation. 'I only dug her out at something past eleven last night, and all the trains are at sixes and sevens just now.' 'Quite right,' assented Carrados. 'I suppose you can be ready for breakfast in about ten minutes, Miss Baker?' Clifton drooped one eyelid thoughtfully as she considered this—a device she had lately taken up. 'Do I really require breakfast?' she confided to the hotel front generally. 'Mr Greatorex was most attentive all the way. He insisted on stopping at a charmingly romantic cabman's shelter somewhere, at five o'clock this morning, and we had a surfeit of hot cocoa and currant buns. I simply can't imagine why he should take such enormous care of small me.' 'I think I'll go up and wash, sir,' announced Mr Greatorex abruptly, 'if you don't require me just now.' 'Not until after breakfast,' said Carrados. 'In the meanwhile Miss Baker and I will talk business.' Breakfast at a little table in the Fountain Court provided an opportunity (the discovery of filleted sole  restored Clifton's appetite), for the hotel was no longer full.... 'Yes, I see,' nodded the girl at intervals, forgetting to be coy, and Carrados deployed the facts. When he had finished she held out her hand for the transcript of the message that he had already made. 'H'm. It looks rather hopeless, doesn't it, Mr Carrados?' she remarked professionally. 'When do you want it by?' 'Three o'clock if possible,' he replied brazenly. 'Six o'clock in any case.' Clifton gave a little shriek of young-ladylike dismay. 'Mercy! Today?' she exclaimed. 'Why, you dear creature, do you know—' 'I know what you can do when you like,' he got in. 'And I know that perhaps it can't be done at all, sir.' 'And I know that Edgar Allan Poe said—' 'He said nothing about doing it in six hours.' Miss Baker had had that celebrated dictum quoted to her quite often enough to be able to dispense with it. 'Are you sure that you have even got this morse the right way up?' 'Yes, I can guarantee you that. But the message certainly begins incomplete and it probably ends so.' 'In German, we assume? Oh, yes; I think it must be. Well—' 'I knew you would. My sitting-room here is at your disposal. You'll find most things you may require already there. Anything else—' 'By the way, was there no later message sent? What was the man doing last night? 'No. I have him watched now, of course. Last night after leaving the Museum he was at Pentland until quite late, and returning he went home and stayed there.' 'Then I should like a full list of the warships in Pentland Harbour, recent sailings, and those expected, please. The "Navy List" I suppose you have here?' 'Good girl!' smiled Carrados approvingly. 'You shall have it if it's humanly possible. If I am caught in the act and my motives doubted I shall certainly be shot at dawn—and you will be transported.... Will they insist on blindfolding me, I wonder? Probably.... Regulations, you know, Miss Baker. Nothing else?' 'No, thank you.' Clifton still wriggled about the open door of the private room. 'Well—please keep Mr Greatorex away while I am busy, won't you? He will be sure to want to bring me ices and things like that; he's so absurd, poor boy!' So much for that particular Clifton Baker. About three o'clock Carrados tapped lightly on his own door and a very faint voice bade him enter. Clifton was lying prostrate on the couch, a napkin round her head, and the reek of eau-de-Cologne filling the room. A single written sheet of paper was on the table near her—but there were more than a hundred others, torn across, littering the floor. Without a word she picked up the single sheet and, rattling it slightly to call his attention, held it towards him. 'You have?' he exclaimed, scarcely daring to believe it. 'You are really a wonderful woman, Clifton. This is splendid.' Neatly set out on the paper were three separate details—the alphabet in morse code as she had finally resolved it; the message William Byles had intercepted (including three textual errors to be discounted), as it was sent in German; and the same rendered into English. '"— — — instruction. Your presence not yet suspected.  and  left today for unknown.  for repairs expected tonight. Supply arrangements stand, VJ.372 will be trawling — — —"' he read aloud. 'Yes; we have it now. Mr Vangoor's bulletin tonight should be more interesting still.' 'I think you really are a wonderful man, Mr Carrados,' retorted Clifton, watching his shifting fingers as he touched her firm, bold handwriting word after word without a pause. 'I suppose you always get your way? I wonder what you are going to do with me now?' 'I am going to prescribe a cup of tea at once, an early dinner, and twelve hours' good solid sleep after all this excitement. Tomorrow I shall pack you off back to town by the car again, with Mr Greatorex to beguile the way.' 'Oh, please, please, please, Mr Max!' wailed Clifton in appealing tones. 'Can't you leave Mr Greatorex here and come instead? I should feel ever so much safer with you in these dreadful times!' But Mr Max laughed indulgently and shook his head. He had heard Miss Baker at work before. 'Not yet, I'm afraid,' he said. 'I am here for another fish, only Vangoor came along. And while I remember'—he took a slip of tinted paper from his wallet and held it out—'I hope that will be all right.' 'Oh, Mr Carrados,' she tittered. 'Ought I to, really? It doesn't seem at all like business with ! I hope no one will think—' 'I should like you to—it's certainly well earned,' he said. 'But, of course,' he added maliciously, 'if you prefer the satisfaction of serving your country for nothing you can always burn the cheque.' 'Burn it!' shrieked Clifton, scrambling the paper into her handbag. 'And my visit to the Cosmo-Croxtons in Scotland only ten days off! Why, you delightfully opportune being, this means four new frocks to me!' 'Well, make the most of them,' he advised, a trifle grimly. 'There won't be any country-house parties next year.' 'Why ever not?' 'When you wake up tomorrow you will find that we are at war. Before long most of your fair friends will be wearing white caps and aprons—or black dresses.' Carrados had quite intended to climb up to Headlam Height on Monday afternoon, he had fully determined to do so on Tuesday morning, but each time the more important post lay elsewhere. When, therefore, taking Parkinson with him, he turned his inquiring footsteps in that direction after leaving Miss Baker, it was his first reconnaissance. 'Admirably chosen, Parkinson,' he remarked as they made the circuit of the acre or so of grass and heather that comprised the Height. 'No path or roadway near; cut off from Castlemouth's view by cliffs, and not a house or habitation in sight anywhere.... And this thing may really be an early British grave for all that we can say.' 'Yes, sir,' agreed Parkinson. 'I have always understood that the early natives of these parts were peculiar in their habits. But if I may mention it, sir, the ground here is very broken and there is little beyond a crevice, almost a yard wide, between us and the edge.' 'Quite right,' assented the other, turning back; 'we must be careful. The British Empire doesn't exactly hang on us today, but a British ironclad may. I suppose that crevice was the unfortunate William's retreat—there seems no other cover that would serve up here. We have a better arrangement for tonight. Now for the excavation.' A couple of rough balks of timber across the entrance were the only barrier. The tumulus itself rose to nearly thirty feet, and the cutting was sufficiently roomy for a tall man to stand in. 'Are we to imagine that our enthusiastic friend contemplated driving an unpropped tunnel clean through?' reflected Mr Carrados, touching the loose earth sides. 'What does the view seaward give us, Parkinson?' 'There is a flat-topped rock visible a little way out at sea, and, farther away, the extremity of Pentland Rump—as I understand it is designated, sir.' Privately, Parkinson thought the name lacking in delicacy, and he wished to make it clear that the expression was none of his. 'Aye. And the extremity of Pentland Rump and the flat-topped rock line this point of course. Ah, what have we here?' Evidently the excavator's tools, piled at the far end of the tunnel and covered with tarpaulin: a spade, a pick, a riddle, a wheelbarrow, rope, and the usual odds and ends—that was all; no, there remained a wooden tripod, such as may serve a score of uses, lying with the rest—a tripod with rough, substantial wooden legs but a nicely-finished metal top. Smooth metal is rather pleasant to the touch, and the blind man's hand lingered on its construction thoughtfully. 'We must put all these back just as they were,' he observed, busying himself. 'Parkinson!' There was no answer for a moment; then Parkinson appeared at the entrance to the tunnel. 'I was looking out beyond the mound, sir. I felt apprehensive.... There is someone coming.' Carrados replaced the last tool and rearranged the covering. 'Von Groot?' he asked quietly. 'Yes, sir.' The two timbers fell into their proper places; everything was as they had found it. They stood, hidden from the land side by the mass of earth rising above them. 'How far off is he?' said Carrados. 'Nearly half a mile, sir. I saw him with the glasses on the skyline of the hill we had to cross. That means ten minutes yet.' 'He may have seen you also.' 'I was careful to keep in the shadow of the mound. I don't think you need entertain that, sir.' 'It doesn't matter.' For once the blind man's voice had lost its wonted suaveness. 'I've made a hash of it this time, Parkinson. I took it for granted that he'd not venture on anything before it was night again. We were prepared to deal with that, but he's going to steal a march on us. He isn't waiting for the dark—he's going to heliograph. We can stop him, of course,' he went on, sensing the unspoken question; 'we shall have to stop him. But we lose the message and whatever hangs upon it. No matter how plausibly we put him off it now, after finding us up here he won't risk it again—not on the top of William Byles's affair.' 'Excuse me, sir,' volunteered Parkinson, 'but I see no reason why we should not attempt to obtain the message still.' 'We—how?' demanded Carrados sharply. 'I understand, sir, that the system is merely a succession of long and short flashes of a mirror, and that one may commit it to paper without any understanding of the meaning.' 'Quite so—as William doubtless did. But where are you going to see it from?' Parkinson's backward nod indicated the crevice on the very edge of the sheer precipice. 'I think it might succeed, sir.' 'No, no,' exclaimed Carrados, with a sharp pang of misgiving in his voice; 'it would be madness in broad daylight. Besides, here am I—' 'There are suitable clumps of gorse a little way back, sir. I anticipate that you would be quite safe there, or I would not suggest it, sir. And lying in the crevice I could watch through the grass and heather.' 'I can't allow it,' insisted Carrados, moved by the horror of what he saw impending. 'The man discovered Byles there ever in the dark, and we know how that encounter ended. No, Parkinson, I won't have you sacrificed in the forlorn hope of patching up my bungle.' 'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Parkinson, without a hair's deviation from his invariable tone of dignified respect, 'but I was not thinking of you—or of myself. I understand that we are on the point of war, sir, and that if we lose this message it may involve a misfortune to our arms. And I must remind you, sir, that yesterday you described this affair as mine.' 'By heaven, you have me there!' exclaimed his master, in an access of fine emotion. 'Go if you must—and God go with you!' 'The gorse, sir.' Parkinson took his arm and began to hurry him across the slope that led from the Height to the rolling land behind. 'I must be satisfied that you are safe there first.' 'Not so fast.' Carrados checked his pace to the deliberate walk at which he tried the unfamiliar. 'I may need to know this ground again.' His hand went to a pocket and came out with something in it. 'You are the one to have this now.' 'I would rather not, sir', if I may say so,' declared Parkinson with naive reluctance. 'I have never discharged a firearm in my life and the consequences might be unpropitious.' So Carrados retained the weapon, and a moment later he was lying in a natural bower of undergrowth, listening to the swish and crackle of Parkinson's diminishing footsteps. It was perhaps three minutes before any sound other than the cheeping of a linnet or the rasping of a dead leaf on its bough reached the straining ears. Then, away on the left, Carrados heard the approaching beat of a heavy foot. There was little chance of reading any of the subtler indications on that luxuriant carpet, but the blind listener interpreted haste and the strain of an alert caution. The intruder passed within ten yards of the unsuspected lair—within easy pistol-shot, and the steady hand went again to the pocket, but this time it came out empty. From the direction of the mound no sound came through; the day was drowsy, with occasional puffs of warm air and the smell of honey, and time began to hang like lead. 'He must get on, from every point of view,' argued Carrados to pass the seconds. 'Five minutes to fix the rig, ten more to send his message, five to pack up. Heavens! it seems an hour already.' He touched the fingers of his watch and found that barely twelve minutes had gone. 'But that's only if the submarine is here. He may have to wait.... At any rate, he hasn't spotted Parkinson at the outset or I should have heard something.' And then, as if his action had been a continuation of the unspoken words, Carrados was on his feet and racing across the glacis. He had heard 'something,' and that sound the echo of his worst forebodings, for the sharp crack of a pistol had whipped the flagging afternoon—and that could mean one thing only. It was with this return in view that the blind man had marked his way, and he covered the ground with confidence, making directly for the barrow. When the difference of the air against his face told him that he was by it he dropped into a walk and moved with caution. Beyond it he was in full view, and the sheer drop hardly twenty yards away. Everything was now poised on the edge of chance. 'Damn!' came the low murmur to his ear. '' It was not the time to ask for explanations. Carrados—conscious even then of the irony of the phrase—had to take the risk. As he once stopped to explain to Monsieur Dompierre, upon an occasion less hurried but quite as tense, he aimed by sound and practised round a watch. He fired now into the centre of the 'Damn!' and on the overhanging lip of the cliff there was a little scurry of movement among the loose stones and earth. He did not fire again. He waited, listening.... 'Parkinson!' he called, without moving from the spot. 'Parkinson, are you—' There was no response. The disturbed sea-gulls wheeled overhead, raising a plaintive clamour at the violation of their homes; a string of swift shorebirds cleft a zigzag course right out to sea; at his feet the untroubled bees continued in their humble toil. 'Gone!' whispered the blind man to himself. 'Gone, and I'm left alone. The best fellow—Good heavens!' From the bowels of the earth, apparently, a wild echoing sound had come with startling suddenness—a sound so truculent and formless that it baffled perception. The next moment it revealed itself: a human being had sneezed with appalling vigour. 'Parkinson!' exclaimed Carrados, dropping on hands and knees and crawling to the crevice. 'Where the devil are you?' 'I'm down here, sir,' replied the welcome voice from somewhere below. 'I was unable to reply when you called before as I was on the point of sneezing. The dust, sir—' 'Wait; don't try to get out,' directed his master. 'I'll get that rope.' It was the rope that Mr Vangoor had thoughtfully provided to give an air of conviction to his labours. By its aid Parkinson was soon hauled to safety. Once there he looked apprehensively around. 'Has anything happened to Mr Vangoor, sir?' 'Yes,' replied Carrados. 'He was too talkative. If you do not see anything of him about we must conclude that he has gone down the same way William Byles went.... What happened to ' 'Unfortunately, when he had finished his message the gentleman seemed to be looking my way. I endeavoured to obliterate myself more thoroughly and evidently attracted his attention. I infer that he was rather nervous, sir, for he shot at me without saying a word.' 'If only he'd had the sense to do that in my case we might both be in Kingdom Come now.' 'Yes, sir? I may say that I didn't like it, sir, and as he fired I made a considerable effort to get down still lower. I imagine that something must have given, for the next moment I found myself wedged in some twenty feet down. I believe that the gentleman was much concerned what to do next as he could not discover me.... What is that?' 'Back!' cried Carrados. 'The cliff is going!' The cliff, as Mr Lidmarsh had remarked, had been going for centuries—going by inches, by feet, or by yards. Possibly William Byles's activity had started a movement that Parkinson's struggles had consummated; perhaps, even, the pistol-shots had vibrated a responsive tremor. Now the cliff face—all the ground beyond the fissure—began to fall rigidly away from Headlam Height, as a ladder falls; then, as its base gave way, to change and to collapse, in hundreds of tons of shattered rock, upon the beach. In Castlemouth it was thought that the war had begun. 'Excellent,' remarked Carrados, when voices could be heard again. 'That should save much inconvenient inquiry about Mr Vangoor's unfortunate end. I suppose, Parkinson, that any notes you made are down there also?' 'No, sir. I managed to get the notebook back into my pocket. I trust that my efforts will have been adequate.' 'That is easily proved. If you really have got the message, Parkinson, you will deserve a knighthood.' 'Thank you, sir, but I hope you won't mention it to anyone. It would be very uncongenial to me to become notorious in any way.' Carrados laughed as he took the notebook. Then he sat down at the base of the mound, and with Miss Baker's key before him he began to test the notation. 'Yes,' he reported presently, 'you seem to have hit it off all right, "" this begins.' 'I beg your pardon, sir?' 'It's in German of course—"War declaration". I'll give you the whole thing in a few minutes.' 'You left your hat in the gorse, sir,' said Parkinson thoughtfully. 'I will get it while you are engaged.' 'Thank you—do,' murmured Mr Carrados, again deep in the code. 'Now what—oh, "", of course.' When Parkinson returned—he had taken the opportunity to wisp himself down—Carrados was already on his feet and impatient to get away. 'We don't want to be here when the town comes out to find what the row was about,' he explained. 'We are not going to appear in this, Parkinson. We will make a wide detour—in fact, we may as well make Pentland direct while we are about it.' 'Very well, sir.' 'The message—you only got two letters wrong, which was better than William and less important, of course, as we have the code now. Well, here it is: 'The  it was to have been, Parkinson.' 'Yes, sir. What had we better do now, sir?' 'Nothing, practically. We have done. At Pentland I shall hand this over to the naval authorities with so much explanation as they may desire. It will then rest with them to do the doing. I venture to predict that  will not leave the western harbour at one a.m. by the Viking Channel. At the same time I think that a rendezvous will be kept. But so far as we are concerned it is . You, Parkinson, have already done your bit.' 'Thank you, sir,' replied Parkinson, entirely satisfied.