Murder of the Nineth Baronet E-Book

J.S. Fletcher

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Stephen Maxtondale summoned two detectives to investigate the disappearance of the man who claimed to be his lost older brother. The victim appears in the family of Stephen, 30 years old, but then disappears again. One of the reasons for the robbery is the sacrifice of the victim. Can detectives find the victim?

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. GONE!—BUT WHERE?

CHAPTER II. SEDBURY MANOR

CHAPTER III. MRS. ROBBINS TALKS

CHAPTER IV. THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW

CHAPTER V. DUTCHMAN’S CUT

CHAPTER VI. THE SUSPECT DISAPPEARS

CHAPTER VII. DIAMONDS!

CHAPTER VIII. THE RESTAURANT CAR

CHAPTER IX. POWER OF THE PRESS

CHAPTER X. THE PANAMA HAT

CHAPTER XI. THE SERVANTS’ HALL

CHAPTER XII. WARRINER’S WHARF

CHAPTER XIII. MALMESBURY MANSIONS

CHAPTER XIV. THE NIGHT-CLUB

CHAPTER XV. CONSULTATION AND REVELATION

CHAPTER XVI. THE TWO TELEGRAMS

CHAPTER XVII. LADY SYBIL’S BRIDGE

CHAPTER XVIII. BATTY ONCE MORE

CHAPTER XIX. THE CORONER TAKES OVER

CHAPTER XX. THE SAW

CHAPTER XXI. MR. PILSEY’S SHOP

CHAPTER XXII. BLOODHOUNDS

CHAPTER XXIII. THE AMBASSADOR’S CUPBOARD

CHAPTER XXIV. BOLTED, BARRED, SHUTTERED

CHAPTER XXV. GRANDMOTHER’S BUREAU

CHAPTER I. GONE!–BUT WHERE?

Chaney and I first heard of the mysterious disappearance of Sir John Maxtondale on the morning of May 15, 1923. About half past nine o’clock, just as we were settling down to a discussion of our day’s business (in which, as it happened, there was nothing of any particular importance), Chippendale came into our room and announced Mr. Ellerthorpe. We knew Mr. Ellerthorpe; he was a well-known solicitor of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, having a considerable practice amongst county families, and we had occasionally done business with him. Up to that time, however, it had never been of any serious nature; none of its occasions, certainly, would have caused Mr. Ellerthorpe to present himself in person at our offices at that early hour of the forenoon, and hearing that he was there, we glanced at each other and at Chippendale with questioning eyes.

“He’s got a gentleman with him,” added Chippendale. “Swell!”

That was Chippendale’s way; he always sized up any stranger before approaching us as to entry.

“Bring them in,” said Chaney.

Mr. Ellerthorpe entered–hurriedly. He was a little inclined to be fussy, and he lost no time in wheeling round and indicating his companion, a tall, elderly man of the country-gentleman type, who looked at us and our surroundings with a detached, speculative air.

“Morning, morning!” began Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Glad to find you here–both. This is very urgent, important business. Allow me–Sir Stephen Maxtondale.”

We made our obeisances to Sir Stephen Maxtondale. Chaney rose from his desk and placed chairs.

“Yes, Mr. Ellerthorpe,” he said, resuming his own. “What is it?”

“Sir Stephen,” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe, “is a client of mine–a very old client. He came up to town last night to consult me. What he wished to consult me about–and did consult me about–is, well, a mystery! I am no good at the solution of mysteries–not in my line. So–”

“You came to us, Mr. Ellerthorpe,” said Chaney. “Well–and the mystery?”

Mr. Ellerthorpe glanced at his client. But Sir Stephen made no response.

“Well,” continued Mr. Ellerthorpe, “the fact is, it is a case of disappearance. Of–of somebody vanishing. Clean gone!”

“Yes?” said Chaney. “And–who is it that is clean gone?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Now, to give a really truthful reply to that question is beyond me! Not possible, at present. At–present, you understand? May be possible later. But–well, the disappearance is that of a–a person who says he is Sir John Maxtondale, elder brother of Sir Stephen.”

“Says?” questioned Chaney. “But–is he?”

Mr. Ellerthorpe and Sir Stephen Maxtondale exchanged glances.

“Er–he might be,” admitted Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Might!”

Chaney reached to a shelf at the side of his desk and took down a copy of the current Who’s Who. Silently he turned over its pages and presently looked up at Sir Stephen.

“I see you are the ninth holder of the title–the baronetcy?” he said.

“Yes,” replied Sir Stephen.

“Then–supposing this man of whom Mr. Ellerthorpe speaks to be what he claims to be–where does he come in?” asked Chaney.

“He would be the ninth,” replied Sir Stephen. He hesitated a moment. “If–if he is really what he says he is, he is the ninth baronet! I–in that case–have no claim. You see–”

He hesitated again, obviously at a loss. But, no one making any observation or asking a question, he went on:

“You see, we don’t know whether he ever did succeed or not. I mean, I don’t know if he succeeded his father–”

“Your father?” interrupted Chaney.

“Exactly! Perhaps I had better explain? The whole thing is a bit muddling to anyone not conversant–”

“That would be excellent, Sir Stephen. If you can make things clear–”

“Well, it’s like this. My father, Sir William Maxtondale, the eighth holder of the title, had two sons, my elder brother, John, and myself, Stephen. When John was about twenty-five years of age, and I three years younger, he had a very serious quarrel with my father; so serious that he left home–”

“A moment, Sir Stephen,” interrupted Chaney. “I am making mental notes–so, too, is my partner, Mr. Camberwell. Let us have all the details clear. By home, you mean your place in Warwickshire–Heronswood Park? Very well–now, what was the cause of the difference between your father and your brother?”

“This!” continued Sir Stephen. “John had fallen in love with, and wanted to marry, the daughter of one of our tenant farmers. My father positively forbade this match and no doubt threatened my brother with all sorts of dire consequences if he persisted in his intentions. So–”

“Again a moment. The estates–were they entailed?”

“No! They were absolutely at my father’s disposal.”

“Then he could have penalized your brother pretty heavily?”

“Yes, but since his coming of age John had been quite independent of my father. Our maternal grandfather had left him a lot of money, and in addition to that he had inherited my mother’s private fortune. He was well off.”

“Could–from a monetary point of view–do as he liked, eh?”

“Exactly. And–he did! As I say, he left home–for good. Disappeared!–without a word to anyone.”

“And the girl?”

“She disappeared, too, at the same time.”

“To join him, of course. Well?”

“Well, time went on, and we never heard anything of John. Nor did the girl’s people ever hear anything of her. Inquiries–of a tentative sort–were made on both sides, but nothing resulted. Then, eventually, my father died, and we began to search for John in earnest. We left no stone unturned–”

“I can speak as to that,” interrupted Mr. Ellerthorpe. “I engineered the inquiries. We advertised in every quarter of the globe; the bill for advertisements was enormous. We employed private inquiry agents–you weren’t in business at the time, Chaney, or I’d have employed you–and we never got one single scrap of information!”

“And so–?” asked Chaney.

“And so,” continued Mr. Ellerthorpe, taking up the story in response to a nod from Sir Stephen, “in due course the courts sanctioned an application to presume the death of John Maxtondale, and Sir Stephen here assumed the title. But–”

“What about the estates?” asked Chaney. “I presume Sir William had devised them to Sir Stephen?”

Once more Mr. Ellerthorpe and his client exchanged glances.

“Er–no!” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe. “The fact is, Sir William died intestate. He was always going to make a will, and never did. He died very suddenly.”

“Then–if John Maxtondale is alive–eh?” suggested Chaney.

“Exactly!” agreed Mr. Ellerthorpe. “You are quite right!”

“Let me know in plain words if I am right, though,” said Chaney. “Am I right in concluding that if John Maxtondale is alive, the estates and titles are his? Is that it?”

“That,” responded Mr. Ellerthorpe, gravely, “is it! They are!”

Chaney turned to me.

“Got it, Camberwell?” he asked. “All clear?”

“Clear enough!” I said. “I’ve got it–all!”

“Well,” continued Chaney, facing on our visitors again, “this man you spoke of at first? Is he the man you referred to as having disappeared?”

“Exactly,” replied Mr. Ellerthorpe. He turned to Sir Stephen. “You can tell that best,” he added.

“What I can tell,” responded Sir Stephen, “is just this. Yesterday afternoon, about three o’clock, my neighbour Mr. Henry Marston, of Sedbury Manor, who is just about my own age and has known me ever since we were all boys together, came to me with a strange story–he was very much agitated. He said that the previous evening there came to his house, very late, a man who, on securing an interview with him, announced himself as John Maxtondale. Now, my brother John and Henry Marston were old schoolfellows and had always, as boys, been very close friends, and their friendship had lasted until John’s disappearance–Marston, indeed, had been the very last person to see John before he went away so suddenly. Of course Marston had believed him dead, and he was of the opinion, at first, that this caller was an impostor. But within a few minutes, according to his own account, he began to think differently. He put certain very searching questions to his visitor, which were answered promptly and satisfactorily; moreover, knowing that John Maxtondale had a very peculiar birth-mark on his upper left arm, he got the man to turn up his sleeve–the birth-mark was there! Marston came to the conclusion that he had the real John Maxtondale before him.”

“Yes?” said Chaney, as Sir Stephen paused. “Well, did he give Mr. Marston any explanation of his movements during the time–a great many years!–that had elapsed since his disappearance?”

“He may have done; I can’t say,” replied Sir Stephen. “Marston was hurried, agitated; we only had a short interview. You see, he had rushed over to tell me that his visitor had disappeared.”

“Ah!–that’s the disappearance you came to tell us of?” said Chaney. “Well?”

“Marston says that after becoming convinced that the man before him really was John Maxtondale, he asked if he was staying in the neighbourhood and if he had been to me. He replied that he had come to Marston first–from the Waldorf Hotel in London, where he had been living for two or three weeks since his return to England. He had wanted to see Marston first, he said, before seeing any of his own family, but he proposed calling on me next morning. On that, Marston asked him to stay the night with him at Sedbury. He did so. Next morning–that is, yesterday morning–Marston was obliged to go over to Monkseaton to a meeting of magistrates. He left home just after breakfast, first extracting a promise from his visitor that he would not go to Heronswood until his return, when they would go together. The visitor replied that he wouldn’t leave the house till Marston came back. But when Marston came back at one o’clock for lunch, he had gone. Marston’s butler said the gentleman had gone out about ten o’clock, saying he would have a look round the park and be back for lunch at one. But he never came in–and eventually Marston rode over to Heronswood and told me all about it. I returned with him to Sedbury, but we got no news, and late in the afternoon I telephoned to the Waldorf to ascertain if Mr. Maxton–the name he had told Marston he was going by–had returned there. They replied that though Mr. Maxton’s belongings were in his room, Mr. Maxton had gone out the day before and had not returned. So I at once caught the evening train to town, knocked up Mr. Ellerthorpe, and told him all about it. This morning at eight o’clock we called at the Waldorf Hotel; there was no news of Mr. Maxton. They allowed us to see his room. There is luggage there, showing–the labels, I mean–that he had recently travelled from South America to Southampton. We got no other information about him, except that a smoking-room waiter was able to tell us that a few days ago Mr. Maxton was twice visited in one day by a man who was evidently a Jew, well dressed, a sort of prosperous business man, the waiter said. Otherwise he was not known to have had any visitors, and there was no correspondence awaiting him. After leaving the Waldorf I telephoned to Marston; he replied that he had not heard anything. And so Mr. Ellerthorpe brought me to you.”

Chaney had listened to all this with silent attention. Now he put a straight question.

“It is only a few hours since this man–Sir John or not–disappeared,” he said. “Why are you so concerned about it? Tell me–do you fear something?”

“Yes!” replied Sir Stephen, promptly. “Foul play!”

“Why?”

Sir Stephen hesitated; hesitated, indeed, so long that Chaney spoke again.

“Don’t keep anything back, sir,” he said. “Better let us know everything.”

“I don’t care to incriminate anyone,” replied Sir Stephen, “but the fact is that when my brother left Heronswood, all those years ago, he left a bitter enemy behind him. That enemy is still living–and, I believe, is still as bitter and desirous of revenge as ever.”

“Yes,” said Chaney. “A man, of course?”

“Just so,” agreed Sir Stephen. “In fact, one of our tenant farmers.”

“Jilted suitor of the girl your brother ran off with, no doubt?” suggested Chaney.

“You are quite right in your surmise. That is precisely it!”

“What’s the man’s name?” asked Chaney.

“Robson–James Robson. He is tenant of our home farm–it has been in the occupancy of his family for two hundred years or more.”

“An elderly man, I presume, Sir Stephen?” suggested Chaney.

“He is about the same age as my brother John,” replied Sir Stephen. “Fifty-eight.”

“And you say that your brother ousted him in the affections of the girl who, you believe, ran away with your brother?”

“Robson, it was said, was formerly engaged to the girl. Whether she really did accompany my brother I can’t say positively. She disappeared at the same time that he did. Besides, John had told our father that he wanted to marry her–was deeply in love with her. Everything was very sudden–it all occurred in a few days. My father heard something–he spoke to John–they had a violent altercation–John left Heronswood. Then we heard that the girl had left her home, too.”

“And this man, James Robson? He took it badly?”

“Very! He was, of course, a young man then, and he was noted–and always has been noted–for his violent temper. He set off at once for London, in the endeavour to trace my brother and the girl. Whether he came upon any trace of them in London we never knew, but he went on from London to Paris, in a further search. He was away, trying to track them, for some weeks. When he returned, he preserved an obstinate silence, and he has kept it ever since. But at the time of my brother’s disappearance Robson declared publicly, at Monkseaton market, that if he had to wait thirty years, or forty years, or fifty years, he would kill John Maxtondale the first time they met. And–he meant it!”

“Has Robson ever married?”

“No! He is a silent, morose man, given, I should say, to brooding over this. He is a good tenant and a very clever farmer. But–I don’t think he has ever lived down his almost insane desire for revenge.”

“And you think it quite possible that he may have met your brother–if this man really is your brother, which seems very likely–when Sir John left Mr. Marston’s house yesterday morning, and–killed him?”

“I think it very possible. Our property and Mr. Marston’s adjoin–if my brother (and, as you say, I think it very likely that the man concerned is my brother) went across the park at Sedbury Manor, he would be on Robson’s land. They may have met.”

“You haven’t questioned Robson, Sir Stephen?”

“Oh, no, I have had no opportunity, and I don’t think I should have questioned him if I had. You see, I lost no time in coming up to see Mr. Ellerthorpe.”

“Why, now? What was the hurry?”

“I thought that if this man really was John, he might have called on Mr. Ellerthorpe. Mr. Ellerthorpe is our family solicitor. John, of course, knew him in the old days.”

“Sir John and I,” remarked Mr. Ellerthorpe, “are of an age.”

“Sir John hasn’t been to see you, Mr. Ellerthorpe? Just so–you know nothing of him–of his return? Very well. Now, gentlemen, what do you wish my partner and me to do?”

“If you would go down to Heronswood and get at the truth,” said Sir Stephen. “The matter must be cleared up. I am going down myself by the twelve o’clock from Euston to Monkseaton. Mr. Ellerthorpe is going with we. Will you go with us?”

Chaney glanced at me; I nodded my consent.

“We will both go,” said Chaney. “Euston, then–the twelve o’clock train.”

A moment later our two visitors had gone, and Chaney turned to me.

“Camberwell,” he said, “I know something about this matter that you don’t know. That Maxtondale estate in Warwickshire is worth about fifty thousand pounds a year!”

CHAPTER II. SEDBURY MANOR

I pricked up my ears at that; there was some hidden meaning in Chaney’s remark.

“Well?” I said. “What are you after, Chaney?”

“Fifty thousand a year is a lot of money,” he replied. “Even in these days, with income-tax and death-duties and estate-duties and all there is in the way of deductions, it’s a lot of money.”

“Still I don’t know what you’re after,” I repeated. “And how do you know the Maxtondale property represents such an income?”

“I remember the Maxtondale case being before the courts,” he answered. “I mean when they got leave to presume John Maxtondale’s death. Fifty thousand pounds was mentioned as the annual value of the property. Also, a few years ago, before I knew you, Camberwell, I had a case in that neighbourhood, and I heard a good deal about the family and its possessions. Old, very old family, settled there at Heronswood for three or four hundred years as country squires. Not so well off once upon a time, but of late–rolling!”

“What caused the change?” I asked.

“Coal, my son, coal! Found a splendid seam on the estate–have you never seen trucks with “Heronswood Colliery Company’ on ’em? That’s the nugget. And it’ll go on producing for many a generation yet.”

“Pity to have a coal-pit on a fine old property,” I remarked.

“Well, as it happens, Camberwell, the coal-pit doesn’t show–it’s hidden away from the house by thick woods. Very fine old place, Heronswood–I went over it while I was there. Pictures–books–old china and glass–old silver; that sort of thing. But you’ll see it for yourself today or tomorrow.”

“Then–you knew something about the Maxtondale family history before we heard Sir Stephen’s story just now?”

“Knew all about it, my son! But I wasn’t going to let Sir Stephen–Mr. Stephen, I suppose we should call him, though if John’s dead, he may be Sir Stephen, unless John had a son who’s living–know that I knew. I wanted to hear what he’d got to say.”

I made no remark on that; Chaney had his own way of doing things. He had also a wonderful store of knowledge of all sorts and was continually digging into it in a surprising and sometimes highly convenient fashion; the fact was that he had a remarkable memory and was always on the look-out for anything to treasure up for future reference.

“I suppose we’re going, then?” I said.

“Of course! Let’s put things shipshape, give Chip his orders, and get to Euston,” he replied. “Last thing, however, we’ll just phone the Waldorf and inquire if Mr. Maxton has been heard of there.”

We phoned the Waldorf Hotel at 11.30. No, Mr. Maxton had not returned. On that we repaired to Euston and met Sir Stephen Maxtondale and Mr. Ellerthorpe. Over lunch in the train we naturally fell to a further discussion of the disappearance. Mr. Ellerthorpe suddenly introduced a new theory.

“Since John Maxtondale disappeared from Heronswood, the colliery has been started,” he said. “It’s occurred to me that he would hear of this from Marston the other night. Now, supposing his curiosity led him, yesterday morning, to go and have a look at the pit and its workings? To get there from Marston’s place, Sedbury Manor, he would have to go through the woods which lie between Sedbury and Heronswood Park. And I believe”–here he turned to Sir Stephen for confirmation–“I believe that in those woods there are old trial workings–shafts?”

“Yes,” assented Sir Stephen.

“Supposing he fell down one of them?” suggested Mr. Ellerthorpe. “Not improbable.”

“Not very probable,” said Sir Stephen. “Fenced in, those places, or overgrown by now. I think my theory is more likely to be the correct one. Our home farm, Robson’s place,” he added, “is, though on our property, just at the foot of Marston’s park. Lonely place, too.”

“You stick to the Robson idea, Sir Stephen?” said Chaney.

Sir Stephen shook his head.

“I know Robson,” he answered. “He is the sort of man who, having once felt himself deeply wronged, would nurse his feelings of revenge assiduously. Instead of growing fainter with the passage of years, they’d wax stronger. The more I reflect on this affair, the more I feel convinced that my brother met Robson when he left Marston’s house yesterday morning.”

“We shall find that out, Sir Stephen,” said Chaney confidently. “By the by, who and what is Mr. Marston? Other than an old friend or acquaintance of yours, I mean.”

“Oh,” replied Sir Stephen, smiling, “there is nothing much that one could say about Henry Marston. A typical country squire–old bachelor–horses–dogs-hunting–shooting–cricketer, once–good company–assiduous in discharge of his duties as magistrate, and so on. That’s about all one can say.”

“And as far as you are aware, the last man to see the man who announced himself as John Maxtondale,” said Chaney. “We must see him first.”

“Not the last man,” corrected Sir Stephen. “The last man to see my brother–you observe that I am firmly convinced that it is John whose disappearance is in question–was Marston’s butler, Moysey.”

“We must see Moysey, too. But I want to know what your brother told Mr. Marston on his arrival at Sedbury Manor,” said Chaney. “I don’t suppose they went to bed there and then–Marston must know something about John Maxtondale’s doings during the years that had elapsed since leaving home.”

“My car will be in waiting at Monkseaton,” observed Sir Stephen. “We will drive out to Sedbury Manor at once.”

We were at Sedbury Manor by soon after three o’clock. I took a careful look at the place as we drove up to it: a big, square-built house standing in a wide-stretching, well-treed park, with a great lawn in front, and walled gardens at the side, and having, as far as we could see, no other houses or even farmsteads or cottages near it–a distinctly lonely place. Sir Stephen, as we turned up the carriage-drive, pointed across the park.

“If you look straight across there, due south,” he said, “you will see the chimneys of Heronswood, above the trees. And there, more to the south-east, you can just see the wheel of the colliery, over the top of the coppices–we can’t see that from our windows. And yonder, at the foot of Marston’s park, though really, as I said before, in our land, is the home farm. Robson’s place. Anyone going from here to Heronswood, or to the colliery,” he added reflectively, “would pass the farm. There is a foot-path across this park, running alongside the home-farm buildings.”

“Are there no other houses or cottages about here?” asked Chaney. “Is this place of Mr. Marston’s absolutely isolated?”

Sir Stephen pointed to a great screen of elms on the east side of the lawn.

“Sedbury village lies there,” he replied. “It’s quite hidden from here, you see, but there it is. There’s a church, a vicarage, two or three farmsteads, a score of cottages. And here and there in these grounds, amongst the trees, are other cottages housing Marston’s outdoor servants, gamekeepers and so on. Some fine shooting here–and fishing. There’s the lake.”

He pointed to a sudden opening in the trees which revealed a sheet of water of evidently considerable size, and so shaded by the overhanging foliage that its surface looked black and dismal. For a second I let myself wonder if the man into whose disappearance we were to inquire was lying beneath those murky waters.

Mr. Marston met us at his front door–a big, broad-shouldered, bluff Englishman. He instantly fired off a question at Sir Stephen.

“Heard anything of him?” he asked.

“Nothing!” replied Sir Stephen.

Mr. Marston turned on his heel, shepherding the four of us into the big, stone-paved, stone-walled hall.

“Umph!” he said. “Neither have I! Come in!”

He led us into a small room, the sort of snug den in which a sportsman delights, and summoning his butler, insisted on giving us all a drink before any business was mentioned. Over our glasses Sir Stephen introduced Chaney and me; Mr. Marston considered us thoughtfully, as if we had been two new specimens of natural history.

“Queer business!” he remarked, setting down his empty glass. “Don’t know what to make of it.”

“Mr. Chaney wants to ask you a few questions,” said Sir Stephen.

Mr. Marston turned to Chaney and stared attentively at him–in silence.

“Nothing very much, sir,” said Chaney. “To start with–about identity, now. This man who came to you, the night before last–do you feel positively assured that he was Sir John Maxtondale?”

Mr. Marston nodded his head in a gesture meant to signify unqualified assent and rapped out five words, staccato.

“Not a doubt of it!”

“Did he tell you anything of his adventures?”

“Not a word!”

“Didn’t he say where he’d been all these years?”

“No!”

“Didn’t you ask him?”

“No business of mine!”

“Didn’t he even say where he’d come from last?”

“Oh, well, he said that. Waldorf Hotel, London.”

“But before that, Mr. Marston? Didn’t he mention any place or country–Asia, Africa, America?”

“No–none of ’em.”

“Did he say what he intended to do–about the title or estates?”

“No–nothing. Never mentioned ’em.”

“Didn’t he even mention his family–his brother?”

“Oh, well, he just said that he supposed Stephen was over there at Heronswood.”

“No more?”

“No!”

Chaney smiled.

“I suppose you and he, old friends, sat up and talked a bit that night, Mr. Marston? Since he kept off all these subjects, what did you talk about?”

“Old times–hunting, shooting, fishing.”

“I see! And next morning, when you went off to sit on the bench at Monkseaton, it was the understood thing that he wasn’t to go across to Heronswood until you returned?”

“Well, it was this–I told him that if he’d wait till I came back at one o’clock, we’d have lunch and then I’d go with him to Heronswood.”

“And when you’d got back, he’d disappeared? Well, just one more question, Mr. Marston. You’re aware of the threats uttered, years ago, by Robson, the farmer? Yes? Did you tell Sir John about that matter?”

“No! Not I! I knew of the threats–long since–but I didn’t believe for a moment that Robson would ever have carried them out.”

“Not at any time?”

“Oh, well, perhaps at the time. But certainly not now.”

“Sir Stephen thinks he would, Mr. Marston.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“Then you don’t suspect Robson?”

“Not for a second!”

“What do you think’s happened to Sir John, then?”

But there Mr. Marston shook his head with emphatic decision.

“No!” he replied. “That’s your job!”

“Quite so,” agreed Chaney. “Then, can we have a word or two with your butler?”

Mr. Marston rang the bell; the footman appeared and at a word from his master led us through the hall and a series of passages to the butler’s pantry. Moysey, the butler, was engaged at that moment in polishing some fine old plate; a dish in one hand, a cloth in the other, he looked us over questioningly. He was a good type of the old-fashioned family servant, something over middle age, and of that intense solemnity and respectability which seem to be inseparably connected with his office.

“Well, Mr. Moysey,” said Chaney, taking the easiest chair in the room, “we’ve come to have a little talk with you. You’re the last person who saw the gentleman who disappeared yesterday, eh?”

“As far as I’m aware, sir. There may have been others. But–not in this house, sir.”

“Do you know who the gentleman was, Mr. Moysey?”

“I do not, sir. I heard my master address him as John, but beyond that, sir, I have no notion whatever of his identity.”

“Never seen him before, eh?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“How long have you been here, then?”

“Fifteen years, sir.”

“Ah!” said Chaney. “Then it would be before your time.”

Moysey looked a question at this.

“Yes, sir? Of course I don’t know what you refer to.”

“Never mind! Well, about yesterday morning, Mr. Marston, after breakfast, went to Monkseaton, didn’t he, leaving the gentleman here, alone? What did he do after your master went out?”

“For some time, sir, he was in the morning room, reading the Times newspaper. Then–I happening to go into that room, sir–he said to me that he thought he’d have a look round the park. He asked me what time we should have lunch, and when I told him one o’clock, he said he’d be back by then.”

“And then, I suppose, he went out?”

Moysey hesitated.

“As far as I’m aware, sir, he went out. He said he was going out.”

“But didn’t you see him go out?”

“No, sir! And it may seem odd, sir, but there’s nobody in the house who saw him go out.”

“None of the other servants?”

“None, sir! There was our first footman in the hall, but he says the gentleman didn’t go out that way. And there were other servants about–women servants, parlour-maids, housemaids–none of them saw him leave. Of course, there are several doors by which he could have left, but he wasn’t seen to leave. And there were men, gardeners, working on the lawn, and in the gardens on either side of the house–no one can remember seeing him.”

“Odd thing!” said Chaney. “Why, where did he go after telling you that he was going out? Did you leave him in the morning room?”

“No, sir. He left me in the morning room. He went out into the hall. Possibly he went up to his room. But where he went after that nobody knows. All I know is that he didn’t come in for lunch and has never returned.”

“Who admitted him when he first came, Mr. Moysey?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did he give any name?”

“No, sir. He asked me to tell Mr. Marston that an old friend had called to see him.”

“Had he any luggage with him?”

“No, sir, nothing. After Mr. Marston had told me that the gentleman was staying the night, I prepared a room for him, got him some sleeping-things, and in the morning took him some toilet articles.”

Chaney got up from his chair.

“Just let’s have a look at his room,” he said. “He may have something there that might give us a clue.”

“Nothing there, I think, sir, but what I lent him from Mr. Marston’s dining-room and some papers he brought,” said Moysey. “If you will follow me, sir.”

We followed Moysey upstairs to a big bedroom, the windows of which looked out over the park. And, as Moysey had said, there was nothing–except, on a table at the bedside, a couple of evening newspapers of the date of two days before and a copy of the Fortnightly Review. I dare say I should have taken small notice of these, but Chaney picked up all three and suddenly drew my attention to a pencilled note on the cover of the periodical.

“See that?” he said. “An address! 203 A, Hatton Garden, E.C.1.”