Tragedy at Ravensthorpe

Chapter Six. MR FOSS’S EXPLANATION

MR FOSS had nothing distinctively American in his appearance, Sir Clinton noted; and when he spoke, his accent was so faint as to be hardly detectable. He was a stout man of about fifty, with a clean-shaven face and more than a trace of a double chin: the kind of man who might readily be chosen as an unofficial uncle by children. Sir Clinton’s first glance showed him that the American was troubled about something.

Foss seemed surprised to find the Chief Constable in the guise of Prospero. He himself, in preparation for an official interview, had exchanged his masquerade costume for ordinary evening clothes.

“We haven’t met before, Sir Clinton,” he explained, rather unnecessarily, “but I’ve something to tell you”—his face clouded slightly—“which I felt you ought to know before you go any further in this business. I’ve been hunting all over the house for you; and it was only a minute or two ago that I got directed in here.”

“Yes?” said Sir Clinton, interrogatively.

Foss glanced at Joan and seemed to find some difficulty in opening the subject.

“It’s a strictly private matter,” he explained.

Joan refused to take the implied hint.

“If it has any connection with this burglary, Mr Foss, I see no reason why I should not hear what you have to say. It’s a matter that concerns me as one of the family, you know.”

Foss seemed taken aback and quite evidently he would have preferred to make his confidence to Sir Clinton alone.

“It’s rather a difficult matter,” he said, with a feeble endeavour to deflect Joan from her purpose.

Joan, however, took no notice of his diffidence.

“Come, Mr Foss,” she said. “If it’s really important, the sooner Sir Clinton hears of it the better. Begin.”

Foss glanced appealingly at Sir Clinton; but apparently the Chief Constable took Joan’s view of the matter.

“I’m rather busy at present, Mr Foss,” he said, dryly. “Perhaps you’ll give us your information as concisely as possible.”

Having failed in his attempt, Foss made the best of it; though it was with obvious reluctance that he launched into his subject.

“Last night after dinner,” he began, “I went into the winter-garden to smoke a cigar. I had some business affairs which I wanted to put straight in my mind; and I thought I could stow myself away in a corner there and be free from interruption. So I sat down at one side of the winter-garden behind a large clump of palms where no one was likely to see me; and I began to think over the points I had in mind.”

“Yes?” prompted Sir Clinton, who seemed anxious to cut Foss’s narrative down to essentials.

“While I was sitting there,” the American continued, “some of the young people came into the winter-garden and sat down in a recess on the side opposite to where I was. At first they didn’t disturb me. I thought they’d be almost out of earshot, on the other side of the dome. I think you were one of them, Miss Chacewater: you, and your brother, and Miss Rainhill, and someone else whom I didn’t recognize.”

“I was there,” Joan confirmed, looking rather puzzled as to what might come next.

“You may not know, Miss Chacewater,” Foss continued, “that your winter-garden is a sort of whispering-gallery. Although I was quite a long way off from your party, your voices came quite clearly across to where I was sitting. They didn’t disturb me at all—I’ve got the knack of concentration when I’m thinking about business affairs. But although I wasn’t listening intentionally, the whole conversation was getting in at my ear while I was thinking about other things. I suppose I ought to have gone away or let you know I was there; but the fact is, I’d just got to a point where I was seeing my way through a rather knotty tangle, and I didn’t want to break my chain of thought. I wasn’t eavesdropping, you understand?”

“Yes?” repeated Sir Clinton, with a slight acidity in his tone. “And then?”

But the American failed to take the hint. Evidently he laid great stress on explaining exactly how things had fallen out.

“After a while,” he went on, with an evident effort to be accurate, “Miss Chacewater and someone else left the party.”

“Quite true,” Joan confirmed. “We went to play billiards.”

The American nodded.

“When you had gone,” he continued, “someone else joined the party—a red-haired young man whom they called Foxy.”

Sir Clinton glanced at Joan.

“That’s Foxton Polegate,” Joan explained. “He’s a neighbour of ours. He made these electrotypes of the medallions for us.”

Foss waited patiently till she had finished her interjection. Then he resumed his narrative.

“Shortly after that, my ear caught the sound of my own name. Naturally my attention was attracted, quite without any intention on my part. It’s only natural to prick up your ears when you hear your own name mentioned.”

He looked apologetically at them both as if asking them to condone his conduct.

“The next thing I heard—without listening intentionally, you understand?—was ‘Medusa Medallions.’ Now, as you know, I’ve been sent over here by Mr Kessock to see if I can arrange to buy these medallions from Mr Chacewater. It’s my duty to my employer to get to know all I can about them. I wouldn’t be earning my money if I spared any trouble in the work which has been put into my hands. So when I heard the name of the medallions mentioned, I . . . frankly, I listened with both ears. It seemed to me my duty to Mr Kessock to do so.”

He looked appealingly at their faces as though to plead for a favourable verdict on his conduct.

“Go on, please,” Sir Clinton requested.

“I hardly expected you’d look on it as I do,” Foss confessed rather shamefacedly. “Of course, it was just plain eavesdropping on my part by that time. But I felt Mr Kessock would have expected me to find out all I could about these medallions. To be candid, I’d do the same again; though I didn’t like doing it.”

Sir Clinton seemed to feel that he had been rather discouraging.

“I shouldn’t make too much of it, Mr Foss. What happened next?”

Foss’s face showed that he was at last coming to a matter of real difficulty.

“It’s rather unfortunate that I came to be mixed up in the thing at all,” he said, with obvious chagrin. “I can assure you, Miss Chacewater, that I don’t like doing it. I only made up my mind to tell you about it because it seems to me to give a chance of hushing this supposed burglary up quietly before there’s any talk goes round.”

“Supposed burglary,” exclaimed Joan. “What’s your idea of a real burglary, if this sort of thing is only a supposed one?”

She indicated the shattered show-case and the litter of glass on the floor.

Foss evidently decided to take the rest of his narrative in a rush.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “The next thing I overheard was a complete plan for a fake burglary—a practical joke—to be carried out to-night. The light in here was to be put out; the house-lights were to be extinguished: and in the darkness, your brother and this Mr Foxy How-d’you-call-him were to get away with the medallions.”

“Ah, Mr Foss, now you become interesting,” Sir Clinton acknowledged.

“I heard all the details,” Foss went on. “How Miss Rainhill was to see to extinguishing the lights; how Mr Chacewater was to secure the keeper; and how meanwhile his friend was to put on a thick glove and take the medallions out of the case there. And it seems to me that it was a matter that interested me directly,” he added, dropping his air of apology, “for I gathered that the whole affair was planned with some idea of making this sale to Mr Kessock fall through at the last moment.”

“Indeed?”

Sir Clinton’s face showed that at last he saw something more clearly than before.

“That was the motive,” Foss continued. “Now the whole thing put me in a most awkward position.”

“I think I see your difficulty,” Sir Clinton assured him, with more geniality than he had hitherto shown.

“It was very hard to make up my mind what to do,” Foss went on. “I’m a guest here. This was a family joke, apparently—one brother taking a rise out of another. It was hardly for me to step in and perhaps cause bad feelings between them. I thought the whole thing was perhaps just talk—not meant seriously in the end. A kind of ‘how-would-we-do-it-if-we-set-about-it’ discussion, you understand.”

Sir Clinton nodded understandingly.

“Difficult to know what to do, in your shoes, undoubtedly.”

Foss was obviously relieved by the Chief Constable’s comprehension.

“I thought it over,” he continued, with a less defensive tone in his voice, “and it seemed to me that the soundest course was to let sleeping dogs lie—to let them lie, at any rate, until they woke up and bit somebody. I made up my mind I’d say nothing about the matter at all, unless something really did happen.”

“Very judicious,” Sir Clinton acquiesced.

“Then came to-night,” Foss resumed. “Their plan went through. I don’t know what success they had—the house is full of all sorts of rumours. But I heard that the Chief Constable was on the spot and was taking up the case himself; and as soon as I heard that, I felt I ought to tell what I knew. So I hunted you out, so as to avoid your taking any steps before you knew just how the land lay. It’s only a practical joke and not a crime at all. I don’t know anything about your English laws, and I was afraid you might be taking some steps, doing something or other that would make it impossible to stop short of the whole affair coming out in public. I’m sure the family wouldn’t like that.”

He glanced at Joan’s face, but evidently found nothing very encouraging in her expression.

“It’s been a most unfortunate position for me,” he complained.

Sir Clinton took pity on him.

“It was very good of you to give me these facts,” he said with more cordiality than he had hitherto shown. “You’ve cleared up the thing and saved us from putting our foot in it badly, perhaps. Thanks very much for your trouble, Mr Foss. You’ve been of great assistance.”

His tone showed that the interview was at an end; but, tactfully, as though to spare the obviously ruffled feelings of the American, he accompanied him to the door. When Foss had left the room, Sir Clinton turned back to Joan.

“Well, Joan, what about it?”

“Oh, it sounds accurate enough,” Joan admitted, though there was an undercurrent of resentment in her tone. “Foss couldn’t have known what sort of person Foxy is; and it’s as clear as daylight that Foxy was at the bottom of this. He’s a silly ass who’s always playing practical jokes.”

She paused for a moment. Then relief showed itself in her voice as she added:

“It’s rather a blessing to know the whole affair has been just spoof, isn’t it? You can hush it up easily enough, can’t you? Nobody need know exactly what happened; and then we’ll be all right. If this story comes out, all our little family bickerings will be common talk; and one doesn’t want that. I’m not exactly proud of the way Maurice has been treating Cecil.”

Sir Clinton’s face showed that he understood her position; but, rather to her surprise, he gave no verbal assurance.

“It is all right!” she demanded.

“I think we’ll interview your friend Foxy first of all,” Sir Clinton proposed, taking no notice of her inquiry.

Going to the door, he gave some orders to the keeper.

“You were rather stiff with our good Mr Foss,” he said, turning to Joan as he closed the door again. “What would you have done yourself, if you’d been in his position?”

Joan had her answer ready.

“I suppose he couldn’t help overhearing things; but when this affair came to light, I think if I’d been in his shoes I’d have gone to Cecil instead of coming to us with the tale. Once Cecil found the game was up, he’d have been able to return the medallions in some way or other, without raising any dust.”

“That was one way, certainly.”

“What I object to is Foss coming to you,” Joan explained. “He didn’t know you’re an old friend of ours. All he knew was that you were the Chief Constable. So off he hies to you, post-haste, to give the whole show away; when he might quite well have come to me or gone to Cecil. I don’t like this way of doing things—no tact at all.”

“I can’t conceive how Cecil came to take up a silly prank like this,” said Sir Clinton. “It’s a schoolboy’s trick.”

“You don’t know everything,” said Joan, in defence of her brother.

“I know a good deal, Joan,” Sir Clinton retorted in a decisive tone. “Perhaps I know more than you think about this business.”

In a few minutes the keeper knocked at the door.

“Well?” demanded Sir Clinton, opening it.

“I can’t find Mr Polegate anywhere, sir,” Mold reported. “No one’s seen him; and he’s not in the house.”

“He was here to-night,” Joan declared. “I recognized him when I was dancing with him. You can’t mistake that shock of hair; and of course his voice gave him away when he spoke.”

Sir Clinton did not seem perturbed.

“Bring Mr Cecil, Mold,” he ordered, and locked the door again as the keeper went off on his fresh errand.

This task Mold completed in a very short time. Sir Clinton opened at his knock and Cecil Chacewater came into the museum. He was dressed as a Swiss admiral and behind him came Una Rainhill in the costume of Cleopatra.

Sir Clinton wasted no time in preliminaries.

“I’ve sent for you, Cecil, because I want to know exactly what part you played in this business to-night.”

Cecil Chacewater opened his eyes in astonishment.

“You seem to be a bit of a super-sleuth! How did you spot us so quickly?”

Quite obviously Cecil was not greatly perturbed at being found out, as Sir Clinton noted with a certain relief. So far as he was concerned, the thing had been only a prank.

“Tell me exactly what happened after you came in here before the lights went out,” the Chief Constable demanded in a curt tone.

Cecil glanced at Una. Sir Clinton caught the look.

“We know all about Miss Rainhill’s part in the affair,” he explained bluntly.

“Oh, in that case,” said Cecil, “there’s no particular reason why I should keep back anything. Una, Foxy, and I planned it between us. I take full responsibility for that. I wanted to upset this sale, if I could. I’m not ashamed of that.”

“I know all about that,” Sir Clinton pointed out, coldly. “What I wish to know is exactly what happened after you came in here to steal these medallions.”

Cecil seemed impressed by the Chief Constable’s tone.

“I’ll tell you, then. We’ve nothing to conceal. I came in here at about twenty to twelve and sauntered about the room, pretending to look at the cases as if I’d never seen them before. My part was to mark down Mold and prevent him interfering.”

Sir Clinton nodded to show that he knew all this.

“Rather before I expected it, the light went out. Oh, there was a shot fired just then. I didn’t understand that part of it, but I supposed that Foxy had brought a pistol with him and fired a blank cartridge just to add a touch of interest to the affair. It wasn’t on the bill of fare, so I imagine it must have been one of these last-minute improvements. Anyhow, I did my part of the business: jumped on Mold and held him while Foxy got away with the stuff. Then, when he’d had time to get away, I let Mold go and made a bee-line for the door myself. I could swear no one spotted me in the dark, and I was well mixed up in the mob before the lights went on again.”

“Did you pay particular attention to what Polegate was doing while you were busy with the keeper?”

“No. Mold gave me all I wanted in the way of trouble.”

“You’re sure it was Mold you got hold of? You didn’t make any mistake?”

Cecil reflected for a moment.

“I don’t see how I could have gripped the wrong man. I’d marked him down while the light was on.”

“Can you remember anything about sounds of breaking glass?”

Cecil pondered before replying.

“It seemed to me that there was a lot of glass-breaking—more than I’d expected. The light was hardly out before there was a smash and tinkle all over the place. Foxy must have got to work quicker than I’d allowed for. And I remember hearing quite a lot of hammering and smashing going on after that, as if he’d found it difficult to make a big enough hole in the glass of the case. I thought he’d bungled the business, and it was all I could do to keep my grip on Mold long enough to get the thing safely through.”

Sir Clinton dismissed that part of the subject. He turned to Una.

“Now, Miss Rainhill, I believe your part in the affair was to pull out the main switch of the house?”

“Yes,” Una admitted, looking rather surprised at the extent of his knowledge.

“Did you carry out your part of the arrangement punctually, or were you late in getting the current off?”

“I pulled out the switch to the very second. I had my hand on it and my eye on my wrist-watch; and when it came to 11.45 I jerked it out and the lights went off. I was absolutely right to a second, I’m sure.”

“And you thought Miss Rainhill had been a shade before her time, Cecil?”

“So it seemed to me. I hadn’t a chance of looking at my watch; and of course after the lights went off I couldn’t spare time to look.”

At this moment another knock came to the door and Foxy Clifford burst into the museum. Sir Clinton noticed that he was masquerading as a Harlequin.

“Heard you’d been asking for me, Sir Clinton,” he broke out as he came into the room. “Seems the keeper had been inquiring for me. So I came along as soon as I heard about it.”

He glanced inquisitively at Cecil and Una, as though wondering what they were doing there.

Sir Clinton wasted no words.

“The medallions, Mr Polegate, please.”

Foxy made a very good pretence of astonishment at the demand; but Cecil cut him short.

“You may as well hand them over, Foxy. They seem to know all about the joke.”

“Oh, they do, do they?” Foxy exclaimed. “They seem to have been mighty swift about it. That little joke’s gone astray, evidently.”

He seemed completely taken aback by the exposure.

“The medallions?” he repeated. “I’ll get ’em for you in a jiffy.”

He walked across to the show-case, fumbled for a moment at the flat base near one of the legs, and from below this he drew out three medallions.

“Stuck ’em there with plasticine as soon as I’d got ’em. After that anyone would have turned out my pockets if they’d wanted, see?”

Sir Clinton held out his hand and took the medallions from Foxy. For a moment or two he examined them, then he passed them to Cecil.

“Have you any way of telling easily whether these are the real things or the replicas?”

Cecil inspected them one by one with minute care.

“These are the real things,” he announced. “What else could they be?”

“You’ve no doubt about it?” questioned Sir Clinton.

“Not a bit,” Cecil assured him. “When Foxy made the replicas, my father had a tiny hole—just a dot—drilled in the edge of each electrotype so as to distinguish the real things from the sham. There are no holes here; so these are the real Leonardos.”

Sir Clinton swung round suddenly on Foxy.

“Now, Mr Polegate,” he said, sternly, “you’ve given a lot of trouble with this silly joke of yours. I’m not concerned with your taste in humour, or I might say a few things you wouldn’t care to hear. But you can repair the damage to some extent if you give me a frank account of your doings in here to-night. I want the whole story, please.”

Foxy was evidently completely taken aback by Sir Clinton’s tone.

“Come, we’re waiting. There’s no time to lose,” Sir Clinton said, curtly, as Foxy seemed to hesitate. Joan and the others showed by their faces that they could not quite understand the reason for the Chief Constable’s asperity.

“We planned that . . .”

“I know all about that,” said Sir Clinton, brusquely. “Begin at the point where you came in here at twenty to twelve or so.”

Foxy pulled himself together. The Chief Constable’s manner was not encouraging.

“I came in here as arranged, and worked my way over to the central case there—slowly, so as not to attract the keeper’s attention. One or two other people were hanging round it then, too. I remember noticing a chap in a white Pierrot costume alongside me. Suddenly there was a pistol-shot and the light went out according to plan.”

“How do you account for the pistol-shot?” demanded Sir Clinton.

“Try next door,” said Foxy. “I thought it was a fancy tip that Cecil had thrown in at the last moment. It wasn’t in the book of words.”

“You were ready to get to work when the light went out?” inquired Sir Clinton.

Foxy considered for a moment.

“It took me rather by surprise,” he admitted. “I’d counted on having at least another minute, according to the time-table.”

“What happened next? Be careful now.”

“As soon as the light went out, I pulled on a thick pair of gloves and got a bit of lead pipe out of my slapstick. But there was a bit of a scuffle in the dark round the show-case, and someone must have put their elbow through the glass. I heard it go crash in the dark. I shoved along till I was opposite the medallion section of the case—luckily someone made way for me just then—and I got to work with my lead pipe. The glass smashed easily—it must have been cracked before. So I put my hand in and groped about. I could find only three medallions instead of six; but I hooked them out, slabbed on some plasticine, stuck them under the case for future reference, and cut my stick for the door. Someone was ahead of me there, and I heard some sort of mix-up in the dark. Then I wandered out into the garden by the east door, as soon as I could find it in the dark. And I’ve been out there having a smoke till now. When I came in again, I heard you’d been asking for me, so I came along.”

Sir Clinton considered for a moment.

“I want to be quite clear on one point,” he said with no relaxation of his manner. “You say that you heard the glass crack before you began your work. Are you certain of that?”

“Quite,” said Foxy.

“And when you got your hand into the case you could find only three medallions?”

“That was all. I was groping for the top row of the six; and naturally it surprised me when I felt only three altogether. I’m quite certain about it.”

“So you were evidently the second thief at the case to-night?” Sir Clinton concluded.

Foxy flushed at the word “thief” but a glance at the face of the Chief Constable evidently persuaded him that it would be best not to argue on philology at that moment. He contented himself with nodding sullenly in response to Sir Clinton’s remark.

Joan relieved the tension.

“Anyhow, we’ve got the medallions safe, and that’s all that really matters,” she pointed out. “Let’s have a look at them, Cecil.”

She took them from his hand and scrutinized them carefully.

“Yes, these are the real Leonardos,” she affirmed, without hesitation. “That’s all right.”

“Quite all right,” admitted Sir Clinton, with a wry smile, “except for one point: Why were the replicas stolen and the real things left untouched?”

“That certainly seems to need explaining,” Una admitted. “Can you throw any light on it, Foxy? You’re the only one of us who was near the case.”

There was no hint of accusation in her tone; but Foxy seemed to read an insinuation into her remark.

“I haven’t got the replicas, if that’s what you mean, Una,” he protested angrily. “I just took what was left—and it turns out to be the real things. Whoever was ahead of me took the duds.”

Cecil considered the point, and then appealed to Sir Clinton.

“Doesn’t that seem to show that an outsider’s been at work—someone who knew a certain amount about the collection, but not quite enough? An outsider wouldn’t know we had the replicas in the case alongside the real things. He’d just grab three medallions and think he’d got away with it.”

Sir Clinton shook his head.

“Your hypothetical outsider, Cecil, must have had a preliminary look at the case before the lights went out—just to make sure of getting to the right spot in the dark. Therefore he must have seen the six medallions there; and he’d have taken the lot instead of only three, when he had his chance.”

“That upsets your applecart, Cecil,” said Joan. “It’s obvious Sir Clinton’s right. Unless”—a fresh idea seemed to strike her—“unless the thief knew of the replicas and had wrong information, so that he imagined he was taking the Leonardos when he really was grabbing the replicas. I mean he may have thought that the replicas were in the top row instead of the lower one.”

She glanced at Sir Clinton’s face to see what he thought of her suggestion; but he betrayed nothing.

“Wouldn’t you have taken the whole six, Joan, if you had been in his shoes?”

Joan had to admit that she would have made certain by snatching the complete set.

“There’s more in it than that,” was all that Sir Clinton could be induced to say.

Before any more could be said, the door opened again. This time it was Michael Clifton who entered the museum.

“You’ve got him, Michael?” cried Joan. “Who was he?”

Michael shook his head.

“He got away from us. It’s a damned mysterious business how he managed it; but he slipped through our fingers, Joan.”

“Well, tell us what happened—quick!” Joan ordered. “I didn’t think you’d botch it, Michael.”

Michael obeyed her at once and launched into an account of the moonlight chase of the fugitive. Sir Clinton listened attentively, but interposed no questions until Michael had finished his story.

“Let’s have this quite clear,” the Chief Constable said, when the tale had been completed. “You had him hemmed in at the cliff top; you heard a splash, but there was no sign of anyone swimming in the lake; you discovered a rope tied to the balustrade and lying down the cliff-face to the cave-mouth; he wasn’t in the cave when you looked for him there. Is that correct?”

“That’s how it happened.”

“You’re sure he didn’t break back through your cordon?”

“Certain.”

“And you found Maurice in one of the Fairy Houses in the spinney?”

“Yes. He seemed in a queer state.”

Sir Clinton, glancing at Cecil’s face, was surprised to see on it the same expression of almost malicious glee which he had surprised on the day when they examined that very Fairy House during their walk. Quite obviously Cecil knew something more than the Chief Constable did.

“Does that suggest anything to you, Cecil?” he demanded point-blank.

At the query, Cecil’s face came back to normal suddenly.

“To me? No, why should it?”

“I merely wondered,” said Sir Clinton, without seeming to notice anything.

It was clear that whatever Cecil knew, it was something which he was not prepared to tell.

Foxy had listened intently to Michael’s narrative, and as the Chief Constable seemed to have come to the end of his interrogations, Foxy put a question of his own.

“You say Maurice was wearing a white Pierrot costume? So was the fellow you were chasing. So was the man next me at the case when the lights went out.”

“I suppose you’re suggesting that Maurice is at the bottom of the business, Foxy,” Michael replied at once. “I’ll swallow that if you’ll answer one question. Why should a man burgle his own house?”

“Lord alone knows,” Foxy admitted humbly. “I’ve no brain-wave on the subject.”

“It seems rather improbable,” observed Sir Clinton. “I think you’ll have to produce a motive before that idea could be accepted.”

He glanced round at the door as he spoke and added:

“Here’s Maurice himself.”

Maurice Chacewater had entered the room while the Chief Constable was speaking. He had discarded his fancy costume and wore ordinary evening-dress, against the black of which his face looked white and drawn. He came up to the group and leaned on the show-case as if for support.

“So you’ve muddled it, Michael,” he commented, after a pause. “You didn’t get your hands on the fellow, after all?”

Dismissing Michael with almost open contempt, he turned to Sir Clinton.

“What’s the damage? Did the fellow get away with anything of value?”

“Nothing much: only your three replicas of the Leonardo medallions, so far as we can see.”

As he spoke, his glance telegraphed a warning to the rest of the group. It seemed unnecessary that Maurice should know all the inns and outs of the night’s doings.

But Foxy evidently failed to grasp the meaning of the Chief Constable’s look.

“We saved the real medallions for you, Maurice. Vote of thanks to us, eh?”

“How did you manage that?” Maurice demanded, with no sign of gratitude in his voice.

Quite oblivious of the warning looks thrown at him by the rest of the group, Foxy launched at once into a detailed account of the whole practical joke and its sequel. Maurice listened frowningly to the story. When it was completed, he made no direct comment.

“Who’s got the medallions? You, Joan? I’ll take them.”

When she had handed them over, he scrutinized them carefully.

“These seem to be the Leonardo ones,” he confirmed.

Sir Clinton interposed a question.

“Were the medallions and the replicas in their usual places to-night, Maurice? I mean, were the real things in the top row and the electros down below?”

Maurice gave a curt nod of assent. He weighed the three medallions unconsciously in his hand for a moment, then moved over to the safe in the wall of the museum.

“These things will be safer under lock and key, now,” he said.

He opened the safe, inserted the medallions, closed the safe-door with a clang, and busied himself with the combination of the lock.

Before saying anything further, Sir Clinton waited until Maurice had returned to the group.

“There’s one thing,” he said. “I shall have to look into this affair officially now. It’s essential that things shall be left as they are. Especially the place where that fellow gave you the slip, Clifton. Nobody must be wandering about there, up at the spinney, until I’ve done with the ground. There may be clues left, for all one can tell; and we can’t run the risk of them being destroyed.”

Maurice looked up gloomily.

“Very well. I’ll give orders to the keepers to patrol the wood and turn everyone back. That do?”

“So long as no one sets foot on anything beyond the wood, I’ll be quite satisfied. But it’s important, Maurice. Impress that on your keepers, please.”

Maurice indicated his comprehension with a nod.

“I’ll begin dragging the lakelet up there to-morrow morning,” Sir Clinton added. “Something must have gone into the water to make the splash that was heard; and perhaps we shall find it. I don’t mind anyone going down by the lake side. It’s the top of the cliff that I want kept intact.”

He looked at his watch.

“You’re on the ’phone here? I must ring up the police in Hincheldene now and make arrangements for to-morrow. Show me your ’phone, please, Joan. And as I must get some sleep to-night, I’ll say good-bye to the rest of you now. Come along, Ariel. Lead the way.”