Kitabı oku: «The Riddle of the Purple Emperor», sayfa 8
"Oh, but she is the soul of honour!" she said, looking up at Cleek with frightened eyes, "and she told me herself that she slept soundly all night. If she had gone out after I fell asleep – "
"It could be proved and very easily," put in Cleek, gently. "You know how moist the night was. The lane was wet and muddy. Her clothes, her skirt, her shoes – But I will not suggest that."
"Nor would I do it," replied Ailsa. "Even if she did go out, and I would not admit it even now unless she said so, that does not mean that she had any ulterior motive. As for the scarf, well, it might be a piece from Lady Margaret's own for that matter – "
Cleek stopped short.
"Lady Margaret!" he rapped out in excitement. "Did she possess a gold scarf, then?"
"Yes; one that was given her by her father on one of his few visits to the convent. She showed it to me during the crossing, and from what I can see, this certainly looks as if it had been torn from hers."
Cleek's eyes were narrowed down to mere slits. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the pattering of an animal's feet behind them and he started as an old brown retriever flung himself on Ailsa, greeting her boisterously.
"Jock, you dear, I am so glad; he didn't kill you after all. I am so glad!"
She stopped and patted the dog affectionately, then answered the inquiry in Cleek's eyes.
"He is so old," she said, softly, "and Sir Edgar was going to get rid of him. He had even bought prussic acid or something, I believe, but evidently poor old Jock is to be allowed to live a little longer."
So absorbed was Ailsa in the animal, that she failed to note the gleam of anxiety in Cleek's eyes.
"Prussic acid, eh?" he said to himself, musingly, "presumably to kill an old dog. Not so old, either, by his running powers." And Sir Edgar had certainly been in Cheyne Court for he himself had ascertained that by the footprints which Dollops had so conscientiously copied. Well, it was a puzzling case. If Lady Margaret herself, driven to desperation, had killed the woman – or man, as she might have discovered him to be – who kept her prisoner? Did Sir Edgar know, and was he shielding her; concealing her in London? Or was it, after all, Lady Brenton?
Struck with a sudden idea, he turned to Ailsa.
"One moment, dear," he said, quietly. "Do you know anybody who has a scarlet cloak, satin, I think?"
"Scarlet satin coat?" echoed Ailsa. "Why, what can that have to do with it? As it happens, I do know, for I possess one myself and very fond of it I am, too. But why do you ask?"
"Oh, just a fancy of mine, that's all," replied Cleek with apparent irrelevance. "I thought perhaps Lady Brenton had one, but if she hasn't – unless she might have borrowed yours, you'd lend it to her I know. Did you?"
"No, that I certainly did not. For one thing, why should Lady Brenton wish to wear my things? Anyhow, I know she did not borrow mine with my knowledge."
"Hmn, I see. You couldn't have left it lying around anywhere?"
Ailsa laughed gaily.
"How like a man! As if I should leave satin opera coats lying round. They're much too precious! But of course it is in one of the cupboards at The Towers. I left it there once, and it has been there ever since."
She was gazing down the lane which wound its way round the fields and distant houses and now gave a little cry of dismay.
"Oh, here is that dreadful girl again and her brother! I can't help it, dear," she added, impulsively, "but Miss Wynne and I do not get on well. I know her better than I care about."
Cleek looked critically at the pair who were advancing round the bend of the lane, and his thoughts readjusted themselves.
"Perhaps you will tell me about them," he said, quietly. "Who and what are they, this Miss Wynne and her brother?"
Ailsa turned her soft eyes up into his face.
"Miss Wynne, Jennifer is her other name, is the only daughter of old Dr. Wynne. She keeps house for Mr. Bobby Wynne. What he does and how he earns any money is always a mystery to me. For he never appears to do anything."
"If I remember correctly, Dr. Verrall appeared to be rather 'interested' in the lady," Cleek struck in.
Ailsa nodded.
"That's perfectly true," she said, quickly. "Indeed, if it were not for the fact that she has set her heart upon becoming the future Lady Brenton, I believe she would marry him. For he adores her; that's patent to all."
A slight pause followed this as Cleek's eyes sought hers for a moment with a look in their depths that brought the warm colour into her cheeks.
"He is not the only one who adores his lady," he put in gently, "and what else is there about this interesting couple, pray? I am anxious to hear."
"I know you are," she responded, "and I can understand how every little detail in the chain of evidence counts. You can rely upon me to supply them to you as soon as they come my way."
Cleek looked at her gratefully.
"Indeed I do," he said, quietly. "Believe me, Ailsa, any little scraps of fact or gossip that you can give me I shall be grateful for. You may be sure no harm will be done, and it may possibly lead to some quicker discovery."
It was then to Miss Wynne's advantage, he reflected, to have Lady Margaret out of her path, if only for the time being. With Miss Cheyne out of the reckoning as well there would be an added danger, but it would be turned to an advantage if Sir Edgar were accused of the murder, and Miss Jennifer alone could save him – His thoughts trailed away as this suddenly awakened thought took hold of him. Supposing Sir Edgar were accused of the murder as he had imagined, and it was in Miss Wynne's hands to tighten the noose about his neck, or shake it off altogether? He wondered idly if her woman's heart would act disinterestedly in such an event and wondering, quite suddenly he knew. It would be as Sir Edgar's wife that Jennifer Wynne would free him – not otherwise.
He turned to Ailsa again.
"Shall we meet Dr. Wynne as well?" he asked quickly.
"Oh, no, he died more than a year ago; that is why Master Bobby is able to waste his time and money I expect."
"Hmn – yes, explains Dr. Verrall, too: his presence in the village, I mean," he added, not wishing to voice his suspicions as yet.
"Yes," said Ailsa, "and as he is desperately in love with her, it is to be hoped that she will not succeed in her endeavours to become the future Lady Brenton. Certainly if gifts could win her, Dr. Verrall would succeed, he has simply loaded her with presents. They are unique ones, too: mostly strange things from temples – "
She broke off suddenly as Cleek's lips pursed themselves into a low whistle of surprise.
"What is the matter, dear?"
"Nothing. Do you happen to know from where Dr. Verrall came to this place?"
"India, I believe. I know he has had a lot of Indian patients down here, and he is a perfect encyclopedia on the subject of precious stones."
Cleek glanced at her swiftly.
Hmn – Here was another item of interest. Anglo-Indian, was he? And knew all about precious stones? What about the Eye of Shiva, then? It might well be that he was in league with the priests and had been heavily bribed to secure that stone. He could easily have obtained the prussic acid; who better than a doctor with his own private dispensary? Yes, he must keep an eye on Dr. Verrall – and obtain an entry into his house.
He puckered up his brows. Obviously the easiest way would be to become a patient, though it would be useless to expect that the doctor would not speedily see through his fraud and know that he was an object of curiosity. Cleek gave a little impatient toss of his shoulders as if to throw away these great ideas, and came back again to Miss Jennifer Wynne and her brother who were now within hailing distance of them.
CHAPTER XV
TANGLED THREADS
Cleek screwed round on his heel, and watched the approach of this interesting pair with undisguised interest. Dollops' discovery had not been without its effect on him, although he proposed taking no active steps at present.
He might reasonably have expected Miss Wynne to make every effort to keep out of his way, but she was evidently bent on being seen as prominently as possible. By daylight she was even more attractive than she had appeared on the preceding night, and made a decidedly charming picture. Cleek found himself wondering how Sir Edgar had withstood her allurement, even with the memory of Lady Margaret Cheyne in his heart. The frail, frightened child fresh from the convent, patrician though she was, could not hold a candle, as the saying goes, to this daughter of a country doctor. Again the thought flashed across his mind. Was it all a blind, this man's love for the girl endowed with such a precious dowry; or did he but wish to obtain them in order that he might bring a bigger fortune to the hands of this country syren? He dismissed the idea instantly as unworthy of the man to whom he had taken an instinctive liking, notwithstanding the fact that by his reticence he was helping to complicate this most difficult case.
"Good morning, Mr. Policeman," said Miss Wynne, gaily, when the mutual introduction had been made. "I hope you have come to the conclusion this morning that I am not a suspicious character. Last night he wanted to arrest me for murder, Miss Lorne," and she gave a little shiver so obviously artificial that Cleek glanced at her quickly through half-narrowed lids.
"I should hope so, Miss Wynne," he said with an air of elaborate carelessness, which only Ailsa recognized at its true value. "No one would think of connecting so gruesome a thing as murder with you. I think we shall probably find it a case of suicide after all, don't you know."
Miss Wynne eyed him in open-eyed astonishment mingled with something that was closely akin to relief and then gave another affected giggle.
Miss Lorne had ignored her completely, knowing that Cleek was but posing for some purpose of his own, but now, in order to give him an opportunity to tackle Bobby Wynne, she engaged Jennifer in conversation.
Cleek did not take much liking to this exuberant young gentleman. About two and twenty, the evident idol of his sister, he was of a type who is to be found studying every sporting paper, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of each edition of the Evening News, to discover his gains or losses. It was not long before Cleek had him sized up, and a casual remark about waiting for a tip for to-morrow's Windsor 2:30 race, and a promise to pass it on to the young gentleman directly it came, made him his friend for life.
"It's all very well for silly girls like Jennifer to go on against racing. It's the finest sport in the world!" said young Wynne to Cleek as he edged him farther up the narrow lane and spoke in a confidential whisper, lest his voice should reach the sharp ears of his sister, though she was apparently deep in conversation with Ailsa.
"I can do with a good tip," went on this refreshing youth, "for I don't mind telling you that I got pretty badly hit at Newmarket last week. Newmarket always plays the deuce with me. Luckily Jenny sold some of her precious flowers and pulled me out of the hole, more than £50, you know. Pretty bad little hole, eh, what?"
He gave a fatuous little giggle that made Cleek feel inclined to shake him.
"But I don't mind, I'll win it all back next week, and I'll make it up to her," he went on hopefully, with a wink at his companion.
But Cleek's mind was now working at lightning speed, though he was apparently deeply interested in Wynne's conversation.
Fifty pounds paid for flowers. What flowers could this girl raise in a riverside cottage that would produce such a sum? Somebody must have paid heavily for something other than flowers; that was certain.
"Talking of flowers," he said, casually, as young Wynne stopped to light a fresh cigarette. "I'm a bit of a ruralist at times, and I'd like to see Miss Wynne's collection if I may. I go in for dahlias myself, but I suppose Miss Wynne's flowers are pretty valuable; orchids, and such like."
"Good lord, no, only those beastly smelling, sickly funeral flowers, hyacinths and tulip things," was the reply in an off-hand manner, "cheap as dirt they are, and how she gets the money beats me. But then Jenny always was a problem since the day she was born."
Cleek felt he wanted to see more of this interesting pair before he had done with them. Already he had gained some valuable information, for Miss Jennifer Wynne had evidently been well paid for her flowers, hyacinths or tulips or whatever they might be, or she could never have given this young idiot fifty pounds to pay his racing debts.
So well did he contrive to work his way into the good graces of both brother and sister that when Ailsa insisted on taking the short cut through the fields to her own home alone, Cleek was easily persuaded to return for lunch to the house where the young couple had lived ever since the days before their father's death. Herein were pictures of every horse, jockey, and trainer that had ever lived.
"See that horse there, Beauty?" said Wynne, after they had been in the house a few minutes. "Well, that old sport got me the finest gold watch I ever saw. That one over there is Bay Tree II, the best tip I ever had, 100 to 1 chance. Only I didn't have more than ten bob in my pockets, worse luck. I'll tell you about the rest after lunch if you like."
Cleek was frankly bored, but he kept his feeling in restraint, being on the watch to get what information he could.
"Delighted, my boy!" he said, cordially. Then as the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel outside came to his alert ears, he stopped short, and Wynne looked down through the open window and withdrew his head with a little muttered exclamation of disgust.
"Oh, hang it all," he growled, "now we're in for a visitation from that doctor chap. I can't stand that fellow Verrall at any price."
Dr. Verrall! Cleek turned as he heard the name and looked out of the window. He would have given anything to have overheard the meeting between him and Miss Jennifer downstairs.
That there was some secret connection between them he felt sure, and that Dr. Verrall would try to shield the girl he loved, even at the cost of his professional honour, was also an assured fact. He must get down as quickly and as quietly as possible, and he blamed himself and Bobby, whose offer to show him his pictures was the cause of his having been out of the room.
"Lord," he muttered, clapping his hand to his forehead and wheeling round blindly, "'pon me soul, I think he's just in time. Got one of these staggering attacks – got it through the Boer War, dontcher know. Don't you trouble, old man, I'll find my way down myself."
He lurched across the room and just as he passed the edge of the old-fashioned chest of drawers against the wall, his elbow caught the projecting edge of a book, and with a crash it fell to his feet. From between its leaves there fell some sporting prints, and a photograph of a man. Cleek stooped to replace them, when young Wynne sprang forward almost excitedly, snatching them from his hand, but not before Cleek had made a startling discovery. The picture was that of the man who lay murdered in the house of mystery, Cheyne Court. As if realizing that his act needed apology, young Wynne put the photo hastily back.
"Sorry I snapped at you, old chap," he said, a flush of mortification reddening his face. "Don't think me an ill-bred pup. Fact is, I was a bit excited and forgot for a moment. But that chap's a pal of mine, first class tipster he is, too. Jenny can't bear him, and if she knew I still get tips from him, she'd carry on like a wild cat, so mum's the word, old man."
"Of course," replied Cleek, hastily, a trifle shaken it must be confessed by this astonishing discovery. "'Tisn't likely I'm going to betray secrets – men of the world both of us." He winked broadly and young Wynne, his fears allayed and highly flattered at this "man of the world's" appreciation of him, winked back. "Besides, I shouldn't be surprised if that gentleman and I are not old acquaintances if I remember rightly."
Wynne fell into the trap as neatly as a mouse after a piece of cheese.
"What – Blake?" he ejaculated involuntarily.
"Ah, yes," Cleek nodded. "I thought as much. I knew I was right," he exclaimed with well-simulated enthusiasm. "That chap Blake did me a good turn once, bit of a tipster myself, but not a patch on him, dontcher know."
"Don't think any one could beat that old sport!" agreed Wynne, complacently, "why, he was the one who gave me the tip for Baytree – but I've had rotten luck lately. I don't know how I shall ever pay him."
Hmn – Pay him? So that was how the land lay, was it? The boy was heavily in debt to Blake, and if he had been at Cheyne Court that night…
No, that was wrong, too, for there had been no trace of Bobby Wynne – up to the present.
Meanwhile that young gentleman was obviously waiting to lead him downstairs, and Cleek hesitated, trying to make up his mind what to do for the best.
He would have liked to stay in this racing den, try to trace the connection between Blake the tipster and Blake the head of the Pentacle Club, and to find out whether Master Bobby Wynne had had any suspicions as to the real identity of the "mistress" of Cheyne Court. But other things called. There was that Verrall chap downstairs with Jennifer Wynne herself. And the question of those utterly priceless flowers that could fetch as much as fifty pounds for their grower.
Silently he followed his host downstairs, still looking a bit hang-dog about the mouth for he was far too careful in his methods to cast any doubt regarding the genuineness of that sudden attack of a moment before by pretending that it was already over.
Nor did he fear that he had lost all opportunity for pursuing the subject of Bobby Wynne's acquaintance with the murdered man. The mere fact that the young man feared discovery of his connection with this Blake proved conclusively that he knew his danger and that at any moment inquiry might be made, even though there was no actual proof that he had been in the vicinity of Cheyne Court that night.
"Fearfully groggy, old chap," he said in answer to Wynne's inquiry as to whether he felt any better. They were passing down a dark, narrow passage at the moment and a little door stood ajar toward the end of it. A quick glance showed Cleek that the room beyond this door was lined with shelves on which stood numerous rows of bottles.
Bobby Wynne's face seemed to whiten with unwonted anger. He gave a sharp exclamation, and ran back to close the door quickly.
"The old guv'nor's surgery," he said in explanation. "Wonder who's been in? Door's been kept locked ever since the old man died. Hullo, Headland, you're not going to have another attack, are you?" For Cleek had suddenly lurched against the bannister at the head of the stairs, and swung round, until his back was resting against it.
He lolled his head back, gave a sort of hollow groan, and then under cover of this began swiftly to count the doors in order to make sure of the location of that surgery.
"No, it's only just a passing spasm. I was just wondering whether your old dad had anything in his surgery to pull me together, clever chaps some of these doctors, dontcher know."
Bobby Wynne groaned. For once he was disposed to be cautious, and there was evidently some reason why he did not wish any one to look into that surgery. And that was just why Cleek wanted to get into it. He felt tolerably sure that it would contain a quantity of prussic acid, and a stab of memory brought up the sight of long, slender finger-marks —
Get into that room he must. So leaning heavily on young Wynne, he said "I'm all right now. I'll get a pick-me-up presently."
And descending the staircase arm in arm, they entered the dining room together.
CHAPTER XVI
IN THE DOCTOR'S SURGERY
The delay had only been a trifling one, but Cleek did not, after all, get downstairs in time to witness the first meeting between the worthy doctor and his adored one. By the time he did reach the old-fashioned, daintily kept dining room, the couple were apparently engaged in the commonplace phrases of ordinary social life.
But Cleek was too well versed in that most complex of all studies – human nature – to be deceived. The veriest child could have seen and understood every word or motion of his hostess, and a pitying smile crept up Cleek's face as he noted the bearing of the would-be lover. Cleek's entry with young Wynne drew their united attention.
"Hello! Doc!" was Wynne's boisterous greeting. "Lost your best patient, eh? Never mind, saved you killing her yourself."
The remark was decidedly in bad taste, but its effect on Dr. Verrall was almost startling. Every drop of colour fled from his face, and for a moment he looked as if he could have struck the youth.
It was with an obvious effort that the doctor continued his talk with Miss Wynne, but it was Cleek alone who noticed these signs of perturbation. Again his memory reverted to the night of the murder. He had sent Mr. Narkom flying for the doctor, and it had been strange that Verrall should have been so conveniently on the spot – almost, in fact, as if he had expected a call – rather than at his own house, nearly a mile away. He had been on foot, too, and not in a motor which he assuredly would have been, had he been out on his ordinary rounds. There was something fishy about the whole affair and Cleek decided to keep both his eyes open.
His entry, however, with young Wynne's announcement of his sudden attack of faintness, made him an object of extreme solicitude on the part of Miss Wynne.
"Crocked up, poor beggar, and came near being a new patient for you to kill, doc," explained young Wynne, as he led Cleek into his place at the table. "Came within an ace of rolling over, and I bet you a new hat, Jenny, it's those beastly strong-smelling flowers you stick about all over the place."
The speaker laughed as though he were making the finest jokes ever made, and even his adoring sister could not but remonstrate.
"Bobby, darling, how can you be so rude to my poor flowers," said she, colouring at his humour in front of this stranger. "I'm sure you ought to be grateful to them – " then stopped short as if regretting having spoken.
"Oh, that's right, rub it in," responded her brother with a little sneering laugh. "I'm always being pulled up for something and just because you sold a few for once, I suppose I shall never hear the last of what those precious flowers of yours have done for me. Wish to goodness I was on my own, like other fellows."
"Oh, Bobby," Miss Wynne said, softly, "you know I didn't mean – "
"No, but you let me know it, mean or no mean," he retorted sullenly, "seems to me that the best thing I can do is to take myself off, and then everybody will be better. I'll lunch at the inn, thanks. I say, Headland, when you feel up to it, you might meet me there, and perhaps we can have a bit of sporting chat together and these two can spoon amongst the flowers."
With which final dig at his sister's pet hobby and the doctor's evident devotion, this engaging young gentleman lurched out of the room and down the little passage leading to the front door without another word.
A strained silence fell on the party for a second until Jennifer, recovering herself first, said in explanation:
"He's such a big overgrown schoolboy, Mr. Headland, and I'm afraid he's jealous of my beautiful hyacinths. Please don't give Bobby's rudeness another thought or I shall feel horribly ashamed."
Cleek shook his head smilingly.
"Pray don't mention it," he said in a smooth tone. "Boys will be boys, you know, and I rather like a dash of sport myself."
That seemed to set the girl at ease, and Cleek had an opportunity for a moment of watching and making notes in that wonderful mental diary of his.
It was not until coffee, made by Jennifer's own capable and slender fingers, had been served and the gentlemen given permission to smoke, that Cleek managed to secure the opportunity he so strongly desired, of seeing inside that little surgery door.
Diving his hand into his pocket, and having assured himself that the object he sought was reposing safely at the bottom, he gave vent to a little exclamation of well-simulated disgust.
"Nuisance, Miss Wynne. I am sorry, but I've left my cigarette case up in your brother's room. Would you mind if I ran up and got it?"
"Oh, I'll get it for you," said the girl, quickly. But that was the very thing Cleek was most anxious to avoid.
"No, my dear young lady, I know just exactly where it is and I promise not to thieve anything – "
With a little asinine snigger at his own humour, Cleek had crossed the tiny room and was on his way up the staircase before Miss Wynne could find time to remonstrate.
It took him but a second to reach the landing, and swiftly, silently he grasped the handle of the surgery door. It yielded to his touch, sprang open upon well-oiled hinges, and in another moment Cleek had achieved his object and stood in the little room.
His eyes, trained to observe quickly, took in the shelves of drugs, once dispensed and used so freely by the dead doctor. The vast array of bottles stood dust covered and dull, many with spider's webs over the stoppers. All but one, that is, and at that one Cleek's heart gave a leap, and his hand shot out, then stopped poised over it. The label on the bottle bore the medicinal name for prussic acid, and the dust had been brushed from the neck and stopper. Around the centre lay the marks of long, slender fingers!
Cleek's hand dropped again, and for a second he stood stock still, his brows knitted, the little nerve in his temple throbbing incessantly and his chin pinched up between one finger and thumb. Suddenly he switched on his heel, a new train of thought aroused by the sight of some white powdery atoms that lay at his feet.
Cautiously he bent down and touched one of the crumbling balls.
"Magnesia," he muttered. "By all the Gods – and that remnant of pellet in the dead man's mouth!" And the good Dr. Verrall was a friend of the family, so of course he would have access to this long-forgotten surgery which Cleek himself would never have known existed had it not been for the providential opening of the door. What, indeed, was the connection between Miss Jennifer and the dead "Miss Cheyne"? – or was it Dr. Verrall, after all? Bobby Wynne? Cleek dismissed him from his mind altogether as utterly harmless, though again there was the reluctance of that youth to allow him to enter this very room. There was the trail of magnesia, too. Now if he could find any trace of that most child-like and bland of medicines in Master Bobby's own room – This thought caused a sudden recollection of the two below and he moved away quickly. Swiftly and as noiselessly as he had entered, he passed out, the problem rendered still deeper by the knowledge he had obtained.
Darting into young Wynne's room, he gave it a lightning scrutiny, but there was no trace of magnesia to be found. But of course this room would be swept out every day and so no remnants of dust and powder would be permitted to lie there.
Down the staircase he went once more, stopping only to withdraw his silver cigarette-case from the pocket it had never left, and his hand on the dining room door to open it, he stood rigid, for through it came Miss Jennifer's metallic and artificial voice.
"Edgar, dear, you are sure we are safe? I don't trust this man – "
"Perfectly safe, darling," came the deep-toned answer. "Leave everything to me and fear nothing. You shall be safe, that I swear."
"Oho!" Cleek's lips puckered for a soundless whistle. "Edgar, eh?" So Dr. Verrall's name was Edgar, too, for it was certainly that personage who had answered her question and their relation to one another now was obvious.
Had she meant Edgar Verrall then, and not Sir Edgar Brenton after all? Yet the initial on the revolver was B. Last night he could have sworn that she was in love with the young baronet and was planning to marry him, but now he asked himself: "Which Edgar was it?"
Without a sound, he let go the handle, and after a swift glance round to see that his action was not likely to be observed by a servant if one there were, he backed noiselessly half-way up the staircase and then came down again, heavy-footed and whistling.
When he entered the room, it was to find the lovers calm and collected.
"Please forgive me, Miss Wynne," said Cleek, genially, flourishing the cigarette-case in his fingers. "I've been the deuce of a time, but the dashed thing had fallen down behind the dressing chest, and I had a regular hunt for it. I hope Mr. Wynne won't mind my intruding on his sanctum. You must explain it to him for me."
"Oh, no, not Bobby," said that gentleman's sister a little absently, "so long as you do not disturb his racing calender, that's all that matters to him."
Cleek forebore to comment upon this other than in a general: "Oh, boys will sow their wild oats, you know," and then went forward and held out his hand.
"Well, good-bye, Miss Wynne, and thank you for a pleasant luncheon. I'll look you up again some time if I may. You've been awfully kind putting up with me, and that young brother of yours is a real good sort."
Then he smiled, took his departure, and went presumably to meet Mr. Narkom.
Yet had the occupants of the house he had left been watching his movements they would have been surprised to see that his footsteps led him exactly in the opposite direction from that of the village police station. He simply vanished round the angle of the house and stood on the gravelled path, apparently absorbed in looking at the gnarled old wistaria plant which covered the entire wall. His memory for rooms had told him that that small tightly closed window was that of the surgery in which he had made so momentous a discovery. The garden all round him, shut off from the main road by a fairly high wall and shielded by tall elm trees, was a veritable paradise of flowers.
