“Let’s get back to the suggested sleepwalking. Have you tried locking him in his room?”
“I’ve suggested it. But then he might get out of the window.”
“That could be fastened, too.”
“And make him a prisoner? No — he’d simply hate the idea! He’d die if he didn’t have air. And, then” — she shrugged her shoulders — “what’s the good of living at all if you’re going to make a prisoner of yourself. Much best take your chance, I say.”
“And you’re right,” murmured Crook. “It’s better to be dead than to be only half alive.”
She looked at him quickly.
“And yet,” she said, “people who are only half alive can show wonderful pluck sometimes — can’t they?”
“That’s even truer,” agreed Crook, and rose. “Miss Hone, you’ve helped me immensely. I believe we’re going to find a solution.”
“Solution?” she repeated, in hopeful bewilderment. “I don’t see how there can be any solution — unless you can cure him?”
“I might even do that,” answered Crook; and somewhat abruptly excusing himself, left the room.
Neither Miss Home nor her uncle saw any more of their guest until dinner. Then they met him with serious faces.
“We’ve either got a burglar or a ghost in the house,” announced Sir Arthur bluntly.
“Are you speaking seriously?” inquired Crook.
“Quite seriously. One of the maids saw a light in the east wing while she was returning from the town. The silly girl was so frightened she ran away again, and by the time she came back, the light had gone.”
“It might have been her imagination.”
“Doanes says it probably was,” interposed Miss Hone, “and, you know, Rose is terribly nervy, uncle.”
“Yes, but she’s so absolutely certain, my dear,” retorted Sir Arthur, “that one can’t disbelieve her.”
“Have you been over the east wing?” asked Crook.
“Of course. But all we found were rats.”
“We might make a second tour, after dinner—”
The butler’s voice behind him intervened respectfully:
“I’ve just been over it again myself, sir,” he said. “I didn’t find anything.”
“H-m. Well, it’s odd,” grunted Sir Henry, and glanced grimly at the detective. “But these are odd times, eh? Do you suppose human oddity’s contagious?”
They switched off to other topics, and, led by Miss Hone, the conversation assumed a lighter tone. After dinner, however, the shadows crept up quietly in the drawing-room, though Miss Hone again did her best to dispel them at the piano.
Toward ten o’clock, Sir Arthur pulled his chair close beside the detective’s, and asked him, while his niece played softly:
“Am I making you waste your time here?”
“I’m sure I’m not wasting my time,” answered Crook, and smiled toward the piano.
“Ah — that’s nice of you. Nor are we, for that matter. But I’m speaking — well, professionally. Are you getting near any solution of my problem?”
“I’m so near,” replied the detective, “that I’m afraid I shall not be enjoying your hospitality after to-night.”
“By Jove,” murmured Sir Arthur, astonished. “That sounds rather like a fairy tale!”
“Well, we’ll try and materialize it, Sir Arthur,” answered Crook. “Did I notice you yawning a few moments ago?”
The baronet laughed, and confessed that it might have been so. Late hours were not kept at Trentby Hall. As he spoke, his niece rose from the piano and came toward them.
“Ten o’clock, uncle,” she announced, and added, with a glance at Crook: “We never stand on ceremony with guests.”
The evening broke up, and they retired to their respective bedrooms. Crook, having spent a busy day, soon closed his eyes and fell asleep, but his host was not so fortunate, and tossed and turned till after midnight. Then he, too, fell into a doze, but it was a troubled one, full of vague shadows and disturbing fancies.
Once he imagined he was walking through the park, and could even feel the grass against his ankles, and the night air upon his temples; but, when he opened his eyes with a start, he discovered that he was still in his room, staring at the bedpost. In the distance a church clock was striking the hour. Six.
He turned impatiently on his side, and, as he did so, flung out his arm. Something unfamiliar impressed itself upon him. Some new sensation — in his arm — no — his hand.
He sat up abruptly, and switched on the light. On the little finger of his left hand was a gold signet ring.
A greatly distressed baronet sat down to breakfast three hours later. He was bursting with annoyance and humiliation, and declared to his niece and his guest that he would never be able to face Mr. Tappan again.
“I don’t think you’ll have to face him much longer,” remarked Crook. “I hear he’s leaving the neighborhood in a day or two.”
“No — is he?” exclaimed Sir Arthur, opening his eyes wide. “He never mentioned it.”
“I heard so yesterday, from the local house agent,” said Crook. “If you don’t like to face him, why not send the ring across to him by Doanes?”
“But it mightn’t be his,” interposed Miss Hone.
“In that case, he’ll send it back,” responded Crook.
“Of course,” nodded the baronet. “It’s a good idea.” And he called the butler to him. “Doanes,” he said, “I want you to take this ring across to Mr. Tappan at once. Give it to him with my compliments, and tell him — er — that I believe he left it here yesterday, when he called.”
“Very good, sir,” replied the butler; and departed.
IV
Twenty minutes later, Doanes returned, and was again summoned to his master’s presence. Sir Arthur was pulling, with nervous, jerky puffs, at his pipe in the morning room, watched sympathetically by his niece and his guest.
“Well? Did you give Mr. Tappan the ring?” demanded Sir Arthur.
“Yes, sir,” replied the butler. “He sent his compliments and thanks.”
“Ah — then it was his?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s odd,” interposed Detective Crook. “Because, as it happens, it’s mine.”
“What?” shouted the baronet, while his niece stared at Crook, and the butler looked frankly astounded.
“Yes, I’ve worn that ring for six months — ever since a grateful client gave it to me,” continued the detective. “I’ll tell you how it found its way into Mr. Tappan’s possession, if you like. No, don’t go, Doanes — it’s really quite an interesting story.”
“If you’ll excuse me, sir,” murmured the butler, but Sir Arthur suddenly looked at him, noticed his pallor, and ordered him sharply to remain. Then he turned to Crook, and, looking thoroughly bewildered, begged for an explanation.
“When I left you yesterday morning, Sir Arthur,” replied the detective, “various thoughts revolved in my mind, but uppermost was one which you may have considered rather absurdly trivial. It was the accuracy with which Mr. Tappan described the height of the Elizabethan cup — fourteen and a half inches.”
“But collectors always know the measurements of their things—” began the butler, and stopped abruptly.
“I rather anticipated that suggestion from you,” said Crook dryly, “for I can understand your interest. That was one reason why I referred to my absurdly trivial thought.” The butler said nothing, and Crook turned back to the others and continued:
“I made various investigations, two of which are of special interest. Firstly, I found out, at the police station, that none of Mr. Tappan’s losses had been notified to them. Now, it was, perhaps, logical that Mr. Tappan should have come to you first, Sir Arthur, about the Elizabethan cup, even though its value is about a thousand pounds—”