“I am glad you and your friends left me something, Mr. Harbord,” snapped Hartley.
“When we saw that Mr. Ford’s footprints went no farther we stopped. I suggested that we should do so. It had evidently become a matter for the police.”
“I take it that those boot-nails to the right and left mark the subsequent investigations of the village constable.”
“Yes, that is so.”
About twenty feet before us was the high wall that separated the lawns from the road. An old oak rose on the farther side of it. One huge limb was thrust across the coping, spreading the extremities of its leafless twigs over our heads. Hartley stood glaring up at it in profound contemplation.
“I thought of the oak,” said the secretary presently, “but how did he get from the ground to a branch a good six feet above him?”
“Exactly, Mr. Harbord.”
“If he had used a ladder,” continued the secretary, “there would be marks upon the snow; if he had swarmed up a rope, surely he would have moved about while he prepared for his climb. A lasso from above could hardly have jerked him from the ground without a kick or two. The footprints end in two firm impressions as if he had stepped off the earth in his stride.”
“As you say, it is really remarkable — remarkable indeed,” said Hartley.
“Inexplicable,” murmured the secretary.
“There are not more than three solutions,” said Hartley. “And now, if you please, we will go back to the house.”
In the entrance hall the Inspector inquired after Jackson, the valet, and in a couple of minutes he appeared. He was a tall, hatchet-faced fellow, very neatly dressed in black. He made a little bow and then stood watching us in a respectful attitude.
“A queer business this, Jack-son,” said Hartley.
“Yes, sir.”
“And what is your opinion on it?”
“To be frank, sir, I thought, at first, that Mr. Ford had run away; but now I don’t know what to make of it.”
“And why should he run away?”
“I have no idea, sir; but he seemed to me rather strange in his manner yesterday.”
“Have you been with him long?”
“No, sir. I was valet to the Honorable John Dorn, Lord Beverley’s second son. Mr. Ford took me from Mr. Dorn at the time he rented the Hall.”
“I see. And now will you show me your master’s room. I shall see you again later, Mr. Harbord,” Hartley continued. “In the meanwhile I will leave my assistant with you.”
We sat and smoked in the secretary’s room. He was not much of a talker, consuming cigarette after cigarette in silence. Presently Ransome came in, banging the door behind him. I suspect he was a harsh, ill-tempered man at the best, but now he was about the most disagreeable companion imaginable. He could not sit still for two consecutive minutes, roaming about the room, pestering me with questions as to my opinion on the case, lighting cigars and throwing them into the fire unsmoked.
The winter duck had already fallen when the Inspector joined us, and a very ragged and disheveled figure he made, with a great tear down his trouser leg.
“I’m too old for it,” he said with a smile at our astonished faces. “I shall have to leave tree-climbing to younger men.”
“May I ask why you take this occasion to amuse yourself in so remarkable a way?” asked Ransome. The man’s anxiety was telling on him; that was plain enough.
“I should hardly describe it as amusement,” said the Inspector with a glance at his torn clothes. “And as it is close upon dinnertime I must ask you to excuse me while I borrow a needle and thread.”
The dinner dragged itself to an end and we left Ransome with a second decanter of port before him. Hartley slipped away again and I consoled myself with a book in the library until half past ten, when I walked off to bed. A servant was switching off the light in the hall when I mounted the great staircase.
My room was in the old wing at the farther side of the picture gallery, and I had some difficulty in steering my way through the dark corridors. The mystery that hung over the house had shaken my nerves, and I remember that I started at every creak of a board and peered into the shadows as I passed along with heaven knows what ghostly expectations. I was glad enough to close my door upon them and see the wood fire blazing cheerfully in the open hearth.
I woke with a start that left me sitting up in bed with my heart thumping in my ribs like a piston rod. I am not generally a light sleeper, but that night even while I snored my nerves were active. Some one had tapped at my door; that was my impression.
I listened with the uncertain fear that comes to the newly waked. Then I heard it again — on the wall near my head this time. A board creaked. Some one was groping his way down the dark corridor without. Presently he stopped and a faint line of illumination sprang out under my door. It winked and then grew still. He had lighted a candle.
Assurance came with the streak of light. What was he doing, groping in the dark, if he had a candle with him? I crept over to the door, opened it and stared cautiously out.
About a dozen feet away a man was standing, a dark silhouette against the light he carried. His back was toward me; but I could see that his hand was shading the candle from his eyes while he stared into the shadows that clung about the farther end of the corridor.
Presently he began to move forward.
The picture gallery and the body of the house were behind us. The corridor in which he stood terminated in a window, set deep into the stone of the old walls. The man walked slowly, throwing the light to right and left. His attitude was of nervous expectation that of a man who looked for something that he feared to see.
At the window he stopped, staring about him and listening. He examined the fastenings and then tried a door on his right. It was locked against him. As he did so I caught his profile against the light. It was Harbord, the secretary. From where I stood he was not more than forty feet away. There was no possibility of a mistake.
As he turned to come back I retreated into my room, closing the door. The fellow was in a state of great agitation and I could hear him muttering to himself as he walked. When he had gone by I peeped out to see him and his light dwindle, reach the corner by the picture gallery and so fade into a reflection, a darkness.
I took care to turn the key before I got back into bed.
I woke again at seven and hurrying on my clothes set off to tell Hartley all about it. I took him to the place and together we examined the corridor. There were only two rooms beyond mine. The one on the left was occupied by Ransome; that on the right was a large store-room, the door of which was locked. The housekeeper kept the key, we learned upon inquiry. Whom had Harbord followed? The problem was beyond me. As for Inspector Hartley, he did not indulge in verbal speculations.
It was in the central hall that we met with the secretary on his way to the breakfast room. He looked nervous and depressed; he nodded to us and was passing on when Hartley stopped him.
“Good-morning, Mr. Harbord” he said. “Can I have a word with you?”
“Certainly, Inspector. What is it?”
“I have a favor to ask. My assistant and myself have our hands full here. If necessary could you help us by going to London and—”
“For the day?” he interrupted.
“No. It may be an affair of three or four days.”
“Then I must refuse. I am sorry, but—”
“Don’t apologize, Mr. Harbord,” said the little man cheerfully. “I shall have to find some one else — that is all!”
We walked into the breakfast room and a few minutes later Ransome appeared with a great bundle of letters and telegrams in his hand. He said not a word to any of us, but dropped into a chair tearing open the envelopes and glancing at their contents. His face grew darker as he read and once he thumped his hand upon the table with a crash that set the china jingling.