The sergeant, who had listened admiringly to this tale, said handsomely that it did him credit. Mr. Amberley said that his friend's intentions might be good, but the result disastrous. He supposed he would have to run Corkran back to the manor.
"You suppose right," said Anthony cheerfully. "Nothing would induce me to mount the velocipede again, I can tell you."
"I'll go and lock the back door again," Amberley said. "We can go out by the front." He went through into the kitchen, carrying his torch. The door still stood open as the fugitive had left it. Amberley was about to shut it when a slight sound caught his ears. He switched his torch on and swept its beam round. Something moved by the door of the woodshed; for a moment he saw Baker's face; then it vanished, and a twig cracked under a retreating footstep. Amberley stepped quickly out into the little kitchen garden; at the same moment Corkran came up behind him and asked what he was up to now. Had he seen anyone? Amberley did not answer for a moment. Then he switched off his torch and said slowly: "No. I don't think so. I'm just going to shut the back gate. You might open the kitchen shutters again, will you?"
He waited till Corkran had gone back into the cottage and then went softly towards the woodshed. There was no one there, nor did there seem to be anyone lurking in the garden. Mr. Amberley stood still listening intently. No sound betrayed the butler's presence. Mr. Amberley's brows rose a little; he turned and went back into the house.
The sergeant and Anthony Corkran were getting on very well together. They were agreed on two points: that the man was undoubtedly Albert Collins; that Mr. Amberley ought not to have let him get away. This much Amberley heard as he re-entered the kitchen. He locked and bolted the door and said over his shoulder: "When we make an arrest, my well-meaning but misguided friends, it will be on a charge of murder - and other things. Not of housebreaking. Further, I would like to draw your attention to one small but significant point. The man who broke into this place tonight did not know of the existence of Bill."
The sergeant cast an eloquent glance at Corkran. "And who," he inquired, "might Bill be, sir?"
"Bill," said Mr. Amberley, "is Miss Brown's bull-terrier. Think it over."
Chapter Eleven
Anthony Corkran's account of his share in the night's happenings was carefully expurgated next morning when he told it over the breakfast table. He had been coached by Amberley during the drive back to the manor, and he quite realised that to disclose the other two men's presence in the cottage would be a very false step.
His own idea was to keep the whole adventure dark, but he admitted that he might be wrong when Amberley pointed out that complete silence on his part must inevitably warn the unknown housebreaker that he was suspected. The man had come from the manor; further, he must know who had followed him, since Anthony had sworn aloud at hitting his head against the window frame. If Anthony preserved a rigid silence it would only put the man on his guard.
Accordingly, Anthony told Fountain next morning when Joan had left the table that he had been up all night chasing masked men. Fountain looked at him as though he were a mild lunatic and went on with his breakfast. He was never in his best mood at this hour, and the only response he gave was a grunt.
Anthony buttered another slice of toast. "To be strictly accurate," he said, "not men, but man. One. Complete with sack."
Fountain looked up from the paper and said, with a hint of exasperation in his voice: "What the devil are you about?"
"If you don't believe me, take a look at the bicycle," said Anthony. "It wasn't good when I first mounted it. It's definitely on the sick-list now."
Fountain put the paper down. "What bicycle?" he said. "I do wish you wouldn't talk such rubbish!"
Joan's. I rode it seven miles. And back."
Fountain gave a short laugh. "Yes, I can see you riding a bicycle seven miles. Do you mind explaining the joke?"
Anthony explained it. It was some time before he could make his host believe that he was not pulling his leg. When he had succeeded in convincing him of his seriousness Fountain at once demanded to know who the man was. Anthony said that he didn't know, though he had a strong suspicion.
"Collins?" Fountain said, lowering his voice. "Good Lord!"
"Mind you, I'm not sure," Corkran warned him. "I never saw his face."
Fountain took no trouble to disguise the fact that he was thoroughly annoyed. He said that it looked as though he would have to sack the man. Anthony heartily agreed, but was himself annoyed to discover that Fountain was still somewhat dubious about his story. He remarked that it seemed fantastic; he wished Anthony had caught the man and unmasked him. As far as he could see, it would be most unwise for him to accuse Collins without any sort of proof to go on. He must think the whole thing over and keep a strict watch. It was all most unfortunate, not to say infuriating. If the police came to question the servants again the housekeeper for one would leave. She had been thoroughly affronted and upset already by the inspector's tactless method of interrogation. "In fact," said Fountain crossly, "I wish to God you hadn't looked out of your window. At least I shouldn't have known anything about it then."
At that moment Joan came into the room, and the discussion at once ended. She and Corkran were going to play golf. A polite suggestion that Basil should come and make it a three-ball match was refused. He was not going to play gooseberry, he said; besides which that old footler, Matthews, had rung up to say that he was coming round to see him on a matter of business.
"Of course I know what that means," Fountain said. "He dropped a hint at dinner last night, but I wasn't having any. I've got quite enough to worry me without the delinquencies of my head-keeper being added to the list."
"Poachers?" Joan inquired. "I know; Felicity was talking about it. I suppose Hitchcock is fairly slack."
"Well, I'm not going to get rid of him to please old Matthews," said Fountain.
Sir Humphrey was driven over at twelve o'clock by his daughter in her runabout, Ludlow being smitten with influenza. Baker ushered them both into the library and left them there while he went to find his master.
Sir Humphrey, after the manner of book-lovers, began to wander round studying the closely packed shelves. He said severely that he wondered Fountain had not had the library catalogued and arranged in decent order.
From her seat in the window Felicity remarked that she didn't suppose he cared. "Not bookish, darling," she smiled.
"That is self-evident," said her father, putting on his glasses and studying the backs of a row of calf-bound classics.
"They all look fairly dull anyway," said Felicity airily.
Sir Humphrey, who had discovered a treasure, did not reply. She transferred her attention to the activities of a gardener who was sweeping up the fallen leaves on the lawn and left her parent to browse in peace. When Fountain came in apologising for keeping his visitor waiting, he was turning over the pages of a dusty volume culled from the obscurity of a top shelf and said absently: "Not at all, not at all. I have been looking over your books. My dear sir, are you aware that they are all arranged according to size?"
Fountain looked a trifle bewildered and said that he was afraid he was not much of a reader. He was told that he should employ someone to put the library in order. It appeared that many rare editions were in his possession, and that De Quincey was rubbing shoulders with somebody's Recollections of the Russian Court. He gathered from Sir Humphrey's tone that this was a crime and said that he was very ignorant in these matters.