The House of Disappearance

Contents

Tue First Victim QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS “Wao Firep THat SHotT?”

NuMBER Two

On THE LANDING

Chapter I The First Victim

T was a pity there were no small boys on the road that led to Greystones, Brymoor. They missed a rare and im-

posing spectacle on that lonely, curving way—the spectacle of four uniformed constables and an inspector travelling along it in a motor-car. But, though it was a pity (for life without policemen is a terribly dull affair), it was not surptising. Brymoor was a tiny hamlet falling to bits through lack of communication with the outside world, the nearest fringe of which was found at Galton, three tortuous miles distant; and Greystones, the country seat of John Elderly towards which the rare and imposing spectacle was progressing, was another two miles beyond Brymoor. Then came the big hills and big valleys and the babbling streams, so that, unless you were a walker or an angler, Greystones itself was the only thing to beckon you on.

Yet one pair of eyes did view the spectacle as it rounded a rather precipitous bend a quarter of a mile from John Elderly’s gate. A somewhat weary and very dusty labourer, trudging in the same direction, paused as the car approached ; and, standing aside to let it overtake him, regarded it with solemn eyes.

“Four and a mob,” he murmured, counting the inmates. “Somethink’s up. One fer traffic, two fer a drunk, three fer a thief, and four fer a murder.”

According to this formula, it could be nothing less than a murder, so he watched the car with interest—to discover,

I all at once, that his interest was returned. The constable who was driving, after a quick glance at the inspector, applied the brake and brought the car to a standstill.

“Wot’s up?” asked the dusty one.

“P’r’aps you know what’s up?” suggested the inspector, glowering at him.

“Me? ’Ow should I know ?” demanded the labourer, frowning. “Only thing I know’s up is the sky.”

“Now, then, no back answers,’ barked the inspector. “What are you doing here?”

The labourer looked puzzled.

“Walkin’,” he said.

“Where to?”

“Greystones. That’s it over there, ain’t it? Mr. Elderly’s place——”

“*Adn’t we better be getting on, sir?” interposed one of the constables, regarding the inspector anxiously.

“Yes, yes,’ replied the inspector, testily. “But—just a minute. I want to know a little more about this man first.” He turned again to the pedestrian. “What are you going to Greystones for?”

“Bit curious, ain’t yer?” grumbled the labourer.

“Policemen have to be—it’s their job!”

“Oh, orl right, then. I’m goin’ ter ask fer a bit o’ work. Gardenin’ work.”

“Oh! You know Mr. Elderly, then?”

“No, I don’t know ’im. Never seen ’im. But I’ve ’eard ’e’s a good employer, and ’as a tidy bit 0’ land to look arter.” Sudden indignation entered his voice. “Feller may try and git a bit o’ work, mayn’t ’e? Any law agin’ that?”

The inspector was staring at the labourer rather hard. In fact, for a moment his eyes seemed to be piercing him through and through.

“You're quite sure you haven’t been to see Mr. Elderly

THE FIRST VICTIM 3 already, eh?” the inspector demanded, abruptly. “You didn’t turn round, for instance, when you heard us coming, eh?”

“’Course not!” responded the labourer, his indignation growing. “Turn round agin! Wotcher gettin’ at?”

“You'll know soon enough, maybe. Jump in. We’ll give you a lift.” The labourer hesitated. “GET IN!” roared the inspector. “Are you deaf?”

Five to one was too stiff, especially when the five were in uniform. So the labourer shrugged his shoulders. After all, a ride was a ride, whatever your company.

“Orl right,” he muttered, and took his seat gingerly in the back of the car. “So long as yer ain’t chargin’ anything.”

“P’r’aps the charge’ll come later, my son,” the inspector snapped back; and the car leapt forward once more.

Inside the gate, two people were discussing the weather. A good-looking young man, short, stocky, and freckled, was swearing with ridiculous optimism that the sun would soon blaze forth. An attractive young lady, brown-haired, browneyed, and with the perfect slimness envied by fair and forty, was contending that grey clouds meant rain, especially when smudgy black blobs floated disconnectedly across the horizon.

“Well, we’ll have to toss for it,” suggested the young man. “Heads, sun—tails, the flood.”

“No, really,” replied the young lady. “We should get simply soaked.”

“Tt wouldn’t kill us.”

“Tt would ruin our clothes. Your lovely trousers—I’m sure they’d never look the same again!”

“Rot!” he laughed. “Let me fetch your mackintosh, Angela. Tell me where it is a

She held up her hand, and he stopped as a faint murmur of thunder echoed through the hills.

“There’s your answer, Peter,” she exclaimed. “Listen !”

“Hm,” he frowned.

He tried to listen to the thunder, but found himself thinking of her hand instead. It was a capable hand, the fingers artistic and slender. He liked artistic hands. He was himself an artist of sorts. He wondered ...

“Did you hear it?” she challenged.

“T did,” he admitted gloomily. “And I also heard it two months ago in London, when we managed to forget it under a single umbrella !”

“But I was soaked when I got back to my studio.”

“And I was drenched when I got back to mine. Gloriously drenched. Well, well, so be it. Let us go inside and play spillikins !”

In spite of the thunder, and this sound meteorological decision, neither of them moved. There is magic in the moment that precedes a storm. Something unnameable stirs within one; the heart flutters, just as the leaves do; mystery enters to upset nice calculations, and all the painstaking achievements of man seem suddenly dwarfed in the passage of a greater Presence that has callously evolved them, and will one day just as callously swallow them up. We do not analyse these things, but we dimly sense them when the thunder reverberates through the hills, or a cool breeze suddenly makes the still roses shiver, or a black cat flashes out on to the lawn and chases its tail.

But possibly other elements made the man and the girl linger by the gate. They may have been listening to an inner storm that was about to break with glorious confusion in their own souls—or to the sound of an approaching motor-car containing four constables, an inspector, and a labourer after a job. That car itself was not approaching on a peaceful mission. A number of storms circled round Brymoor this morning.

As the car neared the gate, Peter raised his head, and a

THE FIRST VICTIM 5 gardener who had been standing outside the lodge, with a queer apprehensive expression on his face, disappeared quickly into the shadows of a wall.

“Hallo!” observed Peter. “Here are some folk who aren’t afraid of the weather, anyway!”

The girl was about to reply when her words died on her lips.

“What’s the matter?” asked Peter, anxiously.

But he did not need an answer. The car was stopping outside the gate, and now he, too, noticed the character of the occupants. Not only their character, but their obviously business-like demeanour. The inspector sprang out briskly, and was through the gate in a second.

“Where’s Mr. Elderly?” he barked, without ceremony.

“T’m sure I don’t know,” answered the young man.

“T believe my uncle is in his study,” added Angela. “He usually is at this time of the morning.”

“Mr. Elderly’s your uncle?” asked the inspector, sharply.

“That is the implication,” Peter replied for her, dryly.

The inspector stared at them hard. It was a habit of his. Then, making up his mind rapidly, he turned to his men and issued a sharp order:

“Stay by the gate, Dawkins, and see that nobody passes out. Nobody, mind. Don’t let ’em argue. You come along with us.” This to the labourer, who, Peter noted, looked thoroughly perplexed. “And you two follow me to the house.” . The last remark was addressed to Peter and Angela. Its commanding tone irritated the young man. But this was not the moment, evidently, for a debate on the ethics of courtesy. Without more ado, the inspector turned and ran up the drive, with three constables behind him.

“Goodness! What’s happened?” gasped Angela.

“We'll soon know,” replied Peter; and all at once he walked close to her and patted her arm. “Don’t worry yet, Angela,” he said. “I expect it’s not as bad as it seems. But—if it is bad—well, I’m here, for what I’m worth.”

“That’s a lot, Peter,” she answered, with a grateful glance; and they turned to follow the inspector.

The constable named Dawkins, who had been deputed to guard the gate, gazed at the retreating backs till they were swallowed up by the curve of the drive, and then cast his eyes towards the lodge. A hesitating figure emerged from the shadows. It was the figure of the gardener.

“Wot’s it all about?” asked the gardener.

If he had ever been handsome (and there was no sign that he ever had been), a scar on his chin would have robbed him of his last beauty. His eyes were closely set, and his hair was sandy. Constable Dawkins regarded him unlovingly.

“Ask no questions, my lad, and you won’t be told no lies,” the constable observed, oracularly.

“T don’t want to be told no lies,” retorted the ill-visaged gardener. “I wants to know wot’s ’appenin’ at the ’ouse.”

Constable Dawkins made no response.

“And I wants to know ’oo that feller is you’ve brought along,’ went on the gardener.

Constable Dawkins frowned.

“Young feller,” he said, “you want to know too much. And paps you'll be lucky—there’s no tellin-—if one day nobody ain’t as curious about you as you aré about other people. Meantime, if there’s any questions to be asked, they’ll be asked of Inspector Biggs. Or, more likely,” he added, with a wink, “by ’im!”

The gardener was silenced. He disappeared round the back of the lodge, and strove, not very successfully, to give his full attention to potatoes.

At the same moment, Inspector Biggs was on the door-

THE FIRST VICTIM 7 step of Greystones, peremptorily demanding admittance of a butler who, all gravity and side-whiskers, was the very model of what a butler should be. The butler listened unemotionally, but raised his eyebrows when the inspector asked to be shown to Mr. Elderly’s study.

“T’ll find out whether you can see him,” answered the butler.

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” retorted the inspector, brushing past him. “The police don’t need appointments.”

“Excuse me—” began the butler.

“Be quiet!” snapped the inspector. He gazed round the spacious entrance hall, at the antlers on the walls, at the wide staircase, at the generous, mellow rugs. He gazed at the immaculate, slightly outraged butler. His eyes grew puzzled. “The study, man!” he shouted. “The study! Where is it ?”

“This way,” said the butler, regaining his composure.

But this was not the butler’s day. He soon lost his composure again. As the procession proceeded along a bluecarpeted passage, at the end of which was a dark oak door, the butler was again rudely pushed aside by the inspector, who sprang forward and reached the door first. A quick knock—a turn of the handle—the door remained closed.

“Locked,” reported Inspector Biggs, and called through, “Mr. Elderly! It’s the police, sir! Mr. Elderly!”

Other figures came hurrying up, among them Angela and Peter.

“What’s happened, inspector—what’s happened?” cried the girl.

“We'll know in a minute,” replied the inspector, grimly. “When we’ve burst this door open.”

“T believe I can manage it, sir,” interposed one of the constables.

“Right, Newton—carry on,” nodded Biggs. “But be quick, for God’s sake.” As the constable tinkered with the lock, the inspector turned to Angela. “You’re Mr. Elderly’s niece, I understand?” he queried.

“Yes,” she answered, while her heart thumped.

“Miss Elderly ?”

“No—Miss Vernon.”

“Thank you. When did you last see your uncle?”

“At breakfast—about two hours ago.”

The inspector regarded her thoughtfully, nodded, and then — ‘swung round to the door again.

“Hurry up, Newton! Hurry!” he rasped. “If you can’t ie

“Tn a second, sir,’ murmured the constable. “I’m just getting it.” The next instant he gave an exclamation. “Got it!” he cried, and swung the door open.

The interior of the study was now revealed. Two chairs were overturned. Papers littered the floor. A drawer of a desk was open. A smashed vase lay on the ground. The window was fastened on the inside. The room was empty.

Chapter II Questions And Answers

| aes a few seconds, nobody spoke. Something inexplicable had happened—the inspector’s expression showed that—but what that inexplicable thing was only the inspector himself, and possibly his stolid constables, appeared to know. At first, amazement spread over his face. He stared at the fastened window, at the door that had been locked, at the overturned and disarranged furniture. Then he frowned, and became thoughtful. His eyes travelled to the telephone...

“The receiver’s off,” he said sharply.

He ran to the desk on which the instrument stood. On the point of snatching up the receiver, he changed his mind, and lifted it slowly and carefully. He listened, then replaced the receiver in the exact position in which he had found it. Peter noted with interest that he did not hang it up again.

Like a pistol shot came his next order : “No one’s to leave.” A tall, elderly man standing just inside the door raised his head quickly, and suddenly came to life.

“Tsn’t that rather peremptory ?”’ he asked.

“In the circumstances, no,” answered Biggs.

“What are the circumstances?” the elderly man enquired. “Then, perhaps, we can judge whether we agree with you or not.”

Inspector Biggs studied the speaker for an instant, then deliberately ignored him. Turning to the constable who had ‘ opened the door, he said,

“That’s an order, Newton. No one to leave this place without my permission. I want the house and the grounds searched immediately. You and Smith can do the house, and Druce will go out and do the grounds with Dawkins. You understand ?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Constable Newton, and turned to go.

“Wait a minute!” cried the inspector. “Wait a minute! Do you know what you’re looking for?”

The constable coloured slightly as he admitted that he did not.

“You're looking for Mr. Elderly, or for the last person who has seen him,” said Biggs. “Have everybody brought inside—the staff, outdoor and indoor, to wait in the kitchen, and the rest to me here. Now, then—lively! Step out, my lads!”

The constables saluted, and vanished. The tall, elderly man tried again.

“T am sure you believe you are doing your duty, inspector,” he observed, controlling his annoyance with obvious difficulty, “but, I repeat, your methods are peremptory. We are all friends of Mr. Elderly—we are here at his invitation, in fact—and if anything unfortunate has happened to him we shall be as anxious as you to Jend our assistance——”

“You can do that, sir, by assisting the law,” interposed the inspector.

“Granted,” nodded the elderly man, quietly, “but, in a sense, I also represent the law. I am Sir Julius Hughes, a member of His Majesty’s Parliament.”

This information had some effect, though not a great deal. The inspector refused to give ground, but he spoke more temperately.

“I’ve no wish to make myself unnecessarily unpleasant, I’m sure,” he replied, “but when I’ve got a duty to perform, it’s my habit to perform it, And my duty at this moment is to see that nobody leaves this place. When you hear what I’ve got to say, you'll maybe agree.”

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS Il

“We are waiting to hear what you have to say,” murmured Sir Julius, patiently.

“Then it’s this,” went on the inspector, with a grim expression. “Mr. Elderly rang the police station up at half-past ten.” He glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece. “That’s twenty-five minutes ago. His voice was excited. It was more than excited—it was terror-stricken.” A little gasp escaped from Mr. Elderly’s niece, and the young man by her side moved a little closer. “He asked us to come at once, and he was beginning to say more when—something interrupted him.” He stopped abruptly, and shrugged his shoulders. His eyes were now on Sir Julius.

“Go on,” said Sir Julius.

“There’s not much more to say—yet,” replied Inspector Biggs. “Now you know nearly as much as I do. Someone, of course, knows more. We came along here as soon as we could, found the study door locked, with no key in it, the window locked, and the room empty, as you all see it. If Mr. Elderly left the room after telephoning to us, well, my men will probably find him somewhere in the house or the grounds. But if he didn’t leave the room—where is he?” He paused, and no one attempted to answer the question. “It’s a mystery, and there’s only one clear thing about it,” the inspector added, and fell back upon his old formula. ‘No one leaves this place until either Mr. Elderly is found, or I have handed the matter over to somebody in higher authority.”

The inspector’s statement cleared the air a little. Nobody liked him; his manner was too curt and officious; but all agreed that, from his point of view, he had a case.

“What do you propose to do?” asked Sir Julius Hughes, “Get into touch with headquarters?”

“That’s impossible at the moment,” responded the inspector, frowning.

“Why not the telephone?” suggested Peter.

“The telephone wires are cut,” answered the inspector.

Peter felt a little shiver against his side.

“Beastly rotten, I know,” he whispered. “But it’ll come out all right, Angela—you'll see!”

“Tt’s horrible!” Angela murmured back.

As the inspector was beginning to speak again, a sudden burst of thunder drowned his words. A pale shaft of sunlight that had lain on the carpet and across a fallen chair suddenly vanished, and a faint patter sounded outside. The rain was sweeping from the hills, and the outposts had arrived.

For no reason which he could explain, Peter fought an abrupt desire to laugh. He had mentally stepped outside the arena of actual happenings, and was watching it. The electricity, perhaps. Everybody looked very odd from this new, impersonal angle—standing there, while the rain swept towards them, and doing nothing.

“What’s the matter with us?” he cried, startling the room with the loudness of his voice. “Let’s all search!”

The inspector barked back at him, however. .

“No, leave it to my men,” he retorted. “If there’s anything: to be found, they’ll find it. Meanwhile, I want you all here. I’ve some questions to ask, and the first is—can anyone here throw any light at all upon Mr. Elderly’s movements ?”

“T saw him about an hour ago,” volunteered Sir Julius, “I didn’t notice anything unusual about him.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Tt was in this room.”

“May I ask what happened ?”

“Certainly, We had arranged to go fishing this afternoon, and I showed him some new flies.”

“He did not suggest cancelling the engagement ?”

“On the contrary, he said he was looking forward to it.”

“Ah,” murmured the inspector. “Then he had no knowledge of anything that might interfere with the engagement. H’m.” He revolved this point, then jerked out, “Was he alone when you saw him?”

“No. His secretary—Miss Ayrton—was taking down a letter.” Sir Julius turned towards a tall, pale girl, who was standing near him. The inspector’s eye followed his. “And his niece, Miss Vernon, was leaving the room as I entered.”

Inspector Biggs rounded upon Angela like a swooping eagle,

“You told me you hadn’t seen him since breakfast,” he exclaimed.

Angela flushed, and Peter felt an intense desire to punch the inspector’s nose. |

“J—I made a mistake,” faltered Angela. “I’d forgotten that I went to ask him for a stamp.”

“Well, I hope you'll be more careful not to forget in future,” responded the inspector, gruffly. “Small mistakes like that sometimes lead to grave results.” Peter decided that, one day, he would punch the inspector’s nose. “And is that all you can tell me?” the inspector asked, turning back to Sir Julius.

“That’s all,” nodded Sir Julius.

The tall, pale girl now became the centre of the inspector’s interest. She had large, quiet eyes—eyes that were difficult to read—and she stiffened slightly, as though in expectation of an encounter. The only other woman in the room, a good-looking though rather sharp-featured matron, watched the secretary closely during her cross-examination. “Why?” wondered Peter suddenly. “That seems to be more than idle curiosity !”

“You were with Mr. Elderly when Sir Julius left?” Inspector Biggs was enquiring.

“Yes,” answered Miss Ayrton, quietly.

“What time did Sir Julius leave? You remember ?”

“Yes. It was just after ten.”

“And how long were you with him after that?”

The secretary paused, She thought carefully for a few moments, and then said,

“Nearly ten minutes.”

“Bringing the time up to 10.10,” exclaimed the inspector. “Twenty minutes before he telephoned to the police-station !”

“Tf he telephoned to the police-station at half-past ten, that would be twenty minutes before he telephoned,” agreed Miss Ayrton.

Her tone was dry, and seemed to irritate the inspector. He looked at her sharply. So did the matronly woman.

“T see we can both do arithmetic,” observed the inspector. “What happened in those ten minutes—the last ten minutes you were with Mr. Elderly ?”

“He finished the letter he was dictating. And——”

“Yes?”

“And he gave me some telegrams to send.”

“Telegrams? Ah!” The inspector was now staring: at Miss Ayrton very hard indeed. “May I enquire 2

He paused abruptly, but the secretary answered his unfinished question.

“They were to three or four guests who had been coming here to-morrow,” she said, almost defiantly. “The telegrams asked them not to come. Mr. Elderly gave no reason. He said he would write and explain, and ask them up another time.”

“Well, that seems rather extraordinary,” exclaimed Inspector Biggs. “Put them off, eh? I take it, you don’t know the explanation ?”

Miss Ayrton hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shook her head. The inspector grunted,

“Well, we'll leave that for the moment,” he said.

But here Sir Julius interposed.

“Don’t you think it would be interesting to know if those telegrams were sent?” he suggested.

The inspector frowned.

“Who’s conducting this enquiry?” he demanded, sharply.

“You are,” replied Sir Julius, unruffled. “That is why I suggest that you put the question, and not I.”

“They were sent,” said Miss Ayrton, quickly.

“Are you satisfied?’ enquired the inspector, with a little sneer, to the Member of His Majesty’s Parliament.

“Not quite,” answered Sir Julius. “It would be interesting to know how the telegrams were sent? There is no telegraph office at Brymoor, and the nearest is at Galton, five miles away. Has Miss Ayrton, or anyone else, been over to Galton in the last hour?”

Miss Ayrton looked at the inspector.

“Yes, tell us,” nodded Biggs.

“T sent the telegrams over the telephone,” said the secretary. “No one was going to Galton.”

“And the telegrams, of course, were urgent?”

It was again Sir Julius’s question. The girl nodded. The inspector now chipped in again quickly, lest he should lose his status and authority.

“You telephoned them from this room, I suppose?’ he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Immediately after he gave them to me. Just before I dett.’*

“Then the telephone wires weren’t cut at ten past ten,” commented Sir Julius; and fell back again, as though he had made an important point and the Opposition could now get on with it.

The matronly lady had little to say. Her name was Mrs. Catesby. Yes, Catesby. She acted as hostess and housekeeper for Mr. Elderly, who was a bachelor. Yes, he was a bachelor. She had not seen him since breakfast. She had been busy getting the rooms ready for the new guests, most of whom were to have arrived that afternoon, or on the morrow. No, she, did not notice anything strange about Mr. Elderly’s attitude. Nothing at all. He seemed just as usual.

Angela and Peter, when their turns came, corroborated Mrs. Catesby’s assurance that Mr. Elderly had behaved quite _ naturally that morning. Beyond this they had no useful contribution to offer.

“And does that complete all the guests who are here at present?” asked the inspector.

“No, there is one more,” replied Mrs. Catesby. “Mr. Grinton.”

“Why isn’t he here?” demanded the inspector.

“He probably will be here in a jiffy,” said Peter, turning towards the window and gazing out at the dripping garden. “He went out on a botanical expedition as soon as breakfast was over.”

“TIl interview him later,” answered the inspector. “Then that covers everybody, apart from the staff ?”

“Wot abart me?” enquired a voice.

It was the voice of the labourer whom the inspector had brought along with him, and whom he appeared to have forgotten. The man had been standing unobtrusively in the shadow, and now he emerged into full light. He was the incongruous blot on the picture, the one thing that did not seem to have any natural place in it... .

All eyes were turned upon him. All save Peter’s. A queer, subconscious alertness had entered into that young man, fanned by half-a-dozen trivial incidents and impressions, and instead of looking at the labourer he found himself looking at Mr. Elderly’s secretary. He alone saw the sudden light of terror that shot into her eyes, and the fierce momentary battle, during which her body became rigid, while she conquered her emotion. “I wonder how much the inspector would give to have seen what I’ve just seen?” thought Peter, an instant later. It did not occur to him to enlighten the inspector, and when that worthy next glanced in the secretary’s direction, she was her usual quiet and composed self.

+ Certainly Inspector Biggs was not worrying about Miss Ayrton at the moment. Adopting his usual method when on the point of cross-examining, he fixed his eyes upon the labourer, while the labourer stared back at him. It was the — labourer who first spoke.

“Git on with it,” he said.

“T’ll get on with it, my son, don’t you worry,” replied the inspector. “And I'll begin by telling you that civility will be your best tone to adopt.”

“Go on,” retorted the labourer. “If I’ve done the old man in, bein’ perlite won’t git me off.”

This blunt statement caused a little shudder to pass round the room.

“Vus, and if I ain’t done ’im in,” went on the labourer, warming up, “yer can’t ‘ang me fer bein’ rude. I ain’t sure you've got a right ter drag me in ’ere, any’ow!”

“Be quiet!” cried the inspector. “I’ve a right to do as I like with suspicious characters!”

“Oh—I’m suspishus, am I?”

“Tf you want the truth, you are! Now, then, quit any more fhonsense, my man! What’s your name?”

“Geary,” said the labourer. “George.”

“Where do you come from?”

This needed thinking over.

“Well,” explained George Geary, after a pause, “I was born in Bedford, I ain’t got no present address, and nobody’s give me word yet where I’m goin’ to die.”

“Tdiot! Where did you sleep last night ?”

“Tn a barn.” ;

“What sort of a barn?”

“Wooden barn.”

“Very helpful information! Let’s hear where this wooden barn was?”

“Well, yer arst me wot sort of a barn,” grumbled Geary. “Tf I ain’t givin’ the answers yer want, yer must tell me wot to say. Come ter that, I ain’t sure now as it was wood. Might ’ave been brick.”

Inspector Biggs just contrived to control himself.

“T am no longer interested in the building material of the barn,” he said. “It can have been made of bamboo, for all I care. What I am now asking you is—where was it?”

“Oh, where was it? It was t’other side of a town. That’s where I slep’—with rats fer comp’ny.”

“And what did you do when you woke up?”

“Shaved and put on me plus fours.”

“Did you have any breakfast?”

me Vadis

“Where?”

“At the town.”

“Do you know the name of the town?”

“Yus. Galton.”

“Then why didn’t you say so? What did you do at Galton ?”

“T jest told yer. ’Ad breakfust.”

“Where?”

“At Galton. ?Ow many more times am I to tell yer?”

“Tn the middle of the road?”

“Corse not!”

“Where—in Galton?”

“Oh, now I see wot yer drivin’ at. I ’ad breakfust at a pub. Fisherman’s Harms.”

“And what made you come on here afterwards?”

“I met a lot o’ bobbies in a car, and they made me come on ’ere.”’

“Will you answer my questions properly?” roared the inspector, bursting. “You were coming here when we overtook you, and you said you were after a job.”

“That’s right. I told yer once. Watcher want me to tell yer agin for?”

Inspector Biggs took out a large pocket-handkerchief and mopped his face.

“T suppose I must take it for granted you’re a born fool,” he exclaimed. “What made you come here after a job? Let's | hear that?”

“Unger.”

“Yes, yes, but what made you think Mr. Elderly would have any work for you?”

“Oh, now I see wot yer mean,” replied Geary. “I arst about jobs at the pub, and they told me abart Mr. Elderly, and ’ow ’e ’ad a large ’ouse, and was always takin’ on people. So along I comes, and ’ere [ am, and that’s orl I can tell yer.”

Inspector Biggs pondered for a few moments.

“Well, we can corroborate part of your story from the Fisherman’s Arms,” he said, “but I was round that way myself this morning, and can’t say I saw anything of you. What time did you leave?”