At any time in the past fifteen years it would have been impossible for Sturrock to jump. He climbed in at the back and closed the door noiselessly behind him. A man of weight, a man of dignity, a man who certainly would not walk for choice. Algy wondered where he was bound for, and said without turning round,

“Well, where can I drop you? Colebrook?”

“If you are not going any farther, sir.”

“Railing any good to you?”

“I shall be very grateful, sir. I was afraid I might have missed the bus, but I shall get one back all right. It’s my half day, and there seemed no reason why I should stay in. I mentioned it to the Inspector.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” said Algy.

Sturrock pursued the subject in an earnest, painstaking manner.

“The Inspector said it would be quite all right, sir. But I shall not be taking the full time. There is a bus at half past four-I thought of catching that. I shall be in the house again before five o’clock. I told the Inspector that such was my intention. I told him I shouldn’t feel comfortable about being out of the house for long-not in the circumstances. William has only been there a short time, and, as I said to the Inspector, if there was to be any emergency it would be beyond him, especially after last night.”

Algy was profoundly bored with Sturrock’s scruples. Railing was, mercifully, only four miles away. He dropped the butler in the market-place, and as he drove out of the square on the farther side, his driving mirror showed him a blue suit and bowler hat disappearing within the doors of the Hand and Flower. If the walls had been transparent, he would presently have seen them esconced within a telephone booth, the bowler hat a thought pushed back, the eyes beneath its brim intent, watchful, and aware.

Algy Somers got back to Cole Lester at half past four. Mr. Patterson, Sir Francis Colesborough’s solicitor, had arrived, and the business of opening the safe was going forward in the study behind closed doors. It fell therefore to Algy to receive Mr. Montagu Lushington when he arrived at about a quarter to five. He had Mr. Brewster with him, and explained that they were on their way back to town-“And I must say, Algy, that you have a singular knack of getting into the limelight. Why you must needs get yourself mixed up in a murder case at this juncture! Heaven knows there’s enough talk already. I’ll see Brook, but things will just have to take their course. Maud is staying on with her sister for a day or two, so I’m taking Brewster back with me. I hope Lady Colesborough won’t think we’re intruding. I suppose she is keeping to her room.”

Algy very nearly said, “Lady Colesborough doesn’t think,” but pulled himself up in time. It seemed rather difficult to find the right thing to say. If Brewster hadn’t been there, he could have talked freely to Monty, but there was Brewster, a little embarrassed, a little shocked, and obviously just a little thrilled at finding himself in the midst of a case which would be front page news in every paper in the country tomorrow, and actually shaking hands with the principal suspect.

Algy said he didn’t think Sylvia would come down. He supposed that someone would bring them some tea. They were in the drawing-room, and to the drawing-room upon the stroke of five tea was borne processionally by Sturrock and two attendant footmen. Algy thought the butler had cut his afternoon uncommon short. He ventured a “Got your bus all right, Sturrock,” and received a glance of dignified rebuke and a quiet “Yes, thank you, sir.”

Neither Gay nor Sylvia appeared, but presently Colonel Anstruther and Mr. Patterson came in, from which Algy deduced that the business of clearing the safe had been despatched. If he expected any information he was disappointed. Colonel Anstruther drank several cups of tea all scalding hot, and half emptied the sugar-basin without perceptibly sweetening his temper. He also partook of buttered toast, scone, and three slices of chocolate cake. These exertions left no room for conversation. He ate, he drank, he appeared to be on the point of saying “Tcha!” several times, and he regarded Mr. Brewster’s painstaking endeavours to make conversation with warm dislike. Mr. Patterson, who only drank hot water and refused food rather as if he suspected it of being poisoned, was quite as uncommunicative. Algy thought he had never seen an elderly gentleman in a worse temper.

Monty discoursed upon migratory birds, a perfectly safe subject in which no one took any interest except Cyril Brewster, who, like a dutiful acolyte, supplied at intervals such responses as “How wonderful!” and “Marvellous indeed!” Not one of those meals which lend gaiety to social life.

There was a moment when Mr. Patterson broke his ferocious silence to observe that the country was an unendurable place in winter and it passed his comprehension how any civilized man could endure it. “Barbarous-completely barbarous,” he said, and reverted to sipping hot water.

There was a moment when Mr. Brewster, in a desire to make harmless conversation, addressed himself with an air of diffidence to the company at large.

“It’s a pity that the evenings are still so dark. If it had been lighter, I should have been so much interested in seeing the grounds. There is a famous yew hedge, is there not?”

Colonel Anstruther brought out a most undoubted “Tcha!” Fellow was a secretary, wasn’t he? In his young days secretaries spoke when they were spoken to.

Algy gazed almost reverentially at the unconscious Cyril.

“There is certainly a yew hedge,” he murmured. “Oh, my only aunt!”

“You mean?” Mr. Brewster raised anxious eyebrows.

“Oh lord, yes, man! That’s where Colesborough was shot!”

“Indeed-I had no idea.” The embarrassed tone faded out.

Montagu Lushington went on talking about birds.

It was over at last. Colonel Anstruther and Mr. Patterson withdrew, presumably to the study. Mr. Lushington expressed a wish to see Mr. Brook, who presently appeared. Algy Somers and Cyril Brewster left the room.

XXVIII

The door of the butler’s pantry opened and Mr. Zero came in. He shut the door behind him and said in an easy, affable voice,

“Well, Sturrock, have you got them?”

Sturrock had turned round at the first sound, but he showed no surprise. He was expecting Mr. Zero, and expecting to make a very good thing out of him. There would be some haggling and chaffering, but he wasn’t going to come down in his price. He had the letters, and that was all the same as having Mr. Zero’s neck in a noose. What a bit of luck-what a really remarkable bit of luck his being first down to the yew walk. They had all come streaming away without so much as a thought for the letters and left him to find them where they had dropped, right down beside the hedge, under the window. Well, he’d got them cheap and he meant to sell them dear, and he didn’t mean to run any risks neither. No meetings in dark gardens for him, not if he knew it. If Mr. Zero wanted to talk, he could do it here where he wouldn’t be tempted to try any more of his fancy stuff. All this took no time. It was in his mind, a settled policy, all thought out and clear. He didn’t have to think about it. So when Mr. Zero said, “Have you got them?” he had his answer ready.

“I’ve got them all right, if you’ve got the money, sir.”

“Fair exchange,” said Mr. Zero. Then he looked across at the other door. “How private are we? What’s through there?”

Sturrock glanced over his shoulder.

“Private enough,” he said. “No one comes eavesdropping on me. There’s a passage between this and the servants’ hall, and they’ve got the wireless on there-military band programme. We’re private enough. Have you got the money?”

“I have got it,” said Mr. Zero. He put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. “Lucky I had them by me-for emergencies. You never know, do you? Quick, man-show me the letters!”