“Those boxes are supposed to be sound-proof, aren’t they?”

“This one isn’t, sir, because the door doesn’t fit. There’s a radiator quite near, and the wood’s shrunk, so it won’t stay shut, not all the way down. And Ellen says she heard Mr. Sturrock say, ‘Is that you?’ and she says she heard him name a name.”

“What name?”

“And she heard him say, ‘I’ve got to see you,’ and then something about some letters and it’s being worth his while.

She says she didn’t pay any particular attention because of watching her opportunity to slip out, but she does remember Mr. Sturrock saying, ‘It’ll have to be in the house. I won’t come out to meet you, and you know why. You bring the money, and I’ll have the letters ready for you.’ And then she got her chance because he turned clean away from her, and she ran for it.”

“You said she heard a name.”

William lost some of his ruddy colour.

“Mr. Sturrock was shot, sir. I’d like to be sure about Ellen not coming to any harm.”

“She can have police protection. She’ll have to speak-she’ll have to say what she knows. Come on, man, give me the name!”

William gulped.

“Ellen she heard Mr. Sturrock say, ‘Is that you?’ and she heard him name a name, and she says it was Rooster.”

Algy sat quite stiff for about a minute. Then he said, “What?” very softly, and William said,

“Rooster, sir.”

There was another silence. Then Algy got up. His mind felt stiff and his tongue felt stiff, but he managed to say,

“Thank you very much, William.”

He went out of the room and downstairs to the study, where he rang up Railing Place and asked if he could speak to Mr. Montagu Lushington. He thought it would add an ironic touch to the situation if Brewster were presently to enquire whether he could take a message. Instead, Monty’s voice, rather stiff and chilly:

“What is it?”

“Algy Somers speaking, sir. I want to come over and see you-at once, if I may.”

“I hardly think that would be advisable.” The voice had lost its last vestige of human warmth.

Very difficult to persist, but Algy persisted.

“Look here, sir, I’ve just heard something which I think is tremendously important. I think you ought to know what it is before I give it to the police. I can’t tell you about it on the telephone. May I come over? It’s-it’s really important.”

“I think it is inadvisable,” said Montagu Lushington. After a moment’s pause he added, “I think you might find it difficult to get here.” The line went dead.

Algy hung up at his end, and thought, “That means I’m to be arrested… Monty wants to keep out of the mess… I don’t blame him… It mightn’t mean anything more than my not being allowed to leave Cole Lester…”

He looked at his watch. Twenty-three minutes to four. It would take him the best part of an hour to reach Railing Place. But something had been said about a short cut. He couldn’t remember who had said it, but something had been said.

He sought out William, and decided that the short cut ought to be quite easy to follow. Of course, if he dared take his car-but he didn’t dare. They might let him go out on foot, but he felt tolerably certain that any attempt to take the Bentley would land him out of the frying-pan and into the fire.

He strolled down the drive and into the lane. A very young policeman looked at him uncertainly and let him pass.

Algy continued to stroll until he was out of sight, when he began to walk as fast as he could. William had given him two short cuts, and the first one took off no more than a quarter of a mile away, for which he felt duly grateful. He climbed a stile, cut across a couple of fields, and got back to the road again by way of a little wood. At about ten minutes past four he was approaching the second short cut, which led past a disused quarry and a number of fields to Railing Place.

XXXVII

Mr. Brewster had arrived at this point a few minutes before. He was not nearly so fast a walker as Algy Somers and he had not hurried himself. His thoughts were pleasant and he savoured them with enjoyment. He looked idly at the quarry as he skirted it. It was deep, and must have been long in disuse, for there were saplings growing here and there in the clefts, and a great tangle of blackberry bushes sprawled, climbed, and clung about its sides.

He went forward with the track and came out upon the road. There was a car coming from the direction of Railing. Dr. Hammond, at the wheel, saw a man emerge from the old cart track and, recognizing Mr. Brewster, trod hard on his brakes and came sliding up beside him. Mr. Brewster turned, and the car stopped.

Dr. Hammond opened the door, leaned out of it, and said,

“Hullo! Your name’s Brewster, isn’t it?”

Mr. Brewster in his primmest manner admitted it.

Dr. Hammond leaned a little farther out, his prematurely grey hair sticking up in tufts, his eyes more than ever like those of a terrier-a terrier who sees a rat. The bright spark in them alarmed Mr. Brewster. This man was the police surgeon. He slid a nervous hand into his pocket.

Dr. Hammond said in his sharp, barking voice,

“Met you at Cole Lester yesterday, didn’t I?”

“I believe so-if you can call it meeting.”

“You came in, and I went out. That’s how it was, wasn’t it? But I never forget a face.”

“A very useful faculty,” said Mr. Brewster with his hand in his pocket.

“Sometimes.” Jim Hammond grinned. “Can I give you a lift, Mr. Brewster?”

“No thanks, I have come out for some exercise.”

“Glutton for exercise, aren’t you? Do you often take it at three in the morning?”

“I really don’t-” Mr. Brewster’s hand was coming out of his pocket.

“I saw you getting over the gate at Hangman’s Corner last night. My headlights picked you up. I think the pond up there is about due for a clean out. Hangman’s Pond they call it. Nasty name. Nasty insanitary pond. I’m going to recommend its being cleaned out, Mr. Brewster-”

The name broke off a little short, because Mr. Brewster’s hand had come up level with Dr. Hammond’s eyes and it held a small automatic pistol.

“Put your hands up and keep them up!” said Mr. Brewster sharply. “Sit right back-I’m going to shut the door!” He did so, opened the rear door with his left hand, and got in.

Dr. Hammond felt the muzzle of the pistol cold against the back of his neck and cursed aloud.

“Be quiet!” said Mr. Brewster. “You can put your hands down now. I want you to start the car and drive down that field track-the one I came out of just now. You’ll have to reverse.”

With his hands on the wheel and the engine purring, Dr. Hammond said in a tone of concentrated fury,

“What damn fool game is this?”

“Drive along that track!” commanded Mr. Brewster.

Dr. Hammond gritted his teeth and did as he was told. What a fool he had been. The fellow meant to kill him. A double murderer already, he couldn’t afford to let him go. Play for time-that was the only thing. Stave it off and watch of the odd, improbable chance. He thought about Judith his wife and his heart was full of bitter rage.

“Stop here!” said Mr. Brewster in that new sharp voice.

They were round a bend and out of sight of the road. The car stopped, and in a flash the pistol which had been pressed against the back of Dr. Hammond’s neck was levelled at his temple. It was still in Mr. Brewster’s hand, but Mr. Brewster was now standing outside the car looking in upon the driver’s seat. Jim Hammond’s moment had come and gone. He ought to have ducked and jumped for it the moment the pistol moved, but the whole thing had been so unbelievably quick. He had had his chance and lost it.

“Hands up!” said Brewster. “And get out!” He opened the door and stood back enough to be out of reach. “I’m a dead shot, Hammond, so no tricks. I’d rather shoot you than not, because it would be safer for me, but I’ll give you a chance if you do what you’re told. Walk along the track in front of me and don’t let your hands down!”