“Who fetched it away?” said Charles.

“Jaffray did. He called for it about eight o’clock on Saturday evening.”

Charles frowned.

“Jaffray called for it, but someone else drove it down the Great West Road and picked Jaffray up at eleven o’clock-”

“Of course I don’t know,” said Miss Silver; “but Jaffray probably parked the car somewhere, and the owner picked it up.”

“Who is the owner?”

“I wish you had seen his face,” said Miss Silver.

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know. I have the numbers of the notes. I will try and trace them back.” There was a pause. Then she said, ”Have you anything to tell me, Mr. Moray?”

Charles said, “No,” and then added, “I’ve things to ask you. I want to know more about the servants in the Standing household.”

“Who do you want to know about?”

“All the men servants, I think-a footman called William in particular.”

Miss Silver laid down her white fleecy knitting and took up the brown exercise-book.

“I have some notes about the servants here.” She turned the pages and read; “ ‘Pullen’-the butler’s name is Pullen.”

“How long has he been there?”

“A few weeks only. I was going to explain that to you-none of the servants have been there for more than a few weeks with the exception of the housekeeper, Mrs. Long, and her daughter, who is head housemaid. The house was shut up all the summer. Miss Standing was abroad for the summer holidays with her chaperone, Mrs. Beauchamp. Mr. Standing was not in town. Mrs. Long and her daughter act as caretakers, and Mrs. Long engages servants when Mr. Standing wishes the house to be opened. He came back for a fortnight in September, and was expected again next month. All the servants were engaged in September. Is that clear?”

“Quite.”

“Pullen, then, is the butler. I have what the French would call his dossier. His last place was with the Dowager Lady Perringham at her place in Dalesshire.” Miss Silver broke off and coughed gently. “Lady Perringham was fortunate enough not to suffer from the epidemic of burglary which took place in her neighbourhood last year.”

“There were burglaries?”

“I thought perhaps you might have read about them. Most of the big houses in the neighbourhood suffered. The historic Dale Leston silver was stolen, and has never been recovered. The Kingmore pearls were taken. Lady Perringham was fortunate. Pullen was with her for six months. Before that he was in Scotland with Mr. Mackay. Do you remember the St. Andrade burglary?”

Charles shook his head.

“I’ve been in the wilds.”

“Mr. St. Andrade is a Brazilian millionaire-that is, he made his money in Brazil. His wife had a collar of emeralds which were reputed to be the finest in the world. They were stolen whilst Mr. St. Andrade was occupying a shooting-box about five miles from Mr. Mackay’s. The thief was surprised, and the emeralds were dropped by him in his flight.”

“I see,” said Charles. “Go on.”

“There are two footmen,” said Miss Silver. “Frederick Smith-no, I don’t think there’s really anything of interest with regard to Frederick Smith-a coachman’s son; very respectable; last character satisfactory, three years. The other footman is William Cole. He was for three months with Mrs. James Barnard, and left at the close of the season with a good character. The only curious thing about William Cole is this-I can’t find out where he came from, or what he was doing before he went to Mrs. James Barnard.”

“Did anything odd happen whilst he was there-to Mrs. Barnard or to any of her friends?”

“No,” said Miss Silver. “No-not exactly, Mr. Moray. Of course there was the scandal about Mr. Barnard’s nephew.”

“What scandal?”

“It was hushed up. He was said to have forged his uncle’s name. He has left the country, I understand.”

There seemed to be a lot of tangled threads that led nowhere.

Charles hesitated. Then he said,

“There is some connection between William Cole and Egbert Standing. I think Egbert Standing is Number Thirty-two of Grey Mask’s little lot. William is probably Twenty-seven-I’m not sure-it might be Pullen. I don’t know about Pullen-he sounds a bit fishy. But I’m sure William is in it up to the neck, and I rather think he’s Number Twenty-seven.”

Miss Silver turned back the pages of the brown copy-book.

“Twenty-seven came to report. You saw him. What was he like?”

“I saw his back-tallish-thinnish-bowler hat-overcoat. Any number of him walking about all over London.”

“It might be William,” said Miss Silver. “Pullen is the typical butler-a stout sedate person.”

“It wasn’t Pullen.”

Miss Silver fixed her eyes upon him.

“Why do you think it was William?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“You are not being very frank, are you?”

“Not very,” said Charles with a disarming smile.

Miss Silver sighed. After a pause she proceeded to give the dull histories of housemaids, bootboys, and so forth.

“Any news of Miss Standing?” said Charles.

Miss Silver gazed placidly at him.

“Do you wish me to give you news of Miss Standing?” she said.

It was years since Charles had blushed; he did not blush now. He smiled delightfully.

“Or of Miss Langton?” said Miss Silver, still gazing.

She saw the dark colour come into his face. With a little nod she turned her attention to the white bootee.

Charles took his leave. He admired Miss Silver; but he became aware that he was a good deal afraid of her.

CHAPTER XXII

Whilst Charles was interviewing Miss Silver, Miss Greta Wilson was writing to Stephanie Poison.

Oh, Stephanie, I’ve had the most thrilling adventures. I’m really having them still. It’s frightfully exciting, and you’ll be frightfully angry with me, because I can’t tell you about them-at least I can only tell you bits, because I promised Charles and Margaret I wouldn’t tell anyone the other bits-at least not till they said I could. So you’ll just have to be frightfully angry. I’m staying with Margaret, and I can’t even tell you her name or give you my address, because that’s one of the bits I promised not to. Margaret is a dear, and so is Charles. Margaret has known him for years and years and years, but I do believe he really likes me best, because he took me out for the whole day yesterday which was Sunday, and he didn’t take Margaret, though it’s her day at home. She works in a hat-shop every day, and she doesn’t get home till half past six-so it would be very dull for me, only Charles says he will come and cheer me up. Archie would come too if he could. Archie is another friend of Margaret’s. He and Charles are friends too. It’s frightfully jolly everyone being friends, after having such a dreadfully dull time. Archie can’t come and take me out like Charles can, because he has to go to his office. He says he is an oddment in a publishing firm. He says they only took him because his uncle was in it. He says he is rotten at it. But I think he is frightfully clever-he knows lots of quotations out of Shakespeare and other people like that. I don’t know whether I like him best or Charles. Charles is an explorer, but he isn’t exploring just now. He is the handsomest. He has grey eyes and a most frightfully romantic frown, but he isn’t quite as tall as Archie is. Archie is five feet eleven and three-quarters, and he says if he hadn’t been brought up frightfully strictly and simply made to tell the truth, he would call it six foot. He has got blue eyes, but not many eyelashes-just ordinary, you know. But Charles has a lot of black eyelashes and frightfully black eyebrows. They go all twisty when he is cross. I shouldn’t like them to go all twisty at me.

Saturday was the first day I was with Margaret, and Charles and Archie came to tea, and we all went to the cinema and saw a most frightfully thrilling drama-only I can’t tell you about it now. Archie came home with us, but Charles rushed off in a frightfully sudden sort of way as soon as we came out. On Sunday morning he came quite early with a car, and he said would I like to go down to Bognor, and I said I would, and we went. He didn’t ask Margaret.