FOUND DROWNED

ALTHOUGH Greycliffe-on-Sea was one of the smaller and less well-known resorts, it was always crowded during the summer months. To the hard core of residents, of which there were quite a number, were added two sources of floating population. The first of these was the flock of summer visitors, staying for longer or shorter periods in hotels, boarding-houses and apartments. The second was the daily influx of coach-borne passengers, mainly from the industrial town of Rickford, a dozen miles away.

But, in spite of this surging mass of humanity, Greycliffe contrived to retain a charm of its own. The cliffs from which it took its name formed an indented coast-line, with bays so extensive that even the holiday crowds seemed to be lost in them. Between the bays was a small harbour, now used mainly by pleasure craft. Into this ran the River Rick, which had become too silted up to be navigable, though up to the middle of the last century barges and other small craft could get up as far as Rickford.

Except for its passage through Rickford, the river ran through unspoilt country. It had its source in high moorland, where a dozen streams, brown from the peat through which they ran, combined to form the river. Discharges from the Rickford factories coloured the water still further. From thence to its mouth the river flowed sluggishly, with a sepia tinged turbidity.

Desmond Merrion and his wife Mavis had got into the habit of spending two or three weeks every summer at some seaside resort. This year their choice had fallen upon Greycliffe, for no better reason than because in his boyhood, before he went to Winchester, Merrion had been a pupil at a preparatory school there.

“Since we mean to go somewhere, why not try Greycliffe?” he had said to Mavis. “I haven't been there since I was a boy, and I've no idea what the place is like now. But I'd like to see Creeking Hall again, though, of course, none of the folk I knew will be there still. Half a century has passed since my school days.”

“For all you know, the school may have been closed long ago,” Mavis remarked.

“That's quite likely,” her husband agreed. “All the same, we might go and see. I've been looking in the A.A. book, and there's a four-star hotel there. The Grand Central. It must have been built since my time, for when I was at Creeking Hall there was nothing so impressive in Greycliffe. When parents came to see their sons they had to put up where they could. What do you say to giving the Grand Central a trial?”

“Just as you like,” Mavis replied. “All seaside hotels are very much alike. We may as well go to Greycliffe as anywhere else.”

That very same day Merrion wrote to the Grand Central. He received a reply from the management that they would be pleased to reserve a room facing the sea for Mr. and Mrs. Merrion for three weeks from Wednesday, 15th August. “There you are,” he said as he showed the letter to Mavis. “We've let ourselves in for it now. I only hope that we shan't find that Greycliffe, which I remember as rather a jolly little place, hasn't been turned into a human anthill.”

They decided to drive to Greycliffe, knowing by experience that the car would be useful to them when they got there. It was a long way, and Mavis, who disliked spending too many hours at a stretch in a car, insisted that they should spend a night somewhere on the way. So they set out on Tuesday 14th August, leaving their home, High Eldersham Hall, in charge of their faithful retainer Newport.

They reached the Grand Central Hotel in time for tea on Wednesday, and Merrion lost no time before making inquiries about Creeking Hall. The waiter who brought them their tea reassured him. “Oh, yes, sir, Creeking Hall is still a boys' school. It's run by Mr. Sowerby, a very nice gentleman. I expect you'll see him while you're here, for he sometimes drops into the lounge in the evening. You'll find the toasted tea-cake under the cover, madam.”

“Sowerby?”Merrion remarked when the waiter had left them. “The school was run by a chap called Roberts when I was there. But, of course, he must be dead long ago. He wasn't a young man when I knew him. I'll make it my business to call on this Mr. Sowerby and ask him if I may look round the old place.”

That evening there was a dance at the Grand Central, and after they had had their dinner Merrion and Mavis strolled into the ballroom. Not to join the dancers, for they felt that their dancing days were over, but just to look on. As they watched the couples Mavis drew her husband's attention to a girl in a white frock. “That's a very striking face,” she said. “It might almost be described as beautiful.”

“Yes, I suppose it might,” Merrion agreed. “When she smiles, that is. But it strikes me that smile of hers is artificial. When she isn't smiling she looks positively hungry. The female spider devours the male, I believe. That girl looks as if she'd like to devour her partner, metaphorically, of course. Well, I dare say he'd make a tasty morsel.”

The man she was dancing with looked a year or two older than she did. He was handsome enough, with twinkling eyes and a care-free expression, and his feet moved as though he had been born a dancer. The whispering of his lips suggested that he was urging something upon his partner.

The Merrions noticed the girl again some little time later. This time she was dancing with another man, in appearance not unlike the first. The two must have been about the same age, and their colouring was similar. But the expression of the second was grave, and his eyes were steady. And his lips moved only at intervals.

“I'll bet those two are brothers,” said Merrion. “And there's not a shadow of doubt about which of them the girl prefers. Look at her now! She doesn't trouble to smile, and her face has gone completely apathetic. And she doesn't even trouble to answer what the chap says to her.”

As he spoke, two young men entered the ballroom, and stopped at some little distance from where the Merrions stood. The girl caught sight of them and said something to her partner. Disengaging herself, she left him abruptly and tripped up to one of the new arrivals. The din the band was making made it impossible for the Merrions to hear what she said to him. He grinned, and patted her on the cheek approvingly.

“I don't like that young woman's manners,” Merrion remarked. “Don't you think we've had about enough of this? I don't mind modern dancing, but the horrible uproar which seems necessary to accompany it makes my head ache. Besides, I've been driving all day and I'm tired. Let's go back to the lounge and have a nightcap before we go to bed.”

At lunch next day Merrion announced his intention of calling upon Mr. Sowerby. “You can come if you like,” he said. “I dare say Mr. Sowerby will be glad to show us both round. For all he knows, we may have grandsons of preparatory school age.”

Mavis shook her head. “No, thank you,” she replied, with decision. “One boys' school is very much like another, and I've no sentimental urge to wander round the scenes of your childish escapades. It's so long ago that I'm quite sure the aura of your presence no longer hangs about the place. You go by yourself, and tell this Mr. Sowerby how much better things were managed when you were a boy.”

So Merrion set out alone. Greycliffe had changed so much during the past fifty years that he had some difficulty in finding his way. But as he turned a corner and found a high brick wall facing him, the scene returned to him in a flash. It might have been yesterday that he had last passed through the gateway in that wall, at the end of his final term at Creeking Hall.

The iron gates stood open, and he passed through once again. He followed the carriage-drive between the cricket ground and the football field, both of which were exactly as he remembered them. It cost him an effort to keep on straight to the front door, instead of turning on to the path which led to the boys' entrance at the side.

It being holiday time, the place looked entirely deserted, inside and out. It occurred to Merrion that it was highly probable that Mr. Sowerby himself had gone on holiday. However, he rang the front-door bell, hardly expecting anyone to answer it.

But after an interval it was answered, by an elderly man whom Merrion guessed to be the school porter. “Why, yes, sir,” he replied to Merrion's inquiry. “Mr. Sowerby is at home. Will you step inside, and I will tell him you have called. What name shall I give, sir?”

Merrion gave his name, and was left standing in the hall. He remembered it as a bare, stone-flagged cavern, with walls painted a depressing brown. But now it was carpeted, and the walls were hung with dozens of photographs of youthful cricket and football teams. He was glancing at these when the porter returned. “Mr. Sowerby will see you in his study, sir.”

Even after the lapse of so many years, Merrion felt a thrill of apprehension at the words. The headmaster's study! A summons to that awful sanctum had usually presaged a painful interview. Smiling to himself at the recollection, he followed the porter, who opened a door leading from the hall. “Mr. Merrion to see you, sir.”

Mr. Sowerby was sitting in an arm-chair in a bright and sunlit room, reading a newspaper. He was younger than Merrion had expected, barely fifty, at a guess, with kindly, humorous features and clear wise eyes. He rose as Merrion entered the room. “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” he said in a deep and pleasant voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“To inquisitiveness on my part, Mr. Sowerby,” Merrion replied. “I was a boarder here fifty years ago. And, being in Greycliffe, I couldn't resist revisiting the old place.”

“I am more than delighted that you couldn't,” said Mr. Sowerby. “Do sit down and let us have a talk. May I offer you a cigarette?”He picked up a box which stood on a table beside his chair and when Merrion had taken a cigarette from it, took one himself. “I don't smoke in term-time,” he went on. “I'm afraid of setting my young rascals a bad example. But I make up for it in the holidays. It's my one consolation, for I feel desperately lonely when the boys aren't here. I'm a bachelor, with no one to keep me company in this great house. You were a boarder here fifty years ago, you say? That was in Roberts's time?”

“That is so,” Merrion replied. “But I hardly remember Mr. Roberts. He must have given up the school long ago?”

“Not so long ago as you might think,” said Mr. Sowerby. “He kept the reins in his hands till he was nearly eighty. He retired twenty years ago, when I took over from him. And he died a year later, from having nothing with which to occupy his mind, poor old chap. You have no other associations with Greycliffe, Mr, Merrion?”

“None whatever,” Merrion replied. “I was a boarder here, and my parents were living in London at the time. We boys didn't go into the town much, except on Sundays, when we were taken to church. I remember only one person who asked me out to tea, and that was the doctor who attended to our boyish ailments.”

“Do you remember the doctor's name?”Mr. Sowerby asked.

“Wait a minute,” Merrion replied. “He was a comparatively young man, in practice with his father. He lived in his parents' house which, I remember, overlooked the sea, but I can't recall exactly where. The name's coming back. Hamage? No, not quite. I've got it. Harpole, that was it!”

“I knew Eustace Harpole very well indeed,” said Mr. Sowerby.

“Indeed?”Merrion replied. “Do tell me about him. He was always very good to us boys. Old Bobberts, as we used to call him, was apt to be unsympathetic towards our ailments. I think he attributed them to sheer perversity on our part. But Dr. Harpole always stood up for us.”

Mr. Sowerby nodded. “He would have. Eustace Harpole was a man whom everybody loved. I shall be delighted to tell you all I can about him. It is very rarely that I have the pleasure of someone to talk to in holiday time. Stop me if I become too garrulous.”

“I'm not likely to do that,” Merrion replied. “I want to hear all about Dr. Harpole, and you'll find me a ready listener.”

“Then I'll begin at the beginning,” said Mr. Sowerby.

“Eustace Harpole was still the school doctor when I took over from Roberts. His parents were dead by that time, and he was running the practice by himself. He still lived in the house you vaguely remember. It's called The Cedars, and it's at the corner of King William Avenue. When I first met Eustace he was married, with a girl and two boys.

“We took to one another from the first, and I was a frequent visitor at The Cedars. At that time the children had a nursery governess, an angular, disapproving woman, whose name I forget. But the time came when they had to be sent to school, and Eustace asked me if I would take his two sons as day-boys.

“From the first I had set my face against day-boys, and had always refused to take them. For one thing, they are bad for the morale of a boarding-school, and for another to have parents always on one's doorstep is the curse of every schoolmaster. But in this case I felt bound to make an exception. Not only was Eustace a dear friend of mine, but as the school doctor he was in a privileged position.

“There was only the difference of a year in the ages of the two boys, and they started school together. In appearance they were very similar, but in aptitude very different. Arthur was very keen on games, into which he put all his energies. Before he left here, he became captain of both our cricket and football teams. But in the classroom he was hopeless. It wasn't that he was stupid, but that his heart wasn't in learning. Eustace used to frown over his reports, and ask me if things were really as bad as all that. I refrained from. telling him that they were worse, and that I had softened things down to spare his feelings.

“The other boy, Charles, was in complete contrast. He played games manfully, if not very expertly. I don't think he ever really enjoyed them. But learning was no effort to him. He mopped up everything that was given to him and asked for more. Don't think that I'm presenting him to you as a prig, for he was far from that. It was just that his brain assimilated knowledge and stored it up for future use. Exams were child's play to him.

“At this point I must introduce a person who, until this day, has played a very prominent part in the Harpole family. After the birth of her third child, Mrs. Harpole's health had deteriorated rapidly, and she became practically an invalid. She therefore engaged a girl of nineteen, Betty Pattishall, to act as her lady's maid, help with the housekeeping, do her shopping for her, and so forth.

“This girl turned out to be a treasure. She was so tactful and efficient that in no time at all the whole household was depending upon her. None of the domestic staff, with the possible exception of the nursery governess, was jealous of her. She was much too useful to them all to make it worth their while to quarrel with her, and she never put on airs. The children very soon came to adore her. They called her Patty, and still do, for that matter.

“The boys were still at school here when Mrs. Harpole died. Miss Pattishall inevitably became housekeeper to the widower and his family. I had better say at once that even then she had no pretensions to good looks. Eustace, a busy man with little time to devote to domestic affairs, found her invaluable. Not only did she run his establishment for him, but she was a mother to his children.

“In due course, the boys left here and went to a public school together. But this in no way interrupted my intimacy with Eustace. Although he had taken a partner, he continued to act as the school doctor. And, whenever I could spare the time, I would spend an hour or two with him in the evening.

“One of those evenings I have only too good cause to remember. You must understand that, ever since I had known him, Eustace had been an active man with an unfailingly cheerful manner. The sort of person who, to the layman, positively radiated good health. I don't think I had ever known him have even a common cold.

“But that evening, as soon as I came in, he told me that he wanted to talk to me about a personal matter. For some time past he had suspected that he was suffering from an incurable internal disorder. That day he had consulted a specialist, who had confirmed his worst fears. I suppose doctors don't try to hoodwink one another. Anyhow, the specialist had told Eustace that he must not expect to live many more months.

“As you may imagine, I was horrified. I just couldn't believe it, and begged Eustace to seek another opinion. But he said it would be useless. His own medical knowledge told him that the specialist was right. He was content to accept the verdict. His life's work was done, and he would be able to leave his children provided for.

“I was too shaken to be of any use to him then, and I think he understood that. It was not until some days later that he referred to the matter again. The boys were in their early teens and, it being term-time, were at their public school. Edith-did I tell you that she was three years older than the elder boy?-was at home. It was the last year of her attendance as a day-girl at a school here. And, of course, in charge of the establishment, was the invaluable Miss Pattishall, or Patty, as Eustace himself had come to call her.

“Eustace began by telling me that he had broken the news to Patty, and had told her that he relied upon her to look after his children. Then he said that it would be necessary for him to make a fresh will, for his wife's death had made his existing will meaningless. He asked me if I would act as one of his executors, the other being his solicitor. To that I readily agreed.

“Then he went on to tell me of the arrangement he proposed to make for the future. Patty had promised to act as the guardian of the children till they came of age. The solicitor and, he hoped, myself, would always be available to advise her should any problem arise. He would make adequate provision for her in the will.

“Edith, as his eldest and, though he didn't say so, his favourite child, must be considered first. He would leave her the house, which would be a home for all of them until her brothers no longer needed it. After that, she could do what she pleased with it. But she should be strongly recommended never to sell it. Even if she did not marry, she could make something of it. Greycliffe was becoming more popular every year, and she need go no farther to make a living, should that become necessary. The Cedars was in one of the best positions in the town, and would make a very good guest-house on a small scale. I may say that this profanation has never become necessary. Eustace's three children, and Patty, are living at The Cedars at this very day.”

“Indeed?”Merrion remarked. “The boys, young men they are now, I suppose, have never gone out into the world?”

“I'll tell you about them,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “That is, if you're sufficiently interested. But look here, Mr. Merrion. You came here, I have no doubt, to revive old memories. Certainly not to listen to my reminiscences. Would you like me to show you round? You'll find that, apart from being brightened up a bit, the place hasn't changed much since your time.”

“I shall be delighted to look round it again,” said Merrion. “But only on condition that, as we go, you continue the Harpole saga.”

“I'll do that with pleasure,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “By the way, are you staying in Greycliffe, or merely spending the day here?”

“My wife and I are staying at the Grand Central,” said Merrion. “We arrived yesterday, and expect to stay for three weeks.”

Mr. Sowerby nodded. “You've chosen the right place. We were all rather horrified when that great barrack was built not many years ago. But we've become reconciled to it. In fact, it has become a centre of our social life. We old folk like to meet in the lounge and exchange drinks and gossip. And the younger people flock to the dances they give there. I hope you and Mrs. Merrion will be comfortable, and I'm pretty sure you will be. Shall we start on our tour of inspection?”

As Mr. Sowerby took him over the house, Merrion soon found that the remark that the place had been brightened up a bit had been a gross understatement. Creeking Hall had been completely modernised, to such an extent that he could scarcely recognise it. “My word!” he exclaimed. “You do your young hopefuls pretty well, don't you? That range of bathrooms, for instance, with hot water laid on. A cold tub twice a week was the rule in my time.”

“We have to keep up to date,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Personally, I'm rather sorry that the old Spartan days are past. I can't believe that it's good for male children to be coddled. It's largely the fault of the parents. They expect luxuries for their offspring which they themselves never enjoyed when they were young. I think I've shown you all there is to see in the house. Shall we take a turn round the grounds?”

As they walked round the playing-fields, Mr. Sowerby returned to the subject of the Harpole family. “You were asking about Eustace's boys, Mr. Merrion. I'll tell you first about Charles. He was the studious one, you remember. He made a brilliant success of his public school career, and went up to Oxford. It was while he was there that he made up his mind to become a schoolmaster. He took his degree, and two years ago he came to me as my junior assistant.”

“So that your interest in the family continues,” Merrion remarked.

“It does indeed,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Naturally, I see a lot of all of them. Charles is everything I could have wished for. He is like his father, good-natured and utterly. unselfish. The boys, who most inappropriately call him Harpy, love him. And I am becoming as attached to him as I was to his father.

“As to the other lad, Arthur, the contrast between him and his brother still persists. As regards scholarship, his failure at his public school was as complete as it was here. His position at the bottom of his form appeared to be impregnable. It must be admitted that his proficiency at games was astonishing. But that, in itself, is not a solid foundation for a future career.

“The climax came when Arthur was seventeen. He came home for the summer holidays and told his sister that he was never going back to school again. He was sick of being plagued to learn things which he hated, and he meant to start out to make his own life. He was going to sea, to find out something about the world.

“Naturally, Edith was very much upset. This ambition of her brother's was something entirely outside her experience. She confided first in Patty, who tried her persuasions on Arthur, without the slightest effect. A day or two later I called at The Cedars. As the boys were at home, I thought I would go and see them. But Edith intercepted me. She was in a state of great distress at what she called Arthur's rebellion, and seemed to think that I was the person to cope with him. I was not altogether surprised at what she told me. I had perceived, some time before, that Arthur was discontented and restless.

“I had a talk with Arthur, and asked him exactly what he wanted to do. He said that nothing would satisfy him but going to sea. I told him that if his mind was fully made up, funds could be made available to send him to the Conway, or some similar establishment, where he could be trained to become an officer in due course. But that wasn't his idea at all. He told me that if he went to a place like that he would be expected to learn things, and he was done with all that. He meant to sign on a ship in any capacity they would take him. I'm bound to say I rather admired the lad's spirit.

“It ended in a solemn conference, of which the members were the solicitor, Edith, Patty, and myself. After some discussion, we agreed that Arthur should be allowed to go his own way. He was certainly doing no good at school, as his latest report showed only too plainly. A different form of discipline might be good for him. He was quite capable of looking after himself, for he had made a name for himself at school as a boxer. So one fine day Arthur presented himself at a shipping office and was taken on as an ordinary seaman on a cargo ship.”

Mr. Sowerby came to a halt outside a building standing by itself. “This wasn't here in your time, Mr. Merrion. It's the gymnasium. Eustace was always at me to have one built, so that the boys could get exercise when it was too wet for them to be out of doors. He lived to see and approve of it, for it was finished just before he died.”

“The specialist was right?”Merrion asked. “Eustace died within a year of consulting him,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “And he took care that there should be no affecting death-bed scenes. When he felt that the end was near, he said good-bye to all of us and took himself off to the Dykeshire County Hospital. He wouldn't let the boys know that he was desperately ill, but asked me to write and break the news to them after his death. To the very last his desire was that no one should be caused unnecessary distress. He passed away quite peacefully, and his body was brought back here for burial. It seemed to me that the whole town was in attendance at the funeral.”

He paused, then went on: “Eustace's death left a great gap in my life. I had come to rely, more than I had realised, upon his shrewd but kindly common sense. But that gap is now beginning to be filled. Charles is becoming every day more like his father, not so much in appearance as in character. Well, Mr. Merrion, you've seen about all there is to see. Would you care to come back to the house and have tea?”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Sowerby,” Merrion replied. “But I'd better be getting back, or my wife will wonder what has become of me. I'd like you to meet her. Couldn't you come to the Grand Central and have a cocktail with us before dinner this evening?”

“Nothing would please me better,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “As I told you, I always feel at a loose end in holiday time. You must already have anticipated that I like someone to talk to. I will turn up a little before seven, if that will suit you.”

CHAPTER II

MERRION WALKED BACK to the Grand Central, to find that Mavis had already ordered tea. “You've been a long time,” she said. “Have you been all the afternoon at the school, telling this Mr. Sowerby what a good little boy you were?”

“Hardly that,” her husband replied. “I'm not at all sure that I was a good little boy. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sowerby did most of the talking. I've asked him to come and have a cocktail with us before dinner. Although he's a schoolmaster, he's far from being a dry old pedant. I'm sure you'll like him.”

“I'll do my best,” said Mavis doubtfully. “But I never know how to talk to a schoolmaster without betraying my own appalling ignorance.”

Merrion laughed. “You can trust him to do the talking. He was telling me about the person I remember best at Creeking Hall, the doctor who attended us boys. And that led on to the doctor's family. It's quite likely that we shall meet them, for they're still living here. One of the sons is now an assistant master at Creeking Hall. There are two sons and I confess I'm inclined to be more interested in the other.”

Mavis looked at him suspiciously. “Why? You've usually got some ridiculous idea in your head when you display interest in someone you've never met.”

“This time my interest is based on nothing more sinister than curiosity,” Merrion replied. “Mr. Sowerby's account of the young fellow broke off at a most interesting point. I should very much like to hear the rest of the story. I'll tell you about this Harpole family, if you care to listen.”

By seven o'clock the Merrions were seated in the lounge. It was fairly crowded, as it usually was at that hour, but they had secured for themselves a table from which they had a good view of the entrance. As the hands of the clock passed the hour, Merrion, who was a stickler for punctuality began to fidget. “Where's he got to?” he asked fretfully. “He said he'd be here a little before seven. And a schoolmaster of all people ought to be punctual. If he doesn't turn up sharp on time for his classes, what can he expect his boys to do?”

“You're always so impatient,” Mavis replied. “People can't always arrive at the exact minute. And don't be grumpy when Mr. Sowerby does come.”

Merrion merely grunted. It was ten minutes past seven when Mr. Sowerby appeared. He burst into the lounge, stood looking about him for a moment then, catching sight of Merrion, almost ran to the table. “I am so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I paid a call on my way here, and I was detained. A most extraordinary thing. I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, don't apologise,” Merrion replied. “Let me introduce you to my wife. This is Mr. Sowerby, who was kind enough to show me over Creeking Hall this afternoon. What can I offer you, Mr. Sowerby?”

It seemed that Mr. Sowerby's wits were wandering. “Offer me? Oh, to drink, you mean. May I have a dry sherry?”

Merrion called the waiter and ordered three sherries. Mr. Sowerby made no attempt to enter into conversation with Mavis. He sat staring in front of him with a curiously bewildered expression, crushing his soft hat in his hands.

So it fell to Merrion to make an opening move. “My wife and I are both very interested in what you told me this afternoon, Mr. Sowerby. We hope that we shall have the opportunity of meeting Dr. Harpole's family. I have never forgotten his kindness to me when I was a boy.”

Mr. Sowerby's wandering thoughts were obviously arrested by the name of Harpole. “It was at The Cedars that I called on my way here,” he replied. “Edith told me something that has disturbed me profoundly. It's her I'm thinking of. I know she'll stint and scrape to keep that worthless brother of hers and his wife.”

“His wife?”Merrion asked. “You didn't tell me that either of the boys was married.”

“Neither of them is,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “But Arthur will be, before very long. He became engaged yesterday evening. In this very hotel, I understand. My only consolation is that it wasn't Charles. For some time I feared that he would be the one to get married. I cannot understand how it was that the girl preferred Arthur to him.”

“You told me that Arthur went to sea,” said Merrion. “Is he still following a maritime profession?”

Mr. Sowerby shook his head. “Oh, no. That didn't last very long. After a few voyages he left his ship in a Canadian port. We first knew about that when Edith received a cablegram asking her to send him some money at once. There were funds available, for Eustace had left money in trust for both his sons until they came of age. He was perfectly impartial. He insisted that both boys should have the same, though one of them would be provided for in any case. You see, he had a fairy godfather.”

Merrion found Mr. Sowerby's incoherence very difficult to follow. He was relieved when Mavis stepped into the breach. “A fairy godfather! That's a variant on the usual nursery tale. Do tell us about him, Mr. Sowerby.”

Mr. Sowerby seemed glad to turn from the present to the past. “Eustace would never speak of it. I, like everyone else in Greycliffe, heard the story from Sir Thomas Graffham, soon after it happened. It was the year after Edith was born. And this afternoon a telegram came to say that Sir Thomas was gravely ill.”

Mr. Sowerby shook his head despondently and relapsed into silence. He seemed only half-aware of where he was and what he was saying. After a few seconds' pause, Mavis determined to rouse him. “But you haven't told us the story, Mr. Sowerby.”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Merrion. Of course you shall hear it. Eustace was very fond of climbing mountains, I could never understand why. I'm quite content to admire a mountain without feeling any wish to risk my neck in trying to get to the top of it. But it was a passion with Eustace in his younger days. Whenever he took a holiday he used to go to Switzerland for the purpose.

“One year he took Sir Thomas with him. He had only just become Sir Thomas, for his father had died in the previous year. I had known him as plain Tom Graffham. He was related to Eustace in some way, I believe he was his second cousin. And he was just getting over a disappointment in love. The girl he wanted to marry had jilted him, and he had sworn that he would never trust a woman again. That was many years ago, but so far, he has kept his word. I can only hope that history will repeat itself.”

Again Mr. Sowerby seemed to have side-tracked himself, for he paused and stared gloomily at the floor. This time it was Merrion who determined to set him on his way again. “Are we to gather that Sir Thomas is the fairy godfather?”

“Why, yes, of course,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “After he and Eustace came back from Switzerland, he came to stay at The Cedars. On the evening of their arrival, Eustace asked me to come round after dinner and have a chat with them. I went, and the first thing that Tom said to me was that Eustace had rescued him from the jaws of death. He's the sort of man who talks in clichés.

“Eustace tried to shut him up, but he insisted in telling me that whole story. I can't say that I followed it very closely, for people who scramble up and down mountains use technical terms which I don't understand. I gathered that a rope had come into it somehow. It seems that Tom had contrived to fall over the edge of a bottomless chasm and that Eustace, at the risk of his own life, had dragged him to safety. Whatever did actually happen, there seems to be no doubt that, but for Eustace, Tom would never have been seen again.

“Tom was determined to show his gratitude to his rescuer. He told me that he had got it all worked out. If Eustace had a boy, he would be the lad's godfather. Not only that, he would make him his heir. He had no intention of getting married. Two years later the wished-for boy was born, and Tom carried out his undertaking.”

“Sir Thomas is a man of property?”Merrion asked.

“He has a large estate in Gloucestershire,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “I have never seen it, but I am told it is all excellent farm land. Most of it is let to substantial tenants, but Tom manages the home farm himself. I dare say it would be more accurate to say that he employs a bailiff to manage it for him. He lives in the big house, Buckbridge Place, with a housekeeper and staff to look after him. I imagine that his heir will find himself possessed of a considerable income, even if he has to sell a farm or two to pay death duties.”

Mr. Sowerby glanced at the clock and leapt suddenly to his feet. “I know you'll excuse me. I feel I ought to go back to The Cedars. The two women are alone in the house, and Patty is behaving very oddly. This affair has been a great shock to everyone. Good evening to you both. I hope I shall have the pleasure of meeting you again.” And before either of them could say a word, he was gone.

“What an extraordinary man!”Mavis exclaimed. “I never in my life heard anyone ramble so. Do you think he's quite sane?”

“He certainly isn't drunk,” her husband replied. “He never touched his glass of sherry. I can only assure you that his manner just now was very different from what it was this afternoon.”

“Then what can have changed it?”Mavis asked. “I found it difficult to make sense of most of what he was saying. But I gathered that one of the Harpole young men had got engaged. But I don't see why that should make a dithering idiot out of a responsible schoolmaster.”

“We don't know the ins and outs of it,” Merrion replied. “He said he was thinking of the young fellow's sister. And then he sheered off into that story of the fairy godfather. Did you notice that he didn't tell us which of the Harpoles was the godson?”

“I did,” said Mavis. “I think he hardly knew what he was or wasn't telling us. But from what he said, it must be the elder of the two.”

“And which is the elder?”Merrion replied. “Mr. Sowerby didn't tell me. All he said was that there was only a year between them. I was rather intrigued by one of the remarks he made just now. He said that the engagement had come about yesterday evening in this hotel. Do you remember the girl in the white dress? And the two young men we saw her dancing with, who we thought might be brothers?”

“Of course,” said Mavis. “Do you think they were the Harpoles?”

“I think it's quite likely,” her husband replied. “And if they were, I'll bet it was the one we saw dancing with her first who got engaged to the girl. And that must have been the one who seems to be a bit of a rolling stone. Which of them would you have taken to be the elder?”

Mavis shook her head. “I really don't know. They looked much the same age to me. I don't suppose anyone could tell which was the elder just by looking at them.”

“Well, it's no concern of ours,” said Merrion. “I dare say we shall hear more about it if we meet Mr. Sowerby again. As it is, it's about time that we were going in to dinner.”

After dinner, Merrion went out to keep an appointment with a friend whose acquaintance he had made since his arrival at Greycliffe. He enjoyed nothing better than pottering about in small boats, and that morning he had wandered down to the harbour to see what the prospects were. He found several pleasure craft engaged in taking visitors for short trips. But that was not what he was looking for. At last he came upon something more promising. A half-decked fishing-boat, with a lug-sail and auxiliary motor, drawn up on a hard. A man of about his own age, in a blue jersey, was applying a coat of anti-fouling to the boat's bottom.

Merrion had stopped and spoken to him. “Much fish to be got in these parts?”

The fisherman laid down the long-handled brush he was using. He eyed this stranger gravely, and seemed to approve of his appearance. “Times there is, and times there isn't,” he replied. “It's too early for the herring, and getting a bit late for the mackerel, though there's still a few of them about. You've done a bit of fishing yourself, mister?”

“Quite a bit at one time and another,” said Merrion. “But never here. Any time you're going out after those mackerel and want a partner, I'd be glad to go with you.”

“And I'd be glad to have you along with me,” the fisherman replied. “My name is Ted Windrush, and I was born and bred here. I reckon if I don't know where to find the fish, nobody does. But I have to work single-handed at this time of year. I've got three sons, but I've fixed every one of them up with one of those motor-boats you see. They take the summer visitors out for a spin at half a crown a time. Pays a lot better than fishing, even if it lasts no more than two or three months in the year. That's why I'd be glad of a hand with the lines.”

“Well, I'm your man,” said Merrion. “Whenever you like, and the sooner the better, as far as I am concerned.”

Windrush looked critically at the bottom of the boat. One side of it was nearly finished. “Reckon I'll finish it this tide,” he remarked. “If I do, I shall put out at high water to-morrow morning. That's when the mackerel seem to take the spinner best. But maybe that'll be too early for you. High water'll be a few minutes after seven.”

“That will suit me perfectly,” said Merrion. “I never mind getting up early if there's anything to be gained by it.”

“Then I tell you what, mister,” Windrush replied. “I can't tell for sure that I shall be able to finish this job. One of my boys may want me to give him a hand. If you care to come along about nine this evening you'll find me in the Kettle of Fish yonder. The Kettle, we call it. I'll be able to tell you then if I'm going out to-morrow.”

It was to keep this appointment that Merrion left the Grand Central. It was just after sunset, and the evening was fine and bright. He reached the harbour, and had no difficulty in identifying the Kettle of Fish, for it bore the sign of a cauldron, out of which fish were sprawling in all directions.

He went in, to find Windrush sitting in a corner of the taproom with a younger man beside him. The young man was wearing a jersey upon which the word “Tern ” was embroidered in blue letters. “Here you are then, mister,” said Windrush. “This is my eldest lad, Alf, and Tern is the name of his motor-boat. I got that job finished, all right.”

Alf emptied the glass he was holding and got up. “That's fixed, then. Dad,” he said. “I'll book the party for to-morrow afternoon. I shan't be able to take them all, but I'll see Fred right away and get him to stand by to take the rest.”

With a nod to his father he went out and Merrion took his place. “He's a good lad,” said Windrush. “And keen as mustard. I don't know how he got hold of the chap that's bringing a party from Rickford. I know the sort. They'll bring a dozen cases of beer with them and spend their time drinking it. So you'll be coming with me in he morning?”

“I shall,” Merrion replied. “And I'm going to enjoy myself. Your mug's nearly empty, and I'm thirsty. What's it to be?”

“I thank you, mister,” Windrush replied. “Mine's old and mild.”

Merrion went to the counter and brought back two mugs. “You've told me your name, but I've never told you mine. It's Merrion, and I'm staying at the Grand Central. It's fifty years since I was last in Greycliffe.”

“Here's your health, Mr. Merrion,” said Windrush, raising his mug. “Fifty years is a long time. You weren't very old then, I reckon.”

“And here's your health, Mr. Windrush,” Merrion replied, following his example. “And good fishing to-morrow. No, I wasn't very old. I was at school at Creeking Hall.”

“One of Mr. Roberts's young gentlemen,” Windrush remarked. “Times have changed since then, and Mr. Sowerby's in charge there now. He's a decent sort. I've taken him out fishing more than once, but he comes over all queer if there's anything of a lop on. You wouldn't know anyone that's at Creeking Hall now. But you remember the old Doctor, I dare say?”

“Dr. Harpole?”Merrion replied. “I remember him quite well. He always took a great interest in us boys.”

Windrush nodded. “Ah, that he would. He was a good gentleman, if ever there was one, and a fine doctor, too. He's dead and gone now, more's the pity. I've got nothing against Dr. Northolt that's taken his place. But he's not the same, if you understand me.”

He took a pull from his pot and set it down. “I shan't ever forget how good the old Doctor was to me when I had a nasty fall many years back. I had brought the boat alongside the harbour wall, and I was climbing up an old wooden ladder that used to be there. It was fair rotten, and just as I was getting to the top the rung I was on broke. Back I fell into the boat, and the thwart caught my neck and laid me out proper.

“Some chaps got me out and sent for the old Doctor. Anyone else might have sent me to hospital, but he wouldn't. He said he'd look after me himself, and that he did, too. He had me carried home, and he hardly left me for the next two or three days. Not until he was quite satisfied that I should be all right. If it hadn't been for him I might have been injured for life.”

“Dr. Harpole's family still live in the town, I believe?”Merrion remarked.

“That's right,” Windrush replied. “In the same house in which the old Doctor was born. Miss Harpole and her two brothers. One of them's steady enough, the one that's gone as a master with Mr. Sowerby at Creeking Hall. But that's more than can be said of the other.”

Windrush took another pull at his mug. “It's a queer thing,” he went on. “He was brought up just the same way as his brother, but he's never come to no good. He's the one they call Arthur. Since he's been back here my youngest boy Reg has got a lot more friendly with him than I care for. I've told Reg to watch out and I think he will, for he's got his head screwed on straight enough.”

“Is there anything against this young Harpole?”Merrion asked.

“There's this against him,” Windrush replied. “He's got nothing to do. At least since he's been home this last year or two he doesn't seem to have. He told Reg that he was never any good at schooling. When he was quite a lad he shipped as an ordinary seaman, or that's what he says. If he did, his skipper must have found him a lot more ordinary than most of his seamen. I expect he started as a deck boy, if the truth's known. But whatever it was he didn't stick it very long. He left his ship somewhere over the water, so Reg tells me.”

“What did he do after that?”Merrion asked.

Windrush shrugged his shoulders. “I only know what Reg tells me. He says that Arthur went in with another chap over there. They set up a garage or a filling station or something of the kind. But they couldn't make it pay. Reg says it was because Arthur's partner wouldn't pull his weight. That's as may be, but I shouldn't be surprised if the truth was that the boot was on the other foot. Anyway, back home he came. Worked his passage, I shouldn't wonder, for he's precious few pennies to rub together in his pocket. And the few he has he gets from his sister, I'll be bound.”

“He's done nothing since he's been home?”Merrion asked.

“Work, you mean?” Windrush replied. “Not a stroke. He's work-shy, that's the trouble with him. That's why I don't like Reg to see so much of him. I don't want him to catch his complaint. No, he just hangs round, getting in with all sorts. And there are some pretty queer folk in Greycliffe, especially about this time of year, I can tell you.”

“I dare say there are,” said Merrion. “Which is the elder, Arthur or his brother?”

“Well, now, that I couldn't say,” Windrush replied. “Although I've seen them both about since they were toddlers. The lady that's housekeeper now at The Cedars used now and then to bring the children down to look at the harbour. The girl was the eldest, anyone could see that. But the two boys looked much of an age. I never stopped to think which of them was the elder. I doubt I should have known them apart then.”

The two sat talking for a few minutes longer, before Merrion got up. “If we're to make an early start in the morning, it's time I was getting back to the hotel. Seven o'clock sharp, is that it?”

“I'll be getting home too,” Windrush replied. “Yes, seven will be right. I'll have the boat alongside the wall, near where you saw me this morning. As soon as you're aboard, we'll slip out a mile or two from shore and get our lines out. If we don't find the fish there, we'll go out a bit farther.”

In the porch of the Kettle of Fish hung an old-fashioned aneroid. As they went out together Windrush paused and tapped it. The needle rose with a perceptible jerk. “No wind and a rising glass,” he said. “I shouldn't wonder if it came over a bit misty before morning. All the better if it does, I say. The mackerel always seem to take the spinner quicker when the weather's not too clear. Well, good night, mister. My way lies different to yours.”

Merrion walked slowly back towards the Grand Central. Not by the way he had come, through the town, but following the coast. The road rose steeply from the harbour, until it merged into the Front, which ran for half a mile or so within a few yards of the edge of the cliffs. Off it three or four streets ran at right angles inland.

The second of these that he came to was marked King William Avenue. So that the fair-sized house, standing in its own garden at the end of it, must be The Cedars. Merrion had only the dimmest recollection of it, but as he reached the entrance gate, the name plate on it told him that he was right. The gate was shut, and he could see no light in the windows. But one of the ground floor windows was open and through it came, very faintly, the notes of a pianist playing a Beethoven sonata.

By now, very little of the afterglow of sunset remained. As he walked on, Merrion wondered who it was, playing there in the dark. Arthur Harpole, celebrating his recent engagement in music, perhaps with the girl sitting by his side? Romantic, but hardly likely. In the course of his chequered career Arthur would not have learnt to play the piano so ably. The other one, Charles, of whom Mr. Sowerby had spoken so highly? More probably the sister, Edith, on account of whose future Mr. Sowerby had seemed so concerned.

Merrion reached the Grand Central, to find Mavis in the lounge, talking to a rather good-looking middle-aged woman. Or more correctly listening, for her companion seemed to be doing the talking. “Let me introduce you,” said Mavis as her husband reached them. “This is my husband, Mrs. Dunster. Seeing that I was alone, Mrs. Dunster very kindly came and spoke to me, Desmond.”

“I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Merrion,” said Mrs. Dunster. “I ventured to make myself known to your charming wife as I heard that you were friends of Mr. Sowerby, and that he had been with you here this evening. I have known Mr. Sowerby for a long time, for my Rupert was at Creeking Hall when he was a small boy. I often look in here when my day's work is finished to meet my friends, but to-night none of them are here. I can't think where everybody can have got to.”

“I have told Mrs. Dunster that you knew Dr. Harpole, long ago,” Mavis remarked.

“Oh, he was wonderful!”Mrs. Dunster exclaimed. “So good and kind. I used to adore him when I was a girl. It was a terrible blow to us all when he died. His son Charles, who is just like him, is a pet. I think it's a great pity that he turned himself into a dull schoolmaster. But it's far better to do something than to spend one's time idling, like his brother does. I quite expected to find one of them here with their sister. They very often come for coffee after dinner. But there's not a soul I know in the place, even those odd Farleighs. They do come in sometimes, but how they can afford it I really don't know, poor dears. Well, I must be getting home to my family. It has been perfectly delightful to meet you both. Good night.” She rose, and after a searching look round the lounge, went out.

Merrion smiled. “You always seem to attract the loquacious type, my dear.”

“It wasn't my fault,” Mavis replied. “The woman just plumped herself down beside me and started talking. She said that as we were friends of Mr. Sowerby she must introduce herself. The waiter must have told her that he was here with us before dinner. That was soon after you went out, and she never stopped talking until you came back just now. I must have heard the names and reputations of everyone who lives in Greycliffe. Well, and have you arranged matters with your fisherman friend?”

“I have,” Merrion replied. “I'm to meet him at seven in the morning. Before we go to bed I'll see the night porter and ask him if he can fix me up with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits at half-past six.”

CHAPTER III

WHEN MERRION left the Grand Central at a quarter to seven on Friday morning he found that Ted Windrush's prediction had been correct. Over the town a thin mist had settled, through which the low sun was dimly visible as a red ball. As he descended towards the harbour, the mist thickened until it became almost opaque. He began to wonder whether he would find Windrush at the rendezvous.

But he was not disappointed, for the fisherman was waiting for him on the quayside. “Morning, mister,” he said as Merrion reached him. “I thought it must be you, but it's none too clear for seeing this morning. The boat's alongside, all ready.”

He stepped off the quay, apparently into space, for the mist swallowed him up. Merrion, following him, found that the tide was so high that the boat was floating only a couple of feet or so below the level of the quay. Windrush held out a hand to steady him into it. “That's right, mister. Will you stand by to let go for'ard while I get the motor started?”

After two or three vigorous turns of the handle the engine started with a roar. “Leggo!”Windrush bellowed above the din. Merrion cast off the rope from the ring on the quay and coiled it down. By the time he came back to the stern Windrush had cast off aft and thrust the lever forward. As the boat slowly gathered way the dim outline of the quay vanished in the mist. Merrion devoutly hoped that his companion would find his way to the harbour entrance without bumping into any of the craft moored within.

By some magic he did, and the motion of the boat revealed that they were in open water. “We'll stand out a bit before we put the lines over,” said Windrush. “It'll get brighter soon, you'll see. The mist always seems to hang round the land. Look at the sun yonder. That'll break through before long, you mark my words.”

The mist certainly thinned as they drew away from shore, but visibility was still confined to a narrow circle round the boat. Merrion busied himself in getting the lines out of a locker which Windrush pointed out to him. To the end of each was attached a bright metal spinner with a hook which, when towed in the water, had much the appearance of a live sprat. An excellent invention, for it obviated the necessity of re-baiting the hook every time a fish was caught.

“Four will be enough,” Windrush remarked. “Each of us can tend two. May as well pay one out now. That'll give us an idea if the fish are about.”

Merrion dropped one of the spinners over the side of the boat, then paid out about ten fathoms of line, taking care to keep it clear of the propeller. The spinner streamed out behind the boat, no more than a few inches below the surface of the water. Merrion held the line, feeling the gentle strain of the resistance.

“Bit too close inshore yet,” said Windrush. “They'll be in deeper water. There, what did I say? It's getting clearer every minute.”

That might be so, but visibility was still restricted to a very few yards. Suddenly Merrion felt the tension of his line increase with a jerk. He hauled it in steadily, hand over hand. A struggling fish appeared above the surface and fell back again. A couple of seconds later he was holding a mackerel, glistening with iridescent colour.

He disengaged the fish from the hook, let it fall into the bottom of the boat, and threw the spinner overboard again. “That's the first of them,” Windrush remarked. “Where there's one about there's always some more. Let out your other line, but mind you don't foul the first.”

He throttled down the engine to reduce the boat's speed. “Doesn't do to go too fast, or you may pull their heads off,” he explained. Then, to leave both his hands free, he put his knee over the tiller. His two lines were very soon out on the other side of the boat to Merrion's.

A minute or so later they were running through the thick of the shoal. Both of them were kept busy hauling in the lines, disengaging the fish and casting the lines out again. This went on for about five minutes. Then, all at once, the lines seemed to go dead.

“We've run through them,” said Windrush. “But we'll hold on as we're going for a bit in case we find another shoal. And I reckon we've caught our breakfast. You take her for a bit, mister. Keep her head as she's going, dead slow.”

Merrion took over the tiller, and Windrush dived under the half-deck forward. From where he sat in the stern, Merrion could see what he was doing. First he started a Primus stove, then put on it a frying-pan with some fat in it. He picked up four of the mackerel, split and gutted them, and laid them in the pan. A delicious odour made Merrion's hungry lips water. In a few minutes the fish were done. Windrush laid hands on two battered tin plates and a couple of knives and forks. He tipped the fish from the pan on to the plates, and handed one of them to Merrion. “Here you are, mister. Them'll be tasty, fresh-caught like that.”

They certainly were, for there is no better fish than a fresh-caught mackerel. Merrion ate his with relish then, as Windrush emerged from below the half-deck, surrendered the helm to him. “I've been keeping a feel on the lines,” said Merrion. “There hasn't been a bite.”

“Then we'd best turn back,” Windrush replied. “With any luck we may strike that first shoal again. Haul in your lines, mister.”

He put the helm over, and swung the boat round. Merrion wondered how he knew when he had completed the semicircle, for the mist was still so thick that there was nothing to be seen beyond the boat. There was certainly a much-battered binnacle screwed to the thwart, but its appearance suggested that the compass within it could not be relied upon to a point or so.

However, Windrush seemed quite confident. “Pay out one line, like you did before, mister. We ought to strike them again before very long.”

As Merrion obeyed, he heard the sound of a steamer's whistle. The mist made it difficult to tell from which direction the sound came, but it seemed to him to be on the starboard bow. Windrush paid no attention to it, but kept on his course. A minute later the whistle blew again. This time the sound was much louder, and it seemed pretty clear that the courses of the vessel and the boat were converging. As Windrush still took no notice, Merrion ventured a remark. “Hadn't we better bear up and pass astern of him? ' If to your starboard red appear, it is your duty to keep clear,' I seem to remember.”

“Oh, so you know that, do you, mister,” Windrush replied, somewhat nettled at this criticism of his navigation. “Well, I'll tell you something perhaps you don't know. Though we can't see him, he can see us right enough. It's one of them coasters, or he wouldn't be so close in. And they're mostly fitted with radar, these days.”

Before Merrion could reply, there was a blast of the whistle, apparently right above their heads. Through the mist the bows of a vessel towered, bearing right down upon them. So close were they that as Windrush dragged the lever into reverse, they could hear the telegraph of the vessel ring full speed astern.

The shadowy form of the vessel slid by within a few feet of them. Merrion felt that he had only to stretch out his hand to touch her rusty side. An angry voice hailed them from the bridge. Next time the something fisherman wanted to commit suicide, would he please choose some other craft to run his something head into. The telegraph rang again, and the vessel proceeded on her course. The whistle blew menacingly, as though condemning all careless boatmen to the dark waters of Hades.

“Might have been closer,” Windrush remarked complacently. “That chap hasn't got radar. Or more likely he wasn't using it. Thought he had the whole sea to himself, I dare say. Some of them chaps do. How's your line, mister?”

“Cut,” Merrion replied tersely. “Caught in the propeller. I hadn't time to pull it clear before you went astern.”

“Well, that's a spinner gone,” said Windrush regretfully. “Never mind, might have been worse. What's that yonder, bobbing in the vessel's wake? It's gone now. No, there it is again.”

Merrion strained his eyes in the direction of Windrush's pointing arm. For a moment he could see nothing. Then, dimly through the mist he caught sight of the object. It rose to the surface then sank again, under the influence of the disturbed water of the wake.

Windrush swung the boat's head towards it and throttled down the engine. “Maybe it's something fallen overboard from the vessel,” he said. “We'll have a look, for it might be worth salvaging.”

Slowly they approached the spot where they had last seen the object. When they were within a few yards it bobbed up into full view. “Why, bless my soul if it isn't a man!”Windrush exclaimed. “Stand by to haul him aboard, mister.”

The man sank again, but as Windrush put the lever into neutral they could see him, as they peered over the side, a foot or so beneath the surface. They leaned over the side of the boat and, as the man rose again, grasped his clothing and dragged him on board. As they laid him on his back on the boards among the glittering fish, Windrush uttered a shout of amazement. “Hey! Blest if it isn't young Arthur Harpole!”

It hardly mattered to Merrion just then who the man was. He seemed to be lifeless, but Merrion knew that artificial respiration could sometimes bring to life the apparently drowned. He had learnt the method long ago, and he set to work with a will.

After the first shock of surprise, Windrush resumed his seat at the helm. He pushed the lever ahead, and opened out the engine to the full. Merrion worked hard for a few minutes, then paused for a rest. As he raised his head, he felt a breath of air upon his cheek. The long-expected breeze had sprung up, and was freshening every moment. The mist surged past them in great waves, and all at once the sun shone brightly. Ahead of them, between the waves of mist, the cliffs showed for an instant clearly.

With the end of a rope, Windrush took a turn round the tiller. As Merrion bent down to go on with his work, he went forward and hoisted the lug-sail. The boat heeled over and, driven by both wind and engine, made good speed through the water. The freshening breeze drove away the last remnants of mist, and the harbour entrance lay revealed dead ahead. “How long before we get in?”Merrion shouted above the rattle of the labouring engine.

“The ebb's setting against us,” Windrush shouted back. “Twenty minutes, maybe more. Any signs of life in the poor chap?”

“Not yet, so far as I can see,” Merrion replied. “But I'll keep it up.”

The breeze was fitful, now so fresh that the plunging bows sent flecks of spray flying aft, now almost dying away. But they made good progress, and neared the entrance within the time that Windrush had estimated. He went forward again and lowered the sail. It was no later than half-past nine when they entered the harbour under power only.

Windrush brought the boat alongside a hard. “She'll take the ground here, but that's no matter,” he said. “With the water fallen as it has we'll have a job to get him up on to the quay. Will you stand by him, mister, while I step along to the harbour-master's office? It'll be his job to see that all's done proper.”

He climbed ashore, and shambled up the slippery hard. In a short time he returned, followed by half a dozen men, among whom Merrion recognised his son Alf. “The harbour-master's ringing up for Dr. Northolt,” he said. “Now, then, lads. Two of you into the boat and lift him out to the rest of us.”

The inanimate form was lifted out, and willing hands carried it to the harbour-master's office and laid it on the floor. Merrion, utterly exhausted by his labours, followed them. “This gentleman's pretty well done in,” said Windrush. “He's been working on him ever since we picked him up.”

“That's all right,” the harbour-master replied. “I know how to do it, and I'll take a turn. You sit down and rest, sir. I got on to the doctor, and he said he'd be here in a few minutes. No need for the rest of you to crowd round. You'd best stop outside.”

It was not long before Dr. Northolt came in. He was a man in the late forties, with a quiet and convincing professional manner. “Let me have a look at him,” he said as he knelt down beside Arthur, The harbour-master desisted from his efforts, and he and Merrion watched as the doctor made his examination. “Artificial respiration won't do him any good,” he said as he consulted the thermometer he had used. “By all appearances he has been dead for several hours. Where did you pick him up?”

This question was addressed to Merrion, who replied. “About two or three miles out at sea. We first saw him in die wake of a passing vessel. That was rather more than half an hour ago.”

“The mist was pretty thick before then,” the harbourmaster remarked. “If he missed his step and fell into the harbour, the ebb would have carried him out to sea.”

Northolt nodded. “Perhaps that was it. The problem now is, what are we going to do with him? I expect his family would rather he were taken to The Cedars than to the mortuary. May I use the telephone?”

Having received the harbour-master's permission, he rang up the police station. After explaining briefly what had happened, he asked for the wheeled stretcher to be brought to the harbour. Then he turned to the harbourmaster. “When the police bring the stretcher, ask them to wheel the body to The Cedars. I've got my car here, and I'll go along there and see Mr. Charles Harpole. He's sure to be there at this time in the morning, and he can break the news to his sister and Miss Pattishall.”

He went out, and Merrion, after telling the harbourmaster who he was and where he was to be found, followed him. Windrush had gone back to his boat, and the men he had collected had dispersed. Merrion walked to the Grand Central, to find Mavis sitting on the veranda beside the entrance. “Why, whatever have you been doing?” she asked anxiously as he came up to her. “You look all in.”

“I am,” Merrion replied. “And I'm soaked through with perspiration. I'm going to have a bath and a change, then I'll tell you all about it.”

Half an hour later he joined Mavis on the veranda and told her the whole story. “We thought at first that he had fallen overboard from the vessel that so nearly ran us down. But I don't see how that can be. The doctor said that he had been dead for several hours, and not even the most callous seaman would throw a dead body overboard to be food for the fishes. The harbour-master suggested that if he'd fallen into the harbour the tide would have carried him out, and I think that's more likely. Anyone might easily have stepped off the quay into the water accidentally when the mist was at its thickest.”

“It's a terrible thing,” said Mavis. “Arthur Harpole, you said. Isn't he the one that got engaged the first evening we were here?”

“So Mr. Sowerby told us,” Merrion replied. “As soon as we got him into the boat I recognised him as the first partner we saw that girl dancing with. It's pretty bad luck on her.”

“And on his family,” said Mavis. “I can't understand it, Desmond. What did the doctor mean by several hours?”

Merrion shrugged his shoulders. “Only he knows that. Some time during the night, I suppose.”

“Now, listen,” said Mavis. “I woke up at four o'clock this morning. You didn't know anything about it, for you were fast asleep. The curtains were drawn back, and through the window I could see the stars shining brightly. There was no mist then.”

“That's a point certainly,” her husband agreed. “And it's very much what one might expect. At this time of year that sort of mist very often doesn't come down till about dawn. This morning the sun rose at a quarter to six, summer time.”

“Well, then, you see,” said Mavis. “It doesn't look very much like an accident.”

“What then?”Merrion asked. “Suicide? The poor chap had just got engaged. Are you suggesting that he regretted the step he had taken to such an extent that he took his own life?”

“I'm not suggesting anything of the kind,” Mavis replied. “It was you who said suicide, not I. I can't forget the extraordinary state Mr. Sowerby seemed to be in yesterday evening. From what I could make out, this engagement had upset a good many people, including himself.”

Merrion smiled. “So these people decided to nip it in the bud. The easiest way of doing that was to murder one of the partners to it. Is that what's in your mind?”

“I don't know,” Mavis replied. “Put that way, it sounds rather brutal. Anyhow, it's no affair of ours. But, knowing you as I do, I feel quite certain that you won't be able to keep your fingers out of the pie.”

After lunch, when the Merrions were having coffee in the lounge, a page, bubbling over with suppressed excitement, told Merrion that a policeman had come to see him. Merrion followed him into the hall, where he found a police sergeant. “Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said cheerfully. “My name is Merrion. You want to speak to me?”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “It's about the death of Mr. Arthur Harpole. We are informed that you were in the boat when the body was found.”

Merrion was conscious that a party of visitors, passing through the hall on the way out, had stopped and was listening. “Hadn't we better go for a stroll together?” he asked.

The sergeant grasped his-meaning, and they went out. “The inquest is to be held to-morrow at eleven o'clock, sir,” said the sergeant. “You will be called upon to give evidence. I called to ask you to make a statement, sir.”

“This is hardly the place to do that,” Merrion replied. “How would it be if you took me to the police station, where we shan't be pestered by prying eyes and ears?”

The sergeant thought that an excellent idea, and they walked to the police station together. “I'll let the Super know you're here, sir,” the sergeant said, when they arrived. “He may like to speak to you himself.”

He went off, to return very shortly, with the intimation that the superintendent would like to see Mr. Merrion. As they entered his room the superintendent rose and held out his hand. “It is very good of you to take the trouble to come here, Mr. Merrion. My name is Liscombe. Will you sit down and tell me all you can about this unfortunate affair? That will do, Sergeant. I will take the statement myself.”

Merrion told his story in accurate detail, Liscombe making rapid notes as he did so. “Did you notice any injuries to the body?” he asked when Merrion had come to an end.

“I can't say that I did,” Merrion replied. “I was too fully occupied in trying to bring it to life. But I shouldn't be at all surprised if there were injuries. When we first saw it, it was bobbing about in the wake of the vessel that. had passed us. It might very easily have been struck by the propeller.”

Liscombe made a careful note of that. “Thank you, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “Your statement will be most helpful. I have one from Windrush, and it is very similar. I am sorry that we shall have to trouble you to give evidence at the inquest to-morrow.”

Merrion returned to the Grand Central. “My occupation for to-morrow morning has been settled for me,” he told Mavis. “I am to attend the coroner's court as a witness. Would you like to take a seat among the general public?”

“You know I shouldn't,” Mavis replied. “I hate anything of that kind. You can tell me all about it when you come back. Now let's go for a walk and talk about something else.”

They went out and strolled along the crowded front. “I don't care much for this,” Merrion remarked, when they reached the end of it. “I dislike having to struggle through a mass of humanity. Why do people, women especially, think it necessary to wear such extraordinary clothes when they are on holiday? Let's go back through the town, and I'll show you Creeking Hall, if I can find my way there again. We needn't go in, for we can see the house and grounds from the entrance gate.”

After one or two detours, he did find the way. They stood at the gate for a few minutes, Merrion pointing out various objects of interest. Then, as they turned away, they saw Mr. Sowerby approaching them.

On recognising them, he raised his hat and hurried towards them. “This is indeed fortunate!” he exclaimed. “I have just been to the Grand Central, where they told me that you were out. I was going to try again this evening. We have heard that it was you who found Arthur's body, Mr. Merrion, and that you wore yourself out trying to restore life. Edith asked me to see you and tell you how profoundly grateful she was.”

“I can claim no credit,” Merrion replied. “As a matter of fact, it was Windrush who first saw the body.”

“You are too modest, Mr. Merrion,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You will, I think, understand our anxiety to hear every detail at first hand. Would it be too much to ask you and Mrs. Merrion to come to the house with me? The housekeeper will provide us with tea.”

Merrion left his wife to reply. “I shall be delighted, Mr. Sowerby,” said Mavis. “And my husband will be too, I'm sure.”

So within a few minutes the three were sitting in Mr. Sowerby's study. By the time that Merrion had told the story once again the housekeeper had brought tea. Mr. Sowerby insisted that Mavis should preside at the table. “How did you first hear of the tragedy, Mr. Sowerby?” she asked as she handed him his cup of tea.

“I had a frantic telephone message from Patty, asking me to come to The Cedars at once,” he replied. “I got there as soon as I could and from the wheeled stretcher standing outside the front door, I guessed that something serious had happened. Patty was waiting for me and let me in. There were two policemen in the hall, so she took me into the lounge, where Edith was. Then she told me that Arthur's body had been found out at sea by Windrush and a gentleman he had with him. The first she and Edith had heard of it was when Dr. Northolt had come to the house and asked to see Charles. But, of course, Charles wasn't there.”

“Why 'of course,' Mr. Sowerby?”Mavis asked.

“How stupid of me!”Mr. Sowerby exclaimed. “You couldn't be expected to know why Charles wasn't there. I think I told you yesterday evening about Sir Thomas Graffham. A telegram came yesterday from his housekeeper, saying that he was critically ill, so, of course, Charles started at once for Buckbridge Place.

“When Dr. Northolt was told that Charles was not at home, he asked to see Edith and broke the news to her as gently as he could. He told her that Arthur would be brought to the house in a very few minutes. She took it very bravely, and begged Patty to ask me to come at once. She told me afterwards that she felt she must have a man in the house.

“The body had been brought by the policemen only a few minutes before I arrived. It had been carried to the morning-room, which is very little used now, and Dr. Northolt was examining it. Soon after, he came into the lounge and asked if he might use the telephone. When he had finished his conversation, he told us that the pathologist from Rickford would come to The Cedars at twelve o'clock, and that he would be there to meet him.

“I thought it best to stay with the two women. Edith, though naturally greatly distressed, was calm enough, but Patty seemed to be on the verge of hysteria. I was rather surprised that she had been so overcome by Arthur's death. Charles had always been her favourite, and she had seemed to resent the trouble and expense Arthur had been to Edith.

“While we were talking, Edith said that the news ought to be broken to Nina Farleigh, the girl to whom Arthur had become engaged. She asked Patty if she would go to the house in Beaufort Terrace where the Farleighs are living and see if Nina was there. But Patty flatly refused. She burst into tears and said that she could never face Nina again after what she had said to the girl. What she meant by that, I have no idea. I told Edith that if she insisted, I would go, but that I had very much rather not. The fact is that, though I had seen very little of the Farleighs, I had seen enough to take a dislike to them. In the end we agreed that as the news must be all over the town, Nina would hear it soon enough.

“The pathologist came, and he and Dr. Northolt spent nearly an hour examining the body. While they were there, a telegram came for Edith. It was from Charles, at Buckbridge Place, and was to the effect that his godfather seemed to be holding his own. Edith sent a telegram back, telling Charles of Arthur's death. He will be terribly upset, for the two boys were very fond of one another. Whether he will return to The Cedars or stay where he is depends, I suppose, upon his godfather's progress or otherwise.”

“Did you find Arthur Harpole at The Cedars when you went there after you left us yesterday evening?”Merrion asked.

Mr. Sowerby shook his head. “No, only Edith and Patty. Arthur was out, they didn't know where. I expect he had taken Nina somewhere. To the amusement park very likely. I cannot imagine how he came to get drowned. He was a wonderfully strong swimmer.”

As soon as a decent interval had elapsed, the Merrions took their leave of Mr. Sowerby. “Well, we know now which was the elder of the two boys,” Merrion remarked as they walked back to the Grand Central.

CHAPTER IV

THEY WERE SITTING in the lounge after dinner when Mrs. Dunster burst in. She looked swiftly round, then catching sight of the Merrions, made a bee-line for them. “Oh, I'm so glad I've found you here,” she exclaimed. “I've so much to ask you that I hardly know where to begin. May I sit with you for a few minutes?”

Merrion, who had risen, drew up a chair for her. “Certainly you may, Mrs. Dunster,” Mavis replied. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That is kind of you,” said Mrs. Dunster. “But, really, I haven't the time. I can't stay more than a minute, for some friends are coming to our house to play bridge, and I must hurry back before they get there. Is it really true about poor Arthur? It's so dreadful that I can't believe it. Everyone is saying that you found his body in the sea, Mr. Merrion. Do tell me if it's true.”

“I am sorry to say that it is quite true, Mrs. Dunster,” Merrion replied.

“How terrible!” she exclaimed. “And poor Nina! She must be broken-hearted. I called at their house this afternoon to offer her my sympathy, but Mrs. Farleigh told me she was too upset to see anybody. It was only this morning that I met Mrs. Farleigh in the street, and she told me of Nina's engagement to Arthur. I was so pleased, for in a way it was all my doing.”

“How was that, Mrs. Dunster?”Mavis asked,

“Why, you see, I introduced them,” she replied. “The Farleighs are newcomers to Greycliffe. In the spring they took a furnished house, the one they are living in now, for six months. They got it for a very cheap rent, for the owners have gone to New Zealand to see a married daughter, and they were glad to let the house while they were away for what they could get. As I know them very well I thought the least I could do was to call on their tenants. So I got to know the Farleighs, and introduced them to my friends, including, of course, the Harpole family. Most people here find them rather out of the ordinary. But I like unusual people, don't you, Mrs. Merrion?”

Mavis smiled. “It rather depends upon the way in which they are unusual. Some eccentricities are apt to be trying.”

“Oh, you'd like the Farleighs, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Dunster. “Especially Nina. She's quite lovely, and perfectly charming. Her father is rather peculiar, he wears a shabby velvet coat with a turn-down collar and an enormous flowing tie. But nobody sees very much of him. If you go to the house, he's usually shut up by himself, clicking at a typewriter. Mrs. Farleigh tells me that he writes serial stories for some sort of paper. I don't think he can make much money, for they always seem as poor as church mice. I feel so sorry for them.”

“Are there any children besides the girl?”Mavis asked.

“Yes, a boy, Guy,” Mrs. Dunster replied. “He's two years older than Nina, and quite a dear. He takes after his father and writes poetry, I believe. Mrs. Farleigh is rather distressed about him. She told me that he was offered quite a good post, but that he wouldn't take it. All he wants is to be a poet. But Mrs. Farleigh says there's no money in that. Guy does his best, but he can't find anyone who will publish his poems. And she does her best, too. She is a retired actress, and very good as an elocution teacher. When they first came here she put an advertisement for pupils in the local paper. But nobody in Greycliffe seemed to want to learn elocution. I tried to do her a good turn, and asked Mr. Sowerby if it wouldn't be a good thing for the boys at Creeking Hall to have elocution lessons. But he didn't seem to take to the idea. He said they were quite eloquent enough already.

“But naturally it's poor Nina I'm thinking about. It's dreadful to think that anyone so young and beautiful should have to endure such a terrible shock. I'm quite sure both the Harpole boys were in love with her. She could have had either of them, and I'm very much surprised that she chose Arthur. Of course he was charming in his way, and very good-looking. But he never seemed to be able to settle down and earn any money. Charles would have made Nina a far better husband. But then you can't expect a girl of her age to look at things with a practical eye. Love's young dream, you know. Good gracious! That can't be the right time, surely? I must fly. Oh, I'd nearly forgotten what I meant to ask you. Do you play bridge? If you do you must come round to us and make a four one evening next week.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Dunster,” said Mavis. “But my husband and I don't play more bridge than we can help.”

“I don't blame you,” Mrs. Dunster replied. “I don't really care for it myself. I think it's very tiresome to have to sit for long without saying a word. I only play to please my husband, and he gets so cross if I talk. If you'd rather not play bridge, you must drop in and see me one afternoon. Just give me a ring and tell me when you're coming. You'll find the number in the book. Now I really must get home, for they'll all be waiting for me.”

This time she really did go. “That woman's a menace,” Merrion remarked as she disappeared. “I don't see us accepting her invitation. Once she got us inside her house, she'd keep us prisoners there for life.”

“I think she means well,” Mavis replied. .” It's just that she can't stop talking. Those Farleighs that she was telling us about sound very queer people.”

“They do,” Merrion agreed. “I'll admit that the girl is extremely good-looking, but I wasn't very favourably impressed by her. And I share Mrs. Dunster's astonishment at her choice of Arthur. I should have expected her to plump for the one with the fairy godfather. Well, I'm ready for bed when you are. I'm beginning to feel that I've had a long and hectic day.”

Shortly before eleven o'clock on Saturday Merrion presented himself at the court where the inquest was to be held. Superintendent Liscombe was already there, checking the witnesses as they arrived. He greeted Merrion cordially and showed him to a seat. Ted Windrush, dressed in his Sunday best, arrived a minute later, and was given a seat beside Merrion. Then Dr. Northolt, with a thin man in spectacles, whom Merrion guessed to be the pathologist. Finally, a young woman in black, escorted by Mr. Sowerby.

The coroner arrived, and the proceedings began. Rather to Merrion's surprise, a jury had been summoned. They were sworn in, and elected their foreman. The coroner glanced at his notes, then called for the first witness, Miss Edith Harpole.

The young woman in black was shown by a policeman to a chair beside the coroner. She was tall and slight, and, though she could hardly be described as pretty, she had a most attractive appearance. She gave her evidence in a low but steady voice. She had seen a body, which she identified as that of her brother, Arthur Theodore Harpole, aged twenty-five and unmarried. He had been living at The Cedars for the last eighteen months. During that time he had had no occupation. Asked by the coroner when she had last seen him alive, she replied that he had gone out shortly after tea on Thursday, and that she had not seen him since. She did not know where he had gone to.

Windrush was called next. He seemed rather embarrassed by the formality of the proceedings, and spoke hesitatingly. He had taken a gentleman out fishing with him on Friday morning at seven o'clock. It had been a bit thick then, but the weather had cleared later. When they were some distance onshore, the witness had seen something bobbing about in the wake of a vessel which had passed them pretty close, and had pointed it out to the gentleman. When they got to it, they found it was a man. They hauled him into the boat, and the witness recognised him as Arthur Harpole. The gentleman tried to bring him round, while witness brought the boat back to harbour.

The coroner asked Windrush no questions, and called Merrion, who confirmed the evidence of the previous witness. “I will ask you for some further details, Mr. Merrion,” said the coroner. “You say that you attempted artificial respiration. Will you tell the jury how you proceeded to do this?”

“I laid the body face downwards on the bottom boards,” Merrion replied. “Then I took off my coat, rolled it up, and put it under the stomach and chest. I pressed with all my weight on the back, then released the pressure, repeating this process several times. This had the effect of forcing a quantity of light-brown liquid from the mouth.”

“Can you tell the jury how much of this liquid appeared?” the coroner asked.

“It was difficult to estimate,” Merrion replied. “There was already a certain amount of water in the bottom of the boat. Perhaps a pint of liquid appeared, not more.”

“How did you continue your efforts?” the coroner asked.

“When the liquid had ceased to flow, I turned the body on its back,” Merrion replied. “Putting my rolled coat under the shoulders, so that the head hung back. I knelt across the body, pressed the sides of the chest together with all my strength, then released them. This process I continued, with occasional intervals for rest, until the boat reached harbour. I was unable to perceive any sign of life.”

“Thank you, Mr. Merrion,” said the coroner. “Your procedure was perfectly correct. That is all I have to ask you.”

Merrion left the chair, and a policeman took his place. He had been on beat from midnight to eight o'clock on Friday morning. For the first few hours the night had been perfectly clear. The mist had come on quite suddenly at about half-past five. It was only just beginning to thin when he came off duty.

The harbour-master then took the chair and described his part in the events. It was shortly after half-past nine when Windrush had come to his office. High water that morning had been at eight minutes past seven. Since then the ebb had been running strongly. It would have carried anything floating in the harbour out to sea.

The coroner proceeded to question the witness. “Can you tell the jury what depth of water there was at the spot where the body was found?”

“I can estimate it roughly,” the harbour-master replied. “Two witnesses have spoken of a vessel which passed them quite close. She must have been a coaster, for the deep-water shipping track lies some ten miles from the shore here. The course of a coaster would be about two miles or rather more from the shore. That would be about on the twenty-fathom line.”

“Your estimate of the depth of water is then about a hundred and twenty feet,” said the coroner. “At that depth, would you expect the churning of a vessel's screw to bring up an object lying on the bottom?”

“I should not,” the harbour-master replied. “But it would probably bring up an object floating a few feet beneath the surface.”

Dr. Northolt was the next witness called. On Friday morning he had received a telephone call from the harbour-master's office, and had proceeded there at once. It had been approximately a quarter to ten when he arrived. He had found the body of the deceased, and had been able to satisfy himself that life was extinct. He had examined the body then, and again a short time later. As a result, he had formed the opinion that death had taken place several hours previously.

“More than four or five hours previously?” the coroner asked.

“In my opinion, yes,” Northolt replied. “Nearer twelve.”

Northolt was followed by the pathologist. Shortly after noon on Friday he, with the assistance of the previous witness, had examined the body of the deceased. In the course of this examination he had found a contusion and slight swelling on the right side of the skull. The skin was not broken, suggesting that the head had struck, or been struck by, something relatively soft. In the witness's opinion, the injury was not sufficient to have caused death, but it might have contributed to it.

This caused a sensation in court. Hitherto the evidence had seemed to point to a simple case of drowning. But this injury suggested other possibilities. “The contusion was not apparent at first sight?” the coroner asked.

“Far from it,” the pathologist replied. “It was completely hidden by the long hair of the deceased. In passing my fingers over the head I detected the swelling, but it was not until I had cut away some of the hair that I was able to perceive the contusion.”

“Could the injury have been caused by a blow from a propeller blade while the deceased was in the water?” the coroner asked.

“I very much doubt it,” the pathologist replied. “As I have said, the skin was not broken. And I should have expected a blow from a propeller blade to have inflicted far more serious injuries. I have no doubt whatever that the injury was caused before, and not after, death. From certain indications I formed the opinion that the body had been in water for some considerable time, probably for more than six hours. When that has occurred, it is not easy to estimate the actual time when death took place. I am of the opinion, however, that deceased died before midnight on Thursday.”

“What is your opinion as to the cause of death?” the coroner asked.

“At the time of my examination of the body I formed the opinion that death had been due to asphyxiation caused by drowning,” the pathologist replied. “That opinion is greatly strengthened by the evidence of the gentleman who attempted artificial respiration. He mentioned the liquid that proceeded from the mouth. Had death been due to any other cause but drowning, it is unlikely that so much liquid would have been forthcoming.”

The foreman of the jury asked if he might put a question to the witness, and received permission. “You said that the injury to the head might have contributed to death. In what way?”

“By causing unconsciousness,” the pathologist replied. That would have rendered the deceased unable to make any attempt to save himself from drowning. It should be understood that it is impossible to say whether the injury was received before or after deceased entered the water.”

“It might have been caused by a blow delivered by some other person?” the coroner asked.

“Not by a blow with the fist,” the pathologist replied. “It was too severe for that. A weapon of some kind must have been employed. A weapon of a relatively soft nature, such as a sandbag or a rubber truncheon. On the other hand, there is nothing to show that the injury was not accidental. I may add that it is highly unlikely that it was self-inflicted.”

This concluded the evidence, and the coroner summed up. The jury would no doubt base their verdict upon the evidence they had heard. There was nothing to show how the injury to the head had been caused. It was possible that the deceased had been attacked, but there was no evidence to prove it, and in the absence of proof it could not be assumed that such had been the case. He was informed that the police were investigating the matter. That being so, he would suggest to the jury that they should confine their verdict to the actual cause of death. They would, however, use their own discretion.

The jury retired, and remained absent for several minutes. When they returned, the foreman announced that they were agreed upon their verdict. The deceased, Arthur Theodore Harpole, had been found drowned.

This amounted to an open verdict, but the coroner found no fault with it. He wished to express his sincere sympathy with the relatives, a sentiment with which the foreman, as representing the jury, asked to be associated. The proceedings closed with the issue of a burial certificate, which Edith Harpole accepted.

Merrion left the court and started to walk back to the Grand Central. He had not gone very far before he heard his name called. Looking round, he saw Mrs. Dunster crossing the road towards him. “Oh, Mr. Merrion!” she exclaimed as she reached the pavement. “I'm so worried. I felt sure that Nina must need my sympathy, and I've just been to the Farleigh's house. It's in Beaufort Terrace, you know. I rang the bell several times, but nobody answered it, and I couldn't hear any sound in the house. Then the lady who lives next door came out. I know her slightly and spoke to her. I told her that I couldn't make anyone hear, and asked her if she'd seen all the family go out. She said that she hadn't seen any of them this morning, and that she thought they had gone away.

“I couldn't understand it at all, and asked why she thought that. She told me that just before midnight she had heard a car drive up to their door. Soon afterwards she heard a lot of coming and going, and she had the curiosity to get out of bed and peep out of the window. She couldn't see very well, for, of course it was dark, but she could make out people going backwards and forwards between the house and the car. She went back to bed, and not long afterwards she heard the doors slam and the car drive off. It's really very disturbing.”

“Do you think the Farleighs have gone for good, Mrs. Dunster?” Merrion asked. “Without telling anyone they were going?”

“I'm afraid that must be what they've done,” she replied. “I think they might have told me, for I've always done everything I could for them. I can understand that after the terrible shock she's had, poor Nina couldn't bear to stay in Greycliffe any longer. But I'm surprised that they went off so suddenly, and in the middle of the night, too. I'm afraid it must have been because they owed money to the tradesmen, and couldn't pay them. Why, there are Edith and Mr. Sowerby coming this way. I must tell them, for I think they ought to know.”

Merrion took the opportunity to escape. He was not greatly interested in the behaviour of the Farleighs. Mrs. Dunster could be trusted to spread that news through the town. His thoughts returned to the evidence he had heard at the inquest.

It was lunch time when he reached the Grand Central, and he and Mavis went into the dining-room. “Well, how did your inquest go?”Mavis asked when they had sat down at their table.

“It was most interesting,” Merrion replied. “It isn't very often that anything illuminating comes out at an inquest, but in this case it did. I'll tell you all about it.”

Mavis listened while he described what the pathologist had said. “So, you see, I might have spared my efforts,” he went on. “The poor chap died hours before I tackled him. And how did he get that knock on the head?”

“It looks to me very much like foul play,” Mavis replied.

“So it does to me,” said Merrion. “And, I fancy, to everyone else who heard the pathologist's evidence. It might have been an accident, but a very unusual one. I can only imagine something falling on his head and knocking him into the water. The first job of the police will be to find out what he was doing that night. His sister said that the last time she had seen him alive was after tea on Thursday.”

“Mr. Sowerby said that he might have taken Nina Farleigh to the amusement park,” Mavis remarked.

“I suppose that's quite likely,” Merrion replied. “Having become engaged to him, Nina would naturally expect him to take her out. By the way, Mrs. Dunster intercepted me as I was coming back here, and told me a remarkable story about the Farleigh family.”

“They seem to be remarkable people,” said Mavis. “What is it this time?”

Merrion told her. “I should be rather chary of accepting without question anything that Mrs. Dunster told me. But she can hardly have invented a yarn like that. It looks very much like a moonlight flitting. What significance there may be in that I'm not prepared to say. To get back to what we were talking about. Arthur Harpole may have taken Nina to the amusement park. But that's at the back of the town, right away from the sea or the harbour. How did he fall, or get pushed, into the water? The pathologist thinks that he was dead before midnight.”

“After they had been out together, he took Nina home,” Mavis replied. “Then for some reason, he went down to the harbour. Somehow or other he fell into the water there and got drowned. How will that do?”

“Very well, as a starting-point,” said Merrion. “Suppose that was just before midnight. There wouldn't be many people about then, especially as it was nearly low water.

“Now, what would have happened? We are led to believe that he was unconscious when he fell in, so that he was probably drowned very rapidly. A drowned body doesn't usually float on the surface, nor, unless the water is very shallow, does it sink to the bottom for some considerable time. It usually drifts about beneath the surface.

“The harbour-master said that it was high water at eight minutes past seven. It would then have been low water between midnight and one o'clock. The last of the ebb would have been running when he fell in. It might have carried him out of the harbour, but as soon as the flood set in, it would have brought him back towards the shore. The ebb did not begin to run again until after high water. Would it, in about two hours, have carried him out as far as the spot where we found him? That's a question that only local knowledge can answer.”

“Then you can't expect me to answer it,” Mavis remarked. “How would the theory of accident work out at the harbour?”

“I can think of several things that might have happened,” Merrion replied. “Arthur Harpole might have been climbing down one of the ladders on the quay wall into a boat. The rungs of those ladders are very slippery, especially below high-water mark, where the mud and weed sticks to them. He might have slipped and fallen, striking his head on something comparatively soft as he did so. A spar with a sail furled round it, for instance.

“Or there's an old-fashioned crane on the quay, which looks as though it might disintegrate at any moment. Part of that might have fallen on him and knocked him into the water. But what I should like to know is what he was doing down by the harbour at that time of night?”

“Didn't you tell me that he was a friend of one of your fisherman's sons?”Mavis asked.

“That's a helpful suggestion,” Merrion replied. “He went to the harbour to meet Reg Windrush. But what for, at that time of night and at low water? They would hardly have been going out in the pleasure boat that Reg has charge of. And if Reg was there, and an accident had happened, he would surely have done something about it.”

“The more your imagination toys with the idea of an accident, the less likely it seems to me,” said Mavis.

“And to me too,” Merrion agreed. “The circumstances don't point to suicide, but we can't rule it out altogether. Arthur might have dived into the water, meaning to make an end of himself, and hit his head on something floating in the harbour. But against that is the fact that a strong swimmer, as Mr. Sowerby told us Arthur was, wouldn't attempt suicide by drowning. On the whole, I think it most likely that he was the victim of foul play.”

“But who could have wanted to murder him?”Mavis asked.

“We don't know enough about him to be able to answer that question,” Merrion replied. “The motive certainly can't have been financial. From the hints that Mr. Sowerby dropped I gather that he was more or less living on his brother and sister. He had no prospects, so far as we know, for he hadn't a fairy godfather like his brother Charles. I can't help wondering whether his engagement had anything to do with it.”

“He was murdered by a jealous rival?” Mavis suggested. “Quite in the romantic tradition. But we haven't heard that he had any rival.”

“Oh, yes, we have,” Merrion replied. “Mrs. Dunster again. She told us that both the brothers were in love with the girl, and that she might have had either of them.”

“I don't believe half that woman says!” Mavis exclaimed. “She's as capable of imagining things as you are. Besides, aren't we told that Charles set off for Gloucestershire on Thursday afternoon?”

“We are,” Merrion replied. “We're told a lot of things that we've no opportunity of verifying. You saw for yourself how completely Mr. Sowerby was knocked off his balance by the news of the engagement. For some reason, apparently connected with Edith Harpole, it didn't please him a little bit. After he left us that evening he went to The Cedars, where he found only the two women. Where did he go after that?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” said Mavis. “Mr. Sowerby's manner was certainly very odd that evening. But I refuse to believe that he was contemplating murder. He's not that sort of person.”

“All sorts of people commit murder,” her husband replied. “You've only got to read the newspapers to discover that. He considered that Arthur was a drag on his family, and he may have thought he would be doing them a good turn by putting him out of the way. However, it's no good speculating. I shall be very much surprised if we don't hear plenty more of the matter before we leave here.”

After lunch the Merrions went out for a run in the car, returning to the Grand Central for tea. They were sitting in the lounge when a page came in. Not the one they had seen before, but another whom they did not know and who apparently did not know them. “Inquiry for Mr. Merrion, please,” he bawled.

Merrion stood up and beckoned to him. “Here I am. What is it?”

“A gentleman asking for you on the telephone, sir,” the page replied. “Will you come this way, please?”

Merrion followed him to the telephone box in the hall and picked up the instrument. “Desmond Merrion speaking. . . . Who is that?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” a voice replied. “This is Superintendent Liscombe. I have a friend of yours here, and he would very much like to see you. Would you care to come along to the police station and meet him?”

CHAPTER V

HAVING TOLD Mavis of the message, Merrion walked to the police station. A sergeant showed him into a room where two men were sitting. One of them was the Superintendent. The other was Merrion's old friend, Inspector Arnold, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.

Arnold chuckled as Merrion came in. “Well, my friend, aren't you surprised to meet me here?” he asked.

“Not altogether,” Merrion replied. “I gave evidence at an inquest this morning, as I dare say the Superintendent has told you.”

“That's just it,” said Liscombe. “I began by telling Mr. Arnold about the inquest, and as soon as I mentioned your name, he said that he had known you for many years. He also said that he had found your advice most helpful on more than one occasion. So we agreed to ask you to come here. Perhaps you won't mind telling Mr. Arnold every detail of your finding of the body?”

Both men listened attentively while Merrion did so. “You will understand now why I asked you yesterday whether you had seen any sign of injury, Mr. Merrion,” said Liscombe. “The pathologist came here as soon as he had left The Cedars, and told me what he had seen. I may tell you in confidence that he very strongly suspects foul play. I consulted my chief, and he decided to ask for the assistance of Scotland Yard. I may say that I am in full agreement with his decision.”

“Which explains why I'm here,” said Arnold. “I was put on the job, and I got here a couple of hours ago. Did you know this young man?”

“I saw him at a dance on Wednesday evening,” Merrion replied. “I didn't know who he was then, but I've heard a lot about him since. But no more, probably, than the Superintendent knows.”

“I should very much like to hear what you have been told about him,” said Liscombe.

Merrion repeated what he had heard about Arthur Harpole, by both Mr. Sowerby and Mrs. Dunster. “I already knew most of what you have told us,” said Liscombe. “But I was not aware that he had become engaged to Miss Farleigh. Now, I have other matters to attend to. If you will excuse me, I'm going to leave you two to have a chat. Being such old friends, I expect you'll be glad of the opportunity.”

“I am, for one,” Arnold remarked when Liscombe had gone out. “We can talk unofficially. Who murdered this young fellow? I haven't the slightest doubt that your imagination has been at work on that question already.”

“It has,” Merrion admitted. “But it hasn't found any very satisfactory answer. For one thing, it doesn't follow that murder was intended.”

“You mean that the pathologist's suspicions are unfounded, and that it was an accident?”Arnold asked.

Merrion shook his head. “I'm not suggesting pure accident. But I've thought of something that might possibly have happened. Greycliffe is full of visitors at this time of year, and it's not impossible that there are gangsters among them. Their purpose being to snatch bags and pick pockets as opportunity offered. You might ask the Superintendent if any such activities have been reported to the police.

“Now here's my theory, for what it's worth. Young Harpole fell in with one or more of these gangsters, probably down by the harbour, and a brawl ensued. I've been told that he was a bit of a prize-fighter, and knew how to use his fists if he found himself in a tight place.

One of the gang had a cosh, and hit him on the head with it. The pathologist spoke of a sandbag or a rubber truncheon. Staggering from the blow, Harpole lost his balance and fell over the quayside into the water. The cane made no attempt to rescue him.”

“That's not so bad,” Arnold replied. “But why down by the harbour? Why not on the edge of the cliffs?”

“For this reason,” said Merrion. “According to the medical evidence, Harpole died about the time of low water. When the tide is out, the rocks at the foot of the cliffs are uncovered. If Harpole had fallen over the edge of the cliffs, he would have landed on the rocks, and received injuries which would have been apparent to everybody.”

“Good enough,” Arnold replied. “I'll get you to show me the harbour later on. Putting gangsters aside for the moment, can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Harpole?”

Merrion hesitated. “Well, yes. But what I'm going to say depends entirely on the gossip of a garrulous woman. He had a brother, who was also in love with the girl Arthur got engaged to.”

“I'd like to hear about that brother,” said Arnold.

Merrion told him what little he knew about Charles Harpole and his godfather. “I am told that on Thursday a telegram came, presumably addressed to Charles, saying that Sir Thomas was in a bad way. As his godson and heir, Charles felt it his duty to go at once to Buckbridge Place in Gloucestershire, where Sir Thomas lives. A telegram was received from Charles yesterday, saying that his godfather was holding his own. That, on the face of it, seems to provide Charles with a perfect alibi. I say on the face of it, for naturally I haven't verified his departure.”

“The Super told me that there was a brother called Charles,” Arnold replied. “He's a schoolmaster, isn't he?”

Merrion nodded. “He is. At a preparatory school in the town here, Creeking Hall, where I was sent as a small boy. If I were you I should have a chat with the headmaster. He seems to know the Harpole family as well as anybody.”

“Better than the girl the young fellow was engaged to?”Arnold asked.

“A lot better, I imagine,” Merrion replied. “The young people hadn't known one another very long, for the girl and her family only came here in the spring, I'm told. And you can save yourself the trouble of calling on the Farleighs. I was told this morning that they had taken themselves off in the night. Flitted, in fact.”

“Flitted?” Arnold exclaimed. “What did they do that for?”

“I haven't the remotest idea,” Merrion replied. “I have never spoken to any of them. One theory is that they owed debts in the town which they were unable to pay.”

“It looks queerer than that to me,” said Arnold. “Isn't it more likely that they cleared out because they knew something about what happened to Arthur Harpole? Something that they didn't want to be asked about?”

“I've already wondered about that,” Merrion replied. “But it would mean that they had somehow been mixed up in the affair. And families don't as a rule murder the man to whom one member has just got engaged.”

“All the same, I'd like to know where the family spent Thursday evening,” said Arnold doggedly.

“If I were in your place, I should much prefer to know where Arthur Harpole spent that evening,” Merrion replied. “Haven't the local police taken steps in that direction?”

“It's one of the things I asked the Super,” said Arnold. “He told me that he was having inquiries made, but didn't hold out much hope of anything coming of them. He said there were lots of places in the town where Arthur might have been without being noticed. The amusement park, for instance. It seems that there's a howling mob there every evening, mostly visitors, not residents. If Arthur had gone there, it would be quite possible that nobody in the place would have known him.”

“Would he have gone to a place like that alone?” Merrion asked “I very much doubt it. And the most likely person for him to take with him would be his fiancée. It's a pity the Farleighs have made themselves scarce. The girl might have been able to tell you something.”

“Oh, we'll soon find them,” Arnold replied. “Four people can't vanish off the face of the earth, especially when they're short of money, as you suggest these folk were. But we shan't do any good by sitting here chewing the rag. Suppose you take me down to the harbour?”

They set out and reached the quay. It was a few minutes after six, and the tide was coming in rapidly. The pleasure boats were all out, but Ted Windrush's fishing-boat was tied up alongside. Merrion pointed it out to his companion. “That's the boat in which I had my adventure yesterday morning. I dare say the owner would take you out in her if you liked.”

“No, thanks,” Arnold replied. “I'm no lover of small boats. They always make me feel seasick. I see now what you meant just now. The quay isn't very wide, and it narrows towards the end there. If there was any sort of a scuffle, Arthur might very well have fallen over the edge. And at that time of night it's not likely that there would be any independent witnesses of what happened to him.”

They strolled to the seaward end of the quay and back again. As they neared the office, the harbour-master came out and recognised Merrion at once. “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “Are you looking for Ted Windrush? He went home to get his tea a few minutes ago.”

Arnold, who had no wish for his business in the town to become known, strolled on. “No, I wasn't looking for Windrush,” Merrion replied. “My friend and I were just having a stroll round. I was very much interested in the evidence you gave at the inquest.”

“I've just been talking to Windrush,” said the harbourmaster. “He reckons that you were just about two miles onshore when you picked up the body. So my answer to the coroner when he asked about the depth of water was just about right. You must have been close on the twenty fathom line.”

“That's a point I've been thinking of,” Merrion replied. “If the poor chap had fallen into the harbour here, his body wouldn't have drifted out as far as that on the flood, would it?”

The harbour-master shook his head. “It wouldn't have drifted out at all till the ebb set in. So far as I can make out, this is what must have happened. The pathologist said he thought Harpole was drowned before midnight. The last of the ebb would have been running then. It would have been just strong enough to carry the body outside the harbour, but very little farther.

“When the tide turns and the flood sets in, there is a feeble current running westwards, not quite parallel with the coast, but setting slightly inshore. This lasts till half-tide, then turns and runs in the opposite direction, still with a tendency inshore. The body would have been carried backwards and forwards by this current. I can't understand how it got carried out to sea at all.”

“On the first of the ebb?”Merrion suggested. “There would be a fairly strong set out of the harbour then, I suppose?”

“There would,” the harbour-master agreed. “But I should be very much surprised if the body had still been drifting about by then. Often enough I've seen an empty wooden box, or something like that, chucked into the harbour on the last of the ebb. It drifts slowly out, then comes into the current running along the coast. And always it is thrown up on the shore, on one side or the other of the harbour mouth. That's because the current has an inshore tendency. Why wasn't the body cast ashore in the same way?”

“There must be some reason,” Merrion replied.

“There can be only one reason,” said the harbourmaster firmly. “Mr. Harpole didn't fall into the harbour before midnight. He fell in soon after seven on Friday morning, when the first of the ebb was running. It's too late to try it out to-day. But I'll tell you what I'll do, if you like. The last of the ebb will be running between three and four to-morrow afternoon. I'll have an empty barrel ready, and we'll throw it in. Then you can take my binoculars and go up on to the cliff. You'll be able to see what happens to it from there.”

“That's a very sporting offer, and I'll accept it,” Merrion replied. “But I find it very difficult to believe that Mr. Harpole fell into the harbour when you say he must have. Isn't there any other possibility?”

“I've been thinking about that ever since the inquest,” said the harbour-master. “What if he didn't fall into the water from the shore at all, but from that vessel that passed you so close?”

“That's what Windrush thought,” Merrion replied, “when we first spotted the object, without knowing what it was. The vessel nearly ran us down, and in the excitement of the moment we neither of us noticed the name on her stern.”

The harbour-master smiled. “I can tell you her name, though. It struck me that from her position and course she must have been bound for Silvermouth, about twenty miles westward of here. I had the curiosity to ring up the harbour-master there, and ask him if a coaster had arrived on Friday morning. He said, yes, a vessel from Ipswich direct, with a cargo of mailing barley. The Absurdity, one of Everards' fleet.”

“By direct, he meant that she hadn't called anywhere between Ipswich and Silvermouth,” said Merrion. “When did she leave Ipswich?”

“That I couldn't say,” the harbour-master replied. “But it couldn't have been later than early on Thursday morning.”

Merrion shook his head. “Then that won't do. You heard what Miss Harpole said at the inquest. She had seen her brother alive and well at The Cedars after tea on Thursday. There's no way he could have got on board the Absurdity, dead or alive. Well, I mustn't keep my friend waiting too long. I'm very grateful to you for your suggestion of an experiment. I'll be here to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock sharp.”

He rejoined Arnold, who had been strolling about at a convenient distance. “What have you been talking about all this time?”Arnold asked.

“Mainly about tides and currents,” Merrion replied. “The harbour-master maintains that the body had no business to be where we found it. There's to be a demonstration to-morrow, and you shall attend it.”

“What's the good of that?”Arnold asked. “I suppose you and that fisherman chap did find the body where you said you did?”

“Yes,” Merrion replied. “But if we knew how it had got there it might lead us to a useful clue. By the way, are you stopping here to-night? Mavis and I are at the Grand Central. It's comfortable, but not cheap.”

“It's a lot too dear for a poor policeman, I'll be bound,” said Arnold. “Yes, I'm staying here. The Super knows of a little place at the back of the town, and he's got a room for me there. Talking of the Super, it's time I was getting back to the police station.”

They walked there together, but Merrion did not go in with Arnold. He went on to the Grand Central.

Arnold found Liscombe in his room. “I got Mr. Merrion to take me down to the harbour,” he said. “The harbour-master spoke to him, and they had a chat about tides and things like that. I never can get the hang of them. But it seems that Harpole's body never ought to have been where it was found.”

“Well, it was there, so why make a song about it?”Liscombe asked.

“That's just what I said to Mr. Merrion,” Arnold replied. “But he's obstinate about things like that, and I'm bound to say he's very often right. Have you heard anything about where Harpole spent that evening?”

Liscombe shook his head. “Not a word. I've had inquiries made at all the places where he's likely to have gone to, but nobody seems to have seen him. But I'll tell you what I have heard. His brother Charles was seen coming away from the railway station carrying a suitcase, half an hour ago. He'll have gone straight home, I expect. We ought to see him, but I don't care much for the idea of butting in at The Cedars just now. It would be better to ring up and ask him to come here.”

Arnold agreed, and Liscombe put the call through. The reply was that Charles Harpole would come to the police station at once. In a few minutes he arrived, and was shown into the room where Liscombe and Arnold were sitting.

Liscombe offered the visitor a chair. “You will understand why I asked you to come here, Mr. Harpole,” he said. “I should like to tell you how deeply we all sympathise with you and your sister. We are doing our best to trace your brother's movements after he left The Cedars on Thursday afternoon, so far without success. Can you throw any light upon where he may have gone?”

“I'm afraid not,” Charles replied. “Shortly after lunch that day a telegram came from Sir Thomas Graffham's housekeeper. I should explain that Sir Thomas is my godfather and that, being a single man, he has made me his heir. He lives at Buckbridge Place in Gloucestershire. The wording of the telegram was, ' Sir Thomas taken very ill and wishes to see you.' Naturally, I caught the next train, the two-twenty from here.”

“I hope you found Sir Thomas's condition improved when you reached Buckbridge Place that evening,” said Liscombe politely.

“He was holding his own when I got there, and he seems to have turned the corner now,” Charles replied. “But, actually, I didn't get there till early next morning. To get to Buckbridge from here involves a very difficult cross-country journey, with no fewer than four changes. At the last junction I missed my connection, which was the last train to Buckbridge. I couldn't find a taxi to take me there, so I spent several uncomfortable hours in the waiting-room, and went on by the first train in the morning.”

“A most unpleasant experience,” said Liscombe. “Your brother was at home when you left?”

“My brother and sister were both at home,” Charles replied. “I showed my sister the telegram, and she agreed that I ought to go at once.”

“Can you suggest where your brother might have gone when he left The Cedars later in the afternoon?” Liscombe asked.

Charles shook his head. “I can't offer any suggestions. Arthur and I have always been very fond of one another, but he was usually very reticent about his own affairs. He often went out in the evening and came home late. He never told us where he had been and I, for one, never asked.”

He paused for a moment, fidgeting uncomfortably. “The fact is, though I hate to have to say it, that Arthur was rather undiscriminating in his choice of friends. He liked the companionship of men of his own age, and was not over particular who the men were. As you probably know, he had led a roving life, and been thrown into contact with all sorts of people. He rarely introduced his friends to his sister or myself, knowing very well that we should hardly appreciate them.”

“You think that your brother may have gone out with some of his friends?”Liscombe asked.

“I think it quite possible,” Charles replied. “He had done so before. On the other hand, he had on the previous evening become engaged to Miss Farleigh. It is not unlikely that he went to see her.”

“I do not want to distress the young lady,” said Liscombe. “But I think we must ask her. What is the address, Mr. Harpole?”

“Seven Beaufort Terrace,” Charles replied. “There is no telephone.”

Arnold put in a word. “I am told that the Farleighs have left Greycliffe.”

Charles glanced at him, probably wondering who he was. “My sister told me something of the kind just now. She had heard it from Mrs. Dunster, who is not always a very reliable informant. I cannot believe it. It is true that they have only rented the house they are living in, but their lease has nearly three months to run.”

“We can very soon find out,” said Liscombe. He pressed a bellpush on his desk and a sergeant appeared. “Go at once on your bicycle to number seven Beaufort Terrace, Sergeant. If you find anyone at home, ask for Miss Farleigh, and tell her that I should like to see her at her convenience. If you find nobody there, come back and report.”

The sergeant went off, and Liscombe turned again to Charles. “You say that your brother had led a roving life. He went to sea when he was quite a lad, and after that he lived for some years in Canada, so I have been told. Is that correct?”

“Quite correct,” Charles replied. “I know very little of what he did during the years that he was away from home, for he rarely spoke of them. In fact, he seemed to resent questions being asked, so my sister and I were careful to keep off the subject. But now and then he would say something to me of his own accord. He told me that while the ship he was then on was in a Canadian port he met a man who made a suggestion to him. It was that my brother should join this man in opening a garage.

“I should perhaps explain my brother's financial position. Under my father's will, he was to receive the sum of fifteen thousand pounds when he came of age. After he left home, my father's executors, who were also his children's trustees, received from time to time requests for advances on this money. With these requests they complied, as by the terms of the trust they were entitled to do, if they thought fit. When my brother reached the age of twenty-one, the balance was forwarded to him in Canada.

“He returned home eighteen months ago, practically penniless. He told me later, in a burst of confidence, that he hadn't enough money left to pay his passage, and that he had had to work his way home as a deck-hand. His explanation was that his partner had let him down. He never told us his partner's name, but merely that he had never put his back into the business. From the way my brother spoke, I formed the impression that he and his partner had quarrelled bitterly.”

“I should like to ask you rather a delicate question, Mr. Harpole,” said Arnold. “What did your brother live on after he came home?”

“Oh, his board and lodging didn't cost much,” Charles replied. “And my sister and I gave him a little pocket money from time to time. Naturally, he was looking out for something to do. We used to watch the newspapers, and show him any advertisements which we thought might appeal to him. But we were never able to find anything which he thought would suit him.”

“It seems rather strange that under those circumstances he should have become engaged,” Arnold remarked. “Or perhaps Miss Farleigh has resources of her own?”

Charles flushed at the suggestion. “My brother would not have married any woman for her money,” he replied. “Miss Farleigh is a very charming girl indeed, and no one could blame Arthur for proposing to her. But I have reason to believe that neither she nor her family are in affluent circumstances. My brother would no doubt have found some employment.”

At this point the sergeant returned, after a short absence. “Well, Sergeant, what is your report?”Liscombe asked.

“I've been to the address you told me, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I knocked and rang, but I couldn't make anyone hear. Then the lady who lives next door came out and spoke to me. She told me it was no good my carrying on like that, for the family had gone away. They had gone off in a car in the middle of last night.”

“Very well, Sergeant, that will do,” said Liscombe. He turned to Charles. “So Mrs. Dunster's information was correct, Mr. Harpole.”

“I can't understand it,” Charles replied. “They can't have gone away for good, only for a day or two. Now I come to think of it, Guy, Nina's brother, told me a few days ago that they had made friends with a visitor who had brought his car with him, and that this man had taken them out once or twice. It's quite likely that he has taken the whole family away for a day or two.”

“Do you know this man's name, Mr. Harpole?” Liscombe asked.

Charles shook his head. “I never met him. Guy spoke of him as Bill, without any surname. And I don't know where he is staying.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harpole,” said Liscombe. “We needn't keep you any longer. If you should hear anything of your brother's movements on Thursday evening, you will let me know, won't you?”

Charles gave the required undertaking, and Liscombe led him from the room. “Not very helpful,” said Liscombe when he returned. “But it's queer about those Farleigh people. It seems to me that Harpole's astonishment when he heard they were gone was perfectly genuine. Didn't you think so, Mr. Arnold?”

“I did,” Arnold replied. “And I didn't think much of his theory that they would come back shortly. People don't usually leave for a few days' absence in the middle of the night. I've been told that Charles Harpole was himself in love with this girl. That may be why he felt impelled to make some excuse for the family. What time is the last train from here in the evening?”

“There's one as late as eleven-forty, in the summer,” said Liscombe. “It's run for the convenience of people from Rickford who have been spending the evening here. It doesn't go any farther, but there's a connection from Rickford to London. It's usually pretty crowded, for there's no bus from here to Rickford as late as that. You're not thinking of going by it, I hope?”

“No, I was just wondering,” Arnold replied. “Have you got an A B C Railway Guide on the premises?”

Liscombe produced the August issue, and Arnold studied it, making notes as he did so. “This is rather interesting,” he said when he had finished. “Harpole says that as he missed his last connection, he didn't get to Buckbridge till Friday morning. The first train to arrive at Buckbridge is at nine-five, and that is the one he must have caught.

“But listen to this. Anyone leaving here by that eleven-forty of yours, and changing at Rickford, could get to London at three thirty-five next morning. A train leaves Paddington at five-thirty and gets to Swindon at seven-twenty. From there there is a connection at eight o'clock, which is the train that arrives at Buckbridge at nine-five. You see what I'm driving at? It's not impossible that Charles Harpole was in Greycliffe at the time of his brother's death. The pathologist's expression, before midnight, could be taken to be as early as eleven-forty.”

Liscombe seemed slightly shocked. “You don't think that he murdered his brother? I've always heard that they got on very well together.”

“That may be,” Arnold replied. “But his brother had snatched this girl from under his nose. I'm not going to say yet that Charles Harpole was the murderer. But the timetable knocks his alibi into a cocked hat. This is what he may have done. He caught the two-twenty, taking care that someone who knew him saw him leave here by that train. But he didn't go any farther than Rickford. He spent the rest of the afternoon there, then came back here, I expect by bus. What he did then, or where he went, we don't yet know. He made a fresh start by the eleven-forty. You say that train is usually crowded. He counted on not being recognised among the crowd.”

CHAPTER VI

RATHER TO Merrion's surprise, Mrs. Dunster did not put in an appearance at the Grand Central that evening. He and Mavis agreed that she was probably too busy telling her numerous friends of the sensational disappearance of the Farleighs.

“It is very odd that they should have gone away like that,” said Merrion. “I can quite understand that the girl should want to get away from here for a bit. It must have been a severe shock to her that her fiancé was drowned within a few hours of their engagement. But surely she has a motive for coming back here. I don't want to be unfeeling, but it's pretty clear that she had two strings to her bow. From all we've heard, Charles Harpole would have proposed to her if his brother hadn't forestalled him. And now that Arthur's dead, Charles has the way clear before him. I don't mind betting you that she'd accept him.”

“If Charles was the second partner we saw her dancing with, she didn't look particularly interested in him,” Mavis remarked.

“Because she'd already hooked her fish,” Merrion replied. “Though I'm bound to say I share Mrs. Dunster's surprise at her choice. Charles has both a job and a fairy godfather, while it seems that Arthur had neither.”

“She may have preferred Arthur,” said Mavis. “Girls don't always marry for money. I didn't myself, as you may remember.”

Her husband laughed affectionately. “We could both afford to marry for love. But, from what we've heard, this girl couldn't afford that luxury. I should have thought that she would have taken good care that her heart was ruled by her head. There's another dance on here this evening. Shall we take a peep into the ballroom and see if there's anyone there we know?”

They looked in for a few minutes, but the dancers were all strangers to them. They returned to the lounge, and remained there until they went to bed.

On Sunday morning they went to church. “When I was at Creeking Hall, we used to be marched to church,” said Merrion as they started on their way. “Two by two, like the animals entering the ark. Only we wore striped trousers, black coats and bowler hats. We must have looked an odd little company. For some reason or other we weren't marched back when the service was over. We were shepherded in a flock to Creeking Hall by old Bobberts himself, wearing his gown, hood, and mortarboard. It would cause a bit of a sensation if Mr. Sowerby returned to the old custom.”

When they got back to the Grand Central it was nearly lunch-time. “Arnold's lying very low,” Merrion remarked. “I asked him to come here and look us up, if he had a moment. I can't believe that he's all that busy sleuthing. I hope he'll turn up this afternoon, for I'm very anxious that he should see the harbour-master's experiment. It's a fine warm day, and if you've nothing better to do you may as well come and watch too.”

Arnold did turn up, at a quarter to three. “I'm sorry I couldn't come along before,” he said. “The Super and I have been making a few inquiries together. I hope you're enjoying your visit to Greycliffe, Mrs. Merrion?”

“It's been quite good fun so far,” Mavis replied. “And I like to see Desmond enjoying himself. Fishing dead bodies out of the sea and trying to bring them to life again is just the sort of adventure that appeals to him. Now he's going to take us out to watch an experiment. What are we expected to look for, Desmond?”

“A floating barrel,” Merrion replied. “It'll be empty, so there's no salvage award. There's no point in all of us going down to the harbour. You two can go on to the cliff at the harbour end of the Front. You'll get a good view from there, and I'll join you later. Wait a minute. I've brought a pair of binoculars with me, and I'll go and fetch them and lend them to you. The harbour-master said I could borrow his.”

Outside the Grand Central they parted. Arnold, carrying the binoculars, and Mavis went towards the cliff, while Merrion went down to the harbour. All the pleasure boats were out, and he could see them dotted over the calm sea. The harbour-master was waiting for him outside his office. “You're punctual, Mr. Merrion,” he said. “The ebb's still got about three-quarters of an hour to run. Just like it had a little before midnight on Thursday. I've got everything ready, if you care to come along.”

They walked along the quay towards the harbour mouth until they came to a big fifty-gallon steel barrel. “It's empty, and the bung's screwed tight,” said the harbour-master. “It'll float till doomsday, but I wager it will come ashore again long before that. If you'll give me a hand, we'll roll it over the side.”

The barrel fell into the water with a heavy splash. For a few seconds it bobbed up and down, then floated with about half its bulk immersed. At first it seemed disinclined to move, and remained stationary. Then, very gradually, it began to edge away from the quay, towards the centre of the harbour. “It'll feel what little strength there is in the ebb before long,” said the harbour-master. “Just you watch.”

As the barrel drifted away from the quay and reached the current it began to move, slowly but steadily, towards the entrance. Seventeen minutes after it had been rolled into the water, it passed out between the pier heads. For another ten minutes it drifted almost imperceptibly straight out to sea, then swung in a slow curve until its direction was westwards, roughly parallel to the coast.

“We'd best go up on to the cliff now,” said the-harbour master. “We shall see better from there what happens to it. I've got my binoculars with me, and you can use them when you want to.”

The cliffs, with the indented bays between them, lay to the westward of the harbour. Merrion and the harbourmaster made their way upwards. “We shall find my wife and the friend you saw me with yesterday up here somewhere,” said Merrion. “Ah, there they are. Come along, and I'll introduce you.”

Mavis was standing with her husband's binoculars to her eyes, with Arnold beside her. Merrion introduced them, in Arnold's case merely as 'Mr. Arnold, a friend from London.' “We saw that barrel of yours as it came out of the harbour,” said Mavis. “It isn't moving very fast, but I believe it is drifting this way.”

There was no doubt that the barrel was drifting westwards, and at the same time edging in towards the shore. As they watched it, the speed of its drifting increased visibly. “The current always sets a bit more strongly round the point,” the harbour-master remarked. “And into the bay to the left of us. Shall we move on a bit till we can look down into it?”

They walked along the cliff for about a quarter of a mile until they overlooked the bay. The sands were black with people sitting in deck-chairs and a horde of children running about between them. But, it being low water, the tide was too far out for bathers.

The barrel was proceeding on a steady course, slanting in towards the shore. After about twenty minutes Mavis, who was watching it through the binoculars, called out.

“I believe it has stopped.”

“Gone aground,” the harbour-master replied. “The water's very shallow just there. You see where it's gone aground, Mr. Merrion. On the western shore of the bay. Say about a hundred yards from the edge of the water. Here, take my glasses.”

“Yes, I see that,” said Merrion as he focused the binoculars. “And as the tide rises it will bring it farther inshore, I take it?”

“The flood's just about on the make now,” the harbourmaster replied. “As the water rises, the barrel will follow it, until high water, which is at ten thirty-one this evening. By that time it will be well up on the beach. And it won't follow the ebb. As the water goes back, it will stay where the flood brought it, stranded high and dry. You'll find it there in the morning, for nobody's likely to move it. It's too heavy for that.”

“Well, it's been most interesting,” said Mavis. “And now I hope you'll both come and have tea with us at our hotel?”

The harbour-master excused himself. “I should like nothing better, Mrs. Merrion. But I must get back home. My wife and I have some friends coming over from Silvermouth this afternoon.”

“Well, then, some other time,” said Merrion. “You've taken a lot of trouble, and I'm very much obliged to you. What about you, Arnold?”

“I'll come, if I may,” Arnold replied. “I want to talk to you, in any case.”

The three of them walked to the Grand Central, where they had tea. When they had finished, Mavis tactfully excused herself, on the plea that she had letters to write.

“Well, what have you to talk to me about?”Merrion asked Arnold.

“Several things,” Arnold replied. “To begin with, what exactly was the point in all that mumbo-jumbo with the barrel?”

Merrion repeated what the harbour-master had told him about the local tides and currents. “This was the point ,” he went on. “When we rolled the barrel into the harbour, the tide was at the same state as it was a little before midnight on Thursday. You saw what happened to the barrel. How was it that we found Harpole's body two miles from shore?”

“I can't make it out,” Arnold replied. “Would a body floating below the surface behave in the same way as one floating on top?”

“I imagine so,” said Merrion. “Both would be subject to the same currents. There must be something wrong somewhere, but I'm not inclined to question the pathologist's estimate of the time of death. Have you been able to get any clue to Arthur Harpole's doings on Thursday evening?”

Arnold shook his head. “We can't hear a whisper of him. At least, not at any time that matters. A boy selling evening papers saw him in King William Avenue about half-past five. He was walking away from the Front, towards the centre of the town. If he had been going to Beaufort Terrace, that's the way he would have started. By the way, it seems to be quite true that the Farleigh family have cleared out.”

“I never doubted it,” Merrion replied. “But I can't understand why. I should have thought that it would have been in their interests to stay here. Or in the girl's interests, at least.”

“Charles Harpole can't understand it either,” said Arnold. “I haven't told you about that yet. The Super and I saw him at the police station yesterday evening. You said that apparently he had a perfectly good alibi. Well, as it turns out, he hasn't. Listen to this.”

He repeated Charles's story of his journey to Buckbridge. “When I'd heard that, I got busy with the timetables,” he went on. “Charles told us that he got to Buckbridge by the first train on Friday morning. I haven't a doubt that he did. But if he had left here by the last train on Thursday, which leaves at eleven-forty, he could have got to Buckbridge by the first train in the morning, just the same.”

“That's interesting,” Merrion replied. “You've been working on that?”

“We have,” said Arnold. “The Super and I went to the railway station here this morning. Naturally, the first person we tackled was the stationmaster, and we found he had the answer to our first question. He had seen Charles Harpole on Thursday afternoon. He had come to his office soon after two o'clock, and told him he wanted to get to Buckbridge. He asked a question about one of his connections, and the stationmaster looked it up for him. The stationmaster walked on to the platform with him, and saw him get into the two-twenty. He was still in the train when it pulled out of the station.”

“That visit to the stationmaster's office rather suggests to me that Charles wanted a witness to his having left here by the two-twenty,” Merrion remarked.

“So it does to me,” Arnold agreed. “The two-twenty doesn't stop until it gets to Rickford. My belief is that Charles got off there, as he had to in any case, if he was going by the route he told the stationmaster. But he didn't catch the connection. He hung about the town, where I don't suppose he was well enough known to be recognised. Nobody at the station here remembers seeing him come back that afternoon, but there's nothing in that. He's more likely to have come back by bus, there's one every hour from Rickford. Nor did anyone see him leave here by the eleven-forty. But that's not surprising, for the train was packed that night. We were told that it always is on Thursday, for that's early-closing day in Rickford.”

“Your theory being this,” said Merrion. “Some time before eleven-forty Charles knocked his brother on the head, and pushed him into the harbour. His motive being to supplant him in the affections of Miss Farleigh. I'd like to try to punch a few holes in that. How did Charles know where he would find his brother?”

“Before he left home, Arthur had told him where he was going that evening,” Arnold replied.

“Possibly,” Merrion replied. “But is it very likely that Arthur had arranged to spend the evening alone?”

“It's not at all likely,” said Arnold. “Charles himself told us that his brother had a way of going out in the evenings with friends of his. He said he didn't know the friends, for Arthur had never introduced them to his family. I dare say two or three of them had gone on the spree together. Charles knew where they had gone to, and joined them.”

“Arthur must have been a bit surprised to see him,” Merrion remarked. “He ought to have been safely at Buckbridge by that time.”

“I dare say he was,” said Arnold. “But Charles drew him aside and said that something of the utmost importance had happened since they last met. They would go out quietly together, and Charles would tell his brother what it was. They went out, and Charles led Arthur down to the harbour, as being a place where there would be nobody about to overhear what he was going to say.”

Merrion shook his head. “It won't do, my friend. Charles would never have broken in upon his brother's party. It would have been taking too great a risk. Even if Arthur's friends hadn't known who he was, they would have been able to describe him. And must I tell you again that wherever Arthur was pushed into the water, it wasn't in the harbour?”

“Then where was it?”Arnold asked.

“I don't know,” Merrion replied. “I was trying to answer that question while we were watching the barrel drifting about. Here's a theory for you. Some time before midnight, say between ten and eleven, Arthur and some other person went down to the harbour and borrowed a boat. Not a big one, but one of the many dinghies that you may have seen tied up there yesterday. They rowed, or if there was any wind, sailed, out to sea. When they were about two miles out, something happened.

“I put it that way, for there is just the possibility of an accident. They were sailing, and whichever of them was at the tiller let the boat gybe. The boom swung over, hit Arthur on the side of the head and knocked him overboard. It's the sort of accident that has happened before now. The other person in the boat didn't, or couldn't, rescue him. Alternatively, it was deliberate murder. Arthur was swiped on the head with a cosh of some kind, and pitched overboard.

“So far as I can make out from what the harbourmaster told me, that would account for the body being found where it was. During the flood tide it would have drifted to and fro, first westwards then eastwards, all the time tending towards the shore. But if it had been thrown into the water sufficiently far out, it would not have reached it before the ebb tide began to run. Then it would have continued drifting to and fro, but now tending steadily away from shore. Do you see?”

“Not very clearly.” Arnold replied. “But I'll take your word for it.”

“If you ask the harbour-master, I think he'll tell you I'm right,” said Merrion. “Now it seems to me that theory puts Charles out of it. I don't think we can stretch the pathologist's estimate of the time of death much earlier than eleven o'clock. Charles would have had to bring the boat back two miles, or possibly more, to the harbour. Then he had to tie it up and leave it exactly as it had been found. Finally, he had to get from the harbour to the station. Could he have done all that in time to catch the eleven-forty?”

“It hardly seems so,” Arnold replied. “That's a very pretty theory of yours, but there's one thing about it I can't quite swallow. Whoever the other chap was, how did he persuade Arthur to go out in a boat with him at that time of night?”

“You've suggested one way yourself,” said Merrion. “Charles called his brother aside and told him that something important had happened, and that he must speak to him in private. What more complete privacy could there be than a small boat a couple of miles out to sea?”

Arnold grunted. “That pretext wouldn't have satisfied me. And who was the other chap, if he wasn't Charles?”

“Someone who was familiar with small boats, I should imagine,” Merrion replied. “My friend the fisherman told me something about Arthur. He was getting much too friendly with his youngest son, Reg. And father Windrush didn't approve of that at all.”

“Why didn't he?”Arnold asked.

“Because he believed, apparently quite correctly, that Arthur was lazy,” Merrion replied. “Also, that he was none too particular about whom he associated with. I don't for a moment suppose that Windrush murdered Arthur in order to put him out of his son's way. But it would be interesting to know who his associates were. You said just now that Charles couldn't understand why the Farleighs had cleared out. What had he to say about it?”

“Precious little,” said Arnold. “And nothing very helpful. It seems that they went off in a car in the middle of the night. When Charles was told this, he said that Guy Farleigh had told him that they had got to know a man staying here who had a car. Guy had spoken of him as Bill, and Charles had never heard his surname. Nor did he know the make or number of his car.”

“How delightfully vague,” Merrion replied. “The assumption being that Bill obligingly picked up the Farleigh family and drove them to some unknown destination. Having performed this act of charity, did Bill return here? Or was he also impelled by an urge to disappear?”

Arnold shrugged his shoulders. “How can I tell? The Super's trying to trace Bill and his car. Though how he is going to do that with the number of visitors constantly coming and going is more than I can tell. One of the garages in the town may know something about the car.”

“Why should they?”Merrion asked. “Lots of the visitors only use a garage when they want to fill up. They don't keep their cars in any garage, but leave them in the car park, night or day, when they're not using them. And all the attendant does is to write down the number of the car. You're not likely to get much further that way.”

“Well, it's the Super's funeral, not mine,” Arnold replied.

“Bill and his car may play some part in your case, just the same,” said Merrion. “Why did Bill go out of his way to do the Farleighs a favour? One answer to that might be that he had fallen in love with Nina Farleigh. Just think that over for a minute.”

Arnold laughed. “If you're starting off on another theory, you may as well tell me what it is, and save me the trouble of thinking.”

“You're letting your mind get lazy,” said Merrion. “Look here. Arthur knew the Farleigh family well enough to become engaged to the daughter. Isn't it reasonable to suppose that he got to know the friends they made, including Bill?”

“Well, yes, I dare say it is,” Arnold agreed.

“Then let's go a step further,” said Merrion. “The last trace you have of Arthur is at about half-past five on Thursday evening. Why shouldn't Bill have picked him up in his car and taken him to spend the evening somewhere? Arthur had become engaged to Nina Farleigh the evening before, an event of which Bill took an extremely poor view.”

“You mean that he murdered Arthur?”Arnold asked. “But this new theory doesn't fit in with the story of a boating trip you were telling me just now.”

“Why not?”Merrion replied. “The two had a spree together, which lasted till all the places of entertainment were closed. But neither of them felt like going to bed. One of them, it might have been Arthur, suggested that, as it was such a topping night, wouldn't it be a lark to take a boat out for a bit? If Bill didn't know how to manage a boat, Arthur did. He'd been a seaman of sorts, you must remember.”

“Do seamen on a modern ship learn anything about small boats?”Arnold asked.

“In my experience, nothing whatever,” Merrion replied. “But Arthur may have been an exception. I remember now that his father had a small yacht, and I have no doubt he taught his children to handle her. However, it's not a very important point, for Bill may have had the necessary skill. You haven't talked to Miss Harpole yet?”

Arnold shook his head. “It doesn't seem very likely that she can tell us anything useful. Naturally, we shall have to interview her, but the Super and I agreed that it would be more considerate to wait until after the funeral. It's to be to-morrow afternoon, by the way.”

“There's one thing you might ask Miss Harpole when you see her,” said Merrion. “It concerns Mr. Sowerby. I think I told you that he looked in to see Mavis and me before dinner on Thursday. He was then in what I can best describe as a very disturbed frame of mind. He left us rather hurriedly to go to The Cedars, and should have got there soon after half-past seven. What time did he leave?”

“What has Mr. Sowerby to do with the Harpole family?”Arnold asked.

“He had a lot to do with them in the past,” Merrion replied. “And I rather suspect that he is in love with Edith Harpole now. For some reason Arthur's engagement shook him pretty badly. Almost his last words to us that evening were that it had been a great shock to everyone.”

“But why should it have upset Mr, Sowerby?” Arnold asked.

“On account of Edith Harpole, I gather,” Merrion replied. “She would have felt bound to provide for Arthur and his impecunious wife. And I fancy that was not at all what Mr. Sowerby designed for her future. But, of course, Arthur's death has put an end to Mr. Sowerby's anxieties on that score.”

“Am I to gather that Mr. Sowerby is on your list of suspects?”Arnold asked.

“It would be interesting to know where he was between the time he left The Cedars and midnight,” Merrion replied. “That's why I suggest that you ask Miss Harpole what time he did leave. And there's another person there you might talk to. The housekeeper, who has been with the family since Arthur was born. According to Mr. Sowerby, her behaviour all along has been rather queer. What's your next step going to be, if you're not going to The Cedars until after the funeral?”

“I believe in sticking to one thing at a time,” said Arnold. “It's all very well for you to fly kites, for you aren't responsible for the investigation. I'm keeping on the track of Charles. If he left here by the eleven-forty, he would have had a quarter of an hour to wait at Rickford for the train to London from there. It's just possible that someone may have seen him hanging about. I told the Super that I'd go to Rickford to-morrow morning and make inquiries.”

“I'll drive you there, if you like,” Merrion replied. “I shall have nothing better to do, and having never been to Rickford, except for passing through it in the train when I was a small boy, I should like to see the place. How would ten o'clock suit you? If you'll come along then, I'll be waiting for you with the car.”

CHAPTER VII

ARNOLD ACCEPTED the offer, and turned up at the appointed time on Monday morning. Mavis had refused to go. She had no desire to potter about an industrial town when she might be sitting by the sea.

Before breakfast that morning, Merrion had strolled down to the bay into which the barrel had drifted. It was still there, half-imbedded in the sand just below high-water mark. A crowd of children were playing round it, but it was too heavy for them to move. The prediction of the harbour-master had been right to the last detail.

With Arnold beside him, Merrion started off in the car. The road to Rickford was easy enough to find. It led through the back of the town, past the amusement park, and out into the open country, for the most part agricultural land, with patches of woodland here and there. For the first three or four miles the road undulated gently, its general direction being towards a patch of haze against the sky line. “That will be Rickford,” Merrion remarked, as they began to descend a gentle slope into a valley. “And this, I suppose, is the river that runs into the top of the harbour.”

The road continued to the foot of the valley, and then ran for some distance beside the River Rick. Merrion slowed down, and pulled up at a spot where only an iron railing separated the road from the river, a few feet below. “I always like to get my bearings,” he said. “The river seems to run fairly straight, without any very considerable bends, between Rickford and Greycliffe. I can see a stretch of the railway over there. It more or less follows the valley, with a short cut here and there. The road, for some unaccountable reason, plunges down into the valley and out of it again every two or three miles. But roads later than Roman times are like that.”

“Have we come out for a lesson in topography, Teacher?”Arnold asked.

“Not primarily,” Merrion replied. “But I've always found it pays to notice things as one goes along. Look at the colour of the water, for instance. It reminds me of one of those old-fashioned brown sherries that one doesn't often see now, only it isn't nearly as clear. I expect the river starts brown from the peat of the moors where it rises. And its passage through Rickford no doubt adds richness to the colour.”

Arnold's practical mind found no interest in such matters. He took out his watch and consulted it rather pointedly.

“All right,” said Merrion. “There's no hurry. We'll get to Rickford presently. I like studying rivers. This one has been navigable at some time, for I can see vestiges of a tow-path on the farther bank. And it doesn't seem to be tidal as far up as this. There's a steady if not very rapid current running downstream. Yes, I thought so. Look at that!”

A mass of turgid frothy matter was floating down the centre of the river. Its progress was unhurried, at the rate of not more than two miles an hour. Merrion watched it, till it floated out of sight. “The effluence from some works or other in Rickford, I suppose,” he said. “No wonder the water's the colour it is. Well, if you're so oblivious to the beauties of nature and industry, we'll get on.”

He pressed the starter button, but stopped suddenly as he was about to engage the gear. “Well, I'm blest!” he exclaimed. “Why on earth didn't I think of that before?”

“Think of what?”Arnold asked. “What bee have you got in your bonnet now? Can't we get on without these interruptions?”

“Sorry,” Merrion replied. “I suffered a sudden spasm of the imagination. I remembered a statement I made in evidence at the inquest. No, I'm not going to tell you what it was now. There are several things I shall have to verify first. Now I'll get you to Rickford as quickly as I can.”

He drove on swiftly but in silence. It was not very long before they were on the outskirts of Rickford, an uninteresting slummy town, with factory chimneys rising everywhere. Before they reached the centre, a notice, “To the Railway Station,” directed them to the left. Following this, they crossed a bridge over the river, and a little farther on reached the station yard.

“I'll park the car here and leave you to your investigations,” said Merrion. “I'm going to have a look round the town. If you've finished before I come back, just sit in the car and wait for me.”

Arnold went into the station, and Merrion strode off in the direction in which he judged the centre of the town to be. After a while he reached the main street, a not very imposing thoroughfare of shops and cinemas. Walking along this, he crossed another bridge over the river. From the general lay-out, he could see that the river ran through the middle of the town, passing under several bridges as it did so.

He turned right off the main street, and then right again into another narrower street running parallel to it. As he had expected, this street also crossed the river by a bridge. At this he stopped and, leaning on the parapet, looked over. The river, dark and covered with a greasy film, ran below him. From it rose a faint odour, not unlike that of liquid manure. Looking downstream he saw an abandoned cobbled wharf, upon which a few ragged urchins were playing.

Evidently his surmise that the river had once been navigated had been correct. The wharf could only have been built for barges to tie up to. From its neglected appearance it was clear that no barge had used it for a very long time. In places the cobbles had disappeared, leaving great holes which in rainy weather were no doubt full of water. The only approach to the wharf was an alley running between two high factory walls.

Merrion lit a cigarette and remained for several minutes leaning on the parapet. Very few people passed along the street. No doubt at that hour most of the inhabitants of Rickford were at work. From somewhere out of sight the shrill accents of a woman's voice came to his ears. With one accord the urchins scampered up the alley. Probably the wharf was a forbidden playing-ground. It well might be, for it would be only too easy for a small child to fall off it into the uninviting water.

Merrion threw away the end of his cigarette and made his way back to the station yard, where he found Arnold sitting in the car. “Had a pleasant time?”Arnold asked. “And what do you think of Rickford?”

“Not a lot,” Merrion replied. “It's not the sort of place I should choose for a summer holiday. Or for an evening outing, for that matter, though there seem to be plenty of cinemas. How did you get on?”

“Not very brilliantly,” said Arnold. “I contacted the stationmaster, who wasn't on the platform when the eleven-forty from Greycliffe came in on Thursday night. But he routed out the ticket collector who was on duty at the time. Incidentally, this man was not on duty at that time on any other day last week, so there is no chance of him confusing the date. He told me that as usual on Thursday the train was full. He knew most of the passengers by sight, as they lived in Rickford. He is quite certain that they all left the station, and that none of them waited for the London train, which leaves at twelve-ten.”

“Did any passengers leave by the London train?” Merrion asked.

“About half a dozen,” Arnold replied. “They had to pass the ticket collector's barrier. Two of them he knew, wholesale greengrocers who go up by that train about twice a week to the early morning Covent Garden market. He had a word with them, but the rest he didn't notice. I described Charles Harpole to him as best I could, but he replied quite reasonably that he was more interested in peoples' tickets than in their appearance. If nobody from Greycliffe went on by the London train, that seems to clear Charles.”

“Does it?”Merrion asked. “I'm not so sure about that. But never mind now. Let's get back to Greycliffe.” Merrion was unusually silent during the drive back. He left Arnold at the police station and drove on to the Grand Central. Mavis found him remarkably uncommunicative about his visit to Rickford.

After lunch he walked to the harbour-master's office. “Good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” its occupant greeted him. “Did you go and look for our barrel this morning?”

“I did, before breakfast,” Merrion replied. “I found it high and dry on the western side of the bay. The experiment has quite convinced me. Now I want to ask you something else. It seems to me, from the barrel's behaviour, that there must be some mistake about the time that Mr. Harpole's body was in the harbour. What would have happened to it if it had got there, not with the last of the ebb on Thursday night, but with the first of the ebb on Friday morning?”

“That's just what I've been thinking all along,” said the harbour-master. “It would have been carried out to sea about as far as where you found it. With the first of the ebb there's a strong set seawards. It's due to the discharge from the river, and lasts about an hour or so. And a good thing too, for it scours the harbour and keeps it clear of rubbish. You and Windrush left here about seven on Friday morning. If the body was in the harbour then, you wouldn't have seen it, for the weather was far too thick. What time do you reckon it was when you found it?”

“A little before nine, I imagine,” Merrion replied. “We'd done a bit of fishing and hove to for breakfast before the Absurdity passed us.”

The harbour-master nodded. “That fits in well enough. The ebb started very soon after you left. It runs out of the harbour at the rate of about three knots, and would have swept the body out with it. The current runs straight out to sea for a while, but, of course, with nothing like that strength. I reckon it would have taken about an hour for the body to drift out to the twenty-fathom line. The onshore current would have died out by then, and it would have drifted more or less parallel to the coast. It was doing that when you found it.”

“You say that the strength of the first of the ebb is due to the discharge from the river,” said Merrion. “How far up from here is the river tidal?”

“Only as far as Chatfield Weir,” the harbour-master replied. “And that's barely a mile from where we are now. There was a lock there at one time, when barges used to go up to Rickford. But the lock's been silted up and the gates broken for a very long time. There's only the weir now, with quite a tidy fall of water at low tide. Some visitors who were here last year paddled a canoe to Rickford and back, but, of course, they had to carry it round the weir.”

“Couldn't they have shot it on their way back?”Merrion asked.

“I dare say they could,” the harbour-master replied. “There's enough depth of water over the weir to float a canoe, and to spare. But maybe they didn't care to run the risk of capsizing.”

Merrion stayed chatting for a few minutes longer, then left the office. He walked to the head of the harbour, where the river ran into it. It was close upon the time of low water, and the brown stream flowed sluggishly, From this point a road, with a few houses on it, ran inland, following the course of the river. He walked along this, until the houses ended and the road degenerated into a cart track. He kept on, to be rewarded very soon with a view of the weir in the distance.

He reached the weir, sat down on a grassy mound beside it, and lighted a cigarette. Below the weir, the brown river flowed between banks of mud. Since this stretch of the river was tidal, these would be covered at high water. The water cascaded over the weir, falling noisily from a height of perhaps ten feet. Above, the river looked much as he had seen it from the road that morning, flowing with a steady but not very rapid current.

Merrion estimated the width of the weir as about twelve yards. At the end farthest from him, he could see the remains of the lock, the basin full of sticky mud, and the broken timbers of the wooden gates. Beyond it he could follow the line of the abandoned towpath, overgrown with weeds and its edge falling into the river in places. It seemed to him a pity that this inland waterway had been allowed to fall into disuse. He finished his cigarette, then walked slowly back to the Grand Central.

It was while he was on his way that Superintendent. Liscombe and Arnold called at The Cedars. By now it was four o'clock, and the funeral had been over for some time. They rang the bell, and Patty opened the door. She knew Liscombe by sight, and seemed to recoil at seeing him, but quickly recovered herself. “Is Miss Harpole at home?”Liscombe asked.

“Yes, Mr. Liscombe,” Patty replied. “Miss Edith is in the lounge with Mr. Charles. I'll go and tell them you're here.”

As she left them in the hall, Liscombe whispered to Arnold: “Shall we try to get her by herself?”

“I don't think it matters if her brother is present while we talk to her,” Arnold replied. “In fact, in some ways it might be better.”

Patty returned and showed them into the lounge. She hesitated for a moment or two, as though wondering whether or not she should stay in the room. Then slowly she went out, shutting the door behind her.

Edith and Charles were sitting in the window, and at the visitors' entrance Charles stood up. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said gravely. “Please come in and sit down. You asked to see my sister, I believe?”

“We did,” Liscombe replied. “We must apologise for calling at such a time, but I am sure you will both understand our anxiety to learn all we can about your brother.”

Edith looked up. She was dressed in black, and her expression was one of deep sorrow. “Don't apologise for coming to see me,” she said quietly. “I was expecting that you would. I am quite ready to answer any questions you like to ask me. But I don't think I can tell you anything that you have not already heard from Charles.”

“I would like to ask you this, Miss Harpole,” said Liscombe. “Did it come as a surprise to you when you heard that your brother Arthur had become engaged to Miss Farleigh?”

Edith and Charles exchanged glances. “It came as a great surprise to all of us,” she replied slowly. “But it wasn't altogether Arthur's fault. He broke the news to us on Wednesday evening, after the dance. Shall I tell them everything, Charles?”

“I don't see why you shouldn't,” said Charles gloomily. He got up as though to leave the room, but his sister stretched out her arm to detain him. “No, don't go. I'd so much rather you stayed and helped me out. That is, if these gentlemen have no objection?”

“None at all,” Liscombe replied. “We are quite ready to listen.”

Charles sat down again, and his sister took his hand, as though seeking moral support. “Charles and Arthur went to the Wednesday dance at the Grand Central, as they usually did,” she began slowly. “As a rule, I went too, but that evening I had a headache, and didn't feel like dancing. So Patty and I stayed at home.

“My brothers came home from the dance a little after midnight. Patty and I were sitting up for them, and we had laid out drinks on the table here. Arthur poured them out, beer for Charles and himself, and lemonade for Patty and me. I noticed that his hand was shaking, and that he had nothing to say to us, instead of being talkative like he always was. 'What's the matter with you to-night, Arthur? ' I asked him. ' You don't seem very lively.'

“He didn't answer me at once. He stood there frowning and staring at the floor. And when he did look up, it was Charles he spoke to. Oh, do tell them yourself, Charles. I feel I just can't.”

“I remember every word Arthur said,” Charles replied heavily. “I'm not likely to forget one of them. ' I don't know how to tell you, Charlie, old boy. An awful thing has happened to me. I've got engaged to Nina by mistake.'”

As Charles relapsed into silence, Arnold studied his expression intently. It was obvious that his brother's declaration had hit him very hardly, and that the repetition of his words had cost him a painful effort. His face betrayed the deep resentment he had felt.

As his silence continued, Edith took up the tale. “I could hardly believe my ears. ' However can you have got engaged to anyone by mistake? ' I exclaimed.

“' By losing my head, I suppose, sister dear,' Arthur replied. ' Listen, all of you. I want you to understand that, rotter as I may be, I didn't pinch Charles's girl behind his back. I could guess well enough, Charlie, that you meant to propose to Nina sooner or later. But you were so damned slow in coming to the point that I thought I'd try to bring things to a head for you. I danced with Nina quite a lot, and talked to her about you. Told her what a fine fellow you were, and all that. But she seemed coy and unresponsive. At last, between dances, I took her to a quiet spot on the veranda and put it to her straight. I asked her if she wasn't going to be engaged to Charles? It was obvious to everyone that he was head over ears in love with her. And surely she must be in love with him. No girl could help it.'”

Edith paused and glanced affectionately at Charles, sitting beside her with drawn face and downcast eyes. “You know that Arthur meant everything he said to Nina?” she asked timidly. “We've neither of us spoken of that evening till now.”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure he meant all of it,” Charles replied dully. “He was the sort of person who always blundered for the best, poor old chap.” He turned his head suddenly towards Liscombe. “Do these intimate family details interest you gentlemen?”

“Very much indeed, Mr. Harpole,” Liscombe replied gravely.

“Then I'll go on to tell you what else Arthur said to us,” said Charles. “He said that to his amazement Nina, instead of answering his question, began to cry. He couldn't make it out, and asked her whatever was the matter. And she told him that it was him she loved, and not me.”

He paused, with twitching lips, before he went on. “Oh, I don't blame her. Arthur was always more attractive than I ever was. He had a charm about him that I always admired. He went on to tell us that after that avowal Nina was filled with confusion. She ought never to have said that. Whatever would he think of her? But now at least he knew that she could never marry me. And then he kissed her, and I suppose that clinched it.”

He became silent again, for so long that again Edith stepped in. “Arthur told us that it was not until he had asked Nina to marry him that he realised what he had done. He said that the reaction was so strong that he felt he couldn't stay alone with her for another moment, and dragged her back into the ballroom. I couldn't understand what he meant. ' Arthur!' I exclaimed. ' Aren't you in love with Nina? I've always been quite sure you were.' And I shall never forget the way he looked at me. ' In love with her? Oh, yes, of course, rather. At least I thought I was until asked that fatal question. And then, when she had told me that was the one thing she had longed to hear, disillusionment came. Suddenly, like something exploding inside me. I never meant to propose to her, and now, like the fool I am, I have. Can't you see what a devil of a hole I've got myself into? Now I shall have to work to keep her, and you all know how I hate work.'”

“I couldn't stand it any longer,” said Charles. “I felt that if I stayed in the room any longer I should make a fool of myself. I got up and went out. If there is anything more to be said, Edith will have to tell you.”

“I couldn't help feeling desperately sorry for Arthur,” said Edith. “It was all such a terrible muddle. He had ruined both his own life and his brother's. I could see what a bitter blow it was for Charles. And there was nothing that anyone could do. If Arthur had proposed to Nina and been accepted, he couldn't possibly back out of it. Patty was as much upset as I was. She was sobbing hysterically, a thing I had never known her do before. Very soon after Charles had left the room, she went out too, saying that she must see if he was all right.”

“If she looked for me, she didn't find me,” Charles remarked. “I had gone out. I walked up and down trying to fight down my feelings. However, that was my private affair.”

“Did you at any time have any discussion with your brother concerning his engagement, Mr. Harpole?” Liscombe asked.

Charles shook his head. “I never spoke to him again after that evening. I didn't feel capable even of congratulating him. I kept out of his way next morning. And then, as I have told you, a telegram came from my godfather's housekeeper, and I started for Buckbridge Place at once. It was while I was there that a telegram came from Edith telling me that Arthur was dead.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Harpole,” said Liscombe. “I am afraid I have interrupted what you were going to tell us.”

“When Patty had gone out, Arthur and I were left alone,” Edith replied. “I did my best to comfort him. I told him that I was sure he would be wonderfully happy with Nina. As for work, he needn't worry about that. Sooner or later, something that would appeal to him was bound to turn up. Meanwhile, I would do something that I had often thought of doing. Something that my father had suggested to me long ago.”

“May we ask what that was, Miss Harpole? Liscombe inquired.

“My father had told me that, if ever need should arise, I could turn The Cedars into a guest-house,” she replied. “I told Arthur that I would do that. Patty and I could run it, and it would give us something to do. He and Nina could have a room which they wouldn't have to pay for. I like to think that Arthur saw in this a way out of one of his difficulties.

“Next morning I tried to talk to Patty about the idea, but she was still in a state of complete dither, and didn't seem to take in what I was talking about. Charles had had breakfast early, and had shut himself up in the study, telling Patty that he didn't want to see anyone. Arthur was in a distracted frame of mind, and kept wandering in and out of the house. The last time he went out he told me he wouldn't be back to lunch. I didn't see him again until just after Charles had left to catch his train. Arthur asked me where Charles was, and I told him about the telegram and where Charles had gone to. He seemed rather relieved.”

“Poor old chap!” Charles exclaimed. “I don't suppose he knew any more what to say to me than I knew what to say to him.”

“Arthur went out again as soon as we had had tea,” Edith went on. “That was the last time I saw him alive. He said that he had been screwing up his courage all day to take what he supposed ought to be the next step. He didn't say what it was.”

“You felt no concern when your brother did not come home to dinner?”Liscombe asked.

“Oh, none at all,” she replied. “Arthur often wasn't in to dinner if he had met any of his friends. And sometimes he didn't come home until after the rest of us had gone to bed. I wasn't seriously alarmed next morning, when Patty told me he wasn't in his room and that his bed hadn't been slept in. It wasn't until Dr. Northolt came...”

She left the sentence unfinished. “It must have been a terrible shock to you, Miss Harpole,” said Liscombe.

Before she could reply the telephone bell rang. The instrument was in the hall, and Charles went out to answer it. “It was Mr. Sowerby,” he said when he came back. “He told me that he was rather anxious to see me about some arrangement for next term and asked if he might come here. I thought that might be inconvenient as these gentlemen were here, so I said he needn't trouble to do that, but that I would come to Creeking Hall at once.” He turned to Liscombe. “You don't mind if I go?”

“Not in the least, Mr. Harpole,” Liscombe replied. As Charles went out, Edith smiled wanly. “That's just like Mr. Sowerby. He's always so kind and thoughtful. He knew how miserable Charles was feeling, and he has thought of something to take his mind off all these dreadful things. They are very fond of one another, and Mr. Sowerby will be able to do more for Charles than I can.”

“Mr. Sowerby was here on Thursday afternoon, was he not, Miss Harpole?”Arnold asked, taking part in the conversation for the first time.

“Yes, he was,” Edith replied. “After Arthur had gone out, I felt that I must have someone to advise me about what was to be done. For the first time in my life, Patty had failed me. As I have told you, she didn't seem able to take in what I said to her. Mr. Sowerby is a very old friend of the family, and helped to look after us all after my father died. I knew that he would talk to me sensibly, so I rang him up and asked him to come here as soon as he could.

“He came at once, and I told him the news, as calmly as I could. Just that Arthur had become engaged to Nina Farleigh. He looked very much surprised, as well he might. However, he replied, with that touch of sarcasm that he's so fond of, that in that case he congratulated Charles. He asked me if he seemed very much distressed.

“I told him that Charles was looking pretty wretched. And then I told him about the telegram, and how Charles had gone off to Buckbridge Place at once. He said that he was very sorry to hear such bad news of Sir Thomas, but that for Charles's sake it was the best thing that could have happened. His godfather's serious condition would take his mind off his disappointment. And, away from Nina Farleigh's fascination, he might come to realise how lucky he had been.

“I said that he spoke as though he hated Nina. He replied that hate wasn't exactly the right word. He had only met her once or twice, but that had been enough to make him distrust her. In his opinion, her one and only object in life was to entrap a husband who would support her. And he told me that if I were honest, I would admit that I wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of having her as a sister-in-law.

“I said that it was not my business, but Arthur's. What was worrying me was how he would be able to support her. Upon which he remarked that perhaps he had done the girl an injustice. For some little time he had supposed that she had been after Charles on account of his expectations. Mrs. Dunster could be trusted to have told her about Sir Thomas and his intention of making Charles his heir. Since Nina's choice had fallen upon Arthur, she would have to see to it that he earned a decent living for both of them.

“Then I told Mr. Sowerby about my idea of starring a guest-house, and asked him what he thought about it. He was so furious that he quite frightened me. He asked me if I meant to spend the rest of my days slaving for a graceless young scamp and his worthless wife. I had better put that idea out of my mind, and never think of such a thing again. He would do anything in his power to prevent such folly.

“I tried to calm him down by telling him that my father had suggested it long ago. He said he knew that well enough, but that my father had suggested it only as a last resort. The necessity for such a step had not arisen. It was Arthur's duty to find himself a job without any delay, and he would see to it that he did. He asked me where Arthur was, and I told him I didn't know.

“We sat arguing for a while, then Mr. Sowerby said he must go. He had promised some new friends of his to meet them at the Grand Central, and they would think it very rude of him if he did not turn up. But he would come back in the hope of finding Arthur at home. What the young rascal wanted was a good talking to. And he, who had known him since he was born, was the person to give it him.

“Mr. Sowerby came back just as Patty and I were sitting down to dinner. He asked for Arthur, and I told him he hadn't come back yet. If he meant to wait for him, he must have dinner with us. He refused at first, saying that he was feeling too annoyed to want anything to eat. I insisted, and we had the most uncomfortable meal I ever remember. Mr. Sowerby sat glowering at us, and Patty didn't seem able to sit still. She kept dashing in and out, saying that she must see to things in the kitchen.

“When at last dinner was over, Mr. Sowerby and I came in here. Patty wouldn't join us. She said she had far too much to attend to. Mr. Sowerby was odder than I had ever known him. He sat looking at me but didn't speak. Several times he cleared his throat as though he was going to say something, but he never got farther than that. At last he asked me if I intended to go ahead with my ridiculous idea in spite of his opposition. I told him that it all depended upon Arthur. At that he got up and went out, barely saying good night to me.”

“Can you tell us what time this was, Miss Harpole?”Arnold asked.

“I think it was just after ten,” she replied.

After exchanging a glance with Arnold, Liscombe stood up. “We are very grateful to you for what you have told us about your brother, Miss Harpole,” he said. “Such information is most useful to us. You are aware, no doubt, that Miss Farleigh and her family have left Greycliffe. Do you know where they have gone to?”

Edith shook her head. “I have no idea. And I am quite sure that Charles has none either.”

“Thank you. Miss Harpole,” Liscombe replied. “We will not trouble you any further. I hope you will forgive our intrusion.”

CHAPTER VIII

LISCOMBE AND ARNOLD left the room, to find Patty standing in the hall. At the sight of them she burst out crying. “I can't keep it to myself any longer!” she exclaimed in the voice of a woman distraught. “I've done a dreadful thing, and I must tell somebody. It was all my fault.”

At the sound of her hysterical speech Edith came out of the lounge. “Patty, my dear, whatever is the matter?” she asked. “You've been so strange these last few days. Come in here and sit down.”

“I'll come, if these gentlemen will come too,” Patty replied wildly. “They ought to know, but what they'll think of me I can't imagine.”

“You shall tell us what it's all about,” said Edith soothingly. “I'm quite sure that it can't be anything very dreadful.”

Liscombe and Arnold followed Patty into the lounge and once more sat down. But Patty was far too overwrought and excited to do the same. She stood in the middle of the room, facing the three of them. “It was a dreadful mistake, and it was all my fault. But I didn't mean any harm. I only did it for Mr. Charles's sake.”

“What did you do, Patty?”Edith asked gently.

“Oh, Miss Edith, I don't know what you'll say!” Patty exclaimed. “I would never have said a word to anybody. But now that Mr. Arthur is dead, it seems all different. And I shall never forgive myself.”

She stood there, struggling to compose herself. After a tense interval, she went on, more quietly. “I suppose it really started the very first day I saw Nina Farleigh, about a couple of months ago. It was Mrs. Dunster who brought her here, to meet Miss Edith, so she said. She's like that. Always taking people up and carrying them round to everyone she knows. Of course I'd heard of the Farleighs, for everybody in Greycliffe was talking about them. The father in his velvet coat and tie as big as a muffler, the mother with her dyed hair and stagey ways, and the son who wrote poetry and looked like it. And, of course, the daughter whom everybody said was ravishing.”

Once fairly under way, Patty seemed at no loss for words. She seemed almost to have forgotten Edith's presence, and addressed herself exclusively to Liscombe and Arnold. “I was alone in the house that day when Mrs. Dunster and Nina came to call. Miss Edith and Mr. Arthur had gone bathing, and as it was term-time, Mr. Charles was at Creeking Hall. So I had to entertain the visitors by myself. I won't say that the girl hadn't pleasant manners, but I took a dislike to her at first sight. I could see that she was artificial. I don't mean in her make-up. She was too pretty to need much of that. But in the way she posed and talked. And her blue eyes were always looking sideways. I've never trusted people who don't look one straight in the face.

“As a matter of fact, it was Mrs. Dunster who did most of the talking. If you've ever met her, you can guess that. She asked me a lot of questions about all the family, but I don't think she listened to my answers. Then she asked after Sir Thomas Graffham. She said that she remembered him so well, though it was a long time since she had seen him. I told her that so far as I knew, Sir Thomas was in good health.

“Then she turned to Nina and told her that Sir Thomas was godfather to Miss Harpole's elder brother, and had made him his heir. Some day he would inherit the estate and be a very wealthy man. I resented this information being given to a perfect stranger, and glanced at the girl to see how she would take it. Her sly eyes were suddenly gleaming, and her lips parted and rounded, as if she were saying ' oh ' to herself.

“When they went, Mrs. Dunster said that she would bring Nina another day to meet the family. Of course, when Miss Edith and Mr. Arthur came back from their bathe I told them that Mrs. Dunster had brought Miss Farleigh to call. Mr. Arthur was very excited. ' What! ' he exclaimed. ' You don't mean that stunning girl whose people have taken a house in Beaufort Terrace? What we've missed! Mrs. Dunster will bring her again, I hope?'

“I told him what Mrs. Dunster had said, and he seemed very pleased. It was only two or three days later that Mrs. Dunster brought Nina here again. The whole family were at home, for it was half-holiday at Creeking Hall, and Mr. Charles didn't have to be there. And before the visitors left, I could see that both he and Mr. Arthur were greatly taken by Nina. She knows how to make herself attractive to men, you may be sure of that.

“It isn't cutting a long story short to say that both brothers fell in love with her. For it all happened so quickly that it almost took my breath away. And I was very unhappy about it. She could marry either, as she chose. Of course, when it came to the point, she would choose Mr. Charles, for his expectations. And I couldn't bear the thought of that. It's no secret that Mr. Charles has always been my favourite. It would break my heart to see him caught by the pretty face of a scheming adventuress. Everyone in Greycliffe knew that the Farleighs had no money.

“One day, about three weeks ago, soon after the Creeking Hall holidays had begun, I was out shopping and met Mr. Sowerby in the street. He stopped me and asked after Miss Edith. And then when we were talking, he said suddenly: ' Patty, you're one of the few really intelligent people I know. Can't you do something to save the family from that vampire who's out to suck their blood? With Arthur at home doing nothing Edith has quite enough trouble already. And if Charles allows himself to be made a fool of by that girl, it will be a tragedy for her.'

“I told Mr. Sowerby I knew that well enough. And it might turn out to be a tragedy for Mr. Charles too. What would Sir Thomas think if his godson made a disastrous marriage like that? Quite likely he'd cut him off altogether, and refuse to have anything more to do with him.

“Mr. Sowerby said that I seemed to see things as clearly as he did. Between us we should have to do our best to thwart Miss Nina's designs. He asked me if I would help, and I assured him that I would. I promised him that if there was anything I could do to prevent a disaster, I'd do it, whatever it might be.

“As I walked home, I was thinking of what Mr. Sowerby had said. It was quite true that Mr. Arthur was a great worry to Miss Edith. He never troubled to find himself work, and seemed quite content to live at home and do nothing. Miss Edith never told me that she gave him money. But when I saw that he never denied himself anything, and that Miss Edith gave up smoking and wore nothing but old clothes, it was easy enough for me to draw my own conclusions.

“And then it struck me that if Mr. Arthur proposed to Nina, it would surely put an end to his idleness. He couldn't marry her until he had found a job which would keep himself and her. Of course the brothers knew that they loved the same girl. This didn't seem to make any difference to their fondness for each other. They had always been great friends, and they continued to be so. Each was holding back, in a spirit of loyalty, in favour of the other's chances with Nina.

“So it wasn't impossible that it would be Mr. Arthur who proposed to her. What seemed to be impossible to me was that she would accept him. In any case, it would probably be Nina, tired of waiting while they both held back who would make the first advance. And that would be to Mr. Charles, of course.

“It was last Wednesday morning that my words to Mr. Sowerby came back to me. I had promised him that I would do anything to avert disaster. And in a flash an idea came to me. I would take a risk, a daring and perhaps a stupid risk. But still I'd take it.

“I knew, of course, that both brothers were going to the dance at the Grand Central that evening, and that Nina would be there too. It seemed to me that things must come to a head at last, and I determined to do my best to see that they should. At all costs, I must see Nina by myself that morning. She was in the habit of passing here most mornings at about eleven o'clock, on her way to the bathing-beach. The two brothers always went to the beach before then to wait for her.

“So that morning I went with a hoe into the front garden and pretended to be busy with the flower-beds. I saw Nina coming and went to the gate. ' Good morning, Miss Nina,' I said. ' You're going down to the beach? It's a lovely day for a bathe.'

“She agreed that it was, and seemed quite ready to stop and talk, which was just what I wanted. I asked her if she had finished the white dress she was making for the dance that night, and she told me that she had, and had just finished pressing it. I told her that she would look marvellous in it. ' You're a wonderful dancer. Miss Nina,' I said.

“She gave me one of those sideways mock modest glances and asked me if I really thought so. I told her that of course I did, and asked her if she didn't think that Mr. Charles was a good dancer. She gave a shrug to her shoulders, and said: ' Oh, yes, quite. But Arthur's a much better dancer.'”

Patty paused. Again the wild look came into her eyes, and she breathed heavily. “It was then that I did it!” she exclaimed tragically. “I said, ' Yes, I suppose he is. Mr. Arthur has always been more interested in the lighter side of life than his younger brother Mr. Charles. Charles was always the studious one. Even in the nursery he would be solemnly reading while his elder brother was still playing with babyish toys.”

Until now Edith had been listening quietly. But at this she uttered a horrified exclamation. “Patty! You didn't really say that, did you?”

“I did, Miss Edith,” Patty replied desperately. “And if you turn me out of the house this moment it's no more than I deserve. But I thought I was acting for the best, for the sake of you and Mr. Charles. Nina's pink cheeks coloured till they were fiery red. ' But-but-I don't understand,' she stammered. ' I always thought Charles was the elder of the two. Mrs. Dunster told me—-'

“I interrupted her. I told her not to take any notice of what Mrs. Dunster said. She was a dear old muddier, and always mixed up the boys' names and ages when they were small children. Now that she was getting older she was becoming more confused than ever. She called the baker by the butcher's name, and the butcher by the grocer's. She was always getting hold of the wrong end of the stick, and nobody could rely on what she told them. But she had the kindest of hearts, although she always got things mixed up. And then I told Nina that I mustn't keep her chattering, for she wanted to get down to the beach.

“For a moment that evening, when Mr. Arthur told us what had happened, I felt triumphant. And then I glanced at Mr. Charles's face, and it looked as if his heart was broken. It came to me like an icy wind that I had done a wicked thing, and that no one could ever forgive me.”

In a passion of tears she rushed from the room. Edith sprang up. “You must excuse me!” she exclaimed. “I must try to comfort her.” She ran to the stairs, at the head of which Patty's flying form was still to be seen. It was left to Liscombe and Arnold to show themselves out of the house. “Well, Mr. Arnold, what do you make of all that?” Liscombe asked as they walked away.

“I'm blest if I know,” Arnold replied. “It was all rather tempestuous. I suppose Patty, as they call her, was telling the truth. If so, it amounts to this. Owing to her misrepresentations, the girl got herself engaged to the wrong brother.”

“Yes,” Liscombe agreed. “But I don't see that that affects our case very much. The fact remains that she did get engaged to Arthur. I'm not inclined to attach much importance to Patty and her little subterfuges. I'm far more interested in the conversation we had with Edith and Charles. There's not a shadow of doubt about one thing. Charles was very much cut up when he heard that his brother had bagged the girl. Are you coming back with me?”

Arnold shook his head. “Not just yet, if you don't mind. I should like to talk this over with Mr. Merrion. He looks at these things rather differently from the way we're bound to do. His comments on what we've heard may be helpful.”

They parted, Arnold taking the direction of the Grand Central. He was lucky enough to find Merrion and Mavis on the veranda. “Come and sit down, my friend,” said Merrion. “You're the very man I want to see. going to propose an outing for us both to-morrow.”

“You can tell me about that later,” Arnold replied. “I've got something to tell you first. I've just come from The Cedars.”

Mavis interposed. “Would you like to talk to Desmond about this alone?” she asked.

“Please don't go, Mrs. Merrion,” Arnold replied. “I should like your views upon what I'm going to say. A woman might look upon it rather differently than a man. I'm bound to say that I feel a bit bewildered.”

The conversations being fresh in his memory, he was able to repeat them accurately. Merrion and Mavis listened without interrupting him. “So what do you make of all that?” he asked in conclusion.

“Let's try to get it into some sort of perspective first,” Merrion replied. “Mr. Sowerby and Patty were determined, by fair means or foul, to prevent Charles becoming engaged to Nina. Patty thought it would be a lesser evil if Arthur became engaged to her. She lied to Nina about their respective ages. Nina naturally assumed that the fairy godfather was Arthur's, not Charles's. She contrived therefore that it should be Arthur who proposed to her that evening.”

“I think you're being far too mercenary,” said Mavis. “It doesn't seem to have occurred to you that Nina may have been genuinely in love with Arthur. Her circumstances may have made it expedient that she should marry the brother with prospects. But a girl of her age may be excused for being carried off her feet. Arthur proposed to her, and she accepted him because she wanted him, and for no other reason. In that moment of exhilaration, she wasn't thinking of the future.”

Merrion smiled. “That's a charitable view, and it may be the correct one. But I'll bet that when her family found out, as they must have, that Nina had got engaged to the wrong brother, they were filled with alarm and despondency. But that's beside the point. The important thing is that, for a while at least, Arthur was believed to be the elder.

“I'll come back to that in a moment. We go on to the return of the brothers to The Cedars after the momentous event. We have Arthur's announcement of that event only at second hand. There is no means of knowing whether he was sincere in his declaration that he had been trying to play Charles's hand for him. We have Charles's statement that he was so exasperated that he could hardly contain himself.”

“That's just it,” said Arnold. “Being crossed in love is, I suppose, as good a motive for murder as any.”

“Perhaps,” Merrion replied. “Don't forget Patty's remark that the fact that they were both in love with the same girl didn't seem to lessen the affection the brothers felt for one another. Was Charles's fury so intense as to drive him to the murder of the brother to whom he had always been attached? Now let's consider Mr. Sowerby.

“When he was here that evening, both Mavis and I could see clearly enough that his state of mind was abnormal. We now know why. We have Patty's account of her conversation with him some weeks ago. The way he regarded the matter then seems clear enough. He didn't want Nina to marry either brother. But if she married Arthur it would be the lesser evil.

“From what Edith told you, it seems that this was still his attitude when she first broke the news to him. He probably assumed, like every one else except Edith, that at last Arthur would be driven to find himself a job. It wasn't until Edith announced her intention of turning The Cedars into a guest-house and, apparently of keeping Arthur and Nina indefinitely, that Mr. Sowerby began to see red. We may draw our own conclusions as to why prospect so appalled him.

“It may be that he saw only one way of saving Edith from a lifetime of slavery. That was, to dispose of Arthur for good and all. I don't suppose his mind was clear enough that evening for him to reflect what this might lead to. The way being cleared for him, Charles might marry Nina. Or perhaps he preferred to sacrifice Charles rather than Edith.

“After he left here on Thursday he went back to The Cedars, ostensibly to wait for Arthur. He can hardly have intended to murder him before his sister's eyes. Perhaps if Arthur had returned, he would have invited him to go with him to Creeking Hall.

“In fact, he left The Cedars about ten. After that, it's up to you, my friend. Did Mr. Sowerby go straight back to Creeking Hall? His housekeeper might be able to tell you that. Or did he by some strange chance, know where Arthur was? And, if so, did he set out to find him? You might ask the Superintendent whether Mr. Sowerby keeps a car.”

“What would he want a car for?”Arnold asked.

Merrion smiled. “We'll discuss that to-morrow. But suppose that it can be proved that neither Charles nor Mr. Sowerby murdered Arthur, where are we? I find that a most interesting speculation. I should very much like to know when and how Nina, her family, and her friends, discovered that Patty had led her to the wrong goal.”

“Where is your imagination leading you to now?” Arnold asked.

“Along all sorts of fascinating paths,” Merrion replied. “When the discovery was made, the Farleigh family must have been sorely dismayed. What was to be done about it? Nina couldn't decently break off the engagement on the score that she had accepted the younger brother, and not the elder as she had intended. If Arthur were out of the way, Nina could begin all over again.”

“You won't listen to me,” said Mavis. “You don't seem to understand that Nina may have been genuinely in love with Arthur.”

“I'm not disputing the possibility, my dear,” Merrion replied. “But I don't fancy that her family had much regard for her affections. Her pretty face is, so far as I can gather, their only asset. They couldn't afford to let her throw it away on a poor man. I'll be bound that Arthur's death was no great grief to them. So much so that one or other of them may have contrived it. The Superintendent is on their track, I take it?”

“He is,” Arnold replied. “But it's not an easy job. He can't raise a hue and cry in the newspapers, for instance, for they are not suspected of any crime. He has found out that, as usual with furnished houses, the rent was paid in advance. The agent has a key, and has been over the place with the inventory. Nothing of any consequence is missing. They owe a little money in the town, but nothing to make a song about. They aren't the sort of people to whom tradesmen allow much credit. So all that can be done is to circulate a description and hope for the best.”

“From all accounts, they are fairly conspicuous,” Merrion remarked. “You ought to hear something of them before long. Meanwhile, let me tell you of another path along which my imagination leads me. How far did the ripples from the stone dropped by Patty's lie extend? In consequence of it, Nina got engaged to Arthur inadvertently, if you like to put it that way. Is it not possible that Arthur was murdered inadvertently? Because the murderer believed that he was the elder?”

“My dear Desmond!”Mavis exclaimed. “What extravagant idea have you got into your head now?”

“Is it so extravagant?” her husband replied. “Patty told Nina that Arthur was the elder. No doubt she repeated this to her family, who in turn repeated it to their friends. There's no limit to the distance a lie like that can travel.

“That is one reason why it seems to me so important to learn how and when Nina learnt the truth. It seems to me she can have learnt it only from Arthur himself. His remark to his sister that he had been screwing up his courage all day to take what he supposed ought to be the next step suggests to me that he hadn't seen Nina before then that day. He must have made that remark some time between five and half-past. So that for the greater part of Wednesday and Thursday Nina, and those in whom she had confided, were labouring under a false impression.”

“Quite,” Arnold agreed. “But why should any of the Farleighs' acquaintances have wanted to murder the elder of the two brothers?”

Merrion smiled. “We don't know who their acquaintances were. Another reason for getting in touch with them. I'm thinking of the fairy godfather. It seems to be common knowledge in Greycliffe that Sir Thomas had, in gratitude for Dr. Harpole having saved his life, resolved to make his elder son his heir. Not at the time by name, for Charles wasn't born then. And it's a fact that a stranger might be uncertain as to which was the elder. Mavis and I didn't find out for quite a while.

“Now I know nothing of Sir Thomas beyond what Mr. Sowerby told us that evening. He is apparently a bachelor. But it is at least possible that he has relations of some kind. And if he has, I don't suppose they relish the idea of his estate passing to a mere godson. Their prospects would be improved by the death of that godson. I can't imagine that Sir Thomas has such a regard for Dr. Harpole's memory that, failing the elder, he would make his younger son the heir.”

“Then Arthur's engagement had nothing to do with it?”Mavis asked.

“I'm only speculating,” Merrion replied. “Here's another way of looking at it. Who, besides the Harpoles, knew that Sir Thomas had been taken ill? Presumably his neighbours, and his relations, if he had any. If his heir were to die, Sir Thomas himself might die intestate. His next of kin would then inherit the estate. It would be interesting to know who that might be.”

Arnold laughed. “I believe if we let you go on long enough you'd end up by proving that the man in the moon must be the murderer. Well, I must be getting along. The Super will be expecting me.”

“Wait a minute,” Merrion replied. “You've forgotten that outing I was going to propose to you. You're an early riser?”

“I have to be, when duty calls me out of bed,” said Arnold.

“Duty will call you to-morrow,” Merrion replied. “We may be able to establish a very important point in connection with this case of yours. Where are you staying?”

Arnold gave him the address, and Merrion went on:

“Very well. I'll call for you there in the car at six o'clock sharp. I'm not going to tell you what it's all about now. There'll be plenty of time for that later.”

Arnold knew that Merrion would not put them both to such inconvenience without very good reason. “All right, I'll be ready. How long is this outing of yours likely to take?”

“We ought to be back by lunch-time,” Merrion replied. “Very well, then. I'll see you at six to-morrow morning.”

CHAPTER IX

SINCE HIS ARRIVAL at the Grand Central, Merrion had made friends with the head porter. He went in search of him as soon as Arnold had gone, and found him in the hall. “Do you think you could find me an empty wooden case of some kind?” he asked. “Fairly big, but not too big to carry.”

The porter thought for a moment. “Yes, sir, I think I can fix you up. Will you wait a minute while I go and have a word with the cellarman?”

He went away, to return in a few minutes with a wooden case. The inscription on it showed that it had once contained a dozen bottles of vermouth. “How will that do, sir?” the porter asked.

“It's the very thing,” Merrion replied. “I'm afraid you won't see it again. Does that matter?”

“Not a bit, sir,” the porter assured him. “It'll only get broken up for kindling if you don't take it.”

Merrion carried the case to the hotel garage and put it in the boot of his car. The evening passed uneventfully. Even Mrs. Dunster did not put in an appearance. Next morning, after a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits which the night porter had procured for him, Merrion took out the car and drove to the address which Arnold had given him.

It was precisely six when he got there, and he found Arnold waiting for him, not in the best of tempers. “Well, so here you are, then,” he growled. “Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me now where we're going and what we're going to do when we get there?”

Merrion laughed at him gaily. “Don't be so grumpy. You ought to be grateful to me for getting you out of bed on a morning like this. Look at it! It's going to be a lovely day, warm, bright, and not a breath of wind. Jump in. We've no time to lose.”

Arnold got into the car, and Merrion drove off, taking the road to Rickford. Arnold seemed disinclined for conversation and settled himself down comfortably. Merrion drove fast along the road they had travelled before until they were in the town. On his previous visit he had noticed a garage at the corner where the road branched off to the railway station. He pulled up there. “This is where we get out,” he said to his sleepy passenger.

The attendant came up, and Merrion asked him if he could leave the car there for a few hours. “I'll come for it some time this afternoon,” he said.

“That'll be all right, sir,” the attendant replied. “Just run the car inside, and it'll be ready for you when you want it.”

Merrion ran the car in, and he and Arnold got out. He went to the back of the car, opened the boot, and took out the case. “What the dickens have you got there?”Arnold asked suspiciously.

“Only an empty case,” Merrion replied. “Its original contents have been drunk long ago, I expect. It's not heavy, but it's awkward to carry. Here, you can take first turn.”

Reluctantly, Arnold tucked the case under his arm, and they set out. Changing the burden from one to the other every now and then, Merrion led the way to the bridge where he had stopped before. They crossed it, and took the first turning on the left. Fifty yards from the corner, they came to the entrance of a narrow alley. Turning down this, they came out on the cobbled wharf upon which Merrion had seen the children playing.

Arnold sniffed disgustedly. “This is a stinking place. What do we do now we've got here? Have a bathe in that filthy water?”

“Not necessarily,” Merrion replied. He stood for a minute or two, watching the river. The brown oily water ran steadily in a sluggish current. Arnold had carried the case on the last stage of the journey, and had put it down beside him on the quayside. Without a word Merrion picked it up and hurled it into the river.

“Well, I'm blest!”Arnold exclaimed. “After we've carried the confounded thing all this way! Have you gone crazy?”

“Not a bit of it,” Merrion replied. “I'm as sane as ever I was. Come along. We've got to find our way to the tow-path before that case floats too far.”

With Arnold following him, he hurried up the alley till he reached the street from which it led. Then he turned to the left and followed the street until it came to an end at a field divided into allotments. The field was bounded on one side by the river. Merrion hastened along the edge of it until he came to the bank. And here, as he had hoped, he found a grass-grown track which had once been the tow-path.

Arnold caught up with him, panting from his exertions. “Are we playing a game of hare and hounds?” he asked. “We're the hounds, all right. But where's the hare?”

“I'm hoping that we've got here before it,” Merrion replied. “Wait a bit.” He had brought his binoculars with him, slung over his shoulder. He put them to his eyes, directing his gaze upstream. “Here comes the hare!” he exclaimed joyfully. “We couldn't have timed it better.”

It was a minute or two before Arnold's unaided eyes could make out what he meant. “Why, it's that infernal case again,” he said. “What do we do now? Wade in and salvage it?”

“Not on your life,” Merrion replied. “We're going to follow it as it floats until it reaches Greycliffe harbour.”

“What?”Arnold exclaimed. “On foot? I said you were crazy. Why, it's twelve miles and more.”

“What of that?” Merrion replied. “It's a lovely morning for a stroll. I say a stroll, for I don't fancy we shall have to exert ourselves much to keep up with the case. It'll do us both a world of good.”

The case came abreast of where they were standing. It was floating bravely, well out of the water in the centre of the stream. As it passed them they set off along the tow-path, keeping level with it. Merrion glanced at his watch, then paced a distance of a quarter of a mile. He glanced at his watch again. “Seven minutes twenty-five seconds,” he said. “That means that the case is floating downstream at the rate of just over two miles an hour. Cheer up! You'll be back in Greycliffe in about six hours.”

“I've a jolly good mind to go back to Rickford and take a bus,” Arnold replied. “What on earth is the point of this folly?”

“If you desert me, I shan't tell you,” said Merrion. “Seriously, we aren't doing this just for fun. If you'll stroll quietly with me along the tow-path, I'll tell you what it's all about.”

“Oh, very well,” Arnold replied. “I shall have to humour your whims as usual, I suppose.”

“You may find it worth your while,” said Merrion. “Now, listen to me. We're up against a grave discrepancy of evidence. The pathologist says that Arthur died a little before midnight on Thursday. In my experience pathologists are invariably right about such things. On the other hand, our experiment with the barrel on Sunday proves that if Arthur was drowned at Greycliffe at that time, his body could not possibly have drifted to where we found it.

“Now you remember that, when we stopped by the river as we were driving to Rickford, I told you that I had thought of something I had said at the inquest. It was that in the course of trying to bring Arthur back to life, I had squeezed a quantity of brown fluid out of him. It didn't occur to me to wonder at the time why it should have been brown. If I thought about it at all, I supposed that it must be due to something inside him. But when I saw how brown the river was, another idea occurred to me. If Arthur had been drowned in the river, and not in the sea, the brownness of the fluid I squeezed out of him would be accounted for.

“This led to another train of thought. The Superintendent has been unable to find anyone who saw Arthur in Greycliffe after half-past five on Thursday evening. What if he was not in Greycliffe that evening, but in Rickford?”

“What would he have been doing there?”Arnold asked.

“I have no idea,” Merrion replied. “Now we come to another point. It seems quite certain that Charles did not change at Rickford from the eleven-forty from Greycliffe into the London train. But he may have been one of the passengers who boarded the London train at Rickford. Which means that, having arrived at Rickford in the afternoon, he stayed there all the evening.”

“And met his brother there?”Arnold asked.

“I'm merely suggesting the possibility,” Merrion replied. “After we got back yesterday, I had a chat with the harbour-master. From what he told me, I saw how the discrepancy between the pathologist's estimate of the time of death, and the finding of the body a couple of miles out to sea, might be reconciled.

“It was in order to try out my idea that I dug you out of bed so early this morning. At the time when I threw that case into the water just now it was a few minutes before low water at Greycliffe. The same state of tide as it was a little before midnight on Thursday. We shall see what happens to it when it floats into the harbour.”

They walked on, keeping pace with the leisurely progress of the case. Very often they came to a gap where the tow-path had slipped into the river, and had to make a detour through the fields beside it. After a while they found it easier to walk smartly for half a mile or so, then sit down and wait for the case to catch up with them.

As they progressed in this fashion, they discussed the possibilities. “If Charles stayed in Rickford, he must have known that his brother would be going there that evening,” Arnold remarked. “How could he have known that?”

“It may not be true that he did not speak to Arthur that day,” Merrion replied. “Or he may have known beforehand of Arthur's intentions, though that doesn't seem very likely. But there are other people to think of besides Charles. Have you made any inquiries about Mr. Sowerby?”

“After I left you yesterday afternoon I told the Super what you had suggested,” said Arnold. “He told me that Mr. Sowerby had a small car, which he didn't use very much. He keeps it in a shed some little distance from the house, beside a back entrance to the grounds which the tradesmen use.”

Merrion smiled. “I remember that back entrance. We boys used to find it remarkably useful on occasion. Did you discover what time Mr. Sowerby got back to Creeking Hall that evening?”

“The Super went there and saw the housekeeper,” Arnold replied. “But she couldn't tell him anything. She had been out that evening, visiting friends, and didn't get back till nine o'clock. She went to Mr. Sowerby's study, to see if he wanted anything, but he wasn't at home then. Before she went out, she had laid a cold supper in the dining-room. She went to clear this away, but found that it hadn't been eaten.”

“Did that surprise her?”Merrion asked.

“Not in the least, apparently,” Arnold replied. “She told the Super that Mr. Sowerby didn't keep regular hours in holiday time. He liked to have a cold supper laid out for him, so that he could eat it at any time he pleased. The housekeeper looked in again before she went to bed, about half-past ten. Mr. Sowerby hadn't come home then.”

“She doesn't know when he did come home?” Merrion asked.

“She told the Super that as he must have come home after she had gone to bed, she wouldn't know what time it was,” Arnold replied. “He would have come in by the front door, and her quarters are too far away for her to have heard him. She doesn't know whether he had taken the car out that afternoon. If he had taken it out after he came back, she wouldn't have known anything about it. All she can say is that when she came down next morning, the supper had been eaten, and that when she took Mr. Sowerby his cup of tea she found him in bed.”

“Which leaves Mr. Sowerby without an alibi,” Merrion remarked. “Normally, I should not suspect a middle-aged schoolmaster of untarnished reputation. But Mr. Sowerby's manner while he was with us at the Grand Central that evening was so odd that he might possibly have become temporarily deranged.

“Remember that he told Edith that he was going to find Arthur and give him a good talking-to. Did he find him and, if so, where? We're up against the old question of where Arthur spent the evening. His remark to his sister before he left The Cedars suggests to me that he went to Beaufort Terrace. Whether he stayed there very long is another matter. Personally, I don't think he did. If I had been in Mr. Sowerby's place, I should have started by inquiring there. I might have been told that Arthur was not there. But my informant might have been able to tell me where he had gone to.”

By half-past ten they had reached the spot where the road from Greycliffe to Rickford ran for a short distance beside the river. “That's where we pulled up yesterday,” Merrion remarked. “I reckon we've trudged along for about eight miles. What would you give for a nice cool pint of beer?”

“Every penny I've got in my pocket,” Arnold replied.

Merrion chuckled as he pointed along the road in the direction of Rickford. “You see that inn sign there? I noticed the pub as we passed it yesterday. It's called the Brewers' Arms. It'll be just opening time now. You've only got to swim across to get all the beer you want.”

“Don't be an ass,” Arnold replied. “Isn't there a pub anywhere this side of the confounded river?”

“We haven't seen one so far,” said Merrion. “And we can't afford the time to scour the countryside. That case of ours doesn't seem in any hurry, but it's forging along steadily enough. I'm afraid you'll have to wait till we get to Greycliffe. But cheer up. We can't have much more than four miles to go. And think what a thirst you'll have got up by the time we get there.”

They plodded on, and at ten minutes to twelve reached Chatfield Weir. Below the weir the tide was almost at its lull. The mud was covered, and the water pouring over the weir had only two or three feet to fall. They had outdistanced the case, and had leisure to look about them. From where they stood, the houses of Greycliffe were visible. “That ought to cheer you up,” said Merrion. “There's a pub down by the waterside, the Kettle of Fish, where they sell good beer. I know that, for I've had a drink there myself. Ah, here she comes. And this is where I feel a bit anxious. Will she shoot it?”

He need have had no anxiety. The case came floating down the river, gathering speed as it approached the weir. As it reached it, the undercurrent forced it up, until the whole of it was visible. Poised upon the surface of the water, it took the plunge, to be lost to sight under the swirling foam below. As they watched, it reappeared, bobbing up and down a few yards downstream.

“It couldn't have behaved better!” Merrion exclaimed. “Progress is going to be pretty slow for a bit now, for at this state of the tide there isn't much current in the river below the weir. You've earned your drink. Hurry along to the Kettle of Fish and have a quick one. Then come back and wait for me where the road ends.”

Arnold went off almost at a run, leaving Merrion to watch the case. It hardly seemed to move, so slowly did it float towards the harbour. Merrion followed its leisurely course. By the time he reached the end of the road Arnold had just arrived there. “Feeling better?” he asked. “That's good. We can't follow the bank any farther without trespassing. We'll have to go along the road to the head of the harbour and wait for the case there. It's twenty past twelve now, three minutes after high water. The timing couldn't be better.”

They reached the head of the harbour, where the water was sparkling in the sunshine. The quay was thronged, for the pleasure boats were returning from their morning cruises and disembarking their passengers. After a while the case came along, still moving very slowly and bobbing in the ripples. “I hope no meddlesome fool will try to salvage it,” said Merrion. “You'll have to exercise your authority as a policeman and stop them, if they do.”

But nobody took any notice of the case. As it was petting on for lunch-time the throngs on the quay gradually thinned. The owners of the pleasure boats tied up their craft and left them. They would not return until it was time for the afternoon cruises. Within a short while the harbour was practically deserted.

Meanwhile, the case had remained almost stationary. It bobbed cheerfully up and down, seeming hardly to change its position. Then, when Merrion's watch showed the time to be twenty minutes to one, a rapid change came. As the level of the water in the harbour began to fall, the pent-up river was released. A shade of dingy brown advanced like a curtain being drawn, colouring the clear sea water. As the edge of the curtain reached the case, it began to move once more. Slowly at first, but gathering speed as it floated towards the harbour entrance.

Merrion and Arnold walked along the quay, following its progress. They reached the pierhead as the case swept out of the harbour mouth. Merrion took out his binoculars and watched it as it floated straight out to sea. It was still travelling in that direction when it became lost to sight in the distance.

“I'm for lunch,” said Merrion as he put the binoculars back in their case. “I'm ravenous, and I expect you are too. But it seems to me that we've proved what we set out to prove. If Arthur's body was pushed into the river at Rickford, his body would have behaved exactly as the case did. Do you feel capable of explaining that to the Superintendent?”

“I'll do my best, anyhow,” Arnold replied. “But I expect he'll want to talk to you about it.”

“He's welcome to,” said Merrion. “These are my immediate plans. When I've had lunch, I shall go and retrieve the car. There's a bus to Rickford at half-past two, and I shall take that. I ought to be back soon after half-past three, and I'll call at the police station then.”

They went their separate ways, Merrion to the Grand Central, and Arnold to meet Liscombe. While they were having lunch, Merrion told Mavis of his morning adventures. “It seems to me conclusive proof,” he said. “What puzzles me is why Arthur went to Rickford that evening. What view of the matter Liscombe will take, I don't know. The question seems to me to be, who knew that Arthur had gone to Rickford?”

“Do you suppose he took Nina there?”Mavis asked.

“If he did, I can't imagine why,” her husband replied. “It's a gloomy sort of place, full of dark Satanic mills, or at all events, factories of sorts. The only attractions I could see were three or four cinemas. Arthur may have taken Nina to one of them. But that raises an awkward question. If Arthur never left Rickford alive, what became of Nina? Did she come home by herself, telling nobody of what had happened? And why did the whole Farleigh family decamp on the following night?”

Mavis shook her head. “Really, Desmond, it's no business of ours. I suppose the police will set to work to answer those questions.”

“I suppose they will,” Merrion replied. “Their methods are slow but sure. I promised to call on Liscombe this afternoon when I've fetched the car.”

After lunch Merrion walked to the bus station, arriving there at five and twenty minutes past two. To his surprise, he found Arnold on the lookout for him. “Hallo!” he exclaimed as Arnold hurried up to him. “What brings you here? I thought you'd be resting after your long walk this morning.”

“Listen,” Arnold replied. “If I come with you to Rickford, will you take me for a drive when you've fetched the car?”

“Certainly,” said Merrion. “Driving is better than walking, as I dare say you've discovered. Where do you want me to drive you to?”

“We'd better jump on the bus, or we shan't get seats,” Arnold replied. “I'll tell you when we get to Rickford.”

They got on to the bus, which was full to capacity by the time it moved off. It was obviously no place for confidential conversation, and neither spoke during the journey. There was a stop by the garage where Merrion had left the car, and they got off. “We'll get the car out first,” said Merrion. “Then you can tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your company.”

He drove the car out, and Arnold climbed in beside him. “I've got a bit of news for you,” he said. “The Farleigh family have been located.”

“Good work,” Merrion replied. “Where are they?”

“Not very far away,” said Arnold. “I told you that the Super had sent round a description of them. Well, this morning a constable in Silvermouth saw a man wearing a velvet jacket and a flowing tie wandering about the town. People don't usually dress like that, at all events in Silvermouth, and the constable remembered the description he had read. He kept his eye on the man until he returned to a big house just outside the town. The constable made discreet inquiries, and learnt that a family of four, by the name of Farleigh, had been staying there since Saturday morning.”

“A big house?” Merrion asked. “They haven't rented it, surely?”

“Oh, no!”Arnold replied. “They appear to be staying there with the owner. His name is Thrapston, and he's a maltster in a pretty big way. He has no family, and lives in the house by himself.”

“Or did, till the arrival of the Farleighs,” Merrion remarked. “It sounds very odd to me. What does the Superintendent think about it?”

“Not a lot,” Arnold replied. “The fact is that he thinks that these intimate family revelations are a waste of time. He wasn't the least impressed by what we heard at The Cedars yesterday. He said that all that chatter had no direct bearing on the case.”

“Perhaps he's right,” said Merrion. “But things that have an indirect bearing on a case are often just as important. He's not sufficiently interested to call on the Farleighs?”

“He's not,” Arnold replied. “And there's another reason. From something he let drop I gather that he and the Silvermouth Superintendent are not on the best of terms. And, of course, he couldn't make inquiries in another Division without asking the Superintendent of that Division. And he just doesn't want to ask him.”

“So he's leaving the job to you?”Merrion asked.

“Exactly,” Arnold replied. “He told me that my position was entirely different from his. That's why I'm asking you to drive me to Silvermouth. If I turn up at Mr. Thrapston's house in a private car, I might merely be paying a friendly visit.”

CHAPTER X

Merrion ALWAYS carried the A.A. handbook in the cubbyhole of the car. He took this out and studied the map. “There is a direct road from here to Silvermouth,” he said. “Twenty-four miles. Through the town and then to the right. I expect I can find it.”

They set off, and before long came to a signpost directing them to Silvermouth. The country they passed through was very similar to that between Greycliffe and Rickford. At last, as they topped a rise, Silvermouth lay before them.

Merrion drew to the side of the road and pulled up. “I always like to have a look at a strange place before I get there,” he said. “Not a very large place, with a nice little harbour, and a coaster tied up alongside. Not likely to be my old acquaintance the Absurdity. She'll have unloaded and gone before now. And that's a thundering big building on the quay. Looks to me like a maltings. Didn't you tell me that your Mr. Thrapston was a maltster?”

“I did,” Arnold replied. “But that won't be the big house he lives in. Let's go on and find the police station. I shall have to make myself known there in any case. And they'll tell me where the big house is.”

Merrion drove on, and at the foot of the hill they entered the town. The police station was not difficult to find, for, driving straight on, they came to it. Arnold got out and went in, while Merrion remained in the car.

Arnold came out after a few minutes. “I told them I was making inquiries about a family of the name of Farleigh,” he said as he climbed into the car. “They know no more than the constable's report, which they telephoned to the Super this morning. They told me the way to Mr. Thrapston's house, which is called Fair View. Turn to the left at the crossroads in the middle of the town, and keep straight on till you come to it. About three-quarters of a mile, they said.”

Merrion followed these directions. The road he took rose fairly steeply out of the town, with houses on either side, closely set at first, but thinning out as they proceeded. At last they came to a big ugly square house of the late-Victorian period. It stood some little way back from the road, with a semicircular drive with a gate at each end. The first gate they came to was open, and had on it a nameplate “Fair View.” Merrion turned in and pulled up at the front entrance of the house. “Well, here we are,” he said.

“I think you'd better come in with me,” Arnold replied. “I'd like you to hear what these people have got to say for themselves.”

“I've no objection to being a silent listener,” said Merrion. “But it'll be up to you to do the talking.”

They got out and Arnold rang the bell. The door was opened by an elderly manservant, who looked at them inquiringly. “Is Mr. Thrapston at home?”Arnold asked.

“No, sir,” the man replied. “Mr. Thrapston is at his office. If you wish to see him, you will no doubt find him there.”

“There are visitors staying in the house, I believe,” said Arnold. “Mr. Farleigh and his family. Are any of them at home?”

The man hesitated, as though he was aware that the Farleighs were not anxious to receive visitors. Arnold produced his official card and showed it to him. His eyes widened as he glanced at it. “I beg your pardon, sir. Which of the family do you wish to see?”

“Mr. Farleigh himself, if he is here,” Arnold replied.

“I will find him for you, sir,” said the man. “Will you and the other gentleman kindly come this way?”

He led them into a big and rather dingy room, furnished in the same period as was the house itself. “If you will be good enough to wait for a few minutes, I will ask Mr. Farleigh to come and see you,” he said.

He went out, leaving them alone. “I shouldn't care to live here,” Arnold remarked. “If all the rooms are like this, it can't be very homely.”

Merrion strolled to the window. It looked out over the roofs of the little town, with the harbour and the open sea beyond. “The name of the house is certainly appropriate,” he said. “That's a fair view, if ever I saw one. I'm looking forward to seeing Mr. Farleigh.”

At length the door opened, and Mr. Farleigh appeared. His costume was certainly unusual. In addition to his velvet jacket and flowing tie, he wore a pair of well-worn corduroy trousers and a pair of finely-pointed patent leather shoes. His face was lantern-jawed, furrowed and pale, and his eyes were almost colourless. He advanced a couple of steps into the room, then stopped irresolutely. “I am at a loss to understand why I am being dogged by the police,” he said, with a feeble attempt at defiance.

“Shall we sit down, Mr. Farleigh?”Arnold replied. “We have a few questions to ask you.” There was a table in the centre of the room, with a few chairs ranged round it. They took their seats in these, but for all the comfort the chairs yielded they might have been upholstered in cast iron. “Until last Friday, you and your family were living at number seven Beaufort Terrace, Greycliffe, were you not, Mr. Farleigh?”Arnold asked.

“Yes, we were,' Farleigh replied nervously. “We are now staying here, with my old friend Mr. Thrapston. We left Greycliffe rather suddenly, before we had time to settle any matters that were outstanding. If your visit concerns any small sums which we may owe there, the matter will speedily be put right.”

“We are not concerned with your debts, Mr. Farleigh,” said Arnold. “We have called to see you on a more serious matter. We are given to understand that on Wednesday evening your daughter became engaged to Mr. Arthur Harpole. Is not that the case?”

“Indeed, it is,” Farleigh replied. “You may imagine our distress when we heard of his tragic death. Nina was naturally broken-hearted. The poor child declared that she could not stay in Greycliffe another day. We quite understood her feelings, and that was the reason for our hasty departure. We knew that my old friend would sympathise, and extend his hospitality to us.”

“When did you last see Mr. Arthur Harpole?” Arnold asked.

“On Thursday afternoon,” Farleigh replied. “It must have been between half-past five and six when he called at the house we were living in. My wife let him in, and he asked to see me. I was alone, working at my typewriter. As soon as my wife brought Arthur to me, I could see that he was very nervous and ill at ease. He made a few trifling remarks about the weather before he came to the point. Then he said that he had come to ask me formally for my daughter's hand. I told him that nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see him happily married to Nina.”

“He was delighted to hear you say that?”Arnold asked.

“I suppose he was,” Farleigh replied. “But he was too shy and embarrassed to say so. I was rather surprised, for I had never seen him like that before. His freedom of manner was one of Arthur's greatest charms. But I supposed that his awkwardness was due to his having become engaged. I did my best to put him at his ease by talking about other matters. Asking after his family, for instance.”

“Did he mention his brother Charles?”Arnold asked.

“Why, yes, he did,” Farleigh replied. “He told me that a telegram had come saying that Sir Thomas Graffham was seriously ill, and that, in consequence, Charles had gone off to Buckbridge Place. I asked Arthur if it was because he had so recently become engaged to Nina that he hadn't gone himself. He replied that it was nothing to do with him. Sir Thomas was Charles's godfather, not his.”

“Did that surprise you?”Arnold asked.

Farleigh's eyes narrowed. “I am bound to admit that it did. I had been given to understand that Sir Thomas was godfather to the elder of the two boys. And only the day before Nina had told us that Arthur was the elder.”

“Which, I am told, is not the case,” said Arnold. “Did your discovery that Sir Thomas was Charles's godfather make your daughter's engagement to Arthur any less acceptable to you?”

Farleigh coughed in some embarrassment. “Really, Mr. Arnold, I hardly understand you. Nina was, of course, perfectly free to bestow her hand upon whom she pleased. From a worldly point of view, it might have been better had she chosen the brother with the more favourable prospects. But, if she was in love with Arthur, there was nothing more to be said.”

“Did you tell your daughter that she had been mistaken in thinking that Arthur was the elder brother?”Arnold asked.

“Not until later in the evening,” Farleigh replied. “After Arthur had gone. Nina was incredulous, and said that I must have misunderstood what Arthur had said to me. On Wednesday morning the woman at The Cedars whom they call Patty had told her definitely that Arthur was the elder. She said she wouldn't believe me until she had asked Arthur himself.”

“And did she ask him?”Arnold replied.

“The poor child had no opportunity,” Farleigh replied sombrely. “And next morning we heard that he had been found drowned. As I have told you, Nina was brokenhearted.”

“I fully sympathise with her,” said Arnold. “You say that your daughter did not see Arthur that evening. How was that?”

“I will tell you,” Farleigh replied. “While I was talking to Arthur my son Guy came in. He said that Bill and a friend of his were outside in Bill's car. Bill had asked my son if he knew where Arthur was. and Guy had told him that he was with me. Bill had then said that he and his friend were going for a jaunt in the car, and would very much like my son and Arthur to go with them.

“Very much to my surprise, Arthur jumped up and said he'd love to come, and, of course. Guy must come too. I say surprise, for I thought he would have preferred to spend the evening with Nina. However, it was not for me to say anything. The two young men went out, and I never saw Arthur again.”

“Is your son about the place?”Arnold asked. “If he is, I should like to talk to him.”

“I left him in the garden with Nina,” Farleigh replied. “I will go and find him and send him to you.” He went out and Arnold turned to Merrion. “And what do you make of that queer bloke?” he asked.

“I think he's honest enough, up to a point,” Merrion replied. “'He couldn't hide his disappointment when he found out that his daughter had become engaged to the younger brother. But I wonder if it's true that he didn't tell her or, presumably, his wife and son, until Arthur had gone. Perhaps we shall hear more about that. I'm bound to say I admire your line of approach. But you'll have to hear Nina's story from her own lips, sooner or later.”

Guy Farleigh came in. He was a lanky, rather good-looking young man, with a more resolute expression than Merrion had expected. He remembered the evening of the dance at the Grand Central, and felt pretty certain that this was one of the men to whom the girl in the white frock had spoken after dancing with Charles.

“Come in and sit down, Mr. Guy,” said Arnold. “You are a poet, I believe?”

“A damned unsuccessful one,” Guy replied, as he sat down in the chair his father had vacated. “Nobody has ever seemed to appreciate my style. But I've decided to give up all that, and take a job Mr. Thrapston has offered me. I was a fool not to take it before.”

“You and your family have known Mr. Thrapston for some time?”Arnold asked.

“We got to know him while we were living in London,” Guy replied. “My mother was on the stage then, and she and Nina met him at a party. After that, he often used to come and see us.”

“I see,” said Arnold. “Now I want to talk to you about the Harpoles. You knew both the brothers, I believe?”

“That's right,” Guy replied. “They both fell in love with Nina very soon after they were introduced to her. There was nothing new about that, for Nina seems to be the sort of girl that every man falls in love with at sight. I used to go about with them while we were in Greycliffe. Or rather with Arthur, for Charles didn't seem to care about going out. I always found him rather a dull sort of chap. That may have been because he was a schoolmaster.”

“You went out with Arthur Harpole last Thursday evening, did you not?”Arnold asked.

“Yes, Bill took us,” Guy replied. “He came round to our house in his car. I saw him pull up and went out to speak to him. He asked if I knew where Arthur was, and I told him. He laughed and asked me if I thought he could bear to be torn away from Nina.”

“One moment,” Arnold interrupted. “This Bill you speak of knew that Arthur had become engaged to your sister?”

“Oh, yes,” Guy replied. “I had seen him that morning and told him. He said that once again his dearest hopes had been blasted. I don't think he meant it, for he had never seemed really in love with Nina, only attracted by her.”

“Did you know which of the Harpole brothers was the elder?”Arnold asked.

“Well, that's rather odd,” Guy replied. “Nobody could have told by looking at them. Arthur was much the gayer of the two, and that may have made him seem younger than his brother. Anyhow, I had always thought that Charles was the elder. But on Wednesday Nina told us that she had learnt definitely that he wasn't. And for reasons best known to herself she seemed very pleased about it.”

“When did you learn that your sister had been misinformed?”Arnold asked.

“Not till Friday morning, when my father told me,” Guy replied. “It seems that Arthur had told him that Charles was his elder brother. The old man was very much cut up about it, for he had hoped that Nina had become engaged to a man with prospects. But Nina didn't seem to care very much. She said that she was in love with Arthur, and meant to marry him, prospects or no prospects.”

“Very well,” said Arnold. “Will you go on with what happened on Thursday evening?”

“Bill had a friend of his sitting beside him in the car,” Guy replied. “He introduced him to us as Freddy. Bill asked me to come for a jaunt with them, and if I could persuade Arthur to come too, so much the better. I went in and told Arthur, and he jumped at it. He and I got into the back of the car, and off we went.”

“Where did you go to?”Arnold asked.

Guy shook his head. “I don't know. Bill took us out into the country, where I'd never been before. After a bit, we pulled up at a wayside pub, and had a drink or two. Then Freddy suggested that we might go to Rickford, where he knew two or three good pubs.

“Bill said he supposed he could find his way there, and we started off again. At every pub we came to on the road, Bill said that he would have to stop and ask his way. But that was only an excuse for us to go in and for Bill to stand us all a drink.

“At last we got to Rickford. Freddy showed Bill where to park the car, then took us to a big place in the town. I think the name of it was the Bear, but I can't be sure. Anyway, it was full of people. We had a drink or two there, and then went on to another pub. And it can't have been very long after that that we got separated.”

“How did you get separated?”Arnold asked.

Guy smiled, a trifle guiltily. “Well, you know what it is when one goes on a pub-crawl like that. Or perhaps you don't. One gets talking to all sorts of people whom one has never seen before, and becomes bosom friends with some of them on the spot. In one of the pubs we went into I remember talking to a total stranger who said he knew a little place where they sold the best beer one could get anywhere. I have a dim recollection of his taking me there.

“After that, I don't quite know what happened. I must still have had just enough sense to realise vaguely that I had had a lot more drink than I could decently carry. I found my way to the car park, goodness knows how. Somebody may have taken me there, for all I can tell. Then I climbed into the back of Bill's car, and passed out.

“The next thing I knew was that I was being shaken, and that the shaker was trying to make me understand that he was Bill. It took me some time to remember where I was. Bill asked me if I knew where Arthur and Freddy had got to. I told him that I hadn't the foggiest idea, and that I hardly knew where I was myself. I said that they were probably in one of the pubs. He said that they couldn't be, for the pubs closed at half-past eleven in summer-time, and it was long past that now. He said he had spent the best part of half an hour wandering round the town looking for them.

“I was past caring. All I wanted was to be left in peace. But Bill kept on about not wanting to drive away and leave them. I told him that Arthur had knocked about long enough to take care of himself and Freddy too. They'd find somewhere to sleep it off, and come back by the first bus in the morning. I suppose that satisfied Bill, for the next thing I remember was him helping me out of the car and putting my latchkey in the door of the house in Beaufort Terrace.”

“You seem to have made a night of it,” said Arnold dryly. “While you were still comparatively sober, did you meet anyone you knew at Rickford?”

“Not that I can remember,” Guy replied. “I talked to a lot of people, but I don't think I had met any of them before.”

“You met your friend Bill next day?” Arnold suggested.

“I slept till nearly noon next morning,” Guy replied. “And when I dragged myself up, the house seemed all upset. I found my father wandering round in a distracted sort of state. It was then he told me that after we had gone out the evening before, he had told my mother and Nina that Arthur hadn't been the elder brother after all. But that didn't matter now for he had just heard that Arthur had been found drowned in the sea. My mother was at that very moment breaking the news to Nina.

“I didn't feel like getting involved in the family sorrows. My throat was as dry as an ashpit and I had a thirst that the River Jordan itself couldn't have quenched. I went out to a little place where I had met Bill before and found him there. When I'd swallowed two or three dry gingers, I had enough voice to ask him if he had heard about Arthur. He said that he had, and that it was a pretty grim business. He had heard that Arthur had been picked up outside Greycliffe harbour. So he must have got back somehow, so tight that he had fallen into the water. Bill didn't see any reason why we should make a song about our jaunt of the evening before.”

“And that night you and your family left Greycliffe,” Arnold remarked.

“That's true enough,” Guy replied. “That afternoon I found the mental atmosphere of the house a bit stifling, and I was still suffering from the most horrible hangover. I went out for a walk by myself, and when I came back I found out that the family had decided to clear out that night. They'd got it all cut and dried. They were sure that, under the circumstances, Mr. Thrapston would put us all up for a few days. I didn't care. If we were going to stay with Mr. Thrapston, I would ask him if the job he had once offered me was still open.

“There was only one thing that was worrying them. They didn't want people in Greycliffe to know where they had gone. How were we going to get ourselves and our belongings to Silvermouth?

“I was feeling brighter by then, and I had an idea. Bill's car was an old Buick, big enough to hold us and anything we wanted to take with us. I was sure he wouldn't mind giving us a lift to Silvermouth. I'd go and see if I could find him.

“I found him, at the same place as I had that morning. When I told him what we wanted him to do, he said that would suit him very well, for he was leaving Greycliffe that evening. He had promised to go to a show with some chaps he knew before he went. He would call for us round about midnight.

“Then we got talking about Arthur, and I repeated to him what my father had told him. Bill seemed utterly taken aback, I don't know why. He asked me if I was quite sure that Charles's godfather was seriously ill, and that Charles had gone to see him. I said that was what Arthur had told my father. Then I asked him if he had seen anything of Freddy, and he said he hadn't.”

“So your friend Bill drove you all here?” said Arnold. “Where did he go after that?”

Guy shook his head. “I don't know. He didn't tell us where he was going. He said good-bye and drove off. He never spoke about his affairs. When I first met him, he said that everybody called him Bill, and that I'd better do the same. I never knew his other name, and I don't know where he was staying in Greycliffe.”

“When did you first meet him?”Arnold asked.

“About three weeks ago,” Guy replied. “It was one morning when I had looked in at The Cedars to see if Arthur was there. He wasn't, but I thought I knew where to find him. When I came out, a car was standing a few yards down the road. The bonnet was open, and Bill was fiddling about with the engine. He shut the bonnet as I came by and grinned at me. ' Spot of bother with one of the plugs, but I've fixed it now. Can I give you a lift anywhere? '

“I told him that I was on my way to a little place I knew of, where I expected to meet a friend. He said he'd be very glad if I would show him this little place. It was his first visit to Greycliffe, and he'd be glad to get to know a few chaps. So I got into the car and showed him the way to the Fountain, at the back of the town. Arthur was there, as I had expected, and I introduced him. It was then that Bill made that remark about what we should call him.”

“Did Bill ever meet Charles Harpole?”Arnold asked.

“I'm not sure,” Guy replied. “It's quite possible that he didn't, for, as I've told you, Charles didn't care much about going out. Later, I introduced Bill to my family and one or two others, and we saw quite a lot of him. He took us out for a run in his car, fairly often.”

“What does Bill look like?”Arnold asked.

“He's a big chap, fair with blue eyes,” Guy replied. “About my age, I should think, and I'm twenty-two. Always well dressed, and seemed to have plenty of money to spend. Generous with it, too. That Thursday evening, at the first pub we stopped at, he whispered to me that he knew I hadn't a lot to spend on drinks, and when the other two weren't looking he slipped five pound notes into my hand. He said I could pay him back whenever I found it convenient.”

“Very thoughtful of him,” Arnold remarked. “And the other member of the party, Freddy. What do you know about him?”

“Nothing whatever,” Guy replied emphatically. “I'd never met him before that evening, and I've never met him since. Where Bill picked him up I haven't the slightest idea. Bill was like that. He'd make friends with anyone he chanced to meet.”

“You can give me some sort of description of him?”Arnold asked.

“He was the sort of chap I should recognise if I met him again,” Guy replied. “Not very tall, but with amazingly broad shoulders. I sat behind him in the car, and I thought I'd never seen such a pair of shoulders in my life. He had black hair and a black moustache, and he was wearing a patch over one eye. He told us that he had been stung by a wasp on the eyelid that afternoon, and that it was very painful. I can't tell you his age, but it seemed to me that he was a good bit older than the rest of us.”

“Well, that's about all we need ask you now,” said Arnold. “Do you think we could have a few words with your sister?”

“I'll go and ask her,” Guy replied. During his absence Arnold was too busy making entries in his notebook to spare a word for Merrion. In a few minutes Guy came back. “Nina's gone out,” he said. “Mr. Thrapston came back from his office, and when he found Nina in the garden he asked her to come and have tea with him at some beauty spot in the country. He and she have gone off in his car together.”

Arnold glanced at Merrion, who shook his head. “Then there is no reason for us to stay here any longer,” said Arnold.

CHAPTER XI

“I'M NOT SORRY the girl had gone out,” said Merrion as they drove away from Fair View. “It gives us a chance to digest what we've heard from her father and brother. I fancy the family won't leave Mr. Thrapston's hospitable roof just yet, and you can see any of them another time. So Arthur was pub-crawling in Rickford on Thursday evening. It seems practically certain now that he got into the water there. You told Liscombe about our adventure this morning, I suppose? What did he think of it?”

“He said it was very interesting,” Arnold replied. “But from the look on his face while I was telling him about it I got the impression that he was thinking that a man from the Yard could employ his time better than in watching an empty box float down a river.”

“When he hears that Arthur was in Rickford that evening he may change his mind,” said Merrion. “I think that Guy, in spite of his poetic leanings, was telling us the truth. If he was, there is one very important point in what he told us. The suggestion that they should go to Rickford came from Freddy, and not until some time after the party had left Greycliffe. In other words, nobody in Greycliffe could have known that they would go to Rickford. And that seems to me to clear both Charles and Mr. Sowerby.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” Arnold replied. “Either of them might have come across the party in Rickford, and kept out of sight until they became separated.”

Merrion shook his head. “That doesn't make sense. What could either of them have been doing in Rickford? Take Charles first. Our theory has been that he stopped off at Rickford in order to meet his brother. But if he couldn't possibly have known that Arthur would be going to Rickford, what then?

“As to Mr. Sowerby. He could, I suppose, have found out that the party had gone off in Bill's car. But nobody outside the party knew what their destination was. By no process of divination could Mr. Sowerby have deduced that they would fetch up at Rickford which, after all, is a rather unlikely place in which to spend an evening. I refuse to believe that he went there on the chance of meeting Arthur.”

“Well, set your imagination to work,” Arnold said encouragingly. “What did actually happen?”

“There are so many possibilities,” Merrion replied. “They occurred to me one after the other as you were talking to Mr. Farleigh and Guy. To begin with, consider Arthur's state of mind. His announcement to his family of his engagement on Wednesday evening was hardly enthusiastic. He said, if I remember right, that an awful thing had happened to him. And he as good as confessed that any love he had felt for Nina had evaporated. Am I right?”

“According to his brother and sister, that's about what he said to them,” Arnold agreed.

“Very well,” said Merrion. “Now we come to his behaviour on Thursday evening, which not unnaturally astonished Mr. Farleigh. We know now what he had been screwing himself up to all day. It was to see Nina's father, and ask his approval of their engagement. He did that, then jumped at the first opportunity of getting out of the house without meeting his fiancée. I think that in itself shows that he realised what a terrible mess he had got himself into.

“All four of the party seem to have had a good deal to drink. If Guy is to be believed, he certainly had, and one must suppose they drank evenly. Drink affects people in different ways. It cheers up some, and depresses others. I can imagine Arthur feeling better at first, in the company of his bibulous friends. And then they got separated. I can quite believe that, for Guy's description of the pub-crawl was most realistic, and such things do happen.

“Arthur found himself alone, and in his fuddled state the realisation of his position came back to him with overwhelming force. He had become engaged to a girl he didn't want. What was the good of going back to Greycliffe? If he did, he would have to marry the girl, and continue to be a burden to his family. Why not put an end to it, once and for all?

“The river was the solution. I don't suppose he went as far as that stinking wharf. It would be easier to slip over the parapet of one of the many bridges. As he fell, his head struck something projecting. Merely a glancing blow, but enough to put him out, so that he could not instinctively try to save himself.”

“I should have thought he'd have died of poisoning, not drowning, if he jumped into that filthy river,” said Arnold. “Do you really think that's what happened?”

“It's one of the possibilities I mentioned just now,” Merrion replied. “And, as such, we oughtn't to lose sight of it. Now let's examine some of the others. A point we must bear in mind is that when the party set out, they all, with the exception of Arthur himself, believed that he was the elder son.

“Guy first. He says that they got separated. That can only mean that he lost contact with the other three. He can't have known whether the others, or two of them, kept together. It's possible that he tracked Arthur, knocked him on the head, and pushed him into the river, before he curled himself up in Bill's car.

“But why should he have done such a thing? He believed that his sister had become engaged to the brother with prospects. His own future was assured. A rich brother-in-law, with whom he was apparently on excellent terms, could hardly fail to do something for him. I think we can accept Guy's story as the truth.

“Bill next. There are several things which make me suspicious of him. That morning when he and Guy first became acquainted. It's odd that his car should have failed outside The Cedars. My belief is that it was only his pretext for seeing who might come in or out of the house. When Guy came out, he may have thought that he was one of the Harpoles. If he wasn't, the fact that he had come from the house showed that he knew the family, and that was something for Bill to start with. As it turned out, Bill was lucky, for Guy introduced him to Arthur at the Fountain.

“Then, it was Bill who invited Arthur to join the party that evening. His first question to Guy was whether he knew where Arthur was. If Bill hadn't found Arthur at the house in Beaufort Terrace, he would probably have looked for him elsewhere, at the Fountain, for instance.

“Bill's solicitude for Guy's pocket strikes me as rather significant. It was evidently Bill's intention that everyone, with the possible exception of himself, should get more or less fuddled. Guy might have refused to accept continual drinks from the others if he hadn't been able to stand rounds himself.

“Finally, Bill's reaction when Guy told him that Arthur hadn't been the elder brother, after all. According to Guy, he seemed utterly taken aback. Why should he have been interested in which of the two brothers was the elder? And was Arthur's death the reason for his decision to leave Greycliffe on Friday evening?”

Arnold nodded. “Bill had murdered him and, having done the job, saw no reason why he should stay in the place any longer. Is that one of your possibilities?”

“It is,” Merrion replied. “Guy had become completely oblivious to time, so it would be no good asking him when the party became separated. But we have this. When Bill woke Guy up, he told him that it was long past half-past eleven. That covers the pathologist's expression, a little before midnight. Bill could have murdered Arthur before he returned to the car.”

“And what about Freddy?”Arnold asked.

“What about him, indeed,” Merrion replied. “He seems to me to be a highly mysterious figure. Guy had never seen him before that evening. Where and why had Bill picked him up? The remarkable thing is that it was Freddy who suggested that the party should go to Rickford. He said he knew two or three good pubs there, and apparently he did. I think we may assume that he knew his way about the town.

“Who he was, and why he should have wanted to murder Arthur, we don't know. But he could have managed it as easily as Bill could. Motive apart, here's a way in which he could have done it. He contrived to be with Arthur in one of the pubs at closing time. When they had to leave, Freddy said it didn't matter. He knew a place where, if you were known, they would let you in by the back door. He took Arthur down that alley on to what you are pleased to call the stinking wharf. Arthur being quite unsuspecting, the rest was easy.

“Of course, all that is purely hypothetical. Merely the possibilities which presented themselves to me as I was listening to what Mr. Farleigh and Guy told us. If Arthur was murdered, it must have been with some motive. We've considered the possible motives of Charles and Mr. Sowerby. Now we've got to consider whether any of the three members of the party of which Arthur formed the fourth, can have had a motive.

“We've already considered Guy. On the face of it, it would seem that it was in his interests that Arthur should live and not die. But there may be something behind that. For instance, though he says he didn't, he may have known that his sister had been misinformed. If he had been sure that Arthur was, in fact, the younger brother, he would have seen the advantage of his permanent disappearance from the scene. The way would then be clear for his sister to lay siege to Charles.

“In the case of Bill, the motive isn't quite so obvious. It may be, in spite of Guy's doubts, that he was deeply in love with Nina. To dispose of his hated rival would be to give himself a chance. But somehow I don't think it's as simple as that. If Bill had a motive, the clue to it may lie in his desire to become acquainted with the Harpole family, or at all events, with one member of it.

“As for Freddy, we are completely in the dark, for we know nothing about him. If Guy had never met him before, it seems unlikely that Arthur had. I've told you how he could have murdered Arthur, but I'm utterly unable to tell you why. Not, surely, as the result of some sudden drunken quarrel. The method of murder doesn't fit in with that.”

By this time they were entering Greycliffe. “Well, at least you've got something to think about,” Merrion remarked. “You'd like me to drop you at the police station, I expect?”

“I would, and I'd like you to come in with me,” Arnold replied. “You'd be able to support me in the story I've got to tell the Super.”

So Arnold and Merrion went in together. They found Liscombe in his room. “Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Merrion,” he said genially. “Have you and Mr. Arnold been enjoying yourselves as you did this morning?”

Merrion smiled. “We have, perhaps, been employing our time more profitably. Mr. Arnold will tell you what we have heard.”

Liscombe listened while Arnold repeated the conversations he had had at Fair View. “So Arthur Harpole spent Thursday evening at Rickford,” he said when Arnold had finished. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Merrion. I must admit I felt rather sceptical about your floating box and the theory you deduced from its behaviour. Now it appears that you were perfectly right, and that Arthur was in fact drowned at Rickford.”

“There's no need to apologise,” Merrion replied. “My methods must have seemed to you a trifle unorthodox. But I felt that it was an experiment worth trying.”

“It was indeed,” said Liscombe. “Obviously the first thing to be done is to trace this man Bill. I will endeavour to discover where he stayed while he was in Greycliffe. Another clue is the car he drove. There aren't so many of those big Buicks in the country. That I'll leave in your hands, Mr. Arnold, as it seems a matter for the Yard.”

“I'll see to it,” Arnold replied. “I'll get on the phone and put one of our chaps on the job.”

“Very well,” said Liscombe. “Now I've got something to tell you. No, don't go, Mr. Merrion. You have been so helpful to us that I should like you to hear what I have to say. During your absence I have had a visit from Mr. Charles Harpole.”

“And what had he to say for himself?”Arnold asked.

“He told me that he and his sister had been going through their brother's effects,” Liscombe replied. “They had found no correspondence whatever, with the exception of a single picture postcard. Mr. Charles brought it with Him and showed it to me. I asked him if I might keep it for the present, and I have it here.”

He took a picture postcard from a drawer of his desk and handed it to Arnold. It bore a Canadian stamp and a Toronto postmark, with the date of 15th June of the current year. The address was in ink, in neat block letters. “Mr. Arthur Harpole, Greycliffe, England.”

“A vague enough address,” Arnold remarked. “But I suppose every postman in Greycliffe knew where the Harpoles lived, so the vagueness didn't matter.”

On the same side of the card, in the panel designed for the purpose was a message, written in the same neat block lettering. “Do you remember? We shall meet again.”

Arnold turned the card over. On the reverse was the picture. It was of a lake, on which speedboats were plying. In the foreground was a road, with buildings beside it. Standing in front of one of these was a car, at the open door of which was a girl.

“I dare say Mr. Merrion would like to see the card,”

Liscombe suggested after a minute or two.

Arnold passed it to Merrion, who studied it carefully. “There's one rather unusual thing about this card,” he said after a while. “Every picture postcard I've seen has on it the name of the place the picture represents. But this one hasn't. However, if you look carefully at the top of the message panel you'll see that the surface of the card has been rubbed with pumice stone or something of the kind. And that's just where I should have expected the name of the place to have been printed.”

He handed the card back to Liscombe. “Yes, I see what you mean,” said the Superintendent. “The name of the place has been deliberately erased?”

“It looks remarkably like it,” Merrion replied. “And I think, by the appearance of the card, before it was sent. Which makes it seem as though the sender didn't want Arthur to know where the card came from. The Toronto postmark would tell him nothing beyond the fact that it had been posted there. Further, the address suggests that though the sender knew that Arthur lived in Greycliffe, he, or she, didn't know the name of the house. I say he or she, for those block letters might have been written by a roan or a woman.”

“Did you ask Charles whether, when Arthur received this card, he had shown it to his brother or sister?”Arnold inquired.

“I did,” Liscombe replied. “He told me that neither of them had seen it until they found it in Arthur's bedroom this morning. He told me that he had brought it to me because they thought that the building at which the car is standing might be the filling station that Arthur had spoken about. I then asked him if he thought it possible that the girl by the car was Arthur's partner. He said he didn't think that was very likely, for Arthur had spoken of his partner as being a man.”

“I shouldn't wonder if it was a girl who sent it,” said Arnold. “Possibly the girl in the picture. She and Arthur had met at this place, wherever it is. She rubbed out the name to test his memory. ' Do you remember?' she asks. But I don't understand how she hoped to meet him again, unless she came over here.”

“I don't attach much importance to the card myself,” Liscombe remarked.

“Is it worth while finding out where this place is?”Merrion asked.

“I hardly think so,” Liscombe replied. “Mr. Arnold's explanation seems to me to be a reasonable one. If the girl's in Canada, she's not likely to hear of Arthur's death. Should she come over here, in the expectation of meeting him again, she'll come to Greycliffe and inquire where he lives. Even if she's told Arthur is dead, she'll surely call at The Cedars. I'll tell Charles that if she does, I should like to talk to her. She may be able to tell us something about Arthur's life in Canada, but I don't know that that's going to help us much.”

Arnold nodded. “I don't see that Arthur's past history is any concern of yours. Mr. Merrion has a theory that he may have been murdered in error.”

“In error?”Liscombe asked. “I'd like to hear your explanation of that, Mr. Merrion.”

“Why, just this,” Merrion replied. “Arthur may have been murdered because, at the time of the crime, certain people believed that he was the elder son. That he was, in fact, Sir Thomas Graffham's heir.”

“Well, there may be something in that,” Liscombe conceded. “Talking of Sir Thomas, Charles told me something about him when he was here. He said that this morning he had had a letter from Sir Thomas's housekeeper. Sir Thomas has got over his trouble, and is improving rapidly. His doctor has recommended a change, with sea air. Sir Thomas had told his housekeeper to write and ask whether he could come to The Cedars as soon as he is fit enough to travel. Charles has replied that he and his sister would be delighted to have him.”

“He won't be able to tell us anything about Arthur's death,” said Arnold. “The first thing to be done is to trace Bill. I'll get on to the Yard, and tell them to check up all the Buicks in the country.”

“Do you want me to drive you to Fair View again tomorrow morning?”Merrion asked.

“I suppose that I ought to see that girl,” Arnold replied. “Though I don't know what she can tell us that we haven't heard already. Yes, at ten o'clock, if that will suit you.”

Merrion said that it would, and left the police station. He walked to the Grand Central, where he found Mavis. “Where have you been all this time?” she asked. “I was expecting you back to tea, and now it's almost dinner-time.”

“I've spent a most interesting afternoon,” Merrion replied. “I've met two members of the Farleigh family. No, not Nina, that's a pleasure to come. Listen, and you shall hear about it.”

He told her of the visit to Fair View and what he had heard there. “It's all rather tantalising,” he went on. “The family left in a hurry, because Nina was so broken-hearted that she couldn't stay in Greycliffe any longer. Was she really so broken-hearted, even after she had discovered she had accepted the wrong brother? And how was it that Mr. Farleigh was so certain that Mr. Thrapston would take them all in without the slightest hesitation?”

“Nina may be able to answer those questions to your satisfaction,” Mavis replied.

“Perhaps she will,” said Merrion. “Another thing. Arthur's past in Canada has cropped up in rather a curious way.”

He described the postcard to Mavis. “Arnold believes that it was sent by a girl, and Liscombe seems to share that belief. Maybe they're right, but I'm not so sure about it. If it was merely a friendly message from some girl he had met in Canada, why didn't Arthur show the card to his brother and sister?”

“He may have had an affair which he didn't want them to know about,” Mavis replied. “In any case, we are told that he was always reticent about his life in Canada. He didn't want to give his family an opening for asking questions.”

“Then why didn't he destroy the card instead of putting it away?”Merrion asked. “Was it in the expectation that he and the sender would meet again? That wording strikes me as rather significant. ' We shall meet again,' not ' I hope we shall meet again,' or something like that. Where? It seems to me most unlikely that the sender expected Arthur to return to Canada. The only way they could meet would be for the sender to come to this country.”

“Well, why not?” said Mavis.

“Why not, indeed?”Merrion replied. “But if that was the case, the wording seems unnecessarily cryptic. Suppose the card was sent by someone who had been a friend of Arthur, in Canada, and wanted to meet him again. Wouldn't you have expected the message to have been framed differently? Something like this. ' I hope to be in England at such and such a time. Let me know how I can get in touch with you.'”

“Perhaps I should,” Mavis replied. “But it seems pretty obvious that the sender intended their next meeting to be a surprise for Arthur.”

“You've expressed exactly what is in my mind,” said Merrion. “The meeting was to be a surprise, and possibly not a very pleasant one for Arthur. He knew well enough who the sender was. The picture would have given him the clue. But no one else who saw the card could discover who had sent it. Care was taken that no one else should. The message is in block letters and unsigned. The name of the place has been erased. I'm inclined to think that the meeting wasn't to be just the reunion of two former friends. And I'm beginning to wonder if it hasn't already taken place.”

“Now what in the world do you mean by that?” Mavis asked.

“I'm thinking of that big Buick,” Merrion replied. “There are more cars of that make in Canada than there are in England, I'll be bound.”

Before Mavis could make any comment a familiar figure appeared upon the veranda on which they were sitting. Mr. Sowerby saw them and came up to them. “I have just come from The Cedars,” he said, after they had exchanged mutual greetings. “I have heard a most welcome piece of news. Sir Thomas, who appears to be recovering rapidly from his illness, has been invited to stay there. I shall be very pleased to see him once more.”

Merrion was not disposed to reveal that this was no news to him. “I hope we shall have the opportunity of meeting Sir Thomas,” he said politely.

“I'll see that you do,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “I'm sure you will both like him. He's one of those genuine, hearty people whom I find most refreshing. And I'm sure he'll want to meet you, if only to hear at first hand what happened on Friday morning. Although he never liked Arthur. He disapproved of his improvident ways.”

“I hope Miss Harpole is getting over the tragedy?”Mavis asked.

“I think she is,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Though it has been a terrible shock to her, as it has been to us all. I have a regretful feeling that if I had found Arthur that evening and persuaded him to come with me to Creeking Hall, the tragedy would never have taken place.”

“Did you look for him?”Merrion asked casually.

Mr. Sowerby shook his head. “No, I did not. The thought of doing so entered my head as I left The Cedars. I guessed that he might be with the Farleighs, but I shrank from intruding myself upon them. I never liked the Farleighs, and I expect my dislike was reciprocated. Besides, if he had been at their house, it was unlikely that he would have consented to leave them and come with me.”

He sighed and went on. “Now that it is too late, I regret my lack of resolution. As it was, I returned to Creeking Hall, in a state of considerable despondency. The only future I could see in Arthur's engagement to Nina Farleigh was an increasing strain upon his sister.”

“So you went home and brooded over the situation?”Merrion suggested.

“I certainly brooded over it,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “But I didn't go indoors. I knew it would be hopeless to sit down and try to concentrate upon anything. I walked round and round the grounds, trying to think of some means by which Arthur could be extricated from the position into which he had blundered.”

“Blundered?”Mavis asked. “Is it a blunder for a young man to become engaged, Mr. Sowerby?”

“In this case it certainly was,” he replied. “Besides, I had gathered from Edith that Arthur already regretted the step he had taken. I felt that the engagement must be terminated, but I could see no way in which that could be accomplished. It was not until midnight that I entered the house and found my supper still waiting for me. Such was my preoccupation that I had forgotten all about it. But you will forgive me if I leave you now. The parents of one of my pupils are staying here, and they have asked me to dine with them this evening.”

“What do you think of that?”Merrion asked when Mr. Sowerby had gone away. “There's still the possibility that he did think of a way in which the engagement might be terminated. He's got no alibi from the time he left The Cedars till his housekeeper brought him. his tea next morning. But it beats me how he could have discovered where Arthur had gone to.”

CHAPTER XII

NEXT MORNING Arnold arrived at the Grand Central punctually at ten o'clock. Merrion was ready for him, and they drove to Fair View. The manservant admitted them and, on Arnold asking if Miss Farleigh was at home, showed them into the same room as before.

In a few minutes Nina appeared. Merrion recognised her immediately as the girl wearing a white dress whom he had seen in the ballroom at the Grand Central. She looked lovelier than ever, in a summer frock and a wide-brimmed hat. But Arnold perceived at once the aptness of Patty's description. She looked neither man full in the face, but cast sidelong glances at them as she took the chair that Arnold offered her.

“You will, I hope, forgive me for troubling you so soon after your bereavement, Miss Farleigh,” said Arnold. “But you will understand that it is necessary that I should ask you certain questions.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied brightly. “I know that you were here yesterday, talking to my father and Guy. Gilbert said that if you came again, I had better tell you everything I could.”

This was a fresh name to Arnold. “May I ask who Gilbert is?”

Her face hardened. “Mr. Thrapston. I am engaged to be married to him. Look!”

She held out her left hand, which until then she had kept concealed. Upon the third finger sparkled a diamond engagement ring.

Arnold shot a bewildered glance in Merrion's direction. “Excuse me, Miss Farleigh. But is not this rather sudden?”

“Sudden?” she replied. “Not at all. I have known Gilbert for a long time. Two years and more.”

“But is it not a fact that only last week you became engaged to Mr. Arthur Harpole?”Arnold asked.

“Oh, I know you think I'm utterly heartless,” she flashed back. “But a girl who has lived the life I have can't afford to have a heart. It's quite true that I became engaged to Arthur. But he died, and what was I to do?”

“When you became engaged to Arthur, did you believe that he was the elder brother?”Arnold asked.

“I know now that woman Patty lied to me,” she replied. “I ought to have suspected at the time that she was lying, but I was so happy that I was only too ready to believe her. And I can guess why she lied to me. Because she was afraid that if her beloved Charles proposed to me I should accept him. She needn't have worried. While Arthur was alive, I should never have accepted Charles.”

“Did you see Arthur on Thursday evening?”Arnold asked.

She shook her head. “I never saw Arthur again after we said good night to one another after the dance on Wednesday. I know that he came to our house in Greycliffe on Thursday evening. Mother told me that he had called and asked to see my father. But he went away without seeing me. I was bitterly disappointed, for naturally I wanted to see him.”

“Naturally,” said Arnold. “And when did you learn that you had been misinformed, Miss Farleigh?”

“That evening, soon after Arthur and Guy had gone out,” she replied. “My father came to Mother and me, and I could see at once that something had upset him dreadfully. He told us that Arthur himself had told him that Charles was the elder, and was Sir Thomas's godson. He was furious about it, and said that I had made a perfect fool of myself. I must break off the engagement at once. Then, after a decent interval, I must contrive that Charles should propose to me.”

“Did you agree to do that?”Arnold asked.

For the first time Nina looked him straight in the face. “No, I did not. You may not believe it, but I loved Arthur, and had since I first met him. I told my father so, and that I fully intended to marry him.”

It seemed to Merrion, watching from the background, that the true Nina had at last been revealed. As though a veil which had concealed her had been dropped. This was not the vampire seeking blood of Mr. Sowerby's imagination. Merely a girl who was prepared to defy her parents in order to achieve her own happiness.

Nina went on impulsively: “Of course, there was a terrible row. My father and mother went at me hammer and tongs. I was an ungrateful child, ready to let down my family for the sake of a whim. This was nothing new to me, for I had been through the same thing when I refused Gilbert long ago. I knew that my parents regarded me as their only asset. I was to marry a rich man, and everyone was to live happily ever after. I wasn't supposed to have any likes or dislikes of my own. What was to happen to them all if I married Arthur, an idle young man with no prospects? I must put such a ridiculous idea out of my head, and marry Charles instead.

“I tried to make them see reason. I pointed out that if I jilted Arthur, it wasn't very likely that his brother Charles would ask me to marry him. But it was no good. They kept on at me, but I steadily refused to change my intention. At last my father clapped on his hat and strode out of the house. My mother, who always likes to assume a dramatic attitude, burst into tears and declared that her daughter had brought her grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. She went up to bed, from which she told me she never expected to rise again. So I was left alone with my thoughts of Arthur.”

The defiance faded from her voice, and she went on in a tone of genuine grief. “My parents and I hadn't much to say to one another next morning. After breakfast my mother went out shopping. She wanted me to go with her, but I wouldn't. I thought that Arthur might come round, and I wasn't going to run the risk of missing him. Then Mother came bursting in again. To my intense surprise she caught me in her arms and told me to thank heaven that Fate had intervened to save me from my folly.

“I asked her what on earth she meant. She told me that she had met Mrs. Dunster in the town. Mrs. Dunster had just heard that Arthur was dead. His body had been found out at sea, and had been brought back to the harbour in a fishing-boat.

“I wouldn't believe it. I thought it was some trick to deceive me. I went out just as I was and ran down to the harbour. I caught sight of Reg Windrush, whom I knew because he was a friend of Arthur's. I went up to him and asked him if he had heard anything of Arthur. He told me that his father and a gentleman had found him that morning when they were out fishing, and that he himself had been one of those who carried him from the boat to the harbour-master's office.

“Then I knew that my parents had won, as they always did in the end. Fate might have saved me from my folly, but at the same time it had deprived me of my hopes of happiness. I got home somehow, and shut myself up in my room. I wanted to thrash things out for myself before I spoke to anybody.”

She paused, and in the interval her face hardened once again. “I don't suppose I can make you understand the life I had always known,” she went on abruptly. “My parents earned so little that we were always on the brink of poverty. My father called himself a free-lance journalist, but it was very rarely that this brought him in any money. My mother was an actress, but far more often than not she was resting, as she called it. And Guy's poetic leanings took him nowhere.

“However, we got along somehow, and, though it may surprise you, not unhappily. We made a joke of not knowing where the next meal was coming from. There were occasional family rows, of course. I suppose there are in every family. But they were never really serious, and were soon forgotten.

“And something always seemed to turn up, just in the nick of time. Father would sell an article or a short story, sometimes even a serial. Mother would get a part, if it was only a very small one. More than once one or other of our distant relations would send us a few pounds. And Mother's friends would pass on to her their old clothes.

“Oh, those old clothes! How I hated them. I don't know how young I was when I first learnt to patch and darn and alter. I seemed to spend all my days turning somebody else's unfashionable frock into something that Mother would look decent in. And while I was doing it, Father told me fairy stories. All about Prince Charming, who fell in love and, of course, eventually married, a girl whose only fortune was her face.

“As I grew older, the fairy stories became more realistic. It was constantly rubbed into me that it was my duty to the family to marry a rich man. I'm sure my parents didn't mean to be cruel. It was to them purely a matter of economics. I couldn't afford to marry the man of my own choice. Old or young, handsome or repulsive, my future husband must have plenty of money. How else were we all to survive in comparative comfort?

“I once ventured to ask how I was to marry a man I didn't even like. That question was treated with affectionate derision. Surely I was old enough to know that marriage came first, and that love might grow afterwards? And I began to wonder if my parents weren't right. After all, we aren't told whether the beggar maid loved King Cophetua. All that was expected of her was to consider herself the luckiest girl in the world. Which she probably did.

“It was while we were in London that Mother and I met Gilbert at a party. It happened to be during one of our comparatively prosperous periods. Mother had a small part at one of the suburban theatres, and we both had decent clothes to wear. After that, Gilbert came to see us whenever he was in London. I liked him from the first, though I never for a moment thought of him as a future husband. He was a generation older than I was, and I looked upon him as a good-natured uncle. I thought he was joking when he first proposed to me. I told him that he had far better wait till Father died and then propose to Mother.

“He took it very well, and only laughed. But he must have said something to my parents, for next day I got it hot and strong. What had I been thinking of to treat Gilbert like that? Was I such a fool as not to understand that he had been perfectly serious? Here I was, throwing away the best offer I was ever likely to have in my life. Gilbert had gone back to Silvermouth, and I wasn't likely to see him again for weeks. When I did, I must put things straight with him to the best of my ability. ''

“I was told a lot of other things besides. Nobody could be more generous than Gilbert. For some time past he had been helping Father with sums of money. There could be no question of repayment to a prospective son-in-law. He was prepared to offer Guy a job in his office. After I was married, my parents need not lose touch with me for they could live rent free in a house he owned in a village near here. But, of course, all this was conditional upon my accepting him.

“A few weeks later Gilbert came to see us, and again he proposed to me. I knew very well that the family were waiting just round the corner, so to speak, ready to congratulate me. But I couldn't bring myself to accept. I told Gilbert that I didn't love him in the way he had a right to expect, and begged him to give me time. Time for what I had no idea. But it was the only way I could think of to escape a definite engagement.

“Gilbert took it very well. He said I could have all the time I wanted, and that he would leave it at that. But, of course, the family was furious. I was told that I seemed to have made up my mind that we were to end our days in the workhouse. And certainly our affairs were in a pretty bad way. The play in which Mother had been acting had been withdrawn. Father didn't seem able to sell any of his writings. Everyone to whom Guy sent his poems rejected them. And I, of course, was made the scapegoat. I had only to speak one word, and everything would be put right.

“Then came a letter from Gilbert, not to me, but to Father. In it was enclosed a cutting from a local paper, with an advertisement of the house in Beaufort Terrace to be let furnished for six months. Gilbert wrote that if we cared to take it, he would pay the whole six months' rent in advance. As soon as Father discovered that Greycliffe was in the same county as Silvermouth, he closed with the offer. And that's how we came to live in Greycliffe.”

“You often saw Mr. Thrapston while you were there?”Arnold suggested.

Nina shook her head. “Not once. I never went to Silvermouth, and if Gilbert came to Greycliffe, I at least never saw him. We hadn't been there very long before we got to know Mrs. Dunster, and she introduced us to the Harpoles. She told us that his godfather had made the elder brother his heir.

“My parents made it their business to find out all about that. It wasn't very difficult, for Mrs. Dunster is always ready to talk to anyone about anything. It was made plain enough to me that here was my chance. If I found Gilbert too old for my wayward fancy, here was a young man with prospects ready to hand. I must cultivate his acquaintance, and see to it that he proposed to me.

“Both brothers fell in love with me. Oh, I know that, and it's no good mincing words about it now. Mrs. Dunster had told us that Charles was the elder brother. But it was Arthur I fell in love with. And when that woman told me that we had been mistaken, and that he was the elder, I was so overjoyed that I took it in without question. At last my parents' wishes and mine had coincided.”

She paused, and went on with an obvious effort: “I've told you what happened after that. My parents' point of view was that Arthur's death left me free to repair my mistake and marry Charles. I tried to make them understand that this was quite impossible. I liked Charles well enough, but even if he proposed to me I could never marry him. Arthur's ghost would stand as a barrier between us to the end of our days. In the end I surrendered unconditionally, and said that I would marry Gilbert. And that in any case I should go mad if I stayed in Greycliffe another day.

“The family's relief was almost laughable. Father asked me if I really meant it, and would undertake not to back out of my promise at the last moment. I told him that I didn't care now who I married, and as it was the general desire that I should marry Gilbert, I would. So everything was fixed up in half an hour. It was decided that we would leave Greycliffe that evening. Guy went off to find Bill, and came back to say that he would call for us at midnight and drive us to Silvermouth.

“To me it was like a nightmare. Or perhaps an impossible puppet show, in which I acted as others pulled the strings. Bill asked Father where he wanted him to drive us to when we got to Silvermouth, and Father said he didn't know. Gilbert wasn't expecting us, and we couldn't land ourselves on him at that time of night. I don't know how it happened, for I was past caring, but somehow we came to a recreation ground. Father asked Bill to leave us there. He did, and drove off, saying that he hoped we should be able to make ourselves comfortable for the rest of the night.

“I suppose we did, after a fashion. I wasn't interested in the adventure. I was thinking of Arthur, and how my one attempt to hold my own had been frustrated. At last I became aware that Father was saying it was time we made a move. It was up to me now. I must see Gilbert, and tell him that the period of grace I had asked him for had come to an end.

“My parents said that they would come with me, while Guy stayed behind to keep an eye on our belongings. None of us knew where Fair View was, and we had to stop a milkman on his rounds and ask him. We walked to the gate, and my parents said they would wait there while I went in.

“I don't know how I braced myself to do it. I think it was because I felt that it was all unreal, and that at any moment I should wake up. I went to the front door and rang the bell. Orwell, the manservant you've seen, opened the door. He looked very much surprised to see me, as well he might. I asked if I could speak to Mr. Thrapston. Orwell replied that Mr. Thrapston was having breakfast, and what name should he give. I told him to say that Nina had called.

“Before I knew where I was I found myself in the dining-room. Gilbert was sitting at the table with a newspaper propped up in front of him. As Orwell showed me in, he stood up and smiled at me. He looked just as if he had been expecting me. As though all along he had known what must happen and had been waiting for it.

“Neither of us said anything until Orwell had left the room. And then I spoke first. I said, ' Gilbert, I've come to marry you, if you'll have me. And the family are waiting outside to know whether you will or not.'”

Once again she extended her left hand. “You see the answer I got. Gilbert bought me the ring that very morning. I had done my duty. We are to be married in September. My parents are to stay here until after the wedding, by which time the house I spoke of will be ready for them. Guy starts work in Gilbert's office next week. So you see, everything has ended happily, after all.”

“For you, Miss Farleigh?”Arnold asked.

“Oh, I shall be all right,” she replied, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “I know that Gilbert will do all he can to make me happy. And I shall be the darling of the family, now that I've given in to them. I am, in fact, the luckiest girl in the world.”

“There's one question I should like to ask you,” said Arnold. “Do you know any more than your brother does about this man Bill?”

“Rather less, I expect,” she replied. “I liked what I saw of him, perhaps because he was one of the few men I have met who didn't pester me with his attentions. I accepted him as one of Guy's friends, and left it at that. He never spoke to me about himself.”

“Did you ever meet the fourth member of the party that went out in Bill's car on Thursday evening?”Arnold asked.

“Freddy?” she replied. “I never even heard his name till Guy told me about him. I don't think he can have been more than a casual acquaintance of Bill's. He was always ready to make friends with anybody.”

The door opened, and a middle-aged man, robust and of a cheerful countenance, came in. “I hope I'm not intruding in my own house,” he said cheerfully. “I've just come from the office, and they told me that Nina was in here with you two gentlemen. So I thought that I might as well introduce myself.”

“I am very glad that you did, Mr. Thrapston,” Arnold replied. “I was just about to tell Miss Farleigh that we had nothing further to ask her.”

“Then you may as well run along, my dear,” said Thrapston. “I should like the opportunity of a few words with these gentlemen myself.”

He held the door open while Nina left the room, then shut it firmly. Arnold introduced himself, then turned towards Merrion. “This is my friend Mr. Merrion. As you may have heard, he was one of the two in the fishing-boat when Arthur Harpole's body was found.”

“I have heard that,” Thrapston replied. “Nina has told me the whole story. I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Merrion. It is on account of that young man's death that you are here?”

“It is,” said Arnold. “You will understand that it is my duty to interview everyone who knew him. You did not know him yourself?”

Thrapston shook his head. “I know very few people in Greycliffe. I had heard of Dr. Harpole as a man who was universally popular, but I never knew him or any of his family. Nina has told me about Arthur Harpole and his brother. Even to the extent that a few hours before his death she became engaged to him.”

“You had no knowledge of that until Miss Farleigh told you?”Arnold asked.

“None whatever,” Thrapston replied. “I know what's in your mind, and I don't blame you for it. It is pretty obvious, to me at all events, that the young fellow's death was due to foul play. I have long wanted to marry Nina, and therefore had an obvious motive for murdering her fiancé. But I can assure you that I didn't.”

Arnold smiled. “You are frank, Mr. Thrapston. You won't think me impertinent if I ask where you were on Thursday night?”

“Not at all, for it is your duty to ask me. I was in London, attending the annual meeting and dinner of the National Union of Maltsters, of which I am vice-chairman. The party did not break up until nearly midnight. I can produce a dozen witnesses to prove that I was at the Cafe Royal until that hour.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thrapston,” said Arnold. “There will be no need for us to trouble those witnesses. I understand that you were instrumental in bringing the Farleighs to Grey dine?”

“I was,” Thrapston replied. “But I shouldn't like you to think that it was because I wanted to keep an eye on Nina. In fact, I was careful never to go to Greycliffe while they were staying there. It was because it was quite obvious that they would go completely broke if they stayed in London any longer. A more feckless couple than Clarence Farleigh and his wife I have never imagined. But I can't help liking them, all the same. And that, in spite of the way they treated Nina.”

He frowned, and then continued: “I may as well make my position quite plain. I fell in love with Nina the first time I met her. So I made it my business to get to know her family and do what I could for them. Bribery, you may think. Perhaps it was. Anyhow, I very soon found out that the Farleigh family looked upon Nina as the only valuable property they possessed, and that they were prepared to sell her to the highest bidder. That's the literal truth.

“Nina held out against me for quite a while. In her eyes I was an old fogey whom no girl of her age could consider as a possible husband. But I wasn't taking no as her final answer. Let her have her fling by all means. I felt pretty sure that in time she would come to see that she could do far worse than marry me.

“And then, last Saturday morning, the whole family descended upon me when I was having breakfast. Nina came first as their ambassadress, and I was so pleased by what she said to me that I welcomed them with open arms. It seemed that they had spent the night, or most of it, camping on the recreation ground. However, within half an hour they were all sitting happily in the dining-room having breakfast. Fortunately, this house is fairly large, and there's plenty of room for them.”

“So that the future of the family is assured,” Arnold remarked.

“Oh, yes,” Thrapston replied. “I've got a small property a few miles from here, which the parents are welcome to live in if they care to. I'm taking Guy into the office. Not as an act of charity, but because I'm very anxious to have a younger man that I can teach the business to. I believe that beneath his nonsensical poetic veneer, Guy has his head screwed on his shoulders. As � soon as he's learnt the ropes, Nina and I will be able to get away sometimes. I've always wanted to travel, but I've never been able to leave the office for long enough at a time.

“Of course, Nina will always be my first consideration. I know very well that she doesn't love me, in the sense that she loved young Arthur Harpole. She has told me as much. But I know that she is fond of me, and trusts me to do all that I can for her. A genuine affection will grow from that, I feel sure. I don't expect her to forget Arthur, for I don't believe that women ever do forget their first love. But his memory will fade as she grows older and, I hope, becomes a mother.”

“I can only wish you both every happiness,” said Arnold.

“Thanks,” Thrapston replied. “But look here. You don't want to listen to me gassing about my own affairs. Won't you and Mr. Merrion stay to lunch?”

Arnold declined the invitation, on the excuse that his presence was urgently required at Greycliffe. He and Merrion took their leave of Thrapston and drove away. “I'm inclined to think that girl has done the best she could for herself,” Arnold remarked.

“So am I,” Merrion agreed. “But she's had a pretty rough passage before she's got safely in to port. It's just as well that she was prevented from marrying Arthur. If she had, they'd have found themselves in no better position than her parents. Talking of Arthur, it's amazing how many people had a motive for wishing him out of the way.”

“I was struck by a chance remark of Nina's,” said Arnold. “That Thursday evening, after the altercation between Nina and her parents, her father flung out of the house, incensed at her refusal to give up Arthur.”

“He could have taken a train or bus to Rickford,” Merrion replied. “But how did he know that he would find Arthur there? Unless it was a put-up job.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”Arnold asked.

“Guy told us that it was Freddy's suggestion that the party should go to Rickford,” Merrion replied. “And that's probably true. Now, who was Freddy? Since Guy had never seen or heard of him before, it seems probable that he was someone whom Bill had met at the Fountain or elsewhere and taken a momentary fancy to. It is not impossible that it was Bill's intention that Arthur should spend that evening in Rickford. But he did not want to make the suggestion that the party should go there. So, before picking up Arthur and Guy, he asked Freddy to make the suggestion at the first stopping-place.”

“Well, that may be so,” Arnold agreed. “What next?”

“If that had been Bill's intention, he may have imparted it to some other person or persons,” Merrion replied. “Let's run over what we've learnt from various sources, and get the items into proper sequence. Patty told Nina that Arthur was the elder on Wednesday morning. Nina repeated this to her family that afternoon. They all believed this to be the fact until Arthur's call on Mr. Farleigh early on Thursday evening.

“Nina became engaged to Arthur on Wednesday evening. Doesn't it seem likely that her parents would be desperately anxious to make sure that she had hooked the right fish? It would be quite easy for them to do so. There must be dozens of people in Greycliffe who knew for certain that Charles was the elder brother. Suppose that on Thursday morning Nina's parents asked one of these and, to their horror, learnt the truth?”

“That imagination of yours again,” Arnold remarked. “And the parents fixed up with Bill to take Arthur to Rickford, where he could conveniently be murdered?”

“Their methods need hardly have been as crude as that,” Merrion replied. “Something like this is more likely to have been what happened. Mr. Farleigh saw Bill, and told him that he was very anxious to have a talk with Arthur without the knowledge of either his family or Arthur's. This could not very well be contrived in Greycliffe. Mr. Farleigh asked Bill if he would take Arthur that evening to some place where he could meet him, apparently by chance. It may have been Bill who suggested Rickford as a suitable place.”

Arnold thought this over for a moment. “There's one fairly obvious objection. How could Mr. Farleigh have met Arthur without Guy's knowledge?”

“The party became separated,” Merrion replied. “Or, at all events, Guy wandered away into the unknown. Farleigh didn't show up until he had done so. If Freddy was present at the meeting, it didn't matter. He didn't know Farleigh by sight, and would have taken him for some acquaintance of Arthur's. Bill, seeing that the plan had worked, would tactfully have withdrawn, taking Freddy with him.”

“Farleigh could have got to Rickford easily enough,” said Arnold thoughtfully. “But how could he have got back to Greycliffe at that time of night? The last train and bus had gone, and he would hardly have ventured to hire a taxi.”

“He could have walked,” Merrion replied. “I seem to remember that we did, yesterday morning.”

“You really believe that Farleigh did the trick?” Arnold asked.

“He had the motive,” Merrion replied. “And I think I've explained how he could have contrived the opportunity. He told Arthur that he must have a highly confidential conversation with him, and suggested that they should take a stroll through the town together. But Farleigh is by no means the only suspect. There's something I haven't told you. Mavis and I saw Mr. Sowerby yesterday evening. He told us that after he left The Cedars on Thursday evening he walked round the grounds of Creeking Hall till after midnight.”

CHAPTER XIII

WHEN MERRION got back to the Grand Central he found Mavis having lunch. “Late again,” she remarked. “I've nearly finished. However, it's just as well that you've found some occupation to keep you out of mischief. Well, have you and Mr. Arnold been bullying that unfortunate girl?”

“I let Arnold do the talking, while I kept in the background,” Merrion replied. “Before I tell you what she said, I'm going to admit that you were right. She was genuinely in love with Arthur, there's no doubt about that.”

“I'll refrain from saying I told you so,” said Mavis. “Perhaps now you'll take a more charitable view of her actions. How did she strike you?”

“As a girl who has had a pretty rough passage,” Merrion replied. “That's what I told Arnold. However, I think she's come to the end of her troubles now. In fact, the lot of them seem to be in clover.”

“Tell me about Nina,” said Mavis. “I'm bound to say that I'm more interested in her than I am in Arthur, who from all accounts seems to have been a bit of a young scamp.”

Her husband laughed. “You're joining the ranks of those who think that Nina had a lucky escape. Young scamp though Arthur may have been, it's Arnold's job to find out who bumped him off, and I'm ready to help him. But if you want to hear Nina's story, I'll tell it to you.” '' He repeated what Nina had said. “And then the happy man came in,” he went on. “Yes, I really think he's happy. He seemed to me a very decent sort, with a thoroughly sound understanding of the situation. And Nina isn't by any means the adventuress she appeared to so many people here. She may seem fickle, but that's hardly her fault.”

“I hope she'll settle down happily with Mr. Thrapston,” said Mavis. “I think she will, in time, from what you tell me of her.”

“Thrapston thinks so too,” Merrion replied. “He was most philosophic on the subject of her love affair with Arthur. Now that she can't be bullied any longer by her parents, Nina will be able to lead a life of her own. Her husband won't bully her, I'm quite sure of that.”

“What a life for a girl to have led!”Mavis exclaimed. “Knowing that her family had staked their existence on her looks. No wonder that she seemed furtive and artificial. To her the world must have been artificial, and she could do no more than conform to it. And on the one occasion when she allowed herself a genuine feeling, sudden death intervened to frustrate her.”

“And to drive her into compliance with her parents' wishes,” Merrion replied. “I dare say it's all for the best. I don't know, for one can't legislate for other people. I tell you what. I'll take you over to Silvermouth this afternoon, and you shall see the place for yourself.”

After lunch they went out together in the car. Merrion took the road to Silvermouth, and pulled up on the crest of the hill overlooking the town, as he had before. “You see that great block of buildings on the quay,” he said. “That, I am told, is Thrapston's mailings. I rather expect that the Absurdity, which so nearly ran us down, was bringing barley for him. You may imagine Guy, having forsaken poetry, working at more mundane matters in the office there. Now we'll go on, and I'll show you Fair View.”

He drove through the town, and stopped outside the entrance. “Again you can exercise your imagination. Mr. and Mrs. Farleigh waiting just where we are now, while Nina went on to admit her surrender. It must have been a desperately anxious time for them. What if Thrapston had changed his mind? What would they have done then?”

“Found someone else with money for Nina to marry,” Mavis replied. “Upon my word, it would have served them right. I can't say that I care for the house. It has no character whatever. But perhaps Nina will be able to make it rather more human.”

“She'll have to refurnish it if she's to do that,” said Merrion. “The room Arnold and I were shown into looks like what one imagines the reception-room of a prison to be. If you've seen enough, we'll go on.”

They returned to Greycliffe by a different route. As they were sitting on the veranda of the Grand Central before dinner, Mr. Sowerby appeared in company with an elderly man, hale and hearty as far as anyone could guess. “Good afternoon,” said Mr. Sowerby. “We hoped we should find you both here. May I introduce Sir Thomas Graffham? He arrived at The Cedars this afternoon. And when he had been told the details of Arthur's death, he expressed a wish to hear the story from your own lips, Mr. Merrion.”

“That's right,” Graffham chimed in, in a curiously deep and rumbling voice. “I always like to get my facts from the horse's mouth. One's apt to get hold of the wrong end of the stick if one doesn't. That is, if you and Mrs. Merrion have got time to spare for an old man like me.”

“Of course we have,” Mavis replied. “My husband and I were just going to order a cocktail. Won't you and Mr. Sowerby sit down and join us?”

“That's good of you,” said Graffham. “But if it's to be cocktails, you'll have to leave me out. My doctor has threatened to give me up if I don't go easy on alcohol. I'll have a glass of tomato juice, if I may, and pretend that it's doing me good.”

Merrion summoned the waiter and ordered three sherries and a tomato juice. “I hope you have recovered from your illness, Sir Thomas?” he asked.

“Getting better, thanks,” Graffham replied. “Staying here with Edith and Charles will do me a lot of good, I don't doubt. Jimmy Sowerby tells me that you knew Eustace Harpole, Mr. Merrion. A finer fellow never lived. I shall never forget how he saved my life at the risk of his own. If he hadn't had a steady hand and foot, we'd both of us been at the bottom, of that confounded crevasse. Cured me of mountain climbing for good and all. But Eustace had nerves of steel.”

“Dr. Harpole was always very good to us boys,” Merrion remarked.

“He was very good to everybody,” Graffham replied. “He'd take as much trouble doctoring any rapscallion as he would his dearest friend. Charles takes after him, but I'm sorry to have to say that the other poor boy didn't. Shocking thing that he should have been drowned like that, all the same.”

Merrion expected to be asked to describe the finding of Arthur's body. But, like many other people seeking information, Graffham seemed to prefer talking of himself. “My doctor told me I wanted a change of air,” he went on. “Said that I wanted sea air and a rest. That's why I'm here. My hand was still a bit shaky, so I got my housekeeper to write and ask Charles if he and Edith would have me. They replied by return that they'd be delighted, so I wasted no time and sent a wire to say that I was coming. I didn't feel up to driving all this way in my own car, so I hired a chap in the village to drive me in his.”

He took a sip of his tomato juice and laid the glass down. “Might taste less nasty if it had a drop of gin in it. But I must obey orders, I suppose. I dare say it was my own fault that I was taken queer like that. The fact is that I'd been dining with a friend of mine in Buckbridge. It was his silver wedding-day, and he and his wife had given a party to celebrate. He'd got some special burgundy saved up for the occasion, and what with that and other things we all did ourselves pretty well.”

“I seem to remember, Tom, that you were never averse from doing yourself well,” Mr. Sowerby remarked.

“My doctor says I'm paying for it now,” Graffham replied. “He talks about my liver and my arteries in a way that would make your flesh creep. However that may be, I was in good enough form to drive myself back from the party. And then, as soon as I got inside my own front door, everything went black and I collapsed. The next thing I knew, I was in bed, with the doctor and my housekeeper standing over me.”

“Not a very pleasant experience,” Merrion remarked.”

“It wasn't,” Graffham replied feelingly. “I felt as if l all the stuffing had run out of me. The doctor said I was y to stay where I was till further orders. But my housekeeper, like the silly old woman she is, got into a panic. She made up her mind that I was on my death-bed, and sent a wire to Charles, telling him to come at once.

“Charles turned up on Friday morning. I was very surprised to see him, for my housekeeper hadn't told me about the wire she'd sent. However, I was very glad to have him in the house. Not only because I like him, but because he was someone intelligent to talk to. He told me that he would have arrived on Thursday night, but that he had missed a connection. I said that he needn't have been in all that hurry, for I wasn't going to die yet, whatever my housekeeper might think.

“That afternoon a wire came for Charles. He didn't tell me about it then, but I know now that it was from Edith, with the news that Arthur was dead. All Charles told me was that he had a message which made it necessary for him to return to Greycliffe as soon as possible. But he wasn't going to leave Buckbridge Place until he was sure that I was out of the wood. On Saturday morning the doctor came, and he and Charles had a pow-wow. I don't know what they said to one another, but Charles told me that he felt he could safely leave me. I was sorry to let him go, but I knew that he wouldn't have left me without very good reason.

“And then, not long after he had gone to catch his train, an extraordinary thing happened. How the fellow knew that I had been taken queer, I can't imagine. I asked my housekeeper if she had been spreading the news round, but she swore she hadn't. The doctor had given orders that I wasn't to see any visitors who might upset me, so my housekeeper interviewed him. She didn't tell me about it until I was up and about yesterday. Afraid that I should go off the deep end, I suppose.”

“Who was this person who called, Tom?” Mr. Sowerby asked.

“Why, my nephew,” Graffham replied. “Heard that I was ill, and came to inquire after the uncle he had never seen.”

“Your nephew?”Mr. Sowerby exclaimed, “I didn't know you had one.”

“I dare say you didn't, Jimmy,” Graffham replied. “He and his mother are people I don't talk about. But Eustace knew, for my nephew was the same age as Arthur. He also knew that I very strongly disapproved of my sister and her marriage, and that I meant to have nothing more to do with her. And I haven't. She writes to me at very rare intervals, but I don't answer her letters.”

“You and your sister had quarrelled. Sir Thomas?”

Merrion asked.

Graffham shook his head. “It wasn't a quarrel exactly. But Kate let me down. I'll tell you how it was. I'm a bachelor. The only woman I ever really cared for turned me down, and I have never felt like risking the humiliation of another refusal. Kate always said that she wasn't of the marrying sort, and after my father's death she and I kept house together at Buckbridge Place. Rubbed along well enough, too. Kate had certainly nothing to complain, about.

“She used to go up to London some times for a few days to stay with friends. She came back from one of these visits and told me that she'd met some one at a cocktail party whom she had asked to come down to Buckbridge Place to meet me. There didn't seem to me to be anything in that, for she had asked her friends to stay before then. I asked her who this new acquaintance of hers was, and she said Mr. Edgar Mudde.

“That astonished me. The people she had asked to stay before had all been women, or at least a man and his wife. I was a bit upset, and asked her if she expected me to entertain this male friend of hers. She said that she didn't, and that she was quite capable of looking after her own friends. And in any case, Mr. Mudde would only be staying for a couple of days.

“Well, the fellow came, and I disliked him at sight. He was one of those vulgar, flashy chaps, with an accent one could cut with a knife. What Kate could see in him I couldn't make out, but they seemed to get on remarkably well together. And after the chap had gone, Kate told me in the casual sort of voice she would have used in telling me that she was going to call on the Rector's wife, that she was going to marry him.

“I couldn't believe my ears, after all that she had said about never meaning to marry anybody. I didn't try to dissuade her, for if she had made up her mind to make a fool of herself, it was her own affair. I asked her if she meant to bring her Edgar to live at Buckbridge Place, and she said certainly not. Edgar was a man of means, with a business in Durham and a house at Bishop Auckland. A mercifully long way from Buckbridge, I thought.

“The whole thing was a shock to me, and I told her so. I said that she didn't seem to have given a moment's thought to her brother's convenience. Who was going to look after the domestic affairs of the house when she had gone? She told me it was very selfish to look at it that way. I ought to consider my sister's happiness first. As for that, Mrs. Privett was perfectly capable of looking after the house and everything in it.

“I should say that Mrs. Privett is my present housekeeper. I forget her maiden name, but she was under-kitchenmaid, or something of the kind, in my father's time. She married the head groom, and when he was killed in the first war, she came back into service. Lucky for me she did, for she runs the house like clockwork.

“Well, three months later Kate and her Edgar got married. It was the question of the wedding that led to her leaving me. I told her that I wouldn't have her married at Buckbridge, for I didn't want the whole parish to see what a bounder she had chosen for a husband. She flared up at that, and said she wasn't going to stay at Buckbridge Place to be insulted. She went up to London next day, and I have never seen her since. But one thing I told her before she went. And that was that she, or her husband, or her family if she had one, need never expect anything from me.”

“You were rather hard on her, weren't you, Tom?”Mr. Sowerby suggested.

“Not a bit of it!”Graffham replied. “Kate had gone her way, and left me to go mine. I resented, and still resent, the way she left me in the lurch. And I couldn't abide the man she had chosen to marry. It was far better that we should part for good and all. I saw the announcement of the marriage in The Times, and a year later I had a letter from her, the first I had had since we parted. It was to tell me that I had a nephew. I didn't send the brat a christening mug.

“I heard from Kate half a dozen times after that. Stiff, formal letters, hoping that I was in good health as she and her husband and son were. As I've told you, I didn't answer them. And then, during the last war, I saw a notice of my brother-in-law's death.

“I prepared myself for the worst. I didn't know how Kate had been left, and I was afraid that she and her son might land themselves upon me. I didn't want them at Buckbridge Place, for I had got far too used to living by myself to have anyone else permanently in the house. However, nothing of the kind happened, and a little while later I got a letter from Kate which relieved my mind. Her husband had left her the house in Bishop Auckland, and she meant to stay there. Her income would be just enough for her and her son to live on, and by saving and scraping she hoped to send him to a public school when he was old enough.

“Well, as I say, that was great relief to me. I heard from Kate again from time to time. The boy did go to a public school, though I'm bound to say it was one I had never heard of before. After that, he was called up and served in the army. The last I heard from Kate was that he had got a job of some kind. Not in his father's Business, for that, whatever it was, seems to have died with him.”

“And you have never so much as seen him?”Mr. Sowerby asked incredulously.

“Never!”Graffham replied firmly. “I never had the slightest intention of making him my heir. If Kate had married a man of our own standing, things might have been different. This young man no doubt takes after his father. And I don't want Buckbridge Place, which has been in my family for generations, to fall into the hands of a man like Edgar Mudde. That Charles should inherit it is a very different matter. He'll turn out to be his father all over again.”

“I can't help thinking that it was rather decent of the young fellow to come all the way from Durham to inquire how you were,” Mr. Sowerby remarked.

“How he knew there was anything wrong with me, I can't make out,” Graffham replied. “Mrs. Privett wouldn't lie to me, I'm sure of that. And I don't believe anyone else in Buckbridge knows my sister's address. Well, yes, I suppose it was decent of him. Especially as he must know that he had nothing to gain by it. Perhaps, some day, I'll ask him to come and see me. It wouldn't do any harm.”

“Why not strike while the iron's hot, Sir Thomas?”Merrion asked. “You needn't ask your nephew to Buckbridge Place, if you think that would be awkward. Ask him to come and call on you while you are here.”

Graffham finished his tomato juice in one reluctant gulp. “Well, perhaps that's not a bad idea. I'll think it over, and mention it to Charles.” He pulled out his watch and glanced at it. “My word! It's time I was getting along. They'll think I'm a most inconsiderate guest if I'm late for dinner at The Cedars. I've thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with you and your husband, Mrs. Merrion.”

“You haven't told us your nephew's Christian name, Sir Thomas,” said Merrion, as they rose from their chairs.

“Haven't I?” Graffham replied. “His name's William, I suppose. Kate always refers to him as Bill. Bill Mudde! Can you beat it? Good evening to you both, and many thanks for your entertainment.”

He and Mr. Sowerby went away together. Mavis smiled. “And he never asked you to tell him about Arthur, after all.”

“Not he,” Merrion replied. “All he wanted was some-one fresh to talk to. I hope somebody will introduce him to Mrs. Dunster. They'll get on famously together. But I can't help feeling a smug satisfaction about that nephew. His existence supports a suggestion I made some time ago. Just a minute before we go into dinner. I want to put a call through to the police station.”

He went to the telephone and returned. “Shall we go in now? I contacted Liscombe, and asked him if I could see him and Arnold in an hour's time. He said I could, and that he would see that Arnold was there. I fancy they'll be interested in what I've got to tell them.”

As soon as they had finished dinner, Merrion walked to the police station, where he found Liscombe and Arnold. “Good evening, Mr. Merrion,” said Liscombe. “We're very glad to see you. Have you come to tell us something?”

“I have,” Merrion replied. He turned to Arnold. “Have you got any news yet of that big Buick?”

“Give us a chance,” said Arnold. “It'll be a day or two yet before the reports come in.”

“Perhaps I can help you,” Merrion replied. “Unless I'm very much mistaken, I think I can tell you something about the elusive Bill. To begin with, his name is Mudde.”

“Of course his name is mud!” Arnold exclaimed irritably. “We shouldn't be on his track if it wasn't. What do you mean?”

Merrion laughed. “You misunderstand me. His surname is Mudde, with two d's and an e. And he's Sir Thomas Graffham's nephew.”

“His nephew?” Liscombe asked doubtfully. “I understood that Sir Thomas had no near relations.”

“So, apparently, did most people,” Merrion replied. “But my wife, Mr. Sowerby and I were talking to Sir Thomas a couple of hours ago. He has come to stay at The Cedars, by the way. He told us that he had a nephew whose name is William Mudde, who is always referred to as Bill.”

“Bill is hardly an uncommon name,” Arnold remarked dryly.

“Yes, I know,” Merrion replied. “But listen to this. Sir Thomas's nephew called at Buckbridge Place on Saturday morning to inquire after his uncle. Charles had left by then. Sir Thomas didn't see his nephew, for he was in bed, under orders to receive no disturbing visitor. But the housekeeper interviewed him.

“Sir Thomas cannot understand how his nephew had heard of his illness, which only came on on Wednesday night. But if that nephew is the Bill you're looking for, that mystery is explained.”

“I hardly see how, Mr. Merrion. “said Liscombe.

“We have to recall what Mr. Farleigh and his son Guy told Arnold,” Merrion replied. “On Thursday evening Arthur told Mr. Farleigh that Charles had been summoned to the bedside of his godfather, who had been taken ill. At some time on Friday Mr. Farleigh told Guy this, and he repeated it to his friend Bill. This may account for Bill's decision to leave Greycliffe that evening. Having dumped the Farleigh family on the recreation ground. Bill drove off. He could have reached Buckbridge comfortably by Saturday morning.”

“Do you know where this William Mudde of yours lives?”Arnold asked.

“At Bishop Auckland in Durham, with his mother, I believe,” Merrion replied.

“Then our course is pretty clear,” said Liscombe. “Communicate with the Bishop Auckland police. Ask them if this William Mudde owns, or has the use of, a Buick car. If so, whether he has been away in it during the past three weeks.”

Arnold nodded. “That'll be the best thing to do.”

“Then if we get a satisfactory answer, it will be your job to go and interview the gentleman,” said Liscombe.

“May I butt in for a moment?”Merrion asked.

“Certainly, Mr. Merrion,” Liscombe replied. “We owe this valuable piece of information to you.”

“Then I would recommend you not to act too hastily,” said Merrion. “I have reason to believe that Sir Thomas may ask his nephew to come and see him here. Would it not be better to wait for a few days rather than put Bill on his guard by having inquiries made about him?”

“Why wait a few days when we can get the information we want in a matter of hours?”Arnold asked.

“You know your own business best, of course,” Merrion replied. “But it seems to me it would be interesting to see whether, if his uncle asks him to come here, he will do so. Let me remind you of a remark which Guy made to you. He said that when he told Bill that Arthur was not the elder brother. Bill seemed utterly taken aback.”

“It's perfectly plain to me what Mr. Merrion has in mind,” said Liscombe. “He thinks it possible that Bill was the murderer. Isn't that so, Mr. Merrion?”

“We have all considered that possibility,” Merrion replied. “But, up till now, it has seemed unlikely, for we were unaware that Bill had any motive for murder. But now, I think, his motive is clear enough.”

“It may be to your imagination,” said Arnold. “But it isn't clear to me. Explain to us what you mean.”

“It isn't clear to you because you haven't grasped all the facts,” Merrion replied. “I'll put them before you. Long ago. Dr. Harpole saved Sir Thomas's life, at the risk of his own. To show his gratitude for this, Sir Thomas became godfather to the first boy born to Dr. Harpole, and made his godson his heir. There is no doubt about either of these facts, for Sir Thomas himself mentioned them just now.

“If the godson died before the godfather, what would happen? Sir Thomas would be most unlikely to make Dr. Harpole's second son his heir. From the way he spoke of him, it is quite obvious that he did not approve of Arthur. Sir Thomas would have to look round for someone else whom he considered suitable to succeed him. He might even have made the acquaintance of his nephew for that purpose. In any case, his sister is the next of kin. If Sir Thomas should die before he had named his heir, she would inherit the whole of the Buckbridge Place estate. And Sir Thomas's sister is Bill's mother.

“Now consider what little we know about Bill. It is surely evident, from what Guy said of his first meeting with him, that he intended to become acquainted with the Harpole family, or at least with one member of it. Guy had told him that Arthur was the elder. On Thursday evening Bill called at the Farleigh's house to inquire for Arthur and to ask him to come for a jaunt in the car. Arthur did not return alive from Rickford. Next day, Bill was not unnaturally taken aback when he learnt that his uncle's heir was still alive.”

“Excellent!”Liscombe exclaimed. “You have made the situation quite plain, Mr. Merrion. I am inclined to take your advice about waiting for a few days. What do you think, Mr. Arnold?”

“Well, I don't know,” Arnold replied. “It's giving the fellow a lot of rope. What if he makes a bolt for it while we're waiting?”

“He won't make a bolt for it if you don't let him know that he's under suspicion,” said Merrion. “This is the way I see it. If it's true that Bill has a job, he was probably on holiday while he was here. His holiday came to an end that week-end. After he had called at Buckbridge Place on Saturday he drove back home. He probably won't be able to get away from work again till this weekend. If his uncle writes to him, and he agrees to come here, it won't be before Saturday.”

“How are we to know when to expect him?”Arnold asked.

“You can safely leave that to me,” Merrion replied. “I fancy that I shall see Sir Thomas again before very long. Any information I get from him I will pass on.”

“Then I think we had better leave it at that, for the present,” Liscombe replied.

“You'll understand that I can't hang about here on the chance of Bill turning up,” said Arnold. “My chief would want to know what I was up to. I'll get back to the Yard to-morrow, if you have no objection. Superintendent.”

“None whatever,” Liscombe replied. “I quite appreciate your position. I can always warn you to come back here. at short notice.”

CHAPTER XIV

So MATTERS were arranged, and Merrion left the police station. But instead of returning to the Grand Central, he walked down to the harbour, in search of Windrush. As the fisherman was not to be seen, Merrion went on to the Kettle of Fish, where he found the man he was looking for. “Good evening, Mr. Windrush,” he said. “l thought I'd look in and have a pint with you. Are the mackerel still about?”

“They're running fairly,” Windrush replied. “I've) been out most mornings and picked up a few. I'll be going out to-morrow about ten, and I'd be glad to have you with me if you'd care to come, mister.”

“I'll jump at that offer,” said Merrion. “Let's hope we shan't get the same sort of catch as we did last time.”

“Let's hope not,” Windrush agreed warmly. “I had to waste all the fish we caught that day. Didn't fancy them after you'd been rolling that dead body all over them, so I threw them overboard.”

After some further conversation, Merrion finished his pint and went back to the Grand Central. He told Mavis of the arrangement that had been made. “We shan't see Arnold again for a day or two, if things go as I expect they will. But I'm willing to bet that we shall see Sir Thomas before very long.”

Next morning Merrion went out with Windrush in the boat. There was a slight breeze, and they hoisted the sail, dispensing with the motor. But the season was getting late, and they caught no more than a couple of dozen fish. Windrush was of the opinion that the reason why they had done so much better on the previous Friday was that the body floating about beneath the surface had attracted the mackerel.

But the true reason why Merrion had sought out Windrush was to sound him as to the local opinion of the mystery of Arthur's death. They discussed the matter as they sailed to and fro, trailing their mackerel lines astern. “He wasn't too careful who he went about with, everybody knows that,” said Windrush. “Most of them are saying that one of his queer friends must have knocked him on the head. Then having cleared out his pockets, shoved him into the water. But my Reg doesn't hold with that. He knows that Arthur was sweet on a girl, and that she's cleared out, she and her family. What did they do that for if they hadn't had a hand in it, Reg wants to know.”

“Did your son ever meet any of these queer friends? ' Merrion asked.

“I don't know that he ever met any of the queer ones,” Windrush replied. “But he did see Arthur with a chap he called Bill. This Bill asked them both to have a drink with him, but Reg says there was nothing queer about him, for he was one of Arthur's sort. Bill asked Reg if he'd care to come for a run in his car one evening, but Reg never did.”

After they had returned to harbour, and Merrion was on his way to the Grand Central, he thought about Bill's invitation to Reg. Had this been merely an act of friendliness on his part? It seemed to Merrion more likely that Bill had been trying to arrange a party, presumably for Thursday evening. Apparently, anyone would do as the fourth member. Failing Reg, he had picked up Freddy. The idea being that he could pair off the fourth member with Guy, while he dealt with Arthur.

That evening, as Merrion had more than half-expected, Graffham appeared at the Grand Central at the same hour as before. He looked about him, then came straight to where Merrion and Mavis were sitting. “Good evening to you both,” he said. “I guessed I should find you here. I asked Charles to come with me, but he said he didn't care to go out much after what has happened. He's very much cut up about his brother's death, you know. Those two lads got on together wonderfully well, although their natures were so different. Now it's my turn to ask you both to have a drink with me.”

“That's very kind of you, Sir Thomas,” Mavis replied.

“It's not kindness, it's a pleasure,” said Graffham. “You both like sherry, I know. I shall have to stick to my tomato juice, I suppose. But this time I'm going to ask them to put a drop of sherry in it.”

“Would your doctor approve?” Mavis asked mischievously.

Graffham winked at her. “He'll never know.” He beckoned to the waiter and gave the order. “Just a drop of sherry won't hurt me. And do you know what, Mr. Merrion? I don't know how it came about, but last evening we got talking about other things, and you never told me what I came about. I would like to hear how you found that poor lad's body.”

Once more Merrion repeated the story. Graffham listened, sipping his drink with more relish than he had on the previous evening. “Very remarkable,” he said. “I haven't cared to talk about Arthur to Edith and Charles. They're feeling it too badly. But Jimmy Sowerby has been telling me that he'd got himself engaged to a girl who was no good.”

“I've met the lady in question,” Merrion replied. “She might not have been the most desirable wife for Arthur, but I can hardly agree with Mr. Sowerby that she is no good.”

Graffham shook his head. “She hasn't got a penny to bless herself with, so Jimmy tells me. And Arthur was not the sort of young chap who'd work his hands to the bone to keep her. Jimmy says that he and his wife would have sponged on his family, and I dare say he's not far wrong. He's head over ears in love with Edith. He hasn't told me that, but I can see it clearly enough for myself.”

Merrion smiled. “I have noticed Mr. Sowerby's solicitude for Miss Harpole's interests.”

“He thinks of nobody but her,” Graffham replied. “He's very fond of Charles, but even he comes second in his thoughts. Talking of Charles, I spoke to him about that nephew of mine. He didn't know that I had a sister, much less a nephew, and he was very shocked when I told him. He said it made him feel very uncomfortable that I had made him my heir instead of my nephew. I told him that was nonsense, and that I was the best judge of my affairs. I had made him my heir, and that was the end of it.

“Then I told Charles of your idea of my sending for the young fellow. He was very much in favour of it. He said he'd like to meet him, and if he came here, of course he would. He even offered to put him up at The Cedars, but I wouldn't have that. It's more than likely that he'll turn out to be a yahoo like his father.

“Anyway, I've written to him. Just a curt note, telling him I should be at The Cedars for the next week or two, and that if he cared to come here I would see him. No more than that. Whether he'll think it worth his while to come or not is more than I can say. Well, it's about time I was getting along.”

“Won't you have another drink before you go?” Merrion asked. “A non-alcoholic one this time, if you like.”

Graffham shook his head. “Mustn't be late for dinner. If I stop here too long I wouldn't put it past Edith to send Charles to fetch me. She's constituted herself my keeper, and I've got to do what I'm told.”

“You'll look in again to-morrow, won't you, Sir Thomas?” said Mavis. “We're always to be found here about this time.”

“I certainly will,” Graffham replied. “Good as the are to me at The Cedars, there's naturally an atmosphere of bereavement, and I like to get away from it for a few minutes sometimes.”

“He's not the sort of person to fit into an atmosphere of bereavement,” said Merrion, when Graffham had gone “He's a jovial old boy, and the sort of party he told you about is more in his line.”

“He's a self-centred old wretch,” Mavis replied. “But I can't help liking him, just the same. I wonder how he and his nephew will get on when they meet?”

“If they ever do meet,” said her husband darkly. “I fancy there's a shock coming for Sir Thomas. However, we shall see.”

The next day passed uneventfully. The Merrions went out for a drive, lunched out, and did not return to the Grand Central till tea-time. They were sitting on the veranda before dinner, expecting Graffham, when he arrived. “Ah, here you are,” he said. “I've turned up again, like the proverbial bad penny, you see.”

“Just in time to have a drink,” Merrion replied. “What is it to be this time?”

“I'm going to have a glass of sherry,” Graffham replied firmly. “The drop I had in that infernal tomato juice yesterday didn't do me any harm. And it's the only chance of a decent drink that I shall get. Edith takes care that I only have soft drinks at The Cedars.”

“I shall write to your doctor and tell him,” said Mavis severely.

Graffham chuckled. “You don't know his name or address, dear lady. Honestly, a glass of sherry won't do me any harm. It'll act as a tonic.”

Merrion ordered the drinks, and Graffham went on. “That nephew of mine seems anxious enough to meet his uncle. Perhaps he thinks there's something to be got out of him. If he does, he'll be mistaken. I want to see what sort of a chap he is, that's all. Anyway, he sent a wire. It came this afternoon. I'll read it to you.”

He took a telegram from his pocket, unfolded it, put on his glasses and read it. “Sir Thomas Graffham, The Cedars, Greycliffe. Shall arrive eleven-forty train Saturday morning, Bill.”

Graffham took off his glasses and put the telegram back in his pocket. “He'll have to find his own way to The Cedars. As they don't know one another by sight, it would be no good sending Charles to meet him at the station. Anyway, I wouldn't. It might look like too warm a welcome. I want to see what he's like before I make any further advances.”

He stayed lingering over his sherry and talking for the next half-hour. Mavis told him that they lived in the country, and this set him off talking about Buckbridge Place. The original house was Tudor. But it was burnt down about a couple of hundred years ago, and a Georgian house built on the site. “Not too big, I'm glad to say, but with large rooms one can move about in. You must both come and see it some day. My father knew a good port when he tasted it, and there are still a few dozen of what he laid down. My doctor threatened to have the cellar blocked up while I was away. Well, I'll look round again to-morrow, if you're not getting tired of my company.”

Mavis assured that they would look forward to seeing him, and he went off. Having rung up for an appointment, Merrion walked to the police station after dinner. He found Liscombe there, and told him of the telegram Sir Thomas had received. “Bill doesn't seem to have hesitated about coming,” he remarked.

“If he thinks we don't know about that trip to Rickford, he'd see no reason why he shouldn't,” Liscombe replied. “You say that Sir Thomas doesn't want him met at the station. That's all to the good. We'll meet him ourselves. But how are we to know him when we see him?”

“It isn't absolutely certain that Sir Thomas's nephew is the Bill who was here last week,” said Merrion. “If I may make a suggestion, it is this. Bring Guy Farleigh over here and let him watch the passengers from the train as they pass through the barrier. If he spots his friend Bill, well and good. If he doesn't, my reasoning will have been at fault, and I shall be ready to apologise.”

“You're full of good ideas, Mr. Merrion,” Liscombe replied. “That's what I'll do. I'll send a car to fetch Guy and bring him to the station here. And I'll let Arnold know what's in the wind. One thing more. I shall ask you to be present at our interview. We may want to refer to you.”

Arnold arrived at Greycliffe by an early train on Saturday morning. At the police station he met Liscombe, who told him of the arrangements he had made. “Sir Thomas's nephew is expected to arrive here by the eleven-forty train. I have rung up Fair View and spoken to Guy Farleigh. I told him that you wished to speak to him, and that a car will call for him at eleven o'clock this morning. The driver will be told to take him to the railway station, and I suggest that you should be there to meet him. The stationmaster has agreed to let you take Guy into his office, which has a window overlooking the ticket barrier.

“If Guy points out his friend Bill, this is what I suggest you should do. Leave Guy where he is, for we don't want Bill to see him. Bring Bill here in the car that fetched Guy. I have asked Mr. Merrion to be here by half-past eleven, and he has promised to do so. When you and Bill arrive, the car can go back to the station, pick up Guy, and take him home to Fair View. Does that meet with your approval?”

“Nothing could be better,” Arnold replied. “We shall all look a bit foolish if Guy doesn't recognise any of the passengers from the train. But I think that Merrion is right as usual. The answers to our inquiries about Buick cars are coming in. Among them is one from County Durham. They report a Buick registered in the name of a firm of engineers near Bishop Auckland.”

“That's probably the one,” said Liscombe. “I'll get the car off to Silvermouth and give the driver his instructions.”

Arnold left a few minutes before half-past eleven and walked to the railway station. In the yard he found the police car, with Guy sitting in it. “Good morning, Mr. Farleigh,” said Arnold. “I'm sorry to have given you this trouble, but I want a few words with you. Will you come with me?”

He led Guy to the stationmaster's office and told that official who he was. “Good morning, Mr. Arnold,” the stationmaster replied. “The Superintendent told me to expect you. If you and your friend will sit in that window there, you'll be able to see everyone who comes off the eleven-forty. She's due now, and if you'll excuse me, I'll go out and meet her.”

“Now this is what I want you to do, Mr. Farleigh,” said Arnold when they were left alone. “It's quite simple. When the train comes in, I want you to watch the passengers who come off it. If you see anyone you know, tell me, but don't let yourself be seen. Then wait here until the car comes to take you back to Fair View.”

From where they sat, not only the ticket barrier but part of the platform was visible. As Arnold finished speaking, the train steamed in and came to a stop. A crowd of people alighted from it and streamed towards the barrier. Suddenly Guy uttered an exclamation. “Well, I'm blest! There's Bill, whom I was telling you about the other day. That big chap, wearing a blue suit and a dark-blue soft hat. I told you he was always well dressed. Mayn't I go out and have a word with him?”

“No, you mayn't,” Arnold replied firmly. “You stay where you are.” The office had a door opening on to the station yard, so Arnold was able to reach it with out passing through the barrier. The passengers were already coming out, and before long the man in the blue suit appeared. He stopped at the station entrance apparently looking round for a taxi. Arnold went up to him. “You are Mr. William Mudde, I believe?” he asked.

“That's my name,” the other replied. “Have you come from The Cedars?”

“I am Inspector Arnold, of the Metropolitan Police,' Arnold replied. “I must ask you to come with me to the police station. We have certain questions to ask you.”

Bill showed no sign of alarm, merely of annoyance. “Can't your questions wait?” he asked. “My uncle, Sir Thomas Graffham, is expecting me at The Cedars.”

“They cannot wait,” Arnold replied. “You will kindly come with me at once.” He beckoned to the driver of the police car, who drove up to them. With a shrug of the shoulders Bill got in, and Arnold took the seat beside him. The car drove off, and in two or three minutes they reached the police station.

Arnold led Bill into the Superintendent's room. Liscombe was sitting at his desk, with Merrion in a corner of the room behind him. “I have brought Mr. William Mudde to see you, sir,” said Arnold formally.

Liscombe nodded. “Will you please sit down, Mr. Mudde. In that chair there. Is it a fact that Sir Thomas Graffham is your uncle?”

“It is,” Bill replied. “He is expecting me now. I have come here at my uncle's invitation.”

“You have been here before, have you not?”Liscombe asked.

“I spent my holiday here recently,” Bill replied. “That holiday ended a week ago.”

“Did you know anyone living in Greycliffe before you took that holiday?”Liscombe asked.

“I can't say that I did,” Bill replied. “But I made several acquaintances while I was here.”

“I see,” said Liscombe. “Why, if you knew no one living here, did you choose Greycliffe rather than some other place?”

Bill hesitated slightly. “Well, I don't know. I had heard of Greycliffe, and it sounded the sort of place I should like.”

“I think that is hardly the strict truth,” said Liscombe severely. “You had the use of a Buick car while you were here?”

“I did,” Bill replied. “It belongs to the firm of which I am the representative. A big car is necessary, for I often have to take a gang of men to a repair job. As the car would not be required while I was away, the manager told me that I could take it if I cared to.”

“You found it useful, I dare say,” said Liscombe. “Now, about the acquaintances you made while you were here. An early one was Mr. Guy Farleigh, who introduced you to Mr. Arthur Harpole?”

“Yes, that's right,” Bill replied, a trifle uneasily.

“I suggest that you came here in order to make the acquaintance of the Harpole family,” said Liscombe. “You knew that your uncle had made his godson his heir?”

“Oh, yes, I knew that,” Bill replied. “My mother had told me so long ago. She said that her brother had disapproved of her marriage, and would have nothing more to do with her. He certainly never answered the letters she wrote to him.”

“And yet last Saturday you called at Buckbridge Place to inquire after your uncle. How did you know that he was ill?”

“Only by chance,” Bill replied. “The day before, Guy had told me that Charles Harpole had been sent for, as his godfather was seriously ill. It was only the proper thing for me to do to call at Buckbridge Place on my way home. I wanted to be able to tell my mother what the situation was. If it was critical, she might have wished to seek a reconciliation with her brother before he died. However, I was told that my uncle was recovering.”

“Very well,” said Liscombe. “On Thursday of last week you took a party of your friends out in the car. Why did you choose that particular evening?”

“Because it was the last free evening I had here,” Bill replied. “I had promised to spend Friday evening with some other friends. And I meant to be home on Saturday night. I had to start work again on Monday morning.”

“You were anxious that Arthur Harpole should join the party?”Liscombe asked.

“I might not have had the chance of seeing him again,' Bill replied. “But I wasn't at all sure that he would come, for Guy had told me that day that Arthur had become engaged to his sister.”

“When you picked up Arthur that evening, did you believe him to be your uncle's godson?”Liscombe asked.

“Well, that's rather a queer thing,” Bill replied. “I knew, for my mother had told me, that the elder Harpole brother was the godson. I don't know that I had ever been definitely told, but I had believed that Charles was the elder. However, the day before, I had heard from Guy that his sister had told him that Arthur was the elder.”

“Which, as you discovered later, was not correct,” said Liscombe. “But let us return to Thursday evening. Will you tell us exactly what you and your party did on that occasion?”

Bill frowned ruefully. “We made an evening of it, I'm afraid. I know I didn't feel any too good next morning. We started off without any definite idea where we were going to. I thought we might stop at a pub or two and have a drink. I took the Silvermouth road, with some vague idea that we might fetch up there. On the way we stopped at a pub, I don't remember the name of it, and Freddy suggested that we should go to Rickford, where he knew a few good places.”

“Who is this Freddy?”Liscombe asked.

“I've no idea who he is,” Bill replied. “I've never seen him since that evening. I had met him a day or two before in the Fountain here. I said that he could call me Bill, and he replied that I could call him Freddy. I know no more about him than that.”

“Where did you meet Freddy on Thursday evening?”Liscombe asked.

“I met him as I was on my way to Beaufort Terrace,” Bill replied. “I saw him walking along the pavement and pulled up and spoke to him. He had a shade over one eye, and I asked him what was the matter. He told me he had been stung by a wasp that afternoon. Then I told him that I was going to ask two of my friends, Guy and Arthur, to come for a jaunt in the car, and suggested that he might come too. He said he'd be delighted, and I told him to jump up beside me.”

“Did you arrange with Freddy that he should suggest going to Rickford?”Liscombe asked.

“I certainly did not,” Bill replied. “He made the suggestion entirely off his own bat. None of us raised any objection.”

“Had you ever been to Rickford before?”Liscombe asked.

Bill shook his head. “Never. I had driven through the town on my way here, but that's all. I didn't know my way from the pub I've told you about, but followed the signposts. We stopped once or twice at pubs we came to on the way for a drink. And when we got to Rickford, Freddy showed me where the car park was.”

“You had had several drinks before you got to Rickford,” said Liscombe. “Were you all comparatively sober by the time you got there?”

“Oh, yes, I think so,” Bill replied. “We had only been drinking beer. I was sober enough, for I am always careful how much I drink when I'm driving. And I think the others were. It wasn't until we started round the pubs. in Rickford that we really got going.”

“The four of you went from one place to another?”Liscombe suggested.

“Well, yes,” Bill replied. “At all events, to begin with. Then after a while we drifted apart. Got talking to various people we met, and chummed it with them. Guy was the first one I missed. I had seen him talking to some chap or other, and when I looked again they weren't there. That left three of us. After a while Freddy suggested that we went on to the next place.

“There I got talking to a chap who turned out to be in the same line of business as I am. We had a drink or two together, and then I discovered that Arthur and Freddy weren't there any more. They'd gone on to some other place that Freddy knew of, I suppose. I stayed talking to the chap I was with till nearly half-past eleven, when the pubs closed.

“Then I began to feel a bit anxious about Guy. The other two I wasn't worrying about, for Freddy would know his way back to the car park. But Guy had had a lot more drink than he was used to, and I was afraid he might get lost. So I went out and looked into all the pubs we'd been to. But Guy wasn't to be found anywhere.”

“Did you come across either of the other two?” Liscombe asked.

Bill shook his head. “I wasn't looking for them. I knew they'd be all right. I'd seen Arthur with a skinful of drink before, and he never turned a hair. It was Guy I was worrying about. After the pubs had closed I wandered round for a bit looking for him. I was beginning to be afraid that he might have been run in for being drunk and disorderly. Eventually I landed in the car park, and there I found Guy asleep in the car.”

Up till now Bill had said nothing which contradicted Guy's account of the evening adventure. Liscombe's manner became rather more severe. “After you had found Guy in the car, you took no further steps to find either of the others?”

“Where was I to look for them?” Bill replied. “Freddy, who was apparently familiar with Rickford, might have taken Arthur anywhere. I didn't know the place, and I couldn't very well knock on every door and ask if they were there. I knew that Arthur at least was fully capable of taking care of himself. As things turned out, he must have got back to Greycliffe somehow.”

“What makes you say that?”Liscombe asked quietly.

“Because it's perfectly obvious,” Bill replied. “I was told that his body had been found in the sea outside the harbour here.”

“What makes you think that he was drowned in the sea?”Liscombe asked.

“Why, because his body was found in it, of course,” Bill replied promptly.

“It is known that Arthur was drowned some time before midnight,” said Liscombe. “At that time you were in Rickford?”

“I was indeed,” Bill replied emphatically. “It was nearly midnight when Guy and I left the car park there and started to drive back here.”

“Guy could confirm that statement?”Liscombe asked.

Bill smiled. “I'm afraid you'll have to take my word for it. Guy was past caring what time it was. He was asleep when I found him, and he slept all the way back here. I had almost to carry him to the door of his house and unlock it for him. But he may remember that when I found him in the car I woke him up and told him that it was long past half-past eleven.”

“At all events, whether or not Guy can confirm they time, you are prepared to swear that you were in Rickford till nearly midnight?”

“I'll take my oath on it,” Bill replied unhesitatingly. “After the pubs had closed, and I was wandering about looking for Guy, I saw an illuminated clock on what l took to be the town hall. It showed the time to be a quarter to twelve. It must have been at least five minutes later that I got to the car park.”

“Thank you,” said Liscombe. “Now what would you say if I told you that Arthur was drowned not in the sea here, but in the river that runs through Rickford?”

CHAPTER XV

THE IMPLICATION of Liscombe's question was too obvious to be mistaken. Bill was too appalled to make any reply, and Liscombe went on. “It is my duty to caution you that anything you may say now may subsequently be used in evidence. Would you care to tell us the true reason why you chose Greycliffe for your holiday?”

Bill drew a deep breath. “I can see that I'm up against it. Yes, I'll tell you. I came here to make the acquaintance of my uncle's heir, and find out what sort of a man he was. Whether, if I told him who I was, he could be persuaded to listen to reason.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?”Liscombe asked.

“If I found that he was the sort of chap I could talk to, I was going to put my mother's position to him,” Bill replied. “The position is this. My grandfather had left everything to my uncle, expressing a wish in his will that my uncle should support his sister for life, or until she married. Consequently, when she married my father, this support ceased.

“My father was never a very rich man. His business was mainly a personal one, and when he died I was not old enough to carry it on. His income came to an end, and my mother was left with nothing but a house and such money as my father had been able to save. She had sufficient to keep us both, but very little more.

“You may say that under the circumstances it was my business to keep us. I've done my best, but nobody seems inclined to pay a high salary to a young man with no particular qualifications. The job I am in is not very remunerative, and it holds out no prospects.

“I have always known that it was no good approaching my uncle. For one thing, after all that has passed between them, my mother would accept nothing from him. And for another, he thoroughly disliked my father. It was not likely that he would listen to anything his son might say.

“But my uncle, being several years older than my mother, will probably die before she does. His heir might be a different proposition. If he turned out to be sympathetically inclined, he might realise the injustice of my uncle in leaving the whole of his property outside the family. He might wish, after he came into his inheritance, to remedy that injustice. Not, of course, by resigning the property in favour of my mother. But he might consent to renew my mother's allowance until her death. If not the whole of it, at least a part.”

“Did you ever approach either of the Harpole brothers on the subject?”Liscombe asked.

Bill shook his head. “I never had the chance. I very soon made the acquaintance of Arthur but, as I believed Charles to be the elder, it was no good talking to him. And I never seemed able to contact Charles. I wasn't going to ask outright for an introduction to him. I wanted to meet him in the ordinary course of events, and size him up before I spoke to him of what was in my mind. More than once I asked Arthur if he wouldn't like to bring his brother to have a drink with us at the Fountain, or come out in the car, or something like that. But Arthur said that Charles didn't care for that sort of thing.

“Then, on the Wednesday before I left Greycliffe, Guy told me that Arthur was the elder brother. If that was so, he was my uncle's heir, and I had been on the wrong track all along. I was delighted, for Arthur and I had got along very well, and I was sure he would listen sympathetically to what I had to say. But how was I to manage a quiet and confidential talk with him? My time at Greycliffe was running short. I knew that that evening he was going to a dance at the Grand Central. There would be no opportunity there.

“However, Guy persuaded me to go to the dance. We didn't dance ourselves, but just looked on. I was standing with Guy when his sister came up and whispered something in his ear. She went off, and Guy said we must go and have a drink. We went to the bar, and Guy burst out with the remark that Nina had brought it off at last. She had become engaged to Arthur. But, as she had told nobody but him just yet, I mustn't breathe a word to anybody.

“I guessed that Nina would not have become engaged to Arthur unless she had made sure that he was the brother with prospects. That confirmed what Guy had told me. I must tackle Arthur as soon as possible, but when? Then I hit upon the idea of asking him to come for a jaunt in the car on the following evening. Not alone, for that would have looked too obvious. Besides, Arthur enjoyed being in a party, and that prospect would be an inducement for him to come. If I could manage to make up a party of four, I could contrive to pair off the other two while I talked to Arthur.

“But, next day, I found that wasn't so easy. For one thing I couldn't contact Arthur, who seemed to have disappeared from his usual haunts. And for another, none of my acquaintances in Greycliffe was free that evening. However, I decided to go on with my plan and trust to luck. If I could get hold of Arthur, I knew I could count on Guy to make a third. But where was the fourth to come from?

“I guessed that Arthur might be with his fiancée, so I went off to Beaufort Terrace to look round for him there. As I told you, on the way I met Freddy, and it flashed into my mind that he was the very man. I was pretty sure that he hadn't met either Arthur or Guy, and I ought to be able to pair him off with Guy without much difficulty. When I got to Beaufort Terrace, Guy told me that Arthur was there. But I wondered whether he could be parted from Nina. However, he seemed ready enough to come, and the four of us set off.

“But things simply wouldn't go as I had hoped they would. I tried all sorts of dodges to get Arthur to myself, but they didn't work. As soon as I got him into a corner, one or both of the others joined us. Or Arthur would get talking to a group of strangers, and I couldn't get him away. And then, as I say, I lost sight of him and Freddy altogether.”

“That's a very plausible story,” said Liscombe. “Can you produce any witnesses to your actions between, say, eleven o'clock and the time you found Guy in the car?”

Bill shook his head. “I spoke to several people before the pubs closed at half-past. But I don't know who they were, and of course they didn't know me.”

“That is rather unfortunate,” said Liscombe. “When did you hear of Arthur's death?”

“Next morning,” Bill replied. “The news was all over the town.”

“Why did you not report to the police that you had been with him the previous evening?”Liscombe asked.

“I didn't see what good it would do,” Bill replied. “I supposed, like everyone else, that as he had been found in the sea, he must have been drowned somewhere here. The fact that I had been with him in Rickford didn't seem of any importance.”

“You see the importance of that fact now,” said Liscombe. “When you saw Guy on Friday, he told you that his sister had been mistaken in believing Arthur to have been the elder brother. What effect had that information?”

“It staggered me for the moment,” Bill replied. “I'll be quite candid. I liked Arthur, and I was very sorry to hear of his death. But it occurred to me that it might be to my advantage. My uncle would have to seek another heir. He might select Charles in his brother's place. But there was just a chance that he might consider the claims of his own family.

“But, when Guy told me that Charles had been sent for as his godfather was ill, I saw that Arthur's death had been of no advantage to me whatever. I should have to start afresh, and that I determined to do. Later in the day, Guy asked me to drive him and his family to Silvermouth. I did so, and from there I drove to Buckbridge Place.

“It is quite true that I wanted to be able to tell my mother how my uncle was. But there was another reason for my going there. I hoped to meet Charles and find an opportunity of putting my case before him. But I was told that he had left shortly before I got there.”

“Listen to me,” said Liscombe sternly. “We know that Arthur was drowned not here but at Rickford. You have told us that you were in Rickford at the time of his death. You can produce no witness who saw you at that time. You have told us that while you believed Arthur to be the elder brother, you thought his death would be of advantage to you. What have you to say to that?”

“Only this,” Bill replied steadily. “If Arthur was murdered, I am not his murderer.”

Liscombe pressed a bellpush on his desk, and a sergeant appeared. “Take Mr. Mudde outside, Sergeant,” said Liscombe. “And bring him back when I ring again.”

Bill and the sergeant left the room together. “We are the jury,” said Liscombe. “Will you give your opinion first, Mr. Arnold?”

“It's a clear enough case,” Arnold replied. “Bill did get Arthur to himself at last. He took him down to the river, bashed him on the head, then pushed him in. But clear as it is, I'm rather doubtful about getting a conviction on the evidence as it stands.”

“And you, Mr. Merrion?”Liscombe asked.

“In my opinion, the man's innocent,” Merrion replied. “You trapped him very neatly into swearing that he was in Rickford at the time of Arthur's death. He saw the force of that, but it didn't shake him. I have had some experience, as an Intelligence Officer, of questioning people, both innocent and guilty. It isn't so much what people say as the way they say it that counts. To my mind, Bill's manner was that of an innocent man.”

“His manner was certainly in his favour,” Liscombe agreed. “On the other hand, there is a good deal in what Mr. Arnold says. Bill may have decided that the removal of Arthur would improve his own prospects. He has no alibi covering the critical period. But I don't feel that, for the present at least, we should be justified in charging him with the crime. What do you say, Mr. Arnold?”

“I quite agree,” Arnold replied. “My advice is, let him go, and keep an eye on him.”

Liscombe rang the bell, and the sergeant appeared with Bill. “We have decided not to detain you any longer, Mr. Mudde,” said Liscombe. “When do you propose to leave here?”

“This evening,” Bill replied. “I caught the night train from Durham to London last night, and I mean to catch the night train from London to Durham to-night.”

“Has the car come back from Silvermouth, Sergeant?”Liscombe asked.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “It came back five minutes ago.”

“Then tell the driver to take Mr. Mudde to The Cedars,” said Liscombe.

“That's very kind of you,” said Bill. “My uncle will be wondering where I have got to.”

“You will be able to tell him,” Liscombe replied dryly. “All right. Sergeant, see to it.”

The sergeant and Bill went out. “I'll tell my chaps to keep an eye on The Cedars,” said Liscombe. “If Bill tries to make a bolt for it, it will be his death warrant. But somehow I don't think he will. And what do you suggest as the next step, Mr. Arnold?”

“Ask Merrion,” Arnold replied. “He'd got it all fixed up that Bill was the murderer. And now he says he's innocent.”

“Have you any suggestion to make, Mr. Merrion?”Liscombe asked.

“Well, this is the way I see it,” Merrion replied. “If Bill was telling the truth, and I think he was, at some time late in the evening he discovered that both Arthur and Freddy had disappeared. The question is, had they disappeared together?”

“Meaning that Freddy, not Bill, was the murderer?”Arnold asked. “Then perhaps you'll tell us why Freddy murdered a man whom he had never met before that evening?”

“I don't mean that Freddy was necessarily the murderer,” Merrion replied. “Look here. Suppose that Arthur and Freddy wandered off together, say to some other pub that Freddy knew of. While they were on their way there, someone whom Arthur knew, who had been watching for his opportunity, accosted him and said he had something very urgent to say to him. Freddy tactfully went off, leaving them together.”

“And who was this person?”Arnold asked.

Merrion smiled. “We have a list of suspects, none of whom has an alibi for that particular period.”

“Why didn't Freddy turn up again?”Liscombe asked.

“One would have expected him to go back, sooner or later, to the car park, to rejoin the rest of the party.”

“I've thought of that,” Merrion replied. “We don't know that Freddy lived, or was staying, here. His familiarity with the Rickford pubs suggests to me that he may have been living or staying there. It was he who made the suggestion that the party should move on to Rickford. Perhaps that was because he wanted it to end up there. He had no reason for wanting to come back here that night.”

“That's quite possible,” Liscombe agreed. “If we could get hold of Freddy, he might be able to tell us if anyone accosted Arthur that evening. But, even so, it's highly unlikely that he knows who that person was. I've already circulated Freddy's description, but so far I've had no word of him.”

After some further discussion, Merrion left the police station. During lunch with Mavis at the Grand Central, he told her of the interview with Bill. “I feel I've rather slipped up over that,” he said. “I don't believe now that he murdered Arthur. But I fancy I'm back on the rails again. Someone who knew Arthur must have met him. But how that person could have known that he was in Rickford is more than I can fathom. It's incredible that it should have been an accidental meeting.”

“And Bill was allowed to go on to The Cedars,” Mavis remarked. “I should very much like to know what impression he made on his uncle.”

“You'll hear,” her husband replied. “Sir Thomas has looked in every evening since he's been here. He'll be here this evening, you may be sure.”

Merrion was right, for Graffham appeared at his usual hour. By this time he had persuaded himself that some relaxation from his doctor's orders was permissible. “Thanks, I'll have a glass of sherry,” he replied to Merrion's invitation. “One or two in the evening aren't doing me any harm. The few days I've been here have made a different man of me. I believe I could drink a bottle of port without feeling any ill effects.”

“I shouldn't try the experiment if I were you, Sir Thomas,” said Mavis.

Graffham chuckled. “There's no fear of that. Edith would see that I didn't get the chance. I don't think she altogether approves of my going out where she can't keep an eye on me. But I slipped out and left her and Charles talking to Bill.”

“Your nephew arrived at The Cedars this morning?”Mavis asked.

“Yes, but later than we expected him,” Graffham replied. “I must tell you about that. It's the most ridiculous thing you ever heard. The police met Bill at the railway station and carried him off.”

“They wanted to question him, I suppose?”Merrion suggested.

“That was it,” Graffham replied. “He told me about it when we were alone. Didn't want to talk about Arthur before his brother and sister. They put him through it properly. Seemed to think that he had murdered Arthur. And Bill said that the trouble was that he couldn't prove he didn't. I told him not to worry. A man's innocent until he's proved guilty.”

“A comforting thought,” said Merrion. “You got on well with your nephew?”

“He's a thoroughly decent young chap,” Graffham replied. “Very different from what I expected. No flashy vulgarity about him. Takes after his mother and not his father, that's what it is. I'm glad I asked him to come and see me. Very glad. After all, he's Kate's son.”

He took a sip of sherry and went on. “What I like about him is that he is frank and outspoken. No mealy-mouthed cringing to his rich old uncle. We had a long talk alone together. I told him that I appreciated his having called at Buckbridge Place to ask how I was. He said that naturally he wanted to be able to tell his mother how I was getting on, but that wasn't the only reason why he called. He had hoped to meet Charles.

“I needn't go into all that was said after that. It seems that Bill had been spending his holidays here, and had met Arthur but not Charles, which was what he had really come for. He said he didn't in the least resent my having made Charles my heir. My property was my own to do as I liked with. But he hoped to persuade Charles to make some allowance to his mother after I was dead. Pretty blunt way of putting it, but I didn't mind that. I like a young fellow who has the guts to speak up for himself. I told him that he'd have a long time to wait, for I wasn't going to die yet. And then I changed the subject.”

“How did Charles get on with your nephew?” Merrion asked.

“Wonderfully well,” Graffham replied. “And Edith too. They both took to him from the first. Bill told us that he would have to leave this evening, but they wouldn't hear of it. They insisted that if he went back to-morrow, he could still be back at work on Monday morning. They said they could put him up, and Charles offered to lend him anything he wanted for the night. And so that's what's been arranged. I'm not sorry, for I may want to talk to him again, after I've slept over it.”

He took another sip or two of sherry before he went on. “I don't know how it is but, finding Bill to be the sort of young chap he is has made me feel rather differently about Kate. After all, that husband of hers is dead, and Bill isn't a bit like him. He didn't leave Kate any too well off, I gather, in spite of the flashy way he talked about the money he'd got. That sort of man never has anything solid behind him.”

He paused for a minute or two, finished his glass, then went on defiantly. “I'm going to order another round of sherry. No, it's no use looking shocked, Mrs. Merrion. It'll help me to decide what I'm to do.”

He beckoned to the waiter and gave the order. “Yes, to decide,” he went on. “I'm beginning to wonder if I haven't been a little hard on Kate. My father wished me to make her an allowance for life, or until she married. She told me she was going to marry a man with money. I was justified in stopping the allowance from the date of her marriage. Perfectly justified.”

For a few minutes he remained silent, struggling with his thoughts. “After all, she had left me in the lurch,” he continued abruptly. “No man likes his domestic arrangements disrupted like that. Kate might have stayed at home and had everything she wanted. But no. She must rush off and marry an outsider whom she had met at a cocktail party. It beats me. I can't understand it.”

“Your sister may have been in love with the man she married, Sir Thomas,” Mavis ventured.

“In love with him?”Graffham replied testily. “You women always believe that being in love is the best excuse for doing something silly. Kate insisted on marrying the man, and I took steps accordingly. What I'm wondering now is whether I mightn't have done something for her when she became a widow. I might have, if I'd known that she had a son like Bill. But I didn't. Perhaps it's not too late.

“Don't imagine for a moment that I have the slightest intention of altering my will. Charles remains my heir, that I owe to his father's memory. Besides, he's the sort of steady chap who'll see that the property is looked after as it should be. But I might renew Kate's allowance which I could well afford to do.”

“It would be very welcome news for Bill to take home to his mother,” Merrion remarked.

“Eh?” Graffham replied. “It's not settled yet. I haven't made up my mind. I shall have to talk to Charles. He may not like the idea of continuing the allowance after I'm dead. But, if he raises no objection, I shall sleep on the idea. Well, I must get back to the young people. That second glass of sherry has done me the world of good. I feel more capable of tackling the problem now.”

“A third glass would have made up his mind for him,” Merrion remarked when Graffham had gone. “His nephew has made a great impression on him. The fact that Bill is under suspicion of having murdered Arthur doesn't seem to weigh with him. in the least.”

“Because he knows it's absurd,” Mavis replied. “Bill seems to have known by instinct what was the proper line to take with his uncle.”

“He certainly seems to have sized him up,” her husband agreed. “He has stirred the old boy's conscience. It will be interesting to see how it works out. I feel pretty sure that it will lead to a reconciliation between Graffham and his sister.”

“I wonder how she feels about it?” said Mavis. “Sir Thomas seems to think that she failed in her duty to him by getting married. She may very well feel that he treated her most ungenerously. It's possible that she may be too proud to accept anything from him now.”

“Trust Bill to smooth away any difficulty of that kind,” Merrion replied. “If he can soften his uncle's heart, it ought to be an easy job for him to soften his mother's. I grew to like Bill as I was listening to the interview this morning.”

“You've come out pretty strongly on his side,” Mavis remarked.

Merrion smiled. “That's not because I like him, but because I believe he was telling the truth. After all, his desire to become acquainted with his uncle's heir was natural enough. He wasn't playing for his own hand, but for his mother's. And it must have seemed a bit rough to him that Graffham had cut off his family without a shilling.”

CHAPTER XVI

WHILE GRAFFHAM was at the Grand Central, Liscombe and Arnold were in the Superintendent's room at the police station, discussing the problem of Bill's guilt or innocence. The telephone buzzed, and Liscombe answered it. “Show him in immediately, Sergeant,” he said when he had heard the message.

He put the instrument down and turned to Arnold. “Chilton is here. He's the Super from Rickford. Very decent chap, not a bit like that sarcastic blighter at Silvermouth. Chilton and I have always got on famously. Here he is.”

The sergeant opened the door and Chilton came in. Liscombe stood up and the two shook hands warmly. “It's good to see you,” said Liscombe. “What brings you to Greycliffe, business or pleasure? But let me introduce you to Mr. Arnold from the Yard. He's helping us with that Harpole business, you know.”

“I've heard your name often enough, Mr. Arnold, and I'm very glad to meet you,” said Chilton cordially. “It's just as well you're here, for I've something to tell Liscombe that may interest you. To answer your question, Liscombe, that's what I've come here for. We may be able to help one another.”

“Well, sit down and light your pipe,” Liscombe replied. “Mr. Arnold will do the same, I'm quite sure.”

“I'll begin by telling you about something that happened rather more than an hour ago,” said Chilton as he sat down and began to fill his pipe. “In one of the back streets of Rickford there is a sub-post office. It's a shop, with the usual counter where postal business is transacted. The shop is kept by an elderly man who lives above it. He does quite a good trade, apart from the post office, which is fairly busy. He employs two young women as assistants.

“On Saturdays the shop and post office close at six o'clock. The old man who keeps it isn't particular as to the exact minute. This evening, at two minutes past six, one of my constables, off duty and in plain clothes, turned into the street. As he did so, the two young women, whom he knew, met him. He stopped and asked them if the shop was shut, for he wanted to buy a postal order and send it off by the last post. They told him that as they left, Mr. Vyner, that's the name of the old chap who keeps the shop, was just getting ready to lock up.

“While the constable was talking to the young women, he saw a man cross the road and disappear into a doorway, which looked as though it was that of Vyner's shop. This looked as though the door hadn't been locked yet. The constable hurried on, and when he came to the door of Vyner's shop he found it shut. On the chance of it not having been locked yet, he tried the handle and the door opened.

“He walked in. He was wearing rubber-soled shoes, and his entrance didn't disturb the man he saw. This man was standing at the till, with his back to the door, and was shovelling the cash from the till into his pockets. It was dark in the shop, and the constable thought at first that the man must be Vyner. He came on, and as soon as he could look over the counter he saw Vyner lying on the floor behind it.

“His movements startled the other man, who tried to bolt out of the shop. But the constable collared him, and they had a proper set-to. The constable was the better man and overpowered the chap. He dragged him to the door, opened it, and shouted to a couple of men who were passing by on their way from work. He told one of them to come into the shop and use the telephone to call the police station.

“Well, you can guess what happened next. Two of my chaps were very soon on the spot. One of them stayed to call for the ambulance to take old Vyner to hospital. Before I came away, I heard that he was not dead, only knocked silly. The other man and the original constable marched their prisoner to the police station. I was there and they brought him in to me.

“The minute I set eyes on him I remembered a description you had sent us a few days ago. He is a shortish man, with black hair and moustache and exceptionally broad shoulders. He wasn't wearing a shade over his eye, but I noticed that his right lower eyelid seemed to be swollen.”

“That's the chap!”Liscombe exclaimed. “The man I've heard spoken of as Freddy.”

“You may have heard him spoken of as Freddy, but that's not his name,” Chilton replied. “It's because he answered to your description that I came over to see you. It was too long a yarn to spin over the phone. The first thing we did was to search him. You'll be interested to hear that those broad shoulders of his were faked. He's actually rather slim, and they were padded out. And a closer examination of his head showed that he was fair-haired, and that his hair and moustache had been dyed.

“We found quite a lot of interesting things on him. To begin with, his pockets were stuffed with the money he'd taken from Vyner's till. Then pushed down the leg of his trousers, a wicked-looking rubber cosh. Finally, sewn into the lining of his coat, a Canadian passport.”

“Canadian, eh?”Liscombe asked. “I find this very interesting.”

“I thought you might,” Chilton replied. “The passport is his, all right. It's in the name of Edward Ralph Torpoint, which the chap admits to be his name. The photograph is just like him, though he had no moustache when it was taken. The description gives his profession as mechanic, his age as forty, his height as five foot six, his eyes as grey, and his hair as fair. It's the man, right enough, undisguised.”

“I should very much like to see him,” said Liscombe. “If you care to come back to Rickford with me, you can,” Chilton replied. “We've got him safely under lock and key.”

“If you've no objection, I'd rather see him here,” said Liscombe. “I'd like to arrange for someone to identify him as Freddy.”

“That's easily arranged,” Chilton replied. “I'll go back and fetch him. And I'll bring one of my men with me, in case he turns nasty. It won't take me long, I'll be back with him in less than an hour.”

“That's very good of you,” said Liscombe. “Rig him up just as you found him, padded shoulders and all.”

Chilton went out, and Liscombe turned to Arnold. “There's always Guy, of course. But it strikes me I've had no report of Bill having left The Cedars, and he may still be there. If he is, he'll be better, for he saw Freddy more often than Guy did. I'll ring up and ask.”

He put the call through, and Charles answered it. To Liscombe's inquiry he replied that Bill was still at The Cedars, as it had been arranged that he should stay the night. Liscombe asked that Bill should come to the telephone, and spoke to him. “This is Superintendent Liscombe speaking from the police station. I shall be glad if you will come here as soon as possible.”

Bill replied that he would come at once. Liscombe's men must have been on the alert, for a few minutes later a message came from a constable on beat. Mr. Mudde had just left The Cedars, and the constable was shadowing him. Before very long the sergeant entered Liscombe's room and announced that Mr. Mudde had arrived.

Liscombe told the sergeant to bring him in. “So we meet again, Mr. Mudde,” said Liscombe. “This time I want you to do something for us. I'm going to ask you to sit in the charge room, where a man will be brought in. Look carefully at this man, but say nothing until he has been brought in here. Then, if you have recognised him, tell the sergeant who he is. After that, you need not remain here any longer.”

Liscombe turned to the sergeant. “Arrange things in the charge room so that Mr. Mudde can see who comes in, but can't be seen himself. A screen will be the best dodge. Then write down what Mr. Mudde tells you on a slip of paper, and bring it in here to me.”

The sergeant and Bill went out. “I don't think there can be much doubt that Chilton's man is Freddy,” said Liscombe. “It seems to me highly significant that he has a Canadian passport. Does that link up with the postcard Charles brought me? Let's have another look at it.”

He took the postcard from a drawer, and he and Arnold studied it closely. “Most people write block letters in much the same way,” said Arnold after a while. “But there's a peculiarity about the way these are written. Taking address and message together, there are four words with an A in them, Arthur, Harpole, England and again. If you look carefully, you'll see that in each case the A is made not with a sharp point at the top, but rounded off. You see what I mean?”

“Yes, I do,” Liscombe replied. “Rather an unusual peculiarity, I should imagine.”

“Then I'd like to make a suggestion,” said Arnold. ' When the chap comes, make him write a word with an A in it, in block letters. It's a fairly long shot, but it might come off.”

They had not very much longer to wait, for Chilton came back with his prisoner well within the stipulated hour. Liscombe had arranged two chairs, one on either side of his own behind his desk, and a third on the other side of the desk, facing them. The lighting of the room was such that it fell fully on anyone seated in the third chair.

Chilton came in first, and took the chair on Liscombe's right, while Arnold took the one on his left. Then the constable whom Chilton had brought with him marched the prisoner in. He looked slightly battered, and there was a bruise on his left cheek, the result of his struggle with the constable in Vyner's shop. The abnormal width of his shoulders and the slightly bluish black of his hair and moustache were noticeable.

“Sit down in that chair,” said Liscombe. The prisoner had no option, for the constable put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him into it. “Now we can have a look at you,” Liscombe continued. “To begin with, what's your name?”

“Torpoint,” the prisoner replied insolently. “I've been through all this before at Rickford.”

“I dare say you have,” said Liscombe. “But you're going through it again.” He pushed a sheet of paper and a pencil across the desk. “Write your full name on that, Christian names and surname. In block letters.”

As Torpoint took up the pencil, the sergeant came in and handed Liscombe a slip of paper. On it was written, “Mr. Mudde says he is the man he knew as Freddy.” Liscombe passed the paper to Arnold and Chilton, then laid it aside. “Well, have you written down your name? Let me have it.”

The full name, in block letters, was Edward Ralph Torpoint. A glance was sufficient to show that in both Edward and Ralph the A had been formed with a curved top. Liscombe put the sheet in the drawer of his desk. “I am told that you were found in possession of a Canadian passport,” he said. “Are you a Canadian by birth?”

“Yes, I am,” Torpoint replied sulkily.

“How long have you been in this country?”Liscombe asked.

“About a fortnight,” Torpoint replied.

“I see,” said Liscombe. “And what brought you here, may I ask?”

“I couldn't find a job to suit me at home,” Torpoint replied. “So I thought I'd try my luck over here.”

“Your luck seems to have been out this afternoon,” said Liscombe dryly. “The profession given on your passport is that of mechanic. What sort of mechanic are you?”

Torpoint hesitated slightly. “Sewing-machine fitter.”

“And you thought Rickford a likely place in which to find employment? Is there a sewing-machine factory in Rickford, Mr. Chilton?”

Chilton shook his head. “There's nothing of the kind.”

“Then you seem to have chosen the wrong place,” said Liscombe. “And yet you've hung about this district for over a week. Can't you think of some other reason for coming to Rickford?”

“I've told you why I went there,” Torpoint replied stubbornly. “I'd heard that light industry was carried on there, and I thought there might be a firm who made sewing-machines.''

“It took you a precious long time to find out that there wasn't,” said Liscombe. “Did you spend all your time in Rickford, or did you look round other places nearby? Did you ever come here, for instance?”

“I'd never been here till I was brought along just now,” Torpoint replied.

Liscombe shook his head impatiently. “It's no good taking that line with us. You have been recognised as a man who was hanging about this town last week. What's the matter with your right lower eyelid?”

“I was stung by a wasp in Rickford,” Torpoint replied. “And the swelling hasn't gone down yet.”

“Another example of the bad luck that seems to dog you,” said Liscombe. “Why did you tell the acquaintances you made here that they might call you Freddy? That's not one of your Christian names.”

A sudden flash of apprehension passed across Torpoint's face. He looked furtively at the three stern faces confronting him, but made no reply. “Well, I suppose you thought it was as good a name as any other,” said Liscombe. “You naturally didn't want your real name to be known. When did you first meet Arthur Harpole?”

“I don't know who you're talking about,” Torpoint replied unsteadily.

“You know very well,” said Liscombe sternly. “On the evening of Thursday, last week, you were walking about this town. A man whom you knew as Bill stopped his car and spoke to you. You were wearing a shade over your eye at the time. Bill asked you if you would care to come for a jaunt with him and two of his friends, and you accepted the offer. You got into the car, and Bill drove to a house in Beaufort Terrace, where he picked up his friends. One of them was Arthur Harpole. Are you going to deny that?”

Torpoint shifted uneasily in his chair. “I didn't catch their names. One of them may have been the man you're talking about. I don't know.”

“He was,” said Liscombe crisply. “Now, I'll repeat my question. When did you first meet Arthur Harpole?”

“I'd never met either of those two chaps before,” Torpoint replied.

“Very well,” said Liscombe. “As you come from Canada, you may be able to tell us something.” He opened the drawer and took from it the picture postcard and the sheet on which Torpoint had written his name. He held out the picture side of the postcard. “Can you tell us where this place is?”

Torpoint's eyes narrowed as he looked at it. “I can't say that I know. There are lots of places like that in the Eastern Provinces. Lakes with boats on them, I mean.”

“When you are writing in block letters, you have a rather peculiar way of forming the A,” said Liscombe. He held out the sheet of paper. “Most people form the A with a pointed top. You, on the other hand, give it a curve. You see what I mean?”

Torpoint did not answer him. Liscombe laid down the sheet and picked up the postcard again. This time he showed Torpoint the side with the address and message. “Look closely at this. You see that whoever wrote those words formed the A in the same way that you do. How do you account for that?”

“I dare say lots of people do it,” Torpoint replied. “Anyhow, I didn't write them. Why should I send a postcard to a man I'd never heard of?”

“Then we'll go back to that Thursday when Bill took the three of you for a jaunt,” said Liscombe. “While you were having a drink in the first pub you stopped at, you suggested that you should all go on to Rickford. Why Rickford, rather than any other place?”

“That's clear enough, surely,” Torpoint replied. “I came from Rickford, and naturally I wanted to get back there.”

“If you came from Rickford, how was it that Bill met you here that afternoon?”Liscombe asked.

“I'd just come for a look round,” Torpoint replied. “I thought perhaps I might find a job here that would suit me.”

“You told us a minute ago that you had never been here before you were brought here,” said Liscombe. “You thought you might find a job to suit you. Did you suppose that sewing-machines were made in a seaside resort?”

“I don't know about that,” Torpoint mumbled uneasily. “I might have found something, even if it was a bit out of my line.”

Watching Torpoint and listening to the inflexions of his voice, Arnold fully appreciated the point of Merrion's remark. It wasn't so much what people said as the way they said it that counted. Torpoint's eyes were shifty, and the tone of his voice varied between assurance and uncertainty. Whereas Bill's expression had been steady, and he had answered Liscombe's questions quietly and with composure.

“Well, the party went on to Rickford,” said Liscombe. “What happened when you got there?”

“We had a drink or two at different pubs,” Torpoint replied. “We all got pretty tight as the evening went on, and we didn't stick together. I don't know what happened to the others, for I lost sight of them. And after a bit I went back to my lodgings.”

“What time did you get there?”Liscombe asked.

Torpoint shook his head. “That I couldn't say. About the time the pubs closed, I expect.”

“I'm going to ask you a few personal questions,” said Liscombe. “Why do you pad out your shoulders and dye your hair?”

Torpoint hesitated. “I didn't want anyone in Rickford to know who I was.”

“Would anyone in Rickford have recognised you if you had not disguised yourself?”Liscombe asked swiftly.

“I don't know about that,” Torpoint replied. “I wasn't going to risk it.”

“Surely an unnecessary precaution, since you had so recently come from Canada,” said Liscombe. “Why do you carry a cosh about with you?”

“It might come in useful if I were to get mixed up in a rough-house,” Torpoint replied.

“Did you get mixed up in a rough-house that Thursday evening?”Liscombe asked.

“No, but I might have done,” Torpoint replied. “There are some pretty tough customers knocking round the town.”

“Tough customers!”Liscombe exclaimed. “It strikes me you're about the toughest of them. You attack an elderly man and pinch the money from his till. That's where the cosh came in useful to you. I expect you've already been cautioned, but in fairness to you I'll caution you again. Anything you may say to us may be used in evidence. You understand that?”

“Yes, I understand,” Torpoint replied sulkily.

“Very well,” said Liscombe. “You had met Arthur Harpole while he was in Canada. You knew that he had returned to England and was living in Greycliffe, though you did not know the name of the house. Before you left for this country you sent him the postcard I have shown you. On it you wrote that you and he would meet again. You did meet, that Thursday evening. Are not those the facts?”

He waited for Torpoint's answer but, receiving none, went on after a pause: “You tell us that the members of the party did not stick together. That may be a half-truth. You may have lost sight of Bill and his friend Guy, but you did not become separated from Arthur Harpole. Late in the evening you and he went out of one of the pubs together. What happened after that?”

“I hardly know,” Torpoint replied. “The chap I was with was completely sozzled, and I wasn't much better. I seem to remember him saying something about going back to the car to see if the others were there. I didn't want to go back to the car, but I suppose he went. He must have got back to Greycliffe somehow.”

“Why must he?”Liscombe asked.

“Because he was drowned here, to be sure,” Torpoint replied.

“How do you know that?”Liscombe asked sharply.

“I read it in the paper,” Torpoint replied. “It said that his body had been picked up out of the sea off the mouth of the harbour here.”

“Now, that's rather curious,” said Liscombe. “You said that you didn't catch the names of Bill's two friends. Yet, when you read in the paper of a body being taken from the sea, you knew it must be the body of the man you had been with late on Thursday evening. How do you account for that?”

Torpoint floundered hopelessly. “I remembered the name I'd heard Bill say when I saw it written down.”

“Nonsense!”Liscombe exclaimed. “You knew Arthur Harpole perfectly well. And you disguised yourself so that he should not know you. If you aren't clear about what happened after you and he left the last pub together, I can refresh your memory. You walked together through an alley on to a disused wharf beside the river. Do you recollect that?”

The colour faded from Torpoint's face. After an interval he shook his head feebly. “I can't say that I do. I was as drunk as an owl.”

“Not so drunk that you hadn't all your wits about you,” said Liscombe. “But there was one thing that you failed to observe. That is, that the wharf is overlooked from one of the bridges over the river. You left the wharf alone. What had become of your companion?”

Torpoint opened his lips to speak, but the only sound he produced was an incoherent spluttering. “I will tell you what became of Arthur Harpole,” said Liscombe sternly. “While you and he were standing on the wharf, you snatched out your cosh and struck him on the head with it. And, while he was reeling from the blow, you pushed him into the river and left him to drown. What have you to say to that?”

As though impelled by a hidden spring, Torpoint leapt from his chair. “You're right, damn you!” he hissed. “I bumped off the swine. And serve him right for the dirty trick he played me.”

CHAPTER XVII

THE CONSTABLE forced him back into the chair. All the energy seemed to have gone out of him, and he sat white-faced and passive. “Well, we've got the truth out of you at last,” said Liscombe. “Would you care to tell us about the dirty trick Arthur Harpole had played you?”

“Yes, I would,” Torpoint replied vindictively. “When I've told you, you'll understand why I tracked him down and killed him. You're right about my having known him in Canada, and I'll tell you how that was.”

He seemed to have become calmer, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Instinctively he felt in his pockets but, as their contents had already been confiscated, they were empty. Liscombe guessed what he wanted, and offered him a cigarette and a lighter. “Was that what you were looking for?”

“Thanks, it was,” Torpoint replied. He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply for a few seconds. “I first met Arthur in Montreal,” he started off abruptly. “He was a deck hand on board a ship, and I came across him one day when he was ashore. He asked me where was the best place for him to get a glass of beer. I could tell at once that he wasn't just an ordinary seaman. His manner and the way he spoke showed that he had been brought up to something better than that.

“I took him to a place I knew of, and we got talking. In the course of our conversation, he told me quite a lot about himself. I think he was glad to have someone to talk to other than his shipmates with whom, I gathered, he didn't get on very well. He told me that he had felt restless at home, and had wanted to get away and see the world, so he had gone to sea. Now he had had enough of it, and would like to find a job on shore.

“It dawned upon me that if Arthur had any money he was the very man I was looking for. I wanted to set up in business, and I wanted a partner with some capital who would come in with me. I wanted to run straight, honestly I did.

“I knew of a filling station, doing very well, that I could get hold of. The man it belonged to was trying to get rid of it. It was in the country, and his wife, who was a townswoman, couldn't stick it. I didn't say anything about it to Arthur that first time we met. I merely remarked that if he had any capital, he would have no difficulty in buying an interest in a business. He told me that he was pretty sure that he could raise some.

“Arthur's ship was in port for several days, and we met again several times. I put the filling station proposition up to Arthur, and he jumped at it. He said it was just the kind of thing he wanted. He would be his own master, with no decks to scrub. To cut a long story short, Arthur didn't rejoin his ship when she sailed. He wrote home for the money, and I fixed him up till it came. I had a bit of my own put away, and with that and some of Arthur's we bought the filling station and started to work it in partnership.

“We could have made a very good thing of it. It was on a main road, and there was no other filling station for some distance in either direction. Besides, it stood on a lake, which was used by a lot of speedboats, and we had their custom. I may as well tell you now that it is the place on the postcard you showed me. The building with the car standing in front of it. We had those postcards made for us, and we used to hand them out to our customers, by way of advertisement.

“But, after the first few months, Arthur slacked off. His trouble was that he was young and good-looking, and people, women especially, took a fancy to him. They'd ask him to come out with them in their cars or their speed-boats. As time went on, Arthur was very rarely on the job. He'd be out, sometimes all day, leaving me single-handed. That meant that very often I had to keep customers waiting. And if people are kept waiting at a filling station, they drive on to the next. Our takings began to go down. I spoke to Arthur about it, but he didn't care. You see, he hadn't put all the money his people had sent him into the business, and he had quite a bit left over. But it was a serious matter for me. I had put in every penny I had. Arthur only laughed and said that the more friends he made, the better for trade. They'd be sure to come to us when they wanted anything.”

He threw away the end of his cigarette, and Liscombe offered him another. “Go on,” he said when Torpoint had lit it.

“The end came two years after we had started,” said Torpoint. “Things weren't going so well as they had at first. Arthur seemed to have lost all interest in the business, and was very rarely on the spot. When he was, he didn't help much. He would gossip with the customers, most of whom were his friends by that time, and leave me to do the work. People began to find out that if they stopped at our place, they would have to wait their turn. The amount we each drew from the business fell steadily. As I saw, Arthur didn't care. He had other resources, I hadn't.

“One day, when Arthur happened for once to be about the place, a car drew up. It was driven by a girl neither of us knew, and she had an elderly man sitting beside her. She got out, and told me she wanted the tank filled up. I filled it for her, and while I was doing it she looked into the window of a small showroom we had. Arthur came up and asked her if she had seen a new gadget we had on show there. I'm bound to say he was a pretty cute salesman where women were concerned.

“When I had filled the tank, I told the girl how much gasoline I'd put in, and the price. She reached into the car for her handbag, and when she opened it, I saw that it was stuffed full with notes. She gave me the money from it, then turned to Arthur and said she'd like to see how the gadget worked. It was an electric picnic kettle, to be worked off the electric system of a car. One had to have a plug fitted in the back of the car to connect it to. Arthur told her that he couldn't demonstrate it on her own car, as the necessary plug wasn't fitted. But in the workshop we had a car with the plug, and if she would come in there he would show her how the thing worked.

“While they were in there another car came along and took up my attention. As I finished with it, Arthur and the girl came out. She was carrying one of the kettles, and took it to the car to show her passenger, whom she called Dad. She told him how it worked, and he said that if she had taken a fancy to it, he'd buy it for her. He took out a wallet and paid Arthur. The girl got into the car with the kettle and drove away.

“Arthur went back into the workshop, and after a minute or two came out again. He told me that the girl had left her handbag in the workshop, and that he had put it on the office table. She was sure to come back for it before long, and I should know where to find it. He was going down to the landing-stage on the lake. A friend of his had promised to call for him for a run in a new speedboat. He ought to be along any time now.”

He paused, and drew deeply from his cigarette before he went on. “I'm not going to mince matters. I paid the penalty for what I did, and in any case, it's not much use now. For once I was glad that Arthur had taken himself off. I waited for a few minutes, in case the girl should come back. But she didn't, and after a bit I went into the office. The handbag was on the table. I picked it up, and emptied the notes from it into my pocket. And as I put the bag down again, I looked round and saw Arthur standing in the doorway.

“He said nothing, and I thought he hadn't seen what I had done. He went out to a sort of cubby-hole where the telephone was, and I heard him making a call, but I didn't know who to. I heard a car draw up, and went outside. It was a longish job-gasoline, oil, water and air. By the time I had finished with it, a police car had drawn up, not at the pumps, but on the other side of the road. Then a few moments later the girl came back in her car. She got out, and asked Arthur, who was standing by, if he had seen her handbag. She thought she must have left it in the workshop. She remembered carrying out the kettle, but not the bag.

“Arthur told her that she had left it, and that he would fetch it for her. As he went into the office, two chaps got out of the police car and went and stood behind the girl. Arthur came out of the office with the bag, handed it to the girl, and asked her to open it. She did so, and cried out that all her money had gone.

“The police chaps tapped me on the shoulder and told me to come with them. When they got me to the station they searched me and found the notes in my pocket. They asked me where they had come from, and I told them they were the money I had taken in the course of business that day. I don't blame them for not believing me, for there was well over a thousand dollars.

“I was for it. When I came up in court next day, Arthur was the principal witness. When he had got down to the landing-stage he had met a man who had told him that his friend wouldn't be able to call for him that day. So he had come back to the office, just in time to see me take the notes from the bag and put them in my pocket.

“His first thought had been to tell me to put them back again, and say nothing about it. But he had realised that that wouldn't do. He had discovered that his partner was a thief, and the same thing might happen again. So he had rung up the police and told them what he had seen.”

Torpoint's face glowered. “It wasn't enough for him that he should let me down over the business. He must give me away, without letting me have a chance to put things right. I vowed to myself then that Arthur should pay for it I knew very well that I should have to wait a long time, but I determined that I would get him in the end.

“Before sentence was passed, the police brought out my record. I had had two previous convictions for larceny, and I got five years. And every day during those five years my thirst for vengeance grew keener.

“The first thing I did after I was let out was to make inquiries about Arthur. I found out that the filling station business had gone broke and been sold up. That didn't surprise me. Arthur had disappeared, and it was some little time before I could hear any news of him. At last I learnt that he had become down-and-out. More than a year before he had signed on a ship to work his passage back to England.

“It was then I sent him that postcard. I guessed where he had gone, for he had told me that his people lived in a place called Greycliffe. I didn't know the name of the house, but I was pretty sure that the name of the town by itself would find him. He'd recognise the picture right enough. But I didn't want anyone else who might see it to know where it was, so I rubbed out the name. In the same way, Arthur would know very well who had sent it. But as I didn't want my handwriting to be traced, I wrote in block letters.”

“Which gave you away, just the same,” Liscombe remarked. “What made you send that postcard? Weren't you afraid it might put Arthur on his guard?”

“I didn't care if it did,” Torpoint replied savagely. “I wanted him to know that he wasn't going to get away with it. But he'd feel safe enough, for he would never think that I should come over here after him.

“When I came out, I had a little money put away. Enough to buy the cheapest return passage I could to London, and a bit over. I grew a moustache, and when I got to London I bought some hair dye and a coat much too big for me, which I padded out. I hadn't the least idea where Greycliffe was, but in one of the London stations I found a railway map and studied it. I found Greycliffe, and saw that there was a place nearby called Rickford. That would suit me well enough, for I wasn't going to stop in Greycliffe itself. I felt pretty sure that Arthur wouldn't recognise me, but there was just the chance that he might.

“So I came to Rickford, and found a cheap lodging. I gave my name as Freddy Parker, and said that I was looking for a job. The next day I came here and went into a telephone kiosk. I looked in the directory and found the name of Harpole, with the address.

“I spent that afternoon sitting on one of the benches on the Front, not very far from The Cedars. I kept my back to the house, but every now and then I looked round. And at last I saw Arthur coming out. I recognised him at once, for he didn't seem to have changed much since I knew him. And at the sight of him all my hatred boiled up. I meant to get him, but I didn't know or care how. I had my cosh with me, and if I had to beat the life out of him, I was ready to do it.

“Naturally, Arthur took no notice of me. I was merely one of the crowd, sitting or strolling on the Front. Besides, he didn't come my way, but turned into the town. When he'd gone a little way, I got up and followed him to a pub called the Fountain, where he went in.

“I didn't go in after him, but hung about outside. Before very long a big Buick drove up, and a man got out of it and went into the Fountain. A few minutes later he and Arthur came out of the pub together, got into the car and drove off.

“Well, that was that, for the time being, at least. I didn't know where they were going, or how long it would be before they came back. But it occurred to me that it would pay me to get acquainted with the man who drove the Buick. He and Arthur were obviously friends, and I might learn from him something of Arthur's habits, and so when I was likely to be able to come upon him when he was alone.

“The next morning I was outside the Fountain at opening time. I hadn't been there more than half an hour when the man I had seen the evening before came along, not in his car, but on foot. He went into the pub, and a few minutes later I followed him.

“There were only about half a dozen customers in the place. My man was sitting on a stool at the bar, and I sat down on the stool next to him. When I had ordered a drink, I remarked to him that it was a warm morning. He replied that it was, and that the pub was about the coolest place he knew. We were very soon chatting away together. One of the first things he said to me was that he was glad to find someone to talk to. All the chaps he knew spent the morning on the beach. His particular friend, whom he called Arthur, always did. He was sweet on a girl who lived in Beaufort Terrace and as she went on the beach of course he went too. Before we parted, he said that he hoped we should meet again. If I cared to look in at the Fountain, he was pretty sure to be there. He told me that everybody knew him as Bill, and I said my name was Freddy.

“This was on Wednesday of last week. I went to the Fountain again that evening. Bill was there, talking to two or three chaps, but Arthur wasn't among them. Bill asked me to have a drink and join them. After a bit, one of the chaps asked Bill where Arthur was. Bill said he wasn't likely to turn up, as there was a dance that evening, and he'd be poshing himself up for it.

“This was all very well, but I wasn't getting any nearer finding my opportunity. On Thursday I came here again. I didn't go to the Fountain that morning, for I didn't want to be seen in the same place too often. I went and sat on the same bench as I had before, and a wasp came along and settled on my face and stung me, just below the eye. It swelled up and was very painful. The sun seemed to burn it. So I went into the town and bought an eye shade.

“I went back to the Fountain soon after it opened that evening, but neither Bill nor Arthur were there. Then I remembered what Bill had told me, and it struck me that if Arthur was sweet on a girl in Beaufort Terrace, he might be in the habit of visiting her there. Perhaps if I waited for him, my chance might come when he came away.

“So I started to walk to Beaufort Terrace. While I was on my way there, Bill came along in his car, pulled up, and spoke to me. He told me that he hoped to pick up two of his friends, Guy and Arthur, and take them for an evening out in the car. Would I care to join the party?

“Of course I jumped at it. I didn't know then exactly what I meant to do, but I felt sure that in the course of an evening out I could find some way of getting Arthur alone. That wasp sung was providential. I was pretty sure that Arthur wouldn't recognise me in any case, and with a shade over one eye he certainly wouldn't.

“I got up beside Bill in the front of the car. When we picked up the other two, they naturally sat behind, so that I had my back to Arthur. I was a bit anxious when we came to the first pub and we all went in, but after a minute or two I could see that Arthur didn't know who I was. And while we were there, the idea came to me. I knew my way about Rickford, and if I could get the party there, I could make my own opportunity.

“So I suggested, as casually as I could, that I knew a few good pubs in Rickford, and wouldn't it be a good idea to try them? Nobody made any objection, and Bill drove us there.

“Things turned out just as I had hoped. As the evening went on we got talking to other people and drifted apart. But I was careful never to lose sight of Arthur. About a quarter of an hour before the pubs closed we were together. Bill was in the same room, not with us, but talking to some other chap.

“I said to Arthur that we should be chucked out before long, but that didn't matter. I knew of a little place where we could drink all night if we wanted to. He said he would like to see the place. I waited till Bill wasn't looking our way, then slipped out with Arthur.

“I told him that we should have to go into the place by the back way, and led him to the alley that runs down to the wharf by the river. When we were half-way down it, I said to Arthur that they wouldn't let in anyone they didn't know. The best thing would be for me to go ahead and tell them that I was bringing a friend. He could stay where he was until he heard me whistle, and then he could come along.

“I went on to the wharf, then stood against the wall close to where the alley came out. I waited for a few minutes, then whistled softly. Arthur came along down the alley. As soon as he came within my reach, I hit him on the side of the head with my cosh. He staggered forward for a pace or two, then fell, almost on the edge of the wharf. All I had to do was to roll him into the river.”

Torpoint stared defiantly at the faces confronting him. “That was how it was. I don't regret it. I'd do the same again if I had to.”

“Where did you go after you had committed the crime?” Liscombe asked.

“Back to my lodgings,” Torpoint replied. “My landlady can tell you that, for she let me in. Next morning I told her that I'd met a man who had a lorry and wanted someone to drive it. He had offered me the job, and I was to start at once. That gave me an excuse for being out all day. I didn't show myself in the town, but walked out into the country, getting something to eat at a different place each day.”

“Why did you stay in Rickford?” Liscombe asked. “You hadn't any other murders on hand, had you?”

Torpoint shook his head. “I'd done what I came to England to do. But the ship I'd got my return passage on doesn't sail from London till next Tuesday. Till then, I thought I might as well stay in Rickford as anywhere else.”

“What made you behave as you did this afternoon?” Liscombe asked.

“It was a case of sheer necessity,” Torpoint replied. “I'd pretty well come to the end of the money I'd got. I'd had my eye on the place before and fixed up how I could do it. I didn't mean to go back to my lodgings afterwards. I meant to walk to a station up the line and take a train to London, where I could wait till the ship sailed.”

Liscombe glanced in turn at the men sitting beside him. Both shook their heads. “That will do for the present,” said Liscombe. “Take him out, Constable.”

Torpoint was marched out of the room. “Well, that's as complete a confession as one could wish for,” said Liscombe. “The rest is up to you, Chilton, since the crime was committed in your parish.”

“Then I'll take him back to Rickford,” Chilton replied. “And you'd better come with us, Mr. Arnold. We'll charge him with murder when we get there. He'll come before the bench on Monday in any case. I'll ask for a remand in custody, which won't be refused. That will give us time to check up on his statement.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MERRIONS had just come back from church and were sitting in the lounge of the Grand Central on Sunday morning when Arnold appeared. “Hallo!” Merrion exclaimed. “I wondered what had become of you. I thought you might have gone back to London again.”

Arnold shook his head. “I'm not going back till tomorrow. That's when a certain person will appear before the Rickford magistrates, charged with the murder of Arthur Harpole.”

“And who is that certain person?”Merrion asked.

Arnold described in detail the interrogation of Torpoint. “I've just come from having a long chat with him,” he went on. “He's not a bit sulky, and is quite ready to talk. He's so pleased with what he has done, that he doesn't seem in the least concerned about what will happen to him.

“I think I can understand why he was so bitter against Arthur. It wasn't only that Arthur betrayed him, that's his own word, to the police. To all intents and purposes, Arthur had let him down long before that. He says, and I'm inclined to believe him, that when he and Arthur started at the filling station, he honestly meant to turn over a new leaf and run straight.

“At first all went well, and they prospered. But, from the first, Arthur never showed any inclination for work. As time went on, he went out enjoying himself, and left his partner to bear the burden and heat of the day. It was more than one man single-handed could cope with. Torpoint had seen the red light long before he took the money from the girl's handbag. He knew that if Arthur carried on as he did, the crash must come sooner or later.

“He had made up his mind to dissolve the partnership, leave Arthur to do what he liked, and to start afresh somewhere himself. But to do that, he must have more money than he had. That's what drove him to take the notes from the bag. From his point of view, Arthur was wholly responsible for his return to his crooked ways.”

“There's something to be said for that,” Merrion remarked. “He says he meant to run straight. But one wonders where the money he put into the business came from.”

“I asked him that,” Arnold replied. “He swears that it was honestly come by. Shortly before he met Arthur, a relative had died and left him five thousand dollars. He put the lot into the business, and Arthur put in the same. But Arthur had something left over from the sum that had been sent him. His partner had none.”

“He might have got away with it,” said Merrion. “If that Rickford constable hadn't wanted a postal order yesterday afternoon, he probably would have. Would he have tried to run straight again if he had got back to Canada, I wonder?”

“He says he would,” Arnold replied. “He told me he would have taken on a job as a garage hand. But I'm not sure. I fancy that robbery, with or without violence, is in his blood. However, that's as may be. I asked him what he had meant to do about his disguise. He said that as soon as he got to London, Freddy Parker would have been transformed back again into Edward Torpoint. He would have thrown away Freddy's coat and its padding and shaved off his moustache. And he said he knew of a dodge for getting his hair back to its right colour. Well, I must be getting along, for the Super will be expecting me. Good-bye to you both, in case I don't see you again.”

That evening, Sir Thomas paid the Merrions his usual visit. “Well, I've made up my mind,” he said. “This morning I woke up at peace with the world and everyone in it. It was those two glasses of sherry that did it, and I'm going to repeat the dose.”

He beckoned to the waiter and gave the order. “I can't understand what the police are about,” he went on. “When I got back to The Cedars after I left you yesterday evening, I was told that they had sent for Bill again. He came back before very long, and told us that they'd made him sit in the office, or whatever they call it. After a bit a man was brought in whom he recognised as a chap who had been with him and Arthur on the evening that Arthur was drowned. That's all they wanted of Bill. As soon as he had told them the man's name, they let him go.”

“The police have their methods,” Merrion replied airily. “I dare say we shall hear more about the man your nephew saw, before long. Your nephew has gone home?”

Graffham nodded. “Started off this afternoon. Charles saw him off at the station. They've taken to one another, those two lads, and I'm very glad of it. It'll make things a lot easier when I'm gone. Charles fully agrees with me about what's to be done.”

“You haven't told us what that is. Sir Thomas,” Mavis remarked.

“Haven't I?”Graffham replied. “Well, I'll tell you now. I'm going to let Kate have the allowance I always gave her. I told Bill as much before he left. And I'll tell you something else. When I leave here Charles is coming to Buckbridge Place for a week before the school term begins. I asked Bill to come too, but he said he'd had his holiday, and wouldn't be able to get away till next year. I'm going to write to Kate and ask her if she'll come. She and Charles ought to meet.”

“Miss Harpole will be left alone at The Cedars?” Mavis asked.

Graffham chuckled. “Jimmy Sowerby will see that she doesn't spend much time alone. Besides, she's got that woman they call Patty. By the way, Edith has been telling me a lot about Charles. She says he was in love with that girl Arthur proposed to. And she's more than a little afraid that they may get together again, now that Arthur's dead.”

“Miss Harpole need have no fears on that account,” said Merrion. “Nina Farleigh, the girl in question, is now engaged to a leading citizen of Silvermouth.”

“What, already?”Graffham exclaimed. “I gathered from Edith that she was a bit flighty. But I never imagined that she could be as bad as that. Well, perhaps it's for the best. It'll keep her out of Charles's way, anyhow. And I've my own ideas for that young man.”

“Matrimonial ideas, Sir Thomas?” Mavis asked mischievously.

“Yes, matrimonial ideas,” Graffham replied. “He'll have to get married sometime. Who's to succeed him at Buckbridge Place if he doesn't? That's why I'm particularly anxious for him to come back there with me. I want him to get to know the rector's daughter. She's just the girl for him, as good and pretty a girl as he'd ever find anywhere. None of your feather-brained misses, but full of sound common sense. And born and bred in the country, as every landowner's wife should be. She'll be the ideal mistress of Buckbridge Place.”

“I hope she'll have to wait a long time before she becomes that,” said Mavis. “Will she like the idea of being a schoolmaster's wife in Greycliffe?”

“If she takes to Charles, she won't mind that,” Graffham replied confidently. “And I'm pretty sure that pair will get on together as soon as they meet. Her father is a thoroughly good chap. He tells me I'm a shocking old reprobate, but we're the best of friends, for all that. I tell you what. You must both of you come and stay with me at Buckbridge Place. Later on, when the pheasant-shooting begins. I've got a good few birds knocking round the place. And I'm not so old that I can't bring them down when they come over. That's settled. We'll fix it up for a week in October. I'll be round again to-morrow about this time. We can talk it over then.”

“Sir Thomas seems to have everything settled, in his own mind at least,” Mavis remarked when Graffham had left.

“About Charles, you mean?” her husband replied. “He's a pretty shrewd old boy. As you may have noticed, his chief concern is for the future of Buckbridge Place. And you may be pretty sure that the girl he's chosen for Charles is the one to suit him. And I'm inclined to accept his invitation. I should enjoy having a pot at his pheasants.”

By the following afternoon the news that a man had been charged with Arthur's murder had spread all over Greycliffe. Nobody seemed to know who the man was, least of all Mr. Sowerby. He came to the Grand Central while the Merrions were having tea and, after looking around cautiously, approached them. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I hoped to find you. Mrs. Dunster isn't here, is she?”

“Not that I know of,” Merrion replied. “Neither of us have seen her for a week. We wondered what had become of her.”

“She's been in bed with influenza,” said Mr. Sowerby. “I met Dr. Northolt this morning and asked him how she was. He told me she was a lot better, and that he had said she might go out to-day. I was afraid she might have come here.”

“She hasn't turned up yet,” Merrion replied. “Sit down and join us.”

Mr. Sowerby sat down, and a fresh supply of tea was ordered for him. “Of course you've heard the news?” he asked as Mavis filled his cup.} “About the man who was charged at Rickford this morning?”

“Oh, yes, we've heard about that,” Merrion replied. “The mystery is solved at last, it seems.”

“I dare say you know more about it than I do,” said Mr. Sowerby. “The man is not anybody we know, I trust?”

But Merrion regarded what Arnold had told him as confidential. “I've heard a rumour that the man was a complete stranger to the district,” he replied evasively. “There will no doubt be a full report in the local paper.”

“We shall have to wait till Wednesday for that,” said Mr. Sowerby regretfully. “And naturally we are all most anxious to hear the truth. Edith and Charles particularly.”

He paused and went on in some embarrassment: “I know that Tom Graffham comes to see you in the evening. Has he told you anything about Edith?”

“Nothing very sensational, Mr. Sowerby,” Mavis replied. “You tell us.”

Mr. Sowerby swallowed a mouthful of tea and choked over it. “I beg your pardon. I thought Tom might have told you, for he was responsible. He knew that I had been in love with Edith for a long time, and asked me why I didn't ask her to marry me and have done with it. I told him that I could hardly do that while Edith was in mourning for her brother. He said that was nonsense, and that I should look damned foolish if some other chap stepped in and forestalled me. I apologise for the oath, but those were his very words.”

“They sound just like him,” Mavis replied. “And are we to congratulate you, Mr. Sowerby?”

“I shall accept your congratulations most gratefully,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Owing to Arthur's death being so recent, we are not announcing our engagement for the present.”

“We shan't mention it,” Merrion assured him. “And, after the wedding, Charles will be left at The Cedars with Patty to look after him?”

“Well, no,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “Only the day before yesterday I had a letter from the school matron, who is a lady of advancing years. She wrote to say that she had decided to resign her post at the end of next term. I immediately thought of Patty, as being the very woman to take her place. With the consent of Edith and Charles I approached her, and she agreed to come as matron to Creeking Hall. She said she was delighted, for she wouldn't be separated from Edith.”

“So Charles will have to find another housekeeper?” Merrion asked.

“No, for we have arranged that he should come and live at Creeking Hall,” Mr. Sowerby replied. “But when we told Tom about that, he said he didn't think it would be necessary. We asked him what he meant by that, but he wouldn't tell us.”

It was some time after the Merrions had returned home that they read in the papers the account of the trial, which resulted in the accused being found guilty. Some days later came a note from Mr. Sowerby, enclosing a cutting from the local paper. This was an account of the wedding of Mr. Gilbert Thrapston and Nina Farleigh. The honeymoon was to be spent in Paris. “That means that Guy has found his feet, and can be trusted to look after the business in his brother-in-law's absence,” Merrion remarked.

He and Mavis spent a most enjoyable few days at Buckbridge Place, in the course of which Merrion and his host accounted for quite a lot of pheasants. Sir Thomas contrived that Mavis should meet the rector's daughter. “I attach great value to your opinion, Mrs. Merrion,” he said later. “What did you think of her?”

“I found her perfectly charming,” Mavis replied, with the utmost truthfulness.

Shortly before Christmas, Merrion received another letter from Mr. Sowerby. “I have a piece of news which I think will astonish you,” he wrote. “When we broke up, a day or two ago, Charles went to stay at Buckbridge Hall. This morning Edith has heard from him that he has become engaged to the daughter of the rector there. He met her while he was staying at Buckbridge Place during the summer holidays. Edith and I are of course, delighted. And so, we gather from a remark in the letter, is old Tom Graffham. Writing of whom, Charles says he is fitter than many men of half his age.

“Edith and I have announced our engagement, and are to be married in the spring. Tom has promised to come. Is it too much to hope that you and Mrs. Merrion will attend the ceremony? I am tempted to suggest that if you can find time to go to Buckbridge Place to shoot pheasants, you might be able to come to Greycliffe to see us married.”

Merrion, who had been reading the letter aloud to Mavis, laughed when he reached this point. “We shall have to go, I suppose. I hope these various marriages will all turn out successfully. Do you know, I can't help feeling that the death of that unfortunate young man has led to the solution of a lot of problems.”

THE END