Doctor Disappears

Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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MAX DALMAN

DOCTOR DISAPPEARS

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1941

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025
Version Date: 2025-07-24

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

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"Doctor Disappears" is a twisty Golden Age mystery that begins with a late-night emergency call—and ends in murder. Dr. Wimborne vanishes after being summoned to a mysterious case. His daughter Pamela grows increasingly anxious when he doesn't return the next morning.

Inspector Darwin takes up the investigation, while Wimborne's colleague Dr. Appleby enlists his friend Dr. Caesar Langland to dig deeper. The suspects include the desperate Mr. Bilsdy, denied help in a drunk-driving case, and the shady rival Dr. Ealksly.

Chapter I. Midnight Call
Chapter II. Appleby Sends a Wire
Chapter III. The Light in the Surgery
Chapter IV. A Step Forward
Chapter V. A Strange Encounter
Chapter VI. An Accusation
Chapter VII. An Offer of Help
Chapter VIII. Corpse From the River
Chapter IX. Ransom or Death
Chapter X. Visit of an Uncle
Chapter XI. Diamond Cut Diamond
Chapter XII. Talk of Graves
Chapter XIII. When Churchyards Yawn
Chapter XIV. What the Weir Held
Chapter XV. More About Ransom
Chapter XVI. Darwin Begins Again
Chapter XVII. Corpse the Third
Chapter XVIII. Patricia on the Train
Chapter XIX. Darwin Clears Up
Chapter XX. The Usefulness of Aunts
Chapter XXI. Letter from the Dead
Chapter XXII. End of the Chase

CHAPTER I
Midnight Call

DR. WIMBORNE suppressed a sigh of resignation as he laid down his pipe and reached for the telephone on the table beside him. He had every reason to sigh, for after a particularly busy and exacting day, the ringing of its bell at half-past ten seemed to show that his work was not yet ended: he suppressed it, because he was a strong believer in self-discipline. But it was with the slightest trace of reluctance that he raised the receiver to his ear.

From the other side of the fire his daughter Patricia looked up from the book she had been reading, and smiled. Her father was one of the few men who obeyed Post Office instructions in not saying "Hullo!" on the telephone, and the fact always amused her. The smile faded as she saw how tired her father looked. A call probably meant a visit which would cheat him out of the fulfilment of his intention to go to bed early.

"Really, Mr. Bilsdy, I cannot discuss the matter at all... It would be most improper."

Patricia could not guess what had been said by the speaker at the other end of the line, but her father's frown deepened.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bilsdy, I am aware of the circumstances which you mention. No doubt the magistrates will give them the fullest consideration. I am concerned simply with the fact. The police are already aware of my opinion, and I cannot modify it in any way."

Plainly the other man was not content to accept that decision. Whatever he said, he succeeded in making the doctor really angry.

"I am not to be bribed, Mr. Bilsdy! I shall report your offer in the proper quarter." There was a pause. "Not intimidated! I should advise you, sir, to go no further... That is a matter for you to decide. I shall, as I have said, report this conversation."

Where another man might have banged down the receiver, he replaced it with deliberate gentleness. Then a thought seemed to strike him. He picked it up again.

"Operator!" he said. "Please note the time and place of origin of the call which you have just put through to me... Dr. J. L. Wimborne speaking... Yes. It may be a matter for the police... Thank you."

His daughter was looking at him anxiously as he pushed the instrument aside and reached for his pipe again.

"No." Her father deliberately struck a match and puffed at his pipe. "It's that man Bilsdy... court case coming up to-morrow. Drunk in charge."

"He was not available. There is not the least doubt the man was drunk. Very drunk. I said so. I shall say so in the witness box to-morrow. He should never have rung up."

"Wanted me to modify my evidence. Said a conviction would ruin him. He should have thought of that sooner... He actually tried to bribe me!"

"He—he threatened you, too?" There was a trace of nervousness in her voice. "I heard you say something about intimidation."

"Yes. As though I should be frightened by the ravings of a man like that... Said he was desperate. Ended by talking of suicide. Bah!"

"Absurd. Fools often talk of it to gain sympathy... He has done himself more harm than good. I shall report the full circumstances to-morrow."

He smoked for a few minutes in silence; then glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to eleven. He bent down and knocked the ashes from his pipe against the bars of the grate; then straightened himself and stood up. Involuntarily he pressed his hand wearily to his forehead.

"A little, Pat. It has been an exacting day. We have measles as well as 'flu now. Two cases in Stanham Street. There will be more. They won't isolate them until spots actually appear—if then... And I'd hoped to keep Mrs. Millshall a little longer."

"That was her son who called this morning, wasn't it? A thin-faced, dark young man with queer eyes?"

"You noticed them? Yes. I am afraid that we shall have him on our hands soon. He was devoted to his mother—foolishly devoted, as she was to him."

"I didn't like him." Patricia had a habit of making decisions on character at first sight. "He frightened me, somehow."

Dr. Wimborne nodded. "Until one becomes accustomed to it, there is always something a little disturbing about the—unbalanced."

"Not certifiably—yet... But I am afraid his mother's death may prove the last straw. I should not be surprised if—"

He broke off. Patricia shivered a little. As she stared into the fire, a picture of the young man's pale face and burning eyes seemed to form there, and she looked hurriedly away. Her father noticed and smiled.

"Don't worry, Pat. They're not your patients... And, thank God, you're not going to be a doctor!"

She laughed. "Why, daddy, you know perfectly well that you wouldn't be anything else!... How is your new assistant getting on?"

"Appleby? He's good. Competent and a hard worker. Clever too." He shrugged his shoulders ruefully. "That means I shan't keep him long. Unless he'd like to buy a share... I must introduce you to him sometime. We've not had time for the social graces since he came."

"That's a thing I forgot to ask when I appointed him!" Her father's eyes twinkled. "You're not going to set Gressett on him in his first week, surely?"

"I don't see why not. It would get him used to the idea! It's 'Merchant of Venice' this time. Mr. Gressett is taking Shylock as well as producing... He's wonderful."

"He's really a good actor... He can take almost any part and do it better than any of the rest of us."

Her obvious enthusiasm made Dr. Wimborne look at her shrewdly. Like many fathers, he hesitated between wanting to see his daughter happily married and not wanting to lose her. And Gressett would in many ways be a good match.

"From the way you speak of him I shall begin to think I'm going to lose you, Pat!" he said jokingly; but he was watching her face. She coloured a little; then, disrespectfully, put out her tongue.

"You mustn't be silly, daddy. There's nothing of that kind. Just because we're both fond of acting—"

"Purely platonic, eh? Art for art's sake." He shook his head. "That's one time Plato talked nonsense—"

"I think it's stupid the way people think that if a man meets you often he's automatically in love with you—I don't see why?"

"Because it's so often true." Dr. Wimborne yawned and looked at the clock. "Bed-time, Pat. Another tough day to-morrow, I expect. Not to mention night calls."

"Couldn't the young man—Mr. Appleby, do any that come?" she demanded. "I thought that's why one had assistants?"

Her father laughed. "Not entirely... Appleby was up most of last night. We mustn't kill him off or he won't be able to play Antonio—or whatever you've cast him for."

"Antonio's filled. That's Mr. Milton. And Mr. Field is Bassanio... No, he'll just have to carry a halberd or something at first... Anyway, daddy, take care and wrap up... Good-night."

Left to himself, Dr. Wimborne's customary precision of manner seemed to return to him. There were people who said that only his daughter had the power to make him relax to a normal humanity. He went through the usual bed-time routine of seeing that everything was left precisely as he had ordained that it should be. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a quarter to twelve as he switched off the light and went upstairs.

In his bedroom the nightly ritual was just as rigidly fixed. For each garment down to his collar-studs there was a proper place; and as he undressed he removed from the pockets of coat, waistcoat and trousers the comparatively few articles they contained and laid them neatly in order on the bedside table. He was not a man who lumbered up his pockets with a useless accumulation of things he did not want. Every separate one was what he would be likely to need during the day: and daily he banished any which he would not require. Undressed and in his pyjamas, with the whole programme finished, he crossed to the window to make sure that it was open to precisely the proper distance, adjusted the pillow and with a final glance round the room, got into bed and switched off the light. Within five minutes he was sleeping soundly.

As he had feared, his rest was not to be undisturbed. In fact, he had slept for little more than half-an-hour when the shrill whirr of the bedside telephone aroused him. Automatically he stretched out one hand towards it while with the other he felt for the light switch. Though still heavy with sleep, and blinking in the glare of the lamp, when he spoke he achieved the same precise intonation as in his surgery during consulting hours. Thirty-odd years had made him, if not resigned to night calls, at least able to control his voice so that it did not betray his feelings.

From the sound of the voice which answered, it was evident that the speaker was agitated. The fact made little impression on him. In his experience, the great bulk of patients who rang up at night were agitated though with no better excuse than indigestion or a cold. He listened unmoved for a moment to a torrent of words which made comment impossible.

All at once a sentence caught his attention and his interest quickened. His face grew grave.

"Would you repeat that, please?" he asked, and, after a pause, "When did this begin?"

The speaker answered, and with an inaudible sigh the doctor swung his legs out of bed.

"I shall be over immediately," he said. "Yes... Continue that treatment until I come... How long? Let me see. Twenty minutes, perhaps... Oh, you've already sent a car? Good. That will save time. Thank you."

He hung up the receiver and got out of bed. For night calls his method of dressing was simple. Over his pyjamas he merely put on trousers, coat and waistcoat, but with the addition of socks, shoes, and a silk muffler, these were sufficient to suggest that, however unreasonable the hour, he was dressed as immaculately as befitted a respectable professional man. It took him precisely four minutes to don the necessary garments, run a comb through his hair, and select from the table exactly what he thought he was likely to require. The church clock was chiming a quarter to one as he went out on to the landing.

As he did so a door on the other side opened. Patricia, less accustomed to being awakened at unexpected times, was just struggling into her dressing-gown, shivered a little as the chill of the oilcloth struck her unslippered feet.

"Thank goodness!" She spoke with feeling. For the past three days she had been deputising for the chauffeur who had himself had the poor taste to succumb to the prevalent germ, and she had already had more than enough of it. "Is it serious?"

"Very serious, I'm afraid. Life and death, judging by what I was told. In fact, he may be dead when I get there. It's probably only a matter of the certificate."

"Then you won't be long?" Patricia asked with unconscious callousness. She was too drowsy herself to care about anything except her father's obvious weariness. "That's good."

"Probably not. Perhaps an hour." He was already going downstairs. "Don't wait up, Pat. Better go right back to bed."

He switched on the light in the hall below and put on his hat and coat. She noticed anxiously how strained and white his face looked. At fifty-four, Dr. Wimborne would never have admitted that he was more than middle-aged; though now and again the realisation was forced upon him that he could not maintain the same pace as ten or fifteen years before. Perhaps it was a trick of the shadows which suddenly made Patricia realise that he was growing elderly. On a sudden impulse she ran to the bannisters and called down.

Dr. Wimborne shook his head, pausing for a moment at the entrance of the passage leading to the surgery.

"He was up last night—I told you," he said. "Mustn't work a willing horse to death... Besides, this is a case I ought to see for myself. No job for a young man... Used to be one of Ealksly's patients, too."

He disappeared round the corner. Patricia smiled a little to herself, recognising in the last few words a decisive factor, even if there had been nothing else. For there was war in the little town between the two competing practices; a war no less bitter because it was conducted, at least on the side of Dr. Wimborne, with the utmost professional decorum. Dr. Ealksly, indeed, judging by some odd comments dropped in his less cautious moments by her father, had apparently on one or two occasions been guilty of sailing very near the wind in his efforts to out-do his rival and acquire patients. It had been amusing to Patricia, on her return from college, to find that feeling had reached such a pitch that the respective families no longer recognised each other in the street. The violence of the feud had obviously increased in her absence and, when she had innocently greeted Dr. Ealksly a few days before, he had replied with a scowl indicating his utter hatred of the whole tribe of Wimborne.

After only a couple of minutes' absence her father emerged into the hall again. In his right hand he carried the small bag which was always kept ready packed for emergencies such as the present, and with his left he was stuffing something into the pocket of his coat. He glanced up and saw her.

"Go along now, Pat," he commanded. "Bed! No sitting up for me to-night, mind... Oh, you might switch off my light, will you?... Do you see anything of that car? It's late—"

She moved across the landing to the window which overlooked the front garden and the street beyond. Outside a light mist combined with a fine, persistent drizzle of rain to obscure the view even as far as the lamp on the pavement opposite the gate, which showed as a yellow halo in the blackness. But she would have seen the lights of a car. In both directions the avenue was empty.

Even as she spoke the twin sidelights of a car came slowly up from the direction of the main road. It passed the gate, and, silhouetted against the light, she could distinguish the outline of a big saloon. Just as she was thinking that either it was not coming to their house or had missed the place, it stopped a little further up the road. For a moment the lights swung full in her direction and she guessed what had happened. Evidently the driver knew the street. He had reversed in the one place practicable on a dark night, where the avenue widened just before coming to a dead end. Directly in front of the small gate the lights slowed and stopped.

The front door slammed. Looking out, she saw her father hurrying down the path, getting more and more shadowy as the mist engulfed him. She could barely see him as the gate closed behind him; but a shadow showed for a moment by the near-side front door, then vanished. Next moment the car started. In a few seconds the red eye of its rear lamp was swallowed up.

She turned away, crossing the landing to where the light still shone through her father's bedroom door. A worried frown gathered on her brows. It was a small thing, but she found the fact that her father had not himself switched off the light disturbing. It was so unlike him. He was meticulously careful about details, and in the ordinary way would not have dreamed of going downstairs and leaving it. But it was the only evidence of anything abnormal. In the orderliness of the room there was something reassuring. She even smiled as she noted that he had been careful to select from the contents of his pockets only such things as he was likely to need on an hour's trip. He seemed to have taken only keys, odd change, handkerchief, smoking materials, diary, and one fountain pen. Another, with his note-case, cheque book and other articles, still lay where he had placed them.

Pausing for a moment to straighten the bed, she returned to her own room for slippers and a woollen dressing-jacket before going downstairs. In spite of her father's orders she had no intention of going back to bed. Her mind was running on hot bottles and cocoa for the time when her father returned. The ashes of the study fire were still red, and with a few sticks she coaxed it to a blaze, putting the kettle at one side. She unearthed the hot water bottle which her father normally scorned, and put the cups and saucers on the side-table. The kettle was just beginning to sing when she let herself sink into the armchair, lit a cigarette and stretched out her toes towards the bars. After only a puff or two she threw it away. She was too sleepy to smoke. With a yawn she glanced at the clock. It was nearly half-past one...

She awoke with a start, cold and stiff from dozing in a cramped position. For a moment she was puzzled. The fire had died again to grey ashes; the electric lamp showed yellow in the daylight which streamed through the windows. And in the doorway the startled housemaid was staring at her open-mouthed. She jumped to her feet. As she did so she felt a strange thrill of fear. It was only with an effort she turned to look at the clock.

The fingers pointed to a quarter to seven. And her father had not yet come home. An unreasonable premonition almost overwhelmed her. With a clutch at her heart she knew that Dr. Wimborne would never come home alive.

CHAPTER II
Appleby Sends a Wire

DR. PETER APPLEBY had received the intimation that he would be required to take Dr. Wimborne's surgery as well as his own, with a singularly bad grace. It was the only intelligible portion of a complicated message delivered to him by a deaf landlady as he was shaving; and it was more than enough. His immediate reaction to it was a conviction that to be an assistant doctor was the life of a dog, and that senior medical practitioners were a collection of slave-driving harpies exploiting the skill of younger men.

That morning he would have felt disgruntled anyhow; for if there is one thing worse than to be woken up in the middle of the night by an urgent call when one's exhausted body is crying out for a few hours' unbroken sleep, it is to obey it and find it a hoax. The voice which had spoken over the telephone soon after midnight had sounded urgent enough to make him scramble into his clothes, grab his bag, and cycle a mile and a half in the mist and rain, only to be told when his knocking succeeded in rousing the darkened house that he was either a fool, mad, or drunk, and that the matter would certainly be reported to Dr. Appleby's employer in the morning. It was the first time in Appleby's brief medical career that anything of the kind had happened to him; and if he should ever find the telephone hoaxer he promised himself grimly that that man would have done it for the last time.

A hurried breakfast restored him sufficiently to wonder what was the matter with old Wimborne; for in his calmer moments he recognised that his senior was a very fair specimen of his class. Appleby admitted after his second cup of tea that he seemed the last man to impose unreasonably on an assistant; but he had little time to devote to the problem. To conduct two surgeries in different parts of the town involved a desperate attempt to disprove the axiom that a piece of matter cannot be in two places simultaneously. That morning Appleby knew that he had damned well got to be, or the nearest thing to it.

His own surgery started at nine o'clock; Dr. Wimborne's at half-past. With the epidemic which was then active, each of them would take between an hour and a half and two hours. His only hope was to arrive at his own surgery early, deal before hours with any few stragglers who might be queuing up; rush through as many as possible so as to open Dr. Wimborne's surgery at about a quarter to ten, and generally get grumbled at all round by everyone for being late or hurried. What would happen if Dr. Wimborne failed to function for visiting purposes he refused to think. The previous day he had just found it possible to get through his own list, but at the thought of a double list he frankly quailed. And visits were worse than surgeries, to do hurriedly. Either the people were rich, when you lost money, or the cases were serious and you lost lives.

To his amazement the programme worked more smoothly than his wildest optimism could have dreamed. Quite a good collection at his own surgery had been dealt with by the time it should have opened, and there was a quite incomprehensible scarcity of troublesome patients or difficult cases. To be sure, it had been very much a case of 'a word and a bottle' for patients that morning, but the fact remained that by half-past eleven he was sitting in Dr. Wimborne's empty surgery with no reason to think anyone would be much the worse.

There remained the visiting problem. Wimborne, apparently, had not returned or recovered: the question was if his car was free—for Appleby's own, always a chronic case, had suffered an acute breakdown two days before. He was reaching for the telephone in preference to braving a strange household, when the inner door of the surgery opened. He looked up and rose to his feet.

Obviously the girl in the doorway was Patricia Wimborne. He had never met her, but the colouring and finely formed features were a feminine version of her father's which was unmistakable. But just at that moment he could not dwell on them. What struck him was the absolute pallor of her face and the anxiety in her dark eyes. She advanced hesitantly.

She made a little hopeless gesture. "I don't know," she said simply. "He's not come back."

"Look here. I don't understand. My fool of a landlady, who never hears more than half you tell her, simply gave me the message that Dr. Wimborne wouldn't be able to take surgery, so would I do both. Since then I've been too busy to ask questions. I've just finished—"

"I don't know. Nobody knows. Only he's not come back... You see, last night he got a call at about one o'clock. He said it was serious but wouldn't take long because the patient would probably be dead when he got there. He thought an hour. I was going to sit up but fell asleep. At seven this morning he hadn't come home. He still hasn't. And we've heard nothing."

"Good God!" Appleby exclaimed quietly as the full mystery of the business struck him. "What on earth—?"

"I thought he might have fallen ill when he got to the house. He looked so tired. But they knew our number and would have 'phoned."

Appleby frowned and bit his lip. Then he noticed how rigidly she stood, as though she was holding herself there by sheer will-power. He pushed forward a chair.

"Sit down, Miss Wimborne," he commanded rather than requested. "You smoke? Have a cigarette?"

She seated herself obediently, shook her head at the extended case, and then changed her mind. He struck a match and leant forward on the desk.

"Not very much, except that there had been no accidents. They took a description and asked for a photograph... They couldn't explain it. Only—"

"Only the sergeant there seemed to think that—that he might have meant to disappear—gone away voluntarily."

"Not properly. He'd just got his coat and trousers on over his pyjamas. And he hadn't taken any money, except about five shillings. Or his cheque book. He wouldn't have gone like that... And I know—I know he wouldn't have gone at all. And certainly not without me. Whatever trouble there might be."

"They spoke about loss of memory... And he has been tired. He didn't switch off his light last night—"

He shook his head. "After all, I'm a doctor," he said, "and I've been seeing him every day. He didn't show any signs of it... Besides—" He stopped, suddenly realising the unpleasant implications of what he was on the point of saying. But evidently it had already occurred to the girl.

"I know what you were going to say," she said in a low voice. "He went off in their car. They would bring him back. He wouldn't be alone at all... That's what makes sickness or an accident or—or anything ordinary impossible. The people he was with would have let us know or repeated it to the police."

Peter Appleby was silent. It was exactly the point he had just stopped himself from making. And he had stopped himself because it raised almost more sinister possibilities.

"I didn't think of it at first. But last night a man called Bilsdy rang daddy up. He's coming up in court to-day for being drunk in charge of a car... Daddy told me he'd been threatened—"

"No. I didn't think of it then... But the man said he was desperate; that his whole life would be ruined. He said he'd commit suicide. And daddy said he'd report what had happened. He told the operator to note the call."

"The police have got to know that." Peter glanced at the clock, thought of his double visiting list, and groaned. "Look here, let me borrow the car. Mine's smashed. I'll pop in at the police station and tell them. Then I'll tackle those damned—I beg your pardon—visits. They've got to be done. I don't know how we'll get through... The other doctor here—isn't friendly?"

"He hates daddy, I think. It's more than just competition. No. He wouldn't help. He'd be glad."

"Then I'll manage. To-day, anyhow. We'll discuss it later—if there's no news... But we'll hope there will be."

"But I don't hope now," she said in a low voice. "That's funny, isn't it? I mean I don't expect good news. I don't expect him to come back... Somehow, inside me, I just know that he's dead."

There was a certainty in her manner which Appleby found rather appalling, and he did not quite know what to say.

"You mustn't think of it like that, Miss Wimborne," he said firmly. "I've no doubt that everything will be all right... There must be some explanation. Perhaps—" He was struck by a brilliant idea which alone among the ideas which he had had actually possessed a degree of plausibility. "Perhaps your father was detained, or had to go somewhere. He probably left a message with someone who forgot to deliver it."

"But—but I know," she said almost in a whisper, and stopped. "You'd better go," she said at last. "You know where the car is..."

Appleby was aware of her still standing there as he went out. But there was no help for it. As he started up the car he was rapidly running over in his mind the two lists of visits to be made; his own and that which he had scribbled down from the doctor's meticulously kept case-book. There were about half a dozen which he would have to deal with as soon as possible; several more about which he did not know and consequently would have to investigate, and the rest—well, the rest would have to take their chance and be dealt with as soon as possible. He decided on the police first.

He was lucky enough to find at the station not the sergeant whose lack of tact with the girl had so annoyed him, but the inspector, for whom his brief acquaintance had given him some respect. He listened sympathetically to what Peter had to say, and frowned a little at Bilsdy's telephone call.

After a minute's conversation with the supervisor, he looked at Appleby and nodded.

"That's correct. A call was put through from a call-box at half-past ten last night. Dr. Wimborne rang the operator and asked for the number to be noted, as the police might take action."

"Bilsdy isn't on the 'phone," he said, and thought. Then he glanced at the clock and gave another number.

"Inspector Darwin speaking," he said. "I wanted to know about a case which was coming up this morning. A man called Bilsdy—drunk in charge... Oh. It has?" Appleby saw his eyebrows rise. "Oh. You were? Right. I'll see to that... By the way, you'd got a Dr. Wimborne down as medical witness, hadn't you?... No, I thought he hadn't. That's why I rang... Seems to have disappeared... Yes... Nothing very certain yet. I'm issuing a description in case... Thanks."

"Bilsdy's case came up for hearing half an hour ago," he explained. "But Bilsdy wasn't represented and didn't answer when his name was called. No one knows where he is. The magistrates have issued a warrant for his arrest... Dr. Wimborne was to have given evidence in that case. But when they came to get their witnesses together he wasn't to be found. I suppose that's what one might have expected; but it's queer about Bilsdy."

"That's it!" Appleby exclaimed. "That must be it. Bilsdy enticed him out and attacked him. Murdered him... Then he bolted."

"Well, perhaps, sir," Darwin said without enthusiasm. "But you know as well as I do that any man in the position of a doctor—or a policeman—gets threatened now and again. Generally nothing is done about it. I've seen Bilsdy—drunk and sober—and this doesn't seem in his line at all."

"May have bolted, knowing that he'd be convicted—though it is a silly thing to do. Or, for that matter he may have done the other thing he threatened."

"Several things, doctor—and not much more unlikely. There may have been some accident which hasn't been reported yet, and the doctor's lying hurt somewhere. He may have been detained and left a message with someone who hasn't delivered it—"

"That's the only one I could think of that made any sense," Appleby interjected, "and that makes less and less sense the longer he stays away."

"Speaking as a doctor, I can't admit he was in such a physical or mental condition that it is probable. And I saw him daily."

"No," Appleby admitted. "But then, a man with only pyjamas under his suit, and no money, isn't going to get far, I should imagine, without someone reporting it."

"But he looked dressed, sir," Darwin pointed out. "And, of course, someone may notice him. There's not been time."

"I'm not saying so, doctor. The fact is, at present we haven't any sufficient evidence one way or the other... He might very well have gone away voluntarily for some private reason."

Appleby made an impatient gesture. "That's what that foo— your sergeant said to Miss Wimborne. She was fearfully upset about it." He paused. "And besides, it's absurd. Wimborne was well off, and there wasn't a suspicion of anything against him."

"It might have been better not to say it, sir," the inspector agreed. "But, in fact, a large proportion of disappearances are voluntary. The more respectable a man is the more scared he is if anything threatens his respectability."

"I don't believe it of Wimborne, anyway," Appleby persisted. He glanced at his watch. "The point is what are you going to do? You can't just hang around doing nothing whatever."

"Well, sir," he said a little irritably. "I don't see that there's a great deal more that we can do than we're doing. We shall have to find Bilsdy anyway, on account of this warrant, and while we're doing that it will be easy enough to make a few inquiries about where he was last night and so on—quietly, I mean. Then we've got a description and photograph of Dr. Wimborne which I'll circulate in the district... But you see, doctor, from all points of view as things stand, one wants to go pretty circumspectly. If there is nothing wrong, but just some mistake, or some private matter which has called the doctor away, he won't be too pleased if we make a scandal. Of course, if you and Miss Wimborne aren't satisfied that that's the right way to look at it, it's always open to you to bring things into the limelight at once."

"Ring up the local paper, give them the facts, and a photograph—probably it will appear in all the more sensational papers to-morrow morning."

Appleby considered. He could almost see the headlines: "Kidnapped Doctor," "Doctor Missing after Midnight Call," and he mentally shuddered. It might be the quickest way of finding Dr. Wimborne, but if nothing was wrong there would be the devil to pay. He almost veered round to the inspector's point of view but a doubt persisted.

"I don't, sir. We'll bear the idea in mind, but so far the only indication of anything criminal is what you told us about Bilsdy. We're going to investigate that. But there are obvious difficulties in the way of his having done it."

"But, sir, they ought to be plainer to you than to me. If we assume that call wasn't genuine, it was put through by someone who knew enough to make a plausible tale. Did Bilsdy? I doubt it. I've seen the man and I could understand his beating up the doctor if he met him in the street when he'd had one or two—but not planning a cold-blooded business like this. Then he'd have to borrow or hire a car."

"He had got one, sir, before his accident, but it's only fit for scrap now. And, anyway, it was a sports model. From what Miss Wimborne said, this was a saloon—If he has hired or borrowed one we can probably find out. Then, he'd have had an accomplice. Wimborne would have recognised him. There are difficulties every way, sir."

"In that case, sir, I should say you could do more than anyone. I mean, that there can only be a limited number of patients who it could have been."

"Unfortunately, I've only been here a week. You'd better get hold of my predecessor."

"We will, if necessary. But I should say with the books and Miss Wimborne you might be able to form some idea."

"Thank you, inspector." Appleby rose. "I'll certainly do that—you'll ring Miss Wimborne if—"

Appleby left the police station dissatisfied, and yet he sympathised with the inspector's point of view. Certainly it was undesirable to make a scare as long as there was a probability of some normal explanation. He thought it over carefully in the few brief intervals allowed in an afternoon which finally convinced him of the impossibility of trying to carry on the practice single-handed. By the time he returned to Wimborne's house just before evening surgery he had reached a decision, and even tentatively acted on it by calling at the post office to send a wire.

Patricia herself admitted him. He could only shake his head in answer to her look of inquiry and it was sufficiently plain from her own expression that she had had no news. She ushered him into the drawing-room. Somewhat to his surprise there was already a visitor there, a youngish man with a rather striking head and face. Dimly he reminded Appleby of someone.

"This is Mr. Gressett—Dr. Appleby." She introduced them. "Mr. Gressett came about the play. He's anxious to do anything he can."

"The play?" Appleby repeated bewilderedly. Gressett extended a hand and he took it mechanically.

"The play our amateur society is acting, doctor," Gressett explained. There was a kind of subdued power in his voice and it flashed on Appleby what there was about him he remembered. Gressett reminded him of a prominent Shakespearean actor he had met. "It's 'The Merchant of Venice' this year. Naturally, when I came, I had no idea. We've had some trouble ourselves this last few days—"

"We're still hoping that there's nothing wrong," Appleby answered, without a strict adherence to the truth. "Of, course, you understand, Mr. Gressett, that the less said at present the better."

Gressett assented. "Just what I suggested to Miss Wimborne myself. And now, I must really be going—if Dr. Appleby will excuse me. Good afternoon, doctor."

Appleby was not sorry to see him go. There was a good deal which he wanted to discuss with Patricia Wimborne, and he preferred to be unhampered by the presence of an outsider whose exact status he did not know. When the girl re-entered the room she moved across to the tea table.

"You've not had tea?" she asked conventionally. "Oh, I'm afraid it will be cold."

"It doesn't matter." Appleby accepted a lukewarm cup and forbore to mention that he had not had lunch either. "You've not heard anything?"

She shook her head dispiritedly. "Nothing. The inspector came over and told me, I expect, very much what he told you. That was all."

"Yes." Appleby hesitated, and then plunged. "There are two things I've been thinking, Miss Wimborne. I hope you won't think I'm being impertinent and taking too much on myself. The first is that, if anything is wrong—"

"Dr. Appleby!" Patricia looked at him squarely. "It's no use keeping up this pretence—like the police. You know there's something wrong and that every hour makes that more certain."

Appleby nodded. "Yes. But it's going to be difficult to get the police busy until they're sure. I feel we ought to supplement what they're doing with some inquiries on our own. That's the first point. And the second is—" He hesitated. "I expect you can guess how it's been for me to-day, and still is going to be. I can't keep things going here for long without letting the practice go to pieces and playing into Ealksly's hands—"

"That's what it would have to come to—if we don't hear soon. You see, just for the next week or two I'd say there will be three men's work anyhow. But things are so uncertain."

"Of course you must get someone at once," Patricia insisted. "You'd kill yourself."

"I'm more afraid of killing someone else... Well, as a matter of fact, I have got someone—though I should have asked you first. I've a friend called Langland who's at a loose end for a few days. He was thinking of coming to see me anyway. I'm pretty sure he'd give us a hand with things. And, as a matter of fact, he's interested in detective work... I sent him a wire—"

"Yes. Hadn't much cash on me, could only put it briefly. I just said: 'Come. Urgent. Locum. Possible mystery.' But I think it will bring him."

Patricia had stepped over to the fireplace and reached behind a vase on the mantelpiece.

"I'd forgotten," she apologised. "This came for you... I opened it because—because I thought—"

"Naturally," Appleby assented, and his face brightened as he read the wire: "All locums mysteries. Coming to-night. Caesar."

Appleby smiled. "He told me—the last time he saw me—that his father had intended him for the army!" he said. "And now for the surgery."

CHAPTER III
The Light in the Surgery

EVIDENTLY the double surgery, perhaps with calls arising out of it, had detained Appleby even longer than he had anticipated, for he had still not returned when Patricia heard the bell ring at a quarter to nine that night. Like every other knock or ring since the morning, it brought her trembling to her feet, but her previous disappointments had prepared her for experiencing yet another as she hurried to the front door and threw it open.

It was a particularly tall young man who stood there, and at the first glimpse of him she gasped. It was not his height which surprised her; and his face was almost invisible under the shadow of a wide-brimmed felt hat. But his suit alone was enough to retain anyone's attention. It was of a vivid, unusual green, revealing at the neck a shirt of a striking orange yellow with tie to match. Somehow the result reminded Patricia of a king-cup.

"Good evening." He raised his hat. His voice just avoided being a drawl. "Miss Wimborne? My name is Langland. Dr. Appleby wired—"

"Oh!" The announcement startled Patricia, even as it flashed through her mind that from Appleby's wire he could not possibly have known her name. "Won't you—won't you come in? Dr. Appleby is taking surgery still... He told me he was expecting you—"

The young man entered. Almost to her surprise, he did not have to duck to enter the doorway, and as she relieved him of his hat and coat she caught her first real sight of his face. Curiously enough, he was a little like a bust of Julius Caesar; though more, perhaps, like Buster Keaton. He was evidently a few years older than Appleby and his black hair was thinning at the temples, making his forehead unnaturally high. He followed her into the drawing-room, and seated himself in obedience to her gesture.

In spite of herself, she could think of nothing to say. She had to make a great effort to restrain herself from staring at that preposterous suit. He seemed to realise that some explanation was desirable.

"Oh!" she said blankly. Actually it was exactly what she did feel. She apologised. "I hope I'm not being rude but—you don't look very like a doctor."

"I have the necessary make-up in my bag. When I assume it you will be surprised how much more like a doctor I look even than most doctors."

"Yes. Not that it is necessary to be a doctor in order to cure people. But one must look like a doctor... Now, recently, I have been a poet and playwright. Hence the costume."

"Do you find dressing like that helps you to write?" Patricia asked a little dazedly.

"It helps me to make people think I do... And now, Miss Wimborne, perhaps you'd tell me what the trouble is? It concerns your father?"

"Yes. But how—?" She was startled. "Then you've seen Dr. Appleby? Or is there anything in the papers—?"

"Well," he conceded. "I suppose the line of reasoning was this. I received Peter's wire hinting about a mystery and work as a locum. On depositing my bag at the Railway Hotel, I learnt in passing that Dr. Appleby was working with Dr. Wimborne, who, like the king in Tennyson 'had one fair daughter and none other child.' I saw from the plate that this was Doctor Wimborne's house; recognised you as Miss Wimborne. Now, since he sent me the wire, Appleby is all right, and you tell me he is taking surgery at a preposterously late hour. That would appear to mean that something has happened to Dr. Wimborne. All the more so as you seem to have been—upset." He only just saved himself on the last word and went on a little hurriedly. "Did Peter get my wire? He is expecting me?"

For a moment she thought that she had offended him. He looked at her gloomily for a moment.

"That is a question," he said carefully, "which sooner or later all friends and acquaintances feel impelled to ask... When at school, I was accustomed to answer it briefly, but pointedly, by hitting the inquirer on the nose—if of a suitable size."

"Oh, I'm sorry." For the first time that day Patricia smiled. "I didn't mean—"

"Not at all. That you should have asked the question so soon augurs well for our future acquaintance. And, years having brought the philosophic mind, I am accustomed now to reply less forcibly, but at greater length, by giving everyone a suitable answer to the best of my ability... You must understand that my paternal grandfather was a prolific composer of epic and didactic verse." He paused.

"Oh!" said Patricia with the feeling that some comment was expected. "I am afraid I never read any—"

"It would have thrown a sinister light upon your character if you had said you had... My father, a man of sound sense and practical views, having himself suffered in youth from the recitation of my grandfather's works, was inclined to attribute what he regarded as a failing to the influence of the poetical name our family bears."

He caught the look of bewilderment on her face and frowned. "I see," he said, that I was in error in believing your studies at Oxford had been concentrated on English Literature. It was Modern Languages?"

"A pity. But, having got so far, I will proceed. I refer, of course to Langland, the author of 'Piers Plowman'... His object, therefore, was to counter act the poetical influence of the surname by a prosaic Christian name. But you will have observed that ordinary names like John, William, Alfred, or Henry appear to have had little deterrent effect upon their owners. He therefore chose Caesar."

"As the writer of some of the prosiest, if most perfect, prose the world has ever known. Take even his masterly beginning, 'Omnis Gallia in tres partes divisa—'. There is no finer instance of saying a plain thing in a plain way. And so, after some argument with my maternal great uncle, a rigid churchman, who maintained that Caesar could not be regarded as a Christian name—"

A knock at the door interrupted him, and Appleby entered. Used as he was to his friend's eccentricities, Langland's costume seemed to take him aback.

"Hullo, Caesar," he said. "I hadn't expected you so soon. Or—" He surveyed the suit. "Or to see you like that... I suppose you rushed straight from a fancy dress ball where you were impersonating a yellow water-lily—the kind that smells of brandy?"

"I assure you," Langland said earnestly, "I do not. Of course, if the omission offends your sense of the fitness of things, I am ready to sacrifice myself."

Langland had the grace to look shamefaced. Appleby collapsed into a chair. He was tired out.

"I was enlightening her about my name. She looked as if she needed cheering up."

"He's disappeared. Had a call about one last night, went off to some unknown destination in a strange car, and hasn't been seen or heard of since." He groaned. "We've got 'flu, measles and diphtheria here among other things. I've had a lovely day."

"None that's worth a damn. Shall I tell you about it, or would you rather have it direct from her?"

"She doesn't look the sort of person who'd break down," he said. "And I suppose she knows more about it than anyone else... I'll have it from her, I think—you've been to the police?"

The reappearance of Patricia carrying a tray containing whisky and a syphon interrupted him. Appleby himself was glad of a drink, but in view of his long fast helped himself sparingly. Langland was a little more generous.

"It is, of course," he observed, "fatal for a doctor to drink when there is the slightest possibility of his being called on duty.... I refer not to the medical properties of alcohol, but to its smell. You will always find a number of ill-natured people prepared to swear you were dead drunk... During the short time I was in practice I elaborated a technique in this direction which may be of service to you."

"Having ascertained the name of any person given to such slanderous gossip, you wait until they next come under your hands. Then, if teetotal you prescribe alcohol three times a day after meals; if not, you prohibit alcohol entirely... Miss Wimborne, almost certainly you don't like whisky, which is a good reason why you should conform to the Eastern custom of tasting what you offer your guests. Allow me—"

Patricia actually disliked whisky considerably. But she took the glass Langland gave her, and, under the fascination of his eye sipped it obediently. There was a brief silence. Appleby decided to let Langland come to the point his own way.

"I have always found patients amenable, not to reason, but to unreason; not to sense, but to personality. A decent doctor may find it impossible to get anyone to stick to a treatment; while a quack gets away with something far less useful and more unpleasant... I might tell you, I left the actual practice of medicine a year ago owing to the temptation it offered to a man of my character to make a large fortune."

There was silence again. Langland glanced at the girl. The spirit had brought a little colour to her cheeks. He decided the sooner the plunge was taken the better.

"And now, Miss Wimborne," he said in a changed voice, "if you feel equal to it, I should be glad if you would give me your account of what happened. So far, all I have heard is the fact of your father's disappearance... In spite of the nonsense I talk, I have had some experience in this kind of thing. I really hope I may help you."

Patricia inclined her head in acknowledgment. After a brief pause she began to speak in a low but even voice, and it was evident from the consistency of her story that she had her feelings well under control. Langland did not even need to question her. At the end he turned to Appleby and received his account of the visit to the police station. He was silent for a minute or two when they had finished.

"On the whole," he said, "your inspector took a sound view of the case—I mean his idea that one should do everything possible without advertising the facts... As things are, how many people know about it?"

"I think so," Patricia answered. "Besides, they don't really know there's anything wrong."

"John—Mr. Gressett. But he won't talk either. He called about the play we're acting. Partly about that at least, and partly to explain why he hadn't been round before. You see, his uncle died—"

"Well, it's desirable to keep it quiet temporarily for several reasons. First, as the inspector says, he might have gone away voluntarily." He saw the denial on the girl's lips and hurried on. "I don't think under the circumstances that's at all likely. In view of the relations existing between your father and yourself, as I understand them, I can't imagine anything which would send him away like that without telling you and without making some arrangements... I expect that's how you feel, Miss Wimborne?"

"Against that, too, are the material circumstances. I mean, that he did not take the few minutes extra needed to dress properly: that he left behind his note case and cheque book, and so on. I think that is the least possible explanation."

"Perhaps not. I'm inclined to think they'd minimise the first point—and if one does that you can explain the rest away. He might have stowed some clothes ready in his medical bag. He might have drawn out a sufficient sum previously... I think all those explanations highly improbable; but they are possible."

"The question is, what sort of accident? When, and where? Let's suppose the call was a genuine one. If an accident had happened on the way there, the people at the house would have rung you up to inquire why the doctor did not arrive. If any accident were conceivable in the house, they would still have rung up. If it was on the way back, the same, when the driver didn't return."

"There'd still almost certainly be someone to inquire about the driver... Besides, if a fatal accident had taken place on the roads about here, it is nearly certain that it would have been reported by now. I mean, this is a comparatively mild, civilised piece of country—so far as I've seen it. I can't believe that there's any spot within ten or fifteen miles where a car could have crashed and not been seen by now. Can you?"

"We seem to be ruling all the possibilities out, but we're not getting anywhere," he said. "Isn't it possible that Dr. Wimborne decided to walk back from the place? Something might have happened then—"

"The trouble is that it's so horribly unlikely. Can you imagine anyone wanting to walk on a night like that? If the car that brought him wasn't available for any reason, wouldn't he have hired one, or rung up the house?"

"Yes, but for any normal explanation we've got to assume that something like that did happen. Even for loss of memory—and I don't quite agree with you that one can reject that completely. If there was anything in the way of illness or accident, it had to happen when there wasn't anyone with him to get in touch with his home."

"You don't believe it was anything—anything ordinary," she said in a strained voice. "You think—as I do—that there's something wrong—that he's been kidnapped—perhaps—perhaps—"

Langland did not speak immediately. "In a way, the inspector was right about that," he said. "I mean, it is improbable and unusual for a perfectly respectable man living in a town like this to be kidnapped or—or murdered. But after you've overcome the initial objection, either of these really gives an explanation which is more coherent than anything else we've suggested—"

"Don't, Dr. Appleby—" Patricia interrupted him. "I know you want to spare my feelings but—it's better to have the whole truth... You see, I know he's dead. I don't know how, but I do."

"I think it is better to face unpleasant possibilities... Now, if there is anything criminal about the disappearance, how far was it deliberately planned? Was the telephone call, and the case, genuine or not?"

"But they might have been. Supposing, say, the patient died. Supposing one of the relatives became hysterical—attacked the doctor—and the result was fatal? Mightn't the family take the desperate course of hushing it up?... It would be an absurd thing to do, but people lose their heads."

"But not likely? Agreed. That leaves me with the position that the telephone call was faked; that there was no illness. But—" He paused significantly. "The call was put through by someone well enough acquainted with medicine and Dr. Wimborne's practice to make up a convincing lie. I think that point may be important. Then, what was the intention and what was the motive?"

"Was the intention merely to kidnap Dr. Wimborne for some reason or other—or was it to kill him?"

Faced with the alternative, Appleby felt suddenly aware of the cold-bloodedness of their discussion in the presence of Patricia Wimborne.

"Don't you think that you and I might discuss this later?" he suggested. "It can only be distressing—"

"I would rather hear." Patricia spoke in a low voice, but quite firmly. "I may be able to help."

Langland nodded. "That's the reason why I'm inflicting all this on you," he said. "If the intention were only to kidnap, it might, of course, be for ransom. That is the usual reason. But it may not be the true one. As a doctor, one is in a special position—often a position of some power, and consequently of danger. The kidnapping may have been to make Dr. Wimborne do something in his capacity as a doctor, or to prevent his doing something."

"Bilsdy is the only definite possibility. All the same, there is something to be said for the inspector's objections... In any case, the police are looking into that. But there may be someone else with a similar motive." He paused. "And then," he said a little hesitantly, "we come to the possibility of murder... Had your father, so far as you knew, any personal enemies, Miss Wimborne?"

Patricia was staring at the fire, she had not even changed her position at Langland's mention of the last possibility.

"I—I don't think so," she said slowly. "No one who would want to kill him... Of course, things seem to have become very difficult with Dr. Ealksly. I noticed it when I came home. He wouldn't recognise me in the street... But that's absurd."

"I don't know," Appleby frowned a little. "It's hard to say just what motive would incite a man... I haven't thought that things here were at all healthy. I mean, the rivalry between the practices has passed beyond any normal stage—"

She hesitated. "There's Uncle Richard... At least he's not my real uncle, but he's my father's brother-in-law. I don't know just how things stood, but there was an awful row some time ago—"

"About ten weeks ago. I was at home on vacation. I don't know what it was about, but I think money came into it... My aunt died two years ago, but daddy was still ready to treat him as one of the family... Only he made it impossible—" She paused. "And besides, he killed Aunt Mary."

"Oh, I don't mean he murdered her. But she was delicate, and her life with him—wasn't happy."

Langland scribbled down the name and address in a notebook which had somehow appeared in his hand.

"I think," he said, "those are the possibilities... Now, the question is, what can we do to find out about them?" He looked at Appleby. "I think the inspector's suggestion was sound there. The answer to at least a part of the problem lies in the doctor's books."

"Well, let's take first the case to which Dr. Wimborne thought he was going. If there is any criminal intention, there is probably no immediate connection between this case and the murderer; but if it is a real case, the murderer knew about it. And I think the evidence is that it was a real case. I mean, if one considers the way Dr. Wimborne reacted to it... I don't believe he'd have been so definite about death being likely unless it was a case he had been seeing. Very well. What we've got to find is a patient whose condition might suddenly become serious; a patient with a car and a telephone; a patient where Dr. Ealksly used to attend. I don't think it should be impossible at any rate to make a short list of possible people."

"How many people could use it as a blind successfully? And do they coincide with those who might have a motive? And with those who have the necessary resources?"

"Why, I thought it was rather a good one—" Patricia said uncertainly. "But I couldn't see it. It's only an impression."

"But probably a correct impression. And from what you said about the way the car turned, the driver knew the avenue well. I mean, either he had himself turned a car there before, or knew it was the only place... So, supposing for the moment that there is a criminal, what do we know about him?"

"I don't see we really know anything very much," Appleby said wearily. He was tired out, and his friend's reassuring seemed to make very little impression on his mind. "How can we?"

"Oh, yes. We do—quite a lot. First, he is some one with a motive, personal or otherwise, for doing whatever was done. Secondly, he possessed certain knowledge of the district, including this avenue; of Dr. Wimborne's practice, and of a case suitable for his purpose; in fact, of the particular case which was used and which we should be able to find out. He possessed a car, and probably a good car—"

"He may. But if so, the hiring of a car for that time of night would be a sufficiently unusual circumstance to be remembered, and we should be able to find where it was hired... Otherwise, I agree with the inspector that the best chance of finding anything out is in the books of the practice. We have to look, first, for someone who might have had a motive; secondly, for a case which would have been fairly certain to take Dr. Wimborne out at midnight. And that, for the moment, is all I can suggest."

He rose to his feet. Appleby did the same. He was glad it was over. The more he thought about it the less necessary it seemed to have inflicted such an ordeal on Patricia Wimborne. Langland himself appeared to be conscious of it. He turned to the girl.

"I'm sorry to have dragged you through all this, Miss Wimborne; but I wanted you to have the position as clear as possible in your mind. You see, you are probably the only person who has the knowledge of something or other which would be relevant, if one looked at it in the right way—"

"Or you don't know that you know. There's still a possibility it may fit into one of the positions I've just gone through... And now, I think we've bothered you long enough.... Oh! Have you by any chance an aunt?"

"Wouldn't it be a good idea to write and ask her to stop here with you? Or any friend or relative, of course. But in such cases one naturally thinks of aunts. Wire her—or write, if you don't think her nerves would stand the strain of a wire."

"I don't think they would." She smiled rather wanly. "I want to thank you, Mr. Langland—"

"But just at present it would be thank you for nothing. So let's wait... Good-night and try to sleep."

But as the door closed behind them, Patricia Wimborne felt that that was the last thing she could hope to do. All that day she had expected that every caller, and every ring of the telephone would bring news, and she knew that if she went to bed she would only lie listening for any sound of someone coming. For quite a long time she sat by the dying fire, trying to summon her resolution to force herself to go upstairs. Rather to her surprise, Langland's visit had actually soothed her. She felt at least that there was someone trying to solve the problem, not with the half-hearted attitude of the police, and in spite of his affectations she felt a curious confidence in him.

When she did rouse herself it was to put into practice the one concrete suggestion he had made; but the letter to her aunt took a long time to write. She had torn up several sheets and tried several versions before she finally achieved one which she thought would serve its purpose. As she sealed the envelope, her eyes fell on the clock, and she noticed with astonishment that it was nearly midnight.

Obviously she must go to bed. Not without an effort, she went out into the hall. In contrast to the night before, it was perfectly fine, and the full moon shining through the windows made the whole place quite light. She did not trouble to press the switch as she made her way across to the staircase. She had nearly reached it when by the merest chance she happened to glance towards the dark opening of the passage to the surgery.

She stopped with a gasp. Just for a moment at the far end a glimmer of light flashed. It was as though a lamp had been shone on the crack below the surgery door.

For a moment she stood there staring, half wondering if she had not been deceived by some trick of the moonlight. Her heart was beating wildly and she had an impulse to dash down the passage. If it was her father— But as she stood there she realised how unlikely it was. There had been something stealthy in the momentary showing of the light, suggesting that whoever was there had no lawful errand. She waited for a minute which seemed like an hour. Then the light shone again—a mere flash, but brighter than any moonlight could be.

Just for an instant she stood irresolute; then she turned and hurried noiselessly across towards the study.

CHAPTER IV
A Step Forward

APPLEBY was more than a little inclined to be irritable as they walked down the moonlit street in the direction of the main road. They went for a few yards in silence, and then his indignation found expression.

"Really, Caesar, I don't think we need have gone through all that before the girl," he said. "It must have been hell for her to listen to you calmly talking about murder and so on. After all, it's her father—"

"It was necessary—for the reason I gave," Langland said calmly. "Oddly enough, that was true. Only I didn't say in so many words that the murderer, if any, is probably among Wimborne's friends and acquaintances. That's what I actually think. I doubt if any ordinary outsider would know enough."

"Well—what about him? I gather that there was a sort of war in progress here between him and Wimborne. And yet I don't just see a respectable medical practitioner going quite to the length of kidnapping or murder... Still, up to the present, he is, I suppose, one of the three suspects we can put a name to—Ealksly, Bilsdy and the brother-in-law, Barndon."

"Perhaps.... But I wish there was some way of deciding whether the motive was personal or professional—whether Dr. Wimborne was removed as a man or as a doctor."

"You keep on repeating that about his being a doctor as a motive. I don't entirely get what you're aiming at."

"Well—as a doctor you have to deal with two of the most important incidents in human life—birth and death. No one is supposed to be born without the doctor or midwife notifying the authorities; no one can die, or at least be buried, without a doctor's certificate saying why he died. Those two alone give one plenty of scope. Suppose, for example, there was a birth at which Dr. Wimborne had been present which for some reason had to be concealed. It would not be possible to conceal it without removing Dr. Wimborne. That is an example of the professional motive. Bilsdy's case is another. One can think of plenty more."

"They're more elusive, at present. There's the quarrel with Barndon—and I suppose Ealksly counts as half and half. But there are a lot more things I should have liked to ask Miss Wimborne. Does anyone other than herself benefit under her father's will? Did he have any differences of opinion with anyone about her?"

"It may have escaped your notice that she's a distinctly attractive girl?" Langland asked sweetly, and Appleby felt himself colouring. "It would be against reason and nature if there wasn't someone in the field—such as our friend Gressett—to whom she confided the fact of her father's disappearance. Did Dr. Wimborne approve or not? It's a point worth looking— Hullo!"

"That," Langland pointed. "In fact, not the sky, but the road is up.... And there's a night watchman guarding the hole to see no one takes it away. Now, if we had any luck—"

Without finishing the sentence he turned quickly and made his way towards the hut where the guardian sat, warmed by a coke brazier, and apparently engaged in the profitless task of looking for winners. He looked up as Langland approached. Luckily, the moonlight had the effect of toning down his friend's colour scheme, Appleby thought, or any conservatively-minded working man would have come to the conclusion that he had to deal with a lunatic, and would have been accordingly suspicious. But when he reached the box it was apparent that Langland had already established favourable relations, and was evidently finding the night watchman as prone to conversation as night watchmen usually are.

"Here last night, too, were you?" he was saying. "Now, I wonder if you could settle an argument I had with a friend of mine? As a matter of fact we've got a bet on it. He says he passed along here in his car at about half-past twelve. I say it couldn't have been before one at least. You didn't happen to see him?"

"Yes. He'd go along that way and turn up the avenue, and come back about ten minutes later. A big saloon car."

"If he said he came past here last night, mister, he may be a friend of yours, but he's a blooming liar," he said at last.

"Because there wasn't any cars passing here—not from just before midnight to well after one. Only a couple of lorries and a motor-cycle... It wasn't much of a night for cars, anyhow."

"You're sure of that? You mightn't have noticed him if you were reading your paper."

"I'm sure, sir... You see, this bit's only one way now, with the repair work, and there's a bend in the middle. Last night was as thick as blazes and I had to signal 'em through. There wasn't any cars between twelve and one, and you may tell your friend that from me."

He glared at Appleby pugnaciously, rather as though he suspected him of being the mendacious friend. Langland's hand went to his pocket and there was the chink of silver.

"Nothing but lorries and a motor-cycle," he repeated. "That's rather unusual, isn't it?"

"Well, sir, no one wasn't going out that night who hadn't got to." The night watchman's eyes were upon the hand in the trousers pocket, and his politeness had increased accordingly. "Anyway, I'll swear there wasn't no car."

"Then I win," said Langland cheerfully, "and it's only fair you should share the spoils. Have a drink on me, won't you?"

"Thank you, sir... Send your friend to me if he doesn't believe you. I'll tell him! Good-night, sir."

"I see the idea," he said. "Of course, the car had to go either this way or the other, and it looks as though it didn't go this way. Not that that's very helpful, so far as I can gather."

"Anything about that car or where it went is helpful," Langland retorted. "You never know whether, now we've got the general direction, we mightn't find a bobby or someone who could place it somewhere else on its route... Where does the road go in that direction?"

"It's just a secondary road out of town. Goes through the high-class residential district."

Langland made no comment for a little while, and Appleby was feeling too worn out to make conversation.

"Any of our suspects happen to live out that way?" Langland asked after a considerable interval.

"Why—Ealksly does. A big house on the right. He's the only one. Nelson Street is the other end of the town and Bilsdy's house is somewhere over there, too... But surely they'd make a detour?"

"Would they? It's a choice of evils. Don't forget what kind of a night it was. Your choice lies between getting the journey over as soon as possible and hoping you won't be seen, or at any rate identified; or making a longer journey and increasing your chances of being seen... I think if it came to making long detours I'd be against it. And then, unless they dealt with the doctor right away, they've got to start off at any rate in the direction of the address they've given, or he'd smell a rat. We've got to find that case somehow."

"You seem very sure there is a case," Appleby said irritably. "They might have invented one."

"No. I think from the doctor's conversation with Miss Wimborne it's pretty plain that it was a case he knew—one he expected to hear bad news about. I wonder—?"

He broke off and there was silence for a time until they reached the centre of the little town where their routes diverged.

"You'd better come to my place for a bit," Appleby suggested. "I'd better talk over with you what we do to-morrow—about the practice, I mean. Without any of this detective stuff there's plenty to keep us busy.... We could call at the police station, too."

"Good idea," Langland assented. "The sooner I'm known to the police the better, I suppose."

Rather to Appleby's surprise, the inspector was still on duty when they reached the station. He greeted them with a look of inquiry and a slight raising of the eyebrows at the sight of Langland.

"This is Dr. Langland. He's going to help with the practice... You've had no news here, then?"

"No, sir. No news—of either of them." Plainly Darwin was worried and his opinions had undergone a change since that morning. "And yet, it's hard to see how he could have got away—"

The inspector hesitated, evidently wondering whether or not to impart the information. Apparently he decided in favour of it.

"When the pub turned out, sir. Apparently he'd had quite a drop. I suppose that was when he went and rang up the doctor... The last we know about him definitely was when he left the pub. He doesn't seem to have gone home. And we've a witness who saw someone like him up Watergate Street about eleven—"

"Yes, sir. And," he lowered his voice, "if you ask my opinion, that's where we'll find him. We're starting dragging it to-morrow."

"No, sir. He's simply vanished altogether," Darwin frowned. "And it's hard to see how he could have got away either."

"None we've been able to hear about—that is, of course, none from the regular hiring places... And none missing."

"You still think Dr. Wimborne disappeared voluntarily?" Appleby asked, with a trace of sarcasm in his tone. "And the Bilsdy affair is pure coincidence?"

"I never said that, sir. I certainly did think a voluntary disappearance was as likely as anything else... I'm not sure I still shouldn't, if he'd had money with him." He hesitated. "If you'd like my guess, sir," he said at last, "what I'm beginning to think is that we'll find him and Bilsdy together—in the river."

Langland shook his head a little dubiously. "Bilsdy, perhaps," he said. "But wouldn't Bilsdy have reached a car—and probably an accomplice? Would Bilsdy have known enough to put through the call that got the doctor out of bed? If he was seen by the river at about eleven, did he change his mind and arrange all this business at the last moment—and then, having bumped off the doctor, go back to the river?"

"Well, sir, what do you suggest?" Darwin asked patiently, but there was a trace of surprised respect in his manner. "You won't have it Dr. Wimborne went away voluntarily—and I admit there's a certain amount against it. We know there's been no accident anywhere round—" He shrugged his shoulders. "What is there left but murder?"

"Kidnapping and not necessarily by Bilsdy," Langland rejoined. "I suppose it would be too much to hope that any of your men would have seen a big saloon last night going in the direction of—?" He turned to Appleby. "Where does that road go?"

"The Mount," Appleby supplied. "You see, inspector, we think that we've established the fact it went that way. The night watchman on the road workings hadn't seen it." Darwin made a note on a pad, and looked from one to the other of them shrewdly; but his eyes finally settled on Langland.

"Been doing a little detective work on your own, sir?" he asked. "Found any more?"

"Nothing," Langland hesitated. "But I tell you what I do think, inspector. If Dr. Wimborne hasn't gone away voluntarily, I think we're up against a very carefully planned crime, much too carefully planned, as you said yourself, for Bilsdy. And I think a few discreet inquiries about the possible motives and the movements of people who know Dr. Wimborne wouldn't be out of place."

"Miss Wimborne," he said at last. "Presumably she's the best source of information. But—"

"We're not keen on bothering her too much," Appleby broke in. "The only two people she suggests, apart from Bilsdy, who might have a grudge are a man called Barndon"—Darwin nodded as though the name was familiar. "And—well, and Dr. Ealksly."

Evidently from his expression the inspector was aware of the feud between the two rival firms; but he raised his eyebrows doubtfully.

"Well, sir," he said, "it doesn't seem to me we've got enough to go on yet to do anything about these two gentlemen. It isn't as though we knew definitely that anything had really happened to Dr. Wimborne. If there was a body now—" He hesitated. "But it wouldn't surprise me if he turned up alive and kicking any time, and the best advice I can give you gentlemen is to go carefully—and not make any accusations just yet."

Obviously the words were a dismissal, and Appleby at least was not sorry. He was too eager to get to his rooms to pay much attention to Langland's silence, and even when they arrived there the eating of his first full meal since breakfast occupied his attention to the exclusion of everything else. It was only when he finally drew up an easy chair to the fire and lit his pipe that he had the grace even to apologise to Langland, who having already dined had refused to join him and had been scribbling notes in his pocket book.

"Sorry to ignore you, when you've been so decent in coming down," he said. "But I'm three-quarters asleep. Last night, and the night before, and a double day's work to-day—"

Langland looked up. "You were working last night, too?" he asked. "What was that?"

Appleby laughed. "Well, no, I wasn't working. Something happened I've never known before, I was hoaxed."

"Why, I'd just got to bed and had hardly dozed off when the 'phone went. I wasn't feeling too amiable but I got up and answered it. It wasn't one of the patients on my list, so I naturally supposed that Dr. Wimborne was too damned lazy to do it and had pushed it on to me... That made me all the more mad, because it was his turn for night calls. But from what they said, it sounded serious—a pneumonia case that might pop off any minute. So I said 'Right, coming at once,' and slammed down the receiver without any more argument, dashed into some trousers and a coat and went off hell for leather."

"Well, my car was out of order—still is. I had to use a push bike. It was over a mile and a filthy night. And when I got there, as I say, it was a hoax. They hadn't rung up; there was what had been a pneumonia case there, but it was convalescent and sound asleep. They thought I was mad or drunk or something. And that's all. I simply cycled back, feeling I'd like to get my hands on the hoaxer and choke the life out of him."

"The name and address?" Langland asked and his voice was still unusually quiet. "You remember them?"

Langland was looking at him with blank incredulity. "Tell me," he said. "You interrupted them before they'd finished speaking, didn't you?"

Appleby thought. "Yes, perhaps I did. But I'd got the name and address all right and there wasn't any time to waste."

"So you slammed back the receiver and went?" Langland drew a deep breath. "And don't you see even now?"

"That you're damned lucky to be sitting in that chair at this moment? That you've your bad temper to thank for the fact that you didn't disappear—instead of Dr. Wimborne?"

"My God!" Appleby paled quite perceptibly but it was with excitement rather than fear. "You mean—?"

"I mean that if you'd heard them out to the end, your kind hoaxer would have said: 'I've sent along the car, doctor. It will be with you any minute.' And you'd have thanked them and heaven and got into it—and gone where?"

"Of course. But, as luck would have it, you were in too much of a damned hurry to wait for the vital part of the message." He laughed suddenly. "They must have felt thoroughly swindled when you rung off.... But why didn't they call you again? Why try Wimborne?"

"Perhaps they did. After I'd gone. I doubt if my landlady would hear—if she was asleep, you know. But still they'd have had a minute or two—" An inspiration struck him. "Couldn't we trace that call?"

"It's possible—but doubtful. Local calls aren't noted down. On the other hand, at that time of night they're not so common that the operator wouldn't stand a chance of remembering it... But I doubt if it will be much use. Probably it was from a call box. Perhaps the driver of this car stopped to put it through—"

"Why—they mightn't have had any more coppers!" Appleby suggested. "Fancy being hung up in your programme for a murder because you hadn't got twopence?"

"It's quite possible." Langland frowned at the fire. "But let's work out what this means. At first sight it looks as though it wasn't Wimborne they were after, but just a doctor—any doctor. And they tried you first. I wonder why?"

"Why—all sorts of people. Wimborne—the garage people—the crowd that collected when she conked out—various patients I apologised to—" He made a grimace. "I couldn't say how many. Two or three dozen altogether at least."

"Yes. But his chauffeur isn't. He's in bed with 'flu, and Wimborne isn't keen on driving. The girl has been doing taxi-work for him."

He rose to his feet and walked up and down the room once or twice frowning. At last he came to a stop on the hearthrug and looked down at Appleby

"Now, this might mean the motive was wholly professional," he said. "That it didn't matter a damn what doctor they got, as long as he was a doctor. But—"

"No. You're Dr. Wimborne's assistant... You see, they'd make up a pretty important case, so that he'd be likely to go himself. But there was always the possibility that he'd send you. They might have wanted to make quite sure of that—by getting you out of the way first. In other words, that wild-goose chase may have been all they wanted you to do."

"They may have known you hadn't... You see, they seem to have known the devil of a lot, whoever it is. It really was a pneumonia case—there might have been a turn for the worse, and it was a wealthy patient, I gather—not one you'd like to lose, and one you'd expect to send a car... What time was it when they rang you up?"

"And Wimborne's call was about half-past... But that would fit either theory. They might have failed with you and tried him at once. Or, having got you out of the way, they may have rung him up before you could get back."

"They?" Appleby asked. "I notice we've both started to use the plural. Is there any good reason for that?"

"I'm not sure there is. It could have been done single-handed—but there are difficulties. Presumably Dr. Wimborne knew the way to that house—so he'd expect to go in that direction. But, from the kidnapper's point of view, it's necessary not to arrive there. It follows that whatever happened—knocking on the head or whatever it was—had to happen on the way. If there was only one man, he'd be driving. He'd have to stop the car first in a quiet spot... Is there a quiet spot there—on that route?"

"At that time of night? Yes. There are a lot of biggish houses set well back from the road. It's not lighted all the way."

"Very doubtful." In spite of himself, Appleby yawned. The stimulus of the discovery had worn off, leaving him terribly sleepy. "About to-morrow—" he began, but the ringing of the telephone interrupted him. "Damn! That can't be a call—?"

"What?" he exclaimed. "The surgery! Good God!... Don't go, Miss Wimborne—no! We'll come at once—Don't go yourself."

"Miss Wimborne," he said hurriedly. "Says there's someone in the surgery. Saw a light flash—"

"Get your bike," Langland said promptly. "You streak right round as quick as you can. I'll run to the police station. Maybe pick up a car. Hurry." But the last word was unnecessary. Appleby had already dashed out into the hall.

CHAPTER V
A Strange Encounter

AFTER the first moment of panic Patricia Wimborne had had just one thought. Appleby must be told as soon as possible. Just for a moment the idea of rousing the servants had flashed across her mind to be dismissed almost at once. They would be quite useless. The telephone in the study would not be heard in the surgery and would bring more efficient help inside a few minutes.

With an immense feeling of relief she heard Appleby's hurried assurance and replaced the receiver. But she had scarcely done so when a new thought came into her mind. The flash of the light had meant only one thing to her, that someone was burgling the study. Suppose it was not? Suppose, for some reason, her father had secretly returned?

She stepped slowly out into the hall again. Although she had indignantly repudiated the suggestion of the police that her father had left voluntarily, with the implication that he might have some good and not very creditable reason for doing so, it had suddenly returned to her with overwhelming force. If her father had any reason for disappearing; if he had returned secretly and if Appleby came with the police—what might it mean? A sudden unreasonable fear possessed her, not that it was some dangerous intruder in the surgery, but that it was not. By ringing up perhaps she would be responsible for entrapping her father. In spite of what Appleby had said, she came to a sudden decision. She must make sure. She, and no one else, had to see first who it was who had entered the surgery.

The light no longer showed under the door. After the moonlit hall the passage seemed horribly black and momentarily in spite of her resolution she shrank from entering it. Then the light flashed again. Oddly enough it seemed to bring back her courage. Without further hesitation she hurried noiselessly forward.

At the door she stopped for a moment. Not a sound came from inside, and the light had gone again. She felt her resolution ebbing rapidly. If she did not act at once she would be afraid. With a rashness born of desperation, she flung the door wide and pressed the switch flooding the whole room with light.

There was the sound of a quick movement and she caught a startled exclamation. But at the first glance the room seemed to be empty. Utterly bewildered she advanced a pace or two hesitantly into the room. She had been so sure that there was some one there. Quite certainly there had been no opportunity for escape. Then the solution flashed upon her. Whoever had been there could have found only one hiding place, behind the big desk near the outer door.

All at once she felt horribly frightened. She wanted to go forward, but her feet refused to move. She felt herself trembling.

She had meant it for a challenge, but it was little more than a tremulous whisper. For what seemed a long time there was no answer.

Then something happened. From behind the desk a hand and arm emerged, and even in the instant it was visible she recognised the coat sleeve. Next second, the hand had reached the switch by the outer door. There was a click and the room was plunged into darkness.

"Daddy?" This time it was almost a scream. She had been quite sure that the coat sleeve she had seen was her father's; the very overcoat in which she had last seen him. But the strangeness of the action filled her with a mounting horror. "What—what is it?"

A black figure was silhouetted for a moment against a patch of moonlight, then it moved into the darkness by the door, visible only as a mere intense shadow. There was a jingling of a key, then the snap of the lock. The door was opening.

She recognised it instantly as her father's. But there was a harshness in it which she had never heard before. Instinctively she obeyed.

"Patricia, I am in danger—terrible danger... I cannot explain. You must not see me... You must not say you have met me. I will write to you as soon as it is safe—" The voice ceased. She heard the jingling of keys again. In spite of her father's order she moved forward.

"Patricia, you must come no nearer... I am changed, Patricia. You must not be able to describe me. The less you know the better... I will write—"

The door was opening. She saw the shadowy figure against the light and heedless of everything she dashed forward. She clutched for a moment the sleeve of the coat. Next moment she was flung violently backwards. The door slammed and the key turned on the outside.

For half a minute she lay where she had been thrown, half dazed by her fall, but even more stunned by the strangeness of what had happened. Her mind refused to work properly. It had been her father's voice. But he had told her to keep away. He had struck her. All at once her self-control gave way. Burying her face in her arms she lay there sobbing convulsively. It was several minutes before she heard the violent ringing of the bell. Someone was hammering on the front door. She had to think for a minute before she realised that it must be Appleby. Dragging herself to her feet, she started painfully back down the passage.

Actually, it was Langland and a uniformed sergeant who stood in the doorway, and they were both pale and breathless. For a moment she could not speak. Langland jumped forward and caught her arms as she swayed and seemed about to fall.

She could only shake her head. Langland led her gently inside and the sergeant followed.

The sergeant nodded and went off. Langland opened the drawing room door and seated her in a chair.

"Miss Wimborne, what happened? You must tell me. There was someone in the surgery?"

"Miss Wimborne," Langland said urgently. "I'm not the police. I'm here only to help you... In the surgery—was it your father?"

"I—I didn't see him." She refused to meet his eyes. "I went there. I couldn't wait. And I thought—perhaps..."

"Yes. Behind the big desk. I switched the light on... But I didn't see him—only his arm and coat sleeve—"

As she paused Langland knew that she had recognised the coat sleeve. But he only waited for her to continue.

"He—he switched out the light—by the other switch. The one by the outer door. Then he opened it. I ran forward—"

"Yes. He had a key... I tried to catch hold of him. He—he hit me and I fell. Before I could get up the door was locked—"

She was obstinately silent, but the very fact spoke as clearly as any admission.

"He spoke to you, didn't he?" Langland pressed her. "Told you to say nothing—not to say he'd been there. It was your father's voice?"

Langland frowned. He was on the point of pressing her further when the sergeant reappeared.

"No one there, sir. Not a sign of anything." He looked hard at Patricia. "I suppose the young lady's sure—? It wasn't imagination?"

"Couldn't have been, sergeant." Langland took it upon himself to answer. "Miss Wimborne didn't wait for us. She went in and switched on the light. There was a man there—behind the desk. He turned the light off with the other switch. She didn't see him. She ran forward and tried to catch hold of him. He knocked her down and got away."

"Miss Wimborne says he locked it—while she was lying where he had thrown her."

"He'd got a key, then? And he seemed to know his way about." He looked at the girl. "You didn't see him, miss? Nor anything you could recognise?"

"Where the devil's Dr. Appleby?" Langland demanded more to create a diversion than because he expected to get an answer. "He should have been here before us—"

"I've an idea it's him Roberts is chasing, sir. And unless I'm mistaken he was after someone else. Probably the man who broke in—or let himself in. Perhaps he'll have recognised him. The moonlight's quite bright—"

He paused. The girl said nothing, but Langland saw the quick panic in her eyes and he had the impression that the sergeant had seen it, too. His next words gave confirmation to the idea.

"It's a queer story, sir," he said. "A very queer story. The man's got keys—when Miss Wimborne goes in, he switches off the light, gets away and locks the door behind him. It's queer... How do you explain it yourself, sir?"

"I don't," Langland said briefly. "He may have had a skeleton key. Most house locks are easy enough."

The sergeant's eyebrows rose a little at this statement from one who was presumably a respectable doctor. He shook his head.

"That one isn't, sir," he said. "I looked at it... Probably Dr. Wimborne kept drugs and so on there? He'd want to be sure no one broke in."

There was a pause. The sergeant's eyes were fixed speculatively on Patricia Wimborne.

"Well, sir—since you ask me—I'd say the likeliest thing was that it was Dr. Wimborne himself!" He paused again, as though expecting one of them to speak: then he continued, "And if that was so, sir, it's good news. Shows he's alive at any rate."

"Why on earth should Dr. Wimborne creep into his surgery like that—at this time of night?"

"Why shouldn't he, sir? You see, if it was Dr. Wimborne, Dr. Wimborne isn't murdered or kidnapped—and this business wasn't housebreaking, because it was his own surgery. If it was Dr. Wimborne, I don't see that we've got anything more to do with it. So far as we know."

Langland had thought the sergeant was stupid; but as Patricia Wimborne looked up he recognised his error. The sergeant had said exactly the right thing.

"You mean—if it was my father—you wouldn't—wouldn't investigate any more?"

"Well, miss, what would there be to investigate?" the sergeant asked. "He may have gone away a bit sudden, and this business to-night is queer... But there's nothing against the law in it—unless you wanted to take out a summons for assault... You're sure you didn't recognise him, miss? Even if you didn't see him, there might have been something—"

"I—I'm not sure." She hesitated and looked appealingly at Langland as though asking him what her answer should be: but his face was expressionless. "I thought—I thought I recognised the sleeve of the coat. When the arm put out the light—"

"Ah!" The sergeant had clearly got the answer he was hoping for; but Patricia's manner suggested that there was more to come. He thought for a moment. "Did he speak, miss? Did you recognise his voice?"

"Yes—he spoke. He said—said it was all right, that I mustn't worry, that—that—"

She hesitated. "Yes... I'm sure—I'm almost sure it was. I was frightened. I might have made a mistake. But I think—"

"And he was wearing your father's coat... And he seems to have had your father's keys... Your father had his keys with him, when he left?"

"No." She hesitated. "No. I don't think I have. But—but I don't understand why—"

"Your father didn't give you any reason for his disappearance? He didn't say when he was coming back?"

The sergeant nodded briskly. "Well, then, miss, that seems to settle it," he said. Your father's all right... It's just a question of waiting for his letter. Then you'll know all about it."

To Langland this seemed a very complacent view. Perhaps it was kind-heartedness on the policeman's part intended to reassure the girl, and in this it seemed partially to succeed. But Langland suspected that the sergeant had a deeper motive. He had the idea that, having disposed of the doctor as a victim, he was now interested in him as a possible criminal.

"Well, miss, I'd better just have another look round the surgery—just in case you were mistaken—" he began.

The sound of voices in the hall interrupted him. The next moment Appleby entered, breathless and dishevelled, and behind him Roberts, the policeman who had given chase.

"Ah, doctor! Didn't catch him, then? Thought it must have been you we saw running off."

"I didn't catch him! Appleby snapped. Your man caught me!" His eyes were on the drooping figure of the girl. "Miss Wimborne—you're not hurt?"

"Just a bit of a shock, sir. She went into the surgery—didn't wait for us. There was someone there. He knocked her over when he went out... What happened to you, sir?"

Appleby looked as though he would have liked to ask questions instead of answering them. He hesitated.

"Oh, I got here just in time to see someone leaving the surgery. He spotted me, and ran. I chased him. He went round the back and out by a door into a sort of walk—I didn't know there was one?"

The sergeant nodded. Though the avenue where Wimborne's house stood ended blindly a little way up the street, a footpath running along the boundary of the doctor's garden joined it to the next road.

"He'd got a car waiting at the far end of that... He was running like the devil, and I hardly gained a yard. He got into the car and drove off. Then your man grabbed me—!"

"Couldn't see it. The lights weren't on... May have been obscured somehow, too."

"No, I didn't! Because this blasted fool collared me just as it was getting to the lighted part of the street!"

"No, sir." The policeman flushed. "I was too busy making sure of him, sir... I'm sorry for the mistake—"

"And now, sir," he said, turning to Appleby again. "I suppose you had a pretty good view of him? The moonlight's quite bright, isn't it?"

"Hardly. He was about average height—wearing a soft hat, and a tweed overcoat... Rather a distinctive pattern, I think. And gloves."

"Well," Appleby hesitated and glanced at the girl, but she did not raise her eyes. "As a matter of fact the hat and coat looked like Dr. Wimborne's."

"But you wouldn't swear it wasn't the doctor? The figure was about right? In fact, from what you saw, wasn't it probably the doctor?"

"It's like this, sir. Miss Wimborne didn't see the man in the surgery, but he spoke to her. She's almost sure she recognised the voice as her father's. And, like yourself, she knew the coat. So it seems very likely it was Dr. Wimborne, doesn't it, sir?"

"If it was Dr. Wimborne, sir, it shows that he's not been kidnapped or murdered. It rather looks as if he had gone off of his own accord. And if it was him, he's a perfect right to go into his own surgery if he wants... So I don't quite see what we can do about it.... Not on what we know at present—"

"But it's damned ridiculous—!" Appleby burst out and then caught Langland's eye and stopped. "Why on earth should the doctor behave like this?"

"Ah, that's what we don't know, sir—yet.... He said he'd write to Miss Wimborne. Maybe that will explain something. In the meantime—"

"I wouldn't say that, sir." The sergeant was a little rattled and there was the faintest suggestion of a threat in his voice. "We shall probably go on with our inquiries—in the light of what's happened... I'll just have a look at the surgery, to make sure we've missed nothing."

"Right." Appleby caught Langland's eye, and the slight motion of his head, and in spite of a feeling of reluctance to leave the girl, he made a suggestion promptly. "I'd better come with you. I've been working there this evening and if anything has been moved I'll probably spot it."

"As you like, sir." The sergeant was plainly not enthusiastic, but he had no good reason for refusing. Appleby guessed that he would rather have had a free hand in his search, and improbable as it seemed the reason must be that he hoped to find some evidence of criminal activities on the part of the doctor. The idea irritated him, and he made a silent vow that the sergeant should not have much chance.

Appleby nodded a quick assent and led the way. The surgery had been an addition to the house built for the purpose when Dr. Wimborne had first moved there and as they went, that fact seemed to Appleby to solve several points which had been puzzling him. It accounted, for example, for the audacity of the burglar in making his attempt at a time when the household would probably still be awake; and when a little reconnoitring would have revealed the light in the drawing room. But the long passage, and the thick wall which had originally been the outside wall of the house, made certain that nothing would be heard inside the house. There were no house windows overlooking it; and only the bad luck of a light, no doubt sparingly used, shining on the door just as Patricia was passing had revealed the presence of any intruder. It seemed as if the burglar, if it was not Dr. Wimborne, must have known his ground.

He opened the door and switched on the light. So far as he could see, everything was precisely as he had left it a few hours before when the evening's surgery had finished. The shades were still drawn on the windows, though not on those of the waiting room beyond to which the door still stood ajar. He turned to the sergeant.

"Which door did he come by?" he asked. "This one or the one out of the waiting room?"

"I understood he left by this one, sir. Miss Wimborne said he was behind the desk, and switched off the light. This door would be nearest."

Appleby nodded. Actually there were three doors from the surgery—the one from the house, the one leading direct to the garden, and the one to the waiting room, which itself had an outside door for the admission of patients.

"Not much sign of a struggle, sir," the sergeant commented. "And yet she says she grabbed him and he knocked her down."

A wave of irritation passed over Appleby. Plainly the sergeant was in the mood to suspect anyone and anybody.

"We should hardly expect her to make a dent in the floor, should we?" he asked. "Or knock that desk over? What traces should there be?"

The sergeant only smiled at his ill-temper. "Ah, the desk, sir. That's where there'd be traces if anywhere—"

He moved across to it purposefully. Following him, Appleby guessed that he would be doomed to disappointment, and he was right. The roll-top was closed as he had left it, and the sergeant fruitlessly tried each drawer in turn.

"Of course, he had keys," he said to himself. "What would be kept in here, sir? Anything valuable?"

"Prescription forms—panel certificates; all that kind of thing. In the drawers, various books, ledger, case book, poison book and so on."

"That's no use to anyone. It's merely a record of the supply of dangerous drugs—how much is bought, how much used and so on."

The sergeant seemed to be turning this over in his mind. He eyed the locked drawers longingly.

"I bet that a good look at them might tell us something," he murmured. "If they weren't locked—"

"And if they weren't, sergeant, I don't think either Dr. Wimborne or Miss Wimborne would be very pleased if the police pried into the private business of the practice without authorisation."

"Of course, I shouldn't do that, sir," the sergeant said stiffly. "Then, so far as you can see, everything is as you left it? How about the poisons, sir? Drugs and so on. Could anyone have been at them?"

Appleby took a key from his pocket and crossed towards the small locked cupboard.

"Just a minute, sir," the sergeant asked, and pushed forward to examine the lock. "No. It's not been forced—"

"As whoever was here had Dr. Wimborne's keys, that's hardly likely, is it?" He opened the door and scanned the shelves closely. "No, there's nothing wrong here that I can see—if that makes you any happier... Anything else you can think of?"

The sergeant looked round. "No," he said reluctantly. "Everything seems all right—"

He was obviously sulky as they returned to the drawing room, though Appleby could not imagine what he had hoped to discover. The first sight of the faces of the girl and the policeman was enough to show that something had happened; but Langland was quite calm as he stepped forward and held out a slip torn from a writing block.

"Telegram 'phoned to the house while you were out. As you see, telephoned at Paddington at 11.15."

The sergeant took the sheet and read it. Then his jaw dropped. Craning over his shoulder, Appleby saw the words, "Stopping in town a few days. Don't worry. Love, Daddy."

"But—but—" The sergeant's feeling overcame him. "If Dr. Wimborne was here, how the hell could he wire from London?"

CHAPTER VI
An Accusation

IT was not until breakfast next morning that Appleby voiced to Langland the doubt which had been in his mind since the adventure of the previous night. When they had finally left the house under the guardianship of the police, he had been too sleepy to do anything but go back to bed, and the only thing he had remembered to do was invite Langland for the meal and leave a note for his landlady.

Langland had had the grace to change his outrageous costume, and now looked, as he had promised, far more like a doctor than most actually do. There was a vague suggestion of Harley Street about him which could scarcely fail to impress a town used to less formal methods, and, knowing him of old, Appleby did not doubt that he would prove not merely a possible substitute but an enormous success. But he was not worrying about the practice just then. They had nearly finished breakfast when he looked up suddenly.

Langland sipped his tea with deliberation. "The sergeant," he said, "seemed satisfied on that point. His one trouble seemed to be which of us he could arrest for what. His disappointment quite touched me."

"The sergeant's a damned fool... I've been thinking it over. I don't believe it was."

His friend's eyebrows rose. "Undoubtedly the circumstances were peculiar," he admitted. "But your own evidence, and Miss Wimborne's—"

"As for mine, I simply answered his silly questions. I didn't tell him what I thought... One thing certainly beats me. You know I'm a pretty good runner. I hadn't got a hat or coat. Wimborne's getting on for sixty and had both. I suppose we ran about a hundred and fifty yards. I didn't catch him. I didn't get any nearer. If that was Wimborne, what the devil's happened to him?"

"Monkey-gland treatment.... That would explain his mysterious absence. As a reputable physician he mightn't like it to be known."

"It's the question I've been asking myself.... Quite apart from his abilities as a sprinter, that interview with his daughter struck me as more than a little curious. It's a pity she didn't tell us a little more about it. The one point which she made quite definitely was that she didn't see him. Only his coat sleeve. And the coat and hat were all that you identified. But anyone can wear a given coat and hat—no, not the hat necessarily. It might have been someone pretending to be Dr. Wimborne."

Appleby started; for the last sentence had been spoken with the exact accent and intonation of the objectionable sergeant.

"It's possible. I never heard it, or I expect I could have done. Well enough to deceive a frightened girl at midnight even if she was his daughter. Any mimic could who knew the voice at all well."

"That's what we don't know yet. It may have been merely to give the impression that he was alive when he was dead. And that may have been why the burglar was caught. He meant to be caught—by Patricia Wimborne. When you come to think of it, he was pretty snappy with that light."

"There are two snags we haven't dealt with yet. First of all, can you imagine Wimborne in such a state of mind that he'd knock his daughter out? I hadn't the pleasure of knowing him but that doesn't seem quite in character."

"I'm damned sure he wouldn't... He couldn't do it—any more than he could beat me in a hundred and fifty yards sprint."

"Of course, monkey-glands might explain both—a sort of reversion to the beast. But otherwise that seemed to me incongruous. I'd be interested to know what else struck Miss Patricia... Figuratively, I mean. Because though one may imitate a voice, it's easy to make errors in speech mannerisms.... I'll have to ask her."

"That struck even the sergeant. If Wimborne was burgling his own surgery when Patricia interrupted him, he'd need a very efficient magic carpet to get him to Paddington in time to wire: 'All quiet on the Great Western front' twenty minutes later."

"Or he didn't burgle that surgery. Or he didn't do either. And I'm not sure the last isn't the likeliest.... You know, I begin to think that our use of the plural last night was justified. There must be at least two people in this, and last night represented a confusion of plans. One person, the sender of the wire, thought it would be a good idea to have Dr. Wimborne pop up to town for a few days. The other, our mimic friend, thought a personal appearance was even better. Between them they rather messed things up; but the idea was to stop the police being too curious about him for a bit."

"Anyway, they've succeeded with the police. They weren't too keen before, and now—"

"I'm not sure. The sergeant was convinced by the mimic business; but his suspicions about Dr. Wimborne as a law-abiding citizen were so much aroused that he was going to investigate anyway. Then the wire came. That definitely shook him. And from what I saw of the inspector he isn't by any means the complete Dogberry. Between the sergeant's suspicions and the inspector's you can bet things will be gone into pretty thoroughly.... That's why I hope it wasn't Wimborne last night."

"Because if Wimborne isn't dead or something he must be involved in something pretty serious. Something, I mean, that he's afraid of—that would ruin him or cause a scandal, even if it isn't a criminal matter. That's the only way you can explain his conduct at all. And it must be something terribly serious and terribly bad."

"Sometimes. Did Dr. Wimborne strike you as being that kind of man? If so, you've given me a very wrong impression. Then, it was something not merely so serious but so sudden that he had to leave his bed at midnight and go off not properly dressed; that he couldn't tell his daughter, or prepare her in any way; and finally that when he comes back, he can't let her even see his face and has to knock her out... It's got to be something which makes him act in a way quite outside his character. And, from your knowledge of Dr. Wimborne, can you imagine anything—anything at all—which might make him do what we've got to suppose he's done?"

"Coming from a man who stoutly denied the possibility of his having lost his memory, that sounds a bit strange. Did you notice any sign of incipient insanity in him? No. I thought not... And now, I suppose it's time for surgery. I'm to take Wimborne's, am I? Right."

Appleby almost regretted that he had made that arrangement, obvious though it was. As he tried to settle to his work that morning he could not help wondering how Patricia Wimborne was, and whether she had got over the shocks of the night before. But though he worked at top pressure, it was over an hour and a half before he had finished with the crowd waiting at his surgery, and even then he found himself faced with a visiting list that would keep him busy most of the day. Somehow he must make time to go and see her later; and, of course, to call at the police station.

He was just leaving the surgery after locking up when one of the last patients with whom he had dealt came up to him. The man had evidently waited until he came out.

"That Dr. Wimborne's disappeared, sir. It's all over the place. Some say that he's been murdered—"

"It's certainly true that Dr. Wimborne's gone away for a few days," he said. "But I didn't know he'd been murdered.... Who told you that yarn?"

But as he started on his round he found something very disquieting in the fact that the truth had already become unduly known. The question was, who was responsible? Quite probably it was one of the servants; or even some policeman might have let a word or two drop. When he came to think it over, it was unlikely that last night's adventure had escaped observation entirely; the presence of the police at the house might have been noted and people would naturally think the worst.

It was not the only time during the morning that he had either to lie in answer to a direct question or evade hints. Several times, too, he passed Ealksly's car, and it seemed to him that Wimborne's rival eyed him curiously. The suspicion grew in his mind that quite possibly Ealksly was partially responsible for spreading the news. It would not be very much worse than some other things with which Wimborne had credited him, and anything of that kind was likely to damage Wimborne's practice and help his rival's.

He was in no very good temper when he snatched a few minutes in the neighbourhood of noon to call at the police station. The inspector was evidently glad to see him, and the sergeant remained discreetly in the background.

"I hoped you'd be looking in, sir. I looked round to see you earlier, but you weren't in. Queer business that last night—Dr. Wimborne's coming back."

The inspector looked at him shrewdly. "I suppose from the fact you say that you've some reason to doubt it," he said slowly. "But your evidence and Miss Wimborne's—"

The inspector was silent as he briefly went over the objections about which he had talked with Langland that morning. He was frowning a little as Appleby finished.

"Well, sir, if he's still alive, he's either scared sick of something, or else he's off his head."

"It's possible... I've had to deal with some mad people in my time.... But if it wasn't Dr. Wimborne—" He broke off and his eyes strayed towards a paper that he had laid down as Appleby entered.

Darwin hesitated, and was lost. "As a matter of fact," he said slowly, "we've had a letter from him this morning."

"A note, that is. It wasn't posted. We found it on the river bank just at the end of the road where he was seen."

"To me... And from the tone it looks as though he wanted to save us trouble, when we found his body... It's a confession that he's going to commit suicide. Only—" He hesitated. "Only twice he speaks in the first person plural."

"Plural?" For a moment Appleby did not understand him. Then he gave an exclamation. "Good heavens! You don't mean—"

"I don't know if I do or not," Darwin admitted. "When we thought that Dr. Wimborne was alive last night it seemed pretty pointless. But after what you've said—"

"Yes. All the earlier part is 'I.'... Suicides are nearly always a bit egotistical. 'I am ruined,' 'I cannot face the prospect,' 'I prefer to face another judge'—a religious touch there. It's only when he speaks of the actual death that he uses 'we.' 'By the time you read this we shall be dead' and 'You will find us in the river somewhere below where this note is picked up.' And then he goes back to 'I.' 'I am quite sane' and so on."

"Sounds a curious sort of production." Appleby would have liked to read it for himself but the inspector showed no signs of handing it over. "But I don't know that it just reads like murder and suicide. More like a suicide pact?"

"That's true... But, obviously not with Dr. Wimborne!... And if he had killed Wimborne, who was it who came to the surgery last night?"

Appleby thought. "He says he's going to do it. But there's no proof that he did. Perhaps his thoughts were alternating between suicide and murder, and in the end he chose murder."

Darwin shrugged his shoulders. "In any case, what possible motive had he for going to the surgery?"

To that Appleby had no answer to give. Darwin paused for a moment and pressed his point.

"We've no evidence that he was a mimic as you suggest; it's pretty certain he didn't know Miss Wimborne's voice. He didn't, so far as we know, know anything about Wimborne or Wimborne's cases except that Wimborne once made him go through his paces and walk the chalk line. How could he have done all he'd have had to do if your theory is correct? And, after all, we may find his body as he says."

"Only his letter suggests 'bodies'... Are bodies difficult to find in this river?"

"No. There's a weir. If they're not very heavily weighted they almost always fetch up there. Otherwise the only trouble is the mud in one or two places. We started dragging this morning. I'm going along there soon... Care to come, doctor?"

"I've too many live cases on my hands... I'd like to hear if you find anything. In a way, as Wimborne's my boss, I feel responsible."

He rose to his feet, and the inspector accompanied him to the door. "Your friend—Dr. Langland," he said, a little too casually, "he seems to be interested in this kind of work."

"Well, of course, I really had to have some help with the practice," Appleby evaded and then decided to be frank. "As a matter of fact, he is, and, I think, pretty hot at it."

"Ah." Darwin said and paused. "You must bring him for a talk, some time or other... Good morning, doctor."

Appleby had plenty to think about as, resisting the temptation to go to see Patricia Wimborne, he continued a series of calls which seemed to be endless. The trouble was that none of it made sense. It was a good thing, no doubt, that the inspector was well enough disposed to reveal information which from a strictly official point of view should have been kept hidden; and that he should apparently welcome amateur co-operation. But now that he had got the information about Bilsdy he could not see what it could mean. If only Bilsdy's body was found, the mystery of Dr. Wimborne's disappearance remained. If both, who had last night's visitor been? If only the doctor's, who had sent the wire from London? If neither—

He gave it up at last, deciding to make one more call before going to lunch. With a slight shock of surprise he noticed that the next name on his list was that of the house to which the false telephone call had taken him the night that Wimborne disappeared. He felt a slight quickening of interest as he rang the bell, not unmixed with nervousness. Of the two feelings, he told himself the latter was the more reasonable; for Major Reynolds' comments on his midnight call had been more forcible than polite, and it remained to be seen if his temper had subsided; but so far as the first was concerned, of all the patients on Dr. Wimborne's books it was least likely that Major Reynolds had anything to do with his disappearance.

He need not have worried about his reception. Major Reynolds himself was profusely apologetic for the incident, and having assured himself that his pneumonia patient was going on nicely, he even attempted to pump Major Reynolds on the subject of people who might have been aware of her illness; but the result was too comprehensive to be helpful. The entire district, he gathered, had expressed its sympathy, and therefore was aware of her illness.

"We're keeping the news about Mrs. Millshall from her at present, of course, doctor," Reynolds said at last.

"Her death was a great shock to us—and I am afraid, to her son." He hesitated. "Is Dr. Wimborne likely to be away long?"

Appleby hesitated. It was horribly inconvenient that the news should have spread so rapidly.

"I'm not sure of the exact date of his return," he said. He was aware all at once of an air of restraint in the major's manner for which he could not entirely account. "You wanted him particularly?"

"Not exactly." Reynolds hesitated. "The fact is, Dr. Appleby—" he said and stopped again.

"Yes," Reynolds agreed and paused himself. There was a look in his face that Appleby could not quite understand. He seemed to be nerving himself to something. "Dr. Appleby," he said at last. "They're saying that he's been murdered... Believe me, I have a reason for asking. It isn't true?"

Appleby was in a quandary. It seemed obvious that the major had some good reason for asking and the only reason could be that he had some information about a possible murderer.

"In confidence—in the strictest confidence, Major Reynolds," he said hesitantly. "Dr. Wimborne has disappeared—in very mysterious circumstances... I'm afraid the idea of foul play cannot be ruled out. Why do you ask?"

Reynolds hesitated for quite a long time. "I ought not to say, perhaps," he said. "It's the merest suspicion... But I can rely on your discretion—"

"It's young Millshall—he's never been very strong—mentally and I'm sure his mother's death has upset him. Terribly..."

"Yes?" Appleby prompted eagerly. At last he remembered where he had heard the name. Dr. Wimborne had mentioned it the day before his disappearance. "Yes, major?"

"Only—he's talking, very wildly. He seems to hold Dr. Wimborne responsible... I'm inclined to think, doctor, that he should be examined—"

Appleby thought. "But you've no reason to believe that he had anything to do with Dr. Wimborne's disappearance—apart from that?"

"I'll treat what you've told me with the greatest discretion, major. And, if it should be necessary to inform the authorities, I am sure we can rely on Inspector Darwin... You will not be troubled, I imagine, in any case. And thank you for telling me."

In his excitement at the information which he had just received he almost collided as he left the gate with two men who were standing in conversation just beside where he had left his car.

"I beg your—" he began hurriedly and only then recognised the taller of them. "Why, it's you, Mr. Gressett," he said. "You'll excuse my not seeing you before—"

"And—and, Miss Wimborne? There was a trace of hesitation in his manner. You've seen her to-day?"

He did not know the dark-haired young man to whom Gressett had been talking and had no intention of broadcasting the mystery any more than was necessary. Gressett nodded his comprehension, evidently understanding that there was no further news.

Appleby became uncomfortably aware of the pale young man's eyes. They seemed to be fixed upon him with painful intensity. All at once, he spoke and there was something in his tone which startled Appleby.

"Dr. Wimborne has gone! Gone!... You will never see him again. Justice has overtaken him... 'Whosoever sheddeth man's blood'—"

But Millshall paid no attention. "Gone, I tell you, gone!" he said and his voice rose. "I'm glad! Dr. Appleby, do you know what he did?"

Appleby shook his head. At that moment he was not surprised that Reynolds had felt bound to speak to him.

"You'll excuse me, my dear Millshall, won't you?... Dr. Appleby, you wouldn't mind giving me a lift to town?"

CHAPTER VII
An Offer of Help

IT had been by an oversight that Appleby had forgotten to tell Langland that Wimborne's surgery opened half-an-hour later than his own, but as matters turned out it was fortunate. Evidently Patricia Wimborne had seen him arrive; for she came out to meet him, and from the way she looked at him it was plain that the result of his assumption of professional clothing surprised her.

"Good morning, Miss Wimborne," he said. "What d'you think of the metamorphosis of the water lily?"

"It's wonderful." She smiled faintly but her eyes were fixed upon him with the same desperate look of inquiry he had noticed the day before. "You—you've heard nothing?"

He shook his head. "Nothing yet, Miss Wimborne," he admitted. "I talked things over with Appleby at breakfast. It didn't get us very far."

"It's not till half-past nine. Didn't Dr. Appleby tell you? His own is at nine, but daddy—daddy didn't—"

She broke off and taking his consent for granted led the way into the drawing room. There was a brief silence, which Langland wondered whether to break or not.

"Last night, Dr. Langland—" she began hesitantly and stopped; then asked almost fiercely, "Was that my father?"

"It was exactly that we were discussing at breakfast, Miss Wimborne," Langland said quietly. "I may as well tell you the conclusion we reached. It was not."

"Yes." The word was hardly more than a whisper and her face was half-averted. "I wondered—afterwards."

"Of course, you mustn't take that as certain. Only considering everything we think it's at least very doubtful... For one thing, Appleby, running his hardest, failed to catch him. Now, Appleby used to be something of a sprinter, and your father was nearly sixty—"

"I didn't think of that. But it fits in... Of course, my father was quite fit for his age; but I don't think he could have run fifty yards. Much less have got away from Dr. Appleby."

"That was one tangible thing.... There were others less definite. For example, his treatment of you, when he knew who you were. That didn't seem like your father, as Appleby described him."

"It wasn't... He couldn't have done that." She paused for a moment; then looked him full in the face. "Do you know, Dr. Langland, I think—I think I was glad to hear you say that? That you didn't believe it could be him.... I couldn't bear to think of him—changed like that. It would be better if he were dead!"

Her eyes dropped. "You didn't know him, of course. But he was always so kind—to me. We got on so well together. He'd talk to me in a way he wouldn't to anyone else. And he would have told me. If there had been anything really wrong he would have told me. He did tell me things... When he went the last thing he thought of was that I mustn't sit up and get cold—"

"That is almost exactly the impression I got from Appleby," Langland said to break the silence. "The whole idea of his going away willingly like that is impossible."

"And so do I. I've felt that, ever since the first morning when he didn't come home. You know, I think when people are very—very close to each other, sometimes they can tell what's happened... And then, last night—"

"Last night, we believe that someone impersonated your father. It's easy to mimic a voice and anyone could have worn an overcoat... Incidentally, Miss Wimborne, what size did your father take in hats?"

She looked her surprise. "Seven and—seven and an eighth, I think. Yes, I'm sure."

"I thought I did. I only saw the outline for a moment—against the moonlight coming through the surgery door. I might have fancied it."

Langland shook his head. Appleby fancied the same thing. It's not likely two of you would be wrong. So that's another indication—when we get close enough... And now, we think the voice was—assumed... But it was like your father's voice?"

"Nothing very much... There were only half-a-dozen sentences. You see... But it did strike me that—well, daddy nearly always called me Pat for short. Last night he—whoever it was said 'Patricia.' I don't know how often. Several times. That was all I noticed definitely."

"And what was said? Did you think that was what you would have expected—under the circumstances?"

"Whoever it was, you see, daren't let you see them. And, thank God, you didn't."

"I'm quite sure you would. And if you should get any inkling of who it might have been—tell no one at all. Except us, I mean. Or the inspector." He paused to let that sink in. "And now, I suppose you haven't thought things over at all? Who could fit the bill in any of the imaginary cases we worked out?"

"I—I've done nothing else." She smiled drearily and he noticed the dark circles under her eyes. "But I've not got anywhere."

"Oh, yes. Quite well.... She was to have played Nerissa. You see she's quite young. A good deal younger than the major."

"But you don't know how she was getting on? Your father hadn't spoken about her?"

"He had done. I think he said something about there being a risk, but he hoped she'd turned the corner... Why?"

"We've an idea it might have been a message purporting to come from the Reynolds' house which took your father out the night he disappeared. Not, of course, actually coming from there... Now, who would know about Mrs. Reynolds' illness?"

She thought for a moment. "Practically everyone, I'm afraid. She's very popular, and the major has been terribly upset. I don't think that will help much."

"No. I'm sure he didn't. You see he only came in very late. It wasn't really until Mr. Bilsdy rang up that we started talking. He was too tired, I think."

"Was anyone else mentioned during the conversation? However casually. You see, I'm not suggesting if they were that they are suspect. I'm simply trying to get the background."

"He spoke about Mrs. Millshall and her son. He was very upset, I think, about her death, though she has been ill a long time. And he was worried about the son. He didn't think that he was quite—quite—well, he used the word unbalanced about him."

"Not among the patients. Dr. Appleby's name was mentioned. I hadn't seen him then... Oh, and in connection with the play, Mr. Gressett, Mr. Milton, and Mr. Field. They're all acting in it—or they were."

"No. Only we don't think we shall have one. You see, Mrs. Reynolds is out of it. I don't think I could act now—and I was Portia. And Mr. Gressett is Shylock—well, he's everything and he's just lost his uncle."

"Mr. Gressett? You mentioned his name before, didn't you? You told him of your father's disappearance. I suppose you know him well?"

"Yes. A house in Pelham Avenue. He's a widowed sister who keeps house for them. Both the parents are dead."

She coloured; then smiled. "Not quite. Daddy thought we might be in love with each other. Secretly, I believe he hoped we were. But we've never felt like that."

Patricia was taken aback. For a moment she wondered whether to be angry or not. She laughed.

"Well—I suppose Jack Milton is. And Christopher, too, for that matter... But, unfortunately, I'm not in love with either."

"Not much of Jack.... I think he quite liked Christopher. But he won't be able to afford to marry for ages."

"What is it?" Langland's eyes followed the direction of her gaze. He saw nothing more exciting than an elderly man coming up the path to the front door. But from the girl's expression she was obviously astonished. "Who is it?" he demanded.

"It—it's Dr. Ealksly... And last time we met—he wouldn't recognise me. I doubt if he's ever called here before. Why—?"

But at least the professed reason of Ealksly's visit was soon known, almost as soon as the maid showed him in. He bowed a little stiffly to the girl, and favoured Langland with a suspicious glance from beneath a pair of bushy eyebrows.

Ealksly came to the point at once. He was evidently uncomfortable, but the very fact made him more brusque and decisive.

"Miss Wimborne," he said, "I've just heard a story about your father. Possibly it's not true. If so, perhaps, you'll tell me, and I'll get out at once."

Patricia looked doubtfully at Langland. She had certainly never expected a visit from one of the few men she had been able to think of as possible suspects. Belatedly, she decided she had better introduce them.

"This—this is Dr. Langland, Dr. Ealksly," she said hesitantly. "He—he is helping me."

"Perhaps it would be as well, Dr. Ealksly," Langland said, "if you could tell us what you have heard?"

"It would be easier," Ealksly said gruffly, "to tell you what I haven't... What seems to be the sum of it is that Wimborne was called out the night before last, didn't come back, and no one knows where he is... Of course, there's any number of fantastic stories—"

"Then I'll tell you why I came... You've probably heard, Dr. Langland, that there's a certain amount of rivalry between the two practices, and that Wimborne and I haven't hit it off lately. We won't go into that. But now this has happened, in the middle of an epidemic and when he's just got a new assistant—well, we're the only two medical men resident here—" He hesitated, then looked at Patricia. "Thought I'd better see if you wanted any help," he growled at last, almost savagely.

"It—it's very kind of you—" Patricia began and got no further. Her lips were trembling and for a moment Langland thought she was going to break down.

"I'm sure, doctor, that Miss Wimborne appreciates your offer very much," he said, "and under the circumstances so do I... But as it happens Appleby knew I was free for a few days and asked me to come. I think we can just struggle along with the work."

"Right," Ealksly snapped. "Another thing... You oughtn't to stay here alone, Miss Wimborne. My wife asked me to say if you cared to come and stay you'd be welcome."

"I—I've got my aunt coming... Thank her—thank her very much but—and thank you, doctor—"

"Right... Anything you want, ring up... Late for surgery. Morning, Miss Wimborne. Morning, Dr. Langland."

He was gone before Langland could offer to escort him out. They heard the door slam. Patricia looked at Langland dazedly. "It was—it was kind of him," she said. "I never thought—"

"It was," Langland admitted. "And unexpected... I'm late myself. See you later."

Having one of those minds which possess the capacity to deal with two things at once, Langland considered very carefully the new aspects of the mystery as he surely dealt with a waiting-room full of patients for the next two hours. He could feel the atmosphere of excitement, and was inclined to suspect that a few of his collection had been brought there by curiosity rather than illness: but no one dared to ask him questions.

All the same, he had plenty of questions in his own mind to trouble him. What was the real reason for Ealksly's visit? He had seemed to be genuine enough; but it was one of the deplorable things about being a detective that one had always to suspect the motives of the most charitable-looking people and actions. The picture he had mentally composed of Wimborne's rival had only wanted horns and a tail to be complete. Instead, here was an embarrassed, but kind-hearted man doing what seemed to be an act of genuine Christian charity to his enemy in misfortune.

Only, was it genuine? He might have come to spy out the land; though, if so, he had scarcely made the most of his opportunities. Probably, though, he had expected to find the girl by herself and the presence of Langland might have been disconcerting. Perhaps he wished to get to know more about the working of the practice. Perhaps, even if he was innocent in connection with Wimborne's disappearance, he wanted to be in with the girl so as to have the first chance of buying if Wimborne failed to return. And even the invitation for Patricia to stay might have a reason apart from sympathy or hospitality. Some one had certainly entered the surgery the previous night, and might or might not have done what he intended to do. If it had been Ealksly, it might have been a good idea to secure the absence of the girl whose operations had caused an interruption in order to make another attempt.

And yet, perhaps he was over-suspicious. He was bound to admit that Ealksly's conduct had been perfectly genuine to all appearances, and that if he had been going to make an offer of help under those circumstances he would probably have done it in just that way. As a matter of fact, he had been rather touched by it as an example of sound professional loyalty. And now he was suspecting poor old Ealksly all the more because of it.

He turned his mind away from the problem and thought about what Patricia Wimborne had told him. On the whole, her evidence as given that morning went a long way towards confirming their theory that it had not been Wimborne. Her very first question had expressed the doubt which she herself had felt upon reflection, and though the use of the full Christian name rather than the abbreviation was a small point, and might be accounted for by the solemnity of the occasion, it pointed the same way. Taken in conjunction with the unnecessary wire from London, everything pointed to an impostor.

Then, for the first time, a new idea struck him about the wire. For if the interview had not been in character, the wire, he thought, was much more like what Wimborne might have sent. Perhaps he was alive; perhaps he had sent it; and what they had thought was confusion between two confederates or bad planning might be the unexpected intervention of the real doctor at a time when the conspirators had thought he was safely out of the way.

And then there was Millshall, the young man whose mother had died and who had been described by Wimborne himself as "unbalanced." That might, of course, mean anything; but was the fact that he lived next door to the Reynolds family only coincidence? It would have been easy for him to ring up, take the car, and bring the doctor actually to the gates. And then, one quick blow in a deserted garden and Dr. Wimborne would be dead.

The very simplicity of the plan attracted him and he knew enough of the cunning that can be shown by madmen to know that it was quite possible for one to have worked it out. And yet, there were two serious objections. If the crime was to be committed at the Oaks, why had Appleby been enticed there, at a time when his presence might prove to be a highly inconvenient complication? The only explanation he could think of was that Millshall had hoped to make a clean sweep by killing both doctor and assistant, and had somehow missed Appleby.

But the other objection seemed to be insuperable. Apart from the fact that a vindictive madman could have no conceivable motive for entering the surgery, even if he had done so, if he had imitated Wimborne's voice, who had sent the wire from London? It was just conceivable that he had managed to get some one to do it innocently; but in that case, when the news of Wimborne's disappearance became public, the sender of the wire would surely come forward. And a madman was not likely to have a guilty accomplice.

The other names which had come up meant very little. Gressett, Field and Milton, as members of the dramatic society of which Mrs. Reynolds was also a leading light, would be sure to know of her illness; but in all three cases the motive was obscure. The only possible one up to date was that somehow there had been unpleasantness owing to their being in love with Patricia, and in the case of Gressett even this did not seem to operate. From the way the girl had spoken, so far from her father having shown any opposition he would rather have encouraged a marriage with Gressett; and in any case it did not seem to have been seriously considered by either.

The other two offered better possibilities. For some reason which the arrival of Ealksly had prevented him from ascertaining, Wimborne had not approved of Milton. And then, Field had no money and would not be able to marry for some time. Either might have had a reason for desiring the doctor's removal, and Field a double reason; he might have wished to get out of the way a father who would oppose a marriage on the ground of his poverty, and he might have wanted to remove the poverty by marrying an heiress. If Wimborne was not a wealthy man, he was still sufficiently well-to-do to make his death worth while.

He disposed of the last of the waiting patients with a sigh of relief and reached for the case-book to make the necessary entries, mentally commending the methodical manner in which Wimborne had managed his affairs. Certainly that morning it had made his work in a strange surgery very much more simple than it would otherwise have been; and besides, it promised to be useful in their investigation. For Wimborne had evidently kept the book with some care, and in it one could read the health history of every separate patient. As he finished making his own entries it occurred to him that two points might be interesting, the nature of Mrs. Millshall's last illness and the date at which he had first visited Mrs. Reynolds in connection with the pneumonia. Then, as he turned the pages, something caught his eye which made him forget them completely.

From one of the pages of the book a few lines in bright purple ink stood out with startling distinctness. All the other entries were in ordinary blue-black ink; for this one alone a special ink had been used. He read the entry carefully. It concerned a man called Wilder and appeared to be a typical case of angina. So typical that it almost made him doubtful. It almost seemed to him as if the words might have been quoted from a medical text book.

He frowned down at it for quite a long time. Certainly it was in Dr. Wimborne's ordinary handwriting. There was no real difference between it and all the other entries, except for the ink. And could one attach too much importance to that? Perhaps it was a mere mistake. Dr. Wimborne had used the wrong pen, or dipped into the wrong bottle. That surely would have been easy enough to do. And yet he could not see Wimborne persisting in the mistake when he had noticed the error, as he must have done as soon as his pen touched the paper.

He read through the entry again. There was only one other point which might be significant. The portion written in purple ink seemed to refer quite definitely to a complete stage in the development of the illness, starting from the time when it had taken a serious turn. But a further inspection of the entries showed that this was not unusual. Either Wimborne copied the details at intervals from notes made elsewhere, or relied on his memory to write them up as the occasion served. The sole thing really suspicious about the entry was the purple ink. A thought had just occurred to him, and he was on the point of inspecting the various files when the house door opened, and Patricia Wimborne entered.

"Dr.—Dr. Langland—!" She was breathless with haste and evidently under the influence of strong emotion. "They—they've found him—in the river."

"No... It's Bilsdy. The inspector says it's suicide. He asked if you'd like to go—"

Without a word Langland snatched his hat and coat and followed her from the room. The inspector was waiting in the hall and nodded recognition.

"Care to come, doctor? We've got Bilsdy out—just as he said, poor devil. About fifty yards below where we found his note. No doubt at all what happened.... I've a car outside."

"I'd be glad to," Langland assented. "But I suppose you're getting a doctor? He won't object."

Langland waited until the door had closed behind them before he put the question which was in his mind.

CHAPTER VIII
Corpse From the River

>FOR a moment Appleby had been inclined to resent the way in which Gressett had taken charge of things and prevented him from having any further opportunity of hearing what Millshall had to say. It was plain that "unbalanced" was a moderate description of the young man in his present state and his animosity towards Wimborne had been sufficiently obvious to make anyone wonder whether he would have stuck at murder. Plainly he was a little mad; the question might arise whether he was certifiable. And in any case some inquiries would have to be made about his movements last night and the night before.

Gressett broke the silence. "I hope you didn't mind my dragging you off like that," he apologised. "The fact is, I was afraid he might attack you. He'd been talking very wildly, and I'd just managed to calm him down. Your coming upset him again. I wasn't anxious that things should come to a crisis—before they have to."

"Yes, about Wimborne." There was a trace of reluctance in Gressett's manner; then apparently he decided to be frank. "And about you, for that matter. And the whole medical profession. I gather he'd like to murder the lot of you."

"Well—he said 'kill' if that makes any difference. I gathered that he'd regard it as execution, not murder... Of course, it's natural up to a point. It's not uncommon when someone dies to have the relatives accusing the doctor of being responsible. But—he's so violent."

"Honestly, I don't know. That's your job. But he's always been a bit queer. My idea was to keep him as quiet as we can until his father comes back."

"He'll be back this afternoon. He'd got to go up to town yesterday to do some business. After all, he couldn't do any good by stopping, so far as he knew."

"Well, I gather they had a job with him when he first learnt the news of his mother's death. In fact I came in for the tail end of it and even that wasn't nice... But his father calmed him down, and we thought it was all right."

"Perhaps not. But he certainly knows you as Wimborne's assistant... And you're not specially favoured. It's all doctors—so far as I could make out."

Appleby did not speak for a moment. He was not quite sure whether to put the question which was in his mind or not.

Again Gressett did not answer at once. "Look here," he said, "I can see what you're getting at. But you can't pay any serious attention to what a chap in that state says. He'd imagine anything."

"If he did—" Gressett began. "Well, I'd better tell you. That's just what he did say. Last night—when he first heard Wimborne was missing. But he'd said nothing before. It was just nonsense."

"And, knowing that Wimborne had disappeared, in very mysterious circumstances, it didn't occur to you to tell the police about it?"

"I didn't believe him. Besides it's absurd to think that anyone would murder Wimborne. Probably he'll write or something and explain. He surely can't be dead?"

"Doesn't every day make it more likely that he is? And if you can't imagine anyone killing him, can you imagine his going off like this?"

Gressett hesitated. "No, I can't," he admitted. "It's simply incredible—unless he's gone mad himself, and I should have said he was the last person for that... But if the police think he's been murdered, I should have thought they'd ask in another direction before bothering about poor Millshall."

"That fellow Bilsdy. Miss Wimborne told me that he'd rung up and threatened the doctor. But I knew how he felt before."

"He was telling the whole wide world in the Red Lion lounge at ten o'clock the night that Wimborne disappeared. Of course, he was pretty drunk. But he was angry, too. Said Wimborne was going to swear away his character and ruin his life. He seemed pretty desperate about it."

"And, I suppose," Appleby said sarcastically, "believing one needn't pay any attention to a man who's half-drunk, you didn't bother to tell the police that either?"

"That's where you're wrong. I went to the inspector as soon as I heard from Miss Wimborne that the doctor was missing."

Mentally Appleby registered a point against the inspector. He had given them no idea that there had been any evidence against Bilsdy beyond the 'phone call. But another point occurred to him.

"And, while you were with the inspector, it never occurred to you to mention that Millshall had been making murderous threats?"

"No. Because at that time he hadn't. He'd been talking wildly the day before, but he'd not threatened Wimborne. Or not while I was there."

"I should. My uncle and Millshall are partners, and I work with them. I mean, they were partners... But what exactly is this, doctor? A cross-examination?"

Appleby flushed. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "But I've been very worried—about this. And now, there's Millshall—"

"What do you propose to do about him? Can't it wait until his father comes back?"

"I don't know if it can." Appleby's brows wrinkled into a worried frown. "I should be in a curious position if I ignored a homicidal lunatic and he killed someone. Even if he hasn't done so... And though I can understand your feelings, so would you."

Gressett hesitated. "Then, in that case," he said reluctantly, "I'd better come with you, I suppose. Not that I'm exactly looking for trouble myself just now. First with my uncle being dead—and this business with Millshall—"

"I'm afraid I've hardly been very sympathetic," Appleby admitted. "But it's dreadful for us—not hearing at all. Miss Wimborne is bearing it splendidly but—"

"She has been wonderful, hasn't she?... I must call there sometime and see if there is anything I can do.... And, of course, Dr. Appleby, you've had all the work of the practice to do. But you've got someone to help you now?"

"Yes." Appleby said briefly. "Somehow he was not particularly pleased at the suggestion of calling at the house. Dr. Langland. A friend of mine."

There was silence until they drew up at the police station. It seemed to Appleby that Gressett still held back; but it was not unnatural for him not to want to make trouble which concerned his employer's son.

"Inspector Darwin? He's out, sir." The sergeant answered his question: "You've not had his message, then, sir? You've not heard about their finding the body?"

"Bilsdy's, sir. In the river. Near the Old Mill Inn. The inspector's there now."

Appleby nodded assent and they went out. They were some distance on their way before either spoke.

"Doesn't his suicide make murder more likely?" Gressett demanded. "He killed Dr. Wimborne—then himself. Isn't that the obvious explanation?"

Appleby did not answer. He was wondering if it was, and the more he thought about it the less likely it seemed Bilsdy had been seen near the river at about eleven o'clock. Was it more likely that he'd gone at once and committed suicide, or that he should have made arrangements for luring the doctor away, waited until one o'clock and then killed the doctor and himself? And if he had done the second, how was one to account for the burglary last night, and the wire from Paddington? The explanation which Gressett thought obvious explained nothing; it merely added to the complications. Unless Bilsdy had been alive last night. But the medical evidence would show that.

"We don't know Dr. Wimborne's dead yet," he said, after a long pause. "You yourself said Miss Wimborne would probably hear."

"But surely," Gressett persisted, "it alters things? I mean that Bilsdy's been found—"

"Straight on till you pass the church... Before this, it might have been just talk. This proves he was absolutely desperate anyhow. So, why shouldn't he have done the murder? There is no reason, is there?"

Appleby could think of at least two perfectly good ones, the wire and the burglary. But he had no intention of revealing all his suspicions to Gressett. His merits as an actor might be in his favour so far as Patricia was concerned; but the mere idea that he was going to call rankled with Appleby. He felt vaguely irritated.

"And unless there's some pretty good reason for believing that Wimborne was alive after Bilsdy died, it seems to me that Bilsdy would be the favourite as the murderer... I suppose the medical evidence would show that."

"Approximately. Hard to say," Appleby snapped and then his annoyance got the better of him. "So far as the murder of Wimborne is concerned," he broke out, "it's not finding Bilsdy's body that matters but Wimborne's. We don't know that there's been any murder until then. Of course, if they were both found in the river, as Bilsdy seemed to suggest, that would count against him—"

"He left a letter to the police," Appleby admitted and wished that he had not. "I believe he hinted vaguely at a suicide pact or something."

"Suicide pact?" Gressett asked in amazement. "Those two wouldn't have agreed—"

With the natural perversity of human nature, now that he had succeeded in choking Gressett off, Appleby suddenly realised that he would have done better to try to pump him. Unwillingly he essayed an apology.

"Sorry if I'm a bit on edge... By the way, I suppose other people besides you heard Bilsdy saying his piece that night?"

Gressett was so long in answering that Appleby almost thought he was going to sulk. And really, he had to admit, he would have been justified in doing so. He had certainly been abominably rude.

"I didn't mean that," Appleby said hastily. "I just wondered if you remembered anyone in particular you saw there? It might be important."

"Well, Field was with me... He took me there, as a matter of fact. I was feeling rather down over my uncle's death. Oh, and I know that Milton was there for a few minutes, too. Then there was that fellow Barndon—he's a sort of a connection of Patricia's and not a very reputable one—"

"Why not?" Even his resentment over the use of the girl's Christian name did not prevent him from putting the question. "What's wrong with him?"

"Well—it's libellous to say so but, under the seal of the confessional, I don't mind saying there's a suspicion he either stole from Wimborne or swindled him not long ago. No one knew the facts but the two of them, but you know how things get about—"

A sudden light seemed to dawn on Appleby. After all, it was quite possible that Bilsdy was the actual murderer. Suppose the manifestations of Wimborne's being alive had been arranged by Barndon and some confederate, in preparation for some kind of trick upon Patricia? He could see several possibilities, and one in particular seemed feasible. If it suited Barndon's scheme to have Wimborne alive, he might have made arrangements for the wire to be sent from London. It was the scene in the surgery which had been unrehearsed. Barndon, caught in the act, had imitated Wimborne's voice to make his escape, perhaps not realising that the wire would be telephoned that night—

He had been driving almost automatically and but for Gressett's warning might have driven right past the inn, in spite of the small crowd which had gathered on the river bank and on the pavement outside it. As the car drew into the kerb a uniformed constable moved ponderously towards them. Appleby got out.

"That's right, sir. He's inside." The constable eyed Gressett dubiously. "This gentleman? I've had no instructions—"

Appleby had no intention of letting go of his captive until Darwin had extracted from him everything that might possibly be of use.

"He's got some important information for the inspector," he said. "Surely he can come in with me?"

"Well, sir. He can see the sergeant. The sergeant is inside, too. Right through to the back, sir. You'll find them in the shed."

Drowned bodies were no novelty to the Old Mill Inn. It was, in fact, the first place to which unfortunates who had perished in the river were generally taken; and a shed in the rear which had probably once served for storing corn sacks had often been used as a temporary mortuary. They had just been stopped at the door by the sergeant when Darwin himself emerged. He nodded to Appleby and jerked his head in invitation to enter; he looked at Gressett inquiringly.

"Mr. Gressett has some more information which might interest you, inspector," Appleby explained. "Apparently a young man who seems a bit weak mentally threatened Dr. Wimborne."

Darwin's eyebrows rose. "I'll see you in a minute, sir," he said. "Go inside if you like—"

The body had been placed on an improvised table of planks just in front of the window and as they entered a man who was evidently a doctor, but who was a stranger to Appleby, seemed to be engaged in making an examination. Rather to his surprise, he noticed Langland standing near the table and moved over to his side. The doctor busy with the corpse looked up.

"Another, eh?" he said cheerfully. "Pretty full house... The more the merrier, Dr.—? My name's Blandy."

"Appleby." He had heard of Blandy who had some name as a pathologist. "You don't mind if I watch?"

He bent to his work again. For several minutes Appleby and Langland watched in silence. Then Blandy stood erect.

"Well," he said, "the cause of death was almost certainly drowning. There are no wounds visible—none inflicted before death.... That's obviously after he was dead, and that's the drag. He's been dead—well, let's say from about forty-eight to thirty hours. About thirty-six or seven wouldn't be far wrong. Say between eleven and midnight on Tuesday." He looked at Langland. "You agree?"

Darwin had re-entered the shed in time to hear Blandy's verdict. He was frowning a little, as though it was not quite to his taste.

"About eleven or twelve, doctor?" he asked. "But it might have been an hour or two later, I suppose?"

"I said it might.... I'll let you have six hours each way—on what I've seen up to date."

"From the condition of the body, I think nothing of the kind. I only think he got into the water somehow and didn't get out. It might have been accident—he seems to have liked his little drop and may have fallen in drunk. Someone might have pushed him but there are no marks of violence.... Of course, the fact he wrote you a note and put a couple of half-hundredweight weights in his pockets may indicate suicide, but that's not my affair... You're expecting another?"

"Not exactly expecting," Darwin admitted. "We think there may be another. But if there is, it looks as though that's drifted down."

"Right. I'll leave you... I'll be doing the post mortem this afternoon. Come if you like. Good-day."

The last words were flung over his shoulder as he went out and a minute later they heard his car start up in the yard.

"Not a lot. Got a bit of a bedstead, some old buckets, a dead dog and a very dead cat first. But he was pretty well where he said he'd be." He looked at Langland and Appleby. "Nothing you can add—in confidence?"

"Nothing at all," Langland answered. "Except that I don't think it's within the bounds of probability that he's been dead as little as thirty hours."

"No doctor who values his reputation is positive about times of death—but it's a very fair bet indeed. I think the post mortem will prove it."

"If you all agree, it ought to be right.... And you agree with Dr. Blandy about the probable time—eleven to twelve on Tuesday?"

"As a probable time—yes. But I see your difficulty. That would mean that he was going off to drown himself when he was seen. And if he was he couldn't have had anything to do with the call to Wimborne?"

"Last night is hopeless; but there's no reason why he shouldn't have been alive up till two or three that night—Tuesday."

Darwin nodded, but the fact did not seem to cheer him. "I'll just see Mr. Gressett," he said. "He's found me a maniac, has he?"

Langland's eyes followed him to the corner by the door where Gressett was standing.

"I didn't. He picked me up. Cut me off in the middle of an interesting talk with a man who says Wimborne murdered his mother—"

Appleby briefly gave him the gist of his encounter with Millshall and his conversation with Gressett. Langland raised his eyebrows.

"Homicidal, I fancy... Though I expect he's Pretty safe for anyone who doesn't look like a member of the medical profession."

"That's interesting.... Just at present, I'd prefer a live murderer to a dead one. Bilsdy—?" He shook his head. "I don't like him."

"Well, he tried to. I had a devil of a job getting it out of him. But after what Millshall had said to me himself—"

"And Millshall, senior, went to town last night on business?" Langland said softly.

"I made an error of judgment when I was trying to work things out. I thought a homicidal maniac wouldn't have accomplices. But if he were an only son, there might be at least one accessory after the fact... His father."

And Gressett would naturally lend a hand. By the way, another possible explanation of last night occurred to me. You know that we've got Barndon on our list of suspects? Why shouldn't he have been our burglar?"

He broke off. The inspector had finished with Gressett and was coming towards them.

"I wonder if you two gentlemen would join me in some cold beef and pickles? he invited. I'd just like a little talk."

CHAPTER IX
Ransom or Death

ALL three of them were hungry and there was silence in the back room of the inn until the meal had been disposed of and pipes were lit. Inspector Darwin opened the proceedings.

"Well, gentlemen," he began. "I'd just like to see if we can clarify the position a little... It's rather unofficial, but you're certainly in this case, and you know pretty well as much as I do... Besides, there's no harm in my listening to what you've got to say." He paused. "I might add, I've got to explain things myself to the Superintendent and Chief Constable soon. So we'd better get busy."

"As we've several dozen patients dying for lack of our ministrations we're not overburdened with time ourselves," Langland said. "So let's come to the point. What about Bilsdy?"

Darwin made a rueful grimace. "That's what you can tell me," he said. "It's certainly the question I'll have to answer soon."

"Right. The point is, is Bilsdy linked up with Wimborne's disappearance or not? Did he try and put his threat into practice, or change his mind and jump into the river right away? Now, Bilsdy's time table seems to be this. He spends the evening getting pretty drunk and bewailing his lot, not to mention cursing Wimborne. He's heard, we know, by Gressett, and, perhaps, by Field, Milton and Barndon. At closing time he goes and puts through a call to Dr. Wimborne. He's next seen half an hour later near the river."

"No. We know that he went back to his lodgings. He could have written the letter there. In fact, almost certainly he did."

"That's good. I was wondering about that. In the letter, I gather, he twice uses the first person plural, instead of singular. The point is, what does he do after he's seen at eleven? If he didn't have anything to do with killing Wimborne, he probably simply walked into the water right away... By the way, when he was seen was he carrying anything?"

"From most points of view, that's the simplest explanation. It splits only on a couple of rocks. We've got to find another murderer for Wimborne; and it doesn't explain the plural in the letter.... But I've an idea I may be able to abolish the second."

"Then he simply went to the river to reconnoitre. Between eleven and half-past twelve he begged, borrowed, hired or stole a car. At 12.30 he put through a call to Wimborne, called for him (wearing some sort of disguise I imagine), kills him in a quiet spot and dumps the body—perhaps in the river. He then somehow disposes of the car, returns to the river and jumps in, say, at about half-past one or two... So far so good. Both come within the reasonable medical time limits."

"But then the snags begin," Darwin said. "Unless you think his ghost went to the surgery last night and wired from London."

Langland looked at Appleby. "You'd got an idea about that, hadn't you?" he asked. "What you were saying about Barndon."

"It's very much an idea, and there's no real evidence to support it. But Barndon was one of the few people Miss Wimborne suspected and to-day I've learnt he conducted some kind of a swindle on Wimborne."

"I rather think," Darwin interposed, "that for once Wimborne condoned a felony. I believe Barndon appointed himself as an unofficial bill-collector and kept the cash. It was hushed up."

"That's exactly what we want. Barndon heard Bilsdy's threats on Tuesday night; yesterday he heard Wimborne had disappeared. He might have thought it was a golden opportunity. So he arranges with a friend—he probably knows several rogues—to send the wire; he himself goes to the surgery to get data for some more debt collecting, or something to start his swindle with."

"Because, for his scheme, Wimborne's got to be alive and everyone has got to be kept calm... He didn't mean to have that conversation with Miss Wimborne; he didn't think he'd be caught at all. It was a brilliant improvisation, which, unfortunately, clashed with the arrangements he'd made before."

"As to the first, we don't know. The hat and coat may not actually have been Wimborne's—only imitations. As for the door key, he may have made preparations for something of the kind before the quarrel."

"It's possible," Darwin admitted. "Though it makes him a skunk and a cunning sort of devil... Which, of course, he is." He paused. "So in that view, Bilsdy is the protagonist only up to about eleven on Tuesday, in one case; or half-past one in the other. After that, it's Barndon.... The question then arises, in case one, did Barndon kill Wimborne?"

"The question still is, did anyone kill Wimborne? Is Wimborne dead?" Langland objected. "I wish we could have another body. Without one we can't have an inquest even."

"We'll hope we find him... Now, there's no real evidence against Barndon, but he did know the ways of the house and surgery and the habits of his brother-in-law. He had a motive in the quarrel, and in the hope of being able to swindle Miss Wimborne. He could have known about the Reynolds' case and have lured Wimborne out. Only, there's no proof whatever."

"Had he a car? Was he out that night? Could he have got out and returned unseen Tuesday night and last night?"

Darwin scribbled in his notebook. "We can look into these," he said. "Anything more?"

"Telephone calls—if possible. Cars—everyone's cars. Movements of everyone who might be concerned at the vital times. All these would be helpful."

"And a good many can probably be obtained. Now, as you can see, either of these makes sense of a kind. The sole objection to the first is the use of the plural in the letter... Now, who is next on the list?

"Obviously, Millshall," Appleby replied. "And the case against him is pretty strong—stronger, perhaps, than against Barndon. He's got the motive, since he's so obviously unbalanced, in his obsession against doctors, and desire for revenge. He knows about Mrs. Reynolds' illness. Probably he could get a car. It would be quite natural for him to call for the doctor, if the major didn't dare to leave his wife. He could have stopped the car at some quiet spot, killed Wimborne, disposed of the body and gone home.... Now, at this point, I very strongly suspect that Mr. Millshall, senior, enters the picture. He learns what his son has done, and decides that he must save him. The best hope is to pretend Wimborne is alive. He goes up to London and sends that wire... But, in the meantime, for some unknown reason, his son enters the surgery; is caught, and saves himself by a trick.... And the weakness of that is, of course, the unknown reason. But the trouble is that it's almost impossible to give reasons for the actions of some unbalanced people. The reasons upon which they act, or profess to act, are often fantastic."

"Why does he conceal Wimborne's murder? Why not glory in it? Wouldn't that be almost more natural for a lunatic?"

"No. He's still sane enough to think that he'd hang if he was found out. He conceals the crime with a lunatic's cunning, if lunatic is the right word. Quite possibly it's only a temporary breakdown... It seems to me that Bilsdy may have nothing to do with it at all and that Millshall could have managed everything himself except the wire."

"Gressett seemed pretty keen on wrapping things up about Millshall," Darwin said thoughtfully. "But I suppose that was quite natural. And, after all, he probably didn't see anything very significant in the doctor's disappearance at first... Any more suspects?"

Appleby hesitated. "Ealksly was one of the few people Miss Wimborne could think of who owed her father any grudge."

"There's no denying feeling has been very bitter between them. Ealksly would give his right eye to get hold of Wimborne's practice and, so to speak, round off his territory. I don't believe it's entirely a matter of reason with him any longer."

"Doctors do sometimes go that way about practices," Langland commented. "It's something like the instinct for empire building. You want to take over new ground even though you've got plenty and it will only mean more trouble. It's a more powerful incentive than one would think."

"And, really, we've nothing against Ealksly, except that possible motive," Appleby admitted. "He's not behaved suspiciously in any way that I can see."

"No," Langland said thoughtfully. "He behaved rather unexpectedly to-day, though. I was going to tell you but haven't had a chance. He called on Miss Wimborne, offered her help with the practice and suggested that she went to stay with them."

"That's what I thought, at first. And yet—" He broke off and shrugged his shoulders. "The damnable part of this business is that once you start being suspicious a person's best actions can be twisted so as to be their worst... Suppose Ealksly had had something to do with it. Naturally, when the alarm wasn't given, and Dr. Wimborne's disappearance was kept secret, he'd want to know what was happening. And the best thing to do would be to find some excuse for calling on Patricia Wimborne. So he does. And then, if the practice is the real motive, the sooner he gets his teeth into that the better. If he knows Wimborne is dead, it will give him a better chance of buying if he's been actually working in it and helping; if he doesn't buy, it will help him to nobble some patients."

"Well, the particular part that was being burgled is the very place where the records of the practice were kept. I don't quite know how, but there's no doubt there'd be plenty of information there which would be useful to him. And if he didn't get what he wanted that time, it wouldn't be a bad idea to get the girl out of the house to give him a freer hand."

"And that's why, so far as the murderer is concerned, I'm inclined to think it was an accident or a mistake. You see, if Ealksly, or Bilsdy, or Barndon, or Millshall had killed the doctor, that wire might not have formed any part of their plan. It might have been sent by someone else who knew he'd be suspected, and wanted to pretend Wimborne was alive for a bit."

"Mm. Isn't all this getting a bit thin and theatrical?" Darwin asked. "It wasn't so bad with Bilsdy and Millshall, both of whom seem to have threatened the doctor. That does give one something to go on. It's natural, even, to suspect Barndon, who has got a pretty rocky character. But when you start suspecting people on motive alone—I'm inclined to wonder if there is anyone you couldn't find some motive for. Maybe you could for me... Or take yourself, Dr. Appleby!"

"Well, sir, you might have wanted to get hold of the practice. You might even have been fond of Miss Wimborne—"

Appleby flushed angrily and was going to speak, but Darwin hurried on. "I'm not saying it's so, sir. This is a sort of reduction to absurdity of the line we've been following... There are your motives. You've the necessary knowledge, or could have got it. Your car had broken down—yes, but you might have arranged that to avert suspicion—and to get an alibi?"

"Yes, sir, you had," Darwin said gravely. "You went out, on a bicycle, to call at a house from which no call had been sent... Did they see the bicycle, sir?"

"Yes, sir, but in a car you could have done it in half the time, and have had time to abduct the doctor. Your landlady might have noticed if you'd gone out at night anyhow, so you admit it. I doubt if she knows how long you were out... Come to think of it, sir, our case against you is as complete as against anyone!"

Appleby tried to laugh again; but the inspector's manner made him uncomfortable.

There was a brief silence. "But, from the beginning, Dr. Appleby has been in favour of investigation," Langland suggested.

"To avert suspicion—of course... There's another reason. As you want to buy the practice, sooner or later Wimborne's body must be found. It can't be sold until his death is established."

Langland suddenly laughed outright. "You ought to write detective stories, inspector. I think you've built up a lovely case. I'm beginning to suspect him myself."

Darwin puffed at his pipe slowly; then shook his head. "I haven't built up a case at all, sir," he said. "All I've done is to weave together a lot of suspicion and theory as you and Dr. Appleby have been doing... But, as I said, what we want is a body—and then facts, facts and more facts. Facts that will tell before a jury, sir. And most important before a judge."

"I quite agree with you," Langland said. "But in a case like this a few theories may put you on the right road to getting facts."

"That's why I've been talking it over with you, sir. And it's been very interesting.... We have found one or two people to make inquiries about—if Bilsdy isn't guilty."

"After his threats, and the letter, if we find him in the river with Dr. Wimborne, it would take a bit of getting round. And if I found he'd somehow got hold of a car at about the right time—well—" He shrugged his shoulders. "I might have a good enough case to see if the burglary couldn't be explained some other way."

"If you're going to hunt up facts about possible suspects," Appleby suggested, "I've one or two others for you... It seems to me that the basis of this business might be the threats which Bilsdy made so publicly. If there was anyone with a motive, he might see his chance, and take it, fairly secure that suspicion would fall on Bilsdy."

"Well, Barndon heard; but we've dealt with him. Gressett heard, too. So far as I can see, Gressett has no earthly motive, but he has been very much in the centre of things... I've an idea he's fonder of Miss Wimborne than he likes to pretend—"

"That's hardly criminal, sir," Darwin smiled. "And did the doctor oppose the match?"

"Well, anyway, he did hear Bilsdy. And there are two other people who did, too—people vaguely connected with the Wimborne family. Milton and Field."

"They're both in love with Miss Wimborne," Langland supplied, and his face was quite expressionless as he looked across at Appleby. "That's pretty damning.... Besides, old Wimborne didn't like one of them and the other had no cash... Even more damning. You tail them up, inspector!"

"I will, doctor," Darwin grinned. "Anyone in love with Miss Wimborne... After all, it might be a motive."

Appleby had flushed again. As the inspector finished he broke out quite angrily.

Darwin evidently knew when a joke had gone far enough. He looked at Langland curiously, winked one eye, and intervened.

"Yes, inspector... No doubt it is unusual and you are naturally curious.... It came about like this. My father was a great admirer of Italian literature and art. He hesitated for a long time between Giotto and Michaelangelo; but was deterred from the first by an aunt who confusing it with grotto, refused to have her nephew christened after a sort of hole in the rocks, on penalty of leaving her money elsewhere. The second almost won the day, but it was pointed out to him that it would certainly be abbreviated to 'Mike.' He toyed with the idea of Dante's second name, but could never spell it; and that, too, carried with it the threat of such a nickname as 'Ally'—horribly suggestive of Ally Sloper. Eventually he chose Caesar, on the ground that the man was certainly an artist in his way. I am named, therefore, not after the famous Julius, but after Caesar Borgia."

"The poisoner, sir?" Darwin grinned. "Quite appropriate your becoming a doctor, then... Well, gentlemen, this has been very interesting, and I'm sure I'm grateful for the help you've given. I'll certainly do as you suggested, Dr. Appleby, because I really think that there's something in that idea of the murderer's having taken advantage of Bilsdy's threats. Always assuming there is a murderer, and that the doctor doesn't turn up alive and kicking after having gone off for reasons of his own."

"Or assuming he hasn't been kidnapped. It's unusual here, but—" Appleby had recovered his good temper. "After all, it is possible, isn't it?"

"That's just one more point I'd meant to raise. We've been looking all this time for people who had a particular reason for kidnapping or murdering Wimborne. I've an idea that the truth may be they only wanted a doctor."

"You miss the point. If Wimborne was kidnapped as a doctor it almost presupposes the commission of some crime before the kidnapping, or the intention to commit one by means of it. Suppose someone has been poisoned or shot and has got to have medical attention. Ordinarily a doctor would probably report it; so you have to kidnap a doctor, and make him treat it under duress. Suppose a child had been born and a doctor present at the birth. If you want to remove the child, you've got to remove the doctor—I mean, if you want to conceal birth entirely. But what does the doctor do when you finally let him loose?"

"That's the trouble.... You might scare or bribe him into saying nothing. But Dr. Wimborne isn't the kind of man you can scare or bribe. You can't keep him shut up indefinitely, and you can't let him go... And that's a reason"—his voice grew grave—"why it wouldn't surprise me if Dr. Wimborne was found in the river."

He broke off. Darwin moved round the table towards the door, but he had not reached it when it was suddenly opened and the sergeant entered.

"Excuse me, sir—" he began, breathlessly, and glanced at Appleby and Langland. "It's urgent—"

"You've found him?" Darwin snapped. "The sergeant shook his head. "Well? Speak up... It's all right about these gentlemen."

"It's a message, sir. From Miss Wimborne. She just rang up and asked if you could see her. She was very upset—"

"We'd better go at once," Appleby broke in. "She may be in danger... What did she say?"

The sergeant looked at him coldly. He had not forgotten the previous night and their differences in the surgery.

"Well, sir," he cast a dubious glance at Appleby, "she said she'd had a letter by the afternoon post—the twelve-thirty, sir—she'd only just got it and opened it..." He paused dramatically. "It contained a demand for ransom for Doctor Wimborne and a threat to kill him if it was not paid."

"Good God!" said Appleby: but no one else spoke for a moment. Darwin moved abruptly.

"We'll go at once," he said, moving towards the door. "Just let me speak to them outside here a minute."

As he hurried along the bank to where the drags had just restarted work, Langland turned to the sergeant.

"Pretty smart work getting him out so soon, sergeant," he said, tactfully. "Fished up a few things first though, didn't you?"

"Well, sir, you always do. People will chuck things in... We were pretty lucky—but then I've had some experience—"

"Well, we chucked it back, sir." The sergeant grinned. "He wasn't bad—not like the cat. But he wouldn't have improved with keeping."

"Sergeant, I want that dog... It's important. Ask the inspector if you like. But get him."

"Well—I want it kept quiet for the moment," Langland said confidentially. "But it's all right your knowing. I want a post mortem on it!"

"Yes... Cut him up to see what he died of and when and all that... You'll get him for me? Thanks."

The sergeant stood staring after him as he hurried towards the car where Darwin and Appleby were waiting. He scratched his head in perplexity; then moved slowly to where the men were working.

CHAPTER X
Visit of an Uncle

TO Appleby's surprise, Patricia was not alone when they arrived at the house. Comfortably installed in an easy chair, and looking as though he had every intention of staying there, sat an elderly smooth-faced man with pince-nez and iron grey hair to whom Appleby took a dislike at sight. Judging by the girl's manner, the stranger's presence was no more welcome to her than to him. There was an angry flush on her face as she made a barely civil introduction.

"This is Mr. Barndon—who insists on being here," she said. "Dr. Appleby and Dr. Langland.... Inspector, I believe you have met—officially."

Darwin inclined his head politely. "But not for some time," he said. "Not since that regrettable misunderstanding over Dr. Wimborne's accounts... But I had rather expected the pleasure of an interview with Mr. Barndon very shortly."

Barndon frowned as though the note on which the conversation had started was hardly to his taste.

"In view of the mysterious circumstances of poor Wimborne's disappearance," he said with dignity, "I felt bound to offer any help that I could give, and to insist on protecting the interests of my niece and brother-in-law. In my view it is highly desirable that I should be present at this interview, even though my niece has seen fit to disregard the advice—the sound advice—I offered."

"That can be remedied," he said softly. "Miss Wimborne, may I have the pleasure—?"

"Yes," Patricia admitted. "He was here when I read the letter. He insisted—he insisted on seeing it."

"Then, for the present, I don't think we need turn him out." Darwin turned towards the subject of discussion. "When did you get here, sir?"

"A few minutes only before my niece returned.... I had called before, but I was informed that she was out to lunch and would return at two."

"I see," Darwin said softly. "That seems quite clear and very satisfactory—and now, Miss Wimborne, the letter?"

Without a word Patricia rose and crossed the room. She unlocked a drawer, and took from it an envelope and a sheet of paper. Appleby noticed that it was slightly crumpled, as though someone had clutched it in his hand. He glanced fiercely at Barndon. Internally he was boiling and could scarcely have restrained himself but for something in Darwin's manner which seemed to bode no good to the visitor.

The inspector took the sheet and envelope gingerly, handling them by their edges, and evidently from their condition he drew the same conclusion as Appleby. He raised his eyebrows slightly and looked at Barndon.

"Then, sir, naturally your fingerprints will be on it... Perhaps it is unimportant. It may still be possible to decipher prints made before the letter was written—and these, of course, we can distinguish from the others. And now—" He glanced at the envelope, read the postmark and laid it on the table before opening the letter. "Let us see what—"

"One moment, inspector!" Barndon interrupted. "I warned you before, Patricia, and now for the last time I warn you. By the action you have taken, the rash, unconsidered action, you endanger your father's life!"

Patricia was pale, but she met his eyes steadily. "You didn't want me to call the police," she said. "I have done. I'm sure it's for the best."

"Is that true, sir?" Darwin asked. "Surely you're aware that it's the duty of any citizen in such a case to let the police know as soon as possible?"

"Inspector," Barndon began, and hesitated. "Technically, no doubt you are right... But it has been proved time and time again how powerless the police are in cases of kidnapping—not only are they unable to catch the criminals, but their employment has frequently cost the prisoner his life... It was natural, I think, if I valued the life of my brother-in-law more than the letter of the law. In America—"

"Quite, sir... But it was a good deal wiser on the part of Miss Wimborne to call us in at once. Whatever may happen in America, kidnappers here are usually caught."

"No doubt that is the official view... But I need hardly remind you how often in these cases when the police have been called in they have recovered only the victim's dead body. I see no reason to sacrifice Wimborne's life for a scruple."

"Very likely, sir... But I would point out that in cases of kidnapping one cannot rely on the criminal's word. You pay and still don't get anyone back. Indeed, in a great many cases, the person is already dead when the demand is sent." He waited as if to give Barndon an opportunity of answering, and turned again to the letter. His eyebrows rose as he read it. He looked at Appleby and Langland. "A curious production... I think you might like to hear this, gentlemen—if Miss Wimborne has no objection?"

The girl shook her head. Barndon looked as though he would have liked to protest: but he said nothing. Darwin read it aloud.

"'Dr. Wimborne is our prisoner, in a place where you will never find him. Do not consult the police or it will be fatal to him. You are to do exactly as we say. Failure means his death. The sum of one hundred pounds will secure his immediate safety. We will negotiate further with you for his release... If you consent, insert an advertisement at once in the personal column of the local evening paper as follows: "X X. Doing as you say.—P.W." A way of paying over the money will then be communicated to you. In the meantime, say nothing of this to anyone. Do not tell the police or your father will die at once.'"

There was a moment's silence broken incongruously by a comment from Langland. He was smiling a little.

Barndon jumped to his feet. "Sir!" he burst out. "Is it a matter for joking when life is at stake? My brother-in-law is in danger—" He made a violent gesture. "Can't you see this is serious?"

"It will be serious for the joker who wrote it," Langland said calmly. "If he regards a few years in clink as serious."

"It is written," he said, "on common stationery, posted to catch the second delivery. It is printed in block capitals, to make the identification of the handwriting impossible.... Our chances of tracing the writer are poor. The question is, what immediate action we should take. We can discuss details later. Should the advertisement be inserted, or should we wait?"

"Of course, sir... Even to save Dr. Wimborne's life we can't give in. I admit it's a serious decision to take, but we shall have to hope we can find out where he's hidden before they demand the money—"

Patricia's face had gone dreadfully pale. "You—you don't think—?" she began. "My father—he's alive? You think he is?"

"Well, miss, in view of this letter there seems to be a good chance of it. You see, at the beginning kidnapping did occur to us; but it's not common in this country.... We'll have to go very carefully, but I think we'll get them."

"But my father? If I don't pay—?" She looked imploringly at Appleby, as though asking advice. "When they don't see the advertisement—or when I don't pay, they'll know something is wrong. And if they believe that you're after them, won't they have to—to kill him—for their own safety?"

"It's like this, miss." Darwin seemed uncomfortably aware of the argument against his own case. He spoke hesitantly. "We may be able to find the place where he's hidden and take them by surprise—"

"It'd probably be best if you inserted that advertisement. Then when they let you know how to send the money, give us a tip and send a dummy packet. We'll maybe get the man who comes for it. And through him we might find the place before they suspect anything—"

"And if you don't? If they're on the look out for a trap; and they are sure to be? What happens then—to my father?"

Darwin did not answer at once. "Then, miss—we'll hope that doesn't happen," he said.

Appleby burst out suddenly. "Good God, do you believe this damned nonsense, inspector? What's the good of raising hopes about—?"

He broke off. Langland had kicked him unexpectedly and painfully on the shin. Darwin had turned slowly and with dignity to face him. His right eyelid, the one turned away from Barndon, dropped in a meaning wink.

"The police have their duty to do, sir," he said. "We can only hope that nothing will happen to Dr. Wimborne—"

Appleby thought that he saw his cue. "If that's all you can do, inspector," he said, "it seems to me that Miss Wimborne had better keep the police out of it, and make her own terms."

Barndon shifted in his chair. "And that," he said slowly, "is exactly the advice I was giving her before you came."

For half a minute no one spoke. Then the inspector turned appealingly to Langland. And in the process he winked again, this time winking approval.

"So far as I can see, inspector," Langland rejoined, "you, as a policeman, want to catch the kidnappers. Miss Wimborne wants to save her father's life. The two aren't the same thing, and if it's a question of choosing—" He paused. "I couldn't take the responsibility of advising her to trust to your efforts."

She buried her face in her arms and sobbed convulsively. Appleby felt a brute; but in spite of himself he could not help admiring the inspector's acting. He looked from one to the other as if meditating a last effort and his jaw set obstinately.

"Very well," he said. "I shall do what I can without your assistance... Good day."

He went out, a living personification of dignified but outraged law and order. Langland turned to Barndon.

"I must get along myself," he said. "Coming my way, Mr. Barndon? I'd like to talk to you about this business—"

Barndon hesitated, visibly torn between two desires. "Yes, Dr. Langland," he said at last. "I think it might be helpful to all concerned... Goodbye, Patricia. Remember I am completely at your service in this matter."

The girl made no answer. He turned reluctantly and followed Langland out into the hall, and a moment later the front door closed behind them. Appleby watched them go down the path towards the gate, wondering what he was to do. The girl had stopped crying, but she still lay with her face buried in her arms, quite motionless. Again he felt a beast for the part which he had had to play. Darwin and Langland had left him. Had it been intended that he should explain to Patricia how matters really stood, or did they intend to keep up the deception? Abruptly he made up his mind. It did not matter a curse what Darwin wanted.

"Miss Wimborne," he said almost roughly. "Wouldn't you do a lot to see a skunk punished who, when a girl's lost her father, tries to bleed her for money on the strength of it?"

"That's what Barndon's doing. Making capital out of your father's death... It's transparently obvious... Darwin never believed that letter for a minute—nor Langland. I didn't either, and nearly gave the show away.... We had to pretend, to catch that swine. It wasn't easy—hurting you."

"Isn't from any kidnappers. It's from Barndon. Perhaps he knows nothing about what's happened to your father. I don't know. But he has heard that Dr. Wimborne is missing and that there's a probability of his death.... So he wrote that to try and get money out of you."

"It sticks out on the face of it. He writes that letter. He knows what post it's coming by and turns up to see how you take it. But, as it happens, you're out. So he comes back a few minutes before you're due to return—knowing you'll open any letter these days as soon as you get it. He insists on reading it. He advises you to pay up and say nothing... You spoil his game by sending for the police—because you hate him so."

She nodded. "That's true. I think, perhaps, if he hadn't been here—you see, one couldn't take the risk—if there was any chance. And how can one be sure that the letter isn't genuine?"

"The way Barndon behaved makes it pretty obvious... And then, again, would kidnappers take the risk of a long sentence for just a hundred pounds? Wouldn't they have got your father to sign a cheque for a larger amount? I don't know much about your affairs, but I expect Barndon has a pretty good idea how things stand. Isn't it a fact that you by yourself will find a hundred pounds just about all you can raise? I mean, apart from your father's money."

"Yes," she assented. "I haven't got even a hundred pounds... There's only about sixty in my account. But I could have overdrawn and raised it."

"Naturally, Barndon would know that. He'd know that most of the money would be under your father's control and needing his signature to get it. So he'd have to be content with as much as he thought you could manage.... If it had been a genuine kidnapping case, you'd have had that note next morning—so that no fuss would be raised at all. And, naturally, they'd make your father raise cash and sign a cheque. All you'd be asked to do would be to get the money and deliver it. You see that?"

"Yes. I'm sure it's as you say. What does the inspector mean to do now? He means to catch Barndon? If I send the money—?"

"I hope you will," Appleby said vindictively. "Send something he thinks is the money, anyway. I've no doubt that he'll arrange some method which would make it pretty hard to catch him in the ordinary way, but it's a very different thing if you know who you're out to catch. Darwin will be watching him—"

"I don't know. I don't think I could. Wouldn't it be better to do nothing—just leave it as it is?"

"No," said Appleby decisively. "You can't do that. You believe now that this letter is false. But if your father wasn't found, you might doubt it again some day. For your own sake you've got to make sure by proving it false. Besides, you remember that You yourself mentioned Barndon as your father's—as someone who might wish to harm your father. That might still be true. And by investigating one thing the police might easily get on to the other... Will you ever have peace until you know for certain?"

"I will do it. Whatever the inspector wants me to do, I mean. You had better tell him for me... Who else do they suspect?"

"Bilsdy—they've found his dead body. In the river... He evidently committed suicide. And he left a letter."

"Yes. Then there's young Millshall.... I ran into him this morning, and I don't mind saying I think he's as mad as a hatter. He blames Dr. Wimborne for his mother's death. That's absurd, of course, but it might be a reason."

"I thought he was a little — when he called." She shivered a little. "That's terrible, isn't it—madness. I'd sooner be dead."

"It's more terrible for those who have to deal with them often... Then in spite of his visit, there's Ealksly. That was so surprising that one scarcely knows which way to take it. It might even be suspicious."

"I met Mrs. Ealksly, and she was so sympathetic and so eager to bury the hatchet that I couldn't refuse. And Dr. Ealksly was as nice as could be, only shy. He made some very bad jokes... Your friend Dr. Langland seems to have made an impression already."

"Well, it's hardly a case of suspecting... There is the idea that someone might have decided to do the murder after hearing Bilsdy's threats. It seems that he made them pretty publicly, in a bar. So far the only people we know who heard them are Gressett, Milton and Field—besides Barndon, that is."

"But—you can't suspect Gressett? Whatever motive could John have? He and father were on most friendly terms—both in business and socially. There was never anything wrong between them."

"Not with him, exactly, but with the firm he works for. Stockbrokers and so on, Millshall, Wilder and Gressett... John is a very junior junior partner. But he's only just been made one."

"I suppose that's why he was so keen on defending young Millshall?" Appleby frowned. "Well, there isn't any real reason for suspecting him, except that he knows the family and is keen on you and generally seems to be in the middle of things."

"'Keen on me'?" Patricia echoed in a dangerous voice. "He isn't. And I don't see that it's any business of the police, or of yours, to suspect him of murder for that reason... I suppose that's another reason for keeping a watch on Jack and Christopher?" She laughed angrily. "It would be funny—if it wasn't impertinent. "

"I didn't mean to be impertinent. I only want to help you... But it might provide a reason. Dr. Wimborne wasn't very keen on your marrying Milton—"

"I see your friend Langland feels bound to repeat the substance of any private conversation one has with him. I shan't forget it."

Appleby was silent for a moment. He was aware that he had blundered badly and yet he felt irritated. Apparently she was determined to put him in the wrong, at a time when all he wanted was to be as sympathetic as possible and to try to let her down easily in what must be a bad time.

"I'm sorry," he said a little stiffly. "I shouldn't have told you about that. I shall be more careful in future."

For a second she looked at him in a way he could not quite fathom. He felt that probably she did not know her own mind. Then she made a tired gesture and sat down, still without speaking.

"I shall have to go and make some more calls," Appleby said. "Whatever happens, one can't let the patients die, or the practice go to bits for that matter."

To his surprise she smiled in evident amusement. The smile annoyed him as he thought of all the work that had somehow to be got through. He was aware that he was frowning as he prepared to go.

"Please!" she begged. "I didn't mean that... Now we've both hurt each other's feelings and apologised. Aren't we all square again... I smiled because the combination of ratios really struck me as rather funny. Perhaps it's hysteria!"

"Oh, I thought at first you were going to make your exit on a grand line—'My patients come first. Whatever happens, they shall not suffer.' And when you added that bit about the practice it seemed rather an odd combination of the high-minded and the commercial."

"I suppose being a doctor is just that—relieving sufferings with one hand and presenting bills with the other." He smiled in turn. "Really, I was impertinent. But I didn't mean to be. I was taking too detached a view. For the moment, you were just a factor in the problem. And I thought you wanted the whole truth."

"But I do!... I suppose it isn't easy for anyone to be a part in a real detective story. Everything that is really quite normal comes under the magnifying glass and emerges—distorted and out of proportion. What could be more harmless than a dramatic society? And yet you've managed to involve most of the chief members straight away... It's perfectly normal that I should know some of the young men who live here. It would be very odd if I didn't. Or if some of them didn't fall mildly in love with me... I haven't the instincts of a nun, and I'm not a perfect hag—"

"You're very attractive," Appleby said sincerely. "Yes, it is quite natural, of course."

She raised her eyebrows a little. "I didn't know you could say nice things... 'Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley is praise indeed—'"

Appleby laughed. "It was certainly a little naive. It slipped out. But I meant it."

"'Whatever happens, one can't let the patients die,'" she murmured. "And I'm forgiven?"

She smiled again. Then it faded and her face assumed an expression of profound gravity.

"In view of the sudden spate of compliments, I think perhaps Dr. Langland's instincts were right," she said gravely.

Appleby looked back as he reached the gate; but the front door was closed. He frowned a little as he got into the car. Only when he had driven nearly a quarter of a mile it dawned upon him he was going in the wrong direction.

CHAPTER XI
Diamond Cut Diamond

FOR the first few minutes there was silence as Langland and Barndon walked down the avenue together. Langland was perfectly aware of the reason, but he hoped his companion was not. Each of them wanted to pump the other, and for that very reason neither wanted to start the conversation. Eventually Langland felt driven to it. He cleared his throat as if he was nervous—a state of mind from which he rarely suffered. Barndon looked up at him hopefully.

"Er—terrible business this," he said. "Naturally upsetting for Miss Wimborne. Gets on her nerves, no doubt. And the police just fooling round and doing the wrong things... In kidnapping cases it's been shown over and over again that they would be worse than useless."

Barndon nodded. "I was very glad of your support... I thought at first you weren't inclined to take the letter seriously."

"Oh, it's serious enough," Langland said, and regretted it. The words sounded too much like an echo of something he had said not long before. "You must pardon a rather irresponsible sense of humour... Still, in a way, it's better than it was. We know he's alive, at least, don't we?"

"That letter came as rather a shock to Darwin. He'd just made up his mind that Wimborne had been murdered by a man called Bilsdy. Apparently Wimborne was to have given evidence about his being drunk in charge of a car, and that night he'd been making all kinds of wild threats. Quite a lot of people heard him, I believe."

"Curiously enough, I heard him myself," he said after a slight pause. "The man was obviously drunk and I didn't pay much attention."

"Really? It might have been rather important. Though, now that this letter has come—"

"On the other hand, if it should turn out to be a stupid hoax—not that I believe for a moment it is—it might be worth while questioning Bilsdy."

Langland was wondering whether, after all, Barndon was getting ready to back out of the ransom business. On the whole he decided not. He was preparing a defence against the possibility of being suspected of the murder when it should become plain that the payment of a hundred pounds failed to secure the return of Wimborne.

"Suicide, so far as one can tell. So he'll neither deny or confess anything. Of course, that would make your evidence all the more important, if, that is, Wimborne has not been kidnapped—"

"But I really heard very little. There were others who were talking to him. A man called Gressett, and Milton... In fact, I'm bound to say Field almost seemed to be encouraging him. He doesn't always behave sensibly."

"Oh, perhaps a quarter of an hour. I left. But I understand that they were going to a dance... But it probably isn't important, is it? In view of the kidnapping... You believe that Patricia will pay?"

"I don't see what else the poor girl can do... Queer, though, that they asked for that hundred as a first instalment. Must be hard up for ready cash... I suppose to raise a really decent sum would take Wimborne some time?"

"I really couldn't say... I very much regret that there was a misunderstanding between my brother-in-law and myself. Since then our relations have been strained."

"Still the practice is a wealthy one. He might be able to raise some on that.... Be a bit difficult getting things dealt with... How d'you suppose they'll collect?"

"Really, I couldn't say," Barndon said a little hurriedly and Langland felt that he was pressing him too hard. There was a pause. "Bilsdy left a letter, you said... Was there any reference to Dr. Wimborne?"

"Not directly. Only he said, 'You will find us in the river.' Who else could it refer to? He hadn't a wife or a girl or anything had he? Or don't you know?"

"I was not by any means on familiar terms with him, doctor. But I never heard of any attachment of the kind."

"Then he must have meant Wimborne—funny, if the kidnappers beat him to it and saved the doctor's life... Maybe they'll stop dragging the river now. Of course, Darwin will transfer his attention to the kidnapping. Don't see how on earth he's going to set about it."

"Oh, well, if Miss Wimborne wants, she should be able to shake them off. And, of course, she'll do her best. She's too worried about her father."

Barndon nodded. He seemed to be thinking deeply and Langland himself was wondering about several things. The conversation was awkward, with one of them wanting to talk about the murder and the other about the kidnapping: but so far as the murder was concerned, Barndon had shown no signs of nervousness—only a natural interest. In fact, the murder, and possible discovery of the body, were bound to have a vital influence on his plan. Clearly he would have to try to collect as soon as possible: or lose his chance altogether.

Langland wondered whether he had told all he knew about Bilsdy. If so, the obvious sources of information seemed to be the three men who had talked with him, and one of these had been pumped by Appleby already. He was aware that Barndon was saying something and came to himself with a start, in time to catch the last few words of the sentence.

"Pardon?" he asked. "I was thinking about this business. Didn't quite catch what you said."

"I was just saying that that was where poor Bilsdy lodged—the house with the red curtains."

"Oh. Is that so?" He eyed the house with an interest which its exterior certainly did not deserve. It was a very ordinary three-storeyed affair, with a card saying, "Apartments. Bed and Breakfast" in the bay window of the front room. It looked as if the owner had already been informed about her lodger's death; for the windows of the first floor front room had the blinds drawn. Langland was tempted. It had been his intention to ascertain Bilsdy's address from the inspector; but in the excitement of their interview he had forgotten. Now the chance seemed too tempting to miss; yet he did not want to lose his grip on Barndon. "I say, something's just occurred to me," he said. "Wonder if you'd mind my calling there a minute? Just to ask a question? I shan't be long. If you'd just wait..."

He was dashing across the street before Barndon could give or refuse permission. Barndon, following more leisurely, saw the door open a short distance; then wider. Langland was talking to a stern-featured woman just inside the doorway. He went forward unobtrusively as far as decency permitted, and carefully turning his back and pretending to be interested in something else, managed to catch a few words.

"Almost looks as though he knew, doesn't it?" Langland asked. "Fond of him, was he?"

"Yes, sir. That was his good side. Always made a fuss of old Freddy. And now they've gone together."

"Well, let's hope he's found.... I'd be glad to know if he turns up. Here's my card."

Barndon refrained from putting a question as Langland rejoined him; but his curiosity was to be satisfied.

"Just asking about old Freddy," he said. "But they've not seen him since Bilsdy left."

"Freddy?" Barndon asked. "I don't think I've heard him speak of anyone by that name. Did he know him well?"

"Better than anyone else, perhaps... But it's not important. And anyway, it's petered out.... Besides, it's the kidnapping we've got to think about, I suppose."

But Barndon did not seem very sure. Langland could guess what was happening in his mind. Almost certainly he was wondering how far the attempt to extract money from a fictitious kidnapping was likely to involve him in a genuine murder; with perhaps a few speculations about the time when Wimborne's body might turn up. The interview had been disappointing in several ways. Barndon had not given himself away and, Langland thought, was not likely to. All he had betrayed was a better acquaintance with Bilsdy than he had previously acknowledged. And yet it could not be a very intimate one, or he would have known about Freddy. He decided on a last bold shot, in the hope of producing some reaction, even at a risk.

"I say," he said breaking a long silence. "I suppose that kidnapping letter is genuine? I mean, it's not a hoax?"

"A hoax?" Certainly he had succeeded in startling Barndon. "Why—how could it be? You mean some one did it for a joke?"

"That's possible... But I meant supposing some one just heard about the doctor's disappearance and decided to try and collect a bit out of it? Although he'd really had nothing to do with it at all?"

"Absurd!" Barndon said firmly, but he was plainly shaken. "Really, Dr. Langland, I hope you will not make that suggestion to my niece... Think of the risk, if she thought that was true and Wimborne had been kidnapped! It would be signing his death warrant!"

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of doing that. It probably was a silly idea, but it just occurred to me. Shouldn't dream of mentioning it to anyone else."

Barndon was obviously relieved; but it seemed as though he had had enough of a tête-à-tête which could produce such unpleasant speculations. At the next turning he stopped and held out his hand.

"I must leave you here, doctor... Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow? You'll let me know if anything happens?"

"Right away. Of course, when we hear from them we'll have to talk it over, shan't we? Mustn't make any mistakes... Good afternoon."

With a shock he realised how late it was getting. Further investigations for the moment were impossible; he had got to rush through his visiting list which, luckily, was a small one so far as serious cases were concerned. He retrieved his hired car and set out, wondering as he went in and out of the various houses whether he had made a mistake, and if Barndon would have the resolution to carry out his plan after what he had said.

The same question seemed to be occupying the mind of Inspector Darwin when Langland finally arrived at the police station a little before the time for evening surgery.

"You didn't give the game away?" he demanded. "You think he's going on with it?"

"Oh yes. I think so." Langland had reflected on a response to his final challenge. On the whole it had been reassuring. "I think his one doubt is whether he'll involve himself in the murder.... I doubt if he had much to do with that."

"If there is a murder," Darwin said. "We've fished all afternoon and caught nothing... But I admit there's still a bit we've not tried, and that's perhaps the likeliest. By the weir."

"Only details... You may as well know them. First, as to telephone calls. It's pretty certain the call that took Wimborne out was from a call box. Of course, they don't book these calls, but there aren't a lot at that time. The same applies to the call to Appleby. The operator thinks he remembers them both... Then there's the telegram. That is definitely from a call box. So these are just a dead end."

"They mightn't be," Langland suggested. "It's just possible one of your bobbies on his beat saw someone using a call box at one of these times. You might inquire."

Darwin nodded. "Next, as to the car. We've pretty well established that no car was hired in the town which could be out at that time of night. None were stolen... One might, of course, have been taken without the owner's knowledge and put back, but I doubt it. Especially as it had to happen twice—last night and the night before."

"None really established yet—except our friend Barndon. So far as we can tell, he was in by eleven o'clock both nights. Ealksly had a night call at a time I can't establish without asking him. I may be driven to do that... One of the maids there heard him go out, but she can't swear at what time."

"Tuesday. Last night he seems to have come in at about ten and stopped in. Of course, he might have crept out somehow."

"You could ask him about that night call without being too obviously suspicious. Appleby was either hoaxed or lured out of the way. He might have been, too.... What about the others?"

"Well, I've not been able to get anything definite about Millshall. He seems to have been in, but he's got a habit of wandering about at night so that no one's ever sure where he is. Suffers from insomnia and so on... You see, so far I've only had a few mild inquiries made unobtrusively. I've not liked to go demanding alibis for a murder which may not have been committed."

"You mean Gressett and company? I've not got on to those yet. And, really, there's nothing against them at all. Except to Appleby."

"I can tell you something about them. They went to a dance. Where, and for how long, I don't know. Barndon told me... It's about all I did get out of him. He met them at the pub, if you remember."

"Or it might put them in. You'll have to find out who their partners were between twelve and one, and see if they could have slipped out. And it won't be any too easy, I should think."

"Oh yes. Corresponding roughly to our description—so far as it goes, which isn't anywhere. I'm inclined to think he could get it out too without waking the entire house."

"Don't forget he may have sent that wire. Where did he stay? Was he out late? It would be worth finding out if he could or could not have sent it. If Millshall, junior, is guilty, he's almost a necessary accomplice. I mean, there's no one else so likely."

"It's funny that the car, or cars, weren't seen on either occasion, don't you think? You'd have thought there must have been some witnesses."

"Probably they were seen. But there was no reason why anyone should notice them particularly. And, up to date, I haven't raised any hue and cry about things. When the newspapers get hold of it—and that will be to-morrow at the latest—we'll have to come out into the open. And God knows what they'll say."

Langland reflected that his acquaintance with Darwin had progressed from the official to the human. Except at intervals, the inspector was forgetting to observe that respect and reserve towards him which ought to characterise a police officer. That was all to the good.

"Well—pretty poor. With Bilsdy everything depends on if we find Wimborne in the river with him as he said."

"Maybe not... With Millshall, we've no real reason why he should burgle the surgery. Ealksly—well, what is there really against him? Barndon, I hope to nab for this letter business and that will be a source of real satisfaction to me. But I doubt if he'd anything to do with the disappearance. And Gressett, Milton and Field—there doesn't seem to be anything against them except that they act Shakespeare and share the merit or defect of an admiration for Miss Wimborne."

"I suppose that is the lot?" Langland said thoughtfully. "We couldn't drag in Reynolds anyhow? After all, Wimborne might have gone to the house the call was supposed to come from."

"No earthly motive. No evidence whatever. A perfectly good chap and respectable... You might as well cite Appleby."

"Well, you did, didn't you?" Langland grinned. "I think you even managed to make him feel uncomfortable."

"Even a clear conscience isn't proof against suspicion. That's why one can't always judge by anyone's manner... I take it that you've no new suspects you want to add?"

Langland thought for a short time. "Only I'm rather curious about a man called Wilder. It's probably a wild goose chase, but it would be interesting to know who he is."

"The devil he was!" Langland frowned. "You know about him then? Who is he—was, I mean? What did he do? When did he die?"

"If you're interested in him as a murderer, you may as well give it up. He died the day before Wimborne vanished. Of heart trouble."

"Gressett's uncle and senior partner, with Millshall in a firm of stockbrokers. The only link with Wimborne is that he used to do business with them."

"It might pay us to find out about that business. If there's any possibility of a swindle or anything. I'd no idea of any link up like this. It's rather surprising, isn't it?"

"No. In a town like this nearly everyone is linked up with everyone else. If they're not related, they do business together and go to the same church or pub or something. It's not very strange."

"Perhaps not. But it's strange enough to revive my interest in Gressett and Co. I'd certainly like their alibis. Also any information about the firm, the deceased uncle, and Millshall senior. I may be wrong but I smell a very definite rat. In fact— Good heavens!"

Darwin looked at him hard. "You've got something up your sleeve," he said. "Aren't you going to tell me?"

"I don't know it myself yet. I've one tiny fact and a whole mass of suspicions. After what you said to-day, I don't like to reveal it just now."

"As you like," Darwin assented. "I'll try and get you the stuff you want... But I expect his bank is the only hope so far as the stock-broking is concerned. And you know—or perhaps you are lucky enough not to—what banks are like when it comes to disclosing anything about a client's affairs... You might try Miss Wimborne. She'd perhaps have some idea."

"Yes. Though she may prove a little sensitive on the subject of Gressett. It seems to me that they're pretty thick, and if I go asking questions it's just as likely as not she'll go and tell him all about it straight away." He hesitated. "You see, there might be a chance of a new motive—that Wimborne found out he'd been swindled and was going to do something about it. For the credit of the firm and to save themselves gaol, they had to remove him."

"It's a new line," Darwin admitted thoughtfully. Then he smiled. "But isn't it a bit like my case against Appleby—plausible but unproved?"

"Perhaps. Another thing. I'd like to see Field and Milton some time. Could that be managed?"

"I'm on probation. If I don't get some result soon, in comes Scotland Yard." He grinned. "Thanks to my talk with you, I managed to fog the super. so thoroughly that he's not a bit eager to interfere personally. And we did find Bilsdy—who may still prove to be Wimborne's murderer."

Langland shook his head. "I should wash that out," he said. "I don't believe he did it."

"Not even then," Langland said firmly. "Bilsdy was merely a sentimental ass with a weak nature. He never killed the doctor."

"No. But I don't think they referred to Wimborne. The whole tone of the letter is against it. I mean, if it had been that, he'd have boasted about it or repented or something. He doesn't mention Wimborne at all, does he?"

"No," Darwin admitted. "Then who is 'we'? What do those sentences refer to? A suicide pact?"

"Not exactly," Langland evaded. His mind returned to a previous point which the longer he thought about, seemed to have more and more possibilities. "You said Wilder was buried to-day. Where?"

"St. Mark's Churchyard. That's the one with the high wall and the trees, just along the main road before the turning we took to the river to-day. It's a grave right in the corner to the left of the gate—"

"I just happened to pass at the time," Darwin said expressionlessly. "I was wondering, really, if Millshall senior was back. He wasn't among the mourners."

"Seems to be an unfeeling sort of lad. Business as usual is his motto. His partner and his wife both die on Tuesday. On Wednesday he buzzes off to town, just as if nothing has happened. Looks funny, doesn't it?"

"I don't know," Darwin frowned. "Would there be any sense in letting the business go to blazes from purely sentimental reasons?"

"But that implies the visit to town is so necessary that the business will go to blazes if it's not made. Such occasions are rare in well-conducted businesses... I'd certainly like to know more about that visit—and that business."

"All I know about the visit is that a man called to see him the previous evening. He left at about eight next morning, by car."

"It cropped up accidentally when I was trying to find out about young Millshall."

Darwin produced a photograph from a drawer. "I'd a devil of a job to get this," he said. "Found a photographer who took a group of the firm. All three there—Millshall senior, Wilder and Gressett. The others are clerks and so on. It was at a jubilee dinner."

Darwin hesitated. "I wanted it to trace Millshall in London," he said. "But that will have to wait until to-morrow now. Yes—on condition. Take care of it, and tell me about Bilsdy's suicide pact."

"It wasn't exactly a suicide pact. Because though the other member might have been willing, he wasn't consulted... I've one more question anyway. Who was the undertaker at Wilder's funeral?"

"There's only one for high-class funerals, Wilkins & Co., up the street... Who was the other member?"

"I'm not positive. I believe it was old Freddy. I may be sure to-morrow and I'll tell you then."

"It wasn't suicide—he wasn't consulted? Then—what happened to Freddy? You don't mean there's a murdered body in that river and that it isn't Wimborne?"

"It may have been found by now... Yes, you could almost call it murder. Bilsdy certainly killed him... So long."

Before Darwin had had time to recover he was out of the station and making for his car. It drove off as he reached the doorstep.

CHAPTER XII
Talk of Graves

LANGLAND estimated that before his presence at the surgery became absolutely indispensable he had got about a quarter of an hour to spare and he wanted a lot longer. There might be time to do just two of the things on his list, and his first call was at the churchyard. A good deal depended on the churchyard. If it proved unsuitable, his immediate plans might have to be altered. But he was not disappointed. He entered the gate and looked round; then gave a nod of satisfaction before making his way in the direction Darwin had told him.

The grave was easily found. Evidently Wilder had been well thought of in the town; for the fresh mound of earth was covered with flowers. Beside it lay a grave-stone and he stooped to read the inscription. Wilder, apparently, had been buried in the same grave as his dead wife. Once again things seemed to be in his favour. He was on the point of leaving when a rough shed built in an obscure corner behind some trees caught his eye and he moved across to inspect. Apparently it was used by the sexton, and it contained nothing more remarkable than his tools. Langland glanced round it once and went back to his car. He had used just over five minutes of his time.

His next call was at the undertaker's, and here three more valuable minutes were wasted until at last he could interview a gentleman who, by his dress and manner, was obviously the undertaker-in-chief. But although he was conscious that time was flying he was not entirely sorry. Somehow he had to discover a gambit leading up to questions which any high-class undertaker might well refuse to answer. The opening, when he found it, was feeble enough, but he had to use it in default of a better one.

"I'm sorry to trouble you," he said, "but I heard that a man who used to be a friend of mine—er, I believe so—was buried to-day. A Mr. Wilder. And I was told that probably you—"

"That is so, sir." The undertaker inclined his head solemnly. He was evidently favourably impressed both by Langland and by Wilder as a corpse. "At St. Mark's this afternoon."

"The point is, I'm not quite sure if it was my friend or not—and naturally I am anxious to find out, preferably without troubling his family at a time when—" He broke off expressively and the undertaker inclined his head in sympathetic understanding. "I wonder if you could describe him to me?"

The undertaker thought. "Well, sir, he was about fifty-three, moderate figure... Blue eyes, hair going grey—brown hair, sir—"

"But, of course, it's years since I saw him. He might have shaved it off.... I expect you knew Mr. Wilder well?"

"I wouldn't say well, sir. For a business man, he was retiring, if I may say so.... But I expect I'd seen him about once or twice."

"No doubt. You've been here some time? An old-established business I should imagine."

Langland nodded; then hesitated artistically. "I should like to make quite sure before calling on the family," he said. "Would you recognise a photograph?"

The undertaker eyed him a little curiously, but took the group without raising any objection and studied it attentively. There was a risk, of course, that he would recognise Millshall and identify Wilder by association of ideas; but he had to take that.

"Well, sir, I should think that might have been the deceased some years ago," he said a little dubiously. "He looked older, sir, to me. And no doubt his illness had changed him."

"That wouldn't leave you much time to make arrangements. Rather surprising they hurried matters so."

At any moment Langland was expecting him to take fright at the questions and bring the interview to a close, but instead he seemed positively to expand under the interrogation.

"Well, you see, sir," he said confidentially. "Different people look at these things in different ways. Some will hardly let you screw down the coffin right at the end; and others seem to want to get things over as soon as possible. There's a good deal to be said for both. We get used to them, sir, and act accordingly."

"Yes, sir. They weren't the kind that wanted to brood over the body. In fact, Mr. Gressett asked me to get things done as soon as possible. The idea was getting on Mrs. Williams' nerves."

"Yes, sir. Though, as I said, they're not the kind to reveal their emotions. But you could see they were absolutely on edge."

"I must call and see them... It must be the same... Mr. Wilder was buried with his late wife, I believe?"

"Yes, sir. Luckily the grave was just deep enough. There's no more room in that burial ground now, sir."

As he took his leave, Langland felt that if he had outstayed his time he had certainly not wasted it. So far, everything about his impossible idea had proved possible and there were one or two points which were distinctly in its favour. On the other hand he had scarcely enough grounds for drastic action. One or two points had still to be cleared up, and they seemed likely to be the most difficult.

Luckily the epidemic was drawing to a close and the surgery was less crowded than he had expected. When he had finished, he rang Appleby's lodgings and left a message before going in search of Patricia, and finally running her to earth in the drawing-room. He came to the point at once.

"I've no news really," he said untruthfully, "but there's one small matter on which I think you might help me. Your father used two fountain pens, I think you said. Were they filled with different inks?"

"Yes." Evidently the question puzzled her a little. "One was used for just ordinary ink; the other for a sort of violet purple.... But—?"

"Yes. The violet one for his medical work; the ordinary one for anything else. It was to avoid confusion, and, besides, he could see without reading it if he'd written a given prescription."

He nodded. "I have looked. And that is the impression I gathered, but I just wanted to confirm it. Do you know if your father adhered strictly to these rules?"

"I'm sure he would." She smiled a little wanly. "He always kept very strictly to any rules, either made by himself or by anyone else... I used to laugh at it sometimes—"

"Now I believe your father, when he went that night, took only one pen with him and left one here. Can you tell me which he took? The other pen is still here, isn't it? You could find it—"

"Yes, but I don't have to look. I noticed at the time that he had taken the violet one—the medical one, you know... And, of course, that is the one he would need if he were just going to make a visit. He never carried anything in his pockets which he was not going to need."

"That would be an argument, if we needed one, that he didn't mean to do anything but attend a case... Thank you. I've got to rush away—"

He hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was to express any suspicion of Gressett until he could prove his case up to the hilt. On the other hand to say nothing would probably mean that she would have all kinds of hopes and fears which might not be realised.

"Not exactly," he said. "I'm trying a new line which might lead to something eventually. But it's much too early yet to say anything about it... By the way, who would know about your father's business affairs?"

Actually he was perfectly aware that to him she had not, but it was a way of putting the question.

"Perhaps I did... Mr. Gressett might help you there. He belongs to it. But I don't think daddy had a lot of business that way. I think he only bought gilt-edged."

"I may run across Gressett... It's a minor detail probably. Your aunt hasn't arrived yet?"

"No." A slight smile showed about her lips. "I'm expecting her to-morrow.... What made you think of her? I mean of sending for her?"

"Partly," Langland said with dignity, "that whenever the proprieties are not inconvenient, I believe in observing them. You were an obvious case for a chaperone. Especially with Appleby about—"

She coloured a little. "I should have thought Dr. Appleby was quite harmless?" she said. "Isn't he?"

"He is. But when a young man goes to the extent of wanting to hang anyone who speaks civilly to a lady, I think one is justified in fearing the worst... Goodnight."

On the whole he was satisfied with the results of the conversation. Once again his idea had been confirmed on minor points; and he had in addition the satisfaction of knowing that in all probability Patricia Wimborne would be thinking about Appleby instead of all the less pleasant subjects on which her mind might be inclined to dwell.

He had put in nearly two hours of what might be described as work, and smelt slightly of beer when at last he returned to Appleby's digs to find their tenant waiting with ill-concealed impatience.

"I got your message," he said, "though I don't quite understand. What are you proposing that we should do to-night?"

"First," Langland said as he seated himself comfortably, "I'd better outline a new theory to you... You see, what I propose doing is a little startling and with your conventional mind you might very well turn it down if you didn't gather what was behind it. It directs suspicion into new channels, offers new motives and gives an explanation of everything... Also, one thing about it will appeal to you particularly. It probably involves Gressett."

Appleby coloured. "I'd a feeling he was in it somehow," he said. "Though I couldn't see why... Go ahead."

Langland lit a cigarette. "There is on the books of Dr. Wimborne," he began, "the name of a man called Wilder. He is, or was, Gressett's uncle, and in addition a partner in a firm of stockbrokers—"

"Don't interrupt the flow... Stockbrokers who, it appears, handled such stockbroking as Dr. Wimborne indulged in... He appears to have originally been diagnosed as a case of false angina. Quite suddenly, a short time ago, it would seem from the case-book that the illness proved to be real angina, and that he died of it on Tuesday—the day before Dr. Wimborne disappeared."

"Agreed... There is one interesting point about this entry. The first part is written like the rest of the book, in ordinary ink. But, from the time it becomes serious, it is written in violet ink, usually reserved by Wimborne for prescriptions, and the kind in the particular pen he took with him the night he died."

"To-night, at some trouble, and expense, aided by a certain amount of luck, I ascertained that there is almost certainly something a little queer about the affairs of the firm of Wilder, Millshall and Gressett... It cannot be proved without help from the bank, but it is at least possible that they may have been swindling their clients, including Dr. Wimborne, and that he may have discovered it, or have been on the brink of discovery."

"The firm, then, is faced with ruin, if Dr. Wimborne speaks. And the obvious course is to stop him. With a man of his character there is only one way of doing that—by killing him. And I suggest that that is what they did."

"Let us consider the events connected with the firm immediately before and after Dr. Wimborne's disappearance. On Tuesday Wilder dies. Also Mrs. Millshall dies. As her death was certain to have occurred soon, this has no immediate bearing on what happened. But it is interesting in another way. Dr. Wimborne tells his daughter about Mrs. Millshall's death; but makes no allusion at all to the much more tragic and unexpected death of Wilder, in whom, as Gressett's uncle, he knows she would be interested."

"And now, other things happen. Millshall, in spite of the death of his wife has to go up to town and sets off very early on Wednesday morning. But not alone. I have found two witnesses to swear that travelling with him in the car is a man whose face no one seems to have seen... Millshall stays in London overnight and does not even return for his partner's funeral. During the night there is a call from Paddington to say Wimborne is all right. Also the surgery is burgled with someone who has the doctor's keys, hat and coat. I suggest he had something else—the doctor's fountain pen."

"That's exactly what I do mean. Though, I confess, the handwriting looks to me exactly the same as the rest. But there's the ink."

"But it's impossible. He'd have noticed the difference in the inks at once. And why use the doctor's pen?"

"Answering your last point first, I think the forger was something of an artist and really knew his job. Now, it may be very difficult to prove a piece of writing is forged, if it has been done well. But what often gives it away is a difference in the pens, or the inks used. If the doctor's pen is available it is an elementary precaution to use it... For the other point, as the burglar, you'd want to show as little light as possible. You'd have to use a flash, perhaps, to find the book—and the surgery shades were drawn. But the forgery is a comparatively long job and you don't want to show a light all the time. But nature, you find, has provided you with an adequate illumination. It's a full moon—bright enough to read by. You use that."

"Haven't you noticed how moonlight takes the colour out of some things? By moonlight the two inks looked identical."

"Of course, whoever went to the surgery didn't expect to be caught at all. If anyone saw him, it was to be outside where the hat and coat might give the idea Wimborne is alive. But Patricia Wimborne finds him there. On the spur of the moment he imitates her father's voice and gets away. But he's forgotten that it's been arranged a wire should be sent from London."

"Or his wrapped up companion... There are just one or two other points before I try to give a consecutive account of what happened. Wilder's grave is in a very secluded corner of St. Mark's churchyard.... I interviewed the undertaker. He's new to the district and doesn't know people, and Wilder in particular, by sight. Wilder and Wimborne are facially similar, barring the fact that Wimborne had a moustache—which could be shaved off!"

"Exactly. The forger could forge a certificate of death in Wimborne's name. Wimborne didn't mention Wilder's death because he didn't know about it; because, in fact, Wilder wasn't dead. He lay low and left in the car for London with Millshall... It would be easy enough to change a dead man's appearance sufficiently to deceive someone who didn't know either person well. And the undertaker said that the sorrowing relatives were anxious to get the job over as soon as possible."

"What happened, I think was this. Gressett hears Bilsdy saying his piece, and realises it might be useful to them. It has already been decided to remove Wimborne. The false call is put through; Gressett, or one of the others, goes in the car; or perhaps two of them go in the car. Wimborne is killed—maybe hit on the head en route. And then they are faced with the problem of disposing of the body. The firm's affairs, perhaps, are still rocky. Something else may cause a crash at any moment; though they hope not. Perhaps Wilder is already nervous and wants to run. The body must be disposed of completely, because if it turns up and their business does crash, they might face a murder charge. But if Wimborne is buried as Wilder, he can bolt quite safely; Wimborne is permanently disposed of, and if anything comes to light, the two who remain can blame the dead Wilder. And, that's exactly what they do. The servants are kept out of the way somehow—Wilder duly dies and Wimborne's body is substituted for him, while he makes himself scarce. Then Millshall goes to London with Wilder, Wimborne is buried and everything is all right."

"Simply commits suicide. That's all. But the way he has behaved has made him a good candidate for murder, if murder is suspected."

"Is quite genuinely mad. Gressett tries to hush things up, not because he's guilty but because they naturally aren't keen on police investigation anywhere near the family."

"Is an opportunist. He sees his chance of getting an easy hundred pounds and takes it... Not that the murderers mind much. When once their plan falls down owing to the wire from London, the more people who can draw suspicion on themselves the better."

"It's beautifully ingenious," Appleby said. "Almost too good to be true. And it does explain most points. But the question is how one is going to prove it... I suppose the police can check up the movements of the various people. They might find Wilder hiding somewhere in London. They can certainly investigate the affairs of the firm and any transactions between them and Wimborne. They might be able to prove that the certificate and the entry in the case-book were forged—"

"Yes," Langland agreed. "And I hope they will be able to do all those things... But I don't mind saying that I'd like to have a little more proof to offer before I tell that story to Darwin. Don't you agree?"

"He'd say it was all theory and supposition—which it certainly is. It's quite true it explains a number of things which aren't explained any other way. The entry in the case-book; the burglary and the wire; the movements of Millshall and so on. But there's precious little positive evidence that it's true. We've got to find some."

"Only I don't see just how. Most of the things I mentioned can be done much better by the police; some of these can only be done properly by the police I should say. Such as investigating the affairs of the firm—and Wimborne's business affairs; finding Wilder, if he is in London; investigating the forgeries—"

"I entirely agree. These are no jobs for amateurs. And yet—" he paused, "there is a proof we could get."

"You remember Darwin said that the case against Bilsdy stood or fell on the question of whether Wimborne's body was found in the river or not?"

"Because my case evidently stands or falls even more on the question of whether it's Wilder or Wimborne in that coffin."

"An exhumation?" Appleby shook his head. "I don't believe they'd give permission on the evidence you could bring forward. And it would certainly take time."

"Exactly. Getting an exhumation can be ruled out—unless the police take it up, and succeed in raking up some real evidence... I'm not suggesting that."

Langland shook his head. "It's simple and obvious," he said. "What I propose only takes a fair amount of muscle and a little nerve... The grave is in a very secluded corner of the churchyard. No one can possibly see it from the road. It's a fine moonlit night—we shan't need a lamp. There are spades and so on in the shed quite handy—"

Langland shrugged his shoulders. "Obviously. It's the most simple and obvious course... We're going to dig him up!"

CHAPTER XIII
When Churchyards Yawn

NEVER before in his life had Peter Appleby approached an enterprise with such misgivings as when Langland duly called with the car an hour later. Temporarily, he had allowed himself to be over-persuaded but in the interval which had elapsed his doubts had reasserted themselves. The whole business seemed incredibly mad and horribly risky; unnecessary and unpleasant, too, he thought savagely. As a doctor he was sufficiently accustomed to corpses; but he admitted to himself that he shrank from the grim business of violating Wilder's grave. And if it were ever known there would be a fearful row. It would get into the papers and, quite apart from any penalty the law might exact, it would mean the end of him professionally, at least in that district. In that connection he found himself thinking of Patricia Wimborne and the thought decided him. Langland held the car door open invitingly; but he stood frowning for a moment without making a move to get in. Langland merely waited until his friend spoke.

"Look here, Caesar. This is damned nonsense. I'm not going through with it... If it came out, it would finish us. And, if you don't give a curse for your career, I do care for mine."

"I don't care... There's no sense in taking the chance. It's a lot of confounded foolery, all for a silly theory which just depends on your blasted imagination. I'm not coming."

"Right," he assented. "You'll be going to bed, I suppose. Shall I knock you up or see you at breakfast to tell you what happens?"

"Of course. It's the obvious thing, as I said. And if there's anything in my idea, it's vitally necessary to know who's in that grave as soon as possible. If Gressett is guilty, we don't want Miss Wimborne to have any more than we can help to do with her father's murderer... I admit that it's theory and my case stands or falls by the presence of Wimborne's body. But I know it will be there. It's got to be."

"Oh, damn!" he said at last hopelessly and moved forward. The car door slammed viciously as he sank into his seat.

Langland, having accomplished his purpose, had the sense to say nothing. They drove for some way in silence before Appleby raised another objection.

"In any case, it's to early," he said. "Why couldn't we have waited an hour or two, until people would really be asleep. It's only about half-past eleven—"

"That's the whole point. Roughly speaking this town closes down just after ten—when the pubs and pictures turn out. By half-past ten or eleven it's getting pretty unconscious and we've given it half-an-hour's grace beyond that. On the other hand, there's still enough traffic about for a car not to be too horribly conspicuous... There's another reason. It's light about half-past four these days and we'll need all our time."

"For digging... Of course, he ought to be about six feet down, but I'm hoping he's not. They're sometimes a bit casual when it comes to burials in these old graves. It may be no more than three or four. But even so that amount of earth takes a lot of shifting. And we've got to be able to get the lid open."

Appleby shuddered a little at the picture his friend's words called up. He said no more, until the tall iron gates of the churchyard showed in the headlights. But Langland drove past.

"Yes. But we're not using the front door to-day. I can't leave the car bang in the main road; and we can't climb the gates in full view. It's the tradesman's entrance, so to speak, for us. There's a lane at the back—here."

He swung the car round into it, and a few yards further on brought it to a halt. Appleby got out and looked round as his friend stopped the engine and put out the lights. The bright moonlight made it possible for him to recognise where they were, and it was evident that Langland had reconnoitred to some purpose. A cul-de-sac from the lane leading to the river, itself little enough used, afforded a refuge for the car where the chance of anyone noticing it was remote, while the low stone wall on their right provided an easy entrance to the deserted churchyard. Appleby was conscious of an unpleasantly eerie feeling as he looked. The dark bulk of the church tower looming against the sky, the vague black masses of the yew trees and the ghastly white of tombstones created a strangely threatening impression as though the place was on its guard against the threatened sacrilege.

But Langland at least seemed immune to any such nervousness. A touch of his hand urged his friend towards the wall.

"Over as quickly as you can," he enjoined in a whisper. "It's the one place we might be seen. Once inside—"

There was quite a deep drop to the soft grass of the graveyard. Appleby stumbled over a half-buried stone and nearly fell but Langland landed with the light certainty of a cat. Almost before his friend had decided that he had not sprained his ankle, he was making his way through the head-stones towards the toolshed, an indistinct, shadowy figure in the grey suit which he had chosen as a means of camouflage. He had already negotiated the padlock as Appleby caught him up. A moment later the door was open and he vanished into obscurity of the interior. There was the slightest possible clink of metal. Half a minute elapsed before he reappeared.

Appleby accepted unwillingly the spade handle which was thrust towards him. It seemed to make him realise even more keenly the ghastliness of this self-appointed task and he might have protested again, but Langland gave him no time. He himself had both spade and pickaxe. Pushing the door to without locking it, he pointed with the spade.

"That way," he whispered. "In the corner. It couldn't have been better if we'd chosen—"

Appleby's startled exclamation was spoken aloud. Something large and white swept noiselessly by above them. Next instant he felt ashamed of himself. The hooting told him the answer even before he heard Langland's chuckle and caught his monosyllabic explanation as he moved off.

Appleby confessed to himself that he was suffering acutely from nerves. His heart was still pounding from the fright as they crossed the grass, and as they rounded a clump of bushes he almost hit out at the figure which suddenly showed in the moonlight with one arm warningly upraised, but it was only a marble angel surmounting a florid tombstone of a kind which in daylight he would have loathed for its pretentious ugliness. Now there seemed something oddly impressive about it, as though it was barring their way. It seemed even to convey a threat.

But Langland ignored it, turning sharply to the right round a grave surrounded by decayed iron railings. It flashed across Appleby's mind that these railings had probably been intended to foil people engaged on exactly what they themselves proposed doing, even if with different motives. Of course, unlike the resurrectionists they had no intention of stealing the corpse. But still—

Langland's whisper broke in on his thoughts. He had stopped beside a mound whitely outlined by flowers, beside which a granite headstone lay on the turf. The moonlight was bright enough for him to see the larger letters of its inscription as he bent down to help Langland remove the withered wreaths.

He read no further. Langland pulled the last floral cross aside and reached for his spade.

"Sand," he said briefly. "Shan't need the pick—thank goodness. And it's still loose. Get busy!"

The soft clink of his own spade against a pebble emphasised the injunction. Unwillingly Appleby bent to work. The business was horribly distasteful to him, but, once started, a certain curiosity combined with the feeling that the best thing was to get it over quickly. Would Wimborne's body be in the coffin? Mentally he went over Langland's reasoning which at the time had seemed convincing. Now it appeared horribly thin. He attacked the heap with a savage energy which drew a remonstrance from his companion.

Oddly enough in the various alarms of the graveyard, Appleby had completely forgotten the one thing they had really to fear, discovery by some inquisitive policeman, or passer-by. But as Langland had said the site of the grave was absolutely shut off from the view of anyone going along the road or even looking through the gate. In the stillness, however, the thud of every spadeful of earth sounded horribly distinct. He could even hear his companion breathing a little heavily with the exertion.

The heaped up soil was soon shifted. Now they were actually working in the excavation, and digging became more difficult. Among a whole medley of conflicting emotions it flashed incongruously through his mind that he ought to have put on old trousers. And it was a long time since he had done any digging. His back ached, and his palms were beginning to blister before Langland, who had been shovelling like an automaton, momentarily paused. He glanced at the illuminated dial of his watch.

"Nearly twelve," he announced. "No need to kill ourselves. It's easier than I thought."

Appleby only grunted in reply, resting on his spade. Almost as Langland finished speaking from the tower above them the bell of the clock striking midnight came startlingly to their ears.

"'Tis now the very witching hour of night,'" Langland murmured, "'when churchyards yawn—' I wish this one would yawn without so much assistance. Wonder how much further down?"

"I've been thinking—" Appleby began and the tone of his voice warned Langland that another objection was coming. He forestalled it.

"That soon there won't be room for the two of us? Yes. We'll take spells at it."

Actually Appleby had not been thinking of anything of the kind. He had been going to voice his practical certainty that the whole affair was a waste of time. Momentarily Langland's interruption put him off. He was returning to the charge when he felt his arm grabbed.

Crouching with a thumping heart in the cover of an adjacent tombstone, Appleby followed the direction of his friend's gaze. All at once the trees above the place where they had left the car stood out in an illumination which was certainly not provided by the moon. Someone had flashed a lamp. Appleby felt a sudden urge of anxiety. The light could only have been shone on the car, and it was only too probable that the investigation was being made by someone who might be interested from a legal point of view in the mystery of its presence there abandoned. Langland swore softly.

"Damn.... But it's all right... If it is a bobby he won't search the churchyard—or if he does we can give him the slip... No. There's nothing suspicious. He'll just wonder what it's doing there, perhaps, and have a look later on. Let's hope so."

"Doesn't matter if he does—provided we're not caught in the act. I'll think of some reason for leaving the car... Ah. Wonder if he's gone?"

The light had disappeared. They waited anxiously: but there was no sound to help them guess what its owner might be doing.

The warning was unnecessary. It was with infinite caution that Appleby began to edge his way towards the far wall, with the one idea in his mind that he, a respectable doctor's assistant, was within an ace of being discovered desecrating a grave. As he came within view of the spot where they had jumped down he kept his eyes on the low piece where they had climbed; but though the light was good enough there was no sign of the dark, helmeted figure he half expected. His confidence began to return. After all, the policeman might only think it was a spooning couple gone for a moonlight walk. There was the chance that the idea of church-robbers would occur to him; otherwise the incredible nature of their proceedings was a protection. It would never cross his mind that anyone would be digging there.

He gained the wall, and, under cover of a lilac bush, pulled himself stealthily up. Next second he had to duck back quickly. The light shone right below him, directed along the lane. And, as he had feared, it was a policeman who held it.

He waited breathlessly. Actually it could only have been a minute or two, but it seemed a long time. He heard the constable clear his throat. Apparently he was standing there wondering what to do. The conclusion he reached must have been in favour of a policy of masterly inactivity, for next moment Appleby heard a heavy footstep. He listened with infinite relief as the measured tread slowly receded down the lane. Raising himself again, he tried to follow the slow progress of the constable down the lane. Some distance further on the light flashed again, this time to reveal the gate of a house.

Appleby let himself drop gently back into the churchyard. It was all right. Later, of course, the constable might ask questions about the car's presence; but there was little to worry about if they were not caught red-handed. But he retraced his steps with the positive resolution that the nonsense had got to stop once and for all.

To his surprise, Langland had already restarted digging. Appleby came straight to the point.

"Look here," Langland raised his head and the moonlight glistened on the perspiration on his brow. "It's all right. The bobby looked at the car and went on, didn't he? That's what I guessed... Then, he's satisfied and, for the moment, out of the way—"

"Damn the risk," Langland said with unaccustomed heat. "I've been sounding. Unless I'm mistaken, there's not more than a couple of feet to go. I'll not give up when I'm as near as that. The covering's scandalously shallow, but that's what I hoped. What you've got to do is to move the car. Move it on to that bit of ground by the river. The bobby went the other way. You won't meet him, and he won't search all that if you put it out of sight... But if he looks back later and finds the car gone ten to one he won't bother about it. The car wasn't parked on the road... Anyway, I hired the car. If it's traced to anyone it'll be to me."

Appleby hesitated. With only a couple of feet of loose soil between them and the coffin, it undoubtedly seemed ridiculous to have had all their trouble for nothing. He gave way.

"Right," he said. "I'll be back in about a quarter of an hour.... For the Lord's sake be careful."

"Good... You'd better let me know it's you coming back. Hoot twice like an owl—can you hoot? That's all then."

Without waiting for an answer, Langland bent again to his digging. As he moved away Appleby could hear the slight noise of his companion's efforts. To his relief, it was inaudible by the time he reached the road. There was nothing to be feared in that direction. He regained the car cautiously, half-expecting a challenge from some hidden watcher; but nothing happened. For some unknown reason, he was beginning to feel more reconciled to the night's adventure. After all, the risk was not so great, he reflected, as he drove towards the river. If the worst came to the worst it was possible that the sympathetic inspector would stand between them and evil.

Reaching the open space, he parked the car in a favourable spot behind a clump of bushes. The concealment was sufficient to make it unlikely that it would be seen: if it was, the attempt to hide it was not so obvious as to suggest any guilty feeling on the part of its owner. He was beginning the walk back towards the church when the gleam of a car's sidelights showed approaching along the lane.

Instinctively he dived for the ditch. It did not matter, perhaps, if he was seen; though the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the constable had shown an unexpected subtlety, and while appearing to ignore the car, had sent reinforcements to investigate. In any case, it was better not to risk it. And the next moment he was glad of the caution which had made him hide. As the car reached the open space, the sidelights were unexpectedly extinguished.

The car had not stopped. He could hear it bumping over the turf towards the river bank. Whoever was driving it must have known the lie of the land well, for the moonlight was deceptive. He caught a glimpse or two of it through the bushes. Evidently its driver was going along the bank. Not far from the weir he heard it stop.

For a minute he hesitated. Certainly the car's proceedings were mysterious, but the task on which Langland and he were engaged was too delicate to make him eager to bother about anything else. Almost at once the car restarted. Before he had made up his mind it was plunging back the way it had come. On a sudden impulse he ran forward. At least he could gain a point from which he could obtain a clearer view. But the car was going at a pace which, all things considered, was utterly reckless. Though he ran as hard as he could, it had reached the spot at which it had left the roadway while he was still more than twenty-five yards away.

All the same, he got a fair view. It was a two-seater and, he thought, without any passenger. To that he could not have sworn; nor did he gain any impression of the driver. As it disappeared from view, the lights were switched on. But it was already too far off for number plates to be distinguishable.

He set himself to walk back to the churchyard, trying to work out the reasons for the queer behaviour of the car. It had crossed his mind that it might have had something to do with Dr. Wimborne's disappearance. But that car had been a five-seater saloon; this was a two-seater. And yet the business about the lights was mysterious. He tried to work it out. Of course, on the roads a car had to have lights and not to have them would have made it suspicious. He decided that anyone watching from a distance would have thought, when the lights went out, that the car had merely turned the corner out of sight. If they were put on again, it would merely have seemed as if a car had rounded the corner from the opposite direction. It was what had happened by the river bank that the driver wanted to hide. And what had happened? About that he had not the faintest idea. All that he was sure of was that it had only taken a very few minutes.

In his pre-occupation, he almost forgot to give the agreed signal. He had been longer than he intended and Langland must have worked like a slave. A part of the coffin was already exposed at one end and another half-hour should see the rest also freed from the earth which covered it. In the excitement of the moment, he took the spade from Langland without a murmur. It was plain that his friend had had more than enough. He had meant to tell Langland about the car; but that could wait.

Langland nodded assent. He was absolutely exhausted. Seating himself beside the grave he watched Appleby dig in a silence which he only broke once.

He was tired himself by the time the polished elm of the coffin lid was sufficiently exposed to permit its being opened. Langland rose to his feet, feeling in his pocket, as Appleby scrambled out of the excavation. While he waited for his friend to deal with the screws which secured the lid Appleby was conscious of a return of his earlier qualms. It was a beastly business when all was said and done. On a vague suspicion they had disturbed the rest of a dead man. But then, of course, they hadn't. That was mere sentiment. Appleby held sufficiently definite views about death not to believe that Wilder would be seriously inconvenienced if he turned out to be the occupant of the coffin. And if not—? Was Gressett a murderer? Thinking it over, he found it quite impossible to reach any conclusion about Gressett whatever. The lid fell back with a hollow sound.

Inopportunely, the moon decided to refuse its assistance. It seemed almost a warning that a cloud chose that particular moment to shut off the light. Appleby bent forward as the coffin lid dropped back.

"Strike a light," Langland said with the faintest tremor in his voice. "We'll have to risk it—"

Appleby obeyed. But the flare of the match revealed only the wrappings of the shroud. It burnt his fingers and went out as Langland pulled the cloth back. He struck another. They both looked eagerly down at the face of the dead man. Then that match, too, burnt out.

"And—it is Wilder," Langland said slowly. "I recognise him from the photograph... Well, that settles that. I've made a bloomer, somewhere. But where?"

Appleby said nothing. He was feeling too tired and angry to trust himself to speak. The lid was replaced and the grave filled in without a word passing between them. As they climbed the churchyard wall, the dawn was just showing. Appleby broke the long silence.

"Caesar," he said bitterly, "you're cleverer than I am—but you're a bloody fool!"

CHAPTER XIV
What the Weir Held

IT was on the river bank not far from the inn to which Bilsdy's body had been taken that Langland finally ran the inspector to earth next morning after a fruitless call at the police station. Darwin was standing close to the weir which at this point formed a barrier across the stream watching the dragging which was still in progress, and his face was gloomy. Evidently he had noticed the arrival of the doctor's car, for he turned and raised a hand in greeting; then started towards him. Langland was going forward to meet him when he was accosted by the sergeant to whom he had spoken the previous day.

"Good morning, sir... We've got it—over there. All we have got so far, incidentally, sir. Don't think it's much use now. We're pretty well through—"

The sergeant pointed to a bundle wrapped in sacking a few yards from where they stood.

Langland inclined his head gravely. "If you will," he said. "Oh, wait. I'll just have a look first—"

He was on his knees beside the bundle looking at the body of the brown spaniel which the pulling aside of the sacking revealed when Darwin came to his side.

"Morning, doctor.... What on earth—?" His surprise was obvious. "It's the dog we got out yesterday, isn't it? What's there interesting about it?"

Langland rose to his feet. "Several things," he said. "And the first is that it's not been drowned but poisoned."

Darwin stared. "What if it has?" he demanded. "It would still be a natural enough way of getting rid of it to chuck it in the river."

"No doubt... But it may be interesting as proving that the whole affair was premeditated, and not done on the spur of the moment. He'd have to have the poison—"

"Have I?" Darwin snorted. "It's the first I knew about it... What are you getting at now?"

"This—" Langland pointed. "It's old Freddy. And, unless I'm mistaken, it's the meaning of 'we' and 'us' in Bilsdy's note. I rather suspected there might be something like this to explain the use of the plural. Yesterday I heard from Bilsdy's landlady how fond he was of the dog and that it had disappeared... It's been dead just about the right length of time and the description corresponds almost exactly. I must be right."

"That Bilsdy, having made up his mind to commit suicide, decided to take his dog with him... Of course, it's a sentimental sort of touch. I suppose he said to himself, 'Nobody loves me but Freddy. I can't leave him behind...' The body would be inside the case he was carrying."

"He wanted to kill the dog—not to hurt it. I don't expect he could have stood the idea of tying a weight to its neck and throwing it in... It might have struggled. He poisoned it painlessly and brought it here."

Darwin frowned. "But if he'd got poison, wouldn't he have killed himself that way? I'm darned sure drowning wouldn't appeal to me; if there was any other way of doing it."

"It's a matter of taste... Perhaps he could nerve himself to a leap, but couldn't swallow poison in cold blood. Or perhaps there wasn't enough for the two of them..."

"I don't. Frankly, I think now that we've explained the letter away we've pretty well ruled out Bilsdy. The most likely time for him to have died wouldn't have allowed him to put through the telephone call and kill Wimborne. And quite definitely he couldn't have been our surgery burglar."

Darwin considered. "Well," he said reluctantly, "I said that if we didn't find Wimborne's body here I'd give up the idea of Bilsdy. We've found nothing. And, as you say, the business about the dog explains the letter—and why he only made a couple of casual references."

"You've finished here?" Langland glanced at the men who were still busy with ropes by the weir. "But—"

"Practically. There's only a corner left now, and it's not where the current sets. We may as well make sure, but I'm not hopeful."

They stood watching for a time in silence. As the inspector had said, it was very unlikely that any body which had been thrown into the river at the point where the note had been found should have been carried to the spot which was occupying the attention of the police and their helpers; but Langland approved Darwin's persistence in what seemed to be a hopeless task.

"Inspector," he said after a long pause. "Could you hear a confession—and keep it to yourself?"

"A confession, sir?" he asked cautiously, and Langland noted that the respectful monosyllable had returned. "About what?"

"The commission of a crime... I'm not sure what the penalty would be, but it would certainly be enough to get me into very considerable trouble."

"Well, sir," Darwin hesitated uncomfortably. "If I knew anything, it would be my duty to take action."

"No doubt... But it's a curious sort of crime. It's hurt no one. No one knows, or will know that it's been committed. You can never find out about it unless I tell you. And it has a definite bearing on our investigation."

Darwin frowned a little. Obviously he was torn between a desire to learn anything he could and a reluctance to commit himself to what might be compounding a serious offence.

"No one at all. No one will be hurt—unless it becomes known. And I can assure you that it's nothing you need take action about—now it's done."

His eyebrows rose in surprise as he listened to Langland's account of the unofficial exhumation and the theory which had inspired it. He was grinning as Langland finished, his amusement at their wasted labours having apparently overcome his official disapproval.

"We did," Langland said ruefully, and held out his hands to show their blistered palms. "I don't mind admitting that I'm feeling it to-day... But what d'you make of it?"

"Not to rub it in unduly, doctor, I'd say it was a striking case of misplaced enthusiasm. And, I think, it's another proof of how theories may lead you astray if you let them and don't stick to ascertaining facts."

"Yes—that Wilder was buried as he was supposed to have been buried. But that's not very surprising, is it?... What I said about the Bilsdy idea goes for this, too—the real proof is the presence or absence of the body—"

"But it was theory. There never was any real reason for suspecting Gressett, except that Dr. Appleby didn't like his paying attention to Miss Wimborne. Much less Millshall senior... It's very much like the case we made up against Dr. Appleby."

"Not quite... There is some definite evidence. First, the entry in the case book in differently-coloured ink."

"He only mentioned Mrs. Millshall's dying, I gather, because he was a bit disappointed at not keeping her going longer. That's purely negative. And, in fact, Wilder was dead."

"Well, there may be any number of rumours about the most respectable concerns. I don't know the source of your information. But there's generally a disgruntled employee who'll be prepared to tell you the worst—"

"There you are, doctor... And I don't mind telling you that the idea of that firm having swindled Wimborne is out of court. Naturally, I've been making a few inquiries into the doctor's financial position, and I finally persuaded his bank manager... There's nothing wrong whatever with his money. The only securities he bought were gilt-edged, and they're lodged at the bank, and all correct. So, your motive is abolished right away."

"It might have saved me trouble if I'd known that... But there's still the behaviour of Millshall senior going off to London; the man who was with him; even Gressett's going to a dance the night his uncle died."

Darwin considered. "As regards Millshall and his visitor, we don't know, and that's all we can say—yet. I'll try and find out, though.... What do you suggest Gressett's motive was?"

"And perhaps he has got an alibi. That would knock a bigger hole than ever in your theory... We'll go into that, too. Though I don't mind saying I think you're barking up the wrong tree entirely."

Darwin hesitated. "If Bilsdy's ruled out, Millshall junior is the most likely—on the evidence. Perhaps with his father to send a wire from London—an accessory after the fact... Always assuming that Dr. Wimborne is dead. We've found no body. It's still possible he went off on his own."

"I've not much doubt there's something queer about him. But, did he do the murder? My reading of it is simply that he heard of the disappearance and decided to take advantage of it hoping Miss Wimborne wouldn't call in the police. The question is whether he will be scared off now. I'm hoping not."

Langland smiled. "Isn't your position a little dubious—encouraging him to commit a crime when a hint would put him off?"

"No. He has committed the crime already by writing that letter. I'm merely trying to convict him. But I'm doubtful if he'll go any further with it. The risk now is almost too big. It was all right as long as he thought Wimborne had gone off on his own; but now murder is suspected—well, murder is a dangerous thing to meddle with."

"But he might still feel safe enough as long as he was pretty sure that the murder, when discovered, would be attributed to Bilsdy... After all, inspector, as long as Wimborne's body doesn't turn up, what you said about kidnapping stands. It is an extraordinarily difficult thing to deal with, as long as the kidnapper keeps his head... As a matter of fact, would there be any hope of tracing the writer of that note?"

"Exactly. In this case, you're pretty sure to because, though he may not know it, you're pretty sure both of the identity of the writer of the letter, and that he is not actually in possession of the living body of Dr. Wimborne, so you don't have to worry about what might happen to the imaginary victim, and you can watch your suspect. The way he may be looking at things is that Miss Wimborne won't consult the police again; that he can arrange to collect safely and that he might as well have the money."

Darwin shook his head dubiously. "I'm hoping so, but I doubt it," he said. "He's certainly something of a knave. It all depends how big a fool he is as well. But if you ask me— What's that?"

He turned quickly at the sound of a shout from where the dragging was in progress. Evidently something had happened. The men in the punt were bending over as though holding something; the sergeant was running along the bank. Then something showed for a moment over the punt side. It was a man's head.

Darwin had not waited for any comments. He was already hurrying towards the spot. The crew of the punt, in obedience to the shouted instruction of the sergeant, had abandoned their attempt to get the body into the boat and were edging in towards the shore. As Langland approached, Darwin and the sergeant splashed into the water up to their knees and gripped the body. They had laid it on the bank by the time he arrived. All three stood looking down at it.

"It's Wimborne, all right," Darwin said after a pause. "And that means—?" He broke off. "Sergeant, get Blandy on the 'phone and tell him to come at once... Doctor, perhaps as you're on the spot you'd have a preliminary look at him?"

Langland was kneeling beside the body before the inspector had finished speaking. Although he had never seen Wimborne alive, the photographs at the house would have left him in no doubt even without Darwin's identification. And as he pulled away the sodden scarf from the throat he saw that the dead man was still wearing underneath his clothes the pyjamas in which he had gone to bed on the night of his disappearance. One of the hooks of the drag had caught in the coat, but the clothing was not otherwise torn or disordered more than one might have expected. At the first sight there was no sign of a wound; but a heavy piece of iron tied by a rope round the waist obviously ruled out accidental death.

"Don't know yet." Langland did not look up. "He wasn't drowned anyhow... Give me a few minutes, please."

The inspector held his peace obediently, though there were a dozen questions he wanted to ask. The discovery of Wimborne's body in the river just when he had finally abandoned hope seemed to have revived the possibility which he had given up—that Bilsdy had been the murderer. In that case, of course, one would not expect drowning. Wimborne would have been dead before he ever got into the water. But there were still puzzling features. From his own experience and from the inquiries which he had made, it seemed extremely unlikely that the body could have been carried by the current to the spot where it had been found, if it had been thrown in at the spot where Bilsdy had left the note. Why should Bilsdy throw it in anywhere else?

He looked again at the body. Evidently the clothing corresponded with that which the doctor had worn; but the hat and coat were missing. That again was not surprising if the murderer had used them for his attempt on the surgery, by which time the body had presumably been disposed of. Langland had been examining the head carefully, parting the grey hair to peer at the scalp on the back; but his face showed nothing. Now, he, too, seemed to be interested in the clothing. He scraped gently at a grey patch on one sleeve and looked into the turned-up trousers bottoms. Quite abruptly, he seemed to be satisfied. He rose to his feet.

Langland glanced round. They had been so occupied in their task that none of them had noticed the little crowd which had already gathered in spite of the loneliness of the spot.

Darwin nodded. The sergeant was already hurrying up with an improvised stretcher borne by two constables. Only when the body had been placed on it and covered with a sheet, Langland spoke in a low voice as they made their way along the bank.

"He's been dead some days," he said. "Three and a half at least... That would be about right if he was killed the night he went away... I should say that death was due to a blow on the head—probably with something like a sandbag. There's a bruise which must have been inflicted before death, but the skin isn't broken. I'm inclined to think we shall find the skull is fractured—"

"I've not looked thoroughly yet," Langland evaded; but from his manner it was obvious that there was something on his mind. "I might have more to say later... You sent for Blandy, didn't you? He's more experience in this kind of thing than I have. I'd like to hear what he's got to say first."

"Obviously, Wimborne wouldn't regain consciousness after that blow, and he couldn't have tied the iron round his waist and got into the river. And it's hard to see how that bruise could have been inflicted accidentally. It's quite certain it wasn't self-inflicted."

"That means—murder," Darwin said thoughtfully. "Manslaughter, anyhow, but murder is the more likely under the circumstances... Anyway, we do know he is dead now."

"Not really. But knowing it officially frees my hands a good deal. And we have got something definite to go on... It looks as though my idea of Bilsdy must have been right—"

Langland glanced at him quickly. "Perhaps," he said. "And yet you don't sound convinced."

"I suppose I am... Only I don't understand quite what the body was doing where we found it. I don't believe the current would have taken it there."

"Well, it's a sort of backwater at the side, isn't it? You could see yourself no current sets in there... But what I expect you don't know is that there's an underground stream joins the river just above, and that makes a current which would almost certainly stop anything drifting in there... The only solution seems to be that it was thrown in where we found it. And in that case why should Bilsdy throw himself in somewhere else?"

"Oh, yes." Darwin frowned. "He might not have liked to go in at the same place as his victim. He must have got rid of the car after bringing the body here. Perhaps he went back for the dog. All the same—" He looked at Langland. "I'd like to know what you've got in the back of your mind, doctor."

"And I'd prefer to hear what Blandy says before I commit myself. I don't so much mind making bloomers as a detective, but it's different in my professional capacity.... Unless I'm mistaken that's Blandy's car now."

The car drew up at the door just as they were entering the inn yard. Blandy jumped out and came towards them.

"Another, hey?" he greeted Darwin. "You're doing well, inspector! Who is it this time?"

"It's Dr. Wimborne, sir," Darwin said soberly. "The drags caught it in the corner by the weir a few minutes ago... Dr. Langland had a preliminary look at it—"

The outhouse to which Bilsdy's body had been taken was again being used as a temporary mortuary and when the stretcher was placed on the rough table Blandy began his examination. It was plain to Langland that Darwin felt an impatience which he found it difficult to conceal, and this was enhanced when after only a moment or two Blandy turned to Langland.

"It struck me as unusual," Langland said non-committally. "I expect we have both reached the same conclusion as to how it is explained?"

To Darwin's disappointment, Blandy did not answer, busying himself again with his task. Mentally, the inspector was cursing their professional reticence but he said nothing. He could not quite explain his own feelings about the discovery. At first sight, it seemed, in view of the time of death, to provide an obvious explanation of what had happened—but did it? Bilsdy had been seen at some time after eleven, and he was then carrying the case. Presumably he was going to throw the dog into the river. And then he must have come back, somehow acquired a car, abducted and killed Dr. Wimborne and placed the body where they had found it. So far that was perhaps intelligible; for the weir offered a place to which a car could easily gain access and the risky carrying of the body would be reduced to a minimum. It was what happened afterwards which was puzzling. Why had Bilsdy returned to the place where he had thrown in the body of the dog? He could think of two possible explanations—the first, that the car had to be returned to somewhere in the vicinity, and the second that, after all, the dog had not been thrown in at the first visit to the river, and that he had had to go back to where he had left it.

Clumsy as the arrangement might seem, it was not impossible to a man not in his right mind; but where had the car come from? And the theory did nothing whatever to account for the visit to the surgery and the wire from London. Of course, those might have been done by Barndon.... He stepped forward eagerly as Blandy turned from the table.

Blandy hesitated for a moment before answering. "He's probably been dead at least three or four days," he said. "Right from the time he disappeared, in fact... You agree?"

"The cause of death was almost certainly the blow on the back of the head, and that could not have been self-inflicted by any ordinary means... It's hard to see how it could be accident—even apart from the weighting of the body. The odds certainly favour murder."

"Yes." Blandy looked at the body for a minute before continuing. "There's something else. What you make of it, inspector, is your affair—not mine, thank God! It's certainly queer enough—"

"He's been dead," Blandy said slowly, "about three days. That's quite in order. Only, I'll stake my reputation he's not been in the river more than a few hours!"

"Not in the river?" The inspector repeated almost to himself. "Then, where the devil was he?"

"I think," Blandy answered calmly, "I won't swear to it, mind you, but it's likely. Unless I'm very much mistaken he's been buried."

"Bilsdy's been dead as long as the doctor—if not longer. No, inspector. If you're thinking of him as a murderer, it's no good. Unless his ghost walked."

CHAPTER XV
More About Ransom

IT was in the worst possible temper that Peter Appleby started work next morning. They had come safely out of the affair and had covered their traces well enough to make it unlikely that anyone would notice the disturbance of the grave, much less associate it with them; but he felt that he had been made a fool of, not only by his friend's eager imagination, but by his own desire to hang something on to Gressett. Thinking it over, the less likely it seemed that he or Wilder could have had anything to do with Wimborne's disappearance. The fact was that Darwin had been right. He admitted to himself that he was keen on Patricia and inclined to regard with a jealous eye anyone who seemed a possible rival; and Gressett had certainly a better claim on the girl's interest than he had.

With something of a shock he opened the surgery door in answer to a final knock to discover the object of his thoughts standing on the threshold. Expecting only a belated patient, he was momentarily too much surprised to know what to say, but Gressett stepped into the breach indicating the young man who accompanied him.

"Have you met Mr. Field, doctor?" he asked. "Hope we're not interrupting you. The fact is, I thought I'd like a word or two with you about this business. If you're not too busy?"

Actually, Appleby was busy—horribly busy, but he was curious, too. After only a slight hesitation he held the door open.

"Come in," he invited. "I've got a few minutes before I need start visiting. Any news?"

"Not exactly. That was one thing I wanted to ask you... But I've been talking things over with Field. Looking back, I'm not at all sure I gave you the right impression about Bilsdy. I mean, I think we ought to take him more seriously. He was really violent against Wimborne, and I believe he meant what he said. You agree, don't you, Field?"

Field cleared his throat. Appleby was not much impressed by his new acquaintance. He was a rather vague young man, of not too high intelligence, and unless Appleby was mistaken he was ill at ease.

"Oh yes," he said. "Yes. Rather. Dangerous, I think. If anyone killed Wimborne he's the man. Was, I should say. And his committing suicide—well—"

He broke off, but his tone suggested that that proved matters to the hilt. Appleby ventured an objection.

"They're still dragging though, aren't they? And making inquiries," Gressett laughed. "I've an idea they've even made some about me."

That was news to Appleby. Perhaps, after all, Darwin was more thorough than he had told them or perhaps Gressett had misinterpreted something he had heard about Langland's private investigation. Field stirred uneasily in his seat.

"It's merely routine, I should think," Appleby answered him. He was privately wondering what it was Field did want to hide. "They work that way. You see, if you can eliminate as many likely people as possible by alibis and so on, it's a fair chance it may lead you to the right man."

"Got your alibi ready, Field?" Gressett asked. "Just round about twelve to one o'clock, you know."

Field seemed to resent the question. "I was at the dance," he said. "You know I was, Gressett... Why, wasn't I in the supper room with you? Wasn't I?"

There was a curious eagerness in his tone," Gressett smiled as though he was enjoying a joke.

"Yes, you were—for quite a long time," he said significantly. "In the supper room—not to say bar."

"Well, that's all right. If I was with you all the time they wouldn't suspect me, could they? I mean, if that fool Milton goes round talking—"

"It was only a joke, you ass!" Gressett assured him. He turned to Appleby. "The fact is, when the story of Wimborne's disappearance got out Milton said maybe Field had bumped him off because of—"

Field interrupted him with a kind of weak anger. "I'll be damned if I'll have it anyhow," he burst out. "I'll knock Milton's silly head off if he says it again."

Appleby glanced from one to the other. He felt more than a little puzzled. There was evidently some purpose behind all this: but he could not decide exactly what it was.

"Milton might have done it himself anyhow," Field plunged on. "They might make a few inquiries about him. He'd as much motive as I had."

"Oh, don't be an ass. They're not likely to bother about either of you as long as there's Bilsdy. Seriously, doctor, if you see Darwin you might tell him what we thought."

"Perhaps it would be better." Gressett glanced at the clock. "And I'm afraid we're keeping you... You've heard nothing new, you said?"

"I didn't—but I haven't." Appleby opened the door to usher his visitors out. "And now, I'll really have to run round.... Good morning."

But his long-suffering patients were destined to have to wait a little longer. He was still standing by the door pondering over the visit when the telephone bell rang. His heart leaped as he recognised Patricia's voice.

"Oh, Peter." Even her obvious agitation did not cause him to overlook the use of the Christian name. "I—I've heard... from—from them. About the money—"

"You have? Already?" Appleby was surprised. "But your advertisement hasn't appeared yet?"

"Oh yes. I telephoned it. In the unclassified part last night. It was just in time... I can't tell you over the 'phone. At least I'd better not. I'll see you soon."

Even in the brief drive to Wimborne's house, taken at a speed more reckless than usual, Appleby had time to wonder at the "kidnappers'" promptitude and to find what might have been an explanation. It all fitted in with the theory that the ransom demand was merely a device on the part of Barndon to raise money.

Not having actual control of Dr. Wimborne's person, he had to make the most of his time, before the police discovered anything. On any other line of reasoning the haste of the kidnappers would have been unprofessional. Real kidnappers, he thought, liked to prolong the agony, to make more certain of their victims paying to the limit.

Patricia had the letter in her hand as she hurried to meet him. She had evidently been crying, but her eyes brightened as she saw him.

"It's here." She held out the paper with its rough scrawl of printed characters. "It says—you'd better read it."

A glance was enough to tell Appleby that it obviously emanated from the same source as the first. It was to be hoped that there had been no fingerprints, for its crumpled condition showed that the girl had handled it without any thought of such a possibility.

"You were wise," he read. "Dr. Wimborne is still alive and well. Pay the money as follows. Make the notes up in a package wrapped in red paper. Take the 1.15 train to-day. Sit in the rear coach in a corner seat near the platform. Look out for two white cloths on the telegraph posts. Throw out the package near the second. Do not fail. You will hear from us again."

He stood for a moment studying the document. Patricia's eyes were fixed upon him, and there was an appeal in her face. He handed it back a little reluctantly.

Appleby shook his head. "Not a chance. The mere fact that it's come so soon shows that.... Quite a lengthy production. That's an old dodge. He must have read about it somewhere."

"Well, if you did tell the police, it would be pretty difficult to trap whoever came to collect. You don't know where the white signals will be until you see them, and you can't have the whole line patrolled. He'll choose a good place for a quick get away, and where he can't be seen. It's not a bad scheme. Where it really slips up in this case is that we know who to watch and can follow him from the beginning... You've told the police?"

"No. I didn't mean that. Only—" She stopped. "You see, he may be a beast, but he is a sort of uncle. There'd be a scandal and—and daddy had forgiven him before. Would he have liked—"

"You can't look at it that way. Apart from the fact that any man who'd do a trick of that sort ought to be punished, there's always the chance he really does know something about the disappearance... One thing I've never been quite certain of was how Barndon could be sure enough your father wouldn't come back to try this game on. I've a sort of an idea he might know something."

"Yes. I can see that. But the police—" She stopped. "Couldn't you and Dr. Langland do something? If you could catch him—with the package—he'd have to confess. You could make him speak."

Appleby frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said. "I know it would be hard for you... But I hate the idea of his getting off. And, whatever we do, I'll be damned if he shall."

"But, Peter—please—I shouldn't have told you." Her distress was obvious. Peter Appleby looked at her, hesitated, and was lost.

"I suppose you've a right to decide," he said reluctantly. "But I don't know... We can't let him get away with it. And I'm not sure what we'd do about following him. Or finding him for that matter. If we failed..."

"It wouldn't matter. It would only be a dummy packet. And you could tax him with it—pretend you'd seen him—"

"And how would Darwin take it?" Appleby said unhappily. "He's been pretty decent and it's rather like letting him down... Also, of course, it would be condoning a felony. He might very well cut up rough about it."

"I suppose so. You don't give me much choice." Appleby's voice was almost sulky. "Look here. I'll tell Langland. If he consents, we'll go after Barndon ourselves. If not—well, there's nothing for it but the police."

"Oh, thank you!" She seemed to take Langland's assent for granted, and the gratitude in her voice indicated that she interpreted Appleby's conditional acceptance of her scheme as being a complete surrender. "And thank you—for everything. I don't know what I should have done without the help you've given me. It's so dreadful to feel you've no one to go to, that you're all alone when—when anything like this has happened. I can't tell you—"

Appleby set his jaw grimly. He had to keep a firm grip on himself, he reflected. There was a good deal he wanted most urgently to say to Patricia Wimborne, but this was certainly not the time. He tried to alter the tone of the conversation.

"Yes. I'm afraid you won't. You'll be dashing off on the 1.15—and I suppose that Langland and I will be tailing along after Barndon... I'm afraid there'll be no one to meet your aunt."

"I could ask Gressett," Patricia said and regretted it as she saw the expression on Appleby's face. "But perhaps I'd better not—"

"I'm sure he'd be pleased," Appleby said a little stiffly. He had made up his mind not to be misled by jealousy into any more prejudice against Gressett at least. "I might run up against him. If so—" He broke off. "In the meantime, there's no time to lose. You've got to get ready and make up that packet. I've got to find Langland—and then we'll have to locate Barndon somehow... I still think it would be better to tell the police—"

"But you must hurry," she said. "I suppose Uncle—that he will have to leave early. To tie up the white rags.... And—and thank you again, Peter."

"That's all right," Appleby said almost harshly. "Well, good-bye—and let's hope for the best."

She watched him go down the path to the gate. Actually she guessed the reason for his apparent curtness. The look in his eyes had been unmistakeable. And for the past ten minutes she had been in two minds. One part of her had been longing for him to speak and yet she was grateful he had not. As the car started she turned slowly back into a house which seemed horribly empty.

There was the package to be got ready. Obviously it must be as like the real thing as possible. She must make dummy notes of about the right size. Presumably £1 notes. The letter had not stated it; but that was the way these things were always done. With a real note as a model, she was tearing up the daily paper into a hundred pieces of an appropriate size when the doorbell sounded. For once the maid was unduly prompt in answering. Gressett, shown in without warning, caught her red-handed, guiltily trying to conceal the dummy notes. She felt herself colouring, and as his eyebrows rose a little her cheeks positively burned.

"I met Dr. Appleby a few minutes ago," he said. "He told me that I could help you.... But, my dear girl, what on earth—"

"Are you practising to do the confidence trick or what, Pat? It looks almost criminal to me. Fake notes—!"

"It—it's nothing," Patricia denied and then her heart smote her. "At least, I'd rather not say—"

"Don't let me intrude on any secrets of yours and Appleby's," Gressett said lightly, but something in his manner suggested that he was hurt. "I don't want to press you into making any confidence you don't want—"

"Oh, it's not that!" Patricia made up her mind. After all, he was an older friend than Peter, and her father had liked him. "Well, it is a secret—but there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you... I'm being—being—"

"Not blackmail?" Gressett's voice was a little startled. "You're laying a trap?"

"Not blackmail... It's fake money for a ransom. You see I've had letters. About my father. We're almost sure they're not genuine—"

"It wasn't Inspector Darwin... Well, there are reasons why I don't want the police called in. Peter—Dr. Appleby and Dr. Langland are going to try and deal with it themselves—"

"And I'm cast for the inglorious part of meeting the aunt?" There was reproach in his tone. "You've had letters you say—"

His eyes sought the table. There in full view was the block-lettered paper which she had received that morning. Plainly he knew what it was. She could scarcely refuse, having gone so far, to let him look at it. She took it and held it out. "Read for yourself," she said. "That came this morning."

Gressett studied it for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath, as if he suddenly understood.

"You don't want to call in the police," he said slowly and paused. "Why, even Barndon wouldn't be such a swine?"

Patricia started. She felt herself colouring again, and decided to make a clean breast of it.

"Yes," she said quietly. "That—that's what we think. And, of course, that's why we haven't called the police in... I don't mind your knowing. I should have asked you to help, but—"

Gressett smiled. "They also serve who only meet the aunt!" he said quite pleasantly. "After all, Langland and Appleby should be able to deal with him. And make him talk. Perhaps he really does know something—"

"No. He wouldn't have the courage to be a murderer... I don't mind saying I think it was that poor madman Bilsdy... They're still dragging the river, and I'm afraid that it's there—" He broke off with a gesture as if dismissing an unpleasant subject. "But we must still hope for the best, Pat... And in the meantime, we'd better finish your preparation." He shuffled the sheaf of dummies in his hands. "They'll feel quite convincing," he decided. "Until he looks at them... Have you got any red paper for wrapping?"

"You?" Patricia hesitated. "To be quite candid, I think he did," she admitted. "But I think that that was because—well, of course, there never was any real reason... How did you know?"

"Just his manner—this morning and other times... I took Field along to see him. He was terribly anxious to prove his alibi owing to a silly joke Milton made. And, of course, he was with me all the time... Also, he was much too drunk to drive a car. That's why he's frightened. The truth is he doesn't know what he did after about eleven o'clock. And he said his car had been used."

"While he was at the dance. But he doesn't know if he drove or not. However, he certainly couldn't have had anything to do with whatever happened... Perhaps Milton was nervous on his own account."

"Only that he says he was at that dance all the time and I happen to know that he wasn't. I saw him going out—and it was just about midnight. And he could have used Field's car. Nobody seems to have seen him again for some time."

"But—but you don't think—?" Patricia stared at him with horrified eyes. "He couldn't do—do that—"

"I?" Gressett shrugged his shoulders. "No. But the police might. I was just warning you... Personally, I've no doubt that Bilsdy must have had something to do with whatever happened. You didn't see him that night—" He seemed to have been on the point of saying more, but glanced at the girl's face and broke off. "But you'd better get ready. I'll take you along to the station, if you like. It only means waiting a quarter of an hour for me. Besides, my sister may be arriving—"

Patricia remembered her only as an elusive, rather colourless person who had a way of remaining in the background under all circumstances. She asked merely out of politeness. To her surprise, the question seemed almost to disconcert Gressett.

"Oh—didn't you know?" he said. "Yes, she went down to see a friend—in Devonshire. She's always frightfully vague about times and never lets you know." He smiled. But you'd better get ready. I don't know how one dresses for an appointment with a pretended kidnapper... I've a few things to do in town. I'll be back in half-an-hour or so."

Patricia had fully expected to hear from Peter Appleby, even if only over the telephone, about the result of his conversation with Langland, but no message came. Perhaps he had had more difficulty in finding his friend than he had thought; or perhaps it had been necessary for him to set off at once on the trail of Barndon. The uncertainty worried her. Somehow, she felt sure that Langland would lend himself to the plan of dealing with the matter apart from the police. And her talk with Gressett had to some extent made her feel better, uncomforting though its substance had been. It was a relief to talk to anyone, and she had known Gressett for some time. And yet there had been a lot that was puzzling. Why had there been all that talk about Field and Milton, as though they could have had anything to do with it? She remembered Appleby and Langland had said something about them in the rather ruthless list of suspects they had compiled; but it was absurd. It was ridiculous to think of the whole dramatic society being involved in the affair.

She was very silent when Gressett returned to take her to the station, and there seemed to be something on his own mind. Perhaps, like herself, he was not without misgivings about the scheme for trapping the writer of the letter. The train was just steaming into the station when he gave utterance to his thoughts.

"I don't like your going alone... Suppose the business of throwing out the letter was only a trap? Suppose they meant to get you in the carriage—?"

"But we know who it is... He may be a cheat, but he wouldn't hurt me. Besides, there's no reason—"

"Let me go and throw out the package. You could meet your aunt! No. Better not, perhaps. They might be watching to see if you obeyed instructions. And we don't know—"

He left unfinished what was evidently an uncomfortable doubt to him. But, after all, there was no reason to be suspicious of any of the occupants of the rear coach. Patricia decided in favour of an empty compartment. Since Gressett had put the idea into her mind, she felt a tiny doubt even about the very ordinary occupants of the other carriages. Gressett was waiting uncomfortably outside the carriage door when he turned quickly.

He hurried off. Patricia saw him run along the train and speak to someone who had just got off near the front end. The clock showed only a minute before the train was due to leave. The stream of passengers going out of the station for a moment blocked her view, but as the guard signalled she looked along the platform. She could see nothing. As the train moved out of the station, both Gressett and his sister seemed to have vanished completely.

CHAPTER XVI
Darwin Begins Again

IT had been a real blow to Inspector Darwin when the unanimous evidence of the doctors had proved that Bilsdy could not possibly have been responsible for the presence of Wimborne's body in the river. Just for a few minutes after they had made the discovery, he had thought that all his troubles were at an end. Bilsdy, the obvious candidate, and the man who had threatened the murder, had actually committed it before killing himself. Barndon had been responsible for the burglary at the surgery, perhaps to get something to use as a proof that the "kidnappers" had actual possession of Wimborne's person. In a creditably short time he would have solved the whole mystery. Now, the question was whether he himself would have the chance of solving it or not. The Superintendent, with murder definitely proved, would certainly take a more active share in the game. And, in any case, he had to start all over again.

It was true that Bilsdy could still have done the actual killing; but Darwin thought it was straining probabilities too far to dissociate the killing and the disposal of the corpse. Besides, there was no sign of any confederate for Bilsdy. The sole possibility in that connection seemed to be that Barndon had somehow found the dead body and hidden it for his own ends; but in that case he would scarcely have dug it up and put it in the river where the police were bound to find it before his scheme for extracting money could be completed. The reason why that had been done was obvious. The murderer, whoever it might be, had hoped to put the blame on Bilsdy, and only the fact that the doctors had noticed the condition of the body had prevented the plan from succeeding. It was very probable that the murderer did not know, or had not thought, that there would be any difference between a buried corpse and one which had been soaking in the river.

He had found Langland's account of their preposterous investigations the day before more interesting than he would have admitted. Of course, the actual business of the exhumation had been absurd; but there might after all be something in certain points of Langland's theory. In one place two possible lines of research met—the possibility of a lunatic murder by young Millshall and the doubts cast on the integrity of the firm in which the young man's father had been associated with Wilder and Gressett. It was for that reason that, when his immediate business in connection with the finding of Wimborne's body was completed, he sought an interview with Millshall senior.

He found him at the office just on the point of leaving for lunch, and unless Darwin was mistaken, he was a very worried man. Naturally the death of his wife would have upset him, but the inspector thought there was something else. It looked as though he might know something, if not about his son's guilt, about his being suspected. Darwin came to the point at once.

"It's better not to wrap things up, sir," he said almost brutally. "The truth is that it's about your son I called to see you."

Millshall winced; but it was quite evident that he had been expecting nothing else. He cleared his throat nervously. There was a long pause before he spoke.

"I won't pretend, inspector, that I don't know what you mean," he said slowly. "I heard that Wimborne's body had been found in the river. I know my son is... is upset. I have called in a specialist to see him, and I will tell you that his report... his report is very serious. I was afraid you would hear about the wild talk of the last few days. But, inspector, I know he didn't... didn't murder Wimborne."

Darwin waited for a moment. It simplified things that Millshall had been the first to mention what had been in his mind. He hoped that the other was going to continue; but he was disappointed.

"You say you know, sir?" he asked with the faintest emphasis on the last word. "You mean that you have evidence—?"

"I know... I know my boy," he said tremulously. "He wouldn't even if... if he is—"

"But are you quite sure you haven't anything that's evidence, sir. I don't want to raise false hopes. But there are points you might be able to prove in his favour. If we knew where he was at certain times—I've not liked to make too many inquiries as long as we thought Bilsdy might have done it—"

"But hasn't he?" Millshall demanded. "When I heard Wimborne had been found in the river I thought... Only your coming made me wonder."

"I'm afraid, sir, that it's nearly certain that Bilsdy didn't kill the doctor... And, as you know, your son has been saying that he did. Well, that may be no more than the effect of his breakdown. I was inclined to think it was. And, perhaps, sir, you could still convince me that that is so... Could you, for example, prove where your son was between midnight and one o'clock on Tuesday night?"

Millshall answered almost in a whisper. "No," he said. "I couldn't... But, how could I? We went to bed—"

"That's true, sir... At least then, you've no reason to doubt that your son was in bed? At what time did he go?"

"I—I can't say. He's been—restless. You must surely understand, inspector—"

"In fact, sir, have you any reason to believe he might have been out of the house between those hours?"

Darwin could not help feeling that he was pressing Millshall cruelly. And yet his evidence, if he spoke the truth as he seemed to be doing, was of too vital importance to allow sympathetic feelings to have anything to do with the matter.

Millshall drew a deep breath. "I made up my mind if you came to tell the whole truth," he said dully. "I feel it would be best... Because he isn't guilty."

"If he were, sir," Darwin said gently, "there's very little doubt that a court would find he wasn't—wasn't responsible for what he was doing. Is there?"

Millshall suddenly looked up and met his eyes. "That might be a very despicable attempt to trap me," he said. "But I don't think it is, inspector. And as a matter of fact, that is so. From what the specialist says—" He broke off. "We have hope that, if he goes to a—an institution—"

His voice faltered, and he paused for a moment, evidently to regain his self-control. He went on more strongly, in a voice which was tense with his effort to keep calm.

"The truth is that I heard my son moving that night," he said. "Just about midnight... I didn't hear him afterwards. But I knew he had been out that night. His clothes were wet."

Darwin nodded. It was a beastly business extracting from a father the evidence that his son was a murderer; and yet he had to go on.

Darwin realised that that surprise was in Millshall's favour, so far as the burglary was concerned. He did not know the reason why an alibi should be needed on Wednesday night.

"I have a reason for asking, sir," he said cautiously. "And it would be in your son's favour if—"

"But I was away," Millshall interrupted. "How could I know? Perhaps the servants—"

At least so far as Darwin could see, Millshall could make no sense of this inquisition. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and only too plainly it was an unpleasant one.

"I've no reason to think he had been out—" he said, and from his manner Darwin guessed that he had departed from his resolution to speak the truth. "We're watching him, you know. He went to bed quite early. I don't think he could have got out. But—"

Millshall's hands clenched. "But his car had been used," he said almost inaudibly.

"It had?" The inspector was startled. If the doctor's body had been put in the river no later than the previous night, obviously a car would have been needed to convey it there. It was a point into which he had been prepared to make a thorough, and probably tedious investigation, and here, right at the beginning, was a car which could have been used. The very easiness of it almost made him distrustful. "I should like to see the car," he said after a brief pause. "It's not been cleaned?"

Millshall obediently produced his pen. "My sister," he said. "She came—for the funeral. She's staying on. At least until—"

Darwin was thinking fast. He had got more than he could have hoped out of Millshall about his son. It might have been, as he had said, that the truth seemed best, especially about facts which could probably have been established by cross-examination of the servants. And, in any case, he must know that it was extremely unlikely that his son could be hung in view of the state of his mind. But there might be a less worthy motive for this openness. He found himself thinking of Langland's theory. If Millshall were guilty himself, he might be ready to throw suspicion on his son who could not suffer the extreme penalty for the crime.

Now that he was with Millshall, Darwin believed this less than ever; but there were a number of questions he had still to ask. He accepted the note as Millshall passed it over.

Millshall started. Evidently he had had no suspicion that his movements were so well known. He seemed to be wondering whether or not to agree with this; but decided against it.

There was obviously something wrong about the stranger. What it was Darwin could not quite guess.

Millshall made a gesture of resignation. "I'd better explain a little more," he said slowly. "Though it can't have anything to do with Wimborne's death. Quite recently, inspector, I have had reason to believe that there was something wrong at the office. I mean, to put it bluntly, that someone was robbing the firm... It was when Wilder was first taken ill that I got the idea. I had to look after some branches of our business which I generally left to him. I went into things quietly before I spoke to him. Unfortunately, the results completely justified my suspicions. There was money missing, and even a dangerously large sum of money—"

"From the point of view of the firm's continued existence. As things are, we shall be lucky if we pull through. I mentioned the matter to Wilder. He was inclined to pooh-pooh it. But it was so evident I had to take action. I got in a private inquiry agent from London. And the results of his investigations showed that I had been right.... And, what was worse, they gave a very clear indication of who must be responsible."

"I'm afraid—I hate to say it, but it's true. It was Wilder. I was sure about it the very day he died."

"I had to raise money in London. As for the funeral, I don't mind admitting I didn't want to attend it—believing what I did... On the other hand, all the more since Wilder was dead, I'd no desire for publicity. That might just have turned the balance against our recovery. And he was dead. I didn't even tell Gressett at first... Of course, he knows now. I hardly knew what I was doing, except that I'd to get things straight or be ruined. Everything had come at once. My wife's death—my boy's breakdown, and this... I couldn't help dealing with this, however heartless it might seem. You see, if my boy was going—if he were ill, we should need money all the more. Gressett was very good—"

Darwin inclined his head in assent. It was all very interesting but just what bearing it might have on Wimborne's murder he could not see. It was barely possible that Wimborne, attending Wilder during his illness, might have learnt something which Wilder could not afford to have known. But Wilder had been dead before Wimborne was murdered. Of course, perhaps Millshall and Gressett might have some motive in preventing the news of Wilder's depredations becoming known if that would endanger the firm's existence; but would there be enough for murder? He was inclined to doubt it.

"None. We merely bought gilt-edged for Dr. Wimborne. He deposited the certificates in his bank... You are quite at liberty to examine the books about those transactions. Our interest was at an end when we had received our commission."

"He might have guessed. When I found which way things were turning, naturally I withheld the knowledge from him."

And yet, Darwin thought, he might easily have conjectured the truth. But then? It gave him no motive for killing Wimborne. Another idea occurred to him.

"Suicide?" Millshall echoed in amazement. "But it was his heart. Wimborne had been attending him. He was confident—"

He broke off, gazing in alarm at his questioner. The same idea had evidently crossed his own mind as had prompted Darwin's inquiries. For if Wilder had committed suicide there might be some reason for abolishing Wimborne, if, as was quite usual, there was a suicide clause in the policy. And yet, Wimborne had given a certificate. He decided that that and the car were the points which next needed investigation and he was going to have that certificate examined pretty carefully. For, if it were forged, one reason for Wimborne's death would be obvious. He had been removed so that he could not deny his signature. And that meant Gressett. Or his sister? Or even, perhaps, Millshall himself who might hope Gressett would allow the use of the money to bolster up the firm's shaky position. But he felt that his own questions were making his suspicions too obvious. Millshall seemed already to have smelt a rat. His best course was to transfer his thoughts back to the original line of inquiry, and get away.

"Well," he said, "I might be interested in that, sir, from another angle. I need hardly tell you that, unless the case against Wilder is positively proved, it would be improper for you to let the culprit escape... But it doesn't seem to have much to do with the doctor's death. I should like to see the car. And perhaps question the servants a little—"

"My note covers that." Millshall evidently was only too ready to accept any opportunity of terminating their interview. "That is all, inspector?"

It was quite true that Darwin wanted to see the car. He had plenty of other things to do, but that seemed to come first. At any moment it might be cleaned and valuable evidence might be destroyed. And he would accept Millshall's offer to inspect the books. In fact, there were half a dozen things he wanted to do all at once. On the way to Millshall's house he stopped to put through several telephone calls, and went on his way feeling a little relieved in mind. He was practically there before he remembered an important omission. He had forgotten to ask Millshall for the name of the inquiry agent who had made the investigation.

There was a frightened look about the household at the mere mention of his name; but no obstacles were placed in the way of his looking at the car. And almost at the first glance he drew his breath in sharply. Millshall had been right. The car had certainly been used the night before. It was splashed with mud, and the colour of that mud told Darwin at once where it had been picked up. The only place, so far as he knew, where anything like it was to be found was the river bank.

It was not surprising if Millshall senior had been alarmed for the sake of his son. Here was a body recovered from the river, the body of a man whom young Millshall had threatened to kill; and it had been put in some time the previous night. And here was the young man's car splashed with mud from that very river bank after a secret midnight trip. Privately, he was inclined to think that the case against Millshall was almost clinched. And there might be other traces apparent to a careful inspection. He looked inside. There was no sign of the presence of the corpse; but the application of the proper methods might reveal something. Darwin himself had only the vaguest ideas about the microscopic examination of evidence, but he knew where he could get it done. Perhaps a tiny piece of hair—the very dust from the corpse's clothing might prove positively that it had been there.

Then he kicked himself mentally. Of course, one would not put the corpse in front at all. The choice was either to have it sitting in the seat next to the driver, or crammed into the limited space beside his feet, and who was likely to do either, with a commodious dickey seat behind, in which it could be shut and even locked, securely? He hurried round to the back, and looked in. And almost the first look rewarded him. There were traces of earth, recently dug, and still damp. And Blandy had said that probably the body had been buried.

Things were moving almost too quickly. The servants, he declared, could wait for half an hour or so. The most important thing was the car. It had got to be gone over with a fine tooth comb; for dust, cloth fibre, earth, fingerprints, anything that it might offer. On the whole, the best thing to do seemed to be to leave the policeman who had been driving him on guard there while he himself went back to the station.

He was actually locking the garage door when a thought occurred to him which momentarily gave a setback to his conviction that Millshall was guilty. It was such a very bad lock. True, there was no evidence that it had been forced; but it was so bad that it needed no forcing. Almost any key would unlock it. Perhaps Millshall's car had been used; it need not have been Millshall who used it. And even a madman, he thought, might have known better than to leave such very obvious traces of the journey plainly visible. But it might well have been the intention of any other murderer who wished to cast suspicion on Millshall that these very traces should be seen.

He was very thoughtful as he started to drive towards the police station. Of course, primarily, the idea of putting the corpse in the river at all must have been to cast suspicion on Bilsdy. But the murderer might have wanted a second string to his bow and used the car belonging to Millshall, the next most obvious suspect. Then, who was the murderer? Gressett, Millshall senior—his thoughts, broke off abruptly. Blandy was gesticulating to him from the pavement. He drew up alongside.

"Don't know if you've heard, inspector," he said. "But your chaps are looking for you everywhere."

"Don't know. Only the place is buzzing like a beehive... First young Appleby comes in, takes Langland aside, and they both dash off at full speed. Then two of your detectives come, one after the other, asking for you."

"Damn." Darwin understood all too well. His non-official collaborators had let him down and the Barndon business had come to a head inconveniently early. He had got to act quickly before any precipitate action on their part spoilt everything, or perhaps involved him in trouble. He released the brake. "Thanks, doctor... I've got to hustle."

CHAPTER XVII
Corpse the Third

IT was a good deal longer than he had expected, and time was getting uncomfortably short, before Appleby finally ran his friend to earth in the shed at the back of the inn where he and Blandy had evidently just finished a further examination of Wimborne's body. Appleby had been totally unprepared for the discovery. So far as he had made up his mind about the disappearance at all after the fiasco of the previous night, he had quite decided that the one place where Wimborne would not be found other than St. Mark's Churchyard was the river. For a moment the news almost put out of his head the importance of his own errand.

"It wasn't. Both Blandy and I agree he's not been in the river twelve hours. Bilsdy at any rate didn't put him there.... It's queer after what we did last night; but we're pretty sure he's been buried and dug up again."

Langland nodded. "Right under our noses, so to speak. The churchyard's only about a quarter of a mile away. So, while we were wasting our time on that grave—"

"But, good God! I saw it!" Appleby had suddenly remembered the mysterious evolutions of the two-seater. "He was found on this bank, wasn't he? Just by the weir? Then, as nearly as possible I saw it done!"

Langland whistled softly as he listened to his friend's account of his encounter with the car.

"That," he said, "about evens things up! If I made a mug of myself over that grave business, you let them dump the body and never gave it a thought! Told Darwin yet?"

"Haven't seen him.... Besides, it's only just occurred to me that it was important—"

"He'll be interested... That's another car, eh? Not the saloon this time. And you couldn't tell who was driving?"

"No." Appleby remembered at the mention of Barndon's name that time was flying. "But, look here. There's something else—"

Rather to his surprise, Langland raised no objection to Patricia's condition that they should deal with Barndon by themselves. In theory, at least, he seemed entirely to approve of it. It was only over a vital practical point that he wrinkled his brows.

"The point is, can we find Barndon?" he said. "It's getting pretty close to the time when the balloon should go up. The odds are that he's set out already. And he'll be pretty careful about being followed. Let's think—"

"He hadn't set out a quarter of an hour ago," Appleby informed him. "I saw him at the corner of Green Street, by the petrol pump there."

"It might be possible to pick him up there," Langland said dubiously. "Though I don't see—"

Langland hesitated. "No," he said. "The chances are too slim to put all our eggs in that basket. You buzz off. Pick up a small boy somewhere, and send me a message in case you have to start at once... And for heaven's sake don't be seen."

But it was Appleby himself who returned and one look at his gloomy face told Langland the worst. Without waiting for his friend to speak he jumped into the seat beside him.

"I've guessed. And if I've guessed wrong the fat will be in the fire, because we shan't have a hope and we shan't have told Darwin. In fact, Barndon—if it is Barndon—will get off scot free. The kidnapper, if it isn't Barndon—"

"It might be still. They might have got rid of the body as a danger—thinking the police had finished dragging. You see, it's most likely that Wimborne was brought here last night for one of two reasons. Either someone thought that the body would certainly be found and associated with Bilsdy; or he thought that the police had finished searching there, and therefore that it was the safest place. You pays your money and takes your choice—"

"I think so, too. But it mightn't be, and if this letter-writer is the murderer, Darwin will have every reason to scrag us. So, let's hope I've guessed right—"

"Listen.... The kidnapper wants to collect that package as soon as is safely possible after it's been thrown out. Otherwise some wandering linesman or labourer may trot along and pocket what he thinks will be a hundred pounds. On the other hand, he wants to tie his rags to the telegraph poles just as late as possible—because the same stray wanderer might take them off. I think we may assume, therefore, that the rags aren't already attached, and that he'll be as near as he dare to the spot. At least he'll be in view to see if the packet is thrown. Now, this can't be very far away."

"Because he's only just set out. I've looked up that train. It's pretty fast, for a local line, and once it starts it would be a job for a car to overtake it. Mere speed apart, the train is going pretty straight, the roads curl. Now, Barndon left in the car—he hired it from the Green Garage Co.—"

"Steady, the Buffs!" Langland pleaded. "I'll come clean without any threats of death... He doesn't own a car. He's not the sort of lad to whom masses of people will eagerly lend cars, and anything so dashing as pinching one is outside his line. Therefore, he hires one, and the number of taxi places here isn't limited. I rang up and got it second shot—though I ought to have had it first. Because the Green Garage Co. is in Green Street."

"His position is that Patricia Wimborne is too scared to go to the police, and that consequently there won't be any inquiry. But, unless he's caught red handed, with the package or notes on him, there's nothing criminal in hiring a car. It might be suspicious, but it isn't conclusive... Well, assuming it is Barndon, he's only given himself twenty or twenty-five minutes to get there, tie on the cloths and hide. It can't be more than a quarter of an hour's run. We know the direction; so there's only a limited area where he can be... Now, look at this map— No. For heaven's sake don't." The car bumped the grass verge as Appleby, in his excitement, actually obeyed the injunction. "Take my word for it. It's safer. Well, just about opposite Smith's Hill there's an open bit of country, where the railway runs along the foot of the hills with a moor sort of place on the other side—"

"Oh, no. He doesn't mind being seen so much as he wants to make quite sure he can see anyone following him. I think that that's sound. He'll choose a place where he can see that there aren't cars on his trail, or a second engine following the first—especially since that method has been used, and I suspect he'll have read it up. He'll be nervous of twisty bits of line and trees, and even more of houses. They may hide you, but they may hide someone watching you. Anyway, if he's anywhere else, it's hopeless, so we may as well take the chance."

"It's a poor chance," Appleby said gloomily. "I wish I'd insisted on telling Darwin."

"Because I've got field glasses and I believe we may pick him up... You can see for yourself."

They were already climbing the hill, and as the road swept in a curve round the side, Appleby could get a fair view of the particular stretch of country which interested them. Smith's Hill stood a little apart from the bare line of the main range, with the railway running between them, and at this point the line was visible for two or three miles, except for a couple of places where it went through small cuttings piercing the lower spurs of the range. As Langland had said, the flat stretch between was almost bare; the nearest cottage, even, must have been three-quarters of a mile away, and such trees as there were scarcely reached the size of respectable bushes.

Undoubtedly the view was sufficiently open to guard against surprise. Even the two roads which crossed the flat space and wound up into the hills were unhedged, and visible almost throughout their length. Appleby was conscious of a doubt.

"That's what I'm hoping. He should be in action by now." Langland glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It showed five minutes past one. "Stop at the top here."

They got out. With his naked eyes, Appleby did his best to reinforce Langland's efforts as he raked the railway line with the field glasses; but for some time he could see nothing. There was not a single living thing visible except a couple of horses, and from the way in which Langland moved the glasses it was plain that he had seen nothing either. All at once he seemed to find something. Looking in that direction, Appleby fancied he could see the glint of sunlight on something bright.

"The car," Langland decided. "In that gorse clump just off the left hand road. See it? It would be hidden from anywhere on its own level, but we're looking down... And it's near that cutting—by George!"

Appleby could see nothing to excite the last exclamation. Langland mercifully handed over the glasses.

"It's him," he said ungrammatically. "It must be. Between the two cuttings. He just popped out of the right-hand one as I watched. Seems to be making for the other."

Even with these directions it was a minute before Appleby picked up his man. Plainly the distant figure was taking precautions against being seen, and even with the glasses it was only his movement which betrayed him.

"It may or may not be Barndon, but I'll take my oath it's our man all right. Doesn't his whole attitude suggest it? He's not going deer-stalking here. I'd stake my life he's making for the second cutting—"

Appleby lowered the glasses for a moment as their quarry disappeared. Langland took them firmly from him.

"Then that's the time to watch," he said firmly. "We want to know where he goes next."

Evidently he was studying the cutting minutely. Appleby waited. Without the glasses he could see no sign of Barndon.

"I don't see him," Langland admitted, "but I think I understand the game. When we saw him he was just coming back from attaching the first of his white rags in the right-hand cutting. He's putting the other in the second cutting, and is going to look down upon the proceedings from above. If anything is wrong, he bolts back to his car just below. I don't see how anyone could get him unless they'd watched the whole business."

"And how do we?" Appleby demanded and glanced at his watch. "The train must be nearly due to leave. If we stop the car, he'll see. He might hide or destroy the package. We can't get close—"

Langland moved towards the car. "There's just one place," he said, "where we could slow down long enough to let one of us drop off. Right under one of the bridges... No doubt he's got glasses and will watch any car. You lie down in the back seat, and drop off as soon as I slow down. I'll drive the car straight on, circle round and block the other road. Don't bother about him. Try and get to his car without being seen. We've just time—"

There was no chance to argue the point. Besides, it seemed the only plan. Appleby obediently crouched in the back seat. If Barndon were watching it would look as though the car had only one occupant, both before and after passing under the bridge. He dare not peep out. A thought crossed his mind.

"Tell him the game's up, scare the life out of him, and get a signed confession," Langland said promptly. "And then—well, it might invalidate the confession, but we're not using that anyhow. Didn't I see an ash plant in the back of the car? I'd suggest an application of that, and an intimation to clear out of town at the earliest possible moment."

"He'll be disappointed. But one needn't tell him. And what the eye don't see—" Langland laughed. "One thing's a bit awkward. His bolting may make Darwin think he's the murderer. Better give him a little grace."

"He's not... Get ready. We're pretty close. Only he may know something about Wimborne's death. Because he seems to have been sure enough he wouldn't come back to try this game... Look out—"

Appleby had the door ready. The slowing of the car was his signal. He jumped. Langland had only slowed down just enough, and he fell sprawling as the car proceeded up the hill. Anyone watching from the cutting could not have guessed that anyone had got off. As Appleby picked himself up he heard a distant whistle. The train was coming.

There was not a minute to waste. As they descended the hill he had roughly mapped out a possible line of approach; but it proved easier in theory than in practice. Dodging behind diminutive gorse and willow bushes and scrambling along ditches he had not half covered the distance between the two roads when the train puffed by only a few yards from where he lay. He peered through the grass and caught a glimpse of Patricia at the window of one of the rear carriages. She was staring out anxiously, presumably just having seen the first of the white signals.

It was only a glimpse, but it spurred Appleby on. He must get to the car before Barndon returned. And, after all, he had every chance. Probably the other would wait a little while before descending to retrieve the parcel. Even then the distance from the top of the cutting to the car was not much less than that which he himself would have to cover. Encouraged by the thought that Barndon's attention would momentarily have been distracted by the throwing of the parcel he put on a spurt, keeping his eyes fixed on the cutting. A minute or two later he drew a breath of relief as he caught the gleam of the car's windscreen.

Here was the car, but where was Barndon? He crawled forward cautiously, reached it, and crouched by the side, well hidden from view. Perhaps the swindler had waited longer than he would have expected before retrieving the parcel. Appleby was almost certain that he had not been seen, but the waiting seemed abnormally long. He drew a breath of relief when at last Barndon appeared.

This time he was near enough for Appleby to be sure it was Barndon. He was still clutching the package in one hand, while with the other he was stuffing something white into his pocket. Evidently his idea was to leave no traces. His direction was not towards the car but towards the second cutting, and for a moment Appleby was puzzled. Then it occurred to him. Barndon was going to remove the other signal.

Silly or not, the move put him in a quandary. Evidently his quarry felt secure, but would that feeling survive the opening of the dummy packet? Finding no notes, he would suspect a trap at once. He would destroy the packet; might even abandon the car. And now that he was going in this new direction, Langland would be in no position to cut him off.

After a moment's hesitation, Appleby decided to follow. The other was not exercising any particular care. Evidently any suspicions he might have had were quite lulled. He might have criminal instincts, Appleby reflected, but he would never be an artist in crime. Most of the time he was in full view; but all at once he disappeared into a clump of gorse. Appleby had to wait. It should have taken Barndon a few seconds to emerge. Half a minute passed, and there was no sign of him.

Appleby began to be worried. The delay, he thought, could only mean that Barndon was opening the packet of notes. At any moment he might bolt. Where the devil was Langland? And then it flashed across his mind that it didn't matter where Langland was. Barndon was no Hercules; probably he wasn't armed. Certainly, even giving him a start, Appleby could run him down. He jumped to his feet and sprinted for the bushes, shouting as he ran.

But Barndon gave no sign, either of answering or of taking to flight. A moment later Appleby saw why, when he reached the gap which Barndon had entered. In the middle of a circle of the bushes there was a little space of bright green grass, cropped close by the rabbits. Barndon was lying there in full view, sprawled awkwardly on his face.

He was kneeling beside the prostrate man in a moment. It was only then he saw the ghastly wound in the throat. Here was no doubt about it.

Was it suicide? His eyes were reaching automatically for a weapon when he heard a step behind him. He had no time to turn round. Something struck him on the head, and he fell forward on to the body of the murdered man.

CHAPTER XVIII
Patricia on the Train

AS the monotonous lines of telegraph poles flashed by, Patricia's mind was in a tumult of mixed emotions. It was all so puzzling. In spite of herself, she felt horribly nervous, and more than a little sorry that she had not accepted Gressett's offer to accompany her. If only there had been someone else in the carriage it would have been better. But that would have been ridiculous. Apart from the fact that the innocent person might have been a kidnapper in disguise, her actions in staring at the telegraph posts and throwing out the package might have excited more notice than she wished. But with a friend there the suspense would not have been so intolerable.

Why had Gressett not come back? And why had she heard nothing from Appleby and Langland? She had not the slightest idea whether the trap had been set or not, and as she thought it over the fact made her horribly nervous. Supposing they had been mistaken? Suppose that there had really been kidnappers and the demand for ransom was genuine?

She glanced down at the packet in her hand. It looked convincing enough, but of course the people who picked it up would open it at once. And if her father had really been kidnapped, what would they do? She might have hoaxed them without the chance of entrapping them. For a moment she wished that she had called the inspector. Then she shook the thought from her. Of course it was all right.

It seemed to her that she had been in the train a terribly long time. Could she have missed the signal? But, after all, they had only come a short distance, and the kidnapper was not likely to choose anywhere near the town. It was her nerves that made her think that they had been a long time. She glanced at her watch. It was only five minutes since they had left the station.

All at once she found herself wishing that she had had nothing to do with the whole business; that she had never inserted the advertisement. If it was a hoax, what did it matter? She had no special wish to put Barndon in gaol, now that the first anger of the idea had worn off. That had been why she had made Appleby promise. But would it be possible for him to keep his promise? She felt utterly weary and bewildered. For a moment her eyes almost closed. Then she remembered. And it was only just in time. She saw the first signal flash by.

She was on her feet in a second looking back. There was no doubt of it. A fair-sized piece of clean cloth had been pinned to the pole about five feet up, in such a position that her fears of missing it had been quite unnecessary. But she must be on the look out for the next. Probably it would not be very far. The intention of the first rag had been to make sure she should not miss the second. She held the package in her hand.

They emerged from the cutting into the open. It seemed to her that the train was slowing down. That might be awkward. Supposing it stopped accidentally just at the critical moment? Her heart jumped as she saw a flash of white ahead as they entered the second cutting. In an instant the matter was beyond doubt. She lifted her hand and threw the packet in the direction of the post.

It was only then she realised that she should have weighted it. She had, indeed, made the false notes into a sufficiently firm parcel; but scarcely weighty enough to resist the wind of the train. Looking back, she saw it travel some distance in their wake before it came to a rest. Then it was out of sight.

She still continued to look back. There had been no sign of anyone to pick up the notes. But then, she had never expected the person to be standing by the track holding up his hands to catch when she threw. All the same, there was something wrong. The train was certainly going more slowly, but it was not that.

The words were spoken aloud as realisation came to her. What she had missed when she had looked out of the window was the luggage van. It should have been there, obstructing her view of the flying package. But it had not been. There had been the coach in which she was travelling and that was all.

They had not stopped. And they had not left it in the station. She looked out of the window. It was certainly gone. And it must have been only a short time ago; for she had seen it as they rounded a curve, and wondered if the guard would be sufficiently on the alert to notice the package. Then a startling idea flashed on her mind. Suppose the kidnappers had travelled in it, and had somehow managed to detach it at the proper place? Precisely at that moment the train stopped.

A sudden idea came to her. If that was really what had happened, it was very likely that Appleby and Langland had missed the trail. They could never have foreseen anything of the kind. In that case, no one could follow them, except herself. They would have no car. She would at least be able to keep in touch with them and find out where they went. She glanced out. Several heads were poking out of the windows, but luckily they were all looking towards the front of the train, where the shouting of the driver or someone else indicated that they had just discovered something was wrong. She opened the door and dropped lightly on to the metals. Next moment she was running back through the cutting.

Approaching the place where the signal had been she slowed down and crept forward quietly, keeping out of sight as much as possible. But she need not have troubled. The packet had gone, so had the handkerchief, or whatever it had been. She was too late. Momentarily the thought brought her to a standstill; then she realised that in fact it should urge her to greater haste. Whoever had picked up the package must be just near at hand. She started to run and in her haste had almost gone too quickly. As the cutting came to an end, someone emerged suddenly from a clump of bushes just below on the hillside, and started downwards.

There was something familiar about the figure. She was sure of that. But it was only the briefest of glimpses which was allowed her. Next moment the stranger was again hidden. She was hesitating, uncertain whether she dare climb the wire fence and follow or not, when a new interruption made her pause. Footsteps were approaching along the metalling of the first cutting.

They were queer footsteps, hesitant and indistinct. Once she caught the sound of a human voice, but it was making no intelligible sound. She stood gazing in a kind of horrified fascination, wondering what kind of being would emerge. She would have liked to run, but her legs refused to move. She could not even scream. Then it came.

All her imagination had pictured nothing quite so odd as the reality. It was a well preserved, well-developed specimen of English railway guard, slightly damaged, as a little blood on his forehead showed, and more than a little impeded in his movements. A mail bag, emptied of its contents, encased his legs, making his progress an unsteady kind of sack-race, all the more so since his hands were tied behind him. There was a gag in his mouth and he had lost his cap.

At the sight of Patricia he rolled his eyes, took a more ambitious hop than was wise, and sprawled headlong.

Patricia forgot about the kidnappers. She was at his side in a moment, struggling with the gag. It had been tied with something like a professional thoroughness, but at last it yielded. The guard drew a deep breath and sat upright.

"Don't speak yet." Patricia felt for the knife. The gag, another piece of mail bag, had been cruelly tight, as the man's bruised lips and swollen tongue testified. As she cut his bonds and he stood up she forgot her own injunction. "But—but—what happened?"

"Bloody bandits!" the guard said savagely. He was evidently a man of strong temper when roused. "Sorry, miss," he apologised. "They knocked me out... I found myself tied like you saw and the van stopped there. Rolled out on to the track and came along—"

The guard seemed more angry than damaged after all. It occurred to Patricia that all was not yet lost. There was still a chance, now she had help, of catching whoever it had been whom she had seen going down the hill. She had ceased to worry about calling in the police. And, in any case, it had certainly not been Barndon whom she had seen.

"The hell there is!" The guard's face was red with anger. "Sorry, miss, but—where?"

"If we go carefully, we've a chance yet," Patricia enjoined. "If we see him in the distance, we can follow, and find where he goes and what happens to him—"

"I'll show him what'll happen to him if I catch him," the guard said darkly. "Took me unawares he did, er— Right, miss!"

It was with something of the combined stealth and fury of a lioness deprived of her young that the guard followed her, to a point from which they could look down in the direction where she had last seen the man. But he seemed to have vanished completely. Of course, she reflected, he had had several minutes while she was releasing the guard; and her hope of catching him had been an extravagant piece of optimism. Suddenly the guard gave something like a bellow of rage.

He had started to climb the fence before she saw what had caused the exclamation. A man had just emerged from the gorse; but at the first glimpse she was sure it was not the one whom she had seen a few minutes before. He staggered slightly as he stepped out into the open and then, as if faint, stopped and stood swaying gently. In that very instant she recognised him. It was Appleby.

The guard was evidently in no mood to make distinctions; or to notice that his proposed victim had suffered a similar fate to his own. Patricia clambered through the wire and dashed down the slope towards them.

Appleby turned towards her at her cry of warning, and she saw the red mark on his temple. A look of blank astonishment came on his face, at the sight of Patricia pursuing the infuriated guard; then he seemed to realise that the man meant mischief. He turned to meet the danger, tried to assume a defensive attitude, and flopped to the ground. It was the one thing which saved him. The guard stood looking down at a loss as Patricia came up.

"Then what did he hit me for?" the guard inquired reasonably. "I'm on his panel."

It was obvious to Patricia that the guard himself was suffering from the result of the blow he had received; but at the moment she was not worrying about him. She knelt beside Peter and lifted his head.

"If he's pale," the guard suggested helpfully, "you raise his feet. Which he is. If he's red, his head. That's first aid. I learnt it—learnt it in—"

He stared round about vaguely. Patricia as a doctor's daughter knew enough about medicine to realise that he must be on the point of becoming unconscious himself.

Obviously there was no hope now of catching the man who had knocked out two of them. With Peter and the guard, Patricia already felt that she had more than enough on her hands, but to her relief Peter was showing signs of returning consciousness. His eyes flickered a little then opened properly.

"I don't know... I found him—Barndon. Then someone knocked me on the head. I went out for a few minutes. Then you were running down the hill—"

There was quite a crowd of people coming from the direction of the cutting. Langland's tall figure was unmistakable; there was a man dressed like an engine driver and a couple of policemen. But there was also a woman, a plump, motherly figure running with little tripping steps. Only Patricia recognised her.

Langland's long legs brought him to them first. "What happened?" he demanded urgently. "Where is he?"

"Oh, no... Not Barndon, definitely... You see, I know where he is. It was someone else—"

"In those bushes there... But his throat's cut... It was someone else who knocked me out—"

"Oh," he said with unnatural calm. "There's been a murder as well as a couple of ordinary casualties, has there? I see.... But where's the murderer?"

As if in answer, the grinding jar of a self-starter reached their ears. Appleby suddenly understood. He sat upright and pointed.

He sank back with a groan as Langland and the policemen made a fruitless dash forward. Next moment the car shot out on to the roadway and started up the hill.

CHAPTER XIX
Darwin Clears Up

DARWIN was feeling irritated. Barndon had acted with a degree of precipitancy which he could hardly have expected; Langland and Appleby had let him down; and, just to cap matters, things had come to a head when the Superintendent was present and he could not be found. From the point of view of catching Barndon that did not matter. The Superintendent had mobilised police in a way Darwin would hardly have dared, and if the swindler got away, it would not be because, in half an hour, the isolated spot he had chosen would not be receiving the fullest attentions of the police. In fact, Darwin reflected, it would be a rallying point for miles around.

There was a note for Darwin and he flushed as he read it. At times his superior could be unjust, and this was one of the times. He would make amends later, of course, but as he read two sentences of it he was just sufficiently annoyed to be tempted.

"No doubt you have more important things to do than bother about a mere kidnapping and extortion case. If so, don't let me disturb you—"

He was resisting temptation, but he succumbed just enough not to dash off at once, but to look through a few further reports on the Wimborne case which were awaiting him. After all, the Wimborne case was more important, and if the Superintendent thought Barndon's ransom demand really meant he had kidnapped Wimborne, that was his mistake. There were plenty of police to deal with Barndon without him, and in any case he would be too late. And, secretly, he felt it would be rather a score for him if he found the murderer while the Superintendent, after turning out the whole police force in the district, only got such small beer as Barndon.

The Superintendent's expedition had depleted the available staff horribly; but he had left one man on the river bank. To him Darwin sent instructions to look for traces of the car. From guarding Millshall's garage he withdrew the solitary detective he seemed to have left and substituted a traffic policeman. He had glanced through the first two or three reports by the time the exchange was made, and after explaining a few details which he wanted cleared up, recalled him just as he was going.

"By the way," he said, "you made this inquiry about Field's and Milton's whereabouts, didn't you? What exactly was wrong?"

"Well, sir, it was Field's manner more than anything else. He was most uncomfortable... And, as you see, Milton's explanation was that he'd been out with a girl, and was damned if he was going to give her name. In fact, he'd no proof whatever."

"Chivalry, perhaps," Darwin commented. "But Gressett vouched for Field, didn't he?"

"Oh, yes... I rather gathered he'd had more than was good for him. That was his trouble, sir."

"But he was sober enough to vouch for Gressett," Darwin said ruminatively. "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours, eh?"

Darwin was not so sure. As he let the detective go he felt he would like another word or two with that young man; but it would have to wait. After Langland's confession that morning he had found time to glance at Wimborne's case book. Certainly that entry was suspicious, but, if it was a forgery, it was a first-class piece of work. Could a young man in Gressett's position be expected to have achieved such excellence? He doubted it. But then, would Field, or Milton, or Ealksly even? And none of them had any apparent motive for doing it.

He broke the seal of the last report absently. It was a routine inquiry he had put through to London the day before; but until that moment he had scarcely bothered about the answer. Now, as he saw what it was, he read it with quickening interest. He had scarcely finished the last page before he jumped to his feet.

"We'd better, then—oh, hell!" He realised abruptly that there was no one who could be put on except another traffic policeman. For a moment he was completely at a loss. And it was then he succumbed to the temptation he had felt when he read the Superintendent's note.

"If the Superintendent comes before I am back, would you say I am acting on the instruction in his note?" he said blandly, and went out.

It was a risk, undoubtedly, though how big a risk he did not know at the time. But just at that moment he thought he saw his way clear and he had made up his mind to act on his hunch. He was on the way to Gressett's house when he saw Dr. Ealksly, and pulled up the car so suddenly that he nearly caused a collision with the one behind him. Ealksly looked his surprise, but his glance was not without suspicion.

"Just one question, doctor," Darwin said. "I think you were called out the night Wimborne went away. Was it a serious case?"

"Yes. Desperate maternity case, I gathered. I dragged a nurse out of bed and waited for a car they'd send—as they said. It never came. Took my own. There wasn't such a case that I could find. Anyway, there were no deaths next morning. Or births either."

"I see." Darwin's face was impassive, but he thought he saw a great deal. "By the way, I suppose you never attended Wilder."

Ealksly frowned. It was one of the cases he had lost to Wimborne when his dubious bedside manner had given offence.

"Angina my aunt!" Ealksly said rudely. "Indigestion. Wind. Wimborne kidded him, of course, but—well, he's dead."

"They're both dead," Darwin pointed out, "and Wimborne's certificate said angina."

It had been a revealing conversation. He had quite settled in his mind now that Wimborne's death had not been due to any personal motive. Ealksly had been called out, but the murderer had made a bad shot. Appleby had been called, and had hurried too much. They had been lucky the third time with Wimborne. That was how it must work out. And, in that case, who could have a professional motive? Gressett was his favourite. There must be something fishy about Wilder's death, and the person with the most motive was his nephew. If it had been suicide, he might well have wanted to conceal it. It did not follow that he had intended to murder Wimborne. It might have become necessary following a quarrel. And the certificate? Darwin thought he knew about that.

He was only a little disappointed to hear that Gressett was out, though it gave him a slightly nervous twinge. Supposing he had bolted? But Gressett had not looked like bolting. He accepted the maid's suggestion that he might see Mr. Gressett's sister. And he really wanted to see her, too. She was an elusive lady, who probably had little to do with the business, but there was one point where she might have been helpful.

The maid had returned to say she would be down at once, and was leaving him to wait in the drawing-room when Darwin asked casually:

"Oh, no, sir. He was meeting the train his sister was on. He came back with her. He's only just gone out—"

"Ah." Darwin said and stopped on the point of another question as Gressett's sister duly entered.

With some satisfaction he noted that there was very little family likeness, either to Wilder or to Gressett. Evidently she had been more upset by her uncle's death than his nephew; for she was very pale, and had evidently been crying.

"I really came to see your brother," he explained. "In any case, I scarcely expected to find you at home. I understand you were away."

"I came back—I've just come back. My brother met me and brought me home. He won't be long—I'm almost sure he won't—" She hesitated. "But of course, I can't say. He might meet a friend—"

"There was—there was the funeral. I left—after that. A friend asked me— My brother's here!"

There was a world of relief in her voice. Darwin was relieved, too; but he wished Gressett had postponed his return a few minutes. Because, upon reflection, he did not at that moment want to alarm Gressett by asking the questions to which he most needed answers. He wanted to be sure Gressett did not bolt; to clinch one point which was a vital link in his theory. The most useful thing he could do about Gressett just then was to calm him down.

"I suppose you've heard the news?" he said. "I mean about the discovery of Dr. Wimborne's body in the river. It pretty well clinches the case against Bilsdy, doesn't it? That was what you said to Dr. Appleby."

"Yes." There was a suggestion of constraint in Gressett's manner for a moment. He paused for a brief space; then smiled apologetically. "I'd meant to call myself, inspector. But you'll understand that we've had a good deal of trouble... It was about that you called?"

It seemed to Darwin that there was a curious note in his voice; but he could not imagine why.

"Mainly," he assented casually. "I just thought I'd like your impressions—and to take a few notes of them."

Darwin faithfully noted the other's account of what had happened; but his mind was busy elsewhere. It was evidently not what Gressett had expected. So far that was all to the good—if he could keep Gressett calm. And Gressett seemed calm, if puzzled. It was right at the end of their interview that he sprang his bombshell.

"To be quite candid, inspector, I thought you'd come about something else... I'm not sure if I ought to mention it, but—I've just come back from driving Miss Wimborne to the station..."

Darwin knew that they had reached the crux of the interview. But he did not for the life of him know exactly what line would keep Gressett in the greatest peace of mind.

"I brought off the double event. Took Miss Wimborne and met her. Beryl was coming back by the train Miss Wimborne left on."

Miss Wimborne hasn't gone away? Darwin tried to put the right amount of surprise into his voice.

Darwin mentally decided that he had. "Yes," he said stiffly. "But I'm afraid she hadn't confidence in our ability to deal with the matter."

"She went to pay the ransom to-day," Gressett announced. "Or rather to pretend to pay it. Appleby and Langland were to try to catch the swindler... Of course, the news of the discovery of the body hadn't come through. I had wondered if either of the others had heard in time to warn you—"

"Good heavens." Darwin affected to be disturbed. "And I've not been to the station since before lunch. Perhaps—if you'll excuse me, I'll go at once."

Something in Gressett's manner showed that he had done exactly the right thing. But Gressett's relief and his own bewilderment were about equal as he took his leave. Still, as long as Gressett did not bolt—

The Superintendent was not at the station, but somewhat to his surprise the Chief Constable was, and Darwin was ushered into his presence with a promptitude which might have been alarming, if he had not been sure of his ground. In answer to a curt question which was evidently the beginning of something worse, Darwin told the result of his investigations.

"So," he said very coldly, "you think that, with the help of an exhumation, a search warrant for Gressett's house, and expert examination of the death certificate and case book you'd have sufficient evidence?"

"I'm sure I should, sir," Darwin replied confidently. But something in the Chief Constable's manner chilled him. "Of course, I had to ask for the exhumation and warrant." He waited for some comment, but none came. "I maintain my theory explains everything, sir."

"Does it?" His superior's voice was grim. "Then explain this. Gressett took his sister back home after meeting the 1.15 train. That took him—how long?"

Yes. And the maid says so. And his sister says so. Perhaps you can explain, if he murdered Wimborne, how he was murdering someone else several miles away at half-past one?"

Darwin moistened his lips. What had been a minor piece of semi-disobedience, excusable by results, had suddenly become serious.

"But I'm sure—I'm positive Gressett killed Wimborne... Perhaps Barndon—someone else—"

"Absurd. It's against all the probabilities. And besides, we know the same man killed Wimborne."

Darwin racked his brains to see why. Of course, it was likely. It had been the merest desperation which had prompted him to say anything else. But he could not see how they could know.

"We know because Wimborne's violet pen was found near the scene of the crime, and in the one place where Barndon could not possibly have dropped it."

"But—he could have dropped it anywhere. He was all over the place this morning—"

"In the luggage van... You'd better go and lend a hand now. I'll see you later."

CHAPTER XX
The Usefulness of Aunts

IT was a distinctly contrite trio which greeted Inspector Darwin when he arrived at the house that night. He himself was far from cheerful, and the only person who maintained her accustomed placidity was Patricia's aunt who, apart from looking up and smiling a welcome, paid no attention to the proceedings at all. Patricia, who had stood the double shock of the discovery of her father's body and her adventure with Barndon surprisingly well, was the first to express what all three of them felt.

"We want to say that we're sorry, inspector," she apologised. "I realise now that we should have told you.... If we had—" She broke off and shivered a little. "I want to say it was all my fault. I made Dr. Appleby promise not to tell you."

"So I rather gathered," Darwin answered. "I wasn't sure if you were scared of the kidnapping threat or what... In any case, you didn't do much harm. You see, your idea of keeping out the police was nonsense—I mean, it couldn't work. Dr. Appleby knew I'd put a man on to watch him. We knew the place before you did, and what train you'd gone by as soon as you left. The only trouble from my point of view was that I was out of reach at the time—"

Darwin hesitated, but he felt the need of talking to someone. He succumbed to Patricia's persuasion and gave a guarded account of his reception at the police station.

"In fact," Langland summed up, "everyone was a bit hot under the collar... An unfortunate state of mind, inspector, for that icy, logical calm needed for investigation.... And how do things stand now?"

Darwin looked round the circle. "You'll understand, if a word of all this gets out even by accident, it means the end of me," he warned them. "Well, it's like this. The Chief Constable and Superintendent are inclined to sneer at my theory about Gressett because he couldn't have killed Barndon—but they're not sneering very hard, because they can't find anyone better. Also, if I wasn't there to help, it was through the Superintendent's cordon that the man got away."

"Just how?" Appleby asked. "The place seemed thick with police just afterwards."

"Yes. We were guarding the roads. But whoever it was knew the country too well. Before he got to the cordon, he goes up a country lane into a farmyard, and slides for about a mile over the meadows by cart track, coming out on another road. The farmer saw the car, of course, but that was no good. Anyway, it was found abandoned on the outside of the town. I suppose he walked in. Or took a bus."

Langland nodded. "But, at that notice, it would be hard to close every cart track," he said. "We mustn't blame the Superintendent any more than you... All the same, passion clouds the judgment. I'd be rather interested to hear what you've got against Gressett myself. How did you get on to him?"

"Very largely through what you and Dr. Appleby said," Darwin admitted. "First of all, about there being professional reasons why a doctor should be murdered—" He glanced at Patricia anxiously and went on. "By the way, I had some interesting confirmation of that later. Ealksly's call was a false alarm, too!"

"On these lines, it seemed to me that Millshall and Gressett were the most likely. You see, there'd been a death in both families. But Gressett seemed the more suspicious, because Dr. Wimborne hadn't mentioned that Wilder died. When we found that Bilsdy couldn't have done it, I won't deny that I thought Dr. Langland's idea worth looking into. It seemed to me that it might be essentially right up to a point, but go off the rails afterwards. Or I don't exactly mean essentially right. I mean that the condition of Wilder's business played some part in it."

"You didn't seem very keen on what we did last night?" Langland grinned. "Why not? Wasn't it useful?"

"It may be... I'll admit I thought you'd gone rather too far. Now I'm not sure you went far enough."

"I'd better give you the idea as a whole... First, the reason for Dr. Wimborne's death was professional—proved by the calls to you, sir, and Dr. Ealksly. Secondly, that Gressett was the most likely person to have a professional reason for the murder. Suppose there was something wrong about Wilder's death—and you had proved that he'd died at any rate. Suppose he'd committed suicide. Now, apart from the fact that the firm was rocky, Gressett would have benefited from insurance — which wouldn't be payable in the case of suicide. So there's the motive—"

"But there might be another," Langland said. "It might have been murder. If Gressett and not Wilder had been pinching the cash, and Wilder found out—" A light dawned on him. "That was what you meant when you said we didn't go far enough? You think if we'd looked—"

"Exactly. I wish, while you were about it, you could have done a post mortem. You only saw his face for a minute by matchlight."

"I wish we could, too." Langland smiled. "But at midnight, when any moment the police may pinch you, it's asking a little too much of a couple of respectable doctors."

"No doubt. It would have been handy, though... I asked for one, and barring this business I'd have got it. As it is, they're inclined to think it's nonsense... Anyway, murder or suicide, there were reasons why Wilder's death might have had something funny about it. And the reason for wanting a doctor was to get a death certificate. My bet is that Wilder's death certificate, as well as that entry, are forgeries. I'm having these examined. But, I'd like to say, they're good forgeries. Very few people could have done them, and only that accident about the ink gave it away. The idea was, then, to extract a certificate from one of you three—by fair means if possible. Otherwise—"

He broke off and glanced at Patricia and her aunt. But Patricia was calm enough. She had grown used to horrors in the past few days. As for the aunt, she might not have been listening. He went on.

"Well, it was hardly to be expected that they'd get a certificate by fair means out of Wimborne. By describing a case on the point of death, they thought he would bring a certificate with him—"

"Not necessarily," Appleby objected. "It wouldn't look well to pull it out and say: 'Just a minute. It's all ready but the date.'"

"No. So perhaps, after all, Wimborne didn't carry a certificate and that was why they thought it necessary to burgle the surgery. Once there, it wasn't a bad plan to strengthen the position by filling in the case book. Gressett—I'm assuming it was him—hadn't reckoned to be caught, though he'd taken precautions. And, at that time, the idea was to give the idea that he wasn't dead at all. So, someone—perhaps the sister, who had been away, was sent up to London to send that wire—"

"Then, Wimborne must have had the certificate with him," Appleby suggested. "Or they couldn't have got the funeral through in time."

"They might have picked up a certificate anywhere. What they really wanted was that Dr. Wimborne shouldn't be able to say he never signed it... I believe he was killed just after leaving the house—"

"Is very shaky. The only man who really vouches for him seems to have been tight. I think he was asleep. I'm pretty sure he doesn't remember what happened. And Gressett was rather cunning about that—"

"I noticed that myself," Appleby intervened. "He was very insistent on proving Field's alibi. Of course, that proved his own."

"Exactly. I think he used Field's car—and scared him all the more into swearing they were together by suggesting how it might have been used. Now, at this time, they've no use for the dead body. They're relying on the mysterious disappearance idea. They bury it, or Gressett does because I'm not sure the sister played any part in the show at all beyond sending that wire. You see, at first they don't know just what has happened about Bilsdy. Gressett does mention Bilsdy, but he's just as keen on making Millshall utter a lot of threats. And on incriminating Barndon, Field, Milton, or anyone else. But when Bilsdy's found in the river, with that note, it alters things entirely. The river suddenly comes into prominence as the right place for the body, because it can safely be found there. He digs it up and puts it in."

Appleby opened his mouth to speak, but did not. He felt that Darwin had had enough to bear without learning of his omission regarding the strange car.

"He's a sensible criminal. He prefers using other people's cars. While he hopes Bilsdy will be blamed, if anything slips up he may as well be ready to put the blame on Millshall junior—or senior for that matter. He burgles their garage (and a child could do it), uses the car and puts it back, deliberately leaving the traces."

"Yes. But just how would you have proved all this? You'll excuse my saying that it's still largely the theory you objected to on our part."

"My difficulty was," Darwin explained, "that I didn't want to frighten him until I could really bring it home. When I went to see him to-day, I realised that, if he was guilty, he was bound to take alarm at all the questions I wanted him to answer."

"I don't know. There was something on his mind. But I'm inclined to think it was only this ransom business... As regards evidence, we ought to examine both cars—Millshall's and Field's—very carefully. Both Millshall's, in fact—he's got a saloon as well. Then I'd like a chance to look at the books of the firm—but I don't see how I'll get it, unless Millshall consents. I'd want an exhumation on Wilder, and a post mortem, of course. If death wasn't natural, it would be a strong point. The forgeries—if they are forgeries—will have to be examined. And finally, I'd get a warrant and search the house and grounds."

"That was the programme you outlined to the Chief Constable? And very nice, too... But he thought to-day rather knocked things on the head?"

"Yes. If to-day's murder was committed by the same person, and Gressett didn't commit it, it knocks him out. Anyhow, we'd have to explain the fountain pen."

"All the same, it seems to me Gressett's got a good deal to explain," Appleby insisted. His head was aching, and he could only follow the conversation with difficulty.

"Perhaps," Langland smiled. "But the one thing he's really got to explain is why he didn't meet Miss Wimborne's aunt."

"No doubt he will... But, if he's knocked out, and Bilsdy, who is left? Ealksly, Milton, Field—there's nothing very much against any of them. The Millshalls—father and son? But they're both ruled out so far as to-day is concerned—or I think so."

"He's supposed to be under supervision... And that's the lot. There's no case against anyone."

"You're forgetting Appleby!" Langland grinned. "I don't agree with you, though, inspector. I think, with a little trouble, you'll find you've a perfectly good case... What d'you think, Appleby?"

"I think this is—is beastly!" Patricia broke out suddenly. "When he's been proved innocent, to go on talking like this. Why should you be so suspicious and unjust to him?"

"Miss Wimborne's quite right," he said. "It's no use talking any more like this.... Are you coming, inspector?"

Darwin rose in sympathy. He had no desire to be in any rows which he could avoid after the day he had had. Appleby made a movement, but he was forestalled. Patricia's aunt intervened suddenly, speaking for the first time.

"Oh, you really can't stay to supper?" she asked. "I'm sure you will, at least, Dr. Appleby. You can't all desert us.... That's right... Don't get up, darling. I'll show your friends out. Then I'll see about supper—"

Appleby was frowning, but he subsided into his chair. Langland grinned as the door closed behind them.

"Smart work, that," he commented. "Shows herself and us out at once, keeps Appleby and leaves them to fight it out... It shows how useful aunts are. I've always had a great respect for them as a body."

"Not at all, inspector. I left to cheer you up by giving you a case again... If you can spare half an hour—"

Left alone, Patricia and Peter Appleby were not exactly fighting. Both of them, actually, were feeling too miserable. The strain of the past few days was telling on Patricia, and the very courage with which she had met the double shock of the finding of her father's body and the Barndon affair was now having its reaction. Appleby's head felt muddled. He would have liked to go to bed, and was vaguely angry that just that moment should be chosen for a quarrel. He put a hand wearily to his head. Patricia saw it, and her eyes softened.

Appleby seized at the change of mood. "It's nothing," he denied. "I'm sorry, Patricia, if I hurt you. But my head feels so muddled—"

She was by his side in a moment. "You'd better lie back," she said and put a cool hand on his forehead. Certainly it was hot, but Appleby did not exactly feel an invalid. It was to temptation rather than weakness that he gave way as he obeyed. "Is that better?"

"A lot." He smiled. "I suppose you think I'm a jealous beast, Patricia. Perhaps I am... But you know why—"

The other hand was on the couch beside him. Appleby reached towards it, but there was an interruption. Patricia's aunt opened the door noisily.

"You've another visitor, dear—Mr. Gressett," she announced with remarkable calm. "He particularly wants to see you—"

Gressett, in fact, had followed her. It was hard to say just how much of the tableau he had witnessed. Appleby rose to his feet feeling a fool, and the two faced each other, rather like a pair of fighting cocks. But Gressett smiled placatingly.

"I hope your head's better, doctor?" he said politely. "I shan't trouble you for long.... The fact is, I've an apology to make to Patricia—a double apology—"

Appleby was not sure whether a double meaning was intended or not. Patricia, obviously worried, gave him no time to take offence.

"First, for a betrayal of confidence... I'm afraid I told the inspector about Barndon's letters when he came to see me... I think as it happened it was just as well as I did; though I didn't know at the time—you see, we hadn't heard—"

"I was very glad you did," Patricia answered. "We realised afterwards that it wasn't right."

"Though, of course, you couldn't foresee what happened... Also, I failed in a duty I had undertaken... I didn't succeed in meeting your aunt. For that I owe you both an apology—"

Something stirred in Appleby's brain. He straightened himself and faced Gressett grimly.

CHAPTER XXI
Letter from the Dead

THE inspector walked by Langland's side quite meekly until they had almost reached the end of the avenue. He was thinking hard but, try as he would, he could not see any new suspect against whom a case could possibly be made in so limited a space as half an hour. In this respect the killing of Barndon seemed even to have made things more difficult. For, now, Bilsdy was out of it; Gressett was out of it; Barndon himself; the younger Millshall was supposed to be under supervision for a mental breakdown, and he had himself occupied the time of Millshall senior until it would be practically impossible for him to have got there in time. Practically, but not quite. He had gone to Millshall's house afterwards and spent some time there. Thinking it over, he decided Millshall senior was still possible.

Millshall senior, then, Milton, Field, Ealksly—he groaned as he went through the list. None of them seemed in the least probable; to one, at least he had hardly paid any attention. Perhaps Langland proposed to spring Milton or Field on him as a dark horse? He toyed with the idea and rejected it. And there seemed to be no one else.

"If you can give me a case against any of these in half an hour," he said desperately, "you'll have worked a miracle. Even if it is one of them we shall never prove it without the devil of a lot of hard work. It's hard work that's wanted, now, I think. Checking where everyone's been gathering every scrap of information, and trying to estimate its value—"

"Particularly the last. And making sure that it's correct. You'll admit that you've hardly done that in several cases?"

"Well—say young Millshall. I gather you say he's under supervision. How do you know? His father told you! And, if Millshall is guilty, his father almost certainly knew and sent the wire from London. Of course, Millshall would say his son was so looked after that he couldn't do anything. What would you expect?"

"No. In that case it does look as though he was preparing the way, doesn't it. Still, you hadn't checked it; you haven't even got the specialist's name. Of course, I don't say it is young Millshall. He was just an example. There are others."

Thinking it over, Darwin decided that there were. But then, what could one do with a limited staff in three or four days? One had to concentrate in some given direction. He wished that Langland would come out into the open. At last he decided to try a fresh bait.

"Ealksly admitted that that call of his wasn't genuine," he said. "So there'd be no patient to say he was there—"

"But there was the nurse. And weren't you yourself talking to Ealksly somewhere about the time Barndon was being killed? Besides, for that matter, the same ground of suspicion attaches to Appleby."

Langland laughed. "In fact, now I come to think of it, Appleby's one of the few people who could have killed Barndon!"

"Of course he could. He'd got the best chance of anyone. On his story, Barndon disappeared into a clump of gorse and didn't come out. We're intended to suppose that the murderer was already there. But no one saw the murderer except Appleby—and he didn't see him. He felt him—got knocked out, and so, conveniently can't describe what happened."

"Perhaps. It's not much worse that what you said about Ealksly. In fact, in some ways it's better."

"It looks as if that might be a match—Dr. Appleby and Patricia Wimborne," he said conversationally. "It would be a good thing, too. She's borne up wonderfully during all this."

"And you're a believer in the healing effect of marriage... Perhaps you're right. If she doesn't decide to marry her father's murderer." Langland's voice was suddenly quite serious. "It certainly has been hard for her. What I'm afraid of is that when we do find out the murderer it may be still harder. She's lost one person she was fond of by death. It would be almost worse if she had to hate another for killing her father—"

"Well, whichever it is in our list of suspects she knows him or her, and with some of them she's pretty friendly."

Darwin gave it up. He was silent, not to say sulky, until he realised all at once that they were turning into the road where Gressett lived. He looked at Langland in surprise.

"Not yet. Just at the moment, he's one of the people I do not want to see. But I've a lot of patients here, and it's a fine evening. Some of them may very well be out having an after-dinner pipe or picking the slugs from the tobacco plants. Ah, here is one, in fact. We'll try him."

"Good evening, doctor." Langland's patient of a day or two greeted him as they passed. "No news of Wimborne? I mean, who did it? People are saying—"

"Well, I should say the most obvious person was Bilsdy," Langland said non-committally. "But that's the affair of the police. By the way is Mrs. Mr. Gressett's sister back yet? I was going to call there when she came."

"Think so." He turned and spoke to someone who was hidden by an arbour. "Mary, Beryl's back, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes. How silly of me. Her brother told me he was meeting the one-fifteen train."

"But he didn't—unless she'd dropped him on the way. She was driving herself—" the head of the speaker poked round the arbour. "Good evening. I thought it was you, doctor... Yes, I saw her arrive myself. But it's no good going there to-night. They're both out. I saw them pass."

Darwin had not quite taken that in during the conversation. They had gone a yard or two before he burst out.

"Not necessarily lying, and not necessarily speaking the truth. You'll pardon my saying, Darwin, that at the police station this afternoon you weren't in a mood favourable to the exercise of cold reason. They were cross with you and wanted to find you were in the wrong. You knew you were partly at fault, and were afraid of being put in the wrong. So you both swallowed whole a story you would otherwise have tested. And at the moment there seems to be among the police a beautiful, but unjustified faith in one of the slimmest alibis I've ever struck."

"It was as good as you could expect," Darwin said defensively. "Of course, we hadn't followed it up—"

"No. Well, brood on it for a moment. It consists of a casual sentence spoken by the maid, and a conversation with Gressett's sister. But, if Gressett's guilty we've already cast his sister for the part of accomplice. So she would naturally be lying."

"I don't believe the maid was. She seemed perfectly honest and straightforward."

"I don't say she was lying. But was she speaking the truth? I mean, was she telling you something she knew for a fact, or just repeating a lie told her by her mistress? It would be so easy to do. 'Oh, Mr. Gressett's just gone out again for a few minutes. If anyone calls you might say he's gone out for ten minutes and will be back soon.' And the maid, if I know anything about them, would give it you just like that."

"Then—you mean that it is Gressett?" Darwin stared at him. "It's Gressett after all? And I was right—"

"I mean there's no reason it shouldn't have been. That lady who spoke just now is about the biggest gossip in town. She hardly ever errs in things of social interest of this kind. If she says Gressett didn't come, I'd sooner believe her than Gressett or his sister.... But we'll make sure. Knowing that they're out, we'll go and see if they're in."

"Hope they haven't bolted," Darwin said anxiously. "I was going to have him watched, but—"

"No. Gressett won't bolt. Or he'd have bolted before Barndon was killed. Doesn't another point strike you? We can hardly suppose the murder of Barndon was an accident—that the murderer just happened to meet him on a railway embankment after he'd borrowed a luggage van. But how many people knew where Barndon was? You don't suppose Barndon advertised it?"

"Yes. There is that—" Darwin said slowly. "Miss Wimborne had told him. No one else told anyone."

"When I say he knew where Barndon would be, that's not quite accurate. He didn't, any more than Miss Wimborne. But he knew where to find him, or rather how. And he knew it would be in a nicely isolated spot. But he had to go by train, not by road; because he had to spot the signals."

"Oh, no. That's why we'll see the maid... Or rather, why I will. Because you saw her this afternoon, and she gave you this piece of information. If you asked her again, or if I did while she was there, she might very well smell a rat and warn them somehow."

"Hardly. But you couldn't expect her to keep it back. Here we are. Will you wait a minute?"

It was tantalising for Darwin to have to watch from a distance when he would have liked to hear the conversation, but Langland was obviously right. He saw the maid shake her head. Langland was smiling pleasantly and apparently talking at random. But in his heart Darwin was already sure. He was inclined to kick himself for not having thought of it earlier. In any case, it looked as though he had a splendid come-back on the Superintendent and Chief Constable. It was only a minute or two before Langland returned. She didn't see them.

"That's O.K.," he said. "She heard them talking at the door—that could be faked. And her mistress said pretty well the actual words I suggested... 'Great minds—' So that's settled. Just like that. Of course, we've been lucky. If they'd been in we couldn't have asked; we should have had to fade away until another occasion. In the meantime, we'll try and find other witnesses of the arrival. I've no doubt the whole street is interested in the Gressett household since Wilder's death. His niece's return will certainly be an interesting piece of gossip to follow on her departure. Someone is sure to have noticed whether one or both arrived." He paused. "That's one point. The other is, what explanation will Gressett give of not having met the aunt?"

"Well, he might say that his sister wasn't well after the journey and that he took her straight home, leaving the aunt to her own devices. That would be pretty safe, and I hope he doesn't think of it... But he might say they waited for the aunt and somehow missed her in the crowd."

"That would be all right. Actually, she wasn't on the train. She got off when she heard Appleby and the policemen talking about Patricia. Simply insisted—"

"But, does Gressett know that the fireman of the 1.15 stopped the aunt's train as soon as they realised they'd lost their luggage van, in case it had been derailed? That the train came in half an hour late? That, in fact, if they had waited, they couldn't have got back before you went to see them?"

Darwin whistled. "I see," he said. "Well.... He might—" He thought for a moment. "What d'you think happened. Why should Gressett kill Barndon?"

"Because Barndon somehow knew he killed Wimborne... It would be quite typical of Barndon, you'll admit, to keep a little bit of information to himself and, perhaps, blackmail Gressett? On the other hand, if Barndon were caught in that kidnapping business, ten to one he'd talk to save his own skin. And Miss Wimborne told him that morning all about it. Immediately he finds some business to do and says he'll come back. His idea, I think, is to head off Barndon but he can't find him and daren't leave a note. So by the time he calls for Patricia, he's distinctly keyed up. He's got to stop Barndon one way or another; and, anyway, he's being blackmailed. He has a word with his sister about the alibi, dodges round, and slips into the luggage van. He knocks the guard out and, later, manages to uncouple it. But he doesn't realise that he's interrupted the vacuum brake circuit, and that the train will stop as well."

"Under certain circumstances it could. You'll have to inquire. If he'd not been able, of course, he'd have jumped off; but he might have hurt himself. Well, he kills Barndon all right, and, of course, he thinks there's only Langland and Appleby to deal with. He gets Barndon's car and a start, finds the police are in it, too, but shakes them off. He'd just about time to get home when he saw you."

"He must have the devil's own nerve," Darwin commented. "He was quite cool... A bit worried—"

"It would be enough to worry anyone to find a policeman there in view of what had happened... But he'd got to put a good face on it. And you were alone, and not looking very excited. He decided you weren't after him, and just afterwards you told him you didn't know a thing about it."

"Consider the alternatives. He could let Barndon be caught and say his piece. That was fatal. He'd tried to warn Barndon and failed. He might have bolted; but he was so confident that he'd made no preparations—and what would the chances have been for him and his sister to get out of the country? Not very good. By himself, he might have done it, but for both of them—!"

"I agree. They wouldn't have had a dog's chance... The sister was the weak point in his armour."

"Quite.... But, until this last business, not very weak. If she was upset, it was because of Wilder's death. She was well in the background; she could always go sick. His weakness was bound to be the killing of Barndon. Because that was difficult, done on the spur of the moment, and needed a lot of luck—"

"You're talking as though all this was proved," Darwin said gloomily. "That alibi may be as sound as a rock. Even now."

"Even when you're within an ace of being vindicated? Quite so... Hullo! Someone's waving to you."

Darwin looked across the street and recognised a local lawyer. He moved towards him.

"Good evening, inspector... I've just left a note for you. At the station... I don't know what's inside, but it may be urgent."

"No. It's like this. Barndon was a client of ours—not that we're proud of him. He left an envelope to be opened in the event of his death, and naturally I thought it was his will. I've been away all day, and only heard when I came back. So I went to the office—"

"Well, all there was in the envelope was another, addressed to you and marked 'urgent.'"

He showed a disposition to linger, perhaps waiting in the hope of learning the contents of the envelope; but Darwin did not gratify his curiosity.

"Thank you, sir," he said. "I'll look into it. If there's anything that concerns you I'll be round in the morning."

The lawyer turned away in some disappointment. Darwin gave a triumphant glance at Langland and raced towards the police station.

CHAPTER XXII
End of the Chase

FOR a moment Gressett stood staring at Appleby before he answered the question. It might have been well-bred surprise at the grim insistency of Appleby's question, or it might have been something else. It seemed to Patricia that there was even a trace of fear. She stood staring at the two men with a feeling of horror growing in her heart. Then Gressett laughed, but the laugh did not ease the tension. It sounded forced and artificial.

"My dear fellow!" he remonstrated, and turned to the girl. "Of course, Patricia, I'm sorry I let you down. Believe me, I did my best. But your aunt had been here before, and there were plenty of taxis. Surely she hadn't any difficulty?"

Gressett looked as though he was going to refuse to answer the question, but seemed to think better of it.

"If it's of vital importance, I suppose we must have missed her in the crowds," he said after a distinct pause.

"I mean simply this—that you're lying," Appleby said bluntly. "That train stopped to see what was wrong. It was half an hour late. And yet, according to Darwin, you were back there at half-past one. According to that, you couldn't have been at the station even at the time the train should have come in."

"And supposing I wasn't?" Gressett asked coolly, but there were tiny beads of sweat on his forehead. He felt for the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

"Well, you might have been somewhere else—because Darwin didn't see you until after two. Only your sister. And I think he'll be interested to hear you elaborate that alibi a little. Shall we go and look for—"

He never finished the sentence. Gressett's hand flashed away from his pocket, but it was not holding the handkerchief. Something bright flashed towards Appleby. He felt a burning pain in his shoulder, and the next minute he was fighting for his life.

Ordinarily, the young doctor would have been more than a match for Gressett, but he was still suffering from the effects of the blow on the head, and though the knife-thrust had gone astray his left arm felt almost useless. He could feel the blood running down as he struggled, and knew that, if the fight was too prolonged, he might be beaten merely through faintness. Besides his opponent was armed. Appleby had to grip the wrist of the hand that held the knife, guarding himself as well as he could with his crippled hand from the blows Gressett rained upon him.

With a lucky twist, Appleby managed to make the knife fall to the ground, and even as it fell he took his chance. Throwing Gressett's wrist away from him, he lashed out with all his force. The blow came full home on his opponent's chin with a force no one mortal could have withstood. He collapsed in a heap to the floor. Breathing heavily, Appleby felt for the knife.

Patricia had watched the struggle as if transfixed. She had not even screamed. It was only when Appleby stood up with the bloodstained knife in his hand that she understood.

"Peter—you mean—you can't mean that he—? Peter, you're wounded, you're hurt."

"All right," Appleby moved his arm speculatively; then answered the unfinished question. "Patricia, I'm afraid it's true. You heard what Darwin said. There's not the least doubt he'd have been arrested but for that alibi—and that alibi wasn't true. He could have knocked out the guard and—"

Perhaps Gressett had been shamming. At least he seemed to come to himself with unusual suddenness. His hand moved quickly to his hip. Peter gripped it just in time, and wrenched the automatic from it.

"So you're a gunman, too?" he asked, pointing the weapon at its owner. All at once a wave of faintness passed over him. He swayed a little and the room blurred before his eyes. The loss of blood was beginning to tell. He must hurry. "Patricia, you'd better telephone—to the police—"

The faintness came again. For a second the muzzle dropped and Gressett took his chance. He sprang to his feet, and sprang, not towards the doorway where Appleby stood, but straight for the window.

There was a crash of glass. For an instant Appleby stood staring stupidly at the dark hole and the twinkling fragments on the floor. Someone outside was shouting. But he could not concentrate. He staggered over towards the window like a drunken man, the revolver trailing in his hand, and stared out, just in time to see the Superintendent and Darwin throw themselves upon the struggling figure of the man who had jumped out. It was soon over. More police were running up. Breathing heavily, the Superintendent relinquished his hold to a subordinate and flashed his torch.

Gressett said nothing. He stood there in the glare of the torch, facing them defiantly. Langland felt a queer sort of admiration for him. The Superintendent felt in his pocket.

"Mr. Gressett," he said, "I have a warrant here for your arrest on a charge of murdering—"

Langland did not wait to hear the official list of Gressett's crimes. Appleby had emerged and was standing shakily by the doorway. There was blood running down his coat and he seemed on the point of fainting. Langland hurried forward.

"Come inside." Langland took his arm. "The police will deal with him... How did it start?"

"My fault. I asked him about—about meeting the aunt. He lied, and I let him know as much... I suppose he guessed I knew all about it, because he drew a knife from somewhere and went for me. But I grabbed his wrist... Patricia screamed. So he bolted... I couldn't hold him—"

"Through the window?" They were inside the drawing-room now. Langland eyed the fluttering curtains and the broken glass. On the couch Patricia's aunt was trying to comfort the sobbing girl. "Why?"

"I was blocking the door. He'd dropped the gun when we were struggling, and I grabbed it first." He glanced down in some surprise. "In fact, I've got it still... I suppose he thought the knife was quieter."

Langland glanced at the room. Patricia's aunt seemed to be performing her function of comfortable shoulder admirably. There was nothing they need do there.

"Let's look at your wound," he said, jerking a hand towards the door. "I can tell you a bit, too."

It was some time later when Darwin returned, officially to obtain a further statement from Appleby. But he was anything but official as he accepted a drink against regulations and sank into an easy chair opposite that in which Appleby was already seated.

"The casualty's all right?" he asked cheerfully. "You're lucky, doctor... By the way, it's all serene. That alibi was a fake, just as you said. The maid never saw them. The sister admits that."

Langland nodded. "All the same, this is a swindle," he said with a trace of regret. "We'd got everything set to catch him, and Barndon's letter spills the beans. And even then, Appleby starts the ball rolling with his kind inquiries about the aunt. We don't get a real chance to test our beautifully analysed, deduced theories. It degenerates into a vulgar scuffle—gunman stuff."

"But we were right, and we've got him," Darwin said. He was almost indecently cheerful. "Right on almost every point. The girl told us. He isn't saying a word."

Appleby frowned a little. It was one thing to chase a murderer, and quite another to think of him in the cell, waiting for the hangman.

"We don't need a confession, anyway—or shan't by the time we've dug up Wilder. You see, Wilder was stabbed. That's why they couldn't get a death certificate in the ordinary way. I'd thought it was poison."

"Oh, he'd dealt with the corpse personally before they came. Sort of rendering a last service and that kind of thing. There was no reason why they should worry. There was Wimborne's certificate, quite in order—apparently."

"He'd had it some time, I gather... You see, he rather thought that he'd be found out some time, and while so far as Millshall was concerned he could put it on to Wilder, Wilder knew he wasn't guilty and that his nephew must be. All the same, he was taken by surprise, and had to act in a hurry. Otherwise he might have managed a more natural sort of death. But Wilder was just going to 'phone the police. So Gressett went for his knife. In a way it was premeditated, and in a way it wasn't... The girl, by the way, wasn't a party to either murder. She came in afterwards and helped to shield him."

"Yes. We know something about that—though not all. He'd been in with a queer crowd before he returned to this country. And that, incidentally, was where he learnt forging... I didn't tell you, but what sent me charging bull-headed after him that day was a report which hinted that there were similarities between him and a man suspected in Australia."

"He knew more about forgery and murder than doctors," Langland said thoughtfully. "Wimborne was his third choice, I gather?"

"Actually, yes... Or rather, I rather think he'd at first intended to get Wimborne, but for once he had scruples. You see, he knew more about Wimborne's practice and could choose a better case. But—" He broke off and glanced at Appleby who frowned a little.

"He hadn't many scruples in anything else," he said. "He involved his sister—killed Wimborne in cold blood; then Barndon—"

"He wasn't exactly tender-hearted," Darwin agreed. "But it was his life or theirs and he preferred theirs... By the way we found the grave. Where Wimborne was buried temporarily. It was actually in the garden—and Barndon saw them dig it."

"I'm afraid his sister helped in that, too.... She'd have done anything for her brother. But it was breaking her up. She couldn't help telling the truth when they were arrested." He paused. "Anything else?"

"Why dig Wimborne up?" Appleby asked. "The risk was terrific and there'd been no suspicion."

"He didn't mind risks. But I think he had a double motive. If he could once establish that Bilsdy killed Wimborne, he'd be pretty safe, not only from the police, but from Barndon who had already started to blackmail him. Suppose Barndon did get too oppressive, and finally told the whole thing. 'Burying him in my garden?' Gressett could say. 'Nonsense! He wasn't buried at all.' He'd feel safer."

"But the Barndon business really was desperate," Langland said. "I believe I'd have preferred to bolt."

"Yes. But I rather gather he'd a reason for not bolting. He'd take any risk rather than leave this town. Otherwise he might have run instead of killing his uncle." He hesitated. "You see, he wanted to marry Patricia Wimborne."

"And he killed her father." Langland made a grimace. "Love—Deinotates ton theon—it seems to have been with him."

"I'm inclined to think it was—after he came here," Darwin agreed. "But there was his previous record. He was just a bad egg, and he'll be no loss—"

The door opened to admit Patricia, ushered in by her aunt. Patricia was still pale, but she looked more cheerful. Her aunt's expression was somehow both coy and sprightly, and she seemed to be in charge of affairs.

"Now, you gentlemen have troubled the invalid quite long enough," she reproved. "That's so like men... I think you'd better leave him to his nurse for a little!"

Nothing on Appleby's face suggested that the prospect of losing them appalled him. He smiled at Patricia. The aunt had so obviously devised the situation that though he had still his statement to get, Darwin gave way with a sigh.

"See you to-morrow," he said. "I'll say you're too ill—and in the hands of a nurse."

"You're better?" she asked. "So am I... I was talking to auntie. Crying on her shoulder, in fact." She smiled a little, but it faded quickly. "It's all been so terrible."

Peter's sound arm stole round her. "But it's going to be all right," he said, "we shall be happy—"

There was silence for a moment. Outside the window they could hear Langland taking what seemed to be rather a lengthy leave. A few words reached them.

"Yes, it is a queer name," he admitted. "No not after the Roman general. Not at all. My father was strictly Nonconformist and hated anything Roman... It is a proof of his loyalty to the British Crown, and his affection for the canine species.... I was named after King George V's famous rough-haired terrier."

In spite of herself, Patricia smiled at his absurdity. Appleby grinned in response. Then he bent to kiss her.

"'What's in a name'?" he asked. "There seems to be any amount in Langland's... I wonder how many reasons you can find for being called Appleby?"

THE END

MAX DALMAN

DOCTOR DISAPPEARS

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1941 This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025 Version Date: 2025-07-24 Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright. Click here for more books by this author

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER I Midnight Call

CHAPTER II Appleby Sends a Wire

CHAPTER III The Light in the Surgery

CHAPTER IV A Step Forward

CHAPTER V A Strange Encounter

CHAPTER VI An Accusation

CHAPTER VII An Offer of Help

CHAPTER VIII Corpse From the River

CHAPTER IX Ransom or Death

CHAPTER X Visit of an Uncle

CHAPTER XI Diamond Cut Diamond

CHAPTER XII Talk of Graves

CHAPTER XIII When Churchyards Yawn

CHAPTER XIV What the Weir Held

CHAPTER XV More About Ransom

CHAPTER XVI Darwin Begins Again

CHAPTER XVII Corpse the Third

CHAPTER XVIII Patricia on the Train

CHAPTER XIX Darwin Clears Up

CHAPTER XX The Usefulness of Aunts

CHAPTER XXI Letter from the Dead

CHAPTER XXII End of the Chase