The Burnt Bones Mystery

Roy Glashan's Library
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MAX DALMAN

THE BURNT BONES MYSTERY

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1940

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025
Version Date: 2025-07-18

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

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

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"The Burnt Bones Mystery" is a vintage English whodunit set in the coastal village of Terracombe, South Devon. Patrick Ambleside, a mysterious guest at a local inn, arrives with suspicious luggage: a padlocked box and an automatic pistol. When a pile of burnt human remains is discovered in a nearby kiln, Ambleside becomes the prime suspect....

Chapter I. Guest with a Gun
Chapter II. Bones in the Kiln
Chapter III. Ashes to Ashes
Chapter IV. Witney Takes Charge
Chapter V. A Shock for Ambleside
Chapter VI. Letter to a Lady
Chapter VII. Chat Between Friends
Chapter VIII. A New Line
Chapter IX. Enter the Ghost
Chapter X. Witney Begins to See
Chapter XI. Discoveries
Chapter XII. An Unknown Listener
Chapter XIII. June Hears a Story
Chapter XIV. Night Alarms
Chapter XV. Lost Lady
Chapter XVI. The Kiln Again
Chapter XVII. A Blow in the Dark
Chapter XVIII. The Second Watcher
Chapter XIX. An Unwilling Resurrection
Chapter XX. A Missing Witness
Chapter XXI. Elopement or Escape
Chapter XXII. Confession and Denial
Chapter XXIII. News from the Beach
Chapter XXIV. June Gives Chase
Chapter XXV. End of a Voyage
Chapter XXVI. Conclusion

CHAPTER I
Guest with a Gun

FROM behind the curtains of his office window Matthew Dore peered cautiously across towards the sitting-room of his solitary guest. That the Brig Inn should have only one client was not remarkable; for it was still early in the season. What was worrying its landlord was that he could not guess why even that one should be there, and he was curious accordingly. Normally towards visitors he was accustomed to display a professional lack of curiosity, except so far as concerned their comfort and their ability to pay their bills; but this young man was different. Dore felt certain that there was something queer about him.

In many ways he was a normal enough specimen. His dress was reassuring, his manner satisfactory, and his luggage, with one exception, beyond reproach. There was nothing alarming about the address "Patrick Ambleside, South Kensington, London"; nor even in his actions; and he had shown every sign of having plenty of money. But Dore was worried.

It was his guest's reason for staying at Terracombe that was the mystery. If he was an artist, he did not sketch; if an author, he did not write. Being familiar with both breeds, Dore would not have bothered about that, but he showed none of the signs. He did not write, study, fish, visit local churches or even bathe. It was plain he had no business in Terracombe, and if he had come on pleasure his holiday must have been a dismal failure. Rather to Dore's disgust, he had spent the five days he had been there sitting gloomily about the hotel, and had shown towards scenery which was as good as anything South Devon could offer an indifference which was almost contemptuous.

Dore's conjecture was that he was waiting for something or somebody; and he guessed too that the prospect was not entirely a pleasant one. Something, indeed, had already arrived in the form of a wooden box brought from the station by the local carrier three days before. About that box his guest had certainly been anxious. It was the one thing in which he seemed really interested, and he had spent the first three days of his stay in intermittent inquiries regarding its welfare.

The landlord wondered about that box. Though stoutly made, and with a lid so tightly fitting that it must have been nearly air-proof, it was of no great weight, and its outside was exasperatingly without any mark which might give a clue to its origin, barring the solitary London label. And, in spite of his guest's eagerness for its arrival, he did not appear to have unpacked it. It was still tied with the same knots as on the day of its arrival, and still closed with a particularly formidable padlock which made any surreptitious investigation impossible. Dore knew that by experiment; for, somewhat against his conscience, he had gone so far as to make the attempt with an extensive bunch of keys.

From the office, more especially when the sun was shining full upon it, one could look straight into the window of the private sitting-room which Ambleside had insisted on engaging in spite of the emptiness of the hotel. And several times in the past few days Dore had been guilty of doing so, without any result, except to confirm his knowledge that the young man was smoking too much. It had been the merest chance that he had looked up from his accounts just then; and for once his curiosity was rewarded. The first glimpse made him rise to his feet, regretting that he had not looked a few minutes earlier. For the box cord was undone; the padlock lay on the floor beside it, and at that precise moment the young man was in the act of closing the lid. But he seemed to have taken nothing out.

Dore frowned. In all probability the young man had been making certain that the contents were safe; but why should he have waited three days? The explanation must lie in the letter, the only one of the whole visit, which had come that morning, bearing a local postmark; but that left only too much unexplained.

The young man snapped on the padlock again and stood up. He moved over towards the window, and stood there looking out. The ochre-washed cottages, the dark red sandstone of the church, and the pink bloom of the apple orchards on the valley slopes made a view worth seeing; but it was doubtful if he saw it. His expression was that of a man who is trying to make up his mind to something unpleasant. At last he threw himself into a chair, glanced at his cigarette and threw it away.

His hand went to his pocket as though in search of another; but it was not a cigarette case which he produced. Dore started. There was certainly reason for his suspicions that Ambleside was no ordinary guest; for even at that distance he could see that the object was an automatic pistol.

Precisely when he was most interested an interruption came. There was a knock at the door. Before he had time to give or refuse permission the untidy grey head of the porter looked into the room. Dore turned from the window sharply. He had no wish to be seen spying on a guest; but he would have liked to know more about the pistol.

"Well, Benger?" he snapped irritably. "Haven't I told you not to burst in like that? Wait for an answer when you've knocked."

It was a principle he had been trying to instill for the past three years; but his servant showed no signs of assimilating it.

"Of course, sir," Benger answered with aggrieved politeness. "Maybe you didn't hear my first knock, sir?"

"There's a young gentleman to see Mr. Ambleside, sir. Gives the name of Greenlaw. So I says maybe he's out and I'll inquire, and I came to you."

"Came to me? You don't have to tell me every time a guest has a visitor, do you? And you know perfectly well that Mr. Ambleside is in... What's the idea?"

"Oh, I know my job, sir. And we don't want trouble. He's a very angry gentleman—fighting mad, say. And Mr. Ambleside might not want to see—"

Dore considered. For once, his porter was right. Certainly they did not want trouble, and as the only guest the hotel boasted at that moment Ambleside deserved every consideration. Besides, the thought of the gun flashed across his mind. He nodded assent.

"Very well... See what Mr. Ambleside says... And ask the gentleman to wait in here for a moment."

As the porter vanished, he stole another look towards his guest's window. Ambleside was still holding the pistol, looking at it thoughtfully with a slight frown on his face. Then footsteps sounded in the passage outside. Dore turned with some curiosity to see the visitor.

Benger had been quite right. The young man who entered was undoubtedly in a furious temper, and clutched an ugly-looking stick in a way which suggested he intended to make violent use of it. He merely scowled in answer to the landlord's greeting.

"Won't you sit down?" Dore asked. "The porter has just gone to look for your friend, sir... But I'm not sure he didn't go out—"

"Friend?" The young man echoed the word. He gave a harsh laugh. "Oh yes, friend!"

"Why, isn't he a friend of yours, sir?" Dore was studying the visitor unobtrusively. Like Ambleside, he was well-dressed and evidently comfortably off. Without the scowl, his face would have been handsome; though two prominent gold stoppings in his front teeth rather excessively advertised their presence. The landlord scented another possible guest, if the present trouble could be averted. "Stopping here, sir?" he asked hopefully. "There's good sea-fishing—"

Dore's eyebrows rose a shade at the rudeness of the reply, and the young man was moved to an apology.

"Sorry... I'm a bit—irritated about something. No, I'm just here for the day—"

Irritated, Dore thought, was a mild word to apply to his visitor's feelings. Clearly he was in no mind to hear of the attractions of the village. He threw himself into the chair for a moment, but rose to his feet almost immediately.

"Where's your man gone?" he demanded. "Ambleside must be here. It should be easy enough to find him in a pub like this."

Dore's jaw tightened a little. It was true that the Brig Inn was not large or up-to-date, but he had prided himself on giving as good accommodation as was to be found in any place of its size. The hotel was almost as much a hobby as a business, and he felt annoyed.

Conversation lapsed. Dore had no intention of exposing himself to further impoliteness, and the young man was clearly in no mood to talk. He stood there grasping his stick and scowling out of the window; but Dore had taken up a strategic position which prevented his seeing into the sitting-room. Neither spoke until the porter returned. His face was puzzled.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Ambleside's in," he said. "Said would you go right along to his sitting-room, sir—"

Dore returned to the window as the young man strode off down the corridor. Ambleside had risen, and the gun had disappeared. The landlord could not see the door, but he saw Ambleside smile and step forward as if to greet his friend. Then his face changed to an expression of bewilderment as though his friend's reception had been unexpected. He moved out of sight just as the porter's returning footsteps sounded outside. Dore stepped out into the passage to intercept him.

Dore frowned. He would have been better pleased if that piece of information had not been in the possession of anyone so inclined to gossip as Benger; but presumably the porter's habit of bursting into rooms had taken Ambleside unawares.

"Well, sir, I don't know and that's a fact... Mr. Ambleside—he seemed quite pleased when I told him Mr. Greenlaw had come. Said to show him in at once... But the other gentleman, he was angry. The first words he said was, 'You know why I've come, you dirty swine.'"

"Right. That's all... I expect it's nothing. And, here, Benger. No gossip in the village about that gun... You went in without knocking, I suppose?"

Benger beat a dignified retreat. On the point of turning again into the office, Dore hesitated. There was, of course, the window. But as they had apparently seated themselves on the wrong side of the room out of sight that was not likely to be helpful unless a fight actually started. But there was another possibility. The jutting out part of the hotel in which Ambleside's room was situated had once been a cottage adjoining the inn, taken in recently during an enlargement of the premises and retaining its original boarded ceiling. In the bedroom above, Dore knew, you could hear perfectly well any loud conversation in the sitting-room through the floor-boards. It occurred to him that, repugnant as the idea of spying was, in view of the gun and stick it might be desirable to listen in. Caution overcame his distaste. Yielding to temptation he hurried along the passage towards the stairs.

The original wall of the hotel had been pierced to give access to the upper floor of the cottage, and there was no need to make use of the staircase by the sitting-room door. The bedroom was empty, and it was the work of a minute to bolt the door and pull back the rug. At first he could hear nothing but the low murmur of Ambleside's voice. Evidently things had calmed down a little. Ambleside seemed to be reasoning with his angry visitor. Then Greenlaw broke out quite loudly:

"Who else knew about Olivia? Who could have written? By God, I'd like to kill him—"

Dore caught his breath. Things sounded dangerous enough; but he did not see how he could intervene. At the same time he did not like to abandon his post. It seemed as though Ambleside was talking his guest round. Greenlaw's voice came less angrily. The smoke of cigarettes rose through the loosely fitting boards. He heard the visitor laugh.

There was no longer any need for Dore to remain on guard. The quarrel seemed to have fizzled out without resort to the weapons which had excited his alarm. It was inexcusable, but he stayed, and for the next half hour curiosity kept his ear glued to the floorboards.

The possibility of trouble might have passed, but there were certainly queer noises coming from below. Twice he heard something like the slamming of a lid, and once a curious sort of clicking suggestive of castanets. And whatever it was seemed to amuse Greenlaw heartily. He seemed to have completely recovered from his ill humour. When the opening of the door at last gave Dore the signal to step over to the window, he saw the two men leave by the cottage entrance and cross the hotel gardens apparently the best of friends. Greenlaw was laughing and Ambleside returned a rather strained smile. Now, he was much the less cheerful of the two.

The visitor was not departing empty-handed. A rather bulky, irregularly shaped brown-paper parcel under his arm had somehow been acquired in the sitting-room, but what it could contain puzzled Dore. It had not the unmistakable soft look of clothes. If he had not been fairly certain of his guest's wealthiness, he might have thought that they were going off with a collection of the sitting-room's ornaments. But Ambleside would never do that and leave his luggage.

He stood at the window watching them. Ambleside's right coat pocket sagged as though there was something heavy in it, and Dore guessed it was the gun. He saw them turn down the steep lane which led to the sea and disappear from view, and there was a frown on his face. He hesitated for a moment before going downstairs and opening the sitting-room door.

Certainly the ornaments were all right. And there had been no struggle or damage. Only one thing was changed since he had personally inspected the room that morning. The wooden box had been pulled out from under the table, and occupied the centre of the hearthrug. Beside it on the floor lay the padlock. This time without misgivings the landlord bent down and threw back the lid. It was empty.

He stared down at it for nearly a minute before he closed it again and slowly made his way back in the direction of the office. On the point of entering he changed his mind and turned towards the hotel entrance.

The porter eyed him curiously. Normally grave, the landlord looked even more serious than usual, and there was a troubled look on his face.

"Mr. Ambleside's friend, sir?" he suggested. "You wouldn't like me just to keep an eye on him...."

He turned his head quickly and looked down the road towards the sea. Dore glanced in the same direction.

"Well, sir," Benger rubbed his chin, "sounded like a shot to me, sir. Sort of faint though, for a shotgun..."

He turned away deliberately and started down the lane. Benger stared after him dubiously.

CHAPTER II
Bones in the Kiln

TERRACOMBE possessed no harbour. At the foot of the crumbling red cliffs a chaos of sandstone blocks and a strip of white shingle edged a tiny cove sufficient to give shelter only to a few rowing boats. But for three quarters of the year no harbour was needed. Small yachts could lie quite comfortably in the almost landlocked bay, and only the sudden blowing up of an east wind would force them to run for shelter to one of the neighbouring estuaries. And a yacht was lying just off the cove when Patrick Ambleside stepped out on to the hotel verandah next morning.

Benger, occupied in putting up the deck chairs, grinned a cheerful greeting. Though the incident of the gun and the visit of yesterday had shaken him a little, he was inclined to approve of Ambleside as a guest, even though he was inclined to be too taciturn for a man of the porter's conversational leanings.

Normally Ambleside left it at that, settling himself in a chair and opening his paper in a way which forbade further loquacity. But to-day he seemed almost inclined to give the porter a little encouragement. He pointed down towards the yacht.

"Came in late, she did, sir. Must know the coast—though I can't call to mind seeing her. A nice bit of work, too..."

There seemed to be more than a casual interest in the question. The porter knit his brows thoughtfully.

"Well, sir, Dan Williams did mention it, come to think of it. A queer enough name—Cam-Campaspe or something. You know the boat, sir?"

Another man might have been discouraged by the finality in Ambleside's voice; but Benger was hard to snub.

"Cheers things up a bit, sir. Not much happens in a place like this. Dull, I call it, after Blackpool. And if they get a bit of news they make the most of it. Now, this morning—"

"Well, sir, it is a bit funny. Someone fired Bardley's kiln in the night. Down at the Pottery, sir. It wasn't stacked, you know, sir, but I hear he's rare and mad about it. They can't pack it to-day now..."

Ambleside raised his eyebrows. "What's the idea of that?" he asked. "Meant for a joke?"

"Not much of a joke for Mr. Bardley, sir... Quite a bit of wood used, I hear. Johnson—he's constable—he's been making inquiries. But how would they get whoever did it now? He'd keep mum."

But this time the paper was raised with an air of finality, and the porter, content with such a degree of unbending as he had achieved, finished the deck chairs without speaking.

There was, as a matter of fact, one question which he would very much have liked to ask their visitor. Had the pistol which he had seen him nursing when he burst unceremoniously in been responsible for the shot which he had heard or not? It was a question which he could hardly ask, but one which he had practically determined to solve if possible. In spite of the morning coolness, Ambleside had dressed only in a minimum of garments including shirt, shorts and blazer. Benger was fairly satisfied he could not be carrying the pistol on his person; therefore it must be in his rooms, and now that the padlocked box had yielded up whatever might have been its contents and stood open and empty, a quick search of his luggage should present few difficulties.

In addition to being porter, Benger performed the duties of boots and handyman. In this capacity he might find an excuse for visiting Ambleside's bedroom; but it was the sitting-room which bothered him. He had to scout round carefully to see that Dore was out of the way before slipping in through the cottage entrance for a hurried search. A few minutes' investigation showed that he had drawn a blank in the sitting-room; though he opened and scrutinized the mysterious box speculatively. Its emptiness told him nothing, and with a last regretful glance round he made his way to the bedroom.

Except for the solitary instance of the wooden box, Ambleside was not of that distrustful nature which locks travelling cases; and the amount of luggage, though adequate, was not enough to make his task a long one. Ambleside's baggage appeared to contain only the normal holiday garments of a well-dressed young man, and of the gun, or of any ammunition for the gun, there was not the least sign.

Disappointed and a little puzzled Benger was on the point of going downstairs when a scrap of torn paper caught his eye. It was the bottom right-hand corner of a letter and the first word which he read made him take it eagerly towards the window.

His mouth opened into a ludicrous expression of dismay as their meaning dawned upon him. He turned it over; but the other side was blank. He stared at the words for a minute or two and scratched his head. However decent a young man Ambleside might appear, there was something curious about him. Ordinary people did not have letters about bullet marks; and for that matter the other words had a sinister ring. And ordinary people did not carry automatics while on holiday, or lose them mysteriously, or have locked boxes and remove the contents by stealth.

His imagination was working on most lurid lines as he pocketed the paper. Only recently there had been a particularly ghastly trunk murder, and it was not unnatural that it should recur to his mind as he grappled with the present problem. Suppose the box had held a body? Not a whole body, of course; it had not been heavy enough. But a head, perhaps, or a few arms and legs. Suppose the gun had been used for the killing and been brought down so that it could be thrown into the sea? It was just penetrating his mind that in that case Ambleside would scarcely have kept it for five days when he heard the landlord's voice raised insistently.

With a whole horde of horrible possibilities running through his head he bolted for the entrance hall, half expecting to find Dore himself was being attacked. It was nothing so exciting. Luck had not been with him during his brief absence. Although for a whole week his office as porter had been practically a sinecure, on this one occasion when he had been missing quite a collection of visitors had arrived. A group of half a dozen people were standing on the verandah talking to Ambleside, and from their clothes he guessed that they had come from the yacht.

Dore gestured irritably towards a couple of bags which suggested that some, at any rate, of the yachting party intended to take up their quarters at the inn. As he lifted them the porter cast a calculating eye over the group. There were two young men and a young woman, both of about Ambleside's age, one rather older woman, an elderly lady and an elderly man who looked like a sailor. All of them were talking at a great rate.

"Horribly late last night," the older woman was saying. "The Captain said he was going shopping and he was gone for hours—"

"She would drag Leicester right up the cliff, and I'm sure that valley is full of snakes..."

Ambleside was receiving the broadside with a rather strained smile. The elderly man, who had remained in the background, took advantage of a slight lull to put a question.

"He—he came yesterday," he said. "Just for half an hour. Wouldn't stop... He—hoped to come back before you went—"

The animation seemed suddenly to have died off the girl's face at the mention of the name, and the porter missed neither that nor the quick glance which the elderly man threw in her direction. There was sympathy in it, as though he knew the reason for her sudden change of mood; then his expression grew sterner.

"That's so like Richard," the elderly lady said wearily. "He is always doing something extraordinary. Running off like that or playing some preposterous trick... Where is the boy?"

"He didn't tell me," Ambleside answered and there was again a suggestion of constraint in his manner. "Camping on Dartmoor, perhaps—"

One of the young men waved a hand. "They're coming," he announced and turned to the older woman. "Your husband's looking puffed, Mrs. Leicester. That'll help to get his weight down—"

Benger looked down the lane. A middle aged man and a girl of about fifteen were coming towards the inn, and the man, undoubtedly, had been taking an unwonted amount of exercise. He was carrying in his hand something which at that distance was unrecognizable. Before any of the party identified it, the girl's shrill falsetto enlightened them.

There were exclamations of surprise. Luckily the porter was standing behind them, for his jaw dropped ludicrously.

The landlord at that moment noticed Benger staring. He made a vigorous gesture towards the door.

Inevitably the porter missed a part of the conversation; but once upstairs the open window allowed him to catch at least the more emphatic portions of the conversation which floated up.

"You don't think anything could have—have happened to him?" the youngest woman was asking anxiously. "I mean, if he'd fallen—"

There was no doubt that she was worried. From his vantage point Benger saw the sailorly man give another quick glance.

"My dear, nothing ever happens to Richard," Mrs. Leicester said consolingly. "I can't think why—"

"Where did you leave him, Patrick?" The sailor looked at Ambleside. "Last night, I mean—"

The inquiry obviously discomfited him. He hesitated, coloured a little and glanced round before he spoke.

"Oh, just down the combe," he said. "He was going along the cliff path. I just—just showed him where to go—"

But it was just where the cliff path branches off that we found it," the young girl cried excitedly. "What could—"

"Why—yes." Ambleside did not meet his questioner's eye. "He'd got quite well along when I last saw him... Don't worry, Ware. There can't be anything wrong. It's not dangerous—"

"I—I suppose so. I didn't notice particularly... He had it on when we left here."

There was something very like suspicion in his eyes. Ambleside said nothing. Momentarily there was a pause. Then the youngest woman spoke.

"He—he was all right when you saw him?" she asked. "I mean—in his manner? He was the same as usual?"

"Well—no, he wasn't, June," Ambleside said slowly and hurried on. "But we were quite friends when he left."

"We did—in a way. It was just a misunderstanding. I can't quite explain—" He looked at the girl called June beseechingly. "Perhaps—later. But he was quite cheerful. Laughing like anything about—well, something he'd thought of—you mustn't go imagining suicide or anything like that."

"Good heavens! Of course not!" Sophia Leicester had paled suddenly. "How could you think—?"

"Seems to me we ought to search. What?" one of the young men said. "He might have come back in the dark, and fallen, you know."

"But we should have seen him." Leicester had finished mopping his brow and seemed inclined for the first time to take a share in the discussion. "It's quite open just there. And there's nowhere where he could fall."

Ware turned a cold eye on the darker of the two young men. "That's absurd... It seems to me we'd better just have a look round."

"Oh, I say. Can't we have a drink first?" Ware's frown had failed to repress the young man. "It really is a lot of dashed nonsense—"

"But he might be dying!" June burst out suddenly. "He might have jumped—have fallen—he was upset."

"Upset?" The irrepressible young man echoed. "Oh, I say! You don't mean somebody pushed the chappie over? All Edgar Wallace—"

"How d'you know?" Sophia Leicester turned a pair of penetrating eyes on the speaker. "You've not seen him. Have you?"

"No—no, I haven't," June flushed. She looked at Ambleside. "He was all right, you said—"

"Perfectly." Ambleside seemed to have recovered his composure. "Aren't we rather making a mountain out of a mole-hill? He could easily have dropped his hat in the dark and not been able to find it."

"Still, we have to be on the safe side," Ware decided. "It wouldn't be very pleasant for—for any of us if we found him there—too late." He turned to Dore. "Is there anyone who could help? Who'd know the country, so to speak."

"Why—yes... As for being normal—" He looked at Ambleside. "He seemed in perfectly good spirits when he left."

"I shouldn't say depressed," Dore said slowly. "I should say he was in a furious temper."

"O-oh!" The darker of the two young men made the exclamation so long-drawn-out that Ambleside turned to look at him furiously. "Then you did quarrel, Patrick?"

"He tried to pick a quarrel. Threatened to beat me up. But it was all a mistake. He accepted my word that I hadn't—hadn't done what he thought I had."

Ambleside positively snapped the answer in a way which made the others look at him in astonishment.

"I certainly think," Dore said carefully, "we'd better accept your suggestion and search, Captain Ware... Besides, I don't know whether I should say it or not but—" He looked at Ambleside. "My porter thought that he heard a shot—a pistol shot. Probably a mistake, but—"

"No. There was a shot," Ambleside admitted and stopped. "You see, Greenlaw blazed away at a rabbit—"

"Yes. I—I'd been cleaning it when he came. I just shoved it into my pocket—"

"And, speaking of angels—" the dark-haired young man drawled. "If you call 'em so—here is the local cop. Seems to have something on his mind, too. Distinctly hot about the collar, eh?"

His description seemed almost literally accurate. The constable's hand was struggling with his collar, but he was trying to button it not to loosen it. Dore called out as he approached.

The constable's eyebrows positively rose to the top of his head. He seemed to be having an internal struggle with his feelings. At last excitement conquered official caution.

"Well, sir," he said after a pause. "That's queer, now... because—you may have heard the kiln was lit up last night?"

Ware prompted him sharply. A curious atmosphere of suspense, half mixed with realization, seemed to have come over the listeners. If the constable's aim had been to be the centre of the stage, he had certainly succeeded.

"Mr. Bardley was having it raked out—wanted to let it cool, you see. And he came across a lot of bones—sort of charred, he says..."

"Yes, sir. And he swears that one is a human skull!" He paused and looked round with something like triumph. "I'm just wondering," he said darkly, "I'm wondering if that hat would fit that skull."

CHAPTER III
Ashes to Ashes

THERE was a sort of choked scream from Sophia Leicester. June Paisley had gone deathly pale, though no sound escaped her, and on the faces of the others were mixed expressions, varying curiously between Ambleside's contemptuous smile and Ware's anxious gravity. Undeniably the constable had achieved his effect; but a moment later the dark-haired youth spoilt it.

"It won't, you know," he pointed out quite cheerfully. "Not if they're both Greenlaw's. There's the hair and the flesh—"

"Shut your fool mouth, Forrest," he snapped, and turned to the constable. "These bones—how long—?"

"I don't know, sir. I'm on my way there. Not seen them yet... But from what Mr. Bardley said, I doubt if we'll be able to say. There's not much left. The hat, sir?"

"You can show me later, miss. Or you, sir. It may be important." Johnson was turning it over as he spoke. With a horrified thrill the onlookers saw a dark red splash on one side. It might only be mud from the red clay; but what the constable thought was shown by his hurried concealment of it. "Of course, the gentleman might just have lost his hat," he said. "It might be just as well if one or two of you stepped round with me and had a look. You might be able to identify—"

"I couldn't—oh, I couldn't," Sophia Leicester burst out all at once. "Dick—Dick—!"

She was suddenly conscious of her husband's eyes upon her. Leicester had gone very pale, and his face was all at once that of an old man.

The constable had missed the drama of the incident. Ware hastily stepped into the breach.

"There's no need to bring the ladies, is there?" he suggested. "We don't want a crowd... Might I have a word with you, constable?"

Forrest murmured something about "thinking himself on the quarter deck", but Ware paid no attention. The policeman recognized the air of one used to authority and obediently stepped aside out of earshot of the rest. Ware spoke earnestly for a minute or two, and the constable nodded once or twice solemnly. They returned to the waiting group.

"I think, gentlemen, it would maybe be as well if you all stepped round," he said. His glance wandered almost threateningly over the party, and seemed to linger for a moment on Ambleside. "Not the ladies, of course."

June Paisley stepped forward. "But I—I had better come," she said tensely. "If you think—think that it's Richard—"

The constable looked at her dubiously; decided she was not one of the kind that fainted and gave way.

He realized abruptly the need for haste. "We'd better be getting along, gentlemen, please."

"Time, gentlemen—" he murmured. "And, dash it, we haven't had that drink. I wonder—"

He cast a longing look towards the hotel, as though wondering whether to hurry back for a quick one, and sighed.

"When you're looking at bones and things," he protested. "Dash it, you need a drink. And suppose June fainted? A drop of brandy—"

Ware gave him a fierce look; but otherwise no one took the least notice. Each one found himself stealing surreptitious glances at Ambleside, whose face was a curious blend of emotions. Anger and amusement seemed to struggle for mastery, and he met their eyes defiantly. Perhaps unconsciously, he had been left to walk a little apart. June Paisley stepped to his side.

"In a way—yes," Ambleside admitted. "You had a letter, didn't you? Anonymous? About—about—"

"Olivia—Olivia Howard." She seemed to speak the name with difficulty. "Yes. I had a letter."

There was an awful dreariness in her voice as she said the last words. Ambleside hurried on, catching Ware's eyes upon them.

"He—he thought I wrote it. That I wrote it because—well, he was in a furious temper when he came. But I managed to get him to see that it wasn't the sort of thing I should do. We parted—all right."

"Then you've known—all along?" she asked. "You and the others? You didn't tell me?"

June drew her breath sharply. "I think—I think I shall never believe anyone again," she said slowly. "To think that Dick—that horrible girl—"

"Poor girl, I think," Ambleside corrected gently. "It must have been rotten for her."

She gave a hard little laugh. "Men always sympathize with that kind," she said cruelly. "I suppose. And now Dick's dead—and it's almost worse that—that—"

Forrest and Pinner had somehow come over to their side. She broke off, but not before Forrest had caught a few words.

"Oh, I say, June," he said protestingly. "You mustn't be so deuced sure. After all, what's in a hat? I mean, people are always losing hats. Lost one myself at the club the other day, a dashed good bowler, too. Well, Greenlaw could have lost his, then!"

He made the last point with quite a triumphant air. June looked away, but he persisted.

"And a few burnt bones. Probably the dog—" He seemed at last to realize the effect his well-meant efforts were having and subsided quite suddenly. Pinner, who had been unusually silent, shot a quick glance at Ambleside.

Ambleside interrupted him impatiently. "Really, we don't know anything about it yet," he snapped. "I don't believe that Greenlaw's dead. It's just some silly mistake—"

Forrest opened his eyes very wide. "Oh, that's all very well for you," he said mildly. "I mean to say, that's what it would be best for people to think, wouldn't it. From your point of view—"

"Meaning that I killed him?" he asked harshly. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that, you know. But the police might think you killed him, mightn't they? I mean, with the quarrel, and the shot, and you being the last person with him and both of you being fond of—I mean, taking it all round, if he's murdered—of course, the police are a lot of silly asses. I remember I was only doing about twenty-five miles an hour when they got me. And they're deuced obstinate—"

"Of course, if you don't want me—" Forrest spoke without heat. "I was only trying to cheer you up a bit, you know."

Quite unconcernedly, he quickened his pace a little and overtook the policeman who was walking with Ware in front. That worthy officer's back had almost bristled visibly as Forrest's clearly-spoken comment on the police had reached him, but he retained his self-control, though answering the even flow of comments and questions only in grunts. Ambleside stole a glance at Leicester. He was walking along almost like a man in his sleep, with his shoulders bowed and hands hanging limply by his side. Pinner caught Ambleside's eye.

"Blast Greenlaw!" Ambleside burst out, regardless for the moment of the silent girl. He pulled himself up quickly. "I suppose he didn't mean any harm; but what a devil of a lot he's doing—"

"It wasn't his fault." June broke her silence defensively. He never did—try to make her. She—it was on her side..."

"And now poor old Leicester knows, and everyone will know, and gossip and God knows what. I'd like to give Greenlaw a damn good hiding."

"Steady!" Pinner said warningly. "After all, the poor chap may be dead. One can't help these things..."

"Oh, be quiet—please be quiet!" June pleaded desperately. "I know you don't mean—"

"We're there." Ambleside pointed to where a little crowd had gathered round a red brick building, adorned with the terra-cotta sign Bardley Pottery. "I explored this bit a day or two ago."

Pinner started and opened his mouth, but said nothing. The kiln itself was not visible, but a light column of smoke from the rear of the building indicated the heap of smouldering ashes which had already been raked out. The little crowd at the gate, kept at bay by one of the pottery's workmen, moved aside respectfully as their party came up, casting curious glances at the policeman, the pale-faced girl, and the men.

Bardley himself hurried up as they entered the yard. He seemed somehow incongruously dressed in a chrome yellow roll-necked jumper and flannels, and his naturally untidy hair was singed and covered with a layer of ash.

"Afraid there's no doubt, Johnson," he said. "Quite apart from the skull. Look. That's a rib, isn't it? And that thighbone—it's too big for a sheep, and too small for a cow—"

Quite a considerable heap of fragments had been laid out on sheets of white paper laid on the tiled yard. Prominent among them was the skull, almost intact, though changed to the glistening white of marble. Some of the fragments were blackened, but for the most part the heat of the kiln had been sufficient to burn up the soot and impurities entirely.

Johnson had stepped forward with Bardley, and seemed to be examining some of the larger pieces.

"Well, sir, they're very broken," he said. "But that skull—maybe you'd better leave the rest, sir. We oughtn't to touch any more than we can help, until the Superintendent—"

"Maybe you're right," Bardley agreed. "Afraid, though, most of the damage is done now. Naturally, at first we didn't know. It wasn't until we'd raked out about half the stuff that we realized there was anything in it. And those bones are pretty brittle..."

The constable eyed the calcined fragments dubiously. Strictly speaking, he was out of his depth, and he knew that his first immediate duty was to get on the telephone to his superiors; but he was reluctant to abandon his position.

"There must have been some heat to make them like that, sir? A body isn't an easy thing to burn—"

"Heat?" Bardley echoed scornfully. "Of course there's heat. How the hell d'you think I could get a glaze to run without heat and plenty of it. And whoever did it stoked up pretty well. Must have spent quite a bit of time on it, because it's been going all night... Matter of fact, the first I knew that there was something wrong was when someone rang up and told me last night—complained of the smoke. I put a coat on and came round to have a look, but it was going too well to do anything then... Oh, there was plenty of heat all right. That's the kiln where we cook the stoneware."

"What time would that be, sir? When you got here?" The constable's notebook was in his hand. "And who was it rang up?"

"The Smithsons. They live in the house just behind here, and if the wind's that way they sometimes get a whiff or two. Though, of course, I do my best not to bother them... Not much to identify about this lot, is there? Any idea who it is?"

"Hanged if I know. I simply heard the telephone, grabbed the receiver without turning on the light and came right over. You see, I knew it ought not to have been burning last night and couldn't think what the devil was happening... Must have been one or two. Maybe they'd know."

"Yes, sir." The constable made another note. "I'll inquire. It might give us a sort of a limit, you see, sir... You didn't see anyone about then?"

"No. But it must have been burning for an hour or so when I got there. If anyone had put a body in, he'd hardly be likely to wait around... It did strike me, incidentally, that the smoke was thicker than usual. Suppose that was the corpse? They do burn with a sort of greasy smoke, don't they?"

"Oh, I just glanced in... There wasn't anything in the kiln proper—where you put the pots. And all I could see in the fire hole was a pretty good blaze. I was too tired and fed up to bother."

"I'd like you to show me round a bit later, sir. This yard will be locked at night?"

"Yes. But—you can see for yourself." He pointed to the low wall which bounded it on the side away from the road. "Anyone could have got over that, corpse and all. It isn't as though there's anything very much here we're afraid of someone pinching."

"I wasn't there at all. They'd shut up the shop about six. After that there wouldn't be anyone... You see, I'm just experimenting with a new glaze. It's all ready there in the biscuit, and I wanted to fire to-day... There's no hope of that, I suppose?"

"I suppose there is?" Bardley sounded dubious. "And I suppose someone put him there—and that means murder. He couldn't very well get in and stoke himself up."

"Perhaps, sir," the constable assented non-committally. The same idea had already crossed his own mind. "We'll have to see about that. In the meantime"—he glanced towards the place where the yachting party stood in a scared little group—"I'd better just see if they can help—"

"Perhaps." The constable had decided on an official reticence. "Well, thank you, sir. I'd like a full statement later. And, of course, a talk with the men who helped rake out."

Regretfully the constable admitted to himself that in all probability a good deal of the questioning would be consigned to more competent hands; but he was determined to make the most of his chances. He moved across to the group and turned to Ware, on whom he seemed to have decided as the spokesman.

"Now, sir," he said, "you see how it is. Can you find anything that suggests to you whether or not those are the bones of your friend? Of course, they're badly broken and so on—"

Ware thought. "I don't know, constable," he said slowly. "I've not looked at them yet. But I knew Greenlaw pretty well, and I think that there's a chance. You haven't recovered anything except the bones?"

"Not yet, sir. And I doubt if we shall—barring a few buttons and so on. The heat must have been terrific... Would you take a look, sir?"

Ware nodded, and knelt down beside the fragments, paying particular attention to the skull. The policeman watched him for a moment then turned to the others. Rather surprisingly, Ambleside showed principally a real or assumed indifference. He had barely glanced at the bones, and now he seated himself upon one of the wood piles and lit a cigarette. June Paisley was staring down at the remains with fascinated horror. She sensed the constable's eye upon her and looked up.

"It—it's horrible," she said. "To think of him like that... You think—you think he killed himself?"

Johnson thought nothing of the kind. He was in full agreement with Bardley. Suicides did not generally burn themselves to death, and dead men could not stoke up fires to arrange for the removal of their corpses. But he cocked an ear.

She hesitated. "Yes," she said slowly. "In a way... He was—was fond of me. We had a disagreement. I told him that I never wanted to see him again. And now—"

The constable nodded sympathetically. Being crossed in love was, of course, a perfectly good reason for suicide; but a disagreement might be a reason for something else.

Johnson was interested. He was looking not for motives for suicide but for murder, and that simple statement seemed to offer at least two suspects.

"It was a long time ago," she evaded. "I don't think—" She paused for a moment. "Olivia Howard," she said at last. "It was in London..."

"I'd be glad if you'd produce it, then, miss. You see, we don't know yet what's behind this. It might be—"

He broke off as Ware finished his examination of the bones and came towards them.

"I've looked pretty carefully," Ware spoke with some deliberation. "And, of course, it's hard to say... You'd better get the evidence of his doctor and dentist. I can give you their names. But—"

CHAPTER IV
Witney Takes Charge

CHIEF INSPECTOR WITNEY turned over the last sheet of a pile of reports and felt for his pipe. In his capacity as an officer of the Criminal Investigation Department he was accustomed to being called into cases at any stage when the local detective force finally gave up the job in desperation; but this time he was surprised. More often than not his presence was required when the efforts of the local men had reduced things to a dark chaos in which no glimmer of light appeared. This was a very different matter. It seemed as though the Chief Constable had sought the aid of Scotland Yard only after doing all the work and building up a case which was as near perfect as one could hope in an imperfect world.

Witney did not mind. Devonshire in May was a pleasant change from London, and he was disposed to think favourably of Terracombe, and of the Brig Inn. It was all the better if there was no work to do; a pleasant anticipation of his own approaching summer holiday. But he would certainly have to go through the motions of investigating, even if everything was plain. He felt mildly puzzled. Probably the clue to why he had been sent for was to be found partly in the comparative eminence of the people involved, taken in conjunction with the Chief Constable's character. Colonel Stainsby, he thought, however resolute he might have been as a soldier, as a Chief Constable probably felt a certain reluctance to believe that respectable people could commit murders, and though in nine cases out of ten he would allow himself to be led by his more forceful Superintendent, this must be the tenth. Unless, of course, there was some doubt in the case which the reports did not disclose. He lit his pipe, puffed for a few minutes in thoughtful silence, and looked up to catch the Colonel's eye.

Colonel Stainsby inclined his head a little dubiously; but there was a trace of relief in his manner.

"I suppose so," he said hesitantly. "That was our view. I'm glad you confirm it. In fact, I doubt if we should have called you in at all if it hadn't been for the business of identification. When you've got so little left of a corpse as in this case, you can't be too careful. You've got better facilities. And really the people are all so respectable..."

Superintendent Rayton grunted. It was as far as he liked to go in expressing his disapproval of his Superior's remarks; of Witney's presence, and the whole affair.

"Besides—" Stainsby ignored the grunt. "Besides there's Ambleside's manner. I can't make head or tail of that. He isn't scared. It's just as though he was scornful about the whole show and thinks we're making darned fools of ourselves. As though he knew we couldn't convict..."

Witney looked thoughtful. He had known one or two cool murderers, but none capable of ignoring evidence like that.

"As though, for example, he had an alibi?" he suggested. "One he could produce if the case came to court?"

"He couldn't," Rayton said bluntly. "He certainly hadn't an alibi when the shot was fired. In fact, he admits being with Greenlaw."

"There might be witnesses who could prove Greenlaw was alive after that," Witney suggested.

"Then why not produce them? We've found none... Suppose that shot didn't kill him, why was it fired? In any case, he's dead. And he died some time between leaving the hotel and about half-past eleven. That's exactly the time that Ambleside can't account for—and during which he's been behaving very, very queerly."

"You questioned the identification, sir?" Witney looked at the Chief Constable. "But that seems fairly certain. Quite apart from Captain Ware—because, of course, we can't attach too much importance to his recognition."

"It's dead certain," said Rayton positively. "Barring a very cunning plant. And, of course, the one person we've found in a position to plant evidence like that is the man we think is dead. I don't see how even he could have done it all."

"It's absurd to think he could," Rayton insisted. "We've got a bed rock case against that young man. If he thinks we're a lot of idiots, so much the worse for him."

"I suppose we're not?" Witney said and thought for a moment, with an occasional glance at the reports. He threw the pile down.

"No, I'm hanged if we are," he said positively. "That's Greenlaw's body—or what's left of it, and somebody must have put it there. The implication is that somebody murdered Greenlaw. And that somebody—?" He shook his head. "I don't see who it can be but Ambleside."

"I know. And yet..." The Chief Constable hesitated. "I don't really believe it is, you know. Evidence or no evidence."

Superintendent Rayton stirred uneasily in his chair. It had been his business to compile the list of damning facts against Ambleside, and in his view only the obstinacy of the Chief Constable had robbed him of the chance of taking the case to court without the intervention of the Criminal Investigation Department.

"Well, sir," he said a little aggrievedly, "I'm not saying that there's nothing in intuition. But evidence is what we've got to deal with. It's my view we ought to serve that warrant right away."

"There's a lot to be said for the Superintendent's view, sir," Witney said. "There have been worse cases up before a judge than you've got right now. Let's just see what the evidence is. Ambleside for some reason comes down to this pub. Why, no one knows, except that there's a general scheme that the Campaspe with Ware and the others is going to call here. That doesn't explain why he comes a week early. He doesn't seem to be enjoying himself. He doesn't seem to be doing anything. Even the people at the pub thinks it's a bit queer. He spends his time mooning round over that gun... Well, Greenlaw comes down in a furious temper. Both Dore and the porter thought he was spoiling for a fight. There's a row, and Dore hears some of it. We've found out a bit more since. The facts seem to be that Greenlaw was gone on this girl June Paisley, and that she seemed to be fond of him. Then she gets an anonymous letter about an old affaire of his with a girl called Olivia Howard. He doesn't seem to have behaved very well, but that's hardly to the point. It sets her against him, and Greenlaw, at any rate, believes that Ambleside sent it."

Stainsby intervened. "Yes. Greenlaw thought that. But I don't know. There doesn't seem to be much evidence of motive. It's easy to say that he was fond of the girl and wanted to remove a rival. But was he fond of her? There's not much proof of that."

"Except the general impression of his own set, sir," Rayton answered him. "That counts for a good bit. With things practically fixed up between Greenlaw and the girl, it mightn't be much use his saying anything. But everyone thinks he was attracted."

"Now, with regard to that letter, we haven't any proof that Ambleside sent it. He seems to have been the likeliest so far. But the point is that Greenlaw thought he did and comes down and makes a row. From what the landlord says you can get an idea of how that row went. Greenlaw was full of threats and abuse; but apparently Ambleside was calm. All the same, when it was over, he seemed the more upset. Greenlaw may have said something that got home and he made up his mind to kill Greenlaw—"

"No," Rayton interrupted. "That's not exactly how I see it. That wouldn't explain why he came here in the first instance. Or why he had the gun ready. Or why he went to see the kiln... My point is that the whole thing was premeditated. That he knew as soon as the girl raised the business of the letter Greenlaw would come dashing down to find him, and made his plans accordingly. That open quarrel wasn't in his book at all, that's why he took some trouble in soothing down Greenlaw, so that they should apparently part on friendly terms."

"Yes. Perhaps that's better... Well, they go down the combe together a little before dinner. Why does Greenlaw leave before dinner? Where does he mean to go? What's in the parcel? I don't know. But a little while later the porter hears a pistol shot. Dore is pretty sure that Ambleside was carrying his pistol. He certainly hadn't got it next day. And his explanations—"

Rayton almost snorted. "Says Greenlaw shot at a rabbit," he said. "Where's the rabbit? Greenlaw missed; no rabbit. Where's the gun? He sent it to Greenlaw. Why? Oh, Greenlaw just wanted it—to miss a few more rabbits with, I suppose. And what did Greenlaw do with it? Chucked it into a bramble bush just near where he's left a bloodstained hat and goes and puts himself in a pottery kiln. And Ambleside misses dinner too and goes for a walk along the cliffs. No one sees him, and he sees no one. Comes back in time for a sandwich, obviously a bit worried, and goes to bed... Well, he may be innocent, but—"

"Yes. It does seem at least possible that Ambleside utilized those three hours in taking Greenlaw's body up to the kiln and making a fire. We don't quite know when it was lit. The Smithsons rang up Bardley at about half-past twelve, but when he got there it was well away. He might very easily have lit it just before he went back to the hotel. And, just by the woodpile, there's a button belonging to him—or at any rate, of a similar pattern to his. It's hardly likely that there was anyone else in Terracombe had that sort."

"In fact, looking at it reasonably, we've proved everything—short of an eyewitness," Rayton summed up. "He had the motive. He had the weapon. He had the opportunity. He was with the murdered man when the shot was fired. He was in the pottery yard at some time—"

"No. But how could we, unless the bullet lodged in a bone? And even then, I think it would melt. But it could go right through his heart, and not leave a trace. And there's no other injury we can find. I mean, he didn't so far as we can see, die of a fractured skull or anything that left any mark on the bones."

"Theoretically, though, he could have been poisoned, strangled, stabbed or a dozen other things," Stainsby persisted, a little unreasonably. "We don't know..."

"No, it doesn't." The Chief Constable contradicted. "What about that box? And the parcel? And what happened to whatever was in it?"

"Probably it hadn't anything to do with the murder at all," Rayton suggested. "Well, we don't know about that box—yet. And I don't see that it matters."

"All the same, sir, I'm taking up that box business. It's a pretty unusual sort of thing. It ought to be possible to trace it in the end. And the letter. It may tell us something yet... Even the bullet fired at that rabbit. It's a pretty forlorn hope, but I'm for searching for it. If the bullet was fired at a rabbit—"

The Superintendent grinned. "You'll never find it in a million years, in that combe," he declared. "Look at the undergrowth and so on. And, if you did, it still might have killed Greenlaw."

The Chief Inspector nodded. "And, that being so," he said, "there doesn't seem to be much option but for us to charge Ambleside."

He looked through the window. Ambleside was seated on the verandah just outside reading a paper and smoking, and in spite of the evidence Witney felt a doubt. There was an incredible calmness about his manner if one considered that he was a man who had not only committed a murder, but against whom it could almost certainly be proved. He looked across at Rayton.

"That is a point," he said. "Would he be such a fool as to do it like that? In a way which would certainly be discovered?"

"Murderers make mistakes like other people, and he had some bad luck," Rayton suggested. "He hadn't expected, of course, that the landlord and the porter would see the gun. With any luck that shot would have been put down to someone potting a rabbit, just as he said. And I suppose he'd counted on the kiln consuming the bones completely or thought they wouldn't be noticed."

Witney pursed his lips. "He doesn't look such an ass to me that he wouldn't realize he was bound to be questioned if Greenlaw disappeared... I'd like to see him, if you've no objection."

The opening of the door interrupted him. To the surprise of all three of them it was June Paisley who stood on the threshold. She hesitated for a moment; then entered the room, closing the door behind her, and stepped up to the table at which they sat.

"I'm afraid," she said calmly, "I've been listening... It's not true. Pat could never have done it."

"Well, Miss Paisley, why not?" He paused for a moment. "I gather that you've heard a substantial part of the case we could establish against Mr. Ambleside. We won't go into the ethics of eavesdropping. But if you did, you also heard that we're very anxious to avoid any possible error. The point is, the evidence points in a certain direction. We've got to abide by that."

"But—but I know him... I knew both of them, quite well, and Patrick Ambleside simply couldn't do a murder of the kind you suggest... I was fonder of—of—Richard before—" Her voice faltered, and she paused for a moment before continuing. "But even though I was, I'm sure that if there was anything of that kind it would be the other way about..."

"Only, you see, Miss Paisley, it's Greenlaw who is dead," Witney pointed out gently.

"Yes, but—I've been thinking it over. I've been thinking about nothing else until I feel I've got to speak... You see, Richard had a dreadful temper. He was very upset—because of what I'd said to him. I think he knew that I never could feel the same about him. And he really was a person who might have committed a murder—or suicide." She looked at them with her eyes full of appeal. "I suppose you think it's queer I should say that about a man I was in love with. It's just when you're fond of a person you can admit things like that. And I've had the idea that, perhaps, what he tried to do was to commit both. I'm so dreadfully afraid he'll succeed."

"That he will succeed?" Stainsby asked. He was looking at her sympathetically, but his expression suggested that he thought she was out of her mind. "But he's dead."

"Yes. But I believe he arranged things so that it would seem as though Pat—Mr. Ambleside had done it, so that he would hang." She looked from one to the other. "Don't you see that the whole case against Pat is too complete? Isn't it obviously the kind of thing that has been rigged up specially? There's only one person who could have done it, and that was Richard himself... And he was the sort of man who might have done it..."

Witney had leant forward with his chin on his hand. He was frowning thoughtfully.

"It's an interesting idea, Miss Paisley," he admitted, "and it really would explain some things... The question is, could he have done it? And I'm afraid we have to answer that he couldn't—not without a confederate. And who would be his confederate in a thing like that?"

"He could have arranged—about the quarrel—about the gun—and the hat—" June began uncertainly.

"Yes. But he couldn't have fastened the furnace door after him in the way we found it. I don't mind telling you that I looked at it just to see if we could rule out any possibility of that kind, and we can. Quite definitely."

"Then—then you really believe—" she began. Her voice faltered. She glanced from one to the other in desperation. All at once, as though she felt her self-control was leaving her, she turned quickly and hurried from the room.

"Only, as you've just said, it's impossible." The Chief Constable cleared his throat. Mentally, he reacted from the sympathy he had felt for the girl's attempt in the wrong direction. "Of course, I'm sorry for the girl. But I don't see that we've any other course open than to arrest Ambleside—"

"The sooner the better," he suggested. "We've got him watched, of course; but if he bolted—"

Stainsby felt in his pocket and produced the warrant. He rose slowly to his feet.

"Well," he said, and glanced towards where Ambleside had been seated. He had evidently moved away, and for a moment Stainsby had an unpleasant fear. Then, he told himself that there were at least two men outside who would prevent any attempt at escape. "I wonder where—-?" he began.

His question was answered before he had finished it. The door opened again to admit Ambleside himself. He came towards them, a little nervously, perhaps, but scarcely with the air of a man who expects to be charged with murder.

"I've just been speaking to Miss Paisley," he said without preliminary. "I understand that you're proposing to arrest me for the murder of Greenlaw."

Stainsby hesitated. The warrant was actually in his hand, and only two minutes before he had been on the point of using it; but the broaching of the subject by Ambleside himself...

"I know there is. Plenty," Ambleside interrupted. "But never mind about that... I've rather been expecting this to happen, and I've been trying to think what is the best thing to do—"

"If you wish to make a statement, of course," Stainsby said as he paused, "it will be taken down. "But I must warn you—"

"Of course." Ambleside hesitated a moment, and then went on with a rush. "It wouldn't be nice for me, and I want to stop you from making fools of yourselves."

Rayton made a queer strangled noise. All three stared at him. The Superintendent drew a deep breath.

Ambleside ignored the sarcasm. "I've just this to say. It's no use taking the evidence of those bones and arresting me for the murder of Greenlaw. They aren't Greenlaw's bones. There hasn't been a murder and Greenlaw isn't dead."

CHAPTER V
A Shock for Ambleside

"You'll admit, Mr. Ambleside," he said, that's rather a surprising statement to make... Would you care to sit down and explain it? If there hasn't been a murder, what has happened? Where is Mr. Greenlaw? And whose bones are they?"

Ambleside seated himself obediently. Stainsby subsided into his chair, but the Superintendent remained standing, as if on the watch for any possible move to escape.

"My answer to all three of those questions is that I don't know," Ambleside rejoined. "I've an idea about the first; but I'm not sure what's behind it. The others you'll have to answer for yourselves."

"Perhaps it would be better to be frank with us, Mr. Ambleside," Stainsby suggested. "I suppose you have some proofs of what you're saying?"

"The bones themselves are the proofs," Ambleside said calmly. "And I'm rather astonished that you've made the mistake you have. I suppose you picked up a few odds and ends belonging to Greenlaw and jumped to conclusions. Also, of course, they've been pretty well knocked about. Still, there's enough, I expect if you really look into it. I don't know how Ware came to be so positive in his identification—"

"You didn't examine them yourself, Mr. Ambleside?" Witney intervened. There was a curious expression on his face. "Though, I believe you were with Captain Ware?"

"I was, but I didn't. That doesn't matter. You'll find what I say is correct. I knew Greenlaw pretty well—not to say I still know him. He'd broken his shin-bone once, and his arm once, playing Rugger. That's the first point. Then, there's his teeth. He's had a good deal of trouble with those. Two, right in the front, ought to have gold stoppings—though I suppose the fire might have melted that out. In addition, he'd had another one stopped at the back and three of the molars had been extracted... I don't know the name of his dentist, but Ware does, because he recommended him."

"I'm not exactly a whale on burnt corpses, but I've read detective stories. I believe I'm right in saying that you can tell a bone that's been broken by the thickening of the join even after hundreds of years? It ought to show even after burning—"

"So do the teeth, I believe. I think if you'll just—check up on those you'll soon be convinced that it's not Greenlaw's body."

Ambleside looked from one to the other a little triumphantly, but the expression on their faces chilled him.

"That," said Witney very softly, "is extremely interesting... But if they're not Greenlaw's bones, they are someone's. You'll agree to that? In that case, why couldn't it still be murder?"

"If they're not Greenlaw's bones," Ambleside answered a little more hesitantly, "half the case against me goes automatically. I am not the last person to be seen with the murdered man. I was not with him at the time the shot was fired. I have no known motive for killing him—"

"A great deal of that," Witney pointed out, "would depend on whose bones they are. For example, sir, you might have a motive. We don't know—"

"Well, there's another reason," Ambleside said reluctantly. He looked from one to the other before he continued. It seemed as though he was somehow disappointed at the effect of his announcement. "I think you'll find, if the joints are very carefully examined, that this skeleton has been articulated."

"Joined together with wire. After all the flesh had been removed... In other words, I mean to say that it's a medical specimen."

A complete silence that lasted for a minute greeted this announcement. Ambleside was looking anxious; Stainsby frankly bewildered. On Witney's face there was the expression of a man who half understands something, and is desperately trying to make out the other half. Rayton was smiling sarcastically.

"It would be interesting, sir," Witney said at last, "to know how you came to be in possession of this—this idea. On your own admission, you didn't examine the bones. Then, how can you know what they're like—even down to details of the teeth, and the little holes the wire might leave?"

He waited for a moment. Ambleside opened his lips and closed them without speaking. There was a worried frown on his face.

"I think you will see, sir, that it's a matter that requires some explanation?" Witney persisted gently.

Ambleside seemed to make up his mind. "I'm afraid I've no explanation to offer just now. But, so far as the murder charge is concerned, the facts themselves are sufficient to smash any case you can bring against me—or anyone else. If you examine the bones, get the evidence of Greenlaw's dentist and so on—his doctor—"

"So that's why you didn't serve the warrant," he said. "You know it's not Greenlaw—"

Rayton laughed abruptly. "Mr. Ambleside," he said, "I'm afraid there's a nasty shock coming to you!"

"I mean the bones don't show any of these things you say... I think I understand. It was a pretty ingenious plan, and how it came to slip up I can't imagine. But it has slipped up..."

"I've not the vaguest idea what you've been talking about," Ambleside said irritably. "How do you mean, my plan? And if the bones are too much destroyed by the fire, it won't make any difference—"

"I mean," Rayton said. "That it looks as though you've planted—or thought you had—a skeleton for us to find which wasn't Greenlaw's. It would have been a nice point, when you were charged, and if we hadn't spotted it. But it failed. You made a mistake."

Ambleside rose to his feet angrily. "I don't know what the devil you are talking about," he said angrily, "and I don't care... You can arrest me if you damn well like. It will only make you look a lot of asses. I tell you, Greenlaw himself will turn up before you can ever bring me to trial."

"He won't, sir... Now, listen a minute, if you please, sir. You base your idea that the examination will prove your innocence on something like this argument... If the bones were examined and found to differ from what can be proved to be the condition of Mr. Greenlaw's body at the time of death, even by a single tooth, it would be enough to cast a grave doubt on the identity. But we're dealing with six teeth and two bones. And each separate one that fails to correspond increases enormously the improbability of its being Greenlaw's body. So, if even three or four differences were found, it would be a practical impossibility?"

"I suppose that was my idea," Ambleside admitted. "I didn't quite work it out like that... What's wrong with it?"

"And you'll admit the converse?" he said. "That if they don't fail, it's practically a certainty that the bones were Greenlaw's?"

"I—I suppose so." Ambleside had suddenly whitened. "But still—In heaven's name, what's wrong?"

Ambleside stared at him for quite a long time before the full implication of the words seemed to strike home. A look of utter horror came on his face.

Over his shoulder he cast a desperate look towards the door. Rayton stepped forward a pace as Stainsby rose to his feet with the warrant in his hand.

There was a sudden crash of glass. Ambleside jumped aside with a cry as something flew past his head. It bounced on to the table right in front of Stainsby and dropped to the floor.

Witney and the Chief Constable glanced down at the missile which had shattered the window. In spite of himself, Witney grinned. It was a golf ball.

Through the broken window, Rayton was expressing himself with more freedom than befitted a police superintendent to someone who stood just outside. The next moment Forrest appeared. He carried a golf club, and on his face there was a look of bland astonishment.

"Can't understand it, y'know," he said. "Fearfully sorry, and all that... I suppose you weren't watching, Superintendent? I wonder, now, if I moved my head?"

It was just at that moment that Ambleside moved. Witney saw it coming, and made a dive towards him. But he had counted on Rayton to block the doorway, and the table was between him and their Prisoner. Ambleside gained the door, and it slammed behind him before the inspector had got round. Rayton bawled through the window.

Benger was on duty in the hall, but he only stared in astonishment as Ambleside dashed past. Johnson was just outside, but he tumbled to the situation too slowly. Ambleside's charge sent him headlong just as the Sergeant came round the corner of the inn; but the shock of the impact staggered the fugitive. The sergeant was on him at a bound. At that precise moment, the small rough-haired terrier which June Paisley was holding on the lead shot forward excitedly. There was a yelp, and Sergeant Milligan went sprawling as the lead entangled his legs. By the time Witney emerged from the inn, followed at a brief interval by the Chief Constable and Rayton, Ambleside was well down the road and running strongly.

Almost immediately, it was apparent to Rayton that the odds were all on the fugitive. The young man was wearing a minimum of clothing; he and the police were dressed in a normal, respectable manner, and the runner had youth on his side. As Johnson and Milligan joined in the chase, he drew alongside the Chief Constable.

Together they dropped out of the race. Witney, sparing a second to glance back, saw what had happened and his spirits rose considerably. He had realized from the first that he would never overtake Ambleside short of an accident. But now the chances were in their favour. The man ahead had only two choices of route, and one of them led him straight into the cul-de-sac of the cove. He might, of course, go that way, and trust to finding a boat drawn down to the sea. If he did, it would be the easiest thing possible to keep him in view from the cliff until he landed or they pursued him. The other way was the cliff path which sloped steeply up the side of the valley. In all probability, that would be the way Ambleside would take, for so early in the season he was not likely to meet even any of the odd holiday-makers who alone used it. But a little higher up in the village the road also turned parallel with the coast, and commanding a view of the path throughout the greater part of its length for some distance. It would be the easiest thing in the world, given a car, to head off their quarry at will. He was hemmed in between road and sea.

Sergeant Milligan, who was a good runner, forged alongside of him just as they neared the turning to the cliffs.

"Save your breath." Witney at least was beginning to feel he would need all his. "He's taking—cliff path—I—"

The path ran straight up at a considerable angle, a red scar of clay on the sparsely covered hillside. Ambleside was about twenty yards ahead, and going well. Certainly they had not gained an inch; up the slope Witney thought they were actually losing. At a wider piece of the narrow track he drew aside to let Milligan pass, and the sergeant drew ahead. But before even he had gained the top and could command a view of the path ahead, Ambleside had vanished. Coming up with him, Witney found him halted at a loss. The path ahead was empty.

Witney caught a glimpse of a striped blazer between a couple of bushes. Strangely enough, Ambleside was heading for the sea. At this point a small cape jutted out, ending in a low line of wrinkled, indented cliffs. Ambleside was heading straight for the end of the promontory. He was already cut off from everything but the sea.

"No!" Witney was even more puffed than the sergeant. "Kill—himself! Try—catch him!"

Milligan spurted obediently, with the inspector making a poor second not far behind. The sergeant was putting out everything he had got; he was actually gaining, but it was too late. Ambleside was already going down the slope towards the low stone wall that bounded the sea. He slowed down as he reached it and looked back. At a bound he reached the top of the wall and stood there poised, his body facing the sea, his head turned towards them. He raised a hand and waved it.

Only half a dozen yards separated him from his pursuers. His hands went up in the attitude of a man about to dive. He glanced back mockingly at Witney and turned again.

Witney's cry broke off as he jumped. From below there came the dull sound of a splash. The two detectives reached the wall and peered over. On the almost waveless surface of a startlingly blue sea a ring of white foam was slowly spreading. The water was so clear that they could see the brown weeds against the bottom of a couple of fathoms below. Just for a moment Witney thought he caught a glimpse of something; then the spreading foam hid it. He unbuttoned his coat and started to take it off. Milligan followed his example. Their eyes were fixed upon the circle of foam.

Milligan looked down longingly. He was the champion diver among the whole of the Metropolitan police, but he waited obediently. Witney started to loosen the laces of his shoes. They heard Johnson pounding down the hill behind them. A minute passed and there was still no sign.

"Watch the sides." Witney scowled at the place where Ambleside had vanished. "He might swim under water—climb out further along—"

Johnson had come up. He and the sergeant looked to right and left respectively, while the inspector kept his eyes on the sea just below. If Ambleside had indeed tried to trick them, it would be impossible for him even to thrust out his nose for a breath of air without being seen. They waited for what seemed an age.

CHAPTER VI
Letter to a Lady

FOUR hours later Chief Inspector Witney was facing Stainsby and the Superintendent across a table at the inn. They had been arguing for twenty minutes, and neither side was any nearer being convinced. In the interval, Sergeant Milligan had had his fill of diving, though from the comparative safety of a boat, and was at that moment directing the efforts of the police and fishermen who were still searching. Of the body they had found no trace. It seemed to have vanished utterly, and the Chief Constable at least was almost disposed to hope it would stay so. He was acting as an unhappy referee between the Scotland Yard man and the highly irritated Superintendent, and the difference between his advisers threw upon him a responsibility which he by no means relished.

"It's damned nonsense!" Rayton said heatedly for the third or fourth time. "Why, you agreed with us that Ambleside was guilty. Now, when he's run away and killed himself—which simply clinches things—you say he's not."

Witney shook his head. "I don't say he's not guilty," he denied patiently. "I merely say the case can't be closed. I admit his running away looks bad, and his suicide. But there are two things I can't fit in. One was that idea about the skeleton."

"But the explanation won't hold water. If it was a question of two skeletons they might have got mixed somehow. But one was a dead body. How could there be any confusion?"

Rayton scowled. "There might have been an accomplice," he said. "He got his instructions mixed."

"But there's no trace of an accomplice... And I think you'll agree, sir," he turned to the Chief Constable, "it's very queer he should have given us such minute particulars. He must have had some reason for thinking that the skeleton wouldn't correspond with what could be proved about Greenlaw."

Stainsby nodded reluctantly. "Yes," he said after a pause. "That was certainly queer... You must admit that, Rayton."

"I don't know." Witney shrugged his shoulders. "That's why I say we must go on investigating... What it might mean is that Greenlaw laid the plot—not Ambleside, that Greenlaw killed himself to get Ambleside hung."

"Damn it, he wasn't mad," Rayton growled. "As for what Ambleside said, he wanted to gain time. That's all."

Rayton had no immediate reply to that. "If we'd arrested him at the beginning," he began, "all this—"

Stainsby bit his lip. The postponement had been his one contribution to the case up to date, and under the circumstances he felt in no position to resent the implied reproach. He looked at Witney.

"The letter." Witney leaned forward and picked up the box in which both letter and envelope had been deposited. "I didn't realise it before, because I knew Ambleside had left town on Thursday, the day this was posted. I didn't realise how he travelled down until I made inquiries by telephone a little while ago."

"How he travelled down?" Stainsby asked. "He came by train, surely. His luggage is labelled—"

"Yes. He came by the Torbay Limited—non-stop from Paddington to Newton Abbot. And he arrived here at half-past five... This letter was posted in Bridport at 12.30 on Thursday—when he was on the train somewhere this side of Reading. He couldn't have posted it."

"That makes no difference," Rayton objected. "For Greenlaw thought he had and they quarrelled. He probably didn't know he could prove that he hadn't posted it... Or he might have got someone to do it for him."

"The accomplice again?" Witney smiled a little irritatingly. "But we're not justified in assuming there is one without evidence. All things considered it's much more likely that it was posted by some member of the yacht party."

"It called at Lyme Regis the night before... Someone could easily have gone over." He paused, waiting for any objection the Superintendent might have to make, but none came. "Mind you, I don't say that this letter business disproves Ambleside's guilt. But it does prove that someone else, probably someone on the Campaspe, had a reason for hurting Greenlaw, and had tried to do so."

"Leicester?" Stainsby asked; then answered himself with a shake of the head. "He'd not known Greenlaw long enough. Unless someone told him. This business about the girl happened some time ago."

"It's hard to say," Witney admitted. "So far it might be any of them... Otherwise the letter doesn't tell us much. It's block-lettered, of course; cheap paper, cheap envelope, all the usual things. There's precious little chance of tracing the author by any of those."

"And the address. How many people knew the Campaspe would call for letters at Sidmouth?"

"Well I suppose Ware could tell us that." Stainsby just then was ready to pursue any subject rather than Ambleside's death. "He'd plan the stopping places, I suppose."

"No doubt. He could tell us—if we wanted to ask him." Witney paused. "But do we?"

Stainsby frowned a little bewilderedly; but Rayton grasped the point at once. He raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"You mean Ware wrote that letter?" he demanded. "Why should he? I suppose you think he did the murder as well?"

"Apart from Ambleside, he's in many ways the most promising subject. For a variety of reasons."

From Stainsby's expression it was plain that he did not see them. Relieved as he had been to escape from the question of whether Ambleside should or should not have been arrested before, he was only just beginning to realise the horrible alternative which faced them. It burst upon him suddenly.

"But, if Ambleside wasn't guilty—" he began a little dubiously; and then the ghastly truth burst upon him. "Why, good God! We've driven an innocent man to his death!"

"No, sir," Rayton rejoined stolidly. "If he had been innocent he'd not have killed himself. And if he was innocent and killed himself it wasn't our fault. He was just a blamed lunatic!"

Witney almost smiled. There was something simple and devastating about the Superintendent's logic. And, after all, there was a good deal to be said for it. But Stainsby was not to be comforted.

"After all, he was so damned certain he could prove himself innocent," he went on unhappily. "Certain it wasn't Greenlaw's body. Certain that Greenlaw was alive and would turn up. Certain he wouldn't hang. Why?"

"He came here to stop us making fools of ourselves, and apparently to save himself the bother of being charged. That's what he said and, damn it! That's how he behaved all along."

"Well, he couldn't prove himself innocent." The Superintendent stuck to his point doggedly. "And he bolted when he couldn't bluff us. That's all there is to it."

"If he was innocent he must be cleared, even if he's dead," Stainsby said with more determination than he had yet shown. "We can't accuse an innocent man and let a murderer go free."

He looked at Witney. "Your view, Inspector, is that we shouldn't consider the case closed. I agree with you. I don't see how we can. In any case, things are bound to hang on until the body is found and there can be an inquest... In the meantime, we'll sift all other possibilities. We'll try and find another murderer."

"I think we'd have to accept Ambleside's own evidence provisionally and see where it led us," Witney said thoughtfully. "I mean, about the shot, and his leaving Greenlaw, and the walk on the cliffs... Though I believe he kept something back, all that might be true."

"But, hang it, Witney, it's so darned silly!" Rayton was almost plaintive. "Why had Ambleside got the gun with him on holiday? Why did he take it with him on that walk? Why did he give it to Greenlaw?"

"If we could answer these, we'd probably settle everything. Instead, we'll have to work from the usual pointers. Means, motive, opportunity. Well, we don't know how Greenlaw died. There wasn't enough of him left. But who might want him dead? And who knew where he was? And the second is the more helpful. How many people could know he was even in Terracombe?"

Stainsby wrinkled his brows. "The yacht party?" he said. "It practically boils down to them. It was arranged they should meet him here."

"But they weren't here!" Rayton protested. "The Campaspe didn't start that night until about nine o'clock. There was hardly a breath of wind, and even using the engine it was nearly midnight before they got to Terracombe. Are you suggesting someone swam ashore at some point, came here, killed Greenlaw, and swam back while the yacht was on the way?"

"No. But you've raised two interesting points. First, the yacht was about the slowest means of transport one could well find. And second, why did it start so late?"

"Yes," Witney said as the Superintendent broke off. "Ware was late coming back. And he was the man who decided where the Campaspe went—who plumped in favour of taking her to a strange place with no harbour though it was twelve miles away and already dark. And he finally got the yacht there at about half-past eleven—not midnight—in good time to light the kiln. And he's been particularly active in trying to hang things on Ambleside."

"I don't know, sir." Unexpectedly Witney found a supporter in Rayton. "Might be the girl. He's got a way of looking at her—you know, 'Let me look after you my little girl' stuff. If he killed Greenlaw and got Ambleside accused of it he'd get rid of 'em both."

Stainsby raised his eyebrows protestingly. He himself belonged to that incurably faithful class of married men who would as soon go to church on a dromedary as let themselves think of a serious flirtation.

"He might," Rayton assented, and grinned. "Or a brotherly. Or an avuncular—" He broke off. "Then the theory now is that one of the yacht party did it—probably Ware? I'd give something to hang it on that fool Forrest."

"It's too late to change our minds," he said. "She's coming now. Though I don't quite know what to say to her."

Neither, apparently, did Stainsby when the girl actually entered, and a look at her face did nothing to encourage him. She was just at that point when she might do or say anything. He ushered her to a chair with a timid politeness, looked at Witney and Rayton and cleared his throat.

"Er—Miss Paisley," he said diffidently. "I sent for you—About this morning. It is a serious matter—a grave offence—"

"What?" She shot the word out at him and her blue eyes were blazing. "Driving an innocent man to death, because you're too stupid to see—"

"I refer to helping a prisoner to escape from the law," he said coldly. "Do you mean to deny that you did?"

"Pat—Mr. Ambleside—wasn't a prisoner. You hadn't arrested him... I may as well own I didn't want you to. I told you as much this morning."

"Do you deny that you conspired with Mr. Forrest to er—effect a diversion so that Ambleside could escape?"

Stainsby sighed. He might have told her that Johnson had seen her go up to Forrest as soon as she had left them; that only then had Forrest displayed his unlucky passion for golf; that after she had spoken to Ambleside she had gone in search of the dog. It might be all coincidence, but he doubted it. He decided to reserve the worst of his wrath for her male accomplice.

"I merely wished to point out that it is a serious matter. I trust nothing of the kind will happen again. Otherwise, I might have to take some notice of it."

She smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. Witney rather thought that she was keeping her self-control through losing her temper, and that as soon as she lost her defiant attitude she would break down.

"I rather thought that you'd had to notice it already," she rejoined. "And I might say that I don't go tripping up police sergeants as a regular habit."

"Now, we will let that pass," Stainsby said firmly. "There is another matter. You received, I believe, an anonymous letter, about Mr. Greenlaw... Have you—?"

Witney was sure that the collapse he had expected was on the point of setting in. But Stainsby was not a very good feminine psychologist. Otherwise he might have tried to keep her annoyed.

"Miss Paisley," he said sympathetically and held out his hand for the letter, "if Mr. Ambleside is innocent, you would hardly wish him to remain under the stigma of being a murderer... Our investigations are not yet ended—"

"The way in which events have worked out is scarcely our responsibility," he said significantly, "and I hardly think that you, Miss Paisley, should be the first to blame us—"

All at once she buried her face in her hands and sobbed violently. Stainsby rose to his feet a little helplessly. It was the entrance of Forrest which probably prevented him from making matters a good deal worse.

He looked with mild indignation at the three policemen. "I say, you chaps, this is hardly playing the game, is it? Third degree stuff, I suppose, what? Really, if you can't treat a girl decently—"

June Paisley had collapsed quite comfortably on his shoulder, and the fact did not seem to disturb him in the least. He shook his head reprovingly at them. It seemed to be the last straw to Rayton.

"We wanted to see you, Mr. Forrest," he said grimly. "We'd like some explanation of what happened this morning."

"Oh, so should I, you know." Forrest shook his head. "Nasty business. Doesn't look well for the police. First you let him go and then you chase him over the Cliff. Not at all the right thing, really."

"You know perfectly well what we mean, Mr. Forrest," Stainsby said sharply. "That golf ball—" He jerked his hand towards the broken window. "Very unfortunate that it should come just at the right time to let Ambleside escape, wasn't it?"

"Oh, deuced unlucky! But the fact is, I can't explain it, Colonel... My own idea is that I got my head wrong. Pinner says it was feet, and Dore thought my grip wasn't right. We've had quite an argument—"

"Why, how should I know you'd go and make such blooming asses of yourselves as to arrest poor old Ambleside?" he asked. "Sorry, old chap. It was the deuce of a slice. That's all. Happens to the best of us at times... If you've no objection, I'll just take Miss Paisley to Mrs. Leicester... See you later, if you'd like."

None of the three ventured to stop him as with all the honours of the encounter he escorted June outside. Then Rayton swore under his breath.

"No man could really be such a silly fool," he said with some heat. "Not by accident! He must try Witney looked at him quickly. "D'you know, that's just what I was thinking myself? I mean, that I think Forrest's pretty clever. That silly ass stuff is mere affectation. He does it because he finds it useful."

"Perhaps. I suppose you're scheduling him for second murderer?" Rayton asked sarcastically.

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. But when a man is so good at hiding his real feelings, and his whole outward manner is a pose—"

The opening of the door interrupted him. Forrest stepped serenely inside before anyone had had time to ask him. He smiled at them quite cheerfully.

"All Sir Garnet, lads," he announced. "Back for a spot more of the inquisition, you know. A glutton for punishment—"

"I don't know that we've many more questions to ask you just now," Stainsby said coldly.

So far as Witney was concerned, that was not true. But, he reflected, it might be just as well to get the young man on his own some time. To their surprise, Forrest looked disappointed.

"Oh, come, now!" he remonstrated. "You didn't make a chap climb that hill from the beach just to have a chat about golf surely? Besides—" He raised a finger and wagged it at Stainsby in a way which was probably impressive in his own mind. "I've something to tell you, old boy. Now that we've left the ladies, so to speak."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. But it's about—something. You know, aiding the course of justice and so on."

"I shouldn't have thought that was in your line," Stainsby said dryly. "If you'd said obstructing—"

"Now, there's no need to be nasty. I'm telling you. It's about that letter of June's. You know—Greenlaw's give-away that started the whole show."

"Oh, June told me. Showed me the beastly thing, you know. Rotten game—what?" For once he seemed to be genuinely indignant. "Sending a thing like that to a girl about her fiancé... That's why I've come to you."

"Don't be impatient, old boy. I'm coming to it. Well, to cut a long story short, I've an idea who the miscreant is!"

"I mean, I believe I know who wrote the jolly old thing. It all came like a flash. Or several flashes. Like a thunderstorm. As soon as I found out from the old woman where Ware was last night—"

"Yes, where. That's the question you should have been asking yourselves, Where was Ware? Instead of chasing people over cliffs—"

Witney leant forward a little desperately. "Please, sir," he begged. "If you'd begin at the beginning. Where was Ware?"

"That's the end really," Forrest protested. "But still—" He grinned proudly. "You ask where Ware was? And the answer is 'Here'!"

CHAPTER VII
Chat Between Friends

IT would have been hard to say whether it was sheer genius or complete idiocy which had made Forrest take June to Sophia Leicester to be comforted. The fact was that Mrs. Leicester was at least as much in need of sympathy as the younger girl, and her more passionate nature had suffered from the death of Greenlaw even more than June had. Added to that was the attitude of her husband. Since her outburst that morning, he had hardly said a word; certainly he had not said an unkind word. He had merely left her completely to herself, sitting about the hotel staring into space, without even troubling to light the pipe that had been such a source of irritation to her or wandering aimlessly on the cliffs.

Both of them frightened her. His brooding showed a side of his nature she had never seen before, and she had thought that she had plumbed its fairly shallow depths to the limit. There was something dangerous in the silence of a man who had been, ever since she had known him, childishly fond of talking; horribly addicted to repeating the same jokes: blatantly obvious and entirely male.

But the walks on the cliff were worse. Twice she had followed him, at first half fearing that he would throw himself over. But he never tried. He had wandered outside with as little purpose as he did in the hotel. It was not exactly as though he was mentally stunned. It was rather as though his not very adaptable mind was making a desperate effort to comprehend an unfamiliar world which required his whole concentration.

All this, and a lot more June had to listen to in the bedroom of the hotel which overlooked the bay. Almost from the first moment the role of comforter had changed hands, and the married woman was sobbing out her worries on the girl's shoulder. Half of it June missed, staring out at that surprising blue of the horizon, and trying to force from her mind that persistent idea that somewhere underneath it lay Patrick Ambleside. It was not that she had loved him, she told herself. She had loved Greenlaw, or had thought she had, until the arrival of the letter. That had altered everything. She was not of the type that can forgive meanness or overlook unfaithfulness, and it was only too clear that in his conduct towards Olivia Howard Richard Greenlaw had shown both. Undeniably Greenlaw's death had been a shock; but it had brought her nothing of the grief it had to a woman with whom he had had only the most casual of flirtations.

Even before he was murdered, she had put Greenlaw out of her mind, and if doing so had left a scar, it was one she was determined to ignore. But she had liked Ambleside—in quite a different way from Greenlaw. And for his death she felt some of the responsibility of which Stainsby had accused her.

She rose to her feet at last, determined not to give way, and gently led the older woman to the dressing-table.

"We've made perfect sights of ourselves, Sophy," she declared, as she dabbed powder on a nose which was unduly red. "Tidy up, and I'll tell you what we'll do."

As Mrs. Leicester obediently repaired the ravages of emotion, June tried to think what to tell her. It was so hopeless to try explaining to Leicester that Sophia could no more help her infatuation for Greenlaw than he could help inevitably choosing the wrong sort of tweeds or repeating the story of the drowned herring. Perhaps, she thought, one accounted for the other. But in the meantime something had to be done. Secretly, Sophy's account of her husband's conduct had alarmed her. It was so unexpected that she was not sure he was quite sane; she would have sworn he would have made a weak little row, full of appeals to pity and morality. And with the idea of Leicester's insanity came an unpleasant thought. Had it only been when Sophia heard of Greenlaw's death that Leicester had known about it? Was it possible that he could have been responsible for the murder? And, might he not commit another?

Sophia finished her toilet, and actually turned to June with something like a smile. The unburdening of her mind had done her good; and to a woman proud of her appearance there is always a stimulus in makeup.

June made up her mind on the spur of the moment. "My advice is that you should just pack a case and go back to the yacht," she said. "You can't stay here alone—I mean, with him."

"I can't leave him alone," she said and the words sounded oddly to June, coming from a woman who had apparently less sympathy and affection for her husband than anyone she had met. "Don't you see? I can't... Would you?"

June hesitated. At that moment she was so completely unable to put herself in the other's place that she did not know what to say. Next moment the older woman seemed to slip back into something like a normal attitude of mind.

"Besides, it would be terrible," she said in quite a different voice. "Everyone would know... And if my husband wasn't with me—"

"Well, he'd probably come too?" June suggested. It still seemed to her very probable from a man who had been accustomed to following his wife about like a lap-dog. "It would be better there, with someone to look after you—or him."

"Would he?" Sophia said with a curious flatness. "I don't know—now." She paused for a moment. "And I couldn't face them—Mrs. Ware—and—and Polly—now that they know—"

"They knew before—most of them," June said bluntly. "Richard wasn't a man who bothered very much about anyone else's reputation. He'd spoken to Forrest about it himself."

It might have been the bitterness in her voice, or the shattering of another illusion which made Sophia turn on her angrily.

"You—you hate him, don't you?" she burst out. "Well, I don't. And I never shall..."

She was silent for a moment, staring out of the window. All at once she turned on June with a kind of cold ferocity.

"You hate him, and yet you killed him!" she accused. "Oh, it was because of you. I know it was. Not me... Can't you see that I nearly hate you for that?"

"But—but we don't know why he died—or how," June said weakly. The sudden renewal of the strain when she had thought the worst was over was almost too much for her. "I—I had nothing—"

"Ambleside killed him because of you. Or Ware. Or one of them... One of them isn't enough for you. You've got to set your cap at every man—" June stood staring at her in sheer horror as the tirade continued. All trace of refinement dropped from her and she railed like a fish-woman. The girl scarcely heard most of it. With a horrible reiteration the name of Ware was drumming through her mind. It was impossible what the angry woman had suggested. And yet—When the idea was once in her mind, there were any number of small indications that it might be true. And she, perhaps, unknowingly, was playing a part very like that of Greenlaw which she had so much despised in separating husband and wife.

The storm passed quite suddenly. Sophia collapsed on the bed. June scarcely noticed the silence until the other laid a hand on her arm.

"I—I'm sorry. June! I didn't mean what I said... It was just—that something snapped inside me—"

"You said—one thing," she said quite quietly. "About Ware... That's not true? Is it true?"

June turned away slowly. "I think—I think I shall stay here," she said wearily. "To-night, I mean. Until the police have finished with us. It—it can't be long now."

Outwardly she was quite calm as she went in search of Dore to explain her requirements. He received the request without surprise, and perhaps with relief; for he himself had not by any means liked the condition of Leicester. He even confessed as much.

"It's my belief this business has touched his mind, Miss Paisley," he said. "I don't mean he's mad, but—it's no wonder. I don't mind saying that it's upset me... Good for trade, in a way, but I can do without that sort of trade, and would cheerfully. You'll be all right here, Miss Paisley."

Remembering how he had received them the first day they had arrived, June mentally agreed that the murder had put years on the landlord. Looking at him, she wondered what his history had been. Perhaps her own sorrows had rendered her more sympathetic; because all at once she found herself pitying his loneliness.

"Yes. That was worse than the other," Dore agreed with a frown. "And the worst of it is, I feel responsible. I'm afraid I had to give some evidence that didn't do him any good. It's what happened, but—"

"I was responsible, too," June said slowly. "It seems to me, Mr. Dore, we can never tell what harm we're going to do—even when we mean best." She stopped for a minute, and the current of her thoughts changed. "You know, I'm still certain that Pat—Mr. Ambleside—was innocent. However black things were against him. Do you think he did it?"

Dore considered for a long time. "I don't," he said briefly. "But the police would have it. It's too late to alter things now. If I could do anything—"

"I might clear him. Even now... You see, I know his family. They're abroad just now—his mother and sister." June swallowed hard. "If only one could prove he wasn't—wasn't a murderer—"

"It's a job for the police, Miss Paisley," Dore said gently. "What could you do? Still, I'll admit that I feel the same. If there's any help you want from me, it's yours."

She had no wish at that moment to see any more of Sophia Leicester; on the other hand, she did not want to return on board the yacht to explain her sudden determination to stay at the inn; even though in the condition of Leicester she had a ready-made excuse. Walking slowly down the combe, she found a quiet spot on the cliffs above the cove and seated herself on a lump of sandstone.

The very beauty of the place seemed to distress her. It had all been so different from what she had planned and hoped the cruise would be. First there had been the letter and her quarrel with Greenlaw; the murder; the strain of the days that followed; the dreadful news of Ambleside's death, and now—Somehow the interview with Sophia Leicester had been as terrible as anything, except the news of Ambleside's death. So many of her ideals seemed to have been swept away in the past few days. Oddly enough, now, the one person she felt she could have trusted was Ambleside.

Thinking it over, she realised that he had loved her, and sitting there on the cliffs, with the seagulls wheeling round within a few yards and the soft murmur of the sea on the beach below she wondered what would have happened if he had lived. Her love for Greenlaw had been to a great extent admiration; she had been flattered by the attention of a clever and handsome man, and carried away by a romantic personality. With Patrick Ambleside, she felt that there would have been more real comradeship. And now—? Patrick was branded as a murderer, and she herself seemed suddenly to have grown up.

She rose to her feet and looked up the combe. With a little tremor she noted the red path up which Ambleside had run. Her eyes followed it upwards, and then she felt a little shock of surprise. Outlined against the skyline at the top was a small figure in yachting costume, and even at that distance it was unmistakable. She recognised Captain Ware.

The sight affected her unpleasantly. She had not disliked Ware in the fatherly role for which she had always cast him; now a few words from an angry woman had shown him in a different light. She was not sure how he had changed, but she seemed to see him in a new, and less favourable perspective. With something very like horror at her own thoughts, she suddenly realised that she was thinking of him as a possible murderer.

Could he have been? He had certainly been off the yacht that night, and from where they were anchored it would have been easy enough for him to drive over to Terracombe. He had never liked Greenlaw. Now she remembered a hundred little things. Partly, perhaps, it was jealousy, but he had never lost a chance of doing Richard harm in her eyes. The thought flashed upon her mind that of all people he was the most likely to have written the letter. And if he had been? The letter had started it all. Greenlaw had quarrelled furiously with Ambleside when he believed him to be the author. Perhaps there might have been another quarrel with Ware, with a different ending.

Ware seemed to be waiting for someone. He stood, not facing the wide sweep of the bay, but looking along the cliff path in the opposite direction from the cove. She wondered whom he was expecting. So far as she knew, he had never been in the village before; and the yachting party could all be accounted for. Even the police had still been at the inn when she left. She found herself wondering all at once whether their visit to Terracombe had been so casual as Ware had liked to pretend. It was he who had suggested that they should pick up Ambleside there and that Greenlaw should join them. It had been he who had delayed their sailing, and had yet insisted on setting out at an unreasonable hour of the night to get there.

It must have been quite five minutes after she had first seen him that the Captain's patience received its reward. She had looked away for a minute, wondering whether or not to leave her post and go back to the inn. It was with what was to have been a final glance that she saw Ware was no longer alone. A second small figure had joined him, and she could see that it was a woman.

CHAPTER VIII
A New Line

FOR half a minute all three detectives stared at Forrest, who smiled back at them cheerfully, as though rather enjoying the situation. Witney drew a deep breath.

"Sure? Oh, rather. Unless the old woman was a fearful liar. Some are, of course." He shook his head. "But, the way she put it, you know, it seemed all right. It came as a bit of a surprise—quite knocked me out at the time. Because, of course, Ware had said that he'd been shopping, met a friend and had a drink or two. Well, that might happen to anyone... And it's queer that it's apparently what hadn't happened to him."

"Perhaps you wouldn't mind sitting down, sir, and telling us the whole story as straightforwardly as you can," he suggested. "Right from the start. Tell us everything."

"Well, I got talking to the old woman," he started. "It's a way I have, talking to people, you see. You can learn the deuce of a lot talking to people sometimes, I can tell you. I once met a man who knew about sea-bat fishing, and he put me up to an awfully good dodge for cooking vegetable marrows—only he didn't call them that—"

Witney seemed to have taken upon himself the task of keeping the young man to the point.

"The old woman at the beach café, you know, where you get your morning coffee—if you like that sort of coffee, Mrs. Roberts. She's got a bit of a beard, and isn't exactly a Marlene Dietrich, but a decent soul. Calls people 'my dear' without any discrimination. Thought at first she'd got a passion on me, and called her 'angel' automatically. Well, I was sitting there, you know, and we were chatting, when it just happens Ware goes up the beach. She asks if I know the gentleman, and I explain to her that he is cook and captain bold and practically everything else on the Campaspe—except that he's a rotten cook. Burns the bacon. And she says, you know, that she'd seen him before. Not down on the beach. She had gone to visit her married daughter up at some place with a fearfully difficult name. In fact, they both had. The names you get in these out of the way places are simply frightful, you know. I never dare to ask my way—"

"Oh, yes. He was asking the way, and that's what put it into my head, I suppose. He got out of a car, apparently, and asked whether that village ahead was Terracombe. And she seems to have 'my deared' him a bit and talked about the weather and finally confessed that unless it had changed a good deal in the past five minutes it was, to the best of her belief; that she had been born, married, and buried two husbands there... Well, he seems to have been satisfied that it was Terracombe all right, and his next gambit is that he supposes she knew everyone there. Well, of course, she does, and a good deal of pretty spicy stuff about some of them. There was a girl who ran away to go on the stage—"

"We'll leave her for the moment. It's not uncommon." Even Witney's patience was beginning to get exhausted, but he had the feeling that Forrest would either tell the story his own way or leave out everything important. "She'd nothing to do with the murder, had she? What about Ware?"

"Oh, if you say so... Well, he says, then she'll know where he can find a girl called Olivia Howard, or where she used to live."

"Oh, yes. It quite struck me, you see. Queer that Ware should be here asking about that girl, and someone writing letters to June about her. A letter, I mean... Because, of course, I rather gathered that Ambleside was the only person who knew about Episode No. 15 in Greenlaw's amorous and romantic career. At least, Ambleside thought so. That was why Greenlaw came tearing down here bald-headed to beat him up. Now, it looks as though Ware did too."

"Oh, no. So far as I could make out, because, you know she speaks fearfully sing-song sometimes—all these Devonshire people do, just as they've always got something in their throats up north—she told him she preferred Biblical names and thought it a handicap to a young girl to be called after a sort of foreign fruit. He seems to have agreed with that, you know—though I doubt if he does, really, because he's pretty dashed fond of olives, let me tell you, and asked again. And this time she got as far as saying there weren't any Olivias or Howards, girl or woman, in the past sixty years or so. And that seems to have put him out a bit. So he bids her a grateful adieu, mounts into the car and speeds away. And the next I know about him is that he's telling us that cock-and-bull yarn of shopping and old friends, when, instead of sitting in a bar like a Christian he's been simply hareing round the countryside asking about girls. Naughty old man!"

Forrest sat back in his chair with an air of pride and lit a cigarette as Witney considered this remarkable statement. The superintendent had lapsed into a dazed or disgusted silence, and Stainsby had been sufficiently shaken by the events of the past few days to be disposed to rely entirely upon the experience of Scotland Yard.

Perhaps Forrest was an ass, Witney reflected, or perhaps he was merely playing at being one; but, in spite of the remarkable way in which it had been told there was no reason to doubt the main facts of the story. In any case, it would be perfectly easy to check them by reference to Mrs. Roberts. For some reason or other, Ware had come to Terracombe on the night of the murder, asking for the girl mentioned in the anonymous letter. Of that, he might very well be the author; but could he be the murderer?

It was all a question of time. He might have met Greenlaw while he was at Terracombe on the first occasion, committed the murder and temporarily disposed of the body. But then he had somehow to make the fire in the kiln and get the body to it. Between the time the yacht cast anchor at Terracombe, and the time Bardley saw the fire well established there was a bare hour. He could not see how it was possible to do everything that had to be done in this time. He would not be able to dash off immediately they arrived without being noticed; some of the party would certainly be awake. He turned to Forrest.

"The yacht got here about half past eleven that night, I believe?" he asked. "I suppose you'd all be on deck for the arrival? You didn't come ashore?"

"Well, you know, it had been dark for an hour or more," Forrest answered. "As a matter of fact, we'd all been to a dance the night before and were pretty worn. The Leicesters had turned in, I know, and of course Mrs. Ware; because she always does at ten o'clock—a great believer in 'early to bed' you know. June went just after we'd arrived. Pinner and I were just having a night-cap, but we went about midnight—"

"Oh, we weren't sailing, y'know. We'd tried that earlier on—Ware's very obstinate about using the motor. But we were hardly making more than about a mile an hour and he had to give it up. Pinner and I lent a hand at getting in the sails. But otherwise Ware and Dunn could manage quite easily. And Dunn turned in as soon as we'd dropped anchor."

"He's the official crew. No, you wouldn't see him except on Sunday. Not then, unless there was a church... He's a solemn sort of lad, you know; doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't like girls or pictures or—or anything. Beats me what he does with his time. Nothing of the 'jolly Jack Tar' stuff about him. More like a Non-conformist parson. In fact, he is, I believe—as a part time job. Very hot stuff on sin and hell-fire and all that. Queer sort of fellow, but it takes all kinds to make a world. And what I say is, let everyone enjoy himself in his own way."

Apparently the crew of the Campaspe was at least as queer as any of its passengers. To Witney the man sounded like a fanatic, and he had had sufficient experience to know that there are no lengths to which religious enthusiasm of a certain type may not drive a man. But, even so, it was unlikely that the sailor could have any personal interest in the affairs of Greenlaw and Olivia Howard. If he had decided that Greenlaw, as a sinner, had to be expedited to the next world, it must have been on general grounds, and the inspector doubted if it was a matter likely to be discussed in the hearing of the crew. Nevertheless, he decided that Dunn was worth seeing.

"Oh, no. We always tow the dinghy, you know. Just as well, too, if I'm at the wheel. Ware's fearfully stern with me. I feel like the little cabin boy, or something. Only, you see, if I should tip her up or strike a rock there mightn't be time to launch boats."

"It might have been possible, then, for someone to go ashore after you arrived without being seen?"

"Oh, I suppose so," Forrest assented dubiously. "After about twelve o'clock I think we were all imitating the Seven Sleepers. But I'm hanged if I know why the devil anyone should, you know. You couldn't see anything worth mentioning, and this place is as dead as the British Museum after about ten." He sighed. "Can't think why Ware came here—"

"More or less, in a way." Forrest gave this unsatisfactory answer with an air of a man doubting if even that was true. "This is how it was, you see, we were chatting all together—Leicester, and Ware, and Pinner, and me. Greenlaw and Ambleside looked in later. It was then they told us they weren't coming with us from the start, but would join us later."

"That's what we were chatting about, you know... Greenlaw'd got some little pet scheme he was fearfully excited about, and he'd made Ambleside fall in with it. And we were all talking, and somehow or other it was decided we should look in here and pick them up."

"Then you can't say Ware suggested this place; or Greenlaw, or Ambleside?" Witney asked. "Anyway, did you?"

"Positively not!" Forrest said emphatically. For a moment a trace of alarm showed on his face. "I say, you're not letting the old brain play with the idea that I did the bumping off. Not in my line at all. Wouldn't hurt a black-beetle—can't stand guns—or burning corpses or anything. Disgusting sort of show, I think. What?"

"I'm not suggesting anything of that kind," Witney replied truthfully. Of all the passengers on the Campaspe he could least imagine Forrest in the guise of a murderer, unless, as Rayton had said, he was merely playing a part. "I'm trying to eliminate the people who didn't suggest it... Did Leicester?"

"Good Lord, no! He'd got toothache or something that night—fearfully glum about the whole show, and would have backed out for two pins. He never suggested a thing. Just turned down everything anyone else suggested."

"Oh, no. He was much too much above himself to say anything sensible. He could be like that, you know. Ware said, 'Well, how about Terracombe? I should think that would suit you,' and Greenlaw said, 'I'll have a look and let you know.' So he buzzed down here on his own——"

"So, as a matter of fact," Witney said thoughtfully, "no one specially wanted to come to Terracombe—except perhaps Ware?"

"Don't see why anyone should want to come to Terracombe, you know," Forrest said plaintively. "Nothing to do here, except murders and things. If we hadn't come to Terracombe, I'll bet all this wouldn't have happened. But I suppose you couldn't expect Ware to know that... You see, he liked these little tin-pot holes."

"Oh, no... She was fearfully keen on him. Used to follow him about with a 'Darling, how wonderful you are!' look that was enough to give anyone the willies... Not that he was a bad chap, but a queer sort of bird, you know. Deuced popular with some people and deuced unpopular with others. Sometimes ragging like blazes and other times reading poetry and that sort of stuff... But there was never any trouble, until that letter."

"Oh, yes. Two or three days. And June landed and dashed right over to Greenlaw—and he was doing something queer at Torquay and the fat was in the fire. She came back with a sort of 'I don't care. He is nothing to me' kind of air, and we didn't know whether we were going to meet Greenlaw here or not. And I don't mind telling you, I hoped we wouldn't. Engaged people are pretty sickening anyway, and it's worse when they're not sure if they're engaged or disengaged and ready for another go. You know, whenever I've been engaged—"

"Oh, yes. To lots of fearfully nice girls—more or less. But we seemed to get fed up, and they gave me up as a bad job."

Witney smiled; then grew serious again. "June Paisley had no idea who wrote it?"

"Well, you see, she thinks that I'm a silly ass and don't matter." He sighed. "She'd got to sob out her troubles on somebody's bosom, and she chose me. Best of a bad lot. That's all it was."

"I say, getting fearfully near tea time, isn't it. Of course, you policemen are wonderful, and don't mind missing meals, but I'd rather have them myself. Anything more I can tell you? Delighted, of course..."

Witney thought for a moment. He had already got out of Forrest a good deal more than he could possibly have hoped, and he could think of nothing more at that moment.

"That's the idea... Atoning for past sins, what? Golf balls and all that, and turning the bobbies' hair grey... Well then, so long!"

"It's a lot of damned nonsense! Ambleside did it, and we got him. And now we're chasing round a lot of other people. Ware couldn't have done it. He was on the yacht when it was being done—"

"That's the whole point. Was he?" Witney frowned thoughtfully. "If he came straight here, he'd have about an hour in the place. That would be time to kill Greenlaw and hide the body. He could even have started to stoke up the kiln—the place was empty after six, and it's secluded enough in the yard. He wouldn't have had much to do when the yacht arrived. Just to drag the body there and stoke up. He could almost have done it in half an hour."

"We don't even know he met Greenlaw. He'd never been here before—he had to ask the woman if this was the place. And yet he knows all about the kiln, or just has a brilliant idea on the spur of the moment. Very much so. He hadn't much time to think."

"Yes, that's a weakness, surely, Witney?" Stainsby suggested. He was again inclining towards the superintendent's view. "I don't say he might not have managed it if it was all a pre-arranged thing. But really, I don't see that he could if it was done unexpectedly... Did he expect to meet Greenlaw that night? Did he know where to find Greenlaw? He doesn't seem to have been staying in the village. Or was it an accidental meeting?"

"Probably accidental," Witney said hesitantly. "Of course, if he had found that girl, the meeting might have come about through her... But it does seem to me that there's a sort of a plan running through this business, and the person who made the plan was not Ambleside but Ware." He paused. "In fact, Ambleside doesn't seem to have been foremost in anything. He was linked up with some scheme of Greenlaw's—and what that was, Heaven only knows! But he just fell in with their suggestions—"

"It's utterly incomprehensible," Stainsby said, irritably, and rose to his feet. "Well, Witney, we won't go back on what we said. You'd better go on with your inquiries at least until Ambleside's body turns up. Or for a few days, anyhow... Personally, I'm convinced that the mystery is solved..."

Witney did not argue the point. All the same, after the superintendent and chief constable had taken their leave, he grinned over Stainsby's parting words. The mystery was solved, indeed! It seemed to him that the mystery was only beginning. When he had first come down, everything had seemed so beautifully clear, and the case against Ambleside so strong that he had wondered why they had ever sent for him. But the more one looked into it, the more incomprehensible things became. There was Greenlaw's mysterious scheme. Except for its author, only Ambleside seemed to have known about that, and now neither of them would ever say anything. Had the scheme been put into practice, or had it not? There was no saying. There was the conduct of Ambleside before his arrest; his certainty that he could prove his innocence; his sudden flight and suicide. It was all horribly contradictory. Would a man who had behaved so calmly under the threat of arrest lose his head so completely when arrested? Witney could not see it.

There was the whole visit to Terracombe, apparently arranged by Ware, and apparently connected with the anonymous letter. And there were things like the possible intrigue between Greenlaw and Sophia Leicester just to make things more difficult. Not that he was surprised that this should turn up. It was common enough, on a case, to unearth all kinds of scandals which had nothing to do with the business in hand. But it was a complication.

The first thing, he decided, was to check up on Forrest's story about Ware's visit. He waited only long enough to swallow a quick cup of tea, and then set off for the beach.

Forrest's description of Mrs. Roberts, he found, if uncomplimentary, was not inaccurate. Indeed, he had only been talking to her for a few sentences before he realized that the impression conveyed by the young man's account had been very faithful—a caricature, perhaps, but with all the main lines all the better brought out by exaggeration. All his efforts failed either to shake Forrest's story or to add much to it. She had never seen Ware before. She had seen him that night, and he had asked her about Olivia Howard. And she had seen and recognized him on the beach the first day. Of all that, and a great deal more she was quite certain; but he learnt nothing additional which could have the slightest bearing on the murder. It was only when he was on the point of giving up that an inspiration came to him. Feeling in his pocket, he produced the photograph of Greenlaw with which he had provided himself for purposes of identification.

"By the way, a friend of mine came here a little while ago," he said. "I wonder if you remember him?"

He thought it safer to put the question in this innocuous form. Already there was a horrible risk how much his inquiries about Ware might be repeated and magnified as gossip; for however much one might bind Mrs. Roberts to secrecy, the looseness of her tongue was obvious, and her interest had been acute.

She took the photograph and looked at it, and even before she spoke he saw the recognition in her face.

"Yes, sir. To be sure I do... That's the young gentleman who was camping on the beach in the spring. Used to have all his meals here, except when he went off hiking. Handsome young fellow, too." She shook her head. "I wouldn't trust him with the girls... All these artists are alike. It's having those models and all that. Not proper, if you ask me, sir... And he's a friend of yours?" There was a suggestion of surprise in her face, apparently at the acquaintance between the dashing artist and the middle-aged policeman. "Well then, sir, you only just missed him. He was here a day or two before you arrived—"

"Staying here?" Witney tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice. It was lucky that Mrs. Roberts had so far completely failed to connect the "artist" with the murdered man. "Was he here long?"

"Just passing through, I think, sir. He looked in and bought a packet of cigarettes. Asked if the old place was as quiet as ever."

"You guessed he was an artist?" The description puzzled Witney a little. So far as he knew, Greenlaw had never done anything of the kind in his life. "Did he do much painting while he was here?"

"Oh, no, sir. Just pottered about in a boat and fished a bit... But I could tell him. And then he got quite thick with Mr. Bardley, and the artists at the Pottery—"

"He did!" Witney exclaimed in spite of himself, and as he saw the curiosity on her face regretted his lack of self-control. "That's not his line," he said hastily. "I didn't think he was interested."

"Well, he was, sir. My husband's sister's son works there. Showed him all round, he did... You'll be taking tea, sir?"

Witney had not intended to, but it was a hot day. He might just as well spend ten minutes there as anywhere else. He nodded.

Seating himself at one of the little tables, he stared absently out to sea as he tried to digest this latest information. He felt it ought all to fit into something, but he did not quite see what. Greenlaw, apparently, had been arranging for his own cremation, but that made no sense. Recognizing that he was tired, he decided to await the arrival of the tea before trying to arrive at an explanation. Lighting his pipe, he leaned back lazily, and let his eyes wander idly over the cove.

A slight breeze had sprung up, and the flowing tide was nearly at its height. Quite fair-sized waves foamed on the shingle within a few feet of him, and further out, just within the shelter of the headlands, the Campaspe rose and fell gently on a swell which did not reach the beach. It was so absolutely peaceful that for a moment he almost forgot his troubles. A couple of children were paddling under the eyes of their mother a few yards along, and he watched their antics with a pleasant anticipation of his own summer holidays due, if all went well, in a few weeks' time.

Then something caught his attention. At first he was mildly curious. It was a round, white ball, which regularly the waves washed up the beach and as regularly took back again. Certainly it was not a stone. But what was it? Half a dozen times he watched it come and go, coming a little nearer to where he sat on each occasion, without getting any nearer to knowing what it was.

It burst upon him all at once. He sprang to his feet, upsetting the rickety table. Next moment the half-dozen visitors on the beach were startled to see a respectable middle-aged man who a minute before had seemed on the point of dozing, dash suddenly into the sea.

Nerves were a little on edge in Terracombe. The mother of the two children screamed and grabbed her offspring. The man who hired out boats dashed from his hut. Regardless of a wave which wetted him to the knees, Witney splashed on. Suddenly he bent down, plunging his arms in up to the elbow, and groping in the foam. As he rose to his feet, the boatman who was just on the point of grabbing what he classed as a would-be suicide, saw what was in his hand and swore a startled oath.

CHAPTER IX
Enter the Ghost

A WEEK before, June Paisley would no more have thought of spying upon a man who after all was at that moment her host than of flying to the moon; but so much had happened in the interval that as she set off up the combe only the faintest qualm of conscience raised an ineffective head and subsided. At the first glimpse of the woman a queer idea had flashed across her mind. If Ware had written the letter, he must have known about Olivia Howard, and perhaps, even where she could be found. Suppose he had insisted on bringing them to that particular village with a view to confronting Greenlaw with the girl he had abandoned? Greenlaw might have found out, and things had gone differently from what he had planned. There had been a quarrel, presumably, and he had killed Greenlaw. Now, he had the girl on his hands. And, for his own safety, he dare not let her presence there be known; since it might so easily point to his own motive for the murder.

In other circumstances it might have sounded a little far-fetched but out of the chaos of her recent emotions there had emerged one clear idea. She would clear the name of Patrick Ambleside, even if he were dead, by finding Greenlaw's murderer. Her face was set with a grim determination as she plunged through the undergrowth.

To reach the point where she had seen them, she had to cross the lowest part of the combe where the stream ran, and, once there, she had little time to think of anything else. Haste was urgently needed; but the whole of the valley bottom was a tangled mass of undergrowth bound by blackberry vines and ropes of wild clematis which at times made direct advance impossible. She was already breathless when she splashed through the brook and set herself to scale the steep bank covered with harts' tongue ferns which bounded it on the other side.

Once at the top her progress was easier. The bushes were not so closely placed, and here and there patches of bare red gravel or coarse grass allowed her to make quite good speed. At last she emerged altogether from the overgrown part, and halted for a moment under cover of a great sandstone slab, puzzling how she was to ascend unobserved the bare hillside above.

She looked up the hill, peering cautiously round the edges of the rock. With a feeling between disappointment and relief she saw that the two figures had disappeared. They might still be there. Simply by sitting down in the shelter of the big fir tree which towered at the head of the track they would be out of sight; but would see her as soon as she breasted the rise. And if they did? She came to the conclusion that most probably they would bolt. They would not know she was following them; they would be more anxious to avoid being seen than to court a meeting. And, if they met, probably Captain Ware would carry it off somehow with the tact of which she knew him to be a master.

As she stumbled up the hill, the thought recurred to her that it was her own position which was equivocal. But she had little energy to waste on worrying. The route she was taking, as the shortest, did not sidle up the slope like the path. Sometimes she had to go down on hands and knees, clinging to the grass. Twice she slipped, and once a basking adder slid away a bare foot from her hand, but she kept on. Hot, breathless and dishevelled she reached the top.

Her first quick glance round showed no sign of them. They must have moved during her scramble across the combe, and they could only have gone one way. Certainly they could not have descended the hill without her having seen them; they must have taken the cliff path. Shading her eyes with her hands against the warm sunshine, she stood looking.

It was a minute or two before she saw them. They had got a start of some distance, perhaps two or three hundred yards; but just for a moment they were clearly visible in a bare section of the path. They were walking slowly, apparently deep in conversation. Next moment the bushes hid them, but June was already running in pursuit.

What she was going to do when she got up with them she was far from sure. Suppose she were to confront them openly? It was barely possible that the girl, if she was Olivia Howard, might be startled into some kind of admission; but it was too risky. Her best chance was to creep up unobserved, and either to try to overhear what was being said, or to watch where the girl went. To know that would be at least something gained.

All at once the matter was nearly settled for her. Walking at a good pace, though the sound of her footsteps was almost inaudible owing to the grass underfoot, she was on the point of turning a corner when the sound of angry voices reached her. Evidently they had stopped and she had almost plunged right on top of them.

Instinctively she crouched in the shelter of the hedge. Between the shock and her exertions her heart was beating wildly, and for a moment she felt faint. But for the quarrel which was in progress, they might almost have heard her gasp for breath. For a few seconds everything seemed to swim around her. Only by a mighty effort could she hang on to bare consciousness. Then the faintness passed. She raised herself a little and listened.

Ware was speaking, and it was only with difficulty that she could distinguish the actual words.

"—cannot help him. You, as you admitted, had little cause to wish him well. The murderer is dead—"

The woman's voice interrupted him. "But is he? Or is he talking to me at this moment? Who arranged all this? Who brought me down here—and promised—promised—"

"Miss Howard, I never promised," Ware answered firmly. "I said that there was a hope of reconciliation. I believed that if he saw you—"

"You never cared what happened to me, or how much I suffered. You were thinking only of her... What do I care for her? Let her go through what I have had, and live as I have lived. Let her lose everything—everything."

Her voice broke, and June caught a strangled sob. Ware answered in a cold, even voice.

"You were as much interested as I was in preventing the marriage. It would have destroyed your only hope..."

"And what hope have I now?" Olivia demanded passionately. "The last chance was always possible. He might have come back—"

"I could not foresee what has happened," Ware answered patiently. "I do not understand it even now... I should have thought Ambleside the last man—"

Olivia Howard laughed shrilly. "You don't believe he's guilty! You know that he's not. Only you won't say—because you're afraid—afraid for yourself!"

It seemed a long time before Ware answered. "Perhaps I do know," he said slowly. "And perhaps there are reasons why I will not tell. Not only for my own sake. Ambleside is dead. There may be injustice in it, to him. But there might be worse if I were to tell—"

"You expect me to believe that? And all you are thinking of is the girl—though you can't have her. You can't marry her. She's not such a fool as I was—Oh!"

June almost started from her hiding place at the sound of the woman's cry of fear. The next moment she judged that Ware had made some kind of threatening gesture, but had not resorted to actual violence.

"This has gone far enough," he said, and she could hear the tenseness in his voice. "You had better think it over... Believe me, I am trying to do what is best in your own interest. I will see you as we arranged. Good afternoon."

He turned away to retrace his steps so quickly that June was within an ace of being discovered. She dropped flat in the ditch, only partly covered by the bracken, and if he had looked he must have seen her. But he strode straight by, looking neither to right nor to left, and as she caught a glimpse of his face June shuddered. If she had never quite believed that he could commit a murder, she did at that moment. Then he was safely past. She heard his footsteps thudding on the turf for a few seconds. Then there was nothing but the strangled sobbing of the woman round the corner of the hedge.

All at once June felt horribly ashamed of having listened. Even if she had gained at least an indication of Ambleside's innocence, it was wrong to have overheard that exposure of another woman's feelings. She had an impulse to rise from the ditch and go to her; but the next second brought the realization that it could only make things worse. She waited, and there were tears in her own eyes as she lay there.

The sobs ceased. She heard the sound of movement; then a gate-latch clicked, and clicked again. Olivia Howard had gone. The fact seemed to rouse June. She rose to her feet cautiously, and peered round the bushes which had hidden her. Just the other side a wicket-gate gave on to an ill-defined path leading across the fields towards a farm-house half hidden by the trees. Olivia Howard was running along it, and had already traversed some distance.

Even if she had wished, she could not have followed. The field was bare of every vestige of cover. But she had had enough detective work for one afternoon. In all probability the woman was going to the farm and it was more than likely she was staying there. She stood for a moment watching until she had passed a second gate and was lost to sight, before she slowly turned back the way she had come.

Her spirits revived a little as she walked. Unpleasant as it had been, she had learnt a good deal. After all, it had been Ware who had written the letter, who had arranged for Olivia Howard to be at the village, and who had brought them there in the yacht. And his obvious intention had been to discredit Greenlaw completely in her eyes; for, she thought, he must have realized the improbability of any reconciliation brought about between Olivia and the man who had deserted her.

What was more important, Ware knew something that proved Ambleside was innocent. He had said that he knew Ambleside was not guilty; but he had not answered the girl's charge that he himself was the murderer. The puzzle was, what action she ought to take. Should she go to Olivia? But she might know nothing definite, apart from Ware's plan to discredit Greenlaw. Or should she confront Ware with her knowledge? She thought of his set face and fierce eyes and shivered. Or should she go to the police?

The sound of a quick footstep approaching brought her heart into her mouth. She had a horrible fear that it was Ware returning. Then she realized that it came, not from the footpath, but from the fields on the seaward side. She turned and looked.

It was Leicester who was coming towards her. There was a queer, anxious expression on his face; not fear so much as worry, and he was coming towards her at a sort of stumbling run. He did not see her as he approached, until she called out:

He stopped, looked up and saw her and raised his hat with a sort of conventional politeness.

"Good evening, Miss Paisley," he said in a voice which sounded quite normal. "You will excuse me... I am in a great hurry to get there. It is troubling me rather—"

"Get there? But where?" As she looked, June realized that the man was not so normal as he had seemed at first sight. There was a strange, absent light in his eyes. "What is it, Mr. Leicester?"

"You see," he explained a little impatiently, "I am in a hurry. I have to get to the Pottery—"

"To the Pottery? But why?" Sympathy and horror struggled for mastery. "Something—something has happened?"

"Yes. Something rather disturbing... I have just seen Ambleside's ghost. Out there on the cliff. Near the wood. I was walking there quite quietly and there it was..."

"I assure you. I knew him at once. But he was not looking very well... Of course, I don't mind about Ambleside. That's none of my business. But, if one's come back, why not the other?"

"Yes... It would be a pity. A great pity, after all the trouble there has been. And, of course, he was burnt, and Ambleside was only drowned. That might make a difference, don't you think?" He seemed to realize to whom he was talking, for he added apologetically, "I can't expect you to agree with me. Naturally not... But I have reasons. Private reasons which I cannot discuss. They would upset my wife—"

"Mr. Leicester!" June's horrified cry seemed to recall him to his original intention. He raised his hat again.

With a polite smile, he started to hurry along the path. June had run a few steps after him when another thought made her halt. Her face was dead white as she turned to look in the direction from which Leicester had come.

There was nothing there. The wood of which he had spoken could easily be seen—a mere copse of stunted pines standing a little way back from the cliffs near an outcrop of red rock. But perhaps in the wood—? With a wildly beating heart she started to run across the field.

It was only a short way. Whether she expected to find Ambleside dead or alive she scarcely knew. But there was the chance that what Leicester had said was not all madness. Hope and fear gave her strength even in her exhaustion. In a minute or two she had reached the edge of the plantation and was peering into the shadowy inside.

After the sunlight, the dark stems of the pines looked horribly gloomy. She shivered a little, and just for a moment the hair prickled on her scalp in a wave of superstitious fear. But so far as she could see the wood was empty of any presence, human or otherwise. Then from behind her she heard her name called.

CHAPTER X
Witney Begins to See

QUITE a respectable little pile of bones had been gathered from the beach and the rocks surrounding the cove by Witney and a small army of volunteers by the time Sergeant Milligan finally joined him. Stainsby and the superintendent had gone off on some mysterious errand of their own and had sent word by the sergeant to meet him at the inn; but there had been no lack of assistance. Witney was fairly certain that they had got all the remains that the sea had so far yielded up. Indeed, as he stood eyeing the pile speculatively, he was rather inclined to think they had a few extra.

Besides the skull, the search had revealed some ribs and vertebrae, a couple of femurs, several arm bones and fragments of fingers and toes; and though no anatomist, Witney was in very little doubt about those. In addition, there were some oddments to which he was not inclined to swear, and he had included them partly to encourage his helpers, and partly because he was taking no chances. It was the doctor's job to sort them out; though he was personally inclined to attribute the more dubious finds to picnics and passing steamers. With Sergeant Milligan and the boatman standing gloomily at his elbow, he eyed the bones with a certain amount of satisfaction, and there was the expression on his face of a man who is just beginning to solve a problem.

He admitted to himself that the first few bones discovered had puzzled him; but the very absurdity of the position had helped him towards a solution, and with the finding of the second femur his doubts had been ended. But the sergeant was evidently still in the stage of bewilderment. He caught his superior's eye and ventured a protest.

"But, damn it! Sorry, sir! But look at 'em," he begged. "He only jumped in this morning, and fully dressed at that."

"Where are the clothes, sir? Why haven't we found any of them? Oh, I suppose one could say they might have been washed up further along, or out to sea, being lighter. But the bones! They're as clean as—as clean as—!"

"Yes. They're clean enough," Witney admitted. "Not much flesh on them, is there. In fact, not a trace. And so you think what?"

"They can't be his," Milligan said bluntly. "Unless the fishes round here are damned hungry."

"Not that hungry, they aren't," the fisherman supplied with a conviction which seemed born of professional experience. "Why, sir, we had a body about six months ago that had been in a week. Hardly touched it was, barring the head—"

"Perhaps," Witney said a little hastily. He was not a man who liked to revel in gruesome details. He looked at the sergeant again, and grinned exasperatingly. All the same, Milligan, I'll stick to it these were Ambleside's bones."

"But it's impossible—" Milligan began hotly, and then respect for his superior made him break off, and he lapsed into a rather sulky silence.

The fisherman was not so easily restrained. He looked at the glistening pile, and scratched his head.

"I wouldn't argue with a gentleman of your experience, sir," he said, "if it weren't my trade. I don't mean the bones, but the sea. I'm telling you that even if they could have got like that in the time, they couldn't have got here."

"No, sir. The direction's wrong... I've lived here sixteen years, sir, and I'm telling you. There's no current that could bring 'em. They'd have gone the other direction entirely. We'd have found them a mile or two north, not here. If these are the young gentleman's bones, someone must have carried 'em. The sea didn't."

"Someone?" Witney said a little absently. "If we only knew who... Perhaps, even the young gentleman!"

"But he didn't come up, sir," Milligan said patiently. "He couldn't have swum round here without our seeing him—"

He turned away to glance speculatively at the cliff above them, following it with his eyes until it merged in the steep hill of the combe, before transferring his gaze towards the sea where the Campaspe lay anchored. Something about the yacht seemed to interest him, for he stood looking at it for a full minute before he nodded his head.

"I thought so," he said. "Our activities haven't escaped the eagle eyes of Captain Ware. They're coming to investigate... Cover him up."

Sergeant Milligan, with more reverence than one might have expected, drew over the skeleton the sack which the fisherman had intended for its reception while Witney watched the approaching dinghy.

"No, it's not Ware," he said at last. "A couple of women—a woman and a girl. That'll be Mrs. Ware and that niece. Two men. One's Pinner. Who's the other?"

The fisherman shaded his eyes with his hand. "That'll be Dunn at the oars," he said. "Not that I know him except to pass the time of day once or twice. A sulky devil he is."

Sergeant Milligan frowned at the approaching boat. If it was a matter of proving or disproving his superior officer's preposterous identification he would sooner have had Captain Ware. Pinner he had no respect for, and women were so easily upset at the sight of a few bones. As the dinghy grated on the shingle, Pinner jumped out, regardless of the wave which splashed his white shoes. He ran along the beach towards them, and as he drew nearer Witney noted his expression. It was less concern than a sort of horrified interest.

"We've found it, sir," Witney assented soberly, and even as he said the words wondered a little at the use of the pronoun. His glance shifted towards the rest of the dinghy's crew which was still engaged in disembarking. "The ladies, sir?" he protested. "You brought them—"

"They brought me!" Pinner rejoined. "You know, this—this sort of thing isn't in my line at all. I'd sooner have waited." He eyed the sacking apprehensively. "Is he—is he very bad?" he asked. "I thought, from the way you picked things up—" He gulped a little and broke off. "The Captain should be back soon," he suggested. "If you want him identified—"

He broke off again, and turned protestingly towards the niece, who had just deserted the slower moving Mrs. Ware and dashed towards them.

"Oh, it is him! How terrible!" There was an exaggerated tragedy in her voice which blended oddly with her excitement. "I—I had to know, Inspector!" She turned towards Witney dramatically. "It is so dreadful. No one knows how awfully I feel it—"

Witney reflected sardonically that no one would even have guessed it, but his face showed nothing. Even out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, as he knew by experience, a detective may learn a good deal, and he had learnt long since to let people talk.

"Oh, but I do!" Her lips trembled a little. "You know, I was fearfully keen on him. Of course, it was quite hopeless. He hadn't eyes for anyone but June. No one had. It's awful being—"

"Janet!" Mrs. Ware's voice incisively prevented further revelations. She relinquished the arm of the sailor who had helped her up the rough pebbles, and eyed the sacking covered heap without a quiver. "You have found him, then, Inspector?"

"Well, ma'am," Witney hesitated. Perhaps it was the boatman's evidence regarding the currents, or perhaps it was simply her commanding eye, but his certainty seemed to have evaporated. "We've found some human remains," he admitted. "They're not identified yet."

Mrs. Ware made a slightly impatient gesture. "I understand your reticence, of course, Inspector," she said. "But, under the circumstances, what doubt could there be? Poor young man... And yet for the sake of his family—"

"You think he was guilty then, ma'am?" Witney asked. He had so far had little to do with the lady, and found her even more overwhelming than he had supposed. Certainly she was a woman of character, though she veiled the strong personality with which she had been born under the manners of a past generation. But there was something about the set of her face, not less than in her tone which made him feel she was a person who would not brook opposition. "It was a bad business—"

He broke off abruptly at the sight of Dunn's face over her shoulder. The man was scowling fearfully, and his lips moved angrily as though he was saying something.

"I say he's damned, damned and in hell!" The reply was given with a fierce conviction. "The wages of sin is death—"

Mrs. Ware turned upon him quite calmly. "Of course, Dunn, in a way," she assented. "Suicide is terrible. I can't approve of it. But then—"

"The way of the wicked shall perish!" Dunn broke in fiercely, and if there had not been something oddly impressive in his manner, Witney could have laughed at the way he braved the woman who was, after all, the wife of his employer. "Cut off in the midst of iniquity, he shall burn in everlasting fire!"

"But think of the scandal saved." Mrs. Ware turned to Witney again as her retainer lapsed into silence. "Really, it was all for the best."

"The Captain isn't aboard then, ma'am?" Witney asked respectfully. He had every intention of interviewing Dunn as soon as a good opportunity offered, and the man promised to be more interesting than he had thought, but the recollection of his appointment at the inn inclined him to cut short Mrs. Ware's exposition of the relative claims between theology and society. "I should have liked him to see—"

"For identification? Naturally. No, Inspector. He went up into the village to see about—"

"He's coming now, sir," Milligan supplied in a low voice, and Witney turned. The Captain was advancing towards them, and his face seemed to indicate that he had already heard some news of their discovery. "Looks as though he's heard—"

If he had not, he did next minute. The girl, who had subsided obediently into the background at Mrs. Ware's command, ran to meet him.

"Really, Janet!" he reproved, and looked at Witney. "It's true, then?" he asked. "You've found poor Ambleside's body?"

"Well, sir, there are reasons—" Witney broke off significantly and glanced at the others. "Perhaps it would be better if you saw it alone."

"Of course." Ware turned to his wife. "Really, my dear," he expostulated gently. "You should never have come. Dunn had better take you back—"

"Charles, I felt it was my duty," Mrs. Ware replied with finality. "Naturally, since you have come, my part in the matter is ended. Janet, come with me."

"Perhaps you'd better stay too, sir," he suggested. "You knew Mr. Ambleside pretty well?"

Witney scarcely listened to his objection. He was watching Dunn, as with a last glare at the covering which hid the bones he turned to give his arm to Mrs. Ware. But Ware himself seemed to have more sympathy with the young man, though he regarded him with a trace of contempt.

"If—if the body is badly disfigured, Inspector," he suggested. "I think we might dispense with Mr. Pinner's presence. I knew Ambleside quite well enough to recognize him, if he is recognizable. And as you see, Mr. Pinner—"

"I'm sorry, sir. I think he'd better stay," Witney said obstinately. "That's a queer chap you've got there, sir. Had him long?"

"Who? Oh, Dunn? He's helped me for years. An excellent sailor, though, as you say, queer in some ways. Religious almost to the point of mania—" He broke off. "But what's that got to do with it? Let's get this over."

"Very well, sir." Witney bent down and took hold of the sacking. "I don't know, sir, if you will be able to tell—"

"Mutilated, eh?" For the first time the smallness of what the covering concealed seemed to strike Ware. "Or only part of him?" He glanced at Pinner, who had paled perceptibly. "Well, I'm ready—Good God!"

There was no denying the effect the revelation had upon him. He actually started back with a display of astonishment unusual in so reserved a man and staring at the bones as if he could scarcely believe his eyes. Witney, with one eye on Pinner, noticed that the effect on the younger man was the direct opposite. Pinner bent forward to look with a sort of relieved interest. Perhaps, Witney thought, it was only blood the young man was afraid of, or there might be a different explanation.

"I've good reason to think they are," the inspector said with assurance. "But if you'd look at them, sir—"

"I can't identify these," he snapped. "How could anyone? And they can't be his—"

"And yet, sir, you identified Mr. Greenlaw's remains—in even worse condition?"

Ware opened his mouth to speak; then he stopped, and shot a quick look at Witney's bland face.

"That—that was different," he said hesitantly. "I knew Greenlaw had a broken leg—and about his teeth. There's nothing of that sort here. And besides, these can't be Ambleside's bones. They've been in the water for weeks. Any idiot can see that!"

"No." Witney shook his head. "Not many hours, in fact... And I'm pretty sure that they're Mr. Ambleside's—"

"Then you're a damned fool!" Ware snapped. "It—it's utterly impossible. I've no time to waste on you... Here! Dunn! Dunn!"

He waved to the boatman who was just on the point of pushing off, and before Witney could make any motion to stop him hurried off after the others. Just for an instant a smile crossed the inspector's face; then he turned to Pinner.

"I—I—really, how could I?" Pinner asked bewilderedly. "How could anyone tell—from these? But—but what happened?"

"I think there's an explanation, sir, but I won't go into it now. How did you come to guess we'd found them?"

"Well, we saw you—that is, Janet saw you, and told Mrs. Ware. And she thought you must have found Ambleside's body, and that we ought to go. So we all came along."

"Not unless she's gone to see the Leicesters. She and Sophia are on pretty good terms—that is, they were, before—"

"I say, Inspector," Pinner began uncomfortably, "you can't expect me to tell you all this rotten gossip about my friends. It's nothing to do with the police."

"Don't you think so, sir?" Witney asked. "Not when there are two dead men already. And, maybe they're not the last!"

"Good Lord, Inspector!" Pinner was shocked, and Witney felt amused at the success of his suggestion. No one would have been more surprised than himself if there had been any further fatalities, but he wanted to hear all the young man knew. "You don't think—"

Pinner laughed. "Why, he's not that sort of chap at all," he said quite cheerfully, as if the very absurdity of the question had restored his spirits. "He wasn't in love with June—not seriously."

"Why, no. Of course, she's a nice girl—" He broke off and looked at Witney in obvious alarm. "You don't think—?"

"Ware's married," he said after a long pause. "Of course, there was nothing of that kind—"

"Thank you, Mr. Pinner," Witney said with a briskness which startled the other. "That's all, I think. Good evening."

Pinner hesitated, turned and walked a few steps up the beach before he stopped. Then, he turned again and slowly retraced his steps.

"Yes, Mr. Pinner?" Witney prompted. The expression on the young man's face rather puzzled him. Unless he was much mistaken fear made up a good part of it. "You said that."

"Well, I'll tell you the truth... I've nothing to go on—nothing definite. Just how he sometimes looks and so on... I'll tell you the truth, Inspector. I'm damned if I know."

Without waiting to see if Witney had any more to ask he turned on his heel again and started up the beach.

CHAPTER XI
Discoveries

COLONEL STAINSBY would have preferred even the gruesome task of picking up bones to the work which he actually had to do. In the past few days he had come positively to dread the daily interview at which he was expected to dispense information to the Press, and that day it was more difficult than ever. Somehow he had to tell the reporters about Ambleside's escape and leap from the cliff without making the police appear bigger fools than he could help, and as a conscientious man he was hindered by his growing suspicion that the young man had actually been innocent. Owing to Rayton's uncompromising attitude he had sent the superintendent to superintend the search at the kiln, and had to deal with the delicate situation single-handed. It was with a feeling of vast relief that he at last saw the back of the "gentlemen of the Press."

With a glance at the clock he dropped into a chair and lit his pipe. It would be at least a quarter of an hour before he could expect Rayton to rejoin him, and he felt that he needed the rest. It was the first time he had had a murder case since he became Chief Constable and at that moment he was devoutly hoping it would be the last. He had just settled himself comfortably and his pipe was drawing well when a knock sounded on the door. Swearing under his breath, he sat up and scowled at the card which the constable held out.

"Jarrold? Messenger reporter?" he read. "Who's he? Never heard of him or it. A newspaper?"

"You might say so, sir." The constable stifled a grin. "A couple of sheets that circulates in the villages round... Jarrold's practically the whole reporting staff. He said it was important, sir."

"Can't see him." Stainsby threw the card impatiently on the desk. "I've said all I'm going to. Wasn't he at the conference?"

"Yes, sir. But he came back... He wrote something on the back of the card, sir. Said you were to read it if you didn't want to see him."

Stainsby retrieved the card and glanced at it casually. There were only two words pencilled upon it, but as he read them he started. For a half a minute he sat staring at the slip of pasteboard; then he looked up and nodded.

His eyes returned to the card as the door closed behind the constable, and his face grew grim. True to his policy of keeping the case as little sensational as possible the police reports had said nothing of the anonymous letter, and, until then, there had been no mention of it in the newspapers. With the possibility that the murderer was still at large, it was even more desirable to conceal their knowledge; now it looked as though they could do so no longer. For the two words on the card were "Olivia Howard". He looked up with an expression which he tried to make amiable as the door opened to admit his visitor. Then his eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

No one would have taken Mr. Jarrold for a reporter. He looked neither like the screen version, nor those who had just departed. Years spent in wandering about the countryside had bestowed upon him a kind of protective mimicry. He looked like something semiagricultural—a dealer, perhaps, or an auctioneer, and to a countryman he would certainly have spoken broad Devonshire. As it was, he assumed the voice used for addressing officials and educated persons, with a result oddly at variance with his appearance.

"I hope you'll excuse my insisting, Colonel," he apologised. "But, as you will understand, it is rather important. I thought the best thing I could do was to come to you."

Stainsby nodded approval. "Sit down, Mr. Jarrold. Cigarette?" He waited until his visitor had lit up, studying him meanwhile, and aware of a pair of small, but very bright eyes returning the compliment above the match. "You wrote a name on this card, Mr. Jarrold," he said at last. "How did you know?"

Jarrold hesitated; then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Colonel. A rule I never break is that about disclosing sources of information."

"I should say as much as you do," Jarrold replied calmly. "The letter to the girl about Olivia Howard; Greenlaw's quarrel with Ambleside and so on... It's scarcely surprising, after all, Colonel. The facts are known to a number of people—and not all of them know how to keep still tongues."

In his mind Stainsby was running over the names of the yacht party. Jarrold's informant could scarcely be Ware, and Leicester had every reason to be silent. Ruling out the women, that left Forrest and Pinner, and he was inclined to back the former. He scowled down at the desk for a moment and looked up.

"Mr. Jarrold, I don't want you to use this at present," he said. "It might hamper us."

Jarrold shook his head again. "Only the editor can suppress news," he said. "Of course, you can approach him but—well, it would be a scoop for the Messenger. All the more since she's a local girl."

Jarrold looked at him keenly for a moment; then he sighed. "What is more important is that you don't, Colonel," he said. "That's true, isn't it?"

"Then that's a bad job," Jarrold said ruefully. "It's the only thing I'd hoped to get from you... I'd better explain. I've been on this paper ten years, and I suppose I meet hundreds of people, and hundreds of fresh names every year. I remember them all, in a manner of speaking. That is, if I heard the name in some entirely different connexion, I'd be able to say to myself, 'Hullo, that person's got something to do with my district. What the devil is it?' And, after a bit, I'd remember. Do you understand?"

"Well, that's how it is in this case. I'm certain Olivia Howard has something to do with this locality; that her name at some time has been in the Messenger. But so far I've not placed her. She might have won a prize at a whist drive, or gained a class in a horticultural show, or exceeded the speed limit, or anything. But she's been here sometime. And I can't get it."

He wrinkled his brows and rubbed the side of his nose vigorously as though in the hope it might help the process of thought; but it seemed to have no effect.

"I'll get it yet," he said with a trace of irritation. "That's why I came to you. Thought you'd have unearthed it, and might give it away with a little fishing. Of course, if we printed it we should hear—"

"I've been here ten years," Jarrold answered. "It might be any week during that time. In fact, it might never have been printed at all. If I'd just come across her—"

"But surely we could find someone who would know?" Stainsby said a little desperately. "On the staff of your paper—"

"No. The editor's new. He's only been here five years or so. And the lads wouldn't know... Of course, there's old Jenkins—if you could get it out of him."

"Used to be. I'd try him myself, but we had a row... If you got it, you'd let me in?"

Stainsby nodded reluctantly. "We'll tell you everything we can," he said. "What's his address?"

"I'll write it down. He's living up the coast a bit." Jarrold scribbled. "He'd know if anyone... But I'll get it yet myself."

Stainsby accepted the leaf the reporter tore from his notebook. He had been disappointed by the results of the conversation, and was not disposed to wait to see what Jarrold's eccentric memory could do. Jenkins might at least be able to throw some light. He dismissed Jarrold, just as Rayton entered. The superintendent threw the departing visitor an indignant look.

"Blast these reporters!... Sorry, sir. What did he want?" He looked at his superior officer with some distrust. "You didn't give him anything?"

Stainsby briefly recounted the substance of the conversation. Rayton listened dubiously.

"He might just have been trying it on," he suggested. "Thought she'd some connexion with Ware, eh? But Ware isn't local. Never been near the place before. He had to ask his way."

"All the same it's queer," Stainsby said thoughtfully. "It's worth looking into."

Rayton grunted, but did not dissent. He reached across for the paper on which Jarrold had written the address of his former colleague, and his eyebrows rose as he read it.

"That's funny. D'you realize where this man's living? Why, it's the very place Ware hired the car from when he came to Terracombe. It might be coincidence—"

"Perhaps not." Rayton did not sound convinced. "I was thinking of going there, anyhow. Thought we could find out where he hired the car, just as a check."

"We'll go right away," Stainsby decided. Personally, he had more faith in what he had just heard from the reporter, if only because it seemed to be the one possible ray of light in the darkness. All at once he remembered Rayton's own errand, and his apparent excitement on entering. "You didn't find anything?"

Rayton nodded with a portentous significance. His hand went to his waistcoat pocket, and after a little fumbling drew out a small object which he placed on the desk.

For a moment Stainsby did not realise what the battered bit of metal was. It flashed on him suddenly. "Good Lord, it's a bullet!" he exclaimed. "Not from the combe?"

"From the pottery yard," Rayton said with a satisfied air. He had more than half suspected why Stainsby had sent him on what he had considered a wild goose chase, and rather welcomed the chance of scoring. "We dug it out of a door post. The silly fools had missed it."

Stainsby eyed it in some bewilderment. "But that means—" he began. "What the dickens does it mean? There was only one shot missing from the magazine of Ambleside's gun, and that was fired in the combe. Benger and Dore both agree about that."

"It's the same calibre," Rayton said. "I'm pretty sure it came from the same gun. Of course, we'll have to get the ballistic sharps on it. If it is—well, he could have reloaded."

"They needn't. The Smithsons' is the only house close, and the buildings are between that and the yard. It wouldn't be a big noise. It looks as if Greenlaw was shot after all."

"Or so Ambleside said. That's all the evidence there is... You know, it seems to me we're taking a good deal for granted in thinking he didn't do it. All the case against him still stands."

"I'm not saying that Ware hasn't got a certain amount of explaining to do. I'd like to ask him about that Terracombe trip, for instance. But why shouldn't Ambleside be guilty?"

Stainsby had no answer to that. He took up the paper containing Jenkins' address.

Both of them were silent as they set off soon afterwards. The village was two or three miles behind them, and they had turned on to the main road before Rayton spoke.

"It could have gone right through him," he said half to himself. "And it's in Ware's favour in a way... Why should Ambleside hand over the gun—and to a man who'd just been threatening him?"

Stainsby shrugged his shoulders, but did not at once reply. The chance mention by Jarrold of Ware's name in connection with Olivia Howard had helped to crystallize his suspicions in that direction. If Ambleside was the murderer, it was curious that there should be so much against Ware. He might well have a motive in his interest in the girl. Evidently he knew about the Olivia Howard episode, and could have written the letter. He alone seemed to be responsible for the visit to Terracombe, and he alone could have controlled the yacht's movements so as to produce that semi-alibi which would nevertheless have permitted him to kill Greenlaw. Finally, there was the surreptitious car trip, and now the mention of his name in connection with the girl whom Greenlaw had left.

"We'll see what Jenkins says," he murmured at last half to himself. "That might settle everything."

But he was doomed to disappointment. Early though it was in the evening, it was not at his home they finally ran him to earth, but at the adjoining inn, and it was only too plain that Mr. Jenkins, if he had plenty to say, was not prepared to contribute anything material to the sum of their knowledge, except so far as concerned the art of throwing the double twenty. On this he waxed eloquent; but at the mention of Olivia Howard's name he chuckled roguishly, and, to Rayton's delight, poked the Chief Constable in the ribs. Stainsby was flushed and irritable when they finally emerged, though Rayton's temper had notably improved.

"He didn't know anything," Stainsby decided as they re-entered the car. "Blast them! One of them says he may remember sometime, and the other's tight. Perhaps when he's sober—"

"If he ever is sober, sir," Rayton emended. "From what I heard that's not often. Wonderful constitution he must have. Seventy odd if he's a day."

"There's nothing more to be done there," he decided. "Now, about this car. There can't be many places here where one could get one."

There were in fact only four, and at the second they struck what they wanted. Business was not yet brisk so early in the season, and the proprietor remembered Ware perfectly.

"Of course. I was just tuning her up. After his letter, I thought I'd better give her a look over—"

"Yes. Ordered four days before, it was. And he came dead on time. Kind of anxious, he seemed. Paid the deposit like a lord and went off."

"About a quarter to nine. He'd been travelling, too. She was hot as blazes... She's not so new as she was, and hiring takes it out of them."

The man stared at him. "Why should I?" he demanded. "He was taking it by the hour, wasn't he? Why should I care?"

"Don't think so." The man looked at the Superintendent curiously. "What's he been up to? Not this murder business?"

Evidently there was no more to be got from him; but actually the visit had been more productive than they had hoped. It had been no impulse, Stainsby thought, which had made Ware go to Terracombe in search of Olivia Howard. He had known several days before, not only that he was going, but the exact time. As the car started back, he was trying to work out the exact implications of this when Rayton gripped his arm.

Stainsby turned in his seat and vainly looked through the rear window into the gathering dusk.

CHAPTER XII
An Unknown Listener

WITNEY was rather relieved to find that neither the Chief Constable nor Rayton was at the inn to receive him on his return from the beach. Rayton at least, he was certain, was bound to be sceptical about the extraordinary idea which the discovery of the skeleton had suggested to him, and before submitting it to criticism he wanted time to marshal his facts and, if possible, secure more confirmatory evidence. With the bones on the table beside him, he sat down in the most comfortable chair he could find, and set himself to think things out, scribbling a note in his pocket-book from time to time.

Dore, bringing a telephone message that Stainsby would be delayed, arrived opportunely. Witney had just got to the stage when he was on the point of going in search of him. There were a few questions he wanted to ask the landlord and Benger, and if the answers were what he had hoped, his theory would at least be plausible. Now that the landlord had come unasked, it should be possible to make his inquiries conversationally, without suggesting that they were specially important. He was casting around for an opening when Dore saved him the trouble.

"Those." He pointed to the gleaming pile on the table. "You think, Inspector—you think they're Mr. Ambleside's?"

The suspicion of a rather cryptic smile played around the corners of Witney's mouth, but he nodded with conviction.

Witney was a little startled. It could not be much more than half an hour since he had had his interview with Ware, and it was a little surprising to find that it was already known at the inn. He shook his head.

"No," he admitted. "But then, one could really hardly expect that—under the circumstances."

His eyes strayed to the fragments on the table, and Dore's gaze followed his. There was a look of dissatisfaction on the landlord's face.

"And yet, sir, he identified Mr. Greenlaw's," he suggested, and there was a curious intonation in his voice which made Witney look at him sharply. "There was even less left of them."

"That was quite different," Witney rejoined. "There were certain unmistakable distinguishing marks, even after the body was burnt. There are none here... You're not aware of any physical peculiarity of Mr. Ambleside's which might be found?"

Dore considered. "No," he said. "No. I don't think I am. He kept himself very much to himself while he was here... You think he was guilty then, sir?"

There was a note of doubt in his voice which, if Witney had known of the interview with June, might have made him think that the landlord was living up to his promise to help her in clearing Ambleside's name. As it was, he felt curious.

"It's hard to see what other explanation there could be," he evaded. "Innocent men don't generally commit suicide!"

"No," Dore admitted. "But if he was scared—" He broke off. "I suppose you're sure they're Mr. Greenlaw's bones, sir?"

"Witney's eyebrows rose. "Not much doubt of that, is there?" he asked. He was wondering exactly what had prompted the question. "And Captain Ware identified them."

Witney looked at him. "You've no reason to suspect they might not be, surely?" he asked. "You didn't know Greenlaw?"

"Only what I saw of him when he came. But the fact is—" He hesitated and then went on. "The fact is I didn't take much to him. I rather liked Mr. Ambleside, and I'd have said he was the last man for this job... Isn't it possible there's some mistake. I mean—well, you've not been hoaxed?"

"I've wondered if Greenlaw meant to put suspicion on Ambleside—get him accused of murder," Dore said slowly.

So, for that matter, had Witney; but the suggestion coming from the landlord was interesting.

"You're defending him now?" he asked. "And yet, it was partly your evidence which made us suspect him in the first instance."

"I know," Dore said heavily. "But I've been thinking since. And I talked to Miss Paisley this afternoon—"

Dore hesitated. "I don't believe I should have said what I did," he said slowly. "Oh, it was all true. But still—"

"If it was true you've nothing to trouble yourself about," Witney assured him. He was rather puzzled by the landlord's sudden change of front. "And after all, you were suspicious about Mr. Ambleside from the start."

"I was curious," Dore corrected. "I couldn't make out what he was after. Now, it's pretty plain that he was just waiting for Greenlaw and the yacht... I don't believe he did it. Now, if it had been Greenlaw—well, I wouldn't have put it past him."

"But you only saw him for a few minutes," Witney pointed out. A sudden suspicion crossed his mind. "You'd never seen him before?"

"Never." Witney was quite sure that Dore was speaking the truth. Dore hesitated as though he was going to add something but was silent.

"Your idea is that there might be some way in which Greenlaw might have got Ambleside accused of murdering him?"

"Perhaps... Yes, that's what I do think... But these bones—" Dore turned a puzzled face towards him; then frowned down at the gleaming heap. The skull seemed to imitate Witney's own sarcastic smile, and he looked up again. "I don't quite understand—"

Just at that moment, in Witney's opinion, the less Dore or anyone else understood the better. If the landlord could believe the bones were Ambleside's and tell people accordingly, it would be all to the good; but he saw the doubt in the other's eyes, and prevented it from finding expression.

"Well, you'll understand, Mr. Dore, that I can't explain anything very much just now," he said. "Incidentally, there are one or two things I'd like to ask you. That box of Mr. Ambleside's—it wasn't empty when it came, was it?"

Dore hesitated. Even under the peculiar circumstances, he had no wish to reveal the extent to which his curiosity had carried him.

"I think, Inspector, you'd better ask Benger about that," he said. "Because, of course, I didn't handle it on its arrival. That's the porter's job. I gathered from Benger that it was only moderately heavy; but heavier than the box itself would have been."

"Exactly... Did you get the impression that Mr. Ambleside was rather anxious that no one should see inside?"

Dore frowned a little. "Well—I think I did," he said. "But I naturally wasn't interested—"

Witney, having got his answer, was not disposed to quibble about a minor lie. He knew perfectly well that, if the landlord had not been interested he would never have mentioned the box at all.

"And, when you saw the box empty, and remembered that Mr. Greenlaw had carried away a parcel, you naturally assumed that he had taken whatever was in the box?"

"I suppose so," Dore admitted. "Though, to be quite candid, I wondered at first if they could have grabbed the ornaments in the room and were bolting. They're only curios, but some of them are pretty valuable. And you get some queer people in hotels."

"Well, we'll leave the box for the moment... When you were listening to the conversation between Greenlaw and Ambleside, you said you heard a queer sound, like castanets. That's right?"

"Yes." Dore shifted uncomfortably. "You'll understand that, in the ordinary way I should never have dreamed of eavesdropping like that. But Mr. Ambleside was behaving queerly, and there was the gun. Then Mr. Greenlaw was in such a furious temper—"

"Of course, I quite understand that. It was quite natural. You don't want murder and sudden death in your pub, eh?" Witney was trying to soothe him, but the word pub made the landlord wince. The inspector saw his mistake and hurried on. "Now, there's just a little test I'd like to make in that connection. Would you mind stepping outside and listening at the door?"

Obviously a prey to mixed feelings, Dore nodded, and obeyed. Although he could see nothing, the door was sufficiently badly fitting to let him hear perfectly. When he re-entered a few minutes later he assented immediately to Witney's inquiry.

"Yes. That was it exactly." He hesitated. "A bit louder this time. Probably I didn't hear as well through the floor."

Obviously the landlord wanted to ask a question, and the inspector had the impression that he might be on the verge of understanding what had happened. He switched the conversation again, in a direction which might be expected to divert his attention.

"Well, I'll admit that I was uneasy," Dore answered. "Benger had thought he heard a shot—I was practically certain that Mr. Ambleside was carrying a gun. I thought it was better just to make sure that nothing had happened."

"You're sure of that?" Witney urged. "You did not see them, or any trace of them?"

"Only as far as the turning to the cliffs... You see, I didn't think they could have gone any further before the shot was fired, and, if I hadn't seen anything by then there was nothing to see. That was all I cared about. And if I had gone on, they might have gone one way and I another."

"Exactly... But the point is, if that shot was the one which killed Greenlaw, when you reached the turning, either his hat was there, or it wasn't... Would you have noticed it?"

"I quite see," Witney agreed. "Now, I won't detain you any longer, Mr. Dore. But I'd be obliged if you'd send Benger to me." He paused, and added as an afterthought, "Oh, by the way, how long were you yourself out that night?"

Plainly Dore saw the possible motive behind the question. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, and a little angry.

Witney chuckled. His last few questions should have given the landlord something to think about which would prevent him from drawing inconvenient conclusions from the earlier part of the conversation which might be retailed to other people. Then, another thought came to him, and he frowned. When the porter entered, he was still frowning.

"You—you wanted me, sir?" Benger evidently drew the worst conclusion from Witney's expression. "Mr. Dore said—"

If Witney had wanted to throw a slight scare into the landlord, his position with regard to the porter was exactly the reverse. The frown vanished in a moment.

"Sit down, Benger," he suggested. "There are just one or two things I'd like to ask you. You might help us out a bit—"

The porter sat down on the extreme edge of the chair. By bad luck, Witney's frown had had the effect of making him nervous and his usual loquacity seemed to have deserted him. He glanced nervously at the inspector, looked hastily away and in doing so noticed the bones. He stared at them open-mouthed; then looked again at Witney.

"No, it's nothing about those—not directly," Witney reassured him. "It was about when Mr. Ambleside first came. I suppose you carried his boxes in?"

"Now, there's a wooden box among his belongings," Witney said. "Had he got that with him then?"

"No, sir." For a moment Witney was afraid that he was going to leave it at that, but after all luggage was his subject. "Came by carrier from the station. From London, I believe, sir."

"Ah." Witney nodded. "And I suppose that you'd carry it in in the natural order of events?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" The porter was feeling distinctly better, though every now and again his eyes sought the table. "You see, he'd been asking about it and seemed worried—"

"No, sir, I don't think so. More as if he was afraid it mightn't turn up in time. Well, I went and told him, sir, and he looked pleased, and yet not so pleased, if you know what I mean, sir."

Witney was far from sure that he did. "Pleased and not pleased?" he asked. "I don't quite understand—"

"Well, as though he'd been worrying about something that had got to happen and he wasn't sure that it was going to happen, and then it did happen and he didn't want it to," Benger said slowly.

Witney blinked at that, trying to puzzle it out. "You're not a student of Gertrude Stein, are you?" he asked. "No. Well, never mind... What happened then?"

"I asked him where he wanted it put, in the bedroom or the sitting-room, or if he wasn't wanting it immediately should I put it in the box-room? And he said, 'No, not the box-room,' but he didn't seem to be quite sure where it should go. But he settled on the sitting-room at last."

"Well, sort of tapping against the box-side. If it was clothes, it might have been a shoe heel, sir."

"Yes, sir. Except that he was pretty sharp when he caught me looking at it once. Well, I was sort of dusting it, of course—"

"Not exactly, sir—" Benger hesitated and decided to tell the truth. "Well, sir, I was looking for the gun—"

"Of course. Did you find anything else? There might have been say a bill or a letter with the box? A label, even?"

"No, sir—" Benger began, and suddenly remembered. "Well, sir. There was a little bit of a letter. But it wasn't with the box. It was upstairs in his bedroom, sir—" His hand went to his pocket and he fumbled anxiously. "It'd been torn up. But there were a few words on it I thought were queer—"

Benger had felt in five different pockets, and Witney was beginning to be anxious when the sixth finally yielded it up. He almost snatched it from the porter's hand. He read it through twice, frowning; then sprang to his feet.

He felt Benger's curious eyes upon him, and realized that in the excitement of the moment he had betrayed far more emotion than was desirable. The sound of a car drawing up outside saved him the trouble of either inventing an explanation or refusing to give one.

"Well, that will be all, Benger," he said briskly. "I think that's the Chief Constable arriving. Tell him I'm here, will you?"

After all it was not Stainsby, but Wargrave, the police surgeon. His manner as Dore ushered him in was irritably businesslike.

"Well, you've got him then... Where is he? Let's get it over. I've got a lot I ought to be—Good Lord!"

Following the direction of Witney's outstretched hand he had just seen the heap of bones on the table. His eyebrows rose as he crossed the room quickly and bent over them. Almost as once he looked up.

"You're mad!" Wargrave snapped. "Ambleside only jumped in this morning, didn't he? How the hell do you think he got like this in the time?"

Witney vouchsafed no answer to that. Almost snorting with contempt, Wargrave again turned his attention to the pile. Witney watched him as he tested the bones and in particular examined the skull. As the surgeon smiled grimly over some joke of his own Witney himself smiled, but for a different reason. It was several minutes before he again turned to confront the detective.

"So you think they're Ambleside's bones, eh?" he said. "And Ambleside jumped in this morning! Well, well!"

"Now, listen, Inspector... There's certainly a skeleton here, or most of one. And with Ambleside jumping in, of course, there ought to be a corpse, but there are just about fifty million reasons why Ambleside's corpse couldn't provide those bones."

"Now, I won't say it wouldn't be possible for all the flesh to have gone in that time—though it's damned unlikely. But there's not a trace of it. It's years since there was any flesh on these bones—"

"And they've been in the sea all that time?" Witney asked with a sort of innocent curiosity. The doctor seemed slightly taken aback.

"Well, no, they haven't. That's the funny part about it. If they'd been washing about for any length of time, they'd be a good deal battered, and the water and sun would have bleached them... Oh, that one is bleached all right, but that's a leg of mutton. There are only a few fresh marks on these. But they are old bones." He paused to let this sink in, and smiled sardonically. "But there's another reason. If they're Ambleside's, it's queer no one mentioned to me at all that he was a Japanese!"

"Yes. Some kind of oriental, anyway. You can tell by the skull... Now d'you think they're Ambleside's?"

For a moment it seemed as though Wargrave was going to explode. He drew a deep breath.

"Yes. But I didn't want to tell you until I'd heard the result of your examination, doctor. Those bones are a fake. They've been articulated at some time, and the holes have been filled with a sort of plaster. Ambleside had them in that box—God knows why... I expect he bought them in town."

"You spotted the articulation holes?" he said. "I'm surprised at that. They've been well filled. Curious sort of stuff, like porcelain. There's a clue for you. The faking has been done damned well."

Witney thought. "Speaking of faking bones," he said slowly, "you don't think the Greenlaw lot were?" Wargrave raised his eyebrows and the inspector hurried on. "I don't mean to say that the correspondence wasn't exact enough. But one could have got bones to imitate Greenlaw's and one could have doctored the teeth—"

"Then you think—?" Wargrave began in amazement, and was suddenly aware that Witney was not looking at him. The inspector's gaze seemed to be directed over his shoulder to the window behind him. He turned instinctively. As he did so he distinctly saw the curtain move.

"Milligan! Milligan!" Witney shouted as he jumped across the room. "Outside! Catch him!"

Reaching the window, he tore at the curtain with one vigorous wrench. It came away in his hand. In the black opening of the pane broken by Forrest that morning, he had for a moment a glimpse of a white face; then it vanished.

"Good God!" Witney said stupidly, and stood there for half a minute before he moved. He heard the sergeant's feet pounding outside.

Witney came to himself. Flinging back the casement he pulled himself up on to the sill and dropped into the night.

CHAPTER XIII
June Hears a Story

SLOWLY June Paisley came to herself with the sensation that a voice was calling to her from an immense distance away. It was repeating her name and half consciously she seemed to know it without being able to say who was speaking.

With a sudden shock she remembered. Her eyes opened and she half sat up. Patrick Ambleside was bending over her, his face pale with anxiety; and the knee on which her head was resting was certainly as solid flesh and blood as the arm which supported her. His face was full of concern, but as she looked at him he smiled reassuringly.

She stared at him stupidly for a moment before the fact got home; then she smiled a little feebly in answer and raised herself to a sitting position.

"Yes. You—you are," she admitted unbelievingly. "But—but how can you be? They said you were dead—that you'd jumped over the cliff. I thought—I thought when you spoke—"

"I'm a fool," Ambleside said penitently. "I ought to have known what a shock it would be when I spoke to you like that. But when I saw you—" He broke off and paused for a moment. "I've been wondering all day how I could get word to you. I wanted to explain."

"I certainly did dive... And I expect I must have been a bit agitated, because it was a pretty messy piece of work. My right arm's nearly out of action... You see, it seemed to be the only thing to do."

June's brows wrinkled in an effort to understand. "I don't quite understand," she said. "How could you stay under water—"

"I didn't... I'd better tell you the whole thing from the beginning... You see, for the last few days I've been quite expecting them to arrest me. Naturally, I didn't want that, so I'd half thought of bolting here and waiting until things blew over—"

"Yes. Until Greenlaw came back. At that time, I was perfectly sure he would. I thought I could prove those bones weren't his, and everything would be all right. Then—then I found I couldn't, and it looked as though Greenlaw was dead after all. I lost my head a bit. It seemed so certain that I should be charged with the murder, and there wasn't any way out. So, I ran when I got the chance."

June covered her eyes wearily with her hand for half a minute. "I don't quite see," she said. "I didn't think you were guilty... I didn't know whether you were guilty or not, but I thought they were going to arrest you. I tried to give you a chance to get away, and Forrest backed me up splendidly. Luckily you took it. At least, I didn't think it was lucky. I thought I'd killed you." She shivered. "Everyone thought you were dead."

There was a worried frown on Ambleside's face. He gave a quick, nervous glance round over the sunlit fields.

"I'm afraid that that's what they'd better think for the present," he said slowly. "I don't see that, if I come to life again, there's anything before me but hanging."

"I didn't. But if you know all about it, you must realise that I've not a dog's chance of proving so if I'm charged... We can't talk here. I wonder if you'd mind getting under cover? If anyone saw me—"

June remembered her curious conversation with Leicester. "But someone did see you," she said. "Leicester."

Ambleside frowned. "I was afraid he had," he said gloomily. "And that means they'll start hunting—"

June shook her head. "I don't think they'll ever believe him," she said. "He—he's mad, I think. He spoke to me and said he'd seen you. That's why I came over this way. But no one will think he's seen anything really."

"We'd better hide. I've a lot I want to tell you." He rose and held out his hand to help her to her feet. "No, not into the wood. This way... If you don't mind the dark, this will explain my resurrection better than I can myself."

He led her towards the seaward side of the great mass of sandstone which reared itself close beside them. At the base grew a small thicket of bramble and blackthorn, cut clean on the windward face as though with shears by the winter gales. As she followed him bewilderedly, he stooped down and pulled at one of the boughs. Behind there was a space which at first she thought was no more than a gap between the bushes and the rock. Then as she peered in she saw that the opening extended into the rock itself, in the form of a dark, narrow slit. In spite of herself she shrank back and looked at Ambleside interrogatively. He nodded and motioned her forward.

"It's quite all right," he said reassuringly. "There's a cave. Stop just inside where the roof gets higher. It goes down—"

For a moment June hesitated. In spite of his assurance she needed all her courage to duck under the bushes and brave the narrow hole beyond. As her own figure blocked the opening, the darkness of the place grew blacker; but after a moment of stumbling almost blindly, her eyes began to be accustomed to the gloom. The cave seemed to be a natural one, judging by the irregularity of its shape. It was a mere slit in the rock, about three and a half feet high, and hardly two feet wide, and inside the floor descended steeply. After a few yards the roof grew higher. She found that she could stand upright, and remembering what Ambleside had said, she stopped and looked back.

Against the green light that filtered through the leaves she could see Ambleside in the opening apparently arranging the interlacing boughs to hide the entrance. After a moment he entered the cave, but just inside stopped again, and seemed to be pulling at something in the right-hand wall. There was a sudden grinding and a thud. She gave a cry as the light vanished. An intolerable blackness seemed to smother her. She turned, and started to run back. Then Ambleside's voice came to her reassuringly.

"It's all right. I'm just shutting the door... I've got a torch here somewhere. Ah!"

A beam of light stabbed the darkness, shining towards her along the passage, and as Ambleside moved forward to where she stood she could see the whole cave. It was roughly triangular in shape, and they had entered at one angle. Red-brown sandstone, stained here and there by the drippings of water, enclosed a space about the size of a biggish room; the floor was smooth, but sloped down steeply towards a black slit in the rock at the far end, not unlike that by which they had entered.

Ambleside pointed towards it. "That's the way," he said. "Let's get somewhere a bit less stuffy and I'll tell you about it. Queer place, isn't it? Greenlaw found it... You're not afraid?"

June shook her head in denial. Actually, her heart was beating violently, and there was a curious dry feeling in her mouth. Ambleside turned and flashed the torch back the way they had come. Looking towards the entrance she saw that a solid slab of sandstone had slipped down, completely blocking the hole. For a moment fear tugged at her heart and she clutched his arm.

"Oh, it's all right. That part of it is artificial and moves with some sort of counterweight... I think most of the rest is just a natural cave touched up a little. By smugglers, probably. They used to be pretty active here... Come, and I'll show you. I've had plenty of time to explore."

He led the way and she followed obediently, wondering what the others were thinking about her absence, and almost smiled at the thought of their faces if they had known she was wandering about in the bowels of the earth with a suspected murderer whom they believed to be dead.

"Steady." Patrick Ambleside stopped, and shone the light ahead. "This is where we go down."

It was a great crack in the rock, set at a considerable angle to the perpendicular and widening as it descended. The light shone, not on a proper ladder, but on rusted iron spikes and hand grips which had been driven into the stone. In spite of herself she drew back a little.

"It's all right," he assured her, "I'll go first, and you can't fall. It gets easier lower down... Just a minute..."

He started to lower himself down the slope, holding on to the supports while he felt for the footholds. Summoning all her resolution, June slipped over the edge.

After all, it was easier than she had expected. Even without the supports, she might almost have clung to the rough surface of the rock, and after gripping the first two or three like grim death, and feeling her heart come into her mouth as she sought with her foot for the next hold she began to get used to it. But it seemed a long way. They must have gone about twenty feet or more before a motion of the light made her glance down. Ambleside was standing on what seemed to be a level floor, and through a narrow slit in the wall a greenish daylight showed where the sun filtered through the grasses.

She started back suddenly. From just underneath her feet there had come a terrific rumbling bellow; but next moment the swish of water told her what it was. They had nearly reached sea-level, and the noise was a wave trapped in some passage which communicated with the sea. All at once she understood.

He led the way up to one corner of the cave, and pointed downwards. Through a small opening only a couple of feet square, she could see an emerald light where the sun filtered through the water. She jumped back as another wave bellowed into the opening; but it did not reach her.

"It is," Ambleside assented. "And yet, it's quite natural. There are similar cracks to this all along the coast, but this happens to be a bit bigger. Also, as I said, it's been improved. You see, the whole cliff is cracked from top to bottom in a sort of big triangle. The top of the crack comes out in that rock; the bottom is under water. This"—he tapped the level floor with his foot—"this is just a big slab which has got wedged right across."

Her eyes were getting accustomed to the light. To her surprise, along one side of the wall were placed some tins of meat and other packages, with several bottles and a pile of blankets. On a small shelf a kettle was steaming over the blue flame of a spirit stove. She glanced at Ambleside in surprise.

"Greenlaw brought those." He saw the cloud pass over her face at the mention of the name and hurried on. "My little act was quite unrehearsed. But he'd shown me this place the night before—before he died. When I was running I thought about it. It might almost have been made for a hiding place."

"There's another entrance, under water. I'll show you. Of course I couldn't come the way we've just come. Witney would have spotted the crack, and got rid of the slab with pickaxes or dynamite... It was a devil of a job swimming under water, especially with a wounded hand. I thought I'd burst before I got here."

She glanced sympathetically at his roughly bandaged arm. "Is it—is it painful?" she asked. "It's not broken?"

"But why—why did Dick do it?" she broke out. "I mean, get all this ready and—and—"

"I'm not sure," Ambleside answered slowly and paused. "You'll have a cup of tea?" he asked with a forced brightness. "I was just making it. And a biscuit. There's no bread... Come to the window."

Just below the hole in the rock a fallen piece of stone provided a rude seat. Seating herself upon it, June parted the long grasses with her hands and looked out, drinking in deep breaths of the fresh air. Just below, the sea was spread like a carpet of incredible shades from purple to green and a few golden clouds flecked the blue sky. As Ambleside came forward carrying a mug in his hand she actually smiled.

"That's better. There's a sort of stuffy, seaweedy smell about this place, isn't there? It's like being buried alive." Her face grew serious again. But I don't understand. Why did Dick do this?"

She threw out her hand towards the stores along the wall. Ambleside hesitated. It seemed as though, now that it had come to the point, he did not know how to begin.

"I don't know how to tell you," he said after a long pause. "You see, I don't understand myself really. And as things are, it may be as well if you're not involved any more than necessary. If only I was certain—"

"That's one thing I haven't even an idea about. I didn't believe he was dead at all, you see, and when I found the bones in the kiln were really his, everything seemed upside down... I'd better tell you right from the beginning. The trouble is to know where it does begin. I mean, how much of it was intended to happen." He paused for a second or two and then burst out almost fiercely: "The point is, did Greenlaw mean to get me hung?"

"Oh!" June looked at him with horrified eyes. His face was set in an unusual grimness. "But—but he couldn't have meant that," she faltered. "Dick wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't he?" Ambleside rejoined. "If you'd seen him the night he came down here, you might not be so sure. In an absolute blind fury... He thought that I—well, he was angry with me."

"I know," she said quietly. "He thought that you'd written that—that horrible letter... But why should he?"

Ambleside glanced at her, then looked away. "I don't know," he said without sincerity... Still, even if he did mean that, it wasn't so at the start. You see, actually some of it must have been in his mind a long time. You know how he was about jokes and hoaxes. It was when we were fixing up the cruise that he came to me and said that he'd got a marvellous idea, and would I help him. Like an ass I said I would. At the time I didn't know you were going on the cruise. And besides—" He stopped, and when he went on she knew that he had changed what he had been going to say. "Besides, they were a pretty dull crowd... He didn't explain exactly what the scheme was, but my part of it was to acquire a skeleton and a gun, come down here and wait until he arrived."

"That was the skeleton which ought to have been in the kiln. And so, you see, when it was found I wasn't worried. I was rather chuckling up my sleeve, because the police suspected me. I thought that Greenlaw was bound to turn up in a day or two—in fact, he said that in all probability he'd just camp out here for a bit. That was why he brought the stuff here. So everything seemed all right. And in any case, I could prove it wasn't Greenlaw. Or thought I could. Then, when it came to the point—it was." He smiled a little grimly. "I must admit I lost my head then. Anyone would."

"Simply that Greenlaw was writing a story, and wanted to get a little atmosphere about a man's disappearance or murder... What I didn't realize was that all the time he'd cast me for the part of murderer, and I wonder even now how long he would have kept it up."

There was a brief silence. June was wondering too; for Greenlaw was not a man to forgive a real or imagined injury; or to tolerate anyone he thought was a rival.

"I've even wondered whether, knowing that he'd not much chance with you—" He looked at her apologetically. "You see, he told me about it. I've wondered whether—knowing that—he didn't actually kill himself so that I should hang for it. But I'm inclined to doubt that."

"We made it up and proceeded with the scheme. He was in positively hilarious spirits. I suspect now that he saw a double joke, one on the world in general and one on me. The skeleton had arrived from London, and he made me bring along my gun. We took a shot at a rabbit in the combe, just as I said—because, you see, I wanted to be able to tell the truth as much as possible. In fact, I wasn't eager to be in the business any more than I could help, knowing it might be a serious matter—"

Well, the police don't like being turned out for nothing, and it is an offence. But Greenlaw said he was trying to arrange things so as to make certain that they couldn't prove anything, and that he would keep me out of it. In fact, I bought the skeleton in a pretty roundabout way. So roundabout, that I'm not at all sure I could prove now where I did get it from, which makes things all the more awkward."

June's brows wrinkled a little. "I don't see how he could pretend it was all accident?" she said.

"Well, he'd simply deny all knowledge of the skeleton. As for the quarrel and so on, that, as it happened, was genuine; though he had been going to stage one. And then he was in the habit, and could prove it, of going off for a week or so in places where he didn't see letters or newspapers. As long as he wasn't caught in the act, he thought the police wouldn't be able to prove anything."

"Nothing very exciting, really. He showed me this place, and when it was getting a bit dark, we went up to the Pottery and started to stoke up. It was getting pretty late, and I didn't want to be in too much of a mess, so he said he'd finish it. I left him there doing it, with the skeleton and the gun. Even though it was nonsense, I was a bit worried."

"I don't know," Ambleside admitted. "When I left him, the hat was on his head, and the gun was in his pocket. He was just putting another load of stuff into the furnace. And that's the last I saw of him."

He paused for a moment. "Up to that moment, everything had gone precisely to plan. Greenlaw would put in the skeleton, light the fire, and drop the gun somewhere. Then he was to come here and simply wait to see what happened. At least, he was a bit undecided about that. If he did it, he was to meet me somewhere, and I'd tell him all about it. If he went away, he'd see in the newspapers. So, even when he didn't meet me I didn't really think that there was anything wrong."

"I was worried. You see, I'd no idea the amount of trouble anything like that would cause. And when Sophy Leicester gave way and her husband tumbled to the fact that she was fond of Greenlaw it was about the last straw. I'd have told the whole truth for two pins—only then it was too late."

"I don't see why you hung on so long, though," June said a little reproachfully. "When you saw how we all felt—"

"I was a bit of a coward there. I hoped that the police would tumble to the fact that the skeleton wasn't Greenlaw; that Greenlaw would turn up and that everything would be all right. Naturally, neither of those could happen; because Greenlaw was actually dead."

June thought for a moment, looking out over the sea. It was beginning to grow dark, and she would soon have to be getting back, if she herself was not to start a second alarm.

"Not the least. Some time after I left Greenlaw at the Pottery, the plan we'd arranged went wrong. Either someone else intervened, killed Greenlaw, and put the gun and hat in the combe, or else—or else Greenlaw himself must have gone mad, taken the hat and gun down the combe to incriminate me, come back and killed himself after lighting the kiln. I don't know... And I don't know either how we're ever going to get out of the consequences. There's this awful business of Leicester. There's a murder charge hanging over me—"

He stopped. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about Ware, but she refrained. There was a long silence. Outside the sun had nearly set, and a long way away she could see the flashing of a lighthouse. She slipped down off the ledge.

"It's time I went," she said. "What you'd better do for the present is to stay here... I'll do something. I'll make the police go on—or I'll find the murderer myself... It will be all right, Pat."

He took her hand and pressed it just for a moment. Then he switched on the torch.

"But I wonder who it was?" he said bewilderedly. "And what could have happened? How could anyone have known he was at the Pottery at all? Who would want to kill him?"

June did not answer. She was again tempted to disclose her knowledge of the connection between Ware and Olivia Howard, but she restrained herself. If Ambleside knew, it was quite possible he would go out and try and investigate himself and he must not run the risk of being caught. Without another word he helped her up the rock and it was not until they had reached the entrance and he had pushed back the stone that he spoke again.

In the half light he could see her smile. "What could happen, Pat?" she asked lightly. "I'm not going to fall over the cliff or anything... Pat, you've got to keep on hoping. It will all come right. I'm going to find out who did it if no one else does. I've simply got to... But you mustn't get caught yet. You'll have to stay here, and keep close. If they believe Leicester they might search."

He was silent for a moment. "That's what I'm afraid of," he said slowly. "I mean, that you'll try and find out who did it. Supposing you found out, and—"

June laughed, a little surprised at herself that she could laugh in such a connection.

"I've no intention of capturing the murderer singlehanded," she assured him. "If I find anything I shall go straight to the police—if I find anything convincing, I mean... I'll come to-morrow at about eleven if I can get away. If not, be on the lookout for me in the afternoon. It may be difficult—" She broke off and smiled at him. "And now, good-bye."

Ambleside made a movement as though he would restrain her from going but checked himself.

She smiled at him again and turned away. He watched her as she went across the fields until the twilight swallowed her but she did not look back. For a minute or two after she had disappeared he stood there, looking in the direction in which she had gone. There was a frown on his face as he stooped to re-enter the cave.

CHAPTER XIV
Night Alarms

AS his feet touched the boards of the verandah Witney was aware of a large figure which he guessed must be Milligan disappearing round the corner of the hotel. He had turned in a shot to follow, but luck was against him. In the darkness, with his eyes still dazzled by the lights indoors, he failed to see the pile of deck chairs which Benger had stacked just beyond. With a clatter which was enough to wake the entire village he crashed headlong over it, scattering the chairs in all directions and his head collided heavily with the railing. It was at least a minute before he could extricate himself and regain his feet. When he finally reached the end of the building, there was not a sound or sign of the chase.

For half a minute he stood there, staring into the blackness, and trying to distinguish some sound which would give him an indication where he ought to run. In his mind he had a fairly clear picture of the ground. The path on that side ran only to the back part of the hotel, to the yard and the garden between the main building and the added wing in which Ambleside had had his sitting-room. But there was only a mere pretence of a wall, and beyond an open field before another hedge bounding the gorse and heather which clothed the upper part of the hill. Anyone running away could have taken to the open country at any point, and presumably that was what had happened. But the puzzle was why he could hear nothing.

Suddenly he stiffened. A sound had reached him, but for a moment he was uncertain of its direction. Then it came again, a soft, scraping noise, and it flashed across his mind both what it was and where it came from. Whoever was responsible was on the verandah which he had just left, and unless he was very much mistaken had managed to become involved in the scattered deck chairs. He had turned in an instant, and began to tiptoe back the way he had come.

He was only just in time. The light that streamed through the open window cast a yellow oblong on the floor and railing, and as he reached the corner a figure was just crossing it. Witney swore under his breath and sprang forward as the figure cast a quick glance backward and jumped for the steps.

As he shouted, Witney realized the futility of it and gave it up. He had, in fact, to listen for the sound of footsteps which were his only indication of where the fugitive had gone, and as they turned up the lane he began to think he would soon need his breath for other purposes. The man in front was a better runner than he was, and easily kept his lead. Witney's chief hope was that, since they were going towards the village, they might encounter someone else who would have the sense to stop the man ahead, and at the thought he shouted again.

"Stop! Stop him!" With a wry smile at his own conventionality he added a cry which might be expected to produce more effect upon any stray villager. "Stop, thief! Stop, thief!"

He could see the lights of the first houses. They were getting near the village, and still he could hear the beat of the other's running. Surely someone must be about, and would have the sense to do something. He continued to shout at intervals, a little breathlessly and varying the cry from time to time.

He had not gained an inch. But then, he had not expected to. Where the devil was Milligan? Would no one come? As if in answer to his question a blaze of light suddenly swept round the curve of the road ahead, and the headlamps of a car focused on him dazzlingly. For an instant he had a glimpse of a black silhouette against the glare; then the full beam caught him. He waved frantically, but the car came on. As he shrank to one side in the narrow lane he heard a screech of brakes suddenly applied. Almost dead opposite him the car stopped and a door was flung open. There was no more than time to get a glimpse of someone jumping out before he felt himself gripped round the legs and fell headlong.

"Let go, blast you!" Witney's temper finally gave out. "It—it's him you want. I'm—I'm police. Why the devil—"

"Witney!" The grip on him relaxed. He recognized Rayton's voice. "It's you? What on earth—"

A torch flashed from the car. Stainsby joined them as Witney scrambled to his feet, and stood listening. There was not a sound from ahead. The fugitive had taken advantage of the confusion to escape.

"He's got away," Witney said bitterly. "That's all... I'd have thought you'd have guessed if you saw two people, one chasing the other, the first was the one to grab!"

"Sorry, Witney," Rayton apologized. "But, of course, we weren't expecting anything like this. We'd just an impression of someone running, and by the time we pulled up there you were. So, naturally, I grabbed you... Who was it?"

"Someone listening outside the window. I went after him, and Milligan. Where the blazes Milligan is, I don't know. This chap waited until I'd gone past, and tried to make a getaway—"

"Well, he's done that," Rayton said rather obviously. "No use running now... Light clothes he had on, didn't he?"

"Yes." Just at that moment Witney was not inclined to say all he knew about the runner. "I just had a sight of him on the verandah—"

Witney did not trouble to answer the Chief Constable's question. He was feeling too exasperated. If Stainsby chose to indulge in daydreams about a man whose bones were at that moment lying in the local mortuary he was inclined just then to let him.

"We'd better get back," he said resignedly. "There's Milligan... I'd like to know what the devil he's doing."

There was not a word spoken as they got into the car. Witney was feeling too ruffled to volunteer any information, and they had started down the lane before Stainsby put a question.

"We got your message. But I didn't quite understand... You've found Ambleside's body?"

"No," Witney said wearily. "We found the ten-year-old bones of a Japanese washed up on the beach."

"No. The bones of a Japanese who'd probably been dead ten years... I'll explain later, sir. My theory's rather complicated."

"It sounds so," Stainsby said a little dryly. "What the deuce a Japanese has got to do with it—Well, we've found something, too. Olivia Howard—"

They were in sight of the inn. In the road outside lights were moving, and as the headlamps focussed upon the place they saw the figures of several men apparently searching in the ditches on each side of the road. Witney recognized Benger and the landlord among them. Then the car came to a stop opposite the door. It was the landlord who hurried forward as the door opened. "Thank heaven you've come, sir!" he burst out.

"We don't know what's happened. Sergeant Milligan's been knocked senseless, and there's not a trace of the inspector—Why, good Lord!"

Witney stepped forward in the light. "Milligan?" he demanded. "What happened to him?"

"He's not come round yet, sir... I heard a cry and ran out into the yard. Someone was just climbing the wall at the back. I grabbed him and he knocked me flying—kicked me in the face. He ran up the hill behind. I ran back to get Benger, and it was then we found the sergeant. Knocked out, he was. At the side of the house."

"No, only felt him!" In the light from the headlamps a dark bruise on the landlord's chin was clearly visible. "There wasn't light enough—"

"Where's the sergeant? Who are these?" Witney looked at the little group that had collected round the car. He recognized the local constable. "Johnson! What's the idea? Where did you come from?"

"Well, sir," the policeman said uncomfortably, "we were searching for your body—"

"I'd just been down to the beach, sir." Johnson looked distinctly ill at ease, and Witney made a mental note that he would inquire a little more closely into that at some more convenient time. "They were searching as I came up, sir."

"Where's Milligan?" Witney demanded. "Let's have a look at him... Oh, that's you, doctor? How is he?"

"Just knocked out, I should say... Someone hit him on the chin. Or he hit it in falling... He'll be round any time now."

Witney turned as he heard Rayton exclaim behind him. The superintendent was staring at the fifth of the searchers as if he could not believe his eyes, and for the first time Witney saw that it was Forrest. It flashed across his mind that for once that young man had been unusually silent, but he could see no reason for Rayton's apparent astonishment. It seemed as though everyone had his pet secret. Witney stepped forward a little irritably.

Dore led the way into the lounge. The large form of the sergeant had been deposited on a couch which looked ridiculously inadequate for the purpose, and an elderly woman whom Witney recognized as the cook was administering first aid in what seemed to be a thoroughly effective manner. Witney did not venture to interrupt her. He stood for a minute frowning down at the unconscious man, noting the long bruise on the jawbone. It did not look to him as though the sergeant had been hit by a fist. More probably he had knocked himself out in falling. The whole thing had been a hopeless mess, and he could not make out what had happened. Obviously the man Dore had pursued was not the man he had chased up the lane. Presumably, then, there were two of them. One had knocked out the sergeant and made good his escape at the back. The other—

Half a minute later Milligan's eyes opened and he looked round dazedly, blinking in the lamplight. As he saw Witney he made an effort to sit up.

"Take it easy, sergeant," Witney said. He gave a significant look round the mixed audience which almost filled the lounge. "You can tell us later." He caught the surgeon's eye. "Doctor, don't you think—?"

The doctor understood him. "He'd better be quiet for a bit," he said. "And we don't want too many here... Now, if you don't mind..."

Between them the doctor and the Chief Constable had expelled the onlookers, and only the police were left by the time Milligan sat up.

"Well, sir," he said. "As you know, I was on duty in the hall. The door was open, and when I heard you call I slipped right out. I couldn't see anyone, but I heard someone run along the verandah and turn the corner. I was right on his heels. He ran along the side of the house and vaulted over the wall. I followed, thinking he was making off across the fields. Instead of that, he'd waited just the other side. He caught my leg, and I crashed. I was knocked clean out."

Witney nodded. Mentally he was cursing his own clumsiness, and the ill-luck which had led him to collide with the deck-chairs. It must have been while he was struggling among the ruins that the sergeant had fallen. And yet he was not sure that it was such bad luck after all. If he had not waited, the other man on the verandah would have escaped unnoticed.

"Not a glimpse, sir. He was past the window when I got out. The light was between me and him."

"Dead certain, sir. He was on the other side when he got my ankle. I felt his hand."

Witney frowned thoughtfully. Rayton, who had been growing visibly more impatient, broke in.

"Yes," Witney agreed. "And the sergeant's took to the fields at the side. And Dore's bolted over the back wall. On the evidence, there must have been at least three people hanging round!"

"That's easy enough. Anyone who knew the bones had been brought here might have thought it worth while to listen in. That broken window was a godsend."

"And who broke it?" Rayton demanded significantly. "What's Forrest doing here? We last saw him twelve miles away."

He listened with interest as Stainsby briefly recounted the story of their trip, but at the end he made no comment.

"It was certainly Forrest," Stainsby said after a pause. "We both saw him. Only the car had gone past. We stopped, but we couldn't find him again. Of course, it was a minute or two before we could get back to where he was."

"Don't think so. Unless he knew the car." Rayton considered. "And he's not seen all that of it... I think an interview with that young man is indicated. What's he doing here? That's what I want to know. How did he get back in time? We came pretty quickly."

"We wasted a quarter of an hour hunting for him," Stainsby pointed out. "And then, we called at the station. If he came straight back—"

The other two listened obediently, apparently without result for Rayton looked more irritable than ever and Stainsby mystified.

"Rain." Witney laughed. "Thought it was someone at the window again... All the same, we'd better get busy... It's not likely there are any tracks, but if there are, they've got to be seen at once. The rain will wash them out. How do you feel, Sergeant? Can you come along?"

"All right, sir." Milligan rose to his feet, staggered a little, and accepted the inspector's arm. Stainsby and Rayton followed. The superintendent, at least, would much rather have been interviewing Forrest. With Stainsby, matters were rather different. He was thoroughly out of his depth, and ready to accept any resolute guidance.

Witney barely flashed his torch round the verandah, lingering a little on the floor beside the scattered deck chairs. As he had expected the boards showed no obvious traces, and in any case the roof above would protect them from the rain. The soft gravel of the path leading to the yard seemed at first to offer more possibilities, and Witney knelt down to study the surface attentively by the light of the torch. But he was disappointed. The gravel was small rounded shingle from the beach. Tracks there certainly were, but there was no means of distinguishing one from another.

"Looks as though a herd of elephants had gone this way—that's all," Rayton suggested. "You'll never make anything of that."

"No," Witney agreed. "Well, there's the field... Whereabouts would it be that you jumped, Sergeant?"

Milligan led the way with some confidence to a point just short of the yard entrance.

"About here, sir," he said. "I was just thinking I'd get him trapped if he went in—"

Witney flashed his torch. The tracks might be indistinguishable one from another, but one could at least tell when they stopped. A couple of yards further on, the deeper thrust of the feet where someone had jumped was plain enough. Witney studied the marks attentively for a little while, then moved to one side and himself jumped over to subject the ground beyond to a similar scrutiny.

Rayton, turning his coat collar up against the driving rain grunted disapprovingly.

"If he did go that way the grass won't show," he objected. "We'll never spot anything there."

Witney paid no attention. He had already moved away from the wall and was walking in a semi-circle round the spot where the sergeant had fallen. Stainsby and Rayton watched him without enthusiasm. For several minutes he went backwards and forwards in widening arcs before he seemed to be satisfied.

"The superintendent was right," Witney admitted. "There are no tracks in the field... Or it's too late already to see them. The grass is sopping. You can see where your man knelt down, Sergeant. In the nettles just by the wall. And that's suggestive in its way..."

"I don't see—" Rayton began and stopped. "If you're going to see the yard, let's see it," he said after a pause. "It's flagged, and there won't be a trace, so for the Lord's sake let's get indoors again!"

Witney nodded. Mentally, he agreed with Rayton about the improbability of there being any traces in the yard; but that was no reason for not looking. Even the fact that there were no traces might be evidence of a kind. He had turned to lead the way when the voice of the Chief Constable brought him round quickly.

Three torches flashed simultaneously in the direction to which Stainsby was pointing. For a moment they found nothing; then, a moving blur of lighter colour on the fringe of the light caught Rayton's eye. His light flashed full upon it.

CHAPTER XV
Lost Lady

RAYTON put his hand on the wall ready to vault over, but pursuit was unnecessary. Sophia Leicester was running towards them calling out something as she ran, but they could not distinguish the words. Even in the torchlight they could see that she was pale and dishevelled, without hat or coat, and soaked to the skin by the driving rain.

Witney bent down and almost lifted her over the wall. She stood shivering in front of them.

"Your husband, Mrs. Leicester?" Stainsby asked. "We've not seen him... There's nothing wrong?"

"I thought—I thought—" She broke off. With an effort she seemed to recover a vestige of self-control. "You've not—seen him? I haven't... That's why—why I was worried. I went out—to look for him. I thought—"

"Since—since just after June—Miss Paisley left... He came in and went out again... Towards the cliffs. I wondered—"

"You've no reason to think that he—that there's anything wrong?" Rayton demanded.

"Of course. You'd better come inside, Mrs. Leicester, and get some dry things on. You'll get your death of cold..."

Stainsby offered his arm and she accepted it. It was obvious that her strength was at an end. Witney could only imagine what she must have been through wandering about the cliffs in the dark with the fear of what they had all suspected but no one had said in her mind. And as he followed with Rayton he was wondering where Leicester could have got to. Almost certainly he had not been on the yacht when Mrs. Ware had mustered all her forces for her descent on the beach. He had been missing for hours, and the inspector had an uncomfortable feeling that there might be good ground for his wife's fears.

In the meantime, it was hard to see what they could do about it. If Leicester had jumped over the cliff, there was no chance of finding him until morning, if then. He had had reports of Leicester's recent conduct from the innkeeper, and it was quite possible that this was merely the usual wandering unduly extended. Stainsby seemed to be making a good job of reassuring her, and both he and Rayton were only too glad to leave him to it. The superintendent was looking angrily unhappy when the two men seated themselves in the room where the bones still gleamed on the table. He barely glanced at the remains.

"I don't see what the devil is happening," he said at last. "Everyone seems to be absolutely damn crazy."

"I think only Leicester's crazy," Witney said soberly. "And I don't mind admitting I'm afraid in that direction. He's been pretty queer."

"Well, she's not much better," Rayton growled. "Running off like that... What's happened to her?"

"I think she's just found out that she's fond of her husband," Witney answered. He caught the look on Rayton's face. "Probably she's as surprised as you are."

"Then what did she want to fuss about with Greenlaw for? He seems to have been a thorough-going sweep, and didn't care a damn for her."

Rayton scowled; then glanced at the bones. "I suppose these haven't anything to do with it, then?" he asked.

"They've everything to do with it," Witney answered. "They're at the root of the whole business. You see, they're the bones that Ambleside expected to find in the kiln. Instead, Greenlaw's are there, or some bones identifiable as Greenlaw's, and someone just took these and dumped them into the sea."

Witney puffed at his pipe reflectively. "Not quite sure," he admitted. "You see, Greenlaw has evidently put over some pretty careful work in this with a view to getting Ambleside into trouble. At least, that's my reading of it. The original idea was that there was going to be a hoax and Ambleside provided the bones and gun. The bones were in that box. But I don't think Ambleside knew how far he was letting himself in for a murder charge. That was Greenlaw's improvement on the scheme. At least, that's my reading of the case."

"Then, good heavens, Ambleside was innocent?" Rayton was genuinely shocked. "But why did he kill himself?"

"Well, I'm not worrying about that," Witney said, and to Rayton's surprise he smiled. "But if Greenlaw was so very clever, mayn't he have got together some bones of his own—which would be identified as him?"

"You mean—he's alive?" Rayton stared at him. An idea flashed across his mind. "That man you were chasing—Greenlaw was dressed like that?"

"Perhaps. I don't think it was Greenlaw. In fact, I think I know who the people Milligan and I chased were."

"But there must have been three," Rayton objected. "Dore went after one... I don't believe it could be the same as the sergeant's."

Witney did not answer at once. "I think we're going to have some trouble finding the third one," he said slowly.

"That's a thing that we've got to find out, of course. Who could it have been? Where was everyone? Ware, Mrs. Ware, Pinner, Dunn, Forrest—"

"He's the man I'd like a word with," Rayton said vindictively. "What's he doing chasing about like that?"

"Neither have I." Rayton's voice was grim. "He'd talk the hind leg off a donkey... You've missed one out Miss Paisley."

"You're not seriously suggesting that she killed Greenlaw?" Witney raised his eyebrows. "'Hell hath no fury'—and so on. She wasn't scorned, anyhow."

"The other girl was," Rayton said reflectively. "It's a pity that fool journalist can't remember... Queer that he thinks she was related to Ware. You wouldn't think he'd remember that and forget the rest."

"It's hard to say. If your memory once goes back on you a bit, it throws up the oddest bits of stuff and refuses to part with what you want. Besides, that might have been ground bait."

"He might have been fishing—to see how you reacted... So far as I can see, you didn't react."

"Ware's our best suspect—if we rule out Ambleside," Rayton said after a pause. "But I'm damned if I can see why we should rule out Ambleside even now. The evidence against him still stands."

"But it's a bit obscured... Still, if you feel like that, he's better dead just now—"

Rayton looked mystified. Witney was saved the trouble of an explanation by the arrival of the Chief Constable, with Forrest in tow. The gravity of Stainsby's face contrasted oddly with the rather inane good humour of his victim. There was something portentous in the Chief Constable's manner as he seated himself and motioned the young man to a chair.

"I've asked Mr. Forrest to tell us what he knows about this affair," Stainsby said after an appropriate pause. "He says he will be pleased to help us."

"Delighted, of course," Forrest assented amiably. "Only too pleased. The trouble is, I don't know a dashed thing, so there we are."

"You don't, sir?" Rayton's tone was quite polite, but there was a sinister undertone. "Perhaps, at any rate, you could tell us how you came to be on the spot?"

"Why, I just rolled along for a drink." He smiled. "In this atmosphere of murder and sudden death, a chap needs sustaining, you know... And, I don't mind telling you as a friend, old Dore's got some very fair sherry. Very fair indeed. Better than Ware. He's no palate—"

"Would it be troubling you too much to ask where you rolled along from and when?" Rayton asked silkily.

"You see, Mr. Forrest, there have been certain mysterious happenings here to-night—"

"In consequence, we have to ask everyone who was in the vicinity to account for their movements."

"Quite. Being policemen you have to be busybodies." Forrest nodded happily. "Interested in everyone's private affairs, what? The trouble is—" The slightest suspicion of a frown appeared on his face. "The trouble is, I'm not very anxious to tell you." He thought for a moment, and smiled at Rayton. "Suppose, now, I'd just been for a little evening stroll?"

"Meaning to say that you've not been out of the village?" Rayton asked truculently.

"When you say out of the village, dear soul, it's a relative term... Suppose I did say that?"

"Mr. Forrest," Stainsby said seriously. "We know that you were absent—some considerable distance away, in fact—"

"Dash it, that was your car, then?" Forrest asked and beamed at him. "If I'd known, I'd have stung you for a lift!"

"Minding my own business, old boy," Forrest countered without malice. "Were you?"

"Mr. Forrest," Witney spoke for the first time. "We don't want to pry into your affairs. But there's been a murder committed; only to-night a police officer has been assaulted. Anything you tell us which has no bearing on the investigation will be in perfect confidence... But you must understand that we want to eliminate as many people as we can."

Forrest frowned like a man who is pondering some weighty problem. Then he smiled approval.

"Reasonable," he said. "That's deuced reasonable and sensible, Inspector. And you're right, too. I don't generally buzz about that way."

"You see, it's like this, Inspector," he said. "When I left you this afternoon I'd got that Garbo feeling—'I want to be alone'. Didn't feel I could put up with the yacht crowd. So I got a boat and was just pottering along a bit, filling in the time before dinner, you know. Well, I'd got to the first cove—no, it was the second or the third, and I thought I'd rest a bit. And I'd pulled in to the shore, and was just settling myself for a smoke when I saw her..."

A sort of dreamy look came on his face, and he seemed to forget the presence of his questioners.

"June? Oh, no. I should say not. The loveliest girl in the world, you know. June's pretty enough, but—"

His gesture indicated that compared with the fair unknown June Paisley was like a mongrel at a prize Peke show.

"With what? The murder and all that?" Forrest looked at him in pained astonishment. "Nothing. She's not that kind of a girl at all—"

Witney shot a glance at Rayton and nodded encouragingly. "Yes, Mr. Forrest?" he asked.

"There she was on a rock with a kind of wistful expression," Forrest went on raptly. "And there was I looking at her—and all the time, don't you know, the tide was coming in. As a matter of fact, she was cut off already. So I shouted out 'What ho' or words to that effect and rowed towards her. And it was a good thing I did, because she couldn't swim, and I couldn't, either, so it was deuced lucky I had the boat—though she did say she didn't care if she drowned or not. Well, she came on board and we got chatting, and it seemed we'd both been feeling we wanted to get away from it all, and we talked a bit and—and so on... And then she remembered she wanted to send a wire, so I walked with her to the bus—"

"I've not the slightest idea, old boy... And I got on the bus and went along. And then, somehow, I must have missed her, because I looked all over the rotten place. And then you came along, and I hired a car and drove home—at least, as far as the village—"

"No. I'd got my reasons. People are so darned curious, you know, Superintendent."

"No. I expect she'll be fearfully cut up with me when she sees me next, but I did everything I could."

"You're seeing her again, then?" Witney asked and Stainsby looked his surprise. It seemed to him as though Witney was taking an unnecessary interest in a very ordinary flirtation. "How was that?"

"Well, you see, before we set off for the bus, we'd found we were twin souls, so to speak, so I'd said to her 'Meet me at the hollow oak at midnight' so to speak—"

"Oh, I don't mean midnight or the hollow oak, you know. I just mean I'd arranged to meet her. Then I came here for a drink."

"And the girl's name?" Rayton's face was a mixture of scepticism and contempt. "No doubt she could check your story?"

"Oh, dash it, no," Forrest rejoined indignantly. "That wouldn't be at all the thing, Superintendent. I mean, kissing and telling and all that—"

Forrest looked the least bit self-conscious. He waved his hand as though brushing the matter aside.

"No, I can't give you her name," he said decidedly. "You see, she's got a perfect brute of a father. That's half her trouble, I gather. Rotten old beast, and all that... Funny how girls seem to have them. I've often noticed—"

Stainsby looked a question at Witney who shook his head. Forrest was obviously determined not to reply, and there seemed no point in pressing him. There was no reason to suspect him of being the eavesdropper.

"In the bar, old boy—the low class one. I heard old Dore cry 'Fire and murder'—"

"I mean I heard him cry out. So I dived into the passage, and went out with Benger to investigate. And that's that. We were just looking round in a hopeful sort of way for your corpse when you rolled up alive and kicking."

There was silence for half a minute. Forrest looked brightly from one to the other of his inquisitors. The Chief Constable was registering something very like despair, while Rayton evidently restrained his irritation only with difficulty. Only Witney seemed comparatively pleased with the result of the interview, and it was at him Forrest looked longest. There was even a trace of anxiety in his manner when he turned to the Chief Constable.

"Well, awfully glad to have helped, and all that. But time flies and so on. If you've nothing more to ask?"

"No, Mr. Forrest," Stainsby caught Witney's signal, and was only too glad to obey it. "Nothing more at present... Thank you very much."

Rayton's feelings found utterance almost as soon as the door had closed behind him.

"He's got something on his mind," he declared. "We let him off too damned easy."

Stainsby looked at Witney appealingly. "But surely, if there was a girl, it's just how he might behave?"

Witney thought for a moment. "I agree with the superintendent—that he's got something on his mind," he said. "But not that we ought to try to bounce him... I'd like him shadowed."

"I'd like someone to keep an eye on Mr. Forrest wherever he goes for a bit... I think Milligan would be best. As he's staying on the yacht, it will be easy enough to pick him up."

"I believe he knows something that we'd like to know. But it wouldn't be any good trying to force it out of him. Our best plan is to let him give himself away... On the other hand, there is someone I'd really like to question just now."

Stainsby frowned, remembering their previous attempt. "But what can she know?" he asked. "We've tried her-—"

"Maybe nothing," Witney admitted. "But I'd bet she does... Anyway, you've no objection, sir?"

Stainsby shook his head. Without further talk, Witney crossed the room and pressed the bell. Dore himself answered it, and from the expression on his heavy face one might have guessed that the events of the evening had not been to his taste. He looked distinctly worried.

"Would you ask Miss Paisley if she could spare us a few minutes?" Stainsby said a little reluctantly. "At once, please."

"That's right, sir. I sent Benger for her baggage this afternoon... Her idea, I think, was to stay with Mrs. Leicester. Only, sir, she's not come back."

"Not come back?" Witney's manner did not change, but there was the faintest trace of urgency in his voice. "When did she go out? Where did she go?"

"Just for a walk? Good Lord, you don't think she's been walking all this time?" Rayton snapped the question; but Dore ignored it. He looked at Stainsby, and there was resentment in his face.

"I thought she'd gone to the yacht," Dore said defensively. "That's probably where she has gone... I've sent to inquire."

"Half an hour ago... You see, this business about the sergeant made me feel a bit worried. I wondered if anything could have happened to her—"

It was all natural enough, Witney thought, and probably after all there was some perfectly simple explanation of the girl's absence; but he remembered that, so far as he had understood, June Paisley had certainly not been on the yacht when he was finding the bones. He turned to Dore.

"Along the cliffs," Dore answered, and hesitated. "At least, I suppose so. I mean, she went down the lane. If she didn't go to the beach she must have gone along the cliffs."

Witney nodded slowly. It was entirely in accordance with his own theories that she should have gone that way; that she should have been absent so long was not. Stainsby's voice broke in on his thoughts.

"Better wait until—" Witney was saying, when hurried footsteps sounded in the passage outside, and the next moment Benger burst into the room. In his excitement he hardly looked at the detectives, but dashed straight across to the landlord.

"Mr. Dore, sir, they haven't seen her," he proclaimed. "Not since lunch they haven't... Captain Ware's coming at once. He'd gone to bed—"

Witney's eyebrows rose a little. It was still early for anyone to be thinking of sleep, but that could wait. The other part of the porter's tidings was more urgent.

"But—what can we do?" Stainsby asked a little helplessly. "We don't know where to look—"

"Surely we'd better search, sir?" Dore demanded. "We'd be only too pleased to help if the young lady's in danger. There's myself, and Benger, and the lad... Johnson knows the ground, and we could pick up some from the village—"

"Along the cliffs, sir. We local people would know the places to look... It ought to be tried."

Stainsby looked at Witney who was frowning thoughtfully. For a moment the Scotland Yard man did not respond to the unspoken question. Then, rather to the chief constable's surprise he nodded.

"I think we'd better do as Mr. Dore suggests," he said. "Get a search party of local people, and start right away. There may be no time to waste—"

The sharp whirring of the telephone in the lobby broke in on his words. Dore looked at the chief constable for permission and went out. Rayton bent over towards Witney.

"But, look here, Witney, if it wasn't any good looking for Leicester, is it for her?" he asked. "Maybe they've gone off somewhere together—like Forrest. Besides, we'd never find her."

"I think we'd better try," Witney said in a low voice. "For our own sakes. If anything had happened—"

Rayton looked unconvinced. He was obviously on the point of raising some further objection when the return of the landlord interrupted him. Witney glanced round to see him, and took a quick step forward as he saw the expression on the man's face. Before, he had been naturally anxious. Now there was no doubt about it. He was thoroughly scared. He crossed the room to where Stainsby was standing.

He stopped with a quick glance round the room. But the chief constable was in no mood to bother about who heard.

"Someone—someone in the yard... He was passing and heard something. As though—"

CHAPTER XVI
The Kiln Again

THERE was a moment's dead silence in the room. Stainsby moistened his lips and looked helplessly at the inspector, but Witney was gazing at the landlord with a curiously puzzled expression on his face.

"What did Mr. Bardley say?" Witney asked in a level voice, and his eyes did not leave Dore's face. "Was that all?"

"He said, sir—he said that no one ought to be there—that someone must have broken in... He listened a bit, and heard a clang—like the furnace door. He didn't know what to do. He slipped into the building and phoned, expecting to find you here."

Witney nodded thoughtfully, and turned to the chief constable. But Rayton spoke first.

"But I was going to say, sir," he said quietly. "About the search for Miss Paisley. Sergeant Milligan could look after that. Mr. Dore would help, and I've no doubt there would be plenty of volunteers."

"I think it should be put in hand, sir," Witney insisted as the chief constable hesitated. "We can't afford to neglect anything possible."

Rayton shrugged his shoulders impatiently, but Stainsby inclined his head in a dubious assent.

"Right," he said. "You'll see to it, Sergeant. Now, let's go... You'd better come, doctor, in case—"

He left unfinished the reason he had been on the point of giving why the doctor's presence might be necessary and led the way from the room. To Rayton's obvious annoyance, Witney delayed for a moment to speak to Milligan. He volunteered no explanation as he joined them in the car. No one spoke as they started up the hill. They were nearing their destination before Rayton gave utterance to his thoughts.

"Why the devil didn't he go in and grab him?" he asked. "Now, with the time we've wasted we may be too late."

"Scared, I expect." It was the doctor who made the suggestion. Stainsby was peering through the rain-splashed windscreen trying to make out the road ahead, and Witney seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. "You saw how it shook the landlord... Most of us are more superstitious than we like to admit."

"Good Lord." Rayton laughed shortly. "You mean that he thought it was a ghost. Damned nonsense."

In the middle of the road they could see the figure of a man waving something white. As the car slowed to a halt, they saw that it was Bardley. His face was pale with fear or excitement, and his voice shook a little as he hailed them in a low voice.

"That you, Colonel?" he asked. "Thought I'd better head you off. They're still there—"

"Think there's more than one... I heard them talking—and laughing." He shivered a little as though he was cold. "It's damned queer..."

Stainsby belatedly switched off the headlamps. The car had stopped about twenty yards short of the actual buildings, which showed as a dark mass immediately ahead. To the left they could just make out the high wall which bounded the premises along the road. Witney remembered the lie of the land fairly well. The buildings themselves enclosed one side of a roughly rectangular enclosure, with some outhouses opposite. Only the side opposite that on which they were standing was fenced with a comparatively low barrier separating the yard from the fields beyond. He turned to Stainsby as they got out.

"Probably he'll bolt over the back wall, sir," he suggested. "But we'd better take him from all sides at once."

For a moment they could hear nothing but the dripping of the rain. Then the sound which had caused the artist's exclamation came again. It was the clang of iron on iron.

"I'll take the back," Witney suggested. "You and the doctor here, Rayton, and the Colonel and Mr. Bardley could go through the building. There's a door to the yard?"

"Yes," Bardley assented. He was quickly regaining his courage and the fact that he was not to go alone was reassuring. "Through the store-room."

"That's right, then," Stainsby confirmed. Evidently he was only too pleased to delegate the making of arrangements to someone else. "We ought to have a signal—Lord, what's that?"

Witney turned to see the cause of his exclamation. Above the wall of the yard just ahead a light had suddenly appeared, a lurid red glow which threw the outline of the building into sharp silhouette. As they watched it grew brighter.

"The kiln!" Bardley exclaimed in a high, cracked voice. "My God, someone's fired it—again!"

Witney was over the hedge before the artist had finished speaking. There was not a second to spare. The thought had flashed through his mind that, now that his task was done, the man who had lit the fire would run for it, knowing as he must that the glare of the chimney would bring someone to investigate. The odds were that he would go by way of the back, and Witney had chosen the post for that reason. As he ran along the side of the outhouses he half expected to encounter the unknown at any moment.

He reached the corner, however, without incident. For a moment he waited there listening. There was not a sound either from the field ahead or from the yard itself. It looked as though the intruder was still there, unless he had chosen to leave by one of the two other routes, over the high wall along the road or through the pottery buildings. Witney did not think it likely. And in any case, if the others had stuck to their stations the trap was safe enough. Going down on his hands and knees he started to creep along the low wall with the intention of gaining a point from which he could look over at the kiln, ready to receive at any second the flying figure which he expected would jump over. He was disappointed. He was almost opposite the point where he judged the kiln to be when a sudden blaze of red light illuminating the building showed his man was still at work. There was the scrape of a shovel; then the clanging of the door and the light vanished.

Witney felt thoroughly puzzled. Whoever had lit the kiln had no right to do so. He must know the glow would alarm the whole village. But here he was calmly stoking up as though the whole business was perfectly normal. It was against all reason, and the very incomprehensibility of it made him uncomfortable. Half dreading what he would see, he raised himself slowly and looked over.

Inside the yard everything was dark again, except for the glow from the roaring chimney, and a few cracks of light about the furnace door. Against them he had a momentary impression of something moving; then he was sure. For an instant, some dark body was interposed between the light and the spot where he stood, and in the same second a voice reached him from the darkness.

"Must make sure, must make sure of him this time," it was saying in a calm, reasonable tone which nevertheless made the hair prickle on the inspector's scalp. "Must have enough heat... Yes, Ambleside, I've no doubt you did your best... but we cannot let him come back as you did—"

Witney was not in the least superstitious but in that detached voice coming to him out of the blackness of the yard he could not help feeling that there was something horribly eerie. In spite of himself he hesitated momentarily.

Who was talking? How could he be talking to Ambleside, and what did he mean about someone coming back? The voice came again while he wondered.

"I don't say he meant any harm, but look what he did... No, I don't exactly bear a grudge. No, of course not. As long as he doesn't come back. I won't have that. I should kill him all over again."

The door of the furnace was flung back again. Inside, Witney had a glimpse of a red inferno, and the glare was reflected for a second on the glistening skin of the man who stood before it. But the uncertain light did not reveal who it was before he had stepped back into the shadow. He re-appeared again; another bucketful of fuel shot into the fire, and the door clanged shut. Witney made up his mind. He stood up, and laid a hand on the wall. Flashing his torch full on the stranger, he vaulted over.

Witney shouted as he ran, but the words died on his lips. There was only one man by the furnace, and he recognised him. It was Leicester. He stood there leaning on a shovel quite calmly, blinking a little in the sudden glare of the torch but perfectly collected and self-possessed. He made no attempt to run away. Witney was reminded of a cat used to dogs when a young and foolish terrier tries to make it run. He did not even appear excited; in fact, his face lit up with a welcoming smile as Witney reached him.

As he did so, two other figures emerged from the building behind and threw themselves upon the man by the kiln, and behind him he heard the pounding of feet on the paving as Rayton hurried across.

There was no struggle. Leicester made no effort at resistance. He simply looked at them and smiled.

"Good evening, Inspector. Good evening, Colonel. And you, Mr. Bardley... Really, I wanted to see you particularly. I owe you an apology. I trust you will pardon the liberty I have taken. I shall be only too pleased to pay for the fuel." He gestured with his hand towards the furnace. "You see, I wanted to make sure of him this time. He's in there—"

Rayton sprang across to the furnace and flung the door wide. Next moment he recoiled, shielding his face from the white glare. There was nothing to be seen but the glowing coals. "You can't mean—?"

Behind Leicester's back, Rayton tapped his head meaningly, and spoke to Witney in a low voice.

"Balmy," he said, and his voice shook a little. "It's the doctor we want... But d'you think—?"

As though an idea had occurred to him he flashed his torch hastily round the yard.

"He was alone all right," Witney answered. "No one could have got away. Just imagining things... He thought he was talking to Ambleside. Seems harmless enough. But keep an eye on him."

Witney missed the end of the superintendent's remarks. He was already hurrying across the yard towards the big gates which gave on to the road. As he reached them he called out.

Witney was wrestling with the bolts of the gate. He made no answer until they shot back and he could pull it open.

"No one hurt—I think," he said. "It's Leicester. Mad as a hatter, I'm afraid. Thinks there's someone in the kiln."

"Thinks?" The doctor looked dubiously towards the kiln. Rayton had found a fire bar, and was vainly poking at the red-hot mass inside. "You're sure—"

"I hope to heaven it's just an hallucination. If not—Miss Paisley! He couldn't—"

He left the sentence unfinished as they hurried across the yard. Leicester was talking to Bardley, apparently arguing with him, and there was a mild impatience in his manner.

"I assure you, he is in there," he was saying. "I put him in myself. Of course, he's covered. But you could see him quite plainly before that last bucket—"

"See him?" Bardley's voice came hoarsely. "See Greenlaw?" He cast an apprehensive glance at the fire. "You mean—"

"Really, Mr. Leicester, you should come inside," he suggested. "The fire is going beautifully... But you're over-heated. The night air might give you a chill—"

Accompanied by Stainsby and the artist, he shepherded the madman towards the building. Rayton stared after them for a moment; then looked at Witney, with the perspiration glistening on his forehead.

"It couldn't be Greenlaw," Rayton said, half to himself. "But he might have thought someone else was Greenlaw—"

"Couldn't it?" Witney asked grimly. "I'm beginning to wonder... Was Greenlaw dead?"

Witney did not trouble to explain. He was vainly trying to distinguish something inside the furnace.

"He's no reason to kill her," Witney protested, more to comfort himself than anything else. "He's not likely to have met her... I don't believe there's anything there. It's all his fancy."

Rayton was unconvinced. "He's mad," he said. "He might think anything. I wish to God we could be sure—"

"He was darned determined that Greenlaw shouldn't come back, wasn't he? Said he'd kill him again. Where's Bardley?"

Without waiting for an answer he turned and hurried away across the yard. Witney stood for a moment frowning doubtfully at the kiln. He was far more worried than he cared to admit. Parts of Leicester's ravings were comprehensible enough; but there was always the chance that his mad brain had seen in some other victim the person of the man he hated. It was vital to know what had happened; but the kiln was too hot to investigate. For that they would have to wait. On the other hand, if there had really been another murder and a second cremation, one might expect that there would be some traces. He set himself carefully to go over the ground in the vicinity of the kiln, scrutinising it foot by foot in the light of his torch. By the time Rayton and the artist came hurrying back he had examined an area of several yards and had found nothing; though that was not to say that a more extensive search by daylight might not reveal traces.

Bardley was explaining a little doggedly why he had not ventured into the yard, and it was plain enough that the superintendent had already succeeded in rubbing him up the wrong way.

"What the devil should I have done?" he was demanding petulantly. "Of course I was surprised when I heard the noise, and knew there was something wrong. But I thought if I'd gone in one way whoever it was might get out the other. I didn't know that there was only one, or that Leicester was talking to himself—"

Rayton grunted disparagingly. "Still, it's a pity you didn't watch what was going on," he said. "Then we might have known—how long will it be before the kiln cools down?"

"Hours, I'm afraid. He's made a pretty good job of his stoking—for an amateur."

"Well, look at it. We could damp it down a bit by cutting off the air, but that would only make it smoulder longer. We might rake it out bit by bit." He looked at Witney. "Do you really think there's someone in there? With that girl missing—it's pretty ghastly, isn't it?"

Witney thought for a moment. "I don't believe that there's anyone there," he said at last. "There are no traces in the yard. It's unlikely he'd mistake a woman for Greenlaw. And it's not long since the fire was started. There's not much smoke if a body really is being burnt there... No, I believe we're more likely to find Miss Paisley through the search party Milligan is looking after."

Rayton scowled. He had never favoured the idea of the search, and did not conceal his opinion that it was a waste of time.

"Anyway, we've got to know as soon as possible," he said. "Couldn't we turn a hose on or something?"

"If you did, it would probably smash the kiln all to blazes." Bardley paused for a moment and broke out irritably. "Why every murderer and lunatic in the whole damned district has got to come and mess about with my kiln I don't know. How the hell can I make pots?"

"Yes. It's hard luck on you," Witney agreed swiftly, just in time to stop a comment of a very different kind from the superintendent. "It's your stoneware kiln, isn't it? But you've others?"

"I earn my bread and butter by it. You know 'Souvenir from Terracombe'—that sort of stuff. Old Devonshire sayings... Not what I'd like to do. But then, who the devil ever does what he'd like to do? You've got to have money."

"Yes. This is pretty good stuff for red ware. We dig it just at the back, so we get it cheap."

Rayton had been on the point of interrupting for the last few minutes; now he thought he saw the drift of Witney's questions. If not the kiln, the clay pit might conceal something. But the inspector's next question disappointed him.

"Porcel—" Rayton began, and bit the word off. He had suddenly remembered the substance which had been used to fill the articulary holes in the skeleton. It was with a look of covert suspicion that he awaited Bardley's reply.

"Some. For my own amusement... There's not much market for the expensive stuff here, and I can't compete in cheap lines. Besides, I've not got the apparatus."

Witney was quite pleased with the casual way in which he said the name; but there was no result. Bardley only stared at him.

Witney ignored the heavy sarcasm. "I thought someone said he'd visited the pottery," he said. "I believe he was interested in things of the kind."

"Well, he may have done. We get hordes of them sometimes. They're a damned nuisance, but it's good for sales."

"My God, no. Shut myself right up the hours they come. The foreman shows them round. Or one of the hands. It doesn't matter. A lot of beefy business men and chattering women. Not one in a dozen understands anything anyhow... Of course, you'll get an intelligent one now and again."

"Then, anyone can inspect the kiln?" Rayton interposed. He had been getting visibly more impatient as the conversation proceeded. "No difficulty about it, eh?"

"Of course they can—in the regular hours... I'm afraid you won't find that much use. We get hundreds every season."

Rayton tried another line. "That clay stuff," he said, "for the porcelain. Where d'you keep that?"

Witney was not too pleased at Rayton's heavy plunging on a point which could have been verified much less obviously.

But Bardley seemed to notice no special significance in the question, or else he was a good actor. Having made his point Rayton subsided into a satisfied silence.

"I don't. Half the upper ten think I'm mad because I'm an artist, and don't go hunting; all the middle think I'm disreputable, and the ordinary lot are so damn silly I have to try hard not to push their faces in."

"I seem to remember the name, but that's all. She never lived round here to my knowledge. That's all I can say... I suppose you'll want to turn the whole place upside down again to-morrow?"

"Not more than we can help. Not very much, even, if there's nothing in the kiln."

"To-morrow, if it's empty... We're very grateful for the way you've helped us, and for ringing us up to-night—"

Rayton glanced after him disapprovingly. "Callous devil," he said. "All he thinks about is his blasted pots. And there may be a dead man there—or woman."

"Don't think so... Don't see how there could be. There's not really been time since the kiln was lighted—"

"Well, it looks a bit fishy to me," Rayton said, as he broke off. "There's that porcelain stuff used for the bones. That might have come from here. And then he denies all knowledge of Greenlaw. Why is that? We know Greenlaw was pretty friendly with him—if the woman is to be believed. Even about the woman—Olivia Howard, I mean—well, he was queer. I think he realised he'd given himself away and made a good recovery... He seemed to know her."

The sound of running footsteps broke in on his words. The next moment Stainsby entered the circle of light cast by the furnace. He was pale and breathless.

"Witney," he said. "Witney—he's been talking. He saw Miss Paisley to-night. And he seems to have had some grudge."

CHAPTER XVII
A Blow in the Dark

IT was with a much lighter heart than she had had for days that June Paisley set off along the winding path in the growing dusk. It had taken the shock of Greenlaw's death to show her how she really felt about Ambleside; but then it had seemed hopeless. Now, not only was he alive, but in the interview in the cave, though nothing had been said, she had for the first time realised that he loved her. Even his desperate position could not damp her optimism. Somehow things would come right; she would make them come right. Patrick Ambleside was innocent, and there must be some way of proving it. Temporarily she forced from her mind the fact that she could not for the life of her see how to do it.

However great an incentive the discovery that he was alive might be, she had no intention of attempting any more detective work that night. Her spirits might be good, but her body was dreadfully tired, and she recognised that unless she was to collapse completely she would have to rest. Her immediate programme had been cut down to a minimum. She intended only to make her excuses to Mrs. Ware before returning to the inn and going to bed, if possible without another encounter with Sophia Leicester. Even though in Leicester's illness she had a ready made excuse for leaving the yacht party, she found herself shrinking from the business of making explanations. But the thought of any further close association with Ware was even more repugnant, even though the idea crossed her mind that by staying in the Campaspe she would have a far better chance of watching him than if she was at the inn.

Thinking it over, she was not quite sure about that. It was not that Ware would do anything which might lead to his exposure on the yacht itself. There seemed, in fact, no need for him to do anything, except so far as concerned the girl, Olivia Howard. It was only through her that there was any real chance of finding anything out, and so far as that was concerned she was better at the inn. On the Campaspe, she might be able to keep a more careful eye on Ware, but he would be more likely to notice any suspicious conduct on her part; acting with the inn as her base she could do what she liked, free from the supervision of the other members of the party, but able to call on them for assistance if it was needed.

She did not for a moment associate anyone but Ware with the murder. Forrest as a suspect was ridiculous; Leicester, until his madness, had been the most harmless of men, and Pinner was so much a nonentity in the ordinary way that one could not dream he would fulfil so important a role. But Ware was different. Granted a sufficient motive, and that had been revealed during her conversation with Sophia Leicester, she felt instinctively that he might take some desperate step. And there was really some evidence against him. She had quite decided that he must have sent the anonymous letter: there was certainly something queer about his bringing the boat there so late at night, and his eagerness to get Ambleside accused might also be said to weigh against him. The interview between him and Olivia Howard had gone a long way to confirm her opinion. He had practically admitted bringing the girl down there for some reason of his own which he did not want made public; and he had not denied that he could have cleared Ambleside. The fact that he had not done so was the most damning point against him.

She had been walking quickly as she thought, with the haste of someone who wishes to get an unpleasant task over as soon as possible; but reaching the point where the path descended into the combe, she paused for a moment and looked down. It was quite dark, and an overcast sky showed hardly a star. Across the black pit of the valley she could see the friendly lights of the inn which was to be her refuge, and just out to sea the lamps of the Campaspe. She wondered what was happening on board the yacht, and whether they had missed her. If so, the most difficult part of her explanation would be to give a reason for her long absence, and she could think of nothing more convincing to say than that she had been for a walk.

She shivered a little. Thinking about the yacht brought back more vividly the idea of Ware, and yet even so she would rather have been on board attempting the dreaded explanations than where she was. All at once she felt horribly reluctant to take the plunge into the deeper gloom of the hollow. Down below, as she knew, the trees and bushes completely over-arched the path. If anyone was waiting for her there—She told herself that her fear was nonsensical, but still she hesitated, trying to nerve herself to proceed. She was just on the point of starting forward when a sound from the track ahead made her start back. Footsteps were approaching up the hill.

At another time she would have thought that anyone might have a perfectly innocent reason for using the path; but just then her nerves were on edge. Her mind was obsessed with the thought of Ware, and her one idea was that for some reason he was returning and, if he should find her there, would guess that she had followed him. For an instant she stood there petrified as the sounds drew closer. Certainly it was a man's tread. Then, in a sudden access of terror she backed instinctively towards the hedge. Her one idea was to hide. Crouching in a recess made by two projecting blackberry bushes she waited breathlessly, straining her eyes to peer through the darkness, and horribly aware of the lighter patch her own dress made against the leaves.

The steps grew louder. Whoever it was must be nearly at the top. She almost held her breath as a dark figure breasted the rise and showed for an instant full against the skyline. But the sight brought a sudden doubt. Was it Ware? It had seemed too tall. And, as the unknown came level with her hiding-place, she realised too late that in hiding she had done the worst possible thing. If it were Ware and she should be discovered attempting concealment, explanation would be impossible. She felt that the man must hear the beating of her heart. Just past the bushes he stopped, as though uncertain of the angle at which the path turned. She heard him start forward again, apparently in the wrong direction; for it sounded as though he had got involved in the brambles fringing the edge. Then, with a wave of relief, she heard his voice.

She could have laughed. The smothered exclamation dissipated all her fears. It was only Forrest. In a moment she made up her mind. She rose to her feet and started boldly from her hiding-place.

A smothered exclamation came from Forrest. She smiled. After all, he had every excuse for being startled. In the darkness, her light dress looked positively ghostly.

He took an uncertain step forward. As he did so she felt a certain surprise. What was he doing there? She almost regretted having emerged from her hiding-place and could not think what she ought to say. And, surprisingly, Forrest did not speak. She had to break the silence somehow.

"Oh, hullo!" she said, a little tremulously, and even to herself her voice sounded forced. "Are you going for a walk?"

"You? June?" Just for those two words he seemed to have been startled out of his affected manner; then he was speaking as usual. "Oh, I say, June! Dash it, you shouldn't bounce out on a chap like that. I mean, we're not playing hide and seek. Deuced bad for the nerves. Thought you were a bandit or a banshee or something—"

"I'm sorry I startled you," she said. "The truth is, I was scared myself. I didn't know you until you spoke, and looking down—you know, I couldn't help feeling the place was awfully lonely... But whatever are you doing here? You've not started to take an after dinner constitutional have you? Or were you looking for me?"

The question seemed to disconcert him. "Oh, just wandering round," he said, after a pause. "Beauties of nature by moonlight and all that. Very stimulating and educative."

"Dash it, I never thought of that... But, I say, June. What are you doing here yourself. Birds' nesting for owls' eggs or what?"

June's explanation was feeble enough, but it was all she could think of. She gave it.

"Oh, I got lost," she said. "I've been walking for ages, and I'm absolutely starving. And then it got dark... It's marvellous meeting somebody. Will you see me back to the yacht?"

Ordinarily, Forrest would have jumped at the invitation. Now it seemed odd that he should hesitate, if his walk was as objectless as he pretended.

"Of course, I'd love to—" he paused for a moment. "But, you see June, the fact is—"

"Dash it all, June! You see, I promised to meet a chap." His voice had regained its confidence. "There's a little pub a mile or two up here, quite a cheery show. Challenged me at darts. Can't let an opponent down, you know."

"And you're going to let me walk back alone in the dark for that? I'm so tired—"

"Principle's at stake, June, dear girl... Also a gallon of the best. Can't back out now. The whole reputation of the yacht would be shattered. 'I could not love thee, dear, so much' and all that sort of thing—"

"Except drinking in a pub... I think you're a beast. If you don't follow me, I'll never be nice to you again."

But June had already started down the path. Her indignation was only partly real. Actually she was wondering what Forrest was about. There was something very queer happening. His excuse was so obviously invented; and that he should refuse to accompany her was utterly out of character. She went a dozen paces; then slowed down to listen. But Forrest was not following. She could hear him walking away quickly in the other direction. She herself stopped and turned up the path again.

She was thoroughly bewildered. Even her wildest suspicions had never included Forrest. And now? She could not really suspect him; but here he was going off on some mysterious errand in a direction which was definitely suggestive. It was something important, or he would have consented to her request for an escort. Probably he was going to meet someone, and the time was getting short; but the tale about the darts match was too thin for anyone to believe. It was no business of hers, perhaps, and yet, just then, anything extraordinary which members of the party might do concerned her, if she was ever to get on the track of the murderer. Of course, Forrest was not the murderer. But where was he going?

She could only think of one explanation. He was going to the farm where she believed that Olivia Howard was staying. It was the only turning off the path until it joined the main road a mile or two further on. He must be going there. And yet, what could he intend to do. How could he even know that she was staying in the neighbourhood at all? The thoughts flashed through her mind in rapid succession. And in her bewilderment one thing was startlingly clear. If he did know he was automatically suspect. But it was necessary to make up her mind quickly. She could no longer hear his footsteps; though, knowing where he was going she might be able to overtake him. Only for a moment she hesitated; then, with something very like a groan, started to retrace her steps.

As she hurried along, she went over the interview in her mind. It had all been almost laughably artificial; but she thought that she had come out of it the best. After all, she had the more reasonable explanation, and no one could prove her story false. So far as everyone but Ambleside was concerned, she had been lost all the time she had been in the cave. The fact that Forrest had gone on, if he had any guilty feeling, showed that he was unsuspicious. And, after all, why should anyone suspect her? She had given no hint of her determination to run down the murderer to anyone, and it was scarcely what anyone would expect.

Forrest's normally affected manner had been some protection to him; but it had still been easy to see he was lying. It would be interesting to see how he would try to make his peace next day. In the meantime, the great thing was to find him again. Her feet ached horribly, and she was conscious of a blister on one heel; but she hurried on. It seemed a long time, and they were getting very near the turning to the farm, before she heard his footsteps ahead.

Summoning up all her energy, she put on a spurt. If Forrest turned through the gate across the field, she would have to be nearer. On the grass his progress would be less audible; and beyond the gate she did not know her ground. But, after all, was he going that way? He might have some perfectly innocent explanation which he had not liked to give. A horrible suspicion crossed her mind that in her present physical and mental state she was ready to fancy anything. The next moment she was reassured. She heard the gate open and close.

Now came the really difficult part. She was as near as was safe, and yet not near enough. As she closed the gate noiselessly behind her and started across the field, the hopelessness of her task came to her. She could not keep to the path. After a few yards, she could not even be sure that she was going in the right direction, and there was no sign of her quarry. Mere desperation made her keep on. The field seemed suddenly to have grown enormously in size, and it seemed as though she would never get to the other side. One thing puzzled her. How was it that Forrest was not in the same position? It looked as though he might have been that way before, or at least have reconnoitred the ground very thoroughly.

When she finally reached the boundary of the field she was not much better off. Naturally, she had missed the gate. Here was the hedge, certainly, but she had not the slightest idea which way she should turn along it in order to reach the path to the farm. And by now in any case, she thought, it was useless to try and find Forrest; he would have too long a start. She peered through the bushes hoping vainly for some glimpse of the farm lights, but there was nothing. Evidently she must give it up.

Even that was more easily said than done. She realised that as soon as she turned to go back to the path. There was nothing to show where it lay. The night had turned a little misty, enough at least to obscure the stars and all possible landmarks. She began to feel a little frightened. Her excuse to Forrest had been that she had been lost. Now, she actually was lost—lost perhaps in an enclosed field only a short distance from the path, but nevertheless without any idea which direction would lead her home. Her endurance was failing. She started forward with desperate energy trying to persuade herself that she was going straight. All at once, something right under her feet grunted, moved, and lumbered off into the blackness.

At another time she might have remembered that there had been cows in the field; but her nerve failed her. She started to run, hardly caring where she went. Twice she slipped and nearly fell; then an unexpected hummock of grass brought her headlong.

For a moment she lay there half stunned. Mere weariness combined with the shock of the fall to keep her where she had fallen. She could hear the wild pounding of her heart as she listened for a pursuit that her reason, now the first panic was over, told her was non-existent. Suddenly she started up. From somewhere ahead she heard the sound of voices.

Her first thought was to call for help. The cry was on her lips when it came to her that anyone there was as likely to be an enemy as a friend. What part Forrest played she did not know; but neither Ware nor Olivia Howard inspired her with any confidence if they were dealing with anyone who might be spying upon them. She was quiet as the voices came nearer, straining her ears to catch anything they might say. Only a few yards away they stopped.

"Quite final," she heard a man's voice say. "I told you never to come. You should not have sent for me."

"But—but—" The woman's voice was pleading, and she believed it was that of Olivia. "You can't—you can't—like this. He—he's dead—"

June was puzzled about the voice. It was not Ware's, nor Forrest's, but she seemed to have heard it before.

The girl spoke again in a voice so low and broken that June could not hear what she said.

She heard footsteps coming towards her. For a moment she thought that the stranger was actually going to fall over her; but he passed to one side so close that she could just see him as a moving shadow in the gloom. June made up her mind. She knew, or believed she knew, where to find Olivia Howard. Her immediate task was to discover who the man might be, and where he was going. Now that she was confronted with something tangible her courage had returned, and with it something of her strength. With only a momentary hesitation she rose cautiously to her feet and started after the man.

After all she had run in the right direction. The two whom she had overheard must have been talking quite near the gate; for almost at once she heard the latch click. She strained her ears to try and make out which way the stranger turned. As she had expected, he went right, in the direction of Terracombe. Allowing only the briefest possible interval for him to get a safe distance away, she pushed the gate open without a sound and stepped out on to the path again.

The sound of the stranger's movement was still plainly audible. She turned to follow, halting now and again to make sure that she could still hear his footsteps, and that she was not getting too close. They had gone about fifty yards when, stopping to listen, she failed to hear them. The man ahead had stopped. The fear seized her that perhaps he had heard some noise which betrayed her own presence. For a minute she waited, hardly daring to breathe, alert for the least sign from the darkness in front. Then they came again. To her immense relief, they were still receding, and much farther away. She guessed what had happened. Parts of the path surface were grass, on which anyone walking made practically no sound. The man in front was still unsuspicious. He had merely crossed one of these.

But the wait had allowed him to increase his lead to a dangerous extent. If she were not careful she would lose him altogether. She could no longer hear him. With the one thought in her mind that she must make up the lost ground she started forward more quickly, and as her own feet found the grass hurried almost carelessly.

She was closer now. For a few seconds she could make out the footsteps; then they ceased again. This time she did not wait, but merely slowed down a little, expecting that the same thing had happened as before. Then, she stopped with a shuddering gasp. From the blackness of the hedge right beside her a darker shadow detached itself. Before she had time to turn, something touched her sleeve. A strong hand grasped her wrist in a grip of iron.

"Get back!" The oddly familiar voice was now harshly unrecognisable. "How dare you follow me? Get back where you belong!"

June fought for speech, but no word escaped her. She realised dimly that the man who held her believed that the girl whom he had just left had come after him; but her mind was confused with terror. She could not think how to use the position to save herself. Evidently her silence made her captor suspicious. He peered at her doubtfully.

June's nerve failed her completely. She could not answer. Instead, she struck at the arm which held her with all her strength, and tried to pull herself away. The action seemed to give her back her voice.

The grip on her wrist did not relax. Instead, it tightened. She felt herself pulled forward; then a hand covered her mouth, crushing her lips painfully. She struggled for a moment longer. It was hopeless. The grip which held her was like steel. Abruptly she relaxed and stood there half fainting.

There was a pause which seemed interminable. Her captor seemed to be considering.

The hand which held her pushed her back. Unexpectedly, she found her mouth was free. She drew a deep, sobbing breath. As she did so, she was aware of something rushing towards her. With a great flash of light her senses left her.

CHAPTER XVIII
The Second Watcher

IN a small cascade of shale and pebbles Ambleside slid down the last few feet of crumbling cliff and gained the beach. It had not been long after June Paisley's departure that he had begun to feel thoroughly tired of his hiding place. During the daytime his refuge was gloomy enough; at night, with nothing to do but sit and listen to the hollow roar of the waves booming up through the opening, it was depressing in the extreme. And June's visit had been unsettling. It had made him for the first time face the position in which he had managed to get himself, and the results were far from comforting.

Obviously he could not stay in the cave indefinitely. For one thing his supplies would give out, though no doubt June could find some way of supplementing them. Before his conversation with June, he had seen only two alternatives. Either he could give himself up to the police, and hope that in reopening the case they would look for another murderer and not merely clinch the case against himself; or he could try and get out of the country. Against the second there were a dozen objections. And, so far as he could see, to give himself up as things stood was to invite conviction. June's suggestion about finding the murderer had offered a third possibility, and one which tempted him.

He admitted to himself that it would be difficult. Although June would do her best, he did not believe that she had much chance either of discovering anything or persuading the police to investigate. His one hope seemed to be to do it himself, and the obstacles were enormous. He dare not show himself; he dare not question anyone who might identify him with the supposedly dead man. On the other hand, in keeping an eye upon possible suspects, the fact of his death might be an advantage. The murderer might be on the watch for the police and the other members of the party; but he could know nothing of the watch Ambleside intended to keep. And if he were seen? Judging by the effect his apparition had had on June and Leicester, he would have every chance of escaping in the first surprise of his appearance. He even played with a vision of frightening a confession out of the murderer by acting as his own vengeful ghost, and at the thought he grinned to himself.

He sobered abruptly. As he stood there on the beach, it seemed a horribly forlorn hope. There was no starting point. He had been over the possibilities in his mind. Almost certainly the murderer must be a member of the yachting party, and they all seemed grotesquely unlikely. Only over Ware, although June had told him nothing, he found himself lingering. It was not that he disliked the Captain, but that of them all he seemed the one person who, given sufficient motive, might be capable of desperate action; and Ambleside had at least a glimmering of the motive. While he was with anyone else, Ware's command over his features prevented anyone from guessing what he thought; Ambleside had an idea that if one could see him when he did not know he was being watched the mask might disappear. It was half with that idea that he had risked the descent of the cliff. He meant to swim to the yacht and see at least how the members of the party were bearing up under his loss. His second reason was more practical. He wanted clothes. The blazer and shorts in which he had run away that morning had been well adapted for his enforced dive but the nights were still cold, and he found himself shivering a little in the cool air. Presumably his own luggage at the inn had been impounded by the police; but he believed that if he could get to the yacht and luck were with him he could find among Forrest's extensive wardrobe some clothes their owner was not likely to miss.

He crunched his way down the shingle to the edge of the water; then stopped and looked about him. The beach was very dark. Except for the dim phosphorescent line of white foam where the waves broke he could distinguish nothing. Evidently the boatman had gone to bed; for no light showed from the hut. Only out to sea the yacht's lamp gleamed like a beacon. It seemed horribly distant; but now that he had come so far he had no intention of turning back. Summoning all his resolution he waded out. As he felt the chill of the water strike his waist he threw himself forward and started to swim in long, easy strokes.

It was terribly cold. As he neared the entrance to the cove, a smooth swell became perceptible, so that he could see the light which was his guide only on the crests of the waves. As he rose and fell in the sea, the whole business seemed preposterously unreal. The yacht's lamp seemed to hypnotise him, and he swam for it automatically, watching for its periodical reappearance as he rose out of each trough. He was scarcely conscious of what he was doing when he was brought to his senses with a jerk. Just ahead, on the top of the next wave, a dark mass loomed above him, hiding the light as it came between him and the yacht.

Abruptly he realised what it was. Scarcely half a dozen yards away there was a boat, and he had as nearly as possible run into it. He stopped swimming on the instant, and treading the water peered through the gloom towards it.

It seemed to contain only a single occupant. He could just make out a dim figure amidships, and hear the creaking of the oars. Whoever was rowing was doing so with extraordinary care, and evidently the rowlocks had been muffled. Ambleside judged that he was making for the beach; but who it was he could not guess. In a minute the boat had passed him. He turned to follow and thought better of it. Under the circumstances, the swim to the yacht would be as much as he could do. He had come more than half way, and he was by no means sure that, out of practice as he was, he could last the return journey without a rest. As the darkness swallowed the boat he swung round again and headed for the lamp.

But the incident puzzled him. He tried to tell himself that it might be no more than the boatman coming back from a fishing expedition; but in that case, why was he rowing so quietly, and why had he taken such care to escape observation? Besides, unless he was very much mistaken the boat had been coming from the direction of the yacht. Presumably it was one of the party on board who was so stealthily making for land, but the question was who? Mrs. Ware, at least, could be ruled out, since, to his certain knowledge, she was incapable of handling a boat. That left Ware, Forrest and Pinner. What any of them could be doing making a secret journey at that time of night was a complete mystery, and he almost wished that he had obeyed his first impulse to follow.

It was a relief when he at last reached the yacht, and was able to draw himself up noiselessly over the stern, noting as he did so the absence of the dingy. That confirmed his suspicion that the man who had passed him was someone from the yacht. The best way to find out which seemed to be to determine who was still on board.

He looked about him. A light shone through the saloon skylight; but forward all was in darkness. Probably Dunn, at any rate, had gone to bed. Pinner and Forrest, he knew from a visit to the yacht the day before, also slept there, but they too were either absent or asleep. From the point of view of getting clothes, luck was on his side; for he felt fairly certain that Forrest would certainly not have retired at so early an hour. There remained the question of who had been the occupant of the boat and it was with a view to solving that point that he started forward. Reaching the skylight he peered cautiously through one of the uncurtained panes.

There were only two people in the saloon. Pinner and Mrs. Ware were playing cribbage at the table according to their nightly custom. Ambleside could almost have guessed they would have been. It was the one reason one could think of for Pinner's existence; as it was certainly the actual reason for his inclusion in the party. But there was no sign of anyone else. The two cabins occupied by the Wares and June Paisley opened off the far end, and through the partly open doors he could see that they too were in darkness. Ware, Forrest, and Dunn were somewhere at large, and from the point of view of safety as well as curiosity he decided to make sure before going in search of clothes.

Stepping quietly, he began to make his way towards the bows, passing the hatch which led to the saloon. It led also to the tiny cupboard of a room which Ware used as a sort of a chart-room, and on the other side to the sleeping cabin which had been occupied by the Leicesters until their removal to the inn. Ambleside looked down. The door to the saloon was shut; so, too, were the other two doors, and no light showed beneath them. Unless there was someone forward, it seemed as though the yacht was deserted, except for Pinner and Mrs. Ware.

He was on the point of moving forward to make sure, when just for a moment he caught a flash of light. It showed in the crack underneath the door of Ware's cabin, and then was gone. After all, Ambleside thought, there was someone there. And yet he felt puzzled. It was not the regular cabin light; nor was it like the striking of a match. It was more as though a torch had been flashed just for a moment and then hastily turned off. As he looked it came again, and his curiosity overcame his caution. Next moment he was creeping quietly down the stairs.

Certainly there was someone in the cabin. He could hear the sound of movement, and as he stood in the narrow space at the foot of the ladder the light flashed again. Hoping sincerely that Mrs. Ware and Pinner were too much engaged in their cribbage to come out and take him in the rear, he crept forward and, bending down, put his eye to the keyhole.

Like most keyholes, it was poorly constructed from the point of view of a spyhole. It gave a view only of a limited section along one wall, but by good luck this included the desk in which Ware kept such private papers as he was not disposed to leave lying about. And someone was certainly busy at the desk. The flap was open; he could see the gleam of white papers even in the dim light available, and from time to time a dark shadow suggesting an arm moved across the line of vision.

It was exasperating. Close as he was he had no means of telling who was inside without revealing his own presence. He could only wait and trust to luck. Once the torch flashed for a moment and gave him a glimpse of a hand and arm. It was a man's hand. So much he could see before the light was extinguished. Then for a long time there was nothing except the rustle of paper. Evidently some of the contents of the desk could be dealt with by touch alone, and the burglar, if he was one, used the torch only when in doubt. It flashed again after what seemed a long time. This time it burnt longer. Its holder was directing it upon the pigeon holes at the bottom, making sure that he had missed nothing. As Ambleside watched a head and shoulders came into view. He pursed his lips into a soundless whistle of surprise. It was Dunn.

It was thoroughly bewildering. Ambleside was acquainted with Dunn's peculiarities from his visits to the yacht, and a less likely person to have found apparently engaged in robbery it would be hard to imagine. The idea that he was stealing was simply incredible. But what else could the search of his master's desk mean? Ambleside had no time to consider the answer. Dunn was putting back the papers. Evidently he had finished. As he closed the flap of the desk, Ambleside turned hastily and started up the ladder.

He was just in time. Luckily, Dunn himself had to be cautious, waiting to see if the occupants of the saloon were on the look out. Ambleside had slipped forward before he emerged on to the deck, and was watching him from the shelter of the other hatchway, though unpleasantly aware that he might find himself trapped if Dunn came to go to his cabin.

But Dunn, apparently, was not yet thinking of bed. He stood for a moment at the top of the steps and in the light from the saloon skylight his face was plainly visible. He was frowning savagely, and his attempt had evidently been unsuccessful. But there was something more in his face. It seemed to Ambleside that he resembled an avenging angel, temporarily baulked in his task, but with his victim in full view. And that victim, apparently, was Ware.

Ambleside held his breath as Dunn started to move forward. How he was to get out again he could not quite see. It looked as though he would have to wait in Forrest's or Pinner's cabin until the man was asleep, with the chance of one of their owners returning. But Dunn changed his mind. He turned again and walked towards the stern, glanced over as though to make sure that the dingy was still missing, and seated himself on the deck with his back to the bulwarks, settling himself as though to wait.

Here was Ambleside's chance. He could ransack Forrest's cabin and secure the clothes without fear of interruption. His troubles might begin when he came to leave with his spoil, but for the moment he was not troubling about that. He slipped into Forrest's cabin and closed the door.

It was terribly dark. He realised at once that he could not hope to do his rummaging without a light, but to turn the switch was a risk. The porthole was luckily away from the shore, and it was not likely to be seen by anyone returning; but he would have to keep his ears on the alert for a possible visit from Dunn. He decided to take his chance; but as the light flared up he saw that it was unnecessary. Forrest belonged to the type of Londoner who regards any excursion into the country as an expedition into the wilds and provides accordingly. His equipment was singularly complete, and almost the first thing Ambleside saw was that it included an electric torch, standing in full view on the table. Switching off the light, he possessed himself of it and began his search.

There was no lack of choice. Forrest's idea in packing seemed to have been to provide for all emergencies, including a wedding or a funeral; and there were garments for all occasions. The only difficulty was to find things which their owner was not likely to miss, and to leave things in the immaculate order in which he had found them. He had made his selection and tied them into a bundle, and was replacing the clothes he had had to take out when something slipped from a pair of dress trousers he was holding and fell to the floor. He shone the torch down and looked.

At the first glimpse he thought it was a book. Only when he stooped to pick it up did he realise that it was a packet of cheap stationery comprising a pad and envelopes in a cardboard case. Beyond a momentary surprise at the fastidious Forrest so far descending, it conveyed nothing to him at first. Only as he was on the point of replacing it the truth flashed upon him. He opened it quickly and looked at the pad. Then he so far forgot his situation as to exclaim aloud.

In the course of his examination by the police he had been questioned by Rayton regarding the anonymous letter, and had even been shown the original with a view to identifying the paper. Now, unless he was very much mistaken, he had found it. Although his recollection was a little hazy, he could almost have sworn to that particular shade of objectionable violet.

He stood there for a moment holding the pad, forgetful of his own situation. Everything was in favour of the idea. There was the fact that Forrest, with a complete stock of more expensive and tasteful paper, should have the packet at all. There was the place in which he had found it, so oddly at variance with the rest of the methodical packing. It was practically a certainty, and he believed that June would recognise it. The question was, what he should do. To remove the packet might raise suspicion if its owner noticed its absence; but he could take a sample. He slipped out an envelope, noting that there were eleven left out of the original dozen, and tore off the top sheet of paper. Folding them carefully, he placed them securely in the heart of the bundle before returning trousers and packet to their proper place.

With a hasty look round to see that there were no signs of his search, he switched off the torch and cautiously opened the door. A glance from the hatchway showed him that Dunn was still sitting where he had left him, and that otherwise the deck was empty. The way was clear for his escape; but the difficulty was to carry the package in his long swim. After a moment's thought he turned back to the cabin and found a spare pair of braces, tying it to his head in a sort of unwieldy turban. Dunn's head was still turned away from him, looking towards the shore when he returned. Seizing his opportunity, he gained the deck and made his way to the side. In a minute he had lowered himself noiselessly into the sea.

If it had been difficult coming, the swim back was far worse. For one thing he was tired and still chilled from his previous immersion. But the great difficulty was the bundle. He had read of people swimming rivers with their clothes on their heads, but it was the first time he had tried to do it. The weight forced his head down uncomfortably, requiring greater exertion to keep up. Several time he had to rest, treading water, and he could not make out exactly where the beach lay. It was necessary to look back from time to time to get his direction from the lights of the yacht. But in spite of it all his chief feeling was one of sheer amazement at his discovery.

Of all the yacht's crew, he would least have suspected Forrest of being the author of the letter. But it looked as though he had been. Just how he had acquired the necessary knowledge about Greenlaw's affair was a puzzle; his motive in writing was equally obscure. The possession of the pad, however, and its concealment, seemed to clinch things. He found himself wondering what exactly he was going to do about it. It might be possible for June to persuade the police to make a search and discover the pad. The question was, how would that affect his own position? It was not the writing of the letter, but his quarrel with Greenlaw that was supposed to be his motive for the murder. Even if he proved that the letter had been written by someone else, it would not acquit him.

But, if it was to count at all, the packet had to be discovered soon and by some unprejudiced person, in case Forrest should decide to destroy it. The puzzle was why he should have kept it at all. And, to the police, the fact of Ambleside's visit would be suspicious. He might say he had found the pad there; they might say he had planted it. He found himself regretting that he had taken the clothes. If they were missing, and more especially if they were discovered in his possession they would be a proof of his visit, and might invalidate the evidence the stationery provided. He was still trying to work things out when, to his immense relief, his feet at last touched bottom. Shivering and tired out, he waded out and staggered up the shingle.

At that moment he would have given anything for a cigarette and a cup of coffee, but even smoking was denied him. He had been forced to leave his case and matches behind in preparation for his swim. Gaining the shelter of the rocks, he removed his dripping clothes and wrung them out before putting them on again, after rubbing his arms and legs to restore the circulation. Feeling a little more comfortable, he tried to work out his next move.

The clothes were a problem. He had almost decided to abandon them completely in some place where they were not likely to be found; but he needed them badly. Luckily they had not got very wet. Inside, the paper and envelope were dry and safe; but in his own wet garments he could find no place to put them. The obvious thing was to return to the cave; but now that he was feeling warmer he was in no mood to end his activities just yet. Above all things at that moment he wanted to know how things stood at the inn, and what the police were doing, and there was the possibility that he might be able by some means to secure an interview with June. Thinking it over, he hid the clothes and paper in a crevice of the rock, covering them carefully from sight. Then, with a careful look round to make sure that the coast was clear, he emerged from his hiding place and made for the path.

He had every reason to take care. Two members of the yacht's crew were missing and might be expected to return down the path which he was at that moment ascending. In fact, three. He had only just remembered the existence of Leicester's niece. Perhaps she had been in bed; perhaps she was ashore at the inn with her aunt. Oddly enough, he found the question was worrying him as he felt his way up the path under its tunnel of bushes. It was merely the fact that she was the one member of the party who ought to have been accounted for and was not. Forrest and Ware might reasonably be ashore; but where was she? He dismissed the problem from his mind as the lights of the inn came into view.

Now, he had to be doubly cautious. The lighted window of the room where he had been interviewed that morning cast an illuminated patch right across the lane. In his light clothes he would be horribly conspicuous if he tried to approach it; and yet, in all probability, that was where he wanted to be. It looked as though the police were still in possession, and the broken glass offered a temptation which he found it hard to resist. He stood looking at it, trying to make up his mind. Then all at once he started. For against the yellow square of the pane he had seen for a moment the outline of a head and shoulders.

Someone seemed to have forestalled him. There was already an eavesdropper listening to whatever might be going on inside. His momentary glimpse had given him no clue to his identity. Drawing back into the shelter of the hedge he waited with his eyes fixed on the spot hoping the silhouette might reappear. But he was disappointed. Instead, a shadow slipped across the glass panels of the doorway; there was the faintest possible crunching of the gravel. The watcher had gone.

For a moment he hesitated. The risk was enormous. Now, he had to consider not only the people inside but the man who had just left. In all probability he had gone; he had fancied that the stealthy sounds of his movement had receded in the direction of the village. A sudden recklessness possessed him. Somehow he was going to find out what was happening. Acting on a wild impulse, he left his hiding place and slipped across to the inn, expecting at any moment to hear the shout which would show that he had been seen and recognised.

But he gained the verandah safely. Through the broken glass he could hear the sound of voices. By putting his ear close, at the risk of letting the light reveal his head, he could even make out the words. Witney was speaking.

"I don't mean to say that the correspondence wasn't exact enough. But one could have got bones—"

The recklessness which had taken him to the window still possessed him. He must look inside. Very gently he put his hand through the opening and touched the curtain, meaning to pull it aside. Then he started. Just behind him on the verandah someone had smothered a cough.

CHAPTER XIX
An Unwilling Resurrection

UNDOUBTEDLY the search parties were beginning to lose their enthusiasm by the time Witney and the superintendent returned to the inn, leaving Stainsby to deal with any further formalities at the Pottery. The kiln had been raked out, and they had drawn a blank, returning to find the search for June Paisley no more successful. In the opinion of Sergeant Milligan, any number of blanks would have been needed to express his feelings about the whole business. Over an hour of stumbling up and down the tangled combe, barking his shins on hidden rocks and falling into unexpected holes had reduced him to a state as near mutiny as a naturally obedient, well disciplined policeman can get. Only the obvious anxiety of his superior officer prevented him from expressing himself more forcibly than was proper; but he was firm.

"It's darned hopeless, sir," he expostulated she is there, "a whole army might look all night and miss her... And we've no reason to believe that she's there at all."

Witney's worried frown deepened. He was really afraid of what might have happened; though he had come back to the inn fully expecting the girl would have been found and only eager to know what story she would tell. Rayton, who had smiled sarcastically at his optimism, was better prepared for disappointment, and inclined to sympathise with Milligan.

"And what do you say, Mr. Dore?" Witney turned to the landlord who was standing gloomily beside his subordinate. "Do you think there's still a chance?"

"I don't think we should give up, sir," he said at last. "If she has fallen and hurt herself, lying there all night might mean her death."

"But we've no reason to suppose that," Witney assured him. "In all probability she has gone somewhere without leaving word... I wonder, Mr. Dore, if you can suggest where she might have gone?"

Witney's voice was almost too gentle. Rayton, whose sympathies were with the sergeant, looked at him curiously. Perhaps the landlord also noticed. There was a trace of uneasiness in his manner.

"Miss Paisley said something about finding the real murderer," Dore said reluctantly. "She asked me to help her. She didn't think that Mr. Ambleside was guilty... I've an idea she must have gone somewhere in that connection."

"She told me in confidence," Dore rejoined. "She didn't seem to have much faith in the police."

"But, damn it!" Rayton broke in. "Even if she had got some idiotic idea like that, where would she go? How do we know where to look?"

Witney looked again at the landlord, evidently waiting for him to answer the question. Dore seemed to make up his mind.

"I don't believe we've searched far enough afield," he said doggedly. "That's what I've been telling the sergeant. She might have gone further along the cliff."

"I think, Sergeant, we should make one more attempt," he said decisively. "You and Mr. Dore had better take a party and look along the cliff path. Right to the end, where it joins the road. After all, we can't afford to take any chances."

There was utter resignation on Milligan's face, but he was too well disciplined to venture any further objection. He looked at the landlord meaningly, and turned to go. Rayton waited until the door had closed behind them before he spoke.

"What the devil is the idea?" he asked. "Why on earth d'you think she should have gone along there?... And what does he know about it?"

"Dore?" Witney asked. "I'm not sure he doesn't know something. For example, where Miss Paisley went this afternoon, and who she met... After all, from what Leicester said, we do know that she was along the cliffs this afternoon."

"If you're ready to believe a looney," Rayton objected. "And that was hours ago. Who did she see?"

"Who was it who came to listen in to you to-night?" Rayton went on. "And what the devil is happening generally? Are they all mad?"

A ghost of a smile showed on Witney's face. "I think Leicester's the only medical case," he said. "The others merely aren't acting very sensibly. In particular Miss Paisley and—"

"And who?" Rayton demanded. "And Forrest? He's never acted sensibly in his life."

"And, being in love at the moment, he's less likely to than ever," Witney said cynically. "The lunatic, the lover and the poet—" The expression on Rayton's face made him break off the quotation. "No, I wasn't thinking of Forrest... Who's that?"

Outside in the hall a voice was raised excitedly. Witney opened the door and looked out. Captain Ware was standing there, in heated altercation with Johnson who was on duty outside. He turned at the opening of the door and hurried forward.

"What's this about Ju—Miss Paisley?" he demanded without preliminary. His face was white and agitated, and his mouth worked nervously. "What's happened? Where is she?"

Witney eyed him for a moment. "Unfortunately, that's just what we don't know, sir," he said quietly. "She went out this afternoon, after talking with Mrs. Leicester. Naturally, the landlord thought that she had gone to the yacht to tell you that she was going to stay at the inn—"

"I understand she proposed to stay with Mrs. Leicester. You may be aware, sir, that her husband's condition has been causing her some anxiety."

Ware glared at him as though he would have liked to know what was behind the words.

Ware drew a deep, hissing breath. "I haven't been on board," he said. "Not this evening... I went for a row. I've just got back."

"For a row, sir?" Witney's voice was respectfully interested, but his eyebrows rose the faintest trace. "Might I ask where?"

"Just along the coast," he said restrainedly. "Spinning for mackerel, if you must know."

"Yes. Damn it!" This time his temper got the better of him. "What has it got to do with you?"

"We're interested in the whereabouts of everyone just at the present time, sir," Witney said mildly. "The sergeant was assaulted a couple of hours ago... And you were fishing, sir? In the dark?"

"Did you catch any?" Witney asked as though it was a question of vital interest.

"No!" Ware almost shouted the word, and then with a great effort got hold of himself. "I see," he said more calmly. "You're wanting an alibi? Well, I haven't got one."

Witney nodded. "I wonder if you happen to know where the others are, Captain Ware?" he asked. "Your wife—"

"I've not seen any of them. I've been out all evening, I tell you... Forrest?" He looked up sharply, as though the name had just suggested something to him. "Where's he?"

"On board, I suppose... You'd better find out... Dunn should be there, too." He stood frowning down at the ground for a moment. "I've been thinking, Inspector," he said after a long pause. "Would it be better if, for the present, we removed from the yacht? If we were stopping here—"

"She's all right here, unless the wind gets up... Dunn could stay on board to look after her."

"I should be very grateful if you could arrange it, sir," Witney said. And he meant it, but at the same time he was a little puzzled why Ware should have suggested anything of the kind. "As things are, it's difficult for us to find people if we want them—"

"Miss Paisley?" Ware interrupted. "You've no reason to think anything could have happened to her?"

Ware's face wore a worried frown. It seemed that in the last twelve hours his usual self-control had deserted him. The change, Witney thought, was quite striking. He looked positively ill.

"We don't, sir... As a matter of fact, we're searching the cliffs at the present moment."

"Searching the cliffs?" Ware echoed with a bewilderment with which the superintendent was in complete agreement. "Why, in heaven's name? The cliffs?"

Witney inclined his head, but offered no explanation. The captain's eyes searched his expressionless face eagerly for a moment. He put both hands to his forehead, covering his eyes, and the tanned skin whitened beneath their pressure. It was a minute before he dropped them and looked up.

"You'd like us to come ashore?" he said. "Very well. I'll make arrangements... To-night, if possible."

Witney nodded assent. Ware hesitated for a moment as though he was going to say something more; then thought better of it. He turned abruptly and went out.

The superintendent had sunk back in his chair. He was smoking with an expression of sulky resignation. He glanced at his colleague as Ware went out, but Witney himself had sat down at the table. He was scribbling in a little notebook, pausing from time to time as if to work something out, and he seemed completely oblivious to Rayton's presence. It was several minutes before the superintendent spoke. He had been watching the other's face closely, as if he were trying to read its owner's thoughts.

"I don't know what the deuce is happening," he said irritably. "I've an idea you do... What is it all about?"

"I'm not quite sure—yet," Witney answered. "I've one or two ideas. I can't prove most of them... When we find Miss Paisley—"

"You think she's all right?" Rayton frowned. "You don't think that she's—that anything's happened to her?"

"I don't think she's dead. She may be hurt... I think, as Dore suggests, she went looking for the murderer. And I don't know if she found him—but I think he found her."

Witney nodded. "Probably we'll know in a little while," he said. "I'm expecting they'll bring her back any time."

"It will be a bad business," Witney said seriously. "And it may mean I'm completely wrong."

There was silence again. Witney resumed his writing and the superintendent chewed at his pipe as though bent on its destruction.

"It might have been Ware listening outside the window," Rayton said at last. "He's no alibi. And his whole behaviour is pretty darned queer. I believe he knows more about the whole show than he pretends, anyhow."

He broke off abruptly. There was the sound of voices in the hall outside. The next moment the door burst open. Milligan hurried in.

"Got her, sir!" he said without preliminary. "Lying by the path—knocked out—"

"Unconscious, sir. Don't believe she's hurt much. She's had a pretty bad blow on the head, though."

"Just this side of a path leading to a farm, sir... Dixon's they call it. She'd flopped right back into the ditch... We're bringing her in." He hesitated, and felt moved to an apology. "I didn't believe it was any use, sir. You were right."

"Well, so he was, sir," Milligan admitted handsomely. "Though I thought he was a fool."

Rayton had risen to his feet. "Why did you?" he demanded as the sergeant departed. "Why take Dore's advice—in the face of all the probabilities? Why did you expect to find her along there?"

"It wasn't exactly in the face of probability," Witney rejoined. "We know she met Leicester along the cliffs. And Leicester said that he met Ambleside, didn't he?" He ignored the look of incredulity on his colleague's face and turned towards the door. "We'll need a doctor," he said. "We don't know how bad she is... And the sooner she talks the better."

Rayton sat frowning after him as he went out. It was a minute or two before he himself rose to his feet and went out into the passage. Besides Johnson a local sergeant and a constable were standing there, having returned from the fruitless search of the combe.

"Sergeant," he said. "Captain Ware's coming to stay at the inn... You might go down and meet him—just to give him a hand. And see that he gets here all right."

The sergeant's face lit up with a sudden comprehension as Rayton turned away towards the hotel entrance. Coming up the hill he could see the lights of the stretcher, and with a glance round for Witney he set off down the lane to meet it. Milligan returned to take charge after bringing the news, and, somewhat to the superintendent's relief, Dore was also in the party. Just at that moment he was inclined to suspect anyone and everyone, and if he could have put a policeman on to shadow every man and woman who could remotely be connected with the murder he would have felt a good deal happier. At any rate, the sergeant would soon be returning with the remnants of the yacht party, and they would be able to keep an eye upon them. He had quite decided that none of them from that time forward was going to stir a step except under supervision, and he even found his thoughts turning to Bardley.

"Still unconscious, sir... May be some concussion, I think. The sooner she's inside the better. I'll be glad when the doctor sees her."

Rayton bent over the still, white-faced figure on the improvised stretcher. The pulse at the wrist was the merest flutter, and her breathing was barely perceptible. He nodded a brief agreement and motioned them forward.

Witney's words were in his mind. If Leicester had seen Ambleside's ghost, perhaps June Paisley had, too.

"I think she was knocked out, sir," Milligan said positively. "There was nothing she could have hit where we found her."

Rayton grunted. From what he had gathered, neither Ambleside nor Ambleside's ghost was likely to knock out June Paisley. He was trying to make some sense out of the confusion without any success when they turned the corner and came within sight of the inn. Witney was standing at the door looking out. He hurried forward to meet them.

"So-so... No, she's not spoken." Rayton looked at the Scotland Yard man curiously. "How did you know they'd find her?"

Witney frowned. "Intuition," he said briefly. "Better get her upstairs. The doctor's on his way."

He stepped aside on to the verandah to let the stretcher pass and stood watching it as it was carried in.

Both men turned at the shrill cry. Next moment a flying figure bounded out of the darkness and up the steps.

"Inspector! I've seen him! He's not dead—or I don't think so. He's on the beach—" She broke off and coughed. "He's coming—"

The words broke off abruptly. Witney jumped forward just in time as the speaker fell. Rayton's jaw dropped. For Witney's arm was supporting the slim, bathing-costumed figure of Janet Leicester.

Milligan, bringing up the rear of the stretcher party, had turned at the cry and came hurrying out. Witney stood for a few seconds considering; then he thrust the unconscious girl into his subordinate's arms.

"Take this," he said briefly. "Bring her round... We've just time—maybe. Coming, Rayton?"

With a curious lightness of tread for a man of his bulk he was hurrying down the lane towards the beach before the superintendent had recovered himself. Leaving the sergeant staring at his burden, Rayton sprinted after him.

"Necromancy!" Witney had an awkward habit of flippancy in moments of undue strain. "I'm hoping to raise the dead... Quietly!"

Rayton followed him without a word, striving to emulate his companion's cat-footed walk down the uneven track. After what Witney had said a short time before, he scarcely needed to ask questions. All that puzzled him was how his colleague expected to locate their quarry. The need for silence prevented his asking the questions which thronged his mind.

They had only a few yards to go. At the point where the cliff path turned off Witney halted, with a muttered word to his companion.

"Wait here... One each side... I believe he'll come—Jump when I flash my light."

It seemed a long time that they waited in the darkness. Rayton, crouching uncomfortably beside a furze-bush, was beginning to call both Witney and himself all kinds of fool. All about him he seemed to hear small noises, and three or four times he tensed himself to spring, thinking that their victim was arriving. In the end, he was taken quite unawares. He had scarcely realised the white blotch which was moving noiselessly past them when Witney's torch flashed. In the same instant he sprang, as Witney came up on the other side. He grabbed a clammy arm, gripping it securely as its owner gave a convulsive struggle. Then, their captive relaxed. Still holding him with one hand, Witney flashed the torch full upon him, revealing the bundle at his feet.

"Good evening, Mr. Ambleside," he said, and stooped to retrieve the fallen clothes. "May I carry your bag?"

CHAPTER XX
A Missing Witness

HALF AN HOUR later Ambleside had just finished telling his story of what had happened to three very grim detectives in the room at the inn. They had listened almost in silence, and their expressions as he concluded were typical. Witney showed little but a sort of calm attention, though he might have found reason for pride in the confirmation of so much of his own theorising. Stainsby was obviously worried, and on the face of Rayton, whose belief in Ambleside's guilt seemed to have returned with his capture, there was a look of sarcastic incredulity. The paper which he had taken from Forrest's trunk lay on the table in front of Witney, who had just finished comparing it with the anonymous letter. Catching the Chief Constable's eye, he nodded almost imperceptibly. There was a long pause.

"Assuming your story to be true, Mr. Ambleside," Stainsby began dubiously, "you must see—"

Ambleside interrupted irritably. The news of what had happened to June Paisley had set his own nerves on edge, and the reception of his version of events, notably by the superintendent, was annoying.

"It's absolutely true," he said bluntly. "Some of it can be tested... I expect with a little trouble we can find the man who sold me the skeleton. And you've found that... You can't deny that it fits what you know of my movements perfectly, and it accounts for everything. Naturally, there's a lot I can't prove."

Rayton was protruding his lower lip dubiously while he stared at the table. He looked up.

"Only, Mr. Ambleside," he said, "nothing you've told us offers any proof that you didn't kill Greenlaw. The hoax could have been your opportunity—"

Witney interposed. "There are one or two points which Mr. Ambleside might elaborate a little," he said. "For instance, regarding the gun. You had extra ammunition besides what was in the magazine, Mr. Ambleside?"

"But there was the shot in the combe," Witney reminded him. "And we have since found a bullet in the yard at the pottery. I think you'll agree they can't be the same. But only one shot was fired from the magazine. How do you account for that?"

"The gun was fully loaded," Ambleside said simply. "A full magazine, and one cartridge in the firing chamber. Obviously someone fired another shot after I gave it to Greenlaw."

The trace of a frown crossed Witney's face. It was an explanation which he ought to have thought of.

"You say you were not aware that Mr. Greenlaw proposed to stage a murder," he said. "But I can't quite see what you did think, Mr. Ambleside. Weren't his requests a little odd?"

Ambleside hesitated. "I certainly didn't know the scope of what he intended," he said at last. "I suppose I suspected something... I wasn't at all keen."

"Greenlaw had a certain claim on me. He'd helped me out years ago when I was in a fix. I couldn't very well refuse."

"Assuming we accept your version of what happened, sir," Witney said expressionlessly, ignoring Rayton's shake of the head. "Assuming that, what is your own explanation of what happened? Do you suspect anyone of having caused Mr. Greenlaw's death?"

Ambleside wrinkled his brows and thought for a moment. "I suppose that Greenlaw is dead?" he said at last. "There's no doubt about that?"

Rayton snorted contemptuously; but Witney received the suggestion quite seriously.

"I should say none at all, Mr. Ambleside," he said. "It might be possible for someone to have got bones rather similar to what one would expect in Greenlaw's skeleton. But short of an amazing coincidence, they would have to be bones from different skeletons. The medical opinion is that all these are from the same skeleton... It would be impossible, also, for Mr. Greenlaw to have shut himself in the kiln. That was what was in your mind, wasn't it? That Greenlaw himself was responsible?"

"Yes... Because he was so bitter when he first came." Ambleside paused. "Frankly, I don't know. I suppose the evidence of the paper points to Forrest as the author of the letter. That doesn't prove he did the murder. He's the last man I should have expected to do either."

"But you see, it was you who found the paper, Mr. Ambleside," Rayton suggested. "It would be difficult—well, to prove it was there before your visit, wouldn't it?"

"No, Superintendent," he said. "The evidence of the girl, Janet Leicester, makes that quite clear. You weren't here when she told us. Apparently she saw Mr. Ambleside come aboard, and was actually watching through the port-hole while he searched—"

It was Ambleside who looked most bewildered. "You know, I don't see how she could," he said. "I was pretty careful—"

There was the ghost of a smile on Witney's face. "Apparently the young lady was indulging in the forbidden luxury of a midnight swim, Mr. Ambleside," he said. "Naturally, you'd scarcely expect that, would you? Or that she would swim after you?"

"It's a wonder she isn't dead," Ambleside answered. "It was all I could manage... Still, if it proves what I said—"

"There's another proof," Witney said, looking at Rayton. "How is it suggested that Mr. Ambleside kept the paper dry? He swam there."

"When you saw Dunn, Mr. Ambleside," Witney went on, "you formed the opinion that he was looking for something... Can you suggest what it might have been?"

It was only then that the explanation flashed on Ambleside. He looked up quickly.

"Why, he might have been looking for the pad himself!" he suggested. "And he was looking in Ware's desk—?"

"You'd better ask Forrest and Dunn that." Ambleside moved restlessly. "It's no good asking me about all this. I've told you all I know. How soon can I see Miss Paisley?"

"No one can see Miss Paisley at the moment," Stainsby answered firmly. "She is still unconscious."

"We are hoping not." Stainsby frowned. It was Ambleside's job to answer questions, not theirs. "You say she told you nothing of the steps she proposed to take?" he countered.

"There's one other point, Mr. Ambleside," Witney said as the Chief Constable gave it up. "Had Mr. Greenlaw spoken to you at all of an acquaintanceship with Mr. Bardley? At the Pottery?"

"I know he'd looked over the Pottery... I rather gathered that he was on fairly good terms with the chap there when he was staying here before. I don't remember his mentioning the name."

Witney nodded slowly. "And you know no more about Olivia Howard?" he asked. "You don't know, for example, whether she had any connection with this place?"

"Greenlaw met her in London. That's all I can tell you. I don't know who she was or where she came from."

Witney glanced inquiringly at the other two. Rayton obviously disapproved of the whole tone of the questioning; he would have liked to try bullying Ambleside into a contradiction; but he could scarcely do that with Stainsby there. He shrugged his shoulders. Stainsby shook his head.

"I think that's all for the moment, Mr. Ambleside," he said. "Of course, you will remain available."

Ambleside rose to his feet and hesitated. The gentleness of his examination had rather surprised him.

Stainsby turned to Witney as the door closed, and there was a new respect in his manner.

"When I saw the skeleton had been articulated, it was pretty clear, sir," Witney pointed out. He smiled wryly. "Unfortunately, it doesn't get us much further."

"Damned smart, though," Rayton admitted. "Still I don't see how we managed to cut him off."

"I'd got an idea about that hiding place on the cliffs. When the girl said he was on the beach and coming up I guessed he was making for it. That was the only way he could come, and we were just in time."

"I suspected it as soon as Leicester talked about meeting him. Even before, I think. I couldn't see how his dead body could have disappeared... When I went to the window I was sure." He turned apologetically to Rayton. "I didn't tell you, but I caught a glimpse of his face."

Rayton brushed the point aside. "The other watcher?" he demanded. "Who was that?"

"We can take our choice. It doesn't seem to have been Mrs. Ware or Pinner. Or Dunn for that matter. It could have been Ware—or Forrest. Leicester was at the kiln."

"Why should Bardley deny knowing Greenlaw?" Stainsby asked significantly. "Ambleside thought they knew each other."

"We can add him to the list... What we need at the moment is a good list of alibis—or at least, of where everyone was. I'm trying to compile one, sir... Of course, it might have been some curious villager who hadn't anything to do with the murder."

"Only, unfortunately, Mr. Forrest seems to have seen fit to absent himself again," Rayton said dryly. "He isn't in the bar. I looked... Perhaps he's met another young lady in distress?"

"We shall have to find him," Stainsby gave a worried frown. "He ought to be back by now—either here or at the yacht. Of course, we've got a man there—"

"If he's coming back," Rayton suggested. "I wouldn't be too sure of that young man. He may not be such a fool as he pretends."

"We've got Ware, anyhow," Stainsby said, and seemed to be trying to derive some comfort from the fact. "His story about to-night was a bit fishy, wasn't it?"

Rayton grinned at the unconscious pun. Witney did not seem to have noticed it. He was thinking hard, scraping absently at the bowl of his pipe as he did so.

"Olivia Howard," he said at last, and seemed to capture at last the idea which had been eluding him. "It seems pretty certain that she's got some local connection, doesn't it? But nobody seems to know her. You remember what Bardley asked, was she an actress? Isn't that the obvious explanation? I mean, that that's a stage name? It's what it sounds like. Greenlaw met her in London... We ought to put an inquiry on foot with the agencies. I'll see to it."

"If only that fool Jarrold could remember—" Rayton began irritably and stopped. As if by a sort of poetic justice a half memory crossed his own mind. Sometime just recently he had heard about an actress in connection with Terracombe; but he racked his brains in vain to place it. There was a long pause.

"Let's hope to heaven that girl comes to all right," Stainsby burst out at last. "We're getting no further. There'll be the devil of a row in the papers at this rate... We can't conceal the fact that Ambleside's come to life. I suppose—"

"We don't want to," Witney smiled. "It robs us of the credit of driving a man to suicide... Yes, Miss Paisley's got to tell us what she knows. The question is, what can we do in the meantime?"

"Get hold of Forrest," Rayton said vindictively. "Issue a description. I believe he's bolted."

"We certainly want both," Witney admitted. "We can send for Dunn. But if we question him it may give the game away and let him know that he's suspect."

"I don't see that he is." Rayton scowled at the sheet of paper. "He's no real motive—except religious conviction. I suppose that might make him kill a man he thought was a rotter. He's less opportunity than anyone... After all, we've only Ambleside's word for that desk business. Janet Leicester didn't see that."

"We've no reason to doubt it... Still, I agree that there's nothing much against him. He might have had a glimpse of the letter by accident and remembered seeing the pad and envelopes somewhere. He may not quite have known who had them—"

He broke off as the door opened. Dr. Wargrave entered and nodded in answer to the inquiring glances that greeted him.

"She's come round," he said briefly. "But she's still shaky. Doesn't know who hit her. But she says she met Forrest. And something about Ware, and Olivia Howard—"

"She isn't," Wargrave rejoined. "But it seems to be on her mind... Perhaps one of you could be admitted for a few minutes. On the understanding you treat her gently, and go when you're told."

"I wouldn't say that. There's a certain amount of concussion. There might be something more serious. I'll take the risk of one seeing her for a few minutes."

Stainsby looked at Witney; then at the Superintendent. Obviously after a struggle with his feelings, Rayton nodded towards the inspector.

The Chief Constable showed no enthusiasm. "Yes, the inspector by all means," he said. "Now, doctor?"

Wargrave nodded, and led the way from the room. There was an interval in which neither of the two men spoke. Stainsby gave an audible sigh. It seemed to him to be peculiarly bad luck that his first experience of a murder case should be fraught with such complications. Rayton smoked thoughtfully.

"She met Forrest, eh?" he said slowly. "It's a pity we didn't have him followed. He must have gone right away. As soon as we'd seen him. So she was all right then—"

"He didn't mention having met her. Besides, would he have had time? It looks as though she was all right up to the time he left here. And he could have been the other man at the window—if there was one."

"He might have been cracked on the girl... I believe he's playing a pretty cunning game."

"We shall soon know." Stainsby glanced at the clock. The hands seemed to be moving with appalling slowness. Wargrave had said that whoever saw the girl could only stop a few minutes. Witney could not be much longer. Apparently Rayton's thoughts had also turned towards the Chief Inspector, but in another connection.

"He's darned secretive, isn't he?" he growled. "But I'll admit he's clever enough. He knew about Ambleside—and it was pretty bright to guess his movements. And that search business. I didn't think there was a dog's chance, but he was right about that too... I'm pretty sure he's got something up his sleeve."

"He knew about the bones, too," Stainsby supplied. "I wonder who he really thinks did it?"

"'Speak of angels—'" Rayton quoted. He had caught the sound of returning footsteps. Both men rose to their feet as the Chief Inspector entered. At the first glimpse of his face they knew that he had news. His usually impassive expression had vanished, and he was evidently excited. "Well?" Rayton demanded. "What is it?"

"Olivia Howard," Witney said a little incoherently. "I think we can lay our hands on her at once... We'd better go immediately. I'll tell you on the way."

CHAPTER XXI
Elopement or Escape

ONE of Witney's first steps on arriving at Terracombe had been to familiarise himself with a six-inch map of the district, and from being completely ignorant of the locality, he had come to know more than either of the local men. It was not by way of the winding path that he conducted the party. Especially at that time of night the quicker route was to follow the road which ran almost parallel to it, and from which the drive to Dixon's farm turned off. They were in the car and on their way before he briefly recounted what June Paisley had been able to tell of her experiences. His companions listened in silence.

"Forrest and Ware, eh?" Rayton said with a trace of triumph as he finished. "I'd an idea that there was something queer about that young man... Obviously he was going to see her when Miss Paisley met him. That's why he lied."

"Presumably," Witney agreed. "The path doesn't go anywhere else until it meets the road. And the track through the gate leads only to the farm. It's fairly certain he was going there to see someone. And it seems pretty clear that Olivia Howard was staying there."

"But I still don't understand," Stainsby said in a slightly bewildered tone. "They weren't working together, surely? Then, which killed Greenlaw?"

"We'll hope that Olivia Howard will tell us that. Or give some indication... And there is some evidence they worked together. In exposing Greenlaw. The pad was in Forrest's luggage, but it seems to have been Ware who brought the girl down here... And she thought he was guilty."

"But I still can't quite see the motive," Stainsby objected. "Suppose one or both of them was in love with Miss Paisley. Greenlaw was already discredited, and the engagement broken as soon as she got the letter. Why bring the girl? And why kill him?"

Witney thought for a moment. "I'm not at all sure that love was the motive," he said slowly. "I mean, I don't know that the murderer was necessarily in love with June Paisley. I believe revenge is more likely. Someone killed the man who had deserted Olivia Howard. And probably a relation."

"Jarrold!" Stainsby exclaimed. "He said he had an idea she was related to Ware... If Olivia Howard is a stage name, that would explain the difference. Or for that matter, she might be illegitimate."

Rayton grunted. "Better see her first," he said. "No use making too many theories until we know... You think Forrest will be there? It's getting late."

"I don't know. That's a difficulty. If we see the girl without knowing where Forrest is, we'll have to keep a pretty careful watch to see she doesn't warn him... Look out for a farm entrance on the right, will you? We must be close."

Only about a hundred yards further on a white gate showed dazzlingly in the headlights. It was already open, and they turned straight in, along a muddy lane mired with the passage of carts and cattle. All at once Rayton swore.

"That damned fool Forrest. D'you realise he must have known the whole story—and that he told us some of it? That talk about a girl running away from the neighbourhood to be an actress. He must have known something."

"Then, what was his motive in putting us on Ware's track?" Stainsby demanded. "If he's the girl's father—"

A second white gate, also wide open, gave into a wider space running along the front of the farm, from which the yard opened just beyond. The car braked to a stop opposite a neat wooden gate and they got out. All at once with an exclamation Witney started forward, bending down to look at the soft surface of the lane in the light of the headlamps.

"A car's been here," Witney pointed. "Quite recently. Since the rain stopped... I wonder—"

"Might be a van," Rayton suggested impatiently. "We can look at those afterwards. Let's find out if she's here."

He opened the gate, and they started up the path. The whole front of the farm was in darkness. That was no more than might be expected; for by that time its occupants had probably gone to bed. All the same, Witney had an uncomfortable feeling that they were going to be disappointed. It was Rayton who stepped forward and thundered on the door with the heavy knocker.

Undoubtedly the occupants of the house were asleep, and they seemed to be sleeping soundly. No light showed in the windows, and the door remained closed. The superintendent renewed his attack still more vigorously. The echoes had hardly died away when a window opened just above their heads. They could just make out the outline of someone peering out. Witney stepped back and shouted up.

"Sorry to trouble you... We've got to see Miss Howard at once. It's very important."

"Miss Howard?" It was a woman's voice, weak and tremulous as if with old age. "There's no Miss Howard here. This is Dixon's."

There was no immediate answer. Then, unexpectedly the sound of a high, chuckling laugh reached them.

"You've got a young lady here?" Rayton demanded irritably. "She's been staying for the last few days, hasn't she?"

"Yes, for the past few days... What do you want with her at this time of night then?"

Again there seemed to be in the voice of the speaker a suggestion of suppressed laughter. Rayton hesitated, and looked at Witney.

"We're police, ma'am," the superintendent announced. "I'm afraid we must trouble Miss How—the young lady to get up."

"Aye. Getting on for thirty, she'll be... What d'you want then? I suppose her dad put you on?"

Rayton's patience was at an end. "We're investigating the Terracombe murder case," he said sternly. "You'd better get her immediately."

"Him from the yacht?" the woman asked. "I mean, who was friends with those on the yacht. That was burnt in the kiln?"

"Look here, we've got to see her immediately," Rayton snapped. "The Chief Constable's here waiting."

"You'd better see my son George," she said at last. "I don't know about her. He'll tell you anything. He or Alice will."

Rayton muttered something uncomplimentary. "Where is George?" he demanded. "Get him, won't you?"

"Round the back. There's a cow sick. In the cattle shed next the pigs... Police, are you. Now, what might you want—"

Rayton did not wait to hear the end of the question. He was striding down the path in a manner which suggested that if George behaved like the woman at the window the sparks would begin to fly. But they had hardly entered the yard before a door opened. A man emerged who hurried towards them.

"Glad to see you. I've been expecting you for an hour," he greeted them surprisingly. "She's been pretty bad, but I reckon she's easier now. I've got her shut up—"

"The young lady, is it?" George exploded into hearty laughter. "It's her you've come about. Thought you were the vet... Wish you were, in a manner of speaking—"

"We're police," Rayton said briefly. "We've got to see the young lady you've got staying here at once. Miss Howard or whatever she calls herself."

"Miss Stanton, you mean? Police, eh?" George seemed to consider this deeply. "What might you want with her?" he asked.

"We're not going to hurt her at all," Witney said soothingly. "Just a few questions. If your wife would get her—"

"It's the Terracombe murder case," Rayton announced savagely. "Where's she gone? Who with?"

"Why, with her young man. To be married. They're to stay at his mother's to-night and marrying to-morrow. Seeing her parents object. To avoid scenes, you see."

"I tell you it's the Terracombe murder case," Rayton repeated. "The young man—what's he like?"

"A gentleman, I'd say... Talkative sort. Doesn't know much about beasts, he doesn't. Funny way of speaking—"

"Now, he gave his name. First time he came here. I'll get it in a minute. Forrest—yes, that's it. Forrest."

"Not half an hour ago. He came in a car... You see, he was to have come to-morrow, but he heard her people had found where she was... The Terracombe murder? What's it got to do with that, then? Got the man who did it yet?"

"Why, down the drive." George gave the answer in apparent surprise that anyone should expect a car to take to the fields. "Oh, on the road, you mean? We didn't see, sir. We thought we'd better not. In case her people came asking."

Witney was thinking to himself that Forrest had been clever. In order to cover the midnight departure some story had to be given, and the romance of an elopement with angry parents in pursuit was the kind of thing which might appeal to anyone.

"What sort of car?" he asked. "Colour, size, and so on? You didn't get the number?"

"You're on the telephone?" Rayton asked. He had just noted the twin wires overhead. "Mind if I use it?"

Witney waited outside with something very like despair in his heart. Used as he was to disappointments, to have missed a valuable witness by so short a margin was bitterly disappointing. Neither he nor Stainsby said a word. Rayton, they knew, would do all that was possible to secure the heading off of the car; but in the absence of any proper description their chances were slight enough. George rejoined them.

"What's he been doing then? Or is it the young lady?" he asked curiously. "A nice young lady she was. From town, wasn't she?"

"We think she may have seen a man we want," Witney answered diplomatically. It was unfortunate that Olivia Howard, or Miss Stanton had succeeded in enlisting her hosts so thoroughly on her side. "We just want to ask a few questions."

"She'll be sorry to have missed you," George said simply. "An obliging sort she is."

Witney was not so sure. "I suppose the man didn't come here?" he asked. "Did she have any visitors?"

"Well, just young Mr. Forrest, and one day an older man. A sailor, I should say he was. Just the one day."

"Well, maybe. She didn't say so. Didn't call him dad that I heard. He might have been."

"He saw her in the house?" Witney asked. There was just the chance that some part of the conversation might have been overheard. "She seemed pleased to see him?"

"Well, no. A bit upset. You see, she wasn't sure how he'd be about the marriage... No, they went for a walk."

"Listening at keyholes isn't my job... I heard her talk of a chap called Dick. That's all."

"I've arranged to warn all stations," he announced. "We're trying the garages too. He'd have to hire the car somewhere. Then we'd get its description... We've a chance, anyway. They'll have to be darned careful... You finished?"

"I suppose so," Witney assented reluctantly. "For the present." He glanced at the farmer. The bellowings of the cow could be heard from the shed, and the man was evidently anxious to be gone. "Yes, we'll be getting along. Thank you for helping... Good night."

"Good night, sir... I'll let you know if I hear of 'em... The Chief Constable, eh? Good night."

It was a very depressed trio that climbed into the car. Stainsby spoke as they started down the lane.

"I don't quite get the idea," he said. "Removing a witness, or what? She's not guilty, you think?"

"Don't know," Witney said briefly. "Shouldn't think so... A woman wouldn't have the strength to lift about a weight like Greenlaw's corpse. Or most wouldn't... Besides, we know a man's in it."

"It may not have been," Witney said gravely. "There's at least one good reason for a murderer to marry. His wife needn't give evidence." He paused. "I'm not at all sure we hadn't better hope they do marry. If Forrest's guilty. Otherwise—"

It had started to rain again. The beating of the drops against the windscreen and the whistling of the rising wind made an appropriate accompaniment to the inspector's prophecy. All three of them were silent for a time. Then Rayton laughed abruptly.

"We're upsetting ourselves for nothing," he said. "I don't say that Forrest's not in it somehow, but he may not be the murderer."

"Plenty of candidates left yet. Bardley, Ware—We've still got Ware, or should have. There may be time for a word with him to-night."

CHAPTER XXII
Confession and Denial

BUT for the thought of June Paisley lying in the upstairs room just overhead Patrick Ambleside would have felt entirely at ease. All that day in the gloom of the cave he had dreaded being captured; for the past three days he had been afraid of the moment when the police would charge him. And now that he had been captured, it seemed as though a great weight had been lifted off his mind. What had happened he did not know; but it was evident that Witney was no longer disposed to regard him as the only possible murderer, and it had seemed to him that they had accepted the improbable story of the hoax completely. In the comparative relief from strain, the atmosphere of tensity which hung about the inn left him unmoved. The whole business of the murder had faded to something like a dream, and only the vision of June which continually crossed his mind disturbed what would otherwise have been perfect comfort.

He tried to tell himself that she could not be seriously ill. If her condition had been dangerous, the doctor would not have abandoned her to the tender mercies of the large woman who acted as Dore's housekeeper. He would have insisted on a nurse or her removal to hospital. But as he caught sight of Dore in the hall outside he lifted himself from the easy chair in which he was buried and for the fourth time ventured an inquiry.

Dore looked at him compassionately. Evidently he had no difficulty in diagnosing Ambleside's own complaint; but he seemed to sympathise even when it was troublesome to himself.

"Miss Paisley is sleeping, sir," he assured his anxious guest. "The doctor says that there is no need for anxiety. She is merely suffering from a slight concussion and exposure. Rest is what she wants now."

He had said practically the same thing to the young man three times before in the last two hours, and it had previously had a soothing effect. But Ambleside was perhaps recovering from the effects of his own exhaustion. This time it was not entirely effective.

"If only I could see her," he said half to himself. "I suppose it's all right—"

"Just now the great thing is not to disturb her, sir. She'll be all right to-morrow... A very charming young lady. It would have been terribly sad if anything had happened to her."

"Yes," Ambleside said and scowled. "I'd like to meet the brute who did it. He might have killed her."

Dore eyed him mildly. "He might, and didn't, sir. Actually he took a risk. She might have recognised him."

"Good Lord, you're not defending him?" Ambleside demanded as the sense of the landlord's words penetrated. "You think there was an excuse for him?"

"Perhaps I do, sir." Dore gave a curious smile. "As you yourself must have been thinking about the subject to-day, Mr. Ambleside, don't you think you'd have been justified in knocking someone out to save your life?"

"Of course. But would you rather have Mr. Greenlaw murdered or married to Miss Paisley?"

Ambleside looked at him suspiciously. The thought was in his mind that Dore was trying to trap him into some kind of admission of guilt; but something in the landlord's face was reassuring.

"The question didn't arise," he said a little stiffly. "The engagement was already broken off."

"As a result of the letter," Dore said quietly. "Yes. But you were indignant when it was suggested you wrote the letter. And if it had not been?"

"I don't know," Ambleside admitted. "I liked the chap quite well in a lot of things."

Ambleside's jaw tightened. "I don't know," he said again, and this time there was a note of grimness in his voice. Then he smiled. "And I don't feel equal to solving problems like that just now... The trouble is that when you look into a business like this it's a nasty mess. But murder can't be allowed."

He let himself drop wearily into an adjacent chair. His brain felt incapable of working at all. His single clear thought was the gnawing anxiety for June. Dore eyed him appraisingly.

"You're tired out, sir," he said. "Better let me get you something hot and go to bed."

"I'd rather sit up, I think... If it won't trouble you? It's getting pretty late."

There was only the faintest suggestion of resignation in his tone. "Mrs. Ware and the young gentleman are playing cards. The Captain was in the lounge... I think he's worried. About the yacht, you know, sir."

Ambleside obeyed. Then he was aware for the first time that the wind outside had risen to a gale. He could hear the gusts howling in the crannies and about the eaves, and as he listened there came the sharp rattle of hail.

"Except from an east wind. This is one. The yacht ought to be moved. It's on a lee shore, sir. And only the policeman on board."

"I expect he'll leave before then, sir... But the Captain's fretting about it. And the sergeant won't let him go down." He sighed. "And Mrs. Leicester's still awake, poor lady. You can see the light in her room."

"Good Lord! Between one thing and another, the Place is a cross between a gaol, a lunatic asylum and a hospital!" Ambleside laughed shortly. "It's tough on you, isn't it?"

"Nothing... I don't believe, you know, I'd stand up to it as you do... I hope one day you'll have me here under happier circumstances."

"Of course, this kind of thing doesn't do a place any good, I suppose," Ambleside agreed. "We're certainly not a very cheerful lot. Except Forrest. He manages to keep it up... Where is Mr. Forrest?"

"Good heavens—you don't think—?" Ambleside stopped. "Forrest couldn't have anything to do with all this business."

It seemed to Ambleside that there was something behind the question but just what he could not quite make out. He smiled.

"Why, yes, I suppose he is," he said. "We all think he's rather an ass. But, yes, he's a decent sort in his own way—"

Dore cast a quick look over his shoulder down the passage, and it was only then Ambleside realised that someone was coming.

Whether he did or not, Ambleside at that moment had no desire for the conversation, but Dore left him no alternative. He slipped unobtrusively from the room, and short of actual flight Ambleside had no escape. He looked up and nodded as Ware entered, and felt for a cigarette.

Obviously Ware did want to talk. He dropped into an adjacent chair and looked at Ambleside. The change in his appearance during the past few days was startling. He seemed suddenly to have become an old man. He passed a hand wearily over his eyes; then looked up suddenly.

"Lord knows," Ambleside rejoined. "It's pretty terrible, isn't it? The waiting——"

"And June lying ill—" Ware said, and Ambleside started. It was not only the fact that the other had used the exact words which were in his mind; but that he had somehow put in the very expression Ambleside himself would have used.

"I understand that she's out of danger," he replied a little brusquely. "All she needs is not to be worried and to rest."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Of all things, Ambleside did not want to discuss the anonymous letter and the murder with the man who he most suspected. Thinking it over, even the discovery of the pad in Forrest's trunk might go against Ware. It would have been only natural to put suspicion on someone else.

The landlord told me you're worried about the yacht," he said a little desperately. "The wind's getting up in a bad quarter, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's getting up." Ware listened for a moment. "Not too bad yet—if the motor doesn't break down."

Mentally, Ambleside groaned. As the landlord had said, he was tired out. He did not in the least want to dwell upon things more than was necessary. And if Ware was going to talk about June, he was quite sure he would be thoroughly rude to him.

"I think it will smash to bits by morning," Ware said quite calmly. "And I don't care a damn... It's the whole business—the murder, the letter, and all that's happened—"

"But you haven't the same reason." Ware stared straight ahead for a moment; then he looked up and met Ambleside's gaze squarely. "You see," he said deliberately. "I caused it all."

"You mean," he said, and he spoke as if he found difficulty in expressing what was in his mind. "You mean that you—"

"You're probably surprised that I admit it," Ware said coolly. "But I expect the police have discovered in any case. Someone had been rummaging in my desk. And the pad I wrote on has vanished... I expect you think it was a caddish thing to do. I did it to save June."

Though he did not quite understand why, Ambleside experienced a sense of relief at this explanation of how the pad came to be in Forrest's trunk. Either Forrest himself had found it, or Dunn, for some reason of his own, had put it there. His lips tightened a little at the mention of June's name. Ware noticed it but went on steadily.

"If she had married Greenlaw it would have broken her heart. She would certainly have found him out sooner or later. Whatever you may think of it, my writing of the letter saved her... Of course, I did my best to see that it was not traced to me. Unfortunately, I had to post it on the cruise. But I posted it in a hotel letter box, so that it should not be postmarked until well after we had left."

Ambleside had meant to say nothing. "But you arranged it before," he said, and the words were an accusation. "That was why you brought the boat to Terracombe?"

"I was not sure that June would believe the letter," Ware went on. "I knew that the girl originally came from this part. I arranged that she should be here when the yacht arrived. I meant to confront Greenlaw with her. And then Greenlaw—died."

"I swear that I had nothing to do with it," Ware said earnestly. "Nothing beyond writing the letter and arranging to confront the two of them with each other. There were two other things I never reckoned with. One was your hoax—or Greenlaw's. The other was Greenlaw's death... It wasn't necessary for me to kill Greenlaw. I had done all I meant to do."

"You know where Olivia Howard is?" Ambleside suggested. "You know the murderer?"

"I have only suspicions," Ware said quietly. "But that's why I say that I started it all. Because I believe that by bringing him here I brought it about that he paid a bigger price for his treatment of the girl than I had intended."

There was a brief silence. Ambleside wondered whether or not he believed the story. But there was one salient point which occupied his mind beyond all others.

"I do." Ware's eyes met his steadily. "One cannot arrange these things... But what if I do? I've never told her. I've never done anything but try to help her."

"Just as in your own case, I am likely to be suspected of the murder because I did something else. With you it was your share in the hoax. With me it is the letter. They might even manage to convict me... That is why I am telling you. I should like June to know—some time."

Ambleside remained silent. Ware made a sudden movement. His eyes seemed to blaze.

"I love June," he repeated. "I love her better than you—with your reservations about codes of honour, morality and so on. I'd give my life or my soul to help her."

Abruptly he rose to his feet. Before Ambleside had found anything to say, he had hurried from the room.

The younger man stared after him. He had always imagined that Ware was staid and cold-blooded. The sudden cracking of the mask was startling. He did not for a moment doubt that he had heard the truth; but Ware had practically admitted that he could reveal the murderer if he wished. Then, why did he not do so? Perhaps it was mere hatred of the dead man; or a belief in the justice of the crime. He could think of no other explanation.

In the hall the telephone bell rang shrilly. He saw Dore hurry past to answer it, and as he passed, it seemed to him that the landlord, even, was a man playing a part, and playing it even better than Ware had ever done. All at once he found himself thinking about Forrest. Where could he have gone at that time of night? Where were the police? Only the sergeant and a couple of plain clothes detectives still held the fort at the inn, and, except for Forrest, it was the people at the inn who alone could have any motive for killing Greenlaw. No, there was one other possibility. Olivia Howard herself. All at once he was aware of someone standing in the doorway. He glanced up; then jumped to his feet with a cry.

She smiled at him weakly. Her face was very pale except for the angry mark of the bruise along her chin, and as she took a step towards him she swayed as if about to fall. In a moment Ambleside's arm was supporting her. He led her gently to a chair.

"I had to." She smiled at him again. "But I was a bit—wobbly coming downstairs. I had to see you—to find out what had happened. I heard that you were—caught. They said you were all right—"

Ambleside nodded. "I don't quite understand it," he said slowly. "But they seemed to accept the whole story of the hoax quite easily. "I've merely been told to hold myself available. Not that I should have much chance of doing anything else, I imagine. The sergeant and a couple of his merry men are still here. Witney and the others have gone off somewhere."

"Ware," she said at last, "I saw him coming out. From half way down the stairs. He looked—different... You'd been talking?"

"Yes," Ambleside admitted constrainedly. Partly, he was reluctant to hurt her; partly, he felt an obligation to respect the confidence which had been forced upon him.

"He—he didn't kill Greenlaw," he said hesitantly. "He said so, and I believe him."

"That started it all," she said drearily. "It showed me what he was. It caused your quarrel; perhaps it made him plant the evidence against you. I believe he was killed because of it. And now—there are the Leicesters. There is Ware and Mrs. Ware. She knows something. I can feel it. There's the girl, Olivia Howard—you and me... Do you think we can ever be quite happy again?"

Ambleside leant forward and almost snatched at her hand, gripping it with a strength which might have been painful; but she did not seem to notice it. Her eyes were fixed on his face.

"June," he said. "June—" There was a joy in the mere repetition of the name. "If I could make you happy—if I could do anything—I've wanted to tell you before—but how could I? I oughtn't to now. I can't help it... You know—you know that I love you. Do you think you could ever—"

They turned quickly. Stainsby and the doctor were standing in the doorway, and on the face of the latter was an expression of horrified disapproval.

CHAPTER XXIII
News from the Beach

COLONEL STAINSBY was feeling thoroughly ill at ease when the doctor rejoined him in the lounge, having peremptorily dismissed June Paisley to bed. He had been chosen to occupy the main gathering place of suspects until Rayton returned from his efforts to trace the car or Witney from some more mysterious errand about which he had preferred to be vague. The task had been chosen for him as the easiest, and, though he could scarcely be told so, the most fool-proof. Even the support of Sergeant Milligan scarcely reconciled him to the condition of affairs which he actually found. Instead of going peaceably to bed, the entire population of the inn seemed to have determined to make a night of it, and most of them, at the first glimpse of him, seemed to have some vital point they wished to raise.

"I've sent her back to bed," Wargrave announced. "And I've given the other woman—Mrs. Leicester—a sleeping draught. And I came damned near spanking the niece. You've got a lively little collection here. I shouldn't be surprised if I have another patient on my hands soon."

"Ware. He looks as if he's heading for a breakdown or something. Can't stop still... A guilty conscience, maybe."

"I don't know," Stainsby said heavily. "Both he and Forrest seem to have known where Olivia Howard was staying. But it's Forrest who has bolted. And I can't think that Ware would assault Miss Paisley if Witney's view of his feelings is correct... But there's something wrong with him."

"There's something wrong with most of them. Including Ambleside. Making love to my patients—the young dog. Do I understand that you've acquitted him?"

"I don't know," Stainsby admitted. He was feeling distinctly confused, and now that the doctor had managed to pacify the patients he would have been glad of a quiet interval until one of his colleagues should rejoin him. "We're going to go into all that—when the others come back."

I'll leave you to it, then... I need some sleep anyway. They should be all right for a bit... Good night, Colonel."

Robbed of the doctor's moral support, Stainsby settled himself as comfortably as possible and tried to think things out in the comparative peace which reigned. How it could have happened he could not quite see, but the mere fact of Forrest's flight with the girl seemed to stamp him as the man they wanted. But there was Ware, and the glimpse of him the Chief Constable had had since returning had gone far to satisfy his requirements of what a guilty man should look like. He was half tempted to strike while the iron was hot, and himself put Ware through a cross-examination; but his own weariness made him think better of it. With the help of a stiff whisky and soda he was beginning to feel more equal to his responsibilities when Milligan entered bearing a card.

"Bardley?" The Chief Constable looked at the inscription and groaned. The mere thought of the Pottery or anyone connected with it was repugnant to him at that moment. "What—"

But the card's owner had followed hot upon the sergeant's heels, and announced the reason for his visit before Colonel Stainsby could even complete his question.

"They've got my car!" he burst out. "Took it from the drive and drove off as calm as you please—and said I'd given permission. The idiots believed him—"

"Forrest?" Stainsby jumped to his feet. His irritation at being interrupted was replaced by the feeling that he would score off the superintendent. Here was the unfortunate Rayton plodding round all the garages in the district, and the information which he sought had come unasked to him. "You mean Forrest?"

"That's the chap... I suppose it's his idea of a joke, but I'm damned if it's mine—"

"Sergeant, you'd better ring the station at once. Give them the number and make, colour and so on... It's a bit of luck—"

Stainsby ignored him. "We'll have a cordon all round," he said. "He can't get far, now we know the car... Try and get in touch with the superintendent."

Even in his irritation Bardley seemed to recognise that there was something more at stake than the safety of his car. He gave a quick look at Stainsby and whistled.

Stainsby did not answer the question. "If you'd give the particulars to Milligan," he suggested, "he'll ring through at once. We're bound to get it."

Bardley gave him a curious glance, but obeyed without further argument. It was while he was doing so that a brilliant idea occurred to the Chief Constable. He crossed the room to the table and selected a photograph of Greenlaw. As Bardley finished his description and Milligan departed, Stainsby turned to the artist.

"How the devil should I know Greenlaw?" Bardley said impatiently. "You're not trying to make me the murderer, are you?"

"I wonder if you could tell me who this is?" he asked. "Have you seen him before?"

Bardley glanced at it. "Of course. That's a chap called Browning who camped out here. Used to come to the Pottery quite a bit. Always asking a lot of damned fool questions—" Suddenly Stainsby's intention dawned upon him. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "That's not Greenlaw? You don't mean to say—"

"It is," Stainsby said briefly. "Evidently when he came before he stayed under an assumed name... That might explain several things... You're in a hurry to get home?"

"You wouldn't mind waiting, then, until Witney comes back? He shouldn't be more than a few minutes... We can give you a lift home, too."

Bardley accepted without any great enthusiasm. Possibly he saw the intention behind the Chief Constable's suggestion; for Stainsby, though he had to some extent been reassured by the artist's manner, was not inclined to lose his latest addition to his collection until Witney or Rayton had had a chance to investigate. He looked a little dubiously at the Chief Constable once or twice as he settled himself with an out-of-date copy of an illustrated paper by the fire.

Stainsby was inclined to congratulate himself upon a double stroke. Except for Forrest, and the girl, every person who had ever been in the remotest degree suspect was concentrated within the walls of the inn. Somehow he had the feeling that something was bound to happen; the only uncomfortable part about it was that it might be something unpleasant. He rose from his seat and went in search of Milligan, to whom he gave strict orders that no one was to leave without his personal permission. Having done so, he felt better. He was just retracing his steps when a draught from the door made him turn to look, half expecting that the inspector had arrived. But it was a man roughly dressed in oilskins who entered. It was only as he stepped forward into the light that Stainsby recognised him as the boatman. He had jerked out a few unintelligible syllables to the sergeant before Stainsby could reach him. From the frown on Milligan's face it was evident that they were not good news.

"The yacht's dragging its anchor, sir. It'll be ashore soon, unless something's done at once... Our man left it half an hour ago. It wasn't safe to stop."

"Well, sir." The boatman's voice was dubious. "I think one could still get aboard, and you might be able to take her out to sea with the engine... But you won't be able to soon. No boat will be able to leave the beach."

Milligan confirmed it in a low voice. "That's what the Captain said, sir," he said. "He wanted to go down some time ago. I didn't see how I could let him without instructions."

"Not me!" The man spoke decidedly. "I've a wife and family. I'm not saying it couldn't be done; but I'm not doing it."

"We'll have to do something." Stainsby frowned. On the one hand there was the responsibility for risking lives; on the other for losing a valuable boat. The noise of the wind outside suggested that the danger was not exaggerated. "There's no one we could get?"

Apparently there was not. The boatman was still suggesting and rejecting possibilities when the telephone rang in the office. Dore moved across to answer it.

"If that's the Chief Inspector or the Superintendent, keep him on the line; I'll come," Stainsby called after him.

A minute later they heard the landlord's voice raised irritably. "What's that? This line's bad... What name? Yes?... No. All right."

Dore's face was flushed as he emerged. "Wrong number, sir," he said. "And the line's terrible."

Stainsby nodded a dismissal, and Dore retired obediently. The Chief Constable made up his mind.

"The yacht must take its chance," he decided. "We can't risk lives... Thank you for coming, though." He had half turned away when for the second time that evening inspiration came to him. "Oh, by the way, you didn't happen to be about the beach the night the yacht came in?"

"The night the yacht came in, sir?" The boatman affected to consider. In fact, he had already answered a similar question put by Johnson, Rayton, and finally Witney. "No, sir. We'd all gone to bed early."

"It's just a question of whether you saw anyone come ashore," he said with an assumption of casualness which made Milligan wince. "Thought you might just have seen them."

The boatman grinned. "Well, I shouldn't, sir. Because I can tell you for a fact no one came."

"I was up at five, sir. Went down to empty the slops as usual. The tide was full out, sir. It had been falling ever since the yacht came in. If anyone had landed, there would have been tracks, sir. Well, there weren't any."

"Then, good heavens!" The implications of this piece of evidence came to him blindingly. "If no one landed from the yacht, it only leaves—" He broke off as the door opened again. His face brightened as he saw who it was. "Witney! Thank heaven you've come... I've something to tell you."

He drew the inspector aside while the boatman watched with interest. Evidently he did not understand the bearing of what he had said upon the murder. Witney's eyebrows rose as he listened.

"In fact, if that's right, no one landed from the yacht at all," he said. "So none of them committed the murder. Unless Ware did it earlier on."

"That's unlikely. So, you see, it leaves, out of our whole list of suspects only Ambleside, Bardley and the girl. There's no one else it could be. And—"

Witney was thinking hard. He scarcely seemed to pay any attention to the last part of Stainsby's remarks.

"Not conclusive," he said at last. "The man might have been mistaken. Or someone might have landed on the rocks somehow... But it's another indication—"

He seemed to have been speaking almost to himself. Stainsby waited, expecting that he would explain; but he remained silent, with his brows wrinkled in thought. As the telephone bell rang again, Stainsby nodded impatiently to Milligan to answer it.

"It must be the girl," he suggested. "Forrest found out and took her away to shield her. And, by the way, they stole Bardley's car. I rang the station—"

"Bardley's car?" Witney asked bewilderedly. He had only half been concentrating on what the Chief Constable had said. "When do you mean they took—"

Milligan burst from the office and dashed towards them down the passage. He was tremendously excited.

"Jarrold, sir! A message... Says he rang up a minute or two ago, but couldn't make someone understand—"

"A minute or two ago? When Dore answered?" Stainsby looked puzzled. "He said it was a wrong number?"

"He said so, sir..." Milligan stressed the word grimly. "And the message is Jarrold's found the reference in the paper. It was about a local girl who went on the stage. But he'd mistaken the name. It wasn't Ware, but Dore!"

The door of the smoking-room was flung open suddenly to emit Ambleside. He shouted as he saw them.

CHAPTER XXIV
June Gives Chase

MR. WARGRAVE would have had every reason to disapprove of June Paisley as a patient if he could have seen her five minutes after he left the room. She was feeling better. Though she was still weak, the effects of the concussion had passed, and in her present mood the thought of lying in bed was intolerable. Outside, the sound of the storm was curiously soothing. Without lighting the light, she drew a chair up beside the window and seated herself, listening to the shrill whistling of the wind and the dashing of the raindrops against the panes.

On the removal of the whole party from the yacht, she had surrendered her original room in the front of the hotel to the Wares. This smaller room faced the back of the hotel, and immediately below she could hear the water trickling down the low pent-house roof of the coalshed. Beyond, the lights from the kitchen window cast a yellow oblong across the flooded surface of the yard, across which the rain drove in white sheets. Perhaps she was still suffering from the effects of the blow but there seemed to be something hypnotic in the falling raindrops. She sat watching them in a kind of fascination, as the various events of the day passed vaguely through her mind.

All at once she started and leaned forward to look more carefully. Another lighted patch added to those already in the yard showed that the kitchen door had been opened, and outlined against it was the shadow of a man. From the elongated, distorted image she could not identify him, but a minute later the man himself emerged into full view, and she recognised the figure of the landlord.

He stood for a few seconds looking round; then closed the door gently behind him. As he did so the light shone full on his face, and at the sight of what she could read there, June caught her breath. Though she had asked for his help in proving Ambleside's innocence, she had always thought of Dore more as an inn-keeper than as a man, and as a murderer he had never occurred to her. But as she looked at the tense face, half a dozen small things flashed through her mind. In a sudden flash of memory, she recalled the voice which had challenged her before she was knocked unconscious. Now she was sure. It was Dore who had spoken. It was Dore who had knocked her out; and at another time it would have been amusing that it was also Dore who had received her thanks for his rescue work with some embarrassment.

The landlord wore a heavy mackintosh and cap and carried a bundle in his hand. As he turned towards the yard gate after a last look round June had not the least doubt what was happening. He was making his escape. There could be no other explanation of his going out at that hour on such a night. For a moment she sat there hardly knowing what to do. The suddenness of the discovery had left her mentally stunned. She thought for a moment of Ambleside and the police down below. But it would be too late. Dore would be away in the darkness, and they would never find him. For the sake of Patrick Ambleside the murderer had to be caught, and there was one way by which she could at least follow. Opening the window, she climbed out on to the pent-house roof, slithered down the tiles and landed in a heap on the ground.

Dazed by the fall she sat there for a moment before she could rise to renew the chase. Then, the need for haste restored her. By sliding down the roof she had saved quite a number of yards compared with Dore, who had had to go the length of the buildings. Judging by his actions in the yard, he had relied on caution rather than haste in getting away from the inn, and perhaps he had not much start. She raced along the side of the inn, trusting to the sound of the wind to cover her movements, and aware that the interposing building would help to prevent her detection. Then in the road she halted for a second completely at a loss, with the rain dashing through her thin clothing, and the wind tugging at her dressing gown and loosened hair.

There was no sign of him; nothing to show whether he had turned up or down; but her hesitation was only momentary. Acting on the merest impulse she started down the hill, only as she went deciding on reasons why her choice had been the right one. Dore would not go along the road, where he might be seen in the village, or where a car could easily follow. Knowing the district as he did, he would choose the cliff path, where he could hope to baffle any pursuit in the darkness. Or the beach? There were boats there. If he went by sea, he could throw off anyone who followed and land anywhere. She had just thought of that when she reached the point where the cliff path turned off.

Here even impulse failed her. She stood there with the tree branches whipping overhead, and the rain dripping on her head, not knowing what to do. It was the sucking of the mud at her shoes as she turned towards the cliff path that gave her the idea. Here the path was worn through to the thick red clay beneath, and there was more than an inch on top as soft as putty. Dore must have left tracks, if she could see them, and she had brought the torch. It was a risk, but she must take it. She was just above the point where the path started to slope more steeply. Not only the trees and undergrowth, but the bulge of the ground itself would hide the light. Bending down, she flashed the beam low on the surface of the path.

There were plenty of footprints. The soft clay had made a mould of every shoe that passed, and the people from the yacht had come that way not long before. But these the water had already filled. There was only one large track in which the freshly trodden clay glistened damply in the light, and it pointed down the hill. She never doubted that it must be Dore's. Switching off the torch she hurried down the path.

She was wet through, and the wind seemed to be blowing right through her. At this point the track went in steps roughly formed of logs with the clay banked behind them to form steps, irregularly placed, and here and there damaged or missing. Half a dozen times she nearly went headlong, and once collided painfully with a gorse bush. But she dare not use the light again. Dore must be going by this path. There was no other, and however well he might know the combe he could never force his way through the tangled bushes in the darkness. In any case, from the point of view of seeing tracks, it would have been useless. She was well down the combe now, and the path had become a small torrent. Even above the wind she could hear the trickle of the water, and it flowed rather than splashed about her ankles as she walked.

All the time there had not been a sign of the landlord. But she was near the beach now. She could hear the roar of the waves, and it occurred to her vaguely that it was unnaturally loud. Then, a turn of the path brought her suddenly right upon it, and only a dozen feet of shaly cliff separated her from the shingle. She stopped dead, and her heart came into her mouth. In the light of a storm lantern she could see Dore's mackintosh figure right below her.

He was talking to the wife of the boatman who, during the summer when visitors were about, lived with her husband in the little hut beyond the cafe. It was she who carried the lantern, and she was handing over a pair of oars with a reluctance which was apparent.

"If Roberts says so, you can have 'em, but you're one fool and he's another," she said tartly. "It's risking any man's life to try it. They should have moved the yacht before—"

"Can't let it be smashed up, Mrs. Roberts," Dore replied quite coolly. Evidently he had no idea he was being followed, and was anxious to arouse no suspicion. "The boat's down, you say?"

"In the corner there... You may get her off, but you're more likely to smash her and yourself too... Wait, and I'll get a rope in case—"

"I'll go and get her ready," Dore answered, and switched on a flashlight which he carried. "There's no time to waste, and it's getting worse."

As the woman turned back towards the hut, she saw him start down the shingle. She tried to cry out, but a gust buffeted her full in the face and seemed to strangle her. The glow of the lantern had already vanished inside the hut. Recovering, she turned and fell rather than ran down the last few steps.

The woman was returning, with a coil of rope in her disengaged hand. June almost collided with her. The flash-lamp, well along the beach, cast a bright patch in the blackness. Dore must be nearly at the boat. She seized the woman's arm.

A gust tore the words from her mouth. The woman was staring at her bedraggled figure in utter amazement.

The woman did not move. "Murderer?" she said. "Well, I wondered at him. On a night like this. We've no call to stop him... And I'm alone here—"

"If he gets it!" Mrs. Roberts said grimly. "That's just what I've been telling him he won't do. Haven't you eyes and ears? Look!"

She raised the lantern high. It was only then June realised how bad the sea was. The whole cove, so completely peaceful when she had last seen it, was transfigured. The feeble glow of the lantern shone on the white foam only a few yards from where they stood, and beyond she could just make out a ghostly white wall before the breaker crashed with a roar almost to their feet, peppering them with a cloud of stinging spray. There was rattle of rolling pebbles as it receded. In spite of herself, June shrank back.

"He just might," Mrs. Roberts said doubtfully. "In the corner. It's sheltered there. Where the boat is. Roberts left it when he took the man off the yacht—"

June did not wait. The light of the torch was stationary now. Dore had reached the boat. Leaving the woman to follow or not as she wished, she started to run along the pebbles, ignoring the cry which the wind seemed to catch up and fling away. She was running along the tide mark, where the receding sea had left the pebbly sand damp and firm. Before she had gone half way, one shoe was lost. Pebbles cut her bare foot, but she scarcely felt them. Once a wave bigger than the rest plunged her to the knees, and almost tore her legs from under her as it ebbed; but she went on. She was nearly at the end of the beach. The lamp was quite close. Above she could see the dark loom of the cliff. And for a moment she glimpsed the outline of a black figure tugging at the boat which lay right on the edge of the line of foam.

Half a dozen yards away she stopped. Dore was still unaware of her presence. He was standing, sometimes up to the knees in foam, holding the kicking boat, and gazing out to sea. In spite of the woman's words, June realised for the first time how desperate the attempt was. It was true that the sea was calmer here. Even the wind was less, sheltered as they were by the jutting point. But it was still hopeless, or nearly so. She had rowed a small boat often enough to realise what Dore was trying to do. The waves were of unequal sizes. With the boat on the very edge of the water, he was seeking a comparatively calm patch following a big wave. It was barely possible he might get himself afloat on the backwash, and, before the next breaker came, be past the critical point where the waves broke. Evidently he meant to try it. Even as she watched, he pushed the boat forward, wading knee deep.

June forgot the murder. For an instant, her only thought was that he would be killed. She was filled with horror of the white raging inferno of the beach. Calling out, she dashed forward.

The inn-keeper gave a single look back. It was all he could spare. For as she cried out the wave for which he had been watching broke. It plunged June to the waist as she tried to catch the boat's stern, buffeting her back. Dore had clambered aboard, laying down the torch to seize the oars. It was all a matter of seconds. June cried out again.

All at once her feet were tugged from under her. She had no time even to cry out. A feeling of utter terror flashed through her mind; then she was struggling in the foam. She splashed desperately, trying to strike out with her hands in a torrent which seemed to be made of soapsuds. For a second she came to the surface. Just above her something showed dark, and she grabbed at it desperately. Her hand clutched the woodwork of the boat's stern. She pulled herself up so that her head and shoulders were out. And then the breaker came.

Dore had judged things to a nicety. He had got the boat out on the backwash, through the two small waves which succeeded it, and almost to the breaking point, rowing like a madman. It was June who nearly turned the scale against him. The extra drag of her body slowed the boat just as the dreaded wave rose beneath it. Up and up went the bows until it seemed as though the boat must slip backwards. June was dimly aware of a dark figure right above her and wondered stupidly what had happened. Her arms seemed to be wrenched from their sockets, but she hung on. Then there was a crash behind them.

June was barely conscious. She could only cling there, choking and half blinded with the water, and filled with the horror of death. The motion of the boat was easier. The waves buffeted her less. Then a strong hand gripped her wrist, pulling her up. An arm was passed beneath her shoulders, and she was lugged aboard, subsiding in a heap on the bottom boards.

If he had the inclination, Dore had no time to waste on her. One danger was past, but another was right upon them. Even the brief interval which had elapsed while he was pulling the girl on board had been enough to let the boat drift round. Only a few yards to their left were the heaped rocks which fringed the cliffs, against which the waves dashed with a force sufficient to break any boat to matchwood. He rowed desperately, judging his time as the boat rose and fell like a cork.

They were well away from land when June sat up, and, for the moment, comparatively safe. Though the boat had shipped a good deal of water, she still rose lightly enough to the seas, and the point still gave some shelter. Fierce though the wind was, a small boat is difficult to sink, once afloat; but landing would be impossible. There was no turning back. The next danger lay in the attempt to board the yacht, and it was just as well June did not know how great that was. It was with a feeling of relief that she saw the lights of the yacht nodding only a short distance away; though it flashed through her mind that the Campaspe was nearer to land than when she had last seen it. All at once she realised her position. She was alone with a murderer.

The rhythmical motion of Dore's body ceased for a moment as he stopped rowing. She could just see the curved outline of his back as he bent down, groping in the bottom of the boat. The beam of the torch cut the darkness as he sat up.

June accepted it without a word as he pitched a battered tin at her feet. It was certainly necessary. There were several inches of water over the boards, and more was coming aboard as they reached the more broken sea beyond the point. June started to bale with an energy borne of desperation. As the water splashed over the side, she was wondering what was going to happen. Evidently Dore was making for the yacht. And then? Where would he take her? What would he do? She tried to reassure herself with the thought that, if he had been going to kill her he would never have pulled her on board. And, thinking it over, she was not afraid of the landlord.

The lights of the yacht were very close. June fancied she could make out the line of the mast whipping against the sky. Dore lay on his oars for a moment.

"Listen," he said in a note of quiet command. "We'll be alongside in a few minutes. You've got to get on board... It's a case of being ready and jumping, when I give the word... Better take off your dressing-gown."

June obeyed. She felt terribly cold, but the exercise of baling had warmed her a little. The wind seemed to blow right through her thin pyjamas and chill her to the bone. Already her hands and feet were numbed. She was afraid that she might not be able to jump. And then? She covered her face with her hands at the thought. Dore bent forward, holding something out. She looked up.

"Take this," he commanded. "Drink some... A good mouthful or two... It's brandy."

Her fingers found the flask and unscrewed the top. The raw spirit seemed to burn her throat, but she obeyed her instructions; though she coughed violently as she tried to replace the screw. Dore took it from her.

The brandy was tingling through her veins. It created the feeling of warmth, and, even more important, gave her a temporary courage. All at once she found herself thinking quite calmly of the yacht, and the business of jumping on board it. It was just a question, she told herself, of choosing the right moment, when the boat came nearest the deck. Probably there would not be very far to clear.

"Ready!" Dore shouted the warning. He was handling the boat like an artist, just keeping it clear of the yacht sides against which it would have smashed in a moment. Pending off with an oar, he half-rose to his feet, crouching for a spring. June waited. Her fear had vanished completely, and she had even stopped shivering.

As he called out, he jumped, June leaped with all her strength for the dark shadow which rose alongside them as the boat mounted on the crest of a wave. For a second she thought she had missed. In the blackness it had been hard to judge distance, and she realised she was falling short. Then, her hand just grasped the low rail along the yacht's side. The pull of her body nearly wrenched away her grip, but she hung on. In another moment she felt Dore clutch at her, pulling her up.

CHAPTER XXV
End of a Voyage

FROM somewhere below she heard a dull crash. She started in sudden terror, and clutched at the railing.

"We've hit the boat and smashed it," Dore said calmly. "Well, at least we're aboard... Better get some dry clothes on, Miss Paisley. Warm things... You'll need them... We can talk later."

He did not wait to see whether she obeyed or not, but started to make his way towards the bows. June was only too glad to act on the suggestion. After giving herself a good rub down before the electric stove she felt better. She was half way through dressing when she felt the throbbing of the yacht's engine. Dore was getting the Campaspe under way.

Hurrying the rest of her clothes on, she went on deck. Dore was steering, and the yacht's nose was pointed out to sea. She made her way over to him, and stood clutching at a rope to steady herself.

Dore did not answer immediately. In the reflection from the lamp illuminating the compass she saw that his face was very grave.

"Miss Paisley," he said at last. "You'd better know how things are. My intention had been to take the boat and get away. Perhaps, even, to make for France... Well, I can't. There's not enough fuel."

June nodded. "Captain Ware was going to have some more put on board," she said. "He used more than he expected getting here. He said there wasn't much left."

"There isn't," Dore said grimly. "I doubt if there's enough to save our lives... We've got to make for the estuary six miles up the coast. There's a nasty bar there, but we might get through... I can't get the sails up single-handed to keep her off shore. We can only hope it holds out."

June did not answer at once. She remembered the piece of coast along which they were going. When she had seen it, a succession of tiny, sunlit beaches with red rocks between them, nothing could have looked more peaceful. In her mind, she was trying to picture it transformed as the cove they had just left had been. All the beaches were smaller than that at Terracombe. There was no shelter anywhere.

"I had to slip the anchors," Dore said. "And besides, they wouldn't hold on this bottom against a wind like this... No. We've got to make the estuary... You might make some coffee, if you can."

It was difficult enough. Luckily June was a good sailor, or she would certainly have been seasick. The motion of the Campaspe had changed; she was pitching less, but rolling more. As she busied herself with the coffee, June wondered why it was. She was thankful to have something to do. By an effort, she kept herself from wondering what was going to happen; but she thought of Ambleside.

Any fear of Dore she had felt had vanished completely. He had twice saved her life, and just at that moment their safety depended entirely upon him. She even found herself worrying about how he might escape if they reached port. It crossed her mind that it was an entirely wrong way to regard the murder of her fiancé, but she could not help it. The coffee was made and she was wondering how she should ever carry a cup to Dore when she was aware that something had changed. It was half a minute before she realised what it was. The beat of the engine had ceased.

Laying down the coffee pot quite calmly she went up on deck. Dore met her. He saw the question before she spoke it and nodded.

The shore was, in fact, much nearer than she had expected. Dore had had to cut things as fine as he could in the hope of reaching the river mouth, and had not got the offing he would have liked. They were going with the wind now, and the motion was easier. Dore helped her buckle the jacket round her.

"They're following along the cliffs," he said calmly. "You can see the lights... I expect Ware's told them about the fuel. That's all to the good. They'll be on hand to help you ashore."

"But you," she said, and broke off. After all, if he did get ashore, what would be the use? He saw what was passing in her mind.

"We've not got long, Miss Paisley," he said after a short silence. "You know the truth, of course, and by now the inspector does. But you'd better take this." He felt in his pocket, produced an envelope, and handed it over. "That is a confession, duly signed, and witnessed, by Benger and the housekeeper. They didn't know, of course, what it was they were witnessing. It might come in handy. For Mr. Ambleside or Captain Ware."

She took it automatically, and stood with it in her hand, wondering what to say.

"I killed Richard Greenlaw," Dore said after a pause. "You know, I think, how he treated Olivia Howard. You won't know that she was my daughter. And her mother died when she ran away."

"I never knew who the man was," he said after a brief pause. "Then Mr. Ambleside came to stay at the hotel. I thought Greenlaw was going to fight him, and I listened to what they said. I realised that he was the man. And I realised how easy it would be to kill him. I did it... It was a shock to me when I heard Mr. Ambleside had killed himself. I never wanted anyone else to suffer, and meant to get him out of it somehow. And I'd no idea my daughter was here. She wrote to me, and I met her. That was when I struck you. That's all."

"Can't I—can't I do anything?" June asked, and her voice faltered. "Your daughter—"

"I swore I'd never forgive her when my wife died," Dore said. "Well—you can say I did... What sort of a fellow is Forrest?"

"I—I like him," June said. She was finding it horribly hard to restrain her tears. "He's a good sort—"

"He's marrying her," Dore said surprisingly. "He found out who she was, but he fell in love with her all the same... They were running away to-night... That's all. Better get ready."

They were getting very close. She could hear the roar of the waves breaking, and see the dark mass of the cliffs. But there were lights there too, moving along almost opposite to them, and at one place scattered down the cliff face. They brought a sudden hope, but with the hope her fear seemed to revive too. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she clutched Dore's arm.

"We can't—we can't—" she said and the words died on her lips. "There isn't a chance."

"There is—a chance," Dore said. "Jump when she strikes, and swim for shore. The belt will keep you up, and it won't be far. The only risk is that a wave will batter you on the beach. If you get anywhere near, they'll pull you out."

He disengaged his arm gently and went forward. A minute later a whitish, ghastly light shone out, illuminating the whole ship. He had lit a flare. It would let the people on shore see the position, and perhaps even enable them to trace anyone who jumped over. June's fears subsided. A kind of resignation possessed her. She wondered whether Ambleside was among the watchers, and whether she would ever see him again. The yacht seemed to be moving with a slowness which was intolerable; but the lights were quite clear. She even fancied she could make out the people moving up and down beside them; but between them and the yacht were the breakers.

There was a sudden shock. The Campaspe seemed to stagger and stop; then it went on again. June had been thrown off her balance, and nearly fallen. She was just recovering herself when Dore came to her side.

There was a sudden rending crash. The yacht trembled and heeled over as June clung to the rail.

Summoning all her resolution, she obeyed. It seemed as though she had fallen an immense distance before she touched the surface. The water closed over her head. Her lungs seemed to be bursting, but she struck out. Then her head emerged, and she gulped in a deep breath, just before a breaking sea covered her again. As she rose on the crest of a wave it seemed to her that the lights were very near; then, as the trough swallowed her they vanished again.

She swam automatically, but almost without hope. Her mind was oppressed by the thought of the point where the waves broke, and what would happen. Someone had lit a flare on the beach, and at the sight of it she realised for the first time that there was no light from the yacht. The roar of the waves was very loud now. All at once she rose on a crest. It seemed to mount more steeply than usual. With sudden horror she realised that there was nothing beyond. Then she felt herself flung headlong...

Momentarily her senses must have left her. The next thing that she remembered was that someone was tugging at her arm. It seemed as if her feet were being pulled in the opposite direction. She cried out weakly in protest, before she realised that it was the ebbing of the wave. Someone picked her up and carried her bodily up the beach. As they stopped, another flare was lit. In the white glare of its light she looked up into the face of Patrick Ambleside.

Regardless of the rescuers who were hurrying up, he bent his head and kissed her lips. Her arms went about his neck.

"June, I thought you were dead—" Ambleside began; but a voice behind interrupted him.

"Not Schafer's method, exactly—an adaptation?" Wargrave was eyeing them sardonically. "It seems to have worked... Might I take charge, Mr. Ambleside?"

CHAPTER XXVI
Conclusion

THE sun was streaming brightly through the windows of the Brig Inn when Witney and the Chief Constable entered the lounge next morning. June and Ambleside were seated in close proximity on the sofa and June coloured as she met their eyes. She smiled at them; then sobered suddenly at the expression on Stainsby's face.

Witney nodded. It was against his professional conscience that a criminal should escape trial even by dying, and he frowned a little; though he was prepared to admit that in this case there was something to be said for it.

"Among the rocks," he said. "The last of the Campaspe's gone," he added as if to change the subject. June ignored the remark.

"I—I'm glad," she said and stopped. After a pause she went on. "It's better for him, and he meant to... He did save me last night, when I was trying to catch him—"

"Which you ought not to have done, Miss Paisley," Colonel Stainsby said severely. "You might easily have been killed."

"He wouldn't have killed me," June said with conviction. "It was only—only Dick he wanted to kill—"

Witney nodded. "In fact, after he'd knocked you out last night, he risked giving himself away so that you shouldn't die of exposure. In fact, he did give himself away. I wasn't sure until then."

"You suspected, anyhow," Stainsby said. "And that's more than I did. Or I shouldn't have let him answer that telephone."

"You couldn't foresee what happened," Witney said comfortingly. He was, in fact, rather anxious to gloss over the fact that he had forborne mentioning his suspicion owing to the certainty Stainsby would reveal it to the landlord. "And, if things had happened in any other way, Jarrold's evidence would have been valuable."

"A reporter. He found that Dore was Olivia Howard's father and rang up the inn to tell me. Dore answered it, and decided the game was up... When did you suspect him, anyway, Witney?"

Witney gave a warning glance towards Ambleside and June Paisley. He disapproved of public revelations. But Colonel Stainsby relieved of worries for the first time for days, thought otherwise.

"Oh, they won't say anything—eh, Ambleside?" he said cheerfully. "Besides, as we drove him to suicide, we owe him some reparation!"

He laughed at his own joke, and Witney smiled in sympathy; but he still hesitated for a moment.

"Well, sir, if you approve," he said a little stiffly, "I suppose there's no objection now to Mr. Ambleside knowing... I always had him classed as a possible suspect. Because he overheard the conversation between Ambleside and Greenlaw, and it occurred to me he might have heard more than he admitted. I mean, he might have known that Greenlaw was going to the kiln. And, in fact, he did."

"He's also talked to us—rather late in the day," Witney said. "Yes, Mr. Ambleside?"

"He said he was sure that the letter he wrote was the beginning of the whole business. Indirectly I suppose it was; because it led to the quarrel, and to Dore's overhearing."

"Yes. Until then, he'd known nothing about Greenlaw's being the man who ran away with his daughter. On the other hand, you'd worried him a little, because he couldn't make you out. When he heard, he seems to have decided to kill Greenlaw on the spur of the moment. In a way that made it more difficult. We couldn't find his preparations in advance because there weren't any. We found various other people's preparations for other things, and thought they were for the murder."

Ambleside frowned a little. "It was rather a coincidence we should come to the very inn where Dore was?" he suggested. "Just when the whole thing was brought up?"

"Only up to a point. It was a coincidence that Dore was at the inn; but not that he was in the neighbourhood. Ware had planned to bring the party into contact with Dore, and Olivia. That's why you came here." Witney thought for a moment. "You must have gone into the plans about the skeleton pretty fully in that conversation?"

"Yes," Ambleside admitted, and coloured. "Though I didn't quite realise what was going to happen."

"You said enough anyway to let Dore know about it, and, roughly, how long you'd be there. He left Benger waiting up for you and slipped out of the hotel when he was supposed to be in bed. He watched you stoking up, waited until you left, and confronted Greenlaw. There again it was done on the spur of the moment. He must have meant to wait until you left Greenlaw; he couldn't have known you'd leave him before the skeleton was put in the kiln. But he took advantage of it and went back home, taking the other skeleton with him. Some time later, he must have gone down and thrown it into the sea... Of course, he left the hat and the gun in the combe."

"He shot him with the gun. There was a struggle, and Greenlaw pulled the gun out. Dore got it... I believe he might have got away with a manslaughter plea at a trial, but it didn't occur to him I suppose."

"And, forgetting about it, you stuffed it into the pocket of your costume. We found it there." Witney thought for a moment. "It must have seemed to him that he was pretty safe. Then all the trouble that Ware had prepared for Greenlaw began to bother him. He was all right as long as we didn't know that Olivia Howard was his daughter. But the girl wanted to see him, and in fact made him go to see her, when Miss Paisley overheard them."

"But, why wasn't it known in the district, Witney?" Stainsby asked. "In a country place like this—"

"It was known, only we never thought of inquiring. The village knew perfectly well that Dore had had a daughter who ran away, but it didn't know her stage name. And in consequence, it didn't associate that old story with the murder at all... Forrest was the only person who knew anything about that—"

"And then, just by luck, he met the girl herself and fell in love with her. She told him the whole story, I gather, and he decided the best thing to do was to take her away altogether. Otherwise she'd be certain to give the show away and lead to her father's being charged. So last night, when we went there, the birds had flown. All we heard was a story of an elopement—"

"Were they?" Witney looked his surprise. "It seems rather quick work to me... I shouldn't have thought, judging by Mr. Forrest's normal irrelevancy and methods of conversation, that he could have got through a proposal in the time... We've not traced them yet. Which is pretty odd." He frowned a little. "The murder had several effects, and they all made things more difficult for Dore, in the sense that they made us feel the whole business was horribly complicated, and that anyone might have done it. I mean, Leicester's madness, your suicide, Mr. Ambleside, the letter business."

"Still, I don't quite follow how you suspected Dore," Stainsby insisted. "He was a possible suspect at the beginning, admittedly. But then?"

"Well, there was the point that the arrival of the yacht only just gave any member of the party time to do it at all. Ware was the only real possibility, and I admit I was shaken by Jarrold's half-memory about the name. Also by the way he behaved. But, strictly speaking, the probability was that the murderer was somebody on land. And the only possible people seemed to be you, Mr. Ambleside, Olivia Howard, Bardley at the pottery, and Dore. Unless there was some complete outsider. And I half expected one to turn up. Again, assuming this Olivia Howard business was at the root of the matter, it was quite possible that she's some relative who would want to kill Greenlaw. A brother or father or someone. Dore looked as if he might be a man with a sad past, though I hadn't rooted out what it was... The time he knocked you out clinched things, though it came near to putting me off the track altogether. Because two other people were behaving mysteriously that night—Ware and Forrest. Forrest was engaged in getting the girl away—he pinched Bardley's car to do it—"

"Yes. There wasn't one he could hire locally... We've found the car, incidentally... And Ware had gone to try and see her, and failed because she was out. I didn't think Dore could have fitted it in, but he'd got just time. And, of course, he listened at the window... He was the man you saw who tripped Milligan up. He made a mistake there, incidentally. I looked at that wall afterwards, and nobody could have gone the way his man escaped without leaving traces. There were none, so Dore had invented his man."

"And when he suggested searching for Miss Paisley," Stainsby said, "you guessed that he'd seen her?"

"I thought it possible. And I thought he meant to find her, so I gave him a chance. Only I let him see it, I'm afraid. And then he was in a difficulty. If he found you, I should know he'd knocked you out. And if you weren't found, you might die. He wasn't a wholesale murderer and didn't want that. Ambleside's suicide had shaken him pretty badly."

Stainsby laughed. "It has its funny side," he explained, apologetically. "He couldn't induce Milligan to search in the right place!"

"Exactly... In the end he had to find her. And then he was worried in case she'd heard enough to recognise him." He looked at June. "You'd spoken to him about your detective idea, hadn't you? When you spoke, he recognised the voice and knew what you were up to. He couldn't let you follow him. So he knocked you out. But from that time on he must have known things were getting risky. Probably he was thinking of escape. He seems to have taken most of his personal papers and so on."

"He was carrying something," June said. "But he couldn't have thought of the Campaspe? There were people on board right until the last."

"I believe that was an inspiration. There were two telephone calls to the inn that night. I don't know what the first was—unless it was Forrest giving the 'O.K.' Probably it was. But just before the second the boatman was up about the Campaspe. Dore, who was a good sailor, might even have thought of volunteering to take the boat out. Then the telephone bell rings, and he knows that the game may be up any minute. So he decides to go at once—and, simply because it was so dangerous, the Campaspe was a good way out. He didn't mind risking his life that way. You were an unforseen complication, Miss Paisley."

"It was a miracle," Witney rejoined. "Dr. Wargrave thinks you ought to be dead. He said he thought of writing to the British Medical Journal about half drowning as a cure for concussion and shock!"

"Ware must be fed up," Ambleside said, and unknowingly he touched a tender spot. Stainsby looked uncomfortable.

"Very fortunately, Ware is so glad to have got out of things fairly easily that he hasn't thought of blaming us for that," Witney said drily. "In a way we were to blame, because Milligan stopped him from leaving the inn to look after the yacht."

"Because he thought he'd find the pad. He didn't, because Forrest had found it already... Dunn's attitude, so far as I can gather through the mist of Scriptural language which veils it, is that you're all pretty bad sinners and deserve punishment in this world and the next. Now, he regarded Greenlaw's death as the judgment of heaven, but that didn't mean that Ware, who he believed to be the murderer, hadn't to be punished too. He'd seen Ware deal with the anonymous letter."

"No. I suppose he wasn't certain. As long as he wasn't, it would have been silly to risk his job even in the cause of righteousness... I think that's all. Until we find Forrest—"

"Wargrave thinks he'll be all right... And that may prove to be a blessing in disguise."

"Nothing whatever. Except that Greenlaw, when he came down here before, chummed up with him so as to find out all about the working of the kiln and so on."

Ambleside frowned a little. "The hoax," he began. "What are you going to do about that?"

Stainsby looked at Witney inquiringly. On the one hand it offended his sense of discipline that anyone should affront the law and escape unpunished; on the other, his sentimental nature approved the romance of Ambleside's engagement.

"Well," Witney said drily. "I understand your story is that you didn't realise how far things were going. You'd better act on the lines of the Wodehouse character who was discovered taking a fly out of a girl's eye and was asked what he was really doing."

"He stuck to his story," Witney answered. "Of course, you mustn't suppress any evidence at the inquest—if you're asked."

"Well, I didn't understand what was happening—" Ambleside said, and was surprised when Witney laughed. "But I've wondered... How far did Greenlaw think things were going?"

"I don't know. I don't see that we ever shall know now... He might have meant to give you a lot of trouble. But the defence you gave us was a perfectly good one—if it had been the right skeleton. Was that arranged between you?"

There was the sound of an argument outside. The next moment Forrest entered, leading by the arm a girl whom only June had ever seen before. She had evidently been crying, but she faced them bravely, holding tightly to Forrest's arm. Rayton was at their heels.

"Come to give myself up to justice and all that, Colonel," he said cheerfully. "Meet Mrs. Forrest."

Stainsby glared at him. He felt certain that Forrest had committed some offence, but he was not sure what. The Superintendent prompted him gruffly.

"Stealing his car?" Forrest looked his surprise. "My dear old chap, he lent it me. Of course, it may have slipped his memory last night, but you ask him again this morning. Memory's a queer thing, what? Oh, no. I'm not pleading guilty to that."

"Well, that's your job, you know... Obstructing the course of justice by eloping with a material witness or something like that... How many years for that, Inspector?"

Witney was a happily married man. But the temptation to repeat a chestnut was too much for him. He glanced at the couple on the couch and smiled.

THE END

MAX DALMAN

THE BURNT BONES MYSTERY

First published by Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1940 This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2025 Version Date: 2025-07-18 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 Guest with a Gun

CHAPTER II Bones in the Kiln

CHAPTER III Ashes to Ashes

CHAPTER IV Witney Takes Charge

CHAPTER V A Shock for Ambleside

CHAPTER VI Letter to a Lady

CHAPTER VII Chat Between Friends

CHAPTER VIII A New Line

CHAPTER IX Enter the Ghost

CHAPTER X Witney Begins to See

CHAPTER XI Discoveries

CHAPTER XII An Unknown Listener

CHAPTER XIII June Hears a Story

CHAPTER XIV Night Alarms

CHAPTER XV Lost Lady

CHAPTER XVI The Kiln Again

CHAPTER XVII A Blow in the Dark

CHAPTER XVIII The Second Watcher

CHAPTER XIX An Unwilling Resurrection

CHAPTER XX A Missing Witness

CHAPTER XXI Elopement or Escape

CHAPTER XXII Confession and Denial

CHAPTER XXIII News from the Beach

CHAPTER XXIV June Gives Chase

CHAPTER XXV End of a Voyage

CHAPTER XXVI Conclusion