Part 7 (2/2)

”You know the .450 Express which is in the gun rack in Mr. Robert's den?” he said. ”Bring it to the Superintendent.”

Tomlinson, shaken but dignified, and rather purple of face as the result of the tramp through the trees, went indoors. Soon he came back, and the rich tint had faded again from his complexion.

”Sorry, sir,” he said huskily, ”but the rifle is not there.”

”Not there!”

It was Sylvia Manning who spoke; the others received this sinister fact in silence.

”No, miss.”

”Are you quite sure?” asked Fenley.

”It is not in the gun rack, sir, nor in any of the corners.”

There was a pause. Fenley clearly forced the next words.

”That's all right. Bates may have it in the gun room. We'll ask him.

Or Mr. Robert may have taken it to the makers. I remember now he spoke of having the sight fitted with some new appliance.”

He called Bates. No, the missing rifle was not in the gun room.

Somehow the notion was forming in certain minds that it could not be there. Indeed, the keeper's confusion was so marked that Furneaux's glance dwelt on him for a contemplative second.

CHAPTER IV

BREAKING COVER

Winter drew the local Inspector aside. ”This inquiry rests with you in the first instance,” he said. ”Mr. Furneaux and I are here only to a.s.sist. Mr. Fenley telephoned to the Commissioner, mainly because Scotland Yard was called in to investigate a bond robbery which took place in the Fenley Bank some two months ago. Probably you never heard of it. Will you kindly explain our position to your Chief Constable?

Of course, we shall work with you and through you, but my colleague has reason to believe that the theft of the bonds may have some bearing on this murder, and, as the securities were disposed of in Paris, it is more than likely that the Yard may be helpful.”

”I fully understand, sir,” said the Inspector, secretly delighted at the prospect of joining in the hunt with two such renowned detectives.

The combined parishes of Easton and Roxton seldom produced a crime of greater magnitude than the theft of a duck. The arrest of a burglar who broke into a villa, found a decanter of whisky, and got so hopelessly drunk that he woke up in a cell at the police station, was an event of such magnitude that its memory was still lively, though the leading personage was now out on ticket of leave after serving five years in various penal settlements.

”You will prepare and give the formal evidence at the inquest, which will be opened tomorrow,” went on Winter. ”All that is really necessary is identification and a brief statement by the doctor. Then the coroner will issue the burial certificate, and the inquiry should be adjourned for a fortnight. I would recommend discretion in choosing a jury. Avoid busybodies like the plague. Summons only sensible men, who will do as they are told and ask no questions.”

”Exactly,” said the Inspector; he found Machiavellian art in these simple instructions. How it broadened the horizon to be brought in touch with London!

Winter turned to look for Furneaux. The little man was standing where Mortimer Fenley had stood in the last moment of his life. His eyes were fixed on the wood. He seemed to be dreaming, but his friend well knew how much clarity and almost supernatural vision was a.s.sociated with Furneaux's dreams.

”Charles!” said the Superintendent softly.

Furneaux awoke, and ran down the steps. In his straw hat and light Summer suit he looked absurdly boyish, but the Inspector, who had formed an erroneous first impression, was positively startled when he met those blazing black eyes.

<script>