Part 37 (2/2)

”I wonder what became of the rest of that wine?” said Winter, rolling the beer bottle in a s.h.i.+rt and stowing it away.

”I didn't dare ask. Tomlinson can put two and two together rather cleverly. He _almost_ interfered when Harris brought the decanter, so I dropped the wine question like a hot potato.”

”It had gone, though, when we came back from Robert's room. Hilton sent for it. Bet you another new hat he emptied----”

”You'll get no more new hats out of me,” growled Furneaux savagely, giving an extra pressure to a pair of sharp hooks which gripped the window sill, and from which the rope ladder could be dropped to the ground instantly.

”Sorry. Where did you retrieve that dirty towel?” For the little man had taken from a pocket an object which merited the description, and was placing it in his bag.

”It's one of Hilton's. He used it to wipe bark moss off his clothes.

Queer thing that such rascals always omit some trivial precaution. He should have burned the towel with the moccasins; but he don't. This towel will help to strangle him.”

”You're becoming a bloodthirsty detective,” mused Winter aloud. ”I've seldom seen you so vindictive. Why is it?”

”I dislike snakes, and this fellow is a poisonous specimen. If there were no snakes in the world, we should all be so happy!”

”Blessed if I see that.”

”I have always suspected that your religious education had been neglected. Read the Bible and Milton. Then you'll understand; and incidentally speak and write better English.”

”Can you suggest any means whereby I can grasp your jokes without being bored to weariness? They're more soporific than bromide. Anyhow, it's time we undressed.”

Though the blind was drawn the window was open; there was no knowing who might be watching from the garden, so they went through all the motions of undressing and placed their boots outside the door.

Then the light was switched off, the blind raised, and they dressed again rapidly, donning other boots. Each pocketed an automatic pistol and an electric torch and, by preconcerted plan, Winter sat by the window and Furneaux by the door. It was then a quarter to eleven, and they hardly looked for any developments until a much later hour, but they neglected no precaution. Unquestionably it would be difficult for any one to move about in that part of the house, or cross the gardens without attracting their attention.

Their room was situated on the south front, two doors from Sylvia's, and two from Hilton Fenley's bedroom. The door lay in shadow beyond the range of the light burning in the hall. Sylvia's room was farther along the corridor. The door of Hilton's bedroom occupied the same plane; the door of his sitting-room faced the end of the corridor.

The walls were ma.s.sive, as in all Tudor houses, and the doors so deeply recessed that there was s.p.a.ce for a small mat in front of each.

Ordinarily boots placed there were not visible in the line of the corridor, but the detectives' footgear stood well in view. There were two reasons for this. In the first place, Hilton Fenley might like to see them, so his highly probable if modest desire was gratified; secondly, when Parker visited Sylvia and quitted her, and when Sylvia went downstairs, Furneaux's head, lying between two pairs of boots, could scarcely be distinguished, while his scope of vision was only slightly, if at all, diminished.

Soon the girl's footsteps could be heard crossing the hall, and the raising of the drawing-room window and opening of the shutters were clearly audible. Winter, whose office had been a sinecure hitherto, now came into the scheme.

He saw Sylvia's slight form standing beneath, marked her hesitancy, and watched her slow progress down the terraces and into the park.

This nocturnal enterprise on her part was rather perplexing, and he was in two minds whether or not to cross the room and consult with Furneaux, when the latter suddenly withdrew his head, closed the door, and hissed ”Snore!”

Winter crept to a bed, and put up an artistic performance, a duet, musical, regular, not too loud. In a little while his colleague's ”S-s-t!” stopped him, and a slight crack of a finger against a thumb called him to the door, which was open again.

Explanation was needless. Hilton Fenley, like the other watchers, hearing the creaking of window and shutters, had looked out from his own darkened room. In all likelihood, thanking his stars for the happy chance given thus unexpectedly, he noted the direction the girl was taking, and acted as if prepared for this very development; the truth being, of course, that he was merely adapting his own plans to immediate and more favorable conditions.

Coming out into the corridor, he consulted his watch. Then he glanced in the direction of the room which held the two men he had cause to fear--such ample cause as he little dreamed of at that moment. To make a.s.surance doubly sure, he walked that way, not secretly, but boldly, since it was part of his project now to court observation--by others, at any rate, if not by the drugged emissaries of Scotland Yard. He waited outside the closed door and heard what he expected to hear, the snoring of two men sound asleep.

Returning, he did not reenter his own room, but crossed the head of the staircase to Robert's. He knocked lightly, and his brother's ”h.e.l.lo, there! Come in!” reached Furneaux's ears. Not a word of the remainder of the colloquy that ensued was lost on either of the detectives.

”Sorry to disturb you, Bob,” said Hilton, speaking from the doorway, ”but I thought you might not be in bed, and I've come to tell you that Sylvia has just gone out by way of the drawing-room and is wandering about the park.”

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