 Chapter 6 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Denkins. This LibriVox recording is in a public domain, recording by Anna Simon. The Stolen Admiralty Memorandum. 1. Well! cried Timms, one Saturday night, as he pushed open the kitchen door of the little flat he occupied over the garage. How's the cook, the stove, and the supper? I'm busy, said Mrs. Timms, a little fair woman, with blue eyes, an impertinent nose, and the inspiration of neatness in a dress, as she altered the position of a saucepan on the stove, and put two plates into the oven to warm. This was the invariable greeting between husband and wife. Timms went up behind her, ripped her elbows to her side, and kissed her noisily. I told you I was busy, she said. You did, Amelina, he responded. I heard you say so, and how's his nips? The last remark was addressed to an object that was crawling towards him, with incoherent cries and gurgles of delight. Stooping down, Timms picked up his 18-month-old son, and held him aloft, chuckling and mouthing his glee. You'll drop him one of these days, said Mrs. Timms, and then there'll be a pretty hella blue. Well, his fat and afterbounce, was the retold, ain't you, Jimmy? Neither Timms nor Mrs. Timms seemed to be conscious that, without variations, these same remarks had been made night after night, week after week, month after month. How's Mr. Sage? was the question with which Mrs. Timms always followed the reference to the bouncing of Jimmy. Like Donnie Walker, still going strong, glibly came the reply, just as it came every other night. He was asking about you today, added Timms. About me? Mrs. Timms turned all attention, her cooking for the time forgotten. Yes, wanted to know when I was going to divorce you. Don't be silly, Jim, she cried. What did they say, really now? She added, and she turned once more to the stove. Oh, you just asked if you were well, replied Timms, more interested in demonstrating with the person of his son how an aeroplane left the ground than in his wife's question. Anything else? inquired Mrs. Timms, prodding a potato with a fork to see if it was done. Timms was not deceived by the casual tone in which the question was asked. He was wont to say that, if his wife wanted his back teeth, she would get them. My dear, only to ask if his nips was flourishing, and with a gurgle of delight the aeroplane soared towards the ceiling. Mrs. Timms had not forgotten the time when Malcolm Sage visited her several times when she was ill with pneumonia. She never tired of telling her friends of his wonderful knowledge of household affairs. He had talked to her of cooking, of childish ailments, of shopping, in a way that had amazed her. Her knowledge seemed universal. He had explained to her, among other things, how cracknell biscuits were made, and why croup was so swift in its action. Timms vowed that the chief had done her more good than the doctor, and from that day Malcolm Sage had occupied chief place in Mrs. Timms' well-halla. Quaint saw the champ, the chief. Timms would remark sometimes, in connection with some professional episode. Pity, you're not as quaint! would flash back the retort from Mrs. Timms, whose conception of loyalty was more literal than that of her husband. Supper finished, and his nips put to bed. Timms proceeded to enjoy his pipe and evening paper, whilst Mrs. Timms got out of her sewing. From time to time Timms' eyes would wander over towards the telephone in the corner. Finally he folded up the paper, and proceeded to knock out the ashes from his pipe, preparatory to going to bed. His eyes took a last look at the telephone, just as Mrs. Timms glanced up. Don't sit there watching that telephone! She cried. Anyone would think you were wanting? Want a bell? Now perhaps you're happy, cried Mrs. Timms, as he rose to answer the call whilst she put on the kettle to make hot coffee to fill the thermos flasks, without which she never allowed the car to go out at night. It was her tribute to the chief. Two. In his more expensive moments Malcolm Sage would liken himself to a general practitioner in a diseased infected district. It is true that there was no speaking tube with a terrifying whistle a few feet from his head, but the telephone by his bedside was always liable to arouse him from sleep at any hour of the night. As Timms had folded up his newspaper with a few tube bed, Malcolm Sage was removing his collar before the mirror on his dressing table when his telephone bell rang. Rogers, his man, looked interrogatingly at his master, who, shaking his head, passed over to the instrument and took up the receiver. Yes, this is Malcolm Sage. Speaking. Yes. Then for a few minutes he listened with an impassive face. I'll be off within ten minutes. The tower is holding him near Guildford. I understand. While he was speaking, Rogers, a little, shallow-faced man with fish-like eyes and expressionless face, had moved over to the other telephone and was droning in a monotonous, uninflected voice. Chief once car in five minutes. It was part of Malcolm Sage's method to train his subordinates to realize the importance of intelligent and logical inference. Returning to the dressing table, Malcolm Sage took up another collar, slipped a tie between the fold, and proceeded to put it on. As he did so, he gave instructions to Rogers, who, notebook in hand and with an expression of indifference that seemed to say Kismet, silently recorded his instructions. My address will be the Towers holding him near Guildford, beyond a lookout for messages. Without a word, Rogers closed the book, and picking up a suitcase which was always ready for emergencies, he left the room. Two minutes later, Malcolm Sage followed, and, without a word, entered the closed car that had just drawn up before his flat in the Adelphi. Rogers returned to the flat, switched the telephone on to his own room, and prepared himself for the night, whilst Malcolm Sage, having eaten a biscuit and drunk some of Mrs. Tim's hot coffee, lay back to sleep as the car rushed along the Portsmouth Road. In the library at the Towers, three men were seated, their faces lined and drawn as if some great misfortune had suddenly descended upon them, yet their senses were alert, they were listening. He ought to be here any minute now, said Mr. Llewellyn John, the Prime Minister, taking out his watch for the hundredth time. Solister Grayne, First Lord of the Admiralty, shook his head. He should do it in an hour, said Lord Beamedale, the Secretary of War, if he's got a man who knows the road. Sage is sure, began Solister. Then he stopped abruptly, and turned in the direction of the further window. A soft tapping as of a fingernail upon a pane of glass was clearly distinguishable. It seized for a few seconds, recommenced, then seized again. Mr. Llewellyn John looked first at Solister, and then on towards where Lord Beamedale sat, having a frame and impassive of feature. Solister rose, and walked quickly over to the window. As he approached, the tapping recommenced. Swinging back the curtain, he disappeared into the embrasure. The others, who heard the sound of the window being raised, and then closed again. A moment later, Malcolm Sage appeared, followed by Solister, who once more drew the curtain. At the side of Malcolm Sage, Mr. Llewellyn John's features relaxed from their drawn, tense expression. A look of relief flashed momentarily into Lord Beamedale's fish-like eyes. �Thank God you've come, Sage!� cried Mr. Llewellyn John, with a sigh of relief as he grasped Malcolm Sage's hand as if it had been a life-belt, and he, a drowning man. �I think you've met Lord Beamedale,� he added. Malcolm Sage bowed to the War Minister. Then, with great deliberation, removed his overcoat, carefully folded it, and placed it upon a chair, laying his cap on top. He then selected a chair at the table that gave him a clear view of the faces of the three ministers, and sat down. �Why did you come to the window?� inquired Solister, as he resumed his own seat. �Did you know this was the library?� �I saw a crack of light between the curtains,� replied Malcolm Sage. �It may be desirable that no one should know I have been here,� he added. �Something terrible has happened, Sage!� broke in the Prime Minister, his voice shaking with excitement. He had with difficulty contained himself whilst Malcolm Sage was taking off his overcoat and explaining his reason for entering by the window. It's—it's—his voice broke. �Perhaps Solister will tell me,� or Lord Beamedale,� suggested Malcolm Sage, looking from one to the other. Lord Beamedale shook his head. �Just a bare outline, Solister,� said Malcolm Sage, spreading out his fingers before him, slowly, deliberately, and with perfect self-possession, Solister explained what had happened. �The Prime Minister and Lord Beamedale came down with me on Thursday night to spend the weekend,� he said. �Incidentally, we were to discuss a very important matter connected with his country's, um, foreign policy.� The hesitation was only momentary. Lord Beamedale brought with him a document of an extremely private nature. This I had sent to him earlier in the week for consideration and comment. If that document were to get to a certain embassy in London, no one can foretell the calamitous results. It might even result in another war, if not now, certainly later. It was, I should explain, of a private and confidential nature, and consequently, quite frankly, expressed. �And you must remember,� began Mr. Lohan-John excitedly. �One moment, sir,� said Malcolm Sage quietly, without looking up from an absorbed contemplation of a bronze letter-weight fashioned in the form of his swings. Mr. Lohan-John sank back into his chair, and Solista resumed. �Just over an hour and a half ago,� that is to say, soon after eleven o'clock, it was discovered that the document in question was missing, and in its place had been substituted a number of sheets of blank paper. �Unless it's found Sage,� cried Mr. Lohan-John, jumping up from his chair in his excitement, �the consequences are too awful to contemplate.� For a few seconds he strode up and down the room, then returning to his chair, sank back into its comfortable depths. �Where was the document kept?� inquired Malcolm Sage, his long, sensitive fingers stroking the back of the swings. �In the safe,� replied Solista, indicating with a nod a small safe let in to the wall. �You are in the habit of using it for valuable documents,� inquired Malcolm Sage. �As a matter of fact, very seldom, it is mostly empty,� was the reply. �Why? I have a larger safe in my dressing-room in which I keep my papers. During the day I occasionally use this to save going up and downstairs. �Where do you keep the key?� �When there is anything in the safe I always carried about with me. �And at other times?� �Sometimes in a drawer in my writing table,� said Solista, �but generally I have it on me.� �When was the document put into the safe?� �At a quarter to eight tonight,� just the second dressing-gong was sounding. �And you yourself put it in,� locked the door, and have retained the key ever since?� Malcolm Sage had exhausted the interest of the swings, and was now drawing diagrams with his forefinger upon the moroccan surface of the table. �Solista nodded.� �I put the key in the pocket of my evening-vest when I changed,� he said. After the other guests had retired, the Prime Minister raised the point that necessitated reference to the document itself. It was then I discovered the substitution. �But for that circumstance the safe would not have been opened until when?� queried Malcolm Sage. �Late to-night, when I should have transferred the packet to the safe in my dressing-room.� �Would you have examined the contents?� �No, it's my rule to cut a grift from official matters from dinnertime on Saturday until after breakfast on Monday. It was only in deference to the Prime Minister's particular wish that we refer to the document to-night. �I take it that the rule you mention is known to your guests and servants?� �Certainly.� �There is no doubt that it was the document itself that you put in the safe?� �None. The Prime Minister and Lord Beamedale saw me do it.� �No doubt whatever,� corroborated Mr. Llewellyn John, whilst Lord Beamedale worked his head like a Mandarin. �Does anyone else know that it is missing?� asked Malcolm Sage after a short pause. Solister shook his head. �Only we three.� �And, of course, the thief,� he added. Malcolm Sage nodded. He had tired of the diagrams, and now set stroking the back of his head. �Has anyone left the house since the discovery?� �That is, as far as you know,� he queried at length. �No one,� said Solister. �The servants, of course, have access to this room?� �Yes, but only Walters, my butler, is likely to come here in the evening, except, of course, my secretary.� �Where does he dine?� �Miss Blair,� corrected Solister, always takes her meals in her own sitting-room, where she works. It is situated at the back of the house on the ground floor. �Again,� Malcolm Sage was silent, this time for a longer period. �So far as you know, then,� he said at length, addressing Solister, �only three people in the house were acquainted with the existence of the document, you, the prime minister, and Lord Beamedale.� Solister inclined his head. �You are certain of that?� Malcolm Sage looked up swiftly and keenly. �Your secretary, and Lady Grain, for instance, they knew nothing about it? �Nothing, of that I am absolutely certain,� replied Solister, coldly. �And the nature of the document?� inquired Malcolm Sage. Solister looked across at Mr. Lou Anne John, who turned interrogatingly to Lord Beamedale. �I am afraid it is of too private a nature to� he hesitated. �If you require me to trace something,� said Malcolm Sage, evenly, �you must at least tell me what that something is.� �It is a document which� began Lord Beamedale. Then he too paused. �But surely Sage,� broken Mr. Lou Anne John, �is it not necessary to know the actual constants?� �If you had lost something and would not tell me whether it was a dog or a diamond, would you expect me to find it?� �But� began Mr. Lou Anne John. �I am afraid we are wasting time,� said Malcolm Sage, rising. �I would suggest Scotland Yard. The official police must work under any handicap imposed. I regret that I am unable to do so.� He walked across to the chair where lay his cap and coat. �Now Sage,� said Mr. Lou Anne John tactfully. �You mustn�t let us down. You really mustn�t.� Then, turning to Solista, he said, �I can see his point. If he doesn�t know the nature of the document, he cannot form a theory as to who is likely to have taken it.� Perhaps under the circumstances grain we might take Sage into our confidence, at least to such extent as he thinks necessary.� Solista made no response, whilst Lord Beamedale, whose economy and words had earned for him the subricade of Lord Dumbeam, sat with impassive face. �Perhaps I can help you,� said Malcolm Sage, still standing by the chair on which lay his cap and coat. At the end of every great wall the plans departments of the Admiralty and the War Office are busy preparing for the next war. �I suggest that this document was the Admiralty draft of a plan of operations to be put into force in the event of war occurring between this country and an extremely friendly power. It was submitted to the War Office for criticism and comment as far as land operations were concerned. Another power, unfriendly to the friendly power, would find in this document a very valuable red herring to draw across the path of its own perplexities.� �Good heavens!� cried Mr. Luan John, starting upright in his chair. �How on earth did you know?� �It seems fairly obvious,� said Malcolm Sage, as he returned to his chair and resumed his stroking of the Sphinx's back. �Who else knew of the existence of the document?� he inquired. �No one outside the Admiralty and the War�� Solister stopped suddenly. From the corridor, apparently just outside the library door, came the sound of a suppressed scream, followed by a bump against the woodwork. Rising and moving swiftly across the room, Solister threw open the door, revealing a gap of darkness into which a moment later slid two figures, a pretty fair-haired girl and a wise and little Japanese with large round spectacles and an automatic smile. �I�m so sorry, Solister� folded the girl as she stepped timidly into the room. �But I was frightened!� someone had switched off the lights and I ran into� she turned to the Japanese, who stood deprecating and nervous on the threshold. �I lose my passage� he said, bearing his teeth still further. �I go to find the secret case of my master.� he leave it in billiard-room. �I go� with a motion of his hand Solister dismissed the man who slipped away as if relieved at getting off so lightly. �You�re up late, Mr. Blair� he said coolly, turning to the girl. �I�m so sorry� she said, but Lady Graying gave me some letters and there was so much copying for you that� she paused, then added nervously. �I didn�t know it was so late.� �We�d better go to bed now� said Solister, with a charming smile she passed out, Solister closing the door behind her, as he turned into the room his eye caught sight of the chair in which Malcolm Sage had been sitting. �Where�s Mr. Sage?� he looked from Mr. Llewellyn John to Lord Beamedale. As he spoke Malcolm Sage appeared from the embrasure of the window through which he had entered and where he had taken cover as Solister rose to open the door. �You see, Sage is not supposed to be here� explained Mr. Llewellyn John. �Your secretary has an expensive taste and perfume� remarked Malcolm Sage casually as he resumed his seat. �It often characterizes an intensely emotional nature� he added musingly. �Emotional nature� repeated Solister, as a matter of fact she is extremely practical and self-possessed. �You are saying�� he concluded, with the air of a man who dismisses a trifling subject in favour of one of some importance. �Diplomatists should be trained physiognomists� remarked Malcolm Sage. �A man�s mouth rarely lies, a woman�s never� Solister stared. �Now� continued Malcolm Sage, �I should like to know who is staying here�. Solister proceeded to give some details of the guests and The domestic staff comprised twenty-one and none had been in Solister�s employ for less than three years. There were all excellent servants of irreproachable character who had come to him with good references. Seventeen of the twenty-one lived in the house. There were also four ladies-mates and five men�s servants attached to the guests. Among the men�s servants was Sir Jeffrey Trawler�s Japanese valid. There was something in Solister�s voice, as he mentioned this fact that caused Malcolm Sage to look up at him sharply. �The man you�ve just seen� Solister explained. �He�s been the cause of some little difficulty in the servants�s hall. They object to sitting down to meals with the Chinaman, as they call him. �He seems intelligent� remarked Malcolm Sage casually. �On the contrary, he�s an extremely stupid creature� was the reply. �He�s continually losing himself. Only yesterday morning I myself found him wondering about the corridor leading to my own bedroom. Solister has also mentioned the matter to me. Solister then passed on to the guests. They comprised Mrs. Selton, an aunt of Solister, Sir Jeffrey and Lady Trawler, old friends of their hostess, Lady Windill and her two daughters. There were also Mr. Gerald Nash, MP, and Mr. Mrs. Richard Winnington, old friends of Solister and Lady Grain. �Later I may require a list of the guests� said Malcolm Sage, when Solister had completed the account. �You said, I think, that the key of the safe was sometimes left in an accessible place. �Yes, in a drawer, so that anyone having access to the room could easily have taken a wax impression.� Solister flushed slightly. �There is no one� he began. �There is always a potential someone� corrected Malcolm Sage, raising his eyes suddenly and fixing them full upon Solister. �The question is, Sage,� broken Mr. Llewellyn John tactfully. �What are we to do? �I should first like to see the inside of the safe and the dummy packet� said Malcolm Sage, rising. �No, I will open it myself if you will give me the key� he added, as Solister rose and moved over to the safe. Taking the key, Malcolm Sage kneeled before the safe door, and, by the light of an electric torch, surveyed the whole surface with keen-sided eyes. Then, placing the key in the lock, he turned it and swam back the door, revealing a long official envelope as the sole contents. This he examined carefully, without touching it. His head thrust inside the safe. �Is this the same envelope as that in which the document was enclosed?� he inquired, without looking round. The three men had risen and were grouped behind Malcolm Sage, watching him with keen interest. �It's the same kind of envelope, but� began Solister, when Lord Beamedill interrupted. �It's the envelope itself,� he said. �I noticed that the right-hand top corner was bent in rather a peculiar manner.� Malcolm Sage rose, and, taking out the envelope, carefully examined the damaged corner, which was bent and slightly torn. �Yes, it's the same,� cried Mr. Lou Anne John. �I remember tearing it myself when putting in the document. How many leaves of paper were there?� inquired Malcolm Sage. �Eight,� I think,� replied Solister. �Nine,� corrected Lord Beamedill. �There was a leaf in front, blank, but for the words, �Planse Department.� �Have you another document from the same Department?� inquired Malcolm Sage of Solister. �Several. I should like to see one.� Solister left the room, and Malcolm Sage removed the contents of the envelope, carefully counting nine leaves of blank white full-scap. He bent down over the paper, with his face almost touching it. When Solister re-entered with another document in his hand, Malcolm Sage took it from him, and proceeded to subject it to an equally closed scrutiny, holding up to the light each sheet in succession. �I suppose,� Solister, �you don't buy any chance you sent� inquired Malcolm Sage, without looking up. �Mr. Sage,� Solister was on his dignity. �I see you don't� was Malcolm Sage's calm comment, as he resumed his examination of the dummy document. Replacing it in the envelope, he returned to the safe, closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. �Well, what do you make of it?� cried Mr. Llewellyn John eagerly. �We shall have to take the postmaster general into our confidence. �Waldington?� cried Mr. Llewellyn John in astonishment. �Why?� Solister looked surprised, whilst Lord Beamedill appeared almost interested. �Because we shall probably require his help.� �How?� inquired Solister. �Well, it's rather dangerous to temper with his majesty's mails without the connivance of St. Martin's lagun,� was the dry retort. �But� began Mr. Llewellyn John, when suddenly he stopped short. Malcolm Sage had walked over to where his overcoat lay, and was deliberately getting into it. �You're not going, Mr. Sage!� Solister's granite-like control seemed momentarily to forsake him. �What do you advise us to do?� �Get some sleep� was the quiet reply. �But aren't you going to search for� he paused as Malcolm Sage turned and looked full at him. �A search would involve the very publicity your anxious to avoid� was the reply. �But� began Mr. Llewellyn John, when Malcolm Sage interrupted him. �The only effective search would be to surround the house with police, and allow each occupant to pass through the cordon after having been stripped. The house would then have to be gone through. Carpets and boards pull up, mattresses ripped open, chairs. �I agree with Mr. Sage,� said Solister, looking across at the Prime Minister coldly. �Had I been a magazine detective, I should have known exactly where to find the missing document,� said Malcolm Sage. �As I am not� he turned to Solister. �It will be necessary for you to leave a note for your butler telling him that you have dropped somewhere about the house the key of this safe, and instructing him to have a thorough search made for it. You might casually mention a loss at breakfast, and refer to an important document inside the safe which you must have on Monday morning. Perhaps the Prime Minister will suggest telephoning to town for a man to come down to force the safe should the key not be found.� Malcolm Sage paused. The others were gazing at him with keen interest. �Leave the note unfolded in a conspicuous place where anyone can see it,� he continued. �I'll put it on the whole table,� said Solister. Malcolm Sage nodded. �It is desirable that you should all appear to be in the best of spirits.� There was a fluttering at the corners of Malcolm Sage's mouth as he lifted his eyes for a second through the almost lucruous countenance of Lord Beamedale. �And there are no circumstances referred to the robbery, even amongst yourselves. Try to forget it.� �But how will that help?� inquired Mr. Llewellyn John, whose nature rendered him singularly ill-adapted to take a walking-on part. �I will ask you, sir� said Malcolm Sage, turning to him. �To give me a letter to Mr. Wildington, asking him to do as I request. I will give him the details.� �But why is it necessary to tell him?� demanded Solister. �That I will explain to you to-morrow. It will be Monday,� explained Malcolm Sage, earlier if possible. �A few lines will do,� he added, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John. �I suppose we must,� said the Prime Minister, looking from Solister to Lord Beamedale. �I hope to call before lunch,� said Malcolm Sage. �But as Mr. LeSage from the Foreign Office, you will refuse to discuss official matters until Monday. �I shall probably ask you to introduce me to everyone you can. It may happen that I shall disappear suddenly. � �But cannot you be a little less mysterious,� said Solister, with a touch of asperity in his voice. �There is nothing mysterious,� replied Malcolm Sage. �It seems quite obvious. Everything depends upon how clever the thief is.� He looked up suddenly, his gaze passing from one to another of the bewildered ministers. �It is by no means obvious to me,� cried Mr. Llewellyn John, complainingly. �By the way, Solister, how many cars have you in the garage?� inquired Malcolm Sage. �In case we want them,� he added. �I have two, and there are,� he paused for a moment. �Five others,� he added. �Seven in all. �Any carriages or dock carts?� �No, we have no horses.� �Bicycles?� �A few of the servants have them,� replied Solister, a little impatiently. �The bicycles are also kept in the garage, I take it?� �They are.� �This time there was no mistaking the note of irritation in Solister's voice. �There may be several messengers from Whitehall to-morrow,� said Malcolm Sage, after a pause. �Please keep them waiting until they show signs of impatience. It is important. Whatever happens here, it would be better not to acquaint the police. Whatever happens,� he added with emphasis. �And now, sir,� he turned to Mr. Llewellyn John. �I should like that note to the postmaster general. �Mr. Llewellyn John sat down reluctantly at the table and wrote a note. � �But suppose that Thieve hands the document to an accomplice,� said Solister presently, with something like a motion in his voice. �That's exactly what I am supposing,� was Malcolm Sage's reply, and taking the note that Mr. Llewellyn John held out to him, he placed it in his breast pocket, buttoned up his overcoat, and walked across the window through which he had entered, with one hand upon the curtain he turned. �If I call, you may notice that I have acquired a slight foreign accent,� he said, and with that he slipped behind the curtain. A moment later the sound was heard of the window being quietly opened and then shut again. �Well, I'm damned!� cried Lord Beamedale, and for the moment Mr. Llewellyn John and Solister forgot their surprise at Malcolm Sage's actions in their astonishment at their colleague's remark. End of chapter 6. Chapter 7 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins. When Mr. Wolters descended the broad staircase of the towers on the Sunday morning, he found two things to disturb him. Solister's note on the hall table, and the Japanese valet lost in the conservatory. He read the one with the tension, and rebuked the other with acrimony. Having failed to find the missing key himself, he proceeded to the housekeeper's room, and poured into the large and receptive ear of Mrs. Eames the story of his woes. �And this is Sunday, too!� the housekeeper was just remarking in a fat, comfortable voice when Richards, the chauffeur, burst unceremoniously into the room. �Someone's taken the pencils from all the magnetos!� he shouted angrily, his face moist with heat and lubricant. �Is that your only excuse for bursting into a lady's room without knocking?� inquired Mr. Wolters, with an austere dignity he had copied directly from Solister. �If you apply it to me presently, I will lend you a pencil, in the meantime. �But it's burglars! They've broken into the garage, and taken the pencils from every magneto, every blink and one!� he added by way of emphasis. At the mention of the word burglars, Mr. Wolters' professional composure of feature momentarily forsook him, and his jaw dropped. Recovering himself instantly, however, he hastened out of the room, closely followed by Richards, leaving Mrs. Eames speechless, the oval, cameo-lockered, heaving up and down upon her indignant black silk bosom. A man had sworn in her presence, and had departed unrabuked. On reaching the garage, Mr. Wolters gazed vaguely about him. He was entirely unversed in mechanics, and Richards persisted in pouring forth stachnicalities that bewildered him. The chauffeur also cursed loudly and with inspiration, until reminded that it was Sunday, when he lowered his voice, at the same time increasing the density of his language. Mr. Wolters was frankly disappointed. There was no outward sign of burglars. At length he turned interrogatingly to Richards. Just going to tune him up, I was, explained Richards for the 20th time, when I found the Bloomin' engines had gone wonky, and then found the engines had gone what? inquired Mr. Wolters. Wonky, dirt, napew, explained Richards illuminatingly, whilst Mr. Wolters gazed at him icely. Then in comes Davies. He continued, nodding in the direction of a little round-faced man, with chauffeur written on every inch of him. And he couldn't get his blinkin' up turn either. Then we started lookin' round. When low and be old, what do we find? Some streamin' saturated son of sin and whiskers has pinched the ready pencils out of the scarlet magnidos. The floats gone from my carburetor. The voice came from a long, lean man who appeared suddenly out of the shadows at the far end of the garage. Without a word, Richards and Davies dashed each to a car. A minute later, two yells announced that the floats from their carburetors also had disappeared. Later Richards told how that morning he had found the door of the garage unfastened, although it was certain that he had locked it the night before. This was sufficient for Mr. Wolters. Fleeing from the bewildering flood of technicalities and profanity of the three chauffeurs, he made his way direct to Solista's room. Here he told his tale and was instructed instantly to telephone to the police. At the telephone further trouble awaited him. He could get no reply from the exchange. He tried the private wire to the Admiralty, but with no better result. He accordingly reported the matter to Solista, who was by then with Lord Beamedale in the library. It was the minister of war who reminded his host of Malcolm Sage's strange request that whatever happened, the police were not to be communicated with. But Sage could not have anticipated this, this, monster's outrage! protested Solista, white with anger. He had already imperiously put aside Lord Beamedale's suggestion that the whole affair might be a joke. Still, bad adieu as he said, was the rejoinder, and as later Mr. Llewellyn John concurred, Solista decided to await the arrival of Malcolm Sage before taking further steps. One by one the guests drifted down to breakfast, went out to the garage to see for themselves, and then returned to discuss the affair over coffee and kidneys, tea and toast. It subsequently transpired that, without exception, the cars had been entirely put out of commission. From each the pencil had been removed from the magneto, and the float from the carburetor. From the bicycles the pedals had been taken away, but the exception of those belonging to Miss Blair and one of the housemates, the only two ladies' machines in the place. A veritable Claude Duval, someone remarked, but this brought little consolation to the owners of the wrecked cars. It was a fine day, too, which added to their sense of hardship. As Solista left the breakfast room, he encountered Miss Blair crossing the hall. She looked very fresh and pretty, with a demure, almost childlike expression of feature. Her cheeks were flushed with health and exercise. Would you like me to cycle over to Otford to the police? She inquired. My machine is quite all right. I've just been for a spin. No. Not at present. Thank you, Miss Blair, said Solista, a little embarrassed at having to refuse to do the obvious thing. He passed across the hall into the library, and Miss Blair, having almost fallen over the Japanese valet, lost in a corridor leading to the billiard room, went out to condole with Richards and tell him of his strange epidemic of mishaps that seemed to have descended upon the neighborhood. She herself had passed a motorcycle, two push bicycles, and a Ford car, all disabled by the roadside. All that morning the Prime Minister, Solista, and Lord Beamedill, waited and wondered. Finding the strain of trying to look cheerful too much for them, they shut themselves up in the library on the plea of pressing official business. This, in spite of Solista's well-known weekend rule. Hour after hour passed, yet not only did Malcolm Sage fail to put in an appearance, but nothing was heard or seen of the promised bogus official messengers. At luncheon more than one guest remarked upon the distraught and absent-minded appearance of the three ministers, and reduced from the circumstance a grave political crisis. The afternoon dragged its lead and cause. Throughout the house there was an atmosphere of unrest. Among themselves the guests complained, because no action had been taken to track down the dispoiler of their cars. Walters had rendered the lives of the domestic staff intolerable by insisting upon search for the missing key being made in the most unlikely and inaccessible places, although in his own mind he was convinced that it had been stolen by the errand Japanese. In the library sat the three ministers, for the most part gazing either at one another or at nothing in particular. They were waiting for something to happen. None knew quite what. Dinner passed, a jerry meal. The ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, but still the heavy atmosphere of foreboding remained. It was nearly half-past nine when Walters entered and murmured something in Solicitor's ear. An eager light sprang into Mr. Lohan and John's eyes as the First Lord Rose made his apologies and left the room. It was only by the exercise of great self-control that the Prime Minister refrained from jumping up and bolting after him. Two minutes later, Walters again entered the dining-room with a request that Mr. Lohan and John and Lord Beamedale would join Solicitor in the library. As Walters threw open the library door, they found Malcolm Sage seated at the table, his fingers spread out before him, whilst Solicitor stood by the fireplace. Ask Miss Blair if she will come here to take down an important letter, Walters, said Solicitor. Well, cried Mr. Lohan and John as soon as Walters had closed the door behind him. Have you got it? The document is now in a strong room at the General Post Office, said Malcolm Sage without looking up. I thought it would be safer there. Thank God! cried Mr. Lohan and John, collapsing into a chair. Malcolm Sage glanced across at him and half-rose. I'm all right, Sage, said Mr. Lohan and John, but coming after this awful day of anxiety, their news was almost too much for me. Who took it from the safe, then? inquired Solicitor. I— He stopped short as the door opened and Miss Blair entered, notebook in hand, looking very dainty in a simple grey frock, relieved by a bunch of clove carnations at the waist. Closing the door behind her, she hesitated for a moment, a smile upon her moist, slightly parted lips. I'm sorry to disturb you, Miss Blair, began Solicitor, but Mr. Sage—he paused. It was Miss Blair who removed the document from the safe, said Malcolm Sage quietly, his eyes bent upon the fingertips of his right hand. Miss Blair! cried Solicitor, his hand dropping from the mental piece to his side. For the fraction of a second the girl stood just inside the door, then, as a significance of Malcolm Sage's words dawned upon her, the smile froze upon her lips, the blood ebbed from her face, leaving it drawn and grey, and the notebook dropped from her fingers. She staggered forward a few steps, then, clutching wildly at the edge of the table, she swayed from side to side. With an obvious effort she steadied herself, her gaze fixed upon her accuser. Slowly Malcolm Sage raised his eyes, cold, grey, inflexible, and fixed them upon the terrified girl. The three ministers appeared not yet to have realized the true nature of the drama being enacted before them. Miss Blair! said Malcolm Sage quietly. What are your relations with Paul Cressit? Twice she essayed to speak, but no sound came. I—I—I know him! she folded at length. I wandered, said Malcolm Sage, slowly. What does this mean, Miss Sage? inquired Solista. I will tell you, said Malcolm Sage, whilst Lord Beamedill placed her chair into which Miss Blair collapsed. Last night, whilst you were at dinner, Miss Blair opened your safe with a duplicate key made from a waxing pression. She abstracted a valuable document, putting in its place some sheets of blank paper. He paused. Go on! almost gasped Miss Lou Ellen John. She took the document to her room and hid it, a little uncertain as to how she should get it to her accomplice. This morning she saw Solista's note on the hall-table, and, emboldened by the thought that the theft had not been discovered, she cycled out to Otford and posted the document to Paul Cressit at his chambers in German Street. Again, Malcolm Sage paused and drew from his pocket a note. In the envelope was enclosed this note. He handed to Mr Lou Ellen John a half sheet of paper on which was typed. Paul, dearest, I've done it. I will bring you up tomorrow. I shall ask for Tuesday off. You'll keep your promise, dear, and save me, won't you? If you don't, I shall kill myself. Gee! Miss Blair, said Solista, coldly, what have you to say? Nothing, she folded, striving to moisten her great lips. If you will tell the truth, said Malcolm Sage, you still have a chance. If not, he paused significantly. She gulped noisily, striving to regain her power of speech. You, you promise? She looked across at Mr Lou Ellen John. Whatever Mr Sage says, we endorse, he replied gravely. Both of us, she repeated. Both, said Malcolm Sage. I, I love him, she moaned. Then, after a pause, she added, it was to save the disgrace. He promised. He swore he would, if I did it. Swore he would do what, said Malcolm Sage. Marry me. Malcolm Sage raised his eyes to Solista, who was standing implacable and merciless. The girl's head had fallen forward upon the table, and her shoulders were heaving convulsively. Rising, Malcolm Sage walked across and placed his hand upon her arm. It will be better for everybody if you will try and control yourself, he said gently. And above all, tell us the truth. As if surprised at the gentleness of his tone, she slowly raised her drawn face and looked at him in wonder. Now, listen to me, continued Malcolm Sage, drawing up a chair and seating himself beside her, and tell me if I am wrong. Whilst you were acting as Solista's secretary, you met Paul Cresset at the Admiralty and you were attracted to him. She nodded with a quick in-drawing of her breath. He made violent love to you, and you succumbed. Later you took him into your confidence in regard to a certain matter, and he promised to marry you. He put you off from time to time by various excuses. You were almost distracted at the thought of the disgrace. He persuaded you to take a wax impression of Solista's key on the chance of it one day being useful. Again she nodded whilst the three men listened as if hypnotized. Finally he swore that he would marry you if he would steal this document, and he showed you a special license. Am I right? She nodded again and then buried her head in her arms. I suppose, said Malcolm Sage quietly, he did not happen to mention that he was already married. Married? she started up, her eyes blazing. It isn't true. Oh, it isn't true! she cried. I'm afraid it is, said Malcolm Sage, with feeling in his voice. With a moan of despair her head fell forward upon the table, and hard, dry sobs shook her frail body. Miss Blair, said Malcolm Sage, presently, when she had somewhat regained her self-control. My advice to you is to write out a full confession, and bring it to me at my office tomorrow morning. It is your only chance, and now you must go to your room. He rose, assisted her to her feet, and led her to the door which he closed behind her. That, I think, concludes the inquiry, he said, as he walked over to the fireplace, and, leaning against the mental piece, he began to fill his pipe. Unless, he added, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John, you would like to see Cressit. The Prime Minister looked across at Solista, and then at Lord Beamedale. Both shook their heads. What we should like, Sage, said Mr. Llewellyn John, with little information as to what has been happening. With great deliberation, Malcolm Sage proceeded to light his pipe. When it was drawing to his entire satisfaction, he turned to Mr. Llewellyn John, and, with a suspicion of a fluttering at the corners of his mouth, remarked, I hope you have not been inconvenienced about the telephone. We could get no reply from the exchange, said Solista, and the wire to the abnormality is out of order. I had to disconnect you after I left this morning, said Malcolm Sage, quietly. My chauffeur swarmed up one of the standards. Incidentally, he wrecked an almost new pair of breeches. I have to go in the naval estimates, cried Mr. Llewellyn John, who is feeling almost jovial now the tension that the past 24 hours have been removed. From the first, proceeded Malcolm Sage, it was obvious that this theft was planned either at the abnormality or at the war-office. That has absurd, cried Solista with heat, whilst Lord Beamedale leaned forward, his usually apathetic expression of indifference giving place to one of keen interest. I accepted the assurance that only three people in this house knew of the existence of the document. Malcolm Sage proceeded as if there had been no interruption. There was no object in any of those three persons stealing that to which they had ready access. Lord Beamedale noddled his agreement with the reasoning. Therefore, continued Malcolm Sage, the theft must have been planned by someone who knew about the document before it came here, and furthermore knew that it was to be here at a certain time. To confirm this hypothesis we have the remarkable circumstances that the blank paper substituted for the original document was, in quality, and a number of sheets, identical with that of the document itself. Good! ejaculated Lord Beamedale, himself a keen mathematician. Mr. Llewellyn John and Solista exchanged glances. It was almost, but not quite, obvious that the exchange had been affected by a woman. How obvious! inquired Mr. Llewellyn John. Few women passed unperfumed to the grave, quoted Malcolm Sage. I think it was critic who said that, he added, that Mr. Llewellyn John made a mental note of the phrase. The handle of the safe door was corrugated, and the lacquer had worn off, leaving it rough till touch. When I kneeled down before the safe, it was not to examine the metalwork, but to see if the thief had left a scent. A scent? repeated Solista. On the handle of the door there was a distinct trace of perfume, very slight, but I have a keen sense of smell, although a great smoker. On the document itself there was also evidence of a rather expensive perfume, not unlike that used by Miss Blair. Furthermore, it was bent in a rather peculiar manner, which might have resulted from its being carried in the belt of a wound's frock. It might, of course, have been mere chance, he added, but the envelope did not show a corresponding bend. Again Lord Beamedill nodded appreciatively. Although several people have had an opportunity of taking a wax impression of the key, the most likely were Miss Blair and Walters. That, however, was a side issue. How? inquired Solista. Because primarily we were concerned with making the criminal himself or herself divulge the secret. That's why you would not allow the loss to be made known, broke in Mr. Lohan and John. The thief, continued Malcolm Sage, with a slight inclination of his head, would in all probability seize the first safe opportunity of getting rid of the plunder. But did you not suspect the Japanese? Broke in Lord Beamedill. For the moment I ruled him out, said Malcolm Sage, as I could not see how it was possible for him to know about the existence of the document in question, and furthermore, as he had been in the house less than two days, there was no time for him to get a duplicate key. What did you do then? queried Solista. I, motored back to town, broke in upon the postmaster general's first sleep, sat on foot inquiries at the Admiralty and War Office, in the meantime, arranging for the towers to be carefully watched. Malcolm Sage paused for a moment. Then, as none of his hearers spoke, he continued, I had a number of people in the neighbourhood, motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians. No one could have left the house and grounds without being seen. Miss Blair found the morning irresistible, and took an early spin on her bicycle to Otford, where she posted a packet in a pillar-box situated in a street that was apparently quite empty. And you secured it, inquired Mr. Llewellyn John, leaning forward eagerly. I am afraid I quite spoiled the local postmaster's Sunday by requesting that a pillar-box should be specially cleared and producing an authority from the postmaster general, after he had telegraphed to headquarters and received a reply confirming the letter, he reluctantly acquiesced. And it was addressed to this man Cressid, inquired Solista. Yes, he is a temporary staff clerk in the plan's department. Incidentally, he is something of a don Juan, and the cost of living has increased considerably. As you know, sir, he added, turning to the Prime Minister. Mr. Llewellyn John smiled whenly. It was his political cross, this cost of living problem. And what shall we do with him? inquired Solista. The scoundrel, he added. I have almost done with him as a major effect, said Malcolm Sage. Done with him? exclaimed Lord Beendil. I sent him a telegram in Miss Blair's name to be at Otford Station tonight at seven. Then I kidnapped him. Good Heaven, Sage! What do you mean? cried Mr. Llewellyn John, with visions of the habeas corpus act and possible questions in the house which he hated. We managed to get him to enter my car, and then we went through him, that is a phrase from the crook world. We found upon him the marriage certificate, and later I induced him to confess. I am now going to take him back to my office, secure his fingerprints and physical measurements, which will be of interest at Scotland Yard. But we are not going to prosecute, said Mr. Llewellyn John anxiously. Mr. Paul Cresset will have forty-eight hours in which to leave the country, said Malcolm Sage, evenly. He will not return, because Scotland Yard will see that he does not do so. There will probably be an application to you, sir, Malcolm Sage continued, turning to Mr. Llewellyn John, to confirm what I tell them. Excellent! cried Mr. Llewellyn John. I congratulate you, Sage, you have done wonders. But I failed to understand your saying that you would be here this morning, said Solista, and under an assumed name with a foreign accent, suggested Malcolm Sage. The thief might have been an old hand at the game, and too clever to fall into a rather obvious trap. In that case, I might have been forced, as a foreigner, to salute the hands of all the ladies in the house. I learned to click my heels years ago in Germany. Again there was a suspicious movement at the corner of Malcolm Sage's mouth. But, began Solista, to identify the scent broke in Mr. Llewellyn John. Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly. The foreign office messengers, queried Lord Beamedill. I decided that pedestrians and cyclists would do as well. I merely wanted the house watched. There were quite a number of casualties to cars and bicycles in the neighbourhood, he added dryly. Pet, why did you cut us off from the telephone? inquired Mr. Llewellyn John. The accomplice might have got through, and I could have thought to take no risks. Well, you've done splendidly, Sage, said Mr. Llewellyn John heartily, and were all greatly obliged. By the way, there's another little problem awaiting you. Someone broke into the garage last night, and wrecked all the cars and bicycles. Except two, said Malcolm Sage. Then you've heard. Mr. Llewellyn John looked at him in surprise. The man who did it is in my car, outside, with Cressard. You've got him as well? cried Mr. Llewellyn John excitedly. Sage, you're a miracle of sagacity, he added, again mentally noting the phrase. The missing pencils, floats, and petals you will find on the left-hand side of the drive, about half-way down, under a laurel bush, said Malcolm Sage quietly. And who is this fellow who did this scandalous thing, the maled Solista? My chauffeur. Your chauffeur? I could not risk the thief having access to a fast car. But what if this fellow Cressard refuses to go? inquired Lord Beamedill. He won't, said Malcolm Sage grimly. D-O-R-A is still in operation. I had to remind him of the fact. Malcolm Sage picked up his head and coat, and walked towards the door. I must be going, he said. I've still several things to attend to. You won't forget about the plunder from the garage, he added. But what am I to do about Miss Blair? asked Solista. That's a question I think you'll find answered in the Gospel of St. Luke, the seventh chapter, and I think the forty-seventh verse. And with that he was gone, leaving three ministers gazing at one another in dumb astonishment. Had a cynic been peeping into the library of the towers a few minutes later, he would have discovered three cabinet ministers bending over a new testament, which Solista had fetched from his wife's pudoir, and the words they read were, Wherefore I say unto thee, Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much. Strange, murmured Lord Beamedill. Very strange. And the others knew that he was referring not to the text, or to the unhappy girl, but to Malcolm Sage. We are always surprised when we find Sol among the prophets, remarked Miss Llewellyn John, and he made a mental note of the phrase. It might do for the weaf-freeze. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of Malcolm Sage Detective by Herbert George Jenkins. This liper-box recording is in the public domain, recording by Anna Simon. Chapter 8. Gladys Norman Dines with Thompson. 1. Tommy remarked Miss Gladys Norman one day as Thompson entered a room through the glass-panel door. Have you ever thought what I shall do fifty years hence? For darn my socks, replied the practical Thompson. I mean, she proceeded with withering deliberation, what will happen when I can't do the hundred in ten seconds? Thompson looked at her with a puzzled expression. My cousin Will says that if you can't do the hundred yards in ten seconds, you haven't, nerdly, she explained. It's been worrying me. What am I to do when I'm old and rheumaticky, and achieved as three in the buzzer? He's bound to notice it, and he'll look. Malcolm Sage's look was a slight widening of the eyes as he gazed at the delinquent. It was his method of conveying rebuke. That look would cause Thompson to swear earnestly under his breath for the rest of the day, whilst on Gladys Norman it had several distinct effects. The biting of her lower lips, the snubbing of Thompson, the merciless banging of her typewriter, and a self-administered rebuke of, Gladys Norman, you're a silly little ass, being the most noticeable. For a moment Thompson thought deeply. Then, with sudden inspiration, he said, Why not move your table near his door? What a brain, she cried, regarding him with mock admiration. You must have been waving it with Heinz Curlis. Yes, she added, You may take me out to dinner tonight, Tommy. Thompson was in the act of waving his head wildly over his head when Malcolm Sage came out of his room. For the fraction of a second he paused and regarded his support on it. It's not another war, I hope, he remarked, and, without waiting for a reply, he turned, reentered his room, and closed the door. Gladys Norman collapsed over her typewriter, where, with heaving shoulders, she strove to mute her mirth with a ridiculous dab of pink camberic. Thompson looked crestfallen. He turned just in time to see Malcolm Sage reenter his room. Three sharp bursts on the buzzer brought Gladys Norman to her feet. There was a flurry of skirt, the flesh of a pair of shapely ankles, and she disappeared into Malcolm Sage's room. Two. It's a fennel world, remarked Gladys Norman that evening, as she and Thompson sat at a sheltered table in a little Soho restaurant. It's a jolly nice old world, remarked Thompson, looking up from his plate. And this chicken is it. Chicken first, Gladys Norman also ran, she remarked scathingly. Thompson grinned and returned to his plate. Why do you like the chief, Tommy? she demanded. Thompson paused in his eating, resting his hands, still holding knife and fork upon the edge of the table. The suddenness of the question had startled him. If you must sit like that, at least close your mouth, she said severely. Thompson replaced his knife and fork upon the plate. Well, why do you? she queried. Why do I what? he asked. She made a movement of impatience. Like the chief, of course. Then, as he did not reply, she continued. Why does Timbs like him, and the innocent, and Sir James, and Sir John Dean, and the whole blessed lot of us? Why is it, Tommy? Why? Thompson merely gaped as if she'd propounded some unanswerable riddle. Why is it? she repeated. Then, as he still remained silent, she added. There's no hurry, Tommy dear. Just go on listening with your mouth. I quite realized a compliment. I'm blessed if I know, he burst out at last. I suppose it's because he's MS. He returned to his plate. Yes, but why is it? she persisted, as she continued mechanically to crumble her bread. That's what I want to know. Why is it? Thompson looked at her a little anxiously. By nature, he was inclined to take things for granted, things outside his profession, that is. It's a funnial world, Tommy-cans, she repeated at length, picking up her knife and fork. Funnier for some than for others. Thompson looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. There were times when he found Gladys Norman difficult to understand. For a girl, I mean, she added, as if that explained it. Thompson still stared. The remark did not strike him as illuminating. It may be, she continued meditatively, that I like doing things for the chief, because he was my haven of refuge for a wicked world. But that doesn't explain why you and Timms. Your haven of refuge, repeated Thompson, making a gulp of a mouthful, and once more laying down his knife and fork as he looked across at her curiously. Before I went to the ministry, I had one or two rather beastly experiences. She paused, as if mentally reviewing some unpleasant incident. Tell me, Gladys. Thompson was now all attention. Well, I once went to see a man in Shaftesbury Avenue who had advertised for a secretary. He was a funny old bean, she added, reminiscently. All eyes and no waist, and more curious as to whether I lived alone or with my people, than about my speeds. So I told him my brother was a prized fighter and— Bad you haven't got a brother, broken Thompson. I told him that for the good of his soul, Tommy, and of the girls who came after me, she added a little grimly. It was funny, she continued after a pause. He didn't seem a bit eager to engage me after that. Said my speeds, which I hadn't told him, were not good enough. But to show there was no ill-feeling, he tried to kiss me at parting. So I boxed his ears, slung his own ink-pot at him, and came away. Ha! It's a great game, Tommy. Played slow. She added, as an afterthought, and she hummed a snatch of a popular foxtrot. The swine! Thompson had just realized the significance of what he had heard. There was an ugly look in his eyes. I then got a job at the Ministry of Economy, and later at the Ministry of Supply, and the Chief lifted me out by my bobbed hair and put me into Department Z. That's why I call him my Haven of Refuge. See, dearest? What's the name of the fellow in Shaftesbury Avenue? Demanded Thompson, his thoughts centering round the incident she had just narrated. Naughty Tommy, she cried, making a face at him. Mustn't get angry and vicious. Besides, she added, the Chief did for him. You told him? cried Thompson incredulously, his interest still keener than his appetite. I did, she replied, eerily, and he dropped a hint at Scotland Yard. I believe the gallant gentleman in Shaftesbury Avenue has something more than a smack and an inky face to remember little gladus by. He doesn't advertise for secretaries now. Thompson gazed at her, admiration in his eyes. But that doesn't explain why I always want to please her, Chief, does it? She demanded. In romance, the night kills the villain from making love to the heroine, and then gets down to the same dirty work himself. Now, the Chief ought to have been bursting with volcanic fires of passion for me. He should have crushed me to his breast with merciless force, eye beating against his chest protector with my clenched fists. Finally, I should have lain passive and unresisting in his arms, whilst he covered my eyes, ears, nose, and transformation with fevered, passionate kisses. Not pecs like yours, Tommy, but the real thing with a punch in them. What on earth? began Thompson, when she continued. There should have been a fearful tempest on the other side of his ribs. I should. Don't talk rot, gladus, broke in, Thompson. I'm not talking rot, she protested. I read it all in a novel that sells by the million. Then, after a moment's pause, she continued. He saved me from the dragon, yet he doesn't even give me a box of chocolates, and everybody in Whitehall knows that chocolates and kisses won the war. When I fainted for him, and he carried me into his room, he didn't kiss me even then. You wouldn't have known it if you had, was Thompson's comment. Oh, wouldn't I, she retorted. That's all you know about girls, Mr. Funny Thompson. He stared across at her, blinking his eyes in bewilderment. He doesn't take me out to dinner as other cheeses do, she continued. And yet I hop about like a linen when he buzzes from me. Why is it? She gazed across at Thompson, challenging me. A look of anxiety began to manifest itself upon his good-natured features. Psychoanalysis was not a strong point. In a vague way, he began to suspect that Gladys Norman's devotion to Malcolm Sage was not strictly in accordance with trade union principles. There, get on with your chicken, you poor dear, she laughed, and Thompson, picking up his knife and fork, proceeded to eat mechanically. From time to time, he glanced covertly across at Gladys. As to the chief's looks, she continued. His face is keen and taut, and he's a strong, silent man. Yet can you see his eyes hungry and tempestuous, Tommy? I can't. Why is it, she demanded, that when a woman writes a novel, she always stunts the strong, silent man? Thompson shook his head with the air of a man who has given up guessing. Imagine getting married to a strong, silent man, she continued, with only his strength and his silence, and perhaps a cheap gramophone, to keep you amused in the evenings. She shouted. No, she said with decision. Give me a regular old rattlebox without a chin, like you, Tommy. Mechanically, Thompson's hand sought his chin, and Gladys laughed. Anyway, I'm not going to marry in spite of the tube furniture posters. Uncle Jake says it's all nonsense to talk about marriages being made in heaven. They're made in the Tottenham Court Road. Thompson had, however, returned to his plate. In her present mood, Gladys Norman was beyond him. Realizing the state of his mind, she continued, He's got a head like a pierrot's cap, and it's as bald as a five-panierg, when it ought to be beautifully rounded, and covered with crisp, curly hair. He wears glasses in front of eyes like bits of slate, when they ought to be full of slumberous passion. His jaw is all right, only he doesn't use it enough. In books, the strong, silent man is a regular old chin-wag, and yet I fall over myself to answer his buzzer. Why it is, I repeat. She looked across at him mischievously, enjoying the state of depression to which she had reduced him. Thompson merely shook his head. For all that, she continued, picking up her own knife and fork, which in the excitement of describing Malcolm's age should lay down. For all that, he would make a wonderful lover, once she could get him started, and she laughed gleefully as if at some hidden joke. Thompson gazed at her over a fork piled with food, which a remark had arrested halfway to his mouth. Please chivalrous, she continued. Look at the way he always tries to help up, the very people he is downed. It's just a game with him. No, it's not, thirst out Thompson through a mouthful of chicken and saute potato. She gave him a look of disapproval that caused him to swallow rapidly. The chief doesn't look on it as a game, he persisted. He's out to stop crying and... But that's not the point, she interrupted. What I want to know is, why do I bounce off my chair like an India rubber ball when he buzzes? She demanded relentlessly. Why do I want to please him? Why do I want to kick myself when I make mistakes? Why... oh, Tommy, she broke off. If you only had a brain as well as a stomach, and she looked across at him reproachfully. Perhaps it's because he never complains, suggested Thompson, as he placed his knife and fork at the all clear angle and leaned back in his chair with a sigh of contentment. You don't complain, Tommy, she retorted, but you could buzz yourself to blazes without getting me even to look up. For fully a minute there was silence. Glad as Norman continued to gaze down at the debris to which had reduced her role. No, she continued presently. There is something else. I've noticed the others. They're just the same. She paused, then suddenly looking across at him, she inquired. What's loyalty, Tommy? Standing up and taking off your hat when they play God Save the King, he replied glibly. She laughed, and definitely flicked the bread pill she had just manufactured, catching Thompson beneath the left eye and causing him to blink violently. You're a funny old thing, she laughed. You know quite well what I mean, only you're too stupid to realise it. Look at the innocent. For him, the chief is the only man in all the world. Then there's Timbs. He'd get up in the middle of the night and drive the chief to blazes and hang the petrol. Then there's you and me. Thompson drew a secret case from his pocket. I think I know why it is, she said, nodding her pretty head wisely. She paused, and as Thompson made no comment, she continued, it's because he's human, warm flesh and blood. But I'm warm flesh and blood, objected to Thompson with corrugated brow. He'd tell me not to be silly. Your idea of warmth, my dear man, was learned on the upper reaches of the Thames after dark, was a scathing retort. Yes, but he began, when she interrupted him. Look what he did for Miss Blair, had her at the office, and then looked after her. And afterwards got her a job, remarked Thompson, but that's just like the chief, he added. Where did you meet him first, Tommy, she inquired, as she leaned forward slightly to light her cigarette at the match he held out to her. In a bath, was the reply, as Thompson proceeded to light his own cigarette. You're not a bit fanny, she retorted. But it was, he persisted. Was what? In a bath. He hadn't had one before, and— Not had a bath, she cried. If you try to pull my leg like that, Tommy, you'll let out my stockings. But I'm not, protested Thompson. I met the chief in a Turkish bath, and he went into the hottest room and crumpled, so I looked after him, and that's how I got to know him. Of course, you couldn't have happened to mention that it was a Turkish bath, Tommy, could you? She said, that wouldn't be you at all. But what makes him do things like he did for Miss Blair? I suppose because he's the chief, was Thompson's reply. Glad it's Norman, sighed elaborately. There are moments, James Thompson, she said, when your conversation is almost inspiring, and she relapsed into silence. For the last half hour, Thompson had been conscious of a feeling of uneasiness. It had first manifested itself when he was engaged upon a lightly grilled cutlet, had developed as he tackled a lower joint of a leg of chicken, and become an alarming certainty when he was halfway through a plate of apple tart encusted. Glad it's Norman's interest in Malcolm Sage had become more than a secretarial one. Mentally, he debated the appalling prospect. By the time coffee was finished, he'd reached an acute stage of mental misery. Suddenly, life had become not only tinged, but absolutely impregnated with wretchedness. It was not until they had left the restaurant and were walking along Shaftesbury Avenue that he summoned up courage to speak. Glad it's, he said miserably. You're not, then he paused, not daring to put into words his thought. He's so magnetic, so compelling, she murmured dreamily. He knows so much, any girl might. She did not finish the sentence, but stole a glance at Thompson's tragic face. They walked in silence as far as Piccadilly Circus. Then, in the glare of light, she saw the misery of his expression. You silly old thing, she laughed as she slipped her arm through his. You funny old thing, and she laughed again. That laugh was a body life-belt that is sinking hard of Thompson. More trouble, Tommy, remarked Gladys Norman one morning as James Thompson entered her room. He looked across at her quickly, a keen flash of interest in his somnolent brown eyes. Somebody's pinched Lady Glendale's jewels, just had a telephone message. What a happy place the world would be without drink and crime. And women, added Thompson, alert of eye, and prepared to dodge anything that was coming. Tommy, you're a beast. Get the hands. And, bending over her typewriter, she became absorbed in rattling words onto paper. Thompson had just reached the third line of, I'm sorry I made you cry, when his quick eye detected Malcolm Sage as he entered the outer office. With a brief good morning, Malcolm Sage passed into his room, and a minute later, Gladys Norman was reading from her notebook the message that had come over the telephone to the effect that early that morning a burglar had entered Lady Glendale's bedroom at the Home Park Histon, the country house of Sir Roger Glendale, and, under threat from a pistol, had demanded her jewel case, which had accordingly handed to him. As the jewels were insured with the 20th Century Insurance Corporation Limited, Malcolm Sage had been immediately communicated with, that he might take up the inquiry with a view to tracing the missing property. One of Malcolm Sage's first cases had been undertaken for this company in connection with the burglary. He had been successful in restoring the whole of the missing property. In consequence, he had been personally thanked by the chairman at a fully attended board meeting, and at the same time presented with a gold-mounted walking stick, which, as he remarked to Sir John Dean, no one but a drum major in full dress would dare to carry. Having listened carefully as he read her notes, Malcolm Sage dismissed Gladys Norman with a nod, and for some minutes sat at his table, drawing the inevitable diagrams upon his blotting pad. Presently he rose, and walked over to a row of shelves filled with red-backed volumes, lettered on the back, records, with a number, and a date. Every crime or curious occurrence that came under Malcolm Sage's notice was gilly chronicled in the pages of these volumes, which contained miles of press cuttings. They were rendered additionally valuable by an elaborate system of cross-reference indexing. After referring to an index volume, Malcolm Sage selected one of the folios and returned with it to his table. Rapidly turning over the pages, he came to a newspaper cutting, which was dated some five weeks previously. This he read and pondered over for some time. It ran, Daring burglary. Country mansion entered, burglar sang-fra. In the early hours of yesterday morning, a daring burglary was committed at the Dower House, near Histon, the residence of Mr. Gerald Cominge, who was away from home at the time, by which the burglar was able to make a rich hall of jewels. In the early hours of the morning, Mrs. Cominge was awakened by the presence of a man in a room. As she sat up in bed, the man turned an electric torch upon her, and, pointing a revolver in her direction, warned her that if she cried out he would shoot. He then demanded to know where she kept her jewels, and Mrs. Cominge, too terrified to do anything else, indicated a drawer in which lay her jewel case. Taking the jewel case and putting it under his arm, the man threatened that if she moved or called out within a quarter of an hour he would return and shoot her. He then got out of the window onto a small balcony, and disappeared. It seems that he gained admittance by clambering up some ivy, and thus onto the narrow balcony that runs the length of one side of the house. Immediately on the man's disappearance Mrs. Cominge fainted. On coming two she gave the alarm, and the police were immediately telephoned for. Although the man's footprints are easily discernible upon the mould and the soft turf, the culprit seems to have left no other clue. The description that Mrs. Cominge is able to give of her assailant is rather lacking in detail, owing to the shock she experienced at his sudden appearance. It would appear that the man had a medium height and slight of build. He wore a cap and a black handkerchief, tied across his face, just beneath his eyes, which entirely masked his features. With this very inadequate description of the Ruffian, the police have perforced to set to work upon the very difficult task of tracing him. For some time Malcolm Sage pondered over the cutting. Then, rising, he replaced the volume, and rang for Thompson. An hour later, Timms was carrying him along in the direction of Sir Roger Glendale's house at a good thirty-five miles an hour. The home park was an Elizabethan mansion that had been inquired by Sir Roger Glendale out of enormous profits made upon the sale of margarine, as Timms brought the car up before the front entrance with an impressive sweep. The whole door was thrown open by the butler, who habitually strove by an excessive dignity of demeanour to remove from his mental pellet the humiliating flavour of margarine. Malcolm Sage's card considerably mitigated the impression made upon Mr. Hippes' mind by the swing with which Timms had brought the car up to the door. Malcolm Sage was shown into the morning-room and told that her leadership would see him in a few minutes. He was busy in the contemplation of the garden when the door opened and Lady Glendale entered. He bowed, and then, as Lady Glendale seated herself at a small table, he took the nearest chair. She was a little woman, some eight inches too short for the air she assumed—fair, good-looking, but with a hard, set mouth. No one had ever permitted her to forget that she had married margarine. You have called about the burglary, she inquired, in a tone she might have adopted to a plumber who had come to see to a leak in the bath. Malcolm Sage bowed. Perhaps you will give me the details, he said. Kindly be as brief as possible. His incipient Bolshevism manifesting itself in his manner. Lady Glendale elevated her eyebrows, but as Malcolm Sage's eyes were not upon her, she proceeded to tell her story. About one o'clock this morning I was awakened to find a man in my bedroom, she began. He was standing between the bedstead and the father's window, his face masked. He had a pistol in one hand which he pointed towards me, and an electric torch in the other. I sat up in bed and stared at him. If you call out I shall kill you, he said. I asked him what he wanted. He replied that if I gave him my jewel case and did not call for help, he would not do me any harm. Realising that I was helpless, I got out of bed, put on a wrapper, opened a small safe I have set in the wall, and handed him one of the two jewel cases I possess. He then made me promise that I would not ring or call out for a quarter of an hour, and it disappeared out of the window. At the end of a quarter of an hour I summoned help. Am I Stepson? The butler and several other servants came to my room. We telephoned for the police, and after breakfast we telephoned to the insurance company. For fully a minute there was silence. Malcolm Sage decided that Lady Glendale certainly possessed the faculty of telling a story with all the events in their proper sequence. He found himself with very few questions to put to her. Can you describe the man? he asked, as he mechanically turned over the leaves of a book on a table beside him. Not very well, she replied. I saw little more than a silhouette against the window. He was of medium height, slight of built, and I should say young. That seems to agree with the description of the man who robbed Mrs. Cominge, he said, as if to himself. That is what the inspector said, remarked Lady Glendale. His voice was rather husky as if he were trying to disguise it. Was it the voice of a man of refinement, or otherwise? I should describe it as middle-class, was a snobbish response. The mask? It looked like a silk handkerchief tied across his nose. It was dark in tone, but I could get only a dim impression. Malcolm Sage inclined his head comprehendingly. You know, Mrs. Cominge? Intimately. You mentioned two jewel cases, he said. The one stolen contained those I mostly wear, replied Lady Glendale. In the other I keep some very valuable family jewels. What was the value of those stolen? About eight thousand pounds, she replied. Possibly more. I should explain, perhaps, that Sir Roger was staying in town last night, and so far I have not been able to get him on the telephone. He was to have stayed at the Ritzon, but apparently he found them full and went elsewhere. You have no suspicion as to who it was that entered your room. None, whatever, said Lady Glendale. The police have already been, he inquired, as examined with great intentness a rose he had taken from a bowl beside him. Yes, they came shortly after we telephoned. They gave instructions that nothing was to be touched in the room, and no one was to go near the ground beneath the windows. Malcolm Sage nodded approvingly and returned the rose to the bowl. And now, he said, I think I should like to see the room. By the way, I take it that you keep your safe locked? Always, said Lady Glendale, where do you keep the key? In the bottom right-hand drawer of my dressing table, under a pile of handkerchiefs. As soon as you can I should like to see a list of the jewels, said Malcolm Sage, as he followed Lady Glendale towards the door. My mate is copying it out now, she replied, and led the way up that staircase along a heavily carpeted corridor, at the end of which she threw open a door giving access to a bedroom. Malcolm Sage entered and gave a swift look about him, seeming to note and catalogue every detail. It was a large room, with two windows looking out onto a lawn. On the right was a door which, Lady Glendale explained, led to Sir Roger's dressing room. He walked over to the window near the dressing room and looked out. That is the window he must have entered by. He went out that way, explained Lady Glendale. You spoke of a step-son, said Malcolm Sage. He is a man, I presume. He is twenty-three. Lady Glendale elevated her eyebrows as if surprised at the question. Can you send for him? Certainly, if you wish it. She rang the bell, and a moment later requested the mate who answered it to ask Mr. Robert to come immediately. Do you sleep with lowered blinds, inquired Malcolm Sage? The one nearest my bed I always keep down, the other I pull up after putting out my light. Did you awaken suddenly or gradually, as if it were your usual time to awaken? It was gradual, said Lady Glendale, after a pause for thought. I remember having the feeling that someone was looking at me. Was the light from the torch shining on your face? No, it was turned to the opposite side of the room, on my right, as I lay in bed. At that moment a young man in tweets entered. You want me, mate, inquired. Then, looking across at Malcolm Sage, with a slightly troubled shadow in his eyes, he bowed. This is Mr. Sage from the insurance company, said Lady Glendale, coldly. He wishes to see you. Again, there was a slightly troubled look in young Glendale's eyes. Perhaps you will place Mr. Glendale in the exact position in which the man was standing when you first saw him, said Malcolm Sage. Without a word, Lady Glendale walked over to the spot she had indicated, young Glendale following, when she had got him into the desired position, she turned interrogatingly to Malcolm Sage. Now, he said, will you be so kind as to lie on your bed in the same position in which you were when you awakened? For a moment Lady Glendale's eyebrows indicated surprise. He used her eyebrows more than any other feature for the purpose of expressing emotion. Without comment, however, she lay down upon the bed on her right side, closed her eyes. Then, a moment later, set up and gazed in the direction where Glendale stood looking awkward and self-conscious. Perhaps you will repeat every movement you made, said Malcolm Sage. Try to open the safe door exactly as you did then, and leave it at the same angle. Every detail is important. Lady Glendale rose, picked up a wrapper that was lying over a chair-back, put it on, and, walking over to the safe, turned the key that was in the lock and opened it. Then, standing between the safe and Glendale, she took out a jewel case and closed the door. Finally, she walked over to where her stepson stood, and handed him the jewel case. Thank you, said Malcolm Sage. I wanted to see whether or not the man had the opportunity of seeing into the safe. I took care to stand in front of it, she said. So I observed. You allowed the quarter of an hour to elapse before you raised the alarm? Certainly, I had promised, was the response. But a promise extorted by threats of violence is not binding, he suggested, as he pulled meditatively at his right ear. It is with me, was the cold retort. He inclined his head slightly. I noticed that the ground beneath the windows has been roped off. The inspector thought it had better be done as there were footprints. I will not trouble you further for the present, Lady Glendale, said Malcolm Sage, moving towards the door. I should like to spend a little time in the grounds. Later, I may require to interrogate the servants. Young Glendale opened the door, and a stepmother, followed by Malcolm Sage, passed out. They descended the stairs together. Please don't trouble to come out, said Malcolm Sage. I shall probably be some little time. This, as Lady Glendale moved towards the whole door, by the way, he said, as she turned towards the morning room where she had received him. Did you happen to notice if the man was wearing boots, or was he in stocking feet? I think he wore boots, he said, after a momentary pause. Thank you. And Malcolm Sage turned towards the door, which was held open by the butler. Passing down the steps and to the left, he walked round to the side of the house, where the space immediately beneath Lady Glendale's windows had been roped off. Stepping over the protecting rope, he examined the ground beneath the window, through which the burglar had entered. Running along the side of the house was a flowerbed some two feet six inches wide, and on its surface was clearly indicated a series of footprints. On the side of the painted water pipe were scratches, such as might have been made by someone climbing up to the window above. Drawing a spring metal rule from his pocket, he proceeded to take a series of measurements, which he dotted down in a notebook. He next examined the water pipe, up which the man presumably had climbed, and presently passed on to a similar pipe, farther to the left. Every inch of ground, he subjected to a careful and elaborate examination, lifting the lower branches of some evergreens and gazing beneath them. Finally, closing his notebook with a snap, Malcolm Sage seated himself upon a garden seat, and carefully filling and lighting his pipe, he became absorbed in the polished pinkness of the third fingernail of his left hand. A quarter of an hour later, he was joined by young Glendale. Found anything, he inquired. There are some footprints, said Malcolm Sage, looking at him keenly. By the way, what did you do when you heard of the robbery? I went to the mate's room. And after that, I rushed downstairs and started looking about. You didn't happen to come anywhere near this spot, or walk upon the mould there. He nodded at the place he had just been examining. No, as a matter of fact, I avoided it. The mate had warned me to be careful. Malcolm Sage nodded his head. Did the butler join you in your research? He inquired. About five minutes later he did. He had to go back and put on some things. He was rather sketchy when he turned up in the mate's room. Glendale grinned at the recollection. And you? Malcolm Sage flashed on him that steel-grey look of interrogation. For a moment the young man seemed embarrassed, and he hesitated before replying. As a matter of fact, I hadn't turned in, he said at length. I see, said Malcolm Sage, and there was something in his tone that caused Glendale to look at him quickly. It was such a ripping night that I sat up by a bedroom window smoking, he explained a little nervously. Which is your bedroom window? Glendale nodded in the direction of the farther end of the house. That's the governor's dressing room, he said, indicating the window on the left of that through which the butler had escaped. The next is mine. Did you see anything? Inquired Malcolm Sage, who, having unscrewed the mouthpiece of his pipe, proceeded to clean it with a blade of grass. Again there was a slightest suggestion of hesitation before Glendale replied. No, nothing. You see, he uttered a hastily. I was not looking out of the window, merely sitting at it. As a matter of fact, I was facing the other way. You heard no noise? Glendale shook his head. So that the first intimation you had of anything being wrong was what, he asked. I heard the maître at the door calling for assistance, and I went immediately. Malcolm Sage turned and regarded the water pipe speculatively. I wonder if anyone really could climb up that, he said. I'm sure I couldn't. Nothing easier, said Glendale. I could shin up in two tics, and he made a movement towards the pipe. No, said Malcolm Sage, putting a detaining hand upon his arm. If you want to demonstrate your agility, try the other. There are marks on this I want to preserve. Rytto, cried Glendale with a laugh, and a moment later he was shinning up the further pipe with the agility of a South Sea islander after coconuts. Malcolm Sage walked towards the pipe, glanced at it, and then at the footprints beneath. You were quite right, he remarked casually. Then a moment later he inquired, Do you usually sit up late? We're not exactly early birds, Glendale replied a little irrelevantly. The maître plays a lot of bridge, you know, he added. And that keeps you out of bed? Yes and no, was the reply. I can't afford to play with the maître's crowd, but I have to hang about until after they've gone. The governor hates it. You see, he added, confidentially. When a man's had to make his money, he knows the value of it. True, said Malcolm Sage. But from the look in his eyes, his thoughts seemed elsewhere. By the way, what time was it that you had a shower here last night? A shower? repeated Glendale. Oh yes, I remember. It was just about twelve o'clock. It only lasted about ten minutes. I'll think things over, said Malcolm Sage. And Glendale, taking the hint, strolled off towards the house. Malcolm Sage walked over to where an old man was trimming a hedge. Could you lend me a trowel for half an hour? he inquired. No, dang it, I can't, growled the old fellow. I ain't going to lend no more trowels or anything else. Why? inquired Malcolm Sage. There's my best trowel gone out of the toolhouse, he grumbled. And I ain't going to lend no others. How did it go? How should I know? he complained. Walked out, I suppose. Same as trowels is always doing. When did you miss it? It was there, Dave, for yesterday, I'll swear. And I ain't going to lend no more. Do you think the man who took the jewels stole it? inquired Malcolm Sage. Dang the jewels, he retorted. I want my trowel. And, grumbling to himself, the old fellow shuffled off to the other end of the hedge. Half an hour later, Malcolm Sage was in Houston, interviewing the inspector of police, who was incoherent with excitement. He learned that Scotland Yard was sending down a man that afternoon. Furthermore, the elaborate inquiries were being made in the neighbourhood as to any suspicious characters having recently been seen. Malcolm Sage asked a number of questions to which he received more or less impatient replies. The inspector was convinced that the robbery was the work of the same man who had got away with Mrs. Cumberge's jewels, and he was impatient with anyone who did not share this view. From the police station, Malcolm Sage went to the painted flag, where, having ordered lunch, he got through to the 20th Century Insurance Corporation, and made an appointment to meet one of the assessors at Home Park at three o'clock. END OF CHAPTER 9 CHAPTER 10. ONE. Mr. Grimwood, of the firm of Grimwood, Golden and Davy, Insurance Assessors, looked up from the list in his hand. He was a shrewd little man, with sight-whiskers, pinsnade that would never sit straight upon his aquiline nose, and an impressive cuff. He glanced from Malcolm Sage to Young Glendale, then back again to Malcolm Sage. Finally, he cuffed. The three men were seated in Sir Roger Glendale's library, awaiting the coming of Lady Glendale. And yet Mr. Glendale heard nothing, remarked Mr. Grimwood musingly. Strange, very strange. Are you in the habit of sitting smoking at your bedroom window? Enquired Malcolm Sage of Glendale, his eyes averted. Uh, no, not exactly. Was the hesitating response? Can you remember when last you did such a thing? What's the next question? I'm afraid I can't, said Glendale, with an uneasy laugh. Perhaps you had seen something that puzzled you, continued Malcolm Sage, his restless fingers tracing an imaginary design upon the polished surface of the table before him. Glendale was silent. He fingered his moustache with a nervous hand. Mr. Grimwood looked across at Malcolm Sage curiously. And you are watching in the hope of seeing something more, continued Malcolm Sage. I began Glendale, starting violently. Then he stopped. Don't you think you had better tell us exactly what it was you saw, said Malcolm Sage, raising a pair of gold-brimmed eyes that mercilessly beat down the uneasy gaze of the young man? I didn't say I saw anything. It is for you to decide, Mr. Glendale, said Malcolm Sage, with an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders, whether it is better to tell your story now or under cross-examination in the witness-box. There you will be under oath, and the proceedings will be public. At that moment Lady Glendale entered, and the three men rose. I am sorry to interrupt you, she said coldly, but Sir Roger had just telephoned and wishes to speak to Mr. Glendale. I fear we shall have to keep Sir Roger waiting, said Malcolm Sage, walking over to the door and closing it. Lady Glendale looked at him in surprise. I do not understand, she began. You will immediately, said Malcolm Sage, quietly. We were just discussing the robbery. He slightly stressed the word robbery. Really, began Lady Glendale. Mr. Glendale was sitting at his window, smoking, continued Malcolm Sage evenly. He cannot remember ever having done such a thing before. I suggested that something unusual had attracted his attention, and that he was waiting to see what would follow. I was just about to tell him what had attracted his attention when you entered, Lady Glendale. Mr. Glendale looked across at his stepmother, and then at Malcolm Sage. His misery was obvious. Last night, soon after twelve, continued Malcolm Sage. Mr. Glendale happened to look out of his window, and was surprised to see a figure moving along towards the left. It was not the figure of a man with a handkerchief tied across his face as a mask, but a woman. He watched. He saw it pause beneath the second window of your bedroom, Lady Glendale, not the one by which the burglar entered. Then it stooped down. Malcolm Sage's fingers seemed to be tracing each movement of the mysterious figure up on the surface of the table. Lady Glendale gazed at his long, shapely hands as if hypnotized. Presently, he continued, it returned to the first window, where it was occupied for some minutes. Mr. Glendale could not see this, but the figure was engaged in making footprints and marking the sides of the water-pipe with a shoe or boot as high up as it could reach. It—how dare you make such an accusation! cried Lady Glendale, making an effort to rise, but she sang back again in the chair, her face plaster white. I have made no accusation, said Malcolm Sage quietly. I am telling what Mr. Glendale saw. A hunted look sprang to Lady Glendale's eyes. She tore her eyes from those magnetic fingers and gazed about her wildly as if meditating flight. Her throat seemed as if made of leather. Would you be prepared to deny all this in the witness-box under oath, Mr. Glendale? inquired Malcolm Sage. Glendale looked at him with unseeing eyes, then across at his stepmother. The woman had put on a pair of men's boots that the footprints might be masculine. They were so much too large for her that she had to drag her feet along the ground. The boots were those of a man weighing, say, about eleven and a half stone. The weight inside those boots, shown by the impression in the mold, was little more than seven stone. Lady Glendale put out her hand as if to ward off a blow, but Malcolm Sage continued mercilessly, addressing Glendale. The length of a man's stride is thirty inches. Between these steps the space was less than fifteen inches. Skirts are worn very narrow. He paused. Then, as Lady Glendale made no reply, he turned to Glendale. I asked you this morning, he said, to climb the other pipe for the double purpose of examining the impress of your boots on the mold as you left the ground, and when you dropped back again onto the mold. Also to see what sort of marks a pair of leather boots would make upon the weather-worn paint of the pipe. As you sprang from the ground and clutched the pipe, there was a deep impress on the mold of the soles of both boots, deep at the toes, and tapering off towards the heel. On your return you made distinct heel marks as well. Lady Glendale had buried her face in her hands. She must blot out the sight of those terrible hands. Glendale sat with his eyes upon Malcolm Sage as if hypnotised. There was a shower of rain last night, about twelve, an hour before the alleged burglar arrived. Yet the footprints were made before the rain fell. In two cases leaves had been trodden into the footprints, yet on these leaves were drops of rain just as they had fallen. The hands seemed to draw the leaves and indicate the spots of water as if they had been blood. Glendale shuddered involuntarily. In the centre part of the pipe there were no marks, although there were slight scratches for as high up as the arm of a short person could reach, and as far down from the bedroom window as a similar arm could stretch. These scratches were quite dissimilar from those made on the other pipe. Lady Glendale moaned something unintelligible. Although there had been a shower and the mold was wet, proceeded Malcolm Sage, there were no marks of mud or mold on the pipe, on the window sill, or on Lady Glendale's bedroom, which, I understand, had purposely not been swept. A man had slid down that water pipe, yet he had done so without so much as removing the surface dust from the paint. He'd reached the ground lightly as a fairy without making any mark upon the mold. The footprints were merely those of someone approaching and walking from the pipe. Glendale drew a cigarette case from his pocket, opened it, took out a cigarette, then, hesitating a moment, replaced it, and returned the case to his pocket, his eyes all the time on Malcolm Sage. I think, continued Malcolm Sage, we shall find that the burglar has buried the jewel-case a few yards to the right of the pipe he's supposed to have climbed. His forefinger touched a spot on the extreme right of the table. There are indications that the mold has been disturbed. Incidentally, the trowel is missing. Glendale suddenly sprang to his feet, just as Lady Glendale fell forward in her chair. She had fainted. 2. It's a very unpleasant business, remarked Mr. Gooch, the general manager of the 20th century insurance company, as he looked up from reading a paper that Malcolm Sage had just handed to him. In it, Lady Glendale confessed the fraud-shit sought to practice upon the corporation. A very unpleasant business, he repeated. Malcolm Sage gazed down at his fingernails as if the matter had no further interest for him. When his brain was inactive, his hands were at rest. I don't know what view the board will take, continued Mr. Gooch, as Malcolm Sage made no comment. They will probably present me with another walking stick, he remarked indifferently. Mr. Gooch laughed. Malcolm Sage's walking stick had been a standing joke between them. What made you first suspect Lady Glendale? he inquired. She had omitted to rehearse the episode of the burglary, and consequently, when it came to reconstructing the incident, she failed in a very important particular. Malcolm Sage paused. What was that? inquired Mr. Gooch with interest, as he pushed a box of cigars towards Malcolm Sage, who, however, shaking his head, proceeded to fill his pipe. She had already told me that the key of the safe was always kept beneath a pile of handkerchiefs in one of the drawers of her dressing-table. Yet, when I asked her to go through exactly the same movements and actions as when the burglar entered her room, she rose direct from the bed and went to the safe. The dressing-table was at the other end of the room, and to get to it, she would have had to pass the spot where she said the man was standing. Mr. Gooch nodded his head appreciatively. The next point was that I discovered it was Lady Glendale who suggested to the police inspector that means should be taken to prevent anyone approaching the water pipe by which the man was supposed to have climbed. She was anxious that the footprints should be preserved. Another point was that young Glendale happened to remark that his stepmother was much addicted to bridge, and that the stakes were too high to admit of his joining in. Also, that men who have themselves accumulated their wealth know the value of money. Sir Roger disliked bridge, and probably kept his lady short. Most likely, agreed Mr. Gooch. He has the reputation of being a bit shrewd in money matters. When did you begin to suspect Lady Glendale? From the first was the reply. Everything rang false. Lady Glendale's story suggested that it had been rehearsed until she headed by heart, continued Malcolm Sage. It was too straightforward, too clearly expressed for the story of a woman who had just lost eight thousand pounds worth of jewels. When I put questions to her, she hesitated before applying as if mentally comparing her intended answer with what she had already told. Then she was so practical in preparing a list of the lost jewels at once, and in warning her stepson not to go near the spot beneath her window, as there might be footprints. This at a time when she was supposed to be in a state of great excitement. Did you suspect young Glendale at all, queried Mr. Grimwood? No, said Malcolm Sage. But to make quite sure, I cast doubt upon the possibility of anyone climbing the pipe. If he had been concerned, he would not have volunteered to prove I was wrong. True, said Mr. Gooch, as he examined critically the glowing end of his cigar. Lady Glendale seems to have done the job very clumsily, now that you have explained everything. Even the professional criminal frequently underrates the intelligence of those whose business it is to frustrate him. But Lady Glendale's efforts in marking the water pipe would not have deceived a child. A powerful magnifying glass will show that on all such exterior pipes there is an accumulation of dust, which would be removed from a large portion of the surface by anyone climbing either up or down. Lady Glendale had thought marks made by a boot or a shoe would be sufficient confirmation of her story. She is rather a stupid woman, he added, as he rose to go. I suppose she got the idea from the comments of her. Undoubtedly was the response. But as I say, she is a stupid woman. Vanity in crime is fatal. It leads the criminal to underrate the intelligence of others. Lady Glendale is intensely vain. The board will probably want to thank you personally, said Mr. Gooch, as he shook hands. But I'll try and prevent them from giving you another walking stick. He laughed as he opened the door. End of chapter 10