The Inspector and his young acquaintance walked down the lane, stopping outside the little gate. The other three men posted themselves at various points in the grounds. And then they waited.
It seemed to Broughton that several hours must have passed when a clock in the distance struck twelve. He and the Inspector were standing beside each other concealed under the hedge. Once or twice he had attempted whispered remarks, but Burnley was not responsive. It was rather cold and the stars were bright. A light breeze had risen and it rustled gently through the hedge and stirred the branches of the trees. An insistent dog was barking somewhere away to the right. A cart passed on the road, the wheels knocking on their axles annoyingly. It took ages to get out of earshot, the sounds coming in rotation through nearly a quarter of the compass. Then a car followed with a swift rush, the glare of the headlights glancing along through the trees. And still nothing happened.
After further ages the clock struck again—one. A second dog began barking. The breeze freshened, and Broughton wished he had brought a heavier coat. He longed to stamp up and down and ease his cramped limbs. And then the latch of the road gate clicked and footsteps sounded on the gravel.
They waited motionless as the steps came nearer. Soon a black shadow came into view and moved to the hall door. There was a jingling of keys; the rattling of a lock, the outline of the door became still darker, the shadow disappeared within and the door was closed.
Immediately Burnley whispered to Broughton:—
‘I am going now to ring at the door, and when he opens it I will flash my light in his face. Take a good look at him and if you are sure—absolutely positive—it is Felix, say ‘yes,’ just the one word ‘yes.’ Do you understand?’
They went in through the small gate, no longer taking any precautions against noise, walked to the door, and Burnley knocked loudly.
‘Now, remember, don’t speak unless you are sure,’ he whispered.
A light flickered through the fanlight and the door was opened. A beam from the Inspector’s dark lantern flashed on the face of the man within, revealing the same dark complexion and black beard that had attracted Constable Walker’s attention. The word ‘Yes’ came from Broughton and the Inspector said—
‘Mr. Léon Felix, I am Inspector Burnley from Scotland Yard. I have called on rather urgent business, and would be glad of a few minutes’ conversation.’
The black-bearded man started.
‘Oh, certainly,’ he said, after a momentary pause, ‘though I don’t know that it is quite the hour I would have suggested for a chat. Will you come in?’
‘Thanks. I’m sorry it’s late, but I have been waiting for you for a considerable time. Perhaps my man might sit in the hall out of the cold?’
Burnley called over one of his men who had been stationed near the summer-house.
‘Wait here till I speak to Mr. Felix, Hastings,’ he said, giving him a sign to be ready if called on. Then, leaving Broughton outside with Constable Walker and the other men, he followed Felix into a room on the left of the hall.
It was fitted up comfortably though not luxuriously as a study. In the middle of the room stood a flat-topped desk of modern design. Two deep, leather-covered arm-chairs were drawn up on each side of the fireplace, in which the embers still glowed. A tantalus stood on a small side table with a box of cigars. The walls were lined with bookshelves with here and there a good print. Felix lighted a reading-lamp which stood on the desk. He turned to Burnley.
‘Is it a sitting down matter?’ he said, indicating one of the arm-chairs. The Inspector took it while Felix dropped into the other.
‘I want, Mr. Felix,’ began the detective, ‘to make some inquiries about a cask which you got from the steamer Bullfinch this morning—or rather yesterday, for this is really Tuesday—and which I have reason to believe is still in your possession.’
‘Yes?’
‘The steamboat people think that a mistake has been made and that the cask that you received was not the one consigned to you, and which you expected.’
‘The cask I received is my own property. It was invoiced to me and the freight was paid. What more do the shipping company want?’
‘But the cask you received was not addressed to you. It was invoiced to a Mr. Felix of West Jubb Street, Tottenham Court Road.’
‘The cask was addressed to me. I admit the friend who sent it made a mistake in the address, but it was for me all the same.’
‘But if we bring the other Mr. Felix—The West Jubb Street Mr. Felix—here, and he also claims it, you will not then, I take it, persist in your claim?’
The black-bearded man moved uneasily. He opened his mouth to reply, and then hesitated. The Inspector felt sure he had seen the little pitfall only just in time.
‘If you produce such a man,’ he said at last, ‘I am sure I can easily convince him that the cask was really sent to me and not to him.’
‘Well, we shall see about that later. Meantime, another question. What was in the cask you were expecting?’
‘Statuary.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘Why, of course I’m sure. Really, Mr. Inspector, I’d like to know by what right I am being subjected to this examination.’
‘I shall tell you, Mr. Felix. Scotland Yard has reason to believe there is something wrong about that cask, and an investigation has been ordered. You were naturally the first person to approach, but since the cask turns out not to be yours, we shall——’
‘Not to be mine? What do you mean? Who says it is not mine?’
‘Pardon me, you yourself said so. You have just told me the cask you expected contained statuary. We know the one you received does not contain statuary. Therefore you have got the wrong one.’
Felix paled suddenly, and a look of alarm crept into his eyes. Burnley leant forward and touched him on the knee.
‘You will see for yourself, Mr. Felix, that if this matter is to blow over we must have an explanation of these discrepancies. I am not suggesting you can’t give one. I am sure you can. But if you refuse to do so you will undoubtedly arouse unpleasant suspicions.’
Felix remained silent, and the Inspector did not interrupt his train of thought.
‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I have really nothing to hide, only one does not like being bluffed. I will tell you, if I can, what you want to know. Satisfy me that you are from Scotland Yard.’
Burnley showed his credentials, and the other said:—
‘Very good. Then I may admit I misled you about the contents of the cask, though I told you the literal and absolute truth. The cask is full of plaques—plaques of kings and queens. Isn’t that statuary? And if the plaques should be small and made of gold and called sovereigns, aren’t they still statuary? That is what the cask contains, Mr. Inspector. Sovereigns. £988 in gold.’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing else.’
‘Oh, come now, Mr. Felix. We knew there was money in the cask. We also know there is something else. Think again.’
‘Oh, well, there will be packing, of course. I haven’t opened it and I don’t know. But £988 in gold would go a small way towards filling it. There will be sand or perhaps alabaster or some other packing.’
‘I don’t mean packing. Do you distinctly tell me no other special object was included?’
‘Certainly, but I suppose I’d better explain the whole thing.’
He stirred the embers of the fire together, threw on a couple of logs and settled