For a moment Bruce Cardyn stared at him in speechless stupefaction. Then the hot colour that anger had brought to his face during the first part of the inspector's speech paled suddenly. He became white, lurid, corpse-like. Only his eyes met the inspector's honestly enough, but with something—was it horror or fear or anguish, or some subtler emotion compounded of all three?—looking out of their tortured depths.
He moistened his lips, he tried to speak, but at first no words would come.
"You mean—you mean—what do you mean?" he stuttered at last.
The Ferret's eyes watched him mercilessly, missing not one detail, not one iota of the misery in his face. Then the inspector came close up to him.
"Now you shall hear what I mean," the grim voice went on. He stuck his face forward and whispered a few words in the young man's ear. "Now I think you know what I mean—and what other people will call you if I speak aloud—now you will realize why you will stay here as the Watson to my Sherlock Holmes, until I give you permission to return to your inquiry office—to retire from the case."
Chapter XI
The papers were full of the inquest on Lady Anne Daventry. There were sensational headlines on the front pages, developments were expected hourly. The inspector's remarks about the finger-prints were quoted everywhere. John Daventry's evidence was given almost verbatim.
A great pile of the morning papers lay on the breakfast table in that house in Charlton Crescent. A hurried perusal of them was being rapidly made by John Daventry, while the raucous cries of the street vendors, floating in through the open window, could be heard from the Bayswater Road.
"Finger-Print Test!"
"Clues in the Hands of the Police!"
At last with an exclamation of rage Daventry strode to the window and banged it down.
The only other occupant of the room, the rector of North Coton, looked up in mild surprise from his breakfast.
"Dear me, John, what is the matter?"
"Matter?" echoed Daventry in exasperated accents. "Didn't you hear those confounded newsboys in the streets just now?"
"I am afraid I was not taking any notice of them," confessed the rector. "You see, my dear John, that is a fault I am afraid we priests are very prone to, inattention. We have so schooled ourselves, I might almost say as a duty, to abstract ourselves from our earthly surroundings when we are composing our sermons that it becomes almost second nature."
In spite of his wrath Daventry grinned wickedly. "I have taught myself to abstract my thoughts when I am listening to 'em, I know."
The rector's mild smile did not decrease.
"That is the sort of thing the rising generation thinks funny, I believe. Never mind, my dear John, time will bring you wisdom. And now, to change the subject. Personally I think that it is a mistake in talking so much of the five people in the room when my dear departed sister was murdered, and implying, or saying as some of them do say in so many words, that the murderer was to be found among you. The very idea would be ludicrous if the occasion was not so serious. The doors were open, and anyone might have come in and snatched up the dagger and—and used it and got away again. To say nothing of the man at the window—"
"Damn!" said John Daventry suddenly and heartily.
"My dear John!" The rector looked shocked.
"I beg your pardon, sir." Daventry pushed back his chair and going over to the mantelpiece took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. "But when I think of that blighter I lose my temper. If he hadn't got up to the window with his clamps or whatever the things are he wears, Aunt Anne would have been alive now. Do you suppose anyone would have got into the room and stabbed her if we had all been sitting round at tea?"
"Of course they could not," agreed Mr. Fyvert. "I see you hold the theory of the Cat Burglar, John."
"What other theory is there to hold?" Daventry questioned. "The fellow was there safe enough. They tell me he couldn't have got up from the terrace, because there were detectives planted all about the garden below. Well, if those bally brutes in the garden were no better than their master in the house, I don't think they would have done much to interfere with the Cat Burglar."
"I don't know—I don't know." The rector, having finished his breakfast, folded his hands over his slightly prominent waistcoat and looked at Daventry with friendly interest. "I have formed no theory at all myself. I am content to think of it as a terrible and mysterious happening, and to leave it at that, until all is revealed in due time."
"I tell you what, Mr. Fyvert, I have woke up two or three times in a night sometimes lately, and have seen the whole blasted thing—the scaffold and all the thingumajigs, you know, and feel that I have had a good breakfast—tea and toast and an egg—the poor beggars always do, you know. And I'm there all tied up and blindfolded. My God! I went over the trenches times enough, but this—And when I think of the poor wretches that have faced it—and women too—my Lord, but it won't bear thinking about." He ended with a strong shudder, and turning his face to the mantelpiece rested his arms on the high wooden shelf and laid his head upon his hands.
Mr. Fyvert looked at him with pitying wonder.
"My dear John, this is nerves, you know—nothing but nerves! You must make up your mind not to give way to it. It is a good thing you are going down to the Keep. In the country and away from this house you will soon look upon things in a different light."
"I don't know what sort of a light the folks at the Keep will regard me in," retorted Daventry. "They liked Aunt Anne down there, you know. They knew her before the boys died and she became crabby and crotchety. I would go abroad—big game shooting or something of that sort—but that fellow Furnival gave me a hint that if I tried to get out of reach in any way I should be arrested at once."
"I am inclined to think that Inspector Furnival exceeds his duty," observed Mr. Fyvert, stroking his clean-shaven chin. "He said something of the same kind to the girls this morning."
"The girls!" thundered Daventry, staring at him. "Do you mean Dorothy and Margaret?"
"Oh, do not shout so, my dear John. It goes through my head," the rector said, putting his hand to his brow. "I quite agree with you—the idea is preposterous. He was speaking more particularly to Margaret, I think. She was speaking of returning to Australia. I fancy that since my poor sister's death she has felt that she would rather go home to her old friends. One cannot wonder at it. But Furnival warned her that neither she nor any of the witnesses would be allowed to get out of communication with the police."
"Then I should think he does indeed exceed his duty," uttered Daventry explosively. "Of course if the police have reason to think that anybody committed a crime they can arrest him or her as the case may be. But I am blessed if they can keep the whole lot of us dangling round while they try to manufacture evidence against us. I shall consult my solicitor as soon as I get back to the Keep. I don't put any faith in these jumped-up johnnies here myself."
"I think you will be quite wise," the rector approved. "I suppose you know that Margaret is anxious to realize her share of what was left her by my sister."
"No, I didn't know. But I think—" Daventry was beginning, when he was interrupted.
Soames came in with a pile of letters that had come in by the second post.
"Might I speak to you, gentlemen, for a minute?" he said, looking inquiringly from one to the other.
There