Elmer was the proprietor of the sole car in the place, an aged Ford, hired at a handsome price by those who wished to go into Exhampton.
‘No, no—car’s out of the question. My two legs will take me there, Mrs Willett.’
There was a chorus of protest.
‘Oh! Major Burnaby—it’s impossible. You said yourself it was going to snow.’
‘Not for an hour—perhaps longer. I’ll get there, never fear.’
‘Oh! you can’t. We can’t allow it.’
She was seriously disturbed and upset.
But argument and entreaty had no more effect on Major Burnaby than if he were a rock. He was an obstinate man. Once his mind was made up on any point, no power on earth could move him.
He had determined to walk to Exhampton and see for himself that all was well with his old friend, and he repeated that simple statement half a dozen times.
In the end they were brought to realize that he meant it. He wrapped himself up in his overcoat, lighted the hurricane lantern, and stepped out into the night.
‘I’ll just drop in to my place for a flask,’ he said cheerily, ‘and then push straight on. Trevelyan will put me up for the night when I get there. Ridiculous fuss, I know. Everything sure to be all right. Don’t worry, Mrs Willett. Snow or no snow—I’ll get there in a couple of hours. Good night.’
He strode away. The others returned to the fire.
Rycroft had looked up at the sky.
‘It is going to snow,’ he murmured to Mr Duke. ‘And it will begin long before he gets to Exhampton. I—I hope he gets there all right.’
Duke frowned.
‘I know. I feel I ought to have gone with him. One of us ought to have done so.’
‘Most distressing,’ Mrs Willett was saying, ‘most distressing. Violet, I will not have that silly game ever played again. Poor Major Burnaby will probably plunge into a snowdrift—or if he doesn’t he’ll die of the cold and exposure. At his age, too. Very foolish of him to go off like that. Of course, Captain Trevelyan is perfectly all right.’
Everyone echoed:
‘Of course.’
But even now they did not feel really too comfortable.
Supposing something had happened to Captain Trevelyan…
Supposing…
Two and a half hours later, just before eight o’clock, Major Burnaby, hurricane lantern in hand, his head dropped forward so as not to meet the blinding drive of snow, stumbled up the path to the door of ‘Hazelmoor’, the small house tenanted by Captain Trevelyan.
The snow had begun to fall about an hour ago—great blinding flakes of it. Major Burnaby was gasping, emitting the loud sighing gasps of an utterly exhausted man. He was numbed with cold. He stamped his feet, blew, puffed, snorted and applied a numbed finger to the bell push.
The bell trilled shrilly.
Burnaby waited. After a pause of a few minutes, as nothing happened, he pushed the bell again.
Once more there was no stir of life.
Burnaby rang a third time. This time he kept his finger on the bell.
It trilled on and on—but there was still no sign of life in the house.
There was a knocker on the door. Major Burnaby seized it and worked it vigorously, producing a noise like thunder.
And still the little house remained silent as the dead.
The Major desisted. He stood for a moment as though perplexed—then he slowly went down the path and out at the gate, continuing on the road he had come towards Exhampton. A hundred yards brought him to the small police station.
He hesitated again, then finally made up his mind and entered.
Constable Graves, who knew the Major well, rose in astonishment.
‘Well, I never, sir, fancy you being out on a night like this.’
‘Look here,’ said Burnaby curtly. ‘I’ve been ringing and knocking at the Captain’s house and I can’t get any answer.’
‘Why, of course, it’s Friday,’ said Graves who knew the habits of the two pretty well. ‘But you don’t mean to say you’ve actually come down from Sittaford on a night like this? Surely the Captain would never expect you.’
‘Whether he’s expected me or not, I’ve come,’ said Burnaby testily. ‘And as I’m telling you, I can’t get in. I’ve rung and knocked and nobody answers.’
Some of his uneasiness seemed to communicate itself to the policeman.
‘That’s odd,’ he said, frowning.
‘Of course, it’s odd,’ said Burnaby.
‘It’s not as though he’s likely to be out—on a night like this.’
‘Of course he’s not likely to be out.’
‘It is odd,’ said Graves again.
Burnaby displayed impatience at the man’s slowness.
‘Aren’t you going to do something?’ he snapped.
‘Do something?’
‘Yes, do something.’
The policeman ruminated.
‘Think he might have been taken bad?’ His face brightened. ‘I’ll try the telephone.’ It stood at his elbow. He took it up and gave the number.
But to the telephone, as to the front door bell, Captain Trevelyan gave no reply.
‘Looks as though he has been taken bad,’ said Graves as he replaced the receiver. ‘And all alone in the house, too. We’d best got hold of Dr Warren and take him along with us.’
Dr Warren’s house was almost next door to the police station. The doctor was just sitting down to dinner with his wife and was not best pleased at the summons. However, he grudgingly agreed to accompany them, drawing on an aged British Warm and a pair of rubber boots and muffling his neck with a knitted scarf.
The snow was still falling.
‘Damnable night,’ murmured the doctor. ‘Hope you haven’t brought me out on a wild goose chase. Trevelyan’s as strong as a horse. Never has anything the matter with him.’
Burnaby did not reply.
Arriving at Hazelmoor once more, they rang again and knocked, but elicited no response.
The doctor then suggested going round the house to one of the back windows.
‘Easier to force than the door.’
Graves agreeing, they went round the back. There was a side door which they tried on the way, but it too was locked, and presently they emerged on the snow-covered lawn that led up to the back windows. Suddenly, Warren uttered an exclamation.
‘The window of the study—it’s open.’
True enough, the window, a French one, was standing ajar. They quickened their steps. On a night like this, no one in his senses would open a window. There was a light in the room that streamed out in a thin