Before Vickers and his companions had recovered from the surprise which this extraordinary cool message had given them, the men had bundled Chatfield across the beach and into the boat and were pulling quickly back to the Pike.
Audrey broke the silence with a ringing laugh.
"Captain Andrius is certainly the perfection of polite pirates," she exclaimed. "More food—more wraps—and books and papers! Was any marooned mariner ever one-half so well treated?"
"What's the fellow mean about no vessel passing here for two more days?" growled Copplestone, who was glaring angrily at the yacht. "What's he so meticulously correct for?"
"I should say that he's referring to some weekly or bi-weekly steamer which runs between Kirkwall and the mainland," replied Vickers. "Well—it's good to know that, anyhow. But wait until the Pike's vamoosed again, and we'll make up such a column of smoke that it'll be seen for many a mile. In fact, I'll go and gather a lot of dried stuff now—you two can drag those boxes and things up the beach and see what our gaolers have been good enough to send us."
He went away up the cliffs, and Audrey and Copplestone, once more left alone, looked at each other and laughed.
"That's right," said Copplestone. "What I like about you is that you take things that way."
"Is it any use taking them any other way?" she asked. "Besides I've never been at all frightened nor particularly concerned. I've always felt that we were only put here so that we should be out of the way while our captors got safely away with their booty, and as regards my mother, I know her well enough to feel sure that she quickly sized things up, and that she'll have taken measures of her own. Don't be surprised if we're rescued through her means or if she has set somebody to work to catch the predatory Pike."
"Good!" said Copplestone. "But as regards the Pike, I wonder if you observed something during the few minutes she was here. I'm sure Vickers didn't—he was too busy, watching Chatfield."
"So was I," replied Audrey. "What was it?"
"I believe I'm unusually observant," answered Copplestone. "I seem to see things—all at once, don't you know. I saw that since we made her acquaintance—and were unceremoniously bundled off her—the Pike has got a new and quite different coat of paint. And I daresay she's changed her name, too. From all of which I argue that when they got rid of us here, the people who are working all this slipped quietly back to some cove or creek on the Scotch coast, did a stiff turn at repainting, and meant to be off to the other side of the world under new colours. And while this was going on, Andrius, or his co-villain, found time to examine those chests that Chatfield told us of, and when they found that Chatfield had done them, they came back here quick. Now they're off to make him reveal the whereabouts of the real chests."
"Won't they be rather running their necks into a noose?" suggested Audrey. "I'm dead certain that my mother will have raised a hue and cry after them."
"They're cute enough," said Copplestone. "Anyway, they'll run a good many risks for the sake of fifty thousand pounds. What they may do is to run into some very quiet inlet—there are hundreds on these northern coasts—and take Chatfield to his hiding-place. Chatfield's like all scoundrels of his type—a horrible coward if a pistol's held to his head. Now they've got him, they'll force him to disgorge. Hang this compulsory inactivity!—my nerves are all a-tingle to get going at things!"
"Let's occupy ourselves with the things our generous gaolers have been kind enough to send us, then," suggested Audrey. "We'd better carry them up to our shelter."
Copplestone went down to the things which the boat's crew had deposited on the beach—a couple of small packing-cases, a bundle of wraps and cushions, and some books, magazines and newspapers. He picked up a paper with a cry which suggested a discovery of importance.
"Look at that!" he exclaimed. "Do you see? A Scotsman! Today's date!
And here—Aberdeen Free Press—same date!"
"Well?" asked Audrey. "And what then?"
"What then?" demanded Copplestone. "Where are your powers of deduction? Why, that shows that the Pike was somewhere this morning where she could get the morning papers from Aberdeen and Edinburgh—therefore, she's been, as I suggested, somewhere on the Scotch coast all night. It's now noon—she's a fast sailer—I guess she's been within sixty miles of us ever since she left us."
"Isn't it more pertinent to speculate on where she'll be when we want to find her?" asked Audrey.
"More pertinent still to wonder when somebody will come to find us," answered Copplestone as he shouldered one of the cases. "However, there's a certain joy in uncertainty, so they say—we're tasting it."
The joys of uncertainty, however, were not to endure. They had scarcely completed the task of carrying up the newly-arrived stores to the shelter which they had made in an angle of the rocks when Vickers hailed them from a spur of the cliffs and waved his arms excitedly.
"I say, you two!" he shouted. "There's a craft coming—from the south-west. Come up! There!" he added, a few minutes later, when they arrived, breathless, at his side. "Out yonder—a mere black blot—but unmistakable! Do you know what that is, either of you? You don't? All right, I do—ought to, because I'm a R.N.V.R. man myself. That's a T.B.D., my friends!—torpedo-boat destroyer. What's more, far off as she is, my experienced eye and sure knowledge tell me exactly what she is. She's a class H. boat built last year—oil fuel—turbines—runs up to thirty knots—and she's doing 'em, too, just now! Come on, Copplestone—more stuff on this fire!"
"I don't think we need be uneasy," said Copplestone. "Miss Greyle thinks that her mother will have raised a hue and cry after the Pike. This torpedo thing is probably looking round for us. She—what's that?"
The sudden sharp crack of a gun came across the calm surface of the sea, and the watchers turning from their fire towards the black object in the distance saw a cloud of white smoke drifting away from it.
"Hooray!" shouted Vickers. "She's seen our smoke-pillar! Shove more on, just to let her know we understand. Saved!—this time, anyway."
Half-an-hour later, a spick and span and eminently youthful-looking naval lieutenant raised his cap to the three folk who stood eagerly awaiting his approach at the edge of the surf.
"Miss Greyle? Mr. Vickers? Mr. Copplestone?" he asked as he sprang from his boat and came up. "Right!—we're searching for you—had wireless messages this morning. Where's the pirate, or whatever he is?"
"Somewhere away to the southward," answered Vickers, pointing into the haze. "He was here two hours ago—but he's about as fast as they make 'em, and he's good reason to show a clean pair of heels. However, we've ample grounds for believing him to have gone due south again. Where are you from?"
"Got the message off Dunnett Head, and we'll run you to Thurso," replied the rescuer, motioning them to enter the boat. "Come on—our commander's got some word or other for you. What's all this been?" he went on, gazing at Audrey with youthful assurance as they moved away from the shore. "You don't mean to say you've actually been kidnapped?"
"Kidnapped and marooned," replied Vickers. "And I hope you'll catch our kidnapper—he's got a tremendous amount of property on him which belongs to this lady, and he'll make tracks for the other side of the Atlantic as soon as he gets hold of some more which he's gone to collect."
The lieutenant regarded Audrey with still more interest. "Oh, all right," he said confidently. "He'll not get away. I guess they've wirelessed all over the place—our message was from the Admiralty!"
"That's Sir Cresswell's doing," said Copplestone, turning to Audrey. "Your mother must have wired to him. I wonder what the message is?" he asked, facing the lieutenant. "Do you know?"
"Something about if you're found to tell you to get south as fast as possible," he answered. "And we've worked that out for you. You can get on by train from Thurso to Inverness, and from Inverness, of course, you'll get the southern express. Well put you off at Thurso by two o'clock—just time to give you such lunch as our table affords—bit rough, you know. So you've really been all night on that island?" he went on with unaffected curiosity. "What a lark!"
"You'd have had an opportunity of studying character if you'd been with us," replied Vickers. "We lost a fine specimen of humanity two hours ago."
"Tell about it aboard," said the lieutenant. "We'll be thankful—we've been round this end-of-everywhere coast for a month and we're tired. It's quite a Godsend to have a little adventure."
Copplestone had been right in surmising that Sir Cresswell Oliver had bestirred himself to find him and his companions. They were presently shown his message. They were to get to Norcaster as quickly as possible, and to wire their whereabouts as soon as they were found. If, as seemed likely, they were picked up on the north coast of Scotland, they were to ask at Inverness railway station for telegrams. And to Inverness after being landed at Thurso they betook themselves, while the torpedo-boat destroyer set off to nose round for the Pike, in case she came that way back from wherever she had gone to.
Copplestone came out of the station-master's office at Inverness with a couple of telegrams and read their contents over to his companions in the dining-room to which they adjourned.
"This is from Mrs. Greyle," he said. "'All right and much relieved by wire from Thurso. Bring Audrey home as quick as possible.' That's good! And this—Great Scott! This is from Gilling! Listen!—'Just heard from Petherton of your rescue. Come straight and sharp Norcaster. Meet me at the "Angel." Big things afoot. Spurge most anxious see you. Important news. Gilling.' So things have been going on," he concluded, turning the second telegram over to Vickers. "I suppose we'll have to travel all night?"
"Night express in an hour," replied Vickers. "We shall make Norcaster about five-thirty tomorrow morning."
"Then let us wire the time of our arrival to Gilling. I'm anxious to know what has brought him up there," said Copplestone. "And we'll wire to Mrs. Greyle, too," he added, turning to Audrey. "She'll know then that you're absolutely on the way."
"I wonder what we're on the way to?" remarked Vickers with a grim smile. "It strikes me that our recent alarms and excursions will have been as nothing to what awaits us at Norcaster."
What did await them on a cold, dismal morning at Norcaster was Gilling, stamping up and down a windswept platform. And Gilling seized on Copplestone almost before he could alight from the train.
"Come to the 'Angel' straight off!" he said. "Mrs. Greyle's there awaiting her daughter. I've work for you and Vickers at once—that chap Spurge is somewhere about the 'Angel,' too—been hanging round there since yesterday, heavy with news that he'll give to nobody but you."
Such of the folk of the "Angel" hotel—a night porter, a waiter, a chamber-maid—as were up and about that grey morning, wondered why the two old gentlemen who had arrived from London the day before should rise from their beds to hold a secret and mysterious conference with the three young ones who, with a charming if tired-looking young lady, drove up before the city clocks had struck six. But Sir Cresswell Oliver and Mr. Petherton knew that there was no time to be lost, and as soon as Audrey had been restored to and carried off by her mother to Mrs. Greyle's room, they summoned Vickers and Copplestone to a private parlour and demanded their latest news. Sir Cresswell listened eagerly, and in silence, until Copplestone described the return of the Pike; at that he broke his silence.
"That's precisely what I feared!" he exclaimed. "Of course, if she's been hurriedly repainted and renamed, she stands a fair chance of getting away. Our instructions to the patrol boats up there are to look for a certain vessel, the Pike—naturally they won't look for anything else. We must get the wireless to work at once."
"But there's this," said Copplestone. "They certainly fetched old
Chatfield to make him hand over the gold! They won't go away without
that! And he said that he'd hidden the gold somewhere near Scarhaven.
Therefore, they'll have to come down this coast to get it."
"Not necessarily," replied Sir Cresswell, with a knowing shake of the head. "You may be sure they're alive to all the exigencies of the situation. They could do several things once they'd got Chatfield on board again. Some of them could land with him at some convenient port and make him take them to where he's hidden the money; they could recapture that and go off to some other port, to which the yacht had meanwhile been brought round. If we only knew where Chatfield had planted that money—"
"He said near Scarhaven, unmistakably," remarked Vickers.
"Near Scarhaven!" repeated Sir Cresswell, laughing dismally. "That's a wide term—a very wide one. Behind Scarhaven, as you all know, are hills and moors and valleys and ravines in which one could hide a Dreadnought! Well, that's all I can think of—getting into communication with patrol boats and coastguard stations all along the coast between here and Wick. And that mayn't be the least good. Somebody may have escorted Chatfield ashore after they left you yesterday, brought him hereabouts by rail or motor-car, and the yacht may have made a wide detour round the Shetlands and be now well on her way to the North Atlantic."
"But in that case—the money?" asked Copplestone.
"They would get hold of the money, take it clean away, and ship it from Liverpool, or Glasgow, or—anywhere," replied Sir Cresswell. "You may be sure they've plenty of resources at command, and that they'll work secretly. Of course, we must keep a look out round about here for any sign or reappearance of Chatfield, but, as I say, this country is so wild that he and his companions can easily elude observation, especially as they're sure to come by night. Still, we must do what we can, and at once. But first, there are one or two things I want to ask you young men—you said, Mr. Vickers, that Chatfield solemnly insisted to you that he did not know that the man who had posed as Marston Greyle was not Marston Greyle?"
"He did," replied Vickers, "and though Chatfield is an unmitigated old scoundrel, I believe him."
"You do!" exclaimed Gilling, who was listening eagerly. "Oh, come!"
"I do—as a professional man," answered Vickers, stoutly, and with an appealing glance at his brother solicitor. "Mr. Petherton will tell you that we lawyers have a curious gift of intuition. With all Chatfield's badness, I do really believe that the old fellow does not know whether the man we'll call the Squire is Marston Greyle or not! He's doubtful—he's puzzled—but he doesn't know."
"Odd!" murmured Sir Cresswell, after a minute's silence. "Odd! Very, very odd! That shows that there's still some extraordinary mystery about this which we haven't even guessed at. Well, now, another question—you got the idea that some one else was aboard the yacht?"
"Some one other than Andrius—in authority—yes!" answered Vickers. "We certainly thought that."
"Did you think it was the man we know as the Squire?" asked Sir
Cresswell.
"We had a notion that he might be there," replied Vickers, with a glance at Copplestone. "Especially after what happened to Chatfield. Of course, we never saw him, or heard his voice, or saw a sign of him. Still, we fancied—"
Sir Cresswell rose from his chair and motioned to Petherton.
"Well," he said, "I think you and I, Petherton, had better complete our toilets, and then give a look in at the authorities here and find out if anything has been received by wireless or from the coastguard stations about the yacht. In the meantime," he added, turning to Vickers and Copplestone, "Gilling can tell you what's been going on in your absence—you'll learn from it that our impression is that the Squire, as we call him, was on the Pike with you."
The two elder men went away, and Copplestone turned to Gilling.
"What have you got?" he asked eagerly. "Live news!"
"Might have been livelier and more satisfactory," answered Gilling, "if it hadn't been for the factor which none of us can help—luck! We tracked the Squire."
"You did?" exclaimed Copplestone. "Where?"
"When I said we I should have said Swallow," continued Gilling. "You remember that afternoon of our return from Bristol, Copplestone? It seems ages away now, though as a matter of time it's only four days ago!—Well, that afternoon Swallow, who had had two or three more keeping a sharp look out for the Squire, got a telephone message from one of 'em saying that he'd tracked his man to the Fragonard Club. I'd gone home to my chambers, to rest a bit after our adventures at Bristol and Falmouth, so Swallow had to act on his own initiative. He set off for the Fragonard Club, and outside it met his man. This particular man had been keeping a watch for days on that tobacconist's shop in Wardour Street. That afternoon he suddenly saw the Squire leave it, by a side door. He followed him to the Fragonard Club, watched him enter; then he himself turned into a neighbouring bar and telephoned to Swallow. The Squire was still in the Fragonard when Swallow got there: from that time he kept a watch. The Squire remained in the Club for an hour—"
"Which proves," interrupted Copplestone, "that he's a member, and that I ought to have followed up my attempt to get in there."
"Well, anyway," continued Gilling, "there he was, and thence he eventually emerged, with a kit-bag. He got into a taxi, and Swallow heard him order its driver to go to King's Cross. Now Swallow was there alone—and he had just before that met his man scooting round to see if there was a rear exit from the Fragonard, and he hadn't returned. Swallow, of course, couldn't wait—every minute was precious. He followed the Squire to King's Cross, and heard him book for Northborough."
"Northborough!" exclaimed Copplestone, in surprise. "Not Norcaster? Ah, well, Northborough's a port, too, isn't it?"
"Northborough is as near to Scarhaven as Norcaster is, you know," said
Gilling. "To Northborough he booked, anyhow. So did Swallow, who, now
that he'd got him, was going to follow him to the North Pole, if need be.
The train was just starting—Swallow had no time to communicate with me.
Also, the train didn't stop until it reached Grantham. There he sent me a
wire, saying he was on the track of his man. Well, they went on to
Northborough, where they arrived late in the evening. There—what is it,
Copplestone," he broke off, seeing signs of a desire to speak on
Copplestone's part.
"You're talking of the very same afternoon and evening that I came down—four evenings ago," said Copplestone. "My train was the four o'clock—I got to Norcaster at ten—surely they didn't come on the same train!"
"I feel sure they did, but anyhow, these trains to the North are usually very long ones, and you were probably in a different part," replied Gilling. "Anyway, they got to Northborough soon after nine. Swallow followed his man on to the platform, out to some taxi-cabs, and heard him commission one of the chauffeurs to take him to Scarhaven. When they'd gone Swallow got hold of another taxi, and told its driver to take him to Scarhaven, too. Off they went—in a pitch-black night, I'm told—"
"We know that!" said Vickers with a glance at Copplestone. "We motored from Norcaster—just about the same time."
"Well," continued Gilling, "it was at any rate so dark that Swallow's driver, who appears to have been a very nervous chap, made very poor progress. Also he took one or two wrong turnings. Finally he ran his car into a guide post which stood where two roads forked—and there Swallow was landed, scarcely halfway to Scarhaven. They couldn't get the car to move, and it was some time before Swallow could persuade the landlord at the nearest inn to hire out a horse and trap to him. Altogether, it was near or just past midnight when he reached Scarhaven, and when he did get there, it was to see the lights of a steamer going out of the bay."
"The Pike, of course," muttered Copplestone.
"Of course—and some men on the quay told him," continued Gilling. "Well, that put Swallow in a fix. He was dead certain, of course, that his man was on that yacht. However, he didn't want to rouse suspicion, so he didn't ask any of those quayside men if they'd seen the Squire. Instead, remembering what I'd told him about Mrs. Greyle he asked for her house and was directed to it. He found Mrs. Greyle in a state of great anxiety. Her daughter had gone with you two to the yacht and had never returned; Mrs. Greyle, watching from her windows, had seen the yacht go out to sea. Swallow found her, of course, seriously alarmed as to what had happened. Of course, he told her what he had come down for and they consulted. Next morning—"
"Stop a bit," interrupted Vickers. "Didn't Mrs. Greyle get any message from the yacht about her daughter—Andrius said he'd sent one, anyway."
"A lie!" replied Gilling. "She got no message. The only consolation she had was that you and Copplestone were with Miss Greyle. Well, first thing next morning Swallow and Mrs. Greyle set every possible means to work. They went to the police—they wired to places up the coast and down the coast to keep a look out—and Swallow also wired full particulars to Sir Cresswell Oliver, with the result that Sir Cresswell went to the naval authorities and got them to set their craft up north to work. Having done all this, and finding that he could be of no more service at Scarhaven, Swallow returned to town to see me and to consult. Now, of course, we were in a position by then to approach that Fragonard Club—"
"Ah!" exclaimed Copplestone. "Just so!"
"The man, whoever he is, had been there an hour on the day Swallow and his man tracked him," continued Gilling. "Therefore, something must be known of him. Swallow and I, armed with certain credentials, went there. And—we could find out next to nothing. The hall porter there said he dimly remembered such a gentleman coming in and going upstairs, but he himself was new to his job, didn't know all the members—there are hundreds of 'em—and he took this man for a regular habitue. A waiter also had some sort of recollection of the man, and seeing him in conversation with another man whom he, the waiter, knew better, though he didn't know his name. Swallow is now moving everything to find that man—to find anybody who knows our man—and something will come of it, in the end—must do. In the meantime I came down here with Sir Cresswell and Mr. Petherton, to be on the spot. And, from your information, things will happen here! That hidden gold is the thing—they'll not leave that without an effort to get it. If we could only find out where that is and watch it—then our present object would be achieved."
"What is the present object?" asked Copplestone.
"Why," replied Gilling, "we've got warrants out against both Chatfield and the Squire for the murder of Bassett Oliver!—the police here have them in hand. Petherton's seen to that. And if they can only be laid hands on—What is it?" he asked turning to a sleepy-eyed waiter who, after a gentle tap at the door, put a shock head into the room. "Somebody want me?"
"That there man, sir—you know," said the waiter. "Here again, sir—stable-yard, sir."
Gilling jumped up and gave Copplestone a look.
"That's Spurge!" he muttered. "He said he'd be back at day-break. Wait here—I'll fetch him."
Zachary Spurge, presently ushered in by Gilling, who carefully closed the door behind himself and his companion, looked as if his recent lodging had been of an even rougher nature than that in which Copplestone had found him at their first meeting. The rough horseman's cloak in which he was buttoned to the edge of a red neckerchief and a stubbly chin was liberally ornamented with bits of straw, scraps of furze and other odds and ends picked up in woods and hedge-rows. Spurge, indeed, bore unmistakable evidence of having slept out in wild places for some nights and his general atmosphere was little more respectable than that of a scarecrow. But he grinned cheerfully at Copplestone—and then frowned at Vickers.
"I didn't count for to meet no lawyers, gentlemen," he said, pausing on the outer boundaries of the parlour, "I ain't a-goin' to talk before 'em, neither!"
"He's a grudge against me—I've had to appear against him once or twice," whispered Vickers to Copplestone. "You'd better soothe him down—I want to know what he's got to tell."
"It's all right, Spurge," said Copplestone. "Come—Mr. Vickers is on our side this time; he's one of us. You can say anything you like before him—or Mr. Gilling either. We're all in it. Pull your chair up—here, alongside of me, and tell us what you've been doing."
"Well, of course, if you puts it that way, Mr. Copplestone," replied Spurge, coming to the table a little doubtfully. "Though I hadn't meant to tell nobody but you what I've got to tell. However, I can see that things is in such a pretty pass that this here ain't no one-man job—it's a job as'll want a lot o' men! And I daresay lawyers and such-like is as useful men in that way as you can lay hands on—no offence to you, Mr. Vickers, only you see I've had experience o' your sort before. But if you are taking a hand in this here—well, all right. But now, gentlemen," he continued dropping into a chair at the table and laying his fur cap on its polished surface, "afore ever I says a word, d'ye think that I could be provided with a cup o' hot coffee, or tea, with a stiff dose o' rum in it? I'm that cold and starved—ah, if you'd been where I been this last twelve hours or so, you'd be perished."
The sleepy waiter was summoned to attend to Spurge's wants—until they were satisfied the poacher sat staring fixedly at his cap and occasionally shaking his head. But after a first hearty gulp of strongly fortified coffee the colour came back into his face, he sighed with relief, and signalled to the three watchful young men to draw their chairs close to his.
"Ah!" he said, setting down his cup. "And nobody never wanted aught more badly than I wanted that! And now then—the door being shut on us quite safe, ain't it, gentlemen?—no eavesdroppers?—well, this here it is. I don't know what you've been a-doing of these last few days, nor what may have happened to each and all—but I've news. Serious news—as I reckons it to be. Of—Chatfield!"
Copplestone kicked Vickers under the table and gave him a look.
"Chatfield again!" he murmured. "Well, go on, Spurge."
"There's a lot to go on with, too, guv'nor," said Spurge, after taking another evidently welcome drink. "And I'll try to put it all in order, as it were—same as if I was in a witness-box," he added, with a sly glance at Vickers. "You remember that day of the inquest on the actor gentleman, guv'nor? Well, of course, when I went to give evidence at Scarhaven, at that there inquest, I never expected but what the police 'ud collar me at the end of it. However, I didn't mean that they should, if I could help it, so I watched things pretty close, intending to slip off when I saw a chance. Well, now, you'll bear in mind that there was a bit of a dust-up when the thing was over—some on 'em cheering the Squire and some on 'em grousing about the verdict, and between one and t'other I popped out and off, and you yourself saw me making for the moors. Of course, me, knowing them moors back o' Scarhaven as I do, it was easy work to make myself scarce on 'em in ten minutes—not all the police north o' the Tees could ha' found me a quarter of an hour after I'd hooked it out o' that schoolroom! Well, but the thing then was—where to go next? 'Twasn't no good going to Hobkin's Hole again—now that them chaps knew I was in the neighbourhood they'd soon ha' smoked me out o' there. Once I thought of making for Norcaster here, and going into hiding down by the docks—I've one or two harbours o' refuge there. But I had reasons for wishing to stop in my own country—for a bit at any rate. And so, after reckoning things up, I made for a spot as Mr. Vickers there'll know by name of the Reaver's Glen."
"Good place, too, for hiding," remarked Vickers with a nod.
"Best place on this coast—seashore and inland," said Spurge. "And as you two London gentlemen doesn't know it, I'll tell you about it. If you was to go out o' Scarhaven harbour and turn north, you'd sail along our coast line up here to the mouth of Norcaster Bay and you'd think there was never an inlet between 'em. But there is. About half-way between Scarhaven and Norcaster there's a very narrow opening in the cliffs that you'd never notice unless you were close in shore, and inside that opening there's a cove that's big enough to take a thousand-ton vessel—aye, and half-a-dozen of 'em! It was a favourite place for smugglers in the old days, and they call it Darkman's Dene to this day in memory of a famous old smuggler that used it a good deal. Well, now, at the land end of that cove there's a narrow valley that runs up to the moorland and the hills, full o' rocks and crags and precipices and such like—something o' the same sort as Hobkin's Hole but a deal wilder, and that's known as the Reaver's Glen, because in other days the cattle-lifters used to bring their stolen goods, cattle and sheep, down there where they could pen 'em in, as it were. There's piles o' places in that glen where a man can hide—I picked out one right at the top, at the edge of the moors, where there's the ruins of an old peel tower. I could get shelter in that old tower, and at the same time slip out of it if need be into one of fifty likely hiding places amongst the rocks. I got into touch with my cousin Jim Spurge—the one-eyed chap at the 'Admiral's Arms,' Mr. Copplestone, that night—and I got in a supply of meat and drink, and there I was. And—as things turned out, Chatfield had got his eye on the very same spot!"
Spurge paused for a minute, and picking out a match from a stand which stood on the table, began to trace imaginary lines on the mahogany.
"This is how things is there," he said, inviting his companions' attention. "Here, like, is where this peel tower stands—that's a thick wood as comes close up to its walls—that there is a road as crosses the moors and the wood about, maybe, a hundred yards or so behind the tower on the land side. Now, there, one afternoon as I was in that there tower, a-reading of a newspaper that Jim had brought me the night before, I hears wheels on that moorland road, and I looked out through a convenient loophole, and who should I see but Peter Chatfield in that old pony trap of his. He was coming along from the direction of Scarhaven, and when he got abreast of the tower he pulled up, got out, left his pony to crop the grass and came strolling over in my direction. Of course, I wasn't afraid of him—there's so many ways in and out of that old peel as there is out of a rabbit-warren—besides, I felt certain he was there on some job of his own. Well, he comes up to the edge of the glen, and he looks into it and round it, and up and down at the tower, and he wanders about the heaps of fallen masonry that there is there, and finally he puts thumbs in his armhole and went slowly back to his trap. 'But you'll be coming back, my old swindler!' says I to myself. 'You'll be back again I doubt not at all!' And back he did come—that very night. Oh, yes!"
"Alone?" asked Copplestone.
"A-lone!" replied Spurge. "It had got to be dark, and I was thinking of going to sleep, having nought else to do and not expecting cousin Jim that night, when I heard the sound of horses' feet and of wheels. So I cleared out of my hole to where I could see better. Of course, it was Chatfield—same old trap and pony—but this time he came from Norcaster way. Well, he gets out, just where he'd got out before, and he leads the pony and trap across the moor to close by the tower. I could tell by the way that trap went over the grass that there was some sort of a load in it and it wouldn't have surprised me, gentlemen, if the old reptile had brought a dead body out of it. After a bit, I hear him taking something out, something which he bumped down on the ground with a thump—I counted nine o' them thumps. And then after a bit I heard him begin a moving of some of the loose masonry what lies in such heaps at the foot o' the peel tower—dark though it was there was light enough in the sky for him to see to do that. But after he'd been at it some time, puffing and groaning and grunting, he evidently wanted to see better, and he suddenly flashed a light on things from one o' them electric torches. And then I see—me being not so many yards away from him—nine small white wood boxes, all clamped with metal bands, lying in a row on the grass, and I see, too, that Chatfield had been making a place for 'em amongst the stones. Yes—that was it—nine small white wood boxes—so small, considering, that I wondered what made 'em so heavy."
Copplestone favoured Vickers with another quiet kick. They were, without doubt, hearing the story of the hidden gold, and it was becoming exciting.
"Well," continued Spurge. "Into the place he'd cleared out them boxes went, and once they were all in he heaped the stones over 'em as natural as they were before, and he kicked a lot o' small loose stones round about and over the place where he'd been standing. And then the old sinner let out a great groan as if something troubled him, and he fetched a bottle out of his pocket and took a good pull at whatever was in it, after which, gentlemen, he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and groaned again. He'd had his bit of light on all that time, but he doused it then, and after that he led the old pony away across the bit of moor to the road, and presently in he gets and drives slowly away towards Scarhaven. And so there was I, d'ye see, Mr. Copplestone, left, as it were, sold guardian of—what?"
The three young men exchanged glances with each other while Spurge refreshed himself with his fortified coffee, and their eyes asked similar questions.
"Ah!" observed Copplestone at last. "You don't know what, Spurge? You haven't examined one of those boxes?"
Spurge set his cup down and gave his questioner a knowing look.
"I'll tell you my line o' conduct, guv'nor," he said. "So certain sure have I been that something 'ud come o' this business of hiding them boxes and that something valuable is in 'em that I've taken partiklar care ever since Chatfield planted 'em there that night never to set foot within a dozen yards of 'em. Why? 'Cause I know he'll ha' left footprints of his own there, and them footprints may be useful. No, sir!—them boxes has been guarded careful ever since Chatfield placed 'em where he did. For—Chatfield's never been back!"
"Never back, eh?" said Copplestone, winking at the other two.
"Never been back—self nor spirit, substance nor shadow!—since that night," replied Spurge. "Unless, indeed, he's been back since four o'clock this morning, when I left there. However, if he's been 'twixt then and now, my cousin Jim Spurge, he was there. Jim's been helping me to watch. When I first came in here to see if I could hear anything about you—Jim having told me that some London gentlemen was up here again—I left him in charge. And there he is now. And now you know all I can tell you, gentlemen, and as I understand there's some mystery about Chatfield and that he's disappeared, happen you'll know how to put two and two together. And if I'm of any use—"
"Spurge," said Gilling. "How far is it to this Reaver's Glen—or, rather to that peel tower?"
"Matter of eight or nine miles, guv'nor, over the moors," replied Spurge.
"How did you come in then?" asked Gilling.
"Cousin Jim Spurge's bike—down in the stable-yard, now," answered
Spurge. "Did it comfortable in under the hour."
"I think we ought to go out there—some of us," said Gilling. "We ought—"
At that moment the door opened and Sir Cresswell Oliver came in, holding a bit of flimsy paper in his hand. He glanced at Spurge and then beckoned the three young men to join him.
"I've had a wireless message from the North Sea—and it puzzles me," he said. "One of our ships up there has had news of what is surely the Pike from a fishing vessel. She was seen late yesterday afternoon going due east—due east, mind you! If that was she—and I'm sure of it!—our quarry's escaping us."
Gilling took the message from Sir Cresswell and thoughtfully read it over. Then he handed it back and motioned the old seaman to look at Spurge.
"I think you ought to know what this man has just told us, sir," he said. "We've got a story from him that exactly fits in with what Chatfield told Mr. Vickers when the Pike returned to carry him off yesterday. Chatfield, you'll remember, said that the gold he'd withdrawn from the bank is hidden somewhere—well, there's no doubt that this man Zachary Spurge knows where it is hidden. It's there now—and the presumption is, of course, that these people on the Pike will certainly come in to this coast—somehow!—to get it. So in that case—eh?"
"Gad!—that's valuable!" said Sir Cresswell, glancing again at Spurge, and with awakened interest. "Let me hear this story."
Copplestone epitomized Spurge's account, while the poacher listened admiringly, checking off the main points and adding a word or two where he considered the epitome lacking.
"Very smart of you, my man," remarked Sir Cresswell, nodding benevolently at Spurge when the story was over. "You're in a fair way to find yourself well rewarded. Now gentlemen!" he continued, sitting down at the table, and engaging the attention of the others, "I think we had better have a council of war. Petherton has just gone to speak to the police authorities about those warrants which have been taken out against Chatfield and the impostor, but we can go on in his absence. Now there seems to be no doubt that those chests which Spurge tells us of contain the gold which Chatfield procured from the bank, and concerning which he seems to have played his associates more tricks than one. However, his associates, whoever they are—and mind you, gentlemen, I believe there are more men than Chatfield and the Squire in all this!—have now got a tight grip on Chatfield, and they'll force him to show them where that gold is—they'll certainly not give up the chances of fifty thousand pounds without a stiff try to get it. So—I'm considering all the possibilities and probabilities—we may conclude that sooner or later—sooner, most likely—somebody will visit this old peel tower that Spurge talks of. But—who? For we're faced with this wireless message. I've no doubt the vessel here referred to is the Pike—no doubt at all. Now she was seen making due east, near this side of the Dogger Bank, late last night—so that it would look as if these men were making for Denmark, or Germany, rather than for this coast. But since receiving this message, I have thought that point out. The Pike is, I believe, a very fast vessel?"
"Very," answered Vickers. "She can do twenty-seven or eight knots an hour."
"Exactly," said Sir Cresswell. "Then in that case they may have put in at some Northern port, landed Chatfield and two or three men to keep an eye on him and to accompany him to this old tower, while the Pike herself has gone off till a more fitting opportunity arises of dodging in somewhere to pick up the chests which Chatfield and his party will in the meantime have removed. From what I have seen of it this is such a wild part of the coast that Chatfield and such a small gang as I am imagining, could easily come back here, keep themselves hidden and recover the chests without observation. So our plain duty is to now devise some plan for going to the Reaver's Glen and keeping a watch there until somebody comes. Eh?"
"There's another thing that's possible, sir," said Vickers, who had listened carefully to all that Sir Cresswell had said. "The Pike is fitted for wireless telegraphy."
"Yes?" said Sir Cresswell expectantly. "And you think—?"
"You suggested that there may be more people than Chatfield and the Squire in at this business," continued Vickers. "Just so! We—Copplestone and myself—know very well that the skipper of the Pike, Andrius, is in it: that's undeniable. But there may be others—or one other, or two—on shore here. And as the Pike can communicate by wireless, those on board her may have sent a message to their shore confederates to remove those chests. So—"
"Capital suggestion!" said Sir Cresswell, who saw this point at once. "So we'd better lose no time in arranging our expedition out there. Spurge—you're the man who knows the spot best—what ought we to do about getting there—in force?"
Spurge, obviously flattered at being called upon to advise a great man, entered into the discussion with enthusiasm.
"Your honour mustn't go in force at all!" he said. "What's wanted, gentlemen, is—strategy! Now if you'll let me put it to you, me knowing the lie of the land, this is what had ought to be done. A small party ought to go—with me to lead. We'll follow the road that cuts across the moorland to a certain point; then we'll take a by-track that gets you to High Nick; there we'll take to a thick bit o' wood and coppice that runs right up to the peel tower. Nobody'll track us, nor see us from any point, going that way. Three or four of us—these here young gentlemen, now, and me—'ll be enough for the job—if armed. A revolver apiece your honour—that'll be plenty. And as for the rest—what you might call a reserve force—your honour said something just now about some warrants. Is the police to be in at it, then?"
"The police hold warrants for the two men we've been chiefly talking about," replied Sir Cresswell.
"Well let your honour come on a bit later with not more than three police plain-clothes fellows—as far as High Nick," said Spurge. "The police'll know where that is. Let 'em wait there—don't let 'em come further until I send back a message by my cousin Jim, You see, guv'nor," he added, turning to Copplestone, whom he seemed to regard as his own special associate, "we don't know how things may be. We might have to wait hours. As I view it, me having listened careful to what his honour the Admiral there says—best respects to your honour—them chaps'll never come a-nigh that place till it's night again, or at any rate, dusk, which'll be about seven o'clock this evening. But they may watch, during the day, and it 'ud be a foolish thing to have a lot of men about. A small force such as I can hide in that wood, and another in reserve at High Nick, which, guv'nor, is a deep hole in the hill-top—that's the ticket!"
"Spurge is right," said Sir Cresswell. "You youngsters go with him—get a motor-car—and I'll see about following you over to High Nick with the detectives. Now, what about being armed?"
"I've a supply of service revolvers at my office, down this very street," replied Vickers. "I'll go and get them. Here! Let's apportion our duties. I'll see to that. Gilling, you see about the car. Copplestone, you order some breakfast for us—sharp."
"And I'll go round to the police," said Sir Cresswell. "Now, be careful to take care of yourselves—you don't know what you've got to deal with, remember."
The group separated, and Copplestone went off to find the hotel people and order an immediate breakfast. And passing along a corridor on his way downstairs he encountered Mrs. Greyle, who came out of a room near by and started at sight of him.
"Audrey is asleep," she whispered, pointing to the door she had just left. "Thank you for taking care of her. Of course I was afraid—but that's all over now. And now the thing is—how are things?"
"Coming to a head, in my opinion," answered Copplestone. "But how or in what way, I don't know. Anyway, we know where that gold is—and they'll make an attempt on it—that's sure! So—we shall be there."
"But what fools Peter Chatfield and his associates must be—from their own villainous standpoint—to have encumbered themselves with all that weight of gold!" exclaimed Mrs. Greyle. "The folly of it seems incredible when they could have taken it in some more easily portable form!"
"Ah!" laughed Copplestone. "But that just shows Chatfield's extraordinary deepness and craft! He no doubt persuaded his associates that it was better to have actual bullion where they were going, and tricked them into believing that he'd actually put it aboard the Pike! If it hadn't been that they examined the boxes which he put on the Pike and found they contained lead or bricks, the old scoundrel would have collared the real stuff for himself."
"Take care that he doesn't collar it yet," said Mrs. Greyle with a laugh as she went into her own room. "Chatfield is resourceful enough for—anything. And—take care of yourselves!"
That was the second admonition to be careful, and Copplestone thought of both, as, an hour later, he, Gilling, Vickers and Spurge sped along the desolate, wind-swept moorland on their way to the Reaver's Glen. It was a typically North Country autumnal morning, cold, raw, rainy; the tops of the neighbouring hills were capped with dark clouds; sea-birds called dismally across the heather; the sea, seen in glimpses through vistas of fir and pine, looked angry and threatening.
"A fit morning for a do of this sort!" exclaimed Gilling suddenly. "Is it pretty bare and bleak at this tower of yours, Spurge?"
"You'll be warm enough, guv'nor, where I shall put you," answered Spurge. "One as has knocked about these woods and moors as much as I've had to knows as many places to hide his nose in as a fox does! I'll put you by that tower where you'll be snug enough, and warm enough, too—and where nobody'll see you neither. And here's High Nick and out we get."
Leaving the car in a deep cutting of the hills and instructing the driver to await the return of one or other of them at a wayside farmstead a mile back, the three adventurers followed Spurge into the wood which led to the top of the Beaver's Glen. The poacher guided them onward by narrow and winding tracks through the undergrowth for a good half-mile; then he led them through thickets in which there was no paths at all; finally, after a gradual and cautious advance behind a high hedge of dense evergreen, he halted them at a corner of the wood and motioned them to look out through a loosely-laced network of branches.
"Here we are!" he whispered. "Tower—Reaver's Glen—sea in the distance.
Lone spot, ain't it, gentlemen?"
Copplestone and Gilling, who had never seen this part of the coast before, looked out on the scene with lively interest. It was certainly a prospect of romance and of wild, almost savage beauty on which they gazed. Immediately in front of them, at a distance of twenty to thirty yards, stood the old peel tower, a solid square mass of grey stone, intact as to its base and its middle stories, ruinous and crumbling from thence to what was left of its battlements and the turret tower at one angle. The fallen stone lay in irregular heaps on the ground at its foot; all around it were clumps of furze and bramble. From the level plateau on which it stood the Glen fell away in horseshoe formation gradually narrowing and descending until it terminated in a thick covert of fir and pine that ran down to the land end of the cove of which Spurge had told them. And beyond that stretched the wide expanse of sea, with here and there a red-sailed fishing boat tossing restlessly on the white-capped waves, and over that and the land was a chill silence, broken only by the occasional cry of the sea-birds and the bleating of the mountain sheep.
"A lone spot indeed!" said Gilling in a whisper. "Spurge, where is that stuff hidden?"
"Other side of the tower—in an angle of the old courtyard," replied
Spurge, "Can't see the spot from here."
"And where's that road you told us about?" asked Copplestone. "The moor road?"
"Top o' the bank yonder—beyond the tower," said Spurge. "Runs round yonder corner o' this wood and goes right round it to High Nick, where we've cut across from. Hush now, all of you, gentlemen—I'm going to signal Jim."
Screwing up his mobile face into a strange contortion, Spurge emitted from his puckered lips a queer cry—a cry as of some trapped animal—so shrill and realistic that his hearers started.
"What on earth's that represent?" asked Gilling. "It's blood-curdling?"
"Hare, with a stoat's teeth in its neck," answered Spurge. "H'sh—I'll call him again."
No answer came to the first nor to the second summons—after a third, equally unproductive, Spurge looked at his companions with a scared face.
"That's a queer thing, guv'nors!" he muttered. "Can't believe as how our Jim 'ud ever desert a post. He promised me faithfully as how he'd stick here like grim death until I came back. I hope he ain't had a fit, nor aught o' that sort—he ain't a strong chap at the best o' times, and—"
"You'd better take a careful look round, Spurge," said Vickers.
"Here—shall I come with you?"
But Spurge waved a hand to them to stay where they were. He himself crept along the back of the hedge until he came to a point opposite the nearest angle of the tower. And suddenly he gave a great cry—human enough this time!—and the three young men rushing forward found him standing by the body of a roughly-clad man in whom Copplestone recognized the one-eyed odd-job man of the "Admiral's Arms."
The man was lying face downwards in the grass and weeds which clustered thickly at the foot of the hedgerow, and on the line of rough, weatherbeaten neck which showed between his fur cap and his turned-up collar there was a patch of dried blood. Very still and apparently lifeless he looked, but Vickers suddenly bent down, laid strong hands on him and turned him over.
"He's not dead!" he exclaimed. "Only unconscious from a crack on his skull. Gilling!—where's that brandy you brought?—hand me the flask."
Zachary Spurge watched in silence as Vickers and Gilling busied themselves in reviving the stricken man. Then he quickly pulled Copplestone's sleeve and motioned him away from the group.
"Guv'nor!" he muttered. "There's been foul play here—and all along of them nine boxes—that I'll warrant. Look you here, guv'nor—Jim's been dragged to where we found him—dragged through this here gap in the hedge and flung where he's lying. See—there's the plain marks, all through the grass and stuff. Come on, guv'nor—let's see where they lead."
The marks of a heavy, inanimate body having been dragged through the wet grass were evidence enough, and Copplestone and Spurge followed them to a corner of the old tower where they ceased. Spurge glanced round that corner and uttered a sharp exclamation.
"Just what I expected!" he said. "Leastways, what I expected as soon as I see Jim a-lying there. Guv'nor, the stuff's gone!"
He drew Copplestone after him and pointed to a corner of the weed-grown courtyard where a cavity had been made in the mass of fallen masonry and the stones taken from it lay about just as they had been displaced and thrown aside.
"That's where the nine boxes were," he continued. "Well, there ain't one of 'em there now! Naught but the hole where they was! Well—this must ha' been during the early morning—after I left Jim to go into Norcaster. And of course him as put the stuff there must be him as fetched it away—Chatfield. Let's see if there's footmarks about, guv'nor."
"Wait a bit," said Copplestone. "We must be careful about that. Move warily. We 'd better do it systematically. There'd have to be some sort of a trap, a vehicle, to carry away those chests. Where's the nearest point of that road you spoke of?"
"Up there," replied Spurge, pointing to a flanking bank of heather. "But they—or him—wasn't forced to come that way, guv'nor. He—or them—could come up from that cove down yonder. It wouldn't surprise me if that there yacht—the Pike, you know—had turned on her tracks and come in here during the night. It's not more than a mile from this tower down to the shore, and—"
At that moment Vickers called to them, and they went back to find Jim
Spurge slowly opening his eyes and looking round him with consciousness
of his company. His one eye lightened a little as he caught sight of
Zachary, and the poacher bent down to him.
"Jim, old man!" he said soothingly. "How are yer, Jim? Yer been hit by somebody. Who was it, Jim?"
"Give him a drop more brandy and lift him up a bit," counselled Gilling.
"He's improving."
But it needed more than a mere drop of brandy, more than cousinly words of adjuration, to bring the wounded man back to a state of speech. And when at last he managed to make a feeble response, it was only to mutter some incoherent and disjointed sentences about and being struck down from behind—after which he again relapsed into semi-unconsciousness.
"That's it guv'nor," muttered Spurge, nudging Copplestone. "That's the ticket! Struck down from behind—that's what happened to him. Unawares, so to speak, I can reckon of it up—easy. They comes in the darkness—after I'd left him here. He hears of 'em, as he says, a-moving about. Then he no doubt starts moving about—watching 'em, as far as he can see. Then one of 'em gives him this crack on the skull—life-preserver if you ask me—and down he goes! And then—they drag him in here and leaves him. Don't care whether he's a goner or not—not they! Well, an' what does it prove? That there's been more than one of 'em, guv'nor. And in my opinion, where they've come from is—down there!"
He pointed down the glen in the direction of the sea, and the three young men who were considerably exercised by this sudden turn of events and the disappearance of the chests, looked after his out-stretched hand and then at each other.
"Well, we can't stand here doing nothing," said Gilling at last. "Look here, we'd better divide forces. This chap'll have to be removed and got to some hospital. Vickers!—I guess you're the quickest-footed of the lot—will you run back to High Nick and tell that chauffeur to bring his car round here? If Sir Cresswell and the police are there, tell them what's happened. Spurge—you go down the glen there, and see if you can see anything of any suspicious-looking craft in that bay you told us of. Copplestone, we can't do any more for this man just now—let's look round. This is a queer business," he went on when they had all departed, and he and Copplestone were walking towards the tower. "The gold's gone, of course?"
"No sign of it here, anyway," answered Copplestone, leading him into the ruinous courtyard and pointing to the cavity in the fallen masonry. "That's where it was placed by Chatfield, according to Zachary Spurge."
"And of course Chatfield's removed it during the night," remarked Gilling. "That message which Sir Cresswell read us must have been all wrong—the Pike's come south and she's been somewhere about—maybe been in that cove at the end of the glen—though she'll have cleared out of it hours ago!" he concluded disappointedly. "We're too late!"
"That theory's not necessarily correct," replied Copplestone. "Sir Cresswell's message may have been quite right. For all we know the folks on the Pike had confederates on shore. Go carefully, Gilling—let's see if we can make out anything in the way of footprints."
The ground in the courtyard was grassless, a flooring of grit and loose stone, on which no impression could well be made by human foot. But Copplestone, carefully prospecting around and going a little way up the bank which lay between the tower and the moorland road, suddenly saw something in the black, peat-like earth which attracted his attention and he called to his companion.
"I say!" he exclaimed. "Look at this! There!—that's unmistakable enough.
And fresh, too!"
Gilling bent down, looked, and stared at Copplestone with a question in his eyes.
"By Gad!" he said. "A woman!"
"And one who wears good and shapely footwear, too," remarked Copplestone. "That's what you'd call a slender and elegant foot. Here it is again—going up the bank. Come on!"
There were more traces of this wearer of elegant foot-gear on the soft earth of the bank which ran between the moorland and the stone-strewn courtyard—more again on the edges of the road itself. There, too, were plain signs that a motor-car of some sort had recently been pulled up opposite the tower—Gilling pointed to the indentations made by the studded wheels and to droppings of oil and petrol on the gravelly soil.
"That's evident enough," he said. "Those chests have been fetched away during the night, by motor, and a woman's been in at it! Confederates, of course. Now then, the next thing is, which way did that motor go with its contents?"
They followed the tracks for a short distance along the road, until, coming to a place where it widened at a gateway leading into the wood, they saw that the car had there been backed and turned. Gilling carefully examined the marks.
"That car came from Norcaster and it's gone back to Norcaster," he affirmed presently. "Look here!—they came up the hill at the side of the wood—here they backed the car towards that gate, and then ran it backwards till they were abreast of the tower—then, when they'd loaded up with those chests they went straight off by the way they'd come. Look at the tracks—plain enough."
"Then we'd better get down towards Norcaster ourselves," said Copplestone. "Call Spurge back—he'll find nothing in that cove. This job has been done from land. And we ought to be on the track of these people—they've had several hours start already."
By this time Zachary Spurge had been recalled, Vickers had brought the car round from High Nick, and the injured man was carefully lifted into it and driven away. But at High Nick itself they met another car, hurrying up from Norcaster, and bringing Sir Cresswell Oliver and three other men who bore the unmistakable stamp of the police force. In one of them Copplestone recognized the inspector from Scarhaven.
The two cars met and stopped alongside each other, and Sir Cresswell, with one sharp glance at the rough bandage which Vickers had fastened round Jim Spurge's head, rapped out a question.
"Gone!" replied Gilling, with equal brusqueness. "Came in a motor, during the night, soon after Zachary Spurge left Jim. They hit him pretty hard over his head and left him unconscious. Of course they've carried off the boxes. Car appears to have gone to Norcaster. Hadn't you better turn?"
Sir Cresswell pointed to the Scarhaven police inspector.
"Here's news from Scarhaven," he said, bending forward to the other car,
"The inspector's just brought it. The Squire—whoever he was—is dead.
They found his body this morning, lying at the foot of a cliff near the
Keep. Foul play?—that's what you don't know, eh, inspector?"
"Can't say at all, sir," answered the inspector. "He might have been thrown down, he might have fallen down—it's a bad place. Anyway, what the doctor said, just before I hurried in here to tell Mrs. Greyle, as the next relative that we know of, is that he'd been dead some days—the body, you see, was lying in a thicket at the foot of the cliff."
"Some days!" exclaimed Copplestone, with a look at Gilling. "Days?"
"Four or five days at least, sir," replied the inspector. "So the doctor thinks. The place is a cliff between the high road from Northborough and the house itself. There's a short cut across the park to the house from that road. It looks as if—"
"Ah!" interrupted Gilling. "It's clear how that happened, then. He took that short cut, when he came from Northborough that night! But—if he's dead, who's engineering all this? There's the fact, those chests of gold have been removed from that old tower since Zachary Spurge left his cousin in charge there early this morning. Everything looks as if they'd been carried to Norcaster. Therefore—"
"Turn this car round," commanded Sir Cresswell. "Of course, we must get back to Norcaster. But what's to be done there?"
The two cars went scurrying back to the old shipping town. When at last they had deposited the injured man at a neighbouring hospital and came to a stop near the "Angel," Zachary Spurge pulled Copplestone's sleeve, and with a look full of significance, motioned him aside to a quiet place.