The Cheyne Mystery E-Book

Crofts, Freeman Wills

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When the White Rabbit in Alice asked where he should begin to read the verses at the Knave’s trial the King replied: “Begin at the beginning; go on till you come to the end; then stop.”
This would seem to be the last word on the subject of narration in general. For the novelist no dictum more entirely complete and satisfactory can be imagined—in theory. But in practice it is hard to live up to.
Where is the beginning of a story? Where is the beginning of anything? No one knows.

Leseprobe

FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS

THE

CHEYNE MYSTERY

1926

© 2022 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782383834762

CONTENTS

1

The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel

2

Burglary!

3

The Launch “Enid”

4

Concerning a Peerage

5

An Amateur Sleuth

6

The House in Hopefield Avenue

7

Miss Joan Merrill

8

A Council of War

9

Mr. Speedwell Plays His Hand

10

The New Firm Gets Busy

11

Otto Schulz’s Secret

12

In the Enemy’s Lair

13

Inspector French Takes Charge

14

The Clue of the Clay-marked Shoe

15

The Torn Hotel Bill

16

A Tale of Two Cities

17

On the Flood Tide

18

A Visitor from India

19

The Message of the Tracing

20

The Goal of the “L’Escaut”

CHAPTER I

The Episode in the Plymouth Hotel

When the White Rabbit in Alice asked where he should begin to read the verses at the Knave’s trial the King replied: “Begin at the beginning; go on till you come to the end; then stop.”

This would seem to be the last word on the subject of narration in general. For the novelist no dictum more entirely complete and satisfactory can be imagined—in theory. But in practice it is hard to live up to.

Where is the beginning of a story? Where is the beginning of anything? No one knows.

When I set myself to consider the actual beginning of Maxwell Cheyne’s adventure, I saw at once I should have to go back to Noah. Indeed I was not at all sure whether the thing could be adequately explained unless I carried back the narrative to Adam, or even further. For Cheyne’s adventure hinged not only on his own character and environment, brought about by goodness knows how many thousands of generations of ancestors, but also upon the contemporaneous history of the world, crystallized in the happening of the Great War and all that appertained thereto.

So then, in default of the true beginning, let us commence with the character and environment of Maxwell Cheyne, following on with the strange episode which took place in the Edgecombe Hotel in Plymouth, and from which started that extraordinary series of events which I have called The Cheyne Mystery.

Maxwell Cheyne was born in 1891, so that when his adventure began in the month of March, 1920, he was just twenty-nine. His father was a navy man, commander of one of His Majesty’s smaller cruisers, and from him the boy presumably inherited his intense love of the sea and of adventure. Captain Cheyne had Irish blood in his veins and exhibited some of the characteristics of that irritating though lovable race. He was a man of brilliant attainments, resourceful, dashing, spirited and, moreover, a fine seaman, but a certain impetuosity, amounting at times to recklessness, just prevented his attaining the highest rank in his profession. In character he was as straight as a die, and kindly, generous, and openhanded to a fault, but he was improvident and inclined to live too much in the present. And these characteristics were destined to affect his son’s life, not only directly through heredity, but indirectly through environment also.

When Maxwell was nine his father died suddenly, and then it was found that the commander had been living up to his income and had made but scant provision for his widow and son and daughter. Dreams of Harrow and Cambridge had to be abandoned and, instead, the boy was educated at the local grammar school, and then entered the office of a Fenchurch Street shipping firm as junior clerk.

In his twentieth year the family fortunes were again reversed. His mother came in for a legacy from an uncle, a sheep farmer in Australia. It was not a fortune, but it meant a fairly substantial competence. Mrs. Cheyne bought back Warren Lodge, their old home, a small Georgian house standing in pleasant grounds on the estuary of the Dart. Maxwell thereupon threw up his job at the shipping office, followed his mother to Devonshire, and settled down to the leisurely life of a country gentleman. Among other hobbies he dabbled spasmodically in literature, producing a couple of novels, one of which was published and sold with fair success.

But the sea was in his blood. He bought a yacht, and with the help of the gardener’s son, Dan, sailed her in fair weather and foul, thereby gaining skill and judgment in things nautical, as well as a first-hand knowledge of the shores and tides and currents of the western portion of the English Channel.

Thus it came to pass that when, three years after the return to Devon, the war broke out, he volunteered for the navy and was at once accepted. There he served with enthusiasm if not with distinction, gaining very much the reputation which his father had held before him. During the intensive submarine campaign he was wounded in an action with a U-boat, which resulted in his being invalided out of the service. On demobilization he returned home and took up his former pursuits of yachting, literature, and generally having as slack and easy a time as his energetic nature would allow. Some eighteen months passed, and then occurred the incident which might be said definitely to begin his Adventure.

One damp and bleak March day Cheyne set out for Plymouth from Warren Lodge, his home on the estuary of the Dart. He wished to make a number of small purchases, and his mother and sister had entrusted him with commissions. Also he desired to consult his banker as to some question of investments. With a full program before him he pulled on his oilskins, and having assured his mother he would be back in time for dinner, he mounted his motor bicycle and rode off.

In due course he reached Plymouth, left his machine at a garage, and set about his business. About one o’clock he gravitated towards the Edgecombe Hotel, where after a cocktail he sat down in the lounge to rest for a few minutes before lunch.

He was looking idly over The Times when the voice of a page broke in on his thoughts.

“Gentleman to see you, sir.”

The card which the boy held out bore in fine script the legend: “Mr. Hubert Parkes, Oakleigh, Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham.” Cheyne pondered, but he could not recall anyone of the name, and it passed through his mind that the page had probably made a mistake.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Here sir,” the boy answered, and a short, stoutly built man of middle age with fair hair and a toothbrush mustache stepped forward. A glance assured Cheyne that he was a stranger.

“Mr. Maxwell Cheyne?” the newcomer inquired politely.

“My name, sir. Won’t you sit down?” Cheyne pulled an easy-chair over towards his own.

“I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting you before, Mr. Cheyne,” the other went on as he seated himself, “though I knew your father fairly intimately. I lived for many years at Valetta, running the Maltese end of a produce company with which I was then connected, and I met him when his ship was stationed there. A great favorite, Captain Cheyne was! The dull old club used to brighten up when he came in, and it seemed a national loss when his ship was withdrawn to another station.”

“I remember his being in Malta,” Cheyne returned, “though I was quite a small boy at the time. My mother has a photograph of Valetta, showing his ship lying in the Grand Harbor.”

They chatted about Malta and produce company work therein for some minutes, and then Mr. Parkes said:

“Now, Mr. Cheyne, though it is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of the son of my old friend, it was not merely with that object that I introduced myself. I have, as a matter of fact, a definite piece of business which I should like to discuss with you. It takes the form of a certain proposition of which I would invite your acceptance, I hope, to our mutual advantage.”

Cheyne, somewhat surprised, murmured polite expressions of anxiety to hear details and the other went on:

“I think before I explain the thing fully another small matter wants to be attended to. What about a little lunch? I’m just going to have mine and I shall take it as a favor if you will join me. After that we could talk business.”

Cheyne readily agreed and the other called over a waiter and gave him an order. “Let us have a cocktail,” he went on, “and by that time lunch will be ready.”

They strolled to the bar and there partook of a wonderful American concoction recommended by the young lady in charge. Presently the waiter reappeared and led the way, somewhat to Cheyne’s surprise, to a private room. There an excellent repast was served, to which both men did full justice. Parkes proved an agreeable and well informed companion and Cheyne enjoyed his conversation. The newcomer had, it appeared, seen a good deal of war service, having held the rank of major in the department of supply, serving first at Gallipoli and then at Salonica. Cheyne knew the latter port, his ship having called there on three or four occasions, and the two men found they had various experiences in common. Time passed pleasantly until at last Parkes drew a couple of armchairs up to the fire, ordered coffee, and held out his cigar case.

“With your permission I’ll put my little proposition now. It is in connection with your literary work and I’m afraid it’s bound to sound a trifle impertinent. But I can assure you it’s not meant to be so.”

Cheyne smiled.

“You needn’t be afraid of hurting my feelings,” he declared. “I have a notion of the real value of my work. Get along anyway and let’s hear.”

Parkes resumed with some hesitation.

“I have to say first that I have read everything that you have published and I am immensely impressed by your style. I think you do your descriptions extraordinarily well. Your scenes are vivid and one feels that one is living through them. There’s money in that, Mr. Cheyne, in that gift of vivid and interest-compelling presentation. You should make a good thing out of short stories. I’ve worked at them for years and I know.”

“Huh. I haven’t found much money in it.”

Parkes nodded.

“I know you haven’t, or rather I guessed so. And if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you why.” He sat up and a keener interest crept into his manner. “There’s a fault in those stories of yours, a bad fault, and it’s in the construction. But let’s leave that for the moment and you’ll see where all this is leading.”

He broke off as a waiter arrived with the coffee, resuming:

“Now I have a strong dramatic sense and a good working knowledge of literary construction. As I said I’ve also tried short stories, and though they’ve not been an absolute failure, I couldn’t say they’ve been really successful. On the whole, I should think, yours have done better. And I know why. It’s my style. I try to produce a tale, say, of a shipwreck. It is intended to be full of human feeling, to grip the reader’s emotion. But it doesn’t. It reads like a Board of Trade report. Dry, you understand; not interesting. Now, Mr. Cheyne,” he sat up in his chair once more, this time almost in excitement, “you see what I’m coming to. Why should we not collaborate? Let me do the plots and you clothe them. Between us we have all the essentials for success.”

He sat back and then saw the coffee.

“I say,” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry, but I didn’t notice this had come. I hope it’s not cold.” He felt the coffee pot. “What about a liquor? I’ll ring for one. Or rather,” he paused suddenly. “I think I’ve got something perhaps even better here.” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small flask. “Old Cognac,” he said. “You’ll try a little?”

He poured some of the golden brown liquid into Cheyne’s cup and was about to do the same into his own when he was seized with a sudden fit of choking coughing. He had to put down the flask while he quivered and shook with the paroxysm. Presently he recovered, breathless.

“Since I was wounded,” he gasped apologetically, “I’ve been taken like that. The doctors say it’s purely nervous—that my throat and lungs and so on are perfectly sound. Strange the different ways this war leaves its mark!”

He picked up the flask, poured a liberal measure of its contents into his own cup, drank off the contents with evident relish and continued:

“What I had in my mind, if you’ll consider it, was a series of short stories—say a dozen—on the merchant marine in the war. This is the spring of 1920. Soon no one will read anything connected with the war, but I think that time has scarcely come yet. I have fair knowledge of the subject and yours of course is first-hand. What do you say? I will supply twelve plots or incidents and you will clothe them with, say, five thousand words each. We shall sell them to The Strand or some of those monthlies, and afterwards publish them as a collection in book form.”

“By Jove!” Cheyne said as he slowly sipped his coffee. “The idea’s rather tempting. But I wish I could feel as sure as you seem to do about my own style. I’m afraid I don’t believe that it is as good as you pretend.”

“Mr. Cheyne,” Parkes answered deliberately, “you may take my word for it that I know what I am talking about. I shouldn’t have come to you if I weren’t sure. Very few people are satisfied with their own work. No matter how good it is it falls short of the standard they have set in their minds. It is another case in which the outsider sees most of the game.”

Cheyne felt attracted by the proposal. He had written in all seventeen short stories, and of these only three had been accepted, and those by inferior magazines. If it would lead to success he would be only too delighted to collaborate with this pleasant stranger. It wasn’t so much the money—though he was not such a fool as to make light of that part of it. It was success he wanted, acceptance of his stuff by good periodicals, a name and a standing among his fellow craftsmen.

“Let’s see what it would mean,” he heard Parkes’s voice, and it seemed strangely faint and distant. “I suppose, given the synopses, you could finish a couple of tales per week—say, six weeks for the lot. And with luck we should sell for £50 to £100 each—say £500 for your six week’s work, or nearly £100 per week. And there might be any amount more for the book rights, filming and so on. Does the idea appeal to you, Mr. Cheyne?”

Cheyne did not reply. He was feeling sleepy. Did the idea appeal to him? Yes. No. Did it? Did the idea . . . the idea . . . Drat this sleepiness! What was he thinking of? Did the idea . . . What idea? . . . He gave up the struggle and, leaning back in his chair, sank into a profound and dreamless slumber.

Ages of time passed and Cheyne slowly struggled back into consciousness. As soon as he was sufficiently awake to analyze his sensations he realized that his brain was dull and clouded and his limbs heavy as lead. He was, however, physically comfortable, and he was content to allow his body to remain relaxed and motionless and his mind to dream idly on without conscious thought. But his energy gradually returned and at last he opened his eyes.

He was lying, dressed, on a bed in a strange room. Apparently it was night, for the room was dark save for the light on the window blind which seemed to come from a street lamp without. Vaguely interested, he closed his eyes again, and when he reopened them the room was lighted up and a man was standing beside the bed.

“Ah,” the man said, “you’re awake. Better, I hope?”

“I don’t know,” Cheyne answered, and it seemed to him as if some one else was speaking. “Have I been ill?”

“No,” the man returned, “Not that I know of. But you’ve slept like a log for nearly six hours.”

This was confusing. Cheyne paused to take in the idea, but it eluded him, then giving up the effort, he asked another question.

“Where am I?”

“In the Edgecombe: the Edgecombe Hotel, you know, in Plymouth. I am the manager.”

Ah, yes! It was coming back to him. He had gone there for lunch—was it today or a century ago?—and he had met that literary man—what was his name? He couldn’t remember. And they had had lunch and the man had made some suggestion about his writing. Yes, of course! It was all coming back now. The man had wanted to collaborate with him. And during the conversation he had suddenly felt sleepy. He supposed he must have fallen asleep then, for he remembered nothing more. But why had he felt sleepy like that? Suddenly his brain cleared and he sat up sharply.

“What’s happened, Mr. Jesse? I never did anything like this before!”

“No?” the manager answered. “I dare say not. I’ll tell you what has happened to you, Mr. Cheyne, though I’m sorry to have to admit it could have taken place in my hotel. You’ve been drugged. That’s what has happened.”

Cheyne stared incredulously.

“Good Lord!” he ejaculated. “Drugged! By—not by that literary man, surely?” He paused in amazed consternation and then his hand flew to his pocket. “My money,” he gasped. “I had over £100 in my pocket. Just got it at the bank.” He drew out a pocketbook and examined it hurriedly. “No,” he went on more quietly. “It’s all right.” He took from it a bundle of notes and with care counted them. “A hundred and eight pounds. That’s quite correct. My watch? No, it’s here.” He got up unsteadily, and rapidly went through his pockets. “Nothing missing anyway. Are you sure I was drugged? I don’t understand the thing a little bit.”

“I am afraid there is no doubt about it. You seemed so ill that I sent for a doctor. He said you were suffering from the effects of a drug, but were in no danger and would be all right in a few hours. He advised that you be left quietly to sleep it off.”

Cheyne rubbed his hand over his eyes.

“I can’t understand it,” he repeated. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“About three o’clock or shortly before it, Mr. Parkes appeared at the office and asked for his bill. He paid it, complimented the clerk on the excellent lunch he had had, and left the hotel. He was perfectly calm and collected and quite unhurried. Shortly after the waiter went up to clear away the things and he found you lying back in your chair, apparently asleep, but breathing so heavily that he was uneasy and he came and told me. I went up at once and was also rather alarmed at your condition, so I sent at once for the doctor.”

“But,” Cheyne objected, “that’s all right, only I wasn’t drugged. I know exactly what I ate and drank, and Parkes had precisely the same. If I was drugged, he must have been also, and you say he wasn’t.”

“He certainly was not. But think again, Mr. Cheyne. Are you really quite certain that he had no opportunity of putting powder over your food or liquid into your drink? Did he divert your attention at any time from the table?”

Cheyne was silent. He had remembered the flask of old brandy.

“He put cognac in my coffee from his own flask,” he admitted at length, “but it couldn’t have been that.”

“Ah,” the manager answered in a satisfied tone, “it was that, I should swear. Why don’t you think so?”

“I’ll tell you why I don’t think so; why, in fact, I know it wasn’t. He put an even larger dose out of the same flask into his own cup and he drank his coffee before I drank mine. So that if there was anything in the flask he would have got knocked over first.”

The manager looked puzzled.

“Don’t think me discourteous, Mr. Cheyne, but I confess I have my doubts about that. That episode of the flask looks too suspicious. Are you sure it was the same flask in each case? Did he pour straight into one cup after the other or was there an interval in between? You realize of course that a clever conjurer could substitute a second flask for the first without attracting your notice?”

“I realize that right enough, but I am positive he didn’t do so in this case. Though,” he paused for a moment, “that reminds me that there was an interval between pouring into each cup. He got a fit of coughing after giving me mine and had to put down the flask. But when the paroxysm was over he lifted it again and helped himself.”

“There you are,” the manager declared. “During his fit of coughing he substituted a different flask.”

“I’ll swear he didn’t. But can’t we settle the thing beyond doubt? Have the cups been washed? If not, can’t we get the dregs analyzed?”

“I have already asked the doctor to have it done. He said he would get Mr. Pringle to do it at once: that’s the city analyst. They’re close friends, and Mr. Pringle would do it to oblige him. We should have his report quite soon. I am also having him analyze the remains on the plates which were used. Fortunately, owing to lunch being served in a private room, these had been stacked together and none had been washed. So we should be able to settle the matter quite definitely.”

Cheyne nodded as he glanced at his watch. “Good Lord!” he cried, “it’s eight o’clock and I said I should be home by seven! I must ring up my mother or she’ll think something is wrong.”

The Cheynes had not themselves a telephone, but their nearest neighbors, people called Hazelton, were good-natured about receiving an occasional message through theirs and transmitting it to Warren Lodge. Cheyne went down to the lounge and put through his call, explaining to Mrs. Hazelton that unforeseen circumstances had necessitated his remaining overnight in Plymouth. The lady promised to have the message conveyed to Mrs. Cheyne and Maxwell rang off. Then as he turned to the dining room, a page told him that the manager would like to see him in his office.

“I’ve just got a report from the doctor about that coffee, Mr. Cheyne,” the other greeted him, “and I must say it confirms what you say, though it by no means clears up the mystery. There was brandy in those cups, but no drug: no trace of a drug in either.”

“I knew that,” Cheyne rejoined. “Everything that I had for lunch Parkes had also. I was there and I ought to know. But it’s a bit unsettling, isn’t it? Looks as if my heart or something had gone wrong.”

The manager looked at him more seriously. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he dissented. “I don’t think you can assume that. The doctor seemed quite satisfied. But if it would ease your mind, why not slip across now and see him? He lives just round the corner.”

Cheyne reflected.

“I’ll do so,” he answered presently. “If there’s nothing wrong it will prevent me fancying things, and if there is I should know of it. I’ll have some dinner and then go across. By the way, have you said anything to the police?”

The manager hesitated.

“No, I have not. I don’t know that we’ve evidence enough. But in any case, Mr. Cheyne, I trust you do not wish to call in the police.” The manager seemed quite upset by the idea and spoke earnestly. “It would not do the hotel any good if it became known that a visitor had been drugged. I sincerely trust, sir, that you can see your way to keep the matter quiet.”

Cheyne stared.

“But you surely don’t suggest that I should take the thing lying down? If I have been drugged, as you say, I must know who has done it, and why. That would seem to me obvious.”

“I agree,” the manager admitted, “and I should feel precisely the same in your place. But it is not necessary to apply to the police. A private detective would get you the information quite as well. See here, Mr. Cheyne, I will make you an offer. If you will agree to the affair being hushed up, I will employ the detective on behalf of the hotel. He will work under your direction and keep you advised of every step he takes. Come now, sir, is it a bargain?”

Cheyne did not hesitate.

“Why, yes,” he said promptly, “that will suit me all right. I don’t specially want to advertise the fact that I have been made a fool of. But I’d like to know what has really happened.”

“You shall, Mr. Cheyne. No stone shall be left unturned to get at the truth. I’ll see about a detective at once. You’ll have some dinner, sir?”

Cheyne was not hungry, but he was very thirsty, and he had a light meal with a number of long drinks. Then he went round to see the doctor, to whom the manager had telephoned, making an appointment.

After a thorough examination he received the verdict. It was a relief to his mind, but it did not tend to clear up the mystery. He was physically perfectly sound, and his sleep of the afternoon was not the result of disease or weakness. He had been drugged. That was the beginning and the end of the affair. The doctor was quite emphatic and ridiculed the idea of any other explanation.

Cheyne returned to the Edgecombe, and sitting down in a deserted corner of the lounge, tried to puzzle the thing out. But the more he thought of it, the more mysterious it became. His mind up till then had been concentrated on the actual administration of the drug, and this point alone still seemed to constitute an insoluble problem. But now he saw that it was but a small part of the mystery. Why had he been drugged? It was not robbery. Though he had over £100 in his pocket, the money was intact. He had no other valuables about him, and in any case nothing had been removed from his pockets. It was not to prevent his going to any place. He had not intended to do anything that afternoon that could possibly interest a stranger. No, he could form no conception of the motive.

But even more puzzling than this was the question: How did Parkes, if that was really his name, know that he, Cheyne, was coming to Plymouth that day? It was true that he had mentioned it to his mother and sister a couple of days previously, but he had told no one else and he felt sure that neither had they. But the man had almost certainly been expecting him. At least it was hard to believe that the whole episode had been merely the fruits of a chance encounter. On the other hand there was the difficulty that any other suggestion seemed even more unlikely. Parkes simply couldn’t have known that he, Cheyne, was coming. It was just inconceivable.

He lay back in his deep armchair, the smoke of his pipe curling lazily up, as he racked his brains for some theory which would at least partially meet the facts. But without success. He could think of nothing which threw a gleam of light on the situation.

And then he made a discovery which still further befogged him and made him swear with exasperation. He had taken out his pocketbook and was once more going through its contents to make absolutely sure nothing was missing, when he came to a piece of folded paper bearing memoranda about the money matters which he had discussed with his banker. He had not opened this when he had looked through the book after regaining consciousness, but now half absent-mindedly he unfolded it. As he did so he stared. Near the crease was a slight tear, unquestionably made by some one unfolding it hurriedly or carelessly. But that tear had not been there when he had folded it up. He could swear to it. Someone therefore had been through his pockets while he was asleep.

CHAPTER II

Burglary!

The discovery that his pockets had been gone through while he was under the influence of the drug reduced Cheyne to a state of even more complete mystification than ever. What had the unknown been looking for? He, Cheyne, had nothing with him that, so far as he could imagine, could possibly have interested any other person. Indeed, money being ruled out, he did not know that he possessed anywhere any paper or small object which it would be worth a stranger’s while to steal.

Novels he had read recurred to him in which desperate enterprises were undertaken to obtain some document of importance. Plans of naval or military inventions which would give world supremacy to the power possessing them were perhaps the favorite instruments in these romances, but treaties which would mean war if disclosed to the wrong power, maps of desert islands on which treasure was buried, wills of which the existence was generally unknown and letters compromising the good name of wealthy personages had all been used time and again. But Cheyne had no plans or treaties or compromising letters from which an astute thief might make capital. Think as he would, he could frame no theory to account for Parkes’s proceedings.

He yawned and, getting up, began to pace the deserted lounge. The effects of the drug had not entirely worn off, for though he had slept all the afternoon he still felt slack and drowsy. In spite of its being scarcely ten o’clock, he thought he would have a whisky and go up to bed, in the hope that a good night’s rest would drive the poison out of his system and restore his usual feeling of mental and physical well-being.

But Fate, once more in the guise of an approaching page, decreed otherwise. As he turned lazily towards the bar a voice sounded in his ear.

“Wanted on the telephone, sir.”

Cheyne crossed the hall and entered the booth.

“Well?” he said shortly. “Cheyne speaking.”

A woman’s voice replied, a voice he recognized. It belonged to Ethel Hazelton, the grown-up daughter of that Mrs. Hazelton whom he had asked to inform Mrs. Cheyne of his change of plans. She spoke hurriedly and he could sense perturbation in her tones.

“Oh, Mr. Cheyne, I’m afraid I have rather disturbing news for you. When you rang up we sent James over to Warren Lodge. He found Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha on the doorstep trying to get in. They had been ringing for some time, but could not attract attention. He rang also, and then eventually found a ladder and got in through one of the upper windows. He opened the door for Mrs. Cheyne and Agatha. Can you hear me all right?”

“Yes, clearly. Go on, please, Miss Hazelton.”

“They searched the house and they discovered cook and Susan in their bedrooms, both tied up and gagged, but otherwise none the worse. They released them, of course, and then found that the house had been burgled.”

“Burgled!” Cheyne ejaculated sharply. “Great Scott!” He was considerably startled and paused in some consternation, asking then if much stuff was missing.

“They don’t know,” the distant voice answered. “Your safe had been opened, but they hadn’t had time to make an examination when James left. The silver seems to be all there, so that’s something. James came back here with a message from Mrs. Cheyne asking us to let you know, and I have been ringing up hotels in Plymouth for the last half-hour. You know, you only said you were staying the night in your message; you didn’t say where. Mrs. Cheyne would like you to come back if you can manage it.”

There was no hesitation about Cheyne’s reply.

“Of course I shall,” he said quickly. “I’ll start at once on my bicycle. What about telling the police?”

“I rang them up immediately. They said they would go out at once. James has gone back also. He will stay and lend a hand until you arrive.”

“Splendid! It’s more than good of you both, Miss Hazelton. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

He delayed only to tell the news to the manager.

“There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,” he declared. “I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.”

The manager made a gesture of concern.

“I’m sorry to hear your news,” he said gravely. “Are you properly insured?”

“Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.”

He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr. Cheyne, it may not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let our arrangement stand.”

“I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a copy of the analyst’s report?”

“Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.”

Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just ten minutes before eleven.

As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and in charge.

But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in the drawing room, and thither he at once betook himself.

Mrs. Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a little cry of pleasure.

“Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,” she cried. “I’m so glad you were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?”

“I don’t know, mother,” Cheyne answered cheerily, “that depends. I hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?”

“Nothing!” Mrs. Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt. “Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is missing.”

“Unless something may have been taken from your safe,” Agatha interposed. “Was there much in it?”

“No, only a few pounds and some papers, none valuable to an outsider.” He glanced at his sister. She was a pretty girl, tall and dark and in features not unlike himself. Both the young people had favored the late commander’s side of the house. He turned towards the door, continuing: “I’ll go and have a look, and then you can tell me what has happened.”

The safe was built into the wall in his own sanctum, “the study,” as his mother persisted in calling it. It had been taken over with the house when Mrs. Cheyne bought the little estate. As Cheyne now entered he saw that its doors were standing open. A tall man in the uniform of a sergeant of police was stooping over it. He turned as he heard the newcomer’s step.

“Good-evening sir,” he said in an impressive tone. “This is a bad business.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know, sergeant,” Cheyne answered easily. “If no one has been hurt and nothing has been stolen it might have been worse.”

The sergeant stared at him with some disfavor.

“There’s not much but what might have been worse,” he observed oracularly. “But we’re not sure yet that nothing’s been stolen. Nobody knows what was in this here safe, except maybe yourself. I’d be glad if you’d have a look and see if anything is gone.”

There was very little in the safe and it did not take Cheyne many seconds to go through it. The papers were tossed about—he could swear someone had turned them over—but none seemed to have been removed. The small packet of Treasury notes was intact and a number of gold and silver medals, won in athletic contests, were all in evidence.

“Nothing missing there, sergeant,” he declared when he had finished.

His eye wandered round the room. There was not much of value in it; one or two silver bowls—athletic trophies also, a small gold clock of Indian workmanship, a pair of high-power prism binoculars and a few ornaments were about all that could be turned into money. But all these were there, undisturbed. It was true that the glass door of a locked bookcase had been broken to enable the bolt to be unfastened and the doors opened, but none of the books seemed to have been touched.

“What do you think they were after, sir?” the sergeant queried. “Was there any jewelry in the house that they might have heard of?”

“My mother has a few trinkets, but I scarcely think you could dignify them by the name of jewelry. I suppose these precious burglars have left no kind of clue?”

“No, sir, nothing. Except maybe the girls’ description. I’ve telephoned that into headquarters and the men will be on the lookout.”

“Good. Well, if you can wait here a few minutes I’ll go and send my mother to bed and then I’ll come back and we can settle what’s to be done.”

Cheyne returned to the drawing room and told his news. “Nothing’s been taken,” he declared. “I’ve been through the safe and everything’s there. And nothing seems to be missing from the room either. The sergeant was asking about your jewels, mother. Have you looked to see if they’re all right?”

“It was the first thing I thought of, but they are all in their places. The cabinet I keep them in was certainly examined, for everything was left topsy-turvy, but nothing is missing.”

“Very extraordinary,” Cheyne commented. It seemed to him more than ever clear that these mysterious thieves were after some document which they believed he had, though why they should have supposed he held a valuable document he could not imagine. But the searching first of his pockets and then of his safe and house unmistakably suggested such a conclusion. He wondered if he should advance this theory, then decided he would first hear what the others had to say.

“Now, mother,” he went on, “it’s past your bedtime, but before you go I wish you would tell me what happened to you. Remember I have heard no details other than what Miss Hazelton mentioned on the telephone.”

Mrs. Cheyne answered with some eagerness, evidently anxious to relieve her mind by relating her experiences.

“The first thing was the telegram,” she began. “Agatha and I were sitting here this afternoon. I was sewing and Agatha was reading the paper—or was it the Spectator, Agatha?”

“The paper, mother, though that does not really matter.”

“No, of course it doesn’t matter,” Mrs. Cheyne repeated. It was evident the old lady had had a shock and found it difficult to concentrate her attention. “Well, at all events we were sitting here as I have said, sewing and reading, when your telegram was brought in.”

“My telegram?” Cheyne queried sharply. “What telegram do you mean?”

“Why, your telegram about Mr. Ackfield, of course,” his mother answered with some petulance. “What other telegram could it be? It did not give us much time, but—”

“But, mother dear, I don’t know what you are talking about. I sent no telegram.”

Agatha made a sudden gesture.

“There!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What did I say? When we came home and learned what had happened and thought of your not turning up,” she glanced at her brother, “I said it was only a blind. It was sent to get us away from the house!”

Cheyne shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly. What he had half expected had evidently taken place.

“Dear people,” he protested, “this is worse than getting blood from a stone. Do tell me what has happened. You were sitting here this afternoon when you received a telegram. Very well now, what time was that?”

“What time? Oh, about—what time did the telegram come, Agatha?”

“Just as the clock was striking four. I heard it strike immediately after the ring.”

“Good,” said Cheyne in what he imagined was the manner of a cross-examining K.C. “And what was in the telegram?”

The girl was evidently too much upset by her experience to resent his superior tone. She crossed the room, and taking a flimsy pink form from a table, handed it over to him.

The telegram had been sent out from the General Post Office in Plymouth at 3:17 that afternoon, and read:

You and Agatha please come without fail to Newton Abbot by 5:15 train to meet self and Ackfield about unexpected financial development. Urgent that you sign papers today. Ackfield will return Plymouth after meeting. You and I will catch 7:10 home from Newton Abbot—Maxwell.

Three-seventeen; and Parkes left the Edgecombe about three! It seemed pretty certain that he had sent the telegram. But if so, what an amazing amount the man knew about them all! Not only had he known of Cheyne’s war experiences and literary efforts and of his visit that day to the Edgecombe, but now it seemed that he had also known his address, of his mother and sister, and, most amazing thing of all, of the fact that Mr. Ackfield of Plymouth was their lawyer and confidential adviser! Moreover, he had evidently known that the ladies were at home as well as that they alone comprised the family. Surely, Cheyne thought, comparatively few people possessed all this knowledge, and the finding of Parkes should therefore be a correspondingly easy task.

“Extraordinary!” he said aloud. “And what did you do?”

“We got a taxi,” Mrs. Cheyne answered. “Agatha arranged it by telephone from Mrs. Hazelton’s. You tell him, Agatha. I’m rather tired.”

The old lady indeed looked worn out and Cheyne interposed a suggestion that she should go at once to bed, leaving Agatha to finish the story. But she refused and her daughter took up the tale.

“We caught the 5:15 ferry and went on to Newton Abbot. But when the Plymouth train came in there was no sign of you or Mr. Ackfield, so we sat in the waiting-room until the 7:10. I telephoned for a taxi to meet the ferry. It brought us to the door about half-past eight, but unfortunately it went away before we found we couldn’t get in.”

“You rang?”