Jack looked at his watch.

“I guess she’ll be in bed by now, but it’s worth while trying. Would you like to see her?”

Michael hesitated. Stella Mendoza was a friend of Penne’s, and he was loath to commit himself irretrievably to the view that Penne was the murderer.

“Yes, I think we’ll see her,” he said. “After all, Penne knows that he is suspected.”

Jack Knebworth was ten minutes on the telephone before he succeeded in getting a reply from Stella’s cottage.

“It’s Knebworth speaking, Miss Mendoza,” he said. “Is it possible to see you tonight? Mr. Brixan wants to speak to you.”

“At this hour of the night?” she said in sleepy surprise. “I was in bed when the bell rang. Won’t it do in the morning?”

“No, he wants to see you particularly tonight. I’ll come along with him if you don’t mind.”

“What is wrong?” she asked quickly. “Is it about Gregory?”

Jack whispered a query to the man who stood at his side, and Michael nodded.

“Yes, it is about Gregory,” said Knebworth.

“Will you come along? I’ll have time to dress.”

Stella was dressed by the time they arrived, and too curious and too alarmed to make the hour of the call a matter of comment.

“What is the trouble?” she asked.

“Mr. Foss is dead.”

“Dead?” She opened her eyes wide. “Why, I only saw him yesterday. But how?”

“He has been murdered,” said Michael quietly. “His head has been found on Chobham Common.”

She would have fallen to the floor, had not Michael’s arm been there to support her, and it was some time before she recovered sufficiently to answer coherently the questions which were put to her.

“No, I didn’t see Mr. Foss again after he left the Towers, and then I only saw him for a few seconds.”

“Did he suggest he was coming back again?”

She shook her head.

“Did Sir Gregory tell you he was returning?”

“No.” She shook her head again. “He told me he was glad to see the last of him, and that he had borrowed fifty pounds until next week, when he expected to make a lot of money. Gregory is like that⁠—he will tell you things about people, things which they ask him not to make public. He is rather proud of his wealth and what he calls his charity.”

“You had a luncheon engagement with him?” said Michael, watching her.

She bit her lip.

“You must have heard me talking when I left him,” she said. “No, I had no luncheon engagement. That was camouflage, intended for anybody who was hanging around, and we knew somebody had been in the house that night. Was it you?”

Michael nodded.

“Oh, I’m so relieved!” She heaved a deep sigh. “Those few minutes in that dark room were terrible to me. I thought it was⁠—” She hesitated.

“Bhag?” suggested Michael, and she nodded.

“Yes. You don’t suspect Gregory of killing Foss?”

“I suspect everybody in general and nobody in particular,” said Michael. “Did you see Bhag?”

She shivered.

“No, not that time. I’ve seen him, of course. He gives me the creeps! I’ve never seen anything so human. Sometimes, when Gregory was a little⁠—a little drunk, he used to bring Bhag out and make him do tricks. Do you know that Bhag could do all the Malayan exercises with the sword! Sir Gregory had a specially made wooden sword for him, and the way that that awful thing used to twirl it round his head was terrifying.”

Michael stared at her.

“Bhag could use the sword, then? Penne told me he did, but I thought he was lying.”

“Oh, yes, he could use the sword. Gregory taught him everything.”

“What is Penne to you?” Michael asked the question bluntly, and she coloured.

“He has been a friend,” she said awkwardly, “a very good friend of mine⁠—financially, I mean. He took a liking to me a long time ago, and we’ve been⁠—very good friends.”

Michael nodded.

“And you are still?”

“No,” she answered shortly, “I’ve finished with Gregory, and am leaving Chichester tomorrow. I’ve put the house in an agent’s hands to rent. Poor Mr. Foss!” she said, and there were tears in her eyes. “Poor soul! Gregory wouldn’t have done it, Mr. Brixan, I’ll swear that! There’s a whole lot of Gregory that’s sheer bluff. He’s a coward at heart, and though he has done dreadful things, he has always had an agent to do the dirty work.”

“Dreadful things like what?”

She seemed reluctant to explain, but he pressed her.

“Well, he told me that he used to take expeditions in the bush and raid the villages, carrying off girls. There is one tribe that have very beautiful women. Perhaps he was lying about that too, but I have an idea that he spoke the truth. He told me that only a year ago, when he was in Borneo, he ‘lifted’ a girl from a wild village where it was death for a European to go. He always said ‘lifted.’ ”

“And didn’t you mind these confessions?” asked Michael, his steely eye upon her.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“He was that kind of man,” was all she said, and it spoke volumes for her understanding of her “very good friend.”

Michael walked back to Jack Knebworth’s house.

“The story Penne tells seems to fit together with the information Mendoza has given us. There is no doubt that the woman at the top of the tower was the lady he ‘lifted,’ and less doubt that the little brown man was her husband. If they have escaped from the tower, then there should be no difficulty in finding them. I’ll send out a message to all stations within a radius of twenty-five miles, and we ought to get news of them in the morning.”

“It’s morning now,” said Jack, looking toward the greying east. “Will you come in? I’ll give you some coffee. This news has upset me. I was going to have a long day’s work, but I guess we’ll have to put it off for a day or so. The company is bound to be upset by this news. They all knew Foss, although he was not very popular with them. It only wants Adele to be off colour to complete our misery. By the way, Brixan, why don’t you make this your headquarters? I’m a bachelor; there’s a phone service here, and you’ll get a privacy at this house which you don’t get at your hotel.”

The idea appealed to the detective, and it was at Jack Knebworth’s house that he slept that night, after an hour’s conversation on the telephone with Scotland Yard.

Early in the morning he was again at the Towers, and now, with the assistance of daylight, he enlarged his search, without adding greatly to his knowledge. The position was a peculiar one, as Scotland Yard had emphasized. Sir Gregory Penne was a member of a good family, a rich man, a justice of the peace; and, whilst his eccentricities were of a lawless character, “you can’t hang people for being queer,” the Commissioner informed Michael on the telephone.

It was a suspicious fact that Bhag had disappeared as completely as the brown man and his wife.

“He hasn’t been back all night: I’ve seen nothing of him,” said Sir Gregory. “And that’s not the first time he’s gone off on his own. He finds hiding-places that you’d never suspect, and he’s probably gone to earth somewhere. He’ll turn up.”

Michael was passing through Chichester when he saw a figure that made him bring the car to a standstill with such a jerk that it was a wonder the tyres did not burst. In a second he was out of the machine and walking to meet Adele.

“It seems ten thousand years since I saw you,” he said with an extravagance which at any other time would have brought a smile to her face.

“I’m afraid I can’t stop. I’m on my way to the studio,” she said, a little coldly, “and I promised Mr. Knebworth that I would be there early. You see, I got off yesterday afternoon by telling Mr. Knebworth that I had an engagement.”

“And had you?” asked the innocent Michael.

“I asked somebody to take tea with me,” and his jaw dropped.

“Moses!” he gasped. “I am the villain!”

She would have gone on, but he stopped her.

“I don’t want to shock you or hurt you, Adele,” he said gently, “but the explanation for my forgetfulness is that we’ve had another tragedy.”

She stopped and looked at him.

“Another?”

He nodded.

“Mr. Foss has been murdered,” he said.

She went very white.

“When?” Her voice was calm, almost emotionless.

“Last night.”

“It was after nine,” she said.

His eyebrows went up in surprise.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because, Mr. Brixan”⁠—she spoke slowly⁠—“at nine o’clock I saw the hand of the man who murdered him!

“Two nights ago,” she went on, “I went out to buy some wool I wanted. It was just before the shops closed⁠—a quarter to eight, I think. In the town I saw Mr. Foss and spoke to him. He was very nervous and restless, and again made a suggestion to me which he had already made when he called on me. His manner was so strange that I asked him if he was in any trouble. He told me no, but he had had an awful premonition that something dreadful was going to happen, and he asked me if I’d lived in Chichester for any length of time, and if I knew about the caves.”

“The caves?” said Michael quickly.

She nodded.

“I was surprised. I’d never heard of the caves. He told me there was a reference to them in some old history of Chichester. He had looked in the guidebooks without finding anything about them, but apparently there were caves at some time or other near Chellerton, but there was a heavy subsidence of earth that closed the entrance. He was so rambling and so disjointed that I thought he must have been drinking, and I was glad to get away from him. I went on and did my shopping and met one of the extra girls I knew. She asked me to go home with her. I didn’t want to go a bit, but I thought if I refused she would think I was giving myself airs, and so I went. As soon as I could, I came away and went straight home.

“It was then nine o’clock and the streets were empty. They are not very well lit in Chichester, but I was able to recognize Mr. Foss. He was standing at the corner of the Arundel Road, and was evidently waiting for somebody. I stopped because I particularly did not wish to meet Mr. Foss, but I was on the point of turning round when a car drove into the road and stopped almost opposite him.”

“What sort of a car?” asked Michael.

“It was a closed landaulette⁠—I think they call them sedans. As it came round the corner its lights went out, which struck me as being curious. Mr. Foss was evidently waiting for this, for he went up and leant on the edge of the window and spoke to somebody inside. I don’t know what made me do it, but I had an extraordinary impulse to see who was in the car, and I started walking toward them. I must have been five or six yards away when Mr. Foss stepped back and the sedan moved on. The driver put his hand out of the window as if he was waving goodbye. It was still out of the window and the only thing visible⁠—the interior was quite dark⁠—when it came abreast of me.”

“Was there anything peculiar about the hand?”

“Nothing, except that it was small and white, and on the little finger was a large diamond ring. The fire in it was extraordinary, and I wondered why a man should wear a ring of that kind. You will think I am silly, but the sight of that hand gave me a terrible feeling of fear⁠—I don’t know why, even now. There was something unnatural and abnormal about it. When I looked round again, Mr. Foss was walking rapidly in the other direction, and I made no attempt to overtake him.”

“You saw no number on the car?”

“None whatever.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t so curious.”

“You didn’t even see the silhouette of the man inside?”

“No, I saw nothing. His arm was raised.”

“What size was the diamond, do you think?”

She pursed her lips dubiously.

“He passed me in a flash, and I can’t give you any very accurate information, Mr. Brixan. It may be a mistake on my part, but I thought it was as big as the tip of my finger. Naturally I couldn’t see any details, even though I saw the car again last night.”

She went on to tell him of what happened on the previous night, and he listened intently.

“The man spoke to you⁠—did you recognize his voice?”

She shook her head.

“No⁠—he spoke in a whisper. I did not see his face, though I have an idea that he was wearing a cap. The policeman said he should have taken the number of the car.”

“Oh, the policeman said that, did he?” remarked Michael sardonically. “Well, there’s hope for him.”

For a minute he was immersed in thought, and then:

“I’ll take you to the studio if you don’t mind,” said Michael.

He left her to go to her dressing-room, there to learn that work had been suspended for the day, and went in search of Jack.

“You’ve seen everybody of consequence in this neighbourhood,” he said. “Do you know anybody who drives a sedan and wears a diamond ring on the little finger of the right hand?”

“The only person I know who has that weakness is Mendoza,” he said.

Michael whistled.

“I never thought of Mendoza,” he said, “and Adele described the hand as ‘small and womanly.’ ”

“Mendoza’s hand isn’t particularly small, but it would look small on a man,” said Jack thoughtfully. “And her car isn’t a closed sedan, but that doesn’t mean anything. By the way, I’ve just sent instructions to tell the company I’m working today. If we let these people stand around thinking, they’ll get thoroughly upset.”

“I thought that too,” said Michael with a smile, “but I didn’t dare make the suggestion.”

An urgent message took him to London that afternoon, where he attended a conference of the Big Five at Scotland Yard. And at the end of the two-hour discussion, the conclusion was reached that Sir Gregory Penne was to remain at large but under observation.

“We verified the story about the lifting of this girl in Borneo,” said the quiet-spoken Chief. “And all the facts dovetail. I haven’t the slightest doubt in my mind that Penne is the culprit, but we’ve got to walk very warily. I dare say in your department, Captain Brixan, you can afford to take a few risks, but the police in this country never make an arrest for murder unless they are absolutely certain that a conviction will follow. There may be something in your other theory, and I’d be the last man in the world to turn it down, but you’ll have to conduct parallel investigations.”

Michael ran down to Sussex in broad daylight. There was a long stretch of road about four miles north of Chichester, and he was pelting along this when he became aware of a figure standing in the middle of the roadway with its arms outstretched, and slowed down. It was Mr. Sampson Longvale, he saw to his amazement. Almost before the car had stopped, with an extraordinary display of agility Mr. Longvale jumped on the running-board.

“I have been watching for you this last two hours, Mr. Brixan,” he said. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Come right in,” said Michael heartily.

“You are going to Chichester, I know. Would you mind instead coming to the Dower House? I have something important to tell you.”

The place at which he had signalled the car to stop was exactly opposite the end of the road that led to the Dower House and Sir Gregory’s domain. The old man told him that he had walked back from Chichester, and had been waiting for the passing of the car.

“I learnt for the first time, Mr. Brixan, that you are an officer of the law,” he said, with a stately inclination of his head. “I need hardly tell you how greatly I respect one whose duty it is to serve the cause of justice.”

“Mr. Knebworth told you, I presume?” said Michael with a smile.

“He told me,” agreed the other gravely. “I went in really to seek you, having an intuition that you had some more important position in life than what I had first imagined. I confess I thought at first that you were one of those idle young men who have nothing to do but to amuse themselves. It was a great gratification to me to learn that I was mistaken. It is all the more gratifying”⁠—(Michael smiled inwardly at the verbosity of age)⁠—“because I need advice on a point of law, which I imagine my lawyer would not offer to me. My position is a very peculiar one, in some ways embarrassing. I am a man who shrinks from the eye of the public and am averse from vulgar intermeddling in other people’s affairs.”

What had he to tell, Michael wondered⁠—this old man, with his habit of nocturnal strolls, might have been a witness to something that had not yet come out.

They stopped at the Dower House, and the old man got out and opened the gate, not closing it until Michael had passed through. Instead of going direct to his sitting-room, he went upstairs, beckoning Michael to come after, and stopped before the room which had been occupied by Adele on the night of her terrible experience.

“I wish you to see these people,” said Mr. Longvale earnestly, “and tell me whether I am acting in accordance with the law.”

He opened the door, and Mike saw that there were now two beds in the room. On one, heavily bandaged and apparently unconscious, was the brown-faced man; on the other, sleeping, was the woman Michael had seen in the tower! She, too, was badly wounded: her arm was bandaged and strapped into position.

Michael drew a long breath.

“That is a mystery solved, anyway,” he said. “Where did you find these people?”

At the sound of his voice the woman opened her eyes and frowned at him fearfully, then looked across to the man.

“You have been wounded?” said Michael in Dutch, but apparently her education had been neglected in respect of European languages, for she made no reply.

She was so uncomfortable at the sight of him that Michael was glad to go out of the room. It was not until they were back in his sanctum that Mr. Longvale told his story.

“I saw them last night about half-past eleven,” he said. “They were staggering down the road, and I thought at first that they were intoxicated, but fortunately the woman spoke, and as I have never forgotten a voice, even when it spoke in a language that was unfamiliar to me, I realized immediately that it was my patient, and went out to intercept her. I then saw the condition of her companion, and she, recognizing me, began to speak excitedly in a language which I could not understand, though I would have been singularly dense if I had had any doubt as to her meaning. The man was on the point of collapse, but, assisted by the woman, I managed to get him into the house and to the room where he now is. Fortunately, in the expectation of again being called to attend her, I had purchased a small stock of surgical dressing and was able to attend to the man.”

“Is he badly hurt?” asked Michael.

“He has lost a considerable quantity of blood,” said the other, “and, though there seems to be no arteries severed or bones broken, the wounds have an alarming appearance. Now, it has occurred to me,” he went on, in his oddly profound manner, “that this unfortunate native could not have received his injury except as the result of some illegal act, and I thought the best thing to do was to notify the police that they were under my care. I called first upon my excellent friend, Mr. John Knebworth, and opened my heart to him. He then told me your position, and I decided to wait your return before I took any further steps.”

“You have solved a mystery that has puzzled me, and incidentally, you have confirmed a story which I had received with considerable scepticism,” said Mike. “I think you were well advised in informing the police⁠—I will make a report to headquarters, and send an ambulance to take these two people to hospital. Is the man fit to be moved?”

“I think so,” nodded the old gentleman. “He is sleeping heavily now, and has the appearance of being in a state of coma, but that is not the case. They are quite welcome to stay here, though I have no convenience, and must do my own nursing, which is rather a bother, for I am not fitted for such a strain. Happily, the woman is able to do a great deal for him.”

“Did he have a sword when he arrived?”

Mr. Longvale clicked his lips impatiently.

“How stupid of me to forget that! Yes, it is in here.”

He went to a drawer in an old-fashioned bureau, pulled it open and took out the identical sword which Michael had seen hanging above the mantelpiece at Griff Towers. It was spotlessly clean, and had been so when Mr. Longvale took it from the brown man’s hands. And yet he did not expect it to be in any other condition, for to the swordsman of the East his sword is his child, and probably the brown man’s first care had been to wipe it clean.

Michael was taking his leave when he suddenly asked:

“I wonder if it would give you too much trouble, Mr. Longvale, to get me a glass of water? My throat is parched.”

With an exclamation of apology, the old man hurried away, leaving Michael in the hall.

Hanging on pegs was the long overcoat of the master of Dower House, and beside it the curly-rimmed beaver and a very prosaic derby hat, which Michael took down the moment the old man’s back was turned. It had been no ruse of his, this demand for a drink, for he was parched. Only Michael had the inquisitiveness of his profession.

The old gentleman returned quickly to find Michael examining the hat.

“Where did this come from?” asked the detective.

“That was the hat the native was wearing when he arrived,” said Mr. Longvale.

“I will take it with me, if you don’t mind,” said Michael after a long silence.

“With all the pleasure in life. Our friend upstairs will not need a hat for a very long time,” he said, with a whimsical little smile.

Michael went back to his car, put the hat carefully beside him, and drove into Chichester; and all the way he was in a state of wonder. For inside the hat were the initials “L. F.” How came the hat of Lawley Foss on the head of the brown man from Borneo?