XVII

It was a delicate matter broaching the subject of police espionage to Carver. In the first place, he did not want to give the inspector the slightest hint that Ursula Ardfern expected to be watched. He compromised by telling that gloomy man, at the first opportunity, that he had seen Miss Ardfern. And then he mentioned casually and by-the-way, the story of her watcher.

“Of course it isn’t a thief,” said Carver promptly. “Thieves do not advertise their presence by alarming the people they hope to rob. Has she complained to the local police?”

Tab did not know, but he guessed that she had not.

“It may be a coincidence,” said Carver, “and the man in black may really have nothing whatever to do with the murder of Trasmere, but I am intrigued. You are going down, you say? I wonder if Miss Ardfern would mind my coming too?”

Tab was in a dilemma here. To hesitate would be to give the police officer a wholly wrong impression. To accept was to eclipse the happy evening he had in prospect. For to be alone with Ursula Ardfern, to stand to her in the nature of a protector, would be a wonderful experience, which he had no desire to share.

“I am sure Miss Ardfern would be delighted,” he said.

“If I can get away I will come,” said Carver.

Tab fervently hoped that urgent business would keep his friend in town.

He sent a note round to Ursula putting forward Carver’s suggestion and received a reply by return, extending her invitation.

After mature thought, Tab decided that it was not at all a bad idea to have Carver with him. It would give the girl an opportunity of making friends with one who might, in certain circumstances, be a difficult man to satisfy. She could not have too many friends, he thought, and was almost relieved when Carver hurried into the station a few minutes before the last train to Hertford left.

It was dark when they arrived and by prearrangement they did not speak in the long walk which separated them from Stone Cottage, but in single file, keeping to the shadow of the road, they marched forward without meeting with a soul.

When at last they came to the highway in which Stone Cottage was situated, they proceeded with greater caution. But there was nobody in sight and they reached the garden unobserved.

Ursula was standing in the doorway to welcome them.

“I’ve had all the blinds pulled down,” she said, “and Inspector Carver’s coming is rather providential, for my woman has had to go home⁠—her mother has been taken ill. I hope you don’t mind appearing in the role of a chaperone,” she smiled at Carver.

“Even that is not an unusual one,” he replied unsmiling. “Where does she live, the mother of your servant?”

“At Felborough. Poor Margaret only had time to catch the last train.”

“How did Margaret know her mother was ill?” asked the inspector. “Did she have a telegram?”

Ursula nodded.

“Late this afternoon?”

“Yes,” said the girl in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

“She got the telegram in time to catch the train to town; in time, too, to catch a train for Felborough. That was why I asked. You did not see the man last night?”

“I didn’t come down until this morning,” she answered troubled. “Do you think that Margaret has been sent for by⁠—somebody⁠—that it was a ruse to get her away?”

“I don’t know,” said Carver. “In my profession we always apply the worst construction and we are generally right. What time do you usually go to bed?”

“At ten o’clock in the country,” she said.

“Then at ten o’clock you will go up to your room, put on your lights, and after a reasonable time, put them out again. You may, if you wish, come down, but you must be prepared to sit in the dark, and if you want to talk, you must carry on your conversation in whispers.” A rare smile softened his face. “We shall probably all be feeling a little foolish in the morning, but I would rather feel foolish than miss the opportunity of meeting the man in black.”

She gave them supper, and after the men had helped clear away the remains of the meal, Tab, at her request, filled his pipe. Carver said he did not wish to smoke.

Conversation, for some reason, seemed to flag. They sat silently about the table, each busy with his own thoughts. Suddenly Ursula said:

“I am almost inclined to make a restricted confession to you, Mr. Carver. I don’t think I should never have dreamt of doing so if I had ever met you.”

“Restricted confessions are irritating things,” said Carver, “so I don’t think I should confess if I were you, Miss Ardfern, especially as I know what the restricted confession is all about.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“You know,” she said.

He nodded.

“You would tell me,” he said, “that you were in the habit of going to Trasmere’s house every night, to leave your jewels with him, though that wasn’t the object of your visit. You went there,” he said slowly and not looking at her, “to act as his secretary. All the letters that were sent away by Jesse Trasmere were typewritten by you on a portable machine, the make of the machine is a Cortona, its number is 29754, it has one key-cap missing, and the letter r is a little out of alignment.”

He enjoyed her consternation for a second and then went on:

“Perhaps you weren’t going to tell me that you and Yeh Ling, the proprietor of the Golden Roof, paid a visit to Mayfield the night I nearly caught you? No, I see that you weren’t. So we’ll restrict the confession to your peculiar occupation.”

Tab was speechless.

Ursula Ardfern the old man’s secretary! One of the most successful actresses in London acting as amanuensis to that crabbed misanthrope; it was unbelievable. Yet a glance at the girl’s face told him that Carver had only spoken the truth.

“How do you know?” she gasped.

Carver smiled again.

“We have very clever people in the police,” he said drily. “You would never imagine it to read the newspapers. Clever old sixty-nine inch brains, eh, Tab?”

“I never said that you had a sixty-nine inch brain,” avowed Tab stoutly.

“But⁠—” interrupted the girl, and her voice was agitated, “do you know⁠—do you know anything else? Why we went that night?”

“You went to show Yeh Ling where the old man kept some of his secret documents, in the fake brick in the fireplace. You went hoping that in that box there were some papers which related to you and you were disappointed. The only thing I am in doubt about is this⁠—was Yeh Ling disappointed too?”

She shook her head.

“I wondered,” mused Carver. “Of course, I guessed that it was in the little lacquer box, and guessed also that the little lacquer box had a false bottom. Am I right?”

She shook her head again.

“No⁠—Yeh Ling thought it was there; the document he sought was in the brick-box.”

“You have the key of Mayfield,” said Carver. “I think you had better give it to me. Otherwise, you may be getting into serious trouble.”

She went out of the room without a word, came back and handed him the small Yale key, which he glanced at and dropped into his pocket.

“If I were a writing man, which, thank heavens, I am not,” he said, “I should carry this story of the Trasmere murder, the ‘Mystery of the Three Keys.’ Here is one solved, and it wasn’t much of a mystery. There are two others. The third is the most difficult of all.”

“You mean the key that was found on the table in the vault?”

He nodded.

“Yes,” he said, and said no more.

In her discretion, Ursula asked no further questions.

Tab was looking at Carver with a new respect.

“Every day, Carver,” he said seriously, “you are getting nearer the fictional ideal of a real detective!”

Carver’s down-turned lips took an upward curve, and then he looked at his watch.

“Ten o’clock, Miss Ardfern,” he said with mock severity, and Ursula made a move to the door. “We must turn these lights out before you leave the room. Everything must be done in order, remembering that somewhere the Black Man is watching.”

She shivered.

It was Tab who blew out the light in the drawing-room.

“I think we may draw the curtains,” said Carver softly, and pulled back the heavy velvet hangings from the window.

It was a starlight night and there was just sufficient light in the sky to outline the gateway.

“This will do admirably,” he said, settling himself in the window-seat. “If you must smoke, Tab, don’t bring your pipe within sight of that gate.”

Tab groaned and laid his pipe upon the fender.

Ten minutes later Ursula came into the room.

“May I stay?” she whispered. “I have put out my bedroom light most artistically.”

They conversed in whispers for an hour, and Tab was beginning to feel sleepy when a hiss from Carver stopped him in the middle of a sentence. Looking out of the window he saw a dark figure by the gate. It was impossible to distinguish more than the outlines. It appeared to be a man of considerable height, but this might have been and probably was an illusion. It wore a broad-brimmed hat, presumably dark; more than this they could not see. They waited in silence as the gate opened and the figure stole noiselessly into the garden.

It was halfway to the door when another figure appeared. It came from nowhere, seeming to rise up from the ground; and then before the man in the wide-awake hat could draw back, the second man had flung himself upon him. The watchers sat paralyzed until Carter, jumping to his feet, ran out of the room, Tab close behind him.

When they flung open the door, both figures had disappeared. Carver sprang toward the gate and stumbled. His foot had struck a soft bulk which stretched across the garden path, he turned back, flashing an electric lamp upon the object. It was a man, and for a moment they did not see his face.

“Who are you?” Carver pulled the man over on his back. “Well, I’m⁠—”

The man at his feet was Yeh Ling!