Jenkins Herbert George
Malcolm Sage, Detective

CHAPTER I SIR JOHN DENE RECEIVES HIS ORDERS

I

"John!"

"Yeh!"

"Don't say 'yeh,' say 'yes,' Dorothy dear."

"Yes, Dorothy de – "

Sir John Dene was interrupted in his apology by a napkin-ringwhizzing past his left ear.

"What's wrong?" he enquired, laying aside his paper and picking upthe napkin-ring.

"I'm trying to attract your attention," replied Lady Dene, slippingfrom her place at the breakfast-table and perching herself upon thearm of her husband's chair. She ran her fingers lightly through hishair. "Are you listening?"

"Sure!"

"Well, what are you going to do for Mr. Sage?"

In his surprise at the question, Sir John Dene jerked up his head tolook at her, and Dorothy's forefinger managed to find the corner ofhis eye.

He blinked vigorously, whilst she, crooning apologies into his ear, dabbed his eye with her handkerchief.

"Now," she said, when the damage had been repaired, "I'll go and sitdown like a proper, respectable wife of a D.S.O.," and she returnedto her seat. "Well?" she demanded, as he did not speak. "Yes, dear."

"What are you going to do for Mr. Sage, now that Department Z isbeing demobbed? You know you like him, because you didn't want toginger him up, and you mustn't forget that he saved your life," sheadded.

"Sure!"

"Don't say 'sure,' John," she cried. "You're a British baronet, andBritish baronets don't say 'sure,' 'shucks' or vamoose.' Do youunderstand?"

He nodded thoughtfully;

"I like Mr. Sage," announced Dorothy. Then a moment later she added,"He always reminds me of the superintendent of a Sunday-school, withhis conical bald head and gold spectacles. He's not a bit like adetective, is he?"

"Sure!"

"If you say it again, John, I shall scream," she cried.

For some seconds there was silence, broken at length by Dorothy.

"I like his wonderful hands, too," she continued. "I'm sure he'sproud of them, because he can never keep them still. If you say'sure,' I'll divorce you," she added hastily.

He smiled, that sudden, sunny smile she had learned to look for andlove.

"Then again I like him because he's always courteous and kind. AtDepartment Z they'd have had their appendixes out if Mr. Sage wantedthem. Now have you made up your mind?"

"Made it up to what?" he asked, lighting a cigar.

"That you're going to set him up as a private detective," she saidcoolly. "I don't want him to come here and not find everythingplanned out."

"He won't do that," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "He's nolap-dog."

"I wrote and asked him to call at ten to-day," she said coolly.

"Snakes, you did!" he cried, sitting up in his chair.

"Alligators, I did!" she mocked.

"You're sure some wife;" he looked at her admiringly.

"I sure am," she laughed lightly, "but I'm only just beginning, Johndear. By the way, I asked Sir James Walton to come too," she addedcasually.

"You – " he began, when the door opened and a little, silver-hairedlady entered. Sir John Dene jumped to his feet.

"Behold the mother of the bride," cried Dorothy gaily.

"Good morning, John," said Mrs. West as he bent and kissed her cheek.

She always breakfasted in her room; she abounded in tact.

"Now we'll get away from the eggs and bacon," cried Dorothy. "In thelanguage of the woolly West, we'll vamoose," and she led the way outof the dining-room along the corridor to Sir John Dene's den.

"Come along, mother-mine," she cried over her shoulder. "We've got alot to discuss before ten o'clock."

Sir John Dene's "den" was a room of untidiness and comfort. AsDorothy said, he was responsible for the untidiness and she thecomfort.

"Heigh-ho!" she sighed, as she sank down into a comfortable chair."I wonder what Whitehall would have done without Mr. Sage;" shesmiled reminiscently. "He was the source of half its gossip."

"He was very kind to you, Dorothy, when John was – was lost," saidMrs. West gently, referring to the time when Sir John Dene haddisappeared and a reward of 20,000 pounds had been offered for newsof him.

"Sure!" Sir John Dene acquiesced. "He's a white man, clean to thebone."

"It was very wonderful that an accountant should become such aclever detective," said Mrs. West. "It shows – " she paused.

"You see, he wasn't a success as an accountant," said Dorothy. "Hewas always finding out little wangles that he wasn't supposed to see.So when they wouldn't have him in the army, he went to the Ministryof Supply and found out a great, big wangle, and Mr. Llewellyn Johnwas very pleased. You get me, Honest John?" she demanded, turning toher husband.

Sir John Dene nodded and blew clouds of cigar smoke from his lips.He liked nothing better than to sit listening to his wife'sreminiscences of Whitehall, despite the fact that he had heard mostof them before.

"Poor Mr. Sage," continued Dorothy, "nobody liked him, and he's gotsuch lovely down on his head, just like a baby," she added, with afar-away look in her eyes.

"Perhaps no one understood him," suggested Mrs. West, withinstinctive charity for the Ishmaels of the world.

"Isn't that like her," cried Dorothy, "but this time she's right,"she smiled across at her mother. "When a few thousand tons of copperwent astray, or someone ordered millions of shells the wrong size,Mr. Sage got the wind up, and tried to find out all about it, and inWhitehall such things weren't done."

"They tried to put it up on me," grumbled Sir John Dene, twirlinghis cigar with his lips, "but I soon stopped their funny work."

"Everybody was too busy winning the war to bother about trifles,"Dorothy continued. "The poor dears who looked after such thingsfound life quite difficult enough, with only two hours for lunch andpretty secretaries to be – "

"Dorothy!" cried Mrs. West reproachfully.

"Well, it's true, mother," she protested.

It was true, as Malcolm Sage had discovered. "Let us concentrate onwhat we know we have got," one of his chiefs had once gravely saidto him. "Something is sure to be swallowed up in the fog of war," hehad added. Pleased with the phrase, which he conceived to beoriginal, he had used it as some men do a titled relative, with theresult that Whitehall had clutched at it gratefully.

"The fog of war," General Conyers Bardulph had muttered when, forthe life of him, he could not find a division that was due upon theWestern Front and which it was his duty to see was sent out.

"The fog of war," murmured spiteful Anita McGowan, when the prettylittle widow, Mrs. Sleyton, was being interrogated as to thewhereabouts of her husband.

"The fog of war," laughed the girls in Department J.P.Q., when athalf-past four one afternoon neither its chief nor his dark-eyedsecretary had returned from lunch.

"But when he went to Department Z he was wonderful," said Mrs. West, still clinging tenderly to her Ishmael.

"He was," said Sir John Dene. "He was the plumb best man at his job

I ever came across."

"Yes, John dear, that's all very well," said Dorothy, her eyesdancing, "but suppose you had been the War Cabinet and you had sentfor Mr. Sage;" she paused.

"Well?" he demanded.

"And he had come in a cap and a red tie," she proceeded, "and hadresigned within five minutes, saying that you were talking of thingsyou didn't know anything about." She laughed at the recollection.

"He was right," said Sir John Dene with conviction. "I've comeacross some fools; but – "

"There, there, dear," said Dorothy, "remember there are ladiespresent. In Whitehall we all loved Mr. Sage because he snubbedMinisters, and we hadn't the pluck to do it ourselves," she added.

Sir John Dene snorted. His mind travelled back to the time when hehad been "up against the whole sunflower-patch," as he had onceexpressed it.

"But why did they keep him if they didn't like him?" enquired Mrs.

West.

"When you don't like anyone in Whitehall," Dorothy continued, "youdon't give him the push, mother dear, you just transfer him toanother department."

"Like circulating bad money," grumbled Sir John Dene.

"It sure was, John," she agreed. "Poor Mr. Sage soon became the mosttransferred man in Whitehall. They used to say, 'Uneasy lies thehead that has a Sage.'" She laughed at the recollection.

"But wasn't it rather unkind?" said Mrs. West gently.

"It was, mother-mine; but Whitehall was a funny place. One of Mr.Sage's chiefs went about for months trying to get rid of him. Heoffered to give a motor-cycle to anyone who would take him, it was aGovernment cycle," she added; "but there was nothing doing. Wecalled him Henry the Second and Mr. Sage Becket, the archbishop notthe boxer," she explained. "You know," she added, "there was oncean English king who wanted to get rid of – "

"We'll have it the sort of concern that insurance companies can lookto," Sir John Dene broke in.

"What on earth are you talking about, John?" cried Dorothy.

Whilst his wife talked Sir John Dene had been busy planning MalcolmSage's future, and he had uttered his thoughts aloud. He proceededto explain. When he had finished, Dorothy clapped her hands.

"Hurrah! for Malcolm Sage, Detective," she cried and, jumping up, she perched herself upon the arm of her husband's chair, and rumpledthe fair hair, which with her was always a sign of approval. "That'shis ring, or Sir James's," she added as the bell sounded.

"Now we'll leave you lords of creation to carry out my idea," shesaid as she followed Mrs. West to the door.

And Sir John Dene smiled.

II

"In the States they've got Pinkerton's," said Sir John Dene, twirling with astonishing rapidity an unlit cigar between his lips."If you've lost anything, from a stick-pin to a mountain, you justblow in there, tell them all about it, and go away and don't worry.Here you've got nothing."

"We have Scotland Yard," remarked Malcolm Sage quietly, withoutlooking up from the contemplation of his hands, which, with fingerswide apart, rested upon the table before him.

His bald, conical head seemed to contradict the determined set ofhis jaw and the steel-coloured eyes that gazed keenly through largegold-rimmed spectacles. Even his ears, that stood squarely out fromhis head, appeared to emphasise by their aggressiveness that theyhad nothing to do with the benevolent shape of the head above.

"Yes, and you've got Cleopatra's Needle, and the pelicans in St.James's Park," Sir John Dene retorted scornfully. He had neverforgotten the occasion when, at a critical moment in the country'shistory, the First Lord of the Admiralty had casually enquired if hehad seen the pelicans.

For the last half-hour Sir John Dene, with characteristicimpulsiveness, had been engaged in brushing aside all Malcolm Sage's"cons" with his almighty "Pro."

"We'll have a Pinkerton's in England," he resumed, as neither of hislisteners took up his challenge, "and we'll call it Sage's."

"I shall in all probability receive quite a number of orders forshop-fronts," murmured Malcolm Sage, with a slight fluttering at thecorners of his mouth, which those who knew him understood how tointerpret.

"Shop-fronts!" repeated Sir John Dene, looking from one to the other,

"I don't get you."

"There is already a well-known firm of shop-furnishers called'Sage's,'" explained Sir James, who throughout the battle had beenan amused listener.

"Well, we'll call it the Malcolm Sage Detective Bureau," replied SirJohn Dene, "and we'll have it a concern that insurance companies canlook to." He proceeded to light his cigar, with him always a signthat something of importance had been settled.

Sir John Dene liked getting his own way. That morning he hadresolutely brushed aside every objection, ethical or material, thathad been advanced. To Malcolm Sage he considered that he owed alot,¹ and with all the aggressiveness of his nature, he overwhelmedand engulfed objection and protest alike. To this was added the factthat the idea was his wife's, and in his own phraseology, "thatgoes."

Passive and attentive, his long shapely hands seldom still, MalcolmSage had listened. From time to time he ventured some objection, only to have it brushed aside by Sir John Dene's overwhelmingdetermination.

For some minutes Malcolm Sage had been stroking the back of his headwith the palm of his right hand, a habit of his when thoughtful.Suddenly he raised his eyes and looked across at his would-bebenefactor.

"Why should you want to do this for me, Sir John?" he asked.

"If you're going to put up a barrage of whys," was the irascibleretort, "you'll never cut any ice."

"I fully appreciate the subtlety of the metaphor," said Malcolm Sage, the corners of his mouth twitching; "but still why?"

"Well, for one thing I owe you something," barked Sir John Dene,"and remembering's my long suit. For another, Lady Dene – "

"That is what I wanted to know," said Malcolm Sage, as he drew hisbriar from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. "Will you thank LadyDene and tell her that I am proud to be under an obligation to her – and to you, Sir John," he added.

"Say, that's fine," cried Sir John Dene, jumping to his feet andextending his hand, which Malcolm Sage took, an odd, quizzicalexpression in his eyes. "This Detective Bureau notion is a whale."

"The zoological allusion, I'm afraid, is beyond me," said MalcolmSage as he struck a match, "but no doubt you are right," and helooked across at Sir James Walton, whose eyes smiled his approval.

"It's all fixed up," cried Sir John Dene to his wife as she came outinto the hall as the visitors were departing.

"I'm so glad," she cried, giving her hand to Malcolm Sage. "You'llbe such a success, Mr. Sage," and she smiled confidently up into hiseyes.

"With such friends," he replied, "failure would be an impertinence,"and he and Sir James Walton passed out of the flat to return to whatwas left of the rapidly demobilising Department Z, which had madehistory by its Secret Service work.

In a few days the news leaked out that "M.S.," as Malcolm Sage wascalled by the staff, was to start a private-detective agency. Thewhole staff promptly offered its services, and there was muchspeculation and heart-burning as to who would be selected.

On hearing that she was to continue to act as Malcolm Sage'ssecretary, Miss Gladys Norman had done a barn-dance across the room, her arrival at the door synchronising with the appearance of MalcolmSage from without. It had become a tradition at Department Z that"M.S." could always be depended upon to arrive at the mostembarrassing moment of any little dramatic episode; but it wasequally well-known that he possessed a "blind-side" to his vision.They called it "the Nelson touch."

James Thompson, Malcolm Sage's principal assistant, and WilliamJohnson, the office junior, had also been engaged, and theirenthusiasm has been as great as that of their colleague, althoughless dramatically expressed.

A battle royal was fought over the body of Arthur Tims, MalcolmSage's chauffeur. Sir John Dene had insisted that a car and achauffeur were indispensable to a man who was to rival Pinkerton's.Malcolm Sage, on the other hand, had protested that it was anunnecessary expense in the early days of a concern that had yet tojustify itself. To this Sir John Dene had replied, "Shucks!" at thesame time notifying Tims that he was engaged for a year, andauthorising him to select a car, find a garage, and waitinstructions.

Tims did not do a barn-dance. He contented himself for the timebeing with ruffling William Johnson's dark, knut-like hair, a thingto which he was much addicted. Returning home on the evening of hisengagement he had bewildered Mrs. Tims by seizing her as she stoodin front of the kitchen-stove, a frying-pan full of sausages in herhand, and waltzing her round the kitchen, frying-pan and all.

Subsequently five of the six sausages had been recovered; but thesixth was not retrieved until the next morning when, in dusting, Mrs.Tims discovered it on the mantelpiece.

CHAPTER II THE STRANGE CASE OF MR. CHALLONER

I

"Please, sir, Miss Norman's fainted." William Johnson, known to hiscolleagues as the innocent, stood at Malcolm Sage's door, withwidened eyes and a general air that bespoke helplessness.

Without a word Malcolm Sage rose from his table, as if accustomedall his life to the fainting of secretaries. William Johnson stoodaside, with the air of one who has rung a fire-alarm and now feelshe is at liberty to enjoy the fire itself.

Entering her room, Malcolm Sage found Gladys Norman lying in a heapbeside her typewriter. Picking her up he carried her into his ownroom, placed her in an arm-chair, fetched some brandy from a smallcupboard and, still watched by the wide-eyed William Johnson, proceeded to force a little between her teeth.

Presently her lids flickered and, a moment later, she opened hereyes. For a second there was in them a look of uncertainty, thensuddenly they opened to their fullest extent and became fixed uponthe door beyond. Malcolm Sage glanced over his shoulder and sawframed in the doorway Sir James Walton.

"Sit down, Chief," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the girlsitting limply in the large leather-covered arm-chair. "I shall befree in a moment."

It was characteristic of him to attempt no explanation. To his mindthe situation explained itself.

As Miss Norman made an effort to rise, he placed a detaining handupon her arm.

"Send Mr. Thompson."

With a motion of his hand Malcolm Sage indicated to William Johnsonthat the dramatic possibilities of the situation were exhausted, atleast as far as he was concerned. With reluctant steps the lad leftthe room and, having told Thompson he was wanted, returned to hisseat in the outer office, where it was his mission to sit inpreliminary judgment upon callers.

When Thompson entered, Malcolm Sage instructed him to move theleather-covered chair into Miss Norman's room and, when she wasrested, to take her home in the car.

Thompson's face beamed. His devotion to Gladys Norman was notorious.

The girl rose and raised to Malcolm Sage a pair of dark eyes fromwhich tears were not far distant.

"I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip tremblingominously. "I've never done such a thing before."

"I've been working you too hard," he said, as he held back the door.

"You must go home and rest."

She shook her head and passed out, whilst Malcolm Sage returned tohis seat at the table.

"Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumedhis seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," headded musingly, "but beautifully loyal."

Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of MalcolmSage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his latechief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end andproceeded to light it.

"Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined thelighted end.

"They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply.

Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing SirJames Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days whenthey had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered thoseheads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as somethingbetween a punishment and a misfortune.

"Busy?"

"Very."

For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to beseated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise thefact.

"I've just motored up from Hurstchurch," began Sir James at length, having assured himself that his cigar was drawing as a good cigarshould draw. "Been staying with an old friend of mine, GeoffreyChalloner."

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"He was shot last night. That's why I'm here." He paused; butMalcolm Sage made no comment. His whole attention was absorbed in anivory paper-knife, which he was endeavouring to balance upon thehandle of the silver inkstand. More than one client had beendisconcerted by Malcolm Sage's restless hands, which theyinterpreted as a lack of interest in their affairs.

"At half-past seven this morning," continued Sir James, "Peters, thebutler, knocked at Challoner's door with his shaving-water. As therewas no reply he entered and found, not only that Challoner was notthere, but that the bed had not been slept in over night."

Malcolm lifted his hands from the paper-knife. It balanced.

"He thought Challoner had fallen asleep in the library," continuedSir James, "which he sometimes did, he is rather a night-owl. Petersthen went downstairs, but found the library door locked on theinside. As there was no response to his knocking, he went round tothe French-windows that open from the library on to the lawn at theback of the house. The curtains were drawn, however, and he couldsee nothing."

"Is it usual to draw the curtains?" enquired Malcolm Sage, regardingwith satisfaction the paper-knife as it gently swayed up and downupon the inkstand.

"Yes, except in the summer, when the windows are generally keptopen."

Malcolm Sage nodded, and Sir James resumed his story.

"Peters then went upstairs to young Dane's room; Dane is Challoner'snephew, who lives with him. While he dressed he sent Peters to tellme.

"A few minutes later we all went down to the library and tried toattract Challoner's attention; but without result. I then suggestedforcing an entry from the garden, which was done by breaking theglass of one of the French-windows.

"We found Challoner seated at his table dead, shot through the head.He had an automatic pistol in his hand." Sir James paused; his voicehad become husky with emotion. Presently he resumed.

"We telephoned for the police and a doctor, and I spent the timeuntil they came in a thorough examination of the room. TheFrench-windows had been securely bolted top and bottom from within,by means of a central handle. All the panes of glass were intact, with the exception of that we had broken. The door had been locked onthe inside, and the key was in position. It was unlocked by Peterswhen he went into the hall to telephone. It has a strong mortice-lockand the key did not protrude through to the outer side, so thatthere was no chance of manipulating the lock from without. In thefireplace there was an electric stove, and from the shower of sootthat fell when I raised the trap, it was clear that this had notbeen touched for some weeks at least.

"The doctor was the first to arrive. At my urgent request herefrained from touching the body. He said death had taken place fromseven to ten hours previously as the result of the bullet wound inthe temple. He had scarcely finished his examination when aninspector of police, who had motored over from Lewes, joined us.

"It took him very few minutes to decide that poor Challoner had shothimself. In this he was confirmed by the doctor. Still, I insistedthat the body should not be removed."

"Why did you do that, Chief?" enquired Malcolm Sage, who haddiscarded the paper-knife and was now busy drawing geometricalfigures with the thumb-nail of his right hand upon the blotting padbefore him.

"Because I was not satisfied," was the reply. "There was absolutelyno motive for suicide. Challoner was in good health and, if I knowanything about men, determined to live as long as the gods give."

Again Malcolm Sage nodded his head meditatively.

"The jumping to hasty conclusions," he remarked, "has saved many aman his neck. Whom did you leave in charge?" he queried.

"The inspector. I locked the door; here is the key," he said, producing it from his jacket pocket. "I told him to allow no oneinto the room."

"Why were you there?" Malcolm Sage suddenly looked up, flashing thatkeen, steely look through his gold-rimmed spectacles that many menhad found so disconcerting. "Ordinary visit?" he queried.

"No." Sir James paused, apparently deliberating something in hisown mind. He was well acquainted with Malcolm Sage's habit of askingapparently irrelevant questions.

"There's been a little difficulty between Challoner and his nephew,"he said slowly. "Some days back the boy announced his determinationof marrying a girl he had met in London, a typist or secretary.Challoner was greatly upset, and threatened to cut him out of hiswill if he persisted. There was a scene, several scenes in fact, andeventually I was sent for as Challoner's oldest friend."

"To bring the nephew to reason," suggested Malcolm Sage.

"To give advice ostensibly; but in reality to talk things over," wasthe reply.

"You advised?" When keenly interested, Malcolm Sage's questions werelike pistol-shots.

"That Challoner should wait and see the girl."

"Did he?"

Malcolm Sage was intent upon outlining his hand with the point ofthe paper-knife upon the blotting pad.

Again Sir James hesitated, only for a fraction of a second, however.

"Yes; but unfortunately with the object of endeavouring to buy heroff. Yesterday afternoon Dane brought her over. Challoner saw heralone. She didn't stay more than a quarter of an hour. Then she andDane left the house together, he to see her to the station. An hourlater he returned. I was in the hall at the time. He was in a veryexcited state. He pushed past me, burst into the library, bangingthe door behind him.

"That evening at dinner Challoner told me there had been a veryunpleasant scene. He had warned the boy that unless he apologisedto-day he would telephone to London for his lawyer, and make a freshwill entirely disinheriting him. Soon after the interview Dane wentout of the house, and apparently did not return until late – as amatter of fact, after I had gone to bed. I was feeling tired andsaid 'good night' to Challoner about half-past ten in the library."

For some time Malcolm Sage gazed upon the outline he had completed,as if in it lay the solution of the mystery.

"It's a pity you let the butler unlock the door," he remarkedregretfully.

Sir James looked across at his late chief-of-staff keenly. Hedetected something of reproach in his tone.

"Did you happen to notice if the electric light was on when youentered the library?"

"No," said Sir James, after a slight pause; "it was not."

Malcolm Sage reached across to the private telephone and gave the"three on the buzzer" that always galvanised Miss Gladys Norman intoinstant vitality.

"Miss Norman," said Sage as she entered, "can you lend me the smallmirror I have seen you use occasionally?"

"Yes, Mr. Sage," and she disappeared, returning a moment later withthe mirror from her handbag. She was accustomed to Malcolm Sage'sstrange requests.

"Feeling better?" he enquired as she turned to go.

"I'm all right now," she smiled, "and please don't send me home, Mr.

Sage," she added, and she went out before he had time to reply.

A quarter of an hour later the two men entered Sir James's car, whilst Thompson and Dawkins, the official photographer to the Bureau, followed in that driven by Tims. Malcolm Sage would cheerfully havesacrificed anybody and anything to serve his late chief.

"And how am I to keep the shine off my nose without a looking-glass,Johnny?" asked Miss Norman of William Johnson, as she turned toresume her work.

"He won't mind if it shines," said the youth seriously; and MissNorman gave him a look, which only his years prevented him from interpreting.

II

As the car drew up, the hall-door of "The Cedars" was thrown open bythe butler, a fair-haired clean-shaven man of about forty-five, withgrave, impassive face, and eyes that gave the impression of allowinglittle to escape them.

As he descended the flight of stone-steps to open the door of thecar, a young man appeared behind him. A moment later Sir James wasintroducing him to Malcolm Sage as "Mr. Richard Dane."

Dark, with smoothly-brushed hair and a toothbrush moustache, hemight easily have been passed over in a crowd without a secondglance. He was obviously and acutely nervous. His fingers movedjerkily, and there were twitchings at the corners of his mouth thathe seemed unable to control. It was not a good-tempered mouth. Heappeared unconscious of the presence of Malcolm Sage. His eyes werefixed upon the second car, which had just drawn up, and from whichThompson and Dawkins were removing the photographic paraphernalia.

Peters conducted Sir James and Malcolm Sage to the dining-room, where luncheon was laid.

"Shall I serve luncheon, Sir James?" he enquired, ignoring Dane, whowas clearly unequal to the strain of the duties of host.

Sir James looked across at Malcolm Sage, who shook his head.

"I'll see the library first," he said. "Sir James will show me.Fetch Dawkins," he said to Thompson, and he followed Sir Jamesthrough the house out on to the lawn.

As they entered the library by the French-windows, a tall, sandy manrose from the armchair in which he was seated. He was InspectorGorton of the Sussex County Constabulary. Malcolm Sage nodded alittle absently. His eyes were keenly taking in every detail of thefigure sprawling across the writing-table. The head rested on theleft cheek, and there was an ugly wound in the right temple fromwhich blood had dripped and congealed upon the table. In the righthand was clutched a small, automatic pistol. The arm was slightlycurved, the weapon pointing to the left.

Having concluded his examination of the wound, Malcolm Sage drew asilk-handkerchief from his pocket, shook out its folds and spread itcarefully over the blood-stained head of Mr. Challoner.

Sir James looked across at him, appreciation in his eyes. It was oneof those little human touches, of which he had discovered so many inMalcolm Sage, and the heads of government departments in Whitehallso few.

Malcolm Sage next proceeded to regard the body from every angle, even going down on his knees to see the position of the legs beneaththe table. He then walked round the room and examined everythingwith minute attention, particularly the key of the door, which SirJames had replaced in its position on the inside. The keyhole onboth sides of the door came in for careful scrutiny.

He tried the door of a small safe at the far-end of the room; it waslocked. He then examined the fastenings of the French-windows.

Finally he returned to the table, where, dropping on one knee on theleft-hand side of the body, he drew a penknife from his pocket, andproceeded with great care and deliberation to slit up the outer seamof the trousers so that the pocket lay exposed.

This in turn he cut open, taking care not to disturb the bunch ofkeys, which, attached to a chain, lay on the thigh, a little to theleft.

The others watched him with wide-eyed interest, the inspectorbreathing heavily.

Having assured himself that the keys would not slide off, Malcolm

Sage rose and turned to Dawkins:

"I want a plate from the right, the left, the front, and from behindand above. Also an exposure showing the position of the legs, andanother of the keys."

Dawkins inclined his head. He was a grey, bald-headed little man whohad only one thought in life, his profession. He seldom spoke, andwhen he did his lips seemed scarcely to part, the words slipping outas best they could.

Happy in the knowledge that his beloved camera was once more to beone of the principal witnesses in the detection of a crime, Dawkinsset himself to his task.

"When Dawkins has finished," said Malcolm Sage, turning to theinspector, who had been watching the proceedings with ill-disguisedimpatience, "you can remove the body; but leave the pistol. Give Mr.Challoner's keys to Sir James. And now I think we might lunch," hesaid, turning to Sir James.

Malcolm Sage's attitude towards the official police was generallydetermined by their attitude towards him. In the Department Z days,he had been known at Scotland Yard as "Sage & Onions." What thephrase lacked in wit was compensated for by the feeling with whichit was frequently uttered. The police officers made no effort todissemble the contempt they felt for a department in which they sawa direct rebuke to themselves. Later, however, their attitudechanged, and Malcolm Sage was brought into close personal touch withmany of the best-known officers of the Criminal InvestigationDepartment.

He had never been known to speak disparagingly, or patronisingly, ofScotland Yard. On the other hand, he lost no opportunity ofemphasising the fact that it was the head-quarters of the mostefficient police force in the world. He did not always agree withits methods, which in many ways he regarded as out-of-date.

As Malcolm Sage left the room, the inspector shrugged his shoulders.

The whole thing was so obvious that, but for the presence of Sir

James Walton, he would have refused to delay the removal of the body.

The doctor had pronounced the wound self-inflicted, and even if he had not done so, the circumstantial evidence was conclusive.

Luncheon was eaten in silence, a constrained and uncomfortable meal.Malcolm Sage ate as he always ate when his mind was occupied, withentire indifference as to what was on the plate, from which his eyesnever lifted.

Sir James made several ineffectual efforts to draw Dane intoconversation; but at each remark the young man started violently, asif suddenly recalled to his surroundings. Finally Sir James desisted, and the meal concluded in abysmal silence.

Malcolm Sage then announced that he would examine the variousmembers of the household, and Dane and Peters left the room.

One by one the servants entered, were interrogated, and departed.Even the gardener and his wife, who lived at the lodge by themain-gates, were cross-questioned.

Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, was incoherent in her volubleanxiety to give information. The maids were almost too frightened tospeak, and from none was anything tangible extracted.

No one had any reason for being near the library late at night.

When Peters' turn came, he told his story with a clearness andeconomy of words that caused Malcolm Sage mentally to register himas a good witness. He was a superior kind of man, who had been inhis present position only some six months; but during that time hehad given every satisfaction, so much so that Mr. Challoner hadremarked to Sir James that he believed he had found a treasure.

According to Peters' account, at a quarter-past eleven on theprevious evening he had gone to the library, as was his custom, tosee if there were anything else that Mr. Challoner required beforehe locked up for the night. On being told there was nothing, he hadaccordingly seen to the fastenings of doors and windows and gone tobed.

"What was Mr. Challoner doing when you entered the room?" enquiredMalcolm Sage, intent upon a design he was drawing upon the surfaceof the salt.

"He was sitting at the table where I found him this morning."

"What was he actually doing?"

"I think he was checking his bankbook, sir."

"Did you notice anything strange about his manner?"

"No, sir."

"When you found that his bed had not been slept in were yousurprised?"

"Not greatly, sir," was the response. "Once before a similar thinghappened, and I heard from the other servants that on severaloccasions Mr. Challoner had spent the night in the library, havingfallen asleep there."

"When you told Mr. Dane that his uncle had not slept in his room, and that the library door was locked on the inside, what did hesay?"

"He said, 'Good Lord! Peters, something must have happened.'"

"Mr. Dane knew that on previous occasions his uncle had spent thenight in his study?" enquired Malcolm Sage, smoothing out the designupon which he had been engaged and beginning another.

"I think so, sir," was the response.

"The pistol was the one he used at target-practice?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did he keep it?"

"In the third right-hand drawer of his table, sir."

"He was a good shot, I think you said?" Malcolm Sage turned to Sir

James.

"Magnificent," he said warmly. "I have often shot with him."

"Do you know of any reason why Mr. Challoner should commit suicide?"

Malcolm Sage enquired of Peters.

"None whatever, sir; he always seemed very happy."

"He had no domestic worries?"

Peters hesitated for a moment.

"He never mentioned any to me, sir."

"You have in mind certain events that occurred during the last fewdays, I take it?" said Malcolm Sage.

"That was in my mind, sir," was the response.

"You know of no way by which anyone could have got into the libraryand then out again, other than through the door or the window?"

Malcolm Sage had relinquished the salt-spoon and was nowmeditatively twirling a wineglass by its stem between his thumb andfirst finger.

"There is no other way, sir."

"Who has access to the library in the ordinary way? Tell me thenames of everybody who is likely to go in at any time."

"Outside Mr. Challoner and Mr. Dane, there is myself, Mrs. Trennett, the housekeeper, and Meston, the housemaid."

"No one else?"

"No one, sir, except, of course, the guests who might be staying inthe house."

"I shall want the finger-prints of all those you have named, including yours, Sir James." Malcolm Sage looked across at Sir James

Walton. "I can then identify those of any stranger that I may find."

Sir James nodded.

"It would be quite easy for Mr. Challoner to let anyone in throughthe French-windows?" enquired Malcolm Sage, turning once more toPeters.

"Quite, sir."

"What time did Mr. Dane return last evening?"

"I think about a quarter to eleven, sir. He went straight to hisroom."

"That will be all now. Tell Mr. Dane I should like to see him."

Peters noiselessly withdrew.

A few minutes later Dane entered the room. Malcolm Sage gave him akeen, appraising look, then dropped his eyes. Dane was still acutelynervous. His fingers moved jerkily and the corners of his mouthtwitched.

"Will you tell me what took place yesterday between you and youruncle?" said Malcolm Sage.

Dane looked about him nervously, as an animal might who has beentrapped and seeks some means of escape.

"We had a row," he began, then paused; "a terrible row," he added,as if to emphasise the nature of the quarrel.

"So I understand," said Malcolm Sage. "I know what it was about.Just tell me what actually took place. In as few words as possible, please."

"A week ago I told my uncle of my engagement, and he was very angrywhen he knew that my fiancée was – was —

"A secretary," suggested Malcolm Sage, without looking up.

"Yes. He ordered me to break off the engagement at once, no matterwhat it might cost."

"He referred to his pocket rather than to your feelings, I take it?"said Malcolm Sage.

"Yes." There was a world of bitterness in the tone in which the wordwas uttered. "I refused. Four days ago Sir James came and, I think, talked things over with my uncle, who said he would see Enid, thatis, my fiancée. She came yesterday afternoon. My uncle insisted onseeing her alone. She stayed only a few minutes."

His voice broke. He swallowed rapidly several times in succession, struggling to regain control of himself.

"You walked back to the station with her," remarked Malcolm Sage,"and she told you what had taken place. Your uncle had offered tobuy her off. You were furious. You said many wild and extravagantthings. Then you came back and went immediately into the library.What took place there?"

"I don't remember what I said. I think for the time I was insane. Hehad actually offered her money, notes. He had drawn them out of thebank on purpose." Again he stopped, as if the memory of the insultwere too much for him.

"And you said?" suggested Malcolm Sage, twirling the wineglassslowly between his thumb and finger.

"I probably said what any other man would have said under similarcircumstances." There was a quiet dignity about the way in which heuttered these words, although his fingers still continued to twitch.

"Did he threaten you, or you him?"

"I don't remember what I said; but my uncle told me that, unless Iwrote to Enid to-day giving her up and apologised to him, he wouldtelephone for his lawyer and make a fresh will, cutting me out of itentirely. I was to have until the next morning to decide, that is,to-day."

Malcolm Sage still kept his eyes averted. He contended that to lookfixedly into the eyes of anyone undergoing interrogation wascalculated to confuse him and render the replies less helpful.

"And what would your decision have been?" he asked.

"I told him that if he gave me ten years it would be the same."

"That you would not do as he wished?"

"Certainly not."

"Until this episode you were on good terms with each other?" MalcolmSage had got a dessert spoon and fork to balance on the blade of aknife.

"Yes."

"You know of no reason why your uncle should take his life?"

"None whatever."

"This episode in itself would not be sufficient to cause him tocommit suicide?"

"Certainly not. Sir James will tell you that he was a man of strongcharacter."

"Do you believe he shot himself?" Malcolm Sage seemed absorbed inthe rise and fall of the balancing silver.

"But for the locked door I should have said 'no.'"

"What were you proposing to do in the light of your refusal to breakthe engagement?"

"I had everything packed up ready. I meant to go away this morning."

"By the way, where did your uncle bank?" enquired Malcolm Sagecasually.

"At the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank, Lewes," was the reply.

"Thank you. That will do, I think, for the present. You had betterrun round to your doctor and get him to give you something to steadyyour nerves," said Malcolm Sage, with eyes that had lost theirprofessional glint. "They are all on edge."

Dane glanced at him in surprise; but there was only a cone ofbaldness visible.

"Thank you," he said. "I think I will," and he turned and left theroom. He still seemed dazed and incapable of realising what wastaking place.

Malcolm Sage rose and, walking over to the door, removed the key, examined the wards intently, then replaced it and, opening the door, walked across to the library.

CHAPTER III MALCOLM SAGE'S MYSTERIOUS MOVEMENTS

I

Malcolm Sage found that Dawkins had completed his work, and the bodyof Mr. Challoner had been removed.

Seating himself at the table, he took the automatic pistol in hishand and deliberately removed the cartridges. Then placing themuzzle against his right temple he turned his eyes momentarily onDawkins, who, having anticipated his wishes, had already adjustedthe camera. He removed the cap, replaced it, and then quicklyreversed the plate.

Pulling the trigger, Malcolm Sage allowed his head to fall forward, his right hand, which held the pistol, dropping on the table beforehim. Dawkins took another photograph.

"Now," said Malcolm Sage to Sir James. "You shoot me through theright temple, approaching from behind. Grip my head as if youexpected me to resist."

Sir James did as he was requested, Dawkins making another exposure.

Malcolm Sage motioned Thompson to draw the curtains. Then droppingon to his knees by the library door, he took the small mirror he hadborrowed from Miss Norman and, placing it partly beneath the door, carefully examined the reflection by the aid of an electric torch.

When he rose it was with the air of a man who had satisfied himselfupon some important point. He then turned to Sir James.

"You might get those finger-prints," he said casually. "Get everyonetogether in the dining-room. See that no one leaves it for at leasta quarter of an hour. Thompson will go with you."

"Then you think it was murder?" questioned Sir James.

"I would sooner say nothing just at the moment," was the reply.

Whilst Sir James Walton and Thompson were occupied with a room-fullof domestics, talking in whispers as if in the presence of death,Malcolm Sage was engaged in a careful examination of the bottoms ofall the doors in the house by means of a mirror placed upwardsbeneath each. He also removed the keys and gave a swift look at thewards of each.

He moved quickly; yet without haste, as if his brain had entirecontrol of the situation.

One door in particular appeared to interest him, so much so that heentered the room and proceeded to examine it with great thoroughness, taking the utmost care to replace everything as he found it.

From the middle-drawer of the chest-of-drawers, he extracted fromunder a pile of clothes a thin steel object, some five or six inchesin length, wound round with a fine, strong twine. This he slippedinto his pocket and, going down into the hall, rang up the managerof the Lewes branch of the Southern Counties and Brown's Bank.

Passing into the library, he searched the drawers of the table atwhich Mr. Challoner had been found. In one of them he discovered thepass-book. Seating himself at the table, he proceeded to examine itcarefully. Turning to the pockets at either end, where cancelledcheques are usually placed, he found both were empty.

When a few minutes later Sir James and Thompson entered with thefinger-prints, Malcolm Sage was seated at the table smoking, hisgaze concentrated upon the nail of the fourth finger of his righthand. With him a contemplation of his finger-nails in generalindicated thoughtful attention; when, however, he raised the handand began to subject some particular finger-nail to a thorough andelaborate examination, it generally meant the germination of someconstructive thesis.

Taking the sheets of paper from Thompson, he went through themrapidly, then drawing a sheet of note-paper from the rack before himhe scribbled a hasty note, enclosed it with one of the fingerprintsin an envelope, which he sealed, addressed, and handed to Thompsonwith instructions to see that it was delivered without delay. Healso told him to send Peters and Dane to the library.

Three minutes later Tims swung down the drive, his face beaming. Hewas to drive to Scotland Yard and "never mind the poultry on theroad," as Thompson had phrased it.

"Have you the key of the safe, Mr. Dane?" enquired Malcolm Sage asthe young man entered, followed by Peters. Dane shook his head andlooked at Peters.

"Mr. Challoner always wore it on his key-chain, sir," said thebutler.

"Have you any objection to the safe being opened?" enquired Malcolm

Sage to Dane.

"None whatever."

"Then perhaps you will open it?" said Malcolm Sage, turning to Sir

James.

In the safe were found several bundles of letters andshare-certificates, and an old cash-box containing some loosestamps; but nothing else.

Malcolm Sage dismissed Peters and Dane, saying that he would bereturning to town after dinner. In the meantime he and Sir Jamesstrolled about the grounds, discussing the remarkable rise in thechess-world of Capablanca, whilst Dawkins was busily occupied in adarkened bath-room.

Dinner proved a far less sombre meal than luncheon. Malcolm Sage andSir James between them succeeded in placing young Dane more at hisease. The haunted, shell-shock look left his eyes, and the twitchingdisappeared from the corners of his mouth.

It was nearly nine o'clock when the distant moan of a hooterannounced to Malcolm Sage's alert ears the return of Tims. He rosefrom the table and walked slowly to the door, where for some secondshe stood with his hand upon the knob.

As the car drew up he slipped into the hall, just as Peters openedthe door.

A moment later the butler started back, his right hand seemed to flyto his left breast pocket. At the same moment Malcolm Sage sprangforward. There was a flash, a report, and two bodies fell at thefeet of Inspector Wensdale, of Scotland Yard, and another manstanding beside him.

In a second, however, they had thrown themselves upon the strugglingheap, and when Malcolm Sage rose to his feet it was to look downupon Peters pinned to the floor by the inspector, with the strangeman sitting on his legs.

II

"There is no witness so sure as the camera," remarked Malcolm Sageas he gazed from one to the other of two photographs before him, onerepresenting him holding an automatic pistol to his own head, andthe other in which Sir James was posing as a murderer.

"It is strange that it should be so neglected at Scotland Yard," headded.

Silent and absorbed when engaged upon a problem, Malcolm Sageresented speech as a sick man resents arrowroot. At other times heseemed to find pleasure in lengthy monologues, invariably of aprofessional nature.

"But we use it a lot, Mr. Sage," protested Inspector Wensdale.

"For recording the features of criminals," was the retort. "No,Wensdale, you are obsessed by the finger-print heresy, quiteregardless of the fact that none but an amateur ever leaves such athing behind him, and the amateur is never difficult to trace."

He paused for a moment; but the inspector made no comment.

"The two greatest factors in the suppression of crime," continuedMalcolm Sage, "are photography and finger-prints. Both are in use atScotland Yard; but each in place of the other. Finger-prints areregarded as clues, and photography is a means of identification, whereas finger-prints are of little use except to identify pastoffenders, and photography is the greatest aid to the actual tracingof the criminal."

Malcolm Sage never failed to emphasise the importance of photographyin the detection of crime. He probably used it more than all otherinvestigators put together. He contended that a photographic printestablished for all time what the eye could only dimly register forthe moment, with the consequent danger of forgetfulness.

As the links in a chain multiplied, it was frequently necessary torefer to the scene of a crime, or tragedy, and then probably someimportant point would crop up, which the eye had not considered ofsufficient importance to dwell upon. By then, in the case of amurder, the body would have been removed, and everything about iteither re-ordered or obliterated.

Malcolm Sage proceeded to stuff his pipe with tobacco which he drewfrom the left-hand pocket of his jacket. He had discovered that arubber-lined pocket was the best and safest pouch.

He picked up a third photograph and laid it beside the others. Itwas a print of Mr. Challoner's head, showing, marked in ink, thecourse of the bullet towards the left of the frontal bone.

"A man shooting himself," began Malcolm Sage, "places the pistol ina position so that the muzzle is directed towards the back of thehead. On the other hand, anyone approaching his victim from behindwould have a tendency to direct the muzzle towards the front of thehead. That is why I got Dawkins to take a photograph of me holdingthe pistol to my head and of you holding it from behind. Thesephotographs will constitute the principal evidence at the trial."

Sir James nodded. He was too interested to interrupt.

"On this enlargement of the wound," continued Malcolm Sage, "youwill see an abrasion on the side nearer the ear, as if the head hadsuddenly been jerked backwards between the time of the muzzle beingplaced against the temple and the actual firing of the shot."

Thompson leaned across to examine the photograph.

"If the eyes of someone sitting at a table are suddenly andunexpectedly covered from behind, the natural instinct is to jerkbackwards so that the head may be turned to see who it is. That isexactly what occurred with Challoner. He jerked backwards, and thebarrel of the pistol grazed the skin and was deflected still moretowards the frontal bone."

Sir James and Thompson exchanged glances. Dawkins stood by, a lookof happiness in his eyes. His beloved camera was justifying itselfonce more. Inspector Wensdale breathed heavily.

"Apart from all this, the position of the head on the table, and theway in which the hand was holding the pistol, not to speak of thecurve of the arm, were unnatural. You get some idea of this from thephotograph that Dawkins took of me, although I could only simulatedeath by relaxing the muscles. Again, the head would hardly belikely to twist on to its side."

"The doctor ought to have seen that," said the inspector.

Another thing against the theory of suicide was that the secondjoint of the first finger was pressing against the trigger. Mr.Challoner was an expert shot, and would instinctively have used thepad of the finger, not the second joint.

"The next step," continued Malcolm Sage, "was how could anyone getinto the room and approach Challoner without being heard or'sensed.'"

"He must have been very much absorbed in what he was doing,"suggested Sir James.

Malcolm Sage shook his head, and for a few seconds gazed at thephotographs before him.

"You will remember there was nothing on the table in front of him. Ishall come to that presently. It is very unlikely that a man sittingat a table would not be conscious of someone approaching him frombehind, no matter how quietly he stepped, unless that man'spresence in the room were quite a normal and natural thing. Thatgave me the clue to Peters. He is the only person who could be inthe library without Challoner taking any notice of him. Consequentlyit was easy for him to approach his master and shoot him."

"But the locked door, sir," said Thompson.

"That is a very simple matter. An ordinary lead-pencil, with a pieceof string tied to one end, put through the ring of the key to act asa lever, the cord being passed beneath the door, will lock any doorin existence. The pencil can then be drawn under the door. This willshow how it's done." Malcolm Sage reached across for a sheet ofpaper, and drew a rough sketch.

[Illustration]

"That is why you examined the under-edge of the door?" suggested Sir

James.

Malcolm Sage nodded. "The marks of the cord were clearly defined andreflected in the mirror. Had the key not been touched, it would havehelped."

"How?" asked Inspector Wensdale.

"By means of the string the key is turned only just to the pointwhere the lever falls through the hole to the floor. The fingerswould turn beyond that point, not being so delicate."

"Mr. Sage, you're a wonder," burst out the inspector.

"I then," proceeded Malcolm Sage, "examined all the other doors inthe house, and I found that of one room, which I after discovered tobe Peters', was heavily scored at the bottom. He had evidentlypractised fairly extensively before putting the plan into operation.He had also done the same thing with the library door, as there weremarks of more than one operation. Furthermore, he was wiser than totake the risk of so clumsy a tool as a lead-pencil. He used this."

Malcolm Sage drew from his pocket the roll of twine with the thinsteel instrument down the centre. It was a canvas-needle, to the eyeof which the cord was attached.

"This was absolutely safe," he remarked. "Another thing I discoveredwas that one lock, and only one lock in the house, had recently beenoiled – that of the library-door."

Sir James nodded his head several times. There was something ofself-reproach in the motion.

"Now," continued Malcolm Sage, "we come back to why a man should besitting at a table absorbed in gazing at nothing, and at a time whenmost of the household are either in bed or preparing for bed."

"Peters said that he was checking his pass-book," suggested Sir

James.

"That is undoubtedly what he was doing," continued Malcolm Sage,"and Peters removed the passbook, put it in a drawer, firstdestroying the cancelled cheques. He made a blunder in not replacingthe pass-book with something else. That was the last link in thechain," he added.

"I don't quite see – " began Sir James.

"Perhaps you did not read of a case that was reported from New Yorksome eighteen months ago. It was very similar to that of Mr.Challoner. A man was found shot through the head, the door beinglocked on the inside, and a verdict of suicide was returned; butthere was absolutely no reason why he should have taken his life.

"What actually happened was that Mr. Challoner went to his bank todraw five hundred pounds with which he hoped to bribe his nephew'sfiancée. He trusted to the temptation of the actual money ratherthan a cheque. When he was at the bank the manager once more askedhim to return his pass-book, which had not been balanced for severalmonths. He was very dilatory in such matters."

"That is true," said Dane, speaking for the first time.

"That evening he proceeded to compare it with his cheque-book. Isuspect that Peters had been forging cheques and he saw here whatwould lead to discovery. Furthermore, there was a considerable sumof money in the safe, and the quarrel between uncle and nephewto divert suspicion. This, however, was mere conjecture – thattrouser-pocket photo, Dawkins," said Malcolm Sage, turning to thephotographer, who handed it across to him.

"Now notice the position of those keys. They are put in headforemost, and do not reach the bottom of the pocket. They hadobviously been taken away and replaced in the pocket as Challonersat there. Had he gone to the safe himself and walked back to hischair, the position of the keys would have been quite different."

Instinctively each man felt in his trousers pocket, and found in hisown bunch of keys a verification of the statement.

"The whole scheme was too calculated and deliberate for an amateur,"said Malcolm Sage, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on to a brassashtray. "That is what prompted me to get the fingerprints of Peters,so that I might send them to Scotland Yard to see if anything wasknown of him there. The result you have seen."

"We've been on the look-out for him for more than a year," saidInspector Wensdale. "The New York police are rather interested inhim about a forgery stunt that took place there some time ago."

"I am confident that when Challoner's affairs are gone into therewill be certain cheques which it will be difficult to explain.

"Then, again, there was the electric light," proceeded Malcolm Sage."A man about to blow out his brains would certainly not walk acrossthe room, switch off the light, and then find his way back to thetable."

"That's true enough," said Inspector Wensdale.

"On the other hand, a murderer, who has to stand at a door for atleast some seconds, would not risk leaving on the light, which wouldattract the attention of anyone who might by chance be in the hall,or on the stairs."

Inspector Wensdale caught Thompson's left eye, which deliberatelyclosed and then re-opened. There was a world of meaning in themovement.

"Well, I'm glad I didn't get you down on a fool's errand, Sage,"said Sir James, rising. "I wonder what the local inspector willthink."

"He won't," remarked Malcolm Sage; "that is why he assumed it wassuicide."

"Did you suspect Peters was armed?" enquired Sir James.

"I saw the pistol under his left armpit," said Malcolm Sage. "It'swell known with American gunmen as a most convenient place for quickdrawing."

"If it hadn't been for you, Mr. Sage, he'd have got me," said

Inspector Wensdale.

"There'll be a heavy car-full for Tims," remarked Malcolm Sage, ashe walked towards the door.

CHAPTER IV THE SURREY CATTLE-MAIMING MYSTERY

I

"Disguise," Malcolm Sage had once re-marked, "is the chiefcharacteristic of the detective of fiction. In actual practise itis rarely possible. I am a case in point. No one but a builder,or an engineer, could disguise the shape of a head like mine;" ashe spoke he had stroked the top of his head, which rose above hisstrongly-marked brows like a down-covered cone.

He maintained that a disguise can always be identified, although notnecessarily penetrated. This in itself would be sufficient to defeatthe end of the disguised man by rendering him an object of suspicion.Few men can disguise their walk or bearing, no matter how cleverthey might be with false beards, grease-paint and wigs.

In this Malcolm Sage was a bitter disappointment to William Johnson, the office junior. His conception of the sleuth-hound had beentinctured by the vivid fiction with which he beguiled his spare time.

In the heart of William Johnson there were three great emotions: hishero-worship of Malcolm Sage, his romantic devotion to Gladys Norman, and his wholesome fear of the robustious humour of Tims.

In his more imaginative moments he would create a world in which hewas the recognised colleague of Malcolm Sage, the avowed admirer ofMiss Norman, and the austere employer of Tims – chauffeurs never tookliberties with the hair of their employers, no matter how knut-likeit might be worn.

It was with the object of making sure of the first turret of hiscastle in Spain, that William Johnson devoted himself to the earneststudy of what he conceived to be his future profession.

He read voraciously all the detective stories and police-reports hecame across. Every moment he could snatch from his official dutieshe devoted to some scrap of paper, booklet, or magazine. He stroveto cultivate his reasoning powers. Never did a prospective cliententer the Malcolm Sage Bureau without automatically setting intooperation William Johnson's mental induction-coil. With eyes thatwere covertly keen, he would examine the visitor as he sat waitingfor the two sharp buzzes on the private telephone which indicatedthat Malcolm Sage was at liberty.

It mattered little to William Johnson that error seemed to dog hisfootsteps; that he had "deduced" a famous pussyfoot admiral as acomedian addicted to drink; a lord, with a ten century lineage, as aman selling something or other; a Cabinet Minister as a companypromoter in the worst sense of the term; nothing could damp his zeal.

Malcolm Sage's "cases" he studied as intimately as he could from hisposition as junior; but they disappointed him. They seemed lackingin that element of drama he found so enthralling in the literaturehe read and the films he saw.

Malcolm Sage would enter the office as Malcolm Sage, and leave it as

Malcolm Sage, as obvious and as easily recognisable as St. Paul's

Cathedral. He seemed indifferent to the dramatic possibilities of disguise.

William Johnson longed for some decrepit and dirty old man or womanto enter the Bureau, selling boot-laces or bananas and, on beingperemptorily ordered out, to see the figure suddenly straightenitself, and hear his Chief's well-known voice remark, "So you don'trecognise me, Johnson – good." There was romance.

He yearned for a "property-room," where executive members of thestaff would disguise themselves beyond recognition. In his moreimaginative moments he saw come out from that mysterious room afull-blooded Kaffir, whereas he knew that only Thompson had entered.

He would have liked to see Miss Norman shed her pretty brunettenessand reappear as an old apple-woman, who besought him to buy of herwares. He even saw himself being transformed into a hooligan, or asmart R.A.F. officer, complete with a toothbrush moustache and"swish."

In his own mind he was convinced that, given the opportunity, hecould achieve greatness as a master of disguise, rivalling thehighly-coloured stories of Charles Peace. He had even put histheories to the test.

One evening as Miss Norman, who had been working late, was on herway to Charing Cross Underground Station, she was accosted by ayouth with upturned collar, wearing a shabby cap and a queer CharlieChaplain moustache that was not on straight. In a husky voice heenquired his way to the Strand.

"Good gracious, Johnnie!" she cried involuntarily. "What on earth'sthe matter?"

A moment later, as she regarded the vanishing form of William

Johnson, she wanted to kill herself for her lack of tact.

"Poor little Innocent!" she had murmured as she continued downVilliers Street, and there was in her eyes a reflection of the tearsshe had seen spring to those of William Johnson, whose first attemptat disguise had proved so tragic a failure.

Neither ever referred to the incident subsequently – although fordays William Johnson experienced all the unenviable sensations ofDamocles.

From that moment his devotion to Gladys Norman had become almostworship.

But William Johnson was not deterred, either by his own initialfailure or his chief's opinion. He resolutely stuck to his ownideas, and continued to expend his pocket-money upon tinted glasses, false-moustaches and grease paint; for hidden away in the innerrecesses of his mind was the conviction that it was not quiteplaying the game, as the game should be played, to solve a mysteryor bring a criminal to justice without having recourse to disguise.

It was to him as if Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar in a softhat and a burberry, or Wellington had met Blücher in flannels andsilk socks.

Somewhere in the future he saw himself the head of a "William

Johnson Bureau," and in the illustrated papers a portrait of "Mr.

William Johnson as he is," and beneath it a series of characters that would rival a Dickens novel, with another legend reading, "Mr.

William Johnson as he appears."

With these day-dreams, the junior at the Malcolm Sage Bureau wouldoccupy the time when not actually engaged either in the performanceof his by no means arduous duties, or in reading the highly-coloureddetective stories from which he drew his inspiration.

From behind the glass-panelled door would come the tick-tack of Miss

Norman's typewriter, whilst outside droned the great symphony of

London, growing into a crescendo as the door was opened, dying away again as it fell to once more, guided by an automatic self-closer.

From these reveries William Johnson would be aroused either byperemptory blasts upon the buzzer of the private-telephone, or bythe entry of a client.

One morning, as he was hesitating between assuming the disguise of anaval commander and a street-hawker, a florid little man with purplejowl and a white, bristling moustache hurtled through the swing-door, followed by a tall, spare man, whose clothing indicated his clericalcalling.

"Mr. Sage in?" demanded the little man fiercely.

"Mr. Sage is engaged, sir," said the junior, his eyes upon theclergyman, in whose appearance there was something that causedWilliam Johnson to like him on the spot.

"Take my card in to him," said the little, bristly man. "Tell himthat General Sir John Hackblock wishes to see him immediately." Thetone was suggestive of the parade-ground rather than a London office.

At that moment Gladys Norman appeared through the glass-panelleddoor. The clergyman immediately removed his hat, the general merelyturned as if changing front to receive a new foe.

"Mr. Sage will be engaged for about a quarter of an hour. I am hissecretary," she explained. She, also, looked at the general'scompanion, wondering what sort of teeth were behind that gentle, yetfirm mouth. "Perhaps you will take a seat," she added.

This time the clergyman smiled, and Gladys Norman knew that she tooliked him. Sir John looked about him aggressively, blew out hischeeks several times, then flopped into a chair. His companion alsoseated himself, and appeared to become lost in a fit of abstraction.

William Johnson returned to his table and became engrossed, ostensibly in the exploits of an indestructible trailer of men; butreally in a surreptitious examination of the two callers.

He had just succeeded in deducing from their manner that theywere father and son, and from the boots of the younger that hewas low church and a bad walker, when two sharp blasts on thetelephone-buzzer brought him to his feet and half-way across theoffice in what was practically one movement. With Malcolm Sage therewere two things to be avoided, delay in answering a summons, andunnecessary words.

"This way, sir," he said, and led them through the glass-panelleddoor to Malcolm Sage's private room.

With a short, jerky movement of his head Malcolm Sage motioned hisvisitors to be seated. In that one movement his steel-coloured eyeshad registered a mental photograph of the two men. That glanceembraced all the details; the dark hair of the younger, greying atthe temples, the dreamy grey eyes, the gentle curves of a mouth thatwas, nevertheless, capable of great sternness, and the spare, almostlean frame; then the self-important, overbearing manner of the olderman. "High Anglican, ascetic, out-of-doors," was Malcolm Sage'smental classification of the one, thus unconsciously reversing theWilliam Johnson's verdict. The other he dismissed as a pompous ass.

"You Mr. Sage?" Sir John regarded the bald conical head andgold-rimmed spectacles as if they had been unpolished buttons onparade.

Malcolm Sage inclined his head slightly, and proceeded to gaze downat his fingers spread out on the table before him. After the firstappraising glance he rarely looked at a client.

"I am Sir John Hackblock; this is my friend, the Rev. Geoffrey

Callice."

Again a slight inclination of the head indicated that Malcolm Sagehad heard.

Mr. Llewellyn John would have recognised in Sir John Hackblock thelast man in the world who should have been brought into contact withMalcolm Sage. The Prime Minister's own policy had been to keepMalcolm Sage from contact with other Ministers, and thus reduce thenumber of his embarrassing resignations.

"I want to consult you about a most damnable outrage," exploded thegeneral. "It's inconceivable that in this – "

"Will you kindly be as brief as possible?" said Malcolm Sage, fondling the lobe of his left ear. "I can spare only a few minutes."

Sir John gasped, glared across at him angrily; then, seeming to takehimself in hand, continued:

"You've heard of the Surrey cattle-maiming outrages?" he enquired.

Malcolm Sage nodded.

"Well, this morning a brood-mare of mine was found hacked about inan unspeakable manner. Oh, the damn scoundrels!" he burst out as hejumped from his chair and began pacing up and down the room.

"I think it will be better if Mr. Callice tells me the details,"said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "You seem a little over-wrought."

"Over-wrought!" cried Sir John. "Over-wrought! Dammit, so would yoube if you had lost over a dozen beasts." In the army he was known as"Dammit Hackblock."

Mr. Callice looked across to the general, who, nodding acquiescence, proceeded to blow his nose violently, as if to bid Malcolm Sagedefiance.

"This morning a favourite mare belonging to Sir John was foundmutilated in a terrible manner – " Mr. Callice paused; there wassomething in his voice that caused Malcolm Sage to look up. Thegentle look had gone from his face, his eyes flashed, and his mouthwas set in a stern, severe line.

"Good preacher," Malcolm Sage decided as he dropped his eyes oncemore, and upon his blotting pad proceeded to develop the PonsAsinorum into a church.

In a voice that vibrated with feeling and suggested greatself-restraint, Mr. Callice proceeded to tell the story of thelatest outrage. How when found that morning the mare was still alive,of the terrible nature of her injuries, and that the perpetrator haddisappeared, leaving no trace.

"Her look, sir! Dammit!" the general broke in. "Her eyes havehaunted me ever since. They – " His voice broke, and he proceededonce more to blow his nose violently.

Mr. Callice went on to explain that after having seen the mare putout of her misery, Sir John had motored over to his lodgings andinsisted that they should go together to Scotland Yard and demandthat something be done.

"Callice is Chairman of the Watchers' Committee," broke in Sir John.

"I should explain," proceeded Mr. Callice, "that some time ago weformed ourselves into a committee to patrol the neighbourhood atnight in the hope of tracing the criminal. On the way up Sir Johnremembered hearing of you in connection with Department Z and, as hewas not satisfied with his call at Scotland Yard, he decided to comeon here and place the matter in your hands."

"This is the twenty-ninth maiming?" Malcolm Sage remarked, as heproceeded to add a graveyard to the church.

"Yes, the first occurred some two years ago." Then, as if suddenlyrealising what Malcolm Sage's question implied, he added: "You haveinterested yourself in the affair?"

"Yes," was the reply. "Tell me what has been done."

"The police seem utterly at fault," continued Mr. Callice. "Locallywe have organised watch-parties. My boys and I have been out nightafter night; but without result. I am a scout-master," he explained.

"The poor beasts' sufferings are terrible," he continued after aslight pause. "It is a return to barbarism;" again there was thethrob of indignation in his voice.

"You have discovered nothing?"

"Nothing," was the response, uttered in a tone of deep despondency.

"We have even tried bloodhounds; but without result."

"And now I want you to take up the matter, and don't spare expense,"burst out Sir John, unable to contain himself longer.

"I will consider the proposal and let you know," said Malcolm Sage, evenly. "As it is, my time is fully occupied at present; butlater – " He never lost an opportunity of resenting aggression byemphasising the democratic tendency of the times. Mr. Llewellyn Johnhad called it "incipient Bolshevism."

"Later!" cried Sir John in consternation. "Why, dammit, sir! therewon't be an animal left in the county. This thing has been going onfor two years now, and those damn fools at Scotland Yard – "

"If it were not for Scotland Yard," said Malcolm Sage quietly, as heproceeded to shingle the roof of the church, the graveyard havingproved a failure, "we should probably have to sleep at night withpistols under our pillows."

"Eh!" Sir John looked across at him with a startled expression.

"Scotland Yard is the head-quarters of the most efficient andhighly-organised police force in the world," was the quiet reply.

"But, dammit! if they're so clever why don't they put a stop to thistorturing of poor dumb beasts?" cried the general indignantly. "I'veshown them the man. It's Hinds; I know it. I've just been to seethat fellow Wensdale. Why, dammit! he ought to be cashiered, and Itold him so."

"Who is Hinds?" Malcolm Sage addressed the question to Mr. Callice.

"He used to be Sir John's head gamekeeper – "

"And I discharged him," exploded the general. "I'll shoot a poacheror his dog; but, dammit! I won't set traps for them," and he puffedout his cheeks aggressively.

"Hinds used to set traps to save himself the trouble of patrollingthe preserves," explained Mr. Callice, "and one day Sir Johndiscovered him actually watching the agonies of a dog caught acrossthe hind-quarters in a man-trap." Again there was the wave offeeling in the voice, and a stern set about the mouth.

"It's Hinds right enough," cried the general with conviction. "Theman's a brute. Now will you – ?"

"I will let you know as soon as possible whether or no I can take upthe enquiry," said Malcolm Sage, rising. "I fear that is the best Ican promise."

"But – " began Sir John; then he stopped and stared at Malcolm Sageas he moved towards the door.

"Dammit! I don't care what it costs," he spluttered explosively."It'll be worth five hundred pounds to the man who catches thescoundrel. Poor Betty," he added in a softer tone.

"I will write to you shortly," said Malcolm Sage. There wasdismissal in his tone.

With darkened jowl and bristling moustache Sir John strutted towardsthe door. Mr. Callice paused to shake hands with Malcolm Sage, andthen followed the general, who, with a final glare at WilliamJohnson, as he held open the swing-door, passed out into the street, convinced that now the country was no longer subject to conscriptionit would go rapidly to the devil.

For the next half-hour Malcolm Sage pored over a volume ofpress-cuttings containing accounts of previous cattle-maimings.

Following his usual custom in such matters, he had caused thenewspaper accounts of the various mutilations to be collected andpasted in a press-cutting book. Sooner or later he had determined todevote time to the affair.

Without looking up from the book he pressed three times in rapidsuccession a button of the private-telephone. Instantly GladysNorman appeared, note-book in hand. She had been heard to remarkthat if she were dead "three on the buzzer" would bring her to lifeagain.

"Whitaker and Inspector Wensdale," said Malcolm Sage, his eyes stillon the book before him.

When deep in a problem Malcolm Sage's economy in words made itdifficult for anyone but his own staff to understand hisrequirements.

Without a word the girl vanished and, a moment later, WilliamJohnson placed Whitaker's Almanack on the table, then he in turndisappeared as silently as Gladys Norman.

Malcolm Sage turned to the calendar, and for some time studied thepages devoted to the current month (June) and July. As he closedthe book there were three buzzes from the house-telephone, thesignal that he was through to the number required. Drawing thepedestal-instrument towards him, he put the receiver to his ear.

"That Inspector Wensdale? – Yes! Mr. Sage speaking. It's about thecattle-maiming business. – I've just heard of it. – I've not decidedyet. I want a large-scale map of the district, with the exact spotof each outrage indicated, and the date. – To-morrow will do. – Yes, come round. Give me half an hour with the map first."

Malcolm Sage replaced the receiver as the buzzer sounded, announcing another client.

II

"So there is nothing?" Malcolm Sage looked up enquiringly from themap before him.

"Nothing that even a stage detective could turn into a clue," said

Inspector Wensdale, a big, cleanshaven man with hard, alert eyes.

Malcolm Sage continued his study of the map.

"Confound those magazine detectives!" the inspector burst outexplosively. "They've always got a dust-pan full of clues ready madefor 'em."

"To say nothing of finger-prints," said Malcolm Sage dryly. He nevercould resist a sly dig at Scotland Yard's faith in finger-prints asclues instead of means of identification.

"It's a bit awkward for me, too, Mr. Sage," continued the inspector, confidentially. "Last time The Daily Telegram went for usbecause – "

"You haven't found a dust-pan full of clues?" suggested Malcolm Sage, who was engaged in forming geometrical designs with spent matches.

"They're getting a bit restive, too, at the Yard," he continued. Hewas too disturbed in mind for flippancy. "It was this cattle-maimingbusiness that sent poor old Scott's number up," he added, referringto Detective Inspector Scott's failure to solve the mystery. "Nowthe general's making a terrible row. Threatens me with theCommissioner."

For some seconds Malcolm Sage devoted himself to his designs.

"Any theory?" he enquired at length, without looking up.

"I've given up theorising," was the dour reply.

In response to a further question as to what had been done, theinspector proceeded to detail how the whole neighbourhood had beenscoured after each maiming, and how, night after night, watchers hadbeen posted throughout the district, but without result.

"I have had men out night and day," continued the inspector gloomily."He's a clever devil whoever he is. It's my opinion the man's alunatic," he added.

Malcolm Sage looked up slowly.

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"His cunning, for one thing," was the reply. "Then it's so senseless.

No," he added with conviction, "he's no more an ordinary man than

Jack-the-Ripper was."

He went on to give details of his enquiries among those living inthe district. There was absolutely nothing to attach even theremotest suspicion to any particular person. Rewards had beenoffered for information; but all without producing the slightestevidence or clue.

"This man Hinds?" enquired Malcolm Sage, looking about for morematches.

"Oh! the general's got him on the brain. Absolutely nothing in it.I've turned him inside out. Why, even the Deputy Commissioner had ago at him, and if he can get nothing out of a man, there's nothingto get out."

"Well," said Malcolm Sage rising, "keep the fact to yourself that Iam interested. I suppose, if necessary, you could arrange for twentyor thirty men to run down there?" he queried.

"The whole blessed Yard if you like, Mr. Sage," was the feelingreply.

"We'll leave it at that for the present then. By the way, if youhappen to think you see me in the neighbourhood you needn't rememberthat we are acquainted."

The inspector nodded comprehendingly and, with a heart lightenedsomewhat of its burden, he departed. He had an almost child-likefaith in Malcolm Sage.

For half an hour Malcolm Sage sat engrossed in the map of the sceneof the maimings. On it were a number of red-ink crosses with figuresbeneath. In the left-hand bottom corner was a list of the variousoutrages, with the date and the time, as near as could beapproximated, against each.

The numbers in the bottom corner corresponded with those beneath thecrosses.

From time to time he referred to the two copies of Whitaker'sAlmanack open before him, and made notes upon the writing-pad athis side. Finally he ruled a square upon the map in red ink, andthen drew two lines diagonally from corner to corner. Then withoutlooking up from the map, he pressed one of the buttons of theprivate-telephone. "Tims," he said through the mouthpiece.

Five minutes later Malcolm Sage's chauffeur was standing oppositehis Chief's table, ready to go anywhere and do anything.

"To-morrow will be Sunday, Tims."

"Yessir."

"A day of rest."

"Yessir!"

"We are going out to Hempdon, near Selford," Malcolm Sage continued, pointing to the map. Tims stepped forward and bent over to identifythe spot. "The car will break down. It will take you or any othermechanic two hours to put it right."

"Yessir," said Tims, straightening himself.

"You understand," said Malcolm Sage, looking at him sharply, "youor any other mechanic?"

"Yessir," repeated Tims, his face sphinx-like in its lack ofexpression.

He was a clean-shaven, fleshless little man who, had he not been achauffeur, would probably have spent his life with a straw betweenhis teeth, hissing lullabies to horses.

"I shall be ready at nine," said Malcolm Sage, and with another

"Yessir" Tims turned to go.

"And Tims."

"Yessir." He about-faced smartly on his right heel. "You mightapologise for me to Mrs. Tims for depriving her of you on Sunday.Take her out to dinner on Monday and charge it to me."

"Thank you, sir, very much, sir," said Tims, his face expressionless.

"That is all, Tims, thank you."

Tims turned once more and left the room. As he walked towards theouter door he winked at Gladys Norman and, with a sudden dive, madea frightful riot of William Johnson's knut-like hair. Then, withoutchange of expression, he passed out to tune up the car for its runon the morrow.

Malcolm Sage's staff knew that when "the Chief" was what Tims called"chatty" he was beginning to see light, so Tims whistled loudly athis work: for he, like all his colleagues, was pleased when "theChief" saw reason to be pleased.

The following morning, as they trooped out of church, theinhabitants of Hempdon were greatly interested in the break-down ofa large car, which seemed to defy the best efforts of the chauffeurto coax into movement. The owner drank cider at the SpottedWoodpigeon and talked pleasantly with the villagers, who, onlearning that he had never even heard of the Surrey cattle-maimings, were at great pains to pour information and theories into hisreceptive ear.

The episode quite dwarfed the remarkable sermon preached by Mr.Callice, in which he exhorted his congregation to band themselvestogether to track down him who was maiming and torturing God'screatures, and defying the Master's merciful teaching.

It was Tom Hinds, assisted by a boy scout, who conducted MalcolmSage to the scene of the latest outrage. It was Hinds who describedthe position of the mare when she was discovered, and it was he whopocketed two half-crowns as the car moved off Londonwards.

That evening Malcolm Sage sat long and late at his table, engrossedin the map that Inspector Wensdale had sent him.

Finally he subjected to a thorough and exhaustive examination thethumb-nail of his right hand. It was as if he saw in its polishedsurface the tablets of destiny.

The next morning he wrote a letter that subsequently caused Sir JohnHackblock to explode into a torrent of abuse of detectives ingeneral and one investigator in particular. It stated in a few wordsthat, owing to circumstances over which he had no control, MalcolmSage would not be able to undertake the enquiry with which Sir JohnHackblock had honoured him until the end of the month following. Hehoped, however, to communicate further with his client soon afterthe 23rd of that month.

CHAPTER V INSPECTOR WENSDALE IS SURPRISED

I

Nearly a month had elapsed, and the cattle-maiming mystery seemed asfar off solution as ever. The neighbourhood in which the crimes hadbeen committed had once more settled down to its usual occupations, and Scotland Yard had followed suit.

Sir John Hackblock had written to the Chief Commissioner and aquestion had been asked in the House.

Inspector Wensdale's colleagues had learned that it was dangerous tomention in his presence the words "cattle" or "maiming." Theinspector knew that the affair was referred to as "Wensdale'sWaterloo," and his failure to throw light on the mystery wasbeginning to tell upon his nerves.

For three weeks he had received no word from Malcolm Sage. Onemorning on his arrival at Scotland Yard he was given a telephonemessage asking him to call round at the Bureau during the day.

"Nothing new?" queried Malcolm Sage ten minutes later, as theinspector was shown into his room by Thompson.

The inspector shook a gloomy head and dropped his heavy frame into achair.

Malcolm Sage indicated with a nod that Thompson was to remain.

"Can you borrow a couple of covered government lorries?" queried

Malcolm Sage.

"A couple of hundred if necessary," said the inspector dully.

"Two will be enough," was the dry rejoinder. "Now listen carefully,Wensdale. I want you to have fifty men housed some ten miles awayfrom Hempdon on the afternoon of the 22nd. Select men who have donescouting, ex-boy scouts, for preference. Don't choose any with baldheads or with very light hair. See that they are wearing darkclothes and dark shirts and, above all, no white collars. Take withyou a good supply of burnt cork such as is used by niggerminstrels."

Malcolm Sage paused, and for the fraction of a second there was acurious fluttering at the corners of his mouth.

Inspector Wensdale was sitting bolt upright in his chair, gazing atMalcolm Sage as if he had been requested to supply two lorry-loadsof archangels.

"It will be moonlight, and caps might fall off," explained MalcolmSage. "You cannot very well ask a man to black his head. Above all,"he continued evenly, "be sure you give no indication to anyone whyyou want the men, and tell them not to talk. You follow me?" hequeried.

"Yes," said the inspector, "I – I follow."

"Don't go down Hempdon way again, and tell no one in theneighbourhood; no one, you understand, is to know anything aboutit. Don't tell the general, for instance."

"Him!" There was a world of hatred and contempt in the inspector'svoice. Then he glanced a little oddly at Malcolm Sage.

Malcolm Sage went on to elaborate his instructions. The men were tobe divided into two parties, one to form a line north of the sceneof the last outrage, and the other to be spread over a particularzone some three miles the other side of Hempdon. They were toblacken their faces and hands, and observe great care to show nolight colouring in connection with their clothing. Thus they wouldbe indistinguishable from their surroundings.

"You will go with one lot," said Malcolm Sage to the inspector, "andmy man Finlay with the other. Thompson and I will be somewhere inthe neighbourhood. You will be given a pass-word for purposes ofidentification. You understand?"

"I think so," said the inspector, in a tone which was suggestivethat he was very far from understanding.

"I'll have everything typed out for you, and scale-plans of whereyou are to post your men. Above all, don't take anyone into yourconfidence."

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1

See John Dene of Toronto for the story of how Malcolm Sagefrustrated the enemies of Sir John Dene.

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