Very quietly he sauntered to the front-door, which was ajar, and into the portico. He stood there meditating. In front he could vaguely discern the forms of the trees in the orchard, but beyond these nothing. The night was as dark as a wolfs mouth. Then the sound of a horse’s rapid hoof caught his ear. The wind had fallen, and everything was still. Looking down the hill, he could see the light of a vehicle ascending the slope of Watling Street. The sound of the horse’s trot came nearer and nearer, passed the end of the boreen, and so continued up the hill, getting fainter now, till it died entirely away as the vehicle dipped down the gradient into Hockliffe. The vehicle was one of her late Majesty’s mails, which took that route at that hour on Saturday nights only. It constituted a perfectly simple weekly phenomenon, yet somehow the birth, growth, fading, and death of the sound of the horse’s trot on the great road affected Richard’s imagination to a singular degree.

‘What is my position up here now?’ he asked himself. ‘Am I to depart an unconfessed spy, without another word to Raphael Craig or Teresa, or—what?’

The old man’s recital had touched him, and Teresa’s swoon had decidedly touched him more.

He strolled very leisurely down the drive, staring about him. Then, with senses suddenly alert, he whispered:

‘Come out, there. I see you quite well.’ Micky was hiding in the bushes under the drawing-room window. The little man obeyed complacently enough.

‘Come out into the road with me, Mike; I want to have a chat with you.’

Richard had sufficient tact not to put any sign of reproof or anger into his tone. He accepted Micky’s spying as a thing of course. They walked along the boreen together and up the high-road towards Hockliffe.

‘Now,’ said Richard, ‘we can talk at our ease here; we shan’t be overheard.’

‘What does your honour want to talk about?’ asked Micky, with a great air of innocence.

‘You can drop the “your honour,” and all that rigmarole, my friend, and tell me who you really are. To prevent any unnecessary untruths, I may as well tell you at the start that I found Goron’s Memoirs in the pocket of your coat in the harness-room yesterday morning. From that moment I knew you were playing a part here.’

‘Like you,’ said Micky quickly.

‘Yes—if it pleases you—like me. What I want to know is, are you a detective?’

‘And what I want to know is,’ said Micky, who had abandoned most of his Irish accent, ‘what are you?’

‘Let us not beat about the bush,’ said Richard impatiently. ‘You’re a decent chap, so am I. I will begin by confessing that I am a private inquiry agent employed by the British and Scottish Bank.’

‘Oh,’ said Micky, ‘I knew it was something of that sort Have you ever heard of a detective named Nolan?’

‘What! the Nolan?’ asked Richard.

‘The same,’ said Micky.

‘You are Nolan?’

‘I have the honour—or the dishonour.’

‘I am glad to meet you,’ said Richard. ‘Of course, I know you well by reputation. How thoroughly you go into an affair! Fancy you acting as odd man here for weeks! I tell you you have completely imposed on them.’

‘Have I?’ exclaimed Micky—or Nolan, as he must now be called. ‘I should be glad to be assured of that. Twice to-day I have feared that Raphael Craig had his doubts of me.’

‘I don’t think so for a moment,’ said Richard positively. ‘But what is your object—what is Scotland Yard after? Personally, I came here without any theories, on the chance of something turning up.’

‘Scotland Yard is merely curious about the suicide—if it was a suicide—of a man named Featherstone, and about the plague of silver which has visited this district during the last year or two.’

‘You say “if it was a suicide.” Do you suspect that Featherstone’s death was due to anything else?’

‘I never suspect until I know, Mr. Redgrave. I am here with an open mind.’

‘And what have you discovered so far?’ asked Richard.

‘My very dear sir,’ Nolan expostulated, ‘what do you take me for? I am sure that you are a man of unimpeachable honour—all private agents are—but, nevertheless, I cannot proclaim my discoveries to a stranger. It would be a breach of etiquette to do so, even if such a course were not indiscreet.’

‘I give you my word, Mr. Nolan, that my activity in this case is now entirely at an end. I have found out this evening all that I wished to know, and perhaps more than I wished to know. I shall return to town on Monday morning, and Bedfordshire will know me no more.’ He paused, and added: ‘At least, it will know me no more as a private inquiry agent.’

‘Or motor-car expert,’ said Nolan.

Richard laughed.

‘I was merely asking you,’ Richard resumed, ‘how far you had got, in the hope that possibly I might be able to simplify matters for you.’

‘You are very good,’ said Nolan, with an indescribable accent of irony—a bantering tone which, however, was so good-humoured that Richard could not take exception to it—‘you are very good.’

‘You have found out, I presume, something concerning the chalk-pit?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Nolan, ‘I have found out something concerning the chalk-pit.’

‘And you know what the crash Was early this morning?’

‘I have a notion,’ said Nolan.

‘And, since I saw your inquisitive face at the window of that stable to-night, you know what that stable contains?’

‘Not quite to half-a-crown,’ said Nolan, but approximately.’

‘By the way,’ Richard asked, ‘why on earth didn’t you come and assist in putting out the fire?’

‘What! And give myself away?’

‘It might have been a matter of life and death.’

‘Yes, it might have been. Had it got so far, I dare say I should have sacrificed my standing here, my reputation with these people as a simple Irishman, in order to save them. But I knew that you were there, and that you would do all that was necessary.’

‘I only just got into the place in time,’ said Richard sharply.

‘Yes. It is a pity that you burnt your hands.’

‘How do you know that I burnt my hands?’ Richard asked.

‘I can tell by the way you hold them,’ said Nolan.

‘It was worth it,’ said Richard.

‘Was it?’ observed Nolan quietly. ‘I am glad. Of course, now that you have found out everything——’

He drew up standing in the road. His voice showed that Richard had made some little impression on that great man from Scotland Yard.

‘Admit first,’ said Richard, his eyes twinkling through the gold-rimmed spectacles, ‘that you were guilty of the grossest indiscretion—not to say stupidity—in leaving Goron’s Memoirs, a yellow-covered French book, lying about the harness-room—you, an Irish labourer.’

‘I admit that in that matter I was an inconceivable ass,’ said Nolan cheerfully.

‘Good!’ said Richard; ‘you shall have your reward.’

Then Richard told him all that he had learnt from the lips of Raphael Craig. There was a silence when he had finished.

‘Yes,’ said Nolan, ‘it’s rather an impressive story; it impresses even me. But do you believe it?’

‘I believe what Craig told me. If he lied, he is the finest actor I ever saw.’

‘Listen,’ said Nolan. ‘Does this tale of Craig’s explain his daughter’s visit to Bosco’s circus and her chat with Juana, and her unblushing fibs to you afterwards?’

‘How did you hear about that?’ questioned Richard savagely.

He scarcely liked Nolan’s curt language in regard to Teresa.

‘I did hear about it,’ said Nolan; ‘let that suffice. And listen further. I will make you a present of a fact—an absolutely indisputable fact—which I have discovered: Raphael Craig never had an uncle. His father was an only son. Moreover, no person has died within the last few years who could by any means be related to Craig. The records at Somerset House have been thoroughly searched.’

‘No uncle!’ was all Richard, the nonplussed, could murmur.

‘And,’ Nolan continued, ‘while I am about it, I will make you a present of another little fact. You say that Craig told you that he had brought all his silver here, the last load having arrived to-night. On the contrary, he has gradually been taking silver away from here, I admit that he has brought some, but he has carted far more away. For what else should he need all this generous supply of motorcars?’

Richard began to suspect that he had mistaken his vocation.