Two days after his interview with Suzanne, Mr. Larkin came to Berkeley and took a room at the Berkeley Arms. He registered as Henry Childs, and described himself to the clerk as a plumber, who, having had a prosperous year, was looking for a bit of land upon which to build a bungalow.

Berkeley was much too exclusive to permit a hotel within its exclusive limits and the Berkeley Arms was allowed to exist in a small, subdued way as a convenience. It was an unassuming, gray-shingled building, withdrawn behind a lilac hedge, and too near the station to mar the smart and shining elegance of the main street. In it dwelt the shop-keepers who plied a temporary summer trade in the village, and the chauffeurs of the less wealthy cottagers. Here the detective heard much talk of the Janney robbery, and, after he had extended his field of observation to the post-office lobby and Bennett's drug store, Berkeley had no secrets from him.

The public mind was still occupied with all that pertained to Grasslands. He heard of the separation of the Prices, the scene he had made on leaving, and that she hadn't treated him right. Berkeley was on Chapman's side, said she wanted to get rid of him to marry Ferguson. It was hoped that Ferguson—highly esteemed—wasn't going to fall for it; but you couldn't tell, the best men made mistakes. Gossips, who professed an intimacy with the Grasslands kitchens, hinted that Ferguson was "taken with" the secretary. But Berkeley, fattened by prosperity to a gross snobbishness, rejected the idea as vulgar and unfitting.

All this had its value for Mr. Larkin, but it was by accident that he acquired the most illuminating piece of intelligence. Late one afternoon he wandered forth into a road that threaded the woods near Grasslands. The day being warm, the way dusty, he seated himself on a rock to cool off and ponder. While there, concealed by the surrounding trees, he had seen two small boys padding toward him down the road, their heads together in animated debate. Unaware of his presence their voices were loud and his listening ear caught interesting matter. They had been in the forbidden area of Grasslands, had gone to Little Fresh for a bathe, and had almost been caught in the act by a lady and gentleman.

Mr. Larkin made his presence known, and a dime passed into each grubby palm won their confidence.

They were on the wharf slipping off their clothes when they heard footsteps and had only time to rush to cover in the underbrush when Mr. Chapman Price appeared. He waited round a bit and then Miss Maitland came and they sat on the bench and talked. The boys had not been able to hear what they said, but that it was serious they gathered from Mr. Price's manner and the fact that Miss Maitland had cried for a spell. Mr. Price went away first, and as he was going he said loud, standing in the path, "Take the upper trail and if you meet anybody say you've been at the beach bathing." Then he'd gone and Miss Maitland had waited a while, and then she'd gone too, by the upper trail, the way he'd said.

Mr. Larkin had been very sympathetic and friendly, swore he'd keep his mouth shut, and cautioned the boys to do the same, for he'd heard that Mrs. Janney wouldn't stand for any one bathing in Little Fresh and you couldn't tell but what she might have them arrested.

The next day he had a meeting with Suzanne in a summer-house on the Setons' grounds, the Setons being in California for the season. He gave his report of Miss Maitland's career—entirely worthy and respectable—and then asked the question Molly had asked Mrs. Janney: had Mr. Price ever exhibited any special interest in the secretary? Mrs. Price's surprise and denial were as genuine and emphatic as her mother's had been and Mr. Larkin arrived at the same conclusion as Molly—here started the path that led to the heart of the maze.

He did not say this to Mrs. Price. What he did say was that he would leave Berkeley shortly and when he had anything of importance to tell make an appointment with her by letter. It was not necessary to inform her that his next move would be to Cedar Brook where he had heard that Chapman Price spent a good deal of his time.

Cedar Brook, six miles above Berkeley on the main line, had none of the prestige of its aristocratic neighbor. It was in the process of development, new houses rising round its outskirts, fields being turned into lawns. Mr. Larkin took a room in a clapboarded cottage which stared at other clapboarded cottages through the foliage of locust trees. Announcing his intention of buying a piece of land, he was soon an object of general attention and added to his store of knowledge. He heard a good deal of Chapman Price, who was there off and on with the Hartleys, and of his man Willitts. It was understood that Willitts was staying with Price till he got a job, and, as the Hartley house was small, lodged in the village; in fact, Mr. Larkin learned to his satisfaction, was living in one of the clapboarded cottages close to his own.

Professing a desire to study the environs of Cedar Brook he hired a wheel, and the third afternoon of his stay peddled out into the country. It was while passing the private hedge of a large estate, that he came upon a young man engaged over a disabled bicycle.

The day was warm, the salt air of the Sound shut out by forest and hill, the road bathed in a hot glow of sun. The man had taken off his coat, and, as Mr. Larkin drew near, looked up displaying a smooth-shaven, rosy face, beaded with perspiration.

Mr. Larkin, being by nature and profession curious, drew up and made friendly inquiries. The man answered them, explained the nature of the damage, his speech marked by the crisp, clipped enunciation of the Briton. His costume—negligÉe shirt, knickerbockers and golf stockings—did not suggest the country house guest, nor was his accent quite that of the English gentleman. The detective, who had some knowledge of these delicate distinctions, laid his bicycle against the bank and proffered his assistance. Together they repaired the stranger's wheel, and, when it was done, rested from their labors in the shade of the hedge, and engaged in conversation. This at first was of the war—the young man explaining that he was English and had volunteered at once, but been rejected on the ground of his eyes—very near-sighted, couldn't read the chart at all—touching with an indicating finger the glasses that spanned his nose. After that he'd come to America; he could make good money then and had people dependent on him. At this stage Mr. Larkin asked his profession and learned that he was a valet, by name James Willitts, just now looking for a place. He had been in the employ of Mr. Chapman Price and was still staying with him until he got a new "situation." Mr. Larkin in return recited his little lay about the plumbing business and the bungalow, and, the introductions accomplished, they passed to more general topics and soon reached the Janney robbery.

It was a propitious meeting for the detective, for Willitts proved himself a free and expansive talker. He launched forth into the subject with an artless zest, not needing any prompting from his attentive listener. Mr. Larkin was grateful for it all, but especially so for an account of the movements of Mr. Price the day before the robbery. He had sent his valet to Cedar Brook on the morning train, he to follow later in the afternoon. Willitts, after the unpacking and settling was done, had biked over to Grasslands to see "the help," and then made the engagement to meet them that night at the movies. Of course he had to go back, as part of his work was to lay out Mr. Price's dinner clothes and help him dress, and it was most unfortunate, because, when he went up to Mr. Price's room, Mr. Price said he wouldn't change, would keep on the clothes he had and go motoring.

"Motoring," observed Mr. Larkin, mildly interested, "did he motor in the evening?"

"Not usually—but I don't know if you remember that night. After a heavy rain it cleared and the moon came out as bright as day."

Mr. Larkin didn't remember himself but he had a vague recollection of having read it in some of the papers.

"It was a wonderful night, and if it hadn't been I'd never have kept my date. For I got side-tracked—had to fetch the doctor for my landlady's little girl who was taken bad with the croup. And what with that and the long distance I'd have given it up if it hadn't been for the moon."

The detective did not find these details particularly pertinent, and edged nearer to vital matters:

"Pretty unpleasant position for those two men, Dixon and Isaac. I was in Berkeley before I came here and there was a lot of talk."

The valet looked at him with sharp surprise:

"But no suspicion rests on them, I'll be bound. I lived in that house since last October and I'll swear that there's not an honester pair in the whole country."

Mr. Larkin, as a stranger to the parties, had no need to display a corresponding warmth, merely remarking that Berkeley was convinced of their innocence.

The young man appeased, felt in his coat for a pipe and drew a tobacco pouch from his pocket. As he filled the bowl, his profile was presented to the detective's vigilant eye, which dwelt thoughtfully on the neat outline, almost handsome except that the chin receded slightly. A good looking fellow, Mr. Larkin thought, and smart—somehow as the conversation had progressed he was beginning to think him smarter than he had at the start.

"How about that Miss Maitland," he said, "the young lady secretary?"

Willitts had the pipe in his mouth and was pressing the tobacco down with his thumb. He spoke through closed teeth:

"What about her?"

"Well, what sort is she? You needn't tell me she's good looking, for I saw her once in the post office and she's a peach."

The valet leaned forward and felt in his coat pocket for matches. The movement presented his face in full to Mr. Larkin's glance, and the detective noticed that its bright alertness had diminished, that a slight film of stolidity had formed over it like ice over a running stream. The man had removed his pipe and held it in one hand while he scrabbled round in his coat with the other.

"She's a very fine young lady; nothing but good's ever been said of her in my hearing. And very competent in her work—they say—and she would be, or Mrs. Janney wouldn't keep her."

He found the matches and, sitting upright, lit one and applied it to the pipe bowl. The detective, with his eyes ready to swerve to the landscape, hazarded a shot at the bull's-eye.

"They were saying—or more hinting I guess you'd call it—that Mr. Price was—er—getting to look her way too often."

Willitts was very still. The watching eyes noticed that the flame of the match burned steady over the pipe bowl; for a moment the valet's breath was held. Then, without moving, his voice peculiarly quiet, he said:

"Now I'd like to know who told you that?"

The other gave a lazy laugh:

"Oh, I can't tell—every kind of rumor was flying about. They were ready to say anything."

"Yes, that's it. Say anything to get listened to and not care whose character they were taking away."

"Then there's nothing in it?"

"Tommyrot!" he snorted out the word with intense irritation. "The silly fools! Mr. Price is no more in love with her than I am. He's not that kind; he's an honorable gentleman. And, believe me, the wrong's not all on his side. It's not for me to tell tales of the family, but I will say that there's not many men could have put up with what he did."

His face was flushed, he was openly exasperated. Mr. Larkin remembered what he had heard of the man's affection for the master, and his thoughts formed into an unspoken sentence, "He knows something and won't tell."

"Well, well," he said cheerfully, "when a big thing happens there's bound to be all sorts of scandal and surmise. People work off their excitement that way; you can't muzzle 'em—"

Willitts grunted a scornful assent and rose. It was time to go; Mr. Price would be coming up from town that night and he would be on duty. The detective, lifting his bicycle from the grass, casually inquired if Mr. Price motored from the city.

"Oh, dear no. He keeps his car here in Sommers' garage—he needs it, taking people about to see the country. He made a tidy bit of money here last week."

"Talking of money," said the other, "did you know that ten thousand dollars' reward has been offered for those jewels?"

Willitts, astride his wheel, stretched a feeling foot for the pedal:

"Yes, I saw it in the papers."

"Easy money for somebody."

"Yes, but is there somebody beside the thief—or thieves—who knows? That's the question."

They pedaled back side by side talking amicably, mutually pleased to find they were neighbors. On the outskirts of the village they parted with promises for a speedy reunion, Willitts to go to the Hartleys, and Mr. Larkin to Sommers' garage to ask the price of a flivver for an excursion beyond the reach of his bicycle.

When he arrived at the garage a large touring car, packed full of veiled females, was drawn up at the entrance. The driver, with Sommers and his assistant beside him, had opened the hood and the three of them were peering into the inner depths with the anxious concentration of doctors studying the anatomy of a patient. Mr. Larkin walked by them and went into the garage. He cast a rapid look about him, over the lined-up motors in the back, and then through the doorway into the small office. The place was empty. With a stealthy glance at the party round the touring car, he strolled in to where the time card rack hung on the wall. He ran his eye down the list of names until he came to "Price" and drew out the card. The second entry was dated July seventh and showed that that night Price had taken out his car at eight-thirty and not returned it until five minutes to two.