The bodies of Sir Anthony Markenmore and his elder son were duly laid to rest in the family burial ground in Markenmore churchyard next day at noon, in the presence of a crowd whose members had flocked into the old village from all parts of the surrounding country. Folk of all sorts and conditions assembled in the church itself and under the ancient elms and yews that fenced in its grey walls; the last ceremonies over they split up into groups, discussing the latest news appertaining to the fortunes of the Markenmore family. By that time everybody in the place knew that Guy Markenmore had left a son, and that he had come into the title and estates: many of the onlookers had hurried to the churchyard in hopes of seeing the new baronet. But all they saw was Harry Markenmore and two or three kinsmen; no women of the family were present, and there was nothing remarkable nor spectacular: the curtain went down on this act of the drama quietly and uneventfully, and when those present had seen the last of Guy Markenmore, laid side by side with his father, and in close proximity to his many dead and gone ancestors, they fell back on the oft-repeated question—who was responsible for his tragic end?

Blick saw nothing of these obsequies. He was not concerned with the dead. His one object was to lay hands on a living person—the murderer of Guy Markenmore. That person was somewhere; possibly far off by that time; possibly closer at hand than he knew. It was a difficult chase, and the quarry was clear out of sight and the scent poor, but Blick was casting round, and by perseverance, aided by luck, he hoped to get on the trail. And certainly he had got something to go on in the strange revelation of yesterday, and in the fortunate discovery of the automatic pistol. Full of thoughts and speculations about one, and with the other in his pocket, he set out for Selcaster as soon as his early breakfast was over, and by ten o’clock was closeted with the Chief Constable. To him he detailed all the news gained since the previous morning.

The Chief Constable listened and wondered. Like Blick, his thoughts turned to the question: Had these revelations about Guy Markenmore’s secret marriage of seven years ago anything to do with his murder? He discussed the likelihood and probabilities of this for some time, but suddenly turned off to a more pertinent subject.

“That, however, is all mere speculation; though, as you say, Blick, there may be a good deal in it,” he remarked. “But the finding of that automatic pistol, so near the scene of the murder, is quite a different matter. Now, how on earth did it come to be in that burrow, or hole, or whatever it is?”

“You mean—how did it come to be there unless it was put there!” said Blick. “Of course, it was dropped in there by somebody who wanted to get rid of it!—how else could it have come there? Let’s suppose that that somebody was the actual murderer. He came away from the scene of his crime, crossed the hill-side in front of Woodland Cottage——”

“More likely, followed the line of the coppice behind it,” suggested the Chief Constable, with a glance at a big map hung on the wall by his desk. “He’d be hidden from view, that way.”

“Well, that way, then,” agreed Blick. “Anyhow, he comes to Deep Lane. Going down there, he resolves to get rid of his weapon. There are any amount of holes in the banks there, behind the banks and the undergrowth at the foot of the high hedgerows. He pushes aside the bushes and drops his weapon into one of the deepest holes. And there it might have lain for ages—if it hadn’t been for Fransemmery’s dog.”

“Well, you’ve found it, anyway, and the next thing to do is to find out to whom it belongs,” said the Chief Constable. “Stiff business, but it can be done.” He picked up the automatic pistol, which Blick had laid before him, and looked at it with speculative eyes. “Seems to be brand-new,” he remarked. “I wonder if it was bought from anybody about here?”

“I’m going to enquire into that at once,” answered Blick. “Such things can be bought in Selcaster, I suppose?”

“You can buy sporting guns and revolvers in plenty,” replied the Chief Constable. “And no doubt things of this sort. There are two or three gunsmiths in the city, and of course there are ironmongers and hardware dealers who sell fire-arms.” He picked up a small volume from amongst a row of reference books on his desk. “Local directory,” he explained. “You’ll find names and addresses there.”

Blick made a list of names, and went out on a voyage of discovery. He called on half a dozen tradesmen, who, once they were aware of his identity and business, and had been pledged to secrecy, were only too ready to chat confidentially with a famous London detective. But they could give him no information—not one had seen the automatic pistol before. It was not until he made his last call that he got any help or signs of it. Then, however, the shopkeeper was somewhat doubtful as to whether he hadn’t seen that particular article before, some time or other.

“I’ve an idea that we may have supplied that,” he remarked. “But I’ll tell you what—you look in here about six o’clock this evening, or any time between that and seven. For this reason: I have a branch shop at Chilhampton, and my manager is there today, and won’t be back till late this afternoon. Now, if we ever sold that pistol—as I fancy we did—he’ll know all about it, and who the purchaser was; he’s more up in that department than I am. Come again at six or thereabouts; if I’m not in, ask for Mr. Waters, and tell him what you’ve told me. You can trust him.”

Blick thanked him and went out. A policeman who stood staring around him on the opposite side of the street, caught sight of and came across to him.

“The Chief sent me out to look for you, Mr. Blick,” he announced as he came up. “He says will you go back to his office?—there’s a young man called that he wants you to see. This Markenmore affair, he said.”

Blick hurried back to the police-station, and to the Chief Constable’s room. In a chair by the fireside sat the young man to whom the policeman had referred, watching the Chief Constable, who was reading and signing documents. He was a very meek and mild young man, thought Blick, as far as appearance went; an intellectual of some sort, evidently. He had a very high, broad forehead; a mass of long and untidy hair brushed back from it; a pair of large, somewhat brilliant eyes; a wide, sensitive mouth, and a generally high-strung aspect. Blick’s sharp eyes took all this in at a glance; he also observed that the young man’s black coat was very much stained in front, as though he was in the bad habit of spilling things on it, and that his long, delicately-fashioned fingers were also stained—his hands, in fact, from wrists to finger-tips were disfigured with odd patches of green, purples, and scarlets. A queer-looking chap, thought the detective, and yet, no ordinary one.

The Chief Constable signed a big blue paper, pushed it away from him, laid down his pen, and swung round in his chair. He waved a hand towards the figure on the hearth.

“This young gentleman has looked in to say that he’s been reading about the Markenmore problem in the papers, and that he thinks he can throw some light on it,” he announced, glancing at Blick. “I waited till you came before hearing what he’s got to say. Now,” he continued, nodding at the visitor, “you can go ahead! This is Detective-Sergeant Blick, of the Criminal Investigation Department, who has this case in hand. You can tell him and me anything you like—in privacy and confidence. And first of all—to whom are we talking?”

The visitor looked from one man to the other and spoke in quiet, even tones.

“My name is Spindler,” he answered, “Eustace Spindler—I’m an assistant in Moore and Smith’s chemist and druggists, Farsham.”

“I know it—very good, high-class business,” said the Chief Constable. “Old established.” He turned and threw an aside to Blick, who had sat down near him. “This is the chap Lansbury told us of,” he whispered. “The chap who had the secret to sell.” He looked round again at the caller. “Well, Mr. Spindler,” he continued, “glad to hear anything you can tell.”

“It is in strict confidence, of course?” enquired Spindler. “Strictly between ourselves—at present, at any rate?”

“You put it in the precise fashion,” assented the Chief Constable. “At present—at any rate.”

“Well,” continued Spindler, with a nod of agreement, “what I wanted to tell you was, and is, this—and I may say that I came here as much for my own satisfaction as to give information. I am, as I said, an assistant chemist—a qualified assistant, that is to say, I’ve passed all my exams. Now, for the last year or two, I’ve spent my spare time in experimenting in the preparation of synthetic dyes. I daresay you gentlemen are aware that up to now our dyers in this country have been almost entirely dependent on Germany for their aniline dyes——”

“We are!” said the Chief Constable solemnly. “Pretty well known, I believe, Mr. Spindler, that we’ve been shamefully behind-hand in that matter!”

“Just so—we have,” assented Spindler. “Well, to put the matter briefly, I have discovered a certain secret as regards the preparation of a valuable synthetic dye: a most important secret. And when I’d got it fully perfected, I naturally wanted to make some money out of it. So I advertised in The Times, indicating what I’d got to sell. My advertisement was answered by Mr. Guy Markenmore. In consequence of his letter, I went to see him at his office in Folgrave Court, in London—near Cornhill. I told him all about my discovery, and he asked me how much I would take for my secret. Now, I am a poor man, but I have good ideas, and I want to do certain things, and one is to buy the business—a small, undeveloped business, yet, but capable in my hands of great development—of a manufacturing chemist, which I can get for a very reasonable price. I thought things over and told Mr. Markenmore I would take three thousand pounds cash. He then asked me if I would entrust him with my papers—the formula, you understand, of my secret—so that he might submit them to an expert. I consented, on condition that the expert was somebody I could trust. We fixed on Professor Sir Thomas Hodges-Wilkins, of Cambridge—the famous chemist. I then gave Mr. Markenmore the papers. A week later he wrote to me, saying he would buy at my price if he could get a couple of other financiers to join him in the venture. I wrote back to him and asked him, if he bought, to let me have the money in cash. I made this request, because I intended to pay cash for the business I’ve referred to, and didn’t want anybody to know how much money I had—no bankers, no nobody, you understand. He replied that that was all right, and that he’d probably call on me, at Farshams, in a few days, and hand me the money. And after that,” concluded Spindler, spreading out his thin hands, “I never heard anything till I read of this murder!—and what I want to know is—where are my papers, my valuable secret?”

“And your three thousand pounds!” muttered the Chief Constable, aside to Blick. “Well, Mr. Spindler,” he said aloud, “I can assure you that no scientific papers of the sort you refer to were found on Mr. Guy Markenmore’s dead body—we have everything that was found. But just tell me—that formula of yours? Supposing it fell into the hands of anybody who knew what it was—what it was all about, I mean—would it be of use?”

“Of use?” vociferated Spindler. “I should just think it would! Why, of course, it tells exactly how to manufacture this particular dye!”

“Then—it would be worth anybody’s while to steal it?” asked the Chief Constable.

“Worth anybody’s while?” exclaimed Spindler. “Goodness gracious me!—don’t I tell you Markenmore was giving three thousand pounds for it?”

“Just for the papers?”

“The secret is on the paper—a paper—an ordinary sheet of note-paper! There were, of course, some other papers—memoranda. But if the paper falls into the hands of—of anybody—why, of course, my secret’s lost! Are you sure it wasn’t on Markenmore’s body?—just a sheet?—it would look like a prescription.”

They saw by that time why Mr. Eustace Spindler had called. It was not to give information, but to get news. And they had none to give him.

“There were no papers of that sort on Markenmore,” said Blick. “But—they may be at his office in London, or at his private residence. We’ll do what we can for you, Mr. Spindler, and as soon as possible.”

But when Spindler had gone, highly concerned, and dissatisfied, Blick turned to the Chief Constable and shook his head.

“We know from what Lansbury told us that Guy Markenmore had the papers this chap speaks of on him that night at the Sceptre!” he observed. “He must have had, because it was about them and the secret and the price that the discussion was. Probably he had the formula and Professor What’s-his-name’s opinion on it. In that case he’d have them when he left the Sceptre—put them all together with the three thousand pounds’ worth of bank-notes. And whoever murdered him got ’em—with the notes!”

“There’s another alternative,” remarked the Chief Constable. “He no doubt had the notes on him. But he may have handed over the formula and opinion to one of his fellow-purchasers.”

“Not to Lansbury,” declared Blick. “He’d have told us.”

“There was a third man,” said the Chief Constable, meaningly. “Von Eckhardstein.”

Blick took two or three paces about the room, thinking.

“I wish we could follow that up!” he exclaimed suddenly. “That fellow’s disappeared, and we’ve done nothing whatever to trace him. How do we know, after all, in spite of his being the wealthy man he’s reputed to be, that for purposes of his own he didn’t shoot Guy Markenmore and appropriate the money and the formula?”

“Possible!” agreed the Chief Constable. “But as to tracing him, we’ve done all we can here, and we’ve ascertained that he hasn’t turned up at any of his usual haunts in London, or in the City. Yet—he’s vanished! Suddenly, too! Now—why?”

Blick paced the room again, thinking still more intently.

“I wonder if Mrs. Tretheroe knows more than she’s told!” he said suddenly. “I’ve a conviction—a sort of intuition—that she does.”

“I’ve had a suspicion of that sort all along,” answered the Chief Constable. “My own personal belief is that I don’t believe her a bit!”

“Well,” said Blick, after more thought, “there’s one thing we can do.”

“What?”

“Go out there, both of us, this afternoon,” replied Blick. “Put pressure on her! Bluff her! Make her think we know something. Come with me, and leave the talking to me. I’ll force something out of her.”

“Very good—after lunch,” agreed the Chief Constable. “It’s a chance!”

Mrs. Tretheroe, alone in her boudoir late that afternoon, was neither surprised nor displeased when Daffy Halliwell announced the Chief Constable and Mr. Blick. The Chief Constable, as an ex-Army officer of rank, was likely to be quite agreeable as a visitor, and Blick was a young man of good looks and interesting personality. She welcomed both with some show of pleasure.

“I hope you’ve brought me some news of Baron von Eckhardstein,” she said as she pointed them to chairs near her own. “It’s really most distressing that I’ve heard nothing yet, though I’m sure I’ve done everything that I could to find him in this neighbourhood—organized search parties and I don’t know what. Have you heard anything through your police people?”

“A great deal, Mrs. Tretheroe!” replied Blick.

Mrs. Tretheroe started and glanced sharply at the detective. These were not the tones in which he had addressed her on his previous visit—his voice now was official, firm, almost menacing; he spoke like a man who has got the whip-hand of the person he is addressing. And after her sharp glance at him Mrs. Tretheroe paled a little; she was conscious that two pairs of masculine eyes were fixed on her, not in admiration, but in something very like stern scrutiny.

“What—what do you mean?” she faltered. “What is it—what’s happened?”

“What has happened is this, Mrs. Tretheroe,” replied Blick. “We know a great deal more, now, than you seemed to think we know, about the recent doings of von Eckhardstein. Von Eckhardstein was the third man of the three who met at the Sceptre last Monday night—oh, it’s no use your protesting, Mrs. Tretheroe!—he was! It was he who went there at two o’clock in the morning, and—mind this!—he was the last man in whose company Guy Markenmore was seen alive!”

Mrs. Tretheroe uttered a faint cry—evidently one of genuine astonishment.

“No—no!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe——”

“Quite immaterial what you believe,” said Blick, with well-assumed indifference. “We know it! Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, all this pretended concern of yours about von Eckhardstein’s being lost through some accident is all pretence! I tell you we know things. Now, you haven’t been candid with us up to now, and you’re running into serious danger. Out with it, Mrs. Tretheroe! You know very well that von Eckhardstein left your house at a late hour the other night—intentionally? Where is he now?”

He waited with secret impatience, doubting even then if his fish would rise. But Mrs. Tretheroe, after an almost terrified glance at the Chief Constable’s stern face, spoke, faintly.

“I believe—in Paris!”

“How did he get away from here?” demanded Blick.

“He waited till all was quiet, then walked across to Carfant, and got a motor-car to run him along the coast-road to Newhaven, to catch the early morning boat for Dieppe.”

“Why did he go away like that?”

“He said,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe, in a very low voice, “because he didn’t want to be mixed up in the sordid details of a vulgar murder, and he’d go across to the Continent until you’d got the real man and the thing was settled.”

Blick got up, and silently motioned his companion to follow. Mrs. Tretheroe rose, too, white and trembling.

“You—you don’t think he killed Guy?” she whispered. “You surely don’t say he did?”

“At present—we say nothing,” answered Blick, and went away. But once outside the Dower House he turned to the Chief Constable.

“Worked like a charm!” he muttered. “Well—what next?”

Then he remembered the gunsmith at Selcaster and hurried back there in the Chief Constable’s dogcart.

The gunsmith met him as he turned in at his shop-door, and drew him aside.

“I’ve found out about that automatic pistol for you,” he whispered. “We did sell it! About three months ago. We sold it to Mr. Harry Markenmore, of Markenmore Court. Like to see the entry?”

CHAPTER XX