Mr. Johnson returned to find a motor car standing outside his door and Major Holmes with a subordinate in colloquy with Morton. He led them himself to the library, showed them the door with its picked lock, the empty coffer and the window on the ground floor through which the marauder had made an easy entrance. The Chief Constable was perplexed.

“You are only a sub-tenant here, I understand, Mr. Johnson?” he asked.

“Only a sub-tenant,” the latter acknowledged.

“And you yourself have never been in this room? I gather that it was locked up by Miss Endacott’s instructions.”

“Quite so.”

“Then you really don’t know what has been taken?”

“The contents of the coffer evidently,” Mr. Johnson replied. “It was always understood that it contained Chinese manuscripts which Mr. Endacott brought home with him from abroad.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then Major Holmes continued.

“I have told Inspector Cloutson here,” he said, “of your visit to me.”

“And of my suspicions?”

“Yes.”

The inspector coughed. He had a heavy but ingenuous countenance. Disbelief was stamped upon it.

“Will you gentlemen follow me?” Mr. Johnson invited.

He led them on to the lawn, well away from the house. At a safe distance he came to a standstill and pointed to the library.

“Endacott,” he said, “was murdered for the possession of that other wooden Image and for the manuscript which indicated the whereabouts of the jewels. The object of the murder was achieved in part. A wooden Image was taken. You will find it now at Ballaston Hall. For some reason or another, the murderer failed to secure the document. He probably heard some movement in the house. The burglary last night was undertaken to secure it. Nothing else was touched, but the manuscripts are missing. The only person to whom the manuscripts are useful is the possessor of the Images.”

Inspector Cloutson stroked his chin thoughtfully. He looked across towards the great front of the Hall. His was not the type of brain to quickly absorb suspicion, and much of this talk concerning wooden Images and Chinese manuscripts he looked upon as fantastic—almost as fantastic as the idea that a member of one of the great county families whom he revered could so far forget their lofty station as to commit a misdemeanour under the shadow of the law. Crime, in Inspector Cloutson’s opinion, was for the criminals. The idea of a Ballaston as a criminal was grotesque.

“You refer to the Ballastons,” Major Holmes observed, after a pause.

Mr. Johnson inclined his head.

“I refer to the Ballastons,” he assented. “Wait, please, a moment.”

Morton came towards them, followed by the young man who was interested in moths. Mr. Johnson welcomed him pleasantly, but with no indication of intimacy.

“Glad to see you, Fielding,” he said. “I sent word down that those trout flies had arrived. I’ll show them to you directly. That will do, Morton.”

The butler departed. Mr. Johnson turned to the Chief Constable.

“This is Mr. Fielding,” he announced. “He is a member of the firm of Watts and Fielding, private enquiry agents. He has been staying in the neighbourhood for the last month, making a few investigations for me.”

The relations between the accredited representatives of the law and a private enquiry agent were scarcely likely to be cordial. Major Holmes, however, nodded slightly.

“To some extent, as I told you, I have been anticipating last night’s visit,” Mr. Johnson continued. “Mr. Fielding, therefore, has spent a considerable portion of his time after midnight watching the egress from the Hall. He will tell you that this morning a man slipped out of one of the side entrances, a door, in fact, which opened from the small library into the garden, at ten minutes past three, and that he followed him to this house.”

“Is that a fact?” the Chief Constable asked gravely.

“That is a fact,” Fielding replied. “I am prepared to swear to it.”

“Did you recognise the man?” Major Holmes enquired.

The other shook his head.

“I was obeying orders in keeping strictly out of sight,” he explained. “I was not near enough to recognise him. Once before, some one left by the same door at about the same time, but he looked behind in the park and saw me, so nothing happened.”

“If you saw this person enter these premises at that hour of the morning,” the Chief Constable enquired, “why did you not follow, in case Mr. Johnson needed assistance?”

“My express orders were that he should do nothing of the sort,” the latter intervened. “I wished, for many reasons, to keep the matter in my own hands. I have been used to scraps,” he went on, “in every part of the world. I understand jiu-jitsu, boxing and how to draw a gun as quickly as any one. I never dreamed that I might be outwitted. The visitor from the Hall who stole the manuscripts last night was too clever for me.

“Now, sir,” Mr. Johnson continued impressively, “I want everything done in an orthodox fashion, and I know very well your prejudice, and a very natural one, against the interference of private detectives. Mr. Fielding will withdraw from the case from now onwards, but I do expect that, on the basis of the information you have already received, you will at once proceed with the necessary enquiries.”

“I have no alternative but to do so,” the Chief Constable admitted reluctantly. “I must warn you, however, that I shall do so in the manner which seems to me the most desirable. I shall approach Sir Bertram himself.”

“You will use your own discretion, of course,” Mr. Johnson said, “but action must be taken at once. There mustn’t be time for any one to slip off abroad, or anything of that sort. And I want you to remember this, Major—when you’ve found last night’s burglar, and that ought not to be a difficult job, you should also be able to solve the mystery of my poor friend Endacott’s murder.”

“That may be so, Mr. Johnson,” the other answered, a little sadly. “I can only say that I sincerely hope not. We shall probably meet later in the day.”

“I shall be here or in the neighbourhood,” the other promised.

The Chief Constable and his subordinate entered the car and drove off. They swung round the corner of the lane and a dozen curious pairs of eyes saw them turn in at the park gates.

“What do you think of this, Cloutson?” the former asked.

“Bunkum!” was the prompt reply. “That’s what I think—bunkum! And between you and me, Major, I don’t think much of that fellow Johnson. A stranger to the neighbourhood. No one knows anything about him. Come here for God knows why, and spinning yarns like this! Bunkum is what I think of it! And as for this burglar, who else except that pettifogging enquiry agent saw any one leave the Great House? Not a soul. We’ve heard of jobs, Major, done from the inside, done by the victim, haven’t we? Those manuscripts, or whatever he calls them, were just as likely to be valuable to Johnson as to any one else. Supposing he wanted them? Well, he’s gone the best way he could to help himself. If you ask me what I think about our present errand, sir, I should call it a mare’s-nest—nothing more nor less. My idea of the job is to get Mr. Johnson’s dossier and search the Great House.”

The Chief Constable smiled. He had not fully confided in his subordinate. Yet, when he came to reflect upon the matter, Mr. Johnson’s bona fides had not yet been established. In the depths of his companion’s bucolic mind might lurk after all the germ of truth.