Mr. Johnson found plenty of time during the journey to Norwich to exchange remarks with and take notice of his companion. The sulkiness of her expression lightened considerably with the pleasure of the rapid motion, the sense of freedom springing from this unexpected holiday. The road wound its way between hedges from which the late honeysuckle still drooped, through a tract of pleasant and varied country; corn fields where harvesting machines with their musical mechanism were at work, rich meadows where the cows stood knee-deep in flower-starred herbage, across a great common where clumps of heather and gorse stretched away to the borders of a thick, encircling wood. The Ballaston pheasants strutted about on every side. From a slight rise in the road a mile or so beyond the village they caught a glimpse of the back of the Hall.

“I lunched there to-day,” Mr. Johnson confided.

The girl looked at him curiously.

“Who was there?” she enquired.

“Only Sir Bertram and his son and Mr. Henry Ballaston. I thought it was rather decent of them to ask me.”

She made no reply.

“Do you know them?” he asked.

“I see Sir Bertram often,” she replied. “He comes down to the Little House two or three times a week when he is here.”

“And Mr. Henry?”

“Mr. Henry does not visit Madame to my knowledge.”

“Do you know Sir Bertram’s son, Gregory?” he continued.

She turned and looked at him. Her eyes were quite wide open now and he was once more astonished to find how beautiful they were. Nevertheless their expression at that moment was not pleasing. She seemed surprised at his question—if such a thing were possible, a little frightened.

“I know him, of course,” she replied. “He too visits Madame occasionally.”

“I am interested in the family,” Mr. Johnson confessed, “and I have faith in your instincts. What do you think of Gregory Ballaston?”

“What should I think of him?” she answered indifferently. “A good-looking young man, run after at times by all the young women in the county, a great sportsman, a great traveller, and, I suppose, a great libertine. How on earth should I, Madame’s companion, know or think anything about him?”

“One forms impressions,” he murmured.

“If I allowed myself to form any,” she rejoined, “they would be favourable. He treats me always just a little more politely, because I am a dependent. If I were a silly girl, I dare say I should be like the rest of them in this horrible neighbourhood.”

“Why do you call it that?” he protested.

“I call it that,” she rejoined, “because I detest nearly all the people I know in it.”

“Well, there don’t seem to be many,” he remarked good-humouredly, “even if you include me.”

“I certainly do not include you,” she assured him. “You may disappoint me like the others, but at the present moment you seem to me a very simple, good-natured person, who actually takes the trouble to go out of his way to do a kindness.”

“Not in the least,” he protested. “You’re not suggesting, I hope, that there is any kindness in driving you to Norwich?”

“Why not?” she retorted. “What else can it be?”

“It is certainly pleasanter for me,” he pointed out, “to have you by my side than to go alone.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Why?” she demanded. “I am not good-looking. I am not agreeable. I am not amusing. If you are fond of gallivanting—well, I am sure that you have sense enough to know that it doesn’t appeal to me. How can I possibly, therefore, be of any interest to you?”

He smiled.

“You’re all there with the words,” he acknowledged. “I rather depend upon feelings. I only know that I feel it pleasanter to have you where you are than to be alone. As a matter of fact, there are several of those glib statements of yours I could quarrel with if I wished.”

“Well?”

“Your manner,” he admitted, “is rather difficult. No one could call you particularly amiable. As to not being attractive, however, I differ from you. I think if you took the slightest trouble about yourself—put your hat on straight, for instance, gathered up those wisps of hair, and indulged in a smile now and then—you would be distinctly good-looking.”

For a moment her frown seemed even a little more sullen than ever. There was a positive scowl upon her face, until to his amazement, she suddenly burst out laughing. He saw then that she had the whitest of teeth and the little flush of colour which had been gradually finding its way into her cheeks completely dispelled the sallowness of her complexion. Her eyes seemed to reflect her unexpectedly kindled sense of humour. She straightened her hat and felt her hair.

“You really are a very nice person,” she said. “You can go on talking nonsense, if you want to. I rather like it. And if it will give you any satisfaction, I will spend that hour during which you are going to leave me alone in Norwich, at the hairdresser’s.”

“I knew I was right,” he declared. “You’re a good sort.”

“So are you,” she rejoined. “Let’s be friends. I am going to start by asking you a question.”

“For God’s sake,” he begged, “don’t ask me why I came to settle at Market Ballaston.”

“Why not?”

“Because every one’s pestering me to death with the same thing,” he complained. “No one can get that murder out of their heads. It seems to have absorbed every effort at individual thought in the whole place. Why, I’ve seen men killed by the dozen. I’ve lived in a place where there was a murder every day. Yet here they seem obsessed by their one little tragedy. I can never get away from it. I go down to the village inn. The tradespeople are just like the tradespeople in any other village. I should like a little local information and gossip. Not a bit of it. The murder, and nothing but the murder! I lunch at the Hall. Before I have been there half an hour I know that I am an object of suspicion. I must have come to the neighbourhood because of the murder. Hang it all, in self-defence I shall have to set to work and find out who did kill this fellow Endacott, and tell you all about it.”

“I hope you won’t try,” she begged earnestly.

“Another mystery!” he exclaimed. “What the mischief can it matter to you?”

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I don’t care much about any of these people, but I don’t like unhappiness. The man’s dead. I think all over the village the same feeling exists. I think they are afraid of what might happen if the truth really came to light.”

She leaned a little forward in the car, her eyes fixed upon the steeple of the Cathedral, slowly emerging to definite form, slender, exquisite, yet dominating, as it rose from amongst an incongruous mass of red-tiled buildings. Mr. Johnson waited for several moments. Then, as he swung into the main road, he broke the brief silence.

“That’s queer,” he confided. “I had formed the same impression myself. Anyway, we will drop it for the present.”

She nodded assent.

“I wonder if you realise,” she said, “what a great holiday this is for me. I have never been in Norwich. I have not been in a car for years. I am enjoying myself thoroughly, and I am not going to think of another disagreeable thing. Please put me down wherever you like and when you have done your business, I will meet you wherever you say.”

“Have you any shopping to do, beyond your visit to the hairdresser?” he asked her.

“Shopping!” she repeated scornfully. “Why should I have any? Living the sort of life I do, one needs no clothes. One thing does as well as another. Still, the hairdresser will take a little time, and I can amuse myself very well looking at the shop windows.”

“I shall put you down in the market place,” he decided. “I shall be gone for about three quarters of an hour. At the end of that time I will meet you at the tea shop you can see on our right hand. After that, if we have any time to spare, we will look round the place together. Is that agreed?”

“Delightful!” she assented.

The Chief Constable was in and happy to see Mr. Johnson. He was an amiable ex-officer, as competent as could be expected, and exceedingly popular in the county, of which he was a native.

“I am Major Holmes,” he announced, glancing at the card which he still held in his hand. “What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?”

“Give me a little of your time, and a great deal of your patience,” was the quiet reply. “I have just come to live in your county at Market Ballaston. I have taken the Great House there.”

“The Great House,” the other repeated reminiscently. “Oh, yes, I remember, of course. So you are living there. The scene of a very unfortunate tragedy which cost us a lot of time and trouble lately.”

“So I hear,” Mr. Johnson murmured.

Major Holmes leaned back in his chair.

“I am afraid,” he confessed, “that Norfolk has added to the somewhat scanty list of undiscovered crimes. We don’t lay it too much to heart, however, as Scotland Yard took the whole business out of our hands in the early stages.”

“A little unwise of them, perhaps,” Mr. Johnson observed. “Local police may not be so intelligent, but they are at least tenacious, and they often have the better grasp of the situation.”

The Chief Constable remained silent. He had his own opinion, but it was not a matter for discussion with an outsider.

“I imagine,” his visitor proceeded, “that it would be rather a score for the county police if they were to achieve a success where Scotland Yard has failed.”

Major Holmes glanced across at his caller keenly.

“Have you brought me any information?” he asked.

“Yes,” was the laconic reply.

The Chief Constable was startled but eager.

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed, sitting up. “You’re a welcome visitor. Look here, let me ring for my Superintendent.”

Mr. Johnson held out his hand.

“Not for the moment, if you please,” he begged. “I would rather say what I have to say to you in confidence. Afterwards, I understand the information must be used in such manner as you think fit.”

The other nodded.

“Very well,” he agreed.

The tenant of the Great House squared himself up to the desk. He was a different-looking man to the kindly person who had driven Miss Besant over to Norwich.

“Major Holmes,” he said, “I shall ask you to consider as private so much of this conversation as does not come under the heading of official information.”

“Certainly.”

“The murdered man, Endacott, and I were associated in a very large business established in China, Alexandria and New York. We were together for over twenty years. For the last ten years he was my partner. We wound up the business a little over twelve months ago and he brought a great fortune to England.”

“You were his partner,” Major Holmes repeated in a tone of considerable surprise.

“No one in this neighbourhood knows of my connection with Endacott,” Mr. Johnson continued. “I have chosen to keep it secret. Now let me come to the more precise information which I have to offer. A month or so before Endacott left the East, a Chinese temple near Pekin was robbed, and two statues, wooden Images they were, with a very peculiar history, were stolen. There were two young men concerned in the robbery—an Englishman and an American. The American got as far as the railway, and, although he was murdered by a band of robbers who boarded the train, one of the Images reached its destination. The Englishman was captured by the priests, and as, by their religion, they are unable to shed blood, he was handed over by them to a notorious river pirate with instructions that he was to be thrown to the alligators. I heard of the affair in a village where I was trading up the Yun-Tse River, rescued him from the pirate and brought him down to the coast. The name of the young man was Gregory Ballaston.”

The Chief Constable stared across the table. It was an odd story to hear told in such a matter-of-fact way in the law-abiding city of Norwich.

“Greg Ballaston!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord!”

“Mr. Gregory Ballaston,” the narrator continued, “found his Image waiting for him on the steamer, although his friend was dead. The second of the Images, with which the robbers had decamped, came, by means of indirect traffic with them, into my possession. I showed it to Mr. Ballaston in my warehouse. He coveted it. If the old superstition were true, his Image without mine was useless.”

“How, useless?” Major Holmes asked, puzzled.

“Because both were supposed to contain, hidden somewhere in their interior, a sacred treasure of jewels accumulated by the priests in the temple. If I attempt to explain the matter more fully, you will think that I am telling fairy stories, so I will content myself by saying that, according to an ancient superstition, credited by many who had knowledge of the affair, and also by these two young men, the possession of one Image without the other was useless. Gregory Ballaston left for England, taking his Image. The other, when we wound up the affairs of the firm, was brought home to England by Ralph Endacott, together with a number of old manuscripts from the temple, which had also come into our possession. Up to, at any rate, a few days before his murder, that Image stood in his study, the room where he was found shot. To-day that Image is in Ballaston Hall.”

Major Holmes sat for a moment or two without speaking. It was scarcely to be wondered at that his prevailing impressions were of blank incredulity.

“You are telling me a most extraordinary story, Mr. Johnson,” he said guardedly.

“The truth is sometimes extraordinary,” the other agreed. “You can easily verify, however, the correctness of the main points of my statements. I can give you references, for instance, to my bankers in London, who will assure you that I was the head of the firm in which Mr. Endacott was partner, that I am a man of wealth and reputation, and in a position to know the truth concerning these matters. Gregory Ballaston half recognised me, but as out there I passed as a Chinaman, he is only suspicious. I adopted the garb and speech of the Chinese very early in life, because no confessed European has a chance of trading successfully in the interior of the country. Gregory Ballaston is a young man against whom I have no ill-feeling—in fact, I rather like him—but Endacott was my associate for twenty years and I was responsible for the Image being in his possession. It was arranged between us that, with the help of a friend of his at the British Museum, he should obtain a translation of the documents we had acquired concerning it, and we should then, on my return to England, discuss the possibility of the existence of the jewels. I am very certain that in his lifetime he would never willingly have parted with the Image to Gregory Ballaston.”

“And you say that that Image is now at Ballaston Hall?” the Major demanded.

“It is there at the present moment,” was the unequivocal reply. “I lunched there to-day and saw it, together with the fellow Image which Gregory Ballaston brought home.”

The Chief Constable moved uneasily in his chair. The story to which he had listened was barely credible, but there was something very convincing about this rather ponderous man of slow speech and steady eyes.

“You are a stranger in these parts, Mr. Johnson,” he said, after a moment’s pause. “You probably don’t know that the Ballastons are one of our oldest and most prominent county families. Sir Bertram is Lord Lieutenant at the present moment. He hunts the hounds and occupies a great position.”

“I am aware of that,” Mr. Johnson replied. “I also know, as probably you do, that the family are in great financial straits.”

“It comes to this then,” the Chief Constable summed up unwillingly. “You are practically accusing young Ballaston not only of theft but of the murder of your late partner, Endacott.”

“I have not gone so far as that,” the other pointed out. “I have supplied you with a motive for the murder. I have given you information that property belonging to the dead man—equally to me, by-the-by—is now in the possession of the Ballastons.”

“But is this Image really of great value?” Major Holmes asked. “Leaving out the other improbabilities, could its possession be considered as a possible incentive for the perpetration of such an atrocious crime?”

“The jewels supposed to be concealed in the two Images,” Mr. Johnson confided, “are estimated, if they exist at all, to be worth anything up to a million pounds. It was Sir Bertram who first heard the story when he was in the Diplomatic Service and persona grata at the late Emperor’s Court in China. He passed it on to his son, and without doubt the two together planned the expedition.”

Major Holmes felt a certain amount of conviction creeping in upon him. It was only his sense of officialdom which enabled him to conceal his growing sense of horror.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Johnson,” he begged, “if I accept your story with some reserves. As a man of common sense, I am sure you will see that it has its incredible side, especially when one considers the great position of the Ballastons and the horrible results which must ensue if your story be proved true. By-the-by, didn’t I hear that Gregory Ballaston was going abroad again for some years?”

“It is that fact,” Mr. Johnson admitted, “which has induced me to pay you this visit instead of pursuing a few investigations myself.”

Major Holmes pushed pen and paper across the table.

“Will you write down the address of your bankers,” he invited, “to whom I may refer? If you also care to give me a reference to your lawyers or some private person, I must confess that I should proceed with more confidence.”

Mr. Johnson acquiesced without hesitation. There was something convincing about the name of the bank and the solicitors, written in his firm handwriting.

“You have no further suggestions to make, I suppose?” the Chief Constable asked.

“None at all,” Mr. Johnson replied, “except that I should much prefer your keeping my intervention in this matter entirely secret for a short time. You will probably place such investigations as you decide to make in the hands of your subordinate who first took charge of the case. If you can arrange to let him pay me a visit at the Great House, I should be glad.”

Major Holmes sat for a moment or two in silence.

“Let me see,” he reflected, “Cloutson was the man who had the matter in hand before we were overrun by the Scotland Yard people. He is travelling inspector now for the northern part of the county. I shall catch him to-night at Lynn and will have him return at once.”

“There is one thing more I should tell you,” Mr. Johnson concluded. “It was my intention, before I heard of Gregory Ballaston’s impending departure, to deal with this matter myself. I have a young man from a private detective agency stationed down at Ballaston. He watches, however, for one purpose only.”

“Unless you have any special reason for not telling me,” the Chief Constable suggested, “I think, especially as we are going to act, I had better know what that one purpose is.”

“I anticipate at some time or another,” Mr. Johnson confided, “a burglarious visit at the Great House from some one at Ballaston. Now that I have discovered that the Image has already been stolen the possibility is not so great, but it is obvious that as yet Gregory Ballaston has not learned the secret of helping himself to the treasure. Now there is one room—an annex to the study—locked and boarded, on the windows of which Miss Endacott has had bars placed. I believed that the Image was in there, but what certainly is there is the coffer of Chinese manuscripts which Endacott brought home with him, and which we believed to contain instructions as to the connection between the Images and the treasure. I have examined that room, and, though of course a professional burglar could manage it easily enough, it wouldn’t be a simple matter for an amateur to tackle. Still, having gone so far, I expect Gregory Ballaston to make the last effort. That is why my young man watches Ballaston Hall at night.”

Major Holmes was a matter-of-fact man of limited vision, and once more he had the sensation of having been plunged into a world of phantasies.

“Chinese manuscripts!” he muttered. “Images! Greg Ballaston! Finest captain Oxford ever had, you know, Mr. Johnson, and captained the Gentlemen two years. It’s awfully hard for me to get a coherent grip of this, especially when you sit there and tell me that you lived in the East disguised as a Chinaman. The whole thing seems fantastic.”

Mr. Johnson tapped with his forefinger the slip of paper upon which he had written the two addresses.

“When you take up my references with the lawyers,” he suggested, “write to Mr. Stockton personally. Ask him his opinion of me as a man of business, a practical man. You can have him down, if you like. My affairs are of some importance to him and he would not hesitate to make the journey. You must have confidence in me, because now that I have moved in the matter at all, I wish to be sure of the end.”

Major Holmes rose to his feet and opened the door for his visitor.

“You can rely upon my taking the necessary steps in the matter,” he promised. “The whole business is more painful to me than I can tell you, but it will proceed from now on automatically. I will send Inspector Cloutson in to see you the first time he is at Market Ballaston.”

Mr. Johnson, as he walked down the hill from the Castle, glanced more than once at the grim jail with its fortress-like walls and bare windows. He was no sentimentalist. Fifteen years’ trading upon the Yun-Tse River had accustomed him to scenes of horror and bloodshed, but, nevertheless, he gave a little shiver as he passed the nail-studded entrance. It was here, only a week ago, that a man had been hanged. He recalled the circumstances, only to dismiss the memory immediately. He was concerned with more immediate events. He himself had started into relentless motion the cumbersome machinery of the law. The memory of the Chief Constable’s room waxed faint. The tolling of the Castle clock startled him. He glanced up. Above was the scaffold.