So far as the countenance of so perfect a servant as Rawson could betray any expression at all, there was both welcome and a suggestion of hospitality in his manner as he received the callers. Certainly, Sir Bertram was in, Mr. Gregory was in, and Mr. Henry was in. Sir Bertram appeared almost at that moment, coming out of the gun room with a rook rifle under his arm.

“Hullo, Major!” he exclaimed genially. “Glad to see you. Warned in for lunch, I hope.”

“Very much obliged, Sir Bertram,” was the somewhat hesitating reply. “To tell you the truth——”

“Ah, business, I see,” the other interrupted. “Come along to my den. It is so long since I signed a warrant that upon my word I forgot I was a magistrate. Bring the inspector with you, if you want him.”

He led the way to a small and seldom used room, plainly furnished, where he was accustomed at times to interview a tenant, seated himself on an uncomfortable chair before a formal-looking desk, and pointed to an easy-chair for his visitor.

“Nothing serious, I hope,” he enquired.

Major Holmes waited until the door was closed.

“Sir Bertram,” he began, “you have heard no doubt of the burglary at the Great House.”

“My dear Major!” was the reproachful reply. “This is a country village in Norfolk and the burglary happened as long ago as last night. I have heard seven versions of the affair and been given the names of at least seven suspectedly guilty parties.”

“I have come to call upon you in connection with that affair,” Major Holmes continued. “There is a person willing to declare upon oath that a quarter of an hour before the burglary occurred last night some one was seen to leave your house, cross the park, and enter the grounds of the Great House through a gap in the hedge beyond the stable wall.”

Sir Bertram sat quite still for a moment. Then his lips protruded slightly and he whistled.

“Well, that’s the eighth version,” he observed. “I like the last one, Holmes—spicy, to say the least of it!”

“This is not hearsay,” the Chief Constable went on. “I have seen the witness myself and heard the story from his own lips. I come to you naturally for help, Sir Bertram. I want a list of your male domestics and I wish to know from your staff whether any one was known or heard to leave this house last night.”

“Simple as A.B.C.,” Sir Bertram declared, ringing the bell. “Rawson keeps tabs on them all. We’ve a couple of lads—under footmen, I suppose they’d call themselves—whom I don’t know much about. The others are about as likely to commit a burglary as I should be to rob a hen roost. Send Rawson to me,” he ordered the man who answered the bell.

It was a matter of seconds only before the butler made his appearance. His master leaned back in his chair as he questioned him.

“Rawson,” he asked, “do you know any one—any man—who could have left this house between midnight and three or say four o’clock this morning?”

“Certainly not, sir,” was the confident reply.

“You didn’t hear any unusual sound in the night like a door opening or anything of that sort?”

“Nothing, Sir Bertram.”

“If you were told that some one had left this house at about three o’clock and gone down to the Great House, what should you have to say about it?”

“I should say that it was impossible, sir,” Rawson asserted. “As you are aware, sir, I sleep in my own quarters adjoining the butler’s pantry on the ground floor. My window and door were both wide open last night, and I am a light sleeper. I was not once disturbed.”

Sir Bertram turned to the Chief Constable.

“Did your informant specify the door which was made use of?”

“It was the door opening from the smaller library.”

Sir Bertram glanced towards Rawson.

“See if that door is fastened,” he directed. “Here, you’d better take the inspector with you.”

The two men left the room. Sir Bertram tapped a cigarette upon the table and lit it.

“Where did you get hold of this cock-and-bull story, Holmes?” he asked.

The Chief Constable frowned.

“From a perfectly reliable source,” he replied. “I have no doubt that Rawson is honest, but I shall want the names of all your servants. I shall also require to interview them all.”

Sir Bertram smiled.

“Lord love us, you don’t suppose I want to stand in the way of your duty, Holmes?” he said. “When Rawson comes back, you shall have them all up, one by one, and put them through the mill. By-the-by, there was nothing much stolen, was there? I understand the burglar had only tumbled out a coffer full of manuscripts.”

“The manuscripts themselves are missing,” Major Holmes confided.

“I have seen the lot,” Sir Bertram observed carelessly. “Some of them were curious. There wasn’t one of them worth sixpence, intrinsically. Endacott was supposed to have one telling us all about the treasure in my Buddha heads, but it never materialised.”

Rawson returned in due course, preceded by the inspector.

“The door is properly locked on the inside, sir,” the latter announced. “There are no evidences of any one having used that way out into the grounds lately.”

“So that’s that,” Sir Bertram observed, with a little shrug of the shoulders.

“How many servants are there sleeping in the house?” Major Holmes enquired.

“Eleven, sir,” Rawson answered.

“I shall require to interview each one of them.”

“Get along with it then,” Sir Bertram assented resignedly. “Don’t forget we lunch at one. Rawson had better take you round to the servants’ quarters. When Major Holmes has finished, Rawson, bring him out on to the lawn and serve some sherry.”

He dismissed them all carelessly with a little wave of the hand, waited until the door was closed, waited until some minutes afterwards before his expression changed, or a sound escaped from his lips. Then he rose slowly to his feet, lit another cigarette and looked reproachfully at his shaking fingers.

“What a nerve these great criminals must have,” he murmured to himself, as he strolled out into the hall. “Henry—hullo, Henry!”

A still, motionless figure stood in the shadow of the staircase on the first landing, looking downward; a figure so still that except for his clothes he might have stepped out of one of the frames which lined the wall.

“Are you coming down or going up or rooted?” Sir Bertram enquired.

“I will descend,” Henry Ballaston replied.

He came down the stairs with slow yet even footsteps, one hand always upon the carved balustrade.

“I heard voices,” he said.

“Holmes is here from Norwich,” Sir Bertram confided, “and the immortal Cloutson with him—you know, the travelling inspector for the district. They have an idea that some one crossed the park from the Hall last night.”

“In connection, I presume, with the burglary at the Great House,” Henry observed.

His brother nodded.

“A silly business! Have you seen anything of Gregory?”

“Not since breakfast time. He spoke of going to Norwich. He found he wanted another trunk.”

Sir Bertram sighed. The brothers walked out together through the fine Gothic side entrance which led on to the lawns and gardens.

“You had no communication from Mr. Borroughes this morning, I suppose?” Henry Ballaston asked, a little hesitatingly.

“Nothing,” was the level reply. “There was a letter from Kershaw—the lawyer fellow of whom Emily spoke so highly. He said that he had studied the position from every point of view and regretted to find that he could discover no means remaining by which sufficient money to pay the overdue interest on the first mortgage could be legitimately raised. The timber will be the only thing, and the timber is Ballaston.”

“The timber is sacred,” Henry agreed. “Has Mr. Kershaw examined the position so far as regards the Romneys and the three Gainsboroughs?”

“Heirlooms, just the same as the others. They are not to be touched.”

The brothers stood side by side upon the lawn, their faces turned towards the house. Sir Bertram was his usual cool and gracious self. Henry had somehow or other a suggestion of suspended life in his colourless face, his stiff attitude, his cold eyes.

“Major Holmes is examining the servants?” he enquired.

“That was his idea.”

“Will he wait until Gregory returns?”

“Very likely. As I think I told you, they seem to have come across some one who can swear that they saw a man leaving the Hall last night, just before the burglary took place.”

“But there was no actual burglary,” Henry objected.

“A quantity of documents appear to be missing,” Sir Bertram confided. “Holmes’s attitude seemed to me a little suspicious. I fancy that some one has been getting at him. I am not sure—I must confess to having some doubts about this man Johnson.”

“Doubts? Explain yourself, Bertram.”

“Johnson’s account of himself has never been an entirely credible one. Do you remember the day when he lunched here and he saw the Images?”

“He certainly betrayed surprise,” Henry reflected.

“Gregory has a queer idea about it, although it only made us laugh at the time. He said he reminded him of the Chinaman who saved his life on the Yun-Tse River, and who was an important person in the firm of Johnson and Company.”

“Mr. Johnson is not a Chinaman,” Henry Ballaston replied confidently.

His brother took his arm and moved towards the house. Major Holmes was standing in the entrance.

“No,” Sir Bertram agreed, “but the Chinaman might have been Mr. Johnson.”