The Chief Constable had little to report, but his air of uneasy disquietude remained.

“I think,” he announced, “that, so far as I can make out, the servants are all right. Curiously enough, however, it seems that Gregory has a key to the door in question, which he uses sometimes.”

“Very probable,” Sir Bertram assented. “He likes to come and go out of the house at all times.”

“I wonder when he’ll be back?” Major Holmes enquired.

“He had very little to do,” his father observed. “Found himself a trunk short, or something of that sort. I thought he had bought all his outfit in London, but I suppose he miscalculated.”

“When does he go abroad?”

“Saturday week. Sails from Liverpool to Montreal, I think, by an Allan liner.”

“The county will miss him,” the Chief Constable remarked, as he accepted a glass of sherry from the tray which Rawson had just brought out.

“So, I am afraid, shall I,” Sir Bertram admitted. “It is one of the signs of approaching age when one begins to rely upon other people. I remember the time when I used to find it devilish uncomfortable to have a grown-up son. To-day—well, I would rather there were something he could do in England. Shall we go in, Major? No use waiting for Gregory. He’s just as likely as not to lunch in Norwich.”

Luncheon was at times a difficult function. Holmes was in a sense an unwilling guest, and Sir Bertram was unusually silent. It was Henry, with his stilted phrases and old-fashioned sense of the obligations of a host, who kept conversation going. Towards the end of the meal, Gregory put in an unexpected appearance. He shook hands with Holmes, of whose presence he had obviously been informed, and apologised to his father.

“So sorry, Dad,” he explained. “It took me some time to find just the trunk I wanted, and then I remembered that I had ordered some riding kit at Houghton’s and I thought I might as well be tried on. Any news about the burglary, Major?”

“Nothing of any moment at present,” the latter replied.

Gregory busied himself for some time with his lunch, whilst the others loitered. Afterwards they strolled out on to the lawn together for coffee. As soon as it was served, Holmes set down his cup and faced the situation.

“Gregory,” he said, “I know you will remember that, as well as being your friend, and I hope the friend of every one here, I am a government official.”

Gregory paused in the act of lighting a cigarette and stared at him.

“Why, that’s all right,” he assented. “What about it?”

“The police have evidence,” Major Holmes continued, “that at about three o’clock this morning—that is to say twenty minutes or so before the burglary at the Great House was committed—some one was seen to leave the Hall, cross the park and enter the Great House, or, at any rate, to disappear in that neighbourhood.”

Gregory finished lighting his cigarette.

“Where on earth did the police get hold of their information?” he enquired. “From a poacher?”

“From a person whose word it would be a little difficult to upset,” the Chief Constable replied. “Acting on his information, I have come up here to pay an official visit. I have interviewed all the servants without result. I understand that you possess a key to the smaller library door which you sometimes use.”

“I often use it,” Gregory admitted. “If I dine out or anything of that sort, or come home by the mail from London, I use it to avoid undoing all the bolts of the front door.”

“Where was the key last night? Anywhere where any one could have got hold of it?”

“I shouldn’t have thought so. It’s in my dressing room somewhere.”

“You didn’t lend it to any one?”

“Certainly not. No one has ever asked me for it.”

“You didn’t use it yourself?”

“Last night? No. I haven’t used it for weeks.”

Major Holmes nodded.

“Well,” he said, “that’s that! I now appeal to you all. Can you help me? A reliable witness states that some one left the Hall through that library door last night, was seen to walk across the park and, to all reasonable supposition, was the person who assaulted and chloroformed Mr. Johnson, and committed the burglary. You will realise that this is a serious statement. Can any of you suggest anything which might throw light upon the affair?”

“All that I can suggest,” Gregory remarked, “is that your informant must have been seeing spooks. Who is he? One of the villagers?”

“There need no longer be any secret about his identity,” Major Holmes decided. “Our informant is a private detective employed by Mr. Johnson.”

There was an intense and ominous silence. Henry Ballaston drew his chair a little farther back into the shade, as though he suddenly felt the sun too strong. Sir Bertram whistled softly, but for once in his life seemed guilty of an almost unnatural action. Gregory stood as though turned to stone. Across his face for a moment there flitted an expression of dismay. The Chief Constable saw it and his heart sank. It was Sir Bertram’s brain which moved the quickest.

“How the mischief did this Mr. Johnson get hold of a private detective at a moment’s notice?” he enquired.

“He has had him in the neighbourhood for some time,” Major Holmes replied. “His presence in the park last night was not accidental. He was employed by Mr. Johnson in connection with certain theories which he—Johnson—held as to the murder of Mr. Endacott.”

“This is all most amazing,” Sir Bertram observed.

“A very curious action on the part of a man who is a total stranger to the neighbourhood,” Henry put in.

The Chief Constable brooded for several moments. His official duty was hard to follow. The whole circumstances were unusual. He faced the situation from the common-sense point of view.

“Johnson may be a stranger to the neighbourhood,” he admitted, “but I do not think that his appearance here is so entirely casual as he tried to make out. It transpires that he was a partner of Endacott’s in the great firm of Johnson and Company. I believe that the real object of his coming here was to solve the mystery of Endacott’s murder.”

“Wu Ling, my God!” Gregory exclaimed, in genuine excitement. “The moment I saw him I thought I recognised him. Then it seemed incredible. Why, of course I was a fool ever to doubt it,” he went on. “He played the Chinaman out there to do his trading up in the villages. He had lived there most of his life. It was easy enough. Then, when he finished with the business and came back here, he Europeanised himself. My God, what a fool I have been!”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Major Holmes observed. “He came to me in Norwich a short time ago and he placed before me some very serious information. I am using my own discretion in what I am about to say. By now you must know just what I am up against. Again I appeal to you for your help.”

In the background Henry shook his head gravely. Sir Bertram, with the slightest possible shrug of the shoulders, turned away and lit a cigarette. Gregory, completely at his ease again, lolled a little deeper in his wicker chair.

“My dear fellow,” he expostulated, “how the deuce can any of us help you? I tell you frankly, if any one left the house last night—and I don’t believe they did—I for one don’t know anything about it. As to the murder—well, if Mr. Johnson’s private agent can find out anything about that, the whole neighbourhood will be indebted to him. How on earth is he likely to succeed, however, when you and Scotland Yard have failed?”

“The murder, so far as our investigations took us,” Major Holmes said patiently, “was entirely lacking in direct motive. The burglary, on the contrary, does seem to have had an extraordinary but clear object. The burglar got away with a number of Chinese manuscripts. Amongst these manuscripts——”

“I know what you are going to say,” Gregory interrupted, smiling as though in amusement, “but you’re wrong, all the same. Old Endacott had been through them. There wasn’t one which could help the owner of the Images to discover the treasure.”

“Where are these infernal Images?” Major Holmes asked.

“They have been moved upstairs into my apartments,” Henry Ballaston intervened. “If it would afford you any satisfaction to inspect them, I will take you there with pleasure.”

“I should like to see them,” Major Holmes decided.

They all returned to the house, Gregory quitting his chair with an air of reluctance. The two Images stood in a small sitting room opening out from Henry Ballaston’s bedroom at the top of the house; an apartment of extraordinary, almost monastic simplicity. They stood side by side on an old black oak bureau, and against the white of the walls they showed up with almost glaring effect.

“The Body and the Soul,” Gregory pointed out. “I don’t think they have ever been worth what poor old Bill Hammonde and I went through for them. They got Bill, too. Good chap, he was!”

“The legend is,” Sir Bertram explained politely, “that those heads are filled with jewels. Yet we have never been able to discover an opening or aperture of any sort.”

“If there is any truth in the story,” Major Holmes suggested, “why don’t you break them up?”

Sir Bertram shivered.

“That, at least,” he said, “one would keep for a last effort. Those Images, Holmes, are nearly a thousand years old, and if you are any judge of such things, you will see at once that they were carved by a great artist. With their history I should imagine that their value at Christie’s would be at least several thousand pounds each, so long as they are intact.”

Major Holmes took one into his hands and set it down again, amazed at the weight.

“Why, they’re almost as heavy as bronze,” he exclaimed.

“The wood of which they are fashioned is a species of teak wood—almost extinct now,” Sir Bertram explained. “Their weight, of course, is rather an argument against their being hollow. On the other hand, they might be hollow and filled with jewels.”

“There is a further legend,” Gregory confided, “that there is inside some sort of infernal machine invented during the last century by the priests, which would go off at any rough usage. That, I must say, seems to me a bit thick. At the same time, the Chinese were always rather great at explosives.”

“I imagine,” Major Holmes said, “that you will not let this superstition stand in your way, provided you are unable to discover the secret opening.”

“As a last resort,” Sir Bertram declared, “we have decided to destroy the less pleasing of the Images.”

“And I,” Gregory announced, in a low tone, his eyes fixed upon the leering Image of the Body, “mean to be the one to strike the blow. One gets kind of superstitious over there, you know, Holmes,” he went on. “I lost possession of the other Image for a time. The robbers got off with it when they raided the train and killed poor old Hammonde, but that unpleasing-looking devil I brought home with me. All I can say is that I don’t want to be left alone with him again for a month or six weeks. You wouldn’t have much chance, would you, at the Norwich Assizes if you pleaded that you had been driven to commit a murder through the influence of an Image? A Chinese judge would have understood it. All I know is that on that boat I was never myself.”

“And here?” Holmes asked curiously.

“I kept out of the way of the thing when it was once here,” Gregory replied. “Uncle Henry took care of it then, and I think it would take more than the power of an Image to move him from the paths of rectitude. Then—through old Endacott, by-the-by—we got hold of the other one. So now I don’t mind. It is only when he’s out of reach of the Soul that that chap’s supposed to do any harm.”

“You were lucky to regain possession of the other Image,” the Chief Constable observed, after a moment’s pause. “Through Mr. Endacott, I think you said?”

“In a sort of way,” Gregory answered coldly.

“You couldn’t be a little more explicit?” the other persisted.

The silence which followed was portentous, charged with electricity. It was Sir Bertram who laid his hand gently upon his son’s shoulder.

“Gregory is rather sensitive about this business,” he said. “Considering all that he went through, I do not wonder at it. If ever it becomes expedient for us to explain exactly how the second Image came into our possession, we will do so. That moment scarcely seems to have yet arrived.”

Major Holmes abandoned the subject a little abruptly. He walked along the great corridor with its rows of pictures upon one side and mullioned windows on the other, speechless and absorbed. The whole place seemed flooded with afternoon sunshine which found its way into the gloomiest corners, touching some old suits of armour with a gleam of fire, tracing zigzag hieroglyphics upon the smooth white stone floor. He had made up his mind what course of action to adopt and it had not been an easy task. He sent for Inspector Cloutson and stood making his adieux to his hosts. At the last minute he drew Gregory on one side.

“I hear you are starting off on another of your long rambles, Gregory,” he said.

“Something a little more permanent this time. I am going to try the Far West first—lose myself for a year or two. Nothing definite seems to be known just yet, but there are rumours that there have been some big finds of gold right up the Yukon. If I don’t have any luck, I shall come back and try ranching. I’ve got a job out there.”

“It’s true then, what they are saying?” the Major continued diffidently. “Things here are pretty bad?”

“Rotten,” Gregory admitted. “Unless a miracle happens, such as those jewels materialising, or something of that sort, Ballaston must go before the autumn.”

“It is bad news,” the other sighed. “It is almost a tragedy. Enough to drive any one crazy,” he added, his rather kindly eyes resting for a moment upon Gregory’s face. “I am going to give you a word of advice, if I may. We were at school together, and I practically owe my position here to your father. I shall have to settle with my conscience for saying it—I may decide to chuck up my job—but I’m going to say it. If you’ve got your kit ready, move off. I don’t like the look of things down here for you. That’s all.”

For a moment Gregory was speechless—not exactly from surprise but from some mixture of emotions which found outlet in speech difficult. Then he suddenly took the hand which Holmes had extended and wrung it.

“You’re a good fellow, Holmes,” he said. “I don’t like the look of things myself, and that’s a fact. I may pop off, if I see my way clear. If I don’t—well, you won’t have any disagreeable duties to perform at the Castle. I’ll promise you that.”

The inspector put in his appearance and the two men took their leave. Gregory remained for a few minutes motionless upon the broad semicircle of white stone stretching out from the front door, gazing after the receding car. Presently his father moved up to his side.

“Holmes seems to have a bee in his bonnet, Gregory,” he ventured tentatively.

Gregory nodded.

“He’s a good fellow,” he declared. “It cost him something to do it, I know, but he’s given me the office. Advised me to clear out within the next twenty-four hours. It’s that fellow Johnson.”

“Well, if you have made up your mind to go,” Sir Bertram said, “why not? They can’t do anything in a desperate hurry, and you’ll get a run for your money at least out there.”

Gregory seemed for a moment puzzled, then distressed. He turned and looked at his father. Sir Bertram’s expression, however, was inscrutable. Finally he swung on his heel.

“At any rate,” he decided, “I’ll finish my packing.”