And the same applied to the next two rooms. One had once been a billiard-room, but the cushions of the ancient billiard-table were hard as bricks. The third was a drawing-room of some sort, but here again there was the same dead atmosphere.

Shivering in spite of himself, Shelley came out of the last room, retraced his footsteps to the head of the stairs, and shouted down.

“Any luck, Cunningham?” He knew what the answer would be before it came up to him in Cunningham’s stentorian voice from the floor below.

“No, sir, not a trace of a soul anywhere. I think we’re on the wrong track.”

“I think so too,” Shelley answered. “There’s no one on the first floor. Still, I must have a look at the floor above, just to make sure.”

“Right-ho, sir,” answered Cunningham cheerfully. “I’ll just hang on down here.”

“I don’t expect that I shall keep you very long,” said Shelley.

And he was right. The top floor was more or less a repetition of the previous one, except that there were two rooms which had been lived in—the bedroom from which old Mr. Ramsbottom had first looked down at them, and another room, which was apparently drawing-room, dining-room, and kitchen all rolled into one.

But any trace of an inhabitant apart from Mr. Ramsbottom himself Shelley could not find anywhere in the house. It was all very disheartening, but it was not the first time that Shelley had been led astray by a false clue, and he walked down the stairs in a fairly good temper. It was, after all, quite possible that the criminal was at the other place which Cartwright had mentioned—Blackthorn Farm was it?—and that was quite clearly indicated as their next port of call.

“No go, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Shelley told the old man as he reached the ground floor. “Must have been a false alarm after all, I think. We shall have to look for our criminal else-where.”

For the last time the old man emitted his uncanny cackle. “I never thought you’d find him here, my lad,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Shelley, as he made his way to the front door.

“Because everybody in Penistone knows that old Jim Ramsbottom’s got no brass,” the old man explained. “And what yon criminals are after is brass, every time.”

“That’s true in most cases, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Shelley admitted, “but not in this case.”

“No?”

“No. You see, this man was running away from the police. And a man who’s running away from the police will go anywhere where he thinks he’s likely to be safe.”

“Ay. That’s so,” the old man agreed.

“Well, folks,” said Shelley, as they settled themselves once more in the police car. “I guess we now try our luck at Blackthorn Farm.”

“Ay,” returned Cartwright.

“Where is it?” asked Shelley.

“Matter of two or three miles outside the town,” Cartwright explained.