In a few minutes he was speaking to the inspector in charge of the City police station at Oxford, and he explained his need for information, having first given the secret police sign which indicates that a fellow limb of the law is making the enquiry.

“I want,” he said, “to know something about a Dr. Crocker, who occupies some sort of official position in Oxford.”

“Certainly,” said the rich voice of the man at the other end—probably, Shelley decided, a fat man fond of his glass of beer. “Lecturer in English Literature at St. Francis’s College here.”

“What sort of fellow is he?” asked Shelley.

“Tall—six feet one—thin, grey hair, blue eyes,” the other man began.

“I don’t mean that. What sort of fellow is he in character? Reliable?”

“Straight as a die.”

“Do you know him personally?” asked Shelley, thinking that if the man in Oxford knew the object of his investigations it might be possible, by discreet questioning, to get the required information without the trouble and time which a visit to Oxford would entail.

“No.”

“Is he a well-known character in the city?”

“No.”

“Well, how do you know so much about him?”

“Well, we’ve been hunting for him for a week.”

“Hunting?” Shelley was absolutely astounded. What on earth, he asked himself, did this mean?

“Yes. You see, Doctor Crocker disappeared last Sunday, and hasn’t been seen since!”

Chapter VII

Chapter VII

The Fate of Dr. Crocker

“This is a perfectly crazy case, Cunningham,” Shelley remarked. “It strikes me that someone with a lunatic idea about English literature is setting about eliminating all the great authorities on Elizabethan drama which the country possesses. Here’s Arnell dead, and Wilkinson dead, and Crocker vanished—Heaven knows who will be the next one to do a disappearing trick.”

Cunningham grinned uneasily. He never felt very happy when his chief became flippant. It boded ill for someone, but it often indicated that all was not going as well as might be hoped.

“Any trace of this man Crocker, sir?” he asked, and Shelley shook his head. It was an angry gesture, and showed that the events of the past few hours had not been particularly good for the inspector’s nerves.

“No,” he answered. “Why the hell we keep a squad of men here, with the special job of looking after missing people, I can’t think. They don’t know their job, Cunningham, that’s what’s the matter.” Savagely he pressed a bell-push which was on his desk, and a sleepy-looking policeman appeared. His sleepiness annoyed Shelley even more, though the fact that it was now 1 a.m. should have been enough to account for the matter.

“Send Sergeant Owens to me at once,” Shelley ordered.

“I don’t know if he’s gone home or not, sir,” replied the constable.