“You might get him to price the Black Abbot,” said Harry, half dourly, half amused. “What we want, Dick, is not so much a valuer as a good policeman.”

Dick Alford thought that the guest might fulfil both functions, but he did not say so.

He ushered his visitor back to his own little office, carefully closed the door and sat down at his desk.

“Now make yourself comfortable. Do you smoke?”

Mr Puttler fumbled in his pocket and produced a black pipe.

“It’s not very aristocratic,” he apologised, “but I prefer ’bacca to cigars and cigarettes.”

“I’ll join you,” said Dick.

His study had two doors: one that opened into the hall and one into a side corridor running back to the housekeeper’s room. The two men had been talking for ten minutes, though, as far as Mr Puttler was concerned, his contribution to the discourse was limited to an occasional question, when Thomas came noiselessly down the side corridor, peeped into the hall and walked back to the study door. There was a look of apprehension upon his lean and shapeless face which was not without cause. Stooping, he put his eye to the keyhole. He could just see the end of the settee and the head and shoulders of the strange visitor. He was holding something in his hand – a white-handled knife – and was examining it with curiosity. Thomas bent his head and pressed his ear against the hole.

Dick’s back was to the door and he was speaking in a lower tone than usual, and this reacted to the disadvantage of the eavesdropper, for only a few distinct and intelligible sentences came to him.

“…might have been somebody admitted to the house by one of the servants,” was the first thing he heard. A few minutes later, Mr Puttler, whose voice was distinct, asked: “Was the window in the library open?” And he heard Dick say “Yes,” and add something which he could not catch.

The soles and heels of Thomas’ boots were of rubber. He passed into the hall and made another reconnaissance, then returned to his listening post, in time to hear Dick say: “My brother hasn’t an enemy in the world. I am afraid I can’t say the same–”

Once the listener caught the word “treasure,” and once he heard the name of “Arthur Gine,” but in what association he could not learn. Again Thomas visited the hall. He could not take the risk of being seen listening at the door. He was free from observation so far as he knew. The old Chelford butler was in the servants’ hall. Dick and his brother did not lunch till two, an unholy hour from the point of view of servants, but very suitable for Dick and his peculiar occupation.