Mr. Earle called Jim Conway, and—Haines now dressed in some of the butler’s clothes—they went back along the road. They found the motorcycle, badly damaged, not far from the Earle property. Of Haines’s uniform and automatic there was no sign, but they did locate his underwear, thrown away somewhere down the road toward the village.

Jim eyed it. “What the fellow wanted,” he said, “was the uniform. He stripped Haines all the way to keep him from raising the alarm.”

“Maybe he thought I was going to pick him up,” said Haines, “and he wanted time to make a getaway.”

They went back to the Earles’. Haines’s wife had sent some clothing by the patrol car, and while he dressed Jim went to the telephone. First he called the borough building and had Cracker Brown send out an alarm, vague as it had to be. “Old sedan, possibly Dodge or Chevrolet. Look for dented fenders or other evidence of collision. Driver probably middle-aged or elderly. May be wearing motorcycle officer’s uniform and carrying regulation police automatic. Watch out. This man may be dangerous.”

After that he sent Haines home and Theodore Earle to bed. Then—it was one o’clock in the morning by that time—he got into his own car and drove to the Cloisters. He did not go to the house. He went around back to the McDonald cottage and rang the bell. It took some time to rouse them. When Andy finally appeared he was indignant.

“What’s wrong now, Mr. Conway?” he said. “I work hard and I need my sleep.”

Jim looked around. The cottage was dark and quiet. He stepped inside.

“Been in all evening, McDonald?”

“I have that.”

“Had a visitor?”

“A visitor? No. Who would be coming?”

“Got a car, haven’t you?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“I’d like to see it,” said Jim. “Where is it?”

“In the shed. It’s not been out for a day or two. What about it?”

“I just want to look at it.”

Andy went, grumbling audibly, to put on some clothes, and Jim went back to Evans’s room, turned on the light and examined it. There was nothing suspicious there. It remained as Jessie McDonald’s house cleaning had left it, cold and obviously unused. He glanced into the closet, but it was as he had seen it before, with Evans’s few clothes still hanging there and his shoes on the floor. He began to feel foolish.

Andy led the way some distance from the cottage to what he called the shed. It was not locked. He threw open the doors, to expose an old Chevrolet, and Jim got his flashlight and examined it. There was no heat in the place, and the radiator was cold under his hand. But he looked up to see Andy pointing at the front of the car.

“Some dirty thief has had it out,” Andy said, going very Scottish in his excitement. “Gi’ a look to that, sor. It was no there yesterday.”

There was no doubt in Jim’s mind that night. He had found the car which had struck Haines. The front fender on the right was badly crumpled. He watched Andy, but his indignation was apparently the rightful wrath of a good Scot who was suffered a damage. He left him there and taking his flashlight examined the ground around. A road led to the shed from the garage and stables, but there was another, a dirt lane, leading down the side of the hill. Anyone could have pushed the car out, got in, and releasing the brakes have rolled down the slope before letting in the gears. In that case neither Andy nor Jessie would have heard the sound. As for the return—