In the twenty hours or so at his disposal Inspector¹ Birch had been busy. He had telegraphed to London a complete description of Mark in the brown flannel² suit which he had last been seen wearing; he had made inquiries³ at Stanton as to whether anybody answering to this description had been seen leaving by the 4.20; and though the evidence which had been volunteered to him had been inconclusive, it made it possible that Mark had indeed caught that train, and had arrived in London before the police at the other end had been ready to receive him. But the fact that it was market-day at Stanton, and that the little town would be more full than usual of visitors, made it less likely that either the departure of Mark by the 4.20, or the arrival of Robert by the 2.10 earlier in the afternoon, would have been particularly noticed. As Antony had said to Cayley, there would always be somebody ready to hand the police a circumstantial story of the movements of any man in whom the police were interested.  
That Robert had come by the 2.10 seemed fairly certain. To find out more about him in time for the inquest would be difficult. All that was known about him in the village where he and Mark had lived as boys bore out the evidence of Cayley. He was an unsatisfactory son, and he had been hurried off to Australia; nor had he been seen since in the village. Whether there were any more substantial grounds of quarrel between the two brothers than that the younger one was at home and well-to-do, while the elder was poor and an exile, was not known, nor, as far as the inspector could see, was it likely to be known until Mark was captured.
 
The discovery of Mark was all that mattered immediately. Dragging the pond might not help towards this, but it would certainly give the impression in court to-morrow that Inspector Birch was handling the case with zeal⁴. And if only the revolver with which the deed was done was brought to the surface, his trouble would be well repaid. “Inspector Birch produces the weapon” would make an excellent headline in the local paper.
 
He was feeling well-satisfied with himself, therefore, as he walked to the pond, where his men were waiting for him, and quite in the mood for a little pleasant talk with Mr. Gillingham and his friend, Mr. Beverley. He gave them a cheerful “Good afternoon,” and added with a smile, “Coming to help us?”
 
“You don’t really want us,” said Antony, smiling back at him.
 
“You can come if you like.”
 
Antony gave a little shudder⁵.
 
“You can tell me afterwards what you find,” he said. “By the way,” he added, “I hope the landlord at ‘The George’ gave me a good character?”
 
The Inspector looked at him quickly.
 
“Now how on earth do you know anything about that?”
 
Antony bowed to him gravely.
 
“Because I guessed that you were a very efficient member of the Force.”
 
The inspector laughed.
 
“Well, you came out all right, Mr. Gillingham. You got a clean bill. But I had to make certain about you.”
 
“Of course you did. Well, I wish you luck. But I don’t think you’ll find much at the pond. It’s rather out of the way, isn’t it, for anybody running away?”
 
“That’s just what I told Mr. Cayley, when he called my attention to the pond. However, we shan’t do any harm by looking. It’s the unexpected that’s the most likely in this sort of case.”
 
“You’re quite right, Inspector. Well, we mustn’t keep you. Good afternoon,” and Antony smiled pleasantly at him.
 
“Good afternoon, sir.”
 
“Good afternoon,” said Bill.
 
Antony stood looking after the Inspector as he strode off, silent for so long that Bill shook him by the arm at last, and asked him rather crossly what was the matter.
 
Antony shook his head slowly from side to side.
 
“I don’t know; really I don’t know. It’s too devilish what I keep thinking. He can’t be as cold-blooded as that.”
 
“Who?”
 
Without answering, Antony led the way back to the garden-seat on which they had been sitting. He sat there with his head in his hands.
 
“Oh, I hope they find something,” he murmured. “Oh, I hope they do.”
 
“In the pond?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“But what?”
 
“Anything, Bill; anything.”
 
Bill was annoyed. “I say, Tony, this won’t do. You really mustn’t be so damn mysterious. What’s happened to you suddenly?”
 
Antony looked up at him in surprise.
 
“Didn’t you hear what he said?”
 
“What, particularly?”
 
“That it was Cayley’s idea to drag the pond.”
 
“Oh! Oh, I say!” Bill was rather excited again. “You mean that he’s hidden something there? Some false clue which he wants the police to find?”
 
“I hope so,” said Antony earnestly, “but I’m afraid—” He stopped short.
 
“Afraid of what?”
 
“Afraid that he hasn’t hidden anything there. Afraid that—”
 
“Well?”
 
“What’s the safest place in which to hide anything very important?”
 
“Somewhere where nobody will look.”
 
“There’s a better place than that.”
 
“What?”
 
“Somewhere where everybody has already looked.”
 
“By Jove! You mean that as soon as the pond has been dragged, Cayley will hide something there?”
 
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
 
“But why afraid?”
 
“Because I think that it must be something very important, something which couldn’t easily be hidden anywhere else.”
 
“What?” asked Bill eagerly.
 
Antony shook his head.
 
“No, I’m not going to talk about it yet. We can wait and see what the Inspector finds. He may find something—I don’t know what—something that Cayley has put there for him to find. But if he doesn’t, then it will be because Cayley is going to hide something there to-night.”
 
“What?” asked Bill again.
 
“You will see what, Bill,” said Antony; “because we shall be there.”
 
“Are we going to watch him?”
 
“Yes, if the Inspector finds nothing.”
 
“That’s good,” said Bill.
 
If it were a question of Cayley or the Law, he was quite decided⁶ as to which side he was taking. Previous to the tragedy of yesterday he had got on well enough with both of the cousins, without being in the least intimate with either. Indeed, of the two he preferred, perhaps, the silent, solid Cayley to the more volatile7

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