“Caveat, perhaps.”

  “That sounds as if it might be what I meant. Now, having cleared your mind of a futile theory, where do we go?”

  “I think we attack Brews again,” he observed. “I have more than two ideas to clash together, sweetheart. Now we get on the great watch trail.”

  “Watch chain?”

  “Trail,” he said, quickening the car’s pace a little. “Here we have two watches. One is a wristwatch, the other, presumably, a gold lever of a respectable kind. The hands of one——”

  “Oh, do dry up!” said Nancy. “I know what you are going to say. In fact I thought of it long ago.”

  “Good. And you thought——?”

  “That you can stop watches without water. Pull out the little lever at the top, for instance.”

  Ned glanced at her sternly. “To examine the insides of the watches is mere routine. My men do that sort of thing on their heads, so to speak. But you have broken my train of thought, and are wrong in addition. Now I shan’t tell you my idea.”

  Nancy folded her hands, “Do, please!”

  He shook his head. “No. You have been rude. You ought to be made like your passive predecessor, who ate humble pie with avidity. But if you listen carefully to what I say to Brews, you may get an inkling of the facts.”

  “Just as I did from your revealing conversation with Hoggett,” said Nancy. “Right-o.”

  They drove on in silence, till they were on the outskirts of Upperton. Here they sighted the massive form of Superintendent Langley.

  Ned stopped the car, “I’ll ask him if Brews is at home.”

  Superintendent Langley obviously knew that Ned was investigating. He smiled faintly when the latter drew up the car, and asked him if Inspector Brews was at the station.

  “Not at present, sir,” said Langley, amiably. “But perhaps I could tell you what you want to know.”

  “That’s just the question,” Ned replied, grinning. “I thought I might have a look at the two watches found on the bodies.”

  Langley shook his head. “I am sorry, sir. If you had come to us before your connection with the press, it might have been possible. Anything else, sir?”

  Ned shrugged. “You have had no further news, I suppose?”

  Nancy gave Langley her best smile, and he visibly warmed under it.

  “Let me see, sir. I suppose you heard about the passport. But that would be old news.”

  Ned started. “If you go on like this, I am getting a friend of mine in the House to move that Upperton police take charge of the Yard, and the C.I.D. come down here! Old news! Why the papers haven’t got it.”

  “No, sir; if I may say so, we do get a little advance news. A newspaper sensation may be three days’ old at our stations.”

  “ Touché! ” murmured Nancy.

  “That’s what I am beginning to think,” said Ned. “But what is it?”

  Langley smiled. “Being a part of our——”

  “Don’t say routine work. Spare me!” Ned interrupted.

  “Part of our work,” said Langley. “I had almost forgotten it. As a matter of fact, we found a passport in a pocket of the car when our men searched it.”

  “Habershon’s?” cried Nancy, excitedly.

  “Mr. Habershon’s, Miss. I release that for publication to you, Mr. Hope, so you will be a bit ahead of your friends.”

  With a little glint in his eye, he saluted Ned, raised his felt hat to Nancy, and walked away majestically.

  “We’re now going back to town,” said Ned. “All the brains of the country have gravitated to Essex, and I feel out of my class. But Bell will eat this about the passport.”

  Nancy nodded. “While we have to eat our theory about——”

  Ned was starting the car when Langley came back, and smiled, “Oh, by the way, sir, though it is not officially that I am giving you the tip, we have evidence that Mr. Habershon posted a very heavy registered packet to Buenos Ayres a month ago.”

  Chapter XII

  NED drove fast, and said little as they went back to town. On the way through the city he called at Fleet Street, and spent five minutes at the newspaper office. When he came out again, he looked and felt better.

  “They’re beginning to love me,” he said, “Langley has his points, though I am not sure what they are.”

  “Will you work the passport into your next article?” she asked. “That and the packet—the Bearer Bonds, I suppose—more or less prove that Habershon did it. If he hadn’t slipped in, he would have followed the packet, don’t you think?”

  Ned drove on. “Since I became a journalist I have studied the ways of the cleverest fellows on the press; the various Captains, Majors, and other folk who serve out the racing tips. After giving the claims of ten horses to win a race, they generally hedge all round the shop, and give so many alternatives that the average man ends with a pin and a list of the horses.”

  “I thought you didn’t bet,” said Nancy.

  “I don’t,” said Ned. “But I know the method. What I mean is this. As an expert I mustn’t come down strong on one side. I have a reputation. For a man with a reputation a fence is the natural seat. I shall indicate that the ordinary man—of whom one hears so much—will be inclined to think that the identity of the murderer is obvious. The expert may have other views. But, as always, the man in the street may be right. If I’m wrong, then I have exhibited humility and flattered the ordinary man; if I’m right, three cheers for the expert!”

  “Bravo!” said Nancy, ironically. “What a nasty double-faced fellow you are!”

  “Have to be,” said Ned. “Now is it home or Mrs. Hoing?”

  “Why Mrs. Hoing?”

  “To get news about that packet, of course. I shouldn’t be surprised if that is where the police got the tip. They are sure to have questioned her. In fact, since she was Habershon’s right-hand woman, he may have sent her out with the precious bonds.”

  “Right. Then we’ll go there.”

  When they reached Gale Street they were admitted by a parlourmaid. The other servants, with the exception of the cook, had been paid off. Mrs. Hoing was at home, and they were shown into a morning-room on the ground floor. The servant lit a gas-fire, and left them.

  “This house cost money,” said Ned, as he looked round.

  “Whose?”

  “Ah, that’s the whole thing,” said Ned, and fell to thinking.

  Mrs. Hoing came down within a minute, and greeted Nancy warmly. She was introduced to Ned, and extended a firm hand.

  “Pleased to meet you too, sir,” she said.

  “Miss Johnson told me so much about you that I felt I had to come along,” said Ned, thinking he might adopt that air of free and easy fellowship, and naïvete, which had proved so successful when exhibited by Brews. “I may tell you that I am trying to investigate the crime for the press, Mrs. Hoing. I hope you don’t mind that.”

  “Mind it, sir; why, I’ve been reading all the pieces you wrote so far, and clever they were.”

  “I am tremendously gratified,” he returned. “Do you know, I’m a great believer in the common-sense of the man in the street. The police have special training, but their training makes them suspicious of simple explanations. People like you and me don’t worry about tying knots in our brains. We go straight to the point. I can see that you have formed a pretty sound conclusion about the case already.”

  Mrs. Hoing beamed, “Perhaps I have, sir, but it isn’t one I like.”

  Ned nodded. “The sentiment does you great credit. Loyalty is a much needed quality nowadays. It isn’t taught as it ought to be.”

  “Go on, Inspector Brews!” Nancy murmured, just above her breath.

  “Quite,” said Ned, hastily. “Miss Johnson agrees with me. Here you have been for years with Mr. Habershon. He was a kind and considerate employer, and as far as you knew, a good man.”

  “He was, sir.”

  Ned warmed to his theme. “And now, quite against your will, and owing merely to circumstances over which you have no control, you have to wonder if you must consider Mr. Habershon in another light.”

  “You put it beautiful, sir, if I may say so.”

  “I know how you feel,” Ned went on. “This passport first begins to shatter your very natural illusions.”

  She stared at him. “What passport, sir?”

  “You never knew Mr. Habershon had a passport?”

  “Of course, sir. He used to travel sometimes, and the young people with him. But what about that, Sir?”

  “It was found in the car, Mrs. Hoing,” said Nancy.

  The housekeeper threw up her hands. “Well, I never! But not all of them surely?”

  “You mean those belonging to Mr. Rainy and Miss Rowe? No. I don’t think they were found.”

  “Which suggests that Mr. Habershon later on meant to take a journey alone,” suggested Nancy.

  Mrs. Hoing looked horror-stricken. Ned went on hastily.

  “Then there is another question. The police may have put it to you already. May I ask if you knew about the registered parcel Mr. Habershon sent to South America?”

  Mrs. Hoing nodded vigorously. “Of course I do. I took it. Mr. Habershon said it was important, and he wouldn’t give it to one of the maids. I was going shopping, so I took it.”

  “Did Mr. Habershon ask you to fill up a form declaring the contents?”

  “No, sir, not definite. He said printed papers, but not at printed paper rates. I filled up the form that way. If you’ll wait, sir, I’ll bring down my diary. I put it down, the hour and the date.”

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary, thank you,” said Ned. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Was it very bulky?” asked Nancy.

  “Very, Miss. Pounds.”

  “Did you notice the address?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. It was Señor something or other—I don’t remember that—8 CallePerino, Buenos Ayres.”

  Ned noted that down. “Thanks. Rather odd sending off Bearer Bonds like that,” he added to Nancy.

  Mrs. Hoing stared. “Bonds, sir? It was printed papers he said to me.”

  “Very likely, Mrs. Hoing. Well, we are much obliged to you for your help.”

  “What now—dinner?” asked Nancy, when they were once more in the street.

  “With me, if you’ll come,” said he. “Fact is, I intend to go back to Fen Court late, and stay the night. If we can find a decent little café we could have a spot of dinner, and then I could tootle you home before I go on.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I say, what for?”

  Ned replied at once. “I am wondering again why this nasty business was staged in my garden. Was it because the amenities not only included a garden and four ponds, but also an empty house? In other words, old thing, I am going to search the premises.

  Nancy digested that for a few moments as they drove westwards, then: “What weird ideas you have. Are you likely to find anything hidden in Fen Court?”

  He shrugged. “Haven’t a ghostly. But what I mean is this: If the police deduce anything from the conversion of those investments into Bearer Bonds, it is that old Habershon contemplated a bolt abroad, and wanted stuff with him that he could negotiate without trouble—and without a transfer to be registered, and that sort of thing.”

  “I see. Obviously they do suspect that he was on the eve of a bolt, and that is why he had a passport with him.”

  Ned nodded. “Well, I don’t say old Habershon did not register a heavy parcel to a fellow in Buenos Ayres, but I do say that only an utter ass would send sixty thousand pounds worth of securities in advance to a dago living about four thousand miles away. Why, the gentle South-American had only to take ’em round to a bank, get the dollars, and vamoose.

  “You think it was a blind?”

  “I do. Habershon isn’t proved a rogue yet, but he is not, or was not a fool either. I bet the police will cable Buenos Ayres. Do you think old Habershon would give Mrs. Hoing the name of the man to whom he was sending that fortune? Why, he would have known that she would be questioned the moment he bolted.”

  Nancy agreed now. “Why, I never thought of that. Yes, of course. And your idea is that old Habershon may have hesitated to leave them, I mean the bonds, in the car, but took them along to your house, and hid them temporarily?”

  “It’s a possibility. He would mean to go back and collect, but slipped up and couldn’t. Another thing, I don’t quite trust Hench. I can’t work out any theory about that night drive by Habershon and Company, unless it was that Ivor Rainy was going down to Pear Cottage. Outside the wonderful photographs of birds, in which Rainy was really interested, what attraction is there in a swampy part of Essex after dark?”

  He drew up the car in a square, and manœuvred it into a parking space. When they had got down, they went back to the main street, entered a comfortable little restaurant, and ordered dinner. As the waiter retired with the order, Nancy took up the conversation at the point at which it had been dropped.

  “You think little Hench invited them down.”

  “If he didn’t, who did?” asked Ned, frowning. “That’s all.”

  “Then he must have known about the bonds, and the fact that Mr. Habershon was carrying them?”

  “Hench’s business with Habershon is wrapt in mystery, Nance. We know nothing about their relations except what he chooses to tell us. The whole ornithology business may be a blind. At any rate, it can do me no harm to have a look round generally.”

  “If you don’t mind being in that spooky house, it can’t,” she agreed, as the waiter approached with the soup.

  “The only spooks in this world are the ones you bring with you,” observed Ned.

  “I don’t carry spirits.”

  They dined rather hastily, and then he drove Nancy home, and started for Fen Court for the second time that day. His equipment for night research consisted in an electric torch, a case full of cigarettes, and a box of matches. There was also a chisel or screw-driver from his tool-kit that he meant to use, if he saw any signs that the cupboard or old panelling of the empty house hid unexpected treasure.

  The whole trouble about Hench, as he told himself on the way down, was the little man’s physical inefficiency. But was Hench necessarily alone that night? What about Habershon?

  There might be something in that. It was only necessary to give Hench credit for a little patient cunning to explain what had happened.

  “Let me see,” Ned mused, “it could be worked out this way. Hench and Habershon are friends. Habershon has converted part of the young things’ property into easily negotiable security. Not being sure that he can manage the job himself, he confides in Hench. Hench, who is a fine photographer, and knows a bit about birds, chooses Fen Court for the mise en scène . Here there is an empty house, with four ponds in the garden, within reach of a cottage where he lives. It is arranged that uncle shall privately let Hench take photographs of Rainy’s collection of eggs. Habershon is to give out that he is financing the publication of a volume by Hench, in which Rainy’s collection shall figure. That will flatter the youth no end. But he knows nothing about this. Habershon is keeping it as a surprise for him. One day, when the stage is set, Hench will invite the uncle to bring Rainy down by night to see the photographs.”

  At this point in his musing Ned had to swerve violently to avoid two blinding searchlights bearing down on him from a corner on the wrong side of the road. When he had scraped the hedge, and straightened the car and his temper once more, he went on speculating.

  “Habershon and Rainy and the inseparable Miss Rowe go down to the cottage—I can let the punt theory slide for the moment—Habershon has put a big dose of mordinal in the thermos, and Rainy and the girl are doped. From some point or other, Habershon and Hench get the bodies to the water, tie their wrists with a handkerchief, and chuck them in, after pinning a scrap of paper to the girl’s dress. Then, when they are shivering on the brink, Hench decides that Habershon is supererogatory. He gives him a push, and there you are.”

  Having satisfactorily summarised his latest theory, Ned turned his attention to details. That scrap of paper, for instance. What was it? So far every one who had seen it considered that it looked like a fragment torn from a letter.

  “By George!” cried Ned, suddenly, and accelerated in his excitement. “What a dud I am. If it came from a letter, and was in her hand-writing, then it was directed to some one else. If it was directed to some one else, how did it come to be in her possession? That’s a nasty one! The only question was if it was a bit of a letter. It certainly looked as if it came out of the middle of a sheet. Habershon made a bloomer there. He must have had a letter from her, torn a bit out of it, and fastened it to her dress. But why the dickens should she write to him, when they were living in the same house?”

  “Whatever it was, it wasn’t suicide,” he declared, “Ices and suicide are incompatible, and they had coffee in the car. An appetite and a thirst, kept up to the last moment? No, it doesn’t go. If Rainy or the girl had been bright young people, with the incipient lunacy of their kind, they would probably have danced an expressionist fandango on the edge of the pond, and been horribly symbolical about it. But no symbolist or expressionist would go in for anything so objective as ices. I’ll put that in my next article! There’s no being clever without weird words nowadays.”