The two men pa.s.sed out of the tap-room together, and mounted the stairs. On the landing Matthews paused a moment to glance out of the window on to the bleak and inhospitable fen which was almost obscured from view by a heavy drizzle of rain.

"Brr!" said Mr. Matthews, "what a horrible place!"

Looking up the staircase from the landing, they could see that one of the panels of the door facing the head of the stairs had been pressed out and lay on the ground. They pa.s.sed up the stairs and Matthews, putting one arm and his head through the opening, found himself gazing into that selfsame ugly sitting room where Desmond had talked with Nur-el-Din.

A couple of vigorous heaves burst the fastening of the door. The sitting-room was in the wildest confusion. The doors of the sideboard stood wide with its contents scattered higgledy-piggledy on the carpet. A chest of drawers in the corner had been ransacked, some of the drawers having been taken bodily out and emptied on the floor.

The door leading to the inner room stood open and showed that a similar search had been conducted there as well. The inner room proved to be a bare white-washed place, very plainly furnished as a bedroom. On the floor stood a small attache case, and beside it a little heap of miscellaneous articles such as a woman would take away with her for a weekend, a crepe-de-chine nightdress, a dainty pair of bedroom slippers and some silver-mounted toilet fittings. From these things Matthews judged that this had been Nur-el-Din's bedroom.

The two men spent a long time going through the litter with which the floor in the bedroom and sitting room was strewed. But their labors were vain, and they turned their attention to the remaining rooms, of which there were three.

The first room they visited, adjoining Nur-el-Din's bedroom, was scarcely better than an attic. It contained in the way of furniture little else than a truckle-bed, a washstand, a table and a chair. Women's clothes were hanging on hooks behind the door. The place looked like a servant's bedroom.

They pursued their search. Across the corridor two rooms stood side by side. One proved to be Ra.s.s's. His clothes lay about the room, and on a table in the corner, where writing materials stood, were various letters and bills made out in his name.

The other room had also been occupied; for the bed was made and turned back for the night and there were clean towels on the washstand. But there was no clue as to its occupant save for a double-barreled gun which stood in the corner. It had evidently been recently used; for fresh earth was adhering to the stock and the barrel, though otherwise clean, showed traces of freshly-burnt powder.

There being nothing further to glean upstairs, the two men went down to the tap-room again. As Matthews came through the door leading from the staircase his eye caught a dark object which lay on the floor under the long table. He fished it out with his stick.

It was a small black velvet toque with a band of white and black silk flowers round it. In one part the white flowers were besmeared with a dark brown stain.

Matthews stared at the little hat in his hand with puckered brows. Then he called to Gordon.

"Do you know that hat?" he asked, holding it up for the man to see.

Gordon shook his head.

"I might have seen it," he replied, "but I don't take much account of such things, Mr. Matthews, being a married man..."

"Tut, tut," fussed Matthews, "I think you have seen it. Come, think of the office for a minute!"

"Of the office?" repeated Gordon. Then he exclaimed suddenly:

"Miss Mackwayte!"

"Exactly," answered Matthews, "it's her hat, I recall it perfectly. She wore it very often to the office. Look at the blood on it!"

He put the hat down on the table and ran into the bar where Nur-el-Din sat immobile on her chair, wrapped in a big overcoat of some soft blanket cloth in dark green, her chin sunk on her breast.

Matthews called up the Mill House and asked for Francis Okewood.

When he mentioned the finding of Barbara Mackwayte's hat, the dancer raised her head and cast a frightened glance at Matthews.

But she said nothing and when Matthews turned from the telephone to go back to the tap-room she had resumed her former listless att.i.tude.

Matthews and Gordon made a thorough search of the kitchen and back premises without finding anything of note. They had just finished when the sound of a car outside attracted their attention. On the road beyond the little bridge outside the inn Francis and Desmond Okewood were standing, helping a woman to alight. Francis was still wearing his scarecrow-like apparel, while Desmond, with his beard and pale face and bandaged head, looked singularly unlike the trim Brigade Major who had come home on leave only a week or so before.

Matthews went out to meet them and, addressing the woman--a brisk-looking person--as Mrs. b.u.t.terworth, informed her that it was shocking weather. Then he led the way into the inn.

The first thing that Desmond saw was the little toque with the brown stain on its flowered band lying on the table. Francis picked it up, turned it over and laid it down again.

"Where did you find it?" he asked Matthews. The latter informed him of the circ.u.mstances of the discovery. Then Francis, sending the searcher in to Nur-el-Din in the bar, pointed to the body on the floor.

"Let's have a look at that!" he said.

Matthews removed the covering and the three men gazed at the set face of the dead man. There was a clean bullet wound in the right temple. Matthews showed the papers he had taken off the body and exchanged a few, words in a low tone with Francis. There is something about the presence of death which impels respect whatever the circ.u.mstances.

Five minutes later Mrs. b.u.t.terworth came out of the bar. In her hands she held a miscellaneous a.s.sortment of articles, a small gold chain purse, a pair of gloves, a gold cigarette case, a tiny handkerchief, and a long blue envelope. She put all the articles down on the tables save the envelope which she handed to Francis.

"This was in the lining of her overcoat, sir," she said.

Francis took the envelope and broke the seal. He drew out half a dozen sheets of thin paper, folded lengthwise. Leisurely he unfolded them, but he had hardly glanced at the topmost sheet than he turned to the next and the next until he had run through the whole bunch. Desmond, peering over his shoulder, caught a glimpse of rows of figures, very neatly set out in a round hand and knew that he was looking at a message in cipher code.

The door at the end of the tap-room was flung open and a soldier came in quickly.

He stopped irresolute on seeing the group.

"Well, Bates," said Matthews.

"There's a woman lying dead in the cellar back yonder," said the man, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

"The cellar?" cried Matthews.

"Yes, sir... I think you must ha' overlooked it."

Francis, Desmond and Matthews exchanged a brief glance. A name was on the lips of each one of them but none dared speak it.

Then, leaving Harrison and Mrs. b.u.t.terworth with Nur-el-Din, the three men followed the soldier and hurriedly quitted the room.

CHAPTER XXII. WHAT THE CELLAR REVEALED

On opening the door at the farther end of the tap-room they saw before them a trap-door standing wide with a shallow flight of wooden steps leading to the darkness below. Bates pointed with his foot to a square of linoleum which lay on one side.

"That was covering the trap," he said, "I wouldn't ha' noticed nothing out of the ordinary myself only I slipped, see, and kicked this bit o' ilecloth away and there was the ring of the trap staring me in the face, as you might say. Show us a light here, Gordon!"

Gordon handed him an electric torch. He flashed it down the stair. It fell upon something like a heap of black clothes huddled up at the foot of the ladder.

"Is it Miss Mackwayte?" whispered Francis to his brother. "I've never seen her, you know!"

"I can't tell," Desmond whispered back, "until I see her face."

He advanced to descend the ladder but Matthews was before him.

Producing an electric torch from his pocket, Matthews slipped down the stair with Gordon close behind. There was a pause, so tense that it seemed an eternity to Desmond, as he waited half-way down the ladder with the musty smell of the cellar in his nostrils. Then Matthews cried:

"It's not her!"

"Let me look!" Gordon broke in. Then Desmond heard him exclaim.

"It's Nur-el-Din's French maid! It's Marie... she's been stabbed in the back!"