Celia looked at the doctor questioningly. He nodded, and she went out.

She found Heyton in the smoking-room; there was a decanter of brandy in front of him and his face was flushed; but it went white as she said, as calmly as she could,

"The Marquess has recovered consciousness; he has asked for you, my lord."

He got up and steadied himself, with one hand on the table, looking at her with a curious expression in his face: in that instant, it reminded her of the expression on that of his wife; it was one of absolute terror. But it was only momentary; he nodded and went out of the room.

Celia was following him, when she caught sight of a small part of the detective's figure, just inside the sitting-room; she had forgotten him, but as she went towards him he made a sign as if he understood; indeed, he waved her away.

Mr. Jacobs waited until Celia had gone; then he went upstairs softly; in the corridor, near the Marquess's door, he met the doctor, followed by Mrs. Dexter and the nurse, coming out.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I was just going up to have another look at the dressing-room."

The doctor inclined his head. "Don't make any more noise than you can help," he said. "We have left the Marquess alone with Lord Heyton; you must do nothing to disturb them."

"Quite so; I'll go up presently," said Mr. Jacobs; and he walked down the corridor. But when the others had disappeared, he turned quickly and softly, and entered the dressing-room.

With the outer door open an inch, he watched and waited; and in a very few minutes Heyton came out of the sick-room. He was white as death, and he was shaking in every limb. The detective waited until he had heard Heyton's slow and heavy steps descend the stairs, then Mr. Jacobs went down, by the back stairs, to his sitting-room. He dined there, with the Inspector, and entertained--though that is scarcely the word--the amazed and disgusted Mr. Brown by an account of a visit Mr. Jacobs had paid to a big agricultural show in the north.

After dinner, he smoked a cigar with an air of quiet and subdued enjoyment proper to the circ.u.mstances; and a little later on, he went for a stroll. The night was hot, and Heyton had gone on to the terrace; he had had some more brandy, and was trying to smoke; but his throat and lips were too parched to permit of his doing so, and with an oath, he flung the cigar away. It fell very nearly on Mr. Jacobs' Homburg hat.

"All right, my lord," he said, as Heyton muttered a sullen apology. "I was just taking a stroll." He went up the steps, and stood beside Heyton, looking at the view with obvious admiration; then presently, he said, "I was going to ask you if you'd mind signing a paper for me, my lord. It's just a little report for Scotland Yard; scarcely necessary perhaps, but still----"

"All right," said Heyton, dully. "Here, come in here!" They entered the library by the French door.

"A beautiful room: magnificent!" murmured Mr. Jacobs. He drew a paper from his pocket and spread it out on the writing-slope. "Just here, my lord, if you please; it's a kind of authorization from you to take charge of the case."

He handed Heyton a pen, and Heyton looked at the paper hazily and was about to sign, when Mr. Jacobs, in drawing the inkstand nearer, had the misfortune to upset it. The ink ran over the paper, and over Heyton's fingers.

"What the devil!" he exclaimed, angrily.

"I beg your pardon, my lord! I'm very sorry; very sorry; it was dreadfully clumsy of me. Dear, dear; it's all over your lordship's hand!

Here, wipe it on this, my lord!"

In his agitation and embarra.s.sment, Mr. Jacobs actually caught hold of Heyton's hand and pressed it on a sheet of paper.

"Tut, tut," he said. "I thought it was blotting-paper! Here it is! I really am so sorry--never did such a thing in my life before!"

"d.a.m.ned clumsy of you!" growled Heyton. "I'm in a beast of a mess!

Where's a cloth?"

"Pray take my handkerchief, my lord," said Mr. Jacobs, offering it.

At this moment, Celia entered the room. She would have drawn back at sight of the two men; but Heyton called to her over his shoulder.

"Hi! Have you got a cloth? The ink's upset----"

She ran to a drawer and took out a clean duster; and Heyton, swearing under his breath, wiped the remainder of the ink from his fingers.

"I'd better go and wash it," he said; and he went out of the room.

"Tut, tut!" said Mr. Jacobs. "It was my fault, Miss Grant. I was reaching for the ink, to bring it nearer his lordship, when my sleeve or something caught the corner of the desk here and, before you could say 'Jack Robinson,' the mischief was done."

He seemed so greatly distressed and upset by the accident, that Celia quite felt for him.

"Oh, it is not a very great matter," she said, soothingly. "There has been no harm done."

Indeed, it did seem to her a very trivial affair, compared with the awful tragedy in which they were moving. "I will get a cloth and wipe up the ink; fortunately, it hasn't run on to the carpet."

As she spoke, she took up the sheets of writing-paper and blotting paper between her finger and thumb, intending to put them in the waste-paper basket; but, with a kind of apologetic laugh, Mr. Jacobs laid his hand on her arm, and said:

"No, don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you will. I should like to keep them as a kind of memento, as a sort of warning for the future not to be so clumsy."

With a shadow of a smile, she gave the two pieces of paper to him, and as he took them he said,

"I've got my own fingers inked. Serve me right. I'll go and wash my hands. Really, I shall never forgive myself! No wonder his lordship was angry."

"Was he?" said Celia, absently. "Yes; he was. But you must remember Lord Heyton is very much upset; when one's nerves are on the rack, the least thing, trifling though it may be----"

"Quite so; quite so," said Mr. Jacobs, with a nod of comprehension.

He was still so much upset by the accident, that he forgot to wash his hands and went straight to his sitting-room, still carrying the two sheets of paper, the evidences of his inexcusable clumsiness.

CHAPTER XXVIII

That night, Inspector Brown confided his disappointment in the ways of Scotland Yard to the wife of his bosom. He was a conscientious man; and it seemed to him that, in the face of Mr. Jacobs' obvious incapacity, it behoved him, Mr. Brown, to follow the case with renewed energy. So far as the worthy Inspector could see, Mr. Jacobs was doing absolutely nothing, save eat his meals, smoke his cigar, and stroll about the grounds and admire the scenery. Therefore, the Inspector enjoined his men to keep a careful watch; and he himself, when not in Mr. Jacobs'

company, patrolled the woods and, following the clue Lord Heyton had offered him, had visited the gipsy encampment and examined the members of the tribe. He came upon nothing to rouse his suspicions of them; indeed, he hit upon no clue whatever; but he still kept up a kind of patrol and scrutinised every person who approached the Hall.

If Mr. Jacobs was aware of the Inspector's renewed vigilance, he made no remark; and whenever they were together, and the Inspector wanted to talk of the case, Mr. Jacobs politely and quite inoffensively--in fact, he always listened most respectfully--led the conversation away from the subject. Once or twice, the Inspector was absolutely on the point of asking the famous detective why on earth he was lingering at the Hall; but his courage always failed him; for, notwithstanding the detective's boyish face and innocent-looking eyes, there was something about him which inspired a kind of respect in Inspector Brown.

After that momentary glimpse of intelligence, and his interview with his son, the Marquess had relapsed into unconsciousness; but the doctor, in answer to Celia's anxious inquiries, had told her that there was a chance, just a chance, of life.

As the great house settled into its nightly silence, Derrick's train was speeding on its way. He had got through Donna Elvira's business satisfactorily, and, moreover, following Reggie's instructions, obtained his special licence; therefore, his heart was light as he sat and smoked while the express tore through the silence of the night. He reached Thexford at ten o'clock in the morning, and went straight to the inn.

Reggie, he was told, was out; and Derrick made a good breakfast and, naturally enough, was drawn towards the wood. It was a hundred to one chance that Celia should be there; but he decided to take the odds. The morning was hot; it was not at all unlikely that, puzzled and perhaps alarmed by his absence, she might go to the wood. On his way, it was also natural that he should recall his sight of Heyton on the preceding morning; and, having recalled that, it was also a corollary that he should remember Heyton's mysterious proceedings.

When they occurred to Derrick, he was not very far from the spot where Heyton had disappeared for a minute or two; and Derrick sauntered towards the place and stood looking round him. He was keen-eyed, and in some of his experiences in South America he had learnt a certain amount of bush-craft; and he had no difficulty in finding the exact spot in which he had lost sight, for a moment, of Heyton.

With a feeling that was scarcely one of curiosity, he examined the ground in close proximity, and presently, he caught sight of a portion of the fringe of a bathing-towel. He took it from the thorn on which it hung, and fingered it absently; and while doing so, he noted the mark of footsteps which had trodden down the bracken in front of a certain bush.

Almost at the same moment, he saw a little heap of dried leaves beneath the bush, and, mechanically, he stirred them with his foot. To his amazement, the displaced leaves revealed a box covered with morocco leather. He stood and looked down at it with that sense of incredulity which comes to all of us when we happen upon something absolutely unexpected; then he knelt down and took up the box. It was heavy and, when he shook it, it rattled softly.

He stood with the box in his hand, staring at it, and wondering whether it was the thing Heyton had concealed, and what it contained. Also another most important question was agitating him: What should he do with it? Presumably, it was Heyton's property; and should be returned to him at once. But why on earth should Heyton come out in the early morning to conceal a morocco-covered box under a bush in Thexford Woods?

To say that Derrick was suspicious is to express inadequately the feeling that suddenly a.s.sailed him. He knew that the man was a scoundrel, and as unscrupulous as he was weak; a man who could forge a cheque, and plant the blame on another, is capable of anything; and Derrick scented a mystery, a base, ign.o.ble one, with Heyton as its centre. He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, the box in his hand, and stared frowningly before him. He could find no answer to the enigma.

That he himself should march up to the Hall and restore the box to Heyton, was impossible. After all, the affair was none of his, and, perhaps, the best thing he could do would be to put the box back in its hiding-place and leave things to work themselves out. He wanted to have nothing more to do with Heyton, or any business of his. Yes; the easiest and the safest plan would be to leave the box where he had found it and have nothing more to do with it. With this more or less wise resolution, he rose and had taken a step forward, when he heard a sound behind him, felt a hand fall heavily on his shoulder, and, turning, met the stern and agitated gaze of Inspector Brown.

"I arrest you for robbery and attempted murder!" said the Inspector.