"You might have known Peter Creighton is never as idle as he looks,"

commented Jean Krech, when she had listened to the tale of Latimer.

"He probably has a dozen more irons in the fire that you don't dream of. I suppose you're going over there now?"

"Uh-huh. There's always a chance he may have some news."

"Well, it's all right for you to drop in and ask," said Jean calmly.

"But--don't linger, melove, don't linger!"

"Huh? What do you mean, don't linger? Why not?"

"You blind old goose! Has it ever struck you that Creighton is a rather lonely man?"

"Lonely?" Then the significance of her question suddenly hit him between the eyes. "Gee Joseph! Are you trying to promote a romance between him and Miss Ocky?"

"Precious little promotion is required," she corrected him. "It's as plain as the nose on your face how things are going." She laughed when her husband in his bewilderment reached up and felt of the promontory indicated. "Yes, it's very plain!"

"But they've only known each other a week or so!"

"What of it? They're old enough to know their own minds--both in the early forties. Neither of them has ever had a love-affair as far as we know; probably it hits them harder and quicker when they're like that!"

"Maybe you're right." Krech reflected deeply, and then nodded his head. "Suits me! I like her immensely, and of course he'd be a whole lot happier if he were married. Any man is."

"Oh, _thank_ you!" cried his beautiful wife softly. She slipped a hand beneath his elbow and gave his ma.s.sive arm an affectionate squeeze while her blue eyes twinkled up at his. "Is um itty-witty baby happy, then?"

"Shut up," commanded Mr. Krech with intense dignity. "Don't go cooing at me--not where any one might hear you, anyway!"

An unprejudiced observer of the trend of events at the house on the hill must have admitted that Mrs. Krech had considerable grounds for her romantic suspicions. Twice during the ten days aforementioned Creighton was obliged to go to New York and spend half a day on business that would not be denied, and each time he returned bearing books and candy and a vast quant.i.ty of a.s.sorted and exotic fruits for which Miss Ocky had expressed a casual longing and which the marts of Hambleton could not provide. On the first occasion he pretended they were for Lucy Varr, still confined to her room, but on the second he abandoned pretense.

Then there was the incident of the picnic, sponsored by Miss Ocky.

They took their lunch and plunged into the wilderness of hills that lay to the north of Hambleton, their destination the cave that was reputed to have sheltered the legendary monk. It was Miss Ocky's suggestion that in the haunts of the old monk they might come upon some traces of the new, if that imaginative imitator had carried his masquerade to the extent of using his predecessor's quarters, and Creighton, without the flutter of an eyelash, agreed that nothing was more likely. They found the cave--or some cave--but nothing else. Their disappointment weighed lightly upon them, and the detective enjoyed the day with all the artless abandon of a schoolboy playing hooky.

Even more significant than the picnic was the _pilau_. Miss Ocky had described this supposedly delectable dish to Creighton at some length, and the next day was impelled to possess herself of the kitchen and compose a _pilau_ such as she swore appeared daily on the tables of the first epicures of Constantinople. However that might be, affairs are approaching a crisis when a woman is seized with a desire to demonstrate her culinary accomplishments to a man.

The _pilau_ was an amazing dish. At table with them during those days was a very pale, very thin young man with gold pince-nez, fair hair and a painfully self-effacing manner, who had been quartered on the house by Judge Taylor for the purpose of doc.u.menting a vast acc.u.mulation of papers in Simon Varr's study. He took a mouthful of the pilau, started slightly, and took a second to make sure his senses had not deceived him about the first. Ten minutes later, the closest approach to any emotion that he ever revealed was visible on his face as Creighton sent back his plate for a third helping.

If Miss Ocky noticed his tactless expression of awe--and she rarely missed anything so obvious--it probably did nothing to raise the young man in her esteem. She frankly disliked him.

"That Merrill!" she grumbled to Creighton when they were by themselves after dinner. "A perfect imposition on the part of Judge Taylor! Of course I couldn't very well refuse under the circ.u.mstances, but I'll be glad when we lose him!"

"He must have nearly finished his work," Creighton consoled her.

"After all, he's harmless. Why does he annoy you?"

"I don't know," was the conclusively feminine reply. "He just does."

On the afternoon of the eleventh day after the death of Simon Varr, Creighton had a chat with Jason Bolt in the office of the tannery that was in no-wise remarkable except for the odd timeliness of the detective's farewell observation. Jason had asked him if he was satisfied with the progress made to date or whether he was discouraged by the present lull which so closely resembled stagnation. Could he say when the mystery might take some definite turn toward solution?

"Ask me when the millennium is coming and be done with it," said Creighton rather plaintively, wondering why so many people seemed to credit detectives with oracular powers. "If Norvallis has the right pig by the ear, Maxon may break down, turn State's evidence and hang his accomplice. That's one possibility. Another--we may as well face it--is that this case will go to swell the great army of unsolved mysteries." He hesitated, then added, "There's a third possibility, of course."

"What is it?"

"The chance that a break will come from some totally unexpected quarter when we've all but given up hope. I've seen that happen a score of times. There's no predicting it--no counting on it. But when it comes--then look out! A case that has been placid and smooth as a mill pond will suddenly develop the characteristics of a maelstrom!" He smiled encouragement at the troubled Jason. "If one starts in this case, we may reasonably expect that its gurgitations will yield us that missing notebook if nothing more."

He was on foot that afternoon by choice, for he had long held that a daily walk is the best exercise for a man whose profession does not in itself provide him with much physical activity. He preferred it to gymnasium stuff, too; a man can think deeply while walking with perfect safety, if he avoids traffic, whereas the hospitals are full of misguided gentlemen who have committed the error of thinking deeply on some other subject while engaged, say, in "skinning the cat."

He had much to make him thoughtful these days. He was not at all satisfied with the situation in this Varr case, though he refrained from revealing his pessimism to others, and was reluctantly coming to fear that Norvallis had indeed gotten the jump on him--and jumped in the right direction. The possibility irritated him. He wished to clear up this murder himself more than he had ever wished for anything in his life. Wasn't Miss Ocky waiting confidently for him to do just that?

The intrusion of her name into his thoughts turned them into a new channel. He knew now that before he dropped his personal supervision of this case, before he left Hambleton for New York to attend to matters which were pressing there, he would have to ask Miss October Copley one of the most important questions he had ever asked in the course of a career devoted mostly to inquisitions. The prospect gave him a shivery feeling up and down his spine!

He walked briskly up the short-cut through the woods and came out at the end of the kitchen garden, now a.s.sociated with a grimmer business than the growing of vegetables. It was due to his swift pace that he was in the open, in plain view, before he noticed two figures seated on the big granite bowlder near the tomato-patch. He would have retreated to the obscurity of the trees and watched that interview if Miss Ocky had not spied him and risen instantly from her seat on the rock.

"Come here!" she called. "The very man we want!"

He walked over to them, and Miss Ocky's companion, a tall, handsome, fair-haired man, stood up to acknowledge the impending introduction.

He looked pale and worn, more haggard even than that morning at the inquest.

"Mr. Creighton--Mr. Leslie Sherwood," said Miss Ocky quickly. "You haven't met each other yet, have you?"

"No, I haven't _met_ Mr. Sherwood," acknowledged the detective, accenting the verb very slightly.

"But you've been on my track!" said Sherwood, smiling rather nervously.

"My valet was shrewd enough to suspect the man who sc.r.a.ped an acquaintance with him and showed so much interest in discovering my whereabouts on the night of Simon Varr's murder! He followed his new acquaintance one afternoon and saw him report to you."

"You appear to be more fortunate than I in the intelligence of your followers," said Creighton rather glumly. "I'm glad, though, to have this matter brought into the open." He glanced at Miss Ocky and back to Sherwood. "May I speak frankly, or shall we adjourn to the house by our two selves?"

"I have nothing to conceal from Miss Copley," answered Sherwood, flushing slightly. "As a matter of fact, I've just been making a full statement to her of my actions that evening and she had just advised me strongly to consult you when you suddenly appeared."

"Excellent advice. I'll explain my curiosity first, though. During the course of my investigation I've had to poke up a lot of gossip and more or less ancient history, and some of it related to you. According to my information you were once--attentive--to Miss Lucy Copley. You left, and she married Simon Varr. You returned, and Simon Varr, who had not proved a kind husband, is presently murdered. I had already noted your agitation at the inquest, and without entertaining definite views, I still thought it advisable to learn what I could about you."

"Quite naturally," admitted Sherwood with a certain urbanity, though his color deepened. "I can see now that you had some reason to regard me askance. However, the fact that you are already so well posted in my affairs has its consoling virtues--it makes it easier for me to tell you more." He hesitated, looked toward Miss Ocky as if for encouragement, received it in a short nod and added slowly, "I may as well begin with a circ.u.mstance that would probably have crystallized your suspicions of me if you had learned it for yourself."

"What was that?" asked the detective a bit impatiently.

"I was present at the murder," said Sherwood.

_XX: H. Antaeus Krech_

Miss Ocky, who had heard the story already, sat down on the rock and calmly waited its continuance, but Creighton's eyes narrowed.

"You were present! At the murder!"

"In the background only, I a.s.sure you," amended Sherwood, and plunged rather desperately into his account. "It is a habit of mine to grab my hat and stick and take a short walk every evening before going to bed, and that was how I came to be out that night. I had no special objective, and--and because old memories had been stirred by my return I almost unconsciously cut across the fields near my house and headed for that path which leads to this garden. I used to do that twenty-two years ago when--when there used to be some one to meet me right by this rock! Somehow, I felt as if I wanted to--to look at a certain lighted window before I turned in. I don't expect you to understand--"

"I do, however! What time was all this?"

"Half-past ten, roughly. When I got here, the only light burning was in Simon's study--otherwise the house was in darkness, which seemed to me an ironic commentary on my foolish gesture! The study light went out almost immediately, but I lingered on. I sat down on a fallen log in the deep shadow of those trees--there, to the right of the path--and began to think back to old times. One discovery I made was that I hated Simon Varr more than ever after all these years. Damaging confession, I suppose?