"No, you wouldn't, because you couldn't see to do it," said Timothy instantly. "You'd have to have a lantern, and that might attract attention. Golly, I bet Pat's right, and someone is trying to do you in!"

"You needn't sound so darned pleased about it, viper!"

"I'm not, but I do think it's jolly exciting."

Jim grinned his appreciation of this point of view but said: "I suppose I should be unpopular if I suggested that the bottom might have been ripped off the Seamew by a floating spar or something of that nature?"

Patricia gave a little shiver. "I've got a feeling--" she began, and then stopped and laughed.

Jim looked at her with deep foreboding. "Are you also-whatever else you may be-honest with yourself, darling?"

"Shut up!" said Patricia. "This isn't a joke."

"My error," murmured Jim.

"Jim, Mr. Roberts warned you only yesterday you might be the next victim."

Timothy, who had relaxed upon his pillows, bounced up at this, his blue eyes sparkling with pleasurable antic.i.p.ation. "Did he? I say, do you think there's a Hidden Killer in the house!"

"Timothy!" gasped Miss Allison, instinctively clasping Mr. Kane's arm.

"Well, if you come to think about it, this is just the sort of house where you might have a Hidden Killer lurking, 'cept that it isn't really old enough, and I shouldn't think there's a secret pa.s.sage or anything. But it's got two wings, and three staircases, and lots of attics leading out of one another and--"

"Stop!" commanded Miss Allison, pale with fright. "I know it's nonsense; but if you go on like that I shan't be able to sleep a wink all night."

"Calm yourself, my love," said Mr. Kane. "If the Hidden Killer tried to do me in by tampering with the Seamew, there doesn't seem to be much point in him lurking in the house."

"No, of course not," said Patricia. "Let's get back to the point. You're the only one of us who knows anything about boats, Jim. Would it be possible for anyone to do something to the speedboat that wouldn't show at first-I mean, if you simply knocked a hole in it it would fill with water at once, and the Seamew didn't."

"I suppose you could plug your hole," replied Jim.

"How?"

Jim reached out a hand for the pencil and Timothy's notebook. "Well, imagine this is one of your bottom strakes. If you cut a wedge-shaped hole, and plugged it so that the broad end of your plug stuck out a bit, presumably it would stay put until you got some way on the boat. It would work loose, and of course as soon as you were going full-speed it would be bound to come out, and the force of the water would be enough to rip the strake right off."

"I see. Do you think that's what was done?"

"No," said Jim cheerfully.

"Why not?" demanded Mr. Harte.

"Probably because I haven't got that kind of mind. Moreover, to do that job you'd have to have the boat out of the water, come armed with a bit and a brace, a pad saw, and a bit of putty to fill up the gaps-it's too darned silly!"

"When was low tide today?" asked Patricia. "Lunchtime, wasn't it?"

"Twelve forty-five," said Jim.

"That means that the Seamew must have been lying on the slipway then, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he agreed reluctantly.

"Jim, don't you see how it all fits in? You tied her up just after eleven, she was high and dry an hour later, and floating again by the time Timothy got to her. It was all thought out, and the time calculated!"

"Rot!" said Jim.

"It isn't rot! It's jolly sensible!" retorted Mr. Harte. "Only, who's the Killer? I rather thought Mr.

Dermott was the person who did Cousin Clement in, but I don't see why he wants to do you in too."

"Nor anyone else. I do wish you'd get this silly idea out of your heads."

"Jim, I shouldn't have thought anything of it if it weren't for what Mr. Roberts said to you. But in face of that--"

"My dear girl, Roberts was talking through his hat. In any case, he saw the whole thing happen, and if there were anything in your theory, he'd presumably be the first to suspect there'd been some dirty work done on the Seamew. But he didn't even suggest it."

"It looks to me," said Mr. Harte, pursuing his own line of thought, "as though it must be one of the Mansells. The only other person I can think of who might want to get rid of you is the next heir-Cousin Maud, I mean."

"Who is living in Sydney," said Jim. "Try again."

"Perhaps she isn't!" said Timothy, loath to abandon this original idea. "Perhaps she's been here all the time, in disguise!"

"Very likely, I should think. Now explain how she managed to post a letter to Aunt Emily from Australia when she was in England at the time, and we shall be all set."

"Say, wise guy!" said Mr. Harte, suddenly becoming transatlantic. "You ever heard of a Blind?"

"Often," replied Jim. "I've even been on one."

"Not that kind, you a.s.s! The other! Get a load of this, now. What if she wrote the letter before she came to England and left it with someone to post on a certain date?"

Jim sighed. "Now I'll tell one!"

"No, but--"

"'The Idiot Boy,' by William Wordsworth!" said Jim. "I suppose she knew by instinct that Cousin Silas always went for a walk after dinner, and which night there'd be a fog, and a few other little details like that? Had the whole thing mapped out to the minute two months before she did the deed. You make me tired!"

"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Mr. Harte.

"Well, while you are thinking of it you might also ask yourself whether cutting holes in speedboats is really a womanly trick," said Jim, getting up.

Timothy relinquished his theory, though reluctantly. "Oh, all right! It was only an idea.

Actually, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if it turned out to be someone we've never even suspected.

Pritchard, or someone like that. I say, I wonder if Cousin Silas possessed some frightfully valuable thing which someone else wants? You needn't look like that! I know I've heard of it happening.

Something you don't know about. A priceless ma.n.u.script or-or-good Lord, if that's it, there probably is a Hidden Killer in the house!"

"I don't quite see why killing Jim should help him to get hold of the Stolen Treasure," objected Miss Allison.

"I expect there's some frightfully complicated reason," said Mr. Harte wisely.

"Well, we'll leave you to think it out," said Jim. "Come on, Pat!"

"You go down. I'll join you in a minute," she replied. "I'm just going along to my room."

She did not go to her room immediately, however.

As soon as Jim had gone downstairs she returned to Mr. Harte and said: "Timothy, I wish you'd tell Superintendent Hannasyde what happened today. I know Jim thinks it's all nonsense; but I can't rid myself of the feeling that he is in danger."

"All right, I will," promised Timothy. "Not," he added gloomily, "that they'll believe a word I say, because I know jolly well they won't. No one ever does."

Telling him to comfort himself with the reflection that she at least had believed his story, Miss Allison withdrew, leaving him to occupy himself until sleep overtook him in evolving a highly elaborate theory to account for the presence in their midst of an Unknown Killer. She went along the pa.s.sage towards the west wing, where, next to Mrs. Kane's, her room was situated. For the first time she thought the pa.s.sage very inadequately lit, and when she encountered Ogle not two steps from Timothy's door, she gave an uncontrollable start of sheer nerves.

Ogle, though Miss Allison had not questioned her presence in the pa.s.sage, immediately began to justify it, so that Miss Allison, knowing her to be extremely inquisitive, guessed that she had been listening outside Timothy's room. She could hardly blame her, for it was one of Emily Kane's least agreeable traits to cull all the information she could from Ogle's expert spying upon the rest of the household. Not unnaturally there had been a good deal of incentive during the past fortnight for Ogle to listen at doors. Miss Allison, accustomed to this unamiable habit, merely smiled and said: "All right, Ogle, don't apologise!"

The maid's sallow cheeks flushed; she said somewhat naively: "The less the police come nosing round here the better it will be, miss. What's done can't be undone. You will pardon me, but if Master Timothy sank Mr. James' boat, it was only what anyone would have expected, and there's no call to drag the police into it."

Miss Allison raised her brows. "Why not?" she asked.

"They're not wanted here," Ogle said sullenly. "They won't find out anything, any more than they did over Mr. Clement. They only worrit the mistress."

"The case of Mr. Clement isn't finished," said Miss Allison "I told you before, the inquest was merely adjourned."

"They won't find out anything," Ogle repeated. "No more they're not wanted to. The impudence of them asking the mistress questions! Well, they didn't get anything out of me, that's one thing."

Miss Allison did not think this worthy of being replied to. She pa.s.sed on to her bedroom and presently rejoined the party in the drawing room.

As usual, she took Emily up to bed at ten o'clock, but when she had delivered her into Ogle's care, she went downstairs again and permitted Mr. James Kane to take her for a moonlight stroll through the gardens.

The night was fine and very warm, but a rustle heard in a cl.u.s.ter of flowering shrubs quite destroyed Miss Allison's pleasure in being alone with her betrothed.

She was reasonable enough to admit that the noise had probably been caused by a cat or a night bird, but it put her in mind of the dangers threatening Jim, and she very soon made an excuse to go back into the house.

Norma and Rosemary were the sole occupants of the drawing room, Sir Adrian having drifted away to the library. When Jim and Patricia came in through the French windows Norma was seated bolt upright at a card table, energetically playing a complicated Patience and telling Rosemary at the same time how much happier she would be if she found an Object in life.

Rosemary was quite in agreement with this but explained that her Russian blood made it impossible for her to remain constant to any one Object for longer than a few months at a stretch.

"My dear girl, don't talk nonsense to me!" said Norma bracingly. "You're lazy, that's all that's wrong with you. Why don't you take up social work?"

"I don't think my health would stand it," replied Rosemary. "I'm one of those unfortunate people whose nerves simply go to pieces as soon as they're bored."

"Thank G.o.d I don't know what it is to have nerves!" said Norma.

"Yes, you're lucky. I don't suppose you even feel the atmosphere in this awful house," said Rosemary shuddering.

"All imagination!" declared Norma, briskly shuffling the cards.

"Of course, I knew you would say that. All the same, there is a dreadful atmosphere here. I expect you have to be rather sensitive to it."

Lady Hart raised her eyes from the cards. "I do not in the least mind being thought insensitive, Rosemary; but as I fancy you meant that remark as a slur on my character, I can only say that it was extremely rude of you," she said severely.

This rejoinder was so unexpected that Rosemary, colouring hotly, was for the moment bereft of speech.

Lady Harte, laying her cards out with a firm hand, took advantage of her silence to add: "The sensitiveness you vaunt so incessantly, my good girl, does not seem to take other people's feelings into account. If you talked less about yourself and thought more of others, you would not only be a happier woman but a great deal pleasanter to live with into the bargain."

"Of course, I know I'm very selfish," replied Rosemary with the utmost calm. "You mustn't think I don't know myself through and through, because I do. I'm selfish and terribly temperamental and fickle."

"You are not only selfish," said Lady Harte; "you are indolent, shallow, parasitic and remarkably stupid."

Rosemary got up, roused at last to anger. She said in a trembling voice: "How very funny!

Really, I can hardly help laughing!"

"Laugh away," advised Lady Harte, her attention on Miss Milligan.

"When you have seen your husband shot before your very eyes," said Rosemary, a trifle inaccurately, "perhaps you will have some comprehension of what it means to suffer."

Lady Harte raised her eyes and looked steadily up at the outraged beauty. "My husband, as I think you are aware, died of his wounds twenty years ago. I saw him die. If you think you can tell me anything about suffering, I shall be interested to hear it."

There was an uncomfortable silence. "Sometimes I feel as though I should go out of my mind!"

announced Rosemary. "No one has the least understanding of my character. Good-night!"

"Good-night," said Lady Harte.

The door shut with a decided bang behind Rosemary.

Jim moved forward from the window, where he and Patricia had remained rooted during this remarkable duologue. "Really, Mother!" he expostulated.

"A little plain speaking is what is wanted in this house!" said Norma roundly. "The idea of that young baggage telling me I don't know what it is to suffer! She!-- Why, she's revelling in being a widow! Do you think I can't see what's under my nose? Atmosphere! Bah!"

Patricia smiled but said: "I don't much like identifying myself with Rosemary, but I'm conscious of that atmosphere, too, you know."

"A dose of salts will probably do away with it," replied Norma crudely.

This prosaic suggestion did much to restore Miss Allison to her usual placidity, but when she presently went up to bed her mind crept back to the conversation in Timothy's room. The pleasing theory that an Unknown Killer lurked in their midst did not seriously trouble her, but she would have been happier could she but have been a.s.sured that Jim would lock his bedroom door before going to bed. But nothing was more unlikely than that he would take this simple precaution against being murdered.

Further reflection compelled Miss Allison to admit to herself that it would not be a very easy matter for anyone to murder Jim in his bed without running the risk of instant detection. In the warmth and bright light of the bathroom she decided that her fears were foolish; on the way back to her room along the shadowy pa.s.sage she was not quite so sure; and lying in bed with the moonlight filtering into the room through the gaps between the curtains, and a tendril of Virginia creeper tapping against the window, she began to consider the possibility of Timothy's being right after all.

In her mind she ran over the male staff of Cliff House and fell asleep at last with a conglomeration of fantastic thoughts jostling one another in her head.

It did not seem to her that she had been asleep for more than a few minutes when she was awakened suddenly by the echoes of a scream. She started up, half in doubt, and switched on the light. The hands of her bedside clock stood at a quarter-past one, she noticed. Just as she was about to lie down again, believing the scream to have occurred only in her unquiet dreams, it was repeated.

Miss Allison recognised Mr. Harte's voice, raised to a wild note of panic, and sprang out of bed, s.n.a.t.c.hing up her dressing gown. As she flung open her door she heard Timothy shriek: "Jim! Jim!"

She raced down the pa.s.sage to his room and found to her surprise that it was illumined only by the moonlight. Switching on the light, she discovered Mr. Harte cowering at the end of his bed, sweat on his brow, his eyes dilated and glaring at her.

"There's a man, there's a man!" gasped Mr. Harte in a grip of a rigor. "Jim, Jim, there's a man!"