Griffiths departed in haste and confusion, without the chance of a professional talk with Loveday. That afternoon saw him telegraphing wildly in all directions, and dispatching messengers in all quarters. Finally he spent over an hour drawing up an elaborate report to his chief at Newcastle, assuring him of the identity of one, Harold Cousins, who had sailed in the Bonnie Dundee for Natal, with Harry Craven, of Troyte’s Hill, and advising that the police authorities in that far-away district should be immediately communicated with.
The ink had not dried on the pen with which this report was written before a note, in Loveday’s writing, was put into his hand.
Loveday evidently had had some difficulty in finding a messenger for this note, for it was brought by a gardener’s boy, who informed Griffiths that the lady had said he would receive a gold sovereign if he delivered the letter all right.
Griffiths paid the boy and dismissed him, and then proceeded to read Loveday’s communication.
It was written hurriedly in pencil, and ran as follows:
“Things are getting critical here. Directly you receive this, come up to the house with two of your men, and post yourselves anywhere in the grounds where you can see and not be seen. There will be no difficulty in this, for it will be dark by the time you are able to get there. I am not sure whether I shall want your aid to-night, but you had better keep in the grounds until morning, in case of need; and above all, never once lose sight of the study windows.” (This was underscored.) “If I put a lamp with a green shade in one of those windows, do not lose a moment in entering by that window, which I will contrive to keep unlocked.”
Detective Griffiths rubbed his forehead—rubbed his eyes, as he finished reading this.
“Well, I daresay it’s all right,” he said, “but I’m bothered, that’s all, and for the life of me I can’t see one step of the way she is going.”
He looked at his watch: the hands pointed to a quarter past six. The short September day was drawing rapidly to a close. A good five miles lay between him and Troyte’s Hill—there was evidently not a moment to lose.
At the very moment that Griffiths, with his two constables, were once more starting along the Grenfell High Road behind the best horse they could procure, Mr. Craven was rousing himself from his long slumber, and beginning to look around him. That slumber, however, though long, had not been a peaceful one, and it was sundry of the old gentleman’s muttered exclamations, as he had started uneasily in his sleep, that had caused Loveday to open, and then to creep out of the room to dispatch, her hurried note.
What effect the occurrence of the morning had had upon the household generally, Loveday, in her isolated corner of the house, had no means of ascertaining. She only noted that when Hales brought in her tea, as he did precisely at five o’clock, he wore a particularly ill-tempered expression of countenance, and she heard him mutter, as he set down the tea-tray with a clatter, something about being a respectable man, and not used to such “goings on.”
It was not until nearly an hour and a half after this that Mr. Craven had awakened with a sudden start, and, looking wildly around him, had questioned Loveday who had entered the room.
Loveday explained that the butler had brought in lunch at one, and tea at five, but that since then no one had come in.
“Now that’s false,” said Mr. Craven, in a sharp, unnatural sort of voice; “I saw him sneaking round the room, the whining, canting hypocrite, and you must have seen him, too! Didn’t you hear him say, in his squeaky old voice: ‘Master, I knows your secret—’” He broke off abruptly, looking wildly round. “Eh, what’s this?” he cried. “No, no, I’m all wrong—Sandy is dead and buried—they held an inquest on him, and we all praised him up as if he were a saint.”