“Marden? That’s not Marden. I tell you, Inspector, if that jump of his meant anything, it suggests that there’s no Marden at all.”
The Inspector’s amazement overbore his chagrin.
“I don’t understand . . .” he began.
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Get away down to the water-side at once. See if he’s badly damaged. Quick, now.”
As the Inspector hurried off, the Chief Constable turned to Michael Clifton.
“History doesn’t always repeat itself exactly, you see.”
He pulled out a match-box and lit his cigarette in a leisurely fashion. Then, throwing away the vesta, he inquired:
“You see now how he got away from you last time?”
Michael made no reply. He was examining the pedestal from which the living statue had taken its flight; and he could see the scores and cuts left by the chisel which had smoothed the standing-place of the original marble figure. Quite obviously, on the night of the masked ball, the same trick had been played; and while the pursuers were searching all around, the fugitive had stood rigid above them, unsuspected by anyone.
Cecil turned to the Chief Constable.
“Aren’t you going down to see if something can’t be done for the poor devil? He must have come a fearful smash on the rocks.”
“Poor devil?” Sir Clinton retorted. “That’s not a poor devil. That’s a wild beast, if you’re anxious for information. But if you’re a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I suppose we’d better see that things are done decently and in order. We’ll go down, if you’re perturbed about him.”
It took them some little time to descend to the level of the lakelet. They could see, as they went down, the process of rescue; and when they reached the water-side, they found two constables stooping over a limp white figure, beside which the Inspector knelt solicitously. As the newcomers approached, Armadale rose and stepped over to them.
“He’s done for, sir,” he reported in a low voice to Sir Clinton. “His pelvis is smashed and I think his spine must have gone as well. He’s paralysed below the waist. I doubt if he’ll last long. It was a fearful smash.”
Cecil crossed over and peered down at the face of the dying man. For a moment he failed to recognize him; for the white grease-paint disguised the natural appearance of the features: but a closer scrutiny revealed the identity of the living statue.
“Why, it’s the chauffeur!”
“Of course,” was all that Sir Clinton thought it worth while to say.
Armadale brought something up from the water-side.
“Here’s the waterproof he was wearing, sir. It’s Marden’s, just as I told you when I saw him in the museum to-night. When he flung it over the edge of the cliff as we were coming up, it landed on a broad bit of rock instead of sinking like the Pierrot costume, the other night.”
Sir Clinton was silent for a moment. His glance wandered to the broken, white-clad figure on the ground, but no pity showed on his face. Then he turned back to Armadale.
“See if you can get a confession out of him, Inspector. He won’t live long at the best; and he might as well tell what he can. We can’t hang him now, unfortunately; and he may as well save us some trouble in piecing things together. For one thing, he’s got a bag or a suit-case lying around somewhere in the neighbourhood with a suit of clothes in it. You’d better find out where that is, and save us the bother of hunting for it. If you manage to get anything out of him, take it down and get it witnessed. Bring it down to Ravensthorpe at once.”
He passed, then added as if by an after-thought:
“You’d better search these tights that he’s wearing. There ought to be five of the medallions concealed about him somewhere. Get them for me.”
He turned to Cecil and Michael.
“We’ll go back now to Ravensthorpe. Unless I’m far astray in my deductions, there’s been another murder there; and we must keep the girls from hearing about it, if we can.”
As they walked through the pine-wood, Sir Clinton maintained a complete taciturnity, and neither of the others cared to break in on his silence. His last words had shown that ahead of them might lie yet another of the Ravensthorpe tragedies, and the shadow of it lay across their minds. It was not until they were approaching the house that the Chief Constable spoke again.
“You’ve spun that yarn I gave you to the girls?”
“They know there was some stunt afoot,” said Cecil, “but they were to keep out of the way, in their rooms, until we were clear of the house.”
“One had to tell them something,” Sir Clinton answered. “If one hadn’t, they’d have been pretty uncomfortable when all that racket started. You managed to scare him out very neatly with the row you raised when I blew my whistle.”
“The girls are sitting up, waiting for us,” Cecil explained. “They said they’d have coffee ready when we came back.”
“The deuce they did!”
Sir Clinton was obviously put out.
