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He went to the door and called to his young partner. ‘Old Clarke's been giving me instructions for a fresh will,' he said. ‘Everything to the Jennie girl, unless she is married at his death. If she is married, everything to charity. He specially mentioned that I was to tell you.'

There was a faint, malicious smile on Marsden's lips as he said this, and for a moment or two Peter made no reply. Then he said slowly and deliberately:

‘We rather expected something of the sort.'

‘Who is “we”?' demanded Marsden.

‘Jennie and I,' Peter answered. ‘You see, we were married three weeks ago.'

‘What?' shouted Marsden. ‘What?'

But Peter did not think it necessary to repeat what he had said.

‘Good Lord!' said Marsden, slowly taking it in. ‘Does he know?'

‘I don't suppose he knows,' Peter answered. ‘I expect he has some idea.'

‘Well, I'm blessed,' said Marsden, coming into the room and sitting down. ‘You young fool, you've done it now – the girl won't get a penny.'

Peter said nothing, and Marsden sat staring and thinking till another and startling idea came to him.

‘Good Lord!' he cried, ‘ten to one he'll take it out of the firm – he'll ruin the firm for this. You fool, you've done me in, too.'

‘I thought of that,' answered Peter calmly, ‘so I'll get out. You can tell him you've given me the sack, if you like. That'll calm him down as far as you're concerned. My wife' – he flushed crimson, the words were still new to him, still wonderful and lovely – ‘my wife and I talked it all over. We expected something like this. That is one reason why we thought it better to get married privately – that can't be undone, and Sir Christopher can do what he likes, but he can't undo our marriage, so it will be no good his trying to bully Jennie. There's no telling what he mightn't have been up to before, but now he can't do anything. But very likely he would try to get at me and perhaps at you as well, if I was still here. So I'll get out. I shan't be sorry to chuck the job, anyhow. I'm no good at it, and never shall be. I should never make a lawyer and don't want to, either. I've talked it over with Willy Simmonds. He's willing to buy me out and come in with you. It'll be a good thing for you, he's a jolly smart chap and he has lots of experience and a fair practice already.'

Marsden had become very pale. He said nothing, but his expression had become so strange that Peter was quite alarmed.

‘What's up?' he said. ‘I thought you would jump at the idea. You will get a clever brainy fellow as partner instead of a duffer at the job like me – you were cursing heaven only yesterday for having landed you with me for a partner. Simmonds is coming along to see you any time you like – what's the matter? You don't object to Simmonds, do you? You told me yourself last week you wished to the Lord you had someone like him to work with.'

‘You fool – you fool – you infernal fool,' Marsden stammered, ‘you've ruined me and yourself, too.'

‘What on earth–?' began Peter, but Marsden jumped to his feet in a fury.

‘You fool,' he almost screamed, ‘you may as well know now, you would have sooner or later. There's a deficiency of Lord knows how much – I don't. I had to take money where I could get it to make up the Belfort Trust. I was afraid old Clarke would spot something was wrong, but I suppose as long as the totals were right, he didn't care. I've had to take money from half a dozen other accounts and do you suppose Simmonds will buy without finding that out, and when he does–'

He left the sentence unfinished, and Peter tried hard to understand, but found it difficult.

‘Do you mean,' he said in a whisper, in a low, awestricken whisper. ‘Embezzlement?' he asked.

‘That's what the courts would call it, I suppose,' Marsden answered, laughing harshly. ‘I could have put the money back in time, I always have till now. It's that Belfort Trust upset me – once I could get that back I should be all right. I could use it and carry on till I had got things square again, but now, you fool, you utter fool, you've ruined everything. If you stay with the firm Sir Christopher will smash it; and you can't sell out and clear out – you've nothing to sell except your share in a bankrupt swindle.'

Early that same evening, about the time when the great, daily tide of humanity ebbs from work to home, Police-Constable Robert Owen, B.A. (Oxon) – a pass degree only – took shelter from a light passing shower under one of the tall cedars that grew on either side of the gate admitting to the imposing Hampstead residence of Sir Christopher Clarke. The wide stretching arms of the trees, reaching out over the roadway, protected him well enough from the rain as he waited for his sergeant, who, in the ordinary routine, was due soon to meet him thereabouts.

As yet there was no sign of him, and, stifling a yawn, Bobby Owen reflected that a policeman's lot, whether happy or not, was at any rate sufficiently dull. During the three years he had spent in the force his most exciting experiences had been escorting old ladies across the road and satisfying the insatiable thirst of children for the right time. Of course his luck had been atrociously bad. Any little turn up with Communists blazing to overthrow civilization, or with Irish more modestly content with the destruction of the British Empire, always took place when he was off duty. Smash and grab raids never happened on his beat, no burglar ever troubled his tranquillity, even motorists themselves seemed to suffer from an epidemic of good behaviour when he was near. Indeed Bobby was almost reduced to wishing that when, on coming down from Oxford, he had found a world with but scanty openings to offer to young University graduates with only pass degrees, he had decided to join the army instead of choosing the police – even though an army in peace time had always seemed to him the last word in futility.

Of course, his athletic record was good enough to have secured him a post on the staff of almost any school in the land, except the few where the standard is so high that besides the necessary athletics, some scholarship also is demanded. But towards the teaching profession he felt no attraction whatever – quite the reverse, indeed – and an offer of a post in the haberdashery department, known as ‘habys', in one of the great London stores he had also declined in spite of the alluring prospect it held out of becoming in due course a super-Selfridge, of out-harroding Harrods, of aiding the flag of Kensington High Street to blaze yet more terrific through the advertisement columns of all the papers in the country.

So here he was in the police, very bored, and uncomfortably aware that he was not in too good odour with his superiors. For as soon as they realized that he was an old St George's College man, he had been selected for night club work, and to that job he had shown his dislike so plainly that he had been at once shot out to Hampstead, there to be engaged on ordinary patrol duty. Not that his superiors really minded much, for there is no lack of good-looking young constables who can wear evening dress as though midnight had never seen them in any other attire, and who are perfectly prepared to spend a fiver of their country's money on bad champagne and worse whisky. But all the same neither in ‘The Force' nor anywhere else is it wise for the ambitious to get a reputation for being ‘difficult'.

So Bobby was not only a little bored, but also a little depressed, as he sheltered outside ‘The Cedars', and waited for the sergeant who did not come. Indeed, no living creature was in sight till down the drive from the house pattered an elderly man whose air of bland dignity, of grave responsibility, stamped him instantly as either a bishop or a butler, the lack of gaiters on his nether limbs however tipping the scales of probability in favour of the second alternative.

He had on a mackintosh, carried an umbrella, and was evidently on his way to the post, for he carried two or three letters in his hand. Seeing Bobby, he stopped and commented gravely on the deplorable weather. Constables on duty are warned against entering into conversation with strangers, but also it is prudent for them to be acquainted as far as possible with the domestic staffs of the neighbourhood. For it is surprising how many interesting and occasionally curious events the apparently humdrum lives of butler and maid are brought into contact with.

So Bobby responded genially, learnt that the stranger was butler at ‘The Cedars' and was named Lewis, and that he was on the way to post these letters himself, because ‘one of them was of some importance, being no other than Mr Lewis's instructions to his turf agent with regard to backing a certain double at the race meeting beginning the next day. Being informed what this double was, Bobby gave it as his considered opinion that the choice was a good one and might well come off.

For Bobby was an expert on the form of race-horses, that is to say, he read every day the pronouncements, equally authoritative and contradictory, of Captain Go, Major Know, and ‘The Spotter', and, having done so, selected when possible a horse none of the three had mentioned. In this way he had brought off some remarkable coups, and had the reputation of knowing a lot, so much so, indeed, that even an inspector had been known to ask him for a tip. Not that Bobby took any real interest in racing, but in police work it is sometimes necessary to open conversations with strangers or to win the confidence of reluctant witnesses, and for both purposes a brief discussion on the prospects of tomorrow's three-thirty is the best possible introduction. Indeed it is quite certain that any observation on this subject is more likely to draw a prompt and instructed reply from any Englishman anywhere than is any other imaginable remark.

That his approval of the proposed double was based upon solid knowledge Bobby was thus able to demonstrate, and, much cheered, Mr Lewis trotted off to drop his letters into the pillar-box across the way. Coming back, he stopped again to speak to Bobby.

* You haven't noticed a little old chap, thin face, long nose, grey whiskers, rather shabby, boots down at heels, hanging about here, have you?' he asked. ‘If you do, you might keep an eye on him.'

‘Right,' said Bobby. ‘What's the trouble?'

‘Been talking a bit wild,' explained Lewis, ‘not using threats exactly but talking as if he meant to. Sir Christopher told me if he come again to make sure I saw him off the premises, but what's the good of that? Nothing to stop him coming back.'

‘Sir Christopher your guv'nor?' asked Bobby.

‘Yes,' answered Lewis, ‘big City man – it's him as nearly owns United Firms and he's chairman of the City and Suburbs bank, too.'

‘I've heard of him,' said Bobby. ‘Made a speech about getting back to gold the other day, didn't he? Said gold was gold and when you had gold, why, then you had it. Made a big impression in the City, the papers said. What's the trouble with the grey-whiskered bird?'

‘Expect,' said Lewis with appreciation, ‘it's someone the guv'nor's done in the eye. Guv'nor told me, if he gave any trouble to clear him out quick and see he didn't hang about the house or garden. But how can I stop that? Nothing to prevent him slipping back again any time he wants. We don't keep the gate locked, and, if we did, he could go in next door now it's empty and get over the wall, couldn't he?'

Bobby agreed that that was possible, promised to keep on the watch for any elderly and grey-whiskered gentlemen who looked as if they might ‘give trouble', and Lewis, apparently easier in his mind, returned to the house.

Even yet the sergeant had not put in an appearance and Bobby began to wonder if something had occurred to prevent him from coming. Bobby decided to stroll to the corner and see if any sign of his approach were visible. Coming back, for no sergeant was in sight, he saw across the road an elderly man who certainly appeared to be paying a somewhat unusual attention to ‘The Cedars', as though for some reason he took a special interest in the house. True, he did not fully answer the description Lewis had given, for he was not a little man but of middle height and size, and he looked more prosperous than shabby. A glance Bobby gave at his boots showed that, far from being down at heel, they were quite new, and he noticed, too, that they were unusually long and narrow, though that was not a point which interested him at the moment or to which he thought of attaching any importance. Nor had he grey whiskers but, instead, a sandy beard. Still, even Bobby's short experience in the police had taught him that personal descriptions offered by apparently trustworthy witnesses were often wildly inaccurate, and it was at least certain that this stranger was elderly and that he was showing an unusual degree of interest in ‘The Cedars'.

‘Elmhurst', the next house to ‘The Cedars', was empty, except for a caretaker, and stood also in a fairly large garden of about half an acre or more. Deciding that it might be as well to watch this elderly stranger for a time, Bobby pushed open the ‘Elmhurst' gate and took up his position behind one of the trees lining the short drive that led to the house. And scarcely had he done so when he heard, coming from the direction of the empty house, the sound of angry shouts, of a dog barking, of running footsteps.

All this seemed to require investigation more pressingly than did the movements of the elderly stranger, and Bobby ran up the drive towards the house, where he met the caretaker, a man named Walters. Walters, it seemed, had seen from the kitchen window a strange man in the garden, in which there was a fair amount of fruit growing, unripe still, but all the same subject to many raids. At once, fearing for the fruit, Walters had dashed out in pursuit, armed with an over-ripe tomato his wife had just been indignantly displaying to him as having been foisted off upon her by a too enterprising greengrocer.

‘Chap was after the apples,' complained Walters indignantly, for the produce of the garden he regarded as part of the emoluments of his office. ‘I saw him from the kitchen but he must have spotted me, too, for he ran like a good'un – off he was and over the wall in quick time, but I let him have the tomato and it took him clean in the middle of the back – spoilt his Sunday suit for him, I hope,' said Walters, chuckling, ‘but the cheek of it and in broad daylight, too.'