Mr. Satterthwaite paused, flushed with triumph.
"But for you, I should never have seen it," he said with sudden humility. "You have a most curious effect upon me. One says things so often without even seeing what they really mean. You have the knack of showing one. But it is still not quite clear to me. It must have been most difficult for Harwell to disappear as he did. After all, the police all over England were looking for him."
"They were probably looking," said Mr. Quin, "all over England."
"It would have been simplest to remain hidden at the Grange," mused Mr. Satterthwaite. "If it could be managed."
"He was, I think, very near the Grange," said Mr. Quin.
His look of significance was not lost on Mr. Satterthwaite. "Mathias's cottage?" he exclaimed. "But the police must have searched it?"
"Repeatedly, I should imagine," said Mr. Quin.
"Mathias," said Mr. Satterthwaite, frowning.
"And Mrs. Mathias," said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite stared hard at him. "If that gang was really the Clondinis," he said dreamily, "there are three of them in it. The two young ones were Harwell and Eleanor Le Couteau. The mother now, was she Mrs. Mathias? But in that case--"
"Mathias suffered from rheumatism, did he not?" said Mr. Quin innocently.
"Oh!" cried Mr. Satterthwaite. "I have it. But could it be done? I believe it could. Listen. Mathias was there a month. During that time, Harwell and Eleanor were away for a fortnight on a honeymoon. For the fortnight before the wedding, they were supposedly in town. A clever man could have doubled the parts of Harwell and Mathias. When Harwell was at Kirtlington Mallet, Mathias was conveniently laid up with rheumatism, with Mrs. Mathias to sustain the fiction. Her part was very necessary. Without her, someone might have suspected the truth. As you say, Harwell was hidden in Mathias's cottage. He _was_ Mathias. When at last the plans matured, and Ashley Grange was sold, he and his wife gave out that they were taking a place in Essex. Exit John Mathias and his wife--forever."
There was a knock at the coffee-room door, and Masters entered.
"The car is at the door, sir," he said.
Mr. Satterthwaite rose. So did Mr. Quin, who went across to the window, pulling the curtains. A beam of moonlight streamed into the room.
"The storm is over," he said.
Mr. Satterthwaite was pulling on his gloves. "The Commissioner is dining with me next week," he said importantly. "I shall put my theory--ah!--before him."
"It will be easily proved or disproved," said Mr. Quin. "A comparison of the objects at Ashley Grange with a list supplied by the French police--!"
"Just so," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Rather hard luck on Mr. Bradburn, but--well--"
"He can, I believe, stand the loss," said Mr. Quin.
Mr. Satterthwaite held out his hand. "Good-by," he said. "I cannot tell you how much I have appreciated this unexpected meeting. You are leaving here tomorrow, I think you said?"
"Possibly tonight. My business here is done. I come and go, you know."
Mr. Satterthwaite remembered hearing those same words earlier in the evening. Rather curious.
He went out to the car and the waiting Masters. From the open door into the bar the landlord's voice floated out, rich and complacent.
"A dark mystery," he was saying. "A dark mystery, that's what it is."
But he did not use the word "dark." The word he used suggested quite a different color. Mr. William Jones was a man of discrimination who suited his adjectives to his company. The company in the bar liked their adjectives full flavored.
Mr. Satterthwaite reclined luxuriously in the comfortable limousine. His breast was swelled with triumph. He saw the girl Mary come out on the steps and stand under the creaking inn sign.
"She little knows," said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. "She little knows what _I_ am going to do!"
The sign of the Bells and Motley swayed gently in the wind.
THE SIGN IN THE SKY
The judge was finishing his charge to the jury:
"Now, gentlemen, I have almost finished what I want to say to you. There is evidence for you to consider as to whether this case is plainly made out against this man so that you may say he is guilty of the murder of Vivien Barnaby. You have had the evidence of the servants as to the time the shot was fired. They have one and all agreed upon it. You have had the evidence of the letter written to the defendant by Vivien Barnaby on the morning of that same day, Friday, September 23rd, a letter which the defense has not attempted to deny. You have had evidence that the prisoner first denied having been at Deering Hill, and later, after evidence had been given by the police, admitted he had. You will draw your own conclusions from that denial. This is not a case of direct evidence. You will have to come to your own conclusions on the subject of motive--of means--of opportunity. The contention of the defense is that some person unknown entered the music room after the defendant had left it, and shot Vivien Barnaby with the gun which by a strange forgetfulness the defendant had left behind him. You have heard the defendant's story of the reason it took him half an hour to get home. If you disbelieve the defendant's story and are satisfied, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the defendant did, upon Friday, September 23rd, discharge his gun at close quarters to Vivien Barnaby's head with intent to kill her, then, gentlemen, your verdict must be guilty. If, on the other hand, you have any reasonable doubt, it is your duty to acquit the prisoner. I will now ask you to retire to your room and consider and let me know when you have arrived at a conclusion."
The jury were absent a little under half an hour. They returned the verdict that to everyone had seemed a foregone conclusion, the verdict of "Guilty."
Mr. Satterthwaite left the court after hearing the verdict, with a thoughtful frown on his face.
A mere murder trial, as such, did not attract him. He was of too fastidious a temperament to find interest in the sordid details of the average crime. But the Wylde case had been different. Young Martin Wylde was what is termed a gentleman--and the victim, Sir George Barnaby's young wife, had been personally known to the elderly gentleman.
He was thinking of all this as he walked up Holborn, and then plunged into a tangle of mean streets leading in the direction of Soho. In one of these streets there was a small restaurant, known only to the few, of whom Mr. Satterthwaite was one. It was not cheap--it was, on the contrary, exceedingly expensive, since it catered exclusively for the palate of the jaded gourmet. It was quiet--no strains of jazz were allowed to disturb the hushed atmosphere--it was rather dark; waiters appeared soft-footed out of the twilight, bearing silver dishes with the air of participating in some holy rite. The name of the restaurant was Arlecchino.
Still thoughtful, Mr. Satterthwaite turned into the Arlecchino and made for his favorite table in a recess in the far corner. Owing to the twilight before-mentioned, it was not until he was quite close to it that he saw it was already occupied by a tall, dark man who sat with his face in shadow, and with a play of color from a stained window turning his sober garb to a kind of riotous motley.
Mr. Satterthwaite would have turned back, but just at that moment the stranger moved slightly and the other recognized him.
"God bless my soul," said Mr. Satterthwaite, who was given to old-fashioned expressions. "Why, it's Mr. Quin!"
Three times before he had met Mr. Quin, and each time the meeting had resulted in something a little out of the ordinary. A strange person, this Mr. Quin, with a knack of showing you the things you had known all along in a totally different light.
At once Mr. Satterthwaite felt excited--pleasurably excited. His role was that of the looker-on, and he knew it, but sometimes, when in the company of Mr. Quin, he had the illusion of being an actor--and the principal actor at that.
"This is very pleasant," he said, beaming all over his dried-up little face. "Very pleasant indeed. You've no objection to my joining you, I hope?"
"I shall be delighted," said Mr. Quin. "As you see, I have not yet begun my meal."
A deferential headwaiter hovered up out of the shadows. Mr. Satterthwaite, as befitted a man with a seasoned palate, gave his whole mind to the task of selection. In a few minutes, the headwaiter, a slight smile of approbation on his lips, retired, and a young satellite began his ministrations. Mr. Satterthwaite turned to Mr. Quin.
"I have just come from the Old Bailey," he began. "A sad business, I thought."
"He was found guilty?" said Mr. Quin.
"Yes, the jury were out only half an hour."
Mr. Quin bowed his head. "An inevitable result--on the evidence," he said.
"And yet--" began Mr. Satterthwaite--and stopped.
Mr. Quin finished the sentence for him. "And yet your sympathies were with the accused? Is that what you were going to say?"
"I suppose it was. Martin Wylde is a nice-looking young fellow--one can hardly believe it of him. All the same, there have been a good many nice-looking young fellows lately who have turned out to be murderers of a particularly cold-blooded and repellent type."