Detective White & Furneaux: 5 Novels in One Volume. Louis Tracy
up," said Grant instantly.
"Well, we know that nothing of the kind happened. Why?"
"It was perched on top of a wig," drawled Hart.
Furneaux was slightly disappointed—there was no denying it. Being a vain little person, he liked to show off in a minor matter such as this.
"Yes," he admitted, "and what's the corollary?"
"That the wearer is probably a clean-shaven person with thin hair, a daring scoundrel who is well posted in the leading characteristics of Owd Ben. Charles le Petit, time is now ripe for details of that hairy goblin."
"Where did you dig him up from, anyhow?" said the detective testily.
"Mrs. Bates recognized him from my vivid description."
"Her husband can tell us the story," put in Grant. "I'll fetch him."
He had not moved ere the front door bell rang a second time.
"Here is Owd Ben himself, I expect," said Hart.
"If it's that Robinson—" growled Furneaux vexedly, hastening to forestall Minnie.
But it was Doris Martin, and very pretty she looked as she entered the room, her high color being the joint outcome of a rapid walk and a very natural embarrassment at finding the frankly admiring eyes of a stranger fixed on her.
"I don't quite know why I'm here," she said, with a nervous laugh, addressing Grant directly. "You will think I am always gazing in the direction of The Hollies, but my room commands this house so fully that I cannot help seeing or hearing anything unusual. A few minutes ago I heard what I thought was a muffled gunshot. I looked out, and saw your window thrown open, though the light was dim, and only a candle was showing in the smaller window. I was alarmed, so came to inquire what had happened. You'll pardon me, I'm sure."
"Say you don't, Jack, I implore you, and let me apologize for you," pleaded Hart.
"Doris, this is my good friend, Wally Hart," smiled Grant. "Won't you sit down? We have an exciting story for you."
"Father will be horribly anxious if he knows I have gone out."
Nevertheless, there was sufficient spice of Mother Eve in Doris that she should take the proffered chair.
"Sorry to interrupt," broke in Furneaux. "Did you meet P. C. Robinson!"
"No."
"You came by way of the bridge?"
"There is no other way, unless one makes a detour by Bush Walk."
The detective whirled round on Grant.
"What room is over this one?"
"Minnie's."
"She's in the kitchen, with her mother. See that she doesn't come upstairs while I'm absent. You three keep on talking."
"Thanks," said Hart.
Doris, more self-possessed now, read the meaning of the quip promptly.
"Mr. Grant has often spoken of you," she said. "You talk, and we'll listen."
"Not so, divinity," came the retort. "I may be a parrot, but I don't want my neck wrung when you've gone."
"Don't encourage him, Doris," said Grant, "or you'll be here till midnight."
"If that's the best you can do, you had better leave the recital to me," laughed Hart.
Meanwhile, Furneaux had stolen noiselessly to the bedroom overhead. The casement window was open—he had noted that fact while in the garden. He peeped out, and was just in time to see Robinson emulating a Sioux Indian on the war-path. The policeman removed his helmet, and was about to peer cautiously through the small window. The detective's blood ran cold. What if Hart discovered yet another ghost?
"Robinson—go home!" he said, in sepulchral tones.
The constable positively jumped. He gaped on all sides in real terror. He, too, had heard hair-raising tales of Owd Ben.
"Go home!" hissed Furneaux, leaning out.
Then the other looked up.
"Oh, it's you, sir!" he gasped, sighing with relief.
"Man, you've had the closest shave of your life! There's a fellow below there who shoots at sight."
"But I'm on duty, sir."
"You'll be in Kingdom Come if you gaze in at that window. Be off!"
"I—"
"Robinson, you and I will quarrel if you don't do as I bid you. And that would be a pity, because I want to inform Mr. Fowler that he has a particularly smart man in Steynholme."
"Very well, sir, if you're satisfied, I must be."
And away went the eavesdropper, crushed, still tingling with that fear of the supernatural latent in every heart, but far from convinced.
Furneaux tripped downstairs. The routing of Robinson had put him into a real good humor. He found the three in the dining-room gazing spell-bound at the felt hat.
"Now, young lady, you're coming with me," he said, grinning amiably. "The Sussex constabulary is quelled for the hour."
"But, Mr. Furneaux, I recognize that hat!" said Doris, and it was notable that even Hart remained silent.
The detective looked at her strangely, but put no question.
"I am almost sure it belongs to our local Amateur Dramatic Society," went on the girl. "It was worn by Mr. Elkin last November. He played a burlesque of Svengali. I was Trilby, and caught a horrid cold from walking about without shoes or stockings."
"Don't tell me any more," was Furneaux's surprising comment. "I'll do the rest. But let me remark, Miss Martin, that I experienced great difficulty, not so long ago, in persuading friend Grant that you were the only important witness this case has provided thus far. Playing in a burlesque, were you? We've been similarly engaged to-night. The farce must stop now. It makes way for grim tragedy. Not one word of to-night's events to anyone, please.... Are you ready?"
Doris stood up. Hart thrust the negro's head at the detective.
"Fouché," he said, "do you honestly mean slinging your hook without making any inquiry as to Owd Ben?"
"Oh, the ghost!" said Doris eagerly. "The Bateses would think of him, of course. An old farmer named Ben Robson used to live in this house about the time of Napoleon. He was suspected by the authorities to be an agent of the smugglers, and the story goes that his own daughter quarreled with him and betrayed him. He narrowly escaped hanging, owing to his age, I believe, and was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. At last he was released, being then a very old man, and he came straight here and strangled his daughter. It is quite a terrible story. He was found dead by her side. Then people remembered that she had spoken of someone scaring her by looking in through that small window some nights previously. Naturally, a ghost was soon manufactured. I really wonder why the man who rebuilt and renamed the place in the middle of last century didn't have the window removed altogether."
"Glad I began the work of demolition tonight," said Hart, and, for once, his tone was serious.
"Why did you never tell me that scrap of history, Doris?" inquired Grant.
"You liked the place so much that father and I agreed not to mar your enthusiasm by recalling an unpleasant legend," she said frankly. "Not that what I've related isn't true. The record appears in a Sussex Miscellany of those years.... Oh, my goodness, can it be eleven o'clock!"
The hall clock had no doubt on the point. Furneaux pocketed the written notes regarding Ingerman, and grabbed the hat off the table. Grant, for some reason, was aware that the detective repressed an obvious reference to the last occasion on which the girl had heard that same clock announce the hour.
Furneaux would allow no other escort. He and Doris made off immediately.
When they