He yawned, and getting up, began to pace the deserted lounge. The effects of the drug had not entirely worn off, for though he had slept all the afternoon he still felt slack and drowsy. In spite of its being scarcely ten o’clock, he thought he would have a whisky and go up to bed, in the hope that a good night’s rest would drive the poison out of his system and restore his usual feeling of mental and physical well being.
But Fate, once more in the guise of an approaching page, decreed otherwise. As he turned lazily towards the bar a voice sounded in his ear.
‘Wanted on the telephone, sir.’
Cheyne crossed the hall and entered the booth.
‘Well?’ he said shortly. ‘Cheyne speaking.’
A woman’s voice replied, a voice he recognised. It belonged to Ethel Hazelton, the grown up daughter of that Mrs Hazelton whom he had asked to inform Mrs Cheyne of his change of plans. She spoke hurriedly and he could sense perturbation in her tones.
‘Oh, Mr Cheyne, I’m afraid I have rather disturbing news for you. When you rang up we sent James over to Warren Lodge. He found Mrs Cheyne and Agatha on the doorstep trying to get in. They had been ringing for some time, but could not attract attention. He rang also, and then eventually found a ladder and got in through one of the upper windows. He opened the door for Mrs Cheyne and Agatha. Can you hear me all right?’
‘Yes, clearly. Go on, please, Miss Hazelton.’
‘They searched the house and they discovered cook and Susan in their bedrooms, both tied up and gagged, but otherwise none the worse. They released them, of course, and then they found that the house had been burgled.’
‘Burgled!’ Cheyne ejaculated sharply. ‘Great Scott!’ He was considerably startled and paused in some consternation, asking then if much stuff was missing.
‘They don’t know,’ the distant voice answered. ‘Your safe had been opened, but they hadn’t had time to make an examination when James left. The silver seems to be all there, so that’s something. James came back here with a message from Mrs Cheyne asking us to let you know, and I have been ringing up hotels in Plymouth for the last half hour. You know, you only said you were staying the night in your message; you didn’t say where. Mrs Cheyne would like you to come back if you can manage it.’
There was no hesitation about Cheyne’s reply.
‘Of course I shall,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ll start at once on my bicycle. What about telling the police?’
‘I rang them up immediately. They said they would go out at once. James has gone back also. He will stay and lend a hand until you arrive.’
‘Splendid! It’s more than good of you both, Miss Hazelton. I can’t thank you enough. I’ll be there in less than an hour.’
He delayed only to tell the news to the manager.
‘There’s the explanation of this afternoon’s affair at all events,’ he declared. ‘I was evidently fixed up so that I couldn’t butt in and spoil sport. But it’s good-bye to your keeping it quiet. The police have been called in already and the whole thing is bound to come out.’
The manager made a gesture of concern.
‘I’m sorry to hear your news,’ he said gravely. ‘Are you properly insured?’
‘Partially. I don’t know if it will cover the loss because I don’t know what’s gone. But I must be getting away.’
He was moving off, but the manager laid a detaining hand on his arm.
‘Well, I’m extremely sorry about it. But see here, Mr Cheyne, it may not prove to be necessary to bring in about the drugging. It would injure the hotel. I sincerely trust you’ll do what you can in the matter, and if you find the private detective sufficient, you’ll let our arrangement stand.’
‘I’ll decide when I hear just what has happened. You’ll let me have a copy of the analyst’s report?’
‘Of course. Directly I get it I shall send it on.’
Fifteen minutes later Cheyne was passing through the outskirts of Plymouth on his way east. The night was fine, the mists of the day having cleared away, and a three-quarter moon shone brilliantly out of a blue-black sky. Keenly anxious to reach home and learn the details of the burglary and the extent of his loss, Cheyne crammed on every ounce of power, and his machine snored along the deserted road at well over forty miles an hour. In spite of slacks for villages and curves he made a record run, turning into the gate of Warren Lodge at just ten minutes before eleven.
As he approached the house everything looked normal. But when he let himself in this impression was dispelled, for a constable stood in the hall, who, saluting, informed him that Sergeant Kirby was within and in charge.
But Cheyne’s first concern was with his mother and sister. An inquiry produced the information that the two ladies were waiting for him in the drawing-room, and thither he at once betook himself.
Mrs Cheyne was a frail little woman who looked ten years older than her age of something under sixty. She welcomed her son with a little cry of pleasure.
‘Oh, I am relieved to see you, Maxwell,’ she cried. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come. Isn’t this a terrible business?’
‘I don’t know, mother,’ Cheyne answered cheerily, ‘that depends. I hear no one is any the worse. Has much stuff been stolen?’
‘Nothing!’ Mrs Cheyne’s tone conveyed the wonder she evidently felt. ‘Nothing whatever! Or at least we can’t find that anything is missing.’
‘Unless something may have been taken from your safe,’ Agatha interposed. ‘Was there much in it?’
‘No, only a few pounds and some papers, none valuable to an outsider.’ He glanced at his sister. She was a pretty girl, tall and dark and in features not unlike himself. Both the young people had favoured the late commander’s side of the house. He turned towards the door, continuing: ‘I’ll go and have a look, and then you can tell me what has happened.’
The safe was built into the wall in his own sanctum, ‘the study,’ as his mother persisted in calling it. It had been taken over with the house when Mrs Cheyne bought the little estate. As Cheyne now entered he saw that its doors were standing open. A tall man in the uniform of a sergeant of police was stooping over it. He turned as he heard the newcomer’s step.
‘Good-evening, sir,’ he said in an impressive tone. ‘This is a bad business.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t know, Sergeant,’ Cheyne answered easily. ‘If no one has been hurt and nothing has been stolen, it might have been worse.’
The sergeant stared at him with some disfavour. ‘There’s not much but what might have been worse,’ he observed oracularly. ‘But we’re not sure yet that nothing’s been stolen. Nobody knows what was in this here safe, except maybe yourself. I’d be glad if you’d have a look and see if anything is gone.’
There was very little in the safe and it did not take Cheyne many seconds to go through it. The papers were tossed about—he could swear someone had turned them over—but none seemed to have been removed. The small packet of Treasury notes was intact and a number of gold and silver medals, won in athletic contests, were all in evidence.
‘Nothing missing there, Sergeant,’ he declared when he had finished.
His eye wandered round the room. There was not much of value in it; one or two silver bowls—athletic trophies also, a small gold clock of Indian workmanship, a pair of high-power prism binoculars and a few ornaments were about all that could be turned into money. But all these were there, undisturbed. It was true that the glass door of a locked bookcase had been broken to enable the bolt to be unfastened and the doors opened, but none of the books seemed to have been touched.
‘What do you think they were after, sir?’