sir,” he said. “The one on the tablecloth. I went to look at it, after you had left, sir, and I cannot understand it, sir—it was gone!”
“Gone?” asked Archer.
“Gone,” said Faulks.
The butler glanced down at the blotter, which he now held before him, and started.
“And so is this, sir!” he gasped, and, turning round the blotter, revealed it to be innocent of the slightest trace of a
Conscious, now, that something very much out of the ordinary was afoot, Archer gazed thoughtfully into space. Faulks, watching, observed the gaze suddenly harden into focus.
“Look over there, Faulks,” said Archer, in a quiet tone. “Over yonder, at the wall.”
Faulks did as he was told, wondering at his master’s instructions. Then comprehension dawned, for there, on the wallpaper, directly under an indifferent seascape, was:
Archer stood, and the two men crossed the room.
“What can it be, sir?” asked Faulks.
“I can’t imagine,” said Archer.
He turned to speak, but when he saw his butler’s eyes move to his, he looked quickly back at the wall. Too late—the was gone.
“It needs constant observation,” Archer murmured, then, aloud: “Look for it, Faulks. Look for it. And when you see it, don’t take your eyes from it for a second!”
They walked about the room in an intensive search. They had not been at it for more than a moment when Faulks gave an exclamation.
“Here, sir!” he cried. “On the windowsill!”
Archer hurried to his side and saw:
“Don’t let it out of your sight!” he hissed.
As the butler stood, transfixed and gaping, his master chewed furiously at the knuckles of his left hand. Whatever the thing was, it must be taken care of, and promptly. He would not allow such continued disruption in his house.
But how to get rid of it? He shifted to the knuckles of his other hand and thought. The thing had—he hated to admit it, but there it was—supernatural overtones. Perhaps it was some beastly sort of ghost.
He shoved both hands, together with their attendant knuckles, into his pants pockets. It showed the extreme state of his agitation, for he loathed nothing more than unsightly bulges in a well-cut suit. Who would know about this sort of thing? Who could possibly handle it?
It came to him in a flash: Sir Harry Mandifer! Of course! He’d known Sir Harry back at school, only plain Harry, then, of course, and now they shared several clubs. Harry had taken to writing, made a good thing of it, and now, with piles of money to play with, he’d taken to spiritualism, become, perhaps, the top authority in the field. Sir Harry was just the man! If only he could persuade him.
His face set in grimly determined lines, Archer marched to his telephone and dialed Sir Harry’s number. It was not so easy to get through to him as it had been in the old days. Now there were secretaries, suspicious and secretive. But he was known, that made all the difference, and soon he and Sir Harry were together on the line. After the customary greetings and small talk, Archer brought the conversation around to the business at hand. Crisply, economically, he described the morning’s events. Could Sir Harry find it possible to come? He fancied that time might be an important factor. Sir Harry would! Archer thanked him with all the warmth his somewhat constricted personality would allow, and, with a heartfelt sigh of relief, put back the receiver.
He had barely done it when he heard Faulks give a small cry of despair. He turned to see the old fellow wringing his hands in abject misery.
“I just blinked, sir!” he quavered. “Only blinked!”
It had been enough. A fraction of a second unwatched, and the was gone from the sill.
Resignedly, they once again took up the search.
Sir Harry Mandifer settled back comfortably in the cushioned seat of his limousine and congratulated himself on settling the business of Marston Rectory the night before. It would not have done to leave that dangerous affair in the lurch, but the bones of the Mewing Nun had been found at last, and now she would rest peacefully in a consecrated grave. No more would headless children decorate the Cornish landscape, no more would the nights resound with mothers’ lamentations. He had done his job, done it well, and now he was free to investigate what sounded a perfectly charming mystery.
Contentedly, the large man lit a cigar and watched the streets go sliding by. Delicious that a man as cautiously organized as poor old Archer should find