But as the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece neared midnight, Miss Pett suddenly moved. Her sharp ears caught a scratching sound on the shutter outside the window. And noiselessly she moved down the passage, and noiselessly unbarred the front door, and just as noiselessly closed it again behind the man who slipped in--Christopher, her nephew.
Mr. Christopher Pett, warned by the uplifted finger of his aunt, tip-toed into the living-room, and setting down his small travelling bag on the table proceeded to divest himself of a thick overcoat, a warm muffler, woollen gloves, and a silk hat. And Miss Pett, having closed the outer and inner doors, came in and glanced inquiringly at him.
"Which way did you come, this time?" she inquired.
"High Gill," replied Christopher. "Got an afternoon express that stopped there. Jolly cold it was crossing those moors of yours, too, I can tell you!--I can do with a drop of something. I say--is there anything afoot about here?--anything going on?"
"Why?" asked Miss Pett, producing the whisky and the lemons. "And how do you mean?"
Christopher pulled an easy chair to the fire and stretched his hands to the blaze.
"Up there, on the moor," he answered. "There's fellows going about with lights--lanterns, I should say. I didn't see 'em close at hand--there were several of 'em crossing about--like fire-flies--as if the chaps who carried 'em were searching for something."
Miss Pett set the decanter and the materials for toddy on the table at her nephew's side, and took a covered plate from the cupboard in the corner.
"Them's potted meat sandwiches," she said. "Very toothsome you'll find 'em--I didn't prepare much, for I knew you'd get your dinner on the train. Yes, well, there is something afoot--they are searching. Not for something, though, but for somebody. Mallalieu!"
Christopher, his mouth full of sandwiches, and his hand laid on the decanter, lifted a face full of new and alert interest.
"Quite so," assented Miss Pett. "Anthony Mallalieu, Esquire, Mayor of Highmarket. They want him, does the police--bad!"
Christopher still remained transfixed. The decanter was already tilted in his hand, but he tilted it no further; the sandwich hung bulging in his cheek.