"Damn it all!" ripped Hugh. "The trouble is that my family were not Catholics in the times when priests were proscribed, and every self-respecting Catholic family had its Priest's Hole."
"I'm not worried just because your family can't boast an accessible hiding-place," I retorted. "What bothers me is that their hiding-place, if they have one, is so cunningly hidden that we can't find it."
"'If they have one,'" repeated Hugh. "You may well say that! I am beginning to believe we may be on a wild goose chase, after all.'
"If we were the only ones after it, I might think so," I replied.
Nikka, who had relapsed into one of his frequent spells of silent contemplation, jumped suddenly from his chair.
"If it is here, it is in this room," he said.
There was a racket of motors outside in the drive, and Watkins appeared in the doorway.
"Pardon, your ludship. But I thought you would wish to know Mr. Hilyer and 'is party 'ave just driven up.'
"The devil they have!" exclaimed Hugh. "I suppose we'll have to see 'em."
"You may remember you instructed me to inquire if strangers 'ad been seen on the roads 'ereabouts the morning of the funeral, your ludship."
"Mrs. Dobson at the Lodge said nobody passed on the village road, your ludship. And I made other inquiries, but without success until I met 'Iggins, the carpenter, sir, this morning. 'E said one of Mr. Hilyer's motors passed on the London road close on noon, but that was all."
"Well, that doesn't help any," said Hugh. "Whoever did it must have taken to the woods and cut across to the Channel road."
"They need only 'ave dropped over the park wall to reach the London Road, your ludship," suggested Watkins.
"Oh, I see your point," agreed Hugh. "Then Hilyer's people might have seen them. I'll find an opportunity to speak to him about it.'
And never in my life have I seen anything more splendid than the emotionless disapproval with which Watkins was able to invest his countenance as he announced our callers.
Hilyer was a lean, rangy chap, with a hatchet face and close-set eyes. His mustache was waxed in the Continental fashion, and he had slim, powerful hands, the hands of a born horseman and gambler. He looked what he was: good blood gone wrong.