came downstairs, and those who saw his face realised that it was not the tragedy he had almost witnessed which had made him so white and drawn.
He found Gray in Daver's office, waiting for his call to London. It came through as Reeder entered the room, and he took the instrument from his subordinate's hand. He dismissed the death of Daver in a few words, and went on:
"I want all the local policemen we can muster, Simpson, though I think it would be better if we could get soldiers. There's a garrison town five miles from here; the beaches have to be searched, and I want these caves explored. There is another thing: I think it would be advisable to get a destroyer or something to patrol the waters before Siltbury. I'm pretty sure that Flack has a motor boat—there's channel deep enough to take it, and apparently there is a cave that stretches right under the cliff.... Miss Belman? I don't know. That is what I want to find out."
Simpson told him that the gold-wagon had been seen at Sevenoaks, and it required a real effort on Mr. Reeder's part to bring his mind to such a triviality.
"I think soldiers will be best. I'd like a strong party posted near the quarry. There's another cave there where Daver used to keep his wagons. I have an idea you might pick up the money to-night. That," he added, a little bitterly, "will induce the authorities to use the military!"
After the ambulance had come and the pitiable wreck of Daver had been removed, he returned to the man's suite with a party of masons he had brought up from Siltbury. Throwing open the lid of the divan, he pointed to the stone floor.
"That flag works on a pivot," he said, "but I think it is fastened with a bolt or a bar underneath. Break it down."
A quarter of an hour was sufficient to shatter the stone flooring, and then, as he had expected, he found a narrow flight of stairs leading to a square stone room which remained very much as it had been for six hundred years. A dusty, bare apartment which yielded its secret. There was a small open door and a very narrow passage, along which a stout man would walk with some difficulty, and which led to behind the panelling of Daver's private office. Mr. Reeder realised that anybody concealed here could hear every word that was spoken. And now he understood Daver's frantic plea that he should lower his voice when he spoke of the marriage. Crazy Jack had learned the secret of his daughter's degradation—from that moment Daver's death was inevitable.
How had the madman escaped? That required very little explanation. At some remote period, Larmes Keep had evidently been used as a show place. He found an ancient wooden inscription fixed to the wall, which told the curious that this was the torture chamber of the old Counts of Larme; it added the useful information that the dungeons were immediately beneath and approached through a stone trap. This the detectives found, and Mr. Reeder had his first view of the vaulted dungeons of Larmes Keep.
It was neither an impressive nor a thrilling exploration. All that was obvious was that there were three routes by which the murderer could escape, and that all three ways led back to the house, one exit being between the kitchen and the vestibule.
"There is another way out," said Reeder shortly, "and we haven't found it yet."
His nerves were on edge. He roamed from room to room, turning out boxes, breaking open cupboards, emptying trunks. One find he made: it was the marriage certificate, and it was concealed in the lining of Olga Crewe's dressing-bag.
At seven o'clock, the first detachment of troops arrived by motor van. The local police had already reported that they had found no trace of Margaret Belman. They pointed out that the tide was falling when the girl left Larmes Keep, and that, unless she was lying on some invisible ledge, she must have reached the beach in safety. There was a very faint hope that she was alive. How faint J. G. Reeder would not admit.
A local cook had been brought in to prepare dinner for the detective, but Reeder contented himself with a cup of strong coffee—food, he felt, would have choked him.
He had posted a detachment in the quarry and, returning to the house, was sitting in the big hall, pondering the events of the day, when Gray came flying into the room.
"Brill!" he gasped.
J. G. Reeder sprang to his feet with a bound.
"Brill?" he repeated huskily. "Where is Brill?"
There was no need for Gray to point. A dishevelled and grimy figure, supported by a detective, staggered through the doorway.
"Where have you come from?" asked Reeder.
The man could not speak for a second. He pointed to the ground, and then, hoarsely: