I had no difficulty in guessing that it was the Cecil Barker
of whom I had heard. His masterful eyes travelled quickly with a
questioning glance from face to face.
"Sorry to interrupt your consultation," said he, "but you should
hear the latest news."
"An arrest?"
"No such luck. But they've found his bicycle. The fellow left
his bicycle behind him. Come and have a look. It is within a
hundred yards of the hall door."
We found three or four grooms and idlers standing in the drive
inspecting a bicycle which had been drawn out from a clump of
evergreens in which it had been concealed. It was a well used
Rudge-Whitworth, splashed as from a considerable journey. There
was a saddlebag with spanner and oilcan, but no clue as to the
owner.
"It would be a grand help to the police," said the inspector, "if
these things were numbered and registered. But we must be
thankful for what we've got. If we can't find where he went to,
at least we are likely to get where he came from. But what in
the name of all that is wonderful made the fellow leave it
behind? And how in the world has he got away without it? We
don't seem to get a gleam of light in the case, Mr.
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