"Any number of people I should say," Monty had replied rather faintly. "But I don't see what you're getting at. You were up there too. What is it all about?" And here Philip had seen fit to intervene, rather quickly. "Yes, that's what I'm wondering, Inspector. Is it a proper question to ask? And is it proper to ask you if you'd like a glass of whisky, by the way?" The narrow eyes had twinkled. "Not supposed to, sir----" "Right. Say when----" And so our healths had been drunk. "You see," Philip had resumed presently, "I understood from Mr. Mackwith this morning--you knew that was Mr. Mackwith, K.C., you were talking to, didn't you--the tall man in morning-coat and spats?" "Was he indeed, sir?" "Yes, that was Mr. Mackwith, and I understood from him that you had said you had all the evidence you wanted?" The Inspector had been sitting with his cap on his knees and the glass of whisky inside it like a flowerpot in a vase. He had ruminated. "Well," he had said suddenly, "the fact is that that was this morning, gentlemen. Since then a certain piece of information's been laid in connection with this affair. I'm not at liberty to say what this information is, nor whether we shall act on it or not, but the Law's for the protection of us all, gentlemen, and I take it all of us wants to do our best to maintain it. Even if it meant the inconvenience," he added deliberately, "of a warrant for the search of these premises." Here the sorely-tried Philip had given a wild laugh. "Search these premises! Search 'em now if you like. But in God's name what for?" "Accidents aren't always what they seem, sir," Inspector Webster had replied. IX And now (to come out of this winding of the story into the open again) here was Audrey Cunningham with dress-baskets and a wardrobe for which the most suitable place was certainly the cellar. "All right," Esdaile said suddenly. "Let's do it now. Monty and I can manage it if you'll hold a candle for us." And he lighted and put into Audrey's hand the same candle he had himself used when he had gone down into the cellar to fetch the orange curaçao. He was still kicking himself that he had made such a fuss. Now at last he saw that, although only a trifle stood between revelation and perfect concealment, this trifle was as firm as the rocks of which the mountains are built. A short flight of steepish stone steps, with a rather awkward right-angled bend half-way down, descended ten feet or so, and there was no cellar door. You stepped from the bottom step, which was a little worn and concave, and there you were, with nothing more to do but to put the wardrobe and the dress-baskets inside and to come out again. The wardrobe was at the turn of the stairs. Mrs. Cunningham stood just above it, holding the candle for the two men to see. "Gently--don't knock it," muttered Philip, "and mind the edge of the steps--they're pretty old----"