“Think of all that we know, and which the Inspector does not know. Every single datum points in the same direction. No prosecution could ask for a more perfect case. Upon this fact I pin my hopes. Where an Aylesbury rushes in I fear to tread. The analogy with an angel was accidental, Knox!” he added, smilingly. “In other words, it is all too obvious. Yet I have failed once, Knox, failed disastrously, and it may be that in my anxiety to justify myself I am seeking for subtlety where no subtlety exists.” CHAPTER XXV AYLESBURY’S THEORY There were strangers about Cray’s Folly and a sort of furtive activity, horribly suggestive. We had not pursued the circular route by the high road which would have brought us to the lodge, but had turned aside where the swing-gate opened upon a footpath into the meadows. It was the path which I had pursued upon the day of my visit to the Lavender Arms. A second private gate here gave access to the grounds at a point directly opposite the lake; and as we crossed the valley, making for the terraced lawns, I saw unfamiliar figures upon the veranda, and knew that the cumbersome processes of the law were already in motion. I was longing to speak to Val Beverley and to learn what had taken place during her interview with Inspector Aylesbury, but Harley led the way toward the tower wing, and by a tortuous path through the rhododendrons we finally came out on the northeast front and in sight of the Tudor garden. Harley crossed to the entrance, and was about to descend the steps, when the constable on duty there held out his arm. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I have orders to admit no one to this part of the garden.” “Oh,” said Harley, pulling up short, “but I am acting in this case. My name is Paul Harley.” “Sorry, sir,” replied the constable, “but you will have to see Inspector Aylesbury.” My friend uttered an impatient exclamation, but, turning aside: “Very well, constable,” he muttered; “I suppose I must submit. Our friend, Aylesbury,” he added to me, as we walked away, “would appear to be a martinet as well as a walrus. At every step, Knox, he proves himself a tragic nuisance. This means waste of priceless time.” “What had you hoped to do, Harley?” “Prove my theory,” he returned; “but since every moment is precious, I must move in another direction.” He hurried on through the opening in the box hedge and into the courtyard. Manoel had just opened the doors to a sepulchral-looking person who proved to be the coroner’s officer, and: “Manoel!” cried Harley, “tell Carter to bring a car round at once.” “Yes, sir.” “I haven’t time to fetch my own,” he explained. “Where are you off to?”