This was more the stuff. John became heartier. "A most mysterious affair, Sturgis. The man apparently climbed in through this window, and no doubt escaped the same way." "No, Mr. John. That's what I wished to have a word with you about. He went away down the front stairs." "What! How do you know?" "I saw him, Mr. John." "You saw him?" "Yes, Mr. John. Owing to being kept awake by my rheumatism." The remorse which had come upon John at the moment when he had first heard the news of the burglary was as nothing to the remorse which racked him now. Just because this fine old man had one of those mild, goofy faces and bleated like a sheep when he talked, he had dismissed him without further thought as a dodderer. And all the time the splendid old fellow, who could not help his face and was surely not to be blamed if age had affected his vocal chords, had been the God from the Machine, sent from heaven to assist him in getting to the bottom of this outrage. There is no known case on record of a man patting a butler on the head, but John at this moment came very near to providing one. "You saw him!" "Yes, Mr. John." "What did he look like?" "I couldn't say, Mr. John, not really definite." "Why couldn't you?" "Because I did not really see him." "But you said you did." "Yes, Mr. John, but only in a manner of speaking." John's new-born cordiality waned a little. His first estimate, he felt, had been right. This was doddering, pure and simple. "How do you mean, only in a manner of speaking?" "Well, it was like this, Mr. John...." "Look here," said John. "Tell me the whole thing right from the start." Sturgis glanced cautiously at the door. When he spoke, it was in a lowered voice, which gave his delivery the effect of a sheep bleating with cotton wool in its mouth. "I was awake with my rheumatism last night, Mr. John, and at last it come on so bad I felt I really couldn't hardly bear it no longer. I lay in bed, thinking, and after I had thought for quite some time, Mr. John, it suddenly crossed my mind that Mr. Hugo had once remarked, while kindly interesting himself in my little trouble, that a glassful of whisky, drunk without water, frequently alleviated the pain." John nodded. So far, the story bore the stamp of truth. A glassful of neat whisky was just what Hugo would have recommended for any complaint, from rheumatism to a broken heart. "So I thought in the circumstances that Mr. Carmody would not object if I tried a little. So I got out of bed and put on my overcoat, and I had just reached the head of the stairs, it being my intention to go to the cellarette in the dining room, when what should I hear but a noise." "What sort of noise?" "A sort of sneezing noise, Mr. John. As it might be somebody sneezing." "Yes? Well?" "I was stottled." "Stottled? Oh, yes, I see. Well?" "I remained at the head of the stairs. For quite a while I remained at the head of the stairs. Then I crope ..." "You what?"