“You were right enough, uncle!” he exclaimed, still standing with the handle of the door in his hand. “The beggar had a shot at me just at the entrance to the Maze.” Ernest nodded his head with an attempt at sapience. “I told you so,” he said. “I told you so! But of course you wouldn’t believe me. No, you knew more about it than I did. But you see now . . .” “Come along, the lot of you,” Arthur cried. “We’ll nab the beggar this time. He can’t be far away yet.” “Sit down!” Sir Clinton ordered calmly. “He’s had any amount of time to get clear away. We’d never catch him in the dark. I must hear how it happened, first of all. Now give me every detail you can think of.” Arthur seemed sobered by the matter-of-fact air of the Chief Constable. He sat down and began his story without more ado. “I took out the two-seater from the garage,” he explained, “and bucketted down to the Maze as quick as I could. It’s a dark night outside, not even a star showing. I left the headlights on when I stopped the car; and I left the engine running as well. It wasn’t going to take me any time to get to Helen’s Bower. I got out, and crossed over to the entrance to the Maze that’s nearest the road. It was pretty dark; but I could find my way all right.” “You heard nobody about?” asked Wendover. “Nothing but the beat of the engine. Just as I got to the entrance and was going inside, I heard an air-gun go off quite close to me—no distance at all, I should say—and I felt something hit me about the breast-pocket.” Sir Clinton leaned forward. “Don’t touch!” he said, pointing to the side of Arthur’s dinner-jacket. “You hadn’t a coat on, I see?” Arthur looked down. The feathering of one of the lethal darts was protruding from his jacket. “Oh, it stuck, did it?” he said. “I thought it had failed to get through the cloth. It’s driven into my leather cigar-case, I expect.” Sir Clinton made a rapid examination and then cautiously withdrew the dart. Inspection of the cigar-case showed that the point of the missile had embedded itself in one of the cigars. “That saved you a nasty prick,” was all the comment the Chief Constable made. “Let’s hear the rest.” “I was just going to start after the beggar,” Arthur went on, “when suddenly there was a yell from the road. When I looked round, there was old Mrs. Thornton having a fit of hysterics or something over on the road, right in the beam of the headlights.” “Who is Mrs. Thornton?” inquired Sir Clinton. “She’s the wife of the lodge-keeper at the East Gate.” “There’s nothing wrong with the Thorntons,” Wendover hastened to interject. “I’ve known them for twenty years and a decenter old couple you couldn’t find anywhere.” Sir Clinton made a gesture as though brushing aside the interruption. “And then?” he demanded.