“Such an amount of things,” Ernest went on. “It took me all my time to make head or tail of the papers I looked at. I must have been hours and hours, turning them over and reading bits here and there—files of correspondence and that sort of thing. His cheque-book stubs were there, too, and I looked at them. I’d no idea so much cash passed through his hands, no idea at all. By the way, I noticed something funny about his last cheque-book. I’ll tell you about that again, though. It was rum, I thought; but I’d better be getting on with the story.” Sir Clinton nodded patiently and waited for more. “I’d just been looking over the cheque-book when I heard a noise,” Ernest pursued. “Of course, in an old house like this one often hears sounds at night, furniture cracking and doors rattling, and all that sort of thing; so I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time. It was only afterwards that I remembered I’d heard it; and perhaps it had nothing to do with the burglary at all. I just mention it, because you said I was to give you all the details I could, you know.” “What sort of sound was it?” Sir Clinton asked. Ernest looked bewildered. “What sort of sound was it?” he repeated. “Oh, a noise, you know. A . . . a . . .” he seemed to find the English language too limited. “It was a sound, you understand.” “A voice?” suggested Sir Clinton. “No, not a voice. A sound, just like a snick or a rap or something of that sort, if you see what I mean.” “And then?” “Oh, I paid no attention to it. In a house like this one often hears queer noises at night. It didn’t really draw my attention. I was interested in this thing about the cheque-book. So I didn’t trouble about the sound.” Wendover was surprised at Sir Clinton’s patience, for no sign of boredom appeared on his face. In fact, he seemed keenly interested. “The next thing I remember,” Ernest continued, “was feeling sleepy. I put away the papers, put them all back in the safe again and locked it up. Then I thought I’d go to bed. I always go out for a breath of fresh air before I go to my room at night—if it isn’t raining—so I went to the window and looked out. It was quite dry; so I made up my mind to go for my usual stroll. I don’t go far, you know, just up and down a little near the house. It seems to me that a breath of fresh air clears your lungs and makes you sleep better after you’ve had it. I’m a great believer in fresh air. I hate sitting in a stuffy room—must have the windows open always.” “So you went out?” “Yes. I put on a light overcoat and a cap and I opened the front door. It was locked when I found it—I suppose that’s important?” Sir Clinton made no audible comment.