“One or two beautifully rectangular impressions—that’s all. The fellow evidently tied bits of cardboard under his shoes. One hasn’t even an idea of the size of his foot. And of course friend Ernest had been stamping about all over the bed in his efforts to remove the ladder with least trouble to himself. He didn’t exaggerate when he said he was nervous. It seems he just gave the thing a push and let it fall anyhow—smashed some flowers to bits in the collapse. If the burglars were still in the room above the row must have put them on the alert at once.” “You think they may have got away into the house and been hidden there while Stenness and Co. were breaking into the room?” “Well, you can lock a door from either side, can’t you?” Wendover reflected for a moment. “It’s a pity Stenness didn’t think of searching the house when they found no one in the room.” “Much too late by that time, Squire. No hunted burglar would wait on the premises a second longer than he could help. He’d be off downstairs at once and get out of the ground floor windows on the opposite side of the house.” “But then he’d leave an unlatched window behind him.” “So he may have done. No one can swear that all the windows were made fast yesterday evening. They’re a careless lot up at Whistlefield.” Wendover’s mind fastened upon the thing which seemed to him of most importance. “What did the burglar want? What was he after, Clinton?” Sir Clinton’s face became inscrutable, though Wendover could not help seeing irony in his reply. “‘What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, though puzzling questions are not beyond all conjecture,’” he quoted. “Sir Thomas Browne knew what he was talking about. What thing the burglar sought, though puzzling is not beyond conjecture, Squire. The field’s open, if you wish to enter for the competition.” Wendover accepted the irony as a proof that Sir Clinton had got over his fit of annoyance completely. “Well, then, I conjecture that the burglar was in Hackleton’s pay—like the murderer—and that he was hunting for more of Neville Shandon’s notes for the case. Look how everything was turned upside down. Look at the fact that the money was left intact. That wasn’t what one expects from a normal burglar.” “No, it wasn’t,” Sir Clinton agreed. “But I’m not going to be drawn. Go on with your conjecturing, Squire; and if that fails you might take to surmising or speculating as a change of occupation. Thinking exercises the brain, so you won’t really lose in the end.” “You’re an exasperating beast at times, Clinton,” Wendover affirmed, without a trace of irritation. “If that’s the first result of thinking, I don’t think I’d take it up as a hobby,” Sir Clinton responded cheerfully. “It might lead to peevishness among the neighbours.” He walked over to the window, possibly to conceal his expression, before communicating his next piece of information.