Sir Clinton’s face showed uncommon interest now. “And you think . . .?” he prompted. Ernest poured out another stiff glass of whiskey, this time unchecked by anyone. “I can’t say I think anything, really. I shouldn’t like to go so far as that, you understand. That might be going too far. But I let slip to you that I’d found something funny amongst the cheques, last night. I mean I told you this morning what I’d found last night. Or rather . . .” “I understand,” said Sir Clinton, rescuing him from his tangle. “And . . .?” “And Stenness was there when I mentioned it. He knew I’d found some hanky-panky.” Sir Clinton leaned back in his chair and thought for a moment or two. “I see what’s in your mind, Mr. Shandon,” he said at length. “Well, that can be put straight easily enough. So long as you were the only person who knew of this affair, you might be a danger to the fellow who was responsible for what you call the hanky-panky. It might be worth his while to put you out of the way—silence you, eh? and cover the business up.” Ernest’s starting eyes showed that he had no liking for such plain discourse. “Then,” continued Sir Clinton, “the remedy’s simple. Just tell whoever it is—we needn’t drag in names, need we?—that you’ve mentioned the matter to me. Then there will be no point in disturbing you further, you see? You’ll be quite safe, once you’ve done that. Doubly safe, in fact, for any further attack on you would be a bit too suspicious. That’s your best course.” “I never thought of that,” said Ernest, gratefully. “It’s a relief, I can tell you. Such a relief! And you think there’ll be no chance of another attack on me?” “I’d take almost any odds against it,” Sir Clinton reassured him. “Well, I shall stay inside the house altogether for a week or two, at any rate,” Ernest decided, his fears returning suddenly. “That ought to be safe enough.” He applied himself again to the decanter. Sir Clinton had one last question to put. “Where was Stenness while you were down at the Maze?” Ernest stood with his tumbler arrested on the road to his mouth while he pondered over the matter. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “I really can’t say. I left him here, working at Roger’s papers; and I told him I was going to Helen’s Bower. But when I came back again he wasn’t here. He’d put the papers away. I don’t know where he’d gone.” “Ah, indeed?” said Sir Clinton ruminatively. But he made no further comment. CHAPTER XI. The Squire’s Theories “We’ll have another look at the Maze, Squire, if you don’t mind stopping there.” Wendover nodded. He had expected the suggestion. “You didn’t seem to overflow with sympathy for Shandon,” he commented. “Friend Ernest raises my gorge,” admitted Sir Clinton frankly. “Did you ever see a man in such a state? I never could stand that sort of thing.” Then, as though he felt he had been too hard on Ernest, he added perfunctorily: “Of course, he’d had rather a bad half hour of it.”