Until they came to the town he plied Michael with questions betraying that universal inquisitiveness which picture-making invariably incites amongst the uninitiated. Michael got down near the market-place and made his way to the house of a man he knew, a former master at his old school, now settled down in Chichester, who had, amongst other possessions, an excellent library. Declining his host’s pressing invitation to dinner, Michael stated his needs, and the old master laughed. “I can’t remember that you were much of a student in my days, Michael,” he said, “but you may have the run of the library. Is it some line of Virgil that escapes you? I may be able to save you a hunt.” “It’s not Virgil, maestro,” smiled Michael. “Something infinitely more full-blooded!” He was in the library for twenty minutes, and when he emerged there was a light of triumph in his eye. “I’m going to use your telephone if I may,” he said, and he got London without delay. For ten minutes he was speaking with Scotland Yard, and, when he had finished, he went into the dining-room where the master, who was a bachelor, was eating his solitary dinner. “You can render me one more service, mentor of my youth,” he said. “Have you in this abode of peace an automatic pistol that throws a heavier shell than this?” And he put his own on the table. Michael knew Mr. Scott had been an officer of the Territorial Army, and incidentally an instructor of the Officers’ Training Corps, so that his request was not as impossible of fulfilment as it appeared. “Yes, I can give you a heavier one than that. What are you shooting—elephants?” “Something a trifle more dangerous,” said Michael. “Curiosity was never a weakness of mine,” said the master, and went out to return with a Browning of heavy calibre and a box of cartridges. They spent five minutes cleaning the pistol, which had not been in use for some time, and, with his new weapon weighing down his jacket pocket, Mike took his leave, carrying a lighter heart and a clearer understanding than he had enjoyed when he had arrived at the house. He hired a car from a local garage and drove back to the Dower House, dismissing the car just short of his destination. Jack Knebworth had not even noticed that he had disappeared. But old Mr. Longvale, wearing a coat with many capes, and a soft silk cap from which dangled a long tassel, came to him almost as soon as he entered the garden. “May I speak to you, Mr. Brixan?” he said in a low voice, and they went into the house together. “Do you remember Mr. Knebworth was very perturbed because he thought he saw somebody peering in at the window—something with a monkey’s head?” Michael nodded.