Michael decided to look for himself. They put up the ladder and he climbed to the broad top of the tower and looked down. At the base of the stonework the ground sloped away in a manner curiously reminiscent of the shell-holes he had seen during the war in France. The actual floor of the tower was not visible under the hawthorn bushes which grew thickly at the centre. He caught a glimpse of the jagged edges of rock, the distorted branches of an old tree, and that was all. There was ample opportunity for concealment. Possibly Bhag had hidden there most of the time, sleeping off the effects of his labour and his wounds; for Michael had seen something that nobody else had noticed—the gashed skin, and the ear that had been slashed in half. He came down the ladder again and rejoined Knebworth. “I think that finishes our work for to-day,” said Jack dubiously. “I smell hysteria, and it will be a long time before I can get the girls to come up for a night picture.” Michael drove the director back in his car, and all the way home he was considering this strange appearance of the ape. Somebody had handcuffed Bhag: he ought to have guessed that when he saw the torn link. No human being could have broken those apart. And Bhag had escaped—from whom? How? And why had he not returned to Griff Towers and to his master? When he had dropped the director at the studio he went straight on to Gregory’s house, and found the baronet playing clock-golf on a strip of lawn that ran by the side of the house. The man was still heavily bandaged, but he was making good recovery. “Yes, Bhag is back. He returned half an hour ago. Where he has been, heaven knows! I’ve often wished that chap could talk, but I’ve never wished it so much as I do at this moment. Somebody had put irons on him: I’ve just taken them off.” “Can I see them?” “You knew it, did you?” “I saw him. He came out of the old tower on the hill.” Michael pointed; from where they stood, the tower was in sight. “Is that so? And what the devil was he doing there?” Sir Gregory scratched his chin thoughtfully. “He’s been away before, but mostly he goes to a shoot of mine about three miles away, where there’s plenty of cover and no intruders. I discovered that when a poacher saw him, and, like a fool, shot at him—that poacher was a lucky man to escape with his life. Have you found the body of Foss?” The baronet had resumed his playing, and was looking at the ball at his feet. “No,” said Michael quietly. “Expect to find it?” “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Sir Gregory stood, his hands leaning on his club, looking across the wold. “What’s the law in this country, suppose a man accidentally kills a servant who tried to knife him?” “He would have to stand his trial,” said Michael, “and a verdict of ‘justifiable homicide’ would be returned and he would be set free.” “But suppose he didn’t reveal it? Suppose he—well, did away with the body—buried it—and let the matter slide?”