“The Commissioner thinks you ought to have a dozen men down here and make a clean-up,” he said. “I’ve brought three, and I think they all ought to be inside the house. One we’ve got in the east wing, another in the west, and a patrol in the hall. That will leave you and me and the local ‘flatties’ for the grounds. Though I think we might as well stay here--you want a battalion to patrol the estate properly. By the way, when I was looking round early this morning I found a great mound of earth in the northeast corner of the estate, near the river. One of your gamekeepers told me it was called Chelford Greed. What is the idea?” Dick was not in an archæological mood, but he explained. “One of my ancestors--I don’t know which one--planned and carried out a big steal. You probably know that the charter by which we received these lands from King Henry confines the northern boundary of the estate to the course of the Ravensrill, and the ingenious Chelford of the times had the idea of changing the course of the Ravensrill so that the estate would embrace another thousand acres. The Chelford Greed was the dam he built. The natural course of the Ravensrill runs through the Long Meadow. It was one of those clever little pieces of robbery that have made us landed proprietors what we are! As I say, I don’t know which of the Chelfords planned this piece of larceny, because there is no written record, and the legend has come down from mouth to mouth, so to speak.” He looked up at the big portrait above the fireplace and shook his head. “Lady,” he said softly, “you’ve given me a lot of trouble!” Puttler was interested. “As how?” he asked. “I’ll tell you one of these days,” said Dick. “I wonder if those girls are asleep?” He stole quietly up the stairs. The man on duty in the corridor flashed a lamp upon him as he approached. “No sound,” he whispered, and Dick crept downstairs again. It was arranged that he and Puttler should snatch a few hours’ sleep in turn, the other patrolling round and round the block of buildings. At two o’clock in the morning he was aroused from a deep slumber to feel Puttler shaking gently at his shoulder. “Nothing has happened,” said the detective, eyeing with a friendly look the sofa from which Dick struggled. “I’ve warmed up some grub for you.” A spirit stove was burning on the desk and the kettle above was steaming. Dick poured the black coffee into a glass and scalded himself to wakefulness. “One of the local men thought he saw somebody moving and challenged,” reported Puttler, settling himself down with a luxurious sigh. “But it was probably only a bush. These birds are jumpy--they see a Black Abbot in every shadow!” Dick sipped at the boiling fluid and broke a biscuit with his disengaged hand. “Thank God, this can’t go on much longer!” he said. “By the way, did you bring those papers from London?” “I gave them to you in the library: they were in the blue envelope.” Dick put down the glass.