“I was going to tell you,” said the other impatiently. “Chelford keeps a cash box in his library; it’s in the second left-hand drawer, and he’s generally got a wad of stuff there. He’s childish in the matter of money. I knew if I could get my hooks into the stuff I could lift enough to be happy, and leave enough behind so that Chelford couldn’t swear whether I’d had it or not. I got into the library about four this morning, and was going upstairs when Alford spotted me, told me to go up and dress and clear, which I did--he’s got something on his mind, that fellow, he never sleeps!” “He caught you with the money?” asked Gilder in disgust. “Not he--I shoved that out of the library window as soon as I got it. I picked it up later.” “What was Mr. Alford doing, wandering about the house at that hour?” The man made a grimace. “You never know when that bird is around,” he said. “He’s not human; I tell you he doesn’t want sleep!” Though Gilder was certain he was telling the truth, he was equally sure that the man was concealing something. There seemed to him to be gaps in his story, which he bridged readily enough. Wisely he decided that it was not the moment to cross-examine him. On one point he made up his mind. This man and he must part company, and soon. “Why did you come here?” “Thought you were in London,” said the other coolly. “I’ve been here before to see you, and I didn’t think you’d mind my using your house for a day or two--maybe a week or two,” he added, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. Gilder scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know that it will do me much good if it’s known that you’re an ex-convict.” “They needn’t know, why should they?” said the other. “Did you bring my car here?” Thomas nodded. “I was going over to Red Farm first; there’s a groom there who’s a friend of mine. Then I saw your car and thought something had happened to you. I waited for a time, and when you didn’t turn up I brought it along.” “Did anybody see you?” “Nobody. It was nearly dark.” What was the man concealing? The impression that Gilder had--and he was a skilful reader of minds--was that Thomas was bursting with some vital information. Once or twice it had been at the end of his tongue, and he had inhibited the sensation. “You can stay here if you like; I’m going to town. If I get a letter from the local police saying you’re living in the house, I shall write saying that you have no authority. You understand that I must protect myself?” “I can understand that, guv’nor.” Again his lips moved to speak, and again he checked himself. “What do you want to tell me?” “It’s too big to tell. I am going to keep it. Maybe if you come down later I’ll spin you a story that’s worth a million dollars.” Thomas had once spent twelve months in a Canadian penitentiary, and it was his favourite pose that he was an American crook. “A million dollars--yep!” XXXII