“Good!” said French. “I guess that’s everything at last.” He returned to Paddington and caught the 1.30 express for Exeter. He was overjoyed at his progress. The issue was rapidly narrowing. How rapidly it was narrowing struck him even more forcibly as he thought of a further point. The trick had been played with Berlyn’s car. Could it have been done without Berlyn’s knowledge? Could, in fact, anyone but Berlyn have carried it out? French did not think so. It was beginning to look as if the solution of the whole problem were in sight. At Exeter he went about the package. As far as book entries were concerned, he was quickly satisfied. But no one remembered the transaction, nor could anyone recall enquiries having been made by a tallish, red-faced man with light hair and glasses. Nothing daunted, French caught the last train from Exeter to Ashburton, full of an eager anxiety to get to grips with his remaining problems. Chapter Eleven John Gurney, Night Watchman French had now reconciled the apparent contradiction in regard to one of his four test points. Obviously his next job was to clear up the other three. As he considered on which he should first concentrate, his mind fastened on the one point which at the time had seemed not completely satisfactory—the slightly suspicious manner of Gurney, the night watchman. During the night, as he now knew, the body of Stanley Pyke had been taken to the works and put into the crate. It was impossible that this could have been done without Gurney’s knowledge. Gurney must be made to speak. Accordingly, after breakfast next morning he set off to the man’s house. He passed out of the town on the Newton Abbot road, then turning into a lane to the left, struck up the side of the valley. Soon he reached the cottage, a tiny place with deep overhanging eaves and creeper-covered walls. In front was a scrap of well-kept garden and in the garden was the man himself. “Good morning, Gurney,” French greeted him. “I thought you would have been in bed by now.” “I be just going,” answered the old man. “I came out an’ begun a bit o’ weeding an’ the time ran round without my noticing.” “That’s lucky for me,” said French, heartily. “I want a word with you. A nice place you’ve got here.” “Not too bad, it ain’t,” the other admitted, looking about him with obvious pride. “The soil’s a bit ’eavy, but it don’t do so bad.” “Good for your roses, surely? Those are fine ones beside the house.” Gurney laid aside his hoe and led the way to the really magnificent bed of La Frances to which French had pointed. It was evident that these were the old man’s passion. French was not a gardener, but he knew enough to talk intelligently on the subject and his appreciation evidently went straight to the watchman’s heart. For some minutes they discussed horticulture, and then French wore gradually round to the object of his visit.