Then he took from his breast pocket a little bar in the shape of a lever. He introduced the bent end of this between the door and the post, just above the keyhole, and gave a sharp jerk. There was a short crack like that made by the snapping of cast iron, and the door flew open. Without a moment's hesitation the man went in, followed closely by Sidney and Captain Pharland. The birds had flown. As mysteriously as they had come, the devotees had vanished. Bare walls met the eyes of the searchers. Porton Abbey stood empty again after its brief return to life and warmth, and indeed it scarcely looked habitable. The few personal effects of the simple monks had been removed; the walls and stone floors were rigidly clean; the small chapel showed signs of recent repair. There was an altar-cloth, a crucifix, and two brass candlesticks. The gentleman from London noted these items with a cynical smile. He had instinctively removed his hat; it is just possible that there was another side to this man's life--a side wherein he dealt with men who were not openly villains. He may have been a churchwarden at home. “Clever beggars!” he ejaculated, “they were ready for every emergency.” Captain Pharland pointed to the altar with his heavy riding-whip. “Then,” he said, “you think this all humbug?” “I do. They were no more monks than we are.” The search did not last much longer. Only a few rooms had been inhabited, and there was absolutely nothing left--no shred of evidence, no clue whatever. “Yes,” said the fair-haired man, when they had finished their inspection, “these were exceptional men; they knew their business.” As they left the house he paused, and closed the door again, remaining inside. “You see,” he said, “there is not even a bolt on the door. They knew better than to depend on bolts and bars. They knew a trick worth two of that.” At the gate they met a small, inoffensive man, with a brown beard and a walking-stick. There was nothing else to say about him; without the beard and the walking-stick there would have been nothing left to know him by. “That is my assistant,” announced the London detective quietly. “He has been down to the cliff.” The two men stepped aside together, and consulted in an undertone for some time. Then the last speaker returned to Captain Pharland and Sidney, who were standing together. “That newspaper,” he said, “the _Beacon_, is word for word right. My assistant has been to the spot. The arms and ammunition have undoubtedly been shipped from this place. The cases of cartridges mentioned by the man who wrote the article as having been seen, in a dream, half-way down the cliff, are actually there; my assistant has seen them.” Captain Pharland scratched his honest cavalry head. He was beginning to regret that he had accepted the post of district inspector of the police. Sidney Carew puffed at his pipe in silence.