“Haven’t you ever been in Averill’s bedroom?” “Yes. What of it?” “Did you notice the safe?” “Not particularly.” “Well, I’ve both been there and noticed it.” He bent forward, and his thin face seemed more hawk-like than ever as he said impressively: “Oxley, that safe was fireproof!” Mr. Oxley started. “Good Heavens, Tarkington! Are you sure of that?” he queried sharply. “Not absolutely,” the other replied. “It was certainly my strong opinion and if I had been asked before the fire I should have had no doubt. When I heard the evidence at the inquest I concluded I had made a mistake. But now this affair of the twenty-pound note has reawakened all my suspicions.” He paused, but as Oxley did not reply, continued: “Perhaps I’ve got a bee in my bonnet as you said, but I’m now wondering if Roper’s drunkenness doesn’t support the theory? Could he not have been enticed into Thirsby by some member of the gang and treated so as to make him sleep well and not hear what was going on? Remember, he was an absolutely temperate man.” “Not absolutely. Ruth had smelt drink on other occasions.” “You are right. Perhaps that is a trifle far-fetched. But what do you think on the main point, Oxley? Ought I to tell the police of my suspicions?” Mr. Oxley rose and began to pace the room. Then he went to the window and stood for some moments looking out. Finally he returned to his chair, and sat down again. “I declare, Tarkington, I think you ought,” he said slowly. “When you first made your—I might perhaps say—your amazing suggestion I confess I thought it merely grotesque. But if you are right about the safe it certainly puts a different complexion on the whole business. I take it it’s not too late to ascertain? The safe is not too much damaged to trace the maker and find out from him?” “I should think the police could find the maker quite easily.” “Well, I think you should tell them. If you are wrong no harm is done. If not, there are murderers to be brought to justice and perhaps a fortune to be recovered for Ruth.” Mr. Tarkington rose. “I agree with you, Oxley. I’ll go down to the police station and tell Kent now.” Mr. Oxley waved him back into his seat. “Steady a moment,” he said. “Don’t be in such a hurry.” He drew slowly at his cigarette while the other sat down and waited expectantly. “It seems to me,” went on Mr. Oxley, “that if your suspicions are correct the thing should be kept absolutely quiet. Nothing should be said or done to put the criminals on their guard. Now Kent, you know as well as I do, is just a bungling ass. My suggestion is that we both take the afternoon off and go see Valentine. I know him pretty well and we could ring him up and make an appointment.” “Valentine, the Chief Constable of the County?” “Yes. He’s as cute as they’re made and he’ll do the right thing.” “Kent will never forgive us if we pass him over like that.” “Kent be hanged,” Mr. Oxley rejoined. “Can you come in by the three-thirty?”