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Updated: August 23, 2024
After a moment's pause he wrenched the bell nearly out of its socket, and a long peal was the result. At last this ceased, and there was no sound in the house. The fair man looked back over his shoulder at Captain Pharland. "Gone!" he said tersely. 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.
He spoke softly and somewhat slowly; his manner was essentially that of a man accustomed to the entire attention of his hearers. "The old Italian," he continued, "who went under the name of Signor Bruno, disappeared this morning. It is just possible that he will succeed in getting out of the country. It all depends upon who he is." "Who do you suppose he is?" asked Captain Pharland.
He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, grizzled man, with the bearing of a soldier, while his second companion was fair and gentle in manner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, District Inspector of Police; the civilian was the keenest detective in London. "Of course," said this man, who sat his hired horse with perfect confidence. "Of course we are too late, I know that."
Sidney and Captain Pharland rode home together, leaving the two detectives to find their way to Brayport Station. They rode in silence, for the Captain was puzzled, and his companion was intensely anxious. Sidney Carew was beginning to realise that the events of the last three days had a graver import than they at first promised to conceal.
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.
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.
He was an upright old British soldier, and felt ill at ease in the society of his celebrated confrere. "I don't know," was the frank reply; "you see this is not a criminal affair, it is entirely political; it is hardly in my line of country." They rode on in silence for a space of time, during which Captain Pharland lighted a cigar and offered one to his companions.
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.
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