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Updated: June 16, 2025
When the Sun-Gods kissed the crest of the hill and bathed her in the rich rose colors that came straight down to the hill through the rift in the mountains, she rose and gathered up her papers. She had not written another line. It was late in the afternoon when Leviatt rode up to the door of Stafford's office and dismounted.
"Adrian Fellowes!" It was Ian Stafford's voice, insistent and inquiring. "Here is the proof, as I say." Barry Whalen leaned forward and pushed a paper over on the table, to which were attached two or three smaller papers and some cablegrams. "Look at them. Take a good look at them and see how we've been done done brown.
Stafford won't get the mile, which you will. A little success may keep him with us; otherwise the odds are he may go over to the enemy alias your friend Felgate." Ainger wrote Stafford's name down there and then. In this way the two friends went through the list. It was a strong record to beat, and if they were doubtful of themselves they were still more doubtful of some of their juniors.
At Stafford's International Investigation Bureau, in the Strand, where he was employed, they did not require him to solve mysteries which had baffled the police. He had never measured a footprint in his life, and what he did not know about bloodstains would have filled a library.
Hundreds, maybe thousands, were being killed off there in the hills. She saw nothing except the debris of Ian Stafford's life drifting out to the shoreless sea. He lived still, but remained unconscious, and she did not relax her vigil. As she watched and waited the words of the young surgeon kept ringing in her ears, a monotonous discord, "Ninety-nine Adelphi Terrace first floor!"
Sir Stephen's voice came cheerily in response to Stafford's knock, and Stafford entered; Falconer following him with bent head and the same heavy look. Sir Stephen was sitting at the table before a despatch box, and he held out his hand and uttered a little cry of pleasure as he saw who it was. "Stafford, my boy! You could not have come at a better moment Don't go, Falconer!
Stafford's antiquarian researches had made him familiar with such mysteries, and enough of them had been explained by natural causes to convince him that there was a key to all the rest. Owls, coiners, and smugglers had all been convicted of simulating ghosts.
Leapt out almost on to Sir Stephen, who ran up breathless with apprehension on Stafford's account. The two men stood and looked at each other in the moonlight, at first with a confused and bewildered gaze, then Sir Stephen started back with a cry, a strange cry, which brought Stafford to his side.
"I didn't get your name," he smiled. The stranger's eyes glittered humorously. "It's Ferguson," he said quietly. Stafford's eyes widened with astonishment. Then his right hand went out and grasped the other's. "Well, now," he said warmly, "that's what I call luck." Ferguson smiled. "Mebbe it's luck," he returned.
Trust Sir Stephen to look after his own!" wailed the man. "But I yield it, give it up," said Stafford in the same level voice. Falconer started from his seat and laid a hand on Stafford's arm. "Don't be a fool!", he whispered in his thick voice. But Stafford did not heed him. "I give it up, relinquish it," he said in the same low, clear tones.
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