and when my husband returns late without his latchkey he wakes me up and I come out here and drop him mine.”
Further revelation of Mr Creake’s nocturnal habits was cut off, greatly to Mr Carlyle’s annoyance, by a cough of unmistakable significance from the foot of the stairs. They had heard a trade cart drive up to the gate, a knock at the door, and the heavy-footed woman tramp along the hall.
“Excuse me a minute, please,” said Mrs Creake.
“Louis,” said Carrados, in a sharp whisper, the moment they were alone, “stand against the door.”
With extreme plausibility Mr Carlyle began to admire a picture so situated that while he was there it was impossible to open the door more than a few inches. From that position he observed his confederate go through the curious procedure of kneeling down on the bedroom floor and for a full minute pressing his ear to the sheet of metal that had already engaged his attention. Then he rose to his feet, nodded, dusted his trousers, and Mr Carlyle moved to a less equivocal position.
“What a beautiful rose-tree grows up your balcony,” remarked Carrados, stepping into the room as Mrs Creake returned. “I suppose you are very fond of gardening?”
“I detest it,” she replied.
“But this Glorie, so carefully trained——?”
“Is it?” she replied. “I think my husband was nailing it up recently.” By some strange fatality Carrados’s most aimless remarks seemed to involve the absent Mr Creake. “Do you care to see the garden?”
The garden proved to be extensive and neglected. Behind the house was chiefly orchard. In front, some semblance of order had been kept up; here it was lawn and shrubbery, and the drive they had walked along. Two things interested Carrados: the soil at the foot of the balcony, which he declared on examination to be particularly suitable for roses, and the fine chestnut-tree in the corner by the road.
As they walked back to the car Mr Carlyle lamented that they had learned so little of Creake’s movements.
“Perhaps the telegram will tell us something,” suggested Carrados. “Read it, Louis.”
Mr Carlyle cut open the envelope, glanced at the enclosure, and in spite of his disappointment could not restrain a chuckle.
“My poor Max,” he explained, “you have put yourself to an amount of ingenious trouble for nothing. Creake is evidently taking a few days’ holiday and prudently availed himself of the Meteorological Office forecast before going. Listen: ‘Immediate prospect for London warm and settled. Further outlook cooler but fine.‘ Well, well; I did get a pound of tomatoes for my fourpence.”
“You certainly scored there, Louis,” admitted Carrados, with humorous appreciation. “I wonder,” he added speculatively, “whether it is Creake’s peculiar taste usually to spend his week-end holiday in London.”
“Eh?” exclaimed Mr Carlyle, looking at the words again, “by gad, that’s rum, Max. They go to Weston-super-Mare. Why on earth should he want to know about London?”
“I can make a guess, but before we are satisfied I must come here again. Take another look at that kite, Louis. Are there a few yards of string hanging loose from it?”
“Yes, there are.”
“Rather thick string—unusually thick for the purpose?”
“Yes; but how do you know?”
As they drove home again Carrados explained, and Mr Carlyle sat aghast, saying incredulously: “Good God, Max, is it possible?”
An hour later he was satisfied that it was possible. In reply to his inquiry someone in his office telephoned him the information that “they” had left Paddington by the four-thirty for Weston.
It was more than a week after his introduction to Carrados that Lieutenant Hollyer had a summons to present himself at The Turrets again. He found Mr Carlyle already there and the two friends awaiting his arrival.
“I stayed in all day after hearing from you this morning, Mr Carrados,” he said, shaking hands. “When I got your second message I was all ready to walk straight out of the house. That’s how I did it in the time. I hope everything is all right?”
“Excellent,” replied Carrados. “You’d better have something before we start. We probably have a long and perhaps an exciting night before us.”
“And certainly a wet one,” assented the lieutenant. “It was thundering over Mulling way as I came along.”
“That is why you are here,” said his host. “We are waiting for a certain message before we start, and in the meantime you may as well understand what we expect to happen. As you saw, there is a thunderstorm coming on. The Meteorological Office morning forecast predicted it for the whole of London if the conditions remained. That was why I kept you in readiness. Within an hour it is now inevitable that we shall experience a deluge. Here and there damage will be done to trees and buildings; here and there a person will probably be struck and killed.”
“Yes.”
“It is Mr Creake’s intention that his wife should be among the victims.”
“I don’t exactly follow,” said Hollyer, looking from one man to the other. “I quite admit that Creake would be immensely relieved if such a thing did happen, but the chance is surely an absurdly remote one.”
“Yet unless we intervene it is precisely what a coroner’s jury will decide has happened. Do you know whether your brother-in-law has any practical knowledge of electricity, Mr Hollyer?”
“I cannot say. He was so reserved, and we really knew so little of him——”
“Yet in 1896 an Austin Creake contributed an article on ‘Alternating Currents’ to the American Scientific World. That would argue a fairly intimate acquaintanceship.”
“But do you mean that he is going to direct a flash of lightning?”
“Only into the minds of the doctor who conducts the post-mortem, and the coroner. This storm, the opportunity for which he has been waiting for weeks, is merely the cloak to his act. The weapon which he has planned to use—scarcely less powerful than lightning but much more tractable—is the high voltage current of electricity that flows along the tram wire at his gate.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lieutenant Hollyer, as the sudden revelation struck him.
“Some time between eleven o’clock to-night—about the hour when your sister goes to bed—and one-thirty in the morning—the time up to which he can rely on the current—Creake will throw a stone up at the balcony window. Most of his preparation has long been made; it only remains for him to connect up a short length to the window handle and a longer one at the other end to tap the live wire. That done, he will wake his wife in the way I have said. The moment she moves the catch of the window—and he has carefully filed its parts to ensure perfect contact—she will be electrocuted as effectually as if she sat in the executioner’s chair in Sing Sing prison.”
“But what are we doing here!” exclaimed Hollyer, starting to his feet, pale and horrified. “It is past ten now
