Aylesbury was very morose, and Wessex, who had lighted his pipe, did not seem to be in a talkative mood either. He had the utmost faith in Paul Harley, but it was evident enough that he was oppressed by the weight of evidence against Camber. I divined the fact that he was turning over in his mind the idea of the frame-up, and endeavouring to re-adjust the established facts in accordance with this new point of view.
We were admitted to the Guest House by Mrs. Powis, a cheery old soul; one of those born optimists whose special task in life seems to be that of a friend in need.
As she opened the door, she smiled, shook her head, and raised her finger to her lips.
“Be as quiet as you can, sir,” she said. “I have got her to sleep.”
She spoke of Mrs. Camber as one refers to a child, and, quite understanding her anxiety:
“There will be no occasion to disturb her, Mrs. Powis,” I replied. “We merely wish to walk down to the bottom of the garden to make a few enquiries.”
“Yes, gentlemen,” she whispered, quietly closing the door as we all entered the hall.
She led us through the rear portion of the house, and past the quarters of Ah Tsong into that neglected garden which I remembered so well.
“There you are, sir, and may Heaven help you to find the truth.”
“Rest assured that the truth will be found, Mrs. Powis,” I answered.
Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat, but Wessex, puffing at his pipe, made no remark whatever until we were all come to the hut overhanging the little ravine.
