“Certainly, if you’d like to,” Claridge replied; “but they haven’t been there—­it is exactly as it was left.  Only a lumber-room, you see,” he concluded, flinging the door open.

A number of partly broken-up packing-cases littered about this room, with much other rubbish.  Hewitt took the lid of one of the newest-looking packing-cases, and glanced at the address label.  Then he turned to a rusty old iron box that stood against a wall.  “I should like to see behind this,” he said, tugging at it with his hands.  “It is heavy and dirty.  Is there a small crowbar about the house, or some similar lever?”

Mr. Claridge shook his head.  “Haven’t such a thing in the place,” he said.

“Never mind,” Hewitt replied, “another time will do to shift that old box, and perhaps, after all, there’s little reason for moving it.  I will just walk round to the police-station, I think, and speak to the constables who were on duty opposite during the night.  I think, Lord Stanway, I have seen all that is necessary here.”

“I suppose,” asked Mr. Claridge, “it is too soon yet to ask if you have formed any theory in the matter?”

“Well—­yes, it is,” Hewitt answered.  “But perhaps I may be able to surprise you in an hour or two; but that I don’t promise.  By the by,” he added suddenly, “I suppose you’re sure the trap-door was bolted last night?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Claridge answered, smiling.  “Else how could the bolt have been broken?  As a matter of fact, I believe the trap hasn’t been opened for months.  Mr. Cutler, do you remember when the trap-door was last opened?”

Mr. Cutler shook his head.  “Certainly not for six months,” he said.

“Ah, very well; it’s not very important,” Hewitt replied.

As they reached the front shop a fiery-faced old gentleman bounced in at the street door, stumbling over an umbrella that stood in a dark corner, and kicking it three yards away.

“What the deuce do you mean,” he roared at Mr. Claridge, “by sending these police people smelling about my rooms and asking questions of my servants?  What do you mean, sir, by treating me as a thief?  Can’t a gentleman come into this place to look at an article without being suspected of stealing it, when it disappears through your wretched carelessness?  I’ll ask my solicitor, sir, if there isn’t a remedy for this sort of thing.  And if I catch another of your spy fellows on my staircase, or crawling about my roof, I’ll—­I’ll shoot him!”

“Really, Mr. Woollett——­” began Mr. Claridge, somewhat abashed, but the angry old man would hear nothing.

“Don’t talk to me, sir; you shall talk to my solicitor.  And am I to understand, my lord”—­turning to Lord Stanway—­“that these things are being done with your approval?”

“Whatever is being done,” Lord Stanway answered, “is being done by the police on their own responsibility, and entirely without prompting, I believe, by Mr. Claridge—­certainly without a suggestion of any sort from myself.  I think that the personal opinion of Mr. Claridge—­certainly my own—­is that anything like a suspicion of your position in this wretched matter is ridiculous.  And if you will only consider the matter calmly——­”