“Your faith is weak, though you believe it strong,” answered the other.

And he was equally curt when the physician advised him to take a sleeping-draught before retiring.  He bade them “Good-night” without more words, and went to his room, while after further conversation, Dr. Mannering and Mr. Prodgers took their leave.

The former strongly urged Sir Walter to set some sort of guard outside the door of the Grey Room.

“That man’s not wholly sane to-night,” he declared, “and he appears to glory in the fact that he isn’t.  He must surely be aware that much he said was superstitious bosh.  Look after him.  Guard his own apartment.  That will be the simplest plan.”

When they had gone, Sir Walter addressed his nephew.  They went upstairs together and stood for a moment outside the Grey Room.  The door was wide open, and the place brilliantly lighted by a high-powered bulb.  So had it been by night ever since the disaster.  None of the household entered it, and none, save Sir Walter or Henry, was willing to do so until more should be known.

“I have your word of honor you will not go into that room to-night,” said his uncle; “but such is the mental condition of this poor clergyman that I can but feel Mannering is right.  May might, from some fancied call of the spirit, take the law into his own hands and do what he wishes to do.  This must be prevented at any cost.  I will ask you, Henry, to follow the doctor’s suggestion on my behalf, and keep guard over him.  Oppose him actively if he should appear, and call me.  I would suggest that Caunter or Masters accompanied you, but that is only to make gossip and mystery.”

“On no account.  I’ll look after him.  You can trust me.  I expect he’s pretty worn out after such a harrowing day, poor old beggar.  He’ll probably sleep soundly enough when he gets to bed.”

“I trust so.  I cannot offer to aid you myself, for I am dead beat,” said the other.

Then they parted, and the younger presently took up a position in the west wing of the house, where Septimus May had his bedroom.

Not until sunrise did Henry Lennox go to his own chamber, but his sleepless night proved a needless precaution, for Septimus May gave no sign.

CHAPTER V

THE UNSEEN MOVES

Before ten o’clock on the following morning Peter Hardcastle, who had travelled by the night train from Paddington, was at Chadlands.  A car had gone into Newton Abbot to meet him, as no train ran on the branch line until a later hour.

The history of the detective was one of hard work, crowned at last by a very remarkable success.  His opportunity had come, and he had grasped it.  The accident of the war and the immense publicity given to his capture of a German secret agent had brought him into fame, and raised him to the heights of his profession.  Moreover, the extraordinary histrionic means taken to achieve his purpose, and the picturesqueness of the details, captured that latent love of romance common to all minds.  Hardcastle had become a lion; women were foolish about him; he might have made a great match and retired into private life had he desired to do so.  At the present time an American heiress ardently wished to wed the man.