Peter Hardcastle remained silent for a moment; then he spoke again.

“Have you observed how many of the sons of the clergy go into the Navy or Merchant Marine?”

“I have not.”

“They do, however.”

Sir Walter began to dislike the detective more than before.

“We will leave you now,” he said.  “You will find me in my study if you want me.  That bell communicates with the servants.  The lock of the door was broken when we forced our way in, and has not been mended; but you can close the door if you wish to do so.  It has been kept open since and the electric light always turned on at night.”

“Many thanks.  I will consider a point or two here and rejoin you.  Was the chimney examined?”

“No.  It would not admit a human being.”

Then Sir Walter and his nephew left the room, and Hardcastle, waiting until they were out of earshot, shut the door and thrust a heavy chair against it.

They heard no more of him for an hour, and joined Mary and Septimus May, who were walking on the terrace together.  The former was eager to learn the detective’s opinions, but her husband’s father had already warned her that Peter Hardcastle was doomed to fail.

The four walked up and down together, and Prince, Sir Walter’s ancient spaniel, went beside them.

Henry told his cousin the nature of their conversation and the direction in which the professional inquiry seemed to turn.

“He wants to see you and hear everything you can tell him about dear Tom’s past,” he said.

“Of course I will tell him everything; and what I do not know, Mr. May will remember.”

“He is very quiet and very open-minded about some things, but jolly positive about others.  Your father-in-law won’t get far with him.  He scoffs at any supernatural explanation of our terrible loss.”

Mr. May overheard this remark.

“As I have already told Mary, his failure is assured.  He is wasting his time, and I knew he probably would do so before he came.  Not to such a man, however clever he may be, will an explanation be vouchsafed.  I would rather trust an innocent child to discover these things than such a person.  He is lost in his own conceit and harbors vain ideas.”

“There is something about him I cordially dislike already,” confessed Sir Walter.  “And yet it is a most unreasonable dislike on my part, for he is exceedingly well mannered, speaks and conducts himself like a gentleman, and does nothing that can offend the most sensitive.”

“A prejudice, Uncle Walter.”

“Perhaps it is, Henry; yet I rarely feel prejudice.”

“Call it rather an intuition,” said the clergyman.  “What your antipathetic attitude means is that you already unconsciously know this man is not going to avail, and that his assumption of superiority in the matter of knowledge—­his opinions and lack of faith—­will defeat him if nothing else does.  He approaches his problem in an infidel spirit, and consequently the problem will evade his skill; because such skill is not merely futile in this matter, but actually destructive.”