Horne Fisher’s heavy eyelids fluttered in a faint attempt to rise, as if he were tempted to a lazy protest against the contemptuous tone of the investigator.

“The Irish believe far too much in spirits to believe in spiritualism,” he murmured.  “They know too much about ’em.  If you want a simple and childlike faith in any spirit that comes along you can get it in your favorite London.”

“I don’t want to get it anywhere,” said Wilson, shortly.  “I say I’m dealing with much simpler things than your simple faith, with a table and a chair and a ladder.  Now what I want to say about them at the start is this.  They are all three made roughly enough of plain wood.  But the table and the chair are fairly new and comparatively clean.  The ladder is covered with dust and there is a cobweb under the top rung of it.  That means that he borrowed the first two quite recently from some cottage, as we supposed, but the ladder has been a long time in this rotten old dustbin.  Probably it was part of the original furniture, an heirloom in this magnificent palace of the Irish kings.”

Again Fisher looked at him under his eyelids, but seemed too sleepy to speak, and Wilson went on with his argument.

“Now it’s quite clear that something very odd has just happened in this place.  The chances are ten to one, it seems to me, that it had something specially to do with this place.  Probably he came here because he could do it only here; it doesn’t seem very inviting otherwise.  But the man knew it of old; they say it belonged to his family, so that altogether, I think, everything points to something in the construction of the tower itself.”

“Your reasoning seems to me excellent,” said Sir Walter, who was listening attentively.  “But what could it be?”

“You see now what I mean about the ladder,” went on the detective; “it’s the only old piece of furniture here and the first thing that caught that cockney eye of mine.  But there is something else.  That loft up there is a sort of lumber room without any lumber.  So far as I can see, it’s as empty as everything else; and, as things are, I don’t see the use of the ladder leading to it.  It seems to me, as I can’t find anything unusual down here, that it might pay us to look up there.”

He got briskly off the table on which he was sitting (for the only chair was allotted to Sir Walter) and ran rapidly up the ladder to the platform above.  He was soon followed by the others, Mr. Fisher going last, however, with an appearance of considerable nonchalance.

At this stage, however, they were destined to disappointment; Wilson nosed in every corner like a terrier and examined the roof almost in the posture of a fly, but half an hour afterward they had to confess that they were still without a clew.  Sir Walter’s private secretary seemed more and more threatened with inappropriate slumber, and, having been the last to climb up the ladder, seemed now to lack the energy even to climb down again.