He had his knapsack before him on the table, and he smiled rather grimly as he began to unstrap it.  Paynter looked on with polite expressions of interest, but was considerably surprised when the artist unpacked and placed on the table, not any recognizable works of art, even of the most Cubist description, but (first) a quire of foolscap closely written with notes in black and red ink, and (second), to the American’s extreme amazement, the old woodman’s ax with the linen wrapper, which he had himself found in the well long ago.

“Sorry to give you a start, sir,” said the Russian artist, with a marked London accent.  “But I’d better explain straight off that I’m a policeman.”

“You don’t look it,” said Paynter.

“I’m not supposed to,” replied the other.  “Mr. Ashe brought me down here from the Yard to investigate; but he told me to report to you when I’d got anything to go on.  Would you like to go into the matter now?

“When I took this matter up,” explained the detective, “I did it at Mr. Ashe’s request, and largely, of course, on Mr. Ashe’s lines.  Mr. Ashe is a great criminal lawyer; with a beautiful brain, sir, as full as the Newgate Calendar.  I took, as a working notion, his view that only you five gentlemen round the table in the Squire’s garden were acquainted with the Squire’s movements.  But you gentlemen, if I may say so, have a way of forgetting certain other things and other people which we are rather taught to look for first.  And as I followed Mr. Ashe’s inquiries through the stages you know already, through certain suspicions I needn’t discuss because they’ve been dropped, I found the thing shaping after all toward something, in the end, which I think we should have considered at the beginning.  Now, to begin with, it is not true that there were five men round the table.  There were six.”

The creepy conditions of that garden vigil vaguely returned upon Paynter; and he thought of a ghost, or something more nameless than a ghost.  But the deliberate speech of the detective soon enlightened him.

“There were six men and five gentlemen, if you like to put it so,” he proceeded.  “That man Miles, the butler, saw the Squire vanish as plainly as you did; and I soon found that Miles was a man worthy of a good deal of attention.”

A light of understanding dawned on Paynter’s face.  “So that was it, was it!” he muttered.

“Does all our mythological mystery end with a policeman collaring a butler?  Well, I agree with you he is far from an ordinary butler, even to look at; and the fault in imagination is mine.  Like many faults in imagination, it was simply snobbishness.”