Willie looked thoughtful when he returned to the library.  “There’s a queer story back of all this,” he said.  “I think I’ll get the car and scout around.”

“He is armed, Willie,” I protested.

“He doesn’t want to shoot me, or he could have done it,” was his answer.  “I’ll just take a look around, and come back to report.”

It was half-past three by the time he was ready to go.  He was, as he observed, rather sketchily clad, but the night was warm.  I saw him off, and locked the door behind him.  Then I went into the library to wait and to put things to rights while I waited.

The dawn is early in August, and although it was not more than half-past four when Willie came back, it was about daylight by that time.  I went to the door and watched him bring the car to a standstill.  He shook his head when he saw me.

“Absolutely nothing,” he said.  “It was a ruse to get me out of the house, of course.  I’ve run the whole way between here and town twice.”

“But that could not have taken an hour,” I protested.

“No,” he said.  “I met the doctor—­what’s his name?—­the local M.D. anyhow—­footing it out of the village to a case, and I took him to his destination.  He has a car, it seems, but it’s out of order.  Interesting old chap,” he added, as I led the way into the house.  “Didn’t know me from Adam, but opened up when he found who I was.”

I had prepared the coffee machine and carried the tray to the library.  While I lighted the lamp, he stood, whistling softly, and thoughtfully.  At last he said: 

“Look here, Aunt Agnes, I think I’m a good bit of a fool, but—­some time this morning I wish you would call up Thomas Jenkins, on the Elmburg road, and find out if any one is sick there.”

But when I stared at him, he only laughed sheepishly.  “You can see how your suspicious disposition has undermined and ruined my once trusting nature,” he scoffed.

He took his coffee, and then, stripping off his ulster, departed for bed.  I stopped to put away the coffee machine, and with Maggie in mind, to hang up his motor-coat.  It was then that the flashlight fell out.  I picked it up.  It was shaped like a revolver.

I stopped in Willie’s room on my way to my own, and held it out to him.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“Good heavens!” he said, raising himself on his elbow.  “It belongs to the doctor.  He gave it to me to examine the fan belt.  I must have dropped it into my pocket.”

And still I was nowhere.  Suppose I had touched this flashlight at the foot of the stairs and mistaken it for a revolver.  Suppose that the doctor, making his way toward the village and finding himself pursued, had faced about and pretended to be leaving it?  Grant, in a word, that Doctor Lingard himself had been our night visitor—­what then?  Why had he done it?  What of the telephone-call, urging me to search the road?  Did some one realize what was happening, and take this method of warning us and sending us after the fugitive?