Punctually at eleven-thirty, Baddeley and Roper arrived at the Manor. They joined us in the library. Sir Charles was worried and fidgety. “The ladies have gone to bed,” he volunteered the information. “Let’s hope they all sleep well. I’m going to stay in here.”

“Very good, Sir Charles,” remarked Baddeley. “That was going to be my own proposition. Now we haven’t got a great deal of time before getting to our posts. You two gentlemen,” he turned to Anthony and me, “will come into the garden and I will join you. We’ll get whatever cover we can as near the billiard room as possible—Roper will be in the billiard room itself, and will open it when the right moment comes. My other two men will command the exit if he breaks through the three of us and gets away. A contingency I’m prepared to lay very heavy odds against, though. Revolver all serene, Mr. Bathurst?”

“All in order, Inspector,” answered Anthony cheerfully, tapping his pocket. “Do I shoot to kill?”

“Only as a last resource, sir. Come along. And you, Roper, get upstairs to the billiard room.”
139

We emerged into the grounds. It was a wonderful July night. The sky with its clusters of shimmering stars seemed too serene, too majestic, for any disturbance such as our adventure might prove to be.

Baddeley gave a low whistle and, seemingly from nowhere, two plain-clothes men materialized from the shadows. He whispered them their instructions and they departed as quickly and as quietly as they had come.

“Now, Mr. Bathurst,” he came across to us as silently as a cat, “what about that rhododendron clump?” He pointed to a spot about eight yards from the window. “We three can make for there.”

As we nestled into its shade I heard the village clocks striking twelve. I wondered how many more times I should hear them strike before our vigil ended.

Baddeley gripped my arm. “Don’t speak, gentlemen,” he whispered, “it’s a dead still night, and the sound of the voice carries so. Be as quiet as you can.” I nodded to show him I understood and would obey.
140

It was, as Baddeley had said, as still as death. Occasionally came the hoot of an owl, but beyond that, the only sound that reached my ears was the breathing of my two companions. Baddeley spoke again. “We’d better not smoke,” he said. “He might easily detect it as he comes up and you can bet your life he’ll come with his eyes skinned.” We reluctantly put our pipes away. The minutes passed with unrelenting slowness. Once there came a sudden swishing sound followed by a soft thud. The sweat stood on my brow as I watched the place from where the noise had come, and Anthony gripped my right arm hard. Baddeley smiled at us out of the darkness. “A cat,” he whispered—“that’s all.” Half-past twelve, a quarter to one, and one o’clock struck. Then a quarter past one.

“He isn’t coming,” I breathed in Anthony’s ear. Baddeley looked perturbed and glanced at his watch. “Nearly half-past one,” he muttered softly.

“How long will you wait?” I asked him.

“Don’t know ... s’sh. What’s that?”

An owl hooted twice in quick succession. Baddeley put his finger to his lips. We waited spellbound. Then, as we watched, we saw a slim dark figure slink down the garden, leave the path leading to the drawing-room windows and come noiselessly up the gravel path. Opposite the billiard room window he stopped, then picked his way quickly and carefully across the bed till he reached the wall below the window. Looking round cautiously he bent down, picked up a handful of earth and threw it sharply against the pane. We saw the window raised slowly and the figure outside watching it.

“Now,” said Baddeley. “We’ll take him with his back towards us.”

Anthony drew his revolver, and we hurled ourselves at the crouching figure. He was utterly and completely taken by surprise.
141

“Curse you!” he snarled. “What’s the game?” But Baddeley silenced him with a buffet to the mouth while Anthony and I flung ourselves upon him. The scuffle was sharp but short. Three against one is merciless odds, and each one of us was bigger than our quarry. A few ineffective kicks and he lay helpless on the ground. Baddeley clicked the bracelets on his wrists.

“Now, Mr. ‘Spider’ Webb,” he cried, “I charge you with the robbery, last night, or to be precise, yesterday morning, of Lady Considine’s pearls, and I warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence against you. Bring him inside, gentlemen.” He called to Roper. “Tell those other two it’s all right—they can leave their positions and get back.”

We escorted our prisoner to the library, and on the way I was able to get my first good look at him. Jack Considine and Arkwright joined us.

He was a thin-faced, slim-limbed man with long black hair under his peaked cap. One of a type that can be seen many times over any day in the East End of London. I could quickly see how he had qualified for his sobriquet of “Spider.” His face twitched spasmodically as we marched him into the library.

“A very neat piece of work, Sir Charles,” exclaimed Baddeley ... “very neat and quite according to plan.”

Our prisoner flashed a glance full of menace at him, malice and spite flickering over his face unmistakably.

“Wot am I charged with?” he grunted. “Let’s hear it again.”
142

“The theft of Lady Considine’s pearls,” rapped Baddeley.

“Oh! Not cradle-snatching or boot-legging ... nothing fancy-like?”

“And unless you’re very careful,” went on the Inspector, “you may find yourself called upon to face an even more serious charge than robbery.”

Webb whitened, even under his normal pallor. “What might that be?” he muttered.

“The murder of Mr. Gerald Prescott, at Considine Manor,” replied Baddeley with studied deliberation.

“I know nothink about that, guvnor, nothink at all. S’elp me God, I don’t.”

“You knew of the murder then?” snapped Baddeley. “You aren’t surprised?&rdquo............