Missing or Murdered by Robin Forsythe

It might start him off like a pistol-shot on a race to the uttermost parts of the earth,” queried Vereker.
    â€œNot likely—Paris police!” replied the inspector laconically.
    â€œIt’s not fair,” sighed Vereker. “You don’t give the hare a chance with your web of wireless and cables and police bureaux at the gates of the wilderness. For the only place that’s paradise now for the criminal is the wilderness. You’re not sportsmen at the C.I.D. I refuse to compete with you any longer.”
    Inspector Heather smiled.
    â€œI’m going over to-morrow morning to Bygrave Hall. I hope you’ll accompany me, Mr. Vereker. The servants know you pretty well; it would be diplomatic if you arrived with me.”
    â€œVery good. I’m sorry you’ve discovered nothing at Hartwood, inspector.”
    â€œIt’s extraordinary. Not a vestige of anything that’s useful. Only one villager admits to having seen a gentleman that might have been Lord Bygrave, and that was as he emerged from the inn on Saturday morning. He couldn’t even say in what direction the gentleman went.”
    â€œYet I can’t help thinking we might discover something here, inspector. I have no very definite grounds for thinking so, but there are all sorts of vague things in my mind. They’re only ghosts of suspicions; I can’t definitely lay hold of one definite surmise. But they’re like spirits brooding. I feel certain they’ll suddenly materialize and give me a clear, tangible something. It’s sure to happen when I’m miles away from the place. It’s always the way with me. Ah, here’s the dinner at last!”
    During dinner the conversation flagged. Inspector Heather seemed buried in his own thoughts and little disposed to discuss matters with his companion. Vereker, on his part, was absorbed in the quality of a bottle of Madeira that he had bought and was sampling with undisguised zest.
    â€œYou ought to try this wine, inspector,” he urged at length.
    â€œI seldom want anything better than good, honest ale,” replied the inspector, and suddenly diving into his waistcoat pocket he produced Lord Bygrave’s signet-ring.
    â€œDid you look at that ring carefully?” he asked.
    â€œNot very carefully,” replied Vereker. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”
    â€œNothing wrong; there’s nothing mysterious about it. That is Lord Bygrave’s crest, I suppose?”
    â€œCertainly,” said Vereker. “By the way, that ring is mine should anything have happened to Bygrave. He wants me to keep it as a little remembrancer.”
    â€œYou had better take charge of it, then,” said the inspector. “But should I require it again you can let me have it back.”
    â€œMost assuredly. I think I’d better wear it or I’ll leave it lying about somewhere. You don’t think it would be unlucky to wear it, do you, Heather?”
    The inspector vouchsafed no reply, so Vereker put the ring on the third finger of his left hand and the meal ended in silence.
    After dinner Vereker retired to his room. He drew an arm-chair to the empty fire-place and filled his pipe. Now that he was alone his usual look of irrepressible gaiety had vanished and his brow was furrowed with thought.
    â€œThe gloom seems to be luminous,” he soliloquized, “but not a definite shaft of light!”
    He then stretched out his hand to the mantelpiece for Lord Bygrave’s tin of tobacco, and carefully read the label.
    â€œGood Lord!” he exclaimed. “Why, he buys it at the Civil Service Stores! The plot thickens!” For half an hour Vereker sat gazing into the chill darkness of the empty grate, his right thumb and forefinger ceaselessly twirling the signet-ring on his left hand. Then he jumped up from his chair, hurriedly undressed and got to bed. He lay awake for more than an hour, arranging and re-arranging in