Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I should doubt that.”
The Inspector failed to conceal his surprise.
“Not armed? He’s sure to be.”
“We’ll see in a minute or two,” the Chief Constable answered. “You’d better get your beaters to work, hadn’t you? . . . Ah!”
In the silence they heard the sound of a faint splash from the direction of the quarry.
“History’s repeating itself pretty accurately, isn’t it?” said Sir Clinton, turning to Michael. “That’s the kind of thing you heard the other night?”
“Just the same,” Michael admitted.
But as the line of constables moved forward he could not help contrasting their methodical work with the rather haphazard doings of the pursuers on the earlier occasion. Armadale had evidently issued stringent orders, for not a tuft of undergrowth was left unexamined as the line slowly closed in upon the hunted man. Every possible piece of cover was scrutinized and beaten before the cordon passed beyond it.
“Very pretty,” Sir Clinton commented, as they moved up in the rear of the line. “The Inspector must surely have been training these fellows. They really do the business excellently.”
Michael suddenly left the path they were following and stepped across under the trees.
“I’m going to have a look at that Fairy House myself,” he declared. “That’s where I found Maurice after the last show. I want to be perfectly certain that it’s empty.”
He opened the door, leaned inside the building, and then came back to his companions. Something like disappointment was visible in his expression. He was taken aback to see glances of sardonic amusement exchanged between Cecil and the Chief Constable.
“Drawn blank, have you?” Cecil inquired.
“There’s no one there at present,” Michael admitted.
“I don’t think the constables would have missed a plain thing like that,” Sir Clinton remarked mildly, though with a faint undertone of correction in his voice.
Before Michael had time to reply they heard Armadale’s voice. The cordon had passed completely through the spinney and was now on the edge of the marble terrace.
“Come along,” Sir Clinton urged. “We mustn’t miss the final scene.”
They hurriedly joined the line just as Armadale ordered a last advance.
“He’s somewhere on this terrace,” he told his men. “See that he doesn’t break away from you at the last moment.”
Sir Clinton turned to Michael.
“Just the same as before?”
Michael made a gesture of assent.
“I’ll admit that this is more businesslike.”
The Constabulary line crept forward almost foot by foot, subjecting every one of the marble seats to the most rigid scrutiny. Inspector Armadale’s anxiety was more and more apparent as the cordon advanced without securing the man for whom they were searching. At last the whole of the possible cover had been beaten, and the constables emerged on the open terrace. The fugitive had vanished, apparently, into thin air.
Michael Clifton turned to the Chief Constable with an ironical smile.
“Just the same as last time, it seems. How history repeats itself!”
The Inspector hurried across the terrace to where they were standing. It was obvious that he was completely staggered by the turn of events.
“He’s got away, sir,” he reported in a mortified voice. “I can’t think how he’s managed it.”
“I think we’ll repeat that last stage again, Inspector, if you don’t mind. Withdraw your men till they’re just in front of that last line of seats.”
While the Inspector was giving his orders Sir Clinton pulled his case from his pocket, opened it, and thoughtfully tapped a cigarette on the lid. Before lighting it he threw a glance up and down the empty spaces of the terrace from which the fugitive had so mysteriously vanished.
“All plain and above board, isn’t it?” he said, turning to his two companions. “I’ve got nothing in my hands except a cigarette, and you can search my sleeves if you like. It is required, as Euclid would say, to produce a full-sized burglar for the satisfaction of the audience. It’s a stiff job.”
He glanced again over the wide white pavement of the terrace.
“A conjurer’s usually allowed a little patter, isn’t he? The quickness of the tongue distracts the eye, and all that. Just a question, then. Do you happen o remember what Medusa was able to do? Turned things into stone when she looked at them, didn’t she? That somehow brings the late Pygmalion to my mind—a kind of association of opposites, in a way, I suppose. But I’ve often wondered what Pygmalion felt like when the statue came to life.”
He turned sharply on his heel.
“You can come down off that pedestal, my friend. The game’s up!”
To the amazement of the group around him, the white marble statue above him started suddenly into life. It leapt down from its base on to the pavement of the terrace, staggered as it alighted, and then, as Cecil and Michael grasped at its smooth sides, it shook itself clear and sprang upon the broad marble balustrade.
“Come back, you fool!” Sir Clinton snapped, as the figure faced outward to the gulf below.
But instead of halting, the white form gathered itself together for an instant and then dived headlong into the abyss. There was the sound of a splash; and an appalling cry came up through the night.
Sir Clinton dashed to the rail.
“Below, there! Get out on that raft at once and pick him up. He’s badly hurt. He’ll drown if you don’t hurry.”
The Inspector hurried forward.
“Why didn’t you warn us, sir. We’d have had Marden as easy as anything. If you’d only told us what to expect.”
Sir Clinton looked round.
“Marden? That’s not Marden. I tell you, Inspector, if that jump of his meant anything, it suggests that there’s no Marden at all.”
The Inspector’s amazement overbore his chagrin.
“I don’t understand . . .” he began.
“Never mind. I’ll explain later. Get away down to the water-side at once. See if he’s badly damaged. Quick, now.”
As the Inspector hurried off, the Chief Constable turned to Michael Clifton.
“History doesn’t always repeat itself exactly, you see.”
He pulled out a match-box and lit his cigarette in a leisurely fashion. Then, throwing away the vesta, he inquired:
“You see now how he got away from you last time?”
Michael made no reply. He was examining the pedestal from which the living statue had taken its flight; and he could see the scores and cuts left by the chisel which had smoothed the standing-place of the original marble figure. Quite obviously, on the night of the masked ball, the same trick had been played; and while the pursuers were searching all around, the fugitive had stood rigid above them, unsuspected by anyone.
Cecil turned to the Chief Constable.
“Aren’t you going down to see if something can’t be done for the poor devil? He must have come a fearful smash on the rocks.”
“Poor devil?” Sir Clinton retorted. “That’s not a poor devil. That’s a wild beast, if you’re anxious for information. But if you’re a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, I suppose we’d better see that things are done decently and in order. We’ll go down, if you’re perturbed about him.”
It took them some little time to descend to the level of the lakelet. They could see, as they went down, the process of rescue; and when they reached the water-side, they found two constables stooping over a limp white figure, beside which the Inspector knelt solicitously. As the newcomers approached, Armadale rose and stepped over to them.