I'm hanged," Bentwood cried. "Gentlemen, I can't tell you now.
You asked to see the body of Sir Charles Darryll, and I have done my
best to satisfy your curiosity. The last time I saw the body it was
here. It seems to have vanished, and I know no more than the dead what
has happened. I'm telling you no more than the truth."

That the man was telling the truth was evidenced by the expression of
his face. Field had no more questions to ask, because he was quite sure
of the fact. On the table lay a letter, which the inspector first
glanced at and then placed in his pocket.

"I am just a little disappointed," he said, "because I fancied that I
had the complete and crowning surprise for you here tonight, Colonel.
You had better go off with my men, because I have no further need of
your services for the present, Dr. Bentwood. Perhaps to-morrow I may
have the pleasure of calling upon you. Good night."

The doctor vanished from the house, which was empty now, save for
Berrington and Field. The latter put out the lights and prepared to
leave by way of the front door.

"What are you going to do next?" Berrington asked.

"Go back to headquarters and report progress," Field explained. "The
rest is a matter of chance. I fancy I can see my way pretty clearly as
to what has happened. Come along, sir; on the whole we have no call to
be dissatisfied."

But the events of the night were by no means over yet. A battered
constable at the Yard who had just had his head bandaged up had a story
to tell. The prisoners from No. 100, Audley Place, had not been conveyed
to durance vile without one accident that had been attended with a fatal
tragedy. The officer told his story painfully.

"It was that little devil by the side of the driver," he said. "It's
lucky for me that he was not a big man instead of a bag of bones. We'd
come about half way when he turned and half throttled the driver and
then put speed on the motor. There was a struggle for the steering gear,
and then the whole show came to grief on a bridge. We were all pitched
out, but we hung to our prisoners, who are a pretty sight, sir. Mr.
Richford pitched over the side of the bridge on to the metals of the
railway lines below and he was killed on the spot. I don't want another
game like that."

Surely enough Richford had been killed. His neck had been broken, and he
had died without the slightest pain. Berrington, listening gravely to
the story, felt no shock from the recita