The valley of ghosts

Fate and an easy-running Spanz brought Andrew Macleod to the environs of Beverley. The town itself is at the end of a reluctant branch line, and has no visible excuse for existence, or means of support. Yet, for some extraordinary reason, the people of Beverley did not starve and the queer little shops that formed its one broad, shaded street had the appearance of prosperity. This it could not have drawn from its aristocratic suburb, for Beverley Green had its supplies from the great department stores elsewhere, and came only to the town for such stocks as had been overlooked in the ordering.

Andy brought his long-bonneted car to a rest before the post office and got down. In five minutes he was chatting to headquarters, and the subject of his conversation was Allison John Wicker, alias Four-Eyed Scottie, from his practice of wearing spectacles. Scottie was one of the few men of his profession who enjoyed walking. When the manager of the Regent Diamond Syndicate came to his office one Monday morning and found that somebody had saved him the bother of opening the large fire and thief-resisting safe by means of an acetylene blower, it was as clearly Scottie’s work as though he had left his receipt for the seven parcels of stones he had taken. Railway stations and ports of embarkation were instantly picketed by extra police, hotels were visited, and all constabularies warned.

Andy Macleod, spending his holiday with a fishing rod and an accumulation of books which he had not time to read during the year, was dragged away from his recreation to organise the search.

He had started life as Dr. Macleod, an assistant pathologist at headquarters, and had drifted into the profession of thief-catcher without exactly knowing how. Officially, he was still a pathologist, a man to be called to the witness-stand to testify the manner of deceased’s death; unofficially, though they called him “sir,” he was “Andy” to the youngest policeman that walked a beat.

“He passed through Panton Mills three days ago on a walking tour. I’m pretty certain it was Scottie,” he said. “I’m quartering the country between here and Three Lakes. The local police swear that he hasn’t been near Beverley, which means that he must have been living under their noses. They are a bright lot; asked me if he had done anything wrong, and they have had full particulars of the theft and a description of Scottie for a week.”

A girl walked into the post office at this moment. Glancing sideways through the glass panel of the telephone booth, Andy noted her admiringly. Attractive—pretty—beautiful? All women look their best to all men in tailored costumes of severe cut. She was tall for a woman; slim, but not thin.

“Yes, I think so,” he answered his chief mechanically, his eyes on the girl.

She raised her hand, and he saw a ring on the engagement finger; a gold ring with little emeralds, or they may have been sapphires—no, they were emeralds. He caught the sea-green of them.

He had opened the door of the booth an inch after the secret portion of his report had been made, and with one free ear he caught the murmur of her voice.

More than pretty, he decided, and admired the profile turned towards him.

And then a curious thing happened. She must have looked at him when his eyes were turned. Possibly she asked who he was; more likely the garrulous old postmaster, to whom Andy had shown his card to facilitate his call, volunteered the information. Andy heard the word “detective.” From where he stood he had a clear view of her face.