"You are wanted downstairs, gentlemen. Middleton, the head-keeper, is
there."
As though inspired with a common idea, both Quest and the Professor
hurried out of the room and down the broad stairs. Their inspiration was a
true one. The gamekeeper welcomed them with a smile of triumph. By his
side, the picture of abject misery, his clothes torn and muddy, was Craig!
"I've managed this little job, sir," Middleton announced, with a smile of
slow triumph.
"How did you get him?" Quest demanded.
"Little idea of my own," the gamekeeper continued. "I guessed pretty well
what he'd be up to. He'd tumbled to it that the usual way off the moor was
pretty well guarded, and he'd doubled back through the thin line of woods
close to the house. I dug one of my poachers' pits, sir, and covered it
over with a lot of loose stuff. That got him all right. When I went to
look this morning I saw where he'd fallen through, and there he was,
walking round and round at the bottom like a caged animal. Your servants
have telephoned for the police, Mr. Ashleigh," he went on, turning to the
Professor, "but I'd like you just to point out to the Scotland Yard
gentleman--called us yokels, he did, when he first came down--that we've a
few ideas of our own down here."
Quest suddenly whispered to the Professor. Then he turned to the keeper.
"Bring him upstairs, Middleton, for a moment," he directed. "Follow us,
please."
The Professor gripped Quest's arm as they ascended the stairs.
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