That old Thomas had seen his master, and thought he had seen the

Sunnyside ghost, there could be no doubt. Of that story of Thomas',

about seeing Jack Bailey in the footpath between the club and

Sunnyside, the night Liddy and I heard the noise on the circular

staircase--that, too, was right. On the night before Arnold Armstrong

was murdered, Jack Bailey had made his first attempt to search for the

secret room. He secured Arnold's keys from his room at the club and got

into the house, armed with a golf-stick for sounding the walls. He ran

against the hamper at the head of the stairs, caught his cuff-link in

it, and dropped the golf-stick with a crash. He was glad enough to get

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away without an alarm being raised, and he took the "owl" train to town.

The oddest thing to me was that Mr. Jamieson had known for some time

that Alex was Jack Bailey. But the face of the pseudo-gardener was

very queer indeed, when that night, in the card-room, the detective

turned to him and said: "How long are you and I going to play our little comedy, MR. BAILEY?"

Well, it is all over now. Paul Armstrong rests in Casanova churchyard,

and this time there is no mistake. I went to the funeral, because I

wanted to be sure he was really buried, and I looked at the step of the

shaft where I had sat that night, and wondered if it was all real.

Sunnyside is for sale--no, I shall not buy it. Little Lucien Armstrong

is living with his step-grandmother, and she is recovering gradually

from troubles that had extended over the entire period of her second

marriage. Anne Watson lies not far from the man she killed, and who as

surely caused her death. Thomas, the fourth victim of the conspiracy,

is buried on the hill. With Nina Carrington, five lives were

sacrificed in the course of this grim conspiracy.

There will be two weddings before long, and Liddy has asked for my

heliotrope poplin to wear to the church. I knew she would. She has

wanted it for three years, and she was quite ugly the time I spilled

coffee on it. We are very quiet, just the two of us. Liddy still

clings to her ghost theory, and points to my wet and muddy boots in the

trunk-room as proof. I am gray, I admit, but I haven't felt as well in

a dozen years. Sometimes, when I am bored, I ring for Liddy, and we

talk things over. When Warner married Rosie, Liddy sniffed and said

what I took for faithfulness in Rosie had been nothing but mawkishness.

I have not yet outlived Liddy's contempt because I gave them silver

knives and forks as a wedding gift.




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