Death at the President's Lodging
signal to the constable at the lodge, were he vigilant. But both these courses might warn somebody who, if unalarmed, would walk straight into a trap. Appleby drew up to the wall and waited. He was prepared to wait with unabated vigilance until sunrise.
    His back was against the hall; his left hand was on the cold iron of the open wing of the gate: playing up and down, it touched the lock. His body stiffened. In the lock was the key – the tenth, problematical key!
    He set about exploring the gate thoroughly – or as thoroughly as darkness allowed. The open wing was so hung that it swung to of its own weight, and would then lock automatically. But in the wall of the hall was a catch by which the gate might be held back in the day-time, and this catch had been applied. Out of Appleby’s pocket came a fine tool. He disengaged the key from the lock without touching it with his fingers and stowed it in his pocket-book. Then he stepped through to the Bishop’s side and let the gate swing to behind him. He noticed a faint creak as it closed. All the keys were now in police keeping.
    And now Appleby ran. Silently across the grass, rapidly through the archway and to the lodge. It was the work of a moment to beckon to the constable doing porter’s duty to follow him, and both men were back at the gates within a minute of Appleby’s leaving them. Appleby unlocked the gate and murmured: “Somebody may come – from either side. Get him. And wait till I come back.” Then he slipped once more into the darkness of Orchard Ground.
    He made first for the eastern gate, that between library and chapel. A glide across the grass brought him to it: it was closed and securely locked. And now he set off along the faintly discernible path that led in the direction of Schools Street and at the end of which he would find the wicket that connected St Anthony’s with the outer world. Presently he lost the path and was groping among the apple trees. But still he judged it better not to use his torch, and after a few minutes wandering he touched what he knew was the wall bounding the eastern side of the orchard. The grass ran up to the wall, so that he made his way silently forward. Presently he reached the wicket. It too was locked.
    He turned round now and made off down the orchard, trying to recall to his memory the lie of the paths as he had seen them on Dodd’s sketch-map. But he failed and had to proceed by judgment. Two paths in succession ran off to the right; he bore left till he came to a little crossroads. He guessed where he was now: to the right was Little Fellows’; to the left the west gate where he had left the constable; straight on were the French windows of the President’s study. Appleby went straight on. And presently he knew that something was wrong.
    The French windows, he knew, had been bolted from the inside at top and bottom and locked in the middle. But now the window, like the west gate, swung open. Within was blackness. Appleby listened once more and then slipped inside. The curtains were only partly drawn back; as silently as possible he drew them to behind him and switched on his torch.
    The body had been removed that evening. But the bones had been left – and the bones were still there, as were the crudely chalked death’s-heads on the wall. He stepped over to the door; it was locked, and he did not doubt that on the other side the seal applied by Dodd on leaving would be still intact. The French windows had simply been forced and the room rifled. Appleby turned on the light now and walked to the far end with a premonition of what he would find. In the bay by the Deipnosophists the dummy shelf swung loose. The concealed safe was open. Some documents lay scattered in it. Something, doubtless, was gone.
    An observer would have found Appleby pale at this moment. He had lost a trick – perhaps a decisive trick. He ought to have insisted to Dodd on more surveillance than was represented by the constable at the

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