Travelling by the night express, the detective arrived at Penleven about half-past one in the afternoon. By that time the pony had succumbed to its injuries; but the rector, though still unconscious, was, according to the doctor, progressing favourably, and likely to recover.
After listening attentively to Philip Trevelyan’s story, the detective examined the dead pony, and afterwards, with the doctor’s permission, examined the wound at the back of the rector’s head. Then he asked to be taken to the field in which the outrage had been perpetrated.
The rector’s son conducted him to the Ten-Acre Pasture, and showed him the exact spot where he had found his father.
“He was lying just here,” he said, “with his right arm doubled under his head. He had apparently staggered forward a few paces before falling; but there were no signs of a struggle, and no footprints in the snow except his own. That red stain over there is where the pony was standing. She was bleeding profusely; but in her case, as in the ease of my father, the scoundrel who had attacked her had left no trace of his presence.”
The snow in the neighborhood of the spot where the rector had been struck down had been trampled into slush by the feet of innumerable morbid sightseers. Beyond this trampled area, however, the field presented an unbroken surface of white and glistening snow. At least, the snow was white for the most part, but here and there, stretching in a line towards the north-east corner of the field, were several brownish-looking patches.
Sexton Blake walked over to one of these patches, and picked up a handful of discoloured snow. He examined it, rubbed it between his fingers, and nodded his head.
“Just what I expected,” he muttered. “Le Chat Noir, without a doubt.”
Philip Trevelyan caught the half-spoken words.
“Le Chat Noir?” he repeated, in a puzzled voice. “The Black Cat?”
“Yes,” said Sexton Blake, with a smile. “The Black Cat—that’s the explanation of the mystery. Now take me to see Ritchie.”
They found the coast-guard at home, cleaning his accoutrements. He repeated the story he had told to the constable the night but one before, and readily consented to show the detective the spot where the “ghost” had assaulted him.
Here, again, the snow had been trampled into meaningless slush; and here again, not on the summit of the cliff, but on its sloping, snow-clad face, were several brownish patches similar to those which Sexton Blake had observed in the Ten-Acre Pasture.
“You were struck on the back of the head, I understand,” said Sexton Blake to Ritchie. “Naturally, therefore, you did not see who struck you?”
“That’s so,” said Ritchie.
“Have you any idea what you were struck with?”
“It might have been a stick, or it might have been the butt-end of a revolver. Anyhow, it was something hard.”
“Where were you when you were struck?”
“Just abreast of those bushes.”
Sexton Blake strolled over to a clump of gorse-bushes growing on He very edge of the cliff. Drawing on his gloves, he groped amongst the bushes, and presently drew out a small mahogany, brass-bound box containing an aneroid barometer.
“This settles the matter, I think,” he said quietly.
“Settles the matter?” gasped Philip Trevelyan. “Why I never! What do you mean?”
Before the detective had time to reply, a fisherman came running down the path, evidently in a state of great excitement.
“Please, Mr. Blake,” he said, addressing the detective, “the doctor says will you please come to the Pollard Arms as quick as you can?”
“Why?” asked Sexton Blake.
“They’ve found another of ’em!” said the fisherman.
“They? Who?”
“Two of Sir John Pollard’s gamekeepers. They was passing through Padley Wood about ’arf an hour ago when they came across the body of an unknown man lying in the snow. He was unconscious, an’ one of his legs was broken, an’ he was cut about the ’ead something ’orrible. It must ’ave been the ghost what done it, because—”
He dropped his voice to an awed whisper.
“The keepers say,” he said, “as there wasn’t a single footprint in the snow for a hundred yards all round the man!”
“An unknown man, I think you said?” said Sexton Blake.
“Yes,” replied the fisherman.
“A foreigner?”
“I don’t know,” said the fisherman. “But he’s a big toff, anyhow, judgin’ by his fur-lined coat, an’ ’is diamond ring, an’ ’is gold watch, an’—”
The detective turned to Philip Trevelyan.
“The owner of the Black Cat!” he said, “Come along!”