The Abduction of Psyche
The British Are Coming
The Broken Pitcher
Somewhat unwillingly, Craddock allowed himself to be guided round the corner of the house and along to the stable yard. Stoddart-West pushed open a heavy door, stretched up, and turned on a rather feeble electric light. The harness room, once the acme of Victorian spit and polish, was now the sad repository of everything that no one wanted. Broken garden chairs, rusted old garden implements, a vast decrepit mowing-machine, rusted spring mattresses, hammocks, and disintegrated tennis nets.
"We come here a good deal," said Alexander. "One can really be private here."
There were certain tokens of occupancy about. The decayed mattresses had been piled up to make a kind of divan, there was an old rusted table on which reposed a large tin of chocolate biscuits, there was a hoard of apples, a tin of toffee, and a jig-saw puzzle.
"It really is a clue, sir," said Stoddart-West eagerly, his eyes gleaming behind his spectacles. "We found it this afternoon."
"We've been hunting for days. In the bushes –"
"And inside hollow trees –"
"And we went all through the ash bins –"
"There were some jolly interesting things there, as a matter of fact –"