oney was gone; in fact, it was hardly possible in the
interval since the securities had been taken. Where was it? And from
some chance remark let fall some months earlier by Arnold Armstrong at
a dinner, Bailey felt sure there was a hidden room at Sunnyside. He
tried to see the architect of the building, but, like the contractor,
if he knew of the such a room he refused any information. It was
Halsey's idea that John Bailey come to the house as a gardener, and
pursue his investigations as he could. His smooth upper lip had been
sufficient disguise, with his change of clothes, and a hair-cut by a
country barber.

So it was Alex, Jack Bailey, who had been our ghost. Not only had he
alarmed--Louise and himself, he admitted--on the circular staircase,
but he had dug the hole in the trunk-room wall, and later sent Eliza
into hysteria. The note Liddy had found in Gertrude's scrap-basket was
from him, and it was he who had startled me into unconsciousness by the
clothes chute, and, with Gertrude's help, had carried me to Louise's
room. Gertrude, I learned, had watched all night beside me, in an
extremity of anxiety about me.

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
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, an