Silence descended in the cell. Burke’s eyes were half closed, as though he peered at visions hitherto unguessed. A cart creaked in the distance but did not break the spell. Derrick had an abiding sensation that from the East a hand had reached out and touched the village of Bamberley into a strange sleep. Martin sat motionless, reliving the past, while the peddler clasped his lean fingers, a look of intense abstraction on his dark smooth face. Derrick was aware that he felt amazingly impotent, and with difficulty made an indefinite gesture.
“Sergeant,” he said, after a long pause, “I make no charge against Martin and will go bail for his appearance at the inquest when wanted.”
The big man jerked himself together, stood up, groped in his pocket, and produced a key. There was a click of steel. Martin was a free man.
“You might go back to the cottage now,” said Derrick, looking him full in the eye.
The gardener nodded, shook himself like a wet dog, said one sibilant word of farewell to the peddler, and vanished. His step was still audible when Burke fastened an inquiring look on Blunt.
“What about this man, sir? Are you going to let him down as easy as that?”
“I take it that the only charge is of attempted theft?”
“That’s right, but I wouldn’t be so sure about bail in this case.”
“And the only damage is to the French window?”
“That’s for you to say, sir. It’s your house.”
Derrick turned to Blunt. “You have come here in search of a certain thing. In that I believe you have told the truth, but as to what may follow if you don’t get it, that’s another story. I do accept what you said about the image, and that it has for some reason an evil effect. It is not necessary to go into that any further, but since the thing is evil, it should no longer exist, and—”
Blunt leaped to his feet. “What are you going to do?”
“First leave it to the sergeant to decide whether he keeps you here till the inquest, and—”
“Well, after that’s over there will be no reason for you to stay in England any longer. You can go back to the Mong Hills and tell them that the image does not exist. It won’t.”
“You’ll destroy it?” whispered Blunt, aghast.
“Yes. If it’s the evil thing you say, and I believe you, it ought to be destroyed. If it isn’t, you’ve been lying, which I don’t believe. I’ve learned something from all this, Blunt,” he added thoughtfully, “and my mind is made up. Good morning, sergeant.”