Uncertainty: How it Makes Science

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U N C E RTA I N T Y
UNCERTAINTY
How It Makes Science Advance

Kostas Kampourakis
U N I V E R S I T Y O F G E N E VA

Kevin McCain
UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA
AT B I R M I N G H A M

1
1
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 For our children, Kaison James McCain, Giorgos Kampourakis,
and Mirka Kampouraki; may you come to understand uncertainty
and have no fear of it.
CONTENTS

Preface ix

PART I Dealing with Uncertainty

1. Uncertainty in Everyday Life 3

2. The Psychology of (Un)Certainty 19
3. Uncertainty in Science: Isn’t It a Problem? 33
4. In Science We Trust—​Or Don’t We? 46
5. Is Scientific Rigor Declining? 60

Uncertainties in Science:
PART I I
Some Case Studies

6. Uncertainties in Climate Science 79

7. Uncertainties in Vaccination 93
8. Uncertainties in Human Evolution 107
9. Uncertainties in Genetic Testing 121
10. Uncertainties in Forensic Science 134
viii Contents

PART I I I Accepting Uncertainty in Science

11. Uncertainty Is Inherent in Science 149

12. Uncertainty in Scientific Explanations 166
13. Uncertainty in Scientific Predictions 179
14. Understanding Versus Being Certain 193
15. How Uncertainty Makes Science Advance 205

Notes 217
Index 243
P R E FA C E

“Science.” This term is used to refer to a variety of theories, models,

explanations, concepts, practices, attitudes, approaches, and more
that relate to the study of the natural world. Philosophers have
shown that there is no single entity to refer to as science; instead,
there are a variety of disciplines that study the natural world with
a variety of methods and explanatory aims. Therefore, it is more
appropriate to refer to “sciences,” plural, in order to account for
this variety. However, it seems that in general we are stuck with
the term “science,” especially when it comes to the public sphere.
Even though lay people may not be able to provide a concise def-
inition of what “science” is, they most likely have no doubt about
what the term means. This becomes evident in polls that aim at
documenting their views about and attitudes toward “science.”
Therefore, we have decided to use the term “science” throughout
this book to refer to the habits of mind, methods, approaches,
and body of knowledge that aim to provide an empirical under-
standing of the natural world.
Inspired by Stuart Firestein’s books Ignorance and Failure, we
decided to write a book that discusses another important and in-
herent feature of science: uncertainty. Our goal is to show that
uncertainty is an inescapable feature of science that, counterintui-
tive as it might sound, does not prevent us from gaining scientific

ix
x Preface

knowledge and understanding. As individuals, and as societies, we

need to understand and accept uncertainty in science. Perhaps sur-
prisingly, it is because of this feature that science has made, and
still makes, important advancements. Uncertainty motivates fur-
ther research and a better understanding of natural phenomena.
Scientific knowledge is perhaps the sort of knowledge that is
as close to certainty as we can get, but this only means that it is
closer to being certain than other kinds of knowledge, not that it
is absolutely so. Whereas nothing compares to scientific knowl-
edge when it comes to understanding the natural world around
us, such knowledge is at the same time flexible enough to accom-
modate new findings. This happens because continuous research
deals better and better with uncertainty and produces an increas-
ingly reliable body of knowledge on the basis of solid evidence
and rational thinking. Uncertainty is thus the driving force in this
quest: it leads to more research, which in turn serves the ultimate
goal of science—​understanding.
People have strived for certainty throughout the centuries
through oracles, horoscopes, and other superstitious endeavors.
However, the only certainty in human life is death, and even when
this will occur is highly uncertain. At times people have tried to re-
move uncertainty from their lives by adopting various forms of fun-
damentalism (religious, ideological, etc.) that provide them with
a false sense of certainty that often has dangerous consequences.
In recent years, some people have turned to science in the quest
for certainty. It is unfortunate that this at times leads to a sort of
fundamentalism as well, which arises when people consider (and
expect) science to be certain. But this is a misunderstanding of
the nature of science. Even though we can be extremely confident
 Preface     xi

about the conclusions of science, it is full of uncertainties that we

need to understand and appreciate.
Our aim is to reach a broad audience and provide them with
an authentic account of how science is done, what difficulties
scientists face, the knowledge and understanding they can arrive
at, and why uncertainty is an inherent feature of all these. We be-
lieve that people need to understand that uncertainty in science
is not a problem; being unaware of uncertainty and reaching un-
founded conclusions is the real problem. In contrast, awareness
of the uncertainties inherent in all scientific practices may allow
for a more solid and deeper understanding of science and the nat-
ural phenomena it studies. This is how uncertainty actually makes
science advance. We hope that by the end of the book the reader
will have understood and appreciated the impact of uncertainty in
science. We must note at this point that our coverage is far from
exhaustive. In order to maintain a reasonable length, we have only
touched on the important topics and limited our case studies to
just six scientific domains. The interested reader who wants to ex-
plore some of the topics of this book further will find several ex-
cellent books and articles mentioned in the Notes at the end of
the book.
We are indebted to Joan Bossert, our editor at Oxford
University Press, who supported this project from the start and
steered it in the right direction. As we have mentioned, the inspi-
ration for writing this book came when we read Stuart Firestein’s
books Ignorance and Failure, and we thought that a similar book
on uncertainty in science might be as useful as these. Incidentally,
we are extremely happy that, like the Firestein books, this one is
published by Oxford University Press. We are also indebted to the
xii Preface

following scholars for reading the manuscript and kindly providing

us with feedback: Gerd Gigerenzer, Sheldon Krimsky, Molly
McCain, Ted Poston, Henk de Regt, and Michael Ruse. Finally,
we are grateful to Phil Velinov as well as the staff at Newgen who
worked with us toward the publication of the present book.
This book is dedicated to our children with the hope that they
will come to understand uncertainty and have no fear of it. We
hope that the same is true of you after you finish reading it.
PA R T I

Dealing with Uncertainty

 1 Uncertainty in Everyday Life

Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appear-

ance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing
can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.
—​Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to
Jean-​Baptiste Leroy, 17891

What Is Knowledge Anyway?

Here’s something that is uncontroversial (for everyone but the

most ardent skeptics, anyway): you know lots of things. For ex-
ample, you know that you are reading this book right now, you
know that the earth is roughly spherical in shape, you know your
phone number, you know your name, you know what trees look
like, you know that Columbus sailed in 1492, and so on. Here is
something else that’s uncontroversial (even ardent skeptics agree
on this): there are a lot of things you don’t know. You don’t know
who will win each future US presidential election, you don’t know
whether a fair coin will land heads or tails each time it is flipped,
you don’t know what color shirts we were wearing while we were
writing this book, you don’t know on what day the event that led to
the extinction of the dinosaurs occurred, and so on. Indeed, there
is an enormous number of things that you don’t know. Don’t feel
bad about this—​this isn’t just true of you; it is true of everyone.

3
4 Dealing with Uncertainty

We all know many things, but there are also many things that we
don’t know. Here, an interesting question arises: What is the dif-
ference between knowing and not knowing?
Traditionally, epistemologists (philosophers who specialize in
issues related to knowledge) have held that knowledge is a true be-
lief that is held on the basis of sufficiently strong evidence.2 Let
us start with the requirement of truth. You cannot know things
that are false. This is why you cannot know that the earth is flat.
Even if you believe that it is, even if everyone around you believes
that it is flat, that doesn’t change the shape of the earth. The earth
simply isn’t flat. So, you cannot know that it is flat. Now, you
might wonder: Didn’t people in the past know that the earth was
flat? The short answer is “no.” They didn’t know that the earth was
flat because it wasn’t flat. They only believed that it was. The dif-
ficulty here is that it is really easy to run together two different
sorts of questions: metaphysical/​ontological questions (those having
to do with how the universe is) and epistemological questions (those
having to do with what is reasonable for us to believe about how
the universe is). We might be tempted to think that people know
false things—​or knew false things—​such as that the earth is flat
because we mistake a metaphysical question for an epistemolog-
ical question. Simply put, it could be that people were being per-
fectly reasonable when they believed that the earth is flat. All of
the evidence they had could have supported thinking that this was
true. So, in their situation, it may be that they should believe that
the earth is flat, and therefore the answer to the epistemological
question is that they were rational to believe that the earth is flat.
Nevertheless, the fact that they believed that the earth is flat does
not entail that they knew (albeit wrongly) that it was flat. The
 U n c e r t a i n t y i n E v e r y d a y L i f e      5

answer to the metaphysical question of what the shape of the earth

is depends on the actual shape of the earth, not on what people be-
lieve about it. The earth is not flat, and therefore people could not
have known that it is flat even though they might have believed
that it is. We cannot know things that are not true; we can only
have beliefs about them.
This entails that knowledge requires true belief. But is this
enough? No: more is required. Imagine that you are about to roll a
pair of fair dice—​they are not weighted or biased in any way. You
roll the dice, and, without looking to see how they land, you be-
lieve that you rolled double sixes. Now, imagine that you are in fact
correct—​both dice actually landed with six dots facing up. Did
you know that you rolled double sixes? It seems not. After all, you
did not see that this was the case; you merely guessed. You had no
good reason to believe that this would be what you rolled. Actually,
the odds were heavily against you rolling double sixes: the prob-
ability is 1 in 36. However, after looking at the dice, you would
know that you rolled double sixes. What’s the difference? In the
first case, you did not have sufficiently strong evidence to believe
that the dice came up double sixes because you did not look and
simply guessed—​even though the dice did actually land that way!
In the second case though, you did have sufficiently strong evi-
dence because you saw the dice with your own eyes. Knowledge
therefore not only requires that what you believe is true but also
that you have good evidence in support of your belief. Returning
to the earth example, we know that the earth is roughly spherical
and not flat because we have strong evidence in support of this.3
Hence, it seems clear that knowledge requires having strong
evidence. But does it also require certainty? This is not a simple
6 Dealing with Uncertainty

question. To answer it, we need to distinguish between two kinds

of certainty: epistemic and psychological. Psychological certainty
concerns how strongly we believe something. We are psychologi-
cally certain when we are completely convinced that something is
the case, beyond all doubt. Does knowledge require psychological
certainty? Can we know things even if we are not completely con-
vinced that we are correct? Indeed, we can. We can have knowledge
without psychological certainty; that is, we can know things even
if we have some doubt about whether we are correct. For instance,
think of someone who is particularly anxious. He always tends to
question whether he is correct or whether he has found all the pos-
sible information about a topic. Despite his diligent work, he always
feels that he is missing something. Would this mean that he does not
know anything? It doesn’t seem so. Furthermore, being psycholog-
ically uncertain might actually make one keen to look for more evi-
dence in support of what one knows. So, psychological uncertainty
might actually help build a stronger foundation for one’s knowledge.
Importantly, even if we think that knowledge requires psycho-
logical certainty, this kind of certainty appears to be independent
of the amount or the strength of evidence one has. The more psy-
chologically certain we are about something, the harder it is to
reconsider it even when the available evidence against it is over-
whelming. For an illustration of the possible disconnect between
psychological certainty and the available evidence, think about
the beliefs of members of the Flat Earth Society.4 Despite vast
amounts of evidence that the earth is not flat, these people con-
tinue to be completely convinced of their view. Their confidence
is disconnected from the available evidence; they erroneously be-
lieve that they have found sufficiently strong evidence to support
 U n c e r t a i n t y i n E v e r y d a y L i f e      7

their belief that the earth is flat and that “the globe earth theory
[is] incoherent with observed phenomena.”5 Hence, psychological
certainty isn’t really the issue when it comes to how good our ev-
idence has to be in order to have knowledge. One can be psycho-
logically certain about something and still simply be wrong.
What about epistemic certainty? Does knowledge require ep-
istemic certainty? Well, before we can answer this question, we
need to clarify what epistemic certainty is. Roughly put, you are
epistemically certain of something when your evidence is so strong
that it makes it impossible that you could be wrong. If there is one
thing that we should be close to psychologically certain about, it’s
that humans are fallible. So, it’s (almost) always possible that we
could be wrong about the things we believe. In what follows we
consider a number of reasons for thinking that we are not episte-
mically certain about much, if anything. Of course, this means
that if knowledge requires epistemic certainty, we are ignorant of
almost everything. We come back to this very big if at the end of
the chapter.

Uncertainty and Perceptual Illusions

We have epistemic certainty when there is absolutely no way that

we could be wrong given the evidence that we have. However, our
perception of evidence strongly depends on our own senses, which
sometimes can deceive us. Our sensory perceptions can lead us
to believe something quite confidently only to later discover that
we were wrong. These aren’t always cases where we lack good evi-
dence. For instance, take a look at Figure 1.1.
8 Dealing with Uncertainty

Figure 1.1 Müller-​ Lyer illusion (https://​commons.wikimedia.org/​

wiki/​File:Müller-​Lyer_​illusion.svg).

This figure illustrates the Müller-​Lyer illusion. The middle line

looks longer than the other two despite the fact that they are the
same length (you can measure them with a ruler to verify this). But
why does it look longer? It is the direction of the fins that creates
the illusion. When they point inward (middle line) they create the
impression that the line is longer than when they point outward
(top line). Therefore, even though the lines seem to be of unequal
lengths, one cannot be epistemically certain that the lines are of
unequal length because when one measures them, one will find out
that they are not.
Consider another example that shows why evidence from our
senses does not make a belief epistemically certain. If you visit
Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum in London, at some point in
the tour there is a rotating tunnel that you have to go through,
passing over a bridge. Whereas the tunnel is rotating, the bridge
 U n c e r t a i n t y i n E v e r y d a y L i f e      9

is completely still. Therefore, you are completely still as well, and

normally you would be able to cross the bridge walking straight
ahead without a problem. Yet the rotating tunnel around you
creates the illusion that you are rotating, too, and makes it impos-
sible to walk straight without falling to the sides—​even though
you are not actually rotating.6 In this case you have good evidence
from your senses that you are rotating, but actually you are not.
You might thus be psychologically certain that you are rotating,
for instance, if you entered the tunnel without realizing what was
going on. But you cannot be epistemically certain about this be-
cause you are not really rotating. Once again, sensory evidence
fails to make a belief epistemically certain.
It is exactly these sorts of worries about our senses leading us
astray that have led philosophers to struggle with external world
skepticism (the view that we don’t really know anything about
the world around us). One of the things that has made external
world skepticism so difficult to put to rest is the fact that a skeptic
is on to something when he argues that we cannot be certain of the
things we take for granted about our everyday lives. We did just
see that our senses can be deceptive, after all! A classic presentation
of this skeptical challenge was put forward by the French philos-
opher René Descartes. He employed a method of universal doubt
whereby he tried to expose as many uncertain beliefs as possible
at the same time. The way that Descartes sought to show that his
beliefs were uncertain was to see if he could come up with a pos-
sible scenario where he had all of the same evidence that he did, but
his beliefs were mistaken. The two primary scenarios that he came
up with in his famous book, Meditations on First Philosophy, were
what we might call the “Dreaming Hypothesis” and the “Demon
10 Dealing with Uncertainty

Hypothesis.” The Dreaming Hypothesis is the idea that it is pos-

sible that you are dreaming right now. After all, couldn’t you have
a vivid dream that you are reading this book even though you are
actually asleep? The Demon Hypothesis is the idea that it may be
that, instead of actually reading this book, you are being tricked
by some super-​powerful demon into thinking that you are reading
it. It is worth pausing here to emphasize that Descartes did not
think that either of these hypotheses were likely to be true. He
merely accepted that they were possible. This is important because
if these situations really are possible (in the broadest sense of the
term), then your evidence for something obvious—​such as that
you are reading this book—​does not make it epistemically certain
for you.7
Are such skeptical scenarios possible? It seems so. There is no
contradiction in thinking that although you have the evidence
that you do about something, you are in fact dreaming or being
deceived. If these hypotheses are hard to get a handle on, think
about popular movies that illustrate similar skeptical scenarios.
For instance, in the 1998 film The Truman Show,8 the main char-
acter, Truman Burbank, was adopted by a corporation and raised
on a film set. All of the people that Truman had met throughout
his life were actors playing roles in the show that revolved around
him. For a large portion of the movie Truman was completely ob-
livious to what was going on. This sort of deception does not un-
dercut his evidence for thinking, for instance, that he was reading a
book when he was, but it does show that, for a huge portion of his
beliefs, he was mistaken despite having the same sort of evidence
that we all have for similar beliefs. Whereas he thought that he was
living his life like anyone else, he was in fact participating in a show
 U n c e r t a i n t y i n E v e r y d a y L i f e      11

in which he was the only one fooled into thinking that what was
happening was real.
Therefore, the evidence for something even seemingly
straightforward—​such as that you are reading this book right
now—​does not give you epistemic certainty that you are actu-
ally doing so. The same is true for pretty much everything we
know, or take ourselves to know, about the world around us.
The evidence we have in support of most that we believe does
not give us epistemic certainty. We could have that same evi-
dence that we have now even if we were massively deceived be-
cause we were in a computer simulation, or dreaming, or being
tricked by a demon, or . . . (here you can consider any other crazy
possibility). If you are thinking, “this is ridiculous—​of course,
I know that I’m reading a book!,” we agree. You do know that
you are reading a book. But still, unlikely as it is, it is possible
(perhaps the probability is ridiculously low, but it is still pos-
sible) that although it looks like you are reading a book, you are
not really doing so. However unlikely it might be, it is possible
to be deceived.

Uncertainty and Human Reasoning

It’s clear that our perceptions are sometimes mistaken, but what
about our reasoning? Can’t we be epistemically certain that when
we reason to a particular conclusion we are correct? Again, it is
important to emphasize that epistemic certainty means that there
is no way we could be wrong given the evidence that we have. Is it
really plausible that humans can reason so well that there is no way
12 Dealing with Uncertainty

that we can be wrong? Well, it doesn’t seem so. Our reasoning is

fallible, especially when we have to deal with uncertainty.
Let us take a little test. Consider the following description of
Linda9:

Linda is 31 years old, single, outspoken, and very bright. She

majored in philosophy. As a student, she was deeply concerned
with issues of discrimination and social justice, and she also partic-
ipated in anti-​nuclear demonstrations.

Now, based on the description of Linda, rank each of the following

claims about her from the most probable to least probable:

1. Linda is a teacher in an elementary school.

2. Linda works in a bookstore and takes yoga classes.
3. Linda is active in the feminist movement.
4. Linda is a psychiatric social worker.
5. Linda is a member of the League of Women Voters.
6. Linda is a bank teller.
7. Linda is an insurance salesperson.
8. Linda is a bank teller and is active in the feminist movement.

Do you have your list? Did you rank 8 as more probable than 3 or
6? If so, you committed the conjunction fallacy. When two events
are independent (such as being a bank teller and being involved
in the feminist movement), the probability of them both being
true is less than the probability of just one of them being true (for
example, if the probability of each event is 0.5, or 50%, then the
probability of them both occurring is 0.5 × 0.5 = 0.25, or 25%).
 U n c e r t a i n t y i n E v e r y d a y L i f e      13

So, 3 and 6 are each more probable than 8. However, because of the
description of Linda, it can seem more likely that Linda is a femi-
nist bank teller than just a bank teller. About 89% of the people in
the original study made this mistake when thinking about Linda’s
profession.
Let’s try one more test. Imagine that you are looking at four
cards. Each one has a number on one side and a letter on the other
(see Figure 1.2).
The rule is that if a card has a vowel on one side, then it has an
even number on the other side. Which cards do you need to turn
over to determine whether this rule is true? Keep in mind that you
do not want to turn over any more cards than you need to.
The correct answer is card 1 and card 4. The reason is that card
1 has a vowel on it, so if there is not an even number on the other
side, the rule is false. Card 4 has an odd number on it, so if there
is a vowel on the other side, the rule is again false. Card 2 is irrel-
evant because the rule doesn’t say anything about what happens
when there is a consonant on one side of the card. Card 3 is also

Figure 1.2 The Wason selection task (or four-​card problem).

14 Dealing with Uncertainty

irrelevant because, since there is an even number on it, as far as

the rule is concerned it does not matter what’s on the other side.
This test item comes from psychologist Peter Wason’s selection
task experiment.10 This sort of experiment has been run a number
of times and on average fewer than 5% of people give the correct
answer.11
Not only do we tend to make errors when reasoning probabilis-
tically (as in the Linda case) and when reasoning about conditional
rules (as in the selection task), we are also prone to a large number
of cognitive biases. One of the most pervasive is what’s known as
overconfidence bias: we tend to be overconfident of our abilities.
As psychologist Thomas Gilovich explained, a “large majority of
the general public thinks that they are more intelligent, more fair-​
minded, less prejudiced, and more skilled behind the wheel of an
automobile than the average person.” Of course, it can’t be that the
majority of people are better than average! A further illustration
of the pervasiveness of overconfidence bias comes from a study of
a million US high school students. This study found that of these
1 million students “70% thought they were above average in lead-
ership ability, and only 2% thought they were below average. In
terms of ability to get along with others, all students thought they
were above average, 60% thought they were in the top 10%, and
25% thought they were in the top 1%.” Unfortunately, this bias is
not one that afflicts only the young or even those who haven’t pur-
sued higher education. A survey of college professors found that
“94% thought they were better at their jobs than their average col-
league.” Our confidence often outstrips our evidence.12
Another bias that is particularly relevant to whether we are epi-
stemically certain about the conclusions we draw is what cognitive
 U n c e r t a i n t y i n E v e r y d a y L i f e      15

scientists Hugo Mercier and Dan Sperber call “myside bias.” This
is a bias that Mercier and Sperber contend is simply a feature
of human reasoning. Myside bias refers to the fact that we find
it difficult to appreciate evidence that runs counter to our own
opinions. As they explain, “Reasoning does not blindly confirm
any belief it bears on. Instead, reasoning systematically works to
find reasons for our ideas and against those we oppose. It always
takes our side.”13 Hence, not only do we often not have all of the
evidence, but it seems that in many (perhaps most) cases our cog-
nitive faculties are apt to lead us to interpret the evidence in a way
that is colored by our prior convictions. This is why the results of
our reasoning do not provide us with epistemic certainty.
But perhaps these are not really errors. Psychologist Gerd
Gigerenzer, director of the Harding Center for Risk Literacy at
the Max Planck Institute for Human Development in Berlin, has
argued that studies like those just described fail to show that we
really do fall prey to systematic cognitive errors. According to
Gigerenzer, the problem with these studies is that they ignore im-
portant pragmatic and context-​dependent features that play a key
role in human reasoning. The flaw of studies purporting to show
that humans are systematically irrational in various ways is that
such studies draw conclusions on the basis of whether participants
follow particular norms, which may be abstract and incomplete.
For instance, regarding the case of Linda being a feminist bank
teller, the problem may not lie in how we think but rather in
the polysemy of terms such as “probability” that might mislead
us. Gigerenzer and his colleagues tested whether the term “fre-
quency” could narrow down the possible spectrum of meanings
to those that follow mathematical probability. What they found
16 Dealing with Uncertainty

was that when participants were asked for “frequency” judgments

rather than “probability” judgments, they did not commit the
conjunction fallacy described earlier.14 Similar arguments can be
made for the Wason selection task.15 It is important, according to
Gigerenzer, not to mistake judgments under uncertainty as cog-
nitive errors. That being said, even those like psychologist Daniel
Kahneman who think that we do make systematic cognitive errors
do not argue that we should not trust our reasoning abilities. As
Kahneman has written, these sorts of errors do not “denigrate
human intelligence, any more than the attention to diseases in
medical texts denies good health. Most of us are healthy most of
the time, and most of our judgments and actions are appropriate
most of the time.”16 What matters, as Gigerenzer has argued, is
that we can learn to better understand uncertainty so that we are
less prone to misjudge the odds of various outcomes.17
As a result, the evidence that we have when we reason to a par-
ticular conclusion does not make that conclusion epistemically
certain for us. Even if we do not in fact make systematic errors
in reasoning due to bias or something else, we could be making
some other mistake on any particular occasion. Insofar as mistakes
are possible, we cannot be epistemically certain. Perhaps then
Benjamin Franklin’s claim in the epigraph is wrong—​maybe even
death and taxes are not epistemically certain? People certainly dis-
like both, but taxes can be avoided in various ways and thus there
is no certainty that they will be paid. And, while the fact that this
life will end one day is as close to certain as about anything can
be, when and how we will die is highly uncertain. Yet even the
ultimate end of life is not epistemically certain because there is
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wires is so covered up with wood casin’ that it’s worse’n hard work to
pinch two-penn’oth. I’m goin’ to have a cut at Joneses.”
So in the pelting rain he watched “Joneses” from a convenient
doorway. He noted with satisfaction the “workmen” departing one by
one; he observed with joy the going of “Jones” himself; and when,
some few minutes afterwards, the queer-looking old man, whom he
suspected as being a sort of caretaker, came shuffling out, slamming
the gate behind him, and peering left and right, and mumbling to
himself as he squelched through the rain, the watcher regarded the
removal of this final difficulty as being an especial act of Providence.
He waited for another half-hour, because, for some reason or other,
the usually deserted street became annoyingly crowded. First came
a belated coal cart and a miserably bedraggled carman who cried his
wares dolefully. Then a small boy, escaping from the confines of his
domestic circle, came to revel in the downpour and wade ecstatically
but thoroughly through the puddles that had formed on the uneven
surface of the road. Nemesis, in the shape of a shrill-voiced mother,
overtook the boy and sent him whining and expectant to the heavy
hand of maternal authority. With the coast clear Mr. Lane lost no
time. In effecting an entrance to the headquarters of the “Borough
Lot,” Mr. Lane’s method lacked subtlety. He climbed over the gate
leading to the yard, trusting inwardly that he was not observed, but
taking his chance. Had he been an accomplished burglar, with the
experience of any exploits behind him, he would have begun by
making a very thorough inspection of likely windows. Certainly he
would never have tried the “office” door. Being the veriest tyro, and
being conscious, moreover, that his greatest feats had connection
with doors carelessly left ajar, he tried the door, and to his delight it
opened.
Again the skilled craftsman would have suspected some sort of
treachery, and might have withdrawn; but Mr. Lane, recognizing in
the fact that the old man had forgotten to fasten the door behind him
only yet another proof of that benevolent Providence which exerts
itself for the express service of men “in luck,” entered boldly. He lit a
candle stump and looked around.
The evidence of that wealth which is the particular possession of
“master-men” was not evident. Indeed, the floor of the passage was
uncarpeted, and the walls bare of picture or ornament. Nor was the
“office,” a little room leading from the “passage,” any more prolific of
result. Such fixtures as there were had apparently been left behind
by the previous tenant, and these were thick with dust.
“Bah!” said the inquisitive Mr. Lane scornfully, and his words echoed
hollowly as in an empty house.
With the barren possibilities of his exploit before him, Mr. Lane’s
spirits fell.
He was of the class, to whom reference has already been made, that
looked in awe and reverence toward the “Borough Lot” in the same
spirit as the youthful curate might regard the consistory of bishops. In
his cups—pewter cups they were with frothing heads a-top—he was
wont to boast that his connection with the “Borough Lot” was both
close and intimate. A rumor that went around to the effect that the
“mouthpiece” who defended him at the closing of the unsatisfactory
horsehair episode had been paid for by the “Borough Lot” he did not
trouble to contradict.
If he had known any of them, even by sight, he would not at that
moment have been effecting a burglarious entry into their premises.
Room after room he searched. He found the ill-furnished bedroom of
Connor, and the room where old George slept on an uncleanly
mattress. He found, too, the big room where the “Lot” held their
informal meetings, but nothing portable. Nothing that a man might
slip under his coat, and walk boldly out of the front door with. No little
article of jewelry that your wife might carry to a pawnbroker’s with a
long face and a longer story of a penury that forced you to part with
her dear mother’s last gift. None of these, noted Mr. Lane bitterly,
and with every fresh disappointment he breathed the harder.
For apart from the commercial aspect of this, his burglary, there was
the sickening humiliation of failure. An imaginative man, he had
already invented the story he was to tell to a few select cronies in
sneak-thief division. He had rehearsed mentally a scene where, with
an air of nonchalance, he drew a handful of golden sovereigns from
his pocket and ordered drinks round. And whilst they were sipping
his drinks, smirking respectfully, he would have confided to them the
fact that he had been duly, and with all ceremony, installed a full-
fledged member of the “Borough Lot.” Of the irony of the situation he
was ignorant. A qualified burglar would have completed a systematic
examination of the premises in ten minutes, but Mr. Lane was not so
qualified. In consequence he dawdled from room to room, going
back to this room to make sure, and returning to that room to be
absolutely certain that nothing had been overlooked. Oblivious of the
flight of time, he stood irresolutely in the topmost room of the house
when the real adventure of the evening began. He heard the click of
a lock—he had thoughtfully closed the office door behind him—and a
voice, and his heart leapt into his throat. He heard a voice, a voice
hoarse with rage, and another, and yet another.
Mr. Lane realized, from the stamping of feet on the stairs, that half a
dozen men had come into the house; from their language he
gathered they were annoyed.
Then he heard something that froze his blood and turned his marrow
to water.
It had begun in a rumble of hoarse, undistinguishable words, and
ended in the phrase that caught his ear.
“... he’s sold us, I tell ye! Put spies on us! He led us into the trap,
curse him....”
He heard another voice speaking in a lower tone.
“What are we worth? You’re a fool! What d’ye think we’re worth?
Ain’t we the ‘Borough Lot’? Don’t he know enough to hang two or
three of us.... It’s Connor and his pal the lawyer....”
The “Borough Lot”!
The paralyzing intelligence came to Mr. Lane, and he held on to the
bare mantelshelf for support. Spies! Suppose they discovered him,
and mistook him for a spy! His hair rose at the thought. He knew
them well enough by repute. Overmuch hero-worship had invested
them with qualities for evil which they may or may not have
possessed.
There might be a chance of escape. The tumult below continued.
Scraps of angry talk came floating up.
Mr. Lane looked out of the window; the drop into the street was too
long, and there was no sign of rope in the house.
Cautiously he opened the door of the room. The men were in the
room beneath that in which he stood. The staircase that led to the
street must take him past their door.
Mr. Lane was very anxious to leave the house. He had unwittingly
stepped into a hornets’ nest, and wanted to make his escape without
disturbing the inmates. Now was the time—or never. Whilst the
angry argument continued a creaking stair board or so might not
attract attention. But he made no allowance for the gifts of these men
—gifts of sight and hearing. Bat Sands, in the midst of his tirade, saw
the uplifted finger and head-jerk of Goyle. He did not check his flow
of invective, but edged toward the door; then he stopped short, and
flinging the door open, he caught the scared Mr. Lane by the throat,
and dragging him into the room, threw him upon the ground and
knelt on him.
“What are ye doing here?” he whispered fiercely.
Mr. Lane, with protruding eyes, saw the pitiless faces about him, saw
Goyle lift a life-preserver from the table and turn half-round the better
to strike, and fainted.
“Stop that!” growled Bat, with outstretched hand. “The little swine has
fainted. Who is he? Do any of you fellers know him?”
It was the wizened-faced man whom Angel had addressed as Lamby
who furnished the identification.
“He’s a little crook—name of Lane.”
“Where does he come from?”
“Oh, hereabouts. He was in the Scrubbs in my time,” said Lamby.
They regarded the unconscious burglar in perplexity.
“Go through his pockets,” suggested Goyle.
It happened—and this was the most providential happening of the
day from Mr. Lane’s point of view—that when he had decided upon
embarking on his career of high-class crime he had thoughtfully
provided himself with a few homemade instruments. It was the little
poker with flattened end to form a jemmy and the center-bit that was
found in his pocket that in all probability saved Mr. Lane’s life.
Lombroso and other great criminologists have given it out that your
true degenerate has no sense of humor, but on two faces at least
there was a broad grin when the object of the little man’s visit was
revealed.
“He came to burgle Connor,” said Bat admiringly. “Here, pass over
the whisky, one of ye!”
He forced a little down the man’s throat, and Mr. Lane blinked and
opened his eyes in a frightened stare.
“Stand up,” commanded Bat, “an’ give an account of yourself, young
feller. What d’ye mean by breaking into——”
“Never mind about that,” Goyle interrupted savagely. “What has he
heard when he was sneaking outside?—that’s the question.”
“Nothin’, gentlemen!” gasped the unfortunate Mr. Lane, “on me word,
gentlemen! I’ve been in trouble like yourselves, an’——”
He realized he had blundered.
“Oh,” said Goyle with ominous calm, “so you’ve been in trouble like
us, have you?”
“I mean——”
“I know what you mean,” hissed the other; “you mean you’ve been
listenin’ to what we’ve been saying, you little skunk, and you’re ready
to bleat to the first copper.”
It might have gone hard with Mr. Lane but for the opportune arrival of
the messenger. Bat went downstairs at the knock, and the rest stood
quietly listening. They expected Connor, and when his voice did not
sound on the stairs they looked at one another questioningly. Bat
came into the room with a yellow envelope in his hand. He passed it
to Goyle. Reading was not an accomplishment of his. Goyle read it
with difficulty.
“Do the best you can,” he read. “I’m lying ‘doggo.’”
“What does that mean?” snarled Goyle, holding the message in his
hand and looking at Bat. “Hidin’, is he—and we’ve got to do the best
we can?”
Bat reached for his overcoat. He did not speak as he struggled into
it, nor until he had buttoned it deliberately.
“It means—git,” he said shortly. “It means run, or else it means time,
an’ worse than time.”
He swung round to the door.
“Connor’s hidin’,” he stopped to say. “When Connor starts hiding the
place is getting hot. There’s nothing against me so far as I know,
except——”
His eyes fell on the form of Mr. Lane. He had raised himself to a
sitting position on the floor, and now, with disheveled hair and
outstretched legs, he sat the picture of despair.
Goyle intercepted the glance.
“What about him?” he asked.
“Leave him,” said Bat; “we’ve got no time for fooling with him.”
A motor-car came buzzing down Cawdor Street, which was unusual.
They heard the grind of its brakes outside the door, and that in itself
was sufficiently alarming. Bat extinguished the light, and cautiously
opened the shutters. He drew back with an oath.
“What’s that?” Goyle whispered.
Bat made no reply, and they heard him open his matchbox.
“What are you doing?” whispered Goyle fiercely.
“Light the lamp,” said the other.
The tinkle of glass followed as he removed the chimney, and in the
yellow light Bat faced the “Borough Lot.”
“U—P spells ‘up,’ an’ that’s what the game is,” he said calmly. He
was searching his pockets as he spoke. “I want a light because
there’s one or two things in my pocket that I’ve got to burn—quick!”
After some fumbling he found a paper. He gave it a swift
examination, then he struck a match and carefully lit the corner.
“It’s the fairest cop,” he went on. “The street’s full of police, and
Angel ain’t playing ‘gamblin’ raids’ this time.”
There was a heavy knock on the door, but nobody moved. Goyle’s
face had gone livid. He knew better than any man there how
impossible escape was. That had been one of the drawbacks to the
house—the ease with which it could be surrounded. He had pointed
out the fact to Connor before.
Again the knock.
“Let ’em open it,” said Bat grimly, and as though the people outside
had heard the invitation, the door crashed in, and there came a
patter as of men running on the stairs.
First to enter the room was Angel. He nodded to Bat coolly, then
stepped aside to allow the policemen to follow.
“I want you,” he said briefly.
“What for?” asked Sands.
“Breaking and entering,” said the detective. “Put out your hands!”
Bat obeyed. As the steel stirrup-shaped irons snapped on his wrists
he asked—
“Have you got Connor?”
Angel smiled.
“Connor lives to fight another day,” he said quietly.
The policemen who attended him were busy with the other
occupants of the room.
“Bit of a field-day for you, Mr. Angel,” said the thin-faced Lamby
pleasantly. “Thought you was goin’ to let us off?”
“Jumping at conclusions hastily is a habit to be deplored,” said Angel
sententiously. Then he saw the panic-stricken Mr. Lane.
“Hullo, what’s this?” he demanded.
Mr. Lane had at that moment the inspiration of his life. Since he was
by fortuitous circumstances involved in this matter, and since it could
make very little difference one way or the other what he said, he
seized the fame that lay to his hand.
“I am one of the ‘Borough Lot,’” he said, and was led out proud and
handcuffed with the knowledge that he had established beyond
dispute his title to consideration as a desperate criminal.

Mr. Spedding was a man who thought quickly. Ideas and plans came
to him as dross and diamonds come to the man at the sorting table,
and he had the faculty of selection. He saw the police system of
England as only the police themselves saw it, and he had an open
mind upon Angel’s action. It was within the bounds of possibility that
Angel had acted with full authority; it was equally possible that Angel
was bluffing.
Mr. Spedding had two courses before him, and they were both
desperate; but he must be sure in how, so far, his immediate liberty
depended upon the whim of a deputy-assistant-commissioner of
police.
Angel had mentioned a supreme authority. It was characteristic of
Spedding that he should walk into a mine to see how far the fuse
had burned. In other words, he hailed the first cab, and drove to the
House of Commons.
The Right Honorable George Chandler Middleborough, His Majesty’s
Secretary of State for Home Affairs, is a notoriously inaccessible
man; but he makes exceptions, and such an exception he made in
favor of Spedding. For eminent solicitors do not come down to the
House at ten o’clock in the evening to gratify an idle curiosity, or to
be shown over the House, or beg patronage and interest; and when
a business card is marked “most urgent,” and that card stands for a
staple representative of an important profession, the request for an
interview is not easily refused.
Spedding was shown into the minister’s room, and the Home
Secretary rose with a smile. He knew Mr. Spedding by sight, and had
once dined in his company.
“Er—” he began, looking at the card in his hand, “what can I do for
you—at this hour?” he smiled again.
“I have called to see you in the matter of the late—er—Mr. Reale.”
He saw and watched the minister’s face. Beyond looking a little
puzzled, the Home Secretary made no sign.
“Good!” thought Spedding, and breathed with more freedom.
“I’m afraid——” said the minister. He got no further, for Spedding
was at once humility, apology, and embarrassment.
What! had the Home Secretary not received his letter? A letter
dealing with the estate of Reale? You can imagine the distress and
vexation on Mr. Spedding’s face as he spoke of the criminal
carelessness of his clerk, his attitude of helplessness, his recognition
of the absolute impossibility of discussing the matter until the
Secretary had received the letter, and his withdrawal, leaving behind
him a sympathetic minister of State who would have been pleased—
would have been delighted, my dear sir, to have helped Mr.
Spedding if he’d received the letter in time to consider its contents.
Mr. Spedding was an inventive genius, and it might have been in
reference to him that the motherhood of invention was first identified
with dire necessity.
Out again in the courtyard, Spedding found a cab that carried him to
his club.
“Angel bluffed!” he reflected with an inward smile. “My friend, you are
risking that nice appointment of yours.”
He smiled again, for it occurred to him that his risk was the greater.
“Two millions!” he murmured. “It is worth it: I could do a great deal
with two millions.”
He got down at his club, and tendered the cabman the legal fare to a
penny.
 CHAPTER XI
THE QUEST OF THE BOOK

When Piccadilly Circus, a blaze of light, was thronged with the

crowds that the theaters were discharging, a motor-car came
gingerly through the traffic, passed down Regent Street, and
swinging along Pall Mall, headed southward across Westminster
Bridge.
The rain had ceased, but underfoot the roads were sodden, and the
car bespattered its occupants with black mud.
The chauffeur at the wheel turned as the car ran smoothly along the
tramway lines in the Old Kent Road and asked a question, and one
of the two men in the back of the car consulted the other.
“We will go to Cramer’s first,” said the man.
Old Kent Road was a fleeting vision of closed shops, of little knots of
men emerging from public-houses at the potman’s strident
command; Lewisham High Road, as befits that very respectable
thoroughfare, was decorously sleeping; Lea, where the hedges
begin, was silent; and Chislehurst was a place of the dead.
Near the common the car pulled up at a big house standing in black
quietude, and the two occupants of the car descended and passed
through the stiff gate, along the graveled path, and came to a stop at
the broad porch.
“I don’t know what old Mauder will say,” said Angel as he fumbled for
the bell; “he’s a methodical old chap.”
In the silence they could hear the thrill of the electric bell. They
waited a few minutes, and rang again. Then they heard a window
opened and a sleepy voice demand—
“Who is there?”
Angel stepped back from the porch and looked up.
“Hullo, Mauder! I want you. I’m Angel.”
“The devil!” said a surprised voice. “Wait a bit. I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
The pleasant-faced man who in dressing-gown and pajamas opened
the door to them and conducted them to a cozy library was Mr.
Ernest Mauder himself. It is unnecessary to introduce that world-
famous publisher to the reader, the more particularly in view of the
storm of controversy that burst about his robust figure in regard to
the recent publication of Count Lehoff’s embarrassing “Memoirs.” He
made a sign to the two men to be seated, nodding to Jimmy as to an
old friend.
“I am awfully sorry to disturb you at this rotten hour,” Angel
commenced, and the other arrested his apology with a gesture.
“You detective people are so fond of springing surprises on us
unintelligent outsiders,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I am
almost tempted to startle you.”
“It takes a lot to startle me,” said Angel complacently.
“You’ve brought it on your own head,” warned the publisher, wagging
a forefinger at the smiling Angel. “Now let me tell you why you have
motored down from London on this miserable night on a fairly
fruitless errand.”
“Eh?” The smile left Angel’s face.
“Ah, I thought that would startle you! You’ve come about a book?”
“Yes,” said Jimmy wonderingly.
“A book published by our people nine years ago?”
“Yes,” the wonderment deepening on the faces of the two men.
“The title,” said the publisher impressively, “is A Short Study on the
Origin of the Alphabet, and the author is a half-mad old don, who
was subsequently turned out of Oxford for drunkenness.”
“Mauder,” said Jimmy, gazing at his host in bewilderment, “you’ve hit
it—but——”
“Ah,” said the publisher, triumphant, “I thought that was it. Well, your
search is fruitless. We only printed five hundred copies; the book
was a failure—the same ground was more effectively covered by
better books. I found a dusty old copy a few years ago, and gave it to
my secretary. So far as I know, that is the only copy in existence.”
“But your secretary?” said Angel eagerly. “What is his name? Where
does he live?”
“It’s not a ‘he,’” said Mauder, “but a ‘she.’”
“Her name?”
“If you had asked that question earlier in the evening I could not
have told you,” said Mauder, obviously enjoying the mystery he had
created, “but since then my memory has been refreshed. The girl—
and a most charming lady too—was my secretary for two years. I do
not know what induced her to work, but I rather think she supported
an invalid father.”
“What is her name?” asked Angel impatiently.
“Kathleen Kent,” replied the publisher, “and her address is——”
“Kathleen Kent!” repeated Jimmy in wide-eyed astonishment.
“Angels and Ministers of Grace defend us!”
“Kathleen Kent!” repeated Angel with a gasp. “Well, that takes the
everlasting biscuit! But,” he added quickly, “how did you come to
know of our errand?”
“Well,” drawled the elder man, wrapping his dressing-gown round
him more snugly, “it was a guess to an extent. You see, Angel, when
a man has been already awakened out of a sound sleep to answer
mysterious inquiries about an out-of-date book——”
“What,” cried Jimmy, jumping up, “somebody has already been
here?”
“It is only natural,” the publisher went on, “to connect his errand with
that of the second midnight intruder.”
“Who has been here? For Heaven’s sake, don’t be funny; this is a
serious business.”
“Nobody has been here,” said Mauder, “but an hour ago a man
called me up on the telephone——”
Jimmy looked at Angel, and Angel looked at Jimmy.
“Jimmy,” said Angel penitently, “write me down as a fool. Telephone!
Heavens, I didn’t know you were connected.”
“Nor was I till last week,” said the publisher, “nor will I be after to-
morrow. Sleep is too precious a gift to be dissipated——”
“Who was the man?” demanded Angel.
“I couldn’t quite catch his name. He was very apologetic. I gathered
that he was a newspaper man, and wanted particulars in connection
with the death of the author.”
Angel smiled.
“The author’s alive all right,” he said grimly. “How did the voice sound
—a little pompous, with a clearing of the throat before each
sentence?”
The other nodded.
“Spedding!” said Angel, rising. “We haven’t any time to lose, Jimmy.”
Mauder accompanied them into the hall.
“One question,” said Jimmy, as he fastened the collar of his motor-
coat. “Can you give us any idea of the contents of the book?”
“I can’t,” was the reply. “I have a dim recollection that much of it was
purely conventional, that there were some rough drawings, and the
earlier forms of the alphabet were illustrated—the sort of thing you
find in encyclopædias or in the back pages of teachers’ Bibles.”
The two men took their seats in the car as it swung round and turned
its bright head-lamps toward London.
“‘I found this puzzle in a book
From which some mighty truths were took,’”
murmured Angel in his companion’s ear, and Jimmy nodded. He was
at that moment utterly oblivious and careless of the fortune that
awaited them in the great safe at Lombard Street. His mind was filled
with anxiety concerning the girl who unconsciously held the book
which might to-morrow make her an heiress. Spedding had moved
promptly, and he would be aided, he did not doubt, by Connor and
the ruffians of the “Borough Lot.” If the book was still in the girl’s
possession they would have it, and they would make their attempt at
once.
His mind was full of dark forebodings, and although the car bounded
through the night at full speed, and the rain which had commenced
to fall again cut his face, and the momentum of the powerful machine
took his breath away, it went all too slowly for his mood.
One incident relieved the monotony of the journey. As the car flew
round a corner in an exceptionally narrow lane it almost crashed into
another car, which, driven at breakneck speed, was coming in the
opposite direction. A fleeting exchange of curses between the
chauffeurs, and the cars passed.
By common consent, they had headed for Kathleen’s home.
Streatham was deserted. As they turned the corner of the quiet road
in which the girl lived, Angel stopped the car and alighted. He lifted
one of the huge lamps from the socket and examined the road.
“There has been a car here less than half an hour ago,” he said,
pointing to the unmistakable track of wheels. They led to the door of
the house.
He rang the bell, and it was almost immediately answered by an
elderly lady, who, wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, bade him
enter.
“Nobody seems to be surprised to see us to-night,” thought Angel
with bitter humor.
“I am Detective Angel from Scotland Yard,” he announced himself,
and the elderly lady seemed unimpressed.
“Kathleen has gone,” she informed him cheerfully.
Jimmy heard her with a sinking at his heart.
“Yes,” said the old lady, “Mr. Spedding, the eminent solicitor, called
for her an hour ago, and”—she grew confidential—“as I know you
gentlemen are very much interested in the case, I may say that there
is every hope that before to-morrow my niece will be in possession
of her fortune.”
Jimmy groaned.
“Please, go on,” said Angel.
“It came about over a book which Kathleen had given her some
years ago, and which most assuredly would have been lost but for
my carefulness.”
Jimmy cursed her “carefulness” under his breath.
“When we moved here after the death of Kathleen’s poor father I had
a great number of things stored. There were amongst these an
immense quantity of books, which Kathleen would have sold, but
which I thought——”
“Where are these stored?” asked Angel quickly.
“At an old property of ours—the only property that my poor brother
had remaining,” she replied sadly, “and that because it was in too
dilapidated a condition to attract buyers.”
“Where, where?” Angel realized the rudeness of his impatience.
“Forgive me, madam,” he said, “but it is absolutely necessary that I
should follow your niece at once.”
“It is on the Tonbridge Road,” she answered stiffly. “So far as I can
remember, it is somewhere between Crawley and Tonbridge, but I
am not sure. Kathleen knows the place well; that is why she has
gone.”
“Somewhere on the Tonbridge Road!” repeated Angel helplessly.
“We could follow the car’s tracks,” said Jimmy.
Angel shook his head.
“If this rain is general, they will be obliterated,” he replied.
They stood a minute, Jimmy biting the sodden finger of his glove,
and Angel staring into vacancy. Then Jimmy demanded
unexpectedly—
“Have you a Bible?”
The old lady allowed the astonishment she felt at the question to be
apparent.
“I have several.”
“A teacher’s Bible, with notes?” he asked.
She thought.
“Yes, there is such an one in the house. Will you wait?”
She left the room.
“We should have told the girl about Spedding—we should have told
her,” said Angel in despair.
“It’s no use crying over spilt milk,” said Jimmy quietly. “The thing to
do now is to frustrate Spedding and rescue the girl.”
“Will he dare——?”
“He’ll dare. Oh, yes, he’ll dare,” said Jimmy. “He’s worse than you
think, Angel.”
“But he is already a ruined man.”
“The more reason why he should go a step further. He’s been on the
verge of ruin for months, I’ve found that out. I made inquiries the
other day, and discovered he’s in a hole that the dome of St. Paul’s
wouldn’t fill. He’s a trustee or something of the sort for an association
that has been pressing him for money. Spedding will dare
anything”—he paused then—“but if he dares to harm that girl he’s a
dead man.”
The old lady came in at that moment with the book, and Jimmy
hastily turned over the pages.
Near the end he came upon something that brought a gleam to his
eye.
He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a notebook. He did
not wait to pull up a chair, but sank on his knees by the side of the
table and wrote rapidly, comparing the text with the drawings in the
book.
Angel, leaning over, followed the work breathlessly.
“There—and there—and there!” cried Angel exultantly. “What fools
we were, Jimmy, what fools we were.”
Jimmy turned to the lady.
“May I borrow this book?” he asked. “It will be returned. Thank you.
Now, Angel,” he looked at his watch and made a move for the door,
“we have two hours. We will take the Tonbridge Road by daybreak.”
Only one other person did they disturb on that eventful night, and
that was a peppery old Colonel of Marines, who lived at Blackheath.
There, before the hastily-attired old officer, as the dawn broke, Angel
explained his mission, and writing with feverish haste, subscribed to
the written statement by oath. Whereupon the Justice of the Peace
issued a warrant for the arrest of Joseph James Spedding, Solicitor,
on a charge of felony.
 CHAPTER XII
WHAT HAPPENED AT FLAIRBY MILL

Kathleen very naturally regarded the lawyer in the light of a

disinterested friend. There was no reason why she should not do so;
and if there had been any act needed to kindle a kindly feeling for
the distant legal adviser it was this last act of his, for no sooner, as
he told her, had he discovered by the merest accident a clue to the
hidden word, than he had rushed off post-haste to put her in
possession of his information. He had naturally advised immediate
action, and when she demurred at the lateness of the hour at which
to begin a hunt for the book, he had hinted vaguely at difficulties
which would beset her if she delayed. She wanted to let Angel know,
and Jimmy, but this the lawyer would not hear of, and she accounted
for the insistence of his objection by the cautiousness of the legal
mind.
Then the excitement of the midnight adventure appealed to her—the
swift run in the motor-car through the wild night, and the wonderful
possibilities of the search at the end of the ride.
So she went, and her appetite for adventure was all but satisfied by
a narrowly-averted collision with another car speeding in the
opposite direction. She did not see the occupants of the other car,
but she hoped they had had as great a fright as she.
As a matter of fact, neither of the two men had given a second
thought to their danger; one’s mind was entirely and completely filled
with her image, and the other was brooding on telephones.
She had no time to tire of the excitement of the night—the run across
soaking heaths and through dead villages, where little cottages
showed up for a moment in the glare of the headlights, then faded
into the darkness. Too soon she came to a familiar stretch of the
road, and the car slowed down so that they might not pass the tiny
grass lane that led to Flairby Mill. They came to it at last, and the car
bumped cautiously over deep cart ruts, over loose stones, and
through long drenched grasses till there loomed out of the night the
squat outlines of Flairby Mill.
Once upon a time, before the coming of cheap machinery, Flairby
Mill had been famous in the district, and the rumble of its big stones
went on incessantly, night and day; but the wheel had long since
broken, its wreck lay in the bed of the little stream that had so
faithfully served it; its machinery was rust and scrap iron, and only
the tiny dwelling-house that adjoined was of value. With little or no
repair the homestead had remained watertight and weatherproof,
and herein had Kathleen stored the odds and ends of her father’s
household. The saddles, shields, spears, and oddments he had
collected in his travels, and the modest library that had consoled the
embittered years of his passing, were all stored here. Valueless as
the world assesses value, but in the eyes of the girl precious things
associated with her dead father.
The tears rose to her eyes as Spedding, taking the key from her
hand, fitted it into the lock of a seventeenth-century door, but she
wiped them away furtively.
Spedding utilized the acetylene lamp of the car to show him the way
into the house. “You must direct me, Miss Kent,” he said, and
Kathleen pointed the way. Up the oaken stairs, covered with dust,
their footsteps resounding hollowly through the deserted homestead,
the two passed. At the head of the stairs was a heavy door, and
acting under the girl’s instructions, the lawyer opened this.
It was a big room, almost like a barn, with a timbered ceiling sloping
downward. There were three shuttered windows, and another door
at the farther end of the room that led to a smaller room.
“This was the miller’s living room,” she said sadly. She could just
remember when a miller lived in the homestead, and when she had
ridden up to the door of the mill accompanied by her father, and the
miller, white and jovial, had lifted her down and taken her through a
mysterious chamber where great stones turned laboriously and
noisily, and the air was filled with a fine white dust.