Kilmorden Castle. That was something definite. A place. Probably the cradle of an aristocratic family. (Missing heir? Claimant to title?) Or possibly a picturesque ruin. (Buried treasure?)
Yes, on the whole I inclined to the theory of buried treasure. Figures always go with buried treasure. One pace to the right, seven paces to the left, dig one foot, descend twenty-two steps. That sort of idea. I could work out that later. The thing was to get to Kilmorden Castle as quickly as possible.
I made strategic sally from my room and returned laden with books of reference. Who's Who, Whitaker, a Gazetteer, a History of Scotch Ancestral Homes, and Somebody or other's British Isles.
Time passed. I searched diligently, but with growing annoyance. Finally, I shut the last book with a bang. There appeared to be no such place as Kilmorden Castle. Here was an unexpected check. There must be such a place. Why should any one invent a name like that and write it down on a piece of paper? Absurd!
Another idea occurred to me. Possibly it was a castellated abomination in the suburbs with a high-sounding name invented by its owner. But if so, it was going to be extraordinarily hard to find. I sat back gloomily on my heels (I always sit on the floor to do anything really important) and wondered how on earth I was to set about it.
Was there any other line I could follow? I reflected earnestly and then sprang to my feet delightedly. Of course! I must visit the "scene of the crime." Always done by the best sleuths! And no matter how long afterwards it may be, they always find something that the police have overlooked. My course was clear. I must go to Marlow.
But how was I to get into the house? I discarded sev-
