'Inspector Badgworth was very interested.

''Depend upon it that is where the stuff has been hidden,' he cried. 'Somehow or other it has been salvaged from the wreck and has been stored in some lonely cave somewhere. It is known that we have searched all the caves in Smugglers' Cove, and that we are now going farther afield, and they have evidently been moving the stuff at night to a cave that has been already searched and is not likely to be searched again. Unfortunately they have had at least eighteen hours to dispose of the stuff. If they got Mr. Newman last night I doubt if we will find any of it there by now.'

'The inspector hurried off to make a search. He found definite evidence that the bullion had been stored as supposed, but the gold had been once more removed, and there was no clue as to its fresh hiding-place.

'One clue there was, however, and the inspector himself pointed it out to me the following morning.

''That lane is very little used by motor vehicles,' he said, 'and in one or two places we get the traces of the tyres very clearly. There is a three-cornered piece out of one tyre, leaving a mark which is quite unmistakable. It shows going into the gate; here and there is a faint mark of it going out of the other gate, so there is not much doubt that it is the right vehicle we are after. Now, why did they take it out through the farther gate? It seems quite clear to me that that lorry came from the village. Now, there aren't many people who own a lorry in the village - not more than two or three at most. Kelvin, the landlord of the Three Anchors, has one.'

''What was Kelvin's original profession?' asked Newman.

''It is curious that you should ask me that, Mr. Newman. In his younger days Kelvin was a professional diver.'

'Newman and I looked at each other. The puzzle seemed to be fitting itself together piece by piece.

''You didn't recognize Kelvin as one of the men on the beach?' asked the inspector.

'Newman shook his head.

''I am afraid I can't say anything as to that,' he said regretfully. 'I really hadn't time to see anything.'

'The inspector very kindly allowed me to accompany him to the Three Anchors. The garage was up a side street. The big doors were closed, but by going up a little alley at the side we found a small door that led into it, and that door was open. A very brief examination of the tyres sufficed for the inspector. 'We have got him, by Jove!' he exclaimed. 'Here is the mark as large as life on the rear left wheel. Now, Mr. Kelvin, I don't think you will be clever enough to wriggle out of this.''

Raymond West came to a halt.

'Well?' said Joyce. 'So far I don't see anything to make a problem about - unless they never found the gold.'

'They never found the gold certainly,' said Raymond, 'and they never got Kelvin either. I expect he was too clever for them, but I don't quite see how he worked it. He was duly arrested - on the evidence of the tyre mark. But an extraordinary hitch arose. Just opposite the big doors of the garage was a cottage rented for the summer by a lady artist.'

'Oh, these lady artists!' said Joyce, laughing.

'As you say, 'Oh these lady artists!' This particular one had been ill for some weeks, and, in consequence, had two hospital nurses attending her. The nurse who was on night duty had pulled her arm-chair up to the window, where the blind was up. She declared that the motor lorry could not have left the garage opposite without her seeing it, and she swore that in actual fact it never left the garage that night.'

Sir Henry suddenly gave vent to a great roar of laughter and slapped his knee. 'Got you this time, Raymond,' he said.

'Miss Marple you are wonderful. Your friend Newman, my boy, has another name - several other names in fact. At the present moment he is not in Cornwall but in Devonshire - Dartmoor, to be exact - a convict in Princetown prison. We didn't catch him over the stolen bullion business, but over the rifling of the strong-room of one of the London banks. Then we looked up his past record and we found a good portion of the gold stolen buried in the garden at Pol House. It was rather a neat idea. All along that Cornish coast there are stories of wrecked galleons full of gold. It accounted for the diver, and it would account later for the gold. But a scapegoat was needed, and Kelvin was ideal for the purpose. Newman played his little comedy very well, and our friend Raymond, with his celebrity as a writer, made an unimpeachable witness.

'But the tyre mark?' objected Joyce.

'Oh, I saw that at once, dear, although I know nothing about motors,' said Miss Marple. 'People change a wheel, you know - I have often seen them doing it - and, of course they could take a wheel off Kelvin's lorry and take it out through the small door into the alley and put it on to Mr. Newman's lorry and take the lorry out of one gate down to the beach, fill it up with the gold and bring it up through the other gate, and then they must have taken the wheel back and put it back on Mr. Kelvin's lorry while, I suppose, someone else was tying up Mr. Newman in a ditch. Very uncomfortable for him and probably longer before he was found than he expected. I suppose the man who called himself the gardener attended to that side of the business.'

'Why do you say, 'called himself the gardener,' Aunt Jane?' asked Raymond curiously.

'Well, he can't have been a real gardener, can he?' said Miss Marple. 'Gardeners don't work on Whit Monday. Everybody knows that.'

She smiled and folded up her knitting.

'It was really that little fact that put me on the right scent,' she said. She looked across at Raymond.

'When you are a householder, dear, and have a garden of your own, you will know these little things.'

'It's curious,' said Joyce Lumpier, 'but I hardly like telling you my story. It happened a long time ago - five years ago to be exact - but it's sort of haunted me ever since. The smiling, bright, top part of it - and the hidden gruesomeness underneath. And the queer thing is that the sketch I painted at the time has become tinged with the same atmosphere. When you look at it first it is just a rough sketch of a little steep Cornish street with the sunlight on it. But if you look long enough at it, something sinister creeps in. I have never sold it, but I never look at it. It lives in the studio in a corner with its face to the wall.

'The name of the place was Rathole. It is a queer little Cornish fishing village, very picturesque - too picturesque perhaps. There is rather too much of the atmosphere of 'Ye Olde Cornish Tea House' about it. It has shops with bobbed-headed girls in smocks doing hand-illuminated mottoes on parchment. It is pretty and it is quaint, but it is very self-consciously so.'

'Don't I know,' said Raymond West, groaning. 'The curse of the tourist bus, I suppose. No matter how narrow the lanes leading down to them, no picturesque village is safe.'

Joyce nodded. 'There are narrow lanes that lead down to Rathole and very steep, like the side of a house. Well, to get on with my story. I had come to Cornwall for a fortnight, to sketch. There is an old inn in Rathole, the Polharwith Arms. It was supposed to be the only house left standing by the Spaniards when they shelled the place in fifteen hundred and something.'

'Not shelled,' said Raymond West, frowning. 'Do try to be historically accurate, Joyce.'

'Well, at all events they landed guns somewhere along the coast and they fired them and the houses fell down. Anyway, that is not the point. The inn was a wonderful old place with a kind of porch in front built on four pillars. I was just settling down to work when a car came creeping and twisting down the hill. Of course, it would stop before the inn - just where it was most awkward for me. The people got out - a man and a woman - I didn't notice them particularly. She had a kind of mauve linen dress on and a mauve hat.