"I think I shall go over to Pen Mill this morning," I said.
Bascomb, who was clearing away the breakfast things, paused in the middle of his operations.
"Will you be back to lunch, sir?" he enquired. "I got a nice duck I was thinkin' o' cookin'."
"In that case," I said, "I shall certainly be back. Better make it one-thirty though, and then we shan't run the risk of spoiling it."
"Very good, sir," he replied, picking up the tray. "I'll 'ave it ready for yer, and I reckon you'll find it'll be all right. I cooked many a one for Mr. Jannaway when 'e was alive. Very partial to roast duck the guv'nor was."
"It runs in the family evidently," I observed.
Bascomb retired with his burden, and, throwing aside theDaily Mail, which was exceedingly dull, I got up and looked out of the window. Two days had drifted by since our conversation in the dining-room, and so far nothing had occurred to mar the picture of rustic felicity which Ross had sketched out as my probable future. Being still fresh to my surroundings, I had found the time pass away pleasantly enough. I had gone through my uncle's papers, put in some honest work in the garden, and had a very jolly cruise or two up and down the estuary in the small sailing dinghy which I had discovered stowed away in the boathouse.
This morning, however, for some reason or other, I had woken up in a more adventurous mood. This tranquil existence was all very well in its way, but there are some luxuries for which one can pay too dearly. I am a firm believer in the doctrine that heaven helps those who help themselves, and I had no intention of sitting down and doing nothing, while my enemies quietly completed their plans for a second and more successful attempt at blotting me out.
Thinking things over while I was dressing, I had decided that something in the nature of a scouting expedition to the mainland was distinctly advisable. It would have to be done tactfully, of course, for, if my theories were right, any movement of mine was probably being watched with the closest attention. Still, that only made the idea more attractive, and I felt a cheerful little tingle of excitement in my heart as I stared out of the window and pondered over my undertaking.
The first thing to do was obviously to try and find out whether de Roda was anywhere in the neighbourhood. This ought not to be a very difficult matter, for the presence of a stranger in such a sparsely inhabited place as Pen Mill would be sure to have aroused a considerable amount of curiosity. It would be discussed and canvassed with the utmost relish, especially in the bar parlour of the Gunner's Arms, which I knew from old experience to be the rallying-point for all the busybodies in the district. One had only to drop in there for a drink, and any local gossip that was floating around was almost certain to be brought before one's notice.
After that—well, my future proceedings would necessarily depend upon how much or how little I had managed to pick up. If I found out that de Roda was really on the spot I was determined to follow the trail as promptly and thoroughly as possible. It might be a dangerous amusement, but that was an objection which would apply equally to any course I chose to adopt, and, after all, it is better to run risks when there is a decent chance of getting something for one's pains.
Besides, at the back of everything else there lurked another and much more compelling motive. Should de Roda be anywhere around, it was quite on the cards that Christine would be with him. The mere thought of this pleasing possibility was amply sufficient to outweigh all other considerations, and it was in a very contented mood that I turned away from the window and went upstairs to get ready for my trip.
A quarter of an hour later I was sitting in the dinghy, sculling across in a leisurely fashion towards the opposite shore. Except for a couple of brown-sailed barges, which were stealing out from Pen Mill to take advantage of the rising tide, I appeared to have the whole estuary to myself. I dodged in between the pair of them, and came up alongside the jetty, where two or three tousled-headed urchins were waiting my arrival.
Amongst the latter I recognised the somewhat soiled features of my friend Jimmy.
"Here you are, James," I said, tossing him the painter. "I'll be back about one o'clock. Don't let anyone sneak the sculls."
"I'll watch it, sir," he replied, with shrill confidence, and, elbowing the others officially aside, he proceeded to tow the boat along the wall and make her fast to a convenient post.
I stopped for a moment at the end of the causeway, and, under cover of filling my pipe, took a careful survey of the village green. It looked very peaceful and innocent, its only inhabitants being a small child and an ancient donkey, neither of whom seemed to threaten any immediate danger. Having struck a match and lighted my tobacco, I sauntered off across the grass, and a minute later I was mounting the steps that led up to the inn.
When I entered the bar parlour I found two other customers already in possession. One was a short, ferrety-faced man, dressed in black, with a straggling red moustache and a bowler hat on the back of his head. The second was a grizzled and elderly boatman, who was puffing away contentedly at a much used cutty. Both were seated in chairs in front of the bar, and had evidently been carrying on a conversation with the landlord, who was leaning over the counter polishing a tankard.
"Good morning," I said, with a general nod which included everybody.
I was subjected to a quick inspection, but all three of them returned my greeting civilly enough.
"I think I'll have a bottle of Bass," I said, addressing myself to the landlord. "That's the best drink for this time of day."
The little man in black blew his nose, making a surprising amount of noise over the operation.
"I envy you, sir," he remarked. "There's nothing I like better than a glass of beer meself, but it goes straight to my liver. Perhaps you aren't troubled in that way."
"I don't know where it goes to," I said, "but the result seems to be quite satisfactory."
The landlord unscrewed a bottle and carefully tilted its contents into a tumbler.
"You don't take enough exercise, Mr. Watson," he remarked. "No one can drink beer, not if they sit in an office all day. You want to be out in the open air, like George here."
The old boatman nodded affirmatively. "Beer never 'urt me," he observed with a chuckle. "I reckon I drunk enough of it in my time to float a Thames barge."
With a regretful shake of his head the little man applied himself to his whisky. "You couldn't do it, not if you were in the house agent line," he remarked. "It would have to be spirits or nothing then, the same as it is with me."
I paid for my drink, and, strolling across the room, sat down at an empty table in one of the bay-windows. There was a paper lying in front of me—a weekly rag called theShalston Gazette—which seemed to consist principally of advertisements. I picked it up, however, and, opening it at the centre page, made a deliberate pretence of glancing through the local news.
For a moment or two the conversation at the other end of the bar languished; then, as if renewing a former discussion, the landlord suddenly addressed himself to Mr. Watson.
"What I don't understand," he said, "is how they come to pitch on 'The Laurels.' It ain't the kind of place you'd think a gentleman would take a fancy to."
"It suited this party right enough," returned the little man with a chuckle. "All he wanted was a house facing the water. He didn't seem particular about anything else, provided he could get that."
I felt my heart begin to beat a shade quicker, for a sudden conviction that they were speaking about de Roda had flashed instantly across my mind. The landlord's next remark put the matter almost beyond question.
"Well, I suppose, being a foreigner, he ain't used to comfort. He'll find it precious damp though, if we happen to have another summer like the last."
"That's his look-out," returned the other. "He saw the place before he took it, so I don't see that he'll have any call to grumble. Anyhow, he's paid us six months' rent in advance."
"What part o' the world d'you reckon he comes from, Mr. Watson?" enquired the boatman. "Some says he's a Frenchy, but it seems to me he's a bit too yaller in the face for that. More like some kind of a Eytalian to my way o' thinkin'."
"He's neither," said Mr. Watson decisively. "He's a Spaniard—the same as those fellers who bring round the onions."
"A Spaniard, is he?" ejaculated the landlord. "Fancy that now! Could you make out what he said?"
Mr. Watson sucked in his lip. "After a fashion," he replied. "It wasn't too easy his first visit, but the second time he come along he brought his niece with him, and it was she that did most of the talking. I didn't have any trouble with her—none at all. Speaks English as well as you or me."
"That's a fact," put in the boatman, nodding his head. "She was down to my place the day before yesterday looking after something to go on the water in. A fine young lady she is too, and a rare 'and at sailing a boat."
"I don't hold with women sailing," remarked Mr. Watson disapprovingly. "She'll be drowning herself one of these days, you mark my words."
"Not likely," retorted the other. "She can swim like a duck, that young lady can. She bathes off of the bank there before breakfast, and dang me if I didn't see 'er right out in the channel when I come round the point early this morning."
I sat back in my chair, holding the paper in front of me and making a desperate effort to appear quite unconcerned. For a moment I could hardly believe my own good luck. Without asking a single question I had stumbled bang across the very information I was in search of, and it was just about all I could manage to keep my feelings under proper control.
What excited me more than anything else was the news about Christine. The knowledge that she was close at hand—perhaps within a few hundred yards of where I was sitting—filled me with an indescribable sense of elation. I felt like jumping up from my seat, brandishing theShalston Gazetteround my head, and inviting all three of my garrulous acquaintances to a general orgy of free drinks.
"I ain't curious," announced the landlord, after a short pause, "but I'd give something to know what's brought 'em down into these here parts."
"I can tell you that," replied Mr. Watson, with some importance. "It's his doctor's orders. He's been ill—very ill, so his niece says—and he's been advised to take a house in a bracing climate."
"Ah! 'E's done right in coming here then," observed the boatman patriotically. "They do say Pen Mill's the most bracing spot in England."
I was just thinking how thoroughly I agreed with this statement when the outer door swung open and two fresh customers entered the bar. One was a big, red-faced man in gaiters, who came in talking at the top of his voice and slapping his leg with a riding-whip. I could have murdered him with the utmost cheerfulness, for I felt at once that my prospects of acquiring any further information were remote in the extreme. He was one of those breezy, would-be humorous gentlemen, who revel in the sound of their own voices, and, true to his type, he at once established himself with his back to the counter, and proceeded to narrate some long and pointless story.
Still holding the paper in front of me, I stuck patiently to my seat, on the off-chance that the conversation would drift back into its former channel. It was a vain hope, and, however, after waiting for several minutes, I came to the conclusion that I might as well take my departure. After all, I had found out a good bit, and if I wanted to put my knowledge to any practical use, the sooner I set to work the better.
In as casual a fashion as possible I got up from my chair and sauntered across the room. The others were all busy listening to the newcomer, and, without attracting any particular attention, I passed out through the door and made my way down the steps.
At the bottom I paused for a moment to consider my plan of campaign. I remembered something about the neighbourhood, but I had no recollection of a house called "The Laurels" or of any place that answered to Mr. Watson's description of it. I should have to make enquiries on this point, and at the same time I should have to do it in such a fashion as to avoid arousing any unnecessary gossip.
Glancing round the green, my eyes fell on the small village shop opposite, where in bygone days Bobby and I had been accustomed to purchase our tobacco. If Mrs. Summers, the old lady who used to run it, were still alive, she would probably remember me, and in that case it ought to be the very place for my purpose. Anyhow, I determined to chance it, so, knocking out my pipe, I vaulted the wooden railings and set out over the grass.
The first person I saw when I stepped in through the low doorway was Mrs. Summers herself. She was sitting hunched up in a chair behind the counter, knitting away industriously at a sock, and looking precisely as unchanged as the rest of Pen Mill. She stared at me for a moment in a half-puzzled, half-doubtful sort of fashion; then suddenly her round red face expanded into a broad smile of recognition.
"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "If it isn't Mr. Dryden!"
"That's right," I said, coming up to the counter. "And how are you, Mrs. Summers?"
We shook hands warmly, while she beamed at me through her gold-rimmed spectacles in a fashion that cheered my heart.
"Well, well, well!" she repeated. "Just to think of that now. Why, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you walking in through the door."
"I was wondering if you would know me after all this time," I said.
"You needn't have worried about that," she replied. "You haven't altered—not the least little bit in the world."
"Neither have you," I returned gallantly. "People who lead sober and respectable lives always keep their good looks."
"Ah!" she observed. "I might have known you'd say something like that. You were always the one for having your little joke." She continued to beam at me with the same indulgent smile. "You've come along to stay with Commander Dean, I suppose?" she added.
I stared at her in the blankest amazement.
"Why, didn't you know he was here?" she asked, in a surprised voice.
"Bobby Dean in Pen Mill!" I managed to jerk out.
"Well, not exactly in Pen Mill, though he do come around pretty often. Martlesea's his headquarters—at least, that's where he lives when he isn't in his boat."
"D'you mean to tell me he's got a job here?" I almost shouted.
She nodded her head. "He's in the Coast Patrol—the same as he was when the war was on. Fancy your not knowing that now! Why, I made certain you'd come down to pay him a visit, seeing as how you were such friends."
"I haven't had a letter from him for ages," I explained. "The last time he wrote he was up at some God-forsaken place in the North of Scotland." I paused, while the full realisation of all that Bobby's presence would mean filtered joyfully through my heart. "By Jove, that's gorgeous news, Mrs. Summers!" I added. "You couldn't have told me anything in the world which would have pleased me more."
"But if you haven't come to see him," she demanded curiously, "whatever's brought you back into these parts?"
Her question reminded me suddenly of the real purpose of my visit.
"It's my turn to give you a little surprise," I said, and then, facing towards the door, I pointed out in the direction of Greensea. "Do you know who lives there?" I asked.
"Mr. Jannaway did," she said, "but he's been dead and gone a matter of two months. There's no one on the island now, except the caretaker, Mr. Bascomb."
"Oh, yes, there is," I retorted. "There's a distinguished gentleman called Mr. John Dryden."
She shook her head at me reprovingly. "Full of your little jokes," she repeated. "Just the same as you always was."
"It's no joke, Mrs. Summers," I persisted. "Mr. Jannaway was my uncle, and he had the good sense to die without making a will. The result is that I scoop the lot—his money and Greensea Island and everything else."
Something in my manner must have convinced her that I was speaking the truth, for she threw up her hands in a gesture of profound astonishment.
"Well I never!" she exclaimed. "Why, I did hear some talk that the place was to go to Mr. Jannaway's nephew, but just to think that of all people in the world it should happen to be you!"
"It's a bit of a knock-out, isn't it?" I said sympathetically. "I haven't quite got over it myself yet."
She sat down again in her chair.
"It properly took my breath away for the minute," she declared. "Not but what I'm gladder than I can say, Mr. Dryden, and I'm sure there's no gentleman in the world who deserves a bit of good luck more than what you do."
"Thank you very much," I returned, with my best bow.
"D'you mean to live on the island?" she asked.
"I hope to," I said truthfully; and then, thinking that this was a favourable chance for making my enquiry, I added: "I suppose there have been all sorts of changes since I was here—lots of fresh people in the neighbourhood?"
She paused, as if to consider the problem. "Not so very many, sir," she said. "There isn't much to bring folks here except in the summer time. Mrs. Green at the Gunner's Arms is dead, as I suppose you've heard."
"Yes," I said. "I have just come from there."
"And Colonel Paton of Brooklands—he's gone too. The Bowden-Smiths have got his house now, and I have heard that there's a new party taken 'The Laurels'—a foreign gentleman, according to what they tell me."
"'The Laurels'?" I repeated thoughtfully. "I seem to know the name, but I'm hanged if I can remember where it is."
"Why, surely you can't have forgotten 'The Laurels,'" she persisted. "That little white house facing the estuary, away round the point." She pointed out across the green, to where the ground rose steeply behind the Gunner's Arms. "You can't see it from here," she added, "but it's almost opposite you when you're on the island."
I could have leaned over the counter and hugged her, but with another masterly effort I managed to preserve my composure.
"Of course," I said. "How stupid of me! The fact is I have been away so long that I've got a bit mixed up in my bearings." I stopped to stroke a large black cat which had jumped up on to the chair alongside of me. "So it's been let to a foreigner, has it?" I continued. "Not a German, I hope?"
Mrs. Summers positively bristled at my suggestion. "I should think not indeed. I should like to see the Hun as'd dare to show his wicked face in Pen Mill. It's a French gentleman, sir—a Mr. de Roda and his niece; very good people, too, from all accounts."
"I'm glad of that," I said gravely. "It's a great relief to know that one's got respectable neighbours." I held out my hand. "I must be off now, Mrs. Summers," I added. "There are one or two little things I have to attend to before I go back to lunch.
"You'll be in again before long, I suppose, sir? she hazarded.
"Rather," I said, "and the next time I come I hope I shall bring Commander Dean with me. It will be like old days—all three of us together again."
I gave her a parting squeeze, and, resisting the temptation to break into a step dance, I turned round and made my way to the door.
I certainly had good reasons for feeling a trifle exhilarated Not only had I picked up the information I wanted with reference to "The Laurels," but I had also made the welcome and unexpected discovery that I was no longer without a pal. If there was one man I would have chosen out of all others to take the place of Ross it was my old skipper, Bobby Dean. For the last two years of the war he and I had been cooped up together in a motor launch, pleasantly engaged in strafing Fritz, and I don't think there are many occupations in the world which give one a better chance of finding out the character of one's companions. I knew Bobby inside out, from his rough, weather-beaten exterior to the depths of his honest soul. He was one of that cheery gang of east coast yachtsmen who had flocked into the R.N.V.R. at the outbreak of hostilities, and had done so much to mess up the All Highest's brilliant idea of starving out the British Empire. So useful, indeed, had been his record that when peace came he had managed to snaffle a regular commission in the reorganised Coast Defence Force. Not being so lucky or deserving myself, I had, like most of the others, drifted away into the ranks of the Merchant Service, but ever since then we had exchanged occasional yarns, which had kept us more or less in touch with each other's doings.
His last letter had been dated from the Shetlands, where he had been chasing around in an antiquated gun-boat, and feeling extremely fed up with the universe in general. He had given me no hint then that there was any likelihood of his being transferred to a more Christian station. So the news of his presence at Martlesea had come to me as a complete and joyful surprise. A friend like Bobby was the one thing I had wanted, and as I walked across the green I devoutly thanked the gods for the kindly interest they seemed to be taking in my affairs.
It was not until I had reached the inn that my mind switched back to the immediate and pressing business in front of me. This was my first effort in the Sherlock Holmes line, and I realised that if I were going to do justice to it I should need all the concentration of which I was capable. I had no plan except for the fixed determination that I would at least have a look at the outside of "The Laurels." Beyond that point everything was deliriously vague. I could only trust to luck, and register an inward vow that if providence did throw any chance in my way, I would snap it up as promptly and efficiently as possible.
The first thing to settle was how to get to the house. There were two methods open to me—one by tramping along the foreshore, and the other by taking the narrow lane which turned away to the left about a hundred yards above the inn. I pitched on the latter as being the less conspicuous of the two, and, trying hard to look as if I had come out for a morning constitutional, I started off in a leisurely fashion up the hill.
I still had a sort of uneasy sensation that somebody was spying on me, but a glance back over my shoulder when I reached the corner gave no grounds for this ungenerous suspicion. For all the interest that Pen Mill appeared to be taking in my movements, I might have been off the earth. The white road stretched out behind me, sunlit and deserted, and, feeling that nothing was to be gained by staring at an empty landscape, I branched off without further hesitation into the side turning.
For a little distance the lane ran straight ahead of me; then it curved off suddenly to the left in the direction of the sea. I made my way cautiously round this bend, and found myself outside a high wooden paling, evidently the boundary of some private residence. About twenty yards farther on I could see a swing gate which apparently led into the drive.
Keeping well under the fence, and feeling unpleasantly like a burglar, I crept forward until I had reached the desired point. Any doubts I might have had as to the identity of the place were at once put to rest, for on the top bar, in faded and weather-beaten letters, was painted the following inscription:
"THE LAURELS."
It was in circumstances such as these that the late Mr. Sherlock Holmes always aroused my keenest admiration. No matter how puzzling the situation might be, he invariably knew what was the right line to take and exactly how to set about it. I suppose he must have been blessed with some inner sense which is denied to lesser mortals, for I know that in my own case no sudden inspiration came to help me. I just stood there gazing at the inscription with a kind of vague satisfaction, and wondering what the devil I ought to do next.
All my instincts prompted me to action, but the question was, What sort of action was the most advisable? I could not very well march up to the front door and hand in my card, much as I should have enjoyed making the experiment. There was Christine to be considered as well as myself; indeed, the feeling that whatever I did I must bring no suspicion upon her was the one predominant thought at the back of my mind.
From where I was standing I could see nothing of the house. The drive curved away sharply round a huge dump of laurels, and the whole place looked even more untidy and overgrown than my own property. If I chose I had only to push open the gate and walk in, and yet, with my hand actually on the latch, I still hesitated. Somehow or other it seemed altogether too easy. The vision of a mouse strolling unconcernedly into an open trap rose up before me with unpleasant distinctness, and, abandoning the idea, I stepped back again on to the grass.
It struck me that another and less public mode of entrance would be more in keeping with my part. The paling was only about five feet high, and offered little or no obstacle to anyone as active as myself. I could slip over quietly, just where the trees were thickest, and, unless the whole thing collapsed beneath me, the odds were that my ungentlemanly intrusion would probably pass unnoticed.
I was in the very act of turning away to put this notion into practice when a sudden sound from inside brought me up as stiff as a ramrod. It was the unmistakable noise of an opening door, followed almost immediately by the voice of a man speaking and the crunch of footsteps coming down the drive.
Thanks chiefly to my sea training, I managed to keep my head. One glance round showed me that the only available hiding-place was the thick hedge on the opposite side of the road. I made for it like a rabbit, and the next moment I had forced my way through, and was crouching down, scratched and panting, behind a welcome barrier of blackberry bushes.
As luck would have it, I could not have pitched upon a better spot. I was quite invisible myself, and through a small gap in the hedge it was just possible to command a glimpse of the gate. I found that by pushing aside some leaves I was able to enlarge the view still further, and with my eyes glued to this peep-hole I waited breathlessly for the next development.
It was not long in coming. A couple of seconds could hardly have passed when the gate swung open and two figures stepped out into the roadway. For a moment I stared at them both, hardly able to believe my eyes. One was Christine, and the other—of all people in the world—was Dr. Manning.
To say that I was knocked all of a heap would be as near as I can get to describing my sensations. I had thought of a good many things, but the possibility of Christine and the doctor being acquainted had never so much as crossed my mind. I could only gaze at them in a sort of incredulous amazement, while all the theories that I had previously built up seemed to be tumbling about like a pack of cards.
It was Manning's voice which collected my scattered wits for me.
"I will come round to-morrow about half-past ten," he said "You needn't be the least worried though. Everything's going as well as it possibly can."
Christine held out her hand. "I am not anxious now," she said simply. "Good-bye, and thank you very much."
He looked down at her in a way that filled me with a sudden and peculiar resentment.
"Don't go in for a minute," he said. "Come as far as the end of the road with me. I want to show you how to get to the barge in case you ever honour me with a visit."
I saw Christine hesitate; then, as if anxious not to appear unfriendly, she made a little gesture of assent.
"Oh, very well," she said, smiling. "But I mustn't be long. My uncle will be wondering what has become of me."
Manning glanced at her again with an expression that made me long to kick him, and, moving away from where I could see them, they strolled off together up the road.
For a moment or two I remained quite still. Then with extreme care I got up from my crouching position, and peered over the top of the hedge in the direction which they had taken. There was not much danger of their spotting me, and even if there had been I don't suppose I could have resisted the temptation.
I watched them until they reached the corner, where I saw Christine come to a standstill, as though she had suddenly decided not to go any farther. From his gestures Manning appeared to be making some sort of remonstrance, but if this were the case his arguments evidently had no effect. At all events, he seemed finally to abandon his attempts at persuading her, and they crossed the road together towards a spot just beyond the palings, which overlooked the water.
They stood there for several minutes, Manning pointing away up the estuary and apparently showing her the best method of reaching the barge. It must have been a complicated route, judging from the time he took about it, and the longer I waited the more impatient and resentful I felt.
At last Christine herself seemed to have had enough of the subject, for, stepping back from the bank, she once more offered him her hand. He took it in his, and then, in spite of a quite obvious attempt on her part to prevent him, I saw him bend down and press it to his lips.
My longing to kick him suddenly became so acute that in another second I should have jumped down into the roadway. Luckily, however, providence just saved me from this idiocy. Pulling away her hand, Christine turned round abruptly in the direction of the house, and, obeying a sort of automatic impulse, I bobbed down again behind the hedge.
There I stopped, listening intently. For a few moments nothing happened; then I heard the quick tread of footsteps in the roadway, and in the same stealthy fashion as before, I lifted my head until I could see over the top of the bushes.
There was no one in sight except Christine. She was walking rapidly back towards the gate, and was already quite close to where I was hiding. Manning had disappeared completely, and any lingering tendency to caution I still had vanished into thin air.
I leaned forward as far as I could.
"Christine!" I said softly. "Christine!"
She stopped dead. Every trace of colour had vanished from her face, and for an instant I thought that she was going to faint.
"Don't be frightened," I added quickly. "It's perfectly safe."
She stood there, staring up at me with wick-open, startled eyes.
"Oh, you're hurt," she gasped. "Your face is all bleeding."
I put my hand up to my cheek, and it came away stained with red.
"It's nothing," I said. "I scratched myself a bit getting through the hedge."
"But why are you here?" she whispered. "What made you come? It's madness—absolute madness."
"I wanted to see you," I said simply.
She gave a terrified glance round in the direction of the house.
"I can't talk to you here. Don't you see how impossible it is? You must go away at once."
I shook my head. "Not till we've fixed up something," I said. "Tell me where I can meet you, and I'll clear out immediately."
She answered me with a look of distress that made me feel an absolute brute.
"Christine dear," I whispered passionately, "I must see you and talk to you. It's the only thing in the world that matters the least to me."
For a moment there was no reply. She seemed to be making a desperate attempt to come to some decision.
"I shall be in Shalston to-morrow," she said at last, in the same hurried whisper. "There is a shop next to the station—a confectioner's shop with a small room upstairs. If you will be there at half-past three I will try and meet you."
I was about to say something, but with an almost piteous movement of her hands she interrupted me.
"No, no," she said. "Don't stop here. Go at once—please—for my sake."
There may be stout-hearted people in the world who could resist an appeal like this, but I am certainly not one of them. I let my eyes dwell in a long, refreshing look on her dear up-turned face (it was a look which had to last me for over twenty-four hours), and then, without another word, I slipped back noiselessly out of sight.
As a Yankee mate I once knew used to say, it could "snow pink" for all I cared. When you love somebody as I love Christine, the thought of meeting them becomes so absorbing that it is precious difficult to take anything else seriously. In the light of what had just happened I felt that all my previous ideas required an immediate and thorough spring cleaning, but for the time being such a mental effort was hopelessly beyond me. My brain seemed to be wholly occupied in repeating those two magic phrases, "Half-past three" and "The shop next the station," which kept chasing each other through my head like some beautiful refrain.
The only practical point which I did manage to grasp was the important fact that I must get away without being seen. As far as anyone in the house was concerned this feat appeared to be simplicity itself; the danger was that I might run into Manning. I was still very much in the dark about his relations with Christine, but, whatever they were, it would be fatal to let him suppose that I had been hanging about in the neighbourhood of "The Laurels." Besides, if I met him now I should probably be unable to resist the desire to kick him, which would certainly complicate matters to a most unfortunate extent.
Under the circumstances, it seemed to me that my best plan was to work my way round the hedge, and get out into the main road at the top of the hill. This would allow Manning a comfortable start, and it would also give me the additional advantage of being able to see whether the coast was dear.
Bending well forward, and making as little noise as possible, I set out on my journey. At the first corner I came across one of those small ponds which are a usual feature in most Essex fields. I pulled up for a moment, and, stooping down over the edge, had a good look at myself in the water. It was no wonder Christine had been startled when she saw my face. The whole of my right cheek was covered with blood, and, though the cause was nothing worse than a superficial scratch, I must have been a pretty ghastly object to bob up suddenly from behind a hedge.
Fortunately my collar was still undamaged, and with the aid of a wet handkerchief I soon managed to remove most of the gore. Even then I looked rather as if I had been fighting with a cat, but, after all, I intended to go straight back to the island, and there would only be Bascomb to criticise my appearance.
Keeping the handkerchief pressed to my cheek, I continued my journey up the hill. I had had quite enough of scrambling through blackberry bushes, and it was therefore with some satisfaction that, as I drew near the top, I noticed a gate leading out of the fields. I approached it with some care, and, after making certain that there was no one in sight, I climbed over and dropped down into the main road.
I recognised the place instantly. I was within a few yards of the very identical spot where Ross and I had so nearly run into de Roda, and I could not help regarding the fact as a favorable omen. Anyhow, it gave me a sort of renewed faith in my good luck, and, pushing forward as far as the end of the road, I peered cautiously round the corner.
It was all I could do to stop shouting out "Tally Ho!" A couple of hundred yards below me a solitary figure was crossing the village green, and even at that distance I could see plainly enough that it was Manning. He was walking rapidly in the opposite direction, evidently making for the Shalston road, which turned out of the village just above Mrs. Summers' shop.
I could feel my heart beginning to beat a shade quicker as I stared down at him. There was already an account between us which I had every intention of settling up in full, but it was not entirely the prospect of punching his head that was responsible for my sensations. I had a steadily growing conviction that for some sinister reason of his own Dr. Manning was playing a very active part in the mystery that surrounded me. Everything I knew about the man filled me with suspicion. Why had he been so anxious to get hold of the island, why had he tried to put a doubt in my mind with regard to Bascomb's honesty, and how in the name of goodness did he come to be on intimate terms with the de Rodas? In spite of his apparent friendliness I had mistrusted him from the first, and now, as I stood there gazing after his retreating figure, I felt more certain than ever that my original instinct had been absolutely sound.
I watched him until he reached the opposite side of the green, where he crossed over and disappeared down the Shalston turning. I waited for a moment, so as to make quite sure that he had really gone; and then, with a rather bleak feeling of reaction, I stepped forward from my hiding-place. It seemed to me that my adventures for the day were over. There was a painfully unenterprising air about Pen Mill, as it lay stretched out below me in the warm spring sunshine. Down in the estuary a small motor-boat was making its way rapidly towards the jetty, but otherwise the whole place was lapped in the same atmosphere of restful tranquillity as when I had landed earlier in the morning.
It was at this opportune moment that I suddenly remembered the roast duck. All my interest in life came back with a rush, and, pulling out my watch, I discovered that it was nearly a quarter to one. A brief calculation showed me that by the time I had got out my dinghy and rowed over to the island, Bascomb's masterpiece ought to be just about ready. To keep it waiting would be a very ungracious return for the trouble that he had taken, and, stimulated by this thought, I started off briskly down the hill.
As I reached the bottom I saw the motor-boat which I had previously noticed run in alongside the jetty. A short, sturdy figure in naval uniform rose up in the bows, and, tossing the painter to Jimmy and two of his companions who were waiting to receive it, stepped out on to the causeway. One glimpse of those broad shoulders was all that I needed. I had crouched down behind them too often in a smother of North Sea spray to be in any doubt about whom they belonged to. In a flash the roast duck and Manning and everything else went clean out of my head, and with a half suppressed whoop of joy I hastened forward along the roadway.
Jimmy was the only member of the group who noticed my approach. He looked round just as I set foot on the jetty, but before he could give the alarm I had marched straight up to Bobby and banged him heartily on the back.
"Hullo, Robert!" I said. "Fancy meeting you!"
It takes a good deal to surprise Bobby, but for once in a way I certainly caught him bending. He spun round as if he had been struck by lightning, and the expression on his face was about the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life.
"Dryden!" he gasped. "Jack Dryden!"
"That's right," I said. "What a memory you've got for faces."
He seized my hand and crushed it with a vigour that nearly broke my fingers.
"Good Lord!" he cried. "Where on earth did you spring from? I thought you were chasing about the Atlantic in a million-ton liner."
"You are quite out of date, Bobby," I said. "I am not a common sailor any longer. I have given up the sea and become a gentleman."
Grinning all over his face, he took a fresh look, and surveyed me affectionately from head to foot.
"I don't see any difference," he announced. "You look just as big and disreputable as ever." Then with a happy chuckle he stepped forward again and gripped me by the arm. "Did you know I was here?" he demanded. "I've never written to tell you; I've been so devilish busy."
"It wasn't altogether a surprise," I admitted. "I've been having a talk with Mrs. Summers, and she gave me all the latest society gossip."
"Ah!" he said, nodding his head; "that accounts for it. I thought you weren't half as pleased and excited as you ought to have been."
"Pleased!" I echoed. "Why, I'm so pleased to see you, Bobby, that I simply daren't give way to my feelings. I should burst into tears if I did."
"Well, don't do it here," he retorted. "Come along up to the pub and we'll sob comfortably on each other's necks."
"I can't sob comfortably in a pub," I said. "I am going to take you back to Greensea, and fill you up on roast duck."
"What do you mean?" he asked, letting go my arm.
"That's right, Capting," put in Jimmy, who had been listening to our conversation with the utmost interest. "The gen'leman lives on Greensea Island, don't, 'e, boys?"
There was a shrill chorus of assent from the two others.
"You live on Greensea Island?" repeated Bobby, staring at me. Then as a sort of after-thought he added blankly: "Well I'm damned!"
"Never mind," I said. "You'll have lots of nice people to keep you company."
He took the painter from Jimmy, and jerked his head in the direction of the boat.
"Jump in," he commanded sternly. "I've got an appointment with a fellow ashore, but he'll jolly well have to wait. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, if it costs me my commission."
There was a masterly ring in his voice which woke up all my latent sense of discipline. I drew myself up in a mock salute, and stepped down obediently into the stern sheets.
"Look after the dinghy for me, Jimmy," I called out. "I'll come back for it this afternoon."
Tossing the painter ahead of him, Bobby followed me on board. He started the engine with a quick jerk of the handle, and then, coming aft, took possession of the wheel. The next moment we were backing slowly out from the jetty, and heading round towards the mouth of the creek.
"Now, my son," he remarked, "this is your picnic. You give the orders, and I'll carry 'em out."
"Take her straight across to the island," I said. "You'll find my private landing-stage exactly opposite."
He paused for a moment with his hand on the throttle. "You haven't gone mad by any chance, I suppose, Jack?" he enquired casually.
I shook my head. "It's quite all right," I said. "I'll explain everything when we've had some lunch."
With a turn of his hand Bobby set us going, and, gliding rapidly down the creek, he ran out into the estuary. He made no further remark until we were three-quarters of the way over, when he glanced sideways at me from under his cap.
"What have you done to your face?" he asked. "You look as if you'd been trying to kiss somebody and it hadn't quite come off."
I patted my cheek tenderly to see if it were still bleeding.
"It was nothing as exciting as that," I said. "Only a slight affair with a blackberry bush."
He grunted disbelievingly, and, altering our course a shade more down-stream, swung the head of the boat round so that we came up nearly alongside the landing-stage. I leaned forward and caught hold of the chain.
"We get out here," I said. "This is where I live."
He switched off the engine, and with the painter in his hand stepped up on the planking. I followed, and held the boat steady while he made her fast to one of the posts.
"We seem to be doing very well so far," he observed cheerfully. "What happens next?"
"We go up to the house and have some lunch," I replied. "Then you shall hear the true and remarkable story of how Mr. John Dryden came into his inheritance."
He thrust his arm through mine. "Come along," he said with a laugh. "That'll suit me all right. I feel hungry enough to swallow anything to-day."
We set off up the path, and, rounding the corner, passed through the iron gate which led into the garden. I was waiting eagerly to see what effect the first sight of my residence would have upon Bobby, and it must be admitted that he rose to the occasion. He pulled up, just as Ross had done, and stood for a moment in silent admiration.
"By Gad! what a clipping place!" he exclaimed at last. "Is this really yours, Jack?"
"Every stick and stone of it," I said with some pride.
As I spoke there was a sudden scuffle in the doorway, and the huge figure of Satan bounded out on to the gravel. He had evidently recognised my voice, for with a joyful boom of welcome he came cantering across the lawn to meet us.
Bobby received the apparition with commendable coolness.
"You must introduce me to Fido," he said. "I'm very found of pet dogs."
I performed the ceremony with due state, and in a friendly group we all three advanced towards the house. As we approached the doorway Bascomb appeared on the threshold.
"I've brought a friend of mine, Commander Dean, back to lunch with me," I said. "I suppose there'll be enough duck for two?"
He ran his eye over Bobby, as if speculating on the latter's appetite.
"It ain't a very big 'un," he remarked doubtfully. "If 'e's 'ungry you'd better 'ave the cold beef as well."
"Bring up everything you've got," I said. "We'll be down as soon as it's ready."
I piloted Bobby through the hall, and upstairs to my bedroom, where, with a contented sigh, he tossed his cap on the chest of drawers.
"This is great," he announced. "Who's the sunny-looking sportsman who let us in?"
"That's my butler," I explained, pouring out some water. "You mustn't mind his manners. He's a retired prize-fighter and I took him on with the rest of the fixings."
Bobby broke into a sudden guffaw of laughter that could have been heard at Pen Mill.
"Well," he observed, "of all the giddy mystery stunts I've ever butted into this about takes the biscuit."
I nodded sympathetically. "Yes," I said, "I felt like that at first myself. It's surprising how soon one gets used to it, though."
We washed our hands and proceeded downstairs to the dining-room, where Bascomb was just bringing in lunch. It was three years since we had had our last meal together—a riotous dinner in a Harwich hotel on the night that peace was declared. I was dying to know what had happened to all the good fellows who had shared that unforgettable banquet, and while we attacked the duck I kept asking innumerable questions that Bobby answered to the best of his ability. In return I told him of one or two little adventures which had helped to brighten my own monotonous life, but it was not until we had finished our coffee and lighted up our cigars that we really approached the true business of the day.
"Make yourself quite comfortable," I said, pushing him across the port. "You have got to listen to a long yarn, and I don't want any interruptions while I'm telling it."
He filled his glass, and, getting up from his seat, settled himself in a restful attitude on the sofa.
"I'm in no hurry," he observed contentedly. "I could stop here for a month if it wasn't for that blessed appointment."
Had it been possible, nothing would have pleased me more than to let him hear the whole story, for I knew well that when it came to a tight corner no one could have a more loyal and trustworthy friend. For the present, however, until things began to shape themselves a little more clearly, I was still determined that anything which concerned Christine and her uncle should remain my own secret. By letting out the truth, even to Bobby, I might be running her into all sorts of danger, and no thought of my own safety would have induced me to take the risk.
Under the circumstances, the best plan seemed to be to repeat the same version of my adventures that I had given to Ross. So, starting with the arrival of Mr. Drayton's cable at Leixoes, I plunged straight into the story of my interview in Bedford Row, and of my eventful journey back to the docks. I went on to explain how Ross and I had come down to the island, and made the acquaintance of Bascomb and Dr. Manning. I described my first impressions of both, and finished up by giving him a full report of my conversation with the former and the various details which I had been able to gather with regard to my late uncle's peculiar habits.
Lying back, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, he listened to me in absolute silence. Even when I had finished he remained for a moment in the same attitude, then, swinging himself up into a sitting position, he reached out for his glass and drained off the contents.
"I congratulate you, Jack," he said. "It's a damned good yarn, and you told it very nicely."
"Well, what do you make of it?" I enquired. "That's the important point."
He puffed thoughtfully at his cigar.
"I don't want to say anything rude about your relations," he observed, "but you certainly seem to have struck a peach in the way of uncles."
"It looks as if somebody had disliked him," I agreed. "All the same, I don't see why they should work off their spite on me."
Bobby brooded over the problem with a meditative frown.
"I don't imagine it's spite," he began. "People generally have a pretty good reason when they start committing murder. It's much more likely that your uncle was in with some swindling crowd who managed to bring off a big coup. He probably did the rest out of their share of the boodle, and now he's dead they're trying to collect it."
"They won't get anything by slaughtering me," I objected.
"How do you know?" he demanded. "From what this lawyer Johnny told you there's a whole heap of stuff still unaccounted for. It must be somewhere. Why shouldn't it be here?"
"Here!" I echoed.
"Yes, here on the island, stowed away—buried. A man doesn't go and invest a lot of stolen money—not unless he's a damned fool."
I drew in a long breath. "By Jove, that's a notion!" I said. "It never occurred to me."
"No, it wouldn't," he returned kindly. "You were always a bit slow in the up-take. It's just as well you've got an intelligent friend to look after you."
There was a short pause while I did some rapid thinking.
"Bobby," I said, "do you know anything about this fellow Manning?"
He tossed away the stump of his cigar and helped himself to another.
"I thought that was coming," he said drily. "Yes, I know several things about him, and one is that according to your own account he's mighty anxious to get hold of Greensea Island."
"I told you his yarn," I interrupted. "He says he wants to start a yachting club."
"Funny he hasn't mentioned it to anyone down here. I suppose he was afraid somebody would pinch the idea."
"Who is he?" I asked. "Where does he come from?"
Bobby struck a match, and with some care lighted his cigar.
"He is one of those mysterious gents that nobody seems to know anything about. According to what I've heard, he rolled up here last summer and boughtThe Penguin, an old barge that used to belong to a fellow called Collinson. He gave out that he wanted to go in for wild fowling, and, to do the blighter justice, he certainly is a first-class hand with a gun."
"It sounds to me as if you didn't like him," I said.
"I can't stick him at any price. All the same, he's very well in with the people down here. Quite a leading light among the sporting crowd. He belongs to the club at Shalston, and he's always ready to take a hand in anything that's going on."
"What's your objection to him?" I asked.
"Nothing much. I just think he's a wrong 'un."
"But why?" I persisted. "You must have some reason."
Bobby shook his head. "Not the least necessary. I can tell a scoundrel directly I see him."
"Well, I've got the same sort of feeling about him," I admitted. "Still, that's hardly a proof that he had anything to do with shoving me into the dock."
"You must try to look at it in a broad light," said Bobby encouragingly. "If he isn't up to some dirty business why did he make you that offer for the island? You can take it from me that his yarn about starting a yachting club is all bunkum. We've got two here already. Then there's another thing I don't like, and that's his suggestion that you should get rid of Bascomb. It's quite likely he's got some blackguard up his sleeve that he hopes to land you with." He reached out for the decanter and filled up his empty glass. "Besides," he added, "there don't seem to be any other competitors. Who the devil else has taken the faintest interest in your affairs?"
Not being able to answer this question, I rose from my chair and took a pace or two up and down the room. I found a curious comfort in the fact that Bobby shared my views about Manning. In dealing with de Roda I felt like a man who has one hand tied behind his back, but when it came to tackling the doctor there were no such unfortunate restrictions. The more suspicious his conduct appeared, the better pleased I should be. A way had to be found by which I could get to the bottom of the mystery without injuring Christine, and, so far, this was the only opening which suggested the least prospect of success.
"I believe you've hit it," I said, coming back to my seat. "I must take steps to improve my acquaintance with Dr. Manning. He seems to be worth cultivating."
"Well, go easy," returned Bobby. "If we're really on the right lay he's not the sort of chap to play the fool with."
"All the more reason for making the first move," I said. "'When in doubt, lead trumps.' That was Nelson's motto, and it's good enough for me."
"It's a sound plan," admitted Bobby. "The only thing is whether you're fit to be trusted by yourself. I think you had better lie low until I can come around and lend you a hand."
"I don't want to drag you in, Robert," I said. "You did your bit in the Great War."
"It doesn't matter a damn what you want," was the crushing reply. "You don't suppose I'm going to let you be wiped out while you've got a cellar full of port like this?" He paused. "The worst of it is," he added. "I am due at Harwich to-morrow, and they will probably keep me there for at least a week."
"I expect to struggle through a week," I said hopefully. "After all, there's Bascomb and the dog."
He eyed me with some mistrust. "If you take my advice," he said slowly, "you'll be precious careful what you do. Things look devilish ugly, and I know what you're like when there's any chance of a scrap about. I should hate to come back and find you with your throat cut."
"It would be still more annoying for me," I pointed out. "You needn't think I'm going to hunt for trouble. If I see the chance of having a nice little chat with our friend Manning I shall take it, but I shall try to remember that mine's a valuable life, if only for the sake of my friends."
He nodded approvingly, and, glancing at his watch, hoisted himself up from the sofa.
"Time I was off," he announced. "That chap who's waiting for me will be tearing his back hair if I don't come along soon."
We got our caps from the bedroom, and, leaving the house, made our way down to the landing-stage. Satan stalked after us with great dignity, and, following his usual custom, remained standing grimly at attention while we cast off our painter and pushed out from the bank.
"I like that dog," said Bobby. "He looks thoroughly efficient. I put more faith in him than in you or the butler."
"So do I," I said candidly. "And I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Dr. Manning felt the same."
We ran rapidly across to the jetty at Pen Mill, bringing up alongside a timber barge which had just come in on the flood tide. Bobby's appointment was at Beddingfield, a small village half a mile inland, and, having nothing particular to do, I said I would walk with him as far as the top of the hill.
"Go slow," was his parting advice, "and don't forget to send me a wire if you find yourself in a tight corner."
"Where shall I send it to?" I asked.
"The Naval Office, Harwich, will always find me. I shall be pretty busy, but you can count on my showing up within three hours of getting a message."
"That's comforting," I said, shaking his hand. "Whatever happens you ought to be in time for the inquest."
I must admit, however, that, in spite of this flippancy, there was a very real feeling of relief inside me as I strolled back down the slope. I had been quite ready, if necessary, to play this game out by myself, but the knowledge that I had a friend like Bobby just round the corner would certainly be a huge addition to my peace of mind. In a case of emergency he was not the sort to stick at trifles, and, from all I could see of the matter, that was exactly the kind of pal that I was most likely to require.
The suggestion that my uncle might have buried the rest of his money on the island was one that appealed to me immensely. There is always something stimulating in the idea of a hidden treasure, and, apart from that, it fitted in beautifully with the various other features of the situation. It explained away that regrettable absence of capital to which Mr. Drayton had called my attention, and it also went far to account for the presence of de Roda and for the embarrassment which Christine had shown in trying to warn me of my danger.
As to where Manning came in, I was still puzzled. That he had some connection with the de Rodas was obvious, but from what I had seen of him, I was strongly inclined to believe that he was playing a private and separate game of his own, in which Christine and her uncle were only partly concerned. Anyhow, I was now convinced that the most promising place in which to hunt for the key of the mystery was on boardThe Penguin, and that the quicker I got on to the job the more likely I was to find it.
With this idea in my mind I returned to the jetty, where the faithful Jimmy was patiently awaiting my arrival. The fact that I was a friend of Bobby's had evidently sent me up several pegs in his estimation, for he greeted me with a respectful salute which I was careful to acknowledge.
"I am much obliged to you, James," I said, presenting him with a shilling. "It's a great thing to have somebody that one can really depend on."
He looked up at me gravely.
"You can trust me, guv'nor," he observed. "I ain't the sort to let yer down—not if there's anything yer wants done."
"I am sure of that," I said. "And what's more, I shan't forget it."
Settling myself in my seat, I sculled off at a leisurely pace down the creek. My thoughts were still busy with the owner ofThe Penguin, and as I came out into the open I cast an instinctive glance up the estuary in the direction of the barge. What I saw pulled me up short in the middle of my stroke. A hundred yards away, and moving rapidly towards me, was a small motor-boat containing a single occupant. I recognised the latter instantly. It was Manning himself, and with a queer feeling of suspicion at this remarkably opportune appearance of his I swung the dinghy round and waited his approach.
He came up alongside, and, cutting off his engine, waved me a friendly greeting.
"I was right after all then," he said. "I thought I saw you going ashore about twenty minutes ago."
"I was just seeing back a pal of mine who's been lunching with me," I said. "Dean, of the Coast Patrol. I think you have met him, haven't you?"
He nodded easily. "Oh, yes—several times. An uncommonly good fellow from all accounts. I should like to know him better."
I thought of Bobby's remarks on the same subject, and it was as much as I could manage to keep a straight face.
"He was my skipper during the war," I explained. "I had no idea he was down in these parts. We ran across each other accidentally on the jetty this morning."
I was watching him closely while I spoke, but if my news was in any way unwelcome he certainly managed to conceal the fact.
"Just what you wanted," he said, steadying the dinghy with his hand. "It must be precious lonely for you, tucked away on that island all by yourself. I have been meaning to run across again and look you up, only I thought I had better give you time to settle in first."
I took the opening without hesitation.
"How about to-morrow night?" I said. "If you're not doing anything else, come along and dine."
For a moment he appeared doubtful. "I should like to very much indeed. The only trouble is that I shan't have my boat. There's been something wrong with the engine lately, and I'm taking her round to Bridwell now to get it seen to." He paused. "Still, that doesn't really matter," he continued. "I can easily walk along to the inn, and row across from there."
A bold improvement on my first idea suddenly came into my head. After all, if I hoped to be successful, it was no good playing the game in a half-hearted sort of fashion.
"Why not bring a bag and stay the night?" I suggested. "It will save you a tramp in the dark, and, as far as I'm concerned, you will be doing a charitable act."
Perhaps it was only my imagination, but it seemed to me that a faint gleam of satisfaction flickered across his face.
"You're very kind," he said, in that smooth voice of his. "There's nothing I should enjoy more if I shan't be putting you out."
"Just the contrary," I returned. "I don't know what sort of a meal you'll get, but I'll try and prod up Bascomb into doing his best." I pushed my sculls forward into position. "Dinner at half-past seven," I added, "unless any other time would suit you better."
"That will do me fine," he replied, switching on his engine. "I shall look forward to it immensely."
"So shall I," I said, and, with a firm conviction that for once at least we were both speaking the entire truth, I allowed the current to carry us slowly apart.
It cannot be said that Bascomb received the news of my expected guest with anything resembling enthusiasm. I broached the subject while he was clearing away the dinner things, and for a moment he stood at the table without replying—a study in sullen disapproval.
"Well, you knows your own business best, sir," he observed at last. "If you wants to 'ave 'im 'ere you must 'ave 'im 'ere, an' that's all there is to it."
"I am not asking him for the charm of his society, Bascomb," I said. "The fact is, I have been thinking over what you told me the other night, and I have come to the conclusion that Dr. Manning wants watching."
"You're right there, sir," was the grim answer. "'Im an' that beauty Craill, too. You couldn't find a better pair, not if you was to scratch 'ell with a pocket-comb."
"Who's Craill?" I demanded.
"Craill's the bloke wot lives with 'im, an' looks after the barge. 'E come along 'ere one day when the guv'nor was ill, and it was as much as I could do to stop Satan from tearin' 'im in 'alf."
"What was the trouble?" I asked. "Didn't he like his looks?"
Bascomb shook his head. "Seemingly not. An' wot's more, I reckon 'e felt much the same way about the doctor."
"I'm with him there, anyhow," I said. "There's some dirty, underhand work going on in connection with Greensea Island, and as far as I can see Dr. Manning is at the bottom of it." I paused deliberately. "I mean to get to the bottom of it too, Bascomb," I added. "That's the reason I've fixed up this visit."
There was a brief silence.
"Well, I don't go so far as to say you're wrong," replied my retainer grudgingly. "All the same, I wouldn't rest too easy, not with 'im sleepin' in the 'ouse. If you take my advice, sir, you'll lock 'im in 'is room, an' leave Satan loose outside the door."
"I don't want to make him suspicious," I objected. "We shan't get anything out of him by frightening him. Our only chance is to let him feel perfectly at home, and then it's just possible he'll give himself away."
"Mebbe that's so," admitted Bascomb, after a moment's reflection. "There's many a bloke trips 'isself up through bein' a bit too clever." He turned to the table again and resumed his task of clearing away the things. "I'll do wot I can anyway, sir," he added. "It shan't be my fault, not if 'e thinks 'e ain't welcome."
I was much relieved at getting this promise, for without Bascomb's co-operation the scheme would have been hopeless. It was absolutely essential to my plan that Manning should have no idea he was being watched or suspected. The first sign of anything of that sort would shut him up like a clasp-knife; whereas, if we treated him in an apparently open and friendly fashion, he might be led into taking a false step out of sheer over-confidence. I felt it would be rather a strain having to be civil to him for a whole evening, but, after all, the object in view was well worth a little discomfort, and I am always ready to suffer in a good cause.
Having regard to the important day's work ahead of me I decided that it would be a wise precaution to turn in early. A generous allowance of sleep is necessary to my constitution if I wish to be at my best and brightest, a fact which the various skippers I have served under have persistently failed to notice. Being now my own master, however, there seemed to be no point in running any unnecessary risks, so at ten o'clock precisely I let Satan out for his nightly sentry-go, and, having locked up the house, returned peacefully to bed.
As a reward for this act of virtue I woke up feeling remarkably fit and cheerful. It was another beautiful day, and as I dressed leisurely at the open window in a blaze of sunshine I kept a watchful gaze on the estuary in the hope that I might discover Christine's head bobbing about somewhere in the distance. Though vaguely disappointed by my lack of success, I managed to complete my toilet in fairly good spirits. I should be seeing her again, anyhow, in a very little while, and it does not do to be too greedy in one's demands upon providence.
A conscientious spell with the lawn-mower enabled me to get through what would otherwise have been a rather tiresome morning. Even so, I was not sorry when half-past two arrived, and I found myself once more entering the muddy creek which runs up to the Pen Mill landing-stage. As usual, Jimmy had noticed my approach, and was standing on the jetty ready to receive me. I handed my boat over into his charge, and, telling him I should probably be back about five o'clock, I strode off across the green in the direction of the Shalston road.
The distance I had to walk was about two miles and a half. I had just left myself time to do it comfortably, and to get to our meeting-place a few minutes before Christine was due. This seemed to me the most sensible arrangement, for I did not want to be seen hanging about the town, and there was no object in spending a lengthy vigil in the pastrycook's shop.
About a quarter of a mile beyond the village I passed the head of a narrow lane leading towards the water. I could not stop to investigate, but I felt pretty certain that this must be the road by which Manning was accustomed to reach his barge. I only hoped that he was safe on board, for, much as I was looking forward to seeing him in the evening, I should have found him horribly in the way if he had happened to turn up at that particular moment.