"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 the _Daily
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 the _Shalston 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
the _Shalston Gazette_ round 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.