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.
Fortunately no such contretemps occurred. I tramped on, keeping a
sharp look-out ahead of me, and at twenty past three by the church
clock I entered the straggling outskirts of Shalston. A few minutes'
walk along the main street brought me to my destination--a quaint
little old-fashioned shop, with a large supply of buns, tarts, and
other delicacies piled up in the bow-window.
As I pushed open the door, a bell above my head jangled fiercely. In
answer to its summons a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman glided out
from behind a rampart of freshly baked loaves, and gazed at me
benignly across the counter.
"Good afternoon," I said. "I believe you have a room upstairs where
you serve tea?"
"That's right, sir," she replied encouragingly. "There's a nice room
on the first floor. Will you step this way, sir?"
She conducted me through a door at the back into a linoleum-lined
passage, whence a flight of stairs led up to the landing above.
"I am expecting a friend to tea with me--a lady," I added. "When she
arrives, would you be kind enough to tell her I'm here?"
"To be sure I will, sir," was the affable answer. "And mebbe you'd
rather wait till she comes before you give your order?"
"Perhaps it would be safest," I admitted. "She might have a weakness
for some particular kind of jam tart."
Proceeding upstairs, I entered the room facing me, where a table in
the centre was already set out for tea. It was a fair-sized
apartment, furnished in that engaging style which is generally
associated with the name of the late Queen Victoria. There was a
piano, a large horse-hair sofa with an antimacassar over its back,
and two chairs of the same material, stiffly arranged on each side of
the fireplace. The grate was filled with coloured paper, and from
the mantelpiece above a stuffed canary in a glass case looked coldly
across at Mr. Frith's attractive reproduction of a busy morning at
Paddington Station. Two or three texts, a framed certificate from
"The Ancient Order of Buffaloes," and several photographs of popular
watering-places mounted on red plush, lent a finishing touch to the
general harmony.
Laying my hat down on the sofa, I took up a defensive position in
front of the hearth. I had not very long to wait, for five minutes
could hardly have elapsed when I heard the passage door open, and a
sound of voices became audible in the hall below. In spite of the
fact that it ought to have benefited by previous experience, I could
feel my heart beginning to beat in the most curious and
uncontrollable fashion. Then, beautiful as ever, Christine appeared
suddenly in the open doorway, and the next moment I was holding her
hands in mine.
"I can't tell you how badly I've wanted you," I said. "It seems a
hundred years since yesterday."
She looked up at me in a kind of half-humorous, half-protesting
fashion.
"Mr. Dryden--please!" she murmured. "They can hear everything you're
saying downstairs."