MR. POTTER SHOWS HIS HAND
"Glad to say, sir," was the butler's news after his remarks about Horncastle, "that the master's recovered consciousness, sir, and would be glad to see you. Dr. Bathurst has been and wished me to inform you that he is quite satisfied with the progress his patient is making. Only he must be kept very quiet, sir; and you'll pardon me mentioning the matter, sir, but, do you know, I don't quite like the looks of that man Potter, the nurse. Seems to me, with all respect, sir, that he's neglecting his duty, to ask questions about master's movements of late, and such like. Between you and me, sir, I suspect him of being more than he makes out. When I was in the service of Sir Hartfoot Greig, sir, there was a robbery, and just such a man as Mr. Potter came down from London to investigate. He did more harm than good, and Sir Hartfoot, he afterwards told me that——"
But Laurence, well aware that when the old servant once got started on one of his long-winded yarns there was no stopping him, cut the story short by saying he would hear the rest another time, as he was very anxious to see his father without delay.
Lena had already retired to her room to remove her outdoor garments, so Laurence at once proceeded to the Squire's bedroom, on the threshold of which he encountered the man from Burton's, who, with a mysterious air, drew him aside into a spare bedroom, explaining that he particularly wished to have a word with him.
"Well, what is it?" asked Laurence, impatiently.
"It's this, sir," replied Mr. Potter. "I think, all things considered, it would be best for you not to visit your father just now."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Only this, Mr. Laurence Carrington, that I have seen through your game, and shall feel obliged if you will consider yourself under arrest, and remain in this room until I have arranged for your removal."
The young man's remarks on hearing the nurse-detective's words were forcible and to the point. For this reason there is no necessity to chronicle them here. Sufficient it is to mention that an immediate explanation was required, and this Mr. Potter did not hesitate to give. His suspicions and their cause have already been dealt with in a previous chapter. The detective, in tones that betrayed his triumph, briefly sketched the reasoning by which he had reached the conclusion that the Squire's assailant was none other than his own son, whose accomplice was the lady who answered to the name of Selene Scott.
At the mention of Lena's name, and when the absurdity of the situation appealed to Laurence, the young man burst into a fit of hearty laughter.
"You old meddling blunderer," he cried, "what a fine mess you've got yourself into with your rapid deductions, your startling and original theories! Suppose I call the men-servants and have you kicked out of the house? It would be less than you deserved. My father's murderer! I've never heard anything so funny in my life. So Miss Scott was my accomplice?"
"Exactly," replied the detective, somewhat taken aback by the way in which "the criminal" had received the intelligence that his guilt had been discovered; "and if I may be allowed to give you a word of advice, you should control your mirth a trifle. Perhaps you are not aware that I am in a position to obtain your arrest on suspicion?"
"I certainly am not," answered Laurence. "The best thing you can do, I think, is to come with me to the Squire's bedroom. My father has regained consciousness, I believe. Let us see, then, if he is not able to prove the absurdity of your charge."
"I will not degrade you with the 'cuffs,' but kindly permit me to take your arm. Don't try to commit suicide, now that I've proved your guilt. You can't try games like that on Oliver Potter, late of Scotland Yard, sir!"
With difficulty controlling his amusement, Laurence allowed the detective to hold his coat sleeve, while he led him into the Squire's room, and the presence of the sick man himself.
"Well, Daddy," said the young man, in a low voice, as he approached the bed, "so you are a little better, eh? That's good. You'll soon be yourself again, and let's hope you'll be no more troubled by the attacks of this ruffianly enemy of yours. I'm on his track, Father, and ere long I hope to have him safely between four walls."
"Ah, Laurence, my boy," replied the old gentleman, in a feeble voice, "it's a pleasure to hear your voice. How long have I been ill? What do you mean by my 'enemy'? It was a—a burglar, Laurence, that tried to murder me—the burglar whose coming I've been dreading for so long. The one who attacked us in the carriage, you know. Do you say you're on his track? That—that's all right, only you—you won't catch him, I'm afraid. But who is this person?" The Squire pointed towards Mr. Oliver Potter, who stood at Laurence's side in a great state of trepidation on hearing the patient's cordial greeting to his son.
The detective felt almost inclined to indulge in profanity. He had been led off on a wrong scent. So much was very plain. "For once in your life, Oliver Potter," he muttered to himself, "you've made a bad blunder."
"Who is this person?" again asked Mr. Carrington. "Surely you have not engaged a fresh servant? It isn't the doctor, is it? Laurence, I don't like new faces. Ask that gentleman what he is doing here."
"This," said Laurence, seeing fit to disguise the real truth, "is a friend of mine who happened to be staying in the village. As he has had some experience of nursing, he was good enough to offer his services on hearing of your illness. While you were unconscious he rendered Mrs. Featherston valuable assistance. Now you are better, he will, of course, leave you. I will accompany him to the door, Father, and then will come back and see you again. Is your neck very bad?"
"It's very sore and weak, my boy. That's a good lad, go and show your friend out, and thank him for his kindness. Then return to me for a little talk. Mrs. Featherston, please stay until Mr. Laurence returns."
"Now, sir," said young Carrington, when, with the detective, he had left the sick-room, "are you quite convinced of your absurd blunder?"
"I am, and I sincerely regret it, Mr. Laurence," replied the man from Burton's. "It's not often that I err. When I do I feel it—feel it, sir, deeply. I am obliged to you for your kindness in withholding the truth from your father. I shouldn't like Squire Carrington to think me incompetent, though for that matter——"
"We won't refer to the subject any further, Mr. Potter. I will now draw you a cheque and wish you a very good day, regretting that your valuable services are no longer required."
A few minutes later the detective was ready to depart.
"Glad to have made your acquaintance, sir," he said, as he stood on the doorstep. "I suppose I may use your name as a reference? Perhaps you may require my assistance another time. Here is my card. If you should ever want me again that address will always find me. By the way, I'm of a forgiving nature, and always like to help young amateur investigators—give them encouragement, you know. Well, I've left a clue to the mystery behind in a cardboard box in the cupboard of the Squire's room. Don't thank me—anything to help a young friend. Fine day, isn't it?" And Mr. Oliver Potter, late of Scotland Yard, walked briskly out of the house, upsetting the umbrella stand as he went, and chuckling beneath his breath.
"Thank Heaven, he's gone!" muttered Laurence. "If ever there existed a greater bore than our friend from Burton's I shouldn't care to meet him."
He returned to the bedroom, and relieved Mrs. Featherston, taking a seat by his father's side.
"Daddy," he said, when the door closed upon the genial housekeeper, "I'm playing the part of an amateur detective. My one aim just now is to get to the bottom of the mystery of the two determined attacks on your life. It's no use for you to try to deceive me. You have some deep secret—something is haunting you every moment of your existence; and I shall not rest until I have discovered what it is."
"Laurence, don't, don't try! It's for your own sake that I ask it of you. When I am dead you will know all. Until then, do not try to discover what is not meant for you to learn. I want you to love and respect your father while he lives. Therefore do as I beg of you."
"Don't talk like that, Daddy," said Laurence, gently, "as if anything could alter my feelings towards you. Is this secret anything that concerns my—mother?"
"No, my boy, thank God, it is not!"
"Then answer me this; have you ever heard of a Doctor Meadows?"
"Meadows! No. But why, Laurence?"
"Or a Major Jones-Farnell?"
"No, no! But——"
"Or of a fellow named Horncastle?" pursued the younger man.
"Never!"
"Then, have you ever mentioned anything about the matter which you wish to keep a secret from me to a living soul?"
"Why all these questions, Laurence? You know now that I have a secret, so there is no need for me to deny it. I have never before now breathed a word of this to a single soul, with the exception of one person."
"And he?"
"He is dead. My secret lies within my own heart. No cross-questioning shall drag it from me."
"One thing more, then I will not speak to you again for a little while, because you must be kept quite quiet. Were you ever in India? If so, did you happen to meet there a Major Carrington, of Madras?"
With startling suddenness the sick man darted up in his bed. He stared silently at his son for a moment, terror plainly imprinted upon his features. Then, still speechless, he collapsed again upon the pillows. Presently he turned his face away, so that he could no longer see his son, whose words had so visibly concerned him.
"I am very tired, Laurence," he said, peevishly. "You have talked too long already. I must ask you to leave the room. Please do not annoy me any further with this absurd cross-questioning."