"You see," he said, "I always classify my notes in a simple form—invented by myself—my own idea, sir. In such a case as this I start from the commencement. There must be some cause of these repeated attacks on Mr. Carrington's life. What is it? The possible ones are jealousy, anarchy, robbery—J. A. R., see? Rather novel, isn't it? You can't forget things when you select a word to remember them by. Well, then, you say anarchy is out of the question. This leaves us with jealousy and robbery. Are you aware of anything having been stolen on the occasion of last night's attempt at murder? No. Well, perhaps you haven't had time to find out whether any valuable has disappeared. Are you aware, then, of anyone who is jealous of your father? Any woman with whom there was some engagement or arrangement in byegone days? Any fellow-magistrate with a grudge? Anyone of that kind? No. Then the problem is harder than I anticipated. J. A. R., it must be one of those. My selection of the words is almost infallible. Stay! There's still the robbery possibility undecided. Perhaps your father possessed something, of the existence of which you were not aware. Yes, it must be a case of robbery. At any rate, we will start with that idea. Squire attacked twice. On first occasion out-of-doors. Presumably, the article the attacking party wants is something the Squire carries about on his person, incriminating letter, or what not. On the second attempt he evidently captures the 'something,' and decamps, leaving the Squire half dead—or, let me see, it was three-quarters dead, wasn't it?" (This without the ghost of a smile.) "Problem, find the desperate party, and restore Squire to health. Yes, a nice little job. Thanks for sending for me. I don't often fail; never, I might say, except, of course, in very knotty cases. Well, good-night, Mr. Carrington, or perhaps you won't mind taking me to the sick-room? I've my bag here containing everything—nothing like a bag, you know, for holding things—and I'll take night duty to-day. Your good housekeeper'll want a little rest, no doubt. Upstairs, then."
Laurence opened the door and led the way to the Squire's bedroom. Horrified is the only word that will adequately express his impression of the man from Burton's. He had heard so much of the adroitness and ability of the nurse-detectives that he was at a loss to understand Potter's behaviour, which was almost that of a lunatic. The thin, garrulous specimen of humanity, with his absurd "ingenious words" and his nonsensical hypotheses, seemed more like a mummer than an investigator of crime. But no sooner had he entered the sick-room than the young man saw that whatever his very evident shortcomings as a detective might be, he was an experienced nurse. Every action pointed to that fact, and when Laurence, accompanied by Mrs. Featherston, left the sick-room with the intention of retiring to bed, he was quite satisfied that his unconscious parent was in safe hands. But he felt instinctively that, as an assistant in solving the mystery, Lena was worth a dozen such as Oliver Potter.
Possibly young Mr. Carrington would have been surprised had he seen the change that came over the features of the man from Burton's when left alone with his insensible patient.
The stupid, grinning expression on his face gave place to one of cunning and delight.
"Aha, young man," he muttered to himself, "you've put me down as a fool, as I intended that you should. We'll see who is the fool before long. It was very necessary," he went on, "that he should think me a fool, too, for otherwise he would be eternally suspicious. As it is, he will consider me a mere child in the investigating line, which will give me the opportunities I want.
"As if I couldn't see through the whole thing! Green's 'Landed Gentry' told me how much Laurence would gain by his father's death. No doubt the youth has got into hot water. Creditors pressing. Bills much overdue. I know the sort of thing. I only wonder he wasn't more artful in making his plans. He looked a smart fellow, but then, appearances are deceitful. At any rate, he seems a duffer to have failed to murder the old chap both times.
"I wonder nobody has seen through his game before. I must find the accomplice who played the part of the cycling highwayman on the heath. The idea of his being on a cycle is novel.
"I presume, when he found that the accomplice hadn't polished the old chap off, he decided to do the job himself. In order to avoid the possible suspicion of the women staying in the house he invents the story of the interview with the imaginary Major Jones-Farnell, and goes off to this Durley Dene, or pretends to. No sooner does he find that the old man has retired to bed than he goes in and makes a desperate attempt to kill him. He knows that he must kill the Squire outright, or he will be exposed immediately, should the old man live and be able to tell the tale. Unfortunately for him he is interrupted in some way, and leaves his father only half dead. The doctor compels him to send for me, otherwise he would not probably have done so. So long as the Squire remains unconscious Laurence is safe. If he recovers, then his assailant is done for. Therefore, the chances are that a final attempt to do for the poor old man will be made, if there is any probability of his recovering consciousness. I must be on the alert."
But he was not as good as his word, and evidently made but a feeble defence against the onslaught of Morpheus, for within a very few minutes of settling down in the cosy arm-chair by the bedside he was fast asleep.