"No; that I do not. But I feel sure, from the manner in which the creature escaped from me on the night when I encountered him in the dark, that there must be such a hiding-place. Strange that a new arrival should discover a secret room, when I, who have explored the barn scores of times, have not even learned of its existence."
"Now," pursued Meadows, "I have already told you that I am probably the one person who can throw any light upon the secrets and mysteries in which this weird creature plays so important a part, yet I must confess that I am unable to divulge one word of what I know—or, rather, suspect—about the Squire's secret. As you are already aware, I do know your father, Mr. Carrington; that is, I did know him many years ago, before you were born, and before his marriage. Were I to tell you any suspicions I should be breaking a promise I made, and have kept for all these years; and I would rather die than do so. I know that by telling you this I am probably laying myself open to further suspicion, but I have found, to my cost, that to tell the truth is the best policy, whatever the consequences may be. One thing, though, I can do, and that is to help you to run this fiendish creature to earth. This I may as well tell you: the person who is haunting your father—the fear of whose coming has, indeed, haunted him for years—is not a woman, as you have at one time imagined. It is a man. And with all respect for your detective-nurse, his motive is neither jealousy, anarchy, nor robbery. It is revenge!"
"I must say that I always considered that such must be the case," said Laurence; "hence my inclination to believe it was the poacher who swore to be even with my father one day."
"Ah!" remarked Doctor Meadows, "if it were only a poacher—a prince of poachers, even—then our task would be very much easier. As it is, we must prepare ourselves for a hard battle if we hope to capture the rascal. Though I know nothing about him personally, I can tell you that he is certain to be diabolically cunning and clever. You have already found that out yourself. But, tell me, have you discovered anything in the nature of a clue? Anything such as the feather the detective in fiction finds on the murdered man's bed, which may lead to the detection of the criminal?"
Laurence shook his head. He had left the work of searching the room in which the final attempt had been made on the Squire's life to the detective from Burton's. Whether Mr. Oliver Potter had taken the opportunity thus presented he did not know.
"Then, tell me, please, about your father's room. Is there a looking-glass over the mantelboard?"
"No; my father dislikes mirrors of any kind. He shaves even without the aid of a glass. But why?"
"One minute. I think you said your butler found the bedroom door slightly ajar when he entered, and discovered that your father was apparently murdered? Yes? Well, then, do you recollect hearing whether any of the maids happened to be about in the corridor at the time when the assault must have taken place? A housemaid, for instance, with a slop pail?"
"No; I was not told that such was the case. Besides, the servants were at supper when Kingsford went upstairs to attend to the Squire's wants, so we may be quite sure that none of the women were on the bedroom floor. But why on earth do you ask? This has surely nothing to do with the case?"
"I am merely trying to obtain some proof that my theory is the right one, though, to be sure, proof is hardly necessary. What I wish to discover is why the assassin did not carry out his vile deed."