“He may be, but one can never tell. I fancy he wouldn’t mind picking up anything portable, especially if it happened to be in his own line. One can never be sure about men like that. I’ve known them to wander about the country picking up odds and ends that were of no value to most people, but of particular interest to others. I’ve half a mind to send him along to the village as it is.”
“That will be all right, sir,” put in Martin hurriedly; “he’s a harmless old soul with not as much strength as a cat. I’ll stand good for him.”
He spoke with great earnestness and unconsciously raised his voice. Derrick at this moment felt his gaze drawn toward the cottage and, glancing over Martin’s shoulder, noted that at one of the tiny windows of the kitchen the blind had been drawn slightly aside. The window was open. Pitching his own tones a little higher, he looked straight into Martin’s troubled eyes.
“You remember that talk we had about Mr. Millicent’s death the first night you came to see me?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the gardener with reluctance.
“Well, I’ve said nothing about it since then, but I’ve thought a good deal. What about you?”
“I don’t forget it, either, Mr. Derrick, but what else is there to be said? I told you what I know.”
“Then I take it that nothing has occurred to you since?”
“What could occur, sir? It’s more than two years ago now. The poor gentleman’s cold in his grave, and the world has moved on. I’m trying to forget it as hard as I can.”
“Yes, I know, but sometimes, Martin, when a man comes back to a well-known place which is associated with an event like that, the mind takes a curious turn and pitches on something it did not see before. It’s almost as though the place had kept something up its sleeve to reveal later on. Perhaps it’s your friend’s arrival that has started me thinking.”