‘It is four miles to the nearest telegraph station, but I dare say one of the sentinels would walk there for a consideration.’
‘No use,’ said Merton. ‘I should need to wire in a cipher, when I come to think of it, and cipher I
have none. I must go as early as I can to-morrow. Let us consult Bradshaw.’
They entered the house. Merton had a Bradshaw in his dressing-bag. They found that he could catch a train at 10.49 A.M., and be in London about 9 P.M.
‘How are you to get to the station?’ asked Logan. ‘I’ll tell you how,’ he went on. ‘I’ll send a note to the inn at the place, and order a trap to be here at ten. That will give you lots of time. It is about four miles.’
‘Thank you,’ said Merton; ‘I see no better way.’ And while Logan went to pay and dismiss the sentries and send a messenger, a grandson of the old butler with the note to the innkeeper, Merton toiled up the narrow turnpike stair to the turret chamber. A fire had been burning all day, and in firelight almost any room looks tolerable. There was a small four-poster bed, with slender columns, a black old wardrobe, and a couple of chairs, one of the queer antiquated little dressing-tables, with many drawers, and boxes, and a tiny basin, and there was a perfectly new tub, which Logan had probably managed to obtain in the course of the day. Merton’s evening clothes were neatly laid out, the shutters were closed, curtains there were none; in fact, he had been in much worse quarters.
As he dressed he mused. ‘Cursed spite,’ thought he, ‘that ever I was born to be an amateur detective! And cursed be my confounded thirst for general information! Why did I ever know what Kurdaitcha and Interlinia mean? If I turn out to be right, oh, shade of Sherlock Holmes, what a pretty kettle of fish there will be! Suppose I drop the whole affair!
But I’ve been ass enough to let Logan know that I have an idea. Well, we shall see how matters shape themselves. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.’
Merton descended the turnpike stair, holding on to the rope provided for that purpose in old Scotch houses. He found Logan standing by the fire in the hall. They were waited on by the old man, Bower. By tacit consent they spoke, while he was present, of anything but the subject that occupied their minds. They had quite an edible dinner—cock-a-leekie, brandered haddocks, and a pair of roasted fowls, with a mysterious sweet which was called a ‘Hattit Kit.’
‘It is an historical dish in this house,’ said Logan. ‘A favourite with our ancestor, the conspirator.’