“That depends on the point of view,” Roger admitted very fairly. “I think I am; you don’t. It’s all a matter of opinion.—Now, hurry up and put that inside you, Anthony. There’s dirty work afoot for us to-night.”
“To-night? You mean there’s something you want to do right away?”
“I do; and I’ve been waiting two or three hours for you to come in and do it with me. I want to make a little nocturnal expedition, in circumstances of some secrecy. To the fatal ledge, no less. You won’t need a hat; come on. Everybody’s gone to bed, so for Heaven’s sake try to plant your large feet down gently; I don’t want anybody to know we’ve gone out.”
Obeying this injunction as well as possible, Anthony crept after his cousin down to the back-door of the inn, guided by the light of the latter’s torch. Roger softly drew back the bolts, unlocked the door and pocketed the key. They passed cautiously through.
“I say, where are we going, Roger?” Anthony whispered.
“Yes, it is rather exciting, isn’t it?” Roger agreed, answering the implication of the whisper rather than the actual words. “I told you, to the ledge.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I’ll have to explain a few other things first. Wait till we’re out of this yard.”
As they stepped out into the highroad Roger began to give his companion an account of the evening’s work, describing the interview with young Woodthorpe as accurately as he could. The recital took them half-way across the stretch of turf, and then Anthony gave tongue.
“That’s the chap who did it,” said Anthony with the utmost confidence. “Can’t you see his game? He wanted to shut her mouth; stop her telling her husband, you see. Seems obvious to me.”