Peter added his salutations and they made their way upstairs.
“No need to trouble Butterworth,” exclaimed Anthony, “we know our rooms. Here’s mine—there’s yours, Daventry. Good-night!”
Anthony walked to the window and opened it. He was fond of darkness and it was just beginning to get dark. Darkness and its attendant tranquillity he always found invaluable conditions for the process of concentration—he had often discovered the solution to a mystifying problem out of this communion. He smoked a cigarette through and lit another. “What was it,” he said to himself as he stood there by the open window, “that caused Stewart to come downstairs and enter the library? What happened in the library to make him scrawl the message that he described as ‘urgent’?” He commenced a third cigarette. “And who trod softly behind as he sat there writing—and killed him?” He undressed and got into bed. “A pretty little problem—especially when we think of the Hanover Galleries affair on top.” That was his last conscious thought before he slept. He had the knack of getting to sleep almost instantaneously and also the complementary faculty of awaking at the slightest sound. He was destined to awake suddenly that night. And he knew instantly and instinctively what had awakened him—a stealthy step had gone past his bedroom door—he was certain of it! He looked at the luminous face of his wrist-watch. “Twenty-two minutes past one,” he muttered. “Not an ordinary time for legitimate night-wanderings.” He tiptoed to his bedroom door and drew it very slightly ajar; then listened intently for what seemed like ages. It was very quiet beneath him. Had the step been on its way back? Suddenly he heard a sound that sent his heart racing perilously—somebody was ascending the stairs! He shut the door silently and held the handle tight. The step passed—almost noiselessly. Anthony waited a second, then pulled his door gently open, and looked out on to the corridor. He was just able to distinguish the figure of a man, entering the room next but one. A man—slim and of good height. Judged by his walk—comparatively young. Anthony whistled very softly, as he sat on the side of his bed to think things over. “Now, who the devil was that?” he muttered, “and why does he wander o’ nights?” In the morning at breakfast his first query was answered.
“Let me introduce you,” said Charles Stewart. “Mr. Bathurst—Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—my late father’s secretary.”
CHAPTER X.
The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle
Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgment. And at the same time felt that matters were progressing. Progressing, perhaps, a trifle too quickly, and at a rate that, to a less alert intelligence than Mr. Bathurst’s, might prove extremely disconcerting. Under cover of a few casual and perfunctory remarks he studied Llewellyn carefully and at the same time reviewed the events of the morning. For Mr. Bathurst had been up betimes. The music of the Berkshire birds had been his first consciousness of this glorious morning. He had risen to the “Te Deum” of the bird-choir and had joined with them in a thanksgiving for “the immaculate hours”; and when he found himself downstairs his watch showed the time to be a few minutes past seven. He made his way into the garden and marveled at the magic of the morning. What was the geography of the library in relation to the garden? Passing through a charming rockery with a fountain plashing deliciously in the center of a clear-watered pool, he came on to a stretch of perfectly kept grass that stretched almost to the French doors of the library itself. Under the morning sun this patch of exquisite emerald seemed fit for the flying feet of angels. Anthony retraced his steps—he would leave the library question till he could get inside to have a look properly. He strolled through the rockery, then turned and came out on to the road. He would have a walk before breakfast, for a thought was beginning to take shape within his brain. He cut along briskly and soon discovered that he was descending the hill to Assynton village. At the foot of the hill on the fringe of Assynton itself, he stopped. It was an iron foundry that claimed his attention, for Mr. Bathurst had always been intrigued by the industry of the early morning. The clang of the hammers was as music to his ear. To him it represented one of the real essences of England—there were others—a barge moving steadily on a canal—the scraping of a bricklayer’s trowel—a fishing fleet standing in to the harbor heavy with the fruit of its toil—all of them tingling as it were—with the impetus of the newness of the morning. These things to Anthony Bathurst meant much. He listened as the clanging quivered incessantly on the almost virgin stillness of the June air. Suddenly he noticed a man signaling to him from the open door. Bathurst turned into the yard and approached him. A magnificent man, with a sweeping breadth of shoulder, came out of the foundry and stood waiting. His black eyes sparkled genially and he pulled at a bushy black beard as Anthony came up. He must have stood at least six feet two, and his leathern apron became him handsomely. He touched his forehead.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for takin’ what may appear a liberty. But I should like a word with you, sir.” He looked behind him somewhat anxiously, then drew Bathurst a few yards farther away from the foundry door. “If I’m not mistaken, sir, aren’t you one of the gentlemen what’s lookin’ into matters up at the Lodge?” He jerked with his thumb in the direction of “up the hill.”
Anthony regarded the black-bearded giant with curious interest. “I haven’t the least idea how you know that,” he replied, “but you’re quite right—I am! News seems to travel quickly in these parts.”
Blackbeard’s teeth flashed in a smile. “No great mystery about that, sir,” he explained. “I saw you in the company of Sergeant Clegg last night with another gentleman that looked uncommonly like a police-detective. And I ain’t too bad at puttin’ two and two together.” He grinned again.
“I see,” said Anthony. “And what was it you wanted to tell me? I take it that there is something—you haven’t called me in here merely to wish me good morning?” He eyed the foundry-man quizzically.