Tregarvon shook his head gloomily.
“I have been wrestling with that,” he confessed. “He seems more than trustworthy. But he is evidently an old house servant of the judge’s, and he was sent straight to me from Westwood. That is beyond question.”
“As a spy?—perish the thought!” ranted Carfax, carefully concealing his earnestness with an overlaying of extravagance, as his habit was. “With the memory of Uncle William’s unapproachable dinners in my mind—or mouth—I’ll defend him to the last gasp.”
“He is negligible,” said Tregarvon briefly. “But this dynamiting emissary of Hartridge’s, or the judge’s, isn’t. We must contrive to trap him in some way. If we don’t, he will fool around until he hurts somebody.”
“Yea, verily,” Carfax laughed. “Any guesses coming to you?—as to who he is?”
“One small one; and it wouldn’t be worth mentioning if it didn’t fit in with some of the others. You saw that he was bareheaded?”
“Yes.”
“And that he was wearing a handkerchief or a bandage of some sort instead of a hat?”
“Another ‘yes’.”
“Well, the day before yesterday the man we’ve been calling ‘Morgan’ was hurt by the falling walking-beam and had to have his head wrapped up in about the same way.”