“But I’ve found out one thing.”
With all the young doctor’s mastery of self, he could not help an inquiring glance.
Claud saw it, and smiled.
“She did not go off with Harry Dasent I found out that.”
Leigh remained silent.
“Ara now look here. I’ve gone over it all scores of times, trying to think out where she can be, and that there’s some relation or friend she bolted off to so as to get away from us, but I can’t fix it on anyone, and go where I will, from our cousins the Morrisons down to old Garstang—who’s got the guv’nor under has thumb, and could sell us up to-morrow if he liked—I can’t get at it. But the scent seems to be most toward old Garstang, and I mean to try back there. The guv’nor said it was his doing, to help Harry Dasent, but that’s all wrong. Those two hate one another like poison, and I can’t make out any reason which would set Garstang to work to get her away. He’d do it like a shot to get her money, but he can’t touch that, for I’ve read the will again. Nobody but her husband can get hold of that bit of booty, and I wish you may get it. I do, ’pon my soul. Still, I’m growing to think more and more that foxy Garstang’s the man.”
They had been walking steadily along side by side while this conversation was going on, and at last, fully convinced that Claud would not be shaken off, and even if he were would still watch him, Leigh walked straight on to his new home, and stopped short at a door whereon was a new brass plate, while the customary red bull’s-eyes were in the lamp like danger signals to avert death and disease—the accidents of life’s great railway.
“Now, Mr Wilton,” he said, shortly, “you have achieved your purpose and tracked me home.”
“And no thanks to you,” said Claud, with one of his broad grins. “Won’t ask me in, I suppose?”
“No, sir, I shall not.”