“No, my boy; but the ignorant person who thrust open that gate hoped it would. If it had been a high-tide and a storm, instead of stopping our work for a few hours he might have stopped it for a few weeks.”
“And who do you think it was?” asked Dick.
“Someone who hates the idea of the drain being made. I have seen the constable, Mr Winthorpe,” continued Marston.
“Well, and what does he say?”
“That he thinks he knows who is at the bottom of all these attacks.”
“And whom does he suspect?” cried Dick excitedly.
“He will not say,” replied the engineer. “He only wants time, and then he is going to lay his hand upon the offender.”
“Or offenders,” said the squire drily.
“Yes, of course,” said the engineer; “but the mischief is doubtless started by one brain; those who carry it out are only the tools.”
Mr Marston had come with the intention of staying for the night at the Toft; and after a ramble round the old orchard and garden, and some talk of a fishing expedition into the wilder parts of the fen “some day when he was not so busy,” supper was eaten, and in due time Dick went to bed, to stand at his window listening to the sounds which floated off the mere, and at last to throw himself upon his bed feeling hot and feverish with his thoughts.