The doctor was wiser than the detective thought; but in future visits the latter obtained a good deal of information, among which was the doctor’s theory that Ramo, the old Indian servant, had not died entirely from the struggle with Charles Pillar.
It was just about that time that Gerard Artis swore an oath.
That old Mr Girtle took Lydia’s hand gently between his, and said tenderly:—
“No, no, my child. You must not go. I am very old, and if you were to go now, it would be like taking the light out of my life. I know all; I am not blind. But wait.”
Lydia shook her head.
“If you love him, my child, wait. It may be to save him, and you would sacrifice yourself to do that.”
And that Mr Linnett went out of the area of the great gloomy house, laughing to himself, and casting up his total, as he termed it.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he exclaimed; “only to think of them knocking their heads about here and there, and never so much as getting warm. Detectives are all fools, so the public say. Blind as bats. They want a better class of men.”
He treated himself to a thoroughly good cigar, and rolled out the blue clouds of smoke as he strode along, wagging his umbrella behind him.
“Always through all these years running down rogues! What a temptation to a man, to make a change and go the other way. Million and a half o’ money, in a shape as could be carried in a small black bag. Why, I could put my hand on it, and go and set up somewhere as a king, and never be found out. Shall I?”