Mellersh and Richard Linnell glanced sharply at each other.
“Thought, you see, that she lost them at the time of the accident. Well, suppose I tell this, it may make the matter worse for poor old Denville. What would you do?”
“See Fisherman Dick. Perhaps your surmise about the shrimping is wrong. The smuggling rascal may know something more.”
“Will you come along the cliff with me, then?”
Richard Linnell jumped up, and Mellersh remained—as he was going to dine at the mess. A quarter of an hour later they were at the fisherman’s cottage, where Mrs Miggles raised her eyes sharply from the potatoes she was peeling, while Dick was engaged in teaching their little foster-child to walk between his knees.
“Morning, Dick,” said Barclay, as the great fellow gave them a comprehensive nod, and looked from one to the other suspiciously, Mrs Miggles gouging out the eyes of a large potato with a vicious action, while her heart beat fast from the effect of best French brandy.
Not from potations, for the sturdy, smuggling fisherman’s wife revelled in nothing stronger than tea; but there were four kegs in the great cupboard, covered with old nets, and a stranger coming to the cottage always seemed to bear a placard on his breast labelled “gaol,” and made her sigh and wish that smuggling were not such a profitable occupation.
“We want a few words with you, Miggles,” said Barclay sharply.
“Right, sir. Fewer the better,” said the fisherman surlily, for the visit looked ominous.
“You brought some ornaments to me one day, and I bought them of you. You remember—months ago?”