"Looking for the Monk, like the rest of us," answered Charles. "Let's form a society, shall we?"
"No," said Celia crossly. "We shan't. I'm sick to death of the Monk!"
"Well, I'll go and have a chat with Duval to-morrow," Charles promised.
He had no particular desire to set foot inside the artist's dreary little cottage again, so on the following morning he cut short his fishing, and strolled on to the Bell Inn in the hope of meeting Duval there. He was rewarded by the sight of the artist seated alone in the taproom at a table in the corner. He had a glass of whisky before him, and he was sitting in a slack attitude, with his hands clasped between his knees, and his eyes staring moodily at the ground. He looked up as Charles came across the room, and a furtive expression crept into his face.
Charles sat down on the settle beside him, and having ascertained that the only two people within earshot were busily discussing fat stock, he said: "Good morning. I was looking for you."
"I do not know why," Duval said sullenly. "I will not tell you anything. It is better that you go away and leave me alone."
"Oh yes, I think you do know," Charles replied. "Last night you were seen in our grounds."
The artist gave a shiver, and one of his claw-like hands grasped Charles' knee under cover of the table. "Be quiet!" he muttered. "Have I not said even the walls have ears?"
"It is not a very original observation," Charles remarked. "Moreover, no one is listening to us. What I want to say is this: I can't have you pursuing your search for the Monk in my grounds. Sorry if I seem obstructive, but there are too many people already in the habit of treating the place as though it were their own."
"Speak that name again, and I leave you!" Duval said. His hands were shaking. "If it were known - if someone saw me with you, I do not know what might happen. If you must talk with me, talk of my art."