The landlord had an ugly look in his eye, but to Charles' and Peter's surprise he said soothingly: "That's right, sir. Wonderful your pictures are."
M. Duval looked at him through half-shut eyes; his voice sank; he said almost in a whisper: "Sometimes I have thoughts in my head, gross pig, which you do not dream. Sometimes I think to myself, has no one seen the face of Le Moine? Has not Wilkes seen it? Eh? You do not like that, perhaps. Perhaps, too, you are afraid, just a little afraid of poor Louis Duval."
"Me seen it?" echoed the landlord. "Lor', Mr. Dooval, I'm thankful I haven't, and that's a fact. Now you give over talking of spooks, sir, do. You've got half the room listening to you, like silly fools, and these gentlemen don't want to hear them sort of stories."
Contrary to Peter's expectations the drunken artist allowed himself to be helped out of his chair, and gently propelled across the bar to the coffee-room door. Those villagers who still remained in the bar watched his exit with grins and nudges. When he had disappeared, and Wilkes with him, Peter addressed a solid-looking farmer who was seated near to him. "Who's that chap?" he asked.
"He's a furriner, sir," the farmer answered. "An artist. I daresay you've seen his cottage, for it ain't far from the Priory."
"Oh, he lives here, does he? Which is his cottage?"
"Why, sir, it's that white cottage with the garden in front that's a sin and shame to look at, it's that covered in weeds." He began to sketch with a stubby finger on the table before him. "Supposing the Priory's here, sir, where I've put my thumb. Well, you go on down the road, like as if you was coming to the village, and there's a bit of a lane leading off a matter of a quarter of a mile from this inn. You go up there not more'n a hundred yards, and you come right on the cottage. That's where he lives."
"I see. Yes, I know the place. Has he lived there long?"
The farmer rubbed his ear. "I don't know as I could rightly say how long he's been here. Not more'n five years, I reckon. We've kind of got used to him and his ways, and I never heard he did anyone any harm, bar walking over fields while the hay is standing. Mind you, it ain't so often you see him like he is to-day. He gets fits of it, so to speak. Now I come to think on it, it hasn't had a bout on him for a matter of three months. But whenever he gets like this he goes round maundering that silly stuff you heard. Enough to get on your nerves it is, but he's fair got the Priory ghost on the brain." He got up as he spoke, and wishing them a polite good-day, made his way out.
"Quite interesting," Charles said. "I think it's time we made a move."