Mr. Babbacombe, perceiving that a little ash from his cigarillo had dropped on to his coat, carefully flicked it away, and with some anxiety inspected the superfine cloth. Satisfied that no damage had been done, he raised his eyes again, and said: “Seems to me, then, that if that’s all Stornaway was brought into the business to do, this Coate of yours is paying pretty high for his services! Resourceful sort of a fellow: couldn’t he hit upon a hiding-place without using a hen-hearted weasel that would turn King’s Evidence at the first hint of danger?”
John looked at him, half frowning. “I don’t know. It might not be so easy, after all, to find a sure hiding-place for six chests of gold! They must remain hidden for many months, remember! Then, too, it had to be near the holdup—I mean, not so far off that the chests could not be conveyed to it before daylight. Nor yet so close, of course, that it must have been instantly suspected. I fancy that the thirty miles which lie between this place and the Wansbeck ford must have been the extremest limit. I’ve been thinking about that. This is a wild country, Bab, and if you look at the map of the county, hanging in the office there, you’ll see that it would be possible to reach that cavern, from the Wansbeck ford, without passing any toll-gate but this. There is something else that occurs to me. It may well be that when the time is ripe to remove the chests Coate means to dispose of Stornaway, just as he has already disposed of Brean. In fact, I think it very likely. But he dare not murder Stornaway while he still needs an excuse for remaining in this district.”
Mr. Babbacombe threw the butt of his cigarillo into the fire. “Well, if that’s the kind of cut-throat villain he is, take care he don’t stab you first!” he recommended.
“I’ll take devilish good care he don’t! But I think he don’t suspect me—yet! I’ve let it be known I’m a discharged trooper, and any flash language I use is due to my having been a batman. Rose—she is Miss Stornaway’s maid!—has told the woman who keeps this place clean, and cooks for me, that my mother was Brean’s aunt, who married a man in comfortable circumstances. It’s possible Coate really believes me to be Brean’s cousin—though I don’t think that. I fancy he don’t know yet what my—er—lay is! It don’t signify: he’ll find me harder to kill than Brean! But I’ve had some further thoughts on this head, Bab! One of the three confederates recognized Stogumber for a Runner—and I think that one must have been Gunn: he has been got rid of very quickly, which seems to tell its own tale! Now, it seems to me that neither Coate nor Stornaway can have had the least expectation of being known to any law-officer: they would not else be staying at the Manor so openly. It is certainly a bad thing for them that Gunn was known to Stogumber; but I think it was a worse thing for him to have been recognized. He had no expectation of that either, for he has been wandering about the country calling himself an agent of some sort, and that he would not have done had he known that a cracksman with whom he was already acquainted was mixed up in this business. Well, had it not been for Chirk, he must have suffered Brean’s fate, and gone to join him in the cavern. But Chirk chased off his assailants, and however much he may suspect that they were Coate and Gunn, he don’t know it for certain, since they had their faces muffled in their scarves. But Coate knows that he’s a Runner, and forewarned, Bab, is forearmed!”
“They’ll recall him from Bow Street, and send another in his stead!”
“That wouldn’t fadge! Any stranger will now be suspect by Coate! I hoped he might take fright, and run for it, but he’s a mighty cool customer, and he means to stand fast. That seems to mean that he knows nothing can be brought home to him. Well! Without me, it’s possible Stogumber may discover that cavern, and what it contains. But with me, he may be able to arrest Coate also; and I fancy he won’t quarrel with me over the means I took to bring that about!”
Chapter 14
FINDING it impossible to turn the Captain from his purpose, Mr. Babbacombe allowed himself to be diverted presently into talk of old campaigning days, and an exchange of news about erstwhile companions in arms. Dusk fell, and the two friends still sat on either side of the fire, fortified by tankards of Sopworthy’s best ale, and only occasionally interrupted by calls from the gate. By the time the daylight had quite gone, and the Captain went out to hang lamps on the gate, Mr. Babbacombe had begun to think of his dinner. It seemed to him a pity that John could scarcely accompany him to the inn, to share it; but when he learned that John had dined at midday he was quite aghast, and perceived that he had had, until that moment, a very incomplete conception of the rigours endured by gatekeepers.
“And I think,” said John, “you’d best stay here, Bab, and have supper with me. There will be Ben too—if the little wretch comes home in time!—but you won’t mind that! I’ll give you eggs, and ham, and sausages, and some excellent coffee. The thing is, I am determined to visit the Manor this evening, and I can’t leave this place under Ben’s charge after dark: he’s scared, and won’t stay here alone. If the Squire’s groom is unable to come to relieve guard, you could remain here till I come back, couldn’t you?”
“What, mind the pike?” exclaimed Mr. Babbacombe. “No, I’ll be damned if I do!”