"I intend to," said Armstrong. "We'll sleep till lunch; this afternoon we'll go to the village and get a guide-book. We want some more bacon, too."
"And I'll start preparing our case," said Pratt. "We'd better have it in writing, so I'll draw up an account of our discoveries so far. Shouldn't wonder if it becomes a classic document in the archives of Scotland Yard."
After lunch Armstrong and Warrender set off up the river in the dinghy for the sake of exercise. They made various purchases in the village, and obtained a small guide-book at the post office. It contained a few lines about the tower, which Warrender read aloud as they returned to the ferry: "In the grounds of the Red House are the remains of a square tower, believed to date from the troublous times of King Stephen. There is a tradition that in the thirteenth century a certain baron was incarcerated there by an ancestor of the present owner, and starved to death. At one time open to the public, since tourists cut their initials in the oaken beams it has been closed to sightseers."
"Not a word about smugglers, you see," remarked Warrender. "The secret was evidently very well kept."
Rogers happened to be cleaning his windows as they passed, and they turned to have a chat with him. Warrender discreetly led the conversation to the subject of the tower.
"Ay, 'tis the only old ancient curiosity we've got in these parts," said the innkeeper. "I know the place, though I haven't been there since I was a nipper, thirty odd years ago. Us youngsters used to like to climb the winding stairs; 'twas open in those days. Had no roof then. Mr. Pratt a few years back did some restoring, as they call it; put on a flat roof. My friend Saunders, his old butler, told me the top room was used as a sort of museum; Mr. Pratt kept there a whole lot of curiosities he'd collected in his travels. I mind as how my neighbour Parsons, the builder, was affronted because the building job was done by a firm from Dartmouth, and so far as I know none of the village folk have been inside the place since. Mr. Pratt was very particular after he'd rigged up his museum; wouldn't let anybody in except his special cronies; and 'tis always locked up when he's away, so if you young gents had an idea of visiting it, I'm afeard you'll be disappointed."
"We should certainly have liked to see the museum," said Warrender. "There's nothing else very interesting, apparently. But no doubt the curiosities are valuable, and Mr. Pratt is quite right to lock up the place. Have you seen your sister, by the way?"
"Not a sign of her. She've deserted us quite. She won't even see Henery Drew's milkman, I suppose becos Henery fought her husband's friend, Jensen. I call it downright silly, but there, who'd be so bold as to say what a woman'll do next? There's my missus----"
"Now, Joe," called Mrs. Rogers from within, "get on with they winders, my man. There's all the pewters to shine afore opening time."
Rogers gave the boys his usual rueful smile, and they went on their way. Rowing with their faces up stream, they did not notice until they pulled in to the landing-place above the camp that the motor-boat no longer lay at her moorings.