In the privacy of the study the vicar explained the situation to Dr. Parker at considerable length, giving chapter and verse for the theory he had formed. And then the two gentlemen set out to find John Smith.
Fate went with them. A slow, solemn climb from the vicarage to the village green brought a prompt reward. Straight before them a frail, bareheaded, poorly-clad figure was outlined against a rather wild June sky.
“Our man,” the vicar whispered.
Dispositions of approach were made automatically. The two gentlemen stepped on to the common sedately enough. As they did so, the vicar ostentatiously pointed out the grandeur of the scene, and its wide, sweeping outlook on two counties, while the doctor lingered in examination of the heath and the plucking of a flower.
As usual the young man was leaning against the priest’s stone. Near by was a delicate flower which Dr. Parker stooped to gather.
“Tell me, what’s the name of this little thing?” he said to the vicar, in a loud bluff voice.
“You’re overtaxing my knowledge,” said the vicar, with a similar bluff heartiness. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before. But here is a man who can help us, no doubt.”
With a courteous, disarming smile, the vicar suddenly brought his eyes to bear on John Smith. And then he added in a voice full of kindness and encouragement: “I am sure you can tell us the name of this flower.”
“Yes, I should very much like to know.” As the doctor gave John Smith the flower, he seized the moment for the closest possible scrutiny of the man before him. Not a detail was lost of the extraordinarily sensitive face, with its gaunt but beautiful lines, the luminous eyes, whose pupils were distended to an abnormal width, the look of fastidious cleanliness, which the poor clothes and the rough boots seemed to accentuate.
“It is a kind of wild orchis,” said the young man in a gentle tone, which to the doctor’s ear had a rather curious sound. “It is not common hereabouts, but you will find a few in Mr. Whymper’s copse over at Grayfield.”