"A week—by letter," replied Mr. Portlethorpe.
"The second," continued Mr. Lindsey, "is much more important—much! What,
Portlethorpe, do you know of Sir Gilbert Carstairs?"
Mr. Portlethorpe hesitated a moment. Then he replied, frankly and with evident candour.
"To tell you the truth, Lindsey," he said, "beyond knowing that he is Sir
Gilbert Carstairs—nothing!"
CHAPTER XXVI
MRS. RALSTON OF CRAIG
Mr. Lindsey made no remark on this answer, and for a minute or two he and Mr. Portlethorpe sat looking at each other. Then Mr. Portlethorpe bent forward a little, his hands on his knees, and gave Mr. Lindsey a sort of quizzical but earnest glance.
"Now, why do you ask that last question?" he said quietly. "You've some object?"
"It's like this," answered Mr. Lindsey. "Here's a man comes into these parts to take up a title and estates, who certainly had been out of them for thirty years. His recent conduct is something more than suspicious—no one can deny that he left my clerk there to drown, without possibility of help! That's intended murder! And so I ask, What do you, his solicitor, know of him—his character, his doings during the thirty years he was away? And you answer—nothing!"
"Just so!" assented Mr. Portlethorpe. "And nobody does hereabouts. Except that he is Sir Gilbert Carstairs, nobody in these parts knows anything about him—how should they? We, I suppose, know more than anybody—and we know just a few bare facts."