“Don’t know the older gentleman, sir,” he replied. “He stopped at the hotel last night, but I didn’t hear his name mentioned. The other gentleman’s Mr. Pebling, sir.”
“And who,” I asked, “is Mr. Pebling?”
“Lawyer, sir—well-known lawyer in the town,” he answered. “Pebling, Spilsby and Pebling, solicitors—Grey Street. Everybody knows him.”
Accordingly, I departed for Kelpieshaw in an atmosphere of Law and Mystery—I imagined that atmosphere centring thickly around White Whiskers in his first-class compartment (I, as a matter of principle rather than pence, travelled third) and mingling with the smoke of his very excellent cigars. I would have given a good deal to pick the brains that lay behind his big, solemn, consequential countenance, but I knew that I should probably hear much on the morrow. For that he was bound for Kelpieshaw I had no more doubt than that our train was a slow one.
It was late when we got to Wooler—so late that I had already decided to spend the night there and go on to Parslewe’s in the early morning. I had some notion, too, that White Whiskers would, of course, repair to the principal hotel, whither I was also bound, and that there I might find out a little more about him—perhaps even get into conversation with him; from what I had seen of him at Newcastle, I judged him to be a talkative man, and at Wooler he would have small chance of indulging his propensities. Now if I could only foregather with him over a smoking-room fire——
But no sooner had the train come to a halt in Wooler station than I saw that White Whiskers was expected, and was met. He was met, and very politely—almost reverently—received by a tall military-looking man in a smart, dark uniform, braided and buttoned, who appeared to consider it an honour when White Whiskers—as I saw plainly—extended two fingers to him. They conversed for a minute or two; then, talking confidentially, as it appeared, they set off together. And being just behind them as they left the station, I indulged in more inquisitiveness.
“Who is that in the dark uniform?” I inquired of the clerk who was collecting the tickets at the entrance.
“Mr. Hilgrave,” he answered, promptly. “Inspector of police. Nice gentleman!—not been here so very long, though.”
I went on to the hotel, wondering what on earth White Whiskers wanted with the local police inspector. And upon getting into the hotel, I found them together. White Whiskers was just beginning a belated dinner in the coffee-room; Hilgrave sat with him, refreshing himself with a whisky-and-soda, and listening with apparent deep interest to his talk. I got some warmed-up dinner myself, but I did not overhear anything that was said between the two. The conversation seemed to be chiefly one-sided; White Whiskers evidently explaining and detailing, and the police inspector nodding his comprehension. But towards the close of this episode I got some information. White Whiskers, bringing his dinner to an end, summoned the waiter and gave him some audible commands. He must be called, with hot water and tea, at seven o’clock in the morning. Breakfast must be ready for him at precisely eight—sharp to the minute. And at nine o’clock the best car in the place must be at the door to take him to Kelpieshaw. How far away was this Kelpieshaw?—nine or ten miles by the road? Very good!—then nine o’clock, precisely.
These things settled, White Whiskers turned to Hilgrave, bland and affable.