“Was that it?” he asked.
Carver looked down at the exhibit with a flash of curiosity.
“Well!” he exclaimed. “If ’tain’t, ’tis the very spit and image of that there what I sees her handle! But they things be pretty much of a muchness, I reckon, master.”
Blick put the automatic pistol back in his pocket, and laid his hand on Carver’s arm.
“Now, look here!” he said. “Just you keep all this to yourself, there’s a good man! Don’t say a word about it to anybody—not even to your wife. I hope you won’t get into trouble by being late for your supper. But—silence, now—not a word!”
“I understand ’ee, master,” responded Carver, with a knowing grin. “And I ’on’t go for to breathe a syllable till you tells I ’tis convenient. Howsomever, do ’ee remember, master, as how what I says is—accidental it med be! Ain’t no sort of hands at shooting off guns and pistols, isn’t wimmin, as you knows.”
When Carver had departed into the night, Blick walked up and down his sitting-room for a good ten minutes, thinking. At the end of that time he went up to his bedroom, got into an overcoat, and made ready for going out. Descending to the hall, he encountered Grimsdale, just entering the house.
“Late walk, Mr. Blick?” asked the landlord, with a smile. “Fine night, too!”
“I’m going into Selcaster,” replied Blick, “and look here—I don’t think I shall be back tonight; I shall stay the night at the Mitre. You’ll see me sometime tomorrow morning.”
Grimsdale nodded in acquiescence and let his guest out. And Blick went away along the starlit road towards Selcaster, still thinking, speculating, putting things together, and all his thoughts and speculations came to a point in Mrs. Braxfield.