CHAPTER XIV.
THE FALSE SCENT.
I am now drawing near the end of this strange eventful narrative, and my readers will learn in a chapter or two what has in reality become of Lost Sir Massingberd: whether he lies dead in Fairburn Chase, notwithstanding that strict search of ours, or somewhere else, conveyed by foemen's hands; or if, alive, he keeps in hiding nigh, for some evil end, or has even left British soil for a time, to return, according to his threat, on a day when he is least expected. If his real whereabouts and true position have been guessed, then is he who hit upon it a wiser man, not only than I was at that time (which might easily be), but wiser than that genius of Bow Street, whose eye was reported to see further into very millstones than any man alive of his time. He arrived at Fairburn with his handcuffs and his suspicions, and would, I verily believe, have made me his stalking-horse whereby to come down upon the guileless Farmer Arabel, and extract what might be tantamount to a confession.
"You know him, Mr. Meredith," he had observed to me in his frankest tone, as we walked out together after breakfast, on the morning after our arrival; "and I look to you to make the matter easy. We will step over to the farm at once, if you please, and have a glass of home-brewed with the good man, when, I dare say, he will tell us what we want to know, and exculpate himself at the same time."
"Mr. Townshend," I replied, gravely, "I have been made a catspaw of already, within a few weeks, and until the remembrance of that event has worn off very considerably, I shall not act that part again."
"Very good, sir," responded the Runner, cheerfully. "I only thought, that being a well-wisher to the person in question, you might have made the thing less unpleasant for him. If you went with me, introducing me as a gentleman from London, anxious to see good farming, for instance—that 'ud tickle him—I could bring the subject of the note into conversation; then, if he explained to my satisfaction, as he will doubtless be able to do, how he got possession of it, it will not be necessary to inquire further. He need never know as a police-officer had been down here with darbies in his pocket, upon the chance of having to fit them on his wrists upon the charge of Wilful Murder."
"There is certainly something in that," said I, musingly.
"There is everything in it," returned Mr. Townshend, stepping carelessly over the style, on the other side of which ran the pathway to Mr. Arabel's residence. "The idea of this man's guilt being, as you say, quite preposterous, it would only be a kindness on your part to spare his feelings. That's a fine stout old fellow looking at those men at work in yonder field, a sort of man that carries his years better than one sees people do in London: I should say, now, that might be the farmer himself."
"Really," said I, stopping short, "I think you had better do this business of yours alone, Mr. Townshend. I have eaten and drunk in Mr. Arabel's house, and to be concerned in any such errand as this seems but a poor return for his hospitality."
"Ah, it is him, is it? Very good, sir. Well, you may just please yourself as to accompanying me now. When I have once set eyes on my man it is not my habit to lose sight of him. Still, you might have made it easier—for him, that is. It is no matter to me whether the thing is done soft or hard." And the Bow Street runner stepped along as he spoke, like a diligent man who sees his work cut out before him.