“Someone is talking. That is quite certain.”
“There’s a chap in the ’Are an’ ’Ounds—kem ’ere last night.”
“Ingerman?”
“Ay, sir, that’s the name. ’E’s makin’ a song of it, I hear.”
“Anybody else?”
“Fred Elkin is gassin’ about. Do ’ee know un? Breeds ’osses at Mount Farm, a mile that-a-way,” and Bates pointed to the west.
Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at the inn. Bates nodded.
“That’s un,” he said. Then he drove the spade into the rich loam. “They do say,” he added, apparently as an after-thought, “as Fred Elkin is mighty sweet on Doris, but her’ll ’ave nowt to do wi’ un.”
Grant whistled softly. This explanation threw light on a dark place.
“The plot thickens,” he said. “Mr. Elkin becomes more interesting than he looks. Are there other disappointed swains in the offing?”