"So," he muttered, "it is little more than three-quarters of an hour since I left the servants' hall. It would not be difficult to prove an alibi, with the help of a blundering village innkeeper."
He did not attempt to leave the castle by the court-yard, which he knew would be locked by this time. He had made himself acquainted with all the ins and outs of the place, and had possessed himself of a key belonging to one of the garden gates. Through this gate he passed out into the park, climbed a low fence, and made his way into Raynham village, where the landlord of the "Hen and Chickens" was just closing his doors.
"I have been told by the castle servants that you can give me a bed," he said.
The landlord, who was always delighted to oblige his patrons in Sir Oswald's servants' hall and stables, declared himself ready to give the traveller the best accommodation his house could afford.
"It's late, sir," he said; "but we'll manage to make things comfortable for you."
So that night the surgeon slept in the village of Raynham. He, too, was worn out by the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours, and he slept soundly all through the night, and slept as calmly as a child.
It was eight o'clock next morning when he went down the steep, old-fashioned staircase of the inn. He found a strange hubbub and confusion below. Awful tidings had just been brought from the castle. Sir Oswald Eversleigh had been found seated in his library, DEAD, with the lamp still burning near him, in the bright summer morning. One of the grooms had come down to the little inn, and was telling his story to all comers, when the pedlar came into the open space before the bar.
"It was Millard that found him," the man said. "He was sitting, quite calm-like, with his head lying back upon the cushion of his arm-chair. There were papers and open letters scattered all about; and they sent off immediately for Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, to look to the papers, and seal up the locks of drawers and desks, and so on. Mr. Dalton is busy at it now. Mr. Eversleigh is awfully shocked, he is. I never saw such a white face in all my life as his, when he came out into the hall after hearing the news. It's a rare fine thing for him, as you may say; for they say Sir Oswald made a new will last night, and left his nephew everything; and Mr. Eversleigh has been a regular wild one, and is deep in debt. But, for all that, I never saw any one so cut up as he was just now."
"Poor Sir Oswald!" cried the bystanders. "Such a noble gentleman as he was, too. What did he die of Mr. Kimber?—do you know?"
"The doctor says it must have been heart-disease," answered the groom. "A broken heart, I say; that's the only disease Sir Oswald had. It's my lady's conduct has killed him. She must have been a regular bad one, mustn't she?"