“If a Mr. Kentworthy calls, I will see him. But say that I can only spare him a few minutes, as I am very busy.”
As it was striking eleven, the door opened with: “Mr. Kentworthy, sir,” and at once, with some surprise, Harry Garlett recognized in his visitor a stranger he had seen walking about Terriford village during the last week or so.
The first time he, Garlett, had noticed him, this gray-haired stout man had been standing in the road just outside the gate of the Thatched House, chatting with one of the gardeners. On another occasion he had seen the same person looking at the inscriptions on the graves in the beautiful churchyard, of which the high-banked wall bounded the top of the broad village street. Also, this man whose name he now knew to be Kentworthy had passed him more than once on the narrow field path along which he had walked so joyously this morning.
“I have only just read your note, Mr. Kentworthy, for I was late this morning. What can I do for you? I’m afraid I cannot spare you much time, for, as you see, I haven’t even opened my letters.”
His burly, substantial-looking visitor came forward and stood close to him.
“I may take it that you’ve no idea of the business which has brought me here, Mr. Garlett?”
He looked straight into the face of the man he was addressing, and Harry Garlett felt just a little disconcerted by that steady, steely stare.
“No,” he said frankly, “I have no idea at all of your business, but I have lately seen you walking about Terriford village, so I take it that you have some association with this part of the world?”
“This is my first visit to Grendon,” said the other slowly, “and I was sent here, Mr. Garlett, on a most unpleasant errand.”
Again he looked searchingly at Garlett, and then he went on, speaking in a deliberate, matter-of-fact voice: