“Well, no; only some conjecters. First hearin’ the oar, I wor under the idea it might be Dick Dempsey, out salmon stealin’. But at the second plunge I could tell it wor no paddle, but a pair of regular oars. They gied but two or three strokes, an’ then stopped suddintly; not as though the boat had been rowed back, but brought up against the bank, an’ there layed.”
“You don’t think it was Dick and his coracle, then?”
“I’m sure it worn’t the coracle, but ain’t so sure about its not bein’ him. ’Stead, from what happened that night, an’s been a’ happenin’ ever since, I b’lieve he wor one o’ the men in that boat.”
“You think there were others?”
“I do—leastways suspect it.”
“And who do you suspect besides?”
“For one, him as used live up there, but’s now livin’ in Llangorren.”
They have long since parted from the place where they made stop opposite the poplar, and are now abreast the Cuckoo’s Glen, going on. It is to Glyngog House Wingate alludes, visible up the ravine, the moon gleaming upon its piebald walls and lightless windows—for it is untenanted.
“You mean Mr Murdock?”
“The same, Captain. Though he worn’t at the ball, as I’ve heerd say—and might a’ know’d without tellin’—I’ve got an idea he beant far off when ’twor breakin’ up. An’ there wor another there, too, beside Dick Dempsey.”