But, altogether, the more he thought of it, the more incredible, the more outrageous the whole thing appeared to be.
Surely the artist would not be likely to have enough of value on him during a sketching-tour, to make the robbing of him worth such an enormous hazard! His costume, as Claud remembered, had been simplicity itself—white flannel shirt and trousers, with rough, short grey coat and cloth helmet.
He would carry a watch and chain—most likely; a signet ring—very probably. About a pound's worth of loose silver; aggregate value of entire spoils, perhaps ten pounds, for the watch would be very likely silver, or the chain worthless. Could there be more—far more in the affair than met the eye? Could this artist be a man who had enemies? Was there some wildly sensational tale of hatred and vengeance underlying the mysterious circumstances?
Claud pondered, as he raised his neat brown felt hat and wiped his forehead. He was overcome with a desire to see and question the victim. From him something might be ascertained, at least, of the plan of attack.
He set out to walk to Poole Farm, remarking casually to himself, in a depressed way, that nature never intended him for a detective.
"But I wonder what a detective would have done under the circumstances?" he mused. "I could not observe mysterious footprints in the grass near, for Miss Brabourne's well-meaning but clumsy handmaiden had trodden it all flat by the time I arrived on the scene. I have examined the road and banks for shreds of evidence. I have picked up a hairpin, which I have reason to believe is Miss Brabourne's. Ought I to put it in my pocket-book to show to the real bona-fide detective when he arrives on the scene? It would hardly be of service, I suppose, to preserve any of the blood? Ought I to have left the paints and messes in the exact order in which they fell, I wonder? It's too late to reflect on that now, however," he added, with a glance at the paint-box, which he carried strapped up in one hand, the easel being over his shoulder. The beautiful calmness of the evening seemed to him horribly at variance with the tragedy just enacted. "It's like that funny hymn which little Peggy sings,
'Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.'
Certainly man in his worst aspect is a contemptible reptile," he sighed, as he walked up the little pebble walk, where the wall-flowers drowned the air with sweetness.
Inside, in the kitchen, a lively scene presented itself. Mrs. Battishill, having deposited the sick man in bed, had just come down for towels and hot water, and was flying from linen-press to boiler-tap with a volley of words and some agitation. Her daughter Clara, a slight, delicate girl who would have been pretty had she not attempted to be fashionable, wearing steels in her dress, and a large imitation gold watch chain, was trying somewhat feebly to help her mother, and holding the kettle so unsteadily that the water splashed on the clean flags. A group of men and boys stood round awestruck, anxious to glean every bit of information that could be given.
There was a murmur as Claud appeared, and everyone made room for him to enter.