“You’re right, it isn’t. I’m sorry.” Anthony was contrite. “But you know, I’m not as silly as I sound. You must think I’m telling you things you knew before; but I’m not really. What I think these things mean, I’m not going to say just yet. Not to any one.”
“I see. That’s all right, Gethryn. You must forgive me if I seem touchy.” Sir Arthur smiled forgivingly.
“Seen Deacon lately?” Anthony asked.
“This morning. In fact, I’ve just come back. He’s wonderful, that boy!”
“He is,” agreed Anthony. “I’m just going to see him now. Walk to the gate with me, will you? I want you to help me.”
“My dear chap, with pleasure!” He put his arm through Anthony’s as they walked.
“I want to know,” said Anthony, as they reached the end of the house, “whether any one in any way connected with the household does any playing about with carpenter’s tools. Amateurs, professionals, or both.”
“Funny you should ask that, Gethryn? I’ve been thinking about that. But it’s no help. You see, the place is full of ’em—carpenters, I mean. There’s Diggle, the gardener, he’s really an excellent rough-job man. Then there’s the chauffeur, he made that shed over there—and a splendid bit of work it is. And John, well, it was his one hobby as it is mine. You know that set of three small tables in the drawing-room?”
“I did notice them. They puzzled me rather. Couldn’t place ’em.”
“John made those,” said Sir Arthur, with a touch of pride, “nearly twenty years ago. I remember I was very jealous at the time. I couldn’t ever have done anything so good, you see. I was a bit better than he at the finer sorts of work, though.” He broke off, seeming to fall into a reverie. After a while he added: “No, Gethryn, I’m afraid this line’s no good to us. That wood-rasp doesn’t belong to Abbotshall.”