"Maybe it is, but there's a chance of a big coup that no one expected.
Now, if you care to take a hand."
Mr. Bolt fancied himself as a mimic, indeed he harboured the opinion that he was a peer even to the late Sir Henry Irving in the matter of "take offs." He could imitate a cat or a Chinaman, while his thumb nail impressions of sundry Hebraic neighbours were only rivalled by his flawless caricatures of natives of Germany or the New Hebrides. But best of all he loved to assume the inflexion, guise and bearing of a member of the clergy—a circumstance very possibly explained by the fact that his own private life was as far removed from the office of virtue as could be imagined.
"Be unafraid, my son," quoth he. "If your heart is full speak into my listening ear and may a blessing fall on your confession." Then fashioning a trumpet with his two hands he bellowed like a fog horn: "Becky! A drop of whiskey hot for the gent." And while the refreshment was being procured he observed parenthetically: "A nice little piece, ain't she? Very smart and dossy. Come on, Smith, my boy—my jolly old beau—dear old cracker, soak up the juice of the barley and expound the tale of woe."
Harrison Smith wasted no time in explaining the case while Bolt listened with great concentration, nodding approval at this point or that.
"Hm! Worth trying anyway," he agreed. "What do you want me to do?"
"Take over my place at Clyst St. Mary. Can't explain why but I've a sort of notion things may happen there. It's a queer household—lot of smart girls looking after an old woman—Barraclough's mother."
"What's she like?"
"Never got near enough to find out. Decent enough old thing. Goes to church a lot."
"Shrewd?"
"Never struck me so at a distance. Might be anything—bit of a fool—mostly are—that old country sort."