“But from where did my grandfather derive his fortunes?” I asked, remembering my mother’s words after Mr. Bradbury had left her that night at the cottage. “By trade, or as an inheritance?”
I believed that his eyes flickered and that he hesitated. He answered glibly, “The fruits, Mr. Craike, of his own industry.”
I stared at him and muttered, “What should my mother mean, Mr. Bradbury, by the words ‘that doomed house’ and ‘the wealth ill-gotten’?”
He said swiftly, “Doomed, if the inheritance go to Charles Craike! Surely doomed! Ill-gotten! Gotten as honestly as most!”
“Mr. Bradbury, forgive me,—are you frank with me?”
He took snuff ere he replied. “Mr. John Craike, at your grandfather’s house you’ll learn the answers to your questions. Will you forgive me if now I do not answer you?”
“Well, then, concerning this house—its whereabouts? I know nothing.”
He laughed a little. “Craike House,” he said, “passes among the folk of the neighbourhood—it is far from here—by an odd name. ‘Rogues’ Haven,’ sir. ‘Rogues’ Haven.’”
“From the reputation of my kinsfolk?”
“Surely not,” he answered, “but from the retired nature of your grandfather’s life, and from the practice of the vulgar to ascribe mystery and evil where their curiosity is not satisfied. And from the charity of your grandfather in keeping about him his old servants and dependants. An odd company, maybe, Mr. John—a very odd company. But judge of the house and its inmates yourself, sir. I warn you only—I am bound to warn you—against Mr. Charles Craike.”