“Young Oliver! You’ve been riding abroad with him; you were swimming in the sea with him this morn. You seemed friends.”
“Some of my folk. Oliver’s your friend?”
“Yes, my friend, but—”
“I tell you this, John Craike,” he said, impatiently, “if you’ll believe me and trust me and my folk, knowing that Bradbury’s within reach, you’ll go back to the house. I promise you none of the rogues in the house’ll do you hurt, while old Mr. Edward lives, and I promise you Blunt’ll never take you out of it or ship you aboard. For Blunt’ll never sail.” He spoke now in low and earnest tone, his eyes keeping a sharp watch, as if apprehensive lest any overhear or see us together. “Hark ’ee,” he said, “go back! It’s well that you stay to profit by your grandfather’s fancy for you. Take my assurance for it, lad; my plans and Bradbury’s are surely set; they’re one and the same. Take my word for it.”
“Ay, but the old man’s near to dying,” I said, doubtfully.
He muttered, “So! Bradbury gave me no word of it.”
Rapidly I recounted the nature of my interviews with my grandfather, his orders to his servants, his collapse on that first morning, my belief that his reason tottered,—all the whispering menace of the rogues about us. I told him of my uncle’s conversation with Blunt and Martin, and of the warning from Miss Milne.
He heard me attentively, his brows frowning. He said at last, “Ay, ay,—and for all Bradbury’s plans it’s high time to make an end—high time! But first I must have a word with Bradbury. Will you go back this day assured that speedily you’ll hear from us?”
I answered, “If you’ll have it so, Sir Gavin, surely I’ll go.”