“Old bird?” queried Ben. “Do you refer to Sir Peter Cotterell or to Crusty Christopher?”
“To neither of them, Benjie. Our friend Professor Tuckerman is the particular feathered creature to whom I was alluding. I opened one eye last night; and what do you think I saw? Professor Tuckerman was sitting up, in his suit of flannel pajamas, staring out at the water as if he saw something.”
“Perhaps he did. Or maybe he was only thinking. Some people do think sometimes, you know, Dave. I did some thinking myself last night.”
“About old Christopher’s secret?”
At the moment Ben was too busy to reply. With practised care he drew up his line and threw a fine, flapping flounder on the bottom of the boat.
“Yes, about the secret,” Ben said, as he rebaited his hook. “I believe there is one. And I think that Christopher Cotterell rather hoped his nephew John Tuckerman would find out what it was.”
“Why didn’t he tell him then, instead of leaving that crazy note?”
Ben shook his head. “Christopher wasn’t like most people. But it seems to me he was rather proud of that secret,—it had been in the family so long,—and he didn’t want it to be entirely forgotten. So he meant to let it be known there was a secret, even if nobody ever found out what it was. A person might do that, you know.”
“It would take a mighty queer sort of person,” sniffed David.
Ben resumed his fishing, watching his line as a cat watches a mouse-hole.