“Then, if I may make so bould, your honour knows nothing about how it is ’twixt Bridget and me. His riverence the Doctor now——”
“Tell us what you know without digressions,” said the Fiscal; “no use will be made of your evidence save in pursuing and bringing to justice the criminal.”
“He’s gone,” said Boyd Connoway solemnly, “and a good riddance to the parish!”
“Wha-a-at?” cried the three magistrates simultaneously. And the Fiscal started to his feet.
“Who has gone?” he cried, and mechanically he drew from his pocket a silver call to summon his constables from the kitchen, where my uncles and they were having as riotous a time as they dared while so many great folk sat pow-wowing in the parlour near at hand.
“Who?” repeated Boyd Connoway, “well, I don’t know for certain, but perhaps this little piece of paper will put you gentlemen on the track.”
And he handed over a letter, much stained with sea-water and sand. The heel of a boot had trodden upon and partly obliterated the writing, the ink having run, and the whole appearance of the document being somewhat draggle-tailed.
But there was no doubt about the address. That was clearly written in a fine flowing English hand, “To His Excellency Lalor Maitland, late Governor of the Meuse, Constable of Dinant, etc., etc. These”—
We all looked at each other, and the Fiscal began to doubt whether the new evidence as to the suspected murderer would prove so valuable after all.
“Your Excellency” (the letter ran), “according to the promise made to you, the lugger Bloomendahl, of Walchern, Captain Vandam, has been cleared of cargo and is exclusively reserved for your Excellency’s use. It will be well, therefore, to dispatch your remaining business in Scotland, as it is impossible to send back the Golden Hind or a vessel of similar size without causing remark. At the old place, then, a little after midnight of Thursday the 18th, a boat will be waiting for you at the eastern port or the western of Portowarren according to the wind. The tide is full about one.”