“No, sir, none. And—”
“I thought so.”
Ignoring this somewhat cryptic remark, Salt explained: “Unpolished stone isn’t a good medium for takin’ impressions. I’ll stake my little finger, though, it was the stone that finished Mr. Cosgrove.”
“Here we turn off, sir,” advised Hughes.
We had been in sight of Aidenn Water much of the time, its cheerful flow increased to boiling spate. Through a partly cleared copse of larch, we could see it now, laughing with white teeth and greedy gurgle along a sort of rapids. The particular tree Hughes intended to chop was visible, already leaning half across the flood.
Somewhat to my discomfiture, Aire announced that he intended to accompany the pair across the stream. “Don’t mind, do you, Bannerlee? I want to be in at the death of Pendleton’s theory. Or will you two come along with us? Any objection, Superintendent?”
“More the merrier,” said Salt.
But I cared nothing for the death of any theory compared with my eagerness to get farther north and see the great ruin beneath the hills again. Maryvale had no love for the thought of crossing above the churlish Water on a tree-trunk, and said so. We left the three proceeding to the bank of the stream, but I confess it was with a pang of premonition that I paced beside the man of business and heard the sound of the lusty axe grow fainter and fainter.
XIV.
The Fiendish Cat of the Sisters Delambre
For half an hour we walked on almost in silence, making the tritest remarks about our surroundings, particularly those peaks which shut in the valley ahead of us, from Great Rhos on the left across Black Mixen to Mynydd Tarw on our right. We now saw only a broken secant of the sun, and most of our light was reflected from the golden tops of the hills. Maryvale for some reason maintained an unusually sharp look-out, glancing restlessly every way among the glades.