He had! More surprises were let loose. As a measure of sensible precaution the detective had reported his presence to Salt as soon as he arrived in New Aidenn. In the early dawn after meeting me, having learned that there was something worth attention in the way of mystery in the Vale, the young man discarded the crooked black beard of the menagerie-keeper and glorified his chin with a rich red one, finely adapted to his complexion. This emblem he had attached properly, using separate hairs at the edges and trimming the whole to a nicety. He commenced a campaign of deceit.
First Foggins’ driver was tempted from the path of duty with a five-pound note, and reported sick. While Foggins the milkman was tearing his hair, in walked the unblushing detective, and Foggins fell victim to his wiles. That very noon the newly-employed had driven the milk cart up the Vale. He had explained at the kitchen door, with a certain amount of wit, though with his ready tongue all the time in his cheek, why the service was so much delayed and how he had fallen heir to the position. The listener to this merry tale was Rosa Clay. It gained the young man a means of contact with affairs inside the House which might have been extremely valuable had the storm not cut off the Vale from Foggins’ circuit.
During the week Heatheringham formed with the Post Office attendant a mushroom friendship that passeth all legality. So it came about that Crofts’ impassioned letters were handed to their recipient direct, without going to Worcester and back. It was, moreover, the detective himself who had been on the Post Office end of the ’phone when Crofts dictated his telegram Thursday afternoon with many maledictions on the stumbling clerk who took the message.
The dinner-bell had rung and we were on our feet. Salt announced he mustn’t stay, but would leave the field clear for the younger man. “Do what he tells you,” he said. “He has an idea from time to time.”
Heatheringham drew me apart, until the rest were gone, even waving Crofts ahead.
“You can do me a favour, Mr. Bannerlee, if you will,” he said with a laugh in his voice, as if he might have something in the way of a surprise to try on me.
“I suppose I owe you a month’s hard labour for battering you last night—but, of course, I want to help you if I can. What shall it be?”
“You’re keeping a written record of events, aren’t you?”
“Crofts told you!” I exclaimed reproachfully—reproachfully in reference to Crofts, that is.
“Not a bit of it—just my prowling. I’ve noticed your candles burning until all hours, and last night I brought a small telescope with me and had a squint at you from a tree way out by the Water. I could hardly think that you wrote letters all night, could I?”