“So, if they make any attempt at investigation, they’ll be entirely out of it,” I remarked with satisfaction.
“Of course. We don’t intend that they shall make any find, even if they possess the missing leaf from The Closed Book, which seems more than possible.”
What possible connection there could be between old Graniani and the Earl of Glenelg was to me an entire enigma. Everyone knew the Earl to be a man who had made archaeology a profound study, for he was author of the standard work upon medieval domestic architecture, and possessed at his seat, Twycross Hall, in Staffordshire, a very fine library of early printed books, including a splendid example of Caxton’s “The Mirrour of the World,” and “The Boke of the Hoole Lyf of Jasan,”—purchased at the Ashburnham sale for two thousand one hundred pounds,—besides such treasures as “The Boke named Corydale,” “The Proffytable Boke for Manne’s Soule,”—1490,—and the Perkins copy of the first book printed in England; truly a magnificent collection, unique, as every bibliophile is aware.
I listened to my friend’s description of how, concealed behind the crumbling ruins, he had watched intently every movement on the part of these two men so widely different in social standing and even in nationality. His opinion coincided with mine that they had returned to the inn to await the darkness before setting to work to excavate; whereupon the question arose as to whether it were best to warn the rector of their intentions, or to allow them to proceed and watch the result.
To me it seemed probable that his lordship, patron of twenty odd livings as he was, would not deign to ask permission to make the search, but just make it in secret as he felt inclined. Certainly, neither of the pair had any idea of my presence there, or they would never have gone openly to work to take these measurements. As matters now stood, we had the spot marked, while the scene of their investigations had been transferred some distance away. Even if the treasure were concealed in that farther field, they certainly would not secure it.
“Well, is it worth while seeing Mr Mason and making an explanation to him?” I asked. “For my own part, I think not. We have only to watch their failure.”
“And if they have retained the missing leaf they may post up to Scotland and forestall us there,” My companion remarked dubiously. “Without doubt the search about to be made here is the outcome of the curious conspiracy which is puzzling us.”
“But why did the prior and his accomplices sell me the Arnoldus if they wished to retain it in their possession?” I asked. “Why did Graniani follow me to Florence, and watch me through the church window; why did my servant Nello warn me against possessing the forbidden volume, and why did that dark-eyed woman, the confidante of the prior, steal it and carry it post-haste across Europe, transferring it in Paris to a second woman, who carried it to London? To me the whole thing is an enigma.”
“And to me,” Wyman admitted. “This is certainly no ordinary affair. We have, however, at present to remain in patience and watch in secret the development of events—a development which I feel confident will bring with it some almost unheard-of revelations.”