“Wake up, wake up, thou sluggard!” he cried with a gaiety that was most refreshing and infectious. “While thou art dozing all manner of strange things are happening at these monastery gates. Wake up, I say, and devour this breakfast of hot coffee and grilled chops that one of the lay brethren has brought you. In truth, you will need all the physical support it is possible for man to receive from a well-lined stomach, for outside some most tremendous surprises await you.”
“What the dickens do you mean?” I growled, sitting suddenly bolt upright in the bed and gazing at him with the most rueful countenance. “Why puzzle with riddles a man that is but half aroused? What’s up?” And I made a grab for the cup of coffee that stood on the tray on a chair by the side of my bed, and took therefrom a tremendous draught.
None the less, Casteno would not give in. He perched himself in his monk’s robes at the foot of my bed, and with the aid of many a merry jest and joke at my expense he induced me to devour the good things that had been brought so thoughtfully to the room for me. It was not, indeed, till I had bolted to the bathroom, had a most refreshing tub, and arrayed myself in my own ordinary clothes that he would be persuaded to speak about the events that lay nearest to our hearts. Then he caught me affectionately by the arm and half led, half dragged me down a long corridor to a large lancet-shaped window at the end. This commanded a view of the Chantry Road, the only public thoroughfare that gave any access to St. Bruno’s, and also a sight of some of the fields that were ranged around the monastery grounds.
“Now, my brother Hugh,” he said, with a comprehensive theatrical gesture, “just take some observations for yourself, will you? Then tell me if when I came to you first I exaggerated the gravity of the situation!”
Without a word I turned and gazed over the scene upon which a bright morning sun, aided by a clear sky and the gentlest of breezes, poured down its wealth of golden light. At regular intervals I espied the figures of men who had been posted there, right round the house, for some very obvious purpose. Some were strolling aimlessly up and down, as though they were strangers taking the morning breeze for the good of their healths. Others, according to their character and mood, were lurking behind trees or hedges, or half concealed behind neighbouring walls. But all alike bore the stamp—the same brand of Cain that literally shouted their occupation to the most careless of observers. They could not, any one of them, rid themselves of their military gait or bearing, and I saw at once, just as Casteno had, that they were policemen in plain clothes.
“Humph! Detectives!” I observed, turning away from my post of observation with a shrug.
“Quite so, brother Hugh, quite so,” repeated Casteno, with a triumphant grin. “You have guessed the melancholy truth the first time. They are detectives, engaged in preventing anyone leaving this noble mansion without their knowledge and permission. If you had remained at the window a trifle longer you would doubtless have seen for yourself their most noble leader. As a matter of fact, he is a friend of yours—”
“And pray who is that?” I snapped, for I felt too tired to join in this vein of merriment. “What friend have I in the force?” I asked.
“A gentleman named Naylor, very much at your service,” replied Casteno.
“How? What do you mean?”