“Well, his character’s not of the best,” she answered; “he’s a labouring man, but he’s a lazy, good-for-nothing old fellow, who frequents every inn in the district.”
“Married?”
“No, a widower. He lives in a cottage close to the Sonde Arms, in the main street of Rockingham.”
The description she gave was certainly not that of the hereditary guardian of the Italian noble’s treasure. Nevertheless, as he was the only person of that name in the district, I decided to walk back past the station and on to Rockingham, a distance of about a mile, and make his acquaintance.
It was a lovely summer’s evening, and the walk through the cornfields was delightful, although my head was filled with the strange, old-world romance which within the past few weeks had been revealed to me. The main point which occupied my attention was whether the treasure was still hidden—or had it ever been hidden?—in that tumble-down old Manor House. In order to make secret investigation it would be necessary to rent the place and carefully search every hole and corner. Some of those panelled, low-ceilinged rooms above were, to me, attractive. A good deal might be hidden there, or in the roof.
After some inquiries I found the man Knutton’s cottage, small, poorly-furnished, close-smelling, and not over clean. A slatternly girl of fourteen called “Uncle! You’re wanted.” And a gruff voice responded from the upstairs room. He came heavily down the narrow, uncarpeted stairs, a rough-looking type of agricultural labourer, in drab moleskin. His age was about sixty-five, with beery face, grey eyes, round-shouldered, and wearing his trousers tied beneath the knee, and boots that had never known blacking.
“Your name’s Ben Knutton, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s my name.”
“Well, Mr. Knutton,” I said, “I want to have a few minutes’ chat with you alone.”
I noticed that he looked somewhat aghast. Afterwards I learnt that he was an expert poacher, and he probably believed me to be a detective. Through a decade or so he had had a good deal of the Marquis of Exeter’s and Mr. Watson’s game, and the major part of it had found its way by an irregular route to Northampton market.