“A gentleman I met in the Sonde Arms. He said he knew me, but I didn’t remember ever having set eyes on him before. He treated me and then asked me a whole lot of questions, some of ’em very similar to what you’ve asked me. I don’t understand what he or you—beggin’ your pardon, sir—are driving’ at.”
“But this person who was so inquisitive? What kind of man was he?”
“A middle-aged gentleman from London. He stayed the night at the Sonde Arms, and left in the morning. He was a tall, fair man, and funnily enough seemed to know a lot about my relations.”
“You don’t know his name?”
“No, he didn’t tell me.”
This fact was certainly strange. Was it possible that some other person was in possession of the secret of the hoard and had forestalled me in making inquiries?
This beery labourer seemed, without doubt, a descendant of the Richard Knutton whose signature was written upon the faded parchment. As guardians of the treasure, the Knuttons had apparently been given the Manor Farm in order to be constantly near the spot where the spoils of war were concealed. Their residence at the farm through generations appeared to show that instructions had passed from father to son, and had, until seventy years ago, been strictly observed. Then the family had fallen upon evil times, and the descendants had degenerated into labourers, the youngest enlisting as a private soldier.
“I suppose you told this gentleman you met all about your family, just as you’ve told me—eh?”
“Pretty well the same story.”
“What else did he ask you?”