“No, sir, I think not,” was the old man’s prompt reply. “If it had, we should have all been in a better position. No, I believe the whole thing is a fable, as every one has declared it to be. Why here, in Rockingham, they used to call my father ‘Secret Sammy,’ because when he was drunk he always spoke mysteriously of what he called ‘The Secret.’ ”
“Have you any idea of the reason your family left the Manor Farm?”
“Owing to several bad seasons on top of each other. They were ruined, like hundreds of others. I’ve heard say that the last of the Knuttons who had the place used very often to go up to London by the coach, and he was fond of gambling. That was what really ruined him.”
“Do you know anything about the Manor House—who lived there when you were a boy?”
“Why that’s one of the questions the stranger asked me in the Sonde Arms,” he exclaimed.
Very curious certainly, I thought. Who could possibly be aware of the secret given up by the sea except myself, Mr. Staffurth, and Job Seal?
“And you told him, I suppose?”
“I told him that old Squire Blacker lived there with his wife and two daughters from my early recollection. They all died, except the elder daughter, who didn’t marry, and lived there for over twenty years, an old maid. When she died the place was bought by a Jew living in Ireland, and there’s been lots o’ tenants since. They never stay long because o’ the damp and the rats. I worked there seven years ago, helpin’ to do a drain, and the rats were something awful. I never saw such monsters in all my life. Young Jack Sharpe’s terrier killed nearly a couple of hundred of ’em in one day. The stackyard is so close, you see.”
“As far as you know, your family has never had any connection with the Manor itself?” I asked.
“I never heard it,” he replied. “We were at the Manor Farm for generations, as I’ve told you—but never at the Manor House.”