“Oh, it was a thick, round bit o’ wax what had been put on to a narrow piece of parchment and threaded through at the bottom so that it hung down.”
“Did you ever notice the device on the seal?” I inquired eagerly.
“There was a lion, or summat—it were very much like what’s on the stone in front o’ Caldecott Manor.”
That decided me. The document the foolish old simpleton had sold for half a sovereign was the one that had been in his family since the days of Queen Elizabeth, and in all probability gave some clue, if a guarded one, to the secret.
“This stranger knew all about the Knuttons?” I hazarded.
“Lor’ bless you yes. He knew more about my family than I do myself. Been studying ’em, he said.”
I smiled within myself. Whoever this man Purvis was he was certainly no fool.
“Well,” observed the landlady, addressing me, “my own opinion is, sir, that Ben has made a very great mistake in selling the paper to a stranger. He don’t know what it might not be worth.”
“I quite agree,” I said. “The thing should have been examined first.”
“Oh,” said the old man, “Mr. Beresford, who was the parson before Mr. Pocock, borrowed it from my brother Dick and kept it a long time, but couldn’t make head nor tail of the thing. He said it was written in some kind of secret writing.”