“Yes, on drink,” she said. “You know very well you treated all your friends out of it, both here and at the other inns, and that you haven’t been sober these two days till to-night. If you didn’t have so much beer, Ben Knutton, it would be better for you, and for us too, I can tell you that.”
“That’s enough, missus,” the old man said, “you’re always grumbling, you are.”
I left the old yokel sitting on a bench over a big mug of beer and chatted with the landlady. In the course of conversation I asked if she knew any one of the name of Woollerton, but she was unaware of any person bearing that cognomen. Then in the summer twilight I strolled back to my headquarters in Caldecott, much puzzled over the curious manner in which I had been checkmated by this mysterious Purvis.
As far as it went my visit there had been satisfactory, because I had established the fact that there was truth in the story of Bartholomew da Schorno’s property at Caldecott, and that in the family of Knutton there had been, until two days ago, a document similar in form to that I had found on board the Seahorse. We had in the bank tangible proof that the owner of the Seahorse was a man of wealth; therefore I could not help believing that there was treasure stored somewhere ashore. Besides, the local legend of the fortune of the Knuttons added greatly to its possibility.
I smoked with a couple of farmers that evening, and learnt what I could from them. It was not much, only that a few years ago some one had taken the Manor House with an idea of turning it into a private lunatic asylum.
“Did it answer?” I asked of one.
“No. They had only three gentlemen, so I suppose it didn’t pay.”
Neither of the men knew anything regarding the facts I desired to prove. They were not natives of the place, one being from Orton, in Huntingdonshire, and the other from Islip, near Thrapston. So they were not versed in the legendary lore of the place.
I ate my plain supper alone, and went to bed when the house closed at ten. But betimes I was up, and before noon next day was sitting in Mr. Staffurth’s little back study.
He had before him a big pile of valuable manuscripts which he was deciphering and investigating, part of his profession being to catalogue and value manuscripts for certain well-known dealers and auctioneers. This is a profession in itself, and requires the most erudite knowledge of the mediaeval literature of Europe, as well as an acquaintance with the rarity of any particular manuscript. Piled on the table was a batch just sent from one of the West-end firms who employed him. Most of the bindings were the original ones—oaken boards covered with leather, some were of purple velvet mostly faded, while the manuscripts themselves were of a varied character, Latin Bibles of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, an exquisite fifteenth century Horæ with splendid illuminations and miniatures, a rare copy of what is known as La Bible de Herman, a fine Gothic copy of Du Guesclin, with miniatures in camaïeu gris heightened with gold, a tenth century Hieronymus, and a dozen other smaller manuscripts, the value of none being below fifty pounds apiece.