I determined to take the place at all hazards. I was by no means a rich man, but even if I had to pay a hundred pounds to secure the ramshackle old house it must be done.
She returned with a crumpled envelope in her hand, upon which was scribbled in pencil: “George Purvis, 7, Calthorpe Street, Gray’s Inn Road, London.”
My heart gave a bound. Here was the actual address of the man of whom I had been for weeks in search, the purchaser of the key to the hidden wealth! I endeavoured to betray no surprise, but to conceal my jubilant feeling was certainly difficult. If I had a clue to my rivals, I had also a clue to the employers of those burglars who had so terribly upset poor old Mr. Staffurth’s study.
“How long ago is it since this gentleman came to see you?” I inquired, scribbling the address on my shirt-cuff and handing back the envelope.
“His first visit was two or three days after you came,” the woman said. “He seemed very much taken with that coat o’ arms on the wall outside, and asked me if I knew anything of the history of the place. Of course I don’t. I only know that somebody named Walshe lived here about a hundred years ago, for their graves are in the churchyard. The gentleman stayed at the Sonde Arms at Rockingham for a day or two, but before he went back to London he told me that he might possibly take the house off my hands. He came again, about a week ago, had another look round, and then made me promise not to let it until I heard from him.”
“What rent did you ask?”
“Fifty pounds a year.”
“And he thought it too much?”
“Well, he seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he thinks he can get it cheaper, but he won’t.”
I wondered whether this hesitation was due to want of funds. More probably, however, it was because of the uncertainty of the whereabouts of the hidden loot.