“Very kind of him, I’m sure,” I laughed. “One day, however, we shall see who’s the scoundrel and adventurer. In the meantime, Knutton, just beware of any future dealings with him.”
“I will, sir,” was the man’s reply. “I’m very sorry I ever sold that parchment. I only wish I’d showed it to you. You’re a gentleman as would perhaps have been able to read it.”
“Ah, Knutton, I only wish you had kept it for me,” I responded, with a heartfelt sigh. “But it’s useless to cry over spilt milk, you know. We must make the best of it. All you have to do, however, is to keep a still tongue in your head and beware of any other gentleman from London.”
“Oh, I will, sir, now. You can rely on me—that you can.” And the old fellow raised his great mug of beer and emptied it at a single gulp.
His capacity for ale, like that of many farm labourers, was simply astounding.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SILENT MAN’S WARNING
Philip Reilly, whose energy seemed indefatigable, although he was yet half an invalid, left me next morning and returned to town.
In council, in my airy little bedroom with the attic window embowered by creeping roses, we arrived at the conclusion that he would have more chance of success in gaining information than myself, therefore I dispatched him to London in order to keep an observant eye upon the address in Sterndale Road.
For several reasons I remained in the neighbourhood of Caldecott. First, I was apprehensive lest Purvis and his associates—for I felt convinced that he was not acting alone—might make a forcible attempt to investigate the Manor House. It was quite evident they suspected that the treasure might be hidden therein, otherwise they would not have been in treaty for a lease of the place. When they knew that I had forestalled them their chagrin would, I anticipated, know no bounds. Hence I felt constrained to remain on guard, as it were, until I could take possession of the place.
Those warm autumn days were charming. I had brought with me a camera, and, as excuse for remaining in that rural neighbourhood, took photographs. I found many picturesque pastoral scenes in the vicinity, and wandered hither and thither almost every day. The Countess of Cardigan kindly permitted me to photograph on her estate, and I took many pictures of the beautiful old hall at Deene, one of the most imposing and historic homes of Northamptonshire, the Park, and the picturesque lake, which was once the fishpond of the monks, when Deene was an abbey and carp the weekly fare on Fridays. To Laxton Hall, to Fineshade Abbey, to Blatherwycke Park, to Apethorpe Hall, the noble Jacobean seat of the Westmorland family, and to Milton, the fine Elizabethan house of the Fitzwilliams, I went, taking pictures for amusement, and endeavouring to make the villagers of Rockingham and Caldecott believe that I was a photographic enthusiast. Truth to tell, I was not. I entertain a righteous horror of the man with a camera, and if I were Chancellor of the Exchequer I would put a tax on cameras as upon dogs. The man who takes snap-shots can surely afford to pay seven-and-sixpence a year towards the expenses of his country.