On the following afternoon Charteris went into Stapleton. The distance by road was almost exactly one mile. If you went by the fields it was longer, because you probably lost your way.
Dr. Adamson’s house was in the High Street. Charteris knocked at the door. The servant was sorry, but the doctor was out. Her tone seemed to suggest that, if she had had any say in the matter, he would have remained in. Would Charteris come in and wait? Charteris rather thought he would. He waited for half an hour, and then, as the absent medico did not appear to be coming, took two books from the shelf, wrote a succinct note explaining what he had done, and why he had done it, hoping the doctor would not mind, and went out with his literary trophies into the High Street again.
The time was now close on five o’clock. Lockup was not till a quarter past six—six o’clock nominally, but the doors were always left open till a quarter past. It would take him about fifteen minutes to get back, less if he trotted. Obviously, the thing to do here was to spend a thoughtful quarter of an hour or so inspecting the sights of the town. These were ordinarily not numerous, but this particular day happened to be market day, and there was a good deal going on. The High Street was full of farmers, cows, and other animals, the majority of the former well on the road to intoxication. It is, of course, extremely painful to see a man in such a condition, but when such a person is endeavouring to count a perpetually moving drove of pigs, the onlooker’s pain is sensibly diminished. Charteris strolled along the High Street observing these and other phenomena with an attentive eye. Opposite the Town Hall he was buttonholed by a perfect stranger, whom, by his conversation, he soon recognized as the Stapleton “character.” There is a “character” in every small country town. He is not a bad character; still less is he a good character. He is just a “character” pure and simple. This particular man—or rather, this man, for he was anything but particular—apparently took a great fancy to Charteris at first sight. He backed him gently against a wall, and insisted on telling him an interminable anecdote of his shady past, when, it seemed, he had been a “super” in some travelling company. The plot of the story, as far as Charteris could follow it, dealt with a theatrical tour in Dublin, where some person or persons unknown had, with malice prepense, scattered several pounds of snuff on the stage previous to a performance of Hamlet; and, according to the “character,” when the ghost of Hamlet’s father sneezed steadily throughout his great scene, there was not a dry eye in the house. The “character” had concluded that anecdote, and was halfway through another, when Charteris, looking at his watch, found that it was almost six o’clock. He interrupted one of the “character’s” periods by diving past him and moving rapidly down the street. The historian did not seem to object. Charteris looked round and saw that he had buttonholed a fresh victim. He was still gazing in one direction and walking in another, when he ran into somebody.
“Sorry,” said Charteris hastily. “Hullo!”
It was the secretary of the Old Crockfordians, and, to judge from the scowl on that gentleman’s face, the recognition was mutual.
“It’s you, is it?” said the secretary in his polished way.
“I believe so,” said Charteris.
“Out of bounds,” observed the man.
Charteris was surprised. This grasp of technical lore on the part of a total outsider was as unexpected as it was gratifying.
“What do you know about bounds?” said Charteris.
“I know you ain’t allowed to come ’ere, and you’ll get it ’ot from your master for coming.”
“Ah, but he won’t know. I shan’t tell him, and I’m sure you will respect my secret.”
Charteris smiled in a winning manner.
“Ho!” said the man, “Ho indeed!”
There is something very clinching about the word “Ho.” It seems definitely to apply the closure to any argument. At least, I have never yet met anyone who could tell me the suitable repartee.
“Well,” said Charteris affably, “don’t let me keep you. I must be going on.”
“Ho!” observed the man once more. “Ho indeed!”
“That’s a wonderfully shrewd remark,” said Charteris. “I can see that, but I wish you’d tell me exactly what it means.”
“You’re out of bounds.”
“Your mind seems to run in a groove. You can’t get off that bounds business. How do you know Stapleton’s out of bounds?”
“I have made enquiries,” said the man darkly.
“By Jove,” said Charteris delightedly, “this is splendid. You’re a regular sleuthhound. I dare say you’ve found out my name and House too?”
“I may ’ave,” said the man, “or I may not ’ave.”
“Well, now you mention it, I suppose one of the two contingencies is probable. Well, I’m awfully glad to have met you. Goodbye. I must be going.”
“You’re goin’ with me.”
“Arm in arm?”
“I don’t want to ’ave to take you.”
“No,” said Charteris, “I should jolly well advise you not to try. This is my way.”
He walked on till he came to the road that led to St. Austin’s. The secretary of the Old Crockfordians stalked beside him with determined stride.
“Now,” said Charteris, when they were on the road, “you mustn’t mind if I walk rather fast. I’m in a hurry.”
Charteris’s idea of walking rather fast was to dash off down the road at quarter-mile pace. The move took the man by surprise, but, after a moment, he followed with much panting. It was evident that he was not in training. Charteris began to feel that the walk home might be amusing in its way. After they had raced some three hundred yards he slowed down to a walk again. It was at this point that his companion evinced a desire to do the rest of the journey with a hand on the collar of his coat.
“If you touch me,”
