Copplestone favoured Vickers with another quiet kick. They were, without doubt, hearing the story of the hidden gold, and it was becoming exciting.
“Well,” continued Spurge. “Into the place he’d cleared out them boxes went, and once they were all in he heaped the stones over ’em as natural as they were before, and he kicked a lot o’ small loose stones round about and over the place where he’d been standing. And then the old sinner let out a great groan as if something troubled him, and he fetched a bottle out of his pocket and took a good pull at whatever was in it, after which, gentlemen, he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and groaned again. He’d had his bit of light on all that time, but he doused it then, and after that he led the old pony away across the bit of moor to the road, and presently in he gets and drives slowly away towards Scarhaven. And so there was I, d’ye see, Mr. Copplestone, left, as it were, sold guardian of—what?”
The three young men exchanged glances with each other while Spurge refreshed himself with his fortified coffee, and their eyes asked similar questions.
“Ah!” observed Copplestone at last. “You don’t know what, Spurge? You haven’t examined one of those boxes?”
Spurge set his cup down and gave his questioner a knowing look.
“I’ll tell you my line o’ conduct, guv’nor,” he said. “So certain sure have I been that something ’ud come o’ this business of hiding them boxes and that something valuable is in ’em that I’ve taken partiklar care ever since Chatfield planted ’em there that night never to set foot within a dozen yards of ’em. Why? ’Cause I know he’ll ha’ left footprints of his own there, and them footprints may be useful. No, sir!—them boxes has been guarded careful ever since Chatfield placed ’em where he did. For—Chatfield’s never been back!”
“Never back, eh?” said Copplestone, winking at the other two.
“Never been back—self nor spirit, substance nor shadow!—since that night,” replied Spurge. “Unless, indeed, he’s been back since four o’clock this morning, when I left there. However, if he’s been ’twixt then and now, my cousin Jim Spurge, he was there. Jim’s been helping me to watch. When I first came in here to see if I could hear anything about you—Jim having told me that some London gentlemen was up here again—I left him in charge. And there he is now. And now you know all I can tell you, gentlemen, and as I understand there’s some mystery about Chatfield and that he’s disappeared, happen you’ll know how to put two and two together. And if I’m of any use—”
“Spurge,” said Gilling. “How far is it to this Reaver’s Glen—or, rather to that peel tower?”
“Matter of eight or nine miles, guv’nor, over the moors,” replied Spurge.
“How did you come in then?” asked Gilling.
“Cousin Jim Spurge’s bike—down in the stable yard, now,” answered Spurge. “Did it comfortable in under the hour.”
“I think we ought to go out there—some of us,” said Gilling. “We ought—”
At that moment the door opened and Sir Cresswell Oliver came in, holding a bit of flimsy paper in his hand. He glanced at Spurge and then beckoned the three young men to join him.
“I’ve had a wireless message from the North Sea—and it puzzles me,” he said. “One of our ships up there has had news of what is surely the Pike from a fishing vessel. She was seen late yesterday afternoon going due east—due east, mind you! If that was she—and I’m sure of it!—our quarry’s escaping us.”
XXVII
The Peel Tower
Gilling took the message from Sir Cresswell and thoughtfully read it over. Then he handed it back and motioned the old seaman to look at Spurge.
“I think you ought to know what this man has just told us, sir,” he said. “We’ve got a story from him that exactly fits in with what Chatfield told Mr. Vickers when the Pike returned to carry him off yesterday. Chatfield, you’ll remember, said that the gold he’d withdrawn from the bank is hidden somewhere—well, there’s no doubt that this man Zachary Spurge knows where it is hidden. It’s there now—and the presumption is, of course, that these people on the Pike will certainly come in to this coast—somehow!—to get it. So in that case—eh?”
“Gad!—that’s valuable!” said Sir Cresswell, glancing again at Spurge, and with awakened interest. “Let me hear this story.”
Copplestone epitomized Spurge’s account, while the poacher listened admiringly, checking off the main points and adding a word or two where he considered the epitome lacking.
“Very smart of you, my man,” remarked Sir Cresswell, nodding benevolently at Spurge when the story was over. “You’re in a fair way to find yourself well rewarded. Now gentlemen!”
