Leaving the doctor and a couple of policemen to arrange matters with the housekeeper, the sergeant went outside, followed by the others. He turned to Cotherstone.
“I’m going down to Harborough’s cottage, at the other end of the Shawl,” he said. “I don’t expect to learn aught much there—yet—but I can see if he’s at home, anyway. If any of you gentlemen like to come down—”
Bent laid a hand on Cotherstone’s arm and turned him in the direction of his house.
“Brereton and I’ll go with the sergeant,” he said. “You must go home—Lettie’ll be anxious about things. Go down with him, Mr. Garthwaite—you’ll both hear more later.”
To Brereton’s great surprise, Cotherstone made no objection to this summary dismissal. He and Garthwaite went off in one direction; the others, led by the observant policeman who had found the empty pocketbook and recognized the peculiar properties of the cord, turned away in another.
“Where’s this we’re going now?” asked Brereton as he and Bent followed their leaders through the trees and down the slopes of the Shawl.
“To John Harborough’s cottage—at the other end of the hill,” answered Bent. “He’s the man they spoke of in there. He’s a queer character—a professional pig-killer, who has other trades as well. He does a bit of rat-catching, and a bit of mole-catching—and a good deal of poaching. In fact, he’s an odd person altogether, not only in character but in appearance. And the curious thing is that he’s got an exceedingly good-looking and accomplished daughter, a really superior girl who’s been well educated and earns her living as a governess in the town. Queer pair they make if you ever see them together!”
“Does she live with him?” asked Brereton.
“Oh yes, she lives with him!” replied Bent. “And I believe that they’re very devoted to each other, though everybody marvels that such a man should have such a daughter. There’s a mystery about that man—odd character that he is, he’s been well bred, and the folk hereabouts call him Gentleman Jack.”
“Won’t all this give the girl a fright?” suggested Brereton. “Wouldn’t it be better if somebody went quietly to the man’s cottage?”
But when they came to Harborough’s cottage, at the far end of the Shawl, it was all in darkness.
“Still, they aren’t gone to bed,” suddenly observed the policeman who had a faculty for seeing things. “There’s a good fire burning in the kitchen grate, and they wouldn’t leave that. Must be out, both of ’em.”
“Go in and knock quietly,” counselled the sergeant.
He followed the policeman up the flagged walk to the cottage door, and the other two presently went after them. In the starlight Brereton looked round at these new surroundings—an old, thatched cottage, set in a garden amongst trees and shrubs, with a lean-to shed at one end of it, and over everything an atmosphere of silence.
The silence was suddenly broken. A quick, light step sounded on the flagged path behind them, and the policemen turned their lamps in its direction. And Brereton, looking sharply round, became aware of the presence of a girl, who looked at these visitors wonderingly out of a pair of beautiful grey eyes.
VI
The Mayor
Here, then, thought Brereton, was Gentleman Jack’s daughter—the girl of whom Bent had just been telling him. He looked at her narrowly as she stood confronting the strange group. A self-possessed young woman, he said to himself—beyond a little heightening of colour, a little questioning look about eyes and lips she showed no trace of undue surprise or fear. Decidedly a good-looking young woman, too, and not at all the sort of daughter that a man of queer character would be supposed to have—refined features, an air of breeding, a suggestion of culture. And he noticed that as he and Bent raised their hats, the two policemen touched their helmets—they were evidently well acquainted with the girl, and eyed her with some misgiving as well as respect.
“Beg pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, who was obviously anything but pleased with his task. “But it’s like this, d’you see?—your father, now, does he happen to be at home?”
“What is it you want?” she asked. And beginning a glance of inquiry at the sergeant she finished it at Bent. “Has something happened, Mr. Bent?” she went on. “If you want my father, and he’s not in, then I don’t know where he is—he went out early in the evening, and he hadn’t returned when I left the house an hour ago.”
“I daresay it’s nothing,” replied Bent. “But the fact is that something has happened. Your neighbour at the other end of the wood—old Mr. Kitely, you know—he’s been found dead.”
Brereton, closely watching the girl, saw that this conveyed nothing to her, beyond the mere announcement. She moved towards the door of the cottage, taking a key from her muff.
“Yes?” she said. “And—I suppose you want my father to help? He may be in—he may have gone to bed.”
She unlocked the door, walked into the open living-room, and turning up a lamp which stood on the table, glanced around her.
“No,” she continued. “He’s not come in—so—”
“Better tell her, Mr. Bent,” whispered the sergeant. “No use keeping it back, sir—she’ll have to know.”
“The fact is,” said Bent, “Mr. Kitely—we’re afraid—has been murdered.”
The girl turned sharply at that; her eyes dilated, and a brighter tinge of colour came into her cheeks.
“Murdered!” she exclaimed. “Shot?”
Her eyes went past Bent to a corner of the room, and Brereton, following them, saw that there stood a gun, placed amongst a pile of fishing-rods and similar sporting implements. Her glance rested on it for only the fraction of a second; then it went back to Bent’s face.
“I’d better tell you everything,” said Bent quietly. “Mr. Kitely has been strangled. And the piece of cord with which it was done is—so the police here say—just such a piece as might have been cut off one of the cords which your
