He took a careful look at Bent’s friend as they all sat down to supper—out of sheer habit of inspecting any man who was new to him. And after a glance or two he said to himself that this young limb of the law was a sharp chap—a keen-eyed, alert, noticeable fellow, whose every action and tone denoted great mental activity. He was sharper than Bent, said Cotherstone, and in his opinion, that was saying a good deal. Bent’s ability was on the surface; he was an excellent specimen of the business man of action, who had ideas out of the common but was not so much given to deep and quiet thinking as to prompt doing of things quickly decided on. He glanced from one to the other, mentally comparing them. Bent was a tall, handsome man, blonde, blue-eyed, ready of word and laugh; Brereton, a medium-sized, compact fellow, dark of hair and eye, with an olive complexion that almost suggested foreign origin: the sort, decided Cotherstone, that thought a lot and said little. And forcing himself to talk he tried to draw the stranger out, watching him, too, to see if he admired Lettie. For it was one of Cotherstone’s greatest joys in life to bring folk to his house and watch the effect which his pretty daughter had on them, and he was rewarded now in seeing that the young man from London evidently applauded his friend’s choice and paid polite tribute to Lettie’s charm.
“And what might you have been doing with Mr. Brereton since he got down yesterday?” asked Cotherstone. “Showing him round, of course?”
“I’ve been tormenting him chiefly with family history,” answered Bent, with a laughing glance at his sweetheart. “You didn’t know I was raking up everything I could get hold of about my forbears, did you? Oh, I’ve been busy at that innocent amusement for a month past—old Kitely put me up to it.”
Cotherstone could barely repress an inclination to start in his chair; he himself was not sure that he did not show undue surprise.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Kitely? My tenant? What does he know about your family? A stranger!”
“Much more than I do,” replied Bent. “The old chap’s nothing to do, you know, and since he took up his abode here he’s been spending all his time digging up local records—he’s a good bit of an antiquary, and that sort of thing. The Town Clerk tells me Kitely’s been through nearly all the old town documents—chests full of them! And Kitely told me one day that if I liked he’d trace our pedigree back to I don’t know when, and as he seemed keen, I told him to go ahead. He’s found out a lot of interesting things in the borough records that I never heard of.”
Cotherstone had kept his eyes on his plate while Bent was talking; he spoke now without looking up.
“Oh?” he said, trying to speak unconcernedly. “Ah!—then you’ll have been seeing a good deal of Kitely lately?”
“Not so much,” replied Bent. “He’s brought me the result of his work now and then—things he’s copied out of old registers, and so on.”
“And what good might it all amount to?” asked Cotherstone, more for the sake of talking than for any interest he felt. “Will it come to aught?”
“Bent wants to trace his family history back to the Conquest,” observed Brereton, slyly. “He thinks the original Bent came over with the Conqueror. But his old man hasn’t got beyond the Tudor period yet.”
“Never mind!” said Bent. “There were Bents in Highmarket in Henry the Seventh’s time, anyhow. And if one has a pedigree, why not have it properly searched out? He’s a keen old hand at that sort of thing, Kitely. The Town Clerk says he can read some of our borough charters of six hundred years ago as if they were newspaper articles.”
Cotherstone made no remark on that. He was thinking. So Kitely was in close communication with Bent, was he?—constantly seeing him, being employed by him? Well, that cut two ways. It showed that up to now he had taken no advantage of his secret knowledge and might therefore be considered as likely to play straight if he were squared by the two partners. But it also proved that Bent would probably believe anything that Kitely might tell him. Certainly Kitely must be dealt with at once. He knew too much, and was obviously too clever, to be allowed to go about unfettered. Cost what it might, he must be attached to the Mallalieu-Cotherstone interest. And what Cotherstone was concentrating on just then, as he ate and drank, was—how to make that attachment in such a fashion that Kitely would have no option but to keep silence. If only he and Mallalieu could get a hold on Kitely, such as that which he had on them—
“Well,” he said as supper came to an end, “I’m sorry, but I’m forced to leave you gentlemen for an hour, at any rate—can’t be helped. Lettie, you must try to amuse ’em until I come back. Sing Mr. Brereton some of your new songs. Bent—you know where the whisky and the cigars are—help yourselves—make yourselves at home.”
“You won’t be more than an hour, father?” asked Lettie.
“An hour’ll finish what I’ve got to do,” replied Cotherstone, “maybe less—I’ll be as quick as I can, anyway, my lass.”
He hurried off without further ceremony; a moment later and he had exchanged the warmth and brightness of his comfortable dining-room for the chill night and the darkness. And as he turned out of his garden he was thinking still further and harder. So Windle Bent was one of those chaps who have what folk call family pride, was he? Actually proud of the fact that he had a pedigree, and could say who his grandfather and grandmother were?—things on which most people were as hazy as they were indifferent. In that case, if
