Then he told her who he was and how he wanted to prove something against a certain enemy of his, and had come here hoping to find a missing clue.
He paused, and looked at her meditatively. “I think I ought to tell you, my child,” he went on, “that if I can prove what I want, your grandmother may also be involved. Did you know she had once been tried for the murder of your grandfather?”
“Yes,” she faltered. “I’ve heard that there was a trial. But I thought she was proved innocent.”
“Yes. But there is such a thing as a miscarriage of justice. I believe that your grandfather was murdered, and that my enemy—whose name I don’t care to mention till I have more to go upon—had a hand in the matter. And I have a shrewd suspicion that the widow was his accomplice. Under these circumstances, will you still be willing to help me?”
Hazel first turned red, and then she turned white, and her lower lip began to tremble. She disliked the widow, but had to admit that she had never been unkindly treated by her, and, though not her own kith and kin, she was the nearest approach to a relative she could remember. But, on the other hand, Hazel belonged by tradition and breed to the votaries of the grim cult of the Law. Crime must not go unpunished; moreover (and here Hazel subscribed to a still more venerable code) one’s own kith and kin must not go unavenged.
But the very vehemence with which she longed to be rid of the widow’s control had bred a curious irrational sense of guilt with regard to her; and, into the bargain, she was terrified of her.
Supposing this clue should lead to nothing, and the widow discover that they had been imagining? How, in that case, should she dare to face her, to go on living under the same roof with her?
And yet … she was certain she had tried to murder their guest that night. How dared she? How dared she?
Hazel clenched her fists, and in a little gasping voice said, “Yes, sir, I’ll help you.”
“Good!” said Master Nathaniel briskly. “I want to take old Portunus’s advice—and dig under that herm in the orchard, this very night. Though, mind you, it’s just as likely as not to prove nothing but the ravings of a crazy mind; or else it may concern some buried treasure, or something else that has nothing to do with your grandfather’s murder. But, in the case of our finding a valuable bit of evidence, we must have witnesses. And I think we should have the lawman of the district with us; who is he?”
“It’s the Swan blacksmith, Peter Pease.”
“Is there any servant you trust whom you could send for him? Someone more attached to you than to the widow?”
“I can trust them all, and they all like me best,” she answered.
“Good. Go and wake a servant and send him off at once for the blacksmith. Tell him not to bring him up to the house, but to take him straight to the orchard … we don’t want to wake the widow before need be. And the servant can stay and help us with the job—the more witnesses the better.”
Hazel felt as if she was in a strange, rather terrible dream. But she crept up to the attic and aroused one of the unmarried labourers—who, according to the old custom, slept in their master’s house—and bade him ride into Swan and bring the blacksmith back with him on important business concerning the law.
Hazel calculated that he should get to Swan and back in less than an hour, and she and Master Nathaniel crept out of the house to wait for them in the orchard, each provided with a spade.
The moon was on the wane, but still sufficiently full to give a good light. She was, indeed, an orchard thief, for no fruit being left to rob, she had robbed the leaves of all their colour.
“Poor old moon!” chuckled Master Nathaniel, who was now in the highest of spirits, “always filching colours with which to paint her own pale face, and all in vain! But just look at your friend, at Master Herm. He does look knowing!”
For in the moonlight the old herm had found his element, and under her rays his stone flickered and glimmered into living silver flesh, while his archaic smile had gained a new significance.
“Excuse, me, sir,” said Hazel timidly, “but I couldn’t help wondering if the gentleman you suspected was … Dr. Leer.”
“What makes you think so?” asked Master Nathaniel sharply.
“I don’t quite know,” faltered Hazel. “I just—wondered.”
Before long they were joined by the labourer and the lawman blacksmith—a burly, jovial, red-haired rustic of about fifty.
“Good evening,” cried Master Nathaniel briskly, “I am Nathaniel Chanticleer” (he was sure that the news of his deposition could not yet have had time to travel to Swan) “and if my business were not very pressing and secret I would not, you may be sure, have had you roused from your bed at this ungodly hour. I have reason to think that something of great importance may be hidden under this herm, and I wanted you to be there to see that our proceedings are all in order,” and he laughed genially. “And here’s the guarantee that I’m no masquerader,” and he removed his signet ring and held it out to the blacksmith. It was engraved with his well-known crest, and with six chevrons, in token that six of his ancestors had been High Seneschals of Dorimare.
Both the blacksmith and the labourer were at first quite overwhelmed by learning his identity, but he pressed a spade into the hand of each and begged them to begin digging without further delay.
For some time they toiled away in silence, and then one of the spades
