About twenty yards from the entrance, they stopped at a resting-place where the rock-path widened out till it was some five feet in breadth. Behind it was a smooth face of rock six or seven feet in height, a fresh narrow ledge separating it from the next step in that giant’s stairway. “Curious, isn’t it,” said Brinkman, “the way these rocks are piled against one another? Look at that ledge that runs along, over there to the right, almost like the rack in a railway carriage! What accident made that, or was it some forgotten human design?” It looked, indeed, as if it might have been meant for the larder-shelf of some outlaw who had hidden there in days gone by. A piece of white paper—some sandwich paper doubtless, that had fallen from above—tried to complete the illusion. “Yes,” said Bredon, “you expect to see a notice saying it’s for light articles only. By Jove, this is a place!” Forgetting his tremors, he passed by Brinkman, and went exploring further along the gorge. Brinkman followed slowly, almost reluctantly. There was no more conversation till they reached the end of the gorge and climbed up an easy path on to the highroad.
Now, surely, if there were going to be any confidential disclosures, they would come. To Bredon’s surprise his companion now seemed to have grown moody and uncommunicative; whatever openings were tried he not only failed to follow them up but seemed, by his monosyllabic answers, to be discouraging all approach. Bredon abandoned the effort at last, and returned to the Load of Mischief thoroughly dissatisfied with himself, and more completely mystified than ever.
XV
A Scrap of Paper
Leyland met him immediately on his return. He had heard from Angela that Bredon had gone out for a walk with Brinkman, and at Brinkman’s invitation; something too of the abruptness and the eagerness with which the invitation was issued. Clearly, he was anxious to get first news about Brinkman’s disclosures. There was still half an hour or so to waste before luncheon; and Bredon, taking a leaf out of his wife’s book, suggested the alehouse bench as a suitable place for talking things over.
“Well?” asked Leyland. “I never dared to hope that Brinkman would react so quickly. What did he say? Or rather, what can you tell me of what he said?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just took me for a walk to the gorge and back.”
“I say, old thing, are you playing quite fair? I mean, if Brinkman only consented to talk to you in confidence, by all means say so, and I’ll have to be content.”
“But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word he mightn’t have said in the parlour to all of us. I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“Look here, it’s absurd trying to palm that off on me. I know you’re more scrupulous than I am about these things; but really, what harm can it do to tell me that Brinkman has confided to you? It doesn’t make it any easier or any harder for me to put you into the witness-box; and short of that I can’t get it out of you if you don’t want to tell me. I won’t badger you; I won’t try and worm it out of you; honestly I won’t. But don’t pretend that you’re still as ignorant of Brinkman’s movements this last week as I am.”
“What the devil am I to say? Can’t you believe a fellow when he tells the truth? I tell you that all the way to the gorge he talked about anything that came into his head; and coming back from the gorge he wouldn’t talk about anything at all—I simply couldn’t get him to talk.”
“And at the gorge?”
“He talked about the gorge. A regular morning with Herr Baedeker. There really isn’t anything more to it.”
“Look here, let’s get this straight. We put up a conversation together in a place where we know for a fact that Brinkman’s listening behind the wall—and it isn’t the first time he’s listened to us, either. I explain in a loud voice that I’ve taken out a warrant, or rather that I’m just going to take out a warrant, for his arrest, and that his best chance of saving himself from arrest is to confide in you or me. An hour or so afterward he comes up to you, while you’re sitting out there with Mrs. Bredon in the middle of a conversation. He takes no notice at all of Mrs. Bredon, but asks you to come out for a morning walk—on the transparent excuse that he wants to show you this beastly ditch of his. And then he proceeds to waste more than an hour of his time and yours by talking platitudes about the scenery. Are we really going to sit down and admit that?”
“Confound it all; we’ve got to. I’m no better pleased about it than you are. But, God knows, I gave him every chance of having a talk if he wanted to.”
“Do you think he was trying to pump you, perhaps? Can’t you remember at all what he did talk about?”
“Talked about Pulteney a little. Said he was a typical schoolmaster, or something of that sort. Oh, yes, and he talked about geology—probable age of the earth, if I remember right. Asked me whether I’d been here before. Asked me whether I’d been abroad much. I really can’t recall his saying anything else.”
“And you’re sure you said nothing which could frighten him, which could put him off?”
“I couldn’t have
