then, and I must not dress. For the present, as Ellen had to go home, might he not show me the short way to my inn. It was not what I should have thought a short way, but it was delightfully secluded, and it led us by quite a curious number of places (a rather slippery plank over a disused lock will do as an example), where I fancied that an accident might have befallen an unwary man with a too wary companion. Perhaps it was only the condition of my nerves that day that made me a little proudly fancy such things, for I was not only highly strung, I was unusually exhilarated. It was a great change since our last meeting, for this time I felt that I had at last gained a definite advantage, and, little as he showed it, I thought I was talking with a desperate man. It is not safe to be dealing with a desperate man, but, if you happen not to pity him, it is not a disagreeable sensation. As we passed over a footbridge (I was going first, and there were stakes and big stones below on which a man might hurt himself if he fell) it was probably one of my fancies that the shadow of my companion, cast before him, made an odd, quick movement with its arm. Anyhow, I turned my head and said with a laugh what a handsome stick
Mr. Vane-Cartwright was carrying. I asked what wood it was. I did not ask whether it was loaded. He told me what wood it was, where he bought it and what he gave for it. He told me what an interesting medallion was set in the head of it, but he did not show me that medallion. After that I had a further fancy. It was that my guide took less polite pains than he had taken to let me pass first through every narrow place. Let me say at once that I do not suppose he very seriously thought of attacking me there; perhaps his eyes were open for any very favourable spot, but perhaps it was all my fancy. In spite of that fancy I was thoroughly enjoying my walk. It was a new sensation, to me to be doing most of the conversation, and I was surprised and pleased with myself to think that I was doing it well. Perhaps I was doing it well, but I do not think it was my guidance of the talk which brought it back to the subject of Trethewy. Vane-Cartwright managed to tell me that he hoped no rumour of suspicion attached to Trethewy here, or to anyone at all connected with him. Would I mind trying to find this out from the landlord at the inn. He was a greater gossip than any old woman in the place, and a shrewder one. “I would not,” he added, “trust everything he says, for he embroiders on what he has heard; but he hears everything, and he is shrewd, and I discovered a few weeks back that he had an acquaintance in your old parish.”
By this time we were at the inn door, and I noticed the landlord’s name, which was the same as that of a man of doubtful character who had come to Long Wilton just before I left it. Several people were about, and they might, if they chose, hear every word of what he spoke, except when he dropped his voice. “Stop,” he cried, and I stood still. “I am going to be open with you, Mr. Driver, as open as I thought you would have been with me. I have been trying to bring myself to it all this walk, and I will now. I have not said what I meant” (here he dropped his voice) “about Trethewy. I have really” (this in a whisper) “begun to suspect him myself. Oh, yes, you laugh; I know what you suspect of me. Do you think I cannot see what interpretation you put upon every one of my doings that you know of, in your own house, at Peters’ before—long ago at the island of Sulu, I daresay. You think” (this time so loud that I thought the landlord and other men must hear, though, as I reflected later, the phrase he used was so chosen that a countryman would not readily take it in), “you think I am the assassin of Eustace Peters. Well, I am not.” We turned and walked away again from the inn. “I know,” he continued, “how things look. I should not wonder if I were fated to hang for this. I should not greatly care now, for I have thought it so long, but hanging for it and being guilty of it are different matters.” He kept his eyes fixed steadily on me all this while. “You thought things looked ugly for Trethewy once, did you not? But I know you thought him innocent when it was hard to think so. I do not ask you to believe me, but I ask you to keep the same firm, clear mind now. You think Trethewy did not kill Peters. So do I. He did not actually kill him, he no more did that than you did. Now I know you will answer me straight. You are too brave a man to care about playing the part you played at Florence. Have you found or have you not found any direct evidence whatever, true or false, that convicts any man—convicts him if it is true—of making those tracks, or of going to or coming from the place where they were made? Shall I repeat my question? Is it not clear, or are you still uncertain whether you will answer it?” I could do no other; I told him truly that I had nothing but inference to go upon as to who made those tracks, and I told him that my inference
