“Old Sandy Donaldson!” she exclaimed. “That drunken old thing! He was simply talking nonsense as usual!”
“He seemed a little in liquor,” he admitted, “but you see I am a mere stranger. I didn’t realise what a loose authority I quoted. There is nothing in the report, I am certain. And this path leads only to Keldale House? Thank you very much. Good morning!”
How Mr. Carrington had obtained this erroneous information from a person whose back he had merely seen for a couple of minutes the night before, as the reprobate in question was being ejected from the Kings Arms, he did not stop to explain. In fact, at this point he showed no inclination to continue the conversation, but bowing very politely, continued his stroll.
But the effect of the conversation on him remained, and a very marked effect it appeared to be. He took no interest in the burn any longer, but paced slowly on, his eyes sometimes on the path and sometimes staring upwards at the Heavens. So far as his face revealed his sensations, they seemed to be compounded of surprise and perplexity. Several times he shook his head as though some very baffling point had cropped up in his thoughts, and once he murmured:
“I’m damned!”
When the path reached the policies of the house, he stopped and seemed to take some interest in his surroundings once more. For a moment it was clear that he was tempted to enter the plantations, and then he shook his head and turned back.
All the way home he remained immersed in thought and only recovered his nonchalant air as he entered the door of the Kings Arms. He was the same easygoing, smiling young man of fashion as he passed the time of day with Miss Peterkin; but when he had shut the door of his private sitting room and dropped into an easy chair over the fire, he again became so absorbed in thought that he had to be reminded that the hour of luncheon had passed.
Thought seemed to vanish during lunch, but when he had retired to his room again, it returned for another half hour. At the end of that time he apparently came to a decision, and jumping up briskly, repaired to the manageress’ room. And when Miss Peterkin was taken into his confidence, it appeared that the whole problem had merely concerned the question of taking either a shooting or a fishing for next season.
“I have been thinking,” said he, “that my best plan will perhaps be to call upon Mr. Simon Rattar and see whether he knows of anything to let. I gather that he is agent for several estates in the county. What do you advise?”
Miss Peterkin decidedly advised this course, so a few minutes later Mr. Carrington strolled off towards the lawyer’s office.
XXII
Mr. Carrington and the Fiscal
The card handed in to Mr. Simon Rattar contained merely the name “Mr. F. T. Carrington” and the address “Sports Club.” Simon gazed at it cautiously and in silence for the better part of a minute, and when he glanced up at his head clerk to tell him that Mr. Carrington might be admitted, Mr. Ison was struck by the curious glint in his eye. It seemed to him to indicate that the fiscal was very wide awake at that moment; it struck him also that Mr. Rattar was not altogether surprised by the appearance of this visitor.
The agreeable stranger began by explaining very frankly that he thought of renting a place for next season where he could secure good fishing and a little shooting, and wondered if any of the properties Mr. Rattar was agent for would suit him. Simon grunted and waited for this overture to develop.
“What about Keldale House?” the sporting visitor suggested. “That’s the place where the murder was committed, isn’t it?” and then he laughed. “Your eye betrays you, Mr. Rattar!” said he.
The lawyer seemed to start ever so slightly.
“Indeed?” he murmured.
“Look here,” said Carrington with a candid smile, “let’s put our cards on the table. You know my business?”
“Are you a detective?” asked the lawyer.
Mr. Carrington smiled and nodded.
“I am; or rather I prefer to call myself a private enquiry agent. People expect so much of a detective, don’t they?”
Simon grunted, but made no other comment.
“In a case like this,” continued Carrington, “when one is called in weeks too late and the household broom and scrubbing brush and garden rake have removed most of the possible clues, and witnesses’ recollections have developed into picturesque legends, it is better to rouse as few expectations as possible, since it is probably impossible to find anything out. However, in the capacity of a mere enquiry agent I have come to pick up anything I can. May I smoke?”
He asked in his usual easygoing voice and with his usual candid smile, and then his eye was arrested by an inscription printed in capital letters, and hung in a handsome frame upon the office wall. It ran:
My Three Rules of Life
I do not smoke.
I lay by a third of my income.
I never ride when I can walk.
Beneath these precepts appeared the lithographed signature of an eminent philanthropist, but it seemed reasonable to assume that they also formed the guiding maxims of Mr. Simon Rattar.
His visitor politely apologised for his question.
“I had not noticed this warning,” said he.
“Smoke if you like. My clients sometimes do. I don’t myself,” said the lawyer.
His visitor thanked him, placed a cigarette in his amber holder, lit it, and let his eyes follow the smoke upwards.
Mr. Rattar, on his part, seemed in his closest, most taciturn humour. His grunt and his nod had, in fact, seldom formed a greater proportion of his conversation. He made no further comment at all now, but waited in silence for his visitor to proceed.
“Well,” resumed Carrington, “the simple facts of the case are these. I have been engaged through a certain firm
