It contained a carefully arranged mass of plants, which he laid out in rows, attaching to each a label upon which he scribbled its name. He was thus busily engaged, when he was interrupted by a loud knocking upon the door of the shop, which he had locked behind him.
The herbalist was not a man who allowed himself to be disturbed by trifles. He merely smiled and glanced at his plants, not a half of which were yet properly classified. Then he went towards the door. It had sometimes happened that one of his clients, in urgent need of his services, had hammered on the door during the hours when the shop was shut. Mr. Ludgrove, if he happened to be within, made a point of answering these summonses. At any hour he was prepared to do what he could to relieve pain or anxiety.
The door opened, disclosing a short, stout figure upon the step. The rather austere lines of Mr. Ludgrove’s face widened into a smile of hospitable welcome.
“Come in, Mr. Copperdock!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t been back more than a few minutes, but there’s a fire in the back room.”
Mr. Copperdock nodded. “Thanks, Ludgrove,” he said, as he came in. “I know you’re just back, I saw you come in. And I thought to myself that this was a very good chance of having a few minutes’ chat with you.”
“I’m only too glad you came over,” replied Mr. Ludgrove, leading the way to the back room. “Bring that chair up closer to the fire. I’ve just made myself a cup of cocoa. Will you have one, too? the kettle’s still boiling.”
“Not for me, thank you kindly all the same,” said Mr. Copperdock. “Cocoa’s not exactly in my line. A man of my age can’t afford to put on weight, you know.”
His eyes strayed towards a cupboard in the corner of the room, the door of which his host had already opened. From it appeared a bottle of whiskey and a siphon, which were placed on the table within reach of Mr. Copperdock’s hand. At a gesture from Mr. Ludgrove, the tobacconist poured himself out a drink and held it to his lips. It was noticeable that his hand trembled slightly as he did so.
For a minute or so Mr. Copperdock sat silently in his chair, glancing nervously about the room. It was obvious that he had something on his mind, but could not find the words in which to unburden himself. His host, skilled in the art of encouraging the tongue-tied, appeared not to notice his confusion, and strolled over towards the bench upon which his harvest was laid out.
Mr. Copperdock’s eyes followed him. “Hullo, did you bring that lot back with you this time?” he enquired in a tone which he endeavoured to render conversational.
“Yes, they’re rather a good collection,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “There are one or two quite scarce plants among them, of which I have been anxious to secure specimens for a long time. I had a most enjoyable time. You ought to have come with me, Mr. Copperdock.”
“I wish I had, I’d have been saved a deal of worry,” said Mr. Copperdock fervently. Then, with scarcely a pause, he added, “Do you know old Ben Colburn?”
“The baker at the other end of the street?” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “I always buy my bread at his shop, but I hardly know Ben Colburn himself, I have seen his son Dick several times. Isn’t Dick a friend of your lad’s?”
For an instant Mr. Copperdock made no reply. His face grew even redder than usual, and he picked with his fingers at the arms of his chair. Mr. Ludgrove, recognising the symptoms, knew that at last he was approaching the point of this late visit. He walked across the room, sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the fire, and waited.
“Old Ben Colburn’s dead,” blurted out the tobacconist at last, as though the words had been torn from his lips.
Mr. Ludgrove raised his eyebrows, “Indeed?” he murmured. “Rather a sudden end, surely? I was in the shop on Friday, talking to Dick, and he said nothing of his father being ill.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” said Mr. Copperdock grimly, “He wasn’t taken ill until about two o’clock yesterday afternoon, and he was dead by teatime.”
“The usual story in such cases, I suppose?” suggested Mr. Ludgrove. “A diseased heart, and a sudden attack ending fatally?”
“Worse than that,” replied Mr. Copperdock slowly. Then suddenly he raised his eyes and looked fixedly at his host. “What do you know about young Dick?” he asked.
It was the herbalist’s turn to hesitate, “I might reply that I am a customer of his,” he said at last. “It would be the truth, but not the whole truth. To you, I do not mind admitting in the strictest confidence that he has several times come to me for advice. You will forgive me if I am unable to tell you anything further.”
Mr. Copperdock nodded. It was well known that Mr. Ludgrove had never divulged even a hint of the curious stories which had been told him in hesitating whispers in the privacy of this very room. It was the certain knowledge that this was so which gave so many of his clients the courage to confess to him their most secret troubles.
“Well, put it this way,” said Mr. Copperdock. “You know that young Dick and his father didn’t hit it off quite, don’t you?”
“I may as well confess to that knowledge, since neither of them have made any secret of the fact,” replied Mr. Ludgrove.
“Old Ben was a bit of a character in his way,” continued Mr. Copperdock. “He used to drop in sometimes at the Cambridge Arms, and I got to know him quite well, in an offhand sort of way. He had the idea that
