Lost Man’s Lane

to my old plan of reasoning to make anything out of the situation in which I thus so unexpectedly found myself. The dove had brought the ring into old Mother Jane’s hands, but whence and through whose agency? This was as much a secret as before, but the longer I contemplated it, the more I realized that it need not remain a secret long; that we had simply to watch the other doves, note where they lighted, and in whose barn-doors they were welcome, for us to draw inferences that might lead to revelations before the day was out. If Deacon Spear⁠—But Deacon Spear’s house had been examined as well as that of every other resident in the lane. This I knew, but it had not been examined by me, and unwilling as I was to challenge the accuracy or thoroughness of a search led on by such a man as Mr. Gryce, I could not but feel that, with such a hint as I had received from the episode in the hut, it would be a great relief to my mind to submit these same premises to my own somewhat penetrating survey, no man in my judgment having the same quickness of eyesight in matters domestic as a woman trained to know every inch of a house and to measure by a hair’s-breadth every fall of drapery within it.

But how in the name of goodness was I to obtain an opportunity for this survey. Had we not one and all been bidden to confine our attention to what was going on in Mother Jane’s cottage, and would it not be treason to Lucetta to run the least risk of awakening apprehension in any possibly guilty mind at the other end of the road? Yes, but for all that I could not keep still if fate, or my own ingenuity, offered me the least chance of pursuing the clue I had wrung from our imbecile neighbor at the risk of my life. It was not in my nature to do so, any more than it was in my nature to yield up my present advantage to Mr. Gryce without making a personal effort to utilize it. I forgot that I failed in this once before in my career, or rather I recalled this failure, perhaps, and felt the great need of retrieving myself.

When, therefore, in my slow stroll towards the house I encountered William in the shrubbery, I could not forbear accosting him with a question or two.

“William,” I remarked, gently rubbing the side of my nose with an irresolute forefinger and looking at him from under my lids, “that was a scurvy trick you played Deacon Spear yesterday.”

He stood amazed, then burst into one of his loud laughs.

“You think so?” he cried. “Well, I don’t. He only got what he deserved, the hard, sanctimonious sneak!”

“Do you say that,” I inquired, with some spirit, “because you dislike the man, or because you really believe him to be worthy of hatred?”

William’s amusement at this argued little for my hopes.

“We are very much interested in the Deacon,” he suggested, with a leer; which insolence I allowed to pass unnoticed, because it best suited my plan.

“You have not answered my question,” I remarked, with a forced air of anxiety.

“Oh, no,” he cried, “so I haven’t”; and he tried to look serious too. “Well, well, to be just, I have nothing really against the man but his mean ways. Still, if I were going to risk my life on a hazard as to who is the evil spirit of this lane, I should say Spear and done with it, he has such cursed small eyes.”

“I don’t think his eyes are too small,” I returned loftily. Then with a sudden change of manner, I suggested anxiously: “And my opinion is shared by your sisters. They evidently think very well of him.”

“Oh!” he sneered; “girls are no judges. They don’t know a good man when they see him, and they don’t know a bad. You mustn’t go by what they say.”

I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask if he did not think Lucetta sufficiently understood herself to be trusted in what she contemplated doing that night. But this was neither in accordance with my plan, nor did it seem quite loyal to Lucetta, who, so far as I knew, had not communicated her intentions to this booby brother. I therefore changed this question into a repetition of my first remark:

“Well, I still think the trick you played Deacon Spear yesterday a poor one; and I advise you, as a gentleman, to go and ask his pardon.”

This was such a preposterous proposition, he could not hold his peace.

“I ask his pardon!” he snorted. “Well, Saracen, did you ever hear the like of that! I ask Deacon Spear’s pardon for obliging him to be treated with as great attention as I had been myself.”

“If you do not,” I went on, unmoved, “I shall go and do it myself. I think that is what my friendship for you warrants. I am determined that while I am a visitor in your house no one shall be able to pick a flaw in your conduct.”

He stared (as he might well do), tried to read my face, then my intentions, and failing to do both, which was not strange, broke into noisy mirth.

“Oh, ho!” he laughed. “So that is your game, is it! Well, I never! Saracen, Miss Butterworth wants to reform me; wants to make one of her sleek city chaps out of William Knollys. She’ll have hard work of it, won’t she? But then we’re beginning to like her well enough to let her try. Miss Butterworth, I’ll go with you to Deacon Spear. I haven’t had so much chance for fun in a twelvemonth.”

I had not expected such success, and was duly thankful. But I made no reference to it aloud. On the contrary, I took his complaisance as a matter of course, and, hiding