But Loreen, from whom alone I could hope to glean any information, was shut in her room, and did not come out, though I called her more than once, which, if it left my curiosity unsatisfied, at least allowed me to quit the house without awakening hers.
William was waiting for me at the gate when I descended. He was in the best of humors, and helped me into the buggy he had resurrected from some corner of the old stable, with a grimace of suppressed mirth which argued well for the peace of our proposed drive. The horse’s head was turned away from the quarter we were bound for, but as we were ostensibly on our way to the village, this showed but common prudence on William’s part, and, as such, met with my entire approbation.
Mr. Gryce and his men were hard at work when we passed them. Knowing the detective so well, and rating at its full value his undoubted talent for reading the motives of those about him, I made no attempt at cajolery in the explanation I proffered of our sudden departure, but merely said, in my old, peremptory way, that I found waiting at the gate so tedious that I had accepted William’s invitation to drive into town. Which, while it astonished the old gentleman, did not really arouse his suspicions, as a more conciliatory manner and speech might have done. This disposed of, we drove rapidly away.
William’s sense of humor once aroused was not easily allayed. He seemed so pleased with his errand that he could talk of nothing else, and turned the subject over and over in his clumsy way, till I began to wonder if he had seen through the object of our proposed visit and was making me the butt of his none too brilliant wit.
But no, he was really amused at the part he was called upon to play, and, once convinced of this, I let his humor run on without check till we had reentered Lost Man’s Lane from the other end and were in sight of the low sloping roof of Deacon Spear’s old-fashioned farmhouse.
Then I thought it time to speak.
“William,” said I, “Deacon Spear is too good a man, and, as I take it, is in possession of too great worldly advantages for you to be at enmity with him. Remember that he is a neighbor, and that you are a landed proprietor in this lane.”
“Good for you!” was the elegant reply with which this young boor honored me. “I didn’t think you had such an eye for the main chance.”
“Deacon Spear is rich, is he not?” I pursued, with an ulterior motive he was far from suspecting.
“Rich? Why, I don’t know; that depends upon what you city ladies call rich; I shouldn’t call him so, but then, as you say, I am a landed proprietor myself.”
His laugh was boisterously loud, and as we were then nearly in front of the Deacon’s house, it rang in through the open windows, causing such surprise, that more than one head bobbed up from within to see who dared to laugh like that in Lost Man’s Lane. While I noted these heads and various other small matters about the house and place, William tied up the horse and held out his hand for me to descend.
“I begin to suspect,” he whispered as he helped me out, “why you are so anxious to have me on good terms with the Deacon.” At which insinuation I attempted to smile, but only succeeded in forcing a grim twitch or two to my lips, for at that moment and before I could take one step towards the house, a couple of pigeons rose up from behind the house and flew away in a beeline for Mother Jane’s cottage.
“Ha!” thought I; “my instinct has not failed me. Behold the link between this house and the hut in which those tokens of crime were found,” and was for the moment so overwhelmed by this confirmation of my secret suspicions, that I quite forgot to advance, and stood stupidly staring after these birds now rapidly disappearing in the distance.
William’s voice aroused me.
“Come!” he cried. “Don’t be bashful. I don’t think much of Deacon Spear myself, but if you do—Why, what’s the matter now?” he asked, with a startled look at me. I had clutched him by the arm.
“Nothing,” I protested, “only—you see that window over there? The one in the gable of the barn, I mean. I thought I saw a hand thrust out—a white hand that dropped crumbs. Have they a child on this place?”
“No,” replied William, in an odd voice and with an odd look toward the window I have mentioned. “Did you really see a hand there?”
“I most certainly did,” I answered, with an air of indifference I was far from feeling. “Someone is up in the hayloft; perhaps it is Deacon Spear himself. If so, he will have to come down, for now that we are here, I am determined you shall do your duty.”
“Deacon Spear can’t climb that hayloft,” was the perplexed answer I received in a hardly intelligible mutter. “I’ve been there, and I know; only a boy or a very agile young
