"Lena!" (the pet name slipped out unnoticed by both in Laurence's astonishment)--"Lena, you are a genius. You have solved the mystery."

"On the contrary, I am more in the dark than ever, for in addition to the secret of the man's enmity against your father, we have now to discover who is the strange creature of the shrill voice and ape-like agility, what his connection is with the people of the Dene, and, lastly, why, as I am firmly convinced, he is imprisoned in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the house you visited last night."

CHAPTER XVI

THE MAN FROM BURTON'S

Doctor Bathurst visited the house a second time on the day following that when the Squire met with his injury. He reported that all was going on as well as could be expected, though the patient still remained in an unconscious state.

A telegram had reached Laurence early in the afternoon, informing him that "Nurse arrives nine to-night," and at precisely the hour specified in the message a cab drew up at the outside gate of the Manse, and presently a tall cadaverous individual in sombre garments, that somehow suggested the undertaker, was ushered into the dining-room, where supper and Laurence awaited him.

"The--ahem--gentleman from Burton's!" said the young man as the nurse-detective stepped briskly into the room.

"Between yourself and me, yes; to others simply Potter, a qualified nurse," was the new-comer's reply.

"Ah, then your name is Potter?"

"Yes, Oliver Potter, formerly of New Scotland Yard. And the matter requiring my help?"

Laurence proceeded to explain, first motioning to the man to seat himself and try his hand at the viands. Not only did he describe the attempts on his father's life, but detailed his visit to the Dene, his adventure in the barn, and the incidents of the bicycle, which had been taken and eventually returned, and of the appearance of Meadows in the yard on the previous night.

"Ha! quite a nice little mystery," the detective remarked, with his mouth full, when Laurence had finished his narration of the events that seemed to have any bearing on the case in point; "a nice little mystery, apparently somewhat tangled, but no doubt quite superficial."

"I warrant that you will find it anything but superficial," responded Carrington, somewhat nettled at the remark, which seemed a reflection upon the efforts of Lena and himself to obtain some clue that might lead to the detection of the would-be murderer of the Squire. He went on to sketch briefly Miss Scott's undoubtedly ingenious manner of accounting for the various mysterious circ.u.mstances.

The detective smiled sarcastically.

"Ingenious, as you say, but most improbable. There must certainly be a simpler solution," he said. "But what of the patient--is he progressing as could be expected? Yes. That is good. It will leave me more time to work in my investigating capacity. By the way, Mr. Carrington, I suppose you don't know if your father belongs to any societies--of an unusual kind, I mean? Nihilistic, for instance, or of a secret nature?"

"No, I am not aware of his connection with any illegal inst.i.tutions,"

replied Laurence coldly. "I may as well mention that my father is a gentleman and a magistrate."

"Quite so. I ascertained that such was the case before I left London--reference books, you know. I should have discovered by this time, though, that he was a gentleman by your boots."

"My boots!"

"Exactly. I can always tell a gentleman by his boots and a lady by her fingers--rings, you know. If you are a gentleman presumably your father is also."

It was Laurence's turn to smile. He perceived that Mr. Potter was trying to impress him, but he was not impressed in the least.

"You're going to treat this case too lightly," he said; "it's something out of the common. There are none of your cheap-fictional secret societies in this mystery. There's something much deeper in it than that. A plot it is, and a well-laid one, too, that will take even you a fair amount of skill to bring to light."

There was a marked emphasis on the word "you" that did not escape Mr.

Oliver Potter's notice.

"Then you think we can, in your father's case, exclude any idea of a secret connection with some society, such as that I refer to? Take that useful word 'jar,' then, and remove the centre letter."

"Really, Mr. Potter, I fail to understand you. Is this professional jargon necessary? Personally, I am a plain-spoken person." Laurence had taken an almost immediate dislike to the man from Burton's, whom he perceived to be as full of the sense of his own importance as the proverbial egg is full of meat.

The imperturbable detective, however, seemed accustomed to what he no doubt considered the amateur jealousy of his employers, and merely explained that he was forgetting Laurence's presence.

"You see," he said, "I always cla.s.sify my notes in a simple form--invented by myself--my own idea, sir. In such a case as this I start from the commencement. There must be some cause of these repeated attacks on Mr. Carrington's life. What is it? The possible ones are jealousy, anarchy, robbery--J. A. R., see? Rather novel, isn't it? You can't forget things when you select a word to remember them by. Well, then, you say anarchy is out of the question. This leaves us with jealousy and robbery. Are you aware of anything having been stolen on the occasion of last night's attempt at murder? No. Well, perhaps you haven't had time to find out whether any valuable has disappeared. Are you aware, then, of anyone who is jealous of your father? Any woman with whom there was some engagement or arrangement in byegone days? Any fellow-magistrate with a grudge? Anyone of that kind? No. Then the problem is harder than I antic.i.p.ated. J. A. R., it must be one of those.

My selection of the words is almost infallible. Stay! There's still the robbery possibility undecided. Perhaps your father possessed something, of the existence of which you were not aware. Yes, it must be a case of robbery. At any rate, we will start with that idea. Squire attacked twice. On first occasion out-of-doors. Presumably, the article the attacking party wants is something the Squire carries about on his person, incriminating letter, or what not. On the second attempt he evidently captures the 'something,' and decamps, leaving the Squire half dead--or, let me see, it was three-quarters dead, wasn't it?" (This without the ghost of a smile.) "Problem, find the desperate party, and restore Squire to health. Yes, a nice little job. Thanks for sending for me. I don't often fail; never, I might say, except, of course, in very knotty cases. Well, good-night, Mr. Carrington, or perhaps you won't mind taking me to the sick-room? I've my bag here containing everything--nothing like a bag, you know, for holding things--and I'll take night duty to-day. Your good housekeeper'll want a little rest, no doubt. Upstairs, then."

Laurence opened the door and led the way to the Squire's bedroom.

Horrified is the only word that will adequately express his impression of the man from Burton's. He had heard so much of the adroitness and ability of the nurse-detectives that he was at a loss to understand Potter's behaviour, which was almost that of a lunatic. The thin, garrulous specimen of humanity, with his absurd "ingenious words" and his nonsensical hypotheses, seemed more like a mummer than an investigator of crime. But no sooner had he entered the sick-room than the young man saw that whatever his very evident shortcomings as a detective might be, he was an experienced nurse. Every action pointed to that fact, and when Laurence, accompanied by Mrs. Featherston, left the sick-room with the intention of retiring to bed, he was quite satisfied that his unconscious parent was in safe hands. But he felt instinctively that, as an a.s.sistant in solving the mystery, Lena was worth a dozen such as Oliver Potter.

Possibly young Mr. Carrington would have been surprised had he seen the change that came over the features of the man from Burton's when left alone with his insensible patient.

The stupid, grinning expression on his face gave place to one of cunning and delight.

"Aha, young man," he muttered to himself, "you've put me down as a fool, as I intended that you should. We'll see who is the fool before long. It was very necessary," he went on, "that he should think me a fool, too, for otherwise he would be eternally suspicious. As it is, he will consider me a mere child in the investigating line, which will give me the opportunities I want.

"As if I couldn't see through the whole thing! Green's 'Landed Gentry'

told me how much Laurence would gain by his father's death. No doubt the youth has got into hot water. Creditors pressing. Bills much overdue. I know the sort of thing. I only wonder he wasn't more artful in making his plans. He looked a smart fellow, but then, appearances are deceitful. At any rate, he seems a duffer to have failed to murder the old chap both times.

"I wonder n.o.body has seen through his game before. I must find the accomplice who played the part of the cycling highwayman on the heath.

The idea of his being on a cycle is novel.

"I presume, when he found that the accomplice hadn't polished the old chap off, he decided to do the job himself. In order to avoid the possible suspicion of the women staying in the house he invents the story of the interview with the imaginary Major Jones-Farnell, and goes off to this Durley Dene, or pretends to. No sooner does he find that the old man has retired to bed than he goes in and makes a desperate attempt to kill him. He knows that he must kill the Squire outright, or he will be exposed immediately, should the old man live and be able to tell the tale. Unfortunately for him he is interrupted in some way, and leaves his father only half dead. The doctor compels him to send for me, otherwise he would not probably have done so. So long as the Squire remains unconscious Laurence is safe. If he recovers, then his a.s.sailant is done for. Therefore, the chances are that a final attempt to do for the poor old man will be made, if there is any probability of his recovering consciousness. I must be on the alert."

But he was not as good as his word, and evidently made but a feeble defence against the onslaught of Morpheus, for within a very few minutes of settling down in the cosy arm-chair by the bedside he was fast asleep.

And while he slept that which he antic.i.p.ated came to pa.s.s.

CHAPTER XVII

MR. POTTER'S SOLUTION

The man from Burton's was a light sleeper--at least, so he believed himself to be. He woke from his arm-chair doze very suddenly--noticing by the clock on the mantelpiece that he had slept for nearly two hours.

He was conscious of having been awakened by some sound. Yet there was no one in the room. He started up from the chair. Was it fancy that, as he did so, he heard the closing of a door, as though someone had quietly left the room?

He glanced at the bed. Yes, someone had entered the sick-room, and for the hideous purpose that he had conceived to be possible. Only one thing a.s.sured him of this fact, but it was quite enough. It told him all.

A pillow which had reposed at the foot of the great bed when he had first entered the room was no longer in that place. It had been shifted to the other end, and now lay firmly pressed down upon the unconscious patient's face. Here was yet another attempt to murder the unhappy Squire. It had been placed there to suffocate him.

Hastily, yet gently, the detective raised it from its position, and flung it into a corner. So recently had it been placed upon the patient's upturned face that no harm had been done. But Mr. Potter shuddered to think what would have happened had he not awakened in time to avert the catastrophe.

His first duty had been that of "nurse," now his detective instincts a.s.serted themselves. While he had waited to learn whether the Squire yet lived, he had allowed the would-be murderer time to make good his escape. But he hurriedly opened the door of the sick-room and peered out into the dark pa.s.sage. Not a sound disturbed the silence of night. Mr.

Potter muttered something of the nature of an oath as he realised how he had been caught napping in both senses of the word. The heartless son, Laurence, of whose guilt he was so confident, had nearly got the better of him. He made up for his shortcoming by keeping awake and alert during the remaining hours of his watch. But nothing happened--no one came, and when Mrs. Featherston arrived at half-past seven to relieve him for a short period he threw up for the time the role of nurse, and walked out of the sick-room in his investigator's capacity to learn what he could about the true facts of the attack on the moor.