"Yes, in a sense. Yet Arthur told me that he had a revolver in his pocket when you met him that night at the mess and persuaded him to leave the business in your hands. You saved our boy, Grant. Gad, ask Mollie what she thinks!"

"Has he been steady since?"

"A rock, my dear chap--adamant where women are concerned. His mother is beginning to worry about him; he wouldn't look at Helen Forbes, and Madge Bolingbrooke does her skirt-dances in vain. Both deuced nice girls, too."

Colonel Grant had navigated the talk into a safe channel, and kept it there. He never spoke of the past.

At dinner a man asked him if he was reading the Elmsdale sensation. He had not even heard of it, so the tale of Betsy and George Pickering, of Martin Bolland and Angle Saumarez was poured into his ears.

"I am interested," said his neighbor, "because I knew poor Pickering. He hunted regularly with the York and Ainsty."

"Saumarez!" murmured Colonel Grant. "I once met a man of that name. He was shot on the Modder River."

"This girl may be his daughter. The paper describes her mother as a lady of independent means, visiting the moors for her health."

"Poor Saumarez! From what I remember of his character, the child must be a chip of the same block--he was an irresponsible daredevil, a terror among women. But he died gallantly."

"There's a lot about her in the local paper, which reached me this morning. Would you care to see it?"

"Newspapers are so inaccurate. They never know the facts."

Yet the colonel, not caring to play bridge, asked later for the loan of the journal named by his informant, and read therein the story of the village tragedy. As fate willed it, the writer was the reporter of the _Messenger_, and his account was replete with local knowledge.

Yes, Mrs. Saumarez was the widow of Colonel Saumarez, late of the Hussars. But--what was this?

"Martin Court Bolland, a bright-faced boy, of an intelligence far greater than one looks for in rustic youth, has himself a somewhat romantic history. He is the adopted son of the st.u.r.dy yeoman whose name he bears. Mr. and Mrs. Bolland were called to London thirteen years ago to attend the funeral of the farmer's brother. One evening while seeing the sights of the great metropolis they found themselves in Ludgate Hill. They were pa.s.sing the end of St.

Martin's Court, when a young woman named Martineau----"

The colonel laid aside his cigar and twisted his body sideways, so that the light of the billiard-room lamps should fall clearly on the paper yet leave his face in the shade.

"--a young woman named Martineau threw herself, with a baby in her arms, from the fourth story of a house in the court, and was killed by the fall. The baby's frock was caught by a projecting sign, and the child hung perilously in air. John Bolland, whose strong, stern face reveals a character difficult to surprise, impossible to daunt, jumped forward and caught the tiny mite as it dropped a second time. Mrs. Bolland still treasures a letter written by the infant's unhappy mother, and prizes to the utmost the fine boy whom she and her husband adopted from that hour. The old couple are childless, though with Martin calling them 'father' and 'mother,'

they would scoff at the statement. This, then, is the well-knit, fearless youngster who fought the squire's son on that eventful night, and whose evidence is of the utmost importance in the police theory of crime, as opposed to accident."

Colonel Grant went steadily through the neat sentences on which the _Messenger_ correspondent prided himself. He was a man of bronze; he showed no more emotion than a statue, though the facts staring from the printed page might well have produced external signs of the tempest which sprang into instant being in his soul.

He read each line of descriptive matter and report. For the sorrows of Betsy, the final daring of George Pickering, he had no eyes. It was the boy he sought in the living record: the boy who fought young Beckett-Smythe to rescue the thoughtless child--for so Angle figured in the text; the boy who repudiated with scorn the solicitor's suggestion that he formed part and parcel of the crowd of urchins gathered in the hotel yard; the farmer's adopted son, who spoke so fearlessly and bore himself so well that the newspaper noted his intelligence, his bright looks.

At last Colonel Grant laid down the sheet and lighted a fresh cigar. He smoked for a few minutes, watching the pool players, and declining an invitation to join in the game. He seemed to be planning some line of action; soon he went to the library and unrolled a large scale map of England. He found Nottonby--Elmsdale was too small a place to be denoted--and, after consulting a railway timetable, wrote a long telegram.

These things accomplished, he seized an opportunity to tell Lord Heronsdale that business of the utmost importance would take him away by the first train next morning.

Of course, his host was voluble in protestations, so the soldier explained matters.

"You asked me to-day," he said, "why I turned my back on town thirteen years ago. I meant telling you at a more convenient season. Will it suffice now to say that a kindred reason tears me away from your moor?"

"Gad, I hope there is nothing wrong. Can I help?"

"Yes; by letting me go. You will be here until October. May I return?"

"My dear Grant----"

So they settled it that way.

About three o'clock on the second day after the colonel's departure from Cairn-corrie he and an elderly man of unmistakably legal appearance walked from Elmsdale station to the village. The station master, forewarned, had procured a dogcart from the "Black Lion," but the visitors preferred dispatching their portmanteaux in the vehicle, and they followed on foot.

Thus it happened--as odd things do happen in life--that the two men met a boy walking rapidly from the village, and some trick of expression in his face caused the colonel to halt him with a question:

"Can you tell me where the 'Black Lion' inn is?"

"Yes, sir. On the left, just beyond the bend in the road."

"And the White House Farm?"

The village youth looked at the speaker with interest.

"On the right, sir; after you cross the green."

"Ah!"

The two men stood and stared at Martin, who was dressed in a neat blue serge suit, obtained by post from York, the wildcat having ruined its predecessor. The older man, who reminded the boy of Mr. Stockwell, owing to the searching clearness of his gaze, said not a word; but the tall, spa.r.s.ely-built soldier continued--for Martin civilly awaited his pleasure--

"Is your name, by any chance, Martin Court Bolland?"

The boy smiled.

"It is, sir," he said.

"Are you--can you--that is, if you are not busy, you might show us the inn--and the farm?"

The gentleman seemed to have a slight difficulty in speaking, and his eyes dwelt on Martin with a queer look in them: but the answer came instantly:

"I'm sorry, sir; but I am going to the vicarage to tea, and you cannot possibly miss either place. The inn has a signpost by the side of the road, and the White House stands by itself on a small bank about a hundred and fifty yards farther down the village."

The older gentleman broke in:

"That will be our best course, Colonel. We can easily find our way--alone."

The hint in the words was intended for the ears that understood. Colonel Grant nodded, yet was loath to go.

"Is the vicar a friend of yours?" he said to Martin.

"Yes, sir. I like him very much."

"Does a Mrs. Saumarez live here?"

"Oh, yes. She is at the vicarage now, I expect."

"Indeed. You might tell her you met a Colonel Grant, who knew her husband in South Africa. You will not forget the name, eh--Grant?"