Title: Mr. Pottermack's Oversight
Author: R. Austin Freeman
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0800011.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: January 2008
Date most recently updated: February 2008

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PROLOGUE


The afternoon of a sultry day near the end of July was beginning to
merge into evening. The crimson eye of the declining sun peered out
through chinks in a bank of slaty cloud as if taking a last look at the
great level of land and water before retiring for the night; while
already, in the soft, greenish grey of the eastern sky, the new-risen
moon hung like a globe of pearl.

It was a solitary scene; desolate, if you will, or peaceful. On the one
hand the quiet waters of a broad estuary; on the other a great stretch
of marshes; and between them the sea wall, following faithfully the
curves and indentations of the shore and fading away at either end into
invisibility.

A great stillness brooded over the place. On the calm water, far out
beyond the shallows, one or two coasting craft lay at anchor, and yet
farther out a schooner and a couple of barges crept up on the flood
tide. On the land side in the marshy meadows a few sheep grazed
sedately, and in the ditch that bordered the sea wall the water-voles
swam to and fro or sat on the banks and combed their hair. Sound there
was none save the half-audible wash of the little waves upon the shore
and now and again the querulous call of a sea-gull.

In strange contrast to the peaceful stillness that prevailed around was
the aspect of the one human creature that was visible. Tragedy was
written in every line of his figure; tragedy and fear and breathless
haste. He was running--so far as it was possible to run among the rough
stones and the high grass--at the foot of the sea wall on the seaward
side; stumbling onward desperately, breathing hard, and constantly
brushing away with his hand the sweat that streamed down his forehead
into his eyes. At intervals he paused to scramble up the slope of the
wall among the thistles and ragwort, and with infinite caution, to avoid
even showing his head on the skyline, peered over the top backwards and
forwards, but especially backwards where, in the far distance, the grey
mass of a town loomed beyond the marshes.

There was no mystery about the man's movements. A glance at his clothing
explained everything. For he was dressed in prison grey, branded with
the broad arrow and still bearing the cell number. Obviously, he was an
escaped convict.

Criminologists of certain Continental schools are able to give us with
remarkable exactness the facial and other characteristics by which the
criminal may be infallibly recognized. Possibly these convenient
"stigmata" may actually occur in the criminals of those favoured
regions. But in this backward country it is otherwise; and we have to
admit the regrettable fact that the British criminal inconsiderately
persists in being a good deal like other people. Not that the criminal
class is, even here, distinguished by personal beauty or fine physique.
The criminal is a low-grade man; but he is not markedly different from
other low-grade men.

But the fugitive whose flight in the shelter of the sea wall we are
watching did not conform even to the more generalized type. On the
contrary, he was a definitely good-looking young man rather small and
slight yet athletic and well-knit, with a face not only intelligent and
refined but, despite his anxious and even terrified expression,
suggestive of a courageous, resolute personality. Whatever had brought
him to a convict prison, he was not of the rank and file of its inmates.

Presently, as he approached a bluff which concealed a stretch of the sea
wall ahead, he slowed down into a quick walk, stooping slightly and
peering forward cautiously to get a view of the shore beyond the
promontory, until, as he reached the most projecting point of the wall,
he paused for a moment and then crept stealthily forward, alert and
watchful for any unexpected thing that might be lurking round the
promontory.

Suddenly he stopped dead and then drew back a pace, craning up to peer
over the high, rushy grass, and casting a glance of intense scrutiny
along the stretch of shore that had come into view. After a few moments
he again crept forward slowly and silently, still gazing intently along
the shore and the face of the sea wall that was now visible for nearly a
mile ahead. And still he could see nothing but that which had met his
eyes as he crept round the bluff. He drew himself up and looked down at
it with eager interest.

A little heap of clothes; evidently the shed raiment of a bather, as the
completeness of the outfit testified. And in confirmation, just across
the narrow strip of "saltings," on the smooth expanse of muddy sand the
prints of a pair of naked feet extended in a line towards the water. But
where was the bather? There was only a single set of footprints, so that
he must be still in the water or have come ashore farther down. Yet
neither on the calm water nor on the open, solitary shore was any sign
of him to be seen.

It was very strange. On that smooth water a man swimming would be a
conspicuous object, and a naked man on that low, open shore would be
still more conspicuous. The fugitive looked around with growing
agitation. From the shore and the water his glance came back to the line
of footprints; and now, for the first time, he noticed something very
remarkable about them. They did not extend to the water. Starting from
the edge of the saltings, they took a straight line across the sand,
every footprint deep and distinct, to within twenty yards of the water's
edge; and there they ended abruptly. Between the last footprint and the
little waves that broke on the shore was a space of sand perfectly
smooth and untouched.

What could be the meaning of this? The fugitive gazed with knitted brows
at that space of smooth sand; and even as he gazed, the explanation
flashed upon him. The tide was now coming in, as he could see by the
anchored vessels. But when these footprints were made, the tide was
going out. The spot where the footprints ended was the spot where the
bather had entered the water. Then--since the tide had gone out to the
low-water mark and had risen again to nearly half-tide--some five hours
must have passed since that man had walked down into the water.

All this flashed through the fugitive's brain in a matter of seconds. In
those seconds he realized that the priceless heap of clothing was
derelict. As to what had become of the owner, he gave no thought but
that in some mysterious way he had apparently vanished for good.
Scrambling up the slope of the sea wall, he once more scanned the path
on its summit in both directions; and still there was not a living soul
in sight. Then he slid down, and breathlessly and with trembling hands
stripped off the hated livery of dishonour and, not without a certain
incongruous distaste, struggled into the derelict garments.

A good deal has been said--with somewhat obvious truth--about the
influence of clothes upon the self-respect of the wearer. But surely
there could be no more extreme instance than the present one, which, in
less than one brief minute, transformed a manifest convict into a
respectable artisan. The change took effect immediately. As the fugitive
resumed his flight he still kept off the skyline; but he no longer
hugged the base of the wall, he no longer crouched nor did he run. He
walked upright out on the more or less level saltings, swinging along at
a good pace but without excessive haste. And as he went he explored the
pockets of the strange clothes to ascertain what bequests the late owner
had made to him, and brought up at the first cast a pipe, a
tobacco-pouch, and a box of matches. At the first he looked a little
dubiously, but could not resist the temptation; and when he had dipped
the mouthpiece in a little salt pool and scrubbed it with a handful of
grass, he charged the bowl from the well-filled pouch, lighted it and
smoked with an ecstasy of pleasure born of long deprivation.

Next, his eye began to travel over the abundant jetsam that the last
spring-tide had strewn upon the saltings. He found a short length of old
rope, and then he picked up from time to time a scrap of driftwood. Not
that he wanted the fuel, but that a bundle of driftwood seemed a
convincing addition to his make-up and would explain his presence on the
shore if he should be seen. When he had made up a small bundle with the
aid of the rope, he swung it over his shoulder and collected no more.

He still climbed up the wall now and again to keep a look-out for
possible pursuers, and at length, in the course of one of these
observations, he espied a stout plank set across the ditch and connected
with a footpath that meandered away across the marshes. In an instant he
decided to follow that path, whithersoever it might lead. With a last
glance towards the town, he boldly stepped up to the top of the wall,
crossed the path at its summit, descended the landward side, walked
across the little bridge and strode away swiftly along the footpath
across the marshes.

He was none too soon. At the moment when he stepped off the bridge,
three men emerged from the waterside alley that led to the sea wall and
began to move rapidly along the rough path. Two of them were prison
warders, and the third, who trundled a bicycle, was a police patrol.

"Pity we didn't get the tip a bit sooner," grumbled one of the warders.
"The daylight's going fast, and he's got a devil of a start."

"Still,” said the constable cheerfully, "it isn't much of a place to
hide in. The wall's a regular trap; sea one side and a deep ditch the
other. We shall get him all right, or else the patrol from Clifton will.
I expect he has started by now."

"What did you tell the sergeant when you spoke to him on the 'phone?"

"I told him there was a runaway coming along the wall. He said he would
send a cyclist patrol along to meet us."

The warder grunted. "A cyclist might easily miss him if he was hiding in
the grass or in the rushes by the ditch. But we must see that we don't
miss him. Two of us had better take the two sides of the wall so as to
get a clear view."

His suggestion was adopted at once. One warder climbed down and marched
along the saltings, the other followed a sort of sheep-track by the side
of the ditch, while the constable wheeled his bicycle along the top of
the wall. In this way they advanced as quickly as was possible to the
two men stumbling over the rough ground at the base of the wall,
searching the steep sides, with their rank vegetation, for any trace of
the lost sheep, and making as little noise as they could. So for over a
mile they toiled on, scanning every foot of the rough ground as they
passed but uttering no word. Each of the warders could see the constable
on the path above, and thus the party was enabled to keep together.

Suddenly the warder on the saltings stopped dead and emitted a shout of
triumph. Instantly the constable laid his bicycle on the path and
slithered down the bank, while the other warder came scrambling over the
wall, twittering with excitement. Then the three men gathered together
and looked down at the little heap of clothes, from which the discoverer
had already detached the jacket and was inspecting it.

"They're his duds all right,” said he. "Of course, they couldn't be
anybody else's. But here's his number. So that's that."

"Yes,” agreed the other, "they're his clothes right enough. But the
question is, Where's my nabs himself?"

They stepped over to the edge of the saltings and gazed at the line of
footprints. By this time the rising tide had covered up the strip of
smooth, unmarked sand and was already eating away the footprints, winch
now led directly to the water's edge.

"Rum go,” commented the constable, looking steadily over the waste of
smooth water. "He isn't out there. If he was, you'd see him easily, even
in this light. The water's as smooth as oil."

"Perhaps he's landed farther down,” suggested the younger warder.

"What for?" demanded the constable.

"Might mean to cross the ditch and get away over the marshes."

The constable laughed scornfully. "What, in his birthday suit? I don't
think. No, I reckon he had his reasons for taking to the water, and
those reasons would probably be a barge sailing fairly close inshore.
They'd have to take him on board, you know; and from my experience of
bargees, I should say they'd probably give him a suit of togs and keep
their mouths shut."

The elder warder looked meditatively across the water.

"Maybe you are right,” said he, "but barges don't usually come in here
very close. The fairway is right out the other side. And, for my part, I
should be mighty sorry to start on a swim out to a sailing vessel."

"You might think differently if you'd just hopped out of the jug,” the
constable remarked as he lit a cigarette.

"Yes, I suppose I should be ready to take a bit of a risk. Well,” he
concluded, "if that was his lay, I hope he got picked up. I shouldn't
like to think of the poor beggar drifting about the bottom of the river.
He was a decent, civil little chap."

There was silence for a minute or two as the three men smoked
reflectively. Then the constable proposed, as a matter of form, to cycle
along the wall and make sure that the fugitive was not lurking farther
down. But before he had time to start, a figure appeared in the
distance, apparently mounted on a bicycle and advancing rapidly towards
them. In a few minutes he arrived and dismounted on the path above them
glancing down curiously at the jacket which the warder still held.

"Those his togs?" he asked.

"Yes,” replied the constable. "I suppose you haven't seen a gent bathing
anywhere along here?"

The newcomer shook his head. "No,” said he. "I have patrolled the whole
wall from Clifton to here and I haven't seen a soul excepting old
Barnett, the shepherd."

The elder warder gathered up the rest of the clothes and handed them to
his junior. "Well,” he said, "we must take it that he's gone to sea. All
that we can do is to get the Customs people to give us a passage on
their launch to make the round of all the vessels anchored about here.
And if we don't find him on any of them, we shall have to hand the case
over to the police."

The three men climbed to the top of the wall and turned their faces
towards the town; and the Clifton patrol, having turned his bicycle
about, mounted expertly and pedalled away at a smart pace to get back to
his station before the twilight merged into night.

At that very moment, the fugitive was stepping over a stile that gave
access from the marshes to a narrow, tree-shaded lane. Here he paused
for a few moments to fling away the bundle of driftwood into the hedge
and refill and light his pipe. Then, with a springy step, he strode away
into the gathering moonlit dusk.



CHAPTER I - MR. POTTERMACK MAKES A DISCOVERY


A conscientious desire on the part of the present historian to tell his
story in a complete and workmanlike fashion from the very beginning
raises the inevitable question. What was the beginning? Not always an
easy question to answer offhand; for if we reflect upon certain episodes
in our lives and try to track them to their beginnings, we are apt, on
further cogitation, to discover behind those beginnings antecedents yet
more remote which have played an indispensable part in the evolution of
events.

As to this present history the whole train of cause and consequence
might fairly be supposed to have been started by Mr. Pottermack's
singular discovery in his garden. Yet, when we consider the matter more
closely, we may doubt if that discovery would ever have been made if it
had not been for the sun-dial. Certainly it would not have been made at
that critical point in Mr. Pottermack's life; and if it had not--but we
will not waste our energies on vain speculations. We will take the safe
and simple course. We will begin with the sun-dial.

It stood, when Mr. Pottermack's eyes first beheld it, in a mason's yard
at the outskirts of the town. It was obviously of some age, and
therefore could not have been the production of Mr. Gallett, the owner
of the yard; and standing amidst the almost garishly new monuments and
blocks of freshly hewn stone, it had in its aspect something rather
downfallen and forlorn. Now Mr. Pottermack had often had secret
hankerings for a sun-dial. His big walled garden seemed to cry out for
some central feature: and what more charming ornament could there be
than a dial which like the flowers and trees amidst which it would stand
lived and had its being solely by virtue of the golden sunshine?

Mr. Pottermack halted at the wide-open gate and looked at the dial (I
use the word, for convenience to include the stone support). It was a
graceful structure with a twisted shaft like that of a Norman column, a
broad base and a square capital. It was nicely lichened and weathered,
and yet in quite good condition. Mr. Pottermack found something very
prepossessing in its comely antiquity. It had a motto, too, incised on
the sides of the capital; and when he had strolled into the yard, and,
circumnavigating the sun-dial, had read it, he was more than ever
pleased. He liked the motto. It struck a sympathetic chord. Sole orto:
spes: decedente pax. It might have been his own personal motto. At the
rising of the sun; hope: at the going down thereof, peace. On his life
the sun had risen in hope: and peace at eventide was his chief desire.
And the motto was discreetly reticent about the intervening period. So,
too, were there passages in the past which he was very willing to forget
so that the hope of the morning might be crowned by peace when the
shadows of life were lengthening.

"Having a look at the old dial, Mr. Pottermack?" said the mason,
crossing the yard and disposing himself for conversation. "Nice bit of
carving, that, and wonderful well preserved. He's counted out a good
many hours in his time, he has. Seventeen thirty-four. And ready to
count out as many again. No wheels to go rusty. All done with a shadder.
No wear and tear about a shadder. And never runs down and never wants
winding up. There's points about a sun-dial."

"Where did it come from?"

"I took it from the garden of Apsley Manor House, what's being rebuilt
and brought up to date. New owner told me to take it away. Hadn't any
use for sun-dials in these days, he said. More hasn't anybody else. So
I've got him on my hands. Wouldn't like him for your garden, I suppose?
He's going cheap."

It appeared, on enquiry, that he was going ridiculously cheap. So cheap
that Mr. Pottermack closed with the offer there and then,

"You will bring it along and fix it for me?" said he.

"I will, sir. Don't want much fixing. If you will settle where he is to
stand, I'll bring him and set him up. But you'd better prepare the site.
Dig well down into the subsoil and make a level surface. Then I can put
a brick foundation and there will be no fear of his settling out of the
upright."

That was how it began. And on the knife-edge of such trivial chances is
human destiny balanced. From the mason's yard Mr. Pottermack sped
homeward with springy step, visualizing the ground-plan of his garden as
he went; and by the time that he let himself into his house by the front
door within the rose-embowered porch he was ready to make a bee-line for
the site of his proposed excavation.

He did not, however; for, as he opened the door, he became aware of
voices in the adjacent room and his housekeeper came forth to inform him
that Mrs. Bellard had called to see him, and was waiting within.
Apparently the announcement was not unwelcome, for Mr. Pottermack's
cheerfulness was in nowise clouded thereby. We might even go far as to
say that his countenance brightened.

Mrs. Bellard was obviously a widow. That is not to say that she was
arrayed in the hideous "weeds" with which, a generation ago, women used
to make their persons revolting and insult the memory of the deceased.
But she was obviously a widow. More obviously than is usual in these
latter days. Nevertheless her sombre raiment was well-considered,
tasteful and becoming; indeed the severity of her dress seemed rather to
enhance her quiet, dignified comeliness. She greeted Mr. Pottermack with
a frank smile, and as they shook hands she said in a singularly
pleasant, musical voice:

"It is too bad of me to come worrying you like this. But you said I was
to."

"Of course I did,” was the hearty response; and as the lady produced
from her basket a small tin box, he enquired: "Snails?"

"Snails,” she replied; and they both laughed.

"I know,” she continued, "it is very silly of me. I quite believe that,
as you say, they die instantaneously when you drop them into boiling
water. But I really can't bring myself to do it."

"Very natural, too,” said Pottermack. "Why should you, when you have a
fellow conchologist to do it for you? I will slaughter them this evening
and extract them from their shells, and you shall have their empty
residences to-morrow. Shall I leave them at your house?"

"You needn't trouble to do that. Give them to your housekeeper and I
will call for them on my way home from the shops. But I really do impose
on you most shamefully. You kill the poor little beasts, you clean out
the shells, you find out their names and you leave me nothing to do but
stick them on card, write their names under them, and put them in the
cabinet. I feel a most horrid impostor when I show them at the
Naturalists' Club as my own specimens."

"But, my dear Mrs. Bellard,” protested Pottermack, "you are forgetting
that you collect them, that you discover them in their secret haunts and
drag them out to the light of day. That is the really scientific part of
conchology. The preparation of the shells and their identification are
mere journeyman's work. The real naturalist's job is the field work; and
you are a positive genius in finding these minute shells--the pupas and
cochlicopas and such like."

The lady rewarded him with a grateful and gratified smile, and, opening
the little box, exhibited her "catch" and recounted some of the
thrilling incidents of the chase, to which Pottermack listened with
eager interest. And as they chatted, but half seriously, an observer
would have noted that they were obviously the best of friends, and might
have suspected that the natural history researches were, perhaps,
somewhat in the nature of a plausible and convenient pretext for their
enjoying a good deal of each other's society. These little precautions
are sometimes necessary in a country district where people take an
exaggerated interest in one another and tongues are apt to wag rather
freely.

But a close observer would have noted certain other facts. For instance,
these two persons were curiously alike in one respect: they both looked
older to the casual stranger than they appeared on closer inspection. At
a first glance, Mr. Pottermack, spectacled, bearded, and grave, seemed
not far short of fifty. But a more critical examination showed that
first impression to be erroneous. The quick, easy movements and the
supple strength that they implied in the rather small figure, as well as
the brightness of the alert, attentive eyes behind the spectacles,
suggested that the lines upon the face and the white powdering of the
hair owed their existence to something other than the mere effluxion of
time. So, too, with Mrs. Bollard. On a chance meeting she would have
passed for a well-preserved middle-aged woman. But now, as she chatted
smilingly with her friend, the years dropped from her until, despite the
white hairs that gleamed among the brown and a faint hint of
crow's-feet, she seemed almost girlish.

But there was something else; something really rather odd. Each of the
two cronies seemed to have a way of furtively examining the other. There
was nothing unfriendly or suspicious in these regards. Quite the
contrary, indeed. But they conveyed a queer impression of curiosity and
doubt, differently manifested, however, in each. In Mr. Pottermack's
expression there was something expectant. He had the air of waiting for
some anticipated word or action; but the expression vanished instantly
when his companion looked in his direction. The widow's manner was
different, but it had the same curious furtive quality. When
Pottermack's attention was occupied, she would cast a steady glance at
him; and then the lines would come back upon her forehead, her lips
would set, and there would steal across her face a look at once sad,
anxious, and puzzled. Especially puzzled. And if the direction of her
glance had been followed, it would have been traced more particularly to
his profile and his right ear. It is true that both these features were
a little unusual. The profile was almost the conventional profile of the
Greek sculptors--the nose continuing the line of the forehead with no
appreciable notch--a character very seldom seen in real persons. As to
the ear, it was a perfectly well-shaped, proportionate ear. It would
have been of no interest to Lombroso. But it had one remarkable
peculiarity: on its lobule was what doctors call a "diffuse naevus" and
common folk describe as a "port-wine mark." It was quite small, but very
distinct; as if the lobule had been dipped into damson juice. Still, it
hardly seemed to justify such anxious and puzzled consideration.

"What a dreadful pair of gossips we are!" Mrs. Bellard exclaimed, taking
her basket up from the table. "I've been here half an hour by the clock,
and I know I have been hindering you from some important work. You
looked full of business as you came up the garden path."

"I have been full of business ever since--land and fresh-water mollusca.
We have had a most instructive talk."

"So we have,” she agreed, with a smile. "We are always instructive;
especially you. But I must really take myself off now and leave you to
your other business."

Mr. Pottermack held the door open for her and followed her down the hall
to the garden path, delaying her for a few moments to fill her basket
with roses from the porch. When he had let her out at the gate, he
lingered to watch her as she walked away towards the village; noting how
the dignified, matronly bearing seemed to contrast with the springy
tread and youthful lissomness of movement.

As he turned away to re-enter the house he saw the postman approaching;
but as he was not expecting any letters, and his mind was still occupied
with his late visitor, he did not wait. Nor when, a minute later, he
heard the characteristic knock, did he return to inspect the letter-box;
which was, just as well in the circumstances. Instead, he made his way
out by the back door into the large kitchen garden and orchard and
followed the long, central path which brought him at length to a high
red brick wall, in which was a door furnished with a knocker and flanked
by an electric bell. This he opened with a latchkey of the Yale pattern,
and, having passed through, carefully shut it behind him.

He was now in what had probably been originally the orchard and kitchen
garden of the old house in which he lived, but which had since been
converted into a flower garden, though many of the old fruit trees still
remained. It was a large oblong space, more than a quarter of an acre in
extent, and enclosed on all sides by a massive old wall nearly seven
feet high, in which were only two openings: the door by which he had
just entered and another door at one side, also fitted with a Yale lock
and guarded, in addition, by two bolts.

It was a pleasant place if quiet and seclusion were the chief desire of
the occupant--as they apparently were, to judge by Mr. Pottermack's
arrangements. The central space was occupied by a large, smooth grass
plot, surrounded by well-made paths, between which and the wall were
wide flower borders. In one corner was a brick-built summer-house; quite
a commodious affair, with a good tiled roof, a boarded floor, and space
enough inside for a couple of armchairs and a fair-sized table. Against
the wall opposite to the summer-house was a long shed or outhouse with
glass lights in the roof, evidently a recently built structure and just
a little unsightly--but that would be remedied when the yew hedge that
had been planted before it grew high enough to screen it from view. This
was the workshop, or rather a range of workshops; for Mr. Pottermack was
a man of many occupations, and, being also a tidy, methodical man, he
liked to keep the premises appertaining to those occupations separate.

On the present occasion he made his way to the end compartment, in which
were kept the gardening tools and appliances, and having provided
himself with a spade, a mallet, a long length of cord, and a half-dozen
pointed stakes, walked out to the grass plot and looked about him. He
was quite clear in his mind as to where the sun-dial was to stand, but
it was necessary to fix the spot with precision. Hence the stakes and
the measuring-line, which came into use when he had paced out the
distances approximately and enabled him, at length, to drive a stake
into the ground and thereby mark the exact spot which would be occupied
by the centre of the dial.

From this centre, with the aid of the cord, he drew a circle some four
yards in diameter and began at once to take up the turf, rolling it up
tidily and setting it apart ready for relaying. And now he came to the
real job. He had to dig right down to the subsoil. Well, how far down
was that? He took off his coat, and, grasping the spade with a resolute
air, gave a vigorous drive into the soil at the edge of the circle. That
carried him through the garden mould down into a fine, yellowish, sandy
loam, a small quantity of which came up on the spade. He noted its
appearance with some interest but went on digging, opening up a shallow
trench round the circumference of the circle.

By the time that he had made a second complete circuit and carried his
trench to a depth of some eight inches, the circle was surrounded by a
ring of the yellow loam, surprisingly bulky in proportion to the shallow
cavity from which it had been derived. And once more his attention was
attracted by its appearance. For Mr. Pottermack amongst his various
occupations included occasionally that of sand-casting. Hitherto he had
been in the habit of buying his casting-sand by the bag. But this loam,
judging by the sharp impressions of his feet where he had trodden in it,
was a perfect casting-sand, and to be had for the taking at his very
door. By way of testing its cohesiveness, he took up a large handful and
squeezed it tightly. When he opened his hand the mass remained hard and
firm and showed the impressions of his fingers perfectly to the very
creases of the skin.

Very pleased with his discovery, and resolving to secure a supply of the
loam for his workshop, he resumed his digging, and presently came down
to a stratum where the loam was quite dense and solid and came up on the
spade in definite coherent lumps like pieces of a soft rock. This, he
decided, was the true subsoil and was as deep as he need go; and having
decided this, he proceeded to dig out the rest of the circle to the same
depth.

The work was hard and, after a time, extremely monotonous. Still Mr.
Pottermack laboured steadily with no tendency to slacking. But the
monotony exhausted his attention, and while he worked on mechanically
with unabated vigour his thoughts wandered away from his task; now in
the direction of the sun-dial, and now--at, perhaps, rather more
length--in that of his pretty neighbour and her spoils, which were still
awaiting his attentions in the tin box.

He was getting near the centre of the circle when his spade cut through
and brought up a piece of spongy, fungus-eaten wood. He glanced at it
absently, and having flung it outside the circle, entered his spade at
the same spot and gave a vigorous drive. As the spade met with more than
usual resistance, he threw a little extra weight on it. And then,
suddenly, the resistance gave way; the spade drove through, apparently
into vacant space. Mr. Pottermack uttered a startled cry, and after an
instant's precarious balancing saved himself by a hair's breadth from
going through after it.

For a moment he was quite shaken--and no wonder. He had staggered back a
pace or two and now stood, still grasping the spade, and gazing with
horror at the black, yawning hole that had so nearly swallowed him up.
But as, after all, it had not, he presently pulled himself together and
began cautiously to investigate. A very little tentative probing with
the spade made everything clear. The hole which he had uncovered was the
mouth of an old well: one of those pernicious wells which have no
protective coping but of which the opening, flush with the surface of
the ground, is ordinarily closed by a hinged flap. The rotten timber
that he had struck was part of this flap, and he could now see the rusty
remains of the hinges. When the well had gone out of use, some one, with
incredible folly, had simply covered it up by heaping earth on the
closed flap.

Mr. Pottermack, having made these observations, proceeded methodically
to clear away the soil until the entire mouth of the well was exposed.
Then, going down on hands and knees, he approached, and cautiously
advancing his head over the edge, peered down into the dark cavity. It
was not quite dark, however, for though the slimy brick cylinder faded
after a few feet into profound gloom, Mr. Pottermack could see, far
down, as it seemed in the very bowels of the earth, a little circular
spot of light on which was the dark silhouette of a tiny head. He picked
up a pebble, and, holding it at the centre of the opening, let it drop.
After a brief interval the bright spot grew suddenly dim and the little
head vanished: and after another brief interval there came up to his ear
a hollow "plop" followed by a faint, sepulchral splash.

There was, then, water in the well; not that it mattered to him, as he
was going to cover it up again. But he was a man with a healthy
curiosity and he felt that he would like to know all about this well
before he once more consigned it to oblivion. Walking across to the
workshop, he entered the metalwork section and cast his eye around for a
suitable sinker. Presently, in the "oddments" drawer, he found a big
iron clock-weight. It was heavier than was necessary, but he took it in
default of anything more suitable, and going back to the well, he tied
it to one end of the measuring-cord. The latter, being already marked in
fathoms by means of a series of knots, required no further preparation.
Lying full-length by the brink of the well, Mr. Pottermack dropped the
weight over and let the cord slip through his hands, counting the knots
as it ran out and moving it up and down as the weight neared the water.

The hollow splash for which he was listening came to his ear when the
hand that grasped the cord was between the fourth and fifth knots. The
depth, therefore, of the well to the surface of the water was about
twenty-seven feet. He made a mental note of the number and then let the
cord slip more rapidly through his hands. It was just after the seventh
knot had passed that the tension of the cord suddenly relaxed, telling
him that the weight now rested on the bottom. This gave a depth of
sixteen feet of water and a total depth of about forty-three feet. And
to think that, but for the merest chance, he would now have been down
there where the clock-weight was resting!

With a slight shudder he rose, and, hauling up the cord, coiled it
neatly and laid it down, with the weight still attached, a few feet away
on the cleared ground. The question that he now had to settle was how
far the existence of the well would interfere with the placing of the
sun-dial. It did not seem to him that it interfered at all. On the
contrary; the well had to be securely covered up in any case, and the
sun-dial on top of the covering would make it safe for ever. For it
happened that the position of the well coincided within a foot with the
chosen site of the dial; which seemed quite an odd coincidence until one
remembered that the position of both had probably been determined by
identical sets of measurements, based on the ground-plan of the garden.

One thing, however, was obvious. Mr. Gallett would have to be informed
of the discovery without delay, for something different from the proposed
brickwork foundation would be required. Accordingly, Mr. Pottermack
slipped on his coat, and, having sought out a hurdle and laid it over
the well--for you can't be too careful in such a case--set off without
delay for the mason's yard. As he opened the front door, he observed the
letter still lying in the wire basket under the letter-slit. But he did
not take it out. It could wait until he came back.

Mr. Gallett was deeply interested, but he was also a little regretful.
The altered arrangements would cause delay and increase the cost of the
job. He would want two biggish slabs of stone, which would take some
time to prepare.

"But why cover the well at all?" said he. "A good well with sixteen feet
of water in it is not to be sneezed at if you gets a hard frost and all
the pipes is bunged up and busted."

But Mr. Pottermack shook his head. Like most town-bred men, he had
rather a dislike to wells, and his own recent narrow escape had done
nothing to diminish his prejudice. He would have no open well in his
garden.

"The only question is,” he concluded, "whether the sun-dial will be safe
right over the well. Will a stone slab bear the weight?"

"Lor' bless you,” replied Gallett, "a good thick slab of flagstone would
bear St. Paul's Cathedral. And we are going to put two, one on top of
the other to form a step; and the base of the dial itself a good two
foot wide. It will be as strong as a house."

"And when do you think you'll be able to fix it?"

Mr. Gallett reflected. "Let's see. To-day's Toos-day. It will take a
full day to get them two slabs sawn off the block and trimmed to shape.
Shall we say Friday?"

"Friday will do perfectly. There is really no hurry, though I shall be
glad to get the well covered and made safe. But don't put yourself out."

Mr. Gallett promised that he would not, and Pottermack then departed
homeward to resume his labours.

As he re-entered his house, he picked the letter out of the letter-cage,
and, holding it unopened in his hand, walked through to the garden.
Emerging into the open air, he turned the letter over and glanced at the
address; and in an instant a most remarkable change came over him. The
quiet gaiety faded from his face and he stopped dead, gazing at the
superscription with a frown of angry apprehension. Tearing open the
envelope, he drew out the letter, unfolded it and glanced quickly
through the contents. Apparently it was quite short, for, almost
immediately, he refolded it, returned it to its envelope and slipped the
latter into his pocket.

Passing through into the walled garden, he took off his coat, laid it
down in the summer-house and fell to work on the excavation, extending
the circle into a square and levelling the space around the well to make
a bed for the stone slab. But all his enthusiasm had evaporated. He
worked steadily and with care; but his usually cheerful face was gloomy
and stern, and a certain faraway look in his eyes hinted that his
thoughts were not on what he was doing but on something suggested by the
ill-omened missive.

When the light failed, he replaced the hurdle, cleaned and put away the
spade, and then went indoors with his coat on his arm to wash and take
his solitary supper; of which he made short work, eating and drinking
mechanically and gazing before him with gloomy preoccupation. Supper
being finished and cleared away, he called for a kettle of boiling water
and a basin, and, taking from a cupboard a handled needle, a pair of
fine forceps, and a sheet of blotting-paper, laid them on the table with
Mrs. Bellard's tin box. The latter he opened and very carefully
transferred the imprisoned snails to the basin, which he then filled
with boiling water; whereupon the unfortunate molluscs each emitted a
stream of bubbles and shrank instantly into the recesses of its shell.

Having deposited the kettle in the fireplace, Mr. Pottermack drew a
chair up to the table and seated himself with the basin before him and
the blotting-paper at his right hand. But before beginning his work he
drew forth the letter, straightened it out and, laying it on the table,
read it through slowly. It bore no address and no signature; and though
the envelope was addressed to Marcus Pottermack, Esq., it began, oddly
enough, "Dear Jeff."

"I send you this little billy doo,” it ran on, "with deep regret, which
I know you will share. But it can't be helped. I had hoped that the last
one would be in fact, the last one, whereas it turns out to have been
the last but one. This is positively my final effort, so keep up your
pecker. And it is only a small affair this time. A hundred--in notes, of
course. Fivers are safest. I shall call at the usual place on Wednesday
at 8 p.m. ('in the gloaming, O! my darling!') This will give you time to
hop up to town in the morning to collect the rhino. And mind I've got to
have it. No need to dwell on unpleasant alternatives. Necessity knows no
law. I am in a devil of a tight corner and you have got to help me out.
So adieu until Wednesday evening."

Mr. Pottermack turned from the letter, and, taking up the mounted
needle, with the other hand picked out of the basin a snail with a
delicate yellow shell (Helix hortensis, var. arenicola) and, regarding
it reflectively, proceeded with expert care to extract the shrivelled
body of the mollusc. But though his attention seemed to be concentrated
on his task, his thoughts were far away, and his eyes strayed now and
again to the letter at his side.

"I am in a devil of a tight corner." Of course he was. The incurable
plunger is always getting into tight corners. "And you have got to help
me out." Exactly. In effect, the money that you have earned by unstinted
labour and saved by self-denial has got to be handed to me that I may
drop it into the bottomless pit that swallows up the gambler's losings.
"This is positively my final effort." Yes. So was the last one, and the
one before that; and so would be the next, and the one that would follow
it, and so on without end. Mr. Pottermack saw it all clearly; realized,
as so many other sufferers have realized, that there is about a
blackmailer something hopelessly elusive. No transaction with him has
any finality. He has something to sell, and he sells it; but behold!
even as the money passes the thing sold is back in the hand of the
vendor, to be sold again and yet again. No covenant with him is binding;
no agreement can be enforced. There can be no question of cutting a
loss, for, no matter how drastic the sacrifice, it is no sooner made
than the status quo ante reappears.

On these truths Mr. Pottermack cogitated gloomily and asked himself, as
such victims often do, whether it would not have been better in the
first place to tell this ruffian to go to the devil and do his worst.
Yet that had hardly seemed practicable. For the fellow would probably
have done his worst:-and his worst was so extremely bad. On the other
hand, it was impossible that this state of affairs should be allowed to
go on indefinitely. He was not by any means a rich man, though this
parasite persisted in assuming that he was. At the present rate he would
soon be sucked dry--reduced to stark poverty. And even then he would be
no safer.

The intensity of his revolt against his intolerable position was
emphasized by his very occupation. The woman for whom he was preparing
these specimens was very dear to him. In any pictures that his fancy
painted of the hoped-for future, hers was the principal figure. His
fondest wish was to ask her to be his wife, and he felt a modest
confidence that she would not say him nay. But how could he ask any
woman to marry him while this vampire clung to his body? Marriage was
not for him--a slave to-day, a pauper to-morrow, at the best; and at the
worst--

The evening had lapsed into night by the time that all the specimens had
been made presentable for the cabinet. It remained to write a little
name-ticket for each with the aid, when necessary, of a handbook of the
British Mollusca, and then to wrap each separate shell, with its ticket,
in tissue paper and pack it tenderly in the small tin box. Thus was he
occupied when his housekeeper, Mrs. Gadby, "reported off duty" and
retired; and the clock in the hall was striking eleven when, having
packed the last of the shells, he made the tin box into a neat little
parcel with the consignee's name legibly written on the cover.

The house was profoundly quiet. Usually Mr. Pottermack was deeply
appreciative of the restful silence that settles down upon the haunts of
men when darkness has fallen upon field and hedgerow and the village has
gone to sleep. Very pleasant it was then to reach down from the
bookshelves some trusty companion and draw the big easy-chair up to the
fireplace, even though, as to-night, the night was warm and the grate
empty. The force of habit did, indeed, even now, lead him to the
bookshelves. But no book was taken down. He had no inclination for
reading to-night. Neither had he any inclination for sleep. Instead, he
lit a pipe and walked softly up and down the room, stem and gloomy of
face, yet with a look of concentration as if he were considering a
difficult problem.

Up and down, up and down he paced, hardly making a sound. And as the
time passed, the expression of his face underwent a subtle change. It
lost none of its sternness, but yet it seemed to clear, as if a solution
of the problem were coming into sight.

The striking of the clock in the hall, proclaiming the end of the day,
brought him to a halt. He glanced at his watch, knocked out his empty
pipe, lit a candle and blew out the lamp. As he turned to pass out to
the stairs, something in his expression seemed to hint at a conclusion
reached. All the anxiety and bewilderment had passed out of his face.
Stern it was still; but there had come into it a certain resolute calm;
the calm of a man who has made up his mind.



CHAPTER II - THE SECRET VISITOR


The following morning found Mr. Pottermack in an undeniably restless
mood. For a time he could settle down to no occupation, but strayed
about the house and garden with an air of such gravity and abstraction
that Mrs. Gadby looked at him askance and inwardly wondered what had
come over her usually buoyant and cheerful employer.

One thing, however, was clear. He was not going to “hop up to town.” Of
the previous expeditions of that kind he had a vivid and unpleasant
recollection; the big "bearer" cheque sheepishly pushed across the
counter, the cashier's astonished glance at it, the careful examination
of books, and then the great bundle of five-pound notes, which he
counted, at the cashier's request, with burning cheeks; and his
ignominious departure with the notes buttoned into an inside pocket and
an uncomfortable suspicion in his mind that the ostentatiously
unobservant cashier had guessed at once the nature of the transaction.
Well, that experience was not going to be repeated on this occasion.
There was going to be a change of procedure.

As he could fix his mind at nothing more definite, he decided to devote
the day to a thorough clear-up of his workshops: a useful and necessary
work, which had the added advantage of refreshing his memory as to the
abiding-places of rarely used appliances and materials. And an excellent
distraction he found it; so much so that several times, in the interest
of rediscovering some long-forgotten tool or stock of material, he was
able to forget for a while the critical interview that loomed before
him.

So the day passed. The mid-day meal was consumed mechanically--under the
furtive and disapproving observation of Mrs. Gadby--and dispatched with
indecent haste. He was conscious of an inclination to lurk about the
house on the chance of a brief gossip with his fair friend; but he
resisted it, and, when he came in to tea, the housekeeper reported that
the little package had been duly collected.

He lingered over his tea as if he were purposely consuming time, and
when at last he rose from the table, he informed Mrs. Gadby that he had
some important work to do and was under no circumstances to be
disturbed. Then once more he retired to the walled garden, and having
shut himself in, dropped the key into his pocket. He did not, however,
resume his labours in the workshop. He merely called in there for an
eight-inch steel bolt and a small electric lamp, both of which he
bestowed in his pockets. Then he came out and walked slowly up and down
the grass plot with his hands behind him and his chin on his breast as
if immersed in thought, but glancing from time to time at his watch. At
a quarter to eight he took off his spectacles and put them in his
pocket, stepped across to the well, and picking up the hurdle that still
lay over the dark cavity, carried it away and stood it against the wall.
Then he softly unbolted the side gate, turned the handle of the latch,
drew the gate open a bare inch, and, leaving it thus ajar, walked to the
summer-house, and, entering it, sat down in one of the chairs.

His visitor, if deficient in some of the virtues, had at least that of
punctuality; for the clock of the village church had barely finished
striking the hour when the gate opened noiselessly and the watcher in
the summer-house saw, through the gathering gloom, a large, portly man
enter with stealthy step, close the gate silently behind him and softly
shoot the upper bolt.

Pottermack rose as his visitor approached, and the two men met just
outside the summer-house. There was a striking contrast between them in
every respect, in build, in countenance, and in manner. The newcomer was
a big, powerful man, heavy and distinctly over-fat, whose sly, shifty
face--at present exhibiting an uneasy smile--showed evident traces of
what is commonly miscalled "good living,” especially as to the liquid
element thereof; whereas his host, smallish, light, spare, with
clean-cut features expressive of lively intelligence, preserved a stony
calm as he looked steadily into his visitor's evasive eyes.

"Well, Jeff,” the latter began in a deprecating tone, "you don't seem
overjoyed to see me. Not an effusive welcome. Aren't you going to shake
hands with an old pal?"

"It doesn't seem necessary,” Pottermack replied coldly.

"Oh, very well,” the other retorted. "Perhaps you'd like to kiss me
instead." He sniggered foolishly, and, entering the summer-house,
dropped into one of the armchairs and continued: "What about a mild
refresher while we discuss our little business? Looks like being a dry
job, to judge by your mug."

Without replying, Pottermack opened a small cupboard, and taking out a
decanter, a siphon, and a tumbler, placed them on the table by his
guest. It was not difficult to see that the latter had already fortified
himself with one or two refreshers, mild or otherwise, but that was not
Pottermack's affair. He was going to keep his own brain clear. The other
might do as he pleased.

"Not going to join me, Jeff?" the visitor protested. "Oh, buck up, old
chap! It's no use getting peevish about parting with a few pounds. You
won't miss a little donation to help a pal out of a difficulty."

As Pottermack made no reply but sat down and gazed stonily before him,
the other poured out half a tumblerful of whisky, filled up with soda,
and took a substantial gulp. Then he, too, sat silent for a time, gazing
out into the darkening garden. And gradually the smile faded from his
face, leaving it sullen and a little anxious.

"So you've been digging up your lawn,” he remarked presently. What's the
game? Going to set up a flagstaff?"

"No. I am going to have a sun-dial there."

"A sun-dial, hey? Going to get your time on the cheap? Good. I like
sun-dials. Do their job without ticking. Suppose you'll have a motto on
it. Tempus fugit is the usual thing. Always appropriate, but especially
so in the case of a man who has 'done time' and fugitted. It will help
to remind you of olden days, 'the days that are no more.'" He finished
with a mirthless cackle and cast a malignant glance at the silent and
wooden-faced Pottermack. There was another interval of strained,
uncomfortable silence, during which the visitor took periodic gulps from
his tumbler and eyed his companion with sullen perplexity. At length,
having finished his liquor, he set down the empty tumbler and turned
towards Pottermack. "You got my letter, I suppose, as you left the gate
ajar?"

"Yes,” was the laconic reply.

"Been up to town to-day?"

"No."

"Well, I suppose you have got the money?"

"No, I have not."

The big man sat up stiffly and stared at his companion in dismay.

"But, damn it, man!" he exclaimed, "didn't I tell you it was urgent? I'm
in a devil of a fix. I've got to pay that hundred to-morrow. Must pay
it, you understand. I'm going up to town in the morning to pay. As I
hadn't got the money myself, I've had to borrow it from--you know where;
and I was looking to you to enable me to put it back at once. I must
have that money to-morrow at the latest. You'd better run up to town in
the morning and I'll meet you outside your bank."

Pottermack shook his head. "It can't be done, Lewson. You'll have to
make some other arrangements."

Lewson stared at him in mingled amazement and fury. For a moment he was
too astonished for speech. At length he burst out:

"Can't be done! What the devil do you mean? You've got the money in your
bank and you are going to hand it over, or I'll know the reason why.
What do you imagine you are going to do?"

"I am going,” said Pottermack, "to hold you to your agreement, or at
least to part of it. You demanded a sum of money--a large sum--as the
price of your silence. It was to be a single payment, once for all, and
I paid it. You promised solemnly to make no further demands; yet, within
a couple of months, you did make further demands, and I paid again.
Since then you have made demands at intervals, regardless of your solemn
undertaking. Now this has got to stop. There must be an end to it, and
this has got to be the end."

As he spoke, quietly but firmly, Lewson gazed at him as if he could not
trust the evidence of his senses. This was quite a new Pottermack. At
length, suppressing his anger, he replied in a conciliatory tone:

"Very well, Jeff. It shall be the end. Help me out just this time and
you shall hear no more from me. I promise you that on my word of
honour."

At this last word Pottermack smiled grimly. But he answered in the same
quiet, resolute manner:

"It is no use, Lewson. You said that last time and the time before that,
and, in fact, time after time. You have always sworn that each demand
should be positively the last. And so you will go on, if I let you,
until you have squeezed me dry."

On this Lewson threw off all disguise. Thrusting out his chin at
Pottermack, he exclaimed furiously: "If you let me! And how do you think
you are going to prevent me? You are quite right. I've got you, and I'm
going to squeeze you, so now you know. And look here, young fellow, if
that money isn't handed out to me to-morrow morning, something is going
to happen. A very surprised gentleman at Scotland Yard will get a letter
informing him that the late Jeffrey Brandon, runaway convict, is not the
late J. B. but is alive and kicking, and that his present name and
address is Marcus Pottermack, Esquire, of 'The Chestnuts,' Borley,
Bucks. How will that suit you?"

"It wouldn't suit me at all,” Mr. Pottermack replied, with unruffled
calm; "but before you do it, let me remind you of one or two facts.
First, the run-away convict, once your closest friend, was to your
knowledge an innocent man--"

"That's no affair of mine,” Lewson interrupted. "He was a convict, and
is one still. Besides, how do I know he was innocent? A jury of his
fellow-countrymen found him guilty--"

"Don't talk rubbish, Lewson,” Pottermack broke in impatiently. "There is
no one here but ourselves. We both know that I didn't do those forgeries
and we both know who did."

Lewson grinned as he reached out for the decanter and poured out another
half-tumblerful of whisky. "If you knew who did it,” he chuckled, "you
must have been a blooming mug not to say."

"I didn't know then,” Pottermack rejoined bitterly. "I thought you were
a decent, honest fellow, fool that I was."

"Yes,” Lewson agreed, with a low, cackling laugh, "you were a blooming
mug and that's a fact. Well, well; we live and learn."

Still sniggering foolishly, he took a long pull at the tumbler, leering
into the flushed, angry face that confronted him across the table.
Suddenly Pottermack rose from his chair, and, striding out into the
garden, halted some dozen paces away and stood with his back to the
summer-house, looking steadily across the lawn. It was now quite dark,
though the moon showed dimly from time to time through a thinning of the
overcast sky; but still, through the gloom, he could make out faintly
the glimmer of lighter-coloured soil where it had been turned up to
level the ground for the sun-dial. The well was invisible, but he knew
exactly where the black cavity yawned, and his eye, locating the spot,
rested on it with gloomy fixity.

His reverie was interrupted by Lewson's voice, now pitched in a more
ingratiating key.

"Well, Jeff; thinking it over? That's right, old chap. No use getting
pippy."

He paused, and as there was no reply he continued:

"Come now, dear boy, let's settle the business amicably as old pals
should. Pity for you to go back to the jug when there's no need. You
just help me out of this hole, and I will give you my solemn word of
honour that it shall be the very last time. Won't that satisfy you?"

Pottermack turned his head slightly, and speaking over his shoulder,
replied; "Your word of honour! The honour of a blackmailer, a thief and
a liar. It isn't exactly what you would call a gilt-edged security."

"Well,” the other retorted thickly, "gilt-edged or not, you had better
take it and shell out. Now, what do you say?"

"I say,” Pottermack replied with quiet decision, "that I am not going to
give you another farthing on any condition whatever."

For several seconds Lewson gazed in silent dismay at the shadowy figure
on the lawn. This final, definite refusal was a contingency that he had
never dreamed of, and was utterly unprovided for, and it filled him, for
the moment, with consternation. Then, suddenly, his dismay changed to
fury. Starting up from his chair, he shouted huskily:

"Oh, you won't, won't you? We'll see about that! You'll either pay up or
I'll give you the finest hammering that you've ever had in your life.
When I've done with you, they'll want your finger-prints to find out who
you are."

He paused to watch the effect of this terrifying proposal and to listen
for a reply. Then, as the dim figure remained unmoved and no answer
came, he bellowed: "D' you hear? Are you going to pay up or take a
hammering?"

Pottermack turned his head slightly and replied in a quiet, almost a
gentle tone: "I don't think I'm going to do either."

The reply and the quiet, unalarmed tone were not quite what Lewson had
expected. Trusting to the moral effect of his greatly superior size and
weight, he had bluffed confidently. Now it seemed that he had got to
make good his threat, and the truth is that he was not eager for the
fray. However, it had to be done, and done as impressively as possible.
After pausing for another couple of seconds, he proceeded, with a
formidable air (but unobserved by Pottermack, whose back was still
turned to him), to take off his coat and fling it on the table, whence
it slipped down on to the floor. Then, stepping outside the
summer-house, he bent forward, and, with an intimidating roar, charged
like an angry rhinoceros.

At the sound of his stamping feet Pottermack spun round and faced him,
but then stood motionless until his assailant was within a yard of him,
when he sprang lightly aside, and as the big, unwieldy bully lumbered
past him, he followed him closely. As soon as Lewson could overcome the
momentum of his charge, he halted and turned; and instantly a smart
left-hander alighted on his cheek and a heavy right-hander impinged on
his ribs just below the armpit. Furious with the pain, and utterly taken
aback, he cursed and grunted, hitting out wildly with all the
viciousness of mingled rage and fear for now he realized with amazement
that he was hopelessly outclassed by his intended victim. Not one of his
sledge-hammer blows took effect on that agile adversary, whereas his own
person seemed to be but an unprotected target on which the stinging
blows fell in endless and intolerable succession. Slowly at first, and
then more quickly, he backed away from that terrific bombardment,
followed inexorably by the calm and scientific Pottermack, who seemed to
guide and direct his backward course as a skilful drover directs the
movements of a refractory bullock.

Gradually the pair moved away from the vicinity of the summer-house
across the dark lawn, the demoralized bully, breathing hard and sweating
profusely, reduced to mere defence and evasion while his light-footed
antagonist plied him unceasingly with feint or blow. Presently Lewson
stumbled backwards as his foot sank into the loose, heaped earth at the
margin of the cleared space; but Pottermack did not press his advantage,
renewing his attack only when Lewson had recovered his balance. Then the
movement began again, growing faster as the big man became more and more
terrified and his evasion passed into undissembled retreat; deviously
and with many a zig-zag but always tending towards the centre of the
cleared area. Suddenly Pottermack's tactics changed. The rapid
succession of light blows ceased for an instant and he seemed to gather
himself up as if for a decisive effort. There was a quick feint with the
left; then his right fist shot out like lightning and drove straight on
to the point of the other man's jaw, and as his teeth clicked together
with an audible snap, Lewson dropped like a pole-axed ox, falling with
his body from the waist upwards across the mouth of the well and his
head on the brick edge, on which it struck with a sickening thud.

So he lay for a second or two until the limp trunk began to sag and the
chin came forward on to the breast. Suddenly the head slipped off the
brick edge and dropped into the cavity, shedding its cap and carrying
the trunk with it. The heavy jerk started the rest of the body sliding
forward, slowly at first, then with increasing swiftness until the feet
rose for an instant, kicked at the farther edge and were gone. From the
black pit issued vague, echoing murmurs, followed presently by a hollow,
reverberating splash; and after that, silence.

It had been but a matter of seconds. Even as those cavernous echoes were
muttering in the unseen depths, Pottermack's knuckles were still
tingling from the final blow. From the moment when that blow had been
struck he had made no move. He had seen his enemy fall, had heard the
impact of the head on the brick edge, and had stood looking down with
grim composure on the body as it sagged, slid forward, and at last made
its dreadful dive down into the depths of its sepulchre. But he had
moved not a muscle. It was a horrible affair. But it had to be. Not he,
but Lewson had made the decision.

As the last reverberations died away he approached the forbidding circle
of blackness, and kneeling down at its edge, peered into the void. Of
course, he could see nothing; and when he listened intently, not a sound
came to his ear. From his pocket he brought out his little electric lamp
and threw a beam of light down into the dark cavity. The effect was very
strange and uncanny. He found himself looking down a tube of seemingly
interminable length while from somewhere far away, down in the very
bowels of the earth, a tiny spark of light glowed steadily. So even the
last ripples had died away and all was still down in that underworld.

He replaced the lamp in his pocket, but nevertheless he remained
kneeling by the well-mouth, resting on one hand, gazing down into the
black void and unconsciously listening for some sound from below.
Despite his outward composure, he was severely shaken. His heart still
raced, his forehead was damp with sweat, his body and limbs were
pervaded by a fine, nervous tremor.

Yet he was sensible of a feeling of relief. The dreadful thing that he
had nerved himself to do, that he had looked forward to with shuddering
horror, was done. And the doing of it might have been so much worse. He
was relieved to feel the screw-bolt in his pocket--unused; to think that
the body had slipped down into its grave without the need of any hideous
dragging or thrusting. Almost, he began to persuade himself that it had
been more or less of an accident. At any rate, it was over and done
with. His merciless enemy was gone. The menace to his liberty, the
constant fear that had haunted him were no more. At last--at long
last--he was free.

Fear of discovery he had none; for Lewson, in his own interests, had
insisted on strict secrecy as to their acquaintance with each other. In
his own words, "he preferred to sit on his own nest-egg." Hence to all
the world they were strangers, not necessarily even aware of each
other's existence. And the blackmailer's stealthy arrival and his care
in silently shutting the gate gave a guarantee that no one had seen him
enter.

While these thoughts passed somewhat confusedly through his mind, he
remained in the same posture; still unconsciously listening and still
gazing, as if with a certain expectancy, into the black hole before him,
or letting his eyes travel, now and again, round the dark garden.
Presently an opening in the dense pall of cloud that obscured the sky
uncovered the moon and flooded the garden with light. The transition
from darkness to brilliant light--for it was full moon--was so sudden
that Pottermack looked up with a nervous start, as though to see who had
thrown the light on him; and in his overwrought state he even found
something disquieting in the pale, bright disc with its queer, dim,
impassive face that seemed to be looking down on him through the rent in
the cloud like some secret watcher peeping from behind a curtain. He
rose to his feet, and, drawing a deep breath, looked around him; and
then his glance fell on something more real and more justly disquieting.
From the edge of the grass to the brink of the well was a double track
of footprints, meandering to and fro, zig-zagging hither and thither,
but undeniably ending at the well.

Their appearance was sinister in the extreme. In the bright moonlight
they stared up from the pale buff soil, and they shouted of tragedy. To
the police eye they would have been the typical "signs of a struggle";
the tracks of two men facing one another and moving towards the well
with, presently, a single track coming away from it. No one could
mistake the meaning of those tracks; nothing could explain them
away--especially in view of what was at the bottom of the well.

The first glance at those tracks gave Pottermack a severe shock. But he
recovered from it in a moment. For they were mere transitory marks that
could be obliterated in a minute or two by a few strokes of a rake and a
few sweeps of a besom; and meanwhile he stooped over them, examining
them with a curious interest not unmixed with a certain vague
uneasiness. They were very remarkable impressions. He had already noted
the peculiar quality of this loamy soil; its extraordinary suitability
for making casting-moulds. And here was a most striking illustration of
this property. The prints of his own feet were so perfect that the very
brads in his soles were quite clear and distinct, while as to Lewson's,
they were positively ridiculous. Every detail of the rubber soles and
the circular rubber heels came out as sharply as if the impressions had
been taken in moulding-wax. There was the prancing horse of Kent--the
soles were of the Invicta brand and practically new--with the
appropriate legend and the manufacturers' name, and in the central
star-shaped space of the heels was the perfect impression of the screw.
No doubt the singular sharpness of the prints was due to the fact that a
heavy shower in the previous night had brought the loam to that
particular state of dampness that the professional moulder seeks to
produce with his watering-pot.

However, interesting as the prints were to the mechanic's eye, the
sooner they were got rid of the better. Thus reflecting, Pottermack
strode away towards the workshop in quest of a rake and a besom; and he
was, in fact, reaching out to grasp the handle of the door when he
stopped dead and stood for some seconds rigid and still with
outstretched arm and dropped jaw. For in that moment a thought which
had, no doubt, been stirring in his subconscious mind had come to the
surface, and for the first time the chill of real terror came over him.
Suddenly he realized that he had no monopoly of this remarkable loam. It
was the soil of the neighbourhood--and incidentally of the little lane
that led from the town and passed along beside his wall. In that lane
there must be a single track of footprints--big, staring footprints, and
every one of them as good as a signature of James Lewson--leading from
the town and stopping at his gate!

After a few moments of horror-stricken reflection he darted into the
tool-house and brought out a short ladder. His first impulse had been to
open the gate and peer out, but an instant's reflection had shown him
the folly of exposing himself to the risk of being seen--especially at
the very gate to which the tracks led. He now carried the ladder across
to an old pear tree which thrust its branches over the wall, and,
planting it silently where the foliage was densest, crept softly up and
listened awhile. As no sound of footsteps was audible, and as the moon
had for the moment retired behind the bank of cloud, he cautiously
advanced his head over the wall and looked down into the lane. It was
too dark to see far in either direction, but apparently there was no one
about; and as the country quiet was unbroken by any sound, he ventured
to crane farther forward to inspect the path below.

The light was very dim; but even so he could make out faintly a single
track of footprints--large footprints, widely spaced, the footprints of
a tall man. But even as he was peering down at them through the
darkness, trying to distinguish in the vaguely seen shapes some
recognizable features, the moon burst forth again and the light became
almost as that of broad day. Instantly the half-seen shapes started up
with a horrid distinctness that made him catch his breath. There was the
preposterous prancing horse with the legend "Invicta,” there was the
makers' name, actually legible from the height of the wall, and there
were the circular heels with their raised central stars and the very
screws clearly visible even to their slots!

Pottermack was profoundly alarmed. But he was not a panicky man. There,
in those footprints, was evidence enough to hang him. But he was not
hanged yet; and he did not mean to be, if the unpleasantness could be
avoided. Perched on the ladder, with his eyes riveted on the tracks of
the man who had come to "squeeze" him, he reviewed the situation with
cool concentration, and considered the best way to deal with it.

The obvious thing was to go out and trample on those footprints until
they were quite obliterated. But to this plan there were several
objections. In the first place, those enormous impressions would take a
deal of trampling out. Walking over them once would be quite useless,
for his own feet were comparatively small, and even a fragment of one of
Lewson's footprints would be easily recognizable. Moreover, the
trampling process would involve the leaving of his own footprints in
evidence; which might be disastrous if it should happen--as it easily
might--that Lewson had been seen starting along the footpath. For this
path, unfrequented as it was, turned off from the main road at the
outskirts of the town where wayfarers were numerous enough. The reason
that it was unfrequented was that it led only to a wood and a stretch of
heath which were more easily approached by a by-road. Finally, he
himself might quite possibly be seen performing the trampling
operations, and that would never do. In short, the trampling scheme was
not practicable at all.

But what alternative was there? Something must be done. Very soon the
man would be missed and there would be a search for him; and as things
stood there was a set of tracks ready to guide the searchers from the
town to his--Pottermack's--very gate. And inside the gate was the open
well. Clearly, something must be done, and done at once. But what?

As he asked himself this question again and again he was
half-consciously noting the conditions. Hitherto, no one had seen
Lewson's footprints at this part of the path. That was evident from the
fact that there were no other fresh footprints--none that trod on
Lewson's. Then, in half an hour at the most, the shadow of the wall
would be thrown over the path and the tracks would then be quite
inconspicuous. And, again, it was now past nine o'clock and his
neighbours were early folk. It was extremely unlikely that any one would
pass along that path until the morning. So there was still time. But
time for what?

One excellent plan occurred to him, but, alas! he had not the means to
carry it out. If only he had possession of Lewson's shoes he could put
them on, slip out at the gate and continue the tracks to some distant
spot well out of his neighbourhood. That would be a perfect solution of
the problem. But Lewson's shoes had vanished for ever from human ken--at
least, he hoped they had. So that plan was impracticable.

And yet, was it? As he put the question to himself his whole demeanour
changed. He stood up on his perch with a new eagerness in his face; the
eagerness of a man who has struck a brilliant idea. For that was what he
had done. This excellent plan, which yielded the perfect solution, was
practicable after all. Lewson's shoes were indeed beyond his reach. But
he had a fine assortment of Lewson's footprints. Now footprints are made
by the soles of shoes. That is the normal process. But by the exercise
of a little ingenuity the process could be reversed; shoe-soles could be
made from footprints.

He descended the ladder, thinking hard; and as the cloud once more
closed over the moon, he fetched the hurdle and placed it carefully over
the mouth of the well. Then he walked slowly towards the
workshop--avoiding the now invaluable footprints--shaping his plan as he
went.



CHAPTER III - MR. POTTERMACK GOES A-SUGARING


The efficient workman saves a vast amount of time by so planning out his
job in advance that intervals of waiting are eliminated. Now Mr.
Pottermack was an eminently methodical man and he was very sensible
that, in the existing circumstances, time was precious. Accordingly,
although his plan was but roughly sketched out in his mind, he proceeded
forthwith to execute that part of it which could be clearly visualized,
filling in the further details mentally as he worked.

The first thing to be done was, obviously, to convert the perishable,
ephemeral footprints, which a light shower would destroy, into solid,
durable models. To this end, he fetched from the workshop the tin of
fine plaster of Paris which he kept for making small or delicate moulds.
By the aid of his little lamp he selected a specially deep and perfect
impression of Lewson's right foot, and into this he lightly dusted the
fine powder, continuing the process until the surface was covered with
an even layer of about half an inch thick. This he pressed down very
gently with the flat end of the lamp, and then went in search of a
suitable impression of the left foot, which he treated in like manner.
He next selected a second pair of prints, but instead of dusting the dry
plaster into them he merely dropped into each a pinch to serve as a mark
for identifying it. His reason for thus varying the method was that he
was doubtful whether it was possible to pour liquid plaster into a loam
mould (for that was what the footprint actually was) without disturbing
the surface and injuring the pattern.

Returning to the workshop, he mixed a good-sized bowl of plaster,
stirring and beating the creamy liquid with a large spoon. Still
stirring, he carried it out, and, going first to the prints which
contained the dry plaster, he carefully ladled into them with the spoon
small quantities of the liquid plaster until they were well filled. By
this time the liquid was growing appreciably thicker and more suitable
for the unprotected prints, to which he accordingly hastened, and
proceeded quickly, but with extreme care, to fill them until the now
rapidly thickening plaster was well heaped up above the surface.

He had now at least, a quarter of an hour to wait while the plaster was
setting, but this he occupied in cleaning out the bowl and spoon ready
for the next mixing, placing the brush and plaster tools in readiness
and pouring out a saucerful of soap-size. When he had made these
preparations, he filled a small jug with water, and making his way to
the first two impressions, poured the water on to them to make up for
that which would have been absorbed by the dry plaster underneath. In
the second pair of impressions, which he ventured to test by a light
touch of the finger, the plaster was already quite solid, and he was
strongly tempted to raise them and see what luck he had had; but he
resisted the temptation and went back to the workshop, leaving them to
harden completely.

All this time, although he had given the closest attention to what he
was doing, his mind had been working actively, and already the
sketch-plan was beginning to shape into a complete and detailed scheme;
for he had suddenly remembered a supply of sheet gutta-percha which he
had unearthed when he turned out the workshop, and this discovery
disposed of what had been his chief difficulty. Now, in readiness for a
later stage of his work, he lighted his Primus stove, and having filled
a good-sized saucepan with water, placed it on the stove to heat. This
consumed the rest of the time that he had allotted for the hardening of
the plaster, and he now went forth with no little anxiety to see what
the casts were like. For they were the really essential element of his
plan on which success or failure depended. If he could get a perfect
reproduction of the footprints, the rest of his task, troublesome as it
promised to be, would be plain sailing.

Very gingerly he insinuated his finger under one of the casts of the
second pair and gently turned it over. And then, as he threw the light
of his lamp on it, all his misgivings vanished in respect of that
foot--the right. The aspect of the cast was positively ridiculous. It
was just the sole of a shoe; snow-white, but otherwise completely
realistic, and perfect in every detail and marking, even to the makers'
name. And the second cast was equally good; so his special precautions
had been unnecessary. Nevertheless, he went on to the first pair, and
they proved to be, if anything, sharper and cleaner, more free from
adherent particles of earth than the others. With a sigh of relief he
picked up the four casts and bore them tenderly to the workshop, where
he deposited them on the bench. There, under the bright electric light,
their appearance was even more striking. But he did not stop to gloat.
He could do that while he was working.

The first proceeding was to trim off the ragged edges with a scraper,
and then came the process of "sizing"--painting with a boiled solution
of soft soap--which also cleaned away the adherent particles of loam.
When the soap had soaked in and "stopped" the surface, the surplus was
washed away under the tap, and then, with a soft brush, an infinitesimal
coating of olive oil was applied. The casts were now ready for the next
stage--the making of the moulds. First, Pottermack filled a shallow tray
with loam from the garden, striking the surface level with a
straight-edge. On this surface the two best casts were laid, sole
upwards, and pressed down until they were slightly embedded. Then came
the mixing of another bowl of plaster, and this was "gauged" extra stiff
in order that it should set quickly and set hard. By the time this had
been poured on--rapidly, but with infinite care to avoid bubbles, which
would have marred the perfection of the moulds--the water in the
saucepan was boiling. Having cleaned out the bowl and spoon, Pottermack
fetched the pieces of gutta-percha from their drawer and dropped them
into the saucepan, replacing the lid. Then he put on his spectacles,
extinguished the lamp, switched off the light, and, passing out of the
workshop, walked quickly towards the house.

As he let himself out of the walled garden and closed the door behind
him, he had a strange feeling as of one awakening from a dream. The
familiar orchard and kitchen garden through which he was now passing,
and the lighted windows of the house which twinkled through the trees,
brought him back to the realities of his quiet, usually uneventful life
and made the tragic interlude of the past hour seem incredible and
unreal. He pondered on it with a sort of dull surprise as he walked up
the long path; on all that had happened since he had last walked along
it a few hours ago. How changed since then was his world--and himself!
Then, he was an innocent man over whom yet hung the menace of the
convict prison. Now, that menace was lifted, but he was an innocent man
no more. Legally--technically, he put it to himself--he was a murderer;
and the menace of the prison was exchanged for that of the rope. But
there was this difference: the one had been an abiding menace that had
been with him for the term of his life; the other was a temporary peril
from which, when he had once freed himself, he would be free for ever.

His appearance in the house was hailed by Mrs. Gadby with a sigh of
relief. It seemed that she had made a special effort in the matter of
supper and had feared lest her trouble should be wasted after all. Very
complacently she inducted him into the dining-room and awaited, with
confidence born of much experience, his appreciative comments.

"Why, bless my soul, Mrs. Gadby!" he exclaimed, gazing at the display on
the table, "it's a regular banquet! Roses, too! And do I see a bottle
under that shawl?"

Mrs. Gadby smilingly raised the shawl, revealing a small wooden tub in
which a bottle of white wine stood embedded in ice. "I thought,” she
explained, "that a glass of Chablis would go rather well with the
lobster."

"Rather well!" exclaimed Pottermack. "I should think it will. But why
these extraordinary festivities?"

"Well, sir,” said Mrs. Gadby, "you haven't seemed to be quite yourself
the last day or two. Not in your usual spirits. So I thought a nice
little supper and a glass of wine might pick you up a bit."

"And so it will, I am sure,” affirmed Pottermack. "To-morrow you will
find me as lively as a cricket and as gay as a lark. And, by the way,
Mrs. Gadby, don't clear the table to-night. I am going out sugaring
presently, and as I may be late getting back I shall probably be ready
for another little meal before turning in. And of course you won't bolt
the door--but I expect you will have gone to bed before I start."

Mrs. Gadby acknowledged these instructions and retired in sedate
triumph. Particularly gratified was she at the evident satisfaction with
which her employer had regarded the Chablis. A happy thought of hers,
that had been. In which she was right in general though mistaken in one
particular. For it was not the wine that had brought that look of
satisfaction to Pottermack's face. It was the ice. Mrs. Gadby's kindly
forethought had disposed of the last of his difficulties.

Before sitting down to supper, he ran up to his bedroom, ostensibly for
the necessary wash and brush up; but first he visited a spacious
cupboard from the ground floor of which he presently took a pair of
over-shoes that he was accustomed to wear in very rainy or snowy
weather. Their upper parts were of strong waterproof cloth and their
soles of balata,[also batata] cemented on to leather inner soles. He had, in fact,
cemented them on himself when the original soles had worn through, and
he still had, in the workshop, a large tin nearly full of the cement. He
now inspected the soles critically, and when, after having washed and
made himself tidy, he went down to the dining-room, he carried the
over-shoes down with him and slipped them out of sight under the table.

Although he was pretty sharp-set after his strenuous and laborious
evening, he made but a hasty meal; for time was precious and he could
dispose of the balance of the feast when he had finished his task.
Rising from the table, he picked up the over-shoes, and, stealing softly
out into the garden, laid them down beside the path. Then he stole back
to the dining-room, whence he walked briskly to the kitchen and tapped
at the door.

"Good-night, Mrs. Gadby,” he called out cheerfully. "I shall be starting
when I've got my traps together. Leave everything as it is in the
dining-room so that I can have a snack when I come in. Good-night!"

"Good-night, sir,” the housekeeper responded cordially, presenting a
smiling countenance at the door, "and good luck with the moths, though I
must admit, sir, that they don't seem to me worth all the trouble of
catching them."

"Ah, Mrs. Gadby,” said Pottermack, "but you see you are not a
naturalist. You would think better of the moths, I expect, if they were
good to eat." With this and a chuckle, in which the housekeeper joined,
he turned away and went forth into the garden, where, having picked up
the over-shoes, he made his way up the long path to the door of the
walled garden. As he unlocked the door and let himself into the
enclosure, he was again sensible of a change of atmosphere. The vision
of that fatal combat rose before him with horrid vividness and once more
he felt the menace of the rope hanging over him. He went to the ladder
and looked over the wall to see if any new tracks had appeared on the
path to tell of some wayfarer who might hereafter become a witness. But
the path was shrouded in darkness so profound that he could not even see
the tracks that he knew were there; so he descended, and, crossing the
lawn by the well--where some unaccountable impulse led him to stop for a
while and listen--re-entered the workshop, switched on the light and
laid the over-shoes on the bench.

First, he assured himself by a touch that the saucepan was still hot.
Then he turned his attention to the moulds. They were as hard as stone,
and, as he had made them thick and solid, he ventured to use some little
force in trying to separate them from the casts; but all his efforts
failed. Then, since he could not prise them open with a knife for fear
of marking them, he filled a bucket with water and in this immersed each
of the moulds with its adherent cast, when, after a few seconds'
soaking, they came apart quite easily.

He stood for a few moments with the cast of the right foot in one hand
and its mould in the other, looking at them with a sort of amused
surprise. They were so absurdly realistic in spite of their staring
whiteness. The cast was simply a white shoe-sole; the mould an exact
reproduction of the original footprint; and both were preposterously
complete, not only in respect of the actual pattern and lettering but
even of the little trivial accidental characters such as a clean
cut--probably made by a sharp stone--across the neck of the prancing
horse and a tiny angular fragment of gravel which had become embedded in
the rubber heel. However, this was no time for contemplation. The
important fact was that both the moulds appeared to be quite perfect. If
the rest of the operations should be as successful, he would be in a
fair way of winning through this present danger to find a permanent
security.

He began with the right mould. Having first poured into it a little of
the hot water from the saucepan, to take the chill off the surface, he
laid it on a carefully folded towel, spread on the bench. Then with a
pair of tongs he picked out of the saucepan one of the pieces of
gutta-percha--now quite soft and plastic--and laid it in the mould,
which it filled completely, with some overlap. As it was, at the moment,
too hot to work comfortably with the fingers, he pressed it into the
mould with a wet file-handle, replacing this as soon as possible with
the infinitely more efficient thumb. It was a somewhat tedious process,
for every part of the surface had to be pressed into the mould so that
no detail should be missed; but it was not until the hardening of the
gutta-percha as it cooled rendered further manipulation useless that
Pottermack laid it aside as finished and proceeded to operate in like
manner on the other mould.

When both moulds were filled, he immersed them in the cold water in the
bucket in order to cool and harden the gutta-percha more quickly, and
leaving them there, he turned his attention to the over-shoes. The
important question was as to their size. How did they compare with
Lewson's shoes? He had assumed that they were as nearly as possible
alike in size, but now, when he placed one of the over-shoes, sole
upwards, beside the corresponding cast, he felt some misgivings.
However, a few careful measurements with a tape-measure reassured him.
The over-shoes were a trifle larger--an eighth of an inch wider and
nearly a quarter of an inch longer than the casts, so that there would
be a sixteenth overlap at the sides and an eighth at the toe and heel.
That would be of no importance; or if it were, he could pare off the
overlap.

Much encouraged, he fell to work on the over-shoes. He knew all about
batata soles. The present ones--which were of one piece with the flat
heels--he had stuck on with a powerful fusible cement. All that he had
to do now was to warm them cautiously over the Primus stove until the
cement was softened and then peel them off; and when he had done this,
there were the flat leather soles, covered with the sticky cement, all
ready for the attachment of the gutta-percha "squeezes."

There was still one possible snag ahead. The squeezes might have stuck
to the moulds; for gutta-percha is a sticky material when hot. However,
the moulds had been saturated with water and usually gutta-percha will
not stick to a wet surface, so he hoped for the best. Nevertheless it
was with some anxiety that he fished one of the moulds out of the
bucket, and, grasping an overlapping edge of the squeeze with a pair of
flat-nosed pliers, gave a cautious and tentative pull. As it showed no
sign of yielding, he shifted to another part of the overlap and made
gentle traction on that, with no better result. He then tried the piece
of overlap that projected beyond the toe, and here he had better luck;
for, as he gave a firm, steady pull, the squeeze separated visibly from
the mould, and, with a little coaxing, came out bodily.

Pottermack turned it over eagerly to see what result his labours had
yielded, and as his glance fell on the smooth, brown surface he breathed
a sigh of deep satisfaction. He could have asked for no better result.
The squeeze had not failed at a single point. There was the horse with
the little gash in its neck, the inscription and the makers' mark; the
circular heel with its sunk, five-pointed star, the little marks of
wear, and the central screw showing its slot quite distinctly. Even the
little grain of embedded gravel was there. The impression was perfect.
He had never seen the soles of Lewson's shoes, but he knew now exactly
what they looked like. For here before him was an absolutely faithful
facsimile.

Handling it with infinite tenderness--for gutta-percha, when once
softened, is slow to harden completely--he replaced it in the bucket,
and taking out the other mould, repeated the extracting operation with
the same patient care and with a similar happy result. It remained now
only to pare off the overlap round the edges, shave off with a sharp
knife one or two slight projections on the upper surface and wipe the
latter perfectly dry. When this was done, the soles were ready for
fixing on the over-shoes.

Placing the invaluable tin of cement on the bench near the Primus,
Pottermack proceeded to warm the sole of one of the over-shoes over the
flame. Then, scooping out a lump of tough cement, he transferred it to
the warmed sole and spread it out evenly with a hot spatula. The next
operation was more delicate and rather risky; for the upper surface of
the gutta-percha sole had to be coated with cement without warming the
mass of the sole enough to endanger the impression on its under surface.
However, by loading the spatula with melted cement and wiping it swiftly
over the surface, the perilous operation was completed without mishap.
And now came the final stage. Fixing the over-shoe in the bench-vice,
and once more passing the hot spatula over its cemented sole, Pottermack
picked up the gutta-percha sole and carefully placed it in position on
the over-shoe, adjusting it so that the overlaps at the sides and the
toe were practically equal, the larger overlap at the heel being--by
reason of the thickness of the latter--of no consequence.

When the second shoe had been dealt with in a similar manner and with a
like success, and the pair placed on the bench, soles upward, to cool
and harden, Pottermack emptied the bucket, and, carrying it in his hand,
stole out of the workshop and made his way out of the walled garden into
the orchard, where he advanced cautiously along the path. Presently the
house came into view and he saw with satisfaction that the lower part
was in darkness whereas lights were visible at two of the upper
windows--those of the respective bedrooms of Mrs. Gadby and the maid.
Thereupon he walked forward boldly, let himself silently into the house
and tiptoed to the dining-room, where, having closed the door, he
proceeded at once to transfer the ice and the ice-cold water from the
tub to the bucket. Then, in the same silent manner, he went out into the
garden, softly closing the door after him, and took his way back to the
workshop.

Here his first proceeding was to take down from a shelf a large, deep
porcelain dish, such as photographers use. This he placed on the bench
and poured into it the iced water from the bucket. Then, taking up the
shoes, one at a time, he lowered them slowly and carefully, soles
downward, into the iced water and finished by packing the ice round
them. And there he left them to cool and harden completely while he
attended to one or two other important matters.

The first of these was the line of tell-tale footprints leading to the
well. They had served their invaluable purpose and now it was time to
get rid of them; which he did forthwith with the aid of a rake and a
hard broom. Then there must be one or two footprints outside the gate
that would need to be obliterated. He took the broom and rake, and,
crossing to the gate, listened awhile, then softly opened it, listened
again and peered out. Having satisfied himself that there was no one in
sight, he stooped to scrutinize the ground and finally went down on his
hands and knees. Sure enough, there were four footprints that told the
story much too plainly for safety: two diverging from the main track
towards the gate and two more pointing directly towards it. Their
existence was a little disquieting at the first glance, for they might
already have been seen; but a close scrutiny of the ground for signs of
any more recent footprints reassured him. Evidently Lewson was the last
person who had trodden that path. Having established this encouraging
fact, Pottermack, still keeping inside his gate, passed the rake lightly
over the four footprints and then smoothed the surface with the broom.

His preparations were now nearly complete. Re-closing the gate, he went
back to the workshop to prepare his outfit. For though the “sugaring”
expedition was but a pretext, he intended to carry it through with
completely convincing realism. On that realism it was quite conceivable
that his future safety might depend. Accordingly he proceeded to pack
the large rucksack that he usually carried on these expeditions with the
necessary appliances: a store of collecting-boxes, the killing-jar, a
supply of pins, the folding-net, an air-tight metal pot which he filled
with pieces of rag previously dipped into the sugaring mixture and
reeking of beer and rum, and an electric inspection-lamp. When he had
packed it, he laid the net-stick by its side and then turned his
attention to the shoes.

The gutta-percha soles were now quite cold and hard. He dried them
carefully with a soft rag, and as he did so, the little surrounding
overlap caught his eye. It seemed to be of no consequence. It was very
unlikely that it would leave any mark on the ground, unless he should
meet with an exceptionally soft patch. Still, there had been no overlap
on Lewson's shoes, and it was better to be on the safe side. Thus
reflecting, he took from the tool-rack a shoemaker's knife, and having
given it a rub or two on the emery board, neatly shaved away the overlap
on each sole to a steep bevel. Now the impression would be perfect no
matter what kind of ground he met with.

This was the finishing touch, and he was now ready to go forth. Slipping
his arms through the straps of the rucksack, he picked up the net-stick,
took down from a peg his working apron, tucked the shoes under his arm,
switched off the light and went out, crossing the lawn direct to the
side gate. Here he spread the apron on the ground, and, stepping on to
it, listened for a few moments and then softly opened the gate. Having
taken a cautious peep out to assure himself that there was no one in
sight, he slipped on and fastened the over-shoes, and, taking the
inspection-lamp from the rucksack, dropped the battery into his coat
pocket and hooked the bull's-eye into a button-hole. Then, throwing the
light for an instant on the path and marking the correct spot by his
eye, he stepped out sideways, planting his right foot on the smoothly
swept ground a pace in front of the last impression of Lewson's left
foot.

Steadying himself with the net-stick, he pulled the gate to until the
latch clicked; then he put down his left foot a good pace in advance and
set forth on his pilgrimage, carefully adapting the length of his stride
to match, as well as he could judge, that of his long-legged
predecessor.

The country was profoundly quiet, and, though the moon peeped out now
and again, the night was for the most part so dark that he had
occasionally to switch on his lamp to make sure that he was keeping to
the path. The state of affairs, however, that these occasional flashes
revealed was highly encouraging, for though the beaten surface of the
path showed numerous traces of human feet, these were mostly faint and
ill-defined, and none of them looked very recent. They suggested that
few wayfarers used this path, and that the very striking tracks that he
was laying down might remain undisturbed and plainly visible for many
days unless a heavy rain should fall and wash them away.

So Pottermack trudged on, stepping out with conscious effort and keeping
his attention fixed on the regulation of his stride. About half a mile
from home the path entered a small wood, and here the aid of the lamp
was needed continuously. Here, too, the sodden state of the path caused
Pottermack to congratulate himself on his wise caution in shaving off
the overlaps. For in this soft earth they would have shown distinctly
and might have attracted undesirable notice--that is, if any one should
give the footprints more than the passing glance that would suffice for
recognition; which was in the highest degree unlikely.

Presently the path emerged from the wood and meandered across a rough
common, covered with gorse and heather. Eventually, as Pottermack knew,
it joined, nearly at a right angle, a by-road, which in its turn opened
on the main London road. Here, he decided, the tracks could plausibly be
lost; and as he drew near to the neighbourhood of the by-road he kept a
sharp look-out for some indication of its whereabouts. At length he made
out dimly a gate which he recognized as marking a little bridge across
the roadside ditch. At once he stepped off the path into the heather,
and, after walking on some twenty paces, halted, and unfastening the
over-shoes, slipped them off. Then he took off the rucksack, turned out
its contents, and having stowed the shoes at the bottom, repacked it and
put it on again.

Hitherto he had not met or seen a soul since he started, and he was
rather anxious not to meet any one until he was clear of this
neighbourhood. His recent activities had perhaps made him a little
over-conscious. Still, this was the night of the disappearance and here
the tracks faded into the heather. If he were seen hereabouts, he might
hereafter be questioned as to whether he had seen the missing man. No
great harm in that, perhaps; but he had the feeling that it were much
better for him not to be associated with the affair in any way. There
were all sorts of possible snags. For instance, how did he get her
without leaving any footprints on the path by which he would naturally
have come? From which it will be seen that, if conscience was not making
a coward of Mr. Pottermack, it was at least a little unduly stimulating
his imagination. And yet it was as well to err on the right side.

Turning back, he strode on through the heather until he came once more
to the path, which he crossed by a long jump that landed him in the
heather on the farther side. He now struck across the common, making for
a detached coppice that formed an outlier of the wood. As soon as he
reached it he fell to work without delay on the completion of his
programme, pinning the pieces of sugared rag on the trunks of half a
dozen trees. Usually he gave the moths ample time to find the bait and
assemble round it. But to-night, with that incriminating pair of shoes
in his rucksack, his methods were more summary. By the time that he had
pinned on the last rag, one or two moths had begun to flutter round the
first, easily visible in the darkness by the uncanny, phosphorescent
glow of their eyes. Pottermack unfolded his net, and, screwing it on to
the stick switched on his lamp and proceeded to make one or two
captures, transferring the captives from the net to the killing-jar,
and, after the necessary interval, thence to the collecting-boxes.

He was not feeling avaricious to-night. He wanted to get home and bring
his task definitely to an end. He was even disposed to resent the
indecent way in which the moths began to swarm round the rags. They
seemed to be inviting him to make a night of it, as they were doing
amidst the fumes of the rum. But he was not to be tempted. When he had
pinned a dozen specimens in his collecting-box and put a few more in the
lethal jar, he considered that he had done enough to account plausibly
for his nocturnal expedition. Thereupon he packed up, and, leaving the
lepidopterous revellers to the joys of intoxication, he turned away and
strode off briskly in the direction of the by-road, carrying the net
still screwed to the stick. A few minutes' rough walking brought him to
the road, down which he turned in the direction of the town. In another
ten minutes he reached the outskirts of the town and the road on which
his house fronted. At this late hour it was as deserted as the country;
indeed in its whole length he encountered but a single person--a jovial
constable who greeted him with an indulgent smile as he fixed a
twinkling eye on the butterfly net, and, having playfully enquired what
Mr. Pottermack had got in that bag, hoped that he had had good sport,
and wished him good-night. So Pottermack went on his way, faintly amused
at the flutter into which the constable's facetious question had put
him. For if it had chanced that the guardian of the law had been a
stranger and had insisted on examining the bag, nothing could have been
more apparently innocent than its contents. But the guilty man finds it
hard to avoid projecting into the minds of others the secret knowledge
that his own mind harbours.

When Pottermack at last let himself in at his front door and secured it
with bolt and chain, he breathed a sigh of relief. The horrible chapter
was closed. Tomorrow he could clear away the last souvenirs of that
hideous scene in the garden and then, in the peace and security of his
new life, try to forget the price that he had paid for it. So he
reflected as he carried the tub to the scullery and drew into it enough
water to account for the vanished ice; as he washed at the sink, as he
sat at the table consuming the arrears of his supper, and as, at length,
he went up to bed, carrying the rucksack with him.



CHAPTER IV - THE PLACING OF THE SUN-DIAL


When, after breakfast on the following morning, Mr. Pottermack betook
himself, rucksack in hand, to the walled garden, he experienced, as he
closed the door behind him and glanced round the enclosure, curiously
mixed feelings. He was still shaken by the terrific events of the
previous night, and, in his disturbed state, disposed to be pessimistic
and vaguely apprehensive. Not that he regretted what he had done. Lewson
had elected to make his life insupportable, and a man who does that,
does it at his own risk. So Pottermack argued, and he reviewed the
circumstances without the slightest twinge of remorse. Repugnant as the
deed had been to him, and horrible as it had been in the doing--for he
was by temperament a humane and kindly man--he had no sense of guilt. He
had merely the feeling that he had been forced to do something extremely
unpleasant.

When, however, he came to review the new circumstances, he was conscious
of a vague uneasiness. Considered in advance, the making away with
Lewson had been a dreadful necessity, accepted for the sake of the peace
and security that it would purchase. But had that security been
attained? The blackmailer, indeed, had gone for ever with his threats
and his exactions. But that thing in the well--It was actually possible
that Lewson dead might prove more formidable even than Lewson living. It
was true that everything seemed to be quite safe and secret. He,
Pottermack, had taken every possible precaution. But supposing that he
had forgotten something; that he had overlooked some small but vital
detail. It was quite conceivable. The thing had frequently happened. The
annals of crime, and especially of murder, were full of fatal
oversights.

So Mr. Pottermack cogitated as, having picked up the apron, he made his
way to the workshop, where he set to work at once on the tasks that
remained to be done. First he dealt with the shoes. As it would have
been difficult and was quite unnecessary to remove the gutta-percha
soles, he simply shaved off the heels, heated the surface and then stuck
on the original soles of balata.

Next he broke up the plaster moulds and casts into small fragments,
which he carried out in the bucket and shot down the well. Those, he
reflected with a sense of relief as he replaced the hurdle, were the
last visible traces of the tragedy; but even as he turned away from the
well, he saw that they were not. For, glancing at the summer-house, he
observed the decanter, the siphon, and the tumbler still on the table.
Of course, to no eye but his was there anything suspicious or unusual in
their presence there. But the sight of them affected him disagreeably.
Not only were they a vivid and unpleasant reminder of events which he
wished to forget. They revived the doubts that had tended to fade away
under the exhilarating influence of work. For here was something that he
had overlooked. A thing of no importance, indeed, but still a detail
that he had forgotten. Trivial as the oversight was, he felt his
confidence in his foresight shaken.

He walked to the summer-house, and, setting down the bucket outside,
entered and proceeded to clear away these traces. Opening the cupboard,
he caught up the siphon and the decanter and stepped behind the table to
put them on the shelves. As he did so, he felt something soft under his
foot, and when he had closed the cupboard door he looked down to see
what it was. And then his heart seemed to stand still. For the thing
under his foot was a coat--and it was not his coat.

There is a very curious phenomenon which we may describe as deferred
visual sensation. We see something which is plainly before our eyes, but
yet, owing to mental preoccupation, we are unaware of it. The image is
duly registered on the retina; the retina passes on its record to the
brain; but there the impression remains latent until some association
brings it to the surface of consciousness.

Now, this was what had happened to Pottermack. In the moment in which
his glance fell on the coat there started up before him the vision of a
bulky figure flourishing its fists and staggering backwards towards the
well--the figure of a man in shirt-sleeves. In spite of the darkness, he
had seen that figure quite distinctly; he even recalled that the
shirt-sleeves were of a dark grey. But so intense had been his
preoccupation with the dreadful business of the moment that the detail,
physically seen, had passed into his memory without conscious
recognition.

He was literally appalled. Here, already, was a second oversight; and
this time it was one of vital importance. Had any one who knew Lewson
been present when the coat was discovered, recognition would have been
almost certain; for the material was of a strikingly conspicuous and
distinctive pattern. Then the murder would have been out, and all his
ingenious precautions against discovery would have risen up to testify
to his guilt.

All his confidence, all of the sense of security that he had felt on his
return home on the previous night, had evaporated in an instant. Two
obvious things he had forgotten, and one of them might have been fatal.
Indeed, there were three; for he had been within an ace of overlooking
those incriminating footprints that might have led the searchers to his
very gate. Was it possible that there was yet some other important fact
that he had failed to take into account? He realized that it was very
possible indeed; that it might easily be that he should add yet another
instance to the abundant records of murderers who, covering up their
tracks with elaborate ingenuity, have yet left damning evidence plain
for any investigator to see.

He picked up the coat, and, rolling it up loosely, considered what he
should do with it. His first impulse was to drop it in the well. But he
rejected the idea for several reasons. It would certainly float, and
might possibly be seen by the mason when the sun-dial was fixed,
especially if he should throw a light down. And then, if the well
should, after all, be searched, the presence of a separate coat would be
against the suggestion of accident. And it would be quite easy to burn
it in the rubbish destructor. Moreover, in rolling the coat he had
become aware of a bulky object in one of the pockets which recalled
certain statements that Lewson had made. In the end, he tucked the coat
under his arm and, catching up the bucket, took his way back to the
workshop.

It was significant of Pottermack's state of mind that as soon as he was
inside he locked the door; notwithstanding that he was alone in the
walled garden and that both the gates were securely fastened. Moreover,
before he began his inspection he unlocked a large drawer and left it
open with the key in the lock, ready to thrust the coat out of sight in
a moment. Then he unrolled the coat on the bench, and, putting his hand
into the inside breast pocket, drew out a leather wallet. It bulged with
papers of various kinds, mostly bills and letters, but to these
Pottermack gave no attention. The one item in the contents that
interested him was a compact bundle of banknotes. There were twenty of
them, all five-pound notes, as he ascertained by going through the
bundle; a hundred pounds in all--the exact sum that had been demanded of
him. In fact, these notes were understudies of his expected
contribution. They had been "borrowed" by Lewson out of the current cash
to meet some sudden call, and his, Pottermack's, notes were to have been
either paid in place of them or to have enabled Lewson to make good his
loan in the morning.

It seemed a queer proceeding, and to Mr. Pottermack it was not very
intelligible. But the motive was no concern of his; what was his concern
was the train of consequences that would be set going. The obvious fact
was that the little branch bank of which Lewson had had sole charge was
now minus a hundred pounds in five-pound notes. That fact must
inevitably come to light within a day or two; most probably this very
day. Then the hue and cry would be out for the missing manager.

Well, that was all to the good. There would certainly be a hot search
for Lewson. But the searchers would not be seeking the body of a
murdered man. They would be on the look-out for an exceedingly live
gentleman with a bundle of stolen notes in his pocket. As he considered
the almost inevitable course of events, Pottermack's spirits rose
appreciably. The borrowing of those notes had been most fortunate for
him, for it turned what would have been an unaccountable disappearance
into a perfectly accountable flight. It seemed an incredibly stupid
proceeding, for if Pottermack had paid up, the borrowing would have been
unnecessary; if he had not paid up, the "loan" could not have been made
good. However, stupid or not, it had been done; and in the doing it
Lewson had, for the first and last time, rendered his victim a real
service.

When he had inspected the notes, Pottermack replaced them in the wallet,
returned the latter to the pocket whence it had come, rolled up the coat
and bestowed it in the drawer, which he closed and locked. The
consumption of it in the rubbish destructor could be postponed for a
time; and perhaps it might not come to that at all. For the finding of
the notes had, to a great extent, restored Pottermack's confidence; and
already there had appeared in his mind the germ of an idea--vague and
formless at present--that the notes, and perhaps even the coat, might
yet have further useful offices to perform.

As he had now completed his tasks and cleared away--as he hoped--the
last traces of the previous night's doings, he thought it time that he
should show himself to Mrs. Gadby in his normal, everyday aspect.
Accordingly he took the rucksack, a setting-board, and a few other
necessary appliances and made his way to the house, where he established
himself in the dining-room at a table by the window and occupied the
time in setting the moths which he had captured on the previous night.
They were but a poor collection, with an unconscionable proportion of
duplicates, but Pottermack pinned them all out impartially--even the
damaged ones--on the setting-board. It was their number, not their
quality, that would produce the necessary moral effect on Mrs. Gadby
when she came in to lay the table for his mid-day dinner. So he worked
away placidly with an outward air of complete absorption in his task;
but all the while there kept recurring in his mind, like some infernal
refrain, the disturbing question: Was there even now something that he
had forgotten: something that his eye had missed but that other eyes
might detect?

In the afternoon he strolled round to Mr. Gallett's yard to see if all
was going well in regard to the preparations for setting up the
sun-dial. He was anxious that there should be no delay, for though the
presence of the dial would afford him no added security, he had an
unreasonable feeling that the fixing of it would close the horrible
incident. And he did very much want that sinister black hole hidden from
sight for ever. Great therefore, was his relief when he discovered Mr.
Gallett and two of his men in the very act of loading a low cart with
what was obviously the material for the job.

The jovial mason greeted him with a smile and a nod. "All ready, you
see, Mr. Pottermack,” said he, indicating the dial-pillar, now swathed
in a canvas wrapping, and slapping one of the stone slabs that stood on
edge by its side. "Could almost have done it to-day, but it's getting a
bit late and we've got one or two other jobs to finish up here. But
we'll have him round by nine o'clock to-morrow morning, if that will
do."

It would do admirably, Mr. Pottermack assured him, adding: "You will
have to bring it in at the side gate. Do you know whereabouts that is?"

"I can't say as I do exactly,” replied Gallett. "But I'll bring him to
the front gate and then you can show me where he is to go."

To this Pottermack agreed, and they then strolled together to the gate,
where Mr. Gallett halted, and, having looked up and down the street with
a precautionary air, said in what he meant to be a low tone:

"Rummy report going round the town. Have you heard anything of it?"

"No,” replied Pottermack, all agog in a moment.

"What is it?"

"Why, they say that the manager of Perkins's Bank has hopped it. That's
what they say, and I fancy there must be something in it, because I went
there this morning to pay in a cheque and I found the place closed. Give
me a rare turn, because I've got an account there. So I rang the bell
and the caretaker he come and tells me that Mr. Lewson wasn't able to
attend to-day but that there would be some one there later to carry on
till he came back. And so there was, for I went round a couple of hours
later and found the place open and business going on as usual. There was
a youngish fellow at the counter, but there was an elderly gent--rather
a foxy-looking customer--who seemed to be smelling round, taking down
the books and looking into the drawers and cupboards. Looks a bit queer,
don't you think?"

"It really does,” Pottermack admitted. "The fact of the bank not being
open at the usual time suggests that Mr. Lewisham--"

"Lewson is his name,” Mr. Gallett corrected.

"Mr. Lewson. It suggests that he had absented himself without giving
notice, which is really rather a remarkable thing for a manager to do."

"It is,” said Gallett; "particularly as he lived on the premises."

"Did he, indeed?" exclaimed Pottermack. "That makes it still more
remarkable. Quite mysterious, in fact."

"Very mysterious,” said Gallett. "Looks as if he had mizzled; and if he
has, why, he probably didn't go away with his pockets empty."

Pottermack shook his head gravely. "Still,” he urged, "it is early to
raise suspicions. He may possibly have been detained somewhere. He was
at the bank yesterday?"

"Oh, yes; and seen in the town yesterday evening. Old Keeling, the
postman, saw him about half-past seven and wished him good-night. Says
he saw him turn into the footpath that leads through Potter's Wood."

"Ha,” said Pottermack. "Well, he may have lost his way in the wood, or
been taken ill. Who knows? It is best not to jump at conclusions too
hastily."

With this and a friendly nod he turned out of the yard and took his way
homeward, cogitating profoundly. Events were moving even more quickly
than he had anticipated, but they were moving in the right direction.
Nevertheless, he recognized with something like a shudder how near he
had been to disaster. But for the chance moonbeam that had lighted up
the footprints in his garden, he would have overlooked those other
tell-tale tracks outside. And again he asked himself uneasily if there
could be something else that he had overlooked. He was tempted to take a
walk into the country in the direction of the wood to see if there were
yet any signs of a search; for, by Gallett's report, it appeared that
the direction in which Lewson had gone, and even his route, was already
known. But prudence bade him keep aloof and show no more than a
stranger's interest in the affair. Accordingly he went straight home;
and since in his restless state he could not settle down to read, he
betook himself to his workshop and spent the rest of the day in
sharpening chisels and plane-irons and doing other useful,
time-consuming jobs.

True to his word, Mr. Gallett appeared on the following morning almost
on the stroke of nine. Pottermack himself opened the door to him and at
once conducted him through the house out into the orchard and thence to
the walled garden. It was not without a certain vague apprehensiveness
that he unlocked the gate and admitted his visitor, for since that fatal
night no eye but his had looked on that enclosure. It is true that on
this very morning he had made a careful tour of inspection and had
satisfied himself that nothing was visible that all the world might not
see. Nevertheless, he was conscious of a distinct sense of discomfort as
he let the mason in, and still more when he led him to the well.

"So this is where you wants him planted?" said Mr. Gallett, stepping up
to the brink of the well and looking down it reflectively. "It do seem a
pity for to bung up a good well. And you say there's a tidy depth of
water in him."

"Yes,” said Pottermack; "a fair depth. But it's a long way down to it."

"So 'tis, seemingly,” Gallett agreed. "The bucket would take a bit of
histing up." As he spoke, he felt in his pocket and drew out a folded
newspaper, and from another pocket he produced a box of matches. In
leisurely fashion he tore off a sheet of the paper, struck a match, and,
lighting a corner of the paper, let it fall, craning over to watch its
descent. Pottermack also craned over, with his heart in his mouth,
staring breathlessly at the flaming mass as it sank slowly, lighting up
the slimy walls of the well, growing smaller and fainter as it
descended, while a smaller, fainter spark rose from the depths to meet
it. At length they met and were in an instant extinguished; and
Pottermack breathed again. What a mercy he had not thrown the coat down!

"We'll have to bank up the earth a bit,” said Mr. Gallett, "for the
slabs to bed on. Don't want 'em to rest on the brickwork of the well or
they may settle out of the level after a time. And if you've got a spade
handy, we may as well do it now, 'cause we can't get to the side gate
for a few minutes. There's a gent out there a-takin' photographs of the
ground."

"Of the ground!" gasped Pottermack.

"Ay. The path, you know. Seems as there's some footmarks there--pretty
plain ones they looked to me without a-photographin' of em. Well, it's
them footmarks as he's a-takin'."

"But what for?" demanded Pottermack.

"Ah,” said Mr. Gallett. "There you are. I don't know, but I've got my
ideas. I see the police inspector a-watchin' of him--all on the broad
grin he was too--and I suspect it's got something to do with that bank
manager that I was tellin' you about."

"Ah, Mr. Lewis?"

"Lewson is his name. There's no news of him and he was seen coming this
way on Wednesday night. Why, he must have passed this very gate."

"Dear me!" exclaimed Pottermack. "And as to his reasons for going away
so suddenly. Is anything--er--?"

"Well, no,” replied Gallett. "Nothing is known for certain. Of course,
the bank people don't let on. But there's some talk in the town about
some cash that is missing. May be all bunkum, though it's what you'd
expect. Now, about that spade. Shall I call in my men or can we do it
ourselves?"

Pottermack decided that they could do it themselves, and, having
produced a couple of spades, he fell to work under Gallett's direction,
raising a low platform for the stone slabs to rest on. A few minutes'
work saw it finished to the mason's satisfaction, and all was now ready
for the fixing of the dial.

"I wonder if that photographer chap has finished,” said Mr. Gallett.
"Shall we go and have a look?"

This was what Pottermack had been bursting to do, though he had
heroically suppressed his curiosity; and even now he strolled
indifferently to the gate and held it open for the mason to go out
first.

"There he is,” said Gallett, "and blow me if he isn't a-takin' of 'em
all the way along. What can he be doing that for? The cove had only got
two feet."

Mr. Pottermack looked out and was no less surprised than the worthy
mason. But he did not share the latter's purely impersonal interest. On
the contrary, what he saw occasioned certain uncomfortable stirrings in
the depths of his consciousness. Some little distance up the path a
spectacled youth of sage and sober aspect had set up a tripod to which a
rather large camera of the box type was attached by a goose-neck
bracket. The lens was directed towards the ground, and when the young
man had made his exposure by means of a wire release, he opened a
portfolio and made a mark or entry of some kind on what looked like a
folded map. Then he turned a key on the camera, and, lifting it with its
tripod, walked away briskly for some twenty or thirty yards, when he
halted, fixed the tripod and repeated the operation. It really was a
most astonishing performance.

"Well,” said Mr. Gallett, "he's finished here, at any rate, so we can
get on with our business now. I'll just run round and fetch the cart
along."

He sauntered away towards the road, and Pottermack, left alone, resumed
his observation of the photographer. The proceedings of that mysterious
individual puzzled him not a little. Apparently he was taking a sample
footprint about every twenty yards, no doubt selecting specially
distinct impressions. But to what purpose? One or two photographs would
have been understandable as permanent records of marks that a heavy
shower might wash away and that would, in any case, soon disappear. But
a series, running to a hundred or more, could have no ordinary utility.
And, yet it was not possible that that solemn young man could be taking
all this trouble without some definite object. Now, what could that
object be?

Pottermack was profoundly puzzled. Moreover, he was more than a little
disturbed. Hitherto his chief anxiety had been lest the footprints
should nev