room on the previous evening with a glass of toddy. Could it be that Gowrie had murdered this unknown man, and had then arranged the snare, so that a perfectly innocent being should bear the penalty of his wickedness. It was credible, and yet,--from what Herries remembered of the old scamp,--Gowrie was not the man to commit so dreadful a deed. In his degraded state, the ex-minister would steal at a pinch in order to procure money for drink. He would lie glibly; he would blackmail, and bear false witness to serve his own ends; but Herries could not think even so base a man capable of murder. For one thing he would not have the nerve, seeing that drink had shattered his system. No! It would not be Gowrie, and yet, if not Gowrie, who could have an interest in implicating a stranger in the awful tragedy?
Again, as Herries reflected when his brain became clearer, Mrs. Narby said that the gentleman, who had occupied the bedroom next door, had departed in his noticeable fur coat at eight o'clock. If it was he who had passed through the tap-room, it certainly could not be him, who was lying dead in the next room. The affair was puzzling, and not the least mysterious thing was that no one in the house knew the dead man's name. He had come to see someone and had duly retired to bed; next morning he was found dead. If this was the case, who then could be the man who had visited him on the previous night? Who was the man who had left at eight in the morning, disguised in a fur coat belonging to the dead? There could be but one answer. He was the assassin.
Again Herries looked out of the window, and saw that two men,--yokels apparently,--were guarding it below; he stole to the door, and strained his hearing to listen. Many people were coming and going in the passage, and he heard the faint murmur of voices. What was going on in the death-chamber, he could not think. The partitions of the inn, doubtless constructed long ago for smuggling purposes, were unusually thick, and even had a man spoken loudly in the next room, the listener would have heard nothing but the sound. In that case, as he argued, he could not have saved the dead man, even had he been awake. Probably the poor wretch's throat had been cut in his sleep. And who had killed him? And why had he, Angus Herries, a stranger, a wanderer on the face of the earth, been dragged into so hideous an affair?
These questions he asked himself constantly, while the slow hours dragged onward. The village--Desleigh was its name, as he heard later--was a long distance from the nearest town, whence a police inspector could be called; and the local constable, without doubt, had two or three of such villages to attend to. It was quite four or five hours since he had been shut up in his room, and no one had been near him. To pass the time, and escape from the terrible thoughts which tormented his brain, Herries dressed himself as neatly as he could. On leaving Pierside he had taken nothing with him, as his enemy the captain had detained all his luggage. He had nothing but the clothes he stood up in, and a few shillings,--say ten. On arriving at the "Marsh Inn," he had possessed fifteen, but five of these he had given for bed and board. He cursed the inn. Had he not halted here, this trouble would never have come upon his already over-burdened shoulders. And yet, he could not be sure of this. He had always been Jonah the unlucky, and Jonah he would remain, so far as his limited vision could see, until the end of his life. Throughout five and twenty years of existence he had suffered nothing but trouble. Everything went wrong with him. This new disaster was all of a piece with the rest of the pattern, that was being woven,--against his will, it would seem--on the looms of life. He wondered, with a sigh, why God permitted so many troubles to befall him, since he could see no good reason for their coming to him so persistently. Then out of sheer desire to do something, he searched his pockets for the remains of his poor fortune.
The ten shillings had vanished. Yet Herries knew that he had counted them on the previous evening, immediately before he retired to bed, and he had placed them in the right-hand pocket of his trousers,--eight shillings and four sixpences. Alarmed at the loss, which meant everything to him, he felt in every pocket, looked under his pillow, examined the floor, but could find no trace of the money.
"How on earth can I get to Tarhaven?" he asked himself, and then it came upon him with a shock, that he was not a free man.
Shortly a soft tap at the door roused him. He told the person who knocked to enter, and a key turned in the lock. Elspeth, her face white and her eyes red, entered, carrying a tray laden with coarse food. This she set down, then impulsively she rushed forward and caught his hand.
"You never did it," she panted, eagerly, and staring at him with burning eyes. "You never, never did it."
"Of course not. I can prove my innocence. No," he made a gesture of despair, as the full terror of his situation rushed upon him, "I say that to comfort myself. I am in a perilous position."
"That a kind man such as you are, should do such a thing," the girl went on, almost to herself, "it's ridiculous. You helped me with that bucket; you would not murder a poor soul in his sleep."
"That I did not. I swear by all that I hold sacred," said Herries, grateful for this true sympathy. "But you see how I am placed; you know the strong evidence against me."
Elspeth nodded.
"Mr. and Mrs. Narby are talking of it," she whispered, with a significant glance at the door, behind which no doubt some one was watching. "The police will be here soon. They have sent to Tarhaven, for the Inspector and the Doctor."
"What is the time now?"
"It is close upon three o'clock," said Elspeth. "Armour, who is the village constable, is on his rounds at some other village, and although they have sent out to get him, he cannot be found. But Pope has gone by train to Tarhaven to bring the Inspector. I expect he'll return every minute. And I cannot stop long; they will miss me. But I want to be your friend," she added again catching his hand. "Tell me, is there anyone I can send for, who will help you?"
"There is my friend, Dr. James Browne of Tarhaven. I have not seen him for a couple of years, but I daresay he'll remember me. Write and ask him to come, or perhaps you could procure me writing material."
"No. They," she alluded to the Narby's, "will allow you nothing."
"Then send the letter yourself to Browne, you kind little soul. He may say a good word for me."
"Is there no one else?"
Herries' head drooped.
"There is one I should not like to hear of my disgrace," he said, faintly.
"Ah!" the girl's dark eyes lighted up with a jealous flame, "and her name, Mr. Herries?"
The young man looked surprised.
"How can you guess that I am thinking of a woman?"
"I guess, because--because--oh, you would not understand. What is her name? I'll see her if you like," her face grew red as she spoke, and had Herries been more experienced in the other sex, he might have seen that her feelings towards him, for his simple act of kindness, were such as to make her hate anyone doing things for him, save herself.
However, he saw nothing of this, and gave the information with all frankness.
"Maud Tedder, she is a cousin of mine, the daughter of Sir Simon Tedder, a famous manufacturer you may have heard of."
Elspeth nodded.
"I've seen his name on jam tins and such like," she said rapidly. "He has a great house at Tarhaven."
"I know. I have been there once, a couple of years ago. But he quarrelled with me, and turned me out."
"Because of Miss--Miss?" she could not say the name.
"Yes! I wanted to marry my cousin.
