As she made her signalling movement towards Blick, Daffy retreated a pace or two within the thick shrubbery, and the expression in her eyes indicated a desire for secrecy and caution. Blick, in his turn, signed to his companion to follow him, and whispered an aside as they left the road and passed through the wicket-gate.

“This is one of the women I told you of,” he murmured. “Mrs. Tretheroe’s maid—Daphne Halliwell, sister of the girl Myra Halliwell, who married Guy Markenmore. She’s therefore aunt to the new baronet!—and as deep as they make ’em. Come with me—I’ll let her think you’re an assistant of mine.”

“Excellent!” said the Professor. “An adventure! By all means, my dear fellow! The lady looks as if she had something to impart.”

“I shouldn’t wonder!” answered Blick. “As I say—she’s deep.”

Daffy had retreated further up the walk between the laurel and holly bushes; she now stood awaiting their approach, and as they drew near, she looked closely at the Professor, and especially at his fashionable attire. Her eyes glanced a question at Blick.

“All right!” whispered Blick. “Professional friend of mine. What is it?”

“I want to speak to you,” said Daffy. She looked round at their surroundings and then at a narrower path which opened close by. “Come along here,” she went on. “There’s an old summer-house down there that’s never used—we shall be safe there.”

The two men followed Daffy’s trim figure through a maze of shrubs until they came to a rustic arbour set in the midst of high trees. Entering this, a dilapidated and mouldy place, she turned and confronted Blick with another side-glance at the Professor.

“I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Blick,” she said, in low tones. “I’d been waiting there at the gate some little time, thinking I might see you coming out of the Sceptre. My mistress has driven into Selcaster, so I shan’t be wanted, and nobody’s likely to come here, so we’re safe enough for a bit of talk. Look here! there’s a reward out, isn’t there?”

“One hundred pounds,” assented Blick, watching her narrowly.

Daffy made a grimace.

“Oh, well!” she said. “It’s a miserable amount, but I don’t want it, and I don’t know anything that would enable me to get it. But—now, this is between ourselves, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely!” declared Blick. “Strictly so. Tell us anything you like—and can.”

“Well, I know of somebody who, I believe, has made a pretty good guess at the truth about Guy Markenmore,” answered Daffy. “And he’s a man who’d be glad of a hundred pounds, for he wants to emigrate.”

“What man?” asked Dick.

Daffy lowered the tones of her voice.

“Jim Roper!” she whispered. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Yes,” replied Blick. He was already wondering how much of whatever was coming was to be relied on; as far as he had seen into her character, Daffy did not seem the sort of woman to tell anything that would not benefit herself. But she might have reasons for benefiting Jim Roper which was not yet apparent. “Yes,” he repeated, “I’ve heard of Jim Roper. He’s the man who wanted to marry your sister, Myra, isn’t he—the sister who ran away with and married Guy Markenmore?”

“That’s just it,” assented Daffy. “It’s because he was about to marry Myra when she threw him clean over and went off with Guy Markenmore that Roper hasn’t spoken. But a hundred pounds might induce him to speak!”

“What do you mean, exactly, about it’s because of that?” asked Blick. “And what is it that he hasn’t spoken of?”

“Well,” replied Daffy, with a glance that took in both men, “it’s like this—Roper is, and always was, what you’d call a dark-tempered man. The sort that never forgets nor forgives. He’d always meant to marry Myra, and she’d promised him, too. In fact, they were just about to have the banns published when she suddenly ran away with Guy. And, of course, nobody—not even me, her own sister!—ever knew what had become of her until recently, when all this business came out about their having got married. Roper, when she first went off, went many a time to London to look for her. He never got a trace of her, of course, but he always swore that it was Guy Markenmore who’d enticed her away. And he swore something else, too—that if ever he chanced across Guy Markenmore he’d kill him, if he swung for it there and then. He meant it, too! That was about the last thing he said to me just before I went to India, with Mrs. Tretheroe, and it was the first thing I heard him say when I came back here, seven years later.”

“Still meaning to do it, eh?—after seven years?” said Blick.

“I believe he’d have done it if he’d met Guy Markenmore after seventeen years!” replied Daffy. “He’s that sort! I could see he’d got worse with brooding over it. It was the one thing on his mind. Why, it’s only a fortnight ago that I met him hereabouts one day, and happened to mention that old Sir Anthony was on his last legs, and that I’d wondered if Guy would come back and be master, and he scowled and said that if Guy ever came back it would only be to get a knife through him! And I’ll tell you, since it is between ourselves, that when I heard that Guy had been murdered, I fully believed that Roper had met him that morning and done for him—I really did!”

“And you don’t believe it now?” suggested Blick.

“No!” asserted Daffy. “But I believe Roper has a very good idea as to who did murder him. In fact, he may have more than an idea—he may know. And I tell you that he may be inclined to tell you for a hundred pounds, for now that he knows Myra is dead, he wants to leave here and go abroad.”

“What makes you think that Roper knows something?” enquired Blick. “Let’s have it straight out, now! Has he said anything to you?”

“Yes!” replied Daffy. “I met him a night or two ago, when he’d come down to the village to do his shopping. We got talking by that gate where you met me just now, and, of course, it was all about the murder. I asked him straight out if he’d had anything to do with it? He said no, worse luck, he hadn’t! And then he said more. ‘I could tell something about it,’ he said, ‘but I ain’t going to, for the thing’s done, now. I ain’t going to help the police,’ he went on. ‘Let ’em do their own work.’ That was all—he went off, then.”

“Giving you no more idea than just that?” asked Blick.

“He said nothing but that,” replied Daffy. “But I’m sure he knows something. Only, if you begin questioning him, for God’s sake don’t let him know I told you!”

“I can get over that, easily, if you’ll just tell me this,” said Blick reassuringly. “Did Roper make threats against Guy Markenmore in anybody’s presence beside your own?—in the old days, I mean?”

“Oh, he certainly did in the old days!—before I went to India,” asserted Daffy. “I’ve heard of him saying dreadful things at the Sceptre. I should think there’s many a man in the village who’s heard him.”

Blick’s memory went back to the first conversation he had overheard at the Sceptre, and to the remarks of certain of the village men as to the feelings of enmity cherished by various unnamed persons of the neighbourhood against Guy Markenmore.

“All right,” he said. “Your name shan’t come in. I’ve heard something of Roper’s threats and feelings elsewhere. But now, where does Roper live?”

“All by himself, in a cottage amongst the woods on the other side of the Downs, behind Markenmore Hollow,” replied Daffy. “He keeps himself to himself up there—never comes down this way, except once a week to buy his groceries and meat.”

“What sort of man is he?” asked Blick.

“He used to be as nice a lad as there was anywhere about, till Myra ran away,” answered Daffy. “But that soured him. He’s a black, gloomy, quiet man, now—scarcely speaks, and never smiles. I don’t know if you’ll get anything out of him or not, but I’m perfectly certain he either knows something or has guessed at something.”

“You’re quite sure, in your own mind, that Roper himself is innocent?” suggested Blick, looking searchingly at her.

Daffy Halliwell glanced at both men and uttered a queer laugh.

“Yes!” she exclaimed. “I’m certain of that!”

“Why, now?” asked the Professor, speaking for the first time since the beginning of the conversation. “Why are you certain?”

Daffy turned her regard more particularly to the second questioner. After looking carefully at him for a full minute, she spoke.

“You look as if you’d understand—whoever you are,” she said suddenly. “And that you’re a policeman—plain-clothes or otherwise—I don’t believe! I’m certain Jim Roper didn’t kill Guy Markenmore, because if he had he’s just the man to have let it be known that he’d had his revenge! He wouldn’t have cared twopence if they’d hanged him next day!”

Blick exchanged another word or two with Daffy as to Roper’s exact location, and he and his companion went off. The Professor marched along in silence for awhile.

“That woman possesses a power of keen insight into character,” he remarked at last. “She’d make a useful member of your force, Blick! I’m sure she’s quite right in what she said just now. A man of the sort she described, who’d nursed his desire for revenge all these years, wouldn’t care very much who knew that he’d satisfied it at last. For him, you see, it would be the end!—all else would be nothing.”

“What about self-preservation?” suggested Blick.

“I don’t think he’d be at all careful about that,” replied the Professor thoughtfully. “No!—the woman’s intuition is right. I think we must acquit this man Roper. A much-wronged man, too, evidently. I’m curious to see him.”

“I daresay we shall soon find him,” said Blick. “He’ll be somewhere in the woods.”

He led his companion up Deep Lane, past The Warren and Woodland Cottage, to the summit of the high ground above Markenmore Hollow. Beyond that point Blick had never been; he was surprised to find himself contemplating a stretch of country which in its wildness and diversity contrasted strongly with the pastoral and landscape country that he and his companion had just left behind them. Here, on the northern side of the uplands, the hillsides were broken into deep dark combes and ravines; great masses of rock jutted out from the slopes; old, dark, apparently impenetrable woods were on all sides; the two men, looking round in astonishment at the almost savage character of the scene, observed that as far as they could see there was not a human habitation in sight.

“A wild scene!” remarked the Professor. “Deserted!”

But Blick lifted a hand.

“Hark!” he said.

From somewhere to the right of where they stood came the unmistakable ring of an ax, laid with vigour to the root of some tree. Turning in that direction, they saw the tall slender spire of a pine sway, totter, and disappear amongst the lower trees, amidst which it had stood: a dull crash followed.

“That’ll be our man at work,” said Blick.

Silently the two men crossed the hill-side in the direction whence the sound of the swinging ax, now evidently laid aside, had proceeded. Within a few minutes they reached a belt of trees, through an opening in which they saw a clearing in the wood beyond. There, beside the fallen pine, stood a man, at that moment in the act of lighting his short clay pipe. His ax lay against the tree which it had just felled; near it a dog was curled up against its master’s coat. It cocked an ear and opened an eye as the two strangers drew near; at its low growl, the man turned and gave his visitors a sullen, questioning glance.

“A formidable-looking fellow!” murmured the Professor. “And that ax of his is a fearsome weapon, Blick! I should speak him very fair—to begin with.”

Blick smiled.

“I shan’t frighten him!” he answered. “Persuasion goes further than force. Good afternoon!” he continued pleasantly, as they came nearer the object of their search. “Are you James Roper?”

“My name, mister,” replied the woodman.

“That’s mine,” said Blick, producing one of his professional cards. “You may have heard of me. I’m staying at the Sceptre.”

Roper took the card, glanced at it and at Blick, and handed it back, unconcernedly.

“Heard something o’ the sort,” he answered.

Blick sat down on the fallen pine, and pulled out his pipe and tobacco.

“I wanted to know if you couldn’t give me a bit of information, Roper,” he said. “You live hereabouts, don’t you?”

“Close by,” replied Roper, in tones which signified that it was none of Blick’s business where he lived.

“Then you know this district—these woods and hill-sides and downs—very well indeed, I should think,” continued Blick. “Out on them and amongst them early in a morning, and perhaps late at night, no doubt?”

Roper made no answer. He had got his pipe fairly going by that time, and he now picked up his ax and began to lop away the upper twigs and slighter branches of the tree on which Blick had seated himself. Blick assented to his silence and kept his own, the ax ceased, and Roper, leaning on its shaft, looked at his questioner.

“You ain’t come up here for nothing!” he said, with a scowl. “What might you be after? I do hear as how you’re a-enquiring into that there affair at Markenmore Hollow. I don’t know nothing about it. Might strike ’ee that if I did I’d ha’ come somewheres your way or to they police at Selcaster, and ha’ told.”

“And it might strike me that you wouldn’t,” retorted Blick, with a sly glance at his man. “I’ve learnt a good deal since I came into these parts. You’d a pretty good grudge against Guy Markenmore yourself, eh?”

Roper scowled more darkly than before.

“Don’t know nothing certain about how he come by his end, anyhow,” he muttered. “And as to grudges, there’s them around here as knows how that varmint treated I! Ain’t a decent man, same as what I’ve been, a right to have his feelings about another man as treated him bad?”

“You’ve the same right to your feelings that every other man has,” agreed Blick. “Who says you haven’t?”

Roper looked somewhat mollified.

“Well,” he remarked slowly, “’cause o’ such feelings as I do have, I ’oodn’t ha’ lifted a finger to presarve that man! He got what such-like desarves! But I ain’t no, what you might call certain idea whatever who he got it from.”

“You mean—if it comes to precise particulars,” insinuated Blick. “But now look here, Roper. You knock about a good deal round this part, early and late, and I guess you’ve a pair of sharp eyes and a pair of sharp ears as well. Guy Markenmore’s dead!—good riddance to him, if you like!—I don’t care, I’m sure. But what’s it matter if you, if you have any knowledge of any sort about him, just before his death, if you let it out—especially if it’s made worth your while? For instance—in going about, as you do, have you ever seen anything suspicious, or met any suspicious characters? Have you ever heard or seen anything out of the common?”

Roper looked from one visitor to another. The Professor, smoking a cigar, was watching him attentively.

“Ain’t heard nothing about it’s being worth anybody’s while to tell anything as they might chance to know,” said Roper suddenly.

Blick silently drew out his copy of the reward bill and handed it to the woodman; the Professor, keenly attentive, saw Roper’s eyes brighten at sight of the heavy type in which the particulars of Mrs. Braxfield’s reward were printed. He drew his heavy brows together as he laboriously read through the offer.

“How does that strike you?” asked Blick presently. “There’s a hundred pounds to be picked up by anybody who can tell a bit. If you know anything—mind, Roper, I’m not implying that you do!—but—if you do—eh?”

Roper began to fold up the reward bill; his eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the trees in front of him as he handed the paper back to the detective.

“Keep it!” said Blick. “It’s posted all over the place. If you do chance to know anything at all, Roper, cut in first!”

“That there money?—a hundred pound,” said Roper slowly. “Is it a sure thing?”

“I’ll guarantee that!” answered Blick. “Dead certain!—to anybody who can give accurate information. Have you got any?”

“Money down?” asked Roper.

“Money down!” assented Blick. “Spot cash!”

Roper’s pipe had gone out. He suddenly seated himself on the fallen tree, and proceeded to re-light the tobacco, with a deliberation which showed that he was being equally deliberate in his thoughts.

“I could do wi’ a hundred pounds!” he said suddenly. “’Tain’t a great deal, sure-ly—but it ’ud do me a good turn. I’m sick and weary o’ these parts, now, and I want to be off—I want to start a new life, somewhere’s far away! That man Guy Markenmore—he broke my life in two, as you might say, and now—well, if I’ve the money I’ll go right away out o’ this, and see new places and faces, and try if I can’t forget. I’ve lived overmuch alone, and——”

Blick had not been prepared for this outburst of feeling, nor was he prepared for an equally sudden, wholly impulsive, similar display from the Professor.

“Look here, my man!” he exclaimed. “You don’t know me—never mind!—Blick here does. Now then, if you want a new start—another life, eh?—I’ll give you a hundred pounds in addition to this reward money—great pleasure, I’m sure—and just now! But—if you know anything—tell!”

Roper stared in amazement at the Professor, who nodded his head vigorously.

“Thank ’ee sir!” he said suddenly. “I see you means it—you’re a man with a bit o’ heart in you! Well, I don’t know nothing positive, but I can make a pretty good guess at—something!”

CHAPTER XXV