Page:All the Year Round - Series 2 - Volume 1.djvu/93

 by turns before the glass, that they could only see "something dark bobbing up and down a the end of it." At last it was suggested that Martin, the vicar's factotum, who had been out must be at home by this time, and a servant being despatched in search of him, he presently appeared and took my place at the glass through which he could see perfectly.

"He lives just there, sir, between the part of the road where you say he disappeared and the station," said Martin, when he had heart all the foregoing particulars. "Just behind that row of poplars you see down yonder."

This opened a new view of the matter. Martin suggested that perhaps he had gone home, and that the right course might be to send there to capture him. The propriety of this, however, I doubted.

"Keep your attention fixed upon the station," I said, "and let me be informed of all that goes on there. He will find his way there at last."

Martin kept his glass fixed on the little building in silence. Everything appeared to be at a standstill for the moment.

"An old woman carrying a basket is making her way slowly to the station," said Martin; "one or two other people are beginning to arrive."

"What sort of people?"

"Oh, not our man. One is a lad, looks like a gentleman's groom, come to fetch some parcel. The other is a miller with a sack of meal. There are signs of some stir about the place, and I can make out the porters moving about. What time is it, sir?" asked the man, suddenly.

"Twenty minutes past four," I answered.

"The down train is due at 4.29," said Martin. "That accounts for the bustle."

"Where does it go to?" I asked.

"It's the Bristol train, sir," was the answer.

Just the place where, I thought, the murderer would want to go.

"There's a cart driven by an old man with a great many parcels, which the porters are removing, and taking into the station; there's a man with a couple of pointers coupled. The train's coining, sir, I can see the smoke, and they're working the signals as hard as they can go. Here's a carriage driving up with a pair of white horses. It's the Westbrook carriage—I can see the liveries. There's Squire Westbrook getting out, and there are the two young ladies. Here's the postman with his leather bag. Here's a woman with a little boy; the train's in now, and they're just going to shut the doors. Here comes somebody running. He's a volunteer, one of our own corps. He'll be too late. No; the porter sees him, and beckons him to make haste. The volunteer runs harder than ever, the porter drags him into the station and the door is shut."

"Is there nobody else?" I asked, in violent excitement.

"Not a soul, sir, and now the train is off."

"And are you sure you've not missed any one?"

"Quite sure, sir."

I was profoundly disappointed, and for the moment puzzled how to act. Watching the station was, for the present, useless. There would not be another train until eight o'clock at night. The only chance under these circumstances seemed to be the chance of finding the man at his own house. Thither I determined to go, thinking that even if he were not there I might obtain some information from the neighbours which might prove of use. I got a description of the house and its situation from Martin, and, leaving him with directions still to keep a watch on the station, ran down-stairs, and finding the horse I had ordered waiting for me at the door, went off at full speed.

The horse carried me so well that in a very short time I had reached the little clump of cottages to which I had been directed, and one of which was the dwelling-place of the murderer. I dismounted, and throwing my horse's bridle on the palings in front of the cottage, passed along the little path which led to the door, and proceeded to try the latch. The door was locked. Looking up at the windows—there were but two—I saw that they also were firmly secured, and that the blinds were down. The small abode had a deserted look, and I felt that it was empty; but I knocked loudly, nevertheless, and shook the door.

The noise of my arrival, and of my knocking, at length disturbed some of the neighbours, and one or two of them appeared.

"Is this William Mason's house?" I asked, addressing one of them: an old man, who looked tolerably intelligent, but wasn't.

"Yes, sir. But he's not there now. He's gone out," the man replied, after a minute or two devoted to thought.

"Gone out? How long ago?"

"Well," replied the man, after more time spent in reflection, "I should think it was about half an hour."

"Which way did he go?"

The old man took more time than ever to consider this question, driving me almost wild with his delay. Then, after looking first one way and then the other, he pointed in the direction of the station. I was already on horseback again, and just about to move off, when another of the neighbours interposed.

"I do think," said this one, speaking, if possible, more deliberately than the other, "that he went to his drill."

"Drill!" I cried. "What drill?"

Why, volunteer drill, to be sure."

"What!" I screamed. "Was he a volunteer?"

"Yes, sir. The parson he requires everybody in his employment"

I did not wait for more, but galloped off, as fast as my horse could go, to the railway station. I saw it all now. In the interval luring which we had lost sight of the man he lad been home, and, thinking that a change of costume might baffle pursuit, had assumed the volunteer dress as the best disguise at bis disposal.