One night this butler was just outside the Squire's dining-room door, when he heard the noise of a violent quarrel. The Squire was a violent gentleman, from time to time; but the curious thing about this scene was that the other gentleman was the more violent of the two.
Miles heard him say repeatedly that the Squire was a public nuisance, and that his death would be a good riddance for everybody.
I only stop now to tell you that the other gentleman was Dr. Burton Brown, the medical man of this village.
"The next examination I made was that of Martin, the woodcutter.
Upon one point at least his evidence is quite clear, and is, as you will see, largely confirmed by other witnesses.
He says first that the doctor prevented him from recovering his ax, and this is corroborated by Mr. and Mrs. Treherne. But he says further that the doctor admitted having the thing himself; and this again finds support in other evidence by the gardener, who saw the doctor, some time afterward, come by himself and pick up the chopper.
Martin says that Doctor Brown repeatedly refused to give it up, alleging some fanciful excuse every time. And, finally, Mr. Paynter, we will hear the evidence of the ax itself."
He laid the woodman's tool on the table in front of him, and began to rip up and unwrap the curious linen covering round the handle.
"You will admit this is an odd bandage," he said. "And that's just the odd thing about it, that it really is a bandage.
This white stuff is the sort of lint they use in hospitals, cut into strips like this. But most doctors keep some; and I have the evidence of Jake the fisherman, with whom Doctor Brown lived for some time, that the doctor had this useful habit.
And, last," he added, flattening out a corner of the rag on the table, "isn't it odd that it should be marked T.B.B.?"
The American gazed at the rudely inked initials, but hardly saw them.
What he saw, as in a mirror in his darkened memory, was the black figure with the black gloves against the blood-red sunset, as he had seen it when he came out of the wood, and which had always haunted him, he knew not why.
"Of course, I see what you mean," he said, "and it's very painful for me, for I knew and respected the man.
But surely, also, it's very far from explaining everything.
If he is a murderer, is he a magician? Why did the well water all evaporate in a night, and leave the dead man's bones dry as dust?
That's not a common operation in the hospitals, is it?"
"As to the water, we do know the explanation," said the detective.
"I didn't tumble to it at first myself, being a Cockney; but a little talk with Jake and the other fisherman about the old smuggling days put me straight about that. But I admit the dried remains still stump us all.
All the same--"
A shadow fell across the table, and his talk was sharply cut short.
Ashe was standing under the painted sign, buttoned up grimly in black, and with the face of the hanging judge, of which the poet had spoken, plain this time in the broad sunlight.
Behind him stood two big men in plain clothes, very still; but Paynter knew instantly who they were.
"We must move at once," said I the lawyer. "Dr. Burton Brown is leaving the village."
The tall detective sprang to his feet, and Paynter instinctively imitated him.
"He has gone up to the Trehernes possibly to say good-by," went on Ashe rapidly. "I'M sorry, but we must arrest him in the garden there, if necessary. I've kept the lady out of the way, I think.
But you"--addressing the factitious landscape painter--"must go up at once and rig up that easel of yours near the table and be ready.
We will follow quietly, and come up behind the tree. We must be careful, for it's clear he's got wind of us, or he wouldn't be doing a bolt."
"I don't like this job," remarked Paynter, as they mounted toward the park and garden, the detective darting on ahead.
"Do you suppose I do?" asked Ashe; and, indeed, his strong, heavy face looked so lined and old that the red hair seemed unnatural, like a red wig. "I've known him longer than you, though perhaps I've suspected him longer as well."
When they topped the slope of the garden the detective had already erected his easel, though a strong breeze blowing toward the sea rattled and flapped his apparatus and blew about his fair (and false) beard in the wind. Little clouds curled like feathers, were scudding seaward across the many-colored landscape, which the American art critic had once surveyed on a happier morning; but it is doubtful if the landscape painter paid much attention to it. Treherne was dimly discernible in the doorway of what was now his house; he would come no nearer, for he hated such a public duty more bitterly than the rest.
The others posted themselves a little way behind the tree.
Between the lines of these masked batteries the black figure of the doctor could be seen coming across the green lawn, traveling straight, as a bullet, as he had done when he brought the bad news to the woodcutter. To-day he was smiling, under the dark mustache that was cut short of the upper lip, though they fancied him a little pale, and he seemed to pause a moment and peer through his spectacles at the artist.
The artist turned from his easel with a natural movement, and then in a flash had captured the doctor by the coat collar.
"I arrest you--" he began; but Doctor Brown plucked himself free with startling promptitude, took a flying leap at the other, tore off his sham beard, tossing it into the air like one of the wild wisps of the cloud; then, with one wild kick, sent the easel flying topsy-turvy, and fled like a hare for the shore.
Even at that dazzling instant Paynter felt that this wild reception was a novelty and almost an anticlimax; but he had no time for analysis when he and the whole pack had to follow in the hunt; even Treherne bringing up the rear with a renewed curiosity and energy.
