The Tree of Knowledge Part 7

"What do you think of this affair?" he asked. "You know these parts--I don't. Has such a thing ever happened before?"

There was a chorus of "No!" and at least half a dozen started forward to vindicate their country side of such a charge. All were convinced that it was the work of some tramp, and then Claud proceeded to give them his ideas on the subject. It was agreed that the stranger spoke sound sense, and several volunteered to organize search parties. This was just what he wanted them to do, and he despatched some towards Edge Combe, some along the highroad to Stanton, and with these last he sent a scribbled note, enclosing his card, to the Stanton constabulary.

He begged them to watch every tramp, every suspicious character that pa.s.sed through the town. Just as he was in the act of writing, and waxing quite excited in his converse with the men, the doctor was heard lumbering downstairs.

A dozen eager faces darted forward to hear the news, but the doctor marched in solemn silence through the group, and took up his position in front of the great fire, facing the a.s.sembly.

"A won't speak a worrd till he's had his ciderr," whispered Mrs.

Battishill to Claud, and Clara went flying past him into the cellar.

Meanwhile Dr. Forbes' sharp eyes had travelled round the room till they rested on Claud, and the two stood staring at one another in a manner irresistibly comic to the latter.

Certainly Mr. Cranmer introduced a foreign element into the society, an element the doctor would scarcely be prepared to find in Mrs.

Battishill's kitchen. He was not above middle height, and slightly built. In complexion he was somewhat fair, with closely cropped, smooth dust-colored hair and moustache, and a pale face. His eyes were grey and usually half shut, and he might have been any age you please, from five and twenty to forty. He had no pretence to good looks of any kind, but he possessed an elegance not very easy to describe--a grace of bearing, a gentleness of manner, a readiness of speech, which no doubt he owed to his Irish origin. He was a conspicuously neat person, never rumpled, never disarrayed, and now, after his very unusual exertions, his collar and tie were in perfect order, his fresh, quiet, light suit was spotless, and his neat brown felt "bowler" lay on the table at his side without even a flack of dust.

His gla.s.s was in his eye, and he held a piece of bread and cream in his hand. Feeling the doctor's eyes upon him, he deliberately ate a mouthful; then, rising his mug of cider:

"I drink your good health, sir," he said. "How do you find your patient?"

"My patient, sir," said Dr. Forbes, in a loud, resonant voice, "has had as foul usage as ever I saw in my life. He'll pull through, he has a splendid const.i.tution. I never saw a finer physique; but he'll have a fight for it."

At this point Clara brought up the cider, which the doctor drained at one long steady pull, after which he wiped his large expressive mouth.

"If the blow on his head had been as hard as those that followed it, he'd have been a dead man by now," he said presently. "But luckily it was not. It was only strong enough to stun him. But there's a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs, and wounds and contusions all over him.

Sir, if the weapon employed had equalled the goodwill of him who employed it, there would have been a fine funeral here at Edge Combe to-morrow."

"Then," said Claud, eagerly, "what do you think the blows were inflicted with?"

"A stick--a cudgel of some sort," said the doctor, "but I'll swear they were given by a novice--by a man that didn't know where to hit, but just slashed at the prostrate carcase promiscuously. Why, if that first blow on the head had been followed by another to match--there would have been the business done at once! But I can't conceive the motive--that's what baffles me, sir."

"But--don't you think the motive was robbery?" cried Claud, excitedly.

"What did he rob him of?" said the doctor; and opening his enormous hand, he showed a handsome gold watch and chain, a ring with a sunk diamond in it, a sovereign or two, and some loose silver.

CHAPTER VII.

Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, Miles on miles On the solitary pastures, where our sheep, Half asleep, Tinkle homeward in the twilight--stay or stop As they crop.

BROWNING.

There was a general hush, during which the doctor surveyed Mr. Cranmer keenly.

"What _can_ be the meaning of it?" cried Claud, thoroughly disconcerted and at fault.

"That's past my telling, or the telling of anybody else, I think," said Dr. Forbes, slowly. "It's the most mysterious thing in the whole course of my professional experience." He eyed Claud again. "Will you be a friend of his?" he asked.

"No, no--I know nothing of him at all," said the young man, proceeding briefly to relate how strangely he had been summoned to the scene of the tragedy. The Scotchman listened attentively, and then asked abruptly:

"Since ye take so kindly an interest in the poor lad, will ye come up and see him?"

"I should like to," said Claud at once.

"Should we go after all, sir?" asked Joe Battishill, diffidently.

"What--on the search expeditions? Yes, it would be as well to rouse the neighborhood," said Cranmer, after a moment's consideration; "but tell the Stanton constables this extraordinary fact about the property not being taken. If only I could get a word with the poor fellow himself,--if only he were conscious!"

"He'll not be conscious yet awhile," said the doctor.

They ascended the old stairs with their weighty bannisters, the loud tread with which the doctor crossed the kitchen having vanished entirely. His step was noiseless as he opened the bed-room door. It was a big room, airy and clean, and the bed was a large and c.u.mbersome four-poster, with pink hangings. Among a forest of pillows lay Allonby, his fine proportions shrouded in one of Farmer Battishill's night-shirts. His eyes were wide open, and with the arm which was not strapped up he was beating wearily on the counterpane.

The farmer's wife, having no ice, was laying bandages of vinegar and water on his head to cool him. The doctor had set the cas.e.m.e.nt window wide open, and the low clucking of the fowls in the farmyard was softly audible. Mr. Cranmer approached the bedside and looked down at the sufferer.

Allonby was a fine-looking young man--perhaps thirty years old, with strongly defined features and a pale complexion. He had a rather long, hooked nose, his eyes were set in deep under hollow brows, and his chin was prominent, giving a marked individuality to the face, which was, however, too thin for beauty. It was the face of a man who was always rather anxious, to whom the realities of life were irksome, but who had nevertheless always to consider the question of s. d.--a worn face, which just now, in its suffering and pallid aspect, looked very sad. The soft dark brown hair lay in a loose wave over a fine and thoughtful forehead. It was with an instinct of warm friendliness that the gazer turned from the bedside.

"Oh, what a shame it is!" he said, indignantly. "I think I never heard of such a butchery. But now, the thing is to find his friends. Had he a pocket-book with him? If not, I must walk down to the inn and inquire--he must have left letters or papers somewhere."

"Here's a pocket-book," said the doctor, holding out a leathern pouch of untidy and well-worn appearance.

Claud carried it to the window, and opened it. It contained several receipted bills, six postage-stamps, two five-pound notes, a couple of photographs of a racing crew in striped jerseys, with the name "Byrne, Richmond," on the back of them, an exhibitor's admission to the Royal Academy exhibition, and several cards of invitation and private view tickets. These served to elucidate the fact that the artist's name was Osmond Allonby, but no more.

He lifted the grey coat which hung over a chair, and felt in all its pockets. At last, from the outer one, he unearthed a pocket handkerchief and a letter addressed to

_O. Allonby, Esq., At "The Fountain Head,"

Edge Combe, South Devon._

"I hope he'll forgive my opening it, poor chap," said Claud, and he pulled the paper from its envelope.

The address, as is customary in letters between people who know each other intimately, was insufficient. It was merely "7, Mansfield Road."

He glanced over the beginning--it was quaint enough.

"How are you getting on, old man? We are being fried alive here, and the weather has put old C---- into such an unbearable rage that Jac says he has brought out the old threat once more, all the girls are to be turned out of the R. A. schools!"

The reader was sorely tempted to continue this effusion, but n.o.bly skipped all the rest of the closely-written sheet, and merely looked at the signature.

"Always your loving sister,

"WYN."

"How much trouble young ladies would save, if only they would sign their names properly!" said Claud, somewhat exasperated. "However, if she is his sister I suppose it is fair to conclude her name to be Allonby. Wyn Allonby!"

He turned to the envelope, and in a moment of inspiration bethought him of the postmark. It bore the legend, London, S. W.

"That's enough!" he said, "now I can telegraph. That's all I wanted to know. Mrs. Battishill, will you kindly take all these things and lock them up in a drawer, please, for Mr. Allonby's people to have when they come."

He proceeded to wrap the watch, chain, pocket-book, etc., all together in a paper, and deposited them in a drawer which Mrs. Battishill locked and took the key.