When we were left alone in the stone-flagged kitchen, it wasastonishing how rapidly that sprained ankle recovered. It was nearlynightfall, and we had eaten nothing since early morning, so that wespent some time over our meal. Holmes was lost in thought, andonce or twice he walked over to the window and stared earnestlyout. It opened on to a squalid courtyard. In the far corner was asmithy, where a grimy lad was at work. On the other side were thestables. Holmes had sat down again after one of these excursions,when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with a loud exclamation.
“By heaven, Watson, I believe that I’ve got it!” he cried. “Yes,yes, it must be so. Watson, do you remember seeing any cowtracksto-day?”
“Yes, several.”
“Where?”
“Well, everywhere. They were at the morass, and again on thepath, and again near where poor Heidegger met his death.”
“Exactly. Well, now, Watson, how many cows did you see on themoor?”
“I don’t remember seeing any.”
“Strange, Watson, that we should see tracks all along our line,but never a cow on the whole moor. Very strange, Watson, eh?”
“Yes, it is strange.”
“Now, Watson, make an effort, throw your mind back. Can yousee those tracks upon the path?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Can you recall that the tracks were sometimes like that,Watson,” —he arranged a number of bread-crumbs in thisfashion—: : : : :— “and sometimes like this” —: . : . : . : .— “andoccasionally like this” —. : . : . : . “Can you remember that?”
“No, I cannot.”
“But I can. I could swear to it. However, we will go back at ourleisure and verify it. What a blind beetle I have been, not to drawmy conclusion.”
“And what is your conclusion?”
“Only that it is a remarkable cow which walks, canters, and gallops.
By George! Watson, it was no brain of a country publican thatthought out such a blind as that. The coast seems to be clear, savefor that lad in the smithy. Let us slip out and see what we can see.”
There were two rough-haired, unkempt horses in the tumbledownstable. Holmes raised the hind leg of one of them andlaughed aloud.
“Old shoes, but newly shod—old shoes, but new nails. This casedeserves to be a classic. Let us go across to the smithy.”
The lad continued his work without regarding us. I sawHolmes’s eye darting to right and left among the litter of iron andwood which was scattered about the floor. Suddenly, however,we heard a step behind us, and there was the landlord, hisheavy eyebrows drawn over his savage eyes, his swarthy featuresconvulsed with passion. He held a short, metal-headed stick in hishand, and he advanced in so menacing a fashion that I was rightglad to feel the revolver in my pocket.
“You infernal spies!” the man cried. “What are you doing there?”
“Why, Mr. Reuben Hayes,” said Holmes, coolly, “one mightthink that you were afraid of our finding something out.”
The man mastered himself with a violent effort, and his grimmouth loosened into a false laugh, which was more menacing thanhis frown.
“You’re welcome to all you can find out in my smithy,” said he.
“But look here, mister, I don’t care for folk poking about my placewithout my leave, so the sooner you pay your score and get out ofthis the better I shall be pleased.”
“All right, Mr. Hayes, no harm meant,” said Holmes. “We havebeen having a look at your horses, but I think I’ll walk, after all.
It’s not far, I believe.”
“Not more than two miles to the Hall gates. That’s the roadto the left.” He watched us with sullen eyes until we had left hispremises.
We did not go very far along the road, for Holmes stopped theinstant that the curve hid us from the landlord’s view.
“We were warm, as the children say, at that inn,” said he. “Iseem to grow colder every step that I take away from it. No, no, Ican’t possibly leave it.”
“I am convinced,” said I, “that this Reuben Hayes knows allabout it. A more self-evident villain I never saw.”
“Oh! he impressed you in that way, did he? There are the horses,there is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock.
I think we shall have another look at it in an unobtrusive way.”
A long, sloping hillside, dotted with gray limestone boulders,stretched behind us. We had turned off the road, and were makingour way up the hill, when, looking in the direction of HoldernesseHall, I saw a cyclist coming swiftly along.
“Get down, Watson!” cried Holmes, with a heavy hand upon myshoulder. We had hardly sunk from view when the man flew pastus on the road. Amid a rolling cloud of dust, I caught a glimpseof a pale, agitated face—a face with horror in every lineament,the mouth open, the eyes staring wildly in front. It was like somestrange caricature of the dapper James Wilder whom we had seenthe night before.
“The Duke’s secretary!” cried Holmes. “Come, Watson, let ussee what he does.”
We scrambled from rock to rock, until in a few moments we hadmade our way to a point from which we could see the front doorof the inn. Wilder’s bicycle was leaning against the wall beside it.
No one was moving about the house, nor could we catch a glimpseof any faces at the windows. Slowly the twilight crept down as thesun sank behind the high towers of Holdernesse Hall. Then, in thegloom, we saw the two side-lamps of a trap light up in the stableyardof the inn, and shortly afterwards heard the rattle of hoofs,as it wheeled out into the road and tore off at a furious pace in thedirection of Chesterfield.
“What do you make of that, Watson?” Holmes whispered.
“It looks like a flight.”
“A single man in a dog-cart, so far as I could see. Well, itcertainly was not Mr. James Wilder, for there he is at the door.”
A red square of light had sprung out of the darkness. Inthe middle of it was the black figure of the secretary, his headadvanced, peering out into the night. It was evident that he wasexpecting someone. Then at last there were steps in the road, asecond figure was visible for an instant against the light, the doorshut, and all was black once more. Five minutes later a lamp waslit in a room upon the first floor.
“It seems to be a curious class of custom that is done by theFighting Cock,” said Holmes.
