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“Why should you hide yourself, then?” I asked, sharply.
“Because Maister Maple told me. He said that I were to meet no one. If Imet any one I should get no pay.”
“You met that sailor on the road?”
“Yes, and I think he was one of them.”
“One of whom?”
“One of the folk that have come on the fells. They are watchin’ GretaHouse, and Maister Maple is afeard of them. That’s why he wanted us tokeep clear of them, and that’s why I’ve been a-trying to dodge ‘em.”
Here was something definite at last. Some body of men were threateningmy uncle. The sailor was one of them. The man with the peakedcap—probably a sailor also—was another. I bethought me of StepneyHighway and of the murderous assault made upon my uncle there. Thingswere fitting themselves into a connected shape in my mind when a lighttwinkled over the fell, and my guide informed me that it was Greta. Theplace lay in a dip among the moors, so that one was very near it beforeone saw it. A short walk brought us up to the door.
I could see little of the building save that the lamp which shonethrough a small latticed window showed me dimly that it was both longand lofty. The low door under an overhanging lintel was loosely fitted,and light was bursting out on each side of it. The inmates of thislonely house appeared to be keenly on their guard, for they had heardour footsteps, and we were challenged before we reached the door.
“Who is there?” cried a deep-booming voice, and urgently, “Who is it, Isay?”
“It’s me, Maister Maple. I have brought the gentleman.”
There was a sharp click, and a small wooden shutter flew open in thedoor. The gleam of a lantern shone upon us for a few seconds. Then theshutter closed again; with a great rasping of locks and clattering ofbars, the door was opened, and I saw my uncle standing framed in thatvivid yellow square cut out of the darkness.
He was a small, thick man, with a great rounded, bald head and one thinborder of gingery curls. It was a fine head, the head of a thinker, buthis large white face was heavy and commonplace, with a broad,loose-lipped mouth and two hanging dewlaps on either side of it. Hiseyes were small and restless, and his light-coloured lashes werecontinually moving. My mother had said once that they reminded her ofthe legs of a woodlouse, and I saw at the first glance what she meant. Iheard also that in Stepney he had learned the language of his customers,and I blushed for our kinship as I listened to his villainous accent.“So, nephew,” said he, holding out his hand. “Come in, come in, man,quick, and don’t leave the door open. Your mother said you were grown abig lad, and, my word, she ‘as a right to say so. ‘Ere’s a ‘alf-crownfor you, William, and you can go back again. Put the things down. ‘Ere,Enoch, take Mr. John’s things, and see that ‘is supper is on the table.”
As my uncle, after fastening the door, turned to show me into thesitting-room, I became aware of his most striking peculiarity. Theinjuries which he had received some years ago had, as I have alreadyremarked, left one leg several inches shorter than the other. To atonefor this he wore one of those enormous wooden soles to his boots whichare prescribed by surgeons in such cases. He walked without a limp, b
uthis tread on the stone flooring made a curious clack-click, clack-click,as the wood and the leather alternated. Whenever he moved it was to therhythm of this singular castanet.
The great kitchen, with its huge fireplace and carved settle corners,showed that this dwelling was an old-time farmhouse. On one side of theroom a line of boxes stood all corded and packed. The furniture wasscant and plain, but on a trestle-table in the centre some supper, coldmeat, bread, and a jug of beer was laid for me. An elderly manservant,as manifest a Cockney as his master, waited upon me, while my uncle,sitting in a comer, asked me many questions as to my mother and myself.When my meal was finished he ordered his man Enoch to unpack my gun. Iobserved that two other guns, old rusted weapons, were leaning againstthe wall beside the window.
“It’s the window I’m afraid of,” said my uncle, in the deep, reverberantvoice which contrasted oddly with his plump little figure. “The door’ssafe against anything short of dynamite, but the window’s a terror. Hi!hi!” he yelled, “don’t walk across the light! You can duck when you passthe lattice.”
“For fear of being seen?” I asked.
“For fear of bein’ shot, my lad. That’s the trouble. Now, come an’ sitbeside me on the trestle ‘ere, and I’ll tell you all about it, for I cansee that you are the right sort and can be trusted.”
His flattery was clumsy and halting, and it was evident that he was veryeager to conciliate me. I sat down beside him, and he drew a foldedpaper from his pocket. It was a _Western Morning News_, and the date wasten days before. The passage over which he pressed a long, black nailwas concerned with the release from Dartmoor of a convict named Elias,whose term of sentence had been remitted on account of his defence of awarder who had been attacked in the quarries. The whole account was onlya few lines long.
“Who is he, then?” I asked.
My uncle cocked his distorted foot into the air. “That’s ‘is mark!” saidhe. “‘E was doin’ time for that. How ‘e’s out an’ after me again.”
“But why should he be after you?”
“Because ‘e wants to kill me. Because ‘e’ll never rest, the worryingdevil, until ‘e ‘as ‘ad ‘is revenge on me. It’s this way, nephew! I’veno secrets from you. ‘E thinks I’ve wronged ‘im. For argument’s sakewe’ll suppose I ‘ave wronged ‘im. And now ‘im and ‘is friends are afterme.”
“Who are his friends?”
My uncle’s boom sank suddenly to a frightened whisper. “Sailors!” saidhe. “I knew they would come when I saw that ‘ere paper, and two days agoI looked through that window and three of them was standin’ lookin’ atthe ‘ouse. It was after that that I wrote to your mother. They’ve markedme down, and they’re waitin’ for ‘im.”
“But why not send for the police?”
My uncle’s eyes avoided mine.
“Police are no use,” said he. “It’s you that can help me.”
“What can I do?”
“I’ll tell you. I’m going to move. That’s what all these boxes are for.Everything will soon be packed and ready. I ‘ave friends at Leeds, and Ishall be safer there. Not safe, mind you, but safer. I start to-morrowevening, and if you will stand by me until then I will make it worthyour while. There’s only Enoch and me to do everything, but we shall‘ave it all ready, I promise you, by to-morrow evening. The cart will beround then, and you and me and Enoch and the boy William can guard thethings as far as Congleton station. Did you see anything of them on thefells?”
