“I follow you,” I said eagerly.  “You suggest that I should go down to Friar’s Park and interview Lady Burnham Coverly?”

“Exactly,” replied Gatton.  “It’s very irregular, of course, but I know you well enough to take my chance of a carpeting.  I may send a C.I.D. man down as well.  I’ve too much to do in town to think of going myself; but I will advise you of any such step.”

The motive underlying Inspector Gatton’s suggestion was perfectly evident to me and I experienced a feeling of gratitude for the humanity which directed it.  I held out my hand, and: 

“Thanks, Gatton,” I said; “you can leave the matter in my care with every confidence.  I will start for Friar’s Park to-day.”

“Good,” replied Gatton.  “Let me give you a hint.  Take a good pistol with you!”

CHAPTER XI

THE SCARRED MAN

It was towards the hour of seven in the evening that I reached the Abbey Inn at Upper Crossleys, itself among the most hoary buildings of the ancient village.  It belonged to the days when white-clad brethren from the once great monastery of Croix-de-lis had labored in the abbey meadows and fished in the little stream which ran slowly through a neighboring valley.  Time had scarred it deeply and the balcony overhanging the coachyard sagged in a rather alarming fashion as though about to drop down from sheer old age.

The surrounding country had impressed me at first sight.  There were long billowing hills and vales, much of their surface densely wooded, but with wide spaces under cultivation and even greater tracts of a sort of heath-land very wild in aspect and conjuring up pictures of outlaws’ camps and the clash of battling feudal days.  Hard by had resided of old a warden of the marches, and the ruins of his stronghold might still be seen on the crest of a near-by hill.

From the room allotted to me I could look out over a varied prospect of farmland and heath, terminated by the woody slopes which everywhere hemmed in the valley.  Peeping above the outer fringe of trees showed a tower of some old house whereof the rest was hidden by verdure.

Having partaken of a typical country dinner, the small number of courses being amply compensated by their quantity, I lighted my pipe and went down to the bar-parlor, being minded to learn something of the neighborhood at first hand from any chance visitor who might serve my purpose.

The landlord, a somewhat taciturn member of his class, sat behind the bar, pipe in mouth, as I entered, and only one other man was in the room.  This was a gipsy-looking fellow, with a very wild eye, attired in the manner of a game-keeper, and wearing leggings and a fur cap.  A sporting rifle stood in the corner beside him.  The landlord nodded, and the other gave me a “Good evening” as I entered, whereupon I determined to try the game-keeper as the more likely source of information, and: