“How is that?  I understood that Friar’s Park was of great interest.”

“Oh, ah!” murmured my acquaintance.  “Oh, ah!  Maybe you was thinkin’ of lookin’ over it like?”

“I was—­yes.”

“Oh, ah!  Well—­there’s some likes a bit o’ danger.”

“Danger?” I echoed.  “To what danger do you refer?”

He surveyed me with cunning, old rheumy eyes, and: 

“What about man-traps?” he inquired.  “Ain’t man-traps dangerous?  And what about shot-guns?  Shot-guns can make a party feel sick, can’t they?  Oh, ah!”

“But,” I exclaimed, “you surely don’t mean that there are traps laid in the grounds of the Park?  It isn’t legal.  And why should any one shoot at visitors?”

“Maybe ’cause they’re told to,” he shouted.  “Aye—­that’s the reason as like as not; ’cause they’re told to.”

“Who are ’they’?”

“Old Gipsy Hawkins as used to be Sir Burnham’s under-keeper.  What’s he doin’ of up there at Park all day?  Layin’ traps and such—­that’s what he’s doin’ of.  My son Jim knows it, he do.  My son Jim found one of ’em—­and left best part of a pair of trousers in it, too!”

These statements if true would seem to cast an unpleasant sidelight upon the character of my acquaintance of the Abbey Inn.  I wondered if the “Jim” referred to was that “young Jim Corder” whose name seemed to be a standing joke with the man Hawkins (I learned later that it was so).  And I wondered if Martin’s mysterious references to certain patrons, whose patronage had damaged his business, might not have referred to the game-keeper.  Moreover I now put a new construction upon Hawkins’ sly amusement when I had inquired about the “shooting” in the neighborhood.

I began to grow keenly interested, and: 

“Surely you took some steps in the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, ah.  My son Jim did.  He lay for days for that there Gipsy Hawkins—­but Hawkins was too wise for him.”

“But,” said I, “you could legally have claimed damages.”

“Maybe,” was the reply; “but I reckon they’d have asked what my son Jim was doing in the Park.  Oh, ah, I reckon they would.”

This point of view had not hitherto presented itself to me, but that it was a just one I did not doubt.

“What is the object of all this?” I asked.  “Does Lady Coverly object to any one entering the grounds?”

“’Tain’t Lady Coverly,” confided the old man; “it’s that there black doctor.”

“What black doctor?” I exclaimed.

“Him they call Doctor Greefe.”

“Oh,” said I, “you call him the black doctor.  Is he a negro?”

“He’s black,” was the reply, “black he is although his hair is white.  Oh, ah, there’s black blood in him all right.”

“And what has he to do with the man-traps in the Park?”

“Has ’em put there—­has ’em put there, he does.”

“But what for?  Surely the property belongs not to Dr. Greefe but to Lady Coverly.”