Hopeless of obtaining assistance from Mr. Dawson, I resolved to try next if I could establish the date of Sir Percival’s arrival at Knowlesbury.

It seemed like a fatality!  When I reached Knowlesbury the inn was shut up, and bills were posted on the walls.  The speculation had been a bad one, as I was informed, ever since the time of the railway.  The new hotel at the station had gradually absorbed the business, and the old inn (which we knew to be the inn at which Sir Percival had put up), had been closed about two months since.  The proprietor had left the town with all his goods and chattels, and where he had gone I could not positively ascertain from any one.  The four people of whom I inquired gave me four different accounts of his plans and projects when he left Knowlesbury.

There were still some hours to spare before the last train left for London, and I drove back again in a fly from the Knowlesbury station to Blackwater Park, with the purpose of questioning the gardener and the person who kept the lodge.  If they, too, proved unable to assist me, my resources for the present were at an end, and I might return to town.

I dismissed the fly a mile distant from the park, and getting my directions from the driver, proceeded by myself to the house.

As I turned into the lane from the high-road, I saw a man, with a carpet-bag, walking before me rapidly on the way to the lodge.  He was a little man, dressed in shabby black, and wearing a remarkably large hat.  I set him down (as well as it was possible to judge) for a lawyer’s clerk, and stopped at once to widen the distance between us.  He had not heard me, and he walked on out of sight, without looking back.  When I passed through the gates myself, a little while afterwards, he was not visible—­he had evidently gone on to the house.

There were two women in the lodge.  One of them was old, the other I knew at once, by Marian’s description of her, to be Margaret Porcher.

I asked first if Sir Percival was at the Park, and receiving a reply in the negative, inquired next when he had left it.  Neither of the women could tell me more than that he had gone away in the summer.  I could extract nothing from Margaret Porcher but vacant smiles and shakings of the head.  The old woman was a little more intelligent, and I managed to lead her into speaking of the manner of Sir Percival’s departure, and of the alarm that it caused her.  She remembered her master calling her out of bed, and remembered his frightening her by swearing—­but the date at which the occurrence happened was, as she honestly acknowledged, “quite beyond her.”

On leaving the lodge I saw the gardener at work not far off.  When I first addressed him, he looked at me rather distrustfully, but on my using Mrs. Michelson’s name, with a civil reference to himself, he entered into conversation readily enough.  There is no need to describe what passed between us—­it ended, as all my other attempts to discover the date had ended.  The gardener knew that his master had driven away, at night, “some time in July, the last fortnight or the last ten days in the month”—­and knew no more.