I had some tea at the Plough, with fresh butter and cream which, after those weeks on board the Thrush, were delicious.

Much gratified that I had at last discovered the house of the noble freebooter, I set to work to make inquiries regarding the family of Knutton, the hereditary guardians of the treasure, and of the descendants of Clement Wollerton, who, it appeared, had been Bartholomew’s lieutenant, and whose skeleton I had most probably seen on board the Seahorse.

The innkeeper’s sister was still communicative, so I asked her if she knew any one of either name in the village.

“No, sir, I don’t know any one of such name in Caldecott,” she answered, after reflecting a few moments. “There’s old Ben Knutton, who lives in Rockingham.”

“What kind of a man is he?”

“Well, his character’s not of the best,” she answered; “he’s a labouring man, but he’s a lazy, good-for-nothing old fellow, who frequents every inn in the district.”

“Married?”

“No, a widower. He lives in a cottage close to the Sonde Arms, in the main street of Rockingham.”

The description she gave was certainly not that of the hereditary guardian of the Italian noble’s treasure. Nevertheless, as he was the only person of that name in the district, I decided to walk back past the station and on to Rockingham, a distance of about a mile, and make his acquaintance.

It was a lovely summer’s evening, and the walk through the cornfields was delightful, although my head was filled with the strange, old-world romance which within the past few weeks had been revealed to me. The main point which occupied my attention was whether the treasure was still hidden—or had it ever been hidden?—in that tumble-down old Manor House. In order to make secret investigation it would be necessary to rent the place and carefully search every hole and corner. Some of those panelled, low-ceilinged rooms above were, to me, attractive. A good deal might be hidden there, or in the roof.

After some inquiries I found the man Knutton’s cottage, small, poorly-furnished, close-smelling, and not over clean. A slatternly girl of fourteen called “Uncle! You’re wanted.” And a gruff voice responded from the upstairs room. He came heavily down the narrow, uncarpeted stairs, a rough-looking type of agricultural labourer, in drab moleskin. His age was about sixty-five, with beery face, grey eyes, round-shouldered, and wearing his trousers tied beneath the knee, and boots that had never known blacking.

“Your name’s Ben Knutton, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. That’s my name.”

“Well, Mr. Knutton,” I said, “I want to have a few minutes’ chat with you alone.”

I noticed that he looked somewhat aghast. Afterwards I learnt that he was an expert poacher, and he probably believed me to be a detective. Through a decade or so he had had a good deal of the Marquis of Exeter’s and Mr. Watson’s game, and the major part of it had found its way by an irregular route to Northampton market.

He first went very red, then white, his hand trembled, and he had to steady himself for a moment.

“Just go out for a minute or two, Annie,” he said to his niece. “I want to speak to this gentleman. Take a seat, sir.” He pulled forward one of the rush-bottomed chairs from beside the rickety old bureau.

“Don’t think, Mr. Knutton, that I’ve come here with any hostile intent,” I said, in order to reassure him. “I’ve come to Rockingham expressly to ask you one or two questions regarding your family. I am making some investigations about the Knuttons, and perhaps you can assist me. Have you any brothers or sisters living?”

“No, sir, I haven’t. My brother Dick died this ten years ago.”

Dick! Then that man’s name was Richard Knutton!

“Did he leave any sons?” I inquired.

“Only one—young Dick. He enlisted, and was killed in Afghanistan.”

“He enlisted after his father’s death?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, more at his ease.

“Your family is a very old one in this neighbourhood, isn’t it?”

“One o’ the oldest, they says. The Knuttons lived at the Manor Farm up at Caldecott for more’n a hundred years. But we’ve come down in the world since then.”

“The Manor Farm is the one attached to the Manor of Caldecott, eh?”

“It’s close to Caldecott Manor House. There’s fifteen hundred acres o’ land with it. And nowadays, sir, I often works on that self-same land for Mr. Banks, what owns it now.”

“Are you the oldest of your family?”

“No, sir, Dick was. I was the second. Dick was the lucky ’un, and was old Mr. Banks’ foreman for years; that was in the present Mr. Banks’ father’s time, when farmin’ was a lot better than what it is now. Lor’, sir, in this district three-quarters of the farms scarcely pay their rents. All the landlords ought to be generous like the Duke o’ Bedford; but they ain’t, and we labourers have to suffer.”

“More work and less beer,” I remarked, with a laugh.

“Well, sir, when you mention beer, I’d be pleased to drink a pint at your expense.” A remark which showed the rustic cadger.

“And so you shall when we’ve finished our talk,” I said. “Tell me, have you ever heard or known of any person called Wollerton?”

“Wollerton!” he repeated. “Why, now that I remember, that’s the very question the gentleman asked me the day before yesterday.”

“What gentleman?” I gasped.

“A gentleman I met in the Sonde Arms. He said he knew me, but I didn’t remember ever having set eyes on him before. He treated me and then asked me a whole lot of questions, some of ’em very similar to what you’ve asked me. I don’t understand what he or you—beggin’ your pardon, sir—are driving’ at.”

“But this person who was so inquisitive? What kind of man was he?”

“A middle-aged gentleman from London. He stayed the night at the Sonde Arms, and left in the morning. He was a tall, fair man, and funnily enough seemed to know a lot about my relations.”

“You don’t know his name?”

“No, he didn’t tell me.”

This fact was certainly strange. Was it possible that some other person was in possession of the secret of the hoard and had forestalled me in making inquiries?

This beery labourer seemed, without doubt, a descendant of the Richard Knutton whose signature was written upon the faded parchment. As guardians of the treasure, the Knuttons had apparently been given the Manor Farm in order to be constantly near the spot where the spoils of war were concealed. Their residence at the farm through generations appeared to show that instructions had passed from father to............