Reilly returned shortly afterwards with a budget of information. When we had traversed the little wood and were out on the highway he told us certain facts that were interesting.

The village was called Bringhurst, distant a mile and a quarter from Caldecott. The place where we had emerged was called the Glebe Farm, and was occupied by an old man called Page, who had as lodgers a gentleman named Purvis and his niece. They often had visitors, two gentlemen who came over from Kettering, and from their description one was Bennett. Purvis had lived there on and off for three weeks, but the young lady had only recently come.

Reilly had learned all this at the little beerhouse at Bringhurst. And he had learned something more, namely, that there was some village gossip regarding the young lady.

“Gossip!” I demanded. “What is it?”

“Well,” answered Reilly, “the old innkeeper says that she’s been seen out walking late at night with that drunken scamp who sold Purvis the parchment.”

“What!” I cried. “With old Ben Knutton, of Rockingham?”

“That’s so.”

“Then he knows her,” I exclaimed, quickly. “He’ll be able to tell me something. I must see him to-day. A pot or two of beer will make him talk.”

According to Reilly the villagers of Bringhurst had no suspicion of the reason Purvis lived at the Glebe Farm, nor were they aware of the existence of the secret communication between the two villages. It was certain, however, that Purvis and Bennett knew of it, and for that reason the former had taken up his quarters there. The man Page was probably unaware of the tunnel, for it led from beneath his barn with the entry well concealed. One fact, however, I had not overlooked. At the bottom of the steps which led up to the surface a wall had been recently broken down, showing that the tunnel had been closed up for years and had only recently been opened.

The men who had worked so assiduously during the night were probably within the farmhouse. At any rate, on our walk back to Caldecott along the white highway through the village of Great Easton we saw nothing of them.

When we returned to the Manor a ridiculous position presented itself. We were locked out! All windows and doors we had barred on the inside; therefore Reilly, an adept at scaling walls, clambered up a rain-spout and effected an entrance by one of the upper windows.

We took counsel together and arrived at two conclusions, namely, that our rivals had by some means obtained possession of the secret of the underground passage, and, secondly, that they, like ourselves, were convinced that the treasure lay hidden upon the premises we occupied.

This caused our excitement to increase rather than diminish; but after lunch at the Plough I strolled down to Rockingham, while my companions returned to resume their investigations.

I found that Ben Knutton was at work. He was cleaning out a ditch on the edge of Thoroughsale Wood, and I was directed to the spot, about a mile away. I discovered the old fellow without much difficulty, and my appearance there was something of a surprise to him.

At my request he put down his spade and came to the stile whereon I seated myself.

“Well, Knutton,” I said, “I’ve come to have another little chat with you—a confidential chat, you understand. Now look here, before we begin I’ve one thing to say, and that is if you answer all my questions truthfully there’s half a sovereign for you.”

“Thankee, sir,” responded the bibulous old rascal, touching his hat. “What did you want to know, sir?”

“Listen,” I said. “There’s a young lady staying over at Mr. Page’s at Bringhurst. You know her?”

“Yes, sir, I knows ’er. I’ve knowed ’er since she were a little girl.”

“Then tell me all about her,” I said.

“Well, there ain’t very much to tell,” responded the old man. “I don’t know who was ’er father. She came to my sister-in-law as a nurse-child from London when she was about two years old. They say ’er father and mother were rich people. But Fanny Stanion, my sister-in-law, who lived over at Deenethorpe, brought her up, and got paid for it by a lawyer in Oundle. You don’t know Deenethorpe. It’s about five miles from here.”

“Near Deene?” I suggested, for I had been photographing in Lady Cardigan’s beautiful park.

“Yes, close by,” was the labourer’s reply. “Fanny had ’er with ’er nigh on twelve years and was like a mother to ’er, and often brought ’er over to Rockingham to see us. Then, when Fanny died, she was sent back to London, an’ some lady, I believe, took charge of ’er and sent her to boardin’ school somewhere in Devonshire. I ain’t seen little Dolly these seven years till the other day when she came to my cottage. My! Ain’t she grown to be a fine young ’ooman? I didn’t know ’er ag’in,” and the old man leaned upon the rail and laughed. Men who work in the fields at all hours and in hot and cold weather age very early; the furrows grow deep on their faces and the skin is crossed and recrossed with multitudinous lines like a spider’s web, the spine gets bent from the long hours of stooping over the earth, and the heat and the damp and the frost all turn by turn enter into the bones, and stiffen and cramp them before old age is due.

“Is nothing known regarding her parentage?” I asked. “Have you never heard any story about her?”

“No, nothing. The lawyer in Oundle who used to pay Fanny monthly probably knew all about it, but he’s dead now. Fanny had the child brought to her through answerin’ an advertisement in the Stamford Mercury. My poor wife used to be particular fond o’ little Dolly.”

“And why did she call to see you? Had she an object in doing so?”

“I suppose she wanted to visit the cottage ag’in,” was the old man’s answer. “But she’s growed such a fine London lady that I was quite taken aback when she told me she was Dolly Drummond.”

“Drummond! Why, that’s not her name,” I cried. “I mean Miss Bristowe.”

“You said the young lady who lives at Mr. Page’s, eh?”

“Certainly. A tall, dark young lady.”

“That’s Dolly Drummond. There’s only one lady livin’ there. She’s with her uncle, Mr. Purvis.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Only that he’s ’er uncle—’er guardian, too, I fancy. She didn’t tell me much about him, and I haven’t seen him myself.”

“Well,” I said; “you may be surprised to know that he’s the man to whom you sold that piece of parchment.”

“What!” cried the old man, glaring at me. “Is he ’er uncle? Why, then, that accounts for the questions she put to me.”

“What about?”

“About the old secret way from the Glebe Farm into the Manor House at Caldecott. My father knew about it, and told me of it, but nobody’s been able to find it yet.”

“And the young lady came to you for information?”

“She’s heard me mention it when she were a girl, so I suppose her curiosity was aroused and that was why she cam............