My mail, neatly readdressed by Coates, was awaiting me when I returned to the Abbey Inn. The postal deliveries in Upper Crossleys were eccentric and unreliable, but having glanced through the cuttings enclosed, I partook of a hasty lunch and sat down to the task of preparing a column for the Planet which should not deflect public interest from the known central figures in the tragedy but which at the same time should hint at new developments.  
Many times in the intervals of writing I glanced through my open window across the valley to where the upstanding wing of Friar's Park jutted above the trees. Strange and terrible ideas flocked to my mind—ideas which must be carefully excluded from the Planet article. But at last the manuscript was completed and I determined to walk into the neighboring town, some miles distant, to post it and at the same time to despatch a code telegram to Inspector Gatton. The long walk did me good, helping me to clear my mind of morbid vapors; therefore, my business finished, and immune from suspicion in my character of a London pedestrian, I set out to obtain that vital information which I lacked.
 
A natural taciturnity rendered mine host of the Abbey Inn a difficult subject for interrogation. Moreover that patriarchal outlook which had been evidenced in his attitude towards the uncouth Edward Hines clearly enough deterred him from imparting to me any facts detrimental to the good name of Upper Crossleys. But on the highroad and just before entering the outskirts of the little country town, I had observed an inn which had seemed to be well patronized by the local folks, and since your typical country tap-room is a clearing-house for the gossip of the neighborhood, to "The Threshers" I made my way.
 
The doors had only just been opened; nevertheless as I set my foot upon the step I met the very gossip that I sought.
 
"Hope you wasn't caught in the shower, this morning, sir?" said an old man seated solitary in an armchair in the corner of the bar-parlor. "But the country'll be all the better for the rain." He eyed me, and: "There's many a fine walk hereabouts," he averred. "There's lots comes down from London, especially of a Sunday."
 
"No doubt," said I encouragingly, stepping up to the counter.
 
"There's Manton-on-the-Hill," continued the ancient. "You can see the sea from there in clear weather; and many's the time in the war I've heard the guns in France from Upper Crowbury of a still night. Then, four mile away, there's the old Friar's Park; though nobody's allowed past the gate. Not as nobody wants to be," he added reflectively.
 
"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."
 
"Belongs to her! Her own soul don't belong to her!"
 
I was conscious of a growing excitement. I thought that I was about to learn the very fact which I was seeking, and accordingly:
 
"What is the age of Lady Burnham Coverly?" I asked.
 
"Lady Burnham? Well, let me see; she were not more'n about twenty-five, I reckon, when Sir Burnham first brought her to the Park. Them was the days, them was. These parts 'as changed cruel since I was a young man. Then it was soon after as Sir Burnham went off to Egypt for government, and eleven years afore he come back again."
 
"Did Lady Burnham accompany him to Egypt?" I asked, interestedly.
 
"Oh, ah, for sure she did. Poor Mr. Roger was born in Egypt. It was eight years come October they returned home to Park, and six years come September poor young Mr. Roger died."
 
"Then Lady Coverly must be something over forty years of age," said I musingly.
 
One of my theories, a wild one, I must confess, was shattered by this piece of information. In short I had conceived the idea (and the news that Lady Coverly had resided for some years in Egypt had strengthened it) that the woman in the case was none other than the mistress of Friar's Park! Her antipathy towards the late baronet had seemed to suggest a motive for the crime. But it was impossible to reconcile the figure of this lonely and bereaved woman with that of the supernormally agile visitant to my cottage in London, in short, with the possessor of those dreadful green eyes. I determined to try a new tack, and remembering that the real object of my journey to Upper Crossleys was to learn particulars respecting the early death of Roger Coverly:
 
"Did Mr. Roger Coverly die in England?" I inquired.
 
"Oh, no, sir; he died in foreign parts, but they brought him home to bury him, they did."
 
"Do you know of what he died?"
 
"Oh, ah. I have heard tell it was some foreign fever like—took him off sudden, and him only a lad. It killed poor Sir Burnham, it did."
 
"Then Sir Burnham died shortly afterwards?"
 
"Two years afterwards, and these parts has never been the same since."
 
"But what has Dr. Greefe to do with all this?"
 
"Ah, now you're asking. Seven years ago he settled here in the big house up by the Park; part of the ............