Work or reading was equally out of the
question that day. He sought the industrious Bates, who was trenching
celery in the kitchen garden.
"Have 'ee made out owt about un, sir?" inquired that hardy individual,
pausing to spit on the handle of his spade.
"No," said Grant. "The thing is a greater mystery than ever."
"I'm thinkin' her mun ha' bin killed by a loony," announced Bates.
"Something of the kind, no doubt. But why are the little less dangerous
loonies of Steynholme united in the belief that I am the guilty one?"
"Ax me another," growled Bates.
"Who is spreading this rumor? Robinson?"
"'E dussen't, sir. 'E looks fierce, but 'e'll 'old 'is tongue. T'super
will see to that."
"Someone is talking. That is quite certain."
"There's a chap in the 'Are an' 'Ounds--kem 'ere last night."
"Ingerman?"
"Ay, sir, that's the name. 'E's makin' a song of it, I hear."
"Anybody else?"
"Fred Elkin is gassin' about. Do 'ee know un? Breeds 'osses at Mount
Farm, a mile that-a-way," and Bates pointed to the west.
Grant hazarded a guess, and described the face of condemnation seen at
the inn. Bates nodded.
"That's un," he said.
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