“No doubt he did, but such men are allowed to be impertinent.”

“He sees an enemy, of course, in every one who pretends to know more than he knows himself,—­or, indeed, in every one who does not.  You said something about having a reason of your own, and he at once connected you with Mountjoy’s disappearance.  Such creatures are necessary, but from the little I’ve seen of them I do not think that they make the best companions in the world.  I shall leave Mr. Prodgers to carry on his business to the man who employs him,—­namely, Mr. Tyrrwhit,—­and I advise you to do the same.”

Soon after that Harry Annesley took his leave, but he could not divest himself of an opinion that both the policeman and his host had thought that he had some knowledge respecting the missing man.  Augustus Scarborough had said no word to that effect, but there had been a something in his manner which had excited suspicion in Harry’s mind.  And then Augustus had declared his purpose of offering his hand and fortune to Florence Mountjoy.  He to be suitor to Florence,—­he, so soon after Mountjoy had been banished from the scene!  And why should he have been told of it?—­he, of whose love for the girl he could not but think that Augustus Scarborough had been aware.  Then, much perturbed in his mind, he resolved, as he returned to his lodgings, that he would go down to Cheltenham on the following day.

CHAPTER VI.

Harry Annesley tells his secret.

Harry hurried down to Cheltenham, hardly knowing what he was going to do or say when he got there.  He went to the hotel and dined alone.  “What’s all this that’s up about Captain Mountjoy?” said a stranger, coming and whispering to him at his table.

The inquirer was almost a stranger, but Harry did know his name.  It was Mr. Baskerville, the hunting man.  Mr. Baskerville was not rich, and not especially popular, and had no special amusement but that of riding two nags in the winter along the roads of Cheltenham in the direction which the hounds took.  It was still summer, and the nags, who had been made to do their work in London, were picking up a little strength in idleness, or, as Mr. Baskerville called it, getting into condition.  In the mean time Mr. Baskerville amused himself as well as he could by lying in bed and playing lawn-tennis.  He sometimes dined at the hotel, in order that the club might think that he was entertained at friends’ houses; but the two places were nearly the same to him, as he could achieve a dinner and half a pint of wine for five or six shillings at each of them.  A more empty existence, or, one would be inclined to say, less pleasurable, no one could pass; but he had always a decent coat on his back and a smile on his face, and five shillings in his pocket with which to pay for his dinner.  His asking what was up about Scarborough showed, at any rate, that he was very backward in the world’s news.