‘Good!’ said Richard; ‘you shall have your reward.’
Then Richard told him all that he had learnt from the lips of Raphael Craig. There was a silence when he had finished.
‘Yes,’ said Nolan, ‘it’s rather an impressive story; it impresses even me. But do you believe it?’
‘I believe what Craig told me. If he lied, he is the finest actor I ever saw.’
‘Listen,’ said Nolan. ‘Does this tale of Craig’s explain his daughter’s visit to Bosco’s circus and her chat with Juana, and her unblushing fibs to you afterwards?’
‘How did you hear about that?’ questioned Richard savagely.
He scarcely liked Nolan’s curt language in regard to Teresa.
‘I did hear about it,’ said Nolan; ‘let that suffice. And listen further. I will make you a present of a fact--an absolutely indisputable fact--which I have discovered: Raphael Craig never had an uncle. His father was an only son. Moreover, no person has died within the last few years who could by any means be related to Craig. The records at Somerset House have been thoroughly searched.’
‘No uncle!’ was all Richard, the nonplussed, could murmur.
‘And,’ Nolan continued, ‘while I am about it, I will make you a present of another little fact. You say that Craig told you that he had brought all his silver here, the last load having arrived to-night. On the contrary, he has gradually been taking silver away from here, I admit that he has brought some, but he has carted far more away. For what else should he need all this generous supply of motorcars?’
Richard began to suspect that he had mistaken his vocation.
On the Monday morning Richard presented himself at Queen’s Farm. The day was jocund, the landscape smiled; in the forty-acre field below the house a steam-plough, actuated by two enormous engines and a steel hawser, was working at the bidding of a farmer who farmed on principles of his own, and liked to do his ploughing at midsummer. The steam-plough rattled and jarred and jolted like a humorous and high-spirited leviathan; the birds sang merrily above it; the Chiltem Hills stretched away in the far distance, bathed in limitless glad sunshine; and Watling Street ran white, dazzling, and serene, down the near slope and up the hill towards Dunstable, curtained in the dust of rural traffic.