Mr. Whitmore spoke about--the
boy that's being searched for--"

"Look here," Mr. Rogers interrupted, "I'm a Justice of the Peace, you
know."

"I can't help it, sir--begging your pardon. But I was in the house,
and I saw things: and if they catch me, I must tell."

"Tell the truth and shame the devil," said Mr. Rogers.

"But the more truth I told, sir, the worse it would look for someone
who's innocent."

"Whitmore?"

"You changed a note with Mr. Whitmore, didn't you, sir?"

This confused him. "You've been using your ears to some purpose," he
growled.

"I don't know how Mr. Whitmore comes to be mixed up in it.
But here's another thing, sir--You remember that he walked out after
the game--for fresh air, he said?"

"Well?"

"And he didn't come back?"

"Well?"

"He stepped out because he was whistled out. There was a man waiting
for him."

"What man?"

"His name's Letcher--at least--"

"I don't know the name."

"He was one of the soldiers on the beach this evening."

"The devil!"

"But he hadn't come about _that_ business."

"About what, then?"

"Well now, sir, I must ask you a question. They were talking about
'the beauty down at the cottage.' Who would that be?"

"That," said he slowly, "would be Isabel Brooks, for a certainty."

"And the cottage?"

"Remember the one we passed on the road?--the one with a light
downstairs? That's it. She lives there with her father--an old
soldier and three-parts blind. There's no mischief brewing against
_her_, I hope?"

"I don't know sir," I went on breathlessly. "But if you please, go
on answering me. Do you know a young man called Plinlimmon--
Archibald Plinlimmon?"

"Plinlimmon? Ay, to be sure I do. Met him there once--another
soldier, youngish and good-looking--in the ranks, but seemed a
gentleman--didn't catch his Christian name. The Major introduced him
as the son of an old friend--comrade-in-arms, he said, if I remember.
He was there with a black-faced fellow, whose name I didn't catch
either."

"That was Letcher!"

"What? The man Whitmore was talking with? What were they saying?"

"They said something about a christening. And Letcher asked for
money."

"A christening? What in thunder has a christening to do with it?"

"That's what I don't know, sir."

Mr. Rogers looked at me and rubbed his chin. "I meant to take you to
Lydia," he said; "but now that Whitmore's mixed up in this, I'll be
shot if I do. That fellow ha