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To the Hare and Hounds his pace was brisk. "Come," he said, as he met Kentish's inquiring glance, "this has been a very good day, on the whole. I know where our man is now, and I think we can get him, by a little management." "Where is he?" "Oh, down in Padfield. As a matter of fact, he's being kept there against his will, we shall find. I see that your friend Mr.
The road bent eighty yards away, and as soon as Steggles passed the bend the detective hurried after him. All the way to Padfield town and more than half through it Hewitt dogged the trainer. In the end Steggles stopped at a corner and gave a note to a small boy who was playing near. The boy ran with the note to a bright, well-kept house at the opposite corner.
On the lane from Padfield to Sedby village stood the Plough beer-house, wherein J. Webb was licensed to sell by retail beer to be consumed on the premises or off, as the thirsty list. Nancy Webb, with a very fine color, a very curly fringe, and a wide smiling mouth revealing a fine set of teeth, came to the bar at the summons of a stoutish old gentleman in spectacles who walked with a stick.
"Well, at any rate, you sent Steggles away, and the slippers did come over, and you went into the lane. You walked with her as far as the road at the end, and then you were seized and gagged, and put into a carriage." "That was Browdie did that," said Crockett, "and another chap I don't know. But why, this is Padfield High Street?"
He looked through the window and regarded the familiar shops with astonishment. "Of course it is. Where did you think it was?" "Why, where was that place you found me in?" "Granville Road, Padfield. I suppose they told you you were in another town?" "Told me it was Newstead Hatch.
"Well, well; perhaps we'll get him to run, after all, and as well as he can. One thing is certain he left this place of his own will. Further, I think he is in Padfield now; he went toward the town, I believe. And I don't think he means to sell you." "Well, he shouldn't. I've made it worth his while to stick to me.
The man was a publican on the outskirts of Padfield, a northern town, pretty famous for its sporting tastes, and to Padfield, therefore, Hewitt betook himself, and, arrayed in a way to indicate some inclination of his own toward sport, he began to frequent the bar of the Hare and Hounds.
It was on the following Sunday week that Martin Hewitt, in his rooms in London, turned over his paper and read, under the head "Padfield Annual 135 Yards Handicap," this announcement: "Final heat: Crockett, first; Willis, second; Trewby, third; Owen, 0; Howell, 0. A runaway win by nearly three yards."
Of course you know all about the Padfield 135 Yards Handicap being run off now?" "Well, I haven't looked into it much," Hewitt replied. "Ran the first round of heats last Saturday and Monday, didn't they?" "They did. Well" Kentish spoke in a stage whisper as he leaned over and rapped the table "I've got the final winner in this house."
"That's a licker!" he said. "This is a quiet sort of lane," was Hewitt's next remark. "No houses in sight. Where does it lead?" "That way it goes to the Old Kilns disused. This way down to a turning off the Padfield and Catton road." Hewitt returned to the cinder-path again, and once more examined the footmarks. He traced them back over the grass toward the house.
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