Finch and Dr. Beckerleg exchanged an anxious look. The Doctor
cleared his throat and took up the story.
"No, my dear Captain, I regret that you make one mistake. You said
'alone.'"
"What? Is there another trustee?"
"There is the man already mentioned--Roderick Salt."
"Tut, tut--he's dead."
"I fear, on the contrary, that he's alive."
"But he was drowned, confound him!"
"Some meddling Netherlander, cursed with too much humanity, must have
baulked the will of Heaven by dragging him out of the ditch and
reviving him. He was rescued, sir, and clapped into prison; escaped
by turning traitor and entering the service of the Prince of Orange--
in what capacity I dare not say, but likely enough as a spy, or
perhaps a kidnapper of soldiers. There are plenty of the trade along
the frontiers just now. He has changed his name, but has been
recognised by more than one Harwich man at The Hague, and again at
Cuxhaven. For a year now I have heard nothing of him. Belike he is
off upon a dirty mission to some German principality no bigger than
your back-garden; ambassadors of his size are as easy to find on the
Continent of Europe as a needle in a bottle of hay. Or maybe he
wanders on some gaming campaign of his own.
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