"Oh, come, I'm not such a fool as that," answered the squire. "I've had my eyes on this place for a long while. A house doesn't get a bad name without reason, Mrs. Merlyn, and Jamaica Inn stinks from here to the coast. Don't you pretend to me. Here, Richards, hold my confounded horse, will you?"

The other man, who by his dress appeared to be a servant, held the bridle, and Mr. Bassat climbed heavily to the ground.

"While I'm here I may as well look round," he said, "and I'll tell you here and now that it's useless to refuse me. I'm a magistrate, and I have a warrant." He pushed his way past the two women, and so through to the little entrance hall. Aunt Patience made a movement as though to deter him, but Mary shook her head and frowned. "Let him go," she murmured. "If we try and stop him now we shall only anger him the more."

Mr. Bassat was looking about him in disgust. "Good God," he exclaimed, "the place smells like a tomb. What in the world have you done to it? Jamaica Inn was always roughcast and plain, and the fare homely, but this is a positive disgrace. Why, the place is as bare as a board; you haven't a stick of furniture."

He had thrown open the door of the parlour and pointed to the damp walls with his crop. "You'll have the roof about your ears if you don't stop that," he said. "I've never seen such a thing in my life. Go on, Mrs. Merlyn, lead the way upstairs." Pale and anxious, Patience Merlyn turned to the staircase, her eyes searching those of her niece for reassurement.

The rooms on the landing were thoroughly explored. The squire peered into the dusty corners, lifted the old sacks, and prodded the potatoes, all this while uttering exclamations of anger and disgust. "Call this an inn, do you?" he said. "Why, you haven't even a bed fit to sleep a cat. The place is rotten, rotten right through. What's the idea, eh? Have you lost your tongue, Mrs. Merlyn?"

The poor woman was past replying; she kept shaking her head and working her mouth, and Mary knew that both she and her aunt were wondering what would happen when they came to the barred room in the passage below.

"The landlord's lady appears to be momentarily deaf and dumb," said the squire dryly. "What about you, young woman? Have you anything to say?"

"It's only lately I've come to stay here," replied Mary. "My mother died, and I'm here to look after my aunt. She's not very strong; you can see that for yourself. She's nervous and easily upset."

"I don't blame her, living in a place like this," said Mr. Bassat. "Well, there's nothing more to see up here, so you'll kindly take me downstairs again and show me the room that has barred windows. I noticed it from the yard, and I'd like to see inside."

Aunt Patience passed her tongue over her lips and looked at Mary. She was incapable of speech.

"I'm very sorry, sir," Mary replied. "But if you mean the old lumber room at the end of the passage, I'm afraid the door is locked. My uncle always keeps the key, and where he puts it I don't know."

The squire looked from one to the other in suspicion.

"What about you, Mrs. Merlyn? Don't you know where your husband keeps his keys?"

Aunt Patience shook her head. The squire snorted and turned on his heel. "Well, that's easily settled," he said. "We'll have the door down in no time." And he went out into the yard to call his servant. Mary patted her aunt's hand and drew her close.

"Try and not tremble so," she whispered fiercely. "Anyone can see you have something to hide. Your only chance is to pretend you don't mind, and that he can see anything in the house for all you care."

In a few minutes Mr. Bassat returned with the man Richards, who, grinning all over his face at the thought of destruction, carried an old bar he had found in the stable, and which he evidently intended using as a battering-ram.

If it had not been for her aunt, Mary would have given herself to the scene with some enjoyment. For the first time she would be permitted a view of the barred room. The fact that her aunt, and herself too for that matter, would be implicated in any discovery that was made caused her mixed feelings, however, and for the first time she realised that it was going to be a very difficult task to prove their complete and thorough innocence. No one was likely to believe protestations, with Aunt Patience fighting blindly on the landlord's side.

It was with some excitement, then, that Mary watched Mr. Bassat and his servant seize the bar between them and ram it against the lock of the door. For a few minutes it withstood them, and the sound of the blows echoed through the house. Then there was a splitting of wood and a crash, and the door gave way before them. Aunt Patience uttered a little cry of distress, and the squire pushed past her into the room. Richards leant on the bar, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and Mary could, see through to the room over his shoulder. It was dark, of course; the barred windows with their lining of sack kept the light from penetrating the room.

"Get me a candle, one of you," shouted the squire. "It's as black as a pit in here." The servant produced a stump of candle from his pocket, and a light was kindled. He handed the candle to the squire, who, lifting it high above his head, stepped into the centre of the room.

For a moment there was silence, as the squire turned, letting the light shine in every corner, and then, clicking his tongue in annoyance and disappointment, he faced the little group behind him.

"Nothing," he said; "absolutely nothing. The landlord has made a fool of me again."

Except for a pile of sacks in one corner the room was completely empty. It was thick with dust, and there were cobwebs on the walls larger than a man's hand. There was no furniture of any sort, the hearth had been blocked up with stones, and the floor itself was flagged like the passage outside.

On the top of the sacks lay a length of twisted rope.

Then the squire shrugged his shoulders and turned once more into the passage.

"Well, Mr. Joss Merlyn has won this time," he said; "there's not enough evidence in that room to kill a cat. I'll admit myself beaten."

The two women followed him to the outer hall, and so to the porch, while the servant made his way to the stable to fetch the horses.

Mr. Bassat flicked his boot with his whip and stared moodily in front of him. "You've been lucky, Mrs. Merlyn," he said. "If I'd found what I expected to find in that blasted room of yours, this time tomorrow your husband would be in the county jail. As it is—" Once more he clicked his tongue in annoyance, and broke off in the middle of his sentence.

"Stir yourself, Richards, can't you?" he shouted. "I can't afford to waste any more of my morning. What the hell are you doing?"

The man appeared at the stable door, leading the two horses behind him.

"Now listen to me," said Mr. Bassat, pointing his crop at Mary. "This aunt of yours may have lost her tongue, and her senses with them, but you can understand plain English, I hope. Do you mean to tell me you know nothing of your uncle's business? Does nobody ever call here, by day or by night?"

Mary looked him straight in the eyes. "I've never seen anyone," she said.

"Have you ever looked into that barred room before today?"

"No, never in my life."

"Have you any idea why he should keep it locked up?"

"No, none at all."

"Have you ever heard wheels in the yard by night?"

"I'm a very heavy sleeper. Nothing ever wakes me."

"Where does your uncle go when he's away from home?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you think yourself it's very peculiar to keep an inn on the King's highway, and then bolt and bar your house to every passer-by?"

"My uncle is a very peculiar man."

"He is indeed. In fact, he's so damned peculiar that half the people in the countryside won't sleep easy in their beds until he's been hanged, like his father before him. You can tell him that from me."

"I will, Mr. Bassat."

"Aren't you afraid, living up here, without sound or sight of a neighbour, and only this half-crazy woman for companion?"

"The time passes."

"You've got a close tongue, haven't you, young woman? Well, I don't envy you your relatives. I'd rather see any daughter of mine in her grave than living at Jamaica Inn with a man like Joss Merlyn."

He turned away and climbed onto his horse, gathering the reins in his hands. "One other thing," he called from his saddle. "Have you seen anything of your uncle's younger brother, Jem Merlyn, of Trewartha?"

"No," said Mary steadily; "he never comes here."

"Oh, he doesn't? Well, that's all I want from you this morning. Good day to you both." And away they clattered from the yard, and so down the road and to the brow of the further hill.

Aunt Patience had already preceded Mary to the kitchen and was sitting on a chair in a state of collapse.

"Oh, pull yourself together," said Mary wearily. "Mr. Bassat has gone, none the wiser for his visit, and as cross as two sticks because of it. If he'd found the room reeking of brandy, then there would be something to cry about. As it is, you and Uncle Joss have scraped out of it very well."

She poured herself out a tumbler of water and drank it at one breath. Mary was in a fair way to losing her temper. She had lied to save her uncle's skin, when every inch of her longed to proclaim his guilt. She had looked into the barred room, and its emptiness had hardly surprised her when she remembered the visitation of the waggons a few nights back; but to have been faced with that loathsome length of rope, which she recognised immediately as the one she had seen hanging from the beam, was almost more than she could bear. And because of her aunt she had to stand still and say nothing. It was damnable; there was no other word for it. Well, she was committed now, and there was no going back. For better, for worse, she had become one of the company at Jamaica Inn. As she drank down her second glass of water she reflected cynically that in the end she would probably hang beside her uncle. Not only had she lied to save him, she thought with rising anger, but she had lied to help his brother, Jem. Jem Merlyn owed her thanks as well. Why she had lied about him she did not know. He would probably never find out anyway, and, if he did, he would take it for granted.

Aunt Patience was still moaning and whimpering before the fire, and Mary was in no mood to comfort her. She felt she had done enough for her family for one day, and her nerves were on edge with the whole business. If she stayed in the kitchen a moment longer she would scream with irritation. She went back to the washtub in the patch of garden by the chicken run and plunged her hands savagely into the grey soapy water that was now stone-cold.

Joss Merlyn returned just before noon. Mary heard him step into the kitchen from the front of the house, and he was met at once with a babble of words from his wife. Mary stayed where she was by the washtub; she was determined to let Aunt Patience explain things in her own way, and, if he called to her for confirmation, there was time enough to go indoors.

She could hear nothing of what passed between them, but the voice of her aunt sounded shrill and high, and now and again her uncle interposed a question sharply. In a little while he beckoned Mary from the window, and she went inside. He was standing on the hearth, his legs straddled wide and his face as black as thunder.

"Come on!" he shouted. "Out with it. What's your side of the story? I get nothing but a string of words from your aunt; a magpie makes more sense than she. What in hell's been going on here? That's what I want to know."

Mary told him calmly, in a few well-chosen words, what had taken place during the morning. She omitted nothing — except the squire's question about his brother — and ended with Mr. Bassat's own words — that people would not sleep easy in their beds until Joss Merlyn was hanged, like his father before him.

The landlord listened in silence, and, when she had finished, he crashed his fist down on the kitchen table and swore, kicking one of the chairs to the other side of the room.

"The damned skulking bastard!" he roared. "He'd no more right to walk into my house than any other man. His talk of a magistrate's warrant was all bluff, you blithering fools; there's no such thing. By God, if I'd been here, I'd have sent him back to North Hill so as his own wife would never recognise him, and, if she did, she'd have no use for him again. Damn and blast his eyes! I'll teach Mr. Bassat who's got the run of this country, and have him sniffing round my legs, what's more. Scared you, did he? I'll burn his house round his ears if he plays his tricks again."