XXIII.Miss Lebetwood and a CampstoolOctober 9. Noon.“No,” said Miss Lebetwood, “I certainly didn’t do what he wanted me to. What good would that have been?”Salt’s brow was very grave, but his eyes were narrowly upon her. “You watched him, you say?”“Yes, as long as he was in sight from the edge of the strawberry trees.”“What happened?”She bit her lip. “Nothing that will really help you.”“Let me be the judge of that,” said Salt gently. “What did you see?”“By the time I reached the strawberry trees and looked back, the lawn was empty. It was still empty when—”“Excuse me, Miss; what about the gate-house?”“I couldn’t see the towers from that spot; I was on the wrong side of the knoll that overlooks the court.”“Quite. Thank you, Miss.”“So I watched the lawn and the House. I could almost see it growing darker while I waited, the light changes so rapidly in the Vale. And I hate the twilight—all the really terrible things here happen then.” She broke off, and we knew that she must be thinking of that one terrible thing in the gloaming of a week ago. Alberta made a movement as if to check her from continuing. “No, it’s all right. I was just realizing what a fool I am. The time of day can’t possibly make any difference.”“I don’t believe it does,” acquiesced Salt. “But go on, if you please.”“It was darkening so suddenly that I thought I shouldn’t be able to recognize anyone who might appear. But when Mr. Bannerlee came out of the park, I saw him quite plainly. He seemed to hesitate when he came past the Hall, but then he went on faster and disappeared in the direction of the front entrance.”“Heatheringham beckoned me to hurry,” I put in.“There was nobody in sight then, but I believe I heard the winch working under the towers. A minute or two later Mr. Heatheringham appeared from down below, looking this side and that, and occasionally glancing upward.”“Are you sure?” asked Salt.“Yes, because he caught sight of Mr. Bannerlee, who had come out his window and was standing on the roof. Mr. Bannerlee waved his hand, and I could just hear the sound of his voice when he hailed Mr. Heatheringham, the wind was rushing on so just then. After that I heard nothing of their voices, but soon afterward Mr. Bannerlee went in and Mr. Heatheringham commenced to walk quickly up toward the cypresses. He was looking this side and that again; I thought he was more intent than before. He broke into a run, but while he was running he turned—”“Turned!”“Yes, and ran all the way back to the south end of the House. At the library corner he slowed to a walk and went out of sight. Then Lib came along from down the lawn, and she had almost disappeared beyond the library tower—going toward the main entrance, you know—when I heard the crack of the revolver. Lib rather tightened up then, and I saw her look every way at once, but she apparently decided to disbelieve her ears, for she went on out of sight.”“And met Soames and me,” I said.“Well, everybody seemed to have heard the shot, though nobody knew where it had come from. Mr. Pendleton, Lord Ludlow, and the rest began crossing the lawn this way and that, shouting directions at one another that nobody heeded. I came on from the trees, but nobody seemed to see me. After that—well, you know.”Salt nodded. “Mr. Pendleton’s told me how they found the body. Just one question more, Miss, and thank you very much. You couldn’t have seen anything in the air that Heatheringham might have some reason to take a shot at? No large bird of any description?”“No, sir.”“You didn’t hear something like a bird call—something that might have attracted his attention?”“I could hear nothing but the wind. Anyhow, Mr. Heatheringham was inside the House.”“Of course he was,” said Salt.But he is no longer. The detective’s body was taken to New Aidenn in the dead of night.Salt’s laborious questions to each one of us went on until eleven, but the problem of Harry Heatheringham’s taking off remains to-day more cryptic than Cosgrove’s. The Superintendent acknowledged defeat, and had the Chief Constable on the ’phone shortly after eleven. Scotland Yard will be with us presently, although the lack of decent train connections out of Worcester will prevent the Inspector from reaching New Aidenn before late dinner time to-night.Six burly constables, in pairs, were patrolling the grounds from nine o’clock until morning, but I think most persons within the House kept anxious vigil as well. For my own part, I flung myself on my ancient four-poster and found sleep—sleep, but not rest, for I was visited by tormenting dreams. The world was mist seethed, and through the long black lanes between the billows swept a procession of the souls of murdered ones. Down from the invisible above the swirl sounded a terrible voice: “Let traitors beware,” and from time to time a blaze of light burst through, throwing on the curtain of fog the gigantic shadow of an arm.I awoke, and lay awake in a world of real mist until I could endure inactivity no longer. I dressed and went downstairs, earlier than ever before, save on that morning when I tried to discover “lost content” on the hills. It did not surprise me to find Salt already hard at work; he was examining with almost microscopic care the gouted trail of blood. But a surprise awaited me.It was much too early for breakfast; yet Miss Lebetwood was standing at the window of the dining-room. Attired in a navy blue sweater and serge skirt and high laced boots, she appeared very alert and full of business.Seeing that I “took her in,” she smiled and said, “I’m going to follow in your steps this morning. As soon as I’ve had some breakfast, I’m off for the hills.”“On account of—?”“Yes.”I simulated a groan. “I should never have let you have it if I thought it would make you reckless.”Now, the fact is that she struck me in a heap last evening by coming straight up to me and asking to read this diary. Howsheever came to hear of it I can’t imagine, and she was obdurate to my demands for enlightenment. Only she told me very seriously that since no one else seemed certain to grapple successfully with the many problems in the Vale, she was going a step beyond “thinking” and would take an active course.“Somehow I’m sure I’ll be the best detective of the lot,” she said. “I have kept my mind unprejudiced, you see. And really, Mr. Bannerlee, I’m positive you have several facts locked away in your book that I never knew.”The end was that she marched away with the book, I may say entirely against my sense of discretion, while I shuddered at the thought of her perusing some of the personal comments I had included.And now she was bound for the hills!I looked through the window, and saw the landscape grey. A bank of fog stood motionless about the base of Whimble.“This is scarcely the day for it, is it? It’s easy to be lost up there in the mist.”She turned from the drear panorama and looked at me kindly. “I can tell from your voice that you’re very much concerned about me, but really you shouldn’t be. I’ve had harder climbs than this heaps of times, and you can depend on me to be back early this afternoon. You may begin to worry about two o’clock if I don’t appear then”—her chin tilted with determination—“with what I want.”I returned her kind look. “Really, Miss Lebetwood, I hope my, er, jottings haven’t set you on some false lead.”“There’s a lot more in your journal than jottings,” she said, with serious lines of thought about the eyes. She gave me a glancing look. “I see you are sceptical.”“It’s hardly fair,” I laughed, “that because you’ve turned detective in earnest, you should try to mystify me like the other sleuths.”“What’s this? what’s this?” asked Salt, presenting himself.She beckoned him in. “Mr. Salt, have you finished with that horrible gore for now? Because I want you to ’phone a telegram for me when the Post Office opens. Will you, please?”“With pleasure, Miss. But why honour me with Mr. Bannerlee so handy?”“I believe you’re fishing! But didn’t you appoint yourself censor and want to know all the messages that go out of the Vale?”“Not any more, Miss,” responded Salt, running his eye over a slip of paper she had brought from a skirt pocket. He raised his brows. “To the Welsh National Library, eh? Aberystwyth, of course.” Again, more slowly, he perused the message. “H’m, very interestin’, Miss. I’ll send it without delay, and you’ll know by the time you get back if the bookworms have the information.”“Show it to Mr. Bannerlee, please,” she said. “I don’t want him to think I’m rude.”“No, not for the world,” I smiled, with negative hand raised to decline the proffered paper. “Since I’m to be denied the pleasure of accompanying you this morning, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You shall not have my invaluable advice.”“If you went with me this morning,” said Miss Lebetwood, making a small grimace, “I could promise you one thing: you’d be unutterly bored. Well, thank goodness, at last here comes my breakfast.”Now, a quarter of an hour later, when my own special breakfast had arrived on a tray, hers had disappeared. We had been talking of tramps and journeys, comparing experiences, but I noticed that for the last few minutes her remarks had been very general and not wholly relevant. It was obvious that she was preoccupied. At last, having built up a little tower of sugar cubes and toppled it with her finger, she said:“I was the man in the library.”Naturally, this was too much for me to comprehend and adjust myself to in a split-second, and I was still groping like a man stunned when she continued:“Yes, the cap was my own, and I had borrowed Bob’s tuxedo and come down to get that book; it had a fascination for me, and I must say I was surprised”—with a careful inclination of the head toward the corridor—“thathehadn’t kept it under lock and key.”“Quite so.”“So you see why I didn’t come out even when Millicent was wandering again. I had gone back to my room the way I’d come—that was by the outer stairs and through one of the french windows I’d undone the catch of after Blenkinson had gone the rounds—and I was gobbling up the book, still in borrowed plumage, when the commotion began. I couldn’t have appeared without starting more fuss than ever; I suppose I shouldn’t have much more than a rag of reputation left. They wouldn’t be so surprised in America at a girl’s dressing like a man—the movies have helped a lot there.”“Well, you needn’t take the appalling risk again,” I promised her. “If you should wish to gorge yourself clandestinely on the pages of Sylvan Armitage, you may have my copy in perfect secrecy.”“Oh, your copy came? Don’t get up, please, and please excuse me if I don’t wait. Your breakfast will all get cold if I keep you talking.”“Not at all. Yes, my copy came through.”She had arisen and walked to the door. I had noticed a small campstool folded and leaning against the wall, and now was surprised to see her pick it up and tuck it beneath her arm.“Are you taking that?”She held it so that it opened, showing its green canvas seat. “Yes, aren’t you in favour of it?”“It’s æsthetic, if that’s what you mean. But how odd! If you want something to sit on, why not take a blanket or an old coat?”“Perhaps this isn’t to sit down on.”I gaped. “What—what do you mean?”She folded the stool and tucked it away again. Her smile was very sweet and provoking, and it held that little token of wistfulness which had never left it since Cosgrove’s death.The skirt swung briskly out, and the sound of the little boots receded and died away. On what wild search was she bound?Then I stopped eating, while the idea that grew in my mind spread its ugly branches. What might a stranger think? Not I, of course, who would stake my life she is better than gold, but some newcomer from the outside world, such as the Scotland Yard official due here this evening? Might it not seem a pose? This resolve to play the rôle of detective, this secret roaming through the House in man’s attire, this interest in my diary, and this secretive hunting on the hills—would they not appear parts of an assumed character? Ridiculous, of course—unthinkable, in actuality—but might it not be thought? And what trouble, even disaster, might not follow such a false impression?Somehow I was not at all amused toward noon by an argument that sprouted up in the library between Crofts and Aire in connection with some phase of the Parson Lolly legend. Aire was devil’s advocate in this discussion, and Crofts persisted in pooh-poohing the tale as all nonsense, tommyrot, and rubbish.“I thought you were a scientist,” bullied our host, but Aire contented himself with a chuckle, and moved toward the Hall, whence the voice of Lord Ludlow came in a kind of shrill moan:“. . . fundamental decencies . . . civilized life.”And I judged that Belvoir had just uttered some devastating platitude about the geisha girls or the way women choose their husbands in British Guiana. It occurred to me then a bit strongly that Belvoir plays the fool, and that if he really thinks our British morality unsuitable for a civilized temperament (i. e.his) he had better emigrate to the bush or to Terra del Fuego, where he may be uncramped among the broader and merrier folkways.I have mentioned more than once, I believe, the sub-irritant effect Mrs. Belvoir has upon me; her hazy personality, taken with the odd remarks she lets fall, hint at something I can’t quite define, but would like to very much.When Aire went through the armoury door, only four of us were left in the library: Mrs. Belvoir, Alberta, Crofts, and I (in the seclusion of the tower). Mrs. Belvoir watched the Doctor’s departure, then turned to Crofts with the promptitude of one who has at last the opportunity she has been waiting for.“I do hope you won’t mind to-night,” she said.It would not have been surprising if Crofts had failed to extract a meaning from this wish, but he seemed to grasp it. His cheek remained at the same full flush it had reached during the Aire controversy, while he turned his eyes slowly toward Mrs. Belvoir, and I thought that the lady had not chosen the likeliest time for wooing his good graces.“You don’t mean to say—” he rumbled.“But dear Alberta doesn’t mind—do you?” she asked in sudden appeal that was answered with ardour rather less than half its own.“I didn’t think it could do any harm,” said Alberta, divided between a reassuring smile at her guest and a warning frown at her husband. “Probably the Scotland Yard man—”“But it’s for him I especially want to give a demonstration,” declared Mrs. Belvoir with emphatic faintness. “I can help him so much. I think that perhaps the real difficulty we have had all along is that we have not looked beyond the visible. I do so wish Sir Brooke were here; he was so sympathetic. There were always such things ofreal valuelearned when he was present.”“I have it!” I exclaimed from my obscurity, striking my thigh. “Mrs. Belvoir, you are a spiritualistic medium!”They all regarded me with amazement bold on their faces, and I turned my blatancy into apologetic curiosity. “Sorry, but I didn’t know before, you see. How frightfully interesting. I hope you do give us a séance to-night, Mrs. Belvoir.”“Oh, all right,” muttered Crofts. “But it’s the police you’ll have to convince, really.”“I’ll deal with the police,” said Mrs. Belvoir.“As for Sir Brooke’s absence,” I remarked, “why may he not be present? Perhaps we shall have a message from him, Mrs. Belvoir.”I think she discerned levity in me. “Really, Mr. Bannerlee, you may be surprised by having that very thing happen.” She glided from the room.Crofts looked at me bitterly, as if he held me responsible for the whole business, but instead of pouring out vials of wrath he said, “How about a drink, Bannerlee? I need one.”“Oh, Crofts,” reproached Alberta, “you know it’s still morning.”“Well, I haven’t had one so far, have I?” he retorted, ringing, and stared in oafish surprise when she departed promptly from the room. “What have I done now, I’d like to know?”“Youaregetting peppered from all directions,” I laughed. “But cheer up, old man,” I added, hearing a measured tread in the corridor. “This staff of servants of yours certainly outdoes the crew of any sinking ship I’ve ever heard of in devotion to duty. After last night’s catastrophe—well, they deserve medals, platinum ones.”Soames slid in and Crofts said, “Whiskey,” cocking an eye at me to see if I approved.“Yes, and by the way, Soames,” I called, while the servant turned on his heel, “just tell us the truth, will you? Why aren’t you and Morgan and the rest fifty miles away from here and running for your lives?”His face was a flat mask, with expression ironed out of every feature. “I—I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t understand.”“Oh, yes, you do. Come on, man,” I rallied him. “What’s this hold Blenkinson’s got over you?”His countenance remained under rigid muscular control, but his legs gave a little shiver. He looked at me, and his face was empty of thought, but then his gaze met his master’s. He paled, for Crofts’ glare demanded rather than invited confession.“It’s—it’s Mr. Blenkinson’s, er, theory, sir.”“My God, has Blenkinson a theory too!” Crofts shouted. “A speculative butler! What next? I don’t pay him to have theories.”“No, sir,” agreed Soames. “We all ’ave the greatest confidence in Mr. Blenkinson.”“No doubt,” I said. “And Soames, ah, what is the nature of Mr. Blenkinson’s theory?”The servant had the look of a man ground between millstones. His neck undulated in a series of gulps.“Out with it,” I urged. “Confession is good for the soul.”Soames turned an imploring look at me, his eyes like those of a wretchin extremis.“Oh, Blenkinson’s theory be damned,” growled Crofts impatiently; “but don’t tell him I said so. Fetch the whiskey.”The servant dashed for the door, and it was Toby who brought in the decanter and glasses.It is now 2.30P.M.An hour ago it was clear and mild; then the mist redoubled and a chill came into the air, something we have not experienced before by day.She has not returned. I shall try to organize a searching party at once, and if no one else regards the situation seriously, I’ll go alone to find her.
October 9. Noon.
“No,” said Miss Lebetwood, “I certainly didn’t do what he wanted me to. What good would that have been?”
Salt’s brow was very grave, but his eyes were narrowly upon her. “You watched him, you say?”
“Yes, as long as he was in sight from the edge of the strawberry trees.”
“What happened?”
She bit her lip. “Nothing that will really help you.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” said Salt gently. “What did you see?”
“By the time I reached the strawberry trees and looked back, the lawn was empty. It was still empty when—”
“Excuse me, Miss; what about the gate-house?”
“I couldn’t see the towers from that spot; I was on the wrong side of the knoll that overlooks the court.”
“Quite. Thank you, Miss.”
“So I watched the lawn and the House. I could almost see it growing darker while I waited, the light changes so rapidly in the Vale. And I hate the twilight—all the really terrible things here happen then.” She broke off, and we knew that she must be thinking of that one terrible thing in the gloaming of a week ago. Alberta made a movement as if to check her from continuing. “No, it’s all right. I was just realizing what a fool I am. The time of day can’t possibly make any difference.”
“I don’t believe it does,” acquiesced Salt. “But go on, if you please.”
“It was darkening so suddenly that I thought I shouldn’t be able to recognize anyone who might appear. But when Mr. Bannerlee came out of the park, I saw him quite plainly. He seemed to hesitate when he came past the Hall, but then he went on faster and disappeared in the direction of the front entrance.”
“Heatheringham beckoned me to hurry,” I put in.
“There was nobody in sight then, but I believe I heard the winch working under the towers. A minute or two later Mr. Heatheringham appeared from down below, looking this side and that, and occasionally glancing upward.”
“Are you sure?” asked Salt.
“Yes, because he caught sight of Mr. Bannerlee, who had come out his window and was standing on the roof. Mr. Bannerlee waved his hand, and I could just hear the sound of his voice when he hailed Mr. Heatheringham, the wind was rushing on so just then. After that I heard nothing of their voices, but soon afterward Mr. Bannerlee went in and Mr. Heatheringham commenced to walk quickly up toward the cypresses. He was looking this side and that again; I thought he was more intent than before. He broke into a run, but while he was running he turned—”
“Turned!”
“Yes, and ran all the way back to the south end of the House. At the library corner he slowed to a walk and went out of sight. Then Lib came along from down the lawn, and she had almost disappeared beyond the library tower—going toward the main entrance, you know—when I heard the crack of the revolver. Lib rather tightened up then, and I saw her look every way at once, but she apparently decided to disbelieve her ears, for she went on out of sight.”
“And met Soames and me,” I said.
“Well, everybody seemed to have heard the shot, though nobody knew where it had come from. Mr. Pendleton, Lord Ludlow, and the rest began crossing the lawn this way and that, shouting directions at one another that nobody heeded. I came on from the trees, but nobody seemed to see me. After that—well, you know.”
Salt nodded. “Mr. Pendleton’s told me how they found the body. Just one question more, Miss, and thank you very much. You couldn’t have seen anything in the air that Heatheringham might have some reason to take a shot at? No large bird of any description?”
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t hear something like a bird call—something that might have attracted his attention?”
“I could hear nothing but the wind. Anyhow, Mr. Heatheringham was inside the House.”
“Of course he was,” said Salt.
But he is no longer. The detective’s body was taken to New Aidenn in the dead of night.
Salt’s laborious questions to each one of us went on until eleven, but the problem of Harry Heatheringham’s taking off remains to-day more cryptic than Cosgrove’s. The Superintendent acknowledged defeat, and had the Chief Constable on the ’phone shortly after eleven. Scotland Yard will be with us presently, although the lack of decent train connections out of Worcester will prevent the Inspector from reaching New Aidenn before late dinner time to-night.
Six burly constables, in pairs, were patrolling the grounds from nine o’clock until morning, but I think most persons within the House kept anxious vigil as well. For my own part, I flung myself on my ancient four-poster and found sleep—sleep, but not rest, for I was visited by tormenting dreams. The world was mist seethed, and through the long black lanes between the billows swept a procession of the souls of murdered ones. Down from the invisible above the swirl sounded a terrible voice: “Let traitors beware,” and from time to time a blaze of light burst through, throwing on the curtain of fog the gigantic shadow of an arm.
I awoke, and lay awake in a world of real mist until I could endure inactivity no longer. I dressed and went downstairs, earlier than ever before, save on that morning when I tried to discover “lost content” on the hills. It did not surprise me to find Salt already hard at work; he was examining with almost microscopic care the gouted trail of blood. But a surprise awaited me.
It was much too early for breakfast; yet Miss Lebetwood was standing at the window of the dining-room. Attired in a navy blue sweater and serge skirt and high laced boots, she appeared very alert and full of business.
Seeing that I “took her in,” she smiled and said, “I’m going to follow in your steps this morning. As soon as I’ve had some breakfast, I’m off for the hills.”
“On account of—?”
“Yes.”
I simulated a groan. “I should never have let you have it if I thought it would make you reckless.”
Now, the fact is that she struck me in a heap last evening by coming straight up to me and asking to read this diary. Howsheever came to hear of it I can’t imagine, and she was obdurate to my demands for enlightenment. Only she told me very seriously that since no one else seemed certain to grapple successfully with the many problems in the Vale, she was going a step beyond “thinking” and would take an active course.
“Somehow I’m sure I’ll be the best detective of the lot,” she said. “I have kept my mind unprejudiced, you see. And really, Mr. Bannerlee, I’m positive you have several facts locked away in your book that I never knew.”
The end was that she marched away with the book, I may say entirely against my sense of discretion, while I shuddered at the thought of her perusing some of the personal comments I had included.
And now she was bound for the hills!
I looked through the window, and saw the landscape grey. A bank of fog stood motionless about the base of Whimble.
“This is scarcely the day for it, is it? It’s easy to be lost up there in the mist.”
She turned from the drear panorama and looked at me kindly. “I can tell from your voice that you’re very much concerned about me, but really you shouldn’t be. I’ve had harder climbs than this heaps of times, and you can depend on me to be back early this afternoon. You may begin to worry about two o’clock if I don’t appear then”—her chin tilted with determination—“with what I want.”
I returned her kind look. “Really, Miss Lebetwood, I hope my, er, jottings haven’t set you on some false lead.”
“There’s a lot more in your journal than jottings,” she said, with serious lines of thought about the eyes. She gave me a glancing look. “I see you are sceptical.”
“It’s hardly fair,” I laughed, “that because you’ve turned detective in earnest, you should try to mystify me like the other sleuths.”
“What’s this? what’s this?” asked Salt, presenting himself.
She beckoned him in. “Mr. Salt, have you finished with that horrible gore for now? Because I want you to ’phone a telegram for me when the Post Office opens. Will you, please?”
“With pleasure, Miss. But why honour me with Mr. Bannerlee so handy?”
“I believe you’re fishing! But didn’t you appoint yourself censor and want to know all the messages that go out of the Vale?”
“Not any more, Miss,” responded Salt, running his eye over a slip of paper she had brought from a skirt pocket. He raised his brows. “To the Welsh National Library, eh? Aberystwyth, of course.” Again, more slowly, he perused the message. “H’m, very interestin’, Miss. I’ll send it without delay, and you’ll know by the time you get back if the bookworms have the information.”
“Show it to Mr. Bannerlee, please,” she said. “I don’t want him to think I’m rude.”
“No, not for the world,” I smiled, with negative hand raised to decline the proffered paper. “Since I’m to be denied the pleasure of accompanying you this morning, I wash my hands of the whole affair. You shall not have my invaluable advice.”
“If you went with me this morning,” said Miss Lebetwood, making a small grimace, “I could promise you one thing: you’d be unutterly bored. Well, thank goodness, at last here comes my breakfast.”
Now, a quarter of an hour later, when my own special breakfast had arrived on a tray, hers had disappeared. We had been talking of tramps and journeys, comparing experiences, but I noticed that for the last few minutes her remarks had been very general and not wholly relevant. It was obvious that she was preoccupied. At last, having built up a little tower of sugar cubes and toppled it with her finger, she said:
“I was the man in the library.”
Naturally, this was too much for me to comprehend and adjust myself to in a split-second, and I was still groping like a man stunned when she continued:
“Yes, the cap was my own, and I had borrowed Bob’s tuxedo and come down to get that book; it had a fascination for me, and I must say I was surprised”—with a careful inclination of the head toward the corridor—“thathehadn’t kept it under lock and key.”
“Quite so.”
“So you see why I didn’t come out even when Millicent was wandering again. I had gone back to my room the way I’d come—that was by the outer stairs and through one of the french windows I’d undone the catch of after Blenkinson had gone the rounds—and I was gobbling up the book, still in borrowed plumage, when the commotion began. I couldn’t have appeared without starting more fuss than ever; I suppose I shouldn’t have much more than a rag of reputation left. They wouldn’t be so surprised in America at a girl’s dressing like a man—the movies have helped a lot there.”
“Well, you needn’t take the appalling risk again,” I promised her. “If you should wish to gorge yourself clandestinely on the pages of Sylvan Armitage, you may have my copy in perfect secrecy.”
“Oh, your copy came? Don’t get up, please, and please excuse me if I don’t wait. Your breakfast will all get cold if I keep you talking.”
“Not at all. Yes, my copy came through.”
She had arisen and walked to the door. I had noticed a small campstool folded and leaning against the wall, and now was surprised to see her pick it up and tuck it beneath her arm.
“Are you taking that?”
She held it so that it opened, showing its green canvas seat. “Yes, aren’t you in favour of it?”
“It’s æsthetic, if that’s what you mean. But how odd! If you want something to sit on, why not take a blanket or an old coat?”
“Perhaps this isn’t to sit down on.”
I gaped. “What—what do you mean?”
She folded the stool and tucked it away again. Her smile was very sweet and provoking, and it held that little token of wistfulness which had never left it since Cosgrove’s death.
The skirt swung briskly out, and the sound of the little boots receded and died away. On what wild search was she bound?
Then I stopped eating, while the idea that grew in my mind spread its ugly branches. What might a stranger think? Not I, of course, who would stake my life she is better than gold, but some newcomer from the outside world, such as the Scotland Yard official due here this evening? Might it not seem a pose? This resolve to play the rôle of detective, this secret roaming through the House in man’s attire, this interest in my diary, and this secretive hunting on the hills—would they not appear parts of an assumed character? Ridiculous, of course—unthinkable, in actuality—but might it not be thought? And what trouble, even disaster, might not follow such a false impression?
Somehow I was not at all amused toward noon by an argument that sprouted up in the library between Crofts and Aire in connection with some phase of the Parson Lolly legend. Aire was devil’s advocate in this discussion, and Crofts persisted in pooh-poohing the tale as all nonsense, tommyrot, and rubbish.
“I thought you were a scientist,” bullied our host, but Aire contented himself with a chuckle, and moved toward the Hall, whence the voice of Lord Ludlow came in a kind of shrill moan:
“. . . fundamental decencies . . . civilized life.”
And I judged that Belvoir had just uttered some devastating platitude about the geisha girls or the way women choose their husbands in British Guiana. It occurred to me then a bit strongly that Belvoir plays the fool, and that if he really thinks our British morality unsuitable for a civilized temperament (i. e.his) he had better emigrate to the bush or to Terra del Fuego, where he may be uncramped among the broader and merrier folkways.
I have mentioned more than once, I believe, the sub-irritant effect Mrs. Belvoir has upon me; her hazy personality, taken with the odd remarks she lets fall, hint at something I can’t quite define, but would like to very much.
When Aire went through the armoury door, only four of us were left in the library: Mrs. Belvoir, Alberta, Crofts, and I (in the seclusion of the tower). Mrs. Belvoir watched the Doctor’s departure, then turned to Crofts with the promptitude of one who has at last the opportunity she has been waiting for.
“I do hope you won’t mind to-night,” she said.
It would not have been surprising if Crofts had failed to extract a meaning from this wish, but he seemed to grasp it. His cheek remained at the same full flush it had reached during the Aire controversy, while he turned his eyes slowly toward Mrs. Belvoir, and I thought that the lady had not chosen the likeliest time for wooing his good graces.
“You don’t mean to say—” he rumbled.
“But dear Alberta doesn’t mind—do you?” she asked in sudden appeal that was answered with ardour rather less than half its own.
“I didn’t think it could do any harm,” said Alberta, divided between a reassuring smile at her guest and a warning frown at her husband. “Probably the Scotland Yard man—”
“But it’s for him I especially want to give a demonstration,” declared Mrs. Belvoir with emphatic faintness. “I can help him so much. I think that perhaps the real difficulty we have had all along is that we have not looked beyond the visible. I do so wish Sir Brooke were here; he was so sympathetic. There were always such things ofreal valuelearned when he was present.”
“I have it!” I exclaimed from my obscurity, striking my thigh. “Mrs. Belvoir, you are a spiritualistic medium!”
They all regarded me with amazement bold on their faces, and I turned my blatancy into apologetic curiosity. “Sorry, but I didn’t know before, you see. How frightfully interesting. I hope you do give us a séance to-night, Mrs. Belvoir.”
“Oh, all right,” muttered Crofts. “But it’s the police you’ll have to convince, really.”
“I’ll deal with the police,” said Mrs. Belvoir.
“As for Sir Brooke’s absence,” I remarked, “why may he not be present? Perhaps we shall have a message from him, Mrs. Belvoir.”
I think she discerned levity in me. “Really, Mr. Bannerlee, you may be surprised by having that very thing happen.” She glided from the room.
Crofts looked at me bitterly, as if he held me responsible for the whole business, but instead of pouring out vials of wrath he said, “How about a drink, Bannerlee? I need one.”
“Oh, Crofts,” reproached Alberta, “you know it’s still morning.”
“Well, I haven’t had one so far, have I?” he retorted, ringing, and stared in oafish surprise when she departed promptly from the room. “What have I done now, I’d like to know?”
“Youaregetting peppered from all directions,” I laughed. “But cheer up, old man,” I added, hearing a measured tread in the corridor. “This staff of servants of yours certainly outdoes the crew of any sinking ship I’ve ever heard of in devotion to duty. After last night’s catastrophe—well, they deserve medals, platinum ones.”
Soames slid in and Crofts said, “Whiskey,” cocking an eye at me to see if I approved.
“Yes, and by the way, Soames,” I called, while the servant turned on his heel, “just tell us the truth, will you? Why aren’t you and Morgan and the rest fifty miles away from here and running for your lives?”
His face was a flat mask, with expression ironed out of every feature. “I—I beg your pardon, sir? I don’t understand.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Come on, man,” I rallied him. “What’s this hold Blenkinson’s got over you?”
His countenance remained under rigid muscular control, but his legs gave a little shiver. He looked at me, and his face was empty of thought, but then his gaze met his master’s. He paled, for Crofts’ glare demanded rather than invited confession.
“It’s—it’s Mr. Blenkinson’s, er, theory, sir.”
“My God, has Blenkinson a theory too!” Crofts shouted. “A speculative butler! What next? I don’t pay him to have theories.”
“No, sir,” agreed Soames. “We all ’ave the greatest confidence in Mr. Blenkinson.”
“No doubt,” I said. “And Soames, ah, what is the nature of Mr. Blenkinson’s theory?”
The servant had the look of a man ground between millstones. His neck undulated in a series of gulps.
“Out with it,” I urged. “Confession is good for the soul.”
Soames turned an imploring look at me, his eyes like those of a wretchin extremis.
“Oh, Blenkinson’s theory be damned,” growled Crofts impatiently; “but don’t tell him I said so. Fetch the whiskey.”
The servant dashed for the door, and it was Toby who brought in the decanter and glasses.
It is now 2.30P.M.
An hour ago it was clear and mild; then the mist redoubled and a chill came into the air, something we have not experienced before by day.
She has not returned. I shall try to organize a searching party at once, and if no one else regards the situation seriously, I’ll go alone to find her.