“Who was the doctor and where does he live?” I asked quickly.
“Dr. Schofield. He lives on the Lincoln Road, about a mile away. Why have you asked me this?” she added anxiously.
I evaded a direct reply.
“Never mind now,” I said. “If anything comes of it, I will let you know.”
She tried to detain me with further questions, but I hurried away and she did not follow me out of the door.
“Cis,” I said, as I scrambled up to his side, “I want you to go home by the Lincoln Road and call at Dr. Schofield’s. It isn’t far out of the way.”
He nodded.
“All right. You haven’t found out anything about old Hart, have you? What was the question you went back to ask Milly?”
“Only about her father’s health. No; I haven’t found out anything. It’s only an idea of mine I want to clear up.”
Cecil looked as though he thought I might have told him what the idea was, but he said nothing. In a few minutes he pulled up outside a neat, red-brick house, which, as a shining brass plate indicated, was Dr. Schofield’s abode.
The doctor was in and disengaged. He came at once into the waiting-room, where I had been shown—a respectable family practitioner, with intelligent face and courteous manner.
I explained my position as an acquaintance of Miss Hart’s, interested in the mysterious disappearance of her father. It had occurred to me to make inquiries as to the state of his health, or, rather, his constitution, I added. Perhaps his prolonged absence might be accounted for by sudden and dangerous illness. Could Dr. Schofield give me any information?
His manner was encouraging. He bade me take a seat and went into the matter gravely.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I am rather surprised that I have not been appealed to before. In an ordinary case I should feel bound to maintain a strict secrecy with regard to the ailments of my patients, but this is different. As you have asked me this question, I feel bound to tell you what I would not otherwise divulge. Mr. Hart was my patient on two several occasions during the last two years for delirium tremens, and once within my recollection he had a distinct touch of brain fever.”
“His mind would not be very strong, then?” I remarked.
Dr. Schofield hesitated.
“He had a wonderful constitution,” he said slowly—“a constitution of iron. In ordinary circumstances I cannot bring myself to think that he could suddenly and completely have lost his reason. But supposing he had received some severe shock, such as a railway accident, or something of that sort, why, then it would be possible, even probable, he might become a raving lunatic in a moment.”
“And would his madness be incurable?”
“If properly treated, with a knowledge of his past ailment—no,” answered Dr. Schofield; “but if he were treated just like an ordinary madman in a pauper lunatic asylum, he would probably never recover. He would become worse and worse and finally be incurable. I see two objections to accepting any theory of this sort as accounting for his disappearance,” the doctor continued, after a short pause. “In the first place the shock would have to be violent and unexpected, and this seems improbable; in the next place, he would surely have had some letter or something about him which would have led to his identification!”
“If the shock were the result of foul play, these would be destroyed,” I suggested.
“Undoubtedly; but whence the foul play? Hart is known to have had only a few pounds with him when he left.”
“Perhaps he had something in his keeping more valuable than money,” I remarked.
“What?”
“A secret.”
“Have you any grounds for such a belief?” the doctor asked curiously.
I hesitated. In my own mind I believed that I had; but for the present, at any rate, this was best kept to myself. I answered quite truthfully, however.
“I have made a few inquiries here and there,” I said, “and I have heard it hinted that he had some secret means of replenishing his purse. He has been known more than once to leave here with only a few sovereigns in his pocket and to come back with his sovereigns turned into banknotes.”
“I remember hearing some such tale,” the doctor remarked. “I’m afraid it is all rather vague, though.”
“I’m very much obliged to you, Dr. Schofield,” I assured him, rising to take my leave.
He followed me to the door and then returned to his interrupted dinner. I mounted into the dog cart and we were soon bowling through the darkness towards Borden Tower.
“Get anything out of the old chap?” Cecil asked.
“Not much. I’m just a little wiser than I was before, that’s all. Beastly sorry to keep you waiting so long!”
“Oh, that’s all right! But I say, Phil,” he added, “what is this idea of yours? You can tell me, can’t you?”
“If it comes to anything, I will,” I assured him. “But at present it is altogether too vague and you would only laugh at it. Don’t ask me anything more about it yet, there’s a good fellow.”
“You’re very close, all of a sudden,” he grumbled. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m afraid of your letting it out to someone whom I don’t want to know anything about it,” I answered.
He laughed.
“Ah, well, perhaps you’re right!” he said. “I couldn’t keep anything back from Milly.”
I echoed his laugh, but held my peace. It was not Milly alone from whom I wished my present idea to be kept a secret. In fact, I had not thought of Milly at all. I was only anxious that de Cartienne should remain altogether in the dark as to my clue; and for a remarkably good reason.
We drove straight into the courtyard, having no groom with us and entered the house from the back. As we passed the little room on the ground floor given up for our sole use as a repository for cricket-nets, fishing-tackle, guns, spare harness, and such like appliances, I opened the door, intending to hang my whip up. To my surprise de Cartienne was there in an old coat, with his sleeves turned up, cleaning a gun. He looked up and greeted us as we entered.
“What a time you men have been! What have you been up to in Little Drayton?”
“Oh, we had lunch with your friend Fothergill and shacked about,” Cecil answered. “Tell you what, Len, he’s a very decent fellow.”
de Cartienne was examining the lock of his gun with great attention, and in the dusk I could not catch his expression.
“Oh, Fothergill’s all right!” he answered. “You didn’t find him very hungry for his winnings, did you?”
“I should think not,” Cecil replied enthusiastically. “Why, I believe he was actually annoyed with himself for having won at all. I’ve given him my I O U’s.”
“He’ll most likely tear them up,” de Cartienne remarked. “He’s beastly rich and he can’t want the money.”
“Where did you drop across him, Len?” asked Cecil, seating himself upon a chest and lighting a cigarette.
“He’s a friend of my governor’s. I’ve known him ever since I was a kid,” de Cartienne answered slowly. “There, I think that’ll do!” critically looking at the gleaming muzzle which he held in his hand.
“Why this sudden fit of industry?” inquired Cecil, yawning. “Going to do any shooting?”
de Cartienne nodded and began deliberately pulling the gun to pieces.
“Yes; I’ve had a long day indoors to-day and I mean to make up for it by potting some wild duck to-morrow. Hilliers told me that he’d heard of some very fair sport round by Rushey Ponds last week. You’d better come with me.”
“Thanks, I’ll see,” Cecil answered. “I’m not very keen on wild duck potting.”
“Haven’t you been out all day, then, de Cartienne?” I asked—“not even to Drayton?”
“Not outside the house,” he answered. “Do I look like it?”
He pointed to his slippered feet, his old clothes, and held up his hands, black with oil and grease, I took in the details of his appearance, feeling a little bewildered. It seemed barely possible that he could have been in Little Drayton an hour ago.
The dressing-bell rang out and we hurried off to our rooms, for Dr. Randall, easy-going enough in some things, was strictness itself with regard to our punctuality at dinner-time. But no sooner had I seen de Cartienne safely in his room than I softly made my way downstairs again and crossed the yard to the stables.
It was as I had expected. The stall in which de Cartienne kept his mare was carefully closed, but through the chinks I could see that a lamp was burning inside.
I tried the door softly, but it was locked. Then I knocked. There was no answer. Turning away, I entered the next stall and, mounting a step-ladder, looked over the partition.
I saw very much what I had expected to see—de Cartienne’s thoroughbred mare splashed all over with mud and still trembling with nervous fatigue, and by her side Dick, the stable-boy, holding a wet sponge in his hand and looking up at me with a scared, disconsolate expression.
“Oh, it be you, be it, Muster Morton?” he exclaimed rather sullenly.
I looked down at Diana.
“How came she in that exhausted condition?” I asked. “And why have you locked the door?”
Dick hesitated, and I tossed him a half-crown.
“The truth now, Dick,” I said. “And I won’t let Mr. de Cartienne know that I’ve seen her.”
He brightened up at once and pocketed the half-crown.
“That’s kind o’ yer, sir!” he exclaimed, evidently much relieved. “All I know, sir, is that Muster de Cartienne he come in riding like mad along the Drayton Road ’bout ’arf an hour ago, and he says to me, ‘Dick, take Diana, lock her up in the stable and don’t let no one know as she’s been out. Just attend to her yourself and rub her down carefully, for I’ve been obliged to ride fast.’ And with that he guv me summut and hoff he went into the ’ouse.”
“Thank you, Dick,” I said, getting down from the ladder, “that’s all I wanted to know.” And I crossed the yard to the house again and hurried upstairs to change my things.
We had two deliveries of letters at Borden Tower, and just as we were leaving the dinner-table that evening the late post arrived. There was a letter for me, a somewhat unusual occurrence, and a single glance at the arms and the bold, characteristic handwriting set me longing to open it, for it was from Mr. Ravenor. As soon as the cloth was cleared I did so.
“My dear Philip,” it commenced, “I am thinking of travelling for several years, perhaps for longer, and should like to see you before I go. Come and stay here for a few days. I am writing Dr. Randall and also Cecil, who will accompany you. You will leave Borden Tower to-morrow and I will send to Mellborough to meet the 5.18. Bring some clothes, as there will be some people stopping here.—Yours,
“My dear Philip,” it commenced, “I am thinking of travelling for several years, perhaps for longer, and should like to see you before I go. Come and stay here for a few days. I am writing Dr. Randall and also Cecil, who will accompany you. You will leave Borden Tower to-morrow and I will send to Mellborough to meet the 5.18. Bring some clothes, as there will be some people stopping here.—Yours,
“Bernard Ravenor.”
“Bernard Ravenor.”
I looked up from the letter with a great sense of relief and met Cecil’s delighted gaze.
“Hurrah, old chap!” he exclaimed, only half under his breath. “Won’t we have a rare old time?”
“Cave!” I whispered, for the doctor was looking our way.
“More vacation,” he remarked, in a grumbling tone, which was made up for, however, by a good-natured smile. “Upon my word, I don’t know how Mr. Ravenor imagines you’re ever going to learn anything! However, I suppose you must go.”
de Cartienne looked up inquiringly.
“We’re going to stay at Ravenor Castle for a week,” Cecil explained. “We’re off to-morrow.”
I leaned forward and watched de Cartienne’s face intently. There was an expression in it which I could not analyse. It might have been pleasure, or apprehension, or indifference. Though I watched him narrowly, I could not make up my mind whether he was more dismayed or gratified at the prospect of our visit.
It seemed almost as though some magical metamorphosis had taken place within the walls of Ravenor Castle. Directly we came in sight of it we had the first intimation of its altered aspect. Instead of the one or two solitary lights shining above the dark woods, it seemed a very blaze of illumination, and when we drew up at the great front door the change was still mere apparent. Liveried servants with powdered hair were moving about the hall. From open doors there came the sound of laughing voices, and even Mr. Ravenor’s manner, as he came out to meet us, seemed altered.
“Come in and have some tea here,” he said, leading the way to one of the smaller rooms. “Your mother is here, Cecil.”
We followed him into Lady Silchester’s favourite apartment. Several ladies and one or two men were lounging on divans and in easy chairs around a brightly-blazing fire. Lady Silchester, who was presiding at a green-and-gold Sèvres tea-service, welcomed us both with a languid smile.
“My dear Cis, how you have grown!” she said, leaning back in her chair and leisurely sipping her tea. “I declare I had no idea that I had a son your height, sir! Had you, Lord Penraven?”
Lord Penraven, who was lounging by her side with his elbow upon the mantelpiece, stroked a long, fair moustache vigorously and answered with emphasis:
“’Pon my word, I hadn’t the slightest idea. Seems almost impossible!”
“Let me give you boys some tea!” Lady Silchester said, in her sweetest tone.
“None for me, thanks, mother,” replied Cecil. “Why, Ag—Miss Hamilton, is that really you over in the corner?” he exclaimed, rising and crossing the room. “How awfully jolly!”
Lady Silchester shrugged her shoulders and turned to me.
“Mr. Morton?”
I took the cup which she had filled and the conversation which our entrance had interrupted flowed on again. Presently Mr. Ravenor, who had been standing on the hearthrug talking to a stately, grey-haired lady who occupied the seat of honour—a black oak arm-chair drawn up to the fire,—moved over to my side and dropped into a vacant seat between Lady Silchester and myself.
“Well, Philip,” he said softly, “you seem lost in thought. Are you wondering whether a magician’s wand has touched Ravenor Castle?”
“It all seems very different,” I answered.
“Of course. Nothing like change, you know. It is only by comparison that we can appreciate. Stagnation sharpens one’s appetite for gaiety, and one must go through a course of overwork before one can taste the full sweetness of an idle country life.”
Then Mr. Ravenor was silent for a minute, leaning back in his chair and looking steadily into the fire, and by the dancing, fitful light of the flames I could see that the old weariness and deep indefinable sadness had stolen into his pale face and dark eyes. It was only a passing change. The sound of the laughing voices around seemed suddenly to galvanise him into consciousness of therôlewhich he was playing and the expression faded away. Someone asked him a question and he answered it with a light jest. Once more he was the courteous, smiling host, whose sole thought appeared to be the entertainment of his guests. But I knew that there was a background.
The dressing-bell rang and the gossiping assembly broke up. Mr. Ravenor, standing with the opened door in his hand, exchanged little happy speeches with most of the ladies as they swept out. When they were all gone he turned to Cecil and me and looked at us critically, with a faint smile upon his lips.
“Well, are you ready for your matric., Cecil?” he asked.
Cecil made a wry face.
“Shall be soon, uncle!” he declared hopefully, “I’m getting on now first rate. Morton here makes me work like a Trojan.”
“That’s right! And you, Philip? I hope my lazy nephew doesn’t keep you back.”
“Oh, Morton’s all right for his matric. whenever he likes to go in for it!” broke in Cecil.
Mr. Ravenor nodded.
“Good! You’d better go and dress now, both of you; Richards is waiting to show you your rooms.”
We passed up the great oak staircase, and on the first corridor we came face to face with a slim little figure in a white frock, walking demurely by the side of her maid, with her ruddy, golden hair tumbled about her oval face and an expectant light in her dancing blue eyes.
Directly she saw us she flew into Cecil’s arms.
“Oh, Cis, Cis, Cis, how delightful! How glad I am that you have come! They only just told me! And how do you do, Mr. Morton?”
She held out a very diminutive palm and looked up at me with a beaming smile.
“I’m quite well, thank you, Lady Beatrice,” I answered, looking down with keen pleasure into her sweet, childish face, and repressing a strong desire to take her up in my arms, as Cecil had done, and give her a kiss.
“You remember me, then?”
“Oh, yes!” she answered; “I remember you quite well! Your name is Philip, isn’t it? You told me that I might call you by it.”
“Well, we must go now, dear,” Cecil said, stroking her hair. “We’ve got to dress for dinner, you know.”
“Oh!” The exclamation was drawn out and the little face fell. Suddenly it brightened.
“Cecil, what do you think? I’ve got a pony, a real pony of my own. Will you come for a ride with me to-morrow? Please, please, do!”
“All right!” he promised carelessly.
She clapped her hands and looked up at me.
“Will you come too, Philip?” she asked.
“I should like to very much indeed,” I answered unhesitatingly.
“Oh, that’s delightful!” she exclaimed gleefully. “We will have such a nice ride! You shall see Queenie canter; she does go so fast! Good-bye now!”
She tripped away by the side of her maid, turning round more than once to wave her hand to us. Then we hurried along to our rooms, which were at the end of the wide, marble-pillared corridor and opened one into the other. Our portmanteaux had been placed in readiness, so dressing was not a tedious business. I had finished first and lounged in an easy chair, watching Cecil struggle with a refractory white tie.
“How pretty your sister is, Cis!” I remarked.
“Think so? She’s rather an odd little thing,” declared her brother, absently surveying himself at last with satisfaction in the long pier-glass. “Didn’t know you’d ever seen her before. I say”—with sudden emphasis—“isn’t Aggie Hamilton a jolly good-looking girl?”
“I’ve scarcely seen her yet,” I reminded him. “Rather a chatterbox, isn’t she?”
“Chatterbox? Not she!” Cecil protested indignantly. “Why——”
The rumble of a gong reached us from below. Cecil stopped short in his speech and hurried me out of the room.
“Come along, sharp!” he exclaimed. “That means dinner in ten minutes, and I promised to get down into the drawing-room first and introduce you to Aggie. Come on!”
We descended into the hall and a tall footman threw open the door of the long suite of drawing and ante-rooms in which the guests at the Castle were rapidly assembling. To me, who had seen nothing of the sort before, it was a brilliant sight. Four rooms, all of stately dimensions and all draped with amber satin of the same shade, were thrown into one by the upraising of heavy, clinging curtains, and each one seemed filled with groups of charmingly-dressed women and little knots of men. A low, incessant buzz of conversation floated about in the air, which was laden with the scent of exotics and dainty perfumes. The light was brilliant, but soft, for the marble figures around the walls held out silver lamps covered with gauzy rose-coloured shades.
We passed through two of the rooms before we found the young lady of whom Cecil was in search. Then we came upon her suddenly, sitting quite alone and idly turning over the pages of a book of engravings. Cecil jogged me excitedly with his elbow in a manner which elsewhere would have brought down anathemas and possibly retribution upon his head. As it was, however, I had to bear the pain like a Spartan.
“I say, isn’t she stunning?” he whispered.
I answered in the affirmative, carefully removing myself from the range of his elbow. Then we approached her, and she closed the book of engravings with a comical air of relief and made room for us beside her.
She was even prettier than I had expected, with dark hair and eyes, dazzling complexion, a perfect figure of thepetiteorder, and faultless teeth, which she was by no means averse from showing. She wore a black lace gown, with a good deal of scarlet about it and a deep red rose in her bosom. Altogether, I was scarcely surprised at Cecil’s captivation.
If not actually a chatterbox, she was certainly possessed of the art of talking nonsense very volubly, and making others talk it. Before dinner was announced by a dignified-looking functionary we had got through quite an amazing amount of conversation. It fell to Cecil’s lot to take in his inamorata, whilst I was far away behind with the middle-aged wife of a country clergyman. She was very pleasant, though, and I was quite content to do but little talking throughout the long banquet, for it was all new to me and interesting.
The vast dining-hall—it was really the picture-gallery—the many servants in rich liveries, the emblazoned plate, the glittering glasses, and the brilliant snatches of conversation which floated around me, all were a revelation. Very soon the effect of it passed away and I was able to choose my wines and select my dishes, and was free to take part if I chose in the talk. But for that first evening I was content to remain silent and, as far as possible, unnoticed.
Dinner, which had seemed to me to be growing interminable, came to an end at last. Lady Silchester, at the head of a long file of stately women, swept down the polished floor, and the procession departed with much rustling of robes. Some of the vacant chairs were taken possession of by men, and already delicate blue clouds of smoke were curling upwards to the vaulted ceiling. It was the short period dearer to the heart of man than any during the day. Every one stretched out his stiff limbs, filled his glass and assumed his favourite attitude. Voices were raised and a sudden change of tone crept in upon the conversation. Only Mr. Ravenor and a few of the older guests appeared to be still engrossed in the discussion of some abstruse scientific controversy then raging in the reviews. Everyone else seemed to be talking lightly of the day’s sport, the arrangements for the morrow, and his own and other men’s horses.
It was getting a little slow for me. Cecil had found some friends, and the sound of his hearty boyish laugh came to me often from the other end of the table. My immediate neighbours were a bishop, who was deep in discussion with a minor canon concerning the doings of some recent diocesan conference, at which things seemed to have been more lively than harmonious; and on my other side Lord Penraven was quarrelling with the lord lieutenant of the county about the pedigree of a racehorse. Both disputes were utterly without interest to me, and it was no small relief when, as I caught Mr. Ravenor’s eye, he beckoned me to a vacant chair by his side.
The conversation, which had been for a moment interrupted, was soon renewed. I sat silent, listening with ever-increasing admiration to the play of words, the subtle arguments, and the epigrammatic brilliancy of expression which flashed from one to another of the four disputants. Had I known anything of the social or literary life of London I might have been less astonished, for Mr. Ravenor and two of his antagonists, Mr. Justice Haselton and Professor Clumbers, were reckoned among the finest talkers of their day.
At last Mr. Ravenor, very much to my regret, brought the conversation to an abrupt close by proposing an exodus to the drawing-rooms. A few of the younger men looked eager to depart, but the majority rose and stretched themselves with the sad faces of martyrs before forming themselves into little groups and quitting the room. Mr. Ravenor remained until the last and motioned me to stay with him.
“Well, Philip,” he said, when everyone had gone, “how are you getting on at Dr. Randall’s? Do you like being there?”
“Very much for some things,” I answered.
He looked at me closely.
“There is something you have to tell me,” he said. “What is it?”
I glanced around at the little army of servants moving noiselessly about on all sides.
“There is something,” I acknowledged, “but I would rather tell it you when we are quite alone. Besides, it is rather a long story. It has mostly to do with Mr. Marx.”
The calm, stately serenity of Mr. Ravenor’s face underwent a sudden change. His dark brows almost met into his eyes, which I could not read. The change strengthened the impression which had lately been growing upon me. There was some deep mystery connected with the personality of Mr. Marx in which Mr. Ravenor was somehow concerned.
“What about Mr. Marx? What can you have to say to me about him?” he asked coldly.
“More than I should care to say here,” I answered, glancing around. “It is rather a long——”
“Come into the library to me the last thing tonight,” he said quickly. “I must know what this story is that you have got hold of. We will go into the drawing-room now.”
In a few moments the cloud had vanished from his face and he was again the polished host. And I, under protest, was inveigled into a corner by Miss Agnes Hamilton, and given my first lesson in the fashionable art of flirting.
It was long past midnight before the last little knots of guests had wished one another good night, and even then Lord Penraven and a few chosen companions only adjourned to a smaller smoking-room in the back regions of the Castle. I knew that Mr. Ravenor was not with them, however, for I had seen him, after having outstayed all save this handful of his guests, cross the hall and enter the library. In about half an hour I followed him.
I had expected to find him resting after the great strain which the multitude and importance of his guests must have imposed upon him during the day. But I found him very differently employed. He was bending low over his writing-table, with a cup of tea by his side, and already several sheets of closely-written foolscap were scattered about the table. At the sound of my entrance he looked up at once and laid down his pen.
“Sit there,” he said, pointing to an easy-chair opposite to him. “I want to see your face while you are talking. Now, what is this tale which you have to tell me?”
His manner was far from encouraging and his face wore a severe expression. Altogether I felt a little nervous. But it had to be done, so I began.
First I told him all about Leonard de Cartienne, his bad influence over Cecil, and his correspondence with Mr. Marx. He listened without remark. Then I paused to take breath.
“I don’t know what you’ll say about the rest of my story,” I went on. “I scarcely know what to think of it myself. But here it is. There is an inn in Little Drayton kept by a man named Hart, and Cecil and de Cartienne go there—sometimes. About a month before I went to Borden Tower the man Hart disappeared. He left home on a journey, the nature of which he kept secret even from his daughter, and has never returned or been heard of. All the information which his daughter can give is that he has left home before on a similar errand and invariably returned with money after three or four days.”
I paused and glanced at Mr. Ravenor. He was looking a little puzzled, but not particularly interested.
“About a month before I left here for Borden Tower,” I went on, “I met Mr. Marx in Torchester and drove home with him late at night. On the moor we were furiously attacked by a man who seemed to be mad and Mr. Marx was slightly injured. Two days afterwards Mr. Marx was assaulted by the same man in the park, and if I had not turned up he would probably have been killed. The man was a lunatic in every respect, save one. He recognized Mr. Marx as his enemy and made deliberate attempts upon his life.”
Mr. Ravenor softly pulled down the green lampshade on the side nearest to him, and in the subdued light I could scarcely see his face, but I felt that his interest in my story was growing.
“Well, of course, when Cecil began talking about this man Hart’s disappearance,” I continued, “and I heard a good deal about it at Little Drayton, I began to think about this lunatic whom no one knew anything about. I put down the exact dates, and I found that Hart must have left Little Drayton about a week before the first attack on Mr. Marx by the unknown madman. Of course, this by itself was scarcely worth thinking about, but the strangest part of it is to come. More out of curiosity than anything, I asked to see a photograph of Mr. Hart. His daughter took us into the sitting-room to look at one and to her amazement found it gone. All search was unavailing. Someone had taken it away. Well, I found out where it had been taken and went to order a copy. It was no use. The negative had been sold to the same person who alone could have entered Miss Hart’s sitting-room and abstracted the photograph. That person was Leonard de Cartienne, and he has been in communication with Mr. Marx, the man whom the lunatic tried to murder. Can you make anything of that, sir?”
Apparently Mr. Ravenor had made something of it. He was leaning a little forward in his chair and at the sight of his face a great fear came upon me.
A ghastly change had crept into it. His eyes were burning with a dry, fierce fire, and the pallor extended even to his lips.
He sat forward, with his long, wasted fingers, stretched out convulsively before his face, like a man who sees a hideous vision pass before his sight and yet remains spellbound, powerless to speak, or move, or break away from the loathsome spectacle.
Sickly beads of perspiration stood out upon his clammy forehead and his dry lips were moving, although no sound came from them.
I gazed at him in a speechless horror, and as I looked the room and all its contents seemed to swim around me. What could Mr. Ravenor have found so awful in the story which I had told and how could it concern him?
Suddenly he rose from his seat and stood over me. I was more than ever alarmed at his strange expression.
“There is a third connection,” he said hoarsely. “Do you remember that a man called to see me, whom I declined to admit, on the night of your first visit here? When I changed my mind he had disappeared.”
I gave a little cry and felt my blood run cold.
“Mr. Marx had something to do with that,” I faltered out. “I met him under the trees in the avenue and he was horribly frightened to see me. I had heard a cry. I was listening.”
Mr. Ravenor stretched out his hand to the bell and rang it violently. We sat in silence, dreading almost to look at one another until it was answered.
“Go to Mr. Marx’s room and bid him come here at once,” Mr. Ravenor commanded.
The man bowed and withdrew. When he reappeared he carried in his hand a letter.
“Mr. Marx left this on his desk for you, sir,” he said.
“Left it! Where is he? Is he not in the Castle?” questioned Mr. Ravenor sharply.
“No, sir. He had a dog cart about half-past four to catch the London express at Mellborough.”
Mr. Ravenor tore open the note and then threw it across to me. There were only a few words:
“Dear Mr. Ravenor,—Kindly excuse me for a day or two. Important business of a private nature calls me hurriedly to London. If you are writing me, my address will be at theHotel Metropole. M.”
There was a silence between us. Then I looked into Mr. Ravenor’s colourless face.
“We must find that lunatic,” I whispered.
Mr. Ravenor turned from me with a shudder.
“We must do nothing of the sort.”
There was a silence which threatened to last for ever.
At length Mr. Ravenor turned his head slightly and looked towards me. The eagerness which he saw in my face seemed to strike some grim vein of humour in him, for his lips parted a dreary, fleeting smile.
“Are you expecting to hear a confession?” he asked, as it passed away.
A confession from him! God forbid! From him who had ever seemed to me so far above other men, that none other were worthy to be classed with him! All the old fire of my boyish hero-worship blazed up at the very thought. A confession from him! The bare idea was sacrilegious.
He read his answer in the mute, amazed protest of my looks, and did not wait for the words which were trembling upon my lips.
“It would do you little good to tell you all that your story has suggested to me,” he said quietly. “Some day you will know everything; but not yet—not yet.”
He paused and walked slowly up and down the room, with his hands behind him and his eyes fixed upon the floor. Suddenly he stopped and looked up.
“Marx must come back at once,” he said, with something of his old firmness. “I shall send him a telegram to-morrow to return immediately.”
“And if he doesn’t come?”
“I must go to him. This matter must be cleared up as far as it can be and at once.”
“Your guests,” I reminded him. “How can you leave them?”
“I forgot them,” he exclaimed impatiently. “Philip, will you go?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes,” I answered quietly, although my heart was beating fast. “Yes, I will go. Perhaps it would be best.”
He let his hand rest for a moment upon my shoulder, and, though he did not say so, I knew that he was pleased. Then he glanced at the clock.
“Two o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Philip, you must leave me now.”
I looked towards his writing-table, at which he was already seating himself, and hesitated.
“You are not going to write now?” I ventured to protest.
“Why not?”
I pointed to the clock; but he only smiled.
“I am no slave to regular hours,” he said quietly. “An hour or two’s sleep is enough for me at a time.”
So I left him.
It was a few minutes past nine when I descended into the long, oaken gallery where breakfast was served, and at the head of the principal table sat Mr. Ravenor in hunting costume. Everyone who was down was evidently bound for the meet. The men were nearly all in scarlet coats, and the women in riding-habits and trim little hats, with their veils pushed back. There was a great clatter of knives and forks, and a good deal of carving going on at the long, polished sideboard, and above it all, a loud hum of cheerful talk; altogether it was a very pleasant meal that was in progress.
I was making my way towards a gap in the table at the lower end when I heard my name called, and looked down into Miss Hamilton’s piquant, upturned face.
“Come and sit by me,” she exclaimed, moving her skirts to make room. “See. I’ve hidden a chair here—for somebody.”
I took it with a laugh.
“Well, as somebody is so very lazy this morning,” I said, “he doesn’t deserve to have it; so I will. Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head.
“No, thanks. Look after yourself, do, for we shall have to start presently. And now tell me, how did you know for whom I was saving that chair?”
“Well, I supposed it was for Cis,” I remarked, making a vigorous attack upon an adjacent ham.
“Indeed! And supposing I were to say that it wasn’t—that it was for someone else?”
“Poor Cis!” I said, with a sigh. “Don’t tell me who the someone else was, Miss Hamilton, please.”
“Why not?”
“Because I shall hate him.”
“For Lord Silchester’s sake?”
“No; for my own.”
“Mr. Morton, you’re talking nonsense.”
“Well, didn’t you undertake to teach me how last evening?”
“Teach you! Oh!”—a little ironically—“you’re a very apt pupil, Mr. Morton.”
I looked at her in mute remonstrance.
“With such a tutor, Miss Hamilton——”
She stopped me, laughing.
“Oh, you’re a dreadful boy! Let me give you some tea to keep you quiet.”
I drew a long sigh and attacked my breakfast vigorously. Presently she began again.
“Do you know Nanpantan, Mr. Morton, where the meet is this morning?”
“Very well,” I answered, cutting myself some more ham. “Do you mind giving me another cup of tea, Miss Hamilton? It was so good!”
She nodded and drew off her thick dogskin glove again.
“You thirsty mortal!” she remarked. “I’m afraid you must have been smoking too much last night.”
“One cigarette,” I assured her. “No more, upon my honour.”
“Really! Then you won’t get any more tea from me to unsteady your nerves. Now tell me, Mr. Morton, do you know this country?”
“Every inch of it. No one better.”
“Oh, how nice! And you’ll give me a lead to-day, won’t you? I do so want to do well.”
“I should be delighted,” I answered; “but, unfortunately, I’m not going to hunt.”
“Not going to hunt! Then what are you going to do, pray?”
“Going for a ride with a young lady,” I answered.
“Oh, indeed!”—with a toss of the head.
There was a short silence. Then curiosity conquered the fit of indignation which Miss Hamilton had thought well to assume.
“May I ask the name of the fortunate young lady?”
“You may,” I answered calmly, helping myself to toast. “It is little Lady Beatrice.”
She burst into a peal of laughter, but stopped suddenly.
“What nonsense! Are you going to take the groom’s place, then, and hold the leading-rein?”
“If she rides with one, very likely,” I answered.
There was a short silence. Then Miss Hamilton returned to the charge.
“How old is your inamorata?” she inquired. “Seven or eight?”
“Twelve next birthday,” I answered promptly.
“It’s quite too ridiculous!” she declared, tossing her head. “I really wanted you to come with me this morning, because you know the country,” she added, with a sidelong glance from her dark eyes.
“Nothing would have given me greater pleasure,” I declared; “but a promise is a promise, you know, and we made this one before we knew any thing about the meet.”
“We! Who are we?” she asked quickly.
“Cis and I.”