0053
The elephant stood over the car, waving his trunk, seemingly undecided how to go about his work of destruction; the keeper on his neck called and coaxed in vain. The girl... Richard could see only the girl’s back; he was thankful that he could not see her face. The other elephants waited in a semicircle behind. Then, after an interval that was like a hundred years, the leading elephant seized the steering-wheel of the motor-car, and, twisting it off the rod as though it had been made of putty, flung it into the road. That action seemed to appease the brute. He turned quietly away and slouched off; his keeper had now ceased to prod him. The other elephants followed meekly enough. The girl on the motor-car did not stir. The peril was past, but Richard found his foot trembling against the foot-brake of his car—such had been his agitation.
The elephant herd was five hundred yards away before the girl gave the slightest sign of life. Then she slowly dismounted, and waved a hand to the keeper, who had also dismounted from the elephant’s neck—a wave of the hand that was evidently intended to convey an assurance that she was unharmed and able to take care of herself. The keeper gave an answering signal, and—wisely, as Richard thought—continued his way up the opposite hill.
Richard pulled over the starting-lever of his car and leisurely approached the girl. She had already seen him, since her own car was more than half turned round, and therefore there could be no object in his attempting any further concealment. He drew up by her side and raised his peaked cap.
‘That was a nasty position for you to be in,’ he said, with genuine sympathy.
‘Oh, those elephants!’ she began gaily; ‘their trunks are so thick and hairy, you’ve no idea——’
Then she stopped, and, without the least warning, burst into tears. It was a very natural reaction, and no one could wonder at such an exhibition. Nevertheless, Richard felt excessively awkward; excessively at a loss what to do under the circumstances. He could scarcely take her in his arms and soothe her like a child; yet that was just the thing he wished to do.
‘Come, come,’ he said, and his spectacles gleamed paternally at her in the moonlight; ‘it is all over now.’
She pulled out a microscopic lace handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and looked at him.
‘Forgive me,’ she exclaimed; and then, smiling: ‘It shan’t occur again.’
‘You are a brave woman,’ he said sincerely—‘a very brave woman.’
‘How?’ she asked simply. ‘I did nothing.’
‘Most women would have fainted or screamed, and then there is no knowing what might not have happened.’ He added, as she made no remark: ‘Can I be of any assistance? Have you far to go? I suppose you must have miscalculated your distances.’
‘Why?’ she asked, in reference to the last remark.
‘Oh, it’s so late, that’s all.’
‘It is,’ she said, as though the fact had just struck her. ‘Yes, I must have miscalculated my distances. Fortunately, I have only about a mile more. You see the yellow house on the hill towards Hockliffe? That is my destination.’
‘You are Miss Craig?’ he said inquiringly.
‘I am. You belong, then, to these parts?’
‘I happen to know the name of the owner of Queen’s Farm, that is all,’ he admitted cautiously.
‘I am much obliged for your sympathy,’ she said. ‘I shall walk home, and send a horse for the car to-morrow morning.’
‘I could tow it behind my car,’ he suggested.
‘Pardon me, you couldn’t,’ she said flatly; ‘the steering is smashed.’
‘I had thought of that,’ he replied quietly, as he picked up the small broken wheel out of the road. ‘If we tie a rope to either end of your front axle, and join them at the rear of my car, your car would steer itself automatically.’
‘So it would,’ she said; ‘you are resourceful.
I will accept your offer.’ Then she examined his car with the rapid glance of an expert.
‘Well I never!’ she murmured.
He looked a question.
‘It is a curious coincidence,’ she explained, ‘but we have recently ordered an electric car precisely like yours, and were expecting it to arrive to-morrow—my father and I, I mean. Yours is one of the Williamson Motor Company’s vehicles, is it not?’
Richard bowed.
‘There is no coincidence,’ he said. ‘This car is destined for Mr. Craig. I am bringing it up to Hockliffe. You will remember that Mr. Craig asked that it should be sent by road in charge of a man?’
‘A man!’ she repeated; and, after a pause:
‘You are, perhaps, a partner in the Williamson Company?’
‘Not a partner,’ he said.
It may be explained here that the aforesaid Williamson Company had supplied Lord Dolmer with his motor-car. Richard had visited their office in order to ascertain if, by chance, Mr. Raphael Craig was a customer of theirs, and had been told that he was, and, further, that there was an electric car then on order for him. It was a matter of but little difficulty for Richard to persuade Williamson’s manager to allow him to pose for a few days as an employe of the company, and to take the car up to Hockliffe himself. He foresaw that in the rôle of a motor-car expert he might gain a footing at Craig’s house which could not be gained in any other way.
When the two cars had been attached, and the journey—necessarily a slow one—began, a rather desultory conversation sprang up between Richard and Miss Craig, who sat by his side in the leading car.
‘You, too, must have miscalculated your distances,’ she said suddenly, after they had discussed the remarkable beauty of the moon.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I like travelling at night. I admit that I thought Hockliffe considerably further on. I expected to deliver the car about breakfast-time.’
‘You will permit us to offer you a bed?’ she said. ‘You will be able to get at least five hours’ sleep. We breakfast at seven. It is early, but that is my father’s custom.’
He thanked her.
‘Take the little road on the right,’ she directed him later. ‘It leads only to our house In Ireland we call such a road a boreen.’
It was then that he noted a faint Irish accent in her voice.
Richard brought the two cars to a standstill in front of a green gate. Leaning over the gate was an old man.
‘Teresa!’ the old man murmured.
She rushed at him and kissed him passionately.
Iam getting on excellently,’ said Richard to himself as he descended from the car; but his self-satisfaction was momentarily checked by the glance flashed at him by the old man—a glance which seemed to penetrate at once to that locked chamber where Richard kept his secret intentions and desires.
He returned the glance modestly, and then wondered whether, after all, Mr. Craig was as old as he looked. The manager of the Kilburn branch of the British and Scottish Bank had white hair, rather long at the back, and a heavy white beard; a pale face with prominent bones, the lower jaw large and protruding, the nose fine and delicate, the black eyes deep-set; the forehead was rather narrow, but the bossy temples gave indication of unusual intellectual force. The face was the face of an old man, yet the eyes were young and fresh. Richard remembered that Simon Lock had stated the manager’s age to be fifty-five, and he came to the conclusion that this might be a fact, though any merely casual observer would have put it at sixty-five at least.
‘Who is——’ Raphael Craig began questioning in tones of singular politeness, with a gesture in the direction of Richard, after he had returned his daughter’s salutation.
‘This is a gentleman from the Williamson Company, dad,’ Teresa explained. ‘He has brought the new car. He likes travelling at night, and thought our house was much further on.’
Then she explained the circumstance of the elephant’s attack.
‘Humph!’ exclaimed Raphael Craig.
Richard affected to be occupied solely with the two motor-cars. He judged it best to seem interested in nothing else. He blew out the oil-lamps of the old car, and switched off the electric lights of the new one. Teresa turned instantly to the latter, and began to turn the light off and on. Her father, too, joined in the examination of the car, and both father and daughter appeared to be wholly wrapped up in this new toy. Richard had to explain all the parts. He soon perceived that he had chanced on one of those households where time is of no account. Teresa and Raphael Craig saw nothing extraordinary in thus dawdling over a motor-car at one o’clock in the morning by the light of the moon. After a thorough inspection of the machine Teresa happened to make some remark about three-speed gears, and a discussion was launched in which Richard had to join. A clock within the house chimed two.
‘Suppose we have supper, dad?’ said Teresa, as if struck by a novel and rather pleasing idea—‘suppose we have supper. The moon will soon be setting.’
‘And Mr. ——’ said Raphael.
‘Redgrave,’ said Richard. ‘Richard Redgrave.’
‘Will sup with us, I trust,’ said Teresa.
‘True, there are seven inns in the village, but the village is asleep, and a mile off. We must offer Mr. Redgrave a bed, dad.’
‘Humph!’ exclaimed the old man again.
It was, perhaps, a strange sort of remark, yet from his lips it sounded entirely correct and friendly.
‘I am getting on excellently,’ mused Richard once more.
‘Mike!’ the girl called. ‘Micky!’
A very small, alert man instantly appeared round the corner of the garden wall, running towards them. He kept his head bent, so that Richard could not clearly see his face.
‘What is it ye’ll be after, Miss?’ Micky asked.
‘Take charge of these cars. Put them in the shed. Perhaps Mr. Redgrave will be good enough to assist you with the new one.’
Raphael Craig walked towards the house. In three minutes, the cars being safely housed in a shed which formed part of some farm buildings, Richard and Teresa joined him in the spacious hall of the abode. Supper was served in the hall, because, as Teresa said, the hall was the coolest place in the house. Except an oldish, stout woman, who went up the stairs while they were at supper, Richard saw no sign of a domestic servant. Before the meal, which consisted of cold fowl, a pasty, and some more than tolerable claret, was finished, Raphael Craig excused himself, said ‘Good-night’ abruptly, and retired into one of the rooms on the ground-floor. Richard and Teresa were then left alone. Not a word further had been exchanged between father and daughter as to the daughter’s adventures on the road. So far as the old man’s attitude implied anything at all, it implied that Teresa’s regular custom was to return home at one in the morning after adventures with motor-cars and elephants. Richard thought this lack of curiosity on the part of the old man remarkably curious, especially as Raphael and his daughter were obviously very much attached to each other.
‘The circus was amusing this afternoon,’ Richard remarked.
The talk had flagged.
‘Where was it?’ Teresa asked.
‘At Dunstable,’ said Richard.
‘Really!’ she said, ‘I had not heard!’
This calm and nonchalant lie astounded
Richard. She was a beautiful girl—vivacious, fresh, charming. She could not have long passed her twentieth year, and her face seemed made of innocence and lilies. Yet she lied like a veteran deceiver. It was amusing. Richard removed his spectacles, wiped them, and replaced them.
‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I went to the afternoon performance. The clowns were excellent, and there was a lady rider, named Juana, who was the most perfect horsewoman I have ever seen.’
Not a muscle of that virginal face twitched.
‘Indeed!’ said Teresa.
‘I thought, perhaps, you had been with friends to the evening performance,’ Richard said.
‘Oh no!’ Teresa answered. ‘I had had a much longer journey. Of course, as I overtook those absurd elephants in the cutting, I knew that there must be a circus somewhere in the neighbourhood.’
Then there was another lull in the conversation.
‘More wine, Mr. Redgrave?’ Teresa invited him.
He thanked her and took another glass, and between the sips said:
‘I am told this is a great chalk district—there are large chalk-pits, are there not?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you can see them from our windows. Very ugly they look, too!’
‘So far, good!’ Richard privately reflected.
He had, at any rate, learnt that the Craigs had something to conceal.
The hall clock struck three. Outside it was broad daylight.
‘That is a quarter of an hour fast,’ said Teresa. ‘But perhaps it might be as well to go to bed. You are probably not used to these hours, Mr. Redgrave? I am. Micky! Micky!’
The small, alert man came down the side-passage leading into the hall from the back part of the house.
‘This is decidedly a useful sort of servant,’ thought Richard, as he looked intently at Mike’s wrinkled, humorous face.
The Irishman seemed to be about thirty-five years of age.
‘Micky,’ said Teresa, ‘show Mr. Redgrave to his room—the room over here. Bridget has prepared it; but see that all is in order.’
‘That I will, miss,’ said Micky, but only after a marked pause.
Richard shook hands with his hostess and ascended the stairs in Micky’s wake, and was presently alone in a not very large bedroom, plainly but sufficiently furnished, and with some rather good prints of famous pictures on the walls.
‘Without doubt,’ he said, as he got into bed, ‘I have had a good day and deserve a good night. I must take measures to stop here as long as I can.’
He had scarcely closed his eyes when there was a tap at the door, the discreetest possible tap.
‘Well?’ he inquired.
‘It’s myself, sorr,’ said the voice of Micky familiarly.
‘Come in, then, Mike,’ Richard said with equal familiarity.
He already liked Micky; he felt as though he had known Micky for many years.
Richard had drawn both the blind and the curtains, and the room was in darkness; he could only discern the outline of a figure.
‘The mistress told me to remind your honour that breakfast was at seven sharp.’
‘I was aware of it,’ Richard said dryly; ‘but I thank your mistress for the reminder.’
‘An’ begging pardon, sorr, but d’ye know where it is you’re sleeping?’
‘At present,’ said Richard, ‘I’m not sleeping anywhere.’
‘Ah, sorr! Don’t joke. Mr. Featherstone slept in this room, sorr. Did ye know Mr. Featherstone?’
‘What!’ cried Richard, starting up. ‘Do you mean the man that committed suicide?’
‘The same, sorr. But speak low, your honour. It’s myself that should not have mentioned it.’
‘Why not?’ Richard asked, subduing his voice.
‘The master might not like it.’
‘Then why do you tell me?’
‘They say it’s unlucky to sleep in a room where a suicide slept the last night of his life.’
‘Then Mr. Featherstone killed himself the day he left here?’
‘Sure he did so. And I thought I’d warn you.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Richard, ‘it’s no matter. I dare say it won’t affect my repose. Goodnight. Thanks.’
‘I’d like ye to sleep in another room—I’d like ye to,’ urged Mike in a persuasive whisper.
‘No, thanks,’ said Richard firmly; ‘I’m settled now, and will take the risk.’
Micky sighed and departed. As soon as he was gone Richard rose out of bed, pulled the curtains aside, and made a minute examination of the room. But he could discover nothing whatever beyond the customary appurtenances of an ordinary middle-class bedchamber. There was a chest of drawers, of which every drawer was locked. He tried to push the chest away from the wall in order to look behind it, but the thing was so heavy that he could not even move it. He returned to bed. At the same time his ear caught the regular chink of coins, such a sound as might be made by a man monotonously counting money. It continued without interruption. At first Richard imagined it to proceed from under the bed, but he knew that this was impossible. Then he thought it came from the room to the left, then from the room to the right. Chink—chink—chink; the periodic noise had no cessation.
‘What coins can they be?’ Richard asked himself; and decided that such a full, rich chink could only be made by half-crowns or crowns.
He endeavoured to sleep, but in vain; for the sound continued with an exasperating regularity. Then he seemed uneasily to doze, and woke up with a start; the sound was still going on. The hall clock struck five. He jumped out of bed, washed and dressed himself, and went quietly downstairs. The sound had mysteriously ceased. With a little difficulty he opened the hall door and passed out into the garden.
It was a lovely morning; the birds sang ravishingly, and a gentle breeze stirred the cypress-trees which lined the drive. The house was absolutely plain as regards its exterior—a square, solid, British farmhouse. A meadow that was half orchard separated it from the high-road. Away from the house, on the other side of it, and at the end of a large garden, was a long range of low buildings, in the form of a quadrangle, which had, presumably, once been the farmstead; they presented, now, a decayed and forlorn look. Richard walked past the front of the house, under its shuttered windows, across the garden, towards these farm buildings. As he opened a gate in the garden wall he saw Mike issuing cautiously from one of the sheds.
Simultaneously there was a tremendous crash from the house—an ear-splitting crash, a crash that might have been caused by ten domestic servants dropping ten trays of crockery on a brick floor. But the crash had a metallic ring with it that precluded the idea of a catastrophe in earthenware.
Richard and Micky glanced at each other.
Richard saw that Mike was quite as startled as himself at the sound of that appalling crash within the house. But in a moment the Irish man-of-all-work had recovered his wits.
‘Sure,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘the Day o’ Judgment has come along unexpected.’
‘What was it?’ Richard asked.
‘Mrs. Bridget must have pulled the kitchen dresser on the top of her,’ said Mike. ‘Or it’s a procession of cups and saucers down the cellar steps and they missed their footing.’
But, in spite of the man’s jocular tone, Richard thought he perceived something serious in Mike’s face. It occurred to him that the Irishman had guessed the true cause of the noise, and was trying to hide it from the visitor.
‘You’re up early in these parts,’ said Richard, determined to ignore the crash.
‘I’m a bad sleeper, your honour, and when I can’t sleep I get up and enjoy the works of Nature—same as your honour.’ The man looked as fresh as though he had had a long night’s rest. ‘Like to see the horses, sorr?’ he added.
‘Certainly,’ said Richard, following Mike into the stable, which was at that end of the range of farm buildings nearest the house. A couple of Irish mares occupied the two stalls of the stable, fine animals both, with clean legs and long, straight necks. But Richard knew nothing of horses, and after a few conventional phrases of admiration he passed into the harness-room behind the stable, and so into what had once been a large farmyard.
‘No farming here nowadays,’ he said.
‘No, sorr,’ said Mike, taking off his coat, preparatory to grooming the mares. ‘Motorcars and farming don’t go together. It’s many a year since a hen clucked on that midden.’
Richard went into several of the sheds. In one he discovered a Panhard car, similar to that belonging to Lord Dolmer. He examined it, saw that it was in order, and then, finding a screwdriver, removed the screw which held the recoil-spring of its principal brake; he put the screw in his pocket. Then he proceeded further, saw the other two cars in another shed, and next door to that shed a large workshop full of Yankee tools and appliances. Here, improving on his original idea, he filed the thread of the screw which he had abstracted, returned to the first shed, and replaced the screw loosely in its hole. At the furthest corner of the erstwhile farmyard was a locked door, the only locked door in the quadrangle. He tried the latch several times, and at last turned away. From the open door of the harness-room Mike was watching him.
‘I’ve been on a voyage of discovery,’ he called, rather self-consciously, across the farmyard.
‘Did your honour happen to discover America?’ Mike answered.
Richard fancied that he could trace a profound irony in the man’s tone.
‘No,’ he laughed back. ‘But I think I’ll try to discover the village. Which way?’
‘Along the boreen, sort; then up the hill and down the hill, and you’ll come to it if you keep going. It’s a mile by day and two by night.’
Richard reached the house again precisely at seven o’clock. Teresa was out in the garden gathering flowers. They exchanged the usual chatter about being up early, walks before breakfast, and the freshness of the morning, and then a gong sounded.
‘Breakfast,’ said Teresa, flying towards the house.
The meal was again served in the hall. Richard wondered at its promptness in this happy-go-lucky household, but when he saw the face of the stern old woman named Bridget he ceased to wonder. Bridget was evidently a continual fount of order and exactitude. Whatever others did or failed to do, she could be relied upon to keep time.
Mr. Raphael Craig came out of the room into which he had vanished six hours earlier. He kissed Teresa, and shook Richard’s hand with equal gravity. In the morning light his massive head looked positively noble, Richard thought. The bank manager had the air of a great poet or a great scientist. He seemed wrapped up in his own deep meditations on the universe.
Yet he ate a noticeably healthy breakfast. Richard counted both the rashers and the eggs consumed by Raphael Craig.
‘How do you go to town, dad?’ asked Teresa. ‘Remember, to-day is Saturday.’
‘I shall go down on the Panhard. You smashed the other last night, and I don’t care to experiment with our new purchase this morning.’
‘No, you won’t go down on the Panhard,’ Richard said to himself; ‘I’ve seen to that.’
‘Perhaps I may have the pleasure of taking Mr. Redgrave with me?’ the old man added.
‘I shall be delighted,’ said Richard.
‘Do you object to fast travelling?’ asked Mr. Craig. ‘We start in a quarter of an hour, and shall reach Kilburn before nine-thirty.’
‘The faster the better,’ Richard agreed.
‘If you please, sir, something’s gone wrong with the brake of the Panhard. The thread of one of the screws is worn.’
The voice was the voice of Micky, whose head had unceremoniously inserted itself at the front-door.
A shadow crossed the fine face of Raphael Craig.
‘Something gone wrong?’ he questioned severely.
‘Sure, your honour. Perhaps the expert gentleman can mend it,’ Mike replied.
Again Richard detected a note of irony in the Irishman’s voice.
The whole party went out to inspect the Panhard. Richard, in his assumed rôle of expert, naturally took a prominent position. In handling the damaged screw he contrived to drop it accidentally down a grid in the stone floor.
‘Never mind,’ said Raphael Craig, with a sharp gesture of annoyance. ‘I will drive to Leighton Buzzard and catch the eight-ten. It is now seven-thirty. Harness Hetty instantly, Mick.’
‘That I will, sorr.’
‘Let me suggest,’ Richard interposed, ‘that I take you to Leighton on the new car. I can then explain the working of it to you, and return here, retrieve the screw which I have so clumsily lost, and put the Panhard to rights, and possibly mend the other one.’
‘Oh yes, dad,’ said Teresa, ‘that will be splendid, and I will go with you to Leighton and drive the car back under Mr. Redgrave’s instructions.’
In three minutes the new electric car was at the front-door. Mr. Raphael Craig had gone into the house to fetch his bag. He came out with a rather large brown portmanteau, which from the ease with which he carried it, was apparently empty. The car was in the form of as mall wagonette, with room for two at the front. Mr. Craig put down the bag in the after-part of the car, where Teresa was already sitting, and sprang to Richard’s side on the box-seat As he did so the bag slipped, and Richard seized it to prevent it from falling. He was astounded to find it extremely heavy. By exerting all his strength he could scarcely lift it, yet Mr. Craig had carried it with ease. The bank manager must be a Hercules, notwithstanding his years!
The five and a half miles to Leighton Buzzard Station, on the London and North-Western main line, was accomplished in twenty minutes, and Mr. Raphael Craig pronounced himself satisfied with the new car’s performance.
‘If you don’t mind, Mr. Redgrave,’ he said, ‘you might meet me here with this car at two-forty-five this afternoon—that is, if you can spare the time. Meanwhile, perhaps the Panhard will be mended, and my daughter will entertain you as best she can.’
Mr. Craig seemed to take Richard’s affirmative for granted. Stepping off the car, he threw a kiss to Teresa, picked up the bag as though it had been a feather, and disappeared into the station.
‘May I drive home?’ Teresa asked meekly, and Richard explained the tricks of the mechanism.
Speeding through the country lanes, with this beautiful girl by his side, Richard was conscious of acute happiness. He said to himself that he had never been so happy in the whole of his life. He wished that he could forget the scene in the chalk-pit, the mysterious crash, Teresa’s lies, the suicide of Featherstone, and every other suspicious circumstance. He wished he could forget Mr. Simon Lock and his own mission. But he could not forget, and his conscience began to mar his happiness. What was he doing in the household of the Craigs? Was he not a spy? Was he not taking advantage of Teresa’s innocent good-nature? Bah! it was his trade to be a spy, for what other term could be employed in describing a private inquiry agent? And as for Teresa’s innocence, probably she was not so innocent after all. The entire household was decidedly queer, unusual, disconcerting. It decidedly held a secret, and it was the business of him, Richard Redgrave, specialist, to unearth that secret. Simon Lock was one of the smartest men in England, and his doubts as to thebona fidesof Mr. Raphael Craig seemed in a fair way to be soon justified. ‘To work, then,’ said Richard resolutely.
‘Don’t you like Micky?’ the girl asked, with an enchanting smile.
‘Micky is delightful,’ said Richard; ‘I suppose you have had him for many years. He has the look of an old and tried retainer.’
‘Hasn’t he!’ Teresa concurred; ‘but we have had him precisely a fortnight. You know that Watling Street, like all great high-roads, is infested with tramps. Micky was a Watling Street tramp. He came to the house one day to shelter from a bad thunderstorm. He said he was from Limerick, and badly in need of work. I was at school in a Limerick convent for five years, and I liked his Irish ways and speech. We happened to be desperately in need of an odd man, and so I persuaded father to engage him on trial. Micky is on trial for a month. I do hope he will stop with us. He doesn’t know very much about motor-cars, but we are teaching him, and he does understand horses and the garden.’
‘Only a fortnight!’ was all Richard’s response.
‘Yes, but it seems years,’ said the girl.
‘I was much struck by his attractive manner,’ said Richard, ‘when he came to my room last night with your message.’
‘My message?’
‘Yes, about breakfast.’
‘That must be a mistake,’ said Teresa. ‘I never sent any message.’
‘He said that you desired to remind me that breakfast was at seven o’clock.’
Teresa laughed.
‘Oh!’ she said, ‘that’s just like Micky, just like Micky.’
The frank, innocent gaiety of that laugh made Richard forget Teresa’s fibs of the previous night. He could think of nothing but her beauty, her youth, her present candour. He wished to warn her. In spite of the obvious foolishness of such a course, he wished to warn her—against herself.
‘Has it ever occurred to you, Miss Craig,’ he said suddenly, and all the time he cursed himself for saying it, ‘that Mr. Craig’s—er—mode of life, and your own, might expose you to the trickeries of scoundrels, or even to the curiosity of the powers that be? Permit me, though our acquaintance is so brief and slight, to warn you against believing that things are what they appear to be.’
There was a pause.
‘Mr. Redgrave,’ she said slowly, ‘do you mean to imply——’
‘I mean to imply nothing whatever, Miss Craig.’
‘But you must——’
‘Listen. I saw you at the circus yesterday, and in the——’
He stopped at the word ‘chalk-pit.’ He thought that perhaps he had sacrificed himself sufficiently.
‘At the circus!’ she exclaimed, then blushed as red as the vermilion wheels of the electric car. ‘You are an excessively rude man!’ she said.
‘I admit it,’ he answered.
‘But I forgive you,’ she continued, more mildly; ‘your intentions are generous.’
‘They are,’ said Richard, and privately called himself a hundred different sorts of fool.
Why, why had he warned her against espionage? Why had he stultified his own undertaking, the whole purpose of his visit to Queen’s Farm, Hockliffe? Was it because of her face? Was Richard Redgrave, then, like other foolish young men in spring? He admitted that it appeared he was.
When they arrived at the farm Richard deposited his hostess at the front-door, and ran the car round to the outbuildings, calling for Micky. But Micky was not about He saw the stable-door open, and, dismounting, he entered the stable. There was no sign of Micky. He went into the harness-room and perceived Micky’s coat still hanging on its peg. He also perceived something yellow sticking out of the inside pocket of the coat He made bold to examine the pocket, and found a French book—the Memoirs of Goron, late chief of the Paris police.
‘Rather a strange sort of Irish tramp,’ Richard thought, ‘to be reading a French book, and such a book!’
With the aid of the admirable collection of tools in Mr. Raphael Craig’s workshop, Richard, who was decidedly a gifted amateur in the art of engineering, set to work on the damaged motor-cars, and an hour before lunch-time both the Panhard and the Décauville voiturette were fully restored to the use of their natural functions. He might easily have elongated his task, after the manner of some British workmen, so as to make it last over the week-end; but he had other plans, and, besides, he was not quite sure whether he wished to continue the quest which he had undertaken on behalf of Mr. Simon Lock.
At twelve o’clock he made his way to the house, and found Micky weeding the drive. The two mares were capering in the orchard meadow which separated the house from the road.
‘Well, Mike,’ said Richard, ‘I see you’ve lived in France in your time.’
‘Not me, sorr! And what might your honour be after with those words?’
‘You weed in the French way,’ Richard returned—‘on hands and knees instead of stooping.’
It was a wild statement, but it served as well as another.
‘I’ve never been to France but once, your honour, and then I didn’t get there, on account of the sea being so unruly. ’Twas a day trip to Boulogne from London, and sure we had everything in the programme except Boulogne. ’Twas a beautiful sight, Boulogne, but not so beautiful as London when we arrived back at night, thanks to the Blessed Virgin.’
‘Then you are a French scholar?’ said Richard.
‘Wee, wee, bong, merci! That’s me French, and it’s proud I am of it, your honour. I’ve no other tricks.’
‘Haven’t you!’ thought Richard; and he passed into the house.
Mike proceeded calmly with his weeding. On inquiry for Miss Craig, Bridget, with a look which seemed to say ‘Hands off,’ informed him that the young lady was in the orchard. He accordingly sought the orchard, and discovered Teresa idly swinging in a hammock that was slung between two apple-trees.
‘Well, Mr. Redgrave,’ she questioned, ‘have you found that lost screw?’
‘I have found it,’ he said, ‘and put both cars in order. What with three cars and two horses, you and Mr. Craig should be tolerably well supplied with the means of locomotion.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘After all, the horses are the best.’ She sat up in the hammock and called ‘Hetty!’ One of the mares lifted its head, whinnied, and advanced sedately to the hammock. Teresa stroked the creature’s nose. ‘Isn’t she a beauty, Mr. Redgrave? See.’
In an instant Teresa had sprung on the mare’s back, and was cantering, bareback and without bridle, across the meadow. Hetty was evidently docile to the last degree, and could be guided by a touch of the hand on the neck.
‘What do you think of that, Mr. Redgrave?’ asked the girl proudly when she returned.
Richard paused.
‘It is as good as Juana,’ he said quietly. ‘I had no idea you were such a performer.’
Teresa flushed as she slipped easily, to the ground.
‘I am not such a performer,’ she stiffly replied.
‘I came to tell you,’ said Richard, ignoring her petulance, ‘that I have to go to a place in the village on some other business for my firm, I will get my lunch at one of the inns, and be back at——’
‘Now, Mr. Redgrave,’ she interrupted him, ‘don’t be horrid. I have told Bridget to prepare a charming lunch for us at one-fifteen, and at one-fifteen it will be ready. You cannot possibly leave me to eat it alone.’
‘I can’t,’ he admitted. ‘At one-fifteen I will be here. Thank you for telling Bridget to get something charming.’ He raised his hat and departed.
Now, the first dwelling in the village of Hockliffe as you enter it by Watling Street from the south is a small double-fronted house with a small stable at the side thereof. A vast chestnut-tree stands in front of it, and at this point the telegraph-wires, which elsewhere run thickly on both sides of the road, are all carried on the left side, so as not to interfere with the chestnut-tree. Over the front-door of the house, which is set back in a tiny garden, is a sign to this effect: ‘Puddephatt, Wine Merchant.’ Having descried the sign, the observant traveller will probably descry rows of bottles in one of the windows of the house.
As Richard sauntered down the road in search of he knew not what, Mr. Puddephatt happened to be leaning over his railings—a large, stout man, dressed in faded gray, with a red, cheerful face and an air of unostentatious prosperity.
‘Morning,’ said Puddephatt.
‘Morning,’ said Richard.
‘Fine morning, said Mr. Puddephatt.
Richard accepted the proposition and agreed that it was a fine morning. Then he slackened speed and stopped in front of Mr. Puddephatt.
‘You are Mr. Puddephatt?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘I suppose, you haven’t got any Hennessy 1875 in stock?’
‘Have I any Hennessy 1875 in stock, sir? Yes, I have, sir. Five-and-six a bottle, and there’s no better brandy nowhere.’
‘I’m not feeling very well,’ said Richard, ‘and I always take Hennessy 1875 when I’m queer, and one can’t often get it at public-houses.’
‘No, you can’t, sir.’
‘You don’t hold a retail license?’ Richard asked.
‘No, sir. I can’t sell less than a shilling’s worth, and that mustn’t be drunk on the premises. But I tell you what I can do—I’ll give you a drop. Come inside, sir.’
‘It’s awfully good of you,’ said the brazen Richard; and he went inside and had the drop.
In return he gave Mr. Puddephatt an excellent cigar. Then they began to talk.
‘I want a lodging for a night or two,’ Richard said after a time; and he explained that he had brought a motor-car up to the Queen’s Farm, and had other business in the district for his firm.
‘I can find ye a lodging,’ said Mr. Puddephatt promptly. ‘An aunt o’ mine at the other end of the village has as nice a little bedroom as ever you seed, and she’ll let you have it for a shilling a night, and glad.’
‘Could you arrange it for me?’ Richard asked.
‘I could, sir,’ said Mr. Puddephatt; and then reflectively: ‘So you’ve come up to Queen’s Farm with a motor-car. Seems there ’re always having motor-cars there.’
‘I suppose they’re perfectly safe, eh?’ said Richard.
‘Oh, they’re safe enough,’ Mr. Puddephatt replied emphatically. ‘Very nice people, too, but a bit queer.’
‘Queer? How?’
Mr. Puddephatt laughed hesitatingly.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘that Miss Craig’s knocking about these roads on them motor-cars day and night. Not but what she’s a proper young lady.’
‘But everyone goes about on motor-cars nowadays,’ said Richard.
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Puddephatt. ‘But everyone doesn’t pay all their bills in new silver same as the Craigs.’
‘They pay for everything in new silver, do they?’ said Richard.
‘That they do, sir. I sold ’em a couple of Irish mares when they first come to the Queen’s Farm. Dashed if I didn’t have to take the money away in my dog-cart!’
‘But is it not the fact that an uncle of Mr. Craig’s died a couple of years ago and left him a large fortune in silver—an old crank, wasn’t he?’
‘So people say,’ said Mr. Puddephatt sharply, as if to intimate that people would say anything.
‘It’s perfectly good silver, isn’t it?’ Richard asked.
‘Oh, it’s good enough!’ Mr. Puddephatt admitted in the same tone as he had said ‘Oh, they’re safe enough!’ a few moments before.
‘How long has Mr. Craig lived at the Queen’s Farm?’
‘About two years,’ said Mr. Puddephatt.
Mr. Simon Lock, then, was wrongly informed. Mr. Lock had said that Craig had lived at the farm for many years.
‘Where did he come from?’
‘Before that he had a small house under Dunstable Downs—rather a lonesome place, near them big chalk-pits,’ Mr. Puddephatt answered. ‘He seems to like lonesome houses.’
‘Near the chalk-pits, eh?’ said Richard.
‘As you’re a motorcar gent,’ said Mr. Puddephatt later, ‘I reckon I can’t sell you a horse.’
‘I thought you sold wines and spirits.’
‘So I do. I supply the gentry for miles around; but I does a bit in horses—and other things. And there isn’t a man as ever I sold a horse to as I can’t look in the face this day. I’ve got the prettiest little bay cob in my stable now——’
Richard was obliged to say that that was not his season for buying horse-flesh, and, thanking Mr. Puddephatt, he left the wineshop.
‘A house near the chalk-pits,’ he mused. Then he turned back. ‘I’ll let you know about the room later in the day,’ he said to Mr. Puddephatt.
‘Right, sir,’ answered Mr. Puddephatt.
Richard could not refrain from speculating as to how much Mr. Puddephatt already knew about the Craigs and how much he guessed at. Mr. Puddephatt was certainly a man of weight and a man of caution. The wine-merchant’s eyes continually hinted at things which his tongue never uttered.