"At length, seeing that I was resolved, she said she thought she could manage better than that. She had a friend, she said, an elderly Russian lady, who was a widow and childless. This lady was anxious to adopt a little English girl, and had lately written to ask her to find her a baby whom she could bring up as her own child. There was no reason why Juliana's baby should not be the one. She would write at once and suggest it. I was greatly relieved at this idea. Although I had been determined to do as I proposed, whatever opposition I might meet with, my conscience had not been willing to let me leave my child on a doorstep without protesting, and, little though I heeded its condemnation, I was glad to be able to get my own way and at the same time to silence the voice of my inward critic.
"The plan seemed simplicity itself. My wife, as I have told you, had no parents living. Her brothers and sisters, who were all married and living in different parts of the country, had been led to believe that her death was the result of an accident. Mrs. Meredith had even managed to prevail on the doctor to lend himself to this fiction; for, my grandfather being yet alive, there was still every reason not to declare our marriage, while there seemed to be none in favour of doing so, and I shrank from the questionings and scenes which publicity now would not fail to bring upon me. Before I left Mrs. Meredith we had agreed that she should at once communicate with her Russian friend, whose name I refused to let her tell me.
"I have told you before to-day, Gimblet, of all that has happened since. How I took passionately to books as a refuge from my sorrow; how, at my grandfather's suggestion, I had been by way of working for the Diplomatic Service; of how I now worked in good earnest, and in course of time, and after my grandfather's death, found myself attached to our embassy at Petersburg. During the two years I spent there I made the acquaintance of Countess Romaninov. One day when I was talking to her she happened to mention that she had once known an English lady, Mrs. Meredith, and I came to the conclusion that the little girl who lived with her must be none other than my own child. As you know, I could not stand living in the same town as she did, and for that, and for other reasons, I left the Diplomatic Service and returned to England, where I have lived a quiet life on my place in Scotland ever since. Eight years ago, as you know, I married for the second time, and after a few years of comparative happiness, found myself again a widower, my second wife and her child dying within a few months of each other, when my boy was only four years old.
"It is more than a year, now," continued Lord Ashiel, after a pause, "since the girl Julia Romaninov came to my sister in London, with a letter of introduction from our ambassador in Russia. It was not until my sister invited her down to Scotland that I heard anything about her. Not, in fact, till the day before she arrived, for I always tell my sister to ask any girls she pleases to Inverashiel, and she very seldom bothers me about it. You can imagine my feelings when I heard that Julia Romaninov was expected within a few hours, and had indeed already started from London. It was too late to try and stop her, and my first impulse was flight. But on second thoughts I changed my mind, and stayed. Time had dulled the feelings with which I had contemplated her share in the tragedy that attended her birth, and I was not without a certain curiosity to see this young creature for whose existence I was responsible.
"I waited; she came; she stayed six weeks. You know the result. My sister liked her; my nephews, my other guests, every one, except myself, was charmed with her. And I, for some reason, could never stand the girl. I told myself over and over again that it was mere prejudice; the remains of the violent opposition I felt towards her when she was unknown to me; a survival, unconscious and unwilling, of the hatred I had allowed myself to nourish for the baby of a day old, which had made it impossible that she and I should inhabit the same town when she was no more than a child in pinafores. But I could not reason myself out of my dislike, and it culminated a few weeks ago when I found that my sister was anxious to have her with us in the North again this autumn. As you remember, I came to you, and told you the facts. I made you understand how repulsive it was to me to think that this girl might be my child, and begged you to sift the matter as far as was possible, and to find out if there were not a chance that I was mistaken in thinking it was Countess Romaninov who had been Lena Meredith's friend."
"Yes," said Gimblet, "and all I could discover at first was that the two ladies had indeed been acquainted. It is difficult to get at the truth when both of them have been dead for so many years, and when you will not allow me so much as to hint that you feel any interest in the matter. People are shy of answering questions relating to the private affairs of their friends when they think they are prompted by idle curiosity, and in this case it seems very doubtful whether anyone even knows the answers. But in the course of my inquiries I soon discovered the fact that Mrs. Meredith herself had adopted a child, and it certainly seems more than possible that it may have been yours and her friend's. As far as I can find out, both these young ladies are of about the same age, but no one seems to know exactly when either of them first appeared on the scene. If we can only get hold of the nurses! But at present I can find no trace of them, and you won't let me advertise."
"Gimblet, I shall be ever grateful to you," repeated Lord Ashiel. "I had no idea that Mrs. Meredith had adopted a child. I never saw her again, as I have told you, and only heard vaguely that she had married and was living abroad. I purposely avoided asking for news of her. I wished to forget everything that was past. As if that had been possible!"
"I hoped," said Gimblet, "that you would have seen some strong likeness in this young lady to yourself, or to your first wife. That would have clinched the matter to all intents and purposes. But, as things are, I shouldn't build too much on the hope that she is your daughter. It may turn out to be the girl adopted by Countess Romaninov."
"I hope not, I hope not," said Lord Ashiel earnestly. "I have got her to promise to come to Scotland, and in a few days I may get some definite clue as to which of them it is. It is a very odd coincidence that both the girls bear names so much like that of my poor wife's." He paused reflectively, and then added, "In the meantime you will go on with your inquiries, will you not?"
"I will," said Gimblet. "And I hope for better luck."
A silence followed. Lord Ashiel half rose to go, then sat down again. Evidently he had something more to say, but hesitated to say it. At last he spoke:
"When I was at St. Petersburg, twenty years ago, I was aroused to a state of excitement and indignation by the social and political evils which were then so much in evidence to the foreigner who sojourned in the country of the Czars. I was young and impressionable, impulsive and unbalanced in my judgments, I am afraid; at all events I resented certain seeming injustices which came to my notice, and my resentment took a practical and most foolish form. To be short, I was so ill-advised as to join a secret society, and have done nothing but regret it ever since."
"I can well understand your regretting it," said the detective. "People who join those societies are apt to find themselves let in for a good deal more than they bargained for."
"It was so, at all events so far as I am concerned," said Lord Ashiel, "I had, you may be sure, only the wildest idea of what serious and extremely unpleasant consequences my unreflecting action would entail. Withdrawal from these political brotherhoods is to all intents and purposes a practical impossibility; but, in a sense, I withdrew from all participation in its affairs as soon as I realized to what an extent the theories of its leaders, as to the best means to adopt by which to rectify the injustices we all agreed in deploring, differed from my own ideas on the subject. And I should not have been able to withdraw, even in the negative way I did, if accident had not put into my hand a weapon of defence against the tyranny of the Society."
Lord Ashiel paused hesitatingly, and Gimblet murmured encouragingly:
"And that was?"
"No," said Lord Ashiel, after a moment's silence, "I must not tell you more. We are, I know, to all appearances, safe from eavesdroppers or interruption; but, if a word of what I know were to leak out by some incredible agency, my life would not be worth a day's purchase. As it is, I am alarmed; I believe these people wish for my death. In fact, there is no doubt on that subject. But they dare not attempt it openly. I have told them that if I should die under suspicious circumstances of any sort, the weapon I spoke of will inevitably be used to avenge my death, and they know me to be a man of my word. For all these years that threat has been my safeguard, but now I am beginning to think that they are trying other means of getting me out of the way."
"It is a pity," said Gimblet, "that you do not speak to me more openly. I think it is highly probable, from what I know of the methods resorted to by Nihilists in general, that you may be in very grave danger. Indeed, I strongly advise you to report the whole matter to the police."
"I wish I could tell you everything," said Lord Ashiel, "but even if I dared, you must remember that I am sworn to secrecy, and I cannot see that because I have, by doing so, placed myself in some peril, that on that account I am entitled to break my word. No, I cannot tell you any more, but in spite of that, I want you to do me a service."
"I am afraid I can't help you without fuller knowledge," said Gimblet."What do you think I can do?"
"You can do this," said Lord Ashiel. He put his hand in his pocket and Gimblet heard a crackling of paper. "I am thinking out a hiding-place for some valuable documents that are in my possession, and when I have decided on it I will write to you and explain where I have put them, using a cipher of which the key is enclosed in an envelope I have here in my pocket, and which I will leave with you when I go. Take charge of it for me, and in the course of the next week or so I will send you a cipher letter describing where the papers are concealed. Do not read it unless the occasion arises. I can trust you not to give way to curiosity, but if anything happens to me, if I die a violent death, or equally if I die under the most apparently natural circumstances, I want you to promise you will investigate those circumstances; and, if anything should strike you as suspicious in connection with what I have told you, you will be able to interpret my cipher letter, find the document I have referred to, and act on the information it contains. Will you undertake to do this for me?"
"I will, certainly," Gimblet answered readily, "but I hope the occasion will not arise. I beg you to break a vow which was extorted from you by false representations and which cannot be binding on you. Do confide fully in me; I do not at all like the look of this business."
"No, no," replied Lord Ashiel, smiling. "You must let me be the judge of whether my word is binding on me or not. As you say, I hope nothing will happen to justify my perhaps uncalled-for nervousness. In any case it will be a great comfort and relief to me to know that, if it does, the scoundrels will not go unpunished."
"They shall not do that," said Gimblet fervently. "You can make your mind easy on that score, at least. But I advise you to send your documents to the bank. They will be safer there than in any hiding-place you can contrive."
"I might want to lay my hand upon them at any moment," said Lord Ashiel, "and I admit I don't like parting with my only weapon of defence. Still, I dare say you are right really, and I will think it over. But mind, I don't want you to take any steps unless you can satisfy yourself that these people have a hand in my death. Please be very careful to make certain of that. My health is not good, and grows worse. I may easily die without their interference; but I suspect that, if they do get me, they will manage the affair so that it has all the look of having been caused by the purest misadventure. That is what I fear. Not exactly murder; certainly no violent open assault. But we are all liable to suffer from accidents, and what is to prevent my meeting with a fatal one? That is more the line they will adopt, if, as I imagine, they have decided on my death."
"If ever there were a case in which prevention is better than cure," said Gimblet, "I think you will own that we have it here. If I had some hint of the quarter from which you expect danger, I might at least suggest some rudimentary precautions. What kind of 'accident' do you imagine likely to occur?"
"That I can't tell," replied Lord Ashiel. "I only know that these enemies of mine are resourceful people, who are apt to make short work of anyone whose existence threatens their safety or the success of their designs. I am, by your help, taking a precaution to ensure that I shall not die unavenged. They must be taught that murder cannot be committed in this country with impunity. And I am very careful not to trust myself out of England. If I crossed the Channel it would be to go to my certain death. Otherwise I should have gone myself to see Sir Arthur Byrne. But in this island the man who kills even so unpopular a person as a member of the House of Lords does not get off with a few years' imprisonment, as he may in some of the continental countries; and the Nihilists, for the most part, know that as well as I do."
Gimblet followed Lord Ashiel into the hall with the intention of showing him out of the flat, but the sudden sound of the door bell ringing made him abandon this courtesy and retreat to shelter.
He did not wish to be denied all possibility of refusing an interview to some one he might not want to see.
So it was Higgs who opened the door and ushered out the last visitor, at the same time admitting the newcomer.
This proved to be a small, slight woman dressed in deepest black and wearing the long veil of a widow, who was standing with her back to the door, apparently watching the rapid descent of the lift which had brought her to the landing of No. 7.
She did not move when the door behind her opened, and Lord Ashiel, emerging from it in a hurry to catch the lift before it vanished, nearly knocked her down. She gave a startled gasp and stepped hastily to one side into the dark shadows of the passage as he, muttering an apology, darted forward to the iron gateway and applied his finger heavily to the electric bell-push. But the liftboy had caught sight of him with the tail of his eye, and was already reascending.
His anxiety allayed, Lord Ashiel turned again to express his regrets to the lady he had inadvertently collided with, but she had disappeared into the flat, of which Higgs was even then closing the door.
Ashiel stepped into the lift and sat down rather wearily on the leather-covered seat.
Although, to some extent, the relief of having unburdened his mind of secrets that had weighed upon it for so many years produced in him a certain lightness of heart to which he had long been a stranger, yet the very charm of the impression made upon him by Juliet Byrne, during his first meeting with her that morning, led him to suspect uneasily that his hopes of her proving to be his child were due rather to the pleasure it gave him to anticipate such a possibility than to any more logical reason.
He was so entirely engrossed in an honest endeavour to adjust correctly the balance of probabilities, as to remain unconscious that the lift had stopped at the ground floor, and it was not until the boy who was in charge had twice informed him of the fact, that he roused himself with an effort and left the building.
Still absorbed in his speculations and anxieties, he walked rapidly away, and, having narrowly escaped destruction beneath the wheels of more than one taxi, wandered down Northumberland Avenue on to the Embankment. He crossed to the farther side, turned mechanically to the right and walked obliviously on.
It was not until he came nearly to Westminster Bridge that he remembered the cipher that he had prepared for Gimblet, and that he had, after all, finally left without giving it to him. It was still in his pocket, and the discovery roused him from his abstraction.
He took a taxi and drove back to the flats. A motor which had been standing before the door when he had come out was still there when he returned; so that, thinking it probably belonged to the lady he had met on the landing, and guessing that if so the detective was still occupied with her, he did not ask to see him again, but handed the envelope over to Higgs when he opened the door, with strict injunctions to take it immediately to his master.
The lady, whose visit to Gimblet dovetailed so neatly with the departure of his other client on that summer afternoon, was unknown to him.
He had scarcely re-entered the room and resumed his accustomed seat by the window when Higgs announced her.
"A lady to see you, sir."
The lady was already in the doorway. She must have followed Higgs from the hall, and now stood, hesitating, on the threshold.
"What name?" breathed Gimblet; but Higgs only shook his head.
The detective went forward and spoke to his visitor.
"Please come in," he said. "Won't you sit down?"
And he pushed a chair towards her.
"Thank you," said the lady, taking the seat he offered. "I hope I do not disturb you; but I have come on business," she added, as the door closed behind Higgs.
"Yes?" said Gimblet interrogatively. "You will forgive me, but I didn't catch your name when my man announced you."
"He didn't say it," she replied. "I had not told him. I am sure you would not remember my name, and it is of no consequence at present."
"As you wish," said the detective.
But he wondered who this unknown woman could be. When she said he would not remember her name, did she mean to imply that he had once been acquainted with it? If so, she was right in thinking that he did not recognize her now; but, if she did not choose to raise the thick crape veil that hid her face, she could hardly expect him to do so.
He wondered whether she kept her veil lowered with the intention of preventing his recognizing her, or whether in truth she were anxious not to expose grief-swollen features to an unsympathetic gaze.
Her voice, which was low and sorrowful, though at the same time curiously resonant, seemed to suggest that she was in great trouble. She spoke, he fancied, with a trace of foreign accent.
For the rest, all that he could tell for certain about her was that she was short and slender, with small feet, and hands, from which she was now engaged in deliberately withdrawing a pair of black suede gloves.
He watched her in silence. He always preferred to let people tell their stories at their own pace and in their own way, unless they were of those who plainly needed to be helped out with questions.
And about this woman there was no suspicion of embarrassment; her whole demeanour spoke of calmness and self-possession.
"I believe," she said at last, "that you are a private detective. I come to ask for your help in a matter of some difficulty. Some papers of the utmost importance, not only to me but to others, are in the possession of a person who intends to profit by the information contained in them to do myself and my friends an irreparable injury. You can imagine how anxious we are to obtain them from him."
"Do I understand that this person threatens you with blackmail?" asked Gimblet.
The lady hesitated.
"Something of the kind," she replied after a moment's pause.
"And you have so far given in to his demands?"
"Yes," admitted the visitor. "Up till now we have been obliged to submit."
"Has he proposed any terms on which he will be willing to return you the papers?" asked the detective.
"No," she replied. "I do not think any terms are possible."
"How did this person obtain possession of the papers?" Gimblet asked after a moment. "Did he steal them from you?"
"No."
"From your friends?"
She hesitated.
"No—not exactly."
"From whom, then?" asked Gimblet in surprise. "I suppose they were yours in the first place?"
"He has always had them," she said reluctantly; "but they must not remain his."
"Do you mean they are his own?" exclaimed Gimblet. "In that case it is you who propose to steal them!"
"No," replied the strange lady calmly. "I want you to do that."
"I'm sorry," said Gimblet; "that is not in my line of business. I'm afraid you made a mistake in coming to me. I cannot undertake your commission."
"Money is no object; we shall ask you to name your own price," urged his visitor.
But the detective shook his head.
"It is a matter of life and death," she said, and her voice betrayed an agitation which could not have been inferred from her motionless shrouded figure. "If you refuse to help me, not one life, but many, will be endangered."
"If you can offer me convincing proof of that," said Gimblet, "I might feel it my duty to help you. I don't say I should, but I might. In any case I can do nothing unless you are perfectly open and frank with me. Expect no assistance from me unless you tell me everything, and then only if I think it right to give it."
For the first time she showed some signs of confusion. The hand upon her lap moved restlessly and she turned her head slowly towards the window as if in search of suitable words. But she did not speak or rise, though she gradually fidgeted round in her chair till she faced the writing-table; and so sat, with her head leaning on her hand, in silent consideration.
It was clear she did not like Gimblet's terms; and after a few minutes had passed in a silence as awkward as it was suggestive he pushed back his chair and stood up. He hoped she would take the hint and bring an unprofitable and embarrassing interview to an end.
But she did not appear to notice him, and still sat lost in her own thoughts.
Suddenly the door opened and Higgs appeared.
Gimblet looked at him with questioning disapproval.
It was an inflexible rule of his that when engaged with a client he was not to be disturbed.
Higgs, well acquainted with this rule, hovered doubtfully in the doorway, displaying on the salver he carried the blue, unaddressed envelope Lord Ashiel had told him to deliver at once.
"It's a note, sir," he murmured hesitatingly. "The gentleman who was with you a little while ago came back with it. He asked me to be sure and bring it in at once."
He avoided Gimblet's reproachful eye and stammered uneasily:
"Put it down on that table and go," said the detective. He indicated a little table by the door, and Higgs hastily placed the letter on it and fled, with the uncomfortable sensation of having been sternly reproved.
As a matter of fact Gimblet would have shown more indignation if he had not at heart felt rather glad of the interruption. His visitor had decidedly outstayed her welcome; and, though she stirred his curiosity sufficiently to make him wish he could induce her to raise her veil and let him see what manner of woman it was who had the effrontery to come and make him such unblushing proposals, he far more urgently desired to see the last of her. She was wasting his time and annoying him into the bargain.
As the door shut behind the servant he made a step towards her.
"If, madam, there is nothing else you wish to consult me about," he began, taking out his watch with some ostentation—"I am a busy man—"
The lady gave a little laugh, low and musical.
"I will not detain you longer," she said, also rising from her chair. "I am afraid I have cut into your afternoon, but you will still have time for a game if you hurry."
She laughed again, and moved over to the writing-table, where, among a litter of papers and writing materials, a couple of golf balls were acting as letter weights. A putter lay on the chair in front of the desk, and she took it up and swung it to and fro.
"A nice club," she remarked. "Where do you play, as a rule? There are so many good links near London; so convenient. Well, I mustn't keep you." She laid down the putter and fingered the balls for a moment. "Where have I put my gloves?" she said then, looking around to collect her belongings.
Gimblet was slightly put out at her inference that his plea of business was merely an excuse to dismiss her in order that he might go off and play golf. Heaven knew it was no affair of hers whether he played golf that day or not! But as a matter of fact he had no intention of leaving the flat that afternoon, and had merely been practising a shot or two on the carpet after lunch before Lord Ashiel's arrival. Still it was true that he had made business a pretext for getting rid of her, and this made the injustice of the widow's further inference ruffle him more than it might have if she had been entirely in the wrong. He was the most courteous of men, and that anyone should suspect him of unnecessary rudeness distressed him.
He made no reply, however, in spite of the temptation to defend himself; but stooped to pick up a diminutive black suede glove which his visitor had dropped when she took up the putter.
She thanked him and put it on, depositing, while she did so, her other glove, her handkerchief, sunshade and a small brown-paper parcel upon the writing-table at her side.
Gimblet did not appreciate seeing these articles heaped upon his correspondence. Without any comment he removed them, and stood holding them silently till she should be ready.
She took them from him soon, with a little inclination of the head which he felt was accompanied by a smile of thanks, though through the thick crape it was impossible to do more than guess at any expression.
She drew on her other glove and held out her hand again.
"My purse?" she said. "Will you not give me that too? Where have you put it? And then I must really go."
"I haven't seen any purse," said Gimblet.
"Yes, yes!" she cried. "A black silk bag! It has my purse inside it. I had it, I am sure."
She turned quickly back to the chair she had been sitting in, and taking up the cushion, shook it and peered beneath it.
"What can I have done with it? All my money is in it."
Gimblet glanced round the room. He did not remember having noticed anybag, and he was an observant person. She had probably left it in a cab.Women were always doing these things. Witness the heaped shelves atScotland Yard.
"Perhaps you put it down in the hall?" he suggested.
"I am sure I had it when I came in here," she repeated in an agitated voice. "But it might be worth while just to look in the hall," she added doubtfully, and moved towards the door.
Gimblet opened it for her gladly; but she came to a standstill in the doorway.
"There is nothing there, you see;" she said dolefully. "Oh, what shall I do!"
Gimblet looked over her shoulder. The hall was shadowy, with the perpetual twilight of the halls of London flats, but he fancied he could perceive a darker shadow lying beside his hat on the table near the entrance.
"Is that it? On the table?" he asked.
"Where? I don't see anything," murmured the lady; and indeed it was unlikely that she could distinguish anything in such a light from behind her veil.
"On the table by my hat," repeated Gimblet; and as she still did not move, he made a step forward into the hall.
Yes, it was her bag, beyond a doubt. A silken thing of black brocade, embroidered with scattered purple pansies.
Gimblet picked it up and turned back to his visitor. After a second's hesitation she had followed him into the hall and was coming towards him, groping her way rather blindly through the gloom.
"Oh, thanks, thanks!" she exclaimed. "How stupid of me to have left it there. Thank you again. My precious bag! I am so glad you have found it." She took the bag eagerly from him. "I am afraid I have been a nuisance, and disturbed you to no purpose. You must forgive my mistake. But now I will not keep you any longer. Good-bye."
She showed no further disposition to loiter; and Gimblet rang the bell for the lift and saw her depart with a good deal of satisfaction.
In spite of her extremely hazy ideas on the subject of other people's property, there was, he admitted, something attractive about her. Still he was very glad she had gone.
He returned to his room, taking up and pocketing Lord Ashiel's envelope as he passed the little table by the door.
He did it mechanically, for his mind was occupied with a question which must be immediately decided.
Was it, or was it not, worth while to have the woman who had just left him followed and located, and her identity ascertained?
Gimblet disliked leaving small problems unsolved, however insignificant they appeared. On the whole, he thought he might as well find out who she was, and he turned back into the hall and called for Higgs.
If she were to be caught sight of again before leaving the house there was not a moment to lose. But Higgs did not reply, and on Gimblet's opening the pantry door he found it empty. Unknown to him, the moment the lady had departed Higgs had gone upstairs to the flat above to have a word with a friend.
The detective seized his hat and ran downstairs, but he was too late.
The widow lady, the porter told him, had gone away two or three minutes ago in the motor that had been waiting for her. No, he hadn't noticed the number of the car. Neither had he seen Higgs.
Gimblet shrugged his shoulders as he went upstairs again. After all, the matter was of no great consequence.
The widow was a cool hand, certainly, he thought, to come to him and propose he should steal for her what she wanted; but the fact of her having done so made it on the whole improbable that she was a thief, or she would not have had need of him. She was certainly a person of questionable principles, and it seemed likely that in one way or another a theft would be committed through her agency, if not by herself, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. She was, in fact, a woman on whom the police might do worse than keep an eye; but, reflected Gimblet, he was not the police, and the dishonesty of this scheming widow was really no concern of his. As he reached his door, a postman was leaving it, and two or three letters had been pushed through the flap. He let himself in and took them out of the box. They were not of great importance. A bill, an appeal for a subscription to some charity, a couple of advertisements and the catalogue of a sale of pictures in which he was interested. He turned over the leaves slowly, holding the pamphlet sideways from time to time to look at the photographs which illustrated some of the principal lots.
Presently he turned and went back into his room. He sat down in his favourite arm-chair near the window, where he habitually passed so much time gazing out on to the smooth surface of the river, and fell to ruminating on the problem presented by Lord Ashiel's story.
For a long while he sat on, huddled in the corner of an arm-chair, his elbows on the arm, his chin resting on his hand, and in his eyes the look of one who wrestles with obscure and complicated problems of mental arithmetic. From time to time, but without relaxing his expression of concentrated effort, he stretched out long artistic fingers to a box on the table, took from it a chocolate, and transferred it mechanically to his mouth. He always ate sweets when he had a problem on hand. He was trying to think of some means by which his client could be protected from the mysterious danger that threatened him; that it was a very real danger, Gimblet accepted without question; he had only seen Lord Ashiel twice in his life, but it was quite enough to make him certain that here was a man whom it would take a great deal to alarm. This was no boy crying "wolf" for the sake of making a stir.
But the more he thought, the more he saw that there was nothing to be done. A word to the police would suffice, no doubt, to precipitate matters; for, if the Nihilist Society which threatened Lord Ashiel contemplated his destruction, a hint that he might be already taking reciprocal measures would not be likely to make them feel more mercifully towards him. It was obvious that Ashiel would look with suspicion upon any Russian who might approach him, but Gimblet determined to write him a line of warning against foreigners of any description. Still, these societies sometimes had Englishmen amongst their members, and ways of enforcing obedience upon their subordinates which made any decision they might come to as good as carried out almost as soon as it was uttered.
The detective's cogitations were disturbed by Higgs, who had returned, and now brought him in some tea. He poured himself out half a cup, which he filled up with Devonshire cream. He had a peculiar taste in food, and was the despair of his excellent cook, but on this occasion he ate none of the cakes and bread and butter she had provided, the chocolates having rather taken the edge off his appetite.
From where he sat he could see, through the open window, the broad grey stretches of the river, with a barge going swiftly down on the tide; brown sails turned to gleaming copper by the slanting rays from the West. The hum and rattle of the streets came up to him murmuringly; now and then a train rumbled over Charing Cross Bridge, and the whistle of engines shrilled out above the constant low clamour of the town.
Gimblet leant out of the window and watched the barge negotiate the bridge. Then he returned to his chair, and taking Lord Ashiel's envelope out of his pocket looked it over thoughtfully before opening it. He had no doubts as to what it contained; he had been on the point of reminding the peer that he had forgotten to give him the key of the cipher he had spoken of when the widow's ring at the door had driven him to a hurried retreat, but he had not considered the omission of any particular significance. His client would certainly discover it and either return to give him the key, or send it to the flat.
It would probably be some time before it was required for use here. In the meantime, thought Gimblet, he would have a look at it before locking it away in the safe.
He turned over the envelope. To his surprise, the flap was open and the glue had obviously never been moistened.
It was the work of an instant to look inside, but almost quicker came the conviction that it was useless to do so.
He was not mistaken.
The envelope was empty.
Gimblet stared at it for one moment in blank dismay. Then he strode to the door and shouted for Higgs.
"Did you notice," he asked him, "whether the envelope Lord Ashiel gave you for me was fastened, or was it open as this one is?"
"Oh no, sir," replied Higgs, "it was sealed up. There was a large patch of red sealing-wax at the back, with a coronet and some sort of little picture stamped on it. I can't say I looked at it particularly, but there may have been a lion or a dog, or some kind of animal. His lordship's arms, no doubt"
"You are quite certain about the sealing-wax?" Gimblet repeated slowly.
"Yes, sir, I am quite certain about that," answered Higgs; and he could not refrain from adding, "I put down the note on this little table, sir, as you told me."
"Thank you. That is all."
Gimblet's tone was as undisturbed as ever, but inwardly he was seething with anger and disgust; directed, however, entirely against himself.
When Higgs had departed he allowed himself the unusual, though quite inadequate relief of giving the chair on which his last visitor had sat a violent kick. After that he felt rather more ashamed of himself than before, if possible, and he sat down and raged at the simple way in which he had been fooled.
The widow had taken the envelope, of course. She must have snatched it up during the few seconds he had turned his back on her in order to step across the hall and retrieve her bag, and have replaced it at the same instant with this empty one which she had no doubt taken from his own writing-table while he stooped beside her to pick up her glove.
Gimblet fetched one of his own blue envelopes and compared it with the substitute. Yes, they were alike in every particular. The watermarks were the same and showed that she had used what she found ready to her hand.
It seemed, then, that thecoupwas not premeditated. But why, why, had he let her escape so easily? If only he had been a little quicker about following her, and had not wasted time looking for Higgs! She had had time to get clear away; and he, bungler that he was, had thought it of little consequence, and had afterwards stood poring over a catalogue in the hall, having decided that her morals were no business of his. Ass that he had been!
Who was she? Probably some one known to Lord Ashiel, or why should she have wanted his letter? Well, Ashiel must have met her on his way out, and would in that case at least be able to provide the information as to who she was. Still, more people might know Ashiel than Ashiel knew, and it was possible that that hope might fail. No doubt she was a member of the society the peer had so rashly entangled himself with in the days of his youth; one of those enemies of whom he had spoken with such grave apprehension. Had she followed him into the house and forced her way in on a trumped-up pretext, on the chance of hearing or finding something that might be useful to her Nihilist friends, or had she known that Lord Ashiel intended to leave some document in Gimblet's keeping, and come with the idea, already formed, of stealing it? Such a plan seemed to partake too much of the nature of a forlorn hope to be likely, but whether or no she had expected to find that letter, Gimblet could hardly help admiring the rapidity with which she had possessed herself of it without wasting an unnecessary moment.
She must have been safe in the street and away with it, in less than five minutes from when she first saw it. Oh, she had been quick and dexterous! And he? He had been a gull, and false to his trust, and altogether contemptible. What should he say to Lord Ashiel? Why in the world hadn't he locked up the letter when Higgs brought it in? This was what came of making red-tape regulations about not being disturbed. After all, he comforted himself, she would be a good deal disappointed when she found what she had got. The key to a cipher; that was all. And a key with nothing to unlock was an unsatisfactory kind of loot to risk prison for. Evidently she expected something more important; perhaps the very documents she had invited Gimblet to steal for her, regardless of expense. This, he thought, was a reassuring sign for Lord Ashiel. For it was plain they meant to steal the papers, if they could; but not so plain that they looked to murder as the means by which to gain that end, since they applied for help from him.
Gimblet rang up the Carlton Club and asked for his client, but he was not in, nor did he succeed in communicating with him that afternoon; and when he rang up the Club for the fifth time after dinner he was told that Lord Ashiel had already left for Scotland.
With a groan, and fortifying himself with chocolates, the detective sat down to write a long and full account of his failure to keep what had been confided to his care, for the space of one hour.
In a couple of days he had an answer. Ashiel did not seem much perturbed at the loss of the cipher.
"It is a nuisance, of course," he said. "I must think out another, and will let you have it in a few days before sending you other things. No, I did not recognize the person I met as I was leaving your rooms. In spite of what you say as to your belief that theft and not murder is the object of these people, I am still convinced that my life is aimed at. However, I think that for the present I have hit on a way of frustrating their plans. With regard to the other problem you are helping me to solve, I am seeing a great deal of both the young people, and I believe there can be no doubt as to the identity of one of them, but I will write to you on this subject also in a few days' time."
He sent Gimblet a couple of brace of grouse, which the detective devoured with great satisfaction, and for the next week no more letters bearing a Scotch postmark were delivered at the Whitehall flat.
"Here they come again."
Lord Ashiel spoke in a voice scarcely above a whisper, and Juliet crouched low against the peaty wall of the butt. There was an instant's silence, and then crack, crack, shots sounded from the other end of the line. Another minute and Lord Ashiel's gun went up; she heard the whirr of approaching wings before she covered both ears with her hands to deaden the noise of the explosions she knew were coming.
Then several guns seemed to go off at once. Bang! bang! bang! Bang! bang! bang!
Juliet did not really enjoy grouse-driving, but she tried to appear as if she did, since every one else seemed to, and at all events there were intervals between drives when she could be happy in the glory of the hills and the wild free air of the moors.
Meanwhile she knelt in her corner of the butt beside her host's big retriever, and waited. There was a little bunch of heather growing level with her nose, and she bent forward silently and sniffed at it. But the honey-sweet scent was drowned for the moment by the smell of gunpowder and dog.
Bang! bang! bang!
Presently Lord Ashiel turned and looked down at her, with a smile.
"The drivers are close up," he said. "The drive is over."
They went out of the butt, and she stood watching the dog picking up the birds Lord Ashiel had shot. He found nineteen, and the loader picked up three more. Juliet was glad her host shot so well. She thought him a wonderful man. And how kind he was to her. But she could not help looking over from time to time to the next butt, round which three other people were wandering: Sir David Southern, and his loader, and Miss Maisie Tarver, to whom he was engaged to be married.
One of Sir David's birds had fallen near his uncle's butt, and presently he strolled across to look for it, his eyes on the heather as he zigzagged about, leading his dog by the chain which his uncle insisted on his using.
"There is something here," called Juliet. "Yes, it is a dead grouse. Is this your bird?"
Sir David came up and took it.
"That's it," he said. "Thanks very much. How do you like this sort of thing?"
He leant against the butt and looked down at her.
"Oh, it's so lovely here," began Juliet.
"But you don't like the shooting, eh?"
"I don't know," Juliet stammered. "I think it's rather cruel."
"You must remember there wouldn't be any grouse at all if they weren't shot," he said seriously, "and besides, wild birds don't die comfortably in their beds if they're not killed by man. A charge of shot is more merciful than a death from cold and starvation, or even from the attack of a hawk or any of a bird's other natural enemies. Just think. Wouldn't you rather have the violent end yourself than the slow, lingering one?"
"Yes," admitted Juliet, "I would. I believe you're right. But I don't really much like seeing it happen, all the same."
"I think you'd get used to it; it's a matter of habit. I believe everything is a matter of habit, or almost everything. I suppose one gets used to any kind of horror in time."
He spoke reflectively; more, or so it seemed to Juliet, as if trying to convince himself than her; and as he finished speaking, she was conscious that his eyes, which had never left her face while they were talking, had done so now, and were fixed on some object or person behind her. She turned instinctively and saw Miss Maisie Tarver approaching, a brace of grouse swinging in each hand.
"I've got them all, right here, David," she informed him, as she came up. She was a tall dark girl, with the look of breeding which often proves so confusing to Europeans when they first come in contact with certain of her countrywomen. "This bird," she added, holding up one which still fluttered despairingly, "was a runner, but now he won't do any more running than the colour of my new pink shirt-waist; and that's guaranteed a fast tint, I guess."
Juliet looked away, trying not to show her dismay at the struggles of the wounded bird.
"Here, give me that bird, Maisie," said David rather abruptly. "I'll knock it on the head."
"Oh, I can do that, if it makes Miss Byrne feel badly," Maisie laughed.
Raising her small foot on to a stone, she began to make ineffectual attempts to beat the bird's head against her toe. David snatched it from her unceremoniously, and turned his back while he put an end to the poor creature's sufferings. His face was very red. When he had killed the bird he tossed it to Lord Ashiel's loader, and strode away across the heather.
Maisie looked at Juliet with a laugh.
"Your English young men are perfectly lovely," she remarked, "and David is just elegant, I think, or I'd not have gone and engaged myself to be led to the altar by him; but I can't kind of get used to the British way of looking at things. It's quite remarkable the manner you people have of admiring a girl one moment, because she's a good sport, and throwing fits of disapprobation the next, because she tries to act like she is one. Why, David looked at me just now as if he'd have taken less than two cents to put knock-out drops in my next cocktail."
"Oh," protested Juliet. "I'm sure he didn't mean to. I think his expression is naturally rather stern."
"Stern nothing," said Miss Tarver. "When I came up he was looking at you as if he reckoned he could eat you, shooting-stick and all. Oh, there aren't any flies on me! I know just what myself and dollars are worth to Sir David Southern, and I'm beginning to do some calculating on my own account as to what Sir David Southern is worth to me."
"Oh, surely you are wrong," cried Juliet. "I am certain Sir David has never thought about your money. Oh, I feel sure you misjudge him; and you mustn't talk like that, even in fun!"
"I don't know," said Miss Tarver doubtfully. "His cousin says David's really vurry attached to me, but it's the sort of thing one ought to be able to see for oneself, and I don't seem to feel a really strong conviction on the subject. As for his thinking of my dollars, I fail to see how he can help that when he's over head and ears in debt, the way he is. He told me so himself when he proposed. He put it as a business proposition. Said his ancient name was up for auction, and did I reckon it worth my while to make a bid, or words to that effect. There's a romantic love-story for you. He was the only titled man I'd ever struck up till a month ago, and I always did think it would be stunning to marry into an aristocratic British family, so I was pleased to death at the idea of putting his on its legs again with my dollars. What else could I do with them anyway? But I believe if I'd met your friend, Lord Ashiel, before I'd taken the fatal step, I'd have waited to see if he didn't fancy an Amurrican wife. But of coursehedoesn't care a hill of beans whether I'm rich or not. He's got plenty himself, I'm told, and I guess he'd never have looked at me while you were around, any old way. All the same I call him a real striking-looking man."
"Oh, don't talk so loud," implored Juliet. "He'll hear you. He's quite close."
"Not he," said Miss Tarver. "He's back of the butt still. And I will say he is a real high-toned gentleman, and it's my opinion the girl who gets him will be able to give points to the man who took a piece of waste land for a bad debt, and struck the richest vein of gold in Colorado on it."
She looked at Juliet with an insinuating eye.
"Come along," said Lord Ashiel, as he strolled up to them with a bird he had been looking for, "we're going on now to the next drive," and they started off down the hillside, wading deep through the heather to the track.
Juliet had been nearly a week at Inverashiel. A week of wet weather which had sadly interfered with the shooting, but which had thrown the house party on its own resources and given her plenty of chances to get well acquainted with the other guests at the castle. They were most of them related to Lord Ashiel and already well known to each other. The American, David Southern's fiancée, the half Russian girl, Julia Romaninov, who had arrived on the same day as Juliet, and Juliet herself, were the only strangers. Mrs. Haviland, Lord Ashiel's sister, had been there when she arrived, but had left a day or two later as her husband, who was in the south, had fallen ill and needed her presence. Her place as hostess had been taken by Lady Ruth Worsfold, a distant cousin of the McConachans, who lived in a little house a mile down the loch, which was given her rent free by Lord Ashiel. Another cousin of his, Mrs. Clutsam, a young widow, he had also provided this year with a small house on the estate which was sometimes let to fishing tenants, and she, too, was at present staying at Inverashiel.
The guns consisted of Col. Spicer and Sir George Hatch, both well-known soldiers of between forty and fifty years of age, and Lord Ashiel's two nephews, David Southern, the son of a widowed sister, and Mark McConachan, whose father, now dead, had been Lord Ashiel's only brother. Both were tall, good-looking young men, though there was not even a family resemblance between the grey-eyed and fairhaired David, with his smooth-shaven face and slender well-proportioned figure, and his loose-limbed, rather ungainly cousin, whose appearance of great strength made up for his lack of grace, and whose large melting brown eyes made one forget the faults which the hypercritical might have found in the rest of his face: the rather large nose, and the mouth which was apt too often to be open except when it closed on the cigarette he was always smoking. He had been, so Juliet had heard some one say, one of the most popular men in the cavalry regiment he had lately left on account of its being ordered to India.
They were all very nice to Juliet, and she thought them all charming. Especially, she told herself with unnecessary emphasis, did she think Miss Maisie Tarver a delightful person; rather strange, possibly, to European ways and customs and manner of conversation, a very different type, certainly, from the new Lady Byrne—to whom Juliet was beginning to feel she had perhaps not hitherto sufficiently done justice—but open as the day, and with a heart of gold. She even went so far as to defend her to old Lady Ruth Worsfold, who had lamented one morning when David and his fiancee had gone out shooting together—for Miss Tarver, though not a good shot, was fond of ferreting rabbits—that the lad should be throwing himself away on this young lady from a provincial American town.
"I forget which, my dear, but it's something to do with chickens, I believe." They were sitting in the hall, and Lady Ruth looked up from her embroidery as she spoke, with art interrogative glance towards Mrs. Clutsam and Julia.
"Chicago," said Mrs. Clutsam, turning round from the table where she was writing. "That's where she comes from."
"Yes, that's it," said Lady Ruth; "the name had slipped my memory. It's the place where they all kill pigs, isn't it? I've read about it in Kipling. Her having been brought up to do that accounts for her passion for wounding rabbits, no doubt. I daresay one has to keep one's hand in. That reminds me, I will tell the cook not to send up sausages for breakfast. The poor girl is probably tired of the sight of them, though I suppose they mean money to her, which is always pleasant. When I had a poultry farm I used to feel my heart warm at the thought of poor dear Duncan's bald head. You know, my dear," she went on, turning to Juliet, "my husband had the misfortune to lose all his hair some years before he died, though really I don't believe there was a patent hair-wash he didn't try, till the house fairly reeked of them: but they never did any good, and he got to look more and more like one of my nice new-laid eggs; though not so brown of course, for I always kept Wyandots which lay the most beautiful dark brown ones, likecafé au lait"
"Well, the money will be very useful to poor David," said Mrs. Clutsam, without turning her head. She was rather annoyed because she had found that she had written "I am so glad you can kill pigs," instead of "I am so glad you can come" to some one she had invited to stay with her.
"There's plenty of money on this side of the duck pond, or whatever they call it," said Lady Ruth severely.
And it was then that Juliet had burst in.
"I am sure Sir David has never given a thought to Miss Tarver's money," she said.
"Why not, my dear?" said Lady Ruth, turning upon her mild, surprised eyes. "He is terribly badly off; it is his duty to marry money; but he needn't have gone so far for it."
"I don't believe he would marry for money. He would be above doing such a thing!" Juliet declared.
Julia, who had said nothing, stared at her, and laughed softly. She had a very low, musical laugh.
"I don't think you understand the position," said Mrs. Clutsam, turning round at last and laying down her pen with an air of resignation. "David Southern has inherited a lot of debts from his father, who only died last year, and he had piled up a good many on his own account before then, never suspecting that he would not be very well off. But he found the place mortgaged up to the hilt. There is really nothing between his mother and starvation, except her brother-in-law Ashiel's charity, and that is not pleasant for her because she has never been on good terms with him. It is very important that David should obtain money somehow, for her sake more than for his own, and I'm sure he feels that deeply. He is devoted to her."
"But there are other ways of getting money than by marrying,"Juliet objected.
"Yes, there are; but they are slow and uncertain, and David can't bear to see his mother poor. I am sure it was for her sake that he proposed to Miss Tarver."
"I think he would have tried some other way first, unless he had been in love with her," Juliet repeated, flushed and obstinate.
"Mr. McConachan says Sir David is very fond of Miss Tarver, really," said Julia, speaking for the first time. She spoke English fluently, but with a slight foreign accent. "He says his cousin is so reserved that he conceals his feelings as much as possible, but that,au fond, he adores her."
There was a short silence; Mrs. Clutsam seemed about to speak, but her eyes met those of Lady Ruth fixed on her with an expressionless gaze, and she turned round without a word and took up her discarded pen.
They were both thinking the same thing. If David concealed his feelings in the presence of Miss Tarver he was not so successful when he was in Juliet's neighbourhood. Both women had noticed the change that came over him when she was in the room. It was not that he did not try to appear indifferent; he did not talk to her, or seek her society. On the contrary he seemed to avoid it, and relapsed into silence at her approach. But both Lady Ruth and Mrs. Clutsam had caught him looking at her when he thought himself unobserved, and their observations had not left either of them in any doubt as to how the land lay.
Sir David Southern might be engaged to marry Miss Tarver, but he had fallen in love with some one quite different, and some one who was, moreover, or so they imagined, destined for quite another person.
For what was Miss Juliet Byrne doing at Inverashiel Castle?
This was a question which much exercised the minds of Lord Ashiel's relations and, when she was not present, formed the subject of many discussions.
Where had this girl, this extremely pretty and attractive girl, suddenly appeared from? Well, they all knew, of course, where she really had come from; but why? Why had Lord Ashiel suddenly sprung her on them like this? He had not even told Mrs. Haviland that he had invited her until the day before she arrived. Why this mystery? Where had he met her? How long had he known her? To a casual question Juliet had replied guardedly that she had not known him very long, but that he knew her family. Fervently did she hope that what she said was true.
One thing, however, seemed certain. No matter how, where, or why, Ashiel had made friends with Juliet Byrne, he was bent on becoming even better acquainted. He appeared to be on excellent terms with her already, and every day saw them grow more familiar, and, on Ashiel's side, almost affectionate. If he went shooting or fishing Juliet must go too; to her he addressed his remarks; it was she whom he consulted when he made plans for the following days. His health was bad, he was subject to terrible headaches, and if she were not present he grew quickly nervous and irritable; when she was, he seldom took his eyes off her. He seemed to watch her, Mrs. Clutsam thought, with a certain expectancy; but also with a distinct and unmistakable pride. There was little doubt in the mind of anyone in the house that there would soon be a second Lady Ashiel.
As the party walked between the butts on that brilliant August day, Miss Tarver tacked herself on to her host and strode on ahead with him, keeping up a flow of interminable, drawling inanities, which made him wonder for the fortieth time what David could see in her.
The others tailed out after them, followed by dogs and loaders.
Without knowing how it came about, Juliet found herself walking beside David; and, as she was not used to the rough going on the hillside, they insensibly dropped behind the rest of the long, straggling procession. The way was uphill; Juliet panted and stumbled; and her companion seemed disinclined to talk.
They came to a burn, and he gave her his hand to cross from stone to stone. The burn was high, and one stone was under water, leaving a space too wide for Juliet to jump. David stepped on to the flooded rock, and turned to her.
"I will lift you over here," he said shortly. "Oh, I can wade quite well," said she. "My shoes are wet already."
But without more words he put his arms round her, and lifted her over.When he put her down he found his tongue.
"If Maisie stands with my uncle at the next drive," he said, "will you come to my butt?"
"I should like to," she said. For some reason his tone made her breath come quickly.
David stood looking down at her as though considering.
"I can't go back on my word," he said at last inconsequently. "I shall have to marry her, if she wants it, I suppose. But I can't bear you to think that I care for her. I've got to think of other people."
"You mustn't say that!" she cried. "Oh, you mustn't say that to me!"
"Why not?" he said, looking at her strangely. "What have I said that isn't right?"
"Nothing, I suppose," Juliet faltered. "But—but—Oh," she cried, "if you don't care for her, you must tell her so, and she will break it off. Anything would be better than to go on with it!"
"I think she knows," he answered gloomily. "She won't break it off, because she wants to be 'my Lady,' It's a business matter, really. And I'd have to stick to it for my mother's sake, anyhow."
Juliet could think of nothing to say. "You ought not to marry her," she stammered again.
"If I didn't," he began hoarsely—"if she did let me go, I don't suppose you'd ever care for me enough to marry me? Oh, I know I ought not to say it," he broke off; "I'm a cad to speak like this. Forgive me, Juliet."
Juliet's world revolved around her at an unusual pace for the space of a second. She shut her eyes to steady herself; a mixture of misery and happiness deprived her of speech or movement. Gradually the misery predominated and she burst into tears.
"Forgive me, forgive me," he was saying. He stood before her, looking as wretched as a man can look.
"Yes, yes," she sobbed. "Let us forget all about it. You must forget me."
"You know I can't," he said. "Juliet, Juliet, don't cry. If you cry I shall be simply obliged to kiss you." And he took a step towards her.
They were still standing at the edge of the burn, screened from the track ahead, partly by a little bush of alder which grew beside them, partly by the winding of the path round the slope of the hill. As David spoke a rabbit came scampering up to the other side of the bush, and then, becoming aware of their proximity, turned at right angles and darted down the bank. It was three or four yards away, and going hard, when there was a loud report, and the branches of the alder cracked and rattled. Several little boughs fell to the ground a foot or two away from the spot on which Juliet stood. Surprise dried her tears and restored David to his senses.
"Hi!" he shouted, bounding on to the path, and waving his arms frantically. "What are you shooting at? Look out, can't you?"
Fifty yards up the track his Cousin Mark was standing, an open gun in his hand; a scared ghillie was running towards them down the path beyond.
"Good heavens, David," Mark ejaculated, "do you mean to say you were in the burn? I thought you were on ahead! Why in the world did you lag behind like that? Do you know I might easily have shot you?"
"Do I know it? You precious near did shoot me, and Miss Byrne, too, I tell you. If it hadn't been for that alder we should have been bound to get most of the charge between us. It's not like you to be so careless."
"I'm frightfully sorry, old man," said Mark, coming up; "it was careless of me, but I felt sure there was no one back there. I saw that rabbit and stalked it, meaning to overtake you all afterwards. They walk so fearfully slow, you know, what with all these ladies, and Uncle Douglas not feeling very fit. And Miss Byrne here, too! By Jove, Iamsorry! Beastly stupid of me."
He was plainly agitated, and could hardly blame himself severely enough. And David, for his part, was not disposed to make light of what had happened. Perhaps he was glad of a subject on which he could enlarge.
"It was a rotten shot, too," he mumbled, as they all hurried on after the others. "You were about four yards behind that rabbit."
"Absolutely rotten," agreed Mark. "I don't know what's happened to my shooting. I've hit every bird in the tail to-day, except when I've missed 'em clean, and that's what I've done most of the time. There's something wrong with my eye altogether. If I don't get better, I shall knock off shooting—for a few days, anyhow."
All his usual self-possession seemed to have been shaken out of him by the thought of the catastrophe he might have caused. Young, good-looking and popular, he was accustomed to take the pleasure shown in his society and the admiring approval of his associates, which had always contributed so much to his comfortable feeling of satisfaction with himself, and which had invariably strengthened his reluctance to harbour unpleasant doubts as to his own perfections, as a matter of course; and the heartiness with which he now cursed himself for a careless and dangerous fool testified to the fright he had had.
Even when David, relenting a little, though still reluctant to show it, grunted surlily, "None of you cavalry soldiers are safe with a gun." Mark did not, as he would generally have done, deny the accusation resentfully, but displayed an astonishing meekness, which proved how clearly he saw himself to be in the wrong. Juliet, who had sometimes thought him rather selfish—a fault he shared with many others of his kind, and one perhaps almost unavoidable in attractive only sons—was touched by his unusual humility, and treated the matter lightly, doing all she could to cheer him up and restore to him his good opinion of himself.
But Mark, while he smiled back gratefully in reply, would not allow her to persuade him that he was less to blame than he asserted, and he was still lamenting his carelessness when they came up with the rest of the party, who were already stationed in the butts.
Miss Tarver was beside Lord Ashiel, and Mark stopped a minute to relate how nearly he had been the cause of an accident, although both David and Juliet, by mutual consent, guessed what he was going to do, and tried to dissuade him.
"No need to say anything about it," David mumbled in his ear.
"No, no, don't, please," Juliet murmured in the other.
Yet he would not be tempted, and they walked on together in silence, leaving him to tell the story.
"I as near as makes no difference peppered David and Miss Byrne just now," they heard him begin, and then Lord Ashiel's voice broke in in an angry tone as they passed out of earshot.
David's loader reported afterwards that that young gentleman and Miss Byrne, when she waited with him in the butt, seemed to find very little to talk about. And it was a long wait before any birds came up, on that beat.