“Dear Mr. Clive,—Can you meet me as before by the oaktomorrow at eleven? There is something I very much want tosay to you.—Yours sincerely,“ELLA CAYLEY.”
Was that, then, the lure which had brought John Clive to meet his death? Was this the bait that had made him disregard the warnings he had received, and come alone to so quiet and solitary a spot?
Dunn had a moment of quick envy of him; he lay so quiet and still in the warm sunshine, with nothing to trouble or distress him any more for ever.
Then, stumblingly and heavily, Dunn turned an went away, and his eyes were very hard, his bearded face set like iron.
Like a man in a dream, or one obsessed by some purpose before which all other things faded into nothingness, he went his way, the way Ella had taken in her flight—through the wood, through the spinney to the public foot-path, and then out on the road that led to Bittermeads.
When he entered the garden there, he saw Ella sitting quietly on a deck-chair close to her mother, quietly busy with some fancy work.
He could not believe it; he stood watching in bewilderment, appalled and wondering, watching her white hands flashing busily to and fro, hearing the soft murmur of her voice as now and then she addressed some remark to her mother, who nodded drowsily in the sunshine over a book open on her knees.
Ella was dressed all in white; she had flung aside her hat, and the quiet breeze played in her fair hair, and stirred gently a stray curl that had escaped across her broad low brow.
The picture was one of gentleness and peace and an innocence that thought no wrong, and yet with his own eyes he had seen her not an hour ago fleeing with hurried steps and fearful looks from the spot where lay a murdered man.
Somewhat unsteadily, for he felt so little master of himself, it was as though he had no longer even control of his own limbs, Dunn stumbled forward, and Ella looked up and saw him, and saw also that he was looking at her very strangely.
She rose and came towards him, her needlework still in her hands.
“What is the matter?” she said in a voice of some concern. “Are you ill?”
“No,” he answered. “No. I've been looking for Mr. Clive.”
“Have you?” she said, a little surprised apparently, but in no way flustered or disturbed. “Did you find him?”
Dunn did not answer, for indeed he could not, and she said again:
“Did you find him?”
Still he made no answer, for it seemed to him those four words were the most awful that any one had ever uttered since the beginning of the world.
“What is the matter?” she said again. “Is anything the matter?”
“Oh, no, no,” he said, and he gave himself a little shake like a man wakening from deep sleep and trying to remember where he was.
“Well, then,” she said.
“I found Mr. Clive,” he said hardly and abruptly. And he repeated again: “Yes, I found him.”
They remained standing close together and facing each other, and he saw her as through a veil of red, and it was as though a red mist enveloped her, and where her shadow lay the earth was red, he thought, and where she put her foot it seemed to him red tracks remained, and never before had he understood how utterly he loved her and must love her, now and for evermore.
But he uttered no sound and made no movement, only stood very still, thinking to himself how dreadful it was that he loved her so greatly.
She was not paying him, any attention now. A rose bush was near by, and she picked one of the flowers, and arranged it carefully at her waist.
She said, still looking at him:
“Do you know—I wish you would shave yourself?”
“Why?” he mumbled.
“I should like to see you,” she answered. “I think I have a curiosity to see you.”
“I should think you could do that well enough,” he said in the same low, mumbled tones.
“No,” she answered. “I can only see some very untidy hair and a pair of eyes—not very nice eyes, rather frightening eyes. I should like to see the rest of your face some day so as to know what it's like.”
“Perhaps you shall—some day,” he said.
“Is that a threat?” she asked. “It sounded like one.”
“Perhaps,” he answered.
She laughed lightly and turned away.
“You make me very curious,” she said. “But then, you've always done that.”
She went back to her seat by her mother, and he walked on moodily to the house.
Mrs. Dawson said to Ella:
“How can you talk to that man, my dear? I think he looks perfectly dreadful—hardly like a human being.”
“I was just telling him he ought to shave himself,” said Ella. “I told him I should like to know what he was really like.”
“I shall ask father,” said Mrs. Dawson sternly, “to make it a condition of his employment here.”
Dunn knew very well that he ought to give immediate information to the authorities of what had happened.
But he did not. He told himself that nothing could help poor John Clive, and that any precipitate action on his part might still fatally compromise his plans, which were now so near completion.
But his real reason was that he knew that if he came forward he would be very closely questioned, and sooner or later forced to tell the things he knew so terribly involving Ella.
And he knew that to surrender her to the police and proclaim her to the world as guilty of such things were tasks beyond his strength; though, to himself, with a touch of wildness in his thoughts, he said that no proved and certain guilt should go unpunished even though his own hand—It was a train of ideas he did not pursue.
“Charley Wright first and now John Clive,” he said to himself. “But the end is not yet.”
Again he would not let his thoughts go on but checked them abruptly.
In this dark and troubled mood he went out to busy himself with the garden, and all the time he worked he watched with a sort of vertigo of horror where Ella sat in the sunshine by her mother's side, her white hands moving nimbly to and fro upon her needlework.
It was not long, however, before the tragedy of the wood was discovered, for Clive had been seen to go in that direction, and when he did not return a search was made that was soon successful.
The news was brought to Bittermeads towards evening by a tradesman's boy, who came up from the village to bring something that had been ordered from there.
“Have you heard?” he said to Dunn excitedly. “Mr. Clive's been shot dead by poachers.”
“Oh—by poachers?” repeated Dunn.
“Yes, poachers,” the boy answered, and went on excitedly to tell his tale with many, and generally very inaccurate, details.
But that the crime had been discovered and instantly set down to poachers was at least certain, and Dunn realized at once that the adoption of this simple and apparently plausible theory would put an end to all really careful investigation of the circumstances and make the discovery of the truth highly improbable.
For the idea that the murder was the work of poachers would, when once adopted, fill the minds of the police and of every one else, and no suspicion would be directed elsewhere.
By the tremendous relief he felt, Dunn understood how heavy had been the burden of fear and apprehension that till now had oppressed him.
If he had not found that handkerchief—if he had not secured that letter—why, by now the police would be at Bittermeads.
“All the same,” he thought. “No one who is guilty shall escape through me.”
But what this phrase meant, and what he intended to do, he would not permit himself to think out clearly or try to understand.
The boy, having told his story, hurried off to spread the news elsewhere to more appreciative ears, for, he thought disgustedly, it might have been just nothing at all for all the interest the gardener at Bittermeads had shown.
As soon as he was gone, Dunn went across to the house, and going up to the window of the drawing-room where Ella and her mother were having tea, he tapped on the pane.
Ella looked up and saw him, and came at once to open the window, while from behind Mrs. Dawson frowned in severe disapproval of what she considered a great liberty.
“Mr. Clive has been shot,” Dunn said abruptly. “They say poachers did it. He was killed instantly.”
Ella did not seem at first to understand. She looked puzzled and bewildered, and did not seem to grasp the full import of his words.
“What—what do you say?” she asked. “Mr. Clive—Who's killed?”
Dunn thought to himself that her acting was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen.
It was extraordinary that she should be able to make that grey pallor come over her cheeks as though the meaning of what he said were only now entering her mind; wonderful that she should be able so well to give the idea of a great horror and a great doubt coming slowly into her startled eyes.
“Mr. Clive?” she said again.
“Yes, he's been killed,” Dunn said. “By poachers, apparently.”
“What is that? What is that man saying?” shrilled Mrs. Dawson from behind. “Mr. Clive—John—why, he was here yesterday.”
Dunn turned his back and walked away. He heard Ella call after him, but he would not look back because he feared what he might do if he obeyed her call.
With an odd buzzing in his ears, with the blood throbbing through his brain as though something must soon break there, he walked blindly on, and as he came to the gate of Bittermeads he saw a motor-car coming up the road.
It was Deede Dawson's car, and he was driving it, and by his side sat a sulkily-smiling stranger, his air that of one not sure of his welcome, but determined to enforce it, in whom, with a quick start, Dunn recognized his burglar, the man whose attempt to break into Bittermeads he had frustrated, and whose place he had taken.
He put up his hand instinctively for them to stop, and Deede Dawson at once obeyed the gesture.
Dunn noticed that the smile upon his lips was more gentle and winning than ever, the look in his eyes more dark and menacing.
“Well, Dunn, what is it?” he said as pleasantly as he always spoke. “Mr. Allen,” he added to his companion, “this is my man, Dunn, I told you about, my gardener and chauffeur, and a very industrious steady fellow—and quite trustworthy.”
He seemed to lay a certain emphasis on the last two words, and Allen put his head on one side and looked at Dunn with an odd, mixture of familiarity, suspicion, hesitation, and an uncertain assumption of superiority, but with no hint of recognition showing.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “You always want to know whom you can trust.”
“Mr. Clive has been murdered,” Dunn said abruptly. “Poachers, it is said. Did you know?”
“We heard about it as we came through the village,” answered Deede Dawson. “Very sad, very dreadful. It will be a great shock to poor Ella, I fear. Take the car on to the garage, will you?” he added.
He drove on up the drive, and at the front door they alighted and entered the house together. Dunn followed, and getting into the car, drove it to the garage, where he busied himself cleaning it. As he worked he wondered very much what was the meaning of this sudden appearance on terms of friendship with Deede Dawson of this man Allen, whom he had last seen trying to break into the house at night.
Was Allen an accomplice of Deede Dawson, or a dupe, or, more probably, a new recruit?
At any rate, to Dunn it seemed that the crisis he had expected and prepared for was now fast approaching, and he told himself that if he had failed in Clive's case, those others he was working for he must not fail to save.
“Looks as if Dawson's plans were nearly ready,” he said to himself. “Well, so are mine.”
He finished his work and shutting the garage door, he was turning away when he saw Ella coming towards him.
She was extremely pale, and her eyes seemed larger than ever, and very bright against the deathly whiteness of her cheeks.
She was wearing a blouse that was cut a little low, and he notice with a kind of terror how soft and round was her throat, like a column of pale and perfect ivory.
He hoped she would not speak to him, for he thought perhaps he could not bear it if she did, but she halted near by, and said:
“This is very dreadful about poor Mr. Clive.”
“Very,” he answered moodily.
“Why should poachers kill him?” she asked. “Why should they want to?”
“I don't know,” he answered, watching not her but her soft throat, where he could see a pulse fluttering. “Perhaps it wasn't poachers,” he added.
She started violently, and gave a quick look that seemed to make yet more certain the certainty he already entertained.
“Who else could it be?” she asked in a low voice.
He did not answer.
After what seemed a long time she said:
“You asked me a question once—do you remember?”
He shook his head.
“Why don't you speak? Why can't you speak?” she cried angrily. “Why can't you say something instead of just shaking your head?”
“You see, I've asked you so many questions,” he said slowly. “Perhaps I shall ask you some more some day—which question do you mean?”
“I mean when you asked me if I had ever met any one who spoke in a very shrill, high whistling sort of voice? Do you remember?”
“Yes,” he said. “You wouldn't tell me.”
“Well, I will now,” she said. “I did meet a man once with a voice like that. Do you remember the night you, came here that I drove away in the car with a packing-case you carried downstairs?”
“Do I—remember?” he gasped, for that memory, and the thought of how she had driven away into the night with, that grisly thing behind her on the car had never since left his mind by night or by day.
“Yes,” she exclaimed impatiently. “Why do you keep staring so? Are you as stupid as you choose to look? Do you remember?”
“I remember,” he answered heavily. “I remember very well.”
“Well, then, the man I took that packing-case to had a voice just like that—high and shrill, whistling almost.”
“I thought as much,” said Dunn. “May I ask you another question?”
She nodded.
“May I smoke?”
She nodded again with a touch of impatience.
He took a cigarette from his pocket and put it in his mouth and lighted a match, but the match, when he had lighted it, he used to put light to a scrap of folded paper with writing on it, like a note.
This piece of paper he used to light his cigarette with and when he had done so he watched the paper burn to an ash, not dropping it to the ground till the little flame stung his fingers.
The ash that had fallen he ground into the path where they stood with the heel of his boot.
“What have you burned there?” she asked, as if she suspected it was something of importance he had destroyed.
In fact it was the note that had fallen from dead John Clive's hand wherein Ella had asked him to meet her at the oak where he had met his death.
That bit of paper would have been enough, Dunn thought, to place a harsh hempen noose about the soft white throat he watched where the little pulse still fluttered up and down. But now it was burnt and utterly destroyed, and no one would ever see it.
At the thought he laughed and she drew back, very startled.
“Oh, what is the matter?” she exclaimed.
“Nothing,” he answered. “Nothing in all the world except that I love you.”
When he had said this he went a step or two aside and sat down on the stump of a tree. He was very agitated and disturbed for he had not in the very least meant to say such a thing, he had not even known that he really felt like that.
It was, indeed, a rush and power of quite unexpected passion that had swept him away and made him for the moment lose all control of himself. Ella showed much more composure. She had become extraordinarily pale, but otherwise she did not appear in any way agitated.
She remained silent, her eyes bent on the ground, her only movement a gesture by which she rubbed softly and in turn each of her wrists as though they hurt her.
“Well, can't you say something?” he asked roughly, annoyed by her persistent silence.
“I don't see that there's anything for me to say,” she answered.
“Oh, well now then,” he muttered; quite disconcerted.
She raised her eyes from the ground, and for the first time looked full at him, in her expression both curiosity and resentment.
“It is perfectly intolerable,” she said with a heaving breast. “Will you tell me who you are?”
“I've told you one thing,” he answered sullenly, his eyes on fire. “I should have thought that was enough. I'll tell you nothing more.”
“I think you are the most horrid man I ever met,” she cried. “And the very, very ugliest—all that hair on your face so that no one can see anything else. What are you like when you cut it off?”
“Does that matter?” he asked, in the same gruff and surly manner.
“I should think it matters a good deal when I ask you,” she exclaimed. “Do you expect any one to care for a man she has never seen—nothing but hair. You hurt my wrists awfully that night,” she added resentfully. “And you've never even hinted you're sorry.”
His reply was unexpected and it disconcerted her greatly and for the first time, for he caught both her wrists in his hands and kissed them passionately where the cords had been.
“You mustn't do that, please don't do that,” she said quickly, trying to release herself.
Her strength was nothing to his and he stood up and put his arm around her and strained her to him in an embrace so passionate and powerful she could not have resisted it though she had wished to.
But no thought of resistance came to her, since for the moment she had lost all consciousness of everything save the strange thrill of his bright, clear eyes looking so closely into hers, of his strong arms holding her so firmly.
He released her, or rather she at last freed herself by an effort he did not oppose, and she fled away down the path.
She had an impression that her hair would come down and that that would make her look a fright, and she put up her hands hurriedly to secure it. She never looked back to where he stood, breathing heavily and looking after her and thinking not of her, but of two dead men whom he had seen of late.
“Shall I make the third?” he wondered. “I do not care if I do, not I.”
The path Ella had fled by led into another along which when she reached it she saw Deede Dawson coming.
She stopped at once and began to busy herself with a flower-bed overrun with weeds, but she could not entirely conceal her agitation from her stepfather's cold grey eyes.
“Oh, there you are, Ella,” he said, with all that false geniality of his that filled the girl with such loathing and distrust. “Have you seen Dunn? Oh, there he is, isn't he? I wanted to ask you, Ella, what do you think of Dunn?”
She glanced over her shoulder towards where Dunn stood, and she managed to answer with a passable air of indifference.
“Well, I suppose,” she said, “that he is quite the ugliest man I ever saw. Of course, if he cut all of that hair off—”
Deede Dawson laughed though his eyes remained as hard and cold as ever.
“I shall have to give him orders to shave,” he said. “Your mother was telling me I ought to the other day, she said it didn't look respectable to have a man about with all that hair on his face. Though I don't see myself why hair isn't respectable, do you?”
“It looks odd,” answered Ella carelessly.
Deede Dawson laughed again, and walked on to where Dunn was standing waiting for him. With his perpetual smile that his cold and evil eyes so strangely contradicted, he said to him:
“Well, what have you and Ella been talking about?”
“Why do you ask?” growled Dunn.
“Because she looks upset,” answered Deede Dawson. “Oh, don't be shy about it. Shall I give you a little good advice?”
“What?”
“Never shave.”
“Why not?”
“Because that thick growth of hair hiding your face gives you an air of mystery and romance no woman could possibly resist. You're a perpetual puzzle, and to pique a woman's curiosity is the surest way to interest her. Why, there are plenty of women who would marry you simply to find out what is under all that hair. So never you shave.”
“I don't mean to.”
“Unless, of course, you have to—for purposes of disguise, for example.”
“I thought you were hinting that the beard itself was a disguise,” retorted Dunn.
“Removing it might become a better one,” answered Deede Dawson. “You told me once you knew this part fairly well. Do you know Wreste Abbey?”
Dunn gave his questioner a scowling look that seemed full of anger and suspicion.
“What about it if I do?” he asked.
“I am asking if you do know it,” said Deede Dawson.
“Yes, I do. Well?”
“It belongs to Lord Chobham, doesn't it?”
Dunn nodded.
“Old man, isn't he?”
“I'm not a book of reference about Lord Chobham,” answered Dunn. “If you want to know his age, you can easily find out, I suppose. What's the sense of asking me a lot of questions like that?”
“He has no family, and his heir is his younger brother, General Dunsmore, who has one son, Rupert, I believe. Do you know if that's so?”
“Look here,” said Dunn, speaking with a great appearance of anger. “Don't you go too far, or maybe something you won't like will happen. If you've anything to say, say it straight out. Or there'll be trouble.”
Deede Dawson seemed a little surprised at the vehemence of the other's tone.
“What's the matter?” he asked. “Don't you like the family, or what's upsetting you?”
Dunn seemed almost choking with fury. He half-lifted one hand and let it fall again.
“If ever I get hold of that young Rupert Dunsmore,” he said with a little gasp for breath. “If ever I come face to face with him—man to man—”
“Dear me!” smiled Deede Dawson, lifting his eyebrows. “I'm treading on sore toes, it seems. What's the trouble between you?”
“Never you mind,” replied Dunn roughly. “That's my business. But no man ever had a worse enemy than he's been to me.”
“Has he, though?” said Deede Dawson, who seemed very interested and even a little excited. “What did he do?”
“Never you mind,” Dunn repeated. “That's my affair, but I swore I'd get even with him some day and I will, too.”
“Suppose,” said Deede Dawson. “Suppose I showed you a way?”
Dunn did not answer at first, and for some moments the two men stood watching each other and staring into each other's eyes as though each was trying to read the depths of the other's soul.
“Suppose,” said Deede Dawson very softly. “Suppose you were to meet Rupert Dunsmore—alone—quite alone?”
Still Dunn did not answer, but somehow it appeared that his silence was full of a very deadly significance.
“Suppose you did—what would you do?” murmured Deede Dawson again, and his voice sank lower with each word he uttered till the last was a scarce-audible whisper.
Dunn stopped and picked up a hoe that was lying near by. He placed the tough ash handle across his knee, and with a movement of his powerful hands, he broke the hoe across.
The two smashed pieces he dropped on the ground, and looking at Deede Dawson, he said:
“Like that—if ever Rupert Dunsmore and I meet alone, only one of us will go away alive.” And he confirmed it with an oath.
Deede Dawson clapped him on the shoulder, and laughed.
“Good!” he cried. “Why, you're the man I've been looking for for a long time. The fact is, Rupert Dunsmore played me a nasty trick once, and I want to clear accounts with him. Now, suppose I show him to you—?”
“You do that,” said Dunn, and he repeated the oath he had sworn before. “You show him to me, and I'll take care he never troubles any one again.”
“That's the way I like to hear a man talk,” cried Deede Dawson. “Dunsmore has been away for a time on business I can make a guess at, but he is coming back soon. Should you know him if you saw him?”
“Should I know him?” repeated Dunn contemptuously. “Should I know myself?”
“That's good,” said Deede Dawson again. “By the way, perhaps you can tell me, hasn't Lord Chobham a rather distant cousin, Walter Dunsmore, living with him as secretary or something of the sort—quite a distant relative, I believe, though in the direct line of succession?”
“Very likely,” said Dunn indifferently. “I think so, but I don't care anything about the rest of them. It's only Rupert Dunsmore I have anything against.”
It was a little later when Deede Dawson returned to the subject of Wreste Abbey.
“Lord Chobham has a very valuable collection of plate and jewellery and so on, hasn't he?” he asked.
“Oh, there's plenty of the stuff there,” Dunn answered. “Why?”
“Oh, I was thinking a visit might be made fairly profitable,” Deede Dawson said carelessly, for the first time definitely throwing off his mask of law-abiding citizen under which he lived at Bittermeads.
“It would be a risky job,” answered Dunn, showing no surprise at the suggestion. “The stuff's well guarded, and then, that's not what I'm thinking about—it's meeting Rupert Dunsmore, man to man, and no one to come between us. If that ever happens—”
Deede Dawson nodded reassuringly.
“That'll be all right,” he said. “So you shall, I promise you that. But we might as well kill two birds with one stone and clear a bit of profit, too. I've got to live, like any one else, and I haven't five thousand a year of my own, so I get my living out of those who have, and I don't see who has any right to blame me. Mind, if there was any money in chess, I should be a millionaire, but there isn't, and if a man can make a fortune on the Stock Exchange, which takes no more thought or skill than auction-bridge, why shouldn't I make a bit when I can? There's the 'D. D.' gambit I've invented, people will be studying and playing for centuries, but it'll never bring me a penny for all the brain-work I put into it, and so I've got to protect myself, haven't I?”
“It's what I do with less talk about it,” answered Dunn contemptuously. “Why, I've guessed all that from the first when you weren't so all-fired keen on seeing me in gaol, as most of your honest, hard-working lot, who only do their swindling in business-hours, would have been. And I've kept my eyes open, of course. It wasn't hard to twig you did a bit on the cross yourself. Well, that's your affair, but one thing I do want to know—how much does Miss Cayley know?”
For all his efforts he could not keep his anxiety entirely out of his voice as he said this, and recognizing that thereby he had perhaps risked rousing some suspicion in the other's mind, he added:
“And her mother—the young lady and her mother, how much do they know?”
“Oh,” answered Deede Dawson, with his false laugh and cold-watchful eyes. “My wife knows nothing at all, but Ella's the best helper I've ever had. She looks so innocent, she can take in any one, and she never gives the show away, she acts all the time. A wonderful girl and useful—you'd hardly believe how useful.”
Dunn did not answer. It was only by a supreme effort that he kept his hands from Deede Dawson's throat. He did not believe a word of what the other said, for he knew well the utter falseness of the man. None the less, the accusation troubled him and chilled him to the heart, as though with the touch of the finger of death.
“You remember that packing-case,” Deede Dawson added. “The one you helped me to get away from here the night you came. Well, she knew what was in it, though you would never have thought so, to look at her, would you?”
His cold eyes were very intent and keen as he said this, and Dunn thought to himself that it had been said more to test any possible knowledge or suspicion of his own than for any other reason. With a manner of only slight interest, he answered carelessly:
“Did she? Why? Wasn't it your stuff? Had it been pinched? But she was safe enough, the police would never stop a smart young lady in a motor-car, except on very strong evidence.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Deede Dawson. “That's one reason why Ella's so useful. But I've been thinking things out, and trying to make them work in together, and I think the first thing to do is for you to drive Allen and Ella over to Wreste Abbey this afternoon, so that they may have a good look around.”
“Oh, Miss Cayley and Allen,” Dunn muttered.
The new-comer, Allen, had been making himself very much at home at Bittermeads since his arrival, though he had not so far troubled to any great extent either Ella in the house or Dunn outside. His idea of comfort seemed to be to stay in bed very late, and spend his time when he did get up in the breakfast-room in the company of a box of cigars and a bottle of whisky.
The suggestion that he and Ella should pay a visit together to Wreste Abbey was one that greatly surprised Dunn.
“All right,” he said. “This afternoon? I'll get the car ready.”
“This is the afternoon the Abbey is thrown open to visitors, isn't it?” asked Deede Dawson. “Allen and Ella can get in as tourists, and have a good look round, and you can look round outside and get to know the lie of the land. There won't be long to wait, for Rupert Dunsmore will be back from his little excursion before long, I expect.”
He laughed in his mirthless way, and walked off, and Dunn, as he got the car ready, seemed a good deal preoccupied and a little worried.
“How can he know that Rupert Dunsmore is coming back?” he said to himself. “Can he have any way of finding out things I don't know about? And if he did, how could he know—that? Most likely it's only a guess to soothe me down, and he doesn't really know anything at all about it.”
After lunch, Allen and Ella appeared together, ready for their expedition. Ella looked her best in a big motoring coat and a close-fitting hat, with a long blue veil. Allen was, for almost the first time since his arrival, shaved, washed and tidy.
He looked indeed as respectable as his sinister and forbidding countenance would permit, and though Deede Dawson had made him as smart as possible, he had permitted him to gratify his own florid taste in adornment, so that his air of prosperity and wealth had the appearance of being that of some recently-enriched vulgarian whose association with a motor-car and a well-dressed girl of Ella's type was probably due to the fact that he had recently purchased them both out of newly-acquired wealth.
Dunn wore a neat chauffeur's costume, with which, however, his bearded face did not go too well. He felt indeed that their whole turn-out was far too conspicuous considering the real nature of their errand, and far too likely to attract attention, and he wondered if Deede Dawson's subtle and calculating mind had not for some private reason desired that to be so.
“He is keeping well in the background himself,” Dunn mused. “He may reckon that if things go wrong—in case of any pursuit—it's a good move perhaps in a way, but he may find an unexpected check to his king opened on him.”
The drive was a long one, and Ella noticed that though Dunn consulted his map frequently, he never appeared in any doubt concerning the way.
A little before three they drove into the village that lay round the park gates of Wreste Abbey.
Motors were not allowed in the park, so Dunn put theirs in the garage of the little hotel, that was already almost full, for visiting day at Wreste Abbey generally drew a goodly number of tourists, while Ella and Allen, in odd companionship, walked up to the Abbey by the famous approach through the chestnut avenue.
Allen was quiet and surly, and much on his guard, and very uncomfortable in Ella's company, and Ella herself, though for different reasons was equally silent.
But the beauty of the walk through the chestnut avenue, and of the vista with the great house at the end, drew from her a quick exclamation of delight.
“How beautiful a place this is,” she said aloud. “And how peaceful and how quiet.”
“Don't like these quiet places myself,” grumbled Allen. “Don't like 'em, don't trust 'em. Give me lots of traffic; when everything's so awful quiet you've only got to kick your foot against a stone or drop a tool, and likely as not you'll wake the whole blessed place.”
“Wake,” repeated Ella, noticing the word, and she repeated it with emphasis. “Why do you say 'wake'?”
Ella did not say anything more, and in their character of tourists visiting the place, they were admitted to the Abbey and passed on through its magnificent rooms, where was stored a collection rich and rare even for one of the stateliest homes of England.
“What a wonderful place!” Ella sighed wistfully. Yet she could not enjoy the spectacle of all these treasures as she would have done at another time, for she was always watching Allen, who hung about a good deal, and seemed to look more at the locks of the cases that held some of the more valuable of the objects shown than at the things themselves, and generally spent fully half the time in each room at the window, admiring the view, he said; but for quite another reason, Ella suspected.
“I shall speak when I get back,” she said to herself, pale and resolute. “I don't care what happens; I don't care if I have to tell mother—perhaps she knows already. Anyhow, I shall speak.”
Having come to this determination, she grew cheerful and more interested apparently in what they were seeing, as well as less watchful of her companion. When, presently, they left the house to go into the gardens, it happened that they noticed an old gentleman walking at a little distance behind a gate marked “Private,” and leaning on the arm of a tall, thin, clean-shaven man of middle-age.
“Lord Chobham, the old gentleman,” whispered a tourist, who was standing near. “I saw him once in the House of Lords. That's his secretary with him, Mr. Dunsmore, one of the family; he manages everything now the old gentleman is getting so feeble.”
Ella walked on frowning and a little worried, for she thought she had seen the secretary before and yet could not remember where. Soon she noticed Dunn, who had apparently been obeying Deede Dawson's orders to look round outside and get to know the lie of the land.
He seemed at present to be a good deal interested in Lord Chobham and his companion, for he went and leaned on the gate and stared at them so rudely that one or two of the other tourists noticed it and frowned at him. But he took no notice, and presently, as if not seeing that the gate was marked “Private,” he pushed it open and walked through.
Noticing the impertinent intrusion almost at once, Mr. Dunsmore turned round and called “This is private.”
Dunn did not seem to hear, and Mr. Dunsmore walked across to him with a very impatient air, while the little group of tourists watched, with much interest and indignation and a very comforting sense of superiority.
“He ought to be sent right out of the grounds,” they told each other. “That's the sort of rude behaviour other people have to suffer for.”
“Now, my man,” said Mr. Dunsmore sharply, “this is private, you've no business here.”
“Sorry, sir; beg pardon, I'm sure,” said Dunn, touching his hat, and as he did so he said in a sharp, penetrating whisper: “Look out—trouble's brewing—don't know what, but look out, all the time.”
He had spoken so quickly and quietly, in the very act of turning away, that none of the onlookers could have told that a word had passed, but for the very violent start that Walter Dunsmore made and his quick movement forward as if to follow the other. Immediately Dunn turned back towards him with a swift warning gesture of his hand.
“Careful, you fool, they're looking,” he said in a quick whisper, and in a loud voice: “Very sorry, sir; beg pardon—I'm sure I didn't mean anything.”
Walter Dunsmore swung round upon his heel and went quickly back to where Lord Chobham waited; and his face was like that of one who has gazed into the very eyes of death.
“Lord in Heaven,” he muttered, “it's all over, I'm done.” And his hand felt for a little metal box he carried in his waistcoat pocket and that held half a dozen small round tablets, each of them a strong man's death.
But he took his hand away again as he rejoined his cousin, patron, and employer, old Lord Chobham.
“What's the matter, Walter?” Lord Chobham asked. “You look pale.”
“The fellow was a bit impudent; he made me angry,” said Walter carelessly. He fingered the little box in his waistcoat pocket and thought how one tablet on his tongue would always end it all. “By the way, oughtn't Rupert to be back soon?” he asked.
“Yes, he ought,” said Lord Chobham severely. “It's time he married and settled down—I shall speak to his father about it. The boy is always rushing off somewhere or another when he ought to be getting to know the estate and the tenants.”
Walter Dunsmore laughed.
“I think he knows them both fairly well already,” he said. “Not a tenant on the place but swears by Rupert. He's a fine fellow, uncle.”
“Oh, you always stick up for him; you and he were always friends,” answered Lord Chobham in a grumbling tone, but really very pleased. “I know I'm never allowed to say a word about Rupert.”
“Well, he's a fine fellow and a good friend,” said Walter, and the two disappeared into the house by a small side-door as Dunn pushed his way through the group of tourists who looked at him with marked and severe disapproval.
“Disgraceful,” one of them said quite loudly, and another added: “I believe he said something impudent to that gentleman. I saw him go quite white, and look as if he were in two minds about ordering the fellow right out of the grounds.” And a third expressed the general opinion that the culprit looked a real ruffian with all that hair on his face. “Might be a gorilla,” said the third tourist. “And look what a clumsy sort of walk he has; perhaps he's been drinking.”
But Dunn was quite indifferent to, and indeed unaware of this popular condemnation as he made his way back to the hotel garage where he had left their car. He seemed rather well pleased than otherwise as he walked on.
“Quite a stroke of luck for once,” he mused, and he smiled to himself, and stroked the thick growth of his untidy beard. “It's been worth while, for he didn't recognize me in the least, and had quite a shock, but, all the same, I shan't be sorry to shave and see my own face again.”
He had the car out and ready when Ella and Allen came back. Allen at once made an excuse to leave them, and went into the hotel bar to get a drink of whisky, and when they were alone, Ella, who was looking very troubled and thoughtful, said to Dunn,
“We saw Lord Chobham in the garden with a gentleman some one told us was a relative of his, a Mr. Walter Dunsmore. Did you see them?”
“Yes,” answered Dunn, a little surprised, and giving her a quick and searching look from his bright, keen eyes. “I saw them. Why—”
“I think I've seen the one they said was Mr. Walter Dunsmore before, and I can't think where,” she answered, puckering her brows. “I can't think—do you know anything about him?”
“I know he is Mr. Walter Dunsmore,” answered Dunn slowly, “and I know he is one of the family, and a great friend of Rupert Dunsmore's. Rupert Dunsmore is Lord Chobham's nephew, you know, and heir, after his father, to the title and estates. His father, General Dunsmore, brought him and Walter up together like brothers, but recently Walter has lived at the Abbey as Lord Chobham's secretary and companion. The general likes to live abroad a good deal, and his son Rupert is always away on some sporting or exploring expedition or another.”
“It's very strange,” Ella said again. “I'm sure I've seen Walter Dunsmore before but I can't think where.”
Allen came from the bar, having quenched his thirst for the time being, and they started off, arriving back at Bittermeads fairly early in the evening, for Dunn had brought them along at a good rate, and apparently remembered the road so well from the afternoon that he never once had occasion to refer to the map.
He took the car round to the garage, and Allen and Ella went into the house, where Allen made his way at once to the breakfast-room, searching for more whisky and cigars, while Ella, after a quick word with her mother to assure her of their safe return, went to find Deede Dawson.
“Ah, dear child, you are back then,” he greeted her. “Well, how have you enjoyed yourself? Had a pleasant time?”
“It was not for pleasure we went there, I think,” she said listlessly.
He looked up quickly, and though his perpetual smile still played as usual about his lips, his eyes were hard and daunting as they fixed themselves on hers. Before that sinister stare her own eyes sank, and sought the little travelling set of chessmen and board that were before him.
“See,” he said, “I've just brought off a mate. Neat isn't it? Checkmate.”
She looked up at him, and her eyes were steadier now.
“I've only one thing to say to you,” she said. “I came here to say it. If anything happens at Wreste Abbey I shall go straight to the police.”
“Indeed,” he said, “indeed.” He fingered the chessmen as though all his attention were engaged by them. “May I ask why?” he murmured. “For what purpose?”
“To tell them,” she answered quietly, “what I—know.”
“And what do you know?” he asked indifferently. “What do you know that is likely to interest the police?”
“I ought to have said, perhaps,” she answered after a pause, “what I suspect.”
“Ah, that's so different, isn't it?” he murmured gently. “So very different. You see we all of us suspect so many things.”
She did not answer, for she had said all she had to say and she was afraid that her strength would not carry her further. She began to walk away, but he called her back.
“Oh, how do you think your mother is today?” he asked. “Do you know, her condition seems to me quite serious at times. I wonder if you are overanxious?”
“She is better—much better!” Ella answered, and added with a sudden burst of fiercest, white-hot passion: “But I think it would be better if we had both died before we met you.”
She hurried away, for she was afraid of breaking down, and Deede Dawson smiled the more as he again turned his attention to his chessmen, taking them up and putting them down in turn.
“She's turning nasty,” he mused. “I don't think she'll dare—but she might. She's only a pawn, but a pawn can cause a lot of trouble at times—a pawn may become a queen and give the mate. When a pawn threatens trouble it's best to—remove it.”
He went out and came back a little late and busied himself with a four-move chess problem which absorbed all his attention, and which he did not solve to his satisfaction till past midnight. Then he went upstairs to bed, but at the door of his room he paused and went on very softly up the narrow stairs that led to the attics above.
Outside the one in which Dunn slept, he waited a little till the unbroken sound of regular breathing from within assured him that the occupant slept.
Cautiously and carefully he crept on, and entered the one adjoining, where he turned the light of the electric flashlight he carried on a large, empty packing-case that stood in one corner.
With a two-foot rule he took from his pocket he measured it carefully and nodded with great satisfaction.
“A little smaller than the other,” he said to himself. “But, then, it hasn't got to hold so much.” He laughed in his silent, mirthless way, as at something that amused him. “A good deal less,” he thought. “And Dunn shall drive.”
He laughed again, and for a moment or two stood there in the darkness, laughing silently to himself, and then, speaking aloud, he called out:
“You can come in, Dunn.”
Dunn, whom a creaking board had betrayed, came forward unconcernedly in his sleeping attire.
“I saw it was you,” he remarked. “At first I thought something was wrong.”
“Nothing, nothing,” answered Deede Dawson. “I was only looking at this packing-case. I may have to send one away again soon, and I wanted to be sure this was big enough. If I do, I shall want you to drive.”
“Not Miss Cayley?” asked Dunn.
“No, no,” answered Deede Dawson. “She might be with you perhaps, but she wouldn't drive. Night driving is always dangerous, I think, don't you?”
“There's things more dangerous,” Dunn remarked.
“Oh, quite true,” answered Deede Dawson. “Well, did you enjoy your visit to Wreste Abbey?”
“No,” answered Dunn roughly. “I didn't see Rupert Dunsmore, and it wouldn't have been any good if I had with all those people about.”
“You're too impatient,” Deede Dawson smiled. “I'm getting everything ready; you can't properly expect to win a game in a dozen moves. You must develop your pieces properly and have all ready before you start your attack. As soon as I'm ready—why, I'll act—and you'll have to do the rest.”
“I see,” said Dunn thoughtfully.