Chapter XVIAs Fayre passed down the broad staircase of the Cottage Hospital he reviewed his conversation with the tramp and decided that, considering the little he had gained by it, he might as well have stayed by the comfortable fireside in the library. Cynthia’s “hunch” had not amounted to much, after all, and he was sorry, more on her account than his own, for he had not expected anything himself from the interview. It had, however, simplified matters, in so far as it had definitely wiped off the tramp from the possible list of suspects. He had a strong conviction that the man’s story was true.He suddenly became conscious of something hard pressing against the palm of his hand and remembered the little red cap the tramp had given him at parting. It belonged obviously to the pen he had picked up on his visit to the farm and he was in the act of slipping it into his pocket and dismissing it from his mind when a thought struck him which caused him to pause in his descent and stand gazing blankly into the hall below. He had suddenly realized that if the tramp had picked up the cap on the occasion of his arrival at the farm somewhere about seven o’clock the pen must have been dropped still earlier in the evening. Fayre’s mind went back to the copper-coloured sequins he had found by the gate. They had been lying close to the pen and he found himself trying to picture what had happened.If Mrs. Draycott’s dress had caught in the gate in passing, the pen might have fallen from her companion’s pocket while he was disentangling it. Or could the unhappy woman have been seized with a premonition of her fate and hesitated on the very threshold of the farm? At any rate, the finding of the cap by the tramp did away once for all with the possibility of the pen’s having been dropped after the murder by a reporter, as Kean had suggested, and its proximity to the spangles from Mrs. Draycott’s dress pointed to the possibility that she and her companion might have paused for a moment near the gate on their way to the house.The pen had suddenly developed into a far more important link than they had supposed, and Fayre went on his way feeling that not only had his morning not been wasted, but that Cynthia, this time at least, had scored, not only against himself but against Kean, a fact which afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction.He found Cynthia deep in conversation with the porter of the hospital.“Cummin’s son is our undergardener at Galston,” she explained with a smile that included both men. “I was telling him that he’s the only person who really understands Mother’s beloved roses.”Fayre, watching her, understood why it was that she had, not only the estate, but the whole of the village of Galston, at her feet, and remembered how even Gunnet had dropped his official reserve when speaking of her. He climbed into the car and, after a few more friendly words to the porter, they drove off.“Well?” she asked as they swept round the corner into the High Street of Whitbury. “Did he say anything?”“He cleared himself, if what he says is true. Is there time to call on your lodge-keeper at Galston on the way back?”She turned to him in surprise.“Of course. It’s a little out of the way, but not enough to matter. Why do you want to see him?”“I want to see her, if there is a her.”“There is. His wife, Mrs. Doggett, is a dear old thing. If you want to get something out of her, you’d better leave it to me. I’ve known her all my life.”“I do. I want her to deal kindly with our friend, the tramp, for one thing.”He told her the story of the purse and then showed her the red cap the man had given him and explained its significance.“Mrs. Doggett will be all right; I’ll manage her. But the cap is important, Uncle Fayre! I’m glad you went!”“So am I, now. You were quite right and it’s decent of you not to rub it in!”He waited while Cynthia went into the Lodge. After a short interval she came out, followed by a pleasant-looking old woman.“This is Mrs. Doggett,” she said. “Mr. Fayre’s a great friend of mine, Mrs. Doggett, so you must be kind to him.”Mrs. Doggett’s answer was a broad smile and an old-fashioned curtsey.“Itwasher purse,” went on Cynthia, “and she’s going to be a brick and let the poor man off. Tell Mr. Fayre about it, Mrs. Doggett.”“I must ’a’ dropped it just before I got to the gate, sir,” explained the old woman. “I hadn’t been home more than a few minutes when I missed it and went out again into the road to have a look. I found it almost at once, but it was empty. I was quite took aback, wondering who could ’a’ cleaned it out in such a short time, when I remembered seein’ some one comin’ towards me as I neared the gate. I went up the road a bit, but I couldn’t see no one, so I give it up. There wasn’t only half-a-crown in it and, if he was in want, I’m glad he should have it, pore soul.”“Do you remember at all what time you reached home that night?” asked Fayre.“I couldn’t tell you to a minute, sir, but it must have been somewhere round about six-thirty, I should say. I’d been doin’ me bit of shoppin’ at Whitbury and I usually stay till the shops close at six and it’s just about half an hour’s walk home.”“How long were you in the house, do you think, before you discovered your loss?”“I can’t rightly say, but not more than a quarter of an hour. I hurried out as soon as I found it was gone. It wasn’t long, because me ’usband come in for ’is supper at seven and I’d got it all cooked and ready for ’im by then. Andhehasn’t been late once this month, to my knowledge, sir.”“Then, that clears the tramp. You’ve done him more than one good turn to-day, Mrs. Doggett. Perhaps Lady Cynthia explained that I had promised not to report the theft to the police, so if you wouldn’t mind keeping it dark . . .”“They won’t hear nothing from me, sir! I don’t want no traffic with them. Writin’ everythin’ down in their little books! Oh, I couldn’t, sir, thankin’ you kindly all the same,” she finished, as Fayre slipped a note into her hand. “It wasn’t only half-a-crown and I don’t grudge it ’im.”“You’ve got to, Mrs. Doggett,” called Cynthia over her shoulder as the car leaped forward. “And you deserve it for being such a brick.”“So that’s that!” said Fayre, with striking lack of originality. “He’s out of it. Now we can concentrate on the real culprits. It’ll take us all our time, too!” he added ruefully.He spoke more truly than he realized. They had only just passed the lane leading to Leslie’s farm when a small two-seater turned out of a by-road on their right and sped past them on the way to Whitbury.It was being driven by Gregg and by his side was the man who had cleaned the paint off Fayre’s coat in the doctor’s garage. At the sight of Cynthia Gregg raised his hand towards his hat, but his eyes were on Fayre and it seemed to the latter that his glance held both contempt and defiance.He turned and looked after the car and, at the sight of the luggage-rack at the back, an exclamation broke from him. It was loaded with a portmanteau and a big suitcase.“Good Lord, I might have guessed it! What an ass I was!” he muttered in consternation.“What’s the matter?” asked Cynthia, surprised at his tone.“He’s bolting! Idiot that I was not to have foreseen this!”“Dr. Gregg? Then you really do suspect him?”“I not only suspect him, but he knows it. Cynthia, I’ve made an unholy mess of this. The only thing to do now is to make for Staveley as quickly as possible. I must get into touch with Grey and warn him.”Cynthia wasted no time in asking questions. She did her best and Fayre made a mental note never again, when she was at the wheel, even to suggest to her that he was in a hurry. To do him justice he underwent three hairbreadth escapes without making a sound, but he thanked his stars that he was still alive as he tore up the steps and into the little room that housed the telephone at Staveley.He got Grey with surprisingly little delay and told him what had happened.“It’s my fault, I’m afraid. If I hadn’t shown my hand he’d never have taken fright. Can you do anything at your end?”“I’ll see to that if he makes for London. I can put a man onto the station here. What’s he wearing, did you notice?”“No idea. I was looking at his face. That wouldn’t be enough, anyhow, for your man to go by. If only I could catch that train!”“If you did you’d give the show away worse than ever. He’s certain to be on the lookout. I wish to goodness we had a photograph! We must go by the ticket, that’s all. I’ll back my man to get onto him if it’s humanly possible. Fortunately, he’s on good terms with the station people. It’ll be a bore if Gregg goes north, though!”“It doesn’t even follow that he’s going by train. He was on his way to the Junction, but that means nothing. He’s got his man with him, which looks as if he were sending the car home from the station. The fellow’s a sort of gardener as well, so he’s not likely to take him with him if he’s going far.”“That points to a train journey, so our luck may be in, after all. Look here, are you free to come up at any moment?”“Quite. To-night, if you like.”“There’s no great hurry, but you might run up in the course of the next day or two. There’s nothing much you can do where you are now, and it’s about time we compared notes again. I may have something for you by the time you get here.”Fayre calculated for a moment.“I’ll come up by the night train to-morrow, arriving Sunday morning. Then I can look you up on Monday.”“Good! Or, better still, lunch with me on Sunday at the Troc.”“Excellent! I’ll be there at one. By the way, if Gregg was making the night train he’ll get in about six-twenty. Tell your man to be careful. He’s no fool, remember.”“Thanks. See you Sunday, then.”Fayre was hanging up the receiver when a voice at his elbow made him start.“What’s this? Not the naughty doctor doing a bunk? Now, that looks fishy, if you like!”Bill Staveley had come in unperceived and had overheard Fayre’s last sentence.“He’s off,” answered Fayre. “Met him just now on the way to the Junction, luggage and all. It looks as if he’d got the wind up.”Staveley glanced at his watch.“Even if you’re only just back he was allowing time and to spare for the five-forty. What makes you think he was going to London?”“Nothing. He may not have been going by train at all.”For answer Staveley pushed him gently to one side and, picking up the receiver, gave a number.“That Whitbury station? That you, Millar? Lord Staveley speaking. Has the London train gone yet? Confound it, then, I’ve missed it. I wanted to catch Dr. Gregg about something. He was on that train, wasn’t he? I thought so. You don’t happen to know if he was going straight through to London, do you? If he’s stopping at Carlisle, I might ring him up there. Thanks, I’ll hold on.”There was a short pause while he waited, the receiver to his ear.“Hullo. Yes. He booked through, did he? Yes, that settles it. Thanks very much.”He replaced the receiver and turned to Fayre.“Booked to London and had his luggage labelled straight through. Want to let your man know?”He stood waiting while Fayre put through the trunk call.“What’s the next move?” he asked. “By Jove, I’m beginning to think you’re right about the doctor!”“I’d better go up myself and see if Grey’s got anything for me to do there. To-morrow night will be time enough.”“If it wasn’t for this blessed Cattle Show on Monday I’d come myself. I’m beginning to enjoy this business. I wish it hadn’t been Gregg, though.”“So do I,” agreed Fayre heartily. “I disliked the fellow at first, I admit, but now I’ve got a sneaking sympathy for him. He’s a loyal friend, whatever else he may be.”“He’s a benighted idiot to cut and run now. I’d have given him credit for more sense. Was Cynthia with you when you saw him?”“Yes. And I shall have my work cut out to prevent her from dashing up to town with me, I expect, once she knows what it all means. Which reminds me that if I don’t go and make a clean breast of the whole thing at once I shall never hear the last of it. It’s no good keeping it from her now.”He departed hastily in search of her, but she was nowhere to be found and he concluded that she must have gone straight to her room. When she failed to put in an appearance at tea he was really puzzled. He knew she must be waiting eagerly for his explanation and it was not like her to curb anything, least of all curiosity. He was relieved to find that the Staveleys took her defection very calmly.“If you knew Cynthia better you’d take everything she did as a matter of course,” announced Eve Staveley. “She’s probably gone home to collect a few more oddments.”“If she hasn’t made a dash for the five-forty and caught it!” suggested Bill Staveley with a wicked gleam in his eye. “She can twist old Millar round her little finger and if she told him to keep the train till she arrived, I wouldn’t bank on his not doing it.”“My dear Bill, why on earth should she go off on the five-forty?” demanded his wife.“Why shouldn’t she? It’s just the sort of Tom Fool thing she would do,” he countered cheerfully.The suggestion made Fayre uncomfortable and he went through a good deal of quite unnecessary worry before she walked calmly into the dining-room, ten minutes late for dinner, and apologized very prettily to her hostess for her unpunctuality.Lady Staveley took it for granted that she had been to Galston and neither of the two men thought it wise to question the fact in public. After dinner, however, she found herself pinned into a corner of the big drawing-room, well out of hearing of her hostess, and made to give an account of herself.“It’s no good trying the happy home stunt on us,” remarked Bill Staveley lazily. “We want to know where you’ve really been and what mischief you’ve been up to.”“I never said I’d been to Galston,” protested Cynthia, the picture of injured innocence. “It was Eve who insisted on it.”“In spite of all your protestations,” jibed Staveley. He and Cynthia were old sparring partners and he was a worthy match for her.“Well, did you want me to give the show away?” she asked.“Considering that we don’t know what the show is!”She cut him short and tackled Fayre direct.“Did you manage to do anything about Dr. Gregg, Uncle Fayre?” she asked.“I rang up Grey, and Bill got the station and discovered that he had caught the London train. Grey’s going to try to keep him under observation at the other end. That was all we could do.”For answer Cynthia opened the little gold bag she carried and took from it a slip of paper. She handed it to Fayre and watched him in silence as he read it aloud.“Care of Dr. Graham, Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street,” it ran.For a moment he stared at the girl in utter bewilderment; then he broke into a low chuckle.“She’s beaten us, Bill!” he exclaimed. “It’s Gregg’s address, I’ll be bound. How did you get it?”“Ran the car over to his house and asked for it, of course. That’s why I was late for dinner. I punctured on the way home. I told the maid that Lady Kean had written to say that she’d lost his prescription and had asked me to see him about it. They said that he always stays at that address when he’s in London and that he’d told them to forward letters there, so he’s sure to go to it if only to collect them.”There was a blank silence, broken eventually by Lord Staveley.“Absurdly simple, my dear Watson, when you know how it’s done. One up to you, Cynthia. He’ll smell a rat, of course, when he gets back, but it probably won’t matter then.”Fayre caught the night train for London on the following evening. Lord Staveley had offered to send him into Carlisle by car, thus saving the change at Whitbury, but he preferred to go from Staveley Grange.“Both your chauffeurs must hate the sight of me by now, though why you persist in using that wretched little branch line is beyond me,” he complained.“Lord knows!” admitted Staveley frankly. “It’s a bit of a way round to Whitbury, it’s true, but that’s nothing in a car. Of course, in the old horse days it was a consideration. That and the fact that they gave my grandfather the branch line as a special concession in days gone by and we’ve felt it our duty to use it ever since is the only reason I can think of why we stick to it still. We’re a hide-bound lot, but I must admit I’ve got a weakness for that rotten little station. It reminds me of coming home for the holidays in my school days for one thing.”“And then we’re surprised to find Americans laughing at us! We are a queer country, you know.”“Well, if you can find a better ’ole, go to it!” quoted Staveley cheerfully. “You can have the car to Carlisle if you like to-night, but I’m dashed if I’ll send you to Whitbury now!”So Fayre travelled from Staveley Grange after the approved Staveley fashion and was glad he had done so, for, as he was waiting for his train at Whitbury he was joined by Miss Allen, whom he would undoubtedly have missed in the crowd at Carlisle. She, too, was on her way to London and she and Fayre dined very pleasantly together in the restaurant car. He found, as he had suspected, that she improved on acquaintance and they sat talking for some time after the meal ended.Fayre wondered later, as he sat huddled in his stuffy corner, waiting for the sleep that would not come, what she would have said if she had known the reason of his journey to town.“The whole cast of the melodrama seems to be moving to London,” he thought whimsically. “Though what we’re all going to do there, goodness knows! It would be more satisfactory, too, if one knew which of us was the villain of the piece!”
As Fayre passed down the broad staircase of the Cottage Hospital he reviewed his conversation with the tramp and decided that, considering the little he had gained by it, he might as well have stayed by the comfortable fireside in the library. Cynthia’s “hunch” had not amounted to much, after all, and he was sorry, more on her account than his own, for he had not expected anything himself from the interview. It had, however, simplified matters, in so far as it had definitely wiped off the tramp from the possible list of suspects. He had a strong conviction that the man’s story was true.
He suddenly became conscious of something hard pressing against the palm of his hand and remembered the little red cap the tramp had given him at parting. It belonged obviously to the pen he had picked up on his visit to the farm and he was in the act of slipping it into his pocket and dismissing it from his mind when a thought struck him which caused him to pause in his descent and stand gazing blankly into the hall below. He had suddenly realized that if the tramp had picked up the cap on the occasion of his arrival at the farm somewhere about seven o’clock the pen must have been dropped still earlier in the evening. Fayre’s mind went back to the copper-coloured sequins he had found by the gate. They had been lying close to the pen and he found himself trying to picture what had happened.
If Mrs. Draycott’s dress had caught in the gate in passing, the pen might have fallen from her companion’s pocket while he was disentangling it. Or could the unhappy woman have been seized with a premonition of her fate and hesitated on the very threshold of the farm? At any rate, the finding of the cap by the tramp did away once for all with the possibility of the pen’s having been dropped after the murder by a reporter, as Kean had suggested, and its proximity to the spangles from Mrs. Draycott’s dress pointed to the possibility that she and her companion might have paused for a moment near the gate on their way to the house.
The pen had suddenly developed into a far more important link than they had supposed, and Fayre went on his way feeling that not only had his morning not been wasted, but that Cynthia, this time at least, had scored, not only against himself but against Kean, a fact which afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction.
He found Cynthia deep in conversation with the porter of the hospital.
“Cummin’s son is our undergardener at Galston,” she explained with a smile that included both men. “I was telling him that he’s the only person who really understands Mother’s beloved roses.”
Fayre, watching her, understood why it was that she had, not only the estate, but the whole of the village of Galston, at her feet, and remembered how even Gunnet had dropped his official reserve when speaking of her. He climbed into the car and, after a few more friendly words to the porter, they drove off.
“Well?” she asked as they swept round the corner into the High Street of Whitbury. “Did he say anything?”
“He cleared himself, if what he says is true. Is there time to call on your lodge-keeper at Galston on the way back?”
She turned to him in surprise.
“Of course. It’s a little out of the way, but not enough to matter. Why do you want to see him?”
“I want to see her, if there is a her.”
“There is. His wife, Mrs. Doggett, is a dear old thing. If you want to get something out of her, you’d better leave it to me. I’ve known her all my life.”
“I do. I want her to deal kindly with our friend, the tramp, for one thing.”
He told her the story of the purse and then showed her the red cap the man had given him and explained its significance.
“Mrs. Doggett will be all right; I’ll manage her. But the cap is important, Uncle Fayre! I’m glad you went!”
“So am I, now. You were quite right and it’s decent of you not to rub it in!”
He waited while Cynthia went into the Lodge. After a short interval she came out, followed by a pleasant-looking old woman.
“This is Mrs. Doggett,” she said. “Mr. Fayre’s a great friend of mine, Mrs. Doggett, so you must be kind to him.”
Mrs. Doggett’s answer was a broad smile and an old-fashioned curtsey.
“Itwasher purse,” went on Cynthia, “and she’s going to be a brick and let the poor man off. Tell Mr. Fayre about it, Mrs. Doggett.”
“I must ’a’ dropped it just before I got to the gate, sir,” explained the old woman. “I hadn’t been home more than a few minutes when I missed it and went out again into the road to have a look. I found it almost at once, but it was empty. I was quite took aback, wondering who could ’a’ cleaned it out in such a short time, when I remembered seein’ some one comin’ towards me as I neared the gate. I went up the road a bit, but I couldn’t see no one, so I give it up. There wasn’t only half-a-crown in it and, if he was in want, I’m glad he should have it, pore soul.”
“Do you remember at all what time you reached home that night?” asked Fayre.
“I couldn’t tell you to a minute, sir, but it must have been somewhere round about six-thirty, I should say. I’d been doin’ me bit of shoppin’ at Whitbury and I usually stay till the shops close at six and it’s just about half an hour’s walk home.”
“How long were you in the house, do you think, before you discovered your loss?”
“I can’t rightly say, but not more than a quarter of an hour. I hurried out as soon as I found it was gone. It wasn’t long, because me ’usband come in for ’is supper at seven and I’d got it all cooked and ready for ’im by then. Andhehasn’t been late once this month, to my knowledge, sir.”
“Then, that clears the tramp. You’ve done him more than one good turn to-day, Mrs. Doggett. Perhaps Lady Cynthia explained that I had promised not to report the theft to the police, so if you wouldn’t mind keeping it dark . . .”
“They won’t hear nothing from me, sir! I don’t want no traffic with them. Writin’ everythin’ down in their little books! Oh, I couldn’t, sir, thankin’ you kindly all the same,” she finished, as Fayre slipped a note into her hand. “It wasn’t only half-a-crown and I don’t grudge it ’im.”
“You’ve got to, Mrs. Doggett,” called Cynthia over her shoulder as the car leaped forward. “And you deserve it for being such a brick.”
“So that’s that!” said Fayre, with striking lack of originality. “He’s out of it. Now we can concentrate on the real culprits. It’ll take us all our time, too!” he added ruefully.
He spoke more truly than he realized. They had only just passed the lane leading to Leslie’s farm when a small two-seater turned out of a by-road on their right and sped past them on the way to Whitbury.
It was being driven by Gregg and by his side was the man who had cleaned the paint off Fayre’s coat in the doctor’s garage. At the sight of Cynthia Gregg raised his hand towards his hat, but his eyes were on Fayre and it seemed to the latter that his glance held both contempt and defiance.
He turned and looked after the car and, at the sight of the luggage-rack at the back, an exclamation broke from him. It was loaded with a portmanteau and a big suitcase.
“Good Lord, I might have guessed it! What an ass I was!” he muttered in consternation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Cynthia, surprised at his tone.
“He’s bolting! Idiot that I was not to have foreseen this!”
“Dr. Gregg? Then you really do suspect him?”
“I not only suspect him, but he knows it. Cynthia, I’ve made an unholy mess of this. The only thing to do now is to make for Staveley as quickly as possible. I must get into touch with Grey and warn him.”
Cynthia wasted no time in asking questions. She did her best and Fayre made a mental note never again, when she was at the wheel, even to suggest to her that he was in a hurry. To do him justice he underwent three hairbreadth escapes without making a sound, but he thanked his stars that he was still alive as he tore up the steps and into the little room that housed the telephone at Staveley.
He got Grey with surprisingly little delay and told him what had happened.
“It’s my fault, I’m afraid. If I hadn’t shown my hand he’d never have taken fright. Can you do anything at your end?”
“I’ll see to that if he makes for London. I can put a man onto the station here. What’s he wearing, did you notice?”
“No idea. I was looking at his face. That wouldn’t be enough, anyhow, for your man to go by. If only I could catch that train!”
“If you did you’d give the show away worse than ever. He’s certain to be on the lookout. I wish to goodness we had a photograph! We must go by the ticket, that’s all. I’ll back my man to get onto him if it’s humanly possible. Fortunately, he’s on good terms with the station people. It’ll be a bore if Gregg goes north, though!”
“It doesn’t even follow that he’s going by train. He was on his way to the Junction, but that means nothing. He’s got his man with him, which looks as if he were sending the car home from the station. The fellow’s a sort of gardener as well, so he’s not likely to take him with him if he’s going far.”
“That points to a train journey, so our luck may be in, after all. Look here, are you free to come up at any moment?”
“Quite. To-night, if you like.”
“There’s no great hurry, but you might run up in the course of the next day or two. There’s nothing much you can do where you are now, and it’s about time we compared notes again. I may have something for you by the time you get here.”
Fayre calculated for a moment.
“I’ll come up by the night train to-morrow, arriving Sunday morning. Then I can look you up on Monday.”
“Good! Or, better still, lunch with me on Sunday at the Troc.”
“Excellent! I’ll be there at one. By the way, if Gregg was making the night train he’ll get in about six-twenty. Tell your man to be careful. He’s no fool, remember.”
“Thanks. See you Sunday, then.”
Fayre was hanging up the receiver when a voice at his elbow made him start.
“What’s this? Not the naughty doctor doing a bunk? Now, that looks fishy, if you like!”
Bill Staveley had come in unperceived and had overheard Fayre’s last sentence.
“He’s off,” answered Fayre. “Met him just now on the way to the Junction, luggage and all. It looks as if he’d got the wind up.”
Staveley glanced at his watch.
“Even if you’re only just back he was allowing time and to spare for the five-forty. What makes you think he was going to London?”
“Nothing. He may not have been going by train at all.”
For answer Staveley pushed him gently to one side and, picking up the receiver, gave a number.
“That Whitbury station? That you, Millar? Lord Staveley speaking. Has the London train gone yet? Confound it, then, I’ve missed it. I wanted to catch Dr. Gregg about something. He was on that train, wasn’t he? I thought so. You don’t happen to know if he was going straight through to London, do you? If he’s stopping at Carlisle, I might ring him up there. Thanks, I’ll hold on.”
There was a short pause while he waited, the receiver to his ear.
“Hullo. Yes. He booked through, did he? Yes, that settles it. Thanks very much.”
He replaced the receiver and turned to Fayre.
“Booked to London and had his luggage labelled straight through. Want to let your man know?”
He stood waiting while Fayre put through the trunk call.
“What’s the next move?” he asked. “By Jove, I’m beginning to think you’re right about the doctor!”
“I’d better go up myself and see if Grey’s got anything for me to do there. To-morrow night will be time enough.”
“If it wasn’t for this blessed Cattle Show on Monday I’d come myself. I’m beginning to enjoy this business. I wish it hadn’t been Gregg, though.”
“So do I,” agreed Fayre heartily. “I disliked the fellow at first, I admit, but now I’ve got a sneaking sympathy for him. He’s a loyal friend, whatever else he may be.”
“He’s a benighted idiot to cut and run now. I’d have given him credit for more sense. Was Cynthia with you when you saw him?”
“Yes. And I shall have my work cut out to prevent her from dashing up to town with me, I expect, once she knows what it all means. Which reminds me that if I don’t go and make a clean breast of the whole thing at once I shall never hear the last of it. It’s no good keeping it from her now.”
He departed hastily in search of her, but she was nowhere to be found and he concluded that she must have gone straight to her room. When she failed to put in an appearance at tea he was really puzzled. He knew she must be waiting eagerly for his explanation and it was not like her to curb anything, least of all curiosity. He was relieved to find that the Staveleys took her defection very calmly.
“If you knew Cynthia better you’d take everything she did as a matter of course,” announced Eve Staveley. “She’s probably gone home to collect a few more oddments.”
“If she hasn’t made a dash for the five-forty and caught it!” suggested Bill Staveley with a wicked gleam in his eye. “She can twist old Millar round her little finger and if she told him to keep the train till she arrived, I wouldn’t bank on his not doing it.”
“My dear Bill, why on earth should she go off on the five-forty?” demanded his wife.
“Why shouldn’t she? It’s just the sort of Tom Fool thing she would do,” he countered cheerfully.
The suggestion made Fayre uncomfortable and he went through a good deal of quite unnecessary worry before she walked calmly into the dining-room, ten minutes late for dinner, and apologized very prettily to her hostess for her unpunctuality.
Lady Staveley took it for granted that she had been to Galston and neither of the two men thought it wise to question the fact in public. After dinner, however, she found herself pinned into a corner of the big drawing-room, well out of hearing of her hostess, and made to give an account of herself.
“It’s no good trying the happy home stunt on us,” remarked Bill Staveley lazily. “We want to know where you’ve really been and what mischief you’ve been up to.”
“I never said I’d been to Galston,” protested Cynthia, the picture of injured innocence. “It was Eve who insisted on it.”
“In spite of all your protestations,” jibed Staveley. He and Cynthia were old sparring partners and he was a worthy match for her.
“Well, did you want me to give the show away?” she asked.
“Considering that we don’t know what the show is!”
She cut him short and tackled Fayre direct.
“Did you manage to do anything about Dr. Gregg, Uncle Fayre?” she asked.
“I rang up Grey, and Bill got the station and discovered that he had caught the London train. Grey’s going to try to keep him under observation at the other end. That was all we could do.”
For answer Cynthia opened the little gold bag she carried and took from it a slip of paper. She handed it to Fayre and watched him in silence as he read it aloud.
“Care of Dr. Graham, Brackley Mansions, Victoria Street,” it ran.
For a moment he stared at the girl in utter bewilderment; then he broke into a low chuckle.
“She’s beaten us, Bill!” he exclaimed. “It’s Gregg’s address, I’ll be bound. How did you get it?”
“Ran the car over to his house and asked for it, of course. That’s why I was late for dinner. I punctured on the way home. I told the maid that Lady Kean had written to say that she’d lost his prescription and had asked me to see him about it. They said that he always stays at that address when he’s in London and that he’d told them to forward letters there, so he’s sure to go to it if only to collect them.”
There was a blank silence, broken eventually by Lord Staveley.
“Absurdly simple, my dear Watson, when you know how it’s done. One up to you, Cynthia. He’ll smell a rat, of course, when he gets back, but it probably won’t matter then.”
Fayre caught the night train for London on the following evening. Lord Staveley had offered to send him into Carlisle by car, thus saving the change at Whitbury, but he preferred to go from Staveley Grange.
“Both your chauffeurs must hate the sight of me by now, though why you persist in using that wretched little branch line is beyond me,” he complained.
“Lord knows!” admitted Staveley frankly. “It’s a bit of a way round to Whitbury, it’s true, but that’s nothing in a car. Of course, in the old horse days it was a consideration. That and the fact that they gave my grandfather the branch line as a special concession in days gone by and we’ve felt it our duty to use it ever since is the only reason I can think of why we stick to it still. We’re a hide-bound lot, but I must admit I’ve got a weakness for that rotten little station. It reminds me of coming home for the holidays in my school days for one thing.”
“And then we’re surprised to find Americans laughing at us! We are a queer country, you know.”
“Well, if you can find a better ’ole, go to it!” quoted Staveley cheerfully. “You can have the car to Carlisle if you like to-night, but I’m dashed if I’ll send you to Whitbury now!”
So Fayre travelled from Staveley Grange after the approved Staveley fashion and was glad he had done so, for, as he was waiting for his train at Whitbury he was joined by Miss Allen, whom he would undoubtedly have missed in the crowd at Carlisle. She, too, was on her way to London and she and Fayre dined very pleasantly together in the restaurant car. He found, as he had suspected, that she improved on acquaintance and they sat talking for some time after the meal ended.
Fayre wondered later, as he sat huddled in his stuffy corner, waiting for the sleep that would not come, what she would have said if she had known the reason of his journey to town.
“The whole cast of the melodrama seems to be moving to London,” he thought whimsically. “Though what we’re all going to do there, goodness knows! It would be more satisfactory, too, if one knew which of us was the villain of the piece!”