Cecil laughed carelessly.
“You didn’t lose as much as I did,” he remarked. “But, then, Fothergill had all the luck. I never remember such a run of trumps as he held in that last deal; and you played villainously, you know—gave him no end of tricks.”
The very faintest suspicion of a smile—an evil smile it was—trembled on de Cartienne’s lips, and he turned away towards the window as though to hide it.
“I wasn’t in very good form that night,” he acknowledged. “I must make up for it to-night, if we can get Fothergill to give us our revenge.”
Cecil drummed upon the table with his fingers and raised his eyebrows slightly.
“He can’t very well refuse if we ask for it, can he?”
“I suppose not,” de Cartienne answered, lounging across the room towards the door. “I’ll go and see James and let him know that we shall want the latchkey.”
“All right. And I say, Len,” Cecil continued, “we must take Morton with us, of course.”
de Cartienne turned round with an angry frown upon his dark face.
“I scarcely see how that would be possible,” he said stiffly. “I think it would be taking rather a liberty with Fothergill. He only asks us two.”
In other circumstances I should promptly have refused to be one of the party, especially as the invitation appeared to come from a friend of de Cartienne’s. But the darkening shade which I had seen flash across de Cartienne’s face reawakened all my suspicions with regard to him and I instantly determined that, by some means or other, I would go. His evident reluctance to invite me only strengthened my intention, so, although he looked at me as if expecting to hear me express my indifference as to whether I went or not, I purposely refrained from doing anything of the sort.
“Oh, that’s all rot!” Cecil protested. “We can’t go off and leave Morton boxed up here by himself.”
“I don’t suppose Morton would care much about it,” said de Cartienne sullenly.
“On the contrary, I should enjoy it very much indeed,” I interposed; “although, of course, I don’t wish to go if you think that your friend would object,” I added blandly. “It’s rather dull here by oneself.”
“Of course it is! Morton, old chap, you shall go with us, never fear!” Cecil declared vigorously. “Tell you what, Len, if you won’t do the agreeable and make things right with Fothergill—as you can, if you like, of course—I shan’t go, so there! Which is it to be—both or neither?”
“Both, of course,” de Cartienne answered, with as good grace as possible. “I shouldn’t have thought Morton would have cared about it, that’s all. Be ready punctually at half-past seven, you men.”
“All right!” exclaimed Cecil, delighted at getting his own way for a change. “Good old Len! Morton, pitch that beastly Livy into the drawer and come and change your things. We’ll have some fun to-night!”
CHAPTER XXX.
ECARTÉ WITH MR. FOTHERGILL.
At a little before eight o’clock de Cartienne, Cecil, and I presented ourselves at the bar of the “Bull” Hotel, and inquired for Mr. Fothergill. We were shown at once by a waiter into a small private sitting-room, brilliantly illuminated and unmistakably cosy. Under the chandelier was a small round table glittering with plate and flowers; and, standing upon the hearthrug, critically surveying it, was a middle-aged, dapper-looking little man, in well-cut evening clothes, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.
His hair was slightly tinged with grey, but his moustache was still jet-black and elaborately curled and waxed. His forehead was low and his full red lips and slightly hooked nose gave him something of a Jewish appearance. He had just missed being handsome, and, similarly, had just missed being good form; at least, so it seemed to me from my first rapid survey, and I did not afterwards change my opinion.
Directly we entered the room he moved forward to meet us, with a smile which revealed a very fine set of teeth. I watched him closely as he noted the addition to the party, but he betrayed no surprise or annoyance. On the contrary, when Cecil had introduced me as his friend and fellow-pupil at Borden Tower, he welcomed me with a courtesy which was a little effusive. On the whole, I decided that his manners were in his favour.
There was some casual conversation, an explanation rather more elaborate than seemed to me necessary of his flying visit to Little Drayton, and then dinner was announced. Everything had evidently been carefully ordered and prepared and was of the best. Mr. Fothergill, whatever his shortcomings, made a capital host; and his talk, though a trifle slangy and coarse at times, was amusing in the extreme. Altogether, the dinner was a success in every respect save one. For four men, two of whom were under twenty, there was a great deal too much wine drunk.
I think I scarcely noticed it until the cloth was removed and dessert placed upon the table. Then a curious sense of exhilaration in my own spirits warned me to be careful and I looked round at once at the others.
Cecil sat directly opposite to me and I saw at a glance how it was with him. His hair, which he always kept rather long, but carefully parted, was disarranged and untidy; his neat tie had become crumpled and had slipped up on one side; his eyes were sparkling, as though with some unusual excitement, and there was a glow of colour in his cheeks almost hectic in its intensity.
At the head of the table our host was still smiling and debonair, looking as though he had been drinking nothing stronger than water; and opposite to him de Cartienne was leaning back in his chair with a faint tinge of colour in his olive cheeks and a peculiar glitter in his dark eyes which was anything but pleasant to look upon. Altogether, the appearance of the trio was like a cold douche to me and brought me swiftly back to my former watchfulness. I felt instinctively there was mischief brewing.
“I say, Fothergill, let’s have a hand at cards!” Cecil exclaimed, breaking a momentary silence. “You owe us a revenge, you know! George! didn’t you clean us out last time we played! We’ll clean you out to-night, hanged if we won’t! What shall it be?”
Mr. Fothergill shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
“Cards—cards! It’s always cards!” he answered lightly. “Can’t you think of something else to do?”
“Yes; hang cards!” muttered de Cartienne.
“All right, I’m agreeable! But what the mischief else is there to do in this dull hole?” asked Cecil discontentedly.
“Oh, let’s have a chat and a few more glasses of wine!” suggested Mr. Fothergill. “I’m so lucky that I hate to play at cards. I always win.”
“Do you?” remarked Cecil, a little pettishly. “Well, look here, Fothergill! I’ll play you at any game you like to-night and beat you—so there! I challenge you! You owe me a revenge. I want it!”
Mr. Fothergill looked a little bored.
“Of course, if you put it in that way,” he said, “you leave me no alternative. But, mind, I warn you beforehand, Silchester, I’m bound to win! I don’t want to win your money—I had enough last time I was here—but if we play I shall win, whether I care about it or not. I’m in a tremendous vein of luck just now.”
“We’ll see about that,” Cecil answered doggedly. “Let’s ring for some cards.”
“Or, rather, don’t let’s play here at all,” interrupted de Cartienne. “The people are awfully old-fashioned and particular and may want to turn as out at eleven o’clock.”
“By George! we’ll go round to the ‘Rose and Crown!’” exclaimed Cecil. “I haven’t been there for two days. It’s a decent little place and we can do what we like there,” he added, turning to Mr. Fothergill. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not the least in the world!” declared our host, rising and stretching himself. “Any place will do for me. The sooner the better, if we are going, though. I don’t want to be particularly late.”
We all rose, despatched the waiter for our overcoats and sallied out into the cool night air. After the heated atmosphere of the room in which we had been dining, the wintry breeze came as a sudden swift tonic. At the corner of the street, looking seaward, Cecil and I stopped simultaneously and bared our heads.
“By George! how delicious a walk would be!” he exclaimed, fanning himself with his cap. “I say, Phil, old chap, suppose we bolt and do the seashore as far as Litton Bay?”
“A splendid idea!” I exclaimed, taking him at his word and linking his arm in mine. “Let’s do it!”
He burst out laughing.
“Why, Phil, you know we can’t!” he said. “I was only joking. Why, what on earth would Fothergill think of us serving him such a trick as that?”
“Oh, hang Fothergill!” I cried. “He only wants to win your money. I wouldn’t play with the fellow if I were you, Cecil. Can’t you see he’s a cad?”
He looked at me, confounded.
“Why, hang it all,” he said, “how can you refuse to play with a man after you’ve eaten his dinner? Besides, can’t you see that it isn’t he who wants to play at all? It was I who proposed it and even then he wasn’t keen.”
“All beastly cunning!” I muttered angrily. But I could say no more, for de Cartienne and Mr. Fothergill had retraced their steps to look for us and Cecil had started off towards them.
In a few moments we reached the “Rose and Crown” and walked straight into the little parlour at the back. Miss Milly was sitting there by herself in semi-darkness, with a very disconsolate face. She brightened up, however, at our entrance.
“All by yourself, Milly?” exclaimed Cecil, letting go my arm and moving to her side. “In tears, too, I believe! No news, I suppose?”
She shook her head sadly.
“None! I have almost lost hope,” she added.
Then she glanced questioningly at Mr. Fothergill, and Cecil introduced him in an informal sort of way and explained our visit.
“We’ve come to drink up all your wine and have a quiet game at cards instead of staying all the evening at the ‘Bull.’ You can put us in the sitting-room out of the way, can’t you?”
“Oh, yes!” she answered eagerly. “How good of you to come here! We’ve been dreadfully quiet the last few days—scarcely anyone in at all, and I have been so dull. Come this way, please. I’m so glad I had the fire lit.”
She led us into the little sitting-room, where we had gone to look for Mr. Hart’s photograph on my first visit to the place. I pointed to the spot where it had been.
“You haven’t found the portrait yet?” I remarked.
She shook her head and looked distressed.
“Please don’t talk about it,” she said. “It seems as though it must have been spirited away and it makes me feel uncomfortable even to think about it.”
We seated ourselves around the table and Mr. Fothergill, producing two packs of cards from his pocket, began to deal. At the end of an hour Cecil had won nearly fifty pounds, I was as I had started, and de Cartienne and Mr. Fothergill were about equal losers.
“I’m getting sick of this!” I declared. “Leave me out of this deal, will you?”
They assented and I crossed the room to where Milly was sitting. Pretending to examine the fancy-work upon which she was engaged, I bent close over her.
“Miss Milly, I want to ask you a question, without letting the others hear,” I said softly. “Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her large blue eyes, upturned to mine, were filled with innocent wonder.
I glanced towards the table. As I had expected, de Cartienne was watching us, and I could see that he was straining every nerve to overhear our conversation.
“I think I’m about tired of it, too!” he exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his cards and rising; but Cecil laid his hand on his shoulder and forced him down.
“Nonsense, man! You must play out your hand, at any rate. Then you may leave off as soon as you like.”
de Cartienne resumed his seat with evident reluctance. I bent over Milly again.
“Has anyone else one of those photographs of your father?” I asked. “Is there anyone from whom you could borrow one?”
She shook her head and looked towards the empty frame.
“That was the only one,” she answered.
“Where did he have them taken?”
“At Lawrence’s, just across the way.”
“And when?”
“About nine months ago, I think it was. Why do you ask, Mr. Morton?” she added anxiously.
“I will tell you another time,” I answered, in a low tone.
I glanced towards the table as I said this and was just in time to see de Cartienne bend over towards Cecil and whisper something in his ear. The latter looked round at us at once.
“You two seem to have found something interesting to talk about,” he remarked, glancing towards Milly as though requiring an explanation.
“We haven’t,” she answered, with a sigh.
“Mr. Morton was just asking me—— Oh, Mr. Morton, you’re treading on my foot!”
I withdrew my foot and tried the effect of a warning glance, but it was of no avail.
“Mr. Morton was asking me,” she continued, “whether I had not another of those photographs.”
“And have you—has anyone?” interrupted de Cartienne, fixing his piercing black eyes upon her.
She shook her head.
“No; but perhaps I can get some. They were taken at Lawrence’s and I suppose he has the negative.”
I glanced quickly at de Cartienne. He seemed profoundly uninterested and was trying to build a house of the cards he had thrown down. Either he must be a perfect actor, or my vague suspicions were very ill-founded at that moment. I could not decide which.
“Had enough cards, Cis?” he asked abruptly.
“Not I. We’ll leave you out for a bit, though. Fothergill and I are going to play ecarté.”
de Cartienne shrugged his shoulders and threw himself on the sofa.
“I pity you, then,” he said drily. “You’ll soon see the back of that little pile of winnings. Fothergill’s a bit too good for you.”
“Well, we shall see,” Cecil answered, laughing confidently. “I’m not a bad hand at ecarté myself.”
They began to play. Presently de Cartienne left the room and returned with two glasses in his hand.
“Have a lemon-squash, Morton?” he asked carelessly. “There’s only a drop of whisky in it.”
I accepted, for I was thirsty, and half emptied at a draught the tumbler which he handed me. As I put down the glass I caught a grim smile on de Cartienne’s sallow face. But what it meant I could not tell, although it made me strangely uneasy.
I watched the play for a few minutes and, to my surprise, Cecil was still winning. Then gradually a powerful, overmastering sleepiness crept over me. I tried to stave it off by walking about, by talking to Milly, by concentrating my thoughts upon the play. It was useless. I felt my eyes closing and the sounds and voices in the room grew dimmer and less distinct. For a while I remained in a semi-conscious state—half awake and half asleep—by sheer force of will. But in the end I was conquered. A mist hung before my eyes and all sound died away. I fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXXI.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
When I awoke it was with the dulled senses and aching head which usually follow either a drugged sleep or an unnaturally heavy one. I sat up on the sofa, rubbing my eyes and staring around in blank surprise. Daylight was streaming in through the chinks of the drawn blinds, but the gas was still burning with a dull, sickly light.
The table betrayed all the signs of an all-night orgie. Several packs of cards were lying strewn over the crumpled, ash-scattered cloth. There were half-a-dozen tumblers—one nearly full, another broken into pieces—and several empty soda-water bottles lay on the floor.
But the most ghastly sight of all was Cecil’s face. He sat on a chair drawn up to the table, his chin fallen upon his folded arms, dark rims under his eyes, and without a single vestige of colour in his ashen face. There was no one else in the room.
I sprang to my feet and hurried to his side.
“Cecil! Cecil!” I cried. “What’s the matter, old chap? Wake up, for Heaven’s sake, and tell me what has happened!”
He pulled himself together and struggled to his feet. Then he looked round the room and finally into my anxious face, with an odd little laugh, strained and unnatural.
“I’ve about done it this time,” he said. “By George! Let’s clear out of this before Milly comes down. I shouldn’t like her to know that we’ve been here all night. Poor little girl! She’d never forgive herself for letting us play here at all.”
“Where are the others?” I asked.
“Fothergill has gone back to his hotel and Leonard went with him. I said I’d wake you and we’d follow directly, but I think I must have been dozing.”
“We must go, and at once,” I said, “or we shall never be back before the doctor gets down. Come, Cecil! Don’t tell me anything yet.”
I linked my arm in his and drew him out of the room. We crept softly down the passage and out at the back door. I was afraid to ask him questions and he seemed in no hurry to disclose what had happened, so we hurried along in silence, Cecil baring his head to the strong sea-breeze which blew in our teeth when we had left the town behind us and had all the effect of a strong, invigorating tonic.
At every step I felt my head grow clearer, and, glancing at Cecil, I saw the colour creeping back into his cheeks with every breath he took of the salt air which came sweeping across the sandy, barren country between us and the sea.
When at last we reached our destination and had cautiously made our way up to the back entrance, he hesitated. Opposite to us was the pine-plantation, which led down to the sea, and between the thickly growing black trunks a curious light shone and glistened. I had lived all my life in the country and knew well what it was, but Cecil turned round and watched it with amazement.
“Look, Phil!” he whispered. “What’s that light? It seems as though the plantation were on fire!”
“It’s the sunrise,” I answered. “Shall we go and see it?”
He nodded, and we stole across the lawn, through the wicket-gate and along the narrow, winding path, thickly strewn with dried leaves and fir-cones, down towards the shore. We were just in time to see the final effect. A rim of the sun had already crept into sight, casting brilliant, scintillating reflections upon the dancing waves, and the eastern sky was tinged from the arc of the heavens to the horizon with streaks of brilliantly-hued, fantastically-shaped cloudlets, strewn upon a background of the lightest transparent blue.
Far off the sails of a few fishing-smacks glittered like gossamer wings upon a fairy ocean; and farther away still, where the banks of orange and azure clouds seemed to sink into a blazing sea of polished glass, the white funnel of a passing steamer shone like a pillar of fire.
It was a sight so new to Cecil that he stood spellbound, with a look of wondering awe upon his pale face. And it was not until we had gazed to the full and were retracing our steps in silence through the plantation that I cared to speak of the events of the night.
“Philip,” he said solemnly, when I mentioned the subject, “there’s no one to blame for this night’s work but myself. To do Leonard and that fellow Fothergill justice, they both continually urged me to leave off playing, but I wouldn’t. It seemed as though the luck must change at every deal and so I went on, and on, and on. What a fool I was!”
“And the result?” I asked anxiously.
“I owe Fothergill between six and seven hundred pounds and I haven’t as many shillings.”
I stopped short and looked at him in horror.
“Seven hundred pounds! Why, Cis, how on earth came you to play up to that figure and with a man you know so little of?”
“Oh, the man’s all right—at least, he’s no sharper, if you mean that!” Cecil answered doggedly. “It was my own fault altogether. He’s a better player than I am, and, of course, won.”
“But he ought not to have gone on,” I protested. “I don’t know much about such matters, but I feel sure that a gentleman wouldn’t sit down and win seven hundred pounds from a boy of your age. You’re not eighteen yet, you know, Cis.”
“I don’t quite see what age has got to do with it,” he answered gloomily. “As regards Fothergill, I don’t feel particularly sweet on him just now, as you may imagine; but it wasn’t his fault at all. I made him go on, and, you know, the winner is a great deal in the hands of the loser in a case of that sort. He kept on wanting to go and he went at last. I should have gone on playing till now, I think, if he hadn’t.”
“When does he expect you to settle up?” I asked.
“I’ve got to see him this afternoon. I say, you’ll come down with me, old chap, won’t you?” he pleaded. “I shall have to ask for a little time, of course.”
“Yes, I’ll go with you,” I promised. “How shall you try to raise the money?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he acknowledged gloomily. “I’ve overdrawn my allowance already several hundreds. The mater is as poor as a church mouse and I simply daren’t ask my Uncle Ravenor, though he’s as rich as Crœsus. He might disinherit me.”
We reached the house and stole softly up the back stairs to our rooms. Cecil threw himself, dressed as he was, upon the bed. But I was in no humour for sleep, and after a cold bath I dressed and got downstairs in time for breakfast. To my surprise, de Cartienne was in the morning-room, carefully dressed as usual and with no sign in his appearance or manner of having been out all night. He was chatting lightly with Dr. Randall about some trivial matter connected with the meeting which the latter had attended the previous evening.
“Cecil is late again,” remarked the doctor, with a frown, as we began breakfast. “James, go to Lord Silchester’s room and ask him how long he will be.”
James retired and reappeared in a few minutes with a grave face.
“Lord Silchester desires me to beg you to excuse him this morning,” was the message which he brought back. “He has a very bad headache and has had no sleep.”
Dr. Randall, who was one of the kindest-hearted men breathing, looked compassionate.
“Dear me!” he said. “I’m very sorry to hear that! Certainly we will excuse him. Will he have anything sent up?”
“A cup of tea, sir, only. I have ordered it in the kitchen.”
“Poor fellow! It’s strange how he suffers from these attacks! I’m afraid he can’t be very strong,” remarked the doctor absently, as he buttered himself a piece of toast.
de Cartienne and I exchanged glances, but we said nothing.
Directly after breakfast the doctor took us into the study and we began the morning’s labours. It happened that, in working out a series of algebraic questions, de Cartienne and I used a great deal of paper, and when the doctor looked for a piece to explain the working of a rather stiff quadratic, the rack was empty.
“Have either of you a piece of wastepaper in your pockets?” he asked. “The back of an envelope, or anything will do. I see it is lunch-time, so it is scarcely worth while sending for any.”
I felt in all my pockets, but they were empty. de Cartienne drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the doctor. The moment he had parted with it, however, I saw him give a sudden start and he seemed as though about to make an effort to regain possession of it. But he was too late, for the doctor was already fast covering it with figures.
de Cartienne quitted his seat and stood looking over his shoulder, probably hoping that I should do the same. But I remained where I was, taking care to manifest my interest in the problem by asking frequent questions. The moment the doctor had finished his rapid figuring and solved the equation, I stretched out my hand for it eagerly.
“May I see it, sir?” I begged. “I fancy you’ve made a mistake in the values.”
He handed it across the table at once, with a quiet smile.
“I think not, Morton,” he said. “Examine it for yourself.”
de Cartienne moved round to my side, with nervously twitching lips and an ugly light in his eyes.
“One moment, Morton,” he said. “I won’t keep it longer.”
I laid a hand upon it, and pushed him back with the other.
“My turn first, please. Isn’t that so, Dr. Randall?”
He nodded genially, not noticing the suppressed excitement in de Cartienne’s manner.
“Certainly. I’m glad to find you both so interested in it. Let me know about this mistake at lunch-time, Morton,” he added, smiling. “I’m going for a stroll round the garden now, and I should advise you to do the same. We’ve had a close morning’s work.”
He rose and left the room. de Cartienne watched the door close and then turned to me.
“Morton,” he said quickly, “I want that envelope. There are some memoranda on the reverse side which concern my private affairs. I need not say more, I suppose.”
“Keep your hands to yourself, de Cartienne!” I answered, shaking him off. “I shall not give you the envelope till I have examined it.”
“You cad!” he hissed out, his voice shaking with fury. “How dare you attempt to pry into my private affairs? Give me the envelope, or I’ll——”
“You’ll what?” I answered, standing up, putting the envelope in my pocket and facing him. “Look here, de Cartienne, I’m not going to attempt to justify my conduct to you. On the face of it, it may seem to be taking a mean advantage, but I don’t care a fig about that. I’ve made up my mind what to do, and all the blustering in the world won’t make me alter it. I am going to look at the reverse side of this envelope. You——”
I ceased and with good reason, for, with a sudden, panther-like spring, he had thrown himself upon me, and his slender white fingers were grasping at my throat. It was a brief struggle, but a desperate one, for he clung to me with a strength which seemed altogether out of proportion to his slim body and long, thin arms.
I was in no mood for trifling, however, and, suddenly putting forth all my strength, I seized him by the middle, and sent him backwards, with a crash of fallen furniture, into a corner of the room. Before he could recover himself, I drew out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it.
There was nothing on the reverse side but the address and the postmark. They were quite sufficient for me, however. The postmark was Mellborough and the handwriting was the peculiar, cramped handwriting of Mr. Marx.
CHAPTER XXXII.
FORESTALLED.
For a full minute neither of us moved. Then de Cartienne rose slowly to his feet and walked to the door.
“Here, take this!” I said, holding out the envelope towards him. “The private memoranda upon it may be useful to you.”
He snatched it from my fingers and tore it into atoms. Then he walked quietly away, with an evil look upon his face.
At luncheon Cecil appeared, white as a ghost, and looking anxious and disturbed, as well he might. Dr. Randall was quite uneasy at his appearance, and acquiesced at once when I asked for permission to take him for a drive during the afternoon. de Cartienne sat silent throughout the meal, except for a few sympathising sentences to Cecil, and left the room at the first opportunity.
At three o’clock my dog cart was brought round and Cecil and I drove away. We scarcely spoke until we were in the streets of Drayton, and then, rousing myself, I bade him pluck his spirits up, and assured him vaguely that I would see him through it somehow. He thanked me, but seemed very despondent.
We went to the “Bull,” and inquired for Mr. Fothergill. He was in the coffee-room, we were told, and there we found him lunching.
“So good of you fellows to come and look me up!” he exclaimed, welcoming us cordially. “Waiter, a bottle of Pommery. Don’t shake your head now, Lord Silchester. It’ll do you good. I can see you’re a bit seedy this morning.”
Cecil smiled feebly.
“I’m not quite up to the mark,” he admitted, “Just a bit of a headache—that’s all. I say, Mr. Fothergill,” he went on, plunging at once in medias res, “I’m awfully sorry, but I shan’t be able to settle up with you to-day.”
“Settle up with me!” repeated Mr. Fothergill, putting down his glass untasted, and looking surprised. “I don’t understand you. Settle what up?”
“Why, the money I lost last night,” Cecil explained.
Mr. Fothergill leaned back in his chair and looked into Cecil’s white, anxious face with an astonishment which, if simulated, was certainly admirably done. Then he broke into a little laugh.
“My dear Lord Silchester,” he said energetically, “you can’t for one moment suppose that I expected anything of the sort. Why, I scarcely took our play seriously at all, and I should very much prefer that we said no more about it. Pray don’t be offended,” he added, hastily, for the sensitive colour had flushed into Cecil’s cheeks. “I’ll tell you how we’ll arrange it. You shall give me your I O U’s and pay them just as it is convenient. Any time within the next five or six years will do. But as to taking a sum like that from a b—a man who is not of age—why, it’s absurd! I feel rather ashamed of myself for having been so fortunate.”
A look of intense relief had stolen into Cecil’s face, but the reaction was a little too sudden. He left us abruptly and stood looking out of the window for a minute or two. Then he returned, smiling, and held out his hand to Mr. Fothergill.
“Mr. Fothergill, you’re a brick!” he declared emphatically.
“Not another word, please!” Mr. Fothergill answered, smiling. “Now, look here, Lord Silchester,” he added. “Drink this glass of wine.”
Cecil obeyed him promptly.
“And now you’ll be so good as to have some luncheon with me,” Mr. Fothergill continued. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t believe you’ve eaten anything to-day. Waiter, bring me those other cutlets I ordered and the game-pie, and—yes, I think we might venture on another bottle of wine.”
“Mr. Morton, you must join us. Clever animal of yours—that one outside,” he rattled on lightly; “but I’d have her taken out for an hour, if I were you. It’s too cold for her to be standing about. Shall I ring the ostler’s bell and tell him? And then, if you will, you might drive me down to the station, when you’re ready to go. My train leaves a little before five.”
Whatever my former opinion of Mr. Fothergill had been, I felt bound to change it now. He was showing tact, good-nature, and a decidedly gentlemanly spirit. I had, in truth, eaten very little lunch at Borden Tower and Cecil none at all; and we proceeded to make good the omission.
When, an hour or two later, we left Mr. Fothergill at the station, we were both of one mind concerning him, and we had both promised to accept his cordial invitation to run up to town and see him before long.
On our way home Cecil stopped at the “Rose and Crown,” and went in to make his peace with Milly. I promised to call for him and went on to the photographer’s up the street. Mr. Lawrence appeared at once from a back-room, which, I presume, was the studio, wiping his hands upon a not particularly clean-looking towel.
I paid him in advance for a dozen photographs, promising to come in and have them taken next time I was in the town. Then I explained what was really the purport of my visit: Had he preserved the negative of the photograph which he had taken of Mr. Hart?
Certainly he had, he assured me. I told him about the date and his head and shoulders disappeared into a cupboard. In a few minutes he withdrew them and called out sharply for his assistant.
“Fenton,” he exclaimed angrily, “you’ve been at this cupboard!”
Fenton, who was a tall, ungainly lad of most unprepossessing appearance, shook his head.
“I haven’t been near it, sir!” he declared.
Mr. Lawrence looked incredulous.
“There is a negative missing!” he said sharply; “No one else could have meddled with it!”
“I don’t know anything about it,” the boy answered doggedly. “Perhaps it’s upstairs.”
Mr. Lawrence abandoned his search.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment, sir,” he said, “I’ll have a look among the old ones.”
I nodded and he closed the door and disappeared. Fenton would have gone, too, but I stopped him.
“Look here!” I said quickly; “see this?”
I held out a five-pound note.
He opened his eyes wide and looked at it longingly.
“Well, it’s yours if you’ll tell me what you’ve done with the negative of Mr. Hart’s photograph. Quick!”
He hesitated.
“Should you split to the governor?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, then, I sold it for a sovereign to a young gentleman what inquired for it a few minutes ago. A thin, dark chap he is. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him driving with you.”
I threw him the note and left the place. I had now no doubt about the matter at all. de Cartienne had stolen the photograph of Mr. Hart from the “Rose and Crown,” and had bought the negative. Why?
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A GLEAM OF LIGHT.
After leaving the photographer’s shop, I walked slowly across the little market-place and down the narrow street towards the “Rose and Crown.” My recent discovery had given me a good deal to think about, or rather, had afforded me matter for a variety of wild conjectures, but I could follow none of them to a very satisfactory conclusion. I was like a man groping in the dark. I had stumbled upon several very extraordinary and inexplicable facts; but what connection, if any, they had with one another, or how to link them together, I could not tell.
I have always been somewhat absent-minded and, with my brain in such a whirl, it was not a very remarkable thing that I took a wrong turning. The moment I had discovered it I stopped short and looked round. I was in a little street that led past the back entrance of the “Rose and Crown.” It was scarcely a public thoroughfare.
I had already turned on my heel to retrace my steps, when I saw two figures standing talking at the back door of the inn. One I knew at a glance to be Milly Hart. Her companion was standing with his back to me, a muffler round his neck and his cap slouched over his eyes. In the gloom of the fast-falling twilight I did not at first recognise him; but when he turned round with a start at the sound of my approaching footsteps and withdrew his arm with a sudden movement from around his companion’s waist, something in the motion and figure seemed familiar to me.
My approach seemed to discompose them not a little. Milly stepped back at once into the doorway and disappeared; her companion, without waiting to make any adieu, turned round and walked swiftly away. As he crossed the street to make use of the only exit from it—a narrow passage leading through a court—I had a better view of him. He kept his back to me as much as possible and seemed to be using every endeavour to escape recognition. But although I could not be quite certain, I was pretty sure that it was Leonard de Cartienne—de Cartienne, who never missed an opportunity of sneering at Milly’s innocent blue eyes and baby face.
I turned back, and hurried round to the front entrance of the “Rose and Crown.” In the parlour I found Cecil and Milly sitting very close together upon a sofa.
“Hallo, old chap, you haven’t been long!” remarked Cecil, rising reluctantly.
“I should have been here before,” I answered, looking steadily at Milly, “but I took a wrong turning and got round the back of this place somehow. Saw you, didn’t I, Miss Milly?” I remarked.
She raised her eyebrows and looked at me wonderingly out of her placid blue eyes.
“Me? Oh, no! I have only just come downstairs, have I not, Cecil? It must have been one of the maids.”
Milly and I exchanged a steady gaze, her eyes meeting mine without drooping and her manner betraying only a mild surprise. It was a revelation to me, a lesson which I did not easily forget.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” I said, turning away. “It was rather dark and no doubt I was mistaken. Strange, too; I thought it was de Cartienne with whom you were talking.”
Cecil laughed carelessly.
“My dear fellow, you must have been dreaming,” he said; “de Cartienne has not been here at all.”
“Ready, Cecil?” I asked, abandoning the subject. “I think we’ve kept Bess waiting about long enough.”
“I’ll come,” he replied, drawing on his gloves. “I’ve scarcely had a moment with you, Milly, though, have I? No news?”
She shook her head sadly and the big tears stood in her eyes. There was no mistaking her earnestness now.
“None about my father. My uncle and aunt are coming to stay here. I expect them tonight.”
“Horrid nuisance that is!” remarked Cecil, sotto voce. “Never mind, you won’t be so lonely, little woman, will you? And you won’t have so much to look after. I must take you for a drive as soon as we get a fine, clear day; that’ll bring some colour into your cheeks. Good-bye!”
She came to the door and watched us drive off. Cecil took the reins and I climbed to his side, and, folding my arms, sat for a while in gloomy silence. Then suddenly a gleam of light, or what I hoped might prove so, broke in upon me and I laid my hand upon Cecil’s arm.
“Pull up, old chap—quick!” I exclaimed.
He did so, and looked at me wonderingly.
“Turn round and drive back again as fast as you can,” I said, my voice trembling a little with excitement; “I want to ask Milly Hart a question.”
CHAPTER XXXIV.
DR. SCHOFIELD’S OPINION.
In ten minutes we were in the streets of Little Drayton again, and Cecil had brought the dog cart to a standstill outside the “Rose and Crown.” He would have gone in with me, but I begged him not to. I jumped down and walked straight into the little parlour. Milly was sitting there alone, gazing absently into the fire. She looked up in surprise at my sudden entrance, and half rose.
“Milly, I want to ask you a question,” I said, going up to her side. “It’s about your father’s disappearance.”
“Yes!” she exclaimed eagerly. “What is it? Oh, do tell me quickly!”
“It’s only an idea. Did Mr. Hart ever suffer from any brain disorder at any time? That’s all I want to know. Has his mind always been quite strong?”
She did not answer for a moment and my heart beat fast. Looking at her closely, I could see that the colour had flushed into her cheeks and there was a troubled light in her eyes.
“He has had one or two severe illnesses,” she admitted slowly; “brain fever once; and I’m afraid he used to drink too much now and then. The doctor told him that he must be very careful not to excite himself.”