XXXI
And that was all the other cylinders contained, he thought, with a gleam of satisfaction. Whoever had watched him—and he suspected Arthur Gwyn naturally—had had the same disappointment.
It was in this room that the old monks had stored their ancient music. There was a certain grim humour in the thought of how he had spent his night and the reward for it.
He crossed the road, opened the gate, and went into the field where he had left his car, and stood stock still, petrified with amazement. The car had disappeared!
The tracks were plainly visible. They led through the cutting, along the road toward Willow House. There was nothing to do but to tramp after them. A mile beyond Arthur Gwyn’s residence was Ravensrill Cottage, his own property, he thought with some satisfaction, and a snug retreat where a man could get a hot bath in an hour and a steaming cup of tea in a quarter. The prospect was cheering, for he was wet through, weary and footsore.
The tracks passed the entrance of Willow House and continued on the way to the cottage; and when at last he turned the bend of the road that brought his little country home into view, he saw the car standing before the door. There was no sign of any living creature. He went round the house, searched the tiny plantation to the left, and even descended to the banks of the stream, before he opened the door of his cottage and went in.
He put the key in the lock and, to his surprise, on the pressure of his hand, the door opened. The door which opened into his little dining-room yielded to his pressure before he could turn the key. He gazed, stricken dumb with amazement. A small fire was burning in the grate, on which a kettle was steaming. An open teapot was on the hearth, and somebody had broken open a tin of biscuits. He heard a footstep in the next room and swung round to meet the intruder; and at the sight of him, he dropped the point of his levelled Browning.
“Thomas!” he said, unable to believe his eyes. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Fired this morning,” said the ex-footman curtly.
“This morning? Why, it’s hardly daylight!”
Thomas nodded.
“Alford found me wandering about the house when I ought to have been in bed and asleep,” he said, “and he hoofed me out.”
“But why?”
The man was uncomfortable.
“How do I know why?” he demanded. “That dog never liked me. I think he suspected me of writing to you.”
Gilder knew that this story was a lie, designed to show him under an obligation to this ex-servant. Thomas had been a useful correspondent of his: all that went on at Fossaway Manor had been faithfully recorded for his information.
“You are in trouble. What have you been doing?”
The man pursed his lips.
“Well…” he hesitated, “I may as well tell you the truth. Have you ever heard of Monkey Puttler? Wait a minute, I’ll make the tea.”
He picked up the steaming kettle and filled the pot, and not till he had put it back on the hob did he continue his narrative.
“Monkey Puttler’s a ‘busy.’ Every crook in London knows him, and I know him as well as anybody because he got me three years for a job I did at the Westinghouse Hotel.”
“Burglary?” asked the other, to whom this was news.
“An inside job,” said the other tersely. “You can call it burglary if it gives you any pleasure. Anyway, Monkey caught me and pushed me over the Alps for three long and weary ones. When I came out I got this job. There were pickings to it, too. Chelford isn’t a man who counts his change, and Alford doesn’t dare ask him what he’s done with his money when he comes for more.”
“An ex-convict, eh?” Gilder was slightly shocked and regarded the man from a new angle. “I didn’t know that or I should never have employed you!”
“I had to kid a bit,” confessed Thomas, with a grin.
“You kidded me all right!” replied Gilder.
“Well, I didn’t exactly kid you,” said the other, amused. “But that day when I went to your office and you started cross-examining me about how things were at the Manor with Gwyn, I didn’t see why I shouldn’t earn a few honest dollars.”
“Well? Go on about your friend Monkey—what is his name?”
“Puttler. He came yesterday.”
“To Chelford’s house?” asked Gilder in surprise.
“Yes,” nodded Thomas. “Alford pretended he is an accountant, but he’s a busy all right; I knew him the moment I saw him, and, what’s worse, he knew me. I’d come to Chelford’s service on a false character and I knew my number was up as soon as I saw his ugly phiz. Sure enough, last night Alford gave me notice, told me to clear out to-day. I’ll catch that bird one of these days,” he said, with an ugly look in his face.
“But why this morning?” asked Gilder.
“I was going to tell you,” said the other impatiently. “Chelford keeps a cash box in his library; it’s in the second left-hand drawer, and he’s generally got a wad of stuff there. He’s childish in the matter of money. I knew if I could get my hooks into the stuff I could lift enough to be happy, and leave enough behind so that Chelford couldn’t swear whether I’d had it or not. I got into the library about four this morning, and was going upstairs when Alford spotted me, told me to go up and dress and clear, which I did—he’s got something on his mind, that fellow, he never sleeps!”
“He caught you with the money?” asked Gilder in disgust.
“Not he—I shoved that out of the library window as soon as I got it. I picked it up later.”
“What was Mr. Alford doing, wandering about the house at that hour?”
The man made a grimace.
“You never know when that bird is around,” he said. “He’s not human; I tell you he doesn’t want sleep!”
Though Gilder was certain he was telling the truth, he was equally sure that the man was concealing something. There seemed to him to be gaps in his story, which he bridged readily enough. Wisely he decided that it was not the moment to cross-examine him. On one point he made up his mind. This man and he must part company, and soon.
“Why did you come here?”
“Thought you were in London,” said the other coolly. “I’ve been here before to see you, and I didn’t think you’d mind my using your house for a day or two—maybe a week or two,” he added, his eyes fixed on the other’s face.
Gilder scratched his chin thoughtfully.
“I don’t know that it will do me much good if it’s known that you’re an ex-convict.”
“They needn’t know, why should they?” said the other.
“Did you bring my car here?”
Thomas nodded.
“I was going over to Red Farm first; there’s a groom there who’s a friend of mine. Then I saw your car and thought something had happened to you. I waited for a time, and when you didn’t turn up I brought it along.”
“Did anybody see you?”
“Nobody. It was nearly dark.”
What was the man concealing? The impression that Gilder had—and he was a skilful reader of minds—was that Thomas was bursting with some vital information. Once or twice it had been at the end of his tongue, and he had inhibited the sensation.
“You can stay here if you like; I’m going to town. If I get a letter from the local police saying you’re living in the house, I shall write saying that you have no authority. You understand that I must protect myself?”
“I can understand that, guv’nor.”
Again his lips moved to speak, and again he checked himself.
“What do you want to tell me?”
“It’s too big to tell. I am going to keep it. Maybe if you come down later I’ll spin you a story that’s worth a million dollars.”
Thomas had once spent twelve months in a Canadian penitentiary, and it was his favourite pose that he was an American crook.
“A million dollars—yep!”
XXXII
Gilder poured out the tea, helped himself to biscuits, and, his hunger relieved, went into his room, and from a bureau took a complete change of clothes. The water was too cold for a bath, and he had a rub down with a rough towel as a substitute. He felt another man when shaved and clean and warm. He came back to Thomas, who was smoking a short briar pipe, peering into the fire.
“When you’ve decided to talk, you had better send me a wire—not from Chelfordbury but from Horsham.”
He wrote his address on a page of his notebook, tore it out and gave it to the man, then, cranking up his car, he went back through the dull morning to London.
At ten o’clock he was roused from a heavy sleep to answer the telephone. It was Mary Wenner, and he cursed her under his breath.
“Is that you, Fabe? I’ve been so worried about you all night, my dear. You didn’t go back to that awful place?”
“I’ll come and see you this afternoon,” he interrupted. “Don’t talk on the telephone: people can hear.”
“Fabe, dear”—there was a real note of anxiety in her voice—“you didn’t go back and get any of that gold, did you? I know you’re awfully brave, but I wouldn’t have you risk your life for the world.”
“No, I didn’t get any gold,” he said.
“Oh!” she replied, and in that “Oh!” was disappointment and annoyance. “It wasn’t so bad for you, a man,” she said, with some asperity in her tone. “Here I’ve been laying in bed all night thinking of you, and worrying about you——”
“I will see you this afternoon,” he rasped, and hung up on her.
He had no intention of seeing her that afternoon or any other afternoon, but in this matter his will was not the determining factor. Soon after tea, when he was preparing to go out, she walked into his dining-room unannounced. What she had told his servants, he shuddered to think. She passed swiftly across to him, stooped and kissed him chastely on the brow, and then seated herself by his side.
“Dear,” she said, and he closed his eyes patiently, “do you mind if I do something that seems a teeny-weeny bit deceitful?”
“I don’t mind——” he began.
“But this is something which affects your honour, dear.” Her sober eyes were fixed on his. “You must never think I’m not faithful to you and all that sort of thing, but he’s written to me such a pleading letter——”
“Who has written?” he asked, suddenly interested.
“Arthur. I’ve also had a letter from his sister; she wants me to go down and spend the week-end with them, and of course I’d much rather stay up here with you. But I feel I ought to have it out with Arthur and let him know that my affections are no longer his. After all, even if we didn’t get the fortune, I know that I’m dealing with a gentleman who doesn’t want me for my money alone. And you’re not exactly a pauper, are you, dear? I went and asked a young gentleman I know at Stubbs’ Agency, and they told me that you were worth at least a hundred thousand pounds.”
Gilder groaned.
“And I have your promise, in writing.”
“Yes, you’ve got everything, my dear Mary,” he said wearily.
“And, Fabe, dear, such a curious thing happened about that paper. When I took it from under my pillow this morning what do you think? All the writing had disappeared! You could have knocked me down with a feather.”
He stirred uneasily in his chair.
“That is most extraordinary,” he found words to say.
“I was so upset about it that I took it to a gentleman friend of mine, who’s in the conjuring business. You’ve probably seen him: he takes rabbits out of paper bags, and he says that you must have used invisible ink, and he showed me how to bring the writing back and make it permanent.”
“And did you?” asked Gilder hollowly.
“Why, of course I did, dear. You just squeeze a lemon, rub it over the paper and hold it in front of the fire.”
Gilder’s head reeled. All he could say was “Oh!” This was awkward—very awkward; but it was a difficulty that might easily be surmounted. At the worst he could buy her off for a thousand, and the promise of marriage was contingent.… Still it was a very unpleasant document to be produced even in a breach of promise case; for, strong in the faith of the invisible quality of his ink, he had made an agreement which was very damaging to himself.
“Are you going to stay with the Gwyns?”
“I think so, dear.” The hesitation was assumed, he knew; she had already made up her mind. “I really think that I ought to go. Arthur, of course, is a very old friend, and although he’s nothing to me, any more than the dirt beneath my feet, and I should no more think of throwing myself at his head than I should of flying to the moon—well, I feel I ought to go.”
“Then, for heaven’s sake, go!” he said curtly, and she murmured her thanks, and would have lingered on, but he accompanied her to the door and opened it very pointedly.
He gathered that, whilst she held him to his promise, she had not altogether lost hope of bringing Arthur Gwyn to heel.
She had hardly left the place before a telegraph boy arrived. Gilder was expecting a wire from one of his bookmaking businesses, now in process of liquidation, since their only client had passed from active operations. The telegram was addressed from a village five miles from Chelfordbury and ran:
Get down here as fast as you can. Big news for you.
It was signed “T.”
Would Thomas talk? And what had he to say?
XXXIII
The groom who brought Dick Alford’s horse to the door had a report to make.
“That fellow was seen last night, sir.”
“Which fellow is this?” asked Dick, as he swung into the saddle.
“The Black Abbot, sir. Gill, the gamekeeper up at Long Meadow Cottage, saw him at four o’clock this morning walking through the long meadow. By the time Gill got his gun he’d vanished.”
“And what was the Black Abbot doing in the Long Meadow?” asked Dick sardonically. “Picking buttercups?”
“It’s rather late for buttercups, sir,” said the unimaginative groom. “But Gill says that if he’d had his gun he’d have taken a pot at him.”
“And there would have been an inquest, and the best Gill could hope for would be a verdict of justifiable homicide. You can tell Gill from me that the Black Abbot is to be tackled—by hand! A live ghost will tell us a lot, but a dead ghost is practically useless as an information bureau.”
He cantered through the home meadows, behind the house, and, avoiding the Abbey ruins, rejoined the winding Ravensrill. Setting his horse at a walk, he followed the bank of the stream, his mind so completely occupied by the events of the past twenty-four hours that he would have passed unnoticed the girl who was lying face downward on the opposite bank.
It was a glorious morning, warm and sunny. The sky was an unblemished blue, the world was bathed in yellow radiance. Overhead, a flight of migratory birds were moving southward, and the faint chatter of them came down to him.…
“Good-morning, Sir Galahad!”
He reined up his horse and looked round in bewilderment. Presently he saw her.
“Good-morning, Guinevere!” he said, and, turning his horse’s head to the stream, he came gingerly down the slope and sent the reluctant horse into the water.
“Be careful!”
“There’s a ford here,” he said. “In fact,” as he emerged with his horse’s girth dripping, “this is the original Chelford. Knights in armour, and probably Britons in feathers and woad, have crossed Ravensrill at this spot. What on earth are you doing?”
He slipped to the ground, dropping the reins, and allowed his mount to forage at will. She was lying now at full length, but resting on her elbows. Immediately beneath her face was a slab of rock in the centre of which a hole some eighteen inches in diameter had been worn. When he saw this he laughed softly.
“Leslie, what questions have you to ask the Wishing Well?”
Why it was called the Wishing Well he had never learnt—no water had ever risen from that deep cavity which, by some freak of nature, extended to unplumbed depths. Yet here, generations of country swains had come to prostrate themselves and bellow into the cavity the burden of their hearts’ desire. And tradition had it that the well answered them clearly and intelligibly.
“I’m asking about me.” Her face was pink, probably from her unusual posture.
“And what said the well?” he mocked.
She scrambled to her knees and pushed back the hair from her forehead.
“I’ll not tell you. Ask something!”
With a growl and a groan he stretched himself on the warm grass and, hollowing his hands, roared into the crevice:
“What is going to happen to Leslie?”
They waited, and then the echo came back, queerly distorted yet distinct.
“Marry her!”
They laughed together. It was the trick of some hollow place below that through the ages had sent back the same reply to every question.
He got up to his feet.
“I wish you wouldn’t wander around without my escort,” he said seriously, and she laughed.
Never had he seen her looking more beautiful than that morning. She was a thing of air and sunlight, a baffling unreality that did not belong to the sordid world in which he was living.
“I got up early and was bored, so I went walking, and then I thought of the well and wondered whether it had learnt any new tricks. Arthur’s very conscious of his eye and he won’t go out until his face is normal. Poor Arthur!” She hesitated, looking at him. “You haven’t found——” She did not finish the sentence.
“The gentleman who did the shooting? No, but we have a pretty shrewd idea. By the way, I have fired Thomas. You remember that hang-dog footman who was always near at hand when he shouldn’t have been?”
“What has he done?” she asked.
“Nothing particular. He is an ex-convict: Puttler recognized him as soon as he arrived; and I found him at three o’clock this morning coming out of the library and made him turn out his pockets. He had no very considerable sum of money in his possession, but the chances are that he had cached it. Poor old Harry is such a slacker in the matter of keeping accounts that it will be almost impossible to secure a conviction. Of course, Thomas swore the money we found—not a large amount—was his, and as it meant a fuss in waking up Harry, who I am perfectly sure could have given us no information, we allowed the brute to get away with it.”
“Where is he now?”
“Thomas? I expect he caught the first train for London. I don’t suppose he’ll be applying for a job in the neighbourhood, but to be on the safe side you had better tell your brother.”
There was a moment of silence, then she asked:
“Did you find the rifle?”
He shook his head.
“It was an army rifle, but there isn’t such a thing at Fossaway Manor, though there are plenty in the village. In fact, nearly a dozen of our people working on the estate are Territorials. Puttler says that a poacher’s gang was responsible.”
Dick was a poor liar, but Leslie suspected nothing and did not question this theory. If she had, she might have pointed out that poachers use shotguns and snares, and that the rifle as an instrument for the destruction of game was about as valuable as a steam-hammer for tacking down carpets.
They walked across the field toward Willow House, Dick leading his horse.
“I want you to make me a promise, Leslie,” he said.
“What is it?” she asked, knowing before he spoke what it would be.
“I want you to promise me not to take these early morning walks, to use your car and to keep to the roads.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Why? Surely there is no danger? You’re not afraid of the Black Abbot?”
But he did not answer her smile.
“No,” he said. “I’m not afraid especially of the Black Abbot, but I’m very much afraid of the something that is behind the Black Abbot.”
She knew that he did not wish to be questioned further, and changed the subject. She had a visitor coming, she told him, and only when she told him who it was, did his eyes twinkle.
“Good Lord! That lady? I suppose you realize you’re harbouring a dangerous rival?”
“Don’t be horrid, Dick. The poor girl was very fond of Harry, and in the letter she wrote to me she told me that she hoped I wouldn’t be embarrassed by her coming——”
“She would say that,” said Dick grimly.
“—and that she had almost forgotten Harry’s stupid infatuation.”
Dick stopped to laugh.
“Can you beat that?” he asked, with tears in his eyes. “Jumping snakes! ‘Harry’s stupid infatuation’! Well, I won’t be ungenerous.”
“Don’t,” she warned him. “I’m rather sorry for the girl.”
“Don’t,” he mimicked. “You need never be sorry for Mary. If you keep her off the subject of me, you’ll have a very pleasant week-end. But in the matter of Richard Alford she is a fanatic. I won’t tell you the horrid things she says of me, because it would prejudice you against her.”
“How do you know?” she challenged. “Quite a number of people say horrid things about Richard Alford.”
“Not to you,” he said quietly, and she flushed and again changed the subject.
“I don’t know why I’m up so early; I didn’t go to bed till two.”
“It was ten minutes past two when your light went out,” he said promptly, and she stared at him.
“How do you know?”
“I happened to be passing your house.”
He was in such a hurry to explain that she was suspicious.
“The Black Abbot was about last night. Puttler and I did a little ghost-hunting.”
“Did you see him?”
He shook his head.
“Nobody saw him except a terrified gamekeeper.”
Suddenly she turned to him with a little gasp of surprise.
“It was you!” she accused.
“What was me?”
“I am sure I saw somebody at the lower end of the drive. You were smoking a cigar: I could see the little red glow; and at first I thought it was Harry, and this morning I found the end of the cigar near the lodge gates—Richard Alford, do you ever sleep?”
“Frequently,” he said, with a smile, and put his arm round her shoulder. “I’m being brotherly: take no alarm,” he mocked her. “Leslie, dear, will you promise?”
“What?” she asked.
“Not to wander through the fields at odd hours. I don’t want to alarm you—I feel a brute as it is—but there may be real danger for the next day or two. Please don’t ask me what it is, because I can’t tell you; I’m not so sure that I know.”
She turned this over in her mind for a long time.
“Has it to do with the Chelford treasure?” she asked, and, to her surprise, he nodded.
XXXIV
In sight of her house he left her, and, remounting his horse, cantered away. She watched him until a bend of the road hid him from view, and then with a little sigh she walked slowly toward her home.
What was the mystery? She had never taken the Black Abbot very seriously, believing that the apparition had its origin in a stupid practical joke carried out by a villager with a histrionic bent. The legend she knew; Dick had told her, and Harry, who kept alive all the legends of the family, had described in detail the eight-hundred-year-old murder. But how was the Black Abbot affecting her? And what was the meaning of this close guard that Dick Alford was keeping on her? She had no doubt that it was he who was watching the house in the early hours of the morning.
In the night she had reached a momentous decision. It had been made after long thought and heart-searching, and she would have given everything to have had the courage to tell Dick that morning. But in that bright, sunlit world she was averse to hurting him. But would he be hurt? Her life’s future hung on that question.
She had been dimly conscious that a man was standing before the gate of Willow House. She had seen him when she was some distance away, and now, as she drew near, she had a feeling that he was waiting to speak to her. He was tall and wearing an ill-fitting gray suit and a golf cap; from his lips drooped a limp cigarette. He took his hands out of his pockets as she came near and touched his cap, and then she recognized the ill-favoured Thomas, the ex-footman.
“Good-morning, miss,” he said.
“Good-morning, Thomas.”
She viewed with more interest than she had done heretofore the lank, awkwardly made man.
“I wonder if I can have a word with you, miss?”
She hesitated.
“I am afraid I can do nothing for you, Thomas,” she said. “Mr. Alford tells me he has discharged you.”
He forced a grin.
“Mr. Alford never did like me, miss,” he said. “I’ve been falsely accused, and I’m going to see my lawyer when I get to town. One minute, miss,” he said hastily, as she was opening the gate. “I could tell you something that would be worth a lot to you.”
Her gray eyes fixed him in a steady stare.
“You can tell me nothing that would be of the slightest value, Thomas——” she began.
“Oh, couldn’t I!” His head went up and down in a succession of nods. He was ludicrously like a nodding mandarin she had on her writing table. “You don’t know what I know. I could tell you something, and I could tell Mr. Gwyn something that nobody don’t know. People talk about the Chelford treasure——”
“I don’t want to hear any more,” she said, and, turning, walked up the drive.
For a moment he glared after her as though he contemplated following, but thought better of it, and, lighting the cigarette which had gone out, he slouched back to his borrowed home. And then an idea occurred to him. Beyond the low wooden fence was a thick belt of laurels. If one of his plans were carried out and he had to make a quick exit from Chelfordbury, it might be worth while to reconnoitre this house. He jumped over the fence and made a cautious progress through the bushes.…
“Who’s that you were speaking to, Leslie?” Arthur Gwyn was lying in a deck chair on the lawn, his eye covered with a piece of white lint.
“Thomas,” she said.
“The footman from Fossaway? What did he bring—a message?”
“No, he’s been discharged,” she said as she passed him. “Dick suspects him of stealing, and he sent him about his business this morning.”
“Have you seen Dick, then?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes, I met him; he was riding over to see the miller.” She lingered at the back of the chair.
“You always seem to be meeting that fellow,” he mused, with a frown. “It is ‘Dick this’ and ‘Dick that.’ Do you think it’s wise, Leslie, playing with fire and all that sort of thing? You never tell me you meet Harry——”
“Harry never comes out of his library,” she said with a smile, “and it’s difficult to miss Dick if you’re out of doors. Not that I’ve ever tried to miss him.”
He took out his cigarette and looked at it thoughtfully, his lips pursed.
“Dick’s a good fellow,” he said again, “and it is unnecessary for me to remind you that he is a second son, and as poor as a church mouse. Yes, Leslie, I’m going to insist on that poverty. After all, you’re not marrying a pauper in Harry. And I tell you frankly that it is necessary that you should marry a rich man!”
The truth was coming—she braced herself to meet it.
“Who will also take my fortune on trust,” she said quietly. “If I married Dick, who is a business man, he might ask to see my bonds and shares——”
A tense moment of silence, then:
“There are no bonds or shares!”
He had to set his teeth to make his confession. He could not see her face; he dared not look round or meet her eyes.
“There are no bonds or shares?” she repeated slowly. “Then what I said in the car was right? I am penniless!”
XXXV
The truth was out. Leslie stood rigidly behind her brother, looking down on him.
“I am penniless!” she repeated.
He had to wet his dry lips before he could speak.
“I’ve been trying to work up courage to tell you this for a long time,” he said. “I’m a coward—a cur! You have a few thousand pounds that I couldn’t handle, but every other penny of your fortune I have spent!” His voice was hoarse, scarcely recognizable. “You’ll have to know this sooner or later; you might as well know it now. I don’t know what you’ll think of me. I’d like to say that I didn’t care, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I’ve gambled away a quarter of a million, and I’m as near to bankruptcy and ruin as makes no difference.”
He pulled the lint bandage from his eye and got up and faced her. Save for the discolouration of his cheek, he was white as chalk.
“I’d no intention of telling you,” he said in a low voice, “but you piqued me into it, and I’m glad it’s over.”
Raising his eyes to hers, he did not see the look of condemnation he expected. There was neither contempt nor consternation in her face. The red lips were curved in a half-smile, and in her eyes was nothing but kindliness and pity.
“Thank God!” she said in a low voice, and he could not understand her.
“This means, of course, that Chelford will have to take you without a fortune,” he said.
She shook her head.
“I have already written to Harry, breaking off my engagement,” she answered him. And then her arm slipped into his. “Let us go in to breakfast,” she said. “This is one of the happiest days of my life.”
The letter came to Harry Alford, Earl of Chelford, with two or three other personal letters; his main correspondence was with London booksellers, for he was a restless collector of ancient tomes. He looked at the letter, recognizing the handwriting, frowned, and turned it over. Then, with some evidence of annoyance, he slit the flap.
Dear Harry:
I have thought for a long time that we have so little in common that a marriage between us could not possibly lead to happiness for either of us. I suppose the correct thing to do would be to send back my engagement ring, but fortunately or unfortunately, you forgot to present me with this token! I wish you every happiness, and I hope that we shall still be good friends.
Harry read the letter, rubbed his forehead in perplexity, then, rising from his chair, almost ran from the library. Dick was on the lawn, playing with his dog, when his brother burst into the little study.
“I say, look at this! What do you think of it?”
Dick read the letter with a troubled face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Sorry!” said Harry shrilly. “It’s disgraceful! I shall look a perfect fool! Leslie’s treated me very badly indeed—but that reference to the engagement ring is in shocking bad taste.”
“I thought you’d given her one,” said the patient Dick. “Didn’t you?”
“It is a barbarous and stupid practice. I never dreamt of giving her a ring. Why should I? She had a ring, a beautiful one. You must have seen it—a diamond that she always wears. What is the sense of it? The reference is in very bad taste—shocking!”
And yet, in spite of his agitation and anger, Dick thought he detected relief in his brother’s voice. But his vanity had been hurt, and that is a sore place with many men of greater calibre than Lord Chelford.
“Without any warning.… She was here yesterday, but said not a word about it!”
“You hardly gave her a chance,” said Dick. “You scarcely spoke to her, and really, Harry, you took no trouble to entertain her. Be reasonable.”
Harry fondled his chin and glared through the thick lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles.
“I suppose not,” he said, with sudden mildness. “But, really, I’m not a marrying man. I want no more than my books and my mission. But I’m going to look a fool over this business, Dick.” His anger was rising again. “Everybody in the county knows we’re engaged, and they’ll come prying around to discover what is wrong. We shall have those beastly newspaper men sitting on the front step, and that is more than I can endure!”
“Then let them come to me,” said Dick. “I’ll give them all the explanation they need, and they’ll be sorry they asked. As for newspaper men—I eat ’em alive!”
Still his brother was not wholly mollified.
“What made her do it? Do you think she’s found somebody else she likes better?” He peered at Dick in his short-sighted way. “That would make it even worse. I’m very annoyed with Arthur Gwyn. He threw this girl at me——”
“Don’t let us talk about it,” said Dick sharply. “It isn’t a very dignified attitude to take.”
His brother looked at the letter dubiously.
“What am I to do?”
“Write a charming letter, freeing her,” said Dick. “You can do no less.”
“But do you think she’s got another man in her eye?” demanded Harry.
“She has probably a dozen,” said the other brutally. “Do as I tell you, Harry.”
And Harry Chelford went grumbling back to the library.
So she had done it! Dick hardly knew whether to be elated or depressed. A week ago he would have been the happiest man in England; to-day… he shrugged his broad shoulders, pulled his pipe from his pocket, and savagely stuffed tobacco into the bowl. This would mean a break, for a time, at any rate, between the Gwyns and Harry, and there arose an alarming thought. Suppose Harry transferred his legal business to another firm? That would mean ruin for Arthur Gwyn. Dick had so far been able to cover up the defalcations of Leslie Gwyn’s brother, and in a few months he could have obliterated all trace without hurt to the estate. But at this stage, if Harry insisted——
“His lordship would like to see you, sir.” The second footman had come up unnoticed behind him.
Dick steeled himself for the interview and went in. His brother was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands, his hair rumpled, and an angry frown puckering the white skin of his forehead.
“Dick, I’m going to cut out these Gwyns,” he said. “I want you to ask your lawyers to take over from Arthur, and tell them to be deuced careful and check every item. That fellow handles my mother’s estate, and roughly I think he must have nearly fifty thousand pounds in securities. If there’s a penny missing, Dick, I’ll jail the fellow—I will, by God! He’s made a fool of me before all the county, and if I get half a chance I’m going to get back on him.”
Dick’s heart sank.
“What lawyers do you suggest?”
“Sampson & Howard. They’re good people and they’re not too friendly with Arthur. Will you take that in hand, Dick?”
Dick Alford nodded. As soon as he could escape from his brother’s presence, he went round to the garage and, taking out his car, drove to Willow House. Arthur was still on the lawn, walking up and down, and from his attitude of depression Dick gathered that something unusual had happened. Possibly he had been told about the breaking off of the engagement. But here he attributed the wrong cause.
“I want to see you, Gwyn.”
Arthur Gwyn started and turned at the sound of the voice.
“Hullo!” he said awkwardly. “Does Harry know?”
Dick nodded.
“And he’s very angry, I suppose?”
“He is rather furious. That’s what I’ve come to see you about. Where is Leslie?”
“She’s in the house. Do you want her?”
“No,” said Dick quietly. “I want to talk with you. Come for a walk with me.”
They strolled out of all possibility of earshot from the house, and then:
“Harry has decided to take the legal management of the estate out of your hands, Gwyn,” he said. “He spoke to me this morning of some funds that you’re handling—about fifty thousand pounds’ worth of stock from the late Lady Chelford’s estate. Is that money intact?”
Arthur did not answer.
“Is that money intact?” asked Dick again.
“No,” said the other huskily; “not a penny of it.”
Dick stared at the man in horror.
“You mean the money is lost?”
Arthur nodded.
“Yes, I was persuaded to put it into an oil-field in Texas. The shares are not worth two cents a thousand.”
Dick groaned.
“Oh, you fool, you cussed fool!” he muttered. “Don’t you realize what this means? I can’t cover you up now, not even for Leslie’s sake. You madman!”
Arthur Gwyn passed his hand wearily over his eyes.
“What is the use of ragging me?” he asked plaintively. “I’ve been expecting this trouble, and have lived under the shadow of it for years. I’ll have to take my medicine.”
“And Leslie?” asked Dick sternly. “What of her? Has she to take your medicine, too?”
The man’s pallid face was distorted painfully.
“Don’t talk about Leslie, for God’s sake!” he said. “That’s the worst of it. I’m not scared of Dartmoor or bankruptcy or anything. Leslie’s the only fear I have.”
“Can you raise the money?”
Arthur gave a harsh little laugh.
“Raise it? How do you think I can raise fifty thousand?”
“You have no friends?”
The lawyer’s lips curled.
“Not fifty thousand pounds’ worth,” he said curtly. “No, I’m afraid, Alford, I’ve got to go through with it. I’ve been a blackguard, a vain, stupid fool—I’ve asked for all that is coming to me and I shall not squeal.”
Dick was silent, going over the problem that this horrible situation presented. Arthur could go to prison and stay there for the rest of his life, for all he cared… but Leslie: this would break her heart.
“There is one thing I want you to promise me——” he began, as he foresaw one possible solution which might present itself to Arthur’s mind.
The lawyer smiled and nodded.
“You can trust me,” he said. “I’ve got some sort of religion tucked away inside my system. Self-destruction is not my idea of a gentleman’s solution. I tell you I’ll stand up to anything that comes, and I’m not going to blow my brains out and leave a coroner’s jury of yokels and carpenters to discuss my private affairs and probe into my iniquities. When will the transfer take place?”
“We’ve got a week yet,” said Dick. “I can hold it up for that long; but once the papers are in the hands of the other lawyers, nothing can save you.”
A week! Arthur Gwyn pinched his lower lip in meditation. Seven days. So far as he was concerned, if he had seven years to make reparation he could not see daylight.
“And get out of your mind that you’re going to find the Chelford treasure,” said Dick, and the shock made the man jump.
“Why, how do you know——” he stammered.
“I know all about that. I tell you that you can cut it out. That isn’t a solution. It’s only robbing Peter to pay Peter; for if there is any gold—and heaven knows I doubt it—it belongs to Harry and must go to Harry. What about Leslie’s fortune? Of course that is non-existent. Does she know?”
“I told her this morning,” said the man, and now Dick understood his depression. “She took it like a brick; in fact, she seemed almost happy about it. And why, I can’t for the life of me understand. Women are queer things.”
“I know one woman who is the most wonderful thing in the world,” said Dick softly.
He did not wait to see Leslie, but left as hurriedly as he came, and the man who had been lying at full length beneath the laurel bushes waited till the two men had disappeared, and then crawled painfully and carefully back to the road, mounted the wall, and stepped out for the nearest telegraph office to send his news.
XXXVI
Mr. Gilder arrived at his cottage in the evening and found his “tenant” sitting on the doorstep smoking a pipe. Fortunately, the cottage was in the middle of a thin plantation of trees, and the river at the back made an approach from that direction impossible. Nevertheless, Mr. Gilder was alarmed at the lack of precaution the man showed.
“If you’re going to stay here you’ve got to keep inside the house. I tell you I don’t want people to know that you’re living here. Now, what is the big news?”
“Come inside,” said Thomas, with a grin, and his host felt that the invitation into his own house was a little superfluous.
Thomas was not a good story-teller, and it was with many “You see what I mean’s” and at inordinate length that he unravelled his tangled narrative.
“I’d been hanging round the house all the morning. I wanted to have a talk with the young lady——”
“What about?” demanded the other.
“About a certain thing——”
“Now, see here, Thomas: you’re not to speak to Miss Gwyn—do you understand? You’re not to approach her and you’re not to go anywhere near the house.”
“Well, it’s not a bad thing that I was there this morning,” grinned Thomas. “Because I heard something that will make you jump!”
It took half-an-hour for him to repeat, with more or less accuracy, the conversation he had heard on the lawn. When he came to the vital point, Mr. Gilder whistled.
Arthur Gwyn had managed the Chelford estate without his assistance, and Gilder was as ignorant of the particulars of the property as if it were in some other office.
“Fifty thousand, eh?” he mused. “Well, that’s more than Arthur Gwyn will collect in a hurry.”
“That’s what he said himself,” said Thomas. “He said to Alford: ‘Friends? Well, I haven’t got fifty thousand pounds’ worth’—those were his very words. He said, ‘I’ll go to Dartmoor, and that doesn’t worry me. What worries me is Leslie.’ ”
“Did you hear when the transfer was to be completed—I mean, when the stocks were to be handed over to the other lawyers?”
“In a week,” said Thomas. “Mr. Alford said, ‘I can hold it up for a week but I can’t keep it any longer. And once those papers are in the other bloke’s hands, your name is mud.’ ”
Fifty thousand pounds! Gilder paced up and down the narrow room, his hands behind him.
“You say that the engagement with his lordship is broken off?”
“He didn’t say so,” said the man, “but that’s how I took it. He said ‘Was Harry very annoyed?’ That’s his lordship. And Alford said ‘Yes, and he’s going to change his lawyers.’ And he said, ‘What about Leslie’s fortune?’——”
“Call her Miss Gwyn, will you?” interrupted Gilder roughly.
“He didn’t say Miss Gwyn, he said ‘Leslie.’ But to oblige you I’ll say Miss Gwyn,” said Thomas. “He said, ‘What about Miss Gwyn’s fortune? Is that gone?’ And Gwyn said, ‘Yes, every penny.’ ”
This was no news to Gilder—Arthur had told him as much.
“And here, Mr. Gilder—the Black Abbot was around last night. I’ve got an idea about him! His lordship’s scared to death of the Black Abbot. Did you know that?”
“Don’t talk to me about the Black Abbot!” snapped the man. He wanted to work this thing out, and the chatter of his guest disturbed him. “You keep inside and out of sight. I think you’d better go to London to-night. You’ve got money?”
“I’ve got a bit of money. I was a fool! There’s an old-fashioned diary in that library that his lordship would give a couple of thousand pounds to get back, and I had it in my hand! That is the thing I ought to have pinched.”
“And if it was found on you, you’d have been in prison. As it was, you had taken money and you got away with it.”
This point of view had not struck the ex-convict before.
“That’s true,” he agreed. “Lord! what a headpiece you’ve got, Mr. Gilder! If I had your brains——”
But Mr. Gilder was not in a mood for flattery.
“I’ve got an idea,” Thomas went on, unconscious of the distraction he was causing. “Let me go up to London to-night and come down to-morrow.”
But Gilder did not hear him. Fifty thousand pounds! And for that price he could buy—Leslie Gwyn! His pulse quickened at the thought. There were no “ifs” or “buts.” She would gladly make that sacrifice for her brother’s sake. This time he had them all in the hollow of his hand: Leslie, Arthur Gwyn, and last, but not least in dislike, Dick Alford.
Mentally he reviewed his financial position. He had considerably more than a hundred thousand pounds in gilt-edged securities, which were easily realizable—or transferable. He had house property in the north of London, and a fairly large fluid balance at the bank. And he was fifty. There were fifteen years of life ahead of him—fifteen happy years. How could he better use his money than in buying happiness? The life companionship of that fragrant thing, and afterward a will whereby she lost all interest in his property if she married again—Mr. Gilder thought a long way ahead. And his marriage would be a knife in the heart of the Second Son, for he guessed Dick Alford’s secret.
He saw his way now; the plan was foolproof and invincible. Nothing stood between him and the realization of what had once been a wild and foolish hope.
“A week? You’re sure of that?”
Thomas nodded. His cunning eyes had not left Gilder’s face. Unconscious of the curious scrutiny, Fabrian asked:
“Why do you think this news is interesting to me?”
The man grinned and closed his right eye in a significant wink.
“Didn’t you ask me to tell you how often the young lady went to Fossaway Manor? Didn’t you tell me to write everything that happened between her and his lordship?”
Gilder was silent.
It was not a comfortable thought that he had employed such a man as this to watch the girl he loved.
“You’d better keep close here,” he said. “I don’t want you to be seen by the villagers or by the people from Fossaway Manor. Does anybody know you’re here?”
“No, sir. Not even Miss Gwyn: she never asked——”
Gilder interrupted him brusquely.
“If you’re going to town, go by night, and come back by night. I’m not so sure that it won’t be a good idea to stay here after all.”
He got back to London late in the evening and spent the night in a strict examination of his finances. He had dismissed from his mind all thoughts of the Chelford treasure. Mary Wenner had certainly justification for her confidence. He himself had been deceived when he had looked through the grating and seen those cylinders neatly arranged on the stone bench. Who had moved them—the Black Abbot? There must be some explanation for him. But he had his own ideas on the subject, and the moment had not yet arrived when he could test his theory.
The next morning he spent in the City and at Somerset House, examining the will of the late Lady Chelford. Her legacies were set forth in detail, and the character of the shares and stocks with which Arthur Gwyn had been entrusted were particularized, and John Henry Gwyn, Arthur’s uncle, named as trustee. A search of the court files failed to reveal any successor to Arthur’s uncle, and apparently no trustee had been appointed, the stocks being left in Arthur’s care. He would of course have authority to sell and reinvest, and there would be no trouble if shares of a corresponding value were handed over to Harry Chelford’s new solicitors.
* * *
Arthur Gwyn had spent a very busy day in the seclusion of his study. His task was not a pleasant one: he was putting in order the chaos of his affairs, and as the list of his liabilities grew, he himself seemed to grow older.
He had interrupted his work only to lunch with his sister, and Leslie, who thought that the cause of his distress was her vanished fortune, did her best to cheer him. His first act had been to gather on paper the remnants of her vanished quarter of a million, and the remnant was pitiably small, amounting to less than two thousand pounds. He told her this at lunch.
“But that’s really a much larger amount than I expected, Arthur,” she smiled. “We shall be able to live for two years on that.”
It was in his mind to say that he would possibly be living for five years on less, but he wanted to avert that news until it was inevitable that she should know.
At five o’clock she was having tea in solitary state when the maid brought her a card. She had not heard the arrival of the visitor’s motor car, for the drawing-room was at the back of the house. She took the card and read it.
“I don’t think I want to see this gentleman,” she said. “Will you ask Mr. Gwyn——”
And then she remembered the struggle on the lawn and Arthur’s damaged eye.
“Yes, I’ll see him,” she said. “Ask him to come in.”
Gilder was dressed as for an official visit. He carried a glossy silk hat, an incongruous sight in the country, in his gloved hand; his morning coat sported a large yellow rose; his patent shoes shone violently. Before he came to Willow House he had called at his own cottage to refresh his memory on one or two points, but the house was empty. Thomas had evidently gone up to town, as he had said he would. At first he was annoyed, but later he was glad that the man was not there. After all, he knew enough, more than enough for the comfort of Leslie Gwyn.
She met him with a distant little bow.
“I’m afraid you will not regard me as a welcome visitor, Miss Gwyn,” he said; “but I have a little business to discuss with you, and I should be grateful if you would give me a few minutes of your time.”
“Will you sit down, please?” she said coldly.
He was gazing at her with that queer, hungry look she had seen in his face before.
“I understand your engagement with Lord Chelford is broken off?” And, when she did not answer: “It was partly that which brought me here, and partly something much more serious—something,” he said, with distinct deliberation, “which affects you very closely, Miss Gwyn.”
He paused, expecting a reply, but received none. She sat bolt upright in one of the deep chairs that abounded in the room, her hands folded lightly on her lap, her gaze fixed on his.
“I was, as you probably know, for many years your brother’s right-hand man. In consequence, I have a very intimate knowledge of his affairs; and not only his affairs but the affairs of his clients. I know, for example, that your large fortune is mythical.”
If he had expected to shock her he was disappointed. She nodded slightly.
“I know that also, Mr. Gilder,” she said. “I hope you haven’t made this long journey to tell me this?”
For a second he was staggered. He had expected his announcement to be the first of two tremendous sensations; she saw the disappointment in his face and could have smiled.
“There is another matter,” he said, recovering himself, “which does not directly affect you. Your brother administered the estate of the late Lady Chelford, in the sense that he had in his charge stocks and bonds to the value of fifty-one thousand pounds. That is quite usual in an old-fashioned lawyer’s business, but to-day of course the stocks would be in the hands of the bank, and the dividends automatically credited.”
Her heart nearly stopped beating. He saw the colour fade from her face and was very sure of himself.
“My brother has—that money?” she said.
“He had it.” He emphasized the word. “I understand that the present Lord Chelford is changing his lawyers, and in a week’s time those stocks are to be handed over to another firm.”
She was speechless, knowing that he was telling the truth, understanding only too well just all that this narrative implied.
“Fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money,” Gilder went on suavely; “a very difficult sum to raise in a week. And in a week that money must be in your brother’s hands.”
She raised her eyes, and, seeing the pain in them, he was almost sorry for her.
“You mean—that the money—that Arthur hasn’t those stocks to transfer?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure of this?”
“Absolutely sure.”
A long silence, when the ticking of the little French clock came so loudly to their ears that instinctively both glanced at the mantelpiece together.
“Why do you tell me all this?”
He cleared his voice.
“A few days ago I told you, rather uncouthly, I am afraid, that I loved you,” he said. “You may not credit me with the—the affectionate reverence I have for you—but I love you! There is nothing in the world I would not do for you, no price that I would not pay.”
Her eyes did not waver; she seemed to be reading his very soul.
“Even to the extent of providing fifty thousand pounds in a week?” she said in a low voice.
“Even to that extent,” he answered.
She rose slowly to her feet.
“Will you write down your address?”
So calm was her voice that she might have been discussing an ordinary matter of business.
“I know where you live, but I have forgotten the name of the building and the number.”
He wrote it down with an unsteady hand and left the paper where she had placed it.
“I must know to-morrow,” he said, “yes or no.”
She dropped her head.
“You shall know to-morrow,” she said. “If I tell you I will marry you, you can make the arrangement about the money—I will not fail you.”
Without another word, he walked to the door, turned, and favoured her with a deep bow, and went out into the hall. She heard the whirr of his car grow fainter and fainter. But still she did not move.
XXXVII
The door opened. It was Arthur.
“Was that Gilder who came?” he asked, and, when she nodded: “The brute! Why didn’t you send for me?”
He saw her face, and, quickly:
“Is anything wrong, Leslie?”
“Yes,” she said, and marvelled herself at the evenness of her tone. “He came about some money that was in your care—a part of the estate of Lady Chelford.”
She saw from the quick change in his face that all that Gilder had said was true; but then, she had never doubted that.
“Does Dick know?” she asked.
“Yes, he knows. I wonder what you think of me?” he asked huskily.
She shook her head.
“Does it matter, Arthur, what I think? What will happen if the money isn’t found?”
“I’ve got a week yet,” he said. “How did he come to know?”
“Can you get the money?”
It was a useless question.
“Dick said he will do his best.”
“Nothing can be done with Harry, I suppose?” she asked. “No, that’s too impossible to think about. What will happen when the truth comes out?”
He drew a deep breath.
“I don’t know; imprisonment, I suppose. It’s horribly rough on you, Leslie. I’ve said that before, but words mean very little, and I am at the end of words.”
His voice broke for a second, but he caught hold of his weakness in time, and, seeing the fight he was making, there came a look of admiration to her eyes.
“You poor soul!” she said softly.
Another long pause.
“What did Gilder want—just to tell you that?”
“Partly that.”
“And to make you an offer?” There was just a hint of eagerness in his tone; the drowning man was gripping hard on a straw. It made her heart ache to think that, even at that moment, when he knew he deserved nothing but her loathing, he could contemplate yet another sacrifice upon her part without protest.
“He made me an offer—yes,” she said. “And I don’t know what I shall do. I’m going to see Dick.”
“Is that necessary?” he asked anxiously.
She nodded.
“I’m going to see Dick,” she said. “I will ’phone him.”
She moved to the instrument and lifted the receiver from the hook, when he caught her arm.
“I shouldn’t be guided—too much by Dick,” he said breathlessly. “Gilder’s a brute, but you might be happier with him than with Harry.”
She shook off his arm and gave a number. The servant who replied told her that Dick was out, that he had gone to London that afternoon, and would not be back until late at night. She hung up the instrument, went back to the drawing-room, and took up the paper on which Gilder had written his address.
“You have six days, Arthur,” she said. “I have less than twenty-four hours. I don’t know whose case is the worse, but I rather fancy it is mine.”
He heard her go up to her room, and after a while followed and tried the door. It was locked.
“Leslie!” he called anxiously, but she did not hear him.
With her face buried in the pillow, she was saying good-bye to Dick Alford, and her heart was breaking.
XXXVIII
Passing down Wardour Street that afternoon, Dick Alford had seen a familiar face. A man came out of a shop with a bundle under his arm, and, recognizing the young man, turned on his tracks and walked rapidly away. Dick grinned; there was no mistaking Thomas, and he wondered what was the nature of his purchase.
He glanced at the window of the store and was puzzled; for Thomas did not seem the kind of man who would indulge in the frivolities which were exhibited behind the plate glass.
He was not in any very good spirits. He had made two calls, and on each occasion had suffered a gentle rebuff. He was going now to see his last hope. The big City bank was closed when he arrived, but a porter admitted him to the presence of the old man who had been his father’s best friend. The war had turned plain Mr. Jarvis, a country banker of the ’eighties, into Lord Clanfield, the head of the greatest banking corporation in Europe.
He gave Dick a hearty welcome, for the boy had been a favourite of his.
“Sit ye down, Dick. What has brought you to this square mile of trouble?”
Plainly and briefly Dick stated his business, and Lord Clanfield frowned.
“Fifty thousand pounds, my dear boy! Do you want it for yourself?”
“No, I want it for a very dear friend of mine.” It required an effort to describe Arthur in these flattering terms. “He has got into a scrape.”
His lordship shook his head.
“It couldn’t be done, Dick. If it was for you, to get you out of a scrape—but then, you’re not the kind of lad who’d ever get into one—I’d give it to you out of my own pocket.”
“You couldn’t lend it to me on my personal security?”
The banker smiled.
“Lending it to you, Dick, would be giving it to you! What chance have you of repaying fifty thousand pounds? A second son! Harry is marrying this year, and there will be an heir to the estate next year! No, no, old boy, it would be impossible.”
Then, in his desperation, Dick Alford told the story, suppressing only the names. The old man listened with a grave face.
“He has got to go through with it, Dick,” he said. “If you get him out of this trouble he’ll probably get into worse. The poor little girl—I’m sorry for her. Of course, you’re speaking about Gwyn? No, no, you needn’t be afraid, I sha’n’t say a word. But I’ve had my suspicions for a long time. Let him take his medicine, Dick, and do what you can for the girl. Once that fellow is behind bars and the whole wretched trouble is at an end, come to me for any money you want—for the girl. I knew her father and her uncle, and the great-uncle who left her a lot of money, which I suppose has gone up in smoke with the rest, and I’m willing to go a long way to help her. But you mustn’t pledge your credit, Dick, for that worthless man.”
Dick came away from the City, weary and sick at heart, too dispirited even to interview the fourth man he had intended to see. His only hope now was his brother, and he knew Harry’s obstinacy too well to expect help from that quarter, which could not even be asked for except by betraying as the borrower the man for whom he had conceived an unreasoning hatred.
Monkey Puttler met him at the station and had a piece of news to impart.
“That bird Thomas is still in the neighbourhood,” he said. “He’s been living in Gilder’s cottage.”
“Indeed?” said Dick. He was really not concerned with Thomas or Gilder or anything in the wide world except the heartbreak that awaited Leslie Gwyn.
“Gilder’s been down to-day. Ascot’s all over, isn’t it? Anyway, he was dressed like a doctor in new clothes—top hat and everything.”
“Where has he been?” asked Dick, with sudden interest.
“I don’t know. I guess he went to call on Mr. Gwyn. I saw his car coming out of the drive, and he looked very pleased with himself. And I’ve found the rifle.”
“Where did you find it?” asked Dick quickly.
“Up against the river. Someone must have thrown it in, but didn’t throw hard enough. There were three or four cartridges still in the magazine—a sporting Lee-Enfield. They’ve tried the knife and they’ve tried the gun; I wonder what new one they’ll put out on us.”
“Have you seen Harry?”
“Saw him this afternoon,” said the cheerful Puttler. “He worked that chesil gag on me, but I didn’t give him my views.”
In spite of his anxiety, Dick smiled.