“Well, keep your mouth shut, there’s a good fellow, until after I have made my report to the Intelligence Officer,” Furley begged. “He’ll be here about four. You don’t mind being about?”
“Not in the least,” Julian promised. “So long as I am home for dinner, my people will be satisfied.”
“I don’t know how you’ll amuse yourself this morning,” Furley observed, “and I’m afraid I sha’n’t be able to get out for the flighting this evening.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Julian begged. “Remember that I am practically at home. It’s only three miles to the Hall from here so you mustn’t look upon me as an ordinary guest. I am going for a tramp in a few minutes.”
“Lucky chap!” Furley declared enviously. “Sunshine like this makes one feel as though one were on the Riviera instead of in Norfolk. Shall you visit the scene of your adventure?”
“I may,” Julian answered thoughtfully. “The instinct of the sleuthhound is beginning to stir in me. There is no telling how far it may lead.”
Julian started on his tramp about half an hour later. He paused first at a bend in the road, about fifty yards down, and stepped up close to the hedge.
“The instinct of the sleuthhound,” he said to himself, “is all very well, but why on earth haven’t I told Furley about the car?”
He paused to consider the matter, conscious only of the fact that each time he had opened his lips to mention it, he had felt a marked but purposeless disinclination to do so. He consoled himself now with the reflection that the information would be more or less valueless until the afternoon, and he forthwith proceeded upon the investigation which he had planned out.
The road was still muddy, and the track of the tyres, which were of somewhat peculiar pattern, clearly visible. He followed it along the road for a matter of a mile and a half. Then he came to a standstill before a plain oak gate and was conscious of a distinct shock. On the top bar of the gate was painted in white letters.
MALTENBY HALL
TRADESMEN'S ENTRANCE
and it needed only the most cursory examination to establish the fact that the car whose track he had been following had turned in here. He held up his hand and stopped a luggage trolley which had just turned the bend in the avenue. The man pulled up and touched his hat.
“Where are you off to, Fellowes?” Julian enquired.
“I am going to Holt station, sir,” the man replied, “after some luggage.”
“Are there any guests at the Hall who motored here, do you know?” Julian asked.
“Only the young lady, sir,” the man replied, “Miss Abbeway. She came in a little coupe Panhard.”
Julian frowned thoughtfully.
“Has she been out in it this morning?” he asked.
The man shook his head.
“She broke down in it yesterday afternoon, sir,” he answered, “about halfway up to the Hall here.”
“Broke down?” Julian repeated. “Anything serious? Couldn’t you put it right for her?”
“She wouldn’t let me touch it, sir,” the man explained. “She said she had two cracked sparking plugs, and she wanted to replace them herself. She has had some lessons, and I think she wanted a bit of practice.”
“I see. Then the car is in the avenue now?”
“About half a mile up, on the left-hand side, sir, just by the big elm. Miss Abbeway said she was coming down this afternoon to put new plugs in.”
“Then it’s been there all the time since yesterday afternoon?” Julian persisted.
“The young lady wished it left there, sir. I could have put a couple of plugs in, in five minutes, and brought her up to the house, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
“I see, Fellowes.”
“Any luck with the geese last night, sir?” the man asked. “I heard there was a pack of them on Stiffkey Marshes.”
“I got one. They came badly for us,” Julian replied.
He made his way up the avenue. At exactly the spot indicated by the chauffeur a little coupe car was standing, drawn on to the turf. He glanced at the name of the maker and looked once more at the tracks upon the drive. Finally, he decided that his investigations were leading him in a most undesirable direction.
He turned back, walked across the marshes, where he found nothing to disturb him, and lunched with Furley, whose leg was now so much better that he was able to put it to the ground.
“What about this visitor of yours?” Julian asked, as they sat smoking afterwards. “I must be back at the Hall in time to dine to-night, you know. My people made rather a point of it.”
Furley nodded.
“You’ll be all right,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, he isn’t coming.”
“Not coming?” Julian repeated. “Jove, I should have thought you’d have had intelligence officers by the dozen down here!”
“For some reason or other,” Furley confided, “the affair has been handed over to the military authorities. I have had a man down to see me this morning, and he has taken full particulars. I don’t know that they’ll even worry you at all—until later on, at any rate.”
“Jove, that seems queer!”
“Last night’s happening was queer, for that matter,” Furley continued. “Their only chance, I suppose, of getting to the bottom of it is to lie doggo as far as possible. It isn’t like a police affair, you see. They don’t want witnesses and a court of justice. One man’s word and a rifle barrel does the trick.”
Julian sighed.
“I suppose,” he observed, “that if I do my duty as a loyal subject, I shall drop the curtain on last night. Seems a pity to have had an adventure like that and not be able to open one’s mouth about it.”
Furley grunted.
“You don’t want to join the noble army of gas bags,” he said. “Much better make up your mind that it was a dream.”
“There are times,” Julian confided, “when I am not quite sure that it wasn’t.”
CHAPTER III
Table of Contents
Julian entered the drawing-room at Maltenby Hall a few minutes before dinner time that evening. His mother, who was alone and, for a wonder, resting, held out her hand for him to kiss and welcomed him with a charming smile. Notwithstanding her grey hair, she was still a remarkably young-looking woman, with a great reputation as a hostess.
“My dear Julian,” she exclaimed, “you look like a ghost! Don’t tell me that you had to sit up all night to shoot those wretched duck?”
Julian drew a chair to his mother’s side and seated himself with a little air of relief.
“Never have I been more conscious of the inroads of age,” he confided. “I can remember when, ten or fifteen years ago, I used to steal out of the house in the darkness and bicycle down to the marsh with a twenty-bore gun, on the chance of an odd shot.”
“And I suppose,” his mother went on, “after spending half the night wading about in the salt water, you spent the other half talking to that terrible Mr. Furley.”
“Quite right. We got cold and wet through in the evening; we sat up talking till the small hours; we got cold and wet again this morning—and here I am.”
“A converted sportsman,” his mother observed. “I wish you could convert your friend, Mr. Furley. There’s a perfectly terrible article of his in the National this month. I can’t understand a word of it, but it reads like sheer anarchy.”
“So long as the world exists,” Julian remarked, “there must be Socialists, and Furley is at least honest.”
“My dear Julian,” his mother protested, “how can a Socialist be honest! Their attitude with regard to the war, too, is simply disgraceful. I am sure that in any other country that man Fenn, for instance, would be shot.”
“What about your house party?” Julian enquired, with bland irrelevance.
“All arrived. I suppose they’ll be down directly. Mr. Hannaway Wells is here.”
“Good old Wells!” Julian murmured. “How does he look since he became a Cab
inet Minister?”
“Portentous,” Lady Maltenby replied; with a smile. “He doesn’t look as though he would ever unbend. Then the Shervintons are here, and the Princess Torski—your friend Miss Abbeway’s aunt.”
“The Princess Torski?” Julian repeated. “Who on earth is she?”
“She was English,” his mother explained, “a cousin of the Abbeways. She married in Russia and is on her way now to France to meet her husband, who is in command of a Russian battalion there. She seems quite a pleasant person, but not in the least like her niece.”
“Miss Abbeway is still here, of course?”
“Naturally. I asked her for a week, and I think she means to stay. We talked for an hour after tea this afternoon, and I found her most interesting. She has been living in England for years, it seems, down in Chelsea, studying sculpture.”
“She is a remarkably clever young woman,” Julian said thoughtfully, “but a little incomprehensible. If the Princess Torski is her aunt, who were her parents?”
“Her father,” the Countess replied, “was Colonel Richard Abbeway, who seems to have been military attache at St. Petersburg, years ago. He married a sister of the Princess Torski’s husband, and from her this young woman inherited a title which she won’t use and a large fortune. Colonel Abbeway was killed accidentally in the Russo-Japanese War, and her mother died a few years ago.”
“No German blood, or anything of that sort, then?”
“My dear boy, what an idea!” his mother exclaimed reprovingly. “On the contrary, the Torskis are one of the most aristocratic families in Russia, and you know what the Abbeways are. The girl is excellently bred, and I think her charming in every way. Whatever made you suggest that she might have German blood in her?”
“No idea! Anyhow, I am glad she hasn’t. Who else?”
“The Bishop,” his mother continued, “looking very tired, poor dear! Doctor George Lennard, from Oxford, two young soldiers from Norwich, whom Charlie asked us to be civil to—and the great man himself.”
“Tell me about the great man? I don’t think I’ve seen him to speak to since he became Prime Minister.”
“He declares that this is his first holiday this year. He is looking rather tired, but he has had an hour’s shooting since he arrived, and seemed to enjoy it. Here’s your father.”
The Earl of Maltenby, who entered a moment later, was depressingly typical. He was as tall as his youngest son, with whom he shook hands absently and whom he resembled in no other way. He had the conventionally aristocratic features, thin lips and steely blue eyes. He was apparently a little annoyed.
“Anything wrong, dear?” Lady Maltenby asked.
Her husband took up his position on the hearthrug.
“I am annoyed with Stenson,” he declared.
The Countess shook her head.
“It’s too bad of you, Henry,” she expostulated. “You’ve been trying to talk politics with him. You know that the poor man was only longing for forty-eight hours during which he could forget that he was Prime Minister of England.”
“Precisely, my dear,” Lord Maltenby agreed. “I can assure you that I have not transgressed in any way. A remark escaped me referring to the impossibility of providing beaters, nowadays, and to the fact that out of my seven keepers, five are fighting. I consider Mr. Stenson’s comment was most improper, coming from one to whom the destinies of this country are confided.”
“What did he say?” the Countess asked meekly.
“Something about wondering whether any man would be allowed to have seven keepers after the war,” her husband replied, with an angry light in his eyes. “If a man like Stenson is going to encourage these socialistic ideas. I beg your pardon—the Bishop, my dear.”
The remaining guests drifted in within the next few moments,—the Bishop, Julian’s godfather, a curious blend of the fashionable and the devout, the anchorite and the man of the people; Lord and Lady Shervinton, elderly connections of the nondescript variety; Mr. Hannaway Wells, reserved yet, urbane, a wonderful type of the supreme success of mediocrity; a couple of young soldiers, light-hearted and out for a good time, of whom Julian took charge; an Oxford don, who had once been Lord Maltenby’s tutor; and last of all the homely, very pleasant-looking, middle-aged lady, Princess Torski, followed by her niece. There were a few introductions still to be effected.
Whilst Lady Maltenby was engaged in this task, which she performed at all times with the unfailing tact of a great hostess, Julian broke off in his conversation with the two soldiers and looked steadfastly across the room at Catherine Abbeway, as though anxious to revise or complete his earlier impressions of her. She was of medium height, not unreasonably slim, with a deliberate but noticeably graceful carriage. Her complexion was inclined to be pale. She had large, soft brown eyes, and hair of an unusual shade of chestnut brown, arranged with remarkably effective simplicity. She wore a long string of green beads around her neck, a black tulle gown without any relief of colour, but a little daring in its cut. Her voice and laugh, as she stood talking to the Bishop, were delightful, and neither her gestures nor her accent betrayed the slightest trace of foreign blood. She was, without a doubt, extraordinarily attractive, gracious almost to freedom in her manner, and yet with that peculiar quality of aloofness only recognisable in the elect,—a very appreciable charm. Julian found his undoubted admiration only increased by his closer scrutiny. Nevertheless, as he watched her, there was a slightly puzzled frown upon his forehead, a sense of something like bewilderment mingled with those other feelings. His mother, who had turned to speak to the object of his attentions, beckoned him, and he crossed the room at once to their side.
“Julian is going to take you in to dinner, Miss Abbeway,” the Countess announced, “and I hope you will be kind to him, for he’s been out all night and a good part of the morning, too, shooting ducks and talking nonsense with a terrible Socialist.”
Lady Maltenby passed on. Julian, leaning on his stick, looked down with a new interest into the face which had seldom been out of his thoughts since their first meeting, a few weeks ago.
“Tell me, Mr. Orden,” she asked, “which did you find the more exhausting—tramping the marshes for sport, or discussing sociology with your friend?”
“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “we didn’t tramp the marshes. We stood still and got uncommonly wet. And I shot a goose, which made me very happy.”
“Then it must have been the conversation,” she declared. “Is your friend a prophet or only one of the multitude?”
“A prophet, most decidedly. He is a Mr. Miles Furley, of whom you must have heard.”
She started a little.
“Miles Furley!” she repeated. “I had no idea that he lived in this part of the world.”
“He has a small country house somewhere in Norfolk,” Julian told her, “and he takes a cottage down here at odd times for the wild-fowl shooting.”
“Will you take me to see him to-morrow?” she asked.
“With pleasure, so long as you promise not to talk socialism with him.”
“I will promise that readily, out of consideration to my escort. I wonder how it is,” she went on, looking up at him a little thoughtfully, “that you dislike serious subjects so much.”
“A frivolous turn of mind, I suppose,” he replied. “I certainly prefer to talk art with you.”
“But nowadays,” she protested, “it is altogether the fashion down at Chelsea to discard art and talk politics.”
“It’s a fashion I shouldn’t follow,” he advised. “I should stick to art, if I were you.”
“Well, that depends upon how you define politics, of course. I don’t mean Party politics. I mean the science of living, as a whole, not as a unit.”
The Princess ambled up to them.
“I don’t know what your political views are, Mr. Orden,” she said, “but you must look out for shocks if you discuss social questions with my niece. In the old days they would never have allowed her t
o live in Russia. Even now, I consider some of her doctrines the most pernicious I ever heard.”
“Isn’t that terrible from an affectionate aunt!”
Catherine laughed, as the Princess passed on. “Tell me some more about your adventures last night?”
She looked up into his face, and Julian was suddenly conscious from whence had come that faint sense of mysterious trouble which had been with him during the last few minutes. The slight quiver of her lips brought it all back to him. Her mouth, beyond a doubt, with its half tender, half mocking curve, was the mouth which he had seen in that tangled dream of his, when he had lain fighting for consciousness upon the marshes.
CHAPTER IV
Table of Contents
Julian, absorbed for the first few minutes of dinner by the crystallisation of this new idea which had now taken a definite place in his brain, found his conversational powers somewhat at a discount. Catherine very soon, however, asserted her claim upon his attention.
“Please do your duty and tell me about things,” she begged. “Remember that I am Cinderella from Bohemia, and I scarcely know a soul here.”
“Well, there aren’t many to find out about, are there?” he replied. “Of course you know Stenson?”
“I have been gazing at him with dilated eyes,” she confided. “Is that not the proper thing to do? He seems to me very ordinary and very hungry.”
“Well, then, there is the Bishop.”
“I knew him at once from his photographs. He must spend the whole of the time when he isn’t in church visiting the photographer. However, I like him. He is talking to my aunt quite amiably. Nothing does aunt so much good as to sit next a bishop.”
“The Shervintons you know all about, don’t you?” he went on. “The soldiers are just young men from the Norwich barracks, Doctor Lennard was my father’s tutor at Oxford, and Mr. Hannaway Wells is our latest Cabinet Minister.”
“He still has the novice’s smirk,” she remarked. “A moment ago I heard him tell his neighbour that he preferred not to discuss the war. He probably thinks that there is a spy under the table.”
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