“No; my father has special interests,” he answered slowly. “He is engaged now upon some work connected with his profession.”
“Indeed!”
Mr. Sabin’s exclamation suggested a curiosity which it was not Wolfenden’s purpose to gratify. He remained silent. The game proceeded without remark for a quarter of an hour. Wolfenden was now three down, and with all the stimulus of a strong opponent he set himself to recover lost ground. The ninth hole he won with a fine, long putt, which Mr. Sabin applauded heartily.
They drove from the next tee and walked together after their balls, which lay within a few yards of one another.
“I am very much interested,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “in what you have been telling me about your father. It confirms rather a curious story about Lord Deringham which I heard in London a few weeks ago. I was told, I forget by whom, that your father had devoted years of his life to a wonderfully minute study of English coast defences and her naval strength. My informant went on to say that—forgive me, but this was said quite openly you know—that whilst on general matters your father’s mental health was scarcely all that could be desired, his work in connection with these two subjects was of great value. It struck me as being a very singular and a very interesting case.”
Wolfenden shook his head dubiously.
“Your informant was misled, I am afraid,” he said. “My father takes his hobby very seriously, and of course we humour him. But as regards the value of his work I am afraid it is worthless.”
“Have you tested it yourself?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“I have only seen a few pages,” Wolfenden admitted, “but they were wholly unintelligible. My chief authority is his own secretary, who is giving up an excellent place simply because he is ashamed to take money for assisting in work which he declares to be utterly hopeless.”
“He is a man,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “whom you can trust, I suppose? His judgment is not likely to be at fault.”
“There is not the faintest chance of it,” Wolfenden declared. “He is a very simple, good-hearted little chap and tremendously conscientious. What your friend told you, by the bye, reminds me of rather a curious thing which happened yesterday.”
Wolfenden paused. There did not seem, however, to be any reason for concealment, and his companion was evidently deeply interested.
“A man called upon us,” Wolfenden continued, “with a letter purporting to be from our local doctor here. He gave his name as Franklin Wilmot, the celebrated physician, you know, and explained that he was interested in a new method of treating mental complaints. He was very plausible and he explained everything unusual about his visit most satisfactorily. He wanted a sight of the work on which my father was engaged, and after talking it over we introduced him into the study during my father’s absence. From it he promised to give us a general opinion upon the case and its treatment. Whilst he was there our doctor drove up in hot haste. The letter was a forgery, the man an impostor.”
Wolfenden, glancing towards Mr. Sabin as he finished his story, was surprised at the latter’s imperfectly concealed interest. His lips were indrawn, his face seemed instinct with a certain passionate but finely controlled emotion. Only the slight hiss of his breath and the gleam of his black eyes betrayed him.
“What happened?” he asked. “Did you secure the fellow?”
Wolfenden played a long shot and waited whilst he watched the run of his ball. Then he turned towards his companion and shook his head.
“No! He was a great deal too clever for that. He sent me out to meet Whitlett, and when we got back he had shown us a clean pair of heels. He got away through the window.”
“Did he take away any papers with him?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“He may have taken a loose sheet or two,” Wolfenden said. “Nothing of any consequence, I think. He had no time. I don’t think that that could have been his object altogether, or he would scarcely have suggested my remaining with him in the study.”
Mr. Sabin drew a quick, little breath. He played an iron shot, and played it very badly.
“It was a most extraordinary occurrence,” he remarked. “What was the man like? Did he seem like an ordinary thief?”
Wolfenden shook his head decidedly.
“Not in the least,” he declared. “He was well dressed and his manners were excellent. He had all the appearance of a man of position. He completely imposed upon both my mother and myself.”
“How long were you in the study before Dr. Whitlett arrived?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Barely five minutes.”
It was odd, but Mr. Sabin seemed positively relieved.
“And Mr. Blatherwick,” he asked, “where was he all the time?”
“Who?” Wolfenden asked in surprise.
“Mr. Blatherwick—your father’s secretary,” Mr. Sabin repeated coolly; “I understood you to say that his name was Blatherwick.”
“I don’t remember mentioning his name at all,” Wolfenden said, vaguely disturbed.
Mr. Sabin addressed his ball with care and played it deliberately on to the green. Then he returned to the subject.
“I think that you must have done,” he said suavely, “or I should scarcely have known it. Was he in the room?”
“All the time,” Wolfenden answered.
Mr. Sabin drew another little breath.
“He was there when the fellow bolted?”
Wolfenden nodded.
“Why did he not try to stop him?”
Wolfenden smiled.
“Physically,” he remarked, “it would have been an impossibility. Blatherwick is a small man and an exceedingly nervous one. He is an honest little fellow, but I am afraid he would not have shone in an encounter of that sort.”
Mr. Sabin was on the point of asking another question, but Wolfenden interrupted him. He scarcely knew why, but he wanted to get away from the subject. He was sorry that he had ever broached it.
“Come,” he said, “we are talking too much. Let us play golf. I am sure I put you off that last stroke.”
Mr. Sabin took the hint and was silent. They were on the eleventh green, and bordering it on the far side was an open road—the sea road, which followed the coast for a mile or two and then turned inland to Deringham. Wolfenden, preparing to putt, heard wheels close at hand, and as the stroke was a critical one for him he stood back from his ball till the vehicle had passed. Glancing carelessly up, he saw his own blue liveries and his mother leaning back in a barouche. With a word of apology to his opponent, he started forward to meet her.
The coachman, who had recognised him, pulled up his horses in the middle of the road. Wolfenden walked swiftly over to the carriage side. His mother’s appearance had alarmed him. She was looking at him, and yet past him. Her cheeks were pale. Her eyes were set and distended. One of her hands seemed to be convulsively clutching the side of the carriage nearest to her. She had all the appearance of a woman who is suddenly face to face with some terrible vision. Wolfenden looked over his shoulder quickly. He could see nothing more alarming in the background than the figure of his opponent, who, with his back partly turned to them, was gazing out to sea. He stood at the edge of the green on slightly rising ground, and his figure was outlined with almost curious distinctness against the background of air and sky.
“Has anything fresh happened, mother?” Wolfenden asked, with concern. “I am afraid you are upset. Were you looking for me?”
She shook her head. It struck him that she was endeavouring to assume a composure which she assuredly did not possess.
“No; there is nothing fresh. Naturally I am not well. I am hoping that the drive will do me good. Are you enjoying your golf?”
“Very much,” Wolfenden answered. “The course has really been capitally kept. We are having a close match.”
“Who is your opponent?”
Wolfenden glanced behind him carelessly. Mr. Sabin had thrown several balls upon the green, and was practising long putts.
“Fello
w named Sabin,” he answered. “No one you would be likely to be interested in. He comes down from London, and he plays a remarkably fine game. Rather a saturnine-looking personage, isn’t he?”
“He is a most unpleasant-looking man,” Lady Deringham faltered, white now to the lips. “Where did you meet him? Here or in London?”
“In London,” Wolfenden explained. “Rather a curious meeting it was too. A fellow attacked him coming out of a restaurant one night and I interfered—just in time. He has taken a little house down here.”
“Is he alone?” Lady Deringham asked.
“He has a niece living with him,” Wolfenden answered. “She is a very charming girl. I think that you would like her.”
The last words he added with something of an effort, and an indifference which was palpably assumed. Lady Deringham, however, did not appear to notice them at all.
“Have no more to do with him than you can help, Wolfenden,” she said, leaning a little over to him, and speaking in a half-fearful whisper. “I think his face is awful.”
Wolfenden laughed.
“I am not likely to see a great deal of him,” he declared. “In fact I can’t say that he seems very cordially disposed towards me, considering that I saved him from rather a nasty accident. By the bye, he said something about having met the Admiral at Alexandria. You have never come across him, I suppose?”
The sun was warm and the wind had dropped, or Wolfenden could almost have declared that his mother’s teeth were chattering. Her eyes were fixed again in a rigid stare which passed him by and travelled beyond. He looked over his shoulder. Mr. Sabin, apparently tired of practising, was standing directly facing them, leaning upon his putter. He was looking steadfastly at Lady Deringham, not in the least rudely, but with a faint show of curiosity and a smile which in no way improved his appearance slightly parting his lips. Meeting his gaze, Wolfenden looked away with an odd feeling of uneasiness.
“You are right,” he said. “His face is really a handsome one in a way, but he certainly is not prepossessing-looking!”
Lady Deringham had recovered herself. She leaned back amongst the cushions.
“Didn’t you ask me,” she said, “whether I had ever met the man? I cannot remember—certainly I was at Alexandria with your father, so perhaps I did. You will be home to dinner?”
He nodded.
“Of course. How is the Admiral to-day?”
“Remarkably well. He asked for you just before I came out.”
“I shall see him at dinner,” Wolfenden said “Perhaps he will let me smoke a cigar with him afterwards.”
He stood away from the carriage and lifted his cap with a smile. The coachman touched his horses and the barouche rolled on. Wolfenden walked slowly back to his companion.
“You will excuse my leaving you,” he said. “I was afraid that my mother might have been looking for me.”
“By all means,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I hope that you did not hurry on my account. I am trying,” he added, “to recollect if ever I met Lady Deringham. At my time of life one’s reminiscences become so chaotic.”
He looked keenly at Wolfenden, who answered him after a moment’s hesitation.
“Lady Deringham was at Alexandria with my father, so it is just possible,” he said.
CHAPTER XXI
HARCUTT’S INSPIRATION
Table of Contents
Wolfenden lost his match upon the last hole; nevertheless it was a finely contested game, and when Mr. Sabin proposed a round on the following day, he accepted without hesitation. He did not like Mr. Sabin any the better—in fact he was beginning to acquire a deliberate distrust of him. Something of that fear with which other people regarded him had already communicated itself to Wolfenden. Without having the shadow of a definite suspicion with regard to the man or his character, he was inclined to resent that interest in the state of affairs at Deringham Hall which Mr. Sabin had undoubtedly manifested. At the same time he was Helène’s guardian, and so long as he occupied that position Wolfenden was not inclined to give up his acquaintance.
They parted in the pavilion, Wolfenden lingering for a few minutes, half hoping that he might receive some sort of invitation to call at Mr. Sabin’s temporary abode. Perhaps, under the circumstances, it was scarcely possible that any such invitation could be given, although had it been Wolfenden would certainly have accepted it. For he had no idea of at once relinquishing all hope as regards Helène. He was naturally sanguine, and he was very much in love. There was something mysterious about that other engagement of which he had been told. He had an idea that, but for Mr. Sabin’s unexpected appearance, Helène would have offered him a larger share of her confidence. He was content to wait for it.
Wolfenden had ridden over from home, and left his horse in the hotel stables. As he passed the hall a familiar figure standing in the open doorway hailed him. He glanced quickly up, and stopped short. It was Harcutt who was standing there, in a Norfolk tweed suit and thick boots.
“Of all men in the world!” he exclaimed in blank surprise. “What, in the name of all that’s wonderful, are you doing here?”
Harcutt answered with a certain doggedness, almost as though he resented Wolfenden’s astonishment.
“I don’t know why you should look at me as though I were a ghost,” he said. “If it comes to that, I might ask you the same question. What are you doing here?”
“Oh! I’m at home,” Wolfenden answered promptly. “I’m down to visit my people; it’s only a mile or two from here to Deringham Hall.”
Harcutt dropped his eyeglass and laughed shortly.
“You are wonderfully filial all of a sudden,” he remarked. “Of course you had no other reason for coming!”
“None at all,” Wolfenden answered firmly. “I came because I was sent for. It was a complete surprise to me to meet Mr. Sabin here—at least it would have been if I had not travelled down with his niece. Their coming was simply a stroke of luck for me.”
Harcutt assumed a more amiable expression.
“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “I thought that you were stealing a march on me, and there really was not any necessity, for our interests do not clash in the least. It was different between you and poor old Densham, but he’s given it up of his own accord and he sailed for India yesterday.”
“Poor old chap!” Wolfenden said softly. “He would not tell you, I suppose, even at the last, what it was that he had heard about—these people?”
“He would not tell me,” Harcutt answered; “but he sent a message to you. He wished me to remind you that you had been friends for fifteen years, and he was not likely to deceive you. He was leaving the country, he said, because he had certain and definite information concerning the girl, which made it absolutely hopeless for either you or he to think of her. His advice to you was to do the same.”
“I do not doubt Densham,” Wolfenden said slowly; “but I doubt his information. It came from a woman who has been Densham’s friend. Then, again, what may seem an insurmountable obstacle to him, may not be so to me. Nothing vague in the shape of warnings will deter me.”
“Well,” Harcutt said, “I have given you Densham’s message and my responsibility concerning it is ended. As you know, my own interests lie in a different direction. Now I want a few minutes’ conversation with you. The hotel rooms are a little too public. Are you in a hurry, or can you walk up and down the drive with me once or twice?”
“I can spare half an hour very well,” Wolfenden said; “but I should prefer to do no more walking just yet. Come and sit down here—it isn’t cold.”
They chose a seat looking over the sea. Harcutt glanced carefully all around. There was no possibility of their being overheard, nor indeed was there any one in sight.
“I am developing fresh instincts,” Harcutt said, as he crossed his legs and lit a cigarette. “I am here, I should like you to understand, purely in a professional capacity—and I want your help.”
“But my dear fellow,�
� Wolfenden said; “I don’t understand. If, when you say professionally, you mean as a journalist, why, what on earth in this place can there be worth the chronicling? There is scarcely a single person known to society in the neighbourhood.”
“Mr. Sabin is here!” Harcutt remarked quietly.
Wolfenden looked at him in surprise.
“That might have accounted for your presence here as a private individual,” he said; “but professionally, how on earth can he interest you?”
“He interests me professionally very much indeed,” Harcutt answered.
Wolfenden was getting puzzled.
“Mr. Sabin interests you professionally?” he repeated slowly. “Then you have learnt something. Mr. Sabin has an identity other than his own.”
“I suspect him to be,” Harcutt said slowly, “a most important and interesting personage. I have learnt a little concerning him. I am here to learn more; I am convinced that it is worth while.”
“Have you learnt anything,” Wolfenden asked, “concerning his niece?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Harcutt answered decidedly. “I may as well repeat that my interest is in the man alone. I am not a sentimental person at all. His niece is perhaps the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, but it is with no thought of her that I have taken up this investigation. Having assured you of that, I want to know if you will help me?”
“You must speak a little more plainly,” Wolfenden said; “you are altogether too vague. What help do you want, and for what purpose?”
“Mr. Sabin,” Harcutt said; “is engaged in great political schemes. He is in constant and anxious communication with the ambassadors of two great Powers. He affects secrecy in all his movements, and the name by which he is known is without doubt an assumed one. This much I have learnt for certain. My own ideas are too vague yet for me to formulate. I cannot say any more, except that I believe him to be deep in some design which is certainly not for the welfare of this country. It is my assurance of this which justifies me in exercising a certain espionage upon his movements—which justifies me also, Wolfenden, in asking for your assistance.”
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