The Secret of Greylands (14 page)

“Quite so, in my opinion,” Sir Donald said brusquely. “I suppose there is no more to be said this morning, Mr Barsly. Apparently we have been on the wrong track all the time.”

“I am glad to think so, Sir Donald, glad to think so.”

Mr Barsly touched the electric bell at his elbow; as Mr Fowler moved forward to open the door for the young man the solicitor spoke again:

“Your pardon, Sir Donald! I believe a couple of letters for you have been forwarded to our care. As we have been in ignorance of your address for the last month, they are awaiting you here. Shall we send them to you, or will you—”

“Oh, I will take them, thanks!” said Sir Donald. “I do not suppose they are anything of importance.”

“They are in the private safe, sir. Allow me!” Mr Fowler threw open a door in the wall, and from a tin box marked “Farquhar” produced a couple of envelopes.

“One of them looks distinctly grubby,” said Sir Donald, touching it gingerly; then, as he noted the writing, his expression changed. “It is from my aunt,” he said hurriedly. “Excuse me!” as he tore it open. “When did it come?”

Mr Fowler took the answer upon himself.

“Yesterday morning, I believe, sir.”

Sir Donald glanced rapidly through the pencilled scrawl. As he read his grey eyes softened and grew very pitiful; but when he looked up and met Mr Barsly's gaze his mouth was set in grim, stern lines. He held the open sheet out to the solicitor.

“Read this, and then tell me whether there is not some strange juggling going on somewhere.”

Mr Barsly took the letter in his hand with obvious reluctance.

“I hardly know whether I ought, my dear Sir Donald.”

“Read it aloud,” Sir Donald said abruptly. “Wait!” he went on as Mr Fowler moved towards the door. “It is possible you may be able to throw some light on this.”

Mr Barsly read in a puzzled tone:

Mr Barsly read the sentences out in his driest, most matter-of-fact tones.

“Well,” Sir Donald said curtly as he finished, “what do you make of it now?”

Mr Barsly so far forgot his position as a legal adviser as to run his fingers through his remaining locks until they stood on end.

“I do not know what to make of it,” he confessed in bewildered tones, laying it on the table and staring at it. “I do not know what to make of it all. It is a most extraordinary thing!”

Sir Donald turned to the clerk.

“Are you going to tell me now that my aunt is not under some sort of coercion?” he demanded.

Mr Fowler leaned over and gazed at the paper; then he stood up and blinked at Sir Donald over the top of his coloured spectacles.

“It is incomprehensible,” he said slowly. He glanced at it again. Mr Barsly and Sir Donald watched him anxiously. Presently he looked up. “I can only suggest one explanation,” he said in his diffident, halting fashion. “This letter was written six weeks ago. The attack from which Lady Hannah is suffering must have been hanging over her then; it is possible that it affected her views of things in general, and of her own position in particular, and that now that its effects are to some extent passing away she is able to look at the situation differently.”

Mr Barsly was drumming on his desk with the fingers of one hand; his face looked absorbed and speculative.

“That explanation is scarcely an adequate one, I am afraid, Fowler,” he said at length. “How do you account for the change in her feelings towards Sir Donald which is expressed in this letter? You told me that, when acting in accordance with our instructions, you introduced Sir Donald's name, her anger with him appeared to have in nowise abated.”

“Quite so, sir,” Mr Fowler assented. “The very mention of Sir Donald's name appeared to excite Lady Hannah tremendously; she stated that she never wished to see him or hear of him again, and that she would never forgive him.”

“Was Mr Gillman in the room at the time? Is it possible that he exerts some hypnotic influence over her to induce her to express his sentiments?” Sir Donald inquired.

Mr Fowler considered the question for a moment, and then slowly shook his head.

“No; I was alone with Lady Hannah at the time, or with only Miss”—with a little hesitation in his manner and a glance at Mr Barsly—“Miss Cynthia in the room, and, save for her excitement—I might almost say anger—at the mention of Sir Donald's name, Lady Hannah appeared to be perfectly cool and collected.”

“Yet, in face of this expressed anger, she writes to Sir Donald in terms such as these?” Mr Barsly repeated, striking the open letter with his hand.

Mr Fowler opened his mouth, but before he could speak Sir Donald interposed:

“It is inexplicable; but it has settled one thing for me. I had almost made up my mind to give up attempting to gain admission to my aunt and go back to Tasmania. But now that I have seen this I have quite determined that nothing, however apparently definite, shall turn me from my purpose. I will not rest until I have seen my aunt face to face and heard from her own lips whether she is in need of help or not!”

He held out his hand and Mr Barsly took it.

“You will communicate with us again shortly, no doubt, Sir Donald?” he said, frowning a little. “We shall not fail to let you know anything that may help to elucidate the mystery. We have not attempted to disguise from you that for some time we have been seriously uneasy with regard to our client, Lady Hannah Gillman, but since Mr Fowler's interview we had really hoped that things were on a more satisfactory basis; now, however, since reading this letter, I do not know what to say—I really do not; but I do think it would be as well for you to delay your return to Tasmania for a while. As Lady Hannah's nearest male relative it would be decidedly better that you should be in England—that is to say, if any sort of restraint is being exercised upon her. I can hardly think it is so, but still—”

‘ “You may depend upon it I shall not go back to Tasmania without seeing my aunt,” Sir Donald said, with grim determination, “or without wringing the secret of Greylands from her husband.”

“W
HERE
are you going, Cynthia?”

There was something almost affectionate in Gillman's tone, some nuance in his expression, from which Cynthia instinctively shrank.

She hesitated.

“Only for a stroll across the moor; the evening is so pleasant.”

Gillman's eyes had an odd gleam in their depths.

“If you will wait half an hour I will go with you,” he said.

A strange repellent shiver shook Cynthia.

“I—you see I am quite ready,” she stammered, “and I promised Sybil not to be late.”

Gillman kept his eyes fixed upon her confused face.

“So you will not wait for your old cousin?” he said, with his sudden smile. “Well, perhaps”—with a mischievous look—“there may be greater attractions on the moor!”

Cynthia drew herself up; her eyes flashed.

“I do not think I quite understand you!” she said, with dangerous quietness, holding her haughtily-poised head high. “If you mean—”

Gillman's tone changed.

“Oh, my dear child, I meant nothing!” he said hastily in his most paternal fashion. “Come, I am old enough, surely, to have a little joke?”

“Oh, certainly!” Cynthia said still stiffly.

They were standing near the orchard gate, and Gillman held it open.

“Well, I must not keep you. Possibly I may walk a little way to meet you later on. If I do, I shall bring Nero with me.”

Cynthia's reply was inaudible as she passed.

Her path led through the belt of firs on to the moor close by the pine-wood. The weather was decidedly cooler to-day, and, as she hurried along, it fanned her burning cheeks. Her first dislike of her cousin's husband, against which she had struggled and which she had believed she had overcome, was returning in greater strength than ever; fight against it as she would, she found herself unable to subdue it. To such an extent had it grown that she told herself that it would render her further stay at Greylands impossible, and once more she racked her brains to think of some other refuge, and puzzled herself as to what she could do and where she could go.

Before she had been able to arrive at any decision, however, she found herself on the main road which led across the moor in the direction of Glastwick. She had proceeded along it for nearly a mile, when she saw some little distance in front of her a motorcar evidently disabled. It had come to a standstill, but was emitting a series of snorts and gurgles that testified to something being very far wrong with its internal machinery. As Cynthia drew nearer she saw that the chauffeur was lying at full length on his back beneath the car, evidently occupied in trying to remedy whatever was defective, while a couple of men in motor-dress were examining various nuts and cranks.

She was almost within speaking distance, when one of them stood up and turned round, straightening himself; then, catching sight of Cynthia, he came towards her, raising his cap courteously.

“Could you tell me whether there is any smithy or place on the moor where we could get help for this thing?” he asked, indicating the still snorting car by a backward jerk of his head.

Cynthia paused irresolutely.

“There is a smithy, I know, but I think it is a good way from here; I believe it is over there,” she said, pointing in what she believed to be the right direction.

She made a pretty picture as she stood there glancing about her in indecision, the breeze toying with her hair lightly, lifting the little curls round her temples, her colour heightened both by her quick walk and her nervousness.

A swift gleam of admiration shot into the heavy eyes of the man watching her; it was pleasanter to stand here on the short springy grass and talk to a pretty girl than to assist his companions to get the motor right.

“Our chauffeur is a first-rate fellow and understands his business thoroughly,” he went on conversationally, “but it seems that some nut or crank is missing, dropped on the road, and the difficulty is to supply its deficiency. Probably, however, we shall be able to do that at any blacksmith's. Perhaps it would be as well to send the man to see. Over there, I think you said,” as Cynthia began to move on.

The girl bowed coldly.

“As far as I can judge from here; but I am a stranger to the neighbourhood, so I am afraid I am not a competent guide.”

The man did not seem discouraged by her change of tone.

“I wonder also if you could tell me of any farmhouse near where we could obtain some refreshment?”

“I cannot!” Cynthia replied stiffly. Her eyes glanced at the stranger's short, stout figure, by no means set off to advantage by his loose motor-costume, at his heavy, unprepossessing face, and his coarse, sensual mouth and she moved on decidedly.

The man turned too.

“Oh, but can you not give me some idea—” he began to remonstrate with odious familiarity.

Cynthia quickened her steps indignantly. Then as she looked straight in front of her, something familiar in the attitude of the man waiting by the car struck her. Her expression changed; all the pretty colour that the man beside her had been admiring faded away; she came to a sudden standstill, her eyes wide open, dilated by fear, fixed on the waiting figure by the car. It must be some horrible mistake, she told herself; it could not be that she was looking at Lord Letchingham—at her husband!

The man who had spoken to her stopped too, evidently in surprise. He glanced at her disturbed face, and seemed about to speak, when the man by the car turned, and Cynthia knew that her worst fears were realized—it was Lord Letchingham who stood there looking at them!

As Cynthia still waited motionless, only her breath coming and going in great fluttering gasps, he moved a few steps towards them. At the same moment the man beside her spoke.

“I assure you we should only be too grateful if—”

With a sound that was like a sob of terror the girl turned, and with no very clear idea in her fright save that she must get away at all hazards, somewhere, she rushed away, panting as she ran, and stumbling over the rough moorland ground.

“I say, I hope I have not—” Cynthia caught the words; a backward glance showed her that the man had turned, that her husband had joined him, and that they were following her. The sight seemed to lend wings to her feet. She rushed on, her head bent, uttering little moans of terror as she ran, not knowing where she was going, only feeling that at all hazards she must get away from this man who owned her.