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MR. CHARTERS sat in his study, a big panelled apartment leading directly off the drawing-room, a long table beside him covered with maps, plans and account books. On the other side of this array was Jollands, agent for the estate.

At the moment Charters was thinking very hard, while Jollands, with an extraordinary sense of ease and liberation, was smoking the best cigar he had ever put between his teeth. Presently Charters cleared a space of very old oak, set his elbows on it, leaned a little forward and spoke thoughtfully.

“Then, as a result of all this, I assume that the estate about clears itself—but without any proper upkeep?”

“Yes, sir, with practically no upkeep.”

“So that its value now is nothing like what it used to be?”

Jollands nodded. “Exactly.” He hated to say disagreeable things over a cigar like this, but saw his chance. It had been hard going in his office for the last few years, and it made him feel old before his time.

“What would it cost to put the place in decent shape?”

Jollands breathed rather hard and swallowed a lot of smoke, which made him choke. So many things crowded on him at that question—things he knew should have been done long ago—but were not done because there was no money. Houses to be repaired and painted, new roofs, drains relaid, roads remetalled. He saw them all at once.

Charterden was proclaimed one of the prettiest villages in Kent, but he, better than anyone else, knew it to be the beauty of old age in decay. Hundreds of things that ought to be done! And here was the new owner talking about decent shape! He wondered what Canadians actually meant by “decent shape.”

“Three thousand a year for three years would transform the property,” he said in a curiously incredulous tone.

Charters made a note on his writing pad. “I’ll find that. What next?”

“I assure you, sir,” began Jollands, hardly believing his ears, “that this will be splendid news in the vill——”

Charters waved an amiable hand. “Forget it. I’ve seen quite enough myself. Now what else?”

There was a deal else, such as falls to a man who is for several hundred people all round him quite the most important person in the world, a man whose nod or frown was to be remembered, whose mood made all the difference in life!

A sense of this had begun to take hold of Charters. He was getting more used to the touching of caps and bobbing curtsies of women on their doorsteps, but he didn’t misinterpret it as being anything more than a sign of respect and perhaps a little fear of the master. Queer, too, to have a clerical living in his lands, to see his own name on the church brasses and the swinging sign of the public-house.

He owned it all, houses and timber, deer and pheasants, covert and hopfields, where the naked poles stretched in mathematical ranks over the bare brown soil. Fifteen hundred acres of this ancient county were his, with all that stood thereon.

“And my other tenants—I don’t mean the cottage ones—what about them? The occupants of the Whispering Lodge?”

“You’ve heard that already, sir?”

“My son mentioned the name as we came past the other night.”

“That’s Mr. Danello and his family of two. Couldn’t be quieter people. They have the place for seven years—four still to run—at a hundred a year, plus rates. I only hear from him once a quarter.”

“Are they foreigners?”

“They are, sir, but came to Mr. Philip well recommended.”

“Are they the sort one meets in a social way?”

Jollands shook his head. “They don’t go anywhere.”

“Anything else of local interest—you seem to have a very peaceful community in Charterden? Fortunate that, since I’m told I’ll have to do duty as a local magistrate.”

“Yes, sir, it is peaceful. Almost too much so, your young people may think. One murder in thirty years or so?”

“When was that?”

“Just three years ago—and inside The Dene gates. A poacher, we think, since the victim was the local constable.”

“Never been cleared up?”

“No, sir—not a sign of it. It happened behind the Lodge. The Danellos were asleep and knew nothing till next day. But it gave the spot a bad name.”

“And the Lodge a new one, eh?”

“Just what happened. I fancy the new naming took place at the Charters Arms after the inquest. But people haven’t forgotten it.”

“I suppose not; still, I wouldn’t mention it to my daughter till we have settled down and got used to the place. Young people’s imaginations sometimes run away with them, you know.”

Jollands smiled and nodded.

“Anything else at the moment?”

Jollands got up and began to gather his papers. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll let the rest stand to another day. There is just one thing—I have inquiries as to when Mrs. Charters will be receiving.”

“Shortly, I think—I’ll let you know. Good morning, Mr. Jollands.”

It was the first time in his business life that the agent, who had been born a gentleman, had been thus addressed by his employer in this room to which he had made so many futile visits. He made a jerky bow.

“Good morning, sir. I—I—in fact, everybody thanks you.”

He went out burdened, but with an infinitely lighter heart, and Charters relapsed into thought. It was all a good deal bigger contract than he expected. Presently he got up, stood for a moment at the window regarding his stretching acres with a distinctly quizzical smile, and betook himself to the morning-room, where he found his wife.

“Well, my dear, I see you’re at it, too.”

She gave a little sigh. “Oh, John, I feel all mixed up with all kinds of things. Just now I’ve been trying to get hold of rank and precedence in the servants’ hall. They seem to be so much more aristocratic there than we are, and frightfully superior. And do you mind if housekeeping is rather more expensive than I told you it would be?”

He laughed. “That sounds familiar. Do you mind if I spend three thousand a year—perhaps four—more than I mentioned the other day?”

“That’s not so much, dear.”

“Pounds, I mean. We’re English now.”

“Twenty thousand dollars!”

He told her of his talk with Jollands, while she nodded approval of all he said. Finally he sent her a rueful grin.

“I begin to wonder whether I’ve come into The Dene, or been let in for it; but it makes one more understanding about life on this side of the Atlantic. Remember what you said about families here with a dwindling income, and the sacrifices in keeping up a place like this? Philip was evidently swamped, with nothing coming in from outside. He didn’t spend anything on himself, from what Jollands tells me, yet there wasn’t enough—nearly enough.”

“I understand better, too,” she said gently. “It’s really this, John, that in middle life we have tackled something new.”

“And if I can look after my end as well as I know you’ll look after yours, I’ll be satisfied.”

She sent him the little smile she kept for him alone, and they were both silent for a moment.

“It’s lucky about Julian,” she said presently. “We couldn’t have arranged the Oxford affair unless he’d had his B.A. But I don’t think Tonia is very cheerful.”

“She’s lonely, with nothing special to interest her yet—which reminds me that Jollands was asking when you would be receiving. It seems that people want to know.”

“Perhaps next week. I suppose he had a lot to tell you.”

“It was about what I expected from what we learned in London, with the three-year-old local murder as a bonne bouche.”

“Murder, John!”

“In the avenue, just inside the gates. It was never cleared up, evidently the work of a poacher, and the ripples of it are still reflected in village talk.”

“Tonia doesn’t know about that, does she?”

“No, and I told Jollands to say nothing more. She’ll hear it in due course, I assume, but I want her to get settled first.”

“The place is perfectly safe now?” said Mrs. Charters, rather anxiously.

He laughed. “I was thinking a moment ago that it would be impossible to imagine a quieter, more established and cut-and-dried state of affairs than we’ve found here. It makes me feel that, for Tonia’s sake, we should get in touch with people as soon as you’re ready. Jollands says the pheasants are eating their heads off, and we ought to have a shoot.”

“Doesn’t that sound English, John—to begin by killing something?”

He laughed again. “Part of the British ritual, my dear. You’ll soon get used to it.”

By daylight the place was quite ordinary. So concluded Tonia, when, that afternoon, she strolled casually down the avenue and cast a sharp glance at the scene of her recent adventure.

She walked round the thicket from each side, examined the stone wall—a solid structure with no door or opening—turned back through the thicket, observed the great trunk lifting a sheer and branchless forty feet to its shattered top, then regained the road with a sense of disillusionment. Presently she thought of someone else who ought to know something.

Hammond, the head keeper, had, like Manders, stepped after his father. He was a short, thick-set man, with bright red cheeks, wind-whipped into tiny squares and triangles of glistening skin. He wore canvas leggings, whipcord breeches, a moleskin vest, and his boots had soles an inch thick. Usually he carried an old single-barrelled breechloader in the crook of his left arm. Tonia saw him coming out of a spinney and waved her hand.

“What’s on to-day, Hammond?”

He touched his cap. “Just having a look at the birds, miss. Plenty of pheasants, and I’ve put up ten woodcock.”

“When is there going to be a shoot?”

“About ten days, miss. It ain’t quite settled.”

“Hammond,” she demanded presently, watching a cock pheasant strut out and sun his shimmering plumage, “how do you feel about those birds?”

“Same as anyone, miss, just natural. Our birds ain’t any different from others.”

“You don’t mind feeding them and watching them like pets, then having them driven out to be shot?”

“That’s what I feed ’em for, miss. I’d mind if they weren’t well fed.”

She glanced at him sharply, seemed about to blurt something, then bit her lip. Hammond, not understanding the drift of this, and wondering at the queer ways of Canadians, stood rubbing his broad thumb over the stock of his gun.

“Why do they call it Whispering Lodge?” she asked suddenly.

He blinked at her. “Who’s been telling you stories, miss?”

“That’s not an answer—but it’s old Mrs. Goddard in the Gate House for one.”

“She ought to know better,” grunted the keeper. “Forget it—nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid,” she flashed, “but terribly interested. I—I came past there alone last night, and nothing happened.”

Hammond’s lips tightened a shade. “Don’t you do that again, miss, and it’s never been any use poking into that business. There was young Cramp found dead in the avenue behind the Lodge with a hole in his head, and no one knows who made it.”

Tonia caught her breath, remembering the creak in the old woman’s voice when she spoke of someone who touched something and never spoke again.

“Had he seen or found anything?” she asked tensely.

“Well, miss, since you’ve got that far, you might better know the rest for your own protection. Cramp had been made local constable the week before. He was found in the avenue at ten o’clock on a dark night a week later. He couldn’t speak, though he tried hard enough to get out something. But likely enough he got his from some tramp he found in The Dene grounds—or it might have been a poacher. That was three years ago, and as nothing’s took place since ’tis as well let alone.”

He touched his cap, regarded a distant spinney and was about to move off when Tonia stopped him.

“Hammond! Tell me something!”

“There ain’t nothing more.”

“Have you never seen anything yourself in the avenue since that time?”

He made a clucking sound in his throat, reddened to the temples and scraped the earth with his heavy heel. “Well, miss, if you’ll have the truth, I’ve seen her, but not him; and, begging your pardon, I ain’t saying anything more.”

“But you must, in fairness to me.” She spoke calmly enough, but her pulse was beating fast. “Are there two of them?”

“Man and woman—though they ain’t usually seen together,” grunted Hammond unwillingly.

“Oh, we haven’t any ghosts in Canada, so you must help me to find these some day—or night. Will you?”

“I didn’t say they was ghosts—and ghosts never bashed in a man’s head. You let it alone, miss.”

“Then I will”—here she smiled at him and turned back toward The Dene, adding in a murmur, “do nothing of the sort.”

She walked slowly through the grey of evening, lost in thought. Hammond, like the rest of them, was living beside a mystery, had accepted it, and left it alone for fear of burning his fingers. But it was the most absorbing thing Tonia had found in England.

And it suited The Dene. She remembered what her mother had said about exploring the people around her, and, much more to the point, the prophecy of the old crone in the Gate House. This was in her mind, mixed with vague disturbing thoughts of Rodney, when she encountered Manders in the hall.

“Mrs. Charters was asking for you, miss. Mr. and Mrs. Danello have called with their niece, Miss Vinen. They’re in the drawing-room now.”

Tonia stared at him, then went straight into the big room where the fire was casting gigantic shadows that the electrics did not overcome.

“Tonia,” murmured her mother, “our neighbours are kind enough to come and see us. Mrs. Danello, this is my daughter.”

Tonia shook hands with a middle-aged woman and a slight man with bright eyes and greying hair.

“My niece, Olga,” said Mrs. Danello.

A girl moved forward, dark, white-faced, with large black eyes, a girl of about Tonia’s height. It struck Tonia that something about her was vaguely familiar.

And she moved like a shadow!

******

It all seemed unreal, so unreal that Tonia wondered how her mother could be so calm till she remembered that there was no mystery about the Lodge so far as her mother knew. So she studied the girl’s face, trying hard to be natural.

“I hope we’ll see something of each other,” she said in her abrupt way.

Olga smiled, but with her eyes only—a curious smile that was remotely pathetic. It suggested that she had given up hope of seeing much of anyone.

“That would be very nice, but I don’t go out much.” The voice was extraordinarily gentle.

“Do you hunt?”

Olga seemed almost amused. “I don’t ride; my aunt doesn’t think I should. Do you like The Dene—it’s a great change, isn’t it?”

Tonia pursed her lips. “I don’t know yet; I’m in the process of getting Englishified. Couldn’t we go up to town together some day?”

The other girl looked wistful, and just then Mrs. Danello cut in with a very definite note.

“That’s very kind of you, but Olga isn’t up to much yet. Are you, my dear?”

It was the most ordinary possible remark, but Tonia fancied that she caught in it an inference not at all ordinary. Olga bit her lip and smiled again, though very faintly, then relapsed into silence. She seemed almost happier saying nothing. Mrs. Danello turned to Mrs. Charters.

“Had you always lived in Canada till you came here?”

“Yes, all my life.”

“You must find it very different. We do—don’t we, Henri?”

Danello nodded. “Yes, after France we still do—and it’s three years since we are here. That was on account of Olga, Mrs. Charters. Nothing but complete quiet, said the doctor. So we came to Kent.”

He spoke with only a slightly foreign accent, making innumerable quick gestures, his eyes very alert. Tonia, watching him as closely as she dared, put him at about forty, marked the delicacy of his pointed chin, and did not miss the long, sensitive, well-manicured fingers. Nothing of the country gentleman here. Mrs. Charters, having said the appropriate thing, he went on:

“Business brought me to England at that time, and it did not matter where we lived, provided within a reasonable distance of London, where I have organized a private bank. And my wife fortunately prefers the country.”

“Do you shoot?” asked Mrs. Charters, “because if you do I’m sure my husband would——”

The delicate hands lifted a little. “Alas, no!”

“He reads in his spare time,” put in his wife, “reads everything he can get.”

“That is practically true. There is a certain, shall we say, tension about banking”—here he gave an inscrutable smile—“that demands relaxation—mental diversion. Therefore I read—everything, especially in French. I am half French, and lived in Lyons for years. Also, it is necessary that I keep in touch with Continental affairs.”

Tonia missed nothing of this. It seemed to her to be all at random, and they were both here for the sake of producing a certain impression. That and nothing more. She admitted to being prejudiced beforehand, but this talk sounded thin and artificial.

As to Mrs. Danello, the woman was of a definitely French appearance, looked extremely capable, and did not strike one as the sort who would be content to be isolated in the country for the sake of the health of a niece. She seemed practical to a degree, and suggested a type of mastery that most likely expressed itself in the direction of the girl beside her.

And that someone had mastered Olga was obvious. Tonia turned to her again.

“We’re just on the air route to Paris, aren’t we?” she said at a hazard. “Have you ever flown over? I’d love to.”

Olga shook her dark head. “No,” she half whispered. “I’ve never been in the air.” The voice was nervous, and she sent her aunt an uncertain glance.

“Some of those machines look as though they were going to land here, don’t they?” went on Tonia, fumbling for any kind of clue.

“They never do—never,” struck in Danello with odd precision. “There is no suitable landing-place—it would mean a crash.”

Tonia was unconvinced. She had seen a good deal of flying in Canada since the war, and knew that a machine could land and take off safely within a few hundred yards of the Lodge.

“I believe a good pilot could come down comfortably quite near your house. It doesn’t need much ground now.”

He seemed unreasonably vexed. “Let us hope no one will try it.”

Mrs. Charters laughed. “I should say it’s most unlikely that anyone will, and as for——”

At that moment her husband came in. If he was surprised to find visitors he concealed it successfully, and after making himself agreeable turned to his wife.

“Sorry, my dear, but I’m off to-morrow for a day or two.”

“But why, John?”

“A cable from Canada, and I must go to Paris. You see,” he explained to Danello, “I’m supposed to have retired from business, but a company with which I was formerly associated has asked me, as a favour, to attend to something over there at once, and I can’t very well refuse. It’s rather a large transaction. I’ll be at the Crillon.”

“I have a banking office in Paris—can I be of any use?”

“Thanks—all I need at the moment is some French money, and I don’t see how to get it in time. I’m leaving from Croydon at ten to-morrow by air.”

Danello gave a little smile. “It happens that I have four thousand francs at the house. Is that of use? It is, say, twenty pounds at present exchange.

“Just right, if I may have it.”

“With pleasure. The franc is now at 200—and very unsettled,” he added thoughtfully. “I will send you the money within the hour.”

This was a bit of luck, thought Charters, and let it go at that; and of them all only Tonia saw the quick, almost incredulous glance Mrs. Danello had cast at her husband. It passed in a second, but struck the girl with an odd significance.

“Father!” she burst out, “take me!”

He shook his head. “Not this time; the next perhaps, if there is a next. I’m going to be extremely busy.”

“Then take us both, and we’ll see what the place looks like from the air. I want to fly right over the Whis——”

She broke off, colouring hotly. Danello was looking at her with calm, penetrating eyes, but she perceived a sudden clinching of his white hand. Then Mrs. Charters laughed good-naturedly.

“Your mother is much too old-fashioned, and declines with thanks. I’d sooner look up than down. I’m sorry you feel you have to go, John.”

“So am I, but I can’t very well get out of it.”

The Danellos went off a moment later. Charters made for his study, and Tonia stood watching Olga’s figure dwindle down the drive. Mrs. Danello seemed to be talking volubly, her husband occasionally nodding agreement.

Tonia tried to piece together the innumerable and faint impressions produced by this meeting, but they were too indefinite to form any real pattern.

One could not identify an individual from a shadow, and if the shadow had been the individual, how did it pass a solid stone wall? And why should Olga haunt the avenue?

As for Danello, he presented nothing mysterious. A banker, half French, with a French wife and a delicate niece, what more natural than a country house? Mrs. Danello looked too practical to have association with mysteries.

So much for the visitors. But what Tonia could not displace was the picture of the shrouded form under the elms, and the vision of young Cramp in his blue uniform, eyes glazing, trying to get something out and dying with the secret on his lips.

“Well, Tonia, what did you think of them?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “We didn’t get very far, did we?”

“One doesn’t expect to, the first time. How did you like the girl?”

“Couldn’t make anything of her. She’s so negative.”

“She looks very lonely,” said Mrs. Charters with sympathy. “And she’s certainly lovely.”

It struck Tonia that this was quite right. It was a lovely face, and Tonia, who laid no claim to beauty, had recognized that at once. It was unusually sensitive, but, in a way, a dead face, with a suggestion of fixed hopelessness and far from any animation. Animation would make it arresting and fascinating. There was a depth of feeling there, and the eyes were those of one who brooded over the past.

“The uncle seems very much alive,” went on Mrs. Charters, “and a good business man, I should think, but his wife seems not quite in his class—though very capable, like most French women. Did you arrange anything with the niece?”

Tonia was afraid of saying too much. “She doesn’t ride, and looks as though she couldn’t walk far, but I’ll suggest something when we call there. How soon will that be?”

“Very soon: I’m disappointed you haven’t more in common.”

“I am, too, but we may hit it off.”

It was all she said, but there persisted an unexplainable certainty that there would be much more than this. Olga’s face seemed now more distinct than when the girl was in the room. Then, it being no present use to try and get any further, Tonia wandered about, finally gravitating to the study, where she perched on the corner of the long refectory table.

“Sure you can’t take me, Dad?”

He pushed back a pile of papers. “Sorry, child. If there’s any little thing in the Rue Royale——”

“Thanks—I don’t want anything. Next time?”

“Why so eager?”

“Can’t explain exactly, but I do want to see this place from the air.”

“Having seen it, would you be any happier?”

“Can’t promise that—but perhaps a little wiser.”

He laughed at her. “You’ll notice that, so far, we haven’t been too curious about your impressions of England.”

“You’ve both been wonderful. Are you curious now?”

“Not unless you feel—well—expansive.”

“I’m getting interested,” she confessed.

“Good! Think Julian can come down for the shoot?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want Rodney?” he asked casually.

Her slim legs stopped swinging. “Just as you like—it doesn’t affect me.”

Charters’ eyes twinkled, and he was about to speak when Manders came in with a small parcel.

“It has just been left with Mr. Danello’s compliments, sir, and the man is waiting.”

Charters nodded, filled up a cheque after counting the French money, and sent it off. There was also a small packet and a note:

“Dear Mr. Charters,—

“Of your kindness, and if quite convenient, would you be so good as to hand the enclosed to my agent, who will be waiting at your hotel on your arrival. I have wired him to this effect. It is a small remembrance my wife sends to her sister in Paris for her birthday. The date was overlooked till a few moments ago, and there is no other way of being sure that this little gift will reach her on her anniversary.

“Sincerely yours,

“Paul Danello.”

He slipped the packet in his pocket. “Rather an odd couple to find in a place like this, eh? And certainly the odd chance that he should have French money. Pretty bright chap, I should say.”

“I suppose so. Send us some kind of a signal when you’re flying over, Dad, if you can; and have a look at the ground south of the Lodge. I believe it would be just right for landing on.”

“Please Heaven, I won’t have to use it,” grinned Charters, and turned to his papers.

She was rather silent for the rest of the day, trying to rid herself of a feeling of disappointment about Olga. Not much prospect of any real companionship there, and, as to the Whispering Lodge, nothing that could be called evidence. When she went to bed she could not sleep, then tossed about for hours, and finally sat at the open window, wrapped in a blanket.

The world was obscure and dipped in windless silence. It must have been after midnight that through the murk she saw one star, red as blood, a tiny pinpoint in the immensity of sky.

While she watched it became three stars—close together. These seemed to approach. They descended a little, held a level line, disappeared and winked back into life.

They must have been over the Lodge when they took a slanting dive, dipped below the elm-tops, soared into vision again and dwindled rapidly.

Tonia, staring, knew that they were on an aeroplane. What aeroplane? Why circle over the Whispering Lodge—and vanish? And in the midst of this riddle she suddenly realized that the machine had been absolutely silent.