Читать книгу The Crimson Circle - Edgar Wallace - Страница 6

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A HEAVY weight lay on Jack Beardmore's mind as he walked slowly across the meadows that morning. His feet carried him instinctively in the direction of the little valley which lay a mile from the house, and in the exact centre of which ran the hedge which marked the division between the Beardmore and Froyant estates. It was a glorious morning. The storm of wind and rain which had swept the country the night before had blown itself out, and the world lay bathed in yellow sunlight. Far away, beyond the olive-green covens that crowned Penton Hill, he caught a glimpse of Harvey Froyant's big white mansion. Would she venture out with the ground so sodden and the grasses soaked with rain, he wondered?

He stopped by a big elm tree on the lip of the valley and cast an anxious glance along the untidy hedge, until his eyes rested on a tiny summer house which the former owners of Tower House had erected--Harvey Froyant, who loathed solitude, would never have been guilty of such extravagance.

There was nobody in sight, and his heart sank. Ten minutes' walking brought him to the gap he had made in the fence, and he stepped through. The girl who sat in the tiny house might have heard his sigh of relief.

She looked round, then rose with some evidence of reluctance.

She was remarkably pretty, with her fair hair and flawless skin, but there was no welcome in her eyes as she came slowly toward him. "Good morning," she said coolly.

"Good morning, Thalia," he ventured, and her frown returned.

"I wish you wouldn't," she said, and he knew that she meant what she said. Her attitude toward him puzzled and worried him. For she was a thing of laughter and bubbling life. He had once surprised her chasing a hare, and had watched, spellbound, the figure of this laughing Diana as her little feet flew across the field in pursuit of the scared beast. He had heard her singing, too, and the very joy of life was vibrant in her voice--but he had seen her so depressed and gloomy that he had feared she was ill.

"Why are you always so stiff and formal with me?" he grumbled.

For a second a ghost of a smile showed at the comer of her mouth.

"Because I've read books," she said solemnly, "and poor girl secretaries who aren't stiff and formal with millionaire's sons usually come to a bad end!"

She had a trick of directness which was very disconcerting.

"Besides," she said, "there is no reason why I shouldn't be stiff and formal. It is the conventional attitude which people adopt toward their fellow creatures, unless they are very fond of them, and I'm not very fond of you."

She said this calmly and deliberately, and the young man's face went red. He felt a fool, and cursed himself for provoking this act of cruelty.

"I will tell you something, Mr. Beardmore," she went on in her even tone. "Something which you haven't realised. When a boy and girl are thrown together on a desert island, it is only natural that the boy gets the idea that the girl is the only girl in the world. All his wayward fancies are concentrated on one woman and as the days pass she grows more and more wonderful in his eyes. I've read a lot of these desert island stories, and I've seen a lot of pictures that deal with that interesting situation, and that is how it strikes me. You are on a desert island here--you spend too much time on your estate, and the only things you see are rabbits and birds and Thalia Drummond. You should go into the city and into the society of people of your own station."

She turned from him with a nod, for she had seen her employer approaching, had watched him out of the corner of her eye as he stopped to survey them, and had guessed his annoyance.

"I thought you were doing the house accounts, Miss Drummond," he said with asperity.

He was a skinny man, in the early fifties, colourless, sharp-featured, prematurely bald. He had an unpleasant habit of baring his long yellow teeth when he asked a question, a grimace which in some curious way suggested his belief that the answer would be an evasion.

"Morning, Beardmore," he jerked the salutation grudgingly and turned again to his secretary.

"I don't like to see you wasting your time, Miss Drummond," he said.

"I am not wasting either your time or mine, Mr. Froyant," she answered calmly. "I have finished the accounts--here!" She tapped the worn leather portfolio which was under her arm.

"You could have done the work in my library," he complained; "there is no need to go into the wilderness."

He stopped and rubbed his long nose and glanced from the girl to the silent young man.

"Very good; that will do," he said. "I am going to see your father, Beardmore. Perhaps you will walk with me?"

Thalia was already on her way to Tower House, and Jack had no excuse for lingering.

"Don't occupy that girl's time, Beardmore, don't, please," said Froyant testily. "You've no idea how much she has to do--and I'm sure your father wouldn't like it."

Jack was on the point of saying something offensive, but checked himself. He loathed Harvey Froyant, and at the moment hated him for his domineering attitude toward the girl.

"That class of girl," began Mr. Froyant, turning to walk by the side of the hedge toward the gate at the end of the valley, "that class of girl--" he stood still and stared. "Who the devil has broken through the hedge?" he demanded, pointing with his stick.

"I did," said Jack savagely. "It is our hedge, anyway, and it saves half a mile--come on, Mr. Froyant."

Harvey Froyant made no comment as he stepped gingerly through the hedge.

They walked slowly up the hill toward the big elm tree where Jack and stood looking down into the valley.

Mr. Harvey Froyant preserved a tight-lipped silence. He was a stickler for the conventions, where their observations benefited himself.

They had reached the crest of the rise, when suddenly his arm was gripped, and he turned to see Jack Beardmore, staring at the bole of the tree. Froyant followed the direction of his eye and took a step backward, his unhealthy face a shade paler. Painted on the tree trunk was a rough circle of crimson, and the paint was yet wet.