Читать книгу The Three Oak Mystery - Edgar Wallace - Страница 5

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"SCARED of what?" Lexington's eyebrows rose.

"I'd like to know," repeated Socrates quietly. "Did you see the wire alarm near the gate? Did you notice the study door has an electrical lock? You wouldn't, of course, because you're a cub at the game. Did you see the revolver at his hand, both in his bedroom and in his study, and the triple mirror over his writing table, so that he can look up and see all that is happening behind him and on either side? He is scared—scared to death, I tell you. He has the fear of fears in his eyes!"

Lexington could only look at his brother open-mouthed.

"That is partly the reason he is such a grump, so you'll have to make allowances for him—And here is Bob Stone," he said suddenly, and walked across the lawn to meet the man who was striding up the drive. A bluff, broad-shouldered man with a good-humoured face, the new-comer bellowed his greeting to his old comrade in a voice that could be heard for miles.

"Soc, you're skinnier than ever," he shouted. "By gad, you are just bones held together by parchment! Don't you ever eat?"

Socrates Smith grinned as he took the other's huge paw in his and shook it.

"You're as noisy as ever, Bob," he said, and looked round for John Mandle.

"He is groaning in the hands of a masseur," said Lexington.

"This is your brother—I don't remember him. A good looker, Socrates, a real good looker. Don't you think so, Miss Templeton?"

The girl's eyes danced at the evidence of Lexington's embarrassment.

"I am no judge of male beauty," she said demurely. "I see nobody but father and you."

Bob Stone roared at the malicious thrust and slapped his knee, an operation which reminded him of his friend's misfortune.

"Poor John has a very bad time with his legs," he said, "a shocking bad time. What he wants is a little faith and a little more religion in his system."

Socrates looked at him sharply.

"That's a new note in you, Bob," he said.

"What, religion? Yes, I suppose it is, but I'm rather inclined that way lately. It's a pity you can't stay over for our big revival meeting at Godalming. Evans, the Welsh evangelist, is coming down—it will be interesting. I'm going to talk."

"You!" said Socrates in surprise.

Bob Stone nodded. His big face was preternaturally solemn.

"Yes, I'm going to address the meeting. Heaven knows what I'm going to say," he said, "but the words will come into my mouth, and I shan't make a fool of myself. Hullo, John."

John Mandle was propelling himself toward them on his chair, and nodded glumly to his old comrade.

"A revival meeting, did I hear you say? Your voice is like an angel's whisper, Bob."

Bob chuckled.

"Yes, next week there's a meeting in Godalming which I'm going to address. Why don't you come along, John, and get your rheumatism cured?"

John muttered something uncomplimentary to faith healing in general, and the Welsh evangelist in particular, and Stone seemed to treat his wrath as a huge joke.

It was a pleasant day in early summer and they lingered out of doors till the very last moment.

The girl, in some trepidation, had intruded herself into the circle, had even ventured a few comments, and had been surprised that she had not been rudely interrupted by her boorish step-father. For his forbearance she had probably to thank Lexington Smith, though she dreaded the caustic comments which would follow as a matter of course when she and the tyrant were alone.

"Doesn't it remind you of a meeting of the 'Three Musketeers,' Miss Templeton?" asked Lex, and she smiled.

"Talking over their dirty work of other days, and revelling in the recollection of the poor devils they had sent to penal servitude, to the gallows—" Lex went on.

"Mostly of people we failed to send to penal servitude," interrupted Socrates. "Failures are much more interesting than successes, as food for reminiscence, Lex. You will have plenty to talk about in your old and middle age."

"I thank you for the compliment," said Lexington, politely.

"I think your brother is rather wonderful," said the girl, lowering her voice. "What extraordinary eyes he has."

"I'm supposed to have rather good eyes," said the shameless youth, and she bubbled with laughter.

"No, Socrates is really remarkable," he went on more seriously. "He is the soundest all-round man at the game, and he is a constant wonder to me. We were talking about your father—"

"My step-father," she corrected quietly.

"I beg your pardon—your step-father." It was rude of him to apologise within the hearing of John Mandle, but Mr. Mandle was at that moment engrossed in the recital of an early experience, and did not hear it.

"Soc was telling me that Mr. Mandle and Mr. Stone were the greatest strategists that ever worked at Scotland Yard. They were people who could work out a plan of campaign to the minutest detail, and it was this quality which brought them their success."

They tarried till the dinner gong sounded, and then went into the house, and the meal was a fairly pleasant one. Bob Stone was the type of man who dominated all conversation; he had a fund of stories which seemed inexhaustible, and even Mandle smiled—sourly, it is true—once or twice in the course of the meal.

Lexington wheeled him into the drawing-room, to the bridge table, but to the youth's delight Stone refused to play.

"That is one of the frivolities which I am giving up," he said.

"You're getting sanctimonious in your old age, Bob," sneered Mandle, but the big man only smiled.

He took his leave about an hour later, and John Mandle discussed his new development in his old-time friend with great frankness and acrimony.

"Anything for a sensation, that's Bob's weakness," he said, as he chewed an unlit cigar. "It's the one bad quality which I've tried to drill out of him. Anything for a sensation! Why—he'd ruin himself to get a little applause."

"Maybe he has genuinely got religion," said Socrates. "Such things have happened."

"Not he," said John Mandle contemptuously.

"Is he married yet?"

For about the third time that evening Mandle smiled—his eyes looked across the room to where the girl was sitting with Lexington.

"No—not married," he said quietly, "though he has ambitions in that direction."

"I see," said Socrates, quietly.

The words carried to Lexington and he gasped.

"Not you," he said in a low voice to the girl, and she nodded.

"And you?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I like him; of course, he's a dear, but not in that way; it is hopelessly ridiculous, and I told him so."

"What does your father think?"

She did not reply for a moment.

"I think my father lost all interest when he found that I did not favour the match," she said, a little bitterly. "If he had thought I was going to get any happiness out of it there would have been trouble."

Lex said nothing. The fascination of the girl was on him; and it was not because women were an unusual factor in his life.

The two hours which followed passed like minutes to two of the party, and Lexington was surprised, and a little disgusted, when his brother rose.

"I think I'll go to bed," said Socrates. "The country air has made me sleepy. Are you coming up, Lex?"

Lex hesitated.

"Yes," he said, for he had noted the signal in his brother's eye.

"Coming into my room?" said the elder man when they reached the landing above. "I suppose you know you've made John Mandle as sore as a scalded cat?" he said when he had closed the door.

"I have?" replied Lexington, in surprise.

"Listen," said Socrates, and bent his head.

Their room was situated above the drawing-room, and from below came a murmur of angry voices.

"I was afraid he'd rag her," said Socrates quietly.

"But why?"

"The Lord knows," said Socrates, taking off his coat. "But apparently he hates any attention being paid to the girl, and really, Lex, when you were not, as the novelists say, devouring her with your eyes, you were glued to her side."

"Is that an offence?" asked Lexington sarcastically. "Is it unnatural?"

"Very natural, indeed, Lex," said Socrates smiling. "I don't like John's way of conducting his household. An average man would be proud to have such a daughter, even though she's only his step-daughter; but the man's fear has unbalanced him."

"You stick to that theory?" said Lexington.

Socrates nodded.

"Did you see his valet come in? Well, that fellow has had instructions to make the round of the grounds and fix the wires and contraptions with which Mandle guards his house."

"Did you ask him about it?"

Socrates shook his head.

"It is not wise to ask a man about his fears," he said. "It is a subject on which he never grows very voluble."

They heard the quick step of the girl as she passed their room, and presently the heavy tread of the two servants carrying Mr. Mandle to bed.

"Good-night, John," Soc called as he passed.

"Good-night," with a grunt, he replied.

"Good-night, Mr. Mandle," said Lexington, but there was no answer.

"You have what is colloquially known as 'the bird,'" said Soc with a chuckle.

It was a beautiful moonlight night and they sat by the open casement window smoking until the household was silent and the last rumble of servants' heavy feet had ceased to shake the ceiling.

They talked in soft tones of people, of the beauty of the country on such a night as this, and Lexington was rising with a yawn when his brother asked:

"What house is that?"

He pointed across the valley to a big white house clearly visible in the moonlight.

"It's rum you should ask that, for it's the only house in the neighbourhood I know," said Lexington. "I saw it when I was strolling on the lawn this afternoon, and asked one of the gardeners. It belongs to a Mr. Jetheroe, a philanthropist and recluse, and a friend of Molly Templeton's, though I should imagine that her father does not know. She—" He did not finish his sentence.

From one of the big windows of the white house flashed a light. Rather would it be more exact to say, the window lit up with an unearthly glow, which died away instantly.

"What was that?" asked Lexington.

Again the window glowed, and then was dark. And then it lit in a rapid succession of flashes.

"Somebody's signalling; that is the Morse code," said Socrates, and spelt—"C—O—M—E." He could not catch the next, and it was some time before he picked up the thread of the message. "REE OAKS," he read, and interpreted the letters as "THREE OAKS."

"I wonder who the dickens is carrying out this clandestine correspondence," he asked.

"I'll give you three guesses," said Lexington with a smile, as he rose; "but if we said it was a demobilised soldier servant who had taught his lady-love the art and method of signalling, we should probably be near the mark."

"Look!" whispered Socrates, excitedly for him.

A slim, almost ghostly, figure was moving stealthily along the edge of the lawn in the shadow of a bush hedge.

Lex looked, and his eyes went round. It was Molly Templeton and she carried a small bag in her hand.

Presently she disappeared and the two men looked at one another.

"There is no reason why she should not take a midnight stroll," said Socrates, and Lex nodded.

"Good-night, Soc, old bird, sleep well," he said as he rose; "and call me in the morning when you go for your threatened stroll. I suppose when you said you were going to get up early and go for a walk, it wasn't swank on your part?"

"You'll know all about it," said Socrates grimly.