Читать книгу The Turn of the Tide - Fred M. White - Страница 6

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It was mere sentiment on Pat's part, of course, but she never entered the Moat House without a certain feeling of regret, and perhaps another feeling which was akin to jealousy. Neither had she ever quite forgiven Croot for depriving her, more or less, of the home in which she had been born. Generally she was quite ready to admit the illogical position, but that did not check the pangs she was feeling as she crossed the big cosy panelled hall in the direction of the long drawing-room, where Vera Croot awaited her. Nothing had been changed, the old furniture was there, just as it had been any time the last three centuries, and but for the absence of the family portraits, the old impression remained intact. But it was only for a moment, and then Pat was herself again.

Before the big open grate, with its fire of logs, a figure was seated, a slender figure in white, with fair hair and a pair of engaging blue eyes. Vera was a pocket Venus in her way, very small and fragile, and yet not lacking sufficiency of courage, and an ardent sportswoman. For she was proficient at most games, though she hardly looked it as she sat there in perfect harmony with her surroundings, a study in lace and shimmering pearls.

"I am so glad you came first, Pat," she smiled. "I wanted to have two or three minutes with you before the rest of them came along. It is quite a big party to-night, including a distinguished scientist called Phillipson, and a member of the Government. To tell you the truth, I shall be glad when it is over."

They sat there chatting for a while, until the last of the guests had arrived, then the big folding doors of the drawing-room were thrown back and dinner was announced. They filed into the dining-room that Pat remembered so well, and sat, twelve of them in all, round a big oval table, on which were shaded lights and some magnificent orchids which had been in the conservatories under the old régime. It seemed to Pat that she could recognize every bloom. It was rather a depressing business for a moment or two, but there was consolation in the fact that Vera's taste was faultless. There was no jarring note here, and Pat, unfolding her napkin, resolutely set herself to pass an enjoyable evening.

Most of the people round the table were quite well known to her, and fully appreciated the situation. The one outstanding stranger was tall, with a high forehead and a short grey beard, a distinguished-looking man, who had been pointed out to Pat a few minutes before as Dr. Phillipson, the eminent scientist. He was talking now in a grave voice to his partner. Pat could not quite follow what they were saying, but from an odd word here and there she gathered that the subject was electric energy. Then she realized the fact that Croot was speaking to her.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "What were you saying, Mr. Croot? I am afraid I was not listening."

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," Croot said. "Go on enjoying yourself. Don't mind me. I like to have young faces round my table, keeps us young, eh, general?"

"I don't admit that I am anything else," General Emerson replied. "A man is as young as he feels, eh, Croot? And if that is true, then you've nothing to worry about."

"No, I suppose not," Croot said. "Nothing like an outdoor life to keep one really fit. I don't get much of it now, unfortunately, but the twenty years I spent in Canada weren't wasted."

Pat sat listening idly to this conversation, until her partner Geoffrey Rust claimed her attention.

"Do you know," he said, "this is the first time that I have met you here on a state occasion. It must feel very strange to you to be sitting here where you have sat hundreds of times before and realize that this was once your own home."

Pat glanced at him with eyes suspiciously moist.

"I am trying to forget it," she said simply.

"Oh, Lord, I beg your pardon," Rust said under his breath. "If you can think of a more tactless remark than that, perhaps you will tell me. I am sorry, Pat."

"Please don't," Pat said. "After all, it is only a silly sentiment, and who knows but what I might be back here again some day in the same place where Vera is sitting now."

"Is that one of your pet dreams, then?"

"Oh, I don't know. Girls are silly creatures sometimes, and yet, stranger things have happened."

"That's true enough," Rust agreed. "Well, we must see what we can do. Fortunately, there are not many dreams of that sort that I could not gratify if you gave me the right, Pat, though I must confess that this one seems rather remote. But you never can tell, and perhaps, some day—"

"Please don't," Pat said. "It is rather a sore subject."

"Very well, we will say no more about it. Still, Croot may not live for ever, though he does look most confoundedly healthy. I suppose it wouldn't do for me to poison him secretly and spend some of my father's hard-earned thousands in buying the Moat House after the funeral? Of course, I know I am talking rubbish, but I want to see that smile of yours back in your eyes, Pat."

Patricia smiled gaily enough now, a little grateful perhaps to Rust for the frivolous note that he had introduced into the conversation. The elaborate meal went, on, with its many courses, and the soft-footed servants moving about in the shadows behind the pools of light cast on the table from the lamps. Most of the guests were laughing and talking easily enough now, and it would have been hard to believe that there was anything but happiness and gaiety concealed below the surface. And yet Rust, regarding his host from time to time, seemed to feel a sort of impression that the big man was not entirely at his ease. Perhaps Pat noticed it too, for they exchanged glances. At the same moment, as if there were some magnetic attraction between the three of them, Croot glanced across the table and smiled none too easily. There was a contraction between his brows suggestive of some physical pain.

"What on earth's the matter with him?" Rust murmured.

"Probably he has got one of his neuralgic touches," Pat replied. "When he was in Canada, years ago, he was lost for two days in a snowstorm, and was badly frost-bitten. He was telling me about it the other day in the office. He made light of it, but I know he suffers a good deal at times. Not for long, of course, but I believe it is severe while it lasts."

"What are you two conspiring about?" Croot asked.

"Ah, that is our secret," Rust replied. "We are not in the office now, sir. We are freeborn citizens, claiming the right to do as we please; in fact, we are democrats, both."

Croot made some facetious reply, and turned easily to his neighbour. It was all over in a moment, but it left a strange uneasy impression in Rust's mind. The dinner came to an end at length, the servants had departed, and the coffee and liqueurs were placed on the table. Cigarettes were handed round, so that it was exceedingly pleasant to lounge there round that perfectly-appointed table with its artistic litter of fruit and the wines glowing like gems in the cut-glass decanters, and listen to the rain dropping on the terrace outside, and the rising wind tossing and moaning in the trees.

"I tell you what it is, general," Croot was saying. "It is all very well for you to take that view, but—"

"What's that?" Vera cried suddenly.

From outside there came a gentle tapping, not regularly, but a soft vibration on the window-panes, that stopped and then commenced again. It was as if some one outside in the rain was trying to call attention to his presence.

"Ah, I know what it is," Croot said. "It's a loose Virginia creeper blowing about in the wind. I have told Edwards more than once to have it tied up again. You might remind him about it to-morrow morning, Vera. I—"

He stopped suddenly, with an expression of pain on his face. The man next to him half rose to his feet.

"All right," he whispered. "Quite all right. Another twinge of that infernal neuralgia of mine. Please don't take any notice of me. It will pass in a minute."

He bent his head over his dessert-plate, and tinkled on the edge of it with a silver fruit-knife. Then, once again, there came the tapping of the branch on the window quickly, and then slowly, and finally it stopped altogether. A minute later Croot ceased to fiddle with his dessert-knife, and the contracted frown between his brows passed and left him smiling.

"That's all right," he said, with a sigh of deep relief. "It is a pretty rotten business while it lasts, but fortunately for me it does not last very long. Here, what are you doing, general? I positively can't allow you to smoke one of your own cigars under my roof. You must have one of mine. If you will excuse me for a moment or two, I will get a box from the library. I have only smoked one myself, but they are quite the choicest I have ever been fortunate enough to get hold of. They were sent me by our agent in Havana. You must try one."

"With pleasure," the general laughed. "It must be a nice thing to be a merchant prince and have agents in Havana. But please don't take all that trouble."

Croot smilingly rose to his feet and left the room. Once he had closed the door behind him the smile left his face, and a hard fighting expression came into his eyes. He looked along the corridor to see that the coast was clear, then moved swiftly along in the direction of the library. As he passed into the room he locked the door behind him and, feeling his way in the dark, found one of the windows at length, and pulling the blind on one side forced back the catch and opened the long French casement. He cracked his finger-joints and stood waiting.

Out of the gloom and rain a figure emerged and crept cautiously into the room. The window was fastened again, the blind dropped over it, and a flood of light disclosed the white anxious face of Mark Gilmour. He sat for a moment, panting like a man who had run far. He was shaking from head to foot.

"What is it?" Croot whispered. "Tell me in a few words. I can't stay with you more than a minute."

"Oh, I know that," Gilmour muttered. "I have been spotted. I had the nearest squeak in the world of finding myself in the hands of the police. I came down here in George's taxi as fast as I could. It's lucky that we were prepared for an emergency of this sort. The police will be after me presently—"

"Police?" gasped Croot. "Is it as bad as that?"

"Yes, damn it, man, didn't I tell you I had been spotted? An infernal piece of bad luck. Man on a barge I had served with on the China station. I believe he recognized me. At any rate, I am taking no risks. The boat is at the bottom of the river, but Joe Airey and myself managed to get away all right. If they do come along presently, then I have been here all the evening."

Croot was the man of action again now. He knew exactly what to do, and the precise way of doing it.

"All right," he said. "Leave it to me. Nothing like an alibi. Listen. You have been here for the last hour or more. You got down too late for dinner, so you walked straight into the house and into the library with the intention of joining us later, when we got back into the drawing-room. You will find all you want in my dressing-room. You know what I mean. Now then, go upstairs and change at once. No occasion for you to ring the bell, or anything of that sort, because everything is up there. You know the way, don't you?"

As Croot spoke he indicated a small door in the side of the library which opened on to a passage, at the foot of which was a staircase, leading to the upper floor, where Croot had his bed and dressing-room. He frequently sat half the night working in his library, and this arrangement suited him perfectly. It meant no disturbance of the other people in the house late at night, and, moreover, enabled him to be elsewhere at all sorts of sinister hours when Vera and the rest were under the impression that he was asleep. Croot was not the man to leave anything to chance.

"I think that will do," he said. "When I get back to the dining-room I will mention casually that you are here, and that you did not like to disturb us in the middle of our meal. I heard your message all right, I told them it was the branch of a creeper tapping on the window. Did you catch my reply?"

"Oh, I got that right enough," Gilmour muttered. "If I hadn't, I shouldn't have been waiting by the window here. Of course, it may be all a false alarm, but I am not taking any risks."

"Of course not," Croot agreed. "Now, perhaps you will go. But stop, lock the library door behind me in case of accidents, and unlock the door again when you come down. You look half-frozen. You'll find a fire in my dressing-room."

"I can do with it," Gilmour said. "I will tell you all about it later on when your friends have gone."

With that he disappeared through the small doorway, and Croot lingered till he heard footsteps overhead, then, hastily snatching a box of cigars from the cabinet, he went back to the dining-room.

"Sorry to keep you so long," he said. "But when I got to the library I found my man Gilmour there. It appears he got down here too late for dinner, so he wouldn't disturb us, and walked into the library. He will join us in the drawing-room presently."

"What a funny man he is, dad," Vera said. "It seems strange that a man who has been all those years in the Navy should be so shy. He might have come in and had dessert with us."

"He's a fine fellow, all the same," Croot said heartily. "Here you are, general, and I hope you will enjoy it."

They sat there for some little time longer, perhaps half an hour or more, whilst the general smoked his cigar—for which he had nothing but praise—and then, at a sign from Croot, Vera rose and, followed by the rest of the ladies, made her way across the hall into the drawing-room.

"Just another glass of port," Croot said. "Then we will follow. Rust, you might go as far as the library and ask Gilmour if he won't come and join us in a glass of wine. His devotion to duty has cost him a good dinner, but that is no reason why he should be penalised over his port."

"Certainly I will," Rust said.

He rose and left the room, and as he did so a footman came in with a visiting card on a salver.

"A gentleman wishes to see you on important business, sir," he said. "He won't keep you many minutes."

"Ask him into the library," Croot said quite coolly.

He made no comment, he did not change his expression by so much as the blink of an eyelid. And yet there was something ominous and dangerous about the shining pasteboard lying on the table. It bore the simple inscription of—

INSPECTOR RICHARD LOCK,

NEW SCOTLAND YARD.