Читать книгу The House on the River - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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The fog was thinning now, with clear patches in between and the rising moon touched a point here and there in the garden that almost seemed like daylight. It was a lonely garden enough, with a quiet path down the side, and the river creeping along the bottom of the lawn against the piles of the ruined old boat-house. So lonely was it that it might have been miles remote from civilisation.

But Quint was not thinking of that just then. He was thinking of the look on Ennie's face and the expression in her eyes as she turned towards him. He could read something there that he had hardly dared to hope for, and, at any other time, the realisation of what that glance meant would have filled him with sheer delight. But not now—there was much to be done, and many dangers to be circumvented before he could hope to tell Ennie what had been uppermost in his mind for months past.

He almost groaned as he contrasted his lot with hers. At any moment now, he might find the strong grip of the law upon his shoulder, at any moment he might have to face an accusation which, unless a miracle happened, would mean social damnation.

He put these thoughts aside, and came back to the stern realities of the moment. He stood there, under the dusky shadow of the boat-house, and laid a hand that was none too steady on the shoulder of his companion.

"Perhaps I had better tell you all about it, Ennie," he said. "We're not likely to be interrupted here, and there is plenty of time. I told you what I am going to do. It sounds like a wild and reckless enterprise, but there is nothing else for it. I am going to break into Barnes Place on Saturday night, which will be the best time. I can leave these tools here, if you think that they will be absolutely safe."

"I'm sure they will," Ennie said. "My uncle never enters the boat-house. Perhaps you would like to hear why he is leading this lonely life?"

"It would be just as well, perhaps," Quint said.

"Well, it was like this. He has been here over forty years. This is his own house and he lives here as a bachelor."

"You never told me his name."

"Didn't I? Well, he's called Everard Geere, and he is my mother's only brother. You see, though my father is an American, he married an English wife. In those days, the poor old man was young and popular and quite well off. He lived here as a bachelor. He was engaged to be married to a young and beautiful girl, and, as far as I can understand, they used to do a lot of boating together. One night they had some sort of misunderstanding when they were on the river, and my uncle got out and left his fiancee to go home by herself. Nobody ever knew exactly what happened, but the boat upset close to where we are now, and the poor girl was drowned, and my uncle has been alone in the house ever since. No, not quite mad, but nearly so, poor man!"

"It's a very sad story," Michel Quint said. "Didn't you say you had been in the house?"

"Just once," Ennie explained. "I thought I would go and see him, but though he was polite enough, he gave me a strong hint that he wished to see nobody, and I have never been since. He is quite old and feeble, now, but perfectly capable of looking after himself. He has all sorts of ingenious contrivances in the house for saving himself trouble. No one is allowed to call; and everything he needs from his tradesmen is left on his doorstep. He goes out occasionally in a bath chair, when he has to go to the bank and that sort of thing, but never otherwise. He is fond of his garden. As you can see, it's beautifully kept, but nothing would ever induce him to go in the boat-house."

Quint glanced up the well-ordered garden, towards the house, and then back again to the dilapidated shadow of rotting timbers, which formed all that was left of the boat-house. In front of it, floating on the river, was a decayed baulk of timber, attached to a rotting post, which, evidently at one time, had been a sort of makeshift landing stage. Inside the building the floor was moist with rainwater, and here and there were lockers without doors, and behind one of these Quint hid the tools which Ennie had been using in her realistic pose as a lady burglar.

"They'll be quite safe there, anyway," he said. "I shall know where to find them on Saturday night. And, if the worst comes to the worst, I can hide here for a night or two. But I was going to explain to you."

Ennie laid her hand upon Quint's arm, and, at the same time, pointed towards the house. A sudden ray of light flashed out in the breakfast room window then the blind was drawn up, and a figure emerged down a flight of steps into the garden. The moon was high enough now to see everything, so that the thin spare figure, with its blue spectacles and ragged fringe of whiskers, was picked out decidedly enough. Quint and his companion stood there, under the shadow of the boat-house, till Geere came so near to them that they might have touched him. He was muttering something to himself that they could not catch, his eyes appeared to be looking into vacancy from behind, his blue glasses, he was almost like a man who walks in his sleep. Three times did he pace in that somnolent way round the lawn, until he disappeared at length through the conservatory door, and, a moment later, the blind in the breakfast room was pulled down, and the light vanished.

"It's like a scene out of play," Quint murmured. "The poor old chap isn't afraid of burglars, anyway because he certainly didn't lock the conservatory door behind him."

"It's all very sad and pathetic," Ennie said. "But, oh, Mike, what a hiding place for you! If we could only enlist the sympathy of the old gentleman, you might remain hidden here for a month. No one would look for you here. But you were going to tell me the story."

"Ah, I had quite forgotten that," Quint said. "Well, it is like this Ennie. You know what I am, you have been living with my sister Margaret quite long enough to know something about my character. When my father died, there was just a thousand pounds to come to me, quite sufficient to finish my medical course and buy me a share in a practice. Instead of passing my finals I gave up myself to sport."

"You couldn't help that, Mike," Ennie said. "They wouldn't leave you alone."

"I am afraid I didn't want to be left alone." Quint sighed. "Rugby football all the winter and golf all the summer, and never a stroke of work. Lord, Ennie, what a fool I've been! It's a sort of conceit, I suppose. And there's something in it, too. It's so good to feel physically fit, to feel yourself better than other men, and to hear the roar of applause from twenty thousand people on a football field when you've got a try right behind the posts. You're a jolly good little sportswoman yourself, and you know the joy of winning a tie in a golf match."

"I know," Ennie said softly. "And if I'd been you I shouldn't have resisted it. It must be glorious to have your photograph in all the newspapers, and see men whispering about you in a corner. Far better than my picture in the 'Sketch' and 'Tatler' as Ennie Barr, the cinema star. But, go on, Mike, about this trouble of yours."

"Well I realized about two months ago that I had spent all my money, it came quite as a shock to me. Here was I, without a penny, and almost a certainty of being ploughed in my finals. Then I ran up against Ted Somerset. He's quite a good sportsman, and he's done some pretty fair things, as you know. If he could only fight an uphill game, he'd be as good as the best of us, but he can't, he hasn't got it in him. He lacks that—well—stuff that champions are made of. But he's devilish clever, and one of the most brilliant inventors I know. He told me all about the cinema business of his, and offered me a partnership if I could find him £250. Anybody could recognize it as a good thing if it came off, and that's why I took it to Enderby. I hate the beast, and he dislikes me. He's not a bad golfer, but he's a dead wrong 'un, Ennie. Still I thought he had money, lots of it——"

"But hasn't he?" Ennie asked in surprise.

"My dear girl, he's no better off than I am. His position is desperate, though he does live at Barnes Place, and entertains lavishly. If he doesn't get hold of something good before long, he's done. But, of course, it was like my luck that I didn't learn that before it was too late. I took the invention to him, under the impression that he was a capitalist. But he wouldn't look at it. That was all part of the game. Told me to come back in a month, and all that sort of thing. When I suggested money, he referred me to a man called Kent—Alfred Kent. Well, to make a long story short, Kent lent Somerset and myself £250 on our joint note of hand, which he, Kent, accepted, and then passed us on to another chap called John Claw, who discounted the bill. To get this money, we had to deposit all the specifications of the patent and to assign it as a security for the money. A day or two afterwards Kent told us that, being temporarily short of money, he had passed on the security to Enderby. Well, that sounded all right, because Somerset hoped to complete his invention before that bill fell due. Then Kent disappeared. He's supposed to have been drowned. But before he vanished, he wrote to Enderby and repudiated his signature on the back of that bill. He said that the whole thing was a forgery on our part, and that he was quite prepared to get in the witness box and say so. Now do you begin to see the conspiracy?"

"I think so," Ennie said. "You see that's one of the advantages of being the daughter of an American millionaire. Before I defied my father and went on the stage he used to tell me all about his business affairs until he said I was almost capable of managing them myself. Oh, I see, Mike, they are going to compel you and Mr. Somerset to hand over those patents to them, or, in the alternative, to prosecute you."

"You've got it exactly," Quint cried. "They know that Somerset will do anything when the pinch comes, and if they'd only him to deal with, then the swindle would be dead easy. If I only agreed to what Enderby wants, then the matter lapses, and they get off with the patents. I know that all those papers are in Enderby's safe, and if I can get hold of them, then I can defy him, even if there is a warrant out against me. And I must do it, Ennie, I must do it."

Ennie nodded vigorously. It was a wild, hazardous adventure, just after her own heart. It was the sort of venture that had led her to leave her luxurious home on Fifth Avenue, New York, to embark upon a stage career. She had done this in the face of her father's bitterest opposition. She was his only child, and her decision cut him to heart.

And so they had parted with some bitterness, but without vindictiveness on James P. Barr's side. He had even offered to allow his daughter sufficient to keep her almost in luxury till her madness had passed and she decided to return home. But not one penny more than that monthly allowance would he go, feeling in that shrewd mind of his that it would not suffice, and that three months would see his wilful child home again. And that was two years ago, since when father and daughter had not met, though they corresponded freely enough.

"Ah, if I could only help you," Ennie said. "But I have no money and I cannot ask my father for any more. That's a point of honour with me. But you know my story."

"Yes," Quint said. "I know, and I'm quite sure that when the time comes you'll do the best you can for me."