Читать книгу The Wings of Victory - Fred M. White - Страница 5

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It needed no great discernment on Sylvia's part to see what had happened. One glance at the empty frame on the mantelpiece confirmed her worst suspicions. Beyond the shadow of a doubt her father had entered the bedroom and taken away the photograph for the express purpose of sending it to his intended victim. It was a cunning scheme altogether, and not the least cunning part of it was the way in which Dorn had lured her on to write the letter, even to the very postscript, so that she should not see the trap. And here she had walked blindly into it, she had rendered herself liable to a criminal charge.

She had seen quite enough of the world lately to know that. Surely her father must have been desperately placed before he would run a risk like this? In all the years that Sylvia had been his unwilling tool in his course of mean crime he had never placed his own hand on paper. Always he has written as if he had been a woman in distress, and invariably Sylvia had been his medium. But this was a different matter altogether. She had not the least idea what type of man this John Bevill was, but if he made inquiries and used that photograph, then there was just a chance that she might have to stand in the dock, and face a prosecution. The mere thought of it was terrible.

And here she was, at the very outset of what might be a promising career, face to face with the possibility of ruin and disgrace. She had not gone very far on the stage, it was true, the tour in the north had been a disastrous failure, but she had made one or two useful friends, poor ones, perhaps, but useful from a business standing. There was Maxwell Frick, for instance, a seasoned old comedian who bore all his misfortunes with a smiling face and who always fell on his feet. It was he who had introduced her to the Western Production Company, for whom she had done certain cinema work which had given satisfaction and had elicited the promise of further employment later on. It was this work that had led up to Sylvia having her photograph taken in connection with it, and it was this photograph which had been the cause of all the trouble.

So Sylvia had come home at the end of a fortnight's engagement with a promise for something better and more regular in the near future. For instance, the Western Company fully intended to establish themselves somewhere in Devonshire, and Sylvia's description of her own home had appealed to Maxwell Frick who seemed to think that the neighbourhood would suit admirably. On behalf of the Company he was coming down in a few days to make arrangements. It seemed to Sylvia as if she had found a really good opening at last.

But all this had been blown to the winds by that dastardly act on her father's part. The mischief was done now past all recall. She knew only too well that no tears or protestations on her part would induce Dorn to change his mind. He would only laugh at her; he would only tell her not to be a fool, and remind her in his flippant way that necessity knew no law.

Well, her mind was made up. She would not remain there to be made the victim of further conspiracy. She would go back to London, where, no doubt, the amiable Frick would find her at least with employment good enough to keep body and soul together until her services were required.

But how to get to London? That was the difficulty. Sylvia had only a matter of a few shillings in her pocket, not enough to take her farther than Salisbury. And even then she had made no provision for keeping herself on the way. But, all the same, she was resolved to go. She was doing no good there, and her presence in the house was calculated to do her mother more harm than good. She would walk the rest of the way from Salisbury and trust to Providence when she got to London.

Was it possible, she wondered, to see this John Bevill at Baron's Court before the begging letter containing her photograph reached him? She could walk to Tavistock in an hour or two, and from thence take train to Exeter. Possibly she might invent some plausible excuse on the way for getting her photograph back; she might even adopt some desperate expedient for getting hold of the letter. At any rate, it was worth trying.

She crept carefully down the stairs a little later on, cautiously avoiding her father, and made her way out into the grounds, where she knew she would find her mother somewhere. She walked along the narrow track in the grass which had been worn bare by Mrs. Dorn's footsteps in going backwards and forwards to the ruins. And there the unfortunate woman was, as usual, raking over the blackened ashes with a patience that had something pathetic about it. She looked up with uncomprehending eyes as Sylvia approached her.

"I am going away, mother," the girl said, much as if she were speaking to a child. "Do you understand, I am going away? I shall probably be back in a week or two, but I can't stay now."

"That will be plenty of time," Mrs. Dorn said in that strange monotone of cheers. "I hope to be finished by then. I may find it any time."

It was quite useless to ask her what she was seeking for, and so Sylvia turned aside with the pity in her heart that brought tears into her eyes. Some day the whole thing would become plain, but that time was not yet. And so it had gone on all these years, and so it might go on till the end. And what that end was, Sylvia did not dare to ask.

She struck off quite boldly and resolutely enough across the fields in the direction of Tavistock. Practically all she had in the world she carried in her handbag, which contained that slender purse of hers and its precious contents. She was not in the least cast down, not in the least daunted at the task that lay before her. At any rate, she was turning her back upon the so-called home that she hated and loathed more than any spot on earth. It was no use her staying there, either. If her presence there would have done her mother the slightest good in the world, she might have forgotten her outraged feelings and remained. As it was she was best away.

It was still quite early in the afternoon when she arrived at Tavistock and inquired the whereabouts of Baron's Court. It was a big house, she was told, on the main road, just on the outskirts of the town. She came at length to a pair of handsome iron gates, beyond which she could see a wide-spreading park, and the outline of a great house in the distance. Evidently the residence of a rich man, and Sylvia smiled a little scornfully as she realised her father's worldly wisdom in writing that fateful letter. She would have passed through the gates, but they were locked, and therefore she had to knock at the lodge and ask for admission.

The rosy-cheeked woman that came to the door shook her head.

"I'm afraid I can't let you in, miss," she said. "You see, no one passes this way unless they come here on business. I have strict orders to keep the gates locked because of the animals."

"Indeed?" Sylvia smiled vaguely. "Do you mean the deer?"

"No, miss. Mr. Bevill is a great man with animals. He has spent his time with them all over the world. He knows more about them than anyone. We have got all sorts of creatures in the park there. You will notice there is a high wall all round, and indeed, miss, it's wanted sometimes."

"But I want to see Mr. Bevill," she said.

"I am afraid you can't, miss," the woman said respectfully enough. "You see, he isn't here. He went away a day or two ago on some important business——"

"Perhaps you can give me his address?" Sylvia asked.

The woman shook her head.

"No, I can't do that either, miss," she said. "You see, my master's a very peculiar gentleman. He's got this beautiful place here, and two thirds of the time he never comes near it. He's always lending it to some gentleman or another, and indeed we've got two or three of them staying here now. But you see, Mr. Bevill, he's so wrapped up in a book he's writing that he can't think of anything else. He's off now in some quiet little bungalow of his somewhere writing——"

"But you can tell me where he is?" Sylvia said hopefully.

"Really and truly I can't miss. Nobody knows where the place is. We forward his letters to an address in London—some bank I think it is—and that's all I know about it. But I can't allow any stranger to come inside."

The woman was very civil, but quite firm, so that Sylvia was forced to turn away with a feeling that she had wasted her time. But, at any rate, she had gained something. She had learnt a good deal about the eccentric owner of Baron's Court, and, moreover, she knew now that the fateful letter containing her photograph would not reach its destination for a day or two. Her first impulse was to turn into some shop and obtain the materials to write a letter to him in which she could explain the situation. But, on the other hand, she had a certain duty to her father, callous and criminal as he was. She could not go out of her way to injure him and place him within the reach of the law. No, she could not do that. She made her way quietly along the road in the direction of Tavistock; she reached the station at length, and took a ticket as far as Salisbury.

She was proceeding in the direction of her platform when a voice behind suddenly hailed her. She turned and looked into the smiling, rosy face of a man who might have been any age between fifty and seventy. He was fresh and clean-shaven, with a humorous mouth and a pair of twinkling blue eyes that would in the most adverse circumstances have looked life cheerfully in the face.

"Why, it's Miss Dorn!" the stranger cried.

"Maxwell Frick!" Sylvia exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

The fat, rosy little man threw back his head and laughed heartily.

"I don't know," he said. "I came down in these parts on a little matter of business. And here I am, stranded, without a penny in the world."