In an instant the bewildering mystery of it all became apparent.
The fellow Shacklock, the dark-faced man whom I could at once denounce
to the police as a rogue and a thief, held her enthralled!
"Welcome, dearest!" he said, as his lips touched hers. "I hope you are
not too tired."
But I saw that she was pale, and that she shrank from his touch. Ah!
yes! she loathed him.
Standing there in the shadow of the overhanging trees, I watched them
all disappear into the house.
The servant in black, after carrying up their luggage, shut the gate,
therefore I crept forward and peered into the drawing-room. It was,
however, empty, for they had all passed upstairs to remove the stains of
travel before sitting down to dinner.
A thousand weird thoughts surged through my brain. That man
Gordon-Wright was my enemy, and I intended that he should not win my
love.
The whole position of affairs was utterly incomprehensible. This man,
whom I could prove to be a clever international thief, was the most
intimate friend of James Harding Miller, gentleman, of Studland. While
he had been visiting there, Ella had escaped from her father and gone to
Studland, in all probability to see him, or to consult him upon some
important matter. She had made no sign to the Millers that she was
previously acquainted with their guest. The conclusion, therefore, was
that both Lucie and her father were in utter ignorance of the curious
truth. Ella had left suddenly and travelled by motor-car to Upper
Wooton, while he must have left immediately after my departure from
Studland, and travelled by train by way of Yeovil.
To Mr Murray and the rest of the party he appeared as though he had not
been away from home. Only Ella knew the truth, and she was silent.
That there was some extraordinary manoeuvre in progress I was convinced.
The Murrays of Wichenford were one of the county families of
Worcestershire, and Ella's father had always been an upright, if rather
proud man. He was, I knew, the very last person to associate with a man
of Shacklock's stamp had he but known his real character.
On the contrary, however, he had grasped the man's hand warmly when he
descended, saying:--
"Why, my dear fellow, it's quite two months since we met! How are you?"
And the pseudo-lieutenant was equally enthusiastic in his welcome in
return. He was the host; "the London gentleman" known locally as Mr
Gordon-Wright.
This was by no means extraordinary. In our country villages and their
vicinity hundreds of people are, at this moment, occupying big houses,
and under assumed names passing themselves off for what they are not.
Summer visitors to the rural districts are often a queer lot, and many a
gentleman known as Mr Brown, the smug attendant at the village church,
is in reality Mr Green whose means of livelihood would not bear looking
into. From time to time a man is unmasked, and a paragraph appears in
the papers, but such persons are usually far too wary when it is a
matter of effacing their identity under the very nose of the police, and
enjoy the confidence and esteem of both the villagers and "the county."