Mr. John Lambert Mangan of Lincoln's Inn gazed at the card which a
junior clerk had just presented in blank astonishment, an astonishment
which became speedily blended with dismay.
“Good God, do you see this, Harrison?” he exclaimed, passing it over
to his manager, with whom he had been in consultation. “Dominey--Sir
Everard Dominey--back here in England!”
The head clerk glanced at the narrow piece of pasteboard and sighed.
“I'm afraid you will find him rather a troublesome client, sir,” he
remarked.
His employer frowned. “Of course I shall,” he answered testily. “There
isn't an extra penny to be had out of the estates--you know that,
Harrison. The last two quarters' allowance which we sent to Africa came
out of the timber. Why the mischief didn't he stay where he was!”
“What shall I tell the gentleman, sir?” the boy enquired.
“Oh, show him in!” Mr. Mangan directed ill-temperedly. “I suppose I
shall have to see him sooner or later. I'll finish these affidavits
after lunch, Harrison.”
The solicitor composed his features to welcome a client who, however
troublesome his affairs had become, still represented a family who had
been valued patrons of the firm for several generations. He was prepared
to greet a seedy-looking and degenerate individual, looking older than
his years. Instead, he found himself extending his hand to one of the
best turned out and handsomest men who had ever crossed the threshold
of his not very inviting office. For a moment he stared at his visitor,
speechless. Then certain points of familiarity--the well-shaped nose,
the rather deep-set grey eyes--presented themselves. This surprise
enabled him to infuse a little real heartiness into his welcome.
“My dear Sir Everard!” he exclaimed. “This is a most unexpected
pleasure--most unexpected! Such a pity, too, that we only posted a draft
for your allowance a few days ago. Dear me--you'll forgive my saying
so--how well you look!”
Dominey smiled as he accepted an easy chair.
“Africa's a wonderful country, Mangan,” he remarked, with just that
faint note of patronage in his tone which took his listener back to the
days of his present client's father.
“It--pardon my remarking it--has done wonderful things for you, Sir
Everard. Let me see, it must be eleven years since we met.”
Sir Everard tapped the toes of his carefully polished brown shoes with
the end of his walking stick.
“I left London,” he murmured reminiscently, “in April, nineteen hundred
and two. Yes, eleven years, Mr. Mangan. It seems queer to find myself in
London again, as I dare say you can understand.”
“Precisely,” the lawyer murmured. “I was just wondering--I think that
last remittance we sent to you could be stopped. I have no doubt you
will be glad of a little ready money,” he added, with a confident smile.
“Thanks, I don't think I need any just at present,” was the amazing
answer. “We'll talk about financial affairs a little later on.”
Mr. Mangan metaphorically pinched himself. He had known his present
client even during his school days, had received a great many visits
from him at different times, and could not remember one in which the
question of finance had been dismissed in so casual a manner.
“I trust,” he observed chiefly for the sake of saying something, “that
you are thinking of settling down here for a time now?”
“I have finished with Africa, if that is what you mean,” was the
somewhat grave reply. “As to settling down here, well, that depends a
little upon what you have to tell me.”
The lawyer nodded.
“I think,” he said, “that you may make yourself quite easy as regards
the matter of Roger Unthank. Nothing has ever been heard of him since
the day you left England.”
“His--body has not been found?”
“Nor any trace of it.”
There was a brief silence. The lawyer looked hard at Dominey, and
Dominey searchingly back again at the lawyer.
“And Lady Dominey?” the former asked at length.
“Her ladyship's condition is, I believe, unchanged,” was the somewhat
guarded reply.
“If the circumstances are favourable,” Dominey continued, after another
moment's pause, “I think it very likely that I may decide to settle down
at Dominey Hall.”
The lawyer appeared doubtful.
“I am afraid,” he said, “you will be very disappointed in the condition
of the estate, Sir Everard. As I have repeatedly told you in our
correspondence, the rent roll, after deducting your settlement upon Lady
Dominey, has at no time reached the interest on the mortgages, and we
have had to make up the difference and send you your allowance out of
the proceeds of the outlying timber.”
“That is a pity,” Dominey replied, with a frown. “I ought, perhaps,
to have taken you more into my confidence. By the by,” he added,
“when--er--about when did you receive my last letter?”
“Your last letter?” Mr. Mangan repeated. “We have not had the privilege
of hearing from you, Sir Everard, for over four years. The only
intimation we had that our payments had reached you was the exceedingly
prompt debit of the South African bank.”
“I have certainly been to blame,” this unexpected visitor confessed. “On
the other hand, I have been very much absorbed. If you haven't happened
to hear any South African gossip lately, Mangan, I suppose it will be a
surprise to you to hear that I have been making a good deal of money.”
“Making money?” the lawyer gasped. “You making money, Sir Everard?”
“I thought you'd be surprised,” Dominey observed coolly. “However,
that's neither here nor there. The business object of my visit to you
this morning is to ask you to make arrangements as quickly as possible
for paying off the mortgages on the Dominey estates.”
Mr. Mangan was a lawyer of the new-fashioned school,--Harrow and
Cambridge, the Bath Club, racquets and fives, rather than golf and
lawn tennis. Instead of saying “God bless my soul!” he exclaimed “Great
Scott!” dropped a very modern-looking eyeglass from his left eye, and
leaned back in his chair with his hands in his pockets.
“I have had three or four years of good luck,” his client continued. “I
have made money in gold mines, in diamond mines and in land. I am
afraid that if I had stayed out another year, I should have descended
altogether to the commonplace and come back a millionaire.”
“My heartiest congratulations!” Mr. Mangan found breath to murmur.
“You'll forgive my being so astonished, but you are the first Dominey
I ever knew who has ever made a penny of money in any sort of way, and
from what I remember of you in England--I'm sure you'll forgive my being
so frank--I should never have expected you to have even attempted such a
thing.”
Dominey smiled good-humouredly.
“Well,” he said, “if you inquire at the United Bank of Africa, you will
find that I have a credit balance there of something over a hundred
thousand pounds. Then I have also--well, let us say a trifle more,
invested in first-class mines. Do me the favour of lunching with me,
Mr. Mangan, and although Africa will never be a favourite topic of
conversation with me, I will tell you about some of my speculations.”
The solicitor groped around for his hat.
“I will send the boy for a taxi,” he faltered.
“I have a car outside,” this astonishing client told him. “Before we
leave, could you instruct your clerk to have a list of the Dominey
mortgages made out, with the terminable dates and redemption values?”
“I will leave instructions,” Mr. Mangan promised. “I think that the
total amount is under eighty thousand pounds.”
Dominey sauntered through the office, an object of much interest to the
little staff of clerks. The lawyer joined him on the pavement in a few
minutes.
“Where shall we lunch?” Dominey asked. “I'm afraid my clubs are a little
out of date. I am staying at the Carlton.”
“The Carlton grill room is quite excellent,” Mr. Mangan suggested.
“They are keeping me a table until half-past one,” Dominey replied. “We
will lunch there, by all means.”
They drove off together, the returned traveller gazing all the time out
of the window into the crowded streets, the lawyer a little thoughtful.
“While I think of it, Sir Everard,” the latter said, as they drew near
their destination. “I should be glad of a short conversation with you
before you go down to Dominey.”
“With regard to anything in particular?”
“With regard to Lady Dominey,” the lawyer told him a little gravely.
A shadow rested on his companion's face.
“Is her ladyship very much changed?”
“Physically, she is in excellent health, I believe. Mentally I believe
that there is no change. She has unfortunately the same rather violent
prejudice which I am afraid influenced your departure from England.”
“In plain words,” Dominey said bitterly, “she has sworn to take my life
if ever I sleep under the same roof.”
“She will need, I am afraid, to be strictly watched,” the lawyer
answered evasively. “Still, I think you ought to be told that time does
not seem to have lessened her tragical antipathy.”
“She regards me still as the murderer of Roger Unthank?” Dominey asked,
in a measured tone.
“I am afraid she does.”
“And I suppose that every one else has the same idea?”
“The mystery,” Mr. Mangan admitted, “has never been cleared up. It is
well known, you see, that you fought in the park and that you staggered
home almost senseless. Roger Unthank has never been seen from that day
to this.”
“If I had killed him,” Dominey pointed out, “why was his body not
found?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“There are all sorts of theories, of course,” he said, “but for one
superstition you may as well be prepared. There is scarcely a man or
a woman for miles around Dominey who doesn't believe that the ghost of
Roger Unthank still haunts the Black Wood near where you fought.”
“Let us be quite clear about this,” Dominey insisted. “If the body
should ever be found, am I liable, after all these years, to be indicted
for manslaughter?”
“I think you may make your mind quite at ease,” the lawyer assured him.
“In the first place, I don't think you would ever be indicted.”
“And in the second?”
“There isn't a human being in that part of Norfolk would ever believe
that the body of man or beast, left within the shadow of the Black Wood,
would ever be seen or heard of again!”