Anthony Collyer got out of his bus at Lancaster Gate Tube. He looked
round, but there was no sign of the figure he was hoping to see. He
crossed the road and entered Kensington Gardens, stopping at the gate
to buy some chocolates of the kind that Cecily particularly affected.
Near the little sweet-stall a small ragged figure was skulking. In his
preoccupation Anthony did not even see him. Inside the Gardens he
turned into a sheltered walk on the right flanked on either side by
clumps of evergreens. There was a touch of chill in the wind, but the
sun was shining brightly and through the short grass the daffodils
were already adventurously poking their gay yellow heads. The urchin
who had been lurking by the palings followed slowly. He got over on
the grass in a leisurely fashion and ensconced himself out of sight in
the shadow of the evergreens.
Anthony had time to glance at his watch more than once and even to
grow a little impatient before Cecily appeared.
Then one glance was enough to show him that there was something amiss
with the girl. There were big blue half-circles beneath her eyes, and
the eyes themselves were dim and sunken. All her pretty colouring
looked blurred as she gave her hand to Anthony, and he saw that it was
trembling and felt that it was cold even through her glove. He held it
in both of his and chafed it.
“You are cold, dear,” he said solicitously. “Are your furs warm
enough? The wind is treacherous to-day.”
“Oh, I don't know. Yes, of course I am warm enough—I mean it does not
matter,” Cecily said incoherently. “I—I wrote to you—you know—because
I wanted to see you.”
Tony looked round. No one was in sight. He drew her to a seat beside
the path, knowing nothing of the unseen watcher hidden in the
rhododendrons.
“I hoped you did. I always want to see you, Cecily,” he said simply.
Cecily shivered away from him. “You—you must not.”
Anthony stared at her.
“Must not—what?” he said blankly. “Want to see you, do you mean?”
Cecily nodded.
“Oh, but it is no use telling me not to do that,” Anthony said
quaintly, “I shall want to see you every day as long as I live.”
“You will not be able to,” Cecily said desperately. “Because
now—to-day—I am going right out of your life—you will never see me
again.”
“Oh!” For a time Anthony said no more. His clasp of her hand relaxed.
Very quietly he returned to her the possession of it. “I see,” he said
at last. “You are giving me the chuck, are you not?”
The girl looked at him with frightened, miserable eyes.
“Tony, I can't help it.”
“Naturally you can't,” Tony assented moodily. “You couldn't be
expected to. I never was anything but a wretched match at the best of
times—even with the money Uncle Luke left me—but now, now that every
damned rag of a paper in the country is saying out as plainly as they
dare that I am a murderer, it settles the matter, of course.”
Cecily interrupted him with a little cry.
“Tony! You know it isn't that!”
A gleam of hope brightened Anthony Collyer's eyes.
“Not that? Is it just that you are sick of me then? Heaven knows I
wouldn't blame you for that. I was always a dull sort of chap. But I
love you, Cecily.”
The girl's big tragic eyes looked at his bent head with a sudden wave
of tenderness in their brown depths. “And I love you, Tony,” she said
beneath her breath. “But that does not matter.”
“Doesn't it?” A sudden fire leaped into Anthony's deep-set eyes. “Why,
that is just the one thing that matters—the only thing that does
matter. If you love me, I shall never go out of your life, Cecily.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” the girl said, putting his warm outstretched hand
back determinedly. “And it doesn't matter that we love one another,
not one bit. Because I am not going to marry anyone.”
“Of course you are!” said Anthony, staring at her. “You are going to
marry me. Do you really think I am going to let you back out of it
now?”
“You can't help yourself,” Cecily said, still with that miserable note
of finality in her voice. “It is no use, Tony. You have just got to
forget me.”
“Forget you!” Anthony said scornfully. “That is so likely, isn't it?
Now, dear, what is this bogy that you have conjured up that is going
to separate us? You say it has nothing to do with me?”
“No, no! Of course it hasn't!”
“And you haven't fallen in love with anyone else?”
“Don't be silly, Tony!” There was a momentary irritation in the clear
tones. But something in the accent, even in the homely words
themselves roused fresh hopes in Anthony's heart.
“Then it is something someone else has said,” he hazarded, “or done.”
For a moment Cecily did not answer. She pressed her lips very closely
together. At last she said slowly:
“That is all that I can tell you, Tony. I just wanted to say that
and—good-bye.”
“Good-bye!” Tony repeated scoffingly. “Nonsense, dear! You say that
this mysterious something has nothing to do with you or with me
personally. And for the rest of the world what does it matter? Nothing
counts but just you and me, sweetheart.”
“Oh, but it does!” Cecily contradicted firmly. “We—we can't think only
of ourselves. It—it is no use, Tony. My mind is made up.”
“Then I am going to unmake it,” Tony said with equal decision. “And,
if you won't tell me what you fancy is going to separate us, I am
going to find out for myself.”
Then for the first time Cecily's self-possession really deserted her.
“No, no! You must not!” she cried feverishly. “Tony, you must not—you
do not know what harm—what terrible harm you might do if you did.
Promise me—promise me you will not!” She caught at his arm with
trembling hands, as though to stop his threatened action by actual
physical force. If ever fear had looked out of human eyes, stark,
tragic fear, Anthony saw it then as he met her terrified gaze.
Some shadow of it communicated itself to him. He felt suddenly cold,
his face turned a sickly grey beneath its tan. In that moment he
realized fully that he was up against some very real and tangible
obstacle that stood definitely between Cecily and himself.
“Cecily!” he said hoarsely. “Cecily!”
The girl looked at him a moment, her lips twitching; then, as if
coming to some sudden resolution, she bent forward and whispered a few
words in his ear.
As he heard them he started back.
“What do you say, Cecily? That you—that you know—— But you are
mad—mad!”
“Hush!” the girl looked round fearfully. “No, I am not mad, Anthony,”
she said beneath her breath. “God knows I often wish I were.”
Then Anthony looked at her.
“Cecily! I can't believe it. You didn't——”
“Did you never suspect—that?” she questioned beneath her breath.
“Never! Before Heaven, never! How should I? It is inconceivable! But
the horrible danger——” His eyes voiced the dread he dared not put into
words, and with a stifled cry the girl turned from him.
Tony took off his hat and wiped away the sweat that was standing in
great drops on his forehead.
“It—it isn't possible! Cecily!” he murmured hoarsely. “It—it is a
lie!”
“I—I wish it was!” the girl said beneath her breath. “Oh, Tony, Tony,
I wish it was all a dream—a dreadful horrible dream. Last night I woke
and thought it was, and then I remembered. Oh, Tony, Tony!” She
shivered from head to foot. “I wish I were dead—oh, I wish I were
dead!”
Anthony mopped his forehead again. “In God's name what are we to do?”
Cecily's mouth twisted in something like a wry smile.
“It is not ‘we’ Tony. It never will be ‘we’ again. And I—I cannot tell
what I shall do yet. I must stay at the Residence of course until the
police——” She stopped, her throat working. “Until I am free to go
away,” she finished forlornly. “Then—then God knows what will become
of me! I—I expect I shall live out of England if—if I can.”
“Yes,” said Anthony slowly. “Yes. But that will not be for ever. We
are both young, and we can wait. And some day I will come and fetch
you home again.”
“No, no!” The horror in the girl's eyes deepened. “Won't you
understand, Tony? I shall never come back. I shall never be safe. From
to-day I shall be dead to you! But—but wait, Tony. Sometimes I do not
think that I shall get away—that I shall escape. For everywhere they
follow me. Always I know that I am being watched. They will never let
me go away. It is like a cat playing with a mouse. Just when the poor
little mouse thinks at last it is safe, the blow falls. Even
to-day—to-day—— Oh, Tony, look!” As she spoke, she sprang to her feet.
Anthony turned. At first sight there seemed nothing to account for her
agitation—just a very ordinary-looking man coming towards them from
the direction of the Broad Walk.
But as Tony looked he caught his breath sharply.
Cecily did not wait for him to speak.
“Stop him! Stop him!” she cried feverishly. “Don't let him come after
me. Keep him here until I have got away!”
She sped down the path towards Lancaster Gate.
Anthony went forward to meet the new-comer.
“Good morning, Mr. Steadman,” he said, endeavouring to make his voice
sound as natural as possible.
“Good morning, Tony.” John Steadman shook hands with him warmly, his
keen eyes taking in all the tokens of disturbance on the young man's
face. “I am afraid my appearance is rather inopportune,” he went on.
“Isn't that your young woman beating a hasty retreat down there?” In
the distance Cecily's scurrying figure could plainly be seen.
“Yes, she is in a hurry,” Anthony said lamely.
“Obviously!” The barrister smiled. “But I am glad to have this
opportunity of seeing you, Tony. I have been hoping to meet you.”
Mindful of Cecily's parting injunction Tony turned to the seat behind.
“Have a cigarette, sir?”
The barrister shook his head as he glanced at the open cigarette case.
“De Reszke! No, thanks! You are a bit too extravagant for me, young
man! I always smoke gaspers myself.” He sat down and took out his own
case. “You of course don't condescend to Gold Flake,” he went on. “I
am rather glad of this opportunity of having a chat with you, Tony.”
Tony lighted his cigarette and threw the match away before he spoke,
then he turned and looked John Steadman squarely in the face.
“I dare say you are, Mr. Steadman. So is your friend, Inspector
Furnival, whenever I meet him, I notice.”
The barrister paused in the act of lighting his match.
“You mean——?”
“I mean that, if folks think I murdered my uncle, I would just as soon
they said so straight out, as come poking around asking questions and
trying to trap me,” Anthony retorted bitterly.
John Steadman finished lighting his cigarette and blew a couple of
spirals in the clear air before he spoke, then he said slowly:
“The thought that you murdered your Uncle Luke is about the last that
would enter my head, Tony. No. What I wanted to ask you was, does that
job of yours stand—bear-leader to the young brother of a friend of
yours, I mean. The last time I saw you, you spoke as if it were off.”
“So it is!” Anthony returned moodily. “People don't want a man who is
as good as accused of murdering his own uncle to look after their
children. I might strangle the kid if he got tiresome.”
The barrister paid no attention to this outburst.
“Then I think I heard of something yesterday that may suit you. A
friend of mine has a son who was frightfully injured in the War. Both
his legs have been amputated and one wrist is practically helpless.
Now he wants some one to act as his secretary, for he has taken to
writing novels, passes the time for him, you know, and folks need not
read them if they don't want to.”
“It is very good of you to think of me,” Anthony said gratefully. “But
I don't know that I should make much hand at secretarial work. And
probably he wouldn't look at me if he knew.”
“He does know,” contradicted John Steadman. “And he is quite anxious
to have you. It won't be all secretarial work, though you will be
called a secretary. But you will be wanted to motor with him, to go
with him to race meetings; he is a great motoring enthusiast—keeps two
touring cars. Before the War he was one of our finest amateur jockeys,
and they say he never misses a meeting under N.H. rules now. I believe
he even has a couple of hurdlers at one of the big trainers. You will
have to go with him wherever he wants you. How does it strike you?”
“The question is, how shall I strike him?” Tony countered. “Will he
think he is safe with me?”
“Tony, my lad, you must not get morbid,” reproved the barrister. “My
friends know all about your connexion with the Bechcombes, and are
quite prepared to take you on my recommendation. You would not be
required to live in, and there is a nice little cottage on the estate
near the house that will be placed at your disposal. Your salary will
be good, and with what your uncle left you will make matrimony quite
possible. Now what do you say?”
“Say? What can I say but take it and be thankful,” Tony responded,
trying to make his tones sound as grateful as he could. “Would it be
far from town—this cottage?”
“Oh, not far!” the barrister said at once. “At Bramley Hall, near
Burford, in the New Forest. It is young Bramley, Sir John's eldest
son, you are wanted for.”
“Bramley Hall,” Tony repeated musingly. “I seem to know the name.
Wasn't there a burglary there a little while ago?”
“About eighteen months ago,” the barrister assented. “The house was
practically cleared of valuables in one night. Even Sir John's safe,
which he had deemed impregnable, was rifled. Oh, yes, it made quite a
stir. It was said to be the work of this Yellow Gang that folks are
always talking about, you know.”