Earlier that day somebody else had asked for the truth. As a rule,
Mr. Chesney Praye had little use for that quality, but, as he
explained to the Countess over their protracted meal, he wanted to
know “exactly where he was.” He knew a lot, more than she guessed, for
he was a keen man with an instinct for hidden facts. He was also a
professional opportunist, as she was to learn.
“You’re going to marry me, Leonora, as soon as this business is
cleared up. But before we go any further, I want all your cards on the
table. And first I want to know what I have been doing. Blind
obedience is all right in a soldier, but I’m not a soldier. I’ve
muddied my hands pretty badly over this business and I can see myself
getting five years’ imprisonment if Dorn ever gets on to my trail. But
there is a lot that you haven’t told me and I’d rather like to know
where I stand.”
The Countess took the cigarette from her mouth, blew a cloud of smoke,
following it with her eyes until it dissipated, and then, slowly
extinguishing the cigarette in the ash-tray, she made her revelation
and Mr. Chesney Praye listened without interruption for half an hour.
And all that he heard he sorted for his own advantage.
She paused only once, and that was when she saw her son, piloting the
girl into the palm court.
“She’s prettier than I thought,” she said, “a chorus-girl’s
prettiness, but----”
“Never mind about her,” said Chesney impatiently. “What happened
after----”
The Countess told him, concealing nothing, and when she had finished,
he sat back in his chair, hot and limp.
“My God!” he breathed. “You--you are wonderful! And that’s the ‘why’
of Gallows Farm, eh? I confess I was puzzled.”
“That is the why of Gallows Farm,” said Lady Moron, lighting another
cigarette.
Chesney Praye left the hotel alone; the Countess was going down to her
place in the country, and, when she invited him to accompany her, he
had invented an appointment on the spur of the moment, for Chesney was
a quick thinker, and on the occasion of which Michael Dorn never grew
weary of reminding him, he owed his immunity from arrest to this
quality.
He glanced up at the street-clock. There was time to carry out one
essential part of his scheme and, if his plan was not entirely worked
out when he picked up a taxi, it was complete in all details when he
reached St. Paul’s Churchyard.
From the top of a plebeian ’bus Lord Moron and his companion saw the
cab flash past.
“My stepfather!” groaned his lordship. “You wouldn’t think a horrible,
common bounder like that would attract a woman like her ladyship,
Elizabeth?”
But Lizzy pressed her lips tightly together and expressed no opinion,
other than the noncommittal one that “likes attract like,” which may
or not have been as complimentary as she intended.
There was no telegram for her in Charlotte Street when they arrived.
“And there won’t be,” said Lord Moron with satisfaction. “I’ll bet you
any amount of money that the purply doctor has got away with it. Mind
you, Elizabeth, I know him! He’s had his skinny legs under my
mahogany, and whatever you may say about me, I’m a judge of
character.”
“I think you’re clever,” admitted Lizzy, “and I’ve always said so.
What is your mother going to say about us going to lunch at that posh
restaurant?”
Lord Moron expressed his complete indifference.
“From to-day I am on my own; I can’t start too soon,” he said. “Her
ladyship doesn’t mind being seen in public with that perfectly
impossible Chesney Praye--the bird of prey, as I sometimes call
him----” he waited for applause, but received no more than an
approving smile,--“and if she doesn’t mind, I don’t see how she can
object to me going to lunch with one of the--at any rate, a very nice
girl,” he added lamely, and Elizabeth raised her eyes in the shy,
wistful way she had seen in the best films.
At eight o’clock the post office was closed. Moron went down to the
nearest branch office and enquired for a telegram, but none had been
received; nor were they able to get into communication with Mr. Wills.
On his way back to the house, Selwyn telephoned the Bluelight Garage,
in accordance with instructions, and they were flying along the broad
expanse of the Great West Road, when a faster car overtook and passed
them and Selwyn involuntarily shrank back to cover.
“Who was it?” asked Lizzy, who had not seen the occupant.
Lord Moron raised his fingers to his lips, though the possibility of
being overheard was negligible. It was not until the overtaking car
was a steady speck in a revolving cloud of dust that he turned
dramatically to her and whispered:
“Chesney--Chesney Praye. He’s going down too! I knew he was in it. A
bounder like that would be in anything dirty!”
“Did he see us?”
Selwyn shook his head.
“No. He was driving; but he was grinning like an ape. That shows!”
At Maidenhead they passed the car standing outside an hotel.
“He’s gone in to grub,” said Selwyn, all a-twitter with excitement.
“The thing for us to do is to be careful when he passes us again.”
But no care was required, and his elaborate plan to be immersed in an
evening newspaper that completely hid himself and his companion when
the car came abreast, was unnecessary, for it was dark when the siren
of Chesney’s machine called for a clear road, and the car swept past.
Within ten miles of the farm there were a number of enquiries to be
made. The exact situation of the farm was difficult to locate, and it
was only when they reached Whitcomb village that they were able to
take the road with any certainty. And there were other difficulties to
be overcome.
“There is no sense in our dashing up madly to this old Gallows and
saying ‘Where is she?’” said his lordship, with perfect truth. “If
we’re on the track of something fishy, and I’m sure everything
connected with Chesney is fishy, we shan’t get a civil answer. On the
other hand, if there is nothing fishy about the business, we’ll be
getting ourselves a bad reputation if we barge in and there’s
nothing--er----”
“Fishy,” suggested Lizzy helpfully.
Two miles from Whitcomb they held a council of war, and decided to
send the machine back to the main road and to continue the journey on
foot. This was his lordship’s idea.
“The situation requires a certain amount of tact, and if there’s
anybody more tactful than me, I’d like to meet them.”
They trudged up the dusty road, keeping a watch for Chesney’s car. It
was dark by now and they were without any kind of light except the
matches that Lord Moron occasionally struck, and both were dead-beat
by the time they came in view of the farm.
“Not a very cheerful looking place, is it?” said Selwyn, some of his
enterprise evaporating. “Beastly dismal hole. Shouldn’t be surprised
if there was a real gallows somewhere around. I think it was a mistake
to have left the car.”
“It is too late to talk about mistakes,” said Lizzy brusquely, and led
the way. “We’ve found the place, that is something. Not that it looks
as if it is worth finding.”
They came at last to the big black gate and the forbidding wall.
“Shall we ring or knock?” asked his lordship. “There’s a car
inside--do you hear it?”
Lizzy compromised by kicking on the wood. Her foot was raised to kick
a second time, when there came from the house a woman’s scream, so
vibrant with fear that Selwyn’s blood seemed to turn to ice and his
knees touched together.
At that moment the gates burst open with a crash, almost knocking them
down, and the bonnet of a car showed.
“There’s a woman in the car,” screamed Lizzy, but the roar of the
engines drowned her voice.