A HUNTER OF MEN
It seemed to Marjorie that Vera shrank back at the name.
The girl waited for her to go forward and greet the newcomer, but as
she made no move Marjorie realized that she was called upon, even now,
to perform the duties of hostess.
The man in the doorway was tall; he looked taller, perhaps, because
of his slimness. He was clad from head to foot in black, and the big
flowing tie at his neck was of the same sober hue. He carried in his
hand a black soft felt hat, from which the butler had made several
ineffectual attempts to detach him.
His face was long and thin, sallow and lined; his eyes were big and
gray, and steady. They were terribly alive and expressive, Marjorie
thought. They gave the impression that the whole process of life was
comprehended in their depths. His hair was black and was brushed
smoothly behind his ears. He was neither handsome nor ugly. His face
was an unusual one, attractive, because of its very character and
strength. The mouth was big and sensitive; the ungloved hands were long
and white, and as delicate as a surgeon’s.
He gave a quick glance from one to the other.
“I am so sorry to intrude upon you,” he said. There was no trace of
any foreign accent in his voice. “I expected to find Sir Ralph. He is
out--yes?”
He had a quick, alert method of talking. He was eager to the point of
anticipating the reply. Before the girl could answer he had gone on.
“He has kindly asked me to dine to-night. I am so sorry I cannot.
I must be back in London in an hour or two. There are one or two
interviews of importance which I have arranged.”
His smile was a dazzling one; it lit up the whole of his face and
changed him from a somewhat morose, funereal figure to a new and
radiant being.
Marjorie noticed that he was almost handsome in his amusement. The
smile came and went like a gleam of sunshine seen through a rift of
storm-cloud.
“You are Miss Marjorie Meagh,” he said, “and you, madam,” with a
little bow, “are Lady Morte-Mannery.” His head twisted for a moment
inquiringly. That and the bow were the only little signs he gave of his
Continental origin.
Vera forced a smile to her face. She came forward, a little
embarrassed. She had hoped to escape without an introduction and to
have developed a convenient headache to keep out of his way.
“I saw you in court,” said Tillizini quickly. “It was an interesting
case, was it not? That poor man----”
He threw out his arms with a gesture of pity.
“I do not know why you sympathize with him,” said Vera.
“Seven years!” Tillizini shook his head. “It is a long time, madam, for
a man--innocent.”
Again the little shrug. The tall man paced the room nervously.
“You have heard his story. He said that he came to this house to meet
an individual who would give him a packet.”
“But surely you do not believe that?” said the other, with amused
contempt.
“Yes, I believe that,” said Tillizini, calmly and gravely. “Why should
I not? The man’s every attitude, every word, spoke eloquently to me of
his sincerity.”
“Do you believe, then, in this mysterious Italian?” said Vera.
“Oh, Vera, don’t you remember?” Marjorie broke in suddenly, and with
some excitement, “there was an Italian in the town. We saw him the day
before the robbery. Don’t you remember?” she asked again. “A very short
man, with a long Inverness cape which reached to his heels. We passed
him in the car on the Breckley road, and I remarked to you that he was
either an Italian or a Spaniard because of the peculiar way he was
holding his cigarette.”
“Ah, yes!”
It was Tillizini, tremendously vital, all aquiver like some delicately
strung zither whose strings had been set vibrating by a musician’s hand.
“He was short and stout, and was dressed in black,” said the girl.
“A moustache--no?” said Tillizini.
The girl shook her head.
“He was clean-shaven.”
“You were going the same direction--yes?”
Again the girl nodded, with a smile at the man’s eager question.
“And did he turn his face toward you or from you? From you?”
Again the girl nodded.
“He did not want you to see his face?”
Tillizini himself shook his head in answer.
“What rubbish, Marjorie!” broke in Vera petulantly. “I don’t remember
anything of the sort. There are always organ grinders with monkeys and
things of that sort coming through the village, or ice cream people who
come down from Chatham. You are letting your imagination run away with
you.”
Marjorie was amazed. She remembered now the incident most distinctly.
She had spoken of it to Vera in the evening, at dinner. It was amazing
that she herself had forgotten it until this moment.
“But you must remember,” she said.
“I don’t remember,” answered the other shortly. “Besides, you are very
wrong to give Mr. Tillizini a false clue. There can be no doubt that
this man, Mansingham, burgled the house for no other reason than to
steal Sir Ralph’s collection.”
“Instigated by the Italian,” said Tillizini. “Oh, you English people,”
he said, with a despairing shrug, “I am desolated when I speak with
you. You have such a fear of melodrama. You are so insistent upon the
fact that the obvious must be the only possible explanation!”
He shook his head again in humorous resignation. From any other man the
outburst might have sounded as a piece of unpardonable impertinence.
But Tillizini had the extraordinary gift of creating an atmosphere of
old-established friendship. Even Vera, frankly antagonistic, had a
vague sense of having discussed this matter before in identical terms
with the man who spoke so disparagingly of her compatriots.
He looked at his watch.
“I must see Sir Ralph before I go back. Where shall I find him?”
Vera had a shrewd idea that at that moment Sir Ralph was engaged in a
heated interview with the offending butcher who had put a half-penny
upon the price of beef, but she did not think it fair to her husband,
or consonant with her own dignity, to admit as much.
“He’ll return very soon,” she said.
He looked at her sharply, for no reason as far as she could see. There
had been nothing in her tone to justify the look of quick interest
which came to his face.
“I have met you before somewhere, Lady Morte-Mannery,” he said quickly,
“and it is very unusual for me that I cannot for the moment recall the
circumstances.”
“Really?” said Vera, in a tone which suggested that she had no interest
in the matter. “One does have these queer impressions--you’ll excuse me
now, won’t you, Doctor,” she said, “I have got rather a bad headache
and I thought of lying down. Miss Meagh will entertain you till Sir
Ralph returns.”
He stepped quickly to the door and opened it for her, and favoured her
with a little bow as she passed. Then he closed the door and walked
slowly back to Marjorie.
“Where, where, where?” he said, tapping his chin and looking solemnly
at the girl.
She laughed.
“You must not confuse me with the Oracle,” she said. “You know, Doctor,
we ask such questions of you.”
Again that beautiful smile of his illuminated the sombre countenance.
“I was asking this Oracle,” he said, tapping his breast. “And now I
remember. There was a raid on a gambling house. It was run by one of my
compatriots, and I was in court.”
“I hope you will forget that, Dr. Tillizini,” said Marjorie quietly.
“Lady Morte-Mannery may have been very foolish to have been found in
such a place, but it would not be kind to remember----”
She stopped when she saw the look of astonishment on the other’s face.
“My dear lady,” he said, with his winning smile, “you do not suggest
that Lady Morte-Mannery was in any way implicated? It would be wicked,
it would be absurd, it would be villainous,” he said extravagantly,
“to associate such a lady with so sordid a business. This was a very
commonplace raid,” he went on. “They were mostly Italians engaged,
and mostly people of very low origin, and my interest in the case was
merely the hope of identifying some of the participants as gentlemen
who had another interest for me. Lady Morte-Mannery was in court,
certainly, but she was in court as the guest of the magistrate, Mr.
Curtain, the Metropolitan police magistrate, who, I think, is some
relation of Sir Ralph.”
This was so, as Marjorie knew. Then why had Vera lied to her? She
understood how easy it was for her to make up the story; but why give
that as an excuse for not wanting to meet Tillizini?
“There is Sir Ralph,” she said suddenly. She had seen the car go past
the window. “Do you mind staying here alone while I go and tell him you
are here?”
He opened the door for her, with his quaint little bow. She met Sir
Ralph in the hall and explained the fact that the visitor was waiting.
“Where is Vera?” he asked.
“She has gone to lie down,” said Marjorie. “She has a very bad
headache.”
Sir Ralph swore under his breath.
It was her main weapon of defense--that headache. A convenient, but,
to his mind, grossly unfair method of evading her responsibilities. He
was more incensed now because he felt that not only had she failed to
do the honours of his house toward a man for whose position he had an
immense respect, but she had escaped from the just consequence of her
carelessness. He had discovered that it was entirely due to her that
the extra half-penny had been put upon beef. She had acquiesced to the
imposition in a letter which the butcher had triumphantly produced to
vindicate his character.
He was, therefore, at the disadvantage which every man must be, half of
whose mind is occupied by a private grievance, when he met Tillizini.
The two men went off to the library for about a quarter of an hour.
At the end of that time they returned to the drawing room--Tillizini
to take his leave of the girl, and Sir Ralph to see him to his waiting
taxi.
Marjorie saw that the chairman of the Burboro’ Sessions was
considerably ruffled. His face was red, his thin gray hair untidy--ever
a sign of perturbation. He was, too, a little stiff with his guest.
As for Tillizini, he was the same imperturbable, cool, masterful man.
Yes, that was the word which Marjorie sought. This man was masterful to
an extent which she could not divine.
“Some day I shall meet you again,” said Tillizini, as he took the
girl’s hand in his own. She was surprised at the strength of his grip.
“I would not go so soon, but Sir Ralph has kindly given me permission
to see this man, Mansingham, who was convicted to-day.”
“I think your labours are entirely misdirected, Professor,” said Sir
Ralph gruffly. “You will learn nothing from him but a pack of lies.”
“Ah, but lies!” said Tillizini, with an ecstatic gesture. “They are so
interesting, Sir Ralph, so much more interesting than the commonplace
truth, and so much more informative.”
The elder man, who prided himself in post-prandial speeches upon
being a plain, blunt Englishman, and inferentially typical of all
that was best in an Englishman, had no mind for paradoxes. He grunted
unsympathetically.
“You are an Italian,” he said. “I suppose these things amuse you. But
here in England we believe in the obvious. It saves a lot of trouble
and it is generally accurate. You know,” he said testily, “these
stories of mysterious organizations are all very well for novels. I
admit that in your country you have the Camorra, and the possession of
that factor probably unbalances your judgment; but I assure you”--he
laid his hands with heavy and paternal solicitude upon the younger
man’s shoulder--“nothing of that sort----”
They were standing by the window; the dusk was beginning to fall, and
the lights had not yet been lit. He got so far, when of a sudden a pane
of glass, on a level with Tillizini’s head, splintered with a crash. It
seemed to splinter three times in rapid succession, and simultaneously
from without came a thick staccato “Crack! crack! crack!”