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SIMON
BY
J. STORER CLOUSTON
AUTHOR OF "THE MAN FROM THE CLOUDS," "THE SPY
IN BLACK," "THE LUNATIC AT LARGE," ETC.
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1919,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Solitary Passenger 9
II. The Procurator Fiscal 16
III. The Heir 23
IV. The Man from the West 31
V. The Third Visitor 40
VI. At Night 48
VII. The Drive Home 56
VIII. Sir Reginald 67
IX. A Philosopher 74
X. The Letter 80
XI. News 89
XII. Cicely 100
XIII. The Deductive Process 106
XIV. The Question of Motive 114
XV. Two Women 123
XVI. Rumour 128
XVII. A Suggestion 135
XVIII. L1200 143
XIX. The Empty Compartment 148
XX. The Sporting Visitor 154
XXI. Mr. Carrington's Walk 161
XXII. Mr. Carrington and the Fiscal 168
XXIII. Simon's Views 176
XXIV. Mr. Bisset's Assistant 185
XXV. A Telegram 196
XXVI. At Stanesland 201
XXVII. Flight 209
XXVIII. The Return 216
XXIX. Brother and Sister 224
XXX. A Marked Man 229
XXXI. The Letter Again 240
XXXII. The Sympathetic Stranger 247
XXXIII. The House of Mysteries 253
XXXIV. A Confidential Conversation 261
XXXV. In the Garden 271
XXXVI. The Walking Stick 278
XXXVII. Bisset's Advice 285
XXXVIII. Trapped 291
XXXIX. The Yarn 301
XL. The Last Chapter 312
SIMON
I
THE SOLITARY PASSENGER
The train had come a long journey and the afternoon was wearing on.
The passenger in the last third class compartment but one, looking
out of the window sombrely and intently, saw nothing now but desolate
brown hills and a winding lonely river, very northern looking under
the autumnal sky.
He was alone in the carriage, and if any one had happened to study his
movements during the interminable journey, they would have concluded
that for some reason he seemed to have a singularly strong inclination
for solitude. In fact this was at least the third compartment he had
occupied, for whenever a fellow traveller entered, he unostentatiously
descended, and in a moment had slipped, also unostentatiously, into an
empty carriage. Finally he had selected one at the extreme end of the
train, a judicious choice which had ensured privacy for the last couple
of hours.
When the train at length paused in the midst of the moorlands and for
some obscure reason this spot was selected for the examination of
tickets, another feature of this traveller's character became apparent.
He had no ticket, he confessed, but named the last station as his place
of departure and the next as his destination. Being an entirely
respectable looking person, his statement was accepted and he slipped
the change for half a crown into his pocket; just as he had done a
number of times previously in the course of his journey. Evidently the
passenger was of an economical as well as of a secretive disposition.
As the light began to fade and the grey sky to change into a deeper
grey, and the lighted train to glitter through the darkening moors, and
he could see by his watch that their distant goal was now within an
hour's journey, the man showed for the first time signs of a livelier
interest. He peered out keenly into the dusk as though recognising old
landmarks, and now and then he shifted in his seat restlessly and a
little nervously.
He was a man of middle age or upwards, of middle height, and thickset.
Round his neck he wore a muffler, so drawn up as partially to conceal
the lower part of his face, and a black felt hat was drawn down over
his eyes. Between them could be seen only the gleam of his eyes, the
tip of his nose, and the stiff hairs of a grizzled moustache.
Out of his overcoat pocket he pulled a pipe and for a moment looked at
it doubtfully, and then, as if the temptation were irresistible, he
took out a tobacco pouch too. It was almost flat and he jealously
picked up a shred that fell on the floor, and checked himself at last
when the bowl was half filled. And then for a while he smoked very
slowly, savouring each whiff.
When they stopped at the last station or two, the reserved and exclusive
disposition of this traveller became still more apparent. Not only was
he so muffled up as to make recognition by an unwelcome acquaintance
exceedingly difficult, but so long as they paused at the stations he sat
with his face resting on his hand, and when they moved on again, an air
of some relief was apparent.
But a still more remarkable instance of this sensitive passion for
privacy appeared when the train stopped at the ticket platform just
outside its final destination. Even as they were slowing down, he fell
on his knees and then stretched himself at full length on the floor, and
when the door was flung open for an instant, the compartment was to all
appearances empty. Only when they were well under way again did this
retiring traveller emerge from beneath the seat.
And when he did emerge, his conduct continued to be of a piece with this
curious performance. He glanced out of the window for an instant at the
lights of the platform ahead, and the groups under them, and the arch of
the station roof against the night sky, and then swiftly stepped across
the carriage and gently opened the door on the wrong side. By the time
the train was fairly at rest, the door had been as quietly closed again
and the man was picking his way over the sleepers in the darkness, past
the guard's van and away from the station and publicity. Certainly he
had succeeded in achieving a singularly economical and private journey.
For a few minutes he continued to walk back along the line, and then
after a wary look all round him, he sprang up the low bank at the side,
threw his leg over a wire fence, and with infinite care began to make
his way across a stubble field. As he approached the wall on the further
side of the field his precautions increased. He listened intently,
crouched down once or twice, and when at last he reached the wall, he
peered over it very carefully before he mounted and dropped on the other
side.
"Well," he murmured, "I'm here, by God, at last!"
He was standing now in a road on the outskirts of the town. On the one
hand it led into a dim expanse of darkened country; on the other the
lights of the town twinkled. Across the road, a few villas stood back
amidst trees, with gates opening on to a footpath, the outlying houses
of the town; and the first lamp-post stood a little way down this path.
The man crossed the road and turned townwards, walking slowly and
apparently at his ease. What seemed to interest him now was not his own
need for privacy but the houses and gates he was passing. At one open
gate in particular he half paused and then seemed to spy something ahead
that altered his plans. Under a lamp-post a figure appeared to be
lingering, and at the sight of this, the man drew his hat still more
closely over his face and moved on.
As he drew near the lamp the forms of two youths became manifest,
apparently loitering there idly. The man kept his eyes on the ground,
passed them at a brisk walk and went on his way into the town.
"Damn them!" he muttered.
This incident seemed to have deranged his plans a little for his
movements during the next half hour were so purposeless as to suggest
that he was merely putting in time. Down one street and up another he
walked, increasing his pace when he had to pass any fellow walkers, and
then again falling slow at certain corners and looking round him
curiously as though those dark lanes and half-lit streets were
reminiscent.
Even seen in the light of the infrequent lamps and the rays from thinly
blinded windows, it was evidently but a small country town of a hard,
grey stone, northern type. The ends of certain lanes seemed to open into
the empty country itself, and one could hear the regular cadence of
waves hard by upon a shore.
"It doesn't seem to have changed much," said the man to himself.
He worked his way round, like one quite familiar with the route he
followed, till at length he drew near the same quiet country road whence
he had started. This time he stopped for a few minutes in the thickest
shadow and scanned each dim circle of radiance ahead. Nobody seemed now
to be within the rays of the lamps or to be moving in the darkness
between. He went on warily till he had come nearly to the same open gate
where he had paused before, and then there fell upon his ears the sound
of steps behind him and he stopped again and looked sharply over his
shoulder.
Somebody was following, but at a little distance off, and after
hesitating for an instant, he seemed to make up his mind to risk it, and
turned swiftly and stealthily through the gates. A short drive of some
pretentions ran between trees and then curved round towards the house,
but there was no lodge or any sign of a possible watcher, and the man
advanced for a few yards swiftly and confidently enough. And then he
stopped abruptly. Under the shade of the trees the drive ahead was pitch
dark, but footsteps and voices were certainly coming from the house. In
an instant he had vanished into the belt of plantation along one side of
the drive.
The footsteps and voices ceased, and then the steps began again, timidly
at first and then hurriedly. The belt of shrubs and trees was just thick
enough to hide a man perfectly on a moonless cloudy night like this. Yet
on either side the watcher could see enough of what was beyond to note
that he stood between the dark drive on one hand and a lighter space of
open garden on the other, and he could even catch a glimpse of the
house against the sky. Light shone brightly from the fanlight over the
front door, and less distinctly from one window upstairs and through the
slats of a blind in a downstairs room. For a moment he looked in that
direction and then intently watched the drive.
The footsteps by this time were almost on the run. The vague forms of
two women passed swiftly and he could see their faces dimly turned
towards him as they hurried by. They passed through the gates and were
gone, and then a minute later men's voices in the road cried out a
greeting. And after that the silence fell profound.
II
THE PROCURATOR FISCAL
The procurator fiscal breakfasted at 8.30, punctually, and at 8.30
as usual he entered his severely upholstered dining-room and shut th
door behind him. The windows looked into a spacious garden with a belt
of trees leading up to the house from the gate, and this morning Mr.
Rattar, who was a machine for habit, departed in one trifling particular
from his invariable routine. Instead of sitting straight down to the
business of breakfasting, he stood for a minute or two at the window
gazing into the garden, and then he came to the table very thoughtfully.
No man in that northern county was better known or more widely
respected than Mr. Simon Rattar. In person, he was a thickset man of
middle height and elderly middle age, with cold steady eyes and
grizzled hair. His clean shaved face was chiefly remarkable for the
hardness of his tight-shut mouth, and the obstinacy of the chin beneath
it. Professionally, he was lawyer to several of the larger landowners
and factor on their estates, and lawyer and adviser also to many other
people in various stations in life. Officially, he was procurator fiscal
for the county, the setter in motion of all criminal processes, and
generalissimo, so to speak, of the police; and one way and another, he
had the reputation of being a very comfortably well off gentleman
indeed.
As for his abilities, they were undeniably considerable, of the hard,
cautious, never-caught-asleep order; and his taciturn manner and way of
drinking in everything said to him while he looked at you out of his
steady eyes, and then merely nodded and gave a significant little grunt
at the end, added immensely to his reputation for profound wisdom.
People were able to quote few definite opinions uttered by "Silent
Simon," but any that could be quoted were shrewdness itself.
He was a bachelor, and indeed, it was difficult for the most fanciful to
imagine Silent Simon married. Even in his youth he had not been
attracted by the other sex, and his own qualities certainly did not
attract them. Not that there was a word to be said seriously against
him. Hard and shrewd though he was, his respectability was extreme and
his observance of the conventions scrupulous to a fault. He was an elder
of the Kirk, a non-smoker, an abstemious drinker (to be an out and out
teetotaler would have been a little too remarkable in those regions for
a man of Mr. Rattar's conventional tastes), and indeed in all respects
he trod that sober path that leads to a semi-public funeral and a vast
block of granite in the parish kirkyard.
He had acquired his substantial villa and large garden by a very shrewd
bargain a number of years ago, and he lived there with just the decency
that his condition in life enjoined, but with not a suspicion of display
beyond it. He kept a staff of two competent and respectable girls, just
enough to run a house of that size, but only just; and when he wanted to
drive abroad he hired a conveyance exactly suitable to the occasion from
the most respectable hotel. His life, in short, was ordered to the very
best advantage possible.
Enthusiastic devotion to such an extremely exemplary gentleman was a
little difficult, but in his present housemaid, Mary MacLean, he had a
girl with a strong Highland strain of fidelity to a master, and an
instinctive devotion to his interests, even if his person was hardly the
chieftain her heart demanded. She was a soft voiced, anxious looking
young woman, almost pretty despite her nervous high strung air, and of a
quiet and modest demeanour.
Soon after her master had begun breakfast, Mary entered the dining-room
with an apologetic air, but a conscientious eye.
"Begging your pardon, sir," she began, "but I thought I ought to tell
you that when cook and me was going out to the concert last night we
thought we saw _something_ in the drive."
Mr. Rattar looked up at her sharply and fixed his cold eyes on her
steadily for a moment, never saying a word. It was exactly his ordinary
habit, and she had thought she was used to it by now, yet this morning
she felt oddly disconcerted. Then it struck her that perhaps it was the
red cut on his chin that gave her this curious feeling. Silent Simon's
hand was as steady as a rock and she never remembered his having cut
himself shaving before; certainly not as badly as this.
"Saw 'something'?" he repeated gruffly. "What do you mean?"
"It looked like a man, sir, and it seemed to move into the trees almost
as quick as we saw it!"
"Tuts!" muttered Simon.
"But there was two friends of ours meeting us in the road," she hurried
on, "and they thought they saw a man going in at the gate!"
Her master seemed a little more impressed.
"Indeed?" said he.
"So I thought it was my duty to tell you, sir."
"Quite right," said he.
"For I felt sure it couldn't just be a gentleman coming to see you, sir,
or he wouldn't have gone into the trees."
"Of course not," he agreed briefly. "Nobody came to see me."
Mary looked at him doubtfully and hesitated for a moment.
"Didn't you even hear anything, sir?" she asked in a lowered voice.
Her master's quick glance made her jump.
"Why?" he demanded.
"Because, sir, I found footsteps in the gravel this morning--where it's
soft with the rain, sir, just under the library window."
Mr. Rattar looked first hard at her and then at his plate. For several
seconds he answered nothing, and then he said:
"I did hear some one."
There was something both in his voice and in his eye as he said this
that was not quite like the usual Simon Rattar. Mary began to feel a
sympathetic thrill.
"Did you look out of the window, sir?" she asked in a hushed voice.
Her master nodded and pursed his lips.
"But you didn't see him, sir?"
"No," said he.
"Who could it have been, sir?"
"I have been wondering," he said, and then he threw a sudden glance at
her that made her hurry for the door. It was not that it was an angry
look, but that it was what she called so "queer-like."
Just as she went out she noted another queer-like circumstance. Mr.
Rattar had stretched out his hand towards the toast rack while he spoke.
The toast stuck between the bars, and she caught a glimpse of an angry
twitch that upset the rack with a clatter. Never before had she seen the
master do a thing of that kind.
A little later the library bell called her. Mr. Rattar had finished
breakfast and was seated beside the fire with a bundle of legal papers
on a small table beside him, just as he always sat, absorbed in work,
before he started for his office. The master's library impressed Mary
vastly. The furniture was so substantial, new-looking, and conspicuous
for the shininess of the wood and the brightness of the red morocco
seats to the chairs. And it was such a tidy room--no litter of papers or
books, nothing ever out of place, no sign even of pipe, tobacco jar,
cigarette or cigar. The only concession to the vices were the ornate ash
tray and the massive globular glass match box on the square table in the
middle of the room, and they were manifestly placed there for the
benefit of visitors merely. Even they, Mary thought, were admirable as
ornaments, and she was concerned to note that there was no nice
red-headed bundle of matches in the glass match box this morning. What
had become of them she could not imagine, but she resolved to repair
this blemish as soon as the master had left the house.
"I don't want you to go gossiping about this fellow who came into the
garden, last night," he began.
"Oh, no, sir!" said she.
Simon shot her a glance that seemed compounded of doubt and warning.
"As procurator fiscal, it is my business to inquire into such affairs.
I'll see to it."
"Oh, yes, sir; I know," said she. "It seemed so impudent like of the man
coming into the fiscal's garden of all places!"
Simon grunted. It was his characteristic reply when no words were
absolutely necessary.
"That's all," said he, "don't gossip! Remember, if we want to catch the
man, the quieter we keep the better."
Mary went out, impressed with the warning, but still more deeply
impressed with something else. Gossip with cook of course was not to be
counted as gossip in the prohibited sense, and when she returned to the
kitchen, she unburdened her Highland heart.
"The master's no himsel'!" she said. "I tell you, Janet, never have I
seen Mr. Rattar look the way he looked at breakfast, nor yet the way he
looked in the library!"
Cook was a practical person and apt to be a trifle unsympathetic.
"He couldna be bothered with your blethering most likely!" said she.
"Oh, it wasna that!" said Mary very seriously. "Just think yoursel' how
would you like to be watched through the window at the dead of night as
you were sitting in your chair? The master's feared of yon man, Janet!"
Even Janet was a little impressed by her solemnity.
"It must have taken something to make silent Simon feared!" said she.
Mary's voice fell.
"It's my opinion, the master knows more than he let on to me. The
thought that came into my mind when he was talking to me was just--'The
man feels he's being _watched_!'"
"Oh, get along wi' you and your Hieland fancies!" said cook, but she
said it a little uncomfortably.
III
THE HEIR
At 9.45 precisely Mr. Rattar arrived at his office, just as he had
arrived every morning since his clerks could remember. He nodded curtly
as usual to his head clerk, Mr. Ison, and went into his room. His
letters were always laid out on his desk and from twenty minutes to half
an hour were generally spent by him in running through them. Then he
would ring for Mr. Ison and begin to deal with the business of the day.
But on this morning the bell went within twelve minutes, as Mr. Ison (a
most precise person) noted on the clock.
"Bring the letter book," said Mr. Rattar. "And the business ledger."
"Letter book and business ledger?" repeated Mr. Ison, looking a little
surprised.
Mr. Rattar nodded.
The head clerk turned away and then paused and glanced at the bundle of
papers Mr. Rattar had brought back with him. He had expected these to be
dealt with first thing.
"About this Thomson business--" he began.
"It can wait."
The lawyer's manner was peremptory and the clerk fetched the letter
book and ledger. These contained, between them, a record of all the
recent business of the firm, apart from public business and the affairs
of one large estate. What could be the reason for such a comprehensive
examination, Mr. Ison could not divine, but Mr. Rattar never gave
reasons unless he chose, and the clerk who would venture to ask him was
not to be found on the staff of Silent Simon.
In a minute or two the head clerk returned with the books. This time he
was wearing his spectacles and his first glance through them at Mr.
Rattar gave him an odd sensation. The lawyer's mouth was as hard set and
his eyes were as steady as ever. Yet something about his expression
seemed a little unusual. Some unexpected business had turned up to
disturb him, Mr. Ison felt sure; and indeed, this seemed certain from
his request for the letter book and ledger. He now noticed also the cut
on his chin, a sure sign that something had interrupted the orderly
tenor of Simon Rattar's life, if ever there was one. Mr. Ison tried to
guess whose business could have taken such a turn as to make Silent
Simon cut himself with his razor, but though he had many virtues,
imagination was not among them and he had to confess that it was fairly
beyond James Ison.
And yet, curiously enough, his one remark to a fellow clerk was not
unlike the comment of the imaginative Mary MacLean.
"The boss has a kin' of unusual look to-day. There was something kin'
of suspicious in that eye of his--rather as though he thought someone
was watching him."
Mr. Rattar had been busy with the books for some twenty minutes when his
head clerk returned.
"Mr. Malcolm Cromarty to see you, sir," he said.
Silent Simon looked at him hard, and it was evident to his clerk that
his mind had been extraordinarily absorbed, for he simply repeated in a
curious way:
"Mr. _Malcolm_ Cromarty?"
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Ison, and then as even this seemed scarcely to be
comprehended, he added, "Sir Reginald's cousin."
"Ah, of course!" said Mr. Rattar. "Well, show him in."
The young man who entered was evidently conscious of being a superior
person. From the waviness of his hair and the studied negligence of his
tie (heliotrope with a design in old gold), it seemed probable that he
had literary or artistic claims to be superior to the herd. And from the
deference with which Mr. Ison had pronounced his name and his own
slightly condescending manner, it appeared that he felt himself in other
respects superior to Mr. Rattar. He was of medium height, slender, and
dark-haired. His features were remarkably regular, and though his face
was somewhat small, there could be no doubt that he was extremely good
looking, especially to a woman's eye, who would be more apt than a
fellow man to condone something a little supercilious in his smile.
The attire of Mr. Malcolm Cromarty was that of the man of fashion
dressed for the country, with the single exception of the tie which
intimated to the discerning that here was no young man of fashion
merely, but likewise a young man of ideas. That he had written, or at
least was going to write, or else that he painted or was about to paint,
was quite manifest. The indications, however, were not sufficiently
pronounced to permit one to suspect him of fiddling, or even of being
about to fiddle.
This young gentleman's manner as he shook hands with the lawyer and then
took a chair was on the surface cheerful and politely condescending. Yet
after his first greeting, and when he was seated under Simon's
inscrutable eye, there stole into his own a hint of quite another
emotion. If ever an eye revealed apprehension it was Malcolm Cromarty's
at that instant.
"Well, Mr. Rattar, here I am again, you see," said he with a little
laugh; but it was not quite a spontaneous laugh.
"I see, Mr. Cromarty," said Simon laconically.
"You have been expecting to hear from me before, I suppose," the young
man went on, "but the fact is I've had an idea for a story and I've been
devilish busy sketching it out."
Simon grunted and gave a little nod. One would say that he was studying
his visitor with exceptional attention.
"Ideas come to one at the most inconvenient times," the young author
explained with a smile, and yet with a certain hurried utterance not
usually associated with smiles, "one just has to shoot the bird when he
happens to come over your head, don't you know, you can't send in
beaters after that kind of fowl, Mr. Rattar. And when he does come out,
there you are! You have to make hay while the sun shines."
Again the lawyer nodded, and again he made no remark. The apprehension
in his visitor's eye increased, his smile died away, and suddenly he
exclaimed:
"For God's sake, Mr. Rattar, say something! I meant honestly to pay you
back--I felt sure I could sell that last thing of mine before now, but
not a word yet from the editor I sent it to!"
Still there came only a guarded grunt from Simon and the young man went
on with increasing agitation.
"You won't give me away to Sir Reginald, will you? He's been damned
crusty with me lately about money matters, as it is. If you make me
desperate----!" He broke off and gazed dramatically into space for a
moment, and then less dramatically at his lawyer.
Silent Simon was proverbially cautious, but it seemed to his visitor
that his demeanour this morning exceeded all reasonable limits. For
nearly a minute he answered absolutely nothing, and then he said very
slowly and deliberately:
"I think it would be better, Mr. Cromarty, if you gave me a brief,
explicit statement of how you got into this mess."
"Dash it, you know too well--" began Cromarty.
"It would make you realise your own position more clearly," interrupted
the lawyer. "You want me to assist you, I take it?"
"Rather--if you will!"
"Well then, please do as I ask you. You had better start at the
beginning of your relations with Sir Reginald."
Malcolm Cromarty's face expressed surprise, but the lawyer's was
distinctly less severe, and he began readily enough:
"Well, of course, as you know, my cousin Charles Cromarty died about 18
months ago and I became the heir to the baronetcy--" he broke off and
asked, "Do you mean you want me to go over all that?"
Simon nodded, and he went on:
"Sir Reginald was devilish good at first--in his own patronising way,
let me stay at Keldale as often and as long as I liked, made me an
allowance and so on; but there was always this fuss about my taking up
something a little more conventional than literature. Ha, ha!" The young
man laughed in a superior way and then looked apprehensively at the
other. "But I suppose you agree with Sir Reginald?"
Simon pursed his lips and made a non-committal sound.
"Well, anyhow, he wanted me to be called to the Bar or something of that
kind, and then there was a fuss about money--his ideas of an allowance
are rather old fashioned, as you know. And then you were good enough to
help me with that loan, and--well, that's all, isn't it?"
Mr. Rattar had been listening with extreme attention. He now nodded, and
a smile for a moment seemed to light his chilly eyes.
"I see that you quite realise your position, Mr. Cromarty," he said.
"Realise it!" cried the young man. "My God, I'm in a worse hole----" he
broke off abruptly.
"Worse than you have admitted to me?" said Simon quickly and again with
a smile in his eye.
Malcolm Cromarty hesitated, "Sir Reginald is so damned narrow! If he
wants to drive me to the devil--well, let him! But I say, Mr. Rattar,
what are you going to do?"
For some moments Simon said nothing. At length he answered:
"I shall not press for repayment at present."
His visitor rose with a sigh of relief and as he said good-bye his
condescending manner returned as readily as it had gone.
"Good morning and many thanks," said he, and then hesitated for an
instant. "You couldn't let me have a very small cheque, just to be going
on with, could you?"
"Not this morning, Mr. Cromarty."
Mr. Cromarty's look of despair returned.
"Well," he cried darkly as he strode to the door, "people who treat a
man in my position like this are responsible for--er----!" The banging
of the door left their precise responsibility in doubt.
Simon Rattar gazed after him with an odd expression. It seemed to
contain a considerable infusion of complacency. And then he rang for his
clerk.
"Get me the Cromarty estate letter book," he commanded.
The book was brought and this time he had about ten minutes to himself
before the clerk entered again.
"Mr. Cromarty of Stanesland to see you, sir," he announced.
This announcement seemed to set the lawyer thinking hard. Then in his
abrupt way he said:
"Show him in."
IV
THE MAN FROM THE WEST
Mr. Rattar's second visitor was of a different type. Mr. Cromarty of
Stanesland stood about 6 feet two and had nothing artistic in his
appearance, being a lean strapping man in the neighbourhood of forty,
with a keen, thin, weather-beaten face chiefly remarkable for its
straight sharp nose, compressed lips, reddish eye-brows, puckered into a
slight habitual frown, and the fact that the keen look of the whole was
expressed by only one of his eyes, the other being a good imitation but
unmistakeably glass. The whole effect of the face, however, was
singularly pleasing to the discerning critic. An out of door, reckless,
humorous, honest personality was stamped on every line of it and every
movement of the man. When he spoke his voice had a marked tinge of the
twang of the wild west that sounded a little oddly on the lips of a
country gentleman in these northern parts. He wore an open flannel
collar, a shooting coat, well cut riding breeches and immaculate leather
leggings, finished off by a most substantial pair of shooting boots.
Unlike Mr. Malcolm Cromarty, he evidently looked upon his visit as
expected.
"Good morning, Mr. Rattar," said he, throwing his long form into the
clients' chair as he spoke. "Well, I guess you've got some good advice
for me this morning."
Simon Rattar was proverbially cautious, but to-day his caution struck
his visitor as quite remarkable.
"Um," he grunted. "Advice, Mr. Cromarty? Umph!"
"Don't trouble beating about the bush," said the tall man. "I've been
figuring things out myself and so far as I can see, it comes to
this:--that loan from Sir Reginald put me straight in the meantime, but
I've got to cut down expense all round to keep straight, and I've got to
pay him back. Of course you know his way when it's one of the clan he's
dealing with. 'My dear Ned, no hurry whatever. If you send my heir a
cheque some day after I'm gone it will have the added charm of
surprise!' Well, that's damned decent, but hardly business. I want to
get the whole thing off my chest. Got the statement made up?"
Simon shook his head.
"Very sorry, Mr. Cromarty. Haven't had time yet."
"Hell!" said Mr. Cromarty, though in a cheerful voice, and then added
with an engaging smile, "Pardon me, Mr. Rattar. I'm trying to get
educated out of strong language, but, Lord, at my time of life it's not
so damned--I mean dashed easy!"
Even Simon Rattar's features relaxed for an instant into a smile.
"And who is educating you?" he enquired.
Mr. Cromarty looked a little surprised.
"Who but the usual lady? Gad, I've told you before of my sister's well
meant efforts. It's a stiff job making a retired cow puncher into a high
grade laird. However, I can smoke without spitting now, which is a step
on the road towards being a Lord Chesterfield."
He smiled humorously, stretched out his long legs and added:
"It's a nuisance, your not having that statement ready. When I've got to
do business I like pushing it through quick. That's an American habit I
don't mean to get rid of, Mr. Rattar."
Mr. Rattar nodded his approval.
"Certainly not," said he.
"I've put down my car," his visitor continued. "Drive a buggy now--beg
its pardon, a trap, and a devilish nice little mare I've got in her too.
In fact, there are plenty of consolations for whatever you have to do in
this world. I'm only sorry for my sister's sake that I have to draw in
my horns a bit. Women like a bit of a splash--at least judging from the
comparatively little I know of 'em."
"Miss Cromarty doesn't complain, I hope?"
"Oh, I think she's beginning to see the necessity for reform. You see,
when both my civilised elder brothers died----" he broke off, and then
added: "But you know the whole story."
"I would--er--like to refresh my memory," said Simon; and there seemed
to be a note of interest and almost of eagerness in his voice that
appeared to surprise his visitor afresh.
"First time I ever heard of your memory needing refreshing!" laughed his
visitor. "Well, you know how I came back from the wild and woolly west
and tried to make a comfortable home for Lilian. We were neither of us
likely to marry at our time of life, and there were just the two of us
left, and we'd both of us knocked about quite long enough on our own,
and so why not settle down together in the old place and be comfortable?
At least that's how it struck me. Of course, as you know, we hadn't met
for so long that we were practically strangers and she knew the ways of
civilisation better than me, and I gave her a pretty free hand in
setting up the establishment. I don't blame her, mind you, for setting
the pace a bit too fast to last. My own blamed fault entirely. However,
we aren't in a very deep hole, thank the Lord. In fact if I hadn't got
to pay Sir Reginald back the L1,200 it would be all right, so far I can
figure out. But I want your exact statement, Mr. Rattar, and as quick as
you can let me have it."
Simon nodded and grunted.
"You'll get it." And then he added: "I think I can assure you there is
nothing to be concerned about."
Ned Cromarty smiled and a reckless light danced for a moment in his one
efficient eye.
"I guess I almost wish there were something to be concerned about! Sir
Reginald is always telling me I'm the head of the oldest branch of the
whole Cromarty family and it's my duty to live in the house of my
ancestors and be an ornament to the county, and all the rest of it. But
I tell you it's a damned quiet life for a man who's had his eye put out
with a broken whisky bottle and hanged the man who did it with his own
hands!"
"Hanged him!" exclaimed the lawyer sharply.
"Oh, it wasn't merely for the eye. That gave the performance a kind of
relish it would otherwise have lacked, being a cold-blooded ceremony and
a little awkward with the apparatus we had. We hanged him for murder, as
a matter of fact. Now, between ourselves, Mr. Rattar, we don't want to
crab our own county, but you must confess that real good serious crime
is devilish scarce here, eh?"
Cromarty's eye was gleaming humorously, and Simon Rattar might have been
thought the kind of tough customer who would have been amused by the
joke. He seemed, however, to be affected unpleasantly and even a little
startled.
"I--I trust we don't," he said.
"Well," his visitor agreed, "as it means that something or somebody has
got to be sacrificed to start the sport of man-hunting, I suppose
there's something to be said for the quiet life. But personally I'd
sooner be after men than grouse, from the point of view of getting
thorough satisfaction while it lasts. My sister says it means I haven't
settled down properly yet--calls me the bold bad bachelor!"
Through this speech Simon seemed to be looking at his visitor with an
attention that bordered on fascination, and it was apparently with a
slight effort that he asked at the end:
"Well, why don't you marry?"
"Marry!" exclaimed Ned Cromarty. "And where will you find the lady
that's to succumb to my fascinations? I'm within a month of forty, Mr.
Rattar, I've the mind, habits, and appearance of a backwoodsman, and
I've one working eye left. A female collector of antique curiosities, or
something in the nature of a retired wardress might take on the job, but
I can't think of any one else!"
He laughed as he spoke, and yet something remarkably like a sigh
followed the laugh, and for a moment after he had ceased speaking his
eye looked abstractedly into space.
Before either spoke again, the door opened and the clerk, seeing Mr.
Rattar was still engaged, murmured a "beg pardon" and was about to
retire again.
"What is it?" asked the lawyer.
"Miss Farmond is waiting to see you, sir."
"I'll let you know when I'm free," said Simon.
Had his eye been on his visitor as his clerk spoke, he might have
noticed a curious commentary on Mr. Cromarty's professed lack of
interest in womankind. His single eye lit up for an instant and he
moved sharply in his chair, and then as suddenly repressed all sign of
interest.
A minute or two later the visitor jumped up.
"Well," said he, "I guess you're pretty busy and I've been talking too
long as it is. Let me have that statement as quick as you like. Good
morning!"
He strode to the door, shut it behind him, and then when he was on the
landing, his movements became suddenly more leisurely. Instead of
striding downstairs he stood looking curiously in turn at each closed
door. It was an old fashioned house and rather a rabbit warren of an
office, and it would seem as though for some reason he wished to leave
no door unwatched. In a moment he heard the lawyer's bell ring and very
slowly he moved down a step or two while a clerk answered the call and
withdrew. And then he took a cigar from his case, bit off the end, and
felt for matches; all this being very deliberately done, and his eye
following the clerk. Thus when a girl emerged from the room along a
passage, she met, apparently quite accidentally, Mr. Cromarty of
Stanesland.
At the first glance it was quite evident that the meeting gave more
pleasure to the gentleman than to the lady. Indeed, the girl seemed too
disconcerted to hide the fact.
"Good morning, Miss Farmond," said he with what seemed intended for an
air of surprise; as though he had no idea she had been within a mile of
him. "You coming to see Simon on business too?" And then taking the cue
from her constrained manner, he added hurriedly, and with a note of
dejection he could not quite hide, "Well, good-bye."
The girl's expression suddenly changed, and with that change the laird
of Stanesland's curious movements became very explicable, for her face
was singularly charming when she smiled. It was a rather pale but fresh
and clear-skinned face, wide at the forehead and narrowing to a firm
little chin, with long-lashed expressive eyes, and a serious expression
in repose. Her smile was candid, a little coy and irresistibly engaging,
and her voice was very pleasant, rather low, and most engaging too. She
was of middle height and dressed in mourning. Her age seemed rather
under than over twenty.
"Oh," she said, with a touch of hesitation at first, "I didn't mean----"
She broke off, glanced at the clerk, who being a discreet young man was
now in the background, and then with lowered voice confessed, "The fact
is, Mr. Cromarty, I'm not really supposed to be here at all. That's to
say nobody knows I am."
Mr. Cromarty looked infinitely relieved.
"And you don't want anybody to know?" he said in his outspoken way.
"Right you are. I can lie low and say nothing, or lie hard and say what
you like; whichever you choose."
"Lying low will do," she smiled. "But please don't think I'm doing
anything very wrong."
"I'll think what you tell me," he said gallantly. "I _was_ thinking
Silent Simon was in luck's way--but perhaps you're going to wig him?"
She laughed and shook her head.
"Can you imagine me daring to wig Mr. Simon Rattar?"
"I guess he needs waking up now and then like other people. He's been
slacking over my business. In fact, I can't quite make him out this
morning. He's not quite his usual self for some reason. Don't be afraid
to wig him if he needs it!"
The clerk in the background coughed and Miss Cicely Farmond moved
towards the door of the lawyer's room, but Ned Cromarty seemed reluctant
to end the meeting so quickly.
"How did you come?" he asked.
"Walked," she smiled.
"Walked! And how are you going back?"
"Walk again."
"I say," he suggested eagerly, "I've got my trap in. Let me drive you!"
She hesitated a moment.
"It's awfully good of you to think of it----"
"That's settled then. I'll be on the look out when you leave old Simon's
den."
He raised his cap and went downstairs this time without any hesitation.
He had forgotten to light his cigar, and it was probably as a substitute
for smoking that he found himself whistling.
V
THE THIRD VISITOR
Miss Cicely Farmond's air as she entered Simon Rattar's room seemed
compounded of a little shyness, considerable trepidation, and yet more
determination. In her low voice and with a fleeting smile she wished him
good morning, like an acquaintance with whom she was quite familiar, and
then with a serious little frown, and fixing her engaging eyes very
straight upon him, she made the surprising demand:
"Mr. Rattar, I want you to tell me honestly who I am."
For an instant Simon's cold eyes opened very wide, and then he was
gazing at her after his usual silent and steadfast manner.
"Who you are?" he repeated after a few seconds' pause.
"Yes. Indeed, Mr. Rattar, I _insist_ on knowing!"
Simon smiled slightly.
"And what makes you think I can assist you to--er--recover your
identity, Miss Farmond?"
"To discover it, not recover it," she corrected.
"Don't you really know that I am honestly quite ignorant?"
Mr. Rattar shook his head cautiously.
"It is not for me to hazard an opinion," he answered.
"Oh please, Mr. Rattar," she exclaimed, "don't be so dreadfully
cautious! Surely you can't have thought that I knew all the time!"
Again he was silent for a moment, and then enquired:
"Why do you come to me now?"
"Because I _must_ know! Because--well, because it is so unsatisfactory
not knowing--for various reasons."
"And why are you so positive that I can tell you?"
"Because all my affairs and arrangements went through your hands, and of
course you know!"
Again he seemed to reflect for a moment.
"May I ask, Miss Farmond," he enquired, "why, in that case, you think I
shouldn't have told you before, and why--also in that case--I should
tell you now?"
This enquiry seemed to disconcert Miss Farmond a little.
"Oh, of course I presume Sir Reginald and you had some reasons," she
admitted.
"And don't you think then we have them still?"
"I can't honestly see why you should make such a mystery of
it--especially as I can guess the truth perfectly easily!"
"If you can guess it----" he began.
"Oh please don't answer me like that! Why won't you tell me?"
He seemed to consider the point for a moment, and then he said:
"I am not at all sure that I am at liberty to tell you, Miss Farmond,
without further consultation."
"Has Sir Reginald really any good reasons for not telling me?"
"Have you asked him that question?"
"No," she confessed. "He and Lady Cromarty have been so frightfully
kind, and yet so--so reserved on that subject, that I have never liked
to ask them direct. But they know that I have guessed, and they haven't
done anything to prevent me finding out more for myself, which means
that they really are quite willing to let me find out if I can."
He shook his head.
"I am afraid I shall require more authority than that."
She pursed her lips and looked at the floor in silence, and then she
rose.
"Well, if you absolutely refuse to tell me _anything_, Mr. Rattar, I
suppose----"
A dejected little shrug completed her sentence, and as she turned
towards the door her eloquent eyes looked at him for a moment beneath
their long lashes with an expression in them that might have moved a
statue. Although Simon Rattar had the reputation of being impervious to
woman's wiles, he may have been moved by this unspoken appeal. He
certainly seemed struck by something, for even as her back was turning
towards him, he said suddenly, and in a distinctly different voice:
"You say you can guess yourself?"
She nodded, and added with a pathetic coaxing note in her low voice:
"But I want to _know_!"
"Supposing," he suggested, "you were to tell me precisely how much you
do know already, and then I could judge whether the rest might or might
not be divulged."
Her face brightened and she returned to her chair with a promptitude
that suggested she was not unaccustomed to win a lost battle with these
weapons.
"Well," she said, "it was only six months ago--when mother died--that I
first had the least suspicion there was any mystery about me--anything
to hide. I knew she hadn't always been happy and that her trouble had
something to do with my father, simply because she hardly ever mentioned
him. But she lived at Eastbourne just like plenty of other widows and we
had a few friends, though never very many, and I was very happy at
school, and so I never troubled much about things."
"And knew nothing up till six months ago?" asked Simon, who was
following her story very attentively.
"Nothing at all. Then, about a month after mother's death, I got a note
from you asking me to go up to London and meet Sir Reginald Cromarty. I
had never even heard of him before! Well, I went and he was simply as
kind as--well, as he always is to everybody, and said he was a kind of
connection of my family and asked me to pay them a long visit to
Keldale."
"How long ago precisely was that?"
She looked a little surprised.
"Oh, you know exactly. Almost just four months ago, wasn't it?"
He nodded, but said nothing, and she went on:
"From the very first it had seemed very strange that I had never heard a
word about the Cromartys from mother, and as soon as I got to Keldale
and met Lady Cromarty, I felt sure there was something wrong. I mean
that I wasn't an ordinary distant relation. For one thing they never
spoke of our relationship and exactly what sort of cousins we were, and
considering how keen Sir Reginald is on his pedigree and all his
relations and everybody, that alone made me certain I wasn't the
ordinary kind. That was obvious, wasn't it?"
"It seems so," the lawyer admitted cautiously.
"Of course it was! Well, one day I happened to be looking over an old
photograph album and suddenly I saw my father's photograph! Mother had a
miniature of him--I have it still, and I was certain it was the same
man. I pulled myself together and asked Sir Reginald in a very ordinary
voice who that was, and I could see that both he and Lady Cromarty
jumped a little. He had to tell me it was his brother Alfred and I
discovered he had long been dead, but I didn't try to get any more
information from them. I applied to Bisset."
She gave a little laugh and looked at him with a touch of defiance. His
inscrutable countenance appeared to annoy her.
"Well?" he remarked.
"Perhaps you think I oughtn't to have gone to a butler about such a
thing, but Bisset is practically one of the family and I didn't give him
the least idea of what I was after. I simply drew him on the subject of
the Cromarty family history and among other things--that didn't so much
interest me--I found that Mr. Alfred Cromarty was never married and
seemed to have had rather a gay reputation."
She looked at him with an expression that would have immediately
converted any susceptible man into a fellow conspirator, and asked in
her most enticing voice:
"Need you ask what I guessed? What is the use in not telling me simply
whether I have guessed right!"
Silent Simon's face remained a mask.
"What precisely did you guess?"
"That my mother wasn't married," she said, her voice falling very low,
"and I am really Sir Reginald's niece though he never can acknowledge
it--and I don't want him to! But I do want to be sure. Dear Mr. Rattar,
won't you tell me?"
Dear Mr. Rattar never relaxed a muscle.
"Your guess seems very probable," he admitted.
"But tell me definitely."
"Why?" he enquired coldly.
"Oh, have you no _curiosity_ yourself--especially about who your parents
were; supposing you didn't know?"
"Then it's only out of curiosity that you enquired?"
"Only!" she repeated with a world of woman's scorn. "But what sort of
motives did you expect? I have walked in the whole way this morning just
to end the suspense of wondering! Of course, I'll never tell a soul you
told me."
She threw on him a moving smile.
"You needn't actually tell me outright. Just use some legal
word--'Alibi' if I am right and 'forgery' if I'm wrong!"
Silent Simon's sudden glance chilled her smile. She evidently felt she
had been taking the law in vain.
"I only meant----" she began anxiously.
"I must consult Sir Reginald," he interrupted brusquely.