questions over and over again as he sat with a cigar between his teeth
and his long legs stretched out on the opposite seat, and the train
drove on into an ever wilder and more desolate land. It would be very
many miles and a couple of hours or more before they reached any sort of
conceivable destination for her, and as a matter of fact this train did
not go beyond that destination. Then it struck him sharply that up till
the end of last month the train had continued its southward journey. The
alteration in the timetable was only a few days old. Possibly she was
not aware of it and had counted on travelling to--where? He knew where
she had got to stop, but where had she meant to stop? Or where would she
go to-morrow? And above all, why was she going at all, leaving her
bicycle at a wayside station and with her sole luggage a small suit
case? Ned shook his head, tried to suck life into his neglected cigar,
and gave up the problem in the meanwhile.
As to the question of what business he had to be following Miss Farmond
like this, he troubled his head about it not at all. If she needed him,
here he was. If she didn't, he would clear out. But very strong and very
urgent was the conviction that she required a friend of some sort.
The stations were few and far between and most desolate, improbable
places as endings for Cicely Farmond's journey. He looked out of the
window at each of them, but she never alighted.
"She's going to find herself stuck for the night. That's about the size
of it," he said to himself as they left the last station before the
journey ended.
Though their next stop was the final stop, he did not open the carriage
door when the train pulled up. He did not even put his head far out of
the window, only just enough to see what passed on the platform ahead.
"I'm not going to worry her if she doesn't need me," he said to himself.
He saw the slip of a figure in black talking to the stationmaster, and
it was hardly necessary to hear that official's last words in order to
divine what had happened.
"Weel, miss," he overheard the stationmaster say, "I'm sorry ye're
disappointed, but it's no me that has stoppit the train. It's aff for
the winter. If ye turn to the left ye'll fin' the hotel."
The girl looked round her slowly and it seemed to Ned that the way she
did it epitomised disappointment and desolation, and then she hurried
through the station buildings and was gone.
He was out of the carriage and after her in an instant. Beyond the
station the darkness was intense and he had almost passed a road
branching to the left without seeing it. He stopped and was going to
turn down it when it struck him the silence was intense that way, but
that there was a light sound of retreating footsteps straight ahead.
"She's missed the turning!" he said to himself, and followed the
footsteps.
In a little he could see her against the sky, a dim hurrying figure, and
his own stride quickened. He had never been in this place before, but he
knew it for a mere seaboard village with an utterly lonely country on
every inland side. She was heading into a black wilderness, and he took
his decision at once and increased his pace till he was overhauling her
fast.
At the sound of his footsteps he could see that she glanced over her
shoulder and made the more haste till she was almost running. And then
as she heard the pursuing steps always nearer she suddenly slackened
speed to let him pass.
"Miss Farmond!" said he.
He could hear her gasp as she stopped short and turned sharply. She was
staring hard now at the tall figure looming above her.
"It's only me--Ned Cromarty," he said quietly.
And then he started in turn, for instead of showing relief she gave a
half smothered little cry and shrank away from him. For a moment there
was dead silence and then he said, still quietly, though it cost him an
effort.
"I only mean to help you if you need a hand. Are you looking for the
hotel?"
"Yes," she said in a low frightened voice.
"Well," said he, "I guess you'd walk till morning before you reached an
hotel along this road. You missed the turning at the station. Give me
your bag. Come along!"
She let him take the suit case and she turned back with him, but it
struck him painfully that her docility was like that of a frightened
animal.
"Where are you bound for?" he enquired in his usual direct way.
She murmured something that he could not catch and then they fell
altogether silent till they had retraced their road to the station and
turned down towards a twinkling light or two which showed where the
village lay.
"Now, Miss Farmond," said he, "we are getting near this pub and as we've
both got to spend the night there, you'll please observe these few short
and simple rules. I'm your uncle--Uncle Ned. D'you see?"
There was no laugh, or even a smile from her. She gave a little start of
surprise and in a very confused voice murmured:
"Yes, I see."
"My full name is Mr. Ned Dawkins and you're Louisa Dawkins my niece.
Just call me 'Uncle Ned' and leave me to do the talking. We are touring
this beautiful country and I've lost my luggage owing to the derned
foolishness of the railroad officials here. And then when we've had a
little bit of dinner you can tell me, if you like, why you've eloped and
why you've got a down on me. Or if you don't like to, well, you needn't.
Ah, here's the pub at last."
He threw open the door and in a loud and cheerful voice cried:
"Well, here we are, Louisa. Walk right in, my dear!"
XXVIII
THE RETURN
His friends would scarcely have picked out Mr. Ned Cromarty of
Stanesland as likely to make a distinguished actor, but they might have
changed their opinion had they heard him breezily announce himself as
Mr. Dawkins from Liverpool and curse the Scottish railways which had
lost his luggage for him. It is true that the landlord looked at him a
trifle askance and that the landlady and her maid exchanged a knowing
smile when he ordered a room for his niece Louisa, but few people shut
up in a little country inn with such a formidable looking, loud voiced
giant, would have ventured to question his statements openly, and the
equanimity of Mr. Dawkins remained undisturbed.
"Sit right down, Louisa!" he commanded when dinner was served; and then,
addressing the maid, "You needn't wait. We'll ring when we need you."
But the moment she had gone he checked a strong expression with an
effort.
"Damn--confound it!" he cried. "I ought to have remembered to say grace!
That would have given just the finishing touch to the Uncle Ned
business. However, I don't think they've smelt any rats."
Cicely smiled faintly and then her eyes fell and she answered nothing.
Their only other conversation during dinner consisted in his
expostulations on her small appetite and her low-voiced protests that
she wasn't hungry. But when it was safely over, he pushed back his
chair, crossed his knees, and began:
"Now, Louisa, I'm going to take an uncle's privilege of lighting my pipe
before I begin to talk, if you don't mind."
He lit his pipe, and then suddenly dropping the role of uncle
altogether, said gently:
"I don't want to press you with any questions that you don't want to
answer, but if you need a friend of any sort, size, or description, here
I am." He paused for a moment and then asked still more gently: "Are you
afraid of me?"
For the first time she let her long-lashed eyes rest full on his face
and in her low voice, she answered:
"Partly afraid."
"And partly what else?"
"Partly puzzled--and partly ashamed."
"Ashamed!" he exclaimed with a note of indignant protest. "Ashamed of
what?"
"The exhibition I've made of myself," she said, her voice still very
low.
"Well," he smiled, "that's a matter of opinion. But why are you afraid?"
"Oh," she exclaimed. "You know of course!"
He stared at her blankly.
"I pass; I can't play to that!" he replied. "I honestly do not know,
Miss Farmond."
Her eyes opened very wide.
"That's what I meant when I said I was puzzled. You _must_ know--and
yet----!"
She broke off and looked at him doubtfully.
"Look here," said he, "some one's got to solve this mystery, and I'll
risk a leading question. Why did you run away?"
"Because of what you have been doing!"
"_Me_ been doing! And what have I been doing?"
"Suspecting me and setting a detective to watch me!"
Ned's one eye opened wide, but for a moment he said not a word. Then he
remarked quietly:
"This is going to be a derned complicated business. Just you begin at
the beginning, please, and let's see how things stand. Who told you I
was setting a detective on to you?"
"I found out myself I was being watched."
"How and when?"
She hesitated, and the doubtful look returned to her eyes.
"Come, Louisa!" he said. "No nonsense this time! We've got to have this
out--or my name's Dawkins!"
For the first time she smiled spontaneously, and the doubtful look
almost vanished. Just a trace was left, but her voice, though still very
low, was firmer now.
"I only discovered for the first time the wicked suspicion about poor
Malcolm," she said, "when I met a gentleman a few days ago who told me
he had heard Malcolm was arrested for the murder of Sir Reginald."
"But that's not true!" cried Ned.
"No, and he admitted it was only a story he had heard at the hotel, but
it suddenly seemed to throw light on several things I hadn't been able
to understand. I spoke to Lady Cromarty about it, and then I actually
found that I was suspected too!"
"Did she tell you so?"
"Not in so many words, but I knew what was in her mind. And then the
very next day I caught the same man examining the library with Bisset
and I saw him out of the window follow Lady Cromarty and speak to her,
and then I knew he was a detective!"
"How did you know?"
"Oh, by instinct, and I was right! The position was so horrible--so
unbearable, that I went in to see Mr. Rattar about it."
"Why Rattar?"
"Because he is the family lawyer and he's also investigating the case,
and I thought of course he was employing the detective. And Mr. Rattar
told me you were really employing him. Are you?"
There was a pleading note in this question--a longing to hear the answer
"No" that seemed to affect Ned strangely.
"It's all right, Miss Farmond!" he said. "Don't you worry! I got that
man down here to clear you--just for that purpose and no other!"
"But----" she exclaimed, "Mr. Rattar said you suspected Malcolm and me
and were determined to prove our guilt!"
"Simon Rattar said that!"
There was something so menacing in his voice that Cicely involuntarily
shrank back.
"Do you mean to tell me, honour bright, that Simon Rattar told you that
lie in so many words?"
"Yes," she said, "he did indeed. And he said that this Mr. Carrington
was a very clever man and was almost certain to trump up a very strong
case against us, and so he advised me to go away."
He seemed almost incapable of speech at this.
"He actually advised you to bolt?"
She nodded.
"To slip away quietly to London and stay in an hotel he recommended till
I heard from him. He said you had sworn to track down the criminals and
hang them with your own hands, and so when I saw you suddenly come up
behind me in that dark road to-night--oh, you've no idea how terrified I
was! Mr. Rattar had frightened away all the nerve I ever had, and then
when I thought I was safely away, you suddenly came up behind me in that
dark road!"
"You poor little----" he began, laying his hand upon hers, and then he
remembered Sir Malcolm and altered his sentence into: "You know now
that was all one infernal pack of lies, don't you?"
Though he took away his hand, she had not moved her own, and she gave
him now a look which richly rewarded him for his evening's work.
"I believe every word you tell me," she said.
"Well then," said Ned, "I tell you that I got this fellow Carrington
down to take up the case so that I could clear you in the first place
and find the right man in the second. So as to give him an absolutely
clear field, he wasn't told who was employing him, and then he could
suspect me myself if he wanted to. As a matter of fact, I rather think
he has guessed who's running him. Anyhow, yesterday afternoon he told me
straight and emphatically that he knew you were innocent. So you've run
away a day too late!"
She laughed at last, and then fell serious again.
"But what did Mr. Rattar mean by saying you had engaged the detective
because you suspected Malcolm and me?"
"That's precisely what I want to find out," said Ned grimly. "He could
guess easy enough who was employing Carrington, because I had suggested
getting a detective, only Simon wouldn't rise to it. But as to saying I
suspected you, he knew that was a lie, and I can only suspect he's
getting a little tired of life!"
They talked on for a little longer, still sitting by the table, with her
eyes now constantly smiling into his, until at last he had to remind
himself so vigorously of the absent and lucky baronet that the pleasure
began to ebb. And then they said good-night and he was left staring
into the fire.
* * * * *
Next morning they faced one another in a first class carriage on a
homeward bound train.
"What shall I say to Lady Cromarty?" she asked, half smiling, half
fearfully.
He reflected for a few minutes.
"Tell her the truth. Lies don't pay in the long run. I can bear witness
to this part of the story, and to the Carrington part if necessary,
though I don't want to give him away if I can help it."
"Oh no!" she said, "we mustn't interfere with him. But supposing Lady
Cromarty doesn't believe----"
"Come straight to Stanesland! Will you?"
"Run away again?"
"It's the direction you run in that matters," said he. "Now, mind you,
that's understood!"
She was silent for a little and then she said:
"I can't understand why these horrible stories associate Malcolm and me.
Why should we have conspired to do such a dreadful thing?"
He stared at her, and then hesitated.
"Because--well, being engaged to him----"
"Engaged to Malcolm!" she exclaimed. "Whatever put that into people's
heads?"
"What!" he cried. "Aren't you?"
"Good gracious no! Was _that_ the reason then?"
He seemed too lost in his own thoughts to answer her; but they were
evidently not unhappy thoughts this time.
"Who can have started such a story?" she demanded.
"Who started it?" he repeated and then was immersed in thought again;
only now there was a grim look on his face.
"Well anyhow," he cried, in a minute or two, "we're out of that wood!
Aren't we, Louisa?"
"Yes, Uncle Ned," she smiled back.
He stirred impulsively in his seat and then seemed to check himself, and
for the rest of the journey he appeared to be divided between content
with the present hour and an impulse to improve upon it. And then before
he had realised where they were, they had stopped at a station, and she
was exclaiming:
"Oh, I must get out here! I've left my bike in the station!"
"Look here," said he, with his hand on the door handle, "before you go
you've got to swear that you'll come straight to Stanesland if there's
another particle of trouble. Swear?"
"But what about Miss Cromarty?" she smiled.
"Miss Cromarty will say precisely the same as I do," he said with a
curiously significant emphasis. "So now, I don't open this door till you
promise!"
"I promise!" said she, and then she was standing on the platform waving
a farewell.
"I half wish I'd risked it!" he said to himself with a sigh as the train
moved on, and then he ruminated with an expression on his face that
seemed to suggest a risk merely deferred.
XXIX
BROTHER AND SISTER
Ned Cromarty found his sister in her room.
"Well, Ned," she asked, "where on earth have you been?"
He shut the door before he answered, and then came up to the fireplace,
and planted himself in front of her.
"Who told you that Cicely Farmond was engaged to Malcolm Cromarty?" he
demanded.
She made a little grimace of comic alarm, but her eye was apprehensive.
"Don't eat my head off, Neddy! How can I remember?"
"You've got to remember," said her brother grimly. "And you'd better be
careful what you tell me, for I'll go straight to the woman, or man, you
name."
She looked at him boldly enough.
"I don't know if you are aware of it, but this isn't the way I'm
accustomed to be talked to."
"It's the way you're being talked to now," said he. "Who told you?"
"I absolutely refuse to answer if you speak to me like that, Ned!"
"Then we part company, Lilian."
There was no doubt about the apprehension in her eye now. For a moment
it seemed to wonder whether he was actually in earnest, and then to
decide that he was.
"I--I don't know who told me," she said in an altered voice.
"Did anybody tell you, or did you make it up?"
"I never actually said they were engaged."
He looked at her in silence and very hard, and then he spoke
deliberately.
"I won't ask you why you deceived me, Lilian, but it was a low down
trick to play on me, and it has turned out to be a damned cruel trick to
play on that girl. I mentioned the engagement as a mere matter of course
to somebody, and though I mentioned it confidentially, it started this
slander about Malcolm Cromarty and Cicely Farmond conspiring to
murder--to _murder_, Lilian!--the man of all men they owed most to.
That's what you've done!"
By this time Lilian Cromarty's handkerchief was at her eyes.
"I--I am very sorry, Ned," she murmured.
But he was not to be soothed by a tear, even in the most adroit lady's
eye.
"The latest consequence has been," he said sternly, "that through a
mixture of persecution and bad advice she has been driven to run away.
Luckily I spotted her at the start and fetched her back, and I've told
her that if there is the least little bit more trouble she is to come
straight here and that you will give her as good a welcome as I shall.
Is that quite clear?"
"Yes," she murmured through her handkerchief.
"Otherwise," said he, "there's no room for us both here. One single
suggestion that she isn't welcome--and you have full warning now of the
consequences!"
"When is she coming?" she asked in an uncertain voice.
"When? Possibly never. But there's some very fishy--and it looks to me,
some very dirty business going on, and this port stands open in case of
a storm. You fully understand?"
"Of course I do," she said, putting away her handkerchief. "I'm not
quite a fool!"
And indeed, none of her friends or acquaintances had ever made that
accusation against Lilian Cromarty.
"Well, that's all," said Ned, and began to move across the room.
But now the instinct for finding a scapegoat began to revive.
"Who did you tell it to, Ned?" she asked.
"Simon Rattar."
"Then _he_ has spread this dreadful story!" she exclaimed with righteous
indignation.
Her brother stopped and slowly turned back.
"By heaven, I've scarcely had time to think it all out yet--but it looks
like it!"
"It _must_ be that nasty grumpy old creature! If you told nobody
else--well, it can't be anybody else!"
"But why should he go and spread such a story?"
"Because he wants to shelter some one else!"
"Who?"
"Ah, that's for the police to find out. But I'm quite certain, Ned, that
that pig-headed old Simon with his cod-fish eyes and his everlasting
grunt is at the bottom of it all!"
He stared thoughtfully into space.
"Well," he said slowly, "he has certainly been asking for trouble in one
or two ways, and this seems another invitation. But he'll get it, sure!
At the same time--what's his object?"
His sister had no hesitation.
"Either to make money or hide something disgraceful. You really must
enquire into this, Ned!"
He dropped into a chair and sat for a few minutes with his face in his
hands. At last he looked up and shook his head.
"I'm out of my depth," he said. "I guess I'd better see Carrington."
"Mr. Carrington?" she exclaimed.
"I had a long talk with him," he explained. "He seems an uncommon shrewd
fellow. Yes, that's the proper line!"
She looked at him curiously but evidently judged it tactful in the
present delicate situation to ask no more. He rose now and went, still
thoughtful, to the door.
"What a dreadful thing of Simon Rattar to do! Wasn't it, Ned?" she said
indignantly, her eyes as bright as ever again.
He turned as she went out.
"The whole thing has been damnable!"
As the door closed behind him she made a little grimace again and then
gave a little shrug.
"He's going to marry her!" she said to herself, and acting immediately
on a happy inspiration, sat down to write a long and affectionate letter
to an old friend whose country house might, with judicious management,
be considered good for a six months' visit.
XXX
A MARKED MAN
The unexpected energy displayed by her charming guest in bustling all
over the country had surprised and a little perplexed Miss Peterkin, but
she now decided that it was only a passing phase, for on the day
following his visits to Keldale and Stanesland he exhibited exactly the
same leisurely calm she had admired at first. He sought out the local
golf course and for an hour or two his creditable game confirmed his
reputation as a sportsman, and for the rest of the time he idled in a
very gentlemanly manner.
In the course of the afternoon he strolled out and gradually drifted
through the dusk towards the station. Finding the train was, as usual,
indefinitely late, he strolled out again and finally drifted back just
as the signals had fallen at last. It was quite dark by this time and
the platform lamps were lit, but Mr. Carrington chanced to stand
inconspicuously in a background of shadows. As the engine hissed
ponderously under the station roof and the carriage doors began to open,
he still stood there, the most casual of spectators. A few passengers
passed him, and then came a young man in a fur coat, on whom some very
curious glances had been thrown when he alighted from his first class
compartment. Mr. Carrington, however, seemed to take no interest either
in him or anybody else till the young man was actually passing him, and
then he suddenly stepped out of the shadows, touched him on the shoulder
and said in a much deeper and graver voice than usual:
"Sir Malcolm Cromarty, I believe!"
The young man started violently and turned a pale face.
"Ye--es, I am," he stammered.
"May I have a word with you?" said Carrington gravely.
With a dreadfully nervous air Sir Malcolm accompanied him out into the
dark road, neither speaking, and then the young man demanded hoarsely:
"What do you want with me?"
Carrington's voice suddenly resumed its usual cheerful note.
"Forgive me," he said, "for collaring you like this, but the fact is I
am very keen to see you about the Keldale shootings."
Sir Malcolm gave a gasp of relief.
"Thank Heaven!" he exclaimed. "Good Lord, what a fright you gave me!"
"I say I'm awfully sorry!" said Carrington anxiously. "How frightfully
stupid I must have been!"
The young man looked at him, and, like most other people, evidently
found his ingenuous face and sympathetic manner irresistibly confidence
inspiring.
"Oh, not at all," he said. "In fact you must have wondered at my manner.
The fact is Mr.--er----"
"Carrington."
"Mr. Carrington, that I'm in a most awful position at present. You know
of course that I'm suspected of murder!"
"No!" exclaimed Carrington, with vast interest. "Not really?"
"It's an absolute fact--suspected of murder! Good God, just imagine it!"
The young baronet stopped and faced his new acquaintance dramatically.
In spite of his nervousness, it was evident that his notoriety had
compensations.
"Yes," he said, "I--the head of an ancient and honourable house--am
actually suspected of having murdered my cousin, Sir Reginald Cromarty!"
"What, that murder!" exclaimed Carrington. "By Jove, of course, I've
heard a lot about the case. And you are really suspected?"
"So much so," said the baronet darkly, "that when you touched me on the
shoulder I actually thought you were going to arrest me!"
Carrington seemed equally astounded and penitent at this unfortunate
reading of his simple and natural action in stepping suddenly out of the
dark and tapping a nervous stranger on the shoulder.
"How very tactless of me!" he repeated more than once. "Really, I must
be more careful another time!"
And then he suddenly turned his monocle on to the baronet and enquired:
"But how do you know you are suspected?"
"How do I know! My God, all fingers are pointing at me! Even in my club
in London I feel I am a marked man. I have discussed my awful position
with all my friends, and by this time they tell me that everybody else
knows too!"
"That is--er--not unnatural," said Carrington drily. "But how did you
first learn?"
The young man's voice fell almost to a whisper and he glanced
apprehensively over his shoulder as he spoke.
"I knew I should be suspected the moment I heard of the crime! The very
night before--perhaps at the actual moment when the deed was being
done--I did a foolish thing!"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed his new friend with every appearance of
surprise.
"Yes, you may not believe me, but I acted like a damned silly ass. Mind
you, I am not as a rule a silly ass," the baronet added with dignity,
"but that night I actually confided in a woman!"
"What woman?"'