But for the moment Mr. Satterthwaite did not answer. He was looking
over Jimmy's head at three figures approaching from the direction
of the house--a slim girl between two men. There was a superficial
resemblance between the men, both were tall and dark with bronzed faces
and quick eyes, but looked at more closely the resemblance vanished.
Richard Scott, hunter and explorer, was a man of extraordinarily vivid
personality. He had a manner that radiated magnetism. John Porter, his
friend and fellow hunter, was a man of squarer build with an impassive,
rather wooden face, and very thoughtful gray eyes. He was a quiet man,
content always to play second fiddle to his friend.
And between these two walked Moira Scott who, until three months ago,
had been Moira O'Connell, a slender figure, big wistful brown eyes, and
golden-red hair that stood out round her small face like a saint's halo.
_That child mustn't be hurt_, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. _It
would be abominable that a child like that should be hurt._
Lady Cynthia greeted the newcomers with a wave of the latest thing in
parasols. "Sit down, and don't interrupt," she said. "Mr. Satterthwaite
is telling us a ghost story."
"I love ghost stories," said Moira Scott. She dropped down on the grass.
"The ghost of Greenways House?" asked Richard Scott.
"Yes, you know about it?"
Scott nodded. "I used to stay here in the old days," he explained.
"Before the Elliots had to sell up. The Watching Cavalier, that's it,
isn't it?"
"The Watching Cavalier," said his wife softly. "I like that. It sounds
interesting. Please go on."
But Mr. Satterthwaite seemed somewhat loath to do so. He assured her
that it was not really interesting at all.
"Now you've done it, Satterthwaite," said Richard Scott sardonically.
"That hint of reluctance clinches it."
In response to popular clamor, Mr. Satterthwaite was forced to speak.
"It's really very uninteresting," he said apologetically. "I believe
the original story centers round a Cavalier ancestor of the Elliot
family. His wife had a Roundhead lover. The husband was killed by the
lover in an upstairs room, and the guilty pair fled; but, as they fled,
they looked back at the house and saw the face of the dead husband at
the window, watching them. That is the legend, but the ghost story is
only concerned with a pane of glass in the window of that particular
room, on which is an irregular stain, almost imperceptible from near
at hand, but which from far away certainly gives the effect of a man's
face looking out."
"Which window is it?" asked Mrs. Scott, looking up at the house.
"You can't see it from here," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is round the
other side, but was boarded up from the inside some years ago--forty
years ago, I think, to be accurate."
"What did they do that for? I thought you said the ghost didn't walk."
"It doesn't," Mr. Satterthwaite assured her. "I suppose--well, I
suppose there grew to be a superstitious feeling about it, that's all."
Then, deftly enough, he succeeded in turning the conversation. Jimmy
Allenson was perfectly ready to hold forth upon Egyptian sand diviners.
"Frauds, most of them. Ready enough to tell you vague things about the
past, but won't commit themselves as to the future."
"I should have thought it was usually the other way about," remarked
John Porter.
"It's illegal to tell the future in this country, isn't it?" said
Richard Scott. "Moira persuaded a gypsy into telling her fortune, but
the woman gave her her shilling back, and said there was nothing doing,
or words to that effect."
"Perhaps she saw something so frightful that she didn't like to tell it
me," said Moira.
"Don't pile on the agony, Mrs. Scott," said Allenson lightly. "I, for
one, refuse to believe that an unlucky fate is hanging over you."
_I wonder_, thought Mr. Satterthwaite. _I wonder._
Then he looked up sharply. Two women were coming from the house, a
short stout woman with black hair, inappropriately dressed in jade
green, and a tall slim figure in creamy white. The first woman was his
hostess, Mrs. Unkerton; the second was a woman he had often heard of,
but never met.
"Here's Mrs. Staverton," announced Mrs. Unkerton, in a tone of great
satisfaction. "All friends here, I think."
"These people have an uncanny gift for saying just the most awful
things they can," murmured Lady Cynthia, but Mr. Satterthwaite was not
listening. He was watching Mrs. Staverton.
Very easy--very natural. Her careless "Hullo! Richard, ages since we
met. Sorry I couldn't come to the wedding. Is this your wife? You must
be tired of meeting all your husband's weather-beaten old friends."
Moira's response--suitable, rather shy. The elder woman's swift
appraising glance that went on lightly to another old friend.
"Hullo, John!" The same easy tone, but with a subtle difference in
it--a warming quality that had been absent before.
And then that sudden smile. It transformed her. Lady Cynthia had been
quite right. A dangerous woman! Very fair--deep blue eyes--not the
traditional coloring of the siren--a face almost haggard in repose. A
woman with a slow dragging voice and a sudden dazzling smile.
Iris Staverton sat down. She became naturally and inevitably the center
of the group. So, you felt, it would always be.
Mr. Satterthwaite was recalled from his thoughts by Major Porter's
suggesting a stroll. Mr. Satterthwaite, who was not, as a general rule,
much given to strolling, acquiesced. The two men sauntered off together
across the lawn.
"Very interesting story of yours just now," said the Major.
"I will show you the window," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
He led the way round to the west side of the house. Here there was
a small formal garden--the Privy Garden, it was always called, and
there was some point in the name, for it was surrounded by high holly
hedges, and even the entrance to it ran zigzag between the same high
prickly hedges.
Once inside, it was very charming with an old-world charm of formal
flower beds, flagged paths, and a low stone seat, exquisitely carved.
When they had reached the center of the garden, Mr. Satterthwaite
turned and pointed up at the house. The length of Greenways House ran
north and south. In this narrow west wall there was only one window, a
window on the first floor, almost overgrown by ivy, with grimy panes,
and which you could just see was boarded up on the inside.
"There you are," said Mr. Satterthwaite.
Craning his neck a little, Porter looked up. "H'm, I can see a kind of
discoloration on one of the panes, nothing more."
"We're too near," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "There's a clearing higher up
in the woods where you get a really good view."
He led the way out of the Privy Garden and, turning sharply to the
left, struck into the woods. A certain enthusiasm of showmanship
possessed him, and he hardly noticed that the man at his side was
absent and inattentive.
"They had, of course, to make another window, when they boarded up this
one," he explained. "The new one faces south, overlooking the lawn
where we were sitting just now. I rather fancy the Scotts have the room
in question. That is why I didn't want to pursue the subject. Mrs.
Scott might have felt nervous if she had realized that she was sleeping
in what might be called the haunted room."
"Yes. I see," said Porter.
Mr. Satterthwaite looked at him sharply, and realized that the other
had not heard a word of what he was saying.
"Very interesting," said Porter. He slashed with his stick at some tall
foxgloves, and, frowning, he said, "She ought not to have come. She
ought never to have come."
People often spoke after this fashion to Mr. Satterthwaite. He seemed
to matter so little, to have so negative a personality. He was merely a
glorified listener.
"No," said Porter, "she ought never to have come."
Mr. Satterthwaite knew instinctively that it was not of Mrs. Scott he
spoke. "You think not?" he asked.
Porter shook his head as though in foreboding. "I was on that trip,"
he said abruptly. "The three of us went. Scott and I and Iris. She's a
wonderful woman--and a damned fine shot." He paused. "What made them
ask her?" he finished abruptly.
Mr. Satterthwaite shrugged his shoulders. "Ignorance," he said.
"There's going to be trouble," said the other. "We must stand by--and
do what we can."
"But surely Mrs. Staverton--"
"I'm talking of Scott." He paused. "You see--there's Mrs. Scott to
consider."
Mr. Satterthwaite had been considering her all along, but he did not
think it necessary to say so, since the other man had so clearly
forgotten her until this minute.
"How did Scott meet his wife?" he asked.
"Last winter, in Cairo. A quick business. They were engaged in three
weeks, and married in six."
"She seems to me very charming."
"She is; no doubt about it. And he adores her--but that will make no
difference." And again Major Porter repeated, using the pronoun that
meant to him one person only, "Hang it all, she shouldn't have come."
Just then they stepped out upon a high grassy knoll at some little
distance from the house. With again something of the pride of the
showman, Mr. Satterthwaite stretched out his arm. "Look," he said.
It was fast growing dusk. The window could still be plainly descried,
and apparently pressed against one of the panes was a man's face
surmounted by a plumed Cavalier's hat.
"Very curious," said Porter. "Really very curious. What will happen
when that pane of glass gets smashed some day?"
Mr. Satterthwaite smiled. "That is one of the most interesting parts of
the story. That pane of glass has been replaced to my certain knowledge
at least eleven times, perhaps oftener. The last time was twelve years
ago when the then owner of the house determined to destroy the myth.
But it's always the same. _The stain reappears_--not all at once; the
discoloration spreads gradually. It takes a month or two as a rule."
For the first time, Porter showed signs of real interest. He gave a
sudden quick shiver. "Damned odd, these things. No accounting for them.
What's the real reason of having the room boarded up inside?"
"Well, an idea got about that the room was--unlucky. The Eveshams were
in it just before the divorce. Then Stanley and his wife were staying
here, and had that room when he ran off with his chorus girl."