THE CRY FROM THE TRAIN
"Oh, good morning, Chermside. So you have not, after all, left
Ottermouth yet, as you led me to infer would be the case."
Leslie Chermside looked up from his newspaper to meet the steady gaze of
Travers Nugent, who had just entered the reading room at the club. It
was before the hour when the morning frequenters were wont to assemble,
and for the moment they had the apartment to themselves.
"No," said Leslie shortly. "I have changed my mind, and shall stay on
for a while."
Nugent carefully closed the door and came and stood with his back to the
mantelpiece looking down at his late accomplice. "Does that mean that
you have returned to your allegiance?" he asked softly.
"Certainly not," came Leslie's flash of indignation.
"Ah! then I presume that you found Levison amenable to reason, or, at
least, that you persuaded him to grant you a reprieve when you kept your
appointment with him last night?" said Nugent. Though he spoke with a
great assumption of carelessness, applying a light to his cigarette the
while, his eyes never left the younger man's face for an instant,
seeming to burn with a snake-like glitter.
Under this keen scrutiny Leslie reddened, and his reply came haltingly
at first, as though he picked his words with deliberation. "I asked no
favours of Levison. He--he can do his worst for all I care." And then,
moved by a sudden impulse, the ex-Lancer added hotly: "See here, Mr.
Nugent. My association with you, which I deeply regret, has not been an
honourable one. It is not my province to blame you, seeing how culpable
I have been myself, but the subject is distasteful to me, and at least I
have the right to ask that you will not again refer to the disgraceful
affair that brought us together. I shall hope shortly to obtain
employment which will enable me to repay the money advanced by the
Maharajah for my passage home, and, so far as I am concerned, that will
be an end of the business. I do not consider that I am legally or
morally bound to recognize the debts which his Highness gave me to
understand he had paid voluntarily. As the bribe with which he tempted
me was only a sham, I owe him no allegiance whatever."
Nugent listened with upraised brows to the angry outbreak, the flicker
of a frosty smile playing about his lips. But if he had meditated a
rejoinder he checked it. His quick ears had caught the click of the hall
door, and the hum of voices in the ante-room. He merely shrugged his
shoulders, and was ready with a genial greeting for the members who
trooped in. They were three in number--Mr. Montague Maynard, who had
motored in from the Manor House; Mr. Vernon Mallory, whose pale,
ascetic face reflected nothing of the interest inspired by finding
Nugent and Chermside, obviously to his shrewd vision, concluding a
heated discussion; and, lastly, but by no means least in his own
estimation, General Kruse, formerly of the Indian Staff Corps.
The last-mentioned was somewhat unkindly behind his back called "the
widow's Kruse," the nickname being founded on an erroneous rumour that
he was pursuing with matrimonial intentions the wealthy relict of a
London tradesman, who had settled in the neighbourhood. There was a
still more unkind version of the origin of the nickname, and one in
which there was, unfortunately, just a spice of truth--that he was
"always full." He was a big, burly man, with a rubicund complexion and a
voice like a thunderstorm.
The three gentlemen had chanced to meet on the doorstep of the club, and
the General had already commenced to impart to the other two an item of
news which he had picked up on the way from his house. He now began it
all over again for the benefit of the larger audience.
"Most extraordinary thing," he bellowed in his foghorn tones. "As I was
just telling these fellows, Nugent, I looked in at the _Plume Hotel_ as
I came through the town, and they're in a rare pucker there. A chap
staying at the hotel went out last night after dinner, saying he was
going for a walk, and he hasn't come back."
"Bolted to save paying his bill, I suppose," suggested Nugent, stealing
a glance at Leslie Chermside, who, however, was invisible behind his
newspaper. "It is not an unprecedented occurrence at a seaside resort
in the summer season, is it?"
But General Kruse with great gusto proceeded to demolish any such
commonplace theory. "It wasn't that," he roared. "The chap--Levison his
name was--had paid his charges pretty near up to the hilt. It is the
custom to render bills weekly, and as he had been at the _Plume_ a week
yesterday, his account was presented to him. He paid it like a shot.
There is only his last night's dinner owing for, and he has left luggage
that would square that twenty times over."
"I expect he will turn up before the day is over," said Nugent, with the
air of becoming bored with all this fuss about a stranger. And, as if to
put an end to the General's prosing, he turned to Montague Maynard.
"When I was lunching with you the other day, Miss Violet consulted me
about a picnic tea she was thinking of giving," he said. "Your daughter
was good enough to want my advice as to a good camping-ground, and I
told her I would take time to consider. Will you tell her from me that I
should recommend that grassy patch on the marsh, half-way between the
beach and the Manor House? It is sheltered from the sun at four o'clock
in the afternoon, and that means everything at this time of year."
"Thanks very much; I'll tell Vi; she's sending out short invitations for
to-morrow," replied Mr. Maynard, wondering why, in making a
communication that concerned him alone of those present in the room, the
speaker should have been looking at some one else. For, after claiming
the screw manufacturer's attention, Nugent allowed his eyes to wander
to Leslie Chermside, who was still hidden by the newspaper.
Mr. Vernon Mallory, of whom it had once been remarked that he noticed
everything while appearing to notice nothing, happened to choose this
moment for addressing a trivial but direct question to the diligent
reader, calling him by his name, and leaving him no alternative but for
an equally direct answer. Leslie laid aside the paper and replied
courteously, but in doing so disclosed a twitching mouth, and a face
from which every drop of red blood had fled, leaving it ashen grey.
Mr. Mallory did not pursue the subject of his interrogation further,
but, turning to General Kruse, started a fresh and congenial topic by
suggesting that that thirsty old warrior would be the better for a
whisky and soda. The invitation being promptly accepted, Mr. Mallory,
who eschewed spiritual indulgence in the morning, ordered a cigar for
himself, and plunged into a discussion of the delinquencies of the urban
district council, in which Travers Nugent and Mr. Maynard were presently
included.
Under cover of these amenities Leslie Chermside rose and, followed by
two pairs of observant eyes, left the club. Avoiding the crowded parade,
he crossed the pebbly beach to an upturned and discarded boat, and
flinging himself down in the shade of it, abandoned himself to his
thoughts. Gradually the colour came back to his cheeks, and the agonized
expression which Mr. Mallory had surprised yielded to one of dogged
determination.
"The prospect of the picnic at that spot is simply horrible, but after
all it is a mere detail, and I must go through with it," he murmured
presently. "The fact remains that, within limits, I am now free to stay
here and thwart the new scheme which I am convinced that Nugent is
hatching. If I could have but one glimpse at the cards he holds."
For an hour Leslie lay in the shadow of the boat, vainly striving to
penetrate the veil which he felt sure Nugent had thrown over his
designs. It was futile to formulate plans for combating them till he had
discovered what the designs were. That the _Cobra_, the big turbine
yacht that had been chartered, would still be retained as the principal
feature in the programme was probable, since Nugent would naturally be
reluctant to waste the expense already incurred, and, except on a vessel
controlled by the Maharajah's emissaries, the abduction of Violet
Maynard to India would be practically impossible. But how, without the
co-operation which he had withdrawn, Nugent could hope to convey an
unwilling passenger on board the steamer Leslie could not surmise. He
could only wait and watch, in the full knowledge that his former
colleague and present antagonist was a man of infinite resource, and
endowed with an inborn cunning which it would be folly to despise.
One thing was certain, he told himself, as he rose and strolled back to
his lodgings on the main street--day and night he must keep vigil for
the appearance of the _Cobra_ off the coast, and he must also cultivate
close relations with Violet, so as to learn of anything that might
indicate the ruse by which it was intended to inveigle her on board.
To sustain the pretence that he had recently inherited a fortune, and
had means which would justify the possession of a large steam yacht, he
had established himself, by the advice and introduction of Travers
Nugent, at the best and most expensive rooms in the place. Here he shut
himself up for the remainder of that day, refraining from going to the
club or to the tennis field, and brooding over the resolves and
apprehensions which unfitted him, as he knew, for the society of his
fellow-men.
By the last post he received an informal note from Violet, inviting him
to a picnic tea on the following day. The party was to assemble at the
Manor at four o'clock, afterwards making its way on foot to the spot
selected, which was within easy reach of the house. Leslie shuddered as
he read the concluding words, but having braced himself to sit down and
pen an acceptance, he went out in the dusk and posted it.
The next day was favoured with ideal weather for an _al fresco_
entertainment, and when the guests assembled at the appointed hour it
was at once evident that Violet's picnic tea had been hailed as a
popular function. Every one who had been asked put in an appearance, to
the number of about a hundred. Hired conveyances deposited a mixed
assortment of residents and season visitors from Ottermouth; a few
old-fashioned barouches brought representatives of such of the
neighbouring county families as had deigned to recognize the Birmingham
magnate; while motor cars in plenty accounted for many of the arrivals.
Among the latter was Mr. Travers Nugent, well-groomed and debonair in
his grey suit, and wearing an orchid in his button-hole from one of his
own glasshouses at The Hut. On descending from his car he exchanged
his motor-cap for a feather-weight Panama, and smilingly confronted the
group at the main entrance. Mr. Mallory, who had arrived earlier, took
particular notice of that smile, which lasted only just so long as it
was wanted for the purpose of responding to the welcome of his host and
hostesses. As soon as he had shaken hands with Violet and Miss Sarah
Dymmock and Mr. Maynard, Nugent effaced himself unobtrusively among the
guests, and Mr. Mallory's observant eyes following him perceived that
the smile had given place to a look of preoccupation.
This in turn was chased away by a sudden start and a gleam of
satisfaction when, among the last arrivals, Leslie Chermside was seen
making his way on foot up the drive. Thence onward Mr. Travers Nugent's
air of self-absorption left him; turning to those of his acquaintances
nearest him he laid himself out to amuse and interest.
"Now, what does that portend?" the keen old diplomatist muttered under
his breath. "It was almost as though Nugent had been afraid that
Chermside was not coming, and that he was gratified when at length he
appeared. I wonder what is the bond, if bond it is, between the young
soldier with the mysterious blank in his life and the clever gentleman
with so many irons in the fire that he ought to have burned his fingers
long ago. There is something in the wind, but is the youngster from
India a dupe or confederate? I would give a good deal to know."
At the word from jovial Montague Maynard the now completed party set out
for the picnic ground, a chorus of approval going up at the announcement
of the spot selected. Even on a hot summer day the laziest could not
object, for, once outside the Manor demesne, a quarter of an hour's
saunter through the delightful scenery at the head of the marsh brought
them to the little strip of pasture land reclaimed from the swamps,
where the tea-tables had been set out in the shade of a group of elms.
Cavillers might have complained that the railway embankment skirting the
place on one side marred the aesthetic harmony of the whole, but if
there were any such they remained discreetly silent.
The snowy damask of the tables laden with dainties and surrounded by a
bevy of smart maidservants from the Manor made an inviting picture on
the strip of verdure, and Montague Maynard's guests renewed their
acclamations. Reggie Beauchamp, who had, of course, annexed Enid Mallory
as his partner for the afternoon, expressed the opinion that it was
"simply ripping."
"And, by Jove!" he added of malice aforethought, "look at that girl
bossing the other maids. She seems to be in charge of the show. She is
ripping too. Just the style of beauty I admire."
Enid cocked a sly eye at him, and catching the gleam of mischief refused
to be drawn. "Yes," she said, following his gaze to the graceful
brunette in black silk who was directing operations at the tables,
conspicuous by the absence of apron and cap-streamers, "that is Louise
Aubin, Violet Maynard's maid. She is certainly pretty, but she looks as
if she had a temper. I shouldn't dare to find fault with her if she
belonged to me."
"A bit of a spitfire, perhaps," assented the Lieutenant, finding that
his harmless shaft had missed its mark. "Might give you beans with the
brush, eh, if you slanged her for pulling out your hair by the roots?"
Miss Mallory sniffed contemptuously at the implied familiarity with the
sacred rites of the dressing-table, and she might have expressed herself
strongly on the subject had not their attention been distracted by the
approach of a train along the embankment above them. It was beginning to
shut off steam for the stop at Ottermouth Station, a mile further on,
and the people in the carriages were plainly distinguishable by the
picnic party.
Just as the train was sweeping past a cry from one of the third-class
compartments drew all eyes that way. Looking up, the picnickers saw a
man leaning from the window and frantically gesticulating--or, rather,
vehemently pointing at some object on the marsh below. To those on the
lower ground there was nothing visible to cause his agitation.
"What was that lunatic up to, and what was he howling about?" asked
Reggie as the train disappeared round a curve.
"It sounded like 'the face of a fool,' so far as I could make out," Enid
laughed.
"I don't think it was that," said Violet Maynard, who, with Leslie and
Mr. Mallory in attendance, had come up behind them. "It struck me that
the excited passenger's cry was more like 'the face in the pool.'"
"That was it, I expect," said Reggie lightly. "He must have seen the
reflection of his own in one of those puddles of tidal water. That was
the Ottermouth section of the London corridor express, which has a
luncheon car attached. The Johnny had probably been indulging too freely
in the conveniences of modern travel."
Mr. Mallory said nothing. He was inwardly asking himself why Leslie
Chermside, who, though obviously forcing himself to do so under intense
nervous strain, had been pleasantly chatting all the way from the Manor
House, should have suddenly turned pale, fiercely biting his underlip
with strong white teeth.