On the morning of the fourteenth of September I met Captain Pat Moore
and Lord Arthur Winstanley at Liverpool Street station. We were all
three of us asked to Cerne as guests of that fine old sportsman, Sir
Walter Stileman. A special carriage was reserved for us and our servants
filled it with luncheon baskets and gun cases.
It was almost exactly three months since my eventful night at the Ritz
with Gideon Morse, and the disappearance of little William Rolston.
What had passed since that time I can set out fully in a very few words.
First of all the position in which I stood with regard to Juanita. It
was somewhat extraordinary, satisfactory, and yet unsatisfactory,
utterly tantalizing. Morse had kept his promise. I _had_ seen a great
deal of his daughter. At Henley, at Cowes--on board the millionaire's
wonderful yacht or on my own, in the sacred gardens of the R. Y. S.,
where we met and met again. Yet these meetings were always in public.
Juanita was surrounded by men wherever she went. She was the reigning
beauty of her year. Her minutest doings were chronicled in the Society
papers with a wealth of detail that was astounding. I used to read the
stuff, including that of my own Miss Easey, with a sort of impotent
rage. Some of it was true, a lot of it was lies and surmise, but to me
it was all distasteful. Juanita lived in the full glare of the public
eye, and a royal princess could hardly have been more unapproachable. Of
course I used stratagems innumerable, and more than once she went
half-way to meet me, but the long desired _tete-a-tete_ never came to
pass. It was not only because of the troop of admirers that crowded
round her, of which I was only one, but there was an extraordinary
adroitness, "a hidden hand" at work somewhere, to keep us apart. I was
quite certain of this, yet I could not prove it, though even if I had it
would have been of little use. Old Senora Balmaceda, who overwhelmed me
with kindness and attention, was simply wonderful in her watch over
Juanita.
As for Gideon Morse, he would talk to me by the hour--and his talk was
well worth listening to--but somehow or other he was always in the way
when I wanted to be alone with his daughter. Of course I sometimes
thought I was exaggerating, and that I was so hard hit that I saw things
in a jaundiced or prejudiced light. Yet certainly Juanita was often
alone for a short time with other men than I, notably with the young and
good-looking Duke of Perth, whom I hated as cordially as I knew how.
Then, in August, I had a nasty knock. The Morses went off to Scotland
for the grouse shooting as guests of the Duke, and I wasn't asked, or
ever in the way of being asked if it comes to that, to join the "small
and select house-party" that the papers were so full of. I had to
content myself with pictures on the front page of the Illustrated
Weeklies depicting Juanita in a tweed skirt and a tam o' shanter, side
by side with Perth, wearing a fatuous smile and a gun. I had one crumb
of consolation only and that was, when saying good-by to Juanita, I felt
something small and hard in the palm of her hand. It was a little
tightly folded piece of paper and on it was one word, "Cerne."
That of course helped a great deal. It was obvious what she meant. When
we met at Sir Walter Stileman's, then at last my opportunity would come.
And now about the little journalist and his extraordinary disappearance.
I made every possible inquiry, engaging the most skilled agents and
sparing no money in the quest, but I found out nothing--absolutely
nothing. The red-headed lad with the prominent ears had vanished into
thin air, had flashed into my life for a moment and then gone out of it
with the completeness of an extinguished candle. He had been, he was no
more. Poor Miss Dewsbury, on whom the disappearance had a marked effect,
discussed the matter with me a dozen times. We broached theory after
theory only to reject them, and at last we ceased to talk about the
matter at all. I remember her words on the last time we talked of it.
They were prophetic, though I did not know it then.
"All I can say is, Sir Thomas, that voices, not my own, whisper
constantly in my ear that the shadow of the three giant towers upon
Richmond Hill lies across your path."
Poor thing, she was almost hysterical in those times, and I paid little
heed to her words. As for the scoop, no other paper had even hinted at
Rolston's revelation. I had faithfully kept my word to Morse, not
forgetting that he had promised to explain everything--in September.
As the train swung out of Liverpool Street and Pat and Arthur were
ragging each other as to who should have the _Times_ first, I
experienced a sense of mental relief. Only a few hours now and the great
question of my life would be settled, once and for all. No more doubts,
no more uncertainties.
During the last three months, Arthur and Pat had left me very much to
myself. They had behaved with the most perfect tact and kindness,
Arthur, as I have said, having obtained for me the invitation to Cerne.
Now, after we had traveled for a couple of hours and the luncheon
baskets had been opened, old Pat lit a cigar and looked across at me.
His big, brown face was grave, and he played with his mustache as if in
some embarrassment.
He and Arthur glanced at each other, and I understood what was in their
minds.
"Look here, you fellows," I said, "about the sacred Brotherhood--what is
it in Spanish?"
"Santa Hermandad," said Arthur.
"Well, you've kept your oath splendidly. I cannot thank you enough. I
have had the running all to myself--as far as you two are concerned, for
twelve weeks."
"Yes, twelve weeks," Pat replied, with a sigh. "We've kept out of the
way, old fellow, and I tell you it's been hard!"
Arthur nodded in corroboration, and somehow or other I felt myself a
cur. Since boyhood we three had been like brothers, and it was a hard
fate indeed that led us to center all our hopes upon something that
could belong to one alone.
Despite what must have been their burning eagerness to know how things
stood, both of them were far too delicate-minded and well-bred to ask a
question. I knew it was up to me to satisfy them.
"Without going into details," I said, "I'll tell you just how it is, how
I think it is, for I may be quite wrong, and presuming upon what doesn't
exist."
I thought for a moment, and chose my words carefully. It was extremely
difficult to say what I had to say.
"It comes to about this," I got out at last. "I've every reason to
believe that she likes me. There's nothing decisive, but I've been given
some hope. I very nearly put it to the test three months ago, but was
interrupted and never had the chance again. At Cerne I'm going to try,
finally. By hook or crook, in forty-eight hours, I'll have some news for
you. And if I get the sack, then let the next man go in and win if he
can, and I'll join the third in doing everything that lies in my power
to help him."
"I am next," said Pat Moore, "not that I've the deuce of a chance. But I
think you've spoken like a damn good sort, Tom, and we thank you. Arthur
and I will do our best to keep every one else off the grass while you go
in and try your luck. Faith! I'll make love to the duenna with the white
hair meself and keep her out of the way, and Arthur here will consult
with Morse upon the expediency of investing his large capital, which he
hasn't got, in a Brazil-nut farm. Anyhow, Perth, who has been the
safety bet with all the tipsters, won't be there. He's such a rotten
shot that Sir Walter wouldn't dream of asking him. The bag has got to be
kept up. For three years now, only Sandringham has beat it and a duffer
at a drive would send the average down appallingly."
"What about me?" I asked, with a sinking of the heart.
"God forgive me," said Arthur, "I've lied about you to Sir Walter like
the secretary of a building society to a maiden lady with two thousand
pounds. He was astonished that he had never heard of your shooting--of
course, he knows all the shots of the day, and I had to tell him a fairy
story about your late lamented father who was a Puritan and would never
let his son join country house-parties because they played cards after
dinner."
I smiled, on the wrong side of my mouth. My dear old governor had been
anything but a Puritan: I feared the scandal which would inevitably
ensue when I went out for the first big drive.
"That's all right, Tom," said Arthur, "you'll simply have to sprain your
ankle, or I'll give you a good hack in the shin privately if you like.
Sir Walter has only to send a wire to get a first-class gun down. There
are at least a dozen men I know who would almost commit parricide for
the chance."
After that, by general consent, the subject of the league was dropped.
We all knew where we were, and for the rest of the journey we talked of
ordinary things.
It was a bright afternoon in early autumn when we stopped at the little
local station and got into a waiting motor-car, while our servants
collected our things and followed in the baggage lorry. For myself, I
felt in the highest spirits as we buzzed along the three miles to Cerne
Hall. There was a pleasant nip in the air; the vast landscape was yellow
gold, as acre after acre of stubble stretched towards the horizon. Gray
church towers embowered in trees broke the vast monotony, and I
surrendered myself to a happy dream of Juanita, while Arthur and Pat
talked shooting and marked covies that rose on either side as we whirred
by.
When we arrived at Cerne Hall it was not yet tea-time, and everybody was
out. The butler showed us to our rooms, all close together in the south
wing of the fine old house, and I smoked a cigarette while Preston was
unpacking.
"Everybody arrived yet, Preston?" I asked.
"Not yet, Sir Thomas, so I understand. I and Captain Moore's man and his
lordship's was havin' a cherry brandy in the housekeeper's room just
now, and the bulk of the house-party will be arriving by the later
train, between tea and dinner, Sir Thomas."
"And Mr. Morse?"
"Only just before dinner, Sir Thomas; he always travels in a special
train."
I saw by Preston's face that he considered this a snobbish and
ostentatious thing to do, and, in the case of an ordinary
multi-millionaire, I should certainly have agreed with him. But I
recalled facts that had come to my notice about the famous Brazilian,
and I wondered. There was the astounding scene at the Ritz, for
instance, and more than that. I had not been following up Juanita for
three months, in town, at Henley, and at Cowes, without noticing that
Mr. Gideon Morse seemed to have an unobtrusive but quite singular
entourage.
More than once, for example, I had caught sight of a certain great
hulking man in tweeds, a professional Irish-American bruiser, if ever
there was one.
Tea was in the hall of the great house. I was introduced to Sir Walter,
a delightful man, with a hooked nose, a tiny mustache, the remains of
gray hair, and a charming smile. Lady Stileman also made me most
welcome. Her hair was gray, but her figure was slight and upright as a
girl's, and many girls in the County must have envied her dainty
prettiness, and the charm of her lazy, musical voice.
Circumstances paired me off with a vivacious young lady whose face I
seemed to know, whose surname I could not catch, but whom every one
called "Poppy."
"I say," she said, after her third cup of tea and fourth egg sandwich,
"you're the _Evening Special_, aren't you?"