At half-past twelve on the following morning Mr. Peter Johnson, dressed
in a blue serge suit and patent shoes--a costume which, after much
deliberation, he deemed suitable for the enterprise on which he was
bent--mounted his two-seated car, drove through the village, exchanging
polite greetings with one or two of his recent acquaintances, and, after
a moment's wait at the lodge gates, proceeded at a subdued pace along
the winding road which crossed the park and up through the great avenue
to the front entrance of the Hall. He left his automobile in a secluded
place and found the door open as he mounted the steps. Rawson,
unrecognising, stony of face and feature, took his name. A footman
relieved him of his hat and gloves. Another subordinate, lurking in the
background, threw open the door of the library, into which the visitor
was ushered.
"Mr. Johnson," the man announced.
Henry Ballaston came forward and greeted his guest with punctilious
cordiality. Then he turned to his brother who had been lounging on the
hearth-rug, reading a newspaper, but who now came forward with
outstretched hand.
"This is my brother, Sir Bertram Ballaston--Mr. Johnson, our new tenant
at the Great House."
The two men shook hands; Mr. Johnson a little formally; his host with an
indifferent but pleasant courtesy. Sir Bertram had grown somewhat
thinner, perhaps, during the last twelve months of ever increasing
financial anxiety. His eyes seemed a trifle sunken and the weariness of
his mouth was a little more pronounced. His smile, however, as he
unbent, was as ingratiating as ever and his voice as insinuating.
"I am very glad to have this opportunity of meeting you, Mr. Johnson,"
he said. "You will excuse my having commissioned my brother to represent
the family. I happened to be engaged for some days and we were anxious
not to delay making your acquaintance."
"Your brother was very welcome," was the prompt assurance. "Very kind
and neighbourly of you to look me up at all. I am a complete stranger
here and, I may add, to England."
"Indeed," Sir Bertram murmured civilly. "Might one enquire then, whilst
congratulating ourselves upon your choice, what made you select this
particular part of the world for your abode?"
"Every one seems to ask me that question," Mr. Johnson observed. "I
imagine there was a certain amount of chance about it. I wished to
settle down in England for a time and from all I had heard I thought
Norfolk the most suitable locality. I went to an agent in Norwich, found
this house at what I considered a very low rental and established
myself."
"And why not indeed?" Sir Bertram demanded approvingly. "For any one who
wishes to live a really retired life amongst rural surroundings a better
choice could scarcely be made.--I am afraid, Mr. Johnson, that we cannot
offer you anything in the way of a modern apéritif. If a glass of
Amontillado sherry pleases you I think that you will find this
drinkable. My father was reputed to be a judge."
Rawson, who had entered with a tray, poured out three glasses from a
bottle reclining in a cradle, with something approaching reverence in
his manner. Mr. Johnson accepted the sherry and drank wine such as he
had never tasted before. Just as he was setting the glass down, the door
opened and Gregory entered. He came forward with all his father's grace
but a little more impetuously.
"This is my son Gregory," Sir Bertram announced. "Mr. Johnson,
Gregory--our new tenant."
Gregory's expression, as he had advanced to meet his father's guest, had
been one of polite but somewhat indifferent curiosity. He suddenly
stopped short, however. The light of amazed recognition flashed in his
eyes. For a brief period of time he was absolutely speechless.
"I am happy to meet you," Mr. Johnson said.
Gregory's hand for a moment sought his throat. The blank look of
non-recognition in the face of this suave, smooth-faced man was
arresting. Yet such a likeness could scarcely be possible. His brain was
still confused, afire with a surge of memories of that still, oily
river, the merciless sun, his flesh-biting bonds; afterwards the quiet,
cool warehouse, with its pungent odours, its jumble of merchandise, its
sombre silences. He became suddenly conscious of his father's surprise,
of Henry's questioning frown.
"Surely," he ventured at last, "we have met before?"
Mr. Johnson shook his head slowly.
"Not within my recollection," he acknowledged.
There was another, although a briefer silence, a matter now only of
seconds, but intense whilst it lasted. Gregory, looking a trifle dazed,
held out his hand. His eyes, however, remained fixed upon the other's
face and the wonder had never left them.
"So sorry to seem such an idiot," he murmured politely, "but even now I
am a little bewildered. We didn't meet fifteen months ago in China--Wu
Ling--the firm of Johnson and Company?"
The visitor shook his head. His smile was good-natured, but, to a keen
observer, a little sphinxlike. His eyes never wavered.
"You are mistaking me for some one else," he said. "My name is certainly
Johnson, but it is not an uncommon one and I am quite sure that this is
our first meeting."
"It is my memory which is at fault, then," Gregory observed, relapsing
with an effort into his usual self. "Glad to welcome you here, Mr.
Johnson. Rawson, am I to be allowed a glass of the sherry? Good! I need
it."
Luncheon was served with a certain measured but not ungraceful ceremony.
The food was excellent and, although the fact was not alluded to, the
guest of the meal, who possessed an instinctive appreciation of such
things, realised that he was drinking cabinet hock of an almost extinct
vintage. Conversation never flagged, but it was conducted upon a level
and in a spirit which were a little difficult to the visitor. There was
no attempt at humour or story telling. Even personal reminiscences and
questionings of all sorts were eschewed. There were grave remarks about
politics, county affairs, the prospects of the forthcoming shooting
season. Mr. Johnson ventured to express once more his hope of renting a
little shooting himself.
"I am afraid," his host regretted, "that such a thing is out of the
question for the moment. The Ballaston shooting extends for some
distance in every direction, and I do not allow my tenant farmers to
concede their sporting rights. We shall, of course, be happy for you to
shoot with us, whenever you feel inclined, but from the point of view of
sport I fear that you have chosen a somewhat unfavourable neighbourhood.
I speak of the immediate present. In the near future there may be
changes."
"The matter does not greatly concern me," was the equable reply. "I have
shot birds and beasts in different places, but I do not pretend to be a
sportsman. I shall find a great deal of occupation in my garden, in
country walks and motoring."
"I was telling my son this morning," Sir Bertram observed, "that I
consider our agent, Mr. Borroughes, was very much to blame for not
having told you the inner history of the Great House before you took
it."
"It would, perhaps, have been better," Mr. Johnson admitted. "At the
same time it would have made no difference to my plans. Were you,
by-the-by, personally acquainted with my unfortunate predecessor?"
"We had exchanged some few civilities," Sir Bertram replied. "Our
acquaintance, however, was nothing but that slight affair which exists
between neighbours. But for the unfortunate tragedy which occurred we
should probably have become more intimate. Mr. Endacott happened to be a
brother of an old friend of mine--the Comtesse de Fourgenet, who resides
at the Little House. It was for that reason, I imagine, that he elected
to settle down in this neighbourhood."
"There was a niece," Mr. Johnson ventured.
"A very charming young person," Sir Bertram conceded. "She naturally
enough left the neighbourhood very soon afterwards. I understand,
however, that she is expected shortly on a visit to the Little House."
Luncheon drew towards its close. A very wonderful port was served and
drunk, after preliminary encomiums, in respectful silence. Sir Bertram
rose to his feet.
"We shall find cigars and coffee in the library, Mr. Johnson," he said.
"If I cannot persuade you to drink another glass of wine we might,
perhaps, rise."
The four men left the room together. The guest of the morning, on his
way across the hall, looked about him with an interest which was
entirely genuine, for in his way he was a lover of beautiful things.
Gregory drew his attention to a famous picture opposite the foot of the
staircase and detained him until they became temporarily detached from
the others. After a casual reference, indifferently voiced, to a
world-famous old master his tone suddenly changed. It was intense,
curiously vibrant.
"I must ask you once more," he said quietly,--"I must ask you this--Mr.
Johnson. Do you remember a man--a brave fellow he was--who used to trade
up the Yun-Tse River amongst the villages? Wu Ling, they called him."
"Wu Ling?" Mr. Johnson repeated. "A Chinaman?"
"He passed as such," Gregory admitted. "He might have been anything. His
name even might have been Johnson."
The tenant of the Great House smiled tolerantly.
"Wu Ling," he commented, "is a very nice name. On the whole I prefer it
to my own. Mine is and always has been Johnson--Peter Johnson--Peter
Johnson of New York."
Gregory led the way towards the library. It seemed to him that there was
nothing more to be said.
"Sorry," he apologised. "I am pretty good at faces, as a rule, and I
never thought I could make a mistake about this one. Glad to hear you
are a neighbour, Mr. Johnson. We shall find the others in here."
He threw open the door of the library and ushered in his companion. His
father and uncle were talking together with their coffee cups in their
hands. They abandoned their conversation precipitately as the door
opened.
"I was afraid," Sir Bertram said, "that Gregory was commencing to show
you the pictures. You would find that rather a lengthy undertaking."
"An undertaking which would interest me very much," Mr. Johnson
declared. "I understand that one day a week visitors are permitted to
see over the Hall. I shall venture to present myself with the crowd."
"There is no necessity for you to do anything of the sort," Sir Bertram
assured him. "My housekeeper will be glad to show you over at any time.
Some of the paintings in the gallery are generally considered to be
quite worth inspection, and our tapestries are famous. The chapel has a
screen which, personally, I think the most beautiful in Norfolk. Perhaps
you would care to see it after you have drunk your coffee."
"I should like to very much," Mr. Johnson confessed.
Sir Bertram remained a courteous but reserved host, Henry, with
strenuous effort, imparting now and then a note of greater intimacy to
the conversation. Gregory remained silent though restless. After they
had finished their coffee, they glanced at some of the tapestries and
Sir Bertram led the way towards the chapel. They passed through the
smaller library which Henry claimed as his own.
"This is my little sanctum," he announced. "My brother leaves most
matters connected with the estate in my charge, and this is where I deal
with them before they pass on to Mr. Borroughes."
The visitor looked curiously around the lofty but somewhat severe
apartment, with its neatly arranged shelves of catalogues, its piles of
volumes of reference, its letter cases and many evidences of business
detail. An exceptionally large writing table filled the window recess,
on which stood a single bronze statue, several curios, a blotter and a
massive stationery rack. On the right-hand side the window panelling
took a wide, inward sweep, leaving a space, half platform, half
pedestal. In the centre stood a fine china bowl, filled with deep red
roses; on either side--the Body and the Soul.
Mr. Johnson gazed first at one of the Images, then at the other,
speechless, expressionless, but absorbed. All the cynical vice and
grotesque wickedness of the one leered at him from the left-hand side of
those drooping roses; from the right the kindly benevolent face of a
saint seemed to breathe out a strange atmosphere of peace and sanctity.
Mr. Johnson made no comment, attempted no criticism, yet his very
silence was in its way suggestive.
Gregory watched him with eager interest, conscious of a surging
resurrection of certain vague, far-fetched suspicions.
In the background Henry Ballaston, though his face showed no sign of
emotion, also watched. It was his movement which dispelled those few
seconds of paralysed silence. His voice, always a pleasant one
notwithstanding its formal note, was softer and lower even than usual,
but there was a curious glint in his cold blue eyes.
"You find our miniature Buddhas interesting, Mr. Johnson?" he asked.
The tenant of the Great House did not at first appear to hear him. His
eyes were fixed almost to rigidity.
"Both here!" he muttered. "Both!"
The effect of his exclamation was disconcerting. His three companions
closed in a little upon him. There was something menacing about their
silence.
"Both?" Sir Bertram repeated at last, with the air of a puzzled man.
Mr. Johnson appeared to awake from his lethargy.
"Say, it seems to me," he remarked, lapsing into his first Americanism,
"that those two ought to be worth a great sum of money. I've seen
photographs of them when I was travelling in the East. They were stolen
from a temple, somewhere in China, I think it was. Miniature Buddhas,
aren't they?"
"Stolen!" Sir Bertram murmured.
"Stolen!" Gregory echoed.
"This is very interesting," Henry declared. "They came into our
possession in a somewhat unusual fashion. You think that in the first
instance they were probably stolen?"
Mr. Johnson withdrew his eyes from them at last.
"I should say they surely were," he agreed. "I saw a photograph of them
in an American magazine about twelve months ago, with a gigantic Buddha
between them. They were quoted as having been stolen and being for some
reason or other, which I have forgotten, immensely valuable. Columns of
it there were, I remember. The young American who started out to get
them was discovered with his throat cut in the train from Pekin
southwards. Nobody seemed to know what had become of the Images."
There was a brief silence; a sudden, almost unaccountable lessening of
the tension of the last few minutes. Mr. Johnson loomed no longer as a
sinister figure of fate.
"The circumstances under which we came into possession of these Images,"
Henry intervened, "would seem to preclude the idea of their being the
ones referred to in your magazine article. Still, the story is
interesting."
Mr. Johnson turned away without further comment. The subject of the
Images was exhausted. The screen in the chapel beyond was inspected.
Presently he took a formal leave of his hosts.
"We shall hope to see more of you, Mr. Johnson," Sir Bertram said, as he
accompanied him on to the terrace. "We do not entertain much at present,
but my son will be giving some farewell shooting parties before his
departure abroad. We shall hope to number you amongst our guests."
"Very kind of you, I am sure," Mr. Johnson replied, climbing into his
car and thrusting in his clutch. "My visit and brief glimpse of your
treasures has been most enjoyable. Good day, Sir Bertram. Good day,
gentlemen."
He drove off. They stood watching him pass through the iron gates into
the park. Sir Bertram waved his hand light-heartedly, but neither of the
other two indulged in any farewell salute.
"An ordinary sort of fellow, but harmless, I believe," Sir Bertram
pronounced.
"There were moments when I thought otherwise, but on the whole I am
inclined to agree with you," Henry conceded, after a moment's
reflection.
Gregory's thoughts were too confused for speech. He watched the car
until it became a speck in the distance. Then he turned away and
followed the others into the house.