Mr. Johnson was genuinely surprised at the expression in his companion's
face when, at the end of that drive home through the drowsy afternoon,
she put out her hand to wish him good-by. He forgot her shabby little
black lace hat with its two rather battered red roses, her scratched and
mended gloves, the thin ready-made wrap around her linen frock. She was
no longer a sulky, tired, young woman. For a single moment she was
beautiful.
"You have given me quite a wonderful afternoon, Mr. Johnson," she said,
"and I am ashamed of myself for having been so quiet all the way home. I
am afraid I must have seemed almost ungracious. I wasn't. I was just
enjoying it all, and--thank you!"
She was gone before he could do anything but return heartily the warm
pressure of her fingers, but she seemed to him to walk with a new grace
as she stepped lightly up the tiled path, turned the shining brass door
handle, and disappeared into the Little House. He turned round to his
car, but instead of making for his own heavy oak gates, he reversed
slowly down the lane, swung round in front of the Ballaston Arms and
entered. The same little company were assembled in the bar, with the
exception of Rawson and the addition of Walter Beavens, the local
wheelwright, and Tom Foulds, the veterinary surgeon.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Mr. Johnson said cheerfully. "A long and
dusty ride from Norwich, Mr. Landlord. I'll take a whisky and soda--a
large soda, please, and a piece of lemon, if you have such a thing."
He settled down into a chair with the air of a man who intends to make
himself at home, and began to fill his pipe. Mr. Craske was his
immediate neighbour. A little distance away the young man Fielding was
busy with a box of flies.
"So you had a look at the Hall this morning, sir," the grocer remarked.
"I saw you coming through the gates."
"I lunched there," Mr. Johnson confided. "A magnificent place it is, and
full of treasures, too! Why, the pictures and tapestries alone must be
worth a fortune."
Mr. Foulds joined in the conversation. He was a ruddy-faced young man,
inclined to be stout, dressed in somewhat sporting fashion, with riding
leggings which he was continually tapping with a switch.
"Worth a mint of money, those tapestries," he declared. "Came from
Versailles, some of them--the more modern ones--at the time of the
Revolution. Good pictures, too, any quantity of them. I should say the
contents of the Hall were worth the best part of half a million. Queer
situation, ain't it?"
"In what way?" Mr. Johnson enquired.
The young man wielded his switch assiduously.
"Well, it's no secret round here," he proclaimed, dropping his voice
nevertheless, "that Sir Bertram is devilish hard up. They don't know
where to turn for money, any of them. And yet with all that valuable
property they can't touch it."
"How's that?"
"Every yard of tapestry, every picture worth a snap of the fingers, is
an heirloom," Foulds explained. "Every acre of property is entailed. I
suppose there's plenty of money been raised on mortgages, but I think
they've come to the end of that, from what one hears. Shame, too! Fine
old family!"
"Sir Bertram, I suppose, has been extravagant?" Mr. Johnson suggested.
The veterinary surgeon glanced around.
"Well," he said, "our friend Rawson being absent, we may venture to
speak of his Lordship of the Manor freely. There isn't a person in the
county could find a word to say against him--him or Mr. Gregory
either--but I should say that for making the money fly they are just
about the limit."
"Mr. Gregory is reputed to have led a very fast life in town," the
grocer interposed timidly.
"And then I don't know as he was a patch on his father," was the
veterinary surgeon's complacent rejoinder.
"Mr. Henry seems to be the sober one of the family," Mr. Johnson
remarked.
"He's a character, he is," Foulds declared. "A real, old-fashioned,
Dickens character. You're right about him being the sober one, though.
He'd never spend a sixpence he could help, and I'd back his conscience
against the Archbishop of Canterbury's. Have a drink, Mr. Craske."
"With pleasure, Tom."
"Will you honour me, Mr. Johnson?"
"The honour is mine as the thirst certainly is," was the prompt
response. "Very kind of you, I am sure."
The young man Fielding, having succeeded with his fly, entered
diffidently into the conversation.
"Have the family a town house?" he enquired.
"Not now," Mr. Craske replied. "There was one in Grosvenor Square, but
that went ten years ago, the year Sir Bertram lost seventy thousand
pounds on the Derby."
"They spend most of their time down here then, I suppose?"
"I wouldn't say that," the grocer rejoined. "Mr. Gregory, soon after the
war, disappeared altogether for a year or so, and he's always taking
long trips abroad. The Squire, he just goes up to those things that the
gentry from everywhere seem to meet at--the Eton and Harrow, and Varsity
Cricket Matches at Lord's, and Ascot and Goodwood."
Mr. Johnson made an effort to bring the discussion back to what was to
him its point of greatest interest.
"These financial embarrassments of Sir Bertram and his son," he said, "I
presume there is nothing absolutely urgent about them."
"I wouldn't go so far as to admit that," Mr. Foulds replied cautiously.
"There was a rumour yesterday that there was a conference of lawyers in
London fixed for next week. Mr. Jenkins from Norwich--he's the lawyer
who deals chiefly with the mortgages--he did say last week that they
couldn't see the year through."
The entrance of Rawson interfered with the trend of the conversation. It
was a matter of etiquette at the Ballaston Arms that gossip concerning
the Hall was not indulged in while he was present unless he himself
introduced the subject. The butler greeted the tenant of the Great House
with the slightly extra respect to which his recent visit entitled him.
"Glad to see you at the Hall with us to-day, sir," he remarked. "You
will find the Squire a kindly gentleman and hospitable when he takes the
fancy."
"I found him most agreeable," Mr. Johnson acknowledged. "I enjoyed very
much, too, my brief glimpse of your marvellous art treasures."
"Marvellous they are," Rawson sighed, as he held up his glass to the
light. "A bit of tantalisation about them, though, as you might say.
Hundreds of thousands there, doing nobody any good."
"By the way," Mr. Johnson continued, "there were two wonderfully carved
wooden Images in Mr. Henry's room. Do they set much store by them?"
"I should say they did, sir. Rather a curious thing about those Images.
One of them is damned ugly. That's the one Mr. Gregory sent home from
abroad and that Mr. Henry seemed to take a fancy to. Mr. Gregory
himself, he has a sort of dislike to it. All the time it was in Mr.
Henry's room alone, he never went in if he could help it. Then, about a
year ago, the other one turned up. A nice bit of work, that. They're
side by side now, and Mr. Gregory don't seem to mind. I've seen him
handling them and looking at them for hour after hour, and Sir Bertram
too. There's a man been down from London to examine them--made me think
they might be worth a bit of money."
"I should think they very likely might be," Mr. Johnson agreed.
"It's a curious thing," the butler observed, filling his pipe, "that
more than once the Squire has been for having them broken up, but Mr.
Gregory wouldn't listen to it. They had almost words about it one
night."
"Broken up," Mr. Johnson repeated. "For what purpose?"
"I couldn't quite follow the argument, sir," Rawson admitted. "The
Squire seemed serious enough at the time, but Mr. Gregory had his own
way."
The tenant of the Great House rose to his feet a few minutes later, and,
amidst a little chorus of "good evenings", strolled out and, starting
his car, drove slowly up the lane homewards. Afterwards he left the
paved courtyard by a side entrance and paused for a minute or two to
look around lovingly at the old kitchen garden, the peaches ripening
upon the wall, the apple and pear trees full of fruit, the box-bordered
paths, and the little patches of cottage flowers in unexpected places.
He walked contentedly around his property, his hands behind his back,
his pipe still in his mouth, looked into his tomato house and approved
of its appearance, exchanged a few words with the gardener about the
trimming of a hedge, and passed out on to the lawn. Here he drew a chair
into the shade of a cedar tree and, still in a reflective frame of mind,
leaned back with half-closed eyes.
His peaceful surroundings seemed to fade away from him. He was back in
the steep tangled streets of a Chinese city, on a hand-borne 'rickshaw
out in the country, travelling up to the top of a hill, beyond which,
through the wood, gleamed the green dome of the Temple of Yun-Tse. He
was back on the turgid river where the cruel sun was blistering the deck
of his strange craft, and the sound of his little engine, suddenly
breaking the hot silence, brought consternation to the tall, evil figure
who had been leaning over the side of his boat to watch the oars thrust
through the opened places. He watched the coming to life of the young
Englishman, heard his talk, fancied that he smelled again the peculiar
odours of that strange warehouse. He saw Endacott once more in his
quaint costume, immersed in his beloved labours--dead now, for the sake
of the treasure which was still withheld.
The tenant of the Great House sat there until a very slight breeze
stirred the leaves of the tall elm trees and the church clock from
across the way struck seven. Then he rose to his feet, knocked out the
ashes from his pipe, and entered the house.
* * * * *
That rustle of west breeze which, heralding eventide, broke the calm of
the summer day, did not, as usual, die away with the setting of the sun.
A little bank of clouds crept up from the horizon, and the wind which
seemed to come suddenly from nowhere bent the tops of the trees and
drove them before it in black and broken pieces. The afterglow from the
sunset passed into a stormy obscurity. No rain fell but the wind ever
increased in volume and the darkness grew thicker. Mr. Johnson drank his
accustomed whisky and soda at ten o'clock and retired to his room a few
minutes later. He lay down, however, with a small alarm watch by his
side, and at three o'clock he left the silent house, passed through the
postern gate and into the street. The morning darkness at first baffled
him. He had to feel the wall to know where he was. He stood there with
the palm of his hand flat against it, looking in the direction of the
Hall. Suddenly, from the middle of the gulf of darkness, three little
flashes of light followed one another quickly. There was a brief
pause--then two more--then one. Mr. Johnson turned hurriedly back to the
house, changed from his sleeping attire and dressing gown back into his
discarded dinner clothes, slipped some cartridges into a revolver which
he took from his bedside, and, descending the stairs carefully, passed
into the library. Silence still reigned throughout the house, and
complete darkness. Mr. Johnson, with the composed mien and even pulse of
a man who is used to dangers, settled down to wait.