"Doing me well for our farewell dinner, Dad," Gregory murmured
appreciatively, as he set down his glass with a little gesture of
reverence. "'70 Port."
Sir Bertram smiled pleasantly. It was not for the two footmen standing
motionless at either end of the magnificent sideboard, or even for
Rawson behind his master's chair, to know that this was anything but an
ordinary function. Conversation throughout the meal had taken no account
of possible catastrophe. They had talked of the sporting side of
Gregory's expedition; Sir Bertram himself had shot big game in Canada
more than once.
"There are only a few bottles left, I regret to say," Sir Bertram
remarked. "We started on the last bin at the commencement of the year."
"This is the Cockburn's shipping," Henry put in. "We have always
considered it the finer wine. If you will pass the decanter, Bertram, I
will indulge in my second glass."
Before the decanter was finished Rawson and his satellites had departed.
Sir Bertram glanced at his watch.
"You have nearly an hour," he said. "What time did you tell Holmes you
would leave?"
"At ten o'clock," Gregory replied. "The train leaves Norwich at
eleven-thirty."
Sir Bertram rose from his place. They strolled into the library, drank
coffee and liqueurs, and lit cigarettes. There was still nothing in
their conversation to indicate the great crisis. Henry was the first to
introduce a note of unexpectedness.
"If I may claim ten minutes of your time, Gregory," he said, "it would
gratify me if you would pay a visit to my room. You too, I trust,
Bertram," he added.
"Why, of course, Uncle," Gregory acquiesced. "I'll just fill my case
with these cigarettes, if you don't mind, Dad. May save me opening my
travelling bag."
"By all means," his father begged.
They ascended the great staircase, Gregory pausing every now and then to
look at one of his favourite pictures. Henry led the way to his own room
with its quaint air of monasticity and severity, accentuated by the
oriel-shaped windows. He closed the door carefully behind him.
"I should like before you depart, Gregory," he began, "to assure you
that my sympathies have been entirely with you in your gallant but
non-successful attempt to restore the fortunes of our family. I may, or
may not agree with you in your decision that these"--he waved his hand
towards the two Images--"should remain unbroken. There are times," he
went on, "when I fancy that our friend there with the very evil and
mocking leer is trying to boast of the treasures he possesses, and with
which he refuses to part. That, however, is an effort of the imagination
in which I seldom indulge. It occurred to me further that I should like,
before you leave, to prove to you that my sympathy with your enterprise
was not confined to a merely passive attitude. My actions may not have
been entirely judicious, but they were well-intentioned. It was I who on
a certain night made use of your key, entered the Great House in, I must
confess, a surreptitious manner, relieved myself of interference on the
part of Mr. Johnson, I am afraid in somewhat inconsiderate fashion, and
purloined the manuscripts, which I had hoped might help us towards the
discovery of the treasure."
The cigarette which Sir Bertram had been holding between his fingers
slipped on to the carpet and lay there almost unnoticed. He gazed at his
brother with a great astonishment in his face. Gregory, taken even more
by surprise, stared at him, speechless and open-mouthed. Neither of them
said a word. Henry stooped down, picked up the lighted cigarette, and
threw it into the fireplace.
"Henry, you're crazy!" Sir Bertram exclaimed at last.
"Uncle Henry!" Gregory cried.
Something which was finally a smile parted Henry's lips, as he pointed
to a neat package upon the table.
"These are the manuscripts," he said. "I regret to say that my
expedition was a failure. Nothing there helps us in any degree."
"But how the devil do you know?" Gregory demanded. "Whom did you get to
read them?"
"During the last few months," his uncle confided, "with a view to making
this enterprise a success, I have studied and read Chinese."
"God bless my soul!" Sir Bertram gasped.
"The language presented its difficulties," Henry admitted. "During my
last visit to London in January I consulted a Chinese scholar who put me
in the right way, and I have attained to a certain proficiency--enough,
at any rate, for the purpose. It struck me that Major Holmes's enquiries
into the matter were becoming somewhat unpleasant, and I thought,
therefore, that I would confide the truth to you, in case at any time
suspicion should fall upon another person. This parcel containing the
documents contains also a letter from me acknowledging my exploit and a
letter of apology to Miss Endacott, whose property I suppose they must
be considered. They are undamaged and, except for the slight injury to
Mr. Johnson, which I regret was necessary, the affair seems to me to be
trivial."
Gregory clasped his forehead.
"Trivial!" he groaned.
"There will, I fear, be a certain loss of dignity should I be called
upon to answer for my misdoing," Henry concluded, "but I can assure you
that I shall take no steps to evade any action which may ensue. That, I
think, is all. It only remains for me, Gregory, to wish you success
abroad. Of our own future here, we will not speak. Whilst the Ballaston
treasures and heirlooms remain intact my place is with them. A pleasant
voyage, Gregory!"
He shook hands and conducted them courteously to the door. His little
pat on his nephew's shoulder was the nearest approach to affection he
had ever shown. Gregory and his father descended the stairs almost in
silence. When they reached the hall, Gregory sank into a chair and held
his head in his hands.
"Dad, was that a dream?" he demanded. "I can't conceive it. Uncle Henry,
of all men in the world!"
"It is the Ballaston spirit concealed," Sir Bertram murmured.
For a quarter of an hour or so father and son sat in the great hall
without speech. There was a curiously intense silence, broken only by
the ticking of a large clock, and, through the wide-flung window, the
twittering of a nightingale preparing for his aftermath of song. Sir
Bertram rose at last to his feet.
"Let us walk on the terrace, Gregory," he suggested. "The car will be
round in a few minutes."
They strolled out together, Sir Bertram correct and debonair, from the
polish of his well-brushed hair to the pearl studs in his shirt and his
scrupulously cut dinner clothes; Gregory in travelling tweeds, prepared
for his journey. Sir Bertram took his son's arm as they commenced their
leisurely promenade.
"I am afraid," he said, in a tone of very rare gravity, "that it's all
up with us Ballastons, Gregory. You're young and fit though, and I've
got quite enough to amuse myself with--it will have to be France, I
suppose, or Spain. It's all a compromise, of course, and a cursed
compromise. There's only one place for an Englishman to live, and that's
on his own land. It's the devil's own luck to lose Ballaston, but we've
gone the limit, eh, Gregory, to try to keep it?"
"Yes," Gregory admitted. "We made a bid for it, at any rate--even Uncle
Henry!"
His tone had grown more serious. The shadow of something unspoken seemed
to be lying between them.
"Personally," Sir Bertram continued, "I regret nothing, I blame nobody
for anything. I consider that everything was justified. You have to make
a fresh start, Gregory. Don't do so with that somewhat bourgeois
impediment--a slurred conscience. What has been done has been done, and
is finished with."
Gregory for a moment did not reply. His puzzled eyes sought his
father's, but sought them in vain.
"For my part," Sir Bertram repeated steadily, "I regret nothing. It was
worth the effort. And as for Henry--God bless him!"
The lights of the car flashed from the stable yard.
"And so, my dear boy," his father concluded, in his ordinary tone, "you
swing your bundle, figuratively speaking, at the end of your stick, and
set out on your allegorical journey. Only, for God's sake, don't come
back Lord Mayor of London!"
Gregory had already taken his seat, the chauffeur's hand was upon the
change speeds gear, when Rawson hurried forward.
"There is another car coming up the avenue, sir," he announced. "Would
it be as well to wait for a moment?"
Gregory looked out of the window. He could see the twin lights flashing
in the distance, gleaming slantwise through the trees, then again pools
of light in the semi-darkness. For only a moment he hesitated, but,
during that moment, it seemed to him that he was taking leave of much
that was dear in life. Then he stepped out of the car and stood upon the
edge of the terrace.
"It might be as well, Rawson," he agreed, with somewhat elaborate
casualness.
"I wonder who the devil it can be at this time of the night?" Sir
Bertram speculated.
The car resolved itself into shape. Its very crudity, its ugliness,
seemed symbolic. The driver was in plain clothes, but he sat stiffly and
there was something official about his appearance. By his side was Major
Holmes. Behind sat Inspector Cloutson. The two latter descended as the
car drew up.
"Well, Major?" Sir Bertram exclaimed. "What new thunderbolt are you
going to launch?"
The Chief Constable rather avoided his eyes.
"We want a word with you, please," he confided, laying his hand lightly
upon Gregory's arm.
They all entered the house together. Sir Bertram led the way to the
library, thrust open the door and closed it again when they had all
entered.
"Now what the devil is it this time, Holmes?" he asked, a little
testily. "You mustn't be annoyed with me if I say that I am getting
rather tired of these visitations."
"I deeply regret the necessity for the present one," was the grave
reply. "Gregory Ballaston, I am sorry to tell you that Inspector
Cloutson here has a warrant for your arrest. I should strongly advise
you to make no reply to the charge and to come with us to Norwich."
"What is the charge?" Gregory demanded.
"A very serious one, I am afraid," Major Holmes announced. "I have, as a
matter of fact, two warrants; the first charging you, Gregory Ballaston,
with assault on one Peter Johnson, and burglary at the Great House on
the night of July 28th, and the second by which you stand charged with
the murder of Ralph Endacott at the Great House on June 30th of last
year. There is nothing to be gained by denial or comment or anything
else, at the present moment. I beg you, Gregory, not to attempt any
reply but to come with us."
The door behind had been opened so softly that no one heard it. They
were all standing motionless when Henry, with a brown paper parcel under
his arm, entered.
"But that is ridiculous, Major Holmes," he said quietly. "You must have
been very greatly misled. It was I who was guilty of the burglary. Here,
in this parcel, you will find all the documents I purloined, or I might
say borrowed, the instrument with which I cut out the panel of the door,
another with which I picked the lock--instruments, I may say, obtained
with the greatest possible difficulty from an establishment in London."
There was a moment's blank silence. Major Holmes's expression, after the
first shock of surprise, was one of complete incredulity.
"This is a very remarkable statement on your part, Mr. Ballaston," he
observed. "I presume you wish us to take note of what you say. At the
same time I have, I am sorry to remind you, a warrant against your
nephew on a more serious charge."
Henry Ballaston apologised with dignity.
"I regret," he said, "not to have mentioned the two affairs together. I,
also, on June 30th of last year, after a few words of unpleasant
discussion with Mr. Endacott, shot him through the head."
Once more there was a brief spell of breathless silence. Henry Ballaston
was entirely master of the situation, perfectly self-possessed, slightly
apologetic. Father and son were gazing into each other's eyes with
mutual and amazed interrogation.
"You see," Henry continued, in explanatory fashion, "Mr. Endacott was a
very unreasonable man. He admitted that he had made a translation of the
manuscript, but he refused to give it to me. He desired his niece to
profit by it. I suppose I must have lost my temper. I shot him and
secured the other Image, but could find no trace of the manuscript.
Hence my second effort within the last few days. Have I made myself
quite clear?"
Sir Bertram's fingers upon his son's arm had grown like the grip of a
vice. He leaned forward.
"Do you mean to say that you didn't do it, Greg?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Before God, I didn't!" was the passionate reply. "I thought it was
you."