In Which Margaret Purcell Receives a Letter
Daylight dies hard in the month of June and night comes but tardily
into her scanty reversion. The clock on the mantelpiece stood at
half-past nine, and candles twinkled on the supper table, but even now
the slaty-grey band of twilight was only just stealing up behind the
horizon to veil the fading glories of the western sky.
Varney sat at the old-fashioned, oval gate-legged table with an air of
placid contentment, listening to and joining in the rather
disconnected talk (for hungry people are poor conversationalists) with
quiet geniality but with a certain remoteness and abstraction. From
where he sat he could see out through the open window the great ocean
stretching away to the south and west, the glittering horizon and the
gorgeous evening sky. With quiet pleasure he had watched the changing
scene; the crimson disc of the setting sun, the flaming gold softening
down into the sober tints of the afterglow, and now, as the grey
herald of the night spread upwards, his eye dwelt steadily on one spot
away in the south-west. At first faintly visible, then waxing as the
daylight waned, a momentary spark flashed in the heart of the twilight
grey; now white like the sparkle of a diamond, now crimson like the
flash of a ruby. It was the light on the Wolf Rock.
He watched it thoughtfully as he talked:
white—red—white—red—diamond—ruby; so it would go on every fifteen
seconds through the short summer night; to mariners a warning and a
guide; to him, a message of release; for another, a memorial.
As he looked at the changing lights, he thought of his enemy lying out
there in the chilly depths on the bed of the sea. It was strange how
often he thought of Purcell. For the man was dead; had gone out of his
life utterly. And yet, in the two days that had passed, every trivial
incident had seemed to connect itself and him with the man who was
gone. And so it was now. All roads seemed to lead to Purcell. If he
looked out seaward, there was the lighthouse flashing its secret
message, as if it should say, “We know, you and I; he is down here.”
If he looked around the table, still everything spoke of the dead man.
There was Phillip Rodney—Purcell and he had talked of him on the
yacht. There was Jack Rodney who had waited on the pier for the man
who had not come. There, at the hostess’s right hand, was the quiet,
keen-faced stranger whom Purcell, for some reason, had not wished to
meet; and there, at the head of the table, was Margaret herself, the
determining cause of it all. Even the very lobsters on the table
(lobsters are plentiful at the Land’s End) set him thinking of dark,
crawling shapes down in that dim underworld, groping around a larger
shape tethered to an iron weight.
He turned his face resolutely away from the sea. He would think no
more of Purcell. The fellow had dogged him through life, but now he
was gone. Enough of Purcell. Let him think of something more pleasant.
The most agreeable object of contemplation within his field of vision
was the woman who sat at the head of the table—his hostess. And, in
fact, Margaret Purcell was very pleasant to look upon, not only for
her comeliness, though she was undoubtedly a pretty, almost a
beautiful, woman, but because she was sweet-faced and gracious and
what men compliment the sex by calling “womanly.” She was evidently
under thirty, though she carried a certain matronly sedateness and an
air of being older than she either looked or was; which was
accentuated by the fashion in which she wore her hair, primly parted
in the middle—a rather big woman, quiet and reposeful, as big women
often are.
Varney looked at her with a kind of wonder. He had always thought her
lovely and now she seemed lovelier than ever. And she was a widow,
little as she suspected it; little as any one but he suspected it. But
it was a fact. She was free to marry, if she only knew it.
He hugged himself at the thought and listened dreamily to the mellow
tones of her voice. She was talking to her guest and the elder Rodney,
but he had only a dim idea of what she was saying; he was enjoying the
music of her speech rather than attending to the matter. Suddenly she
turned to him and asked:
“Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Varney?”
He pulled himself together, and, after a momentarily vacant look,
answered:
“I always agree with you, Mrs. Purcell.”
“And so,” said Rodney, “as the greater includes the less, he agrees
with you now. I am admiring your self-possession, Varney: you haven’t
the least idea what we were talking about.”
Varney laughed and reddened, and Margaret looked at him with playful
reproach.
“Haven’t you?” she asked. “But how deceitful of you to answer so
readily. I was remarking that lawyers have a way of making a solemn
parade and exactness and secrecy when there is no occasion. That was
my statement.”
“And it is perfectly correct,” said Varney. “You know it is, Rodney.
You’re always doing it. I’ve noticed it constantly.”
“Oh, this is mere vindictiveness because he unmasked your deceit. I
wasn’t alluding to Mr. Rodney, or any one in particular. I was just
speaking generally.”
“But,” said Varney, “something must have suggested the reflection.”
“Certainly. Something did: a letter that I have just received from Mr.
Penfield; a most portentous document, and all about nothing.”
At the mention of the lawyer’s name Varney’s attention came to a sharp
focus.
“It seems,” Margaret continued, “that Dan, when he wrote to Mr.
Penfield the other day, put the wrong letter in the envelope; a silly
thing to do, but we all do silly things sometimes.”
“I don’t,” said Rodney.
“Well, ordinary persons, I mean. Then Mr. Penfield, instead of simply
stating the fact and returning the letter, becomes mysterious and
alarming. He informs me that the envelope was addressed in Dan’s
handwriting, that the letter was posted at Penzance at eight-thirty
p.m., that it was opened by him in person, and that the contents,
which have been seen by no one but himself, are at present reposing in
his private safe, of which he alone has the key. What he does not tell
us is what the contents of the envelope were; which is the only thing
that matters. It is most extraordinary. From the tone of his letter
one would think that the envelope had contained something dreadful and
incriminating.”
“Perhaps it did,” said Varney. “Dan’s political views are distinctly
revolutionary and he is as secret as a whole barrel of oysters. That
letter may have contained particulars of some sort of Guy Fawkes
conspiracy enclosing samples of suitable explosives. Who knows?”
Margaret was about to reply, when her glance happened to light on Jack
Rodney, and something in that gentleman’s expressive and handsome face
gave her pause. Had she been chattering indiscreetly? And might Mr.
Penfield have meant something after all? There were some curious
points about his letter. She smilingly accepted the Guy Fawkes theory
and then adroitly changed the subject.
“Speaking of Penzance, Mr. Varney, reminds me that you haven’t told us
what sort of voyage you had. There was quite a thick fog, wasn’t
there?”
“Yes. It delayed us a lot. Purcell would steer right out to sea for
fear of going ashore. Then the breeze failed for a time and then it
veered round easterly and headed us, and, as a wind-up to the chapter
of accidents, the jib-halyard carried away and we had to reeve a new
one. Nice, crazy gear you keep on your craft, Rodney.”
“I suspected that rope,” said Rodney; “in fact I had meant to fit a
new halyard before I went up to town. But I should have liked to see
Purcell shinning up aloft.”
“So should I—from the shore,” said Varney. “He’d have carried away the
mast, or capsized the yacht. No, my friend, I left him below as a
counterpoise and went aloft myself.”
“Did Dan go straight off to the station?” Margaret asked.
“I should say not,” replied Varney. “He was in a mighty hurry to be
off; said he had some things to see to—I fancy one of them was a
grilled steak and a bottle of Bass. We were both pretty ravenous.”
“But why didn’t you go with him, if you were ravenous, too?”
“I had to snug up the yacht and he wouldn’t wait. He was up the ladder
like a lamplighter almost before we had made fast. I can see him now,
with that great suit-case in his hand, going up as light as a feather.
He is wonderfully active for his size.”
“Isn’t he?” said Rodney. “But these big men often are. Look at the way
those great lumping pilots will drop down into a boat; as light as
cats.”
“He is a big fellow, too,” said Varney. “I was looking at him as he
stopped at the top of the ladder to sing out, ‘So long.’ He looked
quite gigantic in his oilskins.”
“He actually went up into the town in his oilskins, did he?” exclaimed
Margaret. “He must have been impatient for his meal! Oh, how silly of
me! I never sewed on that button that had come off the collar of his
oilskin coat! I hope you didn’t have a wet passage.”
“You need not reproach yourself, Mrs. Purcell,” interposed Phillip
Rodney. “Your neglect was made good by my providence. _I_ sewed on
that button when I borrowed the coat on Friday evening to go to my
diggings in.”
“You told me you hadn’t a spare oilskin button,” said Margaret.
“I hadn’t, but I made one—out of a cork.”
“A cork!” Margaret exclaimed, with an incredulous laugh.
“Not a common cork, you know,” Phillip explained. “It was a flat,
circular cork from one of my collecting jars, waterproofed with
paraffin wax; a most superior affair, with a beautiful round
label—also waterproofed by the wax—on which was typed ‘marine worms.’
The label was very decorative. It’s my own invention and I’m rather
proud of it.”
“You may well be. And I suppose you sewed it on with ropeyarn and a
sail-needle?” Margaret suggested.
“Not at all. It was secured with cat-gut; the fag end of an E string
that I happened to have in my pocket. You see, I had no needle or
thread, so I made two holes in the cork with the marline spike in my
pocket-knife, two similar holes in the coat, poked the ends of the
fiddle-string through, tied a reef knot inside and there it was, tight
as wax—paraffin wax.”
“It was very ingenious and resourceful of you,” Varney commented, “but
the product wasn’t very happily disposed of on Dan’s coat—I mean as to
your decorative label. I take it that Dan’s interest in marine worms
is limited to their use as bait. Now if you could have fitted out Dr.
Thorndyke with a set there would have been some appropriateness in it,
since marine worms are the objects of his devotion; at least so I
understand,” and he looked interrogatively at Margaret’s guest.
Dr. Thorndyke smiled. “You are draping me in the mantle of my friend,
Professor D’Arcy,” he said. “He is the real devotee. I have merely
come down for a few days to stay with him and be an interested
spectator of the chase. It is he who should have the buttons.”
“Still,” said Varney, “you aid and abet him. I suppose you help him to
dig them up.”
Phillip laughed scornfully. “Why, you are as bad as Dan, Varney. You
are thinking in terms of bait. Do you imagine Dr. Thorndyke and the
professor go a-worming with a bully-beef tin and a garden fork as you
do when you are getting ready for a fishing jaunt?”
“Well, how was I to know?” retorted Varney. “I am not a naturalist.
What do they do? Set traps for ’em with bits of cheese inside?”
“Of course they don’t,” laughed Margaret. “How absurd you are, Mr.
Varney. They go out with a boat and a dredge; and very interesting it
must be to bring up all those curious creatures from the bottom of the
sea.”
She spoke rather absently, for her thoughts had gone back to Mr.
Penfield’s letter. There was certainly something a little cryptic in
its tone, which she had taken for mere professional pedantry, but
which she now recalled with vague uneasiness. Could the old lawyer
have stumbled on something discreditable and written this ambiguously
worded letter as a warning? Her husband was not a communicative man
and she could not pretend to herself that she had an exalted opinion
of his moral character. It was all very disquieting.
The housekeeper, who had been retained with the furnished house,
brought in the coffee, and, as Margaret poured it out she continued
her reflections, watching Varney with unconscious curiosity as he
rolled a cigarette. The ring-finger of his left hand had a stiff
joint—the result of an old injury—and was permanently bent at a sharp
angle. It gave his hand an appearance of awkwardness, but she noted
that he rolled his cigarette as quickly and neatly as if all his
fingers were sound. The stiff finger had become normal to him. And she
also noted that Dr. Thorndyke appeared quite interested in the
contrast between the appearance of awkwardness and the actual
efficiency of the maimed finger.
From Varney her attention—or inattention—wandered to her guest.
Absently she dwelt on his powerful, intellectual face, his bold,
clean-cut features, his shapely mouth, firm almost to severity; and
all the time she was thinking of Mr. Penfield’s letter.
“Have we all finished?” she asked at length; “and if so, where are we
going to smoke our pipes and cigars?”
“I propose that we go into the garden,” said Phillip. “It is a lovely
evening and we can look at the moonlight on the sea while we smoke.”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed, “it will be more pleasant out there. Don’t
wait for me. I will join you in a few minutes, but I want first to
have a few words with Mr. Rodney.”
Phillip, who, like the others, understood that this was a consultation
on the subject of Mr. Penfield’s letter, rose and playfully shepherded
Varney out of the door which his brother held invitingly open.
“Now then, Varney, out you go. No lagging behind and eavesdropping.
The pronouncements of the oracle are not for the likes of you and me.”
Varney took his dismissal with a smile and followed Dr. Thorndyke out,
though as he looked at the barrister’s commanding figure and handsome
face, he could not repress a twinge of jealousy. Why could not Maggie
have consulted him? He was an old friend, and he knew more about old
Penfield’s letter than Rodney did. But, of course, she had no idea of
that.
As soon as they were alone, Margaret and Rodney resumed their seats
and the former opened the subject without preamble.
“What do you really think of Mr. Penfield’s letter?” she asked.
“Could you give me, in general terms, the substance of what he says?”
Rodney answered, cautiously.
“I had better show you the letter itself,” said Margaret. She rose and
left the room, returning almost immediately with an official-looking
envelope which she handed to Rodney. The letter which he extracted
from it and spread out on the table, was not remarkably legible; an
elderly solicitor’s autograph letters seldom are. But barristers, like
old-fashioned druggists, are usually expert decipherers and Rodney
read the letter without difficulty. It ran thus:—
“George Yard,
“Lombard Street, E. C.
“25th June, 1911.
“Dear Mrs. Purcell,
“I have just received from your husband a letter with certain
enclosures which have caused me some surprise. The envelope is
addressed to me in his handwriting and the letter, which is
unsigned, is also in his hand; but neither the letter nor the other
contents could possibly have been intended for me and it is manifest
that they have been placed in the wrong envelope.
“The postmark shows that the letter was posted at Penzance at 8.30
p.m. on the 23rd instant. It was opened by me, and the contents,
which have been seen by no one but me, have been deposited in my
private safe, of which I alone have the key.
“Will you very kindly acquaint your husband with these facts and
request him to call on me at his early convenience?
“I am, dear Mrs. Purcell,
“Yours sincerely,
“Joseph Penfield.
“Mrs. Daniel Purcell,
“Sennen, Cornwall.”
Rodney read the solicitor’s letter through twice, refolded it,
replaced it in its envelope and returned it to Margaret.
“Well, what do you think of it?” the latter asked.
Rodney reflected for some moments.
“It’s a very careful letter,” he replied at length.
“Yes, I know, and that is a very careful answer, but not very helpful.
Now do drop the lawyer and tell me just what you think like a good
friend.”
Rodney looked at her quickly with a faint smile and yet very
earnestly. He found it strangely pleasant to be called a good friend
by Margaret Purcell.
“I gather,” he said slowly, “from the tone of Mr. Penfield’s letter
that he found something in that envelope that your husband would not
have wished him to see; something that he had reasons for wishing no
one to see but the person for whom it was meant.”
“Do you mean something discreditable or compromising?”
“We mustn’t jump at conclusions. Mr. Penfield is very reticent so,
presumably, he has some reasons for reticence; otherwise he would have
said plainly what the envelope contained. But why does he write to
you? Doesn’t he know your husband’s address?”
“No, but he could have got it from Dan’s office. I have been
wondering, myself, why he wrote to me.”
“Has your husband arrived at Oulton yet?”
“Heavens! Yes. It doesn’t take two days and a half to get to Norfolk.”
“Oh, then he wasn’t staying at Falmouth?”
Margaret stared at him. “Falmouth!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
“I understood Varney to say that he was going to call at Falmouth.”
“No, certainly not. He was going straight to London and so on to
Oulton the same night. I wonder what Mr. Varney can have meant.”
“We must find out presently. Have you heard from your husband since he
left?”
“No. Oddly enough, he hasn’t written, which is unlike him. He
generally sends me a line as soon as he arrives anywhere.”
“You had better send him a telegram in the morning to make sure of his
whereabouts and then let him have a copy of Mr. Penfield’s letter at
once. And I think I wouldn’t refer to the subject before any of our
friends if I were you.”
“No. I oughtn’t to have said what I did. But, of course, I didn’t
dream that Mr. Penfield really meant anything. Shall we go out into
the garden?”
Rodney opened the door for her and they passed out to where their
three companions sat in deck chairs facing the sea. Two chairs had
been placed for them, and, as they seated themselves, Varney remarked:
“I take it that the oracle has spoken; and I hope he was more explicit
than oracles are usually.”
“He was explicit and discreet—especially discreet,” Margaret replied.
“Oh, they are always that,” said Varney; “discretion is the oracular
specialty. The explicitness is exceptional.”
“I believe it is,” replied Margaret, “and I am glad you set so much
value on it because I am coming to you, now, for information. Mr.
Rodney tells me that Dan said something to you about Falmouth. What
was it?”
“He said he was going to call in there; at least, so I understood.”
“But he wasn’t, you know. He was going direct to London and straight
on to Oulton the same night. You must have misunderstood him.”
“I may have done, but I don’t think I did. Still, he only mentioned
the matter casually and I wasn’t paying particular attention.”
Margaret made no rejoinder and the party became somewhat silent.
Phillip, realizing Margaret’s uneasy preoccupation, engaged Dr.
Thorndyke in an animated conversation respecting the natural history
of the Cornish coast and the pleasures of dredging.
The other three became profoundly thoughtful. To each, the solicitor’s
letter had its special message, though to one only was that message
clearly intelligible. Rodney was puzzled and deeply suspicious. To him
the letter had read like that of a man washing his hands of a
disagreeable responsibility. The curious reticence as to the nature of
the enclosures and the reference to the private safe sounded ominous.
He knew little of Purcell—he had been a friend of the Haygarths—and
had no great opinion of him. Purcell was a financier, and financiers
sometimes did queer things. At any rate, Penfield’s excessive caution
suggested something fishy—possibly something illicit. In fact, to
speak colloquially, Rodney smelt a rat.
Margaret also was puzzled and suspicious, but, woman-like, she allowed
her suspicions to take a more special form. She, too, smelt a rat, but
it was a feminine rat. The lawyer’s silence as to the contents of that
mysterious envelope seemed to admit of no other interpretation. It was
so pointed. Of course he could not tell her, though he was an old
friend and her trustee; so he had said nothing.
She reflected on the matter with lukewarm displeasure. Her relations
with her husband were not such as to admit of jealousy in the ordinary
sense; but still she was married to him, and any affair on his part
with another woman would be very disagreeable and humiliating to her.
It might lead to a scandal, too, and from that her ingrained delicacy
revolted.
Varney, meanwhile, sat with his head thrown back, wrapped in thought
of a more dreamy quality. He knew all about the letter and his mind
was occupying itself with speculation as to its effects. Rodney’s view
of it he gauged pretty accurately; but what did _she_ think of it? Was
she anxious, worried at the prospect of some unpleasant disclosure? He
hoped not. At any rate, it could not be helped. And she was free, if
she only knew it.
He had smoked out his cigarette and now, as he abstractedly filled his
pipe, his eye insensibly sought the spot where the diamond and ruby
flashed out alternately from the bosom of the night. A cloud had crept
over the moon and the transitory golden and crimson gleam shone out
bright and clear amidst the encompassing darkness—white—red,
white—red, diamond—ruby; a message in a secret code from the tall,
unseen sentinel on that solitary, wave-washed rock, bidding him be of
good cheer, reminding him again and again of the freedom that was
his—and hers—made everlastingly secure by a friendly iron sinker.
The cloud turned silvery at the edge and the moon sailed out into the
open. Margaret looked up at it thoughtfully. “I wonder where Dan is
to-night,” she said; and in the pause that followed a crimson spark
from the dim horizon seemed to Varney to signal, “Here” and instantly
fade into discreet darkness.
“Perhaps,” suggested Phillip, “he is having a moonlight sail on the
Broad, or more probably, taking a whisky and soda with Bradford in the
inn-parlour where the stuffed pike is. You remember that stuffed pike,
Jack?”
His brother nodded. “Can I ever forget it, or the landlord’s
interminable story of its capture? I wonder why people become so
intolerably boresome about their fishing exploits. The angler is
nearly as bad as the golfer.”
“Still,” said Varney, “he has more excuse. It is more of an
achievement to catch a pike or a salmon than merely to whack a ball
with a stick.”
“Isn’t that rather a crude description of the game?” asked Margaret.
“It is to be hoped that Dr. Thorndyke is not an enthusiast.”
“I am not,” he assured her; “in fact I was admiring Mr. Varney’s
simplification. His definition of the game is worthy of Dr. Johnson.
But I must tear myself away. My host is an early bird and I expect you
are, too. Good night, Mrs. Purcell. It has been very delightful to
meet you again. I am only sorry that I should have missed your
husband.”
“So am I,” said Margaret, shaking his hand warmly, “but I think it
most kind of you to have remembered me after all these years.”
As Dr. Thorndyke rose, the other three men stood up. “It is time for
us to go, too,” said Rodney, “so we will see you to the end of the
road, Thorndyke. Good night, Mrs. Purcell.”
“Good night, gentlemen all,” she replied. “Eight o’clock breakfast,
remember.”
The four men went into the house to fetch their hats and took their
departure, walking together as far as the cross-roads; where Thorndyke
wished the other three good night and left them to pursue their way to
the village.
The lodging accommodation in this neighbourhood was not sumptuous, but
our three friends were not soft or fastidious. Besides, they only
slept at their “diggings,” taking their meals and making their home at
the house which Purcell had hired, furnished, for the holiday. It was
a somewhat unconventional arrangement, now that Purcell had gone, and
spoke eloquently of his confidence in the discretion of his attractive
wife.
The three men were not in the same lodgings. Varney was “putting up”
at the “First and Last” inn in the adjoining village—or “church-town,”
to give it its local title—of Sennen, while the Rodneys shared a room
at the “Ship” down in Sennen Cove, more than a mile away. They
proceeded together as far as Varney’s hostel, when, having wished him
“good night,” the two brothers strode away along the moonlit road
towards the Cove.
For a while neither spoke, though the thoughts of both were occupied
by the same subject, the solicitor’s letter. Phillip had fully taken
in the situation, although he had made no remark on it, and the fact
that his brother had been consulted quasi-professionally on the
subject made him hesitate to refer to it. For, in spite of his gay,
almost frivolous, manner, Phillip Rodney was a responsible medical
practitioner and really a man of sound judgment and discretion.
Presently his scruples yielded to the consideration that his brother
was not likely to divulge any confidence and he remarked:
“I hope Purcell hasn’t been doing anything shady. It sounded to me as
if there was a touch of Pontius Pilate in the tone of Penfield’s
letter.”
“Yes, a very guarded tone, with a certain note of preparation for
unpleasant possibilities. So it struck me. I do sincerely hope there
isn’t anything in it.”
“So do I, by Jove! but I shouldn’t be so very astonished. Of course we
don’t know anything against Purcell—at least I don’t—but somehow he
doesn’t strike me as a very scrupulous man. His outlook on life jars a
bit; don’t you feel that sometimes?”
“The commercial standard isn’t quite the same as the professional, you
know,” Jack Rodney answered evasively; “and financial circles are not
exactly hotbeds of the higher morality. But I know of nothing to
Purcell’s discredit.”
“No, of course not. But he isn’t the same class as his wife; she’s a
lot too good for a coarse, bucolic fellow like that. I wonder why the
deuce she married him. I used to think she rather liked you.”
“A woman can’t marry every man she rather likes, you know, Phil,
unless she happens to live in Ladak; and even there I believe there
are limits. But to come back to Purcell, we may be worrying ourselves
about nothing. To-morrow we shall get into touch with him by telegraph
and then we may hear something from him.”
Here the consideration of Purcell and his affairs dropped so far as
conversation went; but in the elder man’s mind certain memories had
been revived by his brother’s remark and occupied it during the
remainder of the walk. For he, too, had once thought that Maggie
Haygarth rather liked him, and he now recalled the shock of
disagreeable surprise with which he had heard of her marriage. But
that was over and done with long ago, and the question now was, how
was the _Sandhopper_—at present moored in Whitesand Bay—to be got from
the Land’s End to her moorings above Westminster Bridge; a problem
that engaged the attention of the two brothers until they turned into
their respective beds, and the laggard, according to immemorial
custom, blew out the light.
In spite of Mrs. Purcell’s admonition they were some minutes late on
the following morning. Their two friends were already seated at the
breakfast table and it needed no extraordinary powers of observation
to see that something had happened. Their hostess was pale and looked
worried and somewhat frightened and Varney was preternaturally grave.
A telegram lay open on the table by Margaret’s place, and, as Rodney
advanced to shake hands, she held it out to him without a word. He
took the paper and read the brief, but ominous, message that confirmed
but too plainly his misgivings of the previous night.
“Where is Dan? Expected him here Tuesday night. Hope nothing wrong.
Bradford. Angler’s Hotel. Oulton.”
Rodney laid down the telegram and looked at Margaret. “This is a queer
business,” said he. “Have you done anything?”
“No,” she replied. “What can we do?”
Rodney took a slip of paper and a pencil from his pocket. “If you will
write down the name of the partner or clerk who is attending at the
office and the address, and that of the caretaker of your flat, I will
go and send off reply-paid telegrams to them asking for information as
to your husband’s whereabouts and I will also reply to Mr. Bradford.
It is just possible that Purcell may have gone home after all.”
“It’s very unlikely,” said Margaret. “The flat is shut up, and he
would surely have written. Still, we may as well make sure, if you
will be so kind. But won’t you have your breakfast first?”
“We’d better waste no time,” he answered; and, pocketing the paper,
strode away on his errand.
Little was said until he returned, and even then the breakfast
proceeded in a gloomy silence that contrasted strangely with the usual
vivacity of the gatherings around that hospitable table. A feeling of
tense expectation pervaded the party and a vivid sense of impending
disaster. Dreary efforts were made to keep some kind of conversation
going, but the talk was colourless and disjointed with long and
awkward pauses.
Varney especially was wrapped in deep meditation. Outwardly he
preserved an appearance of sympathetic anxiety, but inwardly he was
conscious of a strange, rather agreeable excitement, almost of
elation. When he looked at Margaret’s troubled face he felt a pang of
regret, of contrition; but principally he was sensible of a feeling of
power, of knowledge. He sat apart, as it were, godlike, omniscient. He
knew all the facts that were hidden from the others. The past lay
clear before him to the smallest detail; the involved present was as
an open book which he read with ease; and he could even peer
confidently into the future.
And these men and the woman before him, and those others afar off; the
men at the office, the caretaker, Penfield, the lawyer, and Bradford
at his inn in Norfolk; what were they but so many puppets, moving
feverishly hither and thither as he, the unseen master-spirit,
directed them by a pull at the strings? It was he who had wound them
up and set them going, and here he sat, motionless and quiet, watching
them do his bidding. He was reminded of an occasion when he had been
permitted for a short time to steer a five-thousand-ton steamer. What
a sense of power it had given him to watch the stupendous consequences
of his own trifling movements! A touch of the little wheel, the
movement of a spoke or two to right or left, and what a commotion
followed! How the steam gear had clanked with furious haste to obey
and the great ship had presently swerved round, responsive to the
pressure of his fingers. What a wonderful thing it had been! There was
that colossal structure with its enormous burden of merchandise, its
teeming population sweating in the stokehold or sleeping in the dark
forecastle; its unconscious passengers chatting on the decks, reading,
writing or playing cards in saloon or smoking-room; and he had it all
in the grasp of one hand, had moved it and turned it about with the
mere touch of a finger.
And so it was now. The magical pressure of his finger on the trigger,
a few turns of a rope, the hoisting of an iron weight; and behold! the
whole course of a human life—probably of several human lives—was
changed utterly.
It was a tremendous thought.
In a little over an hour the replies to Rodney’s discreetly worded
inquiries had come in. Mr. Purcell had not been home nor had he been
heard of at the office. Mr. Penfield had been enquiring as to his
whereabouts and so had Mr. Bradford. That was all. And what it
amounted to was that Daniel Purcell had disappeared.
“Can’t you remember exactly what Dan said about going to Falmouth, Mr.
Varney?” Margaret asked.
“I am sorry to say I can’t,” replied Varney. “You see he just threw
the remark off casually and I didn’t ask any questions. He isn’t very
fond of being questioned, you know.”
“I wonder what he could have been going to Falmouth for,” she mused.
In reality she did not wonder at all. She felt pretty certain that she
knew. But pride would not allow her publicly to adopt that explanation
until it was forced on her.
“It seems to me that there is only one course,” she continued. “I must
go up to town and see Mr. Penfield. Don’t you think so, Mr. Rodney?”
“Certainly. He is the only one who knows anything and is able to
advise.” He hesitated a moment and then added: “Hadn’t we better come
up with you?”
“Yes,” said Varney eagerly; “let us all go up.”
Margaret considered for a few moments. “It is excessively kind and
sympathetic of you all, and I am glad you offered, because it makes me
feel that I have good, loyal friends; which is a great deal to know
just now. But really there would be no use in breaking up your
holidays. What could you do? We can’t make a search in person. Why not
take over the house and stay on here?”
“We don’t want the house if you’re not in it,” said Phillip.
“No,” agreed Jack Rodney; “if we can’t be of use to you, we shall get
afloat and begin to crawl round the coast homewards.”
“I think I shall run over to Falmouth and see if I can pick up any
news,” said Varney.
“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I think that would be really useful,” and
Rodney agreed heartily, adding: “Why not come round on the yacht,
Varney? We shall probably get there to-morrow night.”
Varney reflected. And suddenly it was borne in upon him that he felt
an unspeakable repugnance to the idea of going on board the yacht and
especially to making the voyage from Sennen to Penzance. The feeling
came to him as an utter surprise, but there was no doubt of its
reality. “I think I’ll go over by train,” he said. “It will save a
day, you know.”
“Then we will meet you there,” said Rodney; “and, Mrs. Purcell, will
you send us a letter to the Green Banks Hotel, Falmouth, and let us
know what Mr. Penfield says and if you would like us to come up to
town to help you?”
“Thank you, yes, I will,” Margaret replied heartily. “And I promise
that, if I want your help, I will ask for it.”
“That is a solemn promise, mind,” said Rodney.
“Yes, I mean it—a solemn promise.”
So the matter was arranged. By twelve o’clock—the weather being
calm—the yacht was got under way for Penzance. And even as on that
other occasion, she headed seaward with her crew of two, watched from
the shore by a woman and a man.