All endeavour to discover from Shaw something further concerning the
mysterious cylinder proved unavailing. Apparently he was entirely in
ignorance of its actual contents--of the Thing referred to by the man
now dead.
Later I had an opportunity of chatting with Guy Nicholson as we strolled
about the beautiful gardens in the sunset. He was a bright, merry,
easy-going fellow, who had been a year or two in a cavalry regiment, had
retired on the death of his father, and who now expressed an ambition
for foreign travel. He lived at Titmarsh Court, between Rockingham and
Corby, he explained, and he invited me over to see him.
Long ago, I had heard of old Nathaniel Nicholson, the great Sheffield
ironmaster, who had purchased the place from a bankrupt peer, and who
had spent many thousands on improvements. My father had known him but
slightly, for they met in the hunting-field, and now I was much
gratified to know his son.
From the first I took to him greatly, and we mutually expressed
friendship towards each other. We were both bachelors, and I saw that
we had many tastes in common. His airy carelessness of manner and his
overflowing good-humour attracted me, while it was plain that he was the
devoted slave of the pretty Asta.
Wheaton, the butler, a grey-faced, grey-haired, and rather superior
person, called Shaw in to speak on the telephone, and I was left alone
with Nicholson on the terrace.
"Have you known Asta long?" he asked me suddenly.
My reply was a little evasive, for I could not well see the motive of
his question--if he were not jealous of her.
"I understand from Shaw that you have known him quite a long time, eh?"
"Oh yes," I replied lamely. "We've been acquainted for some little
time."
Nicholson looked me straight in the face with his deep-set eyes
unusually serious. Then, after a pause, he said--
"Look here, Kemball, you and I are going to be friends as our fathers
were. I want to speak very frankly with you."
"Well?" I asked, a trifle surprised at his sudden change of manner.
"I want to ask you a plain honest question. What is your opinion of
Harvey Shaw?"
"My opinion," I echoed. "Well, I hardly know. He's rather a good
fellow, I think, as far as I know. Generous, happy--"
"Oh yes, keeps a good cellar, is hospitable, very loyal to his friends,
and all that," he interrupted. "But--but what I want you to tell me is,
what you really think of him. Is his rather austere exterior only a
mask?"
"I don't quite follow your meaning," was my reply.
"May I speak to you in entire confidence?"
"You certainly may. I shall not abuse it."
"Well, for some time I have wanted to discuss Shaw with somebody who
knows him, but I have had no opportunity. Because he gives money freely
in the district, supports everything, and never questions a tradesman's
bill, he is naturally highly popular. Nobody will say a word against
him. Harvey Shaw can do no wrong. But it is the same everywhere in a
rural district. Money alone buys popularity and a good name."
"Why should any word be said against him?"