"Look here, Mr. Ashton, let us understand each other at once, shall we?"
His eyes looked into mine again, and I again felt quite uneasy. He knew
my name. I felt distinctly annoyed at the waiter having told him my
name without first asking my permission, as I concluded he must have
done. It was a great liberty on his part, I considered--an
impertinence, more especially as he had not mentioned this stranger's
name to me.
"I shall not be at the ball--and yet I shall be there," the big man
continued, as I did not speak. "Tell me, do you return to Houghton
after going to London?"
"You seem to know a good deal about me, Mr. --" I said, rather nettled,
but hoping to draw his name from him.
He did not take the hint.
"Sir Charles is well, I hope? And Lady Thorold?" he went on. "And how
is their charming daughter, Miss Vera? I have not seen her for some
days. She seems to be as fond as ever of hunting. I think it a
cold-blooded, brutal sport. In fact I don't call it `sport' at all--
twenty or so couples of hounds after one fox, and the chances all in
favour of the hounds. I have told her so more than once, and I believe
that in her heart she agrees with me. As a matter of fact, I'm here in
Oakham, on purpose to call on Sir Charles to-morrow, on a matter of
business."
I was astounded, also annoyed. Who on earth was this big man, who
seemed to know so much, who spoke of Vera as though he knew her
intimately and met her every day, and who apparently was acquainted also
with Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, yet whom I had never before set eyes
on, though I was so very friendly with the Thorolds?
The stranger had spoken of my well-beloved!
"You will forgive my asking you, I am sure," I said, curiosity getting
the better of me, "but--well, I have not the pleasure of knowing your
name. Do you mind telling me?"
"Mind telling you my name?" he exclaimed, with a look of surprise.
"Why, not in the least. My name is--well--Smithson--if you like. Any
name will do?"
He must have noticed my sudden change of expression, for he said at
once--
"You seem surprised?"
"I--well, I am rather surprised. But you merely are not Smithson," I
answered awkwardly. I was staring hard at him, scrutinising his face in
order to discover some resemblance to the portrait which at that moment
lay snugly at the bottom of my valise. The portrait showed a
clean-shaven man, younger than this strange individual whom I had met,
as I believed, for the first time, barely a quarter of an hour before.
Age might have wrought changes, and the beard might have served as a
disguise, but the man in the picture was certainly over thirty-four, and
my companion here at dinner could not have been less than forty-five at
most. Even the eyes, those betrayers of disguised faces, bore no
resemblance that I could see to the eyes of the man in the picture. The
beard and moustache of the man facing me were certainly not artificial.
That I could see at a glance.
"Why are you surprised?" the man asked abruptly.
"It would take a long time to explain," I answered, equivocating, "but
it is a curious coincidence that only yesterday I almost met a man named
Smithson. I was wondering if he could be some relation of yours. He
was not like you in face."
"Oh, so you know Smithson?"
"No, I don't know him. I have never met him. I said I _almost_ met
him."
"Have you never seen him, then?"
"Never in my life."
"And yet you say he is `not like me in face.' How do you know he is not
like me in face if you have never seen him?"
The sudden directness of his tone disconcerted me. For an instant I
felt like a witness being cross-examined by a bullying Counsel.
"I've seen a portrait of him."
"Indeed?"
My companion raised his eyebrows.
"And where did you see a portrait of him?" he inquired pointedly.
This was embarrassing. Why was he suddenly so interested, so
inquisitive? I had no wish to make statements which I felt might lead
to my being dragged into saying all sorts of things I had no wish to
say, especially to a stranger who, though he had led me to believe that
he was acquainted with the Thorolds, apparently had no inkling of what
had just happened at Houghton Park.
No inkling! I almost smiled as the thought occurred to me, and was
quickly followed by the thought of the sensation the affair would create
when the newspapers came to hear of what had happened, and began to
"spread themselves" upon the subject, as they certainly would do very
soon.
My companion's voice dispelled my wandering reflections.
"Where did you see the portrait of this other Smithson?" he asked,
looking at me oddly.
"In a friend's house."
"Was it at Houghton Park?"
"In point of fact, it was."
His eyes seemed to read my thoughts, and I didn't like it. He was
silent for some moments. Then suddenly he rose.
"Well, Mr. Ashton," he said quite genially, as he extended his hand, "I
am glad that we have met, and I trust we shall meet again. `In point of
fact,' to use your own phrase, we shall, and very soon. Until then--
good-bye. I have enjoyed our little conversation. It has been so--what
shall I say--informal, and it was so unexpected. I did not expect to
meet you to-night, I can assure you."
He was gone, leaving me in a not wholly pleasant frame of mind. The man
puzzled me. Did I like him, or did I not? His personality attracted
me, had done so from the moment I had set eyes on him framed in the
doorway, but I was bound to admit that some of his observations had
annoyed me. In particular, that remark: "We shall meet again, and very
soon;" also his last words: "I did not expect to meet you to-night, I
can assure you," caused me some uneasiness in the face of all that had
happened. Indeed all through dinner his remarks had somehow seemed to
bear some hidden meaning.