THE SCRAP OF PAPER
Hermione regarded the butler for a moment in amazed wonder.
"He wants to see me? Why?" she demanded.
"He didn't say ma'am. He came on a motor-bicycle and said he
understood that you had just arrived, that he was sorry to trouble
you, but he must see you as the matter was urgent."
Still puzzled, Hermione made her way down the dark passage towards
the entrance hall, and as she went it suddenly occurred to her that
this urgent matter might be in connection with that ridiculous story
of smuggling that Mr. Bray had mentioned, and her friend Iza had
commented upon during the drive there. But even were it so, what on
earth had it got to do with her?
She found the inspector--a well-built, intelligent-looking
man--pacing to and fro in the wide passage, his peaked cap under his
arm, his blue puttees bespattered with mud and a general appearance
of disorder about him which suggested much climbing among sand and
rocks, while his highly-coloured, rugged face wore an expression of
puzzlement.
"Will this be Mistress Rodenberg?" he inquired, as Hermione came to a
stand before him, and his eyes appraised the perfection of her beauty.
"Yes. I understand that you wished to see me. I have only just
arrived after a rather tiring journey." She added this faint protest
in justice to herself, and the other was quick to see it.
"I must apologize, ma'am," he said, and he spoke with a strong
Northern accent, rolling his r's with much vigour, "and I'll not keep
you a moment longer than necessary. But duty is duty, and I was sent
here to investigate into a matter which has come to our notice, and
to inquire if there is anything that you could be telling me aboot
it."
"I'm afraid I don't understand," said Hermione, devoutly wishing the
man would come to the point and leave her in peace. "I know nothing
about the place, really, as I have only just come here."
"That is so, ma'am, but having bought the place, you'll nae doot be
knowing something aboot the property that you have purchased. That
tower on the cliff, for instance, it is part of the purchase, too, I
suppose?"
"Certainly. It belongs to Ardenmore. In fact, it was originally
Ardenmore Castle, and now all that is left is the old tower, which is
partly a ruin."
"No' sae much of a ruin either," was the reply. "A man could weel
live there in comfort, I'm thinking, and it is the vera place for the
unlawfu' act of smuggling--but for ane thing----"
"Oh! Smuggling!" repeated Hermione, with an unconscious sigh of
relief. And then she wondered why she had experienced relief, and
what it was that subconsciously she had feared. "My secretary Mr.
Bray, told me something about the rumour that was going about."
"Ah, then you've heeared tell of it?" The inspector's eyes were
sharply on her face now, as though indeed there was something
suspicious in the fact that she had heard of the rumour at all.
"Only stupid gossip," she replied. "How could anyone carry on
smuggling up here? Where would they land? Where store the
contraband goods? And why go so far north?"
"That's juist what has been a sair puzzle to me," agreed Inspector
Mackay, with another keen glance at the beautiful face before him.
"There's a place for landing, sure enough, but the only room that has
a roof to it would no' be hiding a pair of silk stockings--for any
passer-by could see into it. And yet that there's something queer
hereaboots I'm sure. Lights have been seen far out at sea, and
there's tales of a motor-car that gangs from nowhere along the
Ardenmore road, once in a month or mair. And who would be coming
along there onless 'twas to come to this house, and the place has
been empty for ower twa year."
"A motor-car been seen?" echoed Hermione incredulously. "It must
have been my secretary who was up here a fortnight ago, and two or
three times before that when he came to see the house and attend to
business matters. No one else would come here, nor is there anywhere
else to go to but here, and I'm sure no one could live in the old
tower--at least, I think not."
And here she paused. Once only had she seen the place in question,
once when Dominic Arden had taken her there to show her his little
den where he could look out upon the sea and dream his dreams without
fear of interruption. The room was bare but habitable, boasting a
chair, a table, and the one outstanding and somewhat incongruous
feature--a large clock, in appearance resembling a grandfather's
clock, but built into the wall and--so he had told her--placed there
over a hundred years ago by an eccentric member of the Ardenmore
family, and the secret of which, he had added--"It has taken me a
month to discover, and when I have shown it to you then we two will
be the only people living who know it." But he had gone before the
secret could be told, and in any case she had never pondered very
deeply over it, and thought of it only as one of his odd whimsies.
For in some things Dominic had been a romantic, adventurous boy at
heart. Now this strange talk of smuggling, and the possibilities of
anyone making the place their headquarters for that nefarious
purpose, was awakening all those almost forgotten memories--trifles
which, compared to the one stark tragedy of his death, were not
worthy of a thought.
For to her, Dominic Arden was in very truth dead even though--miracle
of miracles!--he might actually have escaped death on the
battlefields of Flanders. The message which he had sent to her by
his friend, Frank Daneham had been sufficient proof of that. For
Dominic was not the man to bring his own disgrace and crime into her
life. And though she had tried by every means in her power--aided by
that true friend, Frank Daneham--to get news of him, either from
returned prisoners of war or through any other channel, she had
failed, and so preferred to think of him as dead and to live on the
memory of the past.
And now this wretched Inspector of Police was undoing all the work
that Time had achieved for her, and reawakening in her soul doubt and
dread and a fearful hope. For of all men Dominic Arden was the only
soul who knew of some secret connected with that tower, and it
seemed, by what this man was saying, that something was going on
there that needed explanation.
"You're thinking that a man could dwell there?" asked Mackay,
sharply--suspiciously.
She pulled herself together. "I can't say, it is ages since I saw
the place."
"Weel, mebbe they could, but there's nobody there now, for I bided
there mysel' the whole of last night, and have been searching the day
lang, yet neither mark nor track nor trace of living men can I see."
"Then why make any more fuss?" demanded Hermione. "The report must
have been false, and why, in any case, come to me about it?"
"Because I have to warrn you, ma'am, that I shall be placing a man on
the watch from to-morrow night, and also to ask you to be mindfu'
yoursel' of anything that might strike you as queer or unusual, and
to send worrd to me at headquarters."
"But what on earth could _I_ see?" she cried, in a bewildered voice.
Was _this_ the peace she had come for, then? To be bothered by
police in this uncalled-for manner? "Besides," she went on, as a
happy idea occurred to her, "I am not on the telephone."
"No, ma'am, but you have a chauffeur and a car, and a note from you
would bring me at once, which would be quicker than driving the
twenty odd miles to Ardenmore Post Office, where you could send a
telegram. But it's not that I'm asking you so much to help as that I
warrn you of possible danger. For the auld tower is but half a mile
awa', and this house is a likely place for a hunted man to come to,
and I'm thinking anything micht happen, if what I suspect is actually
true."
"But you have just told me, Inspector, that you have found nothing
suspicious," persisted Hermione, who was beginning to feel bored with
his pertinacity, and rather angry that he should trouble her with the
matter at all.
"Nay, ma'am, I have found naething for which I was looking, in the
matter of smugglers' caves or places where the goods can be dumped,
but I have found something else, and I wondered, mebbe, if you could
throw any light upon it." He put a hand into his tunic pocket, drew
out a tiny scrap of torn paper and gave it to her.
Phillimore had placed a lamp on a table in the wide passage, for it
had grown dark by then, and crossing over to it, she held the paper
to the light.
One sentence was written there in block letters, and it was a date.
Monday, December the 3rd, 1917.
Blankly she stared at the now blurred characters. For a sudden
nameless fear had seized her, an exquisite, torturing, impossible
hope. On this tiny scrap of paper was written the date on which
Dominic Arden had walked out of that Flanders hut to his death. A
date that was for ever graven on her heart. A date known only to
four people in the world: to herself--to Frank Daneham--to Colonel
Bessington, and--to Dominic Arden.
Why, then, was it here on this tiny scrap of paper? And what did it
mean? It was a dirty, crumpled bit of paper, and had apparently been
torn out of a notebook. By whom?
With a tremendous effort she stifled the cry that rose to her lips,
forced her voice to its normal tone, and turning to the inspector,
asked a question.
"Where did you find it?"
"On the shingle, juist below the auld tower," was the reply.