"Randall and Carleton are both desperately in love with the same girl,"
he replied. "Did you not notice the state of affairs this evening at
dinner?"
"I naturally noticed Miss Farnham," I answered at once. "It would be
difficult not to be attracted by so striking a personality."
"Barbara Farnham is, without exception, the most dangerous girl of
my acquaintance," replied Brabazon, with a slight laugh. "Before her
advent on the scene, Randall and Carleton were the best possible
friends. Now they are at daggers drawn."
"I confess I did not particularly observe them," I answered.
"Oh, they are just ordinary good young fellows," replied Brabazon. "I
am sorry for Carleton, of course, for I don't think he has the ghost
of a chance with Miss Farnham. He is not particularly good looking,
and he has the misfortune to be poor. Randall is a handsome lad, and
has considerable expectations. His father is Lord Hartmore--but the
fact is, I don't think the girl means to marry either of them--she
is simply playing one against the other for her own ends. She is a
handsome witch, and a dangerous one. She plays as carelessly with edged
tools--as carelessly and unconcernedly as a baby would with its rattle."
I said nothing further. Brabazon conducted me to my room, and wished me
good-night. I sat down by the fire, and thought in an idle manner over
the events of the evening. There was a large house party at Penporran.
Shooting was going on vigorously, and cub-hunting had begun. Some of
the guests were acquaintances of mine. In short, I looked forward to a
pleasant week in this genial house. As I laid my head on my pillow I
thought again, but without any specially keen interest, of Brabazon's
story about the disturbing elements which were now agitating the air of
this otherwise peaceful mansion.
Two young men were in love with the same girl. Surely the situation was
a very ordinary one. Such a complication happened daily.
I wondered why Brabazon should have troubled himself to mention such
an ordinary event, but as I was dropping off to sleep, I saw rising
up before me, in my mind's eye, the proud, beautiful face of Barbara
Farnham, and a kind of intuition told me that these commonplace
incidents might assume the form of tragedy in her cruel and careless
hands.
I dreamt of Miss Farnham that night, and came down to breakfast the
next morning with my curiosity considerably aroused about her.
She was in the room when I entered, and was idly helping herself to
a cup of coffee, which she carried to a distant window where a small
table was also laid for breakfast. She sat down, and, sipping it
leisurely, looked around her with a careless glance. Her eyes fell on
me--she smiled and motioned to me to approach.
"Pray bring your breakfast to this table," she said, in a light tone.
"I was immensely interested in you when I heard you were coming. I
adore doctors, particularly if they are clever. Are you going to ride
this morning?"