Miss Drewitt sat for some time in her room after the visitors had
departed, eyeing with some disfavour the genuine antiques which she owed
to the enterprise, not to say officiousness, of Edward Tredgold. That
they were in excellent taste was undeniable, but there was a flavour of
age and a suspicion of decay about them which did not make for
cheerfulness.
She rose at last, and taking off her watch went through the nightly task
of wondering where she had put the key after using it last. It was not
until she had twice made a fruitless tour of the room with the candle
that she remembered that she had left it on the mantelpiece downstairs.
The captain was still below, and after a moment's hesitation she opened
her door and went softly down the steep winding stairs.
The door at the foot stood open, and revealed the captain standing by the
table. There was an air of perplexity and anxiety about him such as she
had never seen before, and as she waited he crossed to the bureau, which
stood open, and searched feverishly among the papers which littered it.
Apparently dissatisfied with the result, he moved it out bodily and
looked behind and beneath it. Coming to an erect position again he
suddenly became aware of the presence of his niece.
[Illustration: "He moved it out bodily and looked behind and beneath
it."]
"It's gone," he said, in an amazed voice.
"Gone?" repeated Prudence. "What has gone?"
"The map," said the captain, tumbling his beard. "I put it in this end
pigeon-hole the other night after showing it and I haven't touched it
since; and it's gone."
"But you burnt it!" said Prudence, with an astonished laugh.
The captain started. "No; I was going to," he said, eyeing her in
manifest confusion.
"But you said that you had," persisted his niece.
"Yes," stammered the captain, "I know I did, but I hadn't. I was just
looking ahead a bit, that was all. I went to the bureau just now to do
it."
Miss Drewitt eyed him with mild reproach. "You even described how you
did it," she said, slowly. "You said that Mount Lonesome turned into a
volcano. Wasn't it true?"
"Figure o' speech, my dear," said the unhappy captain; "I've got a
talent for description that runs away with me at times."
His niece gazed at him in perplexity.
"You know what Chalk is," said Captain Bowers, appealingly. "I was going
to do it yesterday, only I forgot it, and he would have gone down on his
knees for another sight of it. I don't like to seem disobliging to
friends, and it seemed to me a good way out of it. Chalk is so eager--
it's like refusing a child, and I hurt his feelings only the other day."
"Perhaps you burnt it after all and forgot it?" said Prudence.
For the first time in her knowledge of him the captain got irritable with
her. "I've not burnt it," he said, sharply. "Where's that Joseph? He
must know something about it!"
He moved to the foot of the staircase, but Miss Drewitt laid a detaining
hand on his arm.
"Joseph was in the room when you said that you had burnt it," she
exclaimed. "You can't contradict yourself like that before him.
Besides, I'm sure he has had nothing to do with it."
"Somebody's got it," grumbled her uncle, pausing.
He dropped into his chair and looked at her in consternation. "Good
heavens! Suppose they go after it," he said, in a choking voice.
"Well, it won't be your fault," said Prudence. "You haven't broken your
word intentionally."
But the captain paid no heed. He was staring wild-eyed into vacancy and
rumpling his grey hair until it stood at all angles. His face reflected
varying emotions.
"Somebody has got it," he said again.
"Whoever it is will get no good by it," said Miss Drewitt, who had had a
pious upbringing.
"And if they've got the map they'll go after the island," said the
captain, pursuing his train of thought.
"Perhaps they won't find it after all," said Prudence.
"Perhaps they won't," said the captain, gruffly.
He got up and paced the room restlessly. Prudence, watching him with
much sympathy, had a sudden idea.
"Edward Tredgold was in here alone this afternoon," she said,
significantly.
"No, no," said the captain, warmly. "Whoever has got it, it isn't Edward
Tredgold. I expect the talk about it has leaked out and somebody has
slipped in and taken it. I ought to have been more careful."
"He started when you said that you had burnt it," persisted Miss Drewitt,
unwilling to give up a theory so much to her liking. "You mark my words
if his father and Mr. Chalk and that Mr. Stobell don't go away for a
holiday soon. Good-night."
She kissed him affectionately under the left eye--a place overlooked by
his beard--and went upstairs again. The captain filled his pipe and,
resuming his chair, sat in a brown study until the clock of the
neighbouring church struck two.
It was about the same time that Mr. Chalk fell asleep, thoroughly worn
out by the events of the evening and a conversation with Mr. Stobell and
Mr. Tredgold, whom he had met on the way home waiting for him.
The opinion of Mr. Tredgold senior, an opinion in which Mr. Stobell fully
acquiesced, was that Mr. Chalk had ruined everything by displaying all
along a youthful impetuosity sadly out of place in one of his years and
standing. The offender's plea that he had thought it best to strike
while the iron was hot only exposed him to further contumely.
"Well, it's no good talking about it," said Mr. Tredgold, impatiently.
"It's all over now and done with."
"Half a million clean chucked away," said Mr. Stobell.
Mr. Chalk shook his head and, finding that his friends had by no means
exhausted the subject, suddenly bethought himself of an engagement and
left them.
Miss Vickers, who heard the news from Mr. Joseph Tasker, received it with
an amount of amazement highly gratifying to his powers as a narrator.
Her strongly expressed opinion afterwards that he had misunderstood what
he had heard was not so agreeable.
"I suppose I can believe my own ears?" he said, in an injured voice.
"He must have been making fun of them all," said Selina. "He couldn't
have burnt it--he couldn't."
"Why not?" inquired the other, surprised at her vehemence.
Miss Vickers hesitated. "Because it would be such a silly thing to do,"
she said, at last. "Now, tell me what you heard all over again--slow."
Mr. Tasker complied.
"I can't make head or tail of it," said Miss Vickers when he had
finished.
"Seems simple enough to me," said Joseph, staring at her.
"All things seem simple when you don't know them," said Miss Vickers,
vaguely.
She walked home in a thoughtful mood, and for a day or two went about the
house with an air of preoccupation which was a source of much speculation
to the family. George Vickers, aged six, was driven to the verge of
madness by being washed. Three times in succession one morning; a gag of
well-soaped flannel being applied with mechanical regularity each time
that he strove to point out the unwashed condition of Martha and Charles.
His turn came when the exultant couple, charged with having made
themselves dirty in the shortest time on record, were deprived of their
breakfast. Mr. Vickers, having committed one or two minor misdemeanours
unchallenged, attributed his daughter's condition to love, and began to
speak of that passion with more indulgence than he had done since his
marriage.
Miss Vickers's' abstraction, however, lasted but three days. On the
fourth she was herself again, and, having spent the day in hard work,
dressed herself with unusual care in the evening and went out.
The evening was fine and the air, to one who had been at work indoors all
day, delightful. Miss Vickers walked briskly along with the smile of a
person who has solved a difficult problem, but as she drew near the Horse
and Groom, a hostelry of retiring habits, standing well back from the
road, the smile faded and she stood face to face with the stern realities
of life.
[Illustration: "She stood face to face with the stern realities of
life."]
A few yards from the side-door Mr. Vickers stood smoking a contemplative
pipe; the side-door itself had just closed behind a tall man in
corduroys, who bore in his right hand a large mug made of pewter.
"Ho!" said Selina, "so this is how you go on the moment my back is
turned, is it?"
"What d'ye mean?" demanded Mr. Vickers, blustering.
"You know what I mean," said his daughter, "standing outside and sending
Bill Russell in to get you beer. That's what I mean."
Mr. Vickers turned, and with a little dramatic start intimated that he
had caught sight of Mr. Russell for the first time that evening. Mr.
Russell himself sought to improve the occasion.
"Wish I may die--" he began, solemnly.
"Like a policeman," continued Selina, regarding her father indignantly.
"I wish I _was_ a policeman," muttered Mr. Vickers. "I'd show some of
you."
"What have you got to say for yourself?" demanded Miss Vickers, shortly.
"Nothing," said the culprit. "I s'pose I can stand where I like?
There's no law agin it."
"Do you mean to say that you didn't send Bill in to get you some beer?"
said his daughter.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Vickers, with great indignation. "I shouldn't
think of such a thing."
"I shouldn't get it if 'e did," said Mr. Russell, virtuously.
"Whose beer is it, then?" said Selina.
"Why, Bill's, I s'pose; how should I know?" replied Mr. Vickers.
"Yes, it's mine," said Mr. Russell.
"Drink it up, then," commanded Miss Vickers, sternly.
Both men started, and then Mr. Russell, bestowing a look of infinite
compassion upon his unfortunate friend, raised the mug obediently to his
sensitive lips. Always a kind-hearted man, he was glad when the gradual
tilting necessary to the occasion had blotted out the picture of
indignation which raged helplessly before him.
"I 'ope you're satisfied now," he said severely to the girl, as he turned
a triumphant glance on Mr. Vickers, which that gentleman met with a cold
stare.
Miss Vickers paid no heed. "You get off home," she said to her father;
"I'll see to the Horse and Groom to-morrow."
Mr. Vickers muttered something under his breath, and then, with a forlorn
attempt at dignity, departed.
Miss Vickers, ignoring the remarks of one or two fathers of families who
were volunteering information as to what they would do if she were their
daughter, watched him out of sight and resumed her walk. She turned once
or twice as though to make sure that she was not observed, and then,
making her way in the direction of Mr. Chalk's house, approached it
cautiously from the back.
Mr. Chalk, who was in the garden engaged in the useful and healthful
occupation of digging, became aware after a time of a low whistle
proceeding from the farther end. He glanced almost mechanically in that
direction, and then nearly dropped his spade as he made out a girl's head
surmounted by a large hat. The light was getting dim, but the hat had an
odd appearance of familiarity. A stealthy glance in the other direction
showed him the figure of Mrs. Chalk standing to attention just inside the
open French windows of the drawing-room.
[Illustration: "He made out a girl's head surmounted by a large hat."]
The whistle came again, slightly increased in volume. Mr. Chalk, pausing
merely to wipe his brow, which had suddenly become very damp, bent to his
work with renewed vigour. It is an old idea that whistling aids manual
labour; Mr. Chalk, moistening his lips with a tongue grown all too
feverish for the task, began to whistle a popular air with much
liveliness.
The idea was ingenious, but hopeless from the start. The whistle at the
end of the garden became piercing in its endeavour to attract attention,
and, what was worse, developed an odd note of entreaty. Mr. Chalk, pale
with apprehension, could bear no more.
"Well, I think I've done enough for one night," he observed, cheerfully
and loudly, as he thrust his spade into the ground and took his coat from
a neighbouring bush.
He turned to go indoors and, knowing his wife's objection to dirty boots,
made for the door near the kitchen. As he passed the drawing-room
window, however, a low but imperative voice pronounced his name.
"Yes, my dear," said Mr. Chalk.
"There's a friend of yours whistling for you," said his wife, with forced
calmness.
"Whistling?" said Mr. Chalk, with as much surprise as a man could assume
in face of the noise from the bottom of the garden.
"Do you mean to tell me you can't hear it?" demanded his wife, in a
choking voice.
Mr. Chalk lost his presence of mind. "I thought it was a bird," he said,
assuming a listening attitude.
"_Bird?_" gasped the indignant Mrs. Chalk. "Look down there. Do you
call that a bird?"
Mr. Chalk looked and uttered a little cry of astonishment.
"I suppose she wants to see one of the servants," he said, at last; "but
why doesn't she go round to the side entrance? I shall have to speak to
them about it."
Mrs. Chalk drew herself up and eyed him with superb disdain.
"Go down and speak to her," she commanded. "Certainly not," said Mr.
Chalk, braving her, although his voice trembled.
"Why not?"
"Because if I did you would ask me what she said, and when I told you you
wouldn't believe me," said Mr. Chalk.
"You--you decline to go down?" said his wife, in a voice shaking with
emotion.
"I do," said Mr. Chalk, firmly. "Why don't you go yourself?"
Mrs. Chalk eyed him for a moment in scornful silence, and then stepped to
the window and sailed majestically down the garden. Mr. Chalk watched
her, with parted lips, and then he began to breathe more freely as the
whistle ceased and the head suddenly disappeared. Still a little
nervous, he watched his wife to the end of the garden and saw her crane
her head over the fence. By the time she returned he was sitting in an
attitude of careless ease, with his back to the window.
"Well?" he said, with assurance.
Mrs. Chalk stood stock-still, and the intensity of her gaze drew Mr.
Chalk's eyes to her face despite his will. For a few seconds she gazed
at him in silence, and then, drawing her skirts together, swept violently
out of the room.