DAWN.
On the morrow as we walked out together, my father and I, making our way
as though by common consent up towards the bare brown hills, I remembered
that there were many things which I wished to say to him.
"I want to ask you about Mr. Marx, father," I began. "Everything
concerning him is so utterly mysterious, especially his going away so
suddenly. Apart from the fear of his having used some sort of foul play
towards Hart--or Francis--I can't help thinking that there is something
else wrong with him. You trust him thoroughly, I suppose?" I added
hesitatingly.
"I have always done so," my father answered quietly.
"Do you like the man himself?" I asked.
My father shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"I cannot say that he has ever aroused my feelings in any way," he
answered. "He has had work to do for me and has done it well and
silently. I have looked upon him somewhat as an automaton, although a
valuable one. And yet----" he added musingly.
"Yet what?" I interrupted.
"Well, sometimes I have half fancied that he was playing a part, that his
interest in our work was a little strained. He gave me the idea of a man
working steadily forward towards a set purpose, and I have never seemed
able to reconcile that purpose with the completion of our task. His
sudden absences, too--for this is not the first of them,--are strange."
"I should think so," I assented. "Has he taken anything away with him
this time?" I asked bluntly.
A very grave look came into my father's face and he did not answer me at
once. When he did so his tone was low and anxious.
"Yes, he has. About a fortnight ago we came to the end, virtually, of our
long task. There was only a little revision wanted, which he was to have
left for me. The night that he disappeared the manuscript disappeared
also. Evidently he took it away with him."
"Perhaps he has taken it to the publishers," I suggested. My father shook
his head doubtfully.
"Only this morning I have heard from them, begging me to forward it
without delay," he said.
I was silent. Even if he had taken the manuscript, what use could he make
of it? How could it profit him?
Suddenly I stood still in the path. My heart gave a great leap and a cry
broke from my lips. For the first time an idea, the vague phantom of an
idea, swept in upon me, carrying all before it, and casting a brilliant,
lurid light upon all that seemed so dark and mysterious.
"This man, Marx," I cried, seizing my father's arm. "Tell me quickly. Has
he ever reminded you of anyone?"
My father looked at me wonderingly.
"It is strange that you should ask that," he said. "Sometimes, especially
when I have come upon him alone, or have seen him excited, his tone and
little mannerisms have seemed somehow vaguely familiar. And yet," he
added thoughtfully, "I have never been able to recall of whom they have
reminded me."
I opened my trembling lips to speak, but a wave of cold doubt swept in
upon me. Surely this thing could not be! I must be mad to let the idea
linger for a moment in my mind. And yet----
At that moment of my hesitation, my father's hand fell heavily upon my
arm. He pointed forward along the dark avenue with a shaking finger. In
the dim twilight we could see the tall gaunt figure of a man in ragged
clothes, making his way up to the castle.
"That is not one of my men, Philip," he said hoarsely. "Who is it?"
I shook my head.
"It is a stranger."
My father turned abruptly from the avenue into a side-walk.
"Follow me," he said; "we will go in by the private way."
We walked across the turf, through a little iron gate, which my father
unlocked, and entered the shrubbery walk.
Once I looked round through an opening in the laurel leaves. The stranger
was leaning wearily against the railings round the lodge, waiting for
admittance.