The beautiful but somewhat austere front of St. David’s Hall seemed, in
a sense, transformed, as Hamel and his companion climbed the worn grey
steps which led on to the broad sweep of terrace. Evidently visitors had
recently arrived. A dark, rather good-looking woman, with pleasant round
face and a ceaseless flow of conversation, was chattering away to
Mr. Fentolin. By her side stood another woman who was a stranger to
Hamel--thin, still elegant, with tired, worn face, and the shadow of
something in her eyes which reminded him at once of Esther. She wore a
large picture hat and carried a little Pomeranian dog under her arm. In
the background, an insignificant-looking man with grey side-whiskers and
spectacles was beaming upon everybody. Mr. Fentolin waved his hand and
beckoned to Hamel and Esther as they somewhat hesitatingly approached.
“This is one of my fortunate mornings, you see, Esther!” he exclaimed,
smiling. “Lady Saxthorpe has brought her husband over to lunch. Lady
Saxthorpe,” he added, turning to the woman at his side, “let me present
to you the son of one of the first men to realise the elusive beauty of
our coast. This is Mr. Hamel, son of Peter Hamel, R.A.--the Countess of
Saxthorpe.”
Lady Saxthorpe, who had been engaged in greeting Esther, held out her
hand and smiled good-humouredly at Hamel.
“I know your father’s work quite well,” she declared, “and I don’t
wonder that you have made a pilgrimage here. They tell me that he
painted nineteen pictures--pictures of importance, that is to say--within
this little area of ten miles. Do you paint, Mr. Hamel?”
“Not at all,” Hamel answered.
“Our friend Hamel,” Mr. Fentolin intervened, “woos other and sterner
muses. He fights nature in distant countries, spans her gorges with iron
bridges, stems the fury of her rivers, and carries to the boundary of
the world that little twin line of metal which brings men like ants to
the work-heaps of the universe. My dear Florence,” he added, suddenly
turning to the woman at his other side, “for the moment I had forgotten.
You have not met our guest yet. Hamel, this is my sister-in-law, Mrs.
Seymour Fentolin.”
She held out her hand to him, unnaturally thin and white, covered with
jewels. Again he saw something in her eyes which stirred him vaguely.
“It is so nice that you are able to spend a few days with us, Mr.
Hamel,” she said quietly. “I am sorry that I have been too indisposed to
make your acquaintance earlier.”
“And,” Mr. Fentolin continued, “you must know my young friend here, too.
Mr. Hamel--Lord Saxthorpe.”
The latter shook hands heartily with the young man.
“I knew your father quite well,” he announced. “Queer thing, he used to
hang out for months at a time at that little shanty on the beach there.
Hardest work in the world to get him away. He came over to dine with us
once or twice, but we saw scarcely anything of him. I hope his son will
not prove so obdurate.”
“You are very kind,” Hamel murmured.
“Mr. Hamel came into these parts to claim his father’s property,” Mr.
Fentolin said. “However, I have persuaded him to spend a day or two up
here before he transforms himself into a misanthrope. What of his golf,
Esther, eh?”
“Mr. Hamel plays very well, indeed,” the girl replied.
“Your niece was too good for me,” Hamel confessed.
Mr. Fentolin smiled.
“The politeness of this younger generation,” he remarked, “keeps the
truth sometimes hidden from us. I perceive that I shall not be told who
won. Lady Saxthorpe, you are fortunate indeed in the morning you have
chosen for your visit. There is no sun in the world like an April sun,
and no corner of the earth where it shines with such effect as here.
Look steadily to the eastward of that second dike and you will see the
pink light upon the sands, which baffled every one until our friend
Hamel came and caught it on his canvas.”
“I do see it,” Lady Saxthorpe murmured. “What eyes you have, Mr.
Fentolin! What perception for colour!”
“Dear lady,” Mr. Fentolin said, “I am one of those who benefit by the
law of compensations. On a morning like this I can spend hours merely
feasting my eyes upon this prospect, and I can find, if not happiness,
the next best thing. The world is full of beautiful places, but the
strange part of it is that beauty has countless phases, and each phase
differs in some subtle and unexplainable manner from all others. Look
with me fixedly, dear Lady Saxthorpe. Look, indeed, with more than your
eyes. Look at that flush of wild lavender, where it fades into the sands
on one side, and strikes the emerald green of that wet seamoss on the
other. Look at the liquid blue of that tongue of sea which creeps along
its bed through the yellow sands, through the dark meadowland, which
creeps and oozes and widens till in an hour’s time it will have become a
river. Look at my sand islands, virgin from the foot of man, the home of
sea-gulls, the islands of a day. There may be other and more beautiful
places. There is none quite like this.”
“I pity you no longer,” Lady Saxthorpe asserted fervently. “The eyes of
the artist are a finer possession than the limbs of the athlete.”
The butler announced luncheon, and they all trooped in. Hamel found
himself next to Lady Saxthorpe.
“Dear Mr. Fentolin has been so kind,” she confided to him as they took
their places. “I came in fear and trembling to ask for a very small
cheque for my dear brother’s diocese. My brother is a colonial bishop,
you know. Can you imagine what Mr. Fentolin has given me?”
Hamel wondered politely. Lady Saxthorpe continued with an air of
triumph.
“A thousand pounds! Just fancy that--a thousand pounds! And some
people say he is so difficult,” she went on, dropping her voice. “Mrs.
Hungerford came all the way over from Norwich to beg for the infirmary
there, and he gave her nothing.”
“What was his excuse?” Hamel asked.
“I think he told her that it was against his principles to give to
hospitals,” Lady Saxthorpe replied. “He thinks that they should be
supported out of the rates.”
“Some people have queer ideas of charity,” Hamel remarked. “Now I am
afraid that if I had been Mr. Fentolin, I would have given the thousand
pounds willingly to a hospital, but not a penny to a mission.”
Mr. Fentolin looked suddenly down the table. He was some distance away,
but his hearing was wonderful.
“Ah, my dear Hamel,” he said, “believe me, missions are very wonderful
things. It is only from a very careful study of their results that I
have brought myself to be a considerable supporter of those where I have
some personal knowledge of the organisation. Hospitals, on the other
hand, provide for the poor what they ought to be able to provide for
themselves. The one thing to avoid in the giving away of money is
pauperisation. What do you think, Florence?”
His sister-in-law, who was seated at the other end of the table, looked
across at him with a bright but stereotyped smile.
“I agree with you, of course, Miles. I always agree with you. Mr.
Fentolin has the knack of being right about most things,” she continued,
turning to Lord Saxthorpe. “His judgment is really wonderful.”
“Wish we could get him to come and sit on the bench sometimes, then,”
Lord Saxthorpe remarked heartily. “Our neighbours in this part of the
world are not overburdened with brains. By-the-by,” he went on, “that
reminds me. You haven’t got such a thing as a mysterious invalid in the
house, have you?”
There was a moment’s rather curious silence. Mr. Fentolin was sitting
like a carved figure, with a glass of wine half raised to his lips.
Gerald had broken off in the middle of a sentence and was staring at
Lord Saxthorpe. Esther was sitting perfectly still, her face grave and
calm, her eyes alone full of fear. Lord Saxthorpe was not an observant
man and he continued, quite unconscious of the sensation which his
question had aroused.
“Sounds a silly thing to ask you, doesn’t it? They’re all full of it
at Wells, though. I sat on the bench this morning and went into the
police-station for a moment first. Seems they’ve got a long dispatch
from Scotland Yard about a missing man who is supposed to be in this
part of the world. He came down in a special train on Tuesday night--the
night of the great flood--and his train was wrecked at Wymondham. After
that he was taken on by some one in a motor-car. Colonel Renshaw wanted
me to allude to the matter from the bench, but it seemed to me that it
was an affair entirely for the police.”
As though suddenly realising the unexpected interest which his words had
caused, Lord Saxthorpe brought his sentence to a conclusion and glanced
enquiringly around the table.
“A man could scarcely disappear in a civilised neighbourhood like
this,” Mr. Fentolin remarked quietly, “but there is a certain amount of
coincidence about your question. May I ask whether it was altogether a
haphazard one?”
“Absolutely,” Lord Saxthorpe declared. “The idea seems to be that the
fellow was brought to one of the houses in the neighbourhood, and we
were all rather chaffing one another this morning about it. Inspector
Yardley--the stout fellow with the beard, you know--was just starting
off in his dog-cart to make enquiries round the neighbourhood. If any
one in fiction wants a type of the ridiculous detective, there he is,
ready-made.”
“The coincidence of your question,” Mr. Fentolin said smoothly, “is
certainly a strange one. The mysterious stranger is within our gates.”
Lady Saxthorpe, who had been out of the conversation for far too long,
laid down her knife and fork.
“My dear Mr. Fentolin!” she exclaimed. “My dear Mrs. Fentolin! This is
really most exciting! Do tell us all about it at once. I thought that
the man was supposed to have been decoyed away in a motor-car. Do you
know his name and all about him?”
“There are a few minor points,” Mr. Fentolin murmured, “such as his
religious convictions and his size in boots, which I could not swear
about, but so far as regards his name and his occupation, I think I can
gratify your curiosity. He is a Mr. John P. Dunster, and he appears
to be the representative of an American firm of bankers, on his way to
Germany to conclude a loan.”
“God bless my soul!” Lord Saxthorpe exclaimed wonderingly. “The fellow
is actually here under this roof! But who brought him? How did he find
his way?”
“Better ask Gerald,” Mr. Fentolin replied. “He is the abductor. It seems
that they both missed the train from Liverpool Street, and Mr. Dunster
invited Gerald to travel down in his special train. Very kind of him,
but might have been very unlucky for Gerald. As you know, they got
smashed up at Wymondham, and Gerald, feeling in a way responsible for
him, brought him on here; quite properly, I think. Sarson has been
looking after him, but I am afraid he has slight concussion of the
brain.”
“I shall remember this all my life,” Lord Saxthorpe declared solemnly,
“as one of the most singular coincidences which has ever come within my
personal knowledge. Perhaps after lunch, Mr. Fentolin, you will let some
of your people telephone to the police-station at Wells? There really is
an important enquiry respecting this man. I should not be surprised,” he
added, dropping his voice a little for the benefit of the servants, “to
find that Scotland Yard needed him on their own account.”
“In that case,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, “he is quite safe, for Sarson
tells me there is no chance of his being able to travel, at any rate for
twenty-four hours.”
Lady Saxthorpe shivered.
“Aren’t you afraid to have him in the house?” she asked, “a man who is
really and actually wanted by Scotland Yard? When one considers that
nothing ever happens here except an occasional shipwreck in the winter
and a flower-show in the summer, it does sound positively thrilling. I
wonder what he has done.”
They discussed the subject of Mr. Dunster’s possible iniquities.
Meanwhile, a young man carrying his hat in his hand had slipped in past
the servants and was leaning over Mr. Fentolin’s chair. He laid two
or three sheets of paper upon the table and waited while his employer
glanced them through and dismissed him with a little nod.
“My wireless has been busy this morning,” Mr. Fentolin remarked. “We
seem to have collected about forty messages from different battleships
and cruisers. There must be a whole squadron barely thirty miles out.”
“You don’t really think,” Lady Saxthorpe asked, “that there is any fear
of war, do you, Mr. Fentolin?”
He answered her with a certain amount of gravity. “Who can tell? The
papers this morning were bad. This conference at The Hague is still
unexplained. France’s attitude in the matter is especially mysterious.”
“I am a strong supporter of Lord Roberts,” Lord Saxthorpe said, “and I
believe in the vital necessity of some scheme for national service. At
the same time, I find it hard to believe that a successful invasion of
this country is within the bounds of possibility.”
“I quite agree with you, Lord Saxthorpe,” Mr. Fentolin declared
smoothly. “All the same, this Hague Conference is a most mysterious
affair. The papers this morning are ominously silent about the fleet.
From the tangle of messages we have picked up, I should say, without a
doubt, that some form of mobilisation is going on in the North Sea. If
Lady Saxthorpe thinks it warm enough, shall we take our coffee upon the
terrace?”
“The terrace, by all means,” her ladyship assented, rising from her
place. “What a wonderful man you are, Mr. Fentolin, with your wireless
telegraphy, and your telegraph office in the house, and telephones. Does
it really amuse you to be so modern?”
“To a certain extent, yes,” Mr. Fentolin sighed, as he guided his chair
along the hall. “When my misfortune first came, I used to speculate a
good deal upon the Stock Exchange. That was really the reason I went in
for all these modern appliances.”
“And now?” she asked. “What use do you make of them now?”
Mr. Fentolin smiled quietly. He looked out sea-ward, beyond the
sky-line, from whence had come to him, through the clouds, that tangle
of messages.
“I like to feel,” he said, “that the turning wheel of life is not
altogether out of earshot. I like to dabble just a little in the
knowledge of these things.”
Lord Saxthorpe came strolling up to them.
“You won’t forget to telephone about this guest of yours?” he asked
fussily.
“It is already done,” Mr. Fentolin assured him. “My dear sister, why so
silent?”
Mrs. Fentolin turned slowly towards him. She, too, had been standing
with her eyes fixed upon the distant sea-line. Her face seemed
suddenly to have aged, her forced vivacity to have departed. Her little
Pomeranian rubbed against her feet in vain. Yet at the sound of Mr.
Fentolin’s voice, she seemed to come back to herself as though by magic.
“I was looking where you were looking,” she declared lightly, “just
trying to see a little way beyond. So silly, isn’t it? Chow-Chow, you
bad little dog, come and you shall have your dinner.”
She strolled off, humming a tune to herself. Lord Saxthorpe watched her
with a shadow upon his plain, good-humoured face.
“Somehow or other,” he remarked quietly, “Mrs. Fentolin never seems to
have got over the loss of her husband, does she? How long is it since he
died?”
“Eight years,” Mr. Fentolin replied. “It was just six months after my
own accident.”
“I am losing a great deal of sympathy for you, Mr. Fentolin,” Lady
Saxthorpe confessed, coming over to his side. “You have so many
resources, there is so much in life which you can do. You paint, as
we all know, exquisitely. They tell me that you play the violin like a
master. You have unlimited time for reading, and they say that you are
one of the greatest living authorities upon the politics of Europe. Your
morning paper must bring you so much that is interesting.”
“It is true,” Mr. Fentolin admitted, “that I have compensations which no
one can guess at, compensations which appeal to me more as time steals
on. And yet--”
He stopped short.
“And yet?” Lady Saxthorpe repeated interrogatively.
Mr. Fentolin was watching Gerald drive golf balls from the lawn beneath.
He pointed downwards.
“I was like that when I was his age,” he said quietly.