A LADY’S GLOVE
That evening Constance was alone, Philip having gone to visit a
parishioner who was sick. It was chilly, and she drew her chair close
to the fire. A book lay on her knee, but she was not reading, her mind
being engrossed with the events of the afternoon.
On the way home from the Manor, Philip had related to her all that had
happened, and it was evident from his remarks that he had no knowledge
of what transpired just before she lost consciousness. She had almost
there and then told him, but checked the impulse, thinking it better
perhaps to wait a little.
It was satisfying to know that some progress had been made, and that
she had been instrumental in it; but the curious incident which had
twice occurred rather damped her spirits. The effect of it—besides
confirming her instinctive dislike for the Master of Storton—was to
arouse a suspicion in her mind that he was a dangerous man!
She would very much like to know what had caused that dreadful feeling
of horror—she shuddered as she remembered it—but for that, the progress
that had been made would have given her every cause for satisfaction.
What particularly troubled her was, that while naturally she did not
want to suffer another such experience, she was aware of a distinct
desire within her to again look into his eyes! It was not pleasant
to be conscious of that fact under the circumstances; it made her
feel just a little bit helpless; but having promised to assist all
she could, she did not want to go back on her word without sufficient
cause, yet just then she decidedly felt that she would rather not go to
the Manor again.
Had she been a man, she would probably have come to the conclusion
that it was a mere coincidence, and have dismissed the matter from her
mind, on the ground that there was not any reasonable basis upon which
to assume anything, but being a woman, she did not think that way. She
instinctively disliked the man, and that was sufficient for her to
arrive at the conclusion that there was something wrong with him.
Some men would laugh at such a decision, putting it down to woman’s
illogical way of reasoning; but it is as well to remember that the
feminine mind intuitively arrives at correct solutions of things far
more quickly than the masculine mind does by the slow and not always
sound process of reasoning.
In the fading light Constance idly watched the shadows from the fire
silently playing on the walls and ceiling. Outside all seemed peaceful
and at rest, in ironic contrast to her mind. Something she would have
to decide upon soon; such a state of indecision she well knew could not
last for long. But it was not an easy task.
Her meditations were interrupted by a ring of the front-door bell, and
shortly afterwards the maid announced that Mr. Shepperton had called to
see Mr. Alletson.
“Of course, Martha, you told him the master was out?”
“Yes, miss,” she replied. “So he said he would be glad if he could see
you for a few minutes.”
Constance frowned; she did not particularly want to see anyone just
then; but perhaps he had called to see her brother about some Church
work, and in that case she felt it her duty to see him. So rising, she
lighted the gas and told Martha to show Mr. Shepperton in.
As soon as he entered the room, Constance noticed that he was unnerved.
His eyes shone brightly and his face was paler than usual, though the
colour kept coming and going in his cheeks.
She looked at him a little startled, not quite knowing what to do; at
last he exclaimed:
“I’ve found a clue!” and then dropped into a chair, breathing
irregularly.
She looked at him in mute surprise for a moment, then it suddenly
occurred to her that he looked ill, and she said:
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Shepperton?”
He nodded, then answered gratefully:
“Thanks, I should like a glass of water.”
When she left the room, he rose and commenced to walk quickly backwards
and forwards. He gazed restlessly around him and said half aloud:
“By God! if it is he, I’ll”—but he did not finish the sentence, for at
that moment Constance re-entered the room.
He drank some of the water eagerly, and put down the glass with a sigh
of relief.
She looked at him sympathetically. Her disposition was a kind one, and
she was very sorry for him in his trouble. It is hard to lose one who
is dear to you, and she had extended her sympathy to Mr. Shepperton
beyond the ordinary, and she felt that he had been grateful to her.
When he had recovered himself somewhat, Arthur Shepperton put his hand
inside his coat, and without a word, drew forth a kid glove, which
he carefully placed on the table. For a short time he looked at it
despairingly, then said:
“Do you know to whom that belongs?”
Constance looked at him questioningly.
“Look inside it,” he continued.
Constance silently picked it up and read on the lining the initials “E.
H.”
She trembled a little, in spite of her determination to keep cool.
“And where did you find it?” she half whispered.
He expected her question, for he answered immediately:
“In the priory ruins!”
Constance’s heart jumped; she at once thought of Philip’s adventure.
Shepperton noticed her start, and looked at her curiously.
During the pause the door opened and Philip entered. Neither heard him,
they were so absorbed, each in their own thoughts.
The Vicar looked at them wonderingly, Shepperton leaning forward in
his chair, staring at Constance, while she stood gazing at him, with
one hand on the table, supporting her body, the other holding up the
glove.
“What is the matter?” he said quietly.
They both turned suddenly, and Constance exclaimed:
“Oh! I’m so glad you have come. Mr. Shepperton has found Miss Hobson’s
glove in the priory.”
The Vicar uttered an exclamation, and taking the glove from his sister
looked at it intently; then turning to Shepperton, he asked:
“Of course, there can be no doubt about it?”
The other man laughed mirthlessly, and answered:
“Not a shadow of a doubt, I could swear to it.”
“Where exactly was it?” asked Alletson.
“I went for a walk this afternoon, and coming back I wandered into the
ruins. I don’t know them very well, so I thought I would have a look
round. Now you know the part which used to be the chapel?”
“—m—yes,” answered the Vicar.
“Well, up at the top end, where the altar would have been, the wall is
crumbling away in parts, and I had just stepped across one of these
places, when my foot dislodged one of the loose stones. This fell on
the ground outside the wall and knocked away another stone, which had
been lying there goodness knows how long. Naturally I looked to see
what had happened, and there, where the stone had been lying, I found
the glove.”
Alletson drummed his fingers on the table, while he gazed into the
fire. Then he said:
“What do you intend to do?”
“Well, I shall, of course inform the police,” he replied, then added,
“I came here first though, thinking you would like to know at once.”
“I’m glad you did,” answered the Vicar.
Shepperton looked at him wonderingly.
“Because,” he continued, “I don’t think I should go to the police.”
“Not go to the police!” he echoed.
“At any rate, for the present,” said Alletson. “Let me explain. There
is, I am sure, more in this case than at first appears. Certain
things which have happened led me to consult Mr. Brentwood. He is now
investigating the matter, and I have great hopes that he will be able
to solve the mystery.”
“Mr. Brentwood,” ejaculated Shepperton, with a half-sneer. “What’s he
got to do with it?”
A pained look came into the Vicar’s face; the man’s tone was so bitter.
Constance noticed that her brother was hurt, and turning to Shepperton,
she said coldly:
“Mr. Brentwood has been good enough to promise to give his time to a
subject which hardly concerns him, and I think, Mr. Shepperton, we
really ought to be grateful for his help.”
Her tone hurt him—he was surprised to find—more than he thought it
could have done, and he remembered it afterwards; but at the time he
was annoyed.
“I would rather he had nothing to do with it,” he said stubbornly.
They both looked at him in surprise, then the Vicar said sternly:
“Surely, Mr. Shepperton, that is unreasonable. If Mr. Brentwood has
offered his help when asked to give it, why should you want to refuse?”
The other man looked sullenly at him before he answered, then said
irritably:
“To tell the truth, I don’t like the gentleman, and I don’t want any
help or favours at his hands.”
A cloud began to gather on the Vicar’s face, but almost immediately his
expression changed and he said kindly:
“Mr. Shepperton, you are upset, or I’m sure you would not have spoken
thus. Let me assure you that in my opinion, if Mr. Brentwood cannot
assist us in this extraordinary case, the police certainly cannot.”
Shepperton was surprised into silence, and for a time did not speak.
Then he asked in a more subdued manner:
“Do you really think that? How can he help in any particular way? Is he
an amateur detective? Really I don’t understand.”
Alletson smiled slightly.
“No,” he replied, “but”—he hesitated and looked at Constance, then said
to her:
“Perhaps we had better tell Mr. Shepperton everything?”
Constance nodded—there seemed no other way. So quietly and carefully he
related all that had happened, while the other man listened with open
eyes and occasional interruptions of surprise.
“Now, Mr. Shepperton, I don’t think you will think it advisable to go
to the police just yet.”
Shepperton rose and held out his hand.
“Please forgive me if I spoke hastily just now, Mr. Alletson,” he said;
“I’m grateful for what you have done, and I’m quite willing to let
matters take their course for the present. You may depend upon me, of
course, to assist in any way possible.”
The Vicar was pleasantly surprised at his frankness and grasped his
hand heartily. But Constance was not so sure that he was sincere, the
change was so sudden. However, she did not say anything.
“Perhaps we had better go and make a careful search as soon as
possible?” said Shepperton.
“Yes,” replied the Vicar, “it would be just as well. I could manage
to-morrow morning, if not too early. How would ten o’clock suit you?”
“Oh, any time will suit me,” replied Shepperton. Then, turning to
Constance, he added: “I hope you will be coming too, Miss Alletson?”
She hesitated a moment, then replied slowly:
“Yes, I think I will come, if I shall not be in the way.”
“No question about that,” he answered emphatically.
“Very well,” said Alletson; “I will send a note round to the Manor,
asking Mr. Brentwood to meet us there. I know he will come.”
“That will be excellent,” replied Shepperton brightly. “And now I think
I had better be going. Good night!”
As he hurried along the road, Arthur Shepperton’s mind was busy
sorting things out. Being a very practical young man, he was half
inclined to laugh at the Vicar’s statements. He did not believe in
that sort of thing, and if certain people liked to go wandering after
will-o’-the-wisps, that was not his business. On the other hand, he
would have a good opportunity to watch Brentwood. A man who had in his
possession photographs like the one he had found in the priory could
not be up to much good. He still resented his being introduced into the
matter, he so disliked the man, and the fact of finding Elsie’s glove
in the priory ruins increased his desire to watch Brentwood. He could
not exactly say why, but it seemed somehow to connect him with the case.
He wondered why Alletson had not confided in him in the first place; it
hurt his pride, and he took it as a snub. Surely he should have been
the first one to have known. However, he would dismiss the matter for
the present, and see what the morning brought forth.
Just before he arrived at his apartments, he suddenly remembered that
Constance Alletson’s retort had hurt him, more than he expected, and it
then occurred to him that he liked her. Yes, he was pretty sure about
that. He recollected that she had been particularly nice to him since
Elsie’s disappearance. He wondered, in a vague sort of way, whether she
liked him, and was still musing on the point when he reached home.