A SQUIRE OF DAMES
A little later, and Christabel sat before her looking-glass with her
lovely hair about her shoulders. The glasses were gone and her
magnificent eyes gleamed and sparkled.
"Good night's work," she said to her smiling reflection. "Now the danger
is passed and now that I am away from that dreadful house I feel a
different being. Strange what a difference a few hours has made! And I
hardly need my disguise--even at this moment I believe that Enid would
not recognise me. She will be pleased to know that her telegram came in
so usefully. Well, here I am, and I don't fancy that anybody will
recognise Christabel Lee and Chris Henson for one and the same person."
She sat there brushing her hair and letting her thoughts drift along idly
over the events of the evening. Reginald Henson would have felt less easy
in his mind had he known what these thoughts were. Up to now that oily
scoundrel hugged himself with the delusion that nobody besides Frank
Littimer and himself knew that the second copy of "The Crimson Blind" had
passed into Bell's possession.
But Chris was quite aware of the fact. And Chris _as_ Chris was supposed
by Henson to be dead and buried, and was, therefore, in a position to
play her cards as she pleased. Up to now it seemed to her that she had
played them very well indeed. A cipher telegram from Longdean had warned
her that Henson was coming there, had given her more than a passing hint
what Henson required, and her native wit had told her why Henson was
after the Rembrandt.
Precisely why he wanted the picture she had not discovered yet. But she
knew that she would before long. And she knew also that Henson would try
and obtain the print without making his presence at Littimer Castle
obvious. He was bringing Frank Littimer with him, and was therefore going
to use the younger man in some cunning way.
That Henson would try and get into the castle surreptitiously Chris had
felt from the first. Once he did so the rest would be easy, as he knew
exactly where to lay his hand on the picture. Therefore he could have no
better time than the dead of night. If his presence were betrayed he
could turn the matter aside as a joke and trust to his native wit later
on. If he had obtained the picture by stealth he would have discreetly
disappeared, covering his tracks as he retreated.
Still, it had all fallen out very fortunately. Henson had been made to
look ridiculous; he had been forced to admit that he was giving Littimer
a lesson over the Rembrandt, and though the thing appeared innocent
enough on the surface, Chris was sanguine that later on she could bring
this up in evidence against him.
"So far so good," she told herself. "Watch, watch, watch, and act when
the time comes. But it was hard to meet Frank to-night and be able to say
nothing. And how abjectly miserable he looked! Well, let us hope that the
good time is coming."
Chris was up betimes in the morning and out on the terrace. She felt no
further uneasiness on the score of the disguise now. Henson was certain
to be inquisitive, it was part of his nature, but he was not going to
learn anything. Chris smiled as she saw Henson lumbering towards her. He
seemed all the better for his night's rest.
"The rose blooms early here," he said, gallantly. "Let me express
the hope that you have quite forgiven me for the fright I gave you
last night."
"I guess I don't recollect the fright," Chris drawled. "And if there was
any fright I calculate it was on the other side. And how are you this
morning? You look as if you had been in the wars. Got some trouble with
your throat, or what?"
"A slight operation," Henson said, airily. "I have been speaking too
much in public lately and a little something had to be removed. I am
much better."
The ready lie tripped off his tongue. Chris smiled slightly.
"Do you know, you remind me very much of somebody," he went on. "And yet
I don't know why, because you are quite different. Lord Littimer tells me
you are an American."
"The Stars and Stripes," Chris laughed. "I guess our nation is the first
on earth. Now, if you happen to know anything about Boston--"
"I never was in Boston in my life," Henson replied, hastily. The name
seemed to render him uneasy. "Have you been in England very long?"
Chris replied that she was enjoying England for the first time. But she
was not there to answer questions, her _rôle_ was to ask them. But she
was dealing with a past-master in the art of gleaning information, and
Henson was getting on her nerves. She gave a little cry of pleasure as a
magnificent specimen of a bloodhound came trotting down the terrace and
paused in friendly fashion before her.
"What a lovely dog," she exclaimed. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Henson?"
She looked up beamingly into his face as she spoke; she saw the heavy
features darken and the eyes grow small with anger.
"I loathe them, and they loathe me," Henson growled. "Look at him!"
He pointed to the dog, who showed his teeth with an angry growl. And yet
the great sleek head lay against the girl's knee in perfect confidence.
Henson looked on uneasily and backed a little way. The dog marked his
every movement.
"See how the brute shows his teeth at me," he said.
"Please send him away, Miss Lee. I am certain he is getting ready for
a spring."
Henson's face was white and hot and wet, his lips trembled. He was
horribly afraid. Chris patted the silky head and dismissed the dog
with a curt command. He went off instantly with a wistful, backward
look in his eye.
"We are going to be great friends, that doggie and I," Chris said, gaily.
"And I don't like you any the better, Mr. Henson, because you don't like
dogs and they don't like you. Dogs are far better judges of character
than you imagine. Dr. Bell says--"
"What Dr. Bell?" Henson demanded, swiftly.
Chris had paused just in time: perhaps her successful disguise had made
her a trifle reckless.
"Dr. Hatherly Bell," she said. "He used to be a famous man before he fell
into disgrace over something or another. I heard him lecture on the
animal instinct in Boston once, and he said--but as you don't care for
dogs it doesn't matter what he said."
"Do you happen to know anything about him?" Henson asked.
"Very little. I never met him, if that is what you mean. But I heard that
he had done something particularly disgraceful. Why do you ask?"
"Nothing more than a mere coincidence," Henson replied. "It is just a
little strange that you should mention his name here, especially after
what had happened last night. I suppose that, being an American, you fell
in love with the Rembrandt. It was you who suggested securing it in its
place, and then preventing my little jest from being successfully carried
out. Of course you have heard that the print was stolen once?"
"The knowledge is as general as the spiriting away of the
Gainsborough Duchess."
"Quite so. Well, the man who stole the Rembrandt was Dr. Hatherly Bell.
He stole it that he might pay a gambling debt, and it was subsequently
found in his luggage before he could pass it on to the purchaser. I am
glad you mentioned it, because the name of Bell is not exactly a
favourite at the castle."
"I am much obliged to you," said Chris, gravely. "Was Dr. Bell a
favourite once?"
"Oh, immense. He had great influence over Lord Littimer. He--but here
comes Littimer in one of his moods. He appears to be angry about
something."
Littimer strode up, with a frown on his face and a telegram in his hand.
Henson assumed to be mildly sympathetic.
"I hope it is nothing serious?" he murmured.
"Serious," Littimer cried. "The acme of audacity--yes. The telegram has
just come. 'Must see you tonight on important business affecting the
past. Shall hope to be with you some time after dinner!'"
"And who is the audacious aspirant to an interview?" Chris asked,
demurely.
"A man I expect you never heard of," said Littimer, "but who is quite
familiar to Henson here. I am alluding to that scoundrel Hatherly Bell."
"Good heavens!" Henson burst out. "I--I mean, what colossal impudence!"