Late that same afternoon Raymond Diamond walked up the long muddy
by-road which led from Horsford station to the village, about a mile
distant.
Horsford was an obscure little place, still quite out-of-the-world, even
in these days of trains and motor-cars.
About four miles west of Peterborough on the edge of the fox-hunting
country, it was a pleasant little spot consisting of a beautiful old
Norman church, with one of the finest towers in England and one long,
straggling street mostly of thatched houses.
There were only two large houses--Horsford House, at the top of the hill
on the Peterborough side, and the Manor, an old seventeenth-century
mansion, half-way down the village.
It was not yet dark when the Doctor, the only arrival by train, turned
the corner by the Wheel Inn and entered the village. As he did so,
Warr, who combined the business of publican and village butcher, wished
him a cheery “Good evenin’, Doctor.”
And as the little man trudged up the long street he was greeted with
many such salutes, to all of which he answered mechanically, for he was
thinking--thinking deeply.
The fragrant smell of burning wood from the cottages greeted his
nostrils--the smell of that quiet little village which for some years
had been his home.
He breathed again in that rural peace, as a dozen cows slowly plodded
past him.
At last he turned from the main street, up a short, steep hill where, at
the end of a small _cul-de-sac_, stood a long, old-fashioned,
two-storied cottage with its dormer-windows peeping forth from the brown
thatch. In summer, over the whole front of it spread a wealth of
climbing roses, but now, in winter, only the brown leafless branches
remained.
In the small, well-kept front garden were a number of well-trimmed
evergreens, while an old box-hedge ran around the tiny domain.
As he lifted the latch of the gate, Mrs Diamond, a neat, well-preserved
woman in black, threw open the door with a cheery welcome, and a moment
later he was in his own old-fashioned little dining-room, warming
himself at the fire, which, sending forth a ruddy glow, illuminated the
room.
For such a humble home, it was quite a cosy apartment. Upon the
old-fashioned oak-dresser at the end were one or two pieces of blue
china, and on the oak overmantel were a few odd pieces of Worcester and
Delft. On the walls were one or two engravings, while the furniture was
of antique pattern and well in keeping with the place.
The doctor possessed artistic tastes, and was also a connoisseur to no
small degree. In the days when he had possessed means, he had been fond
of hunting for curios or making purchases of old furniture and china,
but, alas! in these latter days of his adversity he had experienced even
a difficulty in making both ends meet.
“I received your telegram, Raymond dear,” exclaimed Mrs Diamond. “I’m
so glad you were successful in finding Aggie’s father. It’s taken a
great weight from my mind.”
“And from mine also,” he said with a sigh seated before the fire with
his hands outstretched to the flames. “Mullet wants me to take the
child over to Paris to see him in a week or so.”
“Why does he not come over here?”
The Doctor pulled a wry face, and shrugged his shoulders ominously.
His wife, by her speech, showed herself to be a woman of refinement.
She had been the widow of a medical man in Manchester before Diamond had
married her. Though it was much against her grain to submit to
registration as a foster-mother of children, yet it had been their only
course. Raymond Diamond was too ugly to succeed in his profession. The
public dislike a deformed doctor.
He told his wife how he had been at the end of his resources in Paris,
and how, just at the moment when things had looked blackest, “Red
Mullet” had returned. But he made no mention of meeting the stranger,
or of the record of the curious secret which, between two pieces of
cardboard, now reposed carefully in his breast-pocket.
Its possession held him in a kind of stupor. From what he had been able
to gather--or rather from what he imagined the truth to be--he already
felt himself an immensely wealthy man. He was, in fact, already
planning out his own future.
The dead stranger had said he intended to remove to the Grand Hotel.
Diamond’s intention was to go further--to purchase a fine estate
somewhere in the grass-country, and in future live the life of a
gentleman.
Mrs Diamond noticed her husband’s preoccupied manner, and naturally
attributed it to financial embarrassment.
A few moments later the door opened, and a pretty, fair-haired girl,
about thirteen, entered, and finding the doctor had returned, rushed
towards him and, throwing her arms about his neck, kissed him, saying:
“I had no idea you were back again, dad. I went down the station-path
half-way, expecting to meet you.”
“I came by the road, my child,” was the Doctor’s reply as he stroked her
long fair hair. “I’ve been to Paris--to see your dad, Aggie,” he added.
“My other dad,” repeated the child reflectively. “I--I hardly remember
him. You are my own dear old dad!” And she stroked his cheek with her
soft hand.
Aggie was the doctor’s favourite. He was devoted to the daughter of
that tall, thin man who was such a cosmopolitan adventurer, the child
who was now the eldest of his family, and who had, ever since she had
arrived, a wee weakly little thing, always charmed him by her bright
intelligence and merry chatter.
She was a distinctly pretty child, neat in her dark-blue frock and white
pinafore. In the village school she was head of her class, and Mr
Holmes, the popular, good-humoured schoolmaster, had already suggested
to the Doctor, and also to Lady Gavin at the Manor, that she should be
sent to the Secondary School at Peterborough now that he could teach her
no more.
The Doctor drew Aggie upon his knee, and told her of her father’s
inquiries and of his suggestion that she should go to Paris to see him.
Paris seemed to the child such a long way off. She had seen it marked
upon the wall-maps in school, but to her youthful mind it was only a
legendary city.
“I don’t want to leave Horsford, dad,” replied the girl with a slight
pout. “I want to remain with you.”
“Not in order to see and know your father?”
“You are my dad--my only dad,” she declared quickly. “I don’t want to
see my other dad at all,” she added decisively. “If he wants to see me,
why doesn’t he come here?”
“He can’t my dear,” replied the doctor. “But tell me. Have you seen
Lady Gavin since I’ve been away?”
“No, dad. Mr Farquhar and his sister have come to stay at the Manor,
so she’s always engaged.”
“Frank Farquhar is down here again, eh?” asked Diamond quickly. Then he
reflected deeply for a few moments.
He was wondering if Farquhar could help him--if he dare take the young
man into his confidence.
Nowadays he was “out of it.” He knew nobody, buried there as he was in
that rural solitude.
“Is Sir George at home?” he asked the child, who, like all other
children, knew the whole gossip of the village.
“No, dad. He started for Egypt yesterday. Will Chapman told me so.”
The Doctor ate his tea, with his wife and five “daughters” of varying
ages, all bright, bonnie children, who looked the picture of good
health.
Then, after a wash and putting on another suit, he went out, strolling
down the village to where the big old Manor House, with its quaint
gables and wide porch, stood far back behind its sloping lawn.
Generations of squires of Horsford had lived and died there, as their
tombs in the splendid Norman church almost adjoining testified. It was
a house where many of the rooms were panelled, where the entrance-hall
was of stone, with a well staircase and a real “priests’ hole” on the
first floor.
He ascended the steps, and his ring was answered by a smart Italian
man-servant. Yes. Mr Farquhar was at home. Would the doctor kindly
step into the library?
Diamond entered that well-known room on the right of the hall--a room
lined from floor to ceiling with books in real Chippendale bookcases,
and in the centre a big old-fashioned writing-table. Over the fireplace
were several ancient manuscripts in neat frames, while beside the
blazing fire stood a couple of big saddle-bag chairs.
Sir George Gavin, Baronet, posed to the world as a literary man, though
he had risen from the humble trade of a compositor to become owner of a
number of popular newspapers. He knew nothing about literature and
cared less. He left all such matters to the editors and writers whom he
paid--clever men who earned for him the magnificent income which he now
enjoyed. Upon the cover of one of his periodicals it was stated that he
was editor. But as a matter of fact he hardly ever saw the magazine in
question, except perhaps upon the railway bookstalls. His sole thought
was the handsome return its publication produced. And, like so many
other men in our England to-day, he had simply “paid up” and received
his baronetcy among the Birthday honours, just as he had received his
membership of the Carlton.
Diamond had not long to wait, for in a few moments the door opened, and
there entered a smart-looking, dark-haired young man in a blue serge
suit.
“Hulloa, Doc! How are you?” he exclaimed. “I’m back again, you see--
just down for a day or two to see my sister. And how has Horsford been
progressing during my absence--eh?” he laughed.
Frank Farquhar, Lady Gavin’s younger brother, occupied an important
position in the journalistic concern of which Sir George was the head.
He was recognised by journalistic London as one of its smartest young
men. His career at Oxford had been exceptionally brilliant, and he had
already distinguished himself as special correspondent in the Boer and
Russo-Japanese campaigns before Sir George Gavin had invited him to join
his staff.
Tall, lithe, well set-up, with a dark, rather acquiline face, a small
dark moustache, and a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes, he was alert,
quick of movement, and altogether a “live” journalist.
The two men seated themselves on either side of the fireplace, and
Farquhar, having offered his visitor a cigar, settled himself to listen
to Diamond’s story.
“I’ve come to you,” the Doctor explained, “because I believe that you,
and perhaps Sir George also, can help me. Don’t think that I want any
financial assistance,” he laughed. “Not at all. I want to put before
you a matter which is unheard of, and which I am certain will astound
even you--a journalist.”
“Well, Doc,” remarked the young man with a smile, “it takes a lot to
surprise us in Fleet Street, you know.”
“This will. Listen.” And then, having extracted a promise of silence,
Diamond related to the young man the whole story of the dead stranger,
and the curious document that had been only half-consumed.
When the Doctor explained that the papers had not been wholly burned,
Frank Farquhar rose quickly in pretence of obtaining an ash-tray, but in
reality in order to conceal the strange expression which at that, moment
overspread his countenance.
Then, a few seconds later, he returned to his chair apparently quite
unmoved and unconcerned. Truth to tell, however, the statement made by
the dwarfed and deformed man before him had caused him to tighten his
lips and hold his breath.
Was it possible that he held certain secret knowledge of which the
Doctor was ignorant, and which he could turn to advantage?
He remained silent, with a smile of incredulity playing about his mouth.
The truth was this. Within his heart he had already formed a fixed
intention that the dead man’s secret--the most remarkable secret of the
age--should be his, and his alone!