Peckover, arrested in his intent, had opened his eyes, and now stood
staring half dazed at the new-comer.
"Hullo!" yawned that person genially.
"Eh?" ejaculated Peckover hazily, eyeing him with suspicion, and not
quite able to realize the situation.
"Excuse me if I disturb you," said the man, with another tremendous
yawn. "If I don't sit down somewhere I shall drop on the floor."
Peckover told himself that this was scarcely the detective, and even if
he were his condition gave colour to a wild hope of escape.
"Tired?" The superfluous question was put tentatively.
"You bet."
"Dry?"
"Always."
"Have a glass of fizz?" In Peckover's situation even that unusual
hospitality was a matter of indifference.
"Thanks," answered the man, smothering a third yawn in recognition of
his fellow-guest's civility. "You are a brick. Got more than you care
to drink there?" he added to qualify his somewhat grabbing acceptance
of the offer.
"Yes," answered Peckover with grim significance. Then checking himself
as he was about to offer the drugged glass to the stranger, he
exclaimed hastily, "Oh, that won't do."
"Short of glasses?" said the other accommodatingly. "I don't mind a
tumbler to save time." He spun one across to Peckover who emptied the
remains of the bottle into it. The stranger poured the wine down his
throat without the action of swallowing. "Ah, that's better!" he
declared with a great sigh of enjoyment.
"Walked too far?" Peckover suggested listlessly. "Not used to it,
p'raps?"
"Got out of the way of it," the man explained. "Three months aboard
ship."
"Australia?" Peckover suggested.
The stranger nodded. "That's it. Come from London this morning. Got
out at Faxfleet to walk over here. Lost my way in the woods."
"Didn't come straight, then?" Peckover had an indistinct recollection
of having seen this fellow at the station, but had been too much
flurried to take more than passing notice of him. Were they companions
in bad luck, he wondered. "Have a glass of port," he said, warming
towards his fellow-guest.
"Your wine? Thanks. Good chap. Crime to refuse old crusted, eh?" He
emptied the glass which Peckover promptly refilled. Then put on a
mysteriously significant look. "No, I didn't come straight here, and
for a good reason." He sank his voice. "Fact is, I'm dodging a
bush-ranger."
"What?" exclaimed Peckover, disinclined to take the statement seriously.
The stranger pulled his chair close up to his companion, and tapped him
with his forefinger on the knee. "Look here," he said confidently.
"You don't belong to these parts? Nothing of the chawbacon about you.
Town man?"
"Slightly," answered Peckover, with a chastened pride in the
undisputable claim.
The other grasped his hand. "I can trust you?" Peckover, recovering
from the cold thrill which the somewhat demonstrative clasp occasioned,
nodded impressively. "You are a smart Londoner," the stranger
continued, "I'll tell you my situation, and get your advice. Mind,
though, it's a dead secret."
"It soon will be with me," thought Peckover miserably, as he assured
his companion on the point.
Host Popkiss, glancing in at the door, saw the two in close confidence,
and with the cocksureness usual with men of limited sagacity concluded
that the "party" wanted by Mr. Doutfire had arrived and was trying the
confidence trick on the new-fledged member of the peerage. And having
so settled it, he strolled out to keep a watchful eye for the detective.
"It's downright romantic," the thirsty stranger was saying with an
apologetic smile. "Now, you wouldn't think it to look at me, but I'm a
peer of the realm."
"Jehoshaphat!" commented Peckover, more frank than polite.
"Just the remark I made when I heard I was Lord Quorn," said the other
pleasantly. "Been sheep-farming in New South Wales for the last twelve
years. Not much luck of any sort, though, till the other day. Got a
letter to say distant cousin dead, and I had succeeded to the title.
Not much trimming with it, they tell me. Bit of tumble-down family
property near here, Staplewick Towers, let to some grand lady." He
pulled out a letter and looked at the signature. "Lady Agatha Hemyock,
that's it," he said, exhibiting the letter as documentary evidence of
his veracity. "So I have just trotted down to take stock."
"And where does the bush-ranger come in?" was Peckover's not unnatural
inquiry.
Lord Quorn wagged his head knowingly, and drank off another glass of
port-wine without apology, as though the privilege of being made the
recipient of a peer's confidences was in itself ample payment for the
refreshment in question. "Out there," the vague wave of his hand was
understood to be towards New South Wales, "I used up my spare time
flirting with a fine woman who had a figure and a will of her own. She
would not have me, though; refused me more than once: but hearing one
fine day that she had said no to a real live lord she felt pretty sick.
However, I wasn't going to give her another chance; not likely, seeing
that, besides being somewhat off her, I knew I could have my pick over
here. Thereupon she accuses me of playing the giddy deceiver, and
threatens to bring me to book for breach of promise. Well, I smiled at
that, but it rather sent me up a tree when she trotted out her brother,
the bush-ranger."
"My eye!" observed Peckover, interested in spite of himself. "Fighting
man, eh?"
Lord Quorn nodded seriously. "I saw him for the first time over here
with her last night. A desperate chap, I tell you," he went on
anxiously, "who will stick at nothing--except your favourite vital part
with a bowie knife."
His auditor made a wry face to evince his sympathetic attention.
"He keeps on show," Quorn continued, growing more and more dismally in
earnest, "fire-irons he has snapped, gun-barrels he has tied in knots,
crown pieces he has bitten through, eyes he has gouged out, preserved
in spirits of wine, and pickled ears he has wrung off just for fun.
I'm not exactly a coward, but what can you do against a man whose
favourite pastime is twisting bullocks' heads off, and squeezing
cannonballs out of shape."
Peckover drew down the corners of his mouth and shook his head, finding
himself fully in accord with the other's policy of non-resistance.
"Awkward customer to tackle," was all the encouragement he could
suggest.
"Awkward!" repeated Lord Quorn in impatient contempt for the inadequate
adjective, "You'd be the one to feel awkward with your nose divided in
two, and your left ear in a piccalilli bottle on an amateur
bush-ranger's mantelpiece. Oh, I know," he continued in an exasperated
tone, anticipating a trite and obvious piece of advice, "I could have
the law of him, but there is precious small satisfaction in seeing a
man go to prison out of your one remaining eye, and to know that when
he comes out it will come out too. Got any more liquor?"
His apprehensive indignation left no room for the common courtesies of
even coffee-room life, he was seething with the angry sense of
impotence before this critical and grievous position.
Peckover emptied the bottle into his glass. "The last," he said, in a
tone of sympathetic gloom; "and you're quite welcome."
"Good Samaritan!" was Lord Quorn's casual acknowledgment as he tossed
it off. "Fact is," he proceeded to explain by way of tardy apology,
"though I'm a swell and all that I am cleared out just now. Drew a
tidy sum for my travelling exes, but spent a few days in London, and a
few pounds--you know what that means?"
Peckover nodded a rakish appreciation.
"Well," Quorn resumed darkly, "who should I clap eyes on last night at
the play but my Australian girl and her infernal brother. Followed me
over, and on my track like an insurance agent. Luckily she didn't see
me, and he doesn't know me by sight. Thinks I, best thing to do is to
make a bolt down here and lie low till that bush-whacking nuisance eats
his head off in London and has to go back to his happy hunting grounds.
So, first thing to-day, sent a wire to Lady What's-her-name, and then
found only just enough cash left in my pocket for third class to
Faxfleet. So I've tramped over. That's the chronicle."
"You've given your friends the slip?" Peckover suggested encouragingly.
"Hope so," replied Quorn, doubtfully. "But they'll track me like
kangaroo hunters. A woman has a fine scent for a title; a coronet is
like a red herring. But I say," he broke off, as though a trifle
ashamed of having monopolized the interest of the colloquy; "what does
a smart chap like you want in this dead-alive hole? You are not in a
mess?"
Peckover's expression swiftly changed from altruistic interest to
lugubrious self-pity. "I am, though," he replied. "Got Scotland Yard
after me. Don't be afraid," he protested hastily, as Lord Quorn's eyes
opened wide with suspicion and he gave himself a slight, but
significant, set-back in his chair; "I'm only half a criminal: the
victim of circumstances. Look here, confidence for confidence. I'll
tell you all about it."