REVEALS THE SPY
The Twelfth--the glorious Twelfth--had come and gone. "The rush to the
North" had commenced from London. From Euston, St. Pancras, and King's
Cross the night trains for Scotland had run in triplicate, crowded by
men and gun-cases and kit-bags, while gloomy old Perth station was a
scene of unwonted activity each morning.
At Glencardine there were little or no grouse; therefore it was not
until later that Sir Henry invited his usual party.
Gabrielle had been south to visit one of her girlfriends near Durham,
and the week of her absence her afflicted father had spent in dark
loneliness, for Flockart had gone to London, and her ladyship was away
on a fortnight's visit to the Pelhams, down at New Galloway.
On the last day of August, however, Gabrielle returned, being followed a
few hours later by Lady Heyburn, who had travelled up by way of Stirling
and Crieff Junction, while that same night eight men forming the
shooting-party arrived by the day express from the south.
The gathering was a merry one. The guests were the same who came up
there every year, some of them friends of Sir Henry in the days of his
brilliant career, others friends of his wife. The shooting at
Glencardine was always excellent; and Stewart, wise and serious, had
prophesied first-class sport.
Walter Murie was in London. While Gabrielle had been at Durham he had
travelled up there, spent the night at the "Three Tuns," and met her
next morning in that pretty wooded walk they call "the Banks." Devoted
to her as he was, he could not bear any long separation; while she, on
her part, was gratified by this attention. Not without some difficulty
did she succeed in getting away from her friends to meet him, for a
provincial town is not like London, and any stranger is always in the
public eye. But they spent a delightful couple of hours together,
strolling along the footpath through the meadows in the direction of
Finchale Priory. There were no eavesdroppers; and he, with his arm
linked in hers, repeated the story of his all-conquering love.
She listened in silence, then raising her fine clear eyes to his, said,
"I know, Walter--I know that you love me. And I love you also."
"Ah," he sighed, "if you would only be frank with me, dearest--if you
would only be as frank with me as I am with you!"
Sadly she shook her head, but made no reply. He saw that a shadow had
clouded her brow, that she still clung to her strange secret; and at
length, when they retraced their steps back to the city, he reluctantly
took leave of her, and half-an-hour later was speeding south again
towards York and King's Cross.
The opening day of the partridge season proved bright and pleasant. The
men were out early; and the ladies, a gay party, including Gabrielle,
joined them at luncheon spread on a mossy bank about three miles from
the castle. Several of the male guests were particularly attentive to
the dainty, sweet-faced girl whose charming manner and fresh beauty
attracted them. But Gabrielle's heart was with Walter always. She loved
him. Yes, she told herself so a dozen times each day. And yet was not
the barrier between them insurmountable? Ah, if he only knew! If he only
knew!
The blind man was left alone nearly the whole of that day. His daughter
had wanted to remain with him, but he would not hear of it. "My dear
child," he had said, "you must go out and lunch. You really must assist
your mother in entertaining the people."
"But, dear dad, I much prefer to remain with you and help you," she
protested. "Yesterday the Professor sent you five more bronze matrices
of ecclesiastical seals. We haven't yet examined them."
"We'll do so to-night, dear," he said. "You go out to-day. I'll amuse
myself all right. Perhaps I'll go for a little walk."
Therefore the girl had, against her inclination, joined the
luncheon-party, where foremost of all to have her little attentions was
a rather foppish young stockbroker named Girdlestone, who had been up
there shooting the previous year, and had on that occasion flirted with
her furiously.
During her absence her father tried to resume his knitting--an
occupation which he had long ago been compelled to resort to in order to
employ his time; but he soon put it down with a sigh, rose, and taking
his soft brown felt-hat and stout stick, tapped his way along through
the great hall and out into the park.
He felt the warmth upon his cheek as he passed slowly along down the
broad drive. "Ah," he murmured to himself, "if only I could once again
see God's sunlight! If I could only see the greenery of nature and the
face of my darling child!" and he sighed brokenly, and went on, his chin
sunk upon his breast, a despairing, hopeless man. Surely no figure more
pathetic than his could be found in the whole of Scotland. Upon him had
been showered honour, great wealth, all indeed that makes life worth
living, and yet, deprived of sight, he existed in that world of
darkness, deceived and plotted against by all about him. His grey
countenance was hard and thoughtful as he passed slowly along tapping
the ground before him, for he was thinking--ever thinking--of the
declaration of his French visitor. He had been betrayed. But by whom?
His thoughts were wandering back to those days when he could see--those
well-remembered days when he had held the House in silence by his
brilliant oratory, and when the papers next day had leading articles
concerning his speeches. He recollected his time-mellowed old club in
St. James's Street--Boodle's--of which he had been so fond. Then came
his affliction. The thought of it all struck him suddenly; and,
clenching his hands, he murmured some inarticulate words through his
teeth. They sounded strangely like a threat. Next instant, however, he
laughed bitterly to himself the dry, harsh laugh of a man into whose
very soul the iron had entered.
In the distance he could hear the shots of his guests, those men who
accepted his hospitality, and who among themselves agreed that he was "a
terrible bore, poor old fellow!" They came up there--with perhaps two
exceptions--to eat his dinners, drink his choice wines, and shoot his
birds, but begrudged him more than ten minutes or so of their company
each day. In the billiard-room of an evening, as he sat upon one of the
long lounges, they would perhaps deign to chat with him; but, alas! he
knew that he was only as a wet blanket to his wife's guests, hence he
kept himself so much to the library--his own domain.
That night he spent half-an-hour in the billiard-room in order to hear
what sport they had had, but very soon escaped, and with Gabrielle
returned again to the library to fulfil his promise and examine the
seal-matrices which the Professor had sent.
To where they sat came bursts of boisterous laughter and of the
waltz-music of the pianola in the hall, for in the shooting season the
echoes of the fine mansion were awakened by the merriment of as gay a
crowd as any who assembled in the Highlands.
Sir Henry heard it. The sounds jarred upon his nerves. Mirth such as
theirs was debarred him for ever, and he had now become gloomy and
misanthropic. He sat fingering those big oval matrices of bronze,
listening to Gabrielle's voice deciphering the inscriptions, and
explaining what was meant and what was possibly their history. One which
Sir Henry declared to be the gem of them all bore the _manus Dei_ for
device, and was the seal of Archbishop Richard (1174-84). Several
documents bearing impressions of this seal were, he said, preserved at
Canterbury and in the British Museum, but here the actual seal itself
had come to light.
With all the enthusiasm of an expert he lingered over the matrice,
feeling it carefully with the tips of his fingers, and tracing the
device with the nail of his forefinger. "Splendid!" he declared. "The
lettering is a most excellent specimen of early Lombardic." And then he
gave the girl the titles of several works, which she got down from the
shelves, and from which she read extracts after some careful search.
The sulphur-casts sent with the matrices she placed carefully with her
father's collection, and during the remainder of the evening they were
occupied in replying to several letters regarding estate matters.
At eleven o'clock she kissed her father good-night and passed out to the
hall, where the pianola was still going, and where the merriment was
still in full swing. For a quarter of an hour she was compelled to
remain with the insipid young ass Bertie Girdlestone, a man who
patronised musical comedy nightly, and afterwards supped regularly at
the "Savoy"; then she escaped at last to her room.
Exchanging her pretty gown of turquoise chiffon for an easy wrap, she
took up a novel, and, switching on her green-shaded reading-lamp, sat
down to enjoy a quiet hour before retiring. Quickly she became engrossed
in the story, and though the stable-chimes sounded each half-hour she
remained undisturbed by them.
It was half-past two before she had reached the happy _dénouement_ of
the book, and, closing it, she rose to take off her trinkets. Having
divested herself of bracelets, rings, and necklet, she placed her hands
to her ears. There was only one ear-ring; the other was missing! They
were sapphires, a present from Walter on her last birthday. He had sent
them to her from Yokohama, and she greatly prized them. Therefore, at
risk of being seen in her dressing-gown by any of the male guests who
might still be astir--for she knew they always played billiards until
very late--she took off her little blue satin slippers and stole out
along the corridor and down the broad staircase.
The place was in darkness; but she turned on the light, and again when
she reached the hall.
She must have dropped her ear-ring in the library; of that she felt
sure. Servants were so careless that, if she left it, it might easily be
swept up in the morning and lost for ever. That thought had caused her
to search for it at once.
As she approached the library door she thought she heard the sound as of
some one within. On her opening the door, however, all was in darkness.
She laughed at her apprehension.
In an instant she touched the switch, and the place became flooded by a
soft, mellow light from lamps cunningly concealed behind the bookcases
against the wall. At the same moment, however, she detected a movement
behind one of the bookcases against which she stood. With sudden
resolution and fearlessness, she stepped forward to ascertain its cause.
Her eyes at that instant fell upon a sight which caused her to start and
stand dumb with amazement. Straight before her the door of her father's
safe stood open. Beside it, startled at the sudden interruption, stood a
man in evening-dress, with a small electric lamp in his clenched hand. A
pair of dark, evil eyes met hers in defiance--the eyes of James
Flockart.
"You!" she gasped.
"Yes," he laughed dryly. "Don't be afraid. It's only I. But, by Jove!
how very charming you look in that gown! I'd love to get a snapshot of
you just as you stand now."
"What are you doing there, examining my father's papers?" she demanded
quickly, her small hands clenched.
"My dear girl," he replied with affected unconcern, "that's my own
business. You really ought to have been in bed long ago. It isn't
discreet, you know, to be down here with me at this hour!"
"I demand to know what you are doing here!" she cried firmly.
"And, my dear little girl, I refuse to tell you," was his decisive
answer.
"Very well, then I shall alarm the house and explain to my father what I
have discovered."