"To put it badly," I continued, "it amounts to this. My uncle died
without making a will, and unless he was married--which doesn't seem
to be the case--I come into everything that he left behind him. As
far as I know at present, the 'everything' consists of about ten
thousand pounds in cash and a place called Greensea Island, off the
Essex coast."
There was a short pause.
"Greensea Island," she repeated slowly. "Was that where your uncle
lived?"
"It was where he lived," I said, "and it was also where he died. He
bought the place about six months ago, and shut himself up there with
a dog and a retired prize-fighter. Mr. Drayton, the lawyer, has got
hold of a notion that he was frightened of somebody or something. It
does look rather like it, because from all accounts he never went to
the mainland, and never allowed any visitors on the island."
Her brown eyes were fixed curiously on mine.
"Have you any idea what he was frightened about?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Not the faintest; but, from the way my
father used to talk of him when I was a boy, I can quite imagine that
he had all sorts of unpleasant things on his conscience."
There was another and longer pause.
"What are your plans?" she asked at length "What are you going to do?"
"I propose to carry on the family traditions," I replied. "I've
chucked my job with the Planet people, and I am going to settle down
on Greensea Island and see how I like it."
The look of troubled distress deepened in her face.
"You mean to live there--alone?"
"It depends how I get along with the dog and the prize-fighter," I
said. "If they turn out amiable I shall probably invite them to stay
on."
Christine pushed away her untasted cup of coffee and drew her chair a
little nearer the table.
"Mr. Dryden," she said again, "you were telling me the truth just
now. You do honestly believe that I am trying to act in your own
interests?"
"I trust you from the bottom of my heart," I answered simply.
"Then, whatever you do, don't go to Greensea Island by yourself.
Take some friend with you--somebody that you can absolutely rely on.
I can't explain, but there are reasons which would make it very
unsafe for you to be there alone." She hesitated for a moment.
"It's even possible you might be in danger of your life."
"Isn't it just a little late to tell me that?" I asked.
Her hand, which was resting on the cloth, suddenly tightened.
"What do you mean?"
"Why," I said, "it's only by the grace of heaven and an exceptionally
thick skull that I happen to be here now. When I was on my way back
to the ship after seeing Mr. Drayton, somebody banged me on the head
from behind and threw me into the dock. It was about the most honest
attempt at murder that ever managed to go astray."
The horror and amazement in her eyes were quite obviously genuine.
"But it's impossible," she broke out; "impossible!"
"It's true enough," I returned. "If you don't believe me, I can show
you the crack in my skull."
She stared at me with the same expression of frightened bewilderment.
"I--I don't understand," she faltered.
"I am sure you don't," I said. "Neither do I. Still, the fact
remains that there's someone strolling around with an unsatisfied
longing for my blood, and I suppose they are just as likely as not to
follow me down to Greensea." I paused. "Would you advise me not to
go there at all?" I asked deliberately.
For a moment she made no answer. She seemed to be torn by some
inward conflict that was plainly visible in her face.
"No, no," she replied, almost in a whisper. "The place is yours,
and----" She broke off with a little helpless gesture of her hands.
"Oh, I don't know what to say," she finished wretchedly. "You must
go if you want to. I can't tell you any more."
"You have told me quite enough," I said gratefully. "If I don't
manage to take care of myself now, I shall deserve everything I get."
The clock on the wall began to strike three. With a slight start she
glanced up at it; then, pushing back her chair, she rose suddenly to
her feet. I made a movement as if to accompany her.
"No, please," she said hurriedly, putting out her hand. "Don't come
with me. We must say good-bye here."
"But I'm not going to say good-bye," I objected. "It's a word that
doesn't exist as far as you and I are concerned." I took her hand in
both of mine, regardless of the flaxen-haired lady who was surveying
us coldly from behind the counter. "Tell me when I shall see you
again," I demanded. "I can't let you go until you do."
She shook her head. "I don't know. Perhaps we shall never meet
after this." She pulled her hand away and stood looking up into my
face with wide-open, unhappy eyes. "In any case," she said,
"whatever happens, will you always remember that I tried to help you?"
As she spoke she turned away, leaving me standing alone in the middle
of the restaurant. The next moment she had stepped out through the
open door, and disappeared into the stream of people that hurried
ceaselessly past.