Loe raamatut: «King of the Castle», lehekülg 21

Volume Three – Chapter Six.
Two Meetings

After a long stay within the walls of the Fort, Claude had yielded to her cousin’s importunity, and gone out.

She felt the truth of the French saying before she had gone a hundred yards from her gates. It was only the first step that cost, for, as she passed along the little row of houses facing the harbour, there was a smile from one, a look of glad recognition from another, and several of the rough fishermen who were hanging about waiting for signs of fish doffed their hats with a hearty “How do, miss?”

A thrill of pleasure ran through her, and a feeling of awakening as from a time of sloth, as she realised that life could not be passed as a time for mourning.

She turned to speak to Mary, after another or two of these friendly salutations to the lady of the Fort, and was met by a smile and a nod.

“There, I told you so, Claudie. It was quite time you came out. It was a duty.”

Claude felt her cheeks burn slightly as she noted the direction in which they were going, but she kept on, feeling truly that she would have felt the same whichever direction they had taken.

It was a glorious evening, with the sun turning the whole of the western sky to orange and gold; and, as she breathed in the soft elastic air, watched the brilliant shimmer of colour as of liquid flames at sea, she listened to the murmurs of the ripple among the boulders, where the little river ran swiftly down from the glen, and the twitter of the birds in birch and fir. The joyous sensation that filled her breast was painful, even to drawing tears.

It was to her like the first walk after a long illness, when there is a feeling akin to ecstasy, and life seems never to have been so beautiful before. She could not speak, but wandered on beside her cousin – over the bridge, where they paused to gaze down at the golden-amber water, sparkling and foaming on its way to the sea. Ever onward and up the glen, but not far before the sound of a large pebble, kicked by a heavy boot out into the rippling water, where it fell with a splash, told them that they were not alone, and the next minute Chris had overtaken them and held out his hand.

There was a look almost of reproach in Claude’s eyes, as, with quivering lip, she laid her hand in his, and yielded it, as he gently and reverently carried it to his lips.

“I have not been to you; I have not written,” he said, in a deep voice. “I felt that it was a duty to respect your sorrow. I have felt for you none the less deeply.”

She stood looking gravely in his eyes, and he went on —

“Under the painful circumstances, I could not come to you; I was driven from your side. But Claude, dearest,” he continued, with the passion within him making his words vibrate, as it were, in her breast, and her heart flutter as it had never beaten before. “I love you more clearly than ever; and listen, darling – I would not say it, but cruel words have been spoken about my mercenary thoughts.”

“Don’t, don’t,” she murmured.

“But one word – for your sake.”

“No, no,” she cried piteously.

“Then for mine,” he pleaded.

“What do you wish to say?”

“Then I am no longer the poor beggar I was called.”

“Chris!”

“But comparatively rich, love. I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts. No, no, don’t withdraw your hand, dearest. I know how you have suffered. I have suffered too – sorrow for you – bitter jealousy of that man.”

“Chris,” she whispered, with a look of appeal, “for pity’s sake! I am weak and ill – I cannot bear it.”

“Forgive me,” he cried; “what a selfish brute I am! There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied. I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently. My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me. I’ll go and wait.”

She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.

“If it could have been,” she felt. And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.

“How worn and thin you look, darling,” he said tenderly. “My poor, poor girl.”

This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.

“Chris,” she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, “I do not doubt you. I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now.”

“Cruel! My darling!”

“Hush, pray hush. It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be.”

“Claude! What are you saying?”

“That I have my poor father’s words still ringing in my ears. He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes.”

“Claude!”

“I cannot help it. It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over. Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends.”

“No,” he cried passionately; “you must meet me as my promised wife.”

“It is impossible,” she said faintly, after a painful pause. “No, Chris, as my friend – brother, if you wish, but that is at an end.”

“But why – no, no; don’t answer me. You are ill and hysterical, dear. You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on. There, come. Let us put all this aside now. I am content that we have met, and you know the truth – that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again.”

“No; you must hear me now,” she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.

“Well, then, speak,” he said, with a smile full of pity.

“Once more,” she said, after a pause; “you must never speak to me again as you have to-night.”

“Why?”

“You know, Chris, my father’s wish.”

“The result of a mistake. Claude, you love me.”

She made an effort once more to free herself, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

“Claude,” he cried passionately, “you will tell me that.”

“I cannot,” she said firmly.

He let her hand fall from between his, and a curiously heavy look came slowly into his face as the jealous anger within him began to seethe.

“You cast at me your father’s words,” he said hurriedly.

“I am obliged to remind you of his wish.”

“That you should marry this man, this Glyddyr. Claude, you cannot, you dare not tell me this.”

“I do not tell you this,” she said, quickly and excitedly. “No, that is impossible. I could not be his wife: I must not be yours.”

“You are speaking in riddles.”

“Riddles that you can easily read,” she said sadly. “Chris, my life is marked out for me. I have my duties waiting. I cannot, I will not marry a man I do not love, but I will not disobey my poor dead father and listen to you. Good-bye now – I can bear no more. Some day we can meet again patiently and calmly as in the happy old times.”

“Yes,” he said, with the angry feeling passing away, “I shall wait contented, for you will not marry this man – you promise me that?”

“Claude, dear; Claude.”

They had neither of them given Mary a thought, and she had discreetly walked away but to return now quickly, and as they raised their eyes it was to see her close at hand, and some fifty yards away Parry Glyddyr advancing fast.

Claude saw that Glyddyr looked white and strange, but it was the rage in Chris Lisle’s eyes which startled her, as Glyddyr strode up, with extended hand, ignoring the presence of her companion.

“Claude, don’t leave them alone, as there’ll be trouble,” whispered Mary, and her cousin’s words seemed to cast a lurid light upon the situation.

She did not give Glyddyr her hand, but turned to Chris and said gently —

“Good-bye. It will be better that we should not meet again – not yet.”

He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.

“Mary.”

Claude turned to go, and her cousin went to her side white as ashes. Glyddyr stood looking from one to the other, as if hesitating what to do.

“Claude, do you hear me,” whispered Mary.

“Mr Glyddyr, are you going this way?” said Claude in a low deep voice.

“Yes, of course,” he cried, with his face lighting up, and darting a look of triumph at his rival, who stood motionless, with one hand resting upon his rod as though it were a spear, he went on down the glen by Claude’s side.

“Mr Lisle – Chris – do you not hear? Good-bye.”

Chris started back as it were into life, and saw that Mary had run back and laid her hand in his.

“Ah, little woman,” he said, with a gentle, pitying tone in his voice, “I was thinking, I suppose. Good-bye, Mary, and don’t fall in love, dear; it’s a mistake.”

“Chris,” she cried, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, as she gazed at the broad-shouldered sturdy fellow, “why do you talk like that?”

“Why do I talk like that?” he said bitterly. “Because I am a weak fool, I suppose. Look there.”

He pointed down the glen.

“Chris!”

“There, run after them, and play propriety, little lady,” he said bitterly. “Or no – they do not miss you; better stop behind, or shall I see you home?”

“Chris, dear Chris,” she whispered.

“Don’t talk to me,” he cried. “I’m half mad. Good-bye, Mary, good-bye.”

He turned sharply and hurried away up the glen, and as Mary watched, she heard his reel begin to sing as he walked on down by the stream, making casts blindly among the boulders.

“Poor fellow,” she said, as she turned and walked swiftly away. “I wish I had not said a word.”

She gave one more glance back and hurried after the retreating pair. Had she looked long enough she would have seen Chris Lisle stride into the first clump of trees and throw himself down with his face buried in his arms, and there he was lying still long after darkness had come on, and the stars were peering down and glistening in the rushing stream.

Volume Three – Chapter Seven.
Glyddyr Endorses a Note

“There, I’m off back to London town to keep a certain party quiet. You are going on all right here. You are bound to win, but don’t be rash – play her very carefully.”

Glyddyr nodded.

“And now take my advice; go and see a doctor – that man – what’s his name? Get him to set you up, dear boy. There: good-bye. Bless you, my son. It’s perhaps a million. Don’t play with it.”

“Haven’t got it to play with.”

“No; but you will have it by-and-by. There: once more, good-bye. Be gentle with her. Go early in the day, and promise me you’ll call at the doctor’s.”

“Yes, I promise,” said Glyddyr; and he stood watching Gellow, as he was rowed ashore, cursing him bitterly the while, but confessing in his own mind that he was right.

“Yes, I’ll go and see Asher,” he muttered. “He’ll set me up. I must go on with it. I’ll be a good husband to her. It’ll be like doing penance for the past – ugh!”

He shuddered and looked ghastly.

“It’s being low makes me think of it so much,” he continued. “Yes; as soon as the boat gets back I’ll go and see Asher.”

Vacillating to a degree, he was firm in this, and stepped into the boat as soon as it reached the yacht, ordering the men to put him ashore, and this done, the men watching him as he walked sharply away, clinging to the hope that a strong tonic would calm his feelings and give him strength to go on with his plans, and trusting to time to dull the agony of his thoughts.

“Seems horrible to go on,” he said. “But it will be like penance; and, poor old boy, he did wish it.” Then aloud – “Doctor Asher at home?”

He was shown into the doctor’s consulting-room to be warmly received.

“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder you are a bit run down. I’ll soon set you right.”

Then after a short examination, and a little professional business.

“Wonder whether he knows what’s really the matter with me;” thought Glyddyr.

“Wonder whether he thinks me such a fool as not to know that he is saturated with brandy?” said the doctor to himself, as he composed a draught, while Glyddyr took up a card box from the chimney-piece, opened it mechanically, and then, as the doctor raised his hand to the shelf where the chloral bottle stood, the box slipped through Glyddyr’s fingers, fell on the edge of the fender, burst open, and the cards were scattered over the rug, and beneath the fireplace.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Oh, never mind! Don’t stop to pick them up.”

Glyddyr paid no heed, but nervously collected the pack together, rose with them in his hands, and then, watching the doctor as he wrote out the directions on a label, involuntarily, and as if naturally from feeling the cards in his hands, began to shuffle them slowly.

The doctor smiled.

“You play a bit, I see.”

“Oh! yes, of course,” said Glyddyr, hastily setting down the pack. “Confoundedly stupid of me to drop them.”

“Nonsense! Very unprofessional to have them here, eh?”

“You play, then?” said Glyddyr, repeating the doctor’s query.

“Not often. No one to play with. A game now and then would do you good.”

“Yes, yes,” said Glyddyr, eagerly. “Come on board. I’m very dull there.”

“Most happy if you’ll have a game here sometimes.”

Glyddyr accepted the proposal so readily that in a few minutes they were seated together at piquet, and when the patient rose he was ten pounds in the doctor’s debt.

“I shall have to give you my IOU, doctor,” said Glyddyr, “I have no cash down here.”

“All right, my dear sir,” said the doctor, smilingly; and Glyddyr wrote the indebtedness upon half a sheet of notepaper, to go away feeling better for his visit, and after the doctor had promised to go on board the yacht that night and give him his revenge.

This was given, Glyddyr managing to win twenty pounds, and receiving back his IOU and a ten-pound note.

“You London gentlemen are too clever for me,” said the doctor, laughingly. “But never mind; I shall have to win that back.”

“Mustn’t win much off him if I’m to take his medicine,” said Glyddyr to himself. “Might give me too strong a dose. Ugh! What a fool I am to think such things as that.”

“I believe he’s half a sharper,” said the doctor to himself as he was rowed ashore. “But never mind; let him marry her. He will be another patient to the good, and I dare say I can manage him, clever as he is.”

The next day Glyddyr called at the Fort, and found Claude at home. She received him with Mary by her side, and the triumphant feelings that filled his breast after the last encounter with Chris slowly filtered away.

He was not himself he knew, feeling nothing like so strong and well, through having gone to bed the previous night perfectly sober, and refraining that morning from taking what he called a peg to string himself up, for fear that the odour should accompany him on his visit.

He told himself that he never showed to worse advantage, for he was troubled all through the visit by a horrible sensation of nervous dread, starting at every sound, and hurriedly bringing his visit to a close.

On the other hand, Claude thought she had never liked her visitor so well.

“He seemed so full of respectful deference,” she said.

“Yes,” said downright Mary, “but I wish he would take a dislike to the place. I’m sick of seeing his yacht moored in the harbour. It’s beginning to blow. I wish the wind would blow it right away.”

But Glyddyr had not the least intention of going. In spite of his hurried ending to his visit, he came away feeling better.

“It’s natural that I should feel uncomfortable there, but it will soon wear off, and it’s plain enough to see that I am gradually becoming welcome. Gellow’s right,” he said, recalling one of their conversations. “Patience is the thing.

“I’m all right. Wish I could feel like this when I am there.”

“Good-morning.”

“Ah, doctor.”

“Why it’s ‘ah, patient.’ You’re better, Glyddyr, decidedly. You must keep on with that tonic.”

“Yes, ever so much better,” said Glyddyr, who was flushed with hope. “Come on board and dine with me.”

“Thanks, no. I’m not such a very bad sailor, but not good enough to enjoy my dinner with the table dancing up and down. Going to be a gale.”

“Humph! Yes, I suppose it will be a bit rough, even if we shift the moorings. Never mind, come and dine with me at the hotel and we can have a private room, and a hand at cards with our coffee.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor, hesitating.

“Yes, come,” said Glyddyr eagerly. “I’m dull and hipped. Want a companion. Do me more good than your tonics. At seven.”

“Very well,” said the doctor, “seven be it. Do me good, too, perhaps,” he muttered, as he went away. “Better for him to marry her. Yes, I can turn him round my finger.”

He went home musing deeply, and, punctual to time, joined Glyddyr at the hotel, to find him looking flushed and excited.

“Hallo! That’s not the tonic,” he said.

“Eh! Tonic? No, it’s the weather. Storm always affects me a little. I was obliged to have a pint of champagne to pull me up.”

The doctor laughed as he shook his head, for he saw in the half-wrecked man before him, a life annuity, if the cards were rightly played, and during the dinner he once or twice told himself that his game was to hurry on the engagement between Claude and Glyddyr.

“If he is wise,” the doctor said to himself, “Glyddyr will play the trump card. It would take the trick. Your father’s wish, my dear. Poor old gentleman.”

They parted almost sworn friends, for the real cards had been kindly to both, and neither had lost or won.

“It’s rather rough for going on board to-night,” said the doctor.

“Pish! Not a bit I’m not afraid of a few waves.”

“Well, don’t get drowned.”

“Those who are bound to be hanged will never be drowned,” came into Glyddyr’s head as the doctor departed, and the old saw sent quite a chill through him.

“Confound it. What a coward I am,” he muttered angrily. “I felt so much better all the evening. Here,” he said roughly to the waiter, who had come in accidentally, as waiters do when the guests begin to stir. “My bill.”

That document was quite ready; and after glancing at it, Glyddyr took a bank-note from his pocket-book, and laid it upon the tray.

The waiter bowed, went out, and returned with the note, crossed to a side table where there was a blotting case and inkstand, both of which he brought to where Glyddyr was smoking.

“What’s the matter? Not a bad one, is it?”

“Oh dear no, sir,” said the waiter, with a deprecatory cough, “only master said would you mind putting your name on the back?”

“Damn your master,” cried Glyddyr, snatching the pen and scribbling down his name. “There: you ought to know me by this time.”

“Yes, sir; of course, sir; but we always do that with notes, sir.”

“Get out, and bring me my change.”

“Yes, sir; directly sir.”

“It was your father’s wish, Claude – your father’s latest wish. You will not refuse me. I can wait.”

Glyddyr was muttering this as the waiter brought his change, and the words kept on running in his head as he walked down to the pier, to find his men waiting for him. The words haunted him, too, as he rode over the rough waves in the little harbour.

“Bah!” he thought, as he reached his cabin and threw himself down, flushed and in high spirits now, “it was an accident, and I am a fool to shrink with a prize like that waiting for me. I will go on, and she can’t refuse me if I only have plenty of pluck. I’ve been a bit out of order, and weak. It’s all right now. That cad hasn’t a chance. My wife before six months are gone, and then, Master Gellow, if I don’t send you to the right about I’ll – ”

He stopped, for he remembered Denise.

“No,” he muttered uneasily, “one’s obliged to keep a cad to do one’s dirty work, and Gellow can be useful when he likes.”

Volume Three – Chapter Eight.
Mrs Sarson’s Appeal

“Sit down, Mr Wimble, and how’s all Danmouth? I was coming over in a day or two perhaps, to stay at the Fort, and if I do, I dare say I shall have to make a call on you.”

“Glad to see you at any time, sir,” said Wimble, looking uneasily at the portly figure of the lawyer as he sat back in his chair, after a long study over Gartram’s papers.

For, in spite of Claude’s decision, that missing sum of money troubled Trevithick.

“It’s a reflection on me, as his business-man,” he said to himself. “Forty thousand in notes gone and nobody knows where. I’ll trace that money. I shall not rest till I do.”

He had some thought, too, that if he did triumphantly trace that missing sum, Claude would be pleased, and Mary Dillon more than satisfied. So he worked on in secret, and he was busy when his clerk announced the Danmouth barber.

“And now, what can I do for you?” said Trevithick.

The barber hesitated, looked round, and then back at the calm, thoughtful man before him.

“You need not be afraid to speak, Mr Wimble,” said Trevithick looking very serious but feeling amused, “no one can hear.”

“Sure, sir?”

“Quite.”

“Because it’s horribly private, sir.”

“Indeed! What is it? Want to borrow a little cash?”

“Me, sir?” cried the barber jumping up indignantly. “No, sir; I’ve got my little bit saved up and safely invested at five per cent.”

“I beg your pardon, and congratulate you. Then what is it?”

Wimble went on tiptoe to the entrance, opened the door, peeped out, and, after closing it, came stealthily back close to the table, upon which he rested his hand, bent forward till his face came within a foot of the lawyer’s, and gazed at him wildly.

“Well, Mr Wimble, what is it?” said Trevithick at last, for his visitor was silent.

“It’s murder, sir,” whispered the barber.

“What?”

“Murder, sir.”

“Well, then, you had better go to the police, man, for that’s not in my way.”

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, it is. You are Mr Gartram’s lawyer, and have to do with his affairs.”

“Good heavens, man, what do you mean?”

“That Mr Gartram was murdered, sir – poisoned, and I’ve got the clue.”

“What?”

“I thought I wouldn’t say a word, sir. That it was too horrible, and that no matter what one did, it wouldn’t bring the poor man back to life; but when I see the murderer going on in his wickedness, spending the money he must have stolen, and pretending he has come in for a fortune, and on the strength of it trying to delude weak widows he lodges with, and carrying on with other ladies too, it is time to speak. The human heart won’t hold such secrets without a busting out.”

The lawyer started at the sound of the word money, for it seemed to strike a chord within his own breast.

“Look here, Mr Wimble,” he said; “do I gather aright that you think that Mr Gartram was murdered?”

“Poisoned, sir.”

“Good heavens! But by whom?”

“One who had sworn to have revenge upon him – one who wanted his money; and who was seen and caught lurking about the Fort, sir, one dark night, waiting for his opportunity, for he knew the place well from a boy.”

“Great heavens, man, whom do you mean?”

“The man who has blighted my life, sir, Mr Christopher Lisle.”

“Rubbish!”

“What, sir?”

“You’re mad.”

“I wish I was, sir, and that I could say to myself you’re fancying all this; I should be a happier man, sir. But I can’t. I’ve fought with it and smothered it down, but it’s one living fire, sir, and it’s kept burning the day through.”

“Mr Christopher Lisle?”

“Yes, sir. Him as was turned away, and heard to say threatening things against poor Mr Gartram.”

“But found on the premises?”

“Yes, sir; the night Mr Gartram died of poison, no matter what the doctors said; and that night the deed was done this bottle of stuff was thrown out of the window down among the rocks and sand.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I found it early next morning,” said Wimble, holding up the bottle; “and I can swear it was not there the day before.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, man! It’s impossible.”

“That’s what I said to myself, sir, but nature argued it out inside me. ‘Here’s Mr Chris Lisle,’ it said, ‘wanted Miss Claude, and her father refused him, and was going to give her to Mr Glyddyr, of the yacht.’ There’s one reason. Mr Chris was thrown over, because he was poor. That’s another reason. Mr Chris is rich now. How did he become rich? Nobody knows. Mr Chris was found in the garden, hiding, on the night Mr Gartram died, and the window was open. – What do you say to that? This bottle, with some poison in it, was found under the window by me.”

“Let me look.”

“No, sir. That bottle’s mine now. I wouldn’t part with it for a hundred pounds.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a curiosity, sir, as thousands would come to see. That bottle killed a man.”

“Let me look. I’ll give it you back.”

“Honour bright, sir?”

“Yes.”

Wimble unrolled the bottle from its cover and handed it to the lawyer, who took and examined it.

“Pish!” he said, looking at the limpid fluid within. “Water.”

“I was told it was chloral, sir.”

“Chloral?” cried Trevithick; “he died of an overdose of chloral.”

“Of course he did, sir,” said the barber triumphantly. “Now, sir, am I mad?”

Trevithick rose, and walked heavily up and down the room, like a small elephant seeking to quit its enclosure, but professional training came to his aid directly, and he reseated himself, looking quite calm.

“This is a terribly serious thing, Mr Wimble,” he said sternly. “You are charging Mr Lisle with murder.”

“Terribly serious thing to take Mr Gartram’s life, sir.”

“If he did, my man – if he did. But it must be all a mistake.”

“I hope it is, sir, indeed.”

“If the police knew of this, it would be awkward for Mr Lisle.”

“Of course it would, sir.”

“But, my good man, you are taking the view that he is guilty. I tell you that it is impossible.”

“I hope it is, sir; but I’ve gone over it in my bed till I’m obliged to believe Mr Lisle did it; and I feel I couldn’t keep the secret any longer.”

“And so you came to me?”

“Yes, sir, as Mr Gartram’s business-man.”

“Dear, dear – dear, dear!” ejaculated Trevithick excitedly, as the man began to overcome the lawyer. “There are the ladies, Wimble. We must be very careful. If this reached their ears it would be horrible.”

“Yes, sir, of course; but the wicked ought to be punished.”

“You don’t like Mr Lisle?” said the lawyer, looking at him searchingly.

“Well, sir, if I must speak out, no: I don’t like Mr Lisle.”

“And so you magnify this suspicion, and seek to do him harm by setting about the story.”

“Steady there, sir, please. I don’t set about a story without good proof. Now, let me ask you, sir, was Mr Gartram the sort of man to go and kill himself with an overdose of that stuff?”

“By accident, man; yes.”

“Not a bit of it, sir. He was too clever. I don’t want to prove Mr Lisle guilty, but there’s the case. He was hanging about the grounds that night.”

“Who saw him?”

“The gardener, sir, Brime. Caught him there after he had been forbidden the place, and he persuaded the man to hold his tongue.”

“Look here, Wimble,” said Trevithick, sternly, “there may be a slight substratum of probability in what you say, but it is most unlikely that this young man can have committed such a crime. Now, then, I’ll tell you what it is your duty to do.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wimble eagerly.

“Go back to Danmouth, and keep your own counsel for the present. You can do that?”

“Hold my tongue, sir? Of course.”

“Don’t mention this to a soul.”

“And hush it up, sir – a murder?”

“Pish! It is no murder. Let the matter rest while I try to make out whether there is anything in what you say.”

“Ah, you’ll find it right, sir. Young men like Mr Chris don’t get rich in a day.”

“Never mind about that. I’ll go into the matter quietly. Recollect that it would be your ruin if it was known that you had, without foundation, made this horrible charge against Mr Lisle.”

“My ruin, sir?”

“Of course. You could not stay in the town afterwards. There, go back and hold your tongue. I’m coming over to Danmouth to-morrow, and after I have carefully weighed all you have said, I will see you again.”

“Come in and see me to-morrow, sir. You can easily do that, sir. Nobody would think it meant anything more than coming in to be shaved.”

“Well, I’ll call; and now, mind this: not a soul in the place must hear a word. It is our secret, Wimble.”

“Yes, sir, I see,” said the barber. “You may trust me. I came straight to you, sir. Oh, I can be as close and secret as grim death, sir, you’ll see.”

“That’s right, my man. And take my advice, don’t think any more of it. I confess that it looks bad, but we shall find out that it is all imagination, and I hope it is, for every one’s sake. Close, Mr Wimble, perfectly close, mind, at all events for the present.”

“Trust me, sir. I’m glad I came to you, and you shall find me close as a box.”

Wimble spoke in all sincerity, and he returned to Danmouth, feeling glad that he had seen the lawyer; but when he spoke he did not realise that there was a key that would open that box.

He had no necessity for going round by Mrs Sarson’s cottage, it was quite out of his way, but it was in the dusk of evening, when love will assert itself even in middle-aged minds.

“All alone there at the mercy of a murderer,” thought Wimble. “I’ll just walk by and see if she is quite safe.”

It was rather a hopeless thing to do, he owned, for there was not likely to be anything in the outside walls to indicate whether the widow was safe or no. All the same, he went round that way to find that all looked right; but as he passed very slowly by, he found that the window of Chris’s room was open, and he stopped short as if spellbound, for a familiar voice said, in tones which indicated that the speaker was shedding tears —

“No, no, my dear; you can’t think how much I think about you.”

The voice ceased as Wimble gave a very decided knock at the door.

Mrs Sarson came to answer it slowly, for she was wiping her eyes after a long, long talk with Chris, whom in a motherly way she had been trying to rouse from the reckless, despondent state into which he had fallen, and tried in vain.

Consequently there was a wet gleam on her cheeks, as, candle in hand, she answered the door.

“You, Mr Wimble!” she said, starting, and feeling a little confused. “So bold of him to come and call,” she thought.

“Yes, Mrs Sarson, I want to speak to you particularly.”

“Not to-night, Mr Wimble. I – I am not quite well.”

“Yes; to-night.”

“But Mr Lisle is at home.”