A Maker of History Part 23

She raised her eyebrows.

"Certainly not!" she answered. "Excuse me, won't you? I want to speak to Lady Runton before she goes upstairs."

Duncombe stood on one side and let her pa.s.s with a stiff bow. As he raised his eyes he saw that Mr. Fielding was standing within a few feet of him, smoking a cigarette. He might almost have overheard their conversation.

"Good night, Mr. Fielding," he said, holding out his hand. "Are you staying down here for long?"

"For two days, I believe," Mr. Fielding answered. "My daughter makes our plans."

He spoke very slowly, but without any accent. Nothing in his appearance, except perhaps the fact that he wore a black evening tie, accorded with the popular ideas of the travelling American.

"If you have an hour to spare," Duncombe said, "it would give me a great deal of pleasure if you and your daughter would walk down and have a look over my place. Part of the hall is Elizabethan, and I have some relics which might interest Miss Fielding."

Mr. Fielding removed the cigarette from his mouth.

"I thank you very much, sir," he said. "We are Lord Runton's guests, and our stay is so short that we could scarcely make any arrangements to visit elsewhere. Glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you all the same."

Duncombe sought out his host.

"Runton, old chap," he said, "do me a favor. Bring that fellow Fielding and his daughter round to my place before they go."

Lord Runton laughed heartily.

"Is it a case?" he exclaimed. "And you, our show bachelor, too! Never mind my chaff, old chap. She's a ripping good-looking girl, and money enough to buy the country."

"I don't mind your chaff," Duncombe answered, "but will you bring her?"

Lord Runton looked thoughtful.

"How the d.i.c.kens can I? We are all shooting at the Duke's to-morrow, and I believe they're off on Sat.u.r.day. You're not in earnest by any chance, are you, George?"

"d.a.m.nably!" he answered.

Lord Runton whistled softly.

"Fielding doesn't shoot," he remarked, "but they're going with us to Beaumanor. Shall I drop him a hint? He might stay a day longer--just to make a few inquiries about you on the spot, you know."

"Get him to stay a day longer, if you can," Duncombe answered, "but don't give me away. The old chap's none too cordial as it is."

"I must talk to him," Runton said. "Your Baronetcy is a thundering sight better than any of these mushroom peerages. He probably doesn't understand that sort of thing. But what about the girl? Old Von Rothe has been making the running pretty strong, you know."

"We all have to take our chance in that sort of thing," Duncombe said quietly. "I am not afraid of Von Rothe!"

"I'll do what I can for you," Runton promised. "Good night!"

Andrew, who had left an hour or so earlier, was sitting in the library smoking a pipe when his host returned.

"Not gone to bed yet, then?" Duncombe remarked. "Let me make you a whisky and soda, old chap. You look a bit tired."

"Very good of you--I think I will," Andrew answered. "And, George, are you sure that I should not be putting you out at all if I were to stay--say another couple of days with you?"

Duncombe wheeled round and faced his friend. His reply was not immediate.

"Andrew," he said, "you know very well that I haven't a pal in the world I'd sooner have here than you for just as long as you choose to stay, but--forgive me if I ask you one question. Is it because you want to watch Miss Fielding that you have changed your mind?"

"That has a good deal to do with it, George," Andrew said quietly. "If I left without meeting that young lady again I should be miserable. I want to hear her speak when she does not know that any one is listening."

Duncombe crossed the room and laid his hand upon the other's shoulder.

"Andrew, old fellow," he said, "I can't have it. I can't allow even my best friend to spy upon Miss Fielding. You see--I've come a bit of a cropper. Quick work, I suppose, you'd say. But I'm there all the same."

"Who wants to spy upon Miss Fielding?" Andrew exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely. "She can be the daughter of a multi-millionaire or a penniless adventurer for all I care. All I want is to be sure that she isn't Phyllis Poynton."

"You are not yet convinced?"

"No."

There was a moment's silence. Duncombe walked to the window and returned.

"Andrew," he said, "doesn't what I told you just now make a difference?"

Andrew groaned.

"Of course it would," he answered, "but--I'm fool enough to feel the same about Phyllis Poynton."

Duncombe, in the full glow of sensations which seemed to him to give a larger and more wonderful outlook on life, felt his sympathies suddenly awakened. Andrew Pelham, his old chum, sitting there with his huge, disfiguring gla.s.ses and bowed head, was surely the type of all that was pathetic. He forgot all his small irritation at the other's obstinacy.

He remembered only their long years of comrades.h.i.+p and the tragedy which loomed over the life of his chosen friend. Once more his arm rested upon his shoulder.

"I'm a selfish brute, Andrew!" he said. "Stay as long as you please, and get this idea out of your brain. I'm trying to get Miss Fielding and her father down here, and if I can manage it anyhow I'll leave you two alone, and you shall talk as long as you like. Come, we'll have a drink together now and a pipe afterwards."

He walked across to the sideboard, where the gla.s.ses and decanters were arranged. Then for the first time he saw upon the tray awaiting him a telegram. He gave a little exclamation as he tore it open.

Andrew looked up.

"What is it, George?" he asked. "A telegram?"

Duncombe stood with his eyes glued upon the oblong strip of paper. A curious pallor had crept into his face from underneath the healthy tan of his complexion. Andrew, sightless though he was, seemed to feel the presence in the room of some exciting influence. He rose to his feet and moved softly across to the sideboard.

"Is it a telegram, George?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Read it to me. Is it from Spencer?"

Duncombe collected himself with an effort.

"It's nothing," he answered with a little laugh, in which all the elements of mirth were lacking, "nothing at all! A note from Heggs, my head-keeper--about some poachers. Confound the fellow!"

Andrew's hand was suddenly upon the sideboard, travelling furtively across its s.h.i.+ning surface. Duncombe watched it with a curious sense of fascination. He felt altogether powerless to interfere. He was simply wondering how long it would be before those long, powerful fingers seized upon what they sought. He might even then have swept aside the envelope, but he felt no inclination to do so. The fingers were moving slowly but surely. Finally, with a little grab, they seized upon it.

Then there was another moment of suspense.

Slowly the hand was withdrawn. Without a second's warning Duncombe felt himself held in the grip of a giant. Andrew had him by the throat.