Instinctively I rose as he approached. I dont know why I did. I should not have risen had any ordinary stranger been brought over to my table to occupy a vacant seat. The man looked down at me, smiled it was a most friendly, captivating smile nodded genially, and then seated himself facing me. I am a bit of a snob at heart most of us are, only we wont admit it and I felt gratified at the reflected interest I knew was now being taken in me, for many people were staring hard at us both, evidently thinking that this remarkable-looking stranger must be Somebody, and that, as we were apparently acquainted, I must be Somebody too.
The waiters eye caught mine, and I heard him give a low chuckle of satisfaction at the practical joke he had played upon me.
I suppose you are also going to the ball, sir, the big man said to me in his great, deep voice, when he had told the waiter what to bring him.
No, Im not. I rather wish I were, I answered. Unfortunately, however, I have to return to town to-night. Are you going?
To town?
No, to the ball.
He hesitated before answering.
Yes well, perhaps, he said, as he began his soup. I am not yet certain. I want to go, but there are reasons why I should not, and he smiled.
That sounds rather curious.
It is very curious, but it is so.
Do you mind explaining?
I do.
His eyes were set on mine. They seemed somehow to hold my gaze in fascination. There was in them an expression that was half ironical, half humorous.
I believe this is the first time we have met, he said, after a pause.
Im quite sure it is, I answered. You will forgive my saying so, but I dont think any one who had once met you could very well forget it.
He gave a great laugh.
Perhaps you are right ah! perhaps you are right, he said laughing, wiping his moustache and mouth with his napkin. Certainly I shall never forget you.
I began, for the first time, to feel rather uncomfortable. He seemed to talk in enigmas. He was evidently what I believe is called a character.
Do you know this part of the country well? I asked, anxious to change the subject.
Yes and no, he answered slowly, thoughtfully.
This was getting tiresome. I began to think he was trying to make fun of me. I began to wish the waiter had not put him to sit at my table.
Presently he looked again across at me, and said quite suddenly
Look here, Mr Ashton, let us understand each other at once, shall we?
His eyes looked into mine again, and I again felt quite uneasy. He knew my name. I felt distinctly annoyed at the waiter having told him my name without first asking my permission, as I concluded he must have done. It was a great liberty on his part, I considered an impertinence, more especially as he had not mentioned this strangers name to me.
I shall not be at the ball and yet I shall be there, the big man continued, as I did not speak. Tell me, do you return to Houghton after going to London?
You seem to know a good deal about me, Mr I said, rather nettled, but hoping to draw his name from him.
He did not take the hint.
Sir Charles is well, I hope? And Lady Thorold? he went on. And how is their charming daughter, Miss Vera? I have not seen her for some days. She seems to be as fond as ever of hunting. I think it a cold-blooded, brutal sport. In fact I dont call it sport at all twenty or so couples of hounds after one fox, and the chances all in favour of the hounds. I have told her so more than once, and I believe that in her heart she agrees with me. As a matter of fact, Im here in Oakham, on purpose to call on Sir Charles to-morrow, on a matter of business.
I was astounded, also annoyed. Who on earth was this big man, who seemed to know so much, who spoke of Vera as though he knew her intimately and met her every day, and who apparently was acquainted also with Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, yet whom I had never before set eyes on, though I was so very friendly with the Thorolds?
The stranger had spoken of my well-beloved!
You will forgive my asking you, I am sure, I said, curiosity getting the better of me, but well, I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. Do you mind telling me?
Mind telling you my name? he exclaimed, with a look of surprise. Why, not in the least. My name is well Smithson if you like. Any name will do?
He must have noticed my sudden change of expression, for he said at once
You seem surprised?
I well, I am rather surprised. But you merely are not Smithson, I answered awkwardly. I was staring hard at him, scrutinising his face in order to discover some resemblance to the portrait which at that moment lay snugly at the bottom of my valise. The portrait showed a clean-shaven man, younger than this strange individual whom I had met, as I believed, for the first time, barely a quarter of an hour before. Age might have wrought changes, and the beard might have served as a disguise, but the man in the picture was certainly over thirty-four, and my companion here at dinner could not have been less than forty-five at most. Even the eyes, those betrayers of disguised faces, bore no resemblance that I could see to the eyes of the man in the picture. The beard and moustache of the man facing me were certainly not artificial. That I could see at a glance.
Why are you surprised? the man asked abruptly.
It would take a long time to explain, I answered, equivocating, but it is a curious coincidence that only yesterday I almost met a man named Smithson. I was wondering if he could be some relation of yours. He was not like you in face.
Oh, so you know Smithson?
No, I dont know him. I have never met him. I said I almost met him.
Have you never seen him, then?
Never in my life.
And yet you say he is not like me in face. How do you know he is not like me in face if you have never seen him?
The sudden directness of his tone disconcerted me. For an instant I felt like a witness being cross-examined by a bullying Counsel.
Ive seen a portrait of him.
Indeed?
My companion raised his eyebrows.
And where did you see a portrait of him? he inquired pointedly.
This was embarrassing. Why was he suddenly so interested, so inquisitive? I had no wish to make statements which I felt might lead to my being dragged into saying all sorts of things I had no wish to say, especially to a stranger who, though he had led me to believe that he was acquainted with the Thorolds, apparently had no inkling of what had just happened at Houghton Park.
No inkling! I almost smiled as the thought occurred to me, and was quickly followed by the thought of the sensation the affair would create when the newspapers came to hear of what had happened, and began to spread themselves upon the subject, as they certainly would do very soon.
My companions voice dispelled my wandering reflections.
Where did you see the portrait of this other Smithson? he asked, looking at me oddly.
In a friends house.
Was it at Houghton Park?
In point of fact, it was.
His eyes seemed to read my thoughts, and I didnt like it. He was silent for some moments. Then suddenly he rose.
Well, Mr Ashton, he said quite genially, as he extended his hand, I am glad that we have met, and I trust we shall meet again. In point of fact, to use your own phrase, we shall, and very soon. Until then good-bye. I have enjoyed our little conversation. It has been so what shall I say informal, and it was so unexpected. I did not expect to meet you to-night, I can assure you.
He was gone, leaving me in a not wholly pleasant frame of mind. The man puzzled me. Did I like him, or did I not? His personality attracted me, had done so from the moment I had set eyes on him framed in the doorway, but I was bound to admit that some of his observations had annoyed me. In particular, that remark: We shall meet again, and very soon; also his last words: I did not expect to meet you to-night, I can assure you, caused me some uneasiness in the face of all that had happened. Indeed all through dinner his remarks had somehow seemed to bear some hidden meaning.
Chapter Four
Further Mystery
I had to go up to London that night. My lawyers had written some days previously that they must see me personally at the earliest possible moment on some matter to do with my investments, which they controlled entirely, and the letter had been left lying at my flat in King Street before being forwarded. And as the Oakham police had impressed upon me that my presence would be needed in Oakham within the next day or two, I had decided to run up to London, see my lawyers and get my interview with them over, and then return to Rutland as soon as possible.
Again and again, as the night express tore through the darkness towards St. Pancras, Veras fair face and appealing eyes floated like a vision into my thoughts. I must see her again, at once but how could I find her, and where? Would the police try to find her, and her father and mother? But why should they? After all, perhaps Sir Charles and Lady Thorolds flight from Houghton did not mean that they intended to conceal themselves. What reason could they have for concealment?
Then, all at once, an idea occurred to me. I smiled at my stupidity in not thinking of it before. There was the Thorolds house in Belgrave Street. It had been shut up for a long time, but perhaps for some reason they had suddenly decided to go back there. On my arrival at St. Pancras I would at once ring up that house and inquire if they were there.
But I was doomed to disappointment. While the porter was hailing a taxi for me, I went to the station telephone. There were plenty of Thorolds in the telephone-directory that hung inside the glass door, but Sir Charles name was missing.
Determined not to be put off, I told the driver to go first to Belgrave Street. The number of the Thorolds house was, I remembered, a hundred and two. By the time we got there it was past midnight. The house bore no sign of being occupied. I was about to ring, when a friendly constable with a bulls-eye lantern prevented me.
Its empty, sir, he said; has been for months and months, in fact as long as I can remember.
But surely there is a caretaker, I exclaimed.
Oh, theres a caretaker, a very old man, he answered with a grin. But you wont get him to come down at this time of night. Hes a character, he is.
There had been nothing in the newspapers that day, but, on the morning after, the bomb burst.
AMAZING STORY
WELL-KNOWN FAMILY VANISH
BUTLERS BODY IN THE LAKE
Those headlines, in what news-editors call war type, met my eyes as I unfolded the paper.
I was in bed, and my breakfast on the tray beside me grew cold while I devoured the three columns of close-set print describing everything that had occurred from the moment of Sir Charles disappearance until the paper had gone to press.
I caught my breath as I came to my own name. My appearance was described in detail, names of my relatives were given, and a brief outline of my fathers brilliant career for he had been a great soldier and then all my movements during the past two days were summarised.
I had last been seen, the account ran, dining at the Stags Head Hotel with a gentleman, a stranger, whom nobody seemed to know anything about. He had come to the Stags Head on the evening of Monday, April 1, engaged a bedroom and a sitting-room in the name of Davies, and he had left on the night of Wednesday, April 3. He had intended, according to the newspaper, to sleep at the Stags Head that night, but between ten and eleven oclock he had changed his mind, packed his suit-case, paid his bill, and left. Where he had come from, none knew; where he had gone, or why, none knew. How he had spent his time from his arrival until his departure, nobody had been able to discover.
All that is known about him, ran the newspaper report, is that he was a personal friend of Mr Richard Ashton, and that he dined at the Stags Head Hotel with Mr Ashton on the Wednesday evening, his last meal in the hotel before his hurried departure.
This was horrible. It seemed to convey indirectly the impression that I knew why the Thorolds had disappeared, and where they had gone. More, a casual reader might easily have been led to suppose that I was implicated in some dark plot, involving the death of the butler. I appeared in the light of a man of mystery, the friend of a man who might, for aught I knew, be some criminal, but whose name this certainly interested me he apparently intended should remain secret.
I turned over the page. Good heavens my portrait! And the one portrait of myself that of all others I detested. Anybody looking at that particular portrait would at once say: What a villainous man; he looks like a criminal!
I remembered now, rather bitterly, making that very observation when the proofs had been sent to me by the photographer, and how my friends had laughed and said it was quite true, and that it resembled a portrait in a Sunday paper of the accused in Court.
There were also portraits of Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, and a pretty picture of Vera, the best that had ever been taken of her. But the one portrait that I felt ought to have been reproduced, though it was not, was one of the bearded giant, who had given his name as Davies.
Thoroughly disgusted, I turned without appetite to my tepid breakfast. I had hardly begun to eat, when the telephone at my bedside rang.
Was that Mr Richard Ashtons flat? asked a voice. Might the speaker speak to him?
Mr Ashton was speaking.
Oh, this was the office of The Morning. The editor would greatly appreciate Mr Ashtons courtesy if he would receive one of his representatives. He would not detain him long.
I gulped a mouthful of tea, then explained that I would sooner not be interviewed. I was extremely sorry, I said, that my name had been dragged into this extraordinary affair.
The news-editor was persistent. I was firm. I always am firm when I am at the end of a telephone, but rarely on other occasions. Finally I rang off.
A brief interval. Then another ring. Well, what?
The editor of the
No, I answered as politely as I could. I am extremely sorry. You see, I have just refused to be interviewed by The Morning, and it would hardly be fair to that journal if Oh, The Morning was a paper of no consequence, was it? That made a difference, of course, but still no no I was really sorry I could not I
I hung up the receiver. As I did so my man entered. There were four gentlemen downstairs, also a photographer. They wanted to know if
Tell them, I interrupted, that I cannot see them. And, John
Sir?
I am not at home to anybody anybody at all. You understand?
Quite, sir.
I noticed that his tone was not quite as deferential as usual. I knew the reason. Of course he had seen this odious paper, or some paper more odious still. Probably he and the other servants in the building had been discussing me, and hazarding all sorts of wildly improbable stories about me.