CHAPTER SEVEN

Like a man in a dream, he heard the pleasant, contralto voice of Miss Mayhew asking him if he did not think Mr. Stormont looked wonderfully well, and then, without awaiting his answer, go on to remark that country life evidently agreed with him.

Having broken the ice with Lydon in the easy manner that showed she was endowed with plenty of self-confidence, she turned to the rubicund gentleman himself, whom she addressed familiarly as Uncle Howard. “I’m afraid since you took possession of this lovely place, you don’t work half as hard as you used to do.”

Whatever her relations with the other two members of the family, she was apparently on very close terms with the head of it, as was apparent from the way she addressed him. Gloria had said that they had seen very little of each other, Stormont then must have had additional opportunities of intimacy. Unless she knew him very well, she would not have called him uncle in the presence of his real niece.

He wondered whether Gloria quite relished the familiarity. In spite of her obvious recognition of Stormont’s failings, and her resentment of what had just taken place between himself and her fiancé, he was sure that she had a very soft spot in her heart for her uncle, whom she always declared to be one of the kindest and most generous of men.

But Gloria did not seem piqued in any way, and she had told him that Miss Mayhew was not only very bright and vivacious, but especially charming also. One of his sweetheart’s best traits was that she was not a jealous or an envious girl.

Whitehouse was always taciturn; he ate heartily and drank a fair amount, but neither of these processes ever seemed to exhilarate him. Mrs. Barnard was naturally a quiet woman, of a disposition rather reserved than otherwise. The conversation at lunch was carried on mainly between the host and the dark, handsome girl. Miss Mayhew appeared to have travelled a great deal abroad, for she was constantly making references to places where apparently she and “Uncle Howard” had been in each other’s company. It was no doubt owing to these meetings that they seemed so intimate with each other.

The visitors did not stay very long after lunch, although Stormont, in his hospitable way, pressed them to reconsider their decision, and postpone their departure till at least the following day. But Whitehouse shook his head and replied briefly it was impossible, as he and his niece had an engagement on Sunday.

Stormont drove them alone from the house, as he had driven them alone to it. There must be some reason, for Lydon knew he was not fond of acting as chauffeur. Probably he wanted a few last words with the girl who was necessary to the prosecution of some business scheme hatched between the two men.

After they had left, Mrs. Barnard retired to her usual task of writing letters, and the engaged couple went into the billiard-room.

“Well, what do you think of the handsome Zillah?” asked Gloria as they chose their cues. “Uncle says she breaks hearts wherever she goes. Did you find her very fascinating?”

Lydon had certainly been greatly fascinated by her, but not for the reasons Gloria had in her mind when she put the question. What had fascinated him was that brilliant sapphire pendant and the blemish on her neck, only partially concealed by the liberal use of powder.

He answered her question lightly: “I expect most men would find her more than ordinarily attractive. But you know, darling, I have never had any great admiration for dark women.”

Gloria no doubt was quite satisfied with the answer, for she did not pursue the subject. She had been rather eclipsed at lunch by the vivacious and brilliant Miss Mayhew, but now she was alone with her lover she chatted away merrily enough as they played their game.

And, as she talked, Lydon found himself speculating on the recent visitor and the strange position of affairs at Effington. There was plenty of unreality about the whole thing. Was there also perhaps more than a mere suspicion of mystery? Why did Stormont maintain that persistent reticence about his business, a man usually of a most garrulous disposition? Even now Lydon did not know precisely where his offices were situated. On the bill of exchange it was necessary for him to put an address, but he had simply described himself as of Effington Hall, Surrey.

Whitehouse, seemingly his most intimate friend, seemed more than a little mysterious too. He always gave Leonard the impression of a man who was constantly keeping close watch upon himself lest he should drop something that he did not wish known.

And who was this independent, self-assured young woman, Zillah Mayhew, with the blemish on her neck and that striking pendant, who seemed to spend her life in rushing hither and thither, and was on such intimate terms with Uncle Howard?

He led the conversation presently round to the same subject, for all the time he was making his strokes the dark, handsome Zillah, with her foreign look, was in his thoughts.

“What a lovely sapphire that is she wears! You noticed it, of course?”

“One could not very well avoid noticing it,” was the reply. “As I have told you, I haven’t seen her many times, but on every occasion she has had it on. Uncle says it is her mascot.”

“And did you also notice that peculiar blemish on her neck which, cleverly as she tries to hide it, peeps through the powder?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Gloria, “for the first time to-day. I am certain it was not there the last time I saw her.”

“And how long ago might that be?” was her lover’s next question.

The girl considered. “Let me see. I am not very good at remembering dates. But I do recollect this much. She came over here a few weeks before we went on that visit to Nice where we met you and your friend, Mr. Craig.”

Lydon was thinking rapidly: “You didn’t happen to meet her at Nice?”

Gloria looked at him in surprise at the question. “No, I am sure I did not. What makes you suggest it?”

The young man laughed a little awkwardly. It was too early to tell his sweetheart the strange suspicions which had formed in his mind. “Oh, no particular reason. But from what she said at luncheon, she seems to be always on the travel. It just struck me she might have been there at that particular time.”

He left on the Monday morning this time, having on a great pressure of work. He would not be able to ask Gloria to lunch in town during the week, as he was so uncertain of his engagements, but he would be sure to be down on the following Friday.

He went back to his business, very much obsessed with his thoughts of the dark, handsome girl known as Zillah Mayhew. Was it only a queer fancy of his that had led him to connect her with the woman who had been the cause of his friend’s death?

When he got back to his rooms in Ryder Street, he hunted up the portrait in the illustrated paper which he had brought with him from Nice. It was a blurred and wretched thing. One moment he fancied he could detect a resemblance between Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew, the next he was bound to confess he could see not the slightest resemblance.

It happened that he did see his sweetheart during the week. On the Wednesday morning he had to carry out some tests of wireless telephony at one of his Company’s experimental stations at Esher. He was testing a newly-invented thermionic valve, and during the morning he got into communication with Aberdeen and Rotterdam and was gratified to learn they reported his speech and gramophone music as strong and clear.

He lunched at the _Bear Hotel_, and a happy thought struck him. He would pay a surprise visit to Effington. So he drove away down the Portsmouth Road, passing through Guildford and over the Hog’s Back, and early in the afternoon swung into the big lodge gates of Effington.

His unexpected visit was a most delightful surprise to Gloria. He would remain to tea, of course; and Mrs. Barnard, who was as hospitable as her brother, insisted upon his stopping to dinner. She regretted that Stormont would be absent, as he had motored to London to a directors’ meeting, and would not be back till late.

Mrs. Barnard served them tea from the old silver pot in the great oak-panelled hall where high stained-glass windows bore the _rose-en-soleil_ badge of the dead and gone Sedgemeres.

Duncan, the white-haired, grave-faced butler who never permitted himself the luxury of a smile, except when some guest bestowed upon him a more than usually generous tip, officiated with his customary dignity, handing round the cake-basket of pierced Georgian silver. Duncan had served the greater part of his life in noble families. Stormont, on the look-out for a dignified major-domo, had tempted him from his last place by the offer of a salary about double what he was getting.

Duncan, in a way, had fallen from his high estate in accepting service under a man about whom nobody seemed to know very much. But, like the mercenaries of old, he was content to enlist under any banner where the pay was good.

In the waning light, the big, high-pitched hall looked ghostly and cavernous, with its floor of polished oak over which high-born dames of the days of Charles the Second had danced merrily. There was the great stone fireplace with the wrought-iron fire-back, bearing upon it the date of 1621. There were the Caroline day-bed with spindle legs and fragile canework, the high carved arm-chairs upholstered in faded crimson, and the big oak gate table, loaded with game books, and visitors’ books mixed with modern novels.

Around, upon the dark panelled walls, hung several portraits of women and men in wigs, one being a portrait by Kneller of Hugh, sixth Earl of Sedgemere, and another by Reynolds of Anne, wife of the great Lord Sedgemere who had fought in the Peninsular War.

While they gossiped and sipped their tea, the sun slanted across the oak flooring, tinted by the antique escutcheons in the long coloured glass windows of the lofty hall.

At dinner Lydon casually referred to Miss Mayhew. Had they heard anything of her since he had met her at luncheon?

Mrs. Barnard answered the question: “No, nothing. Isn’t she a splendid girl? I wish we saw more of her. She is so amusing and vivacious. No wonder men are always attracted by her!”

“Does she live in London?” Lydon asked.

“When she is in England, she stays with her uncle, Mr. Whitehouse. But I believe she is a great deal with her brother in Paris.”

So this cosmopolitan young lady had a brother in Paris. Lydon would very much have liked to ask something about the brother, and also in what part of London Whitehouse resided, but his delicacy kept him back. Somehow, personal details never seemed forthcoming in the Stormont family, with perhaps the exception of Gloria, who was frankness itself. You always had to dig for them.

After dinner they went as usual into the billiard-room. Mrs. Barnard, contrary to her usual habit, accompanied them and took upon herself the office of marker.

After the game was over she very considerately left them to themselves for a few moments. No doubt, she had a recollection of her own courting days. A little while before the young man was preparing to take his leave, she came in with a bundle of letters in her hand.

“Leonard, I found these on my brother’s table just now. He had intended to take them along with him, and forgot them in the hurry of leaving. Will you please post them at Guildford or somewhere as you drive along?”

Lydon promised that he would. He said good-bye to the amiable Mrs. Barnard. Gloria accompanied him to his car, and here the farewell was a somewhat protracted one, as is usual with newly-engaged couples.

He drove away over the Hog’s Back, and stopped before the Guildford Post Office. For the first time he looked at the letters as he dropped them into the box. He came to the last, and read the superscription in Stormont’s bold handwriting. It was addressed to Miss Mayhew, 18 Ashstead Mansions, Sloane Square.

A little time ago he had been longing to ask at dinner where Mr. Whitehouse lived, and had refrained from feelings of delicacy. By the merest accident, the forgetfulness of Stormont, he had found out what he wanted. This was a piece of luck.

His first natural impulse was to scribble the address upon his shirt-cuff and send the letter into the box with the others. He never quite knew why he changed his mind. Probably his strong conviction that there was a great element of mystery about Stormont himself, and, secondly, his equally strong obsession that Elise Makris and Zillah Mayhew were one and the same person.

Second thoughts gained the day. Instead of posting the letter, as he knew he ought to have done, he put it back in his wallet, jumped back into the car, and drove along the London Road through Ripley, Cobham, Esher and Kingston to the garage close to Ryder Street.

He was determined to pluck at the heart of the mystery. Two hours after it had been given to him by Mrs. Barnard, he stood in his rooms in Ryder Street, and the letter from Howard Stormont to Zillah Mayhew was lying open in his hand. This is what he read:

“My very clever Zillah.--I have seen Edwards and arranged everything. You will leave for Paris to-morrow and wait at the _Hôtel Terminus_ for further instructions. Edwards will bring or write them. Show this to Whitehouse and then destroy.--Uncle.”

He read it through a dozen times, and then he carefully resealed the flap, for the gum was still wet from the steam he had applied. When it had dried under the weight of some heavy body, he went out and posted it in the nearest pillar-box. In all probability, Miss Mayhew would not glance at the postmark.

What did it all mean? Zillah Mayhew was intimately connected with Stormont’s business, whatever it might be. Of what nature was this peculiar business that required a female partner?

On the face of it, that brief epistle might refer to a perfectly legitimate transaction. A woman’s subtle influence might be necessary to secure some special concession, some particular contract.

But the more he thought it over, the more he rejected this explanation. The predominant thought in his mind about Howard Stormont, the country gentleman who played his rôle with such absolute enjoyment of it, was that he was a very different person from what he appeared to his neighbours at Effington.

And this suspicion would become a certainty if he could prove that Elise Makris, the decoy of swindlers and blackmailers, was none other than Zillah Mayhew, the niece, or pretended niece, of the taciturn Whitehouse.

But would it become a certainty without further corroborative evidence? Going into the question a little more deeply, he was bound to admit it would not. After all, he had nothing but undefined suspicions with regard to Stormont. He would be bound to give him the benefit of the doubt.

If the girl were found to be Elise Makris, it did not follow that Stormont was aware of her criminal activities. It was not an absolute certainty that even Whitehouse, if he were her uncle, knew of them. She was obviously a very clever, resourceful young woman; she would not go about proclaiming her nefarious profession from the housetops.

Stormont might have originally made her acquaintance in a quite simple and ordinary way, and found her talents useful to him in a peculiar line of business that entailed the exercise of a considerable amount of diplomacy.

In fair-mindedness he felt bound to reason on these lines. But, all the same, his instincts loudly confuted his reasoning. And those instincts told him that the rubicund financier was very different from what he appeared to be.