Part 5

“Amusing” was not the word he would have used, in all truth, but it was the only word he could think of at the moment. As though he were waiting for this summons, Mr. Gilder came in answer to the bell. He carried a light coat over his arm and a spotless gray felt hat in his hand. Again she was uncomfortably conscious of the man’s scrutiny.

“You know Mr. Gilder, Leslie?”

His uneasiness and apprehension were communicating themselves to her. Try as she did, she could not succeed in shaking off her sensation of disquietude. The atmosphere was electric; she would have been dull indeed if she had not responded to the strain.

Throughout the journey Mr. Gilder talked almost without interruption. He had a deep but pleasant voice, and was an easy conversationalist. Arthur was beginning to know something about the man with whom he had worked side by side all these years, and to regard him in a new light. Hitherto, Gilder had been a cipher--a familiar figure that had appeared from heaven knew where in the morning and had disappeared at the end of a day’s work into the blue. As though unconscious of his employer’s wonder and speculation, Gilder chatted on.

Afterward, Leslie catalogued the subjects which were discussed so one-sidedly in that drive. He talked of aviation, of wireless, of books he had read--Dumas was his favourite--of the war, of Russia, of Italy’s renaissance, of American writers, of the weather, polo--of almost every subject that occupied public attention. She knew that he was trying to impress her, and saw in this no more than the natural desire of a man to look well in the eyes of a woman.

The flat was bigger than she had expected, and was in one of many in the most exclusive apartment house on the Outer Circle. Arthur viewed its expensive appointments with a glum face. One black week of his at Ascot must have furnished three such flats as this, he thought, and the little devil of resentment and loathing grew stronger in his heart.

Tea was served by two trimly uniformed maids, and Mr. Gilder acted the part of host to perfection. He had a library of rare old books which she must see, and he took them to a room the walls of which were fitted with bookshelves and reminded Leslie, though there was no resemblance between the two apartments, of the hall wherein her fiancé spent most of his time.

Gilder was showing the girl a rare first edition when a surprising thing happened.

“Do you mind if I run out for five minutes, Leslie? I want to see a fellow who lives on the other side of the Park.”

Arthur Gwyn’s voice was husky, his assumption of ease a miserable failure. The girl looked at him in astonishment, and then examined the face of the little watch on her wrist.

“If you want to be back at Willow House in time for dinner----” she began.

“I sha’n’t be more than a quarter of an hour gone,” he said desperately. “If you don’t mind…”

Before she could utter a word he had vanished. It was all so unexpected, so strange, that she could not quite realize what had happened, and the last thought in the world she could have had was that Arthur was deliberately leaving her alone with this gray man.

On one point her mind was made up: she did not like Mr. Gilder; and she was fairly certain that her antipathy was shared by her brother. His strange manner in the presence of the man, his awkwardness, and, most convincing proof of all, his silence, puzzled her. Arthur was intensely selfish, would not go a step out of his way either for courtesy’s sake or to save the feelings of those whom he regarded as his dependents. And this sudden desire to oblige his head clerk was contradictory to her knowledge of him. Yet she felt neither alarm nor annoyance, finding herself in that little library, alone with this square-jawed clerk.

As the door closed upon her brother, Fabrian Gilder carefully replaced on the shelf the book he had been examining.

“I shall be in my new home by the spring,” he said, “and I hope I shall see more of you, Miss Gwyn.”

She made a conventionally polite reply.

“My ambition has always been to settle in the country and to follow my two hobbies, which are fishing and reading,” he went on. “Happily, I am in the position of being able to retire from my profession--your brother has probably told you that I am a fairly wealthy man.”

Something in his tone focussed her attention. Her heart beat a little faster, and for the first time she was conscious of being alone with him.

“I am not an old man--fifty I regard as the prime of life--and I think I have the capacity for making any woman happy.”

She met his eyes steadily.

“I hope we shall have the pleasure of meeting your wife,” she said.

He made no reply to this, and she grew hot and cold under the scrutiny of those merciless gray eyes. And then, before she realized what was happening, his two big hands had closed about her arms and he was holding her away from him, peering into her face.

“There is one woman in the world for me,” he said, and his voice was husky with emotion; “one face that fills my eyes day and night! Leslie, all these months you have not been out of my sight or mind!”

“Let me go!” she cried, struggling to free herself.

“I want you! I’ve worked for you, I’ve schemed for you! Leslie, I love you as you will never be loved again! I want you--I want you!”

He was drawing her nearer and nearer, his eyes, like coals of fire, fascinated her to a queer listlessness that was almost quiescence. She found no reserve to combat him, and could only stare helplessly at the hard face----

There was a knock at the door. He pushed her aside, his face convulsed with rage.

“Who is that?” he asked harshly, and the voice of the maid replied:

“Mr. Richard Alford to see you, sir!”

XIV

Dick Alford, waiting in the pretty drawing-room and wondering exactly how he should introduce what promised to be a very unpleasant discussion, saw the door flung open and a white-faced girl ran in.

“Oh, Dick, Dick!” she sobbed.

In a moment she was in his arms, her face against his breast.

“For God’s sake, what has happened? How did you come here?” he asked, bewildered.

Before she could reply, the big figure of Fabrian Gilder filled the doorway. The man did not speak, but the smouldering rage in his eyes was eloquent.

“Well, what do you want?” he boomed.

Dick put the girl gently from him.

“Why are you here, Leslie?”

“Arthur brought me,” she gasped. “I’m awfully sorry to make such a fool of myself, but----”

Dick looked from the girl to the man in the doorway and began dimly to understand.

“Arthur brought you here?” he said slowly. “And left you alone--with this man?”

She nodded.

“Is he a friend of yours?”

She shook her head.

“I only met him to-day.”

Gradually the explanation of her distress was beginning to dawn upon him, and a cold rage filled his heart. An unfortunate moment for Arthur Gwyn to return. Dick heard the tinkle of a bell, quick footsteps in the hall, and saw the white face of the lawyer, made hideous by the smile he forced.

“Hullo, old girl! What’s the trouble?” he asked.

He did not look at his host: this Dick noticed with gathering fury.

“I think you had better take Leslie home,” he said. “I have a little business to do with Mr. Gilder.”

Gilder had recovered something of his command of himself and his feelings; the situation, awkward as it was, had brought him violently into the circle about which so far he had revolved. It were better to be considered as an undesirable suitor than to be denied consideration as a factor at all in Leslie Gwyn’s life.

“May I ask by what right you dispose of my guests?” he demanded, but Dick took no notice of him.

“Look after your sister, Gwyn,” he said, and there was a scarcely veiled menace in the words. “I will give myself the pleasure of calling on you this evening.”

He took the girl’s hand in his; she was still white and shaking, but smiled into his face.

“I’ve made myself rather ridiculous, haven’t I?” she said, in a low tone that only he could hear. “Dicky--perhaps I’m getting a little jumpy, and I may have taken offence----”

He patted her hand gently and walked with her past Gilder into the hall, Arthur following. It was Dick who opened the door, and stood patiently until they had gone, then he turned to face the enraged owner of the flat.

“I had some real business to do with you, Gilder, but that can wait. First of all, I would like to ask, what have you said to Miss Gwyn?”

“That is entirely my business,” said Gilder. His gaze was steady; again he was completely master of himself, if not of the situation.

“My business also,” said Dick, without heat. “You are aware that Miss Gwyn is engaged to my brother?”

Gilder licked his dry lips.

“That doesn’t really interest me,” he said. And then, after a second’s thought: “I’m going to be frank with you, Alford--we may as well clear the air. I have asked Miss Gwyn to be my wife.”

“Oh, indeed?” said Dick softly. “And what had Miss Gwyn to say to that?”

“You didn’t give her an opportunity of replying,” said the other, “but I rather think that there will be no difficulty in the matter.”

Dick did not conceal his smile. A shrewd judge of men, he had rightly understood the situation when he had seen Arthur’s face on his return to the flat.

“You mean there will be no difficulty so far as Mr. Gwyn is concerned? I admit you have an historical precedent. You are not the first lawyer who wished to marry into his master’s family.”

If Dick had not been angry he would not have said this; immediately the words were out he was sorry. But Gilder took up the point quickly.

“I am not a Uriah Heep,” he said, with a grim smile. “I am neither humble nor lowly.”

“I’m sorry, but really I don’t think that matters very much, Gilder. Whatever Mr. Gwyn’s attitude may be, there will be a considerable difficulty in respect to Miss Gwyn--and to me.”

“To you?” Gilder’s eyebrows went up and his lips curled. “Are you the lady’s--er----”

“I am not engaged to Miss Gwyn, but my brother is,” said Dick evenly. “But that is not the point. I am a friend of Leslie Gwyn’s, and even if she changed her mind about marrying into my family, that would not affect the issue.”

Gilder was about to speak, but Dick went on:

“I don’t know what pull you have with Gwyn or what dire threats you are holding over his head.”

He saw the man start, and laughed.

“That went very near the mark?” he said. “But whatever influence you have, Gilder, you are not going to marry Leslie Gwyn.”

Gilder’s eyes narrowed.

“Is that a threat?” he asked.

“You can take it as a threat or as a pleasant compliment, or any old way you choose,” said Dick, with that impish smile of his. “And now, if you don’t mind, we’ll come to business. You’ve bought a property of ours--Red Farm. You’ve paid thirty-five hundred pounds to Leonard. I have come to ask you to call off your bargain and to take five hundred profit.”

“In other words, you want to buy it back, eh? Well, there’s nothing doing!” said Gilder harshly. “I intend living at Red Farm, and there isn’t a law in the land that can stop me. You may not like my presence, but that is neither here nor there. I am not living at Chelfordbury for the pleasure of seeing you every day of my life.”

Dick nodded.

“I wondered why you wanted to live there at all, but now I think I understand,” he said. “The offer I have made to you is without prejudice to any action I may take. Unfortunately for you, Leonard has no power to re-transfer the property without my brother’s consent--which means my consent, for I hold his power of attorney. Leonard may hold the property, but you cannot. You’re a lawyer and it is not necessary for me to explain the intricacies of a copyhold lease, and that was all Leonard was buying. If you decide to fight the case, I’ll take you into court, and you know that I shall get a verdict against you. I am offering you a chance of settling the matter amicably.”

“Which I refuse,” said the other promptly.

Dick inclined his head.

“Very good. You will probably, on considering the matter in a calmer atmosphere, take a different view.”

He walked from the room, swinging his hat. In the doorway he turned.

“As for Miss Leslie Gwyn, you will be well advised to reconsider that question also.”

“And suppose I don’t?”

Again that unfathomable smile.

“You are going to be sorry,” said Dick cryptically.

XV

Not a word did Leslie say about her interview with Gilder, and her brother seemed just as anxious to avoid the topic as she. They drove down from town, and all the time he kept up a ceaseless flow of talk about affairs which he thought might interest her. He was nervous, and once, when she woke him from a reverie with a question, he started and turned red.

“Sorry!” he stammered. “I was thinking of something.”

“And something unpleasant, Arthur,” she said gently.

He was staring straight ahead of him.

“Yes, something damnably unpleasant!”

They were nearing Chelfordbury now, and she put the question that had trembled on her lips throughout that long journey.

“Arthur, do you know what Mr. Gilder asked me?” And, when he did not reply: “He proposed to me,” she said.

Still he avoided her eyes.

“Did he?” he asked awkwardly. “Well, that’s an extraordinary thing for him to do!”

“Arthur, did you know he was going to propose to me when you left us alone?”

“He isn’t a bad fellow,” said Arthur Gwyn lamely. “Of course, the idea is preposterous. But, after all, it is no sin for a fellow to fall in love with a girl and want to marry her--I mean, one can see his point of view.”

Leslie was a little shocked; she was more than a little angry. But she kept a tight rein on her tongue.

“But, Arthur, you wouldn’t agree to that? You know I am engaged to Harry--why, you told me that it was the dream of your life to see me wearing a coronet! Not that I want to wear the beastly thing, but that was what you said.”

Ordinarily, Arthur Gwyn was possessed of a ready tongue and a nimble wit. He had lied his way out of many an embarrassing situation with more worldly wise people than Leslie. But, somehow, in her presence his brain refused to function, and his witticisms were banal and vulgar even to himself.

“My dear little girl,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “it really doesn’t matter to me whom you marry so long as you’re happy. Gilder is a very solid man; he has a considerable private fortune.”

This time she swung round on her seat and faced him.

“Arthur, why do you insist upon the fortune? Where is my money?”

The question came point-blank and was not to be fenced with. He roused himself to meet a situation which had never before arisen.

“Your money? Why, invested, of course!”

He tried very hard, but he could not produce that convincing note which was so necessary.

“Your fortune is in all sorts of shares and bonds. What a queer question to ask me, girlie!”

“How much money have I?” she demanded ruthlessly.

“About a quarter of a million--a little more or a little less. For goodness’ sake don’t talk about money, my dear.”

“But I _will_ talk about it,” she said. “Arthur, have I any at all?”

His laughter did not carry conviction. And usually people accepted his word. Harry Chelford had asked him only a week before in what stocks was his late mother’s fortune invested. And Arthur had replied glibly enough. It was the Miriam Chelford Trust that had occupied his mind through the journey. Something must be done there. Dick Alford had started to ask questions, and Dick had a memory like a recording machine. As for Leslie and her tiresome questions:

“What a silly kid you are! Of course you’ve got money! I wish to heaven I had half your wad! You’re a very rich little girl, and you ought to be a very happy little girl.”

She shook her head.

“I don’t think I have a penny,” she said, and his heart sank.

With a tremendous effort of will he met her questioning eyes.

“Why do you say that?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t know--in a way I hope I’m poor. I know I had money left me, because you showed me the will a long time ago. But you’ve been handling it, Arthur, and I’ve an idea that things haven’t been going too well with you.”

“Do you mean I’ve stolen your fortune?” he asked loudly, and she smiled.

“I wouldn’t accuse you of that. I think it is possible you may have invested my fortune--unwisely! And it is quite possible that that quarter of a million has dwindled and dwindled until it has disappeared. Is that so?”

He did not answer.

“Is that so?”

“I wish to God you wouldn’t ask such stupid questions,” he said irritably. “Of course it isn’t so!”

For one wild moment he had the impulse to tell her the truth; but vanity, a shrinking from the possible effects the news would have upon the one person in the world for whom he had a grain of affection, inhibited the confession.

Back he came naturally to the one thought present in his mind, as he chattered and as he brooded. His last hope lay in the discovery of the Chelford treasure. If that were found, he could snap his fingers at Gilder, could restore the wasted fortune of his sister, and establish himself beyond assail. Gilder would never dare bring his story of the four bills to a court of law, and if he did, backed by the Chelford fortune, Arthur could face the storm, confident that, if he made restoration to the man he had robbed, no evil consequences would follow. He was grasping at a straw, and knew it. But Mary Wenner was a shrewd little devil, not the kind of girl who, for the sake of making a sensation, would come to him with a cock-and-bull story. She might have been mistaken; on the other hand, she was so brimful of confidence that he could not believe the story was altogether without foundation.

The road to Willow House skirted the grounds of Fossaway Manor, and he saw the crumbling arch, red in the setting sun, standing like a fiery question mark that attuned with his mood of doubt and hope.

Arrived at his home, he went up to his room to bathe and change before dinner, and it was with a positive sense of freedom that he found himself alone. He was a fool not to have told her the truth, he thought. After dinner he would get her in a softer mood and make a clean breast of it. And then, at the tail of this decision, came the recollection of his interview with Mary Wenner. Suppose she had told the truth? Suppose he found these millions of pounds that had lain for centuries in the ground? He formed yet another plan.

XVI

To his unspeakable relief, Leslie was in her most cheerful mood throughout dinner, and the thought of Fabrian Gilder seemed to have been effectively banished.

“Leslie,” he asked, after the coffee had been served, “I want you to do me a great favour.”

She looked at him across the table, doubt in her eyes.

“Do you remember Mary Wenner, who used to be Harry’s secretary?”

She nodded.

“Yes. Dick doesn’t like her very much; he was telling me the other day----”

“Never mind what Dick likes or dislikes,” he said testily. “Great heavens! Are our lives to be run according to his fancies? I’m very sorry,” he apologized with a laugh, “but you’ll have to forgive me--I’m rather nervous to-night.”

“What about Mary Wenner?” she asked.

“I was wondering whether you would like to ask her down here to stay a week-end? I shall have a lot of work to do, and she’s a very excellent stenographer. But I’ll be perfectly frank with you and tell you that that is not the only reason I’d like you to invite her. She’s been in some kind of scrape and I want to help her through.”

Leslie Gwyn was not curious, or she might have questioned him more about this mythical trouble.

“I don’t know why she shouldn’t come,” she said. “If you’ll give me her address I will write to her. I rather fancy that Dick’s main objection to her is that she had some sort of attachment for Harry.”

“She’s almost forgotten Harry,” smiled her brother. “To be perfectly candid, I like the girl. She’s not a lady, of course, but ‘lady’ nowadays is a vague and meaningless term. And there was really nothing in her affair with Harry. I mean it was not serious.”

“I’ve never thought so,” said the girl, and thereupon the question of Mary Wenner was dismissed.

He had, he said, some work to do that night, and left her alone in the drawing-room, and for once she did not find time hanging very heavily upon her hands. Ordinarily the prospect of an evening spent alone would have seemed intolerably dull, but she had so much to think about, so many perspectives to adjust, that she rather welcomed her solitude.

Even at so short a distance of time, her experience with Fabrian Gilder seemed grotesquely unreal. Perhaps she was still numb from the shock of it, for, going over that unpleasant feature incident by incident, she could be neither angry nor amused. Perhaps she was a little afraid--she still felt the pressure of his strong hands upon her, still saw the gray fires that burnt in his eyes. And Dick--how natural it had been to go to him--how safe she had felt! Would it have been the same if Harry Chelford had providentially arrived? She was sure in her mind that she would not have run to Harry, or found comfort in his encircling arms.

She looked at the clock; it was ten minutes after nine. Dick would be back at Fossaway Manor by now, and she went out into the hall and, taking off the receiver of the telephone, gave a number.

Arthur’s study door opened into the hall, and he came out.

“To whom are you telephoning?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m calling up Fossaway Manor,” she said.

“You’re not going to invite Dick Alford over, are you?” he demanded resentfully.