previously, they hadrented Houghton Park and come to live there. The "County people" ofRutland are perhaps as conservative as any in England, and, knowinglittle about Sir Charles and Lady Thorold, who had received their titlethrough political influence before settling in that county, they had notmade haste to call.
As soon, however, as it had become known that the new arrivals wereextremely rich, also that Sir Charles meant to entertain largely, andwas going to hunt, and that the Houghton covers were to be wellpreserved, the barriers of exclusiveness upon which the old families sopride themselves, had been quickly swept away.
Somewhat out of breath after my slow climb up through the woods, Irested at the top of the hill, from which a glorious view could beobtained of the picturesque landscape of early spring, that unfoldeditself as far as sight could reach, a perfect panorama of our beautifulEnglish scenery that Americans so much admire, probably because itaffords so striking a contrast to their never-ending prairies andgigantic mountains. Upon the opposite side of the hill on which Istood, deep down in a ravine thick with brambles and undergrowth, theface of the placid lake glistened like a mirror between the buddingtrees, sparkling here and there with a blinding brightness where the sunshone straight upon it.
A pheasant springing into the air within a yard of me made me jump, andbrought my wandering thoughts quickly back to earth. Why had I rambledup here? I could not say. I had walked and climbed in a kind of dream,so deeply was my mind engrossed with thoughts of what had happened andwith conjectures as to the future. And now, unconsciously, my attentiongradually became centred upon the lake, or rather upon acurious-looking, dark object among the weeds upon its surface, within astone's throw of the bank.
I glanced at my watch. It was barely three o'clock. I had nothing atall to do, so decided to make my way down through the undergrowth andfind out what this strange object might be.
Yes, I had not been mistaken. The first impression I had formed hadbeen the right one, though I had tried to persuade myself it could notbe. I was standing on the bank now, not ten yards from the object, andI could see distinctly what it was. A human body, fully clothed, laythere motionless--a man's body, face downward, the head almostsubmerged.
My first thought was to plunge in and swim out to it and try to rescuethe drowning man. But an instant's reflection caused me to refrain.The man, whoever he was, must be dead. He had been there a long time,or the head would not have sunk, nor, indeed, would the body havefloated.
I made my way as quickly as I could along the footpath on the bank untilI reached the boathouse, a hundred yards away. It was locked. With abig stone I shattered the padlock, and in a minute I was rowing towardsthe body.
With some difficulty I succeeded in hitching the painter round the feet.Having at last done so, I rowed back to the bank, towing the drownedman.
And there I turned the body over. It must have been in the water manyhours, probably all night, I saw at once. And directly I saw the face Irecognised it, drawn and disfigured though it was.
The drowned man was Thorold's butler, James.
What had happened? Had he fallen into the lake while under theinfluence of drink? Had he committed suicide? Or had he--
Somehow this last reflection startled me. Was it possible there hadbeen foul play?
I had to leave the body there, for I found it impossible to lift it onto the bank without help.
"The great house," as the tenantry called it, was still locked when Igot back there. Silence still reigned everywhere. The driver of mytaxi was fast asleep on his seat.
When I prodded him with my stick he sat up with a start, and apologised.
"Get back to Oakham as quickly as you can," I said to him as I steppedinto the car and slammed the door.
He turned his starting handle without result. He lifted the bonnet, andfor a long time examined the machinery. Then, removing his coat, hewormed himself underneath the car, lying flat upon his back.
When at last he emerged he was red in the face and perspiring freely.
"Oh, by the way, sir," he said suddenly, picking up his coat andthrusting his hand into one of its pockets, "I think you dropped this."
As he stopped speaking he pulled his hand out and held out to me alittle silver flask about four inches square.
I took it, and examined it.
"This isn't mine," I said. "Where did you find it?"
"Just there, sir," and he pointed to the ground beside the car.
When I looked at the flask again, I noticed that the tiny shield in themiddle was engraved. The engraving was a cipher, which, on scrutinisingclosely, I made out to be the letters "D.P." intertwined.
I unscrewed the stopper and smelt the contents. The smell, thoughpeculiar, was not wholly unfamiliar. Still, for the moment I could notclassify it.
"Didn't you drop it, sir?"
"No."
"Then perhaps I had better take it," and he held out his hand.
"No, I'll keep it--you needn't be anxious," I said. "I have beenstaying here, and probably it belongs to somebody in the house, or tosomebody who has called."
I fumbled in my pocket and produced two half-crowns, which at onceallayed any conscientious squeamishness afflicting the driver at thethought of handing over his treasure-trove to a stranger.
But where was Vera? Where, indeed, were the Thorolds?
The chauffeur continued to overhaul his engine and its complicatedmechanism. While he was thus engaged I poured a little of the fluid outof the flask, which was quite full. The colour was a dark, transparentbrown, almost the shade of old brandy. Somehow I could not helpthinking that this flask might--
And yet, why should it prove a clue? What reason was there to supposeit had been dropped by the strange visitor on the previous day, themysterious Smithson?
"Hullo, sir, this is curious!"
My driver was bending over the machinery he had been examining soclosely. His hands, which had previously been in the gear-box resembleda nigger's, only they looked more slimy.
"What is it?" I asked, approaching him.
"The plugs have been tampered with. No wonder she wouldn't start.Look."
He was holding out a damaged sparking-plug.
I own a car and, being well acquainted with its intricacies, saw at oncethat what he said was true. Somebody--presumably while he was wanderingabout the lawns and back premises--must have lifted the bonnet andinjured the plugs. There was no other solution. The car could not havetravelled out from Oakham, or travelled at all, had that damage beendone before.
We looked at each other, equally puzzled.
"You ain't been playing me a trick, sir?" he said suddenly, anexpression of mistrust coming into his eyes.
"Oh, don't be a fool!" I answered irritably.
He turned sulky.
"Some one 'as, anyway," he grunted. "And it's just a chance I've somespare plugs with me."
He produced his tool-box, rummaged among its contents with his filthyhands, discovered what he wanted, and adjusted them. Then he shut downthe bonnet with a vicious bang and set his engine going.
He was about to step on to his seat, when simultaneously a sharp reporta good way off and the "zip" of a bullet close to us made us spring awayin alarm.
Together, without uttering a word, we gazed up towards the wood on thehill, where the sound of the report had come from.
Another shot rang out. This time the bullet shattered the carheadlight.
"Ah! God!" the driver gasped. "Help! I--I--"
Poor fellow. Those were his last words. Almost as he uttered themthere came a third report, and the driver, shot through the head,collapsed into a heap beside the car.
And then, what I saw as I turned sharply, sent a shiver through me.
I held my breath. What further mystery was there?
Surely some great evil had fallen upon the house of the Thorolds.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE NAME OF "SMITHSON."
A man was kneel
ing, facing me, on the outskirts of the wood on the hill,not a hundred yards away. His face was in shadow, and partly hidden bya slouch hat, so that I could hardly see it. The rifle he held waslevelled at me--he was taking steady aim--his left arm extended far upthe barrel, so that his hand came near the muzzle--the style adopted byall first-class shots, as it ensures deadly accuracy.
I am bound to confess that I completely lost my nerve. I sprang to oneside almost as he fired. I had just enough presence of mind left topick up the driver in my arms--even at the risk of my life I couldn'tleave him there--lift him into the car, and slam the door. Then Ijumped on to the driving-seat, put in the clutch--in a perfect frenzy offear lest I myself should be shot at the next instant--and the car flewdown the avenue.
Twice I heard reports, and with the second one came the sound of awhistling bullet. But it went wide of the mark.
The lodge came quickly
The Mysterious Three Page 3
