“It is not impossible to think of reasons. Since you appear to be so anxious to conceal your identity, it may be that you would not risk leaving a specimen of your handwriting in my possession.”
“What makes you suppose that I have any other identity than my acknowledged one?” he asked, busying himself with making the pot of tea, and carrying it to the plain, well-scrubbed deal table in the middle of the small room.
She turned to face him.
“Come, it is time that we ceased fencing, Captain Jackson. You are no ordinary fisherman. Though I have no certain information about your real identity, there is much that I suspect concerning your affairs.”
She paused. He raised his brows, expectantly. She decided upon bold tactics.
“I suspect, for example, that you are a smuggler.”
“You do?” he seemed amused. “Why, may I ask?”
She told him briefly the circumstances on which her suspicions were founded. He heard her out in silence, a slight frown between his brows. When she had finished, he laughed softly.
“You may be right. But are you sure that you know of no one else who could have taken that letter? It might be important.”
“It was not you, then?”
“Good Lord, no! Although I must admit that it would have been wiser in me never to have written it: you might have carried it straight to Sir George Lodge.”
“And he would have been able to identify you by the handwriting?” she asked, shrewdly.
He shook his head, “You are astute, Miss Feniton, but I am not inexperienced in matters of this kind. The handwriting was disguised, in any event.”
“But it was that of a gentleman, nevertheless,” she parried.
He fell silent, and poured out the tea. He handed her a cup, which she took with a quick word of thanks.
“Then you can think of no one who might have taken it?” he persisted.
“Not unless Mr. Dorlais or Captain Masterman could have done so,” she answered, in a tone of irony. “They came into that room after you had gone, and found me reading the note. They also saw me place it in my reticule.”
“But they could not have seen the wording?”
“Of course not,” she said, with a trace of indignation.
“Then they could have no reason to be interested in it, unless—”
He paused, frowning.
“Do you really have the impudence to suggest,” asked Miss Feniton, with some heat, “that two gentlemen whom I have known for many years would stoop to petty theft? You must not judge everyone by yourself, you know!”
He disregarded this remark. “Did either of them by any mischance observe the bloodstains on the carpet, do you know?”
“I’m afraid they did.” Her voice changed, became almost apologetic. “Captain Masterman remarked on the open window, went over to shut it, and in so doing knocked a penknife on to the floor. Naturally, he bent to pick it up, and I am certain that he noticed then, although he made no remark. Afterwards, Mr. Dorlais went over to that spot also, and seemed to be examining it.”
“And neither made any comment?”
“Only something concerning the open window. I felt obliged to offer some explanation of that.”
She looked away, a little confused.
“What did you say?” he asked, curiously. “Did you—?”
She shook her head, so that the firelight caught the warm tints in her dark hair.
“You lied to them?” he asked, incredulously. “You made up some tale to save me from discovery?”
“Do not flatter yourself,” she answered, coldly. “If I lied, it was with the far less philanthropic intention of saving myself. I had previously told no one of your presence in the house; it was a trifle difficult to do so then, was it not?”
“Why did you say nothing?” he asked, quietly. “Was it in response to my appeal, I wonder? Did you indeed believe me when I said that I meant no harm by my presence in the grounds of the Manor?”
“I did not know what to believe,” she answered candidly. “But I did know—”
She stopped suddenly.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“That I meant to find out more about you—for myself,” she finished, the light of battle in her eye. “I am quite determined to hear the whole truth from you, sir, on this occasion.”
He came towards her, relieving her of the now empty cup.
“Are you indeed? And supposing that I don’t choose to tell you? What then?” he asked, mockingly.
“Then I shall force you—with this,” said Miss Feniton, suddenly taking up the pistol and levelling it at his chest. “Now will you speak, Captain Jackson? Or don’t you value your life?”
He laughed softly.
“I assure you that I am in deadly earnest,” she warned him.
The hand which held the pistol was as steady as a rock, the forefinger curved ready on the trigger. A pair of hazel eyes met and held his glance coolly.
“I make no doubt of it,” he replied, lightly. “But are you confident that you have sufficiently considered the difficulties of your present situation?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Why, simply this have you ever been alone with a corpse, Miss Feniton?”
She swallowed, but her hand did not quiver on the trigger.
“There is always a first time for everything. I was reared in a somewhat Spartan tradition.”
“Last night,” he said, reminiscently, “you bound my arm—the merest scratch! with all the tenderness of which a woman is capable when her compassion is aroused. Today, you propose to shoot me in cold blood for no better reason than that I will not gratify your curiosity! It has been truly said that females are strange creatures!”
The pistol wavered. “I suppose it may appear that curiosity is my only motive,” said Miss Feniton, consideringly. “And yet—”
She stopped. He regarded her questioningly.
“I have a right to know!” she finished, in a decisive tone. “I—I in some sort shielded you from the law! You owe it to me to explain yourself.”
He nodded gravely, “I, too, feel the force of that argument. And yet you must believe me when I say that the secret of my doings is not wholly mine to divulge.”
“If you mean,” she said, contemptuously, “that you are indeed a smuggler, and that you hesitate to betray your gang, I understand you very well! I have heard that there is honour among thieves, but have never credited it until this moment!”
“If only that were all,” he said, ruefully, “I might confide in you straightaway, and take the consequences! But far more hangs on this than a brush with the Preventive men—”
He broke off, and brooded for a space.
“So you said before,” she reminded him, and quietly putting down the pistol, bent over the garments which she had spread before the fire.
“These are almost dry,” she said. “I shall not need to trespass upon your hospitality for much longer.”
He stepped back. “If that is so, I could almost wish that you had fallen bodily into the river!” he exclaimed, with a smile.
She threw him a quelling glance. “Gallantry is not to my taste, sir. I believe that I have mentioned this before.”
“You are very hard, Miss Feniton. Have you no compassion, I wonder?” he asked, jestingly.
“That is for you to judge. You told me that you had read my character.”
“Did I so? That was presumptuous in me.”
“Probably: but I should be interested to hear your findings.”
He studied her for a moment before replying. A tentative smile lingered on her warm lips; the firelight caught at the auburn tints in her glossy dark hair.
“‘Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, such a nut is Rosalind’,” he quoted, softly.
She started, and flushed angrily.
“Insolent! How dare you!” she exclaimed.
Then her sense of humour immediately gained the upper hand, and she
relaxed in her chair, laughing quietly.
“Well, at any rate, it is certain that you have received the education of a gentleman,” she said, accusingly. “Shakespeare in the mouth of a fisherman, indeed! That is very likely!”
“Only this morning, you would have said that it was not more likely that you should be sitting here, in a fisherman’s cottage,” he reminded her. “Nothing is certain.”
“Yet here I am, and here are you,” she agreed. “Why? Will you not tell me your history?”
The invitation was given in a gentler tone than any that he had yet heard from her. He gazed into her face, and was struck again by the luminosity of those grey-green eyes. He turned away, fighting a desire to tell her all, to risk his safety on the whim of a spoilt, arrogant girl who would most likely never set eyes on Captain Jackson again.
“I am just a man who found a task to do—and did it,” he answered, gruffly.
“And what was this task?”
He shrugged. “Something which called for the kind of talents I possess.”
She considered him. His face was turned away from her, but his whole carriage was alert, watchful, ready for any emergency.
“You have known danger,” she said, spontaneously. He nodded. “I find it exhilarating,” he confessed. “That is why you do—what you do?”
“Partly—yes, mostly, if I am to be honest. But also, someone must undertake my work.”
“Tell me truly,” she said, speaking very quietly, “do you—are you—it has crossed my mind that you might be a spy: is it possible?”
Again he nodded.
“For your own country, or—” she swallowed—“or for France?”
“For both,” he answered, recklessly.
She drew a quick breath, and for a second her face reflected all the horror she felt.
“But—you surely cannot be so dead to all feelings of patriotism—”
“Acquit me. What I do is done in the service of my country.”
She sighed. “I do not understand—”
“How should you? It is difficult enough.”
He brought a wooden chair from beside the table, and placed it close to hers, seating himself.
“Now that you know so much, I may as well tell you what I can of the rest. The Government wanted news out of France. To obtain it, a link had to be found between the enemy and ourselves. Even in time of war, the smuggler provides such a link: Boney, in particular, has made great use of English smugglers. These Devon men with whom I work, however, have taken part in no spying activities—their interest lies only in the free trade, which they regard as a legitimate livelihood, in spite of Customs laws.”
He paused, and watched to see how she took this. She nodded.
“That I understand. But you, yourself—”
“Smuggling is a cover, spying for the enemy is a cover, to my real activities,” he went on, rapidly. “Both enabled me to find out what the enemy is planning.”
“But that puts you in a situation of the utmost danger!”
“Do you care?” he asked, unexpectedly.
The animation died out of her face, and was replaced by her usual reserved expression.
“Why should I? It seems strange, however, that you should choose to place yourself in such a position.”
“Someone must do so, Miss Feniton. Increasingly, wars are being fought not only by active combatants, but by those who supply them with the information they require. Besides, I’ve already told you that to me danger is a challenge to be met.”
“I wonder if I can believe this strange story?” she asked, musingly.
“That must be as you choose. There is one point, however, on which you have no choice.”
She raised her brows. “And that is—”
“I must have your promise that you will respect my confidence.”
She drew herself erect in her chair. “Must, sir?”
“Must, Miss Feniton,” he repeated. “I will beg it, if you wish, but I have the feeling that you might despise a beggar.”
“I hope I am possessed of as much Christian charity as the next woman,” she retorted, with a frosty smile. “But I must admit that you are right: I do not care for my equals to come begging to me.”
“You admit me as an equal, then?” he asked, curiously.
“It is evident that you have the right. Will you not tell me who you really are, since you have honoured me with so much of your confidence?”
A shadow passed over his face. “You haven’t yet given me the promise for which I asked,” he reminded her, gravely.
She paused a moment, evidently considering the matter.
“Why do you hesitate?” he asked. “You go against your own instincts, you know. You have shown already that you trust me.”
“You are insufferable!” she said, stung by his assurance.
“Perhaps you are right: of late, I’ve been too little in female society to have remembered the art of making myself agreeable. Nevertheless, what I said was true, wasn’t it? You have already given me your confidence?”
Miss Feniton had her fair share of faults, but a lack of honesty was not among them. She nodded.
“That is true, though I cannot account for it. It is against all reason.”
“It is said that females have a reasoning all their own,” he answered, smiling.
“A great deal too much nonsense is talked of females!” she said, with a snap. “We are as rational creatures as you!”
“No doubt,” he agreed, gravely. “We will argue that on some other occasion. But the promise?”
“Since you make such a point of it, I give it—but conditionally only. That kind of promise can sometimes defeat its own object. If I should ever feel that your safety—or the safety of others—depended upon my divulging what I know, I should be obliged to break my word to you. You may be sure that it would not be lightly done.”
He was silent for a while. “I see that you consider everything,” he said, at last. “But I am satisfied. You must realize that I would not have the temerity to demand such a promise for my own sake alone. Somewhere in this area of Devon, Miss Feniton, there are genuine French agents at work—one man in particular, the leader of this band, represents a deadly threat to England while he is at large, and his identity unknown. It is my purpose to uncover him; should he realize that I am not what I appear to be, my chances of doing this would be gone.”
Her face changed, and she caught her breath sharply. “Do you know this man, then—does he know you? I do not quite understand—”
“Neither. I collect his dispatches, and carry them to France. But I have never set eyes on him—nor he on me, as far as I know.”
“You do that?” The lovely eyes widened in dismay. “But—”
“Don’t worry. The letters are opened, and copies sent to London before they are delivered to Boney.”
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
“It—it is an appalling risk,” she said, falteringly. “But if you never meet, how do you obtain these dispatches?”
“They are left for me to collect in a place that we both know of,” he answered.
“I see,” she said, slowly. “And how is it that you are certain that this man is to be found in our part of Devon?”
“One thing that suggests it is the situation of our unofficial post office; another, the dispatches themselves. They contain maps and information such as would be known only to an inhabitant of the area.”
“Does the handwriting offer no clue to his identity?” asked Miss Feniton, thoughtfully.
He shook his head. “The dispatches are printed. I do receive orders from the same source, too, but these are made up of printed words pasted on to a blank sheet of paper—I suppose, because the orders are usually of a more impromptu nature than the dispatches, and there is not the time to have them printed. The words are most likely cut from magazines or other books of no permanent value. It’s a clever idea, as it leaves no possible clue to the identi
ty of the sender.”
“I wonder?” she said, frowning. “It would be a Frenchman, of course—and living hereabouts. There are a few émigrés, but—”
“This man need not be a Frenchman at all,” he pointed out. “Most gentlefolk are sufficiently acquainted with the language.”
“But surely an Englishman could never do this?” she asked in horror.
He shook his head. “Who is to say what men will do, and why?” he asked, quietly. “Money, love of power, fear—these are powerful incentives to a man to break faith.”
She rose and stood before the fire, deep in thought.
“I must go,” she said, at last, rousing herself. “Al ready I have been absent for more than an hour, and although no one is likely to have noticed it yet, I must not try my luck too far. In any case, these garments are quite dry now.”
“Shall I leave you for a few moments, then? You will wish to change.”
“If you please. Perhaps it will be as well to take leave of each other now, and then I need not again disturb you. Unless,” she added, as an afterthought, “you will wish to secure the door after me.”
“But I mean to accompany you to Teignton Manor,” he said recklessly.
“No.” She shook her head, decisively. “After what you have just told me, I certainly shall not permit you to take such a risk. Excepting for my mishap, I came here in perfect safety, and there can be no reason why I should not return alone.”
“At least I must show you an easier way to reach the lane,” he protested. “I watched you making your way through mud and dirt by the longest route to the cottage.”
“For that I should be grateful—but only if you can show me from the door of your cottage,” she replied, smiling.
“I can, of course, but—”
“No objections,” she said, firmly. “Allow me ten minutes down here alone, and I shall be ready to depart. I suppose you do not possess a looking glass? I have not one with me.”
“A—oh, to be sure! One moment!”
He raced upstairs, returning at once with a small round mirror, which he propped up on the table against a teacup.
“Madam’s dressing table,” he said, with a courtly bow. “I regret the absence of the abigail—you have a comb, I trust? Ah, splendid!”
The Guinea Stamp Page 10
