The Guinea Stamp

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  She had been seriously disturbed by Lady Feniton’s account of the mishap to one of Grandfather’s books. Idle act of vandalism though it must seem to her grandparents, to her it wore a very different and more sinister appearance. She had not forgotten Captain Jackson’s description of the orders left for him in the Cove by the enemy; judging by the evidence, it would appear that the man responsible for composing those orders must have been at some time under her very own roof.

  She fancied, too, that she knew who he was. All her former suspicions of Guy Dorlais came rushing back in full force. She felt that she must make some push to confirm or deny them, and now was her opportunity to do this. With Guy Dorlais and Kitty out of the house, and Captain Masterman and his sister busily engaged in their own concerns, it should be possible for her to gain access unseen to Guy Dorlais’s bedchamber. Sir George Lodge would no doubt be assisting her grandfather in the inquiry which was being conducted in the library, while Lady Lodge had not yet risen. As for her grandmother, at this hour of day she was usually closeted with the housekeeper.

  The glimpse which she caught through the window of Kitty toiling along against the wind on the path which led through the shrubbery, hardened her resolve. For Kitty’s sake, she must try to discover the truth.

  She rose quickly from her chair and took her way upstairs, before she could change her mind. Even now, she was not fully convinced that she ought to pry. Had there been the least difficulty over gaining access to Guy’s room, she might have faltered in her purpose; but when she reached his door, there was not a soul in sight in the passage.

  She opened the door, heart beating fast, and slipped quickly into the room. Then she paused, heartily disliking her self-appointed task.

  The room allotted to Guy Dorlais was large, and had evidently recently received the attentions of a housemaid. A bright red silk coverlet was disposed neatly over the bed, the fire had been tended, the hearth swept, and the contents of the room set in order. The flap of the dressing table was shut down, and nothing stood on its brightly polished surface.

  It was to this article of furniture that Joanna went first, timorously lifting the hinged leaf which held the looking glass. She set it upright, revealing the space beneath. It contained the usual articles for a gentleman’s toilet—razors, brushes, a comb, a bottle of Macassar oil and a pair of nail scissors. The only thing which Joanna had any difficulty in identifying was a small bottle of dark brown liquid with which she did not concern herself for more than a second, as it seemed little to the purpose of her quest. A few moment’s search was sufficient to convince her that there was nothing more sinister here than she might find in her own grandfather’s dressing table. She closed the leaf again, and opened the drawers of the table one by one.

  Here again, she found nothing unexpected. Cravats, handkerchieves, hose, all were lifted and carefully replaced without anything of the least interest being uncovered.

  She was again assailed by a violent dislike of her task, and was half minded to give it up then and there. Supposing anyone should enter the room, and find her there? What possible excuse could she make? Supposing she had been mistaken about Mr. Dorlais, and he was in reality innocent of any traitorous activities?

  She squared her shoulders, in that moment looking, had she but known it, very like her grandmother. She might as well finish what she had come to do. If Mr. Dorlais were innocent, then he had nothing to hide. If not, then it was plainly her duty to try and unmask him.

  There was a closet set in one wall of the bedchamber. She walked towards it, and resolutely pulled open the door.

  It was here that Mr. Dorlais kept his suits and outdoor garments. She passed them all in review, wondering where to start. It seemed improbable that she would have time to look through every pocket of all those coats, waistcoats and small clothes. Neither did the notion of tackling such a task appeal very greatly to her. There was something so particularly repulsive about searching in the pockets of a guest.

  Perhaps that was why she picked up one of a pair of boots which was standing in a rack to one side of the closet. She could have had no notion of finding anything of interest in a boot. Yet that is what happened. She caught hold of the boot by its heel, and it swung in her hand. Amazed, she turned the boot upside down, and subjected the heel to a long scrutiny.

  She made the unexpected discovery that it was screwed on to the boot. A second’s thought, and she was unscrewing it feverishly. It came off in her hand, revealing a small opening underneath. She caught the glint of something metallic inside, and probed with an exploratory finger. She produced what she took to be a large coin.

  She dropped the boot, and, stepping outside the closet, walked over to an adjacent window. Holding the object to the light, she studied it carefully.

  Suddenly, all her senses became alert. She had heard the tiniest of sounds from the direction of the door to the room. She glanced across, and saw to her horror that the doorknob was slowly turning.

  Quick as thought, she slipped behind the thick folds of the full length red damask curtains. Her heart was beating so loudly that she was certain it must be heard by whoever was now about to enter the room.

  She did not dare to look, but she heard the soft closing of the door, and the quiet footfall of the newcomer on the thick pile of the carpet. She waited, hardly daring to breathe, hoping against hope that it was not Guy Dorlais returned. This seemed scarcely likely if he had carried out his original intention of going down to the quay. She could not imagine, though, who else it could be. The housemaids had evidently done their rounds, and it was unlikely that they would return again until the evening.

  It seemed that she waited there for an eternity. She could hear the newcomer padding about the room, and finally stepping through the open door of the closet. A smothered exclamation reached her ears, then a quick footstep.

  Before she could open her mouth to let out the startled ejaculation which rose to her lips, the curtain which concealed her had been dragged ruthlessly aside. She found herself looking into the surprised eyes of Captain Masterman.

  There was a moment’s silence. He was the first to break it.

  “Miss Feniton! What are you doing here?”

  She did not ask what business it was of his: instead, she echoed his question.

  “I just dropped in for a moment, hoping to find Dorlais before he went off,” was the unhesitating reply. “But why on earth—”

  “If that is true, a single glance into the room must have told you that Mr. Dorlais was not here,” she said, accusingly.

  She had read somewhere that attack is the best method of defence. She meant to give him something to think about other than the matter of her presence in the room: after all, why had he been poking about in there for so long? Let him explain himself.

  “It did,” he acknowledged, readily. “But I took a second glance. That disclosed to me your slipper peeping from under the curtain. Evidently you hid there when you heard my approach. But why, Miss Feniton? What errand could you possibly have in here?”

  She knew that she was caught; she could make no satisfactory answer to this. It was unthinkable that a virtuous young lady should under any circumstances enter a gentleman’s bedchamber, even in his absence.

  “One which I cannot explain to you,” she said, with a touch of hauteur. “You must believe what you choose. Moreover, it appeared to me that you were taking a long time over your second glance, as you put it—neither did you immediately come over to the window!”

  He studied her appraisingly for a moment in silence. Then he appeared to make up his mind.

  “You are quite right, Miss Feniton,” he said, quietly. “And I believe that you, too, entertain a suspicion that Guy Dorlais is not all he seems to be.”

  She started, staring at him in silence.

  “I wonder, ma’am,” he continued, “whether you and I might not contrive to trust each other?”

  She found her voice at last. “What do you mean?”


  “Simply this—I am nearly certain that you know of a man who calls himself—Captain Jackson.”

  He watched her face intently as he spoke the name. The colour ebbed from her cheek, and she raised her chin a trifle, as though in defiance.

  “I do not see, sir, what concern it is of yours to interrogate me about my acquaintance,” she replied, in her most distant manner.

  He bowed. “I accept the reproof, ma’am. I merely thought it a pity that you and I should be at cross purposes, when we have the same interests at heart. I, too, am acquainted with Captain Jackson.”

  She gasped. “You are? Pray, sir, do you know where he can be found?”

  He studied her once more, without making any immediate answer.

  “I collect that you do not?” he asked, at last.

  She shook her head.

  “Yet I had the impression,” he continued, still watching her closely, “that you entered this room because you believed that Mr. Dorlais and Captain Jackson were one and the same man.”

  Again she started.

  “No!” she exclaimed, involuntarily. “Such a notion never entered my head! It was because I thought that Mr. Dorlais—”

  She stopped, realizing that she had said more than she intended.

  “You do not know the true identity of the man Jackson, then?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered, uncertainly. “Why do you ask? Are you a friend of his? Do you know who he is?”

  “Possibly,” he said, smiling, “but his true identity must for the present remain a secret. Tell me, Miss Feniton—if you did not take Guy Dorlais for Jackson, what suspicion did you entertain of him?”

  Her thoughts had been moving at lightning speed. It was evident that Captain Masterman knew a great deal about Captain Jackson. Was it possible that it had been he who had stolen from the house that night to meet Jackson in the temple? If so, then he must also know of the French agent whom Jackson was pursuing and he might possibly have entered this room for the very same purpose which had brought her here.

  “Are you a helper of the Captain’s?” she asked, bluntly.

  He nodded briefly. “But this information is for your ear alone, Miss Feniton,” he warned.

  “Naturally,” she answered, impatiently. “If that is so, however, then you must share my suspicions of Mr. Dorlais?”

  “Tell me what you have noticed,” he invited.

  She frowned. “It is difficult to put a finger upon anything definite. First of all, of course, he seems an obvious suspect by reason of his birth.”

  “You mean because he is a Frenchman? Then what you suspect is that he is an agent for the French?”

  “Do not you? The Captain has told me that he is on the lookout for a man who is the ringleader of a number of agents who are collected here in Devon. This man must have a sound knowledge of the French language, besides being intimately acquainted with the area. Only Guy Dorlais would fit—besides, there are one or two other little circumstances which lend colour to the notion. For instance, my friend, Miss Lodge—”

  Haltingly at first, but with gathering fluency, she retailed the occurrences on which her suspicions of Dorlais had been founded. He heard her out in silence, frowning a little, and studying her face attentively as she spoke.

  “Yes, well, as you’ve guessed,” he said, when she had finished, “I’ve had the same notion myself. But I see that you have been conducting a search of this room—did you find anything, ma’am?”

  She smoothed back a lock of thick, black hair which had fallen over her forehead.

  “Yes—this,” she said, holding out her hand, and disclosing the small object therein. “I have not had time to study it properly—your entrance interrupted me.”

  “May I?” he asked, taking it from her.

  His eyes looked intimately into hers as their hands touched. She hastily fixed her glance upon the medallion which he held. For a while; they stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down at it.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked at last, raising his eyes from the medallion and looking into her face.

  She met his gaze, a puzzled expression in her eyes. “It—it seems to be some sort of Victory medal,” she said, doubtfully. “But surely—”

  “It was certainly intended originally for that purpose,” he answered, gravely. “But it is now used as a token between Napoleon’s agents.”

  “So that Mr. Dorlais—?”

  They were so intent upon each other that they failed to notice the door of the room slowly opening.

  FIFTEEN - Miss Lodge is Adamant

  “A vastly pretty picture!” approved a cool, mocking voice, and Algernon Cholcombe stepped lightly into the room, and softly closed the door behind him.

  The couple started apart with guilty looks. Masterman’s hand closed tightly over the medallion.

  “You must not suppose—all is not as it may appear!” he began, jerkily, then finished, in a calmer tone: “If you have any question to ask me, I am sure you will excuse Miss Feniton. I believe you and I will do better alone.”

  “Questions, my dear fellow?” drawled Cholcombe. “The only question I was about to ask was as to the whereabouts of Dorlais. Knowing him for a bit of a sluggard in the mornings, I came to his room expecting to find him still here.”

  “He is out,” replied Masterman, tersely, obviously still ill at ease.

  “I had guessed as much,” said Mr. Cholcombe, raising his brows ironically. “You could not say when he is likely to return? I fancy you might be possessed of such knowledge.”

  He was conversing as though he had found them in the most ordinary of circumstances. Joanna, whose cheeks were flushed scarlet, could not meet his gaze.

  “He has but just gone down to the quay,” replied Masterman. “There are some men-of-war at anchor in the Bay, and he was hoping for news of some old acquaintances, so I believe.”

  Cholcombe nodded easily. “Well, you see I am returned,” he said, airily. “I suppose I had better go and present myself in form to my lady. Can you tell me where I can find her? Possibly in my own bedchamber? Give you my word, I shall not be surprised at anything!”

  Masterman took a step towards him. His handsome face was stern.

  “Do you mean to insult Miss Feniton, Cholcombe?” Mr. Cholcombe’s eyebrows arched delicately in surprise.

  “Certainly not, my dear fellow!” Then, with a change of expression—“Do you?”

  For a moment, their eyes met in a challenging glance.

  “This is absurd!” said Joanna, in her most matter-of-fact manner. “I don’t propose to stay here any longer, listening to such nonsense!”

  “You are quite right,” approved Cholcombe, gently. “Allow me to open the door for you, madam.”

  He did so; she left the room with her head held high, but with cheeks that still burned.

  “Au revoir, Masterman,” murmured Mr. Cholcombe, lightly, as he prepared to follow.

  “No, wait!”

  Masterman signalled with one hand. Mr. Cholcombe halted on the threshold. After a brief glance around the passage, he again entered the room, closing the door.

  “I don’t know what you may be thinking—” began Masterman.

  “That is one of life’s fascinations,” agreed Cholcombe solemnly.

  “Don’t jest, man! I trust you don’t seriously suppose that Miss Feniton and I—that is to say—”

  “I am never serious if I can possibly avoid it,” suggested Cholcombe, helpfully.

  “I wish you will not avoid it now!” was the tart retort. “Miss Feniton’s honour is at stake. I desire you to believe me when I say that our meeting here was the purest accident; and I would like your word that you will not blab it about to the other members of the party—or, indeed, to anyone.”

  “Dear me!” interrupted Cholcombe, blandly. “Do you really suppose that I would blab, as you so forcefully express it? You must hold a regrettably low opinion of me, my dear chap!”

  Masterman made a ges
ture of impatience.

  “I am insufficiently acquainted with you, sir, to hold any reasoned opinion. I make my appeal in the full expectation that you will respond favourably to it. I am obliged to go away from here this very day—my sister is promised to some friends in another part of the county, and I must escort her. It may not be in my power to return for some days—if at all. That I cannot say at present. The thing is, I do not wish to have any unpleasantness for Miss Feniton in my absence.”

  “Very creditable, Masterman, I’m sure,” drawled Mr. Cholcombe. “Might it not perhaps have been better to have thought of that first?”

  “I tell you, it was an accident that brought us here together! I had slipped into the room as you did, thinking to find Dorlais still here—”

  “And you found Miss Feniton instead?”

  Masterman nodded, and cleared his throat. “I imagine she had come here on some errand from Miss Lodge,” he said, huskily, “or perhaps from her grandmother. I did not have time to inquire—it was only a few minutes before you arrived—”

  Mr. Cholcombe had been looking over towards the open door of the closet. His lazy glance rested upon a boot flung carelessly down upon the floor.

  “Quite,” he said, in a bored tone. “No doubt the housemaids were too busy at that moment to run errands. Well, my dear chap, I really must tear myself away from this—er—popular spot, and go in search of my hostess. I wish you and Miss Masterman a pleasant journey.”

  He opened the door, and stepped out into the passage.

  “But I can rely upon you?” asked the Captain anxiously.

  Cholcombe nodded gently. “Oh, yes,” he said, with a faint smile, “you may rely upon me completely.”

  He closed the door, Captain Masterman stood looking at it, frowning deeply. Then he turned, and hastily crossed to the closet. He picked up the boot, replaced the medallion, and screwed on the heel. This done, he laid the boot tidily alongside its fellow and closed the door.