by Molly Thynne
She countered his question with another.
“I don’t know what Mr. Soames suspects us of doing; but do you agree with him?” she asked.
“I don’t!” he assured her emphatically. “But you were keeping something back just now, and I could help you better if I knew what it was.”
She hesitated, then evidently decided to trust him.
“I did think he might be going to leave. There’s just a chance that the roads are clear; and when I missed him, I thought he might be going to risk it.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Stuart.”
Her tone was final. Stuart felt his cheeks grow hot.
“Why did you come down?” he asked at last.
“Because I wanted to be there if he and father met. Father’s rather—well—difficult, sometimes.”
“You mean you were afraid he’d—”
The words died on his lips. A window above their heads was jerked up, and Soames’s exasperated voice floated down to them.
“I say,” he cried, “come and get me out of this, will you?”
“Where are you?” called Stuart softly.
“In Miss Ford’s room, of course! The blighter’s locked me in!”
A soft giggle sounded at Stuart’s side.
“He’s dealt with him,” she murmured. “Poor Mr. Soames!”
Then, as Stuart turned and vanished into the house, she ran quickly across the yard towards the barn.
Meanwhile Stuart, torch in hand, was taking the stairs two at a time. On the first landing he cannoned into Geoffrey Ford, who was moving with equal rapidity in the opposite direction. He had completely lost his rather mature air of dignity, and, once he had grasped Stuart’s identity, grabbed his arm with the enthusiasm of a schoolboy.
“I’ve got your fellow with the mask!” he exclaimed.
“You’re the very person I was after. Where does Bates hang out, do you know?”
For the moment Stuart forgot Soames and his troubles.
“How did you get him?” he demanded breathlessly.
“He’s bottled in my sister’s room l Went after her pearls, I suppose.”
Stuart could only stare speechlessly at him. Then he swung round and tore down the passage to Angela Ford’s room.
“Better leave Bates to deal with him,” expostulated Ford, as he followed him. “I only caught a glimpse of him, but he seemed a pretty hefty chap.”
“He is,” agreed Stuart dryly, as he clutched the key which Ford had left in the lock outside the door.
He turned it and threw the door open.
Soames, his face scarlet with mingled rage and mortification, charged into them.
“Come on, you chaps,” he cried. “We’ll get him this time!”
Stuart caught him by the arm.
“Hold on, old man,” he begged, trying to keep the tell-tale quiver out of his voice. “There’s been a mistake.”
Soames jerked himself free.
“What do you mean—a mistake?” he demanded. “I tell you, the fellow was here not five minutes ago. He was behind the door when I went into the room, and had whipped out and locked it before I could turn round. Now’s our time to get him!”
“I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Mr. Soames,” murmured Ford’s voice. “The truth is …”
Stuart cast one look at his stricken countenance and made a bolt for the lower regions, where he could indulge his sense of humour with impunity.
He was half-way down the stairs when, for the second time, he encountered a flying figure. This time it was Angela Ford. Before he had time to tell her what had been happening upstairs, she had seized hold of him and was dragging him after her by the way he had come.
“Hurry, Mr. Stuart! He’s in the house! I saw him come in. Where’s Bates?”
Stuart came to a standstill, barring her way as she tried to push past him.
“Look here,” he said firmly, “let’s get this straight. In any case, Bates is sure to be downstairs, so it’s no good bursting our lungs like this. Whom did you see come in?”
“The man who was in the barn,” she cried impatiently. “It wasn’t Geoff! I was half-way across the yard when he came out. He locked the door and ran past me into the house. I don’t know who he was, but we ought to get him, if we’re quick. Please let me go! I must get Geoff!”
She slipped under his outstretched arm and tore up the stairs.
Stuart hesitated for a moment, then, realizing that she was bound to run into her brother and Soames, departed in search of Bates. Contrary to his expectations, that worthy was not in Girling’s office, neither was he in any of the rooms downstairs. Baffled, Stuart returned to the first landing. As he approached it he heard Angela Ford’s voice. She was alternately knocking at a door and calling to her brother to come out. He hastened his steps, meaning to tell her that he was with Soames, and reached the top of the stairs, only to stand petrified with astonishment.
For the door at which she was knocking was that of Mrs. Orkney Cloude!
Before he had time to make his presence known, she had seen her brother and had run to meet him, as he appeared round the corner at the opposite end of the passage, followed by Soames, whose red face was illuminated by a rather sheepish grin. It did not take long to explain the situation to the two men, and to institute a more or less organized search.
Stuart and Soames undertook to explore the upper regions, while Ford went in search of Bates. Angela Ford, flouting their suggestion that she should retire to her room and lock herself in, went with her brother.
They found Constantine placidly keeping guard in the passage above. He was ready to vouch for it that no one had passed that way since Stuart’s departure, but pointed out that he was not only out of sight but out of hearing of the back staircase, and that the chances were that the man had used that.
They hurried on to the floor above, Soames taking the flight of steps at one end of the passage, Stuart that at the other. As he turned into the long corridor that ran past the billiard-room a light was flashed in his face and Bates’s deep voice boomed out of the darkness behind it.
“It’s you, Mr. Stuart,” he said. “What might you be doin’ here?”
“Burglar hunting as usual,” rejoined Stuart flippantly. “It’s no good asking if you’ve seen anybody about, I suppose?”
“I’ve seen no one,” said Bates heavily. “Anythin’ happened?”
Soames, who had approached from the other end of the passage, came up behind him.
“Nothing out of the way,” he said dryly. “Just the usual masked men and things. Where have you been, Bates?”
“Inspectin’ the premises,” announced Bates with dignity.
Soames’s mouth twitched.
“Excuse my asking,” he said, “but do you always move about behind that baby searchlight of yours?”
Bates met his gaze calmly.
“I do not, sir,” he said; “but I make a point of turnin’ it on anything suspicious like.”
“Such as?” asked Stuart, actuated by an impish desire to see Bates make his point.
“You and Mr. Soames, sir,” answered Bates stolidly.
“Joking apart,” said Stuart. “Could any one have got up here from downstairs without your seeing them during the last twenty minutes or so?”
Bates meditated.
“They could. I made the round of the rooms downstairs, and then went along the passage to the back door. I found that open and stepped out into the yard, but could see nothing. I then locked the door and came up the back stairs and along this passage. When I reached the end, meanin’ to go down by this staircase, I met you, Mr. Stuart.”
Stuart made a quick calculation.
“Then you must have been out at the back when I looked for you in Girling’s office, and Soames must have been just behind you as you came upstairs. And, of course, the man Miss Ford saw must have nipped upstairs while you were making the round of the downstairs rooms. Confound al
l these wretched staircases!”
“What’s this about Miss Ford seein’ some one?” asked Bates sharply.
They told him, and he cursed his luck in good round Anglo-Saxon. He had Stuart’s full sympathy, for he realized that, according to his lights, the unfortunate constable was doing his best. The job was a hopeless one for any one working single-handed.
“Look here,” he said. “After to-night we shall have to organize some kind of watch between us. Between us, we ought to be able to keep these beastly stairs covered. Until we do, the fellow’s simply playing with us.”
He was not exaggerating. Armed with the authority of the law they were able to make a much more thorough search than they had done hitherto; Bates even going so far as to rouse the servants and inspect their rooms, with the usual result. There was no person in the house unaccounted for, and no one had seen or heard anything suspicious.
Cold and disheartened, they gathered in the lounge in the small hours of the morning.
“What roused you, if I may ask, sir?” said Bates, addressing Geoffrey Ford.
“The sound of voices talking in the passage,” answered Ford readily enough, though Stuart saw a quick glance flash between the brother and sister.
“Where were you when Lord Romsey called you, earlier in the evening?” cut in Soames, his suspicions still anything but allayed.
Ford opened his lips to answer, but a shriek from his sister cut short any reply he had been about to make.
“Good Heavens!” she cried, her eyes wide with consternation. “Father!”
“Bless my soul, yes!” ejaculated Stuart. “Where is Lord Romsey?”
Angela Ford’s hand went to her mouth.
“In the barn!” she quavered. “I’d completely forgotten him!”
CHAPTER XII
There was a moment of appalled silence, then Geoffrey Ford spoke.
“Do you mean to say that father has been in the barn all this time?” he demanded incredulously.
His sister nodded. She was too deeply moved for speech.
“You knew he was there, and you—you left him there?”
The mingled awe and horror in his voice proved too much for her. A feeble giggle escaped from behind the hand she still held pressed against her trembling lips.
“I’m frightfully sorry, Geoff,” she said, trying to control the shaking of her voice. “I really did forget. You see, I knew he was all right, because he called out to me to let him out, and I asked him if he was hurt. He said he wasn’t. But he sounded frightfully annoyed. I tried to open the door, but the man had taken the key, so I told father I’d send some one. Then I ran after the man, but, of course, by then I was too late. After that father went clean out of my head!”
Bates stepped forward.
“You should have told us, Miss,” he said reprovingly. “A night like this, too! Why, the gentleman will be half frozen!”
He turned to Girling.
“We’d best take tools with us, if the key’s missing,” le added, as he led the way to the door.
“There’s plenty of straw up at the far end of the barn,” remarked Girling. “He’ll keep warm enough if he thinks to use it.”
They trooped after him, Stuart’s fancy playing fantastically with the vision of Lord Romsey couchant in the straw. He managed to catch Angela Ford’s eye. She turned away, her cheeks crimson.
“I’m going to bed, if anybody wants me,” she murmured in a stifled voice.
“Coward!” called Stuart softly after her, as she disappeared swiftly up the staircase.
As they approached the barn it became evident that Lord Romsey was, at any rate, alive, and, at the moment, very actively kicking. The barn doors were shaking under the impact of a heavy body which was being hurled repeatedly at them from the other side. A voice was also distinguishable, and it struck more than one of his hearers that Lord Romsey’s style had undergone a marked change for the better. It was probable that never before had he expressed himself with such picturesque brevity.
Ford’s attempt to mollify his father through the door met with no success. Life held but one burning question for Lord Romsey at that moment, and he continued to ask it, incessantly and in diverse forms, during the somewhat lengthy period that ensued before they managed to force the heavy doors. He wished to know why they had not come to his assistance immediately on hearing of his predicament. It spoke well for his daughter’s popularity that no one gave her away, and that, to this day, he is probably unaware that this was exactly what they had done.
Girling had been right when he said that the barn door would baffle any burglar. It withstood the tools they had brought with them, and it was not till Girling had fetched a crowbar from the cellar that they were able to wrench the double doors apart.
They dragged them open, and then, with one accord, waited in silence for Lord Romsey to emerge. When he did make his appearance, it was perhaps as well that the first person his eyes fell on was the unfortunate Bates, to whom he addressed himself for the next five minutes. Bates, whose sense of humour was not unduly developed, was about the only member of the party who could have borne that impassioned monologue with impunity, coming as it apparently did from an elderly black-face minstrel who had been rolling in a haystack.
For Lord Romsey’s face, from the tip of the nose upwards, was stained a rich, oily black, in contrast to which his double chin seemed positively livid. This, combined with the enormous quantity of straw with which he had managed to embellish himself in the course of his efforts to keep himself warm, produced an effect that made it difficult for any ordinarily constituted person to regard him with equanimity.
Soames, after a moment of fascinated and awestruck contemplation, turned to Stuart.
“After all, we’ve only his word for it that he is Lord Romsey. He’s the very spit of a chap I used to see on the beach at Margate,” he whispered, thereby demolishing the last vestige of Stuart’s self-control.
Geoffrey Ford’s attitude towards the whole affair was characteristic. His face bore an expression of frozen disgust, though he contented himself with reiterating patiently at intervals, “If you’ll come upstairs with me, father. I’ll explain matters.”
Stuart realized that, for the moment, he was obsessed with but one thought, the desire to get his father’s face washed at the earliest opportunity.
But Lord Romsey, who had not yet seen himself in the glass, recked little of his appearance.
“When I think,” he boomed, with an assumption of dignity that, in the circumstances, was incredibly funny, “that, owing to sheer callousness and inefficiency, I might not only have died of exposure in this abominable place, but that the thief, whom I actually surprised in the act of tampering with my car, has had ample time in which to get away, it makes my blood boil! If you think you’ve heard the last of this, sir, you are mistaken!” he finished, turning savagely on Bates.
“That’s as may be,” returned the constable. His round face had reddened slowly during the outburst; but, apart from this, his stolidity was unshaken. “You surprised this man at his work, you say. I take it, then, that you can furnish me with a description of what he looked like.”
His hand crept towards the pocket in which reposed the inevitable notebook.
Lord Romsey exploded into the ejaculation that had so fascinated Stuart on a former occasion.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed. “If I had had time to see the man, do you suppose I should have allowed myself to be—er—overpowered? He was bending over the engine, with his back to me, when I entered. At the sound of the door opening he turned and leapt on me. There is no other word for it.”
Lord Romsey gave a reminiscent shudder.
“He must have had some filthy rag in his hand,” he went on, “for he rammed it over my face, nearly choking me; then, as I staggered back, he put his foot behind mine and bore me down. Bore me down,” he repeated impressively. “Then, by the time I had managed to get my mouth and eyes free, he was gone, locking the door
behind him. Almost directly after that I heard my daughter’s voice on the other side of the door, and I still entirely fail to understand why her efforts to summon assistance should have been in vain!”
He glared at his distinctly sheepish-looking audience. Bates alone returned him look for look, though, when he spoke, his tone was perfectly respectful.
“It seems a pity, if I may say so,” he said slowly, “that your Lordship couldn’t lay hands on the man while you had the chance. We’ve been searching for him ever since he was seen to slip into the house, but we’ve none of us so much as caught a glimpse of him. That’s how it was we didn’t come along sooner.”
Lord Romsey’s blackened features relaxed into a sarcastic smile.
“One would imagine,” he retorted, “that there were more than enough of you to deal with one burglar. Surely somebody could have been spared to open the door of this barn?”
Ford, goaded beyond endurance by his father’s undignified exhibition, seized him firmly by the arm.
“We can settle all that later,” he said decisively. “What you want at the moment is a fire and a hot drink, otherwise we shall have you laid up.”
“And some warm water,” murmured the irrepressible Soames.
Lord Romsey turned to his son with a pomposity that ill became him.
“I imagine, Geoffrey, that I am the best person to decide what my immediate needs may be.”
The altercation was becoming more than Stuart could bear with equanimity. As he turned towards the house, his shoulders heaving uncontrollably, he realized that Geoffrey Ford’s patience had given way at last.
“My God, sir,” he whispered fiercely, “do you realize that you look like a negro minstrel?”
Lord Romsey’s ebony countenance became a mask of outraged dignity.
“A what?” fell on Stuart’s ears as he fled, whimpering, towards the house.
But he was not fated to reach it.
As he neared the door a little figure emerged, picking its way delicately over the snow. Even seen from a distance, the neat black coat and the woollen fascinator would have betrayed the younger Miss Adderley.
