“You mean Beverley Brandon. What has he been doing?”
“Well, you see, he came here. And just at that very same moment, I chanced to walk into the inn, and—and we met.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, not long ago! You were gone out. Only he seemed to know me.”
“Seemed to know you?”
“Well, he said surely I must be your nephew,” Pen explained.
Sir Richard had been listening to her with a gathering frown. He said now, with a grim note which she had not before heard in his voice: “Beverley knows very well that the only nephew I have is a child in short petticoats.”
“Oh, have you got a nephew?” enquired Pen, diverted.
“Yes. Never mind that. What did you reply?”
“Well, I think I was quite clever,” said Pen hopefully. Naturally, I knew who he must be, as soon as he spoke; and I guessed, of course, that he must know I am not your nephew. Because even if some people think I have no ingenuity, I am not at all stupid,” she added, with a darkling look.
“Does that rankle?” His countenance had relaxed a little. “Never mind! go on!”
“I said that in point of fact you were not my uncle, but I called you so because you were a great deal older than I. I said that you were my third cousin. Then he asked me why we had come to Queen Charlton, and I said it was on account of family affairs, though I would rather have pointed out that it was extremely ill-bred and inquisitive of him to ask me such questions. And after that he went away.”
“Did he indeed? Did he say what had brought him here in the first place?”
“No. But he gave me a message for you, which I did not quite like.”
“Well?”
“It sounded sinister to me,” said Pen, preparing him for the worst.
“I can well believe it.”
“And the more I think of it the more sinister it appears to me. He said I must present his compliments to you, and tell you that he perfectly understands your reason for coming to such a secluded spot.”
“The devil!” said Sir Richard.
“I was afraid you would not be excessively pleased,” Pen said anxiously. “Do you suppose that it means that he knows who I am?”
“Not that, no,” Sir Richard replied.
“Perhaps,” suggested Pen, “he guessed that I am not a boy?”
“Perhaps.”
She thought the matter over. “Well, I don’t see what else he could possibly have meant. But Jimmy Yarde never suspected me, and I conversed with him far more than I did with this disagreeable stammering-man. How very unfortunate it is that we should have met someone who knows you well!”
“I beg your pardon?” said Sir Richard, putting up his glass.
She looked innocently up at him. “On account of his being aware that you have no nephew or cousin like me, I mean.”
“Oh!” said Sir Richard, lowering the glass. “I see. Don’t let it worry you!”
“Well, it does worry me, because I see now that I have been imprudent. I should not have let you come with me. It has very likely placed you in an awkward situation.”
“That aspect of it had not occurred to me,” said Sir Richard, faintly smiling. “The imprudence was mine. I ought to have handed you over to your aunt at our first meeting.”
“Do you wish you had?” asked Pen wistfully.
He looked down at her for an instant. “No.”
“Well, I’m glad, because if you had tried to, I would have run away from you.” She lifted her chin from her cupped hands. “If you are not sorry to be here, do not let us give it another thought! It is so very fatiguing to go on being sorry about something which one has done. Did you order any dinner, sir?”
“I did. Duck and peas.”
“Good!” said Pen, with profound satisfaction. “Where has Aunt Almeria gone, do you suppose?”
“To Chippenham, and then to Cousin Jane.”
“To Cousin Jane? Good gracious, why?”
“To see whether you have taken refuge with her, I imagine.”
“With Cousin Jane!” Pen exclaimed. “Why, she is the most odious old woman, and takes snuff!”
Sir Richard, who had just opened his own box, paused. “Er—do you consider that an odious habit? he asked.
“In a female, I do. Besides, she spills it On her clothes. Ugh! Oh, I did not mean you, sir!” she added, with a ripple of sudden laughter. “You do it with such an air!”
“Thank you!” he said.
A waiter came in to lay the covers for dinner, and presented a small, twisted note to Sir Richard on a large tray.
He picked it up unhurriedly, and spread it open. Pen, anxiously watching him, could detect nothing in his face but boredom. He read the note through to the end, and consigning it to his pocket, glanced towards Pen. “Let me see: what were we discussing?”
“Snuff,” replied Pen, in a hollow voice.
“Ah, yes! I myself use King’s Martinique, but there are many who consider it a trifle light in character.”
She returned a mechanical answer, and upon the waiter’s leaving the room, interrupted Sir Richard’s description of the proper way to preserve snuff in good condition, by demanding impetuously: “Who was it from, sir?”
“Don’t be inquisitive!” said Sir Richard calmly.
“You can’t deceive me! I feel sure it was from that hateful man.”
“It was, but there is no occasion for you to trouble your head over it, believe me.”
“Only tell me! Does he mean to do you some mischief?”
“Certainly not. It would, in all events, be a task quite beyond his power.”
“I feel very uneasy.”
“So I perceive. You will be the better for your dinner.”
The waiter came in with the duck at that opportune moment, and set it upon the table. Pen was, in fact, so hungry that her thoughts were instantly diverted. She made a very good dinner, and did not again refer to the note.
Sir Richard, maintaining a flow of easy conversation, seemed to be wholly devoid of care, but the note had annoyed him. There was very little fear, he considered, of Beverley’s being able to harm Miss Creed, since he could have no knowledge of her identity; and his veiled threat of exposing Sir Richard was a matter of indifference to that gentleman. But he would certainly meet Beverley in the spinney at the proposed hour, for it now became more than ever necessary to despatch him to London immediately. While he remained in the neighbourhood there would be no question of delivering Pen into Lady Luttrell’s care, and although Sir Richard had not the least desire to relinquish his self-appointed guardianship of that enterprising damsel, he was perfectly well aware that he must do so, and without any loss of time.
Accordingly, he sent her to bed shortly after half-past-nine, telling her that if she were not tired she deserved to be. She went without demur, so probably her day spent in the open had made her sleepy. He waited until a few minutes before ten o’clock, and then took his hat and walking-cane, and strolled out of the inn.
There was a full moon, and not a cloud to be seen in the sky. Sir Richard had no difficulty in seeing his way, and soon came to the track through the wood. It was darker here, for the trees held out the moonlight. A rabbit scuttled across the path, an owl hooted somewhere at hand, and there were little rustlings in the undergrowth, but Sir Richard was not of a nervous disposition, and did not find these sounds in any way disturbing.
But he was hardly prepared to come upon a lady lying stretched across the path, immediately round a bend in it. This sight was, indeed, so unexpected that it brought him up short. The lady did not move, but lay in a crumpled heap of pale muslin and darker cloak. Sir Richard, recovering from his momentary surprise, strode forward, and dropped on to his knee beside her. It was too dark under the trees for him to be able to distinguish her features
