“I—I beg parding, sir?”
“Please escort your friends off the premises.”
“Certingly, sir—at once, sir—”
“Unless you think you ought to give them each a handful of my cigars—”
But Mr. Brimberly had already bundled his dazed guests to the door, out of the door, and out of the house, with very little ceremony.
It was a very deferential and officiously eager Brimberly who presently knocked and, bowing very frequently, begged to know how he might be of further service.
“Might I get you a little supper, sir? We ‘ave ‘am, sir, we ‘ave beef, cold, salmon and cucumber likewise cold, a ditto chicken—”
“That sounds rather a quaint bird,” said Ravenslee.
“Yes, sir, very good, sir, chicken an’ a nice slice of ‘am, sir, say, and—”
“Thank you, Brimberly, I dined late.”
“Why then, sir, a sandwich or so, pray permit me, sir, cut nice an’ thin, sir—”
“Thank you—no.”
“Dear, dear! Why then, sir, whisky? Brandy? A lick-your?”
“Nothing.”
“A cigar, sir?”
“Hum! Have we any of the Garcias left?”
“Y-yes, sir. Ho, certingly, sir. Shall I—”
“Don’t bother, I prefer my pipe; only let me know when we get short, Brimberly, and we’ll order more—or perhaps you have a favourite brand?”
“Brand, sir,” murmured Brimberly, “a—er—certingly, sir.”
“Good night, Brimberly.”
“Good night, sir, but first can’t I do—hanything?”
“Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that I really ought to raise your wages. I’ll think about it.”
Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.
“I—I bid you good night, sir!”
“Oh, by the way, bring me the letters.”
“Certingly, sir!” and crossing the room, Mr. Brimberly returned, bearing a salver piled high with letters, which he set at his master’s elbow; this done, he bowed and went from the room, one hand still at his dazed brow.
Left alone, Ravenslee took up the letters one by one. Some he threw aside, some few he opened and glanced at carelessly; among these last was a telegram, and the words he saw were these:
“Meet me to-morrow sunset in the wood all shall be explained Hermy.”
For a while he sat staring at this, then, laying it by, drew out a letter case from which he took another telegram bearing precisely the same message. Having compared them, he thrust them into his pocket, and filling his pipe, sat awhile smoking and lost in thought. At last, his pipe being out, he rose, stretched, and turned toward the door, but in the act of leaving the room, paused to take out and compare the telegrams again and so stood with puckered brow.
“‘Hermy!’” he said softly. “‘Hermione’ is so much prettier. ‘All shall be explained.’ A little trite, perhaps! Oh, well—” So saying, he folded up the telegrams, switched off the lights and went to bed.
CHAPTER XXXIII
OF TRAGEDY
It was close on the hour of sunset when Ravenslee stopped his car before a quiet hotel in Englewood and sprang out.
“Will you be long, sir?” enquired Joe, seating himself at the wheel and preparing to turn into the garage.
“Probably an hour, Joe.”
“Very good, sir.”
But as the big car turned, Ravenslee spoke over his shoulder.
“By the way, if I shouldn’t be back in an hour, come and meet me.” Then, having given Joe full and particular directions as to the little wood, he turned and went upon his way.
It had been a stifling day, and even now, though a soft air was abroad tempering the humid heat, when this light wind languished there was over all things a brooding stillness, foreboding storm. But Ravenslee strode on, unheeding dust and heat, hastening on to that which awaited him, full of strength and life and the zest of life, glad-hearted, and with pulses that throbbed in expectation. Thus, as the sun sank in fiery splendour, he reached the little wood. Evening was falling, and already, among the trees, shadows were deepening to twilight, but in the west was a flaming glory; and, upon the edge of the wood he turned to glance back at this radiance, splashes of gold and pink flushing to an ominous red. For a long moment he stood to stare around about the solitary countryside, joying
