He Who Whispers

words.

“Yes,” he admitted. “It does sound a bit funny, doesn't it?”

“It certainly does, Miles. I'll believe that sort of thing when I see it. But never mind Count Cagliostro. Stop pulling my leg and tell me about this girl! Who is she? What's she like? What sort of influence does she have?”

“You can find out for yourself, Marion.”

Still gazing down out of the window, Miles rose to his feet. He was looking at one of the green-painted signs opposite the platform gates, the sign where travellers already drifted by ones and twos in readiness for the five- thirty train to Winchester, Southampton Central, and Bournemouth. And with great deliberation Miles nodded towards it.

“There she is now.”

Chapter VII

Grey twilight hung over Greywood in the New Forest, that evening which afterwards was to be so well remembered.

Off the main motor-road from Southampton branches another motor-road. Follow this into tall green depths where forest ponies browse at the edges. Presently turn left at a broad wooden gate, down the curve of a gravel path dusky even at noonday, cross a rustic bridge over the stream which winds through the estate, and just ahead is Greywood?set against a green law, encircled by the might of beeches and oaks.

Long and narrow-built, not large, its narrow side faces you as you cross the rustic bridge. You must climb up a few stone-flagged steps, and go round a flagged terrace to what seems the side of the house, in order to reach the front door. Built of wood and of brick plastered over,it stands out brown and white against the sun-dusted forest. It has friendliness and it is touched with magic.

One or two lights gleamed in the windows tonight. They wee paraffin lamps, since the electric power-plant of Sir Charles Hammond's day had not yet been put in order.

Their light grew stronger, yellow and tremulous, as the cool dusk deepened. Perceptible now, almost unnoticed by day, was the silky splash of water over the miniature dam. Dusk blurred the outlines of the bright- canopied garden swing, with wicker chairs and a table for serving tea, which stood on the open lawn westwards towards the curve of the stream.

And in a long room at the rear of the house?a room after his own heart?stood Miles Hammond, holding a lamp above his head.

“It's all right,” he was saying to himself. “I didn't make a mistake in bringing her here. It's all right.”

But he knew in his heart that it wasn't all right.

The flame of the little lamp, in ts tiny cylindrical glass shade, partly drew the shadows from a mummified world of books. It was strong, of course, to call this place a library. It was a stack-room, a repository, an immensely long dust-heap for the two or three thousand volumes accumulated like dust by his late uncle. Books old and broken, books newish and shiny, books in quarto and octavo and folio, books in fine bindings and books withered black: breathing their exhilarating mustiness, a treasure-house hardly yet touched.

Their shelves reached to the ceiling, built even round the door to the dining-room and enclosing the row of little-paned windows that faced east. Books piled the floor in ranks, mounds, and top-heavy towers of unequal height, a maze of which the lanes between were so narrow that you could hardly move without knocking books over in a fluttering puff of dust.

“It's all right!” he fiercely said aloud.

And the door opened, and Fay Seton came in.

“Did you call me, Mr. Hammond?”

“Call you, Miss Seton? No.”

“I beg your pardon. I thought I heard you call.”

“I must have been talking to myself. But it might interest you to have a look at this confusion.”

Fay Seton stood there framed in the doorway, with the many-hued books on either side of her. Rather tall and soft and slender, her head a little on one side. She herself was carrying a paraffin lamp; and, as she lifted the lamp so that it illuminated her face, Miles was conscious of a sense of shock.

In daylight, at the Berkeley and later on the train journey, sh had seemed … not older, though in fact she was older; not less attractive … but subtly and disquietingly different from the image in his mind.

Now, by artificial light, under the softened radiance of the lamp, it was as though for the first time the photographic image of last night had sprung to life. It was only a brief glimpse, of eye and cheek and mouth, as she raised the lamp to glance round her. Bu the very passiveness of those aloof features, with their polite smile, flowed out and troubled the judgment.

Miles held up his own lamp, so that the light of the two clashed in an unsteady shadow-play, slow and yet wild, across the walls of books.

“The place is a mess, isn't it?”

“It's not nearly as bad as I'd expected,” answered Fay. She spoke in a low voice and seldom raised her eyes.

“I'm afraid I haven't dusted or cleaned up for you.”

“That doesn't matter, Mr. Hammond.”

“My uncle,if I remember correctly, bought a card-index cabinet and an incredible number of reference cards. But he never did any cataloguing. The things are somewhere in this jumble.”

“I can find them, Mr. Hammond.”

“Is my sister?er?making you comfortable?”

“Oh, yes!” She gave him a quick smile. “Miss Hammond wanted to move out of her bedroom up there”?she nodded towards the ceiling of the library?and move me in there. But I couldn't have her do that. Anyway, there are reasons why I much, much prefer to be on the ground floor. You don't mind?”

“Mind? Of course not! Won't you come in?”

“Thank you.”

The piles of books on the floor ranged from breast-high to waist-high. Obediently Fay moved forward, with the extraordinary and unconscious grace of hers, edging sideways among the lanes so that her rather shabby dove-grey dress hardly brushed them. She set down the little lamp on a heap of folios, raising a breath of dust, and looked round again.

“It looks interesting,” she said. “What were your uncle's interests?”

“Almost anything. He specialized in medieval history. But he was also keen on archaeology and sport and gardening and chess. Even crime and? Miles checked himself abruptly. “You're sure you're quite comfortable here?”

“Oh, yes! Miss Hammond?she asked me to call her Marion?has been very kind.”

Well, yes: yes, Miles supposed, she had been kind. During the train journey, and afterwards while she and Fay prepared a scratch meal in the big kitchen, Marion had talked away twenty to the dozen. Marion had almost gushed over their guest. Yet Miles, who knew his sister, was uneasy in his mind.

“I'm sorry about the servant situation,” he told her. “They can't be obtained in this part of the world for love or money. At least, by newcomers. I didn't want you to have to . . . to . . .”

Her tone was deprecating.

“But I like it. It's cozy. We three are all alone here. And this is the New Forest!”

“Yes.”

Hesitantly, with that same sinuous grace, Fay edged through the lanes over to the row of small-paned windows?themselves framed all round with books?in the east wall. The stationary lamp threw an elongated shadow of her. Two of the window-lights stood open, propped open on catches like little doors. Fay Seton leaned her hands on the window-sill and looked out. Miles, holding his own lamp high, blundered over to join her.

Outside it was not quite dark.

A grass terrace sloped up a few feet to another open space of grass bounded by a straggling iron fence. Beyond that?remote, mysterious, ash-grey turning to black in that unreal light?the tall forest pressed in on them.

“How large is the forest, Mr. Hammond?”