A tradesman’s cart rattled up the drive and disappeared round the side of the house. This reminder, also, of the outside world was pleasant. But I could not rid myself of the feeling that the atmosphere of the place was sinister. I attributed it to the fact that I was a spy in an enemy’s country. I had to see without being seen. I did not imagine that Johnson, grocer, who had just passed in his cart, found anything wrong with the atmosphere. It was created for me by my own furtive attitude.
Of Audrey and Ogden there were no signs. That they were out somewhere in the grounds this mellow spring morning I took for granted; but I could not make an extended search. Already I had come nearer to the house than was prudent.
My eye caught the telephone wire again and an idea came to me. I would call her up from the inn and ask her to meet me. There was the risk that the call would be answered by Smooth Sam, but it was not great. Sam, unless he had thrown off his role of butler completely—which would be unlike the artist that he was—would be in the housekeeper’s room, and the ringing of the telephone, which was in the study, would not penetrate to him.
I chose a moment when dinner was likely to be over and Audrey might be expected to be in the drawing-room.
I had deduced her movements correctly. It was her voice that answered the call.
“This is Peter Burns speaking.”
There was a perceptible pause before she replied. When she did, her voice was cold.
“Yes?”
“I want to speak to you on a matter of urgent importance.”
“Well?”
“I can’t do it through the telephone. Will you meet me in half an hour’s time at the gate?”
“Where are you speaking from?”
“The Feathers. I am staying there.”
“I thought you were in London.”
“I came back. Will you meet me?”
She hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because I have something important to say to you—important to you.”
There was another pause.
“Very well.”
“In half an hour, then. Is Ogden Ford in bed?”
“Yes.”
“Is his door locked?”
“No.”
“Then lock it and bring the key with you.”
“Why?”
“I will tell you when we meet.”
“I will bring it.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
I hung up the receiver and set out at once for the school.
She was waiting in the road, a small, indistinct figure in the darkness.
“Is that you—Peter?”
Her voice had hesitated at the name, as if at some obstacle. It was a trivial thing, but, in my present mood, it stung me.
“I’m afraid I’m late. I won’t keep you long. Shall we walk down the road? You may not have been followed, but it is as well to be on the safe side.”
“Followed? I don’t understand.”
We walked a few paces and halted.
“Who would follow me?”
“A very eminent person of the name of Smooth Sam Fisher.”
“Smooth Sam Fisher?”
“Better known to you as White.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I should be surprised if you did. I asked you to meet me here so that I could make you understand. The man who poses as a Pinkerton’s detective, and is staying in the house to help you take care of Ogden Ford, is Smooth Sam Fisher, a professional kidnapper.”
“But—but—”
“But what proof have I? Was that what you were going to say? None. But I had the information from the man himself. He told me in the train that night going to London.”
She spoke quickly. I knew from her tone that she thought she had detected a flaw in my story.
“Why did he tell you?”
“Because he needed me as an accomplice. He wanted my help. It was I who got Ogden away that day. Sam overheard me giving money and directions to him, telling him how to get away from the school and where to go, and he gathered—correctly—that I was in the same line of business as himself. He suggested a partnership which I was unable to accept.”
“Why?”
“Our objects were different. My motive in kidnapping Ogden was not to extract a ransom.”
She blazed out at me in an absolutely unexpected manner. Till now she had listened so calmly and asked her questions with such a notable absence of emotion that the outburst overwhelmed me.
“Oh, I know what your motive was. There is no need to explain that. Isn’t there any depth to which a man who thinks himself in love won’t stoop? I suppose you told yourself you were doing something noble and chivalrous? A woman of her sort can trick a man into whatever meanness she pleases, and, just because she asks him, he thinks himself a kind of knight-errant. I suppose she told you that he had ill-treated her and didn’t appreciate her higher self, and all that sort of thing? She looked at you with those big brown eyes of hers—I can see her—and drooped, and cried, till you were ready to do anything she asked you.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Mrs. Ford, of course. The woman who sent you here to steal Ogden. The woman who wrote you that letter.”
“She did not write that letter. But never mind that. The reason why I wanted you to come here was to warn you against Sam Fisher. That was all. If there is any way in which I can help you, send for me. If you like, I will come and stay at the house till Mr. Abney returns.”
Before the words were out of my mouth, I saw that I had made a mistake. The balance of her mind was poised between suspicion and belief, and my offer turned the scale.
“No, thank you,” she said curtly.
“You don’t trust me?”
“Why should I? White may or may not be Sam Fisher. I shall be on my guard, and I thank you for telling me. But why should I trust you? It all hangs together.
