“Ravini?” Old John Flack showed his teeth. “Listen, Simpson! You don’t think you’re going to keep me in this awful place all my life, do you? If you do, you’ve got another guess coming. I’ll skip one of these odd nights—you can tell the governor if you like—and then Ravini and I are going to have a little talk.”
His voice grew high and shrill. The old mad glitter that Simpson had seen before came back to his eyes.
“Do you ever have daydreams, Simpson? I have three! I’ve got a new method of getting away with a million: that’s one, but it’s not important. Another one is Reeder: you can tell J. G. what I say. It’s a dream of meeting him alone one nice, dark, foggy night, when the police can’t tell which way the screams are coming. And the third is Ravini: George Ravini’s got one chance, and that is for him to die before I get out!”
“You’re mad,” said Simpson.
“That’s what I’m here for,” said John Flack truthfully.
This conversation with Simpson and that with the governor were two of the longest he ever had, all the six years he was in Broadmoor. Mostly when he wasn’t writing he strolled about the grounds, his chin on his chest, his hands clasped behind him. Occasionally, he reached a certain place near the high wall, and it is said that he threw letters over, though this is very unlikely. What is more possible is that he found a messenger who carried his many and cryptic letters to the outer world and brought in exchange monosyllabic replies. He was very friendly with the officer in charge of his ward, and one early morning this man was discovered with his throat cut. The ward door was open, and John Flack had gone out into the world to realize his daydreams.
I
There were two subjects which irritated the mind of Margaret Belman as the Southern Express carried her toward Selford Junction and the branch line train which crawled from the junction to Siltbury. The first of these was, not unnaturally, the drastic changes she now contemplated, the second the effect they already had had upon Mr. J. G. Reeder, that mild and middle-aged man.
When she had announced that she was seeking a post in the country, he might at least have shown some evidence of regret; a certain glumness would have been appropriate, at any rate. Instead, he had brightened visibly at the prospect.
“I am afraid I shan’t be able to come to London very often,” she had said.
“That is good news,” said Mr. Reeder, and added some banality about the value of periodical changes of air and the beauty of getting near to nature.
In fact, he had been more cheerful than he had been for a week—which was rather exasperating.
Margaret Belman’s pretty face puckered as she recalled her disappointment and chagrin. All thoughts of dropping this application of hers disappeared. Not that she imagined for one moment that a six-hundred-a-year secretaryship was going to drop into her lap for the mere asking. She was wholly unsuited to the job; she had had no experience in hotel work; and the chances of her being accepted were remote.
As to the Italian who had made so many attempts to make her acquaintance—he was one of the unpleasant commonplaces so familiar to a girl who worked for her living that in ordinary circumstances she would not have given him a second thought.
But that morning he had followed her to the station, and she was certain that he had heard her tell the girl who came with her that she was returning by the 6:15. A policeman would deal effectively with him—if she cared to risk the publicity. But a girl, however annoyed, shrinks from such an ordeal; she must deal with him in her own way.
That was not a happy prospect, and the two matters in combination were sufficient to spoil what otherwise might have been a very happy or interesting afternoon.
As to Mr. Reeder—
Margaret Belman frowned. She was twenty-three, an age when youngish men are rather tiresome. On the other hand, men in the region of fifty are not especially attractive. She loathed Mr. Reeder’s side whiskers; they made him look rather like a Scottish butler. Of course, he was a dear. …
Here the train reached the junction and she found herself at the surprisingly small station of Siltbury before she had quite made up her mind whether she was in love with Mr. Reeder or merely annoyed with him.
The driver of the station cab stopped his unhappy-looking horse before the small gateway and pointed with his whip.
“This is the best way in for you, miss,” he said. “Mr. Daver’s office is at the end of the path.”
He was a shrewd old man, who had driven many applicants for the post of secretary at Larmes Keep, and he guessed that this one, the prettiest of all, did not come as a guest. In the first place, she brought no baggage, and then, too, the ticket collector had come running after her to hand back the return half of her railway ticket, which she had absentmindedly surrendered.
“I’d better wait for you, miss?”
“Oh, yes, please,” said Margaret Belman hastily as she got down from the dilapidated victoria.
“You got an appointment?”
The cabman was a local character, and local characters assume privileges.
“I ast you,” he explained carefully, “because lots of young wimmin have come up to Larmes without appointments and Mr. Daver wouldn’t see ’em. They just cut out the advertisement and come along, but the ad says write
. I suppose I’ve made a dozen journeys with young wimmin who ain’t got appointments. I’m telling you for your own good.”
The girl smiled.
“You might have warned them before they left the station,” she said with good-humour, “and saved them the cab fare. Yes, I have an appointment.”
From where she stood by the gate, she had a clear view of Larmes Keep.
