There was much of truth in what he said. Moor Cottage, a pretty little one-storied dwelling, had been built by the owner of the Secret House at the same time that the house itself had been erected. It was intended, so the builder said, to serve the purpose of a summer house, and certainly it offered seclusion, for it was placed on the edge of the moor, approached by a byroad which was scarcely ever traversed, since Bradley mines had been worked out and abandoned.
Many years ago when the earth beneath the moor had been tunnelled left and right by the seekers after tin and lead, Moor Cottage might have stood in the centre of a hive of industry. The ramshackle remains of the miners’ cottage were to be seen on the other side of the hill; the broken and deserted headgear of the pit, and the discoloured chimney of the old power house were still visible a quarter of a mile from the cottage.
It suited the owner of the Secret House, however, to have this little cottage erected, though it was nearly two miles from the Secret House, and he had spared neither expense nor trouble in preparing a handsome interior.
Lady Constance Dex had been the recipient of many gifts from Mr. Farrington and his friends. There had been a period when Farrington could not do enough for her, and had showered upon her every mark of his esteem, and Moor Cottage had perhaps been the most magnificent of these presents. Here she could find seclusion, and in the pretty oak-panelled rooms reconstruct those happy days which Great Bradley had at one time offered to her.
“It is a little lonely,” she smiled at her brother.
She had a good-natured contempt for his opinion. He was a large, lethargic man, who had commonplace views on all subjects.
“But really you know, Jerry, I am quite a capable person, and Brown will be nearby, in case of necessity.”
He nodded, and addressed himself again to the Times, the perusal of which she had interrupted.
“I have nothing more to say,” he said from behind his newspaper. By and by he put it down.
“Who is this Mr. Smith?” he asked, suddenly.
“Mr. Smith?” she said, with interest. “Which Mr. Smith are you referring to?”
“I think he is a detective person,” said the Reverend Jeremiah Bangley; “he has honoured us with a great number of visits lately.”
“You mean—?”
“I mean Great Bradley,” he explained. “Do you think there is anything wrong at the Secret House?”
“What could there be wrong,” she asked, “that has not been wrong for the last ten or twenty years?”
He shrugged his massive shoulders.
“I have never quite approved of the Secret House,” he said, unnecessarily.
She finished her hurried breakfast and rose.
“You have never approved of anything, Jerry,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder as she passed.
She looked through the window; the victoria she had ordered was waiting at the door, with the imperturbable Brown sitting on the box.
“I shall be back to lunch,” she said.
Looking through a window he saw her mount into the carriage carrying a portfolio. In that letter case, although he did not know it, were the letters and diaries which Dr. Goldworthy had brought from the Congo. In the seclusion of Moor Cottage she found the atmosphere to understand the words, written now in fire upon her very soul, and to plan her future.
There was no servant at Moor Cottage. She was in the habit of sending one of her own domestic staff after her visit to make it tidy for her future reception.
She let herself in through the little door placed under the green-covered porch.
“You can unharness the horse; I shall be here two hours,” she said to the waiting Brown.
The man touched his hat. He was used to these excursions and was possessed of the patience of his class. He backed the victoria on to the moor by the side of the fence which surrounded the house. There was a little stable at the back, but it was never used. He unharnessed the horse, fixed his nosebag, and sat down to read his favourite newspaper; a little journal which dealt familiarly with the erratic conduct of the upper classes. He was not a quick reader, and there was sufficient in the gossipy journal to occupy his attention for three or four hours. At the end of an hour he thought he heard his lady’s voice calling him, and jumping up, he walked to the door of the cottage.
He listened, but there was no other sound, and he came back to his previous position, and continued his study of the decadent aristocracy. Four hours he waited, and assailed by a most human hunger, his patience was pardonably exhausted.
He rose slowly, harnessed the horse, and drove the victoria ostentatiously before the window of the little sitting-room which Lady Constance Dex used as a study. Another half an hour passed without any response, and he got down from his box and knocked at the door.
There was no answer; he knocked again; still no reply.
In alarm he went to the window and peered in. The floor was strewn with papers scattered in confusion. A chair had been overturned. More to the point, he saw an overturned inkpot, which was eloquent to his ordered mind of an unusual happening.
Increasingly alarmed, he put his shoulder to the door, but it did not yield. He tried the window; it was locked.
It was at that moment that a motor came swiftly over the hill from the direction of the rectory. With a jar it came to a sudden stop
