“How long have you had him?”
“Eight or nine years,” said the baronet carelessly, swallowing the whisky that the ape had poured for him. “Now let’s go out and see the actors and actresses. She’s a nice girl, eh? You’re not forgetting you’re going to bring her to dinner, are you? What is your name?”
“Brixan,” said Michael. “Michael Brixan.”
Sir Gregory grunted something.
“I’ll remember that—Brixan. I ought to have told Bhag. He likes to know.”
“Would he have known me again, suppose you had?” asked Michael, smiling.
“Known you?” said the baronet contemptuously. “He will not only know you, but he’ll be able to trail you down. Notice him smelling his hand? He was filing you for reference, my boy. If I told him ‘Go along and take this message to Brixan,’ he’d find you.”
When they reached the lovely gardens at the back of the house, the first scene had been shot, and there was a smile on Jack Knebworth’s face which suggested that Adele’s misgivings had not been justified. And so it proved.
“That girl’s a peach,” Jack unbent to say. “A natural born actress, built for this scene—it’s almost too good to be true. What do you want?”
It was Mr. Reggie Connolly, and he had the obsession which is perpetual in every leading man. He felt that sufficient opportunities had not been offered to him.
“I say, Mr. Knebworth,” he said in a grieved tone, “I’m not getting much of the fat in this story! So far, there’s about thirty feet of me in this picture. I say, that’s not right, you know! If a johnny is being featured—”
“You’re not being featured,” said Jack shortly. “And Mendoza’s chief complaint was that there was too much of you in it.”
Michael looked round. Sir Gregory Penne had strolled toward where the girl was standing, and, in her state of elation, she had no room in her heart even for resentment against the man she so cordially detested.
“Little girl, I want to speak to you before you go,” he said, dropping his voice, and for once she smiled at him.
“Well, you have a good opportunity now, Sir Gregory,” she said.
“I want to tell you how sorry I am for what happened the other day, and I respect you for what you said, for a girl’s entitled to keep her kisses for men she likes. Aren’t I right?”
“Of course you’re right,” she said. “Please don’t think any more about it, Sir Gregory.”
“I’d no right to kiss you against your will, especially when you’re in my house. Are you going to forgive me?”
“I do forgive you,” she said, and would have left him, but he caught her arm.
“You’re coming to dinner, aren’t you?” He jerked his head toward the watchful Michael. “Your friend said he’d bring you along.”
“Which friend?” she asked, her eyebrows raised. “You mean Mr. Brixan?”
“That’s the fellow. Why do you make friends with that kind of man? Not that he isn’t a decent fellow. I like him personally. Will you come along to dinner?”
“I’m afraid I can’t,” she said, her old aversion gaining ground.
“Little girl,” he said earnestly, “there’s nothing you couldn’t have from me. Why do you want to trouble your pretty head about this cheap play acting? I’ll give you a company of your own if you want it, and the best car that money can buy.”
His eyes were like points of fire, and she shivered.
“I have all I want, Sir Gregory,” she said.
She was furious with Michael Brixan. How dared he presume to accept an invitation on her behalf? How dare he call himself her friend? Her anger almost smothered her dislike for her persecutor.
“You come over tonight—let him bring you,” said Penne huskily. “I want you tonight—do you hear? You’re staying at old Longvale’s. You can easily slip out.”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind. I don’t think you know what you’re asking, Sir Gregory,” she said quietly. “Whatever you mean, it is an insult to me.”
Turning abruptly, she left him. Michael would have spoken to her, but she passed, her head in the air, a look on her face which dismayed him, though, after a moment’s consideration, he could guess the cause.
When the various apparatus was packed, and the company had taken their seats in the charabanc, Michael observed that she had very carefully placed herself between Jack Knebworth and the sulking leading man, and wisely himself chose a seat some distance from her.
The car was about to start when Sir Gregory came up to him, and, stepping on the running-board:
“You said you’d get her over—” he began.
“If I said that,” said Michael, “I must have been drunk, and it takes more than one glass of whisky to reduce me to that disgusting condition. Miss Leamington is a free agent, and she would be singularly ill-advised to dine alone with you or any other man.”
He expected an angry outburst, but, to his surprise, the squat man only laughed and waved him a pleasant farewell. Looking round as the car turned from the lodge gates, Michael saw him standing on the lawn, talking to a man, and recognized Foss, who, for some reason, had stayed behind.
And then his eyes strayed past the two men to the window of the library, where the monstrous Bhag sat in his darkened room, waiting for instructions which he would carry into effect without reason or pity. Michael Brixan, hardened as he was to danger of every variety, found himself shuddering.
IX
The Ancestor
The Dower House was away from the main road. A sprawling mass of low buildings, it stood behind untidy hedges and crumbling walls. Once the place had enjoyed the services of a lodge-keeper, but the tiny lodge was deserted, the windows broken, and there were gaps in the tiled roof. The gates had not been closed for generations; they were broken, and leant crazily against the walls to which they had been thrust by the last person who
