“I say!” he said. “Have a drink before you go. It’s a long way in and out. Come into the dining-room.”
But Collingwood caught Nesta’s eye, and he was quick to read a signal in it.
“No, thanks awfully!” he answered. “I won’t really—I must get back—I’ve such a lot of things to attend to. This is a very beautiful place of yours,” he went on, as Harper, whose face had fallen at the visitor’s refusal, followed with his sister to where the motorcar waited. “It might be a hundred miles from anywhere.”
“It’s a thousand miles from anywhere!” muttered Harper. “Nothing to do here!”
“No hunting, shooting, fishing?” asked Collingwood. “Get tired of ’em? Well, why not make a private golf-links in your park? You’d get a fine sporting course round there.”
“That’s a good notion, Harper,” observed Nesta, with some eagerness. “You could have it laid out this winter.”
Harper suddenly looked at Collingwood.
“Going to stop in Barford?” he asked.
“Till I settle my grandfather’s affairs—yes,” answered Collingwood.
“Come and see us again,” said Harper. “Come for the night—we’ve got a jolly good billiard table.”
“Do!” added Nesta heartily.
“Since you’re so kind, I will, then,” replied Collingwood. “But not for a few days.”
He drove off—to wonder why he had visited Normandale Grange at all. For Mrs. Mallathorpe’s explanation of the letter was doubtless the right one: Collingwood, little as he had seen of Antony Bartle, knew what a veritable sleuthhound the old man was where rare books or engravings were concerned. Yet—why the sudden exclamation on finding that paper? Why the immediate writing of the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe? Why the setting off to Eldrick & Pascoe’s office as soon as the letter was written? It all looked as if the old man had found some document, the contents of which related to the Mallathorpe family, and was anxious to communicate its nature to Mrs. Mallathorpe, and to his own solicitor, as soon as possible.
“But that’s probably only my fancy,” he mused, as he sped back to Barford; “the real explanation is doubtless that suggested by Mrs. Mallathorpe. Something made the old man think of the collection of local books at Normandale Grange—and he immediately wrote off to ask her to see him, with the idea of persuading her to let him have them. That’s all there is in it—what a suspicious sort of party I must be getting! And suspicious of whom—and of what? Anyhow, I’m glad I went out there—and I’ll certainly go again.”
On his way back to Barford he thought a good deal of the two young people he had just left. There was something of the irony of fate about their situation. There they were, in possession of money and luxury and youth—and already bored because they had nothing to do. He felt what closely approached a contemptuous pity for Harper—why didn’t he turn to some occupation? There was their own business—why didn’t he put in so many hours a day there, instead of leaving it to managers? Why didn’t he interest himself in local affairs?—work at something? Already he had all the appearance of a man who is inclined to slackness—and in that case, mused Collingwood, his money would do him positive harm. But he had no thoughts of that sort about Nesta Mallathorpe: he had seen that she was of a different temperament.
“She’ll not stick there—idling,” he said. “She’ll break out and do something or other. What did she say? ‘Suffering from lack of occupation’? A bad thing to suffer from, too—glad I’m not similarly afflicted!”
There was immediate occupation for Collingwood himself when he reached the town. He had already made up his mind as to his future plans. He would sell his grandfather’s business as soon as he could find a buyer—the old man had left a provision in his will, the gist of which Eldrick had already communicated to Collingwood, to the effect that his grandson could either carry on the business with the help of a competent manager until the stock was sold out, or could dispose of it as a going concern—Collingwood decided to sell it outright, and at once. But first it was necessary for him to look round the collection of valuable books and prints, and get an idea of what it was that he was about to sell. And when he had reached Barford again, and had lunched at his hotel, he went to Quagg Alley, and shut himself in the shop, and made a careful inspection of the treasures which old Bartle had raked up from many quarters.
Within ten minutes of beginning his task Collingwood knew that he had gone out to Normandale Grange about a mere nothing. Picking up the History of Barford which Jabey Naylor had spoken of, and turning over its leaves, two papers dropped out; one a half sheet of foolscap, folded; the other, a letter from some correspondent in the United States. Collingwood read the letter first—it was evidently that which Naylor had referred to as having been delivered the previous afternoon. It asked for a good, clear copy of Hopkinson’s History of Barford—and then it went on, “If you should come across a copy of what is, I believe, a very rare tract or pamphlet, Customs of the Court Leet of the Manor of Barford, published, I think, about 1720, I should be glad to pay you any price you like to ask for it—in reason.” So much for the letter—Collingwood turned from it to the folded paper. It was headed “List of Barford Tracts and Pamphlets in my box marked B. P. in the library at N Grange,” and it was initialled at the foot J. M. Then followed the titles of some twenty-five or thirty works—amongst them was the very tract for which the American correspondent had inquired. And now Collingwood had what he believed to be a clear vision of what had puzzled him—his grandfather having just read the American buyer’s
