Westray handled the pistol, and looked at the barrels.
“Yes,” he said, “that will suit my purpose very well, though it is rather large to carry in the pocket.”
“Oh, you want it for the pocket,” the gunmaker said with renewed surprise in his tone.
“Yes; I told you that already. I may have to carry it about with me. Still, I think this will do. Could you kindly load it for me now?”
“You are sure it’s quite safe,” said the gunmaker.
“I ought to ask you that,” Westray rejoined with a smile. “Do you mean it may go off accidentally in my pocket?”
“Oh no, it’s safe enough that way,” said the gunmaker. “It won’t go off unless you pull the trigger.” And he loaded the four barrels, measuring out the powder and shot carefully, and ramming in the wads. “You’ll be wanting more powder and shot than this, I suppose,” he said.
“Very likely,” rejoined the architect, “but I can call for that later.”
He found a heavy country fly waiting for him at Lytchett, the little wayside station which was sometimes used by people going to Fording. It is a seven-mile drive from the station to the house, but he was so occupied in his own reflections, that he was conscious of nothing till the carriage pulled up at the entrance of the park. Here he stopped for a moment while the lodge-keeper was unfastening the bolt, and remembered afterwards that he had noticed the elaborate ironwork, and the nebuly coat which was set over the great gates. He was in the long avenue now, and he wished it had been longer, he wished that it might never end; and then the fly stopped again, and Lord Blandamer on horseback was speaking to him through the carriage window.
There was a second’s pause, while the two men looked each other directly in the eyes, and in that look all doubt on either side was ended. Westray felt as if he had received a staggering blow as he came face to face with naked truth, and Lord Blandamer read Westray’s thoughts, and knew the extent of his discovery.
Lord Blandamer was the first to speak.
“I am glad to see you again,” he said with perfect courtesy, “and am very much obliged to you for taking this trouble in bringing the picture.” And he glanced at the crate that Westray was steadying with his hand on the opposite seat. “I only regret that you would not let me send a carriage to Lytchett.”
“Thank you,” said the architect; “on the present occasion I preferred to be entirely independent.” His words were cold, and were meant to be cold, and yet as he looked at the other’s gentle bearing, and the grave face in which sadness was a charm; he felt constrained to abate in part the effect of his own remark, and added somewhat awkwardly: “You see, I was uncertain about the trains.”
“I am riding back across the grass,” Lord Blandamer said, “but shall be at the house before you;” and as he galloped off, Westray knew that he rode exceedingly well.
This meeting, he guessed, had been contrived to avoid the embarrassment of a more formal beginning. It was obvious that their terms of former friendship could no longer be maintained. Nothing would have induced him to have shaken hands, and this Lord Blandamer must have known.
As Westray stepped into the hall through Inigo Jones’ Ionic portico, Lord Blandamer entered from a side-door.
“You must be cold after your long drive. Will you not take a biscuit and a glass of wine?”
Westray motioned away the refreshment which a footman offered him.
“No, thank you,” he said; “I will not take anything.” It was impossible for him to eat or drink in this house, and yet again he softened his words by adding: “I had something to eat on the way.”
The architect’s refusal was not lost upon Lord Blandamer. He had known before he spoke that his offer would not be accepted.
“I am afraid it is useless to ask you to stop the night with us,” he said; and Westray had his rejoinder ready:
“No; I must leave Lytchett by the seven five train. I have ordered the fly to wait.”
He had named the last train available for London, and Lord Blandamer saw that his visitor had so arranged matters, that the interview could not be prolonged for more than an hour.
“Of course, you could catch the night-mail at Cullerne Road,” he said. “It is a very long drive, but I sometimes go that way to London myself.”
His words called suddenly to Westray’s recollection that night walk when the station lights of Cullerne Road were seen dimly through the fog, and the stationmaster’s story that Lord Blandamer had travelled by the mail on the night of poor Sharnall’s death. He said nothing, but felt his resolution strengthened.
“The gallery will be the most convenient place, perhaps, to unpack the picture,” Lord Blandamer said; and Westray at once assented, gathering from the other’s manner that this would be a spot where no interruption need be feared.
They went up some wide and shallow stairs, preceded by a footman, who carried the picture.
“You need not wait,” Lord Blandamer said to the man; “we can unpack it ourselves.”
When the wrappings were taken off, they stood the painting on the narrow shelf formed by the top of the wainscot which lined the gallery, and from the canvas the old lord surveyed them with penetrating light-grey eyes,
