“I’m sorry,” she said as he opened it, “that Mr. Hastings couldn’t come. I wanted to have time to thank him properly.”
Anthony, jarred, cheered himself with the thought that there had been a laugh in her voice. He glanced at her face. It told him nothing.
Her travelling-bag was carried out and placed in the car.
“I’m driving myself,” said Anthony. “Will you sit in front?”
She smiled at him and took the seat beside the driver’s. Annoyed with the disturbance aroused in his breast by that smile, Anthony drove out of the gate and down the narrow road to the bridge at a speed quite illegal. Then he slowed down, feeling not a little ashamed. Another new sensation for Anthony Ruthven Gethryn.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Pace frighten you?”
She turned to him not the tense, white face he had expected, but a joyous one, vivid with life under the enchanting veil.
“Not a little bit,” she said; and laughter peeped through her words. “You see, after yesterday—and all that you did—I feel quite safe with you. As if you couldn’t make a mistake. Not possibly!”
Anthony glowed.
“Yes,” she said. “Absolutely safe, that’s what I feel.” A pause. “Just as a tiny girl feels if her father takes her out, say, in a tandem.”
Anthony fell from heaven with a crash. Good God! “Father!” So he had aroused an emotion akin to filial, had he? Unfortunately for him, to drive a car a man must keep his eyes on the road: he had not seen the little half-smile of joyous mockery that had accompanied that last thrust.
He drove on in silence, unbroken until Guildford was reached. Here he had to slow to a crawl.
“Were you at Abbotshall this morning?” came in a small meek voice from beside him.
He nodded.
“How did the inquest go? You see, I’ve heard nothing, nothing! Was it—was it as bad as you said it might be?”
“I wasn’t there myself,” said Anthony, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “but from what I’ve been told, I’m afraid it was.”
“But you said you were there.”
“At the house, yes. At the inquest, no.”
The small voice mocked him. “You do so love being mysterious, don’t you?”
“Touché! I believe I do, you know. I’ve been discovering a lot of youthful traits lately very ill in accord with my age.” Something in his tone made her look up at him from under the rakish brim of the little hat. His profile showed grim; it seemed leaner than ever.
“I’m sorry if I was inquisitive.” The small voice was smaller and very meek.
Anthony started. “Good God! No! I didn’t mean that. Look here, I’ll tell you. I went to Abbotshall because I wanted to play burglars on the first floor. And the best time to do it was when everybody was downstairs at the inquest. See?”
“Of course. But how thrilling! Do go on. I won’t tell a soul!”
“If I hadn’t known that,” said Anthony, “I wouldn’t have said anything at all.”
“Thank you. Did you find anything—that you expected to find?”
“I found. Some of what I found I had expected to find; some not.” His tone was final and silence fell again. The big car’s speed increased. Soon they were among London’s outskirts.
“Where are you going to stay?” Anthony asked.
“Brown’s Hotel. May I go there first, please?”
To Brown’s he took her, and waited with the car till she reappeared. During the journey to Hastings’s flat in Kensington there was little opportunity for conversation. Once, threading skillfully through a press of traffic, he began to whistle, under his breath, the dirge of Cock Robin.
Then Hastings’s flat was reached. Introductions over, they were left alone in Hastings’s study while Hastings went to prepare the invalid.
Anthony picked up his hat. “I must go,” he said.
“Where?”
“Back to Marling.”
“Oh, Mr. Gethryn!” Lucia cried. “Did you only come up to bring me?”
“Yes,” he said, after a pause.
“How awfully nice of you! But ought you to have wasted all that time?”
“All pleasure,” Anthony said oracularly, “is gain. Did you warn your sister that Deacon would probably be arrested after the inquest?”
“I did. And I tried to persuade her not to worry. So I obeyed orders, you see.”
“Did you believe there was no cause for worry?”
The great dark eyes met his. In their great depths he saw little golden fires dancing.
“Yes,” she said.
Anthony bowed. “Good night,” he said, and was gone.
X
Birds of the Air
I
It was a few minutes after half-past four when Anthony descended to the street and reentered his car. Through London he drove fast; clear of it, terrifically. Always, when he found himself disturbed, he sought consolation in speed. It was preferable to be on a horse; but the car was better than nothing. Besides, was there not work to be done?
On the journey he thought much. One half of his mind was occupied with a problem of x and y; the other with a quantity more obscure even than x. It was that second half of his mind which conceived doubts of the worthiness of Anthony Ruthven Gethryn. The sensation was new.
As he drove through the great gates of Abbotshall and up the drive, the clock over the stables struck. A quarter to six! If the distance from Kensington to Marling is what they say it is, the word “terrifically” was not misused.
He stopped the car. Round the corner of the house, running, came Sir Arthur Digby-Coates. Though the thick, gray-flecked hair was unruffled by the wind of his speed, there was yet an agitation, a wildness about him, his fluttering tie, his clothes, most unusual.
He panted up to the car. “Gethryn, Gethryn! Just the man I was wanting! Where’ve you been?”
“London.” Anthony was almost surly. He had been dreaming a dream.
“My God!” Sir Arthur pulled at his collar as if he were choking. “Look here! I must talk to you. But not here.
