“You could have done the work in my library,” he complained; “there is no need to go into the wilderness.”
He stopped and rubbed his long nose and glanced from the girl to the silent young man.
“Very good; that will do,” he said. “I am going to see your father, Beardmore. Perhaps you will walk with me?”
Thalia was already on her way to Tower House, and Jack had no excuse for lingering.
“Don’t occupy that girl’s time, Beardmore, don’t, please,” said Froyant testily. “You’ve no idea how much she has to do—and I’m sure your father wouldn’t like it.”
Jack was on the point of saying something offensive, but checked himself. He loathed Harvey Froyant, and at the moment hated him for his domineering attitude toward the girl.
“That class of girl,” began Mr. Froyant, turning to walk by the side of the hedge toward the gate at the end of the valley, “that class of girl—” he stood still and stared. “Who the devil has broken through the hedge?” he demanded, pointing with his stick.
“I did,” said Jack savagely. “It is our hedge, anyway, and it saves half a mile—come on, Mr. Froyant.”
Harvey Froyant made no comment as he stepped gingerly through the hedge.
They walked slowly up the hill toward the big elm tree where Jack had stood looking down into the valley.
Mr. Harvey Froyant preserved a tightlipped silence. He was a stickler for the conventions, where their observations benefited himself.
They had reached the crest of the rise, when suddenly his arm was gripped, and he turned to see Jack Beardmore, staring at the bole of the tree. Froyant followed the direction of his eye and took a step backward, his unhealthy face a shade paler. Painted on the tree trunk was a rough circle of crimson, and the paint was yet wet.
IV
Mr. Felix Marl
Jack Beardmore looked round, scanning the country. The only human being in sight was a man who was walking slowly away from them, carrying a bag in his hand. Jack shouted, and the man turned.
“Who are you?” demanded Jack. Then, “What are you doing here?”
The stranger was a tall, stoutish man, and the exertion of carrying his grip had left him a little breathless. It was some time before he could reply.
“My name is Marl,” he said, “Felix Marl. You may have heard of me. I think you are young Mr. Beardmore, aren’t you?”
“That is my name,” said Jack. “What are you doing here?” he asked again.
“They told me there was a shortcut from the railway station, but it is not so short as they promised,” said Mr. Marl, breathing stertorously. “I’m on my way to see your father.”
“Have you been near that tree?” asked Jack, and Marl glared at him.
“Why should I go near any tree?” he demanded aggressively. “I tell you I’ve come straight across the fields.”
By this time Harvey Froyant arrived, and apparently recognised the newcomer.
“This is Mr. Marl; I know him. Marl, did you see anybody near that tree?”
The man shook his head. Apparently the tree and its secret was a mystery to him.
“I never knew there was a tree there,” he said. “What—what has happened?”
“Nothing,” said Harvey Froyant sharply.
They came to the house soon after, Jack carrying the visitor’s bag. He was not impressed by the big man’s appearance. His voice was coarse, his manner familiar, and Jack wondered what association this uncouth specimen of humanity could have with his father.
They were nearing the house when suddenly and for no obvious reason the stout Mr. Marl emitted a frightened squeal and leapt back. There was no doubt of his fear. It was written visibly in the blanched cheeks and the quivering lips of the man, who was shaking from head to foot.
Jack could only look at him in astonishment—and even Harvey Froyant was startled into an interest.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Marl?” he asked savagely.
His own nerves were on edge, and the sight of the big man’s undisguised terror was a further strain which he could scarcely endure.
“Nothin’—nothin’,” muttered Marl huskily. “I’ve been—”
“Drinking, I should think,” snapped Froyant.
After seeing the man into the house Jack hurried off in search of Derrick Yale. He discovered the detective in the shrubbery sitting in a big cane chair, his chin upon his breast, his arms folded, a characteristic attitude of his.
Yale looked up at the sound of the young man’s footsteps.
“I can’t tell you,” he said, before Jack had framed his question, and then, seeing the look of astonishment on his face, he laughed. “You were going to ask me what scared Marl, weren’t you?”
“I came with that intention,” laughed Jack. “What an extraordinary fellow you are, Mr. Yale! Did you see his extraordinary exhibition of funk?”
Derrick Yale nodded.
“I saw him just before he had his shock,” he said. “You can see the field path from here.”
He frowned.
“He reminds me of somebody,” he said slowly, “yet I cannot for the life of me tell who it is. Is he a frequent visitor here? Your father told me he was coming, and I guessed it was he.”
Jack shook his head.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him,” he said. “I remember now, though, that father and Froyant have had some business dealings with a man named Marl—dad mentioned him one day. I think he is a land speculator. Father is rather interested in land just now. By the way, I have seen the mark of the Crimson Circle,” he added, and described the newly-painted “O” he had found on the elm.
Instantly Yale lost interest in Mr. Marl.
“It was not on the tree when I went down into the valley,” said Jack. “I’ll swear to that. It must have been painted whilst I was talking to—to a friend. The trunk is out of sight from the boundary fence, and it was quite possible for somebody to have painted the sign without being seen.
