A Shot in the Dark
Philip Sletherby settled himself down in an almost empty railway carriage, with the pleasant consciousness of being embarked on an agreeable and profitable pilgrimage. He was bound for Brill Manor, the country residence of his newly achieved acquaintance, Mrs. Saltpen-Jago. Honoria Saltpen-Jago was a person of some social importance in London, of considerable importance and influence in the county of Chalkshire. The county of Chalkshire, or, at any rate, the eastern division of it, was of immediate personal interest to Philip Sletherby; it was held for the Government in the present Parliament by a gentleman who did not intend to seek reelection, and Sletherby was under serious consideration by the Party managers as his possible successor. The majority was not a large one, and the seat could not be considered safe for a Ministerial candidate, but there was an efficient local organisation, and with luck the seat might be held. The Saltpen-Jago influence was not an item which could be left out of consideration, and the political aspirant had been delighted at meeting Honoria at a small and friendly luncheon-party, still more gratified when she had asked him down to her country house for the following Friday-to-Tuesday. He was obviously “on approval,” and if he could secure the goodwill of his hostess he might count on the nomination as an assured thing. If he failed to find favour in her eyes—well, the local leaders would probably cool off in their embryo enthusiasm for him.
Among the passengers dotted about on the platform, awaiting their respective trains, Sletherby espied a club acquaintance, and beckoned him up to the carriage-window for a chat.
“Oh, you’re staying with Mrs. Saltpen-Jago for the weekend, are you? I expect you’ll have a good time; she has the reputation of being an excellent hostess. She’ll be useful to you, too, if that Parliamentary project—hullo, you’re off. Goodbye.”
Sletherby waved goodbye to his friend, pulled up the window, and turned his attention to the magazine lying on his lap. He had scarcely glanced at a couple of pages, however, when a smothered curse caused him to glance hastily at the only other occupant of the carriage. His travelling companion was a young man of about two-and-twenty, with dark hair, fresh complexion, and the blend of smartness and disarray that marks the costume of the “nut” who is bound on a rustic holiday. He was engaged in searching furiously and ineffectually for some elusive or nonexistent object; from time to time he dug a sixpenny bit out of a waistcoat pocket and stared at it ruefully, then recommenced the futile searching operations. A cigarette-case, matchbox, latchkey, silver pencil case, and railway ticket were turned out on the seat beside him, but none of these articles seemed to afford him satisfaction; he cursed again, rather louder than before.
The vigorous pantomime did not draw forth any remark from Sletherby, who resumed his scrutiny of the magazine.
“I say!” exclaimed a young voice presently, “didn’t I hear you say that you were going down to stay with Mrs. Saltpen-Jago at Brill Manor? What a coincidence! My mater, you know. I’m coming on there on Monday evening, so we shall meet. I’m quite a stranger; haven’t seen the mater for six months at least. I was away yachting the last time she was in town. I’m Bertie, the second son, you know. I say, it’s an awfully lucky coincidence that I should run across someone who knows the mater just at this particular moment. I’ve done a damned awkward thing.”
“You’ve lost something, haven’t you?” said Sletherby.
“Not lost exactly, but left behind, which is almost as bad; just as inconvenient, anyway. I’ve come away without my sovereign purse, with four quid in it, all my worldly wealth for the moment. It was in my pocket all right, just before I was starting, and then I wanted to seal a letter, and the sovereign-purse happens to have my crest on it, so I whipped it out to stamp the seal with, and, like a double-distilled idiot, I must have left it on the table. I had some silver loose in my pocket, but after I’d paid for a taxi and my ticket I’d only got this forlorn little sixpence left. I’m stopping at a little country inn near Brondquay for three days’ fishing; not a soul knows me there, and my weekend bill, and tips, and cab to and from the station, and my ticket on to Brill, that will mount up to two or three quid, won’t it? If you wouldn’t mind lending me two pound ten, or three for preference, I shall be awfully obliged. It will pull me out of no end of a hole.”
“I think I can manage that,” said Sletherby, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Thanks awfully. It’s jolly good of you. What a lucky thing for me that I should have chanced across one of the mater’s friends. It will be a lesson to me not to leave my exchequer lying about anywhere, when it ought to be in my pocket. I suppose the moral of the whole thing is don’t try and convert things to purposes for which they weren’t intended. Still, when a sovereign-purse has your crest on it—”
“What is your crest, by the way?” asked Sletherby, carelessly.
“Not a very uncommon one,” said the youth; “a demi-lion holding a cross-crosslet in its paw.”
“When your mother wrote to me, giving me a list of trains, she had, if I remember rightly, a greyhound courant on her notepaper,” observed Sletherby. There was a tinge of coldness in his voice.
“That is the Jago crest,” responded the youth promptly; “the demi-lion is the Saltpen crest. We have the right to use both, but I always use the demi-lion, because, after all, we are really Saltpens.”
There was silence for a moment or two, and the young man began to collect his fishing tackle and other belongings from the rack.
“My station is the
