“And he headed for the beach,” added my cousin. “Therefore he certainly did not come from any house in the near neighbourhood.”
“That puts the doctor’s house out of court, if you’re right. But he may possibly have thought it better not to do his dressing up at home.”
“I see you’ve still got you knife into O’Brien!” laughed my cousin. “But I think my notion is the likeliest—”
He broke off suddenly and we instinctively moved a pace further apart. A figure had appeared round a turn of the road just ahead of us, a trim, dainty figure, delightful to see in such a place, but a little disconcerting to see so suddenly and so close to us. It was Jean Rendall, looking her best, but not, it seemed to me, quite in the right place.
Had she noticed anything? There was not a sign of it in her greeting. She gave us both one of her quick smiles, and as Jack pulled up to speak to her, she stopped too, and in talking to him, I noticed afresh how full of expression those neatly chiselled, rather petite, features became when she talked, and what a charming little air of knowing her way about the world she had. Young though she was, I could see in her very clearly either a valuable friend or a dangerous enemy—and what an easy girl to fall in love with, had circumstances been very different!
Jack explained in a very natural offhand manner how he came to be in Mr. Hobhouse’s company, and Mr. Hobhouse corroborated his statement in his own effusive way. And then as we parted, she threw her smile full on that gentleman, and asked,
“Why haven’t you been to see us again, Mr. Hobhouse? Do come to tea one day!”
Mr. Hobhouse gabbled a polite but slightly, evasive reply, and we walked on.
“Do you mean to say,” demanded my cousin, “that you have only been to see this delectable lady once?”
“That’s all,” I admitted.
“What’s the reason? It isn’t very like our methods, Roger.”
“It isn’t,” I admitted again. “But then you see what with pestilential weather and all these antiquarian visits to pay, my available time has been pretty well occupied.”
“But that house is one to keep a particular eye on.”
“That house has got a pair of particularly bright eyes in it. On my one visit there I felt a little too like walking on the edge of a precipice to wish to repeat the experience often. If that girl suspects me, Jack, and if she isn’t the right sort, we are dished.”
“Oh, dash it. I can’t believe she’s mixed up in this business!” he declared. “Of course one mustn’t trust anybody; still, that doesn’t prevent your going to tea with her. In fact what you really ought to be doing is making love to her—so long as you keep your head.”
“I am handicapped,” I pointed out, “by drunken habits, a beard, and Mother Beagle’s Beautiful Black Dye. No, Jack, I do not see orange blossom this trip.”
“Apart from these romantic dreams,” persisted my cousin, “she is far more likely to be inquisitive about you if you never go near the house. In fact I could see it in her eye today.”
“Well,” I said, “I’ll call tomorrow and dispel her interest in me.”
Since my talk with the doctor, his theory about Jean Rendall had crossed my mind occasionally, and improbable as it was, I thought I might as well test it.
“By the way,” I asked, “did you by any chance ever speak to Miss Rendall about my last visit to the island?”
His look of surprise was a sufficient answer in itself.
“Speak to her of your adventure? Not a word at any time! Why?”
“The doctor has an idea that she knows more than she says, and that you may have told her something.”
“Rubbish!”
“I knew it was,” I assured him.
And so that possibility was finally eliminated.
We thought it wiser that our ways should part some little distance from the pier.
“Good-luck, old chap,” said he, shaking my hand. “Keep playing the game you’re at and don’t worry about trying to keep a lookout at nights. That’s being done already, and though I don’t believe the fellows are much use—not with such crafty devils against them—you can’t do anything to help ’em. Getting out at night is too risky, and you’re too far away at the house. Your game is to work it from the other end. Sooner or later they are absolutely bound to give you a clue.”
His spirit and my little discovery of the morning sent me back in a distinctly more hopeful mood.
VII
A Reminiscence
Next day I set out in the early afternoon to pay my call. The fine weather still held, bright sunshine with a nip in the air and the road underfoot firm with frost, and I strode along in a wonderfully confident mood, all things considered. For to tell the truth, I had been funking this visit. Instinctively I did not trust myself with Miss Jean Rendall. If she had any suspicions and if she turned on to me the art of her sex and the charms of her particular self, I was well aware that Thomas Sylvester would have a bad time of it. In fact I really dared not answer for the fellow’s nerve. He being both critical and susceptible, a girl with Jean’s distinctive aroma was dangerous company with a job of this kind on hand. And playing the whisky-enfeebled fool in a dirty black beard ceased entirely to amuse me when the other party was Miss Rendall. However, this morning Mr. Hobhouse felt braver, and stepped out briskly, resolved to do his bit.
As he approached the house, the front door opened and the very lady herself appeared. She carried a stick and
