  At a little before eight o’clock de Cartienne, Cecil, and I presented ourselves at the bar of the “Bull” Hotel, and inquired for Mr. Fothergill. We were shown at once by a waiter into a small private sitting-room, brilliantly illuminated and unmistakably cosy. Under the chandelier was a small round table glittering with plate and flowers; and, standing upon the hearthrug, critically surveying it, was a middle-aged, dapper-looking little man, in well-cut evening clothes, with a white camellia in his buttonhole. His hair was slightly tinged with grey, but his moustache was still jet-black and elaborately curled and waxed. His forehead was low and his full red lips and slightly hooked nose gave him something of a Jewish appearance. He had just missed being handsome, and, similarly, had just missed being good form; at least, so it seemed to me from my first rapid survey, and I did not afterwards change my opinion. Directly we entered the room he moved forward to meet us, with a smile which revealed a very fine set of teeth. I watched him closely as he noted the addition to the party, but he betrayed no surprise or annoyance. On the contrary, when Cecil had introduced me as his friend and fellow-pupil at Borden Tower, he welcomed me with a courtesy which was a little effusive. On the whole, I decided that his manners were in his favour. There was some casual conversation, an explanation rather more elaborate than seemed to me necessary of his flying visit to Little Drayton, and then dinner was announced. Everything had evidently been carefully ordered and prepared and was of the best. Mr. Fothergill, whatever his shortcomings, made a capital host; and his talk, though a trifle slangy and coarse at times, was amusing in the extreme. Altogether, the dinner was a success in every respect save one. For four men, two of whom were under twenty, there was a great deal too much wine drunk. I think I scarcely noticed it until the cloth was removed and dessert placed upon the table. Then a curious sense of exhilaration in my own spirits warned me to be careful and I looked round at once at the others. Cecil sat directly opposite to me and I saw at a glance how it was with him. His hair, which he always kept rather long, but carefully parted, was disarranged and untidy; his neat tie had become crumpled and had slipped up on one side; his eyes were sparkling, as though with some unusual excitement, and there was a glow of colour in his cheeks almost hectic in its intensity. At the head of the table our host was still smiling and debonair, looking as though he had been drinking nothing stronger than water; and opposite to him de Cartienne was leaning back in his chair with a faint tinge of colour in his olive cheeks and a peculiar glitter in his dark eyes which was anything but pleasant to look upon. Altogether, the appearance of the trio was like a cold douche to me and brought me swiftly back to my former watchfulness. I felt instinctively there was mischief brewing. “I say, Fothergill, let’s have a hand at cards!” Cecil exclaimed, breaking a momentary silence. “You owe us a revenge, you know! George! didn’t you clean us out last time we played! We’ll clean you out to-night, hanged if we won’t! What shall it be?” Mr. Fothergill shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. “Cards—cards! It’s always cards!” he answered lightly. “Can’t you think of something else to do?” “Yes; hang cards!” muttered de Cartienne. “All right, I’m agreeable! But what the mischief else is there to do in this dull hole?” asked Cecil discontentedly. “Oh, let’s have a chat and a few more glasses of wine!” suggested Mr. Fothergill. “I’m so lucky that I hate to play at cards. I always win.” “Do you?” remarked Cecil, a little pettishly. “Well, look here, Fothergill! I’ll play you at any game you like to-night and beat you—so there! I challenge you! You owe me a revenge. I want it!” Mr. Fothergill looked a little bored. “Of course, if you put it in that way,” he said, “you leave me no alternative. But, mind, I warn you beforehand, Silchester, I’m bound to win! I don’t want to win your money—I had enough last time I was here—but if we play I shall win, whether I care about it or not. I’m in a tremendous vein of luck just now.” “We’ll see about that,” Cecil answered doggedly. “Let’s ring for some cards.” “Or, rather, don’t let’s play here at all,” interrupted de Cartienne. “The people are awfully old-fashioned and particular and may want to turn as out at eleven o’clock.” “By George! we’ll go round to the ‘Rose and Crown!’” exclaimed Cecil. “I haven’t been there for two days. It’s a decent little place and we can do what we like there,” he added, turning to Mr. Fothergill. “You don’t mind, do you?” “Not the least in the world!” declared our host, rising and stretching himself. “Any place will do for me. The sooner the better, if we are going, though. I don’t want to be particularly late.” We all rose, despatched the waiter for our overcoats and sallied out into the cool night air. After the heated atmosphere of the room in which we had been dining, the wintry breeze came as a sudden swift tonic. At the corner of the street, looking seaward, Cecil and I stopped simultaneously and bared our heads. “By George! how delicious a walk would be!” he exclaimed, fanning himself with his cap. “I say, Phil, old chap, suppose we bolt and do the seashore as far as Litton Bay?” “A splendid idea!” I exclaimed, taking him at his word and linking his arm in mine. “Let’s do it!” He burst out laughing. “Why, Phil, you know we can’t!” he said. “I was only joking. Why, what on earth would Fothergill think of us serving him such a trick as that?” “Oh, hang Fothergill!” I cried. “He only wants to win your money. I wouldn’t play with the fellow if I were you, Cecil. Can’t you see he’s a cad?” He looked at me, confounded. “Why, hang it all,” he said, “how can you refuse to play with a man after you’ve eaten his dinner? Besides, can’t you see that it isn’t he who wants to play at all? It was I who proposed it and even then he wasn’t keen.” “All beastly cunning!” I muttered angrily. But I could say no more, for de Cartienne and Mr. Fothergill had retraced their steps to look for us and Cecil had started off towards them. In a few moments we reached the “Rose and Crown” and walked straight into the little parlour at the back. Miss Milly was sitting there by herself in semi-darkness, with a very disconsolate face. She brightened up, however, at our entrance. “All by yourself, Milly?” exclaimed Cecil, letting go my arm and moving to her side. “In tears, too, I believe! No news, I suppose?” She shook her head sadly. “None! I have almost lost hope,” she added. Then she glanced questioningly at Mr. Fothergill, and Cecil introduced him in an informal sort of way and explained our visit. “We’ve come to drink up all your wine and have a quiet game at cards instead of staying all the evening at the ‘Bull.’ You can put us in the sitting-room out of the way, can’t you?” “Oh, yes!” she answered eagerly. “How good of you to come here! We’ve been dreadfully quiet the last few days—scarcely anyone in at all, and I have been so dull. Come this way, please. I’m so glad I had the fire lit.” She led us into the little sitting-room, where we had gone to look for Mr. Hart’s photograph on my first visit to the place. I pointed to the spot where it had been. “You haven’t found the portrait yet?” I remarked. She shook her head and looked distressed. “Please don’t talk about it,” she said. “It seems as though it must have been spirited away and it makes me feel uncomfortable even to think about it.” We seated ourselves around the table and Mr. Fothergill, producing two packs of cards from his pocket, began to deal. At the end of an hour Cecil had won nearly fifty pounds, I was as I had started, and de Cartienne and Mr. Fothergill were about equal losers. “I’m getting sick of this!” I declared. “Leave me out of this deal, will you?” They assented and I crossed the room to where Milly was sitting. Pretending to examine the fancy-work upon which she was engaged, I bent close over her. “Miss Milly, I want to ask you a question, without letting the others hear,” I said softly. “Do you understand?” She nodded. Her large blue eyes, upturned to mine, were filled with innocent wonder. I glanced towards the table. As I had expected, de Cartienne was watching us, and I could see that he was straining every nerve to overhear our conversation. “I think I’m about tired of it, too!” he exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his cards and rising; but Cecil laid his hand on his shoulder and forced him down. “Nonsense, man! You must play out your hand, at any rate. Then you may leave off as soon as you like.” de Cartienne resumed his seat with evident reluctance. I bent over Milly again. “Has anyone else one of those photographs of your father?” I asked. “Is there anyone from whom you could borrow one?” She shook her head and looked towards the empty frame. “That was the only one,” she answered. “Where did he have them taken?” “At Lawrence’s, just across the way.” “And when?” “About nine months ago, I think it was. Why do you ask, Mr. Morton?” she added anxiously. “I will tell you another time,” I answered, in a low tone. I glanced towards the table as I said this and was just in time to see de Cartienne bend over towards Cecil and whisper something in his ear. The latter looked round at us at once. “You two seem to have found something interesting to talk about,” he remarked, glancing towards Milly as though requiring an explanation. “We haven’t,” she answered, with a sigh. “Mr. Morton was just asking me—— Oh, Mr. Morton, you’re treading on my foot!” I withdrew my foot and tried the effect of a warning glance, but it was of no avail. “Mr. Morton was asking me,” she continued, “whether I had not another of those photographs.” “And have you—has anyone?” interrupted de Cartienne, fixing his piercing black eyes upon her. She shook her head. “No; but perhaps I can get some. They were taken at Lawrence’s and I suppose he has the negative.” I glanced quickly at de Cartienne. He seemed profoundly uninterested and was trying to build a house of the cards he had thrown down. Either he must be a perfect actor, or my vague suspicions were very ill-founded at that moment. I could not decide which. “Had enough cards, Cis?” he asked abruptly. “Not I. We’ll leave you out for a bit, though. Fothergill and I are going to play ecartÉ.” de Cartienne shrugged his shoulders and threw himself on the sofa. “I pity you, then,” he said drily. “You’ll soon see the back of that little pile of winnings. Fothergill’s a bit too good for you.” “Well, we shall see,” Cecil answered, laughing confidently. “I’m not a bad hand at ecartÉ myself.” They began to play. Presently de Cartienne left the room and returned with two glasses in his hand. “Have a lemon-squash, Morton?” he asked carelessly. “There’s only a drop of whisky in it.” I accepted, for I was thirsty, and half emptied at a draught the tumbler which he handed me. As I put down the glass I caught a grim smile on de Cartienne’s sallow face. But what it meant I could not tell, although it made me strangely uneasy. I watched the play for a few minutes and, to my surprise, Cecil was still winning. Then gradually a powerful, overmastering sleepiness crept over me. I tried to stave it off by walking about, by talking to Milly, by concentrating my thoughts upon the play. It was useless. I felt my eyes closing and the sounds and voices in the room grew dimmer and less distinct. For a while I remained in a semi-conscious state—half awake and half asleep—by sheer force of will. But in the end I was conquered. A mist hung before my eyes and all sound died away. I fell asleep. |
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