  For a full minute neither of us moved. Then de Cartienne rose slowly to his feet and walked to the door. “Here, take this!” I said, holding out the envelope towards him. “The private memoranda upon it may be useful to you.” He snatched it from my fingers and tore it into atoms. Then he walked quietly away, with an evil look upon his face. At luncheon Cecil appeared, white as a ghost, and looking anxious and disturbed, as well he might. Dr. Randall was quite uneasy at his appearance, and acquiesced at once when I asked for permission to take him for a drive during the afternoon. de Cartienne sat silent throughout the meal, except for a few sympathising sentences to Cecil, and left the room at the first opportunity. At three o’clock my dog cart was brought round and Cecil and I drove away. We scarcely spoke until we were in the streets of Drayton, and then, rousing myself, I bade him pluck his spirits up, and assured him vaguely that I would see him through it somehow. He thanked me, but seemed very despondent. We went to the “Bull,” and inquired for Mr. Fothergill. He was in the coffee-room, we were told, and there we found him lunching. “So good of you fellows to come and look me up!” he exclaimed, welcoming us cordially. “Waiter, a bottle of Pommery. Don’t shake your head now, Lord Silchester. It’ll do you good. I can see you’re a bit seedy this morning.” Cecil smiled feebly. “I’m not quite up to the mark,” he admitted, “Just a bit of a headache—that’s all. I say, Mr. Fothergill,” he went on, plunging at once in medias res, “I’m awfully sorry, but I shan’t be able to settle up with you to-day.” “Settle up with me!” repeated Mr. Fothergill, putting down his glass untasted, and looking surprised. “I don’t understand you. Settle what up?” “Why, the money I lost last night,” Cecil explained. Mr. Fothergill leaned back in his chair and looked into Cecil’s white, anxious face with an astonishment which, if simulated, was certainly admirably done. Then he broke into a little laugh. “My dear Lord Silchester,” he said energetically, “you can’t for one moment suppose that I expected anything of the sort. Why, I scarcely took our play seriously at all, and I should very much prefer that we said no more about it. Pray don’t be offended,” he added, hastily, for the sensitive colour had flushed into Cecil’s cheeks. “I’ll tell you how we’ll arrange it. You shall give me your I O U’s and pay them just as it is convenient. Any time within the next five or six years will do. But as to taking a sum like that from a b—a man who is not of age—why, it’s absurd! I feel rather ashamed of myself for having been so fortunate.” A look of intense relief had stolen into Cecil’s face, but the reaction was a little too sudden. He left us abruptly and stood looking out of the window for a minute or two. Then he returned, smiling, and held out his hand to Mr. Fothergill. “Mr. Fothergill, you’re a brick!” he declared emphatically. “Not another word, please!” Mr. Fothergill answered, smiling. “Now, look here, Lord Silchester,” he added. “Drink this glass of wine.” Cecil obeyed him promptly. “And now you’ll be so good as to have some luncheon with me,” Mr. Fothergill continued. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t believe you’ve eaten anything to-day. Waiter, bring me those other cutlets I ordered and the game-pie, and—yes, I think we might venture on another bottle of wine.” “Mr. Morton, you must join us. Clever animal of yours—that one outside,” he rattled on lightly; “but I’d have her taken out for an hour, if I were you. It’s too cold for her to be standing about. Shall I ring the ostler’s bell and tell him? And then, if you will, you might drive me down to the station, when you’re ready to go. My train leaves a little before five.” Whatever my former opinion of Mr. Fothergill had been, I felt bound to change it now. He was showing tact, good-nature, and a decidedly gentlemanly spirit. I had, in truth, eaten very little lunch at Borden Tower and Cecil none at all; and we proceeded to make good the omission. When, an hour or two later, we left Mr. Fothergill at the station, we were both of one mind concerning him, and we had both promised to accept his cordial invitation to run up to town and see him before long. On our way home Cecil stopped at the “Rose and Crown,” and went in to make his peace with Milly. I promised to call for him and went on to the photographer’s up the street. Mr. Lawrence appeared at once from a back-room, which, I presume, was the studio, wiping his hands upon a not particularly clean-looking towel. I paid him in advance for a dozen photographs, promising to come in and have them taken next time I was in the town. Then I explained what was really the purport of my visit: Had he preserved the negative of the photograph which he had taken of Mr. Hart? Certainly he had, he assured me. I told him about the date and his head and shoulders disappeared into a cupboard. In a few minutes he withdrew them and called out sharply for his assistant. “Fenton,” he exclaimed angrily, “you’ve been at this cupboard!” Fenton, who was a tall, ungainly lad of most unprepossessing appearance, shook his head. “I haven’t been near it, sir!” he declared. Mr. Lawrence looked incredulous. “There is a negative missing!” he said sharply; “No one else could have meddled with it!” “I don’t know anything about it,” the boy answered doggedly. “Perhaps it’s upstairs.” Mr. Lawrence abandoned his search. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, sir,” he said, “I’ll have a look among the old ones.” I nodded and he closed the door and disappeared. Fenton would have gone, too, but I stopped him. “Look here!” I said quickly; “see this?” I held out a five-pound note. He opened his eyes wide and looked at it longingly. “Well, it’s yours if you’ll tell me what you’ve done with the negative of Mr. Hart’s photograph. Quick!” He hesitated. “Should you split to the governor?” he asked. “No.” “Well, then, I sold it for a sovereign to a young gentleman what inquired for it a few minutes ago. A thin, dark chap he is. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him driving with you.” I threw him the note and left the place. I had now no doubt about the matter at all. de Cartienne had stolen the photograph of Mr. Hart from the “Rose and Crown,” and had bought the negative. Why? |
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