  We drove straight into the courtyard, having no groom with us and entered the house from the back. As we passed the little room on the ground floor given up for our sole use as a repository for cricket-nets, fishing-tackle, guns, spare harness, and such like appliances, I opened the door, intending to hang my whip up. To my surprise de Cartienne was there in an old coat, with his sleeves turned up, cleaning a gun. He looked up and greeted us as we entered. “What a time you men have been! What have you been up to in Little Drayton?” “Oh, we had lunch with your friend Fothergill and shacked about,” Cecil answered. “Tell you what, Len, he’s a very decent fellow.” de Cartienne was examining the lock of his gun with great attention, and in the dusk I could not catch his expression. “Oh, Fothergill’s all right!” he answered. “You didn’t find him very hungry for his winnings, did you?” “I should think not,” Cecil replied enthusiastically. “Why, I believe he was actually annoyed with himself for having won at all. I’ve given him my I O U’s.” “He’ll most likely tear them up,” de Cartienne remarked. “He’s beastly rich and he can’t want the money.” “Where did you drop across him, Len?” asked Cecil, seating himself upon a chest and lighting a cigarette. “He’s a friend of my governor’s. I’ve known him ever since I was a kid,” de Cartienne answered slowly. “There, I think that’ll do!” critically looking at the gleaming muzzle which he held in his hand. “Why this sudden fit of industry?” inquired Cecil, yawning. “Going to do any shooting?” de Cartienne nodded and began deliberately pulling the gun to pieces. “Yes; I’ve had a long day indoors to-day and I mean to make up for it by potting some wild duck to-morrow. Hilliers told me that he’d heard of some very fair sport round by Rushey Ponds last week. You’d better come with me.” “Thanks, I’ll see,” Cecil answered. “I’m not very keen on wild duck potting.” “Haven’t you been out all day, then, de Cartienne?” I asked—“not even to Drayton?” “Not outside the house,” he answered. “Do I look like it?” He pointed to his slippered feet, his old clothes, and held up his hands, black with oil and grease, I took in the details of his appearance, feeling a little bewildered. It seemed barely possible that he could have been in Little Drayton an hour ago. The dressing-bell rang out and we hurried off to our rooms, for Dr. Randall, easy-going enough in some things, was strictness itself with regard to our punctuality at dinner-time. But no sooner had I seen de Cartienne safely in his room than I softly made my way downstairs again and crossed the yard to the stables. It was as I had expected. The stall in which de Cartienne kept his mare was carefully closed, but through the chinks I could see that a lamp was burning inside. I tried the door softly, but it was locked. Then I knocked. There was no answer. Turning away, I entered the next stall and, mounting a step-ladder, looked over the partition. I saw very much what I had expected to see—de Cartienne’s thoroughbred mare splashed all over with mud and still trembling with nervous fatigue, and by her side Dick, the stable-boy, holding a wet sponge in his hand and looking up at me with a scared, disconsolate expression. “Oh, it be you, be it, Muster Morton?” he exclaimed rather sullenly. I looked down at Diana. “How came she in that exhausted condition?” I asked. “And why have you locked the door?” Dick hesitated, and I tossed him a half-crown. “The truth now, Dick,” I said. “And I won’t let Mr. de Cartienne know that I’ve seen her.” He brightened up at once and pocketed the half-crown. “That’s kind o’ yer, sir!” he exclaimed, evidently much relieved. “All I know, sir, is that Muster de Cartienne he come in riding like mad along the Drayton Road ’bout ’arf an hour ago, and he says to me, ‘Dick, take Diana, lock her up in the stable and don’t let no one know as she’s been out. Just attend to her yourself and rub her down carefully, for I’ve been obliged to ride fast.’ And with that he guv me summut and hoff he went into the ’ouse.” “Thank you, Dick,” I said, getting down from the ladder, “that’s all I wanted to know.” And I crossed the yard to the house again and hurried upstairs to change my things. We had two deliveries of letters at Borden Tower, and just as we were leaving the dinner-table that evening the late post arrived. There was a letter for me, a somewhat unusual occurrence, and a single glance at the arms and the bold, characteristic handwriting set me longing to open it, for it was from Mr. Ravenor. As soon as the cloth was cleared I did so.
“Bernard Ravenor.” I looked up from the letter with a great sense of relief and met Cecil’s delighted gaze. “Hurrah, old chap!” he exclaimed, only half under his breath. “Won’t we have a rare old time?” “Cave!” I whispered, for the doctor was looking our way. “More vacation,” he remarked, in a grumbling tone, which was made up for, however, by a good-natured smile. “Upon my word, I don’t know how Mr. Ravenor imagines you’re ever going to learn anything! However, I suppose you must go.” de Cartienne looked up inquiringly. “We’re going to stay at Ravenor Castle for a week,” Cecil explained. “We’re off to-morrow.” I leaned forward and watched de Cartienne’s face intently. There was an expression in it which I could not analyse. It might have been pleasure, or apprehension, or indifference. Though I watched him narrowly, I could not make up my mind whether he was more dismayed or gratified at the prospect of our visit. |
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