Part 27 (1/2)

He stopped abruptly. A curiously introspective look had come into the girl's eyes, for he had summoned up courage to glance at her again, and s.n.a.t.c.h one last impression of her winsome loveliness before she bade him be gone.

”Where are you staying in Roxton, Mr. Trenholme?” she asked. The unexpected nature of the question almost took his breath away.

”At the White Horse Inn,” he said.

She pointed across the park.

”That farm there, Mr. Jackson's, lies nearly opposite the inn. I suppose the detective has not impounded your sketch?”

”No,” he murmured, quite at a loss to follow her intent.

”Well, Mr. Jackson will let you go and come through his farmyard to oblige me. It will be a short cut for you, too. If you have no objection, I'll walk with you to the boundary wall, which you can climb easily.

”Then you might bring this debatable picture, and let me see it--the others as well, if you wish. Wouldn't that be a good idea? I mightn't get quite such a shock in the morning, when the detective man parades you before me. It is not very late. I have plenty of time to stroll that far before dinner.”

Hardly believing his ears, Trenholme walked off by her side. No wonder Police Constable Farrow was surprised. And still less room was there for wonder that Hilton Fenley, driving with Winter from the station, should shout an imperative order to Brodie to stop the car when he saw the couple in the distance.

”Isn't that Miss Sylvia?” he said harshly, well knowing there could be only one answer.

”Yes, sir,” said the chauffeur.

”Who is the man with her?”

”Mr. Trenholme, the artist, from the White Horse, sir.”

”Are you sure?”

”Yes, sir. I've seen him several times hereabouts.”

Fenley was in a rare temper already, for Winter had told him Brother Robert was at home, a development on which he had by no means counted.

Now his sallow face darkened with anger.

”Drive on!” he said. ”I gave orders, at your request, Mr Winter, that no strangers were to be admitted. I must see to it that I am obeyed in future. It is surprising, too, that the police are so remiss in such an important matter.”

For once, Winter was perforce silent. In his heart of hearts he blamed Detective Inspector Furneaux.

CHAPTER X

FURNEAUX STATES SOME FACTS AND CERTAIN FANCIES

This record of a day remarkable beyond any other in the history of secluded Roxton might strike a more cheerful note if it followed the two young people across the park. It is doubtful whether or not Sylvia Manning's unpremeditated action in accompanying Trenholme was inspired by a sudden interest in art or by revolt against the tribulations which had befallen her. Of course there is some probability that a full and true account of the conversation between man and maid as they walked the half mile to Jackson's farm might throw a flood of light on this minor problem. Be that as it may, stern necessity demands that the chronicle should revert for a time to the sayings and doings of the Fenleys and the detectives.

Despite a roundabout route, Furneaux had merely led Robert Fenley through the gardens to the Quarry Wood. Somewhat to the detective's surprise, the rock was unguarded. The two were standing there, discussing the crime, when Police Constable Farrow returned to his post. Furneaux said nothing--for some reason he did not emphasize the fact to his companion that a sentry should have been found stationed there--but a sharp glance at the policeman warned the latter that he ran considerable risk of a subsequent reprimand.

Conscious of rect.i.tude, Farrow saluted, and produced his notebook.

”I've just made a memo of this, sir,” he said, pointing to an entry.

Furneaux read: