Part 3 (2/2)

Joan raised her eyes to his. ”I went into the morning-room,” she said, ”and Mrs. Amberley was standing with her back to me by the fireplace.”

”By Jove!” exclaimed Bobby Trench, staring at her as if fascinated.

”She turned sharp round when I came in,” said Joan, ”and then she asked me if I didn't love old Dutch pictures, and showed me that one. That is why I remembered about it.”

”Was she actually looking at it when you came in?”

”Well, no. I don't think she was. It was just a little to the right of where she was standing. I had forgotten all about it, but I remember now that when she mentioned the picture I thought to myself that she seemed to have been looking at the bare panels, and not at the picture at all. Besides, she was blus.h.i.+ng scarlet, and it was just as if I had caught her in something.”

”By Jove! you must jolly nearly have caught her with the panel open.

Did you notice anything odd about the wall she was standing in front of as you came in?”

Joan thought for a moment. ”No, I didn't,” she said decidedly.

”Had she got anything in her hand?”

Joan thought again. ”I didn't notice,” she said. ”But I believe she kept her hands behind her while she was talking to me. She didn't talk long. Just as I was looking at the picture she suddenly said she had some letters to write, and went out of the room.”

Bobby Trench, with growing excitement, asked her further questions--as to the time at which this had happened, as to the exact words that Mrs.

Amberley had said.

”We've hit the bull's eye this time,” he said. ”What a brilliant idea it was of mine to come and ask you! Look here, hadn't we better go and talk to Mr. Clinton about it? He's an old friend of my father's. I expect he'll be pleased to be able to give us a hand up over this business.”

”I should think he would be delighted,” said Nancy drily. ”Will Joan have to give evidence at a trial?”

”Oh yes. There'll be a trial all right. We've got the good lady sitting, now. But you won't mind that, will you, Miss Joan? If you'll both hop in, I'll drive you back. We can take the dogs, too, if you like. I hope Mr. Clinton will be in. I shall be glad to see him again.”

CHAPTER III

THE SQUIRE IS DRAWN IN

If Bobby Trench really felt the pleasure he had expressed at the prospect of seeing Mr. Clinton again, it was a sensation not shared by the Squire, when his motor-car came swis.h.i.+ng up the drive, and he alighted from it in company with Joan and Nancy.

Some few years before, Humphrey Clinton had brought him to Kencote for some winter b.a.l.l.s. Lady Susan Clinton, a distant connection, now Humphrey's wife, and her mother, had been members of the house-party, and trouble had ensued. They belonged to the fast modern world, which the Squire abominated. They had essayed to play Bridge on Sunday; Bobby Trench had tried to get out of going to church, had made havoc of punctuality, had, in fact, seriously disturbed the serene, self-satisfied atmosphere of Kencote. And the Squire had never forgiven him. He was a ”young cub,” the sort of youth he never wished to see at Kencote again, outside the pale of that G.o.d-fearing, self-respecting country aristocracy which was to the Squire the head and front of all that was most admirable and best worth preserving in the body politic.

Bobby Trench had been hardly less free of criticism on his own account.

Kencote was a cemetery of the dead, a little bit of Hampstead stuck down ten miles from nowhere, which came to the same thing; its owner was an old clodhopper. Never again would he permit himself to be inveigled into paying such a visit.

Yet here he was, advancing across the turf to where the tea-table was spread in the shade of a great cedar, with an ingratiating smile on his face, and apparently no doubt of the prospective warmth of his welcome.

”How do you do, Mrs. Clinton? Years since I saw you. How do you do, Mr. Clinton? You don't look a day older. The governor sent you messages, in case I should be lucky enough to see you. We are all at Brummels for the week-end. I started at ten this morning; made about a hundred miles of it; lunched at Bathgate. By Jove, you live in a past century here! Wonderful peaceful country, but a bit dull, eh?”

The Squire had somewhat recovered from his surprise during this speech, and was prepared to abide by his principles of hospitality, in spite of his distaste for Bobby Trench, and all he represented. But the last comment aroused his resentment, and emphasised the distance that lay between him and this glib young man.

”We don't find it dull,” he said; ”but I dare say people who spend their lives rus.h.i.+ng about from one place to another and never settling to anything might. They are welcome to their tastes, but the less I have to do with them the better I'm pleased.”

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