Part 15 (1/2)
”This,” said Laurence, seeing fit to disguise the real truth, ”is a friend of mine who happened to be staying in the village. As he has had some experience of nursing, he was good enough to offer his services on hearing of your illness. While you were unconscious he rendered Mrs.
Featherston valuable a.s.sistance. Now you are better, he will, of course, leave you. I will accompany him to the door, Father, and then will come back and see you again. Is your neck very bad?”
”It's very sore and weak, my boy. That's a good lad, go and show your friend out, and thank him for his kindness. Then return to me for a little talk. Mrs. Featherston, please stay until Mr. Laurence returns.”
”Now, sir,” said young Carrington, when, with the detective, he had left the sick-room, ”are you quite convinced of your absurd blunder?”
”I am, and I sincerely regret it, Mr. Laurence,” replied the man from Burton's. ”It's not often that I err. When I do I feel it--feel it, sir, deeply. I am obliged to you for your kindness in withholding the truth from your father. I shouldn't like Squire Carrington to think me incompetent, though for that matter----”
”We won't refer to the subject any further, Mr. Potter. I will now draw you a cheque and wish you a very good day, regretting that your valuable services are no longer required.”
A few minutes later the detective was ready to depart.
”Glad to have made your acquaintance, sir,” he said, as he stood on the doorstep. ”I suppose I may use your name as a reference? Perhaps you may require my a.s.sistance another time. Here is my card. If you should ever want me again that address will always find me. By the way, I'm of a forgiving nature, and always like to help young amateur investigators--give them encouragement, you know. Well, I've left a clue to the mystery behind in a cardboard box in the cupboard of the Squire's room. Don't thank me--anything to help a young friend. Fine day, isn't it?” And Mr. Oliver Potter, late of Scotland Yard, walked briskly out of the house, upsetting the umbrella stand as he went, and chuckling beneath his breath.
”Thank Heaven, he's gone!” muttered Laurence. ”If ever there existed a greater bore than our friend from Burton's I shouldn't care to meet him.”
He returned to the bedroom, and relieved Mrs. Featherston, taking a seat by his father's side.
”Daddy,” he said, when the door closed upon the genial housekeeper, ”I'm playing the part of an amateur detective. My one aim just now is to get to the bottom of the mystery of the two determined attacks on your life.
It's no use for you to try to deceive me. You have some deep secret--something is haunting you every moment of your existence; and I shall not rest until I have discovered what it is.”
”Laurence, don't, don't try! It's for your own sake that I ask it of you. When I am dead you will know all. Until then, do not try to discover what is not meant for you to learn. I want you to love and respect your father while he lives. Therefore do as I beg of you.”
”Don't talk like that, Daddy,” said Laurence, gently, ”as if anything could alter my feelings towards you. Is this secret anything that concerns my--mother?”
”No, my boy, thank G.o.d, it is not!”
”Then answer me this; have you ever heard of a Doctor Meadows?”
”Meadows! No. But why, Laurence?”
”Or a Major Jones-Farnell?”
”No, no! But----”
”Or of a fellow named Horncastle?” pursued the younger man.
”Never!”
”Then, have you ever mentioned anything about the matter which you wish to keep a secret from me to a living soul?”
”Why all these questions, Laurence? You know now that I have a secret, so there is no need for me to deny it. I have never before now breathed a word of this to a single soul, with the exception of one person.”
”And he?”
”He is dead. My secret lies within my own heart. No cross-questioning shall drag it from me.”
”One thing more, then I will not speak to you again for a little while, because you must be kept quite quiet. Were you ever in India? If so, did you happen to meet there a Major Carrington, of Madras?”
With startling suddenness the sick man darted up in his bed. He stared silently at his son for a moment, terror plainly imprinted upon his features. Then, still speechless, he collapsed again upon the pillows.