Part 10 (1/2)

And suddenly above the din Blacker's voice rose warningly.

”Don't let's lose our heads! That's the great thing! Let us keep as calm as we can and think out our questions very carefully lest the Heaven-sent Bearer of Great Tidings should depart without revealing all he knows.”

Chairs were hitched a little closer about Hillyard. The care which had brooded in that room was quite dispelled.

”Have some more port, sir,” said the youngest of that gathering, eagerly pus.h.i.+ng across the bottle. Hillyard filled his gla.s.s. Port was his, and prestige too. He might write a successful play. That was all very well.

He might go shooting for eight months along by the two Niles and the Dinder. That was all very well too. He was welcome at the Senga Mess.

But he knew Sir Chichester Splay! He acquired in an instant the importance of a prodigy.

”But, since he is an honorary member of your mess, you must know him too,” cried Hillyard. ”He must have come this way.”

”My dear Martin!” Luttrell expostulated, as one upbraiding a child. ”Sir Chichester Splay out of London! The thing's inconceivable!”

”Inconceivable! Why, he lives in the country.”

A moment of consternation stilled all voices. Then the Doctor spoke in a whisper.

”Is it possible that we are all wrong?”

”He lives at Rackham Park, in Suss.e.x.”

Mr. Blacker fell back in relief.

”I know the house. He is a new resident. It is near to Chichester. He went there on the h.o.m.oeopathic principle.”

The conjecture was actually true. Sir Chichester Splay, spurred by his ambition to be a country gentleman with a foot in town, had chosen the neighbourhood on account of his name, so that it might come to be believed that he had a territorial connection.

”Describe him to us,” they all cried, and, when Hillyard had finished:

”Well, he might be like that,” Luttrell conceded. ”It was not our idea.”

”No,” said Colin Rayne. ”You will remember I always differed from all of you, but it seems that I am wrong too. I pictured him as a tall, melancholy man, with a conical bald head and with a habit of plucking at a black straggling beard--something like the portraits of Tennyson.”

”To me,” said Luttrell, ”he was always fat and fussy, with white spats.”

”But why are you interested in him at all?” cried Hillyard.

”We will explain the affair to you on the balcony,” answered Luttrell, as he rose.

They moved into the dark and coolness of this s.p.a.cious place, and, stretching themselves in comfort on the long cane chairs, they explained to Hillyard this great mystery. Rayne began the tale.

”You see, we don't get a mail here so very often. Consequently we pay attention when it comes. We read the _Searchlight_, for instance, with care.”

Mr. Blacker s.n.a.t.c.hed the narrative away at this point.

”And Sir Chichester Splay occurs in most issues and in many columns. At first we merely noticed him. Some one would say, 'Oh, here's old Splay again,' as if--it seems incredible now--the matter was of no importance.

It needed Luttrell to discover the real significance of Sir Chichester, the man's unique and astounding quality.”