Part 7 (1/2)
”You bet.”
”Dry?”
”Always.”
”Have a gla.s.s of fizz?” In Peckover's situation even that unusual hospitality was a matter of indifference.
”Thanks,” answered the man, smothering a third yawn in recognition of his fellow-guest's civility. ”You are a brick. Got more than you care to drink there?” he added to qualify his somewhat grabbing acceptance of the offer.
”Yes,” answered Peckover with grim significance. Then checking himself as he was about to offer the drugged gla.s.s to the stranger, he exclaimed hastily, ”Oh, that won't do.”
”Short of gla.s.ses?” said the other accommodatingly. ”I don't mind a tumbler to save time.” He spun one across to Peckover who emptied the remains of the bottle into it. The stranger poured the wine down his throat without the action of swallowing. ”Ah, that's better!” he declared with a great sigh of enjoyment.
”Walked too far?” Peckover suggested listlessly. ”Not used to it, p'raps?”
”Got out of the way of it,” the man explained. ”Three months aboard s.h.i.+p.”
”Australia?” Peckover suggested.
The stranger nodded. ”That's it. Come from London this morning. Got out at Faxfleet to walk over here. Lost my way in the woods.”
”Didn't come straight, then?” Peckover had an indistinct recollection of having seen this fellow at the station, but had been too much flurried to take more than pa.s.sing notice of him. Were they companions in bad luck, he wondered. ”Have a gla.s.s of port,” he said, warming towards his fellow-guest.
”Your wine? Thanks. Good chap. Crime to refuse old crusted, eh?” He emptied the gla.s.s which Peckover promptly refilled. Then put on a mysteriously significant look. ”No, I didn't come straight here, and for a good reason.” He sank his voice. ”Fact is, I'm dodging a bush-ranger.”
”What?” exclaimed Peckover, disinclined to take the statement seriously.
The stranger pulled his chair close up to his companion, and tapped him with his forefinger on the knee. ”Look here,” he said confidently.
”You don't belong to these parts? Nothing of the chawbacon about you.
Town man?”
”Slightly,” answered Peckover, with a chastened pride in the undisputable claim.
The other grasped his hand. ”I can trust you?” Peckover, recovering from the cold thrill which the somewhat demonstrative clasp occasioned, nodded impressively. ”You are a smart Londoner,” the stranger continued, ”I'll tell you my situation, and get your advice. Mind, though, it's a dead secret.”
”It soon will be with me,” thought Peckover miserably, as he a.s.sured his companion on the point.
Host Popkiss, glancing in at the door, saw the two in close confidence, and with the c.o.c.ksureness usual with men of limited sagacity concluded that the ”party” wanted by Mr. Doutfire had arrived and was trying the confidence trick on the new-fledged member of the peerage. And having so settled it, he strolled out to keep a watchful eye for the detective.
”It's downright romantic,” the thirsty stranger was saying with an apologetic smile. ”Now, you wouldn't think it to look at me, but I'm a peer of the realm.”
”Jehoshaphat!” commented Peckover, more frank than polite.
”Just the remark I made when I heard I was Lord Quorn,” said the other pleasantly. ”Been sheep-farming in New South Wales for the last twelve years. Not much luck of any sort, though, till the other day. Got a letter to say distant cousin dead, and I had succeeded to the t.i.tle.
Not much tr.i.m.m.i.n.g with it, they tell me. Bit of tumble-down family property near here, Staplewick Towers, let to some grand lady.” He pulled out a letter and looked at the signature. ”Lady Agatha Hemyock, that's it,” he said, exhibiting the letter as doc.u.mentary evidence of his veracity. ”So I have just trotted down to take stock.”
”And where does the bush-ranger come in?” was Peckover's not unnatural inquiry.
Lord Quorn wagged his head knowingly, and drank off another gla.s.s of port-wine without apology, as though the privilege of being made the recipient of a peer's confidences was in itself ample payment for the refreshment in question. ”Out there,” the vague wave of his hand was understood to be towards New South Wales, ”I used up my spare time flirting with a fine woman who had a figure and a will of her own. She would not have me, though; refused me more than once: but hearing one fine day that she had said no to a real live lord she felt pretty sick.