Part 33 (1/2)

”Missy!” the man called, and his voice was broken and harsh with suffering.

It was Rundle, the poacher, and his dog, and there was blood on Rundle's hand, blood trickling down from a wound in the dog's side. The man was holding the dog as he might have held a child. The big ugly yellow head was against the man's breast, and in its agony the dog was licking the man's rough hand.

And watching, there came back to Ellice's memory what she had said of this man and his dog.

”You'll do something for me, missy, something as I--I can't do myself!”

He shuddered. ”Will you ride on to Taylor's and ask him to come here and bring--his gun?”

”Why?”

”I--I can't do it myself!”

”He might be cured.”

”There's only Mister Vinston, the Vet, and he wouldn't look at this poor tyke of mine. He hates him too bad for that, because s.n.a.t.c.her killed one of them fancy poodle dogs of his two years ago; and Mr. Vinston ain't never forgot it--and never will. He wouldn't do nothing to save s.n.a.t.c.her, miss. Ask Taylor to come and bring his gun.”

Ellice nodded. She stretched out her hand and touched the s.h.a.ggy yellow head, and in her eyes was infinite pity. Then she mounted the bicycle, and rode like the wind to Buddesby. What she said to Mr. Ralph Vinston, the smart young veterinary surgeon, only she and Mr. Ralph Vinston knew.

He had refused definitely and decidedly. ”It'll be a blessing to the place if the beast dies,” he said. ”You'd better take his message to Taylor. The gun's the best remedy for Rundle's accursed dog, Miss Ellice.”

And then the girl had talked to him, had talked with flas.h.i.+ng eyes and heaving breast, and the end of it was that Ralph Vinston made a collection of surgical instruments, bandages, and other necessaries, bundled them into his little car, and was away down the road with Ellice in company within ten minutes.

CHAPTER x.x.x

”WAITING”

Hugh Alston had certainly not attempted anything in the way of picturesque disguise. There was nothing brigandish or romantic about the appearance of the very ordinary-looking young man who put in an appearance at Starden village.

Quite what his plans were, what he proposed doing and how he should do it, Hugh had not the slightest idea. He mistrusted Slotman. He experienced exactly the same feelings as would a man who, hearing that there was a savage wild beast let loose where an immense amount of harm may be done, puts a gun under his arm and sallies forth.

Even if Joan had not the immense claim on him that she had, he believed he would do exactly what he was doing now. He might be wrong about Slotman, of course. The man might have cleared out and left the country, but Hugh fancied that he had not. Here was a little gold-mine, a young girl, rich and unprotected, a girl of whom this villain believed certain things, which if true would give him a great power over her. That they were not true, Slotman did not know, and he would use his fancied knowledge to obtain his ends and to make Joan's life unbearable.

So Hugh Alston was here in rough, s.h.a.ggy tweeds, sitting on the self-same seat beside the old stocks where most mornings Ellice Brand came.

”I'm here,” he said to himself, and pulled hard on his pipe. ”I am here, and here I am going to stay. Sooner or later, unless I am dead out in my reckonings, that brute will turn up, and when he does he'll find me here ahead of and waiting for him.”

”The Meredyths,” said Mrs. Bonner, ”hev lived at Starden”--she called it 'Sta-a-arden'--”oh, I wouldn't like to say for how long, centuries anyhow. Then for a time things got despirit with them, and the place was sold. Bought it was by Mr. Gorridge, a London gentleman. Thirty years he lived here. I remember him buying it; I would be about eighteen then, just before I married Bonner. Master Roger I think it was, anyhow one of 'em--the Meredyths I mean--went to Australia and kep' sheep or something there, and made money, and he bought the old place back, Mr. Gorridge being dead and gone. You'll see 'is tomb in the church, Mr. Alston.”

”Thank you,” Hugh said. ”I'll be sure to look for it.”

”A wonderful expensive tomb, and much admired,” said Mrs. Bonner.

”I am sure it must be in the best taste. And then?”

”Oh, then Mr. Roger died at sea and left it all, Starden Hall and his money, to Miss Joan Meredyth. And she lives there now, and I suppose she'll go on living there when she is married.”

”When she is married,” he repeated.