But an afternoon spent by the trout stream did much to restore their spirits. The fish were rising well, and the weather conditions were ideal.
They worked some way down the stream, and when they at last set out to return to the Priory they found themselves a considerable distance away from it. Charles' bump of locality, however, served them well, and he was able to lead the way home across country, by a route that brought them eventually to the footpath Michael Strange had so unaccountably failed to find.
It was already nearly time for dinner, and the two men quickened their steps. They had left the footpath, and were just skirting the ruined chapel when the sound of footsteps made them glance back towards the right of way. Where they stood they were more or less hidden from the path by a portion of the chapel wall.
Thinking the pedestrian one of the villagers on his way home, they were about to continue on their way when the man came into sight round a bend in the path, and they saw that it was none other than the commercial gentleman they had first seen in the taproom of the Bell Inn. This in itself was not very surprising, but the stranger's behaviour caused both men, as though by tacit consent, to draw farther into the lee of the chapel wall. The small stranger was proceeding rather cautiously, and looking about him as though he expected to meet someone. He paused as he came abreast of the chapel, and peeped into the ruins. Then, after hesitating for a moment he gave a surprisingly sweet whistle, rather like the notes of a thrush. This was answered almost at once from somewhere near at hand; there came a rustling amongst the bushes, and Michael Strange stepped out on to the path from the direction of the Priory gardens.
Charles placed a warning hand on Peter's arm; Peter nodded, and stayed very still.
"Any luck?" inquired the small man, in a low voice.
Strange shook his head. "No. We shall have to try the other way again."
"Ah!" said the other gloomily. "I don't half like it, guv'nor, and that's the truth. Supposing we was to be seen? It would look a bit unnatural, wouldn't it? It's risky, that's what it is. One of them might wake up, and I don't see myself doing no spook stunts. Clean out of my line, that is. I done some jobs in my time, as you know, but I don't like this one. It's one thing to crack a crib, but this job ain't what I'd call straightforward."
"You'll be all right," Strange said rather impatiently. "If you'd remember not to waylay me where we might easily be seen together. Go on ahead. I'll follow."
"All right, guv'nor: just as you say," the small man replied, unabashed, and moved off down the path.
When Strange had gone Charles looked at Peter. "Very interesting," he said. "What did you make of it?"
"God knows. It sounded as though they were going to burgle the place, but I suppose it's not that. It looks very much as though one or both of them were responsible for last night's picnic."
"And they'll have to "try the other way again,"' mused Charles. "Look here, Peter, are you game to sit up tonight with me, and see what happens?"
"Of course, but Celia'll throw a fit."
"I'll join you as soon as she's asleep. If nothing happens we've simply got to repeat the performance till something does. I wish I knew what they were after."
"Meanwhile," said Peter, consulting his wrist-watch, "it's already half-past seven, and we're dining with old Ackerley at eight." He stopped suddenly. "By Jove! Think that mysterious pair will get going in the house while we're out? I hadn't thought of that."
"No," said Charles. "The little chap spoke of one of us "waking up."'
"All the same," Peter said, "I move that we don't stay late at the White House."
In spite of what Charles said, Peter felt ill at ease about leaving the Priory in the sole charge of the Bowers. Clever crooks, he was sure, would know the movements of their prospective victims. Yet if burglary were mediated surely these particular crooks would find it an easy enough task to break into the Priory without shadowing the place at all hours, and searching for - what? There he found himself up against a blank wall again. Strange and his odd companion had certainly been looking for something, but what it was, or what connexion it could have with a possible burglary he had no idea.
He realised that his mind harped all the time on burglary, and was forced to admit to himself that it was an improbable solution. There was very little of value in the house, and if anything so unlikely as hidden treasure were being sought for it was incredible that the thieves should have waited until the house was tenanted before they made an attempt to find it.
Charles obviously connected the affair of the previous evening with Strange, in which case it looked as though Strange's primary object was to frighten the tenants out of the house. He wondered whether he would seize the opportunity this dinner-party afforded to stage another, and even more nerve-racking, booby-trap.
Peter arrived at the White House with the rest of his family just as eight o'clock struck. His sisters, who had reviled both him and Charles for staying out so late, drew two sighs of relief.
"Scaremongers," said Charles. "I told you it wouldn't take us ten minutes to get here."
They had walked to the White House across their own grounds, a proceeding which Celia had condemned, dreading the return late at night, but which had been forced on them, not only on account of its convenience, but on account also of the car, which had developed slight magneto trouble, and refused to start.
They entered the drawing-room to find that Mr. Titmarsh, and Dr Roote and his wife, fellow-guests, had already arrived, and Celia was just telling her host laughingly that if they were late he must blame her menfolk, when the Colonel's butler opened the door to announce yet another guest. To Peter's amazement Michael Strange walked into the room.
"I don't think you know Strange, do you?" the Colonel said, to the room at large. He began to introduce the dark young man.
"Yes, we've met twice," Margaret said, when it came to her turn. She smiled at Strange. "How do you do? How's the fishing?"
"Splendid!" he said. He turned to Charles. "Have you tried the streams here yet?"
Seen in such civilised surroundings it was hard to believe that this young man was the same who had, not an hour ago, held a furtive conversation with a character whose own words proclaimed him to be a member of the criminal classes. Feeling more completely at sea than ever, Charles answered his question with a description of the afternoon's sport. Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the Colonel began to marshal his guests.
"I must apologise for our uneven numbers," he said breezily. "Four ladies to six men! Well, I think we'd better go in all together. Mrs. Bosanquet, let me show you the way."
"Too many men is a fault on the good side, anyway, isn't it?" Mrs. Roote said. She was a good-looking blonde, grown a little haggard, and with a rather harsh voice. Her husband was an untidy individual of some forty years whose huskiness of speech and rather hazy eye betrayed his weakness. His address, however, was pleasant, and he seemed to be getting on well with Celia, whom he took in to dinner behind the Colonel and Mrs. Bosanquet.
The White House was a solid Victorian building, with large airy rooms, and the boon of electric light. It was furnished in good if rather characterless style, but evidence of the Colonel's ownership existed in the various trophies that adorned the dining-room walls. Mrs. Bosanquet remarked as she took her seat at the round table that it was pleasant to find herself in an upto-date house again.
"Oh, I'm afraid the White House is a very dull affair after the Priory," Colonel Ackerley replied. "Suits me, you know; never had much use for old buildings. Full of draughts and inconvenience, I always say, but I'm afraid I'm a regular vandal. I can see Mrs. Malcolm shaking her head at me."