“What, I ask myself,” she said dramatically, “has become of that tiresome girl? Into what company may she have fallen? I see that you, Sir Richard, are a person of sensibility. Conceive of my feelings! What—I say, what if my unfortunate niece should have fallen into the hands of some Man?’
“What indeed!” said Sir Richard.
“She must marry him. When I think of the care, the hopes, the maternal fondness I have lavished—but it is ever so! There is no gratitude in the world to-day.”
Upon this gloomy reflection, she ordered her chaise to be got ready to bear her instantly to Chippenham. She would have remained at Queen Charlton for the night, she explained, only that she suspected the sheets.
Sir Richard, having seen her off, walked down the street, to cool his heated brow, and to consider the intricacies of his position.
It was while he was absent that Miss Creed and the Honourable Beverley Brandon, approaching the George from widely divergent angles, but with identical circumspection, came face to face in the entrance-parlour.
They eyed one another. A few moments’ conversation with the tapster had put Beverley in possession of information which he found sufficiently intriguing to make him run the risk of perhaps encountering Captain Trimble in entering the inn, and prosecuting further enquiries about Sir Richard Wyndham. Sir Richard, the tapster had told him, was putting up at the George with his nephew.
Now, Sir Richard’s nephew, as Beverley knew well, was a lusty young gentleman not yet breeched. He did not mention this circumstance in the tapster, but on hearing that the mysterious nephew in question was a youth in his teens, he pricked up his ears, and penetrated from the tap room into the main parlour of the inn.
Here Pen, entering the George cautiously from the stableyard, came plump upon him. Never having seen his face, she did not at once recognize him, but when, after an intent stare, he moved towards her, saying with a slight stammer: “How d-do you do? I think you m-must be Wyndham’s n-nephew?” she had no doubt of his identity.
She was no fool, and she realized at once that anyone well-acquainted with Sir Richard must be aware that she was not his nephew. She replied guardedly: “Well, I call him my uncle, because he is so much older than I am, but in point of fact we are cousins only. Third cousins,” she added, making the relationship as remote as she could.
A smile which she did not quite like lingered on Beverley’s rather slack mouth. Mentally, he was reviewing Sir Richard’s family, but he said with great affability: “Oh, indeed? Ch-charmed to make your acquaintance, Mr-er-er?”
“Brown,” supplied Pen, regretting that she had not thought to provide herself with a more unusual surname.
“Brown,” bowed Beverley, his smile widening. “It is a great p-pleasure to me to m-meet any connection of W-Wyndham’s. In such a remote spot, too! Now d-do tell me! What b-brings you here?”
“Family affairs,” answered Pen promptly. “Uncle Richard—Cousin Richard, I mean, only I have always been in the way of calling him uncle, you understand—very kindly undertook to come with me.”
“So it was on y-your account that he came to Queen Ch-Charlton!” said Beverley. “That is most interesting!” His eyes ran over her in a way that made her feel profoundly ill-at-ease. “M-most interesting!” he repeated. “P-pray present my c-compliments to Wyndham, and tell him that I perfectly understand his reasons for choosing such a secluded locality!”
He bowed himself out with a flourish, leaving Pen in a state of considerable trepidation. In the tap room, he called for paper, ink, a pen, and some brandy, and sat down at a table in one corner to write a careful letter to Sir Richard. It took time, for he was not apt with a pen, and much brandy, but it was finished at last to his satisfaction. He looked round rather owlishly for wafers, but the tapster had brought him none, so he folded the note into a screw, wrote Sir Richard’s name on it in a flourishing scrawl, and told the tapster to give it to Sir Richard upon his return to the inn. After that he went away, not quite steadily, but full of chuckling glee at his own ingenuity.
The tapster, who was busy serving drinks, left the twisted note on the bar while he hurried to the other end of the room with beer for a clamorous party of country-men. It was here that Captain Trimble, coming into the taproom from the stableyard, found it.
Captain Trimble, who had spent a fruitless day in attempting to discover some trace of Jimmy Yarde in Bristol, was hot, and tired, and in no very good temper. He sat down on a high stool at the bar, and began to wipe his face with a large handkerchief. It was as he was restoring the handkerchief to his pocket that the note, and its superscription, caught his eye. He was well-acquainted with Mr Brandon’s handwriting, and he recognized it at once. It did not at first surprise him that Mr Brandon should have written to Sir Richard Wyndham; he supposed them to be of the same fashionable set. But as he looked idly down at the screw of paper thoughts of the wild-goose chase upon which Sir Richard had sent him took strong possession of his mind, and he wondered, not for the first time during that exasperating day, whether Sir Richard could have had a motive in dispatching him to Bristol. The note began to assume a sinister aspect; suspicion darkened the already warm colour in the Captain’s cheeks; and after staring at the note for a minute, he cast a quick look round, saw that no one was watching him, and deftly palmed it.
The tapster came back to the bar, but by the time he had recollected the note, Captain Trimble had retired to a high-backed settle by the empty fireplace, and was calling for a can of ale. At a convenient moment, he unscrewed the twist of paper, and read its contents.
“My very dear Richard,” had written Mr Brandon, I am desolated to find that you have gone out. I should like to continue our conversation. When I tell you that I have been privileged to meet your nephew, my dear Richard, I feel that you will appreciate the wisdom of meeting me again. You would not wish me to talk, but a paltry twelve thousand is not enough to close my mouth, which, however, I am willing to do, tho’ not for a less sum than I have it in my power to obtain by Other Means, Should you wish to discuss this delicate matter, I shall be in the spinney at ten o’clock this evening. If you do not come there, I shall understand that you have Withdrawn your Objection to my disposing of Certain Property as I choose, and I fancy that it would be Unwise of you to mention our dealings in this matter to anyone, either now or later.”
Captain Trimble read this missive twice before folding it again into its original twist. The mention of Pen he found obscure, and of no particular interest. There was apparently a disreputable secret in some way connected with Sir Richard’s young nephew, but the Captain did not immediately perceive what profit was to be made out of it. Far more arresting was the thinly veiled reference to the Brandon necklace. The Captain’s eyes smouldered as he thought this over, and his massive jaw worked a little. He had suspected Beverley’s good faith from the moment that Jimmy Yarde had been thrust on him as an accomplice. The matter seemed as clear as crystal now. Beverley and Yarde had hatched a plot to cheat him of his share in the fortune, and when Beverley had been raving against him for blundering—very convincingly he had raved too—he had actually had the necklace in his pocket. Well, Mr Brandon would have to learn that it was not wise to try to bubble Horace Trimble, and still less wise to leave unsealed notes lying about in a common taproom. As for Sir Richard, the Captain found his part in these tortuous proceedings very difficult to fathom. He seemed to know something about the diamonds, but he was far too wealthy a man, the Captain considered, to have the least interest in their worth in terms of guineas. But Sir Richard had undoubtedly meddled in the affair, and the Captain wished with all his heart that he could discover a way to pay him in full for his interference.