Yes, Warren decided, he had a definite friendship. He would be able to rely upon Clark Brosset, he was sure. That surmise was almost prophetic.
During the days to come, strange events were to happen — events that were already in the making. Those occurrences were destined to bring new reliance upon this new-found friend; and Warren Barringer was to find in Clark Brosset a man who could give careful and precise advice.
The Shadow had not foreseen the fact that Warren Barringer was to gain so influential a friend in Newbury.
CHAPTER VII
DEATH AT THE MANOR
WHEN Warren Barringer arrived at Delthern Manor on the following evening, he used the method of approach commonly taken by Horatio Farman.
Most visitors entered by the side drive. Warren chose the narrow front way. Moreover, he ignored the bell beside the door, and rapped with the heavy brass knob.
Wellington opened the portal. The servant stepped back in momentary surprise. He had expected to see Horatio Farman — not a stranger. Warren, although puzzled by Wellington’s action, made no comment. He merely announced himself as Warren Barringer. Wellington bowed and went toward the towering stairs that led to the second floor.
Warren Barringer gazed curiously about him. He noted the large doors that barred entrance to the huge reception hall. He looked in the other direction, and spied the opening of a living room. He saw other doorways, and realized then that visitors must usually enter by the side of the house.
It seemed to Warren that he had invaded an atmosphere of privacy. This silent hallway, illuminated by a few electric lights, seemed a portion of an abode not intended for visitors.
Warren smiled at his own thought. Delthern Manor might well be his home in Newbury, should he insist upon his privilege of living here.
Footsteps sounded on the stairway. Warren looked up, sensing a step lighter than that of Wellington. He saw a girl descending the stairs.
She paused momentarily at the sight of a stranger, then continued to the bottom and turned toward the living room. Warren Barringer stepped forward.
“Marcia Wardrop?” he inquired.
“Yes,” responded the girl, in an uncertain tone. “You have come here to see me?”
“Partly,” smiled Warren. “I am your cousin — my name is Warren Barringer.”
“Oh!” Marcia’s exclamation showed surprise. “I remember now; Cousin Winstead mentioned that you had arrived in Newbury.”
Warren bowed. He expected Marcia to make a further comment, but the girl was silent. Noticing her face, the young man realized that Horatio Farman had described Marcia very precisely. The girl seemed to possess more than normal reserve. Her face showed a saddened, worried expression.
“I came here,” remarked Warren, “to visit Winstead Delthern. I also hoped to meet you, Marcia. It is good to see one’s relations after years of absence.”
Marcia still remained speechless. The clouded look upon her face seemed to indicate that she had undergone an experience that prevented her from agreeing with Warren’s opinions on relatives. Marcia’s silence became embarrassing, even to so affable a person as Warren Barringer.
An interruption brought an end to Warren’s hopeless effort toward conversation. Wellington appeared upon the stairs to announce that the visitor might come up.
With a smile toward Marcia, Warren went upstairs. Wellington met him at the top landing, and conducted him along a hall. The servant stopped before a door on the right, and rapped. A querulous voice gave an order to come in. Wellington opened the door to admit Warren.
THE visitor’s first impression of Winstead Delthern was that of a lean, hunchy, sour-faced man huddled in back of a huge desk in the center of a large, paneled room.
The place was an old-fashioned study, with large, antiquated furnishings. Winstead Delthern, seated in a mammoth chair, made Warren think of an undersized peanut ready to rattle in its shell.
“You are Warren Barringer?” rasped Winstead.
“Yes,” responded Warren.
“Sit down” — Winstead motioned toward a chair beside the desk — “and tell me the purpose of your visit.”
Warren Barringer complied. He eyed his eldest cousin coldly. Winstead was evidently waiting to hear him state his business. Warren decided to oblige him.
“When one has been abroad for many years,” he remarked, in a quiet tone, “he usually visits his relations upon his return. That happens to be my situation.”
“I presume,” returned Winstead Delthern. “that you expect me to regard that as a natural impulse. It is one that I have never experienced.”
“No,” rejoined Warren, in a more emphatic tone, “I regard it as much a courtesy as an impulse. But I do feel that when a traveler has returned from a great distance, it should be a natural impulse for his relatives to extend him a greeting.”
“Is this,” demanded Winstead. “to be taken as a criticism of myself?”
“Not a criticism,” retorted Warren. “Purely an analysis. I have stated what any intelligent person would regard as a normal action. If you happen to lack the fundamental courtesy of a human being, that is your own misfortune — not mine.”
Winstead Delthern sprang to his feet. His peaked face was flushed with anger. He pounded upon the desk like a martinet.
“Outrageous!” he exclaimed. “You forget that I am the head of the Delthern family. I am not here to receive insults from an upstart like yourself.”
“Of course not,” responded Warren, also rising to his feet. “You prefer to deliver insults — as you did last night. You are a generous man, who would rather give than receive — so far as insults are concerned.”
“I shall not tolerate this!” stormed Winstead Delthern. “Here, in my own home, you are daring to berate me. I am grateful only that you do not bear the name of Delthern!”
Warren Barringer’s fists tightened. Towering above his cousin, he was ready to avenge this last thrust. Only a great effort enabled him to restrain himself.
“Wellington!” screamed Winstead. “Wellington! Come here at once!”
Fuming, Winstead Delthern glared at Warren Barringer, who was standing quietly now. The door opened, and the servant entered. Winstead Delthern spoke again to Warren Barringer.
“I cannot have you ejected from this house,” he declared. “Nevertheless, I expect you to leave at once. You can return when you please — because of privilege alone — but do not expect another interview with me.”
“I am leaving,” remarked Warren quietly. “This is my final word to you, Winstead Delthern. Hear me out, if you expect to be rid of my presence.
“You stated that you were grateful only because I do not bear the name of Delthern. Let me add that I, too, am grateful, now that I have learned the low caliber of those who still call themselves Delthern.”
Warren turned on his heel and gave no further attention to the parting thrusts that Winstead Delthern uttered. He waited until Wellington had closed the door; then accompanied the servant downstairs.
“Good night, Wellington,” said Warren, as they neared the front door.
“Good night, sir,” responded the servant. “Good night, Mr. Warren.”
Noting Wellington’s face in the dim light, Warren saw a gleam of approval on the servant’s face. He realized that this man had served his grandfather, and had probably come to the very opinion that Warren had expressed.
NOT long after Warren Barringer had departed, Marcia Delthern returned from the direction of the living room. The girl was carrying her hat and coat. She had been out during Warren’s session with Winstead Delthern. She saw Wellington standing in the hallway.