“I have just returned home,” I said in answer to Foy’s first comment. “Allow me to present Mr. Johnson, a fellow enthusiast who, learning of my proposed visit to such a distinguished expert, asked to be allowed to accompany me.”
By Pons’ face I saw that I had acquitted myself well and was emboldened by the flush of pleasure on Foy’s face as he crossed the turf to shake hands with my companion.
“Forgive the state of my hands, gentlemen. This is a somewhat greasy hobby, as you both full well know. Will you not step into the house and let me offer you some refreshment.”
`That is extremely kind,” I said. “So long as it does not rob us of the pleasure of seeing you take Sir Nigel out again afterward.”
Foy laughed pleasantly. He had frank, open features, with the square, firm jaw often found in captains of industry; strong white teeth and lines of concentration at the corners of the mouth. He was an energetic, not to say dynamic figure but I fancy I saw signs of sorrow and strain in the depths of his brown eyes and beneath the facade of his good manners. But he took me by the elbow and guided me up the steps to the upper garden, leaving the locomotive hissing to itself in the sunshine.
“By all means, gentlemen. I know how you feel. I am fortunate in being able to devote so much space to my lay-out here in the heart of London.”
He looked at me shrewdly as we gained the higher level. “But you had a specific purpose to your visit, Mr. Sheffield?”
“Oh, indeed,” I returned.
I patted the small brown leather briefcase I carried beneath my arm.
“It is something I think will interest you.”
The eyes were concentrated to mere slits now.
“On model railway engineering?”
“Of course,” I replied. “Why else should I be here?”
Hugo Foy rubbed his begrimed fingers together with satisfaction and then carried on wiping them with a piece of oily waste he took from the pocket of his dungarees.
“Why indeed,” he said drily.
He was striding nimbly ahead, an incongruous figure in his proletarian garb against the sparkling white of the mansion which now again began to compose itself against the thick mantle of trees. He led the way At a fast pace up the steps and the ornate front door was already being opened by a white-haired butler in severe morning clothes who evinced no surprise at his master’s strange garb.
We were now inside an elegant and spacious entrance hall floored in black and white marble tiles, while a white-painted staircase arched its way upward to where a graceful round window in the far wall threw the dappled shadows of tree branches against the silk wallpaper.
“A glass of sherry and a biscuit, gentlemen? I normally eat lunch at my desk but it is not yet the hour.”
“By all means,” put in Pons smoothly. “You are most kind.”
“Most kind,” I mumbled, shooting covert glances about me as I followed Pons and our strange host across to a set of sliding rosewood doors which Foy threw peremptorily open. He led us into a magnificent panelled drawing room, exquisitely furnished with Second Empire pieces.
It was a little too ornate for my taste, not to say flamboyant, but the whole thing had been done with impeccable taste and I could see that Pons was impressed too. His lean face bore a thoughtful expression and his sharp eyes were shooting glances this way and that as we walked over toward the fireplace.
There was a beautiful rosewood desk near the mantelpiece and Foy went to seat himself behind it, waving us to chairs. As though by some unseen signal a middle-aged woman with greying hair and with a manner of great dignity and authority almost glided into the room and looked at our millionaire host questioningly.
“Ah, Mrs. Harewood,” he said with that easy, pleasant manner I have often observed among the very rich, “I would be obliged if you would have sent in some sherry and the dry special biscuits. Or better still, bring them yourself.”
“By all means, Mr. Foy.”
The housekeeper, for so I took her to be, gave us a tight-lipped smile as she turned from her employer and came back down the room toward the door. I fancied I caught on her own features some of that repressed sadness I had noticed in Foy himself and I was intrigued. It seemed obvious that the madness that was descending on the master of the house had also cast its shadow on these devoted retainers for the butler also, as he let us in, had looked at Foy in a somewhat wistful, reflective manner as though he had hidden thoughts he found difficult to repress.
“Your son also has a deep interest in your model engineering activities, Mr. Foy?” said Pons pleasantly.
The question was innocuous enough but I saw the housekeeper start as though she had been stung and she could not repress a stifled cry. Pons’ deep-set eyes were fixed upon her unwinkingly but Foy’s reaction was even more startling. He turned ashy-white and sagged in his chair as though he would have fallen. His eyes glittered strangely as he stared from Pons to me like a wild animal at bay. Then he had recovered himself and the bizarre, even dangerous expression of his face, resumed normality.
“Naturally, Mr. Johnson,” he said in a little too forced a tone.
His eyes sought the housekeeper’s and there was anger in them now. She had a handkerchief out and pressed to her face as she quitted the room rather abruptly. But Pons appeared to have noticed nothing, merely glancing round the vast room, as though with tacit approval.
“He is not here at the moment?”
The millionaire shook his head. He was master of himself again.
“At school in Switzerland,” he ventured in a harsh, barking tone. “But you did not come here to see my son, Mr. Johnson. Shall we get down to the business at hand? My time is limited, gentlemen.”
“Of course, Mr. Foy,” I said, somewhat desperately, for I realised that my thin and newly-acquired veneer of expertise was now to be put to a severe test.
“It was good of you to see us at all.”
His manner changed immediately. He had been glancing at Pons in a somewhat suspicious manner but now he relaxed, spreading his hands wide on the arm of his chair.
“Think nothing of it, gentlemen. My miniature railway activities are my most important private interest.”
A slight look of weariness passed across his face.
“A passion you might almost say. But perhaps it would be best to reserve discussion until after Mrs. Harewood returns with the refreshments.”
“By all means, Mr. Foy,” I replied, secretly glad of the opportunity of putting my briefcase aside.
Pons had risen now, with a muttered apology, and quitting his chair moved slowly to the mantelpiece.
“I see you have some exquisite Meissen, Mr. Foy.”
The millionaire looked at Pons sharply, putting his begrimed hands down on the blotter on his desk, where they sat like two quivering antennae.
“You are a man of discernment, Mr. Johnson.”
Pons bowed gracefully but I could see his gaze sweeping across the silver-framed photographs on the desk and mantel-shelf.
We were interrupted at that moment by the return of the housekeeper with a rubber-wheeled trolley on which reposed a silver tray, a crystal decanter, three matching glasses and a porcelain biscuit barrel, hand-painted with delicate primrose patterns. She handed me a plate and went over toward Pons.
I put mine down nervously on a small occasional table at my elbow. Even the plates looked like collector’s items and I was afraid I might break mine, such was the state of my nerves. Only Pons of all the people in the room seemed to be master of himself and he glanced at me with twinkling eyes, perfectly at ease as he stood by the mantel.