"Not in the least," I hastened to assure him. "He's back on the hill, up there, and half-starved by this time, probably."
"Shall I make the bid personally, or shall I go ahead and announce you to my wife?"
"Don't bother to come with me," I said. "I'll bring him along. He'll come like a lamb."
Aubrey did. He packed up his parasol and kit and tossed them, together with the uncompleted masterpiece, under the nearest bush.
"We have to work this thing right." He was voluble and dictatorial as we marched down the slope toward the gates of Low Fennel. "You have to get a word with Margery first and tell her not to let on. A word will do.
"So you think that fellow, Drurock, is a decent sort, do you? Well, you're wrong. You may be a great judge of fauna, my dear fellow, but you're no judge of men. Don't worry, though. I'll be on my best behaviour. I'm Afred Hume, overcome with the honour of a bid to a gentleman's home. I won't forget. I may sell him a sketch before I'm through. Tell Margery to patronise me. We'll wangle it so I do a portrait of her."
Margery was admirably quick in the emergency we presented to her. I succeeded in having my word with her alone and announced the arrival of Aubrey. She took my news calmly.
"I thought so," she murmured. "I saw him from the window and I was sure it was he." We were walking across the cobbled courtyard in front of the middle-house and Drurock was some fifty paces behind us, waiting for Aubrey, who had invented a pretext to run back for his kit on the hill.
Margery paused. To others, it might seem that she was pointing out to her guest the few scrubby flowers in the border before which we stood. She spoke without turning her face to me. Her deep, musical voice was husky with her suppressed vehemence.
"You must take him away again, Mr McAllister. Aubrey must not stay here," she commanded.
"Why?"
She hesitated for an instant. "I can't lend myself to what will surely seem to be the lowest sort of intrigue," she said, and I knew she was giving the false answer.
"Of course, it isn't anything of the kind," I insisted. "I can vouch for Aubrey. He hasn't turned up to capitalise any former relation."
I was on thin ice and deemed it best to go straight to the truth. I told her how Aubrey had become the final recipient of her letter to her father. She trembled a bit. She spoke hastily, as we heard Drurock raise his voice down at the gate and Aubrey call out a reply.
"Because he'll be in danger?" I asked.
My only answer was a fleeting nod. As I looked into the beautiful and disturbed face a conventional mask was drawn over it. The terror-stricken girl became the mistress of Low Fennel receiving her husband's guests with just the proper mixture of warmth and reserve. It was beautifully done, and I silently applauded Aubrey, too, who was bending deferentially over his hostess's hand.
A man appeared at a little door in the high wall which concealed the small formal garden before the new wing. Lunch was served. It was eaten on the brick terrace before the row of trench-windows opening out on a comfortable living-room. We had come, Aubrey and I, full of indefinable expectations of we knew not what outward signs of the trouble afflicting this house. We were completely thrown off our guard by that lunch, an innocent country repast, served in charming surroundings, washed down with a palatable light wine.
The conversation around the table, starting at a low point of constraint, actually rose to something like gaiety before we rose from coffee that was poured at the table. It was the host who had accomplished the lightening of the common mood. He had talked almost incessantly, lightly, amiably. It was impossible to oppose glowering conspiratorial masks to all of this indefatigable good humour: impossible and scarcely politic. I responded first to our host's geniality, but Aubrey had laughed aloud before the meal was over and even Margery dropped some of her defences of quiet reserve before the liqueur glasses were set down.
"And now," suggested Drurock as we rose, "I think, my dear, you might show Mr Hume the old wing." He patted Aubrey's shoulder amicably. "As a painter, Hume, I think you'll relish the old tower. One look at it and I think you'll give in and have your stuff brought over from the inn."
The proposal that we move into Low Fennel had been suggested passingly during lunch. This reiteration of it informed me that it was a genuine invitation. I consulted Aubrey with a glance and saw that he proposed to accept. I looked to Margery. She shook her head. The movement was next to imperceptible but definite. Drurock did not wait for his answer, but took my arm.
"As for the two of us, we'll go poison ourselves with brandy and tobacco, as becomes our grey hairs. I think I can amuse our scientist with some of the fearsome local legends. Come along, McAllister. I'll chill your blood with tales of ghosts and warm it with some pretty good Napoleon I've got hidden away."
Drurock's study was on the ground floor of the new wing. The outlook here was pleasant enough, with roses growing up to an open window which commanded the savage stretch of badland behind the house. Seen from this pleasant point of vantage, the evil countryside was not without its wild appeal. The heat was really oppressive, and Drurock invited me to remove my coat, setting the example himself.
We were comfortably ensconced, my host taking his lolling ease on a hardleather couch, myself deep in a saddle-back chair, our glasses to hand.
"You know," he began on a note of casual conversation, al-.though I thought I sensed some latent emotion, an undertone. "You know, I think you might be amused by some of the tales of the district. You may already have heard some of them from the country-folk?"
He darted an inquisitive look at me.
"Oh, nothing that makes sense," I replied, evasively.
He chuckled. "I can see you've heard the best one of all — that the Drurocks breathe out sulphur. Is that the way it goes?"
I coughed.
"Yes, that's the tale," he laughed aloud. "Rather, it's only part of it." He refilled his glass and tossed off the contents.
"You've heard of the slithering ghost of Low Fennel? No?" His voice settled down to a drone. "It's an amusing legend. The strange part of it is that some rather level-headed people here-about will swear to its truth — have seen it, in fact.
"I first ran into the thing last year, when we came here and opened up the chateau. That was just after the marriage, you know. We got here to find the new wing still uncompleted. I was furious. The building should have been finished well before our arrival. It was a fine mess to walk into with a new bride. We had to put up in the inn. I called for the local contractor — a fellow named Seager — whom I had left in charge of the work. The answer to the call was the information that he was dead — died on the job. You know, I could never worm the particulars of his death out of these workmen. They shuffled and lied.
"All I could learn was that the local officials had made inquiry and had brought in a finding that the man died of natural causes. Therefore I couldn't understand why there should be such an undercurrent of hard feeling about the matter. In short, I couldn't get the building finished. No one would return to the job."
"Someone did the work, though," I prompted. "Yes, John Ord. You may have run into him?" "He's been my guide around the district," I said. "And has told you some tall tales, likely! Well, old Ord rose to the bait of extra pay and came up with his wife and son, a big lout of a boy who could help his father hoist a beam. The two of them finished up the structural work and I had city workmen up for the decorating. When the work was done, I made Ord and his wife an offer — to stay on as caretakers, the year round. He took me on, and fixed the family quarters in the old tower, in that part which juts out and touches the new wing at the rear, over on the bad-lands side. They stayed on until last September — a dam' hot September it was, too. Then he rose up and gave notice." "On what grounds?"