There was no signature. Mabel’s eyes were gleaming.
“How perfectly terribly romantic!” she exclaimed. “He must have dropped it in the letterbox with his own hand.”
She sprang up from her chair, went into the hall and opened the door. It was very dark, but she thought she saw a figure moving down the drive. The rain had ceased. Should she run after him? Would it be a ladylike action, she wondered? Would it not indeed come within the category of ‘chasing,’ literally and figuratively? The excuse was ready made for an excursion down the drive, for at this hour Joan usually went out with the letters—there was a postal box just outside the gate.
Hesitating no more, she walked quickly down the path, her heart beating pleasurably. Turning the elbow of the little road, she stopped. Nobody was in sight; she must have been mistaken.
And then there came to her an eerie sensation of fear that made her flesh go cold. She turned to run, and had taken two steps when a fusty blanket was suddenly thrown over her head, a big hand stifled her screams, and she fainted…
Joan waited in the drawing-room until the slamming of the door brought her into the hall. The wind had blown the door close, and she opened it wide and peered out into the storm.
Two successive flashes of lightning showed her that the drive was empty.
“Mabel!”
She called the girl at the top of her voice, but no answer came.
Joan’s heart sank.
She ran back to the drawing-room and rang the bell for the butler; he was a slow-moving man, and as she waited patiently for his coming she remembered the black ‘plum’ that Clifford had given to her. It was a weapon of some kind, and she flew up the stairs and was back by the time the servant had arrived.
“Miss Mabel gone out? She’ll come back, miss.”
He glanced nervously at the open door. The lightning came in fluttering spasms.
“No, miss, I’m sorry—I don’t like lightning.”
“Come with me,” commanded the girl, and ran out of the house; but she went alone. The butler went as far as the front door, and felt that he was not called upon by the laws which govern butlers to go any farther.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lynne was sitting in the doorway of the cottage, a rifle across his knees, when Joe came back, the rays of his lamp advertising his presence long before he himself was in sight.
“Where the dickens have you been?” asked Clifford in astonishment. “I thought you were asleep!”
“Just went for a stroll,” said Joe airily. “I slipped out at the back door…there’s nobody about.”
“Well, you can slip in at the front door,” said Clifford severely. “In all probability the wood is full of Chinese cutthroats.”
“Ridic’lous!” murmured Joe as he passed.
“It may be ridic’lous,” Clifford called over his shoulder, “but anything more ridiculous than you lying in a Sunningdale wood with your aged throat cut, I can’t imagine.”
“Fifty-one!” exploded Joe from the passage. “Everybody knows that!”
It was not a moment when Clifford Lynne felt he could debate the question of Mr Bray’s age with any great profit. In the course of the evening he had made several excursions into the wood and had found nothing of a suspicious character. The cottage could be approached from the south by way of a new road that had been cut through the estate company’s property, and to guard against surprise from this direction he had suspended, on a blackened string, a number of little bells that he had bought in London that day, though the never-ending grumble and crack of the thunder made it extremely doubtful whether this warning would reach him. The lightning played vividly in the sky as he sat on the doorstep, alert and waiting. Once Joe began to sing, and he silenced him with an angry growl.
Eleven o’clock was striking when he heard a firm step on the gravel, coming from the direction of the road, and stood up,
There was nothing furtive in the stranger’s approach. He walked boldly down the centre of the road, and Clifford heard the tap of a stick. Whoever the newcomer was, he needed no light to show him the way, and after a while the watcher saw his shape distinctly. He turned from the road and came straight to the cottage, and now Lynne challenged him.
“Have no fear. I am alone!”
It was Fing-Su.
“Stand where you are!” said Clifford harshly, “And since when have I been afraid of Chinese traders?”
The newcomer had halted and Clifford heard him laugh. He smelt something, a penetrating aroma, pungent but not unpleasant.
“Pardon me,” said Fing-Su politely. “I put that rather awkwardly, I am afraid. What I meant to convey was that I had called for a friendly talk. I understand that some of my hot-headed young men, quite without my knowledge, paid you a little attention last night. I have chastized them. Nobody knows better than you, Mr Lynne, that they are the veriest children. They thought I had been insulted–-“
“Who is that?” It was Joe Bray’s voice, speaking from the living-room.
Clifford turned savagely and silenced him. Had Fing-Su heard? And if he had, did he recognize the voice? Apparently he did not.
“You have a friend staying with you? I think that is wise,” he said in the same courteous tone. “As I was remarking–-“
“Listen! I’m not going to waste my time with that monkey stuff. Fing-Su, you’re getting to the end of your rope.”
“It is a long rope,” said Fing-Su, “and it covers a wide area. You are a fool, Lynne, not to throw in your lot with me. In five years I shall be the most powerful man in China.”
“You’ll conquer China, will you?” asked the other sardonically. “And Europe, too, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” said Fing-Su. “You have no vision, my friend. Do you not see that with our preponderant man-strength all the wars of the future will be decided by our race? A professional yellow army will decide the fate of Europe. A great mercenary army—think of it, Lynne—to be bargained for and sold to the highest bidder. An army that sits everlastingly on the threshold of Europe!”
“What do you want now?” asked Clifford brusquely.
Fing-Su had a trick of conveying reproach by his very intonation, and now he replied in a hurt tone:
“Is it necessary that we should be enemies, Mr Lynne? I have no feeling against you. All I wish is to buy from you at a reasonable price a founders’ share in the company–”
The coolness of the request momentarily struck Clifford dumb. It aroused in him also a sudden feeling of apprehension. Fing-Su would not dare advance such an iniquitous request unless he had the wherewithal to bargain.
“And what do you propose giving me in exchange?” he asked slowly, and heard the quick intake of the other’s breath.
“A thing very precious to you, Mr Lynne.” He spoke deliberately. “You have a friend in your house and evidently he can hear, and I am not prepared to make a statement before a witness. Will you come a little way up the road with me?”
“Walk ahead,” said Clifford curtly, and, turning, Fing-Su went before him.
Within a few yards of the main road the Chinaman stopped and turned.
“There is a lady–-” he began.
Lynne’s hand shot out and gripped him by his coat. Something hard pressed against the Chinaman’s waistcoat.
“You’ve got Joan Bray, have you?” demanded Cliff through his teeth. “You’ve got her! Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“There is no need for heroics–-” began Fing-Su.
“Tell me where she is.”
“I am sorry you take this view,” said Fing-Su, regret in his voice, “and as you threaten me I have no course to follow but–-“
He took off his hat as though to cool his heated head and looked into its interior.