A Maker of History Part 19

"I saw a young lady in the carriage," Duncombe answered, "or rather I did not see her, for she wore a veil, and she scarcely looked at me. But she was introduced to me as Miss Fielding, and her father was with her."

"Fielding! Fielding!" Andrew repeated. "Never mind that. What was she like! What colored hair had she?"

"I told you that she kept her veil down," Duncombe repeated. "Her hair was a sort of deep, red-brown--what I could see of it. But, seriously, Andrew, what is the use of discussing her? One might as soon expect one of my housemaids to change into Phyllis Poynton, as to discover her with a brand-new father, a brand-new name, and a guest at Runton Place."

Andrew was silent for a moment. He touched his spectacles with a weary gesture, and covered his eyes with his hand.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose you are right. I suppose I am a fool.

But--the voice!"

"The laughter of women," said Duncombe, "is music all the world over.

One cannot differ very much from the other."

"You are quite wrong, George," Andrew said. "The voices of women vary like the thumb-marks of criminals. There are no two attuned exactly alike. It is the receptive organs that are at fault. We, who have lost one sense, find the others a little keener. The laughter of that girl--George, will you keep me a few days longer? Somehow I cannot bring myself to leave until I have heard her voice once more."

Duncombe laughed heartily.

"My dear fellow," he said, "I shall bless your uncommonly sensitive ears if they keep you here with me even for an extra few days. You shall have your opportunity, too. I always dine at Runton Place after our first shoot, and I know Runton quite well enough to take you. You shall sit at the same table. Hullo, what's this light wobbling up the drive?"

He strolled a yard or so away, and returned.

"A bicycle," he remarked. "One of the grooms has been down to the village. I shall have to speak to Burdett in the morning. I will not have these fellows coming home at all sorts of times in the morning.

Come along in, Andrew. Just a drain, eh? And a cigarette--and then to bed. Runton's keen on his bag, and they say that German, Von Rothe, is a fine shot. Can't let them have it all their own way."

"No fear of that," Andrew answered, stepping through the window. "I'll have the cigarette, please, but I don't care about any more whisky. The 'Field' mentioned your name only a few weeks ago as one of the finest shots at rising birds in the country, so I don't think you need fear the German."

"I ought to hold my own with the partridges," Duncombe admitted, helping himself from the siphon, "but come in, come in!"

A servant entered with a telegram upon a silver salver.

"A boy has just brought this from Runton, sir," he said.

Duncombe tore it open. He was expecting a message from his gun-maker, and he opened it without any particular interest, but as he read, his whole manner changed. He held the sheet in front of him long enough to have read it a dozen times. He could not restrain the slight start--a half exclamation. Then his teeth came together. He remembered the servant and looked up.

"There will be no answer to-night, Murray," he said. "Give the boy a s.h.i.+lling and some supper. If he goes home by the Runton gates, tell him to be sure and close them, because of the deer."

"Very good, sir!"

The man departed. Duncombe laid the telegram upon the table. He felt that Andrew was waiting impatiently for him to speak.

"Well?"

"The telegram is from Spencer," Duncombe said.

"From Paris?"

"Yes."

"He has discovered something?"

"On the contrary," Duncombe answered, "he is asking me for information, and very curious information, too."

"What does he want to know?"

"The telegram," Duncombe said slowly, "is in French. He asks me to wire him at once the names of all the guests at Runton Place."

Andrew struck the table a mighty blow with his clenched fist.

"I knew it!" he cried. "It was her laugh, her voice. Phyllis Poynton is there!"

Duncombe looked at his friend incredulously.

"My dear Andrew," he said, "be reasonable. The young lady and her father in that omnibus were introduced to me by Runton himself as Mr. and Miss Fielding. They are going to his house as his guests. Naturally, therefore, he knows all about them. Miss Poynton, as you have told me more than once, is an orphan."

"Common-sense won't even admit it as a matter of argument," Andrew said.

"I know that quite well. But how do you account for Spencer's telegram?"

"Remember that he is a newspaper correspondent," Duncombe said. "He has many interests and many friends with whom he is constantly exchanging information. It is a coincidence, I admit. But the wildest flight of imagination could not make any more of it."

"You must be right," Andrew said quietly. "It all sounds, and is, so convincing. But I wish that I had not heard that laugh!"

CHAPTER XV

MISS FIELDING FROM AMERICA

Duncombe leaned his gun up against a gate. A few yards away his host was talking to the servants who had brought down luncheon. The rest of the party were only just in sight a field or two off.

"Have a gla.s.s of sherry before lunch, George?" his host asked, strolling towards him.

"Nothing to drink, thanks! I'd like a cigarette, if you have one."

Lord Runton produced his case, and a servant brought them matches. They both leaned over the gate, and watched the scattered little party slowly coming towards them.

"Who is your friend Fielding?" Duncombe asked, a little bluntly.

"Fellow from New York," Lord Runton answered. "He's been very decent to my brother out there, and Archibald wrote and asked me to do all we could for them. The girl is very handsome. You'll see her at dinner to-night."

"Here for long?"

"No, unfortunately," Lord Runton answered. "I had very hard work to get them to come at all. Cicely has written them three or four times, I think, but they've always had engagements. They're only staying till Monday, I think. Very quiet, inoffensive sort of chap, Fielding, but the girl's a ripper! Hullo! Here they are. I'll introduce you."

A groom had thrown open the gate of the field across which they were looking, and Lady Runton from the box seat of a small mail phaeton waved her whip. She drove straight across the furrows towards them a little recklessly, the groom running behind. By her side was a girl with coils of deep brown hair, and a thick black veil worn after the fas.h.i.+on of the travelling American.

"Just in time, aren't we?" Lady Runton remarked, as she brought the horses to a standstill. "Help me down, Jack, and look after Miss Fielding, Sir George. By the bye, have you two met yet?"