A Maker of History Part 28

"Stay there!" he exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely. "Don't move. I will come back."

Half a dozen hors.e.m.e.n were coming along the lane at steeplechase pace.

Lord Runton, on his wonderful black horse, which no man before had ever seen him gallop save across the softest of country, pulled up outside the gate.

"Seen a motor go by, Duncombe?" he called out.

Duncombe nodded.

"Rather!" he answered. "Fielding and Miss Fielding in it. Going like h.e.l.l!"

Runton waved his companions on, and leaned down to Duncombe.

"Beastly unpleasant thing happened, Duncombe," he said. "Fielding and his daughter have bolted. Fielding seems to have half killed a messenger who came down from London to see Von Rothe, and stolen some papers. Fact of the matter is he's not Fielding at all--and as for the girl! Lord knows who she is. Sorry for you, Duncombe. Hope you weren't very hard hit!"

He gathered up his reins.

"We've sent telegrams everywhere," he said, "but the beast has cut the telephone, and Von Rothe blasphemes if we talk about the police. It's a queer business."

He rode off. Duncombe returned where the girl was standing. She was clutching at the branches of the shrub as though prostrate with fear, but at his return she straightened herself. How much had she heard he wondered.

"Don't move!" he said.

She nodded.

"Can any one see me?" she asked.

"Not from the road."

"From the house?"

"They could," he admitted, "but it is the servants' dinner hour. Don't you notice how quiet the house is?"

"Yes."

She was very white. She seemed to find some difficulty in speaking.

There was fear in her eyes.

"It would not be safe for you to leave here at present," he said. "I am going to take you into a little room leading out of my study. No one ever goes in it. You will be safe there for a time."

"If I could sit down--for a little while."

He took her arm, and led her unresistingly towards the house. The library window was closed, but he opened it easily, and helped her through. At the further end of the room was an inner door, which he threw open.

"This is a room which no one except myself ever enters," he said. "I used to do a little painting here sometimes. Sit down, please, in that easy-chair. I am going to get you a gla.s.s of wine."

They heard the library door suddenly opened. A voice, shaking with pa.s.sion, called out his name.

"Duncombe, are you here? Duncombe!"

There was a dead silence. They could hear him moving about the room.

"Hiding, are you? Brute! Come out, or I'll--by heavens, I'll shoot you if you don't tell me the truth. I heard her voice in the lane. I'll swear to it."

Duncombe glanced quickly towards his companion. She lay back in the chair in a dead faint.

CHAPTER XXI

A WOMAN'S CRY

The three men were sitting at a small round dining-table, from which everything except the dessert had been removed. Duncombe filled his own gla.s.s and pa.s.sed around a decanter of port. Pelham and Spencer both helped themselves almost mechanically. A cloud of restraint had hung over the little party. Duncombe raised his gla.s.s and half emptied its contents. Then he set it down and leaned back in his chair.

"Well," he said, "I am ready for the inquisition. Go on, Andrew."

Pelham fingered his own gla.s.s nervously. He seemed to find his task no easy one.

"George," he said, "we are old friends. I want you to remember it. I want you also to remember that I am in a hideous state of worry and nerves"--he pa.s.sed his hand over his forehead just above his eyes as though they were hurting him. "I am not behaving to you as a guest should to his host. I admit it freely. I have lost my temper more than once during the last twenty-four hours. I am sorry! Forgive me if you can, George!"

"Willingly, Andrew," Duncombe answered. "I shall think no more about it."

"At the same time," Pelham continued, "there is another point to be considered. Have you been quite fair to me, George? Remember that Phyllis Poynton is the one person whose existence reconciles me to life.

You had never even heard her name before I sent for you. You went abroad, like the good fellow you are, to find her for me. You a.s.sure me that you have discovered--nothing. Let me put you upon your honor, George. Is this absolutely true?"

"I have discovered nothing about Phyllis Poynton," Duncombe declared quietly.

"About Miss Fielding then?"

"Phyllis Poynton and Miss Fielding are two very different persons,"

Duncombe declared.

"That may be so," Pelham said, "although I find it hard to believe that G.o.d ever gave to two women voices so exactly similar. Yet if you are a.s.sured that this is so, why not be altogether frank with me?"

"What have you to complain of?" Duncombe asked.

"Something has happened at Runton Place, in which Mr. Fielding and his daughter are concerned," Pelham continued. "I have heard all manner of strange rumors. This afternoon I distinctly heard the girl's voice in the lane outside. She was crying out as though in fear. A few minutes later I heard you speaking to some one in the library. Yet when I entered the room you would not answer me."

"Supposing I grant everything that you say, Andrew," Duncombe answered.

"Supposing I admit that strange things have happened with regard to Mr.

Fielding and his daughter which have resulted in their leaving Runton Place--even that she was there in the lane this afternoon--how does all this concern you?"

"Because," Pelham declared, striking the table with his fist, "I am not satisfied that the girl who has been staying at Runton Place, and calling herself Miss Fielding, is not in reality Phyllis Poynton."

Duncombe lit a cigarette, and pa.s.sed the box round.

"Do you know what they are saying to-night of Mr. Fielding and his daughter?" he asked quietly.