The Slave of the Lamp Part 21

"What is the matter?" inquired Mr. Bodery gravely.

"There is a man," explained Sidney hurriedly, "getting out of the train who is coming to stay with us. I had forgotten his existence. _Don't_ look round!"

Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round. Nine out of ten country-bred people would have indulged in a stare.

"Is this all your luggage?" continued Sidney abruptly. He certainly was rising.

"Yes."

"Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll have to get a fly, and that means ten minutes' start if the porter is not officious and mulls things."

They hurried out of the station and clambered into the dog-cart. Sidney gathered up the reins.

"Hang it," he exclaimed. "What bad luck! There is a fly waiting. It is never there when you want it."

Mr. Bodery looked between the shafts.

"You need not be afraid of that fly," he said.

"No--come up, you brute!"

Mr. Bodery turned carelessly to put his bag in the back of the cart.

"Let him have it," he exclaimed in a low voice. "Your friend sees you, but he does not know that you have seen him. He is pointing you out to the station-master."

As he spoke the cart swung round the gate-post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's right hand felt for the whip-socket.

"There," he said, "we are safe. I think I can manage that fly."

Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust-cloth over his chubby knees.

"Now," he said, "tell me all about Vellacott."

Sidney did so.

He gave a full and minute description of events previous to Christian Vellacott's disappearance, omitting nothing. The relation was somewhat disjointed, somewhat vague in parts, and occasionally incoherent. The narrator repeated himself--hesitated--blurted out some totally irrelevant fact, and finished up with a vague supposition (possessing a solid basis of truth) expressed in doubtful English. It suited Mr.

Bodery admirably. In telling all about Vellacott, Sidney unconsciously told all about Mrs. Carew, Molly, Hilda, and himself. When he reached the point in his narration telling how Vellacott had been attracted into the garden, he became extremely vague and his style notably colloquial.

Tell the story how he would, he felt that he could not prevent Mr.

Bodery from drawing his own inferences. Young ladies are not in the habit of whistling for youthful members of the opposite s.e.x. Few of them master the l.a.b.i.al art, which perhaps accounts for much. Sidney Carew was conscious that his style lacked grace and finish.

Mr. Bodery did draw his own inferences, but the countenance into which Sidney glanced at intervals was one of intense stolidity.

"Well, I confess I cannot make it out--at present," he said; "Vellacott has written to us only on business matters. We publish to-morrow a very good article of his purporting to be the dream of an overworked _attache_. It is very cutting and very incriminating. The Government cannot well avoid taking some notice of it. My only hope is that he is in Paris. There is something brewing over there. Our Paris agent wired for Vellacott this morning. By the way, Mr. Carew, is there a monastery somewhere in this part of the country?"

"Down that valley," replied Sidney, pointing with his whip.

"In Vellacott's article there is mention of a monastery--not too minutely described, however. There are also some remarkable suppositions respecting an old foreigner living in seclusion. Could that be the man you mentioned just now--Signor Bruno?"

"Hardly. Bruno is a harmless old soul," replied Sidney, pulling up to turn into the narrow gateway.

There was no time to make further inquiries.

Sidney led the way into the drawing-room. The ladies were there.

"My mother, Mr. Bodery--my sister; my sister Hilda," he blurted out awkwardly.

Mrs. Carew shook hands, and the two young ladies bowed. They were all disappointed in Mr. Bodery. He was too calm and comfortable--also there was a suggestion of cigar smoke in his presence, which jarred.

"I am sorry," said the Londoner, with genial self-possession, "to owe the pleasure of this visit to such an unfortunate incident."

Molly felt that she hated him.

"Then you have heard nothing of Christian?" said Mrs. Carew.

"Nothing," replied Mr. Bodery, removing his tight gloves. "But it is too soon to think of getting anxious yet. Vellacott is eminently capable of taking care of himself--he is, above all things, a journalist. Things are disturbed in Paris, and it is possible that he has run across there."

Mrs. Carew smiled somewhat incredulously.

"It was a singular time to start," observed Hilda quietly.

Mr. Bodery turned and looked at her.

"Master mind in _this_ house," he reflected.

"Yes," he admitted aloud.

He folded his gloves and placed them in the pocket of his coat. The others watched him in silence.

"Do you take sugar and cream?" inquired Hilda sweetly, speaking for the second time.

"Please--both. In moderation."

"I say," interrupted Sidney at this moment, "the Vicomte d'Audierne is following us in a fly. He will be here in five minutes."

Mrs. Carew nodded. She had not forgotten this guest.

"The Vicomte d'Audierne," said Mr. Bodery, with considerable interest, turning away from the tea-table, cup in hand. "Is that the man who got out of my train?"

"Yes," replied Sidney; "do you know him?"

"I have heard of him." Mr. Bodery turned and took a slice of bread and b.u.t.ter from a plate which Hilda held.

At this moment there was a rumble of carriage wheels.

"By the way," said the editor of the _Beacon_, raising his voice so as to command universal attention, "do not tell the Vicomte d'Audierne about Vellacott. Do not let him know that Vellacott has been here. Do not tell him of my connection with the _Beacon_."

The ladies barely had time to reconsider their first impression of Mr.

Bodery when the door was thrown open, and a servant announced M.

d'Audierne.