The Yellow House Part 16

She surprised me in the middle of my scrutiny, but she did not seem to notice it. She had evidently been thinking something out.

"You have not lived here very long, Miss Ffolliot?" she asked, "have you?"

I shook my head.

"Only a month or so."

"I suppose," she continued, "you know the names of most of the princ.i.p.al families round here. A good many of them would call upon you, no doubt?"

"I believe I know most of them, by name at any rate," I told her.

"Do you know any family of the name of Maltabar?" she asked--"particularly a man called Philip Maltabar?"

I shook my head at once with a sense of relief which I could not altogether conceal.

"No, I never heard it in my life," I answered. "I am quite sure that there is no family of that name of any consequence around here. I must have heard it, and it is too uncommon a one to be overlooked."

The brief light died out of her face. She was evidently disappointed.

"You are quite sure?"

"Absolutely certain."

She sighed.

"I am sorry," she said. "Philip Maltabar is the one man I know who hated my brother. There has been a terrible and lifelong enmity between them. It has lasted since they were boys. I believe that it was to avoid him that my brother first went to South America. If there had been a Maltabar living anywhere around here I should have known where to go for vengeance."

"Is it well to think of that, and so soon?" I asked, quietly. The girl's aspect had changed. I looked away from her with a little shudder.

"What else is there for me to think of?" she demanded. "Supposing it were you, it would be different. You have other relatives. I have none. I am left alone in the world. My brother may have had his faults, but to me he was everything. Can you wonder that I hate the person who has deprived me of him?"

"You are not sure--it is not certain that there was not an accident--that he did not kill himself," I suggested.

She dismissed the idea with scorn.

"Accident! What accident could there have been? It is not possible. As to taking his own life, it is ridiculous! Why should he? He was too fond of it. Other men might have done that, but Stephen--never! No. He was murdered in that little plantation. I know the exact spot. I have been there. There was a struggle, and some one, better prepared than he, killed him. Perhaps he was followed here from London. It may be so. And yet, what was he doing here at all? That visit to Naselton Hall was not without some special purpose. I am sure of it. It was in connection with that purpose that he met with his death. He must have come to see some one. I want to know who it was. That is what I am going to find out--whom he came to see. You can blame me if you like. It may be unchristian, and you are a parson's daughter. I do not care. I am going to find out."

I was silent. In a measure I was sorry for her, but down in my heart there lurked the seeds of a fear--nameless, but terribly potent--which put me out of all real sympathy with her. I began to wish that she would go away. I had answered her questions, and I had done all--more--than common courtesy demanded. Yet she sat there without any signs of moving.

"I suppose," she said at last, finding that I kept silent, "that it would not be of any use waiting to see your father. He has not been here any longer than you have. He would not be any more likely to know anything of the man Maltabar?"

I shook my head decidedly.

"He would be far less likely to know of him than I should," I a.s.sured her. "He knows a good deal less of the people around here. His interests are altogether amongst the poorer cla.s.ses. And he has left my sister and me to receive and pay all the calls. He is not at all fond of society."

"Philip Maltabar may be poor--now," she said musingly. "He was never rich."

"If he were poor, he would not be living here," I said. "The poor of whom I speak are the peasantry. It is not like a town, you know. Any man such as the Mr. Maltabar you speak of would be more than ever a marked figure living out of his cla.s.s amongst villagers. In any case he would not be the sort of man whom my father would be likely to visit."

"I suppose you are right," she answered, doubtfully. "At any rate--since I am here--there would be no harm in asking your father, would there?"

"Certainly not," I answered. "I daresay he will be here in a few moments."

Almost as I spoke he pa.s.sed the window, and I heard his key in the front door. The girl, who had seen his shadow, looked up quickly.

"Is that he?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Yes. You can ask him for yourself now."

"I should like to," she answered. "I am so glad I stayed."

Some instinct prompted me to rise and leave the room. I went out and met my father in the hall.

"Father," I said, "there is a girl here who says she has identified that man. She is his sister. She is waiting to see you."

My father had evidently come in tired out; he leaned against the wall for support. He was out of breath, too, and pale.

"What does she want with me?" he asked, sharply.

"She came to ask if we knew of any family of the name of Maltabar. Philip Maltabar, it seems, is the name of a man who has been her brother's enemy. She thinks that this thing must have been his doing. She cannot think of any one else with whom he has ever been on bad terms. I have told her that there is no one of that name in these parts."

He cleared his throat. He was very hoa.r.s.e and ghastly pale.

"Quite right, Kate," he said. "There is no one of that name around here. What more does she want? What does she want of me?"

"I told her that I knew of no one, but she came to see you in the first place. She does not seem quite satisfied. She wants to ask you herself."

He drew back a step.

"No! no! I cannot see her. I am tired--ill. I have walked too far. Tell her from me that there is no one of that name living in these parts. I am absolutely sure of it. She can take it for granted from me."

"Hadn't you better see her just for one moment, as she has waited for so long?" I said. "She will be better satisfied."

He ground his heel down into the floor.

"No! I will not! I have had too much worry and trouble in connection with this affair already. My nerves are all unstrung. I cannot discuss it again with any one. Please let her understand that from me as kindly as possible, but firmly. I am going to my study. Don't come to see me again until she has gone."

He crossed the hall and entered his own room. I heard the key turn in the lock after him. It was useless to say anything more. I went back to my visitor.

I entered noiselessly, as I was wearing house shoes, and was surprised to find her with the contents of my card-plate spread out before her. She flushed up to the temples when she saw me standing on the threshold, yet she was not particularly apologetic.

"I am very rude," she said, brusquely. "I had no right, of course, to take such a liberty, but I thought--it might be barely possible--that you had forgotten the name, that some one might have called when you were not at home, or that, perhaps, your sister might have met them."

"Oh, pray satisfy yourself," I said, icily. "You are quite welcome to look them through."

She put the card-plate down.