The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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do with the final sale and purchase of The Chase, and Mr. Tropenell, as was very natural in one whose own ancestors had lived there for hundreds of years, had shown the greatest interest in that old story. Mr. Tropenell had not been in the least over-curious or indiscreet, but Mr. Privet had been led on to talk of his companion's grandfather, a gentleman who, if rather wild, and certainly extravagant and headstrong, had been such a grand sportsman—quite a hero among the young men of Pewsbury! What had brought about the poor gentleman's undoing had been his taking over the hounds, when Lord St. Amant's great-uncle had given them up.
So pleasant had been that conversation in the first-class carriage shared by them, that for the first time since Thursday Mr. Privet had almost forgotten the business on which they two were going to London! But he had soon remembered it again—for at the station Mr. Oliver Tropenell had suggested that, instead of going to the Hungerford Hotel, he, Mr. Privet, should accompany him to Lord St. Amant's club, in order to get a letter of introduction from that nobleman to the Commissioner of Police.
Not long ago Mr. Privet had read an interesting book called In London Club Land. But he had little thought, when he was reading that book, that he would ever see the famous old political club to which a whole chapter had been devoted, and to which so many of his own special political heroes had belonged in their time!
And then, after Lord St. Amant, who also had treated Mr. Privet with rather exceptional civility, not to say courtesy, had written the letter, Mr. Tropenell suggested that they should go straight on to Scotland Yard—pointing out, what was true enough, that Mr. Privet knew far more of Mr. Godfrey Pavely's business and habits than any one else.
And so, together, they had driven off in a taxi—also a new, agreeable experience to Mr. Privet—to the famous Bastille-like building on the Thames Embankment.
But when there, the interview with the pleasant-spoken, genial gentleman who wielded such immense powers had been disappointing.
Sir Angus Kinross had listened very carefully to all that he, Mr. Privet, had had to say, and he had asked a number of acute, clever questions of both his visitors. But very soon he had observed that he feared much valuable time had been lost.
Later on, Mr. Privet, when he thought the interview over, could almost hear the voice of Sir Angus repeating slowly, inexorably: "Thursday? And it's now Monday afternoon! What a misfortune it is that Mrs.—ah, yes—Mrs. Pavely, did not communicate with us at once. If she had telephoned, here, when she first began to realise that there was something strange in her husband's prolonged absence, she would almost certainly have had some sort of news by now."
And then he, Mr. Privet, had answered quickly, "But we didn't begin to feel anxious till the Friday, sir."
"I quite understand that! But if you, Mr.—ah yes—Mr. Privet—had written then, we could have begun our inquiries on the Saturday morning. Did it not occur to you to let the London police know of Mr. Pavely's non-appearance?"
For a moment Mr. Privet had felt vaguely uncomfortable, for his questioner had given him such a very odd, keen look, as he asked that simple question. But he had answered, honestly enough, for after all 'Tho' truth may be blamed, it can never be shamed': "Mr. Pavely, sir, did not like to be interfered with when he was away on business, and we thought it would annoy him if we were to make too great a fuss. Once, many years ago now—Mr. Pavely went over to Paris for some days, and omitted to leave his address at the Bank. I couldn't help remembering last week that Mr. Pavely, on that former occasion, had seemed somewhat put out with me for expressing what I thought at the time a very natural anxiety, sir."
They hadn't been very long at Scotland Yard, a little under half an hour in all, and during the last ten minutes a shorthand writer had made some notes of the conversation, which, indeed, had been almost entirely carried on between him, Mr. Privet, and the Commissioner of Police. Mr. Oliver Tropenell, as was bound to be the case, had had very little to say, seeing that he was there merely as Mrs. Pavely's representative, she having her only brother in Mexico.
After leaving Scotland Yard they had gone on to the Hungerford Hotel, and there a lot of information had been afforded them. But it hadn't amounted to very much—when all was said and done! They already knew that all trace of Mr. Pavely had disappeared after eleven o'clock on the Thursday morning. His room was even now exactly as he had left it; neat, for he was always a most particular gentleman, but with nothing put away. In fact the only news of him after that morning had been that telephone message to The Chase—a message given by some one, the butler by now wasn't even sure if it was a man or a woman, who was evidently in a great hurry.
One thing the manager of the hotel had done which had rather surprised and shocked both Mr. Privet and his companion. He had consulted a detective about the affair, and, at Mr. Tropenell's request, the detective was sent for.
Mr. Privet had thought this secret inquiry agent (as he called himself) a queer kind of chap—in fact he had seemed much more anxious to ascertain if a reward was going to be offered, than to offer any useful advice as to this perplexing matter of Mr. Pavely's disappearance.
He had, however, seemed to think that the Thursday evening telephone call was very important, and he had asked permission to come down to The Chase to cross-examine the servant who had taken the message. But that—so Mr. Tropenell had very properly said—was impossible, now that the matter had been placed in the hands of Scotland Yard. In answer to Mr. Privet's natural curiosity as to why the detective thought that telephone call so important, the man had answered, rather crossly: "You see, there's no record kept of telephone calls! There's a record kept of telegrams, so one can always recover the original of a telegram."
Mr. Tropenell had been quite surprised on hearing this.
"I should have thought telephone calls quite as important as telegrams?" he had exclaimed.
"So they are, with regard to my kind of work," the man had replied. "But even with regard to trunk-calls you've only got to go into a Post Office and plank down your money and wait till you're through! Still, the young woman at your country Exchange would probably have remembered the call if she had been asked sooner. But it's all such a long time ago."
A long time ago? What nonsense! He, Mr. Privet, felt quite put out with this detective, and he began to see why Mr. Tropenell thought the man ought not to have been brought into the business at all. It was certainly rather cool of the hotel manager to have gone and brought such a person into the affair, without asking Mr. Pavely's friends if he was at liberty to do so.
They had managed to catch the six o'clock express back to Pewsbury, and then Mr. Tropenell very kindly insisted on driving Mr. Privet home. Mr. and Mrs. Privet owned a pretty, old-fashioned house on the other side of the town. When Mr. Privet had married—a matter of forty years ago now—he had made up his mind that it would do him good to be obliged to take a good walk to and from the Bank every day.
On their arrival at the house—which, funnily enough, was called Southbank—Mr. Tropenell, at the request of Mr. Privet, had come in for a few minutes to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Privet. He had said how much he liked their house, how much prettier it was, how much more dignified—that had been his curious word—than the red brick villas which had sprung up all over the outskirts of their beautiful old town. And Mr. Privet had been secretly rather pleased, for lately "Mother"—as he called Mrs. Privet—had become somewhat restless, being impressed by certain improvements those gimcrack villas possessed, which their house lacked, and that though he had put in a nice bathroom a matter of twenty years ago.
Yes, of the several people who, that day, had been engaged in trying to probe the mystery of Godfrey Pavely's disappearance, the only one who found a great deal of natural pleasure and simple enjoyment out of it all was Mr. Privet; and he, alone of them all, really cared for the missing man, and, perhaps, alone of them all, had a genuine longing to see him again.
Mr. Privet thought it was particularly kind of Mr. Oliver Tropenell to be taking all this trouble for poor Mrs. Pavely; though of course he, Mr. Privet, was well aware that Mrs. Pavely's brother was partner to Mr. Tropenell in Mexico. He knew the sad truth—the sad truth, that is, as to the disgraceful circumstances under which Gilbert Baynton had had to leave England. No