The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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ever goes outside his park gates. I suppose the conscience of a man who's done so many naughty deeds in a good world is apt to make him feel a bit nervous!"
"How far off does he live from here?" asked Katty slowly. The scene at the inquest rose up before her, especially that moment when "Greville Howard's" affidavit, accompanied by his doctor's certificate, had been read aloud amid a ripple of amusement from the general public present.
"About four miles—but no one ever sees him. He's more or less of an invalid. It's a beautiful old house, and they say he's got some wonderful pictures and furniture there."
"Does he live quite alone?"
Her host hesitated. "Well, yes—but sometimes he has a lady of sorts there. He brought one back from France last June (he has a villa at Monte Carlo), and then—" Tony Haworth hesitated again, but Katty was looking at him eagerly—"then something dreadful happened! The poor woman died. She got a chill, developed pneumonia, and, to do the old rascal justice, he got down the biggest man he could from town. But it was no good—she died just the same! As far as I know, he's quite alone now—and precious lonely he must find it!"
Katty was very silent for the rest of the meal, and after luncheon she drew her host aside.
"Look here," she said abruptly. "I've something to tell you, Tony. I want to see that person we were speaking about—I mean Greville Howard. I want to see him about Godfrey Pavely. You know he is one of the few people who actually saw the man who killed Godfrey. At the time of the inquest he was ill, and so couldn't attend—I think the police thought he shammed illness. Sir Angus Kinross was convinced (and so was Lord St. Amant) that this Greville Howard knew a great deal more about Fernando Apra than he was willing to tell."
Tony Haworth was much taken aback.
"My dear girl, I don't think there's a chance of your getting at him! However, of course you shall be driven over as soon as you like. He may see you—you're not the sort of person he's afraid of."
He looked at her a little sharply. "You never had any money dealings with him, had you, Katty? Now, honour bright——"
"Of course not," she laughed. "Is it likely? My husband may have had, in the long, long ago—but I, never!"
An hour or so later, Katty Winslow, alone in her friend's motor, found herself before the lodge of the big lonely place where the retired money-lender—a Yorkshireman by birth—had set up his household gods. The great gates were closed and locked, but there was a bell, and she rang it.
After a certain interval the lodge-keeper came out.
"I've come to see Mr. Greville Howard," she explained, and smiled amiably at the man.
He looked at her doubtfully. "The master don't see no one excepting by appointment," he said gruffly.
"I think he'll see me."
And then an extraordinary piece of luck befell Katty Winslow. While she was standing there, parleying, she suddenly saw a man inside the park, walking towards the gates.
"I think," she said boldly, "that that is Mr. Greville Howard?" and she saw by the lodgekeeper's face that she was right in her guess.
Moving gracefully forward, she slid past him, and thus she stood just within the gates, while slowly there advanced towards her—and, had she but known it, towards many others—Fate, in the person of a tall, thin, some would have said a very distinguished-looking, elderly man.
As he came up, he looked at Katty with a measuring, thoughtful glance, and his eyes travelled beyond her to the well-appointed motor drawn up in the lonely country road outside.
Now this was the sort of situation to amuse and stimulate, rather than alarm, Katty, the more so that the stranger, who was now close to her, was looking at her pleasantly rather than otherwise.
She took a step towards him.
"Mr. Howard?" she exclaimed, in her full, agreeable voice. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to grant me a short interview? I want to see you about the late Mr. Godfrey Pavely. He was a great friend of mine."
As she uttered the dead banker's name, Greville Howard's face stiffened into sudden watchfulness. But he said slowly: "May I enquire your name, madam?"
"Oh yes," she said eagerly. "My name is Winslow—I am Mrs. Winslow. I was Godfrey Pavely's oldest friend—we were children together."
"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Your name comes back to me. I think you were mentioned at the inquest, Mrs. Winslow? But you did not give any evidence, if I remember rightly."
"No, I was not asked to give evidence," she answered. "And you yourself, Mr. Howard, were too ill to come and say what you knew about—about——"
"About Mr. Pavely's murderer," he said smoothly.
They were now walking side by side slowly away from the gate, down a broad, well-kept carriage road, the lodge-keeper staring after them.
"Do you know Sir Angus Kinross?" asked Katty's companion suddenly.
She gave him a curious, side-glance look. "I saw him several times last winter," she said hesitatingly. "But, Mr. Howard?—I don't like him!"
"Neither do I." He snapped the words out. "I could have told Scotland Yard a good deal if Kinross had taken the trouble to be civil to me—but he sent me down a fellow whose manner I exceedingly resented."
There followed a long pause. Katty became unpleasantly aware that this strange-looking man—she wondered how old he was—sixty-five?—seventy?—was looking at her with a rather pitiless scrutiny.
"I can see that you are anxious to know the truth," he observed. He added: "Are you aware that the reward has just been withdrawn?"
"No, I didn't know that. But I'm not surprised," she said.
She glanced at him, puzzled, and a little nervous. His keen eyes, grey-green in tint, were much younger than the rest of his face.
"I think I know part of the truth," he went on. "And perhaps you will be able to supply the other part, Mrs. Winslow. I confess to a certain curiosity about the matter."
They were now within sight of a charming-looking old house. It was charming, and yet there was something forlorn about its very perfection. The low, oak, nail-studded front door was shut, not hospitably open—as is generally the case with the door of a Yorkshire country house. But Mr. Greville Howard pulled the bell, and at once the door was opened by a respectable-looking manservant.
"I am taking this lady to my study, and I do not wish to be disturbed till I ring. When I ring you can bring tea."
Katty followed her host through a short, vaulted passage into a square hall. It was a beautiful apartment, in keeping with the delicate, austere charm of the house outside. And round the hall there were some fine Dutch easel pictures.
Out of the hall there opened various doors. Greville Howard pushed open one, already ajar, and Katty walked through into what she at once realised was her companion's own habitual living-room.
With all her cleverness, and her acquaintance with the art-furnishing jargon of the day, Katty would have been surprised to know the value of the contents of this comparatively small room. It contained some notable examples of the best period of early French Empire furniture. This was specially true of the mahogany and brass inlaid dwarf bookcases which ran round three sides of the apartment. Above the bookcases, against the turquoise-blue silk with which the walls were hung, were a number of Meissonier's paintings of Napoleon.
On the mantelpiece was a marble bust of the young Cæsar as First Consul, and above it a delightful portrait of Mademoiselle Georges, by Gérard. As he briefly informed his visitor of the portrait's identity, Mr. Greville Howard felt just a little disappointed that Mrs. Winslow did not seem more interested.
During the last quarter of an hour he had recaptured what at the time of the affair had been a very definite impression as to the relations of his present visitor and the Wiltshire banker. But now, seeing