The Greatest Works of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes
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"Perhaps you will be disappointed at the meagreness of what I am about to tell you, but you may believe me when I say that it is information which will make the way of Sir Angus Kinross quite clear, and which may bring one, if not two, men to the gallows."
Katty gave a little involuntary gasp. But he went on:
"It did not take my friend Lutin very long to discover that a man of the name of Apra had stayed at each of the hotels indicated to me by the bankers. He also discovered that 'Apra' had with him a friend named Dickinson who put down his birthplace as New York. Do you follow me, Mrs. Winslow?"
"Yes, I think so," she replied hesitatingly.
"At the first hotel, a small, comfortable, rather expensive house in the Madeleine quarter, Fernando Apra was a tall, dark, good-looking man, and the other, the New Yorker, was fair and short. Though on the best of terms they lived very different lives. The American was out a great deal; he thoroughly enjoyed the gay, lively sides of Paris life. Fernando Apra on the other hand stayed indoors, reading and writing a good deal. At last the two men left the hotel, giving out that they were going to spend the winter in the South of France. But they only stayed a few days at Lyons and, doubling back to Paris, they settled in the Latin Quarter on the other side of the river.
"By that time, my dear Mrs. Winslow, they had exchanged identities. The tall, dark man was now Dickinson, and his fair friend had become Apra! It was Apra who one day told the manager he was going to a fancy dress ball and asked him to recommend him a good theatrical costumier. When Lutin ran that costumier to earth, the man at once remembered the fact that a client he took to be an Englishman had come and had had himself made up as a Mexican, purchasing also two bottles of olive-coloured skin stain. Now Apra was out all night after this extraordinary transformation in his appearance had taken place, but one of the waiters at the hotel recognised him that same evening at Mabille. When the man spoke to him, he appeared taken aback, and explained that he had made a mistake in the day of the fancy dress ball. The next morning he left the hotel, distributing lavish tips to everybody. But Dickinson stayed on for a few days, and during those days he received each day a telegram from England. One of these telegrams is actually in my possession."
Katty's host got up. He went across to a narrow, upright piece of inlaid mahogany furniture, and unlocking a drawer, took from it an envelope. Having opened it, he handed Katty a blue strip of paper on which were printed the words: "Concession going well" and the signature "G."
Katty stared down at the bit of blue paper, and she flushed. Even she realised the significance of that "G."
"I think," said her host quietly, "that if you write down from my dictation certain notes, and hand them, together with this telegram, to the Commissioner of Police, he may be trusted to do the rest."
Chapter XXV
Five quiet weeks slipped by—weeks full of outward, as well as of inward, happiness at The Chase and at Freshley.
Katty Winslow had come back to Rosedean, and then, without even seeing Laura, had gone away again almost at once. She was still away when there took place early in December the gathering together, for the first time for many years, of a big shooting party at Knowlton Abbey.
Just before joining that pleasant party, Mrs. Pavely spent a week in London, and certain Pewsbury gossips, of whose very existence she was unaware, opined that she had gone up to town to buy clothes! In a little over a month, Godfrey Pavely would have been dead a year, and some of these same gossips thought it rather strange that Mrs. Pavely should be going to stay at the Abbey before her first year of widowhood was over. But the kinder of the busybodies reminded one another that Lord St. Amant had known the mistress of The Chase from childhood, and being, as he was, a very good-natured man, no doubt he had thought it would cheer up the poor lady to have a little change.
Yes, Laura, to Mrs. Tropenell's surprise, had gone up alone to London, and Oliver, after two days, followed her. But he had not waited to escort her back, as his mother expected him to do. He returned the day before Laura—in fact she was away a week, he only four days.
The gossips of Pewsbury had been right. Laura had gone up to town to get a few new clothes, but she was still wearing unrelieved black, if not exactly conventional widow's mourning, when she arrived at Knowlton Abbey.
Lord St. Amant's shooting party was a great success—a success from the point of view of the guests, and from that of the host. For the first time for many years, in fact for the first time since the death of Lady St. Amant, the house was quite full, for in addition to the neighbours whom the host specially wished to honour, there had come down certain more sophisticated folk from London. Among others asked had been Sir Angus Kinross; but Sir Angus, to his own and Lord St. Amant's regret, had had to decline. The two men had become intimate since last winter—each had a real respect, a cordial liking, for the other.
The housekeeper at the Abbey had been surprised to note his lordship's interest in every detail. He had himself seen, and at considerable length, the chef who had come down from London for the week; he had even glanced over the bedroom list, making certain suggestions as to where his various guests should sleep. Thus it was by his desire that Mrs. Tropenell had been given the largest bed-chamber in the house, one which had never been, in the present housekeeper's reign, occupied by a visitor. It had been, in the long, long ago, the room of his mother, the room in fact where his lordship himself had been born some seventy odd years ago. By his wish, also, there had been arranged for Mrs. Tropenell's occupation the old-fashioned sitting-room into which the bedroom opened.
Mr. Oliver Tropenell had been put nearly opposite Lord St. Amant's own sleeping apartment, in that portion of the house which was known as "his lordship's wing." And Mrs. Pavely had been given, in the same part of the house, but at the further end of the corridor, the room which had been always occupied, during her infrequent sojourns at the Abbey, by the late Lady St. Amant.
And now the long, though also the all too short, week-end, which had lasted from Thursday to Tuesday, was over, and all the guests had departed, with the exception of Lord St. Amant's three intimate friends—Mrs. Tropenell, that lady's son, and Mrs. Pavely. This smaller party was staying on for two more days, and then it would break up—Mrs. Tropenell and Mrs. Pavely returning in the morning to Freshley Manor and The Chase, while Mr. Tropenell stayed on to accompany his host to another big shoot in the neighbourhood.
Though all three had professed sincere regret at the departure of their fellow guests, each of them felt a certain sense of relief, and yes, of more than relief, of considerable satisfaction, when they found themselves alone together.
There is always plenty to talk about after the breakup of a country house party, and when at last the four of them found themselves together at dinner, they all did talk—even Laura, who was generally so silent, talked and laughed, and exchanged quick, rather shy jests with Oliver.
Laura and Oliver? Lord St. Amant had of course very soon discovered their innocent secret. He had taxed Mrs. Tropenell with the truth, and she had admitted it, while explaining that they desired their engagement, for obvious reasons, to remain secret for a while.
During these last few days their host had admired, with a touch of whimsical surprise, Laura's dignity, and Oliver's self-restraint. Of course they had managed to be a good deal together, aided by Lord St. Amant's unobtrusive efforts, and owing to the fact that Mrs. Tropenell's charming sitting-room upstairs was always at their disposal.
But no one in the cheerful, light-hearted company had come within miles of guessing the truth; and Oliver Tropenell had done his full share in helping Lord St. Amant in the entertainment of his guests. He had also made himself duly agreeable to the ladies—indeed, Oliver, in a sense, had been the success of the party, partly because the way of his life in Mexico enabled him to bring a larger, freer air into the discussions which had taken place after dinner and in the smoking-room, and also because of his vitality—a vitality which just now burned with a brighter glow....