Valencia in a side-glance.
“So—she’s got a tongue, this sister of ours, eh, Master Harry?” he said, with a half-amused, half-cynical laugh. “Never mind!—all the women of our family always have, I believe. Well—aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Why should we be?” demanded Valencia. “You’ve never been near us, and never once written to any of us, for seven years? You may be our brother—half-brother, rather—but you’re a stranger.”
Braxfield, standing diffidently between the table and the door, retreated into a far corner of the room, and Harry Markenmore turned on his sister.
“Don’t, Val,” he muttered. “Not quite that, you know.” He glanced at his elder brother, who was regarding Valencia from his position on the hearthrug with speculative, smiling eyes. “Valencia is a bit outspoken,” he said deprecatingly. “Of course, we’re glad to see you, Guy.”
“All right, Harry, my lad!” responded Guy. “Ill take it that you are—of course.”
“I don’t know why we should be,” asserted Valencia. “As I said—we’re strangers. Surely, you didn’t expect me to know you?”
“You’ll know me better, perhaps, my girl, in quite another way, before long,” answered Guy. “Come! there’s enough of these pleasant family exchanges. I came down especially to see you two,” he went on, seating himself. “I’d better go straight to business. Look here, both of you—in the ordinary course of things our father can’t last long, and I shall succeed to title and estates. Eh?”
“Yes,” said Harry.
“The title I can’t help,” continued Guy. “The estates I don’t want. I’ve made enough of my own, and I shall make more. I don’t know how things can be done, legally, but anyhow, as soon as I come into the property I intend to make it over, somehow or other—we’ll set the lawyers to work—to you two. You can look on it as your own, from this out. Understand?”
Harry started and looked at his sister. But Valencia was looking at Guy.
“Generous of you!” she said suddenly. “But—why do you come to tell us this, now?”
“Because I’m going off to America, on business—New York, two or three other places, in a day or two, and shan’t be back for quite a year—maybe more,” answered Guy. “And I wanted you to know, in case anything happens. If my father dies—well, Harry’ll just carry on, and when I come back we’ll do things legally. Markenmore is to be yours—I don’t want it. You hear?—and you hear, too, Braxfield?”
“I hear, sir,” answered the butler.
“There’s nothing of Markenmore that I want,” continued Guy, “except one thing—and I want that now. Harry,” he went on, pulling out a small key, “you know my old room? Run up there, unlock the right-hand drawer of the bureau in the corner, and bring me a green leather pocket-book that you’ll see there—that’s what I want. Good boy!” He glanced at Valencia when Harry had taken the key and gone, and saw that she was staring hard at his right hand. “Well?” he asked, with a light laugh. “What are you looking at?”
Valencia remained silent for a moment. Then she spoke—abruptly.
“I’m looking at that queer ring on your third finger!” she answered.
CHAPTER III
GREY DAWN
Braxfield, who, from his retired position in the background was watching Guy Markenmore with inquisitive eyes, saw him start a little at Valencia’s direct intimation. The start was followed by a laugh which was not exactly spontaneous.
“Well?” said Guy. “What about the ring? It’s—simply a ring.”
“Just so—a ring,” remarked Valencia. “But—a peculiar one. And I know somebody who has one that’s a precise duplicate of it.”
“Who?” asked Guy.
“Mrs. Tretheroe,” replied Valencia. “She always wears it. I thought it was some ring she’d picked up in India. But—yours is just the same. Odd!—that you should both have rings which are exactly alike.”
“So Mrs. Tretheroe comes here?” suggested Guy.
“Of course! Didn’t we all know her before she was married,” answered Valencia. “So far as I remember, you and she used to go about together a good deal.”
Guy yawned, but it seemed to his sister that the yawn was affected.
“Forgotten pretty nearly everything about those days!” he said, with an attempt at unconcern. “Long time ago—and I’ve been otherwise engaged since I left here.”
Valencia turned and looked at Braxfield.
“See if anything’s being wanted upstairs, Braxfield,” she said, with a meaning glance. “You might sit with Sir Anthony a bit—make some excuse if he wants either of us.”
Braxfield took the hint and disappeared, and Valencia turned to her brother.
“Guy,” she said, calling him by name for the first time, “I’m sorry if I seemed to be ungracious just now. But—but you haven’t treated us well, nor kindly. And I want to know why you’ve never been here, all this time—and why you ever left here at all. Can’t you tell me?”
There was a certain earnestness in the girl’s tone that made Guy, inclined to be restive at first under her questioning, change his mood and become reflective. He threw away his cigar, rose from his chair, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, began to pace the room, evidently in deep thought.
“I might tell you some day,” he said at last. “Perhaps—later on—after thinking it over, I will.”
“That’s the second time tonight I’ve had that answer to that very question!” exclaimed Valencia. “In practically the same words!”
Guy stopped short in his perambulations and stared at her.
“Whose answer was the first?” he asked abruptly.
“Harborough’s,” replied Valencia. “He, too, has come back. He was here this evening. I knew that you and he were friends, once. I asked him if he knew why you left home. He answered—just what you’ve answered.”
“Well?” asked Guy, with something very like a growl. “Well?”
“I suppose he does know,” said Valencia.
Guy began to walk about again. He had taken several turns before he spoke.
“I’ll give you a piece of advice about John Harborough,” he said at last. “He’s a man—if certain conditions arise—of a black and fierce temper. You be careful. Otherwise——”
“What?”
