by both of you on the lines I’ve suggested. Never you mind why I left Markenmore, nor why I stayed away!”
“I wish you’d tell me just one thing, though,” persisted Valencia. “Had it anything to do with Veronica Leighton, as she was then?—Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” answered Guy peremptorily. “It’s nothing to do with you nor with anybody, now. I started out on a line of my own when I left here, and I’ve done with this. I shall never come near the place again when I leave it tonight; henceforth it’s yours and Harry’s. When I come back from America, you can both come and see me in London, whenever and as often as you like. But Markenmore will see me no more—I hate it!”
“Your father?” suggested Valencia.
Guy, still pacing the room, shook his head.
“You were too young to realize things,” he answered. “But my father and I never got on—from the first we never got on. He never treated me well, and it was worse after he married your mother. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have run away from this when I was a boy. But your mother was a good sort—she did treat me well, right up to the time she died, when you and Harry were children. It’s because I remember her and her kindness that I’m going to make Markenmore over to you now.”
“Thank you!” said Valencia. “We’ll remember. But Guy—your father’s at the end of things. Won’t you see him?”
“No!” answered Guy sharply. “No! I’m dead to him—and what’s the good of upsetting a dying man? Let things be, Valencia—as I said just now, perhaps you’ll know more and understand more, later on. At present——”
The door opened just then, and Harry came back into the room. In his right hand he carried a lighted candle; in the left, the pocket-book, an old-fashioned thing of faded green leather, for which his brother had sent him. With a muttered word of thanks Guy took both pocket-book and candle from him, and crossing the room to its furthest side set down the candle on an oak press, and by its light proceeded to examine the pocket-book, while Harry and Valencia watched him. The examination was brief: Guy, after a quick glance at some of the papers which he drew from the old case, transferred certain of them to a wallet which he produced from a hip-pocket; this done he put wallet and pocket-book together and placed them where the wallet had come from. He blew out the candle and turned to his brother and sister.
“Some old papers there that I wanted,” he said unconcernedly. “Nothing of any importance, but I wanted to have them.” He sat down again and lighted another cigar. “Now,” he went on, “as I haven’t much time, just let us talk business. Tell me, Harry, exactly how things stand about the estate: what you’re doing with it, and so on.”
During the next half-hour, Valencia, listened to the two men as they discussed matters of rent, repairs, income, outgoings, realized that whatever else Guy might be, he was a shrewd business man; she realized, too, that he was honestly anxious to give Harry sound advice as to his future management of the Markenmore properties. Finally, he pulled out and handed to his younger brother a card.
“There’s my business address in London,” he said, “and on the other side is an address in New York, to which you can write at any time during the next twelve months. Let me know how things go—everything. And now, I must be off.”
He jumped to his feet and made for his hat and overcoat. Valencia glanced at the clock.
“But why must you go now?” she asked. “You say you’re going to get the early morning train at Mitbourne? That doesn’t leave till after four o’clock. And it’s now only half-past ten.”
Guy had already got into his overcoat. He smiled at Valencia’s questioning look.
“Just so!” he answered. “But there’s somebody else in this neighbourhood that I’ve got to see—on business. Appointment, you understand?—already made. I must be off, or I shall be late for it.”
“But—you ought to have had some supper—or something,” protested Valencia.
“That’ll be ready where I’m going,” replied Guy. “There—don’t bother yourselves! Call Braxfield down—good old chap, that, and I must say good-bye to him.”
Five minutes later he had said good-bye to all three, and Braxfield had let him out by the door at which he had entered. The old butler went back to his pantry to find his young mistress standing by the fire, evidently in deep thought. She looked up as he entered.
“Braxfield,” she said, “which way did Mr. Guy go?”
“Towards the village, miss,” replied Braxfield. “Turned through the shrubbery.”
Braxfield was the sort of man to whom everybody is confidential. Valencia saw no reason for keeping back what was in her mind.
“He said he had a business appointment with somebody in the neighbourhood,” continued Valencia. “With whom could it be, Braxfield?”
“That I couldn’t say, miss,” answered the old butler. “But Mr. Guy—he knew a lot of people hereabouts—in the old days.”
“But at this time of night?” said Valencia. “Besides, who is there, anywhere about here? I mean, anybody he’d be likely to want to see? There are only two or three farmers—and the Vicar.”
“He did mention the Sceptre Inn to me, miss,” observed Braxfield, “in a way that made me wonder if he’d some idea of calling there. But——”
The light tinkle of a bell, very gently pulled, interrupted Braxfield at the beginning of whatever suggestion he was going to offer. At its sound he and Valencia stared and looked at each other.
“He must be back again!” exclaimed Valencia.
“No, miss,” said Braxfield; “Mr. Guy would come to the garden entrance—always his way, that. This is our front door bell.”
He picked up an old-fashioned lantern as he spoke, lighted the candle with it, and went out. Valencia followed him. The corridor and the big hall were in darkness; the turning of the key and withdrawing of the bolts made a harsh, grating sound in the silence that had long since fallen on the old house. And when Braxfield opened the door, the night outside showed black, and there, on the steps beneath the portico, they saw in the light of the lantern, cloaked and veiled, a woman. But in spite of the wraps, Valencia knew who the visitor was.
“Mrs. Tretheroe!” she exclaimed.
Mrs. Tretheroe answered with a low, half-excited, half-nervous laugh. She stepped inside, passed Braxfield, laid a hand on Valencia’s arm, and pushed her gently towards the end of the hall, where a faint gleam of light penetrated from the open door of Braxfield’s pantry.
“Hush!” she whispered. “I want a word with you, Valencia. Tell the butler to wait there—I’m going again in a minute.”
“Stay there, Braxfield,” said Valencia. “Mrs. Tretheroe’ll want letting out presently. Come along here,” she continued, going towards the lighted room. “What is it?”
Mrs. Tretheroe followed the girl inside the pantry, half closed the door, and threw back her veil and her heavy cloak. In spite of her wonder, Valencia could not avoid
