style="font-size:15px;"> The lights were being put out. The two men rose a little unwillingly. Dominey felt singularly indisposed for sleep, but anxious at the same time to get rid of his companion. They strolled into the darkened hall of the hotel together.
“I will deal with the matter for you as well as I can,” Seaman promised. “To my mind, your greatest difficulty will be encountered to-morrow. You know what you have to deal with down at Dominey.”
Dominey’s face was very set and grave.
“I am prepared,” he said.
Seaman still hesitated.
“Do you remember,” he asked, “that when we talked over your plans at Cape Town, you showed me a picture of—of Lady Dominey?”
“I remember.”
“May I have one more look at it?”
Dominey, with fingers that trembled a little, drew from the breast pocket of his coat a leather case, and from that a worn picture. The two men looked at it side by side beneath one of the electric standards which had been left burning. The face was the face of a girl, almost a child, and the great eyes seemed filled with a queer, appealing light. There was something of the same suggestion to be found in the lips, a certain helplessness, an appeal for love and protection to some stronger being.
Seaman turned away with a little grunt, and commented:
“Permitting myself to reassume for a moment or two the ordinary sentiments of an ordinary human being, I would sooner have a dozen of your Princesses to deal with than the original of that picture.”
CHAPTER VIII
“Your ancestral home,” Mr. Mangan observed, as the car turned the first bend in the grass-grown avenue and Dominey Hall came into sight. “Damned fine house, too!”
His companion made no reply. A storm had come up during the last few minutes, and, as though he felt the cold, he had dragged his hat over his eyes and turned his coat collar up to his ears. The house, with its great double front, was now clearly visible—the time-worn, Elizabethan, red brick outline that faced the park southwards, and the stone-supported, grim and weather-stained back which confronted the marshes and the sea. Mr. Mangan continued to make amiable conversation.
“We have kept the old place weathertight, somehow or other,” he said, “and I don’t think you’ll miss the timber much. We’ve taken it as far as possible from the outlying woods.”
“Any from the Black Wood?” Dominey asked, without turning his head.
“Not a stump,” he replied, “and for a very excellent reason. Not one of the woodmen would ever go near the place.”
“The superstition remains then?”
“The villagers are absolutely rabid about it. There are at least a dozen who declare that they have seen the ghost of Roger Unthank, and a score or more who will swear by all that is holy that they have heard his call at night.”
“Does he still select the park and the terrace outside the house for his midnight perambulations?” Dominey enquired.
The lawyer hesitated.
“The idea is, I believe,” he said, “that the ghost makes his way out from the wood and sits on the terrace underneath Lady Dominey’s window. All bunkum, of course, but I can assure you that every servant and caretaker we’ve had there has given notice within a month. That is the sole reason why I haven’t ventured to recommend long ago that you should get rid of Mrs. Unthank.”
“She is still in attendance upon Lady Dominey, then?”
“Simply because we couldn’t get any one else to stay there,” the lawyer explained, “and her ladyship positively declines to leave the Hall. Between ourselves, I think it’s time a change was made. We’ll have a chat after dinner, if you’ve no objection.—You see, we’ve left all the trees in the park,” he went on, with an air of satisfaction. “Beautiful place, this, in the springtime. I was down last May for a night, and I never saw such buttercups in my life. The cows here were almost up to their knees in pasture, and the bluebells in the home woods were wonderful. The whole of the little painting colony down at Flankney turned themselves loose upon the place last spring.”
“Some of the old wall is down, I see,” Dominey remarked with a frown, as he gazed towards the enclosed kitchen garden.
Mr. Mangan was momentarily surprised.
“That wall has been down, to my knowledge, for twenty years,” he reminded his companion.
Dominey nodded. “I had forgotten,” he muttered.
“We wrote you, by the by,” the lawyer continued, “suggesting the sale of one or two of the pictures, to form a fund for repairs, but thank goodness you didn’t reply! We’ll have some workpeople here as soon as you’ve decided what you’d like done. I’m afraid,” he added, as they turned in through some iron gates and entered the last sweep in front of the house, “you won’t find many familiar faces to welcome you. There’s Loveybond, the gardener, whom you would scarcely remember, and Middleton, the head keeper, who has really been a godsend so far as the game is concerned. No one at all indoors, except—Mrs. Unthank.”
The car drew up at that moment in front of the great porch. There was nothing in the shape of a reception. They had even to ring the bell before the door was opened by a manservant sent down a few days previously from town. In the background, wearing a brown velveteen coat, with breeches and leggings of corduroy, stood an elderly man with white side whiskers and skin as brown as a piece of parchment, leaning heavily upon a long ash stick. Half a dozen maidservants, new importations, were visible in the background, and a second man was taking possession of the luggage. Mr. Mangan took charge of the proceedings.
“Middleton,” he said, resting his hand upon the old man’s shoulder, “here’s your master come back again. Sir Everard was very pleased to hear that you were still here; and you, Loveybond.”
The old man grasped the hand which Dominey stretched out with both of his.
“I’m right glad you’re back again, Squire,” he said, looking at him with curious intentness, “and yet the words of welcome stick in my throat.”
“Sorry you feel like that about it, Middleton,” Dominey said pleasantly. “What is the trouble about my coming back?”
“That’s no trouble, Squire,” the old man replied. “That’s a joy—leastways to us. It’s what it may turn out to be for you which makes one hold back like.”
Dominey drew himself more than ever erect—a commanding figure in the little group.
“You will feel better about it when we have had a day or two with the pheasants, Middleton,” he said reassuringly. “You have not changed much, Loveybond,” he added, turning to the man who had fallen a little into the background, very stiff and uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes.
“I thankee,
