of absence Bannister had done something more. He had switched on the light in a minute chamber at the base of the tower, which was one of the remnants of the old shell of the castle. This chamber had the advantage of looking directly upon the park, and a light in it shone like a signal beacon down the Callowa vale.
“Will you follow me, sir?” he said, and five of the visitors, with eyes as wary as colts, ascended the broad carpeted stairs, while the sixth remained on duty below, standing rigid in the centre of the hall as if to avoid an ambush. It was odd behaviour, but not more odd than that shown by the ascending five. Bannister found himself poked in the back by the barrel of a pistol, and, when he looked round, the pistol’s owner grinned and nodded, to point his warning that he was not to be trifled with.
Bannister took no notice. He had recovered the impassiveness of a well-trained servant. He behaved as if such visitors and such manners were in no way abnormal, and led them along the upper gallery and flung open the door of the library.
“Gentlemen to see you, sir,” he announced, and when the five had crowded in he shut the door behind them. He seemed to be amused and to have urgent business on hand, for he darted down a side staircase towards the lower regions of the house, and as he went he chuckled.
The library was half in dusk. There was a glow from the big fire on the hearth, and one lamp was lit in the central chandelier. The long lines of vellum and morocco on the walls made a dim pattern in the shadows, and the great Flemish tapestry was only a blur. But there was a reading-lamp on the big table, which partly illumined the blue velvet curtains of the six tall narrow windows.
At the table in his accustomed chair sat Mr Craw, spectacles on nose, and a paper in his hand, and opposite him was the discreet figure of Miss Elena Cazenove, her pencil poised above her note-book. At the end of the table stood Mr Barbon, with the air of a secretary waiting to supplement or endorse some ukase of his chief. Both men wore dinner jackets. It was a pleasant picture of busy domesticity.
Mr Craw raised his eyes from the paper at the interruption. He had nerved himself to a great effort and his heart was beating uncomfortably. But he managed to preserve an air of self-possession. The features of the marble Augustus on the pedestal behind him were not more composed.
“What does this mean?” he said sharply, in a voice to which nervousness gave the proper irritability. “Bannister!” He raised his voice. But the butler had gone, and the five men in ulsters had approached the table.
He took off his spectacles, but he did not rise. “Who on earth are you?” he demanded. The words came out like pistol shots. The voice was a little startled, which in the circumstances was right.
“Our names do not matter.” Mastrovin bent his heavy brows upon the comfortable figure in the chair. This was not quite what he had expected. He had hoped to come upon a full conclave, Royalty and Royalists and Craw in the act of conspiring. He had hoped for a dramatic entry, an embarrassed recognition, a profound discomfiture, and he found only an elderly gentleman dictating letters. Instead of a den of foxes he had stumbled upon a kennel of spaniels. He was conscious that he and his companions struck a discordant note in this firelit room. He must make the most of the discord.
“I offer the conventional apologies for our intrusion, Mr Craw,” he said. “But, as you know well, those who play a certain game cannot always preserve the politenesses. We have come to have a few words with you and your guests.”
“I shall not require you for the present, Miss Cazenove,” said Mr Craw, and the lady clutched her note-book and with a wavering snipelike motion left the room.
“Well?” said Mr Craw, when the door had closed behind her. He had sat back in his chair and Barbon had moved to his side.
“The guests to whom I refer,” Mastrovin continued, “are four Evallonian gentlemen in whom we are interested.”
“Evallonian gentlemen!” exclaimed Mr Craw. “Barbon, this man must be mad.”
“Let me give you their names,” said Mastrovin gently. “They are Count Casimir Muresco, of whom all the world has heard; Prince Odalchini, and Professor Jagon. Last, but by no means least, there is Prince John, the claimant to the Evallonian throne.”
Mr Craw had pulled himself together and had entered on the line of conduct which had already been anxiously rehearsed.
“I have heard of all four,” he said. “But what makes you think they are here? I do not keep foreign notables on the ice in my cellar.”
“We have evidence that at this moment they are under your roof. Be well advised, Mr Craw. You cannot deceive us. We are perfectly informed of all that has been happening here. At this moment every exit from your house is watched. You had better surrender at discretion.”
“Barbon,” said Mr Craw in a pained voice, “what in Heaven’s name is he talking about?”
Mr Barbon was fussy and anxious in the ordinary relations of life, but not for nothing did the blood of a Cromwellian Barebones run in his veins. His war record had proved that he could be cool enough in certain emergencies. Now he was rather enjoying himself.
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” he said. “The first three men are, or were, the shooting tenants in Knockraw. I knew Count Casimir slightly, and they came to dinner last Saturday night, and we dined with them on Monday. I heard that they had now gone home. I know nothing about Prince John. There was nobody of that name with the Knockraw people when they dined here.”
“I see,” said Mr Craw. He turned to Mastrovin. “Is that information any use to you? Apparently you must look for your friends at Knockraw. I myself have been away from home and only returned last night. I know nothing whatever about your Evallonians. I never saw them in my life.”
“I am sorry to be obliged to give you the lie,” said Mastrovin. “We have evidence that three of them came here two days ago. We know that Prince John is here—he was seen here this very day. I warn you, Mr Craw, that we are difficult people to trifle with.”
“I have no desire to trifle with you.” Mr Craw’s manner was stately. “You come here uninvited, and cross-examine me in my own library. I have told you the literal truth. You, sir, have the air and speech of a gentleman. I shall be obliged if you will now withdraw.”
For answer the five men came a little nearer, and Barbon sat himself on the arm of his chief’s chair. He was beginning to measure the physical prowess of the visitors. The difficulty lay in what they might have in their ulster pockets.
Over the fireplace there was a huge coat of arms in stone, the complete achievement of the house of Westwater, and above this was a tiny balcony. It was flush with the wall and scarcely discernible from below—it was reached by a turret stair from the old keep, and may once have been a hiding-place, the Canonry equivalent of a “priest’s hole.” At this moment it held Alison and Jaikie. They had a full view of Mr Craw’s face and of the Evallonian profiles.
“Will you inform us who are the present inmates of this house?” Mastrovin asked.
“Let me see,” said Mr Craw. “Apart from Mr Barbon, whom you see here, there is Miss Cazenove, who has just gone, and Mr Crombie, who is one of my Press assistants. Then there is a young Australian friend called Charvill. There is also a country neighbour, Mr McCunn, but he is out this evening and will not be home till late. That is all, I think, Barbon, besides the domestic staff?”
“Will you kindly have them assembled here?”
The
