The Secret of the Silver Car - Wyndham Martyn (red white royal blue txt) 📗

to the river. But he fished very little that afternoon for as he climbed over one of the granite stiles he came face to face with two other anglers, a man and girl.

The girl was none other than the mysterious lady in blue for whom he had opened Colonel Langley’s safe. She came forward hand outstretched when she saw him.

That she was a little confused he was certain, and perhaps a trifle fearful that he might make some allusion to the oddity of the circumstances under which they had first met. The man was almost a hundred feet from her. He was casting and too interested to look at anything but the deep pool in which salmon were wont to lie.

“I was never able to thank you for that, that night at Dereham,” she began, “but my father had one of his attacks and I had to leave the very next day just before luncheon. I hope you had good sport.”

“Unusually good,” he said. It was a great piece of luck that she still assumed him to be of the house party. But what was she doing here? When he asked she said, “We live near here.” She looked around to see her companion coming toward her and the stranger.

“This is my brother,” she said, “Arthur Grenvil. Arthur this gentleman was staying at Dereham Old Hall when I was there. Mr.?” She looked at him pleadingly, “I’m so stupid about names.”

The stranger seemed to be looking at her when he answered, but his eyes were upon Arthur Grenvil.

“Anthony Trent,” he said urbanely.

“How do you do,” Grenvil said without betraying any emotion. “Had any luck?”

“Not yet,” Anthony Trent said still looking hard at him. Things were happening rather more quickly than he liked. Too many discoveries were disconcerting. First this girl was of course Lady Daphne Grenvil. And she had not any other motive in view in abstracting the confession than of helping her renegade brother. Anthony Trent felt himself absurdly pleased to know that. He had thought of her constantly and pitied her because he assumed her to be under the domination of a handsome heartless scamp like the Honourable Arthur.

It was Grenvil’s attitude which puzzled the American. The name had apparently aroused no suspicion. It proved the man was more dangerous than he supposed if he were able to master his emotions with such ease. As they stood there chatting about flies and the size of the salmon Anthony Trent had time to study Grenvil’s appearance. Assuredly he differed from the mental picture he had formed of him.

To begin with there seemed nothing vicious about him. He was a very handsome man with small regular features, finely formed nose and engaging blue eyes. Anthony Trent thought of the confession he had seen and remembered the talk in the dug-out. He called to mind the hints that the Alderbrook butler had let drop and the lack of enthusiasm the agent Nicholls had shown in speaking of him. From all accounts Arthur Spencer Jerningham Grenvil should be a very highly polished scoundrel but coarsened somewhat from his experiences in the ranks for so many years.

And here he was with a sister he plainly adored, looking with a sort of shy good nature at the stranger.

“It’s so jolly to meet another keen fisherman,” he said amiably, “I know the Camel so well that I can show you the best pools if you’d care about it.”

“That would be very kind of you,” Anthony Trent returned. He did not know what to make of the man he had first known as Private Smith. There might be a mistake and yet, if there had been, why should Lady Daphne have risked disgrace in breaking open a safe for his sake. And the voice, the unmistakable voice, was that of the man to whom he had confided all his dangerous, deadly secrets. “I haven’t fished the river for almost seven years,” the younger man went on.

“My brother has been in the army for more than five years,” the girl said, “and he hadn’t much chance then. He was badly wounded and we are making him well again.”

“I’m being horribly spoiled, Mr. Trent,” Grenvil smiled, “and I rather like it. Did you get in the big show by any chance?”

“As long as I could be after my country declared war,” Trent said looking at him hard. “We must exchange experiences.”

“Please don’t” the girl begged, “Arthur’s nerves can’t stand it. The doctors say he must live outdoors and forget everything.”

“And are you able to forget—everything?” Trent asked him.

Arthur Grenvil frowned a little. It was as though the memory of something unpleasing had lingered for a moment. k

“Most things,” said the other.

“Is it wise?” Trent demanded. This refusing even by a look or a smile to acknowledge that he remembered the memorable talk was disturbing.

“Perhaps not,” Grenvil admitted, “but wisdom and I never got on very well together.”

The sound of a motor horn broke the silence.

“The car,” said Arthur Grenvil to his sister, “We have to run away because people are coming over from the barracks to lunch. I hope I shall meet you again Mr. Trent.” He nodded pleasantly, “Come on Daphne.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Trent,” she said brightly. “I hope you’ll land a monster fish.”

Anthony Trent flung himself on the grass at the edge of the pool and lighted his pipe. Lordly salmon were no temptation to him at the moment. Private William Smith had beaten him so far. Private Smith had looked as innocent as a babe. He had been polite and gracious but had refused to acknowledge any former acquaintance. Again and again in the few minutes Trent had telegraphed to him plainly, “Well, here I am, the master criminal you were proud to know, what are you going to do?” And every time Private Smith had said, “I do not know you. I never saw you before.” It was well enough to postpone the conversation until they were alone, but Trent resented the utter indifference of the younger man to his appeal. A man dare only do that who had no fear. That must be the reason. Grenvil had made only general statements in his half confession, statements which could not convict him. He felt he held the whip hand over the master. There would be a different expression on his face when Trent dropped a hint as to the dangers of forging.

At the farm house where he was living Trent had little difficulty in getting side lights on the Grenvil family. He had never heard such disapprobation showered on a single member of any family as was the case with the farmer and his wife when they spoke of Arthur Grenvil.

They said his scandalous life had killed his mother. It was all bad companionship and drink, Mrs. Bassett the farmer’s wife contended. He was all right till he left school to go into the army. He was cruel to animals and false to his friends.

“He doesn’t look it,” Trent said slowly.

“The devil gives his own a mask to fool the righteous,” Mrs. Bassett contended. She was a pious soul. “I ought to know. I was a nursemaid at the castle before I married John Bassett.”

Never in all his career as a breaker of laws and an abstractor of the valuable property of others had Trent been so apprehensive as he was in quiet, beautiful Cornwall far from cities. In New York he had schooled himself to look unconcerned at the police he met on every corner. Here there seemed to be no police and yet he looked anxiously at every stranger who passed by the moorland farm. He told himself it was the effect of his war hardships, his wounds and shell shock. But he knew his nerves were steady, his muscles strong as ever and his health magnificent. He was forced to admit that he was on edge because of this meeting with Arthur Grenvil.

“This has got to end,” he said after breakfast next morning, “I’ve had enough uncertainty.”

A few minutes later he was on horseback and on his way to Rosecarrel Castle. It might not be easy to see Grenvil in his home surrounded by servants but he would make the attempt. He had no reasonable excuse for infringing the etiquette of the occasion. He had not been invited to call and he knew no common friends of the family. It would be a business call. He would send in his card and say he desired to see Mr. Arthur Grenvil on a matter of importance.

He was within two miles of the castle when he saw the man he had come to see mounted on a chestnut polo pony cantering along and driving a white polo ball over the stretch of firm turf.

Grenvil pulled up as he saw the American.

“Trying to get my eye back,” he said smiling. “Corking game, polo, ever play it Mr. Trent?”

“I’ve had to work too hard,” Trent snapped.

“Much better for you I’ve no doubt,” said Grenvil idly, “If one may ask it, what sort of work did you do?”

“You’ve no idea I suppose?”

Grenvil looked at him mildly.

“How can I have any idea?” he asked.

Anthony Trent from his bigger horse looked down at the man on the polo pony sourly. There was that bland look of irritating innocence that would have convinced any judge and jury. But it did not sway him.

In just such a pleasantly modulated voice, and with no doubt just such an ingratiating smile Private Smith had feared Anthony Trent was dying in very bad company.

“You said you were not able to forget everything. I supposed that my work might be one of the things you still remembered.”

At length Trent was able to observe that Arthur Grenvil looked less confident.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean, Mr. Trent.”

“The name Anthony Trent calls nothing to mind?”

“Sorry,” Grenvil retorted, “I suppose I ought to know all about you.”

“That’s what you said before!” Trent exclaimed.

“Before?” There was no doubt now as to Grenvil’s perturbation.

“Cut that out,” Trent commanded angrily. “You did it very well, but I’m sick and tired of fencing. What are you going to do about it?”

He was sure now that the other was frightened. That the emotion of fear did not bring anger in its train amazed Trent.

“Leave you to realize your mistake,” Grenvil said after a pause. Then with a sharp stroke he sent the willow root ball spinning in the direction of the castle, and followed it on his swift mount.

The horse that Trent had bought from John Treleaven the farmer was a half bred, a good, weight-carrying nag, a fine jumper, but not equal to the task of overtaking the chestnut thoroughbred. There was nothing to do but pursue Grenvil into the castle grounds or give up the chase. Angry because he could not judge in what degree of peril if any, he stood, Anthony Trent rode back to the farm.

THE MAN WHO DENIED

Thinking things over that night as he walked along the Camel banks and disturbed the otters at play, Anthony Trent determined to call upon Arthur Grenvil and force him to acknowledge that he had not forgotten the conversation, the confidence that was so fully given, in the dug-out.

Footmen and a butler barred his ingress. They were polite and filled with regrets but the facts remained that Mr. Arthur Grenvil by doctor’s orders saw none. The Lady Daphne was engaged. The men-servants could offer him no hope. He was able to see at close range some advantages of the many servants the rich were able to employ to hedge them