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

could be used against him by making this display of interest in Private Smith. Captain Edgell could give testimony that would not help his case.

“Here you are,” said Edgell genially, “I’ve taken the liberty of calling you an old golfing pal. I’ve done all I could but Colonel Langley is not easy of approach. I’m not at all hopeful.”

“It isn’t really serious,” Trent explained after thanking him, “but I’d like to see him again. He did undoubtedly save my life and carried me into safety. Quite a physical feat for one of his weight. What do you suppose he weighs?”

“About ten stone seven,” the other answered.

That was one hundred and forty-seven pounds. Trent was gradually building up a portrait of the man he feared.

“And about five feet seven in height?” he hinted.

“That’s the man,” Edgell asserted. “Quite a good looking chap, too, if you care for the type. Rather too effeminate for me although, God knows, he is

a man.”

It was not easy to see Colonel Langley, D.S.O. Trent knew that county magnates such as he was did not see everyone who desired an interview. He stayed at a good hotel in Norwich and enclosed Captain Edgell’s letter in one of his own.

The answer came back in the third person. It was favorable and punctiliously polite. Colonel Langley would be happy to see Mr. Anthony Trent at eleven o’clock on a certain morning. Dereham Old Hall was a dozen miles from Norwich, city of gardens, city of Norman cathedrals and many quaintly named parish churches. Trent hired a motor car and drove through the leafy Norfolk lanes.

Colonel Langley’s residence was the work of Inigo Jones and a perfect example of the Renaissance style. It stood at least a mile from the high road. The lodge keeper telephoned to the house and Trent’s driver was permitted to drive through the deer park and pull up before the great front doors.

The room in which Anthony Trent waited for the colonel was evidently a sort of smoking room. Trophies of the chase adorned the walls. It was evident Langley was a hunter of great game and had shot in all parts of the globe from Alaska to Africa.

He was a man of six feet four in height, grizzled and wore a small clipped military moustache. It was not a hard face, Trent noted, but that of a man who had always been removed from pursuits or people who wearied him. There was a sense of power in the face and that inevitable keenness of eye which a man who commanded a regiment could not fail to have acquired.

He bowed his visitor to a seat. He did not offer to shake hands.

“You have come,” he said politely, “from my former adjutant to ask a question concerning the regiment which he writes he could not tell you. I can think of nothing to which this would apply. He had every thread of the business in his hands.”

“Captain Edgell could not tell me the real name of one of his men who enlisted under the name of William Smith.”

There was no change of expression on the rather cold face of the lord of broad acres.

“And what made Captain Edgell assume I could help you, sir?”

“I don’t know all the particulars but he was certain you knew his real identity.”

“If I do,” Colonel Langley returned, “I shall keep that knowledge to myself. I regret that you have had this trouble for nothing.”

“William Smith,” Trent told the other, “saved my life. I want to thank him for it. Is there anything odd in that? You alone can help me so I come to you. I want to help William Smith. I have money which I should not have been able to enjoy but for him.”

“You imagine, then, that William Smith is penniless, is that it?”

“He told me he was,” Trent answered promptly. “I can offer him an opportunity to make good money in New York.”

He looked at Colonel Langley as he said it. If Smith was indeed of a great family the idea of being offered money and a job must amuse the one who knew his real name and estate. Sure enough a flicker of a smile passed over the landowner’s face.

“I am happy to inform you,” he said, “that Mr. Smith is living at home with his family financially secure enough not to need your aid.”

“That,” said Trent deliberately, “is more than you can say.”

“I am not in the habit of hearing my word doubted,” the older man said acidly.

“I am not doubting it,” Trent said suavely, “I mean merely to remind you that he may need my aid although it may not be monetary aid. You will remember that there have been passages in Mr. Smith’s life which have not been entirely creditable.”

“Are you claiming to be friend or accomplice?” Langley snapped.

“Let us say friend and confidant,” Trent smiled. “Perhaps he made certain confessions to me—”

“To you also?” Langley cried.

In that moment he had said too much. During that hour when Edgell left the private alone with his commanding officer the officer had obtained his confidence and very likely a confession. He saw the soldier throw a quick glance at one of those old safes which disguised themselves as necessary articles of furniture. Trent’s eyes dwelt on it no longer than the owner’s did, but he saw enough. Colonel Langley had told him plainly that the confession was locked in the safe which looked like a black oak sideboard on which decanters and a humidor were arranged.

“To me also,” Trent repeated, “and it is because of it that I knew he did what he did for the reason he needed more money than a younger son could expect. Colonel Langley, I only want his real name. I want to help him. That’s why I spoke of offering him money.”

“You will be glad to know,” the colonel answered, “that Mr. Smith is at present in no need of money.”

“You mean,” Trent said sharply, “that you will not give me his real name and address?”

“I cannot tell you,” Colonel Langley answered. “If you like I will write and say you have called and give him the opportunity to do as he pleases.”

Trent reflected for a moment. If Smith were not already aware of his presence in England it would be very unwise to advertise it. He was beginning to see he had been less than cautious in calling upon Edgell and Colonel Langley under his own name.

“I need not trouble you to do that,” he said, “if you wish to conceal his name it is no doubt your privilege and he will do well enough without my thanks.”

He made his chauffeur drive home at a temperate speed. The man knew all about the Langleys and was glad to tell the affable stranger. As they passed through the gates several carriages laden with men and some station carts filled with baggage passed into the gravelled drive.

“Gentlemen come for the shooting,” the chauffeur volunteered. “Tomorrow is September the first when partridge shooting commences. The colonel is a great shot and the King comes here often and the German Emperor has shot over those turnips in the old days. This is supposed to be the best partridge shoot in the kingdom and the birds are fine and strong this year—not too much rain in the Spring.”

“I suppose there’ll be a regular banquet tonight,” said Trent.

“Tomorrow night’s the night,” said the chauffeur grinning, “tonight they all go to bed early so as to be up to an early breakfast and have their shooting eyes. The colonel’s terrible man if any of the guns only wound their birds. They’ve got to shoot well tomorrow if they want to come here again. I know because my uncle is one of the keepers.”

The man was surprised at the tip his American passenger handed him when they reached the Maids’ Head Hotel, and charmed with his affability. He told his fellows that Trent was a real gentleman. He did not know that his unsolicited confidence had given the American a hint upon which he would be quick to act.

As Trent had been driven along the Dereham Road approach to Norwich he had seen a little cycle shop where gasoline was sold and repairs made. The war had sent English people of moderate circumstances back to the bicycle—again and only the wealthy could keep cars or buy petrol at seventy-five cents a gallon. In his drive he had seen several people of seemingly good position pedalling cheerfully through the lanes. The chauffeur had touched his hat to one and spoken of him as rector of a nearby parish. Cycles were to be hired everywhere and the prevailing rate seemed to be sixpence an hour or three and six for the day.

After dinner Anthony Trent found his way back to the little shop in the Dereham Road. “The Wensum Garage” it proudly called itself. Here he said he wished to hire a bicycle for a day. As dusk fell he was pedalling along to Dereham Old Hall. Few people were about and those he passed evinced no curiosity. Avoiding the main road which passed in front of the lodge and gates by which he had entered, he hid his wheel between two hay stacks which almost touched. Then he made his way through the kitchen gardens to the rear of the house. It was now ten o’clock and the servants’ part of the big house seemed deserted. Already the lights in the upper stories were evidence that some guests were retiring to rest well before the “glorious first.”

From the shelter of the rose garden he could see a half score of men and women on the great terrace in front of the splendid house. He could see that they were all in evening dress. In a mosquitoless country this habit of walking up and down the long stone terraces was a common practice after dinner. Trent came so near to the guests that he could hear them talking. The conversation was mainly about tomorrow’s prospects. He learned there was little disease among the birds, that they were phenomenally strong on the wing and hadn’t been shot over to any extent since 1914. Some guests deplored the fact that dancing was taboo on this night of nights but it was the Langley tradition and they must bend to it.

“Think of it,” he heard a woman say, laughing, “lights out at twelve! How primitive and delightful.” She yawned a little, “I’m looking forward to it; we all stay up too late.”

“Good night, Duchess,” he heard the man say. “Sleep well and pray I may be in form.”

“Duchess!” In the old days Anthony Trent would have thrilled at the title for it meant invariably jewels of price and the gathering of the very rich. But he was waiting outside the masterpiece of Inigo Jones not for any of those precious glittering stones for which he had sacrificed all his prospects of fame and honor but for the documents which he believed were hidden in the iron box, that ridiculous “pete” covered with black English oak. It was another of the “hunches” which had come to him. He had never been more excited about any of the many jobs he had undertaken.

As he sat among the roses waiting for time to pass he reflected that the few failures that had been his had not been attended by any danger. He had lost the pearls that were wont to encircle the throat of a, great opera singer because her maid had chosen an awkward hour to prosecute her amour with a chauffeur. The diamonds of the Mexican millionaire’s lady were lost to him because