The Lost Valley Part 11

I handed it to her. At first sight I could have sworn that it was the identical piece of paper that I had picked up from the kitchen floor that momentous afternoon, but a second glance showed me that I was mistaken. Many of the characters were the same, but the grouping was altogether different. They ran as follows:--

[email protected]; [email protected] &9; 3 5433-3/4 [email protected] @75 994 1/4; [email protected] 48-1/2-8;? 1/2-7; 1/4-43 8; &8;3 --3-1/4-1/2-743 1/2-3: 3; "335 3-1/4-1/[email protected]; "1/4-/3 843/5 ;[email protected]/4 4-1/4-2 1/4;[email protected] &8;3 1/4-5 [email protected] 1/4;?&3-1/2 59 [email protected] 043:897-1/2 9;3 3)53; 8;? "94 523&:3 "335.8?

"It doesn't seem to mean anything, Jim," she said in consternation.

"I'll admit it's pretty hard to understand," I told her. "It looks like a page out of a ready reckoner or a mathematician's nightmare. But it does mean something or your uncle wouldn't have put it up to us. What it is we've got to find out. Possibly the Mr. c.u.mshaw of the letter can throw a little light on the subject."

"Who is Mr. c.u.mshaw, Jim?"

"I never heard of the man until I read this letter," I said. "He's a new element in the plot, and, unless your uncle's pulling our legs, I think he's going to be a very important factor."

"He's got to share with us, too," she reminded me.

"Share with you," I corrected. "I've told you a couple of times already that I'll help you to it, but that I don't intend to take a penny of the money. So, when you're figuring it out, remember it's halves, not thirds, you're working on."

"If it was anybody else but me you'd take it quickly enough," she said accusingly.

"Maybe I would and again maybe I wouldn't," I said with a smile.

"Oh, Jim, I hate you!" she cried in a sudden blaze of temper.

"I'm sorry," I said easily. "It doesn't take much to make you hate seemingly."

She turned and faced me with one of those swift changes of front that made her so hard to deal with. The white-hot anger had gone as suddenly as it had come, and in its place there was nothing but hopelessness. She looked so weary and so miserable that for the moment I was tempted to take her in my arms and tell her that the past did not matter any more than did the future. But the memory of the words with which she had driven me out of her life that summer's evening long ago lashed me like a whip, and in an instant I had hardened my heart.

"Why do you make it so hard for me, Jim?" she moaned. "If only you would help me a little."

"I'm helping you all I can," I said with a touch of cynicism in my voice. "You can count on me until the adventure's finished."

"You know I don't mean that," she said weakly.

"There's nothing else you can mean," I answered stubbornly.

For the s.p.a.ce of a heart-beat we stood facing each other. I saw that she was on the verge of a breakdown, and I knew that my own resolution was failing. After all, what need was there for me to be so brutal? She had suffered more than enough for the idle words spoken in haste all those years ago. There is no knowing what might have happened had not Fate intervened. But just as things had reached breaking-strain the door-bell rang. The prosaic sound brought us back instantly to earth, and a dramatic situation, tense with possibilities, became in a moment common-place.

"There's the door-bell," Moira said calmly. "I wonder who it can be."

"Some visitor or other," I remarked.

"What visitor could it be?" she asked. "I know of no one who'd have business here."

I knew of one at least, but I did not put my thoughts into words.

Instead I remarked, "Quite possibly it's some house-hunter."

We heard the maid's steps go up the hall past us. There was a whispered colloquy at the door, and then, quite distinctly, the maid's voice said, "I'll see if he is in."

"That must be me," I guessed. "I'm the only 'he' in the house."

"But who knows you're here?" Moira objected.

"That's right," I said. "Who does?"

I opened the door of the room and looked out. The maid, who was coming down the pa.s.sage, caught sight of me. "There's a gentleman wishes to see you, Mr. Carstairs," she announced.

"Show him in here," I said.

I turned back into the room. "You'd better stop here, Moira," I said as she made a movement to go. "It can't be anything private. It's just as likely that it's something that interests you too."

She sat down again.

The maid ushered the newcomer into the room. I ran my eye over him as I advanced to meet him. He was small and dapper, and his air of self-possession was almost perfect. His features were clean-cut, dark eyes glowed in a face that had evidently been exposed to the weather for many years, and his brow was surmounted by a ma.s.s of black curls.

"Mr. Carstairs?" he asked.

"That's me," I said truthfully but ungrammatically.

"This will explain my business," he said, and handed me a piece of pasteboard. I took it from him; it was one of Bryce's visiting cards, and scribbled across the foot of it were these words:--"Introducing Mr.

Albert c.u.mshaw. H. Bryce."

"I've been expecting you, Mr. c.u.mshaw," I said. "I've been expecting you for some days now."

As a matter of fact I hadn't, but it is always a good rule to allow the other man to think you know everything.

"Moira," I said, "this is the Mr. c.u.mshaw we've been waiting for. Mr.

c.u.mshaw, Miss Drummond."

"Pleased to meet you," he said and looked as if he meant it.

"Take a seat, Mr. c.u.mshaw," I said, and when he had accepted a chair, "What can I do for you?" I enquired.

He looked curiously from one to the other of us as if to seek an inspiration. "I presume Mr. Bryce is not about," he said at length.

"Well, hardly," I answered. "He's been dead this last couple of weeks."

It was longer than that in reality, but I mentioned the first period that came into my head. Anyway, it didn't matter much how long it was since he died; nothing could make him any the less dead now.

"Oh," said Mr. c.u.mshaw quietly, as though my news was just what he had been expecting all along. "It is most regrettable," he added.

"Now what can I do for you?" I persisted.

"Touching the little matter of the gold escort," he said and fixed me with a glowing eye.

"Yes, the gold escort, Mr. c.u.mshaw. What about it!"

He did not answer that immediately, but eyed both Moira and me as if to test our receptive capacities. I maintained an att.i.tude of complete indifference; Moira leaned forward a little with interest plainly marked in every line of her face.

"You were both in Mr. Bryce's confidence?" His quiet remark took the form of a question.