The Postmaster's Daughter Part 16

"Bring him out here," said Grant. "Fetch some sherry and gla.s.ses, and give us five minutes' notice before dinner is served."

"Please, sir," t.i.ttered Minnie, "the gentleman prefers to stay indoors.

He said his complexion won't stand the glare."

"Very well," smiled Grant, rising. "Put the sherry and bitters on the sideboard."

"Say," murmured Hart, "is this chap really a detective?"

"Yes. He stands high at Scotland Yard."

"Never more than five feet four, I'll swear. But I wouldn't have missed this for a pension. I have a revolver in my hip pocket, of course. One would feel lonely without it, even in England. But I hope you can stage a few knives and daggers, and a red light. I can cut masks out of a strip of black velvet. That girl will have a piece stowed away somewhere."

The two entered the dining-room study, where the table was now laid for dinner. Furneaux was seated on the edge of a chair in the darkest corner. His eyes gleamed at them strangely.

"Can you trust Bates?" he said to Grant.

It was a wholly unexpected question, and Grant answered sharply:

"Of course, I can."

"Tell him to make sure that no one trespa.s.ses on your lawn between now and ten o'clock. Close that window, draw the blind and curtains, and block that small window, the one through which you saw the ghost."

"Ye G.o.ds!" cackled Hart ecstatically.

"Why all these precautions?" demanded Grant, rather amused now.

"I'm supposed to be on the very verge of arresting you, and it would weaken the faith of my allies if I were seen drinking your wines and eating your chicken."

"By the way, how did you know I had chickens in store, and a spit on which to roast them?"

"I looked you over at five-thirty this morning, having traveled from London by the mail train. I must lecture you on your inefficient window-catches, Mr. Grant. Several self-respecting burglars of my acquaintance would give your house the go-by as being too easy. And, one other matter. I suggest that any man who mentions the Steynholme murder again before the coffee arrives shall be fined a sovereign for each offense, such fine, or fines, to form a fund for the relief of his hearers. _Cre nom d'un pipe_! Three intelligent men can surely discuss more interesting topics while they eat!"

CHAPTER VIII

AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM

"Have a cigarette," said Grant to Furneaux, when the blinds were drawn, a lamp lighted, and the sherry dispensed.

"Thank you."

The self-invited guest took one. He sniffed it, broke the paper wrapping, and crumbled some of the tobacco between finger and thumb.

"Ah, those Greeks!" he said sadly. "They simply can't go straight. This brand of Turk used to be made of a tobacco grown on a slope above Salonica. A strip of sun-baked soil built up a reputation which is now being bartered for filthy lucre by the use of Egyptian 'fillings.'"

"You're a connoisseur, Mr. Hawknose--try these," said Hart, proffering a case, from which the detective drew a cigarette, throwing the other one aside.

"Why 'Hawknose'?" he inquired.

"A blend. First syllable of Hawkshaw and second of Furneaux--the latter Anglicized, of course."

"And vulgarized."

"You prefer Furshaw, perhaps?"

"Either effort is feeble for a man who can write about South America, and be lucid. Do you smoke this stuff, may I ask?" While talking, he had smelt and destroyed the second cigarette.

"If it's a fair question, what the devil do _you_ smoke?" cried Hart.

"Nothing. I'm a non-smoker. My profession demands a clear intellect, not a brain atrophied by nicotine."

"Piffle! Carlyle and Bismarck were smokers."

"Who reads Carlyle now-a-days? And what modern German pays heed to Bismarck's dogmas? Look at that pipe of yours. It was once a pure ivory white. Now it is black--soiled by tobacco juice. Your lungs are slowly emulating it, and your wits will cloud in time. Read Tolstoi, Mr. Hart.

He will teach you how nicotine deadens the conscience."

"At last I know why I smoke like a Thames tug," laughed Hart, "but I'm blest if I can understand why _you_ make such a study of the vile weed."

"Most criminals are addicted to the habit. I cla.s.sify them by their brand of tobacco. For instance, a clever forger would never descend to thick twist, while a swell mobsman would turn with horror from a woodbine."

Minnie entered, and nodded, whereupon Grant led the others upstairs to wash. From the bathroom he looked out over a darkening landscape. Doris's dormer window was open. She was leaning on the sill, but he could not tell whether or not her eyes were turned his way. Her att.i.tude was pensive, disconsolate, curiously forlorn for a girl normally high-spirited. He was on the point of signaling to her when he remembered Furneaux's presence. There was something impish, almost diabolically clever, in that little man's characteristics which induced wariness.

The dinner was a marvel, considering the short notice given to the cook.

Luckily, Mrs. Bates, a loyal soul, had resolved to tempt her employer's appet.i.te that evening. Village gossip had it that the police were about to arrest him, and she was determined he should enjoy at least one good meal before being haled to prison. Hence, the materials were present.

The rest was a matter of quant.i.ties, and Suss.e.x seldom stints itself in that respect.

The chatter round the table was light and amusing. The three were well matched conversationally. Furneaux evidently held the opinion once expressed by a notable Walrus--that the time had come

To talk of many things: Of shots--and s.h.i.+ps--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings.

He was in excellent form, and the others played up to him. Hart's slow drawl was ever trenchant and witty, and Grant forgot his woes in congenial company. As for the mercurial detective himself, it might be said of him as of the school-master of Auburn:

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew.

It was he who dropped them with a bounce from the realm of fancy to the unpleasing region of ugly fact. No sooner had Minnie cleared the table, and brought in the coffee, than he whisked around on Grant as though hitherto he had been only awaiting an opportunity of scarifying him.

"Now," he said, propping an elbow on the table, and supporting his chin on a clenched fist, "the embargo is off the Steynholme affair. _You_ didn't kill Adelaide Melhuish, Mr. Grant. Who did?"

"I wish I could tell you," was the emphatic answer.

"Do you suspect anybody? You needn't fear the libel law in confiding your secret thought to me, and I a.s.sume that Mr. Hart is trustworthy--where his friends are concerned?"

"Why that unkind differentiating clause, my pocket Vidocq?" put in Hart.

"Because two Kings and a baker's dozen of Presidents have, at various times, sent most unflattering reports to this country about you."