The Vanished Messenger Part 40

"No," she said, "it was not likely he would not give you that key!"

Hamel dined simply but comfortably. Mrs. c.o.x cleared away the things, brought him his coffee, and appeared a few minutes later, her shawl wrapped around her, ready for departure.

"I shall be here at seven o'clock in the morning, sir," she announced.

Hamel was a little startled. He withdrew the pip from his mouth and looked at her.

"Why, of course," he remarked. "I'd forgotten. There is no place for you to stay here."

"I shall go back to my brother's." she said.

Hamel put some money upon the table.

"Please get anything that is necessary," he directed. "I shall leave you to do the housekeeping for a few days."

"Shall you be staying here long, sir?" she asked.

"I am not sure," he replied.

"I do not suppose," she said, "that you will stay for very long. I shall get only the things that you require from day to day. Good night, sir."

She left the room. Hamel looked after her for a moment with a frown. In some indescribable way, the woman half impressed, half irritated him.

She had always the air of keeping something in the background. He followed her out on to the little ridge of beach, a few minutes after she had left. The mist was still drifting about. Only a few yards away the sea rolled in, filling the air with dull thunder. The marshland was half obscured. St. David's Hall was invisible, but like strangely-hung lanterns in an empty s.p.a.ce he saw the line of lights from the great house gleam through the obscurity. There was no sound save the sound of the sea. He s.h.i.+vered slightly. It was like an empty land, this.

Then, moved by some instinct of curiosity, he made his way round to the closed door of the boat-house, only to find it, as he had expected, locked. He shook it slightly, without result. Then he strolled round to the back, entered his own little abode by the kitchen, and tried the other door which led into the boat-house. It was not only locked, but a staple had been put in, and it was fastened with a padlock of curious design which he did not remember to have seen there before. Again, half unconsciously, he listened, and again he found the silence oppressive.

He went back to his room, brought out some of the books which it had been his intention to study, and sat and read over the fire.

At ten o'clock he went to bed. As he threw open his window before undressing, it seemed to him that he could catch the sound of voices from the sea. He listened intently. A grey pall hung everywhere. To the left, with strange indistinctness, almost like something human struggling to a.s.sert itself, came the fitful flash from the light at the entrance to the tidal way. Once more he strained his ears. This time there was no doubt about it. He heard the sound of fishermen's voices.

He heard one of them say distinctly:

"Hard aport, Dave lad! That's Fentolin's light. Keep her out a bit.

Steady, lad!"

Through a rift in the mist, he caught a glimpse of the brown sail of a fis.h.i.+ng-boat, dangerously near the land. He watched it alter its course slightly and pa.s.s on. Then again there was silence. He undressed slowly and went to bed.

Later on he woke with a start and sat up in bed, listening intently, listening for he knew not what. Except for the backward scream of the pebbles, dragged down every few seconds by the receding waves, an unbroken silence seemed to prevail. He struck a match and looked at his watch. It was exactly three o'clock. He got out of bed. He was a man in perfect health, ignorant of the meaning of nerves, a man of proved courage. Yet he was conscious that his pulses were beating with absurd rapidity. A new feeling seemed to possess him. He could almost have declared that he was afraid. What sound had awakened him? He had no idea, yet he seemed to have a distinct and absolute conviction that it had been a real sound and no dream. He drew aside the curtains and looked out of the window. The mist now seemed to have become almost a fog, to have closed in upon sea and land. There was nothing whatever to be seen. As he stood there for a moment, listening, his face became moist with the drifting vapour. Suddenly upon the beach he saw what at first he imagined must be an optical illusion--a long shaft of light, invisible in itself except that it seemed to slightly change the density of the mist. He threw on an overcoat over his pyjamas, thrust on his slippers, and taking up his own electric torch, hastily descended the stairs. He opened the front door and stepped out on to the beach. He stood in the very place where the light had seemed to be, and looked inland. There was no sign of any human person, not a sound except the falling of the sea upon the pebbly beach. He raised his voice and called out. Somehow or other, speech seemed to be a relief.

"Hullo!"

There was no response. He tried again.

"Is any one there?"

Still no answer. He watched the veiled light from the harbour appear and disappear. It threw no shadow of illumination upon the spot to which he had gazed from his window. One window at St. David's Hall was illuminated. The rest of the place was wrapped now in darkness. He walked up to the boat-house. The door was still locked. There was no sign that any one had been there. Reluctantly at last he re-entered the Tower and made his way up-stairs.

"Confound that fellow Kinsley!" he muttered, as he threw off his overcoat. "All his silly suggestions and melodramatic ideas have given me a fit of nerves. I am going to bed, and I am going to sleep. That couldn't have been a light I saw at all. I couldn't have heard anything.

I am going to sleep."

CHAPTER XXVII

Hamel awoke to find his room filled with suns.h.i.+ne and a soft wind blowing in through the open window. There was a pleasant odour of coffee floating up from the kitchen. He looked at his watch--it was past eight o'clock. The sea was glittering and bespangled with sunlight. He found among his scanty belongings a bathing suit, and, wrapped in his overcoat, hurried down-stairs.

"Breakfast in half an hour, Mrs. c.o.x," he called out.

She stood at the door, watching him as he stepped across the pebbles and plunged in. For a few moments he swam. Then he turned over on his back.

The sunlight was gleaming from every window of St. David's Hall. He even fancied that upon the terrace he could see a white-clad figure looking towards him. He turned over and swam once more. From her place in the doorway Mrs. c.o.x called out to him.

"Mind the Dagger Rocks, sir!"

He waved his hand. The splendid exhilaration of the salt water seemed to give him unlimited courage. He dived, but the woman's cry of fear soon recalled him. Presently he swam to sh.o.r.e and hurried up the beach. Mrs.

c.o.x, with a sigh of relief, disappeared into the kitchen.

"Those rocks on your nerves again, Mrs. c.o.x?" he asked, good-humouredly, as he took his place at the breakfast table a quarter of an hour later.

"It's only us who live here, sir," she answered, "who know how terrible they are. There's one--it comes up like my hand--a long spike. A boat once struck upon that, and it's as though it'd been sawn through the middle."

"I must have a look at them some day," he declared. "I am going to work this morning, Mrs. c.o.x. Lunch at one o'clock."

He took rugs and established himself with a pile of books at the back of a gra.s.sy knoll, sheltered from the wind, with the sea almost at his feet. He sharpened his pencil and numbered the page of his notebook.

Then he looked up towards the Hall garden and found himself dreaming.

The suns.h.i.+ne was delicious, and a gentle optimism seemed to steal over him.

"I am a fool!" he murmured to himself. "I am catching some part of these people's folly. Mr. Fentolin is only an ordinary, crotchety invalid with queer tastes. On the big things he is probably like other men. I shall go to him this morning."

A sea-gull screamed over his head. Little, brown sailed fis.h.i.+ng-boats came gliding down the harbourway. A pleasant, sensuous joyfulness seemed part of the spirit of the day. Hamel stretched himself out upon the dry sand.

"Work be hanged!" he exclaimed.

A soft voice answered him almost in his ear, a voice which was becoming very familiar.

"A most admirable sentiment, my young friend, which you seem to be doing your best to live up to. Not a line written, I see."

He sat up upon his rug. Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, was there by his side. Behind was the faithful Meekins, with an easel under his arm.

"I trust that your first night in your new abode has been a pleasant one?" Mr. Fentolin asked.

"I slept quite well, thanks," Hamel replied. "Glad to see you're going to paint."

Mr. Fentolin shook his head gloomily.

"It is, alas!" he declared, "one of my weaknesses. I can work only in solitude. I came down on the chance that the fine weather might have tempted you over to the Golf Club. As it is, I shall return."

"I am awfully sorry," Hamel said. "Can't I go out of sight somewhere?"

Mr. Fentolin sighed.