CHAPTER XI
ALLEN AS A DETECTIVE
Mr. Hill left no message behind him with the groom. Jacobs returned and said that his master had gone to London; he did not state when he would return. Allen and his mother were much perplexed by this disappearance. It looked very much like a flight from justice, but Mrs. Hill could not be persuaded to think ill of the man to whom she owed so much. Like many women she took too humble an attitude on account of the obligation she had incurred. Yet Mrs. Hill was not humble by nature.
"What will you do now, Allen?" she asked the next morning.
"I intend to learn why Cain sent that parcel to my father. If he can explain I may find out why my father is afraid."
"I don't think he is afraid," insisted Mrs. Hill, much troubled.
"It looks very like it," commented her son; "however, you had better tell the servants that father has gone to London on business. I expect he will come back. He can't stop away indefinitely."
"Of course he'll come back and explain everything. Allen, your father is whimsical-I always admitted that, but he has a heart of gold. All that is strange in his conduct he will explain on his return."
"Even why he took my revolver to the Red Deeps?" said Allen grimly.
"Whatever he took it for, it was for no ill purpose," said Mrs. Hill. "Perhaps he made an appointment to see Strode there. If so I don't wonder, he went armed, for Strode was quite the kind of man who would murder him."
"In that case Mr. Strode has fallen into his own trap. However, I'll see what I can do."
"Be careful, Allen. Your father's good name must not suffer."
"That is why I am undertaking the investigation," replied the young man, rising. "Well, mother, I am going to see Mrs. Merry and ask where Cain is to be found. The circus may have left Colchester."
"You might take the brown paper that was round the box," suggested Mrs. Hill. "Mrs. Merry may be able to say if the address is in her son's writing."
"I don't think it is-the hand is a most illiterate one. Cain knows how to write better. I have seen his letters to Eva."
"What!" cried Mrs. Hill, scandalised, "does she let a lad in that position write to her?"
"Cain is Eva's foster-brother, mother," said Allen drily, "and she is the only one who can manage him."
"He's a bad lot like his father was before him," muttered Mrs. Hill, and then went to explain to the servants that Mr. Hill would be absent for a few days.
Allen walked to Misery Castle, and arrived there just before midday. For some time he had been strolling on the common wondering how to conduct his campaign. He was new to the detective business and did not very well know how to proceed. At first he had been inclined to seek professional assistance; but on second thoughts he decided to take no one into his confidence for the present. He dreaded what he might learn concerning his father's connection with the crime, as he by no means shared his mother's good opinion of Mr. Hill. Allen and his father had never got on well together, as their natures were diametrically opposed to each other. Allen had the steady good sense of his mother, while the father was airy and light and exasperatingly frivolous. Had not Mrs. Hill thought herself bound, out of gratitude, to live with the man who had done so much for her, and because of her son Allen, she certainly would not have put up with such a trying husband for so many years. Allen was always impatient of his father's ways; and absence only confirmed him in the view he took of his evergreen sire. He could scarcely believe that the man was his father, and always felt relieved when out of his presence. However, he determined to do his best to get to the bottom of the matter. He could not believe that Mr. Hill had fired the fatal shot, but fancied the little man had some knowledge of who had done so. And whether he was an accessory before or after the fact was equally unpleasant.
On arriving at Mrs. Merry's abode he was greeted by that good lady with the news that Eva had gone to spend the day with Mrs. Palmer. "To get used to her, as you might say," said Mrs. Merry. "Oh, Mr. Allen, dear," she spoke with the tears streaming down her withered face, "oh, whatever shall I do without my deary?"
"You'll see her often," said Allen soothingly.
"It won't be the same," moaned Mrs. Merry. "It's like marrying a daughter, not that I've got one, thank heaven-it's never the same."
"Well-well-don't cry, there's a good soul. I have come to see you about Cain."
Mrs. Merry gave a screech. "He's in gaol! I see it in your eyes! Oh, well I knew he'd get there!"
"He hasn't got there yet," said the young man impatiently; "come into the drawing-room. I can explain."
"Is it murder or poaching or burglary?" asked Mrs. Merry, still bent on believing Cain was in trouble, "or horse-stealing, seeing he's in a circus?"
"It's none of the three," said Allen, sitting down and taking the brown paper wrapping out of his pocket. "Jane Wasp saw him in Colchester, and he's quite well."
"And what's she been calling on my son there, I'd like to know?" asked Mrs. Merry, bridling. "He shan't marry her, though he says he loves her, which I don't believe. To be united with that meddlesome Wasp policeman. No, Mr. Allen, never, whatever you may say."
"You can settle that yourself. All I wish to know is this," he spread out the paper. "Do you know whose writing this is?"
Mrs. Merry, rather surprised, bent over the paper, and began to spell out the address with one finger. "Lawrence Hill," she said, "ah, they used to call your father that in the old days. I never hear him called so now."
"Never mind. What of the writing?"
Mrs. Merry looked at it at a distance, held it close to her nose, and then tilted it sideways. All the time her face grew paler and paler. Then she took an envelope out of her pocket and glanced from the brown paper to the address. Suddenly she gave a cry, and threw her apron over her head. "Oh, Giles-Giles-whatever have you bin up to!"
"What do you mean?" asked Allen, feeling inclined to shake her.
"It's Giles's writing," sobbed Mrs. Merry, still invisible; "whatever you may say, it's his own writing, he never having been to school and writing pothooks and hangers awful." She tore the apron from her face and pointed, "Look at this Lawrence, and at this, my name on the envelope. He wrote, saying he's coming here to worry me, and I expect he's sent to your pa saying the same. They was thick in the old days, the wicked old days," said Mrs. Merry with emphasis, "I mean your pa and him as is dead and my brute of a Giles."
"So Giles Merry wrote this?" said Allen thoughtfully, looking at the brown paper writing. "I wonder if the cross is a sign between my father and him, which has called my father to London?"
"Have you seen Giles, sir?" asked Mrs. Merry dolefully, "if so, tell him I'll bolt and bar the house and have a gun ready. I won't be struck and bullied and badgered out of my own home."
"I haven't seen your husband," explained Allen, rising, "this parcel was sent to my father by your son through Jane Wasp." Mrs. Merry gave another cry. "He's got hold of Cain-oh, and Cain said he hadn't set eyes on him. He's ruined!" Mrs. Merry flopped into a chair. "My son's ruined-oh, and he was my pride! But that wicked father of his would make Heaven the other place, he would."
"I suppose Cain must have got the parcel from his father?" said Allen.
"He must have. It's in Giles's writing. What was in the parcel, sir?"
"A cross made of two sticks tied with a piece of grass. Do you know what that means?"
"No, I don't, but if it comes from Giles Merry, it means some wicked thing, you may be sure, Mr. Allen, whatever you may say."
"Well, my father was much upset when he got this parcel and he has gone to London."
"To see Giles?" asked Mrs. Merry.
"I don't know. The parcel came from Colchester."
"Then Giles is there, and with my poor boy," cried Mrs. Merry, trembling. "Oh, when will my cup of misery be full? I always expected this."
"Don't be foolish, Mrs. Merry. If your husband comes you can show him the door."
"He'd show me his boot," retorted Mrs. Merry. "I've a good mind to sell up, and clear out. If 'twasn't for Miss Eva, I would. And there, I've had to part from her on account of Giles. If he came and made the house, what he do make it, which is the pit of Tophet, a nice thing it would be for Miss Eva."
"I'll break his head if he worries Eva," said Allen grimly; "I've dealt before with that sort of ruffian. But I want you to tell me where Cain is to be heard of. I expect the circus has left Colchester by this time."
"Cain never writes to me, he being a bad boy," wailed Mrs. Merry, "an' now as his father's got hold of him he'll be worse nor ever. But you can see in the papers where the playactors go, sir."
"To be sure," said Allen, "how stupid I am. Well, good-day, Mrs. Merry, and don't tell Miss Eva anything of this."
"Not if I was tortured into slices," said Mrs. Merry, walking to the door with Allen, "ah, it's a queer world. I hope I'll go to my long home soon, sir, and then I'll be where Merry will never come. You may be sure they won't let him in."
This view of the case appeared to afford Mrs. Merry much satisfaction, and she chuckled as Allen walked away. He went along the road wondering at the situation. His father was not a good husband to his mother-at least Allen did not think so. Giles was a brute to his wife, and the late Mr. Strode from all accounts had been a neglectful spouse. "And they were all three boon companions," said Allen to himself; "I wonder what I'll find out about the three? Perhaps Giles has a hand in the death of Strode. At all events the death has been caused by some trouble of the past. God forgive me for doubting my father, but I dread to think of what I may learn if I go on with the case. But for my mother's sake I must go on."
Allen now directed his steps to Wasp's abode, as he knew at this hour the little policeman would be at home. It struck Allen that it would be just as well to see the bullet which had pierced the heart of Mr. Strode. If it was one from his own revolver-and Allen knew the shape of its bullets well-there would be no doubt as to his father's guilt. But Allen fancied, that from the feeble nature of the wound on the arm, it was just the kind of shaky aim which would be taken by a timid man like his father. Perhaps (this was Allen's theory) the three companions of old met at the Red Deeps-Mr. Strode, Giles, and his father. Mr. Hill, in a fit of rage, might have fired the shot which ripped the arm, but Giles must have been the one who shot Strode through the heart. Of course Allen had no grounds to think in this way, and it all depended on the sight of the bullet in the possession of Wasp as to the truth of the theory. Allen intended to get Wasp out of the room on some pretext and then fit the bullet into his weapon. He had it in his pocket for the purpose. This was the only way in which he could think of solving the question as to his father's guilt or innocence.
Wasp was at home partaking of a substantial dinner. Some of the children sat round, and Mrs. Wasp, a grenadier of a woman, was at the head of the table. But three children sat out with weekly journals on their laps, and paper and pencil in hand. They all three looked worried. After greeting Allen, Wasp explained.
"There's a prize for guessing the names of European capitals," he said; "it's given in the Weekly Star., and I've set them to work to win the prize. They're working at it now, and don't get food till each gets at least two capitals. They must earn money somehow, sir."
"And they've been all the morning without getting one, sir," said Mrs. Wasp plaintively. Apparently her heart yearned over her three children, who looked very hungry. "Don't you think they might eat now in honour of the gentleman's visit?"
"Silence," cried Wasp, "sit down. No talking in the ranks. Wellington, Kitchener, and Boadicea" – these were the names of the unhappy children-"must do their duty. Named after generals, sir," added Wasp with pride.
"Was Boadicea a general?" asked Allen, sorry for the unfortunate trio, who were very eagerly searching for the capitals in a school atlas.
"A very good one for a woman, sir, as I'm informed by Marlborough, my eldest, sir, as is at a board school. Boadicea, if you don't know the capital of Bulgaria you get no dinner."
Boadicea whimpered, and Allen went over to the three, his kind heart aching for their hungry looks. "Sofia is the capital. Put it down."
"Right, sir," said Wasp in a military fashion, "put down Sofia."
"What capital are you trying to find, Wellington?" asked Allen.
"Spain, sir, and Kitchener is looking for Victoria."
"The Australian country, sir, not Her late Majesty," said Wasp smartly.
"Madrid is the capital of Spain, and Melbourne that of Victoria."
The children put these down hastily and simply leaped for the table.
"Silence," cried the policeman, horrified at this hurry; "say grace."
The three stood up and recited grace like a drill sergeant shouting the standing orders for the day. Shortly, their jaws were at work. Wasp surveyed the family grimly, saw they were orderly, and then turned to his visitor.
"Now, Mr. Allen, sir, I am at your disposal. Come into the parlour."
He led the way with a military step, and chuckles broke out amongst the family relieved of his presence. When in the small room and the door closed, Allen came artfully to the subject of his call. It would not do to let Wasp suspect his errand. Certainly the policeman had overcome his suspicion that Allen was concerned in the matter, but a pointed request for the bullet might reawaken them. Wasp was one of those hasty people who jump to conclusions, unsupported by facts.
"Wasp," said Allen, sitting down under a portrait of Lord Roberts, "Miss Strode and myself are engaged, as you know."
"Yes, sir." Wasp standing stiffly saluted. "I give you joy."
"Thank you. We have been talking over the death of her father, and she is anxious to learn who killed him."
"Natural enough," said the policeman, scratching his chin, "but it is not easy to do that, especially" – Wasp looked sly-"as there is no reward."
"Miss Strode is not in a position to offer a reward," replied Allen, "so, for her sake, I am undertaking the search. I may want your assistance, Wasp, and I am prepared to pay you for the same. I am not rich, but if ten pounds would be of any use-"
"If you'd a family of ten, sir, you'd know as it would," said Wasp, looking gratified. "I'm not a haggler, Mr. Allen, but with bread so dear, and my children being large eaters, I'm willing to give you information for twenty pounds."
"I can't afford that," said Allen decidedly.
"I can tell you something about Butsey," said Wasp eagerly.
"Ten pounds will pay you for your trouble," replied Allen, "and remember, Wasp, if you don't accept the offer and find the culprit on your own, there will be no money coming from the Government."
"There will be promotion, though, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, drawing himself up, "and that means a larger salary. Let us say fifteen."
"Very good, though you drive a hard bargain. When the murderer is laid by the heels I'll pay you fifteen pounds. No, Wasp," he added, seeing what the policeman was about to say, "I can't give you anything on account. Well, is it a bargain?"
"It must be, as you won't do otherwise," said Wasp ruefully. "What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about this boy."
"Butsey?" Wasp produced a large note-book. "I went to Westhaven to see if there was truth in that Sunday school business he told me about when I met him. Mr. Allen, there's no Sunday school; but there was a treat arranged for children from London."
"Something of the Fresh Air Fund business?"
"That's it, sir. This was a private business, from some folk as do kindnesses in Whitechapel. A lot of children came down on Wednesday-"
Allen interrupted. "That was the day Mr. Strode came down?"
"Yes, sir, and on that night he was shot at the Red Deeps. Well, sir, Butsey must have been with the ragged children as he looks like that style of urchin. But I can't be sure of this. The children slept at Westhaven and went back on Thursday night."
"And Butsey saw Mrs. Merry in the morning of Thursday?"
"He did, sir, and me later. Butsey I fancy didn't go back till Saturday. But I can't be sure of this."
"You don't seem to be sure of anything," said Allen tartly. "Well, I can't say your information is worth much, Wasp."
"Hold on, sir. I've got the address of the folk in Whitechapel who brought the children down. If you look them up, they may know something of Butsey."
"True enough. Give me the address."
Wasp consented, and wrote it out in a stiff military hand, while Allen went on artfully, "Was any weapon found at the Red Deeps?"
"No, sir," said Wasp, handing his visitor the address of the Whitechapel Mission, which Allen put in his pocket-book. "I wish the revolver had been found, then we'd see if the bullet fitted."
"Only one bullet was found."
"Only one, sir. Dr. Grace got it out of the body. It is the bullet which caused the death, and I got Inspector Garrit to leave it with me. Perhaps you'd like to see it, sir?"
"Oh, don't trouble," said Allen carelessly. "I can't say anything about it, Wasp."
"Being a gentleman as has travelled you might know something, Mr. Allen," said Wasp, and went to a large tin box, which was inscribed with his name and the number of his former regiment, in white letters. From this he took out a packet, and opening it, extracted a small twist of paper. Then he placed the bullet in Allen's hand.
"I should think it came from a Derringer," said Wasp.
Allen's heart leaped, for his revolver was not a Derringer. He turned the bullet in his hand carelessly. "It might," he said with a shrug. "Pity the other bullet wasn't found."
"The one as ripped the arm, sir? It's buried in some tree trunk, I guess, Mr. Allen. But it would be the same size as this. Both were fired from the same barrel. First shot missed, but the second did the business. Hold on, sir, I've got a drawing of the Red Deeps, and I'll show you where we found the corpse," and Wasp left the room.
Allen waited till the door was closed, then hastily took the revolver from his breast-pocket. He tried the bullet, but it proved to be much too large for the revolving barrel, and could not have been fired therefrom. "Thank heaven," said Allen, with a sigh of relief, "my father is innocent."
CHAPTER XII
LORD SALTARS
Mrs. Palmer dwelt in a large and imposing house, some little distance from the village, and standing back a considerable way from the Shanton Road. It had a park of fifteen acres filled with trees, smooth lawns, a straight avenue, imposing iron gates, and a lodge, so that it was quite an impressive mansion. The building itself was square, of two stories, painted white, and had many windows with green shutters. It somewhat resembled an Italian villa, and needed sunshine to bring out its good points; but in wet weather it looked miserable and dreary. It was elevated on a kind of mound, and a stone terrace ran round the front and the side. At the back were large gardens and ranges of hot-houses. Everything was kept as neat as a new pin, for Mrs. Palmer had many servants. Being rich, she could afford to indulge her fancies, and made full use of her money.
"La, dear," said Mrs. Palmer, when Eva was settled with her as companion, "what's the use of five thousand a year if you don't make yourself comfortable? I was brought up in a shabby way, as poor dead pa was a small-very small-chemist at Shanton. Palmer had his shop in Westhaven and was also in a grubbing way of business till people took to coming to Westhaven. Then property rose in value, and Palmer made money. He used to call on pa and commiserate with him about the dull trade in Shanton, where people were never sick. He advised him to move to Westhaven, but pa, losing heart after the death of ma, would not budge. Then Palmer proposed to me, and though I was in love with Jimmy Eccles at the Bank, I thought I'd marry money. Oh, dear me," sighed Mrs. Palmer looking very pretty and placid, "so here I am a widow."
"A happy widow," said Eva, smiling.
"I don't deny that, dear. Though, to be sure, the death of poor pa, and of Palmer, were blows. I was fond of both. Jimmy Eccles wanted to marry me when Palmer went, but I sent him off with a flea in his ears. It was only my money he wanted. Now he's married a freckled-faced girl, whose pa is a draper."
"I suppose you will marry again, Mrs. Palmer?"
"I suppose I will, when I get the man to suit. But I do wish, Eva dear, you would call me Constance. I'm sure you might, after being three days in the house. Call me Constance, and I'll tell you something which will please you."
"What is it, Constance?"
"There's a dear. I shan't tell you yet-it's a surprise, and perhaps you may be angry with me. But some one is coming to dinner."
"Allen?" asked Eva, her face lighting up.
"No! He's in town. At least you told me so."
Eva nodded. "Yes; he went up to town last week, after seeing Wasp."
"About that horrid murder?"
"Certainly. Allen is trying to learn who killed my father."
"It's very good of him," said the widow, fanning herself vigorously, "and I'm sure I hope he'll find out. The man who shot Mr. Strode should be hanged, or we won't sleep in our beds safe. Why, Eva, you have no idea how I tremble here at nights. This is a lonely house, and these holiday trippers might bring down burglars amongst them."
"I don't think you need fear, Constance. There have been no burglars down here. Besides, you have a footman, and a coachman, and a gardener. With three men you are quite safe."
"I'm sure I hope so, dear. But one never knows. When do you expect Mr. Hill back?"
"In a few days. I don't know what he's doing. He refuses to tell me anything until he finds some definite clue. But I have his address, and can write to him when I want to."
"His father is in town also-so Mrs. Hill told me."
"Yes, Mr. Hill went up before Allen. I believe he has gone to some sale to buy ancient musical instruments."
"Dear me," said Mrs. Palmer, "what rubbish that man does spend his money on. What's the use of buying instruments you can't play on? I dare say he'll try to, though, for Mr. Hill is the queerest man I ever set eyes on."
"He is strange," said Eva gravely. She did not wish to tell Mrs. Palmer that she disliked the little man, for after all he was Allen's father, and there was no need to say anything. "But Mr. Hill is very clever."
"So they say. But he worries me. He's always got some new idea in his head. I think he changes a thousand times a day. Mrs. Merry doesn't like him, but then she likes no one, not even me."
"Poor nurse," said Eva sadly, "she has had an unhappy life."
"I don't think you have had a bright one, dear; but you shall have, if I can make it so. Are you sure you have everything you want?"
"Everything," said Eva affectionately; "you are more than kind, Mrs. – "
"Constance!" cried the pretty widow in a high key.
"Constance, of course. But tell me your surprise."
Mrs. Palmer began to fidget. "I don't know if you will be pleased, after all, Eva. But if you don't like to meet him say you have a headache, and I'll entertain him myself."
"Who is it?" asked Eva, surprised at this speech.
"Lord Saltars," said Mrs. Palmer in a very small voice, and not daring to look at her companion.
Miss Strode did not reply at once. She was ill-pleased that the man should come to the house, because she did not wish to meet him. Her mother's family had done nothing for her, and even when she lost her father, Saltars, although in the neighbourhood, had not been kind enough to call. Eva met him once, and, as she had told Mrs. Palmer, did not like his free and easy manner. However, it was not her place to object to Saltars coming. This was not her house, and she was merely a paid companion. This being the case, she overcame her momentary resentment and resolved to make the best of the position. She did this the more especially as she knew that Mrs. Palmer had only been actuated in inviting Saltars by her worship of rank. "I shall be quite pleased to meet my cousin," said Eva.
"I hope you are not annoyed, Eva."
"I am not exactly pleased, but this is your house, and-"
"Oh, please-please don't speak like that," cried the widow, "you make me feel so cheap. And the fact is-I may as well confess it-Lord Saltars, knowing you were with me, for I told my Shanton friends and they told him, asked if I would invite him to dinner."
"To meet me, I suppose?"
"I fancy so. But why don't you like him, Eva He's a very nice man."
"Not the kind of man I care about," replied Eva, rising; "however, Mrs. Palmer, I'll meet him. It's time to dress now." She glanced at the clock. "At what time does he arrive?"
"At seven. He's at Shanton."
"Ah! Is the circus there again?"
"Yes. It is paying a return visit. But I know you're angry with me, dear-you call me Mrs. Palmer."
"Very well, then, Constance," said Eva, and kissing the pouting widow she escaped to her own room.
Mrs. Palmer was kind and generous, and made her position more pleasant than she expected. But Mrs. Palmer was also foolish in many ways, particularly in her worship of rank. Because Lord Saltars had a title she was willing to overlook his deficiencies, though he was neither intellectual nor amusing. Eva really liked Mrs. Palmer and felt indebted to her, but she wished the widow's good taste had led her to refuse Saltars permission to call. But there-as Mrs. Merry would say-Mrs. Palmer not being a gentlewoman had no inherent good taste. But for her kind heart she would have been intolerable. However, Eva hoped to improve her into something better, by gentle means, though Constance with her loud tastes and patent tuft-hunting was a difficult subject.
As she was in mourning for her father, Eva dressed in the same black gauze gown in which she had hoped to welcome him, but without any touch of colour on this occasion. As she went down the stairs, she hoped that Mrs. Palmer would be in the room to welcome her noble visitor, so as to save the embarrassment of a tête-à-tête.. But Mrs. Palmer was one of those women who never know the value of time, and when Eva entered the drawing-room she found herself greeted by a short, square-built jovial-looking man of forty. Saltars was perfectly dressed and looked a gentleman, but his small grey eyes, his red, clean-shaven face and remarkably closely clipped hair did not, on the whole, make up a good-looking man. As soon as he saw Eva, he strolled forward calmly and eyed her critically.
"How are you, Miss Strode? – or shall I say Cousin Eva?"
"I think Miss Strode is sufficient," said Eva, seating herself. "I am sorry Mrs. Palmer is not down yet."
"By Jove, I'm not," said Saltars, taking possession of a near chair. "I want to have a talk with you."
"This is hardly the hour or the place."
"Come now, Miss Strode-if you will insist on being so stiff-you needn't be too hard on a chap. I know I should have called, and I quite intended to do so, but I had reasons-"
"I don't ask for your reasons, Lord Saltars."
The man clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "We don't seem to get on," he said at length, "yet I wish to be friendly. See here, I want my mother to call and see you."
"If Lady Ipsen calls, I shall be pleased."
"In a society way, but you won't be heart-pleased."
"No," said Eva, very decidedly; "how can you expect me to? Your family has not treated me or my dead father well."
"Your father-" Saltars clicked again and seemed on the point of saying something uncomplimentary of the dead; but a gleam in his companion's eye made him change his mind. "I know you've been a bit neglected, and I'm very sorry it should be so," said he bluntly. "I assure you that it was always my wish you should be invited to stop with us in Buckinghamshire. And my father was in favour of it too."
"But Lady Ipsen wasn't," said Eva coolly; "don't trouble to apologise, Lord Saltars, I should not have gone in any case."
"No, by Jove, I can see that. You're as proud as a peacock-just like the portrait of Lady Barbara Delham who lived in Queen Anne's reign. And she was a Tartar."
Eva began to smile. Saltars was amusing. She saw that he was simply a thoughtless man, who lived for himself alone. He apparently wished to be friendly, so as Eva had no real grudge against him, she unbent.
"I don't think we need quarrel," she said.
"No, by Jove. But I shan't. Any quarrelling that is to be done must be on your side. There's enough in our family as it is. You should hear how my mother and the dowager Lady Ipsen fight: but then the dowager is a dreadful old cat," he finished candidly.
"I have never seen her."
"You wouldn't forget her if you did. She's beaked like a parrot, and talks like one. She and I don't hit it off. She's one of what they call the old school, whatever that means, and she thinks I'm a low person-like a groom. What do you think?"
Lord Saltars was not unlike a groom in some ways, but his good nature and candour amused Eva. "I am not a person to judge," she said, smiling.
"By Jove, you might have been, though," said he, fixing his small grey eyes on her; "supposing you became Lady Saltars?"
"There's not the slightest chance of that," said Eva coldly.
"There isn't now: but there might have been. And after all, why not now, if things are what your father said they were?"
Miss Strode drew herself up. She thought he was going too far. "I really don't know what you mean. I am engaged to be married."
"I know; to a fellow called Hill. Your father told me."
"Lord Saltars, did you meet my father after he came home?"
"Of course I did. He called to see me when he came to London, and corresponded with me long before that. I say, do you remember when I came to see you at Wargrove?"
"Yes. We did not get on well together."
"By Jove, no more we did! That was a pity, because I came to see what kind of a wife you'd make."