The Guinea Stamp (20 page)

“I just dropped in for a moment, hoping to find Dorlais before he went off,” was the unhesitating reply. “But why on earth—”

“If that is true, a single glance into the room must have told you that Mr. Dorlais was not here,” she said, accusingly.

She had read somewhere that attack is the best method of defence. She meant to give him something to think about other than the matter of her presence in the room: after all, why had he been poking about in there for so long? Let him explain himself.

“It did,” he acknowledged, readily. “But I took a second glance. That disclosed to me your slipper peeping from under the curtain. Evidently you hid there when you heard my approach. But why, Miss Feniton? What errand could you possibly have in here?”

She knew that she was caught; she could make no satisfactory answer to this. It was unthinkable that a virtuous young lady should under any circumstances enter a gentleman’s bedchamber, even in his absence.

“One which I cannot explain to you,” she said, with a touch of hauteur. “You must believe what you choose. Moreover, it appeared to me that you were taking a long time over your second glance, as you put it—neither did you immediately come over to the window!”

He studied her appraisingly for a moment in silence. Then he appeared to make up his mind.

“You are quite right, Miss Feniton,” he said, quietly. “And I believe that you, too, entertain a suspicion that Guy Dorlais is not all he seems to be.”

She started, staring at him in silence.

“I wonder, ma’am,” he continued, “whether you and I might not contrive to trust each other?”

She found her voice at last. “What do you mean?”

“Simply this—I am nearly certain that you know of a man who calls himself—Captain Jackson.”

He watched her face intently as he spoke the name. The colour ebbed from her cheek, and she raised her chin a trifle, as though in defiance.

“I do not see, sir, what concern it is of yours to interrogate me about my acquaintance,” she replied, in her most distant manner.

He bowed. “I accept the reproof, ma’am. I merely thought it a pity that you and I should be at cross purposes, when we have the same interests at heart. I, too, am acquainted with Captain Jackson.”

She gasped. “You are? Pray, sir, do you know where he can be found?”

He studied her once more, without making any immediate answer.

“I collect that you do not?” he asked, at last.

She shook her head.

“Yet I had the impression,” he continued, still watching her closely, “that you entered this room because you believed that Mr. Dorlais and Captain Jackson were one and the same man.”

Again she started.

“No!” she exclaimed, involuntarily. “Such a notion never entered my head! It was because I thought that Mr. Dorlais—”

She stopped, realizing that she had said more than she intended.

“You do not know the true identity of the man Jackson, then?” he asked.

“No,” she answered, uncertainly. “Why do you ask? Are you a friend of his? Do you know who he is?”

“Possibly,” he said, smiling, “but his true identity must for the present remain a secret. Tell me, Miss Feniton—if you did not take Guy Dorlais for Jackson, what suspicion did you entertain of him?”

Her thoughts had been moving at lightning speed. It was evident that Captain Masterman knew a great deal about Captain Jackson. Was it possible that it had been he who had stolen from the house that night to meet Jackson in the temple? If so, then he must also know of the French agent whom Jackson was pursuing and he might possibly have entered this room for the very same purpose which had brought her here.

“Are you a helper of the Captain’s?” she asked, bluntly.

He nodded briefly. “But this information is for your ear alone, Miss Feniton,” he warned.

“Naturally,” she answered, impatiently. “If that is so, however, then you must share my suspicions of Mr. Dorlais?”

“Tell me what you have noticed,” he invited.

She frowned. “It is difficult to put a finger upon anything definite. First of all, of course, he seems an obvious suspect by reason of his birth.”

“You mean because he is a Frenchman? Then what you suspect is that he is an agent for the French?”

“Do not you? The Captain has told me that he is on the lookout for a man who is the ringleader of a number of agents who are collected here in Devon. This man must have a sound knowledge of the French language, besides being intimately acquainted with the area. Only Guy Dorlais would fit—besides, there are one or two other little circumstances which lend colour to the notion. For instance, my friend, Miss Lodge—”

Haltingly at first, but with gathering fluency, she retailed the occurrences on which her suspicions of Dorlais had been founded. He heard her out in silence, frowning a little, and studying her face attentively as she spoke.

“Yes, well, as you’ve guessed,” he said, when she had finished, “I’ve had the same notion myself. But I see that you have been conducting a search of this room—did you find anything, ma’am?”

She smoothed back a lock of thick, black hair which had fallen over her forehead.

“Yes—this,” she said, holding out her hand, and disclosing the small object therein. “I have not had time to study it properly—your entrance interrupted me.”

“May I?” he asked, taking it from her.

His eyes looked intimately into hers as their hands touched. She hastily fixed her glance upon the medallion which he held. For a while; they stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down at it.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked at last, raising his eyes from the medallion and looking into her face.

She met his gaze, a puzzled expression in her eyes. “It—it seems to be some sort of Victory medal,” she said, doubtfully. “But surely—”

“It was certainly intended originally for that purpose,” he answered, gravely. “But it is now used as a token between Napoleon’s agents.”

“So that Mr. Dorlais—?”

They were so intent upon each other that they failed to notice the door of the room slowly opening.

FIFTEEN - Miss Lodge is Adamant

“A vastly pretty picture!” approved a cool, mocking voice, and Algernon Cholcombe stepped lightly into the room, and softly closed the door behind him.

The couple started apart with guilty looks. Masterman’s hand closed tightly over the medallion.

“You must not suppose—all is not as it may appear!” he began, jerkily, then finished, in a calmer tone: “If you have any question to ask me, I am sure you will excuse Miss Feniton. I believe you and I will do better alone.”

“Questions, my dear fellow?” drawled Cholcombe. “The only question I was about to ask was as to the whereabouts of Dorlais. Knowing him for a bit of a sluggard in the mornings, I came to his room expecting to find him still here.”

“He is out,” replied Masterman, tersely, obviously still ill at ease.

“I had guessed as much,” said Mr. Cholcombe, raising his brows ironically. “You could not say when he is likely to return? I fancy you might be possessed of such knowledge.”

He was conversing as though he had found them in the most ordinary of circumstances. Joanna, whose cheeks were flushed scarlet, could not meet his gaze.

“He has but just gone down to the quay,” replied Masterman. “There are some men-of-war at anchor in the Bay, and he was hoping for news of some old acquaintances, so I believe.”

Cholcombe nodded easily. “Well, you see I am returned,” he said, airily. “I suppose I had better go and present myself in form to my lady. Can you tell me where I can find her? Possibly in my own bedchamber? Give you my word, I shall not be surprised at anything!”

Masterman took a step towards him. His handsome face was stern.

“Do you mean to insult Miss Feniton, Cholcombe?” Mr. Cholcombe’s eyebrows arched delicately in surprise.

“Certainly not, my dear fellow!” Then, with a change of expression—“Do you?”

For a moment, their eyes met in a challenging glance.

“This is absurd!” said Joanna, in her most matter-of-fact manner. “I don’t propose to stay here any longer, listening to such nonsense!”

“You are quite right,” approved Cholcombe, gently. “Allow me to open the door for you, madam.”

He did so; she left the room with her head held high, but with cheeks that still burned.

“
Au
revoir
, Masterman,” murmured Mr. Cholcombe, lightly, as he prepared to follow.

“No, wait!”

Masterman signalled with one hand. Mr. Cholcombe halted on the threshold. After a brief glance around the passage, he again entered the room, closing the door.

“I don’t know what you may be thinking—” began Masterman.

“That is one of life’s fascinations,” agreed Cholcombe solemnly.

“Don’t jest, man! I trust you don’t seriously suppose that Miss Feniton and I—that is to say—”

“I am never serious if I can possibly avoid it,” suggested Cholcombe, helpfully.

“I wish you will not avoid it now!” was the tart retort. “Miss Feniton’s honour is at stake. I desire you to believe me when I say that our meeting here was the purest accident; and I would like your word that you will not blab it about to the other members of the party—or, indeed, to anyone.”

“Dear me!” interrupted Cholcombe, blandly. “Do you really suppose that I would blab, as you so forcefully express it? You must hold a regrettably low opinion of me, my dear chap!”

Masterman made a gesture of impatience.

“I am insufficiently acquainted with you, sir, to hold any reasoned opinion. I make my appeal in the full expectation that you will respond favourably to it. I am obliged to go away from here this very day—my sister is promised to some friends in another part of the county, and I must escort her. It may not be in my power to return for some days—if at all. That I cannot say at present. The thing is, I do not wish to have any unpleasantness for Miss Feniton in my absence.”

“Very creditable, Masterman, I’m sure,” drawled Mr. Cholcombe. “Might it not perhaps have been better to have thought of that first?”

“I tell you, it was an accident that brought us here together! I had slipped into the room as you did, thinking to find Dorlais still here—”

“And you found Miss Feniton instead?”

Masterman nodded, and cleared his throat. “I imagine she had come here on some errand from Miss Lodge,” he said, huskily, “or perhaps from her grandmother. I did not have time to inquire—it was only a few minutes before you arrived—”

Mr. Cholcombe had been looking over towards the open door of the closet. His lazy glance rested upon a boot flung carelessly down upon the floor.

“Quite,” he said, in a bored tone. “No doubt the housemaids were too busy at that moment to run errands. Well, my dear chap, I really must tear myself away from this—er—popular spot, and go in search of my hostess. I wish you and Miss Masterman a pleasant journey.”

He opened the door, and stepped out into the passage.

“But I can rely upon you?” asked the Captain anxiously.

Cholcombe nodded gently. “Oh, yes,” he said, with a faint smile, “you may rely upon me completely.”

He closed the door, Captain Masterman stood looking at it, frowning deeply. Then he turned, and hastily crossed to the closet. He picked up the boot, replaced the medallion, and screwed on the heel. This done, he laid the boot tidily alongside its fellow and closed the door.

One swift glance around the room assured him that none of its other contents had been disturbed. With a feeling of strong relief, he left the apartment.

When Joanna had gone out of the room, she had proceeded at once to her own bedchamber. Her feelings were in such confusion that for the moment she could not think coherently on any subject at all. She poured some cool water into a basin, and bathed her hot cheeks. Then she tidied her hair, pausing to study herself objectively in the glass.

She was not truly pretty, she decided: her mouth was too wide, her nose too long, and her hair not really black. Her teeth—well, she admitted reluctantly, perhaps her teeth were not so much to be deplored as the rest of her face.

At this point in her reflections, she dropped the comb she was holding poised uselessly in mid-air. She was only concentrating on her appearance to hold back other, more important, considerations, she told herself sternly.

It would not do: she must face the facts.

The most outstanding fact which required facing was that her worst suspicions were now confirmed. There could be no doubt that Dorlais was the French agent for whom Captain Jackson was seeking. If she had only known earlier that Masterman was working with Jackson, she might have spared herself all the trouble she had taken to find out this. But Masterman had been so very circumspect: he had not betrayed himself in any way. Thinking back over the past events, she realized all at once that when he had seen the open window and the bloodstains on the carpet on that occasion in Teignton Manor, he must have had a very good notion who it was who had been there. Had he guessed at once, when the Colonel and he had met the drunken Militia man on their way to the Manor that night, and heard his incoherent story? It was very likely, but if so, he had given no sign of it at any time. And was it possible that Jackson had been lurking in the grounds of the Manor on that occasion in the hope of seeing Masterman, knowing in some way that he and Colonel Kellaway were to spend the night there? Jackson had told her at that time that he had entered the grounds to escape from someone; that could have been only part of the truth.

Perhaps it was as well, after all, that she had been ignorant of Masterman’s complicity. Captain Jackson had been quite in the right when he had refused to divulge the secret of the identity of his helper in Shalbeare House. It was suddenly borne in upon her that, if she had been in the secret, she would almost certainly have betrayed it to the experienced eye of such a man as Guy Dorlais must be.

Her heart contracted as she thought of Kitty. Dear, pretty little elfin Kit, how would she bear it? But at least the breach had already begun; even now, Kitty was beset by doubts. Joanna knew that she must go to her friend and tell her the truth. It was an unpleasant task, but it must be faced. A long friendship brought responsibilities as well as pleasure.

A definite purpose helped to clear her mind of its confusion. She rose purposefully, donned a dark red pelisse trimmed with ermine, tied a bonnet of the same shade under her chin, and, snatching up a muff from her wardrobe, ran from the room.

On her way downstairs, she encountered her grandmother.

“Are you going out, Joanna? Then you surely cannot know that Algernon is here again. I have already spoken with him, and he is at present in the library with your grandfather, hearing all about that stupid affair; I expect he will be asking after you in a few minutes.”

Joanna did not expect any such thing, but she contented herself with saying that she had caught just a glimpse of Mr. Cholcombe on his way to see Lady Feniton.

“If anyone should want me, I shall be walking in the shrubbery with Kitty,” she concluded.

“Oh, very well! I suppose you are right in taking exercise, though the air is very bleak this morning. However, I observe that you are warmly clad. Do not stay out too long, child.”

Joanna promised, impatient to be gone. It was not long before she came across Kitty wandering aimlessly through the shrubbery. There were tears in her eyes, Joanna noticed at once. She took her friend’s arm.

“I judged you had been long enough alone, Kit. Besides, I wish to talk to you.”

“And I to you,” replied Kitty, despondently. “Oh, Jo, I have thought and thought until my head goes round like a whirlpool! I do not know what is to be done!”

“You will know, dearest, when I have told you what must be told,” said Joanna. Her voice was gentle, but firm, and she pressed the arm which rested on her own. “I mislike what I have to do, Kitty, but I have decided that it is only fair to acquaint you with something that at present is known only to myself—and one other, whom I shall come to presently,” she added, remembering Captain Masterman.

This hint of mystery momentarily diverted Kitty’s thoughts.

“What can you be talking of?” she wondered.

Quietly, Joanna told her story. She started with her first meeting with Captain Jackson, and worked down to their last encounter in the grounds of Shalbeare House. So far, she had been heard in a stunned silence; but when she spoke of Captain Jackson’s declaration of love, Kitty could contain herself no longer.

“Joanna! This is not at all like you! It is all so—so romantic!”

“I am not telling you this, Kitty, to stir your feelings for romance, but for quite another reason. The man Jackson can be nothing to me, as you will speedily realize: his declaration was the wildest piece of folly! But did you mark what he told me of this French agent who controls the activities of the others of his kind—and did you notice what I said concerning the way in which this man delivers his orders to Jackson?”

“Yes, to be sure,” said Kitty, with a shiver. “It sounds vastly unpleasant! This Captain Jackson must be a very brave man, Jo!”

“He is indeed,” replied Joanna, with a reminiscent smile. “But pray do pay particular attention now, Kitty. As I mentioned before, these orders were made up of words cut from a printed page, and stuck on to a sheet of letter paper.”

Kitty frowned. “It must be a tedious task—”

She broke off, staring at Joanna as a sudden thought struck her.

“Good Heavens, Jo! Your grandfather’s book!”

“Exactly,” said Miss Feniton, quietly. “That was how I came to realize that this French agent must be staying in my home as a guest.”

An odd expression came over Kitty’s face.

“Do you see what I am trying to tell you?” asked Joanna. “Piece together the evidence, Kitty, and you will be bound to come to the same conclusion as I have reached. And as if that were not enough, there is one final circumstance—”

She retailed the incident which had just taken place in Guy’s room. Kitty listened in complete silence, watching her friend’s face with considering eyes.

“So you see,” concluded Joanna, in a gentle tone, “there can be no mistake. Mr. Dorlais is undoubtedly the man, and it is perhaps for the best—”

“No!”

Joanna drew back a little, startled by the other’s unexpected vehemence.

“You are wrong, Joanna, wrong, wrong, wrong!” reiterated Kitty, passionately. “Don’t ask me for reasons, for I have none—and anyway, they are the stupidest things, and can prove nothing! I only know that Guy is good and honourable, and not a traitor! I know it with that special part of me that tells me when such a one is to be trusted, while another is not! I do not deny that he has acted strangely, for you are well aware that his behaviour has almost persuaded me that he no longer cares for me: but whatever the motive for his actions, I dare swear that it’s not the one you impute to him! No, there is something else which holds him back from me—I don’t know yet what it is, but I am confident that I shall do so in time. Meanwhile, I must simply trust in him!”

“Trust!” echoed Miss Feniton, dismayed. “You poor child, what is the use of hoodwinking yourself? You cannot continue to believe in him in face of all the evidence!”