The Guinea Stamp (27 page)

“How do you know all this?” asked Joanna, curiously.

“I returned to Shalbeare House at the height of the alarm,” he said. “The attempt had just been made, and the resultant explosion had thrown everyone into a state of confusion. Dorlais had been with one of the Naval officers all day—but, of course, you know that—and he had the whole story at first hand. He brought it to the house, where you had been missed, and together we set out to find you.”

“Mr. Cholcombe,” she said, only half attending to his speech, “there is something I must implore you to do for me!”

“Anything in the world, ma’am I assure you,” he promised, soberly.

“I had thought that my grandfather would be the only one who could help, but now I see that you may be much better able to serve me,” she said, rapidly. “You may think my story strange, but I must ask you to believe what I say without asking for too many explanations. I have not time for them, you see! There is a man, at present lodged in Totnes gaol—his name is Jackson—”

“I know of him,” he interrupted, quickly.

“You do?” She was too surprised for a moment to continue.

He nodded. “What have you to say concerning Jackson, Miss Feniton?”

“I must find someone with the authority to set him free! He is innocent of the charges made against him—Masterman was responsible—”

“Why should you concern yourself with this man?” he asked, eyeing her keenly.

She coloured faintly. “Surely no one would willingly connive at an injustice—”

“Is that your only reason for wishing to help him?”

“Oh, do not waste time in asking questions, I implore you!” she begged, placing a hand upon his arm, and looking up into his face with pleading eyes. “While we are talking, he may be—”

She could not finish, but bowed her head, fighting against the tears.

He put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face upwards, so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.

“Tell me, Miss Feniton,” he said, quietly, “the real reason why you wish me to do what I can to save Jackson.”

She met his glance firmly, in spite of her trembling lips.

“You may as well know,” she answered, as coherently as she was able. “Indeed, you will have to know at some time. I—I love him.”

He was silent for several minutes.

“Then it is only right that I should set your mind at rest,” he said, at last. “Jackson is no longer in gaol, ma’am: he is as safe as you—or I. He was released yesterday by Colonel Kellaway, who is in command of the security arrangements in this area, as no doubt you already know.”

“And he is really free?” she asked, overwhelmed by this information. “There are no charges to be brought against him?”

“Thanks to the splendid work of Dorlais and a handful of other British agents, it was possible to make arrangements to bring him safely off.”

“Dorlais?” she repeated, at a loss.

He nodded. “I am aware that you once suspected him of being a spy for the French. Quite the reverse is true—he has all the time been acting as Jackson’s right hand man. It seems that they were at school together.”

“He—he has?” She paused, as all kinds of recollections came back to her. “Then that is why he did not join the Volunteers—nor seem to wish to hasten his marriage to Kitty! Of course, he would have been obliged to let her into the secret, and I suppose that would never have answered! And Kitty thought—”

“I know. However, they have reached an understanding at last. There will be no more need now for Dorlais to postpone his wedding day, for Masterman is finished, and the rest of the spies in this area apprehended. The work of the local British agents is at an end.”

“Then Captain Jackson, too—”

“He will return to the Navy, where he belongs. Before long, we shall see some action at sea, you may depend.”

“He really is a Naval man, then?”

He nodded, watching her face. So far, the welcome news of Jackson’s release had suspended her critical faculties. Now they were once more coming into play, as he could read from her expression.

“Tell me,” she asked, with a puzzled frown, “how do you come to know all this?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Jackson is a very old friend of mine—I might almost say, my oldest friend.”

“He is?” she said, eagerly. “Then perhaps you can tell me where I may find him?”

It was at this moment that Guy Dorlais returned.

“I’ve come across a gig in the stable,” he said, abruptly. “It’s a poor thing, but I fancy it will get us there. The Volunteers have turned up, by the way: they’ve taken that fellow who was here with Miss Feniton, so there goes the last of that little lot!”

He turned to Joanna. “Are you ready to go, ma’am?”

“I—if you could wait but a moment—” she stammered, turning appealing eyes upon Cholcombe.

“Dorlais, my good chap,” said Cholcombe, airily, “run away and amuse yourself for ten minutes or so. Feed the hens—commune with nature—show the Militiaman your beard—there must be something you can find to do!”

“Oh, very well,” replied Guy, with a grin. “But don’t be too long about it, for it’s deuced cold in this place, and the Fenitons will be getting into a state, remember!”

He vanished promptly, leaving them alone. Joanna repeated her question impatiently.

“Certainly I can,” he answered, gravely. “Whether or not I will, is quite another matter.”

“What—what do you mean?” she asked, uncertainly. “What will you do, if I tell you?” he countered.

“Go to him, of course.” There was no hesitation in her reply.

“A man you do not know—a one-time smuggler?”

“I do not care,” replied Joanna, defiantly, “what he may be! I only know that life without him is impossible for me!”

It seemed to her that his eyes lit up: but this might have been a trick of the flickering light afforded by the lantern.

“You would do much better to marry me, after all,” he said. “I can offer you the things you most require in marriage.”

“I thought so, once,” she said, wistfully, “but now I know better. I do not wish to give you pain, Mr. Cholcombe, but I could never wed you.”

“Could you not, m’dear?”

She started violently at the sound of the rich, Devon burr.

He took her hands, and drew her towards him, so that her face was looking up into his. His grey eyes danced.

“Do you still ask me where Captain Jackson is?”

She stared at him incredulously, catching her breath. “You? But—”

“Do you mind very much if you are to wed a prosperous nobleman instead of an indigent smuggler?” he asked. “It is not near so romantic, I realize, but then you have always been known for a sensible young lady!”

“You are absurd!” she said, with a tremulous smile. “But—I don’t altogether understand—how is it that I never recognized you before? Although,” she added, thoughtfully, “I must say that I did notice a certain familiarity, which I put down to my recollections of you as a child.”

“I like to think,” he said, with a quizzical look, “that it was my art which succeeded in carrying off the deception. However, I will admit—grudgingly, mark you! —that I was aided by two facts. One is that you were not looking in me for a resemblance to Jackson: the other, that whenever you met that man, it was at night, or in a poor light, so that you never saw him properly. For the rest, you know that acting is in my blood.”

“Your hair, though!” she exclaimed, looking at his well-groomed brown head. “It was black—that much I am certain of!”

“Yes.” There was a tinge of regret in his voice. “Did you prefer it so? I am sorry, if such should be the case: it was my only concession to the art of disguise. I wore a wig. But I suppose I could always dye my hair, if you have taken it in dislike—”

“No.” She put up her hand, and gently stroked his head. “I like it as it is.”

Quickly he caught the hand, and carried it to his lips.

“Dare I hope that you will like me, also, as I am?”

She laughed softly, blushing a little. “But I do not know which is the real you, sir—Captain Jackson or Mr. Cholcombe.”

“It is something between the two—but both, Miss Feniton, love you very dearly. You must recollect that we have both told you so on other occasions.”

His arms were about her, now, and he was bending his face towards hers. For a moment, she held back a little.

“Why ‘Jackson’?” she asked, irrepressibly curious.

“My father’s name is John,” he answered, tightening his hold.

“And what is yours? I mean to say—what did your mother call you?”

“Peter,” he murmured, a trifle impatiently. “But, dearest, can’t we come into port?”

“If that is one of your Naval expressions for this,” she said, smiling: and she gave him her lips.

It was some time later that Guy Dorlais once more entered the room, this time treading heavily upstairs, and first knocking on the door.

“Are you ready yet?” he asked, smiling broadly. “Have you unveiled the mystery of your two identities? But I scarcely need ask?”

“My dear chap,” drawled Cholcombe, squeezing Joanna’s hand, “I’ve now assumed a third. You see before you Miss Feniton’s intended husband.”