Anthony Collyer got out of his bus at Lancaster Gate Tube. He looked round, but there was no sign of the figure he was hoping to see. He crossed the road and entered Kensington Gardens, stopping at the gate to buy some chocolates of the kind that Cecily particularly affected.
Near the little sweet-stall a small ragged figure was skulking. In his preoccupation Anthony did not even see him. Inside the Gardens he turned into a sheltered walk on the right flanked on either side by clumps of evergreens. There was a touch of chill in the wind, but the sun was shining brightly and through the short grass the daffodils were already adventurously poking their gay yellow heads. The urchin who had been lurking by the palings followed slowly. He got over on the grass in a leisurely fashion and ensconced himself out of sight in the shadow of the evergreens.
Anthony had time to glance at his watch more than once and even to grow a little impatient before Cecily appeared.
Then one glance was enough to show him that there was something amiss with the girl. There were big blue half-circles beneath her eyes, and the eyes themselves were dim and sunken. All her pretty colouring looked blurred as she gave her hand to Anthony, and he saw that it was trembling and felt that it was cold even through her glove. He held it in both of his and chafed it.
“You are cold, dear,” he said solicitously. “Are your furs warm enough? The wind is treacherous to-day.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Yes, of course I am warm enough—I mean it does not matter,” Cecily said incoherently. “I—I wrote to you—you know—because I wanted to see you.”
Tony looked round. No one was in sight. He drew her to a seat beside the path, knowing nothing of the unseen watcher hidden in the rhododendrons.
“I hoped you did. I always want to see you, Cecily,” he said simply.
Cecily shivered away from him. “You—you must not.”
Anthony stared at her.
“Must not—what?” he said blankly. “Want to see you, do you mean?”
Cecily nodded.
“Oh, but it is no use telling me not to do that,” Anthony said quaintly, “I shall want to see you every day as long as I live.”
“You will not be able to,” Cecily said desperately. “Because now—to-day—I am going right out of your life—you will never see me again.”
“Oh!” For a time Anthony said no more. His clasp of her hand relaxed. Very quietly he returned to her the possession of it. “I see,” he said at last. “You are giving me the chuck, are you not?”
The girl looked at him with frightened, miserable eyes.
“Tony, I can’t help it.”
“Naturally you can’t,” Tony assented moodily. “You couldn’t be expected to. I never was anything but a wretched match at the best of times—even with the money Uncle Luke left me—but now, now that every damned rag of a paper in the country is saying out as plainly as they dare that I am a murderer, it settles the matter, of course.”
Cecily interrupted him with a little cry.
“Tony! You know it isn’t that!”
A gleam of hope brightened Anthony Collyer’s eyes.
“Not that? Is it just that you are sick of me then? Heaven knows I wouldn’t blame you for that. I was always a dull sort of chap. But I love you, Cecily.”
The girl’s big tragic eyes looked at his bent head with a sudden wave of tenderness in their brown depths. “And I love you, Tony,” she said beneath her breath. “But that does not matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” A sudden fire leaped into Anthony’s deep-set eyes. “Why, that is just the one thing that matters—the only thing that does matter. If you love me, I shall never go out of your life, Cecily.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” the girl said, putting his warm outstretched hand back determinedly. “And it doesn’t matter that we love one another, not one bit. Because I am not going to marry anyone.”
“Of course you are!” said Anthony, staring at her. “You are going to marry me. Do you really think I am going to let you back out of it now?”
“You can’t help yourself,” Cecily said, still with that miserable note of finality in her voice. “It is no use, Tony. You have just got to forget me.”
“Forget you!” Anthony said scornfully. “That is so likely, isn’t it? Now, dear, what is this bogy that you have conjured up that is going to separate us? You say it has nothing to do with me?”
“No, no! Of course it hasn’t!”
“And you haven’t fallen in love with anyone else?”
“Don’t be silly, Tony!” There was a momentary irritation in the clear tones. But something in the accent, even in the homely words themselves roused fresh hopes in Anthony’s heart.
“Then it is something some one else has said,” he hazarded, “or done.”
For a moment Cecily did not answer. She pressed her lips very closely together. At last she said slowly:
“That is all that I can tell you, Tony. I just wanted to say that and—good-bye.”
“Good-bye!” Tony repeated scoffingly. “Nonsense, dear! You say that this mysterious something has nothing to do with you or with me personally. And for the rest of the world what does it matter? Nothing counts but just you and me, sweetheart.”
“Oh, but it does!” Cecily contradicted firmly. “We—we can’t think only of ourselves. It—it is no use, Tony. My mind is made up.”
“Then I am going to unmake it,” Tony said with equal decision. “And, if you won’t tell me what you fancy is going to separate us, I am going to find out for myself.”
Then for the first time Cecily’s self-possession really deserted her.
“No, no! You must not!” she cried feverishly. “Tony, you must not—you do not know what harm—what terrible harm you might do if you did. Promise me—promise me you will not!” She caught at his arm with trembling hands, as though to stop his threatened action by actual physical force. If ever fear had looked out of human eyes, stark, tragic fear, Anthony saw it then as he met her terrified gaze.
Some shadow of it communicated itself to him. He felt suddenly cold, his face turned a sickly grey beneath its tan. In that moment he realized fully that he was up against some very real and tangible obstacle that stood definitely between Cecily and himself.
“Cecily!” he said hoarsely. “Cecily!”
The girl looked at him a moment, her lips twitching; then, as if coming to some sudden resolution, she bent forward and whispered a few words in his ear.
As he heard them he started back.
“What do you say, Cecily? That you—that you know— But you are mad—mad!”
“Hush!” the girl looked round fearfully. “No, I am not mad, Anthony,” she said beneath her breath. “God knows I often wish I were.”
Then Anthony looked at her.
“Cecily! I can’t believe it. You didn’t—” she questioned beneath her breath.
“Did you never suspect—that?”
“Never! Before Heaven, never! How should I? It is inconceivable! But the horrible danger—” His eyes voiced the dread he dared not put into words, and with a stifled cry the girl turned from him.
Tony took off his hat and wiped away the sweat that was standing in great drops on his forehead.
“It—it isn’t possible! Cecily!” he murmured hoarsely. “It—it is a lie!”
“I—I wish it was!” the girl said beneath her breath. “Oh, Tony, Tony, I wish it was all a dream—a dreadful horrible dream. Last night I woke and thought it was, and then I remembered. Oh, Tony, Tony!” She shivered from head to foot. “I wish I were dead—oh, I wish I were dead!”
Anthony mopped his forehead again. “In God’s name what are we to do?”
Cecily’s mouth twisted in something like a wry smile.
“It is not ‘we’ Tony. It never will be ‘we’ again. And I—I cannot tell what I shall do yet. I must stay at the Residence of course until the police—” She stopped, her throat working. “Until I am free to go away,” she finished forlornly. “Then—then God knows what will become of me! I—I expect I shall live out of England if—if I can.”
“Yes,” said Anthony slowly. “Yes. But that will not be for ever. We are both young, and we can wait. And some day I will come and fetch you home again.”
“No, no!” The horror in the girl’s eyes deepened. “Won’t you understand, Tony? I shall never come back. I shall never be safe. From to-day I shall be dead to you! But—but wait, Tony. Sometimes I do not think that I shall get away—that I shall escape. For everywhere they follow me. Always I know that I am being watched. They will never let me go away. It is like a cat playing with a mouse. Just when the poor little mouse thinks at last it is safe, the blow falls. Even to-day—to-day— Oh, Tony, look!” As she spoke, she sprang to her feet.
Anthony turned. At first sight there seemed nothing to account for her agitation—just a very ordinary-looking man coming towards them from the direction of the Broad Walk.
But as Tony looked he caught his breath sharply.
Cecily did not wait for him to speak.
“Stop him! Stop him!” she cried feverishly. “Don’t let him come after me. Keep him here until I have got away!”
She sped down the path towards Lancaster Gate.
Anthony went forward to meet the new-comer.
“Good morning, Mr. Steadman,” he said, endeavouring to make his voice sound as natural as possible.
“Good morning, Tony.” John Steadman shook hands with him warmly, his keen eyes taking in all the tokens of disturbance on the young man’s face. “I am afraid my appearance is rather inopportune,” he went on. “Isn’t that your young woman beating a hasty retreat down there?” In the distance Cecily’s scurrying figure could plainly be seen.
“Yes, she is in a hurry,” Anthony said lamely.
“Obviously!” The barrister smiled. “But I am glad to have this opportunity of seeing you, Tony. I have been hoping to meet you.”
Mindful of Cecily’s parting injunction Tony turned to the seat behind.
“Have a cigarette, sir?”
The barrister shook his head as he glanced at the open cigarette case.
“De Reszke! No, thanks! You are a bit too extravagant for me, young man! I always smoke gaspers myself.” He sat down and took out his own case. “You of course don’t condescend to Gold Flake,” he went on. “I am rather glad of this opportunity of having a chat with you, Tony.”
Tony lighted his cigarette and threw the match away before he spoke, then he turned and looked John Steadman squarely in the face.
“I dare say you are, Mr. Steadman. So is your friend, Inspector Furnival, whenever I meet him, I notice.”
The barrister paused in the act of lighting his match.
“You mean—?”
“I mean that, if folks think I murdered my uncle, I would just as soon they said so straight out, as come poking around asking questions and trying to trap me,” Anthony retorted bitterly.
John Steadman finished lighting his cigarette and blew a couple of spirals in the clear air before he spoke, then he said slowly:
“The thought that you murdered your Uncle Luke is about the last that would enter my head, Tony. No. What I wanted to ask you was, does that job of yours stand—bear-leader to the young brother of a friend of yours, I mean. The last time I saw you, you spoke as if it were off.”
“So it is!” Anthony returned moodily. “People don’t want a man who is as good as accused of murdering his own uncle to look after their children. I might strangle the kid if he got tiresome.”
The barrister paid no attention to this outburst.
“Then I think I heard of something yesterday that may suit you. A friend of mine has a son who was frightfully injured in the War. Both his legs have been amputated and one wrist is practically helpless. Now he wants some one to act as his secretary, for he has taken to writing novels; passes the time for him, you know, and folks need not read them if they don’t want to.”
“It is very good of you to think of me,” Anthony said gratefully. “But I don’t know that I should make much hand at secretarial work. And probably he wouldn’t look at me if he knew.”
“He does know,” contradicted John Steadman. “And he is quite anxious to have you. It won’t be all secretarial work, though you will be called a secretary. But you will be wanted to motor with him, to go with him to race meetings; he is a great motoring enthusiast—keeps two touring cars. Before the War he was one of our finest amateur jockeys, and they say he never misses a meeting under N.H. rules now. I believe he even has a couple of hurdlers at one of the big trainers. You will have to go with him wherever he wants you. How does it strike you?”
“The question is, how shall I strike him?” Tony countered. “Will he think he is safe with me?”
“Tony, my lad, you must not get morbid,” reproved the barrister. “My friends know all about your connection with the Bechcombes, and are quite prepared to take you on my recommendation. You would not be required to live in, and there is a nice little cottage on the estate near the house that will be placed at your disposal. Your salary will be good, and with what your uncle left you will make matrimony quite possible. Now what do you say?”
“Say? What can I say but take it and be thankful,” Tony responded, trying to make his tones sound as grateful as he could. “Would it be far from town—this cottage?”
“Oh, not far!” the barrister said at once. “At Bramley Hall, near Burford, in the New Forest. It is young Bramley, Sir John’s eldest son, you are wanted for.”
“Bramley Hall,” Tony repeated musingly. “I seem to know the name. Wasn’t there a burglary there a little while ago?”
“About eighteen months ago,” the barrister assented. “The house was practically cleared of valuables in one night. Even Sir John’s safe, which he had deemed impregnable, was rifled. Oh, yes, it made quite a stir. It was said to be the work of this Yellow Gang that folks are always talking about, you know.”