MR FRENSHAM’S next appearance in the affair took place on that afternoon, about six o’clock, in unexpected proximity to the Riverside.
At that hour Gore, leaving the hotel by the back entrance on his way to the club, came to an abrupt halt in the darkness of the grounds at sight of a small, burly figure which stood by the gates, tapping its bowlegs with a cane.
He stood stock still, debating with himself the significance of this extremely curious coincidence, the most obvious explanation of which was that his own movements were now under surveillance. But this conjecture was quickly abandoned. Frensham’s attitude of impatient waiting changed to one of expectant attention. Then he raised his hat and moved to meet a young woman who came into sight quickly from behind the angle of the building beside the gates.
‘Am I late?’ the young woman inquired airily, as they shook hands. ‘Of course I went and dropped the only pair of gloves I have in the world into the water-jug. I had to dry them.’
‘The only pair?’ said Frensham, with gallant scepticism. ‘You’re not going to kid me that such an attractive young lady as you can’t coax her best boy into doing better for her than that, eh?’
Miss Rodney’s rejoinder—for it was her voice unmistakably that had greeted Frensham—was sprightly if inaudible, for the pair moved off together along Selkirk Place laughing. To say that the discovery of this incipient flirtation—for that was the impression which Gore had derived from their meeting—surprised him, would be, perhaps, an overstatement of his feelings with regard to it. But it did appear to him so curious that, before he went on his way to the club, he continued to stand for some little time where he had halted, endeavouring to piece together such disjointed fragments of information concerning Miss Rodney as he possessed.
His thoughts were destined to distract themselves to Miss Rodney again very shortly.
As he sat at breakfast next morning, Percival entered to deliver a note just left by Dr Melhuish’s man.
Gore, having glanced at the note, which was an invitation to dine with Melhuish that evening failing any prior engagement, nodded and seated himself to write a brief acceptance.
‘Heard about Miss Rodney, sir?’ inquired Percival after a moment.
Gore paused, pen in hand, to look round over his shoulder.
‘Miss Rodney? No. What?’
‘Done a bunk, sir. Hopped it during the night. Took her trunk and all with her, and never said a word to no one. The guv’nor didn’t half carry on when he heard about it. ’Spect he thought she’d cleared off with some of his cash till he’d checked over the till.’
‘During the night?’
‘Yes, sir. It must have been pretty well on in the night, too, when she went. ’Cause neither of the other two young ladies that sleep out there heard her going. Though you’d say she’d have made a row fetching her trunk down the stairs, wouldn’t you, sir? If you ask me, sir, it’s a mystery.’
But Colonel Gore was too preoccupied to offer any comment, and had resumed his chilled bacon and eggs with austerity.
It may be of interest to record here in his own words Gore’s impressions as to that nocturnal flitting of Miss Rodney’s, as he set them forth in that connected narrative of the affair upon which his temporary attack of detective fever had induced him to embark.
‘I thought it odd, of course,’ he says, ‘that the girl should have gone away in that way, at that hour, without warning to the manager, and without (so I had gathered from Percival) leaving behind any indication as to where she had gone. Since she had taken her trunk with her, it seemed that some man must have assisted her to get it away. I conjectured almost at once that Frensham had had something to do with her leaving so mysteriously and giving up such a good job. It seemed possible that Frensham knew of her relations with Barrington and had been threatening exposure in the attempt to extort money from her. That might have frightened her into clearing out, in the hope of shaking Frensham off. If she had made up her mind to do that, she would probably have arranged with one of the hotel porters to remove her trunk for her. The night-porter, for instance, could have managed that part of it for her without the least difficulty—rung up for a taxi to come to the back entrance or somewhere near it, and carried the trunk to it.
‘I didn’t think, then, that there was anything more in her leaving in that fashion. I didn’t feel sure that there was even as much. I had given up the idea that she knew anything more about Barrington’s death than anyone else in the hotel did, and I didn’t for a moment connect her leaving with it. I knew she was a flighty, feather-brained little piece of goods, and it seemed just as likely as not that she had gone away with one of her admirers. I knew that she had plenty of them. Though there appeared to be no reason, in that case, why she should have selected such an ungodly hour as she seemed to have done.
‘It also occurred to me as possible that she had suddenly discovered that she was about to have a child, and had cleared out in a sudden funk on that account. But, on the whole, I had a feeling that Frensham was at the bottom of it. Certainly that morning I was ready to believe anything about Frensham.’