CHAPTER XIION THE TRACK

Generally speaking, it seemed as though Mallien's prophecy of Carrington picking Rupert's pockets was likely to come true. Owing to circumstances, the barrister had found a perfectly legitimate way of getting money from his friend, and intended to take every advantage of the opportunity. He explained to Hendle that it would be necessary for him to remain at The Big House until all these crooked affairs were straightened out, and that, his time being valuable, he would require a handsome fee for his services. The Squire professed himself quite willing that things should be so arranged, but he was scarcely so dense as Carrington believed him to be. He saw that the visitor was anxious to make money, and concluded that perhaps it was best to settle matters on this coldly legal basis. The cut-and-dried situation was thus perfectly understood by both men, and they got on very amicably together. On the surface everything was as it should be.

But below the surface, things were scarcely so pleasant. Rupert's susceptibilities for Carrington, dating from Rugby days, had received a shock. He had looked to find in the barrister an intimate friend, only to discover that he was a hard business man. Had Carrington looked into matters without stipulating for a fee, and had behaved as a chum, Hendle would have gladly dealt handsomely with him, knowing that he was not particularly successful in his profession. But the Squire, with the memory of his school hero-worship in his mind, was dismayed to find that his former idol had feet of clay, and that Carrington was quite willing to use him as a means to an end. Rupert was by no means sentimental, yet he felt anxious for sympathy in his present unpleasant position. That sympathy should be sold, as the barrister was selling it, chilled his ardent nature, and made him less confidential with his school-friend than otherwise he would have been. Everything seemed to be for sale, and nothing appeared to be given as a gift. Mallien, Mrs. Beatson, Carrington, all had an eye to the main chance; and even the late vicar had hinted in a veiled way that the will would be given up if his Yucatan expedition was financed. It seemed to Rupert that his only true friend was Dorinda, who loved him for himself, and not for what she could get out of him. And Dorinda was nearer and dearer than a friend, since she was to be his wife. Hendle, who was deeply religious in his unobtrusive way, silently thanked God that he had one staunch comrade. And such Dorinda was, therefore their marriage would certainly be happier, when founded upon so solid a foundation, than if it were a mere romantic passion.

For the next three days, the two men paid daily visits to the Vicarage and hunted high and low for the missing will. They examined every paper; they opened every book; they looked through the pockets of old clothes, and turned out every cupboard. Rupert expected that Mallien, being so keen about his rights, would search also; but the day after Carrington's arrival, he went up to London, and remained absent for some time. Apparently he disliked coming into contact with the sharp-tongued barrister, and probably would not return until his enemy took his departure. Carrington, of course, was not Mallien's enemy, as he had no reason to be, but Mallien in his odd misanthropic way regarded him as such. He therefore would not have been pleased had he learned that on the third day of his absence, Dorinda entertained the two men at dinner.

Miss Mallien did not like Carrington any more than did her father, but for the sake of helping Rupert, she extended the hand of hospitality. In fact she gave quite a little dinner-party, as Kit Beatson and Miss Tollart were also present. The master of the house always objected to these small entertainments, as they cost money; but Dorinda paid no attention to his objections, as she claimed a reasonable right to amuse herself. Nevertheless, she considered her father's feelings so far as only to ask her neighbors to luncheon, afternoon tea and dinner when he was absent. Yet, notwithstanding this concession, there was always trouble when Mallien returned; and, since Carrington had been invited, it was probable that, on this occasion, there would be a royal row. Dorinda did not mind, as she was used to rows. The only way in which she could make her situation bearable was by standing up for herself and defying her father in small matters. If she did not do so, he would bully her still more, for every inch she gave meant several ells with him. Her mild entertainments were therefore useful in preserving her independence, and in coloring a somewhat drab existence.

With the assistance of the small servant, Miss Mallien had prepared a simple but appetizing meal, which was done full justice to by the quartette of guests. Afterward, they sat in the tiny drawing-room, and enjoyed a real old English evening of the Albert Period type, including games and music. Carrington had brought some jig-saw puzzles from London, and when the excitement of putting tricky pictures together palled, music supplied new pleasure. Sophy Tollart, who had been well-trained, rendered scraps of very up-to-date harmony, which began anyhow and ended nowhere. Kit sang sentimental ballads in a pleasant uncultivated tenor, and Dorinda delighted her hearers with old time songs such as "Kathleen Mavourneen" and "Robin Adair." Finally, as the evening waned, the company gathered near the open window to chat about this and that and the other thing. Sophy recounted her experience as a militant suffragist; Kit informed everyone of what progress the motor industry was making, and, of course, the coming of the new vicar supplied interesting conversation. It was Miss Tollart who introduced the topic.

"He will arrive in a fortnight," she explained, bending her black brows in quite a tragic way, "and has a family of four girls. I hope to interest them all in the movement."

"Votes for Women?" asked Carrington, who found Sophy very amusing, since she knew little and asserted much.

"Of course. What other Movement is there?"

"Well, you see, Miss Tollart, Women's Rebellion isn't the only pebble on the beach. Humanity has other interests also."

"Then it shouldn't have," retorted Sophy daringly. "Until women have votes, the world will never be put right."

"Things have gone on very well so far," ventured Rupert, only to be crushed.

"How can you say so, Mr. Hendle, when there's nothing but war and bankruptcy, and silly football matches, and smart society, and----"

"Sophy! Sophy! that's enough to go on with," cried Dorinda, smiling. "Don't give us too much to think about."

"You never think at all, Dorinda. You are fainthearted about our votes."

"I don't think you'll get them by destroying property and having hunger strikes," replied Dorinda, with a shrug. "What do you say, Kit?"

Kit blushed and wriggled, for Sophy's eye was on him. "I don't say anything you know. I never do. The motor business takes up all my attention." Then he hurriedly changed the subject, lest his lady-love should fall foul of him for his shirking. "I hope Sophy will gain her ends easier in Australia."

"I'm not going to Australia, Kit. I told you that and I told your mother."

"Mrs. Beatson," said Carrington, pricking up his ears. "Does she want you to go to Australia, Miss Tollart?"

"She wants to go herself."

"That's news to me," observed Hendle, with a start.

"It's news to all of us," put in Kit, dismally. "The worst of mother is that you never know what she'll be up to next. The other day she came to me and said that she soon hoped to inherit an annuity of two hundred a year and intended to go to Australia. She wants Sophy and me to come with her."

Hendle, Dorinda and Carrington exchanged glances. "Who is leaving this annuity to your mother?" asked Rupert, guessing the source of the windfall.

"She didn't say," replied Kit, "some old aunt, I fancy. But I don't want to go with mother. She and Sophy never get on well together."

"How can we when she wants everyone to bow down to her?" said Miss Tollart, who hated Mrs. Beatson thoroughly. "I'm not of the bowing-down sort. And when I marry, I want my house to myself."

"Natural enough," observed Carrington, who was listening eagerly. "And Mrs. Beatson wants you all to live together on her annuity?"

"Not exactly that," said Kit reluctantly. "She won't keep us, but hopes that in Australia I shall make more money out of motors."

"She may hope," said Sophy positively; "and, if she is disappointed, she will have to be. You are not going to Australia, Kit. My father needs my care, and I can't leave him."

It seemed to Carrington that between Kit's mother and his future wife's father, the poor young fellow was in a most uncomfortable position. However, for obvious reasons, connected with Sophy, he did not say so and contented himself with the remark that he thought Dr. Tollart very clever. "When I came down here first, I called in to get a cure for toothache and he gave me one which acted like a charm."

Sophy, who seemed to have a deep affection for her disreputable parent, colored with pleasure as she rose to go. "Father has his faults, but he is a very clever man," she said emphatically; "but for his failing he would be in Harley Street as a Specialist."

"Great men have more room for faults than small men," quoted Carrington. "Don't look angry, Miss Tollart; I really mean what I say. Your father is clever."

"I'm glad to hear that some one does him justice," said the girl bitterly, and looking more womanly as she spoke. "Usually everyone is against him. But Kit will help me to keep him straight when we are married. Mrs. Beatson would drive him crazy."

"Sophy! Sophy! She is my mother," expostulated Kit, blushing.

"I know that," snapped Miss Tollart tartly. "It is the only thing I have against you as my husband. But so long as she lives at a distance--well, it's no use talking. Dorinda, I'm going now."

She went out to put on her hat and cloak, while Kit stood irresolutely by the door he had just opened, looking so downcast that Hendle clapped him on the back. "Cheer up, old boy; it will be all right," he said, feeling profoundly sorry for the lad since Mrs. Beatson was decidedly a very disagreeable mother. And then Carrington put a question.

"When does your mother expect her annuity?"

"She says she may get it at any time," replied Kit, rather stiffly, as he did not see why a stranger like the barrister should interfere; "but I know very little about it. All she told me was that she was to get two hundred a year and would leave Mr. Hendle to go to Australia."

"Oh, I shall place no obstacle in her path," observed Rupert somewhat grimly. "After all, as I soon marry Miss Mallien, there will be no need for me to have a housekeeper."

It was at this moment and before Carrington could ask further questions, which he very much wished to do, that Sophy returned. Evidently she had been crying, for her eyes were red, but her emotions were quite under control and, after taking leave of her hostess and the two men, she went away with Kit. They seemed to be rather a forlorn young couple. Dorinda remarked as much when she returned to the drawing-room after seeing them to the door.

"What else can you expect," asked Carrington coolly, "when they are connected with a drunkard like Tollart and a shrew like Mrs. Beatson? So she intends to go to Australia, does she? I don't want to hurt your feelings, Miss Mallien, but I see your father's finger in this."

"Say as little about my father as is possible," answered Dorinda, with a rich color flushing her fair cheeks. Little as she respected her shady parent she did not intend to discuss him with a stranger whom she disliked.

Carrington was diplomatic enough to skate away from the thin ice. "Rupert and I have taken all the papers and clothes and odds and ends of Leigh to The Big House," he remarked; "and there they can stay until we hear from the Australian sea-captain who inherits. The London lawyer has written him."

"And the will?"

"We have not found it yet."

"I don't think we ever will find it," commented Hendle soberly. "I have searched the Vicarage from cellar to attic without success. I really believe, Dorinda, that, after all, Leigh was dreaming, and that the will doesn't exist."

"Either that," said Carrington deliberately, "or Mrs. Beatson made away with Leigh and stole it."

"I can't believe that," protested Dorinda, turning pale. "I told you so before when you first broached the idea, Mr. Carrington. She is not a nice woman, but I don't think she would commit a murder."

"There is nothing Mrs. Beatson would not do, if she were assured that her crime would remain undiscovered," insisted the barrister grimly. "After all, if Mrs. Beatson didn't kill Leigh, who did? Rupert and I and the housekeeper knew of the will and of its value. As I was in town I am innocent, and we know, Miss Mallien, that Rupert is not the man to commit such a crime. There only remains Mrs. Beatson, who told your father, when she made all things safe."

Dorinda started, and looked searchingly at the barrister. "How do you mean?"

Carrington smiled meaningly. "I believe that Mrs. Beatson murdered Leigh and now has the will. She intends to sell it to your father for this annuity."

Dorinda grew red and her eyes grew bright. "How dare you say such a thing to me, Mr. Carrington? In the first place, my father would never condone a crime even to gain a fortune; in the second, the moment Mrs. Beatson offered to sell him the will, he would know her to be guilty."

"Yes, of course," replied Carrington soothingly, "and naturally would hand her over to the police. It was only the idea of the annuity which suggested the idea to me, and maybe it is far-fetched. I apologize, Miss Mallien."

Dorinda bowed silently. She did not like the ironical tone in which the barrister spoke, as she felt convinced that he still held to his preposterous idea. What is more, in her own mind, she did not consider that the idea was so preposterous as she declared. Her father had been prepared to hush up the matter when he believed Rupert to be guilty, so it was not improbable that he would make terms with Mrs. Beatson, provided he secured the will. Still, the girl did not intend to let Carrington know what she thought, and therefore stood up for her absent parent. "I don't believe that Mrs. Beatson is guilty of such wicked conduct," she repeated, after a pause. "What grounds have you to say such a thing?"

"Well," murmured Carrington with a shrug. "No very good grounds, I admit. But Mrs. Beatson knew about the will before Leigh was murdered, and I firmly believe that he was got rid of for the sake of the will. This suggestion of an annuity hints that she has the will and is trying to dispose of it at a price. Perhaps Hendle----"

"She has said nothing to me," interrupted Rupert quickly, "and, after all, Carrington, you have watched her for the last few days without seeing anything suspicious."

"Mrs. Beatson is a sly creature, who will not give herself away easily," returned the barrister dryly. "I shall continue to watch her. There's ten o'clock, Hendle," he added, as the mellow tones of the church bell floated through the warm night. "We must not keep Miss Mallien from her beauty sleep."

Dorinda did not suggest that they should remain, although she would have liked to speak privately with her lover. But while Carrington was at his elbow, that was impossible, and she did not wish to talk freely in the presence of a man she mistrusted. The two young men said good-night to their hostess and went away, leaving Dorinda in anything but a happy frame of mind. What had been suggested about her father trading with the housekeeper worried her considerably. There might or might not be some truth in the idea. She tried to dismiss it from her mind; but it would not be dismissed, and troubled her far into the small hours of the morning.

Meanwhile, Rupert and his friend sauntered leisurely homeward. It was so hot that they did not wear coats over their evening suit, and so dry underfoot that they walked to and from the cottage in shoes. The sky was radiant with innumerable stars, and although there was no moon, there was ample light in which to see surrounding objects. Through the shadowy world, warm and peaceful, the young men wandered, taking their way across the fields, as the high-road was so dusty and hard. For a time neither spoke, for each was busy with his own thoughts, which had to do with the case. Finally, Carrington broke the silence, and spoke soft, as though he feared listeners.

"I did not press my point, Hendle," he remarked significantly, "as the little I did say rather offended Miss Mallien."

"You were rather libellous about her father, you know, Carrington."

"If the saying, that the greater the truth the greater the libel is true, I certainly was," retorted the barrister, "for what I said I hold to."

"That Mrs. Beatson is the guilty person?"

"Yes. And that she is trading with Mallien to give him what he wants."

"The will?"

"Of course. I am as certain of that fact as I am that I live. She has the will, and she intends to deliver it to him--if she hasn't done so already--on condition that he gives her the two hundred a year annuity, which she told her son comes from a mythical aunt."

"Well," said Rupert, after a pause, "since Mallien was willing to come to terms with me, I see no reason why he should not come to terms with Mrs. Beatson, always provided that she is guilty."

"She is," insisted Carrington bluntly. "It is no use my giving you my reasons again, I think."

"If things are as you say I don't see how Mrs. Beatson's part of the business can be concealed. The will is of no use to Mallien unless he makes it public. And if he does, he will have to explain how he became possessed of it. I suppose his confession of the deal with Mrs. Beatson would bring him into trouble as an accessory-after-the-fact?"

"It would, and I am wondering how Mallien intends to make himself safe on that score. There is only one thing to be done, Hendle. We must wait until Mallien produces the will. Then we can move."

"It's an infernal messy business altogether," growled the big man, restlessly; "and I wish we were all well out of it. I don't want Mallien to get into any trouble for Dorinda's sake."

"I think you can be pretty certain that Mallien will look after his own precious skin," said the barrister dryly; "and if--hush!--not a word." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Who's that?"

"What?" Rupert looked round, as Carrington caught his arm, and pulled him off the footpath into a clump of hazels.

"Don't speak," whispered Carrington with his mouth close to Rupert's ear; "and button your coat as well as you can over your shirt-front. The white may betray us." He acted on his own advice, and kept Hendle well behind the shelter of the leafy trees. "Now watch."

Hendle did so with all his eyes, straining his sight through the shadowy night, and by this time had seen the reason of Carrington's action and caution. The two men had reached the red brick wall which ran round the park, and saw that the postern gate through which they intended to pass was open. A tall dark figure in flowing robes was slipping out, and when Carrington pulled his friend into shelter behind the hazels, the woman--for such it was--closed the postern stealthily. After a glance to right and left, she walked swiftly along the footpath, going in the direction whence the watchers had come. As she swept past the hazel clump, Rupert nearly uttered an exclamation, for, in spite of the black-silk hood pulled well over her head and face, he was absolutely certain that this night walker was none other than his respectable housekeeper. What she was doing outside the house at this time of night and whither she was going he could not conjecture. But Carrington could, and when the woman passed away into the shadows, he whispered an exultant explanation.

"It's Mrs. Beatson, Hendle. She's going to look for the will. Quick! let us follow; but take care she doesn't see us."

"The will!" breathed Rupert, cautiously, as they stole out on the trail. "What do you mean?"

"She has hidden the will somewhere, I am sure, and now is going to get it. We will catch her red-handed if we are careful. What luck!"

"But it's impossible, and----"

"Don't talk," interrupted Carrington, in a savage whisper. "Do you want to give the show away? It's a wonderful chance of learning the truth. Come."

Hendle silently agreed with his companion, although he found it hard to believe that Mrs. Beatson was such a conspirator. Whether her night excursion had to do with the missing will or not, he could not be sure; but it was evident that she was bent upon some shady business, into which he should inquire, as her master. The adventure appealed to him as a welcome break in his monotonous existence, and he felt his nerves thrill, as with Carrington he followed cautiously. In the half-light they saw the black figure of the woman climb the stile at the end of the meadow and enter a spinney, which belted the high road. By the time they reached this, and emerged on to the travelled thoroughfare, Mrs. Beatson had vanished. Carrington bent to run, but halted a moment to whisper.

"If there is any truth in my belief, she has gone to the Vicarage. There, if anywhere, she has hidden the will in the jungle."

Hendle nodded without reply, and the two men sped swiftly along the road until they came to the bend. They were just in time to see Mrs. Beatson vanish through the rickety gate, which, as usual, was standing wide open. Carrington stopped, dodged, stooped, then crossed the road to run alongside the hedge until he halted just outside the gate. Peering round the corner with Rupert breathing hard beside him, the barrister saw that Mrs. Beatson carried a lantern, which she had just lighted, for it gleamed like a star in the darkness of the tall trees.

"We can wait here," whispered Carrington, delaying Rupert, who wanted to enter the grounds. "She will come back this way. We may attract her attention if we make any noise in that jungle."

This was good advice which Rupert was sensible enough to take. Keeping well within the shadow of the hedge, and looking up the avenue, they waited for the woman's return. They had put their collars up and had buttoned their dress coats over the shining expanse of shirt-front, so there was no gleam of white to betray them, as they crouched, two dark figures, in the dry ditch under the hedge. With beating hearts they waited anxiously, taking a peep every now and then. Mrs. Beatson was a long time absent--Hendle judged about a quarter of an hour. Then, unexpectedly, she appeared running swiftly down the grass-grown avenue with her lantern swinging in her hand. At the gate and within touch, she waited to extinguish the light, but before doing so set it on the ground to look at a rustling parchment by its gleam. The moment she stooped with the document, Carrington's arm shot out and it was snatched away. With a shriek Mrs. Beatson straightened herself to face her master and his guest. She had, indeed, been caught red-handed.