A Maker of History Part 22

The girl was proceeding tranquilly with her dinner. The story so far did not seem to interest her.

"His sister, who went over to Paris to meet him, found herself quite alone there, and we supposed that she devoted herself to searching for him. And then curiously enough she, too, disappeared. Letters from her suddenly ceased. No one knew what had become of her."

She looked at him with a faint smile.

"Now," she said, "your story is becoming interesting. Do go on. I want to know where you and Mr. Pelham come in."

"Pelham, I think," he continued gravely, "was their oldest friend. He sent for me. We were old college chums, and I went. This trouble with his eyes had only just come on, and he was practically helpless--much more helpless than the ordinary blind person, because it was all new to him. This boy and girl were his old and dear friends. He was longing to be off to Paris to search for them himself, and yet he knew that so far as he was concerned it would be simply wasted time. He showed me the girl's photograph."

"Well?"

"I went in his place."

"And did you find either of them?"

"No."

"I wonder," she said, "why you have told me this story?"

"I am going to tell you why," he answered. "Because when Pelham heard you laugh last night he was like a madman. He believed that it was the voice of Phyllis Poynton. And I--I--when I saw you, I also felt that miracles were at hand. Look here!"

He drew a photograph from his pocket and showed it to her. She looked at it long and earnestly.

"Yes," she admitted, "there is a likeness. It is like what I might have been years ago. But will you tell me something?"

"Of course!"

"Why do you carry the picture of that girl about with you?"

He leaned towards her, and at that moment Lady Runton rose from her place.

"In the winter garden afterwards," he whispered. "You have asked me the very question that I wanted to answer!"

CHAPTER XVII

GEORGE DUNCOMBE'S LIE

There was something strange about Andrew's manner as he moved up to Duncombe's side. The latter, who was in curiously high spirits, talked incessantly for several minutes. Then he came to a dead stop. He was aware that his friend was not listening.

"What is the matter with you, old chap?" he asked abruptly. "You are positively glum."

Andrew Pelham shook his head.

"Nothing much!" he said.

"Rubbish! What is it?"

Andrew dropped his voice almost to a whisper. The words came hoa.r.s.ely.

He seemed scarcely master of himself.

"The girl's voice tortures me," he declared. "It doesn't seem possible that there can be two so much alike. And then Spencer's telegram. What does it mean?"

"Be reasonable, old fellow!" Duncombe answered. "You knew Phyllis Poynton well. Do you believe that she would be content to masquerade under a false name, invent a father, be received here--Heaven knows how--and meet you, an old friend, as a stranger? The thing's absurd, isn't it?"

"Granted. But what about Spencer's telegram?"

"It is an enigma, of course. We can only wait for his solution. I have wired him the information he asked for. In the meantime----"

"Well, in the meantime?"

"There is nothing to be gained by framing absurd hypotheses. I don't mind telling you, Andrew, that I find Miss Fielding the most delightful girl I ever met in my life."

"Tell me exactly, George, how she compares with the photograph you have of Phyllis Poynton."

Duncombe sipped his wine slowly.

"She is very like it," he said, "and yet there are differences. She is certainly a little thinner and taller. The features are similar, but the hair is quite differently arranged. I should say that Miss Fielding is two or three years older than Phyllis Poynton, and she has the air of having travelled and been about more."

"A few months of events," Andrew murmured, "might account for all those differences."

Duncombe laughed as he followed his host's lead and rose.

"Get that maggot out of your brain, Andrew," he exclaimed, "as quickly as possible. Will you take my arm? Mind the corner."

They found the drawing-room almost deserted. Runton raised his eyegla.s.s and looked around.

"I bet those women have collared the billiard table," he remarked. "Come along, you fellows."

They re-crossed the hall and entered the billiard-room. Lady Runton was playing with the Lord Lieutenant's wife, the Countess of Appleton. The others were all sitting about, either on the lounge or in the winter garden beyond. Miss Fielding was standing on the threshold, and Duncombe advanced eagerly towards her. On the way, however, he was b.u.t.tonholed by an acquaintance, and the master of the hounds had something to say to him afterwards about one of his covers. When he was free, Miss Fielding had disappeared. He made his way into the winter garden, only to find her sitting in a secluded corner with the Baron.

She looked up at his entrance, but made no sign. Duncombe reluctantly re-entered the billiard-room, and was captured by his host for a rubber of bridge.

The rubber was a long one. Duncombe played badly and lost his money.

Declining to cut in again, he returned to the winter garden. Miss Fielding and the Baron were still together, only they had now pushed their chairs a little further back, and were apparently engaged in a very confidential conversation. Duncombe turned on his heel and re-entered the billiard-room.

It was not until the party broke up that he found a chance of speaking to her. He was sensible at once of a change in her manner. She would have pa.s.sed him with a little nod, but he barred her way.

"You have treated me shockingly," he declared, with a smile which was a little forced. "You promised to let me show you the winter garden."

"Did I?" she answered. "I am so sorry. I must have forgotten all about it. The Baron has been entertaining me delightfully. Good night!"

He half stood aside.

"I haven't by any chance offended you, have I?" he asked in a low tone.