Anthony Lyveden Part 52

Plowman looked round wide-eyed, and Orphan blew disgustedly through his nose.

The former raised his voice.

"Major Lyveden," he called, smiling, "may I come in?"

There was no answer.

The two conferred in a whisper. Then Plowman cleared his throat.

"Major Lyveden!" he called. "It's Plowman speaking--Plowman, of Girdle. Can you spare me a moment?"

Still no reply was vouchsafed.

Followed by the other, Orphan advanced into the room and looked behind the door. There was no one there.

He stepped to the foot of the flight of stairs and spoke upward.

"Is Major Lyveden there?"

For a moment it seemed as if he, too, was to go unanswered. Then--

"Nao," said a voice thickly, "'e ain't. 'E's gorn aout, 'e 'as. An'

won' be beck till ter-morrer."

Orphan looked sharply at Plowman. The latter shook his head, frowning, as if in denial, and lifted his voice.

"Who's that?" he snapped.

Somebody was heard to swallow. Then--

"I tell yer 'e ain't 'ere," said the voice. "'E's--'e's gorn aout."

"Who has?" said Orphan.

"Majer"--the speaker hesitated--"Major Dibdin."

The hesitancy alone would have proclaimed the impostor, and, while Plowman ran for the others, Orphan told the occupant of the bedroom, first that he was an infernal liar, secondly that he was being addressed by a magistrate, and thirdly that, unless he desired to be given into custody for stealing poultry and housebreaking, he had better descend forthwith and tell the whole truth.

As the Judge and Blithe came up, with Plowman behind them, Orphan stepped backwards out of the doorway.

"Come on," he said roughly. "Out in the air."

Barefoot, of his trepidation still grasping the carca.s.s of what had been a black Orpington, there emerged from the cottage a filthy and evil-smelling tramp. A week's sandy stubble bristled upon his chin, the pendulous lips were twitching, the crafty eyes shifted uneasily from side to side.

The four lawyers stared upon the beastly apparition in disgusted dismay.

The sickly smile of guilty embarra.s.sment upon their _vis-a-vis'_ face had begun to swell into the cringing leer familiarly precedent to an appeal for leniency, when the fellow leaned forward, stared fearfully at the Judge, and, dropping the pullet with a screech, recoiled against the wall.

"I ain't done no 'arm," he cried, whimpering. "I ain't done no 'arm.

I never stole that there 'en. She were dead in the way, me lord.

Runned over by a cyar, she were. I only come aout last Toosday, me lord, an' tryin' ter run strite an' git a good job o' work, like wot you said, sir. It's gauze trewth I never stole that there bird. She was layin'..."

Out of a bad business the queer recognition stood solitarily opportune.

Rhadamanthus' own promise of clemency in return for the truth could not have been more effective. The plain facts, however, were wofully bitter to hear.

The tramp had taken undisputed possession at eight o'clock that morning. The cottage was then empty. The fire was out and the bed in order. Upon the floor of the living-room lay the fragments of a pitcher, with the water, which this had held, settled in a pool upon the bricks. A Windsor chair was fallen, Dagon-like, upon its face, with its legs in the air. What no one could understand was the fact that the lamp, which hung from the ceiling, was still burning.

More or less recovered, but profoundly depressed, Monseigneur Forest reached Hampshire upon the following Thursday. He had visited the Judge in London, and learned from his mouth first the news and then the details of the unpleasant truth. His lordship's contention that Fate was opposed to their endeavours, he found it difficult to dispute.

Believing that he was on his way to a triumph, he had come breathless to partic.i.p.ate in a rout. For three days he had dandled a new-born joy, to find it stark upon the fourth....

Valerie was not at the station, but Mason was there with the car, and the poor man was glad to be alone. He was mourning a stolen opportunity to repair a great wrong, and would not be comforted. The lost legatee haunted him more tragically than ever.

As the car swept to the house he noticed two girls upon the steps.

They were interrogating the butler.

Observing his arrival they cut their inquiries short. The prelate emerged, however, in time to hear the servant's concluding words.

"No, madam. Only that the improvement was maintained. Thank you, madam."

"Who's ill?" cried Forest sharply.

The butler inclined his head.

"Major Lyveden, sir--a friend of Miss Valerie's. He----"

"_Who?_"

For all his training the servant jumped.

"Major Lyveden, sir. Major Anthony Lyveden."

Monseigneur Forest looked round helplessly. Then he put a hand to his head and sat down on the steps.

CHAPTER IX

VANITY OF VANITIES

In a quiet, even tone Lyveden was talking.

The pleasant voice went steadily on, now reciting, now commenting, now lending argument, a cool dispa.s.sionate gravity that forced the ear.

Facts were so clearly stated, conclusions so reasonably drawn, points so firmly made--all without a trace of emotion, yet seriously offered in the most conspicuous good faith--that it was almost impossible to realize that the speaker was insensible. But that is the way of brain-fever....

The voice faltered and stopped.