Love and hatred Part 39

"Of course not," she laughed. "Is it likely? My husband may have had, in the long, long ago--but I, never!"

An hour or so later, Katty Winslow, alone in her friend's motor, found herself before the lodge of the big lonely place where the retired money-lender--a Yorkshireman by birth--had set up his household G.o.ds.

The great gates were closed and locked, but there was a bell, and she rang it.

After a certain interval the lodge-keeper came out.

"I've come to see Mr. Greville Howard," she explained, and smiled amiably at the man.

He looked at her doubtfully. "The master don't see no one excepting by appointment," he said gruffly.

"I think he'll see me."

And then an extraordinary piece of luck befell Katty Winslow. While she was standing there, parleying, she suddenly saw a man inside the park, walking towards the gates.

"I think," she said boldly, "that that _is_ Mr. Greville Howard?" and she saw by the lodgekeeper's face that she was right in her guess.

Moving gracefully forward, she slid past him, and thus she stood just within the gates, while slowly there advanced towards her--and, had she but known it, towards many others--Fate, in the person of a tall, thin, some would have said a very distinguished-looking, elderly man.

As he came up, he looked at Katty with a measuring, thoughtful glance, and his eyes travelled beyond her to the well-appointed motor drawn up in the lonely country road outside.

Now this was the sort of situation to amuse and stimulate, rather than alarm, Katty, the more so that the stranger, who was now close to her, was looking at her pleasantly rather than otherwise.

She took a step towards him.

"Mr. Howard?" she exclaimed, in her full, agreeable voice. "I wonder if you would be so kind as to grant me a short interview? I want to see you about the late Mr. G.o.dfrey Pavely. He was a great friend of mine."

As she uttered the dead banker's name, Greville Howard's face stiffened into sudden watchfulness. But he said slowly: "May I enquire your name, madam?"

"Oh yes," she said eagerly. "My name is Winslow--I am Mrs. Winslow. I was G.o.dfrey Pavely's oldest friend--we were children together."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Your name comes back to me. I think you were mentioned at the inquest, Mrs. Winslow? But you did not give any evidence, if I remember rightly."

"No, I was not asked to give evidence," she answered. "And you yourself, Mr. Howard, were too ill to come and say what you knew about--about----"

"About Mr. Pavely's murderer," he said smoothly.

They were now walking side by side slowly away from the gate, down a broad, well-kept carriage road, the lodge-keeper staring after them.

"Do you know Sir Angus Kinross?" asked Katty's companion suddenly.

She gave him a curious, side-glance look. "I saw him several times last winter," she said hesitatingly. "But, Mr. Howard?--I don't like him!"

"Neither do I." He snapped the words out. "I could have told Scotland Yard a good deal if Kinross had taken the trouble to be civil to me--but he sent me down a fellow whose manner I exceedingly resented."

There followed a long pause. Katty became unpleasantly aware that this strange-looking man--she wondered how old he was--sixty-five?--seventy?--was looking at her with a rather pitiless scrutiny.

"I can see that you are anxious to know the truth," he observed. He added: "Are you aware that the reward has just been withdrawn?"

"No, I didn't know that. But I'm not surprised," she said.

She glanced at him, puzzled, and a little nervous. His keen eyes, grey-green in tint, were much younger than the rest of his face.

"I think I know part of the truth," he went on. "And perhaps you will be able to supply the other part, Mrs. Winslow. I confess to a certain curiosity about the matter."

They were now within sight of a charming-looking old house. It was charming, and yet there was something forlorn about its very perfection.

The low, oak, nail-studded front door was shut, not hospitably open--as is generally the case with the door of a Yorkshire country house. But Mr. Greville Howard pulled the bell, and at once the door was opened by a respectable-looking manservant.

"I am taking this lady to my study, and I do not wish to be disturbed till I ring. When I ring you can bring tea."

Katty followed her host through a short, vaulted pa.s.sage into a square hall. It was a beautiful apartment, in keeping with the delicate, austere charm of the house outside. And round the hall there were some fine Dutch easel pictures.

Out of the hall there opened various doors. Greville Howard pushed open one, already ajar, and Katty walked through into what she at once realised was her companion's own habitual living-room.

With all her cleverness, and her acquaintance with the art-furnishing jargon of the day, Katty would have been surprised to know the value of the contents of this comparatively small room. It contained some notable examples of the best period of early French Empire furniture. This was specially true of the mahogany and bra.s.s inlaid dwarf bookcases which ran round three sides of the apartment. Above the bookcases, against the turquoise-blue silk with which the walls were hung, were a number of Meissonier's paintings of Napoleon.

On the mantelpiece was a marble bust of the young Caesar as First Consul, and above it a delightful portrait of Mademoiselle Georges, by Gerard.

As he briefly informed his visitor of the portrait's ident.i.ty, Mr.

Greville Howard felt just a little disappointed that Mrs. Winslow did not seem more interested.

During the last quarter of an hour he had recaptured what at the time of the affair had been a very definite impression as to the relations of his present visitor and the Wiltshire banker. But now, seeing Katty there before him, looking so much at her ease, so--so ladylike (Mr.

Greville Howard's own word), he hesitated.

"Pray sit down," he said courteously, "and make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Winslow. It's getting rather chilly."

Her host put on another log as he spoke, and pulled a low, easy chair up close to the fire. And then he himself sat down, at right angles to his attractive guest, in a curiously-shaped winged chair which had once been part of the furniture in the Empress Josephine's music-room at Malmaison.

CHAPTER XXIV

It had been a little after three o'clock when Katty Winslow entered Mr.

Greville Howard's study--and now it was half-past four. The room had grown gradually darker, but the fire threw out a glimmering light on the faces of the two sitting there.

All at once Katty realised, with a sense of acute discomfiture, that as yet her host had said nothing--nothing, at least, that mattered. He had drawn out of her, with extraordinary patience, courtesy, and intelligence, all that _she_ could tell _him_--of what had happened before, and about the time of, G.o.dfrey Pavely's death.

She had even told him of the two anonymous letters received by G.o.dfrey Pavely--but with regard to them she had of course deliberately lied, stating that G.o.dfrey had shown them to her, and that she still had no idea from whence they came.

Her listener had made very few comments, but he had shown, quite early in their conversation, a special interest in the personality of Oliver Tropenell. He had even extracted from Katty a physical description of the man she declared to be now Mrs. Pavely's lover, and probable future husband.

At first, say during the first half-hour, she had felt extraordinarily at ease with the remarkable old man who had listened to her so attentively, while the fine eyes, which were the most arresting feature of his delicate, highly intelligent countenance, were fixed on her flushed face. But now, with the shadows of evening falling, she could not see him so clearly, and there came a cold feeling about Katty Winslow's heart. There was very little concerning her own past relations with G.o.dfrey Pavely that this stranger did not now know. She felt as if he had uncovered all the wrappings which enfolded her restless, vindictive, jealous soul. But she herself, so far, had learnt nothing from him.

She began to feel very tired, and suddenly, whilst answering one of his searching, gentle questions, her voice broke, and she burst into tears.

He leant quickly forward, and laid his thin, delicate right hand on hers. "My dear Mrs. Winslow, please forgive me! This has been a painful ordeal for you. I feel like a Grand Inquisitor! But now I am going to bring you comfort--I ought not to say joy. But before I do so I am going to make you take a cup of tea--and a little bread and b.u.t.ter. Then, afterwards, I will show you that I appreciate your generous confidence in telling me all that you have done."