The Evil Shepherd Part 26

Sir Timothy frowned.

"The question places me in a somewhat difficult position," he replied coldly. "In a certain sense I have a liking for you. You are not quite the ingenuous nincomp.o.o.p I took you for on the night of our first meeting. On the other hand, you have prejudices against me. My harmless confession of sympathy with criminals and their ways seems to have stirred up a cloud of suspicion in your mind. You even employ a detective to show the world what a fool he can look, sitting in a punt attempting to fish, with one eye on the supposed abode of crime."

"I have nothing whatever to do with the details of Shopland's investigations," Francis protested. "He is in search of Reggie Wilmore."

"Does he think I have secret dungeons in my new abode," Sir Timothy demanded, "or oubliettes in which I keep and starve brainless youths for some nameless purpose? Be reasonable, Mr. Ledsam. What the devil benefit could accrue to me from abducting or imprisoning or in any way laying my criminal hand upon this young man?"

"None whatever that we have been able to discover as yet," Francis admitted.

"A leaning towards melodrama, admirable in its way, needs the leaven of a well-balanced discretion and a sense of humour," Sir Timothy observed.

"The latter quality is as a rule singularly absent amongst the myrmidons of Scotland Yard. I do not think that Mr. Shopland will catch even fish in the neighbourhood of The Walled House. As regards your matrimonial proposal, let us waive that until my daughter returns."

"As you will," Francis agreed. "I will be frank to this extent, at any rate. If I can persuade your daughter to marry me, your consent will not affect the matter."

"I can leave Margaret a matter of two million pounds," Sir Timothy said pensively.

"I have enough money to support my wife myself," Francis observed.

"Utopian but foolish," Sir Timothy declared. "All the same, Mr. Ledsam, let me tell you this. You have a curious attraction for me. When I was asked why I had invited you to The Sanctuary last night, I frankly could not answer the question. I didn't know. I don't know. Your dislike of me doesn't seem to affect the question. I was glad to have you there last night. It pleases me to hear you talk, to hear your views of things. I feel that I shall have to be very careful, Mr. Ledsam, or--"

"Or what?" Francis demanded.

"Or I shall even welcome the idea of having you for a son-in-law," Sir Timothy concluded reluctantly. "Make my excuses to Mr. Shopland. Au revoir!"

Shopland came in as the door closed behind the departing visitor. He listened to all that Francis had to say, without comment.

"If The Walled House," he said at last, "is so carefully guarded that Sir Timothy has been informed of my watching the place and has been made aware of my mild questionings, it must be because there is something to conceal. I may or may not be on the track of Mr. Reginald Wilmore, but,"

the detective concluded, "of one thing I am becoming convinced--The Walled House will pay for watching."

CHAPTER XXI

It was a day when chance was kind to Francis. After leaving his rooms at the Temple, he made a call at one of the great clubs in Pall Mall, to enquire as to the whereabouts of a friend. On his way back towards the Sheridan, he came face to face with Margaret Hilditch, issuing from the doors of one of the great steamship companies. For a moment he almost failed to recognise her. She reminded him more of the woman of the tea-shop. Her costume, neat and correct though it was, was studiously un.o.btrusive. Her motoring veil, too, was obviously worn to a.s.sist her in escaping notice.

She, too, came to a standstill at seeing him. Her first e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns betrayed a surprise which bordered on consternation. Then Francis, with a sudden inspiration, pointed to the long envelope which she was carrying in her hand.

"You have been to book a pa.s.sage somewhere!" he exclaimed.

"Well?"

The monosyllable was in her usual level tone. Nevertheless, he could see that she was shaken:

"You were going away without seeing me again?"' he asked reproachfully.

"Yes!" she admitted.

"Why?"

She looked up and down a little helplessly.

"I owe you no explanation for my conduct," she said. "Please let me pa.s.s."

"Could we talk for a few minutes, please?" he begged. "Tell me where you were going?"

"Oh, back to lunch, I suppose," she answered.

"Your father has been up, looking for you," he told her.

"I telephoned to The Sanctuary," she replied. "He had just left."

"I am very anxious," he continued, "not to distress you, but I cannot let you go away like this. Will you come to my rooms and let us talk for a little time?"

She made no answer. Somehow, he realised that speech just then was difficult. He called a taxi and handed her in. They drove to Clarges Street in silence. He led the way up the stairs, gave some quick orders to his servant whom he met coming down, ushered her into his sitting-room and saw her ensconced in an easy-chair.

"Please take off that terrible veil," he begged.

"It is pinned on to my hat," she told him.

"Then off with both," he insisted. "You can't eat luncheon like that.

I'm not going to try and bully you. If you've booked your pa.s.sage to Timbuctoo and you really want to go--why, you must. I only want the chance of letting you know that I am coming after you."

She took off her hat and veil and threw them on to the sofa, glancing sideways at a mirror let into the door of a cabinet.

"My hair is awful," she declared:

He laughed gaily, and turned around from the sideboard, where he was busy mixing c.o.c.ktails.

"Thank heavens for that touch of humanity!" he exclaimed. "A woman who can bother about her hair when she takes her hat off, is never past praying for. Please drink this."

She obeyed. He took the empty gla.s.s away from her. Then he came over to the hearthrug by her side.

"Do you know that I kissed you last night?" he reminded her.

"I do," she answered. "That is why I have just paid eighty-four pounds for a pa.s.sage to Buenos Ayres."

"I should have enjoyed the trip," he said. "Still, I'm glad I haven't to go."

"Do you really mean that you would have come after me?" she asked curiously.

"Of course I should," he a.s.sured her. "Believe me, there isn't such an obstinate person in the world as the man of early middle-age who suddenly discovers the woman he means to marry."

"But you can't marry me," she protested.

"Why not?" he asked.