The Postmaster's Daughter Part 15

"What I really want is a portrait of 'the celebrated' author in whose grounds the body was found."

"Come along, then, and I'll pose for you."

The photographer was surprised, but joyfully accepted the gifts the G.o.ds gave. He could not guess that his host was pining for human companionship. He could not fathom Grant's disappointment, on reaching The Hollies, at finding no telegram from a trusted friend, Walter Hart.

And he was equally unconscious of the immense service he rendered by compelling his host to talk and act naturally. He enlightened Grant, too, in the matter of inquests.

"Next week there will be a gathering of lawyers," he said. "The police will be represented, probably by the Treasury, if the case is thought sufficiently important. That chap, Ingerman, too, will employ a solicitor, I expect, judging from his att.i.tude to-day. In fact, any one whose interests are affected ought to secure legal a.s.sistance. One never knows how these inquiries twist and turn."

"Thank you," said Grant, smiling at the journalist's tact. "I'll order tea to be got ready while you're taking your pictures. By the way, what sort of detective is Mr. Charles F. Furneaux?"

"A pocket marvel," was the enthusiastic answer. "Haven't you heard of him before? Well, you wouldn't, unless you followed famous cases professionally. He seldom appears in the courts--generally manages to wriggle out of giving direct evidence. But I've never known him to fail.

He either hangs his man or drives him to suicide. If I committed a crime, and was told that Furneaux was after me, I'd own up and save trouble, because I wouldn't have the ghost of a chance of winning clear."

"He strikes one as too flippant for a detective."

"Yes. Lots of people have thought that, and they're either disappearing in quicklime beneath some corridor of a prison, or doing time at Portland. I wonder if Winter also is coming down on this job."

"Who is 'Winter'?"

"The Chief Inspector at the 'Yard.' A big, cheerful-looking fellow--from his appearance might be a gentleman-farmer and J. P., with a taste for horses and greyhounds. He and Furneaux are called the Big 'Un and the Little 'Un, and each is most unlike the average detective. But Heaven help any wrong-doer they set out to trail! They'll get him, as sure as G.o.d made little apples."

"Then the sooner Mr. Winter visits Steynholme the better I shall be pleased. This tragedy is becoming a perfect nightmare. You heard that fat-headed policeman speak of my face being covered with blood. He did it purposely. I made a fool of him this morning, so he paid me out, the literal truth being that a branch of that Dorothy Perkins rose there caught my cheek as I entered this room on Tuesday morning--before I discovered the body--and broke the skin. I suppose the cut is visible still? I saw it to-day while shaving."

"Yes," said the other, chortling over the "copy" his colleagues were missing. "The mark is there right enough. Queer how inanimate objects like a rose-tree can make mischief. I remember a case in which a chestnut in a man's pocket sent him to penal servitude. There was absolutely no evidence against him, except a possible motive, until that chestnut was found and proved to be one of a particular species, grown only in a certain locality."

"How fortunate that the Dorothy Perkins is popular!" laughed Grant. "Will your paper publish photographs of the princ.i.p.als in this affair?"

"I expect so. I've a fine collection--the jury, all in a row--and you, making that speech to the mob."

"Oh! Will that appear?"

"By Jove, yes, sir. It was wired off before the inquest opened."

Grant reddened slightly. His own impetuous action had blurted out to the whole world that which Steynholme was only thinking. No wonder Furneaux had warned him to go slow. Perhaps the little man was annoyed because of his challenge to the village crowd? Well, be it so. He meant, and would live up to, every word of it!

The afternoon dragged after the pressman's departure. What Grant really hungered for was a heart-to-heart talk between Doris Martin and himself.

But, short of a foolish attempt to carry the post office by storm, he saw no means of realizing his desire. He must, perforce, await the less troubled hours of the morrow or next day. Doris would surely give her father an exact account of the conversation between Grant, Furneaux, and herself that morning, and that greatly perplexed man could hardly fail to see how unjust was the t.i.ttle-tattle of the village.

So, avoiding Mrs. Bates, whose fell intent it was to ask him what he wanted for dinner, he struck off along the road to Knoleworth, walked eight miles in two hours, and reached The Hollies about seven o'clock, rather inclined for a meal and much more contented with life.

Minnie announced that a gentleman "who brought a bag" had been awaiting him since half-past five, and was now asleep on the lawn! A glance at the aforesaid bag, still reposing in the entrance hall, sent Grant quickly into the garden. A long, broad-shouldered person was stretched on a wicker chair, and evidently enjoying a nap. A huge meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch lay on the gra.s.s. The newcomer's face was covered by a broad-brimmed, decidedly weather-beaten slouch hat, which, legend had it, was purchased originally in South America in the early nineties, and had won fame as the only one of its kind ever worn in the Strand.

"Hullo! Wally! Glad to see you!" shouted Grant joyously.

The sleeper stirred.

"No, not another drop!" he muttered. "You fellows must have heads of triple bra.s.s and stomachs of leather!"

"Get up, you rascal, or I'll spill you out of the chair!" said Grant.

A lazy hand removed the hat, and a pair of peculiarly big and bright eyes gazed up into his.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" drawled a quiet voice. "Why the blazes did you send for me? And, having sent, why wake me out of the best sleep I've had for a week?"

"But why didn't you let me know you were coming? I would have met the train."

"I did. Here's the telegram. That pink-cheeked maid of yours nearly had a fit when I opened it to show her that I was expected."

"You wired from Victoria, I suppose?"

"Would you have preferred Charing Cross, or the Temple? Isn't Victoria respectable?"

Grant laughed as they shook hands. Hart was the most casual adventurer in existence. His specialty was revolutions. Wherever the flag of rebellion was raised against a government, thither went Walter Hart post-haste by train, steamer, or on horseback. He had been sentenced to death five times, and decorated by successful Jack Cades twice as often.

"I'm a sort of outlaw. That's why I sought your help," explained Grant.

"I know all about you, Jack," said Hart slowly, picking up the pipe and filling it from the pouch. The meerschaum was carved to represent the head of a grinning negro, and was now ebon black from use.

"I felt like a pint of Suss.e.x ale after a hot journey in the train, so hied me to the village inn, where several obliging gentlemen told me your real name. Two of them, Ingerman and Elkin, apparently make a hobby of enlightening strangers as to your right place in society."

"I must interview Elkin."

"Not worth while, my boy. Ingerman is the crafty one. I thought I might be doing you more harm than good, or I would have given him a thick ear this afternoon ... Oh, by the way, what time is it?"

"Seven o'clock."

"A little fellow named Furneaux is coming here to dinner at seven-thirty.

Said he would drop in by the back door, and mutter 'Hush! I'm Hawkshaw, the detective.' He resembles a c.o.c.k-sparrow, so I asked him why he didn't fly in through an attic window. He took my point at once, and remarked that he wanted none of my lip, or he would ask me officially what became of Don Ramon de Santander's big pink pearl. It's a queer yarn. There was a bust-up in Guatemala--"

"Look here, Wally," broke in Grant anxiously. "Are you serious? Did Furneaux really say he was coming here?"

"He did, and more--he expressed a partiality for a chicken roasted on a spit. You have a spit in your kitchen, he says, and a pair of chickens in your larder."

"How did you contrive to meet him?"

"You're a poor guesser, Jack. _He_ met _me_. 'That you, Mr. Hart?' he said. 'Mr. Grant's house is the first on the right across the bridge.

Tell him'--and the rest of it."

"Have you warned Mrs. Bates?"

"Mrs. Bates being?"

"My housekeeper."

"No, sir. If she's anything like your housemaid, I'm glad I didn't, or I should have been chucked into the road. I had the deuce of a job to reach the lawn. Had I ordered dinner I might now have been in the village lockup."

Grant hurried away, and placated Mrs. Bates after a stormy interlude. Precisely at 7.30 p. m. Minnie came and said that "Mr.

Hawkshaw" had arrived.