The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ morning. He had suggested that Sir Angus Kinross—that was the name of the new Commissioner—should be approached. He had even offered—and it was good of him, for he hated taking trouble and he had always disliked Godfrey Pavely—to go to Scotland Yard himself.

      Oliver was still standing, though his breakfast was only half eaten, and he was looking at his mother with that rather impatient, strained look on his face to which she had by now become accustomed. "That's a good idea," he said. And she felt glad that any idea proposed by her should seem to be good. Yesterday her son, who was always so kindly, so respectful in his manner to her, had—yes, snubbed her—when she had proposed something which it had seemed to her would be of use.

      "I think I'll go over to The Chase now, mother. It's impossible to say all that one wants to say over the telephone."

      She said nervously, "Won't you finish your breakfast?" and to her surprise he obeyed her. To her surprise also, when at last he did get up he seemed in no great hurry to go.

      "Shall I come with you, my darling?" she said.

      He shook his head. "No, mother. I'd rather discuss the matter with her alone, but I'll make her come over as early as I can. You know she said she would bring Alice to lunch to-day." And then, looking straight down into her troubled face, he asked: "Mother? What do you think has happened to Godfrey Pavely?"

      It was the first time he had asked her the direct question.

      "I don't know what to think! But I suppose the most probable thing is—that he's had an accident. After all, people do meet with bad accidents, especially in wintry, foggy weather, in the London streets. If so, he may be lying unconscious in one of the big hospitals. I can't think why the London police shouldn't have been told of his disappearance on Friday—that, as I told Laura yesterday, is the first thing I should have done myself."

      "Both Mrs. Winslow and Laura seemed to think he would dislike that so very much," said Oliver slowly.

      There was a defensive note in his voice, for he had made no effort to back up his mother when she had strongly counselled Laura to communicate with Scotland Yard.

      "Has it ever occurred to you," he said suddenly, "that Pavely may be dead, mother?"

      "No, Oliver. That I confess has not occurred to me. In fact, I regard it as extremely unlikely."

      "Why that?" he asked in a hard voice. "People are often killed in street accidents." Then, after a minute's pause: "Do you think Laura would mind much?"

      "I think it would give her a great shock!" She added, hesitatingly. "They have been getting on rather better than usual—at least so it has seemed to me."

      "Have they indeed?"

      His words cut like a whip, and she got up and went and stood by him. "My son," she said very solemnly. "Oh, my darling, don't allow yourself to wish—to hope—for Godfrey Pavely's death!"

      Looking straight into her face, he exclaimed, "I can't help it, mother! I do hope, I do wish, for Godfrey Pavely's death—with all the strength, with all the power that is in me. Why should I be hypocritical—with you? Am I the first man that has committed murder," he waited a moment—"in his heart?"

      "If that be really so—then don't let it ever be suspected, Oliver! For God's sake, try and look differently from what you have looked the last few days! If your wish is to be granted, your hope satisfied, then don't let any one suspect that the hope or the wish was ever there!"

      She spoke with an intensity of feeling and passion equal to his own.

      "You're right, mother," he said in a low voice. "I know you're right! And I promise you that I'll try and follow your advice. No man ever had a wiser and a better mother than I!"

      He turned round quickly and left the room.

      Mrs. Tropenell did not see her son again till late that night, and then not alone, for Laura spent the evening at Freshley, and after he had taken their guest home to The Chase, he did not come in again for hours.

      Old Mr. Privet, Godfrey Pavely's confidential clerk, had been rather taken aback when he had learnt over the telephone, from Mrs. Pavely, that he was to have Mr. Oliver Tropenell as his travelling companion to London. But very soon, being a truly religious man, he came to see how well and wisely everything had been ordered. To begin with, Mr. Tropenell called for him at the Bank, thus saving him a very cold, easterly-wind kind of walk to Pewsbury station, which was some way from the town. And once there, Mr. Tropenell had taken two first-class return tickets—that again being the action of a true gentleman, for he, Mr. Privet, would have been quite content to go by himself third-class. Also, as it turned out, during the long journey to London they had some very pleasant and instructive conversation together.

      Quite at first, in answer to a query as to what he thought of this extraordinary business of Mr. Pavely's disappearance, Mr. Oliver Tropenell had been perhaps a little short. He had replied that no one could possibly venture an opinion as to what had happened. But then had followed between them, in spite of the fact that the noise of the train was very trying, a most agreeable chat over old times—over those days when Mr. Godfrey Pavely's father, a fine type of the old country-town banker, was still alive.

      Mr. Privet, as a younger man, had had a good deal to do with the final sale and purchase of The Chase, and Mr. Tropenell, as was very natural in one whose own ancestors had lived there for hundreds of years, had shown the greatest interest in that old story. Mr. Tropenell had not been in the least over-curious or indiscreet, but Mr. Privet had been led on to talk of his companion's grandfather, a gentleman who, if rather wild, and certainly extravagant and headstrong, had been such a grand sportsman—quite a hero among the young men of Pewsbury! What had brought about the poor gentleman's undoing had been his taking over the hounds, when Lord St. Amant's great-uncle had given them up.

      So pleasant had been that conversation in the first-class carriage shared by them, that for the first time since Thursday Mr. Privet had almost forgotten the business on which they two were going to London! But he had soon remembered it again—for at the station Mr. Oliver Tropenell had suggested that, instead of going to the Hungerford Hotel, he, Mr. Privet, should accompany him to Lord St. Amant's club, in order to get a letter of introduction from that nobleman to the Commissioner of Police.

      Not long ago Mr. Privet had read an interesting book called In London Club Land. But he had little thought, when he was reading that book, that he would ever see the famous old political club to which a whole chapter had been devoted, and to which so many of his own special political heroes had belonged in their time!

      And then, after Lord St. Amant, who also had treated Mr. Privet with rather exceptional civility, not to say courtesy, had written the letter, Mr. Tropenell suggested that they should go straight on to Scotland Yard—pointing out, what was true enough, that Mr. Privet knew far more of Mr. Godfrey Pavely's business and habits than any one else.

      And so, together, they had driven off in a taxi—also a new, agreeable experience to Mr. Privet—to the famous Bastille-like building on the Thames Embankment.

      But when there, the interview with the pleasant-spoken, genial gentleman who wielded such immense powers had been disappointing.

      Sir Angus Kinross had listened very carefully to all that he, Mr. Privet, had had to say, and he had asked a number of acute, clever questions of both his visitors. But very soon he had observed that he feared much valuable time had been lost.

      Later on, Mr. Privet, when he thought the interview СКАЧАТЬ