CHAPTER VII.

A STRANGER AT THE ROSE AND CROWN.

Mrs. Carlyon sat in the breakfast-room of her pleasant house at Bayswater, planning out in her own mind the route she should take on her journey to Hyeres, for which place she intended to depart ere many days had elapsed, when the morning letters were brought in. One of them was from her niece, Ella Winter. Mrs. Carlyon opened it, and sat transfixed at the news it contained: nothing less than an avowal from that young lady that she was engaged to be married to Edward Conroy.

The shock and surprise sent Mrs. Carlyon into Norfolk. She gave orders to her maid, Higson, to prepare for their instant departure.

"And it is just as well that I should go on another score," she told herself, as she stepped into her carriage to be driven to the station: "to ascertain whether my niece has relinquished that most absurd idea of hers--that she is not her Uncle Gilbert's legal inheritor. What a ridiculous world we live in!"

So, at a late hour that same evening, Mrs. Carlyon, with her maid, arrived at Heron Dyke--without any notice.

"Your letter, Ella, took my breath away," she began, hardly allowing herself a moment for greetings. "Has this engagement which you tell me of really gone so far that it cannot be broken off?"

"But who wants it to be broken off, Aunt Gertrude?" returned Ella.

"What! Consider, my dear--a newspaper reporter, for Mr. Conroy is neither more nor less than that. A very nice gentlemanly young man, I admit, and one who has made himself a name in a certain way, but scarcely a match for the heiress of Heron Dyke."

"I am not going to marry for ambition, aunt, but for--for----"

"Love, I conclude you would say. Love may be all very well in its way, but why not have combined the two? Your husband ought to be at least your equal in position. With your fortune and good looks, you might have aspired to marry into the peerage; at the very least, you ought to have a husband with a seat in Parliament. I am very much disappointed," concluded Mrs. Carlyon, sitting down on the nearest chair.

"I am sorry for that, aunt; and so will Mr. Conroy be."

"My dear! Surely you will not be so foolish as to tell him," cried Mrs. Carlyon, hastily. "What I say to you is strictly between ourselves. I like Mr. Conroy very well--I like him so well that I should not care to hurt his feelings, although he has ambitiously cast his eyes on you."

"I am afraid, aunt, he could not help liking me. He said so."

"I dare say! Well, perhaps that may be true. If he were but well-connected--or a landed proprietor, say--or even a rising man in the law courts--or, in short, almost anything but a newspaper reporter, there is no one I would sooner see you marry. But as he is----"

"I am quite satisfied with him as he is, Aunt Gertrude. And you must please remember," added Ella, with a quaint little smile, "that it was at your house I first met him. Don't you remember with what _empressement_ you introduced him to me? He was quite the lion of the evening: you made him so: still, of course, as you say, he was only a newspaper reporter."

Mrs. Carlyon fidgeted in her chair.

"One may be gratified to receive a person as a visitor," she said, "but it does not follow that one cares to make him a member of one's family. As to that evening, I have hated to think of it ever since, for it was when my jewels were stolen, and now I shall hate it still more. But, to return to the point, you, the mistress of Heron Dyke----"

"Am I the true mistress of Heron Dyke?--or, rather, shall I continue to be?" interrupted Ella.

"I will not hear a word of that nonsense," flashed Mrs. Carlyon. "My dear, I speak of you as you are: and I say that it is positively not seemly for a young lady in your position to wed a poor newspaper reporter."

"Ella put her arms round her aunt's neck and kissed her."

"Worldly-wise maxims do not come with a good grace from your lips, Aunt Gertrude," she whispered. "I have heard you say many a time that your marriage was one of pure affection, but I have never heard you say that you regretted it. You must let me be happy in my own unambitious way."

Mrs. Carlyon sighed. How differently the young and the old look at things!--and how impossible it is to reconcile the views. Not that she regretted her own choice: and she supposed she should have to put up with this one. Ella was her own mistress, under no control.

"Is it quite irrevocable, my love?"

"I think so, auntie dear. You can ask Mr. Conroy."

Irrevocable Mrs. Carlyon found it to be. After a short while given to private lamentation, she resolved to make the best of it; and she did so with a good grace. One very powerful advocate in her mind was Edward Conroy himself. She could not help liking him, admiring him; she mentally acknowledged that were she a young woman with a virgin heart, it would have been lost to Conroy. After frankly telling him that she did not approve of the match on account of his want of position, but that she could not and should not take any steps to hinder it, she became pleasant with him as before. Conroy received the rebuke with becoming humility: but he did not offer to relinquish Miss Winter.

Now that she was at Heron Dyke, Mrs. Carlyon determined to remain. With Mr. Conroy at the Hall every day, she considered it her duty to be at hand to afford proper countenance and support to Ella. Mrs. Toynbee was all very well, but she was not a relative: and duty was duty with Mrs. Carlyon. Her cough must take its chance this winter. It was possible that the bracing air of the east coast might prove as beneficial to her in the long-run as the sun-warmed but relaxing breezes of Southern France. And so she settled down in the old house, to stay there as long as might be expedient.

When Mr. Charles Plackett was at Heron Dyke, he had promised to write to Miss Winter as soon as he had communicated with his client of Nunham Priors. Instead of Charles Plackett writing, Mr. Denison himself wrote, and the following is what he said:

"Nunham Priors.

"My Dear Young Kinswoman,

"You have often been in my thoughts since I saw you in London, now some weeks ago, and I look forward with great pleasure to your promised visit to me at Nunham Priors next spring.

"When in town last week I saw my lawyer, Charles Plackett, who gave me a long account of his visit to you at Heron Dyke. That visit was undertaken by him solely on his own responsibility, and without first consulting me, as he ought to have done. I have the utmost confidence in Plackett's good sense and business qualifications, but whether I should have sanctioned his visiting you for such a purpose is a question I will not now enter upon. What has been done, cannot be undone; and all I can now do, my dear, is to thank you, and express to you the admiration I feel for the frank and candid spirit in which you met his inquiries. As I told Plackett, many people under such circumstances would have shown him the door: I myself should probably have done so.

"Were I in your place, my dear young lady, I should stir no further in the matter respecting which Plackett called upon you. You have done everything that honour demands, and more than could be expected of you under the circumstances. Moreover, it appears to me that--though I admit one cannot help entertaining doubts--any further investigation would probably bring forth no results whatever. Let the affair rest: that is my advice to you. I have no particular ambition to be the master of Heron Dyke, especially now that I have learnt to know and love--aye, love, my dear--her who is its mistress. I have fortune enough and to spare, both for myself and that scapegrace boy who will succeed me. Why crave for more? A very little while and I must leave it, however much or however little it may be.

"Don't forget that I shall expect you at Nunham Priors in spring; and so for the present no more.

"From your affectionate kinsman,

"Gilbert Denison."

"P.S.--I am expecting Frank home in a week or two. I shall try to chain him by the leg until you come. I am anxious that you and he should be well acquainted with one another."

"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Conroy, as he read this letter with an amused smile, for Miss Winter handed it to him when he came to the Hall on the morning she received it.

"It is evident Mr. Denison has made up his mind that you should fall in love with this mythical son of his."

She nodded.

"After all, Ella, would not that seem to be a most sensible arrangement? It would unite the two branches of the family and concentrate the property of both. What a pity you have given away your heart to the wrong man!"

"I begin to think so too," gravely answered Ella. "It may not be too late to reclaim the poor thing and give it as you suggest."

"It is never well to be rash. Had you not better await the return of this wandering relative? Perhaps he might not value the offering?"

"But if he should value it?"

"He may not value it as--as its present possessor does."

"I dare say he would, sir."

"In that case, should you wish to reclaim it, you shall have it back."

Ella glanced up. "Do you mean what you say? Is it a bargain?"

"Undoubtedly." And, Mr. Conroy appeared to speak without reservation.

"Is he tiring of me?" thought Ella.

"Shall you take Mr. Denison's advice, and let the matter of the succession drop?" resumed Conroy, after a pause.

"Certainly not. You would not wish me to, would you?"

"No. I think if any fraud was enacted, it should be traced out and exposed. I have always said so. But, do you know _why_ I have chiefly wished it?"

"Why have you?"

"For your own peace, dear. I see you will have none until the matter shall be set at rest."

"That is true; that is true," she impressively answered. "But, oh, Edward, what can we do? What can we do more than we have already done?"

"Nothing--that I see at present. It does not much matter, one way or the other."

"Do you mean that my title to the estate, or non-title, does not matter?"

"Not much, I say."

"I do not understand you this morning, Edward."

Conroy smiled. "You will understand me better sometime."

"That I am sure I never shall--if I am to marry that young Denison."

"Yes, you will, despite young Denison," returned Conroy, the same provoking smile still upon his lips.

It was known that Mrs. Ducie had been suffering from a severe cold. Suddenly, without bidding good-bye to anyone, she started for London: with the object, as was understood, of obtaining better medical advice. Nullington hoped she would obtain that, and be restored to health, for she was rather a favourite.

Mrs. Ducie did not return; and the next piece of news heard was that her well-known miniature phaeton, together with its pair of ponies, had been bought by Lord Camberley and presented to his aunt, the Hon. Mrs. Featherstone. From this, gossips argued, Mrs. Ducie's return to Nullington seemed a somewhat problematical event. Captain Lennox--who appeared to have taken up his abode in London, paying The Lilacs a flying visit now and then, in by the night-train and away again in the morning--was questioned upon the point. He said Mrs. Ducie continued very unwell indeed; he was not sure but she would have to go abroad; if so, he might perhaps accompany her.

It might have been from this item of problematical news that a report got about that the Captain was also about to leave Nullington. He himself neither denied it nor affirmed it: it would depend, he said, on his sister's health.

One evening, when the Captain had come down for a rather longer stay than usual now, he went into the billiard-room at the Rose and Crown. Lennox was a man who could not exist without society, or spend an evening at home with no company but his own.

After the Captain had played a few games with young Mr. Sandys, of Denne Park, and was about to quit the hotel, the landlord, Butterby, drew him aside.

"Can I speak with you a moment, sir?"

"Well?" cried the Captain, shortly.

"Pardon me, Captain, for asking; but would you mind telling me whether there's any truth in the report that you are about to leave The Lilacs?"

"What if there should be, eh?" asked the Captain, with a quick, suspicious glance at his questioner.

"Why simply this, sir," replied the landlord, "that I think I know of somebody who might perhaps take it off your hands, furniture and all."

"Oh, indeed! Who's that?" asked the Captain.

"A Mr. Norris, sir, who is stopping in the hotel. He says----"

"What's his business here?"

"Nothing in particular, sir: halted here quite promiscuous yesterday; been going about a bit to see places. He's not a gentleman by any means," added the landlord. "I hope I know a gentleman when I see one, Captain; but he seems to have plenty of money. Retired from business, I should put it. Says he should like to settle down in this part of the country, for it takes his fancy, and is on the look-out for what he calls a 'quiet little shanty' that would suit himself and his two grown up daughters. So I thought, Captain, that if----"

"I understand," interrupted Lennox in his quick way. He paused for a moment or two, biting his lip, his eyes bent on the ground.

"He looks awfully ill," was the landlord's unspoken thought, as he stood watching him. "But I suppose he goes the pace when he's in London. It's sure to tell on a man in the long-run."

"It might be worth my while to see this Mr. Norris in the morning," said Lennox, breaking out of his reverie. "To tell you the truth, Butterby, I _have_ some notion of leaving Nullington."

"So we heard. But I'm sorry to hear you say so, sir."

"Nothing, however, is settled at present. You see my sister finds this part of the country a little too bleak for her, and I myself have been out of sorts for some time. We have some idea of travelling for a year or two. I shall see how she is when I next run up to town. We may perhaps come back here, after all."

"We shall miss you, sir, if you don't," spoke Butterby.

Captain Lennox looked undecided: as if he could not make up his mind. A minute or two passed before he spoke.

"You might take an opportunity, Butterby, of sounding this guest of yours as to what kind of place it is that he really wants. The Lilacs might be too small for him, or two expensive--it might not suit him in many ways. In that case my seeing him on the matter would be useless. I will look round in the morning about ten o'clock, and then you can tell me the result."

With that, Captain Lennox adjusted the camellia in his buttonhole, lighted a fresh cigar, linked his arm in the arm of young Sandys, and went his way.

Captain Lennox was punctual. The clock was striking ten the next morning as he walked into the bar of the Rose and Crown. The landlord met him with a smiling face.

"Mr. Norris would like to see you, sir," he began. "I had a little talk with him last night; and, from what I can make out, if you can come to terms yours will be just the place to suit him. He's a little bit odd in some of his ways, but a pleasant party enough when you come to converse with him."

"You can show me to his room."

Mr. Norris was a tall, ungainly, big-boned man, dressed somewhat after the fashion of a middle-aged country squire of sporting proclivities, with cutaway coat, gaiters, blue-and-white neck-tie and high collar. But his clothes sat awkwardly upon him, and he seemed ill at ease in them. He rose up from the breakfast-table as Lennox entered the room, and waved him to a chair.

"Proud to see you, sir," he said. "Shall be at your service in two minutes. Am late this morning."

"Don't hurry yourself," said Captain Lennox, politely. But Mr. Norris rang the bell and had the tray taken away. He then drew his chair a little nearer the fire, so that he might face his guest, and spread his big bony hands out to the cheerful blaze.

"I'm told, sir, that you have a little shanty you are about to vacate," he said, "and as I'm in want of something of the kind we may perhaps strike a bargain."

"Possibly so, Mr. Norris. But it might be waste of time to go into any details before you have seen the place. I may tell you that there are three years of the lease still to run, and that I should like the furniture to be taken at a valuation."

"All right, Captain. If the place suits me we shan't quarrel about terms, I dessay. When shall I pay you a visit?"

"The sooner the better. I am due in London to-morrow. How would two o'clock to-day suit you? You would then have time to look over the cottage before dusk, and you might favour me with your company at dinner afterwards, if not otherwise engaged. It may take some little time to talk over preliminaries."

"All right, Captain, I'm your man. At two sharp I'll be with you."

Mr. Norris was as good as his word. A fly deposited him at The Lilacs at the time appointed, where he found Captain Lennox waiting. The Captain went with him over the premises. Mr. Norris made a very minute inspection of the place, peering into every nook and corner, and examining every cupboard and pantry in the house. About the condition of the furniture he did not seem to trouble himself.

"It's good enough for me and my lasses," he said, with a wave of one of his large hands, when Lennox observed that he was afraid the drawing-room carpet was rather well worn.

Last of all, the garden and grounds were thoroughly perambulated.

"I like everything I've seen," said Mr. Norris, as they went back indoors, "but before giving a final answer, I must hear what my two lasses have to say. It's to be their home as well as mine, you know, Captain. Just now they are in the West of Ireland, but they'll be back in a week from to-day."

"In a week, eh?"

"Perhaps you don't care to wait so long as that for my answer?"

The Captain replied that a week more or a week less was a matter of very slight importance to him. So it was left at that.

When dinner was announced, Lennox sat down with his guest and was studiously polite, though he did not seem to be in much humour for talking. Mr. Norris, however, so far as he was concerned, did not let the conversation flag, while doing ample justice to the good things before him. He allowed no hint to drop as to what his profession in life had been or was now; but from certain things he said Lennox came to the conclusion that he was a man who had seen a good deal of the world, and had been acquainted with several phases of life of a more or less curious kind. Dinner over, young Sandys and three or four other men dropped in; there was an adjournment to the smoking-room, and after a time some one suggested cards.

"Do you play, Mr. Norris?" asked Lennox, with an air of languid interest.

"When I was a lad at home we used to play loo and speculation for nuts at Christmas time, and since then I've sometimes played a rubber of whist, but nothing more," answered Mr. Norris, with his broad smile. "Still, I'm no spoil-sport, and if one of you will only give me a lesson or two I'll do my best."

Mr. Sandys kindly undertook the part of mentor, and found his pupil a most apt one. In about ten minutes he said rather drily, "And now, I think, Mr. Norris, you will be quite able to take care of yourself," at which Mr. Norris nodded his head.

During the early part of the evening the luck seemed decidedly against Mr. Norris. But by-and-by there came a change, and his lost sovereigns began to find their way back to his pocket. It appeared to be a peculiarity of this Mr. Norris, that whenever he sustained a more severe loss than ordinary he leant back in his chair and gave vent to a hearty guffaw; whereas, when the cards happened to be in his favour and the pool fell to him, he looked as glum as a judge. Young Sandys stared at him through his eye-glass as though he were some strange animal who had found his way there by mistake, while Captain Lennox's cold, keen glances began to be directed more and more frequently towards his guest. It was dawning on the Captain's mind that Mr. Norris was, perhaps, not so much of a novice as he had tried to make himself out to be. At the close of the evening he rose from the table a winner to a small amount.

Norris was the first to leave. He bowed his awkward bow to the company generally, and shook hands with the Captain.

"Everything shall be settled in a week from now," he whispered with a meaning look. "Rely upon that. Good-night."

"Queer fish that," said young Sandys, as the door closed on Mr. Norris's lanky figure.

"Not quite the greenhorn he would have had us believe," remarked Gray, another of the guests. "Where the deuce did you pick him up, Lennox?"

"I'm glad he's gone," said Lennox, with an air of weariness, as he dropped into a chair "The fellow is after this place--if I should make up my mind to leave it."

"I say, old fellow, how jolly bad you look to-night!" said Downes Dyson as he proceeded to shuffle the cards.

"Yes, I'm altogether out of sorts. These horrible English winters are enough to kill anyone."

Captain Lennox was indeed glad that Mr. Norris had gone, and he would have been well pleased were he never going to see him again. He had contracted a great dislike for him, for which he could give no reasonable account to himself; a sort of dread which had grown deeper and deeper as the evening had advanced.

And he could not shake it off. His dreams that night were troubled ones: through the whole of them the tall, gaunt figure of Mr. Norris loomed ominously. Even in his sleep he felt that he hated him.

Next morning the Captain rose unrefreshed, and started by an early train for London. He was thinking that he needed a different air from the English air just as greatly as his sister did.

It was at the Rose and Crown that Mr. Conroy stayed when at Nullington. He and Norris had once or twice met on the stairs, and passed each other as strangers. On the evening above-mentioned, however, when Mr. Conroy was just about to go to rest, a tap came to the door of his sitting-room, and Norris appeared at it.

"I thought I'd just see whether you had retired yet, sir, having a word to say to you."

"Ah, is it you, Mr. Meath?" said Conroy. "Come in. You have some news for me, I presume. Sit down. What is it?"

"The news I have at present, sir, is this: that I have made some very curious discoveries indeed respecting the antecedents of the gentleman who goes by the name of Captain Lennox."

"_Goes_ by the name! Is it not his real name?"

"Well, sir, he has gone by a lot of names in his time, but which of them's his real one is best known to himself."

From the breast-pocket of his coat, Mr. Meath drew a small memorandum-book, and opened it.

"Ten years ago," he began, "Lennox was passing under the name of Blaydon. At that time he was tuner to a large pianoforte firm in London. This situation he lost because a number of valuable articles were missed from different houses to which he was sent. We next hear of him under the name of Perke, as book-keeper at a fashionable hotel in Mayfair. Here also some robberies were perpetrated, but whether by him or not I am not in a position to assert. In any case, he lost his situation before long. After this he appears to have gone abroad for two or three years, and was seen in Paris, Brussels, Homburg, and other places. In some way or other, probably by successful gambling, he seems to have feathered his nest pretty considerably. We next find him at Cheltenham."

"At Cheltenham!" involuntarily exclaimed Conroy.

"At Cheltenham, sir. He had become Captain Lennox then, and was a very big card. Being Captain Lennox and a great swell, he is of course above peculations, unless some very tempting chance offers itself, as in the case of Major Piper's jewel-case. By his skill at cards and billiards he contrives to make a very comfortable income. He entices young men of fortune to his rooms, and there fleeces them. Do you follow me, sir?"

"Quite so."

"It would appear that he at length becomes fearful that Cheltenham is growing too warm for him; and he wisely beats a retreat from it before any suspicion touches him. Accompanied by his sister, Mrs. Ducie, he comes to Norfolk, and takes The Lilacs on a five or six years' lease. It would seem a curious, out-of-the-way place to come to," remarked Mr. Meath, looking off his note-book for a moment; "but no doubt Lennox knew what he was about, and I have very little doubt that the scheme has paid him handsomely. He must have known that there were many young men of family in this part of the country, some of them with more money than brains, and Captain Lennox having more brains than money was exactly the man to adjust the difference. It is a pity, sir, a great pity," added Mr. Meath, with a solemn shake of the head, "that so clever a rascal did not stop short at plucking pigeons, and leave the darker paths of villany untrodden. He might have gone on living as a gentleman and among gentlemen for years to come."

Edward Conroy had been thinking. There were some discrepancies in this history. "You speak of Lennox as a tuner of pianos and an hotel clerk, Mr. Meath; but he is undoubtedly a gentleman, both as regards education and manners. I think he must have been born one."

"Little doubt of that, sir. 'Tis but another edition of the old story, I take it. Well-connected parents, expensive bringing-up, perhaps good launch in life--perhaps not good through lack of funds: then temptation, weakness, ruin. Repudiated by friends, or perhaps friends dead. Then another start under a fresh name and from a lower rung of the ladder. Ah, my dear sir, such cases are unfortunately but too common. This is a queer world, yet men must live in it."

Conroy silently assented.

"How far do you suppose Mrs. Ducie has been implicated in these unpleasant matters?"

The private detective shook his head.

"Sir, I can't answer that. We have made no discovery against her as yet; neither do we care to push any. She is much attached to her brother, and she has clung to him in her sisterly affection. It can hardly be that she has lived without suspicion; any way, as to his making money by fleecing the world at cards. Whether she has known of worse things, I can't say. If so, one could not expect her to denounce him; but she must have walked upon thorns."

"I suppose she is really a widow?--and her name Ducie?

"Yes, sir, that's all straightforward enough. Her husband was an officer in the army; he died young, and left her with a fair income--which is hers still. People like her, and she has some good acquaintances. So has the Captain, for that matter."

"What do you purpose doing next?" asked Conroy.

"Well, sir, my next move--though I don't say when it will take place, either this day or that day--will be to apply for a search-warrant, and go quietly over The Lilacs--into every nook and corner of it."

"With any particular object in view?"

"Yes, sir, a very particular one. I hope to find there a malachite and gold sleeve-link, to match the one that was found upon the gravel at Heron Dyke."

Conroy almost smiled: this appeared to him to be so improbable a hope.

"You cannot expect to find it. Knowing, as he must have known, that he had lost the one sleeve-link in the struggle with Hubert Stone, Lennox's first care would be to effectually hide its fellow."

"Let me tell you, Mr. Conroy, that the chances are he _didn't_. These criminals are always making some fatal mistake; and that's a very common one--the not doing away effectually, as you are pleased to term it, sir, and it's an apt word, with the proofs that might destroy them."