Fool Errant (28 page)

He took the envelope with a certain lofty air, drew out the papers which it contained, unfolded them, glanced them rapidly over, and burst into savage laughter.

“He's right! By gum, he's right! Here, Hacker—here's for you!”

He rolled the papers into a rough ball and tossed it to Hacker.

“Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest! It's the old moral—‘Despise not thine enemy.' We've been done, my dear Hacker—done brown by an innocent, lisping fool of a boy!”

Hacker was smoothing the papers out. He was darkly flushed, but his big hands were steady.

“What is it?” said Hélène de Lara. “What has happened—James?”

Hacker held out the envelope.

“Is this what you took from him at the inn?”

“Yes—it is.”

“Your envelope?” He addressed Minstrel.

“My envelope, Hacker—not my plans. Our young friend has most ingeniously extracted the plans. What you have there is rubbish.”

“He must have had it ready.” Hacker spoke in a dull, brooding voice. There was something alarming about his restraint. “How did he know?”

He took Hélène by the arm with violence.

“Did you tell him? Did you give us away? Because if you did—”

Hélène cried out, “I did not—oh, I did not.! Ambrose—he is hurting me! James!”

“Let go of her!” said Minstrel contemptuously. He pulled his beard, frowning.

Miller looked from one to another. He was wiping his face with a dirty silk handkerchief.

“Where is he? And where are my plans?” he burst out. “I come here because at the hotel they tell me that he has gone away in your car, with your chauffeur. It was in that car he came—isn't it? And in that car he go—and what is that? Is it your car—or what is it? What makes this? Where is he? Am I played false with? Do you betray me too? Do you give, and take away? It is your envelope, and not your plans—wasn't they? It is your secretary that gives them, and that goes away in your car—haven't he? And I ask, where are the plans and the young man? And you say—what do you say? I ask where is he—this cursed Ross? And where are my plans?”

“Dry up!” said Hacker.

He left Hélène and came to Minstrel's side.

“Why did he come back?” he said.

Minstrel nodded.

“You have some gleams of intelligence!” He rolled a red, baleful eye at Miller. “That chattering monkey appears to have run to tongue. Yes—you said; why did Ross come here? That's it—why did he?”

“He came here?—he came back?” said Miller excitedly. “And why did he do so—and where are my plans?”

“Hold your tongue!” said Minstrel. “You'd better.” He dropped to a low confidential tone. “He changed the plans in the car—got the false ones off on Miller—and then he came back here. Great Jupiter! Why did he do that? Why didn't he get away with the plans? He could have given Leonard the slip easily enough.”

He put out a gaunt, stained hand and beckoned Hélène.

“Come here! And mind you tell the truth. Stop acting if you can, and see if you can throw any light on this. Ross came here to you. Now tell the truth—why did he come?”

“Oh!” said Hélène. It was a sharp cry of protest.

“He followed you. Why did he follow you?”

An odd quivering smile broke the line of her lips.

“I think you'd better answer,” said Minstrel.

Hélène flung out her hands.

“Oh, you men!” she said. She looked at him through her eyelashes. “Have you never followed a woman, Ambrose?”

Minstrel showed his teeth in an ugly grin.

“You
invited
him here?”

She laughed.

“How dreadfully obvious! If you want to know, I played a little trick on him—when he was asleep at the inn. I took his flute, and I left a note to tell him that if he wanted it—” She smiled and looked down; her small foot tapped the floor.

“I see. And he came—for—his—flute—”

He stared across her at the table where the flute lay between the grinning china dogs—stared, then went over and picked the two halves up, one in each hand. He came back as he had gone, slowly. Then all at once, with an indescribable ferocity of manner,

“He came for his flute, did he? Then why did he go away without it? You little play-acting liar!”

“Ambrose!” It was a frightened gasp.

“Hélène!” There was a frightful mockery in voice and manner.

She put her hands to her face and shivered.

“Ambrose—don't! James!” She took a step towards Hacker, but Minstrel's long arm came out and plucked her back; the bony fingers clamped her wrist.

“Ambrose—it is true. I would be afraid to tell you anything that was not true—
Ambrose
.”

He gave his raucous laugh.

“Stick to that—you'll find it safer. So you took his flute. Why?”

She spoke from behind her hands in a sobbing whisper.

“I wanted—him—to come—and get it.”

“A youthful idyll in fact! Strephon and Phyllis!” He pushed her to arm's length, pulled down her hands roughly enough, and laughed again. “Phyllis! Great Jupiter—
Phyllis!
Well, you took the flute, and he came for it. He—came here—for his flute—at a moment when everything—
everything
depended on his getting clear away. He came—back here—
for his flute.
”

He had slipped the two halves into his left hand. He tossed them now into the air and saw them fall.

“I don't think he came back for your
beaux yeux
, Hélène. He came back for his flute because—the plans were in the flute.”

“By gum!” said Hacker. The dark flush ran up to the roots of his hair. “By gum—you're right!”

He caught up one of the halves and shook it.

“It's empty—now,” said Minstrel. “The plans were in the flute, and we left him alone with it and helped him to get away.”

“What is this—what is this?” said Miller. “What is it that you say? What have he done?”

Hacker made a plunge at the door.

“He hasn't gone far. If he's made for the station, I'll catch him with the car.”

“No!” said Hélène. “No, James—wait! You're wrong. Listen! No—really. Oh, you must listen to me! I was here when he came in. He went straight to the flute, and he picked it up. And when he turned it in his hand, I could see into the halves of it, and they were empty.”

“You're not making this up? You'd better not.” This was Minstrel with a rasp in his voice.

“No—it is true—really true. And besides—”

She hesitated.

“Besides? Go on!”

“Ambrose! How rough you are! I am telling you. Just before he came in, I was looking at the flute, you know. I put it together—I tried to play it. Then I took it apart again. There was nothing in it—
really
, except—”

“Except
what
?”

“A little shred of paper dropped out—on to the table—oh, the smallest piece. I heard him coming and—”

Minstrel and Hacker were at the table. They spoke low to each other. Hacker moved the china dogs, went down on his hands and knees, searched the carpet, and found what Hugo had dropped—a shred of tracing paper. He got up, holding it out on his palm.

“The plans were there—the plans are gone. Will you swear the flute was empty when you handled it?”

“Yes, it was empty. It was empty before Hugo came in.”

“The plans were there. This is a piece of the paper. You brought the flute here, and then—what happened then?”

“I brought it in here. I put it on the table.”

“What is all this?” said Mr. Miller. “I cannot understand what happens. And where is Ross? That is what I ask—haven't I? Where is that cursed Ross?”

Hacker went on without taking any notice.

“You put it on the table. Was anyone here?”

“Loveday! Oh!” said Hélène. She gave a little scream. “Oh!”

Minstrel and Hacker were close on either side of her. Miller made a sound, and then stopped because Minstrel jerked about and looked at him.

“
Loveday?
” said Hacker. Then quickly, “Did you leave her alone? Could she have got the papers out?”

“I went to the telephone,” said Hélène.

“And left the flute?”

“Yes—I left it. How could I know?”

“Then she stole the plans.”

“Great Jupiter!” said Minstrel quite softly.

Hacker broke in again.

“Where is she?”

“Gone home—gone back to Ledlington—to Emily Brown.”

None of them had heard the door open. The sad-faced butler stood there looking apologetic.

“It is Mrs. Brown on the telephone, madame.”

“Mrs. Brown!” Hélène's hand went to her throat.

“Yes, madame.” He stood there bowing.

Minstrel nodded, and Hélène de Lara went out quickly.

They heard her cross the hall, and then the door closed behind Antoine. Miller began to say something, and stopped. Hacker stood with the two halves of the flute in his hand; he turned them this way and that awkwardly. Minstrel jerked an impatient shoulder and, walking to the fire, thrust at it with his foot. The log fell over flaring, and a shower of sparks went up. Miller looked from Hacker to Minstrel, met a hot resentful stare, and shifted his gaze. The dirty handkerchief came out again. No one spoke until, with the sound of running feet, Hélène came back, opening the door with a push and slamming it behind her. Her eyes were really frightened.

“She's gone!” she said.

“Gone?”

“Loveday—she's gone!”

“Pull yourself together.”

“She's gone!” said Hélène in a shaken voice.

“Emily says—they found her suitcase in the porch—nobody has seen her—she's gone.”

“Then she
did
take the plans!” said Hacker with an oath.

CHAPTER XXXVII

The car ran smoothly down the dark road. Loveday watched the darkness flow past. She felt as if she were flying, as if the excitement which possessed her were bearing her up like wings, up and on to some place which she couldn't see. She had never felt so thrilled in her life.

The suitcase was on the seat beside her, and Hélène's book was in the suitcase, and the plans—Minstrel's plans—Hugo's plans—were in the book. She had carried them off under their very noses—yes, under Hélène's very own powdered nose; and she was getting away with them in Hélène's own car, specially provided because Hélène wanted to get rid of her before Hugo came. It was
frightfully
funny.

What was she going to do about the plans? Hugo must have hidden them in the flute—and he wouldn't have done that if they hadn't been simply frightfully important. She wanted terribly to know what had been happening. Hélène had gone off—to London—no, of course it wasn't London really—Hélène had gone off to the place that horrid Hacker had told her to go to when he had said she must be sure to be punctual. Well, anyway Hélène had gone—and she had been away for hours—and when she came back she had Hugo's flute—and she was making pretty sure that Hugo would follow her—that was why she had sent Loveday away.

Loveday sat up quivering with impatience. At first she had only thought of getting away with the papers; now she began to think about Hugo arriving at Torring House—he might be getting there at this very minute—he might be there now. Every moment she and the plans were being carried farther away.

All the bubbling pleasure went out of her. If Hugo had had the papers and lost them, that horrid Hacker might be able to hurt him. She must give the papers back to him before anything dreadful happened—she simply must.

They had run about two miles, when the car slowed down and stopped. Loveday looked out. There was a red lamp ahead of them, and from away on the right came the chuffing sound of a train.

The chauffeur looked round.

“It's the level crossing, miss. The train's just coming in—we shan't be long.”

Loveday sat back again. An idea had come into her mind like a flash of light. It wasn't there just before she saw the red lamp, but it was there quite bright and clear by the time Albert Green was saying “miss.” She sat back and pulled the suitcase towards her. Thank goodness it was Albert who was driving, and not the thin, dark foreign chauffeur who had taken Hélène to London; he had sharp eyes that frightened her a little. But Albert was just a bun-faced Ledlington boy. Loveday wasn't the least bit afraid of Albert.

She felt for the book that held the plans, folded the papers up as tight as they would go, and pushed them well down inside the pocket of her coat. Then she turned the handle of the door on her left and waited.

The train puffed into the station and left the crossing clear. The gates began to move, and just as Albert let in the clutch, Loveday opened the door and slipped out into the road.

She watched the red tail-light get smaller and smaller as the car receded, and then, turning, began to run back along the road by which she had just come. When she had run a little way she walked, and when she had walked a little she ran again.

Two miles is a long way at night on a lightless road. Loveday didn't like the dark; the trees made rustling noises overhead, things creaked in the hedgerows, and the sound of her own feet frightened her. She stopped running because she felt as if everyone must hear the sound of her feet. And then she laughed, because there wasn't anyone to hear. There were empty woods, and empty fields, and an empty lonely road. She stopped laughing. It was very dark and very lonely, and she didn't like it.

She was panting a little when she came into the drive that led up to Torring House. It was even darker here than it had been on the road, because the trees hung over it and blotted out the moonless sky. She thought she heard a footstep, and stood still to listen. Then, in a panic, she ran on again. She could see the lights of the house, and she wanted to get closer to them.