Fool Errant (5 page)

“That's all right,” said the man. “But see, Mr. Ross! You name a price, and I'll put it to my client.”

Hugo had begun to walk away. He turned and looked over his shoulder.

“What about f-f-f-fifty pounds?” he said, and without waiting for an answer broke into a run.

In another moment laughter would have overcome him. He ran, and laughed as he ran. Of all the absurd affairs! How much more would the fellow have swallowed? And then, all of a sudden, halfway up the drive, the laughter went clean out of him and left him cold and empty, with a prickle of fear somewhere in the dark corners of his mind. What did it mean? There had never been any
Trethewy
; there had never been any wreck that he knew of. The field-glasses had been bought by Richard Trevelyan in a shop in Exeter not ten years ago; there was no story attached to them, and three or four pounds was the outside price that anyone would pay for them. What on earth did it mean?

Hugo went soberly back to the house.

CHAPTER VI

An hour later there was a knock on the study door. Minstrel and Hacker were in the laboratory. Hugo said, “Come in!” and looking over his shoulder, saw the door open a scant six inches; the woman who left brushes and pails about peered through the crack with an aggravated air of embarrassment. When it became obvious that she would not come in, Hugo got up. She backed away from him into the hall, and at a safe distance from the door said in a piercing whisper,

“There's a young person as wants to see you.”

“Wants to see
me
?”

The woman sniffed.

“She says as she wants to see Mr. Hugo, and seeing as the name was on the letter I give you this morning—”

Hugo looked past her. Everyone in the house invariably left the front door open; it was open now. The young person was standing on the doorstep. The hall lamp flaring in the draught disclosed a plump rustic girl who shifted from one foot to another. He came forward. She had unbelievably round red cheeks and incredibly round blue eyes. She wore a brick-red coat, a felt hat of the brightest shade of periwinkle mauve, and her hands were encased in sky-blue knitted gloves.

Hugo was quite sure that he had never set eyes on her before. He said “Good-evening,” and waited, conscious that Mrs. Parford was dusting the banisters with unaccustomed zeal.

“Please,” said the girl with a gasp. “Please, sir, are you Mr. Hugo?”

“My name's Hugo Ross.”

The girl also was aware of Mrs. Parford. She dropped her voice to a mumble:

“Because she said, sir, as I was to be sure and not give it to no one but Mr. Hugo hisself.”

“Give what?”

“Not on no account,” said the girl.

Hugo took out of his pocket the letter which he had received that morning from his uncle's solicitor. It was addressed very clearly to Hugo Ross, Esq. He held it out for the girl to see. The blue eyes stared at it. After a moment she stared at Hugo.

“She says if it was Mr. Hugo, he'd say what her cousin's name was. And she said not on no account I wasn't to give it to no one else”—she paused, and added with a gasp—“
nohow
.”

Hugo's thoughts jumped to the girl in the lane. She had asked his name; he had shouted it after her as the train moved off in its cloud of steam, and the wind had carried his voice away. She must have heard just “Hugo,” and no more. And she had written or sent a message.

He said eagerly, “You've got a letter for me.”

“Not if you don't know her cousin's name, I haven't.”

Brown was the name—yes, Brown—Emily Brown; and her husband was a solicitor; his name was Andrew. He said,

“Mrs. Andrew Brown—Christian name Emily. Is that right?”

The girl relaxed into a giggle.

“That's her! And it's all right about your being Mr. Hugo, I suppose?”

“Yes, it's all right.”

She dived into the pocket of the brick-red coat and produced a letter.

“She said to find out for sure and certain whether you was living here, and not to give it to no one else.”

“Who's
she?
” said Hugo quickly.

He had forgotten Mrs. Parford, but the girl's round stare dwelt on her.

“That woman's a-listening,” she said.

Hugo looked round impatiently.

“That's all right, Mrs. Parford—you needn't wait.”

Mrs. Parford sniffed, and faded resentfully. Later on she took away Hugo's character in the village with a good deal of the “Who'd ha' thought it?” and “I'm sure I don't know what the world's coming to” type of innuendo.

“She was a-listening,” said the girl. “I know her sort. And I don't want no one listening to Miss Loveday's business.”

Hugo's heart gave a funny little jump at the name. He had not the slightest idea why this should happen. It had the effect of making him stammer.

“I s-s-say, d-do give me the letter.”

The girl went on clutching it.

“Miss Loveday she wrote to me Tuesday; but I couldn't come afore, because I don't get no more than the one afternoon and evenin' off.”

“Do you live with Mrs. Brown?”

“I don't live in—I obloiges her. And Miss Loveday wrote me to come along to Meade House and find out whether there was a gentleman living here by the name of Mr. Hugo. And Miss Loveday she said very partickler not to give her letter to no one else.”

“All right, I'm Mr. Hugo. Give it to me.”

The girl still clutched it.

“They were in an awful way about Miss Loveday going off,” she said. “And she said not to tell no one as I'd heard from her—and I haven't neither.” Then, without the slightest pause, “Please, sir, I must be getting along, or my friend that's waiting for me will be in a reg'lar taking—he gets that jealous. So I'll be going.”

She pushed the letter at him and ran away into the dark. Hugo heard a man's voice on a deep growl, and heard her giggling answer. Then he shut the door and ran upstairs to his own room.

It was pitch dark, the uncurtained windows as black as the walls. He lit his candle and sat down on the edge of the four-post bed. His heart gave another of those odd jumps as he turned the envelope to the light. There was just his Christian name written on it in a round childish hand—“Hugo.” He tore it open and took out the letter with a most vivid sense of expectation.

The letter was written in pencil. There was no heading to it; it just began,

“I've told Gertie to find out if you're at Meade House, and to give you this if you are. If you are, please leave it and come away at once. I can't tell you why in a letter. I want to see you, but you can't come here. Cissie says”—this was scratched out but quite legible—“you can't come here. And you mustn't, mustn't,
mustn't
stay at Meade House. Do come away quickly. If I can think of somewhere to see you, I'll write again. I can't tell you in a letter, but you mustn't stay. Please burn this.”

A long sentence followed, which had been so successfully scratched out that he could only distinguish the name Cissie at the beginning and guess at something which looked like “promised” at the end. She had signed her name after that:

“Loveday Leigh.”

Hugo sat and looked at the letter until he heard Minstrel roaring for him below. Even then he took time to hold the letter to the candle and to watch the flame catch the edge of the paper. The sheet curled up and blazed. Loveday's name went out in a blue flame. The black ash fell into the trough of the candlestick and fluttered there.

He pushed the envelope into his pocket and went down.

CHAPTER VII

It was all very odd. The more Hugo thought about it, the odder it seemed. He thought a good deal. And he wished that Miss Loveday Leigh had been less discreet and had told him why she thought that he mustn't stay at Meade House. As a matter of fact, he was more or less bound to stay there, since he possessed no more than thirty shillings in hard cash. You cannot go very far or live for very long on thirty shillings.

All next day Minstrel's temper raged. Hugo marvelled at Hacker's patience. One would not, somehow, have supposed that Hacker would be patient. The weather was cold and dreary. Everything that Hugo did was wrong; the evening found him wondering whether he would not be told to pack up and be off. Instead, Hacker seized a moment when they were alone to say some really very decent things:

“You're sticking it very well. He gets like this every now and again, but it doesn't last. He likes you, you know, or he wouldn't let himself go like this. You're treated as one of the family. I get my share. I don't say he's easy; but he's a big man, and I'd rather be cursed by him than soft-sawdered by one of your mediocrities.”

It was next day that the letter came. Hugo found Mrs. Parford studying the envelope in the hall. He took it from her and went on into the study, wondering who his correspondent might be.

The letter was signed “Brice,” or “Rice,” or some such name, and it appeared to be from the middle-aged man who wanted to buy Uncle Richard's field-glasses. Hugo looked at a page covered with characterless copper-plate and read:

“D
EAR
S
IR
,

“I am instructed to say that my client does not consider the sum you mentioned too large in view of the nature, and the value to him, of the article in question. I am therefore empowered to make you an offer of £50.

“Yours faithfully,”

There followed the scrawl that might have been “Brice” or “Rice.”

How astonishing! Fifty pounds for a pair of old field-glasses. If it had been five, Hugo would have been tempted. But fifty gave him the sensation of being out of his depth in dangerous waters; there were currents running of which he knew nothing. He put the letter away and thought that he would take a day or two before he answered it.

It happened that he was alone when the telephone bell rang. He took up the receiver and, to his surprise, heard his own name:

“Is that Mr. Ross?”

“Speaking.”

“Oh, Mr. Ross”—it was a man's voice—“I rang up to ask if you had received my letter—the one in which my client made you an offer.”

“Yes, I've got the letter.”

“And you accept my client's offer?”

Hugo was silent.

“Come, Mr. Ross, you fixed the price yourself.”

Hugo laughed.

“If you call that fixing it! I wasn't serious.”

“Are you not satisfied with the amount?”

“It seems to me to be a perfectly ridiculous amount,” said Hugo.

“Well, well, I won't say that my client would not raise it. He attaches great importance—Come, Mr. Ross, name your own terms—in writing. I can't say fairer than that.” There was a click and the line went dead.

Hugo put back the receiver. He was to name his own terms. If fifty pounds was not enough, he could have more. What sort of fool did they take him for? And who were they? For the hundredth time, what did it all mean?

Hacker came in presently.

“He's going to town to-morrow for a couple of days. I'm going with him, worse luck! And he says you can stay here, or go away, or do any blessed thing you please. I should clear out if I were you, or you'll be dead of boredom by the time we get back. It's only his temper that keeps us going. Whatever else he is, he's not dull—is he?”

Hugo took a look at Mr. Rice's letter—he had decided that the name was Rice. It gave an address in north-east London. It occurred to him that he might do worse than run up to town and make some discreet inquiries about Mr. Rice. He could get a bed at his old lodgings if he wanted one. He could—yes, he thought he would go to town. But he didn't say so to Hacker.

About one o'clock the telephone went again. This time it was a woman speaking.

“Can I speak to Mr. Hugo?”

Hugo jumped. Who was it? It didn't sound—and yet—

He said, “Speaking,” and had trouble with the “p.”

“It's me,” said the voice. “Oh—is it you? Oh,
do
say quickly if it is, because I can't stop a moment—I can't really.”

“I'm Hugo Ross. Who are you?” But by now he knew that it was the girl in the lane.

“I'm Loveday. You know—you carried my bag. Is your name Ross? I didn't get that part of it—only the Hugo. It
is
Hugo, isn't it? Did you get my letter—the one I sent by Gertie?”

“Yes, I g-got it. Look here, what does it mean?”

“I can't tell you on the telephone. I want to see you—I
must
see you. Can you come up to town and meet me at Waterloo, by the end platform where you go down to the Tube? It's nineteen, or twenty or something like that. Can you meet me there?”

“I c-could—to-morrow.”

“At one o'clock? Could you meet me at one o'clock? Cissie's going out to lunch. I think I could manage to get away—I
must
. Can you manage one o'clock?”

“Yes.”

“You'll wait if I'm late—won't you? Because I must see you. Are you alone, or is there anyone in the room?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Hacker isn't in the room, is he?”

Hugo was startled.

“Why do you ask that? Do you know him?”

“Cissie knows him. Is he there?”

“No—I'm quite alone. Look here, how shall I know you? I mean I've heard your voice, but—”

He heard a little breathless laugh.

“I'll wear a chrysanthemum—a yellow one. Oh—” It was just the sharp beginning of a sound, cut off almost as it reached him. He waited; but there was no more life in the line.

As he hung up the receiver, Hacker came into the room.

CHAPTER VIII

Hugo slept that night heavily and dreamlessly. He woke late, and came down to find that Minstrel and Hacker were already away.