It was but a momentary glimpse that Alan caught of him. He was of slight build, and wore an overcoat, with a soft felt hat pulled down over his forehead. But it was too dark to see his features. His footsteps crunched softly on the carpet of dead leaves, and faded away. Puzzled, Alan Gilmour stepped out from his place of concealment.
Who was this man that Elizabeth had been talking to in the woods? She had left word at the house that she was going down to the village, but it looked as if she had in reality come out here to meet this man. If she had merely met him by chance, why did she not continue on her original errand to the village? Alan stood in the middle of the pathway looking out across the meadow towards Holmdean House. There was little chance of seeing Elizabeth now, unless he returned to the inn and telephoned again. What he had just seen had left him in a very disturbed frame of mind. Was it with Templeton’s knowledge that she had come out to meet this man in the darkness of these woods: had it been a message from Templeton that she had been conveying? Somehow, it seemed unlikely, for what was to prevent the barrister himself from meeting the person openly at the house? . . . For more than a minute Alan stood beside the wicket-gate trying to see things in an accurate perspective; and then, unable to arrive at any conclusion, he turned and began to retrace his steps. But before he had gone many yards along the path a voice hailed him quietly:
‘What the devil are you doing here, Gilmour?’
The man who had stepped out of the shadows was Inspector Tripp.
‘Well I’m blessed!’
It was all that Alan could stammer out. Though the question was repeated he could only stare at the detective in dazed astonishment.
‘I rang you up at the Marquise Hotel this afternoon,’ Tripp went on, ‘but they said they thought you’d gone out of town. What on earth are you doing here?’
Alan was still speechless. What Tripp was doing at Holmdean he could not imagine. He was certainly the last person he’d expected to see in this part of the world.
‘You haven’t answered my question!’ said Tripp sharply.
Alan Gilmour hesitated. More than once Tripp had warned him to have nothing to do with Elizabeth Marlowe, and he had ignored the advice. More than once, too, he had found himself in an awkward position on her account. Indeed, this was the one issue on which there had never been complete frankness between Tripp and himself. But there was little use now in trying to hide the reason why he had come to Holmdean.
‘I was hoping to see Elizabeth Marlowe,’ he said frankly. ‘She’s down here at Templeton’s for the week-end.’
A streak of moonlight revealed the slightly cynical smile on the detective’s face. ‘Well, you had your chance to speak to her just now. Why didn’t you take it?’
Alan did not answer.
‘It might have been rather an awkward moment for her, eh?’ remarked Tripp with a laugh. ‘Look here, Gilmour, why don’t you take my advice about this girl? You’re simply piling up trouble for yourself.’
‘Perhaps I am,’ said Alan doggedly. ‘That remains to be seen. But if you were in my shoes you’d do exactly as I’m doing. She’s in a damnably awkward position—you’ve told me so yourself—and I want to help her if I can.’
Tripp nodded. ‘But does she want your help?’
With an almost uncanny discernment Tripp seemed to have echoed Alan’s thoughts.
‘She doesn’t,’ he muttered. ‘So she says. But there’s something behind it, and I mean to find that out. I know you people at Scotland Yard are dubious about her, but you’re wrong. Do you know anything—anything definite—against her?’
Inspector Tripp shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’d have thought you saw enough just now to answer that question for yourself.’
‘She was merely talking to a man here in the woods. Does that prove anything against her?’
‘It depends on the man,’ said Tripp quietly.
They had fallen into step, and were walking slowly back along the path in the direction of the village. The detective went on for a few paces in silence, then stopped. ‘Let me put it this way, Gilmour. I know enough to tell you that you’re better out of this. To-day we got some rather interesting information at Scotland Yard. I have an impression that there’s something about to happen at Holmdean.’
‘You mean—something to do with Lord John?’
Inspector Tripp nodded.
‘Does Elizabeth Marlowe come into it?’ burst out Alan.
‘That remains to be seen.’
Alan stared at him in the darkness. ‘If you know anything definite,’ he cried, ‘why the devil don’t you tell me?’
Tripp laid a soothing hand on Alan Gilmour’s arm. ‘The boot can fit the other foot, my friend. Aren’t there several things you haven’t told me? For instance, your first visit to “The Green Lantern”? It was an errand for Miss Marlowe, wasn’t it? But you promised her you’d hold your tongue about it. . . . Am I not right?’ Receiving no reply, he went on in the same quiet tone: ‘Well, I don’t altogether blame you, Gilmour. You were honest enough about it. You told me there was something you were keeping to yourself. Yes, I know you did it to protect Elizabeth Marlowe, and I suppose I can’t blame you for that. But there’s no need for you to protect her any longer. I happen to know the man she was meeting here just now. . . . You see, I’m being quite frank with you, Gilmour.’
‘Yes,’ cried Alan, his pulses racing.
‘He’s a notorious scoundrel from the Continent. But he’s more than that. Though we’ve got a good reason for not arresting him, we believe him to be a prominent member of the Lord John gang. He calls himself Julius Brown. If our information at Scotland Yard is correct, and anything happens hereabouts to-night, I’m afraid it will go rather hard with Elizabeth Marlowe.’
CHAPTER XXIII
MR. ADRIAN LISTER’S SMILE
While Alan Gilmour made his way moodily back to the village inn at Holmdean, Inspector Tripp’s movements were those of a man whose plans had already been carefully laid.
He cut across the fields in the direction of The Dean, the big Georgian house among the trees which was temporarily tenanted by Mrs. Lydia Prideaux. The Dean lay back from the main road about a quarter of a mile, and its magnificent beech avenue, planted by one of Queen Victoria’s prime ministers, was justly famous. Glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch, Tripp slackened his pace a little as he crossed the wide park that reached the fringe of the pleasure-gardens, and made his way to a secluded spot beside a high bank of rhododendrons.
There two plain-clothes Scotland Yard men were awaiting him.
‘These fellows from county head-quarters should be here presently,’ said Tripp. ‘Heyward himself is coming, which is all to the good. . . . Hallo, that looks like them.’
He peered across the grass, silvered by moonlight, to the spot where his quick eye had noted the movement at the edge of the trees. Several dark figures were approaching, keeping well within the shelter of the wood.
‘Inspector Heyward there?’ Tripp called out quietly, and one of the men stepped forward. ‘Is that you, Heyward?’
‘Evening, Tripp.’ The big, broad-shouldered man with the black moustache shook hands. ‘Haven’t seen you since that L’Estrange affair. How’s the Yard?’
‘If you believe the newspapers, it’s about to close its shutters,’ replied Tripp with a laugh. ‘Got its hands full, anyhow—that’s sure. How many men have you brought?’
‘Half a dozen,’ said Heyward. ‘Good fellows—in fact, the best I could rake together.’
‘You’ve put them wise?’
‘They know what’s on all right,’ nodded Inspector Heyward. ‘I promise you they’ll pull in Lord John to-night if he so much as bats an eyelid.’ He chuckled good-humouredly. ‘We’re out to teach you Metropolitan fellows a thing or two.’