CHAPTER XXV
AT HOLMDEAN HOUSE
Alan Gilmour was restless that evening. His brief talk with Tripp in the woods near Holmdean House had scarcely tended to lift the depression that had settled upon his mind. Julius Brown was known to the police! Worse, Scotland Yard suspected him of being one of the Lord John crowd. And Elizabeth Marlowe, for some reason, was in close touch with this man. . . .
That was the distressing part. Alan framed a dozen possible explanations, but the ugly facts remained. She had taken every precaution to conceal the association, meeting him in the woods under cover of darkness. As for Mr. Brown himself, it was certain that he was not in this vicinity for nothing; and Tripp’s final words on parting kept ringing in his ears. If anything happened to-night it would go hard with Elizabeth Marlowe.
Long after the landlord’s wife had cleared away the remains of his evening meal, he sat at the table trying to think matters out clearly. He regretted nothing he had said to Tripp in their recent talk, and there was one remark in particular he was glad he had made, for it would leave no doubt about his real position: he would be a pretty low sort of cad if he left Elizabeth in the lurch now!
He rose to his feet, and went over to the uncurtained window, then began to pace up and down while the minutes ticked slowly away.
If anything happens to-night it will go hard with Elizabeth Marlowe.
‘I can’t stick this any longer,’ said Alan in desperation. ‘I must see her!’
Anything was better than this futile inaction which had strung up his nerves to concert pitch. He would go to Elizabeth at once! He would put all his cards on the table. On previous occasions he had pleaded to be allowed to help her; but this was no time for gentle persuasion. Her situation was too critical for that. She must be made to see the gravity of it—the danger of it—before it was too late. With a word to the landlord’s wife that he would be away for about an hour, Alan set out at a brisk pace along the road.
Soon he was on the footpath that led through the woods. He halted at the wicket-gate, and looked across the meadow at the gables and chimneys of Sir Richard Templeton’s house clearly discernible in the bright moonlight.
His first idea had been to go boldly up to the front door and ask to see Elizabeth. But when he glanced at his watch he realized with a start the lateness of the hour. It was long past eleven. Pacing up and down in that room at the village inn, he had been unconscious of the passage of time. To call so late and demand to see Sir Richard Templeton’s secretary might cause some comment in the house. More than that, if Templeton were in there was every chance that orders would be given for Gilmour to be turned away. After a moment’s thought, Alan fixed upon a better plan. If there was any way of attracting the girl’s attention without the formality of ringing the bell and giving his name, Alan made up his mind to take it.
Crossing the meadow, he opened the small gate and stepped into the garden. Save for the light at the front door, the house seemed to be in darkness. Then he noticed another light away on the left. A room on the ground floor was occupied, and he walked towards it. He had an uncomfortable sensation of guilt at moving about stealthily on another man’s property at this hour, and discretion made him instinctively keep in the shadow. The blind had been drawn, he saw, but a faint yellow streak on the lawn made him glance round the corner. He perceived that the long arrow of light came from a French window which stood partly open.
It was a sitting-room that Alan found himself looking into. A reading lamp with a red shade stood on a table beside the fire, the rest of the room being in semi-darkness. Then a figure moved between him and the lamp, and he recognized Elizabeth.
Moving quickly from his hiding-place, he tapped gently on the window. The figure turned, and then he saw that he had been mistaken. Though her back was to the light and her face in shadow, Alan realized that this was not Elizabeth, but an older woman with the same slender figure and the same graceful poise.
Startled, the woman came forward. Alan hastened to make his presence known.
‘I’m extremely sorry,’ he said, stepping through the window. ‘I thought you were Miss Marlowe.’
‘You—you wish to see Miss Marlowe?’
‘Yes, if you please. It’s rather urgent.’
The woman drew herself up. ‘Perhaps I can take a message? Miss Marlowe is my daughter,’ she added.
So this explained the similarity of voice and figure! Elizabeth had never spoken about her home-life: she had been as reticent about this as about anything else connected with herself.
‘I’d rather see Miss Marlowe personally, if you don’t mind,’ replied Alan. ‘I’m sorry to trouble her at so late an hour.’
Mrs. Marlowe hesitated, and Alan could see that she was in some perplexity.
‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth is out,’ she said at length.
‘Will she be long?’
Again the woman hesitated. ‘I’m not certain. Are you a friend of Elizabeth’s?’ she asked, looking up quickly.
‘Yes—Gilmour is my name—Alan Gilmour. I’ve been living at the Marquise Hotel.’
Whether it was the mention of his own name or that of the hotel, Alan did not know, but the woman seemed to shrink back a trifle.
‘Perhaps Miss Marlowe has mentioned my name to you?’ he suggested.
‘I think—I think perhaps you’d better not wait,’ she replied quickly. ‘Will you kindly leave the message with me?’
But Alan shook his head. ‘That would be difficult. I’d like a short talk with Miss Marlowe herself. I said just now it’s rather urgent. It’s more than that—it’s very, very important. Do you mind if I wait?’
And then he saw her face change. She was looking over his shoulder, and he swung round. At the open window stood Elizabeth.
It did not take Alan long to perceive that something was amiss. The girl’s face was desperately white, and her breath was coming in quick gasps—she had obviously been running.
‘I—I thought you were in London.’ She panted out the words with difficulty. ‘What are you doing here?’
How complete was the confidence between Elizabeth and her mother Alan did not know, and he decided it would be better not to speak in front of Mrs. Marlowe.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ he replied. ‘May I see you alone? I hope it’s convenient.’
Elizabeth looked at him for a moment, and, noting the concern on his face, made a gesture to her mother, who quietly left the room.
Elizabeth walked slowly forward. ‘You have something to tell me?’
‘Before we come to that,’ said Alan, ‘I want to ask you a question. Yesterday you told me that I must never see you again. Did you mean that?’
‘Yes.
‘Do you still mean it?’
She turned away her head. ‘Yes. It’s impossible, Mr. Gilmour. Our friendship must come to an end. I’ve told you that I can’t explain.’
‘Right.’ Alan Gilmour’s voice was grim. ‘This is the last time we may meet, Elizabeth. But before I go I must tell you this. I don’t want to alarm you, but yesterday you spoke of Inspector Tripp of Scotland Yard. Naturally, I can’t repeat anything he has told me in confidence—you understand that quite clearly? . . .