“Not yet,” answered Christopher, selfishly less sorry to detain her than he would have been had she been middle-aged and plain. “I want to know what servants are in the rooms where these robberies occur?”
“The butler, Nelson, in the dining-hall, or one of the footmen if the meal is being served in a private sitting-room.”
“Only those, except the guests?”
“Since the mystery began I’ve sometimes been there to watch and superintend, and one of my cousins, either Morley or his wife. And in the dining-hall Sir Walter Raven is kind enough to keep an eye on what goes on, while appearing to be engaged with his luncheon or dinner.”
“Yet the robberies take place just the same under your very eyes?”
“Yes. That is the mysterious part. The whole thing is like a dream. But you will see for yourself. Only, as I said, take care not to have anything about you which They – whoever, whatever They are – can steal.”
“I don’t think I shall trouble to put away my valuables,” said Christopher. “It wouldn’t break me if I lost them, and I can’t feel that such a thing will happen to me.”
“Ah, others have felt that, and regretted their confidence.”
“I sha’n’t regret mine,” laughed the young man. “And I never carry much money.”
“Remember, I’ve warned you!” cried the girl.
“My blood be on my own head,” he smiled, in return, and at last announced that the catechism was finished. She gave him her hand, and he shook it reassuringly; then, it being understood that, as it was late, he would dine at the inn and arrive at Wood House after nine, she left him. Five minutes later, standing at the window, he saw her ride off on a fine hunter.
As he ate chops and drank a glass of ale Christopher considered what he had heard of the mystery, and did not know what to think of it.
He could not believe that things happened as Miss Chester described. He thought that a sensitive imagination, rendered more vivid by singular events, must have led her into exaggeration. However, he was keenly interested, and the fact that Sir Walter Raven had been in the house since the strange happenings began added to the piquancy of the situation. He admired the girl so much that he would regret disillusionment for her; yet her fiancé’s presence for precisely that length of time was an odd coincidence. He might be anxious to force her to abandon the scheme which he appeared to approve, and – he might have hit upon a peculiar way of doing it. How he could have gone about accomplishing such an object in such a manner Christopher could not see; yet his attention focused on Sir Walter Raven as a central figure in the mystery.
The road from the Sandboy and Owl, through Ringhurst and on to Wood House, was beautiful. Christopher had passed over it before, and, coming to the gateway and lodge of the place he sought, he remembered having remarked both, though he had not then known the name of the estate.
He steered Scarlet Runner between tall stone gate-posts topped with stone lions supporting shields, acknowledged a salutation from an elderly man at the door of the old black and white lodge, and drove up a winding avenue under beeches and oaks.
Suddenly, rounding a turn, he came in sight of the house, standing in the midst of a lawn cleared of trees, in a forest-like park.
It was a long, low building of irregular shape, the many windows with tiny lozenge-panes brightly-lit behind their curtains. In the moonlight the projecting upper storeys with gabled roofs and ivy-draped chimneys, the walls chequered in black and white, with wondrous diapering of trefoils, quatrefoils, and chevrons, were clearly defined against a wooded background. The house could have few peers in picturesqueness if one searched all England. Christopher was not surprised that the plan of turning it into an hotel had attracted many motorists and other tourists.
He was received by a mild, old, white-haired butler, and a footman in neat livery was sent to show him the way to the garage. Scarlet Runner disposed of for the night, he returned to the house and entered a square hall, where a fire of logs in a huge fireplace sent red lights flickering over the carved ceiling, the fine antique cabinets stored with rare china, the gate-legged tables, and high-backed chairs.
His name was announced as if he had been an invited guest arriving at a country house, and from a group near the fireplace came forward to welcome him a young man with a delightful face. Glancing past him for an instant, as he advanced, Christopher saw Sidney Chester in evening dress; a dainty old lady whom he took to be her mother; a rather timid-looking little woman, whose pretty features seemed almost plain in contrast with Miss Chester’s; a handsome, darkly sunburnt young man, with a soldierly, somewhat arrogant air; also seven or eight strangers, divided into different parties scattered about the hall.
“How do you do? Is it possible we’re to have the pleasure of entertaining the famous Mr Race?” said the young man who came to greet Christopher. “My name is Morley Chester, and I play host for my cousins, Mrs Chester and her daughter.”
Christopher disclaimed the adjective bestowed upon him, but admitted that he was the person who had had a certain adventure in Dalvania, and one or two others that had somehow got into the papers. Then Mr Chester introduced him to the two cousins, mother and daughter (he meeting the girl as if for the first time), to the pretty, quiet young woman who was, it appeared, Mrs Morley Chester, and added an informal word or two which made Sir Walter Raven and Mr Christopher Race known to each other.
Sidney Chester’s fiancé was, after all, very pleasant and frank in manner, his haughty air being the effect, perhaps, of a kind of proud reserve. Christopher could not help feeling slightly drawn to the young man, as he usually was to handsome people; but there was no doubt in his mind that Mr Morley Chester was an agreeable person. He was not fine-looking, but his way of speaking was so individual and engaging that Christopher did not wonder at Miss Chester for referring to him as her dear cousin.
Assuredly he was the right man for this trying position. His tact and graciousness must put the shyest stranger at ease, and he struck the happy mean between the professional and amateur host, necessary in a country house where paying guests were taken.
He went with Christopher to show two or three rooms which were free, and the new arrival having selected one, and settled about the price, Morley Chester said, half laughingly, half ruefully, “I suppose you’ve heard about our mystery?”
Christopher confessed that rumours had reached him.
“We think it right to warn everyone who comes,” said his host. “Not that our warnings have much effect. People think nothing will happen to them – that they won’t be caught napping; or it amuses them to lose their things, as one gives up one’s watch or rings to a conjurer to see what he will do. At worst, though, you’re safe for some time.
“The ghostly thief – as we’ve begun to believe him – lets our visitors alone until just before they’re leaving. He always seems to know their intentions. It’s a new way of ‘speeding the parting guest.’ But, if I make light of our troubles, we feel them seriously enough in reality.”
Christopher was offered supper, but refused, as he had lately dined; and he did not go downstairs again until after the ladies had gone to bed. Then he joined the men in the smoking-room, and observed with veiled interest not only the guests, but the servants who brought in whisky and soda. There was not a face of which he could say to himself that the expression was sly or repellent.
Before Mr Chester and Sir Walter Raven no one mentioned the trouble in the house; but next morning, sitting in the hall which was the favourite gathering-place, he caught scraps of gossip. No one present had yet been robbed, but everyone had heard something queer from others who had left the place, and as a rich brewer, lately knighted, intended to go away in his motor after luncheon that day, he was being chaffed by his acquaintances.