He was on the bank now, the mooring rope had been loosed, and the Rosabelle was slipping gently down the current. Maclellan had begun to hoist the sail. The Prince stood in the stern and waved his hand, but Dickson did not respond. His thoughts were too insurgent for action. His whole soul was drawn to that patch of dark which was the boat, momentarily growing smaller, speeding down a pathway of silver into a golden haze.
“I meant it,” he said firmly to himself. “By God, I meant it… I’m sixty-one years of age on the 15th of next month, but a man’s just as old as his heart, and mine’s young. I’ve got the ring… And maybe some day I’ll get the word!”
He took his seat beside Wilkie and amazed him by his high spirits. All the road to Portaway he sang what seemed to be Jacobite songs. “I’ll to Lochiel and Appin and kneel to them,” he crooned. When they picked up Mrs Brisbane-Brown at the hotel, she travelled alone inside the car, for Dickson resumed the outside seat and his melodies. “Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee!” he shouted.
“Ye havena got the tune richt,” said the distracted Wilkie.
“Who cares about the tune?” Dickson cried. “It’s the words that matter. And the words are great.”
The car halted in the street of Starr village. Presently Dickson joined Mrs Brisbane-Brown inside, and the place beside the driver was taken by a bulky stranger.
“A friend of mine,” he told the lady. “He’ll maybe come in useful at the Castle.”
CHAPTER 19
MR CRAW IS MASTER IN HIS OWN HOUSE
A little after ten o’clock the front-door bell of Castle Gay was violently rung. The summons was answered by Bannister, unattended by the customary footmen. He opened upon a strange spectacle. A conventicle stood upon the doorstep, no less than six men, and behind them on the gravel were two large cars, in which other figures could be discerned. It was a fine night with a moon, and the astonished butler was left in no doubt about the strength of the visitors.
An authoritative voice demanded Mr Craw. Bannister, jostled out of all his traditions, admitted that his master was at home.
“We will speak with him,” said the voice.
The butler stammered something about an appointment.
“He will see us,” said the voice firmly. “You need announce no names. Take us to him at once.” By this time the six were well inside the doorway, and Bannister had retreated nervously into the hall. It was one of the six, not the butler, that shut the door behind them.
Then Bannister seemed to recover himself. He offered to help the leader in removing his coat, for all six wore travelling ulsters. But he was roughly waved aside. “You will stay here, Hannus,” the leader said to one of the party, “and if anyone attempts to leave blow your whistle. Our friends outside will watch the other doors. Now, you,” he turned to Bannister, “take us instantly to Mr Craw.”
The butler was certainly recovering. “Mr Craw is in the library,” he said, in a tone which was wonderfully composed considering the circumstances. “One moment, sir, and I will light the staircase.”
He slipped into the cloakroom on the left side of the hall, and in a moment the great staircase was flooded with light. But in his three seconds of absence Bannister had done something more. He had switched on the light in a minute chamber at the base of the tower, which was one of the remnants of the old shell of the castle. This chamber had the advantage of looking directly upon the park, and a light in it shone like a signal beacon down the Callowa vale.
“Will you follow me, sir?” he said, and five of the visitors, with eyes as wary as colts, ascended the broad carpeted stairs, while the sixth remained on duty below, standing rigid in the centre of the hall as if to avoid an ambush. It was odd behaviour, but not more odd than that shown by the ascending five. Bannister found himself poked in the back by the barrel of a pistol, and, when he looked round, the pistol’s owner grinned and nodded, to point his warning that he was not to be trifled with.
Bannister took no notice. He had recovered the impassiveness of a well-trained servant. He behaved as if such visitors and such manners were in no way abnormal, and led them along the upper gallery and flung open the door of the library.
“Gentlemen to see you, sir,” he announced, and when the five had crowded in he shut the door behind them. He seemed to be amused and to have urgent business on hand, for he darted down a side staircase towards the lower regions of the house, and as he went he chuckled.
The library was half in dusk. There was a glow from the big fire on the hearth, and one lamp was lit in the central chandelier. The long lines of vellum and morocco on the walls made a dim pattern in the shadows, and the great Flemish tapestry was only a blur. But there was a reading-lamp on the big table, which partly illumined the blue velvet curtains of the six tall narrow windows.
At the table in his accustomed chair sat Mr Craw, spectacles on nose, and a paper in his hand, and opposite him was the discreet figure of Miss Elena Cazenove, her pencil poised above her note-book. At the end of the table stood Mr Barbon, with the air of a secretary waiting to supplement or endorse some ukase of his chief. Both men wore dinner jackets. It was a pleasant picture of busy domesticity.
Mr Craw raised his eyes from the paper at the interruption. He had nerved himself to a great effort and his heart was beating uncomfortably. But he managed to preserve an air of self-possession. The features of the marble Augustus on the pedestal behind him were not more composed.
“What does this mean?” he said sharply, in a voice to which nervousness gave the proper irritability. “Bannister!” He raised his voice. But the butler had gone, and the five men in ulsters had approached the table.
He took off his spectacles, but he did not rise. “Who on earth are you?” he demanded. The words came out like pistol shots. The voice was a little startled, which in the circumstances was right.
“Our names do not matter.” Mastrovin bent his heavy brows upon the comfortable figure in the chair. This was not quite what he had expected. He had hoped to come upon a full conclave, Royalty and Royalists and Craw in the act of conspiring. He had hoped for a dramatic entry, an embarrassed recognition, a profound discomfiture, and he found only an elderly gentleman dictating letters. Instead of a den of foxes he had stumbled upon a kennel of spaniels. He was conscious that he and his companions struck a discordant note in this firelit room. He must make the most of the discord.
“I offer the conventional apologies for our intrusion, Mr Craw,” he said. “But, as you know well, those who play a certain game cannot always preserve the politenesses. We have come to have a few words with you and your guests.”
“I shall not require you for the present, Miss Cazenove,” said Mr Craw, and the lady clutched her note-book and with a wavering snipelike motion left the room.
“Well?” said Mr Craw, when the door had closed behind her. He had sat back in his chair and Barbon had moved to his side.
“The guests to whom I refer,” Mastrovin continued, “are four Evallonian gentlemen in whom we are interested.”
“Evallonian gentlemen!” exclaimed Mr Craw. “Barbon, this man must be mad.”
“Let me give you their names,” said Mastrovin gently. “They are Count Casimir Muresco, of whom all the world has heard; Prince Odalchini, and Professor Jagon. Last, but by no means least, there is Prince John, the claimant to the Evallonian throne.”
Mr Craw had pulled himself together and had entered on the line of conduct which had already been anxiously rehearsed.
“I have heard of all four,” he said. “But what makes you think they are here? I do not