Lady Palmer saw that her opportunity was over. She glanced smilingly at Sophie. "You must give me your address, my dear."
The girl looked red, a little confused. "St. Barnabas' Vicarage, Chelsea," she said hastily. "Father is Canon Rankin."
"Canon Rankin! Why, of course I know—I mean, I have heard of him," Lady Palmer exclaimed, with a sudden memory of a clergyman whose work among the outcasts of London was obtaining a grudging recognition from all classes. "I believe my sister—Mrs. Dawson—knows him quite well. We shall meet again some day, my dear." She nodded and smiled as Mrs. May drew the girl away.
The prize-giving was nearly over now; Peggy turned to exchange a smile with Chesterham. Stephen Crasster's hand went up to his chin and pulled it restlessly. He told himself that he could stand no more, that since Chesterham was there he would not be missed, and he made his way out by the back of the stand.
Outside he nearly collided with an unobtrusive-looking little man with a bushy, sandy beard, and stopped with a sudden exclamation.
"What, Furnival! Is it you?"
The sandy bearded one glanced round apprehensively. "Hush, if you please, sir! My name is Lennox—Walter Lennox. I have come down to see a friend."
"On business?" Stephen drew him away from the crowd, now all gathered round the sports ground. They walked across the bowling-green in the direction of the tents. "I thought you were so busy with that flat case."
Inspector Furnival looked at him with a mildly-interested smile.
"So I am, sir! But I am sure you must recognize that every one must have a holiday sometimes. I have been going a bit too strong lately, and the doctors tell me my heart isn't what it was."
"I see." The two men were as much alone to-day on the quiet little bowling-green as if they had been on a desert island. Stephen glanced at his companion with a whimsical smile.
"And so you call yourself Lennox when you come out for the benefit of your health?"
The inspector's wide, humorous lips relaxed a little beneath his sandy moustache. "I like to be incog. sometimes, sir. And, besides"—he took counsel with himself a moment before he went on—"it isn't altogether health that brought me down, though the doctor did order me into the country, but I took the liberty of choosing a spot where I thought a stay might be profitable."
Stephen laughed outright. "I guessed as much. Well, you must come up and have a pipe and a taste of bachelor fare at Talgarth one of these days, inspector. And, if your business is anything in which I can help you, you know there is nothing I like better than a bit of detective work."
Inspector Furnival was looking at the ground now. "Thank you, you are very kind. I know your advice has often been most valuable."
"What do you say to coming back with me now?" Stephen went on. "My car is round at the Lion. And you can tell me what you think of my port. I know you are a bit of a connoisseur."
The inspector hesitated a moment. Manifestly the offer tempted him.
"You are very good, sir, but another time, if you please. Mixing with a crowd like this one picks up hints that come in useful sometimes. I am hoping I may do so to-night."
"Ah, well, another time, then," Stephen nodded. "I understand. Good-bye and good luck to you, inspector."
He strode off.
The inspector strolled back to the sports ground. The prize-giving was over. Peggy was standing near the table talking to one of the winners. Her mother and Sir Anthony, with Lord Chesterham, stood behind him with a group of county magnates.
The inspector's eyes glanced across reflectively.
Chapter XV
"Oh, but Miladi is better, much better, and she desires that I come to the fete," Célestine said virtuously.
"I am glad she did. We could not have afforded to have missed you," her companion declared gallantly.
He was the same, dark moustached, smiling little man whom the gossips of Heron's Carew had averred the French maid was meeting in the Home Wood. However that might be, it was obvious that he was expecting her at the Wembley Show. He had been waiting at the entrance gates for quite a considerable time before she had appeared, and he went forward to meet her, hat in hand, with considerable empressement. Célestine looked by no means adverse to being escorted into the grounds by so presentable a swain. She herself was looking her vain coquettish best. She smiled up at the man walking by her side.
"So I am glad, Mr. Barker! Your fête makes a little change. Ah, but it is a triste place, Heron's Carew!"
"It isn't lively," the man agreed with a laugh. "I want you to do me a favour, mademoiselle."
Célestine looked gracious. "What is that, Mr. Barker? You know—"
"I want you to let me introduce a friend," Mr. Barker proceeded. "He came down from town yesterday, my friend did. He is going to stop a bit for his health, and I think the poor fellow feels lonely. There he is walking about by himself, so if you wouldn't mind him joining us—not that I want to share your society with anyone else," he finished with a complimentary glance.
Célestine bridled. She looked across at the solitary figure that Mr. Barker had indicated. Her quick French eyes noted that, though there was nothing particularly noticeable about the man's face and figure, he was immaculately dressed, with a care that reminded her of London. Her eyes brightened, it seemed that there might be possibilities about Mr. Barker's friend.
"But of course I shall be delighted!" she allowed graciously.
They went across together. "Mlle Célestine Delafours, may I introduce Mr. Lennox?" Mr. Barker said with a flourish.
Mr. Lennox bowed with a deference that pleased Célestine. He had fine eyes she said to herself, and, though she might not admire sandy beards, tastes must differ, and the stranger had at least an air.
"You are down here, at Wembley, for your health, Monsieur?" she questioned in her pretty broken English.
Mr. Lennox bowed. "I am staying at Carew Village, at the Carew Arms."
"Ah!" Célestine gave a melting glance upwards. "As is Monsieur Barker. And you are an artist like him is it not so, monsieur?"
Mr. Lennox shook his head. "I am not so clever, mademoiselle, I am only a collector."
"A collector," Célestine echoed with a pretty little puzzled air. "I do not understand, monsieur. What is a collector?"
Mr. Lennox laughed. "Well, it is more a hobby than a profession, mademoiselle. I am lucky enough to have an income to cover my small wants, and I have a natural taste for collecting objects of art. Why, what is this?"
A boy with a telegram was coming towards them. "For the gentleman as is staying at the Carew Arms, Mr. Barker!" he said looking from one to the other.
With a quick exclamation Barker took it from him, tore it open and ran his eyes over it.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," said Mr. Lennox sympathetically.
"Well, yes!" Mr. Barker seemed to have difficulty in finding his words. "My mother has been taken suddenly ill. I shall have to be off at once. I shall just have time to catch the express. Mademoiselle"—turning to Célestine—"how can I apologize to you? You will think me absolutely unmannerly, but my mother—"
"Mademoiselle will understand that your departure is unavoidable," said Mr. Lennox, cutting the other's halting words short. "And, if you are to catch the express, my dear fellow, you haven't a moment to lose. I will take your place as far as it is possible with Mademoiselle, if she will allow me the pleasure of escorting her."
"But Monsieur