"I wanted to ask you in the first place, gentlemen, if the house is to be closed from to-morrow, what is to become of my silver? Is it to go to the bank?"
"No. Nothing is to be taken from the house but your own personal belongings, I understand from Inspector Furnival," the rector of North Coton answered him, while Daventry stared moodily into the fire.
"But—but, sir, I can't leave it like that," expostulated Soames. "Some of it is very valuable and my lady set great store by it and it has always been my pride to keep it as she liked to see it. It would break my heart to leave it here, to be stolen by anybody who got into the house."
"The silver will be safe enough, Soames," John Daventry interposed. "The house will be occupied by men from Scotland Yard. But you must have your inventory ready. You will have to go over it with Inspector Furnival this afternoon, I expect."
"What, sir?" Soames started as if he had been stung, and a thin streak of red showed in his cheeks. "Go over my silver with Inspector Furnival as if I was a common thief? Me that has never laid a teaspoon wrong since I have been in her ladyship's service!"
"Ah, well! You are only in the same boat as the rest of us, Soames," Daventry said with a grim humour that was new to him. "We are all thieves and murderers in the eyes of the police."
"You always will have your joke, sir," Soames said with a sickly smile. "But, if I could have given it over to you, Mr. John, or to you, Mr. Fyvert, sir, instead of to the police, I should not have minded half so much. But to the police!"
"Well, well! Buck up, Soames, you will have to get over it. After all, it is left to different people, so you would have to part with it anyhow," Daventry went on. "But about yourself, Soames. What are you going to do, old chap? One doesn't like to think of you with anyone else, after all your years of faithful service with the Daventrys. But we have got old Grieve at the Keep, and my mother won't hear of anyone in his place."
"No. Nor is it right that she should, sir, if you will excuse me," Soames said respectfully. "But, if you would allow me, sir, I did hear when old Mr. Blount of the Daventry Arms died, that the widow wasn't going to keep the house on. If you would let it to me and speak a good word for me with the magistrates—"
"Oh, that would be all right, of course. Though I don't know how far my words would go with the magistrates nowadays. I am likely to find that out for myself soon, I fancy," John Daventry said with sardonic humour. "And of course we should love to have you at Daventry, old chap. But it will run into a good bit of money. Mrs. Blount wants to sell the furniture with the house, and there will be the transfer of the licence and Heaven knows what. Do you think you will be able to manage it?"
"I hope so, sir. I have always had good money, as you know. And I have been a thrifty man and put by a little each year, so with what her poor ladyship left me, I am quite well off. Besides—" he paused, smiling and looking sheepish.
"Besides what?" cried Daventry. "Upon my word, I believe you are going to be married, Soames! Who is it, man? Out with it—who is the lucky lady?"
"I look upon myself as the lucky one, sir," said Soames, striving to recapture his usual manner and failing signally. "But we have walked out for years, though nothing binding between us, and now we are thinking of spending our old age together. I speak of Miss Pirnie, sir—her late ladyship's maid."
"Pirnie, by Jove!" For once John Daventry's laugh rang out almost as free from cares as ever as a vision of the lady maid's mincing affectation, and her elaborately coiffured dyed hair, rose before his eyes. Then he held out his hand. "I wish you the best of luck, Soames, both of you. You may depend upon me about the Daventry Arms. We should like to have you settled near as neighbours of ours."
"Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir!" There were real tears in Soames's eyes as he pressed John's hand and then turned to press that which the rector of North Coton extended in congratulation. "You are very kind. And if you ever want a hand at the Keep, sir, why, we shall always be pleased to do what we can, speaking for Miss Pirnie and myself, for we shall always look upon ourselves as the Daventrys' servants."
When he had bowed himself out, John Daventry looked at Mr. Fyvert.
"Good old Soames! Well, I am glad Aunt Anne's money is going to make those two good souls happy."
"Indeed, yes!" responded the rector. "Soames belongs to the old-fashioned class of servant—a type that is rapidly becoming extinct nowadays."
Chapter XII
Mosswolds' was one of those very small, ultra-smart, restaurants that are to be found tucked away in side-streets all about the West End; mostly perhaps in the region of Bond Street and the shops. No band played. Mosswolds' did not cater for the class of person who takes tea to the accompaniment of a jazz band. But the table linen and the china were always fresh and dainty. Flowers from the country came up every morning to Mosswolds' and were set in crystal vases on every table. Above there was plenty of space. The tables stood in corners, or by the windows, or in the middle of the room, but always the customers could talk without fear of being overheard. To-day at four o'clock, there were very few people in the room, but then Mosswolds' was never: crowded. The waitresses wore a particularly becoming uniform of pale almond green, with cream-coloured mob caps and dainty coquettish aprons. The frocks were short enough to show silk stockings of the same shade of green, and suede shoes to match with Louis Quinze heels and paste buckles. Report had it that all the waitresses at Mosswolds' were ladies. However that might be, they were generally remarkably good-looking girls.
This afternoon, as business was slack, one of them was talking to a customer who had just come in. A well-dressed woman of middle-age who seemed to be waiting for some one. Presently a young man entered; a tall, rather good-looking man with fair hair and a monocle screwed into his left eye. He selected a table near the window and sat down.
The woman who had been talking to the waitress moved to a table at the other side of the room, quite out of earshot, but from whence a good view of the second customer's table could be obtained.
Then she ordered tea, and, taking out a book, began glancing at it in an absent fashion.
The young man, too, ordered tea, and then began to watch the door. Quite evidently he was expecting some one; more than once he glanced impatiently at the clock. At last a girl in deep mourning came quickly through the swing door, He rose quickly and went forward to meet her.
"My darling, I thought I was never going to see you again!"
"Oh, Davy dear, you know it hasn't been my fault!" the girl said quickly. "And even now I can't stop long. But—is this safe?" She looked round doubtfully. A few people sat about at distant tables. Just opposite was the friend of the waitress. Upon her the girl's glance rested longest. "You are sure she can't hear?"
The man laughed. "Quite, quite sure. Come along, sweetheart, we are as safe as houses here. And I have promised the waitress a considerable douceur not to let anyone come near us."
They sat down and began to talk, leaning forward and looking into each other's eyes in a fashion that made the waitress giggle. The woman at the opposite table smiled a little too, as she put down her book and began to attack the pile of buttered toast she had ordered.
The two at the table went on talking.
"Why didn't you come to the old place yesterday or the day before?" the man questioned.
"Because that horrid detective was prying about," answered the girl, whom the distant watcher had no difficulty in identifying as Margaret Balmaine. "He is always popping up somewhere, just in the last place one expects him. It is a marvel I have been able to get away from him today. Even now I shouldn't be surprised if he were the next person to come