Scott shrugged his shoulders.
"I can hardly say until I see Mr. Edermont. At the present moment I can be sure only of one thing--that the sight of Lady Burville upset your guardian in the church, and vice versâ."
"But why should they be upset at the sight of one another? They are strangers."
"H'm! We cannot be certain of that," replied Allen cautiously. "That he should mention her name, that she should ask about him--these facts go to prove that, whatever they may be now to one another, they were not strangers in the past."
"Then the past must be quite twenty years ago," said Dora thoughtfully, "for Mr. Edermont has not left the Red House all that time. But what did Lady Burville say when you told her about my guardian?"
"She said--nothing. A wonderfully self-possessed little woman, although she looks like a doll and talks like a fool, Dora; therefore the fact of her fainting yesterday in church is all the more strange. I said that Mr. Edermont was averse to strangers, that he dwelt in the Red House, and that he was a good friend to me."
"You did not mention my name?"
"Dora! As though I should converse about you to a stranger! No, my dear. I merely told so much about Mr. Edermont, prescribed for the lady's nerves, and informed her host and Mr. Pallant that she would be all right to-morrow."
"And who is Mr. Pallant?"
"Did I not mention his name? Oh, he is another guest of Sir Harry's. He left the message that I was to call and see Lady Burville."
"Indeed. Why did not Sir Harry call in his own doctor?"
"Faith! that is more than I can say," replied Scott. "All the better for me that he did not. But how this Mr. Pallant found me out I do not know. It is my impression that, hearing he was riding into Canterbury, Lady Burville asked him privately to send her a doctor, and as he chanced on my door-plate first, he called on me. A lucky accident for a struggling practitioner, eh, Dora?"
"No doubt--if it was an accident," said she dryly. "What is this Mr. Pallant like, Allen?"
"A red-haired, blue-eyed, supercilious beast. I disliked him at sight. Rather a shame on my part, seeing that he has done me a good turn."
By this time they had arrived at the outskirts of Chillum, and alighted before a massive gate of wood set in a high brick wall, decorated at the top with broken glass.
The green spires of poplar-trees rose over the summit of this wall, and further back could be seen the red-tiled gable of a house. Opposite the gates on the other side of the dusty white road there was a small cottage buried in a plantation of fir-trees. An untidy garden extended from its front-door to the quickset hedge which divided the grounds from the highway, and the house had a desolate and solitary look, as though rarely inhabited.
"Does old Joad still sleep in his cottage?" asked Allen, with a careless glance at the tiny house.
"Of course! You know Mr. Edermont won't let anyone stay in the house at night but myself and Meg Gance."
"That is the cook?"
"Cook, housemaid, general servant, and all the rest of it," replied Dora gaily; "she and I between us manage the domestic affairs of the mansion. Mr. Edermont is too taken up with his library and Mr. Joad to pay attention to such details."
"He is always in the clouds," assented Allen, smiling. "By the way, who is Mr. Joad?"
Dora laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
"I'm sure I can't tell you that," she replied carelessly; "he is an old college friend of my guardian's, who gives him house-room."
"But not a bed?"
"No. Joad has to turn out at nine o'clock every night and return to his cottage. I believe he passes most of his evenings in the company of Mr. Pride."
"Pride, Pride?" said Allen thoughtfully--"oh, that is the chubby little man who is so like your guardian."
"He is like him in the distance," answered Dora, "but a nearer view dispels the illusion. Pride is, as you say, chubby, while Mr. Edermont is rather lean. But they are both short, both have heads of silvery hair, and both rejoice in patriarchal beards. Yes, they are not unlike one another."
While this conversation was taking place the young people were standing patiently before the jealously-closed gate. Dora had rung the bell twice, but as yet there was no sign that they would be admitted. The sun was so hot, the road so dusty, that Allen became impatient.
"Haven't you the key of the gate yourself, Dora?"
"No. Mr. Edermont won't allow anyone to have the key but himself. I don't know why."
"Let us go round to the little postern at the side of the wall," suggested Allen.
Dora shook her head with a laugh.
"Locked, my dear, locked. Mr. Edermont keeps the postern as firmly closed as these gates."
"A most extraordinary man!" retorted Scott, raising his eyebrows. "I wonder what he can be afraid of in this eminently respectable neighbourhood."
"I think I can tell you, Allen."
"Can you, my dear? Then Mr. Edermont has said why----"
"He has said nothing," interrupted Dora, "but I have eyes and ears, my dear Allen. Mr. Edermont is afraid of losing his----"
"His money," interrupted Allen in his turn. "Oh yes, of course."
"There is no 'of course' in the matter," said Miss Carew sharply; "he is afraid of losing his life."
"His life? Dora!"
"I am sure of it, Allen. Remember his favourite prayer in the Litany--the prayer which takes his wandering eyes round the church: 'From battle and murder, and from sudden death, good Lord, deliver us.'"
CHAPTER II
THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF DR. SCOTT.
The appearance of the individual who admitted them into what may be called the prison of Mr. Edermont was sufficiently odd to merit a description. Lambert Joad, the friend, factotum, and parasite of Dora's guardian, was a short, stout man verging on sixty years. He had a large bland face, clean-shaven, and bluish-red in hue; his mouth was loose, his chin double, his jowl pendulous; and his insignificant nose was scarcely redeemed by two watery eyes of a pale blue. A few tufts of white hair covered sparsely the baldness of his skull; and his ears, hands, and feet were all large and ill-shaped. He dressed in rusty black, wore carpet slippers, and a wisp of white ribbon did duty as a collar. This last adornment hinted at a clerical vocation, and hinted rightly, for Lambert Joad was an unsuccessful parson of the Anglican Church.
Some forty years previously he had been a college friend of Edermont's, and in due course had taken orders, but either from lack of brains, or of eloquence, or perhaps from his Quilpish looks, he had failed to gain as much as a curacy. In lieu thereof he had earned a bare subsistence by making notes in the British Museum for various employers, and it was while thus engaged that Edermont had chanced upon him again; out of sheer pity the owner of the Red House had taken the unlucky Joad to Kent, and there permitted him to potter about library and garden--a vegetable existence which completely satisfied the unambitious brain of the creature. He was devoted to the god who had given him this ease.
But the odd part of the arrangement was that Edermont would not permit his hanger-on to remain in the house at night. Punctually at nine Mr. Joad betook himself to the small cottage fronting the gates, and there ate and slept until nine the next morning, when he presented himself again in the library, to read, and dust, and arrange, and catalogue the many books. For twenty years this