"Always supposing the young lady doesn't change her mind meanwhile." Thornton spoke casually. "Such things do happen."
Di Monti made no reply. Thornton glanced at him, and then glanced again. He made no mistake. He was looking into the face of what could be a most dangerous man.
"Such a thing does not happen to a di Monti." Cangrande spoke slowly, very slowly. "I possibly do not understand your meaning aright."
"I have none, beyond a general one that it's so easy for foreigners to think an English girl means more than she does. Or shall we say that her words and actions mean less than he might think. I have seen some awkward incidents."
"And you will certainly see one more, if—but I must not detain you. The evening is too fine to waste in generalities which do not apply to what we are discussing."
Di Monti had his voice under control, but the car leapt at his touch, and Mrs. Bennet, who had come out to do her duties, ever after maintained that the Italian had deliberately tried to murder her.
Thornton took up his book again, feeling that he had done all he could to prepare the man for the blow which was to come. He began to understand a little of Rose's feeling. She, and possibly—yes, quite possibly—her father, might be in for a very unpleasant time. However, Rose could be trusted to choose the easiest going.
He sauntered down to the hard courts later.
"I did my best with your kinsman," he said half ruefully, sitting down beside Rose.
"Don't call him, that!" she begged with some warmth. "He's no kin of mine! Of Sib.'s, yes. She's quite Italian, but I'm not."
"No, you're Greek. You're Circe's daughter." He shook his head at her.
"How old would that make me?" She looked at him under the long lashes, straight and golden, which framed her eyes like the rays of a star. "Do you think two thousand years would be about right?"
"The professor's lovely daughter carries off the prize," he announced with a bow. She laughed with him, then her face clouded.
"Unfortunately, Cangrande won't turn into anything so simple—and so useful—as a mere pig. And he's sure to think that father—or some one else—" With a little nip of her perfect mouth that made her look years older, Rose turned away in answer to a call.
Wilkins, the chauffeur, was surprised that Miss Scarlett decided to drive herself, in her own little two-seater, to the concert. As a rule, she was nervous of night driving. If Mrs. Lane wondered at the car, and the whim, she made no comment.
When they were nearly into Medchester, Sibella turned to her.
"You asked me to put you down at Jephsons' for some book or other, didn't you? Do you mind if I don't wait for you? It's only a step from there to the town hall, and I've a visit to pay before the concert. I may be a bit late. If so, I shan't trouble to join you in front, but I'll find a seat farther back. We can meet in the lobby afterwards, if not before."
Sibella stopped the car. Mrs. Lane, got out and shut the door. She went on into the shop, looking as though the arrangement suited her too excellently. Sibella waited a moment, then turned the car, and pressed the accelerator. Like a bird she darted away through the evening light. The concert was from nine to eleven o'clock. It was over when Mrs. Lane, waiting in the little portico, saw Sibella again. She was coming out with an elder woman, who was laughing at something that the girl was saying.
"Wasn't it splendid?" Sibella turned away to Mrs. Lane. "But I thought they took that Third Movement much too fast. It's a mistake to try and copy Kussevitsky's tempo."
They were out on the steps now. Their car was parked to one side. As they walked to it, a lad ran up.
"Miss Scarlett! Miss Scarlett!"
Sibella turned.
"Oh, it's our newspaper boy. Well, Tommy?"
"Your handkerchief, miss. You dropped it just now when you ran into the hall." He held out a wisp of lawn.
"Thank you. But hardly just now,'" Sibella said in a laughing aside to her companion.
Mrs. Lane gave her one of her thoughtful, considering looks.
It almost seemed to her that the girl was rouged. And that her eyes shone like fire-flies in the dark of the night, but again she made no comment.
Bond looked up from his cards to say heartily, "This is better than a stuffy concert hall, what?"
He, Cockburn, and Colonel Scarlett were playing bridge with Thornton in the latter's cottage.
Suddenly there came an interruption. Cockburn, who was dummy, and like every other dummy, took a turn through the gardens while the hand was being played, stuck his head hurriedly through one of the long, open windows.
"I say! I heard a rifle shot over in the lane. Come on, you fellows! Let's see what's wrong."
The interruption was most welcome to Thornton, who had allowed himself to be goaded into calling four hearts, and had been left to rustle for them with the help of a Yarborough. He happened to glance at the colonel as he jumped up. So did Cockburn. Both men saw a look of fear leap into Scarlett's eyes, and saw him crush it down as he might have a dangerous spark as he, too, made for the door.
"Where did it come from?" asked Bond, hard on his friend's heels.
"Somewhere over the other side of the orchard. I—" Cockburn fell sprawling into a flower bed—"shouldn't wonder if it's a row between some poachers and a keeper."
As he picked himself up, he turned towards the colonel, whose feelings about poachers were well known.
"Or Mrs. Viney's pug burst at last," Bond called back, as the colonel made no reply. "She lives across there."
They found the lane deserted, but Cockburn insisted on searching every foot of road and hedge, till they worked around to the main gates of Stillwater again.
"There's nothing to catch here except a wetting. A downpour is coming." The colonel seemed to have suddenly regained his good humour.
In the face of such matter-of-factness the excitement simmered down, and after a few more unanswered shouts, and the first heavy drops of rain, some one suggested a rush to the garage close by, and a general clean-up.
Wilkins was out, but the pump, a towel, and a little petrol repaired all damages, and chaffing the cause of the disturbance, the men returned to finish the rubber, which lasted so late that Thornton insisted on putting "Bond and Co." up for the night, since the colonel still had no suggestions to make.
CHAPTER TWO
THE day after the concert was one of those wonderful spring mornings, when even the dullest man feels his kinship with the fields, and the birds, and the play of shine and shadow.
Across the grass of Medchester Common, which stretched in a sheet of clearest green, for its leopard skin of daisy and buttercup was still to come, ran Bond, with Cockburn several yards behind him. Both men were in running kit. Once, the man in the rear stopped, and called out something. But as he regularly recorded some injury every hundred yards or so, which necessitated a halt, Bond only laughed and ran on.
This time, however, an exclamation followed which made Bond wheel. The other was staring with bulging eyes and dropped jaw into a sand-pit just off the path. The look on his face made his friend come sprinting back.
"What's wrong? What's up?"
Cockburn only pointed, and Bond, following the direction of his hand, felt his own muscles slacken.
"Good God!" he breathed. Then, with a "Here! There must be a way down!" he ran around the pit, and together they slithered to the bottom, where lay the body of Rose Charteris.
She