CHAPTER XXX
REVEALS SOMETHING TO HAMILTON
Edgar Hamilton sat with his eyes fixed upon the dingy, inartistic,smoke-begrimed windows of the chambers opposite. The man before him wasacquainted with Gabrielle Heyburn! For over a year he had not been inLondon. He recollected the last occasion--recollected it, alas! only toowell. His thin countenance wore a puzzled, anxious expression, theexpression of a man face to face with a great difficulty.
"Tell me, Walter," he said at last, "what kind of place is GlencardineCastle? What kind of man is Sir Henry Heyburn?"
"Glencardine is one of the most beautiful estates in Scotland. It liesbetween Perth and Stirling. The ruins of the ancient castle, where thegreat Marquis of Glencardine, who was such a figure in Scottish history,was born, stands perched up above a deep, delightful glen; and somelittle distance off stands the modern house, built in great part fromthe ruins of the stronghold."
"And there are noises heard there the same as at Hetzendorf, you say?"
"Well, the countryfolk believe that, on certain nights, there can beheard in the castle courtyard distinct whispering--the counsel of thedevil himself to certain conspirators who took the life of the notoriousCardinal Setoun."
"Has any one actually heard them?"
"They say so--or, at any rate, several persons after declaring that theyhad heard them have died quite suddenly."
Hamilton pursed his lips. "Well," he exclaimed, "that's really mostremarkable! Practically, the same legend is current in South Hungaryregarding Hetzendorf. Strange--very strange!"
"Very," remarked the heir to the great estate of Connachan. "But, afterall, cannot one very often trace the same legend through the folklore ofvarious countries? I remember I once attended a lecture upon that veryinteresting subject."
"Oh, of course. Many ancient legends have sprung from the same germ, sothat often we have practically the same fairy-story all over Europe. Butthis, it seems to me, is no fairy story."
"Well," laughed Murie, "the history of Glencardine Castle and thehistoric family is so full of stirring episodes that I really don'twonder that the ruins are believed to be the abode of somethingsupernatural. My father possesses some of the family papers, while SirHenry, when he bought Glencardine, also acquired a quantity. Only a yearago he told me that he had had an application from a well-knownhistorical writer for access to them, as he was about to write a bookupon the family."
"Then you know Sir Henry well?"
"Very well indeed. I'm often his guest, and frequently shoot over theplace."
"I've heard that Lady Heyburn is a very pretty woman," remarked theother, glancing at his friend with a peculiar look.
"Some declare her to be beautiful; but to myself, I confess, she's notvery attractive."
"There are stories about her, eh?" Hamilton said.
"As there are about every good-looking woman. Beauty cannot escapeunjust criticism or the scars of lying tongues."
"People pity Sir Henry, I've heard."
"They, of course, sympathise with him, poor old gentleman, because he'sblind. His is, indeed, a terrible affliction. Only fancy the change froma brilliant Parliamentary career to idleness, darkness, and knitting."
"I suppose he's very wealthy?"
"He must be. The price he paid for Glencardine was a very heavy one;and, besides that, he has two other places, as well as a house in ParkStreet and a villa at San Remo."
"Cotton, or steel, or soap, or some other domestic necessity, Isuppose?"
Murie shrugged his shoulders. "Nobody knows," he answered. "The sourceof Sir Henry's vast wealth is a profound mystery."
His friend smiled, but said nothing. Walter Murie had risen to obtainmatches, therefore he did not notice the curious expression upon hisfriend's face, a look which betrayed that he knew more than he intendedto tell.
"Those noises heard in the castle puzzle me," he remarked after a fewmoments.
"At Glencardine they are known as the Whispers," Murie remarked.
"By Jove! I'd like to hear them."
"I don't think there'd be much chance of that, old chap," laughed theother. "They're only heard by those doomed to an early death."
"I may be. Who knows?" he asked gloomily.
"Well, if I were you I wouldn't anticipate catastrophe."
"No," said his friend in a more serious tone, "I've already heard thoseat Hetzendorf, and--well, I confess they've aroused in my mind some veryuncanny apprehensions."
"But did you really hear them? Are you sure they were not imagination?In the night sounds always become both magnified and distorted."
"Yes, I'm certain of what I heard. I was careful to convince myself thatit was not imagination, but actual reality."
Walter Murie smiled dubiously. "Sir Henry scouts the idea of theWhispers being heard at Glencardine," he said.
"And, strangely enough, so does the Baron. He's a most matter-of-factman."
"How curious that the cases are almost parallel, and yet so far apart!The Baron has a daughter, and so has Sir Henry."
"Gabrielle is at Glencardine, I suppose?" asked Hamilton.
"No, she's living with a maiden aunt at an out-of-the-world village inNorthamptonshire called Woodnewton."
"Oh, I thought she always lived at Glencardine, and acted as herfather's right hand."
"She did until a few months ago, when----" and he paused. "Well," hewent on, "I don't know exactly what occurred, except that she leftsuddenly, and has not since returned."
"Her mother, perhaps. No girl of spirit gets on well with herstepmother."
"Possibly that," Walter said. He knew the truth, but had no desire totell even his old friend of the allegation against the girl whom heloved.
Hamilton noted the name of the village, and sat wondering at what theyoung barrister had just told him. It had aroused suspicions withinhim--strange suspicions.
They sat together for another half-hour, and before they parted arrangedto lunch together at the Savoy in two days' time.
Turning out of the Temple, Edgar Hamilton walked along the Strand to theMetropole, in Northumberland Avenue, where he was staying. His mind wasfull of what his friend had said--full of that curious legend ofGlencardine which coincided so strangely with that of far-offHetzendorf. The jostling crowd in the busy London thoroughfare he didnot see. He was away again on the hill outside the old-fashionedHungarian town, with the broad Danube shining in the white moonbeams. Hesaw the grim walls that had for centuries withstood the brunt of battlewith the Turks, and from them came the whispering voice--the voice saidto be that of the Evil One. The Tziganes--that brown-faced race of gipsywanderers, the women with their bright-coloured skirts and head-dresses,and the men with the wonderful old silver filigree buttons upon theircoats---had related to him many weird stories regarding Hetzendorf andthe meaning of those whispers. Yet none of their stories was so curiousas that which Murie had just told him. Similar sounds were actuallyheard in the old castle up in the Highlands! His thoughts were whollyabsorbed in that one extraordinary fact.
He went to the smoking-room of the hotel, and, obtaining arailway-guide, searched it in vain. Then, ordering from a waiter a mapof England, he eagerly searched Northamptonshire and discovered thewhereabouts of Woodnewton. Therefore, that night he left London forOundle, and put up at the old-fashioned "Talbot."
At ten o'clock on the following morning, after making a detour, healighted from a dogcart before the little inn called the WestmorlandArms at Apethorpe, just outside the lodge-gates of Apethorpe Hall, andmaking excuse to the groom that he was going for a walk, he set off at abrisk pace over the little bridge and up the hill to Woodnewton.
The morning was dark and gloomy, with threatening rain, and the distancewas somewhat greater than he had calculated from the map. At last,however, he came to the entrance to the long village street, with itschurch and its rows of low thatched cottages.
A tiny inn, called the "White Lion," stood before him, therefore heentered, and calling for some ale,
commenced to chat with the old ladywho kept the place.
After the usual conventionalities about the weather, he said, "I supposeyou don't have very many strangers in Woodnewton, eh?"
"Not many, sir," was her reply. "We see a few people from Oundle andNorthampton in the summer--holiday folk. But that's all."
Then, by dint of skilful questioning, he elucidated the fact that oldMiss Heyburn lived in the tiled house further up the village, and thather niece, who lived with her, had passed along with her dog about aquarter of an hour before, and taken the footpath towards Southwick.
Ascertaining this, he was all anxiety to follow her; but, knowing howsharp are village eyes upon a stranger, he was compelled to conceal hiseagerness, light another cigarette, and continue his chat.
At last, however, he wished the woman good-day, and, strolling half-wayup the village, turned into a narrow lane which led across a farmyard toa footpath which ran across the fields, following a brook. Eager toovertake the girl, he sped along as quickly as possible.
"Gabrielle Heyburn!" he ejaculated, speaking to himself. Her name wasall that escaped his lips. A dozen times that morning he had repeatedit, uttering it in a tone almost of wonder--almost of awe.
Across several ploughed fields he went, leaving the brook, and, skirtinga high hedge to the side of a small wood, he followed the well-troddenpath for nearly half-an-hour, when, of a sudden, he emerged from anarrow lane between two hedgerows into a large pasture.
Before him, he saw standing together, on the brink of the river Nene,two figures--a man and a woman.
The girl was dressed in blue serge, and wore a white woollentam-o'-shanter, while the man had on a dark grey overcoat with a brownfelt hat, and nearby, with his eye upon some sheep grazing some distanceaway, stood a big collie.
Hamilton started, and drew back.
The pair were standing together in earnest conversation, the man facinghim, the girl with her back turned.
"What does this mean?" gasped Hamilton aloud. "What can this secretmeeting mean? Why--yes, I'm certainly not mistaken--it's Krail--FelixKrail, by all that's amazing!"