The Broken Thread. Le Queux William

lately?”

      “No, sir! They be just the same as when you stayed here last, sir.”

      They ascended the crooked stairway, returning to the white room. Raife stood in front of the fireplace gazing at a small miniature on the mantel-shelf. At a glance it appeared to be the only pictorial ornament in the room. Neatly framed in a thin ebony oval was the most beautiful enamel of a woman’s face in high, powdered head-dress, and an exquisitely-modelled bust. Raife picked it up and, looking at the back of the frame, read this inscription pasted on:

      To William Twisegood for a brave service rendered.

      “How did you get this, Twisegood?” asked Raife.

      “Why, sir! That be a long time ago, sir, when I wur not more’n a lad. I be older’n wot your father was, and there come along a day when he wor down along the copse by Tyser Wood, and the young master, he was then, and he was a good plucked ’un. He had his gun along o’ him and was out after rabbits just afore the first, when the partridges open the season. I be going along atop among the turmits, when I hears him a ordering some fellers off his ground. I listens, and presently there’s a scuffling. I slips down through all the bracken and bramble, and there I sees him a scrappin’ hard, with all the blood a streaming down his face. There was Nick Blacker and Bill Boneham, each a holdin’ a lurcher dog, whilst Nick’s three sons was a pasting the young master as hard as they could. But they wasn’t a getting all their own way, for he was mighty quick with his fists, was Master Harry. They didn’t see me a coming. I ups with a couple of bits o’ rock-stone and I aims at Dick. I hits him clean and down he goes. I ’as a stout ash stick in my ’and and I rushes up to Bill. Before he has time to know wot’s up, I lands him a good ’un. Then I shouts to make believe that there’s others a coming. Nick gets up and off they all start on a full run.

      “Well, Master Harry! he was young those days, and thought I was brave. So he gave me that miniature and told me as ’ow it was his grandmother. But bless yer, Master Raife, that wasn’t all he gave me.”

      The old man stopped for want of breath. He had lived his fight over again.

      “Is there anything I can get for you, sir?” he asked.

      “Yes, Twisegood, have you got any of Mrs Twisegood’s home-made wines left?”

      “Why, yes, sir. ’Twouldn’t be the old ‘Blue Boar,’ if we hadn’t got some of that. Or would you rather have some of her sloe gin? That was a drink of the old coaching and posting days. Try some, sir.”

      “All right, thanks, bring me some of that.”

      Raife sat in the deep arm-chair and his mind was a whirlwind of mixed thought and emotion. On the one hand, the mystery of his father’s murder had not been revealed at the inquest. Nor had any light been thrown upon his father’s dying words – that cryptic utterance which rang in his ears with a dull insistence that maddened him.

      “Tell him to be careful – to be wary of the trap – every man has a skeleton in his cupboard – this is mine.” Then those last three fateful words: “her – that woman.” Who is that woman? If he only knew. His father fought three lads in the copse at Tyser Wood, as he had just learnt from Twisegood: that was easy. To fight an unknown woman, to be wary of a trap – that is hard.

      The full force of an August sun still bathed the world in its glorious light, and the warm glow came through those drawn white blinds of this mysterious white room. In spite of that, Raife shivered.

      Old Mr Twisegood returned with the sloe gin. Raife said: “Although it’s August and the sun is shining, I feel cold. Let us light that fire.” Soon the hearth roared with crackling flames, and Raife was left to himself and his troubled thoughts.

      The white room of the “Blue Boar” had been famous for many generations. The secret stairway leading into the loose box in the stable had formed the means of many an escapade, and young Sir Raife was very familiar with its possibilities.

      To-day he merely wanted to reflect, and the peaceful atmosphere and general air of quietude suited his mood.

      Chapter Six

      In the Southern Land of Adventure

      Raife’s passion for Gilda had been as sudden as it was fierce, and here, in the solitude of this strange white room, he allowed his pent-up feelings to obtain the mastery of him. Twisegood having closed the door, Raife paced up and down the long room with rapid strides, reiterating his admiration for her beauty. At length, he decided to return to Aldborough Park. On his way he sent a telegram and eagerly awaited a reply on the following morning, but no reply arrived.

      The thousand and one details that surround the funeral of the head of an old family are very trying to those who are responsible for the dignity of the function and its safe conduct. Raife had been sorely tried in his position as the new head of the family.

      At last the ceremony was completed and most of the mourners had returned to their homes. With a haste that attracted attention, at least, in some quarters, he went to Southport, and then called at the “Queen’s,” and, having asked for Miss Tempest, was rather surprised when the hall-porter handed him a note. He hastily tore it open and read:

      “Dear Mr Remington – Our friendship is forbidden. For your sake – and for mine – forget me.

“Gilda Tempest.”

      The keenness of a young man’s passion is only enhanced by obstacles. Mystified and baffled, Raife yet repeated his resolve to find the girl who had enthralled him.

      Many weeks passed by at Aldborough Park, where the bailiffs and stewards of the estates foregathered with the solicitors of the family for the purpose of installing the new regime. Raife was somewhat impatient of the tedious nature of much of the work. To get away from the monotony, he hid himself several times in the long white room of the “Blue Boar.”

      He was sitting there, one afternoon, deeply abstracted and cursing the luck that had robbed him of that mysterious girl whom he loved, when he heard footsteps on the secret stairway that led to loose box in the stable. Hastily drawing the white curtain aside by opening the little door, he was confronted by his old college chum, Edward Mutimer, in whose company he had been when he met Gilda Tempest.

      “Why,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here, Mutimer?”

      Mutimer laughed, and said: “Well, I went up to the Park, and no one knew where to find you. I guessed you were a bit tired of parchments and documents, so I took my chance of finding you here. I asked old Twisegood, but he wouldn’t give you away. But, somehow, I thought his manner was a bit strange, so I thought of the loose box and the old stairway – and here I am!”

      “Good! I’m glad to see you, Mutimer. You were quite right, I’m tired to death of parchments, leases and settlements, and I’ve been coming here lately to get away from them. We’ve had some fun in this old room when we were kids, haven’t we? Twisegood’s a rare good sort, too. He never gave us away.”

      “Well, I say, Raife, I didn’t altogether come here to disturb you for nothing,” said Mutimer. “I think I’ve got some news for you. I couldn’t help noticing how keen you were on that girl we met one day at Southport.”

      “Yes! yes! Go on! Gilda Tempest is her name. Where is she?” almost shouted Raife, as he leapt from his chair, grasping Mutimer’s arms with a grip that made his friend wince.

      “Easy all, old chap, a little bit softer. I think I know where she is. You know she was staying with her uncle at the ‘Queen’s.’ Well, they left there quite suddenly, just after your governor died. I was at the railway station and saw her and her uncle. They had not much luggage. As I was at the booking-office window, I heard the old man whisper to her: ‘When we get to town we must wire for rooms. Nice is a busy place, and the Hôtel Royal is liable to be crowded.’”

      “Thanks for what you’ve told me. Mutimer, I’m just crazy over that girl. I’ll follow her to the ends of the earth, but she shall be mine. Yes, by jove! Gilda Tempest shall be mine. Mutimer! I’m not a murderer by nature, but I could slay the man who gets between me and that woman.”

      “By