The Missioner. E. Phillips Oppenheim

Mr. Hurd thanked him curtly, and the young man raised his hat.

      “You are Mr. Hurd, I believe?” he remarked. “I was going to call upon you this afternoon.”

      The little man upon the pony frowned. He had no doubt as to his questioner.

      “My name is Hurd, sir,” he answered stiffly. “What can I do for you?”

      “You can let me have that barn for my services,” the other answered smiling. “I wrote you about it, you know. My name is Macheson.”

      Mr. Hurd’s answer was briefly spoken, and did not invite argument.

      “I have mentioned the matter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton, sir. She agrees with me that your proposed ministrations are altogether unneeded in this neighbourhood.”

      “You won’t let me use the barn, then?” the young man remarked pleasantly, but with some air of disappointment.

      Mr. Hurd gathered up the reins in his hand.

      “Certainly not, sir!”

      He would have moved on, but his questioner stood in the way. Mr. Hurd looked at him from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. The young man was remarkably young. His smooth, beardless face was the face of a boy. Only the eyes seemed somehow to speak of graver things. They were very bright indeed, and they did not falter.

      “Mr. Hurd,” he begged, “do let me ask you one question! Why do you refuse me? What harm can I possibly do by talking to your villagers?”

      Mr. Hurd pointed with his whip up and down the country lane.

      “This is the village of Thorpe, sir,” he answered. “There are no poor, there is no public-house, and there, within a few hundred yards of the farthest cottage,” he added, pointing to the end of the street, “is the church. You are not needed here. That is the plain truth.”

      The young man looked up and down, at the flower-embosomed cottages, with their thatched roofs and trim appearance, at the neatly cut hedges, the well-kept road, the many signs of prosperity. He looked at the little grey church standing in its ancient walled churchyard, where the road divided, a very delightful addition to the picturesque beauty of the place. He looked at all these things and he sighed.

      “Mr. Hurd,” he said, “you are a man of experience. You know very well that material and spiritual welfare are sometimes things very far apart.”

      Mr. Hurd frowned and turned his pony’s head towards home.

      “I know nothing of the sort, sir,” he snapped. “What I do know is that we don’t want any Salvation Army tricks here. You should stay in the cities. They like that sort of thing there.”

      “I must come where I am sent, Mr. Hurd,” the young man answered. “I cannot do your people any harm. I only want to deliver my message—and go.”

      Mr. Hurd wheeled his pony round.

      “I submitted your letter to Miss Thorpe-Hatton,” he said. “She agrees with me that your ministrations are wholly unnecessary here. I wish you good evening!”

      The young man caught for a moment at the pony’s rein.

      “One moment, sir,” he begged. “You do not object to my appealing to Miss Thorpe-Hatton herself?”

      A grim, mirthless smile parted the agent’s lips.

      “By no means!” he answered, as he cantered off.

      Victor Macheson stood for a moment watching the retreating figure. Then he looked across the park to where, through the great elm avenues, he could catch a glimpse of the house. A humorous smile suddenly brightened his face.

      “It’s got to be done!” he said to himself. “Here goes!”

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

THE HUNTER AND HIS QUARRY

       Table of Contents

      The mistress of Thorpe stooped to pat a black Pomeranian which had rushed out to meet her. It was when she indulged in some such movement that one realized more thoroughly the wonderful grace of her slim, supple figure. She who hated all manner of exercise had the ease of carriage and flexibility of one whose life had been spent in athletic pursuits.

      “How are you all?” she remarked languidly. “Shocking hostess, am I not?”

      A fair-haired little woman turned away from the tea-table. She held a chocolate éclair in one hand, and a cup of Russian tea in the other. Her eyes were very dark, and her hair very yellow—and both were perfectly and unexpectedly natural. Her real name was Lady Margaret Penshore, but she was known to her intimates, and to the mysterious individuals who write under a nom-de-guerre in the society papers, as “Lady Peggy.”

      “A little casual perhaps, my dear Wilhelmina,” she remarked. “Comes from your association with Royalty, I suppose. Try one of your own caviare sandwiches, if you want anything to eat. They’re ripping.”

      Wilhelmina—she was one of the few women of her set with whose Christian name no one had ever attempted to take any liberties—approached the tea-table and studied its burden. There were a dozen different sorts of sandwiches arranged in the most tempting form, hot-water dishes with delicately browned tea-cakes simmering gently, thick cream in silver jugs, tea and coffee, and in the background old China dishes piled with freshly gathered strawberries and peaches and grapes, on which the bloom still rested. On a smaller table were flasks of liqueurs and a spirit decanter.

      “Anyhow,” she remarked, pouring herself out some tea, “I do feed you people well. And as to being casual, I warned you that I never put in an appearance before five.”

      A man in the background, long and lantern-faced, a man whose age it would have been as impossible to guess as his character, opened and closed his watch with a clink.

      “Twenty minutes past,” he remarked. “To be exact, twenty-two minutes past.”

      His hostess turned and regarded him contemplatively.

      “How painfully precise!” she remarked. “Somehow, it doesn’t sound convincing, though. Your watch is probably like your morals.”

      “What a flattering simile!” he murmured.

      “Flattering?”

      “It presupposes, at any rate, their existence,” he explained. “It is years since I was reminded of them.”

      Wilhelmina seated herself before an open card-table.

      “No doubt,” she answered. “You see I knew you when you were a boy. Seriously,” she continued, “I have been engaged with my agent for the last half-hour—a most interesting person, I can assure you. There was an agreement with one Philip Crooks concerning a farm, which he felt compelled to read to me—every word of it! Come along and cut, all of you!”

      The fourth person, slim, fair-haired, the typical army officer and country house habitué, came over to the table, followed by the lantern-jawed man. Lady Peggy also turned up a card.

      “You and I, Gilbert,” Wilhelmina remarked to the elder man. “Here’s luck to us! What on earth is that you are drinking?”

      “Absinthe,” he answered calmly. “I have been trying to persuade Austin to join me, but it seems they don’t drink absinthe in the Army.”

      “I should think not, indeed,” his hostess answered. “And you my partner, too! Put the stuff away.”

      Gilbert