THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY. A. A. Milne

not saying anything about fifteen years, Audrey. I can only speak for what I know, and that’s five years Whitsuntide. I can take my oath he’s not set foot in the house since five years Whitsuntide. And if he’s been in Australia, as you say, well, I daresay he’s had his reasons.”

      “What reasons?” said Audrey lightly.

      “Never mind what reasons. Being in the place of a mother to you, since your poor mother died, I say this, Audrey — when a gentleman goes to Australia, he has his reasons. And when he stays in Australia fifteen years, as Mr. Mark says, and as I know for myself for five years, he has his reasons. And a respectably brought-up girl doesn’t ask what reasons.”

      “Got into trouble, I suppose,” said Audrey carelessly. “They were saying at breakfast he’d been a wild one. Debts. I’m glad Joe isn’t like that. He’s got fifteen pounds in the post-office savings’ bank. Did I tell you?”

      But there was not to be any more talk of Joe Turner that afternoon. The ringing of a bell brought Audrey to her feet — no longer Audrey, but now Stevens. She arranged her cap in front of the glass.

      “There, that’s the front door,” she said. “That’s him. ‘Show him into the office,’ said Mr. Mark. I suppose he doesn’t want the other ladies and gentlemen to see him. Well, they’re all out at their golf, anyhow — Wonder if he’s going to stay — P’raps he’s brought back a lot of gold from Australia — I might hear something about Australia, because if anybody can get gold there, then I don’t say but what Joe and I — ”

      “Now, now, get on, Audrey.”

      “Just going, darling.” She went out.

      To anyone who had just walked down the drive in the August sun, the open door of the Red House revealed a delightfully inviting hall, of which even the mere sight was cooling. It was a big low-roofed, oak-beamed place, with cream-washed walls and diamond-paned windows, blue-curtained. On the right and left were doors leading into other living-rooms, but on the side which faced you as you came in were windows again, looking on to a small grass court, and from open windows to open windows such air as there was played gently. The staircase went up in broad, low steps along the right-hand wall, and, turning to the left, led you along a gallery, which ran across the width of the hall, to your bedroom. That is, if you were going to stay the night. Mr. Robert Ablett’s intentions in this matter were as yet unknown.

      As Audrey came across the hall she gave a little start as she saw Mr. Cayley suddenly, sitting unobtrusively in a seat beneath one of the front windows, reading. No reason why he shouldn’t be there; certainly a much cooler place than the golf-links on such a day; but somehow there was a deserted air about the house that afternoon, as if all the guests were outside, or — perhaps the wisest place of all — up in their bedrooms, sleeping. Mr. Cayley, the master’s cousin, was a surprise; and, having given a little exclamation as she came suddenly upon him, she blushed, and said, “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t see you at first,” and he looked up from his book and smiled at her. An attractive smile it was on that big ugly face. “Such a gentleman, Mr. Cayley,” she thought to herself as she went on, and wondered what the master would do without him. If this brother, for instance, had to be bundled back to Australia, it was Mr. Cayley who would do most of the bundling.

      “So this is Mr. Robert,” said Audrey to herself, as she came in sight of the visitor.

      She told her aunt afterwards that she would have known him anywhere for Mr. Mark’s brother, but she would have said that in any event. Actually she was surprised. Dapper little Mark, with his neat pointed beard and his carefully curled moustache; with his quick-darting eyes, always moving from one to the other of any company he was in, to register one more smile to his credit when he had said a good thing, one more expectant look when he was only waiting his turn to say it; he was a very different man from this rough-looking, ill-dressed colonial, staring at her so loweringly.

      “I want to see Mr. Mark Ablett,” he growled. It sounded almost like a threat.

      Audrey recovered herself and smiled reassuringly at him. She had a smile for everybody.

      “Yes, sir. He is expecting you, if you will come this way.”

      “Oh! So you know who I am, eh?”

      “Mr. Robert Ablett?”

      “Ay, that’s right. So he’s expecting me, eh? He’ll be glad to see me, eh?”

      “If you will come this way, sir,” said Audrey primly.

      She went to the second door on the left, and opened it.

      “Mr. Robert Ab — ” she began, and then broke off. The room was empty. She turned to the man behind her. “If you will sit down, sir, I will find the master. I know he’s in, because he told me that you were coming this afternoon.”

      “Oh!” He looked round the room. “What d’you call this place, eh?”

      “The office, sir.”

      “The office?”

      “The room where the master works, sir.”

      “Works, eh? That’s new. Didn’t know he’d ever done a stroke of work in his life.”

      “Where he writes, sir,” said Audrey, with dignity. The fact that Mr. Mark “wrote,” though nobody knew what, was a matter of pride in the housekeeper’s room.

      “Not well-dressed enough for the drawing-room, eh?”

      “I will tell the master you are here, sir,” said Audrey decisively.

      She closed the door and left him there.

      Well! Here was something to tell auntie! Her mind was busy at once, going over all the things which he had said to her and she had said to him — quiet-like. “Directly I saw him I said to myself — ” Why, you could have knocked her over with a feather. Feathers, indeed, were a perpetual menace to Audrey.

      However, the immediate business was to find the master. She walked across the hall to the library, glanced in, came back a little uncertainly, and stood in front of Cayley.

      “If you please, sir,” she said in a low, respectful voice, “can you tell me where the master is? It’s Mr. Robert called.”

      “What?” said Cayley, looking up from his book. “Who?”

      Audrey repeated her question.

      “I don’t know. Isn’t he in the office? He went up to the Temple after lunch. I don’t think I’ve seen him since.”

      “Thank you, sir. I will go up to the Temple.”

      Cayley returned to his book.

      The “Temple” was a brick summer-house, in the gardens at the back of the house, about three hundred yards away. Here Mark meditated sometimes before retiring to the “office” to put his thoughts upon paper. The thoughts were not of any great value; moreover, they were given off at the dinner-table more often than they got on to paper, and got on to paper more often than they got into print. But that did not prevent the master of The Red House from being a little pained when a visitor treated the Temple carelessly, as if it had been erected for the ordinary purposes of flirtation and cigarette-smoking. There had been an occasion when two of his guests had been found playing fives in it. Mark had said nothing at the time, save to ask with a little less than his usual point — whether they couldn’t find anywhere else for their game, but the offenders were never asked to The Red House again.

      Audrey walked slowly up to the Temple, looked in and walked slowly back. All that walk for nothing. Perhaps the master was upstairs in his room. “Not well-dressed enough for the drawing-room.” Well, now, Auntie, would you like anyone in your drawing-room with a red handkerchief round his neck and great big dusty boots, and — listen! One of the men shooting rabbits. Auntie was partial to a nice rabbit, and onion sauce. How hot it was; she wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. Well, one thing, Mr. Robert wasn’t staying the night; he hadn’t any luggage. Of