The Talleyrand Maxim by J. S. Fletcher (important of reading books TXT) 📕

“Have you any idea to what that refers?” he asked.

“Well, I think I have—perhaps,” answered Mrs. Mallathorpe. “Mr. Bartle

persuaded us to sell him some books—local books—which my late

brother-in-law had at his office in the mill. And since then he has been

very anxious to buy more local books and pamphlets about this

neighbourhood, and he had some which Mr. Bartle was very anxious indeed

to get hold of. I suppose he wanted to see me about that.” Collingwood

made no remarks for the moment. He was wondering whether or not to tell

what Jabey Naylor had told him about this paper taken from the linen

pocket inside the History of Barford. But Mrs. Mallathorpe’s ready

explanation had given him a new idea, and he rose from his chair.

“Thank you,” he said. “I suppose that’s it. You may think it odd that I

wanted to know what he’d written about, but as it was certainly the last

letter he wrote–-”

“Oh, I’m quite sure it must have been that!” exclaimed Mrs. Mallathorpe.

“And as I am going into Barford this afternoon, in any case, I meant to

call at Mr. Bartle’s. I’m sorry to hear of his death, poor old

gentleman! But he was very old indeed, wasn’t he?”

“He was well over eighty,” replied Collingwood. “Well, thank you

again—and good-bye—I have a motorcar waiting outside there, and I have

much to do in Barford when I get back.”

The two young people accompanied Collingwood into the hall. And Harper

suddenly brightened.

“I say!” he said. “Have a drink before you go. It’s a long way in and

out. Come into the dining-room.”

But Collingwood caught Nesta’s eye, and he was quick to read a signal in

it.

“No, thanks awfully!” he answered. “I won’t really—I must get

back—I’ve such a lot of things to attend to. This is a very beautiful

place of yours,” he went on, as Harper, whose face had fallen at the

visitor’s refusal, followed with his sister to where the motorcar

waited. “It might be a hundred miles from anywhere.”

“It’s a thousand miles from anywhere!” muttered Harper. “Nothing to do

here!”

“No hunting, shooting, fishing?” asked Collingwood. “Get tired of ‘em?

Well, why not make a private golf-links in your park? You’d get a fine

sporting course round there.”

“That’s a good notion, Harper,” observed Nesta, with some eagerness.

“You could have it laid out this winter.”

Harper suddenly looked at Collingwood.

“Going to stop in Barford?” he asked.

“Till I settle my grandfather’s affairs—yes,” answered Collingwood.

“Come and see us again,” said Harper. “Come for the night—we’ve got a

jolly good billiard table.”

“Do!” added Nesta heartily.

“Since you’re so kind, I will, then,” replied Collingwood. “But not for

a few days.”

He drove off—to wonder why he had visited Normandale Grange at all. For

Mrs. Mallathorpe’s explanation of the letter was doubtless the right

one: Collingwood, little as he had seen of Antony Bartle, knew what a

veritable sleuth-hound the old man was where rare books or engravings

were concerned. Yet—why the sudden exclamation on finding that paper?

Why the immediate writing of the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe? Why the

setting off to Eldrick & Pascoe’s office as soon as the letter was

written? It all looked as if the old man had found some document, the

contents of which related to the Mallathorpe family, and was anxious to

communicate its nature to Mrs. Mallathorpe, and to his own solicitor, as

soon as possible.

“But that’s probably only my fancy,” he mused, as he sped back to

Barford; “the real explanation is doubtless that suggested by Mrs.

Mallathorpe. Something made the old man think of the collection of local

books at Normandale Grange—and he immediately wrote off to ask her to

see him, with the idea of persuading her to let him have them. That’s

all there is in it—what a suspicious sort of party I must be getting!

And suspicious of whom—and of what? Anyhow, I’m glad I went out

there—and I’ll certainly go again.”

On his way back to Barford he thought a good deal of the two young

people he had just left. There was something of the irony of fate about

their situation. There they were, in possession of money and luxury and

youth—and already bored because they had nothing to do. He felt what

closely approached a contemptuous pity for Harper—why didn’t he turn to

some occupation? There was their own business—why didn’t he put in so

many hours a day there, instead of leaving it to managers? Why didn’t he

interest himself in local affairs?—work at something? Already he had

all the appearance of a man who is inclined to slackness—and in that

case, mused Collingwood, his money would do him positive harm. But he

had no thoughts of that sort about Nesta Mallathorpe: he had seen that

she was of a different temperament.

“She’ll not stick there—idling,” he said. “She’ll break out and do

something or other. What did she say? ‘Suffering from lack of

occupation’? A bad thing to suffer from, too—glad I’m not similarly

afflicted!”

There was immediate occupation for Collingwood himself when he reached

the town. He had already made up his mind as to his future plans. He

would sell his grandfather’s business as soon as he could find a

buyer—the old man had left a provision in his will, the gist of which

Eldrick had already communicated to Collingwood, to the effect that his

grandson could either carry on the business with the help of a competent

manager until the stock was sold out, or could dispose of it as a going

concern—Collingwood decided to sell it outright, and at once. But first

it was necessary for him to look round the collection of valuable books

and prints, and get an idea of what it was that he was about to sell.

And when he had reached Barford again, and had lunched at his hotel, he

went to Quagg Alley, and shut himself in the shop, and made a careful

inspection of the treasures which old Bartle had raked up from many

quarters.

Within ten minutes of beginning his task Collingwood knew that he had

gone out to Normandale Grange about a mere nothing. Picking up the

History of Barford which Jabey Naylor had spoken of, and turning over

its leaves, two papers dropped out; one a half sheet of foolscap,

folded; the other, a letter from some correspondent in the United

States. Collingwood read the letter first—it was evidently that which

Naylor had referred to as having been delivered the previous afternoon.

It asked for a good, clear copy of Hopkinson’s History of Barford—and

then it went on, “If you should come across a copy of what is, I

believe, a very rare tract or pamphlet, _Customs of the Court Leet of

the Manor of Barford_, published, I think, about 1720, I should be glad

to pay you any price you like to ask for it—in reason.” So much for the

letter—Collingwood turned from it to the folded paper. It was headed

“List of Barford Tracts and Pamphlets in my box marked B.P. in the

library at N Grange,” and it was initialled at the foot J.M. Then

followed the titles of some twenty-five or thirty works—amongst them

was the very tract for which the American correspondent had inquired.

And now Collingwood had what he believed to be a clear vision of what

had puzzled him—his grandfather having just read the American buyer’s

request had found the list of these pamphlets inside the _History of

Barford_, and in it the entry of the particular one he wanted, and at

once he had written to Mrs. Mallathorpe in the hope of persuading her to

sell what his American correspondent desired to buy. It was all quite

plain—and the old man’s visit to Eldrick & Pascoe’s had nothing to do

with the letter to Mrs. Mallathorpe. Nor had he carried the folded paper

in his pocket to Eldrick’s—when Jabey Naylor went out to post the

letter, Antony had placed the folded paper and the American letter

together in the book and left them there. Quite, quite simple!—he had

had his run to Normandale Grange and back all about nothing, and for

nothing—except that he had met Nesta Mallathorpe, whom he was already

sufficiently interested in to desire to see again. But having arrived at

an explanation of what had puzzled him and made him suspicious, he

dismissed that matter from his mind and thought no more of it.

But across the street, all unknown to Collingwood, Linford Pratt was

thinking a good deal. Collingwood had taken his car from a rank

immediately opposite Eldrick & Pascoe’s windows; Pratt, whose desk

looked on to the street, had seen him drive away soon after ten o’clock

and return about half-past twelve. Pratt, who knew everybody in the

business centre of the town, knew the man who had driven Collingwood,

and when he went out to his lunch he asked him where he had been that

morning. The man, who knew no reason for secrecy, told him—and Pratt

went off to eat his bread and cheese and drink his one glass of ale and

to wonder why young Collingwood had been to Normandale Grange. He became

slightly anxious and uneasy. He knew that Collingwood must have made

some slight examination of old Bartle’s papers. Was it—could it be

possible that the old man, before going to Eldrick’s, had left some

memorandum of his discovery in his desk—or in a diary? He had said that

he had not shown the will, nor mentioned the will, to a soul—but he

might;—old men were so fussy about things—he might have set down in

his diary that he had found it on such a day, and under such-and-such

circumstances.

However, there was one person who could definitely inform him of the

reason of Collingwood’s visit to Normandale Grange—Mrs. Mallathorpe. He

would see her at once, and learn if he had any grounds for fear. And so

it came about that at nine o’clock that evening, Mrs. Mallathorpe, for

the second time that day, found herself asked to see a limb of the law.