A Maker of History by E. Phillips Oppenheim (the lemonade war series TXT) 📕

Once her manner changed. Her father, who was on the opposite side of the table a little way off, leaned forward and addressed her.

"Say, Sybil, where did we stay in Paris? I've forgotten the name of the place."

"L'hôtel d'Athènes," she answered, and at once resumed her conversation with Duncombe.

But somehow the thread was broken. Duncombe found himself watching the little gray man opposite, who ate and drank so sparingly, who talked only when he was spoken to, and yet who seemed to be taking a keen but covert interest in everything that went on about him. Her father! There was no likeness, no shadow of a likeness. Yet Duncombe felt almost a personal interest in him. They would know one another better some day, he felt.

"So you've been in Paris lately?" he asked her suddenly.

She nodded.

"For a few days."

"I arrived from there barely a week ago," he remarked.

"I hate the place!" she answered. "Talk of something else."

And he obeyed.

The second interruption came from Andrew. During a momentary lull in the conversation they heard his firm clear voice talking.

"My time was up yesterday, but I find so much to interest me down here that I think I shall stay on for a few more days, if my host remains as hospitable as ever."

"So much to interest him," she murmured. "Are not all places the same to the blind? What does he mean?"

"He is not really blind!" Duncombe answered, lowering his voice. "He can see things very dimly. The doctor has told him that if he wears those glasses for a few more months he may be able to preserve some measure of eyesight. Poor chap!"

"He does not attract me—your friend," she said a little coldly. "What can he find to interest him so much here? Do you see how he keeps his head turned this way? It is almost as though he wished to listen to what we were saying."

"There is a sort of reason for that," Duncombe answered. "Shall I explain it?"

"Do!"

"Pelham lives, as I think I told you, in a small country-house near Raynesworth," Duncombe began. "The hall in his village was occupied by a young man—a boy, really—and his sister. Early in the year the boy, who had never been abroad, thought that he would like to travel a little in Europe. He wandered about some time in Germany and Austria, and was coming home by Paris. Suddenly all letters from him ceased. He did not return. He did not write. He drew no money from his letter of credit. He simply disappeared."

The girl was proceeding tranquilly with her dinner. The story so far did not seem to interest her.

"His sister, who went over to Paris to meet him, found herself quite alone there, and we supposed that she devoted herself to searching for him. And then curiously enough she, too, disappeared. Letters from her suddenly ceased. No one knew what had become of her."

She looked at him with a faint smile.

"Now," she said, "your story is becoming interesting. Do go on. I want to know where you and Mr. Pelham come in."

"Pelham, I think," he continued gravely, "was their oldest friend. He sent for me. We were old college chums, and I went. This trouble with his eyes had only just come on, and he was practically helpless—much more helpless than the ordinary blind person, because it was all new to him. This boy and girl were his old and dear friends. He was longing to be off to Paris to search for them himself, and yet he knew that so far as he was concerned it would be simply wasted time. He showed me the girl's photograph."

"Well?"

"I went in his place."

"And did you find either of them?"

"No."

"I wonder," she said, "why you have told me this story?"

"I am going to tell you why," he answered. "Because when Pelham heard you laugh last night he was like a madman. He believed that it was the voice of Phyllis Poynton. And I—I—when I saw you, I also felt that miracles were at hand. Look here!"

He drew a photograph from his pocket and showed it to her. She looked at it long and earnestly.

"Yes," she admitted, "there is a likeness. It is like what I might have been years ago. But will you tell me something?"

"Of course!"

"Why do you carry the picture of that girl about with you?"

He leaned towards her, and at that moment Lady Runton rose from her place.

"In the winter garden afterwards," he whispered. "You have asked me the very question that I wanted to answer!"

There was something strange about Andrew's manner as he moved up to Duncombe's side. The latter, who was in curiously high spirits, talked incessantly for several minutes. Then he came to a dead stop. He was aware that his friend was not listening.

"What is the matter with you, old chap?" he asked abruptly. "You are positively glum."

Andrew Pelham shook his head.

"Nothing much!" he said.

"Rubbish! What is it?"

Andrew dropped his voice almost to a whisper. The words came hoarsely. He seemed scarcely master of himself.

"The girl's voice tortures me," he declared. "It doesn't seem possible that there can be two so much alike. And then Spencer's telegram. What does it mean?"

"Be reasonable, old fellow!" Duncombe answered. "You knew Phyllis Poynton well. Do you believe that she would be content to masquerade under a false name, invent a father, be received here—Heaven knows how—and meet you, an old friend, as a stranger? The thing's absurd, isn't it?"

"Granted. But what about Spencer's telegram?"

"It is an enigma, of course. We can only wait for his solution. I have wired him the information he asked for. In the meantime——"

"Well, in the meantime?"

"There is nothing to be gained by framing absurd hypotheses. I don't mind telling you, Andrew, that I find Miss Fielding the most delightful girl I ever met in my life."

"Tell me exactly, George, how she compares with the photograph you have of Phyllis Poynton."

Duncombe sipped his wine slowly.

"She is very like it," he said, "and yet there are differences. She is certainly a little thinner and taller. The features are similar, but the hair is quite differently arranged. I should say that Miss Fielding is two or three years older than Phyllis Poynton, and she has the air of having travelled and been about more."

"A few months of events," Andrew murmured, "might account for all those differences."

Duncombe laughed as he followed his host's lead and rose.

"Get that maggot out of your brain, Andrew," he exclaimed, "as quickly as possible. Will you take my arm? Mind the corner."

They found the drawing-room almost deserted. Runton raised his eyeglass and looked around.

"I bet those women have collared the billiard table," he remarked. "Come along, you fellows."

They re-crossed the hall and entered the billiard-room. Lady Runton was playing with the Lord Lieutenant's wife, the Countess of Appleton. The others were all sitting about, either on the lounge or in the winter garden beyond. Miss Fielding was standing on the threshold, and Duncombe advanced eagerly towards her. On the way, however, he was buttonholed by an acquaintance, and the master of the hounds had something to say to him afterwards about one of his covers. When he was free, Miss Fielding had disappeared. He made his way into the winter garden, only to find her sitting in a secluded corner with the Baron. She looked up at his entrance, but made no sign. Duncombe reluctantly re-entered the billiard-room, and was captured by his host for a rubber of bridge.

The rubber was a long one. Duncombe played badly and lost his money. Declining to cut in again, he returned to the winter garden. Miss Fielding and the Baron were still together, only they had now pushed their chairs a little further back, and were apparently engaged in a very confidential conversation. Duncombe turned on his heel and re-entered the billiard-room.

It was not until the party broke up that he found a chance of speaking to her. He was sensible at once of a change in her manner. She would have passed him with a little nod, but he barred her way.

"You have treated me shockingly," he declared, with a smile which was a little forced. "You promised to let me show you the winter garden."

"Did I?" she answered. "I am so sorry. I must have forgotten all about it. The Baron has been entertaining me delightfully. Good night!"

He half stood aside.

"I haven't by any chance offended you, have I?" he asked in a low tone.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Certainly not!" she answered. "Excuse me, won't you? I want to speak to Lady Runton before she goes upstairs."

Duncombe stood on one side and let her pass with a stiff bow. As he raised his eyes he saw that Mr. Fielding was standing within a few feet of him, smoking a cigarette. He might almost have overheard their conversation.

"Good night, Mr. Fielding," he said, holding out his hand. "Are you staying down here for long?"

"For two days, I believe," Mr. Fielding answered. "My daughter makes our plans."

He spoke very slowly, but without any accent. Nothing in his appearance, except perhaps the fact that he wore a black evening tie, accorded with the popular ideas of the travelling American.

"If you have an hour to spare," Duncombe said, "it would give me a great deal of pleasure if you and your daughter would walk down and have a look over my place. Part of the hall is Elizabethan, and I have some relics which might interest Miss Fielding."

Mr. Fielding removed the cigarette from his mouth.

"I thank you very much, sir," he said. "We are Lord Runton's guests, and our stay is so short that we could scarcely make any arrangements to visit elsewhere. Glad to have had the pleasure of meeting you all the same."

Duncombe sought out his host.

"Runton, old chap," he said, "do me a favor. Bring that fellow Fielding and his daughter round to my place before they go."

Lord Runton laughed heartily.

"Is it a case?" he exclaimed. "And you, our show bachelor, too! Never mind my chaff, old chap. She's a ripping good-looking girl, and money enough to buy the country."

"I don't mind your chaff," Duncombe answered, "but will you bring her?"

Lord Runton looked thoughtful.

"How the dickens can I? We are all shooting at the Duke's to-morrow, and I believe they're off on Saturday. You're not in earnest by any chance, are you, George?"

"Damnably!" he answered.

Lord Runton whistled softly.

"Fielding doesn't shoot," he remarked, "but they're going with us to Beaumanor. Shall I drop him a hint? He might stay a day longer—just to make a few inquiries about you on the spot, you know."

"Get him to stay a day longer, if you can," Duncombe answered, "but don't give me away. The old chap's none too cordial as it is."

"I must talk to him," Runton said. "Your Baronetcy is a thundering sight better than any of these mushroom peerages. He probably doesn't understand that sort of thing. But what about the girl? Old Von Rothe has been making the running pretty strong, you know."

"We all have to take our chance in that sort of thing," Duncombe said quietly. "I am not afraid of Von Rothe!"

"I'll do what I can for you," Runton promised. "Good night!"

Andrew, who had left an hour or so earlier, was sitting in the library smoking a pipe when his host returned.

"Not gone to bed yet, then?" Duncombe remarked. "Let me make you a whisky and soda, old chap. You look a bit tired."

"Very good of you—I think I will," Andrew answered. "And, George, are you sure that I should not be putting you out at all if I were to stay—say another couple of days with you?"

Duncombe wheeled round and faced his friend. His reply was not immediate.

"Andrew,"