Mysterious Mr. Sabin by E. Phillips Oppenheim (read books for money TXT) 📕

“That was a very creditable half to you,” Mr. Sabin remarked.

“My approach,” Wolfenden admitted, “was a lucky one.”

“It was a very fine shot,” Mr. Sabin insisted. “The spin helped you, of course, but you were justified in allowing for that, especially as you seem to play most of your mashie shots with a cut. What were we talking about? Oh, I remember of course. It was about your father and the Solent catastrophe. Admiral Deringham was not concerned with the actual disaster in any way, was he?”

Wolfenden shook his hand.

“Thank God, no!” he said emphatically. “But Admiral Marston was his dearest friend, and he saw him go down with six hundred of his men. He was so close that they even shouted farewells to one another.”

“It must have been a terrible shock,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “No wonder he has suffered from it. Now you have spoken of it, I think I remember reading about his retirement. A sad thing for a man of action, as he always was. Does he remain in Norfolk all the year round?”

“He never leaves Deringham Hall,” Wolfenden answered. “He used to make short yachting cruises until last year, but that is all over now. It is twelve months since he stepped outside his own gates.”

Mr. Sabin remained deeply interested.

“Has he any occupation beyond this hobby of which you spoke?” he asked. “He rides and shoots a little, I suppose, like the rest of your country gentlemen.”

Then for the first time Wolfenden began to wonder dimly whether Mr. Sabin had some purpose of his own in so closely pursuing the thread of this conversation. He looked at him keenly. At the moment his attention seemed altogether directed to the dangerous proximity of his ball and a tall sand bunker. Throughout his interest had seemed to be fairly divided between the game and the conversation which he had initiated. None the less Wolfenden was puzzled. He could scarcely believe that Mr. Sabin had any real, personal interest in his father, but on the other hand it was not easy to understand this persistent questioning as to his occupation and doings. The last inquiry, carelessly though it was asked, was a direct one. It seemed scarcely worth while to evade it.

“No; my father has special interests,” he answered slowly. “He is engaged now upon some work connected with his profession.”

“Indeed!”

Mr. Sabin’s exclamation suggested a curiosity which it was not Wolfenden’s purpose to gratify. He remained silent. The game proceeded without remark for a quarter of an hour. Wolfenden was now three down, and with all the stimulus of a strong opponent he set himself to recover lost ground. The ninth hole he won with a fine, long putt, which Mr. Sabin applauded heartily.

They drove from the next tee and walked together after their balls, which lay within a few yards of one another.

“I am very much interested,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “in what you have been telling me about your father. It confirms rather a curious story about Lord Deringham which I heard in London a few weeks ago. I was told, I forget by whom, that your father had devoted years of his life to a wonderfully minute study of English coast defences and her naval strength. My informant went on to say that—forgive me, but this was said quite openly you know—that whilst on general matters your father’s mental health was scarcely all that could be desired, his work in connection with these two subjects was of great value. It struck me as being a very singular and a very interesting case.”

Wolfenden shook his head dubiously.

“Your informant was misled, I am afraid,” he said. “My father takes his hobby very seriously, and of course we humour him. But as regards the value of his work I am afraid it is worthless.”

“Have you tested it yourself?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“I have only seen a few pages,” Wolfenden admitted, “but they were wholly unintelligible. My chief authority is his own secretary, who is giving up an excellent place simply because he is ashamed to take money for assisting in work which he declares to be utterly hopeless.”

“He is a man,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “whom you can trust, I suppose? His judgment is not likely to be at fault.”

“There is not the faintest chance of it,” Wolfenden declared. “He is a very simple, good-hearted little chap and tremendously conscientious. What your friend told you, by the bye, reminds me of rather a curious thing which happened yesterday.”

Wolfenden paused. There did not seem, however, to be any reason for concealment, and his companion was evidently deeply interested.

“A man called upon us,” Wolfenden continued, “with a letter purporting to be from our local doctor here. He gave his name as Franklin Wilmot, the celebrated physician, you know, and explained that he was interested in a new method of treating mental complaints. He was very plausible and he explained everything unusual about his visit most satisfactorily. He wanted a sight of the work on which my father was engaged, and after talking it over we introduced him into the study during my father’s absence. From it he promised to give us a general opinion upon the case and its treatment. Whilst he was there our doctor drove up in hot haste. The letter was a forgery, the man an impostor.”

Wolfenden, glancing towards Mr. Sabin as he finished his story, was surprised at the latter’s imperfectly concealed interest. His lips were indrawn, his face seemed instinct with a certain passionate but finely controlled emotion. Only the slight hiss of his breath and the gleam of his black eyes betrayed him.

“What happened?” he asked. “Did you secure the fellow?”

Wolfenden played a long shot and waited whilst he watched the run of his ball. Then he turned towards his companion and shook his head.

“No! He was a great deal too clever for that. He sent me out to meet Whitlett, and when we got back he had shown us a clean pair of heels. He got away through the window.”

“Did he take away any papers with him?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“He may have taken a loose sheet or two,” Wolfenden said. “Nothing of any consequence, I think. He had no time. I don’t think that that could have been his object altogether, or he would scarcely have suggested my remaining with him in the study.”

Mr. Sabin drew a quick, little breath. He played an iron shot, and played it very badly.

“It was a most extraordinary occurrence,” he remarked. “What was the man like? Did he seem like an ordinary thief?”

Wolfenden shook his head decidedly.

“Not in the least,” he declared. “He was well dressed and his manners were excellent. He had all the appearance of a man of position. He completely imposed upon both my mother and myself.”

“How long were you in the study before Dr. Whitlett arrived?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Barely five minutes.”

It was odd, but Mr. Sabin seemed positively relieved.

“And Mr. Blatherwick,” he asked, “where was he all the time?”

“Who?” Wolfenden asked in surprise.

“Mr. Blatherwick—your father’s secretary,” Mr. Sabin repeated coolly; “I understood you to say that his name was Blatherwick.”

“I don’t remember mentioning his name at all,” Wolfenden said, vaguely disturbed.

Mr. Sabin addressed his ball with care and played it deliberately on to the green. Then he returned to the subject.

“I think that you must have done,” he said suavely, “or I should scarcely have known it. Was he in the room?”

“All the time,” Wolfenden answered.

Mr. Sabin drew another little breath.

“He was there when the fellow bolted?”

Wolfenden nodded.

“Why did he not try to stop him?”

Wolfenden smiled.

“Physically,” he remarked, “it would have been an impossibility. Blatherwick is a small man and an exceedingly nervous one. He is an honest little fellow, but I am afraid he would not have shone in an encounter of that sort.”

Mr. Sabin was on the point of asking another question, but Wolfenden interrupted him. He scarcely knew why, but he wanted to get away from the subject. He was sorry that he had ever broached it.

“Come,” he said, “we are talking too much. Let us play golf. I am sure I put you off that last stroke.”

Mr. Sabin took the hint and was silent. They were on the eleventh green, and bordering it on the far side was an open road—the sea road, which followed the coast for a mile or two and then turned inland to Deringham. Wolfenden, preparing to putt, heard wheels close at hand, and as the stroke was a critical one for him he stood back from his ball till the vehicle had passed. Glancing carelessly up, he saw his own blue liveries and his mother leaning back in a barouche. With a word of apology to his opponent, he started forward to meet her.

The coachman, who had recognised him, pulled up his horses in the middle of the road. Wolfenden walked swiftly over to the carriage side. His mother’s appearance had alarmed him. She was looking at him, and yet past him. Her cheeks were pale. Her eyes were set and distended. One of her hands seemed to be convulsively clutching the side of the carriage nearest to her. She had all the appearance of a woman who is suddenly face to face with some terrible vision. Wolfenden looked over his shoulder quickly. He could see nothing more alarming in the background than the figure of his opponent, who, with his back partly turned to them, was gazing out to sea. He stood at the edge of the green on slightly rising ground, and his figure was outlined with almost curious distinctness against the background of air and sky.

“Has anything fresh happened, mother?” Wolfenden asked, with concern. “I am afraid you are upset. Were you looking for me?”

She shook her head. It struck him that she was endeavouring to assume a composure which she assuredly did not possess.

“No; there is nothing fresh. Naturally I am not well. I am hoping that the drive will do me good. Are you enjoying your golf?”

“Very much,” Wolfenden answered. “The course has really been capitally kept. We are having a close match.”

“Who is your opponent?”

Wolfenden glanced behind him carelessly. Mr. Sabin had thrown several balls upon the green, and was practising long putts.

“Fellow named Sabin,” he answered. “No one you would be likely to be interested in. He comes down from London, and he plays a remarkably fine game. Rather a saturnine-looking personage, isn’t he?”

“He is a most unpleasant-looking man,” Lady Deringham faltered, white now to the lips. “Where did you meet him? Here or in London?”

“In London,” Wolfenden explained. “Rather a curious meeting it was too. A fellow attacked him coming out of a restaurant one night and I interfered—just in time. He has taken a little house down here.”

“Is he alone?” Lady Deringham asked.

“He has a niece living with him,” Wolfenden answered. “She is a very charming girl. I think that you would like her.”

The last words he added with something of an effort, and an indifference which was palpably assumed. Lady Deringham, however, did not appear to notice them at all.

“Have no more to do with him than you can help, Wolfenden,” she said, leaning a little over to him, and speaking in a half-fearful whisper. “I think his face is awful.”

Wolfenden laughed.

“I am not likely to see a great deal of him,” he declared. “In fact I can’t say that he seems very cordially disposed towards me, considering that I saved him from rather a nasty accident. By the bye, he said something about having met the Admiral at Alexandria. You have never come across him, I suppose?”

The sun was warm and the wind had dropped, or Wolfenden could almost have declared that his mother’s teeth were chattering. Her eyes were fixed again in a rigid stare which passed him by and travelled beyond. He looked over