I did not want to go, and I fell back on the true British line of defense:
"I do not know Mr. Arum," I said stiffly. "I called on him, and he has never returned my call. I am sorry he is ill, but his private affairs do not concern me."
The man looked at me as though I were some curious specimen of humanity, and so, doubtless, I should have seemed to the simple mind of a savage.
"He is in trouble, sir," Brike continued, "and there is no one in this place that he would care to speak to about it except you, sir."
"I am honored," I said coldly, but I felt that I was making a ridiculous ass of myself. "I have two friends to dinner. One of them is Dr. Saltby. If Mr. Arum is ill, perhaps Dr. Saltby—"
"It is you, sir, that my master wants," he interrupted. "Of all those who live in this village, you are the only one he feels that he can trust."
Flattery of this sort did not appeal to me. I had a natural curiosity to see this mysterious Mr. Arum, but I could not forget the intolerable rudeness of the fellow, and most certainly I did not like the look of his servant. Even as Brike stood there before me, pleading quietly and respectfully, it seemed to me that he was only wearing a mask of humility, and that all the time he was regarding me rather as an enemy than a friend.
"You cannot tell me the nature of your master's business?" I queried, after a pause.
"No, sir; I am only his servant."
There was something so Oriental about this reply that I almost expected to see the man bow low with outstretched arms. But he stood there as stolidly as any Englishman.
"And, I suppose," I continued, "you cannot tell me why your master has chosen me for his confidence?"
"He had heard well of you, sir."
"From you, eh?" I laughed.
"I only repeat what I hear from others, sir."
"That I am a simple-minded fellow," I said to myself; and I began to understand why Jacob Arum had sent for me.
Either of my two guests would have been a bit too sharp for him. The young doctor was a remarkably clever fellow, and the professor had a world-wide reputation. They were both intellectual men. I was merely a "turnip," to use a,word commonly employed in reference to country gentlemen. This idea put me on my mettle. It did not occur to me that I might be entirely mistaken. I had got the idea into my head, and it stayed there.
"I will come with you," I said. "I am a justice of the peace, and I suppose that is really why Mr. Arum wants to see me. If you will wait in here for a few minutes, I will take you back in the car."
The man bowed, but seemed in no way surprised that I should have asked a servant to wait in my library, instead of sending him back to the servants' quarters. I returned to the dining-room and told my guests that I was going round to see Jacob Arum.
"Well, that's a bit of luck for you," said Saltby. "Can't I come?"
"I'm afraid not," I replied. "I don't know what the fellow wants; it's all very mysterious. Anyhow, you'd better stay here. I'll be back in less than an hour. Make yourselves at home; perhaps I'll have a story to tell you when I return."
Saltby laughed, but Turton followed me out of the room into the hall.
"Keep your eyes open," he whispered, in that thin, high-pitched voice of his. "Something queer about that fellow, Brike. Very interesting to me; wish I could come with you. Keep your eyes open. Crusty old man, Arum will seem to you, but look for something else under the surface. The devil is about, even in these days!"
"All right, old chap!" I laughed. "I'll find him for you if he's in that house!"
CHAPTER TWO
MY HOUSE, Harthaven Hall, is about half a mile from the village—that being the exact distance between my front door and the inner entrance to the park.
Though the fog was very thick, Walters, my chauffeur, drove us along at a rattling pace. Naturally enough, he knew every inch of the road, and even if the wheels ran off it, there was only level grass on either side. The moon showed like a white globe of frosted glass, in which the lamp burned dimly. Our powerful headlights made a confusing glow of vapor ahead, and were worse than useless; but we reached the lodge gates in one minute, and two minutes later we drew up outside the small door in the high red brick wall of Brent Lodge. Brike alighted, and opened the door with a key. Then he stood to one side so that I could pass him. I leant over the seat and told Walter to wait for me.
"But don't wait too long," I added. "If I'm not back here in an hour, get over that wall and ring the front door bell; and if no one answers the bell, come and look for me. You understand?"
"Yes, sir," he replied, for all the world as though such instructions were a commonplace order.
I passed through the door, and it closed behind me. Brike took an electric torch from his pocket, and showed me the path. It was paved, and on the other side of it the grass was thick and tall. I caught an occasional glimpse of neglected flower beds, and bushes that sadly needed pruning. Certainly Jacob Arum took no pride in his garden.
As I have told you, I knew the house well enough in the days when old Miss Unwin lived in it. It had been built in the reign of George the Third, and though it was only of moderate size, it had the tall windows and lofty rooms of that period.
The old lady's furniture—heavy, ugly stuff made about the time of the Great Exhibition—had been sadly out of keeping with the fine proportion of the walls and the ceilings, decorated, so it was said, by the great Robert Adam himself.
But now, when Brike had unlocked the front door and I had entered the hall, I saw that everything had most wonderfully changed. There was a Persian carpet on the floor, and rare Chippendale chairs against the walls, and one of the most beautiful Sheraton tables I have ever seen.
He showed me into the drawing-room, and left me there while he went upstairs to tell Mr. Arum of my arrival. The room was sparsely and severely furnished, but every piece of furniture in it was a treasure. Mr. Arum was evidently a man of taste. But it was equally clear that his room was hardly ever used. There was no fire in the grate, and not even the materials for a fire. There was not a paper or book, or any sign of recent occupation. And the dust lay thick over everything.
I remembered what it had been like in the old days—the woolly mats and the waxen flowers on the big hideous center table with its one great leg; the vast sofas and chairs, the appalling pictures! But, for all that, it had been homelike, and a fire had roared there at all hours of the day, and old Miss Unwin had played patience on an ugly little table, or had executed monstrosities in Berlin wool upon a piece of framed canvas.
In those days there had been the cheerful glow of several very inartistic oil lamps. Now there was a splendid eighteenth century crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and two wax candles burnt mournfully in it like candles in the room of the dead.
"It's jolly cold," I said to myself, and then I heard a woman's voice in the hall
