DAWN
Braxfield, who, from his retired position in the background was watching Guy Markenmore with inquisitive eyes, saw him start a little at Valencia’s direct intimation. The start was followed by a laugh which was not exactly spontaneous.
“Well?” said Guy. “What about the ring? It’s—simply a ring.”
“Just so—a ring,” remarked Valencia. “But—a peculiar one. And I know somebody who has one that’s a precise duplicate of it.”
“Who?” asked Guy.
“Mrs. Tretheroe,” replied Valencia. “She always wears it. I thought it was some ring she’d picked up in India. But—yours is just the same. Odd!—that you should both have rings which are exactly alike.”
“So Mrs. Tretheroe comes here?” suggested Guy.
“Of course! Didn’t we all know her before she was married,” answered Valencia. “So far as I remember, you and she used to go about together a good deal.”
Guy yawned, but it seemed to his sister that the yawn was affected.
“Forgotten pretty nearly everything about those days!” he said, with an attempt at unconcern. “Long time ago—and I’ve been otherwise engaged since I left here.”
Valencia turned and looked at Braxfield.
“See if anything’s being wanted upstairs, Braxfield,” she said, with a meaning glance. “You might sit with Sir Anthony a bit—make some excuse if he wants either of us.”
Braxfield took the hint and disappeared, and Valencia turned to her brother.
“Guy,” she said, calling him by name for the first time, “I’m sorry if I seemed to be ungracious just now. But—but you haven’t treated us well, nor kindly. And I want to know why you’ve never been here, all this time—and why you ever left here at all. Can’t you tell me?”
There was a certain earnestness in the girl’s tone that made Guy, inclined to be restive at first under her questioning, change his mood and become reflective. He threw away his cigar, rose from his chair, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, began to pace the room, evidently in deep thought.
“I might tell you some day,” he said at last. “Perhaps—later on—after thinking it over, I will.”
“That’s the second time tonight I’ve had that answer to that very question!” exclaimed Valencia. “In practically the same words!”
Guy stopped short in his perambulations and stared at her.
“Whose answer was the first?” he asked abruptly.
“Harborough’s,” replied Valencia. “He, too, has come back. He was here this evening. I knew that you and he were friends, once. I asked him if he knew why you left home. He answered—just what you’ve answered.”
“Well?” asked Guy, with something very like a growl. “Well?”
“I suppose he does know,” said Valencia.
Guy began to walk about again. He had taken several turns before he spoke.
“I’ll give you a piece of advice about John Harborough,” he said at last. “He’s a man—if certain conditions arise—of a black and fierce temper. You be careful. Otherwise——”
“What?” demanded Valencia.
“Otherwise I’ve nothing to say against him,” concluded Guy. “And now—that’s enough! I didn’t come here to be questioned. I’ve told you and Harry why I came, and I mean to do well and fairly by both of you on the lines I’ve suggested. Never you mind why I left Markenmore, nor why I stayed away!”
“I wish you’d tell me just one thing, though,” persisted Valencia. “Had it anything to do with Veronica Leighton, as she was then?—Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” answered Guy peremptorily. “It’s nothing to do with you nor with anybody, now. I started out on a line of my own when I left here, and I’ve done with this. I shall never come near the place again when I leave it tonight; henceforth it’s yours and Harry’s. When I come back from America, you can both come and see me in London, whenever and as often as you like. But Markenmore will see me no more—I hate it!”
“Your father?” suggested Valencia.
Guy, still pacing the room, shook his head.
“You were too young to realize things,” he answered. “But my father and I never got on—from the first we never got on. He never treated me well, and it was worse after he married your mother. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have run away from this when I was a boy. But your mother was a good sort—she did treat me well, right up to the time she died, when you and Harry were children. It’s because I remember her and her kindness that I’m going to make Markenmore over to you now.”
“Thank you!” said Valencia. “We’ll remember. But Guy—your father’s at the end of things. Won’t you see him?”
“No!” answered Guy sharply. “No! I’m dead to him—and what’s the good of upsetting a dying man? Let things be, Valencia—as I said just now, perhaps you’ll know more and understand more, later on. At present——”
The door opened just then, and Harry came back into the room. In his right hand he carried a lighted candle; in the left, the pocket-book, an old-fashioned thing of faded green leather, for which his brother had sent him. With a muttered word of thanks Guy took both pocket-book and candle from him, and crossing the room to its furthest side set down the candle on an oak press, and by its light proceeded to examine the pocket-book, while Harry and Valencia watched him. The examination was brief: Guy, after a quick glance at some of the papers which he drew from the old case, transferred certain of them to a wallet which he produced from a hip-pocket; this done he put wallet and pocket-book together and placed them where the wallet had come from. He blew out the candle and turned to his brother and sister.
“Some old papers there that I wanted,” he said unconcernedly. “Nothing of any importance, but I wanted to have them.” He sat down again and lighted another cigar. “Now,” he went on, “as I haven’t much time, just let us talk business. Tell me, Harry, exactly how things stand about the estate: what you’re doing with it, and so on.”
During the next half-hour, Valencia, listened to the two men as they discussed matters of rent, repairs, income, outgoings, realized that whatever else Guy might be, he was a shrewd business man; she realized, too, that he was honestly anxious to give Harry sound advice as to his future management of the Markenmore properties. Finally, he pulled out and handed to his younger brother a card.
“There’s my business address in London,” he said, “and on the other side is an address in New York, to which you can write at any time during the next twelve months. Let me know how things go—everything. And now, I must be off.”
He jumped to his feet and made for his hat and overcoat. Valencia glanced at the clock.
“But why must you go now?” she asked. “You say you’re going to get the early morning train at Mitbourne? That doesn’t leave till after four o’clock. And it’s now only half-past ten.”
Guy had already got into his overcoat. He smiled at Valencia’s questioning look.
“Just so!” he answered. “But there’s somebody else in this neighbourhood that I’ve got to see—on business. Appointment, you understand?—already made. I must be off, or I shall be late for it.”
“But—you ought to have had some supper—or something,” protested