A sudden thought came to him, and he glanced over his shoulder. The next moment he was leaning against a tree-trunk, gazing down into the road.
Winchester was flat upon his face, spread-eagled, scrabbling with his nails upon the roadway and cursing horribly. He seemed to be endeavouring to haul himself across. Had the road been a wall, you would have said he was trying to scale it….
He had made no progress by the time the others arrived, and was easily secured. Then ropes were sent for, and two of his magnificent sailors lashed his arms to his sides.
* * * * *
The end of a conversation held this same evening in the hall of Bell
Hammer may be recorded.
"He's not himself, Aunt Harriet. There's something wrong. Nobody could have been more gentle—or handsome. He was just wonderful. And then…" Valerie broke off and shrugged her shoulders helplessly. "His work and the place itself—Gramarye, he calls it—seem to have got into his blood. You never saw such enthusiasm. It was unnatural."
"Anthony Lyveden," said Lady Touchstone, "is not the man to go mad."
"I know. But he ought to see somebody—a doctor. There was the queerest light in his eyes…. And he spoke strangely, as if he heard things. Who's the great man for—for brain trouble?"
"Sperm," said Lady Touchstone placidly. "But you're racking my brains for nothing. Anthony Lyveden's not——"
"I know he isn't!" cried Valerie. "That's what makes me certain there's something wrong. He's doing something, or taking something, or being given something, that's affecting his mind. It's not internal; it's some outside influence. If he didn't care, it'd be different. But he does. He said so. But he didn't seem to have room for me and the estate at the same time. It had to be one or the other. It was like a bad dream—past dispute, but illogical."