CHAPTER XXIX.
A DINNER-PARTY SUB ROSA.
In less than a week’s time I was master of the state of affairs at Borden Tower. Dr. Randall, with the best possible intentions, was the worst possible man that could have been chosen for the guardianship of two such pupils as Lord Silchester and Leonard de Cartienne. He was a scholar and a pedant, utterly unsuspicious and ignorant of the ways of the world, himself so truthful and honourable that he could scarcely have imagined deceit possible in others, and certainly not in his own wards. Of the servants, James and his wife were the only ones in authority, and they were the tools of de Cartienne.
The latter I could not quite understand. The only thing about him perfectly clear was that he was just the worst companion possible for Silchester. For the rest, he was so clever that his presence here at all as a pupil seemed unnecessary. He appeared to be rich and he took a deep interest of some sort in Cecil. Seemingly it was a friendly interest, but of that I did not feel assured. At any rate, it was an injurious association for Cecil, and I determined to do everything in my power to counteract it.
To strike at once, to attempt to show him the folly of the courses into which he was being led, I saw would be futile. I must have time and opportunity. Any violent measures in such a case would be worse than useless. My only course, obnoxious though it was, was to join them in their pursuits and try to gain some sort of influence over Cecil, while I kept him as far as possible from falling into further mischief.
Accordingly, on the first evening after my arrival at Borden Tower, I was initiated into the mysteries of poker and Prussian bank, and on subsequent occasions I either joined them or looked on. The result in the main was pretty much as I had expected. de Cartienne won always when the stakes were very large, and Lord Silchester when they were scarcely worth having.
The earlier part of the day was by far the pleasanter to me. In the morning we worked with Dr. Randall; in the afternoon we always walked or rode—in either case, a visit to the “Rose and Crown” was an invariable part of the programme—and in the evening, after dinner, we were supposed to read until ten o’clock, although the manner in which we really spent that portion of the day was far less profitable.
I had intended paying a special visit to Miss Milly Hart on my own account; but either by accident or design—at the time I was not sure which—de Cartienne always seemed to frustrate my plans. Even to myself I would not acknowledge that I had any other motive save pure curiosity; but I was still determined by some means or other to see a photograph of the missing Mr. Hart. The strange disappearance of the one in the sitting-room at the inn—it had never been found—puzzled me, and whenever I caught myself thinking of the incident, it was always in connection with Leonard de Cartienne. It seemed very absurd, when I considered the matter calmly, but nevertheless I could not escape from it. It haunted me, as ideas sometimes will.
One afternoon, about two months after my arrival at Borden Towers, Cecil and I were reading together in the study—or, rather, I was endeavouring to encourage one of his rare fits of industry by helping him through a stiff page of Livy—when the door opened suddenly and de Cartienne entered with an open telegram in his hand. Seeing me, he stopped short and frowned.
“Hallo, Len! What’s up?” Cecil exclaimed. “What have you got there? A telegram?”
de Cartienne nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation, handed it over.