CHAPTER XXXVIII
A SINKING SHIP
Wilfrid was free for the present. The words kept rising to his mind as he made his way back to Maldon Grange. He could turn his attention now to the mystery which surrounded that strange household. He wondered what had become of Uzali and Russell and why he had not heard from either of them. He did not suppose that they had been idle in London. He would not have been surprised had either turned up. His chief concern was with Beatrice. It was good to know that she was likely to have a cheerful home over her head for a few days longer. It was like an intervention of Providence that he had happened upon those scraps of paper in the wood. And what was going to be the next act in the drama? Events had been proceeding fast lately. The situation was full of darkness and terror, but the real tragedy was as vague and intangible as ever. Two attempts had been made on the life of Samuel Flower without the slightest clue to the miscreants, and in his heart of hearts Wilfrid did not believe that further attack would be abandoned.
Was it wise, he wondered, for Flower to return to Maldon Grange? Surely, the ship-owner would have been safer in London than in that vast and solitary mansion. Those mysterious men were likely to come back at any moment, and perhaps the third time would recoup them for all their trouble.
Wilfrid was still turning these things over in his mind as he crossed the fields towards the Grange. The spot was lonely, for few people went that way, and Wilfrid gave a side glance of curiosity as he passed a stranger who was carrying a small Gladstone bag in his hand. The stranger was short and enormously stout, and his eyes twinkled behind large silver-rimmed spectacles. He was evidently a foreigner, an impression which was confirmed when the stranger took off his hat with a flourish.
"You will pardon me," he said, "but I am afraid that I have lost my way. Can you direct me to Maldon Grange?"
"I am going that way," Wilfrid explained. "As a matter of fact, that is my destination. If you have any business there——"
"Not at all," the stranger hastened to say. "Maldon Grange is only the landmark which they gave me in the village. I am going to a farmhouse a little way beyond to look at a picture for a client of mine. That is my occupation—an expert in oil-paintings. Perhaps you know the name of the farm. It is called 'Giletto'——"
"There is such a place," Wilfrid said. "I know where you want to go. From the field in front of Maldon Grange one can see the house. You had better come with me."
But the self-possessed stranger evinced all at once a desire for his own society. He had been loquacious at first, but now he touched the brim of his hat and hung behind as if he held himself unworthy of his temporary companion. There was something about his looks which by no means prejudiced Wilfrid in his favour, and he was full enough of suspicions now. The events of the past two or three days had taught him to regard even the passing shadow as possibly sinister.