“And you, yourself, haven’t any idea about it, Mr. Dangerfield?” asked Eileen. “Surely he must have had something in his mind when he wrote it. Tell us what you think of it, if you can.”
“I can give you a guess,” said old Dangerfield, “but it’s a guess and nothing more. My own view is that the quarrel had arisen over some question of their play; and my grandfather wanted a permanent record left, so as to be able to prove his point in cold blood later on. In addition to being a gambler and one of the most remarkable spendthrifts of his day, he was an obstinate man. We know that to our cost. The Dangerfield jewels used to be a very fine collection; but after his death it was found that most of the good things had vanished—converted into cash and gambled away in backing that obstinate opinion of his. After a couple of generations we’re still suffering from the inroads he made into the estate.”
“Is anything more known about him?” asked Westenhanger.
“Not very much that’s creditable, I’m afraid. Oh, yes! I believe that he made himself rather ridiculous by an improvement of the hobby-horse.”
“He must have been a rum bird!” commented Westenhanger.
Rollo Dangerfield hastened to explain.
“Not a rocking-horse. I mean that two-wheeled thing like a safety bicycle that some of the Corinthians used to amuse themselves with. One sat in the saddle and pushed the thing along with one’s feet on the ground—like running in a chair, rather. It had a vogue at one time. I’m told that he brought out a new pattern with treadles—something like the present child’s scooter in principle. At any rate, it was rather frowned on, and he was glad to let it drop. But you see that he was evidently akin to you on one side at least.”
“Now there’s just one other thing I’d like to hear about, if you can tell us, Mr. Dangerfield.” Eileen Cressage looked rather doubtfully at the old man as she spoke. “Perhaps I’m indiscreet; and if I am, please say so at once. People talk about the Dangerfield Secret. They say it’s something like the one in that Scots family up in the north—you know, the thing the heir is told when he’s twenty-one. Is there really a Dangerfield secret?”
Old Rollo Dangerfield’s face hardened perceptibly for a moment; and he looked at the girl with an inscrutable expression. Then, evidently reading in her face a fear that she had offended him, he relaxed his attitude slightly and tried to put her at her ease again. Nevertheless, the tone of his voice was sufficient to show that he disliked the subject.
“There is something which people call the Dangerfield Secret. Helga doesn’t know it. She’ll be told when she’s twenty-five. My nephew Eric knows it, since he’s the next male heir. I can say no more about it.”