“He said he had a business appointment with somebody in the neighbourhood,” continued Valencia. “With whom could it be, Braxfield?”
“That I couldn’t say, miss,” answered the old butler. “But Mr. Guy—he knew a lot of people hereabouts—in the old days.”
“But at this time of night?” said Valencia. “Besides, who is there, anywhere about here? I mean, anybody he’d be likely to want to see? There are only two or three farmers—and the Vicar.”
“He did mention the Sceptre Inn to me, miss,” observed Braxfield, “in a way that made me wonder if he’d some idea of calling there. But——”
The light tinkle of a bell, very gently pulled, interrupted Braxfield at the beginning of whatever suggestion he was going to offer. At its sound he and Valencia stared and looked at each other.
“He must be back again!” exclaimed Valencia.
“No, miss,” said Braxfield; “Mr. Guy would come to the garden entrance—always his way, that. This is our front door bell.”
He picked up an old-fashioned lantern as he spoke, lighted the candle with it, and went out. Valencia followed him. The corridor and the big hall were in darkness; the turning of the key and withdrawing of the bolts made a harsh, grating sound in the silence that had long since fallen on the old house. And when Braxfield opened the door, the night outside showed black, and there, on the steps beneath the portico, they saw in the light of the lantern, cloaked and veiled, a woman. But in spite of the wraps, Valencia knew who the visitor was.
“Mrs. Tretheroe!” she exclaimed.
Mrs. Tretheroe answered with a low, half-excited, half-nervous laugh. She stepped inside, passed Braxfield, laid a hand on Valencia’s arm, and pushed her gently towards the end of the hall, where a faint gleam of light penetrated from the open door of Braxfield’s pantry.