When we had finished tea the pair rose and strolled away together through the rosery, towards the flower-garden ablaze with bright blossoms. And as they passed beneath the arches of crimson ramblers and were lost to sight, my host exclaimed, with a sigh and a sad smile—
“Ah! How delightful it would be to find oneself young again—young again like you, Mr Kemball!”
I laughed, and we lit cigarettes and began to chat. I confess that the mystery surrounding this man who had so openly admitted to me that he was an adventurer as well as a county magistrate greatly attracted me. I found myself fascinated by the whole unusual circumstances. One curious fact I had noted was that while Asta was aware of Arnold’s death she had never told the man whom she knew as father. What motive had she in concealing the truth? Again, it seemed very evident that the young man Nicholson little dreamed that Mr Harvey Shaw was anything else than the wealthy idler which he pretended to be. And surely Asta had not undeceived him.
As together we strolled about the beautiful well-kept grounds, and as he showed me his motor garage, wherein stood four cars of various types, his electric lighting plant and electric pumps for the water supply, I tried to obtain from him some further information regarding the man Arnold.
But to all my ingenious inquiries he remained dumb.
Therefore I turned my attention to Asta, and discovered that he had adopted her when she was left alone a little child of eight.
“My life, Mr Kemball, has been very full of change and variety. Sometimes for months I have been compelled to live in strict seclusion—sometimes in places hardly civilised. I spent a year in the mountains of Northern Albania, for instance, living with one of the mountain tribes; and on another occasion necessity compelled me to live for eight months in an obscure village in Corfu. But through it all little Asta has been my companion—ah, yes!—and how often she has cheered my lonely, solitary life!”
I saw that, whatever might be this man’s character, he was devoted to her. While she, on her part, had shown herself to be ever watchful of his interests.
“Then she really is quite a cosmopolitan!” I exclaimed.
“Certainly. She speaks three languages perfectly. Few girls of her age have, like her, seen life in all its various phases, from that of the peasant hut to life here in an English home. But,” he added, “when Arnold spoke to you in confidence did he tell you nothing?”