On pulling up at the ancient portico, I found to my surprise, the front door ajar. I pushed it open and entered. There was nobody in the big stone hall—how well I remembered the last day when we had all had tea there after hunting, and that fateful message from the butler that “Mr Smithson” had called to see Sir Charles. I made my way into the drawing-rooms, then into the morning-room, and afterwards into the dining-room. The doors were all unlocked, but the rooms were empty. It was while making my way towards the kitchen quarters that I heard footsteps somewhere in the house.
They were coming down the back stairs.
I waited at the foot of the stairs, just out of sight. They were firm, heavy footfalls. A moment later, a tall man stood facing me.
It was the dark giant I had first met at dinner at the Stag’s Head, when we had shared a table on the night of the Hunt Ball—the man whom I now knew to be Henry Whichelo.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Mr Smithson again.
He gave a hardly perceptible start on seeing me. Then he extended his big hand and grasped mine in the most friendly way.
“Well, this is a real surprise—a very pleasant surprise, Mr Ashton,” he said, looking me full in the eyes. “I have often thought of you since the evening we met and had that pleasant meal together, and I told you my name was Smithson, because I knew the name would puzzle you. And what are you doing here? Making an ocular survey—as I am?”