"That outhouse," he continued, "must be quite a large place. Have you any idea what it is he works upon there?"
"None," she answered.
He looked around him once more.
"Mr. Fentolin has been preparing for my coming, he observed. "I see that he has moved a few of his personal things."
She made no reply, only she shivered a little as she stepped back into the sunshine.
"I don't believe you like my little domicile," he remarked, as they started off homeward.
"I don't," she admitted curtly.
"In the train," he reminded her, "you seemed rather to discourage my coming here. Yet last night, after dinner -"
"I was wrong," she interrupted. "I should have said nothing, and yet I couldn't help it. I don't suppose it will make any difference."
"Make any difference to what?"
"I cannot tell you," she confessed. "Only I have a strange antipathy to the place. I don't like it. My uncle sometimes shuts himself up here for quite a long time. We have an idea, Gerald and I, that things happen here sometimes which no one knows of. When he comes back, he is moody and ill-tempered, or else half mad with excitement.
He isn't always the amiable creature whom you have met. He has the face of an angel, but there are times -"
"Well, don't let's talk about him," Hamel begged, as her voice faltered. "Now that I am going to stay in the neighbourhood for a few days, you must please remember that it is partly your responsibility. You are not going to shut yourself up, are you?
You'll come and play golf again?"
"If he will let me," she promised.
"I think he will let you, right enough," Hamel observed. "Between you and me, I rather think he hates having me down at the Tower at all. He will encourage anything that takes me away, even as far as the Golf Club."
They were approaching the Hall now. She was looking once more as she had looked last night. She had lost her colour, her walk was no longer buoyant. She had the air of a prisoner who, after a brief spell of liberty, enters once more the place of his confinement.
Gerald came out to meet them as they climbed the stone steps which led on to the terrace. He glanced behind as he greeted them, and then almost stealthily took a telegram from his pocket.
"This came for you," he remarked, handing it to Hamel. "I met the boy bringing it out of the office."
Hamel tore it open, with a word of thanks. Gerald stood in front of him as he read.
"If you wouldn't mind putting it away at once," he asked, a little uncomfortably. "You see, the telegraph office is in the place, and my uncle has a queer rule that every telegram is brought to him before it is delivered."
Hamel did not speak for a moment. He was looking at the few words scrawled across the pink sheet with a heavy black pencil:
"Make every enquiry in your neighbourhood for an American, John P. Dunster, entrusted with message of great importance, addressed to Von Dusenberg, The Hague. Is believed to have been in railway accident near Wymondham and to have been taken from inn by young man in motor-car. Suggest that he is being im- properly detained."
Hamel crumpled up the telegram and thrust it into his pocket.
"By-the-by," he asked, as they ascended the steps, "what did you say the name of this poor fellow was who is lying ill up-stairs?"
Gerald hesitated for a moment. Then he answered as though a species of recklessness had seized him.
"He called himself Mr. John P. Dunster."
