LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘You listen. I was taken in myself at first, and said: “It is Quentin, isn’t it?” And the old johnny said: “Quite right, sir, that is my name. What can I do for you?” And then I saw that it wasn’t our man, though it was precious like him, voice and all. I asked a few questions, and it all came out. The old chap hadn’t an idea of anything fishy being on. He’d been butler to Lord Listerdale all right, and was retired on a pension and given this cottage just about the time that Lord Listerdale was supposed to have gone off to Africa. You see where that leads us. This man’s an impostor—he’s playing the part of Quentin for purposes of his own. My theory is that he came up to town that evening, pretending to be the butler from King’s Cheviot, got an interview with Lord Listerdale, killed him and hid his body behind the panelling. It’s an old house, there’s sure to be a secret recess—’

      ‘Oh, don’t let’s go into all that again,’ interrupted Mrs St Vincent wildly. ‘I can’t bear it. Why should he—that’s what I want to know—why? If he did such a thing—which I don’t believe for one minute, mind you—what was the reason for it all?’

      ‘You’re right,’ said Rupert. ‘Motive—that’s important. Now I’ve made inquiries. Lord Listerdale had a lot of house property. In the last two days I’ve discovered that practically every one of these houses of his has been let in the last eighteen months to people like ourselves for a merely nominal rent—and with the proviso that the servants should remain. And in every case Quentin himself—the man calling himself Quentin, I mean—has been there for part of the time as butler. That looks as though there were something—jewels, or papers—secreted in one of Lord Listerdale’s houses, and the gang doesn’t know which. I’m assuming a gang, but of course this fellow Quentin may be in it single-handed. There’s a—’

      Mrs St Vincent interrupted him with a certain amount of determination:

      ‘Rupert! Do stop talking for one minute. You’re making my head spin. Anyway, what you are saying is nonsense—about gangs and hidden papers.’

      ‘There’s another theory,’ admitted Rupert. ‘This Quentin may be someone that Lord Listerdale has injured. The real butler told me a long story about a man called Samuel Lowe—an under-gardener he was, and about the same height and build as Quentin himself. He’d got a grudge against Listerdale—’

      Mrs St Vincent started.

      ‘With no consideration for others.’ The words came back to her mind in their passionless, measured accents. Inadequate words, but what might they not stand for?

      In her absorption she hardly listened to Rupert. He made a rapid explanation of something that she did not take in, and went hurriedly from the room.

      Then she woke up. Where had Rupert gone? What was he going to do? She had not caught his last words. Perhaps he was going for the police. In that case …

      She rose abruptly and rang the bell. With his usual promptness, Quentin answered it.

      ‘You rang, madam?’

      ‘Yes. Come in, please, and shut the door.’

      The butler obeyed, and Mrs St Vincent was silent a moment whilst she studied him with earnest eyes.

      She thought: ‘He’s been kind to me—nobody knows how kind. The children wouldn’t understand. This wild story of Rupert’s may be all nonsense—on the other hand, there may—yes, there may—be something in it. Why should one judge? One can’t know. The rights and wrongs of it, I mean … And I’d stake my life—yes, I would!—on his being a good man.’

      Flushed and tremulous, she spoke.

      ‘Quentin, Mr Rupert has just got back. He has been down to King’s Cheviot—to a village near there—’

      She stopped, noticing the quick start he was not able to conceal.

      ‘He has—seen someone,’ she went on in measured accents.

      She thought to herself: ‘There—he’s warned. At any rate, he’s warned.’

      After that first quick start, Quentin had resumed his unruffled demeanour, but his eyes were fixed on her face, watchful and keen, with something in them she had not seen there before. They were, for the first time, the eyes of a man and not of a servant.

      He hesitated for a minute, then said in a voice which also had subtly changed:

      ‘Why do you tell me this, Mrs St Vincent?’

      Before she could answer, the door flew open and Rupert strode into the room. With him was a dignified middle-aged man with little side-whiskers and the air of a benevolent archbishop. Quentin!

      ‘Here he is,’ said Rupert. ‘The real Quentin. I had him outside in the taxi. Now, Quentin, look at this man and tell me—is he Samuel Lowe?’

      It was for Rupert a triumphant moment. But it was short-lived, almost at once he scented something wrong. For while the real Quentin was looking abashed and highly uncomfortable the second Quentin was smiling, a broad smile of undisguised enjoyment.

      He slapped his embarrassed duplicate on the back.

      ‘It’s all right, Quentin. Got to let the cat out of the bag some time, I suppose. You can tell ’em who I am.’

      The dignified stranger drew himself up.

      ‘This, sir,’ he announced, in a reproachful tone, ‘is my master, Lord Listerdale, sir.’

      The next minute beheld many things. First, the complete collapse of the cocksure Rupert. Before he knew what was happening, his mouth still open from the shock of the discovery, he found himself being gently manœuvred towards the door, a friendly voice that was, and yet was not, familiar in his ear.

      ‘It’s quite all right, my boy. No bones broken. But I want a word with your mother. Very good work of yours, to ferret me out like this.’

      He was outside on the landing gazing at the shut door. The real Quentin was standing by his side, a gentle stream of explanation flowing from his lips. Inside the room Lord Listerdale was fronting Mrs St Vincent.

      ‘Let me explain—if I can! I’ve been a selfish devil all my life—the fact came home to me one day. I thought I’d try a little altruism for a change, and being a fantastic kind of fool, I started my career fantastically. I’d sent subscriptions to odd things, but I felt the need of doing something—well, something personal. I’ve been sorry always for the class that can’t beg, that must suffer in silence—poor gentlefolk. I have a lot of house property. I conceived the idea of leasing these houses to people who—well, needed and appreciated them. Young couples with their way to make, widows with sons and daughters starting in the world. Quentin has been more than butler to me, he’s a friend. With his consent and assistance I borrowed his personality. I’ve always had a talent for acting. The idea came to me on my way to the club one night, and I went straight off to talk it over with Quentin. When I found they were making a fuss about my disappearance, I arranged that a letter should come from me in East Africa. In it, I gave full instructions to my cousin, Maurice Carfax. And—well, that’s the long and short of it.’

      He broke off rather lamely, with an appealing glance at Mrs St Vincent. She stood very straight, and her eyes met his steadily.

      ‘It was a kind plan,’ she said. ‘A very unusual one, and one that does you credit. I am—most grateful. But—of course, you understand that we cannot stay?’

      ‘I expected that,’ he said. ‘Your pride won’t let you accept what you’d probably style “charity”.’

      ‘Isn’t that what it is?’ she asked steadily.

      ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Because I ask something in exchange.’

      ‘Something?’

      ‘Everything.’ His voice rang out, the voice of one accustomed to

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