LITMIR.BIZ

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rested for a moment on that of a pretty if rather dejected-looking young woman in riding-kit which occupied a place of honour.

      ‘I recognise some old friends among your little picture-gallery,’ he said casually. ‘That’s little Ethel Melville in breeches, isn’t it?—I beg her pardon … Mrs Barrington, I should say. Trying things, breeches, you know, Bertie. Very few of ’em can stand ’em. By the way, I met her husband this evening at the Melhuishs’.’

      Challoner’s big flaxen head swung round towards him sharply; his face had flushed a deeper shade of brick-red.

      ‘Barrington?’

      ‘Yes. Extraordinary good-looking fellah. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a handsomer man in my life. Comes from Jamaica, doesn’t he?’

      ‘So he says.’

      The visitor surveyed his host’s profile thoughtfully. It was at that moment a profile of remarkable expressiveness.

      ‘Yes? You think … er … that he doesn’t?’

      ‘I think,’ said Challoner surlily, ‘that if Barrington says he comes from Jamaica the chances are ten to one he doesn’t. I think that. And I’ll tell you another thing I think about Mr Barrington.’

      He had risen to his feet again and was gesturing with a vehement hand.

      ‘I think he’s a damn scoundrel, Mr Barrington. I know he’s one. I’m not going to tell you how I know it—or just what I know of him. All I say to you is this, Wick—and it’s straight from the horse’s mouth—don’t you be taken in by that smarmy swine. Don’t you have any truck with him, if you can help it. Keep clear of him. I tell you he’s a real rotten bad ’un.’

      Challoner’s blue eyes were aglitter with anger now. His big blond head thrust forward, as he spoke, with a threatening belligerence. It was very clearly evident that he disapproved of Mr Barrington for some reason utterly and entirely.

      ‘What does he do?’ Gore inquired, after a moment. Quite unconsciously his eyes had strayed again to that large photograph which occupied the place of honour in the collection on the mantelpiece. A possible explanation of Master Bertie’s vehement depreciation of Barrington had occurred to him.

      ‘Do? Nothing. Nobody knows who he is, where he comes from, or anything about him. He was down at Barhams, at the Remount Depot, for a bit during the war—and then he turned up here again afterwards—managed to screw himself into the Arndales’ set somehow. You can see for yourself what a plausible, come-hither sort of swine the beggar is—got to know every one here in Linwood—through the Arndales—got hold of Miss Melville somehow, and persuaded her to marry him—after her money, I needn’t tell you. Though he got a bad drop there … And now … well … there he is—the kind of vermin no decent person would touch with a forty-foot pole if they knew what he really was—and yet, because he’s been clever enough to bluff ’em he’s a pukka sahib—and because he swindled Miss Melville into marrying him … all these silly asses here—people like the Arndales and the Melhuishs and the Wellmores, and so on—they all have him in their houses—allow him to run round with their womenfolk—golf with him, and play bridge with him at the club—and other little games afterwards—at his house. I could tell you a thing or two about that little sideline of his … If he asks you to drop in one night at Hatfield Place for a little game, Wick, my boy … you just go home to bed. You’ll find it cheaper.’

      ‘Dear me,’ sighed Gore, ‘I do hope that if I ever have a wife, no bad-minded young man will fall in love with her.’

      Challoner flushed again—a fine, deep warm crimson, this time. Touched.

      ‘You think I’m piling it on, Wick, because I don’t like the chap.’

      ‘Great Heavens, no.’

      ‘Yes, you do. I can see you do. But by God I’ll, tell you this much—if you knew what I know about Barrington—if he had tried to do to you what he has tried to do to me—if you had even an idea of the kind of blackguard that fellow is—you’d take a chance and do him in. I’m not joking. I’m not joking, Wick. I give you my solemn word—if I had the chance now, this moment, to blot him out—safely—to rid that dear little girl whose life with him is—’

      He broke off abruptly, let the big clenched hand which he had shaken angrily, drop to his side, walked to the door of the room and came back.

      ‘I’m talking a lot, old chap,’ he said, with an unsuccessful attempt at a smile. ‘Too much. I know what I’ve said won’t go beyond you. It isn’t that I should be afraid to say anything I’ve said to you now to Barrington’s face any time—if it was merely a question of thinking of myself. But … he’d take it out of other people—if he heard. Just wash out what I’ve said. I’m a bit on the raw edge tonight.’

      Gore rose.

      ‘I believe you’ve known me for some little time, young fellah,’ he said with mild reproach. ‘Now, get to bed. You’ve been thinking too much, young Bertie. You were never meant for that sort of thing. Night-night.’

      Challoner eyed him moodily for a moment.

      ‘Well, I’m damn glad to see you again, anyhow,’ he said at length. ‘I’ll walk down to the end of the road with you.’

      They sauntered down Selkirk Place in the fog, arranging a morning’s golf. Challoner’s two-seater had gone into dock that afternoon with a big-end gone, he explained; but any of the boys would run them out the three miles to Flax ways.

      ‘Thursday, then. I’ll pick you up at the Riverside. There—’ He took a hand from a trousers-pocket to wave it resentfully towards the red-brick building in front of them. ‘Just to give you an idea of the sort of swine Barrington is. There’s a little girl who looks after that bar down there. You may have seen her about the Riverside … Rather a pretty little thing—?’

      ‘Miss Rodney?’

      ‘Yes. That’s her name. Betty Rodney. Brains of a chicken, but not a bad little thing if chaps like Barrington would leave her alone. Well … mind, this is quite between ourselves. I just happen to know. He has got that poor little kid into trouble. That’s the sort of cur he is. I used to notice him hanging about round here late at night … I noticed his car first. He used to leave it just about here—I wondered what the devil he was up to at first, until one night, about a month ago, I heard him whistling up at her window. She sleeps over the bar, you see. And she came to that side-door and let him in. Silly little idiot. I believe she was to have been married to some chap or other, before Barrington came along and cut in. Now—well, I expect that’s off now. Suppose they’ll fire her from the Riverside, too, when they find out.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Gore, ‘so that’s the sort of gentleman Mr Barrington is. That’s very interesting. You’re quite sure about this girl, Bertie?’

      Challoner laughed impatiently.

      ‘Sure? I bet she’s expecting him now. That’s her window where the light is. It’s always lighted up the nights he comes along.’ He laughed sardonically. ‘Though she won’t see him tonight, I fancy. Oh, yes. I’ve been keeping a pretty close eye on Mr Barrington lately. I know what I’m talking about. Look here. If you don’t believe me—I’ll whistle under that window now. You’ll see what happens. I know what I’m talking about, believe me.’

      ‘My dear Bertie, I’ll take your word for it—’

      ‘No. I just want you to see for yourself. Get out of sight though. She’ll look out of the window when she hears the whistle. I want her to come down to the door. Let’s stand here. She can’t see us here from the window.’

      His big hands urged the reluctant Gore into the angle formed by the railings of the section of the Green abutting on the hotel-grounds and one of the pillars of the gates admitting to them. Then he whistled softly. A large, very wet drop fell from an overhanging branch upon the nape of Gore’s neck

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