Miss Ferriby's Clients

  Chapter 7

  It was with much trepidation that Welton awaited the appearance of the tall footman at the door of The Lawns to let him in. So convinced was he that he had seen the fellow going into the Mayfair house, that even the statement made by the Ashcots that they had seen a car at the door twice on the preceding night, at such time as accorded with the supposition that it had taken the man away and brought him back again, scarcely made Welton's conviction on the point stronger than it had been before.

  When the door opened at his summons, and the tall footman appeared as usual, Welton looked him straight in the face, and at once saw, by the rush of blood into the man's face, that there was no doubt about his identity with the man he had seen, disguised in a fair moustache, going into the house of the American millionaire.

  Although Welton had been sure of this, the confirmation of his own suspicion in the man's look and demeanour, affected him so strongly that he felt as if he must accuse the footman on the spot of his double life.

  But of course he restrained this impulse, and at once casting down his eyes, allowed himself to be shown into the house without uttering a word to express his conviction that, whatever might be the strange doings at The Lawns, the tall footman who appeared to be the only servant Miss Ferriby had was not only fully cognizant of them, but had a hand in some of them himself.

  When Welton reached the library and sat down to his day's work, he was thankful to find that his employer had not yet made her appearance. Bound as he felt himself to be by his promise to remain a month in the capacity of her secretary, his doubts about his employer, her methods and her principles, were so strong that he began to feel sure something would occur to make it impossible for him to keep his word.

  Should he speak about what he had seen? If he were to tell her about the footman's escapade, what would she do? Perhaps she would profess incredulity. But in that case Welton felt that there would be nothing for it but open admission on his side that he did not believe her, and that he would have to insist upon going away at once.

  Already he had become so strongly affected by the fascination of the mystery which surrounded the house and its mistress, that he did not want to go away with his many questions and doubts about the place unsatisfied.

  His head was bent over his work, which consisted in opening and mastering the contents of the letters which, he now began to think, must be carefully sorted by someone before they were given to him, when on hearing a soft sigh he looked up quickly and saw that Miss Ferriby had entered the room and taken her seat so quietly that he had heard no sound.

  She looked pensive and sad, and a feeling of compassion for the deformed woman, who was so kind to him, took the upper hand of every other sentiment, as he rose and wished her good morning.

  Did she know anything of his doubts? He could not be sure, but she was so pensive, so gentle, so extraordinarily kind and sweet, that he fancied she must be aware of his misgivings, and that she was doing her best to minimize the effect of the discovery he had made.

  She gave him extra work to do that morning, so that they were both fully employed until the luncheon hour, when she said, with an arch look, "Go and enjoy your cigarette in the garden, but don't be too curious about my visitors. They don't care to be seen here, on their superstitious errand, by anyone who looks as if he were spying upon them."

  "I hope, Miss Ferriby, that I have not done anything to cause comment on the part of your visitors," replied Welton rather stiffly. "I only passed the windows of the drawing room and saw ladies standing inside, but of course I did not look at them even long enough to be able to recognize them if I were to see them again."

  Miss Ferriby raised her eyebrows not ill-naturedly, but with a rather mischievous little smile. "From something I was told," she replied coolly, "I had fancied you were more inquisitive than you describe yourself as being."

  He knew that she must refer to what he had seen of the footman, and he thought he would make confession and see what she had to say on the subject. But before he could collect his thoughts and frame his words for the necessary speech, Miss Ferriby had retreated under the portière and he had lost his chance.

  The afternoon was uneventful for him. The footman came in with his luncheon and went away again. He did his morning's work, smoked his cigarette in the garden, saw more smartly dressed ladies, with one or two gentlemen evidently belonging to the same world.

  And then again he went on with his work, and Miss Ferriby, when she came in to read over what he had done, said nothing more which he could take as an opening for discussion.

  But when she had read the last letter she leaned back in her chair, and asked him to stay to dine with her again.

  Welton excused himself, but she cut him short rather peremptorily. "If you won't stay, I can't force you to do so, of course. But I ask you to stay as a favour. I am a lonely old woman, and your society last night was very pleasant to me. My vanity was pleased by your praise of my music, and I am eager for more pleasure of the same kind. I've hunted out some more old songs. I've tuned my harp, and I am longing to show off my prowess upon that too. If you won't stay, well, I must let you go. But," and she leaned forward, and into her eyes there came a look of eager longing that touched him in spite of himself, "if you can stay, do, do, please."

  There was nothing to be done but to yield, and once again Welton found his dress clothes in the room into which he was shown by the footman.

  He dressed with a great sense of uneasiness, scarcely knowing why he was disturbed and alarmed, but yet feeling more and more surely the necessity of going warily in this house of surprises.

  At dinner Miss Ferriby wore a fresh gown, even more gorgeous than the one she had appeared in on the previous evening, and the jewels she wore were new and splendid. He calculated, knowing something about such things, that the diamonds she had in her grey hair and round her neck, on her arms, bodice and fingers, must be worth twenty thousand pounds.

  The woman was just as gracious, as sweet voiced and gentle mannered as ever, so that it was quite impossible not to be pleased both with her and with oneself when in her society.

  Welton Keynes found himself thinking what an exceedingly fascinating woman she would have been but for her unfortunate deformity. For, as she talked, he forgot the largeness of her features, and the masculine expression disappeared from her face, which became womanly and gentle in a striking degree. The tones of her voice, singularly varied and soothing to the ear, became as pleasant to listen to as her singing, which was excellent.

  When she seated herself at her old-fashioned harp and ran her large, strong fingers over the strings with the touch of experience and skill, he listened entranced, and could have thought, when he turned away his eyes, that he was in the presence of a nymph of the woods, or of the very genius of music herself.

  She had sung him several songs with a wild and exquisitely moving accompaniment, when the door of the drawing room opened noiselessly and the footman appeared. As Welton glanced up on his entrance, he was surprised to see a look exchanged between the mistress and the servant which betrayed at once the fact that their relations were not those commonly supposed.

  The mistress looked anxious, the servant looked angry. And Welton Keynes, as he looked quickly down again, afraid of being caught in his curious gaze, wondered what relationship these two really stood in, the one towards the other. They were certainly not mistress and servant as they pretended to be. What then were they? Partners in a lucrative profession? Or husband and wife?

  As these thoughts passed through his mind, the measured and absolutely respectful voice of the footman was saying, "There is a gentleman, ma'am, in the waiting room, who says he would like to speak to you. Can you see him?"

  Once more Welton stole a look at first the one face and then the other. He felt quite sure, by what he noticed, that some signals were exchanged between them. It was not that there was any well-marked movement on either side. But in the pause that followed the servant's
words, there was just some indication that mute questions were asked and answered, rather by looks and signs than by definite actions.

  And then Miss Ferriby said, "Did he give his name, Box?"

  "No, ma'am."

  But by this time Welton felt sure that Miss Ferriby was perfectly well acquainted with the identity of her unnamed visitor, and she rose with an impatient sigh. "Very well, Box. Show him into the smaller drawing room. I will see him."

  "Yes, ma am."

  The footman departed, and Miss Ferriby turned to Welton. With one of her large, ample, well-shaped hands still lingering lovingly upon the strings of her harp, she said with another sigh, "Some idiot who wants his fortune told, no doubt."

  Although something he could not have defined made Welton think this was not the truth, he had to say something which implied that he believed her. "You ought not surely to call them idiots, when their folly or their frivolity contributes so handsomely to your favourite charity, Miss Ferriby," he said, smiling, but not, perhaps, looking quite as unmoved and uninterested as he would have liked.

  She looked at him with a curious expression, half suspicion, half amusement. "Oh," she said, "yes, you're right. For while the day hours are reasonable, and I only ask ten pounds, for a night consultation such as this I ask twenty -- and get it," she added with a little laugh.

  It was impossible not to look incredulous then. "Twenty pounds?" he stammered.

  Miss Ferriby nodded emphatically. "Since the great Napoleon visited and believed a fortune-teller, why should not some of our present-day rulers have the same weakness -- if it is a weakness?" she said impressively.

  "Quite true," said Welton Keynes.

  Miss Ferriby, who had put aside her harp, lingered one moment after she had turned to leave the drawing room by a door which, as he knew, must lead direct into the little hall where the staircase was that led upstairs.

  "You will be able to amuse yourself for half an hour, won't you?" she said. "You will find plenty of magazines about, and if you play, there is the piano."

  "Thank you," he said, as he sprang across the room to open the door for her. But she smiled, let herself out so quickly that he could not reach her before the door was closed behind her, and the key turned in the lock.

  She did it so softly that he scarcely heard it, and indeed, if he had not been so much on the alert for surprises, he would not have noticed it. To make sure, he softly turned the handle and ascertained that the door would not open. Then he went back to the piano, and looked thoughtfully at the fire.

  Miss Ferriby had told him that some people came to her at night to have their fortune told, and she had implied that the present visitor was of very high rank.

  Welton wondered.

  The visitor, if he had been taken upstairs into the room where the fortune-telling went on, must have been taken through the library. As far as he had been able to make out, there was only one staircase up to the long upper room in the wing, and there appeared to be only two ways of reaching that staircase: the one through the drawing room in which he was, and the other through the library, by way of the door in the corner behind the door curtain.

  Of course it was a house where there might be other doors hidden in walls where they were not expected and not easily seen. But Welton did not think that on the wide landing at the top of the stairs, which was fitted up as a sort of conservatory, he had seen any suspicious space. Everywhere there had been flower stands and tubs full of aspidistras and ferns not likely to be found in front of secret doors.

  He tried to amuse himself with a magazine, as Miss Ferriby had suggested. But he was too uneasy and curious about what was going on upstairs.

  Had Miss Ferriby told him the truth about the visitor? What was the meaning of the secret signs, which he felt convinced had been exchanged between her and the footman before she left the room?

  Welton had seen and heard far too much that was strange and uncanny during his short acquaintance with his employer and her household, to be able to dismiss these questions from his mind and to resolve not to trouble his head about them.

  It was vitally important he should know without any doubt whether Miss Ferriby really did nothing more blameworthy than tell fortunes of silly and credulous people for large sums, which she spent on charity. He did not like the notion that he might be in the employ of a lady who was practising an illegal, or even perhaps fraudulent profession or calling, and he was resolved to know, if possible, whether that was the whole extent of Miss Ferriby's questionable practices.

  He therefore went quietly out of the drawing room into the hall of the house, and opened the door of the library. As far as he could tell he passed nobody on the way, and he looked about him carefully to make sure that he was not being watched by spying eyes from any dark corner.

  The library was in darkness, but he knew his way, and was able to reach the curtain in the corner, which he raised to reach the handle of the door behind it. But this was locked, and he had to retreat, baffled in his attempt to discover what was going on upstairs.

  Quite without noise, he made his way back to the other door, by which he had entered the room, and turned the handle.

  A cold shudder passed through him when he found that this door, through which he had passed a moment before, was now locked against him also.

  Unless he chose to try to get out of the window into the garden at the risk of falling into a flowerbed, he was a prisoner.