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Page 19
Bidding her good-morning, but not answering her question, the young
man hastened through the room and ascended to the corridor. Beneath,
Ernest Travers, a being of fussy temperament with a heart of gold,
spoke to Colonel Vane. Travers was clad in Sunday black, for he
respected tradition.
"Forgive me, won't you, but this is your first visit, and you don't
look much like church."
"Must we go to church, too?" asked the colonel blankly. He was
still a year under forty, but had achieved distinction in the war.
"There is no 'must' about it, but Sir Walter would appreciate the
effort on your part. He likes his guests to go. He is one of
those men who are a light to this generation--an ancient light,
if you like, but a shining one. He loves sound maxims. You may
say he runs his life on sound maxims. He lives charitably with
all men and it puzzles him, as it puzzles me, to understand the
growing doubt, the class prejudice--nay, class hatred the failure
of trust and the increasing tension and uneasiness between
employer and employed. He and I are agreed that the tribulations
of the present time can be traced to two disasters only--the lack
of goodwill--as shown in the proletariat, whose leaders teach
them to respect nobody, and the weakening hold of religion as also
revealed in the proletariat. Now, to combat these things and set
a good example is our duty--nay, our privilege. Don't you think
so?"
Such a lecture on an empty stomach depressed the colonel. He
looked uneasy and anxious.
"I'll come, of course, if he'd like it; but I'm afraid I shared my
men's dread of church parade, though our padre was a merciful
being on the whole and fairly sensible."
Overhead, Henry had tried the door of the Grey Room, and found it
locked. As he did so, the gong sounded for breakfast. Masters
always performed upon it. First he woke a preliminary whisper of
the great bronze disc, then deepened the note to a genial and
mellow roar, and finally calmed it down again until it faded
gently into silence. He spoke of the gong as a musical instrument,
and declared the art of sounding it was a gift that few men could
acquire.
Neither movement nor response rewarded the summons of Lennox, and
now in genuine alarm, he went below again, stopped Fred Caunter,
the footman, and asked him to call out Sir Walter.
Fred waited until his master had said a brief grace before meat;
then he stepped to his side and explained, that his nephew desired
to see him.
"Good patience! What's the matter?" asked the old man as he rose
and joined Henry in the hall.
Then his nephew spoke, and indicated his alarm. He stammered a
little, but strove to keep calm and state facts clearly.
"It's like this. I'm afraid you'll be rather savage, but I can't
talk now. Tom and I had a yarn when you'd gone to bed, and he was
awfully keen to spend the night in the Grey Room."
"I did not wish it."
"I know--we were wrong--but we were both death on it, and we
tossed up, and he won."
"Where is he?"
"Up there now, looking out of the window. I've called him and
made a row at the door, but he doesn't answer. He's locked himself
in, apparently."
"What have you done, Henry? We must get to him instantly. Tell
Caunter--no, I will. Don't breathe a syllable of this to anybody
unless necessity arises. Don't tell Mary."
Sir Walter beckoned the footman, bade him get some tools and ascend
quickly to the Grey Room. He then went up beside his nephew, while
Fred, bristling with excitement, hastened to the toolroom. He was
a handy man, had been at sea during the war, and now returned to
his old employment. His slow brain moved backwards, and he
remembered that this was a task he had already performed ten or
more years before. Then the ill-omened chamber had revealed a
dead woman. Who was in it now? Caunter guessed readily enough.
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