The Stowmarket Mystery; Or, A Legacy of Hate. Louis Tracy
distant bell jangled. By tacit consent, there was no further talk until a servant appeared. The man was a stranger to Hume.
Oddly enough, Brett took but a very small allowance of the spirit. In reality, he hated alcohol in any form during the earlier hours. He was wont to declare that it not only disturbed his digestion but destroyed his taste for tobacco. Hume did not yet know what a concession to exciting circumstances his new-found friend had made the previous day in ordering spirits before luncheon.
When the servant vanished, Capella settled himself in his chair with the air of a man awaiting explanations. Yet he was restless and disturbed. He was afraid of these two. Why? Brett determined to try the effect of generalities.
“You probably guess the object of our visit?” he began.
“I? No. How should I guess?”
“As the husband of a lady so closely connected with Mr. Hume—”
But the Italian seemed to be firmly resolved to end the suspense.
“Caramba!” he broke in. “What is it?”
“It is this. Mr. Hume has asked me to help him in the investigation of certain—”
The library door swung open, and a lady entered. She was tall, graceful, distinguished-looking. Her cousinship to Hume was unmistakable. In both there was the air of aristocratic birth. Their eyes, the contour of their faces, were alike. But the fresh Anglo-Saxon complexion of the man was replaced in the woman by a peach-like skin, whilst her hair and eyebrows were darker.
She was strikingly beautiful. A plain black dress set off a figure that would have caused a sculptor to dream of chiselled marble.
“A passionate, voluptuous woman,” thought Brett. “A woman easily swayed, but never to be compelled, the ready-made heroine of a tragedy.”
Her first expression was one of polite inquiry, but her glance fell upon Hume. Her face, prone to betray each fleeting emotion, exhibited surprise, almost consternation.
“You, Davie!” she gasped.
Hume went to meet her.
“Yes, Rita,” he said. “I hope you are glad to see me.”
Mrs. Capella was profoundly agitated, but she held out her hand and summoned the quick smile of an actress.
“Of course I am,” she cried. “I did not know you were in England. Why did you not let me know, and why are you here?”
“I only returned home three days ago. My journey to Beechcroft was a hasty resolve. This is my friend, Mr. Reginald Brett. He was just about to explain to Mr. Capella the object of our visit when you came in.”
Neither husband nor wife looked at the other. Mrs. Capella was flustered, indulging in desperate surmises, but she laughed readily enough.
“I heard a noise in this room, and then the bell rang. I thought something had happened. You know—I mean, I thought there was no one here.”
“I fear that I am the culprit, Mrs. Capella. Your husband was good enough to invite us to enter by the window, and I promptly disturbed the household.”
Brett’s pleasant tones came as a relief. Capella glared at him now with undisguised hostility, for the barrister’s adroit ruse had outwitted him by bringing the lady from the drawing-room, which gave on to the garden and lawn at the back of the house.
“Please do not take the blame of my intrusion, Mr. Brett,” said Margaret, with forced composure. “You will stay for luncheon, will you not? And you, Davie? Are you at Mrs. Eastham’s?”
Her concluding question was eager, almost wistful. Her cousin answered it first.
“No,” he said. “We have driven over from Stowmarket.”
“And, unfortunately,” put in the barrister, “we are pledged to visit Mrs. Eastham within an hour.”
The announcement seemed to please Mrs. Capella, for some reason at present hidden from Brett. Hume, of course, was mystified by the course taken by his friend, but held his peace.
Capella brusquely interfered:
“Perhaps, Rita, these gentlemen would now like to make the explanation which you prevented.”
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