The House of Strange Secrets. A. Eric Bayly

"Squire Carrington's carriage, this way, please," proclaimed this magnificent powdered footman wearing the Marquis of Moorland's livery. His stentorian tones echoing from the porch, over which were suspended the nobleman's arms, interrupted an edifying conversation between Squire Carrington's coachman and the individual who presided over another local dignitary's stables, both of whom, with their carriages, had taken refuge from the inclement weather beneath the stately ash trees which were the pride of their noble owner and his gardener (by the way, a far more important personage).

"Well, good e'ning to yer, Mr. Wilkes," remarked the Carrington coachman, flicking up his horses; "I'll tell yer some more about the ole man and 'is hexentricities next time I 'ave the pleasure of renooing our acquaintance." And wrapping his topcoat round him, so as to shield his valuable carcase from the drizzling rain, the venerable retainer in charge of Mr. Harold Carrington's spirited greys turned his horses' heads and drew up the carriage—a coach of out-of-date pattern—at the front door, which had been held open for two gentlemen in evening dress who were effecting an early departure from the annual ball given by the Marquis to all the neighbouring gentry.

The elder of the two was an extremely tall, cadaverous, and grizzled man of perhaps sixty years of age. This was Squire Carrington himself, the owner of the manse, situate in the neighbouring village of Northden; while his companion was his only son, Laurence, a handsome young fellow of two-and-twenty, quite as tall as his father, but, unlike Mr. Carrington, senior, well built and of athletic appearance.

The elder man paused for a moment in the porch.

To the casual observer he would have appeared to be buttoning his glove, but to the keen eye of Laurence it seemed that the cause of the older gentleman's sudden stop was to give himself an opportunity of peering nervously into the night before taking the few steps necessary to reach the carriage waiting outside. This scrutiny being evidently satisfactory, Mr. Carrington hurried forward, entered the vehicle, and ensconced himself in the far corner. Laurence followed, after taking a glance back at the capacious hall, brilliantly lighted with fairy lamps and thronged with vivacious ladies and laughing men on their way to or from the supper rooms.

The front door closed, shutting out the gay scene from the young man's gaze. The coachman whipped up his horses, and in a moment the carriage was bowling down the dark avenue, presently emerging into the rain and the high road beyond.

"Shame to leave so awfully early," muttered Laurence, leaning back on the comfortable cushions and lighting a cigarette.

"You know my reasons," answered Mr. Carrington. "I—well, I don't like to have the carriage out too late, and, besides, it's twelve o'clock already."

"Twelve o'clock, yes; just the best time, dad, you know it is! And why couldn't I have walked home or got a lift in the Everards' waggonette, as I suggested? Another of these absurd fears of yours, I suppose. My dear dad, what on earth would the people say if they learned that you, a J.P., magistrate, and all the rest of it, were actually frightened out of your life of burglars?"

"Laurence, you must not speak like that, nor take advantage of my little—er—weakness." And the old gentleman relapsed into a silence broken only by the patter of the rain on the carriage windows and the clatter of the horses' hoofs on the macadam road.

"Nice girl, that Miss Scott!" Laurence remarked, after a long pause; "not extraordinary pretty, but there's something awfully taking about her. Did you see her hair? Of course you didn't. But it was something worth seeing—a mass of golden tresses. I never saw anything like it. And her smile! I danced five times with her—all waltzes; but I suppose that was not wrong, eh? She's clever, and no mistake, for a girl her age. I don't suppose she's more than nineteen."

"Born in 1867, that is twenty-five years old now," mumbled Mr. Carrington half aloud.

"Twenty-five, Dad! How on earth do you know her age?" exclaimed the young man in tones of surprise.

"What—what? Did I speak? Oh, nothing. I was just then rather deep in my thoughts."

"'Pon my word," said Laurence, "I believe you're getting into your second dotage, Daddy."

The old gentleman did not reply. He seemed too occupied with his own meditations to take any notice of his son's further remarks either upon the festivities at the Marquis's house or the young lady who had attracted him to no small degree, and whose praises he continued to sing throughout the first part of the eight miles' drive to Northden.

Those who are acquainted with that part of the North Riding of Yorkshire in which the village mentioned lies will recollect that the road between Northden and the Marquis of Moorland's seat runs for some little distance along the east edge of the extensive moor, from which, at a prehistoric period, some ancestor of the august owner of the neighbouring country took his title. The Carrington carriage was halfway across this stretch of heath—the most deserted part of the route—when the coachman suddenly became aware of the fact that some other vehicle or person was closely following in his rear. Turning round in his seat, he glared into the darkness behind, and fancied that he discerned the figure of a man on horseback riding immediately behind the carriage.

He thought nothing of this, deciding that the fellow-traveller was either a mounted postman riding home, or some country doctor who had been called out at a late hour to visit a patient in some distant part of his large district of practice.

For some reason or other, however, the coachman happened to glance back again a minute or two later,

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