CHAPTER IV
THE DEFEAT OF RUNDERMERE
MANNISTER became aware, some few weeks after the disappearance of Polsover, of a certain restraint in the demeanour of both Hambledon and Jacobs towards himself. They came less often to Luigi's, and though they welcomed him when they did meet there or elsewhere, he had a very shrewd suspicion that so far as they were able they were avoiding him. One day he taxed them with it, and Hambledon, with somewhat rare candour, admitted the fact.
"It isn't that I'm particularly superstitious, Mannister," he declared, "but ever since your return things have gone wrong with us. Poor Ben has been obliged to go to Canada over that affair of the bracelet, and they say that he's drinking like a fish there, and Polsover we've lost altogether. Both these things happened since you came back to us, and within a few weeks of one another,"
"You don't suspect—" Mannister began calmly.
"Suspect! My dear fellow, how can you even hint at such a thing!" Hambledon declared, looking away. "Of course it is a pure coincidence, but you must admit that you have not proved altogether a mascot to us. In any case we are going quiet just now. No one seems to have any money, and there is nothing doing in the city. I dare say something will turn up a little later on that we can have a little plunge at. See you soon again, I hope," and Hambledon hurried off.
Mannister turned away with a smile, and going to his rooms, ordered his servant to pack his clothes.
"We are going down into the country, Morton," he said. "We may be away for two or three months. Very likely I shall hunt, so you had better go through my things and see what I want."
"Very good, sir," the man answered. "About when shall we be leaving?"
"The day after to-morrow," Mannister answered. "If I need fresh riding things, I can come up later and have them tried on. I am going round now to look at some horses."
"Who was the new man out on the big bay, Jack?" one of his intimates asked the master of the North Westshire hounds, as they rode home one evening.
"No idea," the Honourable Jack Dunster answered, "but he looks like a thundering good sort. I never saw a man sit a horse better, and he took his fences like a professional steeplechase rider. Sent us a thumping good cheque, too, and a very civil note. I shall look him up to-morrow or the next day."
"What was his name?" the other man asked.
"Mannister, I think. Something like that, anyhow," the Honourable Jack replied.
"Good name," his friend remarked. "I like the look of the fellow too. If you get on with him I shall look him up myself. He looks as though he could shoot, and we're awfully short of guns this year."
They turned round at the sound of a horse's hoofs on the bridle path behind.
"Talk of the devil!" the Honourable Jack remarked. "We'll wait for him if you don't mind."
Mannister rode up to them and raised his hat in answer to the master's greeting.
"I was going to look you up, Mr. Mannister," the Honourable Jack said pleasantly, "I hope you'll have a good time down here with us. You had a fairly good start to-day, I think."
"I have had a capital day," Mannister answered, "and I am quite sure one can get all the sport one wants down here."
"You have not hunted with us before, I believe?" the master asked.
"I have scarcely ever been in the county before," Mannister answered. "I am a colonial, although I have relatives in England."
"This is my friend Lashmore, Mr. Mannister," the Honourable Jack said, introducing his companion. "Lord Lashmore is one of our oldest supporters."
"I knew some people of your name up in the north," his Lordship remarked, nodding to Mannister.
"My uncle, I expect," Mannister answered, "Sir George Mannister. His place is in Yorkshire, near Skipton."
"I have dined there once or twice," Lashmore answered. "Jolly good sportsman he is, Hope to have the pleasure of looking you up in a day or two, Mr. Mannister."
"I shall be very pleased," Mannister answered civilly. "I expect to be here for at least six weeks."
They reached some cross-roads where their ways parted.
"You won't come along and have a drink?" the Honourable Jack asked. "It's barely half a mile out of your way.
"Not to-night, thanks," Mannister answered. "I'm afraid my mare's had about enough."
They parted with civil good nights, but Mannister did not at once pursue his way to the village. Instead he turned back and rode slowly along the way by which he had come. When at last he was sure that the man and the girl whom he had passed some time before were coming along, he paused, and dismounting, took out a cigarette case and began striking matches. As they passed him he looked up, and a little smile parted his lips. He had not been mistaken then. He mounted his horse and rode slowly after them.
"Excuse me," he said, as he caught them up, "surely this is Mr. Philip Rundermere?"
The man addressed turned quickly round. He was tall and dark, of almost olive complexion in fact, with deep-set black eyes, and somewhat worn face. It was obvious that he recognized Mannister, and it was also obvious that the recognition was a shock to him.
"Good God!" he muttered, under his breath. "Why, is that you, Mannister?" he added, with a determined attempt to regain his self-possession.
"Have I changed so much?" Mannister answered, smiling. "I hope you will excuse me for making myself known so unceremoniously," he added, raising his hat and bowing to the girl who rode by Rundermere's side, "but it is several years since I saw my friend here."
Rundermere was forced to introduce Miss Dunster, but it was obvious that he did so under compulsion. Mannister, however, whose manners when he chose were as near perfection as possible, affected not to notice his friend's coldness.
"I have just had the pleasure of meeting your father. Miss Dunster," he said. "In fact, I only left him a few minutes ago. Are you staying in these parts, Rundermere?"
"I am staying at the White Hart for a week or so," Rundermere answered.
"In that case," Mannister answered, "we shall meet again, for I am at the George, exactly opposite. If you will allow me. Miss Dunster, I will wish you good-evening. My mare is still fresh enough to manage a canter home, I think."
He raised his hat and passed on ahead. The girl looked after him admiringly.
"What a very handsome man your friend is, Mr. Rundermere," she said, "and how beautifully he rides! You did not seem particularly pleased to see him."
Rundermere stooped down and looked into her face.
"Do you suppose," he said softly, "that I should welcome any one under the circumstances?"
Mannister had the knack of making his bachelor quarters seem always attractive. He dined alone and simply, but the silver and the table linen he had brought with him from London, and he was the best customer the little florist in the village had had for some time. The book-shelves of the quaintly furnished sitting-room, too, were filled with his own books, and the masculine trifles by which he was surrounded were all the best of their sort. Rundermere, who was announced just as he was finishing dinner, looked around him and shrugged his shoulders.
"You always had the knack of making yourself comfortable, Mannister," he remarked. "My quarters seem bare enough after yours. May I sit down for a few moments?"
"By all means," Mannister answered calmly. "Will you drink port or whiskey and soda?"
"Neither, thanks, just now," Rundermere answered. "I want to know what the devil you are doing down here?"
Mannister smiled gently.
"Well," he said, "I like candour. Since you ask me I will tell you. I am down here to hunt. Our friends in London did not seem particularly well disposed towards me, and I was bored. I looked up a place where I thought that I could be quiet, and where I should not be likely to meet any one I knew. After all, though, ours is a very small country."
Rundermere drew a little breath of relief.
"You mean this?" he asked.
Mannister raised his eyebrows.
"My dear fellow," he said, "what other reason upon the earth would bring me to a benighted region like this?"
Rundermere hesitated for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. After all, that had been a wild suspicion of his. There was not one chance in twenty that Mannister had even an idea how falsely he had been dealt with by those men whom he had called his friends. He helped himself to a glass of port, and they talked for a few minutes of the day's run.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," Mannister invited him. "I go to bed early, but there is time for a pipe at any rate."
Rundermere excused himself.
"I am going up to the Hall for some bridge," he said. "I only looked in to see you on the way. Do you play, by-the-bye?"
Mannister shook his head.
"Bridge came to the front," he remarked, "whilst I was playing another sort of game. I have never cared to learn it. Cards don't interest me much, except an occasional gamble. We hunt to-morrow, I suppose?"
"Quite close here," Rundermere answered. "Very good country, too. I should think we ought to have a good day."
"By-the-bye," Mannister asked, "is that young lady you were riding with Mr. Dunster's only daughter?"
Rundermere looked him in the face steadily.
"Yes!" he answered. "Why?"
"Nothing," Mannister answered calmly, "only I have seen you with her once or twice, yesterday and to-day. She's very pretty, but very young, isn't she?"
"She's nineteen," Rundermere answered, and there was a shade of challenge in his tone.
"So old?" Mannister remarked, turning away. "She doesn't look it. Well, don't let me keep you from your bridge, Rundermere. Good luck to you!"
"Good night!" Rundermere answered. "I need to have good luck. They play bridge high round here."
Mannister turned his easy chair to the fire, and sat for nearly half an hour with his coffee untasted and his pipe unlit. Somehow he could not get the child's face out of his mind, and he was uncomfortably conscious of a feeling of strong repulsion when he found himself associating her in any way with the man who had just left the room. The frown on his face grew deeper as he sat there.
"What the devil business is it of mine?" he muttered at last, turning and striking a match with unnecessary vigour. "Rundermere is a blackguard through and through, but if the child believes in him it's her misfortune, not mine. I wonder how far he means to go."
Mannister became in his way a distinctly popular member of the North Westshire Hunt. He rode straight, and took a line of his own. He was a fine horseman, and though he showed little inclination to make friends, he was still always civil, and the women declared his manners were perfection. The only person whose society he in any way seemed to seek was May Dunster, the girl whom he had met riding home with Rundermere on his first day out. Twice he had given her a lead across country, and on each occasion he had ridden home with her afterwards. On the second occasion Rundermere, whose horses were not of the first class, and who was riding home alone, met him on his way back from the Hall, and rode moodily up to his side.
"Look here, Mannister," he said, "I do not see what the devil you want to try and spoil my game for!"
Mannister turned in his saddle and regarded his companion with gently upraised eyebrows.
"Are you in earnest, Rundermere?" he asked.
"Of course I am," Rundermere answered. "She's a dear little girl, got lots of money, and was getting quite fond of me before you came."
Mannister continued to regard his companion with an air of mild wonder.
"Have you taken leave of your senses, Rundermere?" he asked. "Do you realize that you are forty-four or forty-five years old, that your record is about as black as a decently born Englishman's can be, that you have never gone straight at any time in your life, even with women? You realize these things, and yet you talk of being in earnest with a poor little child like this!"
Rundermere's dark face was black with passion.
"D—n you, Mannister!" he said. "You go too far. A man has to settle down some time, and many worse than I have done it. Your own record isn't altogether spotless, is it? I should like to know what has become of Sinclair!"
Mannister looked steadily between his horse's ears.
"Rundermere," he said, "there are two names which I do not permit any man to mention in my presence. One is Sinclair's, the other a lady's. I only wish to warn you that if you should forget this little whim of mine, your lips will not be in a condition for use for a considerable time."
Rundermere rode on in savage silence, which remained unbroken until they reached the outskirts of the village. Then he turned once more to his companion.
"Look here, Mannister," he said, "why can't you go your way and let me go mine. I don't wish to interfere with you, and I can't see that I'm doing you any harm."
Mannister laughed enigmatically as he turned away into the covered yard of his inn.
"I make no bargains with you, Rundermere," he said. "I act as it pleases me."
On his table Mannister found a note from the Hall, asking him to dine that night. He stood for several minutes holding it in his hand, apparently undecided. Then, with a little shrug of the shoulders, he dashed off a hasty affirmative. This was the fourth invitation he had received, only one of which he had accepted. This one he would have declined but for some little gossip of the hunting field which had come to his ears during the day's run. There had been some very high play at the Hall during the last few nights, and Rundermere had been in luck. Rundermere and a friend of his had been partners, and won a record rubber. Mannister wondered, as he tied his white tie, who that friend might be. He had caught a glimpse of him in the hunting field and recognized his calibre instinctively. He felt himself curious as he climbed into his dog-cart and drove off to Dunster Hall, to know whether Rundermere and his friend would be there that night.
The dinner-party at the Hall that evening was quite a small one. Besides himself and a sister of Mr. Dunster's, there were only Lord Lashmore, Rundermere, and his friend Captain Harrison, as guests. Captain Harrison was a colourless-looking man, with faint sandy moustache, and an exceedingly quiet manner. He spoke to scarcely any one during dinner-time, and took little, if any wine.
"One of the finest bridge players I ever saw," his host said in an undertone to Mannister, as they drew closer together after the women had left. "His finesses are positive inspirations. Rundermere isn't bad himself, but his friend knocks spots off him. They had the devil's own luck last night too, drew together almost every rubber."
Mannister was interested, and would like to have prolonged the conversation, but Rundermere intervened with an inquiry about some two-year-olds, which brought their host on to one of his favourite subjects. Mannister, hearing music in the hall, excused himself presently, and strolled out to where May Dunster was playing a small organ. She jumped up directly she saw him.
"Do come and look at our new fountain. Mr. Mannister," she said. "We have set it going to-day for the first time."
He followed her into the conservatory and duly admired the fountain.
"Of course," she said, laying her hand upon his arm, "I did not bring you here to look at it. You can guess that, can't you?"
He nodded.
"I had an idea," he remarked, "that you had something to say to me."
She looked at him, standing up against the background of palm trees, tall, distinguished, with hard bronzed face, a little lined, but showing as yet no sign of middle age. Was it indeed a cruel face, she wondered, remembering what some one had remarked a few days before. She sighed as she looked away. At any rate there was very little sentiment there. Even the not infrequent smile was a thing which had little to do with mirth.
"I want to ask you something about Mr. Rundermere," she said. "He is a friend of yours, is he not?"
A very slight frown appeared on Mannister's face as he looked down into her eyes.
"I could not go so far as to admit that," he said. "I have very few friends. Rundermere was an acquaintance of mine some years ago."
"You do not like him!" she exclaimed.
"I do not," he answered. "Do you?"
"I wish I could tell you that!" she exclaimed, looking up at him, perplexed—a little distressed. "Sometimes I think I like him very much, sometimes I do not trust him at all, sometimes I hate him, sometimes I feel that it would be very easy to—"
"To what?" he asked.
"To do what he wants me to do," she said softly, "to care for him."
"Am I right," Mannister said, leaning a little toward her, "in assuming that you want my advice?"
"Please," she asked.
"Look at me, child," he said.
She looked, and it seemed to her that it was a different man whose face was bent towards hers. There was something softer and kinder in the eyes, some lightening of the cold firm lines of his mouth. He seemed suddenly so much nearer to her.
"Yes?" she whispered.
"Do I look like a truthful person?" he asked. "Stop a minute, let me tell you this. I have committed most crimes which are possible to a selfish man who loves his liberty, but I have never lied to a woman. Do you believe me?"
Her hands rested upon his very softly. It needed only a movement on his part to turn their touch into a caress.
"You know that I do," she murmured.
"Then believe me when I tell you that there is no man upon this earth less fit to be your husband than Philip Rundermere. He has committed a sin in daring to ask you such a thing, a sin for which he will have to answer. Promise me that you will not think of him in that way any more."
Her head dropped almost to her hands. Her whisper was so faint it scarcely reached his ear.
"I promise," she murmured.
He drew his hands gently away.
"Little girl," he said softly, "you are very young, and you have seen very little indeed of the world, but after you have lived a few years longer you will know that it is not middle-aged men whose lives lie behind them, like Rundermere and myself, who should dare to ask these things of you. Keep that tender little heart of yours safe until the right time comes. Very soon you will understand what I mean."
Almost without her knowing it he slipped away.
Mannister strolled into the library, where the other four men were already seated at the bridge table. His host looked up as he entered.
"Come and cut in, Mannister," he said. "We have not started yet."
Mannister shook his head.
"Thanks," he said, "it's an ignoble confession to make, but I do not play bridge. I will smoke if I may, and look at the Field."
The Honourable Jack, having done his duty towards his guest, was much too interested in the game to think further about him for the present. He and Lord Lashmore were once more partners against Rundermere and Harrison, and the fortunes of the game seemed still inclined toward the visitors. Mannister read an article in the Field carefully through, word by word, before he raised his eyes. During that time Rundermere had three times turned round in his chair to watch him, and noted the fact that he was apparently absorbed in his paper. When he had finished the article, however, Mannister raised his head, and from behind the cover of the journal which he held, he devoted his entire attention upon the game which the four men were playing. After a while he changed his position, and throwing down the Field, crossed the room with a yawn, and stood before a picture at the other side of the card table. His host glanced towards him with a momentary impulse of neglected hospitality.
"Sure you would not like to come in, Mannister?" he asked. "I'm afraid it is awfully slow for you."
"I would not come in for worlds," Mannister answered. "Don't bother about entertaining me. I'm going round the room looking at your prints now. Rather a hobby of mine, prints."
Another quarter of an hour passed. Then Mannister went to a writing-table and wrote a few sentences upon a sheet of note-paper. He thrust it into his waistcoat pocket, and lighting another cigarette, leaned his elbow upon the mantelpiece, and seemed to be watching the game with languid interest. When it was Dunster's turn to be dummy, he called him softly over.
"I wish," he said, "you'd explain the meaning of this print to me."
Dunster followed him over to the further corner of the room. Mannister took the paper from his waistcoat pocket and smoothed it out.
"Mr. Dunster," he said, "I am sorry to say that you and Lord Lashmore are being robbed by a pair of card sharpers. Don't!" he added sharply, as Dunster was about to betray his astonishment by an angry exclamation.
"Are you in earnest, Mr. Mannister?" his host asked.
"Absolute and sober earnest," Mannister replied, "and you can prove it for yourself if you will. Am I not right in supposing that Captain Harrison and Rundermere have drawn together as partners nearly every rubber that has been played?"
"That is so," Mr. Dunster admitted stiffly, "but we have always cut."
"Cutting," Mannister said, "is a ridiculously easy matter for an expert like Rundermere's friend. Of course, I have not had time to make out the complete code, but there are signals which pass between them to determine the declarations, and also asking for a lead. You see there are two codes for the declarations. In the first Harrison's foot is pressed against his partner's, once for spades, twice for clubs, three times for diamonds, four times for hearts, and a quick tap for no trumps. That in itself is absolutely easy in the case of unsuspicious opponents. But in case that fails, watch their way of holding their cards. The five fingers are on the last five cards, or some are pushed together to make the code. It is as simple as ABC, Now watch. Your partner is playing a losing trick. It will be Rundermere's lead directly. Now watch Harrison's fingers."
Rundermere took the trick and hesitated. Harrison glanced through his cards, and one of his fingers moved slightly. His first finger was against the third card from the end in his hand.
"Rundermere will lead a diamond," Mannister whispered, and almost as he spoke Rundermere led a small card from that suit.
Dunster had the look of a man who had seen a ghost.
"Nothing of this sort," he said, "has ever taken place in my house. Mannister, don't you think there is a chance that you are mistaken?"
Mannister shook his head.
"Excuse yourself for a moment," he said. "and read that code through in the next room. It is not complete, of course. There are variations as to a high or low card which I cannot quite follow. But if you watch for the next half-hour, you will see enough to convince you or any one."
Dunster excused himself for a moment, and when he came back he went straight to the sideboard and poured himself out a brandy and soda.
"Lost two tricks did we, partner?" he said. "I thought my hand was a fair one, too."
"Every finesse went against us," Lashmore said gloomily, "and every card in their hands seemed to make."
Dunster resumed his seat and the game progressed. Mannister reclined in an easy-chair, the Field still before him, but his eyes half closed. Then suddenly Dunster rose to his feet, and laid his cards face downwards on the table.
"Gentlemen," he said calmly, "I regret that this game cannot go on,"
Lashmore looked at him in blank amazement. Rundermere was suddenly as pale as death, and his eyes had the wild stare of a man who is stricken by a sudden terror.
"What the devil do you mean, Dunster?" Lashmore asked.
"Mr. Rundermere and Captain Harrison," Dunster said calmly, "know very well what I mean. No money, I believe, has changed hands to-night. The records of this game will be destroyed. Mr. Rundermere, I am ringing for your dog-cart. You will find it convenient, I trust, to finish your season's hunting elsewhere."
Rundermere rose to his feet a little unsteadily. For a moment he seemed about to fight, but he looked past Dunster's determined face to where Mannister lolled in his easy-chair with a mocking smile upon his lips. He left the room, and Harrison followed his cue, Dunster turned towards Mannister and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Mannister," he said, "I suppose I ought to thank you. You had to tell me, of course, but I would not have had this happen for a thousand pounds."
Mannister laughed softly as he made his way to the writing-table.
"I see," he said, "that you have some ink here. Allow me!"
He took a pen from the rack and a paper from his pocket. Then with a little sigh of satisfaction he drew a straight firm line through the third name on the list.