Chapter Two.

Presents a Curious Problem.

On entering old Mr Mutimer’s house a telegram addressed to Raife lay upon the hall-table. Tearing it open, he read the brief summons. “Come at once, urgent.—Mother.”

The words were startling in their brevity. Turning to his friend, he exclaimed in alarmed accents: “Something serious has happened at home, old man. See what the mater has wired.” He handed the telegram to Teddy.

Teddy read it and gave it back. “I’m awfully sorry, Raife. There’s a good train in about an hour from now. While you are waiting, you might ring up home and find out what’s the matter.”

“A good idea,” said Raife. And at once he entered the study, and, taking up the telephone receiver, got a trunk call.

In less than five minutes he was speaking with Edgson, the old butler at Aldborough Park, his father’s fine place near Tunbridge Wells.

“Is Lady Remington there?” asked Raife, eagerly. “Tell her I want to speak to her.”

“She’s—oh, it’s you, Master Raife, sir! She’s—I’m sorry, sir, her ladyship’s not well, sir.”

“Not well? What’s the matter?” asked the young fellow, speaking eagerly into the mouthpiece.

“Oh, sir, I—I—I can’t tell you over the ’phone,” replied the old servant. “Her ladyship has forbidden us to say anything at all.”

“But, Edgson, surely I may know!” cried the young man, frantically.

“We thought you were on your way home, sir,” the butler replied. “Can’t you come, Master Raife?”

“Yes, of course, I’m leaving now—at once. But I’m anxious to know what has happened.”

“Come home, sir, and her ladyship will tell you.”

“Go at once and say that I am at the ’phone,” Raife ordered, angrily.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but I can’t,” was the response. “I have very strict orders from her ladyship, but I’m sorry to have to disobey you, sir.”

“Can’t you tell me anything? Can’t you give me an inkling of what’s the matter?” urged Raife.

“I’m very sorry, sir, I can’t,” replied the old man, quietly, but very firmly.

Raife knew Edgson of old. With him the word of either master or mistress was law. Edgson had been in his father’s service ever since his earliest recollection, and though fond of a glass of good port, as his ruddy nose betrayed, he was the most trusted servant of all the staff.

He would give no explanation of what had occurred, therefore, Raife, furiously angry with the old man, “rang off.”

The train journey from Southport seemed interminable. His mind was in a whirl. The brief words of the telegram, “Come home at once, urgent,” kept ringing in his ears, above the roar of the carriage wheels. He had the sensations of a man in a nightmare. What could have happened, and to whom? His mother had sent the “wire,” and therefore it most probably concerned his father.

And ever and again, at the back of his mind, racked with this horrible suspense and uncertainty, was the image of the mysterious girl whose acquaintance he had made on the Southport front. He could hear the low, sweet tones of her musical voice, he could see the grace of her dainty figure. Should he ever meet her again? Would she ever be to him more than a fascinating acquaintance?

When at length he got into London, he felt he could not bear the slow torture of another railway journey. He went to a garage close to the station and hired a motor-car. From there to Tunbridge Wells seemed but a short distance: at any rate, there was action in the movement of the throbbing car, as opposed to the monotony of the train.

But even though the speed limit was exceeded many times in the course of that journey, it seemed hours to his impatient mood before they reached the lodge gates and raced up the stately avenue.

The avenue was three-quarters of a mile long, but at last, Raife Remington, at a bend in the drive, came in view of his home—a great, old, ivy-covered Tudor mansion, with quaint gables, high, twisted chimneys, and two pointed towers. At one end was the tall, stained-glass window of the private chapel, while at the other were domestic offices of later date, and in other forms of architecture.

Passing the inner gate, and between the lawns, where the flower beds were gay with geraniums, the car entered the great open gateway, and drew up in the ancient courtyard, around which the grand old place was built—that same quiet courtyard where the horse’s hoofs of King Henry the Seventh had so often echoed upon the uneven cobbles, where Sir Henry Reymingtoune, Chancellor to Elizabeth, had bowed low and made his obeisance to his capricious royal mistress, and where Charles the Second, in later days, had idled, surrounded by his elegant, silk-coated sycophants.

The Remingtons had, ever since the fourteenth century, played their part in England’s government: once a great and powerful family, and even to-day a notable and honourable house.