Wells David Dwight
His Lordship's Leopard: A Truthful Narration of Some Impossible Facts

CHAPTER III.
IN WHICH PEACE IS PROPOSED AND WAR DECLARED

Marchmont stood on the lawn before the palace, on the morning after his arrival, critically inspecting that structure; his feet stretched wide apart, his hands in his pockets, and his hat on the back of his head.

Cecil, emerging from breakfast, sighted his enemy and made haste to join him.

"Jolly old rookery you've got," remarked the reporter.

"Yes," said Banborough. "It was a monastery originally. They turned it into a bishop's palace about the reign of Henry VIII."

"I know that style," said the American. "Nice rambling ark, two stories high, and no two rooms on the same level. Architect built right out into the country till he got tired, and then turned round and came back. Obliged to have a valet to show you to your room whether you're sober or not."

"I didn't know," said Cecil drily, "that you possessed an extensive acquaintance in ecclesiastical circles in this country."

"Oh, yes," said Marchmont, "I served as valet for six months to a bishop while I was gathering materials for my articles on 'English Sees Seen from the Inside.'"

"Was it a financial success?" queried Banborough.

"No," admitted the reporter regretfully, "it sold the paper splendidly, but was stopped at the second article at the request of the American ambassador."

"Did you favour us with a visit?"

"I hadn't that honour."

"If you had done so you would probably have slept in the rooms we give to our American guests in the new part of the house."

"How old is that?" queried the journalist.

"About eight hundred years," replied Cecil, "and the walls are four feet thick."

"I know," said the reporter, "It's appalling. That sort of thing always upsets me. It seems so out of keeping with the Daily Leader."

"Look here, Marchmont, why have you come to Blanford?" demanded Banborough, abruptly changing the conversation.

"To have the joy of your society," returned the journalist.

"If that were really the case I'd be delighted to see you," said the Englishman. "But you're on the track of these unfortunate people who are my guests; and if you make things disagreeable for them I shan't have the slightest compunction in forbidding you the house."

The American, apparently ignoring the other's frankness, remarked:

"So you admit they're conspirators?"

"I admit nothing of the kind. They're perfectly innocent of the charge you bring against them, and you've been making an awful ass of yourself, if you only knew it."

"Ah, thank you. But if this is the case why didn't you mention the fact to me in Montreal?"

"I had my reasons."

"And why are all these people received as honoured guests in your father's palace?"

"That, if you'll permit me to say so, Marchmont, is a matter that doesn't concern you."

"Everything concerns me. Not that I expect you to see that point of view. But to put it another way. Considering all I've done to increase the sale of your book, won't you do me a good turn and tell me what you know about this affair?"

"I wish the confounded book had never sold a copy!" burst out Banborough. "And I'll not say one word to the detriment of my friends!"

"Then it is to be war?" queried the journalist, rolling a cigarette.

"Not so far as I'm concerned," replied his host. "Why don't you let bygones be bygones? A truce between the United States and Spain may be declared any day, and then – "

"Then my great scoop will be lost for ever. What would the public care about conspirators if there were no war?"

"Exactly what I say," said Cecil. "So let's drop the whole matter."

"Not much!" cried the journalist. "It's my last chance. And if you won't help me – why, I must help myself."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Turn 'em out of Blanford."

"Impossible!"

"But your father?"

"How dare you mention my father's name in this connection? I won't have him dragged into publicity to sell your dirty rag of a newspaper!" Cecil exploded, thoroughly beside himself at the thought of such a dreadful possibility.

The journalist nodded his head gravely. Banborough's fierce defence of the Bishop he attributed to far other grounds than those on which it was really based. It justified him to the tramp's suspicions that his Lordship was actually connected with the plot.

"Well," he said, with a fair pretence of backing down, "there's no need of getting so hot about it. Of course I don't want to make myself disagreeable."

"Neither do I," replied his host. "Only we may as well understand each other. You're quite welcome to come to the palace as long as you remember to be a gentleman before you are a journalist. But if you forget it, I'll be forced to treat you as you deserve," and turning on his heel, he left Marchmont chewing the ends of his sandy moustache with a grim avidity that boded ill for the peace of the Bishop and his household.

The American told himself that he must work carefully. Banborough would watch him and probably put the others on their guard. And moreover, he would not hesitate to dismiss him from the palace, which, apart from the unpleasantness of the operation, would be well-nigh fatal to the success of the scheme the journalist was maturing. Decidedly the highest caution was essential, but he must work quickly, for there was no time to be lost. Marchmont therefore proceeded to pump the first member of the company he came across. This happened to be Spotts, who was in rather a bad humour, the result of a morning spent with the Bishop in the cobwebby heights of a neighbouring church-tower.

"You're the very person I wanted to see," cried the reporter.

"I'm afraid I've hardly time to be interviewed just now," replied the actor shortly.

"Oh, this isn't professional. I'm off duty sometimes. I'm only human."

"Oh, are you? I supposed newspaper men were neither the one nor the other."

"Well, I wanted to talk to you for your own good."

"Is it as bad as all that?"

"Of course I know who you really are," pursued the journalist, ignoring the interruption. "And I may say confidentially that you and Miss Arminster are not the people of this party I'm after."

"Ah, that's very thoughtful of you."

"So, if I could help you two to slip off quietly – "

"Why include Miss Arminster?" queried Spotts with well-affected surprise.

"Why? My dear fellow, you don't suppose I'm quite blind. Any one who follows that lady about with his eyes as you do is naturally – Well – you understand – "

"I'm afraid your professional acumen is at fault this time," said the actor, and added: "I hope I may never come any nearer being married than I am now."

"Oh, I say," returned Marchmont; "don't you aspire to be her – sixteenth, is it?"

"You're alluding to Miss Arminster's husbands?" asked Spotts drily.

"Oh, I'd a little bet up with a friend," said Marchmont, "that she'd been married at least a baker's dozen times. Ought I to hedge?"

"I think you're well inside the number," replied the actor.

"Gad! she must be pretty well acquainted with the divorce courts!" exclaimed the reporter.

"I'm quite sure she's never been divorced in her life," returned Spotts. "So long. I'm after a drink." And he left him, thus terminating the conversation.

"Ah," said the journalist to himself, "I bet you're the next in line, just the same."

Baffled in his first attempt, Marchmont sought other means of information, for there is always a weak spot in every defence, and a man of far less keen perception than the reporter would have had little difficulty in finding the most favourable point of attack. So it is not surprising that after a little cogitation he went in search of Miss Matilda, whom he had met the day before when he had returned with the party from the abbey. He found that lady on the lawn knitting socks for the heathen, and deserted for the nonce by the faithful Smith.

"Dear Miss Banborough," began the journalist, sitting down beside her, "what a reproach it is to idle men like myself to see such industry!"

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, to notice my humble labours," replied the old lady, expanding at once under the first word of flattery. "My brother tells me you're connected with a great newspaper. How ennobling that must be! It gives you such a wide scope for doing good."

Marchmont, who had hardly adopted journalism for this purpose, and was conscious of having done his fair share of mischief in the world, made a desperate effort to look the part assigned to him, and murmuring something about the inspiration, to toilers like himself, of such self-sacrificing lives as hers, abruptly turned the conversation by alluding to the pleasure which she must have felt at her nephew's return.

"Of course we're very glad to have him back," acceded Miss Matilda. "But then we see little or nothing of him."

"Naturally," said the journalist, "his days must be given up to his friends. How you must be looking forward to the time when you can have him quite to yourself!"

The gleam that came into the old lady's eye at this remark told him that he had not been mistaken in fancying her hostile to the strangers, and he hastened to continue such a fruitful theme, saying:

"I suppose that, as they've been here a month now, you'll be losing them soon."

"I can't say," she snapped. "They seem to be staying for an indefinite period."

"Really?" he replied. "I shouldn't have fancied that your nephew would have found them very congenial. Indeed, if you'll pardon my frankness, I was rather surprised to meet them here."

Miss Matilda at once gave him her undivided attention.

"You knew them in America?" she asked.

"Of course I knew about them. I was hardly acquainted personally."

It was his tone rather than his words that lent an unfavourable colour to the remark, but the implication was not lost on the Bishop's sister. Here at last was a man who could give her the information she was most anxious to obtain.

"I should have supposed," she ventured, "that you'd have known such very intimate friends of Cecil's as these appear to be."

"Oh, no," he returned. "New York's a big place. I dare say you know much more about them than I do."

"I know nothing!" she burst out. "Strange as it may appear to you, my nephew has never told me one word concerning his guests, though I'm expected to receive them under my – his father's roof and introduce them to my friends."

"I see," replied Marchmont cautiously. "Cecil should have trusted to your excellent discrimination and judgment, unless – " and here he paused.

The position required consideration. It was easy enough to tell her about these people. Merely to say that they were an itinerant company of actors and actresses would be sufficient to ensure them a speedy congé from Blanford. But was it wise to do this? Did he want them to go? A hasty action is often like a boomerang. It returns on the toes of the person who thoughtlessly launches it in flight. No, on the whole they had better remain, he told himself. The palace would form an excellent background for the sensational exposure he hoped to make. If he could only get the Bishop into a corner, he would be quite satisfied.

"Well, what?" she demanded sharply, impatient at his unfinished sentence.

"Unless," he continued, hedging carefully – "unless your nephew felt that it was quite sufficient to have explained things to his father. Doubtless the Bishop knows all about his son's friends."

"The Bishop knows a great deal too much for a man in his position," snapped his sister.

"Quite so," thought the journalist, "and doesn't confide it to you." Aloud he remarked:

"Of course there's nothing particular to be said against them, except that they're hardly in Cecil's set."

"I didn't need you to tell me that. But what about the ladies?"

"Ah, yes, the ladies. Well, really, you've put me in an awkward position, Miss Banborough. One can't be uncomplimentary to the fair sex, you know."

"Humph! Well, Josephus sees more of both of them than is good for him. But of course Mrs. Mackintosh has neither the youth nor the good looks to cause me any anxiety."

"Mrs. Mackintosh is eminently respectable," said Marchmont, who always spoke the truth when it did not conflict with business.

"But Miss Arminster?"

The journalist did not answer.

"Well," she cried, "why don't you speak?"

"Madam," he replied, "you place me in a most embarrassing situation. My duty to you and the natural gallantry of my nature draw me in different directions."

"I insist."

"I put myself in your hands. In saying what I do I'm laying myself open to serious misconstruction."

"You may rely upon my silence."

"Any indiscretion on your part would be most unfortunate."

"I shall not forget the confidence you've reposed in me."

"I shall hold you to that," he said. "If I tell you what I have in mind, will you promise not to use the information without my permission?"

"That I cannot say."

"Then I say nothing."

"But you've already implied – "

"But implications, my dear Miss Banborough, are not evidence."

"You leave me no other course but to accede to your request," she said.

"Ah, then you promise?"

"I promise."

"The word of a woman in your position and of your high moral standard I know is sacred."

She nodded.

"Well, then," he continued, "please answer me this question. Where was your brother the first week in May?"

"In Scotland."

"Why did he go?"

"For absolute rest. He was worried and run down."

"You heard from him frequently?"

"No, not once during the whole time. Sir Joseph Westmoreland, the great London nerve specialist, who advised the change, even prohibited correspondence."

"You're sure he was in Scotland?"

"Really, Mr. Marchmont, why do you ask?"

"Because I saw the Bishop of Blanford in the United States in the first week of May on his way to Montreal, Canada."

"Impossible!"

"I'm certain of it."

"I cannot credit what you tell me!"

"What I tell you is quite true. You say he was absent for a month. Might he not have gone to the States and returned in that time?"

His sister nodded. Then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she flushed red with anger, exclaiming:

"And this girl, this Miss Arminster! Was she in Montreal also?"

"She was," replied Marchmont. "I saw her."

"The hussy!" cried Miss Matilda, rising. "She shan't remain in my house another hour!"

"Hold on!" he exclaimed. "You forget your promise!"

"But after what you've said!"

"I haven't said anything. Miss Arminster's being in Montreal might have been merely a coincidence."

"But do you know something about her?"

"I've investigated her career," he replied, "and have found nothing objectionable in it, beyond the fact that she's rather fond of getting married."

"Getting married! But surely she calls herself Miss Arminster?"

"Ah, yes; but that's very common on the – I mean, not unusual in such cases."

"She has been married, then, more than once?"

"I know of a dozen different occasions on which she has had the service performed."

"Infamous!"

"Oh, no. There's no evidence of her ever having been through the divorce court. Indeed, she may never have been married to more than one man at the same time."

"But how to account – "

"For the mortality in husbands? Well, fortunately, we're not required to do that."

"I will not have my dear brother stricken down in his prime!" gasped Miss Matilda.

"Oh, I don't suppose she's necessarily fatal. Still, as mistress of Blanford – "

The Bishop's sister arose in her wrath. For the first time in her existence she wanted to swear, but contented herself by remarking:

"That young woman leaves the palace to-day!"

"You forget your promise to me," he said.

"But is it possible, in the face of what you've told me, that you can hold me to it?"

"Quite possible. In fact I mean to do so, and as soon as your righteous indignation cools down a bit you'll realise that we've nothing whatsoever to go on. What I've said could only be substantiated by evidence requiring some time to obtain. If you accused her now, she'd merely deny my statement, and her word's as good as mine, and probably better, in his Lordship's estimation."

"But is there no proof near at hand?"

"Yes. She was married several years ago at a little church close by the ruined abbey where I first met your party, and the fact is recorded in the register."

"Then surely – "

"There's no crime in being married once," he objected.

"But what can we do?" she asked.

"Keep quiet for a little while longer. Miss Arminster's certain to make some slip, and then – "

"It seems very difficult to wait."

"Believe me," he replied, "it's the only way, and I shall rely on your promise."

Saying which, he left her, partly because he had obtained all the information he wished, and partly because he was certain that he espied the well-known figure of the tramp hovering behind the bushes on the opposite side of the lawn.

A few moments later he had his hand on that individual's collar, and was demanding sternly what he meant by coming to Blanford against his orders.

"'Cause I've somethin' of importance to tell yer," retorted that worthy.

"Well, out with it, quick!" said the journalist. "It's got to be pretty important to excuse your disobedience."

"It is. The boss is going to bolt."

"Who? The Bishop?"

"That's it! Him and the lady."

"What lady?"

"The young 'un, I guess."

"What's all this stuff about?" demanded Marchmont.

"It ain't stuff, as you'll soon see," replied the tramp in an aggrieved tone. "There was a yacht come into Dullhampton last night, a nasty-lookin' boat and a quick steamer. The second mate and me, we got to know each other up to the inn – he's a furriner, he is – a Don, more'n likely. But he let on, havin' had some drink, as how he'd been sent there with the yacht to wait for the Bishop o' Blanford and a lady as was comin' down next day, and the Bishop was to give the sailin' orders."

"Humph! What more?"

"This mornin' I seed 'em lookin' over a lot of flags on the deck of the yacht, and one of 'em was Spanish."

"So you came all the way up here to tell me this cock-and-bull story!"

"Not till I'd squared the crew."

"Squared the crew?"

"I let on to 'em as how they'd been shipped under false orders to carry two Spanish spies out of the country, an' how we was on to the fact, and if they'd stay by us they'd not be held responsible; and I promised 'em ten shillin's apiece and give 'em all the drink they wanted, and they're ours to a man."

"And that's where you've wasted good money and good liquor. I tell you what you say is impossible. If the Bishop had had any idea of a move like that, I'd have got wind of it. Besides, his old cat of a sister would never let him leave Blanford again without her."

"Hist!" said the tramp, pointing across the lawn. "Look there, what did I say? My eyesight ain't what it was, from breakin' stones up to Sing Sing, and I can't see no faces at this distance, but there's somethin' sneakin' along there, in bishop's togs."

Marchmont followed the direction he indicated, and saw two figures stealing round the corner of the palace, carrying hand-bags and showing every sign of watchfulness and suspicion. Having ascertained that the lawn was clear, they slipped rapidly across it, and, putting themselves in the protecting shade of a clump of bushes, turned into the high-road and disappeared. It had needed no second glance to identify them as his Lordship and Miss Arminster.

"By Jove!" gasped the journalist. "It is true, then! This will be a scoop of scoops! Come, we've got to run for it. We must take the same train, and they mustn't see us."

Some one else had witnessed the departure, in spite of all the precautions of the fugitives, and that person was Miss Matilda, who, from the vantage of an upper window, caught a glimpse of them just as they disappeared through the gate. Unwilling at first to believe her senses, she rushed to her brother's room and then to Miss Arminster's. Alas! in each apartment the traces of hasty packing and missing hand-luggage gave damning evidence of the fact. She rushed downstairs, bursting with her dreadful intelligence. In the hall she met Cecil, delightedly waving a telegram in his hand.

"Hurrah! Aunt Matilda!" he shouted. "Such news! 'The Purple Kangaroo' has reached its twentieth edition, and a truce is declared between the United States and Spain! Where are the others? I must tell them that the war is over."

"Bother your war!" exclaimed his aunt. "Do you know that your father and that shameless minx, Miss Arminster, have just eloped?"