Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/642

 small compass but for two opposite points in it,” he presently said. The one, the exceeding improbability that it was Mr. Stephen Grey who made any mistake in the mixing-up; the other, that man’s face you saw on the stairs. I can’t get over those.”

“But I have assured you there was no man’s face on the stairs,” reiterated Mr. Carlton.

“I don’t doubt that you believe so now. But you didn’t believe so at the time, or you’d not have spoken about it to the widow Gould. Present impressions are worth everything, believe me, Mr. Carlton; and it is to that suspicious point I shall direct all my energies. I’d stake my place that somebody was there.”

“As you please,” said Mr. Carlton. “I suppose that is all you want with me?”

“That’s all, sir, and thank you. If we ferret out anything, you shall be one of the first to know it. Good morning.”

Mr. Carlton, who was indeed pressed for time, and had inwardly rebelled at having to give so much of it to the police-station on that busy morning, hastened away the moment he was released. Crossing the street at railroad speed in a slanting direction past the church—for the police-station and St. Mark’s Church were in pretty close contiguity—he sped round the corner near the Red Lion, in the direction that led to Great Wennock, and dexterously escaped being run over by a carriage that was turning into the principal street.

Mr. Carlton, who was an observant man, looked at the inmate of the carriage—a stout lady, dressed in deep mourning. She bent her resolute face forward—for it was a resolute face, with its steady dark eyes, and its pointed chin—to look at him. She had seen the just-avoided accident, and her haughty eyebrows plainly asked why one, looking so entirely a gentleman, should have subjected himself to it through such ungentlemanly speed. How little did she suspect he was one whose name to her was a bitter pill—the surgeon Lewis Carlton!

Mr. Carlton sped on, thinking no more of the carriage and its occupant. He was on his way to a sick patient who lived in one of the few houses situate at this, the near end of the Great Wennock road,—houses which had the gratification of witnessing day by day the frequent passing and repassing of the noted railway omnibus.

The carriage meanwhile slackened its speed as soon as it was round the corner, and the postboy, after looking up and down the street in indecision, turned round on his horse and spoke to the servant on the box, a staid, respectable-looking man, wearing as deep mourning as his mistress.

“Which way must I turn?”

The servant did not know. He looked up and down the street—very uselessly, for that could tell him nothing—and caught sight of the swinging board of the Red Lion close at hand.

“There’s an inn. You had better inquire there.”

The postboy drew his horses up to the inn door. Mrs. Fitch, who happened to be standing at it, moved forward; but the old lady had let down the front window with a bang, and was speaking sharply to the servant.

“What’s the matter, Thoms? What are you stopping here for?”

Thoms turned his head back and touched his hat. The postboy does not know the way, my lady. I thought we had better inquire at this inn.”

But the old lady was evidently one of an active, restless temperament, who liked to do things herself better than to have them done for her. Before Thoms—deliberate and stately as his mistress was quick—could speak to Mrs. Fitch, she had shot up the front window, sent down the other, had her own head out, and was addressing the landlady.

“Whereabouts is Cedar Lodge?”

Mrs. Fitch dropped her habitual curtsy.

“It lies a little out of the town, on the Rise”

“Be so good as direct the postboy to it,” interrupted the lady, with the air of one who is accustomed to command and be obeyed.

“You must turn your horses round, postboy,” said Mrs. Fitch, moving nearer to him on the pavement. “Keep straight on through the town, and you will come to a very long and gentle hill, where there’s a good deal of new building. That’s the Rise, and Cedar Lodge is about half-way up it on the right hand.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” said Thoms, civilly; and the postboy turned his horses as directed, and bore on through the town.

He had passed quite through it, when he saw the long ascent before him. That Rise was three-quarters of a mile in length; but all of it could not be seen from its base. On the left, standing alone, after the street was passed and before the gentle hill had begun, was a nice-looking white house. The lady inside the carriage bent forward and glanced at it. She had not heard Mrs. Fitch’s directions, and she thought it might be the one of which she was in quest, Cedar Lodge.

At that moment a lady threw up one of the windows on the first floor, and looked out. It was Laura Carlton; and her eyes met those other eyes gazing from the carriage. Laura gave a suppressed shriek of recognition; and the old lady, startled also, lifted her angry