The Talisman Ring

“The riding-officer, sir,” said Gregg, in an expressionless voice, “spoke of a fair young man.”

“Ah!” said the Beau gently. “A fair young man! Well, that is very odd, to be sure.”

“Yes, sir. A trifle unusual, I believe.”

The Beau’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully upon a portrait hanging on the opposite wall. “I think, Gregg, that we sometimes purchase our brandy from Joseph Nye?”

“We have very often done so, sir.”

“We will purchase some more,” said the Beau, polishing his eyeglass on his sleeve. “Attend to it, Gregg.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That is all,” said the Beau.

The valet bowed and walked towards the door. As he reached it the Beau said softly: “I should not like you to display any vulgar curiosity at the Red Lion, Gregg.”

“No, sir. You may rely on me.”

“Oh, I do, Gregg, I do!” said the Beau, and picking up the journal from the table, sat down with it in a winged armchair by the fire.

The valet lingered for a moment. “If I may venture to say something, sir?” he suggested meekly.

“By all means, Gregg.”

“The lady who accompanied Sir Tristram into this room, sir. I understand she was desirous of inspecting the panelling?”

The Beau raised his eyes from the journal. “Well?”

“Just so, sir. It would, of course, explain conduct which seemed to Thomson and myself a trifle odd. I beg pardon, I’m sure.”

“In what way odd?”

“Well, sir, it appeared to Thomson and myself that Sir Tristram and the lady were inspecting the woodwork very closely,” said the valet. “The lady went so far as to stand upon a chair to inspect the frieze, and Sir Tristram, when I entered the room, seemed to me (but I might be mistaken) to be sounding the lower panels.”

The Beau lowered the journal. “Did he?” he said slowly. “Did he, indeed? Well, well!”

Gregg bowed himself out. It was a few minutes before the Beau picked up his journal again. His eyes stared across the room at a certain portion of the wainscoting; and there was for once no trace of a smile upon his thin lips.

Meanwhile Miss Thane, seated beside Eustacie in the chaise, had nothing to report but failure. She said that her fingers were sore from pulling and pressing wooden bosses, and that her nervous system was shattered for ever. No fewer than three interruptions had occurred during the short time she and Sir Tristram had had at their disposal. First had come the housekeeper with a bowl of flowers to set upon the table, and a tongue only too ready to wag. She had hardly been got rid of when the door opened again, this time to admit the butler, who had come in to make up the fire. “And what he must have thought, I dare not imagine!” said Miss Thane. “I was standing upon a chair at that precise moment, trying to move a wooden pear well above my reach.”

Eustacie gave a giggle. “What did you do?”

“Most unfortunately,” said Miss Thane, “my back was turned to the door, and I had not heard it open. I am bound to confess, however, that your cousin Tristram showed great presence of mind, for he immediately told me to look closely at the carving, and to observe most particularly the top chamfer of the cross-rail.”

“One must admit that Tristram is not stupid,” said Eustacie fair-mindedly.

“No,” agreed Miss Thane, casting a glance out of the window at the straight figure riding beside the chaise, “not stupid, but (I am sorry to say) both autocratic and dictatorial. His remarks to me once the butler had left the room were quite unappreciative and not a little unfeeling, while his way of handing me down from the chair left much to be desired.”

“He does not like females,” explained Eustacie.

Miss Thane’s eyes returned to the contemplation of Sir Tristram’s stern profile. “Ah!” she said. “That would account for it, of course. Well, we did what we could to make my standing upon a chair seem a natural proceeding—but I doubt the butler thinks us a pair of lunatics—and being once more alone, and Sir Tristram having spoken his mind to me on the subject of female folly, we returned to our search. It affords me some satisfaction to reflect that it was Sir Tristram, and not I, who was engaged in sounding the panels when a most odiously soft-footed individual stole in to place a snuff-jar upon the desk. At least, it afforded me the opportunity to show that I, too, have some presence of mind. I begged your cousin to admire the spearhead finish.”

“I think that you are very clever!” said Eustacie approvingly. “I should not have known that there was a—a spearhead finish.”