"It's Harpley, sir."

I thanked him and went my way. I had never heard of the place before; but as I entered it the first rays of sunlight shot across the hills, and it certainly looked picturesque and typically English in the light of the dawn. I must have walked fully eight miles, and, being tired and thirsty, I noticed at the entrance of the village a small inn, upon which was the sign The Houghton Arms. The door stood open, and a burly man, evidently the landlord, was busy chopping wood in an outhouse at the side.

"Nice mornin', sir," he observed, looking up at me, probably astonished to see anyone who was not a labourer astir at such an early hour.

I returned his greeting, and inquired whether it was too early for a cup of tea and a rest.

"Not at all, sir," he answered, laying down his axe and conducting me within.

The place, in common with all village hostelries, smelt strongly of the combined fumes of s.h.a.g and stale beer. Village innkeepers have a habit of polishing their well-seasoned furniture with sour beer; hence the odour, which, to the patrons of such places, seems appetising. The perfume is to them as the hors d'oeuvre.

The man, having shown me into a little parlour behind the tap-room, called loudly to "Jenny," who turned out to be his wife. After this I had not long to wait before a pot of tea and a couple of poached eggs were at my disposal.

They were a homely pair, these two, full of local chatter. Harpley, the man informed me, was nine and a half miles from Great Ryburgh, and I saw by his manner that he was much exercised in his mind to know whence I had come and the reason for my being about at such an hour. The rural busybody was extremely inquisitive, but I did not permit his bucolic diplomacy to triumph. While I drank the tea and ate the eggs the landlord stood leaning against the door-lintel with his arms folded, garrulously displaying his Norfolk brogue. He evidently regarded me as one of those summer visitors from London who stay at the farmhouses, where hypocrisy terms them "paying guests," and I allowed him to adhere to his opinion. I learned from him that at six o'clock there was a train from Ma.s.singham station, half a mile away, which would convey me direct to Fakenham. This I resolved to take, for I could then return to Miss Foskett's by a quarter to seven. A map of the county was hanging on the wall, and I had risen to look at the spot to which the landlord was pointing, when a footstep sounded in the narrow pa.s.sage, and, turning, I caught sight of the dark figure of a man making his way out.

The hat, the black overcoat, the figure, all were familiar. His head was turned away from me, so that I could not see his features, but in an instant I recognised him.

He was Edith's mysterious lover!

CHAPTER TWENTY.

FROM DOWNING STREET TO PARIS.

I sprang quickly to the door, and looked down the pa.s.sage out into the village street; but he had already made his exit. By the time I had reached the porch of the inn he was already striding quickly along the dusty highway. He turned to glance back, and I perceived that he was thin-faced, with high cheekbones and a small black beard. He was carrying his thick stick jauntily, and walking smartly, with an easy gait which at that moment struck me as being distinctly military.

"Who is that man?" I inquired eagerly of the landlord, who stood beside me, evidently surprised at my sudden rush towards the door.

"A stranger, sir. I don't know who he is."

"When did he arrive?"

"He came by the last train to Ma.s.singham last night, sir, and had a bed here. My missis, however, didn't like the looks of 'im."

"Why?"

"Well, I don't exactly know. There was something about him a bit peculiar. Besides, he went out before one o'clock, and didn't return till an hour ago. Then he went up, washed, had a cup o' tea in his room, paid, and now he's gone."

"Rather peculiar behaviour, isn't it?" I suggested, hoping to find some clue to his ident.i.ty from what this man might tell me. "Did he have no luggage?"

"None. He seemed a bit down on his luck. His clothes were very shabby, and he evidently hadn't had a clean collar for a week."

Then the opinion I had formed of him--namely, that he was shabby genteel--was correct.

"You're certain you've never seen him before?"

"Quite certain," he replied.

At that moment his wife entered, and, addressing her, he said:

"We're talking of that stranger who's just gone, missus. His movements were a bit suspicious, weren't they?"

"Yes. Why he should want to go out half the night wandering about the neighbourhood I can't make out, unless he were a burglar or something o'

that sort," the woman answered, adding: "I shouldn't be at all surprised to hear that one of the houses about here has been broken into. Anyhow, we'd know him again among a thousand."

"What kind of man was he?"

"Tall and dark, with a beard, and a pair of eyes that seemed to look you through. He spoke all right, but I've my doubts as to whether he wasn't a foreigner."

"A foreigner!" I echoed quickly, interested. "What made you suspect that?"

"I really can't tell. I had a suspicion of it the first moment I saw him. He p.r.o.nounced his `r's' rather curiously. His clothes seemed to be of foreign cut, and his boots, although worn out, were unusually long and narrow. I brushed 'em this morning, and saw on the tabs a foreign name. I think it was `Firenze,' or something like that."

I reflected for an instant. The word "Firenze" was Italian for Florence, the town where the boots had evidently been made. Therefore the mysterious stranger might be Italian.

"You didn't actually detect anything foreign in his style of speaking?"

"He didn't speak much. He seemed very glum and thoughtful. I sent him up some toast with his tea, but he hasn't touched it."

"He didn't say where he was going?"

"Not a word. When he arrived he only explained that he had come by the last train from Lynn, and that he wanted a bed--that's all. I should think by the look of him that he's gone on tramp."

My first impulse was to follow him; but on reflection I saw that by doing so I should in all probability lose my train, and to dog the fellow's footsteps would, after all, be of no benefit now that I knew the truth of Edith's perfidy. So I stood there chatting, discussing the stranger, and wondering who he could be.

"He's up to no good, that I feel certain," declared the landlord's wife.

"There's something about him that aroused my suspicion at once last night. I can't, however, explain what it was. But a man don't prowl about all night to admire the moon."

And thus I waited until it was time to catch the train; then, wishing the innkeeper and his wife good-morning, left them and strolled in the morning sunlight to the station, arriving at Fakenham shortly before seven. I took the short cut through Starmoor Wood to Ryburgh, and, finding Miss Foskett's maid polishing the door-handle, entered and went upstairs.

Upon the toilet-table was a telegram, which the maid said had just arrived, and on opening it I found a message from the Foreign Office, which had been forwarded from the Club, asking me to call at the earliest possible moment, and to be prepared to return to my post by the afternoon service from Charing Cross. I knew what that implied. The Marquess desired me to bear a secret despatch to my Chief.

I washed, tidied myself after my dusty walk, strapped my bag, and with a feeling of regret that I was compelled to meet my false love again face to face before departure, I descended the stairs.

She was awaiting me, looking cool and fresh in her white gown, with a bunch of fresh roses she had plucked from the garden in her breast. She smiled gladly, and stretched forth her hand as though I were all the world to her. What admirable actresses some women are! Her affected sweetness that yesterday had so charmed me now sickened me. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I was angry with myself that I had ever allowed myself to lose control of my feelings and love her. She was false--false! That one thought alone ran in my mind as she laughed merrily.

"Why, Gerald, wherever have you been? A telegram came for you by special messenger from Fakenham at half-past six, and when Ann knocked at your door she found you were out. And you went out by the dining-room window, too."

"Yes," I said, not without a touch of sarcasm, "I felt that I wanted fresh air, so I went for a stroll."

"You are an early bird," she answered. "Did you go far?"

"No, not very far. Only down the Lynn road a little way."

"I always thought that you people in Paris never got up till your dejeuner at eleven?"

"I'm an exception," I said shortly. "I prefer the morning air in the country to lying in bed."

"And the telegram? Is it anything particular?"

"Yes," I answered. "I must leave at once. I am summoned to Downing Street, and must leave London this afternoon."