'I don't like him,' said Sylvia, 'but I must admit that he's got a lot of - of. force. I believe he's cured drug takers in the most marvellous way. People whose relations despaired utterly.
They've gone there as a last hope and come out absolutely cured.' 'Yes,' cried Henry Bassington-ffrench suddenly. 'And do you know what goes on there? Do you know the awful suffering and mental torment? A man's used to a drug and they cut him off it - cut him off it - till he goes raving mad for the lack of it and beats his head against the wall. That's what he does - your "forceful" doctor tortures people - tortures them - sends them to Hell - drives them mad...' He was shaking violently. Suddenly he turned and left the room.
Sylvia Bassington-ffrench looked startled.
'What is the matter with Henry?' she said wonderingly. 'He seems very upset.' Frankie and Roger dared not look at each other.
'He's not looked well all evening,' ventured Frankie.
'No. I noticed that. He's very moody lately. I wish he hadn't given up riding. Oh, by the way, Dr Nicholson invited Tommy over tomorrow, but I don't like him going there very much not with all those queer nerve cases and dope-takers.' 'I don't suppose the doctor would allow him to come into contact with them,' said Roger. 'He seems very fond of children.' 'Yes, I think it's a disappointment he hasn't got any of his own. Probably to her, too. She looks very sad - and terribly delicate.' 'She's like a sad Madonna,' said Frankie.
'Yes, that describes her very well.' 'If Dr Nicholson is so fond of children I suppose he came to your children's party?' said Frankie carelessly.
'Unfortunately he was away for a day or two just then. I think he had to go to London for some conference.' 'I see.' They went up to bed. Before she went to sleep, Frankie wrote to Bobby.
CHAPTER 15 A Discovery
Bobby had had an irksome time. His forced inaction was exceedingly trying. He hated staying quietly in London and doing nothing.
He had been rung up on the telephone by George Arbuthnot who, in a few laconic words, told him that all had gone well. A couple of days later, he had a letter from Frankie, delivered to him by her maid, the letter having gone under cover to her at Lord Marchington's town house.
Since then he had heard nothing.
'Letter for you,' called out Badger.
Bobby came forward excitedly but the letter was one addressed in his father's handwriting, and postmarked Marchbolt.
At that moment, however, he caught sight of the neat blackgowned figure of Frankie's maid approaching down the Mews.
Five minutes later he was tearing open Frankie's second letter.
Dear Bobby (wrote Frankie,), / think it's about time you came down. I've given them instructions at home that you're to have the Bentley whenever you ask for it. Get a chauffeur's livery - darkgreen ours always are. Put it down to father at Harrods. It's best to be correct in details. Concentrate on making a good job of the moustache. It makes a frightful difference to anyone's face.
Come down here and ask for me. You might bring me an ostensible note from Father. Report that the car is now in working order again. The garage here only holds two cars and as it's got the family Daimler and Roger Bassington-ffrench 's two-seater in it, it is fortunately full up, so you will go to Staverley and put up there.
Get what local information you can when there - particularly about a Dr Nicholson who runs a place for dope patients. Several suspicious circumstances about him - he has a dark-blue Talbot saloon, he was away from home on the 16th when your beer was doctored, and he takes altogether too detailed an interest in the circumstances of my accident.
I think I've identified the corpse!
Au revoir, my fellow sleuth.
Love from your successfully concussed, Frankie.
P.S. I shall post this myself.
Bobby's spirits rose with a bound.
Discarding his overalls and breaking the news of his immediate departure to Badger, he was about to hurry off when he remembered that he had not yet opened his father's letter. He did so with a rather qualified enthusiasm since the Vicar's letters were actuated by a spirit of duty rather than pleasure and breathed an atmosphere of Christian forbearance which was highly depressing.
The Vicar gave conscientious news of doings in Marchbolt, describing his own troubles with the organist and commenting on the unchristian spirit of one of his churchwardens. The rebinding of the hymn books was also touched upon. And the Vicar hoped that Bobby was sticking manfully to his job and trying to make good, and remained his ever affectionate father.
There was a postscript: By the way, someone called who asked for your address in London.
I was out at the time and he did not leave his name. Mrs Roberts describes him as a tall, stooping gentleman with pince-nez. He seemed very sorry to miss you and very anxious to see you again.
A tall, stooping man with pince-nez. Bobby ran over in his mind anyone of his acquaintance likely to fit that description but could think of nobody.
Suddenly a quick suspicion darted into his mind. Was this the forerunner of a new attempt upon his life? Were these mysterious enemies, or enemy, trying to track him down?
He sat still and did some serious thinking. They, whoever they were, had only just discovered that he had left the neighbourhood. All unsuspecting, Mrs Roberts had given his new address.
So that already they, whoever they were, might be keeping a watch upon the place. If he went out he would be followed and just as things were at the moment that would never do.
'Badger,' said Bobby.
'Yes, old lad.' 'Come here.' The next five minutes were spent in genuine hard work. At the end often minutes Badger could repeat his instructions by heart.
When he was word perfect, Bobby got into a two-seater Flat dating from 1902 and drove dashingly down the Mews. He parked the Flat in St James's Square and walked straight from there to his club. There he did some telephoning and a couple of hours later certain parcels were delivered to him. Finally, about half-past three, a chauffeur in dark green livery walked to St James's Square and went rapidly up to a large Bentley which had been parked there about half an hour previously.
The parking attendant nodded to him - the gentleman who had left the car had remarked, stammering slightly as he did so, that his chauffeur would be fetching it shortly.
Bobby let in the clutch and drew neatly out. The abandoned Flat still stood demurely awaiting its owner. Bobby, despite the intense discomfort of his upper lip, began to enjoy himself. He headed north, not south, and, before long, the powerful engine was forging ahead on the Great North Road.
It was only an extra precaution that he was taking. He was pretty sure that he was not being followed. Presently he turned off to the left and made his way by circuitous roads to Hampshire.
It was just after tea that the Bentley purred up the drive of Merroway Court, a stiff and correct chauffeur at the wheel.
'Hullo,' said Frankie lightly. There's the car.' She went out to the front door. Sylvia and Roger came with her.
'Is everything all right, Hawkins?' The chauffeur touched his cap.
'Yes, m'lady. She's been thoroughly overhauled.' 'That's all right, then.' The chauffeur produced a note.
'From his lordship, m'lady.' Frankie took it.
'You'll put up at the - what is it - Anglers' Arms in Staverley, Hawkins. I'll telephone in the morning if I want the car.' 'Very good, your ladyship.' Bobby backed, turned and sped down the drive.
'I'm so sorry we haven't room here,' said Sylvia. 'It's a lovely car.' 'You get some pace out of that,' said Roger.
'I do,' admitted Frankie.
She was satisfied that no faintest quiver of recognition had shown on Roger's face. She would have been surprised if it had. She would not have recognized Bobby herself had she met him casually. The small moustache had a perfectly natural appearance, and that, with the stiff demeanour so uncharacteristic of the natural Bobby, completed the disguise enhanced by the chauffeur's livery.
The voice, too, had been excellent, and quite unlike Bobby's own. Frankie began to think that Bobby was far more talented than she had given him credit for being.
Meanwhile Bobby had successfully taken up his quarters at the Anglers' Arms.
It was up to him to create the part of Edward Hawkins, chauffeur to Lady Frances Derwent.
