CHAPTER XI.
AN ANGEL VISITS PYLE’S PARK.
A week had elapsed.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and in the drawing-room at Pyle’s Park, Mr. and Mrs. Enoch Pyle were having tea.
The custom did not come naturally to them, but they believed it was the proper thing, and so they adopted it. It was particularly a trial to the old man, who, since his retirement, had been obliged to fight hard against an ingrained preference for shirt sleeves and slippers; but he had denied himself heroically, for the most part.
The merest glance about the room, with its costly furniture and costlier pictures and statuary, was enough to show that its owner was a man of great wealth; but one might have looked in vain for any signs of culture or good taste.
For Enoch Pyle and his wife, as Atherton has said, were old-fashioned country people, who had had few advantages.
Having said this, however, it is only fair to say that they had their good points—many of them. There was nothing mean or uncharitable about them. They were kind-hearted, hospitable, and generous to a fault.
At the same time, it must be admitted that they dearly loved “society”—at a distance—and that it was the greatest disappointment of their lives that none of the neighboring social lights would have anything to do with them.
At the moment the old couple were talking about the “sensational affair,” as the newspapers called it, at Meadowview—the attempted burglary of the Massey jewels, and the wounding of Francis Massey’s arm.
For unluckily—from the standpoint of The Order of the Philosopher’s Stone—the rich haul had not been carried away. The jewel cases had not yet been placed in the waiting bag when the Count had fired, and that unlooked-for shot, coming from some mysterious quarter, had so unnerved the rascals for the time being that they had decamped without their booty.
Probably, also, they had feared with good reason, that the shot would alarm the household and bring the servants about their ears in short order.
At any rate, Johann Wilhelm had subsequently learned, to his deep disgust, that the burglary had been unsuccessful with all he had done.
“I heard down in the village to-day,” said Mr. Pyle, “that the doctors ain’t very encouragin’. They’re afraid they’ll have to ampytate Mr. Massey’s hand. They say the bones——”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about bones at tea time!” protested his wife. “It don’t seem proper, and it sort of takes my appetite away.”
“Excuse me, ma,” Mr. Pyle said humbly, and lapsed into silence.
“Ain’t the police discovered any clew to the thieves yet?” his wife asked presently.
“Neither hide nor hair of one,” was the answer. “An’ that reminds me of somethin’ else I heard in the village to-day. Mr. Massey has gone and sent for Nick Carter.”
“That’s what he’d ought to have done a week ago,” declared his wife. “Has Mr. Carter been to the house yet?”
“He’s there this afternoon. Him and one of his assistants—Chick, I think they call him. I’ll bet it won’t be long before they find a clew.”
Mr. Pyle helped himself to another piece of buttered toast, then he coughed uneasily.
“Do you know, ma,” he said, “I’ve been wonderin’ if we oughtn’t to call at Meadowview and leave a card—jest to show our sympathy, you know. What d’you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” sighed Mrs. Pyle. “I was readin’ a book on etiquette this mornin’, and it said when any of our friends was sick, it was the correct thing to stop at the house and leave your card. But we couldn’t honestly say that Mr. Massey was a friend of ours, could we? He’s never taken no notice of us since we came here. In fact,” she added bitterly, “none of ’em takes any notice of us. We could buy lots of ’em up and never miss the money, but——”
Suddenly she paused, and her eyes grew round and big with excitement. She was sitting near a window, and could see the drive which ran from the entrance gates to the front door of the house.
“Enoch,” she said breathlessly, “there’s a moty car comin’ up the drive! Such a swell turnout, too. Who can it be?”
Mr. Pyle hurriedly set down his cup, tiptoed to the window, and cautiously peered out from behind the curtain. By that time the car had pulled up outside the front door, and an aristocratic-looking, fashionably dressed lady of middle age was in the act of stepping out.
“Marier,” gasped Mr. Pyle, staggering back from the window, “as sure as you live, it’s—it’s Mrs. Brook-White comin’ to call on us.”
“And me in my second-best dress!” groaned Mrs. Pyle agitatedly. “Ain’t that jest my luck! Put your tie straight, Enoch! Pull down your vest! And wipe that butter off your chin!”
In frantic haste the worthy couple strove to make themselves more presentable. A few moments of nerve-racking suspense followed, then the liveried footman flung open the door and announced:
“Mrs. Brook-White!”
Elaine—for it was she, of course—sailed into the room with an air that a queen might have envied. Her disguise was perfect, and her acting superb.
“My dear Mrs. Pyle!” she gushed, tripping forward and holding out her hand to that agitated woman, “I know what you must have been thinking of me for not having called upon you before. I’ve really wanted so much to, you know, ever since you came here, but you see, my time is so fully occupied—and this is your husband, is it? Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mr. Pyle! What a delightful place you have here. I hope now that I’ve made the plunge, that I shall be able to come often—if you’ll let me.”
“As often as you like, ma’am,” said Mr. Pyle, who hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. “We’ll be tickled to death to have you! But won’t you sit down?”
“And won’t you have a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Pyle, when Elaine had seated herself.
The girl murmured her thanks, and the footman was dispatched in quest of another cup and a fresh supply of cakes and buttered toast. By the time these arrived, Elaine had completely won the hearts of her hosts, and had put them quite at their ease.
“By the way,” she said presently, in her most dulcet tones, “you have a little nephew living with you, haven’t you? Or is it a grandson?”