Missing or Murdered by Robin Forsythe Page B

could not penetrate, the light hoar frost had distilled into chill dew—the first icy breath of the coming winter. Vereker’s eyes were alight with joyousness. It was the time of the year he loved. The heavy, rounded masses of summer foliage had gone and given place to the airiness of half-naked trees. He had a keen eye for their anatomy and loved to trace the shapes of boles and boughs now half disclosed through the scanty but gorgeous raiment of the waning year. The keen, brisk, buoyant air seemed to drive from his mind all the tenseness and morbidity of his occupation with the Bygrave case, and even the smoke blowing from Dick’s disreputable clay pipe, and carrying the odour of strong shag, acquired some of the sweetness of commonplace, healthy humanity, free from all taint of mystery.
    â€œOh, for a knapsack, my water-colour box and the open road,” he thought, "and bread and cheese and beer!”
    It was with a sense of returning to a distasteful task that he alighted in the courtyard of the White Bear Inn. As he entered he met Mary Standish, looking radiantly beautiful. She had been busy at her morning tasks and was flushed with hurry and exertion.
    â€œWill you be in for lunch, sir?” she asked in her soft, pleasing voice.
    â€œIt will be ready about one, I suppose?”
    â€œYes, sir. Is there anything you would like to order specially?”
    â€œNo, thanks. I’ll take the ordinary lunch. I know I shall enjoy it—it’s always good—and I’m sure I shall be hungry.”
    The day was too fine to stay indoors, so Vereker hurried up to his room, changed into an old sports coat, flannel trousers and heavy comfortable shoes. He set off from the inn at a long swinging pace, whirling his ash-stick around in sheer exuberance of spirits. He felt more like his old irresponsible self this morning.
    â€œThis business has had a sobering effect on me,” he thought as he paced along. “I entered it in the spirit of cap and bells, and before it’s over I shall have assumed the gravity of a Divorce Court judge.”
    He made his way along the road to Windyridge, his eyes taking in the sweeping lines of the rolling country around—lines that seemed to fall into design without any effort on the part of the artist’s eye and imagination. He was wrapt in contemplation of a particularly beautiful interlacement of hills and valleys when he heard the cuff cuff of a horse’s hoofs on the road in front of him. He glanced ahead at the horseman approaching at a gentle trot. There seemed even at that distance something familiar in the rider’s carriage of shoulder and head, and as he came up Vereker recognized him. It was David Winslade. The latter hesitated a moment; then a look of recognition came into his eyes, and he at once reined in his horse. The next moment he had dismounted and was holding out his hand.
    â€œVereker—what a surprise to meet you out here!”
    â€œI’ve come down purposely to see you, Winslade. I’ve been down here once already, you know, but affairs took me away again before I could look you up.”
    â€œI heard you’d been at the White Bear and had gone again.”
    â€œOf course you’ve guessed the reason of my visit?”
    â€œWell, I suppose it’s all about this strange business of my Uncle Henry.” A tense, worried look swept swiftly across Winslade’s face—as a cloud shadow sweeps across a sunny upland—and was gone. He struck his leather gaiter with his whip as if dismissing the matter from his mind. “I don’t know what has happened. It’s a rum business altogether and damned unpleasant for me, I can assure you, Vereker.”
    â€œI should like to have a talk with you on the subject at your leisure. You know I’m your trustee in case anything—”
    â€œYes, I know,” interrupted Winslade, and his brow furrowed again.
    Vereker was watching him