Three-quarters of an hour later I deposited them at their destination, the "Goddard Arms," in Old Swindon, and, descending, received their profuse thanks, the elder lady giving me her card with an address in Earl's Court Road, Kensington, and asking me to call upon her when in London.
It was then half an hour past midnight, but Bennett and I resolved to push forward as far as Oxford, which we did, arriving at the "Mitre"
about half-past one, utterly fagged and worn out.
Next day was brighter, and we proceeded north to Birmingham and across once again to the east coast, where the bulk of my work lay.
About a fortnight went by. With the assistance of two well-known staff-officers I had been reconnoitring the country around Beccles, in Suffolk, which we had decided upon as a most important strategical point, and one morning I found myself at that old-fashioned hotel "The Cups," at Colchester, taking a day's rest. The two officers had returned to London, and I was again alone.
Out in the garage I found a rather smart, good-looking man in navy serge chatting with Bennett and admiring my car. My chauffeur, with pardonable pride, had been telling him of our long journey, and as I approached, the stranger informed me of his own enthusiasm as a motorist.
"Curiously enough," he added, "I have been wishing to meet you, in order to thank you for your kindness to my mother and sister the other night at Salisbury. My name is Sandford--Charles Sandford--and if I'm not mistaken we are members of the same club--White's."
"Are we?" I exclaimed. "Then I'm delighted to make your acquaintance."
We lounged together for half an hour, smoking and chatting, until presently he said:
"I live out at Edwardstone, about ten miles from here. Why not come out and dine with me to-night? My place isn't very extensive, but it's cosy enough for a bachelor. I'd feel extremely honoured if you would. I'm all alone. Do come."
Cosmopolitan that I am, yet I am not prone to accept the invitations of strangers. Nevertheless this man was not altogether a stranger, for was he not a member of my own club? Truth to tell, I had become bored by the deadly dullness of country hotels, therefore I was glad enough to accept his proffered hospitality and spend a pleasant evening.
"Very well," he said. "I'll send a wire to my housekeeper, and I'll pilot you in your car to my place this evening. We'll start at seven, and dine at eight--if that will suit you?"
And so it was arranged.
Bennett had the whole of the day to go through the car and do one or two necessary repairs, while Sandford and myself idled about the town. My companion struck me as an exceedingly pleasant fellow, who, having travelled very extensively, now preferred a quiet existence in the country, with a little hunting and a little shooting in due season, to the dinners, theatres, and fevered haste of London life.
The evening proved a very dark one with threatening rain as we turned out of the yard of "The Cups," Sandford and I seated behind. My friend directed Bennett from time to time, and soon we found ourselves out on the Sudbury road. We passed through a little place which I knew to be Heyland, and then turned off to the right, across what seemed to be a wide stretch of bleak, open country.
Over the heath we went, our head-lights glaring far before us, for about two miles when my friend called to Bennett:
"Turn to the left at the cross-roads."
And a few moments later we were travelling rather cautiously up a rough by-road, at the end of which we came to a long, old-fashioned house--a farm-house evidently, transformed into a residence.
The door was opened by a middle-aged, red-faced man-servant, and as I stepped within the small hall hung with foxes' masks, brushes, and other trophies, my friend wished me a hearty welcome to his home.
The dining-room proved to be an old-fashioned apartment panelled from floor to ceiling. The table, set for two, bore a fine old silver candelabra, a quantity of antique plate, and, adorned with flowers, was evidently the table of a man who was comfortably off.
We threw off our heavy coats and made ourselves cosy beside the fire when the servant, whom my host addressed as Henry, brought in the soup.
Therefore we went to the table and commenced.
The meal proved a well-cooked and well-chosen one, and I congratulated him upon his cook.
"I'm forty, and for twenty years I was constantly on the move," he remarked, with a laugh. "Nowadays I'm glad to be able to settle down in England."
A moment later I heard the sound of a car leaving the house.
"Is that my car?" I asked, rather surprised.
"Probably your man is taking it round to the back in order to put it under cover. Hark! it has started to rain."
To me, however, the sound, growing fainter, was very much as though Bennett had driven the car away.
The wines which Henry served so quietly and sedately were of the best.
But both my host and myself drank little.
Sandford was telling me of the strange romance concerning his sister Ellen and young Bingham--a man who had come into eight thousand a year from his uncle, and only a few days later had met with an accident in Swindon, having been knocked down by a train at a level-crossing.
Presently, after dessert, our conversation ran upon ports and their vintages, when suddenly my host remarked:
"I don't know whether you are a connoisseur of brandies, but I happen to have a couple of rather rare vintages. Let's try them."
I confessed I knew but little about brandies.
"Then I'll teach you how to test them in future," he laughed, adding, "Henry, bring up those three old cognacs, a bottle of ordinary brandy, and some liqueur-glasses."
In a few minutes a dozen little glasses made their appearance on a tray, together with four bottles of brandy, three unlabelled, while the fourth bore the label of a well-known brand.
"It is not generally known, I think, that one cannot test brandy with any degree of accuracy by the palate," he said, removing his cigar.
"I wasn't aware of that," I said.
"Well, I'll show you," he went on, and taking four glasses in a row he poured a little spirit out of each of the bottles into the bottoms of the glasses. This done, he twisted each glass round in order to wet the inside with the spirit, and the surplus he emptied into his finger-bowl.
Then, handing me two, he said: "Just hold one in each hand till they're warm. So."
And taking the remaining two he held one in the hollow of each hand.
For a couple or three minutes we held them thus while he chatted about the various vintages. Then we placed them in a row.
"Now," he said, "take up each one separately and smell it."
I did so, and found a most pleasant perfume--each, however, quite separate and distinct, as different as eau-de-Cologne is from lavender water.
"This," he said, after sniffing at one glass, "is 1815--Waterloo year--a magnificent vintage. And this," he went on, handing me the second glass, "is 1829--very excellent, but quite a distinct perfume, you notice. The third is 1864--also good. Of the 1815 I very fortunately have two bottles. Bellamy, in Pall Mall, has three bottles, and there are perhaps four bottles in all Paris. That is all that's left of it. The fourth--smell it--is the ordinary brandy of commerce."
I did so, but the odour was nauseating after the sweet and distinct perfume of the other three.
"Just try the 1815," he urged, carefully pouring out about a third of a glass of the precious pale gold liquid and handing it to me.
I sipped it, finding it exceedingly pleasant to the palate. So old was it that it seemed to have lost all its strength. It was a really delicious liqueur--the liqueur of a gourmet, and assuredly a fitting conclusion to that excellent repast.
"I think I'll have the '64," he said, pouring out a glass and swallowing it with all the gusto of a man whose chief delight was the satisfaction of his stomach.
I took a cigarette from the big silver box he handed me, and I stretched out my hand for the matches.... Beyond that, curiously enough, I recollect nothing else.
But stay! Yes, I do.
I remember seeing, as though rising from out a hazy grey mist, a woman's face--the countenance of a very pretty girl, about eighteen, with big blue wide-open eyes and very fair silky hair--a girl, whose eyes bore in them a hideous look of inexpressible horror.