An Unpardonable Liar | Page 4

a tangle. You
know I thought it would be better to let things sleep--resurrections are
uncomfortable things mostly. However, here I am to do what's possible.
What have I done? Nothing. I haven't found her yet. You didn't want
me to advertise, and I haven't. She hasn't been acting for a long time,
and no one seems to know exactly where she is. She was traveling
abroad with some people called Branscombes, and I'm going to send a
letter through their agent. We shall see.
"Lastly, for business. I've floated the Aurora company with a capital of
$1,000,000, and that ought to carry the thing for all we want to do. So
be joyful. But you shall have full particulars next mail. I'm just off to
Herridon for the waters. Can you think it, Gladney--Mark Telford, late
of the H.B.C, coming down to that? But it's a fact. Luncheons and
dinners in London, E.C., fiery work, and so it's stand by the halyards
for bad weather! Once more, keep your nose up to the wind, and
believe that I am always," etc.
He read it through, dwelling here and there as if to reconsider, and,
when it was finished, put it back into his pocket, tore up the envelope
and let it fall to the ground. Presently he said: "I'll cable the money over
and send the letter on next mail. Strange that I didn't think of cabling
yesterday. However, it's all the same."
So saying, he came down the moor into the town and sent his cable,
then went to his hotel and had dinner. After dinner he again went for a
walk. He was thinking hard, and that did not render him less interesting.
He was tall and muscular, yet not heavy, with a lean dark face, keen,
steady eyes, and dignified walk. He wore a black soft felt hat and a red
silk sash which just peeped from beneath his waistcoat--in all, striking,
yet not bizarre, and notably of gentlemanlike manner. What arrested

attention most, however, was his voice. People who heard it invariably
turned to look or listened from sheer pleasure. It was of such
penetrating clearness that if he spoke in an ordinary tone it carried far.
Among the Indians of the Hudson Bay company, where he had been for
six years or more, he had been known as Man of the Gold Throat, and
that long before he was called by the negroes on his father's plantation
in the southern states Little Marse Gabriel, because Gabriel's horn, they
thought, must be like his voice--"only mo' so, an dat chile was bawn to
ride on de golden mule."
You would not, from his manner or voice or dress have called him an
American. You might have said he was a gentleman planter from Cuba
or Java or Fiji, or a successful miner from Central America who had
more than a touch of Spanish blood in his veins. He was not at all the
type from over sea who are in evidence at wild west shows, or as poets
from a western Ilion, who ride in the Row with sombrero, cloak and
Mexican saddle. Indeed, a certain officer of Indian infantry, who had
once picked up some irregular French in Egypt and at dinner made
remarks on Telford's personal appearance to a pretty girl beside him,
was confused when Telford looked up and said to him in admirable
French: "I'd rather not, but I can't help hearing what you say, and I
think it only fair to tell you so. These grapes are good. Shall I pass
them? Poole made my clothes, and Lincoln is my hatter. Were you ever
in Paris?"
The slow, distinct voice came floating across the little table, and ladies
who that day had been reading the last French novel and could interpret
every word and tone smiled slyly at each other or held themselves still
to hear the sequel; the ill-bred turned round and stared; the parvenu
sitting at the head of the table, who had been a foreign buyer of some
London firm, chuckled coarsely and winked at the waiter, and Baron,
the Afrikander trader, who sat next to Telford, ordered champagne on
the strength of it. The bronzed, weather worn face of Telford showed
imperturbable, but his eyes were struggling with a strong kind of humor.
The officer flushed to the hair, accepted the grapes, smiled foolishly,
and acknowledged--swallowing the reflection on his accent--that he
had been in Paris. Then he engaged in close conversation with the
young lady beside him, who, however, seemed occupied with Telford.
This quiet, keen young lady, Miss Mildred Margrave, had received an

impression, not of the kind which her sex confide to each other, but of a
graver quality. She was a girl of sympathies