The Doctor of Pimlico | Page 4

there? Too weak for the work--no good. You want better stuff than that.
An axle yonder not packed properly! . . . And look at that black
pony--came out of a governess-cart, I should think! . . . Hey, you man
there, you don't want to hang on that pack! Men get lazy and want the
pony to help them along. And you----" he cried, as a pony, heavily
laden with part of a gun, came down an almost perpendicular incline.
"Let that animal find his way down alone. Do you hear?"
Then, after much manoeuvring, he caused them to take up another
position, unlimber their guns, and fire.
When this had been accomplished he called the officers together and,
his monocle in his eye, severely criticised their performance, declaring
that they had exposed themselves so fully to the enemy that ere they
had had time to fire they would have been shelled out of their position.
The spare ammunition was exposed all over the place, some of the

reserves were not under cover, and the battery commander so exposed
himself that he'd have been a dead man before the first shot. "You must
do better than this--much better. That's all."
Then the four walked across to the Panmure Hotel at Monifieth.
Walter Fetherston held his breath. His lips were pressed tightly together,
his brows contracted. He was again to meet Enid Orlebar.
He shot a covert glance at the general walking at his side. In his eyes
showed an unusual expression, half of suspicion, half of curiosity.
Next instant, however, it had vanished, and he laughed loudly at a story
Tredennick was telling.
CHAPTER II
THE COMING OF A STRANGER
ENID was standing on the steps of the hotel when the men arrived.
For a second Walter glanced into her splendid eyes, and then bowed
over her hand in his foreign way, a murmured expression of pleasure
escaping his lips.
About twenty-two, tall and slim, she presented a complete and typical
picture of the outdoor girl, dressed as she was in a grey jumper trimmed
with purple, a short golfing skirt, her tweed hat to match trimmed with
the feathers of a cock pheasant.
Essentially a sportswoman, she could handle gun or rod, ride to hounds,
or drive a motor-car with equal skill, and as stepdaughter of Sir Hugh
she had had experience on the Indian frontier and in Egypt.
Her father had been British Minister at the Hague, and afterwards at
Stockholm, but after his death her mother had married Sir Hugh, and
had become Lady Elcombe. Nowadays, however, the latter was
somewhat of an invalid, and seldom left their London house in Hill

Street. Therefore, Enid was usually chaperoned by Mrs. Caldwell, wife
of the well-known K.C., and with her she generally spent her winters
on the Continent.
Blanche, Sir Hugh's daughter by his first wife, had married Paul Le
Pontois, who had been a captain in the 114th Regiment of Artillery of
the French Army during the war, and lived with her husband in France.
She seldom came to England, though at frequent intervals her father
went over to visit her.
When Walter Fetherston took his seat beside Enid Orlebar at the
luncheon table a flood of strange recollections crowded upon his
mind--those walks along the Miramar, that excursion to Pampeluna,
and those curious facts which she had unwittingly revealed to him in
the course of their confidential chats. He remembered their leave-taking,
and how, as he had sat in the rapide for Paris, he had made a solemn
vow never again to set eyes upon her.
There was a reason why he should not--a strong but mysterious reason.
Yet he had come there of his own will to meet her again--drawn there
irresistibly by some unseen influence which she possessed.
Was it her beauty that had attracted him? Yes--he was compelled to
admit that it was. As a rule he avoided the society of women. To his
intimates he had laid down the maxim: "Don't marry; keep a dog if you
want a faithful companion." And yet he was once again at the side of
this fair-faced woman.
None around the table were aware of their previous meeting, and all
were too busy chattering to notice the covert glances which he shot at
her. He was noting her great beauty, sitting there entranced by it--he,
the man of double personality, who, under an assumed name, lived that
gay life of the Continent, known in society in twenty different cities,
and yet in England practically unknown in his real self.
Yes, Enid Orlebar was beautiful. Surely there could be few fairer
women than she in this our land of fair women!

Turning upon him, she smiled gaily as she asked whether he had been
interested in seeing a mountain