The Red House Mystery | Page 6

seriously as a golfer. She was quite competent as either. Neither the Stage Society nor
Sandwich had any terrors for her.
"By the way, the car will be round at 10.30," said Cayley, looking up from his letters.
"You're lunching there, and driving back directly afterwards. Isn't that right?"
"I don't see why we shouldn't have--two rounds," said Bill hopefully.
"Much too hot in the afternoon," said the Major. "Get back comfortably for tea."
Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and sat down to toast and tea.
Breakfast was not his meal. The others chattered gently while he read his letters.
"Good God!" said Mark suddenly.
There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. "I beg your pardon, Miss Norris.
Sorry, Betty."
Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it herself, particularly at
rehearsals.
"I say, Cay!" He was frowning to himself--annoyed, puzzled. He held up a letter and
shook it. "Who do you think this is from?"
Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged his shoulders. How could he possibly
guess?
"Robert," said Mark.
"Robert?" It was difficult to surprise Cayley. "Well?"
"It's all very well to say 'well?' like that," said Mark peevishly. "He's coming here this
afternoon."
"I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere."
"Of course. So did I." He looked across at Rumbold. "Got any brothers, Major?"
"No."
"Well, take my advice, and don't have any."
"Not likely to now," said the Major.
Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: "But you haven't any brothers, Mr. Ablett?"
"One," said Mark grimly. "If you're back in time you'll see him this afternoon. He'll
probably ask you to lend him five pounds. Don't."

Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.
"I've got a brother," said Bill helpfully, "but I always borrow from him."
"Like Robert," said Mark.
"When was he in England last?" asked Cayley.
"About fifteen years ago, wasn't it? You'd have been a boy, of course."
"Yes, I remember seeing him once about then, but I didn't know if he had been back
since."
"No. Not to my knowledge." Mark, still obviously upset, returned to his letter.
"Personally," said Bill, "I think relations are a great mistake."
"All the same," said Betty a little daringly, "it must be rather fun having a skeleton in the
cupboard."
Mark looked up, frowning.
"If you think it's fun, I'll hand him over to you, Betty. If he's anything like he used to be,
and like his few letters have been--well, Cay knows."
Cayley grunted.
"All I knew was that one didn't ask questions about him."
It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to ask more questions, or a
reminder to his host not to talk too freely in front of strangers, although he gave it the
sound of a mere statement of fact. But the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the more
fascinating one of the coming foursome. Mrs. Calladine was driving over with the players
in order to lunch with an old friend who lived near the links, and Mark and Cayley were
remaining at home--on affairs. Apparently "affairs" were now to include a prodigal
brother. But that need not make the foursome less enjoyable.
At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was fluffing his tee-shot at the
sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at their business at The Red House, an attractive
gentleman of the name of Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at Woodham
station and asking the way to the village. Having received directions, he left his bag with
the station-master and walked off leisurely. He is an important person to this story, so
that it is as well we should know something about him before letting him loose in it. Let
us stop him at the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.
The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the looking than we are. Above a
clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of the type usually associated with the Navy, he carries a
pair of grey eyes which seem to be absorbing every detail of our person. To strangers this

look is almost alarming at first, until they discover that his mind is very often elsewhere;
that he has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard, while he himself follows a train of thought
in another direction. Many people do this, of course; when, for instance, they are talking
to one person and trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them. Antony's never
did.
He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though never as a sailor. When at
the age of twenty-one he came into his