The Secret of the Tower | Page 3

again, ran across an open heath, and
pursued its way to Sprotsfield, four miles distant, a place of greater size
where all amenities could be found.
It was along this road that the friends now walked, Mary setting a brisk
pace. "When once you've turned your back on the Avenue, it's heaps
better," she said. "Might be real country, looking this way, mightn't it?
Except the Naylors' place--Oh, and Tower Cottage--there are no houses
between this and Sprotsfield."
The wind blew shrewdly, with an occasional spatter of rain; the
withered bracken lay like a vast carpet of dull copper-color under the
cloudy sky; scattered fir-trees made fantastic shapes in the early gloom
of a December day. A somber scene, yet wanting only sunshine to
make it flash in a richness of color; even to-day its quiet and
spaciousness, its melancholy and monotony, seemed to bid a
sympathetic and soothing welcome to aching and fretted hearts.
"It really is rather nice out here," Cynthia admitted.
"I come almost every afternoon. Oh, I've plenty of time! My round in
the morning generally sees me through--except for emergencies, births
and deaths, and so on. You see, my predecessor, poor Christian Evans,
never had more than the leavings, and that's all I've got. I believe the

real doctor, the old-established one, Dr. Irechester, was angry at first
with Dr. Evans for coming; he didn't want a rival. But Christian was
such a meek, mild, simple little Welshman, not the least pushing or
ambitious; and very soon Dr. Irechester, who's quite well off, was glad
to leave him the dirty work, I mean (she explained, smiling) the
cottages, and the panel work, National Insurance, you know, and so on.
Well, as you know, I came down as locum for Christian, he was a
fellow-student of mine, and when the dear little man was killed in
France, Dr. Irechester himself suggested that I should stay on. He was
rather nice. He said, 'We all started to laugh at you, at first, but we don't
laugh now, anyhow, only my wife does! So, if you stay on, I don't
doubt we shall work very well together, my dear colleague,' Wasn't that
rather nice of him, Cynthia?"
"Yes, dear," said Cynthia, in a voice that sounded a good many miles
away.
Mary laughed. "I'm bound to be interested in you, but I suppose you're
not bound to be interested in me," she observed resignedly. "All the
same, I made a sensation at Inkston just at first. And they were even
more astonished when it turned out that I could dance and play lawn
tennis."
"That's a funny little place," said Cynthia, pointing to the left side of the
road.
"Tower Cottage, that's called."
"But what a funny place!" Cynthia insisted. "A round tower, like a
Martello tower, only smaller, of course; and what looks just like an
ordinary cottage or small farm-house joined on to it. What could the
tower have been for?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Origin lost in the mists of antiquity! An old
gentleman named Saffron lives there now."
"A patient of yours, Mary?"

"Oh, no! He's well off, rich, I believe. So he belongs to Dr. Irechester.
But I often meet him along the road. Lately there's always been a
younger man with him, a companion, or secretary, or something of that
sort, I hear he is."
"There are two men coming along the road now."
"Yes, that's them, the old man, and his friend. He's rather striking to
look at."
"Which of them?"
"The old man, of course. I haven't looked at the secretary. Cynthia, I
believe you're beginning to feel a little better!"
"Oh, no, I'm not! I'm afraid I'm not, really!" But there had been a
cheerfully roguish little smile on her face. It vanished very promptly
when observed.
The two men approached them, on their way, no doubt, to Tower
Cottage. The old man was not above middle height, indeed, scarcely
reached it; but he made the most of his inches carrying himself very
upright, with an air of high dignity. Close-cut white hair showed under
an old-fashioned peaked cap; he wore a plaid shawl swathed round him,
his left arm being enveloped in its folds; his right rested in the arm of
his companion, who was taller than he, lean and loose-built, clad in an
almost white (and very unseasonable looking) suit of some homespun
material. He wore no covering on his head, a thick crop of curly hair
(of a color indistinguishable in the dim light) presumably affording
such protection as he needed. His face was turned down towards the old
man, who was looking up at him and apparently talking to him, though
in so low a tone that no sound reached Mary and Cynthia as they
passed