“A companion picture, this,” Loveday thought, “to the desolation that must reign within the house with the fate of its only daughter unknown—unguessed at even.”
As she alighted at the hall door, a magnificent Newfoundland dog came bounding forth. Lord Guilleroy caressed it heartily.
“It was her dog,” he explained. “We have tried in vain to make him track down his mistress—these dogs haven’t the scent of hounds.”
He excused himself from entering the house with Loveday.
“It’s like a vault—a catacomb; I can’t stand it,” he said. “No, I’ll take back my horse;” this was said to the man who stood waiting. “Tell Mr. Golding he’ll see me round in the morning without fail.”
Loveday was shown into the library, where Mr. Golding was waiting to receive her. In the circumstances no disguise as to her name and profession had been deemed necessary, and she was announced simply as Miss Brooke from Lynch Court.
Mr. Golding greeted her warmly. One glance at him convinced her that Inspector Ramsay had given no exaggerated account of the bereaved father. His face was wan and haggard; his head was bowed; his voice sounded strained and weak. He seemed incapable of speaking on any save the one topic that filled his thoughts.
“We pin our faith on you, Miss Brooke,” he said; “you are our last hope. Now, tell me you do not despair of being able to end this awful suspense one way or another. A day or two more of it will put me into my coffin!”
“Miss Brooke will perhaps like to have some tea, and to rest a little, after her long journey before she begins to talk?” said a lady, at that moment entering the room and advancing towards her. Loveday could only conjecture that this was Mrs. Greenhow, for Mr. Golding was too preoccupied to make any attempt to an introduction.
Mrs. Greenhow was a small, slight woman, with fluffy hair and green-grey eyes. Her voice suggested a purr; her eyes, a scratch.
“Cat-tribe!” thought Loveday; “the velvet paw and the hidden claw—the exact antithesis, I should say, to one of Miss Golding’s temperament.”
Mr. Golding went back to the one subject he had at heart.
“You have had my daughter’s photograph given to you, I’ve no doubt,” he said; “but this I consider a far better likeness.” Here he pointed to a portrait in pastels that hung above his writing-table. It was that of a large-eyed, handsome girl of eighteen, with a remarkably sweet expression about the mouth.
Mrs. Greenhow again interposed. “I think, if you don’t mind my saying so,” she said, “you would slightly mislead Miss Brooke if you led her to think that that was a perfect likeness of dear René. Much as I love the dear girl,” here she turned to Loveday, “I’m bound to admit that one seldom or never saw her wearing such a sweet expression of countenance.”
Mr. Golding frowned, and sharply changed the subject.
“Tell me, Miss Brooke,” he said, “what was your first impression when the facts of the case were submitted to you? I have been told that first impressions with you are generally infallible.”
Loveday parried the question.
“I am not at present sure that I am in possession of all the facts,” she answered. “There are one or two questions I particularly want to ask—you must forgive me if they seem to you a little irrelevant to the matter in hand. First and foremost, I want to know if any formal good-bye took place between your daughter and Mr. Gordon Cleeve?”