The Talisman Ring

“I have no doubt he was in a very dangerous humour,” agreed the Beau. “It has always been a source of wonderment to me how you persuaded him to relinquish his purpose and return home.”

“I promised to see Plunkett in his stead,” replied Shield. “Like a fool I let him take the path through the spinney.”

“My dear fellow, no one could have expected you to have foreseen that Plunkett would return by that path,” said the Beau gently.

“On the contrary, if he came from Slaugham it was the most natural way for him to take,” retorted Shield. ^:’And we knew he was riding, not driving.”

“So what happened?” breathed Eustacie.

It was Shield who answered her. “Ludovic rode back through the Longshaw Spinney, while I went on towards Furze House. Not ten minutes after we had parted I heard a shot fired in the distance. At the time I made nothing of it: it might have been a poacher. Next morning Plunkett’s body was discovered in the spinney with a shot through the heart, and a crumpled handkerchief of Ludovic’s lying beside it.”

“And the ring?” Eustacie said quickly.

“The ring was gone,” said Shield. “There was money in Plunkett’s pockets, and a diamond pin in his cravat, but of the talisman ring no sign.”

“And it has never been seen since,” added the Beau.

“By us, no!” said Sir Tristram.

“Yes, yes, I know that you think Ludovic has it,” said the Beau, “but Ludovic swore he did not meet Plunkett that night, and I for one do not think that Ludovic was a liar. He admitted freely that he carried a pistol in his pocket, he even admitted that he had fired it—at an owl.”

“Why should he not shoot this Plunkett?” demanded Eustacie. “He deserved to be shot! I am very glad that he was shot!”

“Possibly,” said Sir Tristram in his driest tone, “but in England, whatever it may be in France, murder is a capital offence.”

“But they did not hang him just for killing such a one as this Plunkett?” said Eustacie, shocked.

“No, because we got him out of the country before he could be arrested,” Shield answered.

The Beau lifted his hand. “Sylvester and you got him out of the country,” he corrected. “I had no hand in that, if you please.”

“Had he stayed to face a trial nothing could have saved his neck.”

“There I beg to differ from you, my dear Tristram,” said the Beau calmly. “Had he been permitted to face his trial the truth might have been found out. When you—and Sylvester, of course—smuggled him out of the country you made him appear a murderer confessed.”

Sir Tristram was spared the necessity of answering by the entrance of Sylvester’s valet, who came to summon him to his great-uncle’s presence again. He went at once, a circumstance which provoked the Beau to murmur as the door closed behind him: “It is really most gratifying to see Tristram so complaisant.”

Eustacie paid no heed to this, but said: “Where is my cousin Ludovic now?”

“No one knows, my dear. He has vanished.”

“And you do not do anything to help him, any of you!” she said indignantly.

“Well, dear cousin, it is a little difficult, is it not?” replied the Beau. “After that well-meaning but fatal piece of meddling, what could one do?”

“I think,” said Eustacie with a darkling brow, “that Tristram did not like my cousin Ludovic.”

The Beau laughed. “How clever of you, my dear!”

She looked at him. “What did you mean when you said he must show me his collection?” she asked directly.

He raised his brows in exaggerated surprise. “Why, what should I mean? Merely that he has quite a notable collection. I am not a judge, but I have sometimes felt that I should like to see that collection myself.”

“Will he not let you, then?”

“Oh, but with the greatest goodwill in the world!” said the Beau, smiling. “But one has to remember that collectors do not always show one quite all their treasures, you know!”

Chapter Two

Sir Tristram, standing once more beside Sylvester’s bed, was a little shocked to perceive already a change in him. Sylvester was still propped up by a number of pillows, and he still wore his wig, but he seemed suddenly to have grown frailer and more withdrawn. Only his eyes were very much alive, startlingly dark in his waxen face.

Sir Tristram said in his deep voice: “I’m sorry, sir: I believe my visit has too much exhausted you.”

“Thank you, I am the best judge of what exhausts me,” replied Sylvester. “I shan’t last much longer, I admit, but by God, I’ll last long enough to settle my affairs! Are you going to marry that chit?”

“Yes, I’ll marry her,” said Shield. “Will that content you?”

“I’ve a fancy to see the knot well tied,” said Sylvester. “Fortunately, she’s not a Papist. What do you make of her?”

Sir Tristram hesitated. “I hardly know. She’s very young.”

“All the better, as long as her husband has the moulding of her.”

“You may be right, but I wish you had broached this matter earlier.”

“I’m always right. What did you want to do? Come a-courting her?” jibed Sylvester. “Poor girl!”

“You are forcing her to a marriage she may easily regret. She is romantic.”