The Red House Mystery Read Free Page B

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 mother's money,
400 pounds a year, old Gillingham looked up from the "Stockbreeders'
Gazette" to ask what he was going to do.
    "See the world," said Antony.
    "Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to."
    "Right," said Antony.
    Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony was a younger son, and,
on the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets of certain
other families; Champion Birket's, for instance. But, then, Champion
Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.
    Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than London. His
idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries, but people; and to
see them from as many angles as possible. There are all sorts in London
if you know how to look at them. So Antony looked at them—from
various strange corners; from the view-point of the valet, the
newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant. With the
independence of 400 pounds a year behind him, he enjoyed it immensely.
He never stayed long in one job, and generally closed his connection
with it by telling his employer (contrary to all etiquette as understood
between master and servant) exactly what he thought of him. He had
no difficulty in finding a new profession. Instead of experience and
testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet. He would
take no wages the first month, and—if he satisfied his employer—double
wages the second. He always got his double wages.
    He was now thirty. He had come to Waldheim for a holiday, because
he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel
further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter.
Waldheim attracted him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him
and money in his pocket. Why not get out?
    The landlady of 'The George' was only too glad to put him up, and
promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his
luggage.
    "And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir."
    "Yes, but don't give yourself any trouble about it. Cold
anything-you've-got."
    "What about beef, sir?" she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of
meat to select from, and was offering him her best.
    "That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer."
    While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the
luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.
    "It must be rather fun to keep a country inn," he said, thinking that it
was about time he started another profession.
    "I don't know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over."
    "You ought to take a holiday," said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.
    "Funny thing your saying that," said the landlord, with a smile.
"Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only
yesterday. Offered to take my place 'n all." He laughed rumblingly.
    "The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?"
    "That's right, sir. Stanton's the next station to Waldheim. The Red
House is about a mile from here—Mr. Ablett's."
    Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from "The Red
House, Stanton," and signed "Bill."
    "Good old Bill," he murmured to himself. "He's getting on."
    Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist's shop.
Gillingham was on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley on the
other. Something about Bill, his