sort of person, had been on bad terms with his first wife (who died, as some
said, of neglect), and had then married a flashy South American Jewess with a
fortune. But he must have worked his way through this fortune also with
marvelous rapidity, for he had been compelled to sell the estate to Verner and
had gone to live in South America, possibly on his wife's estates. But Fisher
noticed that the laxity of the old squire was far less hated than the efficiency of
the new squire. Verner's history seemed to be full of smart bargains and
financial flutters that left other people short of money and temper. But though
he heard a great deal about Verner, there was one thing that continually eluded
him; something that nobody knew, that even Saltoun had not known. He could
not find out how Verner had originally made his money.
"He must have kept it specially dark," said Horne Fisher to himself. "It
must be something he's really ashamed of. Hang it all! what is a man ashamed
of nowadays?"
And as he pondered on the possibilities they grew darker and more
distorted in his mind; he thought vaguely of things remote and repulsive,
strange forms of slavery or sorcery, and then of ugly things yet more unnatural
but nearer home. The figure of Verner seemed to be blackened and
transfigured in his imagination, and to stand against varied backgrounds and
strange skies.
As he strode up a village street, brooding thus, his eyes encountered a
complete contrast in the face of his other rival, the Reform candidate. Eric
Hughes, with his blown blond hair and eager undergraduate face, was just
getting into his motor car and saying a few final words to his agent, a sturdy,
grizzled man named Gryce. Eric Hughes waved his hand in a friendly fashion;
but Gryce eyed him with some hostility. Eric Hughes was a young man with
genuine political enthusiasms, but he knew that political opponents are people
with whom one may have to dine any day. But Mr. Gryce was a grim little
local Radical, a champion of the chapel, and one of those happy people whose
work is also their hobby. He turned his back as the motor car drove away, and
walked briskly up the sunlit high street of the little town, whistling, with
political papers sticking out of his pocket.
Fisher looked pensively after the resolute figure for a moment, and then, as
if by an impulse, began to follow it. Through the busy market place, amid the
baskets and barrows of market day, under the painted wooden sign of the
Green Dragon, up a dark side entry, under an arch, and through a tangle of
crooked cobbled streets the two threaded their way, the square, strutting figure
in front and the lean, lounging figure behind him, like his shadow in the
sunshine. At length they came to a brown brick house with a brass plate, on
which was Mr. Gryce's name, and that individual turned and beheld his
pursuer with a stare.