XXX

Digby Groat made an unexpected journey to the west. A good general, even in the hour of his victory, prepares the way for retreat, and the possibility of Kennett Hall had long appealed to Digby as a likely refuge in a case of emergency.

Kennett Hall was one of the properties which his mother had inherited and which, owing to his failure to secure her signature, had not been prepared for transfer to the land syndicate. It had been the home of the Danton family for 140 years. A rambling, neglected house, standing in a big and gloomy park, it had been untenanted almost as long as Digby could remember.

He had sent his car down in the early morning, but he himself had gone by train. He disliked long motor journeys, and though he intended coming back by road, he preferred the quietude and smooth progress of the morning railway journey.

The car, covered with dust, was waiting for him at the railway station, and the few officials who constituted the station staff watched him go out of the gate without evidence of enthusiasm.

“That’s Groat who owns Kennett Hall, isn’t it?” said the porter to the aged stationmaster.

“That’s him,” was the reply. “It was a bad day for this country when that property came into old Jane Groat’s hands. A bad woman, that, if ever there was one.”

Unconscious of the criticisms of his mother, Digby was bowling up the hill road leading to the gates of Kennett Hall. The gates themselves were magnificent specimens of seventeenth-century ironwork, but the lodges on either side were those ugly stuccoed huts with which the mid-Victorian architect “embellished” the estates of the great. They had not been occupied for twenty years, and bore the appearance of their neglect. The little gardens which once had flowered so cheerfully before the speckless windows, were overrun by weeds, and the gravel drive, seen through the gates, was almost indistinguishable from the grassland on either side.

The caretaker came running down the drive to unlock the gates. He was an ill-favoured man of fifty with a perpetual scowl, which even the presence of his master could not wholly eradicate.

“Has anybody been here, Masters?” asked Digby.

“No, sir,” said the man, “except the flying gentleman. He came this morning. What a wonderful thing flying is, sir! The way he came down in the Home Park was wonderful to see.”

“Get on the step with the driver,” said Digby curtly, who was not interested in his servitor’s views of flying.

The car drove through a long avenue of elms and turned to breast a treeless slope that led up to the lower terrace. All the beauty and loveliness of Somerset in which it stood could not save Kennett Hall from the reproach of dreariness. Its parapets were crumbled by the wind and rain of long-forgotten seasons, and its face was scarred and stained with thirty winters’ rains. Its black and dusty windows seemed to leer upon the fresh clean beauty of the world, as though in pride of its sheer ugliness.

For twenty years no painter’s brush had touched the drab and ugly woodwork: and the weeds grew high where roses used to bloom. Three great white seats of marble, that were placed against the crumbling terrace balustrade, were green with drippings from the neglected trees; the terrace floor was broken and the rags and tatters of dead seasons spread their mouldering litter of leaves and twigs and moss upon the marble walk where stately dames had trodden in those brave days when Kennett Hall was a name to inspire awe.

Digby was not depressed by his view of the property. He had seen it before, and at one time had thought of pulling it down and erecting a modern building for his own comfort.

The man he had called Masters unlocked the big door and ushered him into the house.

The neglect was here apparent. As he stepped into the big bleak entrance he heard the scurry and scamper of tiny feet and smiled.

“You’ve got some rats here?”

“Rats?” said Masters in a tone of resignation, “there’s a colony of them, sir. It is as much as I can do to keep them out of my quarters, but there’s nothing in the east wing,” he hastened to add. “I had a couple of terriers and ferrets here for a month keeping them down, and they’re all on this side of the house.” He jerked his head to the right.

“Is the flying gentleman here?”

“He’s having breakfast, sir, at this minute.”

Digby followed the caretaker down a long gloomy passage on the ground floor, and passed through the door that the man opened.

The bearded Villa nodded with a humorous glint in his eye as Digby entered. From his appearance and dress, he had evidently arrived by aeroplane.

“Well, you got here,” said Digby, glancing at the huge meal which had been put before the man.

“I got here,” said Villa with an extravagant flourish of his knife. “But only by the favour of the gods. I do not like these scout machines: you must get Bronson to pilot it back.”

Digby nodded, and pulling out a rickety chair, sat down.

“I have given instructions for Bronson to come here: he will arrive tonight,” he said.

“Good,” muttered the man, continuing his meal.

Masters had gone, and Villa was listening to the receding sound of his footsteps upon the uncovered boards, before he asked:

“What is the idea of this, governor? You are not changing headquarters?”

“I don’t know,” replied Digby shortly, “but the Seaford aerodrome is under observation. At least, Steele knows, or guesses, all about it. I have decided to hire some commercial pilots to give an appearance of genuine business to the company.”

Villa whistled.

“This place is no use to you, governor,” he said, shaking his head. “They’d tumble to Kennett Hall⁠—that’s what you call it, isn’t it?” He had an odd way of introducing slang words into his tongue, for he spoke in Spanish, and Digby smiled at “tumble.”

“You’re becoming quite an expert in the English language, Villa.”

“But why are you coming here?” persisted the other. “This could only be a temporary headquarters. Is the game slipping?” he asked suddenly.

Digby nodded.

“It may come to a case of sauve qui peut,” he said, “though I hope it will not. Everything depends upon⁠—” He did not finish his sentence, but asked abruptly: “How far is the sea from here?”

“Not a great distance,” was the reply. “I travelled at six thousand feet and I could see the Bristol Channel quite distinctly.”

Digby was stroking his chin, looking thoughtfully at the table.

“I can trust you, Villa,” he said, “so I tell you now, much as you dislike these fast machines, you’ve got to hold yourself in readiness to pilot me to safety. Again, I say that I do not think it will come to flight, but we must be prepared. In the meantime, I have a commission for you,” he said. “It was not only to bring the machine that I arranged for you to come to this place.”

Villa had guessed that.

“There is a man in Deauville to whom you have probably seen references in the newspapers, a man named Maxilla. He is a rich coffee planter of Brazil.”

“The gambler?” said the other in surprise, and Digby nodded.

“I happen to know that Maxilla has had a very bad time; he lost nearly twenty million francs in one week, and that doesn’t represent all his losses. He has been gambling at Aix and at San Sebastian, and I should think he is in a pretty desperate position.”

“But he wouldn’t be broke,” said Villa, shaking his head. “I know the man you mean. Why, he’s as rich as Croesus! I saw his yacht when you sent me to Havre. A wonderful ship, worth a quarter of a million. He has hundreds of square miles of coffee plantations in Brazil⁠—”

“I know all about that,” said Digby impatiently. “The point is, that for the moment he is very short of money. Now, do not ask me any questions, Villa: accept my word.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked the man.

“Go to Deauville, take your slow machine and fly there; see Maxilla⁠—you speak Portuguese?”

Villa nodded.

“Like a native,” he said. “I lived in Lisbon⁠—”

“Never mind where you lived,” interrupted Digby unpleasantly. “You will see Maxilla, and if, as I believe, he is short of money, offer him a hundred thousand pounds for his yacht. He may want double that, and you must be prepared to pay it. Maxilla hasn’t the best of reputations, and probably his crew⁠—who are all Brazilians by the way⁠—will be glad to sail under another flag. If you can effect the purchase, send me a wire, and order the boat to be brought round to the Bristol Channel to be coaled.”

“It is an oil-running ship,” said Villa.

“Well, it must take on supplies of oil and provisions for a month’s voyage. The captain will come straight to me in London to receive his instructions. I dare say one of his officers can bring the boat across. Now, is that clear to you?”

“Everything is clear to me, my dear friend,” said Villa blandly, “except two things. To buy a yacht I must have money.”

“That I will give you before you go.”

“Secondly,” said Villa, putting the stump of his forefinger in his palm, “where does poor August Villa come into this?”

“You get away as well,” said Digby.

“I see,” said Villa.

“Maxilla must not know that I am the purchaser under any circumstances,” Digby went on. “You may either be buying the boat for yourself in your capacity as a rich Cuban planter, or you may be buying it for an unknown friend. I will arrange to keep the captain and the crew quiet as soon as I am on board. You leave for Deauville tonight.”

He had other preparations to make. Masters received an order to prepare two small rooms and to arrange for beds and bedding to be erected, and the instructions filled him with consternation.

“Don’t argue with me,” said Digby angrily. “Go into Bristol, into any town, buy the beds and bring them out in a car. I don’t care what it costs. And get a square of carpet for the floor.”

He tossed a bundle of notes into the man’s hand, and Masters, who had never seen so much money in his life, nearly dropped them in sheer amazement.