The Winding Stair

CHAPTER I

Flags and Pedigree


I have finished work for the week. I’ll see no one else were he as terse as Tacitus,” cried Mr. Ferguson, the lawyer.

It was six o’clock on a Friday afternoon and a pleasant rustle of the plane trees in the square came through the open window of the office. Mr. Ferguson thought of his cool garden at Goring, with the river running past, and of the fine long day he would have upon the links to-morrow. Gregory, the head clerk, however, held his ground.

“Perhaps if you would look at this card, Mr. Ferguson.”

Mr. Ferguson looked at the size of it.

“By the Lord, no! It’s a woman. She’ll be as prolix as the devil.”

“It’s not a woman,” the stubborn Gregory insisted.

“Then it’s a foreigner, and that’s worse.”

“It’s not even a real foreigner,” said Gregory. He had been a servant of the firm for thirty years, and knew the ins and outs of its affairs as thoroughly as the principals.

“You are very annoying, Gregory,” said Mr. Ferguson, with a sigh. He took the card regretfully, but when he had read the name printed upon it, he dropped it upon his table as if it had stung his hand.

“Paul Ravenel!” he said in a low voice, with a glance towards the door. “The son.”

“Yes.”

“Is he like the father?”

“Not in the least.”

Mr. Ferguson was distressed. It was nine years since he had finished with that affair, settled it up, locked it away and turned his back on it for good—as he thought. And here was the son knocking on his door.

“I must see him, I suppose. I can do no less,” he said, but as Gregory turned towards the door he stopped him. “Why should Paul Ravenel come to see me?” he asked himself. “And how much does he know? Wait a moment, Gregory. I have got to go warily here.”

He sat down at his desk. Mr. Ferguson was a man, of middle age, with a round, genial face and a thick covering of silver-white hair. He looked like a prosperous country gentleman, which he was, and he had the reputation of the astutest criminal lawyer of his day. He was that, too. His kindly manner concealed him, yet he was not false. For he was at once the best of friends, with his vast experience of the law as a sort of zareeba for their refuge, and the most patient and relentless of antagonists; and he had a special kindliness which showed itself conspicuously in his accounts, for all connected with the arts. It was an old friendship which was troubling him now as he sat at his desk. Paul Ravenel, according to his knowledge, would take this or that line in the interview, Mr. Ferguson must be clear as to how in each case he should answer. Problems were his daily food—at least until six o’clock on Friday evening. Yet this problem he met with discomfort.

“You can show him in now,” he said to Gregory, and a few seconds later the visitor stood within the room, a tall slim youth, brown of face and with hair so golden that the sun seemed to have taken from it the colour which it had tanned upon his cheeks.

“You wish to see me, Mr. Ravenel?” he asked, and a smile suddenly broke upon the boy’s face and made him winning. Mr. Ferguson made a note in his mind of the smile, for he had not as yet its explanation.

“Yes,” answered Paul. “I should have been more correct in approaching so prominent a firm, had I written asking for an appointment. But I only landed in England this morning, and I couldn’t really wait.”

His formal little prepared apology broke down in a laugh and an eager rush of words.

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Ferguson pleasantly. “Take a chair and tell me what I can do for you.”

“You knew my father,” said Paul, when he had laid down his hat and stick and taken his seat. Mr. Ferguson allowed himself a sharp glance at the lad. For his tone was without any embarrassment at all, any shame or embarrassment. He was at his ease.