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"Oh, I know the way now, sir, right enough!" he exclaimed. "There's Salthouse marsh to cross, though. I don't know about that." "We shall manage that all right," Gerald declared. "We've more light now, too." They both looked around. During the last few minutes the late morning seemed to have forced its way through the clouds.
The conversation drifted away for a while. Mutual acquaintances entered, there were several introductions, and it was not until the two found themselves together in Kinsley's rooms for a few minutes before parting that they were alone again. Hamel returned then once more to the subject. "Reggie," he said, "if you think it would be of the slightest use, I'll go down to Salthouse to-morrow.
"It was quite a reunion. Andrew was there, and the Duke." Forrest's face darkened. "Meddling fool," he muttered. "Do you know that there are two detectives now in Salthouse? They come and go and ask all manner of questions. One of them pretends that he believes Engleton was drowned, and walks always on the beach and hires boatmen to explore the creeks.
Visitors she knew were not uncommon in the little seaside village, and she would easily be able to keep out of the way of Cecil, if he were still there. The idea seemed to her like an inspiration. She went up to the ticket-office and asked for a ticket for Salthouse. The man stared at her. "Never heard of the place, miss," he said. "It's not on our line."
I feel sure the name was Fentolin." Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass. "Is your St. David's Tower anywhere near a place called Salthouse?" he asked reflectively. "That's the name of the village," Hamel admitted. "My father used to spend quite a lot of time in those parts, and painted at least a dozen pictures down there."
He owed this to drink, of course, as most men do who pile their ships up on the first reef that comes handy. But when he was sober he was a good old fellow. He took me round to the Sailors' Home in Salthouse Lane, and introduced me to the man who ran it. I stayed there six weeks. The Sailors' Home as an institution is not over-popular with seamen, especially with the more improvident of them.
I think I shall stay at home." "By the by, where is your home, Mr. De la Borne?" the Princess asked. "You told me once, but I have forgotten. Some of your English names are so queer that I cannot even pronounce them, much more remember them." "I live in a very small village in Norfolk, called Salthouse," Cecil de la Borne answered.
I am an adventurer, I know," he went on, "but what is one to do who has the tastes and education of a gentleman, and not even money enough to buy a farm and work with one's hands for a living?" The Princess moved to the window and back again. "I, too, Nigel," she said, "have had shocks. Jeanne has come back. She has been at Salthouse all the time."
The very work that he hated seemed to wear an unwonted look of tenderness. Who would keep the books he had kept with something of his father's neatness; who would look after the accounts of "the Rev. Thomas Salthouse," or take charge of "Ex'ors James Shuttleworth, Esqre"? Of course, it was absurd absurd, perhaps, just because it was human.
"I've heerd others say the same thing," he answered, "and yet in Salthouse village we're moderate well satisfied with life. It's them as have too much," he continued, "who rush about trying to make more. A simple life and a simple lot is what's best in this world."
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