MR. BELLWARD IS CALLED TO THE TELEPHONE
A knocking at the door of the library aroused Desmond from his
cogitations. He hastened to replace the volumes of Shakespeare on their
shelf and restore all to its former appearance. Then he went to the
door and opened it. Old Martha stood in the hall.
“If you please, sir,” she wheezed, “the doctor’s come!”
“Oh,” said Desmond, rather puzzled, “what doctor?”
“It’s not Dr. Haines from the village, Mr. Bellward, sir,” said the
housekeeper, “It’s a genel’man from Lunnon!”
Then Desmond remembered Crook’s promise to look him up and guessed it
must be he. He bade Martha show the doctor in and bring tea for two.
Desmond’s surmise was right. The old woman ushered in Crook, looking
the very pattern of medical respectability, with Harley Street written
all over him from the crown of his glossy top-hat to the neat brown
spats on his feet. In his hand he carried a small black bag.
“Well,” he said, surveying Desmond, “and how do we find ourselves
to-day? These chills are nasty things to shake off, my dear sir!”
“Oh, stow that!” growled Desmond, who was in little mood for joking.
“Voice inclined to be laryngeal,” said Crook putting down his hat and
bag on a chair, “we shall have to take care of our bronchial tubes! We
are not so young as we were!”
“You can drop all that mumming, Crook!” snapped Desmond irascibly.
“Voice rotten,” replied Crook calmly surveying him through his
pince-nez. “Really, Major—I should say, Mr. Bellward—you must take more
pains than that. You are talking to me exactly as though I were a
British Tommy. Tut, tut, this will never do, sir! You must talk
thicker, more guttural-like, and open the vowels well.”
He had dropped his jesting manner altogether and spoke with the deep
earnestness of the expert airing his pet topic. He was so serious that
Desmond burst out laughing. It must be said, however, that he laughed
as much like a German as he knew how. This appeared to mollify Crook
who, nevertheless, read him a long lecture against ever, for a moment,
even when alone, quitting the role he was playing. Desmond took it in
good part; for he knew the soundness of the other’s advice.
Then old Martha brought tea, and over the cups and saucers Crook gave
Desmond a budget of news. He told of the warrant issued for the arrest
of Nur-el-Din and of the search being made for her.
Desmond heard the news of Nur-el-Din’s disappearance from London with
some consternation. He began to realize that his failure to detain
Nur-el-Din that afternoon might have incalculable consequences. Sunk in
thought, he let Crook run on. He was wondering whether he ought to give
him a message for the Chief, telling him of Nur-el-Din’s visit and of
her flight on the arrival of Mortimer.
Now, Desmond had a good deal of pride, and like most proud people, he
was inclined to be obstinate. To confess to the Chief that he had let
both Nur-el-Din and Mortimer slip through his fingers was more than he
could face. He could not bear to think that the Chief might believe him
capable of failure, and take independent measures to guard against
possible mistakes. Also, in his heart of hearts, Desmond was angry with
the Chief. He thought the latter had acted precipitately in getting out
a warrant for Nur-el-Din’s arrest before he, Desmond, had had time to
get into the skin of his part.
So Desmond heard Crook out and made no comment. When the other asked
him if he had anything to tell the Chief, he shook his head. He was not
to know then the consequences which his disobedience of orders was
destined to have. If he had realized what the result of his obstinacy
would be, he would not have hesitated to send a full report by
Crook—and this story might never have been written!
But if youth followed reason instead of impulse, the world would stand
still. Desmond was still at an age at which a man is willing to take on
anything and anybody, and he was confident of bringing his mission to a
successful conclusion without any extraneous aid. So Crook, after
changing Desmond’s make-up and giving him a further rehearsal of his
role, packed up his pots and paints and brushes in his black bag and
returned to London with “nothing to report” as the communiqués say.
He repeated his visit every day for the next four days. Crook’s arrival
each afternoon was the only break in the monotony of a life which was
rapidly becoming unbearable to Desmond’s mercurial temperament. He
found himself looking forward to the wizened little man’s visits and
for want of better employment, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the
study of his role under the expert’s able direction. Desmond’s beard
had sprouted wonderfully, and Crook assured him that, by about the end
of the week, the tow substitute, which Desmond found a most unmitigated
nuisance, would be no longer necessary. He also showed his pupil how to
paint in the few deft lines about the eyes which completed the
resemblance between Bellward and his impersonator.
The time hung terribly heavily on Desmond’s hands. He had long since
memorized and destroyed the list of Mr. Bellward’s friends. Every
morning he spent at least an hour before the mirror in his bedroom
working up the role. With every day he felt more confident of himself;
with every day he grew more anxious to go to London, and, taking the
bull by the horns, boldly visit one of Mr. Bellward’s acquaintances and
test the effect of his disguise.
But no orders came from Headquarters to release him from his
confinement. Moreover, no word arrived from Nur-el-Din nor did Mortimer
send any message or call again at the Mill House. The silence of the
two conspirators made Desmond uneasy. Suppose Mortimer, who, he felt
sure, had caught him out lying about Nur-el-Din’s presence in the house
at the time of his visit, had grown suspicious! What if Nur-el-Din had
succeeded in making good her escape to the Continent? He had had his
chance of laying hold of both suspects and he had failed. Would that
chance come again?
Desmond doubted it. Every morning he awoke long before the dawn and lay
awake until daylight, his mind racked by these apprehensions. He chafed
bitterly at his inaction and he plied Crook with questions as to
whether he had any orders for him. Each time Crook replied in the
negative.
In the library Desmond found an Ordnance map of Essex. His military
training had given him a good schooling in the use of maps, and he
spent many hours studying the section of the country about the Mill
House, seeking to impress it upon his mind against future emergencies.
He was surprised to find how remote the Mill House lay from other
habitations. Between it and Wentfield station, once Wentfield village
was passed, there were only a few lonely farms; but to the south there
was an absolutely uninhabited tract of fen traversed by the road
running past the front gate of the Mill House. The Mill House was duly
marked on the map; with a little blue line showing the millrace which
Desmond traced to its junction with one of the broad dykes intersecting
Morstead Fen. The only inhabited house to the south of the Bellward
villa appeared to be a lonely public house situated on the far edge of
the fen, a couple of hundred yards away from the road. It was called
“The Dyke Inn.”
One afternoon—it was the fifth day after Desmond’s arrival at
Bellward’s—Mr. Crook announced that this was to be his last visit.
“I go abroad to-night, Mr. Bellward,” he said (he always insisted on
addressing Desmond by his assumed name), “a little job o’ work in
Switzerland; at Berne, to be precise. Urgent, you might call it, and
really, sir, you’ve made so much progress that I think I can safely
leave you. And I was to say that you will be able to go out very soon
now.”
“Good!” exclaimed Desmond, rubbing his hands together. “And you think
I’ll do, Crook, eh?”
Crook rubbed his nose meditatively.
“I’ll be quite frank with you, Mr. Bellward,” he said: “With a
superficial acquaintance, even with an intimate friend, if he’s as
unobservant as most people are, you’ll pass muster. But I shouldn’t
like to guarantee anything if you were to meet, say, Mrs. Bellward, if
the gentleman has got a wife, or his mother. Keep out of a strong
light; don’t show your profile more than you can help, and remember
that a woman is a heap more observant than a man.
“That’s my advice to you, sir. And now I’ll take my leave! You won’t
want that tow beard any more after to-day.”
That night Desmond slept well and did not awake until the sunshine was
streaming in between the Venetian blinds in his bedroom. He felt keen
and vigorous, and he had an odd feeling that something was going to
happen to him that day.
It was a delicious morning, the air as balmy as spring. As he brushed
his hair in front of the window, Desmond saw the peewits running about
in the sunshine on the fields by the road. He made an excellent
breakfast and then, lighting a pipe, opened the _Times_ which lay
folded by his plate.
He turned first, as was his daily habit, to the casualty list. There it
was! Under the names of the “Killed in Action,” he read: “Okewood,
Major D. J. P.,” followed by the name of his regiment. It gave him an
odd little shock, though he had looked for the announcement every day;
but the feeling of surprise was quickly followed by one of relief. That
brief line in the casualty list meant the severing of all the old ties
until he had hunted down his quarry.
Now he was ready to start.
He spent the morning in the garden. Here, for the first time, he met
Mr. Hill, the odd man, who, on seeing him, became intensely busy
picking up handfuls of leaves and conveying them to a fire which was
smouldering in a corner. Desmond essayed to enter into conversation
with him but the man was so impenetrably deaf that Desmond, tiring of
bawling, “It’s a fine day!” in Mr. Hill’s ear, left him and strolled
over to the shed where the motor-cycle was stored. Here he amused
himself for more than an hour in taking the machine to pieces and
putting it together again. He satisfied himself that the bike was in
working order and filled up the tank. He had an idea that this means of
conveyance might come in useful.
The day was so mild that he lunched by the open window with the
sunshine casting rainbows on the tablecloth through the wine-glasses.
He was just finishing his coffee when the housekeeper came in and told
him he was wanted on the telephone.
Desmond sprang from his chair with alacrity. His marching orders at
last! he thought, as he hurried across the hall to the library.
“Hullo!” he cried as he picked up the receiver.
“Is that Mr. Bellward?” answered a nasal voice.
“Bellward speaking!” said Desmond, wondering who had called him up. The
voice was a man’s but it was not the abrupt clear tones of the Chief
nor yet Mr. Matthews’ careful accents.
“Madame Le Bon wishes to see you!”
Madame Le Bon? thought Desmond. Why, that was the name that Nur-el-Din
had given him. “I am Madame Le Bon, a Belgian refugee,” she had said.
“Do you know whom I mean?” the voice continued.
“Certainly,” replied Desmond. “You will come alone. Otherwise, Madame
will not see you. You understand? If you do not come alone, you will
waste your time!”
“Where are you speaking from?” Desmond asked.
“If you will turn to the left on leaving your front gate,” the voice
resumed, “and follow the road, a messenger will meet you and take you
to the lady.”
“But...” Desmond began.
“Will you come at once? And alone?” the nasal voice broke in sharply.
Desmond took a moment’s thought. To go was to disobey orders; not to go
was to risk losing a second chance of meeting Nur-el-Din. To telephone
to 700 Stanning for assistance would bring a hornets’ nest about his
ears; yet he might only see the dancer if he went alone. He lost no
time in making up his mind. The Chief must allow him latitude for
meeting emergencies of this kind. He would go.
“I will come at once,” said Desmond.
“Good,” said the voice and the communication ceased.
Somewhere aloft there sits a sweet little cherub whose especial job is
to look after the headstrong. It was doubtless this emissary of
providence that leant down from his celestial seat and whispered in
Desmond’s ear that it would be delightful to walk out across the fen on
this sunny afternoon. Desmond was in the act of debating whether he
would not take the motor-bike, but the cherub’s winning way clinched it
and he plumped for walking.
In the hall he met the housekeeper who told him she wanted to go into
Stanning to do some shopping that afternoon. Desmond told her that he
himself was going out and would not be back for tea. Then, picking a
stout blackthorn out of the hallstand, he strode down the drive and out
into the road.
It was still beautifully fine, but already the golden sunshine was
waning and there were little wisps and curls of mist stealing low along
the fields. Desmond turned to the left, on leaving the Mill House, as
he was bid and saw the road running like a khaki ribbon before him into
the misty distance.
Swinging his stick, he strode on rapidly. The road was neglected,
broken and flinty and very soft. After he had gone about a mile it
narrowed to pursue its way between two broad ditches lined with pollard
willows and brimful of brown peaty water. By this time he judged, from
his recollection of the map, that he must be on Morstead Fen. An
interminable waste of sodden, emerald green fields, intersected by
ditches, stretched away on either hand.
He had walked for half an hour when he made out in the distance a clump
of trees standing apart and seemingly in the middle of the fields. Then
in the foreground he descried a gate. A figure was standing by it.
As he approached the gate he saw it was a small boy. On remarking the
stranger, the urchin opened the gate and without looking to right or
left led off down the road towards the clump of trees: Desmond followed
at his leisure.
As they neared the trees, the low red roof of a house detached itself.
By this time the sun was sinking in a smear of red across a delicately
tinted sky. Its dying rays held some glittering object high up on the
side of the house.
At first Desmond thought it was a window, but presently the light went
out, kindled again and once more vanished. It was too small for a
window, Desmond decided, and then, turning the matter over in his mind,
as observant people are accustomed to do even with trifles, he suddenly
realized that the light he had seen was the reflection of the sun on a
telescope or glasses.
They were now within a few hundred yards of the house. The road had
made a right angle turn to the left, but the diminutive guide had
quitted it and struck out along a very muddy cart track. Shading his
eyes, Desmond gazed at the house and presently got a glimpse of a
figure at a window surveying the road through a pair of field glasses.
Even as he looked, the figure bobbed down and did not reappear.
“They want to be sure I’m alone,” thought Desmond, and congratulated
himself on having had the strength of mind to break his orders.
The cart-track led up to a little bridge over a ditch. By the bridge
stood a tall pole, on the top of which was a blue and gold painted
sign-board inscribed, “The Dyke Inn by J. Rass.” The urchin led him
across the bridge and up to the door of the inn.
An undersized, yellow-faced man, wearing neither collar nor tie, came
to the door as they approached. Although of short stature, he was
immensely broad with singularly long arms. Altogether he had something
of the figure of a gorilla, Desmond thought on looking at him.
The man put a finger up and touched his forelock.
“Madame Le Bon is upstairs waiting for you!” he said in a nasal voice
which Desmond recognized as that he had heard on the telephone. “Please
to follow me!”
He led the way across a long low tap-room through a door and past the
open trap-door of a cellar to a staircase. On the first landing, lit by
a window looking out on a dreary expanse of fen, he halted Desmond.
“That’s her room,” he said, pointing to a door opposite the head of the
staircase, half a dozen steps up, and so saying, the yellow-faced man
walked quickly downstairs and left him. Desmond heard his feet echo on
the staircase and the door of the tap-room slam.
He hesitated a moment. What if this were a trap? Suppose Mortimer,
growing suspicious, had made use of Nur-el-Din to lure him to an ambush
in this lonely place? Why the devil hadn’t he brought a revolver with
him?
Then Desmond’s Irish blood came to his rescue. He gave his head a
little shake, took a firm hold of his stick which was a stoutish sort
of cudgel and striding boldly up to the door indicated, tapped.
“_Entrez!_” said a pretty voice that made Desmond’s heart flutter.