Mr. Bathurst Receives a Distinguished Visitor
Anthony Bathurst propped the letter against the side of the matutinal
coffee-pot and read it carefully for the fourth time since he had
received it less than half an hour before. As he finished it he
grimaced deliberately and removed the brown top of his second egg
somewhat absent-mindedly. The letter and envelope were of heavy
cream-laid notepaper—extremely strong and stiff. The heading was
“Hotel Florizel, W.” The letter read as follows: “There will call upon
you to-day—between 11.30 and 12 o’clock—a gentleman who desires to lay
before you a matter of urgent and peculiar importance. Besides this
importance it possesses an exceedingly delicate significance which
will entail your strictest discretion. This gentleman, who is also the
writer of this letter, is aware—upon unimpeachable authority—that in
this last respect you may be thoroughly relied upon inasmuch as your
unique ability is matched by your tact and integrity. Your services in
any circumstances, will be handsomely rewarded—particularly so in the
event of your bringing the affair in question to a successful
conclusion. The writer thoroughly understands that it is not your
practice to undertake work of this kind professionally—yet hopes to
awaken your interest in his case sufficiently intensely for you to
render him the assistance he requires.”
“H’m,” grunted Anthony. “He does, does he?” He pushed his plate on one
side, pulled at his top lip and lit a cigarette. “I wonder who’s been
singing my praises to this gentleman who writes so enigmatically? I
can hardly suppose that he has had any immediate connection with
Scotland Yard that has caused him to run across Detective-Inspector
Goodall—and I haven’t heard that Baddeley has reached the Metropolis
yet—still—after all—it’s a small world and sometimes people link up
quite unexpectedly.” He looked at his watch. It showed the time at
half-past nine. “Two hours before my unknown caller arrives.” He
walked to the bookcase and took down what he always described as his
“Encyclopædia of London.” Turning to the section dealing with
hotels—he found the “Florizel” and rapidly read through the
particulars given. The tariff was extremely high—in every
particular—and it quickly became obvious to him that the hotel
concerned could only be within the range of the comparatively wealthy.
He took the letter from the table again—and gave it yet another close
inspection. The paper was not the hotel notepaper, the address “Hotel
Florizel, W.” having been written at the top by the writer of the
letter. He held the notepaper up to the light—without tangible reward.
The writing was firm and bold—somewhat florid in style and
letter-formation—yet withal—the writing of an educated man. If it had
any special feature it lay in the somewhat ornate formation of the
capital letters. The three “T’s” the “B,” and the “Y”—looked
un-English somehow. There was an ornamentation about them that gave
Anthony much food for consideration. “‘German,’ in my opinion,” he
murmured to himself after a moment or two, “possibly a German
professor who has mislaid his science notebook containing the recipe
for diamond-making. That would account for the heavy demands to be
made upon my powers of discretion! Still—I’m making a mistake
theorising with precious little data to build upon. I’ll go for a
stroll till the time comes for me to receive my mysterious client.” He
put on his hat and went out. He was a firm believer in as much walking
exercise as was humanly possible, as a sure means to physical fitness.
In his case physical fitness coincided completely with mental fitness;
he was a splendid example of the “_Mens sana_” doctrine.
At twenty minutes to twelve—or to be absolutely accurate—at
eleven-thirty-eight, Bathurst heard a car draw up outside his flat. He
quickly walked to the window that commanded the street and looked
down. “Rolls-Royce, eh,” he said to himself, “I’m moving in more
illustrious circles than ever.” A minute or two later there came a
rather peremptory tap upon the door of his room.
“Come in,” he called. His visitor entered at the invitation.
“Have I the pleasure to address Mr. Anthony Bathurst?” he
interrogated.
“You have,” replied that gentleman—indicating the arm-chair with a
graceful gesture—“won’t you sit down?”
The visitor hesitated for a moment—then accepted the proffered seat.
Mr. Bathurst waited imperturbably for him to continue the proceedings.
This was a habit of Mr. Bathurst—he generally found it profitable.
After a second or two that seemed to suggest a certain amount of
uneasiness the caller looked across at Anthony and proceeded.
“Before I state my case, Mr. Bathurst,” he remarked with an air that
may be best described as one of dignified arrogance—“I should like to
preface it with the information that it is my intention to conceal
from you my real identity—it will make no appreciable difference as
far as I can see, to your handling of the case—and it will be a
precaution that will serve to protect many highly-influential
interests. To you, I should prefer to be known as Mr. Lucius,” he
paused as he uttered the name, as though to divine if possible the
effect of his announcement upon the man who listened. Save for a
slight suspicion of the guttural, his English was as faultless as his
dress. The lounge-suit he wore, unmistakably betokened the craft of
Savile Row—whilst his shoes, socks, tie and collar were in complete
harmony and equally irreproachable taste. Mr. Bathurst smiled.
“In that case then,” he said softly, walking again to the window, “I
shall be in a position to continue—almost immediately—a most
interesting little brochure that I have here, upon the habits of that
particular Nematoid worm believed to be the cause of Trichiniasis.”
A bright colour flooded the cheeks of the visitor and the strong line
of his jaw set even more strongly and rigidly. He half-rose to his
feet from the luxurious depths of Mr. Bathurst’s arm-chair, and a wave
of anger took possession of his features. Only momentarily—however. He
sat down again; then with a strong effort succeeded in controlling
himself. “I am to understand, then,” he declared with considerable
hauteur, “that you decline to accept my case?”
“Under those conditions,” replied Mr. Bathurst in honeyed tones, “most
certainly!”
“Nothing, I presume, that I could offer you in the shape of an
inducement would persuade you to take a different view of the matter?”
The suggestion came with an undoubted amount of eagerness.
“I am quite unable to contradict you,” responded Mr. Bathurst.
His visitor allowed an exclamation of impatience to escape his
lips—then rose again from his chair and paced the room nervously. For
a brief period there was silence.
“You will see, I am sure,” continued Anthony, “that it would be worse
than useless for me to undertake a case—with any hope of bringing it
to a successful conclusion—if the identity of my principal were to be
a secret from me. It is tantamount to asking me to fight somebody with
one hand tied behind my back.”
His visitor paused in his pacing—abruptly; then wheeled round upon
Anthony with a vehement gesture.
“You are right,” he declared impulsively, “I ask your pardon, it was
wrong of me to consider even, such a possibility. Wrong—and equally
foolish! I quite understand that in dealing with a case of this
kind—complete confidence must exist between principal and agent.” He
thought for a moment—then went on. “After all, I have done nothing of
which I need be ashamed.” Anthony waved him to the arm-chair again and
pulled up the chair opposite for himself.
“You are aware, I know,” he said quietly, “that I am not a
professional inquiry agent. Your letter this morning told me as much.
At the same time I shall be pleased to hear your story, and if at all
possible, to help you in the matter. Consider me at your service.”
His companion inclined his head—then raised it again and looked
Bathurst directly in the eyes. “It may interest you to know, Mr.
Bathurst,” he commenced, “that you have been addressing The Crown
Prince of Clorania.”
Anthony accepted the intimation with becoming reserve. “I am
honoured,” he murmured. His Royal Highness went on quickly:
“I am not sure whether you are a close student of European history.
That fact, perhaps, is somewhat beside the point. Let it be sufficient
for the moment for me to tell you that in December next I am marrying
the Princess Imogena of Natalia. This union, it is confidently
believed by all who are competent to judge, will bind Clorania and
Natalia, in an irrevocable alliance. It is also, I may inform you, a
love-match.” He coughed, looked at his hearer, then continued—without
stopping to hear any comments that were tolerably certain in his own
opinion to be superfluous and beside the point. “The Princess is as
charming as she is beautiful and I may tell you that she is considered
by many excellent judges to be one of the six most beautiful girls in
Europe. In other words she is worthy of me, and I am bound to regard
myself as very fortunate to have won the hand of so fair a bride.
There are many also who think that the Princess herself has been
equally fortunate—and I, for one—ahem—will not contest that opinion.”
Once again he cast a shrewdly-quick glance in Anthony’s direction only
to discover thereby that his story was being received with impassive
attention. When he chose, Mr. Bathurst’s face could be supremely
enigmatic. He chose at this moment! The result was that the Crown
Prince seemed less sure of himself than ever.
“What I have to say now is not at all easy for me. In fact I am quite
prepared to admit that I find it extremely difficult. The Reigning
House of Natalia, I need hardly tell you, would not tolerate for one
moment a marriage for their only daughter, with a Prince whose ‘shield
was not stainless’—like the Tunstall of your wonderful literature. Her
husband must be ‘_sans peur et sans reproche_’ and his blood of the
very purest. They favoured my suit from the first—fulfilling as I did
these vitally necessary obligations. Judge of my annoyance then, Mr.
Bathurst to find myself the recipient of these most insufferable
letters, which I will confess, it was not my original intention to
show you.” He took from his breast-pocket a packet of letters. “There
are five of them in all and they date from nine weeks ago until
now—the latest you will observe according to the post-mark on the
envelope is dated June 22nd—a week ago. Perhaps you would read this
last one, first of all.”
Anthony extended his hand for the letter in question. “Westhampton
post-mark,” he observed—scrutinising the somewhat blurred stamp on the
envelope. His visitor nodded in agreement. Anthony took out the letter
itself. It was undated and bore no address. He read it. The
handwriting spoke of education and culture. “The disinclination of His
Royal Highness to reply to the four letters that he has already
received is neither to his credit nor will it be to his advantage. At
this period of negotiations he should realise that the writer is not
penning these communications simply ‘_pour passer le temps_’. Unless
the £50,000 already demanded is forthcoming by the 9th of next month
the writer will be reluctantly compelled to add yet another Royal
personage to his circle of epistolary acquaintance—the Princess
Imogena of Natalia. But he assures His Royal Highness that the course
of conduct thus indicated would occasion him extreme regret. His Royal
Highness is fully aware that he is still allowed to choose his own
method of transmitting the required sum—provided that such method is
communicated to the writer through the ‘Agony Column’ of the ‘Times.’”
Bathurst wrinkled his brows, “This doesn’t tell me all,” he exclaimed.
“May I look at the first letter of the series?” He extended his hand.
The Crown Prince looked through his packet of envelopes and handed
over the required letter. “Tranfield post-mark this time,” declared
Anthony. “What date is this?” He looked at the post-mark very
carefully. “April twenty-third—‘Tranfield.’ Let me think for a
moment—Tranfield is only a few miles from Westhampton, I fancy.”
“You are right,” replied his Royal visitor, “nine—to be precise.”
The opening letter of the batch was much less shadowy—and far more to
the point. “My dear Crown Prince,” it ran with cavalier camaraderie,
“you are entering the matrimonial state next December. That is to
say—perhaps—for ‘there’s many a slip!’ What would the Princess Imogena
of Natalia say to a full story of your disgraceful ‘_affaire_’ of the
last year or so with a certain lady, whose identity for the time being
need not be disclosed. However, my gay and gallant lover, there is no
especial need for uneasiness on your part. £50,000 will seal eternally
my rosebud lips.” Similar directions to those in the letter that
Anthony had just previously read were laid down concerning the
transmission of the money. Bathurst looked at his client with judicial
thoughtfulness.
“Far be it from me,” he murmured, “to trespass on Your
Highness’s—shall we say—confidence”—he tapped the letter with his
forefinger interrogatively . . . waiting quietly—yet with
determination. Mr. Bathurst was nothing, if not delicate in affairs of
this nature.
A dull red colour suffused the cheeks of the Crown Prince. “I am a
man,” he declared with a touch of petulant anger in his tone, “who has
always proved a strong and irresistible attraction to the opposite
sex. But believe me, I am no Lothario. This incident—for I have no
doubt in my mind that I know the ‘_affaire_’ to which reference is
made here—was perhaps unfortunate but certainly cannot with truth be
termed ‘disgraceful.’ The lady and I parted upon perfectly agreeable
terms some months ago now and upon that happening I imagined that the
incident was permanently closed. I trust that you will not find it
necessary to ask the lady’s name. I am a man of honour.”
Anthony pulled at his lip. “Are there any—er—documentary indiscretions
relative to the affair still in existence?”
The Prince moved uneasily in his chair. “The lady may have kept the
letters,” he responded, “women are notoriously careless in these
matters.”
“Anything else?” queried Anthony.
“There was a photograph,” replied His Highness, lamely.
“Of you?”
“Of the two of us—taken together—unfortunately.”
“Dear me,” ventured Anthony, “how indiscreet of you—that does
complicate matters, to be sure!” He held out his hand for the three
remaining letters and read each one through with care. “These three
bear the London post-mark, I notice,” he declared, “there’s nothing to
help me much there, Your Highness! Westhampton and Tranfield as we
agreed, are adjoining. It is quite feasible therefore that the
starting-point of our investigation may lie in that district. Have you
any reason to believe that this may be so? Possibly, if you are frank,
you can help me.”
His visitor hesitated a moment or two before framing his reply. “Mr.
Bathurst,” he declared, “I want you to ferret out this dirty
blackmailer and put matters right for me. I realise therefore that it
is incumbent upon me to be _quite_ frank. In reply to your question
then—as to whether I can help you. I have only been to Westhampton
once in my life. That was a year ago last February. I attended the
Hunt Ball there—but my incognito was strictly maintained. To Tranfield
I have never been!”
Anthony went straight to the point. “Did the lady in question
accompany you?”
“No,” replied the Crown Prince, “she did not. But I——” he
stopped—seemingly at a momentary loss for words.
“Was she there?” asked Anthony, quick to seize the point. The Crown
Prince bowed his head in assent. “It would appear then—that, as I
foreshadowed—the root of the matter lies at Westhampton? Do you
agree?” He eye the Crown Prince with intentness.
“It may—very possibly,” came the answer. “On the other hand it may be
merely a coincidence. I visited many more places with the lady than
Westhampton—as I stated, I have only been in that particular place
once.”
“You may be right, of course,” conceded Anthony. “Where was the
photograph taken?”
“At Seabourne—last summer.”
“By——?”
“A gentleman who was staying in the same hotel. With my own camera. He
obliged me by taking it. It was a wish of the lady.”
“Can you recollect this gentleman’s name?”
The Crown Prince of Clorania frowned as though he found the questions
distasteful and disconcerting. “I think it was a Captain Willoughby.
I’m not altogether sure. Naturally I wasn’t taking a prominent part in
the social life of the hotel at the time.”
“What was the name of the Hotel?”
“The Cassandra.”
“Your Highness still desires to keep the identity of the lady a
secret?”
“I have no option.”
“Very well,” said Anthony. “Leave these letters with me and I will do
my best for you. Firstly, however, will you permit me to make a
suggestion?”
“Yes, certainly!”
“Set a trap for your unknown correspondent. Lure him into it—then
leave him to the tender mercies of Scotland Yard.”
The Crown Prince shook his head. “I’ve thought of that, but I fear the
consequences. Some of the story would be certain to become public. I
cannot afford it to. I must avoid that at all costs.”
“Pay the sum demanded, then,” ventured Anthony.
“Fifty thousand pounds?” exclaimed his client in amazement, anger
conflicting with incredulity in his voice. “You must be unaware of my
very limited resources. Comparatively speaking, Mr. Bathurst, I am a
poor man.”
“You will give me ‘_carte blanche_’ naturally?” said Anthony.
“As long as you maintain the strictest secrecy—you may act in whatever
way you choose. Personally, I shall let nothing stand in my way. And
if you are successful—rest assured that your services will never be
forgotten. I am a Vilnberg—we have long memories for those who serve
us well. Only remember—time is getting short. December is not so very
far ahead.”
He bowed, turned pompously and Anthony heard his decisive step
descending the stairs.
Walking to the window, Bathurst watched the magnificently-liveried
chauffeur open the door of the car—usher his master to his seat
therein with perfect obsequiousness, then drive off quickly and almost
noiselessly. With a semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders Anthony
returned to his desk. Then he read through the five threatening
letters again—with even more care and attention than before. After a
little time thus expended, one fact began to stand out clearly from
the correspondence and make a deep impression upon his mind. The
threats contained in the letters were all indefinite—limited to the
“telling of a story,” to “forwarding information of a most interesting
and important nature,” “to acquainting a certain Royal lady with
highly-important facts,” “to extending a circle of epistolary
acquaintance.” He was unable to find any mention whatever of the
possession for instance, of such a definite thing as a photograph—also
there was no hint of the existence of compromising letters. “Seems to
me,” muttered Anthony to himself, “that the strongest weapon this
letter-writing gentleman possesses is the Crown Prince’s
conscience—and he probably knows it.” He reached down for his A.B.C.
and quickly flicked the pages for Westhampton. Then he turned back to
Tranfield, which place he discovered was served at intervals by a
local train service from Westhampton. “I can’t run down before next
Friday,” he said to himself after consulting his diary, “it’s
impossible for me to touch it till then.” He filled the bowl of his
pipe and watched the flame of the match curl fiercely round the brown
shreds of tobacco, “What happened exactly,” he asked himself, “at the
Hunt Ball at Westhampton a year ago last February?”