+Told by "Cecil Addington" and Set Down by George A. Raper.+
A remarkable drama of modern life, showing the pitfalls that lie
in wait for well-connected and inexperienced young men, and that
even to-day, in the heart of London, a man may go in peril of his
life. For obvious reasons the names of the people concerned have
been changed, but the correct names of all the parties have been
supplied to us in confidence.
I write this record of a strange chapter in my life with a double
motive. It may serve, firstly, as a warning to others who find
themselves placed in what I once regarded as my enviable position.
Secondly, it ought to have a wider usefulness in opening people's
eyes to the very real dangers that lurk under the surface of London
life. Had anyone told me, two years ago, that a man living in peaceful
England could be in daily danger of assassination at the hands of an
organized gang of villains, I should have found no words strong enough
to express my disbelief. Still less would I have supposed that I, Cecil
Addington, a strong, vigorous young Englishman, would ever go about in
constant dread of murderous violence. Many who read my story will treat
it as the outcome of a disordered imagination and refuse to believe
that the forces of civilization are powerless to protect a man whose
death has been deliberately planned. I wish I could share this belief;
but, unfortunately, my experience points the other way. I have come to
know that there are to-day, in London, men who would not hesitate to
commit murder if it could be done without undue risk to themselves,
and who have enough devilish ingenuity to reduce that risk almost to
vanishing-point.
But I had better begin at the beginning and tell my story simply and
straightforwardly, just as it happened, merely warning the reader that,
though I am relating actual facts, I have, for obvious reasons, used
fictitious names.
In May, 1906, having got away from Cambridge for a few days, I was
enjoying myself in town. I was doing it in a very small way and
under a sense of injustice, for I had nothing like the means at my
disposal that I considered my due. In six months' time, on reaching
my majority, I was to come into possession of thirty thousand pounds
under my mother's will, and yet I had still to get along as best I
might on a poor undergraduate's allowance from my father. He and I
did not hit it off at all well. I was rather stage-struck, and had
made up my mind that an actor's life was the life for me. He did not
see it in that light, and was dead set on getting me into the Foreign
Office, where, he argued, I could use my money and 'Varsity education
to some purpose. If I had not been rather "green," and, I may as well
admit, headstrong, I might have seen that he was right. Anyhow, we
quarrelled, and he decided that, though he could not prevent me from
committing what he called social suicide when I became my own master,
he would at any rate put the financial screw on as long as he could.
The result was that I found myself tied down to the smallest possible
allowance, continued only on condition that I remained at Cambridge.
I was plainly told, moreover, that if I were fool enough to throw up
everything and go on the stage, I should have to exist as best I could.
This gave me "furiously to think," as they say in France. I had sense
enough to realize that budding actors do not fall on their feet at
once, and that I should very likely be most unpleasantly hard up long
before the blessed day came when I could open a bank account of my own.
At the same time I was irritated at being kept in leading-strings, and
my greatest desire was to find some way of circumventing my cautious
parent.
In this frame of mind I set off to London one Friday to spend a
week-end and a few pounds I happened to have in hand. Archie Hunter,
one of my college chums, who was to have gone with me, managed to
sprain his ankle the day before and had to stay indoors. I was half
inclined to give up the expedition, but, chafing as I was under a sense
of restraint, it seemed feeble to let my plans fall through on account
of an absurd accident, and it was with a secret feeling of satisfaction
at my own determination that I got out of the train at King's Cross,
though I was beginning to feel that I might not enjoy myself so very
much, after all, without a comrade.
I spent most of the afternoon hunting up fellows of my acquaintance
in the West-end, and not finding them. Not knowing how to fill up the
interval before dinner, I dropped into a well-known restaurant and
sought solace in a whisky and soda and a cigarette. There were very
few people in the bar--only a knot of two or three men discussing
racing--and I sat, feeling a trifle lonely and not anticipating much
fun for the evening. While I was cogitating the door opened and a
well-dressed man came in. At the first glance I took him to be a
retired Army officer. His hair and moustache were iron-grey, and,
though he might have been well on the wrong side of forty, he looked
every bit as active and supple as myself. His features were remarkably
handsome, and he had an unmistakable air of good breeding, combined
with the easy bearing of an experienced man of the world; in fact, he
was just such a type as youngsters like myself secretly envy and take
as their model. He glanced carelessly at me as he came in, ordered a
whisky and soda, and, standing near me at the bar, took a long pull at
his drink, after which he reached over the bar to take a match. As he
did so his arm touched my glass and overturned it.
[Illustration: "HIS ARM TOUCHED MY GLASS AND OVERTURNED IT."]
He was profuse in his apologies.
"How awfully careless of me!" he exclaimed. "I am so sorry. Hope I
haven't spilt any of the stuff over your clothes?"
I answered that it was not of the slightest consequence, but he
continued to excuse himself, and insisted on having my glass refilled,
in spite of my protests. In another two minutes we were chatting
away as if we had known each other for years. My new friend proved
a delightful companion. He seemed to have been everywhere worth
mentioning and to know all sorts of celebrities. He had a way of
keeping the talk on the subjects which most interested me, and I felt a
secret satisfaction at talking on equal terms with a man so much older
and cleverer than myself. Although I did not realize it at the time,
he was one of those accomplished conversationalists who do not appear
to be saying much, but manage to make the other fellows think they can
talk rather well. He soon found out that I was a Cambridge man, and as
he turned out to be an old Cantab himself, that was another bond of
union between us. We exchanged cards, and I found that his bore the
name of "Captain Wyngate."
We got on so uncommonly well together that I was quite annoyed to find
it was half-past seven, and that I should soon have to think about my
solitary dinner.