I must now, in the progress of the story, give a brief account of what I
may call "The week of rumor," which immediately preceded my
disappearance and plunge into the unknown.
I spent a miserable and agitated evening at Cerne Hall, and went early
to my room. Arthur and Pat joined me there an hour later and for some
time we talked over what the telegram from Morse might mean, until they
retired to their own rooms and I was left alone.
I did not sleep a wink--indeed, I made no effort to go to bed, though I
took off my clothes and wrapped myself in a dressing-gown. The suspense
was almost unbearable, and, failing further news, I determined, at any
cost to the shooting plans of my host, to get myself recalled to London
by telegram. I felt sure that the whole of my life's happiness was at
stake.
The next morning at nine o'clock, just as I was preparing to go down to
breakfast, a long wire was brought to me. It was in our own office
cipher, which I was trained to read without the key, and it was signed
by Julia Dewsbury. The gist of the message was that there were strange
rumors all over Fleet Street about the great towers at Richmond. An
enormous sensation was gathering like a thunder cloud in the world of
news and would shortly burst. Would I come to London at the earliest
possible moment?
How I got out of Cerne Hall I hardly remember, but I did, to the blank
astonishment of my host; drove to the nearest station, caught a train
which got me to Norwich in half an hour and engaged the swiftest car in
the city to run me up to London at top speed. Just after lunch I burst
into the office of the _Evening Special_.
Williams and Miss Dewsbury were expecting me.
"It's big stuff," said the acting editor excitedly, "and we ought to be
in it first, considering that we've more definite information than I
expect any other paper possesses as yet, though it won't be the case for
very long."
I sat down with hardly a word, and nodded to Miss Dewsbury. Her training
was wonderful. She had everything ready in order to acquaint me with the
facts in the shortest possible space of time.
She spoke into the telephone and Miss Easey--"Vera" of our "Society
Gossip"--came in.
"I have found out, Sir Thomas," she said, "that Mr. Gideon Morse has
canceled all social engagements whatever for himself and his daughter.
Miss Dewsbury tells me that it's not necessary now to say what these
were. I will, however, tell you that they extended until the New Year
and were of the utmost social importance."
"Canceled, Miss Easey?"
"Definitely and finally _canceled_, both by letter to the various hosts
and hostesses concerned, and by an intimation which is already sent to
all the London dailies, for publication to-morrow. The notice came up
to my room this morning from our own advertising office, for inclusion
in 'Society Notes'--as you know such intimations are printed as news and
paid for at a guinea a line."
"Any reason given, Miss Easey?"
"None whatever in the notices, which are brief almost to curtness.
However, I have been able to see one of the private letters which has
been received by my friends, Lord and Lady William Gatehouse, of Banks.
It is courteously worded, and explains that Mr. and Miss Morse are
definitely retiring from social life. It's signed by his secretary."
The invaluable Julia nodded to Miss Easey. She pursed up her prim old
mouth, wished me good-morning and rustled away.
"That's _that_!" said Julia, "now about the towers."
"Yes, about the towers," I said, and my voice was very hoarse.
"As my poor friend, Mr. Rolston, discovered," she said bravely, "these
monstrous blots upon London are certainly not for the purposes of
wireless telegraphy. There are half the journalists in London at
Richmond at the present moment, including two of our own reporters, and
it is said that on the immense platforms between the towers, a series of
extraordinary and luxurious buildings has been erected. It is widely
believed that Gideon Morse is out of his mind, and has retired to a sort
of unassailable, luxurious hermitage in the sky."
There was a knock at the door and a sub-editor came in with a long
white strip just torn from the tape machine. I took it and read that the
"Central News Agencies" announces "crowds at base of towers surrounded
by a thirty-foot wall. Callers at principal gate are politely received
by Boss Mulligan, formerly well-known boxer, United States, now in the
service of Gideon M. Morse. Inquirers told that no statement can be
issued for publication. Later. Rumor in neighborhood says that towers
are entirely staffed by special Chinese servants, large company of which
arrived at Liverpool on Thursday last. Growing certainty that towers are
private enterprise of one man, Morse, the Brazilian multi-millionaire."
A telephone bell on my table rang. I took it up.
"Is that Sir Thomas? Charles Danvers speaking"--it was the voice of our
dapper young Parliamentary correspondent, the nephew of a prominent
under-secretary, and as smart as they make them.
"Yes, where are you?"
"House of Commons. Mr. Bloxhame, Member for Budmouth, is asking a
question in the House this afternoon about the Richmond Tower sensation.
The Secretary to the Board of Trade will reply. There's great interest
in the lobby. Special edition clearly indicated. Question will come on
about four."
I sent every one away and thought for a quarter of an hour. Of course
all this absolved me of my promise to Morse. He had played with me,
fooled me absolutely and I had been like a babe in his astute hands.
Well, there was no time to think of my own private grievances. My
immediate duty was to make as good a show that afternoon and the next
day as any other paper. My hope was to beat all my rivals out of the
field.
After all, there were nothing but rumors and surmise up to the present.
The news situation might change in a couple of hours, but at the present
moment I felt certain that I knew more about the affair than any other
man in Fleet Street. I set my teeth and resolved to let old Morse have
it in the neck.
Within an hour or so we had an "Extra Edition" on the streets, and
during that hour I drew on my own private knowledge and dictated to Miss
Dewsbury, and a couple of other stenographers. Poppy Boynton's
experience was a godsend. I remembered her own vivid words of the night
before, and I printed them in the form of an interview which must have
satisfied even that delightful girl's hunger for advertisement.
Incidentally, I sent a man from the Corps of Commissionaires down to
Cerne in a fast motor-car, with notes for two hundred and fifty in an
envelope, and instructions to stop in Regent Street on his way and buy
the finest box of chocolates that London could produce--I remember the
bill came in a few days afterwards, and if you'll believe me, it was for
seventeen pounds ten!
At four o'clock, while the question was being asked in the House of
Commons, and all the other evening papers were waiting the result for
their special editions, my "Extra Special" was rushing all over
London--the "Extra Special" containing the "First Authentic Description
of the City in the Clouds."
"You really are wonderful, Sir Thomas," said Miss Dewsbury, removing her
tortoise-shell spectacles and touching her eyes with a somewhat dingy
handkerchief, "but where, oh, where is William Rolston?"
"My dear girl," I replied, "from what I've seen of William Rolston, I'm
quite certain that he's alive and kicking. Not only that, but we shall
hear from him again very shortly."
"You really think so, Sir Thomas?"--the eyes, hitherto concealed by the
spectacles, were really rather fascinating eyes after all.
"I don't _think_ so, I know it. Look here, Miss Dewsbury"--for some
reason I couldn't resist the temptation of a confidence--"this thing,
this stunt hits me privately a great deal harder than you can have any
idea of. You said that the shadow of the towers was across my path, and
you were more right than you knew. Enough said. I think we've whacked
Fleet Street this afternoon. Well and good. There's a lot behind this
momentary sensation, which I shall never leave go of until it's
straightened out. This is between you and me, not for office
consumption, but," I put my hand upon her thin arm, "if I can help in
any way, you shall have your Bill Rolston."
She turned her head away and walked to the window. Then she said an
astonishing thing.
"If only I could help you to your Juanita!"
"WHAT!" I shouted, "what on earth--"
A page came in with a telegram.
"Addressed to you, Sir Thomas," he said, "marked personal."