A PRODIGAL SON
Loth as he might have been inclined to admit it, Dr. Varney was by no
means ill-pleased with his share of the adventure. He felt that a man
like himself, who knew everything, would be decidedly useful. And how
much he really did know Jessie would have been startled to know. For
here was a man who had a great practice amongst politicians, and
statesmen especially. He walked quietly back to the house now and
entered the salon as if looking for somebody. His shrewd face was grave
and thoughtful. He found his man at last--a tall, grizzled man, who bore
some kind of likeness to a greyhound. He was in a measure a greyhound,
for he had been a queen's messenger for many years.
"I thought I should find you about somewhere," the doctor said. "I want
a few words with you, Lechmere. Let us go into the garden and smoke a
cigarette."
"Always delighted to chat with you, Varney," Lechmere said. "Come along.
Now, what is it?"
"_Re_ the Countess Saens," Varney said. "You know the woman I mean?"
"Certainly I do. Lives in a big house in Connaught Crescent. Not her own
house, by the way. Dresses magnificently, gives wonderful parties, and
always has the last new thing. Handsome woman, too, and goes everywhere.
But nobody knows anything about her."
"I came to you for a little information on the point, Lechmere."
"Well, as a matter of fact I can give it to you, Varney. There are very
few of the foreign colony in London whose history I haven't ready for
docketing. Many a useful hint have I given the Foreign Office and
Scotland Yard. Ever hear of Saul Marx, the famous cosmopolitan spy--I
mean the man who saved that war between France and Germany?"
"Of course I have heard of Marx. Who hasn't? But what has that to do
with the business?"
"Well, he told me all about the charming countess. She began life in
Warsaw in a company of strolling players. Afterwards she married one of
the most noted scamps in Paris, who wanted a pretty wife as a pawn in
some game of his. The fellow ill-treated her horribly, but he taught her
everything in the way of the predatory life that was to be learnt.
Finally, the husband died under very strange circumstances, and between
ourselves, Marx says that the woman murdered him. After that she
narrowly escaped a long term of imprisonment over the Malcolm-Sin
diamond business, and then for a long time nothing was heard of her till
she turned up as Vera Olpheut, the famous anarchist speaker. She was
expelled from Russia, which was all a blind, seeing that she is one of
the cleverest spies that the Russian police ever employed. Her ladyship
is after a very big game now, or she would not be spending all that
money. An adventuress like that never pays her tradesmen as a rule, but
I know for a fact that the household bills are discharged regularly
every week."
"You are quite sure of those facts?" Varney asked.
"My dear fellow, you can take them as gospel. Marx never makes a
mistake. Why do you ask?"
"I am merely a seeker after information. I may be in the way of putting
a spoke in the lady's wheel a little later on, perhaps. Have you heard
of that business at the Foreign Office?"
"I heard of it just now; in fact, I looked in here to see if Merehaven
could tell me anything about it. How those newspapers get hold of these
things puzzles me. But I don't suppose it is true that poor old Dick
Lancing committed suicide at his club, and----"
"It's perfectly true, Lechmere. I was in the club directly after, and I
followed on to Charing Cross Hospital, only to find that I was too late.
What you say about the newspapers is absolutely correct. But, unless I
am greatly mistaken, the newspaper containing the startling report in
question will help me over this matter. I am going to make a proposal to
Lord Merehaven."
"I've been trying to get at him. But the Austrian Ambassador has held
him fast for the last hour."
"Well, there is plenty of time," Varney went on. "From what I can
understand papers of the utmost importance have been stolen from the
Foreign Office, or they have been sold by some official to the foe. On
the face of it, the charge points to poor Lancing; but one never can
tell. Those papers relate to a kind of understanding with Asturia, and
if Russia gets to know all about it then we are done. Now, let me tell
you a little thing that happened to-night. There was a burglary at
Countess Saens' house, and the thief took nothing but papers. The thief
was a woman, who obviously went to the countess' for the very purpose
of obtaining possession of those papers. Now, it is only a theory of
mine, but I feel pretty sure that the papers have to do with the Foreign
Office scandal. If we get to the bottom of it, we shall find that the
countess inspired the paragraph that the _Evening Mercury_ had to-night.
Do you happen to know anything about the editor of that sheet?"
"Fellow named Hunt, an American," Lechmere replied. "As a matter of
fact, the _Mercury_ is an American paper, the first start of an attempt
to capture the English Press. You know how those fellows boast. I've met
Hunt several times in society."
"Did you ever happen to meet him at Countess Saens' house?" Varney
asked.
Lechmere turned over the question before he replied. On consideration he
had seen Hunt twice at the house in question. Not that that was very
material, because all sorts and conditions of men flocked to the
countess' evening parties. But Varney thought otherwise.
"At any rate, the fact fits in well with my theory," he said. "I shall
be greatly surprised if we fail to find a connection between the
countess and that sensational story in to-night's _Mercury_. I shall
make it my business to meet this man Hunt. Well, what is the matter?" A
breathless footman stood before Varney, and stammered out something to
the effect that Lord Merehaven had sent him here hot-foot in search of
the doctor. A gentleman had been taken suddenly ill. The rest of the
guests did not know anything about it, and the gentleman in question lay
in a state of collapse in his lordship's study. Would Dr. Varney come
at once. Varney was on his way to the house before the footman had
finished his halting explanation.
The study door was locked, but it was opened immediately on Varney
whispering his name. In a big armchair a white-haired man in evening
dress was lying back in a state of collapse. By his side stood Lord
Merehaven, looking anxious and bewildered, whilst Ronald Hope was trying
to force a little brandy between the lips of the unconscious figure in
the chair.
[Illustration: "_Ronald Hope was trying to force a little brandy between
the lips._"]
"Thank goodness you have come, Varney!" Lord Merehaven said shakily.
"It's poor old Reggie Lancing. He simply walked into here dragging on
Hope's arm, and collapsed. He said something to the effect that his boy
had committed suicide, and some rubbish about missing papers. What does
it mean?"
Varney was too busy to answer the question. He removed Sir Reginald's
collar and turned down the neckband. Meanwhile the patient was breathing
heavily.
"Put him flat on the floor," Varney said. "It's not quite so bad as it
looks. A seizure from over-excitement, or something of that kind. Give
me a pen and ink and paper."
Varney hastily scribbled some formula on a sheet of note paper, and
directed that it should be taken to a chemist and be made up at once.
Till he could administer the drug he could do nothing. There was a wait
of half an hour before the footman returned. Then the drug was coaxed
between the stricken man's teeth, and presently he opened his eyes once
more. He was terribly white and shaky, and he seemed to have some
difficulty in getting out his words.
"It's the disgrace, Merehaven," he said--"the dreadful disgrace. To
think that a son of mine could have been guilty of such a thing! I would
not have believed it; it came to me quite as a shock--that paragraph in
the late _Mercury_. I went to look for my son at once, but he had paid
the penalty already. He had shot himself, Merehaven--shot himself--shot
himself."
The old man repeated the last words again and again in a feeble kind of
way. Lord Merehaven was sympathetic enough, but utterly puzzled. He
looked at the other and shrugged his shoulders.
"Is this a mere delusion?" he asked. "You don't mean to say that Asturia
business----"
The speaker paused, conscious that he was perhaps saying too much.
Varney hastened to explain, to Merehaven's horror and astonishment.
Positively, this was the first that he had heard of it. And if Captain
Lancing had shot himself that was proof positive.
"Good heavens! what a terrible business altogether!" Lord Merehaven
cried. "And the mischief that may have been done here! I must see the
King of Asturia at once, late as it is, though goodness knows where I am
to look, seeing that the king is----"
The speaker paused, and Ronald Hope took up the thread of the
conversation.
"It may be possible, my lord," he said, "that his majesty is nearer at
hand than you suppose."