The Home Secretary was in his study before a pleasing fire. The
Professor had left him. His daughter was with him. There was no one else
in the room. He had asked her to come down a little earlier that he
might explain things to her. There was yet a quarter of an hour before
they need dress for dinner, and the dread stranger from the Yard might
be with them at any moment. He had warned each of his guests that a
distinguished diplomat had asked to run down to see him at short notice.
The F.O. had sent him on to the Home Office. The matter concerned both
departments. The distinguished diplomat would dine. They must excuse his
retirement with that official, later in the evening, to discuss high
affairs of State.
Such was the fairy tale Humphrey de Bohun had pitched; he hoped it had
gone down. And now he was alone again to discuss the matter with his
only confidant, his daughter.
"Marjorie," he said, "that man Brailton was to come by the six-thirty.
It must be late. I have told them to show him in here at once. It is
exceedingly important you should know all about it, and that nobody else
should. We must hear from him, very briefly, some essential points: for
instance, his assumed name."
"He's all right, papa?" asked Marjorie anxiously.
"Perfectly, my dear, perfectly. Morden assures me ... in fact, Morden
told me that he is actually ..." and then checked himself. He was still
Victorian, was poor Humphrey de Bohun. He didn't like to talk to the
bastards of his own class, and to a daughter at that. "At any rate he's
all right. Elderly, distinguished--what they call cavalier, I'm told,
yes, cavalier.... I've already told Aunt Amelia and Tommy that he's a
diplomat--a fellow I've got to see after dinner.... It's all exact.
Which room did you say?"
"Senlac, papa. Crécy's being repapered."
The Home Secretary nodded solemnly.
"Senlac will do all right. But you must remember, my dear, that this
Mr.--ah!--_Brailton_, that is the name, _Brailton_, is somewhat advanced
in years--and ... and ... I needn't insist ... but a refined man and on
his _father's_ side, of good blood! He will be sensitive."
There was a silence--but not for long. The door was solemnly flung open
with a majesty worthy of the occasion, and the Master of the
Ceremonies--if I may so call him--George Whaley announced in a
controlled but oily voice:
"Mr. Collop!"
Collop? Collop? What was this? The disguise for Brailton?
The father rose to his feet, somewhat painfully, the daughter looked
round. And behold! a man sturdy, broad-shouldered, short, clad, not in
some soft clinging stuff, but in stout Scotch tweed, which--as to his
upper part--was a roomy coat with poachers' pockets, and--as to his
lower--plus-fours. His stockings were thick and ribbed, as fashion in a
certain world demanded at that moment; but his boots were of that
unmistakable sort provided by the Government of the King for his police.
The hair was short, coarse, and thick; the face broad and determined;
the eyes straightforward, grey and far too bold. What the mouth might
really be like only its Creator knew, for it was thatched by a moustache
so bristling, curt, aggressive and sprouting-out that the eye of the
onlooker was fascinated and could not note the ugly lips below.
"Evenin'!" said the Apparition in a powerful voice of low pitch; and as
he said it he bobbed the head and shoulders of him towards the man
who--for a year or two--controlled the peace--and police--of England.
"Evenin', ma'am," added the Apparition with the same jerk of the head
and shoulders towards the Lady of the House. "Cold evenin'? Good fire, I
see!" he added with a charming familiarity. "Pleasant thing evenin's the
likes o' this, a good fire is."
And as he thus delivered himself with all the natural grace and charm of
long experience, his two staggered victims waited for their breaths.
There was but one reply, and the Home Secretary made it pompously and, I
am afraid, a little distantly.
"Good evening, Mr....?"
"Collop," said the stranger, decisively.
"Collop. Ah, yes, Collop. I should have remembered. Mr. Collop, my
dear," he said, bending his head towards his daughter, who stared
astonished and had not yet recovered herself. "Collop. Yes. Mr.
Collop.... Mr. Collop. I understand fully. We are to call you Mr.
Collop."
"Rather!" said that solid individual. "That's my name _here_," and he
winked. "What my name may be elsewhere we both know, eh?" and he winked
again.
[Illustration: _Sudden Entry of Mr. Collop._]
"Ah, Mr. Collop--it is to be Mister, is it not?"
"Yes, Mister," answered the gentleman solemnly, "not Miss nor Master.
Who ye're kidding?" He did not say it insolently. He knew his place. He
knew he was talking to the Home Secretary. He said, "Who ye're kidding?"
by way of a respectful jest.
"Mr. Collop.... Yes.... Mr. Collop...." stuttered the Home Secretary
like a man half stunned. "We expected ... ah! ... you will pardon
me? ... a Mr. _Brailton_; yes, a Mr. _Brailton_.... Eh? Shall
I ... ah! ... if by any accident there should be a mistake?"
"There's no mistake," said the genial Collop, "old Brailton 'twas to be!
You're right there, mister! But he was that sick he asked me to run
down. ''Tis only a suburb job,' says he. So here I am!"
The Home Secretary whispered to his daughter in an agony: "Can't we stop
it? Shall we telephone?"
"Too late now--before dressing," said the despairing girl. "I'll tell
you when I hear."
Her father knew she was right. They must make the best of it. "Put
dinner on in twenty minutes," he whispered to her in an aside; then
aloud to his guest, "What ... ah ... what shall we ... to put it
plainly, Mr. Collop, what shall we say you are?"
"Ah, I've got that all fixed," said Mr. Collop, his voice bravely riding
the air. "Old Brailton told me what he was and I'm that. I'm a diplomat,
I am. Tokio the last four years."
The call on Marjorie's intelligence woke her to action.
"It won't do," she said sharply.
"Why not? Eh?" said Mr. Collop, with less ceremony than might have been
expected from so recent an acquaintance.
"Because," replied the young lady, a little acidly, "one of our guests,
Miss Victoria Mosel, has just come back from Japan. She was there in
September staying with our Ambassadress at Tokio."
"Ah!" said Mr. Collop. "That makes it awkward like."
"I think," began the Home Secretary timidly ... but the stronger will
prevailed.
"Make it Bogotar?" was Mr. Collop's suggestion.
Time, which destroys love itself, and brings mighty states to ruin, the
implacable master of ephemeral man, caught the unfortunate father and
daughter in his iron grip. There was not a moment to spare. And it was
as Mr. Collop, just back from his long but patriotic exile in "Bogotar,"
that the welcome stranger was led out and ritually introduced to the
guests in the next room. There is no need to introduce a guest at such
an hour, but this guest! Oh, yes!
As the master of the house and his daughter were making that
introduction their cup of agony was full.
What made it worse was that McTaggart, being less of a man of the world,
as the saying goes, than the rest of the prisoners, was quite openly
startled, and instead of looking at Mr. Collop's determined face, his
eyes at once fell to the plus-fours, and he said to himself, as his eyes
fell lower still, "Thank God, he hasn't put on those brown boots with
funny little tabs to them! But really! For a detective...." Then he
looked up at the face--and he, of Fleet Street, knew his man.
Lord Galton stared at the Apparition. He could make neither head nor
tail of it. He was not of the Horse Pulling, privileged world. Then he
remembered that your professional politicians had to herd with all
manner of cattle and he shrugged his mental shoulders so violently that
his physical shoulders perceptibly heaved. He turned his back upon the
company and examined a picture until the nervous strain was over.
Victoria Mosel was vastly pleased. It was as good as the Zoo--and she
loved the Zoo. She promised herself an unholy feast and whispered to
Marjorie to put her next the Diplomat at dinner. She was not a woman of
gesture, or of external expression; but she very nearly clapped her
hands for joy. She had seen some funny things in the diplomatic service
in the time of her teeth, which were no longer short, but the like of
this she had never seen; and she thought, as many a contemporary has
thought since Queen Victoria's death, "We're getting on!"
Then she began to speculate within her own clear mind as to how this
monster had got into the diplomatic service at all. But she remembered
certain odd accidents during the war and other people than he who had
suddenly popped up in embassies at the F.O.--quite out of nature; and
just as she had all but clapped her hands, so she now all but whistled.
However, she in fact did neither. Only she looked upon Mr. Collop with a
happy, happy face, and felt that here, at last, was not a wasted day.
The Professor was vastly interested. He said "Bogotar" three times,
beamed, nodded, and then for a fourth time he said "Bogotar"
lingeringly, as though he loved it, and then whispered again, "Ah, yes,
of course. Bogotar." And put his head a little on one side and left it
there.
As for Aunt Amelia, her failing eyes did not distinguish the Apparition,
but her ears distinguished the accent, and the type of English; and she
marvelled feebly that things had changed so much since the days of the
Great Lord Salisbury and Peace with Honour. But of one thing she was
sure. That if the type of man used for delicate missions abroad might
have changed, the policy of Britain was still secure in the hands of
whomever the Secretary for Foreign Affairs might choose to entrust with
that mighty task; and Bogotar (she imagined) was the capital of Ormuzd
and of Ind; barbaric, splendid, and in fee to the British Crown.
"Ah! Shall I show you to your room--eh?" said the Home Secretary
courteously, putting an end to what could not be prolonged. "Ah, let me
show you to your room."
He went so far as to take the terrible thing by the elbow and actually
conduct it out; ... after an interval sufficient, but not too long,
McTaggart followed. He would again be alone. He could not bear to remain
with the rich longer than he was compelled, and now that there was a
detective in the house he would be discovered. Well, let it be so; let
the end come soon.
Now there stood, awaiting McTaggart in the hall, that Devil and that
Angel who had been off duty for a few hours, and were now back again,
fresh and keen, and bickering, as is the wont of such opposed beings of
the other world.
The Angel, seeing his human friend and ward, made him a suggestion at
once:
"You ass!" he blew into McTaggart's ear. "Put it in the Rozzer's
pocket." The Devil began to object violently.
"You shut up!" said the Angel, turning to him annoyed. "I'll come back
and talk to you about it later!" Then he turned again to McTaggart, and
pumped brilliant thoughts into his same ear with such violence that the
young man's soul was all irradiated and full and he suddenly thought
himself a genius. Such is the vanity of man! So little do we recognise
inspiration from on high!
"It's as easy," prompted the Angel, "as falling off a log. All you've
got to do is to say you've met him, and tell him who you are. He'll know
you're from the Press--you look like it--and he'll think he's met you.
_Then_ slip it into his pocket, bully boy! Slip it into his pocket!"
And all the time McTaggart was saying within his own soul: "That's a
brilliant idea! Now I don't suppose anyone else would have an idea like
that! But, there! I'm always getting good ideas at the right time!"
He stalked his host and Collop round the top of the stairs and down the
long passage above.
He saw the door open; he heard the Home Secretary say cheerfully,
"There's a bath through that door. Have you got everything you want? I
hope they've unpacked your things?"
He heard the cheerful voice of Collop reply: "Right-o! Everything in the
garden's lovely!"
He saw the Home Secretary go off with a very changed expression in the
gloom of the passage. He flattened himself in a deep doorway, a little
angry that he should be playing the spy--but necessity drove him. He
waited till he had heard his host go down the stairs; then he knocked at
the detective's bedroom door. Full of angelic inspiration--which human
pride mistook for genius--he entered in.
"Mr. Collop," he said without hesitation, "you know me? Hamish
McTaggart--the Daily Sun? ... You'll excuse me for not using your real
name?" And he smiled.
"Why, Mr. McTaggart, I've heard of you often enough. Where did we meet?
And as for the real name"--he winked--"less said the better! I'm in the
Foreign Office just now. I'm from Bogotar ... How come? When did we
meet?"
"In the Savoy bar," hushed the Angel hurriedly into McTaggart's ear.
"In the Savoy bar," said McTaggart, aloud.
"Not during the Bullingdon case?" said the delighted but indiscreet Mr.
so-called Collop, stretching out both his hands.
"Wink!" pumped the Angel; and Hamish McTaggart winked--for the first
time in his life.
It was a clumsy wink, rather like that of the hippopotamus when he comes
out of the water, in which element the huge pachyderm so serenely
sleeps. But it was good enough for the Secret Service.
"Ah! Mr. McTaggart, Mr. McTaggart!" said Collop, shaking both the
journalist's hands up and down like pump handles. "Well met! Now then,
you'll make a feature of this in the paper, won't you?"
"I'm not here for that," said McTaggart modestly. "I'm only a guest; but
of course I can see that _The Howl_ ..."
"Ah! That's the style, laddie! You'll do!" said the Man of Mystery,
bringing down a palm like a Westphalian ham on the wincing shoulder of
the youth. "A few kind words on the discreet agent, eh? The Bosses'll
note 'em down!" He dived into a pocket. "I've got a flask here!" he
said, and winked in his turn. "What I call my good old prohibition!
We'll drink to it, eh? To think of meeting the likes of you in a 'ouse
like this!"
This last remark wounded McTaggart's pride; but the Angel stood by him,
and they that have angels at their side are firm.
Mr. Collop's dress clothes lay beautifully aligned upon a couch, a shirt
by the side of them; but the owner's brow clouded as he said:
"Where the devil did I put that flask? Curse them slaveys! I do 'ate
'avin' things done for me on these toff jobs!" He buried his head in the
large kit-bag which he had been assured was the proper receptacle or
container to bring to the Palaces of the Rich.
And even as he therein delved and groped, with head hidden in the
kit-bag, the Angel brought it off!
"Attaboy!" urged the Angel to Hamish. "Slip it into the tail-coat
pocket! QUICK!"
And before you could have breathed a silent prayer the Emerald was in
the tail-coat pocket of Mr. Collop's evening tail coat, lying there on
the couch all innocent.
Up came Mr. Collop's head out of the kit-bag, very red and puffy.
"I thought as much, my 'earty," he said. "Dirty tykes! ... There it
was...." And he brought out a gigantic flask holding perhaps a quart of
the detestable beverage. The bottom of it was a silver cup fitted to the
glass, and inscribed, "In grateful memory of the Bullingdon Burglary,
August, 1928" and with the initials B.F. Mr. Collop solemnly half filled
the receptacle, smelt it with delicate _bonhomie_, and handed it to his
guest, who sipped it with the resolution in which a man must face
whatever torture has to be endured.
"Thank you," said Mr. McTaggart, gasping, from his flayed throat.
"Cheerio!" said the Collop man, and he tossed off all that
remained--enough, you would have thought, to have felled an elephant in
stupor!--down his own more acclimatized gullet. Then he brought out a
large tongue, licked his lips, and smacked them.
"Ah, that's something like!" he said. He put the flask and the silver
cup belonging to it down on his table with a happy grunt.
"Well, boy, I've got to dress," he said. "So long! We meet again in the
Khyber Pass, _i.e._, at his Nobship's groaning board!" And he laughed
heartily at his own wit.
McTaggart remembered something essential. "I say, they mustn't know that
I know you!"
"No fear!" said the redoubtable Collop, winking again. "I don't give you
away, nor myself away, nor no one away." He had already taken off his
tweed coat and waistcoat. "You run off and dress, laddie ... You keep
mum. Same here!" And he dug a podgy finger into McTaggart's staggering
chest. And they parted.
* * * * * * *
From her room, interrupting the induing of those three pieces which
formed all her raiment, shaking shorn hair, Marjorie telephoned in a
fever regardless. "The Home Office.... Yes, the Home Office ... No
reply? Oh! Nonsense! ... What, our line gone wrong? D'you mean to say we
can't get London? ... Oh! hell!"
She banged down the receiver ... There's a schlemozzle! Telephone broken
down! Saturday night--the Monster in the Home! And no redress, no aid.
Had she had tears she would have wept. What would come of all this?