MR. ADOLPH MEYER, the friend of nations, the associate of kings, and the
hope of the impecunious, had built himself a house on St. George's
Island, off the coast of Hampshire.
As Mr. Meyer's origin was German, and the country of his adoption was
England, it was perhaps natural that he should have gone to Tuscany for
the architecture of his marine residence. Its boldly projecting
cornices, its rusticated base and quoins, the consoles of its upper
windows, all betrayed its Florentine birth; but the lower windows,
reaching to the ground, were such as we associate with the name of
France, and were doubtless intended as a compliment to the great and gay
nation living directly across the water.
To the south, a terrace, bounded by a low wall set with dogs, apparently
petrified by their own ugliness, separated the villa from the beach.
To the west were the orchid houses. To the north, before the front of
the house, lay the bowling green; beyond it a wood, through which ran
the path leading to the landing-stage and the neighbouring island of
Great Britain.
A spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory
containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as
opportunity offered, Mr. Meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the
satellites of Jupiter, the canals on Mars, and other eccentricities of
the heavens.
There was, of course, a fountain--between the bowling green and the
cypress trees. There was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic
import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble
columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of Socrates,
Pallas, Homer, and other appropriate notabilities.
Inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a
millionaire.
Meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone
enough to see him through till the following Saturday, and maturing
Titanic schemes for the Federation of the World and the confounding of
rival financiers.
Once only had he brought a guest with him--an African Pro-Consul--who
had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his
outward-bound ship from Meyer's electric launch.
Each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired.
Occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back.
Other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of
the lord of the island.
One day last April a stranger with a camera rowed across from England.
At the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business
with Mr. Meyer. This was telephoned to the house.
"What business?" came the reply.
"Particular business," said the newcomer.
"What particular business?"
"Pictures," was the answer.
This was transmitted, and the reply taken.
"You can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "Straight up the
path, and through the woods. Turn to the left at the busk of 'Omer."
Ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in
which Mr. Meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic
folio.
He was a short, podgy man, with black curly hair, a rounded nose, and
bright eyes. His moustache and imperial did not conceal the
extraordinary firmness of his mouth and jaw.
He rose as his visitor entered. He was, as usual, attired in a
frock-coat and grey trousers. Once he had been in flannels when an
emergency had arisen demanding City attire, which was not immediately
forthcoming. Mr. Meyer had lost an opportunity in life through
carelessness. Therefore on land he ever afterwards wore a frock-coat,
except when in evening dress or pyjamas. The occasion should never again
find him wanting.
"You wished to see me on business?" he asked. "What is it?"
His visitor, who was cast in a finer, less decided mould--a
good-looking, clean-shaven man of something over thirty--replied:
"I came to ask for permission to photograph the inside of your place."
"You are not from Mr. Holzmann, den?" said Meyer, curtly.
"No."
"You said your business was imbortant."
"So it is--to myself."