"For insertion in a magazine."
"Which makkazine?"
"Any that will take the article--I am not proud. It is important that I
should make some money. I have seen many interesting reproductions of
interiors of the stately homes of England in the periodicals, but never
one of your house. Hence my appearance. I hope I may have your
permission."
"Why should I krant you bermission?" said Meyer. "I live here in
solitude. I do not bring visitors. I do not want dem. Your intrusion is
imbertinent."
His visitor flushed. "Sorry if I have annoyed you," he said; "but it did
not seem such a great favour to ask. Most people are glad to have
pictures of themselves and their houses in the papers."
"Most people are fools, as Dommas Carlyle said. Have you a family?"
"I am not married."
"Dere is no excuse for a sinkle man taking pictures of people's
interiors. It is not de work for a man like you. I shall not encourage
such tomfoolery. No, I do not give you bermission. But stay. Dere is an
orkit from de mittle of Africa of which I should like to have a
picture--de _Cypripedium Meyeri_--a new species which I have had de
satisfaction to detect. Berhaps you would be kind enough to photokraph
it for me, and your journey would not be altokedder lost. Come along.
What is your name, please?"
His visitor handed him a card on which was printed "John Lucas, 140,
Brixton Gardens, London, W."
"You have come a long way," Mr. Meyer observed.
"A very long way, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me look round
your house, even if I may not photograph it. I am interested in domestic
architecture and--er--curios."
Mr. Meyer looked intently at his visitor.
"Yes, Mr. Lucas," he said slowly, "I will also show you round my house,
since you have come so far, and are interested in domestic architecture
and curios. I have blenty of both. Den we will photokraph de orkit."
Mr. Meyer led the photographer through his villa, pointing out its
architectural beauties, and indicating the various treasures which it
contained.
Mr. Lucas was profuse in his expressions of appreciation. "Are you not
afraid of burglars?" he asked.
"I am afraid of noding," replied Mr. Meyer. "Odderwise I should not be
here to-day in dis Tuscan Villa. I have gone into de question of dieves,
and tink I should be able to meet de situation."
They had made a tour of the rooms, had ascended the heights of the
observatory and inspected the electric plant at its base.
"Is dere anyting else you would like to see?" asked Mr. Meyer politely.
"I believe that you collect miniatures. Might I look at them?"
"Come dis way."
In a corner of the marble hall there was a cabinet facing a window.
Meyer stood before it. "See," he said; "I bress dis button, and it
releases de trawers. So."
The shutter flew back, and the drawers were free. Meyer opened them, one
by one, and indicated their contents. "Dey are all choice examples of de
best masters. Dese are Gosways. Dis is an Engleheart," and so on. He
went through the collection till he had shown the last drawer but one.
He was about to close the cabinet when Mr. Lucas asked: "Have you any
Holbeins?"
"One," replied Meyer, "and dere was I necklecting to show it to you. Dis
last trawer is de most imbortant of de lot." He opened it and drew forth
a small square frame. "Here is de latest addition to my collection. A
krand Holbein. You notice de blue backkround, characteristic of dat
kreat master, and de wonderful thin bainting. You can almost see through
it. It is a bortrait of Meyer of Basle, berhaps a relation of mine,
berhaps not. It does not matter. It is a fine picture. Don't you tink
so?"
Lucas handed it back. "I envy you," he said.
"Dere is no need," Mr. Meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'Enfy
no man till he is dead,' said de old Kreek philosopher, and I am very
much alife. Now come to de orkit house, and photokraph de _Cypripedium
Meyeri_."
An hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every
point of the compass, Mr. Lucas made his way to the landing-stage, and
from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to Bournemouth.
On the following Monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off
from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully
beached on the south shore of St. George's Island. Under the protection
of the trees its occupant--none other, indeed, than Mr. John
Lucas--stealthily approached the Tuscan Villa, which stood out in bold
relief in the vivid moonlight.
He gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the
shadow of the balustrade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the
one at which Mr. Meyer was sitting on the preceding Saturday.
There is no use disguising the fact any longer. Mr. Lucas was a burglar,
and he now proceeded to act after the manner of his craft. After
affixing some adhesive material to the pane, he began to cut out a
square of the window. The glass was thick, so the process was long, but
Mr. Lucas toiled at it with a patience and perseverance worthy of a
better cause. Only once did he desist--to follow the suggestion of a
sudden impulse, and try all the windows of the house. But each was
fastened, and Mr. Lucas resumed his original labour.
It was fully an hour before he drew out the square of glass which
enabled him to undo the catch inside. Then nearly as long passed before
the removal of a second square at the foot allowed him to unscrew the
bottom fastening.
The window was open at last, and Lucas stepped inside.
It was the second burglary of his life, and he reflected that so far all
that had happened was greatly to the credit of his professional
abilities. A moment afterwards he was chilled by the later thought that
nothing in particular had happened so far, and that the possibilities of
the near future were very great indeed.
With his stealthy entry into Mr. Meyer's villa the personality of that
gentleman had suddenly oppressed him. At Bournemouth all that day, with
the sun shining, and the band playing popular airs, Mr. Meyer had
occurred to him merely as an eccentric German gentleman; but now, at
something after midnight, in the deathly stillness of his villa, Mr.
Lucas only remembered the Teuton's sharp, decisive utterances, his
piercing glances, and his large general reputation for unpleasantness as
an enemy. Perhaps it was the sight of Mr. Meyer's empty chair that had
brought this train of thought to his mind. The big folio he had been
reading was still at its side. Lucas flashed his electric pocket light
on the open page. "Love's Labour's Lost" met his eyes. This struck him
as ominous.
Lucas pulled himself together. What had he to do with empty chairs, and
old folios, and omens? He was a burglar, out for the night on urgent
business. Let him attend to it, and keep his dreams and soliloquies for
the daytime. He walked across the polished floor, his rubber soles being
absolutely noiseless. He raised the heavy curtain, and passed beneath it
through the archway.
There in front of him was the marble hall, bathed in coloured moonlight.
The fountain played softly to the tones of gold, azure and red cast from
the stained-glass window. If Mr. Lucas had been conversant with Keats he
would doubtless have thought of St. Agnes' Eve; but presumably Mr. Lucas
did not, for, keeping well to the wall, he stole quickly across to
where stood the case containing the miniatures.
[Illustration: "LUCAS DROPPED IT CAREFULLY INTO THE POCKET OF HIS
NORFOLK JACKET."
(_p. 218._)]
"You bress de button, and it releases de trawers. So." He smiled as Mr.
Meyer's pronunciation came back to him. He followed the instructions,
and the drawers were free.
Cosway and Engleheart did not detain him to-night. He opened the bottom
drawer. There lay the Holbein for which Mr. Meyer had recently paid
three thousand guineas. Lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of
his Norfolk jacket, shut the drawer, and closed the case.
So far all was well--very well indeed. Only a few yards, a curtain, and
a few yards more, lay between him and freedom. Then again there fell
upon him a sense of Mr. Meyer's personality. What had that man not done?
He had browbeaten an Emperor, hoodwinked a couple of wily Chancellors,
and decimated the ranks of rival practitioners. Was he, John Lucas, a
mere tyro in the burglary profession, able to outwit the smartest man of
the day? Had he only to break a window, step across a floor, seize a
treasure, and depart?
No--it was impossible. The very ease with which everything had been
accomplished was the worst sign of all. "I have gone into de question of
dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation." Meyer's words
came back to him now. He himself was in town--Lucas had seen him depart
that morning, to make it absolutely certain--but his myrmidons were
doubtless hidden around. An electric shock would suddenly hold him fast,
and Meyer's butler or stage manager, or whatever he was called, would
appear and wing him--unless the servants were asleep in their master's
absence. But nothing was ever left to chance in Mr. Meyer's life or his
house. The very silence was eloquent of impending catastrophe.
Again Mr. Lucas reproached himself with nervous folly. "It is only my
second burglary," he reflected apologetically. He stepped across the
hall, and once more raised the curtain.
"Ah!"
The room, which ten minutes ago was dark and empty, was now brilliantly
illuminated, and there was Mr. Adolph Meyer, seated in his chair!
Meyer rose and came forward. "Ah, Mr. Lucas," he said, "dis is indeed a
pleasure. Not altokedder unexbected, I admit; but it is always
satisfactory to find one's conclusions brove correct. I taught you would
have to return to make some final notes on my domestic architecture and
my curios. You have seen my place by day. Now you visit me by night. Dat
is charming."
Lucas stood by the curtain, overwhelmed with confusion. Not by a word
did Mr. Meyer betray any resentment at his presence, but there was a
thinly disguised vein of banter in his speech that made the burglar's
pulses quicken.
"Berhaps you have not noticed de view I have here, Mr. Lucas," said
Meyer. "Come and look."
He threw open the window wide. The moon was playing on the waters of the
Channel. Clouds were scurrying across the sky. A lighthouse flashed in
the far distance.
"I like dis view," said Meyer. "De sea is always de same--deep and
treacherous. One always knows what to exbect, but man you never know.
How do you look upon de sea, Mr. Lucas?"
"Good for boating, and--er--bathing," responded Lucas desperately.
"Goot for boating and bading," repeated Meyer. "Dat is so. You are
practical. Dat is where you islanders have the advantage over us
treamers. But somehow the treams have a habit of outlasting de practice.
I do not tink of boating and bading when I look on de sea. I tink of all
dat is above it, and below it. On de top, ships carrying men and women
and children to continents; below de waves, dead men and women and
children, dose who have died by de way, floating by de cables which are
carrying words dat make and unmake nations and men. Life and death are
dere togedder. Did you never tink of de sea in dat way, Mr. Lucas, when
you was not studying domestic architecture and curios?"
"I can't say that I have," said Lucas, trying vainly to rise to the
situation. A man with a weapon he could have met and fought any day, at
a moment's notice, but smooth words and soliloquies, how could he meet
them, though there was a hidden meaning in every phrase, a subtle danger
indicated in every intonation?
"I should practise it den, Mr. Lucas," said Meyer gravely. "A little
more tinking and a little less action is de new brescription de doctors
are giving to dis country." He turned away from the window, after
closing it. He did not appear to notice the two great holes in the glass
which stared him in the face.
"Den I shut my window tight, for fear of dieves, Mr. Lucas," he went on,
"and go to my observatory, where we went de odder day. I go up dose
steps to my delescope, and bring de stars widdin speaking distance. Have
you ever spoken wid de stars, Mr. Lucas?"
"No," replied the burglar curtly.
"Ah, I taught not. Somehow you did not give me dat imbression. You
should study de moon for a bekinning, Mr. Lucas. It is a poor worn-out
star of a sort. What does it tell of? Of life run down, as many men's
are. But after all, de moon had its day. It was not cut off in its
prime, like some men's lives are, Mr. Lucas, because of a comet-like
taught, or a meteor suggestion of evil. A kreat science is astronomy,
Mr. Lucas. Do you not tink so?"
Mr. Lucas did not reply.
"Why do I speak of dese things, Mr. Lucas?" said Meyer with increasing
earnestness. "Because you are young, very young, dough you are nearly
so old as me. I speak of dem because you are wasting your life entering
my house in de mittle of de night to take photokraphs, when de stars are
singing outside, and de world is calling for de man who, as Dommas
Carlyle says, is not dere. What would Dommas Carlyle have said if he had
known dat you were here all de time, taking photokraphs in Mr. Adolph
Meyer's villa--robbing Mr. Meyer, widout de excuse of necessity?"
Lucas made an attempt to speak, but Meyer stopped him. The little man's
voice rose, his eyes gleamed, his very stature seemed to swell. The room
was full of him.
"Be silent, sare," he said, with a gesture of an emperor. "I am
speaking! Listen! I know what you will say: It is for sport dat you do
dis--sport dat eats up your race, and makes men like me your master. You
take your gun and kill. See," pointing through the window at a
problematical object. "Dat bird--dat beautiful white gull. It is
flying--seeking for food or its mate. You shoot it----"
"Never!" shouted Lucas indignantly.
"You do. I know you do. You take dat wonderful ding we call life--for
sport. You rob me. Dat is a smaller ding, but it is sport also. Mein
Gott! but you shall rob and kill no more."
He struck a bell. Lucas backed to the wall to be ready for emergencies.
A little sharp-featured man entered.
"Here he is, Mr. Marvell," said Meyer. "I have got him red-handed and
cold-souled."
"That's right, sir," said the little man briskly, producing a pair of
handcuffs. "I'll take him across to Bournemouth, and we'll have him up
at the police court in the morning."
Mr. Meyer did not appear to have heard him. "Strange, is it not?" he
resumed, "dat you and I and Mr. Marvell, de clever detective, should be
here, Mr. Lucas? No, I will call you by your broper name. Sir Rubert
Inkledree, I ask you to listen."
He took up a red volume from the table.
"Dis is a useful book," he said, as he opened it. "We are all entered up
here, all our public appearances, dat is--not our midnight
photokraphings. Ah, here it is:
"'Sir Rubert Inkledree, seventh baronet, born 1868, only son of sixth
baronet and Mary, daughter of Viscount Morecambe. Educated Eton and
Christ Church, Oxford. Owns twenty tousand acres. Address: Inkledree
Castle, Leicestershire; 57, Brook Street, W. Clubs: Bachelor's,
Boodle's, Turf.'
"Dat is fine--for a bekinning," continued Meyer; "but what an end, Sir
Rubert, in dis room wid Mr. Meyer whom you have robbed, and a detective,
and de Bournemouth Police Court in de morning. Dat is not very fine. Now
listen akain."