The room was a study in masculine luxury. The brown walls were hung
with a choice selection of sporting prints, varied here and there with
silverpoint etchings of beautiful women in various poses. There were
a good many photographs, mostly signed, above the mantelpiece; a cigar
cabinet, a case of sporting-rifles and shot guns, some fishing tackle, a
case of books, distributed appropriately about the apartment. There
were some warlike trophies displayed without ostentation, a handsome
writing-table on which stood a telephone. On a thick green rug stretched
in front of the fireplace, a fox terrier lay blinking at the wood fire.
The room was empty and silent except for the slow ticking of an ancient
clock which stood underneath an emblazoned coat of arms in the far
corner. The end of a log broke off and fell hissing into the hearth.
The fox terrier rose reluctantly to his feet, shook himself and stood
looking at the smoking fragment in an aggrieved manner. Satisfied that
no personal harm was intended to him, however, he presently curled
himself up once more. Again the apartment seemed to become the
embodiment of repose. The clock, after a hoarse wheezing warning, struck
seven. The dog opened one eye and looked up at it. A few minutes later,
the peace of the place was broken in a different fashion. There was the
sound of a key being hastily fitted into the lock of the outside door.
The dog rose to his feet expectantly. The door which led into the
apartment was thrown open and hastily slammed to. A man, breathing
heavily, stood for a moment upon the threshold, his head stooped a
little as though listening. Then, without a glance, even, at the dog who
jumped to greet him, he crossed the room with swift, stealthy footsteps.
Before he could reach the other side, however, the door which faced him
was opened. A man-servant looked inquiringly out.
“My bath and clothes, Jarvis, like hell!”
The man gilded away, his master following close behind. From somewhere
further inside the flat, the sound of water running into a bath was
heard. The door was closed, again there was silence. The fox terrier,
after a few moments’ scratching at the door, resumed his place upon the
rug and curled himself up to renewed slumber.
The next interruption was of a different nature. The sharp, insistent
summons of an electric bell from outside rang through the room. In a
moment or two the man-servant appeared from the inner apartment, crossed
the floor and presently reappeared, ushering in a visitor.
“Captain Granet is changing for dinner at present, sir,” he explained.
“If you will take a seat, however, he will be out presently. What name
shall I say?”
“Surgeon-Major Thomson.”
The servant wheeled an easy-chair up towards the fire and placed by its
side a small table on which were some illustrated papers. Then, with a
little bow, he disappeared through the inner door. Major Thomson, who
had been fingering the Sketch, laid it down the moment the door was
closed. He leaned forward, his face a little strained. He had the air of
listening intently. After a brief absence the man returned.
“Captain Granet will be with you in a few moments, sir,” he announced.
“Please ask him not to hurry,” Major Thomson begged.
“Certainly, sir.”
The man withdrew and once more Thomson and the dog were alone.
The latter, having made a few overtures of friendship which passed
unnoticed, resumed his slumbers. Major Thomson sat upright in his
easy-chair, an illustrated paper in his hand. All the time, however,
his eyes seemed to be searching the room. His sense of listening
was obviously quickened; he had the air, even, of thinking rapidly.
Five--ten minutes passed. Then voices were heard from within and the
door was suddenly opened. Captain Granet emerged and crossed the room,
hobbling slightly towards his visitor.
“Awfully sorry to keep you like this,” he remarked pleasantly. “The fact
is I’d just got into my bath.”
“I ought to apologise,” his visitor replied, “for calling at such a
time.”
“Glad to see you, anyway,” the other declared, pausing at his
smoking-cabinet and bringing out some cigarettes. “Try one of these,
won’t you?”
“Not just now, thanks.”
There was a moment’s pause. Major Thomson seemed in no hurry to explain
himself.
“Jolly luncheon party, wasn’t it?” Granet remarked, lighting a cigarette
for himself with some difficulty. “What an idiot it makes a fellow feel
to be strapped up like this!”
“From what one reads of the fighting around Ypres,” the other replied,
“you were lucky to get out of it so well. Let me explain, if I may, why
I have paid you this rather untimely call.”
Captain Granet nodded amiably. He had made himself comfortable in an
easy-chair and was playing with the dog, who had jumped on to his knee.
“I had some conversation on Thursday last,” Major Thomson began, “with
the Provost-Marshal of Boulogne. As you, of course, know, we have
suffered a great deal, especially around Ypres, from the marvellous
success of the German Intelligence Department. The Provost-Marshal,
who is a friend of mine, told me that there was a special warning out
against a person purporting to be an American chaplain who had escaped
from Belgium. You don’t happen to have heard of him, I suppose, do you?”
Captain Granet looked doubtful.
“Can’t remember that I have,” he replied. “They’ve been awfully clever,
those fellows, though. The last few nights before our little scrap they
knew exactly what time our relief parties came along. Several times we
changed the hour. No use! They were on to us just the same.”
Major Thompson nodded.
“Well,” he continued, “I happened to catch sight of a man who exactly
resembled the photograph which my friend the Provost-Marshal showed
me, only a few minutes ago, and although I could not be sure of it, I
fancied that he entered this building. It occurred to me that he might
be paying a call upon you.”
“Upon me?” he repeated.
“He is an exceedingly plausible fellow,” Thomson explained, “and as
you are just back from the Front, and brought dispatches, he might very
possibly regard you as a likely victim.”
“Can’t make bricks without straw,” Granet laughed, “and I know no
more about the campaign than my two eyes have seen. I was saying only
yesterday that, unless you have a staff billet, it’s wonderful how
little the ordinary soldier picks up as to what is going on. As a matter
of fact, though,” he went on, twisting the fox terrier’s ear a little,
“no one has called here at all except yourself, during the last hour or
two. There aren’t many of my pals know I’m back yet.”
“Are there many other people living in the building?” Major Thomson
asked.
“The ground-floor here,” the other replied, “belongs to a prosperous
cigarette manufacturer who lives himself upon the first floor. This is
the second and above us are nothing but the servants’ quarters. I should
think,” he concluded thoughtfully, “that you must have been mistaken
about the fellow turning in here at all.”
Thomson nodded.
“Very likely,” he admitted. “It was just a chance, any way.”
“By-the-bye,” Granet inquired curiously, looking up from the dog, “how
did you know that I roomed here?”
“I happened to see you come in, or was it go out, the other day--I can’t
remember which,” Major Thomson replied.
The telephone upon the table tinkled out a summons. Granet crossed the
room and held the receiver to his ear.
“This is Captain Granet speaking,” he said. “Who are you, please?”
The reply seemed to surprise him. He glanced across at his visitor.
“I shall be delighted,” he answered into the instrument. “It is really
very kind of you.... About a quarter past eight?... Certainly! You’ll
excuse my not being able to get into mufti, won’t you?... Ever so many
thanks.... Good-bye!”
He laid down the receiver and turned to Thomson.
“Rather a coincidence,” he observed. “Seems I am going to see you
to-night at dinner. That was Miss Geraldine Conyers who just rang
up--asked me if I’d like to meet her brother again before he goes off.
He is spending the afternoon at the Admiralty and she thought I might be
interested.”
Major Thomson’s face was expressionless and his murmured word
non-committal. Granet had approached the dark mahogany sideboard and was
fingering some bottles.
“Let me mix you a cocktail,” he suggested. “By Jove! That fellow Conyers
would be the fellow for your American chaplain to get hold of. If he is
spending the afternoon down at the Admiralty, he’ll have all the latest
tips about how they mean to deal with the submarines. I hear there are
at least three or four new inventions which they are keeping dark. You
like yours dry, I suppose?”
Thomson had risen to his feet and leaned forward towards the mirror for
a moment to straighten his tie. When he turned around, he glanced at the
collection of bottles Granet had been handling.
“I am really very sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to put you to this
trouble. I never drink cocktails.”
Granet paused in shaking the silver receptacle, and laid it down.
“Have a whisky and soda instead?”
Thomson shook his head.
“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I will drink your health at
dinner-time. I have no doubt that your cocktails are excellent but I
never seem to have acquired the habit. What do you put in them?”
“Oh! just both sorts of vermouth and gin, and a dash of something to
give it a flavour,” Granet explained carelessly.
Thomson touched a small black bottle, smelt it and put it down.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“A mixture of absinth and some West Indian bitters,” Granet replied.
“A chap who often goes to the States brought it back for me. Gives a
cocktail the real Yankee twang, he says.”
Thomson nodded slowly.
“Rather a curious odour,” he remarked. “We shall meet again, then,
Captain Granet.”
They walked towards the door. Granet held it open, leaning upon his
stick.
“Many times, I trust,” he observed politely.
There was a second’s pause. His right hand was half extended but his
departing guest seemed not to notice the fact. He merely nodded and put
on his hat.
“It is a small world,” he said, “especially, although it sounds
paradoxical, in the big places.”
He passed out. Granet listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps
with a frown upon his forehead. Then he came back and stood for a moment
upon the rug in front of the fire, deep in thought. The fox terrier
played unnoticed about his feet. His face seemed suddenly to have become
older and more thoughtful. He glanced at the card which Thomson had left
upon the sideboard.
“Surgeon-Major Thomson,” he repeated quietly to himself. “I wonder!”
Thomson walked slowly to the end of Sackville Street, crossed the road
and made his way to the Ritz Hotel. He addressed himself to the head
clerk of the reception counter.
“I am Surgeon-Major Thomson,” he announced.
“I was lunching here to-day and attended one of the waiters who was
taken ill afterwards. I should be very glad to know if I can see him for
a few moments.”
The man bowed politely.
“I remember you quite well, sir,” he said. “A Belgian waiter, was it
not? He has been taken away by a lady this afternoon.”
“Taken away?” Thomson repeated, puzzled.
“The lady who was giving the luncheon--Lady Anselman--called and saw
the manager about an hour ago,” the man explained. “She has interested
herself very much in the matter of Belgian refugees and is entertaining
a great many of them at a house of hers near the seaside. The man is
really not fit to work, so we were very glad indeed to pass him on to
her.”
“He recovered consciousness before he was removed, I suppose?” Thomson
inquired.
“I believe so, sir. He seemed very weak and ill, though. In fact he had
to be carried to the automobile.”
“I suppose he didn’t give any reason for his sudden attack?”
“None that I am aware of, sir.”
Thomson stood for a moment deep in thought, then he turned away from the
desk.
“Thank you very much indeed,” he said to the clerk. “The man’s case
rather interested me. I think I shall ask Lady Anselman to allow me to
visit him. Where did you say the house was?”
“Her ladyship did not mention the exact locality,” the man replied. “I
believe, however, that it is near the Isle of Wight.”
“A most suitable neighbourhood,” Major Thomson murmured, as he turned
away from the hotel.