The 4.15 from Victoria to Lewes had been held up at Three Bridges in
consequence of a derailment and, though John Lexman was fortunate enough
to catch a belated connection to Beston Tracey, the wagonette which was
the sole communication between the village and the outside world had
gone.
“If you can wait half an hour, Mr. Lexman,” said the station-master, “I
will telephone up to the village and get Briggs to come down for you.”
John Lexman looked out upon the dripping landscape and shrugged his
shoulders.
“I'll walk,” he said shortly and, leaving his bag in the
station-master's care and buttoning his mackintosh to his chin, he
stepped forth resolutely into the rain to negotiate the two miles which
separated the tiny railway station from Little Tracey.
The downpour was incessant and likely to last through the night.
The high hedges on either side of the narrow road were so many leafy
cascades; the road itself was in places ankle deep in mud. He stopped
under the protecting cover of a big tree to fill and light his pipe and
with its bowl turned downwards continued his walk. But for the
driving rain which searched every crevice and found every chink in his
waterproof armor, he preferred, indeed welcomed, the walk.
The road from Beston Tracey to Little Beston was associated in his mind
with some of the finest situations in his novels. It was on this road
that he had conceived “The Tilbury Mystery.” Between the station and the
house he had woven the plot which had made “Gregory Standish” the most
popular detective story of the year. For John Lexman was a maker of
cunning plots.
If, in the literary world, he was regarded by superior persons as a
writer of “shockers,” he had a large and increasing public who were
fascinated by the wholesome and thrilling stories he wrote, and who
held on breathlessly to the skein of mystery until they came to the
denouement he had planned.
But no thought of books, or plots, or stories filled his troubled mind
as he strode along the deserted road to Little Beston. He had had two
interviews in London, one of which under ordinary circumstances would
have filled him with joy: He had seen T. X. and “T. X.” was T. X.
Meredith, who would one day be Chief of the Criminal Investigation
Department and was now an Assistant Commissioner of Police, engaged in
the more delicate work of that department.
In his erratic, tempestuous way, T. X. had suggested the greatest idea
for a plot that any author could desire. But it was not of T. X. that
John Lexman thought as he breasted the hill, on the slope of which was
the tiny habitation known by the somewhat magnificent title of Beston
Priory.
It was the interview he had had with the Greek on the previous day which
filled his mind, and he frowned as he recalled it. He opened the little
wicket gate and went through the plantation to the house, doing his
best to shake off the recollection of the remarkable and unedifying
discussion he had had with the moneylender.
Beston Priory was little more than a cottage, though one of its walls
was an indubitable relic of that establishment which a pious Howard had
erected in the thirteenth century. A small and unpretentious building,
built in the Elizabethan style with quaint gables and high chimneys,
its latticed windows and sunken gardens, its rosary and its tiny meadow,
gave it a certain manorial completeness which was a source of great
pride to its owner.
He passed under the thatched porch, and stood for a moment in the broad
hallway as he stripped his drenching mackintosh.
The hall was in darkness. Grace would probably be changing for dinner,
and he decided that in his present mood he would not disturb her. He
passed through the long passage which led to the big study at the back
of the house. A fire burnt redly in the old-fashioned grate and the snug
comfort of the room brought a sense of ease and relief. He changed his
shoes, and lit the table lamp.
The room was obviously a man's den. The leather-covered chairs, the big
and well-filled bookcase which covered one wall of the room, the
huge, solid-oak writing-desk, covered with books and half-finished
manuscripts, spoke unmistakably of its owner's occupation.
After he had changed his shoes, he refilled his pipe, walked over to the
fire, and stood looking down into its glowing heart.
He was a man a little above medium height, slimly built, with a breadth
of shoulder which was suggestive of the athlete. He had indeed rowed 4
in his boat, and had fought his way into the semi-finals of the
amateur boxing championship of England. His face was strong, lean, yet
well-moulded. His eyes were grey and deep, his eyebrows straight and a
little forbidding. The clean-shaven mouth was big and generous, and the
healthy tan of his cheek told of a life lived in the open air.
There was nothing of the recluse or the student in his appearance. He
was in fact a typical, healthy-looking Britisher, very much like any
other man of his class whom one would meet in the mess-room of the
British army, in the wardrooms of the fleet, or in the far-off posts of
the Empire, where the administrative cogs of the great machine are to be
seen at work.
There was a little tap at the door, and before he could say “Come in” it
was pushed open and Grace Lexman entered.
If you described her as brave and sweet you might secure from that brief
description both her manner and her charm. He half crossed the room to
meet her, and kissed her tenderly.
“I didn't know you were back until--” she said; linking her arm in his.
“Until you saw the horrible mess my mackintosh has made,” he smiled. “I
know your methods, Watson!”
She laughed, but became serious again.
“I am very glad you've come back. We have a visitor,” she said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“A visitor? Whoever came down on a day like this?”
She looked at him a little strangely.
“Mr. Kara,” she said.
“Kara? How long has he been here?”
“He came at four.”
There was nothing enthusiastic in her tone.
“I can't understand why you don't like old Kara,” rallied her husband.
“There are very many reasons,” she replied, a little curtly for her.
“Anyway,” said John Lexman, after a moment's thought, “his arrival is
rather opportune. Where is he?”
“He is in the drawing-room.”
The Priory drawing-room was a low-ceilinged, rambling apartment,
“all old print and chrysanthemums,” to use Lexman's description. Cosy
armchairs, a grand piano, an almost medieval open grate, faced with
dull-green tiles, a well-worn but cheerful carpet and two big silver
candelabras were the principal features which attracted the newcomer.
There was in this room a harmony, a quiet order and a soothing quality
which made it a haven of rest to a literary man with jagged nerves. Two
big bronze bowls were filled with early violets, another blazed like a
pale sun with primroses, and the early woodland flowers filled the room
with a faint fragrance.
A man rose to his feet, as John Lexman entered and crossed the room with
an easy carriage. He was a man possessed of singular beauty of face and
of figure. Half a head taller than the author, he carried himself with
such a grace as to conceal his height.
“I missed you in town,” he said, “so I thought I'd run down on the off
chance of seeing you.”
He spoke in the well-modulated tone of one who had had a long
acquaintance with the public schools and universities of England. There
was no trace of any foreign accent, yet Remington Kara was a Greek and
had been born and partly educated in the more turbulent area of Albania.
The two men shook hands warmly.
“You'll stay to dinner?”
Kara glanced round with a smile at Grace Lexman. She sat uncomfortably
upright, her hands loosely folded on her lap, her face devoid of
encouragement.
“If Mrs. Lexman doesn't object,” said the Greek.
“I should be pleased, if you would,” she said, almost mechanically; “it
is a horrid night and you won't get anything worth eating this side of
London and I doubt very much,” she smiled a little, “if the meal I can
give you will be worthy of that description.”
“What you can give me will be more than sufficient,” he said, with a
little bow, and turned to her husband.
In a few minutes they were deep in a discussion of books and places, and
Grace seized the opportunity to make her escape. From books in general
to Lexman's books in particular the conversation flowed.
“I've read every one of them, you know,” said Kara.
John made a little face. “Poor devil,” he said sardonically.
“On the contrary,” said Kara, “I am not to be pitied. There is a great
criminal lost in you, Lexman.”
“Thank you,” said John.
“I am not being uncomplimentary, am I?” smiled the Greek. “I am merely
referring to the ingenuity of your plots. Sometimes your books baffle
and annoy me. If I cannot see the solution of your mysteries before the
book is half through, it angers me a little. Of course in the majority
of cases I know the solution before I have reached the fifth chapter.”
John looked at him in surprise and was somewhat piqued.
“I flatter myself it is impossible to tell how my stories will end until
the last chapter,” he said.
Kara nodded.
“That would be so in the case of the average reader, but you forget that
I am a student. I follow every little thread of the clue which you leave
exposed.”
“You should meet T. X.,” said John, with a laugh, as he rose from his
chair to poke the fire.
“T. X.?”
“T. X. Meredith. He is the most ingenious beggar you could meet. We were
at Caius together, and he is by way of being a great pal of mine. He is
in the Criminal Investigation Department.”
Kara nodded. There was the light of interest in his eyes and he would
have pursued the discussion further, but at the moment dinner was
announced.
It was not a particularly cheerful meal because Grace did not as usual
join in the conversation, and it was left to Kara and to her husband
to supply the deficiencies. She was experiencing a curious sense of
depression, a premonition of evil which she could not define. Again and
again in the course of the dinner she took her mind back to the events
of the day to discover the reason for her unease.
Usually when she adopted this method she came upon the trivial causes
in which apprehension was born, but now she was puzzled to find that a
solution was denied her. Her letters of the morning had been pleasant,
neither the house nor the servants had given her any trouble. She was
well herself, and though she knew John had a little money trouble,
since his unfortunate speculation in Roumanian gold shares, and she half
suspected that he had had to borrow money to make good his losses, yet
his prospects were so excellent and the success of his last book
so promising that she, probably seeing with a clearer vision the
unimportance of those money worries, was less concerned about the
problem than he.
“You will have your coffee in the study, I suppose,” said Grace, “and
I know you'll excuse me; I have to see Mrs. Chandler on the mundane
subject of laundry.”
She favoured Kara with a little nod as she left the room and touched
John's shoulder lightly with her hand in passing.
Kara's eyes followed her graceful figure until she was out of view,
then:
“I want to see you, Kara,” said John Lexman, “if you will give me five
minutes.”
“You can have five hours, if you like,” said the other, easily.
They went into the study together; the maid brought the coffee
and liqueur, and placed them on a little table near the fire and
disappeared.
For a time the conversation was general. Kara, who was a frank admirer
of the comfort of the room and who lamented his own inability to secure
with money the cosiness which John had obtained at little cost, went on
a foraging expedition whilst his host applied himself to a proof which
needed correcting.
“I suppose it is impossible for you to have electric light here,” Kara
asked.
“Quite,” replied the other.
“Why?”
“I rather like the light of this lamp.”
“It isn't the lamp,” drawled the Greek and made a little grimace; “I
hate these candles.”
He waved his hand to the mantle-shelf where the six tall, white, waxen
candles stood out from two wall sconces.
“Why on earth do you hate candles?” asked the other in surprise.
Kara made no reply for the moment, but shrugged his shoulders. Presently
he spoke.
“If you were ever tied down to a chair and by the side of that chair was
a small keg of black powder and stuck in that powder was a small candle
that burnt lower and lower every minute--my God!”
John was amazed to see the perspiration stand upon the forehead of his
guest.
“That sounds thrilling,” he said.
The Greek wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief and his hand shook
a little.
“It was something more than thrilling,” he said.
“And when did this occur?” asked the author curiously.
“In Albania,” replied the other; “it was many years ago, but the devils
are always sending me reminders of the fact.”
He did not attempt to explain who the devils were or under what
circumstances he was brought to this unhappy pass, but changed the
subject definitely.
Sauntering round the cosy room he followed the bookshelf which filled
one wall and stopped now and again to examine some title. Presently he
drew forth a stout volume.
“'Wild Brazil',” he read, “by George Gathercole-do you know Gathercole?”
John was filling his pipe from a big blue jar on his desk and nodded.
“Met him once--a taciturn devil. Very short of speech and, like all men
who have seen and done things, less inclined to talk about himself than
any man I know.”
Kara looked at the book with a thoughtful pucker of brow and turned the
leaves idly.
“I've never seen him,” he said as he replaced the book, “yet, in a
sense, his new journey is on my behalf.”
The other man looked up.
“On your behalf?”
“Yes--you know he has gone to Patagonia for me. He believes there is
gold there--you will learn as much from his book on the mountain systems
of South America. I was interested in his theories and corresponded
with him. As a result of that correspondence he undertook to make a
geological survey for me. I sent him money for his expenses, and he went
off.”
“You never saw him?” asked John Lexman, surprised.
Kara shook his head.
“That was not--?” began his host.
“Not like me, you were going to say. Frankly, it was not, but then I
realized that he was an unusual kind of man. I invited him to dine with
me before he left London, and in reply received a wire from Southampton
intimating that he was already on his way.”
Lexman nodded.
“It must be an awfully interesting kind of life,” he said. “I suppose he
will be away for quite a long time?”
“Three years,” said Kara, continuing his examination of the bookshelf.
“I envy those fellows who run round the world writing books,” said John,
puffing reflectively at his pipe. “They have all the best of it.”
Kara turned. He stood immediately behind the author and the other
could not see his face. There was, however, in his voice an unusual
earnestness and an unusual quiet vehemence.
“What have you to complain about!” he asked, with that little drawl of
his. “You have your own creative work--the most fascinating branch of
labour that comes to a man. He, poor beggar, is bound to actualities.
You have the full range of all the worlds which your imagination
gives to you. You can create men and destroy them, call into existence
fascinating problems, mystify and baffle ten or twenty thousand people,
and then, at a word, elucidate your mystery.”
John laughed.
“There is something in that,” he said.
“As for the rest of your life,” Kara went on in a lower voice, “I think
you have that which makes life worth living--an incomparable wife.”
Lexman swung round in his chair, and met the other's gaze, and there was
something in the set of the other's handsome face which took his breath
away.
“I do not see--” he began.
Kara smiled.
“That was an impertinence, wasn't it!” he said, banteringly. “But then
you mustn't forget, my dear man, that I was very anxious to marry your
wife. I don't suppose it is secret. And when I lost her, I had ideas
about you which are not pleasant to recall.”
He had recovered his self-possession and had continued his aimless
stroll about the room.
“You must remember I am a Greek, and the modern Greek is no philosopher.
You must remember, too, that I am a petted child of fortune, and have
had everything I wanted since I was a baby.”
“You are a fortunate devil,” said the other, turning back to his desk,
and taking up his pen.
For a moment Kara did not speak, then he made as though he would say
something, checked himself, and laughed.
“I wonder if I am,” he said.
And now he spoke with a sudden energy.
“What is this trouble you are having with Vassalaro?”
John rose from his chair and walked over to the fire, stood gazing down
into its depths, his legs wide apart, his hands clasped behind him, and
Kara took his attitude to supply an answer to the question.
“I warned you against Vassalaro,” he said, stooping by the other's side
to light his cigar with a spill of paper. “My dear Lexman, my fellow
countrymen are unpleasant people to deal with in certain moods.”
“He was so obliging at first,” said Lexman, half to himself.
“And now he is so disobliging,” drawled Kara. “That is a way which
moneylenders have, my dear man; you were very foolish to go to him at
all. I could have lent you the money.”
“There were reasons why I should not borrow money from you,”, said John,
quietly, “and I think you yourself have supplied the principal reason
when you told me just now, what I already knew, that you wanted to marry
Grace.”
“How much is the amount?” asked Kara, examining his well-manicured
finger-nails.
“Two thousand five hundred pounds,” replied John, with a short laugh,
“and I haven't two thousand five hundred shillings at this moment.”
“Will he wait?”
John Lexman shrugged his shoulders.
“Look here, Kara,” he said, suddenly, “don't think I want to reproach
you, but it was through you that I met Vassalaro so that you know the
kind of man he is.”
Kara nodded.
“Well, I can tell you he has been very unpleasant indeed,” said John,
with a frown, “I had an interview with him yesterday in London and it
is clear that he is going to make a lot of trouble. I depended upon the
success of my play in town giving me enough to pay him off, and I very
foolishly made a lot of promises of repayment which I have been unable
to keep.”
“I see,” said Kara, and then, “does Mrs. Lexman know about this matter?”
“A little,” said the other.
He paced restlessly up and down the room, his hands behind him and his
chin upon his chest.
“Naturally I have not told her the worst, or how beastly unpleasant the
man has been.”
He stopped and turned.
“Do you know he threatened to kill me?” he asked.
Kara smiled.
“I can tell you it was no laughing matter,” said the other, angrily,
“I nearly took the little whippersnapper by the scruff of the neck and
kicked him.”
Kara dropped his hand on the other's arm.
“I am not laughing at you,” he said; “I am laughing at the thought of
Vassalaro threatening to kill anybody. He is the biggest coward in the
world. What on earth induced him to take this drastic step?”
“He said he is being hard pushed for money,” said the other, moodily,
“and it is possibly true. He was beside himself with anger and anxiety,
otherwise I might have given the little blackguard the thrashing he
deserved.”
Kara who had continued his stroll came down the room and halted in front
of the fireplace looking at the young author with a paternal smile.
“You don't understand Vassalaro,” he said; “I repeat he is the greatest
coward in the world. You will probably discover he is full of firearms
and threats of slaughter, but you have only to click a revolver to see
him collapse. Have you a revolver, by the way?”
“Oh, nonsense,” said the other, roughly, “I cannot engage myself in that
kind of melodrama.”
“It is not nonsense,” insisted the other, “when you are in Rome, et
cetera, and when you have to deal with a low-class Greek you must use
methods which will at least impress him. If you thrash him, he will
never forgive you and will probably stick a knife into you or your wife.
If you meet his melodrama with melodrama and at the psychological moment
produce your revolver; you will secure the effect you require. Have you
a revolver?”
John went to his desk and, pulling open a drawer, took out a small
Browning.
“That is the extent of my armory,” he said, “it has never been fired and
was sent to me by an unknown admirer last Christmas.”
“A curious Christmas present,” said the other, examining the weapon.
“I suppose the mistaken donor imagined from my books that I lived in
a veritable museum of revolvers, sword sticks and noxious drugs,” said
Lexman, recovering some of his good humour; “it was accompanied by a
card.”
“Do you know how it works?” asked the other.
“I have never troubled very much about it,” replied Lexman, “I know that
it is loaded by slipping back the cover, but as my admirer did not send
ammunition, I never even practised with it.”
There was a knock at the door.
“That is the post,” explained John.
The maid had one letter on the salver and the author took it up with a
frown.
“From Vassalaro,” he said, when the girl had left the room.
The Greek took the letter in his hand and examined it.
“He writes a vile fist,” was his only comment as he handed it back to
John.
He slit open the thin, buff envelope and took out half a dozen sheets of
yellow paper, only a single sheet of which was written upon. The letter
was brief:
“I must see you to-night without fail,” ran the scrawl; “meet me
at the crossroads between Beston Tracey and the Eastbourne
Road. I shall be there at eleven o'clock, and, if you want to
preserve your life, you had better bring me a substantial
instalment.”
It was signed “Vassalaro.”
John read the letter aloud. “He must be mad to write a letter like
that,” he said; “I'll meet the little devil and teach him such a lesson
in politeness as he is never likely to forget.”
He handed the letter to the other and Kara read it in silence.
“Better take your revolver,” he said as he handed it back.
John Lexman looked at his watch.
“I have an hour yet, but it will take me the best part of twenty minutes
to reach the Eastbourne Road.”
“Will you see him?” asked Kara, in a tone of surprise.
“Certainly,” Lexman replied emphatically: “I cannot have him coming up
to the house and making a scene and that is certainly what the little
beast will do.”
“Will you pay him?” asked Kara softly.
John made no answer. There was probably 10 pounds in the house and a
cheque which was due on the morrow would bring him another 30 pounds.
He looked at the letter again. It was written on paper of an unusual
texture. The surface was rough almost like blotting paper and in some
places the ink absorbed by the porous surface had run. The blank sheets
had evidently been inserted by a man in so violent a hurry that he had
not noticed the extravagance.
“I shall keep this letter,” said John.
“I think you are well advised. Vassalaro probably does not know that he
transgresses a law in writing threatening letters and that should be a
very strong weapon in your hand in certain eventualities.”
There was a tiny safe in one corner of the study and this John opened
with a key which he took from his pocket. He pulled open one of the
steel drawers, took out the papers which were in it and put in their
place the letter, pushed the drawer to, and locked it.
All the time Kara was watching him intently as one who found more than
an ordinary amount of interest in the novelty of the procedure.
He took his leave soon afterwards.
“I would like to come with you to your interesting meeting,” he said,
“but unfortunately I have business elsewhere. Let me enjoin you to take
your revolver and at the first sign of any bloodthirsty intention on the
part of my admirable compatriot, produce it and click it once or twice,
you won't have to do more.”
Grace rose from the piano as Kara entered the little drawing-room and
murmured a few conventional expressions of regret that the visitor's
stay had been so short. That there was no sincerity in that regret Kara,
for one, had no doubt. He was a man singularly free from illusions.
They stayed talking a little while.
“I will see if your chauffeur is asleep,” said John, and went out of the
room.
There was a little silence after he had gone.
“I don't think you are very glad to see me,” said Kara. His frankness
was a little embarrassing to the girl and she flushed slightly.
“I am always glad to see you, Mr. Kara, or any other of my husband's
friends,” she said steadily.
He inclined his head.
“To be a friend of your husband is something,” he said, and then as if
remembering something, “I wanted to take a book away with me--I wonder
if your husband would mind my getting it?”
“I will find it for you.”
“Don't let me bother you,” he protested, “I know my way.”
Without waiting for her permission he left the girl with the unpleasant
feeling that he was taking rather much for granted. He was gone less
than a minute and returned with a book under his arm.
“I have not asked Lexman's permission to take it,” he said, “but I am
rather interested in the author. Oh, here you are,” he turned to John
who came in at that moment. “Might I take this book on Mexico?” he
asked. “I will return it in the morning.”
They stood at the door, watching the tail light of the motor disappear
down the drive; and returned in silence to the drawing room.
“You look worried, dear,” she said, laying her hand on his shoulder.
He smiled faintly.
“Is it the money?” she asked anxiously.
For a moment he was tempted to tell her of the letter. He stifled the
temptation realizing that she would not consent to his going out if she
knew the truth.
“It is nothing very much,” he said. “I have to go down to Beston Tracey
to meet the last train. I am expecting some proofs down.”
He hated lying to her, and even an innocuous lie of this character was
repugnant to him.
“I'm afraid you have had a dull evening,” he said, “Kara was not very
amusing.”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“He has not changed very much,” she said slowly.
“He's a wonderfully handsome chap, isn't he?” he asked in a tone of
admiration. “I can't understand what you ever saw in a fellow like me,
when you had a man who was not only rich, but possibly the best-looking
man in the world.”
She shivered a little.
“I have seen a side of Mr. Kara that is not particularly beautiful,” she
said. “Oh, John, I am afraid of that man!”
He looked at her in astonishment.
“Afraid?” he asked. “Good heavens, Grace, what a thing to say! Why I
believe he'd do anything for you.”
“That is exactly what I am afraid of,” she said in a low voice.
She had a reason which she did not reveal. She had first met Remington
Kara in Salonika two years before. She had been doing a tour through the
Balkans with her father--it was the last tour the famous archeologist
made--and had met the man who was fated to have such an influence upon
her life at a dinner given by the American Consul.
Many were the stories which were told about this Greek with his
Jove-like face, his handsome carriage and his limitless wealth. It
was said that his mother was an American lady who had been captured by
Albanian brigands and was sold to one of the Albanian chiefs who fell
in love with her, and for her sake became a Protestant. He had been
educated at Yale and at Oxford, and was known to be the possessor of
vast wealth, and was virtually king of a hill district forty miles out
of Durazzo. Here he reigned supreme, occupying a beautiful house which
he had built by an Italian architect, and the fittings and appointments
of which had been imported from the luxurious centres of the world.
In Albania they called him “Kara Rumo,” which meant “The Black Roman,”
for no particular reason so far as any one could judge, for his skin was
as fair as a Saxon's, and his close-cropped curls were almost golden.
He had fallen in love with Grace Terrell. At first his attentions had
amused her, and then there came a time when they frightened her, for the
man's fire and passion had been unmistakable. She had made it plain to
him that he could base no hopes upon her returning his love, and, in a
scene which she even now shuddered to recall, he had revealed something
of his wild and reckless nature. On the following day she did not see
him, but two days later, when returning through the Bazaar from a dance
which had been given by the Governor General, her carriage was stopped,
she was forcibly dragged from its interior, and her cries were stifled
with a cloth impregnated with a scent of a peculiar aromatic sweetness.
Her assailants were about to thrust her into another carriage, when a
party of British bluejackets who had been on leave came upon the scene,
and, without knowing anything of the nationality of the girl, had
rescued her.
In her heart of hearts she did not doubt Kara's complicity in this
medieval attempt to gain a wife, but of this adventure she had told
her husband nothing. Until her marriage she was constantly receiving
valuable presents which she as constantly returned to the only address
she knew--Kara's estate at Lemazo. A few months after her marriage she
had learned through the newspapers that this “leader of Greek society”
had purchased a big house near Cadogan Square, and then, to her
amazement and to her dismay, Kara had scraped an acquaintance with her
husband even before the honeymoon was over.
His visits had been happily few, but the growing intimacy between
John and this strange undisciplined man had been a source of constant
distress to her.
Should she, at this, the eleventh hour, tell her husband all her fears
and her suspicions?
She debated the point for some time. And never was she nearer taking him
into her complete confidence than she was as he sat in the big armchair
by the side of the piano, a little drawn of face, more than a little
absorbed in his own meditations. Had he been less worried she might have
spoken. As it was, she turned the conversation to his last work, the
big mystery story which, if it would not make his fortune, would mean a
considerable increase to his income.
At a quarter to eleven he looked at his watch, and rose. She helped him
on with his coat. He stood for some time irresolutely.
“Is there anything you have forgotten?” she asked.
He asked himself whether he should follow Kara's advice. In any
circumstance it was not a pleasant thing to meet a ferocious little
man who had threatened his life, and to meet him unarmed was tempting
Providence. The whole thing was of course ridiculous, but it was
ridiculous that he should have borrowed, and it was ridiculous that the
borrowing should have been necessary, and yet he had speculated on the
best of advice--it was Kara's advice.
The connection suddenly occurred to him, and yet Kara had not directly
suggested that he should buy Roumanian gold shares, but had merely
spoken glowingly of their prospects. He thought a moment, and then
walked back slowly into the study, pulled open the drawer of his desk,
took out the sinister little Browning, and slipped it into his pocket.
“I shan't be long, dear,” he said, and kissing the girl he strode out
into the darkness.
Kara sat back in the luxurious depths of his car, humming a little tune,
as the driver picked his way cautiously over the uncertain road. The
rain was still falling, and Kara had to rub the windows free of the mist
which had gathered on them to discover where he was. From time to time
he looked out as though he expected to see somebody, and then with a
little smile he remembered that he had changed his original plan, and
that he had fixed the waiting room of Lewes junction as his rendezvous.
Here it was that he found a little man muffled up to the ears in a big
top coat, standing before the dying fire. He started as Kara entered and
at a signal followed him from the room.
The stranger was obviously not English. His face was sallow and peaked,
his cheeks were hollow, and the beard he wore was irregular-almost
unkempt.
Kara led the way to the end of the dark platform, before he spoke.
“You have carried out my instructions?” he asked brusquely.
The language he spoke was Arabic, and the other answered him in that
language.
“Everything that you have ordered has been done, Effendi,” he said
humbly.
“You have a revolver?”
The man nodded and patted his pocket.
“Loaded?”
“Excellency,” asked the other, in surprise, “what is the use of a
revolver, if it is not loaded?”
“You understand, you are not to shoot this man,” said Kara. “You are
merely to present the pistol. To make sure, you had better unload it
now.”
Wonderingly the man obeyed, and clicked back the ejector.
“I will take the cartridges,” said Kara, holding out his hand.
He slipped the little cylinders into his pocket, and after examining the
weapon returned it to its owner.
“You will threaten him,” he went on. “Present the revolver straight at
his heart. You need do nothing else.”
The man shuffled uneasily.
“I will do as you say, Effendi,” he said. “But--”
“There are no 'buts,'” replied the other harshly. “You are to carry out
my instructions without any question. What will happen then you shall
see. I shall be at hand. That I have a reason for this play be assured.”
“But suppose he shoots?” persisted the other uneasily.
“He will not shoot,” said Kara easily. “Besides, his revolver is not
loaded. Now you may go. You have a long walk before you. You know the
way?”
The man nodded.
“I have been over it before,” he said confidently.
Kara returned to the big limousine which had drawn up some distance from
the station. He spoke a word or two to the chauffeur in Greek, and the
man touched his hat.