Leaving the door ajar, he drew a chair to his desk and commenced
rummaging through a pile of documents. He planned to create the
impression that he regarded this visit as of small importance. He was
anxious, even at the risk of appearing vulgar, to be discovered in the
rôle of an American money-lord, every second of whose time represented
dollars--the kind of man who was too influential to be bulldozed by the
police methods of a country whose citizenship he did not share. He urged
himself into a mood of contempt by recalling the beefy caricatures which
pass currency in English fiction for veracious portraits of Scotland
Yard detectives. This fellow would look like a constable off duty. When
he sat down, he would bulge at the neck and mop his forehead with a
multicolored handkerchief. He would be awed by elegance into sulky
stupidity--but would become pompously affable when offered a cigar.
“May I enter?” The door creaked.
“Surely. Come in. But you must excuse me for a moment.” Hindwood spoke
without turning. He pretended to be sorting the last of his documents.
The cultured tone of the voice had surprised him. Perhaps, after all,
his guest might not be a detective.
“Sorry to keep you. Time's valuable. My stay in England is short. There,
that's finished. What can I do for you?” He pushed back his chair and
rose to face his guest.
If the man's intonation had surprised him, his appearance amazed him
still more. He could have passed for the colonel of a crack cavalry
regiment. His bearing was erect and dapper. His dark lounge suit, with
the light stripes running through it, was so smartly tailored that one
was apt to suspect that he was corseted. His hair was white, his cheeks
tanned, his manner cheerful and commanding. He was of less than medium
height. With his bristling mustache and pointed imperial he bore a
distinct resemblance to Lord Roberts of Kandahar.
Hindwood held out his hand with undisguised relief. “Won't you sit down,
sir? I'm afraid I must have seemed discourteous. The truth is, I was
expecting some one quite different. The boy didn't announce your name or
business.”
The stranger accepted his hand with an ironic smile. He did not sit
down. Instead he asked a question. “Wouldn't it be wise to shut the
door?” Without waiting for permission, he went to the door and closed
it. Before he closed it, he glanced out into the passage. Having
regained the middle of the room, he gazed searchingly about him.
“No one here who can listen?”
Again taking matters into his own hands, he made a swift and thorough
investigation, peering into the bathroom, stabbing draperies with his
cane as with a sword, feeling behind clothes in cupboards. He left no
corner uninspected in which an eavesdropper might be secreted. Last of
all he approached the window near which Hindwood had dined. For a few
seconds he stood there, staring down into the well of blackness and
the mysterious fairyland of shifting lights. Laying aside his hat and
gloves, but still retaining his cane, he remarked:
“Beautiful! Very beautiful! Exquisite with the witchery of a woman's
face, which masks a hidden wickedness!”
Hindwood had been regarding him in silence. “I have yet to learn your
name and business,” he reminded him.
The stranger chuckled. “My name! I have almost forgotten it. I assume
so many. As for my business, I'm a secret service agent in the employ of
the British Government.”
“Have you credentials?”
“A letter.”
He produced from his breast pocket an envelope, containing this message,
typed on American Embassy notepaper, “This will serve to introduce the
gentleman who is anxious to consult you on the subject of which we spoke
this afternoon.”
“Satisfactory?”
“Quite. Perhaps now you'll be seated. If you smoke, I can recommend
these cigars.”
Again the stranger, with unruffled urbanity, betrayed his alert
independence. “If you have no objection, I prefer my own.”
“As you like.” Hindwood was determined to conduct the interview along
the lines of social politeness. Selecting a cigar himself, he notched
the end. “I'm entirely at your disposal. There's little I can tell.
I suppose the subject on which you're anxious to consult me is what
happened on the _Ryndam_?”
“Yes and no.” The stranger puffed leisurely for a few moments. “The
answer is yes, if by 'what happened on the _Ryndam_ you mean Santa
Gorlof.”