“So that’s that,” said Anthony, finishing off his glass and replacing
it on the table. “What boat were you going on?”
“_Granarth Castle._”
“Passage booked in your name, I suppose, so I’d better travel as James
McGrath. We’ve outgrown the passport business, haven’t we?”
“No odds either way. You and I are totally unlike, but we’d probably
have the same description on one of those blinking things. Height 6
feet, hair brown, eyes blue, nose, ordinary, chin ordinary——”
“Not so much of this ‘ordinary’ stunt. Let me tell you that Castle’s
selected me out of several applicants solely on account of my pleasing
appearance and nice manners.”
Jimmy grinned.
“I noticed your manners this morning.”
“The devil you did.”
Anthony rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly
wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.
“Jimmy,” he said at last. “Stylptitch died in Paris. What’s the point
of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?”
Jimmy shook his head helplessly.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?”
“Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.”
“Of course,” continued Anthony, “I know that Kings and Queens and
Government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything
in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King’s Messengers and all
that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of
Open Sesame. ‘The King’s Ring! Pass, my Lord!’ And usually it was the
other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad
never hit on the expedient of copying the ring—making a dozen or so,
and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no
initiative in the Middle Ages.”
Jimmy yawned.
“My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back
to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit
thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure
that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his
will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy!
Stylptitch must have been balmy.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.
“Have you read the thing at all?” he asked suddenly.
“Read what?”
“The manuscript.”
“Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind
for?”
Anthony smiled.
“I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been
caused by Memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People
who have been closed as an oyster all their lives seem positively
to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably
dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a
man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you’re a
pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a
vindictive old devil?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“It’s difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly
canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most
beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn’t know
where to look.”
“And he didn’t say anything interesting when he was drunk?”
Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.
“He said he knew where the Koh-i-noor was,” he volunteered doubtfully.
“Oh, well,” said Anthony, “we all know that. They keep it in the
Tower, don’t they? Behind thick plate glass and iron bars, with a lot
of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don’t pinch
anything.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jimmy.
“Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which
city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the
room.
“You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?” he threw out
presently.
“Not very often,” said McGrath simply. “They’re not about anything that
interests me as a rule.”
“Thank Heaven I’m more civilized. There have been several mentions of
Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a Royalist restoration.”
“Nicholas IV didn’t leave a son,” said Jimmy. “But I don’t suppose for
a minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably
shoals of young ’uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and
third cousins once removed.”
“So that there wouldn’t be any difficulty in finding a King?”
“Not in the least, I should say,” replied Jimmy. “You know, I
don’t wonder at their getting tired of Republican institutions. A
full-blooded, virile people like that must find it awfully tame to pot
at Presidents after being used to Kings. And talking of Kings, that
reminds me of something else old Stylptitch let out that night. He said
he knew the gang that was after him. They were King Victor’s people, he
said.”
“What?” Anthony wheeled round suddenly.
A slow grin widened on McGrath’s face.
“Just a mite excited, aren’t you, Gentleman Joe?” he drawled.
“Don’t be an ass, Jimmy. You’ve just said something rather important.”
He went over to the window and stood there looking out.
“Who is this King Victor, anyway?” demanded Jimmy. “Another Balkan
Monarch?”
“No,” said Anthony slowly. “He isn’t that kind of a King.”
“What is he, then?”
There was a pause, and then Anthony spoke.
“He’s a crook, Jimmy. The most notorious jewel thief in the world. A
fantastic, daring fellow, not to be daunted by anything. King Victor
was the nickname he was known by in Paris. Paris was the headquarters
of his gang. They caught him there and put him away for seven years on
a minor charge. They couldn’t prove the more important things against
him. He’ll be out soon—or he may be out already.”
“Do you think Count Stylptitch had anything to do with putting him
away? Was that why the gang went for him? Out of revenge?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony. “It doesn’t seem likely on the face of
it. King Victor never stole the Crown jewels of Herzoslovakia as far
as I’ve heard. But the whole thing seems rather suggestive, doesn’t
it? The death of Stylptitch, the Memoirs, and the rumours in the
papers—all vague but interesting. And there’s a further rumour to the
effect that they’ve found oil in Herzoslovakia. I’ve a feeling in my
bones, James, that people are getting ready to be interested in that
unimportant little country.”
“What sort of people?”
“Financiers in City offices.”
“What are you driving at with all this?”
“Trying to make an easy job difficult, that’s all.”
“You can’t pretend there’s going to be any difficulty in handing over a
simple manuscript at a publisher’s office?”
“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I don’t suppose there’ll be anything
difficult about that. But shall I tell you, James, where I propose to
go with my £250?”
“South America?”
“No, my lad, Herzoslovakia. I shall stand in with the Republic, I
think. Very probably I shall end up as President.”
“Why not announce yourself as the principal Obolovitch and be a King
whilst you’re about it?”
“No, Jimmy. Kings are for life. Presidents only take on the job for
four years or so. It would quite amuse me to govern a kingdom like
Herzoslovakia for four years.”
“The average for Kings is even less, I should say,” interpolated Jimmy.
“It will probably be a serious temptation to me to embezzle your share
of the thousand pounds. You won’t want it, you know, when you get back
weighed down with nuggets. I’ll invest it for you in Herzoslovakian oil
shares. You know, James, the more I think of it, the more pleased I am
with this idea of yours. I should never have thought of Herzoslovakia
if you hadn’t mentioned it. I shall spend one day in London, collecting
the booty, and then away by the Balkan express!”
“You won’t get off quite as fast as that. I didn’t mention it before,
but I’ve got another little commission for you.”
Anthony sank into a chair and eyed him severely.
“I knew all along that you were keeping something dark. This is where
the catch comes in.”
“Not a bit. It’s just something that’s got to be done to help a lady.”
“Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love
affairs.”
“It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the
whole story.”
“If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall
have to have another drink.”
His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.
“It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a Dago there whose life I
had saved——”
“If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled ‘Lives I
have Saved.’ This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the Dago
out of the river. Like all Dagos, he couldn’t swim.”
“Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?”
“Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was
a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro though.”
Anthony nodded indifferently.
“Any name’s good enough for a Dago,” he remarked. “Get on with the good
work, James.”
“Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a
dog. About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last
thing, just as he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some
excited jargon about a secret—a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved
an oilskin packet into my hand which he’d always worn next his skin.
Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until a week
afterwards that I opened the packet. Then I was curious, I must
confess. I shouldn’t have thought that Dutch Pedro would have had the
sense to know a gold mine when he saw it—but there’s no accounting for
luck——”
“And at the mere thought of gold, your heart beat pitter-pat as
always,” interrupted Anthony.
“I was never so disgusted in my life. Gold mine, indeed! I daresay it
may have been a gold mine to him, the dirty dog. Do you know what it
was? A woman’s letters—yes, a woman’s letters, and an Englishwoman at
that. The skunk had been blackmailing her—and he had the impudence to
pass on his dirty bag of tricks to me.”
“I like to see your righteous heat, James, but let me point out to
you that Dagos will be Dagos. He meant well. You had saved his life,
he bequeathed to you a profitable source of raising money—your
high-minded British ideals did not enter his horizon.”
“Well, what the hell was I to do with the things? Burn ’em, that’s what
I thought at first. And then it occurred to me that there would be that
poor dame, not knowing they’d be destroyed, and always living in a
quake and a dread lest that Dago should turn up again one day.”
“You’ve more imagination than I gave you credit for, Jimmy,” observed
Anthony, lighting a cigarette. “I admit that the case presented more
difficulties than were at first apparent. What about just sending them
to her by post?”
“Like all women, she’d put no date and no address on most of the
letters. There was a kind of address on one—just one word. Chimneys.”
Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it
with a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.
“Chimneys?” he said. “That’s rather extraordinary.”
“Why, do you know it?”
“It’s one of the stately homes of England, my dear James. A place
where Kings and Queens go for weekends, and diplomatists forgather and
diplome.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I’m so glad that you’re going to England
instead of me. You know all these things,” said Jimmy simply. “A josser
like myself from the backwoods of Canada would be making all sorts of
bloomers. But some one like you who’s been to Eton and Harrow——”
“Only one of them,” said Anthony modestly.
“Will be able to carry it through. Why didn’t I send them to her, you
say? Well, it seemed to me dangerous. From what I could make out, she
seemed to have a jealous husband. Suppose he opened the letter by
mistake. Where would the poor dame be then? Or she might be dead—the
letters looked as though they’d been written some time. As I figured it
out, the only thing was for some one to take them to England and put
them into her own hands.”
Anthony threw away his cigarette, and coming across to his friend
clapped him affectionately on the back.
“You’re a real knight-errant, Jimmy,” he said. “And the backwoods of
Canada should be proud of you. I shan’t do the job half as prettily as
you would.”
“You’ll take it on then?”
“Of course.”
McGrath rose, and going across to a drawer took out a bundle of letters
and threw them on the table.
“Here you are. You’d better have a look at them.”
“Is it necessary? On the whole, I’d rather not.”
“Well, from what you say about this Chimneys place, she may have been
staying there only. We’d better look through the letters and see if
there’s any clue as to where she really hangs out.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
They went through the letters carefully, but without finding what they
had hoped to find. Anthony gathered them up again thoughtfully.
“Poor little devil,” he remarked. “She was scared stiff.”
Jimmy nodded.
“Do you think you’ll be able to find her all right?” he asked
anxiously.
“I won’t leave England till I have. You’re very concerned about this
unknown lady, James?”
Jimmy ran his finger thoughtfully over the signature.
“It’s a pretty name,” he said apologetically. “_Virginia Revel._”
3