There is often a flaw in the best-laid plans. George Lomax had made one
mistake—there was a weak spot in his preparations. The weak spot was
Bill.
Bill Eversleigh was an extremely nice lad. He was a good cricketer and
a scratch golfer, he had pleasant manners, and an amiable disposition,
but his position in the Foreign Office had been gained, not by brains,
but by good connections. For the work he had to do he was quite
suitable. He was more or less George’s dog. He did no responsible
or brainy work. His part was to be constantly at George’s elbow, to
interview unimportant people whom George didn’t want to see, to run
errands, and generally to make himself useful. All this Bill carried
out faithfully enough. When George was absent, Bill stretched himself
out in the biggest chair and read the sporting news, and in so doing he
was merely carrying out a time-honoured tradition.
Being accustomed to send Bill on errands, George had dispatched him to
the Union Castle offices to find out when the _Granarth Castle_ was due
in. Now, in common with most well-educated young Englishmen, Bill had
a pleasant, but quite inaudible voice. Any elocution master would have
found fault with his pronunciation of the word Granarth. It might have
been anything. The Clerk took it to be Carnfrae. The _Carnfrae Castle_
was due in on the following Thursday. He said so. Bill thanked him and
went out. George Lomax accepted the information and laid his plans
accordingly. He knew nothing about Union Castle liners, and took it
for granted that James McGrath would duly arrive on Thursday.
Therefore, at the moment he was buttonholing Lord Caterham on the steps
of the club on Wednesday morning, he would have been greatly surprised
to learn that the _Granarth Castle_ had docked at Southampton the
preceding afternoon.
At two o’clock that afternoon Anthony Cade, travelling under the name
of Jimmy McGrath, stepped out of the boat train at Waterloo, hailed a
taxi, and after a moment’s hesitation ordered the driver to proceed to
the Blitz Hotel.
“One might as well be comfortable,” said Anthony to himself, as he
looked with some interest out of the taxi windows.
It was exactly fourteen years since he had been in London.
He arrived at the hotel, booked a room, and then went for a short
stroll along the Embankment. It was rather pleasant to be back in
London again. Everything was changed of course. There had been a
little restaurant there—just past Blackfriars Bridge—where he had
dined fairly often, in company with other earnest lads. He had been a
Socialist then, and worn a flowing red tie. Young—very young.
He retraced his steps back to the Blitz. Just as he was crossing the
road, a man jostled against him, nearly making him lose his balance.
They both recovered themselves, and the man muttered an apology, his
eyes scanning Anthony’s face narrowly. He was a short, thickset man of
the working classes, with something foreign in his appearance.
Anthony went on into the hotel, wondering, as he did so, what had
inspired that searching glance. Nothing in it probably. The deep tan of
his face was somewhat unusual looking amongst these pallid Londoners
and it had attracted the fellow’s attention. He went up to his room
and, led by a sudden impulse, crossed to the looking-glass and stood
studying his face in it. Of the few friends of the old days—just a
chosen few—was it likely that any of them would recognize him now if
they were to meet him face to face? He shook his head slowly.
When he had left London he had been just eighteen—a fair, slightly
chubby boy, with a misleading seraphic expression. Small chance that
the boy would be recognized in the lean, brown-faced man with the
quizzical expression.
The telephone beside the bed rang, and Anthony crossed to the receiver.
“Hullo!”
The voice of the desk clerk answered him.
“Mr. James McGrath?”
“Speaking.”
“A gentleman has called to see you.”
Anthony was rather astonished.
“To see _me_?”
“Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.”
“What’s his name?”
There was a slight pause, and then the clerk said:
“I will send up a page boy with his card.”
Anthony replaced the receiver and waited. In a few minutes there was
a knock on the door and a small page appeared bearing a card upon a
salver.
Anthony took it. The following was the name engraved upon it: