PART II.

Produced by Al Haines

MEN OF AFFAIRS

BY

ROLAND PERTWEE

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers

New York

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY

ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

_PUBLISHED, MAY, 1922_

First and Second Printings before publication

CONTENTS

CHAP.

1. Dissolution

2. Eight Closed Doors

3. Which Develops an Idea

4. Sitting on the Floor

5. Experiences of a Vagrant

6. Concerning a Tie

7. The Night of the 27th

8. Introducing a Lady

9. An Invitation to Stay

10. Nerves

11. Outlining a Programme

12. Pineapple

13. Harrison Smith

14. "Off the Beaten Track"

15. Tea and Tears

16. A Hyphen

17. A Doubtful Ally

18. Holding Out

19. At the Chestnuts

20. A Little Housebreaking

21. The Cornish Riviera

22. Plain Sailing

23. An Encounter

24. Rival Factions

25. Mr. Bolt Drops In

26. Among Allies

27. A Knotted Kerchief

28. Sand

29. Individual Resource

30. The True Auriole

31. A Way Out

32. The Appointed Hour

33. A Smash Up

34. The Finishing Straight

PART I.

CHAPTER 1.

DISSOLUTION.

At a pawnshop in the Gray's Inn Road, Richard Frencham Altar disposed

of the last of his worldly goods. Four suits from a tailor in Saville

Row, two pairs of shoes in brown and patent by a craftsman of Jermyn

Street, some odds and ends of hosiery, a set of dressing table brushes

with black monograms on ivory and the gold cigarette case Doreen had

given him on the day of their engagement. In consideration for which

he departed with a sum of twenty-seven pounds sixteen shillings in his

trousers pockets. At his rooms in Golden Square he settled his account

with the landlady, a luxury that reduced his wealth by a matter of

nineteen pounds. Of the eight pounds sixteen shillings remaining, five

guineas were placed on one side for the tobacconist who had supplied

him with Gold Flake and the margin transferred to another pocket for

the purpose of one final engagement with the habit of high living.

After that--well time would show. It was futile to speculate upon the

future. He had the clothes he stood up in, the brain and tissue heaven

had provided him with and a spirit unawed by adversity. Many men have

started life with less.

A neighbouring clock chimed the hour. Too early to dine--besides there

were things to be done first. From a highly decorated vase that stood

upon a particularly restless over-mantel, he drew a small packet of

letters and untied the tape that circled them. They were written in a

careless sprawling hand, with lots of ink and little thought. They

were very full of 'darlings' and 'dearests' and 'how much do you love

me's.' They were very, very rapturous--they were very, very silly.

They had made him very happy when first he read them because silliness

and sincerity are often partners, but now he knew better--now they made

him laugh. Not a very cheerful laugh perhaps--a little cynical maybe

but on the whole tolerant and forbearing.

He put a match to the first and lit the others in succession one by one

until a charred chain of memories stretched across the tiling of the

grate. The last 'Doreen' straggled scarlet across a black and twisting

page, whitened, greyed and disappeared.

"And I'll grow a beard and forget all about you," said Richard. "And

it oughtn't to be very difficult really."

He rose, crossed to the window and looked out.

"If ever I fall in love again--if ever I earn enough for the luxury of

falling in love again, it won't be with----" but he changed his mind

about finishing the sentence, for, after all, it is folly to speak hard

words against pretty little things that make the world very jolly while

they last.

Besides Doreen had her way to make like any other girl, and no one can

deny the difference between the son of an exceptionally wealthy and

indulgent parent and the same son after the parental wealth has

exploded and the parental brain has been drilled with a .450 calibre

bullet discharged at a range of two inches from the frontal bone and

making a somewhat unsightly exit by way of the parietal.

James Frencham Altar, father of Richard, did not believe in failure or

exposure or public obloquy. His lode-star was success and when the

forward speed of success threw out its selectors and went suddenly into

reverse the liquidation of his affairs was conducted by the firm of

Colt and was covered in a single report. Thus ended an ambitious

career.

Richard had suffered rather heavily under the generosity of his father

whose cherished wish was that his son should be a gentleman and nothing

more. Accordingly Richard had been sent to Eton, Oxford, and round the

world three times. He had been given a racing stable, an enormous

allowance and was instructed to spend as much as he could and enjoy

himself all he knew how. Being a high spirited and obliging young

fellow, Richard did all these things very engagingly, and somehow

contrived not to spoil himself. He emerged from the war with a

Military Cross, a row of service medals, a brace of foreign decorations

and an ambition to do some work. His father appeared to applaud the

ambition but actually discouraged it with specious argument and an

introduction to Doreen--who did the rest.

Doreen, of course, was a perfect darling. She always bit her lower lip

and she held her arms tight to her sides like a child who has been

naughty. There was no possible excuse to refrain from hugging Doreen.

One just had to and damn the consequences. Doreen would cry after

being kissed and would continue crying until again kissed into an even

frame of mind. Lots of people kissed Doreen because they could not

help themselves and she forgave them all on that account. There never

was such a darling. Richard Frencham Altar, fresh from the wars,

simply wanted to eat her and, seeing that he was a handsome young

fellow with a pleasant aura of gold about him, Doreen arrayed herself

in her most eatable frocks and devourable smiles and just let him.

"Oh, Dicks," she cried, soon after their engagement--'Dicks' being the

name she called him, for Doreens all the world over adore plurals and

attaching 'S's' to names because it makes them so snakey--"Oh, Dicks,

there's only one teeny-weeny thing I wish."

"What's that?" he said.

"I wish you were as poor as poor as poor so I could just love you for

nothing but yourself."

It was very pleasant hearing, but when a year later he went to her and

confided that he was as 'poor as poor as poor' it transpired she had

only said it for something to say and infinitely preferred young men

who were as rich as rich as rich.

Discoveries like that are a little apt to revolutionise a man's ideals

even if they fail to destroy them altogether.

Richard kept his views to himself. He kissed the tearful Doreen for

the last time and she waved a tiny georgette kerchief from the window

as he passed down the street and out of her life. He had not a great

deal of leisure to consider the extent of his loss. The proceedings of

the coroner's court and the importunities of creditors occupied his

days very fully. The chaos of his father's affairs and the winding up

of his own provided ample entertainment. The net result was a

settlement of something less than a farthing in the pound and the

retirement into oblivion of one of the most able spendthrifts of the

twentieth century. He had spent a couple of months looking for work,

but the name Frencham Altar, coupled with his complete inability to

point to a single marketable asset other than courage and a smiling

disposition, conspired together to harden the hearts of employers. Old

friends denied him interviews, business acquaintances turned him from

their doors and the casual advertiser forbore replying to his

enquiries. Of course, if he had been a little less honest he might

very easily have cleaned up a quiet thousand or two from the wreckage

of the estate. His solicitor had demonstrated the absurdity of

Quixoticism in such affairs, but whatever other reproach might be laid

to his account, Richard was no opportunist and lacked the parental

liking for feathering his own nest at the expense of his fellows.

Wherefore the whole of his worldly resources, if we except the courage

and the smile, went into the whirlpool and were swallowed up.

Richard let the curtain fall across the window and crossed to the

mantelpiece where he touched the bell. It occurred to him that there

was a certain luxury in ringing bells--it was one of many comforts of

civilisation that would pass out of his reach. No one answered the

bell so he rang it again and was quite dispirited to hear footsteps

ascending the stairs. If his connection with bells was to cease it

would have been pleasant to have rung it a few more times. It is an

awful thing to contemplate that you have rung a bell for the last time.

One can get very sentimental over a thing like that. Dear jolly old

bells, what an influence they have upon life. How bravely they whirr

at the arrival of a dear expected--how madly they riot to the tune

Wedding--how sadly they toll when the last of us is borne away.

Mrs. Walton, the landlady, came into the room and said "Yes."

"I am going now," said Richard.

"We shall be sorry to lose you."

"And I to go. Many thanks, Mrs. Walton."

"And what is your destination, sir?"

"I have my eye on a bench facing Green Park," he replied. "It is a

favourite locality for the impecunious philosopher. In other words I

don't know where I'm going but I have a pretty solid conviction that

one of these days I shall get there. There are two empty trunks in my

bedroom which I should be glad if you would accept."

Mrs. Walton shook her head.

"You could raise a bit of money on them," she suggested.

"Maybe," said Richard, "but I don't want to. There are only two kinds

of money that are any use. Regular money or lots of money--a little

money is no good to anyone and is better spent. By midnight tonight I

hope to find myself with none at all."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Walton.

"That," replied Richard, "is precisely what I am relying upon. And I

could not wish to start on my adventures under a happier ensign.

Goodbye."

And to the amazement of the lady he hissed her very soundly and

clattered down the stairs.

At the tobacconist he settled the last of his small accounts, purchased

a hundred cigarettes and hailed a taxi.

"The Berkeley Grill Room," he said.

They were a little surprised at the informality of his attire, but

there is something in the bearing of a restaurant habitué that would

procure him the best the establishment can afford even though he

appeared in a bathing suit.

"Stick me in a corner somewhere," he said, "I have no evening clothes."

"Monsieur has not had time to dress."

"I repeat I have no evening clothes, on the other hand I've a deuce of

a good appetite. A brandy cocktail and the book of words, please."

They were supplied.

Richard ordered his dinner with a reckless disregard for expenditure

and a nice choice of wine and dishes which earned the appreciation of

those that waited upon him. He finished with a Villa Villa and a

double Napoleon and sat back with folded arms, a pleasant smile and

eyes that drowsed comfortably over the agreeable quiet of the café.

It caused him something of an effort to ask for his bill, dispose of it

with the last of his notes, tip the waiter and rise to his feet. As he

was approaching the swing doors that led to the little hexagonal foyer,

a man at a table near by raised a pair of keen black eyes, glanced at

him quickly, smiled and nodded. The man's face was unfamiliar but

Richard returned the nod casually and passed out. The man half rose

then changed his mind and sat down again. He was a tall man with black

hair threaded with white. His face was large featured but clear cut,

high cheekbones, a Roman nose, a straight, firm mouth and Wellingtonian

side whiskers, his age forty or a little more. His companion at the

table put a question but the man shook his head.

"I fancy I made a mistake," he said.

Richard tipped the porter with the last coins in his pocket, a shilling

and five coppers, turned slowly down Berkeley Street and crossed

Piccadilly. He passed the Ritz, of pleasant memory, and entered into

the sleeping apartment of London's destitute--the single bench on the

slope that faces Green Park, gratuitously provided by the generosity of

the City of Westminster.

There was a constable by the cabman's shelter and him Richard addressed.

"A fine night, Bobbie," he said.

The constable agreed that this was so. He did not resent having been

addressed as 'Bobbie.' There was no offence in it and Richard belonged

to that class of individuals with whom familiarity is a cloak for

courtesy.

"Taking a stroll, sir?" he asked.

Richard produced his hundred Gold Flake and bade the officer fill his

helmet.

"Better help me out with a few or I shall be smoking all night," he

said.

"In trouble, sir?"

"Broke," said Richard, "and I want your advice. I've had the devil of

a good dinner with the last of my fortune and I'm looking for words of

wisdom. In the first place, how about that bench?"

"The Rowton is better."

"Won't run to it."

"Not to be recommended, p'raps, but it's free to all," said the

constable, nodding at the green seat which was already filling up for

the night, with bundles of rags, voluminous overcoats and thin, shiny

blue serges buttoned at the neck.

"I don't want to steal a march on the regular custom," observed Richard.

"It's first come hereabouts, but you'd better not leave it too late.

Anyway you'll get a shake-up when the four o'clock patrol comes on."

"How's that?"

"Always give 'em a shake-up at four o'clock. Don't make many odds.

You just get up and sit down again. Takes the cold out of your bones

if it does nothing else."

"I suppose," said Richard, "I couldn't doss down on that board that's

perched on the two iron standards up towards Hyde Park Comer. It has a

single room touch that I rather fancy."

The constable shook his head.

"I couldn't let you," he said, "though there's no particular harm in

it."

"Then what's it for anyway?"

"Don't rightly know. They do say it was for the garden carriers to

rest their packs on when they was coming up to market from the outlying

farms. And again I been told that they laid the corpses on it what was

being carried to the plague pits when there was one of these 'ere

epidemics in London. Long while back that 'ud be."

"Hm," said Richard, "cheery sort of memory. Well I'll take a chance

with the rest. Good night. Oh, by the way, how's one manage about

getting a wash in the mornings?"

"You goes without."

"Well, there's a damn thing," said Richard and departed with a nod.

There was an empty place on the bench but Richard hesitated long before

occupying it. Although no more than a single step it seemed a

tremendous distance from the pavement to the seat. A happy memory of a

similar sensation helped him to take the plunge--it was the trembling

nervousness he had felt on the first day of his commission when he

stood in an agony of suspense outside the anteroom of the officers'

mess and tried to summon up courage to enter. A dark shambling figure

approaching the spot decided him, and having accomplished the feat it

was only to find experience repeating itself. No one took any notice,

not a sunken chin was raised. The sleepers to right and left edged

away a trifle to give him room and continued with their breathy

muttering sleep.

Richard Frencham Altar lit a cigarette and buried his hands in his

pockets and with the whole future before him to contemplate and with

every vital problem that a man may be called upon to face, he said to

himself, "Now I wonder who that johnny was who nodded to me at the

Berkeley."

He was still wondering, for want of something better to do, when an

hour later his friend the constable passed slowly by and looked him

over critically. An official report of his observation would have read

as follows:--

Height, about five feet nine. Age, thirty odd. Hair, dark with a

disposition to wave. Eyes, brown, merry and set wide apart. Well

marked brows. Nose of medium length and slightly crooked to the left.

Short upper lip. Firm mouth with an upward twist at the corners. A

strong square chin. A habit of holding the head slightly at an angle.

Quick way of speaking and walks with a springy step. Stands with one

hand on his left hip.

"Doing all right?" asked the constable.

"Fine," said Richard.

CHAPTER 2.

EIGHT CLOSED DOORS.

As the taxi turned into the station yard from the Euston Road, Anthony

Barraclough unobtrusively opened the offside door and dropped into the

street. A pantechnicon concealed the manoeuvre from the traffic that

followed. His taxi driver was blissfully unaware of his departure. It

would seem a mean thing to have done but Barraclough had pinned a

Bradbury to the vacated seat as a tacit apology.

On landing in the street he wasted no time and nipped very neatly into

the open back of the pantechnicon. Here he concealed himself until a

stream of a dozen taxis had passed by, and in the pleasant straw

smelling shadows Anthony Barraclough grew a beard in precisely half a

minute by the clock, and a moustache in even less time. It was a nice

beard and a nice moustache, but even so it did not improve his

appearance. He was much better looking without. If you doubt the

statement here is an official report of his looks and bearing, by means

of which you may judge for yourself.

Height, about five feet nine. Age, thirty-four. Hair, dark with a

disposition to wave. Eyes, brown and set wide apart. Well marked

brows. Nose of medium length and slightly crooked to the left Short

upper lip. Firm mouth with an upward twist at the corners. A strong

square chin. A habit of holding the head slightly at an angle. Quick

way of speaking. Walks with a springy step. Stands with one hand on

his left hip.

Compare this description with one printed in the foregoing chapter and

a certain peculiar resemblance may suggest itself. The absence of the

word 'merry' in the latter as applied to the eyes must not be mistaken

for a careless omission, but rather as a piece of keen observation in

physiognomy. These things are very important.

Having pressed his cheeks until the wax warmed and adhered, Anthony

Barraclough threw a leg over the tailboard and alighted on the

pavement. Scarcely a soul bothered to glance his way. At a smart walk

he made for the tube station, bought a ticket at the twopenny machine

and entered the lift. In the passages below he made a circular tour,

entered an ascending lift and reappeared in the street. A 'bus was

passing which he entered and travelled in for a few hundred yards.

Then he got out and hailed a taxi and two minutes later was at the

booking office of St. Pancras Station. As he was reaching for his note

case a man in the queue behind him observed, vaguely, as though

addressing the air:

"Pity to waste the money, Mr. Barraclough. Much better go home and be

reasonable."

He returned the note case to his pocket and stepped out of the queue.

A sudden inflammation of anger surged to his cheeks and his brows came

down hard and straight.

The individual who had spoken was apparently absorbed in a copy of

_Answers_.

"It is annoying, isn't it?" he remarked sweetly.

And then it was that Barraclough did a very stupid thing. He measured

the distance speculatively between his own fist and the man's jaw and

upper cut to the point as neatly as you could please. It happened so

quickly that the onlookers thought the man had fallen from sickness.

Barraclough was gone when they helped him to his feet. He was in a

taxi speeding out of the yard.

"Drive north as fast you can go," he had shouted.

A loafer, standing by the station gates, who had witnessed his hurried

entry into the cab, lounged in front as it was passing out. The driver

swore and slammed on his brakes but the loafer took his own time and

chances. The speed of the taxi fell almost to a walking pace. The

loafer caught the nearside canopy stay with his right hand and slung

his knee on to the projecting end of the rear wing. From there he

mounted to the roof of the cab, keeping his legs clear of the side

windows. It was quite a dexterous performance, and after all, what was

against it? The fare for two is the same as for one and the poor must

travel. So hugging his knees and smiling he sat on the battens of the

luggage rack and congratulated himself, while within Anthony

Barraclough was tapping with his foot and feeling very angry indeed.

And if you are interested to know why, here is the reason. The little

affair that occurred at St. Pancras booking office was a repetition of

seven similar incidents within the last twelve hours. By seven

different routes he had endeavoured to get out of London and in every

instance had been headed back. It had started with the affair on the

Croydon train and the woman who fainted in his arms. Then there was

the car on the Portsmouth road that had been crashed into by another at

the top of Kingston Hill. Victoria, Charing Cross, Waterloo and

Liverpool Street. It seemed to make no difference at all where he

tried, the result was always the same. The little contretemps at

Rotherhithe when he tried to board a tug was a sufficiently unpleasant

experience for one day. A man gets out of the habit of being shot over

after two years of peace and the memory of the little chips of flying

woodwork flicked from the bows of the dingy as he had pulled out into

the river was distinctly discouraging. Whoever fired the shots had a

pretty knack with a rifle. It was the whirr of a bullet just over his

head persuaded him to put back to port. After that the firing ceased.

As he dragged the almost foundering dingy on to the mud a fast motor

launch went scurrying down stream with a man on deck who shouted, "Go

home."

But Anthony was not the type of man to turn back. Opposition sterned

his resolve. Besides he had a pretty sure conviction that they did not

mean to kill him. Very much the reverse. Were he to be dying of a

sickness he felt certain they would dispatch to his bedside the finest

physicians of the land. The problem was how to escape their unwelcome

attentions and so far it had proved a problem without solution.

They were speeding along the Caledonian Road when the driver leaned out

to ask where he should drive. The man on the top of the cab caught the

answer "Hendon Aerodrome" and smiled because he admired a tryer.

"Better wait till we get to a quieter part," he reflected.

The taxi proceeded until at last the houses of Golders Green ran out

into the fields near The Welsh Harp. Then very cautiously he spread

out at full length and reached out his hand for the knee joint of the

hood stay. The one on the right broke easily but the left was stiffer

and bit his finger as the joint gave. He had already loosened the

little clip hooks that secured the hood frame to the permanent

structure. There was room for a knife blade where the frames united

and they had slipped back easily. Holding the hood in position with

his left hand the adventurous passenger produced a neat automatic with

his right. Then he gave the hood a shove and presented the pistol at

Barraclough's head. And since it is not in the realms of common

occurrence for the tops to fly off cabs and reveal armed desperadoes no

one will blame Barraclough for the views he expressed upon the subjects.

"Keep sweet," said the loafer in a very agreeable tone of voice when

Barraclough had exhausted his first inspiration. "And if you'll keep

your hands in your lap I'll come and sit beside you."

Never for an instant while this agile individual transferred himself

from the roof of the cab to the interior did the caressing muzzle of

the pistol waver from its mark.

"Sorry to be a nuisance," he observed as he settled himself beside

Barraclough, "but I'm afraid you'll have to tell this joker to turn

back. Golders Green Tube Station will do nicely."

And while Barraclough was leaning forward to comply with the

instructions he very neatly removed a Harrington and Richardson from

his unhappy victim's pocket.

"Just to be on the safe side," he remarked as he transferred it to his

own. "You'll be getting a bit peevish maybe and might lose your sense

of proportion after such a busy day."

"Tell me this," said Barraclough. "How many of you are there in this?"

"My dear chap, I don't know--hundreds I expect."

"Hm!" said Barraclough. "Well, I'm going home to bed."

"Sensible fellow and I'll see you get there safely."

They alighted at Golders Green Station where the driver was equally

amazed by his open cab and the extra passenger.

"No, no, this is on me," said the loafer and handed out a couple of

notes.

In the station he nodded to several men in a friendly fashion and

repeated the performance to some others as they sat side by side in the

tube carriage. He rather flattered himself on the inspiration that

suggested this performance, for, as a fact, everyone of them was a

stranger.

"Thought it safer to come home this way," he said to establish the

point more firmly. "I felt a bit lonely with you in that cab."

They parted at the doors of Crest Chambers, W., where Barraclough had a

flat.

"By the way, any message for Mr. Van Diest?"

"You can tell him to go to the devil," said Anthony Barraclough.

"Right, I will. I say, if you feel a bit neglected during the night

don't worry, there are plenty of us knocking about in the street below

and we shan't desert you."

Barraclough smiled grimly.

"You seem a genial sort of ass," he said. "Care for a drink?"

"No, thanks. I must toddle along and make my report." He hesitated.

"But I would like to know what all this is about."

"So would a good many other people," said Barraclough and pressed the

third floor button of the electric lift.

CHAPTER 3.

WHICH DEVELOPS AN IDEA.

The meeting of the directors had been arranged to take place at Lord

Almont Frayne's house in Park Lane. Nugent Cassis was first to arrive.

It was part of his scheme of life to be five minutes early for

appointments. He nodded to the man-servant, crossed to the fire and

rubbed his thin hands before it.

"I expect his lordship will be down directly," said the servant.

"Do you?" said Cassis and that was all.

A precise, erect, parchmentlike person was Nugent Cassis, entirely

colourless in himself and his outlook. The emotions of life never for

an instant affected him. He was apparently insensible to pain,

passion, triumph and disaster. His brain worked at one unvarying speed

with clocklike regularity. He was always efficient, he was never

inspired. He believed in himself and his judgments and doubted

everyone else and their judgments. He was a machine, self-contrived,

for the purpose of making money, which he had no capacity for spending.

He could carry in his head the entire overnight market quotations and

invariably did so. He seldom made a mistake and never admitted the

mistakes he made. His transactions were honest because his knowledge

of the law was unrivalled and he knew to a hair how close to the wind a

man might sail. As he never wasted a moment he occupied the time of

waiting, in ringing up his broker and firing a barrage of instructions.

This done he returned to the fireplace, consulted his own watch,

corrected the mantelpiece clock which was a minute and a half slow,

sniffed critically and proceeded to warm his hands again. There was

nothing spontaneous in the action, warming his hands was as much a part

of his daily programme as reading the _Financial Times_, the two

minutes he spent lying flat on his back after lunch, or the single

round of golf which he played every third Sunday throughout the year.

The clock was striking eleven when Mr. Hilbert Torrington, a bent,

bald, clean shaven man of eighty years, entered on the arm of the

servant. Mr. Torrington, his age claims the prefix, was a different

type to Cassis. He possessed a pair of blue eyes that might have

belonged to a child and the expression of his face, a face threaded

with a thousand wrinkles, was sweet and calm. People who saw him but

had no intimate knowledge of his powers, marvelled that this frail,

kindly, stooping old man, with his look of innocence that was almost

sublime, could in reality be a giant in the world of money. Such was

the case. Mr. Hilbert Torrington had his fingers on the financial

pulse of the world and at a pressure could accelerate or decelerate it,

to suit his mood. Unlike Cassis, Mr. Torrington had time for

everything. When he worked he worked instantaneously, achieving in an

hour work that would have kept a less remarkable man busy for a month.

After one of these flashes he would relapse into pleasant gardens where

he grew roses, or pleasant galleries where he looked with eyes of

understanding into the heart of pictures. Sometimes he amused himself

by playing with urchins in St. James's Park and on one occasion had

been seen to divest himself of his coat to supply the wickets for an

informal cricket match. When asked why he bothered to take part in the

rack and strain of high finance he gave the amiable reply:

"Because it's such fun."

The servant piloted him to a high elbow chair and helped him to be

seated.

"Thank ye," said Mr. Torrington. "And if you'll put a side table

alongside I'll try a new patience. No, don't bother to tell me your

master won't be long, I know that bit by heart."

He unwound a silk comforter from his neck, hung it over the arm of the

chair and produced from his pocket a small pack of cards.

"Cold, Cassis?"

"I was cold," replied Cassis exactly.

"Hm! Fine growing weather, this."

He began to lay out the cards in neat little packs.

"Bulbs are coming through nicely. I was hoping to spend a day or two

in the garden but I'm afraid not--'fraid it won't be possible."

Cassis put his hands behind his back.

"This business," he said.

"Yes."

Lord Almont Frayne, a rather resplendant young man of thirty, came into

the room with all the bounce of youth. His chin shone from a ten

minutes' old shave, his hair clove to his head like fresh laid paint

and the crease in his trousers was razor edged.

"Most awfully sorry, dear hearts," he exclaimed in clamourous apology.

"Deuce of a late night at Thingumy's ball. Do excuse."

From which the reader may assume that his lordship was a bit of an

ass--but no. Under the ecstatic exterior of twentieth century modern

man-about-townism there existed in the composition of Lord Almont many

of the shrewd qualities that had made his father one of the richest

bankers in England. People in the know would assure you it was not

only luck that had kept the parental millions secure and had even

increased them after the old gentleman's decease. Lord Almont had a

sense of the market and his intelligence was not entirely devoted to

matters sartorial.

"Anybody have anything? No. Too early? Infernally hot in here. Mind

if we have a window up?"

Cassis was only just in time to lodge an objection.

Lord Almont pointed to the street.

"Here comes old Cranbourne bobbing along. Shall we wait?"

Mr. Torrington continued playing his patience game until Cranbourne was

announced. And if you are interested to know what manner of man

Cranbourne might be then turn to the description of the diner at the

table near the door in the Berkeley Café. As to his associations with

these other gentlemen it remains only to be said that he was a supplier

of ideas and occasionally of ideals.

"Anybody know anything?" said Lord Almont.

Cassis shrugged his shoulders negatively.

Mr. Torrington put down a card.

"Waste of time," he said. "Waste of time. Barraclough will never get

out of London by ordinary ways. It was a useless attempt."

"Well, we don't know."

"He hadn't got through at ten thirty last night," said Cranbourne. "He

was dining at the Berkeley Grill. 'Course he might have had a shot

later."

"Did you speak to him?"

"No--just nodded. Billings tells me he was shot at when he tried to

make the tug on the river."

"The boat was shot at, you mean," said Cassis.

"Anyone rung him up this morning?" asked Mr. Torrington.

"No, it was arranged we shouldn't."

"Then he's sure to be here soon."

The remark was prophetic for as the words were spoken Barraclough was

announced.

"No good," he said.

"You look tired, Barraclough," observed Mr. Torrington, who thought

about men as well as money.

"Am a bit."

"Did you try to make Hendon?"

"Did I try? Yes, I tried and travelled a Wild West shooting man on the

lid of the cab who worked a hold up by The Welsh Harp. Far as I can

see there must be hundreds out to prevent me." His mouth hardened.

"But I'm going to do it. I mean to do it somehow."

Mr. Torrington smiled sweetly.

"Ardent young man," he said.

Cassis put his finger tips together and remarked:

"Recklessness is a luxury we can't afford."

"I'm prepared to take chances," said Barraclough.

Mr. Torrington quoted:

"'On the sand drift, on the veldt side, in the fern scrub we lay.

That our song might follow after by the bones on the way.'"

"That's all very well," said Cassis sourly, "but our sons won't be able

to follow after so long as Barraclough obstinately determines to keep

the secret entirely to himself."

"Pooh! pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Torrington. "That was understood."

"It was," said Barraclough and swivelled round to face Cassis. "I've

said frankly that until I get the concession no one but myself will be

told the map reference. That's absolute."

Cassis sniffed.

"It was a pity you didn't get the concession when you made the

discovery."

"You know quite well that I wasn't sure. A false move might have

brought every prospector in the world to the place--would have done.

Besides with all this post-war territorial shuffle it was pretty nearly

impossible to say which government actually owned the land. Been jolly

if we'd got a title too soon and from the wrong people."

"But the territorial point has been cleared up now, hasn't it?" Cassis

put the question shrewdly.

Barraclough shut up like a clam and made no answer.

Lord Almont butted in.

"Still you're pretty confident of getting the concession if you manage

to get clear."

Barraclough nodded.

"If I can slip through and they don't stop me I'll be back with the

whole thing settled in three weeks from the hour of starting."

"And during those three weeks," said Cassis sourly, "Van Diest and his

crowd will subject us to an intensive course of financial buffeting.

As matter of fact he has begun already."

"Well, it was no fault of mine the other side knew anything about it,"

said Barraclough. "If your confidential secretary had kept his mouth

shut----"

"There is no use in discussing that," said Cassis.

Mr. Torrington swept the cards into a heap and shuffled them to and fro

like a cook making pastry.

"Getting very active is Van Diest," he remarked. "Not a good loser,

poor fellow. Quite set his heart on getting into our little syndicate.

Started unloading American Rails yesterday afternoon--broke the market

badly. I had to reciprocate by selling Dutch Oils. Our losses on the

day were about equal."

Lord Almont remarked that his broker had rang him up to tell him of a

fuss. Had no idea Van Diest was at the back of it. Cost him about ten

thousand but he held on.

"Quite so and it's all very well if we are going to get a return for

our losses," said Cassis. "But so long as Barraclough is held by the

heels we become a mere kicking post for the opposition. Not good

enough."

"Any suggestions?" said Barraclough.

"Yes. I suggest under the seal of confidence you inform us of the

exact location of this field and we dispatch a trustworthy servant to

carry out the necessary negotiations."

Barraclough remained silent.

"If you refuse to adopt that view all I can see for it is either to

drop the whole thing or to let Van Diest come in and split the profit."

For one instant the placid blue eyes of Mr. Torrington were lit with a

shiny white fire.

"Van Diest will not be in this, Cassis," he said.

"But look here, dear old Mr. Torrington," Lord Almont exclaimed.

"Surely you agree that Barra ought to give us his trust."

The old man smiled whimsically.

"Think so?" he said.

"I mean to say, we're not the kind of people to take advantage of a

man."

"Nonsense! Of course we are," came the answer.

"That's honest," Barraclough laughed.

"Not at all, my dear boy, it's a confession of dishonour of which I am

heartily ashamed."

Cassis could not leave the subject alone. Tenacity was one of his

strong points.

"Suppose you were killed," he suggested. "The secret would be lost for

all time. And where should we stand?"

"Several degrees better than myself," was the answer. "You'll come out

with your lives."

"That's not the point. Our involvement is equivalent to yours. Your

risk is physical, ours financial, and of the two, in my own opinion----"

"I know," Barraclough cut in. "Our views are opposed about that. I

made the find and as soon as I have turned it into actual possession,

you will have the chance to exploit it, but until----"

"Yes, but half a shake, old son," said Lord Almont. "How about the

marvellous healing properties--all the jolly old hospitals we were

going to endow. One doesn't want to be a dog in the manger."

Barraclough grinned. Whatever other qualities Nature had bestowed upon

the ebullient peer philanthropy was not outstanding.

"I notice in this argument," he said, "money came over the horizon

before the hospitals showed their smoke."

"Then deposit the map reference in a safe place so we can get hold of

it if you break up."

"And where it will be at the mercy of the first man with a jimmy and a

blow lamp. No, thanks."

There are certain types of stubbornness that increase in direct ratio

to the pressure applied. To this type Barraclough belonged. He had

yet to find the man who could induce him to talk against his will.

Woman? Ah, that's a different matter. The argument took an angry turn.

"It occurs to me," said Mr. Torrington sweetly, "it was a pity I

deserted my greenhouses this morning. We remain _in statu quo ante_."

A reproach from Mr. Torrington seldom failed to reach its mark.

"I'm sorry," Barraclough apologised, "but I give you my solemn word

that somehow I'll win you the purse."

"The purse," Mr. Torrington smiled. "One almost forgets the purse in a

case like this. It is eclipsed by the will to succeed. Adventure!

The one thing of which old people never tire."

And then it was that Cranbourne who, curled up in the window seat with

his chin resting on his knees, had taken no part in the debate, made

his first observation.

"If Barraclough is to succeed it will have to be in the next three

days. At midnight on the 27th he is going to be kidnapped."

All eyes turned upon Cranbourne as he made this announcement.

"How the devil do you know that?" exclaimed Barraclough.

Nugent Cassis answered the question.

"We have our private information bureau in the opposite camp."

"Ah! Anyone I know?"

"That's immaterial."

"I think I deserve your confidence."

"Have you given us yours?"

Barraclough lit a cigarette.

"Oh, very well," he said. "So I'm to be kidnapped."

"At twelve precisely," Cranbourne nodded. "In the course of the next

three days Van Diest will try the persuasion of bribes and failing

success you disappear, my friend, for a short inquisition."

Barraclough shut his fists tight.

"By God," he said. "So that's the way of it. Three days, what! I'll

break through that damned ring if it kills me."

"I wonder," murmured Mr. Torrington. "Quite a lot I wonder. Still

it's great fun. Don't do anything in a hurry. Three days is a life

time. Take my advice, go and sit with your girl and calm down."

"Good idea, I will. We shall meet again?"

"Surely."

"Au revoir then."

As Barraclough moved toward the door Cranbourne spoke.

"Why did you pass me by at the Berkeley last night?"

Barraclough wrinkled his forehead perplexedly.

"The Berkeley?"

"Yes, about ten thirty."

"At ten thirty I was plugging a man in the jaw at St. Pancras Station."

Cranbourne sprang to his feet.

"Honest?" he cried.

"Honest."

"And you never went to the Berkeley?"

"Nowhere near it."

A light of wild enthusiasm leapt into Cranbourne's eyes and he brought

his hands together with a loud report.

"Got it," he cried. "Got it! Oh, what an idea!"

"What's up with you?"

The enthusiasm came under control but his voice still trembled.

"It's all right, gentlemen, I can see a way. With any luck we'll

succeed. Don't do anything until eleven o'clock on the night of the

27th. I'm going to try and find someone." And he made for the door.

"But hang it all," Lord Almont shouted, "be a bit more explicit."

Cranbourne turned.

"Have you missed it," he said. "Then here's something to think about.

Suppose Van Diest kidnaps the wrong man." The door slammed behind him.

Mr. Torrington laid a card on the table with careful deliberation. He

was smiling.

"Great fun," he murmured to himself.

CHAPTER 4.

SITTING ON THE FLOOR.

When Anthony Barraclough left the Mansions he walked up Park Lane and

turned into Green Street. Before a house with a white front door he

stopped and attacked the knocker. He was admitted by a parlourmaid and

informed that Miss Irish was in the boudoir. This was good news because

it meant sitting on the floor and lovers all the world over are at their

happiest when they sit on the floor. There is something soothing and

familiar about it. A man loves to sprawl and a woman is always at her

best curled up among cushions. It is impossible to be disagreeable when

you are sitting on the floor. You couldn't conceivably have a row in

that position. Perhaps a little sulking might be done but very little

and only of the kind that provokes pleasant makings-up. Altogether it is

a jolly fine institution and the world would be a better place if there

was more of it.

In the opinion of Anthony Barraclough no one sat on the floor so divinely

as Isabel, and to tell the truth he rather fancied himself as her floor

partner.

"Don't you bother," he said to the maid. "I'll make my own way up."

He handed over his hat and stick and mounted the stairs and knocked at a

door on the second floor.

"May I come in?" he asked and did not wait for the reply.

Isabel was built in among a nest of squabs and cushions that circled the

tiny grate.

"Nice!" she said with a grin. "I was beginning to think you were

deserting me. Rang up three times yesterday I did."

"Awful busy I was," he returned and disposed himself luxuriously beside

her. Then he said 'Please' and had every reason to say 'Thank you' only

he preferred to express it otherwise.

"What you been doing?"

"Trous-sewing," she answered nodding at a small basket decorated with

silk fruit and overflowing with pieces of flimsy needlework. "But I've

been dull. Where were you yesterday?"

"All over the place. North, south, east and west and the nor'-nor's and

the sou'-sou's into the bargain. It was a hectic day."

Something in the forced gaiety of his voice made her look at him

critically.

"Anything wrong?" he asked. "I know I'm not handsome but----"

"I don't know yet," she continued looking, "but you've a kind of flat

look at the corners of your eyes where the fun ought to be."

"Now what on earth do you mean by that?"

"A lot. Tony! Almost you've got the----"

"Well?"

"The money face."

"Money face?"

"Um! You mustn't laugh, it's a dreadful face. Daddy had it. He caught

it during the rubber boom and it never went away. Are you still doing

things with that beastly syndicate, Tony?"

"Here, chuck it," he implored humorously. "We're sitting on the floor,

you know. 'Tisn't fair."

But her expression remained very grave.

"I sometimes believe," she said, "you think that's all I'm good for. You

don't talk to me as I want you to talk. I'm not always sitting on the

floor, Tony. It's lovely at times, but other times I'm different.

I'm--oh, I'm a bit of a surprise really."

"What is it you want to know?"

"I want to be told what you're doing 'cos I've a funny feeling it

isn't--oh! I don't know."

"You extraordinary child. It's perfectly all right. Rather important,

that's all. There's nothing for you to bother about. I was going to

tell you because I shall have to be away for three weeks and I

thought----"

"Three weeks? But we were going to be married on----"

"Yes, that's rotten part. Still the invitations haven't gone out--and if

we were to put it off ten days to be on the safe side----"

"Our wedding!" she said.

"I wouldn't have had it happen for the world. It's frightful bad luck

but----"

Isabel drew up her knees. Very little and lovely she looked. Her big

brown eyes were open wide and her lower lip was drawn in. A shock of

chestnut hair framed the sweet oval of her face. Tony had said she was

like a serious angel and he was right.

She nodded twice.

"It must be very important," she said, "if we have to postpone our

wedding. I see."

"You don't see," he said edging closer to her. "You can't because I

haven't wanted to worry you with details, but it is important--enormously

important."

"More important than I am?"

"'Course not."

"Yet it takes you away from me."

"Only for a little while--and look, dear, I don't want you to tell anyone

I'm going."

"Why not?"

"Because--well, it mustn't be known."

"Tony, is--is what you have to do dangerous?"

He answered evasively.

"What I have to do--no."

"Then let me come too. We could be married first. I don't want a

fashionable wedding. Let's do that."

He hesitated.

"Couldn't be done, dear. It wouldn't be----"

"Safe?"

"Practicable."

"You don't trust me."

"Of course I trust you," he said putting his arms round her. "I've

trusted you from the moment we first met and I'm going on trusting you

all the rest of my life. Isn't that good enough?"

"Not nearly," she answered and rose to her feet.

"Isabel," he said very seriously. "When I tell you that there are huge

interests at stake--that all this is for something that--that defeats

imagination, surely you will take my word."

She pressed a finger to her chin.

"Huge interests means money."

"It does," he replied, "but money on a colossal scale--illimitable.

Doesn't that appeal to you?"

"No," she said. "I've all I want and you're well enough off. What's the

good of more?"

"Just listen," he said. "If I bring off this deal there is no wish in

the world one couldn't gratify, and bring it off I shall."

He started to pace up and down the narrow floor space of the tiny room,

his hands opening and shutting and a light of enthusiasm dancing in his

eyes. It was not the money face he wore as he spoke but the expression

of the man of deeds, the man who joyed in accomplishment, in vanquishing

difficulty, in facing long odds, buoyed up and carried along by the will

to win.

"You can't understand, my dear, all this means to me and will mean to

you. I haven't even imagined it myself. Think! We could buy islands,

build hospitals, govern nations if the mood prompted us. And all for

three weeks' work. Lord, it's--Oh! if I could make you see how big it

is--how magnificent."

And womanlike she responded,

"I want you, Tony, the rest only frightens me."

"Forget the money," he said, "and bear this in mind. If I succeed the

world will be richer by a tremendous healing force."

"A medicine?"

"Call it a medicine. It's lying out in the open within a little march of

the common ways of men and women. I tumbled on the find by a stroke of

luck and a little knowledge and a word inside me that whispered, 'Look,

go and look.' You've read Kipling's 'Explorer'--I read it you.

'Something lost behind the ranges--something hidden, go you there.' It

was like that with me--a pringly feeling--a kind of second

sense--expectancy--belief--certainty. Nature has a trick of showing the

combination of her treasure safe to one man before the rest--and I was

the man."

The little chestnut head shook helplessly from side to side.

"What is it you've found?" said Isabel.

He looked at her searchingly and hesitated.

"If I tell you you'll keep it secret?"

"Yes."

"Honest?"

"Honest."

He dropped his voice.

"It's radium," he said.

She repeated the word dully.

"Radium as it never had been found before. A--whew! an inexhaustible

supply. Look--look here!"

He drew from his pocket a small black cylinder with a glass peephole at

the top, protected by a circular cap of a dark substance.

"It's the finest piece of radium ever found," he said, "and where I got

it, at a single dip of the shovel--but never mind that. See, protect it

with your hand so, and look through that eyehole."

At the bottom of the cylinder was a luminous speck like a fire seen from

a long way off. Waves and jags of angry light burst from it ceaselessly,

this way and that. The restless mass was alive, active, burning.

Infinitesimal though its dimensions were it gave a sense of illimitable

force and power, a prodigious energy.

Isabel returned the cylinder with a nervous shudder.

"I don't like it," she said. "It--it's horrid somehow--wicked looking."

She shot a quick glance at him. "You say this is going to be of value to

the world!"

He nodded.

"Then why are you in danger? Why aren't you protected as someone who--

Why are you in danger?"

He didn't answer at once and again she repeated the question.

"It's this way, dear," he said. "When anything great enough is

discovered there is bound to be competition. I found the stuff but I

haven't the capital to exploit it. I took my samples to a ring of

financiers who are backing me."

"Mr. Torrington? Mr. Cassis?"

"Cranbourne--Frayne--that crowd. By sheer bad luck another ring got news

of what was going on and are moving heaven and earth to get a share in

the plunder."

"So it's plunder now," she said.

"From their point of view."

"And from yours?"

"Achievement--a game."

"That you're willing to risk your life for."

"One doesn't think of that," he answered.

"I do," she said.

"Wish I could give you some of my enthusiasm. What is it old Kipling

says again:

'The game is more than the Player of the Game

'And the ship is more than the crew.'"

"Old Kipling, as you call him, wrote for men. What did he know about

_me_?"

"Enough to guess you wouldn't have much use for us if we shirked standing

our chances."

"The chances being?"

"The assault or favour of the other side."

"Favour?" she repeated.

Barraclough nodded and took from his pocket a folded sheet of notepaper.

"Listen to this," he said and read: "'Dear Mr. Barraclough, if you would

grant me ten minutes private conversation, at your own convenience, I

should be pleased to reward the courtesy with a sum of twenty-five

thousand pounds. Faithfully yours, Hugo Van Diest.' And that's only

ground bait."

"Did you meet him?"

"No fear."

Isabel rubbed her forehead perplexedly.

"Oh, I don't know," she said, "I don't understand. But if this radium

belongs to your side already----"

"That's just it," he explained. "I haven't got the concession yet. They

know that--it's what makes 'em so devilish active. You'll understand

they'll do their best to prevent me getting to the place."

Her eyes opened very wide.

"Their best? D'you mean they'd----"

"Lord, no. There'd be no point in that unless they had the map reference

first."

"You'll be gone three weeks?"

"That's all."

"They'll follow you?"

"You bet they'll try."

"Suppose they got you! Tony! _Tony_, they might try and make you speak."

He did his best to calm her but she went on furiously.

"It's true. Men are brutes--vile beasts--where money is concerned. Oh,

I hate this--hate every bit of it. Power--healing--it's only another

name for the money grab--the horrible cutthroat money grab. Tony, you

shan't go--I won't let you go--I'll prevent you by every means----"

"Now, my dear," he begged, putting his arms about her, "be a good

sensible little girl--be a baby for three weeks. You've all your

trousseau to get--heaps of people to see. Why not run over to Paris for

a week? Then there's my mother in Devon. She'd be tremendously bucked

if----"

"Is this place abroad?" said Isabel.

"I can't tell that even to you."

"When are you starting?"

"Probably in three days' time--latish."

"You're determined to go?"

"I must."

"Nothing I can say will prevent you?"

"I'm sorry, dear."

"Hm!" said Isabel. "Then I suppose we'd better make the most of the time

that's left."

And very slowly she subsided on the Cushion pile in the corner, her chin

resting on his shoulder and her left hand playing idly with a long gold

tassel.

"Oh, you angel," he exclaimed, "I knew you wouldn't really make any

difficulties. And there's no need to be frightened because they're

fixing me up the easiest get-away in the world."

"I haven't promised anything," she answered noncommittally. Her eyes

flashed up to his and in them shone the sweetest light imaginable. "But

just for now I'm sitting on the floor again."

They forgot all about lunch.

CHAPTER 5.

EXPERIENCES OF A VAGRANT.

Richard Frencham Altar awoke betimes--as a fact he had been disturbed

when the four o'clock patrol came round but subsequently slept for

another spell. In the shuffle up he had changed the order of his

companions and as he opened his eyes for the second time he found himself

beside an old lady, generously skirted and shawled, who wore a hat from

which the bare quills of several ostrich feathers pointed this way and

that in raffish confusion. In her lap was a sack containing her various

possessions. Richard watched dreamily as she emptied its contents upon

the pavement and sorted them out in some kind of order. The proceeding

was vaguely reminiscent of a barrack room kit inspection. So far as he

could judge she was separating wardrobe from larder, the two having

become painfully confused during the preceding day's march. To one

inexpert in such matters it would have been hard to decide which was

eatable and which wearable, and Richard observed the operation with a

mixture of amusement and disgust. Having discovered her breakfast and

selected a piece of rag to act as napkin, tablecloth, and subsequently a

face towel, the old lady restored the remainder of her effects to the

'valise' and fell to. Noticing Richard was awake she addressed him in a

singularly soprano voice.

"I'm up a bit early today," she remarked and added "Lovely air, isn't it?"

The unexpected aestheticism of the remark robbed him of speech. Ho had

looked for mutterings or execrations but instead here was amiability and

appreciation overriding adversity. A powerful desire possessed him to

shake hands with his new acquaintance, but he did not risk it, being

unacquainted with the proper etiquette of the benches. Recovering his

composure he agreed about the pleasant quality of the air and threw in a

word of praise for the sparrows.

"Dear little things," said the old lady over the grey crust to which she

was applying a single tooth. Having gnawed off a corner she threw a

glance at him. "Just come down?" she questioned.

Richard nodded.

"My first night," he said, "and I've rarely spent a better, though I

confess I should enjoy a shave and a wash."

"There's a bit of mirror in the tobacconist," she nodded over her

shoulder. "I often freshen up in front of it when the mood takes me.

Many's the hat I've changed before that glass. But then I don't bother

much these days." Once again her critical glance came in his direction.

"After a time one loses interest, y'know."

The sentiment struck Richard chillily.

"And yet," he said, "you appear to have kept in touch with cheerfulness."

"Ah, but I'm old," she answered, "and to old people one thing's as good

as another. But if I was you I wouldn't be content."

"I've no intention of being content," he said. "I just happen to have

hit the rocks but I'll get sailing again one of these days."

"Well I'm glad to hear you say so, and now I must toddle along."

He asked what employment could engage her at so early an hour.

"I'm going to pick over the dustbins in Bond Street," she returned, and

added "You never know what you'll find. Only you must be early. Goo'

morning." And with a sunny smile the disreputable old thing shuffled

away warbling a snatch of song as she went.

"By Jove," said Richard, "I suppose that's about what I'm doing--picking

over dustbins and wondering what I shall find."

He looked across the park to where the golden orb of the sun was rising

over the tree tops and lifted his hat in salutation.

"Good morning, day," he said. "Your servant to command. Gad! but I

could do with some breakfast."

He rose and walked briskly toward Knightsbridge. The coffee stall by

Hyde Park Corner attracted his attention. A few early carters and an

occasional loafer were gathered about it and the smell of victuals was

tempting. Richard noticed the driver of a large dray was leaning against

the railings pouring tea into the saucer of his cup. He was a big man

and his apparel was conspicuous by the fact that he wore a collar but no

tie. The omission suggested an idea.

"Do you want a tie by any chance?" Richard asked and listened to a highly

decorated ambition to know what he was talking about.

"Only this," he answered. "I've a notion I could do with some breakfast

and it occurred to me as you might like to buy me one in exchange for a

perfectly good Etonian tie."

For a space the driver examined Richard's necktie in thoughtful silence

and his expression softened.

"I reckon that 'ud suit me," he observed judicially.

"It would," said Richard, "and a hard boiled egg would suit me with a cup

of coffee to moisten it."

Somehow the absence of a tie seemed to ease the passage of the simple

fare down his gullet and Richard felt twice his own man as he turned

jubilantly into the park and swung along the lower walk. The breakfast

had heartened him and he was ready to face the future with a bold front.

"I'll take a bit of a constitutional," he said, "and later on roll round

to a labour bureau and see what's doing."

He paused for a moment by the rails of Rotten Row and watched some early

horsemen canter by. In one of them he recognised an old acquaintance and

instinctively covered the lower half of his face with his hand. His chin

felt prickly to the touch for his beard had grown rapidly during the

night. As a scrupulous twice-a-day shaver his senses rebelled at the

notion of weed upon his face. However, it was useless to lament over

trifles like that.

"I know," he said to himself. "A dip in the Serpentine."

A quarter of an hour later he was cutting through the water with long

powerful strokes. On returning to the shore he had the good fortune to

borrow a cake of soap from another bather who appeared, from the modesty

of his folded garments, to be in equally hazardous financial

circumstances.

"To tell the honest truth," his new acquaintance confided, "I bagged that

bit of soap from a Great Eastern Railway carriage. Managed to nip in and

collar it when no one was looking. Suppose I'm a thief of sorts but a

man loses self respect if he doesn't wash."

They sat side by side until the pale sunlight had partially dried them.

"You broke?" Richard queried.

The man shook his head seriously.

"No, I'm a millionaire," he replied, "only I haven't any money--not a

bean. Spent it all making myself rich. Look at this."

He untied a string that circled his neck. (Richard had noticed the

string and a small linen bag it supported.) He opened the bag and

produced a piece of yellow metal about the size of a lump of sugar.

"It's gold," he said.

Richard agreed that it looked like gold and asked where he found it.

"I made it," came the astonishing reply. "You needn't worry, it is gold

all right. Bear any test." He restored it to the bag. "Seems stupid,"

he went on, "that here am I, with the knowledge to command millions, and

I haven't a sou in my pocket. Cheap process, too, once you've got the

plant. Dirt cheap. 'Course it's getting the plant's the trouble. No

one'll believe me. Disheartening. Took that sample to the Bank of

England--they asked me where I bought it--bought it! Lord! Oh well--one

of these days, I suppose. Meet again perhaps. G'bye."

And with a cheery wave of the hand he vaulted the railings and ran

lightly across the grass.

"I'm damned," said Richard. "If a fellow like that can make gold it

follows to reason I ought to be able to make good."

It was after nine o'clock when Richard turned down the Earl's Court Road.

He stopped before a small sweet stuff shop, attracted by a card in the

window which read, "Letters may be addressed here, 1d."

"I suppose a man, even in my circumstances, ought to have a town

address," he argued. "After all, one never knows."

Accordingly he entered and registered under the modest name of John Tidd.

To the little old lady who wrote it down in a small laundry book devoted

to the purpose, he said he was probably going abroad and later might send

a request to forward correspondence. It was a dignified and pleasant

transaction although he was conscious of a feeling that he would have

created a more agreeable impression had he retained his necktie.

Coming out of the shop he fell into line with the tide of city workers

moving southward to the underground station. These were the nobility of

commerce who picked up the reins of office at nine forty-five--persons of

substance in no way to be confused with the eight-thirty worker. It was

an honourable association to walk down the Earl's Court Road in such

company. Richard swung along at an even gait with an important looking

individual in a hard felt hat to the right of him and a stout gentleman

with a King Edward beard to the left. The three entered Earl's Court

Station abreast and approached the barrier, where Richard stepped aside

and let them pass through. Leaning against the grill gates was a man

reading a folded copy of the _Daily Sketch_. He looked at Richard for an

instant, then looked again searchingly. The repeated action attracted

Richard's notice and their eyes met.

"Hardly worth while, is it?" said the man.

"I beg your pardon," Richard returned.

"Oh, that's quite all right--but I really wouldn't bother with it." He

pointed at the opening of Richard's waistcoat and smiled. "That's rather

a sound notion--no tie--distracts the eye from looking too keenly at the

face. You nearly passed me."

"To be perfectly frank," Richard answered, "I shouldn't have bought crêpe

if I had."

The man laughed.

"Getting pretty sick of it, aren't you?" he queried.

A sure conviction possessed Richard that he was in the presence of a

lunatic.

"On the contrary," he replied, "I'm just beginning to enjoy myself."

"Well, well, there's no accounting for tastes. But I should have thought

you'd have had enough of railway stations. Better go home and stay

there."

Richard shook his head sympathetically.

"Try taking a little more soda in it," he suggested. "You'd be a

different man inside a week. So long."

The watcher by the gate was smiling pleasantly to himself as Richard

turned away.

It was nearly one o'clock when his wanderings brought him back to the

neighbourhood of Piccadilly. He had spent the intervening hours, with

little enough success, at the labour bureau in Westminster. From there

he had walked across the Mall and found an empty bench under the trees in

Green Park looking up Park Lane. He had hardly seated himself when he

saw a man come out of a big doorway opposite and hurry eastward in the

direction of Piccadilly Circus. Even at the distance Richard had no

difficulty in recognising the diner who overnight had nodded to him at

the Berkeley.

"Half a mind to give him a shout," he thought, but on reflection "I don't

know though, he seems in the deuce of a hurry and I can't imagine he's

any work to give away."

It would have saved Cranbourne a lot of trouble if he had followed his

first inclination.

CHAPTER 6.

CONCERNING A TIE.

Not a word had been received from Cranbourne. From the moment he left

Lord Almont's flat he disappeared completely. That was Cranbourne's

way, for once an idea started in his brain he rested not until it has

been realised or disproved. He had given himself three days to find a

human duplicate of Barraclough and among a population of seven millions

the task was no easy one. His quarry had dined at the Berkeley on the

twenty-fourth instant but beyond that point information languished.

The redoubtable Brown, prince of head waiters, who knew the affairs of

most of his customers as intimately as his own, was able to offer

little or no assistance. He remembered the gentleman who had dined

alone in a tweed suit and had said something about having no dress

clothes. He believed he had seen him in uniform during the earlier

parts of the war but couldn't recall the regiment. Had an impression

he paid for his dinner with the last of the notes in his pocket but

that might mean nothing. "A pleasant gentleman, spoke crisply and had

a smile." John, of the cloakroom, recalled a half crown thrown on his

little counter in return for a soft hat--"Wait a bit, sir, by a

Manchester hatter I believe," and a rainproof coat "rather thinnish and

brown."

The Manchester hat stuck in Cranbourne's throat a trifle since it

widened the circle of enquiry.

The porter at the revolving door believed the gentleman had gone toward

Piccadilly--walking. Yes, he was sure he hadn't taken a cab. Gave him

a shilling and five coppers.

Cranbourne thanked them and spent the rest of the day passing in and

out of every well known grill room in London. It was sound enough

reasoning but it brought no results. At twelve o'clock the same night

he paid a flying visit to all the dancing rooms--Murray's, Giro's,

Rector's, The Embassy, Savoy and half a dozen others. At three o'clock

he rang up Daimler's, hired a car and drove to Brighton because many

men come up from Brighton by day and bring no evening clothes. Besides

the time of his departure from the Berkeley plus a walk to Victoria

Station more or less synchronised with the down train to Brighton. He

spent the best part of the following day racing through hotel lists and

looking up visitors at Brighton, Eastbourne, Hastings and Folkestone.

He was back in Town again by 7.30, at the Theatre Library, where he

bought a single ticket for twelve musical plays and revues selecting

them from the class of entertainment Barraclough himself would have

been likely to attend. It was a restless evening, dashing from one

place to another and sorting over the audiences in the narrow margin of

time allowed by intervals. Afterwards he spent an hour by the fountain

in Piccadilly Circus keenly examining the thousands of passers-by.

It was very late indeed when he struck one hand against the other and

cried out,

"Oh, my Lord, what a fool I am."

A new significance had suddenly suggested itself as a result of Brown's

repetition of the mysterious diner's remark, "I repeat I have no

evening clothes." Cranbourne had taken it to imply that there had been

no time to dress but why not accept it literally.

Two whole days wasted looking at men in white shirt fronts and black

coats!

"Lord, what an idiot I am. Alter your line of thought and alter it

quick."

He began to walk briskly, muttering to himself as he strode along.

"No dress clothes--deuce of an appetite. Chap who had scraped up a few

guineas perhaps to do himself well--on the bust. No, that won't do.

Ordered his dinner too well for that. Had the air of a man accustomed

to the best places. Brown said so. A shilling and five coppers to the

porter. Queer kind of tip! What in blazes was the fellow doing? What

sort of company does he keep?"

Cranbourne jumped into a taxi and returned to the Berkeley. It was

closed but a night porter admitted him.

"Look here, I want to get hold of Brown," he said.

"You're in luck, sir," the man returned. "One of our visitors 'as been

giving a supper and Mr. Brown was in charge. If 'e 'asn't gone I'll

try and get him for you."

He returned a moment later with Brown following.

"Tremendously sorry," said Cranbourne, "but I want to ask you a few

more questions about that fellow I spoke of."

"I've been thinking about him myself, sir, and one or two things have

come to mind. Remembered his tie for instance."

"Yes."

"Old Etonian colours," said Brown.

Cranbourne nodded enthusiastically.

"Anything else?"

"I was looking over his bill this afternoon and it seems to me he did

himself too well to be natural. Rare for a man by himself to order a

long dinner like that. Then again he looked at the prices on the menu

just as if he meant to spend up to a certain amount. Something odd in

that--unusual. But I'm pretty sure it was in his mind, sir."

"And you believe he spent the last of his notes."

"Certain of it."

"What's your idea?"

"He was very hungry--eat everything put before him. I should

say--'course it's only a guess----"

"Well?"

"He'd gone a bit short and was wanting that meal."

"Did he seem depressed?"

"Not a bit. Rather amused. But it struck me when he got up he looked

like a man saying goodbye to his mother."

"How old should you think?"

"Thirty-two or three."

"Old Etonian tie?"

"Yes."

"You're a man of experience, Brown," said Cranbourne. "Ever known a

case of a chap who's on the point of going under, blueing the last of

his cash on one big dinner?"

"I should just think so. There's a type does that sort of thing."

"His type?"

"Or one very like it."

"Many thanks. You've helped me no end. Now I'll get a taxi and drive

to Windsor. Goodnight."

Just beyond the Ritz he found a taxi willing to undertake the journey.

It was a pity he found it so easily for a hundred yards further down

the slope the man he sought was sleeping fitfully on a bench facing

Green Park.

It was not a lucky drive since it included three punctures and some

engine trouble. They came into Windsor about 7.30 in the morning.

Cranbourne made a hurried breakfast and set out to interview the

photographers of the town. The particular one he sought did not arrive

until nearly nine but on being questioned proved himself amiable and

anxious to help. He produced Eton school groups of fifteen years

antiquity and Cranbourne spent an hour anxiously scanning the faces of

the boys in the hope of tracing a likeness to Barraclough. But boys

are very much alike and very dissimilar from the men they grow into and

though there were several dozen who might well have passed for

Barraclough in infancy no particular one could have been selected with

positive assurance. Cranbourne made a list of twenty names and

Frencham Altar's was not among them.

Rather despondent he said goodbye to the photographer and entered the

taxi.

"Think I'll go back by the Bath Road," said the driver, "it's a better

surface."

"Please yourself," said Cranbourne and settled himself within.

He was beginning to feel a trifle done. His eyes had the sense of

having been sand papered and his lips were dry and parched from want of

rest. He glanced at his watch and shook his head.

"Only thirteen hours left," he said and closed his eyes.

Sleep comes very suddenly to the weary--like a pistol shot out of the

dark. Cranbourne's head pitched forward against his chest and his

hands slithered inertly from his knees.

He awoke with a start to the sound of smashing glass, a sharp rattle of

imprecations and a sense of being turned upside down. The front

nearside wheel of the taxi was in a ditch, the wind screen broken and a

large dray horse was trying to put its fore hoof through the buckled

bonnet. The taxi driver had fallen out and lay cursing gently on the

grass slope to the left, one of his legs was up to the knee in water.

Through the offside window Cranbourne caught a glimpse of the man in

charge of the dray horses--a powerful person, high perched, his weight

thrown bask against the tightened reins--his face purple with effort.

From his mouth came an admirable flow of oaths, choicely adjusted to

suit the occasion. Then Cranbourne saw something else. Beneath the

man's vibrating jaw showed the pleasant colours of an Old Etonian tie.

There could be no mistaking it--neither could there be any reason why

the driver of a Covent Garden dray should exhibit such an ensign.

Cranbourne let the window down with a bang, stuck out his head and

shouted,

"Where the devil did you get that tie?"

It is not hard to believe that this remark, apparently so irrelevant,

did little to calm an already excited situation. The driver loosed his

hold upon the reins, seized his whip and slashed it at Cranbourne's

head. Cranbourne caught the whistling thong and tugged hard, with the

result that the driver, who held on to the butt, lost his balance,

pitched forward on to the flank of the nearside dray horse and rolled

harmlessly on to the road. Cranbourne embraced the opportunity to get

out, seized the bit rings of both horses and backed them away from the

debris of the taxi.

Meanwhile the driver picked himself up and removed his coat as a proper

preliminary to engagement.

"Put 'em up," he invited Cranbourne. "Put 'um up, you----" but the

descriptive titles he employed do not affect the narrative.

Cranbourne shook his head and tugged a note case from his pocket.

"Five pounds," he said, "if you answer my question. Where did you get

it?"

The driver exhibited some sample upper cuts and left hooks and

beseeched Cranbourne to guard himself. But Cranbourne detached a fiver

from its fellows and extended it temptingly.

"Don't you see I'm in earnest, man?"

The tone of his voice had a sobering effect and the amateur pugilist

ceased manoeuvring.

"Why do you want to know?" he demanded.

"Never mind that--take the money and tell me."

"I got it," said the driver, "from a blame fool at the coffee stall by

Hyde Park Corner. Bought 'im a doorstep and a ball of chalk b'way of

return."

"When was this?"

"Day before yesterday--six o'clock in the morning."

"And what was he like?"

The answer clinched it.

"Was he shaved?"

"No."

"Broke?"

"I reckon. Been sleepin' out by the looks of 'im."

"Seen him since?"

"Couldn't be sure. Maybe it was 'im I saw sleepin' on the bench by the

Shelter 'Ouse in Piccadilly 'bout four this morning. There was a bloke

there with a soft 'at and a brown coat."

Cranbourne produced another fiver and pushed it into the man's hand.

"You're the best fellow I've met in years," he said. Then turning to

the taxi driver, "Get home as best you can. I'm going to look for a

lift. Here's my card. I'll stand your losses on this."

He looked over his shoulder at the sound of a persistent croaking. A

long grey Vauxhall car with a special body was coming down the road at

speed. Cranbourne ran forward in its track, waving his arms. The man

at the wheel looked over and braked. The big car did a double two way

skid, tore serpentine ruts on the metalled road surface and stopped.

"Trying to get killed?" asked its owner sweetly. "'Cos you seem to

have got the right idea of doing it."

"I want to get to Town and get there quick," said Cranbourne.

"So do I," said the man at the wheel, grinning amiably, "but it's a

daily habit of mine. In you get!"

"By gad," said Cranbourne, leaping in as the car began to move, "I

believe you come straight from heaven."

"I come from the Slough Trading Company as a matter of fact," said the

young man, running through his gears from first to top like a pianist

playing a scale. "Hope you don't mind a bit of noise. She talks some

when she's moving."

He trod hard on the accelerator and somewhere behind a machine gun

opened fire, at first articulately and then, as the pace increased,

becoming an inarticulate solid roar. The beat of the engine, the sense

of speed and the rush of the wind past his ears infected Cranbourne

with a fierce exhilaration.

"Bless your heart," he shouted, "keep her at it."

"You bet," came the response.

"Gad, she can move. You must have pretty urgent business to push her

along like this."

"Want to buy some collars as a matter of fact," said the young man.

"No point wasting time on a job of that kind."

CHAPTER 7.

THE NIGHT OF THE 27TH.

At the flat in Albemarle Street Anthony Barraclough sat alone devouring

a grilled steak. He was reticent of speech and every now and then he

shot a glance at the clock. In the golden shadows beyond the rays of

the table lamp, Doran, his servant, stood in silent attention to his

master's wants.

Doran was a person of understanding and one of the few people in the

world who shared a measure of Barraclough's confidence. A late

corporal of the Black Watch, he had reverted to act as Barraclough's

batman throughout the major portion of the war. Rather a curious

mixture was Doran. He had a light hand for an omelette and a heavy

fist in a mix up, a sense of humour in adversity and a seriousness in

ordinary affairs of daily life, a shrewd observer, a flawless servant

and a staunch ally. Very little got past Frederic Doran.

Barraclough shook his head at a bundle of cheese straws and lit a

cigarette.

"Get those things for me?" he asked.

"They're in the dressing room, sir."

"Let's have a look."

Doran retired and returned almost immediately with a complete fireman's

outfit. Barraclough tried on the helmet and nodded approvingly.

"Good enough. Stick 'em somewhere out of sight." And while Doran

obeyed he added, "Damn silly idea, isn't it?"

"I haven't heard it, sir."

"Oh, it has its points, I suppose. See, I've got to get clear of here

tonight and if--well--another scheme fails--I'm going to have a shot at

it this way. At eleven forty-five you'll go out and ring up some fire

engines."

"Just so, sir."

"I shall burn brown paper in that grate with the register closed.

Windows open at the bottom--plenty of smoke--effect of flames produced

by switching off and on the electric light. It ought to be good for a

crowd of about ten thousand. Soon as the engines roll up I go out

dressed as a fireman. Car at the top of St. James's Street. Coal

train in a siding at Addison Road which pulls out at twelve five. Me

under a tarpaulin somewhere. Whoosh! Gone!"

"And after that, sir?"

"Ah!" said Barraclough, "that's another story."

"Do you fancy it much yourself, sir?"

"Lord knows! The crowd ought to help. Reduces the odds in my favour a

bit."

"At quarter to twelve, sir?"

"Um. That'll be after the gentlemen have gone. Clear away this stuff

and put out some drinks. They'll be here at ten thirty. I'm going to

change into something thinner, that won't brush up under that fireman

gear. Got those notes?"

"Here, sir."

Doran produced a bulky package of bank notes.

"Good man."

He nodded and entered the bedroom to which there was a door below the

fireplace.

A little later the bell rang imperatively, followed by a tattoo on the

knocker.

"Who's that?" came from Barraclough's voice behind the closed door.

"Don't know, sir."

"What's time?"

"Ten past."

"They can't have arrived yet. Say I'm out."

Doran withdrew and returned almost immediately.

"Sir, there's----"

Barraclough threw open the door and came into the room. He was in

trousers and a shirt and was fastening a tie.

"Well?"

"It's Miss Irish, sir. I said you were out but she didn't believe me.

Insisted on coming in."

"Lord, that's awkward. Where did you leave her?"

"The smoking room."

"Say what she wanted?"

"To see you, sir--very imperative."

Barraclough bit his moustache and glanced at the clock.

"Hm! I've ten minutes. Yes, all right. If the gentlemen arrive

meanwhile put 'em in the smoking room. Get a coat. Shan't be a

second."

He disappeared into the bedroom and Doran went out to fetch Isabel.

"If you'll take a chair, miss, he won't keep you a moment. The evening

paper?"

"No," she said, "no."

It was a very different Isabel from the curled up little person who sat

on the cushions. Her face was white and tense--her mouth drawn in a

line of determination. She shook her head at the offer of a chair and

waved Doran to go away.

"Tony," she called as soon as the door had closed. "Tony."

He came into the room buttoning his coat.

"I say, my dear, you shouldn't have come here--really--really you

shouldn't," he said.

"I had to--had to," she repeated.

"You mustn't stay--these people'll be here directly."

"Horrible money people," she returned, "and you'd send me away for

them."

"I told you----" he began.

"You told me they'd found an easy way for you to get out--a safe way.

It isn't true."

"How do you know?" was startled from him.

"I found out tonight from Lord Almont. Danced with him--made a fool of

him--pretended I knew all about it--pretended I was sorry there was not

going to be any excitement in the thing. Said I really only cared for

men who tackled danger. Looked at him as though I thought he was

wonderful."

"I'll smash that fellow's head," said Barraclough grimly.

"You needn't--he's loyal enough. Thought he was doing you a good

turn--both of us a good turn. Said it wasn't going to be quite so easy

as you'd expected. So now I know you see--know it's going to be

horridly, hideously dangerous."

"Oh, my dear," he said, "why didn't you leave it alone?"

"I'm not the sort," she answered. "Where I love, Tony, I--I protect."

"You've a life time ahead to protect me in," he said.

"I'm going to do it now," said she. "You're not going, Tony."

"Listen," said Barraclough very earnestly, "there can't be any

interference in this. A false move now might ruin everything. If they

knew I was making a dash tonight----"

"They will know."

"How?"

"I shall tell them."

He shook his head. "Hardly, my dear. Besides I don't think you know

who to tell."

"You forget the letter you showed me. Mr. Van Diest might be

interested."

"I showed you that letter in confidence. You wouldn't betray----"

"Oh, wouldn't I? I'd betray any confidence that would keep you safe."

"It's lovely of you," he began.

"And I shall do it too," she cut in.

"Oh, very well," said Barraclough coldly.

Her arms went round his neck and drew his cheek to hers.

"Would you stop loving me if I did?"

"I couldn't stop loving you whatever happened."

"Oh, Tony, take me with you. I wouldn't mind then. I've promised to

share my life with you--aren't I good to share a single danger?"

"Much too good."

She released her hold and stood away.

"So it's as grave as all that," said she. "Very well, if you refuse I

shan't marry you."

"You don't mean that?"

"Give me a bible--I'll swear it."

"Isabel!"

"You have two alternatives. Take me with you or tell me where this

place is."

"What use would the knowledge be to you?"

"All the use. If they got you I know very well they'd never make you

speak. You--you wouldn't."

He nodded gravely at that.

"But I should. It 'ud give me the power to bail you out. Do you

understand now?"

"I understand I should be every sort of a coward if I told you on those

terms."

"Oh, you man--you man," she cried. "Well, you've the choice."

"To tell or lose you?"

"Yes."

In the silence that followed an electric bell rang sharply.

"There they are," he exclaimed.

"Be quick, I'm waiting," she said.

"Can't you accept my word that it's better you shouldn't know?"

"You've the choice," she repeated.

Anthony Barraclough looked round him desperately, then he spoke very

fast.

"If I tell you you'll do nothing--say nothing till eleven o'clock this

day three weeks?"

"I promise."

The words that followed rattled out like a hail of shrapnel.

"Brewster's Series nineteen. Map twenty-four. Square F. North

twenty-seven. West thirty-three."

"I'll write it down."

"No, no, you won't," he cried. "I've fulfilled my part of the bargain

and you've forgotten it already."

She fixed him with her clear blue eyes, square lidded and earnest.

"Brewster's Series nineteen. Map twenty-four. Square F. North

twenty-seven. West thirty-three," she said.

He looked at her in sheer amazement.

"You wonder! You absolute wonder!" he gasped.

"If I were dead I should remember that," she said. "It's stuck for

good." She touched her forehead, then quite suddenly her body went

limp and tilted against him. "Oh, but if only it were over," she

whispered huskily. "If only it were all--all over. Kiss me, please."

"Never fear," he said, his arms tightening round her. "Never fear. I

couldn't fail with you waiting for me."

He kissed her again and again.

"Dear blessed beautiful little love of mine! Look, I'll take one of

your flowers as a mascot."

"Hedge rose," she said and started. "It means hope, Tony."

"Hope it is, my dear. God bless you."

They stood apart as the door opened and Doran came in to announce the

arrival of the gentlemen.

"All right. Attend to the front door. Miss Irish is going."

Doran went out and Barraclough turned to Isabel.

"Will you grin for me just once?" he begged.

The small face went pluckily into lines of humour.

"Not a very nice grin, Tony."

"The best in the world," said he and hugged her close.

They passed out of the room together.

When Barraclough returned Mr. Torrington was leaning on his arm.

Nugent Cassis and Lord Almont Frayne followed in the rear.

"I was sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Torrington," he apologised.

"Waiting? No, no. We were early. My train arrived at Waterloo this

morning one minute ahead of time. It has put me out all day." The old

gentleman lowered himself by sections into an elbow chair. "Heard from

Cranbourne?"

Barraclough shook his head.

"Never expected you would," said Cassis shortly. "The whole scheme was

waste of time. We don't live in Ruritania where doubles walk about arm

in arm. Cranbourne has a bee in his bonnet."

"A whole hive," Lord Almont interjected.

"Perhaps," Mr. Torrington smiled, "but let us at least do him the

justice to admit that they buzz very merrily."

Cassis shrugged his shoulders.

"Buzzing is of no value in the present circumstances."

Mr. Torrington continued to smile.

"Except so far as it helps our young friend here to buzz off," he said.

The modern slang on the lips of the octogenarian made Barraclough

laugh. But the nerves of Nugent Cassis were frayed and laughter was an

irritant.

"Let us keep to the point," he insisted. "Did you follow out those

instructions I suggested?"

Barraclough nodded. The idea of the false fire came from Cassis and,

like most of his schemes, suffered from complexity of detail. He began

enumerating the points to be sure that all was in order.

Mr. Torrington shook his head and interrupted.

"A silly idea," he said, "clever but silly."

"If you have a better----"

Mr. Torrington put his fingers together and continued slowly.

"My method would be to go out through the main entrance wearing no hat

and carrying a few letters for the post. There might be a cab waiting

at the pillar box--to be exact there is, I ordered one."

"That's the idea," cried Almont. "Sweet and simple."

"That cab would dodge about the streets a while and eventually make its

way to Wimbledon. At Wimbledon it would deposit Barraclough at Number

14a, Medina Road. He would enter the house and change into running

shorts and a vest having appointed himself underneath with rather a

large pneumatic stomach. Also he would wear a beard and a perfectly

bald head. This done he would emerge from the house and start running

in the middle of the road in whatever direction he likes with a man on

a push bicycle pedalling behind him.

"But I can't see----" Cassis began.

"Precisely," said Mr. Torrington, "and nor could anyone else. Nobody

sees the extraordinary individuals who run at night, they only laugh at

them."

"If you ask me," said Cassis, drumming his fingers on the mantelpiece,

"I am of opinion that we are merely losing time with all this talk and

the sooner we get Barraclough away the better."

Mr. Torrington's eyes looked him coldly up and down.

"You should know me well enough, Cassis, to realise that when I lose

time I lose it purposely. I am waiting for Cranbourne."

"Cranbourne's ideas are altogether too fantastic."

"We agreed to do nothing until eleven o'clock and it wants ten minutes

to the hour."

"Not a very substantial margin to find Barraclough's double."

"It is as easy to find a man in ten minutes as in ten years--a mere

matter of chance. For my own part I always favoured indifferent odds."

"By Jove, sir," exclaimed Barraclough, "you're my man. Damn the

opposition. Damn the odds. We'll do it, what."

A measure of his enthusiasm infected the old man.

"We'll have a damn good try anyway."

"And if it comes to a rough and tumble----"

"Hit first and hit hardest."

An electric bell swizzed.

"He's there."

"Failed," grunted Cassis.

But Mr. Torrington's eyes were on the clock.

"Since he is five minutes ahead of time I imagine he has succeeded."

Doran came in.

"Mr. Cranbourne, sir."

"Alone?" Cassis rapped out the question like a pistol shot, but before

there was time to answer Cranbourne burst into the room, his face aglow

with excitement.

"I've done it," he said. "It's all right--terrific."

Lord Almont sprang to his feet.

"You don't mean?"

"Yes, I do."

"The real Mackay?"

"Alike as two postage stamps."

"Where've you got him?"

"Here, in your bathroom--changing."

"Changing?"

"Of course. Couldn't bring him as he was. They'd have spotted him for

certain. So I draped him in a nurse's cloak and cap over his ordinary

gear. Looked fine under a veil with his face painted pretty and pink.

He's washing it off now."

"Is he like me?" said Barraclough.

"Like you!"

"How's he talk?"

"As you do. I'd have been here earlier only he was hungry--devilish

hungry. He'd not eaten for best part of three days."

"But you saw him at the Berkeley."

"I know, that made it a bit difficult."

"Come on," said Barraclough, "let's hear all about it."

"Take too long. Had almost given up hope this morning, then I had a

stroke of luck--hit a red hot trail--spent the day chasing through the

West End staring at every man I saw. Got a glimpse of him at last in

Clarges Street 'bout nine o'clock. Taxi with a heap of luggage drove

up to a house and this chap came racing after it."

Cassis threw up his hands.

"Good heavens," he exclaimed, "a cab runner."

"Not he--down and out, that's all. I might easily have missed him for

he'd grown a bit of a scrub on his chin during the last few days but

when I saw the way he had of standing and that same trick of the head

you've got I was sure enough. He's a sportsman, that chap, for he was

wanting food and yet some decent restraint stopped him coming forward

to help with the boxes. He'd meant to but at the last moment he

shirked it. I could see him wrestling with himself--a step forward,

then hesitating. At last the driver asked him to lend a hand with the

biggest trunk and he shouldered it and carried it into the house. When

he came out the fare was fumbling in his pocket for six-pences. It

must have been the sight of this cut into his pride. He hadn't a cent

of his own but something inside him rebelled. 'No, I'll be damned if I

can,' he said and made off down the street. I picked him up on the

bench by the cabbies' shelter ten minutes later. Made myself affable

and asked if he'd care to turn an honest fifty. In fact I gave fifty

as a bona fide. Told him to get himself shaved and roll round to

Clarkson's to be fixed up in the nurse's gear--and get some food too."

"That was risky," remarked Lord Almont, "you might never have seen the

jolly old bird again."

"I told you he was a gentleman, didn't I?"

Mr. Torrington leaned forward.

"Does he know what we want of him?"

"Roughly. I said it was to occupy a flat for three weeks."

"Ah! Barraclough, I am disposed to think you would do wisely to retire

into the next room while we interview this young gentleman. The less

he knows the better."

"Quite."

"There isn't a cupboard, I suppose, where you could fix yourself up

with an easy chair until--well until the kidnapping is over."

"There's a wine cupboard."

"Excellent. We'll have a word together before you go."

There was a knock and Doran came in and addressed Cranbourne.

"The gentleman wishes to have a word with you, sir."

"Half a second," said Barraclough. "I'll slip out through the bedroom.

There's a second door into the hall. Righto, Doran."

He disappeared, closing the door after him.

"The gentleman, sir," Doran announced.

Richard Frencham Altar came into the room. The privations of the

preceding three days had paled him a trifle. His eyes glittered

brightly and there was a hint of nervousness in the tenseness of his

lower lip.

Doran went out. Richard closed the door and turned to face the

company. Mr. Torrington leaned forward and as though by accident

twitched down the table lamp shade that the light might be thrown on

the newcomer's face. Lord Almont gasped and even Cassis was startled

by the phenomenal likeness. Mr. Torrington nodded approval.

Richard's eyes went quickly from one to another. Then his hand moved

to his throat and covered the empty space where his tie should have

been. No one spoke and under the battery of glances his muscles

tightened resentfully and his head jerked slightly to one side.

"Anything so very peculiar about my appearance?" he demanded.

Mr. Torrington was first to recover his composure and he rose with

difficulty.

"You justly reproach our manners, Mr.--er----"

"Anything you like," said Richard, then with a flash of memory, "Oh, my

name is Tidd--John Tidd."

"By gad, it's amazing," gasped Lord Almont.

Mr. Torrington waved his hand toward a chair but Richard shook his head.

"No, thanks--won't sit down. I came because I promised this gentleman

to do so--but----"

"I find it a little trying to stand," said Mr. Torrington.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. For a minute then."

With an air of unwillingness he occupied a chair.

"A little whiskey and soda?" Lord Almont suggested.

"Not for me."

"Cigarette?"

"Ah! I'm a pernicious smoker." He lighted a cigarette, turned to Mr.

Torrington and nodded over his shoulder in the direction of Cranbourne.

"I'm afraid, sir, this gentleman took me at a disadvantage. To be

frank, I was hungry."

Mr. Torrington shook his head despondently.

"As the senior member of a firm of dyspeptics, established for over

fifty years, I envy you."

"You needn't, sir,--it was pretty crucial. He offered me fifty quid to

occupy this flat for twenty-one days and to say 'no' to any question

that might be asked. I wasn't myself at the time--I accepted. Since

then I've had a good meal and that alters things. I hope, gentleman, I

shall cause you no inconvenience if I recall my promise." No one

replied and he went on. "My grub cost three and a bender and I spent a

bob in cigarettes." He fished some notes and silver from his pocket

and planked them on the table. "That's your change, gentlemen, if

someone would be good enough to count it over. You don't mind, I hope,

if I return the margin when I'm in a better position to do so.

Goodnight, gentlemen." He rose, nodded to the company and walked to

the door.

Mr. Torrington did not look in his direction. He spoke gently as

though addressing an electric fitting on the wall facing him.

"I am sorry, Mr. Tidd, you are indisposed to remain. My friend had no

thought of offending when he offered the temporary accommodation you

have just returned. It was our intention to reward the services of

whoever assisted us in this matter with a sum that a gentleman might

have no embarrassment in accepting. We should have been pleased to

place five thousand pounds to your account."

Richard span round sharply.

"Five thousand--for being a caretaker--you--you're joking--rather

unkindly."

"On the contrary I am speaking very earnestly indeed." The tone of

voice was sincere.

Again Richard looked from one to another.

"You're a funny crowd," he laughed. "Ha! damn funny. S'pose you're

getting some sort of satisfaction out of it, but a man with a hole in

the sole of his boot doesn't much fancy having his leg pulled.

Goodnight."

But Nugent Cassis intervened between Richard and the door.

"We give you our word, Mr. Tidd, the sum mentioned will be at your

disposal tomorrow three weeks if you agree to remain."

"Your words," said Richard with a touch of irony. "I suppose you

wouldn't care to give me your names as a guarantee?"

"Assuredly," Mr. Torrington replied. "It was a mere oversight that we

have hitherto neglected to do so." And in the courtliest manner he

introduced the company by name.

"The devil," said Richard, "I knew who you were all right, but I didn't

imagine you'd tell me. That--that makes a difference." He hesitated,

then sat down abruptly. "Well, come along, gentlemen, what is it you

want me to do?"

Nugent Cassis, as the specialist of detail, briefly outlined their

requirements. He spoke coldly and without emphasis. The programme was

simple. Mr. Tidd would assume the name of Barraclough, he would occupy

these chambers, or wherever else circumstance might happen to take him,

for a period of three weeks. At the end of that time he might reveal

his identity or not as he pleased. It was understood, was it not, that

he would refuse to answer any questions that might be put to him. This

was a point of considerable importance since there was a likelihood

that pressure might be employed to induce him to speak.

"I'm pretty close when I mean to be," said Richard. "But what is the

answer?"

"As to that," Cassis replied, "I must ask you to contain your

curiosity."

"Well, it shouldn't be hard to say I don't know."

Cassis hoped so devoutly.

"To tell the truth," said Mr. Torrington very sweetly, "we don't know

the answer ourselves."

Richard shot a doubtful glance at him, but the seamed old face betrayed

nothing of the purpose it concealed.

"It's all very mysterious," said Richard, "and I'm not sure I like the

look of it."

"If you are nervous----" began Cassis icily.

"Nervous be damned," he retorted. "I'm not easily scared, but I'd like

you to know this. I may have slipped down the ladder a bit, gentlemen,

but I'm not altogether an outsider."

Lord Almont and Mr. Torrington made a duet with "My dear fellar!" and

"We have already realised that, Mr. Tidd."

"So, if there's anything shady in the transaction?"

"Nothing."

Richard fixed on Cranbourne. "Political?"

"No."

"You've stirred my curiosity, gentlemen."

Mr. Torrington leant forward and laid a hand on his arm,

"To this extent we can satisfy it," he said. "We three are engaged

upon an operation of considerable magnitude."

"I guessed that much, sir. When three men like yourselves forgather

one can generally look for balloons in the sky."

"Just so. A gentleman in whom we are interested requires latitude to

conduct certain important activities with freedom from observation. To

provide latitude it is necessary we should persuade our opponents that

the gentleman is peaceably residing at his own home."

"Half a minute. You want to get Barraclough out of the country or

somewhere and I'm to fill his place."

Mr. Torrington nodded. "Am I like Barraclough?"

"Remarkably so."

Suddenly Richard sprang to his feet and brought his hands together.

"Tell me," he cried. "These opponents--have they made a blockade--to

prevent him getting away."

"A most effectual blockade."

Richard threw up his head and laughed.

"Lord, so that was it. They tried to stop me at Earl's Court Station

day before yesterday. Oh, this is great, gentlemen. Come on, I'm your

man."

"You consent?"

"I consent all right."

The three men exchanged glances of satisfaction.

"Then if you will kindly ring the bell," said Cassis, "your servant,

Doran, will correct the details of your wardrobe."

"So I have a servant."

"You have everything this flat contains and five thousand pounds at the

end of three weeks."

"Oh, what a lark," said Richard gaily.

"I only hope it will prove so," said Mr. Torrington.

"Was wondering where I'd sleep tonight."

"I wonder where you will."

"All right, gentlemen, you can leave it to me. I shan't let you down.

If you'll excuse me I'm going to have a bath. In the event of our not

meeting again you might post that cheque to care of Porters,

Confectioners, 106b, Earl's Court Road--my town address." He stopped

at the room door and grinned. "Please help yourselves to a drink or

anything you fancy. My entire resources are at your disposal.

Goodnight."

The door closed and a moment later came the sound of water splashing

into the bath.

"Well, what do you think?" Cranbourne demanded enthusiastically.

"A nice boy," Mr. Torrington returned. "Straight. I'm wondering how

much he will have to go through in the next three weeks."

"Yes, but from our point of view?"

"Ah, from our point of view I think we might declare a dividend. If

you would lend me an arm, Lord Almont, we will speak a word of farewell

to Barraclough through the wine cellar door."

CHAPTER 8.

INTRODUCING A LADY.

It was Cranbourne, who at the door of the flat thought of a final

precaution, excused himself to his companions and asked leave to enter

the bathroom. Richard was standing on a cork mat, rubbing himself with

a Turkish towel and, after the fashion of all good men, singing lustily

in time with the exercise. He favoured Cranbourne with a grin as he

materialized through the wreaths of steam.

"Hello, back again!"

Cranbourne nodded and cast an appreciative eye over the well

articulated muscles of the stripped figure before him.

"Just one thing," he said, "if you don't mind."

"Fire away."

Cranbourne produced a notebook and a pencil.

"Scribble your signature on this bit of paper."

"I see. My writing. Here you are."

Richard took the pencil and book and sitting on the edge of the

bath--and without thinking--dashed off his own signature. When he had

finished he handed it to Cranbourne who shook his head sadly over the

result.

"No good?"

"'Fraid not. It was hardly to be expected. Whatever you do, don't

write."

"I won't."

Cranbourne glanced at the page again.

"This is your real name, I suppose."

Richard started, hesitated a bit, then nodded.

"There was a Frencham Altar mixed up in that Patagonian business."

"My father. Went broke and shot himself, you know."

"I remember. Left you on the rocks, so to speak."

"Yes, and wedged there good and hard. You see he aimed at my being a

gentleman and nothing else--never was taught how to earn a living.

That's why I'm cutting rather a deplorable figure now."

"I can't agree," said Cranbourne generously. "I think your father

realised his ambition. Goodnight."

"Night-oh!"

At the door Cranbourne paused.

"I'm almost ashamed of having dragged you into this business," said he.

"Don't you fret, my dear fellar. I'm delighted. I've been spending

that five thousand in imagination ever since I heard of it. Think I'll

emigrate in the fine style."

"Hm!" he paused. "Altar! I shouldn't really tell you this, but you're

likely to be kidnapped tonight."

"What?"

"I thought you might like to know."

"Thanks very much."

"That's all."

"Hang on a minute. Do you want me to defend myself? I'm pretty useful

with my hands or a gun either for that matter."

"It would help us if you did nothing at all--except comply."

Richard's face fell for he loved a good mix up.

"Oh, very well, if you say so."

"Thank you," said Cranbourne. "The best of luck, old chap."

"You bet."

Cranbourne went out and a moment later the front door slammed.

Then Richard began to laugh.

"Kidnapped, eh! What a game. Doran!" The last word rang out

imperatively.

"Sir," came the reply.

"Have I got any clothes?"

"In the bedroom, sir."

"Righto." He put his feet into a pair of slippers, donned a bath gown

and shuffled into the adjoining room. At the door he paused to survey

the appointments.

"I think this is a nice bedroom of mine, don't you?"

Doran signified assent with a smile.

"Very nice flat altogether. What sort of taste have I in the matter of

clothes?"

"Pretty good, sir. I've laid out a blue cheviot."

"Aha! And an M.C.C. tie. Shan't wear that."

"No, sir."

"I'm not a member."

"But in the circumstances, sir."

"P'raps you're right. A sound taste in shirtings, I see."

"Rather a strong feature with us, sir."

Richard whistled cheerfully as he dressed himself. The clothes fitted

him astonishingly well--even the collars were right to a quarter size.

In the intervals between whistling solos he put questions on a hundred

matters.

"Am I a fairly decent sort of chap, Doran?"

The question received a frowning affirmative.

"Splendid! You stick up for me."

The rattle of enquiry proceeded. How much did he drink? How long had

he had the flat? What were his clubs--games--favourite restaurants?

What was his telephone number? Did he smoke to excess--go out much?

Was he fond of reading? Had he got a profession?

"Ah! and this is important. What about money?"

"There's seven pound ten in that note case, sir."

Richard verified the statement.

"Suppose I want more?"

"There's about two hundred in the second drawer of the bureau, sir."

"That's the sort of bureau for me. And I can get some food here?"

"I shall look after that, sir."

"First rate. Everything seems snug and in order. Let's take a look

round the flat."

They inspected every corner, with the exception of the wine cellar,

paused for a moment in the hall to try on hats and finished up in the

dining room where Doran presented him with a bunch of keys, explaining

their various uses.

Richard dropped into a saddle bag chair and smiled expansively upon a

friendly world.

"A very pleasant finish to the day," he remarked luxuriously. "If

you'd mix me one small drink and put the cigarettes in reach, I'll

bother you no more tonight."

Doran was moving toward the decanter when a low knock sounded at the

front door. He stopped, raised his head, listened, and stood quite

still. The knock was repeated.

"Better find out who it is," Richard suggested.

"Yes, sir," said Doran, but made no move.

"What's the matter? You look worried."

Doran admitted that he was worried--very worried.

"But good heavens, why? Tough looking chap--ought to be able to look

after yourself."

"I can, sir, but I was forbidden to do so. And I was wondering if it's

to be a bar of lead or a sponge of chloroform."

"Oh, rats," Richard laughed, "you go and find out."

"Very well, sir."

Doran took a grip on himself and marched out.

"And now," said Richard to himself, "I suppose the fun is going to

begin."

He lit a cigarette and waited. It was quite a long time before the

door opened and a woman came quickly into the room. And she was

lovely. She had a mass of black hair swept clear of the brow. Her

eyes were black, large and luminous. She was unnaturally white but her

lips were scarlet. It was a beautiful mouth, shapely, sensuous,

sensitive, but with a hint of strength. Her brows very straight and as

thin almost as pencil lines. She wore a flame-coloured evening

dress--'_Tout feu_' as a ladies' journal would describe it--and a cloak

of smoke colour which fell from one shoulder and double draped the

other. There was nothing ordinary in the appearance of Auriole Craven.

She attacked the eye and held it captive. A woman would have declared

her to be overdressed--_outre_--almost _demi mondaine_--would have

denounced the white face and the red curled lips--would have criticised

the uncanny knack of falling instantaneously into attitudes of flowing

lines. But to a man the subject of these criticisms was matter for

appreciation. By her very daring she stirred a spirit of adventure.

Richard checked a gasp of admiration--of surprise--rose to his feet and

bowed, but other than by settling her eyes upon him the girl gave no

sign of recognition. Clearly it was up to someone to make a move,

wherefore Richard politely offered her "good evening."

"Is that all you have to say?" came the answer.

"Of course not," he laughed, "but I make a point of saying that first.

Do sit down, won't you?"

She occupied the offered chair and looked up at him.

"At least I thought you'd be surprised," she said. "Still it doesn't

matter."

"P'raps I am," he admitted reluctantly, "but my surprise was drowned in

a very natural pleasure."

"Pleasure?"

"It was awfully nice of you to look in like this. Been to a theatre or

something?"

"No."

"No?"

"I came to talk."

"Fine! We--we've every facility."

"Yes." Her head was slightly raised and she seemed to be listening.

"Yes."

"I didn't hear anything, did you?" said Richard gaily.

"No. Nothing." But again she raised her head.

"I say, are you sure you're all right?" he asked.

"Yes, perfectly."

"'Cause if I can get you anything----"

"You can hardly expect me to be normal," she retorted with a flash of

bitterness.

It was difficult to know what to say, so he nodded understandingly. An

inspiration suggested the offer of a cigarette, but she shook her head.

"I prefer my own," she said, and drew a gold case from her bag. "Try

one."

He took the case and she nodded toward it.

"I still carry your gifts."

Richard turned it over and read the inscription "Auriole Craven from

A.B." It was a stroke of luck to get her name without asking. He

smiled and handed it back with the words,

"Ungallant of me to expose your identity and conceal my own behind

initials."

Auriole laughed shortly.

"Perhaps A. B. guessed that a day might come when his name engraved on

a present to another woman would be a mistake."

"Give him a chance," said Richard. "He hasn't all that subtlety."

"Men change their views very readily, Tony."

"Only men?" he countered.

She jerked the reply at him over her uncovered shoulder.

"My being here, you mean? My having joined the other side?"

This was a grateful piece of intelligence but Richard preserved a stern

expression.

"Since you suggest it yourself----" he admitted.

"Do you hate me for doing it?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Not at all. I'm sure your reasons were adequate."

"They were. Still I thought you'd be surprised."

It was clearly evident that some sort of emotion would have to be

expressed. Richard passed a hand across his forehead and walked to the

fireplace.

"My dear Auriole," he said, "did I ever strike you as a man who

betrayed my real feelings?"

"I always knew them," she returned.

"Then you must know how hurt I am--how very hurt--to think that

you--well, I mean, it's dreadful--most--er--most dreadful."

"Were you expecting loyalty from me?"

"There are degrees," he replied with a reproachful glance.

"Wonderful," said Auriole. "It's wonderful really." Her voice dropped

and she looked him squarely in the eyes. "Tony, you're not really in

love with that girl, you know."

He was concealing bewilderment behind the action of mixing a drink, but

the statement so startled him that he sent a column of soda water

straight into his shoe.

"Look here," he declared, vigorously mopping his sock with a

handkerchief. "If you're going to say things like that I simply----"

"You can't love her."

A tinge of scarlet showed upon her white cheeks. Evidently the girl

was in earnest. It was useless to flirt with the situation.

"I am not going to attempt to prove it," said Richard very gallantly.

"In fact it's an offence for me to mention her name."

"You haven't--yet," he observed tentatively.

And as she took this to be a challenge, she leaned back in her chair

and said "Isabel Irish" with very little charity of inflexion.

"Please!" said Richard--but what he really meant was "Thank you."

Inside himself he was thinking "Damn that fellow Doran! Why the blazes

didn't he tell me about all these girls."

The sound of Auriole's voice brought him back to the necessity of the

moment.

"So _sans gene_," she was saying, "so innocent--so unworldly. I wonder

what her views would be if she learnt you had entertained a lady in

your flat at midnight."

"As the lady came uninvited," Richard returned, "I am hardly likely to

refer to the matter."

"Suppose I referred to it--advertised the fact. Do you imagine she

would marry you then?"

Richard smiled.

"I should say she'd be as likely to marry me then as she is now."

"A girl brought up as she has been?"

"Aha!"

"You're very confident. Tony, there are people watching this flat

to-night."

"Dear, dear!"

"People who will talk tomorrow morning."

"What, the chatty-at-breakfast-kind. How dreadful."

"If you wish to stop them, there is only one way."

"Yes--tell me. Always believed they were incurable."

Auriole shut her hands tight and spoke with difficulty.

"Tony, I don't know how real your affections are for this girl, but I

know this. If you refuse to answer our questions your chance of

marrying her is worth--nothing. Understand? Nothing."

And all at once Richard became serious.

"Will that please you?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

"I don't think so. I don't think it will please you, really."

"What do you mean?"

"You're too good a sort to enjoy spreading rotten fables about people

who are in love with one another."

She echoed the words "too good a sort" rather faintly.

"Yes. I suppose you--you're jealous or something--angry because my

feelings have changed. I understand that--it's natural, and I don't

defend myself, you know. It's natural you should want to hurt me, but

aren't you choosing rather a rotten way of doing it, 'cos you're

hurting an innocent girl into the bargain. It's way down below your

form to side up with these men who are against me--isn't it, now? As a

friend, I'd drop out of this deal--clean out--it--it's not up to your

standard."

"Why do you say this to me?"

"Because I like you too well to associate you with----"

"You like me?"

"Yes."

"Still?"

"Not still," he answered, truthfully, "but now."

She was silent for a long while, then she shook her head.

"No good, Tony. It wouldn't make any difference if I dropped out. I

know it's beastly, but that can't be helped. They mean to have their

answer, whatever happens."

"They've come to the wrong house to get it," said Richard and he folded

his arms very heroically.

"You refuse to speak?"

"I do."

"Mr. Van Diest would pay you--enormously."

"Course he would."

"Twenty per cent after exploitation and a million down."

It was a staggering proposition, but Richard preserved his calm and

remarked humorously:

"I'll take it in copper, please."

Auriole sprang to her feet and put her hands on his shoulders. Her

face was lovelier at close range. A faint and delightful perfume came

to his nostrils, her eyes burned brightly and the scarlet mouth, with

its moist trembling lower lip, was an exquisite invitation. This

indeed was a very woman, he thought, a striking contrast to the small

and wistful Doreen. With sudden intuition he realised he had but to

open his arms and she would enter--willingly, anxiously. An insane

desire possessed him to do this thing. She was adorable, desirable,

magnificent, and he was certain beyond doubt she loved him. With a

catch of the breath he raised his hands and in so doing his glance fell

upon the sleeve of the coat he wore. The cloth was of blue Cheviot

which reminded him abruptly that he was Richard Frencham Altar

masquerading in someone else's clothes, a circumstance which in no way

admitted him to the use of short cuts to the affections of their real

owner's admirers. It is disappointing to have to acknowledge that

someone is violently in love with someone else that you happen to

resemble and the reflection sobered him quickly. With an awkward laugh

he turned away and repeated:

"Yes, tell him I'll take it in copper."

"Tony!" she said, "Tony, don't fool with it! Don't you, realise how

frightfully serious it is? Haven't you any imagination?"

Apparently he did realise--apparently he had some imagination, for he

replied:

"I imagine it is much too late for us to be talking here together. I'm

going to ring the bell."

"No," she cried.

"My man will get you a cab."

"If you ring you'll be sorry."

"Life is full of regrets," he answered, and pressed the button.

He saw the startled gesture she made to prevent him and simultaneously

the hall and the bedroom doors were thrown open and three gentlemen,

each levelling a revolver at his head, advanced into the room.

CHAPTER 9.

AN INVITATION TO STAY.

To a person of less even temperament than Richard the unexpected

appearance of these three gentlemen marching in the wake of nickel

plated shooting irons might well have aroused feelings of alarm and

indignation. But for a matter of some four years Richard had been shot

over pretty thoroughly and the lessons of calm learnt in the hard

school of war did not desert him in the present situation. He felt,

moreover, a curious certainty that the chance of bullets flying around

was pretty remote. The primary necessity was to keep his head and

avoid any word or action that might betray the fact that he was not the

man they believed him to be. The name Van Diest, which had occurred in

his conversation with the girl, came quickly to his brain and he

glanced from one to another in the hope of determining whether its

bearer was present.

His eyes were held by a short rotund person of advanced middle age who

occupied the centre of the room. In outline this person was distinctly

Dutch. His face was heavily pleated, with dewlaps pendant from the

jaw. He wore side whiskers that did not make a good pair and dark

bushy brows almost concealed his small, twinkly eyes. He possessed

very little hair, but what there was had been pasted in thin separated

strands across the shiny bald pate. A low collar of enormous

circumference encircled his short neck and his tie was drawn through a

Zodiac ring. His clothes were ill-fitting--shapeless trousers and a

voluminous morning coat, in the buttonhole of which was a pink

carnation with a silver papered stem, an immense watch-chain spread

across a coarsely knitted waistcoat of Berlin wool. And he seemed out

of breath. The pistol in his extended hand vibrated in sympathy with

an accelerated pulse rate.

Richard's left hand wandered carelessly to his hip.

"Look here, Mr. Van Diest," he said, "were you never taught that it's

rude to point?"

A twang like the snapping of a 'cello string brought his head round

sharply.

"Hands away from your side pocket."

It was less of an invitation than an order.

The speaker was a big, broad-shouldered American of the thruster

school, heavy jaw, black hair and hurry. He held his gun dead rigid

against his thigh and there was that in his eyes which foretold that

where he looked he could hit. This was Ezra P. Hipps.

"Set down and don't move--this thing goes off," he said.

Richard considered the proposal and the speaker and judged both to be

sound.

"Thanks," he said, "I'd like a stall for this entertainment," and

dropped into a chair.

The man who was standing behind Van Diest came forward and smiled

gracefully. He was sleek and too well dressed and gave the appearance

of being out of his natural element and ashamed of the one in which he

found himself.

"You remember me, Barraclough, old fellow," he said, swinging his

pistol as though it were a cane.

"I'm a terror for forgetting trifles," Richard replied sweetly.

"Remind me."

"Oliver Laurence. Met you in '11 at old Dick Harris' place."

"Good old Dick," said Richard in the spirit of the scene. "But as I

was about to remark, here we all are, gentlemen, and what happens next?"

Hugo Van Diest flickered his eyes at Auriole and asked in a soft

guttural voice:

"You prevail--yes?"

Auriole shook her head.

"Mr. Barraclough refuses," she said.

Van Diest drew in his breath between shut teeth and Oliver Laurence

sighed sadly.

"Refuse."

"'Fraid so," nodded Richard.

"You know vot is it dot we ask?"

"Perfectly, but if you'd care to repeat it----"

Ezra P. Hipps rapped his free hand on a chair back.

"Don't get fresh," he snapped, "we're after business."

"Sorry," said Richard. "Thought it was a kind of Wild West act."

Evidently Van Diest wanted to avoid a row. He approached the subject

in his most agreeable tone which sounded like a puma purring.

"Twendy per cent and a million pounds for der map. A man like you he

can't spend a million pounds in a lifetime."

"Don't be too sure," said Richard unwisely. "I might have inherited

the knack."

"Let's hear a price."

Richard turned to the American with a grin.

"Honestly," he replied, "anything you got from me would be dear at a

shilling."

The friendly quality died out of Van Diest's voice.

"We was very sincere, Mr. Barraclough."

"Oh, that's fine," said Richard.

Oliver Laurence laid a soothing hand on his shoulder and the touch of

the man was beastly. It inspired an instant and substantial dislike.

Richard rounded on him with his first show of temper and brushed away

the hand.

"Look here, Daisy," he said. "Better not touch the exhibits unless you

want to be hurt."

And at this point Ezra P. Hipps showed himself a man of action.

"Guess what you won't give we'll have to take. Keys?"

"Take 'em by all means," said Richard, fishing the bunch from his

pocket. "Tell me if you find anything."

"It will save a lot of troubles to you if we find something," murmured

Van Diest.

There was a distinct menace in the words but Richard was too interested

in the activities of Ezra P. Hipps to pay heed to that. With

lightning-like rapidity the American had unlocked every drawer in the

bureau, withdrawn them from their runners and laid them in a precise

row on the floor.

"Guessed it," he ejaculated. "Simple. One of 'em is shorter than the

rest."

He dived a hand into the cavity lately filled by the short drawer and

produced a small steel despatch box.

"The goods!"

Richard leaned forward with a sudden impulse to prevent the box being

opened but the caressing muzzle of Van Diest's revolver coaxed him back

to the chair.

"Very simple," said Van Diest. "Maps inside. Open it."

Hipps wasted little time trying to find a key that would fit. He put

the box on the floor and kicked it scientifically. From the wreckage

he rescued a neat roll of parchment with a tape round its waist. Once

again he remarked "The goods!" whisked off the tape and spread out the

parchment.

"Writing."

"Read it."

And he read.

"That would be altogether too easy, gentlemen. Perhaps there isn't a

map after all."

Richard settled himself comfortably with a sigh of satisfaction and the

three men turned to look at him.

"Don't blame me," he said sweetly, "I never said there was a map, did

I?"

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Auriole with a flush of what might

easily have been taken for pleasure on her cheeks. It was very

perplexing.

"Hm!" Van Diest nodded. "Hm! A wise man keep this sort of

informations in his head."

"'Course he does."

"Yes, yes. Mr. Barraclough, a great deal you oblige by coming with us

to an apartment we have prepared for your receptions."

"It's nice of you but I'm very comfortable here."

"I'm afraid we must insist."

"Since you're so pressing."

"And as a gentleman you make no troubles--no noise."

"There's no such thing as a noisy gentleman."

Ezra P. Hipps rapped the butt of his automatic on the table top.

"You can keep the cross-talking for the automobile," he said. "We're

through here--step out."

As they moved toward the door Laurence slipped a hand through Richard's

arm.

"My dear old fellow," he said, "if you only knew how distasteful all

this is to me."

Richard drew his arm away sharply.

"So's that to me," he said, brushing his sleeve with the deliberate

will to offend. Then he turned and bowed to Auriole. "Your friends

are amusing but I'm afraid they are going to waste a lot of time. Are

you coming our way?"

CHAPTER 10.

NERVES.

The clocks were striking seven when Anthony Barraclough descended the

stairs of the flats and hailed a taxi. The street was deserted save

for a policeman and an old hag who was sorting over the contents of a

dustbin outside the adjoining house. She shot a quick glance at

Barraclough and broke into a cackle of thin laughter.

"Didn't take you long to come up in the world," she piped. "Always

thought you were a bit of a fraud."

Barraclough gasped. The disappointment was so cruel.

"You are making a mistake," he said and opened the taxi door.

"You've had a shave, that's all, but, bless you, that don't deceive me."

"Look here----" he began.

"You don't want to be recognised, my dear. I can easily forget, you

know, if I'm encouraged." She stretched out a filthy clawlike hand.

There was something queer in her manner--a difference from the rank and

file of Van Diest's regiment.

Clearly, too, her poverty was genuine. With a little tact her

allegiance might be diverted. He pulled a note case from his pocket

and detached a fiver.

"Take that," he said, "and if you want more----"

He rattled off Lord Almont's address in Park Lane.

"Save my soul!" gasped the old woman. "Are you crazy? Didn't expect

more'n a florin. Bless your pretty heart. You must be badly

frightened of something."

But Barraclough waited for no more. He jumped into the taxi with the

words 'Westminster Bridge' and drove away, swearing to himself.

"Of all rotten luck. Yet I can't help feeling she didn't belong to

that gang after all. Wonder if I've made an almighty fool of myself."

For the first time in his life his nerves were beginning to fray. His

fingers drummed a tattoo on the leather seat of the cab and, despite

the chill of early morning, his brow was hot and clammy.

"Likely enough it was just a begging stunt."

He put his head out of the window and said 'Waterloo Station.' A

sudden memory persuaded him to glance above his head and reassure

himself no other passenger was concealed upon the roof. The action in

itself was fresh evidence of nerves.

"Must pull myself together," he said. "Those infernal hours in the

wine cupboard have shaken me up."

To a man of action nothing is so wearing as inactivity. It had been

intolerable sitting in the darkness while the new proxy had borne the

enemy's assault unaided. He had heard the rumble of talk which had

followed the first stifled cry from Doran when the sponge of chloroform

was thrust into his face, and every now and again he had heard Frencham

Altar's voice ring out high and mocking and exasperatingly like his

own. Finally the front door had slammed but he remained concealed for

over an hour in case of misadventure. Doran was lying in the hall when

he stepped from his hiding place. Barraclough knew a little of the

rough science of medicine and very heartily cursed the man who had

doped his servant. A little more of the anaesthetic would have put a

period to Doran's career. There was an hour's hard work with ammonia

and respiratory exercises before the good fellow blinked an eyelid and

made the wry faces of recovery. After that Barraclough stewed himself

a cup of coffee, broke a couple of eggs into it and made ready for

departure. Altogether it had been a trying night as his nerves were

beginning to testify.

It was encouraging to find no suspicious watcher at booking office or

barrier. He passed through unobserved and entered an empty first-class

compartment in the 7.30 to Southampton. There were ten minutes to wait

before they were due to start--minutes which dragged interminably. But

at last the green flag dropped, the couplings tightened and the train

began to move.

"Thank God for that," he exclaimed and relaxed against the cushions of

the seat.

But his relief was short lived. A large man, running at full speed,

came abreast the carriage window which was lowered, a suitcase came

flying through and landed on the opposite seat, while the man himself

leapt to the running board, threw open the door and sprang into the

carriage.

"Jing! but that was a near squeak," he exclaimed. "Another half minute

and you'd have beaten me."

Barraclough's muscles tightened and his mouth went hard and straight.

So the bluff had failed after all. He was spotted. That idiot from

the benches had given them away.

The man opposite did not appear to have lost his breath through the

race and was looking at Barraclough with an expression of good-natured

humour in a pair of twinkly blue eyes. He was of very powerful

physique, broad-shouldered and bull necked. Also he had the appearance

of being uncommonly fit. In any other circumstance Barraclough would

have taken him for a pleasant, likeable fellow, who might have helped

to pass the tedium of a long journey. But his actual feelings were far

removed from any such consideration. The smug affability of the man

coupled with his obvious strength aroused such indignation in

Barraclough that he was scarcely able to remain seated. The difference

in their weight and stature precluded all chances of a successful

frontal attack. It would be sheer waste of energy to seize this

intruder and try to chuck him on the line. But, on the other hand,

something drastic would have to be done. At such a stage of the game

it was intolerable to contemplate defeat. He thought of his words to

Mr. Torrington the evening before and of the assurance he had given to

Isabel. Then there was the immense prize that success would award him.

Was everything to be lost because of one piece of infernal bad luck.

If he could reach Southampton unobserved he was confident that the

arrangements he had prepared would baffle observation. Besides the

presumption was that the watchers had been called off and this infernal

smiling idiot on the seat opposite had failed to receive new

instructions and was acting upon the old.

In Barraclough's right hip pocket was an automatic pistol but between

its butt and his hand was a thick buttoned upholster. Any attempt to

reach the weapon would surely result in an immediate counter offensive,

with himself at a disadvantage. No, he must think of something subtler

than that.

On the seat beside him lay a packet of Gold Flake cigarettes, bought

from a trolley on the platform. It gave him an idea. He put one in

his mouth and began to slap his pockets as though searching for

matches. He might have saved himself the pains for the man opposite

produced a lighter and offered it with a friendly word.

"Always keep one handy."

Barraclough, silently swearing, thanked him and lit up.

Clearly his companion was a person of some geniality. He spread out

his legs, cleared his throat, and observed:

"All's well as ends well. Still, I didn't expect to catch you."

Barraclough assumed an air of indifference.

"Did you not?" he said.

"It's a fact, I didn't. Lying in bed I was twelve minutes ago. Used

some words, too, when they called me up on the 'phone. But, all said,

it was worth the rush. Means a good deal of money to me."

This final remark did little to improve Barraclough's temper. However,

he preserved an outward calm and said he supposed so.

"I'm tenacious," said the man. "That's what I am--tenacious."

"A fine quality."

"And pretty useful in my trade."

"Must be."

Barraclough's mind was concentrated on finding a weak spot at which to

attack and already a delicate idea was maturing. In the rack above his

companion's head was his suitcase, the handle projecting outward.

Apparently it was unusually heavy for Barraclough had noticed with what

a resonant whack it hit the carriage cushions when thrown in through

the window and also that it was only lifted to its present position

with an effort. If that suitcase could be persuaded to fall on its

owner's head it was reasonable to suppose the result would be

anesthetic. And in Barraclough's hand was a crooked stick. The

association of idea is obvious.

"Going far?" came the pleasant enquiry.

In common with all South Western Railway carriages, the wooden

partitioning above the upholstery was decorated with choicely coloured

views of cities and country-side.

"Since there would appear to be no point in hiding anything from you,"

Barraclough replied, "there is a picture of my destination behind your

head."

"That's funny," said the man and, responding to natural curiosity,

turned to examine the picture, while Barraclough embraced the

opportunity to slip the crook of his stick through the handle of the

bag and tug hard. But the bag was heavier than he had imagined. It

scarcely moved and only by bracing his foot on the seat opposite was he

able to upset its balance. Just a fraction of a second too soon the

man turned. Conceivably he saw murder in Barraclough's eyes or else he

was unusually quick at grasping a situation. He flashed his eyes

upward at the moment the bag was toppling, realised it was too late to

save himself, and dropped his head forward. He caught the weight of

the bag on his massive shoulders and, as though it were a pillow,

slewed sideways and heaved it straight on to Barraclough's chest.

And Barraclough's lungs emptied like a burst balloon. Next instant he

felt himself lifted into mid air as though he were a child.

"I've a damn good mind to pitch you through the window," said the man.

"I would, too, if I didn't reckon you were mad. As it is, I guess I'll

stick you up in the luggage rack out of harm's way."

And this he did without apparent effort.

"Damn me!" he went on. "What's the game?"

"The game," replied Barraclough, "isn't played out yet."

Which was true, for in the tussle his overcoat had rolled up under his

arms, the pistol pocket was clear, and a blue black automatic flashed

dully in the man's face.

"If either of us leaves this carriage I fancy it's going to be you."

To do the man justice he betrayed more amazement than alarm. He backed

away a pace and his hand travelled upward to the communicator.

"If you touch that cable I'll put a bullet through your wrist," said

Barraclough. "Sit down and attend to me."

He obeyed, shaking his head perplexedly.

"Damn me, if I can get the strength of it."

"Then listen," said Barraclough, steadying his aim along the ash rail

of the luggage rack, "and keep your hands in your lap. I'm going to

carry my scheme through even if I have to shoot you and lots like you.

My patience has run out--understand? I've been fooled and badgered and

headed off and shot at for as long as I can stand. The boot's on the

other leg now and whoever tries to stop me or follow me or get in my

way will find all the trouble he's looking for."

"Yes, but it seems to me," said the big man plaintively, "that it's you

who's looking for trouble. Been a nice thing if that bag had caught me

on the lid. There were two fifty pound bells inside and a coil of wire

for my trapeze act."

"Your what?" said Barraclough.

"Trapeze act. Done in my tour nicely, that would."

Barraclough's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What's your name?"

"My real name's John Lever," he replied, "but I'm better known to the

music hall public as Madrooba, the Muscular Muscovite."

"Madrooba--the chap who lets eight men stand on his chest?"

"That's me."

"Then what in blazes were you following me for?"

"Following you?" repeated Mr. Madrooba. "Never set eyes on you before.

Run after the train 'cause I got a contract to appear in Paris tonight."

Barraclough lowered the point of his pistol slowly.

"And you've never heard of Van Diest?"

"Never! Van Biene I know and Van Hoven, but----"

"Then it looks to me," said Barraclough regretfully. "It looks to me

as if I've made a pretty substantial fool of myself. If you're big

enough to accept an apology, Mr. Madrooba, I'd be glad to come off this

perch and offer it."

"I reckon if I can stand eight men on my chest," came the reply, "I

don't need to take a lot of notice of this little misunderstanding.

Let yourself drop and I'll catch you."

And from sheer relief Barraclough began to laugh--and laughed solidly

for ten miles of the journey.

CHAPTER 11.

OUTLINING A PROGRAMME.

Richard Frencham Altar was exceedingly affable in the car. It was a

big, comfortable, Rolls saloon, and he sat between Van Diest and the

American. Laurence occupied the seat next to the driver.

He had tried to say a few words to Auriole before taking his place in

the car but she had merely shrugged her shoulders and entered a waiting

taxi. The two vehicles drove in opposite directions, from which it

would appear that her task in the affair was accomplished.

"I hope I shall see some more of that young lady," he remarked. Van

Diest nodded gloomily and Hipps jerked out:

"Probably will."

After that they drove in silence.

"Forgive me for criticising your methods," said Richard at last, "but

shouldn't I be blindfolded or something? I'm familiar with all these

roads and could walk back without even asking the way."

"There might be difficulties."

"Oh, quite. It was only a suggestion. I want to keep up the spirit of

the thing. If I have to be Shanghaied I'd like it to be done properly."

"You wass very high spirited, Mr. Barraclough."

"Why not? Comfortable car--pleasant company."

"Yees. With us this was a very serious business."

"That's all to the good, but let's keep in humour. By the way, since

everything's open and above board, where are you taking me?"

"Laurence's house."

"Wanted to know 'cos of getting my letters forwarded."

"There won't be a whole lot of communication with the outer world,"

said Hipps.

"I see. And how long are you proposing to keep me there?"

"My dear old fellow," Laurence spoke over his shoulder, "that depends

entirely on yourself."

There was deeper significance in the tone than in the words.

"That's cordial," said Richard, "downright hostly."

"But paste this in your hat," said Hipps ominously. "Conditions won't

improve by outstaying your welcome. It'll be sweet if you make it

short--if not----"

He did not complete the sentence.

"A declining stock," Richard smiled then shook his head reproachfully.

"You know, gentlemen, yours is an extremely heterodox way of doing

business. You must be feeling pretty hopeless to have resorted to

measures of this kind."

"I guess the market'll improve," said Hipps and relapsed into silence.

It seemed ages before the car slowed down and entered the gates of a

solid mid-Victorian house, isolated from similar houses by two or three

acres of treeful grounds. The front door was opened by two

men-servants of none too prepossessing appearance, who came down the

steps as the car pulled up. It was significant of precaution that they

tacitly formed up one on each side of Richard and escorted him within.

"The only thing lacking," he remarked, "is a red carpet and an awning."

But his disposition toward gaiety was unshared by his companions. The

two servants conducted him mutely into the dining room where a meal was

awaiting them. Van Diest beckoned him to a place at the table and,

tucking a napkin under his left ear, seated himself and began to attack

the victuals without comment. Ezra P. Hipps turned the key in the lock

and dropped it in his pocket before occupying the chair facing Richard.

As the ostensible host Laurence sat at the head of the table and

instructed the servants to open the wine. The change of courses was

effected by means of a small service lift inset in one of the walls.

Not the smallest effort was made at conversation--dishes came and went,

glasses were filled and emptied in absolute silence. There was

something ominous in this freedom from talk and the quiet broken only

by the tinkle of table implements and the rather noisy character of Van

Diest's feeding. Richard was struck by the old man's prodigious

capacity for devouring food. He ate with a calculated energy as though

the safety of nations depended upon his sustenance. Apart from the

ordinary fare, he demolished about eighteen inches of a long French

loaf at his side, tearing pieces from it with his short stubby fingers

and filling his mouth with great wads of crust and dough. Richard

afterwards learnt that this voracity of appetite was nerve begotten.

In moments of acute agitation it was Van Diest's custom to eat

enormously on the theory that a full belly begets a placid mind. His

little piglike eyes darted to and fro among the cates before him

assuring themselves that he was missing nothing.

In direct antithesis to this wolfish feeding were the manners of Oliver

Laurence. He toyed with his victuals, cutting them into the littlest

pieces and almost flirting with his glass of wine.

Ezra P. Hipps ate and drank, as he did everything else in

life--thoroughly and with conviction. The meal finished he pushed back

his chair, unlocked the door, tilted his head to indicate to the

servants that they could get out, locked the door again and crossed to

the mantelpiece.

"Cigar," he said.

Laurence provided one and offered a light. Hipps shook his head and

sticking the cigar in his mouth he proceeded to eat it with a curious

rotary motion.

"Now!" he said and it sounded like a blow upon a gong.

"Curtain up," said Richard and steeled himself for any eventuality.

"You're caught, Mr. Barraclough."

"But not caught out," came the instant reply.

"Ever handled a cheque for a million pounds?"

"I have not."

"Van!"

Mr. Van Diest felt in his pockets and produced a banker's draft which

he laid on the table before Richard. It was payable to the order of

Anthony Barraclough.

Richard flicked it aside.

"Old ground," he said. "No good to me, gentlemen."

"Let's talk."

"Fire away."

"I needn't repeat what you have to do to earn that trifle, Anthony, but

here's a point worth considering. Doubtless you got the idea the price

we're willing to pay'll rise. You're wrong--it'll fall. If you speak

tonight that draft's yours and an interest beside, but every day you

keep us waiting'll cost you fifty thousand pounds."

"Thank God I can afford it," said Richard.

"Roughly speaking it'll pan out over a period of three weeks, at the

end of which time you get just nothing, savez?"

"I savez that you and I will be in the same position at the end as we

are at the beginning."

Ezra P. Hipps shook his head gravely but his metallic blue eyes never

shifted their gaze for an instant.

"Tony boy," he said. "The price isn't solely financial. There's a

little physical programme in the skyline. Get me?"

"Sounds like a threat."

"And is," came the rejoinder.

"Interesting."

The American took three steps forward and leant across the table.

"For example," he said, "you smoke too much and smoking'll be

curtailed."

With a quick movement he plucked the cigarette from Richard's mouth and

threw it into the grate.

A dull red surged over Richard's face as he sprang to his feet.

"I warn you----" he began, then checked himself at the sudden memory of

Cranbourne's words. He was not allowed to put up a fight.

"Well, what?"

"Oh, nothing. I've neither the mood nor the patience to teach you

manners."

His hand went out to take another cigarette from a silver box at his

side.

"No smoking," repeated Hipps in a level voice.

"Don't be asinine, my good fool."

His extended hand trembled, yearning to knot itself into a fist. The

silver box was just beyond the American's reach but seizing a small

glass jug he threw the contents over Richard's hand, drenching the

cigarette he had picked up and half filling the box with water. The

quickness and effrontery of the action, its insolent disregard of all

the laws of courtesy acted on Richard's temper as a spark on gun cotton.

"I'm damned if I'll stand for that," he shouted and kicking his chair

out of the way made a dash round the table toward Hipps. It was

Laurence who shot out the leg that tripped him and before he could

scramble to his feet both the American and the Englishman were sitting

on his back.

"Steady, steady, old chap," Laurence beseeched him. "It's an almighty

pity to start this way."

Hipps' long fingers had closed scientifically on the back of Richard's

neck and were paralysing the movements of his head. His nose was

pressed good and hard into the pile of the carpet. It was all very

painful.

"Are you going to quit fighting, Anthony?"

After all there was no particular value in adding to one's discomfort.

They were three to one and in a locked room with reinforcements

outside. Moreover, had there been a chance of requitals or escape he

was under orders to accept neither. But in his existing state of

indignation Richard could not induce himself to acknowledge defeat.

The fighting strain in his nature could only be satisfied by getting in

at least one substantial return for the indignity put upon him.

He was lying near to the grate, his head having narrowly missed the

fender rail in the fall. His right hand, which was free, lay across

Dutch tiling within easy reach of the open fire from which was

projecting conveniently a blazing log. The end nearest him was as yet

untouched by the flames and, without considering consequences, Richard

dragged it out of the fire and viciously thrust it upward. More by

luck than judgment the burning brand scorched across the side of Hipps'

face.

"Hell!" came the cry and instantaneously the weight on his back was

gone and he was free to rise.

Oliver Laurence, to avoid danger, had thrown himself backwards and was

now under the table, looking very like a child playing hide and seek.

The American had backed against the buffet but his general dignity

suffered a reverse from the fact that his first thought was of remedy

rather than revenge. He had picked up a piece of butter and was

rubbing it vigorously on his burnt cheek. In the shadows Mr. Van Diest

was shaking his head in sorrowful disapproval of the whole proceedings.

For the life of him Richard could not help laughing.

"I'm extremely sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but you did ask for

trouble." He raised the corner of the table cloth and addressed

Laurence. "If you've quite done amusing yourself under there you might

come out and give me a cigarette."

Laurence, looking painfully ridiculous, emerged and handed his case to

Richard who took one and lit it slowly from the glowing brand which he

still retained.

"I think we had better come to an immediate understanding," he said.

"I am perfectly prepared to treat you all with civility as long as I

receive the same treatment from you, but please understand that I will

not tolerate any funny business." An idea flashed suddenly into his

brain. "Just one thing more--there was some talk earlier this evening

of trying to poison the mind of my--my fiancée in regard to a question

of my morals. That was a particularly offensive idea and I want your

assurance that you'll drop it. Otherwise----" he took a few paces

toward the window, "I shall set fire to your curtains and keep you

gentlemen busy until the woodwork has caught. I imagine you aren't

wanting the fire brigade or the intrusion of any other respectable

force at the moment."

"Seems to me, my son----" began Hipps.

But Van Diest interrupted him.

"Let us agree to this suggestion," he said. "For my part I wass very

sorry to make enemy of our goot guest. S'no troubles about that."

"Thank you," said Richard. "Then if you've nothing further to ask me

I'd be glad to turn in."

Hipps walked across the room and unlocked the door. The two servants

came in.

"Show this gentleman to his apartment."

"Goodnight, everyone," said Richard.

He was passing out when Hipps laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Say," he said, touching his cheek. "You fired me with some ambition

to see your flag at half mast. Admire your spirit and all that, but it

kind o' gets my goat being branded by a youngster. Ain't used to it.

We want that inf. o' yours and want it quick. My advice to you is,

don't monkey with our patience. It won't pay."

"If you count this as a day," Richard replied with a grin, "it's cost

me fifty thousand already."

For a moment Hipps made no reply and when at last he spoke his remark

appeared to have no bearing on the matter in hand.

"In France during the war?" he asked.

"I was."

"Awkward stuff, that poison gas."

"Very awkward."

"Beastly smell."

"Horrid."

"Makes me cry to think of it."

"But you're a born sentimentalist."

"Ah. Goodnight. Shan't be meeting again for a few days. But Laurence

here'll bring any messages."

"I shan't trouble him," said Richard.

"No? Well, that's your concern." Once again he relapsed into silence,

then very suddenly flashed out the single word "Pineapple."

Richard was accompanied up the stairs by the two silent servants. They

ushered him into a room on the top landing, bowed and retired. The

door closed with a metallic ring. He heard the sliding of a bolt, the

jingle of a chain and the sound of footsteps descending. And all of a

sudden he felt very lonely.

CHAPTER 12.

PINEAPPLE.

The room in which Richard found himself was of modest size and

unpretentious in decoration. Its walls were panelled in white and

below the fireless grate was a second door leading to a small bedroom.

There were no curtains to the windows which were closely shuttered, the

shutters themselves being made of steel plates rivetted together and

held in place by a series of dropping bars. Apparently some system of

burglar alarm had been installed, an exceptionally large electric bell

being fitted in the framing where, normally, the cornice poles would

have run. Glancing over his shoulder Richard observed the absence of a

handle to the door through which he had been admitted. A plain deal

table occupied the centre of the room, with a couple of hard upright

kitchen chairs, one on either side. There was no carpet nor any rug

upon the floor. A single unshaded electric light bulb hung from the

ceiling.

"Hospitable sort of place," he remarked and passed through to the

bedroom, the door of which was on a spring and closed behind him.

Beyond the presence of a bed of extremely uncomfortable appearance the

same severity confronted him. There was neither washstand nor dressing

table, chair nor picture. Nothing to read, nothing to look at. The

windows were shuttered and, as in the other room, a single light point

was the only illumination. High up above the bed was the mouthpiece of

what looked like a motor horn. This and an iron ventilating register

let into the wall a couple of feet away from the pillow were the only

objects that provided any variety in the way of decoration.

The atmosphere of the place, though chilly, had a distinct sense of

oppression. There was no vitality in the air--it breathed mossy and

damp.

"Do with an open window," said Richard and moved toward the shutters.

He had hardly covered half the distance when the lights went out with

startling suddenness. There was something distinctly eerie in the

absolute darkness in which he found himself. He stretched out a hand

and felt for the nearest wall like a blind man, groped his way to the

door and opened it. But the other room was also in pitchy blackness.

"Fuse gone somewhere," he conjectured. "May as well try and get to a

chair and wait till the lights come on."

Roughly memorising the position of the furniture he made for the centre

of the room with hands extended. The effort was a failure and brought

him to the opposing wall. Accordingly he turned and tried again on a

slightly altered course. He had hardly taken three steps when he

received a shock. His left hand touched something rough but soft.

There was a sense of warmth about it but no movement. Richard started

violently and caught his breath.

"What's that?" he cried.

But there was no answer.

Standing very still he listened. The house was deathly silent and he

could almost hear the pulsing of his heart. Then very faintly he

became aware of another sound--the gentle hiss of a man breathing.

"Now we know where we are," thought Richard bracing himself up.

"Sneaked in while I was looking at the bedroom, I suppose. Not going

to let those idiots frighten me with bogey tricks."

As quietly as possible he went down on all fours and ran his fingers

across the floor boards in a semi-circle. They had not travelled very

far before encountering the hard edge of a boot sole. That was good

enough for Richard. Judging the distance nicely he seized its owner's

ankle in an iron grip and springing to his feet lifted it high into the

air and flung it backward. There was a squeal and a crash as the chair

went over and Richard broke into a laugh.

"Look here, Laurence," he said. "I've had enough of your practical

jokes tonight. You'll get hurt one of these days if you go on being so

funny."

And without warning the lights went up.

Laurence was scrambling to his feet, rubbing the back of his head

ruefully, and there were two other men in the room. The first was a

stranger to Richard and the second, who stood by the door, was one of

the servants. The stranger was a shrewd-looking young man of

moderately prepossessing appearance. He nodded to Richard as to an old

acquaintance.

"We meet again," he remarked affably, "though you don't appear to

recognise me."

"Well you're not much to remember," replied Richard whose temper was a

little frayed.

"My name is Smith. Had the honour of sharing your taxi to Hendon the

other day. You were good enough to ask me in for a drink."

It was clearly the moment to be noncommittal.

"If you've come to get it," said Richard, "you'll be unlucky."

"Just thought I'd like to take a look at you, that's all."

He rose to his feet, for he had been occupying the second chair and

scanned Richard's face closely. A shadow of perplexity showed in the

wrinkles of his forehead.

"Sorry I'm not looking my best," said Richard, with an uneasy feeling

of having been detected.

"Hm!" said the young man called Smith, "I'm not very often wrong about

things like that but I can't remember those humorous lines at the

corners of your eyes."

"Ah!" said Richard, "but I hadn't seen the humour of the situation when

last we met."

"Bad light, I suppose," the young man nodded. "Still, it's rather

surprising. Thanks, Mr. Laurence, I think that'll do. Goodnight, sir."

"Oh, goodnight. Drop in whenever you feel like it."

"I may." He moved toward the door then turned suddenly. "By the way,

I've a message for you."

"Yes?"

"Pineapple." He spoke the word incisively.

Richard shook his head.

"Haven't the smallest idea what you mean," he said, "but not to seem

lacking in appreciation, bananas or any other fruit you've a fancy for."

The door opened and closed behind the three retreating forms and once

again the room was plunged into darkness.

The business of getting into bed was embarrassed by the constant

reverses of light into darkness and back again. There appeared to be

no specified period for either--sometimes the light would burn ten

minutes--sometimes two and sometimes would merely flash up and down. A

more successful irritant could hardly have been devised. The shock of

the extreme contrast was in itself enough to infuriate an ordinary

individual. Richard would gladly have accepted total darkness in

preference to the blinding changes. This, however, was no part of his

tormentors' programme--it was clearly evident they intended to prey

upon his nerves as actively as possible. He reflected that no doubt

many other devices were in preparation to induce him to speak. There

was this talk of pineapple which appeared to carry with it some kind of

threat.

"Pineapple. Why the deuce should pineapple loosen a man's tongue?" he

said aloud as he struggled into a pair of pyjamas that had been laid on

the bed. "Might make his mouth water perhaps but----"

At this particular moment the lights came on and he was able to finish

undressing and nip between the sheets before the darkness fell again.

He observed with satisfaction that there was nothing funny about the

bed. It was soft and "cushy" and there were ample coverings. It was

vastly more comfortable than the bench which had supported him during

the preceding nights and this in itself was something to be grateful

for. After all, even if these earnest financiers perpetrated a few

ill-humoured practical jokes upon him he was being absurdly overpaid to

endure them.

Five thousand pounds for a fortnight's badgering. Who wouldn't put up

with a bit of discomfort for that. The wily Hun had handed him over

far more substantial terrors than these gentlemen were likely to

command and his pay for enduring them had worked out at approximately

three pound ten a week. He fell to considering in what manner he would

invest his earnings and a very attractive farming scheme in New Zealand

began to formulate prettily. Farming had always appealed to him and

there was a spot in the Canterbury district which had taken his fancy

when he had visited the South Island two years before. There were

green plains there and lettuce green woods and it was watered by a

network of fast running streams, great and little, where fat rainbow

trout sunned themselves in the shallows or leapt and jostled where the

water tumbled creaming over rock and boulder. By Gad! it would be

something like to build one's house in such surroundings--and maybe

later on to marry and----

It was the word marry that switched his thoughts up another channel and

in imagination found him once again standing beside the girl with the

splendid eyes who called at Barraclough's flat two hours before.

"Wish she wasn't mixed up in this outfit," he said to himself. "A girl

like that! Perfectly ripping creature. By jing! put her alongside a

man after her own heart--some decent fellow with the pluck to stand up

against that wayward strain--and there might be a good deal of

happiness knocking around for the pair of them. I suppose that ass

Barraclough turned her down. Pretty hard to please. Wonder if he got

away all right. Ripping scent she used. Coty, I believe, something

Jacque Minot."

As a man will who is trying to revive the impression of a scent he

sniffed the air gently with his eyes shut, only to open them with an

expression of surprise. Surely it was no imagination but the odour of

Rose Jacque Minot, taint and exquisite, seemed to hang in the air.

Thin waves of it growing and diminishing in intensity were wafted

across his head almost as though directed from a spray.

"If that isn't the oddest thing," he gasped. "Now I wonder----"

The light flashed up for a second--just long enough to reveal the fact

that the room was empty.

"Damn funny," he said and sat up in bed puzzling. He remained thus for

several minutes but no solution to the mystery presented itself.

Moreover, the scent had gone from the air and nothing but the memory

remained.

"Suppose I can't have been fool enough to imagine it. Never heard of a

man being haunted by a perfume."

He lowered his head to the pillow feeling, for no explainable reason,

strangely disquieted, only to rise again almost instantly exclaiming:

"'Tany rate, this is no imagination."

For the reek of onions was in the air--gross and nauseous. You could

have cut it with a knife.

Probably Richard's most violent antipathy was for the smell of onions.

He abhorred it as the devil abhors virtue. With an exclamation of

disgust he disappeared beneath the bedclothes and stuffed the sheet

into his mouth. He lay thus for a long while before venturing to

emerge and sample the air. To his relief he found the detestable taint

had vanished and the atmosphere had recovered its original slightly

tomby flavour.

"That's a blessing any way," he said. "I suppose it's no use wondering

how it's done or why it's done. Better get to sleep and ask questions

in the morning."

And quite unexpectedly he found he was afraid--filled with a kind of

nameless dread--a horrible prescience of some villainy about to happen.

There was a motive in this programme of changing scents, a deeper

significance than the mere will to annoy. He knew without even asking

himself how he knew that the smell of pineapple would be next. But why

he should fear pineapple was not at the moment apparent. He only knew

that when it came he would have to command every nerve to prevent

crying out.

Sitting up in bed he sniffed the air tentatively.

"Nothing! (sniff) No, nothing. (sniff) Wait a bit, wasn't that--?

No. (sniff) No--"

And then it came--pungent, acrid, bitter sweet, gathering in intensity

second by second.

With a stifled cry he clapped both hands over his mouth and swung a leg

to the floor. His eyes wide open in the dark began to sting violently.

He caught his breath and burst into a spasm of coughing. Somewhere

from the wall by the bedside came the faint sound of gas hissing from a

cylinder.

"Phosgene!" shouted Richard Frencham Altar. "You dirty swine!

Phosgene!"

It is a smell that once learnt can never be forgotten--a smell pregnant

with memories. As it invades the nostrils the doors of a dreadful past

fly open. The white mist hanging over the sunken road, the clangour of

beaten shell cases ringing out alarm, the whistle of the warning

rockets and the noise of men choking in the spongy fog.

Richard struggled back to the farthest corner of the room. He had

picked up his shirt and thrust it over his mouth and nostrils but even

so his lungs were nearly bursting. "You rotten, rotten swine," he

repeated. "I'll make you pay for this."

And a voice answered out of the dark:

"If you find the atmosphere oppressive, Mr. Barraclough, why not go

into the next room. It's perfectly clear in there. But don't wait to

collect your blankets because we're going to intensify this little lot."

There followed a louder hissing from the cylinder and Richard waited

for no more. Somehow he located the door, dashed through into the

adjoining room, and fell gasping on the uncovered boards. For several

minutes he made no effort to rise, then he sat up and shivered. The

air was like ice. A bitter freezing draught swept across him, cold as

winter spray.

His inquisitors were following up an advantage. There was to be no

remission in the warfare. Dark, poison and cold. These were the

instruments of torture devised to make him speak.

Richard struggled to his feet and stood with clenched hands.

"All right, my lads," he said. "You go ahead but I'll see you damned

before I talk."

He could hear the ice-cold wind whining through the registers as though

in derision of his boast. It cut him to the bone through his thin silk

pyjamas.

For the rest of the night Richard Frencham Altar paced the floor,

stamping his feet and beating one hand against the other.

CHAPTER 13.

HARRISON SMITH.

When the young man named Smith left Laurence's house after his

interview with Richard he was slightly angry and not a little puzzled.

The cause of his perplexity was the humorous lines round Richard's eyes

and the cause of his anger was his failure to have noted them when

first they met in the taxi and travelled home together on the Golders

Green tube.

He had remarked on the peculiarity of this circumstance when he found

Hipps and Van Diest in the dining room and had received no other

comment than a snub from the American for his lack of observation.

These two gentlemen were in a state of exaggerated well being induced

by enthusiasm over the capture they had made. Hipps was laying odds

that after a course of treatment Anthony Barraclough would not only

give away the secret but would breathe his first sweetheart's pet name.

Van Diest was more concerned with details for the notation of the

future radium company.

They appeared to regard the intrusion of Mr. Smith as a nuisance.

"Seems to me, gentlemen," he said, "there's something queer about the

whole business. Barraclough was known to be starting tonight--and

instead you succeed in laying him by the heels."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing--except that it was all so infernally easy. Then again the

fellow seems in such high spirits."

Van Diest wrinkled his forehead and nodded at this but Hipps waved it

aside.

"Take it from me, he's in darn sight lower spirits than he wants us to

think. Anthony's a sport and he'll sure pull the cucumber act as long

as the cool weather lasts."

"You may be satisfied, gentlemen, but I'm not! You don't think he'd

have given the information to anyone else."

Van Diest looked at the young man with a pitying smile.

"If you wass possessed millions and millions of pounds, my friend, iss

it very likely you would trust anyone to look after it?"

"Perhaps not----"

"Very well then."

"Still I'm sure there's something fishy. If I might be allowed to

investigate----"

But Van Diest negatived this suggestion very heartily. He argued that

persons prying about at this stage of the game would bring suspicions

on themselves.

"Mr. Torrington and all those peoples are very happy to believe that

Barraclough hass given us the slip. S'no goot to make them miserable."

"Still if--without attracting attention----"

"You run along and play," said Hipps.

And so the interview ended.

Smith was heartily offended to be brushed aside in this fashion. He

had served his employers faithfully and with sound intelligence.

Practically the entire control of the ring which had prevented

Barraclough's escape on the preceding days had been in his hands.

Earlier in the night he had received telephone instructions to call off

his watchers and having done so he had driven over to Laurence's house

to satisfy himself that all was in order.

It was quite absurd he should be assailed by these feelings of doubt.

Barraclough had been caught and there the matter ended. But in his own

mind it refused to end. Why hadn't Barraclough put up a fight and how

had Barraclough grown funny lines round his eyes? These were mysteries

which for his own peace he was bound to elucidate.

It was four o'clock when he got to bed but he was up again in good time

next morning, roughly sketching out a programme for the day.

At nine fifteen precisely he was standing by the ticket barrier at

Liverpool Street station awaiting the arrival of the Woodford train.

Presently it steamed alongside the platform and one of the first

persons to get out was Nugent Cassis. He was swinging his cane and

_mirabile dictu_ he was whistling. In his buttonhole he wore a flower.

From a distance Smith had studied Nugent Cassis on many previous

occasions and knew his peculiarities by heart--also he knew that there

was no single precedent for this rare display of jauntiness.

Harrison Smith shook his head hopelessly. It was inconceivable with

all their immense resources that Torrington's crowd had set no watch on

Barraclough's movements over night. Surely they must be aware that his

intended flight had been frustrated. Why Barraclough's servant Doran

would surely have rung up and informed them. He was confident that

somewhere a breakdown had occurred.

As he passed by Nugent Cassis said "good morning" to the ticket

collector--a thing he had never done before.

Harrison Smith got into a taxi and drove to Shepherd Street, Mayfair.

He sent up his card by the parlour maid with the request that Miss

Craven would grant him an interview. He was asked to wait and was kept

waiting the best part of three quarters of an hour while Auriole

completed her toilet. When at last she entered she did not show the

least enthusiasm for his presence but asked rather shortly what he

wanted.

"I'm tired," she added, "so be as quick as you can."

"All right," he said. "It's only this. You were an old flame of

Barraclough's?"

"Well?"

"How long is it since last you met?"

"Until last night--four years, I suppose."

"Hm! Had he changed at all?"

"Changed?"

"In appearance--er--manner."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"Bit more amusing perhaps--less of a prig."

"Ah!" said Smith. "Go on--anything else?"

"He seemed to have learnt how to smile."

Harrison Smith leapt to his feet and paced up and down.

"I knew I was right," he said, "but what the deuce does it mean?

Anything else to tell me?"

"Yes. Sit down, for Heaven's sake. My head's aching and you irritate

me walking about."

He obeyed and continued his interrogation.

"In love with him once, weren't you?"

"Once," she replied.

"And you've no very good reason for wishing him well?"

"I've a very particular reason for wishing him ill."

"Hm! His engagement to Miss Irish?"

"Perhaps."

"How did you come to be mixed up in this affair?"

"I happened to know Mr. Hipps and heard what was going on through him.

It was my idea--kidnapping Anthony. Doubt if they'd have had the nerve

to think of it for themselves."

"D'you think they'll get him to talk?"

"I don't think _they_ will get him to talk," she replied, "but----"

"Yes?"

"But I could. He's a tough proposition among men but a woman can worm

a secret out of him--at least----" She stopped and shook her head.

"Yes?"

"That used to be my impression."

"Has it altered then?"

"I'm not quite so certain as I used to be. He was different last

night----"

Harrison Smith leant forward.

"Tell me," he said, very earnestly, "did you notice anything queer

about his eyes?"

"I don't know."

"Try to remember."

"Four years is a long while."

"But to a woman like you."

"I believe something struck me--they puckered at the corners a

bit--rather attractively."

"That's it," said Harrison Smith. "That's exactly it. Lord, I wish I

could understand."

"What's troubling you?"

"Just a crazy idea--probably it's nonsense. By the way, I've had

orders from our employers to leave it alone so you'd do me a kindness

by saying nothing of this visit."

"All right," she replied listlessly. "But I don't see----"

"It's solid in my head that a muddle has been made--and between you and

me, I'm going to sift it out."

"I shouldn't," said Auriole. "You won't be thanked for disobeying

orders."

"Must take a chance of that," he answered. "Only learnt yesterday what

it was all about and the size of the deal has got me gasping."

"Pretty tremendous, isn't it?"

"Big enough to be worth taking some private trouble over. You don't

imagine Barraclough would have deputed anyone else to get the

concession?"

She shook her head.

"Neither do I. But if it isn't that why does his crowd sit still and

grin?"

"I suppose they don't know of his capture."

"Maybe. 'Tany rate, it's what our folk believe. I have my own views."

"Tell me."

"They're a trifle too fantastic for publication yet awhile." He rose

and buttoned his gloves. "There's to be a meeting at Lord Almont's

flat this morning. I'm going to hang about and study character."

"Better not be seen."

"Trust me. I'll take cover in the motor show rooms on the street level

and watch 'em as they come out."

"Hm! Goodbye." And she held out her hand.

"Au 'voir. You look a bit down this morning."

"Don't feel up to much."

He scanned her face quizzically.

"Those tender feelings haven't revived, have they?"

"What do you mean?"

"For friend Barraclough?"

"Idiot," she retorted. "As if I had any feelings."

"He's a decent looking chap."

"Oh, go away," she said.

And he went--smiling.

Auriole waited until the front door closed, then picked up the

telephone receiver and gave a number.

"I want to speak to Lord Almont Frayne. Oh, is it? Good morning.

Yes, that's right. A. B. was kidnapped last night at twelve thirty.

They've taken him to Laurence's house in Totteridge. What? Yes,

perfectly satisfied. One of their agents, a man named Harrison Smith,

has been here a minute ago. He seems to be suspicious about something.

Thinks you all seem too contented. He'll be hanging about outside your

flat this morning. Yes, that's all. Oh, Lord Almont, wish you'd

explain the situation to me--can't understand it at all. Wouldn't make

any difference. No, but what was to be gained by letting Anthony

Barraclough be kidnapped? If you won't say it doesn't matter but it

seems stupid not to trust one's own side. Oh, Mr. Cassis. I doubt if

he'd trust himself. 'Bye!"

She hung up the receiver with a little gesture of annoyance and crossed

to the writing table. From a small drawer above the pigeon holes she

took a photograph of a man in flannels. It was signed "Yours for

keeps, Tony." She read the inscription and smiled--and it was not a

very kindly smile.

* * * * * *

Harrison Smith, as a prospective buyer, proved extremely tiresome to

the staff of the Motor Show Rooms in Park Lane. He shilly-shallied

from one car to another asking rather stupid questions for the best

part of two hours. The exquisitely dressed salesman poured forth his

eulogies in vain. Nothing could make Mr. Smith decide. He would

listen attentively to long recitals of the respective virtues of this

make and that and then would gaze out into the street as though lost in

contemplation. In the midst of listening to a highly technical

discourse on the subject of cantilever springs, without a word of

warning he leapt into the interior of a big Siddeley Saloon and closed

the door behind him. The salesman looked at Mr. Smith in amazement but

Mr. Smith was looking into the street along which three very

serious-looking men were slowly progressing. Two of them supported the

third who was very old and very bent. His face was set in an

expression of acute anguish. They helped him into a waiting

automobile, shook their heads at each other and proceeded in different

directions. The automobile started up and moved away. The old man's

head was sunk upon his chest.

When all three were out of view Harrison Smith emerged from the

Siddeley Saloon, glanced at his watch, thanked the salesman, said he

would call again and passed out of the showrooms. On the pavement he

halted and, like the three gentlemen who had occupied his attention, he

too shook his head.

"They seem pretty well in the depths now," he reflected. "Wonder if

I'm making a fool of myself."

He would have wondered even more acutely had he seen Mr. Torrington

straighten up and smile as the big ear turned into the Park through

Stanhope Gate. Every trace of anguish had gone from the old man's

face. To speak the truth he looked extremely well pleased with himself.

Harrison Smith walked slowly down Piccadilly debating in his mind

whether or no he should abandon his investigations.

He stopped at the bottom of Clarges Street to allow a taxi, laden with

luggage, to pass. The taxi had its cover down and inside he had a

glimpse of a girl with a happy, smiling face. The girl was Isabel

Irish and the brief glimpse decided him.

"One more cast," he said and jumped into an empty cab that was coming

down the slope.

"Follow that chap in front," he cried. "The one with box on top.

Don't lose sight of him whatever happens."

He slammed the door and settled down on the cushions. Pursuer and

pursued threaded their way through the traffic to Waterloo Station.

CHAPTER 14.

"OFF THE BEATEN TRACK."

Anthony Barraclough's mother was seventy-eight and still a sport. She

loved her garden, she loved her son and she loved adventure. She was

very fond of life, of punctuality, of the church, and of good manners.

She was deeply attached to the memory of her late husband and her late

sovereign, Queen Victoria, upon whom, with certain reservations, she

patterned herself. The reservations were a taste for stormy literature

and a habit of wearing her ice-white hair bobbed. The bobbing of her

hair, and it used to be waist long, was a tribute to patriotism. She

sacrificed her "ends" in 1914 to give a lead to hesitating girls of the

neighbourhood. This she conceived to be a duty and one that would

materially expedite the close of hostilities.

Mrs. Barraclough lived in the sweetly named village of Clyst St. Mary

where you will find Devon at its gentlest. She was waited upon by four

strapping girls who bore the names Flora, Agnes, Jane and Cynthia.

These young women arrived in a body during the spring of 1919 and took

possession of the house. Flora who was spokesman of the party bore a

note from Anthony in which he wrote--

"Mother Darling,

Am sending these girls to look after you. No more servant worries.

They are tophole. Flora and Jane saved my life when I was in France.

Love,

TONY."

That was all.

Being a dutiful mother, Mrs. Barraclough asked no questions;--instead

she arranged accommodation and bought some new dimity chintzes for the

top floor bedrooms.

As Anthony declared, the girls were certainly tophole and made their

mistress so unreasonably comfortable that she greatly feared the risk

of being spoilt. It is true they perplexed her not a little, since no

single one of them bestrewed the house with fallen aspirates, sang

while sweeping nor spoke ill of her fellow. Herein perhaps they

provided some small ground for disappointment for, in company with many

ladies of the older school, Mrs. Barraclough dearly loved bestowing an

occasional rebuke in words calculated to improve and uplift. This,

however, was a trivial concern weighed against the obvious advantages

of loyalty, good nature and efficiency.

The house in which Mrs. Barraclough dwelt was called "Chestnuts" and it

lay a few miles off the London Exeter main road. To reach it by rail

you alighted at Digby Halt and were met by either a car or a governess

cart. Mrs. Barraclough possessed both and invariably despatched the

governess cart to meet her favourite guests, on the theory that a horse

is more of a compliment than a "snuffly engine." As a matter of fact

the car was a very sterling, if rather old, Panhard Levassor and in no

sense could be accused of snuffling.

When once an enquiring visitor, after vainly searching the garden for

chestnut trees, asked why the house was so named, Mrs. Barraclough

replied--

"The chestnuts apply to myself and not to the vegetation. I am an old

woman with an incurable habit of repeating the same anecdotes over and

over again."

To this sanctuary of mid-Victorian calm Isabel Irish came in the late

afternoon of the day following Anthony's departure into the unknown.

To wait in London for three weeks without word or message was more than

she could tolerate. Accordingly she sent a wire to Mrs. Barraclough

and followed close upon its heels. Of the presence of Mr. Harrison

Smith in the next compartment of the corridor carriage, she, of course,

knew nothing, and this circumstance provided that enthusiastic

investigator with every opportunity of studying her without attracting

attention to himself.

On the pretext of smoking a pipe he lounged up and down the corridor,

every now and then glancing at Isabel, who sat alone with compressed

lips and chin sunk on her chest. He concluded from her attitude and

expression that she must have heard of Barraclough's capture but later

on another impression superseded the first, for every now and then a

light of excitement and enthusiasm would leap into her eyes as though

in imagination she were following her lover along the ways of desperate

adventure. Harrison Smith shook his head.

"Don't know what to make of it," he muttered. "Certain sure they've

got the man yet--I don't know----"

Once he saw her do a very odd thing but foolishly enough paid little

heed to it. A sudden blank look came into the girl's face--the kind of

look people wear who have suddenly forgotten an important matter or

discovered a loss. Her lips moved rapidly and her brow creased under

an intensity of thought. She turned and breathed on the window glass

and with quick movements of her forefinger wrote upon it half a dozen

figures and characters. But before he had properly noted what they

were the moisture evaporated and the glass was clear again. It did not

occur to Harrison Smith to worry over his failure to read what she had

written, since he regarded the action as symptomatic of mere

nervousness, but he noted with surprise that after this little episode

the girl seemed to relax and her face assumed lines almost of

contentment. After all, no one could blame him for failing to realise

the true significance of that hurried, transient scrawl. One does not

expect to find the map reference of probably the greatest source of

wealth the world has ever known scribbled across the window pane of a

South Western Railway carriage by the fat little forefinger of a girl

scarcely out of her teens. Such an eventuality never even crossed the

mind of Harrison Smith. Nevertheless the girl puzzled him more than he

cared to confess.

To reach Digby Halt necessitated a change. Harrison Smith took good

care to make his descent from the train as far as possible from

Isabel's carriage. He watched her enter the governess cart and drive

away before attempting to leave the station. Prior to this it struck

him that he might have difficulty in obtaining lodgings in the

neighbourhood without bag or baggage and this being probable he had

resorted to the unpleasant expedient of stealing a suit case. Its

owner, a clergyman, was at the time enjoying a cup of tea in the dining

section--the risk therefore was small. The suit case bore no initials

and might have belonged to anybody. Harrison Smith showed as little as

possible of his face as he passed through the wicket gate. He turned

in the opposite direction to the one taken by the governess cart,

waited till he was out of sight and climbed through a gap in the hedge.

Ten minutes later, dressed as a clergyman and looking very good indeed,

he marched down the road in the direction of the village.

CHAPTER 15.

TEA AND TEARS.

It was Flora who drove the round, short legged pony, who drew the dog

cart, and because Flora had driven a high power car in France during

the war and had earned a reputation as a merchant of speed she looked,

as she was given to look on these occasions, a shade sorry for herself.

Also, because she had an admiration for Anthony that was little removed

from adoration she did not attend greatly to the business in hand, but

instead engaged in a critical survey of the girl he was to marry. She

decided that Isabel was very pretty but a shade too serious. She

wondered if her nerves were any good. She wished she had been allowed

to fetch her in the motor as there were one or two sharp corners on the

way home which, taken fast, provided a good test of a passenger's

courage. Perhaps it was as well that permission had been denied, she

reflected, since had Isabel screamed or turned even the least bit pink

she, Flora, would certainly have hit her with a spanner.

In extenuation for these violent emotions please remember that Flora,

in company with Jane, had been instrumental in saving Anthony

Barraclough's life when they found him lying on the roadside bleeding

like a stuck pig during the great retreat of 1918. After all, a girl

is justified in feeling strongly about a man's choice of a wife when he

owes his life to her. She is more or less responsible.

Isabel said nothing for perhaps a quarter of a mile, then suddenly

exclaimed:

"I say, this is beastly slow."

She could not have made a happier remark. Flora relaxed instantly.

"Isn't it chronic," she returned, "but the old lady was firm about it.

If I'd had the car we'd have whooped it up a bit."

"Wish we had. Can't stick this jogging--want to get out and run."

"Fond of speed?" said Flora.

"Um, rather. That beastly old train--then this. I'd half a notion to

fly down only I didn't know any landings round here."

"You've flown then?"

"Yes, lots."

"Who with?"

"By myself a fair amount."

"Got a pilot certificate?"

"Yes, ages ago."

"I say!" said Flora and began to feel quite hopeful about Anthony's

future. "Agnes was in the Flying Corps, you know."

"Agnes?"

"She's housemaid. 'Course she's been up dozens of times but she never

handled the joystick. Ever looped?"

"Often."

"You must talk to Agnes," said Flora.

There was a bell under the pony's chin strap and it jingled

continually. From her chair by the open French window Mrs. Barraclough

could hear the jingle as the cart turned into the lane. Herein lay the

essence of using the cart for particular friends, for Mrs. Barraclough

knew that as soon as she heard that sound there would be just time to

walk down the garden path and be at the gate to welcome the arrival.

With the car one could never get there soon enough and to her way of

thinking the hospitality of a house should be offered at the entrance

to its grounds. She liked to stand under the arboured gate with

extended hands and from there to speak the first welcoming words and

then to link arms and lead the visitor indoors with promises of tea or

fires in bedrooms and little kindly appreciations of the fatigue of

travelling. She would as soon have omitted any of these gentle rites

as have neglected to satisfy herself that the sheets were properly

aired or the carpets swept beneath the beds.

Of course, with Isabel the welcome extended beyond the mere taking of

hands. There is a proper way of embracing your son's affianced wife;

that is, of course, if you happen to be of the same period as Mrs.

Barraclough. A kiss on the forehead, one on each cheek, an examination

at arm's length, and finally, after a perfect duck of a shared smile

and a murmured "my dear," the gentlest kiss imaginable on the extreme

point of the chin. It is at once a tribute and an acceptance--the

cashier's neat initial that honours your signature to a cheque drawn on

the account of happiness.

Alas, that some of our modern mothers have lost the knack of this

pretty exchange. Their greeting is of a harsher tone. They bridge the

separating gulf between youth and age with talk of Auction. They speak

to the girl of "making a four" after dinner when the only real concern

is that she should make a two that is spiritually one. And because

this is so the modern mother will remain more often "in-law" than in

heart, which is a very great pity indeed.

They had never met before but Isabel knew at the first touch of those

sweet prim lips that Anthony's mother was also hers--was also a

darling--was also a trump--was also every kind of good thing that she

ought to be.

"Oh, I'm so glad I came," she gasped. "It won't be half so bad with

you to help me wait."

And Mrs. Barraclough, who hadn't the smallest idea what she was talking

about, nodded and replied:

"Of course not, my dear, of course not."

Inside the drawing room tea was waiting on a silver tray, with a silver

kettle throwing out a hiss of silver steam. Never had Isabel seen any

silver that was as bright as this. It shone with the innocent lustre

of wedding presents and even the little methylated spirit flame that

boiled the water looked as if it had been polished with a chamois

leather.

There was a walnut tea caddy studded with brass that had to be

unlocked, and inside were two compartments with tin-foil linings in

which the precious leaves guarded their aroma and defied larceny. Mrs.

Barraclough took two spoonfuls from one side and one from the other

that the correct blend might be achieved and these she mixed upon a

tiny square of white cartridge paper. Then the cups were warmed and

the water was put in--and some muffins and Jane, who had apple cheeks

and smiling red lips, came in the room and the business of pouring out

began, which is almost as great and almost as lost a secret as the

varnish of the violin makers of Cremona. And Isabel felt good all over

because she knew that Mrs. Barraclough, and the room, and Jane, and the

muffins, and the tea, and the evening were all the right

temperature--warm--mellow--comforting. Outside the window was a thrush

who sang. He was a soloist, and when he stayed to fill his throat a

chorus of sparrows, close packed upon the upper branches of a tilting

cedar, chirped gladly with a single voice.

And listening and tasting and feeling all the sweetness of the

countryside, the fairness of tradition, the delicacy of age and custom,

a lump came into Isabel's throat--hot, angry and convulsive. For

somewhere out beyond was her man--facing unknown dangers, taking

terrible risks, followed by relentless men.

Yet all this was his and he had left it. She was his and he had left

her--deserting both at the bidding of that frightful master who

commands us all--that ruler of men's destinies whose initials are

L.S.D. [Transcriber's note: abbreviations for Pounds, shillings,

pence.]

She put her tea cup on the tray with a little tinkle and suddenly

covered her eyes with the palms of her hands.

"Oh, oh, oh!" she cried. "Why couldn't he have been satisfied?"

"What is it, my dear?"

"Money," she answered with a staggering breath. "Money. And it

couldn't buy a moment that was as sweet as this."

The fair curly head tilted forward into the black silk lap. Mrs.

Barraclough's hands went round the girl's shoulders and held them

tight. They were shaking so.

A clergyman passing down the road halted for a moment and peered over

the yew hedge into the open windows of the room. But nobody took any

notice of him and he couldn't hear the words that were spoken. Had he

heard he would not have understood for they were only the kind noises

with which one woman will comfort another.

Mrs. Barraclough could almost feel the hot tears soak through the

fabric of her gown.

CHAPTER 16.

A HYPHEN.

When first the question of radium arose in this chronicle it will be

remembered that Barraclough, under considerable pressure, yielded the

secret of the map reference to his fiancée, and by this very act made a

present of it, through the pages of narrative, to whosoever might

chance to read.

It would seem a perfectly reasonable supposition that there must be

many avaricious persons to whom the possession of untold riches would

prove more attractive than a mere interest in the doings of another

man. Let it be said at once that although Barraclough certainly

confided the correct map reference to Isabel, that reference, for the

purposes of caution and public safety, underwent several important

variations before passing into my hands. The reason of this precaution

will be readily appreciated by the thoughtful however great may be the

disappointment it provides to the adventurous. A memory of average

length will recall the high percentage of disaster, of wrecked hopes

and of ruin pursuant upon the gold rush to Klondyke at the close of the

last century. Barely one man in a hundred made a living--barely one in

a thousand saw the yellow specks in his shovel that shone so bright

among the brown. Those who had set forth, buoyed up with boundless

belief, dragged back to where they had started from broken in purse and

spirit, barren of hope and faith.

What then would be the result if the illimitable source of wealth upon

which by chance and a whisper Barraclough had stumbled should be

revealed to the world? A panic--a mad headlong exodus of men and women

too. Unequipped and unqualified they would pour from city and

country-side, leaving desk and furrow, in a wild race to be first upon

the scene--to stake a claim--any claim--to dig--to grovel--to tear up

the kindly earth with fingers like the claws of beasts. Wealth, upon

which our civilisation has been built, is the surest destroyer of

civilisation. What it has given it takes away. Dangle a promise of

gold before the young man at the ribbon counter and behold he is become

a savage. Whisper it never so gently--and it will sound as the roar of

torrents in our ears.

Brewster's Series 19. Map 24. Square F. North 27. West 33. Look it

up for yourself. It exists all right but there is no radium there, not

any within a thousand miles for aught I know to the contrary. In that

location and over a large stretch of surrounding country-side the

earth's outer crust is mainly argillaceous with here and there an

outcrop of sandstone. There is not the smallest indication of

pitch-blende anywhere in the neighbourhood, and radium, as even those

little versed in chemistry or geology are aware, is only to be found in

that particular ore.

It would be well, therefore, to think twice before embarking upon a

fruitless treasure hunt after reading what has here been set down. It

was the knowledge of the inevitable consequences that would result from

incautious confidence that sealed Barraclough's lips and made his

movements on arriving at Southampton so secretive. It is known there

was a fog over the Solent on the afternoon in question and that a small

brown-sailed boat with a man sitting in the stern put out from the

shore and was presently swallowed up in the white tasselled wreaths of

mist. That same boat was discovered minus its passenger in the early

hours of the following day. A coastal collier, racketing into port in

the quiet of evening, brought the tale of a seaplane that narrowly

missed crashing into her deck house. Long after it was out of sight

the crew heard its engines droning overhead. Then for a while there

was silence during which a curious pinkish glow appeared to the

starboard and died away. This glow was repeated three times and at the

third repetition the waterplane engine was again audible, increasing in

volume every moment. Presently it cut out and nothing was heard for

several minutes. When it started again it must have been quite near at

hand for the sound of water cut by the floats was detectable. The

engines howled and whined until the roar diminished to a sound no

greater than the buzzing of a bee fading into nothing over the wake of

the little steamer.

Whether or no these recorded circumstances have any bearing on the

mystery of Anthony Barraclough's disappearance it would be impossible

to say but the Harbour Authorities who were questioned as to whether

they had knowledge of the movements of this particular waterplane

replied with a regretful negative. They neither knew where it came

from nor whither it went and there is a strong rumour that one or two

quite important persons got into severe trouble for their want of

information.

The one thing that is positively known is that Barraclough arrived in

and disappeared from Southampton in a single day, but whether he went

North, South, East or West is a matter for speculation.

PART II.