UNWELCOME ATTENTIONS
The gyro-car ran that afternoon with such easy speed that Maurice
Buckland was stirred out of his carefully cultivated indifference.
Before it had gone a quarter of a mile he had ejaculated “By George!”
three times in a crescendo of admiration, and gave a hearty assent to
George’s assertion that “she” was a spanker. Nor was he perturbed when
she narrowly shaved a foreign-looking man hanging about at the corner
of the road that led to the Weybridge Ferry. After half an hour’s
spin George suggested that they should try her on the water, but then
Maurice relapsed into his former sceptical manner, and declared that he
had had enough for one day.
On the way back they again passed the foreigner, who stood aside and
watched the strange car as it flashed by.
“Did you notice the greedy look on that fellow’s face?” said George.
“I am not in the least interested in him,” replied Maurice coldly.
“I suppose not. You see foreign Johnnies every day. He looked as if he
wished the car were his. Will you come on the river to-morrow?”
“No. I am going to Town.”
“You’ll let me drive you to the station?”
“By all means, if you’ll promise to go carefully round the corner.”
“Rather! Those old flies are dangerous, and ought to be abolished.”
Next afternoon George had the pleasure of driving his brother to the
station. As they passed the Anchor they noticed a large motor-car
with a yellow body standing at the door of the little hotel.
Several foreigners were lounging on the garden seat in front of the
coffee-room. They broke off their conversation as the gyro-car ran
by, looking after it with curiosity. A minute after it arrived at the
station the motor-car dashed up. Two men alighted from it, and went
into the booking-office, where Maurice had just taken his ticket.
George did not leave the gyro-car or wait to see the train off, but
called a good-bye to Maurice over the fence, and promised to meet him
on his return.
Maurice came back by the train arranged. The gyro-car was awaiting him.
Behind it stood the yellow motor-car, and Maurice was followed out of
the gate by the two foreigners who had travelled by the up train.
“One of those fellows is a Count something or other,” said George as
they drove back. “A general too. The village is quite excited about
him.”
“British snobbishness!” said Maurice. “They came down in my
compartment: don’t know our ways, I suppose.”
“How do you mean?”
“There was another smoker two compartments off, quite empty, but they
came in with me: don’t know we prefer to travel alone when we can.”
“British standoffishness!” said George with a smile. “Did they speak to
you?”
“Yes. It was rather amusing. They spoke in French about all sorts of
subjects, and by and by got on to ‘le cricket,’ as they called it--with
the deliberate purpose of attracting my attention, I believe. They
talked the most fearful tosh. By-and-by one of them turned to me. ‘I
beg your pardon, sir,’ he said, in excellent English, ‘but I see that
Kent has beaten Yorkshire by three wickets. Will you have the goodness
to explain precisely what that means?’”
“What did you say?” asked George.
“Oh! I explained to them that the wickets were three stumps stuck in
the ground, and without waiting for any more, the man turned to his
companion and said, ‘Eh bien! Je l’ai bien dit. Les vainqueurs rossent
les vaincus avec les stomps.’”
“Construe, construe, old man: they didn’t speak French like that at
school.”
“More’s the pity. What he said was: ‘I told you so. The winners whack
the losers with the stumps.’”
“By gum!” said George with a laugh. “That stumped ’em. What happened
next?”
“Oh! I buried myself behind my paper. I dislike extremely being
disturbed in that way.”
“There are about half a dozen altogether,” said George. “The Count
and another are at the Anchor: the rest, servants, I suppose, have
overflowed into the Old King’s Head. Rather hard on the boating-men,
isn’t it? Several couldn’t get rooms to-day.”
“Really, George, I hope you are not becoming a Paul Pry.”
“Of course not. Sheila went into the post-office to get some stamps,
and had it all thrown at her by the girl there. Foreign counts are a
rarity in Shepperton. What in the world brought them here? They don’t
appear to go in for boating.”
“My dear fellow, does it matter?”
“Well no, but it’s funny, that’s all.”
Mrs. Courtenay-Greene agreed with her elder nephew that it was
undesirable to pay any attention to the strangers, even though one of
them was a count and a general.
“It is perfectly shocking,” she said, “the way we are being eaten up by
aliens.”
To Maurice Buckland’s great annoyance, however, it proved impossible
to avoid the foreigners. If he walked to the village, he was bound to
meet some of them. Whenever he went to Town, it appeared that one or
more of the party had business there too. Sometimes they returned by
the same train, and then, no matter how many empty compartments there
might be, his privacy was sure to be invaded. Once, when the train was
full, the man whom he supposed to be the count entered the compartment
at the last moment, and stood between Maurice and the passenger
opposite, courteously apologising for the inconvenience he caused.
Room was made for him when some of the passengers got out at Clapham
Junction, and he seated himself next to Maurice, and remarked on the
immensity of the station. His manner was so polite and conciliatory
that it was impossible to snub him outright, but Maurice took refuge in
a cold reserve that discouraged further advances.
One day George persuaded his brother to attempt a spin on the river.
They ran the gyro-car down on to the ferryboat, and George having made
the necessary adjustments, took the water and proceeded up stream
in the direction of the lock. Only a minute or two afterwards the
yellow motor-car came dashing down the road. Three of the foreigners
dismounted from it, hired a boat, and followed in the wake of the
gyro-car, which had by this time entered the lock. The gates were still
open; the lock-keeper thought it hardly worth while to fill and empty
for the sake of one toll. Consequently, as the gyro-car lay against
the side, waiting, the Bucklands saw the foreigners’ boat coming in at
the lower gates, and zigzagging in a manner that proved its occupants
to be inexperienced watermen.
George smiled as he watched the men’s clumsy movements. The boat
entered the lock, the gates were shut, and the lock-keeper ran along
the side to let in water at the upper end. When the vessels lay
opposite to each other, with only a narrow space between them, it was
natural enough that a word or two should be exchanged between their
occupants; and George, who was free from any taint of standoffishness,
responded readily to the distinguished-looking stranger in the stern of
the boat when he said:
“This is a very remarkable car of yours, sir. I have seen it once or
twice, and always with great admiration.”
At the same time he made a courteous salute to Maurice, who
acknowledged it freezingly.
“Yes, it _is_ rather useful,” said George, flattered by the stranger’s
attentions. A conversation ensued between them, in which George
described his mechanism with some minuteness. The gyro-car was simply
a hobby; he had no idea of making a secret of it; and the stranger’s
interest was so genuine, and yet so devoid of inquisitiveness, that
George was soon on friendly terms with him.
While they were talking, the upper sluices were opened, and the water
poured with rush and whirl into the lock. The mechanism formed another
topic of conversation, which lasted until the lock was filled, the
keeper had collected the toll, and there was free access to the higher
reach.
“I am very much interested,” said the stranger. “Permit me, sir.” He
handed George a card. “I am staying with my secretary at the Anchor
Hotel, and I shall be charmed if you will do me the honour to call
on me there. And you also, I need not say, sir,” he added, bowing to
Maurice.
“Thanks awfully,” said George.
“I am exceedingly obliged,” said Maurice.
Salutations were exchanged; the gyro-car ran smoothly out of the lock,
and the boat followed slowly, watched with a quizzical eye by the
keeper.
“General Count Slavianski,” read George from the card. “Russian,
Maurice?”
“Or Polish. You will not call on the man?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Oh, well, do as you please, but don’t drag me with you. I am fed up
with continentals.”
George called next day on Count Slavianski at the hotel, and was
charmed with his new acquaintance, and also with Major Rostopchin, his
secretary. He would have liked to return their hospitality, but Mrs.
Courtenay-Greene refused to have anything to do with them, so that
the budding friendship did not develop. One of the Count’s servants
scraped acquaintance with the under-gardener at the Acacias, who told
his fellow-servants that the foreigner was a decent chap, and a dab at
billiards, as he had discovered at the Old King’s Head.
Three weeks went by. One Monday morning Maurice received a letter from
the Foreign Office requesting him to call that afternoon on important
business. He took the 2.10 train to Waterloo, carrying a black official
bag in which he had a few unimportant papers that he intended to leave
at the office. Just as the train was on the point of starting, two of
the Count Slavianski’s servants rushed through the gate and sprang into
the nearest third-class compartment. Maurice congratulated himself that
they were not the Count himself and his secretary; he was a little
tired of the too-frequent company of those gentlemen.
At Waterloo he entered a taxi-cab, which landed him within a few
minutes at the door of the Foreign Office in Whitehall. He was somewhat
surprised when he learnt that his interview was to be, not with one of
the principal clerks, but with the Foreign Secretary himself, and still
more surprised at the communication which that great man made to him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Buckland,” he said. “I am sorry to cut short your
leave, but you must return to Sofia at once. I have a despatch of
the highest importance for your chief, and you must start to-morrow.
I wanted to see you myself, for this reason: it will be better for
you to go by some route that does not pass through Austrian or German
territory. That is unfortunate on the score of time, for the quickest
way is undoubtedly by Vienna; but you will remember that during the
last crisis a Montenegrin Minister was stopped and searched by the
Austrians--a flagrant violation of the etiquette of civilised nations,
but one that Montenegro was not strong enough to resent.”
“I understand, sir,” said Buckland.
“I need not enter into particulars with you,” pursued the Secretary.
“It is enough to say that things are once more looking exceedingly
black in the Balkans--so black that I do not care to trust to the
telegraph. The despatch will be written to-night, and you will call for
it to-morrow in time to catch the day train for Paris. Probably your
best course will be to go straight to Brindisi, where I will arrange
for a torpedo-boat to meet you and convey you to Constantinople. From
Constantinople you will go by train to Sofia. The Paris train leaves
Charing Cross at 2.20, as you know; you will find the despatch ready
for you by 11.”
The Secretary was a man of few words. He had given his instructions,
and had nothing more to say. Buckland withdrew, left his papers with
one of the clerks, and, looking at his watch, saw that he had plenty of
time to catch the 5 o’clock train from Waterloo.
When he left the Foreign Office, the news-boys were crying the evening
papers, and on one of the bills Buckland read, in large block letters,
the words BALKAN CRISIS. It was clear that the foreign correspondents
had already got hold of something. He wished that the Secretary had
been more communicative; it was tantalising to carry an important
despatch of whose contents he knew nothing. No doubt it was an
instruction as to the policy of the British Government. He bought two
or three papers to see what the rumours were, then turned into the
National Club to wait until it was time to return to Waterloo. Just as
he entered the door he saw one of Count Slavianski’s men, who had come
up by the same train from Shepperton, walking along from the direction
of Trafalgar Square. The man gave him a salute and passed on.
The few men in the club smoking-room were talking about the news
from the Balkans. Buckland, an infrequent visitor, was unknown to
them, and they went on with their conversation, while he sat by the
window reading his papers. He smiled as he caught an oracular remark
occasionally, in a keen discussion as to what the British policy would
be. As to that he knew no more than they, but his knowledge of the
general situation enabled him to listen to their random shots with
amusement.
What he knew was as follows.
Austria, having absorbed the Bosnian provinces some years before,
and digested them with more or less satisfaction to herself, was now
hungry for another meal. The raids of a number of Servian bands into
the discontented portion of the annexed territories had given her a
cause of complaint against Servia. The Serbs of Montenegro had been
implicated in these raids, and it was common knowledge that Austria had
long fixed a covetous eye on the little mountain principality which
had lately become a kingdom. The papers now announced that three army
corps were mobilising on the south-eastern frontier of the empire,
threatening Belgrade and Cettinje. It was not announced, but all
well-informed people knew, that behind Austria in these movements, as
in the earlier annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, was the second
member of the Triple Alliance--Germany.
The question that interested journalists, clubmen, and the Services
was, what attitude would Britain take up in face of this menacing
action? She had not shown up very well when Bosnia and Herzegovina
were absorbed; would she do anything now to protect the tiny kingdom
of Montenegro against her powerful neighbour? Buckland suspected that
these questions would be answered in the despatch which he was to
receive for conveyance to his chief. He hoped and believed that the
answers would satisfy all who cherished the prestige of Britain. The
British Cabinet would probably make a firm stand. Russia was now much
more able to stiffen her back than she had been during the previous
crisis, when she was only beginning to recover from the strain of
the war with Japan. Turkey, too, was in a better position to resist
the southward movement by which Austria was creeping to her ultimate
goal--Constantinople. An improved government, and a general overhauling
of the army and navy, had made her a power to be reckoned with. The
third member of the Triple Alliance--Italy--certainly had no interest
in seeing an Austro-German Empire extend from the Balkans to the
Bosphorus, perhaps, indeed, to the Euphrates. Britain might therefore
expect support from the Powers which had formerly been helpless.
One unfortunate element in the situation was the probability that
Austria would have assistance from the mountaineers of Albania. These
had always looked with suspicion on the reforms in Turkey, and their
distrust had of late been carefully fomented by Austrian agents.
This being the general situation, the attitude of Bulgaria was of the
highest importance in the calculations of each of the Powers concerned.
It was rumoured that Austria was tempting Bulgaria with promises of
large territorial gains when the projected dismemberment of Turkey
became an accomplished fact. Bulgaria had an excellently appointed
army; her support would be of great value to Montenegro; and the
diplomacy of the interested Powers was therefore keenly engaged in the
attempt to sway the counsels of the Government at Sofia. Buckland’s
despatch would without doubt convey the advice of the British Cabinet,
through their representative.
Such were the facts, and such the speculations, discussed in the papers
on that July afternoon. Buckland had a cup of tea in the club, and at
4.40 hailed a taxicab to drive him to Waterloo. The 5 o’clock train was
not crowded. Many of its usual passengers were holiday-making; it was
too early for the rush of men returning from business. Buckland settled
himself in the near corner of an empty first-class compartment, placing
his official bag on the seat next to him. A few moments before 5, Count
Slavianski and his secretary strolled down the platform, smoking very
fat cigars, and entered the compartment in which Buckland was seated.
“A beautiful day, is it not?” said the Count genially, as he stepped
past Buckland.
“Rather hot in town,” replied Buckland, burying his face in his
newspaper. Really, these intrusive Russians were very annoying.
The two foreigners occupied the far corners of the compartment, and
chatted to each other on subjects in which Buckland took no interest.
The train crawled down the line; it takes forty-seven minutes to
perform its short journey of nineteen miles; and Buckland felt rather
sleepy. At Sunbury, just as the guard’s whistle sounded, the two
foreigners suddenly jumped up, the Count saying to his secretary in
French, “We must get out here.” There was a moment of hurry-scurry;
the train was already in motion when the two men sprang on to the
platform. The Count waved his hand to Buckland, with a hurried “Bon
soir, monsieur!” and Buckland wondered for a brief moment why they had
alighted a station short of Shepperton. But he was so little interested
in them that before he reached his own station he had forgotten them.
When the train drew up, he rose and took up the black bag from the
seat. An unaccustomed something in the feel of the handle caused him to
look at it. It was exactly similar to his own bag, but it was not his.
“I suppose I took up the wrong bag at the Foreign Office,” he said to
himself; “though I didn’t notice anything in the feel of it before.”
The bag was not locked, and he opened it There was nothing in it but a
morning newspaper.
The household at the Acacias was variously sorry when Buckland
announced his immediate departure. Mrs. Courtenay-Greene was regretful
at losing the company of a man of the world; Sheila was fond of her
brother when he allowed his natural self to appear; and George had
found him a very pleasant companion since he had become interested in
the gyro-car.
“How rotten!” said the boy on hearing the news. “Why can’t they let you
enjoy your holiday in peace?”
“My dear George,” replied Maurice, “our little private concerns are as
dust swept by a broom when world-forces are at work. You’ll learn that
some day.”
George merely snorted.
Before dinner Maurice made all his preparations for leaving by the 10
o’clock train in the morning. After coffee and a game of billiards he
scribbled a note to an old college friend with whom he had arranged
to spend a few days in the following week, and went out with George
to post it at the little post-office opposite the Anchor Hotel. When
they reached their gate they saw a man walking slowly up the road, and
at the second glance recognised him by the light of a gas-lamp as one
of the servants of Count Slavianski. He turned at the sound of their
footsteps, but immediately faced about and went on more quickly towards
the village.
Maurice Buckland was not by nature a suspicious man, but the sight of
the foreigner brought to his recollection the incidents of the day and
of the past fortnight, and for the first time he wondered whether he
was being dogged. The arrival of the foreigners in the village a few
days after his own; their apparent want of occupation; their frequent
visits to town, going and returning by the same trains as himself;
their persistent endeavours to improve their acquaintance with him:
all these incidents, which appeared to have no special significance
when they happened, seemed now, in the light of the European situation,
to gain importance. He recalled the strange matter of the bag, and,
thinking backward, fancied he remembered that the Count’s secretary had
a black bag when he entered the carriage at Waterloo. If in the hurry
of their departure at Sunbury they had taken his bag by mistake, surely
it would have been returned by this time; his name was in it. Short
though his experience in the diplomatic world had been, he was alive to
the dangers of espionage; was it possible that Count Slavianski and his
subordinates were agents of one of the Powers?
“A penny for your thoughts,” said George suddenly.
Maurice slackened his pace.
“What would you say to your friend the Count being a spy?” he replied
in a low tone.
“I say, do you mean it?” said George. “What a lark! Who is he spying
on?”
“Speak low, and I’ll tell you what I suspect.”
He told George some of the essential facts of the situation, winding up
with the incident of the bag.
“It’s rummy, certainly,” said George, considerably excited. “But do
you think it’s likely? Why should half a dozen foreigners spy on you?
What reason have they to suppose that you would have any information of
importance to them?”
“Only this; that I am the only member of our agency at present in
London. These foreigners do things very thoroughly; it is not at all
unlikely that they would keep me under observation. The Count did not
travel up with me to-day, but two of his men did. I wonder whether you
could find out discreetly, in the village, when the Count went up?”
“Oh! I can tell you that. I went down to the village this afternoon to
arrange for some petrol to be sent up. I was standing near the door of
the King’s Head, when I saw a telegraph boy go into the Anchor with a
telegram, and a minute afterwards the Count and his secretary came out,
got into the motor, and rushed off full pelt to the station, just in
time for the 4 o’clock.”
“Sharp work!” said Maurice. “Those fellows must have handed in a
telegram directly we got to Waterloo. No doubt they heard me tell the
taxi-driver to drive to the Foreign Office, and the Count hurried up
to see what he could get. He couldn’t have reached Waterloo more than
five minutes before the down train started. He must have arranged for
the car to meet him at Sunbury, so that there would be no inquiries
about the exchange of bags here. My bag was empty; it’s lucky the
Secretary hadn’t his despatch ready.”
By this time they had reached the post-office. Maurice slipped his
letter into the aperture, and threw a look round. The man who had
preceded them along the road had disappeared. There were lights in the
Anchor, but no one was in sight.
“I say, Maurice,” said George as they returned, “would a nobleman
descend to such dirty work as spying?”
“If he’s a spy, he’s no more a count than I am,” Maurice replied. “He’s
probably some clever rascal with a turn for languages; certainly his
appearance and manner would pass muster anywhere. Of course I may be
utterly mistaken; but seeing this is an important business, it will be
just as well to take a few precautions to cover my departure to-morrow.
We’ll suppose they are actually spying on me. Well, if I leave the
house with baggage they’ll know I’m off on a journey, and will dog me.
I’ll go up by the 10 o’clock without my valise, and one or more of
those fellows will come too, you may be sure. They won’t watch you in
my absence; you can bring up my valise by your gyro-car, and meet me
in the lounge of the Grand Hotel at Charing Cross after I’ve left the
Foreign Office. You can leave the car in the garage. Don’t go through
the village, and they won’t be any the wiser.”
“I say, this is jolly. It will be no end of a lark to do them. But look
here, old boy, if they are spies, they must keep watch night and day.”
“I daresay they do. We’ll find that out.”
About midnight the brothers, wearing overcoats and slippers, left the
house by the backdoor, stole along the shrubbery that bounded it on
one side, and so came to the hedge dividing the garden from the road.
George crawled through the hedge at the bottom where the foliage was
thinnest, and peered up the road towards the village. Nobody was in
sight. But as they went up to their bedrooms they glanced out of a
window on the staircase, overlooking the field on the other side of the
road. A full moon threw its light from behind the house. Just beyond
the hedge of the field opposite they caught sight of a man smoking a
cigar.
“There’s our proof,” said Maurice quietly.
“By gum! we’ll dish them,” cried his brother.