Chapter XI

The room was crowded, there was a hum of talk, a scraping of chairs, a high nervous laugh or so, and in some adjoining room the clatter of coffee cups. The Rev. Arthur had arranged the hall on a new plan, he said, and everybody agreed that it was an excellent plan. At one end of the room was a draped platform; on the floor, in place of the phalanx of benches, were scattered little tables with seats for four. It was a unique arrangement, some went so far as to defy the grammarian and say it was "most unique," but as a matter of fact neither the enthusiast nor the vulgarian were correct, for the Rev. Arthur--a most excellent Christian, overflowing with worldly wisdom--had modelled his arrangements after those obtaining at the wicked _Cafe Chantant_. Tea and coffee were to be served between the items, and a pleasurable evening seemed assured.

Without in any way desiring to anticipate the events of the night, I will go so far as to say, that the soiree might have been an unqualified success had "No 4" on the programme been "No. 15"--which would have been the last. "No. 4," by the new arrangement, was:

Dramatic Monologue:
Mr. Roderick Nape
"The Murder at Fairleigh Grange" (Anon.).

When the Duke and Hank arrived every seat had been taken, and the heated organizers of the entertainment were pressing into service the schoolroom forms.

Somebody had reserved two seats at one of the tables. Sir Harry Tanneur and his amiable son had taken for granted that the seats had been reserved for them. Alicia tactfully pointed out that Sir Harry's proper place was at the vicar's table, since he had borne no small part of the cost of the postponed concert. Sir Harry and his son agreed, the latter grudgingly. When, a few minutes later, the Duke person and his friend arrived and calmly appropriated the reserved seats Hal started to his feet with an exclamation of annoyance; when Alicia welcomed them with a sweet smile he collapsed into his chair; and when, in shaking hands, the Duke held the girl's in his for an unjustifiable space of time, Mr. Hal Tanneur said something to himself which was quite out of harmony with the tone of the proceedings.

"Did you see that, governor?" he said beneath his breath, "did you see that wretched bounder--by Jove, I've half a mind to go over and break the fellow's head."

Sir Harry had seen "the bounder;" he had breathed a sigh of relief on seeing him. The Duke was the first man he had looked for when he entered the hall. Sir Harry's anxiety was mainly a matter of dates. For instance to-day was the 20th. Twenty plus eight=28. And the _Ironic_ did not call at Queenstown. Sir Harry was happy in the thought that on this auspicious day the "Redhelm Line" and the "Nord Deutscher Line," had begun their famous record-breaking race across the Atlantic. The _Ironic_ had the advantage of twelve hours' start. She left Liverpool at four o'clock that afternoon (she does not call at Queenstown, repeated Sir Harry mentally), the _Kron Prinz Olaf_, was due to leave Hamburg at 7 p.m. but she had distance to make up.

With these reflections to occupy his mind he paid little heed to his son's expressions of indignation. Instead he asked abruptly--"You have that cutting, Hal?"

"Which cutting?" demanded Hal aggressively.

"The order of the court--you can call upon our friend to-morrow and show it to him," he chuckled.

Strangely enough, the subject of the Atlantic race was under discussion at another table. It came a propos of the postponed concert.

"It would have been jolly inconvenient if this concert had occurred next week," said the Duke.

"Why?" she looked at him over her tiny fan.

"Because next week--next Wednesday as ever is, I must leave you," he said tragically.

She made no disguise of her disappointment.

"Bear up," he encouraged her, "I shall be away a fortnight."

"To America?"

A shadow of alarm fell on her face.

"Thinking of Bill Slewer?" he bantered, "Big Bad Bill?"

"Yes," she confessed.

"Oh, it isn't vendetta that takes me away," he said lightly, "something less romantic. When a man's single," he said sententiously, "he can afford to let money go hang, but when he has a wife--did you speak?"

"No," she said, and looked at her programme.

"When a man has a wife who is pretty certain to be extravagant--you're sure you didn't speak?"

She shook her head.

"Well, in that case, one has to look around one's silver mines, and floating investments and besides----"

Something in his tone made her look up; she saw a look half puzzled, half amused.

"Well--I've got feelings, Hank laughs at 'em, says it's all your fault."

"What kind of feeling?"

"A dread," he said slowly, "a sort of uneasiness about my property--a sort of--I don't know." He ended weakly and she thought irritably.

She looked at him steadily and silently, and Hank found an opening.

"Suppose this concert had come along next week, Duke--you could have still gone. Caught the midnight from Euston."

There must have been telepathic communication between Sir Harry and the Duke, for he replied--

"The _Ironic_ does not call at Queenstown."

"S--sh!"

There was tremendous applause for the vicar. His audience smiled at him proprietorially and approvingly.

He was very pleased, he said, to see so many there that evening. He was afraid the postponement might have seriously jeopardized the success of the soiree, but our friend Sir Harry Tanneur (applause), whose name he should imagine was a household word throughout England (he ventured daringly), had been so anxious to be present and so munificent withal, that he had acceded to his wishes.

As this seemed the proper place to applaud, the audience dutifully applauded.

They were there primarily to assist an excellent cause. It was an open secret that the organ debt had seriously engaged the attention of those excellent gentlemen who administered the church funds (hear, hear, from the audience and "poor old organ" from the Duke), and it has been suggested that this entertainment should be provided with a view to the debt's reduction. Now as to the splendid fare that was to be set before them to-night, they had their friend the noble Duc de Montvillier (cheers), a gentleman who had always proved himself a ready and willing helper in church matters.

The girl looked at the Duke to see how he would take this gracious fiction. With folded arms and grave self-appreciation on every line of his face he accepted the undeserved tribute as his right.

"What a humbug you are," she murmured.

"Aren't I?" he said unabashed.

The Duc was to sing: then they had a unique entertainment promised by an American gentleman, who would give an exhibition of fancy pistol shooting (loud applause from the young men). This Mr. Slewer was a gentleman who had spent many years in the Wild West of America. And there were other performances of song and speech that would be found of equal fascination. The first item on the programme (he said, consulting his paper, though he might have taken the fact for granted) was a pianoforte solo by Mrs. Coyter (applause).

Whilst "The Moonlight on the Danube" was bathing Brockley in noisy effulgence, Hank moved his chair closer to the Duke.

"Fancy shootin's another word for accidental death," he said laconically, "you'll quit before then?"

It was half a question and the Duke shook his head.

"When Bill is doing his circus tricks I shall be sitting right here," he said emphatically.

"You won't," said Hank.

The Duke's intentions were sound, but Hank's predictions were inspired.

The Duke was not there when "fancy shooting" came on, neither for the matter of that was Bill Slewer, and it all came about on account of Mr. Roderick Nape and his thrilling monologue. That young gentleman was facing his audience with no great assurance. Certain disturbing events had taken his mind from the monologue. In the language of the turf he was "short of a few gallops," and he sat a prey to gloomy forebodings, cursing his folly, that he had not made himself word perfect and regretting with some bitterness the lost opportunities for rehearsal.

Too soon came the fatal announcement, "Mr. Roderick Nape will recite a dramatic monologue, 'The Murder at Fairleigh Grange,'" and he stumbled up on the platform clutching his manuscript tightly. He began huskily the opening lines.

"It is now many years since I became a detective, and care has whitened my locks, yet it seems but yesterday," etc., etc.

He slurred his lines horribly. He somehow missed the exact qualities of tragedy as he unfolded his gory tale.

The audience sat quiet and behaved decorously, but it refused to be thrilled. Mr. Nape recognized his failure and boggled his lines horribly, and the Duke was genuinely sorry for him. He came to the part of the story where he sees the agony advertisement. He was looking forward to this part, as the desert traveller anticipates the oasis. For here he had excuse for a pause, and a pause might help him to collect his scattered thoughts. So his utterance grew steadier as with trembling fingers he drew from his waistcoat pocket the little clipping.

"Come (he quavered), let me read the paper again;" he held it up and read--yes, actually read, although he ought to have remembered that this cutting had no reference whatever to the plot of his one-man melodrama. But Mr. Nape was beyond the point of reasoning.

"To whom it may concern," he read, then paused.

The audience was curious and silent, and Mr. Nape went on:--

"In the district court of Nevada."

Hank's arm gripped the Duke's.

"Take notice George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier, that a writ has been issued at the instance of Henry Sleaford of Colorado Springs, Henry B. Sant of New York and Sir Harry Tanneur of Montleigh, England, calling upon you to establish your title to the Silver Streak----"

"Stop!"

Sir Harry, his face purple, the veins of his temples swollen, was on his feet.

"Go on, Mr. Nape, please."

It was the Duke's gentle voice. In a dream Mr. Nape obeyed. In his not unnatural agitation he skipped a few lines. "... therefore I call upon you, the aforesaid George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier to appear before me at 10 o'clock in the forenoon of the 28th day of October, 1907."

"The twenty-eighth!" gasped Hank, "to-day's the twentieth, the boat has sailed----"

He heard Tanneur's laugh, harsh and triumphant.

"The _Ironic_ doesn't call at Queenstown," he said and laughed again.

"No, but the German boat will be passing through the Straits of Dover in two hours' time," said the Duke.