Chapter II: Part 2

At two o’clock that afternoon Anthony Cade, travelling under the name of Jimmy McGrath, stepped out of the boat train at Waterloo, hailed a taxi, and after a moment’s hesitation ordered the driver to proceed to the Blitz Hotel.

“One might as well be comfortable,” said Anthony to himself, as he looked with some interest out of the taxi windows.

It was exactly fourteen years since he had been in London.

He arrived at the hotel, booked a room, and then went for a short stroll along the Embankment. It was rather pleasant to be back in London again. Everything was changed of course. There had been a little restaurant there—just past Blackfriars Bridge—where he had dined fairly often, in company with other earnest lads. He had been a Socialist then, and worn a flowing red tie. Young—very young.

He retraced his steps back to the Blitz. Just as he was crossing the road, a man jostled against him, nearly making him lose his balance. They both recovered themselves, and the man muttered an apology, his eyes scanning Anthony’s face narrowly. He was a short, thickset man of the working classes, with something foreign in his appearance.

Anthony went on into the hotel, wondering, as he did so, what had inspired that searching glance. Nothing in it probably. The deep tan of his face was somewhat unusual looking amongst these pallid Londoners and it had attracted the fellow’s attention. He went up to his room and, led by a sudden impulse, crossed to the looking-glass and stood studying his face in it. Of the few friends of the old days—just a chosen few—was it likely that any of them would recognize him now if they were to meet him face to face? He shook his head slowly.

When he had left London he had been just eighteen—a fair, slightly chubby boy, with a misleading seraphic expression. Small chance that the boy would be recognized in the lean, brown-faced man with the quizzical expression.

The telephone beside the bed rang, and Anthony crossed to the receiver.

“Hullo!”

The voice of the desk clerk answered him.

“Mr. James McGrath?”

“Speaking.”

“A gentleman has called to see you.”

Anthony was rather astonished.

“To see _me_?”

“Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.”

“What’s his name?”

There was a slight pause, and then the clerk said:

“I will send up a page boy with his card.”

Anthony replaced the receiver and waited. In a few minutes there was a knock on the door and a small page appeared bearing a card upon a salver.

Anthony took it. The following was the name engraved upon it:

BARON LOLOPRETJZYL.

He now fully appreciated the desk clerk’s pause.

For a moment or two he stood studying the card, and then made up his mind.

“Show the gentleman up.”

“Very good, sir.”

In a few minutes the Baron _Lolopretjzyl_ was ushered into the room, a big man with an immense fan-like black beard and a high, bald forehead.

He brought his heels together with a click, and bowed.

“Mr. McGrath,” he said.

Anthony imitated his movements as nearly as possible.

“Baron,” he said. Then, drawing forward a chair. “Pray sit down. I have not, I think, had the pleasure of meeting you before?”

“That is so,” agreed the Baron, seating himself. “It is my misfortune,” he added politely.

“And mine also,” responded Anthony, on the same note.

“Let us now to business come,” said the Baron. “I represent in London the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia.”

“And represent it admirably, I am sure,” murmured Anthony.

The Baron bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“You are too kind,” he said stiffly. “Mr. McGrath, I will not from you conceal anything. The moment has come for the Restoration of the Monarchy, in abeyance since the martyrdom of His Most Gracious Majesty King Nicolas IV of blessed memory.”

“Amen,” murmured Anthony. “I mean Hear, Hear.”

“On the throne will be placed His Highness Prince Michael who the support of the British Government has.”

“Splendid,” said Anthony. “It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.”

“Everything arranged is—when you come here to trouble make.”

The Baron fixed him with a stern eye.

“My dear Baron,” protested Anthony.

“Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You have with you the Memoirs of the late Count Stylptitch.”

He fixed Anthony with an accusing eye.

“And if I have? What have the Memoirs of Count Stylptitch to do with Prince Michael?”

“They will cause scandals.”

“Most memoirs do that,” said Anthony soothingly.

“Of many secrets he the knowledge had. Should he reveal but the quarter of them, Europe into war plunged may be.”

“Come, come,” said Anthony. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“An unfavourable opinion of the Obolovitch will abroad be spread. So democratic is the English spirit.”

“I can quite believe,” said Anthony, “that the Obolovitch may have been a trifle high-handed now and again. It runs in the blood. But people in England expect that sort of thing from the Balkans. I don’t know why they should, but they do.”

“You do not understand,” said the Baron. “You do not understand at all. And my lips sealed are.” He sighed.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” asked Anthony.

“Until I have read the Memoirs I do not know,” explained the Baron simply. “But there is sure to be something. These great diplomats are always indiscreet. The apple cart upset will be, as the saying goes.”

“Look here,” said Anthony kindly. “I’m sure you’re taking altogether too pessimistic a view of the thing. I know all about publishers—they sit on manuscripts and hatch ’em like eggs. It will be at least a year before the thing is published.”

“Either a very deceitful or a very simple young man you are. All is arranged for the Memoirs in a Sunday newspaper to come out immediately.”

“Oh!” Anthony was somewhat taken aback. “But you can always deny everything,” he said hopefully.

The Baron shook his head sadly.

“No, no, through the hat you talk. Let us to business come. One thousand pounds you are to have, is it not so? You see, I have the good information got.”

“I certainly congratulate the Intelligence Department of the Loyalists.”

“Then I to you offer fifteen hundred.”

Anthony stared at him in amazement, then shook his head ruefully.

“I’m afraid it can’t be done,” he said, with regret.

“Good. I to you offer two thousand.”

“You tempt me, Baron, you tempt me. But I still say it can’t be done.”

“Your own price name, then.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand the position. I’m perfectly willing to believe that you are on the side of the angels, and that these Memoirs may damage your cause. Nevertheless, I’ve undertaken the job, and I’ve got to carry it through. See? I can’t allow myself to be bought off by the other side. That kind of thing isn’t done.”

The Baron listened very attentively. At the end of Anthony’s speech he nodded his head several times.

“I see. Your honour as an English gentleman it is?”

“Well, we don’t put it that way ourselves,” said Anthony. “But I dare say, allowing for a difference in vocabulary, that we both mean much the same thing.”

The Baron rose to his feet.

“For the English honour I much respect have,” he announced. “We must another way try. I wish you good morning.”

He drew his heels together, clicked, bowed and marched out of the room, holding himself stiffly erect.

“Now I wonder what he meant by that,” mused Anthony. “Was it a threat? Not that I’m in the least afraid of old Lollipop. Rather a good name for him, that, by the way. I shall call him Baron Lollipop.”

He took a turn or two up and down the room, undecided on his next course of action. The date stipulated upon for delivering the manuscript was a little over a week ahead. To-day was the 5th of October. Anthony had no intention of handing it over before the last moment. Truth to tell, he was by now feverishly anxious to read these Memoirs. He had meant to do so on the boat coming over, but had been laid low with a touch of fever, and not at all in the mood for deciphering crabbed and illegible handwriting, for none of the manuscript was typed. He was now more than ever determined to see what all the fuss was about.

There was the other job too.

On an impulse, he picked up the telephone book and looked up the name of Revel. There were six Revels in the book: Edward Henry Revel, surgeon, of Harley Street; James Revel & Co., saddlers; Lennox Revel of Abbotbury Mansions, Hampstead; Miss Mary Revel with an address in Ealing; Hon. Mrs. Timothy Revel of 487, Pont Street; and Mrs. Willis Revel of 42, Cadogan Square. Eliminating the saddlers and Miss Mary Revel, that gave him four names to investigate—and there was no reason to suppose that the lady lived in London at all! He shut up the book with a short shake of the head.

“For the moment I’ll leave it to chance,” he said. “Something usually turns up.”

The luck of the Anthony Cades of this world is perhaps in some measure due to their own belief in it. Anthony found what he was after not half an hour later, when he was turning over the pages of an illustrated paper. It was a representation of some tableau organized by the Duchess of Perth. Below the central figure, a woman in Eastern dress, was the inscription:

“The Hon. Mrs. Timothy Revel as Cleopatra. Before her marriage, Mrs. Revel was the Hon. Virginia Cawthron, a daughter of Lord Edgbaston.”

Anthony looked at the picture some time, slowly pursing up his lips, as though to whistle. Then he tore out the whole page, folded it up and put it in his pocket. He went upstairs again, unlocked his suit-case and took out the packet of letters. He took out the folded page from his pocket and slipped it under the string that held them together.

Then, at a sudden sound behind him, he wheeled round sharply. A man was standing in the doorway, the kind of man whom Anthony had fondly imagined existed only in the chorus of a Comic Opera. A sinister-looking figure, with a squat brutal head and lips drawn back in an evil grin.

“What the devil are you doing here?” asked Anthony. “And who let you come up?”

“I pass where I please,” said the stranger. His voice was guttural and foreign, though his English was idiomatic enough.

“Another Dago,” thought Anthony.

“Well, get out, do you hear?” he went on aloud.

The man’s eyes were fixed on the packet of letters which Anthony had caught up.

“I will get out when you have given me what I have come for.”

“And what’s that, may I ask?”

The man took a step nearer.

“The Memoirs of Count Stylptitch,” he hissed.

“It’s impossible to take you seriously,” said Anthony. “You’re so completely the stage villain. I like your get up very much. Who sent you here? Baron Lollipop?”

“Baron——?” The man jerked out a string of harsh-sounding consonants.

“So that’s how you pronounce it, is it? A cross between gargling and barking like a dog. I don’t think I could say it myself—my throat’s not made that way. I shall have to go on calling him Lollipop. So he sent you, did he?”

But he received a vehement negative. His visitor went so far as to spit upon the suggestion in a very realistic manner. Then he drew from his pocket a sheet of paper which he threw upon the table.

“Look,” he said. “Look and tremble, accursed Englishman.”

Anthony looked with some interest, not troubling to fulfil the latter part of the command. On the paper was traced the crude design of a human hand in red.

“It looks like a hand,” he remarked. “But, if you say so, I’m quite prepared to admit that it’s a cubist picture of Sunset at the North Pole.”

“It is the sign of the Comrades of the Red Hand. I am a Comrade of the Red Hand.”

“You don’t say so,” said Anthony, looking at him with much interest. “Are the others all like you? I don’t know what the Eugenic Society would have to say about it.”

The man snarled angrily.

“Dog,” he said. “Worse than dog. Paid slave of an effete monarchy. Give me the Memoirs, and you shall go unscathed. Such is the clemency of the Brotherhood.”

“It’s very kind of them, I’m sure,” said Anthony, “but I’m afraid that both they and you are labouring under a misapprehension. My instructions are to deliver the manuscript—not to your amiable Society, but to a certain firm of publishers.”

“Pah!” laughed the other. “Do you think you will ever be permitted to reach that office alive? Enough of this fool’s talk. Hand over the papers, or I shoot.”

He drew a revolver from his pocket and brandished it in the air.

But there he misjudged his Anthony Cade. He was not used to men who could act as quickly—or quicker than they could think. Anthony did not wait to be covered by the revolver. Almost as soon as the other got it out of his pocket, Anthony had sprung forward and knocked it out of his hand. The force of the blow sent the man swinging round, so that he presented his back to his assailant.

The chance was too good to be missed. With one mighty, well-directed kick, Anthony sent the man flying through the doorway into the corridor, where he collapsed in a heap.

Anthony stepped out after him, but the doughty Comrade of the Red Hand had had enough. He got nimbly to his feet and fled down the passage. Anthony did not pursue him, but went back into his own room.

“So much for the Comrades of the Red Hand,” he remarked. “Picturesque appearance, but easily routed by direct action. How the hell did that fellow get in, I wonder? There’s one thing that stands out pretty clearly—this isn’t going to be quite such a soft job as I thought. I’ve already fallen foul of both the Loyalist and the Revolutionary parties. Soon, I suppose, the Nationalists and the Independent Liberals will be sending up a delegation. One thing’s fixed. I start on that manuscript to-night.”

Looking at his watch, Anthony discovered that it was nearly nine o’clock, and he decided to dine where he was. He did not anticipate any more surprise visits, but he felt that it was up to him to be on his guard. He had no intention of allowing his suit-case to be rifled whilst he was downstairs in the Grill Room. He rang the bell and asked for the Menu, selected a couple of dishes and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. The waiter took the order and withdrew.

Whilst he was waiting for the meal to arrive, he got out the package of manuscript and put it on the table with the letters.

There was a knock at the door, and the waiter entered with a small table and the accessories of the meal. Anthony had strolled over to the mantelpiece. Standing there with his back to the room, he was directly facing the mirror, and idly glancing in it he noticed a curious thing.

The waiter’s eyes were glued on the parcel of manuscript. Shooting little glances sideways at Anthony’s immovable back, he moved softly round the table. His hands were twitching, and he kept passing his tongue over his dry lips. Anthony observed him more closely. He was a tall man, supple like all waiters, with a clean-shaven, mobile face. An Italian, Anthony thought, not a Frenchman.

At the critical moment Anthony wheeled round abruptly. The waiter started slightly, but pretended to be doing something with the salt cellar.

“What’s your name?” asked Anthony abruptly.

“Giuseppe, Monsieur.”

“Italian, eh?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Anthony spoke to him in that language, and the man answered fluently enough. Finally Anthony dismissed him with a nod, but all the while he was eating the excellent meal which Giuseppe served to him, he was thinking rapidly.

Had he been mistaken? Was Giuseppe’s interest in the parcel just ordinary curiosity? It might be so, but remembering the feverish intensity of the man’s excitement, Anthony decided against that theory. All the same, he was puzzled.

“Dash it all,” said Anthony to himself, “every one can’t be after the blasted manuscript. Perhaps I’m fancying things.”

Dinner concluded and cleared away, he applied himself to the perusal of the Memoirs. Owing to the illegibility of the late Count’s handwriting, the business was a slow one. Anthony’s yawns succeeded one another with suspicious rapidity. At the end of the fourth chapter, he gave it up.

So far, he had found the Memoirs insufferably dull, with no hint of scandal of any kind.

He gathered up the letters and the wrapping of the manuscript which were lying in a heap together on the table and locked them up in the suit-case. Then he locked the door, and as an additional precaution put a chair against it. On the chair he placed the water-bottle from the bathroom.

Surveying these preparations with some pride, he undressed and got into bed. He had one more shot at the Count’s Memoirs, but felt his eyelids drooping, and stuffing the manuscript under his pillow, he switched out the light and fell asleep almost immediately.

It must have been some four hours later that he awoke with a start. What had awakened him he did not know—perhaps a sound, perhaps only the consciousness of danger which in men who have led an adventurous life is very fully developed.

For a moment he lay quite still, trying to focus his impressions. He could hear a very stealthy rustle, and then he became aware of a denser blackness somewhere between him and the window—on the floor by the suit-case.

With a sudden spring, Anthony jumped out of bed, switching the light on as he did so. A figure sprang up from where it had been kneeling by the suit-case.

It was the waiter, Giuseppe. In his right hand gleamed a long thin knife. He hurled himself straight upon Anthony, who was by now fully conscious of his own danger. He was unarmed and Giuseppe was evidently thoroughly at home with his own weapon.

Anthony sprang to one side, and Giuseppe missed him with the knife. The next minute the two men were rolling on the floor together, locked in a close embrace. The whole of Anthony’s faculties were centred on keeping a close grip of Giuseppe’s right arm so that he would be unable to use the knife. He bent it slowly back. At the same time he felt the Italian’s other hand clutching at his windpipe, stifling him, choking. And still, desperately, he bent the right arm back.

There was a sharp tinkle as the knife fell on the floor. At the same time, the Italian extricated himself with a swift twist from Anthony’s grasp. Anthony sprang up too, but made the mistake of moving towards the door to cut off the other’s retreat. He saw, too late, that the chair and the water-bottle were just as he had arranged them.

Giuseppe had entered by the window, and it was the window he made for now. In the instant’s respite given him by Anthony’s move toward the door, he had sprung out on the balcony, leaped over to the adjoining balcony and had disappeared through the adjoining window.

Anthony knew well enough that it was of no use to pursue him. His way of retreat was doubtless fully assured. Anthony would merely get himself into trouble.

He walked over to the bed, thrusting his hand beneath the pillow and drawing out the Memoirs. Lucky that they had been there and not in the suit-case. He crossed over to the suit-case and looked inside, meaning to take out the letters.

Then he swore softly under his breath.

_The letters were gone._

6

The Gentle Art of Blackmail

It was exactly five minutes to four when Virginia Revel, rendered punctual by a healthy curiosity, returned to the house in Pont Street. She opened the door with her latchkey, and stepped into the hall to be immediately confronted by the impassive Chilvers.

“I beg pardon, ma’am, but a—a person has called to see you——”

For the moment, Virginia did not pay attention to the subtle phraseology whereby Chilvers cloaked his meaning.

“Mr. Lomax? Where is he? In the drawing-room?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, not Mr. Lomax.” Chilvers’ tone was faintly reproachful. “A person—I was reluctant to let him in, but he said his business was most important—connected with the late Captain, I understood him to say. Thinking therefore that you might wish to see him, I put him—er—in the study.”

Virginia stood thinking for a minute. She had been a widow now for some years, and the fact that she rarely spoke of her husband was taken by some to indicate that below her careless demeanour was a still aching wound. By others it was taken to mean the exact opposite, that Virginia had never really cared for Tim Revel, and that she found it insincere to profess a grief she did not feel.

“I should have mentioned, ma’am,” continued Chilvers, “that the man appears to be some kind of foreigner.”

Virginia’s interest heightened a little. Her husband had been in the Diplomatic Service, and they had been together in Herzoslovakia just before the sensational murder of the King and Queen. This man might probably be a Herzoslovakian, some old servant who had fallen on evil days.

“You did quite right, Chilvers,” she said with a quick, approving nod. “Where did you say you had put him? In the study?”

She crossed the hall with her light buoyant step, and opened the door of the small room that flanked the dining-room.

The visitor was sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He rose on her entrance and stood looking at her. Virginia had an excellent memory for faces, and she was at once quite sure that she had never seen the man before. He was tall and dark, supple in figure, and quite unmistakably a foreigner; but she did not think he was of Slavonic origin. She put him down as Italian or possibly Spanish.

“You wished to see me?” she asked. “I am Mrs. Revel.”

The man did not answer for a minute or two. He was looking her slowly over, as though appraising her narrowly. There was a veiled insolence in his manner which she was quick to feel.

“Will you please state your business?” she said, with a touch of impatience.

“You are Mrs. Revel? Mrs. Timothy Revel?”

“Yes. I told you so just now.”

“Quite so. It is a good thing that you consented to see me, Mrs. Revel. Otherwise, as I told your butler, I should have been compelled to do business with your husband.”

Virginia looked at him in astonishment, but some impulse quelled the retort that sprang to her lips. She contented herself by remarking dryly:

“You might have found some difficulty in doing that.”

“I think not. I am very persistent. But I will come to the point. Perhaps you recognize this?”

He flourished something in his hand. Virginia looked at it without much interest.

“Can you tell me what it is, madame?”

“It appears to be a letter,” replied Virginia, who was by now convinced that she had to do with a man who was mentally unhinged.

“And perhaps you note to whom it is addressed,” said the man significantly, holding it out to her.

“I can read,” Virginia informed him pleasantly. “It is addressed to a Captain O’Neill at Rue de Quenelles No. 15, Paris.”

The man seemed searching her face hungrily for something he did not find.

“Will you read it, please?”

Virginia took the envelope from him, drew out the enclosure and glanced at it; but almost immediately she stiffened and held it out to him again.

“This is a private letter—certainly not meant for my eyes.”

The man laughed sardonically.

“I congratulate you, Mrs. Revel, on your admirable acting. You play your part to perfection. Nevertheless, I think that you will hardly be able to deny the signature!”

“The signature?”

Virginia turned the letter over—and was struck dumb with astonishment. The signature, written in a delicate slanting hand, was Virginia Revel. Checking the exclamation of astonishment that rose to her lips, she turned again to the beginning of the letter and deliberately read the whole thing through. Then she stood a minute lost in thought. The nature of the letter made it clear enough what was in prospect.

“Well, madame?” said the man. “That is your name, is it not?”

“Oh, yes,” said Virginia. “It’s my name.” “But not my handwriting,” she might have added.

Instead she turned a dazzling smile upon her visitor.

“Supposing,” she said sweetly, “we sit down and talk it over?”

He was puzzled. Not so had he expected her to behave. His instinct told him that she was not afraid of him.

“First of all, I should like to know how you found me out?”

“That was easy.”

He took from his pocket a page torn from an illustrated paper, and handed it to her. Anthony Cade would have recognized it.

She gave it back to him with a thoughtful little frown.

“I see,” she said. “It was very easy.”

“Of course you understand, Mrs. Revel, that that is not the only letter. There are others.”

“Dear me,” said Virginia, “I seem to have been frightfully indiscreet.”

Again she could see that her light tone puzzled him. She was by now thoroughly enjoying herself.

“At any rate,” she said, smiling sweetly at him, “it’s very kind of you to call and give them back to me.”

There was a pause as he cleared his throat.

“I am a poor man, Mrs. Revel,” he said at last, with a good deal of significance in his manner.

“As such you will doubtless find it easier to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, or so I have always heard.”

“I cannot afford to let you have these letters for nothing.”

“I think you are under a misapprehension. Those letters are the property of the person who wrote them.”

“That may be the law, madame, but in this country you have a saying ‘Possession is nine points of the law.’ And, in any case, are you prepared to invoke the aid of the law?”

“The law is a severe one for blackmailers,” Virginia reminded him.

“Come, Mrs. Revel, I am not quite a fool. I have read these letters—the letters of a woman to her lover, one and all breathing dread of discovery by her husband. Do you want me to take them to your husband?”

“You have overlooked one possibility. Those letters were written some years ago. Supposing that since then—I have become a widow.”

He shook his head with confidence.

“In that case—if you had nothing to fear—you would not be sitting here making terms with me.”

Virginia smiled.

“What is your price?” she asked in a business-like manner.

“For one thousand pounds I will hand the whole packet over to you. It is very little that I am asking there; but, you see, I do not like the business.”

“I shouldn’t dream of paying you a thousand pounds,” said Virginia with decision.

“Madame, I never bargain. A thousand pounds, and I will place the letters in your hands.”

Virginia reflected.

“You must give me a little time to think it over. It will not be easy for me to get such a sum together.”

“A few pounds on account perhaps—say fifty—and I will call again.”

Virginia looked up at the clock. It was five minutes past four, and she fancied that she had heard the bell.

“Very well,” she said hurriedly. “Come back to-morrow, but later than this. About six.”

She crossed over to a desk that stood against the wall, unlocked one of the drawers, and took out an untidy handful of notes.

“There is about forty pounds here. That will have to do for you.”

He snatched at it eagerly.

“And now go at once, please,” said Virginia.

He left the room obediently enough. Through the open door, Virginia caught a glimpse of George Lomax in the hall, just being ushered upstairs by Chilvers. As the front door closed, Virginia called to him.

“Come in here, George. Chilvers, bring us tea in here, will you please?”

She flung open both windows, and George Lomax came into the room to find her standing erect with dancing eyes and wind-blown hair.

“I’ll shut them in a minute, George, but I felt the room ought to be aired. Did you fall over the blackmailer in the hall?”

“The what?”

“Blackmailer, George. B.L.A.C.K.M.A.I.L.E.R? Blackmailer. One who blackmails.”

“My dear Virginia, you can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am, George.”

“But who did he come here to blackmail?”

“Me, George.”

“But, my dear Virginia, what have you been doing?”

“Well, just for once, as it happens, I hadn’t been doing anything. The good gentleman mistook me for someone else.”

“You rang up the police, I suppose?”

“No, I didn’t. I suppose you think I ought to have done so.”

“Well——” George considered weightily. “No, no, perhaps not—perhaps you acted wisely. You might be mixed up in some unpleasant publicity in connection with the case. You might even have had to give evidence——”

“I should have liked that,” said Virginia. “I would love to be summoned, and I should like to see if judges really do make all the rotten jokes you read about. It would be most exciting. I was at Vine Street the other day to see about a diamond brooch I had lost, and there was the most perfectly lovely inspector—the nicest man I ever met.”

George, as was his custom, let all irrelevancies pass.

“But what did you do about this scoundrel?”

“Well, George, I’m afraid I let him do it.”

“Do what?”

“Blackmail me.”

George’s face of horror was so poignant that Virginia had to bite her under lip.

“You mean—do I understand you to mean—that you did not correct the misapprehension under which he was labouring?”

Virginia shook her head, shooting a sideways glance at him.

“Good heavens, Virginia, you must be mad.”

“I suppose it would seem that way to you.”

“But why? In God’s name, why?”

“Several reasons. To begin with he was doing it so beautifully—blackmailing me, I mean—I hate to interrupt an artist when he’s doing his job really well. And then, you see, I’d never been blackmailed——”

“I should hope not, indeed.”

“And I wanted to see what it felt like.”

“I am quite at a loss to comprehend you, Virginia.”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“You did not give him money, I hope?”

“Just a trifle,” said Virginia apologetically.

“How much?”

“Forty pounds.”

“Virginia!”

“My dear George, it’s only what I pay for an evening dress. It’s just as exciting to buy a new experience as it is to buy a new dress—more so, in fact.”

George Lomax merely shook his head, and Chilvers appearing at that moment with the tea urn, he was saved from having to express his outraged feelings. When tea had been brought in, and Virginia’s deft fingers were manipulating the heavy silver teapot, she spoke again on the subject.

“I had another motive too, George—a brighter and better one. We women are usually supposed to be cats, but at any rate I’d done another woman a good turn this afternoon. This man isn’t likely to go off looking for another Virginia Revel. He thinks he’s found his bird all right. Poor little devil, she was in a blue funk when she wrote that letter. Mr. Blackmailer would have had the easiest job of his life there. Now, though he doesn’t know it, he’s up against a tough proposition. Starting with the great advantage of having led a blameless life, I shall toy with him to his undoing—as they say in books. Guile, George, lots of guile.”

George still shook his head.

“I don’t like it,” he persisted. “I don’t like it.”

“Well, never mind, George dear. You didn’t come here to talk about blackmailers. What did you come here for, by the way? Correct answer: ‘To see _you_!’ Accent on the you, and press her hand with significance unless you happen to have been eating heavily buttered muffin, in which case it must all be done with the eyes.”

“I did come to see you,” replied George seriously. “And I am glad to find you alone.”

“Oh, George, this is so sudden,” says she, swallowing a currant.

“I wanted to ask a favour of you. I have always considered you, Virginia, as a woman of considerable charm.”

“Oh, George!”

“And also a woman of intelligence!”

“Not really? How well the man knows me.”

“My dear Virginia, there is a young fellow arriving in England to-morrow whom I should like you to meet.”

“All right, George, but it’s your party—let that be clearly understood.”

“You could, I feel sure, if you chose, exercise your considerable charm.”

Virginia cocked her head a little on one side.

“George, dear, I don’t ‘charm’ as a profession, you know. Often I like people—and then, well, they like me. But I don’t think I could set out in cold blood to fascinate a helpless stranger. That sort of thing isn’t done, George, it really isn’t. There are professional sirens who would do it much better than I should.”

“That is out of the question, Virginia. This young man, he is a Canadian, by the way, of the name of McGrath——”

“A Canadian of Scotch descent,” says she, deducing brilliantly.

“Is probably quite unused to the higher walks of English society. I should like him to appreciate the charm and distinction of a real English gentlewoman.”

“Meaning me?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said why? You don’t boom the real English gentlewoman with every stray Canadian who sets foot upon our shores. What is the deep idea, George? To put it vulgarly, what do _you_ get out of it?”

“I cannot see that that concerns you, Virginia.”

“I couldn’t possibly go out for an evening and fascinate, unless I knew all the whys and wherefors.”

“You have a most extraordinary way of putting things, Virginia. Anyone would think——”

“Wouldn’t they? Come on, George, part with a little more information.”

“My dear Virginia, matters are likely to be a little strained shortly in a certain Central European nation. It is important, for reasons which are immaterial, that this—Mr.—er McGrath should be brought to realize that the restoring of the Monarchy in Herzoslovakia is imperative to the peace of Europe.”

“The part about the peace of Europe is all bosh,” said Virginia calmly, “but I’m all for Monarchies every time, especially for a picturesque people like the Herzoslovakians. So you’re running a King in the Herzoslovakian States, are you? Who is he?”

George was reluctant to answer, but did not see his way to avoid the question. The interview was not going at all as he had planned. He had foreseen Virginia as a willing, docile tool, receiving his hints gratefully, and asking no awkward questions. This was far from being the case. She seemed determined to know all about it and this George, ever doubtful of female discretion, was determined at all costs to avoid. He had made a mistake. Virginia was not the woman for the part. She might, indeed, cause serious trouble. Her account of her interview with the blackmailer had caused him grave apprehension. A most undependable creature, with no idea of treating serious matters seriously.

“Prince Michael Obolovitch,” he replied, as Virginia was obviously waiting for an answer to her question. “But please let that go no further.”

“Don’t be absurd, George. There are all sort of hints in the papers already, and articles cracking up the Obolovitch dynasty and talking about the murdered Nicholas IV as though he were a cross between a Saint and a hero instead of a stupid little man besotted by a third-rate actress.”

George winced. He was more than ever convinced that he had made a mistake in enlisting Virginia’s aid. He must stave her off quickly.

“You are right, my dear Virginia,” he said hastily, as he rose to his feet to bid her farewell. “I should not have made the suggestion I did to you. But we are anxious for the Dominions to see eye to eye with us on this Herzoslovakian crisis, and McGrath has, I believe, influence in journalistic circles. As an ardent Monarchist, and with your knowledge of the country, I thought it a good plan for you to meet him.”

“So that’s the explanation, is it?”

“Yes, but I dare say you wouldn’t have cared for him.”

Virginia looked at him for a second and then she laughed.

“George,” she said, “you’re a rotten liar.”

“Virginia!”

“Rotten, absolutely rotten! If I had had your training, I could have managed a better one than that—one that had a chance of being believed. But I shall find out all about it, my poor George. Rest assured of that. The Mystery of Mr. McGrath. I shouldn’t wonder if I got a hint or two at Chimneys this week-end.”

“At Chimneys? You are going to Chimneys?”

George could not conceal his perturbation. He had hoped to reach Lord Caterham in time for the invitation to remain unissued.

“Bundle rang up and asked me this morning.”

George made a last effort.

“Rather a dull party, I believe,” he said. “Hardly in your line, Virginia.”

“My poor George, why didn’t you tell me the truth and trust me? It’s still not too late.”

George took her hand and dropped it again limply.

“I have told you the truth,” he said coldly, and he said it without a blush.

“That’s a better one,” said Virginia approvingly. “But it’s still not good enough. Cheer up, George, I shall be at Chimneys all right, exerting my considerable charm—as you put it. Life has become suddenly very much more amusing. First a blackmailer, and then George in diplomatic difficulties. Will he tell all to the beautiful woman who asks for his confidence so pathetically? No, he will reveal nothing until the last chapter. Good-bye, George. One last fond look before you go? No? Oh, George, dear, don’t be sulky about it!”

Virginia ran to the telephone as soon as George had departed with a heavy gait through the front door.

She obtained the number she required and asked to speak to Lady Eileen Brent.

“Is that you, Bundle? I’m coming to Chimneys all right to-morrow. What? Bore me? No, it won’t. Bundle, wild horses wouldn’t keep me away! So there!”

7

Mr. McGrath Refuses an Invitation

The letters were gone!

Having once made up his mind to the fact of their disappearance, there was nothing to do but accept it. Anthony realized very well that he could not pursue Giuseppe through the corridors of the Blitz Hotel. To do so was to court undesired publicity, and in all probability to fail in his object all the same.

He came to the conclusion that Giuseppe had mistaken the packet of letters, enclosed as they were in the other wrappings, for the Memoirs themselves. It was likely therefore that when he discovered his mistake he would make another attempt to get hold of the Memoirs. For this attempt Anthony intended to be fully prepared.

Another plan that occurred to him was to advertize discreetly for the return of the package of letters. Supposing Giuseppe to be an emissary of the Comrades of the Red Hand, or, which seemed to Anthony more probable, to be employed by the Loyalist party, the letters could have no possible interest for either employer and he would probably jump at the chance of obtaining a small sum of money for their return.

Having thought out all this, Anthony returned to bed and slept peacefully until morning. He did not fancy that Giuseppe would be anxious for a second encounter that night.

Anthony got up with his plan of campaign fully thought out. He had a good breakfast, glanced at the papers which were full of the new discoveries of oil in Herzoslovakia, and then demanded an interview with the manager, and, being Anthony Cade, with a gift for getting his own way by means of quiet determination, he obtained what he asked for.

The manager, a Frenchman with an exquisitely suave manner, received him in his private office.

“You wished to see me, I understand, Mr.—er—McGrath?”

“I did. I arrived at your hotel yesterday afternoon, and I had dinner served to me in my own rooms by a waiter whose name was Giuseppe.”

He paused.

“I dare say we have a waiter of that name,” agreed the manager indifferently.

“I was struck by something unusual in the waiter’s manner, but thought nothing more of it at the time. Later, in the night, I was awakened by the sound of some one moving softly about the room. I switched on the light, and found this same Giuseppe in the act of rifling my leather suit-case.”

The manager’s indifference had completely disappeared now.

“But I have heard nothing of this,” he exclaimed. “Why was I not informed sooner?”

“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife by the way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”

“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”

“I examined the contents of my suit-case.”

“Had anything been taken?”

“Nothing of—importance,” said Anthony slowly.

The manager leaned back with a sigh.

“I am glad of that,” he remarked. “But you will allow me to say, Mr. McGrath, that I do not quite understand your attitude in the matter. You made no attempt to arouse the hotel? To pursue the thief?”

Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

“Nothing of value had been taken, as I tell you. I am aware, of course, that strictly speaking it is a case for the police——”

He paused, and the manager murmured without any particular enthusiasm:

“For the police—of course——”

“In any case, I was fairly certain that the man would manage to make good his escape, and since nothing was taken why bother with the police?”

The manager smiled a little.

“I see that you realize, Mr. McGrath, that I am not at all anxious to have the police called in. From my point of view it is always disastrous. If the newspapers can get hold of anything connected with a big fashionable hotel such as this, they always run it for all it is worth, no matter how insignificant the real subject matter may be.”

“Quite so,” agreed Anthony. “Now I told you that nothing of value had been taken, and that was perfectly true in a sense. Nothing of any value to the thief was taken, but he got hold of something which is of considerable value to me.”

“Ah?”

“Letters, you understand.”

An expression of superhuman discretion, only to be achieved by a Frenchman, settled down upon the manager’s face.

“I comprehend,” he murmured. “But perfectly. Naturally, it is not a matter for the police.”

“We are quite agreed upon that point. But you will understand that I have every intention of recovering these letters. In the part of the world where I come from, people are used to doing things for themselves. What I require from you therefore is the fullest possible information you can give me about this waiter, Giuseppe.”

“I see no objection to that,” said the manager after a moment or two’s pause. “I cannot give you the information offhand, of course, but if you will return in half an hour’s time I will have everything ready to lay before you.”

“Thank you very much. That will suit me admirably.”

In half an hour’s time, Anthony returned to the office again to find that the manager had been as good as his word. Jotted down upon a piece of paper were all the relevant facts known about Giuseppe Manelli.

“He came to us, you see, about three months ago. A skilled and experienced waiter. Has given complete satisfaction. He has been in England about five years.”

Together the two men ran over a list of the hotels and restaurants where the Italian had worked. One fact struck Anthony as being possibly of significance. At two of the hotels in question there had been serious robberies during the time that Giuseppe was employed there, though no suspicion of any kind had attached to him in either case. Still, the fact was significant.

Was Giuseppe merely a clever hotel thief? Had his search of Anthony’s suit-case been merely part of his habitual professional tactics? He might just possibly have had the packet of letters in his hand at the moment when Anthony switched on the light, and have shoved it into his pocket mechanically so as to have his hands free. In that case, the thing was mere plain or garden robbery.

Against that, there was to be put the man’s excitement of the evening before when he had caught sight of the papers lying on the table. There had been no money or object of value there such as would excite the cupidity of an ordinary thief.

No, Anthony felt convinced that Giuseppe had been acting as a tool for some outside agency. With the information supplied to him by the manager, it might be possible to learn something about Giuseppe’s private life, and so finally track him down. He gathered up the sheet of paper and rose.

“Thank you very much indeed. It’s quite unnecessary to ask, I suppose, whether Giuseppe is still in the hotel?”

The manager smiled.

“His bed was not slept in, and all his things have been left behind. He must have rushed straight out after his attack upon you. I don’t think there is much chance of our seeing him again.”

“I imagine not. Well, thank you very much indeed. I shall be staying on here for the present.”

“I hope you will be successful in your task, but I confess that I am rather doubtful.”

“I always hope for the best.”

One of Anthony’s first proceedings was to question some of the other waiters who had been friendly with Giuseppe, but he obtained very little to go upon. He wrote out an advertisement on the lines he had planned, and had it sent to five of the most widely read newspapers. He was just about to go out and visit the restaurant at which Giuseppe had been previously employed when the telephone rang. Anthony took up the receiver.

“Hullo, what is it?”

A toneless voice replied.

“Am I speaking to Mr. McGrath?”

“You are. Who are you?”

“This is Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins. Just a minute, please. I will put you through to Mr. Balderson.”

“Our worthy publishers,” thought Anthony. “So they are getting worried too, are they? They needn’t. There’s a week to run still.”

A hearty voice struck suddenly upon his ear.

“Hullo! That Mr. McGrath?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m Mr. Balderson of Balderson and Hodgkins. What about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath?”

“Well,” said Anthony, “what about it?”

“Everything about it. I understand, Mr. McGrath, that you have just arrived in this country from South Africa. That being so, you can’t possibly understand the position. There’s going to be trouble about that manuscript, Mr. McGrath, big trouble. Sometimes I wish we’d never said we’d handle it.”

“Indeed?”

“I assure you it’s so. At present I’m anxious to get it into my possession as quickly as possible, so as to have a couple of copies made. Then, if the original is destroyed—well, no harm will be done.”

“Dear me,” said Anthony.

“Yes, I expect it sounds absurd to you, Mr. McGrath. But, I assure you, you don’t appreciate the situation. There’s a determined effort being made to prevent its ever reaching this office. I say to you quite frankly and without humbug that if you attempt to bring it yourself it’s ten to one that you’ll never get here.”

“I doubt that,” said Anthony. “When I want to get anywhere, I usually do.”

“You’re up against a very dangerous lot of people. I wouldn’t have believed it myself a month ago. I tell you, Mr. McGrath, we’ve been bribed and threatened and cajoled by one lot and another until we don’t know whether we’re on our heads or our heels. My suggestion is that you do not attempt to bring the manuscript here. One of our people will call upon you at the hotel and take possession of it.”

“And supposing the gang does him in?” asked Anthony.

“The responsibility would then be ours—not yours. You would have delivered it to our representative and obtained a written discharge. The cheque for—er—a thousand pounds which we are instructed to hand to you will not be available until Wednesday next by the terms of our agreement with the executors of the late—er—author—you know whom I mean, but if you insist I will send my own cheque for that amount by the messenger.”

Anthony reflected for a minute or two. He had intended to keep the Memoirs until the last day of grace, because he was anxious to see for himself what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, he realized the force of the publisher’s arguments.

“All right,” he said, with a little sigh. “Have it your own way. Send your man along. And if you don’t mind sending that cheque as well I’d rather have it now, as I may be going out of England before next Wednesday.”

“Certainly, Mr. McGrath. Our representative will call upon you first thing to-morrow morning. It will be wiser not to send anyone direct from the office. Our Mr. Holmes lives in South London. He will call in on his way to us, and will give you a receipt for the package. I suggest that to-night you should place a dummy packet in the manager’s safe. Your enemies will get to hear of this, and it will prevent any attack being made upon your apartments to-night.”

“Very well, I will do as you direct.”

Anthony hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

Then he went on with his interrupted plan of seeking news of the slippery Giuseppe. He drew a complete blank, however. Giuseppe had worked at the restaurant in question, but nobody seemed to know anything of his private life or associates.

“But I’ll get you, my lad,” murmured Anthony, between his teeth. “I’ll get you yet. It’s only a matter of time.”

His second night in London was entirely peaceful.

At nine o’clock the following morning, the card of Mr. Holmes from Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins was sent up, and Mr. Holmes followed it. A small, fair man with a quiet manner. Anthony handed over the manuscript, and received in exchange a cheque for a thousand pounds. Mr. Holmes packed up the manuscript in the small brown bag he carried, wished Anthony good morning, and departed. The whole thing seemed very tame.

“But perhaps he’ll be murdered on the way there,” Anthony murmured aloud, as he stared idly out of the window. “I wonder now—I very much wonder.”

He put the cheque in an envelope, enclosed a few lines of writing with it, and sealed it up carefully. Jimmy, who had been more or less in funds at the time of his encounter with Anthony at Bulawayo, had advanced him a substantial sum of money which was, as yet, practically untouched.

“If one’s job’s done with, the other isn’t,” said Anthony to himself. “Up to now, I’ve bungled it. But never say die. I think that, suitably disguised, I shall go and have a look at 487, Pont Street.”

He packed his belongings, went down and paid his bill, and ordered his luggage to be put on a taxi. Suitably rewarding those who stood in his path, most of whom had done nothing whatever materially to add to his comfort, he was on the point of being driven off, when a small boy rushed down the steps with a letter.

“Just come for you, this very minute, sir.”

With a sigh, Anthony produced yet another shilling. The taxi groaned heavily and jumped forward with a hideous crashing of gears, and Anthony opened the letter.

It was rather a curious document. He had to read it four times before he could be sure of what it was all about. Put in plain English (the letter was not in plain English, but in the peculiar involved style common to missives issued by Government officials) it presumed that Mr. McGrath was arriving in England from South Africa to-day—Thursday, it referred obliquely to the Memoirs of Count Stylptitch, and begged Mr. McGrath to do nothing in the matter until he had had a confidential conversation with Mr. George Lomax, and certain other parties whose magnificence was vaguely hinted at. It also contained a definite invitation to go down to Chimneys as the guest of Lord Caterham, on the following day, Friday.

A mysterious and thoroughly obscure communication. Anthony enjoyed it very much.

“Dear old England,” he murmured affectionately. “Two days behind the times, as usual. Rather a pity. Still, I can’t go down to Chimneys under false pretences. I wonder, though, if there’s an inn handy? Mr. Anthony Cade might stay at the inn without anyone being the wiser.”