Chapter VII: Part 7

“Is that so?” said Lemoine. He glanced down at his own watch and started. “A thousand pardons. I have been longer here than I meant—such charming company. Is it possible, do you think, that I might have a lift to the village?”

He stepped out on to the drive, and signalled with his arm. The luggage cart stopped, and after a word or two of explanation Lemoine climbed in behind. He raised his hat politely to Virginia, and drove off.

The other two stood and watched the cart disappearing with puzzled expressions. Just as the cart swung round the bend, a suit-case fell off into the drive. The cart went on.

“Come on,” said Virginia to Bill. “We’re going to see something interesting. That suit-case was thrown out.”

“Nobody’s noticed it,” said Bill.

They ran down the drive towards the fallen piece of luggage. Just as they reached it, Lemoine came round the corner of the bend on foot. He was hot from walking fast.

“I was obliged to descend,” he said pleasantly. “I found that I had left something behind.”

“This?” said Bill, indicating the suit-case.

It was a handsome case of heavy pigskin, with the initials H. I. on it.

“What a pity!” said Lemoine gently. “It must have fallen out. Shall we lift it from the road?”

Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the suit-case, and carried it over to the belt of trees. He stooped over it, something flashed in his hand, and the lock slipped back.

He spoke, and his voice was totally different, quick and commanding.

“The car will be here in a minute,” he said. “Is it in sight?”

Virginia looked back towards the house.

“No.”

“Good.”

With deft fingers he tossed the things out of the suit-case. Gold-topped bottle, silk pyjamas, a variety of socks. Suddenly his whole figure stiffened. He caught up what appeared to be a bundle of silk underwear, and unrolled it rapidly.

A slight exclamation broke from Bill. In the centre of the bundle was a heavy revolver.

“I hear the horn,” said Virginia.

Like lightning, Lemoine repacked the suit-case. The revolver he wrapped in a silk handkerchief of his own, and slipped into his pocket. He snapped the locks of the suit-case, and turned quickly to Bill.

“Take it. Madame will be with you. Stop the car, and explain that it fell off the luggage cart. Do not mention me.”

Bill stepped quickly down to the drive just as the big Lanchester limousine with Isaacstein inside it came round the corner. The chauffeur slowed down, and Bill swung the suit-case up to him.

“Fell off the luggage cart,” he explained. “We happened to see it.”

He caught a momentary glimpse of a startled yellow face as the financier stared at him, and then the car swept on again.

They went back to Lemoine. He was standing with the revolver in his hand, and a look of gloating satisfaction in his face.

“A long shot,” he said. “A very long shot. But it came off.”

22

The Red Signal

Superintendent Battle was standing in the library at Wyvvern Abbey.

George Lomax, seated before a desk overflowing with papers, was frowning portentously.

Superintendent Battle had opened proceedings by making a brief and business-like report. Since then, the conversation had lain almost entirely with George, and Battle had contented himself with making brief and usually monosyllabic replies to the other’s questions.

On the desk, in front of George, was the packet of letters Anthony had found on his dressing-table.

“I can’t understand it at all,” said George irritably, as he picked up the packet. “They’re in code, you say?”

“Just so, Mr. Lomax.”

“And where does he say he found them—on his dressing-table?”

Battle repeated, word for word, Anthony Cade’s account of how he had come to regain possession of the letters.

“And he brought them at once to you? That was quite proper—quite proper. But who could have placed them in his room?”

Battle shook his head.

“That’s the sort of thing you ought to know,” complained George. “It sounds to me very fishy—very fishy indeed. What do we know about this man Cade anyway? He appears in a most mysterious manner—under highly suspicious circumstances—and we know nothing whatever about him. I may say that I, personally, don’t care for his manner at all. You’ve made inquiries about him, I suppose?”

Superintendent Battle permitted himself a patient smile.

“We wired at once to South Africa, and his story has been confirmed on all points. He was in Bulawayo with Mr. McGrath at the time he stated. Previous to their meeting, he was employed by Messrs. Castle, the Tourist Agents.”

“Just what I should have expected,” said George. “He has the kind of cheap assurance that succeeds in a certain type of employment. But about these letters—steps must be taken at once—at once——”

The great man puffed himself out and swelled importantly.

Superintendent Battle opened his mouth, but George forestalled him.

“There must be no delay. These letters must be decoded without any loss of time. Let me see, who is the man? There is a man—connected with the British Museum. Knows all there is to know about ciphers. Ran the department for us during the War. Where is Miss Oscar? She will know. Name something like Win—Win——”

“Professor Wynward,” said Battle.

“Exactly. I remember perfectly now. He must be wired to, immediately.”

“I have done so, Mr. Lomax, an hour ago. He will arrive by the 12.10.”

“Oh, very good, very good. Thank Heaven, something is off my mind. I shall have to be in town to-day. You can get along without me, I suppose?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Well, do your best, Battle, do your best. I am terribly rushed just at present.”

“Just so, sir.”

“By the way, why did not Mr. Eversleigh come over with you?”

“He was still asleep, sir. We’ve been up all night, as I told you.”

“Oh, quite so. I am frequently up nearly the whole night myself. To do the work of thirty-six hours in twenty-four, that is my constant task! Send Mr. Eversleigh over at once when you get back, will you, Battle?”

“I will give him your message, sir.”

“Thank you, Battle. I realize perfectly that you had to repose a certain amount of confidence in him. But do you think it was strictly necessary to take my cousin, Mrs. Revel, into your confidence also?”

“In view of the name signed to those letters, I do, Mr. Lomax.”

“An amazing piece of effrontery,” murmured George, his brow darkened as he looked at the bundle of letters. “I remember the late King of Herzoslovakia. A charming fellow, but weak—deplorably weak. A tool in the hands of an unscrupulous woman. Have you any theory as to how these letters came to be restored to Mr. Cade?”

“It’s my opinion,” said Battle, “that if people can’t get a thing one way—they try another.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said George.

“This crook, this King Victor, he’s well aware by now that the Council Chamber is watched. So he’ll let us have the letters, and let us do the decoding, and let us find the hiding-place. And then—trouble! But Lemoine and I between us will attend to that.”

“You’ve got a plan, eh?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve got a plan. But I’ve got an idea. It’s a very useful thing sometimes, an idea.”

Thereupon Superintendent Battle took his departure.

He had no intention of taking George any further into his confidence.

On the way back, he passed Anthony on the road and stopped.

“Going to give me a lift back to the house?” asked Anthony. “That’s good.”

“Where have you been, Mr. Cade?”

“Down to the station to inquire about trains.”

Battle raised his eyebrows.

“Thinking of leaving us again?” he inquired.

“Not just at present,” laughed Anthony. “By the way what’s upset Isaacstein? He arrived in the car just as I left, and he looked as though something had given him a nasty jolt.”

“Mr. Isaacstein?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t say, I’m sure. I fancy it would take a good deal to jolt him.”

“So do I,” agreed Anthony. “He’s quite one of the strong silent yellow men of finance.”

Suddenly Battle leant forward and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder.

“Stop, will you? And wait for me here.”

He jumped out of the car, much to Anthony’s surprise. But in a minute or two, the latter perceived M. Lemoine advancing to meet the English detective, and gathered that it was a signal from him which had attracted Battle’s attention.

There was a rapid colloquy between them, and then the superintendent returned to the car and jumped in again, biding the chauffeur drive on.

His expression had completely changed.

“They’ve found the revolver,” he said suddenly and curtly.

“What?”

Anthony gazed at him in great surprise.

“Where?”

“In Isaacstein’s suit-case.”

“Oh, impossible!”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Battle. “I ought to have remembered that.”

He sat perfectly still, tapping his knee with his hand.

“Who found it?”

Battle jerked his head over his shoulder.

“Lemoine. Clever chap. They think no end of him at the Sûreté.”

“But doesn’t this upset all your ideas?”

“No,” said Superintendent Battle very slowly. “I can’t say it does. It was a bit of a surprise, I admit, at first. But it fits in very well with one idea of mine.”

“Which is?”

But the superintendent branched off on to a totally different subject.

“I wonder if you’d mind finding Mr. Eversleigh for me, sir? There’s a message for him from Mr. Lomax. He’s to go over to the Abbey at once.”

“All right,” said Anthony. The car had just drawn up at the great door. “He’s probably in bed still.”

“I think not,” said the detective. “If you’ll look, you’ll see him walking under the trees with Mrs. Revel.”

“Wonderful eyes you have, haven’t you, Battle?” said Anthony as he departed on his errand.

He delivered the message to Bill, who was duly disgusted.

“Damn it all,” grumbled Bill to himself, as he strode off to the house, “why can’t Codders sometimes leave me alone? And why can’t these blasted Colonials stay in their Colonies? What do they want to come over here for, and pick out all the best girls? I’m fed to the teeth with everything.”

“Have you heard about the revolver?” asked Virginia breathlessly, as Bill left them.

“Battle told me. Rather staggering, isn’t it? Isaacstein was in a frightful state yesterday to get away, but I thought it was just nerves. He’s about the one person I’d have pitched upon as being above suspicion. Can you see any motive for his wanting Prince Michael out of the way?”

“It certainly doesn’t fit in,” agreed Virginia thoughtfully.

“Nothing fits in anywhere,” said Anthony discontentedly. “I rather fancied myself as an amateur detective to begin with, and so far all I’ve done is to clear the character of the French governess at vast trouble and some little expense.”

“Is that what you went to France for?” inquired Virginia.

“Yes, I went to Dinard and had an interview with the Comtesse de Breteuil, awfully pleased with my own cleverness, and fully expecting to be told that no such person as Mademoiselle Brun had ever been heard of. Instead of which I was given to understand that the lady in question had been the mainstay of the household for the last seven years. So, unless the Comtesse is also a crook, that ingenious theory of mine falls to the ground.”

Virginia shook her head.

“Madame de Breteuil is quite above suspicion. I know her quite well, and I fancy I must have come across Mademoiselle at the chateau. I certainly know her face quite well—in that vague way one does know governesses and companions and people one sits opposite to in trains. It’s awful, but I never really look at them properly. Do you?”

“Only if they’re exceptionally beautiful,” admitted Anthony.

“Well, in this case——” she broke off. “What’s the matter?”

Anthony was staring at a figure which detached itself from the clump of trees and stood there rigidly at attention. It was the Herzoslovakian, Boris.

“Excuse me,” said Anthony to Virginia, “I must just speak to my dog a minute.”

He went across to where Boris was standing.

“What’s the matter? What do you want?”

“Master,” said Boris, bowing.

“Yes, that’s all very well, but you mustn’t keep following me about like this. It looks odd.”

Without a word, Boris produced a soiled scrap of paper, evidently torn from a letter, and handed it to Anthony.

“What’s this?” said Anthony.

There was an address scrawled on the paper, nothing else.

“He dropped it,” said Boris. “I bring it to the Master.”

“Who dropped it?”

“The foreign gentleman.”

“But why bring it to me?”

Boris looked at him reproachfully.

“Well, anyway, go away now,” said Anthony. “I’m busy.”

Boris saluted, turned sharply on his heel, and marched away. Anthony rejoined Virginia, thrusting the piece of paper into his pocket.

“What did he want?” she asked curiously. “And why do you call him your dog?”

“Because he acts like one,” said Anthony, answering the last question first. “He must have been a retriever in his last incarnation, I think. He’s just brought me a piece of a letter which he says the foreign gentleman dropped. I suppose he means Lemoine.”

“I suppose so,” acquiesced Virginia.

“He’s always following me round,” continued Anthony. “Just like a dog. Says next to nothing. Just looks at me with his big round eyes. I can’t make him out.”

“Perhaps he meant Isaacstein,” suggested Virginia. “Isaacstein looks foreign enough, Heaven knows.”

“Isaacstein,” muttered Anthony impatiently. “Where the devil does he come in?”

“Are you ever sorry that you’ve mixed yourself up in all this?” asked Virginia suddenly.

“Sorry? Good Lord, no. I love it. I’ve spent most of my life looking for trouble, you know. Perhaps, this time, I’ve got a little more than I bargained for.”

“But you’re well out of the wood now,” said Virginia, a little surprised by the unusual gravity of his tone.

“Not quite.”

They strolled on for a minute or two in silence.

“There are some people,” said Anthony, breaking the silence, “who don’t conform to the signals. An ordinary well-regulated locomotive slows down or pulls up when it sees the red light hoisted against it. Perhaps I was born colour blind. When I see the red signal—I can’t help forging ahead. And in the end, you know, that spells disaster. Bound to. And quite right really. That sort of thing is bad for traffic generally.”

He still spoke very seriously.

“I suppose,” said Virginia, “that you have taken a good many risks in your life?”

“Pretty nearly every one there is—except marriage.”

“That’s rather cynical.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. Marriage, the kind of marriage I mean, would be the biggest adventure of the lot.”

“I like that,” said Virginia, flushing eagerly.

“There’s only one kind of woman I’d want to marry—the kind who is worlds removed from my type of life. What would we do about it? Is she to lead my life, or am I to lead hers?”

“If she loved you——”

“Sentimentality, Mrs. Revel. You know it is. Love isn’t a drug that you take to blind you to your surroundings—you can make it that, yes, but it’s a pity—love can be a lot more than that. What do you think the King and his beggar maid thought of married life after they’d been married a year or two? Didn’t she regret her rags and her bare feet and her care-free life? You bet she did. Would it have been any good renouncing his Crown for her sake? Not a bit of good, either. He’d have made a damned bad beggar, I’m sure. And no woman respects a man when he’s doing a thing thoroughly badly.”

“Have you fallen in love with a beggar maid, Mr. Cade?” inquired Virginia softly.

“It’s the other way about with me, but the principle’s the same.”

“And there’s no way out?” asked Virginia.

“There’s always a way out,” said Anthony gloomily. “I’ve a theory that one can always get anything one wants if one will pay the price. And do you know what the price is, nine times out of ten? Compromise. A beastly thing, compromise, but it steals upon you as you near middle age. It’s stealing upon me now. To get the woman I want I’d—I’d even take up regular work.”

Virginia laughed.

“I was brought up to a trade, you know,” continued Anthony.

“And you abandoned it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“A matter of principle.”

“Oh!”

“You’re a very unusual woman,” said Anthony suddenly, turning and looking at her.

“Why?”

“You can refrain from asking questions.”

“You mean that I haven’t asked you what your trade was?”

“Just that.”

Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing the house now, passing close by the scented sweetness of the rose garden.

“You understand well enough, I dare say,” said Anthony, breaking the silence. “You know when a man’s in love with you. I don’t suppose you care a hang for me—or for anyone else—but, by God, I’d like to make you care.”

“Do you think you could?” asked Virginia, in a low voice.

“Probably not, but I’d have a damned good try.”

“Are you sorry you ever met me?” she said suddenly.

“Lord no. It’s the red signal again. When I first saw you—that day in Pont Street, I knew I was up against something that was going to hurt like fun. Your face did that to me—just your face. There’s magic in you from head to foot—some women are like that, but I’ve never known a woman who had so much of it as you have. You’ll marry some one respectable and prosperous, I suppose, and I shall return to my disreputable life, but I’ll kiss you once before I go—I swear I will.”

“You can’t do it now,” said Virginia softly. “Superintendent Battle is watching us out of the library window.”

Anthony looked at her.

“You’re rather a devil, Virginia,” he said dispassionately. “But rather a dear too.”

Then he waved his hand airily to Superintendent Battle.

“Caught any criminals this morning, Battle?”

“Not as yet, Mr. Cade.”

“That sounds hopeful.”

Battle, with an agility surprising in so stolid a man, vaulted out of the library window and joined them on the terrace.

“I’ve got Professor Wynward down here,” he announced in a whisper. “Just this minute arrived. He’s decoding the letters now. Would you like to see him at work?”

His tone suggested that of the showman speaking of some pet exhibit. Receiving a reply in the affirmative, he led them up to the window and invited them to peep inside.

Seated at a table, the letters spread out in front of him and writing busily on a big sheet of paper was a small red-haired man of middle age. He grunted irritably to himself as he wrote, and every now and then rubbed his nose violently until its hue almost rivalled that of his hair.

Presently he looked up.

“That you, Battle? What you want me down here to unravel this tomfoolery for? A child in arms could do it. A baby of two could do it on its head. Call this thing a cipher? It leaps to the eye, man.”

“I’m glad of that, Professor,” said Battle mildly. “But we’re not all so clever as you are, you know.”

“It doesn’t need cleverness,” snapped the Professor. “It’s routine work. Do you want the whole bundle done? It’s a long business, you know—requires diligent application and close attention, and absolutely no intelligence. I’ve done the one dated ‘Chimneys’ which you said was important. I might as well take the rest back to London and hand ’em over to one of my assistants. I really can’t afford the time myself. I’ve come away now from a real teaser, and I want to get back to it.”

His eyes glistened a little.

“Very well, Professor,” assented Battle. “I’m sorry we’re such small fry. I’ll explain to Mr. Lomax. It’s just this one letter that all the hurry is about. Lord Caterham is expecting you to stay for lunch, I believe.”

“Never have lunch,” said the Professor. “Bad habit, lunch. A banana and a water biscuit is all any sane and healthy man should need in the middle of the day.”

He seized his overcoat, which lay across the back of a chair. Battle went round to the front of the house, and a few minutes later Anthony and Virginia heard the sound of a car driving away.

Battle rejoined them, carrying in his hand the half-sheet of paper which the Professor had given him.

“He’s always like that,” said Battle, referring to the departed Professor. “In the very deuce of a hurry. Clever man, though. Well, here’s the kernel of Her Majesty’s letter. Care to have a look at it?”

Virginia stretched out a hand, and Anthony read it over her shoulder. It had been, he remembered, a long epistle, breathing mingled passion and despair. The genius of Professor Wynward had transformed it into an essentially business-like communication.

_Operations carried out successfully, but S. double crossed us. Has removed stone from hiding-place. Not in his room. I have searched. Found following memorandum which I think refers to it_: “RICHMOND SEVEN STRAIGHT EIGHT LEFT THREE RIGHT.”

“S.?” said Anthony. “Stylptitch, of course. Cunning old dog. He changed the hiding-place.”

“Richmond,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “Is the diamond concealed somewhere at Richmond, I wonder?”

“It’s a favourite spot for Royalties,” agreed Anthony.

Battle shook his head.

“I still think it’s a reference to something in this house.”

“I know,” cried Virginia suddenly.

Both men turned to look at her.

“The Holbein portrait in the Council Chamber. They were tapping on the wall just below it. And it’s a portrait of the Earl of Richmond!”

“You’ve got it,” said Battle, and slapped his leg.

He spoke with an animation quite unwonted.

“That’s the starting-point, the picture, and the crooks know no more than we do what the figures refer to. Those two men in armour stand directly underneath the picture, and their first idea was that the diamond was hidden in one of them. The measurements might have been inches. That failed, and their next idea was a secret passage or stairway, or a sliding panel. Do you know of any such thing, Mrs. Revel?”

Virginia shook her head.

“There’s a Priest’s Hole, and at least one secret passage, I know,” she said. “I believe I’ve been shown them once, but I can’t remember much about them now. Here’s Bundle, she’ll know.”

Bundle was coming quickly along the terrace towards them.

“I’m taking the Panhard up to town after lunch,” she remarked. “Anyone want a lift? Wouldn’t you like to come, Mr. Cade? We’ll be back by dinner-time.”

“No, thanks,” said Anthony. “I’m quite happy and busy down here.”

“The man fears me,” said Bundle. “Either my driving or my fatal fascination! Which is it?”

“The latter,” said Anthony. “Every time.”

“Bundle, dear,” said Virginia, “is there any secret passage leading out of the Council Chamber?”

“Rather. But it’s only a mouldy one. Supposed to lead from Chimneys to Wyvvern Abbey. So it did in the old, old days, but it’s all blocked up now. You can only get along it for about a hundred yards from this end. The one upstairs in the White Gallery is ever so much more amusing, and the Priest’s Hole isn’t half bad.”

“We’re not regarding them from an artistic standpoint,” explained Virginia. “It’s business. How do you get into the Council Chamber one?”

“Hinged panel. I’ll show you after lunch if you like.”

“Thank you,” said Superintendent Battle. “Shall we say at 2.30?”

Bundle looked at him with lifted eyebrows.

“Crook stuff?” she inquired.

Tredwell appeared on the terrace.

“Luncheon is served, my lady,” he announced.

23

Encounter in the Rose Garden

At 2.30 a little party met together in the Council Chamber: Bundle, Virginia, Superintendent Battle, M. Lemoine and Anthony Cade.

“No good waiting until we can get hold of Mr. Lomax,” said Battle. “This is the kind of business one wants to get on with quickly.”

“If you’ve got any idea that Prince Michael was murdered by some one who got in this way, you’re wrong,” said Bundle. “It can’t be done. The other end’s blocked completely.”

“There is no question of that, milady,” said Lemoine quickly. “It is quite a different search that we make.”

“Looking for something, are you?” asked Bundle quickly. “Not the historic what-not, by any chance?”

Lemoine looked puzzled.

“Explain yourself, Bundle,” said Virginia encouragingly. “You can when you try.”

“The thingummybob,” said Bundle. “The historic diamond of purple princes that was pinched in the dark ages before I grew to years of discretion.”

“Who told you this, Lady Eileen?” asked Battle.

“I’ve always known. One of the footmen told me when I was twelve years old.”

“A footman,” said Battle. “Lord! I’d like Mr. Lomax to have heard that!”

“Is it one of George’s closely guarded secrets?” asked Bundle. “How perfectly screaming! I never really thought it was true. George always was an ass—he must know that servants always know everything.”

She went across to the Holbein portrait, touched a spring concealed somewhere at the side of it, and immediately, with a creaking noise, a section of the panelling swung inward, revealing a dark opening.

“Entrez, Messieurs et Mesdames,” said Bundle dramatically. “Walk up, walk up, dearies. Best show of the season, and only a tanner.”

Both Lemoine and Battle were provided with torches. They entered the dark aperture first, the others close on their heels.

“Air’s nice and fresh,” remarked Battle. “Must be ventilated somehow.”

He walked on ahead. The floor was of rough uneven stone, but the walls were bricked. As Bundle had said, the passage extended for a bare hundred yards. Then it came to an abrupt end with a fallen heap of masonry. Battle satisfied himself that there was no way of egress beyond, and then spoke over his shoulder.

“We’ll go back, if you please. I wanted just to spy out the land, so to speak.”

In a few minutes they were back again at the panelled entrance.

“We’ll start from here,” said Battle. “Seven straight, eight left, three right. Take the first as paces.”

He paced seven steps carefully, and bending down examined the ground.

“About right, I should fancy. At one time or another, there’s been a chalk mark made here. Now then, eight left. That’s not paces, the passage is only wide enough to go Indian file anyway.”

“Say it in bricks,” suggested Anthony.

“Quite right, Mr. Cade. Eight bricks from the bottom or the top on the left-hand side. Try from the bottom first—it’s easier.”

He counted up eight bricks.

“Now three to the right of that. One, two, three—Hullo—— Hullo, what’s this?”

“I shall scream in a minute,” said Bundle, “I know I shall. _What_ is it?”

Superintendent Battle was working at the brick with the point of his knife. His practised eye had quickly seen that this particular brick was different from the rest. A minute or two’s work, and he was able to pull it right out. Behind was a small dark cavity. Battle thrust in his hand.

Every one waited in breathless expectancy.

Battle drew out his hand again.

He uttered an exclamation of surprise and anger.

The others crowded round and stared uncomprehendingly at the three articles he held. For a moment it seemed as though their eyes must have deceived them.

A card of small pearl buttons, a square of coarse knitting and a piece of paper on which were inscribed a row of capital E’s!

“Well,” said Battle. “I’m—I’m danged! What’s the meaning of this?”

“_Mon Dieu_,” muttered the Frenchman. “_Ça, c’est un peu trop fort!_”

“But what does it mean?” cried Virginia, bewildered.

“Mean?” said Anthony. “There’s only one thing it can mean. The late Count Stylptitch must have had a sense of humour! This is an example of that humour. I may say that I don’t consider it particularly funny myself.”

“Do you mind explaining your meaning a little more clearly, sir?” said Superintendent Battle.

“Certainly. This was the Count’s little joke. He must have suspected that his memorandum had been read. When the crooks came to recover the jewel, they were to find instead this extremely clever conundrum. It’s the sort of thing you pin on to yourself at Book Teas, when people have to guess what you are.”

“It has a meaning, then?”

“I should say, undoubtedly. If the Count had meant to be merely offensive, he would have put a placard with ‘Sold’ on it, or a picture of a donkey or something crude like that.”

“A bit of knitting, some capital E’s, and a lot of buttons,” muttered Battle discontentedly.

“_C’est inoui_,” said Lemoine angrily.

“Cipher No. 2,” said Anthony. “I wonder whether Professor Wynward would be any good at this one?”

“When was this passage last used, milady?” asked the Frenchman of Bundle.

Bundle reflected.

“I don’t believe anyone’s been into it for over two years. The Priest’s Hole is the show exhibit for Americans and tourists generally.”

“Curious,” murmured the Frenchman.

“Why curious?”

Lemoine stooped and picked up a small object from the floor.

“Because of this,” he said. “This match has not lain here for two years—not even for two days.”

Battle looked at the match curiously. It was of pink wood, with a yellow head.

“Any of you ladies or gentlemen drop this, by any chance?” he asked.

He received a negative all round.

“Well, then,” said Superintendent Battle, “we’ve seen all there is to see. We might as well get out of here.”

The proposal was assented to by all. The panel had swung to, but Bundle showed them how it was fastened from the inside. She unlatched it, swung it noiselessly open, and sprang through the opening, alighting in the Council Chamber with a resounding thud.

“Damn!” said Lord Caterham, springing up from an arm-chair in which he appeared to have been taking forty winks.

“Poor old father,” said Bundle. “Did I startle you?”

“I can’t think,” said Lord Caterham, “why nobody nowadays ever sits still after a meal. It’s a lost art. God knows Chimneys is big enough, but even here there doesn’t seem to be a single room where I can be sure of a little peace. Good Lord, how many of you are there? Reminds me of the Pantomimes I used to go to as a boy when hordes of demons used to pop up out of trapdoors.”

“Demon No. 7,” said Virginia, approaching him, and patting him on the head. “Don’t be cross. We’re just exploring secret passages, that’s all.”

“There seems to be a positive boom in secret passages to-day,” grumbled Lord Caterham, not yet completely mollified. “I’ve had to show that fellow Fish round them all this morning.”

“When was that?” asked Battle quickly.

“Just before lunch. It seems he’d heard of the one in here. I showed him that, and then took him up to the White Gallery, and we finished up with the Priest’s Hole. But his enthusiasm was waning by that time. He looked bored to death. But I made him go through with it.” Lord Caterham chuckled at the remembrance.

Anthony put a hand on Lemoine’s arm.

“Come outside,” he said softly. “I want to speak to you.”

The two men went out together through the window. When they had gone a sufficient distance from the house, Anthony drew from his pocket the scrap of paper that Boris had given him that morning.

“Look here,” he said. “Did you drop this?”

Lemoine took it and examined it with some interest.

“No,” he said. “I have never seen it before. Why?”

“Quite sure?”

“Absolutely sure, Monsieur.”

“That’s very odd.”

He repeated to Lemoine what Boris had said. The other listened with close attention.

“No, I did not drop it. You say he found it in that clump of trees?”

“Well, I assumed so, but he did not actually say so.”

“It is just possible that it might have fluttered out of M. Isaacstein’s suit-case. Question Boris again.” He handed the paper back to Anthony. After a minute or two he said: “What exactly do you know of this man Boris?”

Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

“I understood he was the late Prince Michael’s trusted servant.”

“It may be so, but make it your business to find out. Ask some one who knows, such as the Baron Lolopretjzyl. Perhaps this man was engaged but a few weeks ago. For myself, I have believed him honest. But who knows? King Victor is quite capable of making himself into a trusted servant at a moment’s notice.”

“Do you really think——”

Lemoine interrupted him.

“I will be quite frank. With me, King Victor is an obsession. I see him everywhere. At this moment even I ask myself—this man who is talking to me, this M. Cade, is he, perhaps, King Victor?”

“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”

“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one purpose only, to capture King Victor and to capture him red-handed. Nothing else matters.”

“Think you’ll do it?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.

“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.

“H’m!” said Anthony.

They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the French window in a wooden attitude.

“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M. Lemoine.”

“In what ways, M. Cade?”

“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”

Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”

“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”

He joined Superintendent Battle.

“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.

“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”

“Yes, I expect you have.”

“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”

“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty footprints to fall back upon, remember.”

But the superintendent did not smile.

“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.

“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied Anthony lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest vegetables. Why?”

“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”

“About me?”

Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting were the words:

“Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.”

Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.

“That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a King in disguise, you know.”

He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed. It grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared moodily at the floor.

“Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must be done about it. It’s all damned awkward....”

He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became suddenly focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened.

“Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.”

He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate at either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial which was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden.

Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another occupant of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him.

“I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said Anthony gently.

“Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.”

They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their opponents’ strength.

“So am I,” said Anthony.

“Is that so?”

“In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily.

A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips and at the same time Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax.

“Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stooping to point out a particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be. Yes, I am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau Carl Drusky. They have, I believe, renamed it. Over sensitive, perhaps but truly patriotic. The La France is always popular. Do you care for red roses at all, Mr. Cade? A bright scarlet rose now——”

Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out of a first-floor window.

“Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.”

“Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.”

“Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?”

Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared.

“Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good after luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match, have you?”

Mr. Fish handed him a match-box. Anthony helped himself, and handed back the box with a word of thanks.

“Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel particularly horticultural this afternoon.”

With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.

A thundering noise sounded from just outside the house.

“Pretty powerful engine she’s got in that car of hers,” remarked Anthony. “There, off she goes.”

They had a view of the car speeding down the long drive.

Anthony yawned again, and strolled towards the house.

He passed in through the door. Once inside, he seemed as though changed to quicksilver. He raced across the hall, out through one of the windows on the farther side, and across the park. Bundle, he knew, had to make a big détour by the lodge gates, and through the village.

He ran desperately. It was a race against time. He reached the park wall just as he heard the car outside. He swung himself up and dropped into the road.

“Hi!” cried Anthony.

In her astonishment, Bundle swerved half across the road. She managed to pull up without accident. Anthony ran after the car, opened the door, and jumped in beside Bundle.

“I’m coming to London with you,” he said. “I meant to all along.”

“Extraordinary person,” said Bundle. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

“Only a match,” said Anthony.

He regarded it thoughtfully. It was pink, with a yellow head. He threw away his unlighted cigarette, and put the match carefully into his pocket.

24

The House at Dover

“You don’t mind, I suppose,” said Bundle after a minute or two, “if I drive rather fast? I started later than I meant to do.”

It had seemed to Anthony that they were proceeding at a terrific speed already, but he soon saw that that was nothing compared to what Bundle could get out of the Panhard if she tried.

“Some people,” said Bundle, as she slowed down momentarily to pass through a village, “are terrified of my driving. Poor old father, for instance. Nothing would induce him to come up with me in this old bus.”

Privately, Anthony thought Lord Caterham was entirely justified. Driving with Bundle was not a sport to be indulged in by nervous, middle-aged gentlemen.

“But you don’t seem nervous a bit,” continued Bundle approvingly, as she swept round a corner on two wheels.

“I’m in pretty good training, you see,” explained Anthony gravely. “Also,” he added, as an afterthought, “I’m rather in a hurry myself.”

“Shall I speed her up a bit more?” asked Bundle kindly.

“Good Lord, no,” said Anthony hastily. “We’re averaging about fifty as it is.”

“I’m burning with curiosity to know the reason of this sudden departure,” said Bundle, after executing a fanfare upon the Klaxon which must temporarily have deafened the neighbourhood. “But I suppose I mustn’t ask? You’re not escaping from justice, are you?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Anthony. “I shall know soon.”

“That Scotland Yard man isn’t as much of a rabbit as I thought,” said Bundle thoughtfully.

“Battle’s a good man,” agreed Anthony.

“You ought to have been in diplomacy,” remarked Bundle. “You don’t part with much information, do you?”

“I was under the impression that I babbled.”

“Oh! Boy! You’re not eloping with Mademoiselle Brun, by any chance?”

“Not guilty!” said Anthony with fervour.

There was a pause of some minutes during which Bundle caught up and passed three other cars. Then she asked suddenly:

“How long have you known Virginia?”

“That’s a difficult question to answer,” said Anthony, with perfect truth. “I haven’t actually met her very often, and yet I seem to have known her a long time.”

Bundle nodded.

“Virginia’s got brains,” she remarked abruptly. “She’s always talking nonsense, but she’s got brains all right. She was frightfully good out in Herzoslovakia, I believe. If Tim Revel had lived he’d have had a fine career—and mostly owing to Virginia. She worked for him tooth and nail. She did everything in the world she could for him—and I know why, too.”

“Because she cared for him?” Anthony sat looking very straight ahead of him.

“No, because she didn’t. Don’t you see? She didn’t love him—she never loved him, and so she did everything on earth she could to make up. That’s Virginia all over. But don’t you make any mistake about it. Virginia was never in love with Tim Revel.”

“You seem very positive,” said Anthony, turning to look at her.

Bundle’s little hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and her chin was stuck out in a determined manner.

“I know a thing or two. I was only a kid at the time of her marriage, but I heard one or two things, and knowing Virginia I can put them together easily enough. Tim Revel was bowled over by Virginia—he was Irish, you know, and most attractive, with a genius for expressing himself well. Virginia was quite young—eighteen. She couldn’t go anywhere without seeing Tim in a state of picturesque misery, vowing he’d shoot himself or take to drink if she didn’t marry him. Girls believe these things—or used to—we’ve advanced a lot in the last eight years. Virginia was carried away by the feeling she thought she’d inspired. She married him—and she was an angel to him always. She wouldn’t have been half as much of an angel if she’d loved him. There’s a lot of the devil in Virginia. But I can tell you one thing—she enjoys her freedom. And anyone will have a hard time persuading her to give it up.”

“I wonder why you tell me all this?” said Anthony slowly.

“It’s interesting to know about people, isn’t it? Some people, that is.”

“I’ve wanted to know,” he acknowledged.

“And you’d never have heard from Virginia. But you can trust me for an inside tip from the stables. Virginia’s a darling. Even women like her because she isn’t a bit of a cat. And anyway,” Bundle ended, somewhat obscurely, “one must be a sport, mustn’t one?”

“Oh, certainly,” Anthony agreed. But he was still puzzled. He had no idea what had prompted Bundle to give him so much information unasked. That he was glad of it, he did not deny.

“Here are the trams,” said Bundle, with a sigh. “Now, I suppose, I shall have to drive carefully.”

“It might be as well,” agreed Anthony.

His ideas and Bundle’s on the subject of careful driving hardly coincided. Leaving indignant suburbs behind them, they finally emerged into Oxford Street.

“Not bad going, eh?” said Bundle, glancing at her wrist watch.

Anthony assented fervently.

“Where do you want to be dropped?”

“Anywhere. Which way are you going?”

“Knightsbridge way.”

“All right, drop me at Hyde Park Corner.”

“Good-bye,” said Bundle, as she drew up at the place indicated. “What about the return journey?”

“I’ll find my own way back, thanks very much.”

“I _have_ scared him,” remarked Bundle.

“I shouldn’t recommend driving with you as a tonic for nervous old ladies, but personally I’ve enjoyed it. The last time I was in equal danger was when I was charged by a herd of wild elephants.”

“I think you’re extremely rude,” remarked Bundle. “We’ve not even had one bump to-day.”

“I’m sorry if you’ve been holding yourself in on my account,” retorted Anthony.

“I don’t think men are really very brave,” said Bundle.

“That’s a nasty one,” said Anthony. “I retire, humiliated.” Bundle nodded and drove on. Anthony hailed a passing taxi. “Victoria Station,” he said to the driver as he got in.

When he got to Victoria he paid off the taxi and inquired for the next train to Dover. Unfortunately he had just missed one.

Resigning himself to a wait of something over an hour, Anthony paced up and down, his brows knit. Once or twice he shook his head impatiently.

The journey to Dover was uneventful. Arrived there, Anthony passed quickly out of the station, and then, as though suddenly remembering, he turned back again. There was a slight smile on his lips as he asked to be directed to Hurstmere, Langly Road.

The road in question was a long one, leading right out of the town. According to the porter’s instructions, Hurstmere was the last house. Anthony trudged along steadily. The little pucker had reappeared between his eyes. Nevertheless there was a new elation in his manner, as always when danger was near at hand.

Hurstmere was, as the porter had said, the last house in Langly Road. It stood well back, enclosed in its own grounds, which were ragged and overgrown. The place, Anthony judged, must have been empty for many years. A large iron gate swung rustily on its hinges, and the name on the gatepost was half obliterated.

“A lonely spot,” muttered Anthony to himself, “and a good one to choose.”

He hesitated a minute or two, glanced quickly up and down the road—which was quite deserted—and then slipped quietly past the creaking gate into the overgrown drive. He walked up it a little way, and then stood listening. He was still some distance from the house. Not a sound could be heard anywhere. Some fast yellowing leaves detached themselves from one of the trees overhead and fell with a soft rustling sound that was almost sinister in the stillness. Anthony started; then smiled.

“Nerves,” he murmured to himself. “Never knew I had such things before.”

He went on up the drive. Presently, as the drive curved, he slipped into the shrubbery and so continued his way unseen from the house. Suddenly he stood still, peering out through the leaves. Some distance away a dog was barking, but it was a sound nearer at hand that had attracted Anthony’s attention.

His keen hearing had not been mistaken. A man came rapidly round the corner of the house, a short square, thickset man, foreign in appearance. He did not pause but walked steadily on, circling the house and disappearing again.

Anthony nodded to himself.

“Sentry,” he murmured. “They do the thing quite well.”

As soon as he had passed, Anthony went on, diverging to the left, and so following in the footsteps of the sentry.

His own footsteps were quite noiseless.

The wall of the house was on his right, and presently he came to where a broad blur of light fell on the gravelled walk. The sound of several men talking together was clearly audible.

“My God! what double-dyed idiots,” murmured Anthony to himself. “It would serve them right to be given a fright.”

He stole up to the window, stooping a little so that he should not be seen. Presently he lifted his head very carefully to the level of the sill and looked in.

Half a dozen men were sprawling round a table. Four of them were big thickset men, with high cheek-bones, and eyes set in Magyar slanting fashion. The other two were rat-like little men with quick gestures. The language that was being spoken was French, but the four big men spoke it with uncertainty and a hoarse guttural intonation.

“The Boss?” growled one of these. “When will he be here?”

One of the smaller men shrugged his shoulders.

“Any time now.”

“About time, too,” growled the first man. “I have never seen him, this Boss of yours, but, oh, what great and glorious work might we not have accomplished in these days of idle waiting!”

“Fool,” said the other little man bitingly. “Getting nabbed by the police is all the great and glorious work you and your precious lot would have been likely to accomplish. A lot of blundering gorillas?”

“Aha!” roared another big thickset fellow. “You insult the Comrades? I will soon set the sign of the Red Hand round your throat.”

He half rose, glaring ferociously at the Frenchman, but one of his companions pulled him back again.

“No quarreling,” he grunted. “We’re to work together. From all I heard this King Victor doesn’t stand for being disobeyed.”

In the darkness, Anthony heard the footsteps of the sentry coming his round again, and he drew back behind a bush.

“Who’s that?” said one of the men inside.

“Carlo—going his rounds.”

“Oh! What about the prisoner?”

“He’s all right—coming round pretty fast now. He’s recovered well from the crack on the head we gave him.”

Anthony moved gently away.

“God! what a lot,” he muttered. “They discuss their affairs with an open window, and that fool Carlo goes his round with the tread of an elephant, and the eyes of a bat. And to crown all, the Herzoslovakians and the French are on the point of coming to blows. King Victor’s headquarters seem to be in a parlous condition. It would amuse me, it would amuse me very much, to teach them a lesson.”

He stood irresolute for a minute, smiling to himself.

From somewhere above his head came a stifled groan.

Anthony looked up. The groan came again.

Anthony glanced quickly from left to right. Carlo was not due round again just yet. He grasped the heavy Virginia creeper and climbed nimbly till he reached the sill of a window. The window was shut, but with a tool from his pocket he soon succeeded in forcing up the catch.

He paused a minute to listen, then sprang lightly inside the room. There was a bed in the far corner and on that bed a man was lying, his figure barely discernible in the gloom.

Anthony went over to the bed, and flashed his pocket torch on the man’s face. It was a foreign face, pale and emaciated, and the head was swathed in heavy bandages.

The man was bound hand and foot. He stared up at Anthony like one dazed.

Anthony bent over him, and as he did so he heard a sound behind him and swung round, his hand travelling to his coat pocket.

But a sharp command arrested him.

“Hands up, sonny. You didn’t expect to see me here, but I happened to catch the same train as you at Victoria.”

It was Mr. Hiram Fish who was standing in the doorway. He was smiling and in his hand was a big blue automatic.

25

Tuesday Night at Chimneys

Lord Caterham, Virginia and Bundle were sitting in the library after dinner. It was Tuesday evening. Some thirty hours had elapsed since Anthony’s rather dramatic departure.

For at least the seventh time Bundle repeated Anthony’s parting words, as spoken at Hyde Park Corner.

“I’ll find my own way back,” repeated Virginia thoughtfully. “That doesn’t look as though he expected to be away as long as this. And he’s left all his things here.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”

“No,” said Virginia, looking straight in front of her. “He told me nothing.”

After this, there was a silence for a minute or two. Lord Caterham was the first to break it.

“On the whole,” he said, “keeping an hotel has some advantages over keeping a country house.”

“Meaning——?”

“That little notice they always hang up in your room. Visitors intending departure must give notice before twelve o’clock.”

Virginia smiled.

“I dare say,” he continued, “that I am old-fashioned and unreasonable. It’s the fashion, I know, to pop in and out of a house. Same idea as an hotel—perfect freedom of action, and no bill at the end!”

“You are an old grouser,” said Bundle. “You’ve had Virginia and me. What more do you want?”