Chapter VIII: Part 8

“Nothing more, nothing more,” Lord Caterham assured them hastily. “That’s not it at all. It’s the principle of the thing. It gives one such a restless feeling. I’m quite willing to admit that it’s been an almost ideal twenty-four hours. Peace—perfect peace. No burglaries or other crimes of violence, no detectives, no Americans. What I complain of is that I should have enjoyed it all so much more if I’d felt really secure. As it is, all the time I’ve been saying to myself ‘One or other of them is bound to turn up in a minute.’ And that spoilt the whole thing.”

“Well, nobody has turned up,” said Bundle. “We’ve been left severely alone—neglected, in fact. It’s odd the way Fish disappeared. Didn’t he say anything?”

“Not a word. Last time I saw him he was pacing up and down the Rose Garden yesterday afternoon, smoking one of those unpleasant cigars of his. After that he seems to have just melted into the landscape.”

“Somebody must have kidnapped him,” said Bundle hopefully.

“In another day or two, I expect we shall have Scotland Yard dragging the lake to find his dead body,” said her father gloomily. “It serves me right. At my time of life, I ought to have gone quietly abroad and taken care of my health, and not allowed myself to be drawn into George Lomax’s wild-cat schemes. I——”

He was interrupted by Tredwell.

“Well,” said Lord Caterham irritably, “what is it?”

“The French detective is here, my lord, and would be glad if you could spare him a few minutes.”

“What did I tell you?” said Lord Caterham. “I knew it was too good to last. Depend upon it, they’ve found Fish’s dead body doubled up in the goldfish pond.”

Tredwell, in a strictly respectful manner, steered him back to the point of issue.

“Am I to say that you will see him, my lord?”

“Yes, yes. Bring him in here.”

Tredwell departed. He returned a minute or two later announcing in a lugubrious voice:

“Monsieur Lemoine.”

The Frenchman came in with a quick, light step. His walk, more than his face, betrayed the fact that he was excited about something.

“Good evening, Lemoine,” said Lord Caterham. “Have a drink, won’t you?”

“I thank you, no.” He bowed punctiliously to the ladies. “At last I make progress. As things are, I felt that you should be acquainted with the discoveries—the very grave discoveries that I have made in the course of the last twenty-four hours.”

“I thought there must be something important going on somewhere,” said Lord Caterham.

“My lord, yesterday afternoon one of your guests left this house in a curious manner. From the beginning, I must tell you, I have had my suspicions. Here is a man who comes from the wilds. Two months ago he was in South Africa. Before that—where?”

Virginia drew a sharp breath. For a moment the Frenchman’s eyes rested on her doubtfully. Then he went on:

“Before that—where? None can say. And he is just such a one as the man I am looking for—gay, audacious, reckless, one who would dare anything. I send cable after cable, but I can get no word as to his past life. Ten years ago he was in Canada, yes, but since then—silence. My suspicions grow stronger. Then I picked up one day a scrap of paper where he has lately passed along. It bears an address—the address of a house in Dover. Later, as though by chance, I drop that same piece of paper. Out of the tail of my eye, I see this Boris, this Herzoslovakian, pick it up and take it to his master. All along I have been sure that this Boris is an emissary of the Comrades of the Red Hand. We know that the Comrades are working in with King Victor over this affair. If Boris recognized his Chief in Mr. Anthony Cade, would he not do just what he has done—transferred his allegiance? Why should he attach himself otherwise to an insignificant stranger? It was suspicious, I tell you, very suspicious.

“But almost I am disarmed, for Anthony Cade brings this same paper to me at once and asks me if I have dropped it. As I say, almost I am disarmed—but not quite! For it may mean that he is innocent, or it may mean that he is very, very clever. I deny, of course, that it is mine or that I dropped it. But in the meantime I have set inquiries on foot. Only to-day I have news. The house at Dover has been precipitately abandoned, but up till yesterday afternoon it was occupied by a body of foreigners. Not a doubt but that it was King Victor’s headquarters. Now see the significance of these points. Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Cade clears out from here precipitately. Ever since he dropped that paper, he must know that the game is up. He reaches Dover and immediately the gang is disbanded. What the next move will be, I do not know. What is quite certain is that Mr. Anthony Cade will not return here. But knowing King Victor, as I do, I am certain that he will not abandon the game without having one more try for the jewel. And that is when I shall get him!”

Virginia stood up suddenly. She walked across to the mantelpiece and spoke in a voice that rang cold like steel.

“You are leaving one thing out of account, I think, M. Lemoine,” she said. “Mr. Cade is not the only guest who disappeared yesterday in a suspicious manner.”

“You mean, Madame——?”

“That all you have said applies equally well to another person. What about Mr. Hiram Fish?”

“Oh, Mr. Fish!”

“Yes, Mr. Fish. Did you not tell us that first night that King Victor had lately come to England from America? So has Mr. Fish come to England from America. It is true that he brought a letter of introduction from a very well-known man, but surely that would be a simple thing for a man like King Victor to manage. He is certainly not what he pretends to be. Lord Caterham has commented on the fact that when it is a question of the first editions he is supposed to have come here to see he is always the listener, never the talker. And there are several suspicious facts against him. There was a light in his window the night of the murder. Then take that evening in the Council Chamber. When I met him on the terrace he was fully dressed. _He_ could have dropped the paper. You didn’t actually _see_ Mr. Cade do so. Mr. Cade may have gone to Dover. If he did it was simply to investigate. He may have been kidnapped there. I say that there is far more suspicion attaching to Mr. Fish’s actions than to Mr. Cade’s.”

The Frenchman’s voice rang out sharply:

“From your point of view, that well may be, Madame. I do not dispute it. And I agree that Mr. Fish is not what he seems.”

“Well, then?”

“But that makes no difference. _You see, Madame, Mr. Fish is a Pinkerton’s man._”

“What?” cried Lord Caterham.

“Yes, Lord Caterham. He came over here to trail King Victor. Superintendent Battle and I have known this for some time.”

Virginia said nothing. Very slowly she sat down again. With those few words the structure that she had built up so carefully was scattered in ruins about her feet.

“You see,” Lemoine was continuing, “we have all known that eventually King Victor would come to Chimneys. It was the one place we were sure of catching him.”

Virginia looked up with an odd light in her eyes, and suddenly she laughed.

“You’ve not caught him yet,” she said.

Lemoine looked at her curiously.

“No, Madame. But I shall.”

“He’s supposed to be rather famous for outwitting people, isn’t he?”

The Frenchman’s face darkened with anger.

“This time, it will be different,” he said between his teeth.

“He’s a very attractive fellow,” said Lord Caterham. “Very attractive. But surely—why, you said he was an old friend of yours, Virginia?”

“That is why,” said Virginia composedly, “I think M. Lemoine must be making a mistake.”

And her eyes met the detective’s steadily, but he appeared in no wise discomfited.

“Time will show, Madame,” he said.

“Do you pretend that it was he who shot Prince Michael?” she asked presently.

“Certainly.”

But Virginia shook her head.

“Oh, no!” she said. “Oh, no! That is one thing I am quite sure of. Anthony Cade never killed Prince Michael.”

Lemoine was watching her intently.

“There is a possibility that you are right, Madame,” he said slowly. “A possibility, that is all. It may have been the Herzoslovakian, Boris, who exceeded his orders and fired that shot. Who knows, Prince Michael may have done him some great wrong, and the man sought revenge.”

“He looks a murderous sort of fellow,” agreed Lord Caterham. “The house-maids, I believe, scream when he passes them in the passages.”

“Well,” said Lemoine. “I must be going now. I felt it was due to you, my lord, to know exactly how things stand.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Lord Caterham. “Quite certain you won’t have a drink? All right then. Good night.”

“I hate that man with his prim little black beard and his eyeglasses,” said Bundle, as soon as the door had shut behind him. “I hope Anthony _does_ snoo him. I’d love to see him dancing with rage. What do you think about it all, Virginia?”

“I don’t know,” said Virginia. “I’m tired. I shall go up to bed.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Lord Caterham. “It’s half-past eleven.”

As Virginia was crossing the wide hall, she caught sight of a broad back that seemed familiar to her discreetly vanishing through a side door.

“Superintendent Battle,” she called imperiously.

The superintendent, for it was indeed he, retraced his steps with a shade of unwillingness.

“Yes, Mrs. Revel?”

“M. Lemoine has been here. He says—— Tell me, is it true, really true, that Mr. Fish is an American detective?”

Superintendent Battle nodded.

“That’s right.”

“You have known it all along?”

Again Superintendent Battle nodded.

Virginia turned away towards the staircase.

“I see,” she said. “Thank you.”

Until that minute she had refused to believe.

And now——?

Sitting down before her dressing-table in her own room, she faced the question squarely. Every word that Anthony had said came back to her fraught with a new significance.

Was this the “trade” that he had spoken of?

The trade that he had given up. But then——

An unusual sound disturbed the even tenor of her meditations. She lifted her head with a start. Her little gold clock showed the hour to be after one. Nearly two hours she had sat here thinking.

Again the sound was repeated. A sharp tap on the window-pane. Virginia went to the window and opened it. Below on the pathway was a tall figure which even as she looked stooped for another handful of gravel.

For a moment Virginia’s heart beat faster—then she recognized the massive strength and square-cut outline of the Herzoslovakian, Boris.

“Yes,” she said in a low tone. “What is it?”

At the moment it did not strike her as strange that Boris should be throwing gravel at her window at this hour of the night.

“What is it?” she repeated impatiently.

“I come from the Master,” said Boris in a low tone which nevertheless carried perfectly. “He has sent for you.”

He made the statement in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone.

“Sent for me?”

“Yes, I am to bring you to him. There is a note. I will throw it up to you.”

Virginia stood back a little, and a slip of paper, weighted with a stone, fell accurately at her feet. She unfolded it and read:

“_My dear_ (Anthony had written),—_I’m in a tight place, but I mean to win through. Will you trust me and come to me?_”

For quite two minutes Virginia stood there, immovable, reading those few words over again and again.

She raised her head, looking round the well-appointed luxury of the bedroom as though she saw it with new eyes.

Then she leaned out of the window again.

“What am I to do?” she asked.

“The detectives are the other side of the house, outside the Council Chamber. Come down and out through this side door. I will be there. I have a car waiting outside in the road.”

Virginia nodded. Quickly she changed her dress for one of fawn tricot, and pulled on a little fawn leather hat.

Then, smiling a little, she wrote a short note, addressed it to Bundle and pinned it to the pincushion.

She stole quietly downstairs and undid the bolts of the side door. Just a moment she paused, then, with a little gallant toss of the head, the same toss of the head which her ancestors had gone into action in the Crusades, she passed through.

26

The 13th of October

At ten o’clock on the morning of Wednesday, the 13th of October, Anthony Cade walked into Harridge’s Hotel and asked for Baron Lolopretjzyl who was occupying a suite there.

After suitable and imposing delay, Anthony was taken to the suite in question. The Baron was standing on the hearthrug in a correct and stiff fashion. Little Captain Andrassy, equally correct as to demeanour, but with a slightly hostile attitude, was also present.

The usual bows, clicking of heels, and other formal greetings of etiquette took place. Anthony was, by now, thoroughly conversant with the routine.

“You will forgive this early call I trust, Baron,” he said cheerfully, laying down his hat and stick on the table. “As a matter of fact, I have a little business proposition to make to you.”

“Ha! Is that so?” said the Baron.

Captain Andrassy, who had never overcome his initial distrust of Anthony, looked suspicious.

“Business,” said Anthony, “is based on the well-known principle of supply and demand. You want something, the other man has it. The only thing left to settle is the price.”

The Baron looked at him attentively, but said nothing.

“Between a Herzoslovakian nobleman and an English gentleman the terms should be easily arranged,” said Anthony rapidly.

He blushed a little as he said it. Such words do not rise easily to an Englishman’s lips, but he had observed on previous occasions the enormous effect of such phraseology upon the Baron’s mentality. True enough, the charm worked.

“That is so,” said the Baron approvingly, nodding his head. “That is entirely so.”

Even Captain Andrassy appeared to unbend a little, and nodded his head also.

“Very good,” said Anthony. “I won’t beat about the bush any more——”

“What is that, you say?” interrupted the Baron. “To beat about the bush? I do not comprehend?”

“A mere figure of speech, Baron. To speak in plain English, _you_ want the goods, _we_ have them! The ship is all very well, but it lacks a figurehead. By the ship, I mean the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia. At the present minute you lack the principal plank of your political programme. You are minus a Prince! Now supposing—only supposing, that I could supply you with a Prince?”

The Baron stared.

“I do not comprehend you in the least,” he declared.

“Sir,” said Captain Andrassy, twirling his moustache fiercely, “you are insulting!”

“Not at all,” said Anthony. “I’m trying to be helpful. Supply and demand, you understand. It’s all perfectly fair and square. No Princes supplied unless genuine—see trademark. If we come to terms, you’ll find it’s quite all right. I’m offering you the real genuine article—out of the bottom drawer.”

“Not in the least,” the Baron declared again, “do I comprehend you.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Anthony kindly. “I just want you to get used to the idea. To put it vulgarly, I’ve got something up my sleeve. Just get hold of this. You want a Prince. Under certain conditions, I will undertake to supply you with one.”

The Baron and Andrassy stared at him. Anthony took up his hat and stick again and prepared to depart.

“Just think it over. Now, Baron, there is one thing further. You must come down to Chimneys this evening—Captain Andrassy also. Several very curious things are likely to happen there. Shall we make an appointment? Say in the Council Chamber at nine o’clock? Thank you, gentlemen, I may rely upon you to be there?”

The Baron took a step forward and looked searchingly in Anthony’s face.

“Mr. Cade,” he said, not without dignity, “it is not, I hope, that you wish to make fun of me?”

Anthony returned his gaze steadily.

“Baron,” he said, and there was a curious note in his voice, “when this evening is over, I think you will be the first to admit that there is more earnest than jest about this business.”

Bowing to both the men, he left the room.

His next call was in the City where he sent in his card to Mr. Herman Isaacstein.

After some delay, Anthony was received by a pale and exquisitely dressed underling with an engaging manner, and a military title.

“You wanted to see Mr. Isaacstein, didn’t you?” said the young man. “I’m afraid he’s most awfully busy this morning—board meetings and all that sort of thing, you know. Is it anything that I can do?”

“I must see him personally,” said Anthony, and added carelessly. “I’ve just come up from Chimneys.”

The young man was slightly staggered by the mention of Chimneys.

“Oh!” he said doubtfully. “Well, I’ll see.”

“Tell him it’s important,” said Anthony.

“Message from Lord Caterham?” suggested the young man.

“Something of the kind,” said Anthony, “but it’s imperative that I should see Mr. Isaacstein at once.”

Two minutes later, Anthony was conducted into a sumptuous inner sanctum where he was principally impressed by the immense size and roomy depths of the leather-covered arm-chairs.

Mr. Isaacstein rose to greet him.

“You must forgive my looking you up like this,” said Anthony. “I know that you’re a busy man, and I’m not going to waste more of your time than I can help. It’s just a little matter of business that I want to put before you.”

Isaacstein looked at him attentively for a minute or two out of his beady black eyes.

“Have a cigar,” he said unexpectedly, holding out an open box.

“Thank you,” said Anthony. “I don’t mind if I do.”

He helped himself.

“It’s about this Herzoslovakian business,” continued Anthony, as he accepted a match. He noted the momentary flickering of the other’s steady gaze. “The murder of Prince Michael must have rather upset the applecart.”

Mr. Isaacstein raised one eyebrow, murmured “Ah?” interrogatively and transferred his gaze to the ceiling.

“Oil,” said Anthony, thoughtfully surveying the polished surface of the desk. “Wonderful thing, oil.”

He felt the slight start the financier gave.

“Do you mind coming to the point, Mr. Cade?”

“Not at all. I imagine, Mr. Isaacstein, that if those Oil concessions are granted to another company you won’t be exactly pleased about it?”

“What’s the proposition?” asked the other, looking straight at him.

“A suitable claimant to the throne, full of pro-British sympathies.”

“Where have you got him?”

“That’s my business.”

Isaacstein acknowledged the retort by a slight smile, his glance had grown hard and keen.

“The genuine article? I can’t stand for any funny business.”

“The absolute genuine article.”

“Straight?”

“Straight.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You don’t seem to take much convincing?” said Anthony, looking curiously at him.

Herman Isaacstein smiled.

“I shouldn’t be where I am now if I hadn’t learnt to know whether a man is speaking the truth or not,” he replied simply. “What terms do you want?”

“The same loan, on the same conditions, that you offered to Prince Michael?”

“What about yourself?”

“For the moment, nothing, except that I want you to come down to Chimneys to-night.”

“No,” said Isaacstein, with some decision. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Dining out—rather an important dinner.”

“All the same, I’m afraid you’ll have to cut it out—for your own sake.”

“What do you mean?”

Anthony looked at him for a full minute before he said slowly:

“Do you know that they’ve found the revolver, the one Michael was shot with? Do you know where they found it? In your suit-case.”

“What?”

Isaacstein almost leapt from his chair. His face was frenzied.

“What are you saying? What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you.”

Very obligingly, Anthony narrated the occurrences in connection with the finding of the revolver. As he spoke the other’s face assumed a greyish tinge of absolute terror.

“But it’s false,” he screamed out, as Anthony finished. “I never put it there. I know nothing about it. It is a plot.”

“Don’t excite yourself,” said Anthony soothingly. “If that’s the case you’ll easily be able to prove it.”

“Prove it? How can I prove it?”

“If I were you,” said Anthony gently, “I’d come to Chimneys to-night.”

Isaacstein looked at him doubtfully.

“You advise it?”

Anthony leant forward and whispered to him. The financier fell back in amazement, staring at him.

“You actually mean——”

“Come and see,” said Anthony.

27

The 13th of October (contd.)

The clock in the Council Chamber struck nine.

“Well,” said Lord Caterham, with a deep sigh. “Here they all are, just like little Bo Peep’s flock, back again and wagging their tails behind them.”

He looked sadly round the room.

“Organ grinder complete with monkey,” he murmured, fixing the Baron with his eye. “Nosy Parker of Throgmorton Street——”

“I think you’re rather unkind to the Baron,” protested Bundle, to whom these confidences were being poured out. “He told me that he considered you the perfect example of English hospitality amongst the _haute noblesse_.”

“I daresay,” said Lord Caterham. “He’s always saying things like that. It makes him most fatiguing to talk to. But I can tell you I’m not nearly as much of the hospitable English gentleman as I was. As soon as I can, I shall let Chimneys to an enterprising American, and go and live in an hotel. There, if anyone worries you, you can just ask for your bill and go.”

“Cheer up,” said Bundle. “We seem to have lost Mr. Fish for good.”

“I always found him rather amusing,” said Lord Caterham, who was in a contradictory temper. “It’s that precious young man of yours who has let me in for this. Why should I have this Board meeting called in my house? Why doesn’t he rent The Larches or Elmhurst, or some nice villa residence like that at Streatham, and hold his company meetings there?”

“Wrong atmosphere,” said Bundle.

“No one is going to play any tricks on us, I hope?” said her father nervously. “I don’t trust that French fellow, Lemoine. The French police are up to all sorts of dodges. Put India-rubber bands round your arm, and then reconstruct the crime and make you jump, and it’s registered on a thermometer. I know that when they call out ‘Who killed Prince Michael?’ I shall register a hundred and twenty-two, or something perfectly frightful, and they’ll haul me off to gaol at once.”

The door opened and Tredwell announced:

“Mr. George Lomax. Mr. Eversleigh.”

“Enter Codders, followed by faithful dog,” murmured Bundle.

Bill made a bee-line for her, whilst George greeted Lord Caterham in the genial manner he assumed for public occasions.

“My dear Caterham,” said George, shaking him by the hand, “I got your message, and came over, of course.”

“Very good of you, my dear fellow, very good of you. Delighted to see you.” Lord Caterham’s conscience always drove him on to an excess of geniality when he was conscious of feeling none. “Not that it was my message, but that doesn’t matter at all.”

In the meantime, Bill was attacking Bundle in an undertone.

“I say. What’s it all about? What’s this I hear about Virginia bolting off in the middle of the night? She’s not been kidnapped, has she?”

“Oh, no,” said Bundle. “She left a note pinned to the pincushion in the orthodox fashion.”

“She’s not gone off with anyone, has she? Not with that Colonial Johnny? I never liked the fellow and, from all I hear, there seems to be an idea floating around that he himself is the super crook. But I don’t quite see how that can be?”

“Why not?”

“Well, this King Victor was a French fellow, and Cade’s English enough.”

“You don’t happen to have heard that King Victor was an accomplished linguist, and, moreover, was half Irish?”

“Oh, Lord! Then that’s why he’s made himself scarce, is it?”

“I don’t know about his making himself scarce. He disappeared the day before yesterday, as you know. But this morning we got a wire from him, saying he would be down here at 9 P.M. to-night, and suggesting that Codders should be asked over. All these other people have turned up as well—asked by Mr. Cade.”

“It is a gathering,” said Bill, looking round. “One French detective by window, one English ditto by fireplace. Strong foreign element. The Stars and Stripes don’t seem to be represented?”

Bundle shook her head.

“Mr. Fish has disappeared into the blue. Virginia’s not here either. But every one else is assembled, and I have a feeling in my bones, Bill, that we are drawing very near to the moment when somebody says ‘James, the footman,’ and everything is revealed. We’re only waiting now for Anthony Cade to arrive.”

“He’ll never show up,” said Bill.

“Then why call this company meeting, as Father calls it?”

“Ah, there’s some deep idea behind that. Depend upon it. Wants us all here while he’s somewhere else—you know the sort of thing.”

“You don’t think he’ll come, then?”

“No fear. Run his head into the lion’s mouth? Why, the room’s bristling with detectives and high officials.”

“You don’t know much about King Victor, if you think that would deter him. By all accounts, it’s the kind of situation he loves above all, and he always manages to come out on top.”

Mr. Eversleigh shook his head doubtfully.

“That would take some doing—with the dice loaded against him. He’ll never——”

The door opened again and Tredwell announced:

“Mr. Cade.”

Anthony came straight across to his host.

“Lord Caterham,” he said, “I’m giving you a frightful lot of trouble, and I’m awfully sorry about it. But I really do think that to-night will see the clearing up of the mystery.”

Lord Caterham looked mollified. He had always had a secret liking for Anthony.

“No trouble at all,” he said heartily.

“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “We’re all here, I see. Then I can get on with the good work.”

“I don’t understand,” said George Lomax weightily. “I don’t understand in the least. This is all very irregular. Mr. Cade has no standing—no standing whatever. The position is a very difficult and delicate one. I am strongly of the opinion——”

George’s flood of eloquence was arrested. Moving unobtrusively to the great man’s side, Superintendent Battle whispered a few words in his ear. George looked perplexed and baffled.

“Very well, if you say so,” he remarked grudgingly. Then added in a louder tone, “I’m sure we are all willing to listen to what Mr. Cade has to say.”

Anthony ignored the palpable condescension of the other’s tone.

“It’s just a little idea of mine, that’s all,” he said cheerfully. “Probably all of you know that we got hold of a certain message in cipher the other day. There was a reference to Richmond, and some numbers.” He paused. “Well, we had a shot at solving it—and we failed. Now in the late Count Stylptitch’s Memoirs (which I happen to have read) there is a reference to a certain dinner—a ‘Flower’ dinner which every one attended wearing a badge representing a flower. The Count himself wore the exact duplicate of that curious device we found in the cavity in the secret passage. It represented a Rose. If you remember, it was all _rows_ of things—buttons, letter E’s, and finally rows of knitting. Now, gentlemen, what is there in this house that is arranged in rows? Books, isn’t that so? Add to that, that in the catalogue of Lord Caterham’s library there is a book called _The Life of the Earl of Richmond_, and I think you will get a very fair idea of the hiding-place. Starting at the volume in question, and using the numbers to denote shelves and books, I think you will find that the—er—object of our search is concealed in a dummy book, or in a cavity behind a particular book.”

Anthony looked round modestly, obviously waiting for applause.

“Upon my word, that’s very ingenious,” said Lord Caterham.

“Quite ingenious,” admitted George condescendingly. “But it remains to be seen——”

Anthony laughed.

“The proof of the pudding’s in the eating—eh? Well, I’ll soon settle that for you.” He sprang to his feet. “I’ll go to the library——”

He got no further. M. Lemoine moved forward from the window.

“Just one moment, Mr. Cade. You permit, Lord Caterham?”

He went to the writing-table and hurriedly scribbled a few lines. He sealed them up in an envelope, and then rang the bell. Tredwell appeared in answer to it. Lemoine handed him the note.

“See that that is delivered at once, if you please.”

“Very good, sir,” said Tredwell.

With his usual dignified tread he withdrew.

Anthony, who had been standing, irresolute, sat down again.

“What’s the big idea, Lemoine?” he asked gently.

There was a sudden sense of strain in the atmosphere.

“If the jewel is where you say it is—well, it has been there for over seven years—a quarter of an hour more does not matter.”

“Go on,” said Anthony. “That wasn’t all you wanted to say?”

“No, it was not. At this juncture, it is—unwise to permit any one person to leave the room. Especially if that person has rather questionable antecedents.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows, and lighted a cigarette.

“I suppose a vagabond life is not very respectable,” he mused.

“Two months ago, Mr. Cade, you were in South Africa. That is admitted. Where were you before that?”

Anthony leaned back in his chair, idly blowing smoke rings.

“Canada. Wild North West.”

“Are you sure you were not in prison? A French prison?”

Automatically, Superintendent Battle moved a step nearer the door, as if to cut off a retreat that way, but Anthony showed no signs of doing anything dramatic.

Instead, he stared at the French detective, and then burst out laughing.

“My poor Lemoine. It is a monomania with you! You do indeed see King Victor everywhere. So you fancy that I am that interesting gentleman?”

“Do you deny it?”

Anthony brushed a fleck of ash from his coat sleeve.

“I never deny anything that amuses me,” he said lightly. “But the accusation is really too ridiculous.”

“Ah! you think so?” The Frenchman leant forward. His face was twitching painfully, and yet he seemed perplexed and baffled—as though something in Anthony’s manner puzzled him. “What if I tell you, Monsieur, that this time—this time—I am out to get King Victor, and nothing shall stop me!”

“Very laudable,” was Anthony’s comment. “You’ve been out to get him before, though, haven’t you, Lemoine? And he’s got the better of you. Aren’t you afraid that that may happen again? He’s a slippery fellow, by all accounts.”

The conversation had developed into a duel between the detective and Anthony. Every one else in the room was conscious of the tension. It was a fight to a finish between the Frenchman, painfully in earnest, and the man who smoked so calmly and whose words seemed to show that he had not a care in the world.

“If I were you, Lemoine,” continued Anthony, “I should be very, very careful. Watch your step, and all that sort of thing.”

“This time,” said Lemoine grimly, “there will be no mistake.”

“You seem very sure about it all,” said Anthony. “But there’s such a thing as evidence, you know.”

Lemoine smiled, and something in his smile seemed to attract Anthony’s attention. He sat up and stubbed out his cigarette.

“You saw that note I wrote just now?” said the French detective. “It was to my people at the inn. Yesterday I received from France the fingerprints and the Bertillon measurements of King Victor—the so-called Captain O’Neill. I have asked for them to be sent up to me here. In a few minutes we shall _know_ whether you are the man!”

Anthony stared steadily at him. Then a little smile crept over his face.

“You’re really rather clever, Lemoine. I never thought of that. The documents will arrive, you will induce me to dip my fingers in the ink, or something equally unpleasant, you will measure my ears and look for my distinguishing marks. And if they agree——”

“Well,” said Lemoine, “if they agree—eh?”

Anthony leaned forward in his chair.

“Well, if they do agree,” he said very gently, “what then?”

“What then?” The detective seemed taken aback. “But—I shall have proved then that you are King Victor!”

But for the first time, a shade of uncertainty crept into his manner.

“That will doubtless be a great satisfaction to you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t quite see where it’s going to hurt me. I’m not admitting anything, but supposing, just for the sake of argument, that I was King Victor—I might be trying to repent, you know.”

“Repent?”

“That’s the idea. Put yourself in King Victor’s place, Lemoine. Use your imagination. You’ve just come out of prison. You’re getting on in life. You’ve lost the first fine rapture of the adventurous life. Say, even, that you meet a beautiful girl. You think of marrying and settling down somewhere in the country where you can grow vegetable marrows. You decide from henceforth to lead a blameless life. Put yourself in King Victor’s place. Can’t you imagine feeling like that?”

“I do not think that I should feel like that,” said Lemoine with a sardonic smile.

“Perhaps you wouldn’t,” admitted Anthony. “But then you’re not King Victor, are you? You can’t possibly know what he feels like.”

“But it is nonsense, what you are saying there,” spluttered the Frenchman.

“Oh, no, it isn’t. Come now, Lemoine, if I’m King Victor, what have you against me after all? You could never get the necessary evidence in the old, old days, remember. I’ve served my sentence, and that’s all there is to it. I suppose you could arrest me for the French equivalent of ‘Loitering with intent to commit a felony,’ but that would be poor satisfaction, wouldn’t it?”

“You forget,” said Lemoine. “America! How about this business of obtaining money under false pretences, and passing yourself off as Prince Nicholas Obolovitch?”

“No good, Lemoine,” said Anthony, “I was nowhere near America at the time. And I can prove that easily enough. If King Victor impersonated Prince Nicholas in America, then I’m not King Victor. You’re sure he _was_ impersonated? That it wasn’t the man himself?”

Superintendent Battle suddenly interposed.

“The man was an impostor all right, Mr. Cade.”

“I wouldn’t contradict you, Battle,” said Anthony. “You have such a habit of being always right. Are you equally sure that Prince Nicholas died in the Congo?”

Battle looked at him curiously.

“I wouldn’t swear to that, sir. But it’s generally believed.”

“Careful man. What’s your motto? Plenty of rope, eh? I’ve taken a leaf out of your book. I’ve given M. Lemoine plenty of rope. I’ve not denied his accusations. But, all the same, I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed. You see I always believe in having something up one’s sleeve. Anticipating that some little unpleasantness might arise here, I took the precaution to bring a trump card along with me. It—or rather he—is upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” said Lord Caterham, very interested.

“Yes, he’s been having rather a trying time of it lately, poor fellow. Got a nasty bump on the head from some one. I’ve been looking after him.”

Suddenly the deep voice of Mr. Isaacstein broke in:

“Can we guess who he is?”

“If you like,” said Anthony, “but——”

Lemoine interrupted with sudden ferocity:

“All this is foolery. You think to outwit me yet again. It may be true what you say—that you were not in America. You are too clever to say it if it were not true. But there is something else. Murder! Yes, murder. The murder of Prince Michael. He interfered with you that night as you were looking for the jewel.”

“Lemoine, have you ever known King Victor to do murder?” Anthony’s voice rang out sharply. “You know as well—better than I do, that he has never shed blood.”

“Who else but you could have murdered him?” cried Lemoine. “Tell me that!”

The last word died on his lips, as a shrill whistle sounded from the terrace outside. Anthony sprang up, all his assumed nonchalance laid aside.

“You ask me who murdered Prince Michael?” he cried. “I won’t tell you—I’ll _show_ you. That whistle was the signal I’ve been waiting for. The murderer of Prince Michael is in the library now.”

He sprang out through the window, and the others followed him as he led the way round the terrace, until they came to the library window. He pushed the window, and it yielded to his touch.

Very softly he held aside the thick velvet curtain, so that they could look into the room.

Standing by the bookcase was a dark figure, hurriedly pulling out and replacing volumes, so absorbed in the task that no outside sound was heeded.

And then, as they stood watching, trying to recognize the figure that was vaguely silhouetted against the light of the electric torch it carried, some one sprang past them with a sound like the roar of a wild beast.

The torch fell to the ground, was extinguished, and the sounds of a terrific struggle filled the room. Lord Caterham groped his way to the lights and switched them on.

Two figures were swaying together. And as they looked the end came. The short sharp crack of a pistol shot, and the smaller figure crumpled up and fell. The other figure turned and faced them—it was Boris, his eyes alight with rage.

“She killed my Master,” he growled. “Now she tries to shoot me. I would have taken the pistol from her and shot her, but it went off in the struggle. St. Michael directed it. The evil woman is dead.”

“A woman?” cried George Lomax.

They drew nearer. On the floor, the pistol still clasped in her hand, and an expression of deadly malignity on her face, lay—Mademoiselle Brun.

28

King Victor

“I suspected her from the first,” explained Anthony. “There was a light in her room on the night of the murder. Afterwards, I wavered. I made inquiries about her in Brittany, and came back satisfied that she was what she represented herself to be. I was a fool. Because the Comtesse de Breteuil had employed a Mademoiselle Brun and spoke highly of her, it never occurred to me that the real Mademoiselle Brun might have been kidnapped on her way to her new post, and that it might be a substitute taking her place. Instead I shifted my suspicions to Mr. Fish. It was not until he had followed me to Dover, and we had had a mutual explanation that I began to see clearly. Once I knew that he was a Pinkerton’s man, trailing King Victor, my suspicions swung back again to their original object.

“The thing that worried me most was that Mrs. Revel had definitely recognized the woman. Then I remembered that it was only _after_ I had mentioned her being Madame de Breteuil’s governess. And all she had said was that that accounted for the fact that the woman’s face was familiar to her. Superintendent Battle will tell you that a deliberate plot was formed to keep Mrs. Revel from coming to Chimneys. Nothing more nor less than a dead body, in fact. And though the murder was the work of the Comrades of the Red Hand, punishing supposed treachery on the part of the victim, the staging of it, and the absence of the Comrades’ sign manual, pointed to some abler intelligence directing operations. From the first, I suspected some connection with Herzoslovakia. Mrs. Revel was the only member of the house party who had been to the country. I suspected at first that some one was impersonating Prince Michael, but that proved to be a totally erroneous idea. When I realized the possibility of Mademoiselle Brun’s being an impostor, and added to that the fact that her face was familiar to Mrs. Revel, I began to see daylight. It was evidently very important that she should not be recognized, and Mrs. Revel was the only person likely to do so.”

“But who was she?” said Lord Caterham. “Some one Mrs. Revel had known in Herzoslovakia?”

“I think the Baron might be able to tell us,” said Anthony.

“I?” The Baron stared at him, then down at the motionless figure.

“Look well,” said Anthony. “Don’t be put off by the make-up. She was an actress once, remember.”

The Baron stared again. Suddenly he started.

“God in heaven,” he breathed, “it is not possible.”

“What is not possible?” asked George. “Who is the lady? You recognize her, Baron?”

“No, no, it is not possible.” The Baron continued to mutter. “She was killed. They were both killed. On the steps of the Palace. Her body was recovered.”

“Mutilated and unrecognizable,” Anthony reminded him. “She managed to put up a bluff. I think she escaped to America, and has spent a good many years lying low in deadly terror of the Comrades of the Red Hand. They promoted the Revolution, remember, and, to use an expressive phrase, they always had it in for her. Then King Victor was released, and they planned to recover the diamond together. She was searching for it that night when she came suddenly upon Prince Michael, and he recognized her. There was never much fear of her meeting him in the ordinary way of things. Royal guests don’t come in contact with governesses, and she could always retire with a convenient _migraine_, as she did the day the Baron was here.

“However, she met Prince Michael face to face when she least expected it. Exposure and disgrace stared her in the face. She shot him. It was she who placed the revolver in Isaacstein’s suit-case, so as to confuse the trail, and she who returned the letters.”

Lemoine moved forward.

“She was coming down to search for the jewel that night, you say,” he said. “Might she not have been going to meet her accomplice, King Victor, who was coming from outside? Eh? What do you say to that?”

Anthony sighed.

“Still at it, my dear Lemoine? How persistent you are! You won’t take my hint that I’ve got a trump card up my sleeve?”

But George, whose mind worked slowly, now broke in.

“I am still completely at sea. Who was this lady, Baron? You recognize her, it seems?”

But the Baron drew himself up and stood very straight and stiff.

“You are in error, Mr. Lomax. To my knowledge I have not this lady seen before. A complete stranger she is to me.”

“But——”

George stared at him—bewildered.

The Baron took him into a corner of the room, and murmured something into his ear. Anthony watched, with a good deal of enjoyment, George’s face turning slowly purple, his eyes bulging, and all the incipient symptoms of apoplexy. A murmur of George’s throaty voice came to him.

“Certainly ... certainly ... by all means ... no need at all ... complicate situation ... utmost discretion.”

“Ah!” Lemoine hit the table sharply with his hand. “I do not care about all this! The murder of Prince Michael—that was not my affair. I want King Victor.”

Anthony shook his head gently.

“I’m sorry for you, Lemoine. You’re really a very able fellow. But, all the same, you’re going to lose the trick. I’m about to play my trump card.”

He stepped across the room and rang the bell. Tredwell answered it.

“A gentleman arrived with me this evening, Tredwell.”

“Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.”

“Quite so. Will you kindly ask him to join us here as soon as possible?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tredwell withdrew.

“Entry of the trump card, the mysterious Monsieur X,” remarked Anthony. “_Who is he?_ Can anyone guess?”

“Putting two and two together,” said Herman Isaacstein, “what with your mysterious hints this morning, and your attitude this afternoon, I should say there was no doubt about it. Somehow or other you’ve managed to get hold of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”

“You think the same, Baron?”

“I do. Unless yet another impostor you have put forward. But that I will not believe. With me, your dealings most honourable have been.”

“Thank you, Baron. I shan’t forget those words. So you are all agreed?”

His eyes swept round the circle of waiting faces. Only Lemoine did not respond, but kept his eyes fixed sullenly on the table.

Anthony’s quick ears had caught the sound of footsteps outside in the hall.

“And yet, you know,” he said with a queer smile, “you’re all wrong!”

He crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open.

A man stood on the threshold—a man with a neat black beard, eyeglasses, and a foppish appearance slightly marred by a bandage round the head.

“_Allow me to present you to the real Monsieur Lemoine of the Sûreté._”

There was a rush and a scuffle, and then the nasal tones of Mr. Hiram Fish rose bland and reassuring from the window.

“No, you don’t, Sonny—not this way. I have been stationed here this whole evening for the particular purpose of preventing your escape. You will observe that I have you covered well and good with this gun of mine. I came over to get you, and I’ve got you—but you sure are some lad!”

29

Further Explanations

“You owe us an explanation, I think, Mr. Cade,” said Herman Isaacstein, somewhat later in the evening.

“There’s nothing much to explain,” said Anthony modestly. “I went to Dover and Fish followed me under the impression that I was King Victor. We found a mysterious stranger imprisoned there, and as soon as we heard his story we knew where we were. The same idea again, you see. The real man kidnapped, and the false one—in this case King Victor himself—takes his place. But it seems that Battle here always thought there was something fishy about his French colleague, and wired to Paris for his fingerprints and other means of identification.”

“Ah!” cried the Baron. “The fingerprints. The Bertillon measurements that that scoundrel talked about?”

“It was a clever idea,” said Anthony. “I admired it so much that I felt forced to play up. Besides, my doing so puzzled the false Lemoine enormously. You see, as soon as I had given the tip about the ‘rows’ and where the jewel really was, he was keen to pass on the news to his accomplice, and at the same time to keep us all in that room. The note was really to Mademoiselle Brun. He told Tredwell to deliver it at once, and Tredwell did so by taking it upstairs to the schoolroom. Lemoine accused me of being King Victor, by that means creating a diversion and preventing anyone from leaving the room. By the time all that had been cleared up and we adjourned to the library to look for the stone, he flattered himself that the stone would be no longer there to find!”

George cleared his throat.

“I must say, Mr. Cade,” he said pompously, “that I consider your action in that matter highly reprehensible. If the slightest hitch had occurred in your plans, one of our national possessions might have disappeared beyond the hope of recovery. It was foolhardy, Mr. Cade, reprehensibly foolhardy.”

“I guess you haven’t tumbled to the little idea, Mr. Lomax,” said the drawling voice of Mr. Fish. “That historic diamond was never behind the books in the library.”

“Never?”

“Not on your life.”

“You see,” explained Anthony, “that little device of Count Stylptitch’s stood for what it had originally stood for—a Rose. When that dawned upon me on Monday afternoon, I went straight to the Rose Garden. Mr. Fish had already tumbled to the same idea. If, standing with your back to the sundial, you take seven paces straight forward, then eight to the left and three to the right, you come to some bushes of a bright red rose called Richmond. The house has been ransacked to find the hiding-place, but nobody has thought of digging in the garden. I suggest a little digging party to-morrow morning.”

“Then the story about the books in the library—”

“An invention of mine to trap the lady. Mr. Fish kept watch on the terrace, and whistled when the psychological moment had arrived. I may say that Mr. Fish and I established martial law at the Dover house, and prevented the Comrades from communicating with the false Lemoine. He sent them an order to clear out, and word was conveyed to him that this had been done. So he went happily ahead with his plans for denouncing me.”

“Well, well,” said Lord Caterham cheerfully, “everything seems to have been cleared up most satisfactorily.”

“Everything but one thing,” said Mr. Isaacstein.

“What is that?”

The great financier looked steadily at Anthony.

“What did you get me down here for? Just to assist at a dramatic scene as an interested onlooker.”

Anthony shook his head.

“No, Mr. Isaacstein. You are a busy man whose time is money. Why did you come down here originally?”

“To negotiate a loan.”

“With whom?”

“Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”

“Exactly. Prince Michael is dead. Are you prepared to offer the same loan on the same terms to his cousin Nicholas?”

“Can you produce him? I thought he was killed in the Congo?”

“He was killed all right. I killed him. Oh, no, I’m not a murderer. When I say I killed him, I mean that I spread the report of his death. I promised you a Prince, Mr. Isaacstein. Will _I_ do?”

“You?”

“Yes, I’m the man. Nicholas Sergius Alexander Ferdinand Obolovitch. Rather long for the kind of life I proposed to live, so I emerged from the Congo as plain Anthony Cade.”

Little Captain Andrassy sprang up.

“But this is incredible—incredible,” he spluttered. “Have a care, sir, what you say.”

“I can give you plenty of proofs,” said Anthony quietly. “I think I shall be able to convince the Baron here.”

The Baron lifted his hand.

“Your proofs I will examine, yes. But of them for me there is no need. Your word alone sufficient for me is. Besides, your English mother you much resemble. All along have I said: ‘This young man on one side or the other most highly born is’.”

“You have always trusted my word, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can assure you that in the days to come I shall not forget.”

Then he looked over at Superintendent Battle whose face had remained perfectly expressionless.

“You can understand,” said Anthony with a smile, “that my position has been extremely precarious. Of all those in the house I might be supposed to have the best reason for wishing Michael Obolovitch out of the way, since I was the next heir to the Throne. I’ve been extraordinarily afraid of Battle all along. I always felt that he suspected me, but that he was held up by lack of motive.”

“I never believed for a minute that you’d shot him, sir,” said Superintendent Battle. “We’ve got a feeling in such matters. But I knew that you were afraid of something, and you puzzled me. If I’d known sooner who you really were, I dare say I’d have yielded to the evidence, and arrested you.”

“I’m glad I managed to keep one guilty secret from you. You wormed everything else out of me all right. You’re a damned good man at your job, Battle. I shall always think of Scotland Yard with respect.”

“Most amazing,” muttered George. “Most amazing story I ever heard. I—I can really hardly believe it. You are quite sure, Baron, that——”

“My dear Mr. Lomax,” said Anthony, with a slight hardness in his tone, “I have no intention of asking the British Foreign Office to support my claim without bringing forward the most convincing documentary evidence. I suggest that we adjourn now, and that you, the Baron, Mr. Isaacstein and myself discuss the terms of the proposed loan.”

The Baron rose to his feet, and clicked his heels together.

“It will be the proudest moment of my life, sir,” he said solemnly, “when I see you King of Herzoslovakia.”

“Oh, by the way, Baron,” said Anthony carelessly, slipping his hand through the other’s arm, “I forgot to tell you. There’s a string tied to this. I’m married, you know.”

The Baron retreated a step or two. Dismay overspread his countenance.

“Something wrong I knew there would be,” he boomed. “Merciful God in Heaven! He has married a black woman in Africa!”

“Come, come, it’s not so bad as all that,” said Anthony, laughing. “She’s white enough—white all through, bless her.”

“Good. A respectable morganatic affair it can be, then.”