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Title: The Man in the Brown Suit

Author: Agatha Christie

Release date: January 14, 2020 [eBook #61168]
Most recently updated: October 17, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN IN
THE BROWN SUIT ***

THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES
THE SECRET ADVERSARY
THE MURDER ON THE LINKS

THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT

by

AGATHA CHRISTIE

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1924

Copyright, 1924,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
The Quinn & Boden Company
BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY

To E. A. B.

IN MEMORY OF A JOURNEY, SOME
LION STORIES AND A REQUEST THAT
I SHOULD SOME DAY WRITE THE
“MYSTERY OF THE MILL HOUSE”

THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI

THE MAN IN THE BROWN SUIT

PROLOGUE

Nadina, the Russian dancer who had taken Paris by storm, swayed to the
sound of the applause, bowed and bowed again. Her narrow black eyes
narrowed themselves still more, the long line of her scarlet mouth curved
faintly upwards. Enthusiastic Frenchmen continued to beat the ground
appreciatively as the curtain fell with a swish, hiding the reds and blues and
magentas of the bizarre décors. In a swirl of blue and orange draperies the
dancer left the stage. A bearded gentleman received her enthusiastically in
his arms. It was the Manager.
“Magnificent, petite, magnificent,” he cried. “To-night you have
surpassed yourself.” He kissed her gallantly on both cheeks in a somewhat
matter-of-fact manner.
Madame Nadina accepted the tribute with the ease of long habit and
passed on to her dressing-room, where bouquets were heaped carelessly
everywhere, marvellous garments of futuristic design hung on pegs, and the
air was hot and sweet with the scent of the massed blossoms and with more
sophisticated perfumes and essences. Jeanne, the dresser, ministered to her
mistress, talking incessantly and pouring out a stream of fulsome
compliment.
A knock at the door interrupted the flow. Jeanne went to answer it, and
returned with a card in her hand.
“Madame will receive?”
“Let me see.”
The dancer stretched out a languid hand, but at the sight of the name on
the card, “Count Sergius Paulovitch,” a sudden flicker of interest came into
her eyes.
“I will see him. The maize peignoir, Jeanne, and quickly. And when the
Count comes you may go.”
“Bien, Madame.”

Jeanne brought the peignoir, an exquisite wisp of corn-coloured chiffon
and ermine. Nadina slipped into it, and sat smiling to herself, whilst one
long white hand beat a slow tattoo on the glass of the dressing-table.
The Count was prompt to avail himself of the privilege accorded to him
—a man of medium height, very slim, very elegant, very pale,
extraordinarily weary. In feature, little to take hold of, a man difficult to
recognize again if one left his mannerisms out of account. He bowed over
the dancer’s hand with exaggerated courtliness.
“Madame, this is a pleasure indeed.”
So much Jeanne heard before she went out closing the door behind her.
Alone with her visitor, a subtle change came over Nadina’s smile.
“Compatriots though we are, we will not speak Russian, I think,” she
observed.
“Since we neither of us know a word of the language, it might be as
well,” agreed her guest.
By common consent, they dropped into English, and nobody, now that
the Count’s mannerisms had dropped from him, could doubt that it was his
native language. He had, indeed, started life as a quick-change music-hall
artiste in London.
“You had a great success to-night,” he remarked. “I congratulate you.”
“All the same,” said the woman, “I am disturbed. My position is not what
it was. The suspicions aroused during the War have never died down. I am
continually watched and spied upon.”
“But no charge of espionage was ever brought against you?”
“Our chief lays his plans too carefully for that.”
“Long life to the ‘Colonel,’” said the Count, smiling. “Amazing news, is
it not, that he means to retire? To retire! Just like a doctor, or a butcher, or a
plumber——”
“Or any other business man,” finished Nadina. “It should not surprise us.
That is what the ‘Colonel’ has always been—an excellent man of business.
He has organized crime as another man might organize a boot factory.
Without committing himself, he has planned and directed a series of
stupendous coups, embracing every branch of what we might call his
‘profession.’ Jewel robberies, forgery, espionage (the latter very profitable

in war-time), sabotage, discreet assassination, there is hardly anything he
has not touched. Wisest of all, he knows when to stop. The game begins to
be dangerous?—he retires gracefully—with an enormous fortune!”
“H’m!” said the Count doubtfully. “It is rather—upsetting for all of us.
We are at a loose end, as it were.”
“But we are being paid off—on a most generous scale!” Something,
some undercurrent of mockery in her tone, made the man look at her
sharply. She was smiling to herself, and the quality of her smile aroused his
curiosity. But he proceeded diplomatically:
“Yes, the ‘Colonel’ has always been a generous paymaster. I attribute
much of his success to that—and to his invariable plan of providing a
suitable scapegoat. A great brain, undoubtedly a great brain! And an apostle
of the maxim, ‘If you want a thing done safely, do not do it yourself!’ Here
are we, every one of us incriminated up to the hilt and absolutely in his
power, and not one of us has anything on him.”
He paused, almost as though he were expecting her to disagree with him,
but she remained silent, smiling to herself as before.
“Not one of us,” he mused. “Still, you know, he is superstitious, the old
man. Years ago, I believe, he went to one of these fortune-telling people.
She prophesied a lifetime of success, but declared that his downfall would
be brought about through a woman.”
He had interested her now. She looked up eagerly.
“That is strange, very strange! Through a woman, you say?”
He smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Doubtless, now that he has—retired, he will marry. Some young society
beauty, who will disperse his millions faster than he acquired them.”
Nadina shook her head.
“No, no, that is not the way of it. Listen, my friend, to-morrow I go to
London.”
“But your contract here?”
“I shall be away only one night. And I go incognito, like Royalty. No one
will ever know that I have left France. And why do you think that I go?”
“Hardly for pleasure at this time of year. January, a detestable foggy
month! It must be for profit, eh?”

“Exactly.” She rose and stood in front of him, every graceful line of her
arrogant with pride. “You said just now that none of us had anything on the
chief. You were wrong. I have. I, a woman, have had the wit and, yes, the
courage—for it needs courage—to double-cross him. You remember the De
Beer diamonds?”
“Yes, I remember. At Kimberley, just before the war broke out? I had
nothing to do with it, and I never heard the details, the case was hushed up
for some reason, was it not? A fine haul too.”
“A hundred thousand pounds worth of stones. Two of us worked it—
under the ‘Colonel’s’ orders, of course. And it was then that I saw my
chance. You see, the plan was to substitute some of the De Beer diamonds
for some sample diamonds brought from South America by two young
prospectors who happened to be in Kimberley at the time. Suspicion was
then bound to fall on them.”
“Very clever,” interpolated the Count approvingly.
“The ‘Colonel’ is always clever. Well, I did my part—but I also did one
thing which the ‘Colonel’ had not foreseen. I kept back some of the South
American stones—one or two are unique and could easily be proved never
to have passed through De Beer’s hands. With these diamonds in my
possession, I have the whip-hand of my esteemed chief. Once the two
young men are cleared, his part in the matter is bound to be suspected. I
have said nothing all these years, I have been content to know that I had this
weapon in reserve, but now matters are different. I want my price—and it
will be a big, I might almost say a staggering price.”
“Extraordinary,” said the Count. “And doubtless you carry these
diamonds about with you everywhere?”
His eyes roamed gently round the disordered room.
Nadina laughed softly. “You need suppose nothing of the sort. I am not a
fool. The diamonds are in a safe place where no one will dream of looking
for them.”
“I never thought you a fool, my dear lady, but may I venture to suggest
that you are somewhat foolhardy? The ‘Colonel’ is not the type of man to
take kindly to being blackmailed, you know.”
“I am not afraid of him,” she laughed. “There is only one man I have ever
feared—and he is dead.”

The man looked at her curiously.
“Let us hope that he will not come to life again, then,” he remarked
lightly.
“What do you mean?” cried the dancer sharply.
The Count looked slightly surprised.
“I only meant that a resurrection would be awkward for you,” he
explained. “A foolish joke.”
She gave a sigh of relief.
“Oh, no, he is dead all right. Killed in the war. He was a man who once—
loved me.”
“In South Africa?” asked the Count negligently.
“Yes, since you ask it, in South Africa.”
“That is your native country, is it not?”
She nodded. Her visitor rose and reached for his hat.
“Well,” he remarked, “you know your own business best, but, if I were
you, I should fear the ‘Colonel’ far more than any disillusioned lover. He is
a man whom it is particularly easy to—underestimate.”
She laughed scornfully.
“As if I did not know him after all these years!”
“I wonder if you do?” he said softly. “I very much wonder if you do.”
“Oh, I am not a fool! And I am not alone in this. The South African mail-
boat docks at Southampton to-morrow, and on board her is a man who has
come specially from Africa at my request and who has carried out certain
orders of mine. The ‘Colonel’ will have not one of us to deal with, but two.”
“Is that wise?”
“It is necessary.”
“You are sure of this man?”
A rather peculiar smile played over the dancer’s face.
“I am quite sure of him. He is inefficient, but perfectly trustworthy.” She
paused, and then added in an indifferent tone of voice: “As a matter of fact,
he happens to be my husband.”

CHAPTER I

Everybody has been at me, right and left, to write this story from the
great (represented by Lord Nasby) to the small (represented by our late
maid of all work, Emily, whom I saw when I was last in England. “Lor’,
miss, what a beyewtiful book you might make out of it all—just like the
pictures!”).
I’ll admit that I’ve certain qualifications for the task. I was mixed up in
the affair from the very beginning, I was in the thick of it all through, and I
was triumphantly “in at the death.” Very fortunately, too, the gaps that I
cannot supply from my own knowledge are amply covered by Sir Eustace
Pedler’s diary, of which he has kindly begged me to make use.
So here goes. Anne Beddingfeld starts to narrate her adventures.
I’d always longed for adventures. You see, my life had such a dreadful
sameness. My father, Professor Beddingfeld, was one of England’s greatest
living authorities on Primitive Man. He really was a genius—every one
admits that. His mind dwelt in Palaeolithic times, and the inconvenience of
life for him was that his body inhabited the modern world. Papa did not care
for modern man—even Neolithic Man he despised as a mere herder of
cattle, and he did not rise to enthusiasm until he reached the Mousterian
period.
Unfortunately one cannot entirely dispense with modern men. One is
forced to have some kind of truck with butchers and bakers and milkmen
and greengrocers. Therefore, Papa being immersed in the past, Mamma
having died when I was a baby, it fell to me to undertake the practical side
of living. Frankly, I hate Palaeolithic Man, be he Aurignacian, Mousterian,
Chellian, or anything else, and though I typed and revised most of Papa’s
Neanderthal Man and his Ancestors, Neanderthal men themselves fill me
with loathing, and I always reflect what a fortunate circumstance it was that
they became extinct in remote ages.

I do not know whether Papa guessed my feelings on the subject, probably
not, and in any case he would not have been interested. The opinion of other
people never interested him in the slightest degree. I think it was really a
sign of his greatness. In the same way, he lived quite detached from the
necessities of daily life. He ate what was put before him in an exemplary
fashion, but seemed mildly pained when the question of paying for it arose.
We never seemed to have any money. His celebrity was not of the kind that
brought in a cash return. Although he was a fellow of almost every
important society, and had rows of letters after his name, the general public
scarcely knew of his existence, and his long learned books, though adding
signally to the sum-total of human knowledge, had no attraction for the
masses. Only on one occasion did he leap into the public gaze. He had read
a paper before some society on the subject of the young of the chimpanzee.
The young of the human race show some anthropoid features, whereas the
young of the chimpanzee approach more nearly to the human than the adult
chimpanzee does. That seems to show that whereas our ancestors were
more Simian than we are, the chimpanzee’s were of a higher type than the
present species—in other words, the chimpanzee is a degenerate. That
enterprising newspaper, the Daily Budget, being hard up for something
spicy, immediately brought itself out with large headlines. “We are not
descended from monkeys, but are monkeys descended from us? Eminent
Professor says chimpanzees are decadent humans.” Shortly afterwards a
reporter called to see Papa, and endeavoured to induce him to write a series
of popular articles on the theory. I have seldom seen Papa so angry. He
turned the reporter out of the house with scant ceremony, much to my secret
sorrow, as we were particularly short of money at the moment. In fact, for a
moment I meditated running after the young man and informing him that
my father had changed his mind and would send the articles in question. I
could easily have written them myself, and the probabilities were that Papa
would never have learnt of the transaction, not being a reader of the Daily
Budget. However, I rejected this course as being too risky, so I merely put
on my best hat and went sadly down the village to interview our justly irate
grocer.
The reporter from the Daily Budget was the only young man who ever
came to our house. There were times when I envied Emily, our little
servant, who “walked out” whenever occasion offered with a large sailor to
whom she was affianced. In between times, to “keep her hand in” as she

expressed it, she walked out with the greengrocer’s young man, and the
chemist’s assistant. I reflected sadly that I had no one to “keep my hand in”
with. All Papa’s friends were aged Professors—usually with long beards. It
is true that Professor Peterson once clasped me affectionately and said I had
a “neat little waist” and then tried to kiss me. The phrase alone dated him
hopelessly. No self-respecting female has had a “neat little waist” since I
was in my cradle.
I yearned for adventure, for love, for romance, and I seemed condemned
to an existence of drab utility. The village possessed a lending library, full
of tattered works of fiction, and I enjoyed perils and love-making at second
hand, and went to sleep dreaming of stern, silent Rhodesians, and of strong
men who always “felled their opponent with a single blow.” There was no
one in the village who even looked as though he could “fell” an opponent,
with a single blow or with several.
There was the Kinema too, with a weekly episode of “The Perils of
Pamela.” Pamela was a magnificent young woman. Nothing daunted her.
She fell out of aeroplanes, adventured in submarines, climbed skyscrapers
and crept about in the Underworld without turning a hair. She was not really
clever, the Master Criminal of the Underworld caught her each time, but as
he seemed loath to knock her on the head in a simple way, and always
doomed her to death in a sewer-gas chamber or by some new and
marvellous means, the hero was always able to rescue her at the beginning
of the following week’s episode. I used to come out with my head in a
delirious whirl—and then I would get home and find a notice from the Gas
Company threatening to cut us off if the outstanding account was not paid!
And yet, though I did not suspect it, every moment was bringing
adventure nearer to me.
It is possible that there are many people in the world who have never
heard of the finding of an antique skull at the Broken Hill Mine in Northern
Rhodesia. I came down one morning to find Papa excited to the point of
apoplexy. He poured out the whole story to me.
“You understand, Anne? There are undoubtedly certain resemblances to
the Java skull, but superficial—superficial only. No, here we have what I
have always maintained—the ancestral form of the Neanderthal race. You
grant that the Gibraltar skull is the most primitive of the Neanderthal skulls

found? Why? The cradle of the race was in Africa. They passed to Europe
——”
“Not marmalade on kippers, papa,” I said hastily, arresting my parent’s
absent-minded hand. “Yes, you were saying?”
“They passed to Europe on——”
Here he broke down with a bad fit of choking, the result of an
immoderate mouthful of kipper-bones.
“But we must start at once,” he declared, as he rose to his feet at the
conclusion of the meal. “There is no time to be lost. We must be on the spot
—there are doubtless incalculable finds to be found in the neighbourhood. I
shall be interested to note whether the implements are typical of the
Mousterian period—there will be the remains of the primitive ox, I should
say, but not those of the woolly rhinoceros. Yes, a little army will be starting
soon. We must get ahead of them. You will write to Cook’s to-day, Anne?”
“What about money, papa?” I hinted delicately.
He turned a reproachful eye upon me.
“Your point of view always depresses me, my child. We must not be
sordid. No, no, in the cause of science one must not be sordid.”
“I feel Cook’s might be sordid, papa.”
Papa looked pained.
“My dear Anne, you will pay them in ready money.”
“I haven’t got any ready money.”
Papa looked thoroughly exasperated.
“My child, I really cannot be bothered with these vulgar money details.
The bank—I had something from the Manager yesterday, saying I had
twenty-seven pounds.”
“That’s your overdraft, I fancy.”
“Ah, I have it! Write to my publishers.”
I acquiesced doubtfully, Papa’s books bringing in more glory than money.
I liked the idea of going to Rhodesia immensely. “Stern silent men,” I
murmured to myself in an ecstasy. Then something in my parent’s
appearance struck me as unusual.

“You have odd boots on, papa,” I said. “Take off the brown one and put
on the other black one. And don’t forget your muffler. It’s a very cold day.”
In a few minutes Papa stalked off, correctly booted and well mufflered.
He returned late that evening, and, to my dismay, I saw his muffler and
overcoat were missing.
“Dear me, Anne, you are quite right. I took them off to go into the
cavern. One gets so dirty there.”
I nodded feelingly, remembering an occasion when Papa had returned
literally plastered from head to foot with rich Pleiocene clay.
Our principal reason for settling in Little Hampsly had been the
neighbourhood of Hampsly Cavern, a buried cave rich in deposits of the
Aurignacian culture. We had a tiny Museum in the village, and the curator
and Papa spent most of their days messing about underground and bringing
to light portions of woolly rhinoceros and cave bear.
Papa coughed badly all the evening, and the following morning I saw he
had a temperature and sent for the doctor.
Poor Papa, he never had a chance. It was double pneumonia. He died
four days later.

CHAPTER II

Every one was very kind to me. Dazed as I was, I appreciated that. I felt
no overwhelming grief. Papa had never loved me, I knew that well enough.
If he had, I might have loved him in return. No, there had not been love
between us, but we had belonged together, and I had looked after him, and
had secretly admired his learning and his uncompromising devotion to
science. And it hurt me that Papa should have died just when the interest of
life was at its height for him. I should have felt happier if I could have
buried him in a cave, with paintings of reindeer and flint implements, but
the force of public opinion constrained a neat tomb (with marble slab) in
our hideous local churchyard. The vicar’s consolations, though well meant,
did not console me in the least.
It took some time to dawn upon me that the thing I had always longed for
—freedom—was at last mine. I was an orphan, and practically penniless,
but free. At the same time I realized the extraordinary kindness of all these
good people. The vicar did his best to persuade me that his wife was in
urgent need of a companion help. Our tiny local library suddenly made up
its mind to have an assistant librarian. Finally, the doctor called upon me,
and after making various ridiculous excuses for failing to send in a proper
bill, he hummed and hawed a good deal and suddenly suggested that I
should marry him.
I was very much astonished. The doctor was nearer forty than thirty, and
a round, tubby little man. He was not at all like the hero of “The Perils of
Pamela,” and even less like a stern and silent Rhodesian. I reflected a
minute and then asked him why he wanted to marry me. That seemed to
fluster him a good deal, and he murmured that a wife was a great help to a
General Practitioner. The position seemed even more unromantic than
before, and yet something in me urged towards its acceptance. Safety, that
was what I was being offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home. Thinking
it over now, I believe I did the little man an injustice. He was honestly in

love with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented him from pressing his suit
on those lines. Anyway, my love of romance rebelled.
“It’s extremely kind of you,” I said. “But it’s impossible. I could never
marry a man unless I loved him madly.”
“You don’t think——?”
“No, I don’t,” I said firmly.
He sighed.
“But, my dear child, what do you propose to do?”
“Have adventures and see the world,” I replied, without the least
hesitation.
“Miss Anne, you are very much of a child still. You don’t understand
——”
“The practical difficulties? Yes, I do, doctor. I’m not a sentimental
schoolgirl—I’m a hard-headed mercenary shrew! You’d know it if you
married me!”
“I wish you would reconsider——”
“I can’t.”
He sighed again.
“I have another proposal to make. An aunt of mine who lives in Wales is
in want of a young lady to help her. How would that suit you?”
“No, doctor, I’m going to London. If things happen anywhere, they
happen in London. I shall keep my eyes open and you’ll see, something will
turn up! You’ll hear of me next in China or Timbuctoo.”
My next visitor was Mr. Flemming, Papa’s London solicitor. He came
down specially from town to see me. An ardent anthropologist himself, he
was a great admirer of Papa’s works. He was a tall, spare man with a thin
face and grey hair. He rose to meet me as I entered the room and, taking
both my hands in his, patted them affectionately.
“My poor child,” he said. “My poor, poor child.”
Without conscious hypocrisy, I found myself assuming the demeanour of
a bereaved orphan. He hypnotized me into it. He was benignant, kind and
fatherly—and without the least doubt he regarded me as a perfect fool of a
girl left adrift to face an unkind world. From the first I felt that it was quite

useless to try to convince him of the contrary. As things turned out, perhaps
it was just as well I didn’t.
“My dear child, do you think you can listen to me whilst I try to make a
few things clear to you?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Your father, as you know, was a very great man. Posterity will
appreciate him. But he was not a good man of business.”
I knew that quite as well, if not better than Mr. Flemming, but I restrained
myself from saying so. He continued:
“I do not suppose you understand much of these matters. I will try to
explain as clearly as I can.”
He explained at unnecessary length. The upshot seemed to be that I was
left to face life with the sum of £87, 17s. 4d. It seemed a strangely
unsatisfying amount. I waited in some trepidation for what was coming
next. I feared that Mr. Flemming would be sure to have an aunt in Scotland
who was in want of a bright young companion. Apparently, however, he
hadn’t.
“The question is,” he went on, “the future. I understand you have no
living relatives?”
“I’m alone in the world,” I said, and was struck anew by my likeness to a
film heroine.
“You have friends?”
“Every one has been very kind to me,” I said gratefully.
“Who would not be kind to one so young and charming?” said Mr.
Flemming gallantly. “Well, well, my dear, we must see what can be done.”
He hesitated a minute, and then said: “Supposing—how would it be if you
came to us for a time?”
I jumped at the chance. London! The place for things to happen.
“It’s awfully kind of you,” I said. “Might I really? Just while I’m looking
round. I must start out to earn my living, you know?”
“Yes, yes, my dear child. I quite understand. We will look round for
something—suitable.”
I felt instinctively that Mr. Flemming’s ideas of “something suitable” and
mine were likely to be widely divergent, but it was certainly not the

moment to air my views.
“That is settled then. Why not return with me to-day?”
“Oh, thank you, but will Mrs. Flemming——”
“My wife will be delighted to welcome you.”
I wonder if husbands know as much about their wives as they think they
do. If I had a husband, I should hate him to bring home orphans without
consulting me first.
“We will send her a wire from the station,” continued the lawyer.
My few personal belongings were soon packed. I contemplated my hat
sadly before putting it on. It had originally been what I call a “Mary” hat,
meaning by that the kind of hat a housemaid ought to wear on her day out—
but doesn’t! A limp thing of black straw with a suitably depressed brim.
With the inspiration of genius, I had kicked it once, punched it twice,
dented in the crown and affixed to it a thing like a cubist’s dream of a jazz
carrot. The result had been distinctly chic. The carrot I had already
removed, of course, and now I proceeded to undo the rest of my handiwork.
The “Mary” hat resumed its former status with an additional battered
appearance which made it even more depressing than formerly. I might as
well look as much like the popular conception of an orphan as possible. I
was just a shade nervous of Mrs. Flemming’s reception, but hoped my
appearance might have a sufficiently disarming effect.
Mr. Flemming was nervous too. I realized that as we went up the stairs of
the tall house in a quiet Kensington Square. Mrs. Flemming greeted me
pleasantly enough. She was a stout, placid woman of the “good wife and
mother” type. She took me up to a spotless chintz-hung bedroom, hoped I
had everything I wanted, informed me that tea would be ready in about a
quarter of an hour, and left me to my own devices.
I heard her voice, slightly raised, as she entered the drawing-room below
on the first floor.
“Well, Henry, why on earth——” I lost the rest, but the acerbity of the
tone was evident. And a few minutes later another phrase floated up to me,
in an even more acid voice:
“I agree with you! She is certainly very good-looking.”
It is really a very hard life. Men will not be nice to you if you are not
good-looking, and women will not be nice to you if you are.

With a deep sigh I proceeded to do things to my hair. I have nice hair. It
is black—a real black, not dark brown, and it grows well back from my
forehead and down over the ears. With a ruthless hand I dragged it upwards.
As ears, my ears are quite all right, but there is no doubt about it, ears are
démodé nowadays. They are like the “Queen of Spain’s legs” in Professor
Peterson’s young day. When I had finished I looked almost unbelievably
like the kind of orphan that walks out in a queue with a little bonnet and a
red cloak.
I noticed when I went down that Mrs. Flemming’s eyes rested on my
exposed ears with quite a kindly glance. Mr. Flemming seemed puzzled. I
had no doubt that he was saying to himself, “What has the child done to
herself?”
On the whole the rest of the day passed off well. It was settled that I was
to start at once to look for something to do.
When I went to bed, I stared earnestly at my face in the glass. Was I
really good-looking? Honestly, I couldn’t say I thought so! I hadn’t got a
straight Grecian nose, or a rosebud mouth, or any of the things you ought to
have. It is true that a curate once told me that my eyes were like
“imprisoned sunshine in a dark, dark wood”—but curates always know so
many quotations, and fire them off at random. I’d much prefer to have Irish
blue eyes than dark green ones with yellow flecks! Still, green is a good
colour for adventuresses.
I wound a black garment tightly round me, leaving my arms and
shoulders bare. Then I brushed back my hair and pulled it well down over
my ears again. I put a lot of powder on my face, so that the skin seemed
even whiter than usual. I fished about until I found some old lip-salve, and I
put oceans of it on my lips. Then I did under my eyes with burnt cork.
Finally, I draped a red ribbon over my bare shoulder, stuck a scarlet feather
in my hair, and placed a cigarette in one corner of my mouth. The whole
effect pleased me very much.
“Anna the Adventuress,” I said aloud, nodding at my reflection. “Anna
the Adventuress. Episode I, ‘The House in Kensington’!”
Girls are foolish things.

CHAPTER III

In the succeeding weeks I was a good deal bored.
Mrs. Flemming and her friends seemed to me to be supremely
uninteresting. They talked for hours of themselves and their children and of
the difficulties of getting good milk for the children and of what they said to
the Dairy when the milk wasn’t good. Then they would go on to servants,
and the difficulties of getting good servants and of what they had said to the
woman at the Registry Office and of what the woman at the Registry Office
had said to them. They never seemed to read the papers or to care about
what went on in the world. They disliked travelling—everything was so
different to England. The Riviera was all right, of course, because one met
all one’s friends there.
I listened and contained myself with difficulty. Most of these women
were rich. The whole wide beautiful world was theirs to wander in and they
deliberately stayed in dirty dull London and talked about milkmen and
servants! I think now, looking back, that I was perhaps a shade intolerant.
But they were stupid—stupid even at their chosen job: most of them kept
the most extraordinarily inadequate and muddled housekeeping accounts.
My affairs did not progress very fast. The house and furniture had been
sold, and the amount realized had just covered our debts. As yet, I had not
been successful in finding a post. Not that I really wanted one! I had the
firm conviction that, if I went about looking for adventure, adventure would
meet me halfway. It is a theory of mine that one always gets what one
wants. My theory was about to be proved in practice.
It was early in January—the 8th, to be exact. I was returning from an
unsuccessful interview with a lady who said she wanted a secretary-
companion, but really seemed to require a strong charwoman who would
work twelve hours a day for £25 a year. Having parted with mutual veiled
impolitenesses, I walked down Edgware Road (the interview had taken
place in a house in St. John’s Wood) and across Hyde Park to St. George’s

Hospital. There I entered Hyde Park Corner Tube Station and took a ticket
to Gloucester Road.
Once on the platform I walked to the extreme end of it. My inquiring
mind wished to satisfy itself as to whether there really were points and an
opening between the two tunnels just beyond the station in the direction of
Down Street. I was foolishly pleased to find I was right. There were not
many people on the platform, and at the extreme end there was only myself
and one man. As I passed him, I sniffed dubiously. If there is one smell I
cannot bear it is that of moth balls! This man’s heavy overcoat simply
reeked of them. And yet most men begin to wear their winter overcoats
before January, and consequently by this time the smell ought to have worn
off. The man was beyond me, standing close to the edge of the tunnel. He
seemed lost in thought, and I was able to stare at him without rudeness. He
was a small thin man, very brown of face, with light blue eyes and a small
dark beard.
“Just come from abroad,” I deduced. “That’s why his overcoat smells so.
He’s come from India. Not an officer, or he wouldn’t have a beard. Perhaps
a tea-planter.”
At this moment the man turned as though to retrace his steps along the
platform. He glanced at me and then his eyes went on to something behind
me, and his face changed. It was distorted by fear—almost panic. He stood
a step backwards as though involuntarily recoiling from some danger,
forgetting that he was standing on the extreme edge of the platform, and
went down and over.
There was a vivid flash from the rails and a crackling sound. I shrieked.
People came running up. Two station officials seemed to materialize from
nowhere and took command.
I remained where I was, rooted to the spot by a sort of horrible
fascination. Part of me was appalled at the sudden disaster, and another part
of me was coolly and dispassionately interested in the methods employed
for lifting the man off the live rail and back onto the platform.
“Let me pass, please. I am a medical man.”
A tall man with a brown beard pressed past me and bent over the
motionless body.

As he examined it, a curious sense of unreality seemed to possess me.
The thing wasn’t real—couldn’t be. Finally, the doctor stood upright and
shook his head.
“Dead as a door-nail. Nothing to be done.”
We had all crowded nearer, and an aggrieved porter raised his voice.
“Now then, stand back there, will you? What’s the sense in crowding
round.”
A sudden nausea seized me, and I turned blindly and ran up the stairs
again towards the lift. I felt that it was too horrible. I must get out into the
open air. The doctor who had examined the body was just ahead of me. The
lift was just about to go up, another having descended, and he broke into a
run. As he did so, he dropped a piece of paper.
I stopped, picked it up, and ran after him. But the lift gates clanged in my
face, and I was left holding the paper in my hand. By the time the second
lift reached the street level, there was no sign of my quarry. I hoped it was
nothing important that he had lost, and for the first time I examined it.
It was a plain half-sheet of notepaper with some figures and words
scrawled upon it in pencil. This is a facsimile of it:

On the face of it, it certainly did not appear to be of any importance. Still,
I hesitated to throw it away. As I stood there holding it, I involuntarily
wrinkled my nose in displeasure. Moth balls again! I held the paper
gingerly to my nose. Yes, it smelt strongly of them. But, then——
I folded up the paper carefully and put it in my bag. I walked home
slowly and did a good deal of thinking.
I explained to Mrs. Flemming that I had witnessed a nasty accident in the
Tube and that I was rather upset and would go to my room and lie down.
The kind woman insisted on my having a cup of tea. After that I was left to
my own devices, and I proceeded to carry out a plan I had formed coming
home. I wanted to know what it was that had produced that curious feeling
of unreality whilst I was watching the doctor examine the body. First I lay

down on the floor in the attitude of the corpse, then I laid a bolster down in
my stead, and proceeded to duplicate, so far as I could remember, every
motion and gesture of the doctor. When I had finished I had got what I
wanted. I sat back on my heels and frowned at the opposite walls.
There was a brief notice in the evening papers that a man had been killed
in the Tube, and a doubt was expressed whether it was suicide or accident.
That seemed to me to make my duty clear, and when Mr. Flemming heard
my story he quite agreed with me.
“Undoubtedly you will be wanted at the inquest. You say no one else was
near enough to see what happened?”
“I had the feeling some one was coming up behind me, but I can’t be sure
—and, anyway, they wouldn’t be as near as I was.”
The inquest was held. Mr. Flemming made all the arrangements and took
me there with him. He seemed to fear that it would be a great ordeal to me,
and I had to conceal from him my complete composure.
The deceased had been identified as L. B. Carton. Nothing had been
found in his pockets except a house-agent’s order to view a house on the
river near Marlow. It was in the name of L. B. Carton, Russell Hotel. The
bureau clerk from the hotel identified the man as having arrived the day
before and booked a room under that name. He had registered as L. B.
Carton, Kimberley, S. Africa. He had evidently come straight off the
steamer.
I was the only person who had seen anything of the affair.
“You think it was an accident?” the coroner asked me.
“I am positive of it. Something alarmed him, and he stepped backwards
blindly without thinking what he was doing.”
“But what could have alarmed him?”
“That I don’t know. But there was something. He looked panic-stricken.”
A stolid juryman suggested that some men were terrified of cats. The
man might have seen a cat. I didn’t think his suggestion a very brilliant one,
but it seemed to pass muster with the jury, who were obviously impatient to
get home and only too pleased at being able to give a verdict of accident as
opposed to suicide.

“It is extraordinary to me,” said the coroner, “that the doctor who first
examined the body has not come forward. His name and address should
have been taken at the time. It was most irregular not to do so.”
I smiled to myself. I had my own theory in regard to the doctor. In
pursuance of it, I determined to make a call upon Scotland Yard at an early
date.
But the next morning brought a surprise. The Flemmings took in the
Daily Budget, and the Daily Budget was having a day after its own heart.

EXTRAORDINARY SEQUEL TO TUBE ACCIDENT.
WOMAN FOUND STABBED IN LONELY HOUSE.

I read eagerly.
“A sensational discovery was made yesterday at the Mill House, Marlow.
The Mill House, which is the property of Sir Eustace Pedler, M.P., is to be
let unfurnished, and an order to view this property was found in the pocket
of the man who was at first thought to have committed suicide by throwing
himself on the live rail at Hyde Park Corner Tube Station. In an upper room
of the Mill House the body of a beautiful young woman was discovered
yesterday, strangled. She is thought to be a foreigner, but so far has not been
identified. The police are reported to have a clue. Sir Eustace Pedler, the
owner of the Mill House, is wintering on the Riviera.”

CHAPTER IV

Nobody came forward to identify the dead woman. The inquest elicited
the following facts.
Shortly after one o’clock on January 8th, a well-dressed woman with a
slight foreign accent had entered the offices of Messrs. Butler and Park,
house-agents, in Knightsbridge. She explained that she wanted to rent or
purchase a house on the Thames within easy reach of London. The
particulars of several were given to her, including those of the Mill House.
She gave the name of Mrs. de Castina and her address as the Ritz, but there
proved to be no one of that name staying there, and the hotel people failed
to identify the body.
Mrs. James, the wife of Sir Eustace Pedler’s gardener, who acted as
caretaker to the Mill House and inhabited the small lodge opening on the
main road, gave evidence. About three o’clock that afternoon, a lady came
to see over the house. She produced an order from the house-agents, and, as
was the usual custom, Mrs. James gave her the keys of the house. It was
situated at some distance from the lodge, and she was not in the habit of
accompanying prospective tenants. A few minutes later a young man
arrived. Mrs. James described him as tall and broad-shouldered, with a
bronzed face and light grey eyes. He was clean-shaven and was wearing a
brown suit. He explained to Mrs. James that he was a friend of the lady who
had come to look over the house, but had stopped at the post office to send
a telegram. She directed him to the house, and thought no more about the
matter.
Five minutes later he reappeared, handed her back the keys and explained
that he feared the house would not suit them. Mrs. James did not see the
lady, but thought that she had gone on ahead. What she did notice was that
the young man seemed very much upset about something. “He looked like a
man who’d seen a ghost. I thought he was taken ill.”
On the following day another lady and gentleman came to see the
property and discovered the body lying on the floor in one of the upstairs

rooms. Mrs. James identified it as that of the lady who had come the day
before. The house-agents also recognized it as that of “Mrs. de Castina.”
The police surgeon gave it as his opinion that the woman had been dead
about twenty-four hours. The Daily Budget had jumped to the conclusion
that the man in the Tube had murdered the woman and afterwards
committed suicide. However, as the Tube victim was dead at two o’clock,
and the woman was alive and well at three o’clock, the only logical
conclusion to come to was that the two occurrences had nothing to do with
each other, and that the order to view the house at Marlow found in the dead
man’s pocket was merely one of those coincidences which so often occur in
this life.
A verdict of “Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown”
was returned, and the police (and the Daily Budget) were left to look for
“the man in the brown suit.” Since Mrs. James was positive that there was
no one in the house when the lady entered it, and that nobody except the
young man in question entered it until the following afternoon, it seemed
only logical to conclude that he was the murderer of the unfortunate Mrs. de
Castina. She had been strangled with a piece of stout black cord, and had
evidently been caught unawares with no time to cry out. The black silk
handbag which she carried contained a well-filled notecase and some loose
change, a fine lace handkerchief, unmarked, and the return half of a first-
class ticket to London. Nothing much there to go upon.
Such were the details published broadcast by the Daily Budget, and “Find
the Man in the Brown Suit” was their daily war-cry. On an average about
five hundred people wrote daily to announce their success in the quest, and
tall young men with well-tanned faces cursed the day when their tailors had
persuaded them to a brown suit. The accident in the Tube, dismissed as a
coincidence, faded out of the public mind.
Was it a coincidence? I was not so sure. No doubt I was prejudiced—the
Tube incident was my own pet mystery—but there certainly seemed to me
to be a connection of some kind between the two fatalities. In each there
was a man with a tanned face—evidently an Englishman living abroad, and
there were other things. It was the consideration of these other things that
finally impelled me to what I considered a dashing step. I presented myself
at Scotland Yard and demanded to see whoever was in charge of the Mill
House case.

My request took some time to understand, as I had inadvertently selected
the department for lost umbrellas, but eventually I was ushered into a small
room and presented to Detective Inspector Meadows.
Inspector Meadows was a small man with a ginger head and what I
considered a peculiarly irritating manner. A satellite, also in plain clothes,
sat unobtrusively in a corner.
“Good morning,” I said nervously.
“Good morning. Will you take a seat? I understand you’ve something to
tell me that you think may be of use to us.”
His tone seemed to indicate that such a thing was unlikely in the extreme.
I felt my temper stirred.
“Of course you know about the man who was killed in the Tube? The
man who had an order to view this same house at Marlow in his pocket.”
“Ah!” said the inspector. “You are the Miss Beddingfeld who gave
evidence at the inquest. Certainly the man had an order in his pocket. A lot
of other people may have had too—only they didn’t happen to be killed.”
I rallied my forces.
“You don’t think it odd that this man had no ticket in his pocket?”
“Easiest thing in the world to drop your ticket. Done it myself.”
“And no money.”
“He had some loose change in his trousers pocket.”
“But no notecase.”
“Some men don’t carry a pocket-book or notecase of any kind.”
I tried another tack.
“You don’t think it’s odd that the doctor never came forward
afterwards?”
“A busy medical man very often doesn’t read the papers. He probably
forgot all about the accident.”
“In fact, inspector, you are determined to find nothing odd,” I said
sweetly.
“Well, I’m inclined to think you’re a little too fond of the word, Miss
Beddingfeld. Young ladies are romantic, I know—fond of mysteries and
such-like. But as I’m a busy man——”

I took the hint and rose.
The man in the corner raised a meek voice.
“Perhaps the young lady would tell us briefly what her ideas really are on
the subject, inspector?”
The inspector fell in with the suggestion readily enough.
“Yes, come now, Miss Beddingfeld, don’t be offended. You’ve asked
questions and hinted things. Just say straight out what it is you’ve got in
your head.”
I wavered between injured dignity and the overwhelming desire to
express my theories. Injured dignity went to the wall.
“You said at the inquest you were positive it wasn’t suicide?”
“Yes, I’m quite certain of that. The man was frightened. What frightened
him? It wasn’t me. But some one might have been walking up the platform
towards us—some one he recognized.”
“You didn’t see any one?”
“No,” I admitted. “I didn’t turn my head. Then, as soon as the body was
recovered from the line, a man pushed forward to examine it, saying he was
a doctor.”
“Nothing unusual in that,” said the inspector dryly.
“But he wasn’t a doctor.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t a doctor,” I repeated.
“How do you know that, Miss Beddingfeld?”
“It’s difficult to say, exactly. I’ve worked in Hospital during the war, and
I’ve seen doctors handle bodies. There’s a sort of deft professional
callousness that this man hadn’t got. Besides, a doctor doesn’t usually feel
for the heart on the right side of the body.”
“He did that?”
“Yes, I didn’t notice it specially at the time—except that I felt there was
something wrong. But I worked it out when I got home, and then I saw why
the whole thing had looked so unhandy to me at the time.”
“H’m,” said the inspector. He was reaching slowly for pen and paper.

“In running his hands over the upper part of the man’s body he would
have ample opportunity to take anything he wanted from the pockets.”
“Doesn’t sound likely to me,” said the inspector. “But—well, can you
describe him at all?”
“He was tall and broad-shouldered, wore a dark overcoat and black
boots, a bowler hat. He had a dark pointed beard and gold-rimmed
eyeglasses.”
“Take away the overcoat, the beard and the eyeglasses, and there
wouldn’t be much to know him by,” grumbled the inspector. “He could alter
his appearance easy enough in five minutes if he wanted to—which he
would do if he’s the swell pickpocket you suggest.”
I had not intended to suggest anything of the kind. But from this moment
I gave the inspector up as hopeless.
“Nothing more you can tell us about him?” he demanded, as I rose to
depart.
“Yes,” I said. I seized my opportunity to fire a parting shot. “His head
was markedly brachycephalic. He will not find it so easy to alter that.”
I observed with pleasure that Inspector Meadow’s pen wavered. It was
clear that he did not know how to spell brachycephalic.

CHAPTER V

In the first heat of indignation I found my next step unexpectedly easy to
tackle. I had had a half-formed plan in my head when I went into Scotland
Yard. One to be carried out if my interview there was unsatisfactory (it had
been profoundly unsatisfactory). That is, if I had the nerve to go through
with it.
Things that one would shrink from attempting normally are easily tackled
in a flush of anger. Without giving myself time to reflect, I walked straight
to the house of Lord Nasby.
Lord Nasby was the millionaire owner of the Daily Budget. He owned
other papers—several of them, but the Daily Budget was his special child. It
was as the owner of the Daily Budget that he was known to every
householder in the United Kingdom. Owing to the fact that an itinerary of
the great man’s daily proceedings had just been published, I knew exactly
where to find him at this moment. It was his hour for dictating to his
secretary in his own house.
I did not, of course, suppose that any young woman who chose to come
and ask for him would be at once admitted to the august presence. But I had
attended to that side of the matter. In the card-tray in the hall of the
Flemmings’ house I had observed the card of the Marquis of Loamsley,
England’s most famous sporting peer. I had removed the card, cleaned it
carefully with bread-crumbs, and pencilled upon it the words: “Please give
Miss Beddingfeld a few moments of your time.” Adventuresses must not be
too scrupulous in their methods.
The thing worked. A powdered footman received the card and bore it
away. Presently a pale secretary appeared. I fenced with him successfully.
He retired defeated. He again reappeared and begged me to follow him. I
did so. I entered a large room, a frightened-looking shorthand-typist fled
past me like a visitant from the spirit-world. Then the door shut and I was
face to face with Lord Nasby.

A big man. Big head. Big face. Big moustache. Big stomach. I pulled
myself together. I had not come here to comment on Lord Nasby’s stomach.
He was already roaring at me.
“Well, what is it? What does Loamsley want? You his secretary? What’s
it all about?”
“To begin with,” I said with as great an appearance of coolness as I could
manage, “I don’t know Lord Loamsley, and he certainly knows nothing
about me. I took his card from the tray in the house of the people I’m
staying with, and I wrote those words on it myself. It was important that I
should see you.”
For a moment it appeared to be a toss up as to whether Lord Nasby had
apoplexy or not. In the end, he swallowed twice and got over it.
“I admire your coolness, young woman. Well, you see me! If you interest
me, you will continue to see me for exactly two minutes longer.”
“That will be ample,” I replied. “And I shall interest you. It’s the Mill
House Mystery.”
“If you’ve found ‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’ write to the Editor,” he
interrupted hastily.
“If you will interrupt, I shall be more than two minutes,” I said sternly. “I
haven’t found ‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’ but I’m quite likely to do so.”
In as few words as possible I put the facts of the Tube accident and the
conclusions I had drawn from them before him. When I had finished he said
unexpectedly:
“What do you know of brachycephalic heads?”
I mentioned Papa.
“The Monkey man? Eh? Well, you seem to have a head of some kind
upon your own shoulders, young woman. But it’s all pretty thin, you know.
Not much to go upon. And no use to us—as it stands.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that.”
“What d’you want, then?”
“I want a job on your paper to investigate this matter.”
“Can’t do that. We’ve got our own special man on it.”
“And I’ve got my own special knowledge.”

“What you’ve just told me, eh?”
“Oh, no, Lord Nasby. I’ve still got something up my sleeve.”
“Oh, you have, have you? You seem a bright sort of girl. Well, what is
it?”
“When this so-called doctor got into the lift, he dropped a piece of paper.
I picked it up. It smelt of moth balls. So did the dead man. The doctor
didn’t. So I saw at once that the doctor must have taken it off the body. It
had two words written on it and some figures.”
“Let’s see it.”
Lord Nasby stretched out a careless hand.
“I think not,” I said, smiling. “It’s my find, you see.”
“I’m right. You are a bright girl. Quite right to hang on to it. No scruples
about not handing it over to the police?”
“I went there to do so this morning. They persisted in regarding the
whole thing as having nothing to do with the Marlow affair, so I thought
that in the circumstances I was justified in retaining the paper. Besides, the
inspector put my back up.”
“Short-sighted man. Well, my dear girl, here’s all I can do for you. Go on
working on this line of yours. If you get anything—anything that’s
publishable—send it along and you shall have your chance. There’s always
room for real talent on the Daily Budget. But you’ve got to make good first.
See?”
I thanked him, and apologized for my methods.
“Don’t mention it. I rather like cheek—from a pretty girl. By the way,
you said two minutes and you’ve been three, allowing for interruptions. For
a woman, that’s quite remarkable! Must be your scientific training.”
I was in the street again, breathing hard as though I had been running. I
found Lord Nasby rather wearing as a new acquaintance.

CHAPTER VI

I went home with a feeling of exultation. My scheme had succeeded far
better than I could possibly have hoped. Lord Nasby had been positively
genial. It only now remained for me to “Make good,” as he expressed it.
Once locked in my own room, I took out my precious piece of paper and
studied it attentively. Here was the clue to the mystery.
To begin with, what did the figures represent? There were five of them,
and a dot after the first two. “Seventeen—one hundred and twenty-two,” I
murmured.
That did not seem to lead to anything.
Next I added them up. That is often done in works of fiction and leads to
surprising deductions.
“One and seven make eight and one is nine and two are eleven and two
are thirteen.”
Thirteen! Fateful number! Was this a warning to me to leave the whole
thing alone? Very possibly. Anyway, except as a warning, it seemed to be
singularly useless. I declined to believe that any conspirator would take that
way of writing thirteen in real life. If he meant thirteen, he would write
thirteen. “13”—like that.
There was a space between the one and the two. I accordingly subtracted
twenty-two from a hundred and seventy-one. The result was a hundred and
fifty-nine. I did it again and made it a hundred and forty-nine. These
arithmetical exercises were doubtless excellent practice, but as regarded the
solution of the mystery, they seemed totally ineffectual. I left arithmetic
alone, not attempting fancy division or multiplication, and went on to the
words.
Kilmorden Castle. That was something definite. A place. Probably the
cradle of an aristocratic family. (Missing heir? Claimant to title?) Or
possibly a picturesque ruin. (Buried treasure?)

Yes, on the whole I inclined to the theory of buried treasure. Figures
always go with buried treasure. One pace to the right, seven paces to the
left, dig one foot, descend twenty-two steps. That sort of idea. I could work
out that later. The thing was to get to Kilmorden Castle as quickly as
possible.
I made a strategic sally from my room and returned laden with books of
reference. Who’s Who, Whitaker, a Gazetteer, a History of Scotch Ancestral
Homes, and Somebody or other’s British Isles.
Time passed. I searched diligently, but with growing annoyance. Finally,
I shut the last book with a bang. There appeared to be no such place as
Kilmorden Castle. Here was an unexpected check. There must be such a
place. Why should any one invent a name like that and write it down on a
piece of paper? Absurd!
Another idea occurred to me. Possibly it was a castellated abomination in
the suburbs with a high-sounding name invented by its owner. But if so, it
was going to be extraordinarily hard to find. I sat back gloomily on my
heels (I always sit on the floor to do anything really important) and
wondered how on earth I was to set about it.
Was there any other line I could follow? I reflected earnestly and then
sprang to my feet delightedly. Of course! I must visit the “scene of the
crime.” Always done by the best sleuths! And no matter how long
afterwards it may be, they always find something that the police have
overlooked. My course was clear. I must go to Marlow.
But how was I to get into the house? I discarded several adventurous
methods, and plumped for stern simplicity. The house had been to let—
presumably was still to let. I would be a prospective tenant.
I also decided on attacking the local house-agents, as having fewer
houses on their books.
Here, however, I reckoned without my host. A pleasant clerk produced
particulars of about half a dozen desirable properties. It took all my
ingenuity to find objections to them. In the end I feared I had drawn a
blank.
“And you’ve really nothing else?” I asked, gazing pathetically into the
clerk’s eyes. “Something right on the river, and with a fair amount of garden

and a small lodge,” I added, summing up the main points of the Mill House,
as I had gathered them from the papers.
“Well, of course there’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s place,” said the man
doubtfully. “The Mill House, you know.”
“Not—not where——” I faltered. (Really, faltering is getting to be my
strong point.)
“That’s it! Where the murder took place. But perhaps you wouldn’t like
——”
“Oh, I don’t think I should mind,” I said with an appearance of rallying. I
felt my bona fides was now quite established. “And perhaps I might get it
cheap—in the circumstances.”
A master touch that, I thought.
“Well, it’s possible. There’s no pretending that it will be easy to let now
—servants and all that, you know. If you like the place after you’ve seen it,
I should advise you to make an offer. Shall I write you out an order?”
“If you please.”
A quarter of an hour later I was at the lodge of the Mill House. In answer
to my knock, the door flew open and a tall middle-aged woman literally
bounced out.
“Nobody can go into the house, do you hear that? Fairly sick of you
reporters, I am. Sir Eustace’s orders are——”
“I understood the house was to let,” I said freezingly, holding out my
order. “Of course, if it’s already taken——”
“Oh, I’m sure I beg your pardon, miss. I’ve been fairly pestered with
these newspaper people. Not a minute’s peace. No, the house isn’t let—nor
likely to be now.”
“Are the drains wrong?” I asked in an anxious whisper.
“Oh, Lord, miss, the drains is all right! But surely you’ve heard about
that foreign lady as was done to death here?”
“I believe I did read something about it in the papers,” I said carelessly.
My indifference piqued the good woman. If I had betrayed any interest,
she would probably have closed up like an oyster. As it was, she positively
bridled.

“I should say you did, miss! It’s been in all the newspapers. The Daily
Budget’s out still to catch the man who did it. It seems, according to them,
as our police are no good at all. Well, I hope they’ll get him—although a
nice-looking young fellow he was and no mistake. A kind of soldierly look
about him—ah, well, I dare say he’d been wounded in the war, and
sometimes they go a bit queer afterwards, my sister’s boy did. Perhaps
she’d used him bad—they’re a bad lot, those foreigners. Though she was a
fine-looking woman. Stood there where you’re standing now.”
“Was she dark or fair?” I ventured. “You can’t tell from these newspaper
portraits.”
“Dark hair, and a very white face—too white for nature, I thought, and
her lips reddened something cruel. I don’t like to see it—a little powder
now and then is quite another thing.”
We were conversing like old friends now. I put another question.
“Did she seem nervous or upset at all?”
“Not a bit. She was smiling to herself, quiet like, as though she was
amused at something. That’s why you could have knocked me down with a
feather when, the next afternoon, those people came running out calling for
the police and saying there’d been murder done. I shall never get over it,
and as for setting foot in that house after dark I wouldn’t do it, not if it was
ever so. Why, I wouldn’t even stay here at the lodge, if Sir Eustace hadn’t
been down on his bended knees to me.”
“I thought Sir Eustace Pedler was at Cannes?”
“So he was, miss. He come back to England when he heard the news,
and, as to the bended knees, that was a figure of speech, his secretary, Mr.
Pagett, having offered us double pay to stay on, and, as my John says,
money is money nowadays.”
I concurred heartily with John’s by no means original remarks.
“The young man now,” said Mrs. James, reverting suddenly to a former
point in the conversation. “He was upset. His eyes, light eyes, they were, I
noticed them particular, was all shining. Excited, I thought. But I never
dreamt of anything being wrong. Not even when he came out again looking
all queer.”
“How long was he in the house?”
“Oh, not long, a matter of five minutes maybe.”

“How tall was he, do you think? About six foot?”
“I should say so maybe.”
“He was clean-shaven, you say?”
“Yes, miss—not even one of these toothbrush moustaches.”
“Was his chin at all shiny?” I asked on a sudden impulse.
Mrs. James stared at me with awe.
“Well, now you come to mention it, miss, it was. However did you
know?”
“It’s a curious thing, but murderers often have shiny chins,” I explained
wildly.
Mrs. James accepted the statement in all good faith.
“Really, now, miss. I never heard that before.”
“You didn’t notice what kind of a head he had, I suppose?”
“Just the ordinary kind, miss. I’ll fetch you the keys, shall I?”
I accepted them, and went on my way to the Mill House. My
reconstructions so far I considered good. All along I had realized that the
differences between the man Mrs. James had described and my Tube
“doctor” were those of non-essentials. An overcoat, a beard, gold-rimmed
eyeglasses. The “doctor” had appeared middle-aged, but I remembered that
he had stooped over the body like a comparatively young man. There had
been a suppleness which told of young joints.
The victim of the accident (the Moth Ball man, as I called him to myself)
and the foreign woman, Mrs. de Castina, or whatever her real name was,
had had an assignation to meet at the Mill House. That was how I pieced the
thing together. Either because they feared they were being watched or for
some other reason, they chose the rather ingenious method of both getting
an order to view the same house. Thus their meeting there might have the
appearance of pure chance.
That the Moth Ball man had suddenly caught sight of the “doctor,” and
that the meeting was totally unexpected and alarming to him, was another
fact of which I was fairly sure. What had happened next? The “doctor” had
removed his disguise and followed the woman to Marlow. But it was
possible that had he removed it rather hastily traces of spirit-gum might still
linger on his chin. Hence my question to Mrs. James.

Whilst occupied with my thoughts I had arrived at the low old-fashioned
door of the Mill House. Unlocking it with the key, I passed inside. The hall
was low and dark, the place smelt forlorn and mildewy. In spite of myself, I
shivered. Did the woman who had come here “smiling to herself” a few
days ago feel no chill of premonition as she entered this house? I wondered.
Did the smile fade from her lips, and did a nameless dread close round her
heart? Or had she gone upstairs, smiling still, unconscious of the doom that
was so soon to overtake her? My heart beat a little faster. Was the house
really empty? Was doom waiting for me in it also? For the first time, I
understood the meaning of the much-used word, “atmosphere.” There was
an atmosphere in this house, an atmosphere of cruelty, of menace, of evil.

CHAPTER VII

Shaking off the feelings that oppressed me, I went quickly upstairs. I had
no difficulty in finding the room of the tragedy. On the day the body was
discovered it had rained heavily, and large muddy boots had trampled the
uncarpeted floor in every direction. I wondered if the murderer had left any
footmarks the previous day. It was likely that the police would be reticent
on the subject if he had, but on consideration I decided it was unlikely. The
weather had been fine and dry.
There was nothing of interest about the room. It was almost square with
two big bay windows, plain white walls and a bare floor, the boards being
stained round the edges where the carpet had ceased. I searched it carefully,
but there was not so much as a pin lying about. The gifted young detective
did not seem likely to discover a neglected clue.
I had brought with me a pencil and notebook. There did not seem much
to note, but I duly dotted down a brief sketch of the room to cover my
disappointment at the failure of my quest. As I was in the act of returning
the pencil to my bag, it slipped from my fingers and rolled along the floor.
The Mill House was really old, and the floors were very uneven. The
pencil rolled steadily, with increasing momentum, until it came to rest under
one of the windows. In the recess of each window there was a broad
window-seat, underneath which there was a cupboard. My pencil was lying
right against the cupboard door. The cupboard was shut, but it suddenly
occurred to me that if it had been open my pencil would have rolled inside.
I opened the door, and my pencil immediately rolled in and sheltered
modestly in the farthest corner. I retrieved it, noting as I did so that owing to
the lack of light and the peculiar formation of the cupboard one could not
see it, but had to feel for it. Apart from my pencil the cupboard was empty,
but being thorough by nature I tried the one under the opposite window.
At first sight, it looked as though that also was empty, but I grubbed
about perseveringly, and was rewarded by feeling my hand close on a hard
paper cylinder which lay in a sort of trough, or depression, in the far corner

of the cupboard. As soon as I had it in my hand, I knew what it was. A roll
of Kodak films. Here was a find!
I realized, of course, that these films might very well be an old roll
belonging to Sir Eustace Pedler which had rolled in here and had not been
found when the cupboard was emptied. But I did not think so. The red paper
was far too fresh-looking. It was just as dusty as it would have been had it
laid there for two or three days—that is to say, since the murder. Had it been
there for any length of time, it would have been thickly coated.
Who had dropped it? The woman or the man? I remembered that the
contents of her handbag had appeared to be intact. If it had been jerked
open in the struggle and the roll of films had fallen out, surely some of the
loose money would have been scattered about also? No, it was not the
woman who had dropped the films.
I sniffed suddenly and suspiciously. Was the smell of moth balls
becoming an obsession with me? I could swear that the roll of films smelt
of it also? I held them under my nose. They had, as usual, a strong smell of
their own, but apart from that I could clearly detect the odour I disliked so
much. I soon found the cause. A minute shred of cloth had caught on a
rough edge of the centre wood, and that shred was strongly impregnated
with moth balls. At some time or another the films had been carried in the
overcoat pocket of the man who was killed in the Tube. Was it he who had
dropped them here? Hardly. His movements were all accounted for.
No, it was the other man, the “doctor.” He had taken the films when he
had taken the paper. It was he who had dropped them here during his
struggle with the woman.
I had got my clue! I would have the roll developed, and then I would
have further developments to work upon.
Very elated, I left the house, returned the keys to Mrs. James and made
my way as quickly as possible to the station. On the way back to town, I
took out my paper and studied it afresh. Suddenly the figures took on a new
significance. Suppose they were a date? 17 1 22. The 17th of January, 1922.
Surely that must be it! Idiot that I was not to have thought of it before. But
in that case I must find out the whereabouts of Kilmorden Castle, for to-day
was actually the 14th. Three days. Little enough—almost hopeless when
one had no idea of where to look!

It was too late to hand in my roll to-day. I had to hurry home to
Kensington so as not to be late for dinner. It occurred to me that there was
an easy way of verifying whether some of my conclusions were correct. I
asked Mr. Flemming whether there had been a camera amongst the dead
man’s belongings. I knew that he had taken an interest in the case and was
conversant with all the details.
To my surprise and annoyance he replied that there had been no camera.
All Carton’s effects had been gone over very carefully in the hopes of
finding something that might throw light upon his state of mind. He was
positive that there had been no photographic apparatus of any kind.
That was rather a set-back to my theory. If he had no camera, why should
he be carrying a roll of films?
I set out early next morning to take my precious roll to be developed. I
was so fussy that I went all the way to Regent Street to the big Kodak place.
I handed it in and asked for a print of each film. The man finished stacking
together a heap of films packed in yellow tin cylinders for the tropics, and
picked up my roll.
He looked at me.
“You’ve made a mistake, I think,” he said, smiling.
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m sure I haven’t.”
“You’ve given me the wrong roll. This is an unexposed one.”
I walked out with what dignity I could muster. I dare say it is good for
one now and again to realize what an idiot one can be! But nobody relishes
the process.
And then, just as I was passing one of the big shipping offices, I came to
a sudden halt. In the window was a beautiful model of one of the company’s
boats, and it was labelled “Kenilworth Castle.” A wild idea shot through my
brain. I pushed the door open and went in. I went up to the counter and in
faltering voice (genuine this time!) I murmured:
“Kilmorden Castle?”
“On the 17th from Southampton. Cape Town? First or second class?”
“How much is it?”
“First class, eighty-seven pounds——”

I interrupted him. The coincidence was too much for me. Exactly the
amount of my legacy! I would put all my eggs in one basket.
“First class,” I said.
I was now definitely committed to the adventure.

CHAPTER VIII

(Extracts from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler, M.P.)
It is an extraordinary thing that I never seem to get any peace. I am a man
who likes a quiet life. I like my Club, my rubber of Bridge, a well-cooked
meal, a sound wine. I like England in the summer, and the Riviera in the
winter. I have no desire to participate in sensational happenings.
Sometimes, in front of a good fire, I do not object to reading about them in
the newspaper. But that is as far as I am willing to go. My object in life is to
be thoroughly comfortable. I have devoted a certain amount of thought, and
a considerable amount of money, to further that end. But I cannot say that I
always succeed. If things do not actually happen to me, they happen round
me, and frequently, in spite of myself, I become involved. I hate being
involved.
All this because Guy Pagett came into my bedroom this morning with a
telegram in his hand and a face as long as a mute at a funeral.
Guy Pagett is my secretary, a zealous, painstaking, hard-working fellow,
admirable in every respect. I know no one who annoys me more. For a long
time I have been racking my brains as to how to get rid of him. But you
cannot very well dismiss a secretary because he prefers work to play, likes
getting up early in the morning, and has positively no vices. The only
amusing thing about the fellow is his face. He has the face of a fourteenth-
century poisoner—the sort of man the Borgias got to do their odd jobs for
them.
I wouldn’t mind so much if Pagett didn’t make me work too. My idea of
work is something that should be undertaken lightly and airily—trifled
with, in fact! I doubt if Guy Pagett has ever trifled with anything in his life.
He takes everything seriously. That is what makes him so difficult to live
with.
Last week I had the brilliant idea of sending him off to Florence. He
talked about Florence and how much he wanted to go there.

“My dear fellow,” I cried, “you shall go to-morrow. I will pay all your
expenses.”
January isn’t the usual time for going to Florence, but it would be all one
to Pagett. I could imagine him going about, guide-book in hand, religiously
doing all the picture galleries. And a week’s freedom was cheap to me at the
price.
It has been a delightful week. I have done everything I wanted to, and
nothing that I did not want to do. But when I blinked my eyes open, and
perceived Pagett standing between me and the light at the unearthly hour of
9 a.m. this morning, I realized that freedom was over.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “has the funeral already taken place, or is it for
later in the morning?”
Pagett does not appreciate dry humour. He merely stared.
“So you know, Sir Eustace?”
“Know what?” I said crossly. “From the expression of your face I
inferred that one of your near and dear relatives was to be interred this
morning.”
Pagett ignored the sally as far as possible.
“I thought you couldn’t know about this.” He tapped the telegram. “I
know you dislike being aroused early—but it is nine o’clock”—Pagett
insists on regarding 9 a.m. as practically the middle of the day—“and I
thought that under the circumstances——” He tapped the telegram again.
“What is that thing?” I asked.
“It’s a telegram from the police at Marlow. A woman has been murdered
in your house.”
That aroused me in earnest.
“What colossal cheek,” I exclaimed. “Why in my house? Who murdered
her?”
“They don’t say. I suppose we shall go back to England at once, Sir
Eustace?”
“You need suppose nothing of the kind. Why should we go back?”
“The police——”
“What on earth have I to do with the police?”

“Well, it was your house.”
“That,” I said, “appears to be more my misfortune than my fault.”
Guy Pagett shook his head gloomily.
“It will have a very unfortunate effect upon the constituency,” he
remarked lugubriously.
I don’t see why it should have—and yet I have a feeling that in such
matters Pagett’s instincts are always right. On the face of it, a Member of
Parliament will be none the less efficient because a stray young woman
comes and gets herself murdered in an empty house that belongs to him—
but there is no accounting for the view the respectable British public takes
of a matter.
“She’s a foreigner too, and that makes it worse,” continued Pagett
gloomily.
Again I believe he is right. If it is disreputable to have a woman
murdered in your house, it becomes more disreputable if the woman is a
foreigner. Another idea struck me.
“Good heavens,” I exclaimed, “I hope this won’t upset Caroline.”
Caroline is the lady who cooks for me. Incidentally she is the wife of my
gardener. What kind of a wife she makes I do not know, but she is an
excellent cook. James, on the other hand, is not a good gardener—but I
support him in idleness and give him the lodge to live in solely on account
of Caroline’s cooking.
“I don’t suppose she’ll stay after this,” said Pagett.
“You always were a cheerful fellow,” I said.
I expect I shall have to go back to England. Pagett clearly intends that I
shall. And there is Caroline to pacify.
Three days later.
It is incredible to me that any one who can get away from England in
winter does not do so! It is an abominable climate. All this trouble is very
annoying. The house-agents say it will be next to impossible to let the Mill
House after all the publicity. Caroline has been pacified—with double pay.
We could have sent her a cable to that effect from Cannes. In fact, as I have
said all along, there was no earthly purpose to serve by our coming over. I
shall go back to-morrow.

One day later.
Several very surprising things have occurred. To begin with, I met
Augustus Milray, the most perfect example of an old ass the present
Government has produced. His manner oozed diplomatic secrecy as he
drew me aside in the Club into a quiet corner. He talked a good deal. About
South Africa and the industrial situation there. About the growing rumours
of a strike on the Rand. Of the secret causes actuating that strike. I listened
as patiently as I could. Finally, he dropped his voice to a whisper and
explained that certain documents had come to light which ought to be
placed in the hands of General Smuts.
“I’ve no doubt you’re quite right,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“But how are we to get them to him? Our position in the matter is
delicate—very delicate.”
“What’s wrong with the post?” I said cheerfully. “Put a two-penny stamp
on and drop ’em in the nearest letter-box.”
He seemed quite shocked at the suggestion.
“My dear Pedler! The common post!”
It has always been a mystery to me why Governments employ Kings’
Messengers and draw such attention to their confidential documents.
“If you don’t like the post, send one of your young Foreign Office
fellows. He’ll enjoy the trip.”
“Impossible,” said Milray, wagging his head in a senile fashion. “There
are reasons, my dear Pedler—I assure you there are reasons.”
“Well,” I said, rising, “all this is very interesting, but I must be off——”
“One minute, my dear Pedler, one minute, I beg of you. Now tell me, in
confidence, is it not true that you intend visiting South Africa shortly
yourself? You have large interests in Rhodesia, I know, and the question of
Rhodesia joining in the Union is one in which you have a vital interest.”
“Well, I had thought of going out in about a month’s time.”
“You couldn’t possibly make it sooner? This month? This week, in fact?”
“I could,” I said, eyeing him with some interest. “But I don’t know that I
particularly want to.”
“You would be doing the Government a great service—a very great
service. You would not find them—er—ungrateful.”

“Meaning, you want me to be the postman?”
“Exactly. Your position is an unofficial one, your journey is bona fide.
Everything would be eminently satisfactory.”
“Well,” I said slowly, “I don’t mind if I do. The one thing I am anxious to
do is to get out of England again as soon as possible.”
“You will find the climate of South Africa delightful—quite delightful.”
“My dear fellow, I know all about the climate. I was out there shortly
before the war.”
“I am really much obliged to you, Pedler. I will send you round the
package by messenger. To be placed in General Smuts’s own hands, you
understand? The Kilmorden Castle sails on Saturday—quite a good boat.”
I accompanied him a short way along Pall Mall before we parted. He
shook me warmly by the hand, and thanked me again effusively.
I walked home reflecting on the curious by-ways of Governmental
policy.
It was the following evening that Jarvis, my butler, informed me that a
gentleman wished to see me on private business, but declined to give his
name. I have always a lively apprehension of insurance touts, so told Jarvis
to say I could not see him. Guy Pagett, unfortunately, when he might for
once have been of real use, was laid up with a bilious attack. These earnest,
hard-working young men with weak stomachs are always liable to bilious
attacks.
Jarvis returned.
“The gentleman asked me to tell you, Sir Eustace, that he comes to you
from Mr. Milray.”
That altered the complexion of things. A few minutes later I was
confronting my visitor in the library. He was a well-built young fellow with
a deeply tanned face. A scar ran diagonally from the corner of his eye to the
jaw, disfiguring what would otherwise have been a handsome though
somewhat reckless countenance.
“Well,” I said, “what’s the matter?”
“Mr. Milray sent me to you, Sir Eustace. I am to accompany you to South
Africa as your secretary.”

“My dear fellow,” I said, “I’ve got a secretary already. I don’t want
another.”
“I think you do, Sir Eustace. Where is your secretary now?”
“He’s down with a bilious attack,” I explained.
“You are sure it’s only a bilious attack?”
“Of course it is. He’s subject to them.”
My visitor smiled.
“It may or may not be a bilious attack. Time will show. But I can tell you
this, Sir Eustace, Mr. Milray would not be surprised if an attempt were
made to get your secretary out of the way. Oh, you need have no fear for
yourself”—I suppose a momentary alarm had flickered across my face
—“you are not threatened. Your secretary out of the way, access to you
would be easier. In any case, Mr. Milray wishes me to accompany you. The
passage-money will be our affair, of course, but you will take the necessary
steps about the passport, as though you had decided that you needed the
services of a second secretary.”
He seemed a determined young man. We stared at each other and he
stared me down.
“Very well,” I said feebly.
“You will say nothing to any one as to my accompanying you.”
“Very well,” I said again.
After all, perhaps it was better to have this fellow with me, but I had a
premonition that I was getting into deep waters. Just when I thought I had
attained peace!
I stopped my visitor as he was turning to depart.
“It might be just as well if I knew my new secretary’s name,” I observed
sarcastically.
He considered for a minute.
“Harry Rayburn seems quite a suitable name,” he observed.
It was a curious way of putting it.
“Very well,” I said for the third time.

CHAPTER IX

(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
It is most undignified for a heroine to be sea-sick. In books the more it
rolls and tosses, the better she likes it. When everybody else is ill, she alone
staggers along the deck, braving the elements and positively rejoicing in the
storm. I regret to say that at the first roll the Kilmorden gave, I turned pale
and hastened below. A sympathetic stewardess received me. She suggested
dry toast and ginger ale.
I remained groaning in my cabin for three days. Forgotten was my quest.
I had no longer any interest in solving mysteries. I was a totally different
Anne to the one who had rushed back to the South Kensington square so
jubilantly from the shipping office.
I smile now as I remember my abrupt entry into the drawing-room. Mrs.
Flemming was alone there. She turned her head as I entered.
“Is that you, Anne, my dear? There is something I want to talk over with
you.”
“Yes?” I said, curbing my impatience.
“Miss Emery is leaving me.” Miss Emery was the governness. “As you
have not yet succeeded in finding anything, I wondered if you would care—
it would be so nice if you remained with us altogether?”
I was touched. She didn’t want me, I knew. It was sheer Christian charity
that prompted the offer. I felt remorseful for my secret criticism of her.
Getting up, I ran impulsively across the room and flung my arms round her
neck.
“You’re a dear,” I said. “A dear, a dear, a dear! And thank you ever so
much. But it’s all right, I’m off to South Africa on Saturday.”
My abrupt onslaught had startled the good lady. She was not used to
sudden demonstrations of affection. My words startled her still more.

“To South Africa? My dear Anne. We would have to look into anything
of that kind very carefully.”
That was the last thing I wanted. I explained that I had already taken my
passage, and that upon arrival I proposed to take up the duties of a
parlourmaid. It was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the
moment. There was, I said, a great demand for parlourmaids in South
Africa. I assured her that I was equal to taking care of myself, and in the
end, with a sigh of relief at getting me off her hands, she accepted the
project without further query. At parting, she slipped an envelope into my
hand. Inside it I found five new crisp five-pound notes and the words: “I
hope you will not be offended and will accept this with my love.” She was a
very good, kind woman. I could not have continued to live in the same
house with her, but I did recognize her intrinsic worth.
So here I was, with twenty-five pounds in my pocket, facing the world
and pursuing my adventure.
It was on the fourth day that the stewardess finally urged me up on deck.
Under the impression that I should die quicker below, I had steadfastly
refused to leave my bunk. She now tempted me with the advent of Madeira.
Hope rose in my breast. I could leave the boat and go ashore and be a
parlourmaid there. Anything for dry land.
Muffled in coats and rugs, and weak as a kitten on my legs, I was hauled
up and deposited, an inert mass, on a deck-chair. I lay there with my eyes
closed, hating life. The purser, a fair-haired young man, with a round boyish
face, came and sat down beside me.
“Hullo! Feeling rather sorry for yourself, eh?”
“Yes,” I replied, hating him.
“Ah, you won’t know yourself in another day or two. We’ve had rather a
nasty dusting in the Bay, but there’s smooth weather ahead. I’ll be taking
you on at quoits to-morrow.”
I did not reply.
“Think you’ll never recover, eh? But I’ve seen people much worse than
you, and two days later they were the life and soul of the ship. You’ll be the
same.”
I did not feel sufficiently pugnacious to tell him outright that he was a
liar. I endeavoured to convey it by a glance. He chatted pleasantly for a few

minutes more, then he mercifully departed. People passed and repassed,
brisk couples “exercising,” curveting children, laughing young people. A
few other pallid sufferers lay, like myself, in deck-chairs.
The air was pleasant, crisp, not too cold, and the sun was shining
brightly. Insensibly, I felt a little cheered. I began to watch the people. One
woman in particular attracted me. She was about thirty, of medium height
and very fair with a round dimpled face and very blue eyes. Her clothes,
though perfectly plain, had that indefinable air of “cut” about them which
spoke of Paris. Also, in a pleasant but self-possessed way, she seemed to
own the ship!
Deck stewards ran to and fro obeying her commands. She had a special
deck-chair, and an apparently inexhaustible supply of cushions. She
changed her mind three times as to where she would like it placed.
Throughout everything she remained attractive and charming. She appeared
to be one of those rare people in the world who know what they want, see
that they get it, and manage to do so without being offensive. I decided that
if I ever recovered—but of course I shouldn’t—it would amuse me to talk
to her.
We reached Madeira about midday. I was still too inert to move, but I
enjoyed the picturesque-looking merchants who came on board and spread
their merchandise about the decks. There were flowers too. I buried my
nose in an enormous bunch of sweet wet violets and felt distinctly better. In
fact, I thought I might just possibly last out the end of the voyage. When my
stewardess spoke of the attractions of a little chicken broth, I only protested
feebly. When it came I enjoyed it.
My attractive woman had been ashore. She came back escorted by a tall,
soldierly-looking man with dark hair and a bronzed face whom I had
noticed striding up and down the deck earlier in the day. I put him down at
once as one of the strong, silent men of Rhodesia. He was about forty, with
a touch of greying hair at either temple, and was easily the best-looking
man on board.
When the stewardess brought me up an extra rug I asked her if she knew
who my attractive woman was.
“That’s a well-known society lady, the Hon. Mrs. Clarence Blair. You
must have read about her in the papers.”

I nodded, looking at her with renewed interest. Mrs. Blair was very well
known indeed as one of the smartest women of the day. I observed, with
some amusement, that she was the centre of a good deal of attention.
Several people essayed to scrape acquaintance with the pleasant informality
that a boat allows. I admired the polite way that Mrs. Blair snubbed them.
She appeared to have adopted the strong, silent man as her special cavalier,
and he seemed duly sensible of the privilege accorded him.
The following morning, to my surprise, after taking a few turns round the
deck with her attentive companion, Mrs. Blair came to a halt by my chair.
“Feeling better this morning?”
I thanked her, and said I felt slightly more like a human being.
“You did look ill yesterday. Colonel Race and I decided that we should
have the excitement of a funeral at sea—but you’ve disappointed us.”
I laughed.
“Being up in the air has done me good.”
“Nothing like fresh air,” said Colonel Race, smiling.
“Being shut up in those stuffy cabins would kill any one,” declared Mrs.
Blair, dropping into a seat by my side and dismissing her companion with a
little nod. “You’ve got an outside one, I hope?”
I shook my head.
“My dear girl! Why don’t you change? There’s plenty of room. A lot of
people got off at Madeira, and the boat’s very empty. Talk to the purser
about it. He’s a nice little boy—he changed me into a beautiful cabin
because I didn’t care for the one I’d got. You talk to him at lunch-time when
you go down.”
I shuddered.
“I couldn’t move.”
“Don’t be silly. Come and take a walk now with me.”
She dimpled at me encouragingly. I felt very weak on my legs at first, but
as we walked briskly up and down I began to feel a brighter and better
being.
After a turn or two, Colonel Race joined us again.
“You can see the Grand Peak of Tenerife from the other side.”

“Can we? Can I get a photograph of it, do you think?”
“No—but that won’t deter you from snapping off at it.”
Mrs. Blair laughed.
“You are unkind. Some of my photographs are very good.”
“About three per cent effective, I should say.”
We all went round to the other side of the deck. There glimmering white
and snowy, enveloped in a delicate rose-coloured mist, rose the glistening
pinnacle. I uttered an exclamation of delight. Mrs. Blair ran for her camera.
Undeterred by Colonel Race’s sardonic comments, she snapped
vigorously:
“There, that’s the end of the roll. Oh,” her tone changed to one of
chagrin, “I’ve had the thing at ‘bulb’ all the time.”
“I always like to see a child with a new toy,” murmured the Colonel.
“How horrid you are—but I’ve got another roll.”
She produced it in triumph from the pocket of her sweater. A sudden roll
of the boat upset her balance, and as she caught at the rail to steady herself
the roll of films flashed over the side.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Blair, comically dismayed. She leaned over. “Do you
think they have gone overboard?”
“No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward in
the deck below.”
A small boy who had arrived unobserved a few paces to our rear blew a
deafening blast on a bugle.
“Lunch,” declared Mrs. Blair ecstatically. “I’ve had nothing to eat since
breakfast, except two cups of beef-tea. Lunch, Miss Beddingfeld?”
“Well,” I said waveringly. “Yes, I do feel rather hungry.”
“Splendid. You’re sitting at the purser’s table, I know. Tackle him about
the cabin.”
I found my way down to the saloon, began to eat gingerly, and finished
by consuming an enormous meal. My friend of yesterday congratulated me
on my recovery. Every one was changing cabins to-day, he told me, and he
promised that my things should be moved to an outside one without delay.

There were only four at our table, myself, a couple of elderly ladies, and
a missionary who talked a lot about “our poor black brothers.”
I looked round at the other tables. Mrs. Blair was sitting at the Captain’s
table, Colonel Race next to her. On the other side of the Captain was a
distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. A good many people I had already
noticed on deck, but there was one man who had not previously appeared.
Had he done so, he could hardly have escaped my notice. He was tall and
dark, and had such a peculiarly sinister type of countenance that I was quite
startled. I asked the purser, with some curiosity, who he was.
“That man? Oh, that’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary. Been very sea-sick,
poor chap, and not appeared before. Sir Eustace has got two secretaries with
him, and the sea’s been too much for both of them. The other fellow hasn’t
turned up yet. This man’s name is Pagett.”
So Sir Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House, was on board.
Probably only a coincidence, and yet——
“That’s Sir Eustace,” my informant continued, “sitting next to the
Captain. Pompous old ass.”
The more I studied the secretary’s face, the less I liked it. Its even pallor,
the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously flattened head—it all gave
me a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.
Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind him as
he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I overheard a
fragment or two. “I’ll see about the cabin at once then, shall I? It’s
impossible to work in yours, with all your trunks.”
“My dear fellow,” Sir Eustace replied. “My cabin is intended (a) for me
to sleep in, and (b) to attempt to dress in. I never had any intentions of
allowing you to sprawl about the place making an infernal clicking with
that typewriter of yours.”
“That’s just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to work
——”
Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my removal
was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.
“Very nice cabin, miss. On D deck. No. 13.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. “Not 13.”

Thirteen is the one thing I am superstitious about. It was a nice cabin too.
I inspected it, wavered, but a foolish superstition prevailed. I appealed
almost tearfully to the steward.
“Isn’t there any other cabin I can have?”
The steward reflected.
“Well, there’s 17, just along on the starboard side. That was empty this
morning, but I rather fancy it’s been allotted to some one. Still, as the
gentleman’s things aren’t in yet, and as gentlemen aren’t anything like so
superstitious as ladies, I dare say he wouldn’t mind changing.”
I hailed the proposition gratefully, and the steward departed to obtain
permission from the purser. He returned grinning.
“That’s all right, miss. We can go along.”
He led the way to 17. It was not quite as large as No. 13, but I found it
eminently satisfactory.
“I’ll fetch your things right away, miss,” said the steward.
But at that moment, the man with the sinister face (as I had nicknamed
him) appeared in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but this cabin is reserved for the use of Sir
Eustace Pedler.”
“That’s all right, sir,” explained the steward. “We’re fitting up No. 13
instead.”
“No, it was No. 17 I was to have.”
“No. 13 is a better cabin, sir—larger.”
“I specially selected No. 17, and the purser said I could have it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said coldly. “But No. 17 has been allotted to me.”
“I can’t agree to that.”
The steward put in his oar.
“The other cabin’s just the same, only better.”
“I want No. 17.”
“What’s all this?” demanded a new voice. “Steward, put my things in
here. This is my cabin.”
It was my neighbor at lunch, the Rev. Edward Chichester.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “It’s my cabin.”

“It is allotted to Sir Eustace Pedler,” said Mr. Pagett.
We were all getting rather heated.
“I’m sorry to have to dispute the matter,” said Chichester with a meek
smile which failed to mask his determination to get his own way. Meek men
are always obstinate, I have noticed.
He edged himself sideways into the doorway.
“You’re to have No. 28 on the port side,” said the steward. “A very good
cabin, sir.”
“I am afraid that I must insist. No. 17 was the cabin promised to me.”
We had come to an impasse. Each one of us was determined not to give
way. Strictly speaking, I, at any rate, might have retired from the contest
and eased matters by offering to accept Cabin 28. So long as I did not have
13 it was immaterial to me what other cabin I had. But my blood was up. I
had not the least intention of being the first to give way. And I disliked
Chichester. He had false teeth which clicked when he ate. Many men have
been hated for less.
We all said the same things over again. The steward assured us, even
more strongly, that both the other cabins were better cabins. None of us paid
any attention to him.
Pagett began to lose his temper. Chichester kept his serenely. With an
effort I also kept mine. And still none of us would give way an inch.
A wink and a whispered word from the steward gave me my cue. I faded
unobtrusively from the scene. I was lucky enough to encounter the purser
almost immediately.
“Oh, please,” I said, “you did say I could have Cabin 17? And the others
won’t go away. Mr. Chichester and Mr. Pagett. You will let me have it,
won’t you?”
I always say that there are no people like sailors for being nice to women.
My little purser came to the scratch splendidly. He strode to the scene,
informed the disputants that No. 17 was my cabin, they could have Nos. 13
and 28 respectively or stay where they were—whichever they chose.
I permitted my eyes to tell him what a hero he was and then installed
myself in my new domain. The encounter had done me worlds of good. The

sea was smooth, the weather growing daily warmer. Sea-sickness was a
thing of the past!
I went up on deck and was initiated into the mysteries of deck-quoits. I
entered my name for various sports. Tea was served on deck, and I ate
heartily. After tea, I played shovel-board with some pleasant young men.
They were extraordinarily nice to me. I felt that life was satisfactory and
delightful.
The dressing bugle came as a surprise and I hurried to my new cabin. The
stewardess was awaiting me with a troubled face.
“There’s a terrible smell in your cabin, miss. What it is, I’m sure I can’t
think, but I doubt if you’ll be able to sleep here. There’s a deck cabin up on
C deck, I believe. You might move into that—just for the night, anyway.”
The smell really was pretty bad—quite nauseating. I told the stewardess I
would think over the question of moving whilst I dressed. I hurried over my
toilet, sniffing distastefully as I did so.
What was the smell? Dead rat? No, worse than that—and quite different.
Yet I knew it! It was something I had smelt before. Something——Ah! I
had got it. Asafœtida! I had worked in a Hospital dispensary during the war
for a short time and had become acquainted with various nauseous drugs.
Asafœtida, that was it. But how——
I sank down on the sofa, suddenly realizing the thing. Somebody had put
a pinch of asafœtida in my cabin. Why? So that I should vacate it? Why
were they so anxious to get me out? I thought of the scene this afternoon
from a rather different point of view. What was there about Cabin 17 that
made so many people anxious to get hold of it? The other two cabins were
better cabins, why had both men insisted on sticking to 17?
17. How the number persisted. It was on the 17th I had sailed from
Southampton. It was a 17—I stopped with a sudden gasp. Quickly I
unlocked my suit-case, and took my precious paper from its place of
concealment in some rolled stockings.
17 1 22—I had taken that for a date, the date of departure of the
Kilmorden Castle. Supposing I was wrong. When I came to think of it,
would any one, writing down a date, think it necessary to put the year as
well as the month? Supposing 17 meant Cabin 17? And 1? The time—one
o’clock. Then 22 must be the date. I looked up at my little almanac.

To-morrow was the 22nd!

CHAPTER X

I was violently excited. I was sure that I had hit on the right trail at last.
One thing was clear, I must not move out of the cabin. The asafœtida had
got to be borne. I examined my facts again.
To-morrow was the 22nd, and at 1 a.m. or 1 p.m. something would
happen. I plumped for 1 a.m. It was now seven o’clock. In six hours I
should know.
I don’t know how I got through the evening. I retired to my cabin fairly
early. I had told the stewardess that I had a cold in the head and didn’t mind
smells. She still seemed distressed, but I was firm.
The evening seemed interminable. I duly retired to bed, but in view of
emergencies I swathed myself in a thick flannel dressing-gown, and
encased my feet in slippers. Thus attired I felt that I could spring up and
take an active part in anything that happened.
What did I expect to happen? I hardly knew. Vague fancies, most of them
wildly improbable, flitted through my brain. But one thing I was firmly
convinced of, at one o’clock something would happen.
At various times, I heard my fellow-passengers coming to bed.
Fragments of conversation, laughing good-nights, floated in through the
open transom. Then, silence. Most of the lights went out. There was still
one in the passage outside, and there was therefore a certain amount of light
in my cabin. I heard eight bells go. The hour that followed seemed the
longest I had ever known. I consulted my watch surreptitiously to be sure I
had not overshot the time.
If my deductions were wrong, if nothing happened at one o’clock, I
should have made a fool of myself, and spent all the money I had in the
world on a mare’s-nest. My heart beat painfully.
Two bells went overhead. One o’clock! And nothing. Wait—what was
that? I heard the quick light patter of feet running—running along the
passage.

Then with the suddenness of a bombshell my cabin door burst open and a
man almost fell inside.
“Save me,” he said hoarsely. “They’re after me.”
It was not a moment for argument or explanation. I could hear footsteps
outside. I had about forty seconds in which to act. I had sprung to my feet
and was standing facing the stranger in the middle of the cabin.
A cabin does not abound in hiding-places for a six-foot man. With one
arm I pulled out my cabin trunk. He slipped down behind it under the bunk.
I raised the lid. At the same time, with the other hand I pulled down the
wash-basin. A deft movement and my hair was screwed into a tiny knot on
the top of my head. From the point of view of appearance it was inartistic,
from another standpoint it was supremely artistic. A lady, with her hair
screwed into an unbecoming knob and in the act of removing a piece of
soap from her trunk with which, apparently to wash her neck, could hardly
be suspected of harbouring a fugitive.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for me to say, “Come
in,” it was pushed open.
I don’t know what I expected to see. I think I had vague ideas of Mr.
Pagett brandishing a revolver. Or my missionary friend with a sandbag, or
some other lethal weapon. But certainly I did not expect to see a night
stewardess, with an inquiring face and looking the essence of respectability.
“I beg your pardon, miss, I thought you called out.”
“No,” I said, “I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry for interrupting you.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought a wash would do me
good.” It sounded rather as though it were a thing I never had as a general
rule.
“I’m so sorry, miss,” said the stewardess again. “But there’s a gentleman
about who’s rather drunk, and we are afraid he might get into one of the
ladies’ cabins and frighten them.”
“How dreadful,” I said, looking alarmed. “He won’t come in here, will
he?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, miss. Ring the bell if he does. Good night.”
“Good night.”

I opened the door and peeped down the corridor. Except for the retreating
form of the stewardess, there was nobody in sight.
Drunk! So that was the explanation of it. My histrionic talents had been
wasted. I pulled the cabin trunk out a little farther and said:
“Come out at once, please,” in an acid voice.
There was no answer. I peered under the bunk. My visitor lay
immovable. He seemed to be asleep. I tugged at his shoulder. He did not
move.
“Dead drunk,” I thought vexedly. “What am I to do?”
Then I saw something that made me catch my breath, a small scarlet spot
on the floor.
Using all my strength, I succeeded in dragging the man out into the
middle of the cabin. The dead whiteness of his face showed that he had
fainted. I found the cause of his fainting easily enough. He had been
stabbed under the left shoulder-blade—a nasty deep wound. I got his coat
off and set to work to attend to it.
At the sting of the cold water he stirred, then sat up.
“Keep still, please,” I said.
He was the kind of young man who recovers his faculties very quickly.
He pulled himself to his feet and stood there swaying a little.
“Thank you, I don’t need anything done for me.”
His manner was defiant, almost aggressive. Not a word of thanks—of
even common gratitude!
“That is a nasty wound. You must let me dress it.”
“You will do nothing of the kind.”
He flung the words in my face as though I had been begging a favour of
him. My temper, never placid, rose.
“I cannot congratulate you upon your manners,” I said coldly.
“I can at least relieve you of my presence.” He started for the door, but
reeled as he did so. With an abrupt movement I pushed him down upon the
sofa.
“Don’t be a fool,” I said unceremoniously. “You don’t want to go
bleeding all over the ship, do you?”

He seemed to see the sense of that, for he sat quietly whilst I bandaged
up the wound as best I could.
“There,” I said, bestowing a pat on my handiwork, “that will have to do
for the present. Are you better tempered now and do you feel inclined to tell
me what it’s all about?”
“I’m sorry that I can’t satisfy your very natural curiosity.”
“Why not?” I said, chagrined.
He smiled nastily.
“If you want a thing broadcasted, tell a woman. Otherwise keep your
mouth shut.”
“Don’t you think I could keep a secret?”
“I don’t think—I know.”
He rose to his feet.
“At any rate,” I said spitefully, “I shall be able to do a little broadcasting
about the events of this evening.”
“I’ve no doubt you will too,” he said indifferently.
“How dare you?” I cried angrily.
We were facing each other, glaring at each other with the ferocity of
bitter enemies. For the first time, I took in the details of his appearance, the
close-cropped dark head, the lean jaw, the scar on the brown cheek, the
curious light grey eyes that looked into mine with a sort of reckless
mockery hard to describe. There was something dangerous about him.
“You haven’t thanked me yet for saving your life?” I said with false
sweetness.
I hit him there. I saw him flinch distinctly. Intuitively I knew that he
hated above all to be reminded that he owed his life to me. I didn’t care. I
wanted to hurt him. I had never wanted to hurt any one so much.
“I wish to God you hadn’t!” he said explosively. “I’d be better dead and
out of it.”
“I’m glad you acknowledge the debt. You can’t get out of it. I saved your
life and I’m waiting for you to say ‘Thank you.’”
If looks could have killed, I think he would have liked to kill me then. He
pushed roughly past me. At the door he turned back, and spoke over his

shoulder.
“I shall not thank you—now or at any other time. But I acknowledge the
debt. Some day I will pay it.”
He was gone, leaving me with clenched hands, and my heart beating like
a mill race.

CHAPTER XI

There were no further excitements that night. I had breakfast in bed and
got up late the next morning. Mrs. Blair hailed me as I came on deck.
“Good-morning, Gipsy girl, sit down here by me. You look as though you
hadn’t slept well.”
“Why do you call me that?” I asked, as I sat down obediently.
“Do you mind? It suits you somehow. I’ve called you that in my own
mind from the beginning. It’s the gipsy element in you that makes you so
different from any one else. I decided in my own mind that you and Colonel
Race were the only two people on board who wouldn’t bore me to death to
talk to.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “I thought the same about you—only it’s more
understandable in your case. You’re—you’re such an exquisitely finished
product.”
“Not badly put,” said Mrs. Blair, nodding her head. “Tell me all about
yourself, Gipsy girl. Why are you going to South Africa?”
I told her something about Papa’s life work.
“So you’re Charles Beddingfeld’s daughter? I thought you weren’t a
mere provincial Miss! Are you going to Broken Hill to grub up more
skulls?”
“I may,” I said cautiously. “I’ve got other plans as well.”
“What a mysterious minx you are. But you do look tired this morning.
Didn’t you sleep well? I can’t keep awake on board a boat. Ten hours’ sleep
for a fool, they say! I could do with twenty!”
She yawned, looking like a sleepy kitten. “An idiot of a steward woke me
up in the middle of the night to return me that roll of films I dropped
yesterday. He did it in the most melodramatic manner, stuck his arm
through the ventilator and dropped them nearly in the middle of my tummy.
I thought it was a bomb for a moment!”

“Here’s your Colonel,” I said, as the tall soldierly figure of Colonel Race
appeared on the deck.
“He’s not my Colonel particularly. In fact he admires you very much,
Gipsy girl. So don’t run away.”
“I want to tie something round my head. It will be more comfortable than
a hat.”
I slipped quickly away. For some reason or other I was uncomfortable
with Colonel Race. He was one of the few people who were capable of
making me feel shy.
I went down to my cabin and began looking for a broad band of ribbon,
or a motor-veil, with which I could restrain my rebellious locks. Now I am a
tidy person, I like my things always arranged in a certain way and I keep
them so. I had no sooner opened my drawer than I realized that somebody
had been disarranging my things. Everything had been turned over and
scattered. I looked in the other drawers and the small hanging cupboard.
They told me the same tale. It was as though some one had been making a
hurried and ineffectual search for something.
I sat down on the edge of the bunk with a grave face. Who had been
searching my cabin and what had they been looking for? Was it the half-
sheet of paper with scribbled figures and words? I shook my head,
dissatisfied. Surely that was past history now. But what else could there be?
I wanted to think. The events of last night, though exciting, had not really
done anything to elucidate matters. Who was the young man who had burst
into my cabin so abruptly? I had not seen him on board previously, either on
deck or in the saloon. Was he one of the ship’s company or was he a
passenger? Who had stabbed him? Why had they stabbed him? And why, in
the name of goodness, should Cabin No. 17 figure so prominently? It was
all a mystery, but there was no doubt that some very peculiar occurrences
were taking place on the Kilmorden Castle.
I counted off on my fingers the people on whom it behoved me to keep a
watch.
Setting aside my visitor of the night before, but promising myself that I
would discover him on board before another day had passed, I selected the
following persons as worthy of my notice.

(1) Sir Eustace Pedler. He was the owner of the Mill House and his
presence on the Kilmorden Castle seemed something of a coincidence.
(2) Mr. Pagett, the sinister-looking secretary, whose eagerness to obtain
Cabin 17 had been so very marked. N.B. Find out whether he had
accompanied Sir Eustace to Cannes.
(3) The Rev. Edward Chichester. All I had against him was his obstinacy
over Cabin 17, and that might be entirely due to his own peculiar
temperament. Obstinacy can be an amazing thing.
But a little conversation with Mr. Chichester would not come amiss, I
decided. Hastily tying a handkerchief round my rebellious locks, I went up
on deck again, full of purpose. I was in luck. My quarry was leaning against
the rail, drinking beef tea. I went up to him.
“I hope you’ve forgiven me over Cabin 17,” I said, with my best smile.
“I consider it unchristian to bear a grudge,” said Mr. Chichester coldly.
“But the purser had distinctly promised me that cabin.”
“Pursers are such busy men, aren’t they?” I said vaguely. “I suppose
they’re bound to forget sometimes.”
Mr. Chichester did not reply.
“Is this your first visit to Africa?” I inquired conversationally.
“To South Africa, yes. But I have worked for the last two years amongst
the cannibal tribes in the interior of East Africa.”
“How thrilling! Have you had many narrow escapes?”
“Escapes?”
“Of being eaten, I mean?”
“You should not treat sacred subjects with levity, Miss Beddingfeld.”
“I didn’t know that cannibalism was a sacred subject,” I retorted, stung.
As the words left my lips, another idea struck me. If Mr. Chichester had
indeed spent the last two years in the interior of Africa, how was it that he
was not more sunburnt? His skin was as pink and white as a baby’s. Surely
there was something fishy there? Yet his manner and voice were so
absolutely it. Too much so perhaps. Was he—or was he not—just a little
like a stage clergyman?
I cast my mind back to the curates I had known at Little Hampsly. Some
of them I had liked, some of them I had not, but certainly none of them had

been quite like Mr. Chichester. They had been human—he was a glorified
type.
I was debating all this when Sir Eustace Pedler passed down the deck.
Just as he was abreast of Mr. Chichester, he stooped and picked up a piece
of paper which he handed to him, remarking “You’ve dropped something.”
He passed on without stopping, and so probably did not notice Mr.
Chichester’s agitation. I did. Whatever it was he had dropped, its recovery
agitated him considerably. He turned a sickly green, and crumpled up the
sheet of paper into a ball. My suspicions were accentuated a hundred-fold.
He caught my eye, and hurried into explanations.
“A—a—fragment of a sermon I was composing,” he said with a sickly
smile.
“Indeed?” I rejoined politely.
A fragment of a sermon, indeed! No, Mr. Chichester—too weak for
words!
He soon left me with a muttered excuse. I wished, oh, how I wished, that
I had been the one to pick up that paper and not Sir Eustace Pedler! One
thing was clear, Mr. Chichester could not be exempted from my list of
suspects. I was inclined to put him top of the three.
After lunch, when I came up to the lounge for coffee, I noticed Sir
Eustace and Pagett sitting with Mrs. Blair and Colonel Race. Mrs. Blair
welcomed me with a smile, so I went over and joined them. They were
talking about Italy.
“But it is misleading,” Mrs. Blair insisted. “Aqua calda certainly ought
to be cold water—not hot.”
“You’re not a Latin scholar,” said Sir Eustace, smiling.
“Men are so superior about their Latin,” said Mrs. Blair. “But all the
same I notice that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old
churches they can never do it! They hem and haw, and get out of it
somehow.”
“Quite right,” said Colonel Race. “I always do.”
“But I love the Italians,” continued Mrs. Blair. “They’re so obliging—
though even that has its embarrassing side. You ask them the way
somewhere, and instead of saying ‘first to the right, second to the left’ or

something that one could follow, they pour out a flood of well-meaning
directions, and when you look bewildered they take you kindly by the arm
and walk all the way there with you.”
“Is that your experience in Florence, Pagett?” asked Sir Eustace, turning
with a smile to his secretary.
For some reason the question seemed to disconcert Mr. Pagett. He
stammered and flushed.
“Oh, quite so, yes—er quite so.”
Then with a murmured excuse, he rose and left the table.
“I am beginning to suspect Guy Pagett of having committed some dark
deed in Florence,” remarked Sir Eustace, gazing after his secretary’s
retreating figure. “Whenever Florence or Italy is mentioned, he changes the
subject, or bolts precipitately.”
“Perhaps he murdered some one there,” said Mrs. Blair hopefully. “He
looks—I hope I’m not hurting your feelings, Sir Eustace—but he does look
as though he might murder some one.”
“Yes, pure Cinquecento! It amuses me sometimes—especially when one
knows as well as I do how essentially law-abiding and respectable the poor
fellow really is.”
“He’s been with you some time, hasn’t he, Sir Eustace?” asked Colonel
Race.
“Six years,” said Sir Eustace, with a deep sigh.
“He must be quite invaluable to you,” said Mrs. Blair.
“Oh, invaluable! Yes, quite invaluable.” The poor man sounded even
more depressed, as though the invaluableness of Mr. Pagett was a secret
grief to him. Then he added more briskly: “But his face should really
inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer
would ever consent to look like one. Crippen, now, I believe, was one of the
pleasantest fellows imaginable.”
“He was caught on a liner, wasn’t he?” murmured Mrs. Blair.
There was a slight rattle behind us. I turned quickly. Mr. Chichester had
dropped his coffee-cup.
Our party soon broke up; Mrs. Blair went below to sleep and I went out
on deck. Colonel Race followed me.

“You’re very elusive, Miss Beddingfeld. I looked for you everywhere last
night at the dance.”
“I went to bed early,” I explained.
“Are you going to run away to-night too? Or are you going to dance with
me?”
“I shall be very pleased to dance with you,” I murmured shyly. “But Mrs.
Blair——”
“Our friend, Mrs. Blair, doesn’t care for dancing.”
“And you do?”
“I care for dancing with you.”
“Oh!” I said nervously.
I was a little afraid of Colonel Race. Nevertheless I was enjoying myself.
This was better than discussing fossilized skulls with stuffy old professors!
Colonel Race was really just my ideal of a stern silent Rhodesian. Possibly I
might marry him! I hadn’t been asked, it is true, but, as the Boy Scouts say,
Be Prepared! And all women, without in the least meaning it, consider
every man they meet as a possible husband for themselves or for their best
friend.
I danced several times with him that evening. He danced well. When the
dancing was over, and I was thinking of going to bed, he suggested a turn
round the deck. We walked round three times and finally subsided into two
deck-chairs. There was nobody else in sight. We made desultory
conversation for some time.
“Do you know, Miss Beddingfeld, I think that I once met your father? A
very interesting man—on his own subject, and it’s a subject that has a
special fascination for me. In my humble way, I’ve done a bit in that line
myself. Why, when I was in the Dordogne region——”
Our talk became technical. Colonel Race’s boast was not an idle one. He
knew a great deal. At the same time, he made one or two curious mistakes
—slips of the tongue, I might almost have thought them. But he was quick
to take his cue from me and to cover them up. Once he spoke of the
Mousterian period as succeeding the Aurignacian—an absurd mistake for
one who knew anything of the subject.

It was twelve o’clock when I went to my cabin. I was still puzzling over
those queer discrepancies. Was it possible that he had “got the whole
subject up” for the occasion—that really he knew nothing of archaeology? I
shook my head, vaguely dissatisfied with that solution.
Just as I was dropping off to sleep, I sat up with a sudden start as another
idea flashed into my head. Had he been pumping me? Were those slight
inaccuracies just tests—to see whether I really knew what I was talking
about? In other words, he suspected me of not being genuinely Anne
Beddingfeld.
Why?

CHAPTER XII

(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
There is something to be said for life on board ship. It is peaceful. My
grey hairs fortunately exempt me from the indignities of bobbing for apples,
running up and down the deck with potatoes and eggs, and the more painful
sports of “Brother Bill” and Bolster Bar. What amusement people can find
in these painful proceedings has always been a mystery to me. But there are
many fools in the world. One praises God for their existence and keeps out
of their way.
Fortunately I am an excellent sailor. Pagett, poor fellow, is not. He began
turning green as soon as we were out of the Solent. I presume my other so-
called secretary is also sea-sick. At any rate he has not yet made his
appearance. But perhaps it is not sea-sickness, but high diplomacy. The
great thing is that I have not been worried by him.
On the whole, the people on board are a mangy lot. Only two decent
Bridge players and one decent-looking woman—Mrs. Clarence Blair. I’ve
met her in town of course. She is one of the only women I know who can
lay claim to a sense of humour. I enjoy talking to her, and should enjoy it
more if it were not for a long-legged taciturn ass who has attached himself
to her like a limpet. I cannot think that this Colonel Race really amuses her.
He’s good-looking in his way, but dull as ditch water. One of these strong
silent men that lady novelists and young girls always rave over.
Guy Pagett struggled up on deck after we left Madeira and began
babbling in a hollow voice about work. What the devil does any one want to
work for on board ship? It is true that I promised my publishers my
“Reminiscences” early in the summer, but what of it? Who really reads
reminiscences? Old ladies in the suburbs. And what do my reminiscences
amount to? I’ve knocked against a certain number of so-called famous
people in my lifetime. With the assistance of Pagett, I invent insipid
anecdotes about them. And, the truth of the matter is, Pagett is too honest

for the job. He won’t let me invent anecdotes about the people I might have
met but haven’t.
I tried kindness with him.
“You look a perfect wreck still, my dear chap,” I said easily. “What you
need is a deck-chair in the sun. No—not another word. The work must
wait.”
The next thing I knew he was worrying about an extra cabin. “There’s no
room to work in your cabin, Sir Eustace. It’s full of trunks.”
From his tone, you might have thought that trunks were blackbeetles,
something that had no business to be there.
I explained to him that, though he might not be aware of the fact, it was
usual to take a change of clothing with one when travelling. He gave the
wan smile with which he always greets my attempts at humour, and then
reverted to the business in hand.
“And we could hardly work in my little hole.”
I know Pagett’s “little holes”—he usually has the best cabin on the ship.
“I’m sorry the Captain didn’t turn out for you this time,” I said
sarcastically. “Perhaps you’d like to dump some of your extra luggage in
my cabin?”
Sarcasm is dangerous with a man like Pagett. He brightened up at once.
“Well, if I could get rid of the typewriter and the stationery trunk——”
The stationery trunk weighs several solid tons. It causes endless
unpleasantness with the porters, and it is the aim of Pagett’s life to foist it
on me. It is a perpetual struggle between us. He seems to regard it as my
special personal property. I, on the other hand, regard the charge of it as the
only thing where a secretary is really useful.
“We’ll get an extra cabin,” I said hastily.
The thing seemed simple enough, but Pagett is a person who loves to
make mysteries. He came to me the next day with a face like a Renaissance
conspirator.
“You know you told me to get Cabin 17 for an office?”
“Well, what of it? Has the stationery trunk jammed in the doorway?”
“The doorways are the same size in all the cabins,” replied Pagett
seriously. “But I tell you, Sir Eustace, there’s something very queer about

that cabin.”
Memories of reading The Upper Berth floated through my mind.
“If you mean that it’s haunted,” I said, “we’re not going to sleep there, so
I don’t see that it matters. Ghosts don’t affect typewriters.”
Pagett said that it wasn’t a ghost, and that, after all, he hadn’t got Cabin
17. He told me a long, garbled story. Apparently he, and a Mr. Chichester,
and a girl called Beddingfeld, had almost come to blows over the cabin.
Needless to say, the girl had won, and Pagett was apparently feeling sore
over the matter.
“Both 13 and 28 are better cabins,” he reiterated. “But they wouldn’t look
at them.”
“Well,” I said, stifling a yawn, “for that matter, no more would you, my
dear Pagett.”
He gave me a reproachful look.
“You told me to get Cabin 17.”
There is a touch of the “boy upon the burning deck” about Pagett.
“My dear fellow,” I said testily, “I mentioned No. 17 because I happened
to observe that it was vacant. But I didn’t mean you to make a stand to the
death about it—13 or 28 would have done us equally well.”
He looked hurt.
“There’s something more, though,” he insisted. “Miss Beddingfeld got
the cabin, but this morning I saw Chichester coming out of it in a furtive
sort of way.”
I looked at him severely.
“If you’re trying to get up a nasty scandal about Chichester, who is a
missionary—though a perfectly poisonous person—and that attractive
child, Anne Beddingfeld, I don’t believe a word of it,” I said coldly. “Anne
Beddingfeld is an extremely nice girl—with particularly good legs. I should
say she had far and away the best legs on board.”
Pagett did not like my reference to Anne Beddingfeld’s legs. He is the
sort of man who never notices legs himself—or, if he does, would die
sooner than say so. Also he thinks my appreciation of such things frivolous.
I like annoying Pagett, so I continued maliciously:

“As you’ve made her acquaintance, you might ask her to dine at our table
to-morrow night. It’s the Fancy Dress dance. By the way, you’d better go
down to the barber and select a fancy costume for me.”
“Surely you will not go in fancy dress?” said Pagett, in tones of horror.
I could see that it was quite incompatible with his idea of my dignity. He
looked shocked and pained. I had really had no intention of donning fancy
dress, but the complete discomfiture of Pagett was too tempting to be
forborne.
“What do you mean?” I said. “Of course I shall wear fancy dress. So will
you.”
Pagett shuddered.
“So go down to the barber’s and see about it,” I finished.
“I don’t think he’ll have any out sizes,” murmured Pagett, measuring my
figure with his eye.
Without meaning it, Pagett can occasionally be extremely offensive.
“And order a table for six in the saloon,” I said. “We’ll have the Captain,
the girl with the nice legs, Mrs. Blair——”
“You won’t get Mrs. Blair without Colonel Race,” Pagett interposed.
“He’s asked her to dine with him, I know.”
Pagett always knows everything. I was justifiably annoyed.
“Who is Race?” I demanded, exasperated.
As I said before, Pagett always knows everything—or thinks he does. He
looked mysterious again.
“They say he’s a Secret Service chap, Sir Eustace. Rather a great gun too.
But of course I don’t know for certain.”
“Isn’t that like the Government?” I exclaimed. “Here’s a man on board
whose business it is to carry about secret documents, and they go giving
them to a peaceful outsider, who only asks to be let alone.”
Pagett looked even more mysterious. He came a pace nearer and dropped
his voice.
“If you ask me, the whole thing is very queer, Sir Eustace. Look at that
illness of mine before we started——”

“My dear fellow,” I interrupted brutally, “that was a bilious attack. You’re
always having bilious attacks.”
Pagett winced slightly.
“It wasn’t the usual sort of bilious attack. This time——
“For God’s sake, don’t go into the details of your condition, Pagett. I
don’t want to hear them.”
“Very well, Sir Eustace. But my belief is that I was deliberately
poisoned!”
“Ah!” I said. “You’ve been talking to Rayburn.”
He did not deny it.
“At any rate, Sir Eustace, he thinks so—and he should be in a position to
know.”
“By the way, where is the chap?” I asked. “I’ve not set eyes on him since
we came on board.”
“He gives out that he’s ill, and stays in his cabin, Sir Eustace.” Pagett’s
voice dropped again. “But that’s camouflage, I’m sure. So that he can watch
better.”
“Watch?”
“Over your safety, Sir Eustace. In case an attack should be made upon
you.”
“You’re such a cheerful fellow, Pagett,” I said. “I trust that your
imagination runs away with you. If I were you I should go to the dance as a
death’s head or an executioner. It will suit your mournful style of beauty.”
That shut him up for the time being. I went on deck. The Beddingfeld girl
was deep in conversation with the missionary parson, Chichester. Women
always flutter round parsons.
A man of my figure hates stooping, but I had the courtesy to pick up a bit
of paper that was fluttering round the parson’s feet.
I got no word of thanks for my pains. As a matter of fact, I couldn’t help
seeing what was written on the sheet of paper. There was just one sentence:
“Don’t try to play a lone hand or it will be the worse for you.”
That’s a nice thing for a parson to have. Who is this fellow Chichester, I
wonder? He looks mild as milk. But looks are deceptive. I shall ask Pagett

about him. Pagett always knows everything.
I sank gracefully into my deck-chair by the side of Mrs. Blair, thereby
interrupting her tête-à-tête with Race, and remarked that I didn’t know what
the clergy were coming to nowadays.
Then I asked her to dine with me on the night of the Fancy Dress dance.
Somehow or other Race managed to get included in the invitation.
After lunch the Beddingfeld girl came and sat with us for coffee. I was
right about her legs. They are the best on the ship. I shall certainly ask her
to dinner as well.
I would very much like to know what mischief Pagett was up to in
Florence. Whenever Italy is mentioned, he goes to pieces. If I did not know
how intensely respectable he is—I should suspect him of some disreputable
amour . . .
I wonder now! Even the most respectable men——It would cheer me up
enormously if it was so.
Pagett—with a guilty secret! Splendid!

CHAPTER XIII

It has been a curious evening.
The only costume that fitted me in the barber’s emporium was that of a
Teddy Bear. I don’t mind playing bears with some nice young girls on a
winter’s evening in England—but it’s hardly an ideal costume for the
equator. However, I created a good deal of merriment, and won first prize
for “brought on board”—an absurd term for a costume hired for the
evening. Still as nobody seemed to have the least idea whether they were
made or brought, it didn’t matter.
Mrs. Blair refused to dress up. Apparently she is at one with Pagett on the
matter. Colonel Race followed her example. Anne Beddingfeld had
concocted a gipsy costume for herself, and looked extraordinarily well.
Pagett said he had a headache and didn’t appear. To replace him I asked a
quaint little fellow called Reeves. He’s a prominent member of the South
African Labour party. Horrible little man, but I want to keep in with him, as
he gives me information that I need. I want to understand this Rand
business from both sides.
Dancing was a hot affair. I danced twice with Anne Beddingfeld and she
had to pretend she liked it. I danced once with Mrs. Blair, who didn’t
trouble to pretend, and I victimized various other damsels whose
appearance struck me favourably.
Then we went down to supper. I had ordered champagne; the steward
suggested Clicquot 1911 as being the best they had on the boat and I fell in
with his suggestion. I seemed to have hit on the one thing that would loosen
Colonel Race’s tongue. Far from being taciturn, the man became actually
talkative. For a while this amused me, then it occurred to me that Colonel
Race, and not myself, was becoming the life and soul of the party. He
chaffed me at length about keeping a diary.
“It will reveal all your indiscretions one of these days, Pedler.”

“My dear Race,” I said, “I venture to suggest that I am not quite the fool
you think me. I may commit indiscretions, but I don’t write them down in
black and white. After my death, my executors will know my opinion of a
great many people, but I doubt if they will find anything to add or detract
from their opinion of me. A diary is useful for recording the idiosyncrasies
of other people—but not one’s own.”
“There is such a thing as unconscious self-revelation, though.”
“In the eyes of the psycho-analyst, all things are vile,” I replied
sententiously.
“You must have had a very interesting life, Colonel Race?” said Miss
Beddingfeld, gazing at him with wide, starry eyes.
That’s how they do it, these girls! Othello charmed Desdemona by telling
her stories, but, oh, didn’t Desdemona charm Othello by the way she
listened?
Anyway, the girl set Race off all right. He began to tell lion stories. A
man who has shot lions in large quantities has an unfair advantage over
other men. It seemed to me that it was time I, too, told a lion story. One of a
more sprightly character.
“By the way,” I remarked, “that reminds me of a rather exciting tale I
heard. A friend of mine was out on a shooting trip somewhere in East
Africa. One night he came out of his tent for some reason, and was startled
by a low growl. He turned sharply and saw a lion crouching to spring. He
had left his rifle in the tent. Quick as thought, he ducked, and the lion
sprang right over his head. Annoyed at having missed him, the animal
growled and prepared to spring again. Again he ducked, and again the lion
sprang right over him. This happened a third time, but by now he was close
to the entrance of the tent, and he darted in and seized his rifle. When he
emerged, rifle in hand, the lion had disappeared. That puzzled him greatly.
He crept round the back of the tent, where there was a little clearing. There,
sure enough, was the lion, busily practising low jumps.”
This was received with a roar of applause. I drank some champagne.
“On another occasion,” I remarked, “this friend of mine had a second
curious experience. He was trekking across country, and being anxious to
arrive at his destination before the heat of the day he ordered his boys to
inspan whilst it was still dark. They had some trouble in doing so, as the

mules were very restive, but at last they managed it, and a start was made.
The mules raced along like the wind, and when daylight came they saw
why. In the darkness, the boys had inspanned a lion as the near wheeler.”
This, too, was well received, a ripple of merriment going round the table,
but I am not sure that the greatest tribute did not come from my friend, the
Labour Member, who remained pale and serious.
“My God!” he said anxiously. “Who un’arnessed them?”
“I must go to Rhodesia,” said Mrs. Blair. “After what you have told us,
Colonel Race, I simply must. It’s a horrible journey though, five days in the
train.”
“You must join me on my private car,” I said gallantly. “Oh, Sir Eustace,
how sweet of you, do you really mean it?”
“Do I mean it!” I exclaimed reproachfully, and drank another glass of
champagne.
“Just about another week, and we shall be in South Africa,” sighed Mrs.
Blair.
“Ah, South Africa,” I said sentimentally, and began to quote from a
recent speech of mine at the Colonial Institute. “What has South Africa to
show the world? What indeed? Her fruit and her farms, her wool and her
wattles, her herds and her hides, her gold and her diamonds——”
I was hurrying on, because I knew that as soon as I paused Reeves would
butt in and inform me that the hides were worthless because the animals
hung themselves up on barbed wire or something of that sort, would crab
everything else, and end up with the hardships of the miners on the Rand.
And I was not in the mood to be abused as a Capitalist. However, the
interruption came from another source at the magic word diamonds.
“Diamonds!” said Mrs. Blair ecstatically.
“Diamonds!” breathed Miss Beddingfeld.
They both addressed Colonel Race.
“I suppose you’ve been to Kimberley?”
I had been to Kimberley too, but I didn’t manage to say so in time. Race
was being inundated with questions. What were mines like? Was it true that
the natives were kept shut up in compounds? And so on.

Race answered their questions and showed a good knowledge of his
subject. He described the methods of housing the natives, the searches
instituted, and the various precautions that De Beers took.
“Then it’s practically impossible to steal any diamonds?” asked Mrs.
Blair with as keen an air of disappointment as though she had been
journeying there for the express purpose.
“Nothing’s impossible, Mrs. Blair. Thefts do occur—like the case I told
you of where the Kafir hid the stone in his wound.”
“Yes, but on a large scale?”
“Once, in recent years. Just before the War in fact. You must remember
the case, Pedler. You were in South Africa at the time?”
I nodded.
“Tell us,” cried Miss Beddingfeld. “Oh, do tell us!”
Race smiled.
“Very well, you shall have the story. I suppose most of you have heard of
Sir Laurence Eardsley, the great South African mining magnate? His mines
were gold mines, but he comes into the story through his son. You may
remember that just before the War rumours were afield of a new potential
Kimberley hidden somewhere in the rocky floor of the British Guiana
jungles. Two young explorers, so it was reported, had returned from that
part of South America bringing with them a remarkable collection of rough
diamonds, some of them of considerable size. Diamonds of small size had
been found before in the neighbourhood of the Essequibo and Mazaruni
rivers, but these two young men, John Eardsley and his friend Lucas,
claimed to have discovered beds of great carbon deposits at the common
head of two streams. The diamonds were of every colour, pink, blue,
yellow, green, black, and the purest white. Eardsley and Lucas came to
Kimberley where they were to submit their gems to inspection. At the same
time a sensational robbery was found to have taken place at De Beers.
When sending diamonds to England they are made up into a packet. This
remains in the big safe, of which the two keys are held by two different men
whilst a third man knows the combination. They are handed to the Bank,
and the Bank send them to England. Each package is worth, roughly, about
£100,000.

“On this occasion, the Bank were struck by something a little unusual
about the sealing of the packet. It was opened, and found to contain knobs
of sugar!
“Exactly how suspicion came to fasten on John Eardsley I do not know.
It was remembered that he had been very wild at Cambridge and that his
father had paid his debts more than once. Anyhow, it soon got about that
this story of South American diamond fields was all a fantasy. John
Eardsley was arrested. In his possession was found a portion of the De Beer
diamonds.
“But the case never came to court. Sir Laurence Eardsley paid over a sum
equal to the missing diamonds and De Beers did not prosecute. Exactly how
the robbery was committed has never been known. But the knowledge that
his son was a thief broke the old man’s heart. He had a stroke shortly
afterwards. As for John, his Fate was in a way merciful. He enlisted, went
to the War, fought there bravely, and was killed, thus wiping out the stain on
his name. Sir Laurence himself had a third stroke and died about a month
ago. He died intestate and his vast fortune passed to his next of kin, a man
whom he hardly knew.”
The Colonel paused. A babel of ejaculations and questions broke out.
Something seemed to attract Miss Beddingfeld’s attention, and she turned in
her chair. At the little gasp she gave, I, too, turned.
My new secretary, Rayburn, was standing in the doorway. Under his tan,
his face had the pallor of one who has seen a ghost. Evidently Race’s story
had moved him profoundly.
Suddenly conscious of our scrutiny, he turned abruptly and disappeared.
“Do you know who that is?” asked Anne Beddingfeld abruptly.
“That’s my other secretary,” I explained. “Mr. Rayburn. He’s been seedy
up to now.”
She toyed with the bread by her plate.
“Has he been your secretary long?”
“Not very long,” I said cautiously.
But caution is useless with a woman, the more you hold back, the more
she presses forward. Anne Beddingfeld made no bones about it.
“How long?” she asked bluntly.

“Well—er—I engaged him just before I sailed. Old friend of mine
recommended him.”
She said nothing more, but relapsed into a thoughtful silence. I turned to
Race with the feeling that it was my turn to display an interest in his story.
“Who is Sir Laurence’s next of kin, Race? Do you know?”
“I should say so,” he replied, with a smile. “I am!”

CHAPTER XIV

(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
It was on the night of the Fancy Dress dance that I decided that the time
had come for me to confide in some one. So far I had played a lone hand
and rather enjoyed it. Now suddenly everything was changed. I distrusted
my own judgment and for the first time a feeling of loneliness and
desolation crept over me.
I sat on the edge of my bunk, still in my gipsy dress, and considered the
situation. I thought first of Colonel Race. He had seemed to like me. He
would be kind, I was sure. And he was no fool. Yet, as I thought it over, I
wavered. He was a man of commanding personality. He would take the
whole matter out of my hands. And it was my mystery! There were other
reasons, too, which I would hardly acknowledge to myself, but which made
it inadvisable to confide in Colonel Race.
Then I thought of Mrs. Blair. She, too, had been kind to me. I did not
delude myself into the belief that that really meant anything. It was
probably a mere whim of the moment. All the same, I had it in my power to
interest her. She was a woman who had experienced most of the ordinary
sensations of life. I proposed to supply her with an extraordinary one! And I
liked her; liked her ease of manner, her lack of sentimentality, her freedom
from any form of affectation.
My mind was made up. I decided to seek her out then and there. She
would hardly be in bed yet.
Then I remembered that I did not know the number of her cabin. My
friend, the night stewardess, would probably know. I rang the bell. After
some delay it was answered by a man. He gave me the information I
wanted. Mrs. Blair’s cabin was No. 71. He apologized for the delay in
answering the bell, but explained that he had all the cabins to attend to.
“Where is the stewardess, then?” I asked.
“They all go off duty at ten o’clock.”

“No—I mean the night stewardess.”
“No stewardess on at night, miss.”
“But—but a stewardess came the other night—about one o’clock.”
“You must have been dreaming, miss. There’s no stewardess on duty
after ten.”
He withdrew and I was left to digest this morsel of information. Who was
the woman who had come to my cabin on the night of the 22nd? My face
grew graver as I realized the cunning and audacity of my unknown
antagonists. Then, pulling myself together, I left my own cabin and sought
that of Mrs. Blair. I knocked at the door.
“Who’s that?” called her voice from within.
“It’s me—Anne Beddingfeld.”
“Oh, come in, Gipsy girl.”
I entered. A good deal of scattered clothing lay about, and Mrs. Blair
herself was draped in one of the loveliest kimonos I had ever seen. It was
all orange and gold and black and made my mouth water to look at it.
“Mrs. Blair,” I said abruptly, “I want to tell you the story of my life—that
is, if it isn’t too late, and you won’t be bored.”
“Not a bit. I always hate going to bed,” said Mrs. Blair, her face crinkling
into smiles in the delightful way it had. “And I should love to hear the story
of your life. You’re a most unusual creature, Gipsy girl. Nobody else would
think of bursting in on me at 1 a.m. to tell me the story of their life.
Especially after snubbing my natural curiosity for weeks as you have done!
I’m not accustomed to being snubbed. It’s been quite a pleasing novelty. Sit
down on the sofa and unburden your soul.”
I told her the whole story. It took some time as I was conscientious over
all the details. She gave a deep sigh when I had finished, but she did not say
at all what I had expected her to say. Instead she looked at me, laughed a
little and said:
“Do you know, Anne, you’re a very unusual girl? Haven’t you ever had
qualms?”
“Qualms?” I asked, puzzled.
“Yes, qualms, qualms, qualms! Starting off alone with practically no
money. What will you do when you find yourself in a strange country with

all your money gone?”
“It’s no good bothering about that until it comes. I’ve got plenty of
money still. The twenty-five pounds that Mrs. Flemming gave me is
practically intact, and then I won the sweep yesterday. That’s another fifteen
pounds. Why, I’ve got lots of money. Forty pounds!”
“Lots of money! My God!” murmured Mrs. Blair. “I couldn’t do it,
Anne, and I’ve plenty of pluck in my own way. I couldn’t start off gaily
with a few pounds in my pocket and no idea as to what I was doing and
where I was going.”
“But that’s the fun of it,” I cried, thoroughly roused. “It gives one such a
splendid feeling of adventure.”
She looked at me, nodded once or twice, and then smiled.
“Lucky Anne! There aren’t many people in the world who feel as you
do.”
“Well,” I said impatiently, “what do you think of it all, Mrs. Blair?”
“I think it’s the most thrilling thing I ever heard! Now, to begin with, you
will stop calling me Mrs. Blair. Suzanne will be ever so much better. Is that
agreed?”
“I should love it, Suzanne.”
“Good girl. Now let’s get down to business. You say that in Sir Eustace’s
secretary—not that long-faced Pagett, the other one—you recognized the
man who was stabbed and came into your cabin for shelter?”
I nodded.
“That gives us two links connecting Sir Eustace with the tangle. The
woman was murdered in his house, and it’s his secretary who gets stabbed
at the mystic hour of one o’clock. I don’t suspect Sir Eustace himself, but it
can’t be all coincidence. There’s a connection somewhere even if he himself
is unaware of it.”
“Then there’s the queer business of the stewardess,” she continued
thoughtfully. “What was she like?”
“I hardly noticed her. I was so excited and strung up—and a stewardess
seemed such an anticlimax. But—yes—I did think her face was familiar. Of
course it would be if I’d seen her about the ship.”

“Her face seemed familiar to you,” said Suzanne. “Sure she wasn’t a
man?”
“She was very tall,” I admitted.
“Hum. Hardly Sir Eustace, I should think, nor Mr. Pagett——Wait!”
She caught up a scrap of paper and began drawing feverishly. She
inspected the result with her head poised on one side.
“A very good likeness of the Rev. Edward Chichester. Now for the
etceteras.” She passed the paper over to me. “Is that your stewardess?”
“Why, yes,” I cried. “Suzanne, how clever of you!”
She disdained the compliment with a light gesture.
“I’ve always had suspicions of that Chichester creature. Do you
remember how he dropped his coffee-cup and turned a sickly green when
we were discussing Crippen the other day?”
“And he tried to get Cabin 17!”
“Yes, it all fits in so far. But what does it all mean? What was really
meant to happen at one o’clock in Cabin 17? It can’t be the stabbing of the
secretary. There would be no point in timing that for a special hour on a
special day in a special place. No, it must have been some kind of
appointment and he was on his way to keep it when they knifed him. But
who was the appointment with? Certainly not with you. It might have been
with Chichester. Or it might have been with Pagett.”
“That seems unlikely,” I objected, “they can see each other any time.”
We both sat silent for a minute or two, then Suzanne started off on
another tack.
“Could there have been anything hidden in the cabin?”
“That seems more probable,” I agreed. “It would explain my things being
ransacked the next morning. But there was nothing hidden there, I’m sure
of it.”
“The young man couldn’t have slipped something into a drawer the night
before?”
I shook my head.
“I should have seen him.”
“Could it have been your precious piece of paper they were looking for?”

“It might have been, but it seems rather senseless. It was only a time and
a date—and they were both past by then.”
Suzanne nodded.
“That’s so of course. No, it wasn’t the paper. By the way, have you got it
with you? I’d rather like to see it.”
I had brought the paper with me as Exhibit A, and I handed it over to her.
She scrutinized it, frowning.
“There’s a dot after the 17. Why isn’t there a dot after the 1 too?”
“There’s a space,” I pointed out.
“Yes, there’s a space, but——”
Suddenly she rose and peered at the paper, holding it as close under the
light as possible. There was a repressed excitement in her manner.
“Anne, that isn’t a dot! That’s a flaw in the paper! A flaw in the paper,
you see? So you’ve got to ignore it, and just go by the spaces—the spaces!”
I had risen and was standing by her. I read out the figures as I now saw
them.
“1 71 22.”
“You see,” said Suzanne, “it’s the same, but not quite. It’s one o’clock
still, and the 22nd—but it’s Cabin 71! My cabin, Anne!”
We stood staring at each other, so pleased with our new discovery and so
rapt with excitement that you might have thought we had solved the whole
mystery. Then I fell to earth with a bump.
“But, Suzanne, nothing happened here at one o’clock on the 22nd?”
Her face fell also. “No—it didn’t.”
Another idea struck me.
“This isn’t your own cabin, is it, Suzanne? I mean not the one you
originally booked?”
“No, the purser changed me into it.”
“I wonder if it was booked before sailing for some one—some one who
didn’t turn up. I suppose we could find out.”
“We don’t need to find out, Gipsy girl,” cried Suzanne. “I know! The
purser was telling me about it. The cabin was booked in the name of Mrs.
Grey—but it seems that Mrs. Grey was merely a pseudonym for the famous

Madame Nadina. She’s a celebrated Russian dancer, you know. She’s never
appeared in London, but Paris has been quite mad about her. She had a
terrific success there all through the War. A thoroughly bad lot, I believe,
but most attractive. The purser expressed his regrets that she wasn’t on
board in a most heart-felt fashion when he gave me her cabin, and then
Colonel Race told me a lot about her. It seems there were very queer stories
afloat in Paris. She was suspected of espionage, but they couldn’t prove
anything. I rather fancy Colonel Race was over there simply on that
account. He’s told me some very interesting things. There was a regular
organized gang, not German in origin at all. In fact the head of it, a man
always referred to as ‘the Colonel’ was thought to be an Englishman, but
they never got any clue as to his identity. But there is no doubt that he
controlled a considerable organization of international crooks. Robberies,
espionages, assaults, he undertook them all—and usually provided an
innocent scapegoat to pay the penalty. Diabolically clever, he must have
been! This woman was supposed to be one of his agents, but they couldn’t
get hold of anything to go upon. Yes, Anne, we’re on the right tack. Nadina
is just the woman to be mixed up in this business. The appointment on the
morning of the 22nd was with her in this cabin. But where is she? Why
didn’t she sail?”
A light flashed upon me.
“She meant to sail,” I said slowly.
“Then why didn’t she?”
“Because she was dead. Suzanne, Nadina was the woman murdered at
Marlow!”
My mind went back to the bare room in the empty house, and there swept
over me again that indefinable sensation of menace and evil. With it came
the memory of the falling pencil and the discovery of the roll of films. A
roll of films—that struck a more recent note. Where had I heard of a roll of
films? And why did I connect that thought with Mrs. Blair?
Suddenly I flew at her and almost shook her in my excitement.
“Your films! The ones that were passed to you through the ventilator?
Wasn’t that on the 22nd?”
“The ones I lost?”

“How do you know they were the same? Why would any one return them
to you that way—in the middle of the night? It’s a mad idea. No—they were
a message, the films had been taken out of the yellow tin case, and
something else put inside. Have you got it still?”
“I may have used it. No, here it is. I remember I tossed it into the rack at
the side of the bunk.”
She held it out to me.
It was an ordinary round tin cylinder, such as films are packed in for the
tropics. I took it with trembling hand, but even as I did so my heart leapt. It
was noticeably heavier than it should have been.
With shaking fingers I peeled off the strip of adhesive plaster that kept it
air-tight. I pulled off the lid, and a stream of dull glassy pebbles rolled onto
the bed.
“Pebbles,” I said, keenly disappointed.
“Pebbles?” cried Suzanne.
The ring in her voice excited me.
“Pebbles? No, Anne, not pebbles! Diamonds!”

CHAPTER XV

Diamonds!
I stared, fascinated, at the glassy heap on the bunk. I picked up one
which, but for the weight, might have been a fragment of broken bottle.
“Are you sure, Suzanne?”
“Oh, yes, my dear. I’ve seen rough diamonds too often to have any
doubts. They’re beauties too, Anne—and some of them are unique, I should
say. There’s a history behind these.”
“The history we heard to-night,” I cried.
“You mean——?”
“Colonel Race’s story. It can’t be a coincidence. He told it for a purpose.”
“To see its effect, you mean?”
I nodded.
“Its effect on Sir Eustace?”
“Yes.”
But, even as I said it, a doubt assailed me. Was it Sir Eustace who had
been subjected to a test, or had the story been told for my benefit? I
remembered the impression I had received on that former night of having
been deliberately “pumped.” For some reason or other, Colonel Race was
suspicious. But where did he come in? What possible connection could he
have with the affair?
“Who is Colonel Race?” I asked.
“That’s rather a question,” said Suzanne. “He’s pretty well known as a
big-game hunter, and, as you heard him say to-night, he was a distant
cousin of Sir Laurence Eardsley. I’ve never actually met him until this trip.
He journeys to and from Africa a good deal. There’s a general idea that he
does Secret Service work. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. He’s
certainly rather a mysterious creature.”

“I suppose he came into a lot of money as Sir Laurence Eardsley’s heir?”
“My dear Anne, he must be rolling. You know, he’d be a splendid match
for you.”
“I can’t have a good go at him with you aboard the ship,” I said,
laughing. “Oh, these married women!”
“We do have a pull,” murmured Suzanne complacently. “And everybody
knows that I am absolutely devoted to Clarence—my husband, you know.
It’s so safe and pleasant to make love to a devoted wife.”
“It must be very nice for Clarence to be married to some one like you.”
“Well, I’m wearing to live with! Still, he can always escape to the
Foreign Office, where he fixes his eyeglass in his eye, and goes to sleep in a
big arm-chair. We might cable him to tell us all he knows about Race. I love
sending cables. And they annoy Clarence so. He always says a letter would
have done as well. I don’t suppose he’d tell us anything, though. He is so
frightfully discreet. That’s what makes him so hard to live with for long on
end. But let us go on with our matchmaking. I’m sure Colonel Race is very
attracted to you, Anne. Give him a couple of glances from those wicked
eyes of yours, and the deed is done. Every one gets engaged on board ship.
There’s nothing else to do.”
“I don’t want to get married.”
“Don’t you?” said Suzanne. “Why not? I love being married—even to
Clarence!”
I disdained her flippancy.
“What I want to know is,” I said with determination, “what has Colonel
Race got to do with this? He’s in it somewhere.”
“You don’t think it was mere chance, his telling that story?”
“No, I don’t,” I said decidedly. “He was watching us all narrowly. You
remember, some of the diamonds were recovered, not all. Perhaps these are
the missing ones—or perhaps——”
“Perhaps what?”
I did not answer directly.
“I should like to know,” I said, “what became of the other young man.
Not Eardsley but—what was his name?—Lucas!”

“We’re getting some light on the thing, anyway. It’s the diamonds all
these people are after. It must have been to obtain possession of the
diamonds that ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ killed Nadina.”
“He didn’t kill her,” I said sharply.
“Of course he killed her. Who else could have done so?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure he didn’t kill her.”
“He went into that house three minutes after her and came out as white as
a sheet.”
“Because he found her dead.”
“But nobody else went in.”
“Then the murderer was in the house already, or else he got in some other
way. There’s no need for him to pass the lodge, he could have climbed over
the wall.”
Suzanne glanced at me sharply.
“‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’” she mused. “Who was he, I wonder?
Anyway, he was identical with the ‘doctor’ in the Tube. He would have had
time to remove his make-up and follow the woman to Marlow. She and
Carton were to have met there, they both had an order to view the same
house, and if they took such elaborate precautions to make their meeting
appear accidental they must have suspected they were being followed. All
the same, Carton did not know that his shadower was the ‘Man in the
Brown Suit.’ When he recognized him, the shock was so great that he lost
his head completely and stepped back onto the line. That all seems pretty
clear, don’t you think so, Anne?”
I did not reply.
“Yes, that’s how it was. He took the paper from the dead man, and in his
hurry to get away he dropped it. Then he followed the woman to Marlow.
What did he do when he left there, when he had killed her—or, according to
you, found her dead. Where did he go?”
Still I said nothing.
“I wonder, now,” said Suzanne musingly. “Is it possible that he induced
Sir Eustace Pedler to bring him on board as his secretary? It would be a
unique chance of getting safely out of England, and dodging the hue and

cry. But how did he square Sir Eustace? It looks as though he had some
hold over him.”
“Or over Pagett,” I suggested in spite of myself.
“You don’t seem to like Pagett, Anne. Sir Eustace says he’s a most
capable and hard-working young man. And, really, he may be for all we
know against him. Well, to continue my surmises. Rayburn is the ‘Man in
the Brown Suit.’ He had read the paper he dropped. Therefore, misled by
the dot as you were, he attempts to reach Cabin 17 at one o’clock on the
22nd, having previously tried to get possession of the cabin through Pagett.
On the way there somebody knifes him——”
“Who?” I interpolated.
“Chichester. Yes, it all fits in. Cable to Lord Nasby that you have found
‘The Man in the Brown Suit,’ and your fortune’s made, Anne!”
“There are several things you’ve overlooked.”
“What things? Rayburn’s got a scar, I know—but a scar can be faked
easily enough. He’s the right height and build. What’s the description of a
head with which you pulverized them at Scotland Yard?”
I trembled. Suzanne was a well-educated, well-read woman, but I prayed
that she might not be conversant with technical terms of anthropology.
“Dolichocephalic,” I said lightly.
Suzanne looked doubtful.
“Was that it?”
“Yes. Long-headed, you know. A head whose width is less than 75 per
cent. of its length,” I explained fluently.
There was a pause. I was just beginning to breathe freely when Suzanne
said suddenly:
“What’s the opposite?”
“What do you mean—the opposite?”
“Well, there must be an opposite. What do you call the heads whose
breadth is more than 75 per cent. of their length.”
“Brachycephalic,” I murmured unwillingly.
“That’s it. I thought that was what you said.”

“Did I? It was a slip of the tongue. I meant dolichocephalic,” I said with
all the assurance I could muster.
Suzanne looked at me searchingly. Then she laughed.
“You lie very well, Gipsy girl. But it will save time and trouble now if
you tell me all about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said unwillingly.
“Isn’t there?” said Suzanne gently.
“I suppose I shall have to tell you,” I said slowly. “I’m not ashamed of it.
You can’t be ashamed of something that just—happens to you. That’s what
he did. He was detestable—rude and ungrateful—but that I think I
understand. It’s like a dog that’s been chained up—or badly treated—it’ll
bite anybody. That’s what he was like—bitter and snarling. I don’t know
why I care—but I do. I care horribly. Just seeing him has turned my whole
life upside-down. I love him. I want him. I’ll walk all over Africa barefoot
till I find him, and I’ll make him care for me. I’d die for him. I’d work for
him, slave for him, steal for him, even beg or borrow for him! There—now
you know!”
Suzanne looked at me for a long time.
“You’re very un-English, Gipsy girl,” she said at last. “There’s not a
scrap of the sentimental about you. I’ve never met any one who was at once
so practical and so passionate. I shall never care for any one like that—
mercifully for me—and yet—and yet I envy you, Gipsy girl. It’s something
to be able to care. Most people can’t. But what a mercy for your little doctor
man that you didn’t marry him. He doesn’t sound at all the sort of
individual who would enjoy keeping high explosive in the house! So there’s
to be no cabling to Lord Nasby?”
I shook my head.
“And yet you believe him to be innocent?”
“I also believe that innocent people can be hanged.”
“Hm! yes. But, Anne dear, you can face facts, face them now. In spite of
all you say, he may have murdered this woman.”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t.”
“That’s sentiment.”

“No, it isn’t. He might have killed her. He may even have followed her
there with that idea in his mind. But he wouldn’t take a bit of black cord
and strangle her with it. If he’d done it, he would have strangled her with
his bare hands.”
Suzanne gave a little shiver. Her eyes narrowed appreciatively.
“Hm! Anne, I am beginning to see why you find this young man of yours
so attractive!”

CHAPTER XVI

I got an opportunity of tackling Colonel Race on the following morning.
The auction of the sweep had just been concluded, and we walked up and
down the deck together.
“How’s the gipsy this morning? Longing for land and her caravan?”
I shook my head.
“Now that the sea is behaving so nicely, I feel I should like to stay on it
for ever and ever.”
“What enthusiasm!”
“Well, isn’t it lovely this morning?”
We leant together over the rail. It was a glassy calm. The sea looked as
though it had been oiled. There were great patches of colour on it, blue, pale
green, emerald, purple and deep orange, like a cubist picture. There was an
occasional flash of silver that showed the flying fish. The air was moist and
warm, almost sticky. Its breath was like a perfumed caress.
“That was a very interesting story you told us last night,” I said, breaking
the silence.
“Which one?”
“The one about the diamonds.”
“I believe women are always interested in diamonds.”
“Of course we are. By the way, what became of the other young man?
You said there were two of them.”
“Young Lucas? Well, of course, they couldn’t prosecute one without the
other, so he went scot-free too.”
“And what happened to him—eventually, I mean. Does any one know?”
Colonel Race was looking straight ahead of him out to sea. His face was
as devoid of expression as a mask, but I had an idea that he did not like my
questions. Nevertheless, he replied readily enough:

“He went to the War and acquitted himself bravely. He was reported
Missing and Wounded—believed killed.”
That told me what I wanted to know. I asked no more. But more than
ever I wondered how much Colonel Race knew. The part he was playing in
all this puzzled me.
One other thing I did. That was to interview the night steward. With a
little financial encouragement, I soon got him to talk.
“The lady wasn’t frightened, was she, miss? It seemed a harmless sort of
joke. A bet, or so I understood.”
I got it all out of him, little by little. On the voyage from Cape Town to
England one of the passengers had handed him a roll of films with
instructions that they were to be dropped onto the bunk in Cabin 71 at 1
a.m. on January 22nd on the outward journey. A lady would be occupying
the cabin, and the affair was described as a bet. I gathered that the steward
had been liberally paid for his part in the transaction. The lady’s name had
not been mentioned. Of course, as Mrs. Blair went straight into Cabin 71,
interviewing the purser as soon as she got on board, it never occurred to the
steward that she was not the lady in question. The name of the passenger
who had arranged the transaction was Carton, and his description tallied
exactly with that of the man killed on the Tube.
So one mystery, at all events, was cleared up, and the diamonds were
obviously the key to the whole situation.
Those last days on the Kilmorden seemed to pass very quickly. As we
drew nearer and nearer to Cape Town, I was forced to consider carefully my
future plans. There were so many people I wanted to keep an eye on. Mr.
Chichester, Sir Eustace and his secretary, and—yes, Colonel Race! What
was I to do about it? Naturally it was Chichester who had first claim on my
attention. Indeed, I was on the point of reluctantly dismissing Sir Eustace
and Mr. Pagett from their position of suspicious characters, when a chance
conversation awakened fresh doubts in my mind.
I had not forgotten Mr. Pagett’s incomprehensible emotion at the mention
of Florence. On the last evening on board we were all sitting on deck and
Sir Eustace addressed a perfectly innocent question to his secretary. I forget
exactly what it was, something to do with railway delays in Italy, but at
once I noticed that Mr. Pagett was displaying the same uneasiness which
had caught my attention before. When Sir Eustace claimed Mrs. Blair for a

dance, I quickly moved into the chair next to the secretary. I was
determined to get to the bottom of the matter.
“I have always longed to go to Italy,” I said. “And especially to Florence.
Didn’t you enjoy it very much there?”
“Indeed I did, Miss Beddingfeld. If you will excuse me, there is some
correspondence of Sir Eustace’s that——”
I took hold of him firmly by his coat sleeve.
“Oh, you mustn’t run away!” I cried with the skittish accent of an elderly
dowager. “I’m sure Sir Eustace wouldn’t like you to leave me alone with no
one to talk to. You never seem to want to talk about Florence. Oh, Mr.
Pagett, I believe you have a guilty secret!”
I still had my hand on his arm, and I could feel the sudden start he gave.
“Not at all, Miss Beddingfeld, not at all,” he said earnestly. “I should be
only too delighted to tell you all about it, but there really are some cables
——”
“Oh, Mr. Pagett, what a thin pretence. I shall tell Sir Eustace——”
I got no further. He gave another jump. The man’s nerves seemed in a
shocking state.
“What is it you want to know?”
The resigned martyrdom of his tone made me smile inwardly.
“Oh, everything! The pictures, the olive trees——”
I paused, rather at a loss myself.
“I suppose you speak Italian?” I resumed.
“Not a word, unfortunately. But of course, with hall porters and—er—
guides.”
“Exactly,” I hastened to reply. “And which was your favourite picture?”
“Oh, er—the Madonna—er—Raphael, you know.”
“Dear old Florence,” I murmured sentimentally. “So picturesque on the
banks of the Arno. A beautiful river. And the Duomo, you remember the
Duomo?”
“Of course, of course.”
“Another beautiful river, is it not?” I hazarded. “Almost more beautiful
than the Arno?”

“Decidedly so, I should say.”
Emboldened by the success of my little trap, I proceeded further. But
there was little room for doubt. Mr. Pagett delivered himself into my hands
with every word he uttered. The man had never been in Florence in his life.
But, if not in Florence, where had he been? In England? Actually in
England at the time of the Mill House Mystery? I decided on a bold step.
“The curious thing is,” I said, “that I fancied I had seen you before
somewhere. But I must be mistaken—since you were in Florence at the
time. And yet——”
I studied him frankly. There was a hunted look in his eyes. He passed his
tongue over his dry lips.
“Where—er—where——”
“—did I think I had seen you?” I finished for him. “At Marlow. You
know Marlow? Why, of course, how stupid of me, Sir Eustace has a house
there!”
But with an incoherent muttered excuse, my victim rose and fled.
That night I invaded Suzanne’s cabin, alight with excitement.
“You see, Suzanne,” I urged, as I finished my tale, “he was in England, in
Marlow, at the time of the murder. Are you so sure now that ‘The Man in
the Brown Suit’ is guilty.”
“I’m sure of one thing,” said Suzanne, twinkling unexpectedly.
“What’s that?”
“That ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is better looking than poor Mr.
Pagett. No, Anne, don’t get cross. I was only teasing. Sit down here. Joking
apart, I think you’ve made a very important discovery. Up till now, we’ve
considered Pagett as having an alibi. Now we know he hasn’t.”
“Exactly,” I said. “We must keep an eye on him.”
“As well as everybody else,” she said ruefully. “Well, that’s one of the
things I wanted to talk to you about. That—and finance. No, don’t stick
your nose in the air. I know you are absurdly proud and independent, but
you’ve got to listen to horse sense over this. We’re partners—I wouldn’t
offer you a penny because I liked you, or because you’re a friendless girl—
what I want is a thrill, and I’m prepared to pay for it. We’re going into this

together regardless of expense. To begin with you’ll come with me to the
Mount Nelson Hotel at my expense, and we’ll plan out our campaign.”
We argued the point. In the end I gave in. But I didn’t like it. I wanted to
do the thing on my own.
“That’s settled,” said Suzanne at last, getting up and stretching herself
with a big yawn. “I’m exhausted with my own eloquence. Now then, let us
discuss our victims. Mr. Chichester is going on to Durban. Sir Eustace is
going to the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town and then up to Rhodesia.
He’s going to have a private car on the railway, and in a moment of
expansion, after his fourth glass of champagne the other night, he offered
me a place in it. I dare say he didn’t really mean it, but, all the same, he
can’t very well back out if I hold him to it.”
“Good,” I approved. “You keep an eye on Sir Eustace and Pagett, and I
take on Chichester. But what about Colonel Race?”
Suzanne looked at me queerly.
“Anne, you can’t possibly suspect——”
“I do. I suspect everybody. I’m in the mood when one looks round for the
most unlikely person.”
“Colonel Race is going to Rhodesia too,” said Suzanne thoughtfully. “If
we could arrange for Sir Eustace to invite him also——”
“You can manage it. You can manage anything.”
“I love butter,” purred Suzanne.
We parted on the understanding that Suzanne should employ her talents
to the best advantage.
I felt too excited to go to bed immediately. It was my last night on board.
Early to-morrow morning we should be in Table Bay.
I slipped up on deck. The breeze was fresh and cool. The boat was rolling
a little in the choppy sea. The decks were dark and deserted. It was after
midnight.
I leaned over the rail, watching the phosphorescent trail of foam. Ahead
of us lay Africa, we were rushing towards it through the dark water. I felt
alone in a wonderful world. Wrapped in a strange peace, I stood there,
taking no heed of time, lost in a dream.

And suddenly I had a curious intimate premonition of danger. I had heard
nothing, but I swung round instinctively. A shadowy form had crept up
behind me. As I turned, it sprang. One hand gripped my throat, stifling any
cry I might have uttered. I fought desperately, but I had no chance. I was
half choking from the grip on my throat, but I bit and clung and scratched in
the most approved feminine fashion. The man was handicapped by having
to keep me from crying out. If he had succeeded in reaching me unawares it
would have been easy enough for him to sling me overboard with a sudden
heave. The sharks would have taken care of the rest.
Struggle as I would, I felt myself weakening. My assailant felt it too. He
put out all his strength. And then, running on swift noiseless feet, another
shadow joined in. With one blow of his fist, he sent my opponent crashing
headlong to the deck. Released, I fell back against the rail, sick and
trembling.
My rescuer turned to me with a quick movement.
“You’re hurt!”
There was something savage in his tone—a menace against the person
who had dared to hurt me. Even before he spoke I had recognized him. It
was my man—the man with the scar.
But that one moment in which his attention had been diverted to me had
been enough for the fallen enemy. Quick as a flash he had risen to his feet
and taken to his heels down the deck. With an oath Rayburn sprang after
him.
I always hate being out of things. I joined the chase—a bad third. Round
the deck we went to the starboard side of the ship. There by the saloon door
lay the man in a crumpled heap. Rayburn was bending over him.
“Did you hit him again?” I called breathlessly.
“There was no need,” he replied grimly. “I found him collapsed by the
door. Or else he couldn’t get it open and is shamming. We’ll soon see about
that. And we’ll see who he is too.”
With a beating heart I drew near. I had realized at once that my assailant
was a bigger man than Chichester. Anyway, Chichester was a flabby
creature who might use a knife at a pinch, but who would have little
strength in his bare hands.

Rayburn struck a match. We both uttered an ejaculation. The man was
Guy Pagett.
Rayburn appeared absolutely stupefied by the discovery.
“Pagett,” he muttered. “My God, Pagett.”
I felt a slight sense of superiority.
“You seem surprised.”
“I am,” he said heavily. “I never suspected——” He wheeled suddenly
round on me. “And you? You’re not? You recognized him, I suppose, when
he attacked you?”
“No, I didn’t. All the same, I’m not so very surprised.” He stared at me
suspiciously.
“Where do you come in, I wonder? And how much do you know?”
I smiled.
“A good deal, Mr.—er—Lucas!”
He caught my arm, the unconscious strength of his grip made me wince.
“Where did you get that name?” he asked hoarsely.
“Isn’t it yours?” I demanded sweetly. “Or do you prefer to be called ‘The
Man in the Brown Suit’?”
That did stagger him. He released my arm and fell back a pace or two.
“Are you a girl or a witch?” he breathed.
“I’m a friend.” I advanced a step towards him. “I offered you my help
once—I offer it again. Will you have it?”
The fierceness of his answer took me aback.
“No. I’ll have no truck with you or with any woman. Do your
damnedest.”
As before, my own temper began to rise.
“Perhaps,” I said, “you don’t realize how much in my power you are? A
word from me to the Captain——”
“Say it,” he sneered. Then advancing with a quick step: “And whilst
we’re realizing things, my girl, do you realize that you’re in my power this
minute? I could take you by the throat like this.” With a swift gesture he
suited the action to the word. I felt his two hands clasp my throat and press
—ever so little. “Like this—and squeeze the life out of you! And then—like

our unconscious friend here, but with more success—fling your dead body
to the sharks. What do you say to that?”
I said nothing. I laughed. And yet I knew that the danger was real. Just at
that moment he hated me. But I knew that I loved the danger, loved the
feeling of his hands on my throat. That I would not have exchanged that
moment for any other moment in my life. . . .
With a short laugh he released me.
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.
“Anne Beddingfeld.”
“Does nothing frighten you, Anne Beddingfeld?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, with an assumption of coolness I was far from feeling.
“Wasps, sarcastic women, very young men, cockroaches, and superior shop
assistants.”
He gave the same short laugh as before. Then he stirred the unconscious
form of Pagett with his feet.
“What shall we do with this junk? Throw it overboard?” he asked
carelessly.
“If you like,” I answered with equal calm.
“I admire your whole-hearted, blood-thirsty instincts, Miss Beddingfeld.
But we will leave him to recover at his leisure. He is not seriously hurt.”
“You shrink from a second murder, I see,” I said sweetly.
“A second murder?”
He looked genuinely puzzled.
“The woman at Marlow,” I reminded him, watching the effect of my
words closely.
An ugly brooding expression settled down on his face. He seemed to
have forgotten my presence.
“I might have killed her,” he said. “Sometimes I believe that I meant to
kill her. . . .”
A wild rush of feeling, hatred of the dead woman, surged through me. I
could have killed her that moment, had she stood before me. . . . For he
must have loved her once—he must—he must—to have felt like that!
I regained control of myself and spoke in my normal voice:

“We seem to have said all there is to be said—except good night.”
“Good night and good-bye, Miss Beddingfeld.”
“Au revoir, Mr. Lucas.”
Again he flinched at the name. He came nearer.
“Why do you say that—au revoir, I mean?”
“Because I have a fancy that we shall meet again.”
“Not if I can help it!”
Emphatic as his tone was, it did not offend me. On the contrary I hugged
myself with secret satisfaction. I am not quite a fool.
“All the same,” I said gravely, “I think we shall.”
“Why?”
I shook my head, unable to explain the feeling that had actuated my
words.
“I never wish to see you again,” he said suddenly and violently.
It was really a very rude thing to say, but I only laughed softly and
slipped away into the darkness.
I heard him start after me, and then pause, and a word floated down the
deck. I think it was a “witch”!

CHAPTER XVII

(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)

Mount Nelson Hotel,
Cape Town.

It is really the greatest relief to get off the Kilmorden.
The whole time that I was on board I was conscious of being surrounded
by a network of intrigue. To put the lid on everything, Guy Pagett must
needs engage in a drunken brawl the last night. It is all very well to explain
it away, but that is what it actually amounts to. What else would you think if
a man comes to you with a lump the size of an egg on the side of his head
and an eye coloured all the tints of the rainbow?
Of course Pagett would insist on trying to be mysterious about the whole
thing. According to him, you would think his black eye was the direct result
of his devotion to my interests. His story was extraordinarily vague and
rambling, and it was a long time before I could make head or tail of it.
To begin with, it appears he caught sight of a man behaving suspiciously.
Those are Pagett’s words. He has taken them straight from the pages of a
German Spy Story. What he means by a man behaving suspiciously he
doesn’t know himself. I said so to him.
“He was slinking along in a very furtive manner, and it was the middle of
the night, Sir Eustace.”
“Well, what were you doing yourself? Why weren’t you in bed and
asleep like a good Christian?” I demanded irritably.
“I had been coding those cables of yours, Sir Eustace, and typing the
diary up to date.”
Trust Pagett to be always in the right and a martyr over it!
“Well?”

“I just thought I would have a look around before turning in, Sir Eustace.
The man was coming down the passage from your cabin. I thought at once
there was something wrong by the way he looked about him. He slunk up
the stairs by the saloon. I followed him.
“My dear Pagett,” I said, “why shouldn’t the poor chap go on deck
without having his footsteps dogged? Lots of people even sleep on deck—
very uncomfortable, I’ve always thought. The sailors wash you down with
the rest of the deck at five in the morning.” I shuddered at the idea.
“Anyway,” I continued, “if you went worrying some poor devil who was
suffering from insomnia, I don’t wonder he landed you one.”
Pagett looked patient.
“If you would hear me out, Sir Eustace. I was convinced the man had
been prowling about near your cabin where he had no business to be. The
only two cabins down that passage are yours and Colonel Race’s.”
“Race,” I said, lighting a cigar carefully, “can look after himself without
your assistance, Pagett.” I added as an afterthought: “So can I.”
Pagett came nearer and breathed heavily as he always does before
imparting a secret.
“You see, Sir Eustace, I fancied—and now indeed I am sure—it was
Rayburn.”
“Rayburn?”
“Yes, Sir Eustace.”
I shook my head.
“Rayburn has far too much sense to attempt to wake me up in the middle
of the night.”
“Quite so, Sir Eustace. I think it was Colonel Race he went to see. A
secret meeting—for orders!”
“Don’t hiss at me, Pagett,” I said, drawing back a little, “and do control
your breathing. Your idea is absurd. Why should they want to have a secret
meeting in the middle of the night? If they’d anything to say to each other,
they could hob-nob over beef-tea in a perfectly casual and natural manner.”
I could see that Pagett was not in the least convinced.
“Something was going on last night, Sir Eustace,” he urged, “or why
should Rayburn assault me so brutally.”

“You’re quite sure it was Rayburn?”
Pagett appeared to be perfectly convinced of that. It was the only part of
the story that he wasn’t vague about.
“There’s something very queer about all this,” he said. “To begin with,
where is Rayburn?”
It’s perfectly true that we haven’t seen the fellow since we came on
shore. He did not come up to the hotel with us. I decline to believe that he is
afraid of Pagett, however.
Altogether the whole thing is very annoying. One of my secretaries has
vanished into the blue, and the other looks like a disreputable prize-fighter.
I can’t take him about with me in his present condition. I shall be the
laughing-stock of Cape Town. I have an appointment later in the day to
deliver old Milray’s billet-doux, but I shall not take Pagett with me.
Confound the fellow and his prowling ways.
Altogether I am decidedly out of temper. I had poisonous breakfast with
poisonous people. Dutch waitresses with thick ankles who took half an hour
to bring me a bad bit of fish. And this farce of getting up at 5 a.m. on arrival
at the port to see a blinking doctor and hold your hands above your head
simply makes me tired.
Later.
A very serious thing has occurred. I went to my appointment with the
Prime Minister, taking Milray’s sealed letter. It didn’t look as though it had
been tampered with, but inside was a blank sheet of paper!
Now, I suppose, I’m in the devil of a mess. Why I ever let that bleating
old fool Milray embroil me in the matter I can’t think.
Pagett is a famous Job’s comforter. He displays a certain gloomy
satisfaction that maddens me. Also, he has taken advantage of my
perturbation to saddle me with the stationery trunk. Unless he is careful, the
next funeral he attends will be his own.
However, in the end I had to listen to him.
“Supposing, Sir Eustace, that Rayburn had overheard a word or two of
your conversation with Mr. Milray in the street? Remember, you had no
written authority from Mr. Milray. You accepted Rayburn on his own
valuation.”

“You think Rayburn is a crook, then?” I said slowly.
Pagett did. How far his views were influenced by resentment over his
black eye I don’t know. He made out a pretty fair case against Rayburn.
And the appearance of the latter told against him. My idea was to do
nothing in the matter. A man who has permitted himself to be made a
thorough fool of is not anxious to broadcast the fact.
But Pagett, his energy unimpaired by his recent misfortunes, was all for
vigorous measures. He had his way of course. He bustled out to the police
station, sent innumerable cables, and brought a herd of English and Dutch
officials to drink whiskies and sodas at my expense.
We got Milray’s answer that evening. He knew nothing of my late
secretary! There was only one spot of comfort to be extracted from the
situation.
“At any rate,” I said to Pagett, “you weren’t poisoned. You had one of
your ordinary bilious attacks.”
I saw him wince. It was my only score.
Later.
Pagett is in his element. His brain positively scintillates with bright ideas.
He will have it now that Rayburn is none other than the famous “Man in the
Brown Suit.” I dare say he is right. He usually is. But all this is getting
unpleasant. The sooner I get off to Rhodesia the better. I have explained to
Pagett that he is not to accompany me.
“You see, my dear fellow,” I said, “you must remain here on the spot.
You might be required to identify Rayburn any minute. And, besides, I have
my dignity as an English Member of Parliament to think of. I can’t go about
with a secretary who has apparently recently been indulging in a vulgar
street-brawl.”
Pagett winced. He is such a respectable fellow that his appearance is pain
and tribulation to him.
“But what will you do about your correspondence and the notes for your
speeches, Sir Eustace?”
“I shall manage,” I said airily.
“Your private car is to be attached to the eleven-o’clock train to-morrow,
Wednesday, morning,” Pagett continued. “I have made all arrangements. Is

Mrs. Blair taking a maid with her?”
“Mrs. Blair?” I gasped.
“She tells me you offered her a place.”
So I did, now I come to think of it. On the night of the Fancy Dress ball. I
even urged her to come. But I never thought she would! Delightful as she is,
I do not know that I want Mrs. Blair’s society all the way to Rhodesia and
back. Women require such a lot of attention. And they are confoundedly in
the way sometimes.
“Have I asked any one else?” I said nervously. One does these things in
moments of expansion.
“Mrs. Blair seemed to think you had asked Colonel Race as well.”
I groaned.
“I must have been very drunk if I asked Race. Very drunk indeed. Take
my advice, Pagett, and let your black eye be a warning to you, don’t go on
the bust again.”
“As you know, I am a teetotaller, Sir Eustace.”
“Much wiser to take the pledge if you have a weakness that way. I
haven’t asked any one else, have I, Pagett?”
“Not that I know of, Sir Eustace.”
I heaved a sigh of relief.
“There’s Miss Beddingfeld,” I said thoughtfully. “She wants to get to
Rhodesia to dig up bones, I believe. I’ve a good mind to offer her a
temporary job as a secretary. She can typewrite, I know, for she told me so.”
To my surprise, Pagett opposed the idea vehemently. He does not like
Anne Beddingfeld. Ever since the night of the black eye, he has displayed
uncontrollable emotion whenever she is mentioned. Pagett is full of
mysteries nowadays.
Just to annoy him, I shall ask the girl. As I said before, she has extremely
nice legs.

CHAPTER XVIII

(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
I don’t suppose that as long as I live I shall forget my first sight of Table
Mountain. I got up frightfully early and went out on deck. I went right up to
the boat deck, which I believe is a heinous offence, but I decided to dare
something in the cause of solitude. We were just steaming into Table Bay.
There were fleecy white clouds hovering above Table Mountain, and
nestling on the slopes below, right down to the sea, was the sleeping town,
gilded and bewitched by the morning sunlight.
It made me catch my breath and have that curious hungry pain inside that
seizes one sometimes when one comes across something that’s extra
beautiful. I’m not very good at expressing these things, but I knew well
enough that I had found, if only for a fleeting moment, the thing that I had
been looking for ever since I left Little Hampsly. Something new,
something hitherto undreamed of, something that satisfied my aching
hunger for romance.
Perfectly silently, or so it seemed to me, the Kilmorden glided nearer and
nearer. It was still very like a dream. Like all dreamers, however, I could
not let my dream alone. We poor humans are so anxious not to miss
anything.
“This is South Africa,” I kept saying to myself industriously, “South
Africa, South Africa. You are seeing the world. This is the world. You are
seeing it. Think of it, Anne Beddingfeld, you pudding-head. You’re seeing
the world.”
I had thought that I had the boat deck to myself, but now I observed
another figure leaning over the rail, absorbed as I had been in the rapidly
approaching city. Even before he turned his head I knew who it was. The
scene of last night seemed unreal and melodramatic in the peaceful morning
sunlight. What must he have thought of me? It made me hot to realize the
things that I had said. And I hadn’t meant them—or had I?

I turned my head resolutely away and stared hard at Table Mountain. If
Rayburn had come up here to be alone, I, at least, need not disturb him by
advertising my presence.
But to my intense surprise I heard a light footfall on the deck behind me,
and then his voice, pleasant and normal:
“Miss Beddingfeld.”
“Yes?”
I turned.
“I want to apologize to you. I behaved like a perfect boor last night.”
“It—it was a peculiar night,” I said hastily.
It was not a very lucid remark, but it was absolutely the only thing I
could think of.
“Will you forgive me?”
I held out my hand without a word. He took it.
“There’s something else I want to say.” His gravity deepened. “Miss
Beddingfeld, you may not know it, but you are mixed up in a rather
dangerous business.”
“I gathered as much,” I said.
“No, you don’t. You can’t possibly know. I want to warn you. Leave the
whole thing alone. It can’t concern you really. Don’t let your curiosity lead
you to tamper with other people’s business. No, please don’t get angry
again. I’m not speaking of myself. You’ve no idea of what you might come
up against—these men will stop at nothing. They are absolutely ruthless.
Already you’re in danger—look at last night. They fancy you know
something. Your only chance is to persuade them that they’re mistaken. But
be careful, always be on the look out for danger, and, look here, if at any
time you should fall into their hands, don’t try and be clever—tell the whole
truth, it will be your only chance.”
“You make my flesh creep, Mr. Rayburn,” I said, with some truth. “Why
do you take the trouble to warn me?”
He did not answer for some minutes, then he said in a low voice:
“It may be the last thing I can do for you. Once on shore I shall be all
right—but I may not get on shore.”
“What?” I cried.

“You see, I’m afraid you’re not the only person on board who knows that
I am ‘The Man in the Brown Suit.’”
“If you think that I told——” I said hotly.
He reassured me with a smile.
“I don’t doubt you, Miss Beddingfeld. If I ever said I did, I lied. No, but
there’s one person on board who’s known all along. He’s only got to speak
—and my number’s up. All the same, I’m taking a sporting chance that he
won’t speak.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a man who likes playing a lone hand. And when the police
have got me I should be of no further use to him. Free, I might be! Well, an
hour will show.”
He laughed rather mockingly, but I saw his face harden. If he had
gambled with Fate, he was a good gambler. He could lose and smile.
“In any case,” he said lightly, “I don’t suppose we shall meet again.”
“No,” I said slowly. “I suppose not.”
“So—good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
He gripped my hand hard, just for a minute his curious light eyes seemed
to burn into mine, then he turned abruptly and left me. I heard his footsteps
ringing along the deck. They echoed and re-echoed. I felt that I should hear
them always. Footsteps—going out of my life.
I can admit frankly that I did not enjoy the next two hours. Not till I stood
on the wharf, having finished with most of the ridiculous formalities that
bureaucracies require, did I breathe freely once more. No arrest had been
made, and I realized that it was a heavenly day, and that I was extremely
hungry. I joined Suzanne. In any case, I was staying the night with her at
the hotel. The boat did not go on to Port Elizabeth and Durban until the
following morning. We got into a taxi and drove to the Mount Nelson.
It was all heavenly. The sun, the air, the flowers! When I thought of Little
Hampsly in January, the mud knee-deep, and the sure-to-be-falling rain, I
hugged myself with delight. Suzanne was not nearly so enthusiastic. She
has travelled a great deal of course. Besides, she is not the type that gets

excited before breakfast. She snubbed me severely when I let out an
enthusiastic yelp at the sight of a giant blue convolvulus.
By the way, I should like to make it clear here and now that this story
will not be a story of South Africa. I guarantee no genuine local colour—
you know the sort of thing—half a dozen words in italics on every page. I
admire it very much, but I can’t do it. In South Sea Islands, of course, you
make an immediate reference to bêche-de-mer. I don’t know what bêche-de-
mer is, I never have known, I probably never shall know. I’ve guessed once
or twice and guessed wrong. In South Africa I know you at once begin to
talk about a stoep—I do know what a stoep is—it’s the thing round a house
and you sit on it. In various other parts of the world you call it a veranda, a
piazza, and a ha-ha. Then again, there are pawpaws. I had often read of
pawpaws. I discovered at once what they were, because I had one plumped
down in front of me for breakfast. I thought at first that it was a melon gone
bad. The Dutch waitress enlightened me, and persuaded me to use lemon
juice and sugar and try again. I was very pleased to meet a pawpaw. I had
always vaguely associated it with a hula-hula, which, I believe, though I
may be wrong, is a kind of straw skirt that Hawaiian girls dance in. No, I
think I am wrong—that is a lava-lava.
At any rate, all these things are very cheering after England. I can’t help
thinking that it would brighten our cold Island life if one could have a
breakfast of bacon-bacon, and then go out clad in a jumper-jumper to pay
the books.
Suzanne was a little tamer after breakfast. They had given me a room
next to hers with a lovely view right out over Table Bay. I looked at the
view whilst Suzanne hunted for some special face-cream. When she had
found it and started an immediate application, she became capable of
listening to me.
“Did you see Sir Eustace?” I asked. “He was marching out of the
breakfast room as we went in. He’d had some bad fish or something and
was just telling the head waiter what he thought about it, and he bounced a
peach on the floor to show how hard it was—only it wasn’t quite as hard as
he thought and it squashed.”
Suzanne smiled.
“Sir Eustace doesn’t like getting up early any more than I do. But, Anne,
did you see Mr. Pagett? I ran against him in the passage. He’s got a black

eye. What can he have been doing?”
“Only trying to push me overboard,” I replied nonchalantly.
It was a distinct score for me. Suzanne left her face half anointed and
pressed for details. I gave them to her.
“It all gets more and more mysterious,” she cried. “I thought I was going
to have the soft job sticking to Sir Eustace, and that you would have all the
fun with the Rev. Edward Chichester, but now I’m not so sure. I hope Pagett
won’t push me off the train some dark night.”
“I think you’re still above suspicion, Suzanne. But, if the worst happens,
I’ll wire to Clarence.”
“That reminds me—give me a cable form. Let me see now, what shall I
say. ‘Implicated in the most thrilling mystery please send me a thousand
pounds at once Suzanne.’”
I took the form from her, and pointed out that she could eliminate a “the,”
an “a,” and possibly, if she didn’t care about being polite, a “please.”
Suzanne, however, appears to be perfectly reckless in money matters.
Instead of attending to my economical suggestions, she added three words
more: “enjoying myself hugely.”
Suzanne was engaged to lunch with friends of hers, who came to the
hotel about eleven o’clock to fetch her. I was left to my own devices. I went
down through the grounds of the hotel, crossed the tram-lines and followed
a cool shady avenue right down till I came to the main street. I strolled
about, seeing the sights, enjoying the sunlight and the black-faced sellers of
flowers and fruits. I also discovered a place where they had the most
delicious ice-cream sodas. Finally, I bought a sixpenny basket of peaches
and retraced my steps to the hotel.
To my surprise and pleasure I found a note awaiting me. It was from the
curator of the Museum. He had read of my arrival on the Kilmorden, in
which I was described as the daughter of the late Professor Beddingfeld. He
had known my father slightly and had had a great admiration for him. He
went on to say that his wife would be delighted if I would come out and
have tea with them that afternoon at their Villa at Muizenberg. He gave me
instructions for getting there.
It was pleasant to think that poor Papa was still remembered and highly
thought of. I foresaw that I would have to be personally escorted round the

Museum before I left Cape Town, but I risked that. To most people it would
have been a treat—but one can have too much of a good thing if one is
brought up on it, morning, noon and night.
I put on my best hat (one of Suzanne’s cast-offs) and my least crumpled
white linen and started off after lunch. I caught a fast train to Muizenberg
and got there in about half an hour. It was a nice trip. We wound slowly
round the base of Table Mountain, and some of the flowers were lovely. My
geography being weak, I had never fully realized that Cape Town is on a
peninsula, consequently I was rather surprised on getting out of the train to
find myself facing the sea once more. There was some perfectly entrancing
bathing going on. The people had short curved boards and came floating in
on the waves. It was far too early to go to tea. I made for the bathing
pavilion, and when they said would I have a surf board, I said “Yes, please.”
Surfing looks perfectly easy. It isn’t. I say no more. I got very angry and
fairly hurled my plank from me. Nevertheless, I determined to return on the
first possible opportunity and have another go. I would not be beaten. Quite
by mistake I then got a good run on my board, and came out delirious with
happiness. Surfing is like that. You are either vigorously cursing or else you
are idiotically pleased with yourself.
I found the Villa Medgee after some little difficulty. It was right up on the
side of the mountain, isolated from the other cottages and villas. I rang the
bell, and a smiling Kafir boy answered it.
“Mrs. Raffini?” I inquired.
He ushered me in, preceded me down the passage and flung open a door.
Just as I was about to pass in, I hesitated. I felt a sudden misgiving. I
stepped over the threshold and the door swung sharply to behind me.
A man rose from his seat behind a table and came forward with
outstretched hand.
“So glad we have persuaded you to visit us, Miss Beddingfeld,” he said.
He was a tall man, obviously a Dutchman, with a flaming orange beard.
He did not look in the least like the curator of a museum. In fact, I realized
in a flash that I had made a fool of myself.
I was in the hands of the enemy.

CHAPTER XIX

It reminded me forcibly of Episode III in “The Perils of Pamela.” How
often had I not sat in the sixpenny seats, eating a twopenny bar of milk
chocolate, and yearning for similar things to happen to me. Well, they had
happened with a vengeance. And somehow it was not nearly so amusing as
I had imagined. It’s all very well on the screen—you have the comfortable
knowledge that there’s bound to be an Episode IV. But in real life there was
absolutely no guarantee that Anna the Adventuress might not terminate
abruptly at the end of any Episode.
Yes, I was in a tight place. All the things that Rayburn had said that
morning came back to me with unpleasant distinctness. Tell the truth, he
had said. Well, I could always do that, but was it going to help me? To
begin with, would my story be believed? Would they consider it likely or
possible that I had started off on this mad escapade simply on the strength
of a scrap of paper smelling of moth balls? It sounded to me a wildly
incredible tale. In that moment of cold sanity I cursed myself for a
melodramatic idiot, and yearned for the peaceful boredom of Little
Hampsly.
All this passed through my mind in less time than it takes to tell. My first
instinctive movement was to step backwards and feel for the handle of the
door. My captor merely grinned.
“Here you are and here you stay,” he remarked facetiously.
I did my best to put a bold face upon the matter.
“I was invited to come here by the curator of the Cape Town Museum. If
I have made a mistake——”
“A mistake? Oh, yes, a big mistake!”
He laughed coarsely.
“What right have you to detain me? I shall inform the police——”
“Yap, yap, yap—like a little toy dog.” He laughed.

I sat down on a chair.
“I can only conclude that you are a dangerous lunatic,” I said coldly.
“Indeed?”
“I should like to point out to you that my friends are perfectly well aware
where I have gone, and that if I have not returned by this evening, they will
come in search of me. You understand?”
“So your friends know where you are, do they? Which of them?”
Thus challenged, I did a lightning calculation of chances. Should I
mention Sir Eustace? He was a well-known man, and his name might carry
weight. But if they were in touch with Pagett, they might know I was lying.
Better not risk Sir Eustace.
“Mrs. Blair, for one,” I said lightly. “A friend of mine with whom I am
staying.”
“I think not,” said my captor, slyly shaking his orange head. “You have
not seen her since eleven this morning. And you received our note, bidding
you come here, at lunch-time.”
His words showed me how closely my movements had been followed,
but I was not going to give in without a fight.
“You are very clever,” I said. “Perhaps you have heard of that useful
invention, the telephone? Mrs. Blair called me up on it when I was resting
in my room after lunch. I told her then where I was going this afternoon.”
To my great satisfaction, I saw a shade of uneasiness pass over his face.
Clearly he had overlooked the possibility that Suzanne might have
telephoned to me. I wished she really had done so!
“Enough of this,” he said harshly, rising.
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked, still endeavouring to
appear composed.
“Put you where you can do no harm in case your friends come after you.”
For a moment my blood ran cold, but his next words reassured me.
“To-morrow you’ll have some questions to answer, and after you’ve
answered them we shall know what to do with you. And I can tell you,
young lady, we’ve more ways than one of making obstinate little fools
talk.”

It was not cheering, but it was at least a respite. I had until to-morrow.
This man was clearly an underling obeying the orders of a superior. Could
that superior by any chance be Pagett?
He called and two Kafirs appeared. I was taken upstairs. Despite my
struggles, I was gagged and then bound hand and foot. The room into which
they had taken me was a kind of attic right under the roof. It was dusty and
showed little signs of having been occupied. The Dutchman made a mock
bow and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
I was quite helpless. Turn and twist as I would, I could not loosen my
hands in the slightest degree, and the gag prevented me from crying out. If,
by any possible chance, any one did come to the house, I could do nothing
to attract their attention. Down below I heard the sound of a door shutting.
Evidently the Dutchman was going out.
It was maddening not to be able to do anything. I strained again at my
bonds, but the knots held. I desisted at last, and either fainted or fell asleep.
When I awoke I was in pain all over. It was quite dark now, and I judged
that the night must be well advanced, for the moon was high in the heavens
and shining down through the dusty skylight. The gag was half choking me
and the stiffness and pain were unendurable.
It was then that my eyes fell on a bit of broken glass lying in the corner.
A moonbeam slanted right down on it, and its glistening had caught my
attention. As I looked at it, an idea came into my head.
My arms and legs were helpless, but surely I could still roll. Slowly and
awkwardly, I set myself in motion. It was not easy. Besides being extremely
painful, since I could not guard my face with my arms, it was also
exceedingly difficult to keep any particular direction.
I tended to roll in every direction except the one I wanted to go. In the
end, however, I came right up against my objective. It almost touched my
bound hands.
Even then it was not easy. It took an infinity of time before I could
wriggle the glass into such a position, wedged against the wall, that it would
rub up and down on my bonds. It was a long heart-rending process, and I
almost despaired, but in the end I succeeded in sawing through the cords
that bound my wrists. The rest was a matter of time. Once I had restored the
circulation to my hands by rubbing the wrists vigorously, I was able to undo
the gag. One or two full breaths did a lot for me.

Very soon I had undone the last knot, though even then it was some time
before I could stand on my feet, but at last I stood erect, swinging my arms
to and fro to restore the circulation, and wishing above all things that I
could get hold of something to eat.
I waited about a quarter of an hour, to be quite sure of my recovered
strength. Then I tiptoed noiselessly to the door. As I had hoped, it was not
locked, only latched. I unlatched it and peeped cautiously out.
Everything was still. The moonlight came in through a window and
showed me the dusty uncarpeted staircase. Cautiously I crept down it. Still
no sound—but as I stood on the landing below, a faint murmur of voices
reached me. I stopped dead and stood there for some time. A clock on the
wall registered the fact that it was after midnight.
I was fully aware of the risks I might run if I descended lower, but my
curiosity was too much for me. With infinite precautions I prepared to
explore. I crept softly down the last flight of stairs and stood in the square
hall. I looked round me—and then caught my breath with a gasp. A Kafir
boy was sitting by the hall door. He had not seen me, indeed I soon realized
by his breathing that he was fast asleep.
Should I retreat, or should I go on? The voices came from the room I had
been shown into on arrival. One of them was that of my Dutch friend, the
other I could not for the moment recognize, though it seemed vaguely
familiar.
In the end I decided that it was clearly my duty to hear all I could. I must
risk the Kafir boy waking up. I crossed the hall noiselessly and knelt by the
study door. For a moment or two I could hear no better. The voices were
louder, but I could not distinguish what they said.
I applied my eye to the keyhole instead of my ear. As I had guessed, one
of the speakers was the big Dutchman. The other man was sitting outside
my circumscribed range of vision.
Suddenly he rose to get himself a drink. His back, black clad and
decorous, came into view. Even before he turned round I knew who he was.
Mr. Chichester!
Now I began to make out the words.
“All the same, it is dangerous. Suppose her friends come after her?”

It was the big man speaking. Chichester answered him. He had dropped
his clerical voice entirely. No wonder I had not recognized it.
“All bluff. They haven’t an idea where she is.”
“She spoke very positively.”
“I dare say. I’ve looked into the matter, and we’ve nothing to fear.
Anyway, it’s the ‘Colonel’s’ orders. You don’t want to go against them, I
suppose?”
The Dutchman ejaculated something in his own language. I judged it to
be a hasty disclaimer.
“But why not knock her on the head?” he growled. “It would be simple.
The boat is all ready. She could be taken out to sea?”
“Yes,” said Chichester meditatively. “That is what I should do. She
knows too much, that is certain. But the ‘Colonel’ is a man who likes to
play a lone hand—though no one else must do so.” Something in his own
words seemed to awaken a memory that annoyed him. “He wants
information of some kind from this girl.”
He had paused before the information, and the Dutchman was quick to
catch him up.
“Information?”
“Something of the kind.”
“Diamonds,” I said to myself.
“And now,” continued Chichester, “give me the lists.”
For a long time their conversation was quite incomprehensible to me. It
seemed to deal with large quantities of vegetables. Dates were mentioned,
prices, and various names of places which I did not know. It was quite half
an hour before they had finished their checking and counting.
“Good,” said Chichester, and there was a sound as though he pushed
back his chair. “I will take these with me for the ‘Colonel’ to see.”
“When do you leave?”
“Ten o’clock to-morrow morning will do.”
“Do you want to see the girl before you go?”
“No. There are strict orders that no one is to see her until the ‘Colonel’
comes. Is she all right?”

“I looked in on her when I came in for dinner. She was asleep, I think.
What about food?”
“A little starvation will do no harm. The ‘Colonel’ will be here some time
to-morrow. She will answer questions better if she is hungry. No one had
better go near her till then. Is she securely tied up?”
The Dutchman laughed.
“What do you think?”
They both laughed. So did I, under my breath. Then, as the sounds
seemed to betoken that they were about to come out of the room, I beat a
hasty retreat. I was just in time. As I reached the head of the stairs, I heard
the door of the room open, and at the same time the Kafir stirred and
moved. My retreat by the way of the hall door was not to be thought of. I
retired prudently to the attic, gathered my bonds round me and lay down
again on the floor, in case they should take it into their heads to come and
look at me.
They did not do so, however. After about an hour, I crept down the stairs,
but the Kafir by the door was awake and humming softly to himself. I was
anxious to get out of the house, but I did not quite see how to manage it.
In the end I was forced to retreat to the attic again. The Kafir was clearly
on guard for the night. I remained there patiently all through the sounds of
early morning preparation. The men breakfasted in the hall, I could hear
their voices distinctly floating up the stairs. I was getting thoroughly
unnerved. How on earth was I to get out of the house?
I counselled myself to be patient. A rash move might spoil everything.
After breakfast came the sounds of Chichester departing. To my intense
relief, the Dutchman accompanied him.
I waited breathlessly. Breakfast was being cleared away, the work of the
house was being done. At last, the various activities seemed to die down. I
slipped out from my lair once more. Very carefully I crept down the stairs.
The hall was empty. Like a flash I was across it, had unlatched the door, and
was outside in the sunshine. I ran down the drive like one possessed.
Once outside, I resumed a normal walk. People stared at me curiously,
and I do not wonder. My face and clothes must have been covered in dust
from rolling about in the attic. At last I came to a garage. I went in.

“I have met with an accident,” I explained. “I want a car to take me to
Cape Town at once. I must catch the boat to Durban.”
I had not long to wait. Ten minutes later I was speeding along in the
direction of Cape Town. I must know if Chichester was on the boat.
Whether to sail on her myself or not, I could not determine, but in the end I
decided to do so. Chichester would not know that I had seen him in the
Villa at Muizenberg. He would doubtless lay further traps for me, but I was
forewarned. And he was the man I was after, the man who was seeking the
diamonds on behalf of the mysterious “Colonel.”
Alas, for my plans! As I arrived at the docks, the Kilmorden Castle was
steaming out to sea. And I had no means of knowing whether Chichester
had sailed on her or not!

CHAPTER XX

I drove to the hotel. There was no one in the lounge that I knew. I ran
upstairs and tapped on Suzanne’s door. Her voice bade me “come in.” When
she saw who it was she literally fell on my neck.
“Anne, dear, where have you been? I’ve been worried to death about you.
What have you been doing?”
“Having adventures,” I replied. “Episode III of ‘The Perils of Pamela.’”
I told her the whole story. She gave vent to a deep sigh when I finished.
“Why do these things always happen to you?” she demanded plaintively.
“Why does no one gag me and bind me hand and foot?”
“You wouldn’t like it if they did,” I assured her. “To tell you the truth,
I’m not nearly so keen on having adventures myself as I was. A little of that
sort of thing goes a long way.”
Suzanne seemed unconvinced. An hour or two of gagging and binding
would have changed her views quickly enough. Suzanne likes thrills, but
she hates being uncomfortable.
“And what are we all doing now?” she asked.
“I don’t quite know,” I said thoughtfully. “You still go to Rhodesia, of
course, to keep an eye on Pagett——”
“And you?”
That was just my difficulty. Had Chichester gone on the Kilmorden, or
had he not? Did he mean to carry out his original plan of going to Durban?
The hour of his leaving Muizenberg seemed to point to an affirmative
answer to both questions. In that case, I might go to Durban by train. I
fancied that I should get there before the boat. On the other hand, if the
news of my escape were wired to Chichester, and also the information that I
had left Cape Town for Durban, nothing was simpler for him than to leave
the boat at either Port Elizabeth or East London and so give me the slip
completely.

It was rather a knotty problem.
“We’ll inquire about trains to Durban anyway,” I said.
“And it’s not too late for morning tea,” said Suzanne. “We’ll have it in
the lounge.”
The Durban train left at 8.15 that evening, so they told me at the office.
For the moment I postponed decision and joined Suzanne for somewhat
belated “eleven-o’clock tea.”
“Do you feel that you would really recognize Chichester again—in any
other disguise, I mean?” asked Suzanne.
I shook my head ruefully.
“I certainly didn’t recognize him as the stewardess, and never should
have but for your drawing.”
“The man’s a professional actor, I’m sure of it,” said Suzanne
thoughtfully. “His make-up is perfectly marvellous. He might come off the
boat as a navvy or something, and you’d never spot him.”
“You’re very cheering,” I said.
At that minute, Colonel Race stepped in through the window and came
and joined us.
“What is Sir Eustace doing?” asked Suzanne. “I haven’t seen him about
to-day.”
Rather an odd expression passed over the Colonel’s face.
“He’s got a little trouble of his own to attend to which is keeping him
busy.”
“Tell us about it.”
“I mustn’t tell tales out of school.”
“Tell us something—even if you have to invent it for our special benefit.”
“Well, what would you say to the famous ‘Man in the Brown Suit’ having
made the voyage with us?”
“What?”
I felt the colour die out of my face and then surge back again. Fortunately
Colonel Race was not looking at me.
“It’s a fact, I believe. Every port watched for him and he bamboozled
Pedler into bringing him out as his secretary!”

“Not Mr. Pagett?”
“Oh, not Pagett—the other fellow. Rayburn, he called himself.”
“Have they arrested him?” asked Suzanne. Under the table she gave my
hand a reassuring squeeze. I waited breathlessly for an answer.
“He seems to have disappeared into thin air.”
“How does Sir Eustace take it?”
“Regards it as a personal insult offered him by Fate.”
An opportunity of hearing Sir Eustace’s views on the matter presented
itself later in the day. We were awakened from a refreshing afternoon nap
by a page-boy with a note. In touching terms it requested the pleasure of our
company at tea in his sitting-room.
The poor man was indeed in a pitiable state. He poured out his troubles to
us, encouraged by Suzanne’s sympathetic murmurs. (She does that sort of
thing very well.)
“First a perfectly strange woman has the impertinence to get herself
murdered in my house—on purpose to annoy me, I do believe. Why my
house? Why, of all the houses in Great Britain, choose the Mill House?
What harm had I ever done the woman that she must needs get herself
murdered there?”
Suzanne made one of her sympathetic noises again and Sir Eustace
proceeded in a still more aggrieved tone.
“And, if that’s not enough, the fellow who murdered her has the
impudence, the colossal impudence, to attach himself to me as my
secretary. My secretary, if you please! I’m tired of secretaries, I won’t have
any more secretaries. Either they’re concealed murderers or else they’re
drunken brawlers. Have you seen Pagett’s black eye? But of course you
have. How can I go about with a secretary like that? And his face is such a
nasty shade of yellow too—just the colour that doesn’t go with a black eye.
I’ve done with secretaries—unless I have a girl. A nice girl, with liquid
eyes, who’ll hold my hand when I’m feeling cross. What about you, Miss
Anne. Will you take on the job?”
“How often shall I have to hold your hand?” I asked, laughing.
“All day long,” replied Sir Eustace gallantly.
“I shan’t get much typing done at that rate,” I reminded him.

“That doesn’t matter. All this work is Pagett’s idea. He works me to
death. I’m looking forward to leaving him behind in Cape Town.”
“He is staying behind?”
“Yes, he’ll enjoy himself thoroughly sleuthing about after Rayburn.
That’s the sort of thing suits Pagett down to the ground. He adores intrigue.
But I’m quite serious in my offer. Will you come? Mrs. Blair here is a
competent chaperon, and you can have a half-holiday every now and again
to dig for bones.”
“Thank you very much, Sir Eustace,” I said cautiously, “but I think I’m
leaving for Durban to-night.”
“Now don’t be an obstinate girl. Remember, there are lots of lions in
Rhodesia. You’ll like lions. All girls do.”
“Will they be practising low jumps?” I asked, laughing. “No, thank you
very much, but I must go to Durban.”
Sir Eustace looked at me, sighed deeply, then opened the door of the
adjoining room and called to Pagett.
“If you’ve quite finished your afternoon sleep, my dear fellow, perhaps
you’d do a little work for change.”
Guy Pagett appeared in the doorway. He bowed to us both, starting
slightly at the sight of me, and replied in a melancholy voice:
“I have been typing that memorandum all this afternoon, Sir Eustace.”
“Well, stop typing it then. Go down to the Trade Commissioner’s Office,
or the Board of Agriculture, or the Chamber of Mines, or one of these
places, and ask them to lend me some kind of a woman to take to Rhodesia.
She must have liquid eyes and not object to my holding her hand.”
“Yes, Sir Eustace. I will ask for a competent short-hand-typist.”
“Pagett’s a malicious fellow,” said Sir Eustace, after the secretary had
departed. “I’d be prepared to bet that he’ll pick out some slab-faced creature
on purpose to annoy me. She must have nice feet too—I forgot to mention
that.”
I clutched Suzanne excitedly by the hand and almost dragged her along
to her room.
“Now, Suzanne,” I said, “we’ve got to make plans—and make them
quickly. Pagett is staying behind here—you heard that?”

“Yes. I suppose that means that I shan’t be allowed to go to Rhodesia—
which is very annoying, because I want to go to Rhodesia. How tiresome.”
“Cheer up,” I said. “You’re going all right. I don’t see how you could
back out at the last moment without its appearing frightfully suspicious.
And, besides, Pagett might suddenly be summoned by Sir Eustace, and it
would be far harder for you to attach yourself to him for the journey up.”
“It would hardly be respectable,” said Suzanne, dimpling. “I should have
to pretend a fatal passion for him as an excuse.”
“On the other hand, if you were there when he arrived, it would all be
perfectly simple and natural. Besides, I don’t think we ought to lose sight of
the other two entirely.”
“Oh, Anne, you surely can’t suspect Colonel Race or Sir Eustace?”
“I suspect everybody,” I said darkly, “and if you’ve read any detective
stories, Suzanne, you must know that it’s always the most unlikely person
who’s the villain. Lots of criminals have been cheerful fat men like Sir
Eustace.”
“Colonel Race isn’t particularly fat—or particularly cheerful either.”
“Sometimes they’re lean and saturnine,” I retorted. “I don’t say I
seriously suspect either of them, but, after all, the woman was murdered in
Sir Eustace’s house——”
“Yes, yes, we needn’t go over all that again. I’ll watch him for you, Anne,
and if he gets any fatter and any more cheerful, I’ll send you a telegram at
once. ‘Sir E. swelling. Highly suspicious. Come at once.’”
“Really, Suzanne,” I cried, “you seem to think all this is a game!”
“I know I do,” said Suzanne, unabashed. “It seems like that. It’s your
fault, Anne. I’ve got imbued with your ‘Let’s have an adventure’ spirit. It
doesn’t seem a bit real. Dear me, if Clarence knew that I was running about
Africa tracking dangerous criminals, he’d have a fit.”
“Why don’t you cable him about it?” I asked sarcastically.
Suzanne’s sense of humour always fails her when it comes to sending
cables. She considered my suggestion in perfectly good faith.
“I might. It would have to be a very long one.” Her eyes brightened at the
thought. “But I think it’s better not. Husbands always want to interfere with
perfectly harmless amusements.”

“Well,” I said, summing up the situation, “you will keep an eye on Sir
Eustace and Colonel Race——”
“I know why I’ve got to watch Sir Eustace,” interrupted Suzanne,
“because of his figure and his humorous conversation. But I think it’s
carrying it rather far to suspect Colonel Race, I do indeed. Why, he’s
something to do with the Secret Service. Do you know, Anne, I believe the
best thing we could do would be to confide in him and tell him the whole
story.”
I objected vigorously to this unsporting proposal. I recognized in it the
disastrous effects of matrimony. How often have I not heard a perfectly
intelligent female say, in the tone of one clinching an argument, “Edgar
says——” And all the time you are perfectly aware that Edgar is a perfect
fool. Suzanne, by reason of her married state, was yearning to lean upon
some man or other.
However, she promised faithfully that she would not breathe a word to
Colonel Race, and we went on with our plan-making.
“It’s quite clear that I must stay here and watch Pagett, and this is the best
way to do it. I must pretend to leave for Durban this evening, take my
luggage down and so on, but really I shall go to some small hotel in the
town. I can alter my appearance a little—wear a fair toupee and one of
those thick white lace veils, and I shall have a much better chance of seeing
what he’s really at if he thinks I’m safely out of the way.”
Suzanne approved this plan heartily. We made due and ostentatious
preparations, inquiring once more about the departure of the train at the
office and packing my luggage.
We dined together in the restaurant. Colonel Race did not appear, but Sir
Eustace and Pagett were at their table in the window. Pagett left the table
half-way through the meal, which annoyed me, as I had planned to say
goodbye to him. However, doubtless Sir Eustace would do as well. I went
over to him when I had finished.
“Good-bye, Sir Eustace,” I said. “I’m off to-night to Durban.”
Sir Eustace sighed heavily.
“So I heard. You wouldn’t like me to come with you, would you?”
“I should love it.”

“Nice girl. Sure you won’t change your mind and come and look for lions
in Rhodesia?”
“Quite sure.”
“He must be a very handsome fellow,” said Sir Eustace plaintively.
“Some young whipper-snapper in Durban, I suppose, who puts my mature
charms completely in the shade. By the way, Pagett’s going down in the car
in a minute or two. He could take you to the station.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” I said hastily. “Mrs. Blair and I have got our own
taxi ordered.”
To go down with Guy Pagett was the last thing I wanted! Sir Eustace
looked at me attentively.
“I don’t believe you like Pagett. I don’t blame you. Of all the officious,
interfering asses—going about with the air of a martyr, and doing
everything he can to annoy and upset me!”
“What has he done now?” I inquired with some curiosity.
“He’s got hold of a secretary for me. You never saw such a woman!
Forty, if she’s a day, wears pince-nez and sensible boots and an air of brisk
efficiency that will be the death of me. A regular slab-faced woman.”
“Won’t she hold your hand?”
“I devoutly hope not!” exclaimed Sir Eustace. “That would be the last
straw. Well, good-bye, liquid eyes. If I shoot a lion I shan’t give you the
skin—after the base way you’ve deserted me.”
He squeezed my hand warmly and we parted. Suzanne was waiting for
me in the hall. She was to come down to see me off.
“Let’s start at once,” I said hastily, and motioned to the man to get a taxi.
Then a voice behind me made me start:
“Excuse me, Miss Beddingfeld, but I’m just going down in a car. I can
drop you and Mrs. Blair at the station.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said hastily. “But there’s no need to trouble you. I
——”
“No trouble at all, I assure you. Put the luggage in, porter.”
I was helpless. I might have protested further, but a slight warning nudge
from Suzanne urged me to be on my guard.

“Thank you, Mr. Pagett,” I said coldly.
We all got into the car. As we raced down the road into the town, I racked
my brains for something to say. In the end Pagett himself broke the silence.
“I have secured a very capable secretary for Sir Eustace,” he observed.
“Miss Pettigrew.”
“He wasn’t exactly raving about her just now,” I remarked.
Pagett looked at me coldly.
“She is a proficient shorthand-typist,” he said repressively.
We pulled up in front of the station. Here surely he would leave us. I
turned with outstretched hand—but no.
“I’ll come and see you off. It’s just eight o’clock, your train goes in a
quarter of an hour.”
He gave efficient directions to porters. I stood helpless, not daring to look
at Suzanne. The man suspected. He was determined to make sure that I did
go by the train. And what could I do? Nothing. I saw myself, in a quarter of
an hour’s time, steaming out of the station with Pagett planted on the
platform waving me adieu. He had turned the tables on me adroitly. His
manner towards me had changed, moreover. It was full of an uneasy
geniality which sat ill upon him, and which nauseated me. The man was an
oily hypocrite. First he tried to murder me, and now he paid me
compliments! Did he imagine for one minute that I hadn’t recognized him
that night on the boat? No, it was a pose, a pose which he forced me to
acquiesce in, his tongue in his cheek all the while.
Helpless as a sheep, I moved along under his expert directions. My
luggage was piled in my sleeping compartment—I had a two-berth one to
myself. It was twelve minutes past eight. In three minutes the train would
start.
But Paggett had reckoned without Suzanne.
“It will be a terribly hot journey, Anne,” she said suddenly. “Especially
going through the Karoo to-morrow. You’ve got some eau-de-Cologne or
lavender water with you, haven’t you?”
My cue was plain.
“Oh, dear,” I cried. “I left my eau-de-Cologne on the dressing-table at the
hotel.”

Suzanne’s habit of command served her well. She turned imperiously to
Pagett.
“Mr. Pagett. Quick. You’ve just time. There’s a chemist almost opposite
the station. Anne must have some eau-de-Cologne.”
He hesitated, but Suzanne’s imperative manner was too much for him.
She is a born autocrat. He went. Suzanne followed him with her eyes till he
disappeared.
“Quick, Anne, get out the other side—in case he hasn’t really gone, but is
watching us from the end of the platform. Never mind your luggage. You
can telegraph about that to-morrow. Oh, if only the train starts on time!”
I opened the gate on the opposite side to the platform and climbed down.
Nobody was observing me. I could just see Suzanne standing where I had
left her, looking up at the train and apparently chatting to me at the window.
A whistle blew, the train began to draw out. Then I heard feet racing
furiously up the platform. I withdrew to the shadow of a friendly bookstall
and watched.
Suzanne turned from waving her handkerchief to the retreating train.
“Too late, Mr. Pagett,” she said cheerfully. “She’s gone. Is that the eau-
de-Cologne? What a pity we didn’t think of it sooner!”
They passed not far from me on their way out of the station. Guy Pagett
was extremely hot. He had evidently run all the way to the chemist and
back.
“Shall I get you a taxi, Mrs. Blair?”
Suzanne did not fail in her rôle.
“Yes, please. Can’t I give you a lift back? Have you much to do for Sir
Eustace? Dear me, I wish Anne Beddingfeld was coming with us to-
morrow. I don’t like the idea of a young girl like that travelling off to
Durban all by herself. But she was set upon it. Some little attraction there, I
fancy——”
They passed out of ear-shot. Clever Suzanne. She had saved me.
I allowed a minute or two to elapse and then I too made my way out of
the station, almost colliding as I did so with a man—an unpleasant-looking
man with a nose disproportionately big for his face.

CHAPTER XXI

I had no further difficulty in carrying out my plans. I found a small hotel
in a back street, got a room there, paid a deposit as I had no luggage with
me, and went placidly to bed.
On the following morning I was up early and went out into the town to
purchase a modest wardrobe. My idea was to do nothing until after the
departure of the eleven-o’clock train to Rhodesia with most of the party on
board. Pagett was not likely to indulge in any nefarious activities until he
had got rid of them. Accordingly I took a tram out of the town and
proceeded to enjoy a country walk. It was comparatively cool, and I was
glad to stretch my legs after the long voyage and my close confinement at
Muizenberg.
A lot hinges on small things. My shoe-lace came untied, and I stopped to
do it up. The road had just turned a corner, and as I was bending over the
offending shoe a man came right round and almost walked into me. He
lifted his hat, murmuring an apology, and went on. It struck me at the time
that his face was vaguely familiar, but at the moment I thought no more of
it. I looked at my wrist-watch. The time was getting on. I turned my feet in
the direction of Cape Town.
There was a tram on the point of going and I had to run for it. I heard
other footsteps running behind me. I swung myself on and so did the other
runner. I recognized him at once. It was the man who had passed me on the
road when my shoe came untied, and in a flash I knew why his face was
familiar. It was the small man with the big nose whom I had run into on
leaving the station the night before.
The coincidence was rather startling. Could it be possible that the man
was deliberately following me? I resolved to test that as promptly as
possible. I rang the bell and got off at the next stop. The man did not get off.
I withdrew into the shadow of a shop doorway and watched. He alighted at
the next stop and walked back in my direction.

The case was clear enough. I was being followed. I had crowed too soon.
My victory over Guy Pagett took on another aspect. I hailed the next tram
and, as I expected, my shadower also got on. I gave myself up to some very
serious thinking.
It was perfectly apparent that I had stumbled on a bigger thing than I
knew. The murder in the house at Marlow was not an isolated incident
committed by a solitary individual. I was up against a gang, and, thanks to
Colonel Race’s revelations to Suzanne, and what I had overheard at the
house at Muizenberg, I was beginning to understand some of its manifold
activities. Systematized crime, organized by the man known to his followers
as the “Colonel”! I remembered some of the talk I had heard on board ship,
of the strike on the Rand and the causes underlying it—and the belief that
some secret organization was at work fomenting the agitation. That was the
“Colonel’s” work, his emissaries were acting according to plan. He took no
part in these things himself, I had always heard, as he limited himself to
directing and organizing. The brain-work—not the dangerous labour—for
him. But still it well might be that he himself was on the spot, directing
affairs from an apparently impeccable position.
That, then, was the meaning of Colonel Race’s presence on the
Kilmorden Castle. He was out after the arch-criminal. Everything fitted in
with that assumption. He was some one high up in the Secret Service whose
business it was to lay the “Colonel” by the heels.
I nodded to myself—things were becoming very clear to me. What of my
part in the affair? Where did I come in? Was it only diamonds they were
after? I shook my head. Great as the value of the diamonds might be, they
hardly accounted for the desperate attempts which had been made to get me
out of the way. No, I stood for more than that. In some way, unknown to
myself, I was a menace, a danger! Some knowledge that I had, or that they
thought I had, made them anxious to remove me at all costs—and that
knowledge was bound up somehow with the diamonds. There was one
person, I felt sure, who could enlighten me—if he would! The Man in the
Brown Suit—Harry Rayburn. He knew the other half of the story. But he
had vanished into the darkness, he was a hunted creature flying from
pursuit. In all probability he and I would never meet again. . . .
I brought myself back with a jerk to the actualities of the moment. It was
no good thinking sentimentally of Harry Rayburn. He had displayed the

greatest antipathy to me from the first. Or, at least——There I was again—
dreaming! The real problem was what to do—now!
I, priding myself upon my rôle of watcher, had become the watched. And
I was afraid! For the first time I began to lose my nerve. I was the little bit
of grit that was impeding the smooth working of the great machine—and I
fancied that the machine would have a short way with little bits of grit.
Once Harry Rayburn had saved me, once I had saved myself—but I felt
suddenly that the odds were heavily against me. My enemies were all
around me in every direction, and they were closing in. If I continued to
play a lone hand I was doomed.
I rallied myself with an effort. After all, what could they do? I was in a
civilized city—with policemen every few yards. I would be wary in future.
They should not trap me again as they had done in Muizenberg.
As I reached this point in my meditations, the train arrived at Adderly
Street. I got out. Undecided what to do, I walked slowly up the left-hand
side of the street. I did not trouble to look if my watcher was behind me. I
knew he was. I walked into Cartwright’s and ordered two coffee ice-cream
sodas—to steady my nerves. A man, I suppose, would have had a stiff peg;
but girls derive a lot of comfort from ice-cream sodas. I applied myself to
the end of the straw with gusto. The cool liquid went trickling down my
throat in the most agreeable manner. I pushed the first glass aside empty.
I was sitting on one of the little high stools in front of the counter. Out of
the tail of my eye, I saw my tracker come in and sit down unostentatiously
at a little table near the door. I finished the second coffee soda and
demanded a maple one. I can drink practically an unlimited amount of ice-
cream sodas.
Suddenly the man by the door got up and went out. That surprised me. If
he was going to wait outside, why not wait outside from the beginning. I
slipped down from my stool and went cautiously to the door. I drew back
quickly into the shadow. The man was talking to Guy Pagett.
If I had ever had any doubts, that would have settled it. Pagett had his
watch out and was looking at it. They exchanged a few brief words, and
then the secretary swung on down the street towards the station. Evidently
he had given his orders. But what were they?
Suddenly my heart leapt into my mouth. The man who had followed me
crossed to the middle of the road and spoke to a policeman. He spoke at

some length, gesticulating towards Cartwright’s and evidently explaining
something. I saw the plan at once. I was to be arrested on some charge or
other—pocket-picking, perhaps. It would be easy enough for the gang to
put through a simple little matter like that. Of what good to protest my
innocence? They would have seen to every detail. Long ago they had
brought a charge of robbing De Beers against Harry Rayburn, and he had
not been able to disprove it, though I had little doubt but that he had been
absolutely blameless. What chance had I against such a “frame up” as the
“Colonel” could devise?
I glanced up at the clock almost mechanically, and immediately another
aspect of the case struck me. I saw the point of Guy Pagett’s looking at his
watch. It was just on eleven, and at eleven the mail train left for Rhodesia
bearing with it the influential friends who might otherwise come to my
rescue. That was the reason of my immunity up to now. From last night till
eleven this morning I had been safe, but now the net was closing in upon
me.
I hurriedly opened my bag and paid for my drinks, and as I did so, my
heart seemed to stand still, for inside it was a man’s wallet stuffed with
notes! It must have been deftly introduced into my handbag as I left the
tram.
Promptly I lost my head. I hurried out of Cartwright’s. The little man
with the big nose and the policeman were just crossing the road. They saw
me, and the little man designated me excitedly to the policeman. I took to
my heels and ran. I judged him to be a slow policeman. I should get a start.
But I had no plan, even then. I just ran for my life down Adderly Street.
People began to stare. I felt that in another minute some one would stop me.
An idea flashed into my head.
“The station?” I asked, in a breathless gasp.
“Just down on the right.”
I sped on. It is permissible to run for a train. I turned into the station, but
as I did so I heard footsteps close behind me. The little man with the big
nose was a champion sprinter. I foresaw that I should be stopped before I
got to the platform I was in search of. I looked up to the clock—one minute
to eleven. I might just do it if my plan succeeded.

I had entered the station by the main entrance in Adderly Street. I now
darted out again through the side exit. Directly opposite me was the side
entrance to the post office, the main entrance to which is in Adderly Street.
As I expected, my pursuer, instead of following me in, ran down the
street to cut me off when I emerged by the main entrance, or to warn the
policeman to do so.
In an instant I slipped across the street again and back into the station. I
ran like a lunatic. It was just eleven. The long train was moving as I
appeared on the platform. A porter tried to stop me, but I wriggled myself
out of his grasp and sprang upon the footboard. I mounted the two steps and
opened the gate. I was safe! The train was gathering way.
We passed a man standing by himself at the end of the platform. I waved
to him.
“Good-bye, Mr. Pagett,” I shouted.
Never have I seen a man more taken aback. He looked as though he had
seen a ghost.
In a minute or two I was having trouble with the conductor. But I took a
lofty tone.
“I am Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary,” I said haughtily. “Please take me to
his private car.”
Suzanne and Colonel Race were standing on the rear observation
platform. They both uttered an exclamation of utter surprise at seeing me.
“Hullo, Miss Anne,” cried Colonel Race, “where have you turned up
from? I thought you’d gone to Durban. What an unexpected person you
are.”
Suzanne said nothing, but her eyes asked a hundred questions.
“I must report myself to my chief,” I said demurely. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the office—middle compartment—dictating at an incredible rate
to the unfortunate Miss Pettigrew.”
“This enthusiasm for work is something new,” I commented.
“H’m!” said Colonel Race. “His idea is, I think, to give her sufficient
work to chain her to her typewriter in her own compartment for the rest of
the day.”

I laughed. Then, followed by the other two, I sought out Sir Eustace. He
was striding up and down the circumscribed space, hurling a flood of words
at the unfortunate secretary whom I now saw for the first time. A tall,
square woman in drab clothing, with pince-nez and an efficient air. I judged
that she was finding it difficult to keep pace with Sir Eustace, for her pencil
was flying along, and she was frowning horribly.
I stepped into the compartment.
“Come aboard, sir,” I said saucily.
Sir Eustace paused dead in the middle of a complicated sentence on the
labour situation and stared at me. Miss Pettigrew must be a nervous
creature, in spite of her efficient air, for she jumped as though she had been
shot.
“God bless my soul!” ejaculated Sir Eustace. “What about the young man
in Durban?”
“I prefer you,” I said softly.
“Darling,” said Sir Eustace. “You can start holding my hand at once.”
Miss Pettigrew coughed, and Sir Eustace hastily withdrew his hand.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Let me see, where were we? Yes. Tylman Roos, in
his speech at——What’s the matter? Why aren’t you taking it down?”
“I think,” said Colonel Race gently, “that Miss Pettigrew has broken her
pencil.”
He took it from her and sharpened it. Sir Eustace stared, and so did I.
There was something in Colonel Race’s tone that I did not quite understand.

CHAPTER XXII

(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
I am inclined to abandon my Reminiscences. Instead I shall write a short
article entitled “Secretaries I have had.” As regards secretaries, I seem to
have fallen under a blight. At one minute I have no secretaries, at another I
have too many. At the present minute I am journeying to Rhodesia with a
pack of women. Race goes off with the two best-looking, of course, and
leaves me with the dud. That is what always happens to me—and, after all,
this is my private car, not Race’s.
Also Anne Beddingfeld is accompanying me to Rhodesia on the pretext
of being my temporary secretary. But all this afternoon she has been out on
the observation platform with Race exclaiming at the beauty of the Hex
River Pass. It is true that I told her her principal duty would be to hold my
hand. But she isn’t even doing that. Perhaps she is afraid of Miss Pettigrew.
I don’t blame her if so. There is nothing attractive about Miss Pettigrew—
she is a repellent female with large feet, more like a man than a woman.
There is something very mysterious about Anne Beddingfeld. She
jumped on board the train at the last minute, puffing like a steam-engine for
all the world as though she’d been running a race—and yet Pagett told me
that he’d seen her off to Durban last night! Either Pagett has been drinking
again or else the girl must have an astral body.
And she never explains. Nobody ever explains. Yes, “Secretaries I have
had.” No. 1, a murderer fleeing from justice. No. 2, a secret drinker who
carries on disreputable intrigues in Italy. No. 3, a beautiful girl who
possesses the useful faculty of being in two places at once. No. 4, Miss
Pettigrew, who, I have no doubt, is really a particularly dangerous crook in
disguise! Probably one of Pagett’s Italian friends that he has palmed off on
me. I shouldn’t wonder if the world found some day that it had been grossly
deceived by Pagett. On the whole, I think Rayburn was the best of the
bunch. He never worried me or got in my way. Guy Pagett has had the

impertinence to have the stationery trunk put in here. None of us can move
without falling over it.
I went out on the observation platform just now, expecting my
appearance to be greeted with hails of delight. Both the women were
listening spellbound to one of Race’s travellers’ tales. I shall label this car—
not “Sir Eustace Pedler and Party,” but “Colonel Race and Harem.”
Then Mrs. Blair must needs begin taking silly photographs. Every time
we went round a particularly appalling curve, as we climbed higher and
higher, she snapped at the engine.
“You see the point,” she cried delightedly. “It must be some curve if you
can photograph the front part of the train from the back, and with the
mountain background it will look awfully dangerous.”
I pointed out to her that no one could possibly tell it had been taken from
the back of the train. She looked at me pityingly.
“I shall write underneath it: ‘Taken from the train. Engine going round a
curve.’”
“You could write that under any snapshot of a train,” I said. Women
never think of these simple things.
“I’m glad we’ve come up here in daylight,” cried Anne Beddingfeld. “I
shouldn’t have seen this if I’d gone last night to Durban, should I?”
“No,” said Colonel Race, smiling. “You’d have waked up to-morrow
morning to find yourself in the Karoo, a hot, dusty desert of stones and
rocks.”
“I’m glad I changed my mind,” said Anne, sighing contentedly, and
looking round.
It was rather a wonderful sight. The great mountains all around, through
which we turned and twisted and laboured ever steadily upwards.
“Is this the best train in the day to Rhodesia?” asked Anne Beddingfeld.
“In the day?” laughed Race. “Why, my dear Miss Anne, there are only
three trains a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. Do you realize
that you don’t arrive at the Falls until Saturday next?”
“How well we shall know each other by that time,” said Mrs. Blair
maliciously. “How long are you going to stay at the Falls, Sir Eustace?”
“That depends,” I said cautiously.

“On what?”
“On how things go at Johannesburg. My original idea was to stay a
couple of days or so at the Falls—which I’ve never seen, though this is my
third visit to Africa—and then go on to Jo’burg and study the conditions of
things on the Rand. At home, you know, I pose as being an authority on
South African politics. But from all I hear, Jo’burg will be a particularly
unpleasant place to visit in about a week’s time. I don’t want to study
conditions in the midst of a raging revolution.”
Race smiled in a rather superior manner.
“I think your fears are exaggerated, Sir Eustace. There will be no great
danger in Jo’burg.”
The women immediately looked at him in the “What a brave hero you
are” manner. It annoyed me intensely. I am every bit as brave as Race—but
I lack the figure. These long, lean, brown men have it all their own way.
“I suppose you’ll be there,” I said coldly.
“Very possibly. We might travel together.”
“I’m not sure that I shan’t stay on at the Falls a bit,” I answered non-
committally. Why is Race so anxious that I should go to Jo’burg? He’s got
his eye on Anne, I believe. “What are your plans, Miss Anne?”
“That depends,” she replied demurely, copying me.
“I thought you were my secretary,” I objected.
“Oh, but I’ve been cut out. You’ve been holding Miss Pettigrew’s hand
all the afternoon.”
“Whatever I’ve been doing, I can swear I’ve not been doing that,” I
assured her.
Thursday night.
We have just left Kimberley. Race was made to tell the story of the
diamond robbery all over again. Why are women so excited by anything to
do with diamonds?
At last Anne Beddingfeld has shed her veil of mystery. It seems that she’s
a newspaper correspondent. She sent an immense cable from De Aar this
morning. To judge by the jabbering that went on nearly all night in Mrs.
Blair’s cabin, she must have been reading aloud all her special articles for
years to come.

It seems that all along she’s been on the track of “The Man in the Brown
Suit.” Apparently she didn’t spot him on the Kilmorden—in fact, she hardly
had the chance, but she’s now very busy cabling home: “How I journeyed
out with the Murderer,” and inventing highly fictitious stories of “What he
said to me,” etc. I know how these things are done. I do them myself, in my
Reminiscences when Pagett will let me. And of course one of Nasby’s
efficient staff will brighten up the details still more, so that when it appears
in the Daily Budget Rayburn won’t recognize himself.
The girl’s clever, though. All on her own, apparently, she’s ferreted out
the identity of the woman who was killed in my house. She was a Russian
dancer called Nadina. I asked Anne Beddingfeld if she was sure of this. She
replied that it was merely a deduction—quite in the Sherlock Holmes
manner. However, I gather that she had cabled it home to Nasby as a proved
fact. Women have these intuitions—I’ve no doubt that Anne Beddingfeld is
perfectly right in her guess—but to call it a deduction is absurd.
How she ever got on the staff of the Daily Budget is more than I can
imagine. But she is the kind of young woman who does these things.
Impossible to withstand her. She is full of coaxing ways that mask an
invincible determination. Look how she has got into my private car!
I am beginning to have an inkling why. Race said something about the
police suspecting that Rayburn would make for Rhodesia. He might just
have got off by Monday’s train. They telegraphed all along the line, I
presume, and no one of his description was found, but that says little. He’s
an astute young man and he knows Africa. He’s probably exquisitely
disguised as an old Kafir woman—and the simple police continue to look
for a handsome young man with a scar, dressed in the height of European
fashion. I never did quite swallow that scar.
Anyway, Anne Beddingfeld is on his track. She wants the glory of
discovering him for herself and the Daily Budget. Young women are very
cold-blooded nowadays. I hinted to her that it was an unwomanly action.
She laughed at me. She assured me that did she run him to earth her fortune
was made. Race doesn’t like it, either, I can see. Perhaps Rayburn is on this
train. If so, we may all be murdered in our beds. I said so to Mrs. Blair—but
she seemed quite to welcome the idea, and remarked that if I were
murdered it would be really a terrific scoop for Anne! A scoop for Anne
indeed!

To-morrow we shall be going through Bechuanaland. The dust will be
atrocious. Also at every station, little Kafir children come and sell you
quaint wooden animals that they carve themselves. Also mealie bowls and
baskets. I am rather afraid that Mrs. Blair may run amok. There is a
primitive charm about these toys that I feel will appeal to her.
Friday evening.
As I feared. Mrs. Blair and Anne have bought forty-nine wooden
animals!

CHAPTER XXIII

(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
I thoroughly enjoyed the journey up to Rhodesia.
There was something new and exciting to see every day. First the
wonderful scenery of the Hex river valley, then the desolate grandeur of the
Karoo, and finally that wonderful straight stretch of line in Bechuanaland,
and the perfectly adorable toys the natives brought to sell. Suzanne and I
were nearly left behind at each station—if you could call them stations. It
seemed to me that the train just stopped whenever it felt like it, and no
sooner had it done so than a horde of natives materialized out of the empty
landscape, holding up mealie bowls and sugar canes and fur karosses and
adorable carved wooden animals. Suzanne began at once to make a
collection of the latter. I imitated her example—most of them cost a “tiki”
(threepence) and each was different. There were giraffes and tigers and
snakes and a melancholy looking eland and absurd little black warriors. We
enjoyed ourselves enormously.
Sir Eustace tried to restrain us—but in vain. I still think it was a miracle
we were not left behind at some oasis of the line. South African trains don’t
hoot or get excited when they are going to start off again. They just glide
quietly away, and you look up from your bargaining and run for your life.
Suzanne’s amazement at seeing me climb upon the train at Cape Town
can be imagined. We held an exhaustive survey of the situation on the first
evening out. We talked half the night.
It had become clear to me that defensive tactics must be adopted as well
as aggressive ones. Travelling with Sir Eustace Pedler and his party, I was
fairly safe. Both he and Colonel Race were powerful protectors, and I
judged that my enemies would not wish to stir up a hornet’s nest about my
ears. Also, as long as I was near Sir Eustace, I was more or less in touch
with Guy Pagett—and Guy Pagett was the heart of the mystery. I asked
Suzanne whether in her opinion it was possible that Pagett himself was the

mysterious “Colonel.” His subordinate position was, of course, against the
assumption, but it had struck me once or twice that, for all his autocratic
ways, Sir Eustace was really very much influenced by his secretary. He was
an easy-going man, and one whom an adroit secretary might be able to twist
round his little finger. The comparative obscurity of his position might in
reality be useful to him, since he would be anxious to be well out of the
limelight.
Suzanne, however, negatived these ideas very strongly. She refused to
believe that Guy Pagett was the ruling spirit. The real head—the
“Colonel”—was somewhere in the background and had probably been
already in Africa at the time of our arrival.
I agreed that there was much to be said for her view, but I was not
entirely satisfied. For in each suspicious instance Pagett had been shown as
the directing genius. It was true that his personality seemed to lack the
assurance and decision that one would expect from a master criminal—but
after all, according to Colonel Race, it was brain work only that this
mysterious leader supplied, and creative genius is often allied to a weak and
timorous physical constitution.
“There speaks the Professor’s daughter,” interrupted Suzanne, when I had
got to this point in my argument.
“It’s true, all the same. On the other hand, Pagett may be the Grand
Vizier, so to speak, of the All Highest.” I was silent for a minute or two, and
then went on musingly: “I wish I knew how Sir Eustace made his money!”
“Suspecting him again?”
“Suzanne, I’ve got into that state that I can’t help suspecting somebody! I
don’t really suspect him—but, after all, he is Pagett’s employer, and he did
own the Mill House.”
“I’ve always heard that he made his money in some way he isn’t anxious
to talk about,” said Suzanne thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t necessarily
mean crime—it might be tin-tacks or hair restorer!”
I agreed ruefully.
“I suppose,” said Suzanne doubtfully, “that we’re not barking up the
wrong tree? Being led completely astray, I mean, by assuming Pagett’s
complicity? Supposing that, after all, he is a perfectly honest man?”
I considered that for a minute or two, then I shook my head.

“I can’t believe that.”
“After all, he has his explanations for everything.”
“Y—es, but they’re not very convincing. For instance, the night he tried
to throw me overboard on the Kilmorden, he says he followed Rayburn up
on deck and Rayburn turned and knocked him down. Now we know that’s
not true.”
“No,” said Suzanne unwillingly. “But we only heard the story at second-
hand from Sir Eustace. If we’d heard it direct from Pagett himself, it might
have been different. You know how people always get a story a little wrong
when they repeat it.”
I turned the thing over in my mind.
“No,” I said at last, “I don’t see any way out. Pagett’s guilty. You can’t
get away from the fact that he tried to throw me overboard, and everything
else fits in. Why are you so persistent in this new idea of yours?”
“Because of his face?”
“His face? But——”
“Yes, I know what you’re going to say. It’s a sinister face. That’s just it.
No man with a face like that could be really sinister. It must be a colossal
joke on the part of Nature.”
I did not believe much in Suzanne’s argument. I know a lot about Nature
in past ages. If she’s got a sense of humour, she doesn’t show it much.
Suzanne is just the sort of person who would clothe Nature with all her own
attributes.
We passed on to discuss our immediate plans. It was clear to me that I
must have some kind of standing. I couldn’t go on avoiding explanations
for ever. The solution of all my difficulties lay ready to my hand, though I
didn’t think of it for some time. The Daily Budget! My silence or my
speech could no longer affect Harry Rayburn. He was marked down as
“The Man in the Brown Suit” through no fault of mine. I could help him
best by seeming to be against him. The “Colonel” and his gang must have
no suspicion that there existed any friendly feeling between me and the man
they had elected to be the scapegoat of the murder at Marlow. As far as I
knew, the woman killed was still unidentified. I would cable to Lord Nasby,
suggesting that she was no other than the famous Russian dancer “Nadina”
who had been delighting Paris for so long. It seemed incredible to me that

she had not been identified already—but when I learnt more of the case
long afterwards I saw how natural it really was.
Nadina had never been to England during her successful career in Paris.
She was unknown to London audiences. The pictures in the papers of the
Marlow victim were so blurred and unrecognizable that it is small wonder
no one identified them. And, on the other hand, Nadina had kept her
intention of visiting England a profound secret from every one. The day
after the murder a letter had been received by her manager purporting to be
from the dancer, in which she said that she was returning to Russia on
urgent private affairs and that he must deal with her broken contract as best
he could.
All this, of course, I only learned afterwards. With Suzanne’s full
approval, I sent a long cable from De Aar. It arrived at a psychological
moment (this again, of course, I learnt afterwards). The Daily Budget was
hard up for a sensation. My guess was verified and proved to be correct and
the Daily Budget had the scoop of its lifetime. “Victim of the Mill House
Murder identified by our special reporter.” And so on. “Our reporter makes
voyage with the murderer. ‘The Man in the Brown Suit.’ What he is really
like.”
The main facts were, of course, cabled to the South African papers, but I
only read my own lengthy articles at a much later date! I received approval
and full instructions by cable at Bulawayo. I was on the staff of the Daily
Budget, and I had a private word of congratulation from Lord Nasby
himself. I was definitely accredited to hunt down the murderer, and I, and
only I, knew that the murderer was not Harry Rayburn! But let the world
think that it was he—best so for the present.

CHAPTER XXIV

We arrived at Bulawayo early on Saturday morning. I was disappointed
in the place. It was very hot, and I hated the hotel. Also Sir Eustace was
what I can only describe as thoroughly sulky. I think it was all our wooden
animals that annoyed him—especially the big giraffe. It was a colossal
giraffe with an impossible neck, a mild eye and a dejected tail. It had
character. It had charm. A controversy was already arising as to whom it
belonged—me or Suzanne. We had each contributed a tiki to its purchase.
Suzanne advanced the claims of seniority and the married state, I stuck to
the position that I had been the first to behold its beauty.
In the meantime, I must admit, it occupied a good deal of this three-
dimensional space of ours. To carry forty-nine wooden animals, all of
awkward shape, and all of extremely brittle wood, is somewhat of a
problem. Two porters were laden with a bunch of animals each—and one
promptly dropped a ravishing group of ostriches and broke their heads off.
Warned by this, Suzanne and I carried all we could, Colonel Race helped,
and I pressed the big giraffe into Sir Eustace’s arms. Even the correct Miss
Pettigrew did not escape, a large hippopotamus and two black warriors fell
to her share. I had a feeling Miss Pettigrew didn’t like me. Perhaps she
fancied I was a bold hussy. Anyway, she avoided me as much as she could.
And the funny thing was, her face seemed vaguely familiar to me, though I
couldn’t quite place it.
We reposed ourselves most of the morning, and in the afternoon we
drove out to the Matoppos to see Rhodes’s grave. That is to say, we were to
have done so, but at the last moment Sir Eustace backed out. He was very
nearly in as bad a temper as the morning we arrived at Cape Town—when
he bounced the peaches on the floor and they squashed! Evidently arriving
early in the morning at places is bad for his temperament. He cursed the
porters, he cursed the waiters at breakfast, he cursed the whole hotel
management, he would doubtless have liked to curse Miss Pettigrew who
hovered around with her pencil and pad, but I don’t think even Sir Eustace

would have dared to curse Miss Pettigrew. She’s just like the efficient
secretary in a book. I only rescued our dear giraffe just in time. I feel Sir
Eustace would have liked to dash him to the ground.
To return to our expedition, after Sir Eustace had backed out, Miss
Pettigrew said she would remain at home in case he might want her. And at
the very last minute Suzanne sent down a message to say she had a
headache. So Colonel Race and I drove off alone.
He is a strange man. One doesn’t notice it so much in a crowd. But, when
one is alone with him, the sense of his personality seems really almost
overpowering. He becomes more taciturn, and yet his silence seems to say
more than speech might do.
It was so that day that we drove to the Matoppos through the soft yellow
brown scrub. Everything seemed strangely silent—except our car which I
should think was the first Ford ever made by man! The upholstery of it was
torn to ribbons and, though I know nothing about engines, even I could
guess that all was not as it should be in its interior.
By and by the character of the country changed. Great boulders appeared,
piled up into fantastic shapes. I felt suddenly that I had got into a primitive
era. Just for a moment Neanderthal men seemed quite as real to me as they
had to Papa. I turned to Colonel Race.
“There must have been giants once,” I said dreamily. “And their children
were just like children are to-day—they played with handfuls of pebbles,
piling them up and knocking them down, and the more cleverly they
balanced them, the better pleased they were. If I were to give a name to this
place I should call it ‘The Country of Giant Children.’”
“Perhaps you’re nearer the mark than you know,” said Colonel Race
gravely. “Simple, primitive, big—that is Africa.”
I nodded appreciatively.
“You love it, don’t you?” I asked.
“Yes. But to live in it long—well, it makes one what you would call
cruel. One comes to hold life and death very lightly.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking of Harry Rayburn. He had been like that too. “But
not cruel to weak things?”
“Opinions differ as to what are and are not ‘weak things,’ Miss Anne.”

There was a note of seriousness in his voice which almost startled me. I
felt that I knew very little really of this man at my side.
“I meant children and dogs, I think.”
“I can truthfully say I’ve never been cruel to children or dogs. So you
don’t class women as ‘weak things’?”
I considered.
“No, I don’t think I do—though they are, I suppose. That is, they are
nowadays. But Papa always said that in the beginning men and women
roamed the world together, equal in strength—like lions and tigers——”
“And giraffes?” interpolated Colonel Race slyly.
I laughed. Every one makes fun of that giraffe.
“And giraffes. They were nomadic, you see. It wasn’t till they settled
down in communities, and women did one kind of thing and men another
that women got weak. And of course, underneath, one is still the same—one
feels the same, I mean, and that is why women worship physical strength in
men—it’s what they once had and have lost.”
“Almost ancestor worship, in fact?”
“Something of the kind.”
“And you really think that’s true? That women worship strength, I
mean?”
“I think it’s quite true—if one’s honest. You think you admire moral
qualities, but when you fall in love, you revert to the primitive where the
physical is all that counts. But I don’t think that’s the end—if you lived in
primitive conditions it would be all right, but you don’t—and so, in the end,
the other thing wins after all. It’s the things that are apparently conquered
that always do win, isn’t it? They win in the only way that counts. Like
what the Bible says about losing your soul and finding it.”
“In the end,” said Colonel Race thoughtfully, “you fall in love—and you
fall out of it, is that what you mean?”
“Not exactly, but you can put it that way if you like.”
“But I don’t think you’ve ever fallen out of love, Miss Anne?”
“No, I haven’t,” I admitted frankly.
“Or fallen in love, either?”

I did not answer.
The car drew up at our destination and brought the conversation to a
close. We got out and began the slow ascent to the World’s View. Not for
the first time, I felt a slight discomfort in Colonel Race’s company. He
veiled his thoughts so well behind those impenetrable black eyes.
He frightened me a little. He had always frightened me. I never knew
where I stood with him.
We climbed in silence till we reached the spot where Rhodes lies guarded
by giant boulders. A strange eerie place, far from the haunts of men, that
sings a ceaseless pæan of rugged beauty.
We sat there for some time in silence. Then descended once more, but
diverging slightly from the path. Sometimes it was a rough scramble and
once we came to a sharp slope or rock that was almost sheer.
Colonel Race went first, then turned to help me.
“Better lift you,” he said suddenly, and swung me off my feet with a
quick gesture.
I felt the strength of him as he set me down and released his clasp. A man
of iron, with muscles like taut steel. And again, I felt afraid, especially as he
did not move aside, but stood directly in front of me, staring into my face.
“What are you really doing here, Anne Beddingfeld?” he said abruptly.
“I’m a gipsy seeing the world.”
“Yes, that’s true enough. The newspaper correspondent is only a pretext.
You’ve not the soul of the journalist. You’re out for your own hand—
snatching at life. But that’s not all.”
What was he going to make me tell him? I was afraid—afraid. I looked
him full in the face. My eyes can’t keep secrets like his, but they can carry
the war into the enemy’s country.
“What are you really doing here, Colonel Race?” I asked deliberately.
For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer. He was clearly taken
aback, though. At last he spoke, and his words seemed to afford him a grim
amusement.
“Pursuing ambition,” he said. “Just that—pursuing ambition. You will
remember, Miss Beddingfeld, that ‘by that sin fell the angels,’ etc.”

“They say,” I said slowly, “that you are really connected with the
Government—that you are in the Secret Service. Is that true?”
Was it my fancy, or did he hesitate for a fraction of a second before he
answered?
“I can assure you, Miss Beddingfeld, that I am out here strictly as a
private individual travelling for my own pleasure.”
Thinking the answer over later, it struck me as slightly ambiguous.
Perhaps he meant it to be so.
We rejoined the car in silence. Half-way back to Bulawayo we stopped
for tea at a somewhat primitive structure at the side of the road. The
proprietor was digging in the garden and seemed annoyed at being
disturbed. But he graciously promised to see what he could do. After an
interminable wait he brought us some stale cakes and some lukewarm tea.
Then he disappeared to his garden again.
No sooner had he departed than we were surrounded by cats. Six of them
all miaowing piteously at once. The racket was deafening. I offered them
some pieces of cake. They devoured them ravenously. I poured all the milk
there was into a saucer and they fought each other to get it.
“Oh,” I cried indignantly, “they’re starved! It’s wicked. Please, please,
order some more milk and another plate of cake.”
Colonel Race departed silently to do my bidding. The cats had begun
miaowing again. He returned with a big jug of milk and the cats finished it
all.
I got up with determination on my face.
“I’m going to take those cats home with us—I shan’t leave them here.”
“My dear child, don’t be absurd. You can’t carry six cats as well as fifty
wooden animals round with you.”
“Never mind the wooden animals. These cats are alive. I shall take them
back with me.”
“You will do nothing of the kind.” I looked at him resentfully, but he
went on: “You think me cruel—but one can’t go through life
sentimentalizing over these things. It’s no good standing out—I shan’t
allow you to take them. It’s a primitive country, you know, and I’m stronger
than you.”

I always know when I am beaten. I went down to the car with tears in my
eyes.
“They’re probably short of food just to-day,” he explained consolingly.
“That man’s wife has gone into Bulawayo for stores. So it will be all right.
And anyway, you know, the world’s full of starving cats.”
“Don’t—don’t,” I said fiercely.
“I’m teaching you to realize life as it is. I’m teaching you to be hard and
ruthless—like I am. That’s the secret of strength—and the secret of
success.”
“I’d sooner be dead than hard,” I said passionately.
We got into the car and started off. I pulled myself together again slowly.
Suddenly, to my intense astonishment, he took my hand in his.
“Anne,” he said gently, “I want you. Will you marry me?”
I was utterly taken aback.
“Oh, no,” I stammered. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t care for you in that way. I’ve never thought of you like that.”
“I see. Is that the only reason?”
I had to be honest. I owed it him.
“No,” I said, “it is not. You see—I—care for some one else.”
“I see,” he said again. “And was that true at the beginning—when I first
saw you—on the Kilmorden?”
“No,” I whispered. “It was—since then.”
“I see,” he said for the third time, but this time there was a purposeful
ring in his voice that made me turn and look at him. His face was grimmer
than I had ever seen it.
“What—what do you mean?” I faltered.
He looked at me, inscrutable, dominating.
“Only—that I know now what I have to do.”
His words sent a shiver through me. There was a determination behind
them that I did not understand—and it frightened me.
We neither of us said any more until we got back to the hotel. I went
straight up to Suzanne. She was lying on her bed reading, and did not look

in the least as though she had a headache.
“Here reposes the perfect gooseberry,” she remarked. “Alias the tactful
chaperone. Why, Anne dear, what’s the matter?”
For I had burst into a flood of tears.
I told her about the cats—I felt it wasn’t fair to tell her about Colonel
Race. But Suzanne is very sharp. I think she saw that there was something
more behind.
“You haven’t caught a chill, have you, Anne? Sounds absurd even to
suggest such things in this heat, but you keep on shivering.”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Nerves—or some one walking over my grave. I
keep feeling something dreadful’s going to happen.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Suzanne, with decision. “Let’s talk of something
interesting. Anne, about those diamonds——”
“What about them?”
“I’m not sure they’re safe with me. It was all right before, no one could
think they’d be amongst my things. But now that every one knows we’re
such friends, you and I, I’ll be under suspicion too.”
“Nobody knows they’re in a roll of films, though,” I argued. “It’s a
splendid hiding-place and I really don’t think we could better it.”
She agreed doubtfully, but said we would discuss it again when we got to
the Falls.
Our train went at nine o’clock. Sir Eustace’s temper was still far from
good, and Miss Pettigrew looked subdued. Colonel Race was completely
himself. I felt that I had dreamed the whole conversation on the way back.
I slept heavily that night on my hard bunk, struggling with ill-defined,
menacing dreams. I awoke with a headache and went out on the observation
platform of the car. It was fresh and lovely, and everywhere, as far as one
could see, were the undulating wooded hills. I loved it—loved it more than
any place I had ever seen. I wished then that I could have a little hut
somewhere in the heart of the scrub and live there always—always. . . .
Just before half-past two, Colonel Race called me out from the “office”
and pointed to a bouquet-shaped white mist that hovered over one portion
of the bush.
“The spray from the Falls,” he said. “We are nearly there.”

I was still wrapped in that strange dream feeling of exaltation that had
succeeded my troubled night. Very strongly implanted in me was the feeling
that I had come home. . . . Home! And yet I had never been here before—or
had I in dreams?
We walked from the train to the hotel, a big white building closely wired
against mosquitoes. There were no roads, no houses. We went out on the
stoep and I uttered a gasp. There, half a mile away, facing us, were the
Falls. I’ve never seen anything so grand and beautiful—I never shall.
“Anne, you’re fey,” said Suzanne, as we sat down to lunch. “I’ve never
seen you like this before.”
She stared at me curiously.
“Am I?” I laughed, but I felt that my laugh was unnatural. “It’s just that I
love it all.”
“It’s more than that.”
A little frown creased her brow—one of apprehension.
Yes, I was happy, but beyond that I had the curious feeling that I was
waiting for something—something that would happen soon. I was excited
—restless.
After tea we strolled out, got on the trolley and were pushed by smiling
blacks down the little tracks of rails to the bridge.
It was a marvellous sight, the great chasm and the rushing waters below,
and the veil of mist and spray in front of us that parted every now and then
for one brief minute to show the cataract of water and then closed up again
in its impenetrable mystery. That, to my mind, has always been the
fascination of the Falls—their elusive quality. You always think you’re
going to see—and you never do.
We crossed the bridge and walked slowly on by the path that was marked
out with white stone on either side and led round the brink of the gorge.
Finally we arrived in a big clearing where on the left a path led downwards
towards the chasm.
“The palm gully,” explained Colonel Race. “Shall we go down? Or shall
we leave it until to-morrow? It will take some time, and it’s a good climb up
again.”

“We’ll leave it until to-morrow,” said Sir Eustace with decision. He isn’t
at all fond of strenuous physical exercise, I have noticed.
He led the way back. As we went, we passed a fine native stalking along.
Behind him came a woman who seemed to have the entire household
belongings piled upon her head! The collection included a frying pan!
“I never have my camera when I want it,” groaned Suzanne.
“That’s an opportunity that will occur often enough, Mrs. Blair,” said
Colonel Race. “So don’t lament.”
We arrived back on the bridge.
“Shall we go into the rainbow forest?” he continued. “Or are you afraid
of getting wet?”
Suzanne and I accompanied him. Sir Eustace went back to the hotel. I
was rather disappointed in the rainbow forest. There weren’t nearly enough
rainbows, and we got soaked to the skin, but every now and then we got a
glimpse of the Falls opposite and realized how enormously wide they are.
Oh, dear, dear Falls, how I love and worship you and always shall!
We got back to the hotel just in time to change for dinner. Sir Eustace
seems to have taken a positive antipathy to Colonel Race. Suzanne and I
rallied him gently, but didn’t get much satisfaction.
After dinner, he retired to his sitting-room, dragging Miss Pettigrew with
him. Suzanne and I talked for a while with Colonel Race, and then she
declared, with an immense yawn, that she was going to bed. I didn’t want to
be left alone with him, so I got up too and went to my room.
But I was far too excited to go to sleep. I did not even undress. I lay back
in a chair and gave myself up to dreaming. And all the time I was conscious
of something coming nearer and nearer. . . .
There was a knock at the door and I started. I got up and went to it. A
little black boy held out a note. It was addressed to me in a handwriting I
did not know. I took it and came back into the room. I stood there holding
it. At last I opened it. It was very short:
“I must see you. I dare not come to the hotel. Will you come to the
clearing by the palm gully? In memory of Cabin 17 please come. The man
you knew as Harry Rayburn.”

My heart beat to suffocation. He was here then! Oh, I had known it—I
had known it all along! I had felt him near me. All unwittingly I had come
to his place of retreat.
I wound a scarf round my head and stole to the door. I must be careful.
He was hunted down. No one must see me meet him. I stole along to
Suzanne’s room. She was fast asleep. I could hear her breathing evenly.
Sir Eustace? I paused outside the door of his sitting-room. Yes, he was
dictating to Miss Pettigrew, I could hear her monotonous voice repeating. “I
therefore venture to suggest, that in tackling this problem of coloured
labour——” She paused for him to continue, and I heard him grunt
something angrily.
I stole on again. Colonel Race’s room was empty. I did not see him in the
lounge. And he was the man I feared most! Still, I could waste no more
time. I slipped quickly out of the hotel and took the path to the bridge.
I crossed it and stood there waiting in the shadow. If any one had
followed me, I should see them crossing the bridge. But the minutes passed,
and no one came. I had not been followed. I turned and took the path to the
clearing. I took six paces or so and then stopped. Something had rustled
behind me. It could not be any one who had followed me from the hotel. It
was some one who was already here, waiting.
And immediately, without rhyme or reason, but with the sureness of
instinct, I knew that it was I myself who was threatened. It was the same
feeling as I had had on the Kilmorden that night—a sure instinct warning
me of danger.
I looked sharply over my shoulder. Silence. I moved on a pace or two.
Again I heard that rustle. Still walking, I looked over my shoulder again. A
man’s figure came out of the shadow. He saw that I saw him, and jumped
forward, hard on my track.
It was too dark to recognize anybody. All I could see was that he was tall,
and a European, not a native. I took to my heels and ran. I heard him
pounding behind. I ran quicker, keeping my eyes fixed on the white stones
that showed me where to step, for there was no moon that night.
And suddenly my foot felt nothingness. I heard the man behind me laugh,
an evil, sinister laugh. It rang in my ears, as I fell headlong—down—down
—down to destruction far beneath.

CHAPTER XXV

I came to myself slowly and painfully. I was conscious of an aching head
and a shooting pain down my left arm when I tried to move, and everything
seemed dream-like and unreal. Nightmare visions floated before me. I felt
myself falling—falling again. Once Harry Rayburn’s face seemed to come
to me out of the mist. Almost I imagined it real. Then it floated away again,
mocking me. Once, I remember, some one put a cup to my lips and I drank.
A black face grinned into mine—a devil’s face, I thought it, and screamed
out. Then dreams again—long troubled dreams in which I vainly sought
Harry Rayburn to warn him—warn him—what of? I did not know myself.
But there was some danger—some great danger—and I alone could save
him. Then darkness again, merciful darkness, and real sleep.
I woke at last myself again. The long nightmare was over. I remembered
perfectly everything that had happened, my hurried flight from the hotel to
meet Harry, the man in the shadows and that last terrible moment of falling.
...
By some miracle or other I had not been killed. I was bruised and aching
and very weak, but I was alive. But where was I? Moving my head with
difficulty I looked round me. I was in a small room with rough wooden
walls. On them were hung skins of animals and various tusks of ivory. I was
lying on a kind of rough couch, also covered with skins, and my left arm
was bandaged up and felt stiff and uncomfortable. At first I thought I was
alone, and then I saw a man’s figure sitting between me and the light, his
head turned toward the window. He was so still that he might have been
carved out of wood. Something in the close-cropped black head was
familiar to me, but I did not dare to let my imagination run astray. Suddenly
he turned, and I caught my breath. It was Harry Rayburn. Harry Rayburn in
the flesh.
He rose and came over to me.
“Feeling better?” he said a trifle awkwardly.

I could not answer. The tears were running down my face. I was weak
still, but I held his hand in both of mine. If only I could die like this, whilst
he stood there looking down on me with that new look in his eyes.
“Don’t cry, Anne. Please don’t cry. You’re safe now. No one shall hurt
you.”
He went and fetched a cup and brought it to me.
“Drink some of this milk.”
I drank obediently. He went on talking in a low coaxing tone such as he
might have used to a child.
“Don’t ask any more questions now. Go to sleep again. You’ll be stronger
by and by. I’ll go away if you like.”
“No,” I said urgently. “No, no.
“Then I’ll stay.”
He brought a small stool over beside me and sat there. He laid his hand
over mine, and, soothed and comforted, I dropped off to sleep once more.
It must have been evening then, but when I woke again the sun was high
in the heavens. I was alone in the hut, but as I stirred an old native woman
came running in. She was hideous as sin, but she grinned at me
encouragingly. She brought me water in a basin and helped me wash my
face and hands. Then she brought me a large bowl of soup, and I finished it
every drop! I asked her several questions, but she only grinned and nodded
and chattered away in a guttural language, so I gathered she knew no
English.
Suddenly she stood up and drew back respectfully as Harry Rayburn
entered. He gave her a nod of dismissal and she went out leaving us alone.
He smiled at me.
“Really better to-day!”
“Yes, indeed, but very bewildered still. Where am I?”
“You’re on a small island on the Zambesi about four miles up from the
Falls.”
“Do—do my friends know I’m here?”
He shook his head.
“I must send word to them.”

“That is as you like of course, but if I were you I should wait until you
are a little stronger.”
“Why?”
He did not answer immediately, so I went on.
“How long have I been here?”
His answer amazed me.
“Nearly a month.”
“Oh!” I cried. “I must send word to Suzanne. She’ll be terribly anxious.”
“Who is Suzanne?”
“Mrs. Blair. I was with her and Sir Eustace and Colonel Race at the hotel
—but you knew that surely?”
He shook his head.
“I know nothing, except that I found you, caught in the fork of a tree,
unconscious and with a badly wrenched arm.”
“Where was the tree?”
“Overhanging the ravine. But for your clothes catching on the branches,
you would infallibly have been dashed to pieces.”
I shuddered. Then a thought struck me.
“You say you didn’t know I was there. What about the note then?”
“What note?”
“The note you sent me, asking me to meet you in the clearing.”
He stared at me.
“I sent no note.”
I felt myself flushing up to the roots of my hair. Fortunately he did not
seem to notice.
“How did you come to be on the spot in such a marvellous manner?” I
asked in as nonchalant a manner as I could assume. “And what are you
doing in this part of the world, anyway?”
“I live here,” he said simply.
“On this island?”
“Yes, I came here after the War. Sometimes I take parties from the hotel
out in my boat, but it costs me very little to live, and mostly I do as I

please.”
“You live here all alone?”
“I am not pining for society, I assure you,” he replied coldly.
“I am sorry to have inflicted mine upon you,” I retorted, “but I seem to
have had very little to say in the matter.”
To my surprise his eyes twinkled a little.
“None whatever. I slung you across my shoulders like a sack of coal and
carried you to my boat. Quite like a primitive man of the Stone Age.”
“But for a different reason,” I put in.
He flushed this time, a deep burning blush. The tan of his face was
suffused.
“But you haven’t told me how you came to be wandering about so
conveniently for me?” I said hastily, to cover his confusion.
“I couldn’t sleep. I was restless—disturbed—had the feeling something
was going to happen. In the end I took the boat and came ashore and
tramped down towards the Falls. I was just at the head of the palm gully
when I heard you scream.”
“Why didn’t you get help from the hotel instead of carting me all the way
here?” I asked.
He flushed again.
“I suppose it seems an unpardonable liberty to you—but I don’t think that
even now you realize your danger! You think I should have informed your
friends? Pretty friends, who allowed you to be decoyed out to death. No, I
swore to myself that I’d take better care of you than any one else could. Not
a soul comes to this island. I got old Batani, whom I cured of a fever once,
to come and look after you. She’s loyal. She’ll never say a word. I could
keep you here for months and no one would ever know.”
I could keep you here for months and no one would ever know! How
some words please one!
“You did quite right,” I said quietly. “And I shall not send word to any
one. A day or so more anxiety doesn’t make much difference. It’s not as
though they were my own people. They’re only acquaintances really—even
Suzanne. And whoever wrote that note must have known—a great deal. It
was not the work of an outsider.”

I managed to mention the note this time without blushing at all.
“If you would be guided by me——” he said, hesitating.
“I don’t expect I shall be,” I answered candidly. “But there’s no harm in
hearing.”
“Do you always do what you like, Miss Beddingfeld?”
“Usually,” I replied cautiously. To any one else I would have said
“Always.”
“I pity your husband,” he said unexpectedly.
“You needn’t,” I retorted. “I shouldn’t dream of marrying any one unless
I was madly in love with them. And of course there is really nothing a
woman enjoys so much as doing all the things she doesn’t like for the sake
of some one she does like. And the more self-willed she is, the more she
likes it.”
“I’m afraid I disagree with you. The boot is on the other leg as a rule.”
He spoke with a slight sneer.
“Exactly,” I cried eagerly. “And that’s why there are so many unhappy
marriages. It’s all the fault of the men. Either they give way to their women
—and then the women despise them, or else they are utterly selfish, insist
on their own way and never say ‘thank you.’ Successful husbands make
their wives do just what they want, and then make a frightful fuss of them
for doing it. Women like to be mastered, but they hate not to have their
sacrifices appreciated. On the other hand, men don’t really appreciate
women who are nice to them all the time. When I am married, I shall be a
devil most of the time, but every now and then, when my husband least
expects it, I shall show him what a perfect angel I can be!”
Harry laughed outright.
“What a cat and dog life you will lead.”
“Lovers always fight,” I assured him. “Because they don’t understand
each other. And by the time they do understand each other they aren’t in
love any more.”
“Does the reverse hold true? Are people who fight each other always
lovers?”
“I—I don’t know,” I said, momentarily confused.
He turned away to the fireplace.

“Like some more soup?” he asked in a casual tone.
“Yes, please. I’m so hungry that I could eat a hippopotamus.”
“That’s good.”
He busied himself with the fire; I watched.
“When I can get off the couch, I’ll cook for you,” I promised.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about cooking.”
“I can warm up things out of tins as well as you can,” I retorted, pointing
to a row of tins on the mantelpiece.
“Touché,” he said, and laughed.
His whole face changed when he laughed. It became boyish, happy—a
different personality.
I enjoyed my soup. As I ate it I reminded him that he had not, after all,
tendered me his advice.
“Ah, yes, what I was going to say was this. If I were you I would stay
quietly perdu here until you are quite strong again. Your enemies will
believe you dead. They will hardly be surprised at not finding the body. It
would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks and carried down with the
torrent.”
I shivered.
“Once you are completely restored to health, you can journey quietly on
to Beira and get a boat to take you back to England.”
“That would be very tame,” I objected scornfully.
“There speaks a foolish schoolgirl.”
“I’m not a foolish schoolgirl,” I cried indignantly. “I’m a woman.”
He looked at me with an expression I could not fathom as I sat up flushed
and excited.
“God help me, so you are,” he muttered, and went abruptly out.
My recovery was rapid. The two injuries I had sustained were a knock on
the head and a badly wrenched arm. The latter was the most serious and, to
begin with, my rescuer had believed it to be actually broken. A careful
examination, however, convinced him that it was not so, and although it
was very painful I was recovering the use of it quite quickly.

It was a strange time. We were cut off from the world, alone together as
Adam and Eve might have been—but with what a difference! Old Batani
hovered about counting no more than a dog might have done. I insisted on
doing the cooking, or as much of it as I could manage with one arm. Harry
was out a good part of the time, but we spent long hours together lying out
in the shade of the palms, talking and quarrelling—discussing everything
under high heaven, quarrelling and making it up again. We bickered a good
deal, but there grew up between us a real and lasting comradeship such as I
could never have believed possible. That—and something else.
The time was drawing near, I knew it, when I should be well enough to
leave and I realized it with a heavy heart. Was he going to let me go?
Without a word? Without a sign? He had fits of silence, long moody
intervals, moments when he would spring up and tramp off by himself. One
evening the crisis came. We had finished our simple meal and were sitting
in the doorway of the hut. The sun was sinking.
Hairpins were necessities of life with which Harry had not been able to
provide me, and my hair, straight and black, hung to my knees. I sat, my
chin on my hands, lost in meditation. I felt rather than saw Harry looking at
me.
“You look like a witch, Anne,” he said at last, and there was something in
his voice that had never been there before.
He reached out his hand and just touched my hair. I shivered. Suddenly
he sprang up with an oath.
“You must leave here to-morrow, do you hear?” he cried. “I—I can’t bear
any more. I’m only a man after all. You must go, Anne. You must. You’re
not a fool. You know yourself that this can’t go on.”
“I suppose not,” I said slowly. “But—it’s been happy, hasn’t it?”
“Happy? It’s been hell!”
“As bad as that!”
“What do you torment me for? Why are you mocking at me? Why do you
say that—laughing into your hair?”
“I wasn’t laughing. And I’m not mocking. If you want me to go, I’ll go.
But if you want me to stay—I’ll stay.”
“Not that!” he cried vehemently. “Not that. Don’t tempt me, Anne. Do
you realize what I am? A criminal twice over. A man hunted down. They

know me here as Harry Parker—they think I’ve been away on a trek up
country, but any day they may put two and two together—and then the blow
will fall. You’re so young, Anne, and so beautiful—with the kind of beauty
that sends men mad. All the world’s before you—love, life, everything.
Mine’s behind me—scorched, spoiled, with a taste of bitter ashes.”
“If you don’t want me——”
“You know I want you. You know that I’d give my soul to pick you up in
my arms and keep you here, hidden away from the world, for ever and ever.
And you’re tempting me, Anne. You, with your long witch’s hair, and your
eyes that are golden and brown and green and never stop laughing even
when your mouth is grave. But I’ll save you from yourself and from me.
You shall go to-night. You shall go to Beira——”
“I’m not going to Beira,” I interrupted.
“You are. You shall go to Beira if I have to take you there myself and
throw you on to the boat. What do you think I’m made of? Do you think I’ll
wake up night after night, fearing they’ve got you? One can’t go on
counting on miracles happening. You must go back to England, Anne—and
—and marry and be happy.”
“With a steady man who’ll give me a good home!”
“Better that than—utter disaster.”
“And what of you?”
His face grew grim and set.
“I’ve got my work ready to hand. Don’t ask what it is. You can guess, I
dare say. But I’ll tell you this—I’ll clear my name, or die in the attempt, and
I’ll choke the life out of the damned scoundrel who did his best to murder
you the other night.”
“We must be fair,” I said. “He didn’t actually push me over.”
“He’d no need to. His plan was cleverer than that. I went up to the path
afterwards. Everything looked all right, but by the marks on the ground I
saw that the stones which outline the path had been taken up and put down
again in a slightly different place. There are tall bushes growing just over
the edge. He’d balanced the outside stones on them, so that you’d think you
were still on the path when in reality you were stepping into nothingness.
God help him if I lay my hands upon him!”

He paused a minute and then said in a totally different tone:
“We’ve never spoken of these things, Anne, have we? But the time’s
come. I want you to hear the whole story—from the beginning.”
“If it hurts you to go over the past, don’t tell me,” I said in a low voice.
“But I want you to know. I never thought I should speak of that part of
my life to any one. Funny, isn’t it, the tricks Fate plays?”
He was silent for a minute or two. The sun had set, and the velvety
darkness of the African night was enveloping us like a mantle.
“Some of it I know,” I said gently.
“What do you know?”
“I know that your real name is Harry Lucas.”
Still he hesitated—not looking at me, but staring straight out in front of
him. I had no clue as to what was passing in his mind, but at last he jerked
his head forward as though acquiescing in some unspoken decision of his
own and began his story.

CHAPTER XXVI

“You are right. My real name is Harry Lucas. My father was a retired
soldier who came out to farm in Rhodesia. He died when I was in my
second year at Cambridge.”
“Were you fond of him?” I asked suddenly.
“I—don’t know.”
Then he flushed and went on with sudden vehemence:
“Why do I say that? I did love my father. We said bitter things to each
other the last time I saw him, and we had many rows over my wildness and
my debts, but I cared for the old man. I know how much now—when it’s
too late,” he continued more quietly. “It was at Cambridge that I met the
other fellow——”
“Young Eardsley?”
“Yes—young Eardsley. His father, as you know, was one of South
Africa’s most prominent men. We drifted together at once, my friend and I.
We had our love of South Africa in common and we both had a taste for the
untrodden places of the world. After he left Cambridge, Eardsley had a final
quarrel with his father. The old man had paid his debts twice, he refused to
do so again. There was a bitter scene between them. Sir Laurence declared
himself at the end of his patience—he would do no more for his son. He
must stand on his own legs for a while. The result was, as you know, that
those two young men went off to South America together, prospecting for
diamonds. I’m not going into that now, but we had a wonderful time out
there. Hardships in plenty, you understand, but it was a good life—a hand-
to-mouth scramble for existence far from the beaten track—and, my God!
that’s the place to know a friend. There was a bond forged between us two
out there that only death could have broken. Well, as Colonel Race told you,
our efforts were crowned with success. We found a second Kimberley in the
heart of the British Guiana jungles. I can’t tell you our elation. It wasn’t so
much the actual value in money of the find—you see, Eardsley was used to

money, and he knew that when his father died he would be a millionaire,
and Lucas had always been poor and was used to it. No, it was the sheer
delight of discovery.”
He paused, and then added, almost apologetically:
“You don’t mind my telling it this way, do you? As though I wasn’t in it
at all. It seems like that now when I look back and see those two boys. I
almost forget that one of them was—Harry Rayburn.”
“Tell it any way you like,” I said, and he went on:
“We came to Kimberley—very cock-a-hoop over our find. We brought a
magnificent selection of diamonds with us to submit to the experts. And
then—in the hotel at Kimberley—we met her——”
I stiffened a little, and the hand that rested on the doorpost clenched itself
involuntarily.
“Anita Grünberg—that was her name. She was an actress. Quite young
and very beautiful. She was South African born, but her mother was a
Hungarian, I believe. There was some sort of mystery about her, and that, of
course, heightened her attraction for two boys home from the wilds. She
must have had an easy task. We both fell for her right away, and we both
took it hard. It was the first shadow that had ever come between us—but
even then it didn’t weaken our friendship. Each of us, I honestly believe,
was willing to stand aside for the other to go in and win. But that wasn’t her
game. Sometimes, afterwards, I wondered why it hadn’t been, for Sir
Laurence Eardsley’s only son was quite a parti. But the truth of it was that
she was married—to a sorter in De Beers’—though nobody knew of it. She
pretended enormous interests in our discovery, and we told her all about it
and even showed her the diamonds. Delilah—that’s what she should have
been called—and she played her part well!
“The De Beers robbery was discovered, and like a thunderclap the police
came down upon us. They seized our diamonds. We only laughed at first—
the whole thing was so absurd. And then the diamonds were produced in
court—and without question they were the stones stolen from De Beers’.
Anita Grünberg had disappeared. She had effected the substitution neatly
enough, and our story that these were not the stones originally in our
possession was laughed to scorn.

“Sir Laurence Eardsley had enormous influence. He succeeded in getting
the case dismissed—but it left two young men ruined and disgraced to face
the world with the stigma of thief attached to their names, and it pretty well
broke the old fellow’s heart. He had one bitter interview with his son in
which he heaped upon him every reproach imaginable. He had done what
he could to save the family name, but from that day on his son was his son
no longer. He cast him off utterly. And the boy, like the proud young fool
that he was, remained silent, disdaining to protest his innocence in the face
of his father’s disbelief. He came out furious from the interview—his friend
was waiting for him. A week later war was declared. The two friends
enlisted together. You know what happened. The best pal a man ever had
was killed, partly through his own mad recklessness in rushing into
unnecessary danger. He died with his name tarnished. . . .
“I swear to you, Anne, that it was mainly on his account that I was so
bitter against that woman. It had gone deeper with him than with me. I had
been madly in love with her for the moment—I even think that I frightened
her sometimes—but with him it was a quieter and deeper feeling. She had
been the very centre of his universe—and her betrayal of him tore up the
very roots of life. The blow stunned him and left him paralyzed.”
Harry paused. After a minute or two he went on:
“As you know, I was reported ‘Missing, presumed killed.’ I never
troubled to correct the mistake. I took the name of Parker and came to this
island, which I knew of old. At the beginning of the war, I had had
ambitious hopes of proving my innocence, but now all that spirit seemed
dead. All I felt was, ‘What’s the good?’ My pal was dead, neither he nor I
had any living relations who would care. I was supposed to be dead too, let
it remain at that. I led a peaceful existence here, neither happy nor unhappy
—numbed of all feeling. I see now, though I did not realize it at the time,
that that was partly the effect of the war.
“And then one day something occurred to wake me right up again. I was
taking a party of people in my boat on a trip up the river, and I was standing
at the landing-stage, helping them in, when one of the men uttered a startled
exclamation. It focused my attention on him. He was a small, thin man with
a beard, and he was staring at me for all he was worth as though I was a
ghost. So powerful was his emotion that it awakened my curiosity. I made
inquiries about him at the hotel and learned that his name was Carton, that

he came from Kimberley, and that he was a diamond-sorter employed by
De Beers’. In a minute all the old sense of wrong surged over me again. I
left the island and went to Kimberley.
“I could find out little more about him, however. In the end, I decided
that I must force an interview. I took my revolver with me. In the brief
glimpse I had had of him, I had realized that he was a physical coward. No
sooner were we face to face than I recognized that he was afraid of me. I
soon forced him to tell me all he knew. He had engineered part of the
robbery and Anita Grünberg was his wife. He had once caught sight of both
of us when we were dining with her at the hotel, and, having read that I was
killed, my appearance in the flesh at the Falls had startled him badly. He
and Anita had married quite young, but she had soon drifted away from
him. She had got in with a bad lot, he told me—and it was then for the first
time that I heard of the ‘Colonel.’ Carton himself had never been mixed up
in anything except this one affair—so he solemnly assured me, and I was
inclined to believe him. He was emphatically not of the stuff of which
successful criminals are made.
“I still had the feeling that he was keeping back something. As a test, I
threatened to shoot him there and then, declaring that I cared very little
what became of me now. In a frenzy of terror he poured out a further story.
It seems that Anita Grünberg did not quite trust the ‘Colonel.’ Whilst
pretending to hand over to him the stones she had taken from the hotel, she
kept back some in her own possession. Carton advised her, with his
technical knowledge, which to keep. If, at any time, these stones were
produced, they were of such colour and quality as to be readily identifiable,
and the experts at De Beers’ would admit at once that these stones had
never passed through their hands. In this way my story of a substitution
would be supported, my name would be cleared, and suspicion would be
diverted to the proper quarter. I gathered that, contrary to his usual practice,
the ‘Colonel’ himself had been concerned in this affair, therefore Anita felt
satisfied that she had a real hold over him, should she need it. Carton now
proposed that I should make a bargain with Anita Grünberg, or Nadina, as
she now called herself. For a sufficient sum of money he thought that she
would be willing to give up the diamonds and betray her former employer.
He would cable to her immediately.

“I was still suspicious of Carton. He was a man whom it was easy enough
to frighten, but who, in his fright, would tell so many lies that to sift the
truth out from them would be no easy job. I went back to the hotel and
waited. By the following evening I judged that he would have received the
reply to his cable. I called round at his house and was told that Mr. Carton
was away, but would be returning on the morrow. Instantly I became
suspicious. In the nick of time I found out that he was in reality sailing for
England on the Kilmorden Castle, which left Cape Town in two days’ time.
I had just time to journey down and catch the same boat.
“I had no intention of alarming Carton by revealing my presence on
board. I had done a good deal of acting in my time at Cambridge, and it was
comparatively easy for me to transform myself into a grave bearded
gentleman of middle age. I avoided Carton carefully on board the boat,
keeping to my own cabin as far as possible under the pretence of illness.
“I had no difficulty in trailing him when we got to London. He went
straight to an hotel and did not go out until the following day. He left the
hotel shortly before one o’clock. I was behind him. He went straight to a
house-agent in Knightsbridge. There he asked for particulars of houses to
let on the river.
“I was at the next table also inquiring about houses. Then suddenly in
walked Anita Grünberg, Nadina—whatever you like to call her. Superb,
insolent, and almost as beautiful as ever. God! how I hated her. There she
was, the woman who had ruined my life—and who had also ruined a better
life than mine. At that minute I could have put my hands round her neck
and squeezed the life out of her inch by inch! Just for a minute or two I saw
red. I hardly took in what the agent was saying. It was her voice that I heard
next, high and clear, with an exaggerated foreign accent: ‘The Mill House,
Marlow. The property of Sir Eustace Pedler. That sounds as though it might
suit me. At any rate, I will go and see it.’
“The man wrote her an order, and she walked out again in her regal
insolent manner. Not by word or a sign had she recognized Carton, yet I
was sure that their meeting there was a preconceived plan. Then I started to
jump to conclusions. Not knowing that Sir Eustace was at Cannes, I thought
that this house-hunting business was a mere pretext for meeting him in the
Mill House. I knew that he had been in South Africa at the time of the

robbery, and never having seen him I immediately leaped to the conclusion
that he himself was the mysterious ‘Colonel’ of whom I had heard so much.
“I followed my two suspects along Knightsbridge. Nadina went into the
Hyde Park Hotel. I quickened my pace and went in also. She walked
straight into the restaurant, and I decided that I would not risk her
recognizing me at the moment, but would continue to follow Carton. I was
in great hopes that he was going to get the diamonds, and that by suddenly
appearing and making myself known to him when he least expected it I
might startle the truth out of him. I followed him down into the Tube station
at Hyde Park Corner. He was standing by himself at the end of the platform.
There was some girl standing near, but no one else. I decided that I would
accost him then and there. You know what happened. In the sudden shock
of seeing a man whom he imagined far away in South Africa, he lost his
head and stepped back upon the line. He was always a coward. Under the
pretext of being a doctor, I managed to search his pockets. There was a
wallet with some notes in it and one or two unimportant letters, there was a
roll of films—which I must have dropped somewhere later—and there was
a piece of paper with an appointment made on it for the 22nd on the
Kilmorden Castle. In my haste to get away before any one detained me, I
dropped that also, but fortunately I remembered the figures.
“I hurried to the nearest cloak-room and hastily removed my make-up. I
did not want to be laid by the heels for picking a dead man’s pocket. Then I
retraced my steps to the Hyde Park Hotel. Nadina was still having lunch. I
needn’t describe in detail how I followed her down to Marlow. She went
into the house, and I spoke to the woman at the lodge, pretending that I was
with her. Then I, too, went in.”
He stopped. There was a tense silence.
“You will believe me, Anne, won’t you? I swear before God that what I
am going to say is true. I went into the house after her with something very
like murder in my heart—and she was dead! I found her in that first-floor
room—God! It was horrible. Dead—and I was not more than three minutes
behind her. And there was no sign of any one else in the house! Of course I
realized at once the terrible position I was in. By one master-stroke the
blackmailed had rid himself of the blackmailer, and at the same time had
provided a victim to whom the crime would be ascribed. The hand of the

‘Colonel’ was very plain. For the second time I was to be his victim. Fool
that I had been to walk into the trap so easily.
“I hardly know what I did next. I managed to go out of the place looking
fairly normal, but I knew that it could not be long before the crime was
discovered and a description of my appearance telegraphed all over the
country.
“I lay low for some days, not daring to make a move. In the end chance
came to my aid. I overheard a conversation between two middle-aged
gentlemen in the street, one of whom proved to be Sir Eustace Pedler. I at
once conceived the idea of attaching myself to him as his secretary. The
fragment of conversation I had overheard gave me my clue. I was now no
longer so sure that Sir Eustace Pedler was the ‘Colonel.’ His house might
have been appointed as a rendezvous by accident, or for some obscure
motive that I had not fathomed.”
“Do you know,” I interrupted, “that Guy Pagett was in Marlow at the date
of the murder?”
“That settles it then. I thought he was at Cannes with Sir Eustace.”
“He was supposed to be in Florence—but he certainly never went there.
I’m pretty certain he was really in Marlow, but of course I can’t prove it.”
“And to think I never suspected Pagett for a minute until the night he
tried to throw you overboard. The man’s a marvellous actor.”
“Yes, isn’t he?”
“That explains why the Mill House was chosen. Pagett could probably
get in and out of it unobserved. Of course he made no objection to my
accompanying Sir Eustace across in the boat. He didn’t want me laid by the
heels immediately. You see, evidently Nadina didn’t bring the jewels with
her to the rendezvous as they had counted on her doing. I fancy that Carton
really had them and concealed them somewhere on the Kilmorden Castle—
that’s where he came in. They hoped that I might have some clue as to
where they were hidden. As long as the ‘Colonel’ did not recover the
diamonds, he was still in danger—hence his anxiety to get them at all costs.
Where the devil Carton hid them—if he did hide them, I don’t know.”
“That’s another story,” I quoted. “My story. And I’m going to tell it you
now.”

CHAPTER XXVII

Harry listened attentively whilst I recounted all the events that I have
narrated in these pages. The thing that bewildered and astonished him most
was to find that all along the diamonds had been in my possession—or
rather in Suzanne’s. That was a fact he had never suspected. Of course, after
hearing his story, I realized the point of Carton’s little arrangement—or
rather Nadina’s, since I had no doubt that it was her brain which had
conceived the plan. No surprise tactics executed against her or her husband
could result in the seizure of the diamonds. The secret was locked in her
own brain, and the “Colonel” was not likely to guess that they had been
entrusted to the keeping of an ocean steward!
Harry’s vindication from the old charge of theft seemed assured. It was
the other, graver charge that paralyzed all our activities. For, as things
stood, he could not come out in the open to prove his case.
The one thing we came back to, again and again, was the identity of the
“Colonel.” Was he, or was he not, Guy Pagett?
“I should say he was but for one thing,” said Harry. “It seems pretty
much of a certainty that it was Pagett who murdered Anita Grünberg at
Marlow—and that certainly lends colour to the supposition that he is
actually the ‘Colonel,’ since Anita’s business was not of the nature to be
discussed with a subordinate. No—the only thing that militates against that
theory is the attempt to put you out of the way on the night of your arrival
here. You saw Pagett left behind at Cape Town—by no possible means
could he have arrived here before the following Wednesday. He is unlikely
to have any emissaries in this part of the world, and all his plans were laid
to deal with you in Cape Town. He might, of course, have cabled
instructions to some lieutenant of his in Johannesburg, who could have
joined the Rhodesian train at Mafeking, but his instructions would have had
to be particularly definite to allow of that note being written.”
We sat silent for a moment, then Harry went on slowly: “You say that
Mrs. Blair was asleep when you left the hotel and that you heard Sir

Eustace dictating to Miss Pettigrew? Where was Colonel Race?”
“I could not find him anywhere.”
“Had he any reason to believe that—you and I might be friendly with
each other?”
“He might have had,” I answered thoughtfully, remembering our
conversation on the way back from the Matoppos. “He’s a very powerful
personality,” I continued, “but not at all my idea of the ‘Colonel.’ And,
anyway, such an idea would be absurd. He’s in the Secret Service.”
“How do we know that he is? It’s the easiest thing in the world to throw
out a hint of that kind. No one contradicts it, and the rumour spreads until
every one believes it as gospel truth. It provides an excuse for all sorts of
doubtful doings. Anne, do you like Race?”
“I do—and I don’t. He repels me and at the same time fascinates me; but
I know one thing, I’m always a little afraid of him.”
“He was in South Africa, you know, at the time of the Kimberley
robbery,” said Harry slowly.
“But it was he who told Suzanne all about the ‘Colonel’ and how he had
been in Paris trying to get on his track.”
“Camouflage—of a particularly clever kind.”
“But where does Pagett come in? Is he in Race’s pay?”
“Perhaps,” said Harry slowly, “he doesn’t come in at all.”
“What?”
“Think back, Anne. Did you ever hear Pagett’s own account of that night
on the Kilmorden?”
“Yes—through Sir Eustace.”
I repeated it. Harry listened closely.
“He saw a man coming from the direction of Sir Eustace’s cabin and
followed him up on deck. Is that what he says? Now, who had the cabin
opposite to Sir Eustace? Colonel Race. Supposing Colonel Race crept up on
deck, and, foiled in his attack on you, fled round the deck and met Pagett
just coming through the saloon door. He knocks him down and springs
inside, closing the door. We dash round and find Pagett lying there. How’s
that?”

“You forget that he declares positively it was you who knocked him
down.”
“Well, suppose that just as he regains consciousness he sees me
disappearing in the distance? Wouldn’t he take it for granted that I was his
assailant? Especially as he thought all along it was I he was following?”
“It’s possible, yes,” I said slowly. “But it alters all our ideas. And there
are other things.”
“Most of them are open to explanation. The man who followed you in
Cape Town spoke to Pagett, and Pagett looked at his watch. The man might
have merely asked him the time.”
“It was just a coincidence, you mean?”
“Not exactly. There’s a method in all this, connecting Pagett with the
affair. Why was the Mill House chosen for the murder? Was it because
Pagett had been in Kimberley when the diamonds were stolen? Would he
have been made the scapegoat if I had not appeared so providentially upon
the scene?”
“Then you think he may be entirely innocent?”
“It looks like it, but, if so, we’ve got to find out what he was doing in
Marlow. If he’s got a reasonable explanation of that, we’re on the right
tack.”
He got up.
“It’s past midnight. Turn in, Anne, and get some sleep. Just before dawn
I’ll take you over in the boat. You must catch the train at Livingstone. I’ve
got a friend there who will keep you hidden away until the train starts. You
go to Bulawayo and catch the Beira train there. I can find out from my
friend in Livingstone what’s going on at the hotel and where your friends
are now.”
“Beira,” I said meditatively.
“Yes, Anne, it’s Beira for you. This is man’s work. Leave it to me.”
We had had a momentary respite from emotion whilst we talked the
situation out, but it was on us again now. We did not even look at each
other.
“Very well,” I said, and passed into the hut.

I lay down on the skin-covered couch, but I didn’t sleep, and outside I
could hear Harry Rayburn pacing up and down, up and down through the
long dark hours. At last he called me:
“Come, Anne, it’s time to go.”
I got up and came out obediently. It was still quite dark, but I knew that
dawn was not far off.
“We’ll take the canoe, not the motor-boat——” Harry began, when
suddenly he stopped dead and held up his hand.
“Hush! What’s that?”
I listened, but could hear nothing. His ears were sharper than mine,
however, the ears of a man who has lived long in the wilderness. Presently I
heard it too—the faint splash of paddles in the water coming from the
direction of the right bank of the river and rapidly approaching our little
landing-stage.
We strained our eyes in the darkness, and could make out a dark blur on
the surface of the water. It was a boat. Then there was a momentary spurt of
flame. Some one had struck a match. By its light I recognized one figure,
the red-bearded Dutchman of the villa at Muizenberg. The others were
natives.
“Quick—back to the hut.”
Harry swept me back with him. He took down a couple of rifles and a
revolver from the wall.
“Can you load a rifle?”
“I never have. Show me how.”
I grasped his instructions well enough. We closed the door and Harry
stood by the window which overlooked the landing-stage. The boat was just
about to run alongside it.
“Who’s that?” called out Harry in a ringing voice.
Any doubt we might have had as to our visitors’ intentions was swiftly
resolved. A hail of bullets splattered round us. Fortunately neither of us was
hit. Harry raised the rifle. It spat murderously, and again and again. I heard
two groans and a splash.
“That’s given ’em something to think about,” he muttered grimly, as he
reached for the second rifle. “Stand well back, Anne, for God’s sake. And

load quickly.”
More bullets. One just grazed Harry’s cheek. His answering fire was
more deadly than theirs. I had the rifle reloaded when he turned for it. He
caught me close with his left arm and kissed me once savagely before he
turned to the window again. Suddenly he uttered a shout.
“They’re going—had enough of it. They’re a good mark out there on the
water, and they can’t see how many of us there are. They’re routed for the
moment—but they’ll come back. We’ll have to get ready for them.” He
flung down the rifle and turned to me.
“Anne! You beauty! You wonder! You little queen! As brave as a lion.
Black-haired witch!”
He caught me in his arms. He kissed my hair, my eyes, my mouth.
“And now to business,” he said, suddenly releasing me. “Get out those
tins of paraffin.”
I did as I was told. He was busy inside the hut. Presently I saw him on the
roof of the hut, crawling along with something in his arms. He rejoined me
in a minute or two.
“Go down to the boat. We’ll have to carry it across the island to the other
side.”
He picked up the paraffin as I disappeared.
“They’re coming back,” I called softly. I had seen the blur moving out
from the opposite shore.
He ran down to me.
“Just in time. Why—where the hell’s the boat?” Both had been cut adrift.
Harry whistled softly. “We’re in a tight place, honey. Mind?”
“Not with you.”
“Ah, but dying together’s not much fun. We’ll do better than that. See—
they’ve got two boat-loads this time. Going to land at two different points.
Now for my little scenic effect.”
Almost as he spoke a long flame shot up from the hut. Its light
illuminated two crouching figures huddled together on the roof.
“My old clothes—stuffed with rags—but they won’t tumble to it for
some time. Come, Anne, we’ve got to try desperate means.”

Hand in hand, we raced across the island. Only a narrow channel of water
divided it from the shore on that side.
“We’ve got to swim for it. Can you swim at all, Anne? Not that it matters.
I can get you across. It’s the wrong side for a boat——too many rocks, but
the right side for swimming, and the right side for Livingstone.”
“I can swim a little—farther than that. What’s the danger, Harry?” For I
had seen the grim look on his face. “Sharks?”
“No, you little goose. Sharks live in the sea. But you’re sharp, Anne.
Crocs, that’s the trouble.”
“Crocodiles?”
“Yes, don’t think of them—or say your prayers, whichever you feel
inclined.”
We plunged in. My prayers must have been efficacious, for we reached
the shore without adventure, and drew ourselves up wet and dripping on the
bank.
“Now for Livingstone. It’s rough going, I’m afraid, and wet clothes won’t
make it any better. But it’s got to be done.”
That walk was a nightmare. My wet skirts flapped round my legs, and my
stockings were soon torn off by the thorns. Finally I stopped, utterly
exhausted. Harry came back to me.
“Hold up, honey. I’ll carry you for a bit.”
That was the way I came into Livingstone, slung across his shoulder like
a sack of coals. How he did it for all that way, I don’t know. The first faint
light of dawn was just breaking. Harry’s friend was a young man of twenty
odd who kept a store of native curios. His name was Ned—perhaps he had
another, but I never heard it. He didn’t seem in the least surprised to see
Harry walk in, dripping wet, holding an equally dripping female by the
hand. Men are very wonderful.
He gave us food to eat, and hot coffee, and got our clothes dried for us
whilst we rolled ourselves in Manchester blankets of gaudy hue. In the tiny
back room of the hut we were safe from observation whilst he departed to
make judicious inquiries as to what had become of Sir Eustace’s party, and
whether any of them were still at the hotel.

It was then that I informed Harry that nothing would induce me to go to
Beira. I never meant to, anyway, but now all reason for such proceedings
had vanished. The point of the plan had been that my enemies believed me
dead. Now that they knew I wasn’t dead, my going to Beira would do no
good whatever. They could easily follow me there and murder me quietly. I
should have no one to protect me. It was finally arranged that I should join
Suzanne, wherever she was, and devote all my energies to taking care of
myself. On no account was I to seek adventures or endeavour to checkmate
the “Colonel.”
I was to remain quietly with her and await instructions from Harry. The
diamonds were to be deposited in the Bank at Kimberley under the name of
Parker.
“There’s one thing,” I said thoughtfully, “we ought to have a code of
some kind. We don’t want to be hoodwinked again by messages purporting
to come from one to the other.”
“That’s easy enough. Any message that comes genuinely from me will
have the word ‘and’ crossed out in it.”
“Without trade-mark, none genuine,” I murmured. “What about wires?”
“Any wires from me will be signed ‘Andy.’”
“Train will be in before long, Harry,” said Ned, putting his head in and
withdrawing it immediately.
I stood up.
“And shall I marry a nice steady man if I find one?” I asked demurely.
Harry came close to me.
“My God! Anne, if you ever marry any one else but me, I’ll wring his
neck. And as for you——”
“Yes,” I said, pleasurably excited.
“I shall carry you away and beat you black and blue!”
“What a delightful husband I have chosen,” I said satirically. “And
doesn’t he change his mind overnight!”

CHAPTER XXVIII

(Extract from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)
As I remarked once before, I am essentially a man of peace. I yearn for a
quiet life—and that’s just the one thing I don’t seem able to have. I am
always in the middle of storms and alarms. The relief of getting away from
Pagett with his incessant nosing out of intrigues was enormous, and Miss
Pettigrew is certainly a useful creature. Although there is nothing of the
houri about her, one or two of her accomplishments are invaluable. It is true
that I had a touch of liver at Bulawayo and behaved like a bear in
consequence, but I had had a disturbed night in the train. At 3 a.m. an
exquisitely dressed young man looking like a musical-comedy hero of the
Wild West entered my compartment and asked where I was going.
Disregarding my first murmur of “Tea—and for God’s sake don’t put sugar
in it,” he repeated his question, laying stress on the fact that he was not a
waiter but an Immigration officer. I finally succeeded in satisfying him that
I was suffering from no infectious disease, that I was visiting Rhodesia
from the purest of motives, and further gratified him with my full Christian
names and my place of birth. I then endeavoured to snatch a little sleep, but
some officious ass aroused me at 5.30 with a cup of liquid sugar which he
called tea. I don’t think I threw it at him, but I know that that was what I
wanted to do. He brought me unsugared tea, stone cold, at 6, and I then fell
asleep utterly exhausted, to awaken just outside Bulawayo and be landed
with a beastly wooden giraffe, all legs and neck!
But for these small contretemps, all had been going smoothly. And then
fresh calamity befell.
It was the night of our arrival at the Falls. I was dictating to Miss
Pettigrew in my sitting-room, when suddenly Mrs. Blair burst in without a
word of excuse and wearing most compromising attire.
“Where’s Anne?” she cried.

A nice question to ask. As though I were responsible for the girl. What
did she expect Miss Pettigrew to think? That I was in the habit of producing
Anne Beddingfeld from my pocket at midnight or thereabouts? Very
compromising for a man in my position.
“I presume,” I said coldly, “that she is in her bed.”
I cleared my throat and glanced at Miss Pettigrew, to show that I was
ready to resume dictating. I hoped Mrs. Blair would take the hint. She did
nothing of the kind. Instead she sank into a chair and waved a slippered foot
in an agitated manner.
“She’s not in her room. I’ve been there. I had a dream—a terrible dream
—that she was in some awful danger, and I got up and went to her room,
just to reassure myself, you know. She wasn’t there and her bed hadn’t been
slept in.”
She looked at me appealingly.
“What shall I do, Sir Eustace?”
Repressing the desire to reply, “Go to bed, and don’t worry over nothing.
An able-bodied young woman like Anne Beddingfeld is perfectly well able
to take care of herself,” I frowned judicially.
“What does Race say about it?”
Why should Race have it all his own way? Let him have some of the
disadvantages as well as the advantages of female society.
“I can’t find him anywhere.”
She was evidently making a night of it. I sighed and sat down in a chair.
“I don’t quite see the reason for your agitation,” I said patiently.
“My dream——”
“That curry we had for dinner!”
“Oh, Sir Eustace!”
The woman was quite indignant. And yet everybody knows that
nightmares are a direct result of injudicious eating.
“After all,” I continued persuasively, “why shouldn’t Anne Beddingfeld
and Race go out for a little stroll without having the whole hotel aroused
about it?”

“You think they’ve just gone out for a stroll together? But it’s after
midnight!”
“One does these foolish things when one is young,” I murmured, “though
Race is certainly old enough to know better.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I dare say they’ve run away to make a match of it,” I continued
soothingly, though fully aware that I was making an idiotic suggestion. For,
after all, at a place like this, where is there to run away to?
I don’t know how much longer I should have gone on making feeble
remarks, but at that moment Race himself walked in upon us. At any rate, I
had been partly right—he had been out for a stroll, but he hadn’t taken
Anne with him. However, I had been quite wrong in my way of dealing
with the situation. I was soon shown that. Race had the whole hotel turned
upside-down in three minutes. I’ve never seen a man more upset.
The thing is very extraordinary. Where did the girl go? She walked out of
the hotel, fully dressed, about ten minutes past eleven, and she was never
seen again. The idea of suicide seems impossible. She was one of those
energetic young women who are in love with life, and have not the faintest
intention of quitting it. There was no train either way until midday on the
morrow, so she can’t have left the place. Then where the devil is she?
Race is almost beside himself, poor fellow. He has left no stone unturned.
All the D.C.’s, or whatever they call themselves, for hundreds of miles
round have been pressed into the service. The native trackers have run
about on all fours. Everything that can be done is being done—but no sign
of Anne Beddingfeld. The accepted theory is that she walked in her sleep.
There are signs on the path near the bridge which seem to show that the girl
walked deliberately off the edge. If so, of course, she must have been
dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Unfortunately, most of the footprints
were obliterated by a party of tourists who chose to walk that way early on
the Monday morning.
I don’t know that it’s a very satisfactory theory. In my young days, I
always was told that sleep-walkers couldn’t hurt themselves—that their
own sixth sense took care of them. I don’t think the theory satisfies Mrs.
Blair either.

I can’t make that woman out. Her whole attitude towards Race has
changed. She watches him now like a cat a mouse, and she makes obvious
efforts to bring herself to be civil to him. And they used to be such friends.
Altogether she is unlike herself, nervous, hysterical, starting and jumping at
the least sound. I am beginning to think that it is high time I went to
Jo’burg.
A rumour came along yesterday of a mysterious island somewhere up the
river, with a man and a girl on it. Race got very excited. It turned out to be
all a mare’s-nest, however. The man had been there for years, and is well
known to the manager of the hotel. He totes parties up and down the river in
the season and points out crocodiles and a stray hippopotamus or so to
them. I believe that he keeps a tame one which is trained to bite pieces out
of the boat on occasions. Then he fends it off with a boat-hook, and the
party feel they have really got to the back of beyond at last. How long the
girl has been there is not definitely known, but it seems pretty clear that she
can’t be Anne, and there is a certain delicacy in interfering in other people’s
affairs. If I were this young fellow, I should certainly kick Race off the
island if he came asking questions about my love affairs.
Later.
It is definitely settled that I go to Jo’burg to-morrow. Race urges me to do
so. Things are getting unpleasant there, by all I hear, but I might as well go
before they get worse. I dare say I shall be shot by a striker, anyway. Mrs.
Blair was to have accompanied me, but at the last minute she changed her
mind and decided to stay on at the Falls. It seems as though she couldn’t
bear to take her eyes off Race. She came to me to-night and said, with some
hesitation, that she had a favour to ask. Would I take charge of her
souvenirs for her?
“Not the animals?” I asked, in lively alarm. I always felt that I should get
stuck with those beastly animals sooner or later.
In the end we effected a compromise. I took charge of two small wooden
boxes for her which contained fragile articles. The animals are to be packed
by the local store in vast crates and sent to Cape Town by rail, where Pagett
will see to their being stored.
The people who are packing them say that they are of a particularly
awkward shape (!), and that special cases will have to be made. I pointed

out to Mrs. Blair that by the time she has got them home those animals will
have cost her easily a pound apiece!
Pagett is straining at the leash to rejoin me in Jo’burg. I shall make an
excuse of Mrs. Blair’s cases to keep him in Cape Town. I have written him
that he must receive the cases and see to their safe disposal, as they contain
rare curios of immense value.
So all is settled, and I and Miss Pettigrew go off into the blue together.
And any one who has seen Miss Pettigrew will admit that it is perfectly
respectable.

CHAPTER XXIX

Johannesburg,
March 6th.

There is something about the state of things here that is not at all healthy.
To use the well-known phrase that I have so often read, we are all living on
the edge of a volcano. Bands of strikers, or so-called strikers, patrol the
streets and scowl at one in a murderous fashion. They are picking out the
bloated capitalists ready for when the massacres begin, I suppose. You can’t
ride in a taxi—if you do, strikers pull you out again. And the hotels hint
pleasantly that when the food gives out they will fling you out on the mat!
I met Reeves, my labour friend of the Kilmorden, last night. He has cold
feet worse than any man I ever saw. He’s like all the rest of these people,
they make inflammatory speeches of enormous length, solely for political
purposes, and then wish they hadn’t. He’s busy now going about and saying
he didn’t really do it. When I met him, he was just off to Cape Town, where
he meditates making a three days’ speech in Dutch, vindicating himself, and
pointing out that the things he said really meant something entirely
different. I am thankful that I do not have to sit in the Legislative Assembly
of South Africa. The House of Commons is bad enough, but at least we
have only one language, and some slight restriction as to length of
speeches. When I went to the Assembly before leaving Cape Town, I
listened to a gray-haired gentleman with a drooping moustache who looked
exactly like the Mock Turtle in Alice in Wonderland.
He dropped out his words one by one in a particularly melancholy
fashion. Every now and then he galvanized himself to further efforts by
ejaculating something that sounded like “Platt Skeet,” uttered fortissimo
and in marked contrast to the rest of his delivery. When he did this, half his
audience yelled “Whoof, whoof!” which is possibly Dutch for “Hear, hear,”
and the other half woke up with a start from the pleasant nap they had been

having. I was given to understand that the gentleman had been speaking for
at least three days. They must have a lot of patience in South Africa.
I have invented endless jobs to keep Pagett in Cape Town, but at last the
fertility of my imagination has given out, and he joins me to-morrow in the
spirit of the faithful dog who comes to die by his master’s side. And I was
getting on so well with my Reminiscences too! I had invented some
extraordinarily witty things that the strike leaders said to me and I said to
the strike leaders.
This morning I was interviewed by a Government official. He was
urbane, persuasive and mysterious in turn. To begin with, he alluded to my
exalted position and importance and suggested that I should remove myself,
or be removed by him, to Pretoria.
“You expect trouble, then?” I asked.
His reply was so worded as to have no meaning whatsoever, so I gathered
that they were expecting serious trouble. I suggested to him that his
Government were letting things go rather far.
“There is such a thing as giving a man enough rope, and letting him hang
himself, Sir Eustace.”
“Oh, quite so, quite so.”
“It is not the strikers themselves who are causing the trouble. There is
some organization at work behind them. Arms and explosives have been
pouring in, and we have made a haul of certain documents which throw a
good deal of light on the methods adopted to import them. There is a
regular code. Potatoes mean ‘detonators,’ cauliflower, ‘rifles,’ other
vegetables stand for various explosives.”
“That’s very interesting,” I commended.
“More than that, Sir Eustace, we have every reason to believe that the
man who runs the whole show, the directing genius of the affair, is at this
minute in Johannesburg.”
He stared at me so hard that I began to fear that he suspected me of being
the man. I broke out into a cold perspiration at the thought, and began to
regret that I had ever conceived the idea of inspecting a miniature
revolution at first hand.
“No trains are running from Jo’burg to Pretoria,” he continued. “But I
can arrange to send you over by private car. In case you should be stopped

on the way I can provide you with two separate passes, one issued by the
Union Government, and the other stating that you are an English visitor
who has nothing whatsoever to do with the Union.”
“One for your people, and one for the strikers, eh?”
“Exactly.”
The project did not appeal to me—I know what happens in a case of that
kind. You get flustered and mix the things up. I should hand the wrong pass
to the wrong person, and it would end in my being summarily shot by a
bloodthirsty rebel, or one of the supporters of law and order whom I notice
guarding the streets wearing bowler hats and smoking pipes, with rifles
tucked carelessly under their arms. Besides, what should I do with myself in
Pretoria? Admire the architecture of the Union buildings and listen to the
echoes of the shooting round Johannesburg? I should be penned up there
God knows how long. They’ve blown up the railway line already, I hear. It
isn’t even as if one could get a drink there. They put the place under martial
law two days ago.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “you don’t seem to realize that I’m studying
conditions on the Rand. How the devil am I going to study them from
Pretoria? I appreciate your care for my safety, but don’t you worry about
me. I shall be all right.”
“I warn you, Sir Eustace, that the food question is already serious.”
“A little fasting will improve my figure,” I said, with a sigh.
We were interrupted by a telegram being handed to me. I read it with
amazement:
“Anne is safe. Here with me at Kimberley. Suzanne Blair.”
I don’t think I ever really believed in the annihilation of Anne. There is
something peculiarly indestructible about that young woman—she is like
the patent balls that one gives to terriers. She has an extraordinary knack of
turning up smiling. I still don’t see why it was necessary for her to walk out
of the hotel in the middle of the night in order to get to Kimberley. There
was no train, anyway. She must have put on a pair of angel’s wings and
flown there. And I don’t suppose she will ever explain. Nobody does—to
me. I always have to guess. It becomes monotonous after a while. The
exigencies of journalism are at the bottom of it, I suppose. “How I shot the
rapids,” by our Special Correspondent.

I refolded the telegram and got rid of my Governmental friend. I don’t
like the prospect of being hungry, but I’m not alarmed for my personal
safety. Smuts is perfectly capable of dealing with the revolution. But I
would give a considerable sum of money for a drink! I wonder if Pagett will
have the sense to bring a bottle of whisky with him when he arrives to-
morrow?
I put on my hat and went out, intending to buy a few souvenirs. The
curio-shops in Jo’burg are rather pleasant. I was just studying a window full
of imposing karosses, when a man coming out of the shop cannoned into
me. To my surprise it turned out to be Race.
I can’t flatter myself that he looked pleased to see me. As a matter of fact,
he looked distinctly annoyed, but I insisted on his accompanying me back
to the hotel. I get tired of having no one but Miss Pettigrew to talk to.
“I had no idea you were in Jo’burg,” I said chattily. “When did you
arrive?”
“Last night.”
“Where are you staying?”
“With friends.”
He was disposed to be extraordinarily taciturn, and seemed to be
embarrassed by my questions.
“I hope they keep poultry,” I remarked. “A diet of new-laid eggs and the
occasional slaughtering of an old cock will be decidedly agreeable soon
from all I hear.”
“By the way,” I said, when we were back in the hotel, “have you heard
that Miss Beddingfeld is alive and kicking?”
He nodded.
“She gave us quite a fright,” I said airily. “Where the devil did she go to
that night, that’s what I’d like to know.”
“She was on the island all the time.”
“Which island? Not the one with the young man on it?”
“Yes.”
“How very improper,” I said. “Pagett will be quite shocked. He always
did disapprove of Anne Beddingfeld. I suppose that was the young man she
originally intended to meet in Durban?”

“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to,” I said, by way of
encouraging him.
“I fancy that this is a young man we should all be very glad to lay our
hands on.”
“Not——?” I cried, in rising excitement.
He nodded.
“Harry Rayburn, alias Harry Lucas—that’s his real name, you know.
He’s given us all the slip once more, but we’re bound to rope him in soon.”
“Dear me, dear me,” I murmured.
“We don’t suspect the girl of complicity in any case. On her side it’s—
just a love-affair.”
I always did think Race was in love with Anne. The way he said those
last words made me feel sure of it.
“She’s gone to Beira,” he continued rather hastily.
“Indeed,” I said, staring. “How do you know?”
“She wrote to me from Bulawayo, telling me she was going home that
way. The best thing she can do, poor child.”
“Somehow, I don’t fancy she is in Beira,” I said meditatively.
“She was just starting when she wrote.”
I was puzzled. Somebody was clearly lying. Without stopping to reflect
that Anne might have excellent reasons for her misleading statements, I
gave myself up to the pleasure of scoring off Race. He is always so
cocksure. I took the telegram from my pocket and handed it to him.
“Then how do you explain this?” I asked nonchalantly.
He seemed dumbfounded.
“She said she was just starting for Beira,” he said, in a dazed voice.
I know that Race is supposed to be clever. He is, in my opinion, rather a
stupid man. It never seemed to occur to him that girls do not always tell the
truth.
“Kimberley too. What are they doing there?” he muttered.
“Yes, that surprised me. I should have thought Miss Anne would have
been in the thick of it here, gathering copy for the Daily Budget.”

“Kimberley,” he said again. The place seemed to upset him. “There’s
nothing to see there—the pits aren’t being worked.”
“You know what women are,” I said vaguely.
He shook his head and went off. I have evidently given him something to
think about.
No sooner had he departed than my Government official reappeared.
“I hope you will forgive me for troubling you again, Sir Eustace,” he
apologized. “But there are one or two questions I should like to ask you.”
“Certainly, my dear fellow,” I said cheerfully. “Ask away.”
“It concerns your secretary——”
“I know nothing about him,” I said hastily. “He foisted himself upon me
in London, robbed me of valuable papers—for which I shall be hauled over
the coals—and disappeared like a conjuring trick at Cape Town. It’s true
that I was at the Falls at the same time as he was, but I was at the hotel, and
he was on an island. I can assure you that I never set eyes upon him the
whole time that I was there.”
I paused for breath.
“You misunderstand me. It was of your other secretary that I spoke.”
“What? Pagett?” I cried, in lively astonishment. “He’s been with me eight
years—a most trustworthy fellow.”
My interlocutor smiled.
“We are still at cross-purposes. I refer to the lady.”
“Miss Pettigrew?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. She has been seen coming out of Agrasato’s Native Curio-shop.”
“God bless my soul!” I interrupted. “I was going into that place myself
this afternoon. You might have caught me coming out!”
There doesn’t seem to be any innocent thing that one can do in Jo’burg
without being suspected for it.
“Ah! but she has been there more than once—and in rather doubtful
circumstances. I may as well tell you—in confidence, Sir Eustace—that the
place is suspected of being a well-known rendezvous used by the secret
organization behind this revolution. That is why I should be glad to hear all

that you can tell me about this lady. Where and how did you come to
engage her?”
“She was lent to me,” I replied coldly, “by your own Government.”
He collapsed utterly.

CHAPTER XXX

(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
As soon as I got to Kimberley I wired to Suzanne.
She joined me there with the utmost dispatch, heralding her arrival with
telegrams sent off en route. I was awfully surprised to find that she really
was fond of me—I thought I had been just a new sensation, but she
positively fell on my neck and wept when we met.
When we had recovered from our emotion a little, I sat down on the bed
and told her the whole story from A to Z.
“You always did suspect Colonel Race,” she said thoughtfully, when I
had finished. “I didn’t until the night you disappeared. I liked him so much
all along and thought he would make such a nice husband for you. Oh,
Anne, dear, don’t be cross, but how do you know that this young man of
yours is telling the truth? You believe every word he says.”
“Of course I do,” I cried indignantly.
“But what is there in him that attracts you so? I don’t see that there’s
anything in him at all except his rather reckless good looks and his modern
Sheik-cum-Stone-Age love-making.”
I poured out the vials of my wrath upon Suzanne for some minutes.
“Just because you’re comfortably married and getting fat, you’ve
forgotten that there’s any such thing as romance,” I ended.
“Oh, I’m not getting fat, Anne. All the worry I’ve had about you lately
must have worn me to a shred.”
“You look particularly well nourished,” I said coldly. “I should say you
must have put on about half a stone.”
“And I don’t know that I’m so comfortably married either,” continued
Suzanne in a melancholy voice. “I’ve been having the most dreadful cables
from Clarence ordering me to come home at once. At last I didn’t answer
them, and now I haven’t heard for over a fortnight.”

I’m afraid I didn’t take Suzanne’s matrimonial troubles very seriously.
She will be able to get round Clarence all right when the times comes. I
turned the conversation to the subject of the diamonds.
Suzanne looked at me with a dropped jaw.
“I must explain, Anne. You see, as soon as I began to suspect Colonel
Race, I was terribly upset about the diamonds. I wanted to stay on at the
Falls in case he might have kidnapped you somewhere close by, but didn’t
know what to do about the diamonds. I was afraid to keep them in my
possession——”
Suzanne looked round her uneasily, as though she feared the walls might
have ears, and then whispered vehemently in my ear.
“A distinctly good idea,” I approved. “At the time, that is. It’s a bit
awkward now. What did Sir Eustace do with the cases?”
“The big ones were sent down to Cape Town. I heard from Pagett before
I left the Falls, and he enclosed the receipt for their storage. He’s leaving
Cape Town to-day, by the by, to join Sir Eustace in Johannesburg.”
“I see,” I said thoughtfully. “And the small ones, where are they?”
“I suppose Sir Eustace has got them with him.”
I turned the matter over in my mind.
“Well,” I said at last, “it’s awkward—but it’s safe enough. We’d better do
nothing for the present.”
Suzanne looked at me with a little smile.
“You don’t like doing nothing, do you, Anne?”
“Not very much,” I replied honestly.
The one thing I could do was to get hold of a time-table and see what
time Guy Pagett’s train would pass through Kimberley. I found that it would
arrive at 5.40 on the following afternoon and depart again at 6. I wanted to
see Pagett as soon as possible, and that seemed to me a good opportunity.
The situation on the Rand was getting very serious, and it might be a long
time before I got another chance.
The only thing that livened up the day was a wire dispatched from
Johannesburg. A most innocent-sounding telegram:
“Arrived safely. All going well. Eric here, also Eustace, but not Guy.
Remain where you are for the present. Andy.”

Eric was our pseudonym for Race. I chose it because it is a name I dislike
exceedingly. There was clearly nothing to be done until I could see Pagett.
Suzanne employed herself in sending off a long soothing cable to the far-off
Clarence. She became quite sentimental over him. In her way—which of
course is quite different from me and Harry—she is really fond of Clarence.
“I do wish he was here, Anne,” she gulped. “It’s such a long time since
I’ve seen him.”
“Have some face cream,” I said soothingly.
Suzanne rubbed a little on the tip of her charming nose.
“I shall want some more face cream soon too,” she remarked, “and you
can only get this kind in Paris.” She sighed. “Paris!”
“Suzanne,” I said, “very soon you’ll have had enough of South Africa
and adventure.”
“I should like a really nice hat,” admitted Suzanne wistfully. “Shall I
come with you to meet Guy Pagett to-morrow?”
“I prefer to go alone. He’d be shyer speaking before two of us.”
So it came about that I was standing in the doorway of the hotel on the
following afternoon, struggling with a recalcitrant parasol that refused to go
up, whilst Suzanne lay peacefully on her bed with a book and a basket of
fruit.
According to the hotel porter, the train was on its good behaviour to-day
and would be almost on time, though he was extremely doubtful whether it
would ever get through to Johannesburg. The line had been blown up, so he
solemnly assured me. It sounded cheerful!
The train drew in just ten minutes late. Everybody tumbled out on the
platform and began walking up and down feverishly. I had no difficulty in
espying Pagett. I accosted him eagerly. He gave his usual nervous start at
seeing me—somewhat accentuated this time.
“Dear me, Miss Beddingfeld, I understood that you had disappeared.”
“I have reappeared again,” I told him solemnly. “And how are you, Mr.
Pagett?”
“Very well, thank you—looking forward to taking up my work again
with Sir Eustace.”

“Mr. Pagett,” I said, “there is something I want to ask you. I hope that
you won’t be offended, but a lot hangs on it, more than you can possibly
guess. I want to know what you were doing at Marlow on the 8th of January
last?”
He started violently.
“Really, Miss Beddingfeld—I—indeed——”
“You were there, weren’t you?”
“I—for reasons of my own I was in the neighbourhood, yes.”
“Won’t you tell me what those reasons were?”
“Sir Eustace has not already told you?”
“Sir Eustace? Does he know?”
“I am almost sure that he does. I hoped he had not recognized me, but
from the hints he has let drop, and his remarks, I fear it is only too certain.
In any case, I meant to make a clean breast of the matter and offer him my
resignation. He is a peculiar man, Miss Beddingfeld, with an abnormal
sense of humour. It seems to amuse him to keep me on tenter-hooks. All the
time, I dare say, he was perfectly well aware of the true facts. Possibly he
has known them for years.”
I hoped that sooner or later I should be able to understand what Pagett
was talking about. He went on fluently:
“It is difficult for a man of Sir Eustace’s standing to put himself in my
position. I know that I was in the wrong, but it seemed a harmless
deception. I would have thought it better taste on his part to have tackled
me outright—instead of indulging in covert jokes at my expense.”
A whistle blew, and the people began to surge back into the train.
“Yes, Mr. Pagett,” I broke in, “I’m sure I quite agree with all you’re
saying about Sir Eustace. But why did you go to Marlow?”
“It was wrong of me, but natural under the circumstances—yes, I still
feel natural under the circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” I cried desperately.
For the first time Pagett seemed to recognize that I was asking him a
question. His mind detached itself from the peculiarities of Sir Eustace and
his own justification and came to rest on me.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Beddingfeld,” he said stiffly, “but I fail to see
your concern in the matter.”
He was back in the train now, leaning down to speak to me. I felt
desperate. What could one do with a man like that?
“Of course, if it’s so dreadful that you’d be ashamed to speak of it to me
——” I began spitefully.
At last I had found the right stop. Pagett stiffened and flushed.
“Dreadful? Ashamed? I don’t understand you.”
“Then tell me.”
In three short sentences he told me. At last I knew Pagett’s secret! It was
not in the least what I expected.
I walked slowly back to the hotel. There a wire was handed to me. I tore
it open. It contained full and definite instructions for me to proceed
forthwith to Johannesburg, or rather to a station this side of Johannesburg,
where I should be met by a car. It was signed, not Andy, but Harry.
I sat down in a chair to do some very serious thinking.

CHAPTER XXXI

(From the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler)

Johannesburg,
March 7th.

Pagett has arrived. He is in a blue funk of course. Suggested at once that
we should go off to Pretoria. Then, when I had told him kindly but firmly
that we were going to remain here, he went to the other extreme, wished he
had his rifle here, and began bucking about some bridge he guarded during
the Great War. A railway bridge at Little Puddecombe junction, or
something of that sort.
I soon cut that short by telling him to unpack the big typewriter. I thought
that that would keep him employed for some time, because the typewriter
was sure to have gone wrong—it always does—and he would have to take
it somewhere to be mended. But I had forgotten Pagett’s powers of being in
the right.
“I’ve already unpacked all the cases, Sir Eustace. The typewriter is in
perfect condition.”
“What do you mean—all the cases?”
“The two small cases as well.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so officious, Pagett. Those small cases were no
business of yours. They belong to Mrs. Blair.”
Pagett looked crestfallen. He hates to make a mistake.
“So you can just pack them up again neatly,” I continued. “After that you
can go out and look around you. Jo’burg will probably be a heap of
smoking ruins by to-morrow, so it may be your last chance.”
I thought that that would get rid of him successfully for the morning, at
any rate.

“There is something I want to say to you when you have the leisure, Sir
Eustace.”
“I haven’t got it now,” I said hastily. “At this minute I have absolutely no
leisure whatsoever.”
Pagett retired.
“By the way,” I called after him, “what was there in those cases of Mrs.
Blair’s?”
“Some fur rugs, and a couple of fur—hats, I think.”
“That’s right,” I assented. “She bought them on the train. They are hats—
of a kind—though I hardly wonder at your not recognizing them. I dare say
she’s going to wear one of them at Ascot. What else was there?”
“Some rolls of films and some baskets—a lot of baskets——”
“There would be,” I assured him. “Mrs. Blair is the kind of woman who
never buys less than a dozen or so of anything.”
“I think that’s all, Sir Eustace, except some miscellaneous odds and ends,
a motor-veil and some odd gloves—that sort of thing.”
“If you hadn’t been a born idiot, Pagett, you would have seen from the
start that those couldn’t possibly be my belongings.”
“I thought some of them might belong to Miss Pettigrew.”
“Ah, that reminds me—what do you mean by picking me out such a
doubtful character as a secretary?”
And I told him about the searching cross-examination I had been put
through. Immediately I was sorry, I saw a glint in his eye that I knew only
too well. I changed the conversation hurriedly. But it was too late. Pagett
was on the war-path.
He next proceeded to bore me with a long pointless story about the
Kilmorden. It was about a roll of films and a wager. The roll of films being
thrown through a porthole in the middle of the night by some steward who
ought to have known better. I hate horse-play. I told Pagett so, and he began
to tell me the story all over again. He tells a story extremely badly, anyway.
It was a long time before I could make head or tail of this one.
I did not see him again until lunch-time. Then he came in brimming over
with excitement, like a bloodhound on the scent. I never have cared for
bloodhounds. The upshot of it all was that he had seen Rayburn.

“What?” I cried, startled.
Yes, he had caught sight of some one whom he was sure was Rayburn
crossing the street. Pagett had followed him.
“And who do you think I saw him stop and speak to? Miss Pettigrew!”
“What?”
“Yes, Sir Eustace. And that’s not all. I’ve been making inquiries about her
——”
“Wait a bit. What happened to Rayburn?”
“He and Miss Pettigrew went into that corner curio-shop——”
I uttered an involuntary exclamation. Pagett stopped inquiringly.
“Nothing,” I said. “Go on.”
“I waited outside for ages—but they didn’t come out. At last I went in.
Sir Eustace, there was no one in the shop! There must be another way out.”
I stared at him.
“As I was saying, I came back to the hotel and made some inquiries
about Miss Pettigrew.” Pagett lowered his voice and breathed hard as he
always does when he wants to be confidential. “Sir Eustace, a man was seen
coming out of her room last night.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“And I always regarded her as a lady of such eminent respectability,” I
murmured.
Pagett went on without heeding.
“I went straight up and searched her room. What do you think I found?”
I shook my head.
“This!”
Pagett held up a safety razor and a stick of shaving soap.
“What should a woman want with these?”
I don’t suppose Pagett ever reads the advertisements in the high-class
ladies’ papers. I do. Whilst not proposing to argue with him on the subject, I
refused to accept the presence of the razor as proof positive of Miss
Pettigrew’s sex. Pagett is so hopelessly behind the times. I should not have
been at all surprised if he had produced a cigarette-case to support his
theory. However, even Pagett has his limits.

“You’re not convinced, Sir Eustace. What do you say to this?”
I inspected the article which he dangled aloft triumphantly.
“It looks like hair,” I remarked distastefully.
“It is hair. I think it’s what they call a toupee.”
“Indeed,” I commented.
“Now are you convinced that that Pettigrew woman is a man in
disguise?”
“Really, my dear Pagett, I think I am. I might have known it by her feet.”
“Then that’s that. And now, Sir Eustace, I want to speak to you about my
private affairs. I cannot doubt, from your hints and your continual allusions
to the time I was in Florence, that you have found me out.”
At last the mystery of what Pagett did in Florence is going to be
revealed!
“Make a clean breast of it, my dear fellow,” I said kindly. “Much the best
way.”
“Thank you, Sir Eustace.”
“Is it her husband? Annoying fellows, husbands. Always turning up when
they’re least expected.”
“I fail to follow you, Sir Eustace. Whose husband?”
“The lady’s husband.”
“What lady?”
“God bless my soul, Pagett, the lady you met in Florence. There must
have been a lady. Don’t tell me that you merely robbed a church or stabbed
an Italian in the back because you didn’t like his face.”
“I am quite at a loss to understand you, Sir Eustace. I suppose you are
joking.”
“I am an amusing fellow sometimes, when I take the trouble, but I can
assure you that I am not trying to be funny this minute.”
“I hoped that as I was a good way off you had not recognized me, Sir
Eustace.”
“Recognized you where?”
“At Marlow, Sir Eustace?”
“At Marlow? What the devil were you doing at Marlow?”

“I thought you understood that——”
“I’m beginning to understand less and less. Go back to the beginning of
the story and start again. You went to Florence——”
“Then you don’t know after all—and you didn’t recognize me!”
“As far as I can judge, you seem to have given yourself away needlessly
—made a coward of by your conscience. But I shall be able to tell better
when I’ve heard the whole story. Now, then, take a deep breath and start
again. You went to Florence——”
“But I didn’t go to Florence. That is just it.”
“Well, where did you go, then?”
“I went home—to Marlow.”
“What the devil did you want to go to Marlow for?”
“I wanted to see my wife. She was in delicate health and expecting——”
“Your wife? But I didn’t know you were married?”
“No, Sir Eustace, that is just what I am telling you. I deceived you in this
matter.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Just over eight years. I had been married just six months when I became
your secretary. I did not want to lose the post. A resident secretary is not
supposed to have a wife, so I suppressed the fact.”
“You take my breath away,” I remarked. “Where has she been all these
years?”
“We have had a small bungalow on the river at Marlow, quite close to the
Mill House, for over five years.”
“God bless my soul,” I muttered. “Any children?”
“Four children, Sir Eustace.”
I gazed at him in a kind of stupor. I might have known, all along, that a
man like Pagett couldn’t have a guilty secret. The respectability of Pagett
has always been my bane. That’s just the kind of secret he would have—a
wife and four children.
“Have you told this to any one else?” I demanded at last, when I had
gazed at him in fascinated interest for quite a long while.
“Only Miss Beddingfeld. She came to the station at Kimberley.”

I continued to stare at him. He fidgeted under my glance.
“I hope, Sir Eustace, that you are not seriously annoyed?”
“My dear fellow,” I said, “I don’t mind telling you here and now that
you’ve blinking well torn it!”
I went out seriously ruffled. As I passed the corner curio-shop, I was
assailed by a sudden irresistible temptation and went in. The proprietor
came forward obsequiously, rubbing his hands.
“Can I show you something? Furs, curios?”
“I want something quite out of the ordinary,” I said. “It’s for a special
occasion. Will you show me what you’ve got?”
“Perhaps you will come into my back room? We have many specialties
there?”
That is where I made a mistake. And I thought I was going to be so
clever. I followed him through the swinging portières.

CHAPTER XXXII

(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)
I had great trouble with Suzanne. She argued, she pleaded, she even wept
before she would let me carry out my plan. But in the end I got my own
way. She promised to carry out my instructions to the letter and came down
to the station to bid me a tearful farewell.
I arrived at my destination the following morning early. I was met by a
short black-bearded Dutchman whom I had never seen before. He had a car
waiting and we drove off. There was a queer booming in the distance, and I
asked him what it was. “Guns,” he answered laconically. So there was
fighting going on in Jo’burg!
I gathered that our objective was a spot somewhere in the suburbs of the
city. We turned and twisted and made several detours to get there, and every
minute the guns were nearer. It was an exciting time. At last we stopped
before a somewhat ramshackle building. The door was opened by a Kafir
boy. My guide signed to me to enter. I stood irresolute in the dingy square
hall. The man passed me and threw open a door.
“The young lady to see Mr. Harry Rayburn,” he said, and laughed.
Thus announced, I passed in. The room was sparsely furnished and smelt
of cheap tobacco smoke. Behind a desk a man sat writing. He looked up
and raised his eyebrows.
“Dear me,” he said, “if it isn’t Miss Beddingfeld!”
“I must be seeing double,” I apologized. “Is it Mr. Chichester, or is it
Miss Pettigrew? There is an extraordinary resemblance to both of them.”
“Both characters are in abeyance for the moment. I have doffed my
petticoats—and my cloth likewise. Won’t you sit down?”
I accepted a seat composedly.
“It would seem,” I remarked, “that I have come to the wrong address.”

“From your point of view, I am afraid you have. Really, Miss
Beddingfeld, to fall into the trap a second time!”
“It was not very bright of me,” I admitted meekly. Something about my
manner seemed to puzzle him.
“You hardly seem upset by the occurrence,” he remarked dryly.
“Would my going into heroics have any effect upon you?” I asked.
“It certainly would not.”
“My great-aunt Jane always used to say that a true lady was neither
shocked nor surprised at anything that might happen,” I murmured
dreamily. “I endeavour to live up to her precepts.”
I read Mr. Chichester-Pettigrew’s opinion so plainly written on his face
that I hastened into speech once more.
“You really are positively marvellous at make-up,” I said generously.
“All the time you were Miss Pettigrew I never recognized you—even when
you broke your pencil in the shock of seeing me climb upon the train at
Cape Town.”
He tapped upon the desk with the pencil he was holding in his hand at the
minute.
“All this is very well in its way, but we must get to business. Perhaps,
Miss Beddingfeld, you can guess why we required your presence here?”
“You will excuse me,” I said, “but I never do business with any one but
principals.”
I had read the phrase or something like it in a money-lender’s circular,
and I was rather pleased with it. It certainly had a devastating effect upon
Mr. Chichester-Pettigrew. He opened his mouth and then shut it again. I
beamed upon him.
“My great-uncle George’s maxim,” I added, as an afterthought. “Great-
aunt Jane’s husband, you know. He made knobs for brass beds.”
I doubt if Chichester-Pettigrew had ever been ragged before. He didn’t
like it at all.
“I think you would be wise to alter your tone, young lady.”
I did not reply, but yawned—a delicate little yawn that hinted at intense
boredom.
“What the devil——” he began forcibly.

I interrupted him.
“I can assure you it’s no good shouting at me. We are only wasting time
here. I have no intention of talking with underlings. You will save a lot of
time and annoyance by taking me straight to Sir Eustace Pedler.”
“To——”
He looked dumbfounded.
“Yes,” I said. “Sir Eustace Pedler.”
“I—I—excuse me——”
He bolted from the room like a rabbit. I took advantage of the respite to
open my bag and powder my nose thoroughly. Also I settled my hat at a
more becoming angle. Then I settled myself to wait with patience for my
enemy’s return.
He reappeared in a subtly chastened mood.
“Will you come this way, Miss Beddingfeld?”
I followed him up the stairs. He knocked at the door of a room, a brisk
“Come in” sounded from inside, and he opened the door and motioned to
me to pass inside.
Sir Eustace Pedler sprang up to greet me, genial and smiling.
“Well, well, Miss Anne.” He shook me warmly by the hand. “I’m
delighted to see you. Come and sit down. Not tired after your journey?
That’s good.”
He sat down facing me, still beaming. It left me rather at a loss. His
manner was so completely natural.
“Quite right to insist on being brought straight to me,” he went on.
“Minks is a fool. A clever actor—but a fool. That was Minks you saw
downstairs.”
“Oh, really,” I said feebly.
“And now,” said Sir Eustace cheerfully, “let’s get down to facts. How
long have you known that I was the ‘Colonel’?”
“Ever since Mr. Pagett told me that he had seen you in Marlow when you
were supposed to be in Cannes.”
Sir Eustace nodded ruefully.

“Yes, I told the fool he’d blinking well torn it. He didn’t understand of
course. His whole mind was set on whether I’d recognized him. It never
occurred to him to wonder what I was doing down there. A piece of sheer
bad luck that was. I arranged it all so carefully too, sending him off to
Florence, telling the hotel I was going over to Nice for one night or possibly
two. Then, by the time the murder was discovered, I was back again in
Cannes, with nobody dreaming that I’d ever left the Riviera.”
He still spoke quite naturally and unaffectedly. I had to pinch myself to
understand that this was all real—that the man in front of me was really that
deep-dyed criminal, the “Colonel.” I followed things out in my mind.
“Then it was you who tried to throw me overboard on the Kilmorden,” I
said slowly. “It was you that Pagett followed up on deck that night?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I apologize, my dear child, I really do. I always liked you—but you
were so confoundedly interfering. I couldn’t have all my plans brought to
naught by a chit of a girl.”
“I think your plan at the Falls was really the cleverest,” I said,
endeavouring to look at the thing in a detached fashion. “I would have been
ready to swear anywhere that you were in the hotel when I went out. Seeing
is believing in future.”
“Yes, Minks had one of his greatest successes as Miss Pettigrew, and he
can imitate my voice quite creditably.”
“There is one thing I should like to know.”
“Yes?”
“How did you induce Pagett to engage her?”
“Oh, that was quite simple. She met Pagett in the doorway of the Trade
Commissioner’s office or the Chamber of Mines, or wherever it was he
went—told him I had phoned down in a hurry, and that she had been
selected by the Government department in question. Pagett swallowed it
like a lamb.”
“You’re very frank,” I said, studying him.
“There’s no earthly reason why I shouldn’t be.”
I didn’t quite like the sound of that. I hastened to put my own
interpretation on it.

“You believe in the success of this Revolution? You’ve burnt your boats.”
“For an otherwise intelligent young woman, that’s a singularly
unintelligent remark. No, my dear child, I do not believe in this Revolution.
I give it a couple of days longer and it will fizzle out ignominiously.”
“Not one of your successes, in fact?” I said nastily.
“Like all women, you’ve no idea of business. The job I took on was to
supply certain explosives and arms—heavily paid for—to foment feeling
generally, and to incriminate certain people up to the hilt. I’ve carried out
my contract with complete success, and I was careful to be paid in advance.
I took special care over the whole thing, as I intended it to be my last
contract before retiring from business. As for burning my boats, as you call
it, I simply don’t know what you mean. I’m not the rebel chief, or anything
of that kind—I’m a distinguished English visitor, who had the misfortune to
go nosing into a certain curio-shop—and saw a little more than he was
meant to, and so the poor fellow was kidnapped. To-morrow, or the day
after, when circumstances permit, I shall be found tied up somewhere in a
pitiable state of terror and starvation.”
“Ah!” I said slowly. “But what about me?”
“That’s just it,” said Sir Eustace softly. “What about you? I’ve got you
here—I don’t want to rub it in in any way—but I’ve got you here very
neatly. The question is, what am I going to do with you? The simplest way
of disposing of you—and, I may add, the pleasantest to myself—is the way
of marriage. Wives can’t accuse their husbands, you know, and I’d rather
like a pretty young wife to hold my hand and glance at me out of liquid
eyes—don’t flash them at me so! You quite frighten me. I see that the plan
does not commend itself to you?”
“It does not.”
Sir Eustace sighed.
“A pity! But I am no Adelphi villain. The usual trouble, I suppose. You
love another, as the books say.”
“I love another.”
“I thought as much—first I thought it was that long-legged, pompous ass,
Race, but I suppose it’s the young hero who fished you out of the Falls that
night. Women have no taste. Neither of those two have half the brains that I
have. I’m such an easy person to underestimate.”

I think he was right about that. Although I knew well enough the kind of
man he was and must be, I could not bring myself to realize it. He had tried
to kill me on more than one occasion, he had actually killed another
woman, and he was responsible for endless other deeds of which I knew
nothing, and yet I was quite unable to bring myself into the frame of mind
for appreciating his deeds as they deserved. I could not think of him as
other than our amusing, genial travelling companion. I could not even feel
frightened of him—and yet I knew he was capable of having me murdered
in cold blood if it struck him as necessary. The only parallel I can think of is
the case of Stevenson’s Long John Silver. He must have been much the
same kind of man.
“Well, well,” said this extraordinary person, leaning back in his chair.
“It’s a pity that the idea of being Lady Pedler doesn’t appeal to you. The
other alternatives are rather crude.”
I felt a nasty feeling going up and down my spine. Of course I had known
all along that I was taking a big risk, but the prize had seemed worth it.
Would things turn out as I had calculated, or would they not?
“The fact of the matter is,” Sir Eustace was continuing, “I’ve a weakness
for you. I really don’t want to proceed to extremes. Suppose you tell me the
whole story, from the very beginning, and let’s see what we can make of it.
But no romancing, mind—I want the truth.”
I was not going to make any mistake over that. I had a great deal of
respect for Sir Eustace’s shrewdness. It was a moment for the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I told him the whole story, omitting
nothing, up to the moment of my rescue by Harry. When I had finished, he
nodded his head in approval.
“Wise girl. You’ve made a clean breast of the thing. And let me tell you I
should soon have caught you out if you hadn’t. A lot of people wouldn’t
believe your story, anyway, especially the beginning part, but I do. You’re
the kind of girl who would start off like that—at a moment’s notice, on the
slenderest of motives. You’ve had amazing luck, of course, but sooner or
later the amateur runs up against the professional and then the result is a
foregone conclusion. I am the professional. I started on this business when I
was quite a youngster. All things considered, it seemed to me a good way of
getting rich quickly. I always could think things out, and devise ingenious
schemes—and I never made the mistake of trying to carry out my schemes

myself. Always employ the expert—that has been my motto. The one time I
departed from it I came to grief—but I couldn’t trust any one to do that job
for me. Nadina knew too much. I’m an easy-going man, kind-hearted and
good tempered so long as I’m not thwarted. Nadina both thwarted me and
threatened me—just as I was at the apex of a successful career. Once she
was dead and the diamonds were in my possession, I was safe. I’ve come to
the conclusion now that I bungled the job. That idiot Pagett, with his wife
and family! My fault—it tickled my sense of humour to employ the fellow,
with his Cinquecento poisoner’s face and his mid-Victorian soul. A maxim
for you, my dear Anne. Don’t let your sense of humour carry you away. For
years I’ve had an instinct that it would be wise to get rid of Pagett, but the
fellow was so hard-working and conscientious that I honestly couldn’t find
an excuse for sacking him. So I left things drift.
“But we’re wandering from the point. The question is what to do with
you. Your narrative was admirably clear, but there is one thing that still
escapes me. Where are the diamonds now?”
“Harry Rayburn has them,” I said, watching him.
His face did not change, it retained its expression of sardonic good-
humour.
“H’m. I want those diamonds.”
“I don’t see much chance of your getting them,” I replied.
“Don’t you? Now I do. I don’t want to be unpleasant, but I should like
you to reflect that a dead girl or so found in this quarter of the city will
occasion no surprise. There’s a man downstairs who does those sort of jobs
very neatly. Now, you’re a sensible young woman. What I propose is this:
you will sit down and write to Harry Rayburn, telling him to join you here
and bring the diamonds with him——”
“I won’t do anything of the kind.”
“Don’t interrupt your elders. I propose to make a bargain with you. The
diamonds in exchange for your life. And don’t make any mistake about it,
your life is absolutely in my power.”
“And Harry?”
“I’m far too tender-hearted to part two young lovers. He shall go free too
—on the understanding, of course, that neither of you will interfere with me
in future.”

“And what guarantee have I that you will keep your side of the bargain?”
“None whatever, my dear girl. You’ll have to trust me and hope for the
best. Of course, if you’re in an heroic mood and prefer annihilation, that’s
another matter.”
This was what I had been playing for. I was careful not to jump at the
bait. Gradually I allowed myself to be bullied and cajoled into yielding. I
wrote at Sir Eustace’s dictation:
Dear Harry,
I think I see a chance of establishing your innocence beyond any possible
doubt. Please follow my instructions minutely. Go to Agrasato’s curio-shop.
Ask to see something “out of the ordinary,” “for a special occasion.” The
man will then ask you to “come into the back room.” Go with him. You will
find a messenger who will bring you to me. Do exactly as he tells you. Be
sure and bring the diamonds with you. Not a word to any one.
Sir Eustace stopped. “I leave the fancy touches to your own
imagination,” he remarked. “But be careful to make no mistakes.”
“‘Yours for ever and ever, Anne,’ will be sufficient,” I remarked.
I wrote in the words. Sir Eustace stretched out his hand for the letter and
read it through.
“That seems all right. Now the address.”
I gave it him. It was that of a small shop which received letters and
telegrams for a consideration.
He struck the bell upon the table with his hand. Chichester-Pettigrew,
alias Minks, answered the summons.
“This letter is to go immediately—the usual route.”
“Very well, Colonel.”
He looked at the name on the envelope. Sir Eustace was watching him
keenly.
“A friend of yours, I think?”
“Of mine?”
The man seemed startled.
“You had a prolonged conversation with him in Johannesburg yesterday.”

“A man came up and questioned me about your movements and those of
Colonel Race. I gave him misleading information.”
“Excellent, my dear fellow, excellent,” said Sir Eustace genially. “My
mistake.”
I chanced to look at Chichester-Pettigrew as he left the room. He was
white to the lips, as though in deadly terror. No sooner was he outside than
Sir Eustace picked up a speaking-tube that rested by his elbow and spoke
down it.
“That you, Schwart? Watch Minks. He’s not to leave the house without
orders.”
He put the speaking-tube down again and frowned, slightly tapping the
table with his hand.
“May I ask you a few questions, Sir Eustace,” I said, after a minute or
two of silence.
“Certainly. What excellent nerves you have, Anne. You are capable of
taking an intelligent interest in things when most girls would be sniffling
and wringing their hands.”
“Why did you take Harry as your secretary instead of giving him up to
the police?”
“I wanted those cursed diamonds. Nadina, the little devil, was playing off
your Harry against me. Unless I gave her the price she wanted, she
threatened to sell them back to him. That was another mistake I made—I
thought she’d have them with her that day. But she was too clever for that.
Carton, her husband, was dead too—I’d no clue whatsoever as to where the
diamonds were hidden. Then I managed to get a copy of a wireless message
sent to Nadina by some one on board the Kilmorden—either Carton or
Rayburn, I didn’t know which. It was a duplicate of that piece of paper you
picked up. ‘Seventeen one twenty two,’ it ran. I took it to be an appointment
with Rayburn, and when he was so desperate to get aboard the Kilmorden I
was convinced that I was right. So I pretended to swallow his statements,
and let him come. I kept a pretty sharp watch upon him and hoped that I
should learn more. Then I found Minks trying to play a lone hand and
interfering with me. I soon stopped that. He came to heel all right. It was
annoying not getting Cabin 17, and it worried me not being able to place
you. Were you the innocent young girl you seemed, or were you not? When

Rayburn set out to keep the appointment that night, Minks was told off to
intercept him. Minks muffed it of course.”
“But why did the wireless message say ‘seventeen’ instead of ‘seventy-
one’?”
“I’ve thought that out. Carton must have given that wireless operator his
own memorandum to copy off on to a form, and he never read the copy
through. The operator made the same mistake we all did, and read it as
17.1.22 instead of 1.71.22. The thing I don’t know is how Minks got on to
Cabin 17. It must have been sheer instinct.”
“And the dispatch to General Smuts? Who tampered with that?”
“My dear Anne, you don’t suppose I was going to have a lot of my plans
given away, without making an effort to save them? With an escaped
murderer as a secretary, I had no hesitation whatever in substituting blanks.
Nobody would think of suspecting poor old Pedler.”
“What about Colonel Race?”
“Yes, that was a nasty jar. When Pagett told me he was a Secret Service
fellow, I had an unpleasant feeling down the spine. I remembered that he’d
been nosing around Nadina in Paris during the War—and I had a horrible
suspicion that he was out after me! I don’t like the way he’s stuck to me
ever since. He’s one of those strong, silent men who have always got
something up their sleeve.”
A whistle sounded. Sir Eustace picked up the tube, listened for a minute
or two, then answered:
“Very well, I’ll see him now.”
“Business,” he remarked. “Miss Anne, let me show you your room.”
He ushered me into a small shabby apartment, a Kafir boy brought up my
small suit-case, and Sir Eustace, urging me to ask for anything I wanted,
withdrew, the picture of a courteous host. A can of hot water was on the
washstand, and I proceeded to unpack a few necessaries. Something hard
and unfamiliar in my sponge-bag puzzled me greatly. I untied the string and
looked inside.
To my utter amazement I drew out a small pearl-handled revolver. It
hadn’t been there when I started from Kimberley. I examined the thing
gingerly. It appeared to be loaded.

I handled it with a comfortable feeling. It was a useful thing to have in a
house such as this. But modern clothes are quite unsuited to the carrying of
fire-arms. In the end I pushed it gingerly into the top of my stocking. It
made a terrible bulge, and I expected every minute that it would go off and
shoot me in the leg, but it really seemed the only place.

CHAPTER XXXIII

I was not summoned to Sir Eustace’s presence until late in the afternoon.
Eleven-o’clock tea and a substantial lunch had been served to me in my
own apartment, and I felt fortified for further conflict.
Sir Eustace was alone. He was walking up and down the room, and there
was a gleam in his eye and a restlessness in his manner which did not
escape me. He was exultant about something. There was a subtle change in
his manner towards me.
“I have news for you. Your young man is on his way. He will be here in a
few minutes. Moderate your transports—I have something more to say. You
attempted to deceive me this morning. I warned you that you would be wise
to stick to the truth, and up to a certain point you obeyed me. Then you ran
off the rails. You attempted to make me believe that the diamonds were in
Harry Rayburn’s possession. At the time, I accepted your statement because
it facilitated my task—the task of inducing you to decoy Harry Rayburn
here. But, my dear Anne, the diamonds have been in my possession ever
since I left the Falls—though I only discovered the fact yesterday.”
“You know!” I gasped.
“It may interest you to hear that it was Pagett who gave the show away.
He insisted on boring me with a long pointless story about a wager and a tin
of films. It didn’t take me long to put two and two together—Mrs. Blair’s
distrust of Colonel Race, her agitation, her entreaty that I would take care of
her souvenirs for her. The excellent Pagett had already unfastened the cases
through an excess of zeal. Before leaving the hotel, I simply transferred all
the rolls of films to my own pocket. They are in the corner there. I admit
that I haven’t had time to examine them yet, but I notice that one is of a
totally different weight to the others, rattles in a peculiar fashion, and has
evidently been stuck down with seccotine, which will necessitate the use of
a tin-opener. The case seems clear, does it not? And now, you see, I have
you both nicely in the trap. . . . It’s a pity that you didn’t take kindly to the
idea of becoming Lady Pedler.”

I did not answer. I stood looking at him.
There was the sound of feet on the stairs, the door was flung open, and
Harry Rayburn was hustled into the room between two men. Sir Eustace
flung me a look of triumph.
“According to plan,” he said softly. “You amateurs will pit yourselves
against professionals.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” cried Harry hoarsely.
“It means that you have walked into my parlour—said the spider to the
fly,” remarked Sir Eustace facetiously. “My dear Rayburn, you are
extraordinarily unlucky.”
“You said I could come safely, Anne?”
“Do not reproach her, my dear fellow. That note was written at my
dictation, and the lady could not help herself. She would have been wiser
not to write it, but I did not tell her so at the time. You followed her
instructions, went to the curio-shop, were taken through the secret passage
from the back room—and found yourself in the hands of your enemies!”
Harry looked at me. I understood his glance and edged nearer to Sir
Eustace.
“Yes,” murmured the latter, “decidedly you are not lucky! This is—let me
see, the third encounter.”
“You are right,” said Harry. “This is the third encounter. Twice you have
worsted me—have you never heard that the third time the luck changes?
This is my round—cover him, Anne.”
I was all ready. In a flash I had whipped the pistol out of my stocking and
was holding it to his head. The two men guarding Harry sprang forward, but
his voice stopped them.
“Another step—and he dies! If they come any nearer, Anne, pull the
trigger—don’t hesitate.”
“I shan’t,” I replied cheerfully. “I’m rather afraid of pulling it, anyway.”
I think Sir Eustace shared my fears. He was certainly shaking like a jelly.
“Stay where you are,” he commanded, and the men stopped obediently.
“Tell them to leave the room,” said Harry.
Sir Eustace gave the order. The men filed out, and Harry shot the bolt
across the door behind them.

“Now we can talk,” he observed grimly, and coming across the room, he
took the revolver out of my hand.
Sir Eustace uttered a sigh of relief and wiped his forehead with a
handkerchief.
“I’m shockingly out of condition,” he observed. “I think I must have a
weak heart. I am glad that revolver is in competent hands. I didn’t trust
Miss Anne with it. Well, my young friend, as you say, now we can talk. I’m
willing to admit that you stole a march upon me. Where the devil that
revolver came from I don’t know. I had the girl’s luggage searched when
she arrived. And where did you produce it from now? You hadn’t got it on
you a minute ago?”
“Yes, I had,” I replied. “It was in my stocking.”
“I don’t know enough about women. I ought to have studied them more,”
said Sir Eustace sadly. “I wonder if Pagett would have known that?”
Harry rapped sharply on the table.
“Don’t play the fool. If it weren’t for your grey hairs, I’d throw you out
of the window. You damned scoundrel! Grey hairs, or no grey hairs, I——”
He advanced a step or two, and Sir Eustace skipped nimbly behind the
table.
“The young are always so violent,” he said reproachfully. “Unable to use
their brains, they rely solely on their muscles. Let us talk sense. For the
moment you have the upper hand. But that state of affairs cannot continue.
The house is full of my men. You are hopelessly outnumbered. Your
momentary ascendency has been gained by an accident——”
“Has it?”
Something in Harry’s voice, a grim raillery, seemed to attract Sir
Eustace’s attention. He stared at him.
“Has it?” said Harry again. “Sit down, Sir Eustace, and listen to what I
have to say.” Still covering him with the revolver, he went on: “The cards
are against you this time. To begin with, listen to that!”
That was a dull banging at the door below. There were shouts, oaths, and
then a sound of firing. Sir Eustace paled.
“What’s that?”

“Race—and his people. You didn’t know, did you, Sir Eustace, that Anne
had an arrangement with me by which we should know whether
communications from one to the other were genuine? Telegrams were to be
signed ‘Andy,’ letters were to have the word ‘and’ crossed out somewhere
in them. Anne knew that your telegram was a fake. She came here of her
own free will, walked deliberately into the snare, in the hope that she might
catch you in your own trap. Before leaving Kimberley she wired both to me
and to Race. Mrs. Blair has been in communication with us ever since. I
received the letter written at your dictation, which was just what I expected.
I had already discussed the probabilities of a secret passage leading out of
the curio-shop with Race, and he had discovered the place where the exit
was situated.”
There was a screaming, tearing sound, and a heavy explosion which
shook the room.
“They’re shelling this part of the town. I must get you out of here, Anne.”
A bright light flared up. The house opposite was on fire. Sir Eustace had
risen and was passing up and down. Harry kept him covered with the
revolver.
“So you see, Sir Eustace, the game is up. It was you yourself who very
kindly provided us with the clue of your whereabouts. Race’s men were
watching the exit of the secret passage. In spite of the precautions you took,
they were successful in following me here.”
Sir Eustace turned suddenly.
“Very clever. Very creditable. But I’ve still a word to say. If I’ve lost the
trick, so have you. You’ll never be able to bring the murder of Nadina home
to me. I was in Marlow on that day, that’s all you’ve got against me. No one
can prove that I even knew the woman. But you knew her, you had a motive
for killing her—and your record’s against you. You’re a thief, remember, a
thief. There’s one thing you don’t know, perhaps. I’ve got the diamonds.
And here goes——”
With an incredibly swift movement, he stooped, swung up his arm and
threw. There was a tinkle of breaking glass, as the object went through the
window and disappeared into the blazing mass opposite.
“There goes your only hope of establishing your innocence over the
Kimberley affair. And now we’ll talk. I’ll drive a bargain with you. You’ve

got me cornered. Race will find all he needs in this house. There’s a chance
for me if I can get away. I’m done for if I stay, but so are you, young man!
There’s a skylight in the next room. A couple of minutes’ start and I shall be
all right. I’ve got one or two little arrangements all ready made. You let me
out that way, and give me a start—and I leave you a signed confession that I
killed Nadina.”
“Yes, Harry,” I cried. “Yes, yes, yes!”
He turned a stern face on me.
“No, Anne, a thousand times, no. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do. It solves everything.”
“I’d never be able to look Race in the face again. I’ll take my chance, but
I’m damned if I’ll let this slippery old fox get away. It’s no good, Anne. I
won’t do it.”
Sir Eustace chuckled. He accepted defeat without the least emotion.
“Well, well,” he remarked. “You seem to have met your master, Anne.
But I can assure you both that moral rectitude does not always pay.”
There was a crash of rending wood, and footsteps surged up the stairs.
Harry drew back the bolt. Colonel Race was the first to enter the room. His
face lit at the sight of us.
“You’re safe, Anne. I was afraid——” He turned to Sir Eustace. “I’ve
been after you for a long time, Pedler—and at last I’ve got you.”
“Everybody seems to have gone completely mad,” declared Sir Eustace
airily. “These young people have been threatening me with revolvers and
accusing me of the most shocking things. I don’t know what it’s all about.”
“Don’t you? It means that I’ve found the ‘Colonel.’ It means that on
January 8th last you were not at Cannes, but at Marlow. It means that when
your tool, Madame Nadina, turned against you, you planned to do away
with her—and at last we shall be able to bring the crime home to you.”
“Indeed? And from whom did you get all this interesting information?
From the man who is even now being looked for by the police? His
evidence will be very valuable.”
“We have other evidence. There is some one else who knew that Nadina
was going to meet you at the Mill House.”

Sir Eustace looked surprised. Colonel Race made a gesture with his hand.
Arthur Minks alias the Rev. Edward Chichester alias Miss Pettigrew
stepped forward. He was pale and nervous, but he spoke clearly enough:
“I saw Nadina in Paris the night before she went over to England. I was
posing at the time as a Russian Count. She told me of her purpose. I warned
her, knowing what kind of man she had to deal with, but she did not take
my advice. There was a wireless message on the table. I read it. Afterwards
I thought I would have a try for the diamonds myself. In Johannesburg, Mr.
Rayburn accosted me. He persuaded me to come over to his side.”
Sir Eustace looked at him. He said nothing, but Minks seemed visibly to
wilt.
“Rats always leaving a sinking ship,” observed Sir Eustace. “I don’t care
for rats. Sooner or later, I destroy vermin.”
“There’s just one thing I’d like to tell you, Sir Eustace,” I remarked.
“That tin you threw out of the window didn’t contain the diamonds. It had
common pebbles in it. The diamonds are in a perfectly safe place. As a
matter of fact, they’re in the big giraffe’s stomach. Suzanne hollowed it out,
put the diamonds in with cotton wool, so that they wouldn’t rattle, and
plugged it up again.”
Sir Eustace looked at me for some time. His reply was characteristic:
“I always did hate that blinking giraffe,” he said. “It must have been
instinct.”

CHAPTER XXXIV

We were not able to return to Johannesburg that night. The shells were
coming over pretty fast, and I gathered that we were now more or less cut
off, owing to the rebels having obtained possession of a new part of the
suburbs.
Our place of refuge was a farm some twenty miles or so from
Johannesburg—right out on the veld. I was dropping with fatigue. All the
excitement and anxiety of the last two days had left me little better than a
limp rag.
I kept repeating to myself, without being able to believe it, that our
troubles were really over. Harry and I were together and we should never be
separated again. Yet all through I was conscious of some barrier between us
—a constraint on his part, the reason of which I could not fathom.
Sir Eustace had been driven off in an opposite direction accompanied by
a strong guard. He waved his hand airily to us on departing.
I came out on to the stoep early on the following morning and looked
across the veld in the direction of Johannesburg. I could see the great dumps
glistening in the pale morning sunshine, and I could hear the low rumbling
mutter of the guns. The Revolution was not over yet.
The farmer’s wife came out and called me in to breakfast. She was a
kind, motherly soul, and I was already very fond of her. Harry had gone out
at dawn and had not yet returned, so she informed me. Again I felt a stir of
uneasiness pass over me. What was this shadow of which I was so
conscious between us?
After breakfast I sat out on the stoep, a book in my hand which I did not
read. I was so lost in my own thoughts that I never saw Colonel Race ride
up and dismount from his horse. It was not until he said “Good morning,
Anne,” that I became aware of his presence.
“Oh,” I said, with a flush, “it’s you.”
“Yes. May I sit down?”

He drew a chair up beside me. It was the first time we had been alone
together since that day at the Matoppos. As always, I felt that curious
mixture of fascination and fear that he never failed to inspire in me.
“What is the news?” I asked.
“Smuts will be in Johannesburg to-morrow. I give this outbreak three
days more before it collapses utterly. In the meantime the fighting goes on.”
“I wish,” I said, “that one could be sure that the right people were the
ones to get killed. I mean the ones who wanted to fight—not just all the
poor people who happen to live in the parts where the fighting is going on.”
He nodded.
“I know what you mean, Anne. That’s the unfairness of war. But I’ve
other news for you.”
“Yes?”
“A confession of incompetency on my part. Pedler has managed to
escape.”
“What?”
“Yes. No one knows how he managed it. He was securely locked up for
the night—in an upper-story room of one of the farms roundabouts which
the Military have taken over, but this morning the room was empty and the
bird had flown.”
Secretly I was rather pleased. Never, to this day, have I been able to rid
myself of a sneaking fondness for Sir Eustace. I dare say it’s reprehensible,
but there it is. I admired him. He was a thorough-going villain, I dare say—
but he was a pleasant one. I’ve never met any one half so amusing since.
I concealed my feelings, of course. Naturally Colonel Race would feel
quite differently about it. He wanted Sir Eustace brought to justice. There
was nothing very surprising in his escape when one came to think of it. All
round Jo’burg he must have innumerable spies and agents. And, whatever
Colonel Race might think, I was exceedingly doubtful that they would ever
catch him. He probably had a well-planned line of retreat. Indeed, he had
said as much to us.
I expressed myself suitably, though in a rather lukewarm manner, and the
conversation languished. Then Colonel Race asked suddenly for Harry. I

told him that he had gone off at dawn and that I hadn’t seen him this
morning.
“You understand, don’t you, Anne, that apart from formalities, he is
completely cleared? There are technicalities, of course, but Sir Eustace’s
guilt is well assured. There is nothing now to keep you apart.”
He said this without looking at me, in a slow, jerky voice.
“I understand,” I said gratefully.
“And there is no reason why he should not at once resume his real
name.”
“No, of course not.”
“You know his real name?”
The question surprised me.
“Of course I do. Harry Lucas.”
He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence struck me
as peculiar.
“Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matoppos that
day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?”
“Of course I remember.”
“I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is cleared
of suspicion.”
“Was that what you meant?”
“Of course.”
I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained. He
spoke again in a thoughtful voice:
“When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted me.
After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything to me.
Then I met you, Anne—and all that seemed worth nothing. But youth’s call
to youth. . . . I’ve still got my work.”
I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once—but you
can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I looked up at
him suddenly.
“I think that you’ll go very far,” I said dreamily. “I think that you’ve got a
great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the world’s big men.”

I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy.
“I shall be alone, though.”
“All the people who do really big things are.”
“You think so?”
“I’m sure of it.”
He took my hand and said in a low voice:
“I’d rather have had—the other.”
Then Harry came striding round the corner of the house. Colonel Race
rose.
“Good morning—Lucas,” he said.
For some reason Harry flushed up to the roots of his hair.
“Yes,” I said gaily, “you must be known by your real name now.”
But Harry was still staring at Colonel Race.
“So you know, sir,” he said at last.
“I never forget a face. I saw you once as a boy.”
“What’s all this about?” I asked, puzzled, looking from one to the other.
It seemed a conflict of wills between them. Race won. Harry turned
slightly away.
“I suppose you’re right, sir. Tell her my real name.”
“Anne, this isn’t Harry Lucas. Harry Lucas was killed in the War. This is
John Harold Eardsley.”

CHAPTER XXXV

With his last words Colonel Race had swung away and left us. I stood
staring after him. Harry’s voice recalled me to myself.
“Anne, forgive me, say you forgive me.”
He took my hand in his and almost mechanically I drew it away.
“Why did you deceive me?”
“I don’t know that I can make you understand. I was afraid of all that sort
of thing—the power and fascination of wealth. I wanted you to care for me
just for myself—for the man I was—without ornaments and trappings.”
“You mean you didn’t trust me?”
“You can put it that way if you like, but it isn’t quite true. I’d become
embittered, suspicious—always prone to look for ulterior motives—and it
was so wonderful to be cared for in the way you cared for me.”
“I see,” I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story he had
told me. For the first time I noted discrepancies in it which I had
disregarded—an assurance of money, the power to buy back the diamonds
of Nadina, the way in which he had preferred to speak of both men from the
point of view of an outsider. And when he had said “my friend” he had
meant, not Eardsley, but Lucas. It was Lucas, the quiet fellow, who had
loved Nadina so deeply.
“How did it come about?” I asked.
“We were both reckless—anxious to get killed. One night we exchanged
identification discs—for luck! Lucas was killed the next day—blown to
pieces.”
I shuddered.
“But why didn’t you tell me now? This morning? You couldn’t have
doubted my caring for you by this time?”
“Anne, I didn’t want to spoil it all. I wanted to take you back to the
island. What’s the good of money? It can’t buy happiness. We’d have been

happy on the island. I tell you I’m afraid of that other life—it nearly rotted
me through once.”
“Did Sir Eustace know who you really were?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And Carton?”
“No. He saw us both with Nadina at Kimberley one night, but he didn’t
know which was which. He accepted my statement that I was Lucas, and
Nadina was deceived by his cable. She was never afraid of Lucas. He was a
quiet chap—very deep. But I always had the devil’s own temper. She’d
have been scared out of her life if she’d known that I’d come to life again.”
“Harry, if Colonel Race hadn’t told me, what did you mean to do?”
“Say nothing. Go on as Lucas.”
“And your father’s millions?”
“Race was welcome to them. Anyway, he would make a better use of
them than I ever shall. Anne, what are you thinking about? You’re frowning
so.”
“I’m thinking,” I said slowly, “that I almost wish Colonel Race hadn’t
made you tell me.”
“No. He was right. I owed you the truth.”
He paused, then said suddenly:
“You know, Anne, I’m jealous of Race. He loves you too—and he’s a
bigger man than I am or ever shall be.”
I turned to him, laughing.
“Harry, you idiot. It’s you I want—and that’s all that matters.”
As soon as possible we started for Cape Town. There Suzanne was
waiting to greet me, and we disembowelled the big giraffe together. When
the Revolution was finally quelled, Colonel Race came down to Cape Town
and at his suggestion the big villa at Muizenberg that had belonged to Sir
Lawrence Eardsley was reopened and we all took up our abode in it.
There we made our plans. I was to return to England with Suzanne and to
be married from her house in London. And the trousseau was to be bought
in Paris! Suzanne enjoyed planning all these details enormously. So did I.
And yet the future seemed curiously unreal. And sometimes, without
knowing why, I felt absolutely stifled—as though I couldn’t breathe.

It was the night before we were to sail. I couldn’t sleep. I was miserable,
and I didn’t know why. I hated leaving Africa. When I came back to it,
would it be the same thing? Would it ever be the same thing again?
And then I was startled by an authoritative rap on the shutter. I sprang up.
Harry was on the stoep outside.
“Put some clothes on, Anne, and come out. I want to speak to you.”
I huddled on a few garments, and stepped out into the cool night air—
still and scented, with its velvety feel. Harry beckoned me out of earshot of
the house. His face looked pale and determined and his eyes were blazing.
“Anne, do you remember saying to me once that women enjoyed doing
the things they disliked for the sake of some one they liked?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what was coming.
He caught me in his arms.
“Anne, come away with me—now—to-night. Back to Rhodesia—back to
the island. I can’t stand all this tomfoolery. I can’t wait for you any longer.”
I disengaged myself a minute.
“And what about my French frocks?” I lamented mockingly.
To this day Harry never knows when I’m in earnest and when I’m only
teasing him.
“Damn your French frocks. Do you think I want to put frocks on you?
I’m a damned sight more likely to want to tear them off you. I’m not going
to let you go, do you hear? You’re my woman. If I let you go away, I may
lose you. I’m never sure of you. You’re coming with me now—to-night—
and damn everybody.”
He held me to him, kissing me until I could hardly breathe.
“I can’t do without you any longer, Anne. I can’t indeed. I hate all this
money. Let Race have it. Come on. Let’s go.”
“My toothbrush?” I demurred.
“You can buy one. I know I’m a lunatic, but for God’s sake, come!”
He stalked off at a furious pace. I followed him as meekly as the Barotsi
woman I had observed at the Falls. Only I wasn’t carrying a frying-pan on
my head. He walked so fast that it was very difficult to keep up with him.

“Harry,” I said at last, in a meek voice, “are we going to walk all the way
to Rhodesia?”
He turned suddenly and with a great shout of laughter gathered me up in
his arms.
“I’m mad, sweetheart, I know it. But I do love you so.”
“We’re a couple of lunatics. And, oh, Harry, you never asked me, but I’m
not making a sacrifice at all! I wanted to come!”

CHAPTER XXXVI

That was two years ago. We still live on the island. Before me, on the
rough wooden table, is the letter that Suzanne wrote me.
Dear Babes in the Wood—Dear Lunatics in Love,
I’m not surprised—not at all. All the time we’ve been talking Paris and
frocks I felt that it wasn’t a bit real—that you’d vanish into the blue some
day to be married over the tongs in the good old gipsy fashion. But you are
a couple of lunatics! This idea of renouncing a vast fortune is absurd.
Colonel Race wanted to argue the matter, but I have persuaded him to leave
the argument to time. He can administer the estate for Harry—and none
better. Because, after all, honeymoons don’t last forever—you’re not here,
Anne, so I can safely say that without having you fly out at me like a little
wild-cat—Love in the wilderness will last a good while, but one day you
will suddenly begin to dream of houses in Park Lane, sumptuous furs, Paris
frocks, the largest thing in motors and the latest thing in perambulators,
French maids and Norland nurses! Oh, yes, you will!
But have your honeymoon, dear lunatics, and let it be a long one. And
think of me sometimes, comfortably putting on weight amidst the fleshpots!

Your loving friend,
Suzanne Blair.

P.S.—I am sending you an assortment of frying-pans as a wedding
present, and an enormous terrine of pâté de foie gras to remind you of me.
There is another letter that I sometimes read. It came a good while after
the other and was accompanied by a bulky packet. It appeared to be written
from somewhere in Bolivia.
My dear Anne Beddingfeld,
I can’t resist writing to you, not so much for the pleasure it gives me to
write, as for the enormous pleasure I know it will give you to hear from me.

Our friend Race wasn’t quite as clever as he thought himself, was he?
I think I shall appoint you my literary executor. I’m sending you my
diary. There’s nothing in it that would interest Race and his crowd, but I
fancy that there are passages in it which may amuse you. Make use of it in
any way you like. I suggest an article for the Daily Budget, “Criminals I
have met.” I only stipulate that I shall be the central figure.
By this time I have no doubt that you are no longer Anne Beddingfeld,
but Lady Eardsley, queening it in Park Lane. I should just like to say that I
bear you no malice whatever. It is hard, of course, to have to begin all over
again at my time of life, but, entre nous, I had a little reserve fund carefully
put aside for such a contingency. It has come in very usefully and I am
getting together a nice little connection. By the way, if you ever come
across that funny friend of yours, Arthur Minks, just tell him that I haven’t
forgotten him, will you? That will give him a nasty jar.
On the whole I think I have displayed a most Christian and forgiving
spirit. Even to Pagett. I happened to hear that he—or rather Mrs. Pagett—
had brought a sixth child into the world the other day. England will be
entirely populated by Pagetts soon. I sent the child a silver mug, and, on a
post card, declared my willingness to act as god-father. I can see Pagett
taking both mug and post card straight to Scotland Yard without a smile on
his face!
Bless you, liquid eyes. Some day you will see what a mistake you have
made in not marrying me.

Yours ever,
Eustace Pedler.

Harry was furious. It is the one point on which he and I do not see eye to
eye. To him, Sir Eustace was the man who tried to murder me and whom he
regards as responsible for the death of his friend. Sir Eustace’s attempts on
my life have always puzzled me. They are not in the picture, so to speak.
For I am sure that he always had a genuinely kindly feeling towards me.
Then why did he twice attempt to take my life? Harry says “because he’s
a damned scoundrel,” and seems to think that settles the matter. Suzanne
was more discriminating. I talked it over with her, and she put it down to a
“fear complex.” Suzanne goes in rather for psycho-analysis. She pointed

out to me that Sir Eustace’s whole life was actuated by a desire to be safe
and comfortable. He had an acute sense of self-preservation. And the
murder of Nadina removed certain inhibitions. His actions did not represent
the state of his feeling towards me, but were the result of his acute fears for
his own safety. I think Suzanne is right. As for Nadina, she was the kind of
woman who deserved to die. Men do all sorts of questionable things in
order to get rich, but women shouldn’t pretend to be in love when they
aren’t for ulterior motives.
I can forgive Sir Eustace easily enough, but I shall never forgive Nadina.
Never, never, never!
The other day I was unpacking some tins that were wrapped in bits of an
old Daily Budget, and I suddenly came upon the words, “The Man in the
Brown Suit.” How long ago it seemed! I had, of course, severed my
connection with the Daily Budget long ago—I had done with it sooner than
it had done with me. My Romantic Wedding was given a halo of publicity.
My son is lying in the sun, kicking his legs. There’s a “man in a brown
suit” if you like. He’s wearing as little as possible, which is the best
costume for Africa, and is as brown as a berry. He’s always burrowing in
the earth. I think he takes after Papa. He’ll have that same mania for
Pleiocene clay.
Suzanne sent me a cable when he was born:
“Congratulations and love to the latest arrival on Lunatics’ Island. Is his
head dolichocephalic or brachycephalic?”
I wasn’t going to stand that from Suzanne. I sent her a reply of one word,
economical and to the point:
“Platycephalic!”

THE END

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