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Title: The Secret of Chimneys

Author: Agatha Christie

Release date: May 3, 2021 [eBook #65238]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SECRET
OF CHIMNEYS ***

AGATHA
CHRISTIE

The Secret
of Chimneys

THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS
Copyright © 1925 by Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.

To
Punkie

Contents
1 Anthony Cade Signs on 1
2 A Lady in Distress 11
3 Anxiety in High Places 20
4 Introducing a Very Charming Lady 27
5 First Night in London 33
6 The Gentle Art of Blackmail 46
7 Mr. McGrath Refuses an Invitation 57
8 A Dead Man 66
9 Anthony Disposes of a Body 74
10 Chimneys 83
11 Superintendent Battle Arrives 94
12 Anthony Tells His Story 100
13 The American Visitor 110
14 Mainly Political and Financial 116
15 The French Stranger 125
16 Tea in the Schoolroom 138
17 A Midnight Adventure 150
18 Second Midnight Adventure 159
19 Secret History 170
20 Battle and Anthony Confer 181
21 Mr. Isaacstein’s Suit-case 188
22 The Red Signal 199
23 Encounter in the Rose Garden 212
24 The House at Dover 222

25 Tuesday Night at Chimneys 230
26 The 13th of October 238
27 The 13th of October (contd.) 244
28 King Victor 254
29 Further Explanations 259
30 Anthony Signs on for a New Job 264
31 Sundry Details 271

1
Anthony Cade Signs on
“Gentleman Joe!”
“Why, if it isn’t old Jimmy McGrath.”
Castle’s Select Tour, represented by seven depressed-looking females and
three perspiring males, looked on with considerable interest. Evidently their
Mr. Cade had met an old friend. They all admired Mr. Cade so much, his
tall lean figure, his sun-tanned face, the light-hearted manner with which he
settled disputes and cajoled them all into good temper. This friend of his
now—surely rather a peculiar-looking man. About the same height as Mr.
Cade, but thickset and not nearly so good-looking. The sort of man one read
about in books, who probably kept a saloon. Interesting, though. After all,
that was what one came abroad for—to see all these peculiar things one
read about in books. Up to now, they had been rather bored with Bulawayo.
The sun was unbearably hot, the hotel was uncomfortable, there seemed to
be nowhere particular to go until the moment should arrive to motor to the
Matoppos. Very fortunately, Mr. Cade had suggested picture postcards.
There was an excellent supply of picture postcards.
Anthony Cade and his friend had stepped a little apart.
“What the hell are you doing with this pack of females?” demanded
McGrath. “Starting a harem.”
“Not with this little lot,” grinned Anthony. “Have you taken a good look at
them?”
“I have that. Thought maybe you were losing your eyesight.”
“My eyesight’s as good as ever it was. No, this is a Castle’s Select Tour. I’m
Castle—the local Castle, I mean.”
“What the hell made you take on a job like that?”
“A regrettable necessity for cash. I can assure you it doesn’t suit my
temperament.”

Jimmy grinned.
“Never a hog for regular work, were you?”
Anthony ignored this aspersion.
“However, something will turn up soon, I expect,” he remarked hopefully.
“It usually does.”
Jimmy chuckled.
“If there’s any trouble brewing, Anthony Cade is sure to be in it sooner or
later, I know that,” he said. “You’ve an absolute instinct for rows—and the
nine lives of a cat. When can we have a yarn together?”
Anthony sighed.
“I’ve got to take these cackling hens to see Rhodes’s grave.”
“That’s the stuff,” said Jimmy approvingly. “They’ll come back bumped
black and blue with the ruts in the road, and clamouring for bed to rest the
bruises on. Then you and I will have a spot or two and exchange the news.”
“Right. So long, Jimmy.”
Anthony rejoined his flock of sheep. Miss Taylor, the youngest and most
skittish of the party, instantly attacked him.
“Oh, Mr. Cade, was that an old friend of yours?”
“It was, Miss Taylor. One of the friends of my blameless youth.”
Miss Taylor giggled.
“I thought he was such an interesting-looking man.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Oh, Mr. Cade, how can you be so naughty! The very idea! What was that
name he called you?”
“Gentleman Joe?”
“Yes. Is your name Joe?”
“I thought you knew it was Anthony, Miss Taylor.”
“Oh, go on with you!” cried Miss Taylor coquettishly.

Anthony had by now well mastered his duties. In addition to making the
necessary arrangements of travel, they included soothing down irritable old
gentlemen when their dignity was ruffled, seeing that elderly matrons had
ample opportunities to buy picture postcards, and flirting with everything
under a catholic forty years of age. The last task was rendered easier for
him by the extreme readiness of the ladies in question to read a tender
meaning into his most innocent remarks.
Miss Taylor returned to the attack.
“Why does he call you Joe, then?”
“Oh, just because it isn’t my name.”
“And why Gentleman Joe?”
“The same kind of reason.”
“Oh, Mr. Cade,” protested Miss Taylor, much distressed, “I’m sure you
shouldn’t say that. Papa was only saying last night what gentlemanly
manners you had.”
“Very kind of your father, I’m sure, Miss Taylor.”
“And we are all agreed that you are quite the gentleman.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“No, really, I mean it.”
“Kind hearts are more than coronets,” said Anthony vaguely, without a
notion of what he meant by the remark, and wishing fervently it was lunch
time.
“That’s such a beautiful poem, I always think. Do you know much poetry,
Mr. Cade?”
“I might recite ‘The boy stood on the burning deck’ at a pinch. ‘The boy
stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled.’ That’s all I know,
but I can do that bit with action if you like. ‘The boy stood on the burning
deck’—whoosh—whoosh—whoosh—(the flames, you see) ‘Whence all but
he had fled’—for that bit I run to and fro like a dog.”
Miss Taylor screamed with laughter.

“Oh, do look at Mr. Cade! Isn’t he funny?”
“Time for morning tea,” said Anthony briskly. “Come this way. There is an
excellent café in the next street.”
“I presume,” said Mrs. Caldicott, in her deep voice, “that the expense is
included in the Tour?”
“Morning tea, Mrs. Caldicott,” said Anthony, assuming his professional
manner, “is an extra.”
“Disgraceful.”
“Life is full of trials, isn’t it?” said Anthony cheerfully. Mrs. Caldicott’s
eyes gleamed, and she remarked with the air of one springing a mine:
“I suspected as much, and in anticipation I poured off some tea into a jug at
breakfast this morning! I can heat that up on the spirit lamp. Come, father.”
Mr. and Mrs. Caldicott sailed off triumphantly to the hotel, the lady’s back
complacent with successful forethought.
“Oh, Lord,” muttered Anthony, “what a lot of funny people it does take to
make a world.”
He marshalled the rest of the party in the direction of the café. Miss Taylor
kept by his side, and resumed her catechism.
“Is it a long time since you saw your friend?”
“Just over seven years.”
“Was it in Africa you knew him?”
“Yes, not this part though. The first time I ever saw Jimmy McGrath, he
was all trussed up ready for the cooking pot. Some of the tribes in the
interior are cannibals, you know. We got there just in time.”
“What happened?”
“Very nice little shindy. We potted some of the beggars, and the rest took to
their heels.”
“Oh, Mr. Cade, what an adventurous life you must have led!”
“Very peaceful, I assure you.”

But it was clear that the lady did not believe him.

It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the
small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles.
“Make it strong, James,” he implored. “I can tell you, I need it.”
“I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for
anything.”
“Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.”
McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and
mixed a second one. Then he said slowly:
“Are you in earnest about that, old son?”
“About what?”
“Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?”
“Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why
don’t you grab it yourself?”
“I have grabbed it—but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass
it on to you.”
Anthony became suspicious.
“What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday
school, have they?”
“Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?”
“Not if they knew you well, certainly.”
“It’s a perfectly good job—nothing wrong with it whatsoever.”
“Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on
South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of
those little republics soon.”
McGrath grinned.

“You always were keen on revolutions—anything to be mixed up in a really
good row.”
“I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be
jolly useful in a revolution—to one side or the other. It’s better than making
an honest living any day.”
“I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t
in South America—it’s in England.”
“England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They
can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?”
“I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?”
“I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on
yourself.”
“I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony—far up in the interior.”
Anthony whistled and looked at him.
“You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your
weak spot—your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more
wild-cat trails than anyone I know.”
“And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.”
“Well, every one his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?”
Anthony looked up sharply.
“Herzoslovakia?” he said, with a curious ring in his voice.
“Yes. Know anything about it?”
There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he
said slowly:
“Only what every one knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it?
Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly
numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby,
assassinating Kings and having Revolutions. Last King, Nicholas IV.
Assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a Republic.

Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that
Herzoslovakia came into it.”
“It doesn’t except indirectly.”
Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger.
“You ought to do something about this, James,” he said. “Take a
correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the
good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and
bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.”
Jimmy pursued his course quite unmoved by these strictures.
“Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?”
“Now you’re talking,” said Anthony. “Many people who have never heard
of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch. The
Grand Old Man of the Balkans. The Greatest Statesman of Modern Times.
The biggest Villain unhung. The point of view all depends on which
newspaper you take in. But be sure of this, Count Stylptitch will be
remembered long after you and I are dust and ashes, James. Every move
and counter move in the Near East for the last twenty years has had Count
Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a patriot and a
statesman—and nobody knows exactly what he has been, except that he’s
been a perfect King of intrigue. Well, what about him?”
“He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia—that’s why I mentioned it first.”
“You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no importance
at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a birthplace and a
post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?”
“So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you
about happened some years ago.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are you telling me about?”
Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on.
“It was like this. I was in Paris—just four years ago, to be exact. I was
walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a dozen
French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I hate a one-

sided show, so I promptly butted in and proceeded to beat up the toughs. I
guess they’d never been hit really hard before. They melted like snow!”
“Good for you, James,” said Anthony softly. “I’d like to have seen that
scrap.”
“Oh, it was nothing much,” said Jimmy modestly. “But the old boy was no
end grateful. He’d had a couple, no doubt about that, but he was sober
enough to get my name and address out of me, and he came along and
thanked me next day. Did the thing in style too. It was then that I found out
it was Count Stylptitch I’d rescued. He’d got a house up by the Bois.”
Anthony nodded.
“Yes, Stylptitch went to live in Paris after the assassination of King
Nicholas. They wanted him to come back and be President later, but he
wasn’t taking any. He remained sound to his Monarchical principals, though
he was reported to have his finger in all the backstairs pies that went on in
the Balkans. Very deep, the late Count Stylptitch.”
“Nicholas IV was the man who had a funny taste in wives, wasn’t he?” said
Jimmy suddenly.
“Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some
little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris—not even suitable for a
morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her, and she was
all out for being a Queen. Sounds fantastic, but they managed it somehow.
Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something, and pretended she had
Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her in the Cathedral at
Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Arch-bishops to do the job, and she was
crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his Ministers, and I suppose he
thought that was all that mattered—but he forgot to reckon with the
populace. They’re very aristocratic and reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They
like their Kings and Queens to be the genuine article. There were
mutterings and discontent, and the usual ruthless suppressions, and the final
uprising which stormed the Palace, murdered the King and Queen, and
proclaimed a Republic. It’s been a Republic ever since—but things still
manage to be pretty lively there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a
President or two, just to keep their hand in. But revenons à nos moutons.
You had got to where Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.”

“Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to Africa and
never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I got a queer-looking
parcel which had been following me all over the place for the Lord knows
how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count Stylptitch had recently died in
Paris. Well, this parcel contained his Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or
whatever you call the things. There was a note enclosed to the effect that if I
delivered the manuscript at a certain firm of publishers in London on or
before October 13 they were instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?”
“I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in Princes or
Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing to the way the
manuscript had been following me around, I had no time to lose. It was a
pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to the interior, and I’d set my
heart on going. I shan’t get such a good chance again.”
“You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot of
mythical gold.”
“And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and
everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!”
Anthony got up and lit a cigarette.
“I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned, and
I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?”
“What do you say to a quarter?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?”
“That’s it.”
“Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would have
gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, you won’t die in your
bed counting up your bank balance.”
“Anyway, it’s a deal?”
“It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.”
They drank the toast solemnly.

2
A Lady in Distress
“So that’s that,” said Anthony, finishing off his glass and replacing it on the
table. “What boat were you going on?”
“Granarth Castle.”
“Passage booked in your name, I suppose, so I’d better travel as James
McGrath. We’ve outgrown the passport business, haven’t we?”
“No odds either way. You and I are totally unlike, but we’d probably have
the same description on one of those blinking things. Height 6 feet, hair
brown, eyes blue, nose, ordinary, chin ordinary——”
“Not so much of this ‘ordinary’ stunt. Let me tell you that Castle’s selected
me out of several applicants solely on account of my pleasing appearance
and nice manners.”
Jimmy grinned.
“I noticed your manners this morning.”
“The devil you did.”
Anthony rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly
wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.
“Jimmy,” he said at last. “Stylptitch died in Paris. What’s the point of
sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?”
Jimmy shook his head helplessly.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?”
“Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.”
“Of course,” continued Anthony, “I know that Kings and Queens and
Government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a
simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King’s Messengers and all that. In

medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of Open Sesame.
‘The King’s Ring! Pass, my Lord!’ And usually it was the other fellow who
had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the
expedient of copying the ring—making a dozen or so, and selling them at a
hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle
Ages.”
Jimmy yawned.
“My remarks on the Middle Ages don’t seem to amuse you. Let us get back
to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick
even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you
should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank
God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have
been balmy.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.
“Have you read the thing at all?” he asked suddenly.
“Read what?”
“The manuscript.”
“Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?”
Anthony smiled.
“I just wondered, that’s all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by
Memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been
closed as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble
when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of
malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met
him and talked to him, and you’re a pretty good judge of raw human nature.
Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“It’s difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and
the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful
manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn’t know where to
look.”

“And he didn’t say anything interesting when he was drunk?”
Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.
“He said he knew where the Koh-i-noor was,” he volunteered doubtfully.
“Oh, well,” said Anthony, “we all know that. They keep it in the Tower,
don’t they? Behind thick plate glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen
in fancy dress standing round to see you don’t pinch anything.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jimmy.
“Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which
city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?”
Jimmy shook his head.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the
room.
“You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?” he threw out
presently.
“Not very often,” said McGrath simply. “They’re not about anything that
interests me as a rule.”
“Thank Heaven I’m more civilized. There have been several mentions of
Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a Royalist restoration.”
“Nicholas IV didn’t leave a son,” said Jimmy. “But I don’t suppose for a
minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably shoals of
young ’uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and third cousins
once removed.”
“So that there wouldn’t be any difficulty in finding a King?”
“Not in the least, I should say,” replied Jimmy. “You know, I don’t wonder
at their getting tired of Republican institutions. A full-blooded, virile people
like that must find it awfully tame to pot at Presidents after being used to
Kings. And talking of Kings, that reminds me of something else old
Stylptitch let out that night. He said he knew the gang that was after him.
They were King Victor’s people, he said.”

“What?” Anthony wheeled round suddenly.
A slow grin widened on McGrath’s face.
“Just a mite excited, aren’t you, Gentleman Joe?” he drawled.
“Don’t be an ass, Jimmy. You’ve just said something rather important.”
He went over to the window and stood there looking out.
“Who is this King Victor, anyway?” demanded Jimmy. “Another Balkan
Monarch?”
“No,” said Anthony slowly. “He isn’t that kind of a King.”
“What is he, then?”
There was a pause, and then Anthony spoke.
“He’s a crook, Jimmy. The most notorious jewel thief in the world. A
fantastic, daring fellow, not to be daunted by anything. King Victor was the
nickname he was known by in Paris. Paris was the headquarters of his gang.
They caught him there and put him away for seven years on a minor charge.
They couldn’t prove the more important things against him. He’ll be out
soon—or he may be out already.”
“Do you think Count Stylptitch had anything to do with putting him away?
Was that why the gang went for him? Out of revenge?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony. “It doesn’t seem likely on the face of it. King
Victor never stole the Crown jewels of Herzoslovakia as far as I’ve heard.
But the whole thing seems rather suggestive, doesn’t it? The death of
Stylptitch, the Memoirs, and the rumours in the papers—all vague but
interesting. And there’s a further rumour to the effect that they’ve found oil
in Herzoslovakia. I’ve a feeling in my bones, James, that people are getting
ready to be interested in that unimportant little country.”
“What sort of people?”
“Financiers in City offices.”
“What are you driving at with all this?”
“Trying to make an easy job difficult, that’s all.”

“You can’t pretend there’s going to be any difficulty in handing over a
simple manuscript at a publisher’s office?”
“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I don’t suppose there’ll be anything
difficult about that. But shall I tell you, James, where I propose to go with
my £250?”
“South America?”
“No, my lad, Herzoslovakia. I shall stand in with the Republic, I think. Very
probably I shall end up as President.”
“Why not announce yourself as the principal Obolovitch and be a King
whilst you’re about it?”
“No, Jimmy. Kings are for life. Presidents only take on the job for four
years or so. It would quite amuse me to govern a kingdom like
Herzoslovakia for four years.”
“The average for Kings is even less, I should say,” interpolated Jimmy.
“It will probably be a serious temptation to me to embezzle your share of
the thousand pounds. You won’t want it, you know, when you get back
weighed down with nuggets. I’ll invest it for you in Herzoslovakian oil
shares. You know, James, the more I think of it, the more pleased I am with
this idea of yours. I should never have thought of Herzoslovakia if you
hadn’t mentioned it. I shall spend one day in London, collecting the booty,
and then away by the Balkan express!”
“You won’t get off quite as fast as that. I didn’t mention it before, but I’ve
got another little commission for you.”
Anthony sank into a chair and eyed him severely.
“I knew all along that you were keeping something dark. This is where the
catch comes in.”
“Not a bit. It’s just something that’s got to be done to help a lady.”
“Once and for all, James, I refuse to be mixed up in your beastly love
affairs.”
“It’s not a love affair. I’ve never seen the woman. I’ll tell you the whole
story.”

“If I’ve got to listen to more of your long, rambling stories, I shall have to
have another drink.”
His host complied hospitably with this demand, then began the tale.
“It was when I was up in Uganda. There was a Dago there whose life I had
saved——”
“If I were you, Jimmy, I should write a short book entitled ‘Lives I have
Saved.’ This is the second I’ve heard of this evening.”
“Oh, well, I didn’t really do anything this time. Just pulled the Dago out of
the river. Like all Dagos, he couldn’t swim.”
“Wait a minute, has this story anything to do with the other business?”
“Nothing whatever, though, oddly enough, now I remember it, the man was
a Herzoslovakian. We always called him Dutch Pedro though.”
Anthony nodded indifferently.
“Any name’s good enough for a Dago,” he remarked. “Get on with the good
work, James.”
“Well, the fellow was sort of grateful about it. Hung around like a dog.
About six months later he died of fever. I was with him. Last thing, just as
he was pegging out, he beckoned me and whispered some excited jargon
about a secret—a gold mine, I thought he said. Shoved an oilskin packet
into my hand which he’d always worn next his skin. Well, I didn’t think
much of it at the time. It wasn’t until a week afterwards that I opened the
packet. Then I was curious, I must confess. I shouldn’t have thought that
Dutch Pedro would have had the sense to know a gold mine when he saw it
—but there’s no accounting for luck——”
“And at the mere thought of gold, your heart beat pitter-pat as always,”
interrupted Anthony.
“I was never so disgusted in my life. Gold mine, indeed! I daresay it may
have been a gold mine to him, the dirty dog. Do you know what it was? A
woman’s letters—yes, a woman’s letters, and an Englishwoman at that. The
skunk had been blackmailing her—and he had the impudence to pass on his
dirty bag of tricks to me.”

“I like to see your righteous heat, James, but let me point out to you that
Dagos will be Dagos. He meant well. You had saved his life, he bequeathed
to you a profitable source of raising money—your high-minded British
ideals did not enter his horizon.”
“Well, what the hell was I to do with the things? Burn ’em, that’s what I
thought at first. And then it occurred to me that there would be that poor
dame, not knowing they’d be destroyed, and always living in a quake and a
dread lest that Dago should turn up again one day.”
“You’ve more imagination than I gave you credit for, Jimmy,” observed
Anthony, lighting a cigarette. “I admit that the case presented more
difficulties than were at first apparent. What about just sending them to her
by post?”
“Like all women, she’d put no date and no address on most of the letters.
There was a kind of address on one—just one word. Chimneys.”
Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it with
a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.
“Chimneys?” he said. “That’s rather extraordinary.”
“Why, do you know it?”
“It’s one of the stately homes of England, my dear James. A place where
Kings and Queens go for weekends, and diplomatists forgather and
diplome.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I’m so glad that you’re going to England
instead of me. You know all these things,” said Jimmy simply. “A josser
like myself from the backwoods of Canada would be making all sorts of
bloomers. But some one like you who’s been to Eton and Harrow——”
“Only one of them,” said Anthony modestly.
“Will be able to carry it through. Why didn’t I send them to her, you say?
Well, it seemed to me dangerous. From what I could make out, she seemed
to have a jealous husband. Suppose he opened the letter by mistake. Where
would the poor dame be then? Or she might be dead—the letters looked as
though they’d been written some time. As I figured it out, the only thing
was for some one to take them to England and put them into her own
hands.”

Anthony threw away his cigarette, and coming across to his friend clapped
him affectionately on the back.
“You’re a real knight-errant, Jimmy,” he said. “And the backwoods of
Canada should be proud of you. I shan’t do the job half as prettily as you
would.”
“You’ll take it on then?”
“Of course.”
McGrath rose, and going across to a drawer took out a bundle of letters and
threw them on the table.
“Here you are. You’d better have a look at them.”
“Is it necessary? On the whole, I’d rather not.”
“Well, from what you say about this Chimneys place, she may have been
staying there only. We’d better look through the letters and see if there’s any
clue as to where she really hangs out.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
They went through the letters carefully, but without finding what they had
hoped to find. Anthony gathered them up again thoughtfully.
“Poor little devil,” he remarked. “She was scared stiff.”
Jimmy nodded.
“Do you think you’ll be able to find her all right?” he asked anxiously.
“I won’t leave England till I have. You’re very concerned about this
unknown lady, James?”
Jimmy ran his finger thoughtfully over the signature.
“It’s a pretty name,” he said apologetically. “Virginia Revel.”

3
Anxiety in High Places
“Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so,” said Lord Caterham.
He had used the same words three times already, each time in the hope that
they would end the interview and permit him to escape. He disliked very
much being forced to stand on the steps of the exclusive London club to
which he belonged and listen to the interminable eloquence of the Hon.
George Lomax.
Clement Edward Alistair Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham, was a small
gentleman, shabbily dressed, and entirely unlike the popular conception of a
Marquis. He had faded blue eyes, a thin melancholy nose, and a vague but
courteous manner.
The principal misfortune of Lord Caterham’s life was to have succeeded his
brother, the eighth Marquis, four years ago. For the previous Lord Caterham
had been a man of mark, a household word all over England. At one time
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he had always bulked largely in the
counsels of the Empire, and his country seat, Chimneys, was famous for its
hospitality. Ably seconded by his wife, a daughter of the Duke of Perth,
history had been made and unmade at informal week-end parties at
Chimneys, and there was hardly anyone of note in England—or indeed in
Europe—who had not, at one time or another, stayed there.
That was all very well. The ninth Marquis of Caterham had the utmost
respect and esteem for the memory of his brother. Henry had done that kind
of thing magnificently. What Lord Caterham objected to was the
assumption that he was bound to follow in his brother’s footsteps, and that
Chimneys was a National possession rather than a private country house.
There was nothing that bored Lord Caterham more than politics—unless it
was politicians. Hence his impatience under the continued eloquence of
George Lomax. A robust man, George Lomax, inclined to embonpoint, with
a red face and protuberant eyes, and an immense sense of his own
importance.

“You see the point, Caterham? We can’t—we simply can’t afford a scandal
of any kind just now. The position is one of the utmost delicacy.”
“It always is,” said Lord Caterham, with a flavour of irony.
“My dear fellow, I’m in a position to know!”
“Oh, quite so, quite so,” said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous
line of defence.
“One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most
important that the Oil concessions should be granted to a British company.
You must see that?”
“Of course, of course.”
“Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole
thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting
party.”
“I was thinking of going abroad this week,” said Lord Caterham.
“Nonsense, my dear Caterham, no one goes abroad in early October.”
“My doctor seems to think I’m in rather a bad way,” said Lord Caterham,
eyeing a taxi that was crawling past with longing eyes.
He was quite unable to make a dash for liberty, however, since Lomax had
the unpleasant habit of retaining a hold upon a person with whom he was
engaged in serious conversation—doubtless the result of long experience.
In this case, he had a firm grip of the lapel of Lord Caterham’s coat.
“My dear man, I put it to you imperially. In a moment of national crisis,
such as is fast approaching——”
Lord Caterham wriggled uneasily. He felt suddenly that he would rather
give any number of house parties than listen to George Lomax quoting from
one of his own speeches. He knew by experience that Lomax was quite
capable of going on for twenty minutes without a stop.
“All right,” he said hastily, “I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I
suppose.”
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its
historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than

seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member
of the house party.”
“Of course not,” agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not
do, and was not interested to learn.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful
to run messages.”
“Delighted,” said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. “Bill’s
quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.”
“The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it
were.”
Lord Caterham looked depressed again.
“That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman
Isaacstein——”
“Who?”
“Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you
about.”
“The all British syndicate?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing—nothing—I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these
people have.”
“Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders—just to give the
thing a bona fide appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that—young people,
uncritical, and with no idea of politics.”
“Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.”
“I wonder now.” Lomax seemed struck by an idea.
“You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?”
“You’ve been speaking about so many things.”
“No, no, I mean this unfortunate contretemps”—— he lowered his voice to
a mysterious whisper—“the memoirs—Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.”

“I think you’re wrong about that,” said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn.
“People like scandal. Damn it all, I read Reminiscences myself—and enjoy
’em too.”
“The point is not whether people will read them or not—they’ll read them
fast enough—but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything—
everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the Monarchy, and
are prepared to offer the Crown to Prince Michael who has the support and
encouragement of His Majesty’s Government——”
“And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr. Ikey Hermanstein & Co.
in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne——”
“Caterham, Caterham,” implored Lomax in an agonized whisper.
“Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.”
“And the point is,” continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he
lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, “that some of
Stylptitch’s Reminiscences may upset the apple cart. Tyranny and
misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in
the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of
Government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the blood-sucking
Capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing—eh?”
Lomax nodded.
“And there might be worse still,” he breathed. “Suppose—only suppose that
some reference should be made to—to that unfortunate disappearance—you
know what I mean.”
Lord Caterham stared at him.
“No, I don’t. What disappearance?”
“You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at
Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his career.”
“You interest me enormously,” said Lord Caterham. “Who or what
disappeared?”
Lomax leant forward and put his mouth to Lord Caterham’s ear. The latter
withdrew it hastily.
“For God’s sake, don’t hiss at me.”

“You heard what I said?”
“Yes, I did,” said Lord Caterham reluctantly. “I remember now hearing
something about it at the time. Very curious affair. I wonder who did it. It
was never recovered?”
“Never. Of course we had to go about the matter with the utmost discretion.
No hint of the loss could be allowed to leak out. But Stylptitch was there at
the time. He knew something. Not all, but something. We were at
loggerheads with him once or twice over the Turkish question. Suppose that
in sheer malice he has set the whole thing down for the world to read. Think
of the scandal—of the far-reaching results. Every one would say—why was
it hushed up?”
“Of course they would,” said Lord Caterham, with evident enjoyment.
Lomax, whose voice had risen to a high pitch, took a grip on himself.
“I must keep calm,” he murmured. “I must keep calm. But I ask you this,
my dear fellow. If he didn’t mean mischief, why did he send the manuscript
to London in this roundabout way?”
“It’s odd, certainly. You are sure of your facts?”
“Absolutely. We—er—had our agents in Paris. The Memoirs were
conveyed away secretly some weeks before his death.”
“Yes, it looks as though there’s something in it,” said Lord Caterham, with
the same relish he had displayed before.
“We have found out that they were sent to a man called Jimmy, or James,
McGrath, a Canadian at present in Africa.”
“Quite an Imperial affair, isn’t it?” said Lord Caterham cheerily.
“James McGrath is due to arrive by the Granarth Castle to-morrow—
Thursday.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“We shall, of course, approach him at once, point out the possibly serious
consequences, and beg him to defer publication of the Memoirs for at least
a month, and in any case to permit them to be judiciously—er—edited.”

“Supposing that he says ‘No, sir,’ or ‘I’ll goddarned well see you in hell
first,’ or something bright and breezy like that?” suggested Lord Caterham.
“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Lomax simply. “That’s why it
suddenly occurred to me that it might be a good thing to ask him down to
Chimneys as well. He’d be flattered, naturally, at being asked to meet
Prince Michael, and it might be easier to handle him.”
“I’m not going to do it,” said Lord Caterham hastily. “I don’t get on with
Canadians, never did—especially those that have lived much in Africa!”
“You’d probably find him a splendid fellow—a rough diamond, you know.”
“No, Lomax. I put my foot down there absolutely. Somebody else has got to
tackle him.”
“It has occurred to me,” said Lomax, “that a woman might be very useful
here. Told enough and not too much, you understand. A woman could
handle the whole thing delicately and with tact—put the position before
him, as it were, without getting his back up. Not that I approve of women in
politics—St. Stephen’s is ruined, absolutely ruined, nowadays. But woman
in her own sphere can do wonders. Look at Henry’s wife and what she did
for him. Marcia was magnificent, unique, a perfect political hostess.”
“You don’t want me to ask Marcia down for this party, do you?” asked Lord
Caterham faintly, turning a little pale at the mention of his redoubtable
sister-in-law.
“No, no, you misunderstand me. I was speaking of the influence of women
in general. No, I suggest a young woman, a woman of charm, beauty,
intelligence?”
“Not Bundle? Bundle would be no use at all. She’s a red-hot socialist if
she’s anything at all, and she’d simply scream with laughter at the
suggestion.”
“I was not thinking of Lady Eileen. Your daughter, Caterham, is charming,
simply charming, but quite a child. We need some one with savoir faire,
poise, knowledge of the world—— Ah, of course, the very person. My
cousin Virginia.”
“Mrs. Revel?” Lord Caterham brightened up. He began to feel that he might
possibly enjoy the party after all. “A very good suggestion of yours, Lomax.

The most charming woman in London.”
“She is well up in Herzoslovakian affairs too. Her husband was at the
Embassy there, you remember. And, as you say, a woman of great personal
charm.”
“A delightful creature,” murmured Lord Caterham.
“That is settled, then.”
Mr. Lomax relaxed his hold on Lord Caterham’s lapel, and the latter was
quick to avail himself of the chance.
“Bye-bye, Lomax, you’ll make all the arrangements, won’t you.”
He dived into a taxi. As far as it is possible for one upright Christian
gentleman to dislike another upright Christian gentleman, Lord Caterham
disliked the Hon. George Lomax. He disliked his puffy red face, his heavy
breathing, and his prominent blue eyes. He thought of the coming week and
sighed. A nuisance, an abominable nuisance. Then he thought of Virginia
Revel and cheered up a little.
“A delightful creature,” he murmured to himself. “A most delightful
creature.”

4
Introducing a Very Charming Lady
George Lomax returned straightway to Whitehall. As he entered the
sumptuous apartment in which he transacted affairs of State, there was a
scuffling sound.
Mr. Bill Eversleigh was assiduously filing letters, but a large arm-chair near
the window was still warm from contact with a human form.
A very likeable young man, Bill Eversleigh. Age at a guess, twenty-five, big
and rather ungainly in his movements, a pleasurably ugly face, a splendid
set of white teeth and a pair of honest brown eyes.
“Richardson sent up that report yet?”
“No, sir. Shall I get on to him about it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Any telephone messages?”
“Miss Oscar is dealing with most of them. Mr. Isaacstein wants to know if
you can dine with him at the Savoy to-morrow.”
“Tell Miss Oscar to look in my engagement-book. If I’m not engaged, she
can ring up and accept.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By the way, Eversleigh, you might ring up a number for me now. Look it
up in the book. Mrs. Revel, 487, Pont Street.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bill seized the telephone-book, ran an unseeing eye down a column of M’s,
shut the book with a bang and moved to the instrument on the desk. With
his hand upon it, he paused, as though in sudden recollection.
“Oh, I say, sir, I’ve just remembered. Her line’s out of order. Mrs. Revel’s, I
mean. I was trying to ring her up just now.”
George Lomax frowned.

“Annoying,” he said, “distinctly annoying.” He tapped the table
undecidedly.
“If it’s anything important, sir, perhaps I might go round there now in a taxi.
She’s sure to be in at this time in the morning.”
George Lomax hesitated, pondering the matter. Bill waited expectantly,
poised for instant flight, should the reply be favourable.
“Perhaps that would be the best plan,” said Lomax at last. “Very well, then,
take a taxi there, and ask Mrs. Revel if she will be at home this afternoon at
four o’clock as I am very anxious to see her about an important matter.”
“Right, sir.”
Bill seized his hat and departed.
Ten minutes later, a taxi deposited him at 487, Pont Street. He rang the bell
and executed a loud rat-tat on the knocker. The door was opened by a grave
functionary to whom Bill nodded with the ease of long acquaintance.
“Morning, Chilvers, Mrs. Revel in?”
“I believe, sir, that she is just going out.”
“Is that you, Bill?” called a voice over the banisters. “I thought I recognized
that muscular knock. Come up and talk to me.”
Bill looked up at the face that was laughing down on him, and which was
always inclined to reduce him—and not him alone—to a state of babbling
incoherency. He took the stairs two at a time and clasped Virginia Revel’s
out-stretched hands tightly in his.
“Hullo, Virginia!”
“Hullo, Bill!”
Charm is a very peculiar thing; hundreds of young women, some of them
more beautiful than Virginia Revel, might have said “Hullo, Bill,” with
exactly the same intonation, and yet have produced no effect whatever. But
those two simple words, uttered by Virginia, had the most intoxicating
effect upon Bill.
Virginia Revel was just twenty-seven. She was tall and of an exquisite
slimness—indeed, a poem might have been written to her slimness, it was

so exquisitely proportioned. Her hair was of real bronze, with the greenish
tint in its gold; she had a determined little chin, a lovely nose, slanting blue
eyes that showed a gleam of deepest cornflower between the half-closed
lids, and a delicious and quite indescribable mouth that tilted ever so
slightly at one corner in what is known as “the signature of Venus.” It was a
wonderfully expressive face, and there was a sort of radiant vitality about
her that always challenged attention. It would have been quite impossible
ever to ignore Virginia Revel.
She drew Bill into the small drawing-room which was all pale and mauve
and green and yellow, like crocuses surprised in a meadow.
“Bill, darling,” said Virginia, “isn’t the Foreign Office missing you? I
thought they couldn’t get on without you.”
“I’ve brought a message for you from Codders.”
Thus irreverently did Bill allude to his chief.
“And by the way, Virginia, in case he asks, remember that your telephone
was out of order this morning.”
“But it hasn’t been.”
“I know that. But I said it was.”
“Why? Enlighten me as to this Foreign Office touch.”
Bill threw her a reproachful glance.
“So that I could get here and see you, of course.”
“Oh, darling Bill, how dense of me! And how perfectly sweet of you!”
“Chilvers said you were going out.”
“So I was—to Sloane Street. There’s a place there where they’ve got a
perfectly wonderful new hip band.”
“A hip band?”
“Yes, Bill, H.I.P. hip, B.A.N.D. band. A band to confine the hips. You wear
it next the skin.”
“I blush for you, Virginia. You shouldn’t describe your underwear to a
young man to whom you are not related. It isn’t delicate.”

“But, Bill dear, there’s nothing indelicate about hips. We’ve all got hips—
although we poor women are trying awfully hard to pretend we haven’t.
This hip band is made of red rubber and comes just to above the knee, and
it’s simply impossible to walk in it.”
“How awful!” said Bill. “Why do you do it?”
“Oh, because it gives one such a noble feeling to suffer for one’s silhouette.
But don’t let’s talk about my hip band. Give me George’s message.”
“He wants to know whether you’ll be in at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“I shan’t. I shall be at Ranelagh. Why this sort of formal call? Is he going to
propose to me, do you think?”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Because, if so, you can tell him that I much prefer men who propose on
impulse.”
“Like me?”
“It’s not an impulse with you, Bill. It’s habit.”
“Virginia, won’t you ever——”
“No, no, no, Bill. I won’t have it in the morning before lunch. Do try and
think of me as a nice motherly person approaching middle age who has
your interests thoroughly at heart.”
“Virginia, I do love you so.”
“I know, Bill, I know. And I simply love being loved. Isn’t it wicked and
dreadful of me? I should like every nice man in the world to be in love with
me.”
“Most of them are, I expect,” said Bill gloomily.
“But I hope George isn’t in love with me. I don’t think he can be. He’s so
wedded to his career. What else did he say?”
“Just that it was very important.”
“Bill, I’m getting intrigued. The things that George thinks important are so
awfully limited. I think I must chuck Ranelagh. After all, I can go to

Ranelagh any day. Tell George that I shall be awaiting him meekly at four
o’clock.”
Bill looked at his wrist watch.
“It seems hardly worth while to go back before lunch. Come out and chew
something, Virginia.”
“I’m going out to lunch somewhere or other.”
“That doesn’t matter. Make a day of it, and chuck everything all round.”
“It would be rather nice,” said Virginia, smiling at him.
“Virginia, you’re a darling. Tell me, you do like me rather, don’t you?
Better than other people.”
“Bill, I adore you. If I had to marry some one—simply had to—I mean if it
was in a book and a wicked mandarin said to me ‘Marry some one or die by
slow torture,’ I should choose you at once—I should indeed. I should say,
‘Give me little Bill.’”
“Well, then——”
“Yes, but I haven’t got to marry any one. I love being a wicked widow.”
“You could do all the same things still. Go about, and all that. You’d hardly
notice me about the house.”
“Bill, you don’t understand. I’m the kind of person who marries
enthusiastically if they marry at all.”
Bill gave a hollow groan.
“I shall shoot myself one of these days, I expect,” he murmured gloomily.
“No, you won’t, Bill darling. You’ll take a pretty girl out to supper—like
you did the night before last.”
Mr. Eversleigh was momentarily confused.
“If you mean Dorothy Kirkpatrick, the girl who’s in Hooks and Eyes, I—
well, dash it all, she’s a thoroughly nice girl, straight as they make ’em.
There was no harm in it.”
“Bill, darling, of course there wasn’t. I love you to enjoy yourself. But don’t
pretend to be dying of a broken heart, that’s all.”

Mr. Eversleigh recovered his dignity.
“You don’t understand at all, Virginia,” he said severely. “Men——”
“Are polygamous! I know they are. Sometimes I have a shrewd suspicion
that I am polyandrous. If you really love me, Bill, take me out to lunch
quickly.”

5
First Night in London
There is often a flaw in the best-laid plans. George Lomax had made one
mistake—there was a weak spot in his preparations. The weak spot was
Bill.
Bill Eversleigh was an extremely nice lad. He was a good cricketer and a
scratch golfer, he had pleasant manners, and an amiable disposition, but his
position in the Foreign Office had been gained, not by brains, but by good
connections. For the work he had to do he was quite suitable. He was more
or less George’s dog. He did no responsible or brainy work. His part was to
be constantly at George’s elbow, to interview unimportant people whom
George didn’t want to see, to run errands, and generally to make himself
useful. All this Bill carried out faithfully enough. When George was absent,
Bill stretched himself out in the biggest chair and read the sporting news,
and in so doing he was merely carrying out a time-honoured tradition.
Being accustomed to send Bill on errands, George had dispatched him to
the Union Castle offices to find out when the Granarth Castle was due in.
Now, in common with most well-educated young Englishmen, Bill had a
pleasant, but quite inaudible voice. Any elocution master would have found
fault with his pronunciation of the word Granarth. It might have been
anything. The Clerk took it to be Carnfrae. The Carnfrae Castle was due in
on the following Thursday. He said so. Bill thanked him and went out.
George Lomax accepted the information and laid his plans accordingly. He
knew nothing about Union Castle liners, and took it for granted that James
McGrath would duly arrive on Thursday.
Therefore, at the moment he was buttonholing Lord Caterham on the steps
of the club on Wednesday morning, he would have been greatly surprised to
learn that the Granarth Castle had docked at Southampton the preceding
afternoon.
At two o’clock that afternoon Anthony Cade, travelling under the name of
Jimmy McGrath, stepped out of the boat train at Waterloo, hailed a taxi, and
after a moment’s hesitation ordered the driver to proceed to the Blitz Hotel.

“One might as well be comfortable,” said Anthony to himself, as he looked
with some interest out of the taxi windows.
It was exactly fourteen years since he had been in London.
He arrived at the hotel, booked a room, and then went for a short stroll
along the Embankment. It was rather pleasant to be back in London again.
Everything was changed of course. There had been a little restaurant there
—just past Blackfriars Bridge—where he had dined fairly often, in
company with other earnest lads. He had been a Socialist then, and worn a
flowing red tie. Young—very young.
He retraced his steps back to the Blitz. Just as he was crossing the road, a
man jostled against him, nearly making him lose his balance. They both
recovered themselves, and the man muttered an apology, his eyes scanning
Anthony’s face narrowly. He was a short, thickset man of the working
classes, with something foreign in his appearance.
Anthony went on into the hotel, wondering, as he did so, what had inspired
that searching glance. Nothing in it probably. The deep tan of his face was
somewhat unusual looking amongst these pallid Londoners and it had
attracted the fellow’s attention. He went up to his room and, led by a sudden
impulse, crossed to the looking-glass and stood studying his face in it. Of
the few friends of the old days—just a chosen few—was it likely that any of
them would recognize him now if they were to meet him face to face? He
shook his head slowly.
When he had left London he had been just eighteen—a fair, slightly chubby
boy, with a misleading seraphic expression. Small chance that the boy
would be recognized in the lean, brown-faced man with the quizzical
expression.
The telephone beside the bed rang, and Anthony crossed to the receiver.
“Hullo!”
The voice of the desk clerk answered him.
“Mr. James McGrath?”
“Speaking.”
“A gentleman has called to see you.”

Anthony was rather astonished.
“To see me?”
“Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.”
“What’s his name?”
There was a slight pause, and then the clerk said:
“I will send up a page boy with his card.”
Anthony replaced the receiver and waited. In a few minutes there was a
knock on the door and a small page appeared bearing a card upon a salver.
Anthony took it. The following was the name engraved upon it:
Baron Lolopretjzyl.
He now fully appreciated the desk clerk’s pause.
For a moment or two he stood studying the card, and then made up his
mind.
“Show the gentleman up.”
“Very good, sir.”
In a few minutes the Baron Lolopretjzyl was ushered into the room, a big
man with an immense fan-like black beard and a high, bald forehead.
He brought his heels together with a click, and bowed.
“Mr. McGrath,” he said.
Anthony imitated his movements as nearly as possible.
“Baron,” he said. Then, drawing forward a chair. “Pray sit down. I have not,
I think, had the pleasure of meeting you before?”
“That is so,” agreed the Baron, seating himself. “It is my misfortune,” he
added politely.
“And mine also,” responded Anthony, on the same note.
“Let us now to business come,” said the Baron. “I represent in London the
Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia.”
“And represent it admirably, I am sure,” murmured Anthony.

The Baron bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment.
“You are too kind,” he said stiffly. “Mr. McGrath, I will not from you
conceal anything. The moment has come for the Restoration of the
Monarchy, in abeyance since the martyrdom of His Most Gracious Majesty
King Nicolas IV of blessed memory.”
“Amen,” murmured Anthony. “I mean Hear, Hear.”
“On the throne will be placed His Highness Prince Michael who the support
of the British Government has.”
“Splendid,” said Anthony. “It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.”
“Everything arranged is—when you come here to trouble make.”
The Baron fixed him with a stern eye.
“My dear Baron,” protested Anthony.
“Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You have with you the Memoirs
of the late Count Stylptitch.”
He fixed Anthony with an accusing eye.
“And if I have? What have the Memoirs of Count Stylptitch to do with
Prince Michael?”
“They will cause scandals.”
“Most memoirs do that,” said Anthony soothingly.
“Of many secrets he the knowledge had. Should he reveal but the quarter of
them, Europe into war plunged may be.”
“Come, come,” said Anthony. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“An unfavourable opinion of the Obolovitch will abroad be spread. So
democratic is the English spirit.”
“I can quite believe,” said Anthony, “that the Obolovitch may have been a
trifle high-handed now and again. It runs in the blood. But people in
England expect that sort of thing from the Balkans. I don’t know why they
should, but they do.”
“You do not understand,” said the Baron. “You do not understand at all.
And my lips sealed are.” He sighed.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” asked Anthony.
“Until I have read the Memoirs I do not know,” explained the Baron simply.
“But there is sure to be something. These great diplomats are always
indiscreet. The apple cart upset will be, as the saying goes.”
“Look here,” said Anthony kindly. “I’m sure you’re taking altogether too
pessimistic a view of the thing. I know all about publishers—they sit on
manuscripts and hatch ’em like eggs. It will be at least a year before the
thing is published.”
“Either a very deceitful or a very simple young man you are. All is arranged
for the Memoirs in a Sunday newspaper to come out immediately.”
“Oh!” Anthony was somewhat taken aback. “But you can always deny
everything,” he said hopefully.
The Baron shook his head sadly.
“No, no, through the hat you talk. Let us to business come. One thousand
pounds you are to have, is it not so? You see, I have the good information
got.”
“I certainly congratulate the Intelligence Department of the Loyalists.”
“Then I to you offer fifteen hundred.”
Anthony stared at him in amazement, then shook his head ruefully.
“I’m afraid it can’t be done,” he said, with regret.
“Good. I to you offer two thousand.”
“You tempt me, Baron, you tempt me. But I still say it can’t be done.”
“Your own price name, then.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand the position. I’m perfectly willing to
believe that you are on the side of the angels, and that these Memoirs may
damage your cause. Nevertheless, I’ve undertaken the job, and I’ve got to
carry it through. See? I can’t allow myself to be bought off by the other
side. That kind of thing isn’t done.”
The Baron listened very attentively. At the end of Anthony’s speech he
nodded his head several times.

“I see. Your honour as an English gentleman it is?”
“Well, we don’t put it that way ourselves,” said Anthony. “But I dare say,
allowing for a difference in vocabulary, that we both mean much the same
thing.”
The Baron rose to his feet.
“For the English honour I much respect have,” he announced. “We must
another way try. I wish you good morning.”
He drew his heels together, clicked, bowed and marched out of the room,
holding himself stiffly erect.
“Now I wonder what he meant by that,” mused Anthony. “Was it a threat?
Not that I’m in the least afraid of old Lollipop. Rather a good name for him,
that, by the way. I shall call him Baron Lollipop.”
He took a turn or two up and down the room, undecided on his next course
of action. The date stipulated upon for delivering the manuscript was a little
over a week ahead. To-day was the 5th of October. Anthony had no
intention of handing it over before the last moment. Truth to tell, he was by
now feverishly anxious to read these Memoirs. He had meant to do so on
the boat coming over, but had been laid low with a touch of fever, and not at
all in the mood for deciphering crabbed and illegible handwriting, for none
of the manuscript was typed. He was now more than ever determined to see
what all the fuss was about.
There was the other job too.
On an impulse, he picked up the telephone book and looked up the name of
Revel. There were six Revels in the book: Edward Henry Revel, surgeon, of
Harley Street; James Revel & Co., saddlers; Lennox Revel of Abbotbury
Mansions, Hampstead; Miss Mary Revel with an address in Ealing; Hon.
Mrs. Timothy Revel of 487, Pont Street; and Mrs. Willis Revel of 42,
Cadogan Square. Eliminating the saddlers and Miss Mary Revel, that gave
him four names to investigate—and there was no reason to suppose that the
lady lived in London at all! He shut up the book with a short shake of the
head.
“For the moment I’ll leave it to chance,” he said. “Something usually turns
up.”

The luck of the Anthony Cades of this world is perhaps in some measure
due to their own belief in it. Anthony found what he was after not half an
hour later, when he was turning over the pages of an illustrated paper. It was
a representation of some tableau organized by the Duchess of Perth. Below
the central figure, a woman in Eastern dress, was the inscription:
“The Hon. Mrs. Timothy Revel as Cleopatra. Before her marriage, Mrs.
Revel was the Hon. Virginia Cawthron, a daughter of Lord Edgbaston.”
Anthony looked at the picture some time, slowly pursing up his lips, as
though to whistle. Then he tore out the whole page, folded it up and put it in
his pocket. He went upstairs again, unlocked his suit-case and took out the
packet of letters. He took out the folded page from his pocket and slipped it
under the string that held them together.
Then, at a sudden sound behind him, he wheeled round sharply. A man was
standing in the doorway, the kind of man whom Anthony had fondly
imagined existed only in the chorus of a Comic Opera. A sinister-looking
figure, with a squat brutal head and lips drawn back in an evil grin.
“What the devil are you doing here?” asked Anthony. “And who let you
come up?”
“I pass where I please,” said the stranger. His voice was guttural and
foreign, though his English was idiomatic enough.
“Another Dago,” thought Anthony.
“Well, get out, do you hear?” he went on aloud.
The man’s eyes were fixed on the packet of letters which Anthony had
caught up.
“I will get out when you have given me what I have come for.”
“And what’s that, may I ask?”
The man took a step nearer.
“The Memoirs of Count Stylptitch,” he hissed.
“It’s impossible to take you seriously,” said Anthony. “You’re so completely
the stage villain. I like your get up very much. Who sent you here? Baron
Lollipop?”

“Baron——?” The man jerked out a string of harsh-sounding consonants.
“So that’s how you pronounce it, is it? A cross between gargling and
barking like a dog. I don’t think I could say it myself—my throat’s not
made that way. I shall have to go on calling him Lollipop. So he sent you,
did he?”
But he received a vehement negative. His visitor went so far as to spit upon
the suggestion in a very realistic manner. Then he drew from his pocket a
sheet of paper which he threw upon the table.
“Look,” he said. “Look and tremble, accursed Englishman.”
Anthony looked with some interest, not troubling to fulfil the latter part of
the command. On the paper was traced the crude design of a human hand in
red.
“It looks like a hand,” he remarked. “But, if you say so, I’m quite prepared
to admit that it’s a cubist picture of Sunset at the North Pole.”
“It is the sign of the Comrades of the Red Hand. I am a Comrade of the Red
Hand.”
“You don’t say so,” said Anthony, looking at him with much interest. “Are
the others all like you? I don’t know what the Eugenic Society would have
to say about it.”
The man snarled angrily.
“Dog,” he said. “Worse than dog. Paid slave of an effete monarchy. Give
me the Memoirs, and you shall go unscathed. Such is the clemency of the
Brotherhood.”
“It’s very kind of them, I’m sure,” said Anthony, “but I’m afraid that both
they and you are labouring under a misapprehension. My instructions are to
deliver the manuscript—not to your amiable Society, but to a certain firm of
publishers.”
“Pah!” laughed the other. “Do you think you will ever be permitted to reach
that office alive? Enough of this fool’s talk. Hand over the papers, or I
shoot.”
He drew a revolver from his pocket and brandished it in the air.

But there he misjudged his Anthony Cade. He was not used to men who
could act as quickly—or quicker than they could think. Anthony did not
wait to be covered by the revolver. Almost as soon as the other got it out of
his pocket, Anthony had sprung forward and knocked it out of his hand. The
force of the blow sent the man swinging round, so that he presented his
back to his assailant.
The chance was too good to be missed. With one mighty, well-directed
kick, Anthony sent the man flying through the doorway into the corridor,
where he collapsed in a heap.
Anthony stepped out after him, but the doughty Comrade of the Red Hand
had had enough. He got nimbly to his feet and fled down the passage.
Anthony did not pursue him, but went back into his own room.
“So much for the Comrades of the Red Hand,” he remarked. “Picturesque
appearance, but easily routed by direct action. How the hell did that fellow
get in, I wonder? There’s one thing that stands out pretty clearly—this isn’t
going to be quite such a soft job as I thought. I’ve already fallen foul of
both the Loyalist and the Revolutionary parties. Soon, I suppose, the
Nationalists and the Independent Liberals will be sending up a delegation.
One thing’s fixed. I start on that manuscript to-night.”
Looking at his watch, Anthony discovered that it was nearly nine o’clock,
and he decided to dine where he was. He did not anticipate any more
surprise visits, but he felt that it was up to him to be on his guard. He had
no intention of allowing his suit-case to be rifled whilst he was downstairs
in the Grill Room. He rang the bell and asked for the Menu, selected a
couple of dishes and ordered a bottle of Bordeaux. The waiter took the
order and withdrew.
Whilst he was waiting for the meal to arrive, he got out the package of
manuscript and put it on the table with the letters.
There was a knock at the door, and the waiter entered with a small table and
the accessories of the meal. Anthony had strolled over to the mantelpiece.
Standing there with his back to the room, he was directly facing the mirror,
and idly glancing in it he noticed a curious thing.
The waiter’s eyes were glued on the parcel of manuscript. Shooting little
glances sideways at Anthony’s immovable back, he moved softly round the

table. His hands were twitching, and he kept passing his tongue over his dry
lips. Anthony observed him more closely. He was a tall man, supple like all
waiters, with a clean-shaven, mobile face. An Italian, Anthony thought, not
a Frenchman.
At the critical moment Anthony wheeled round abruptly. The waiter started
slightly, but pretended to be doing something with the salt cellar.
“What’s your name?” asked Anthony abruptly.
“Giuseppe, Monsieur.”
“Italian, eh?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
Anthony spoke to him in that language, and the man answered fluently
enough. Finally Anthony dismissed him with a nod, but all the while he was
eating the excellent meal which Giuseppe served to him, he was thinking
rapidly.
Had he been mistaken? Was Giuseppe’s interest in the parcel just ordinary
curiosity? It might be so, but remembering the feverish intensity of the
man’s excitement, Anthony decided against that theory. All the same, he
was puzzled.
“Dash it all,” said Anthony to himself, “every one can’t be after the blasted
manuscript. Perhaps I’m fancying things.”
Dinner concluded and cleared away, he applied himself to the perusal of the
Memoirs. Owing to the illegibility of the late Count’s handwriting, the
business was a slow one. Anthony’s yawns succeeded one another with
suspicious rapidity. At the end of the fourth chapter, he gave it up.
So far, he had found the Memoirs insufferably dull, with no hint of scandal
of any kind.
He gathered up the letters and the wrapping of the manuscript which were
lying in a heap together on the table and locked them up in the suit-case.
Then he locked the door, and as an additional precaution put a chair against
it. On the chair he placed the water-bottle from the bathroom.
Surveying these preparations with some pride, he undressed and got into
bed. He had one more shot at the Count’s Memoirs, but felt his eyelids

drooping, and stuffing the manuscript under his pillow, he switched out the
light and fell asleep almost immediately.
It must have been some four hours later that he awoke with a start. What
had awakened him he did not know—perhaps a sound, perhaps only the
consciousness of danger which in men who have led an adventurous life is
very fully developed.
For a moment he lay quite still, trying to focus his impressions. He could
hear a very stealthy rustle, and then he became aware of a denser blackness
somewhere between him and the window—on the floor by the suit-case.
With a sudden spring, Anthony jumped out of bed, switching the light on as
he did so. A figure sprang up from where it had been kneeling by the suit-
case.
It was the waiter, Giuseppe. In his right hand gleamed a long thin knife. He
hurled himself straight upon Anthony, who was by now fully conscious of
his own danger. He was unarmed and Giuseppe was evidently thoroughly at
home with his own weapon.
Anthony sprang to one side, and Giuseppe missed him with the knife. The
next minute the two men were rolling on the floor together, locked in a
close embrace. The whole of Anthony’s faculties were centred on keeping a
close grip of Giuseppe’s right arm so that he would be unable to use the
knife. He bent it slowly back. At the same time he felt the Italian’s other
hand clutching at his windpipe, stifling him, choking. And still, desperately,
he bent the right arm back.
There was a sharp tinkle as the knife fell on the floor. At the same time, the
Italian extricated himself with a swift twist from Anthony’s grasp. Anthony
sprang up too, but made the mistake of moving towards the door to cut off
the other’s retreat. He saw, too late, that the chair and the water-bottle were
just as he had arranged them.
Giuseppe had entered by the window, and it was the window he made for
now. In the instant’s respite given him by Anthony’s move toward the door,
he had sprung out on the balcony, leaped over to the adjoining balcony and
had disappeared through the adjoining window.
Anthony knew well enough that it was of no use to pursue him. His way of
retreat was doubtless fully assured. Anthony would merely get himself into

trouble.
He walked over to the bed, thrusting his hand beneath the pillow and
drawing out the Memoirs. Lucky that they had been there and not in the
suit-case. He crossed over to the suit-case and looked inside, meaning to
take out the letters.
Then he swore softly under his breath.
The letters were gone.

6
The Gentle Art of Blackmail
It was exactly five minutes to four when Virginia Revel, rendered punctual
by a healthy curiosity, returned to the house in Pont Street. She opened the
door with her latchkey, and stepped into the hall to be immediately
confronted by the impassive Chilvers.
“I beg pardon, ma’am, but a—a person has called to see you——”
For the moment, Virginia did not pay attention to the subtle phraseology
whereby Chilvers cloaked his meaning.
“Mr. Lomax? Where is he? In the drawing-room?”
“Oh, no, ma’am, not Mr. Lomax.” Chilvers’ tone was faintly reproachful.
“A person—I was reluctant to let him in, but he said his business was most
important—connected with the late Captain, I understood him to say.
Thinking therefore that you might wish to see him, I put him—er—in the
study.”
Virginia stood thinking for a minute. She had been a widow now for some
years, and the fact that she rarely spoke of her husband was taken by some
to indicate that below her careless demeanour was a still aching wound. By
others it was taken to mean the exact opposite, that Virginia had never
really cared for Tim Revel, and that she found it insincere to profess a grief
she did not feel.
“I should have mentioned, ma’am,” continued Chilvers, “that the man
appears to be some kind of foreigner.”
Virginia’s interest heightened a little. Her husband had been in the
Diplomatic Service, and they had been together in Herzoslovakia just
before the sensational murder of the King and Queen. This man might
probably be a Herzoslovakian, some old servant who had fallen on evil
days.
“You did quite right, Chilvers,” she said with a quick, approving nod.
“Where did you say you had put him? In the study?”

She crossed the hall with her light buoyant step, and opened the door of the
small room that flanked the dining-room.
The visitor was sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He rose on her entrance
and stood looking at her. Virginia had an excellent memory for faces, and
she was at once quite sure that she had never seen the man before. He was
tall and dark, supple in figure, and quite unmistakably a foreigner; but she
did not think he was of Slavonic origin. She put him down as Italian or
possibly Spanish.
“You wished to see me?” she asked. “I am Mrs. Revel.”
The man did not answer for a minute or two. He was looking her slowly
over, as though appraising her narrowly. There was a veiled insolence in his
manner which she was quick to feel.
“Will you please state your business?” she said, with a touch of impatience.
“You are Mrs. Revel? Mrs. Timothy Revel?”
“Yes. I told you so just now.”
“Quite so. It is a good thing that you consented to see me, Mrs. Revel.
Otherwise, as I told your butler, I should have been compelled to do
business with your husband.”
Virginia looked at him in astonishment, but some impulse quelled the retort
that sprang to her lips. She contented herself by remarking dryly:
“You might have found some difficulty in doing that.”
“I think not. I am very persistent. But I will come to the point. Perhaps you
recognize this?”
He flourished something in his hand. Virginia looked at it without much
interest.
“Can you tell me what it is, madame?”
“It appears to be a letter,” replied Virginia, who was by now convinced that
she had to do with a man who was mentally unhinged.
“And perhaps you note to whom it is addressed,” said the man significantly,
holding it out to her.

“I can read,” Virginia informed him pleasantly. “It is addressed to a Captain
O’Neill at Rue de Quenelles No. 15, Paris.”
The man seemed searching her face hungrily for something he did not find.
“Will you read it, please?”
Virginia took the envelope from him, drew out the enclosure and glanced at
it; but almost immediately she stiffened and held it out to him again.
“This is a private letter—certainly not meant for my eyes.”
The man laughed sardonically.
“I congratulate you, Mrs. Revel, on your admirable acting. You play your
part to perfection. Nevertheless, I think that you will hardly be able to deny
the signature!”
“The signature?”
Virginia turned the letter over—and was struck dumb with astonishment.
The signature, written in a delicate slanting hand, was Virginia Revel.
Checking the exclamation of astonishment that rose to her lips, she turned
again to the beginning of the letter and deliberately read the whole thing
through. Then she stood a minute lost in thought. The nature of the letter
made it clear enough what was in prospect.
“Well, madame?” said the man. “That is your name, is it not?”
“Oh, yes,” said Virginia. “It’s my name.” “But not my handwriting,” she
might have added.
Instead she turned a dazzling smile upon her visitor.
“Supposing,” she said sweetly, “we sit down and talk it over?”
He was puzzled. Not so had he expected her to behave. His instinct told him
that she was not afraid of him.
“First of all, I should like to know how you found me out?”
“That was easy.”
He took from his pocket a page torn from an illustrated paper, and handed it
to her. Anthony Cade would have recognized it.
She gave it back to him with a thoughtful little frown.

“I see,” she said. “It was very easy.”
“Of course you understand, Mrs. Revel, that that is not the only letter. There
are others.”
“Dear me,” said Virginia, “I seem to have been frightfully indiscreet.”
Again she could see that her light tone puzzled him. She was by now
thoroughly enjoying herself.
“At any rate,” she said, smiling sweetly at him, “it’s very kind of you to call
and give them back to me.”
There was a pause as he cleared his throat.
“I am a poor man, Mrs. Revel,” he said at last, with a good deal of
significance in his manner.
“As such you will doubtless find it easier to enter the Kingdom of Heaven,
or so I have always heard.”
“I cannot afford to let you have these letters for nothing.”
“I think you are under a misapprehension. Those letters are the property of
the person who wrote them.”
“That may be the law, madame, but in this country you have a saying
‘Possession is nine points of the law.’ And, in any case, are you prepared to
invoke the aid of the law?”
“The law is a severe one for blackmailers,” Virginia reminded him.
“Come, Mrs. Revel, I am not quite a fool. I have read these letters—the
letters of a woman to her lover, one and all breathing dread of discovery by
her husband. Do you want me to take them to your husband?”
“You have overlooked one possibility. Those letters were written some
years ago. Supposing that since then—I have become a widow.”
He shook his head with confidence.
“In that case—if you had nothing to fear—you would not be sitting here
making terms with me.”
Virginia smiled.
“What is your price?” she asked in a business-like manner.

“For one thousand pounds I will hand the whole packet over to you. It is
very little that I am asking there; but, you see, I do not like the business.”
“I shouldn’t dream of paying you a thousand pounds,” said Virginia with
decision.
“Madame, I never bargain. A thousand pounds, and I will place the letters in
your hands.”
Virginia reflected.
“You must give me a little time to think it over. It will not be easy for me to
get such a sum together.”
“A few pounds on account perhaps—say fifty—and I will call again.”
Virginia looked up at the clock. It was five minutes past four, and she
fancied that she had heard the bell.
“Very well,” she said hurriedly. “Come back to-morrow, but later than this.
About six.”
She crossed over to a desk that stood against the wall, unlocked one of the
drawers, and took out an untidy handful of notes.
“There is about forty pounds here. That will have to do for you.”
He snatched at it eagerly.
“And now go at once, please,” said Virginia.
He left the room obediently enough. Through the open door, Virginia caught
a glimpse of George Lomax in the hall, just being ushered upstairs by
Chilvers. As the front door closed, Virginia called to him.
“Come in here, George. Chilvers, bring us tea in here, will you please?”
She flung open both windows, and George Lomax came into the room to
find her standing erect with dancing eyes and wind-blown hair.
“I’ll shut them in a minute, George, but I felt the room ought to be aired.
Did you fall over the blackmailer in the hall?”
“The what?”
“Blackmailer, George. B.L.A.C.K.M.A.I.L.E.R? Blackmailer. One who
blackmails.”

“My dear Virginia, you can’t be serious!”
“Oh, but I am, George.”
“But who did he come here to blackmail?”
“Me, George.”
“But, my dear Virginia, what have you been doing?”
“Well, just for once, as it happens, I hadn’t been doing anything. The good
gentleman mistook me for someone else.”
“You rang up the police, I suppose?”
“No, I didn’t. I suppose you think I ought to have done so.”
“Well——” George considered weightily. “No, no, perhaps not—perhaps
you acted wisely. You might be mixed up in some unpleasant publicity in
connection with the case. You might even have had to give evidence——”
“I should have liked that,” said Virginia. “I would love to be summoned,
and I should like to see if judges really do make all the rotten jokes you
read about. It would be most exciting. I was at Vine Street the other day to
see about a diamond brooch I had lost, and there was the most perfectly
lovely inspector—the nicest man I ever met.”
George, as was his custom, let all irrelevancies pass.
“But what did you do about this scoundrel?”
“Well, George, I’m afraid I let him do it.”
“Do what?”
“Blackmail me.”
George’s face of horror was so poignant that Virginia had to bite her under
lip.
“You mean—do I understand you to mean—that you did not correct the
misapprehension under which he was labouring?”
Virginia shook her head, shooting a sideways glance at him.
“Good heavens, Virginia, you must be mad.”
“I suppose it would seem that way to you.”

“But why? In God’s name, why?”
“Several reasons. To begin with he was doing it so beautifully—
blackmailing me, I mean—I hate to interrupt an artist when he’s doing his
job really well. And then, you see, I’d never been blackmailed——”
“I should hope not, indeed.”
“And I wanted to see what it felt like.”
“I am quite at a loss to comprehend you, Virginia.”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“You did not give him money, I hope?”
“Just a trifle,” said Virginia apologetically.
“How much?”
“Forty pounds.”
“Virginia!”
“My dear George, it’s only what I pay for an evening dress. It’s just as
exciting to buy a new experience as it is to buy a new dress—more so, in
fact.”
George Lomax merely shook his head, and Chilvers appearing at that
moment with the tea urn, he was saved from having to express his outraged
feelings. When tea had been brought in, and Virginia’s deft fingers were
manipulating the heavy silver teapot, she spoke again on the subject.
“I had another motive too, George—a brighter and better one. We women
are usually supposed to be cats, but at any rate I’d done another woman a
good turn this afternoon. This man isn’t likely to go off looking for another
Virginia Revel. He thinks he’s found his bird all right. Poor little devil, she
was in a blue funk when she wrote that letter. Mr. Blackmailer would have
had the easiest job of his life there. Now, though he doesn’t know it, he’s up
against a tough proposition. Starting with the great advantage of having led
a blameless life, I shall toy with him to his undoing—as they say in books.
Guile, George, lots of guile.”
George still shook his head.

“I don’t like it,” he persisted. “I don’t like it.”
“Well, never mind, George dear. You didn’t come here to talk about
blackmailers. What did you come here for, by the way? Correct answer: ‘To
see you!’ Accent on the you, and press her hand with significance unless
you happen to have been eating heavily buttered muffin, in which case it
must all be done with the eyes.”
“I did come to see you,” replied George seriously. “And I am glad to find
you alone.”
“Oh, George, this is so sudden,” says she, swallowing a currant.
“I wanted to ask a favour of you. I have always considered you, Virginia, as
a woman of considerable charm.”
“Oh, George!”
“And also a woman of intelligence!”
“Not really? How well the man knows me.”
“My dear Virginia, there is a young fellow arriving in England to-morrow
whom I should like you to meet.”
“All right, George, but it’s your party—let that be clearly understood.”
“You could, I feel sure, if you chose, exercise your considerable charm.”
Virginia cocked her head a little on one side.
“George, dear, I don’t ‘charm’ as a profession, you know. Often I like
people—and then, well, they like me. But I don’t think I could set out in
cold blood to fascinate a helpless stranger. That sort of thing isn’t done,
George, it really isn’t. There are professional sirens who would do it much
better than I should.”
“That is out of the question, Virginia. This young man, he is a Canadian, by
the way, of the name of McGrath——”
“A Canadian of Scotch descent,” says she, deducing brilliantly.
“Is probably quite unused to the higher walks of English society. I should
like him to appreciate the charm and distinction of a real English
gentlewoman.”

“Meaning me?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said why? You don’t boom the real English gentlewoman with every
stray Canadian who sets foot upon our shores. What is the deep idea,
George? To put it vulgarly, what do you get out of it?”
“I cannot see that that concerns you, Virginia.”
“I couldn’t possibly go out for an evening and fascinate, unless I knew all
the whys and wherefors.”
“You have a most extraordinary way of putting things, Virginia. Anyone
would think——”
“Wouldn’t they? Come on, George, part with a little more information.”
“My dear Virginia, matters are likely to be a little strained shortly in a
certain Central European nation. It is important, for reasons which are
immaterial, that this—Mr.—er McGrath should be brought to realize that
the restoring of the Monarchy in Herzoslovakia is imperative to the peace
of Europe.”
“The part about the peace of Europe is all bosh,” said Virginia calmly, “but
I’m all for Monarchies every time, especially for a picturesque people like
the Herzoslovakians. So you’re running a King in the Herzoslovakian
States, are you? Who is he?”
George was reluctant to answer, but did not see his way to avoid the
question. The interview was not going at all as he had planned. He had
foreseen Virginia as a willing, docile tool, receiving his hints gratefully, and
asking no awkward questions. This was far from being the case. She
seemed determined to know all about it and this George, ever doubtful of
female discretion, was determined at all costs to avoid. He had made a
mistake. Virginia was not the woman for the part. She might, indeed, cause
serious trouble. Her account of her interview with the blackmailer had
caused him grave apprehension. A most undependable creature, with no
idea of treating serious matters seriously.

“Prince Michael Obolovitch,” he replied, as Virginia was obviously waiting
for an answer to her question. “But please let that go no further.”
“Don’t be absurd, George. There are all sort of hints in the papers already,
and articles cracking up the Obolovitch dynasty and talking about the
murdered Nicholas IV as though he were a cross between a Saint and a hero
instead of a stupid little man besotted by a third-rate actress.”
George winced. He was more than ever convinced that he had made a
mistake in enlisting Virginia’s aid. He must stave her off quickly.
“You are right, my dear Virginia,” he said hastily, as he rose to his feet to
bid her farewell. “I should not have made the suggestion I did to you. But
we are anxious for the Dominions to see eye to eye with us on this
Herzoslovakian crisis, and McGrath has, I believe, influence in journalistic
circles. As an ardent Monarchist, and with your knowledge of the country, I
thought it a good plan for you to meet him.”
“So that’s the explanation, is it?”
“Yes, but I dare say you wouldn’t have cared for him.”
Virginia looked at him for a second and then she laughed.
“George,” she said, “you’re a rotten liar.”
“Virginia!”
“Rotten, absolutely rotten! If I had had your training, I could have managed
a better one than that—one that had a chance of being believed. But I shall
find out all about it, my poor George. Rest assured of that. The Mystery of
Mr. McGrath. I shouldn’t wonder if I got a hint or two at Chimneys this
week-end.”
“At Chimneys? You are going to Chimneys?”
George could not conceal his perturbation. He had hoped to reach Lord
Caterham in time for the invitation to remain unissued.
“Bundle rang up and asked me this morning.”
George made a last effort.
“Rather a dull party, I believe,” he said. “Hardly in your line, Virginia.”

“My poor George, why didn’t you tell me the truth and trust me? It’s still
not too late.”
George took her hand and dropped it again limply.
“I have told you the truth,” he said coldly, and he said it without a blush.
“That’s a better one,” said Virginia approvingly. “But it’s still not good
enough. Cheer up, George, I shall be at Chimneys all right, exerting my
considerable charm—as you put it. Life has become suddenly very much
more amusing. First a blackmailer, and then George in diplomatic
difficulties. Will he tell all to the beautiful woman who asks for his
confidence so pathetically? No, he will reveal nothing until the last chapter.
Good-bye, George. One last fond look before you go? No? Oh, George,
dear, don’t be sulky about it!”
Virginia ran to the telephone as soon as George had departed with a heavy
gait through the front door.
She obtained the number she required and asked to speak to Lady Eileen
Brent.
“Is that you, Bundle? I’m coming to Chimneys all right to-morrow. What?
Bore me? No, it won’t. Bundle, wild horses wouldn’t keep me away! So
there!”

7
Mr. McGrath Refuses an Invitation
The letters were gone!
Having once made up his mind to the fact of their disappearance, there was
nothing to do but accept it. Anthony realized very well that he could not
pursue Giuseppe through the corridors of the Blitz Hotel. To do so was to
court undesired publicity, and in all probability to fail in his object all the
same.
He came to the conclusion that Giuseppe had mistaken the packet of letters,
enclosed as they were in the other wrappings, for the Memoirs themselves.
It was likely therefore that when he discovered his mistake he would make
another attempt to get hold of the Memoirs. For this attempt Anthony
intended to be fully prepared.
Another plan that occurred to him was to advertize discreetly for the return
of the package of letters. Supposing Giuseppe to be an emissary of the
Comrades of the Red Hand, or, which seemed to Anthony more probable, to
be employed by the Loyalist party, the letters could have no possible
interest for either employer and he would probably jump at the chance of
obtaining a small sum of money for their return.
Having thought out all this, Anthony returned to bed and slept peacefully
until morning. He did not fancy that Giuseppe would be anxious for a
second encounter that night.
Anthony got up with his plan of campaign fully thought out. He had a good
breakfast, glanced at the papers which were full of the new discoveries of
oil in Herzoslovakia, and then demanded an interview with the manager,
and, being Anthony Cade, with a gift for getting his own way by means of
quiet determination, he obtained what he asked for.
The manager, a Frenchman with an exquisitely suave manner, received him
in his private office.
“You wished to see me, I understand, Mr.—er—McGrath?”

“I did. I arrived at your hotel yesterday afternoon, and I had dinner served
to me in my own rooms by a waiter whose name was Giuseppe.”
He paused.
“I dare say we have a waiter of that name,” agreed the manager
indifferently.
“I was struck by something unusual in the waiter’s manner, but thought
nothing more of it at the time. Later, in the night, I was awakened by the
sound of some one moving softly about the room. I switched on the light,
and found this same Giuseppe in the act of rifling my leather suit-case.”
The manager’s indifference had completely disappeared now.
“But I have heard nothing of this,” he exclaimed. “Why was I not informed
sooner?”
“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife by the
way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”
“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”
“I examined the contents of my suit-case.”
“Had anything been taken?”
“Nothing of—importance,” said Anthony slowly.
The manager leaned back with a sigh.
“I am glad of that,” he remarked. “But you will allow me to say, Mr.
McGrath, that I do not quite understand your attitude in the matter. You
made no attempt to arouse the hotel? To pursue the thief?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing of value had been taken, as I tell you. I am aware, of course, that
strictly speaking it is a case for the police——”
He paused, and the manager murmured without any particular enthusiasm:
“For the police—of course——”
“In any case, I was fairly certain that the man would manage to make good
his escape, and since nothing was taken why bother with the police?”

The manager smiled a little.
“I see that you realize, Mr. McGrath, that I am not at all anxious to have the
police called in. From my point of view it is always disastrous. If the
newspapers can get hold of anything connected with a big fashionable hotel
such as this, they always run it for all it is worth, no matter how
insignificant the real subject matter may be.”
“Quite so,” agreed Anthony. “Now I told you that nothing of value had been
taken, and that was perfectly true in a sense. Nothing of any value to the
thief was taken, but he got hold of something which is of considerable value
to me.”
“Ah?”
“Letters, you understand.”
An expression of superhuman discretion, only to be achieved by a
Frenchman, settled down upon the manager’s face.
“I comprehend,” he murmured. “But perfectly. Naturally, it is not a matter
for the police.”
“We are quite agreed upon that point. But you will understand that I have
every intention of recovering these letters. In the part of the world where I
come from, people are used to doing things for themselves. What I require
from you therefore is the fullest possible information you can give me about
this waiter, Giuseppe.”
“I see no objection to that,” said the manager after a moment or two’s
pause. “I cannot give you the information offhand, of course, but if you will
return in half an hour’s time I will have everything ready to lay before you.”
“Thank you very much. That will suit me admirably.”
In half an hour’s time, Anthony returned to the office again to find that the
manager had been as good as his word. Jotted down upon a piece of paper
were all the relevant facts known about Giuseppe Manelli.
“He came to us, you see, about three months ago. A skilled and experienced
waiter. Has given complete satisfaction. He has been in England about five
years.”

Together the two men ran over a list of the hotels and restaurants where the
Italian had worked. One fact struck Anthony as being possibly of
significance. At two of the hotels in question there had been serious
robberies during the time that Giuseppe was employed there, though no
suspicion of any kind had attached to him in either case. Still, the fact was
significant.
Was Giuseppe merely a clever hotel thief? Had his search of Anthony’s suit-
case been merely part of his habitual professional tactics? He might just
possibly have had the packet of letters in his hand at the moment when
Anthony switched on the light, and have shoved it into his pocket
mechanically so as to have his hands free. In that case, the thing was mere
plain or garden robbery.
Against that, there was to be put the man’s excitement of the evening before
when he had caught sight of the papers lying on the table. There had been
no money or object of value there such as would excite the cupidity of an
ordinary thief.
No, Anthony felt convinced that Giuseppe had been acting as a tool for
some outside agency. With the information supplied to him by the manager,
it might be possible to learn something about Giuseppe’s private life, and so
finally track him down. He gathered up the sheet of paper and rose.
“Thank you very much indeed. It’s quite unnecessary to ask, I suppose,
whether Giuseppe is still in the hotel?”
The manager smiled.
“His bed was not slept in, and all his things have been left behind. He must
have rushed straight out after his attack upon you. I don’t think there is
much chance of our seeing him again.”
“I imagine not. Well, thank you very much indeed. I shall be staying on here
for the present.”
“I hope you will be successful in your task, but I confess that I am rather
doubtful.”
“I always hope for the best.”
One of Anthony’s first proceedings was to question some of the other
waiters who had been friendly with Giuseppe, but he obtained very little to

go upon. He wrote out an advertisement on the lines he had planned, and
had it sent to five of the most widely read newspapers. He was just about to
go out and visit the restaurant at which Giuseppe had been previously
employed when the telephone rang. Anthony took up the receiver.
“Hullo, what is it?”
A toneless voice replied.
“Am I speaking to Mr. McGrath?”
“You are. Who are you?”
“This is Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins. Just a minute, please. I will put
you through to Mr. Balderson.”
“Our worthy publishers,” thought Anthony. “So they are getting worried
too, are they? They needn’t. There’s a week to run still.”
A hearty voice struck suddenly upon his ear.
“Hullo! That Mr. McGrath?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Mr. Balderson of Balderson and Hodgkins. What about that
manuscript, Mr. McGrath?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “what about it?”
“Everything about it. I understand, Mr. McGrath, that you have just arrived
in this country from South Africa. That being so, you can’t possibly
understand the position. There’s going to be trouble about that manuscript,
Mr. McGrath, big trouble. Sometimes I wish we’d never said we’d handle
it.”
“Indeed?”
“I assure you it’s so. At present I’m anxious to get it into my possession as
quickly as possible, so as to have a couple of copies made. Then, if the
original is destroyed—well, no harm will be done.”
“Dear me,” said Anthony.
“Yes, I expect it sounds absurd to you, Mr. McGrath. But, I assure you, you
don’t appreciate the situation. There’s a determined effort being made to

prevent its ever reaching this office. I say to you quite frankly and without
humbug that if you attempt to bring it yourself it’s ten to one that you’ll
never get here.”
“I doubt that,” said Anthony. “When I want to get anywhere, I usually do.”
“You’re up against a very dangerous lot of people. I wouldn’t have believed
it myself a month ago. I tell you, Mr. McGrath, we’ve been bribed and
threatened and cajoled by one lot and another until we don’t know whether
we’re on our heads or our heels. My suggestion is that you do not attempt to
bring the manuscript here. One of our people will call upon you at the hotel
and take possession of it.”
“And supposing the gang does him in?” asked Anthony.
“The responsibility would then be ours—not yours. You would have
delivered it to our representative and obtained a written discharge. The
cheque for—er—a thousand pounds which we are instructed to hand to you
will not be available until Wednesday next by the terms of our agreement
with the executors of the late—er—author—you know whom I mean, but if
you insist I will send my own cheque for that amount by the messenger.”
Anthony reflected for a minute or two. He had intended to keep the
Memoirs until the last day of grace, because he was anxious to see for
himself what all the fuss was about. Nevertheless, he realized the force of
the publisher’s arguments.
“All right,” he said, with a little sigh. “Have it your own way. Send your
man along. And if you don’t mind sending that cheque as well I’d rather
have it now, as I may be going out of England before next Wednesday.”
“Certainly, Mr. McGrath. Our representative will call upon you first thing
to-morrow morning. It will be wiser not to send anyone direct from the
office. Our Mr. Holmes lives in South London. He will call in on his way to
us, and will give you a receipt for the package. I suggest that to-night you
should place a dummy packet in the manager’s safe. Your enemies will get
to hear of this, and it will prevent any attack being made upon your
apartments to-night.”
“Very well, I will do as you direct.”
Anthony hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

Then he went on with his interrupted plan of seeking news of the slippery
Giuseppe. He drew a complete blank, however. Giuseppe had worked at the
restaurant in question, but nobody seemed to know anything of his private
life or associates.
“But I’ll get you, my lad,” murmured Anthony, between his teeth. “I’ll get
you yet. It’s only a matter of time.”
His second night in London was entirely peaceful.
At nine o’clock the following morning, the card of Mr. Holmes from
Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins was sent up, and Mr. Holmes followed it.
A small, fair man with a quiet manner. Anthony handed over the
manuscript, and received in exchange a cheque for a thousand pounds. Mr.
Holmes packed up the manuscript in the small brown bag he carried,
wished Anthony good morning, and departed. The whole thing seemed very
tame.
“But perhaps he’ll be murdered on the way there,” Anthony murmured
aloud, as he stared idly out of the window. “I wonder now—I very much
wonder.”
He put the cheque in an envelope, enclosed a few lines of writing with it,
and sealed it up carefully. Jimmy, who had been more or less in funds at the
time of his encounter with Anthony at Bulawayo, had advanced him a
substantial sum of money which was, as yet, practically untouched.
“If one’s job’s done with, the other isn’t,” said Anthony to himself. “Up to
now, I’ve bungled it. But never say die. I think that, suitably disguised, I
shall go and have a look at 487, Pont Street.”
He packed his belongings, went down and paid his bill, and ordered his
luggage to be put on a taxi. Suitably rewarding those who stood in his path,
most of whom had done nothing whatever materially to add to his comfort,
he was on the point of being driven off, when a small boy rushed down the
steps with a letter.
“Just come for you, this very minute, sir.”
With a sigh, Anthony produced yet another shilling. The taxi groaned
heavily and jumped forward with a hideous crashing of gears, and Anthony
opened the letter.

It was rather a curious document. He had to read it four times before he
could be sure of what it was all about. Put in plain English (the letter was
not in plain English, but in the peculiar involved style common to missives
issued by Government officials) it presumed that Mr. McGrath was arriving
in England from South Africa to-day—Thursday, it referred obliquely to the
Memoirs of Count Stylptitch, and begged Mr. McGrath to do nothing in the
matter until he had had a confidential conversation with Mr. George Lomax,
and certain other parties whose magnificence was vaguely hinted at. It also
contained a definite invitation to go down to Chimneys as the guest of Lord
Caterham, on the following day, Friday.
A mysterious and thoroughly obscure communication. Anthony enjoyed it
very much.
“Dear old England,” he murmured affectionately. “Two days behind the
times, as usual. Rather a pity. Still, I can’t go down to Chimneys under false
pretences. I wonder, though, if there’s an inn handy? Mr. Anthony Cade
might stay at the inn without anyone being the wiser.”
He leaned out of the window, and gave new directions to the taxi driver,
who acknowledged them with a snort of contempt.
The taxi drew up before one of London’s more obscure hostelries. The fare,
however, was paid on a scale befitting its point of departure.
Having booked a room in the name of Anthony Cade, Anthony passed into
a dingy writing-room, took out a sheet of notepaper stamped with the
legend Hotel Blitz, and wrote rapidly.
He explained that he had arrived on the preceding Tuesday, that he had
handed over the manuscript in question to Messrs. Balderson and Hodgkins,
and he regretfully declined the kind invitation of Lord Caterham as he was
leaving England almost immediately. He signed the letter “Yours faithfully,
James McGrath.”
“And now,” said Anthony, as he affixed the stamp to the envelope. “To
business. Exit James McGrath, and Enter Anthony Cade.”

8
A Dead Man
On that same Thursday afternoon Virginia Revel had been playing tennis at
Ranelagh. All the way back to Pont Street, as she lay back in the long,
luxurious limousine, a little smile played upon her lips, as she rehearsed her
part in the forthcoming interview. Of course it was within the bounds of
possibility that the blackmailer might not reappear, but she felt pretty
certain that he would. She had shown herself an easy prey. Well, perhaps
this time there would be a little surprise for him!
When the car drew up at the house, she turned to speak to the chauffeur
before going up the steps.
“How’s your wife, Walton? I forgot to ask.”
“Better I think, ma’am. The doctor said he’d look in and see her about half-
past six. Will you be wanting the car again?”
Virginia reflected for a minute.
“I shall be away for the week-end. I’m going by the 6.40 from Paddington,
but I shan’t need you again—a taxi will do for that. I’d rather you saw the
doctor. If he thinks it would do your wife good to go away for the week-
end, take her somewhere, Walton. I’ll stand the expense.”
Cutting short the man’s thanks with an impatient nod of the head, Virginia
ran up the steps, delved into her bag in search of her latchkey, remembered
she hadn’t got it with her, and hastily rang the bell.
It was not answered at once, but as she waited there a young man came up
the steps. He was shabbily dressed, and carried in his hand a sheaf of
leaflets. He held one out to Virginia with the legend on it plainly visible:
“Why Did I Serve my Country?” In his left hand he held a collecting-box.
“I can’t buy two of those awful poems in one day,” said Virginia pleadingly.
“I bought one this morning. I did, indeed, honour bright.”

The young man threw back his head and laughed. Virginia laughed with
him. Running her eyes carelessly over him, she thought him a more
pleasing specimen than usual of London’s unemployed. She liked his brown
face, and the lean hardness of him. She went so far as to wish she had a job
for him.
But at that moment the door opened, and immediately Virginia forgot all
about the problem of the unemployed, for to her astonishment the door was
opened by her own maid, Élise.
“Where’s Chilvers?” she demanded sharply, as she stepped into the hall.
“But he is gone, madame, with the others.”
“What others? Gone where?”
“But to Datchet, madame—to the cottage, as your telegram said.”
“My telegram?” said Virginia, utterly at sea.
“Did not madame send a telegram? Surely there can be no mistake. It came
but an hour ago.”
“I never sent any telegram. What did it say?”
“I believe it is still on the table là-bas.”
Élise retired, pounced upon it, and brought it to her mistress in triumph.
“Voilà, madame!”
The telegram was addressed to Chilvers and ran as follows:
“Please take household down to cottage at once, and make preparations for
week-end party there. Catch 5.49 train.”
There was nothing unusual about it, it was just the sort of message she
herself had frequently sent before, when she had arranged a party at her
riverside bungalow on the spur of the moment. She always took the whole
household down, leaving an old woman as caretaker. Chilvers would not
have seen anything wrong with the message, and like a good servant had
carried out his orders faithfully enough.
“Me, I remained,” explained Élise, “knowing that madame would wish me
to pack for her.”

“It’s a silly hoax,” cried Virginia, flinging down the telegram angrily. “You
know perfectly well, Élise, that I am going to Chimneys. I told you so this
morning.”
“I thought madame had changed her mind. Sometimes that does happen,
does it not, madame?”
Virginia admitted the truth of the accusation with a half smile. She was busy
trying to find a reason for this extraordinary practical joke. Élise cut
forward a suggestion.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried, clasping her hands. “If it should be the malefactors,
the thieves! They send the bogus telegram and get the domestiques all out
of the house, and then they rob it.”
“I suppose that might be it,” said Virginia doubtfully.
“Yes, yes, madame, that is it without a doubt. Every day you read in the
papers of such things. Madame will ring up the police at once—at once—
before they arrive and cut our throats.”
“Don’t get so excited, Élise. They won’t come and cut our throats at six
o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Madame, I implore you, let me run out and fetch a policeman now, at
once.”
“What on earth for? Don’t be silly, Élise. Go up and pack my things for
Chimneys if you haven’t already done it. The new Cailleuax evening dress,
and the white crêpe marocain, and—yes, the black velvet—black velvet is
so political, is it not?”
“Madame looks ravishing in the eau de nil satin,” suggested Élise, her
professional instincts reasserting themselves.
“No, I won’t take that. Hurry up, Élise, there’s a good girl. We’ve got very
little time. I’ll send a wire to Chilvers at Datchet, and I’ll speak to the
policeman on the beat as we go out and tell him to keep an eye on the place.
Don’t start rolling your eyes again, Élise—if you get so frightened before
anything has happened, what would you do if a man jumped out from some
dark corner and stuck a knife into you?”

Élise gave vent to a shrill squeak, and beat a speedy retreat up the stairs,
darting nervous glances over each shoulder as she went.
Virginia made a face at her retreating back, and crossed the hall to the little
study where the telephone was. Élise’s suggestion of ringing up the police
station seemed to her a good one, and she intended to act upon it without
any further delay.
She opened the study door and crossed to the telephone. Then, with her
hand on the receiver, she stopped. A man was sitting in the big arm-chair,
sitting in a curious huddled position. In the stress of the moment, she had
forgotten all about her expected visitor. Apparently he had fallen asleep
whilst waiting for her.
She came right up to the chair, a slightly mischievous smile upon her face.
And then suddenly the smile faded.
The man was not asleep. He was dead.
She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had seen and
noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the little-singed hole just
above the heart with the dark stain round it, and the horrible dropped jaw.
She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence she heard
Élise running down the stairs.
“Madame! Madame!”
“Well, what is it?”
She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what had
happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly go
into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need for calm
and quiet in which to think things out.
“Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the door?
These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.”
“Yes, if you like. Anything you like.”
She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs again, and
drew a long breath of relief.

She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course
was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once.
But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and
with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The bogus
telegram. Had it something to do with this? Supposing Élise had not stayed
behind? She would have let herself in—that is, presuming she had had her
latchkey with her as usual, to find herself alone in the house with a
murdered man—a man whom she had permitted to blackmail her on a
former occasion. Of course she had an explanation of that; but thinking of
that explanation she was not quite easy in her mind. She remembered how
frankly incredible George had found it. Would other people think the same.
Those letters now—of course she hadn’t written them, but would it be so
easy to prove that?
She put her hands on her forehead, squeezing them tight together.
“I must think,” said Virginia. “I simply must think.”
Who had let the man in? Surely not Élise. If she had done so, she would
have been sure to have mentioned the fact at once. The whole thing seemed
more and more mysterious as she thought about it. There was really only
one thing to be done—ring up the police.
She stretched out her hand to the telephone, and suddenly she thought of
George. A man—that was what she wanted—an ordinary level-headed,
unemotional man who would see things in their proper proportion and point
out to her the best course to take.
Then she shook her head. Not George. The first thing George would think
of would be his own position. He would hate being mixed up in this kind of
business. George wouldn’t do at all.
Then her face softened. Bill, of course! Without more ado, she rang up Bill.
She was informed that he had left half an hour ago for Chimneys.
“Oh, damn!” cried Virginia, jamming down the receiver. It was horrible to
be shut up with a dead body and to have no one to speak to.
And at that minute the front-door bell rang.

Virginia jumped. In a few minutes it rang again. Élise, she knew, was
upstairs packing and wouldn’t hear it.
Virginia went out in the hall, drew back the chain, and undid all the bolts
that Élise had fastened in her zeal. Then, with a long breath, she threw open
the door. On the steps was the unemployed young man.
Virginia plunged headlong with a relief born of overstrung nerves.
“Come in,” she said. “I think that perhaps I’ve got a job for you.”
She took him into the dining-room, pulled toward a chair for him, sat down
herself facing him, and stared at him very attentively.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but are you—I mean——”
“Eton and Oxford,” said the young man. “That’s what you wanted to ask
me, wasn’t it?”
“Something of the kind,” admitted Virginia.
“Come down in the world entirely through my own incapacity to stick to
regular work. This isn’t regular work you’re offering me, I hope?”
A smile hovered for a moment on her lips.
“It’s very irregular.”
“Good,” said the young man in a tone of satisfaction.
Virginia noted his bronzed face and long lean body with approval.
“You see,” she explained, “I’m in rather a hole, and most of my friends are
—well, rather high up. They’ve all got something to lose.”
“I’ve nothing whatever to lose. So go ahead. What’s the trouble?”
“There’s a dead man in the next room,” said Virginia. “He’s been murdered,
and I don’t know what to do about it.”
She blurted out the words as simply as a child might have done. The young
man went up enormously in her estimation by the way he accepted her
statement. He might have been used to hearing a similar announcement
made every day of his life.
“Excellent,” he said, with a trace of enthusiasm. “I’ve always wanted to do
a bit of amateur detective work. Shall we go and view the body, or will you

give me the facts first?”
“I think I’d better give you the facts.” She paused for a moment to consider
how best to condense her story, and then began, speaking quietly and
concisely.
“This man came to the house for the first time yesterday and asked to see
me. He had certain letters with him—love letters, signed with my name
——”
“But which weren’t written by you,” put in the young man quietly.
Virginia looked at him in some astonishment
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, I deduced it. But go on.”
“He wanted to blackmail me—and I—well, I don’t know if you’ll
understand, but I—let him.”
She looked at him appealingly, and he nodded his head reassuringly.
“Of course I understand. You wanted to see what it felt like.”
“How frightfully clever of you! That’s just what I did feel.”
“I am clever,” said the young man modestly. “But, mind you, very few
people would understand that point of view. Most people, you see, haven’t
got any imagination.”
“I suppose that’s so. I told this man to come back to-day—at six o’clock. I
arrived home from Ranelagh to find that a bogus telegram had got all the
servants except my maid out of the house. Then I walked into the study and
found the man shot.”
“Who let him in?”
“I don’t know. I think if my maid had done so she would have told me.”
“Does she know what has happened?”
“I have told her nothing.”
The young man nodded, and rose to his feet.

“And now to view the body,” he said briskly. “But I’ll tell you this—on the
whole it’s always best to tell the truth. One lie involves you in such a lot of
lies—and continuous lying is so monotonous.”
“Then you advise me to ring up the police?”
“Probably. But we’ll just have a look at the fellow first.”
Virginia led the way out the room. On the threshold she paused, looking
back at him.
“By the way,” she said, “you haven’t told me your name yet?”
“My name? My name’s Anthony Cade.”

9
Anthony Disposes of a Body
Anthony followed Virginia out of the room, smiling a little to himself.
Events had taken quite an unexpected turn. But as he bent over the figure in
the chair he grew grave again.
“He’s still warm,” he said sharply. “He was killed less than half an hour
ago.”
“Just before I came in?”
“Exactly.”
He stood upright, drawing his brows together in a frown. Then he asked a
question of which Virginia did not at once see the drift:
“Your maid’s not been in this room, of course?”
“No.”
“Does she know that you’ve been into it?”
“Why—yes. I came to the door to speak to her.”
“After you’d found the body.”
“Yes.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would it have been better if I had? I thought she would go into hysterics—
she’s French, you know, and easily upset—I wanted to think over the best
thing to do.”
Anthony nodded, but did not speak.
“You think it a pity, I can see?”
“Well, it was rather unfortunate, Mrs. Revel. If you and the maid had
discovered the body together, immediately on your return, it would have
simplified matters very much. The man would then definitely have been
shot before your return to the house.”

“Whilst now they might say he was shot after—I see—”
He watched her taking in the idea, and was confirmed in his first impression
of her formed when she had spoken to him on the steps outside. Besides
beauty, she possessed courage and brains.
Virginia was so engrossed in the puzzle presented to her that it did not occur
to her to wonder at this strange man’s ready use of her name.
“Why didn’t Élise hear the shot, I wonder?” she murmured.
Anthony pointed to the open window, as a loud backfire came from a
passing car.
“There you are. London’s not the place to notice a pistol shot.”
Virginia turned with a little shudder to the body in the chair.
“He looks like an Italian,” she remarked curiously.
“He is an Italian,” said Anthony. “I should say that his regular profession
was that of a waiter. He only did blackmailing in his spare time. His name
might very possibly be Giuseppe.”
“Good heavens!” cried Virginia. “Is this Sherlock Holmes?”
“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s just plain or garden
cheating. I’ll tell you all about it presently. Now you say this man showed
you some letters and asked you for money. Did you give him any?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How much?”
“Forty pounds.”
“That’s bad,” said Anthony, but without manifesting any undue surprise.
“Now let’s have a look at the telegram.”
Virginia picked it up from the table and gave it to him. She saw his face
grow grave as he looked at it.
“What’s the matter?”
He held it out, pointing silently to the place of origin.

“Barnes,” he said. “And you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. What’s to
prevent you having sent it off yourself?”
Virginia felt fascinated by his words. It was as though a net was closing
tighter and tighter round her. He was forcing her to see all the things which
she had felt dimly at the back of her mind.
Anthony took out his handkerchief and wound it round his hand, then he
picked up the pistol.
“We criminals have to be so careful,” he said apologetically. “Fingerprints,
you know.”
Suddenly she saw his whole figure stiffen. His voice, when he spoke, had
altered. It was terse and curt.
“Mrs. Revel,” he said, “have you ever seen this pistol before?”
“No,” said Virginia wonderingly.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
“Have you a pistol of your own?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had one?”
“No, never.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Quite sure.”
He stared at her steadily for a minute, and Virginia stared back in complete
surprise at his tone.
Then, with a sigh, he relaxed.
“That’s odd,” he said. “How do you account for this?”
He held out the pistol. It was a small, dainty article, almost a toy—though
capable of doing deadly work. Engraved on it was the name Virginia.
“Oh, it’s impossible!” cried Virginia.

Her astonishment was so genuine that Anthony could but believe in it.
“Sit down,” he said quietly. “There’s more in this than there seemed to be
first go off. To begin with, what’s our hypothesis? There are only two
possible ones. There is, of course, the real Virginia of the letters. She may
have somehow or other tracked him down, shot him, dropped the pistol,
stolen the letters, and taken herself off. That’s quite possible, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Virginia unwillingly.
“The other hypothesis is a good deal more interesting. Whoever wished to
kill Giuseppe, wished also to incriminate you—in fact that may have been
their main object. They could get him easily enough anywhere, but they
took extraordinary pains and trouble to get him here, and whoever they
were they knew all about you, your cottage at Datchet, your usual
household arrangements, and the fact that you were at Ranelagh this
afternoon. It seems an absurd question, but have you any enemies, Mrs.
Revel?”
“Of course I haven’t—not that kind, anyway.”
“The question is,” said Anthony, “what are we going to do now? There are
two courses open to us. A: Ring up the police, tell the whole story, and trust
to your unassailable position in the world and your hitherto blameless life.
B: An attempt on my part to dispose successfully of the body. Naturally my
private inclinations urge me to B. I’ve always wanted to see if I couldn’t
conceal a crime with the necessary cunning, but have had a squeamish
objection to shedding blood. On the whole, I expect A’s the soundest. Then
there’s a sort of bowdlerized A. Ring up the police, etc., but suppress the
pistol and the blackmailing letters—that is, if they are on him still.”
Anthony ran rapidly through the dead man’s pockets.
“He’s been stripped clean,” he announced. “There’s not a thing on him.
There’ll be dirty work at the crossroads over those letters yet. Hullo, what’s
this? Hole in the lining—something got caught there, torn roughly out, and
a scrap of paper left behind.”
He drew out the scrap of paper as he spoke, and brought it over to the light.
Virginia joined him.

“Pity we haven’t got the rest of it,” he muttered. “Chimneys 11.45 Thursday
—Sounds like an appointment.”
“Chimneys?” cried Virginia. “How extraordinary!”
“Why extraordinary? Rather high toned for such a low fellow?”
“I’m going to Chimneys this evening. At least I was.”
Anthony wheeled round on her.
“What’s that? Say that again.”
“I was going to Chimneys this evening,” repeated Virginia.
Anthony stared at her.
“I begin to see. At least, I may be wrong—but it’s an idea. Suppose some
one wanted badly to prevent your going to Chimneys?”
“My cousin George Lomax does,” said Virginia with a smile. “But I can’t
seriously suspect George of murder.”
Anthony did not smile. He was lost in thought.
“If you ring up the police, it’s good-bye to any idea of getting to Chimneys
to-day—or even to-morrow. And I should like you to go to Chimneys. I
fancy it will disconcert our unknown friends. Mrs. Revel, will you put
yourself in my hands?”
“It’s to be Plan B, then?”
“It’s to be Plan B. The first thing is to get that maid of yours out of the
house. Can you manage that?”
“Easily.”
Virginia went out in the hall and called up the stairs.
“Élise. Élise.”
“Madame?”
Anthony heard a rapid colloquy, and then the front door opened and shut.
Virginia came back into the room.
“She’s gone. I sent her for some special scent—told her the shop in question
was open until eight. It won’t be, of course. She’s to follow after me by the

next train without coming back here.”
“Good,” said Anthony approvingly. “We can now proceed to the disposal of
the body. It’s a time-worn method, but I’m afraid I shall have to ask you if
there’s such a thing in the house as a trunk?”
“Of course there is. Come down to the basement and take your choice.”
There was a variety of trunks in the basement. Anthony selected a solid
affair of suitable size.
“I’ll attend to this part of it,” he said tactfully. “You go upstairs and get
ready to start.”
Virginia obeyed. She slipped out of her tennis kit, put on a soft brown
travelling dress and a delightful little orange hat, and came down to find
Anthony waiting in the hall with a neatly strapped trunk beside him.
“I should like to tell you the story of my life,” he remarked, “but it’s going
to be rather a busy evening. Now this is what you’ve got to do. Call a taxi,
have your luggage put on it, including the trunk. Drive to Paddington. There
have the trunk put in the Left Luggage Office. I shall be on the platform. As
you pass me, drop the Cloak Room ticket. I will pick it up and pretend to
return it to you, but in reality I shall keep it. Go on to Chimneys, and leave
the rest to me.”
“It’s awfully good of you,” said Virginia. “It’s really dreadful of me
saddling a perfect stranger with a dead body like this.”
“I like it,” returned Anthony nonchalantly. “If one of my friends, Jimmy
McGrath, were here, he’d tell you that anything of this kind suits me down
to the ground.”
Virginia was staring at him.
“What name did you say? Jimmy McGrath?”
Anthony returned her glance keenly.
“Yes. Why? Have you heard of him?”
“Yes—and quite lately.” She paused irresolutely, and then went on. “Mr.
Cade, I must talk to you. Can’t you come down to Chimneys?”

“You’ll see me before very long, Mrs. Revel—I’ll tell you that. Now, exit
Conspirator A by back door slinkingly. Exit Conspirator B in blaze of glory
by front door to taxi.”
The plan went through without a hitch. Anthony, having picked up a second
taxi, was on the platform and duly retrieved the fallen ticket. He then
departed in search of a somewhat battered second-hand Morris Cowley
which he had acquired earlier in the day in case it should be necessary to his
plans.
Returning to Paddington in this, he handed the ticket to the porter, who got
the trunk out of the cloak room and wedged it securely at the back of the
car. Anthony drove off.
His objective now was out of London. Through Notting Hill, Shepherd’s
Bush, down Goldhawk Road, through Brentford and Hounslow till he came
to the long stretch of road mid-way between Hounslow and Staines. It was a
well-frequented road, with motors passing continually. No footmarks or tyre
marks were likely to show. Anthony stopped the car at a certain spot.
Getting down, he first obscured the number-plate with mud. Then, waiting
until he heard no car coming in either direction, he opened the trunk,
heaved out Giuseppe’s body, and laid it neatly down by the side of the road,
on the inside of a curve, so that the headlights of passing motors would not
strike on it.
Then he entered the car again and drove away. The whole business had
occupied exactly one minute and a half. He made a détour to the right,
returning to London by way of Burnham Beeches. There again he halted the
car, and choosing a giant of the forest he deliberately climbed the huge tree.
It was something of a feat, even for Anthony. To one of the topmost
branches, he affixed a small brown-paper parcel, concealing it in a little
niche close to the bole.
“A very clever way of disposing of the pistol,” said Anthony to himself with
some approval. “Everybody hunts about on the ground, and drags ponds.
But there are very few people in England who could climb that tree.”
Next, back to London and Paddington Station. Here he left the trunk—at
the other cloak room this time, the one on the Arrival side. He thought
longingly of such things as good rumpsteaks, juicy chops, and large masses

of fried potatoes. But he shook his head ruefully, glancing at his wrist
watch. He fed the Morris with a fresh supply of petrol, and then took the
road once more. North this time.
It was just after half-past eleven that he brought the car to rest in the road
adjoining the park of Chimneys. Jumping out he scaled the wall easily
enough, and set out towards the house. It took him longer than he thought,
and presently he broke into a run. A great grey mass loomed up out of the
darkness—the venerable pile of Chimneys. In the distance a stable clock
chimed the three quarters.
11.45—the time mentioned on the scrap of paper. Anthony was on the
terrace now, looking up at the house. Everything seemed dark and quiet.
“They go to bed early, these politicians,” he murmured to himself.
And suddenly a sound smote upon his ears—the sound of a shot. Anthony
spun round quickly. The sound had come from within the house—he was
sure of that. He waited a minute, but everything was still as death. Finally
he went up to one of the long French windows from where he judged the
sound that had startled him had come. He tried the handle. It was locked.
He tried some of the other windows, listening intently all the while. But the
silence remained unbroken.
In the end he told himself that he must have imagined the sound, or perhaps
mistaken a stray shot coming from a poacher in the woods. He turned and
retraced his steps across the park, vaguely dissatisfied and uneasy.
He looked back at the house, and whilst he looked a light sprang up in one
of the windows on the first floor. In another minute it went out again, and
the whole place was in darkness once more.

10
Chimneys
Inspector Badgworthy in his office. Time, 8.30 a.m. A tall portly man,
Inspector Badgworthy, with a heavy regulation tread. Inclined to breathe
hard in moments of professional strain. In attendance Constable Johnson,
very new to the Force, with a downy unfledged look about him, like a
human chicken.
The telephone on the table rang sharply, and the inspector took it up with
his usual portentous gravity of action.
“Yes. Police station Market Basing. Inspector Badgworthy speaking.
What?”
Slight alteration in the inspector’s manner. As he is greater than Johnson, so
others are greater than Inspector Badgworthy.
“Speaking, my lord. I beg your pardon, my lord? I didn’t quite hear what
you said?”
Long pause, during which the inspector listens, quite a variety of
expressions passing over his usually impassive countenance. Finally he lays
down the receiver, after a brief “At once, my lord.”
He turned to Johnson, seeming visibly swelled with importance.
“From his lordship—at Chimneys—Murder.”
“Murder,” echoed Johnson, suitably impressed.
“Murder it is,” said the inspector, with great satisfaction.
“Why, there’s never been a murder here—not that I’ve ever heard of—
except the time that Tom Pearse shot his sweetheart.”
“And that, in a manner of speaking, wasn’t murder at all, but drink,” said
the inspector, deprecatingly.
“He weren’t hanged for it,” agreed Johnson gloomily. “But this is the real
thing, is it, sir?”

“It is, Johnson. One of his lordship’s guests, a foreign gentleman,
discovered shot. Open window, and footprints outside.”
“I’m sorry it were a foreigner,” said Johnson, with some regret.
It made the murder seem less real. Foreigners, Johnson felt, were liable to
be shot.
“His lordship’s in a rare taking,” continued the inspector. “We’ll get hold of
Dr. Cartwright and take him up with us right away. I hope to goodness no
one will get messing with those footprints.”
Badgworthy was in a seventh heaven. A murder! At Chimneys! Inspector
Badgworthy in charge of the case. The police have a clue. Sensational
arrest. Promotion and kudos for the aforementioned inspector.
“That is,” said Inspector Badgworthy to himself, “if Scotland Yard doesn’t
come butting in.”
The thought damped him momentarily. It seemed so extremely likely to
happen under the circumstances.
They stopped at Dr. Cartwright’s, and the doctor, who was a comparatively
young man, displayed a keen interest. His attitude was almost exactly that
of Johnson.
“Why, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t had a murder here since
the time of Tom Pearse.”
All three of them got into the doctor’s little car, and started off briskly for
Chimneys. As they passed the local inn, The Jolly Cricketers, the doctor
noticed a man standing in the doorway.
“Stranger,” he remarked. “Rather a nice-looking fellow. Wonder how long
he’s been here, and what he’s doing staying at the Cricketers? I haven’t seen
him about at all. He must have arrived last night.”
“He didn’t come by train,” said Johnson.
Johnson’s brother was the local railway porter, and Johnson was therefore
always well up in arrivals and departures.
“Who was there for Chimneys yesterday?” asked the inspector.

“Lady Eileen, she come down by the 3.40, and two gentlemen with her, an
American gent, and a young Army chap—neither of them with valets. His
lordship come down with a foreign gentleman, the one that’s been shot as
likely as not, by the 5.40, and the foreign gentleman’s valet. Mr. Eversleigh
come by the same train. Mrs. Revel came by the 7.25, and another foreign-
looking gentleman came by it too, one with a bald head and a hook nose.
Mrs. Revel’s maid came by the 8.56.”
Johnson paused, out of breath.
“And there was no one for the Cricketers?”
Johnson shook his head.
“He must have come by car then,” said the inspector. “Johnson, make a note
to institute inquiries at the Cricketers on your way back. We want to know
all about any strangers. He was very sunburnt, that gentleman. Likely as
not, he’s come from foreign parts too.”
The inspector nodded his head with great sagacity, as though to imply that
that was the sort of wide-awake man he was—not to be caught napping
under any consideration.
The car passed in through the Park gates of Chimneys. Descriptions of that
historic place can be found in any guide book. It is also No. 3 in Historic
Homes of England, price 21s. On Thursdays, chars-à-bancs come over from
Middlingham and view those portions of it which are open to the public. In
view of all these facilities, to describe Chimneys would be superfluous.
They were received at the door by a white-headed butler whose demeanour
was perfect.
“We are not accustomed,” it seemed to say, “to having murder committed
within these walls. But these are evil days. Let us meet disaster with perfect
calm, and pretend with our dying breath that nothing out of the usual has
occurred.”
“His lordship,” said the butler, “is expecting you. This way, if you please.”
He led them to a small cosy room which was Lord Caterham’s refuge from
the magnificence elsewhere, and announced them.
“The police, my lord, and Dr. Cartwright.”

Lord Caterham was pacing up and down in a visibly agitated state.
“Ha! inspector, you’ve turned up at last. I’m thankful for that. How are you,
Cartwright? This is the very devil of a business, you know. The very devil
of a business.”
And Lord Caterham, running his hands through his hair in a frenzied
fashion until it stood upright in little tufts, looked even less like a peer of
the realm than usual.
“Where’s the body?” asked the doctor, in curt business-like fashion.
Lord Caterham turned to him as though relieved at being asked a direct
question.
“In the council chamber—just where it was found—I wouldn’t have it
touched. I believed—er—that that was the correct thing to do.”
“Quite right, my lord,” said the inspector approvingly.
He produced a notebook and pencil.
“And who discovered the body? Did you?”
“Good Lord, no,” said Lord Caterham. “You don’t think I usually get up at
this unearthly hour in the morning, do you? No, a housemaid found it. She
screamed a good deal, I believe. I didn’t hear her myself. Then they came to
me about it, and of course I got up and came down—and there it was, you
know.”
“You recognized the body as that of one of your guests?”
“That’s right, inspector.”
“By name?”
This perfectly simple question seemed to upset Lord Caterham. He opened
his mouth once or twice, and then shut it again. Finally he asked feebly.
“Do you mean—do you mean—what was his name?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, looking slowly round the room, as though
hoping to gain inspiration. “His name was—I should say it was—yes,
decidedly so—Count Stanislaus.”

There was something so odd about Lord Caterham’s manner, that the
inspector ceased using his pencil and stared at him instead. But at that
moment a diversion occurred which seemed highly welcome to the
embarrassed peer.
The door opened and a girl came into the room. She was tall, slim and dark,
with an attractive boyish face, and a very determined manner. This was
Lady Eileen Brent, commonly known as Bundle, Lord Caterham’s eldest
daughter. She nodded to the others, and addressed her father directly.
“I’ve got him,” she announced.
For a moment the inspector was on the point of starting forward under the
impression that the young lady had captured the murderer red-handed, but
almost immediately he realized that her meaning was quite different.
Lord Caterham uttered a sigh of relief.
“That’s a good job. What did he say?”
“He’s coming over at once. We are to ‘use the utmost discretion.’”
Her father made a sound of annoyance.
“That’s just the sort of idiotic thing George Lomax would say. However,
once he comes, I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”
He appeared to cheer up a little at the prospect.
“And the name of the murdered man was Count Stanislaus?” queried the
doctor.
A lightning glance passed between father and daughter, and then the former
said with some dignity:
“Certainly. I said so just now.”
“I asked because you didn’t seem quite sure about it before,” explained
Cartwright.
There was a faint twinkle in his eye, and Lord Caterham looked at him
reproachfully.
“I’ll take you to the Council Chamber,” he said more briskly.

They followed him, the inspector bringing up the rear, and darting sharp
glances all around him as he went, much as though he expected to find a
clue in a picture frame, or behind a door.
Lord Caterham took a key from his pocket and unlocked a door, flinging it
open. They all passed into a big room panelled in oak, with three long
windows giving on the terrace. There was a long refectory table and a good
many oak chests, and some beautiful old chairs. On the walls were various
paintings of dead and gone Caterhams and others.
Near the left-hand wall, about half-way between the door and the window, a
man was lying on his back, his arms flung wide.
Dr. Cartwright went over and knelt down by the body. The inspector strode
across to the windows, and examined them in turn. The centre one was
closed, but not fastened. On the steps outside were footprints leading up to
the window, and a second set going away again.
“Clear enough,” said the inspector, with a nod. “But there ought to be
footprints on the inside as well. They’d show up plain on this parquet
floor.”
“I think I can explain that,” interposed Bundle. “The housemaid had
polished half the floor this morning before she saw the body. You see, it was
dark when she came in here. She went straight across to the windows, drew
the curtains, and began on the floor, and naturally didn’t see the body which
is hidden from that side of the room by the table. She didn’t see it until she
came right on top of it.”
The inspector nodded.
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, eager to escape. “I’ll leave you here, inspector.
You’ll be able to find me if you—er—want me. But Mr. George Lomax is
coming over from Wyverne Abbey shortly, and he’ll be able to tell you far
more than I could. It’s his business really. I can’t explain, but he will when
he comes.”
Lord Caterham beat a precipitate retreat without waiting for a reply.
“Too bad for Lomax,” he complained. “Letting me in for this. What’s the
matter, Tredwell?”
The white-haired butler was hovering deferentially at his elbow.

“I have taken the liberty, my lord, of advancing the breakfast hour as far as
you are concerned. Everything is ready in the dining-room.”
“I don’t suppose for a minute I can eat anything,” said Lord Caterham
gloomily, turning his footsteps in that direction. “Not for a moment.”
Bundle slipped her hand through his arm, and they entered the dining-room
together. On the sideboard were half a score of heavy silver dishes,
ingeniously kept hot by patent arrangements.
“Omelet,” said Lord Caterham, lifting each lid in turn. “Eggs and bacon,
kidneys, devilled bird, haddock, cold ham, cold pheasant. I don’t like any of
these things, Tredwell, ask the cook to poach me an egg, will you?”
“Very good, my lord.”
Tredwell withdrew. Lord Caterham, in an absent-minded fashion, helped
himself plentifully to kidneys and bacon, poured himself out a cup of
coffee, and sat down at the long table. Bundle was already busy with a
plateful of eggs and bacon.
“I’m damned hungry,” said Bundle with her mouth full. “It must be the
excitement.”
“It’s all very well for you,” complained her father. “You young people like
excitement. But I’m in a very delicate state of health. Avoid all worry, that’s
what Sir Abner Willis said—avoid all worry. So easy for a man sitting in his
consulting-room in Harley Street to say that. How can I avoid worry when
that ass Lomax lands me with a thing like this? I ought to have been firm at
the time. I ought to have put my foot down.”
With a sad shake of the head, Lord Caterham rose and carved himself a
plate of ham.
“Codders has certainly done it this time,” observed Bundle cheerfully. “He
was almost incoherent over the telephone. He’ll be here in a minute or two,
spluttering nineteen to the dozen about discretion and hushing it up.”
Lord Caterham groaned at the prospect.
“Was he up?” he asked.
“He told me,” replied Bundle, “that he had been up and dictating letters and
memoranda ever since seven o’clock.”

“Proud of it, too,” remarked her father. “Extraordinarily selfish, these public
men. They make their wretched secretaries get up at the most unearthly
hours in order to dictate rubbish to them. If a law was passed compelling
them to stop in bed until eleven, what a benefit it would be to the nation! I
wouldn’t mind so much if they didn’t talk such balderdash. Lomax is
always talking to me of my ‘position.’ As if I had any. Who wants to be a
peer nowadays?”
“Nobody,” said Bundle. “They’d much rather keep a prosperous public
house.”
Tredwell reappeared silently with two poached eggs in a little silver dish
which he placed on the table in front of Lord Caterham.
“What’s that, Tredwell?” said the latter, looking at them with faint distaste.
“Poached eggs, my lord.”
“I hate poached eggs,” said Lord Caterham peevishly. “They’re so insipid. I
don’t like to look at them even. Take them away, will you, Tredwell?”
“Very good, my lord.”
Tredwell and the poached eggs withdrew as silently as they came.
“Thank God no one gets up early in this house,” remarked Lord Caterham
devoutly. “We shall have to break this to them when they do, I suppose.”
He sighed.
“I wonder who murdered him,” said Bundle. “And why?”
“That’s not our business, thank goodness,” said Lord Caterham. “That’s for
the police to find out. Not that Badgworthy will ever find out anything. On
the whole I rather hope it was Nosystein.”
“Meaning——”
“The All British Syndicate.”
“Why should Mr. Isaacstein murder him when he’d come down here on
purpose to meet him?”
“High finance,” said Lord Caterham vaguely. “And that reminds me, I
shouldn’t be at all surprised if Isaacstein wasn’t an early riser. He may blow

in upon us at any minute. It’s a habit in the city. I believe that, however rich
you are, you always catch the 9.17.”
The sound of a motor being driven at great speed was heard through the
open window.
“Codders,” cried Bundle.
Father and daughter leaned out of the window and hailed the occupant of
the car as it drew up before the entrance.
“In here, my dear fellow, in here,” cried Lord Caterham, hastily swallowing
his mouthful of ham.
George had no intention of climbing in through the window. He disappeared
through the front door, and reappeared ushered in by Tredwell, who
withdrew at once.
“Have some breakfast,” said Lord Caterham, shaking him by the hand.
“What about a kidney?”
George waved the kidney aside impatiently.
“This is a terrible calamity, terrible, terrible.”
“It is indeed. Some haddock?”
“No, no. It must be hushed up—at all costs it must be hushed up.”
As Bundle had prophesied, George began to splutter.
“I understand your feelings,” said Lord Caterham sympathetically. “Try an
egg and bacon, or some haddock.”
“A totally unforeseen contingency—national calamity—concessions
jeopardized——”
“Take time,” said Lord Caterham. “And take some food. What you need is
some food, to pull you together. Poached eggs now? There were some
poached eggs here a minute or two ago.”
“I don’t want any food,” said George. “I’ve had breakfast, and even if I
hadn’t had any I shouldn’t want it. We must think what is to be done. You
have told no one as yet?”

“Well, there’s Bundle and myself. And the local police. And Cartwright.
And all the servants of course.”
George groaned.
“Pull yourself together, my dear fellow,” said Lord Caterham kindly. “(I
wish you’d have some breakfast.) You don’t seem to realize that you can’t
hush up a dead body. It’s got be buried and all that sort of thing. Very
unfortunate, but there it is.”
George became suddenly calm.
“You are right, Caterham. You have called in the local police, you say? That
will not do. We must have Battle.”
“Battle, murder and sudden death,” inquired Lord Caterham, with a puzzled
face.
“No, no, you misunderstand me. I referred to Superintendent Battle of
Scotland Yard. A man of the utmost discretion. He worked with us in that
deplorable business of the Party Funds.”
“What was that?” asked Lord Caterham, with some interest.
But George’s eye had fallen upon Bundle, as she sat half in and half out of
the window, and he remembered discretion just in time. He rose.
“We must waste no time. I must send off some wires at once.”
“If you write them out, Bundle will send them through the telephone.”
George pulled out a fountain pen and began to write with incredible
rapidity. He handed the first one to Bundle, who read it with a great deal of
interest.
“God! what a name,” she remarked. “Baron How Much?”
“Baron Lolopretjzyl.”
Bundle blinked.
“I’ve got it, but it will take some conveying to the post office.”
George continued to write. Then he handed his labours to Bundle and
addressed the master of the house:
“The best thing that you can do, Caterham——”

“Yes,” said Lord Caterham apprehensively.
“Is to leave everything in my hands.”
“Certainly,” said Lord Caterham, with alacrity. “Just what I was thinking
myself. You’ll find the police and Dr. Cartwright in the Council Chamber.
With the—er—with the body, you know. My dear Lomax, I place Chimneys
unreservedly at your disposal. Do anything you like.”
“Thank you,” said George. “If I should want to consult you——”
But Lord Caterham had faded unobtrusively through the farther door.
Bundle had observed his retreat with a grim smile.
“I’ll send off those telegrams at once,” she said. “You know your way to the
Council Chamber?”
“Thank you, Lady Eileen.”
George hurried from the room.

11
Superintendent Battle Arrives
So apprehensive was Lord Caterham of being consulted by George that he
spent the whole morning making a tour of his estate. Only the pangs of
hunger drew him homeward. He also reflected that by now the worst would
surely be over.
He sneaked into the house quietly by a small side door. From there he
slipped neatly into his sanctum. He flattered himself that his entrance had
not been observed, but there he was mistaken. The watchful Tredwell let
nothing escape him. He presented himself at the door.
“You’ll excuse me, my lord——”
“What is it, Tredwell?”
“Mr. Lomax, my lord, is anxious to see you in the library as soon as you
return.”
By this delicate method Tredwell conveyed that Lord Caterham had not yet
returned unless he chose to say so.
Lord Caterham sighed, and then rose.
“I suppose it will have to be done sooner or later. In the library, you say?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Sighing again, Lord Caterham crossed the wide spaces of his ancestral
home, and reached the library door. The door was locked. As he rattled the
handle, it was unlocked from inside, opened a little way, and the face of
George Lomax appeared, peering out suspiciously.
His face changed when he saw who it was.
“Ah, Caterham, come in. We were just wondering what had become of
you.”
Murmuring something vague about duties on the estate, repairs for tenants,
Lord Caterham sidled in apologetically. There were two other men in the

room. One was Colonel Melrose, the Chief Constable. The other was a
squarely built middle-aged man with a face so singularly devoid of
expression as to be quite remarkable.
“Superintendent Battle arrived half an hour ago,” explained George. “He
has been round with Inspector Badgworthy, and seen Dr. Cartwright. He
now wants a few facts from us.”
They all sat down, after Lord Caterham had greeted Melrose and
acknowledged his introduction to Superintendent Battle.
“I need hardly tell you, Battle,” said George, “that this is a case in which we
must use the utmost discretion.”
The superintendent nodded in an offhand manner that rather took Lord
Caterham’s fancy.
“That will be all right, Mr. Lomax. But no concealments from us. I
understand that the dead gentleman was called Count Stanislaus—at least,
that that is the name by which the household knew him. Now was that his
real name?”
“It was not.”
“What was his real name?”
“Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”
Battle’s eyes opened just a trifle, otherwise he gave no sign.
“And what, if I may ask the question, was the purpose of his visit here? Just
pleasure?”
“There was a further object, Battle. All this in the strictest confidence of
course.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Lomax.”
“Colonel Melrose?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, Prince Michael was here for the express purpose of meeting
Mr. Herman Isaacstein. A loan was to be arranged on certain terms.”
“Which were?”

“I do not know the exact details. Indeed, they had not yet been arranged.
But in the event of coming to the throne, Prince Michael pledged himself to
grant certain oil concessions to those companies in which Mr. Isaacstein is
interested. The British Government was prepared to support the claim of
Prince Michael to the throne in view of his pronounced British sympathies.”
“Well,” said Superintendent Battle, “I don’t suppose I need go further into it
than that. Prince Michael wanted the money, Mr. Isaacstein wanted oil, and
the British Government was ready to do the heavy father. Just one question.
Was anyone else after those concessions?”
“I believe an American group of financiers had made overtures to His
Highness.”
“And been turned down, eh?”
But George refused to be drawn.
“Prince Michael’s sympathies were entirely pro-British,” he repeated.
Superintendent Battle did not press the point.
“Lord Caterham, I understand that this is what occurred yesterday. You met
Prince Michael in town and journeyed down here in company with him.
The Prince was accompanied by his valet, a Herzoslovakian named Boris
Anchoukoff, but his equerry, Captain Andrassy, remained in town. The
Prince, on arriving, declared himself greatly fatigued, and retired to the
apartments set aside for him. Dinner was served to him there, and he did not
meet the other members of the house party. Is that correct?”
“Quite correct.”
“This morning a housemaid discovered the body at approximately 7.45 a.m.
Dr. Cartwright examined the dead man and found that death was the result
of a bullet fired from a revolver. No revolver was found, and no one in the
house seems to have heard the shot. On the other hand the dead man’s wrist
watch was smashed by the fall, and marks the crime as having been
committed at exactly a quarter to twelve. Now what time did you retire to
bed last night?”
“We went early. Somehow or other the party didn’t seem to ‘go’ if you
know what I mean, superintendent. We went up about half-past ten, I should
say.”

“Thank you. Now I will ask you, Lord Caterham, to give me a description
of all the people staying in the house.”
“But, excuse me, I thought the fellow who did it came from outside?”
Superintendent Battle smiled.
“I dare say he did. I dare say he did. But all the same I’ve got to know who
was in the house. Matter of routine, you know.”
“Well, there was Prince Michael and his valet and Mr. Herman Isaacstein.
You know all about them. Then there was Mr. Eversleigh——”
“Who works in my department,” put in George condescendingly.
“And who was acquainted with the real reason of Prince Michael’s being
here?”
“No, I should not say that,” replied George weightily. “Doubtless he
realized that something was in the wind, but I did not think it necessary to
take him fully into my confidence.”
“I see. Will you go on, Lord Caterham?”
“Let me see, there was Mr. Hiram Fish.”
“Who is Mr. Hiram Fish?”
“Mr. Fish is an American. He brought over a letter of introduction from Mr.
Lucius Gott—you’ve heard of Lucius Gott?”
Superintendent Battle smiled acknowledgment. Who had not heard of
Lucius C. Gott, the multi-millionaire?
“He was specially anxious to see my first editions. Mr. Gott’s collection is,
of course, unequalled, but I’ve got several treasures myself. This Mr. Fish
was an enthusiast. Mr. Lomax had suggested that I ask one or two extra
people down here this week-end to make things seem more natural, so I
took the opportunity of asking Mr. Fish. That finishes the men. As for the
ladies, there is only Mrs. Revel—and I expect she brought a maid or
something like that. Then there was my daughter, and of course the children
and their nurses and governesses and all the servants.”
Lord Caterham paused and took a breath.

“Thank you,” said the detective. “A mere matter of routine, but necessary as
such.”
“There is no doubt, I suppose,” asked George ponderously, “that the
murderer entered by the window?”
Battle paused for a minute before replying slowly.
“There were footsteps leading up to the window, and footsteps leading
away from it. A car stopped outside the park at 11.40 last night. At twelve
o’clock a young man arrived at the Jolly Cricketers in a car, and engaged a
room. He put his boots outside to be cleaned—they were very wet and
muddy, as though he had been walking through the long grass in the park.”
George leant forward eagerly.
“Could not the boots be compared with the footprints?”
“They were.”
“Well?”
“They exactly correspond.”
“That settles it,” cried George. “We have the murderer. The young man—
what is his name, by the way?”
“At the inn he gave the name of Anthony Cade.”
“This Anthony Cade must be pursued at once, and arrested.”
“You won’t need to pursue him,” said Superintendent Battle.
“Why?”
“Because he’s still there.”
“What?”
“Curious, isn’t it?”
Colonel Melrose eyed him keenly.
“What’s in your mind, Battle? Out with it.”
“I just say it’s curious, that’s all. Here’s a young man who ought to cut and
run, but he doesn’t cut and run. He stays here, and gives us every facility for
comparing footmarks.”

“What do you think, then?”
“I don’t know what to think. And that’s a very disturbing state of mind.”
“Do you imagine——” began Colonel Melrose, but broke off as a discreet
knock came at the door.
George rose and went to it. Tredwell, inwardly suffering from having to
knock at doors in this low fashion, stood dignified upon the threshold, and
addressed his master.
“Excuse me, my lord, but a gentleman wishes to see you on urgent and
important business, connected, I understand, with this morning’s tragedy.”
“What’s his name?” asked Battle suddenly.
“His name, sir, is Mr. Anthony Cade, but he said it wouldn’t convey
anything to anybody.”
It seemed to convey something to the four men present. They all sat up in
varying degrees of astonishment.
Lord Caterham began to chuckle.
“I’m really beginning to enjoy myself. Show him in, Tredwell. Show him in
at once.”

12
Anthony Tells His Story
“Mr. Anthony Cade,” announced Tredwell.
“Enter suspicious stranger from village inn,” said Anthony.
He made his way toward Lord Caterham with a kind of instinct rare in
strangers. At the same time he summed up the other three men in his own
mind thus: “1, Scotland Yard. 2, Local dignitary—probably chief constable.
3, Harassed gentleman on the verge of apoplexy—possibly connected with
the Government.”
“I must apologize,” continued Anthony, still addressing Lord Caterham.
“For forcing my way in like this, I mean. But it was rumoured round the
Jolly Dog, or whatever the name of your local pub may be, that you had had
a murder up here, and as I thought I might be able to throw some light upon
it I came along.”
For a moment or two, no one spoke. Superintendent Battle because he was a
man of ripe experience who knew how infinitely better it was to let every
one else speak if they could be persuaded upon to do so, Colonel Melrose
because he was habitually taciturn, George because he was in the habit of
having notice given him of the question, Lord Caterham because he had not
the least idea of what to say. The silence of the other three, however, and the
fact that he had been directly addressed, finally forced speech upon the last
named.
“Er—quite so—quite so,” he said nervously. “Won’t—you—er—sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Anthony.
George cleared his throat portentously.
“Er—when you say you can throw light upon this matter, you mean——?”
“I mean,” said Anthony, “that I was trespassing upon Lord Caterham’s
property (for which I hope he will forgive me) last night at about 11.45, and

that I actually heard the shot fired. I can at any rate fix the time of the crime
for you.”
He looked round at the three in turn, his eyes resting longest on
Superintendent Battle, the impassivity of whose face he seemed to
appreciate.
“But I hardly think that that’s news to you,” he added gently.
“Meaning by that, Mr. Cade?” asked Battle.
“Just this. I put on shoes when I got up this morning. Later, when I asked
for my boots, I couldn’t have them. Some nice young constable had called
round for them. So I naturally put two and two together, and hurried up here
to clear my character if possible.”
“A very sensible move,” said Battle non-committally.
Anthony’s eyes twinkled a little.
“I appreciate your reticence, inspector. It is inspector, isn’t it?”
Lord Caterham interposed. He was beginning to take a fancy to Anthony.
“Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard. This is Colonel Melrose, our Chief
Constable, and Mr. Lomax.”
Anthony looked sharply at George.
“Mr. George Lomax?”
“Yes.”
“I think, Mr. Lomax,” said Anthony, “that I had the pleasure of receiving a
letter from you yesterday.”
George stared at him.
“I think not,” he said coldly.
But he wished that Miss Oscar were here. Miss Oscar wrote all his letters
for him, and remembered who they were to and what they were about. A
great man like George could not possibly remember all these annoying
details.
“I think, Mr. Cade,” he hinted, “that you were about to give us some—er—
explanation of what you were doing in the grounds last night at 11.45?”

His tone said plainly: “And whatever it may be, we are not likely to believe
it.”
“Yes, Mr. Cade, what were you doing?” said Lord Caterham, with lively
interest.
“Well,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s rather a long story.”
He drew out his cigarette case.
“May I?”
Lord Caterham nodded, and Anthony lit a cigarette, and braced himself for
the ordeal.
He was aware, none better, of the peril in which he stood. In the short space
of twenty-four hours, he had become embroiled in two separate crimes. His
actions in connection with the first would not bear looking into for a
second. After deliberately disposing of one body, and so defeating the aims
of justice, he had arrived upon the scene of the second crime at the exact
moment when it was being committed. For a young man looking for
trouble, he could hardly have done better.
“South America,” thought Anthony to himself, “simply isn’t in it with this!”
He had already decided upon his course of action. He was going to tell the
truth—with one trifling alteration, and one grave suppression.
“The story begins,” said Anthony, “about three weeks ago—in Bulawayo.
Mr. Lomax, of course, knows where that is—outpost of the Empire—‘What
do we know of England who only England know?’ all that sort of thing. I
was conversing with a friend of mine, a Mr. James McGrath—”
He brought out the name slowly, with a thoughtful eye on George. George
bounded in his seat and repressed an exclamation with difficulty.
“The upshot of our conversation was that I came to England to carry out a
little commission for Mr. McGrath, who was unable to go himself. Since the
passage was booked in his name, I travelled as James McGrath. I don’t
know what particular kind of offence that was—the superintendent can tell
me, I dare say, and run me in for so many months’ hard if necessary.”
“We’ll get on with the story, if you please, sir,” said Battle, but his eyes
twinkled a little.

“On arrival in London I went to the Blitz Hotel, still as James McGrath. My
business in London was to deliver a certain manuscript to a firm of
publishers, but almost immediately I received deputations from the
representatives of two political parties of a foreign kingdom. The methods
of one were strictly constitutional, the methods of the other were not. I dealt
with them both accordingly. But my troubles were not over. That night my
room was broken into, and an attempt at burglary was made by one of the
waiters at the hotel.”
“That was not reported to the police, I think?” said Superintendent Battle.
“You are right. It was not. Nothing was taken, you see. But I did report the
occurrence to the manager of the hotel, and he will confirm my story, and
tell you that the waiter in question decamped rather abruptly in the middle
of the night. The next day, the publishers rang me up, and suggested that
one of their representatives would call upon me and receive the manuscript.
I agreed to this, and the arrangement was duly carried out on the following
morning. Since I have heard nothing further, I presume the manuscript
reached them safely. Yesterday, still as James McGrath, I received a letter
from Mr. Lomax——”
Anthony paused. He was by now beginning to enjoy himself. George
shifted uneasily.
“I remember,” he murmured. “Such a large correspondence. The name, of
course, being different, I could not be expected to know. And I may say,”
George’s voice rose a little, firm in the assurance of moral stability, “that I
consider this—this—masquerading as another man in the highest degree
improper. I have no doubt, no doubt whatever, that you have incurred a
severe legal penalty.”
“In this letter,” continued Anthony, unmoved, “Mr. Lomax made various
suggestions concerning the manuscript in my charge. He also extended an
invitation to me from Lord Caterham to join the house party here.”
“Delighted to see you, my dear fellow,” said that nobleman. “Better late
than never—eh?”
George frowned at him.
Superintendent Battle bent an unmoved eye upon Anthony.

“And is that your explanation of your presence here last night, sir?” he
asked.
“Certainly not,” said Anthony warmly. “When I am asked to stay at a
country-house, I don’t scale the wall late at night, tramp across the park,
and try the downstairs windows. I drive up to the front door, ring the bell
and wipe my feet on the mat. I will proceed. I replied to Mr. Lomax’s letter,
explaining that the manuscript had passed out of my keeping, and therefore
regretfully declining Lord Caterham’s kind invitation. But after I had done
so, I remembered something which had up till then escaped my memory.”
He paused. The moment had come for skating over thin ice. “I must tell you
that in my struggle with the waiter Giuseppe, I had wrested from him a
small bit of paper with some words scribbled on it. They had conveyed
nothing to me at the time, but I still had them, and the mention of Chimneys
recalled them to me. I got the torn scrap out and looked at it. It was as I had
thought. Here is the piece of paper, gentlemen, you can see for yourselves.
The words on it are ‘Chimneys 11.45 Thursday.’”
Battle examined the paper attentively.
“Of course,” continued Anthony, “the word Chimneys might have nothing
whatever to do with this house. On the other hand, it might. And
undoubtedly this Giuseppe was a thieving rascal. I made up my mind to
motor down here last night, satisfy myself that all was as it should be, put
up at the inn, and call upon Lord Caterham in the morning and put him on
his guard in case some mischief should be intended during the week-end.”
“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham encouragingly. “Quite so.”
“I was late in getting here—had not allowed enough time. Consequently I
stopped the car, climbed over the wall and ran across the park. When I
arrived on the terrace, the whole house was dark and silent. I was just
turning away when I heard a shot. I fancied that it came from inside the
house, and I ran back, crossed the terrace, and tried the windows. But they
were fastened, and there was no sound of any kind from inside the house. I
waited a while, but the whole place was still as the grave, so I made up my
mind that I had made a mistake, and that what I had heard was a stray
poacher—quite a natural conclusion to come to under the circumstances, I
think.”

“Quite natural,” said Superintendent Battle expressionlessly.
“I went on to the inn, put up as I said—and heard the news this morning. I
realized, of course, that I was a suspicious character—bound to be under the
circumstances, and came up here to tell my story, hoping it wasn’t going to
be handcuffs for one.”
There was a pause. Colonel Melrose looked sideways at Superintendent
Battle.
“I think the story seems clear enough,” he remarked.
“Yes,” said Battle. “I don’t think we’ll be handing out any handcuffs this
morning.”
“Any questions, Battle?”
“There’s one thing I’d like to know. What was this manuscript?”
He looked across at George, and the latter replied with a trace of
unwillingness:
“The Memoirs of the late Count Stylptitch. You see——”
“You needn’t say anything more,” said Battle. “I see perfectly.”
He turned to Anthony.
“Do you know who it was that was shot, Mr. Cade?”
“At the Jolly Dog it was understood to be a Count Stanislaus or some such
name.”
“Tell him,” said Battle laconically to George Lomax.
George was clearly reluctant, but he was forced to speak:
“The gentleman who was staying here incognito as Count Stanislaus was
His Highness Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”
Anthony whistled.
“That must be deuced awkward,” he remarked.
Superintendent Battle, who had been watching Anthony closely, gave a
short grunt as though satisfied of something, and rose abruptly to his feet.

“There are one or two questions I’d like to ask Mr. Cade,” he announced.
“I’ll take him into the Council Chamber with me if I may.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said Lord Caterham. “Take him anywhere you like.”
Anthony and the detective went out together.
The body had been removed from the scene of the tragedy. There was a
dark stain on the floor where it had lain, but otherwise there was nothing to
suggest that a tragedy had ever occurred. The sun poured in through the
three windows, flooding the room with light, and bringing out the mellow
tone of the old panelling. Anthony looked around him with approval.
“Very nice,” he commented. “Nothing much to beat old England, is there?”
“Did it seem to you at first it was in this room the shot was fired?” asked
the superintendent, not replying to Anthony’s eulogium.
“Let me see.”
Anthony opened the window and went out on the terrace, looking up at the
house.
“Yes, that’s the room all right,” he said. “It’s built out, and occupies all the
corner. If the shot had been fired anywhere else, it would have sounded
from the left, but this was from behind me or to the right if anything. That’s
why I thought of poachers. It’s at the extremity of the wing, you see.”
He stepped back across the threshold, and asked suddenly, as though the
idea had just struck him:
“But why do you ask? You know he was shot here, don’t you?”
“Ah!” said the superintendent. “We never know as much as we’d like to
know. But, yes, he was shot here all right. Now you said something about
trying the windows, didn’t you?”
“Yes. They were fastened from the inside.”
“How many of them did you try?”
“All three of them.”
“Sure of that, sir?”
“I’m in the habit of being sure. Why do you ask?”

“That’s a funny thing,” said the superintendent.
“What’s a funny thing?”
“When the crime was discovered this morning, the middle one was open—
not latched, that is to say.”
“Whew!” said Anthony, sinking down on the window seat, and taking out
his cigarette case. “That’s rather a blow. That opens up quite a different
aspect of the case. It leaves us two alternatives. Either he was killed by
some one in the house, and that some one unlatched the window after I had
gone to make it look like an outside job—incidentally with me as Little
Willie—or else, not to mince matters, I’m lying. I dare say you incline to
the second possibility, but, upon my honour, you’re wrong.”
“Nobody’s going to leave this house until I’m through with them, I can tell
you that,” said Superintendent Battle grimly.
Anthony looked at him keenly.
“How long have you had the idea that it might be an inside job?” he asked.
Battle smiled.
“I’ve had a notion that way all along. Your trail was a bit too—flaring, if I
may put it that way. As soon as your boots fitted the footmarks, I began to
have my doubts.”
“I congratulate Scotland Yard,” said Anthony lightly.
But at that moment, the moment when Battle apparently admitted
Anthony’s complete absence of complicity in the crime, Anthony felt more
than ever the need of being upon his guard. Superintendent Battle was a
very astute officer. It would not do to make any slip with Superintendent
Battle about.
“That’s where it happened, I suppose?” said Anthony, nodding towards the
dark patch upon the floor.
“Yes.”
“What was he shot with—a revolver?”
“Yes, but we shan’t know what make until they get the bullet out at the
autopsy.”

“It wasn’t found, then?”
“No, it wasn’t found.”
“No clues of any kind?”
“Well, we’ve got this.”
Rather after the manner of a conjurer, Superintendent Battle produced a
half-sheet of notepaper. And, as he did so, he again watched Anthony
closely without seeming to do so.
But Anthony recognized the design upon it without any sign of
consternation.
“Aha! Comrades of the Red Hand again. If they’re going to scatter this sort
of thing about, they ought to have it lithographed. It must be a frightful
nuisance doing every one separately. Where was this found?”
“Underneath the body. You’ve seen it before, sir?”
Anthony recounted to him in detail his short encounter with that public-
spirited association.
“The idea is, I suppose, that the Comrades did him in.”
“Do you think it likely, sir?”
“Well, it would be in keeping with their propaganda. But I’ve always found
that those who talk most about blood have never actually seen it run. I
shouldn’t have said the Comrades had the guts myself. And they’re such
picturesque people too. I don’t see one of them disguising himself as a
suitable guest for a country house. Still, one never knows.”
“Quite right, Mr. Cade. One never knows.”
Anthony looked suddenly amused.
“I see the big idea now. Open window, trail of footprints, suspicious
stranger at village inn. But I can assure you, my dear superintendent, that,
whatever I am, I am not the local agent of the Red Hand.”
Superintendent Battle smiled a little. Then he played his last card.
“Would you have any objection to seeing the body?” he shot out suddenly.
“None whatever,” rejoined Anthony.

Battle took a key from his pocket, and preceding Anthony down the
corridor, paused at a door and unlocked it. It was one of the smaller
drawing-rooms. The body lay on a table covered with a sheet.
Superintendent Battle waited until Anthony was beside him, and then
whisked away the sheet suddenly.
An eager light sprang into his eyes at the half-uttered exclamation and the
start of surprise which the other gave.
“So you do recognize him, Mr. Cade,” he said, in a voice that he strove to
render devoid of triumph.
“I’ve seen him before, yes,” said Anthony, recovering himself. “But not as
Prince Michael Obolovitch. He purported to come from Messrs. Balderson
and Hodgkins, and he called himself Mr. Holmes.”

13
The American Visitor
Superintendent Battle replaced the sheet with the slightly crest-fallen air of
a man whose best point has fallen flat. Anthony stood with his hands in his
pockets lost in thought.
“So that’s what old Lollipop meant when he talked about ‘other means,’” he
murmured at last.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Cade?”
“Nothing, superintendent. Forgive my abstraction. You see, I—or rather my
friend, Jimmy McGrath, has been very neatly done out of a thousand
pounds.”
“A thousand pounds is a nice sum of money,” said Battle.
“It isn’t the thousand pounds so much,” said Anthony, “though I agree with
you that it’s a nice sum of money. It’s being done that maddens me. I
handed over that manuscript like a little woolly lamb. It hurts,
superintendent, indeed it hurts.”
The detective said nothing.
“Well, well,” said Anthony. “Regrets are vain, and all may not yet be lost.
I’ve only got to get hold of dear old Stylptitch’s Reminiscences between
now and next Wednesday and all will be gas and gaiters.”
“Would you mind coming back to the Council Chamber, Mr. Cade? There’s
one little thing I want to point out to you.”
Back in the Council Chamber, the detective strode over at once to the
middle window.
“I’ve been thinking, Mr. Cade. This particular window is very stiff, very
stiff indeed. You might have been mistaken in thinking that it was fastened.
It might just have stuck. I’m sure—yes, I’m almost sure, that you were
mistaken.”
Anthony eyed him keenly.

“And supposing I say that I’m quite sure I was not?”
“Don’t you think you could have been?” said Battle, looking at him very
steadily.
“Well, to oblige you, superintendent, yes.”
Battle smiled in a satisfied fashion.
“You’re quick in the uptake, sir. And you’ll have no objection to saying so,
careless like, at a suitable moment?”
“None whatever. I——”
He paused, as Battle gripped his arm. The superintendent was bent forward,
listening.
Enjoining silence on Anthony with a gesture, he tiptoed noiselessly to the
door, and flung it suddenly open.
On the threshold stood a tall man with black hair neatly parted in the
middle, china blue eyes with a particularly innocent expression, and a large
placid face.
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said in a slow drawling voice with a
pronounced transatlantic accent. “But is it permitted to inspect the scene of
the crime? I take it that you are both gentlemen from Scotland Yard?”
“I have not that honour,” said Anthony. “But this gentleman is
Superintendent Battle of Scotland Yard.”
“Is that so?” said the American gentleman, with a great appearance of
interest. “Pleased to meet you, sir. My name is Hiram P. Fish, of New York
City.”
“What was it you wanted to see, Mr. Fish?” asked the detective.
The American walked gently into the room, and looked with much interest
at the dark patch on the floor.
“I am interested in crime, Mr. Battle. It is one of my hobbies. I have
contributed a monograph to one of our weekly periodicals on the subject
‘Degeneracy and the Criminal.’”

As he spoke, his eyes went gently round the room, seeming to note
everything in it. They rested just a shade longer on the window.
“The body,” said Superintendent Battle, stating a self-evident fact, “has
been removed.”
“Surely,” said Mr. Fish. His eyes went on to the panelled walls. “Some
remarkable pictures in this room, gentlemen. A Holbein, two Van Dycks,
and, if I am not mistaken, a Velasquez. I am interested in pictures—and
likewise in first editions. It was to see his first editions that Lord Caterham
was so kind as to invite me down here.”
He sighed gently.
“I guess that’s all off now. It would show a proper feeling I suppose, for the
guests to return to town immediately?”
“I’m afraid that can’t be done, sir,” said Superintendent Battle. “Nobody
must leave the house until after the inquest.”
“Is that so? And when is the inquest?”
“May be to-morrow, may not be until Monday. We’ve got to arrange for the
autopsy and see the Coroner.”
“I get you,” said Mr. Fish. “Under the circumstances, though, it will be a
melancholy party.”
Battle led the way to the door.
“We’d best get out of here,” he said. “We’re keeping it locked still.”
He waited for the other two to pass through, and then turned the key and
removed it.
“I opine,” said Mr. Fish, “that you are seeking for fingerprints?”
“Maybe,” said the superintendent laconically.
“I should say to that, on a night such as last night, an intruder would have
left footprints on the hardwood floor.”
“None inside, plenty outside.”
“Mine,” explained Anthony cheerfully.
The innocent eyes of Mr. Fish swept over him.

“Young man,” he said, “you surprise me.”
They turned a corner, and came out into the big wide hall, panelled like the
Council Chamber in old oak, and with a wide gallery above it. Two other
figures came into sight at the far end.
“Aha!” said Mr. Fish. “Our genial host.”
This was such a ludicrous description of Lord Caterham that Anthony had
to turn his head away to conceal a smile.
“And with him,” continued the American, “is a lady whose name I did not
catch last night. But she is bright—she is very bright.”
With Lord Caterham was Virginia Revel.
Anthony had been anticipating this meeting all along. He had no idea how
to act. He must leave it to Virginia. Although he had full confidence in her
presence of mind, he had not the slightest idea what line she would take. He
was not long left in doubt.
“Why, it’s Mr. Cade,” said Virginia. She held out both hands to him. “So
you found you could come down after all?”
“My dear Mrs. Revel, I had no idea Mr. Cade was a friend of yours,” said
Lord Caterham.
“He’s a very old friend,” said Virginia, smiling at Anthony with a
mischievous glint in her eye. “I ran across him in London unexpectedly
yesterday, and told him I was coming down here.”
Anthony was quick to give her her pointer.
“I explained to Mrs. Revel,” he said, “that I had been forced to refuse your
kind invitation—since it had really been extended to quite a different man.
And I couldn’t very well foist a perfect stranger on you under false
pretences.”
“Well, well, my dear fellow,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s all over and done
with now. I’ll send down to the Cricketers for your bag.”
“It’s very kind of you, Lord Caterham, but——”
“Nonsense, of course you must come to Chimneys. Horrible place, the
Cricketers—to stay in, I mean.”

“Of course you must come, Mr. Cade,” said Virginia softly.
Anthony realized the altered tone of his surroundings. Already Virginia had
done much for him. He was no longer an ambiguous stranger. Her position
was so assured and unassailable that anyone for whom she vouched was
accepted as a matter of course. He thought of the pistol in the tree at
Burnham Beeches, and smiled inwardly.
“I’ll send for your traps,” said Lord Caterham to Anthony. “I suppose, in the
circumstances, we can’t have any shooting. A pity. But there it is. And I
don’t know what the devil to do with Isaacstein. It’s all very unfortunate.”
The depressed peer sighed heavily.
“That’s settled, then,” said Virginia. “You can begin to be useful right away,
Mr. Cade, and take me out on the lake. It’s very peaceful there and far from
crime and all that sort of thing. Isn’t it awful for poor Lord Caterham
having a murder done in his house? But it’s George’s fault really. This is
George’s party, you know.”
“Ah!” said Lord Caterham. “But I should never have listened to him!”
He assumed the air of a strong man betrayed by a single weakness.
“One can’t help listening to George,” said Virginia. “He always holds you
so that you can’t get away. I’m thinking of patenting a detachable lapel.”
“I wish you would,” chuckled her host. “I’m glad you’re coming to us,
Cade. I need support.”
“I appreciate your kindness very much, Lord Caterham,” said Anthony.
“Especially,” he added, “when I’m such a suspicious character. But my
staying here makes it easier for Battle.”
“In what way, sir?” asked the superintendent.
“It won’t be so difficult to keep an eye on me,” explained Anthony gently.
And by the momentary flicker of the superintendent’s eyelids he knew that
his shot had gone home.

14
Mainly Political and Financial
Except for that involuntary twitch of the eyelids, Superintendent Battle’s
impassivity was unimpaired. If he had been surprised at Virginia’s
recognition of Anthony, he did not show it. He and Lord Caterham stood
together and watched those two go out through the garden door. Mr. Fish
also watched them.
“Nice young fellow, that,” said Lord Caterham.
“Vurry nice for Mrs. Revel to meet an old friend,” murmured the American.
“They have been acquainted some time, presoomably?”
“Seems so,” said Lord Caterham. “But I’ve never heard her mention him
before. Oh, by the way, Battle, Mr. Lomax has been asking for you. He’s in
the Blue morning-room.”
“Very good, Lord Caterham. I’ll go there at once.”
Battle found his way to the Blue morning-room without difficulty. He was
already familiar with the geography of the house.
“Ah, there you are, Battle,” said Lomax.
He was striding impatiently up and down the carpet. There was one other
person in the room, a big man sitting in a chair by the fireplace. He was
dressed in very correct English shooting clothes which nevertheless sat
strangely upon him. He had a fat yellow face, and black eyes, as
impenetrable as those of a cobra. There was a generous curve to the big
nose and power in the square lines of the vast jaw.
“Come in, Battle,” said Lomax irritably. “And shut the door behind you.
This is Mr. Herman Isaacstein.”
Battle inclined his head respectfully.
He knew all about Mr. Herman Isaacstein, and though the great financier sat
there silent, whilst Lomax strode up and down and talked, he knew who
was the real power in the room.

“We can speak more freely now,” said Lomax. “Before Lord Caterham and
Colonel Melrose, I was anxious not to say too much. You understand,
Battle? These things mustn’t get about.”
“Ah!” said Battle. “But they always do, more’s the pity.”
Just for a second he saw a trace of a smile on the fat yellow face. It
disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
“Now what do you really think of this young fellow—this Anthony Cade?”
continued George. “Do you still assume him to be innocent?”
Battle shrugged his shoulders very slightly.
“He tells a straight story. Part of it we shall be able to verify. On the face of
it, it accounts for his presence here last night. I shall cable to South Africa,
of course, for information about his antecedents.”
“Then you regard him as cleared of all complicity?”
Battle raised a large square hand.
“Not so fast, sir. I never said that.”
“What is your own idea about the crime, Superintendent Battle?” asked
Isaacstein, speaking for the first time.
His voice was deep and rich, and had a certain compelling quality about it.
It had stood him in good stead at board meetings in his younger days.
“It’s rather too soon to have ideas, Mr. Isaacstein. I’ve not got beyond
asking myself the first question.”
“What is that?”
“Oh, it’s always the same. Motive. Who benefits by the death of Prince
Michael? We’ve got to answer that before we can get anywhere.”
“The Revolutionary party of Herzoslovakia——” began George.
Superintendent Battle waved him aside with something less than his usual
respect.
“It wasn’t the Comrades of the Red Hand, sir, if you’re thinking of them.”
“But the paper—with the scarlet hand on it?”

“Put there to suggest the obvious solution.”
George’s dignity was a little ruffled.
“Really, Battle, I don’t see how you can be so sure of that.”
“Bless you, Mr. Lomax, we know all about the Comrades of the Red Hand.
We’ve had our eye on them ever since Prince Michael landed in England.
That sort of thing is the elementary work of the department. They’d never
be allowed to get within a mile of him.”
“I agree with Superintendent Battle,” said Isaacstein. “We must look
elsewhere.”
“You see, sir,” said Battle, encouraged by his support, “we do know a little
about the case. If we don’t know who gains by his death, we do know who
loses by it.”
“Meaning?” said Isaacstein.
His black eyes were bent upon the detective. More than ever, he reminded
Battle of a hooded cobra.
“You and Mr. Lomax, not to mention the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia. If
you’ll pardon the expression, sir, you’re in the soup.”
“Really, Battle,” interposed George, shocked to the core.
“Go on, Battle,” said Isaacstein. “In the soup describes the situation very
accurately. You’re an intelligent man.”
“You’ve got to have a King. You’ve lost your King—like that!” He snapped
his large fingers. “You’ve got to find another in a hurry, and that’s not an
easy job. No, I don’t want to know the details of your scheme, the bare
outline is enough for me, but, I take it, it’s a big deal?”
Isaacstein bent his head slowly.
“It’s a very big deal.”
“That brings me to my second question. Who is the next heir to the throne
of Herzoslovakia?”
Isaacstein looked across at Lomax. The latter answered the question, with a
certain reluctance, and a good deal of hesitation:

“That would be—I should say—yes, in all probability Prince Nicholas
would be the next heir.”
“Ah!” said Battle. “And who is Prince Nicholas?”
“A first cousin of Prince Michael’s.”
“Ah!” said Battle. “I should like to hear all about Prince Nicholas,
especially where he is at present.”
“Nothing much is known of him,” said Lomax. “As a young man, he was
most peculiar in his ideas, consorted with Socialists and Republicans, and
acted in a way highly unbecoming to his position. He was sent down from
Oxford, I believe, for some wild escapade. There was a rumour of his death
two years later in the Congo, but it was only a rumour. He turned up a few
months ago when news of the Royalist reaction got about.”
“Indeed?” said Battle. “Where did he turn up?”
“In America.”
“America!”
Battle turned to Isaacstein with one laconic word:
“Oil?”
The financier nodded.
“He represented that if the Herzoslovakians chose a King, they would
prefer him to Prince Michael as being more in sympathy with modern
enlightened ideas, and he drew attention to his early democratic views and
his sympathy with Republican ideals. In return for financial support, he was
prepared to grant concessions to a certain group of American financiers.”
Superintendent Battle so far forgot his habitual impassivity as to give vent
to a prolonged whistle.
“So that is it,” he muttered. “In the meantime, the Loyalist party supported
Prince Michael, and you felt sure you’d come out on top. And then this
happens!”
“You surely don’t think——” began George.

“It was a big deal,” said Battle. “Mr. Isaacstein says so. And I should say
that what he calls a big deal is a big deal.”
“There are always unscrupulous tools to be got hold of,” said Isaacstein
quietly. “For the moment, Wall Street wins. But they’ve not done with me
yet. Find out who killed Prince Michael, Superintendent Battle, if you want
to do your country a service.”
“One thing strikes me as highly suspicious,” put in George. “Why did the
equerry, Captain Andrassy, not come down with the Prince yesterday?”
“I’ve inquired into that,” said Battle. “It’s perfectly simple. He stayed in
town to make arrangements with a certain lady, on behalf of Prince
Michael, for next week-end. The Baron rather frowned on such things,
thinking them injudicious at the present stage of affairs, so His Highness
had to go about them in a hole and corner manner. He was, if I may say so,
inclined to be a rather—er—dissipated young man.”
“I’m afraid so,” said George ponderously. “Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“There’s one other point we ought to take into account, I think,” said Battle,
speaking with a certain amount of hesitation. “King Victor’s supposed to be
in England.”
“King Victor?”
Lomax frowned in an effort at recollection.
“Notorious French crook, sir. We’ve had a warning from the Sûreté in
Paris.”
“Of course,” said George. “I remember now. Jewel thief, isn’t he? Why,
that’s the man——”
He broke off abruptly. Isaacstein, who had been frowning abstractedly at
the fireplace, looked up just too late to catch the warning glance telegraphed
from Superintendent Battle to the other. But being a man sensitive to
vibrations in the atmosphere, he was conscious of a sense of strain.
“You don’t want me any longer, do you, Lomax?” he inquired.
“No, thank you, my dear fellow.”
“Would it upset your plans if I returned to London, Superintendent Battle?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” said the Superintendent civilly. “You see, if you go,
there will be others who’ll want to go also. And that would never do.”
“Quite so.”
The great financier left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Splendid fellow, Isaacstein,” murmured George Lomax perfunctorily.
“Very powerful personality,” agreed Superintendent Battle.
George began to pace up and down again.
“What you say disturbs me greatly,” he began. “King Victor! I thought he
was in prison?”
“Came out a few months ago. French police meant to keep on his heels, but
he managed to give them the slip straight away. He would too. One of the
coolest customers that ever lived. For some reason or other, they believe
he’s in England, and have notified us to that effect.”
“But what should he be doing in England?”
“That’s for you to say, sir,” said Battle significantly.
“You mean——? You think——? You know the story, of course—ah, yes, I
can see you do. I was not in office, of course, at the time, but I heard the
whole story from the late Lord Caterham. An unparalleled catastrophe.”
“The Koh-i-noor,” said Battle reflectively.
“Hush, Battle!” George glanced suspiciously round him. “I beg of you,
mention no names. Much better not. If you must speak of it, call it the K.”
The superintendent looked wooden again.
“You don’t connect King Victor with this crime, do you, Battle?”
“It’s just a possibility, that’s all. If you’ll cast your mind back, sir, you’ll
remember that there were four places where a—er—certain Royal visitor
might have concealed the jewel. Chimneys was one of them. King Victor
was arrested in Paris three days after the—disappearance, if I may call it
that, of the K. It was always hoped that he would some day lead us to the
jewel.”
“But Chimneys has been ransacked and overhauled a dozen times.”

“Yes,” said Battle sapiently. “But it’s never much good looking when you
don’t know where to look. Only suppose now, that this King Victor came
here to look for the thing, was surprised by Prince Michael, and shot him.”
“It’s possible,” said George. “A most likely solution of the crime.”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that. It’s possible, but not much more.”
“Why is that?”
“Because King Victor has never been known to take a life,” said Battle
seriously.
“Oh, but a man like that—a dangerous criminal——”
But Battle shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
“Criminals always act true to type, Mr. Lomax. It’s surprising. All the same
——”
“Yes?”
“I’d rather like to question the Prince’s servant. I’ve left him purposely to
the last. We’ll have him in here, sir, if you don’t mind.”
George signified his assent. The superintendent rang the bell. Tredwell
answered it, and departed with his instructions.
He returned shortly accompanied by a tall fair man with high cheek-bones,
and very deep-set blue eyes, and an impassivity of countenance which
almost rivalled Battle’s.
“Boris Anchoukoff?”
“Yes.”
“You were valet to Prince Michael?”
“I was His Highness’s valet, yes.”
The man spoke good English, though with a markedly harsh foreign accent.
“You know that your master was murdered last night?”
A deep snarl, like the snarl of a wild beast, was the man’s only answer. It
alarmed George, who withdrew prudently towards the window.
“When did you see your master last?”

“His Highness retired to bed at half-past ten. I slept, as always, in the ante-
room next to him. He must have gone down to the room downstairs by the
other door, the door that gave on to the corridor. I did not hear him go. It
may be that I was drugged. I have been an unfaithful servant, I slept while
my master woke. I am accursed.”
George gazed at him, fascinated.
“You loved your master, eh?” said Battle, watching the man closely.
Boris’s features contracted painfully. He swallowed twice. Then his voice
came, harsh with emotion.
“I say this to you, English Policeman, I would have died for him! And since
he is dead, and I still live, my eyes shall not know sleep, or my heart rest,
until I have avenged him. Like a dog will I nose out his murderer and when
I have discovered him—— Ah!” His eyes lit up. Suddenly he drew an
immense knife from beneath his coat and brandished it aloft. “Not all at
once will I kill him—oh, no!—first I will slit his nose, and cut off his ears
and put out his eyes, and then—then, into his black heart I will thrust this
knife.”
Swiftly he replaced the knife, and turning, left the room. George Lomax, his
eyes always protuberant, but now goggling almost out of his head, stared at
the closed door.
“Pure bred Herzoslovakian, of course,” he muttered. “Most uncivilized
people. A race of brigands.”
Superintendent Battle rose alertly to his feet.
“Either that man’s sincere,” he remarked, “or he’s the best bluffer I’ve ever
seen. And, if it’s the former, God help Prince Michael’s murderer when that
human bloodhound gets hold of him.”

15
The French Stranger
Virginia and Anthony walked side by side down the path which led to the
lake. For some minutes after leaving the house they were silent. It was
Virginia who broke the silence at last with a little laugh.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “isn’t it dreadful? Here I am so bursting with the
things I want to tell you, and the things I want to know, that I simply don’t
know where to begin. First of all”—she lowered her voice—“What have
you done with the body? How awful it sounds, doesn’t it! I never dreamt
that I should be so steeped in crime.”
“I suppose it’s quite a novel sensation for you,” agreed Anthony.
“But not for you?”
“Well, I’ve never disposed of a corpse before, certainly.”
“Tell me about it.”
Briefly and succinctly, Anthony ran over the steps he had taken on the
previous night. Virginia listened attentively.
“I think you were very clever,” she said approvingly when he had finished.
“I can pick up the trunk again when I go back to Paddington. The only
difficulty that might arise is if you had to give an account of where you
were yesterday evening.”
“I can’t see that that can arise. The body can’t have been found until late
last night—or possibly this morning. Otherwise there would have been
something about it in this morning’s papers. And whatever you may
imagine from reading detective stories, doctors aren’t such magicians that
they can tell you exactly how many hours a man has been dead. The exact
time of his death will be pretty vague. An alibi for last night would be far
more to the point.”
“I know. Lord Caterham was telling me all about it. But the Scotland Yard
man is quite convinced of your innocence now, isn’t he?”

Anthony did not reply at once.
“He doesn’t look particularly astute,” continued Virginia.
“I don’t know about that,” said Anthony slowly. “I’ve an impression that
there are no flies on Superintendent Battle. He appears to be convinced of
my innocence—but I’m not so sure. He’s stumped at present by my
apparent lack of motive.”
“Apparent?” cried Virginia. “But what possible reason could you have for
murdering an unknown foreign Count?”
Anthony darted a sharp glance at her.
“You were at one time or other in Herzoslovakia, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes. I was there with my husband, for two years, at the Embassy.”
“That was just before the assassination of the King and Queen. Did you
ever run across Prince Michael Obolovitch?”
“Michael? Of course I did. Horrid little wretch! He suggested, I remember,
that I should marry him morganatically.”
“Did he really? And what did he suggest you should do about your existing
husband?”
“Oh, he had a sort of David and Uriah scheme all made out.”
“And how did you respond to this amiable offer?”
“Well,” said Virginia, “unfortunately one had to be diplomatic. So poor
little Michael didn’t get it as straight from the shoulder as he might have
done. But he retired hurt all the same. Why all this interest about Michael?”
“Something I’m getting at in my own blundering fashion. I take it that you
didn’t meet the murdered man?”
“No. To put it like a book, he ‘retired to his own apartments immediately on
arrival.’”
“And of course you haven’t seen the body?”
Virginia, eyeing him with a good deal of interest, shook her head.
“Could you get to see it, do you think?”

“By means of influence in high places—meaning Lord Caterham—I dare
say I could. Why? Is it an order?”
“Good Lord, no,” said Anthony, horrified. “Have I been as dictatorial as all
that? No, it’s simply this. Count Stanislaus was the incognito of Prince
Michael of Herzoslovakia.”
Virginia’s eyes opened very wide.
“I see.” Suddenly her face broke into its fascinating one-sided smile. “I
hope you don’t suggest that Michael went to his rooms simply to avoid
seeing me?”
“Something of the kind,” admitted Anthony. “You see, if I’m right in my
idea that some one wanted to prevent your coming to Chimneys, the reason
seems to lie in your knowing Herzoslovakia. Do you realize that you’re the
only person here who knew Prince Michael by sight?”
“Do you mean that this man who was murdered was an impostor?” asked
Virginia abruptly.
“That is the possibility that crossed my mind. If you can get Lord Caterham
to show you the body, we can clear up that point at once.”
“He was shot at 11.45,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “The time mentioned on
that scrap of paper. The whole thing’s horribly mysterious.”
“That reminds me. Is that your window up there? The second from the end
over the Council Chamber?”
“No, my room is in the Elizabethan wing, the other side. Why?”
“Simply because as I walked away last night, after thinking I heard a shot,
the light went up in that room.”
“How curious! I don’t know who has that room, but I can find out by asking
Bundle. Perhaps they heard the shot?”
“If so, they haven’t come forward to say so. I understood from Battle that
nobody in the house heard the shot fired. It’s the only clue of any kind that
I’ve got, and I dare say it’s a pretty rotten one, but I mean to follow it up for
what it’s worth.”
“It’s curious, certainly,” said Virginia thoughtfully.

They had arrived at the boat-house by the lake, and had been leaning
against it as they talked.
“And now for the whole story,” said Anthony. “We’ll paddle gently about
on the lake, secure from the prying ears of Scotland Yard, American
visitors, and curious house-maids.”
“I’ve heard something from Lord Caterham,” said Virginia. “But not nearly
enough. To begin with, which are you really, Anthony Cade or Jimmy
McGrath?”
For the second time that morning, Anthony unfolded the history of the last
six weeks of his life—with this difference that the account given to Virginia
needed no editing. He finished up with his own astonished recognition of
“Mr. Holmes.”
“By the way, Mrs. Revel,” he ended, “I’ve never thanked you for
imperilling your immortal soul by saying that I was an old friend of yours.”
“Of course you’re an old friend,” cried Virginia. “You don’t suppose I’d
cumber you with a corpse, and then pretend you were a mere acquaintance
next time I met you? No, indeed!”
She paused.
“Do you know one thing that strikes me about all this?” she went on. “That
there’s some extra mystery about those Memoirs that we haven’t fathomed
yet.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Anthony. “There’s one thing I’d like you to
tell me,” he continued.
“What’s that?”
“Why did you seem so surprised when I mentioned the name of Jimmy
McGrath to you yesterday at Pont Street? Had you heard it before?”
“I had, Sherlock Holmes. George—my cousin, George Lomax, you know—
came to see me the other day, and suggested a lot of frightfully silly things.
His idea was that I should come down here and make myself agreeable to
this man McGrath and Delilah the Memoirs out of him somehow. He didn’t
put it like that, of course. He talked a lot of nonsense about English
gentlewomen, and things like that, but his real meaning was never obscure

for a moment. It was just the sort of rotten thing poor old George would
think of. And then I wanted to know too much, and he tried to put me off
with lies that wouldn’t have deceived a child of two.”
“Well, his plan seems to have succeeded, anyhow,” observed Anthony.
“Here am I, the James McGrath he had in mind, and here are you being
agreeable to me.”
“But, alas, for poor old George, no Memoirs! Now I’ve got a question for
you. When I said I hadn’t written those letters, you said you knew I hadn’t
—you couldn’t know any such thing?”
“Oh, yes, I could,” said Anthony, smiling. “I’ve got a good working
knowledge of psychology.”
“You mean your belief in the sterling worth of my moral character was such
that——”
But Anthony was shaking his head vigorously.
“Not at all. I don’t know anything about your moral character. You might
have a lover, and you might write to him. But you’d never lie down to be
blackmailed. The Virginia Revel of those letters was scared stiff. You’d
have fought.”
“I wonder who the real Virginia Revel is—where she is, I mean. It makes
me feel as though I had a double somewhere.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“You know that one of the letters was written from Chimneys?” he asked at
last.
“What?” Virginia was clearly startled. “When was it written?”
“It wasn’t dated. But it’s odd, isn’t it?”
“I’m perfectly certain no other Virginia Revel has ever stayed at Chimneys.
Bundle or Lord Caterham would have said something about the coincidence
of the name if she had.”
“Yes. It’s rather queer. Do you know, Mrs. Revel, I am beginning to
disbelieve profoundly in this other Virginia Revel.”
“She’s very elusive,” agreed Virginia.

“Extraordinarily elusive. I am beginning to think that the person who wrote
those letters deliberately used your name.”
“But why?” cried Virginia. “Why should they do such a thing?”
“Ah, that’s just the question. There’s the devil of a lot to find out about
everything.”
“Who do you really think killed Michael?” asked Virginia suddenly. “The
Comrades of the Red Hand?”
“I suppose they might have done so,” said Anthony in a dissatisfied voice.
“Pointless killing would be rather characteristic of them.”
“Let’s get to work,” said Virginia. “I see Lord Caterham and Bundle
strolling together. The first thing to do is to find out definitely whether the
dead man is Michael or not.”
Anthony paddled to shore and a few moments later they had joined Lord
Caterham and his daughter.
“Lunch is late,” said his lordship in a depressed voice. “Battle has insulted
the cook, I expect.”
“This is a friend of mine, Bundle,” said Virginia. “Be nice to him.”
Bundle looked earnestly at Anthony for some minutes, and then addressed a
remark to Virginia as though he had not been there.
“Where do you pick up these nice-looking men, Virginia? ‘How do you do
it?’ says she enviously.”
“You can have him,” said Virginia generously. “I want Lord Caterham.”
She smiled upon the flattered peer, slipped her hand through his arm and
they moved off together.
“Do you talk?” asked Bundle. “Or are you just strong and silent?”
“Talk?” said Anthony. “I babble. I murmur. I gurgle—like the running
brook, you know. Sometimes I even ask questions.”
“As for instance?”
“Who occupies the second room on the left from the end?”
He pointed to it as he spoke.

“What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me greatly.
Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French
governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and
Daisy—like the song, you know. I dare say they’d have called the next one,
Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and died.
Thought some one else could take on the job of providing an heir.”
“Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been
with you?”
“Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.”
“Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.”
“I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland
Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world, you
know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder in the
house before. Exciting, isn’t it? I’m sorry your character was so completely
cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a murderer and see for
myself if they’re as genial and charming as the Sunday papers always say
they are. God! what’s that?”
“What” seemed to be a taxi approaching the house. Its two occupants were
a tall man with a bald head and a black beard, and a smaller and younger
man with a black moustache. Anthony recognized the former, and guessed
that it was he—rather than the vehicle which contained him—that had
wrung the exclamation of astonishment from his companion’s lips.
“Unless I much mistake,” he remarked, “that is my old friend, Baron
Lollipop.”
“Baron what?”
“I call him Lollipop for convenience. The pronouncing of his own name
tends to harden the arteries.”
“It nearly wrecked the telephone this morning,” remarked Bundle. “So
that’s the Baron, is it? I foresee he’ll be turned on to me this afternoon—and
I’ve had Isaacstein all the morning. Let George do his own dirty work, say
I, and to hell with politics. Excuse me leaving you, Mr. Cade, but I must
stand by poor old Father.”
Bundle retreated rapidly to the house.

Anthony stood looking after her for a minute or two and thoughtfully
lighted a cigarette. As he did so, his ear was caught by a stealthy sound
quite near him. He was standing by the boat-house, and the sound seemed
to come from just round the corner. The mental picture conveyed to him
was that of a man vainly trying to stifle a sudden sneeze.
“Now I wonder—I very much wonder who’s behind the boat-house,” said
Anthony to himself. “We’d better see, I think.”
Suiting the action to the word, he threw away the match he had just blown
out, and ran lightly and noiselessly round the corner of the boat-house.
He came upon a man who had evidently been kneeling on the ground and
was just struggling to rise to his feet. He was tall, wore a light coloured
overcoat and glasses, and for the rest, had a short pointed black beard and a
slightly foppish manner. He was between thirty and forty years of age, and
altogether of a most respectable appearance.
“What are you doing here?” asked Anthony.
He was pretty certain that the man was not one of Lord Caterham’s guests.
“I ask your pardon,” said the stranger, with a marked foreign accent and
what was meant to be an engaging smile. “It is that I wish to return to the
Jolly Crickets, and I have lost my way. Would Monsieur be so good as to
direct me?”
“Certainly,” said Anthony. “But you don’t go there by water, you know.”
“Eh?” said the stranger, with the air of one at a loss.
“I said,” repeated Anthony, with a meaning glance at the boat-house, “that
you won’t get there by water. There’s a right of way across the park—some
distance away, but all this is the private part. You’re trespassing.”
“I am most sorry,” said the stranger. “I lost my direction entirely. I thought I
would come up here and inquire.”
Anthony refrained from pointing out that kneeling behind a boat-house was
a somewhat peculiar manner of prosecuting inquiries. He took the stranger
kindly by the arm.
“You go this way,” he said. “Right round the lake and straight on—you
can’t miss the path. When you get on it, turn to the left, and it will lead you

to the village. You’re staying at the Cricketers, I suppose?”
“I am, monsieur. Since this morning. Many thanks for your kindness in
directing me.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Anthony. “I hope you haven’t caught cold.”
“Eh?” said the stranger.
“From kneeling on the damp ground, I mean,” explained Anthony. “I
fancied I heard you sneezing.”
“I may have sneezed,” admitted the other.
“Quite so,” said Anthony. “But you shouldn’t suppress a sneeze, you know.
One of the most eminent doctors said so only the other day. It’s frightfully
dangerous. I don’t remember exactly what it does to you—whether it’s an
inhibition or whether it hardens your arteries, but you must never do it.
Good morning.”
“Good morning, and thank you, monsieur, for setting me on the right road.”
“Second suspicious stranger from village inn,” murmured Anthony to
himself, as he watched the other’s retreating form. “And one that I can’t
quite place, either. Appearance that of a French commercial traveller. I don’t
quite see him as a Comrade of the Red Hand. Does he represent yet a third
party in the harassed state of Herzoslovakia? The French governess has the
second window from the end. A mysterious Frenchman is found slinking
round the grounds, listening to conversations that are not meant for his ears.
I’ll bet my hat there’s something in it.”
Musing thus, Anthony retraced his steps to the house. On the terrace he
encountered Lord Caterham, looking suitably depressed, and two new
arrivals. He brightened a little at the sight of Anthony.
“Ah, there you are,” he remarked. “Let me introduce you to Baron—er—er
—and Captain Andrassy. Mr. Anthony Cade.”
The Baron stared at Anthony with growing suspicion.
“Mr. Cade?” he said stiffly. “I think not.”
“A word alone with you, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can explain everything.”
The Baron bowed, and the two men walked down the terrace together.

“Baron,” said Anthony. “I must throw myself upon your mercy. I have so
far strained the honour of an English gentleman as to travel to this country
under an assumed name. I represented myself to you as Mr. James McGrath
—but you must see for yourself that the deception involved was
infinitesimal. You are doubtless acquainted with the works of Shakespeare,
and his remarks about the unimportance of the nomenclature of roses? This
case is the same. The man you wanted to see was the man in possession of
the Memoirs. I was that man. As you know only too well, I am no longer in
possession of them. A neat trick. Baron, a very neat trick. Who thought of it,
you or your principal?”
“His Highness’s own idea it was. And for anyone but him to carry it out he
would not permit.”
“He did it jolly well,” said Anthony, with approval. “I never took him for
anything but an Englishman.”
“The education of an English gentleman did the Prince receive,” explained
the Baron. “The custom of Herzoslovakia it is.”
“No professional could have pinched those papers better,” said Anthony.
“May I ask, without indiscretion, what has become of them?”
“Between gentlemen,” began the Baron.
“You are too kind, Baron,” murmured Anthony. “I’ve never been called a
gentleman so often as I have in the last forty-eight hours.”
“I to you say this—I believe them to be burnt.”
“You believe, but you don’t know, eh? Is that it?”
“His Highness in his own keeping retained them. His purpose it was to read
them and then by the fire to destroy them.”
“I see,” said Anthony. “All the same, they are not the kind of light literature
you’d skim through in half an hour.”
“Among the effects of my martyred master they have not discovered been.
It is clear, therefore, that burnt they are.”
“H’m!” said Anthony. “I wonder?”
He was silent for a minute or two and then went on.

“I have asked you these questions, Baron, because, as you may have heard,
I myself have been implicated in the crime. I must clear myself absolutely,
so that no suspicion attaches to me.”
“Undoubtedly,” said the Baron. “Your honour demands it.”
“Exactly,” said Anthony. “You put these things so well. I haven’t got the
knack of it. To continue, I can only clear myself by discovering the real
murderer, and to do that I must have all the facts. This question of the
Memoirs is very important. It seems to me possible that to gain possession
of them might be the motive of the crime. Tell me, Baron, is that a very far-
fetched idea?”
The Baron hesitated for a moment or two.
“You yourself the Memoirs have read?” he asked cautiously at length.
“I think I am answered,” said Anthony, smiling. “Now Baron, there’s just
one thing more. I should like to give you fair warning that it is still my
intention to deliver that manuscript to the publishers on Wednesday next,
the 13th of October.”
The Baron stared at him.
“But you have no longer got it?”
“On Wednesday next, I said. To-day is Friday. That gives me five days to
get hold of it again.”
“But if it is burnt?”
“I don’t think it is burnt. I have good reasons for not believing so.”
As he spoke they turned the corner of the terrace. A massive figure was
advancing towards them. Anthony, who had not yet seen the great Mr.
Herman Isaacstein, looked at him with considerable interest.
“Ah, Baron,” said Isaacstein, waving the big black cigar he was smoking,
“this is a bad business—a very bad business.”
“My good friend, Mr. Isaacstein, it is indeed,” cried the Baron. “All our
noble edifice in ruins is.”
Anthony tactfully left the two gentlemen to their lamentations, and retraced
his steps along the terrace.

Suddenly he came to a halt. A thin spiral of smoke was rising into the air
apparently from the very centre of the yew hedge.
“It must be hollow in the middle,” reflected Anthony. “I’ve heard of such
things before.”
He looked swiftly to right and left of him. Lord Caterham was at the farther
end of the terrace with Captain Andrassy. Their backs were towards him.
Anthony bent down and wriggled his way through the massive yew.
He had been quite right in his supposition. The yew hedge was really not
one, but two, a narrow passage divided them. The entrance to this was about
half-way up, on the side of the house. There was no mystery about it, but no
one seeing the yew hedge from the front would have guessed at the
probability.
Anthony looked down the narrow vista. About half-way down, a man was
reclining in a basket chair. A half-smoked cigar rested on the arm of the
chair, and the gentleman himself appeared to be asleep.
“H’m!” said Anthony to himself. “Evidently Mr. Hiram Fish prefers sitting
in the shade.”

16
Tea in the Schoolroom
Anthony regained the terrace with the feeling uppermost in his mind that
the only safe place for private conversations was the middle of the lake.
The resonant boom of a gong sounded from the house, and Tredwell
appeared in a stately fashion from a side door.
“Luncheon is served, my lord.”
“Ah!” said Lord Caterham, brisking up a little. “Lunch.”
At that moment two children burst out of the house. They were high-
spirited young women of twelve and ten, and though their names might be
Dulcie and Daisy, as Bundle had affirmed, they appeared to be more
generally known as Guggle and Winkle. They executed a kind of war dance,
interspersed with shrill whoops till Bundle emerged and quelled them.
“Where’s Mademoiselle?” she demanded.
“She’s got the migraine, the migraine, the migraine!” chanted Winkle.
“Hurrah!” said Guggle, joining in.
Lord Caterham had succeeded in shepherding most of his guests into the
house. Now he laid a restraining hand on Anthony’s arm.
“Come to my study,” he breathed. “I’ve got something rather special there.”
Slinking down the hall, far more like a thief than like the master of the
house, Lord Caterham gained the shelter of his sanctum. Here he unlocked
a cupboard and produced various bottles.
“Talking to foreigners always makes me so thirsty,” he explained
apologetically. “I don’t know why it is.”
There was a knock on the door, and Virginia popped her head round the
corner of it.
“Got a special cocktail for me?” she demanded.

“Of course,” said Lord Caterham hospitably. “Come in.”
The next few minutes were taken up with serious rites.
“I needed that,” said Lord Caterham with a sigh, as he replaced his glass on
the table. “As I said just now, I find talking to foreigners particularly
fatiguing. I think it’s because they’re so polite. Come along. Let’s have
some lunch.”
He led the way to the dining-room. Virginia put her hand on Anthony’s arm,
and drew him back a little.
“I’ve done my good deed for the day,” she whispered. “I got Lord Caterham
to take me to see the body.”
“Well?” demanded Anthony eagerly.
One theory of his was to be proved or disproved.
Virginia was shaking her head.
“You were wrong,” she whispered. “It’s Prince Michael all right.”
“Oh!” Anthony was deeply chagrined.
“And Mademoiselle has the migraine,” he added aloud, in a dissatisfied
tone.
“What has that got to do with it?”
“Probably nothing, but I wanted to see her. You see, I’ve found out that
Mademoiselle has the second room from the end—the one where I saw the
light last night.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Probably there’s nothing in it. All the same, I mean to see Mademoiselle
before the day is out.”
Lunch was somewhat of an ordeal. Even the cheerful impartiality of Bundle
failed to reconcile the heterogeneous assembly. The Baron and Andrassy
were correct, formal, full of etiquette, and had the air of attending a meal in
a mausoleum. Lord Caterham was lethargic and depressed. Bill Eversleigh
stared longingly at Virginia. George, very mindful of the trying position in
which he found himself, conversed weightily with the Baron and Mr.

Isaacstein. Guggle and Winkle, completely beside themselves with joy of
having a murder in the house, had to be continually checked and kept under,
whilst Mr. Hiram Fish slowly masticated his food, and drawled out dry
remarks in his own peculiar idiom. Superintendent Battle had considerately
vanished, and nobody knew what had become of him.
“Thank God that’s over,” murmured Bundle to Anthony, as they left the
table. “And George is taking the foreign contingent over to the Abbey this
afternoon to discuss State secrets.”
“That will possibly relieve the atmosphere,” agreed Anthony.
“I don’t mind the American so much,” continued Bundle. “He and Father
can talk first editions together quite happily in some secluded spot. Mr.
Fish”—as the object of their conversation drew near—“I’m planning a
peaceful afternoon for you.”
The American bowed.
“That’s too kind of you, Lady Eileen.”
“Mr. Fish,” said Anthony, “had quite a peaceful morning.”
Mr. Fish shot a quick glance at him.
“Ah, sir, you observed me, then, in my seclooded retreat? There are
moments, sir, when far from the madding crowd is the only motto for a man
of quiet tastes.”
Bundle had drifted on, and the American and Anthony were left together.
The former dropped his voice a little.
“I opine,” he said, “that there is considerable mystery about this little dust
up?”
“Any amount of it,” said Anthony.
“That guy with the bald head was perhaps a family connection?”
“Something of the kind.”
“These Central European nations beat the band,” declared Mr. Fish. “It’s
kind of being rumoured around that the deceased gentleman was a Royal
Highness. Is that so, do you know?”

“He was staying here as Count Stanislaus,” replied Anthony evasively.
To this Mr. Fish offered no further rejoinder than the somewhat cryptic:
“Oh! boy.”
After which he relapsed into silence for some moments.
“This police captain of yours,” he observed at last, “Battle, or whatever his
name is, is he the goods all right?”
“Scotland Yard thinks so,” replied Anthony dryly.
“He seems kind of hide-bound to me,” remarked Mr. Fish. “No hustle to
him. This big idea of his, letting no one leave the house, what is there to it?”
He darted a very sharp look at Anthony as he spoke.
“Everyone’s got to attend the inquest to-morrow morning, you see.”
“That’s the idea, is it? No more to it than that? No question of Lord
Caterham’s guests being suspected?”
“My dear Mr. Fish!”
“I was getting a mite uneasy—being a stranger in this country. But of
course it was an outside job—I remember now. Window found unfastened,
wasn’t it?”
“It was,” said Anthony, looking straight in front of him.
Mr. Fish sighed. After a minute or two he said in a plaintive tone:
“Young man, do you know how they get the water out of a mine?”
“How?”
“By pumping—but its almighty hard work! I observe the figure of my
genial host detaching itself from the group over yonder. I must join him.”
Mr. Fish walked gently away, and Bundle drifted back again.
“Funny Fish, isn’t he?” she remarked.
“He is.”
“It’s no good looking at Virginia,” said Bundle sharply.
“I wasn’t.”

“You were. I don’t know how she does it. It isn’t what she says, I don’t even
believe it’s what she looks. But, oh, boy! she gets there every time.
Anyway, she’s on duty elsewhere for the time. She told me to be nice to
you, and I’m going to be nice to you—by force if necessary.”
“No force required,” Anthony assured her. “But, if it’s all the same to you,
I’d rather you were nice to me on the water, in a boat.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” said Bundle meditatively.
They strolled down to the lake together.
“There’s just one question I’d like to ask you,” said Anthony as he paddled
gently out from the shore, “before we turn to really interesting topics.
Business before pleasure.”
“Whose bedroom do you want to know about now?” asked Bundle with
weary patience.
“Nobody’s bedroom for the moment. But I would like to know where you
got your French governess from.”
“The man’s bewitched,” said Bundle. “I got her from an Agency, and I pay
her a hundred pounds a year, and her Christian name is Genevieve.
Anything more you want to know?”
“We’ll assume the Agency,” said Anthony. “What about her references?”
“Oh, glowing! She’d lived for ten years with the Countess of What Not.”
“What Not being——?”
“The Comtesses de Breteuil, Chateau de Breteuil, Dinard.”
“You didn’t actually see the Comtesse yourself? It was all done by letter?”
“Exactly.”
“H’m!” said Anthony.
“You intrigue me,” said Bundle. “You intrigue me enormously. Is it love or
crime?”
“Probably sheer idiocy on my part. Let’s forget it.”
“‘Let’s forget it,’ said he negligently, having extracted all the information he
wants. Mr. Cade, who do you suspect? I rather suspect Virginia as being the

most unlikely person. Or possibly Bill.”
“What about you?”
“Member of the aristocracy joins in secret the Comrades of the Red Hand.
It would create a sensation all right.”
Anthony laughed. He liked Bundle, though he was a little afraid of the
shrewd penetration of her sharp grey eyes.
“You must be proud of all this,” he said suddenly, waving his hand towards
the great house in the distance.
Bundle screwed up her eyes and tilted her head on one side.
“Yes—it means something, I suppose. But one’s too used to it. Anyway,
we’re not here very much—too deadly dull. We’ve been at Cowes and
Deauville all the summer after town, and then up to Scotland. Chimneys has
been swathed in dust sheets for about five months. Once a week they take
the dust sheets off and chars-à-bancs full of tourists come and gape, and
listen to Tredwell. ‘On your right is the portrait of the fourth Marchioness
of Caterham, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds,’ etc., and Ed or Bert, the
humorist of the party, nudges his girl and says ‘Eh! Gladys, they’ve got two
pennyworth of pictures here, right enough.’ And then they go and look at
more pictures and yawn and shuffle their feet and wish it was time to go
home.”
“Yet history has been made here once or twice, by all accounts.”
“You’ve been listening to George,” said Bundle sharply. “That’s the kind of
thing he’s always saying.”
But Anthony had raised himself on his elbow, and was staring at the shore.
“Is that a third suspicious stranger I see standing disconsolately by the boat-
house? Or is it one of the house party?”
Bundle lifted her head from the scarlet cushion.
“It’s Bill,” she said.
“He seems to be looking for something.”
“He’s probably looking for me,” said Bundle, without enthusiasm.

“Shall we row quickly in the opposite direction?”
“That’s quite the right answer, but it should be delivered with more
enthusiasm.”
“I shall row with double vigour after that rebuke.”
“Not at all,” said Bundle. “I have my pride. Row me to where that young
ass is waiting. Somebody’s got to look after him, I suppose. Virginia must
have given him the slip. One of these days, inconceivable as it seems, I
might want to marry George, so I might as well practise being ‘one of our
well known political hostesses.’”
Anthony pulled obediently towards the shore.
“And what’s to become of me, I should like to know?” he complained. “I
refuse to be the unwanted third. Is that the children I see in the distance?”
“Yes. Be careful, or they’ll rope you in.”
“I’m rather fond of children,” said Anthony. “I might teach them some nice
quiet intellectual game.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Having relinquished Bundle to the care of her gallant captain, Anthony
strolled off to where various shrill cries disturbed the peace of the
afternoon. He was received with acclamation.
“Are you any good at playing Red Indians?” asked Guggle sternly.
“Rather,” said Anthony. “You should hear the noise I make when I’m being
scalped. Like this.” He illustrated.
“Not so bad,” said Winkle grudgingly. “Now do the scalper’s yell.”
Anthony obliged with a blood-curdling noise. In another minute the game
of Red Indians was in full swing.
About an hour later, Anthony wiped his forehead, and ventured to inquire
after Mademoiselle’s migraine. He was pleased to hear that that lady had
entirely recovered. So popular had he become that he was urgently invited
to come and have tea in the schoolroom.
“And then you can tell us about the man you saw hung,” urged Guggle.

“Did you say you’d got a bit of the rope with you?” asked Winkle.
“It’s in my suit-case,” said Anthony solemnly. “You shall each have a piece
of it.”
Winkle immediately let out a Wild Indian yell of satisfaction.
“We’ll have to go and get washed, I suppose,” said Guggle gloomily. “You
will come to tea, won’t you? You won’t forget?”
Anthony swore solemnly that nothing should prevent his keeping the
engagement. Satisfied, the youthful pair beat a retreat towards the house.
Anthony stood for a minute looking after them, and, as he did so, he
became aware of a man leaving the other side of a little copse of trees and
hurrying away across the park. He felt almost sure that it was the same
black-bearded stranger he had encountered that morning. Whilst he was
hesitating whether to go after him or not the trees just ahead of him were
parted and Mr. Hiram Fish stepped out into the open. He stared slightly
when he saw Anthony.
“A peaceful afternoon, Mr. Fish?” inquired the latter.
“I thank you, yes.”
Mr. Fish did not look as peaceful as usual, however. His face was flushed,
and he was breathing hard as though he had been running. He drew out his
watch and consulted it.
“I guess,” he said softly, “it’s just about time for your British institution of
afternoon tea.”
Closing his watch with a snap, Mr. Fish ambled gently away in the direction
of the house.
Anthony stood in a brown study and awoke with a start to the fact that
Superintendent Battle was standing beside him. Not the faintest sound had
heralded his approach, and he seemed literally to have materialized from
space.
“Where did you spring from?” asked Anthony irritably.
With a slight jerk of his head, Battle indicated the little copse of trees
behind them.

“It seems a popular spot this afternoon,” remarked Anthony.
“You were very lost in thought, Mr. Cade?”
“I was indeed. Do you know what I was doing, Battle? I was trying to put
two and one and five and three together so as to make four. And it can’t be
done, Battle, it simply can’t be done.”
“There’s difficulties that way,” agreed the detective.
“But you’re just the man I wanted to see. Battle, I want to go away. Can it
be done?”
True to his creed, Superintendent Battle showed neither emotion nor
surprise. His reply was easy and matter of fact.
“That depends, sir, as to where you want to go.”
“I’ll tell you exactly, Battle. I’ll lay my cards upon the table. I want to go to
Dinard, to the Chateau of Madame la Comtesse de Breteuil. Can it be
done?”
“When do you want to go, Mr. Cade?”
“Say to-morrow after the inquest. I could be back here by Sunday evening.”
“I see,” said the superintendent, with peculiar solidity.
“Well, what about it?”
“I’ve no objection, provided you go where you say you’re going, and come
straight back here.”
“You’re a man in a thousand, Battle. Either you have taken an extraordinary
fancy to me or else you’re extraordinarily deep. Which is it?”
Superintendent Battle smiled a little, but did not answer.
“Well, well,” said Anthony, “I expect you’ll take your precautions. Discreet
minions of the law will follow my suspicious footsteps. So be it. But I do
wish I knew what it was all about.”
“I don’t get you, Mr. Cade.”
“The Memoirs—what all the fuss is about. Were they only Memoirs? Or
have you got something up your sleeve?”

Battle smiled again.
“Take it like this. I’m doing you a favour because you’ve made a favourable
impression on me, Mr. Cade. I’d like you to work in with me over this case.
The amateur and the professional, they go well together. The one has the
intimacy, so to speak, and the other the experience.”
“Well,” said Anthony slowly, “I don’t mind admitting that I’ve always
wanted to try my hand at unravelling a murder mystery.”
“Any ideas about the case at all, Mr. Cade?”
“Plenty of them,” said Anthony. “But they’re mostly questions.”
“As, for instance?”
“Who steps into the murdered Michael’s shoes? It seems to me that that is
important?”
A rather wry smile came over Superintendent Battle’s face.
“I wondered if you’d think of that, sir. Prince Nicolas Obolovitch is the next
heir—first cousin of this gentleman.”
“And where is he at the present moment?” asked Anthony, turning away to
light a cigarette. “Don’t tell me you don’t know, Battle, because I shan’t
believe you.”
“We’ve reason to believe that he’s in the United States. He was until quite
lately, at all events. Raising money on his expectations.”
Anthony gave vent to a surprised whistle.
“I get you,” said Anthony. “Michael was backed by England, Nicholas by
America. In both countries a group of financiers are anxious to obtain the
oil concessions. The Loyalist party adopted Michael as their candidate—
now they’ll have to look elsewhere. Gnashing of teeth on the part of
Isaacstein and Co. and Mr. George Lomax. Rejoicings in Wall Street. Am I
right?”
“You’re not far off,” said Superintendent Battle.
“H’m!” said Anthony. “I almost dare swear that I know what you were
doing in that copse.”

The detective smiled, but made no reply.
“International politics are very fascinating,” said Anthony, “but I fear I must
leave you. I have an appointment in the schoolroom.”
He strode briskly away towards the house. Inquiries of the dignified
Tredwell showed him the way to the schoolroom. He tapped on the door
and entered, to be greeted by squeals of joy.
Guggle and Winkle immediately rushed at him and bore him in triumph to
be introduced to Mademoiselle.
For the first time, Anthony felt a qualm. Mademoiselle Brun was a small,
middle-aged woman with a sallow face, pepper and salt hair, and a budding
moustache!
As the notorious foreign adventuress she did not fit into the picture at all.
“I believe,” said Anthony to himself, “I’m making the most utter fool of
myself. Never mind, I must go through with it now.”
He was extremely pleasant to Mademoiselle, and she, on her part, was
evidently delighted to have a good-looking young man invade her
schoolroom. The meal was a great success.
But that evening, alone in the charming bedchamber that had been allotted
to him, Anthony shook his head several times.
“I’m wrong,” he said to himself. “For the second time, I’m wrong.
Somehow or other, I can’t get the hang of this thing.”
He stopped in his pacing of the floor.
“What the devil——” began Anthony.
The door was being softly opened. In another minute a man had slipped into
the room, and stood deferentially by the door.
He was a big fair man, squarely built, with high Slavonic cheek-bones, and
dreamy fanatic eyes.
“Who the devil are you?” asked Anthony, staring at him.
The man replied in perfect English.
“I am Boris Anchoukoff.”

“Prince Michael’s servant, eh?”
“That is so. I served my master. He is dead. Now I serve you.”
“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “But I don’t happen to want a valet.”
“You are my master now. I will serve you faithfully.”
“Yes—but—look here—I don’t need a valet. I can’t afford one.”
Boris Anchoukoff looked at him with a touch of scorn.
“I do not ask for money. I served my master. So will I serve you—to the
death!”
Stepping quickly forward, he dropped on one knee, caught Anthony’s hand
and placed it on his forehead. Then he rose swiftly and left the room as
suddenly as he had come.
Anthony stared after him, his face a picture of astonishment.
“That’s damned odd,” he said to himself. “A faithful sort of dog. Curious
the instincts these fellows have.”
He rose and paced up and down.
“All the same,” he muttered, “it’s awkward—damned awkward—just at
present.”

17
A Midnight Adventure
The inquest took place on the following morning. It was extraordinarily
unlike the inquests as pictured in sensational fiction. It satisfied even
George Lomax in its rigid suppression of all interesting details.
Superintendent Battle and the Coroner, working together with the support
of the Chief Constable, had reduced the proceedings to the lowest level of
boredom.
Immediately after the inquest, Anthony took an unostentatious departure.
His departure was the one bright spot in the day for Bill Eversleigh. George
Lomax, obsessed with the fear that something damaging to his Department
might leak out, had been exceedingly trying. Miss Oscar and Bill had been
in constant attendance. Everything useful and interesting had been done by
Miss Oscar. Bill’s part had been to run to and fro with countless messages,
to decode telegrams, and to listen by the hour to George repeating himself.
It was a completely exhausted young man who retired to bed on Saturday
night. He had had practically no chance to talk to Virginia all day, owing to
George’s exactions, and he felt injured and ill-used. Thank goodness, that
Colonial fellow had taken himself off. He had monopolized far too much of
Virginia’s society anyway. And of course if George Lomax went on making
an ass of himself like this—— His mind seething with resentment, Bill fell
asleep. And, in dreams, came consolation. For he dreamt of Virginia.
It was an heroic dream, a dream of burning timbers in which he played the
part of the gallant rescuer. He brought down Virginia from the topmost
story in his arms. She was unconscious. He laid her on the grass. Then he
went off to find a packet of sandwiches. It was most important that he
should find that packet of sandwiches. George had it, but instead of giving
it up to Bill, he began to dictate telegrams. They were now in the vestry of a
church, and any minute Virginia might arrive to be married to him. Horror!
He was wearing pyjamas. He must get home at once and find his proper
clothes. He rushed out to the car. The car would not start. No petrol in the
tank! He was getting desperate. And then a big General ’bus drew up and

Virginia got out of it on the arm of the bald headed Baron. She was
deliciously cool, and exquisitely dressed in grey. She came over to him and
shook him by the shoulders playfully. “Bill,” she said. “Oh, Bill.” She
shook him harder. “Bill,” she said. “Wake up. Oh, do wake up!”
Very dazed, Bill woke up. He was in his bedroom at Chimneys. But part of
the dream was with him still. Virginia was leaning over him, and was
repeating the same words with variations.
“Wake up, Bill. Oh, do wake up. Bill.”
“Hullo!” said Bill, sitting up in bed. “What’s the matter?”
Virginia gave a sigh of relief.
“Thank goodness. I thought you’d never wake up. I’ve been shaking you
and shaking you. Are you properly awake now?”
“I think so,” said Bill doubtfully.
“You great lump,” said Virginia. “The trouble I’ve had! My arms are
aching.”
“These insults are uncalled for,” said Bill, with dignity. “Let me say,
Virginia, that I consider your conduct most unbecoming. Not at all that of a
pure young widow.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Bill. Things are happening.”
“What kind of things?”
“Queer things. In the Council Chamber. I thought I heard a door bang
somewhere, and I came down to see. And then saw a light in the Council
Chamber. I crept along the passage, and peeped through the crack of the
door. I couldn’t see much, but what I could see was so extraordinary that I
felt I must see more. And then, all of a sudden, I felt that I should like a
nice, big, strong man with me. And you were the nicest and biggest and
strongest man I could think of, so I came in and tried to wake you up
quietly. But I’ve been ages doing it.”
“I see,” said Bill. “And what do you want me to do now? Get up and tackle
the burglars?”
Virginia wrinkled her brows.

“I’m not sure that they are burglars. Bill, it’s very queer—— But don’t let’s
waste time talking. Get up.”
Bill slipped obediently out of bed.
“Wait while I don a pair of boots—the big ones with nails in them.
However big and strong I am, I’m not going to tackle hardened criminals
with bare feet.”
“I like your pyjamas, Bill,” said Virginia dreamily. “Brightness without
vulgarity.”
“While we’re on the subject,” remarked Bill, reaching for his second boot,
“I like that thingummybob of yours. It’s a pretty shade of green. What do
you call it? It’s not just a dressing-gown, is it?”
“It’s a négligé” said Virginia. “I’m glad you’ve led such a pure life, Bill.”
“I haven’t,” said Bill indignantly.
“You’ve just betrayed the fact. You’re very nice, Bill, and I like you. I dare
say that to-morrow morning—say about ten o’clock, a good safe hour for
not unduly exciting the emotions—I might even kiss you.”
“I always think these things are best carried out on the spur of the moment,”
suggested Bill.
“We’ve other fish to fry,” said Virginia. “If you don’t want to put on a gas
mask and a shirt of chain mail, shall we start?”
“I’m ready,” said Bill.
He wriggled into a lurid silk dressing-gown, and picked up a poker.
“The orthodox weapon,” he observed.
“Come on,” said Virginia, “and don’t make a noise.”
They crept out of the room and along the corridor, and then down the wide
double staircase. Virginia frowned as they reached the bottom of it.
“Those boots of yours aren’t exactly domes of silence, are they, Bill?”
“Nails will be nails,” said Bill. “I’m doing my best.”
“You’ll have to take them off,” said Virginia firmly.

Bill groaned.
“You can carry them in your hand. I want to see if you can make out what’s
going on in the Council Chamber. Bill, it’s awfully mysterious. Why should
burglars take a man in armour to pieces?”
“Well, I suppose they can’t take him away whole very well. They
disarticulate him, and pack him neatly.”
Virginia shook her head, dissatisfied.
“What should they want to steal a mouldy old suit of armour for? Why,
Chimneys is full of treasures that are much easier to take away.”
Bill shook his head.
“How many of them are there?” he asked, taking a firmer grip of his poker.
“I couldn’t see properly. You know what a keyhole is. And they only had a
flashlight.”
“I expect they’ve gone by now,” said Bill hopefully.
He sat down on the bottom stair and drew off his boots. Then, holding them
in his hand, he crept along the passage that led to the Council Chamber,
Virginia close behind him. They halted outside the massive oak door. All
was silent within, but suddenly Virginia pressed his arm, and he nodded. A
bright light had shown for a minute through the keyhole.
Bill went down on his knees, and applied his eye to the orifice. What he
saw was confusing in the extreme. The scene of the drama that was being
enacted inside was evidently just to the left, out of his line of vision. A
subdued chink every now and then seemed to point to the fact that the
invaders were still dealing with the figure in armour. There were two of
these, Bill remembered. They stood together by the wall just under the
Holbein portrait. The light of the electric torch was evidently being directed
upon the operations in progress. It left the rest of the room nearly in
darkness. Once a figure flitted across Bill’s line of vision, but there was not
sufficient light to distinguish anything about it. It might have been that of a
man or a woman. In a minute or two it flitted back again and then the
subdued chinking sounded again. Presently there came a new sound, a faint
tap-tap as of knuckles on wood.

Bill sat back on his heels suddenly.
“What is it?” whispered Virginia.
“Nothing. It’s no good going on like this. We can’t see anything, and we
can’t guess what they’re up to. I must go in and tackle them.”
He drew on his boots and stood up.
“Now, Virginia, listen to me. We’ll open the door as softly as possible. You
know where the switch of the electric light is?”
“Yes, just by the door.”
“I don’t think there are more than two of them. There may be only one. I
want to get well into the room. Then, when I say ‘Go’ I want you to switch
on the lights. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“And don’t scream or faint or anything. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“My hero!” murmured Virginia.
Bill peered at her suspiciously through the darkness. He heard a faint sound
which might have been either a sob or a laugh. Then he grasped the poker
firmly and rose to his feet. He felt that he was fully alive to the situation.
Very softly he turned the handle of the door. It yielded and swung gently
inwards. Bill felt Virginia close beside him. Together they moved
noiselessly into the room.
At the farther end of the room, the torch was playing upon the Holbein
picture. Silhouetted against it was the figure of a man, standing on a chair
and gently tapping on the panelling! His back, of course, was to them, and
he merely loomed up as a monstrous shadow.
What more they might have seen cannot be told, for at that moment Bill’s
nails squeaked upon the parquet floor. The man swung round, directing the
powerful torch full upon them and almost dazzling them with the sudden
glare.
Bill did not hesitate.

“Go,” he roared to Virginia, and sprang for his man, as she obediently
pressed down the switch of the electric lights.
The big chandelier should have been flooded with light; but, instead, all that
happened was the click of the switch. The room remained in darkness.
Virginia heard Bill curse freely. The next minute the air was filled with
panting, scuffling sounds. The torch had fallen to the ground and
extinguished itself in the fall. There was the sound of a desperate struggle
going on in the darkness, but as to who was getting the better of it, and
indeed as to who was taking part in it, Virginia had no idea. Had there been
anyone else in the room besides the man who was tapping the panelling?
There might have been. Their glimpse had been only a momentary one.
Virginia felt paralysed. She hardly knew what to do. She dared not try and
join in the struggle. To do so might hamper and not aid Bill. Her one idea
was to stay in the doorway, so that anyone trying to escape should not leave
the room that way. At the same time, she disobeyed Bill’s express
instructions and screamed loudly and repeatedly for help.
She heard doors opening upstairs, and a sudden gleam of light from the hall
and the big staircase. If only Bill could hold his man until help came.
But at that minute there was a final terrific upheaval. They must have
crashed into one of the figures in armour, for it fell to the ground with a
deafening noise. Virginia saw dimly a figure springing for the window, and
at the same time heard Bill cursing and disengaging himself from fragments
of armour.
For the first time, she left her post, and rushed wildly for the figure at the
window. But the window was already unlatched. The intruder had no need
to stop and fumble for it. He sprang out and raced away down the terrace
and round the corner of the house. Virginia raced after him. She was young
and athletic, and she turned the corner of the terrace not many seconds after
her quarry.
But there she ran headlong into the arms of a man who was emerging from
a small side door. It was Mr. Hiram P. Fish.
“Gee! It’s a lady,” he exclaimed. “Why, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Revel. I
took you for one of the thugs fleeing from justice.”

“He’s just passed this way,” cried Virginia breathlessly. “Can’t we catch
him?”
But, even as she spoke, she knew it was too late. The man must have gained
the park by now, and it was a dark night with no moon. She retraced her
steps to the Council Chamber, Mr. Fish by her side, discoursing in a
soothing monotone upon the habits of burglars in general, of which he
seemed to have a wide experience.
Lord Caterham, Bundle, and various frightened servants were standing in
the doorway of the Council Chamber.
“What the devil’s the matter?” asked Bundle. “Is it burglars? What are you
and Mr. Fish doing, Virginia? Taking a midnight stroll?”
Virginia explained the events of the evening.
“How frightfully exciting,” commented Bundle. “You don’t usually get a
murder and a burglary crowded into one week-end. What’s the matter with
the lights in here? They’re all right everywhere else.”
That mystery was soon explained. The bulbs had simply been removed and
laid in a row against the wall. Mounted on a pair of steps, the dignified
Tredwell, dignified even in undress, restored illumination to the stricken
apartment.
“If I am not mistaken,” said Lord Caterham in his sad voice as he looked
around him, “this room has recently been the centre of somewhat violent
activity.”
There was some justice in the remark. Everything that could have been
knocked over had been knocked over. The floor was littered with splintered
chairs, broken china, and fragments of armour.
“How many of them were there?” asked Bundle. “It seems to have been a
desperate fight.”
“Only one, I think,” said Virginia. But, even as she spoke, she hesitated a
little. Certainly only one person—a man—had passed out through the
window. But as she had rushed after him, she had had a vague impression
of a rustle somewhere close at hand. If so, the second occupant of the room
could have escaped through the door. Perhaps, though, the rustle had been
an effect of her own imagination.

Bill appeared suddenly at the window. He was out of breath and panting
hard.
“Damn the fellow!” he exclaimed wrathfully. “He’s escaped. I’ve been
hunting all over the place. Not a sign of him.”
“Cheer up, Bill,” said Virginia, “better luck next time.”
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, “what do you think we’d better do now? Go
back to bed? I can’t get hold of Badgworthy at this time of night. Tredwell,
you know the sort of thing that’s necessary. Just see to it, will you?”
“Very good, my lord.”
With a sigh of relief, Lord Caterham prepared to retreat.
“That beggar, Isaacstein, sleeps soundly,” he remarked, with a touch of
envy. “You’d have thought all this row would have brought him down.” He
looked across at Mr. Fish. “You found time to dress, I see,” he added.
“I flung on a few articles of clothing, yes,” admitted the American.
“Very sensible of you,” said Lord Caterham. “Damned chilly things,
pyjamas.”
He yawned. In a rather depressed mood, the house party retired to bed.

18
Second Midnight Adventure
The first person that Anthony saw as he alighted from his train on the
following afternoon was Superintendent Battle. His face broke into a smile.
“I’ve returned according to contract,” he remarked. “Did you come down
here to assure yourself of the fact?”
Battle shook his head.
“I wasn’t worrying about that, Mr. Cade. I happen to be going to London,
that’s all.”
“You have such a trustful nature, Battle.”
“Do you think so, sir?”
“No. I think you’re deep—very deep. Still waters, you know, and all that
sort of thing. So you’re going to London?”
“I am, Mr. Cade.”
“I wonder why.”
The detective did not reply.
“You’re so chatty,” remarked Anthony. “That’s what I like about you.”
A far-off twinkle showed in Battle’s eyes.
“What about your own little job, Mr. Cade?” he inquired. “How did that go
off?”
“I’ve drawn blank, Battle. For the second time I’ve been proved hopelessly
wrong. Galling, isn’t it?”
“What was the idea, sir, if I may ask?”
“I suspected the French governess, Battle. A: Upon the grounds of her being
the most unlikely person, according to the canons of the best fiction. B:
Because there was a light in her room on the night of the tragedy.”

“That wasn’t much to go upon.”
“You are quite right. It was not. But I discovered that she had only been
here a short time, and I also found a suspicious Frenchman spying round the
place. You know all about him, I suppose?”
“You mean the man who calls himself M. Chelles? Staying at the
Cricketers? A traveller in silk.”
“That’s it, is it? What about him? What does Scotland Yard think?”
“His actions have been suspicious,” said Superintendent Battle
expressionlessly.
“Very suspicious, I should say. Well, I put two and two together. French
governess in the house, French stranger outside. I decided that they were in
league together, and I hurried off to interview the lady with whom
Mademoiselle Brun had lived for the last ten years. I was fully prepared to
find that she had never heard of any such person as Mademoiselle Brun, but
I was wrong, Battle. Mademoiselle is the genuine article.”
Battle nodded.
“I must admit,” said Anthony, “that as soon as I spoke to her I had an
uneasy conviction that I was barking up the wrong tree. She seemed so
absolutely the governess.”
Again Battle nodded.
“All the same, Mr. Cade, you can’t always go by that. Women especially
can do a lot with make up. I’ve seen quite a pretty girl with the color of her
hair altered, a sallow complexion stain, slightly reddened eyelids and, most
efficacious of all, dowdy clothes, who would fail to be identified by nine
people out of ten who had seen her in her former character. Men haven’t got
quite the same pull. You can do something with the eyebrows, and of course
different sets of false teeth alter the whole expression. But there are always
the ears—there’s an extraordinary lot of character in ears, Mr. Cade.”
“Don’t look so hard at mine, Battle,” complained Anthony. “You make me
quite nervous.”
“I’m not talking of false beard and grease paint,” continued the
superintendent. “That’s only for books. No, there are very few men who can

escape identification and put it over on you. In fact there’s only one man I
know who has a positive genius for impersonation. King Victor. Ever heard
of King Victor, Mr. Cade?”
There was something so sharp and sudden about the way the detective put
the question that Anthony half checked the words that were rising to his
lips.
“King Victor?” he said reflectively instead. “Somehow, I seem to have
heard the name.”
“One of the most celebrated jewel thieves in the world. Irish father, French
mother. Can speak five languages at least. He’s been serving a sentence, but
his time was up a few months ago.”
“Really? And where is he supposed to be now?”
“Well, Mr. Cade, that’s what we’d rather like to know.”
“The plot thickens,” said Anthony lightly. “No chance of his turning up
here, is there? But I suppose he wouldn’t be interested in political Memoirs
—only in jewels.”
“There’s no saying,” said Superintendent Battle. “For all we know, he may
be here already.”
“Disguised as the second footman? Splendid. You’ll recognize him by his
ears and cover yourself with glory.”
“Quite fond of your little joke, aren’t you, Mr. Cade? By the way, what do
you think of that curious business at Staines?”
“Staines?” said Anthony. “What’s been happening at Staines?”
“It was in Saturday’s papers. I thought you might have seen about it. Man
found by the roadside shot. A foreigner. It was in the papers again to-day, of
course.”
“I did see something about it,” said Anthony carelessly. “Not suicide,
apparently.”
“No. There was no weapon. As yet the man hasn’t been identified.”
“You seem very interested,” said Anthony, smiling. “No connection with
Prince Michael’s death, is there?”

His hand was quite steady. So were his eyes. Was it his fancy that
Superintendent Battle was looking at him with peculiar intentness?
“Seems to be quite an epidemic of that sort of thing,” said Battle. “But,
well, I dare say there’s nothing in it.”
He turned away, beckoning to a porter as the London train came thundering
in. Anthony drew a faint sigh of relief.
He strolled across the park in an unusually thoughtful mood. He purposely
chose to approach the house from the same direction as that from which he
had come on the fateful Thursday night, and as he drew near to it he looked
up at the windows cudgelling his brains to make sure of the one where he
had seen the light. Was he quite sure that it was the second from the end?
And, doing so, he made a discovery. There was an angle at the corner of the
house in which was a window set farther back. Standing on one spot, you
counted this window as the first, and the first one built out over the Council
Chamber as the second, but move a few yards to the right and the part built
out over the Council Chamber appeared to be the end of the house. The first
window was invisible, and the two windows of the rooms over the Council
Chamber would have appeared the first and second from the end. Where
exactly had he been standing when he had seen the light flash up?
Anthony found the question very hard to determine. A matter of a yard or so
made all the difference. But one point was made abundantly clear. It was
quite possible that he had been mistaken in describing the light as occurring
in the second room from the end. It might equally well have been the third.
Now who occupied the third room? Anthony was determined to find that
out as soon as possible. Fortune favoured him. In the hall Tredwell had just
set the massive silver urn in its place on the tea tray. Nobody else was there.
“Hullo, Tredwell,” said Anthony. “I wanted to ask you something. Who has
the third room from the end on the West side? Over the Council Chamber, I
mean.”
Tredwell reflected for a minute or two.
“That would be the American gentleman’s room, sir. Mr. Fish.”
“Oh, is it? Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.”
Tredwell prepared to depart, then paused. The desire to be the first to impart
news makes even pontifical butlers human.
“Perhaps you have heard, sir, of what occurred last night?”
“Not a word,” said Anthony. “What did occur last night?”
“An attempt at robbery, sir!”
“Not really? Was anything taken?”
“No, sir. The thieves were dismantling the suits of armour in the Council
Chamber when they were surprised and forced to flee. Unfortunately they
got clear away.”
“That’s very extraordinary,” said Anthony. “The Council Chamber again.
Did they break in that way?”
“It is supposed, sir, that they forced the window.”
Satisfied with the interest his information had aroused Tredwell resumed his
retreat, but brought up short with a dignified apology.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t hear you come in, and I didn’t know you
were standing just behind me.”
Mr. Isaacstein who had been the victim of the impact waved his hand in a
friendly fashion.
“No harm done, my good fellow. I assure you no harm done.”
Tredwell retired looking contemptuous, and Isaacstein came forward and
dropped into an easy-chair.
“Hullo, Cade, so you’re back again. Been hearing all about last night’s little
show?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “Rather an exciting week-end, isn’t it?”
“I should imagine that last night was the work of local men,” said
Isaacstein. “It seems a clumsy, amateurish affair.”
“Is there anyone about here who collects armour?” asked Anthony. “It
seems a curious thing to select.”

“Very curious,” agreed Mr. Isaacstein. He paused a minute, and then said
slowly: “The whole position here is very unfortunate.”
There was something almost menacing in his tone.
“I don’t quite understand,” said Anthony.
“Why are we all being kept here in this way? The inquest was over
yesterday. The Prince’s body will be removed to London where it is being
given out that he died of heart failure. And still nobody is allowed to leave
the house. Mr. Lomax knows no more than I do. He refers me to
Superintendent Battle.”
“Superintendent Battle has something up his sleeve,” said Anthony
thoughtfully. “And it seems the essence of his plan that nobody should
leave.”
“But, excuse me, Mr. Cade, you have been away.”
“With a string tied to my leg. I’ve no doubt that I was shadowed the whole
time. I shouldn’t have been given a chance of disposing of the revolver or
anything of that kind.”
“Ah, the revolver,” said Isaacstein thoughtfully. “That has not yet been
found, I think?”
“Not yet.”
“Possibly thrown into the lake in passing.”
“Very possibly.”
“Where is Superintendent Battle? I have not seen him this afternoon.”
“He’s gone to London. I met him at the station.”
“Gone to London? Really? Did he say when he would be back?”
“Early to-morrow, so I understood.”
Virginia came in with Lord Caterham and Mr. Fish. She smiled a welcome
at Anthony.
“So you’re back, Mr. Cade. Have you heard all about our adventures last
night?”

“Why, trooly, Mr. Cade,” said Hiram Fish. “It was a night of strenuous
excitement. Did you hear that I mistook Mrs. Revel for one of the thugs?”
“And in the meantime,” said Anthony, “the thug——?”
“Got clear away,” said Mr. Fish mournfully.
“Do pour out,” said Lord Caterham to Virginia. “I don’t know where
Bundle is.”
Virginia officiated. Then she came and sat down near Anthony.
“Come to the boat-house after tea,” she said in a low voice. “Bill and I have
got a lot to tell you.”
Then she joined lightly in the general conversation.
The meeting at the boat-house was duly held.
Virginia and Bill were bubbling over with their news. They agreed that a
boat in the middle of the lake was the only safe place for confidential
conversation. Having paddled out a sufficient distance, the full story of last
night’s adventure was related to Anthony. Bill looked a little sulky. He
wished Virginia would not insist on bringing this Colonial fellow into it.
“It’s very odd,” said Anthony, when the story was finished. “What do you
make of it?” he asked Virginia.
“I think they were looking for something,” she returned promptly. “The
burglar idea is absurd.”
“They thought the something, whatever it was, might be concealed in the
suits of armour, that’s clear enough. But why tap the panelling? That looks
more as though they were looking for a secret staircase, or something of
that kind.”
“There’s a Priest’s Hole at Chimneys, I know,” said Virginia. “And I believe
there’s a secret staircase as well. Lord Caterham would tell us all about it.
What I want to know is, what can they have been looking for?”
“It can’t be the Memoirs,” said Anthony. “They’re a great bulky package. It
must have been something small.”
“George knows, I expect,” said Virginia. “I wonder whether I could get it
out of him. All along I’ve felt there was something behind all this.”

“You say there was only one man,” pursued Anthony, “but that there might
possibly be another, as you thought you heard some one going towards the
door as you sprang to the window.”
“The sound was very slight,” said Virginia. “It might have been just my
imagination.”
“That’s quite possible, but in case it wasn’t your imagination the second
person must have been an inmate of the house. I wonder now——”
“What are you wondering at?” asked Virginia.
“The thoroughness of Mr. Hiram Fish who dresses himself completely
when he hears screams for help downstairs.”
“There’s something in that,” agreed Virginia. “And then there’s Isaacstein
who sleeps through it all. That’s suspicious too. Surely he couldn’t?”
“There’s that fellow Boris,” suggested Bill. “He looks an unmitigated
ruffian. Michael’s servant, I mean.”
“Chimneys is full of suspicious characters,” said Virginia. “I dare say the
others are just as suspicious of us. I wish Superintendent Battle hadn’t gone
to London. I think it’s rather stupid of him. By the way, Mr. Cade, I’ve seen
that peculiar-looking Frenchman about once or twice, spying round the
park.”
“It’s a mix up,” confessed Anthony. “I’ve been away on a wild-goose chase.
Made a thorough ass of myself. Look here, to me the whole question seems
to resolve itself into this: Did the men find what they were looking for last
night?”
“Supposing they didn’t?” said Virginia. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t, as a
matter of fact.”
“Just this, I believe they’ll come again. They know, or they soon will know,
that Battle’s in London. They’ll take the risk and come again to-night.”
“Do you really think so?”
“It’s a chance. Now we three will form a little syndicate. Eversleigh and I
will conceal ourselves with due precautions in the Council Chamber——”

“What about me?” interrupted Virginia. “Don’t think you’re going to leave
me out of it.”
“Listen to me, Virginia,” said Bill. “This is man’s work——”
“Don’t be an idiot, Bill. I’m in on this. Don’t you make any mistake about
it. The syndicate will keep watch to-night.”
It was settled thus, and the details of the plan were laid. After the party had
retired to bed, first one and then another of the syndicate crept down. They
were all armed with powerful electric torches, and in the pocket of
Anthony’s coat lay a revolver.
Anthony had said that he believed another attempt to resume the search
would be made. Nevertheless, he did not expect that the attempt would be
made from outside. He believed that Virginia had been correct in her guess
that some one had passed her in the dark the night before, and as he stood in
the shadow of an old oak dresser it was towards the door and not the
window that his eyes were directed. Virginia was crouching behind a figure
in armour on the opposite wall, and Bill was by the window.
The minutes passed, at interminable length. One o’clock chimed, then the
half-hour, then two, then another half-hour. Anthony felt stiff and cramped.
He was coming slowly to the conclusion that he had been wrong. No
attempt would be made to-night.
And then he stiffened suddenly, all his senses on the alert. He had heard a
footstep on the terrace outside. Silence again, then a low scratching noise at
the window. Suddenly it ceased, and the window swung open. A man
stepped across the sill into the room.
He stood quite still for a moment, peering round as though listening. After a
minute or two, seemingly satisfied, he switched on a torch he carried, and
turned it rapidly round the room. Apparently he saw nothing unusual. The
three watchers held their breath.
He went over to the same bit of panelled wall he had been examining the
night before.
And then a terrible knowledge smote Bill. He was going to sneeze! The
wild race through the dew-laden park the night before had given him a chill.

All day he had sneezed intermittently. A sneeze was due now, and nothing
on earth would stop it.
He adopted all the remedies he could think of. He pressed his upper lip,
swallowed hard, threw back his head and looked at the ceiling. As a last
resort he held his nose, and pinched it violently. It was of no avail. He
sneezed.
A stifled, checked, emasculated sneeze, but a startling sound in the deadly
quiet of the room.
The stranger sprang round, and in the same minute Anthony acted. He
flashed on his torch, and jumped full for the stranger. In another minute
they were down on the floor together.
“Lights,” shouted Anthony.
Virginia was ready at the switch. The lights came on true and full to-night.
Anthony was on top of his man, Bill leant down to give him a hand.
“And now,” said Anthony, “let’s see who you are, my fine fellow.”
He rolled his victim over. It was the neat, dark-bearded stranger from the
Cricketers.
“Very nice indeed,” said an approving voice.
They all looked up startled. The bulky form of Superintendent Battle was
standing in the open doorway.
“I thought you were in London, Superintendent Battle,” said Anthony.
Battle’s eyes twinkled.
“Did you, sir?” he said. “Well, I thought it would be a good thing if I was
thought to be going.”
“And it has been,” agreed Anthony, looking down at his prostrate foe.
To his surprise there was a slight smile on the stranger’s face.
“May I get up, gentlemen?” he inquired. “You are three to one.”
Anthony kindly hauled him on to his legs. The stranger settled his coat,
pulled up his collar, and directed a keen look at Battle.

“I demand pardon,” he said, “but do I understand that you are a
representative from Scotland Yard?”
“That’s right,” said Battle.
“Then I will present to you my credentials.” He smiled rather ruefully. “I
would have been wise to do so before.”
He took some papers from his pocket and handed them to the Scotland Yard
detective. At the same time, he turned back the lapel of his coat and showed
something pinned there.
Battle gave an exclamation of astonishment. He looked through the papers
and handed them back with a little bow.
“I’m sorry you’ve been man-handled, monsieur,” he said, “but you brought
it on yourself, you know.”
He smiled, noting the astonished expression on the faces of the other.
“This is a colleague we have been expecting for some time,” he said. “M.
Lemoine, of the Sûreté in Paris.”

19
Secret History
They all stared at the French detective, who smiled back at them.
“But yes,” he said, “it is true.”
There was a pause for a general readjusting of ideas. Then Virginia turned
to Battle.
“Do you know what I think, Superintendent Battle?”
“What do you think, Mrs. Revel?”
“I think the time has come to enlighten us a little.”
“To enlighten you? I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Revel.”
“Superintendent Battle, you understand perfectly. I dare say Mr. Lomax has
hedged you about with recommendations of secrecy—George would, but
surely it’s better to tell us than have us stumbling on the secret all by
ourselves, and perhaps doing untold harm. M. Lemoine, don’t you agree
with me?”
“Madame, I agree with you entirely.”
“You can’t go on keeping things dark for ever,” said Battle. “I’ve told Mr.
Lomax so. Mr. Eversleigh is Mr. Lomax’s secretary, there’s no objection to
his knowing what there is to know. As for Mr. Cade, he’s been brought into
the thing willy-nilly, and I consider he’s a right to know where he stands.
But——”
Battle paused.
“I know,” said Virginia. “Women are so indiscreet! I’ve often heard George
say so.”
Lemoine had been studying Virginia attentively. Now he turned to the
Scotland Yard man.
“Did I hear you just now address Madame by the name of Revel?”

“That is my name,” said Virginia.
“Your husband was in the Diplomatic Service, was he not? And you were
with him in Herzoslovakia just before the assassination of the late King and
Queen.”
“Yes.”
Lemoine turned again.
“I think Madame has a right to hear the story. She is indirectly concerned.
Moreover”—his eyes twinkled a little—“Madame’s reputation for
discretion stands very high in Diplomatic circles.”
“I’m glad they give me a good character,” said Virginia, laughing. “And I’m
glad I’m not going to be left out of it.”
“What about refreshments?” said Anthony. “Where does the conference
take place? Here?”
“If you please, sir,” said Battle, “I’ve a fancy for not leaving this room until
morning. You’ll see why when you’ve heard the story.”
“Then I’ll go and forage,” said Anthony.
Bill went with him and they returned with a tray of glasses, siphons and
other necessaries of life.
The augmented syndicate established itself comfortably in the corner by the
window, being grouped round a long oak table.
“It’s understood, of course,” said Battle, “that anything that’s said here is
said in strict confidence. There must be no leakage. I’ve always felt it
would come out one of these days. Gentlemen like Mr. Lomax who want
everything hushed up take bigger risks than they think. The start of this
business was just over seven years ago. There was a lot of what they call
Reconstruction going on—especially in the Near East. There was a good
deal going on in England, strictly on the Q.T. with that old gentleman,
Count Stylptitch, pulling the strings. All the Balkan States were interested
parties, and there were a lot of Royal Personages in England just then. I’m
not going into details, but Something disappeared—disappeared in a way
that seemed incredible unless you admitted two things—that the thief was a

Royal Personage and that at the same time it was the work of a high-class
professional. M. Lemoine here will tell you how that well might be.”
The Frenchman bowed courteously and took up the tale.
“It is possible that you in England may not even have heard of our famous
and fantastic King Victor. What his real name is, no one knows, but he is a
man of singular courage and daring, one who speaks five languages and is
unequalled in the art of disguise. Though his father is known to have been
either English or Irish, he himself has worked chiefly in Paris. It was there,
nearly eight years ago, that he was carrying out a daring series of robberies
and living under the name of Captain O’Neill.”
A faint exclamation escaped Virginia. M. Lemoine darted a keen glance at
her.
“I think I understand what agitates Madame. You will see in a minute. Now
we of the Sûreté had our suspicions that this Captain O’Neill was none
other than ‘King Victor,’ but we could not obtain the necessary proof. There
was also in Paris at the time a clever young actress, Angèle Mory, of the
Folies Bergères. For some time we had suspected that she was associated
with the operations of King Victor. But again no proof was forthcoming.
“About that time, Paris was preparing for the visit of the young King
Nicholas IV of Herzoslovakia. At the Sûreté we were given special
instructions as to the course to be adopted to ensure the safety of His
Majesty. In particular we were warned to superintend the activities of a
certain Revolutionary organization which called itself the Comrades of the
Red Hand. It is fairly certain now that the Comrades approached Angèle
Mory and offered her a huge sum if she would aid them in their plans. Her
part was to infatuate the young King, and decoy him to some spot agreed
upon with them. Angèle Mory accepted the bribe and promised to perform
her part.
“But the young lady was cleverer and more ambitious than her employers
suspected. She succeeded in captivating the King who fell desperately in
love with her and loaded her with jewels. It was then that she conceived the
idea of being—not a King’s mistress, but a Queen! As every one knows, she
realized her ambition. She was introduced into Herzoslovakia as the
Countess Varaga Popoleffsky, an offshoot of the Romanoffs, and became

eventually Queen Varaga of Herzoslovakia. Not bad for a little Parisian
actress! I have always heard that she played the part extremely well. But her
triumph was not to be long lived. The Comrades of the Red Hand, furious at
her betrayal, twice attempted her life. Finally they worked up the country to
such a pitch that a Revolution broke out in which both the King and Queen
perished. Their bodies, horribly mutilated and hardly recognizable, were
recovered, attesting to the fury of the populace against the low-born foreign
Queen.
“Now, in all this, it seems certain that Queen Varaga still kept in with her
confederate, King Victor. It is possible that the bold plan was his all along.
What is known is that she continued to correspond with him, in a secret
code, from the Court of Herzoslovakia. For safety the letters were written in
English, and signed with the name of an English lady then at the Embassy.
If any inquiry had been made, and the lady in question had denied her
signature, it is possible that she would not have been believed, for the letters
were those of a guilty woman to her lover. It was your name she used, Mrs.
Revel.”
“I know,” said Virginia. Her colour was coming and going unevenly. “So
that is the truth of the letters! I have wondered and wondered.”
“What a blackguardly trick,” cried Bill indignantly.
“The letters were addressed to Captain O’Neill at his rooms in Paris, and
their principal purpose may have light shed upon it by a curious fact which
came to light later. After the assassination of the King and Queen, many of
the Crown Jewels which had fallen, of course, into the hands of the mob,
found their way to Paris, and it was discovered that in nine cases out of ten
the principal stones had been replaced by paste—and mind you, there were
some very famous stones among the jewels of Herzoslovakia. So as a
Queen, Angèle Mory still practised her former activities.
“You see now where we have arrived. Nicholas IV and Queen Varaga came
to England and were the guests of the late Marquis of Caterham, then
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Herzoslovakia is a small country, but
it could not be left out. Queen Varaga was necessarily received. And there
we have a Royal Personage and at the same time an expert thief. There is
also no doubt that the—er—substitute which was so wonderful as to
deceive anyone but an expert could only have been fashioned by King

Victor, and indeed the whole plan, in its daring and audacity, pointed to him
as the author.”
“What happened?” asked Virginia.
“Hushed up,” said Superintendent Battle laconically. “Not a mention of it’s
ever been made public to this day. We did all that could be done on the quiet
—and that was a good deal more than you’d ever imagine, by the way.
We’ve got methods of our own that would surprise. That jewel didn’t leave
England with the Queen of Herzoslovakia—I can tell you that much. No,
Her Majesty hid it somewhere—but where we’ve never been able to
discover. But I shouldn’t wonder”—Superintendent Battle let his eyes
wander gently round—“if it wasn’t somewhere in this room.”
Anthony leapt to his feet.
“What? After all these years?” he cried incredulously. “Impossible.”
“You do not know the peculiar circumstances, monsieur,” said the
Frenchman quickly. “Only a fortnight later, the Revolution in Herzoslovakia
broke out, and the King and Queen were murdered. Also, Captain O’Neill
was arrested in Paris and sentenced on a minor charge. We hoped to find the
packet of code letters in his house, but it appears that this had been stolen
by some Herzoslovakian go-between. The man turned up in Herzoslovakia
just before the Revolution, and then disappeared completely.”
“He probably went abroad,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “To Africa as likely
as not. And you bet he hung on to that packet. It was as good as a gold mine
to him. It’s odd how things come about. They probably called him Dutch
Pedro or something like that out there.”
He caught Superintendent Battle’s expressionless glance bent upon him,
and smiled.
“It’s not really clairvoyance, Battle,” he said, “though it sounds like it. I’ll
tell you presently.”
“There is one thing you have not explained,” said Virginia. “Where does
this link up with the Memoirs? There must be a link, surely?”
“Madame is very quick,” said Lemoine approvingly. “Yes, there is a link.
Count Stylptitch was also staying at Chimneys at the time.”

“So that he might have known about it?”
“Parfaitement.”
“And, of course,” said Battle, “if he’s blurted it out in his precious
Memoirs, the fat will be in the fire. Especially after the way the whole thing
was hushed up.”
Anthony lit a cigarette.
“There’s no possibility of there being a clue in the Memoirs as to where the
stone was hidden?” he asked.
“Very unlikely,” said Battle decisively. “He was never in with the Queen—
opposed the marriage tooth and nail. She’s not likely to have taken him into
her confidence.”
“I wasn’t suggesting such a thing for a minute,” said Anthony. “But by all
accounts he was a cunning old boy. Unknown to her, he may have
discovered where she hid the jewel. In that case, what would he have done,
do you think?”
“Sat tight,” said Battle, after a moment’s reflection.
“I agree,” said the Frenchman. “It was a ticklish moment, you see. To return
the stone anonymously would have presented great difficulties. Also, the
knowledge of its whereabouts would give him great power—and he liked
power, that strange old man. Not only did he hold the Queen in the hollow
of his hand, but he had a powerful weapon to negotiate with at any time. It
was not the only secret he possessed—oh, no!—he collected secrets like
some men collect rare pieces of china. It is said that, once or twice before
his death, he boasted to people of the things he could make public if the
fancy took him. And once at least he declared that he intended to make
some startling revelations in his Memoirs. Hence”—the Frenchman smiled
rather dryly—“the general anxiety to get hold of them. Our own secret
police intended to seize them, but the Count took the precaution to have
them conveyed away before his death.”
“Still, there’s no real reason to believe that he knew this particular secret,”
said Battle.
“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony quietly. “There are his own words.”

“What?”
Both detectives stared at him as though unable to believe their ears.
“When Mr. McGrath gave me that manuscript to bring to England, he told
me the circumstances of his one meeting with Count Stylptitch. It was in
Paris. At some considerable risk to himself, Mr. McGrath rescued the Count
from a band of Apaches. He was, I understand—shall we say a trifle—
exhilarated? Being in that condition, he made two rather interesting
remarks. One of them was to the effect that he knew where the Koh-i-noor
was—a statement to which my friend paid very little attention. He also said
that the gang in question were King Victor’s men. Taken together, those two
remarks are very significant.”
“Good Lord,” ejaculated Superintendent Battle, “I should say they were.
Even the murder of Prince Michael wears a different aspect.”
“King Victor has never taken a life,” the Frenchman reminded him.
“Supposing he were surprised when he was searching for the jewel?”
“Is he in England, then?” asked Anthony sharply. “You say that he was
released a few months ago. Didn’t you keep track of him?”
A rather rueful smile overspread the French detective’s face.
“We tried to, monsieur. But he is a devil, that man. He gave us the slip at
once—at once. We thought, of course, that he would make straight for
England. But no. He went—where do you think?”
“Where?” said Anthony.
He was staring intently at the Frenchman, and absent-mindedly his fingers
played with a box of matches.
“To America. To the United States.”
“What?”
There was sheer amazement in Anthony’s tone.
“Yes, and what do you think he called himself? What part do you think he
played over there? The part of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”

The match-box fell from Anthony’s hand, but his amazement was fully
equalled by that of Battle.
“Impossible.”
“Not so, my friend. You, too, will get the news in the morning. It has been
the most colossal bluff. As you know, Prince Nicholas was rumoured to
have died in the Congo years ago. Our friend, King Victor, seizes on that—
difficult to prove a death of that kind. He resurrects Prince Nicholas, and
plays him to such purpose that he gets away with a tremendous haul of
American dollars—all on account of the supposed oil concessions. But by a
mere accident, he was unmasked, and had to leave the country hurriedly.
This time he did come to England. And that is why I am here. Sooner or
later he will come to Chimneys. That is, if he is not already here!”
“You think—that?”
“I think he was here the night Prince Michael died, and again last night.”
“It was another attempt, eh?” said Battle.
“It was another attempt.”
“What has bothered me,” continued Battle, “was wondering what had
become of M. Lemoine here. I’d had word from Paris that he was on his
way over to work with me, and I couldn’t make out why he hadn’t turned
up.”
“I must indeed apologize,” said Lemoine. “You see, I arrived on the
morning after the murder. It occurred to me at once that it would be as well
for me to study things from an unofficial standpoint without appearing
officially as your colleague. I thought that great possibilities lay that way. I
was, of course, aware that I was bound to be an object of suspicion, but that
in a way furthered my plan since it would not put people I was after on their
guard. I can assure you that I have seen a good deal that is interesting in the
last two days.”
“But look here,” said Bill, “what really did happen last night?”
“I am afraid,” said M. Lemoine, “that I gave you rather violent exercise.”
“It was you I chased then?”

“Yes. I will recount things to you. I came up here to watch, convinced that
the secret had to do with this room since the Prince had been killed here. I
stood outside on the terrace. Presently I became aware that some one was
moving about in this room. I could see the flash of a torch now and again. I
tried the middle window and found it unlatched. Whether the man had
entered that way earlier, or whether he had left it so as a blind in case he
was disturbed, I do not know. Very gently, I pushed it back and slipped
inside the room. Step by step I felt my way until I was in a spot where I
could watch operations without likelihood of being discovered myself. The
man himself I could not see clearly. His back was to me, of course, and he
was silhouetted against the light of the torch so that his outline only could
be seen. But his actions filled me with surprise. He took to pieces first one
and then the other of those two suits of armour, examining each one piece
by piece. When he had convinced himself that what he sought was not
there, he began tapping the panelling of the wall under that picture. What he
would have done next, I do not know. The interruption came. You burst in
——” He looked at Bill.
“Our well-meant interference was really rather a pity,” said Virginia
thoughtfully.
“In a sense, madame, it was. The man switched out his torch, and I, who
had no wish as yet to be forced to reveal my identity, sprang for the
window. I collided with the other two in the dark, and fell headlong. I
sprang up and out through the window. Mr. Eversleigh, taking me for his
assailant, followed.”
“I followed you first,” said Virginia. “Bill was only second in the race.”
“And the other fellow had the sense to stay still and sneak out through the
door. I wonder he didn’t meet the rescuing crowd.”
“That would present no difficulties,” said Lemoine. “He would be a rescuer
in advance of the rest, that was all.”
“Do you really think this Arsène Lupin fellow is actually among the
household now?” asked Bill, his eyes sparkling.
“Why not?” said Lemoine. “He could pass perfectly as a servant. For all we
may know, he may be Boris Anchoukoff, the trusted servant of the late
Prince Michael.”

“He is an odd-looking bloke,” agreed Bill.
But Anthony was smiling.
“That’s hardly worthy of you, M. Lemoine,” he said gently.
The Frenchman smiled too.
“You’ve taken him on as your valet now, haven’t you, Mr. Cade?” asked
Superintendent Battle.
“Battle, I take off my hat to you. You know everything. But just as a matter
of detail, he’s taken me on, not I him.”
“Why was that, I wonder, Mr. Cade?”
“I don’t know,” said Anthony lightly. “It’s a curious taste, but perhaps he
may have liked my face. Or he may think I murdered his master and wish to
establish himself in a handy position for executing revenge upon me.”
He rose and went over to the windows, pulling the curtains.
“Daylight,” he said, with a slight yawn. “There won’t be any more
excitements now.”
Lemoine rose also.
“I will leave you,” he said. “We shall perhaps meet again later in the day.”
With a graceful bow to Virginia, he stepped out of the window.
“Bed,” said Virginia, yawning. “It’s all been very exciting. Come on, Bill,
go to bed like a good little boy. The breakfast table will see us not, I fear.”
Anthony stayed at the window looking after the retreating form of M.
Lemoine.
“You wouldn’t think it,” said Battle behind him, “but that’s supposed to be
the cleverest detective in France.”
“I don’t know that I wouldn’t,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “I rather think I
would.”
“Well,” said Battle, “he was right about the excitements of this night being
over. By the way, do you remember my telling you about that man they’d
found shot near Staines?”

“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing. They’ve identified him, that’s all. It seems he was called
Giuseppe Manelli. He was a waiter at the Blitz in London. Curious, isn’t
it?”

20
Battle and Anthony Confer
Anthony said nothing. He continued to stare out of the window.
Superintendent Battle looked for some time at his motionless back.
“Well, good night, sir,” he said at last, and moved to the door.
Anthony stirred.
“Wait a minute, Battle.”
The superintendent halted obediently. Anthony left the window. He drew
out a cigarette from his case and lighted it. Then, between two puffs of
smoke, he said:
“You seem very interested in this business at Staines?”
“I wouldn’t go as far as that, sir. It’s unusual, that’s all.”
“Do you think the man was shot where he was found, or do you think he
was killed elsewhere and the body brought to that particular spot
afterwards?”
“I think he was shot somewhere else, and the body brought there in a car.”
“I think so too,” said Anthony.
Something in the emphasis of his tone made the detective look up sharply.
“Any ideas of your own, sir? Do you know who brought him there?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “I did.”
He was a little annoyed at the absolutely unruffled calm preserved by the
other.
“I must say you take these shocks very well, Battle,” he remarked.
“‘Never display emotion.’ That was a rule that was given to me once, and
I’ve found it very useful.”

“You live up to it, certainly,” said Anthony. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you
ruffled. Well, do you want to hear the whole story?”
“If you please, Mr. Cade.”
Anthony pulled up two of the chairs, both men sat down, and Anthony
recounted the events of the preceding Thursday night.
Battle listened immovably. There was a far-off twinkle in his eyes as
Anthony finished.
“You know, sir,” he said, “You’ll get into trouble one of these days.”
“Then, for the second time, I’m not to be taken into custody?”
“We always like to give a man plenty of rope,” said Superintendent Battle.
“Very delicately put,” said Anthony. “Without unduly stressing the end of
the proverb.”
“What I can’t quite make out, sir,” said Battle, “is why you decided to come
across with this now?”
“It’s rather difficult to explain,” said Anthony. “You see, Battle, I’ve come
to have really a very high opinion of your abilities. When the moment
comes, you’re always there. Look at to-night. And it occurred to me that, in
withholding this knowledge of mine, I was seriously cramping your style.
You deserve to have access to all the facts. I’ve done what I could, and up
to now I’ve made a mess of things. Until to-night, I couldn’t speak for Mrs.
Revel’s sake. But now that those letters have been definitely proved to have
nothing whatever to do with her, any idea of her complicity becomes
absurd. Perhaps I advised her badly in the first place, but it struck me that
her statement of having paid this man money to suppress the letters, simply
as a whim, might take a bit of believing.”
“It might, by a jury,” agreed Battle. “Juries never have any imagination.”
“But you accept it quite easily?” said Anthony, looking curiously at him.
“Well, you see, Mr. Cade, most of my work has lain amongst these people.
What they call the upper classes, I mean. You see, the majority of people
are always wondering what the neighbours will think. But tramps and
aristocrats don’t—they just do the first thing that comes into their heads,
and they don’t bother to think what anyone thinks of them. I’m not meaning

just the idle rich, the people who give big parties, and so on, I mean those
that have had it born and bred in them for generations that nobody else’s
opinion counts but their own. I’ve always found the upper classes the same
—fearless, truthful and sometimes extraordinarily foolish.”
“This is a very interesting lecture, Battle. I suppose you’ll be writing your
Reminiscences one of these days. They ought to be worth reading too.”
The detective acknowledged the suggestion with a smile, but said nothing.
“I’d rather like to ask you one question,” continued Anthony. “Did you
connect me at all with the Staines affair? I fancied, from your manner, that
you did.”
“Quite right. I had a hunch that way. But nothing definite to go upon. Your
manner was very good, if I may say so, Mr. Cade. You never overdid the
carelessness.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Anthony. “I’ve a feeling that ever since I met you
you’ve been laying little traps for me. On the whole I’ve managed to avoid
falling into them, but the strain has been acute.”
Battle smiled grimly.
“That’s how you get a crook in the end, sir. Keep him on the run, to and fro,
turning and twisting. Sooner or later, his nerve goes, and you’ve got him.”
“You’re a cheerful fellow, Battle. When will you get me, I wonder?”
“Plenty of rope, sir,” quoted the superintendent, “plenty of rope.”
“In the meantime,” said Anthony, “I am still the amateur assistant?”
“That’s it, Mr. Cade.”
“Watson to your Sherlock, in fact?”
“Detective stories are mostly bunkum,” said Battle unemotionally. “But
they amuse people,” he added, as an afterthought. “And they’re useful
sometimes.”
“In what way?” asked Anthony curiously.
“They encourage the universal idea that the police are stupid. When we get
an amateur crime, such as a murder, that’s very useful indeed.”

Anthony looked at him for some minutes in silence. Battle sat quite still,
blinking now and then, with no expression whatsoever on his square placid
face. Presently he rose.
“Not much good going to bed now,” he observed. “As soon as he’s up, I
want to have a few words with his lordship. Anyone who wants to leave the
house can do so now. At the same time I should be much obliged to his
lordship if he’ll extend an informal invitation to his guests to stay on. You’ll
accept it, sir, if you please, and Mrs. Revel also.”
“Have you ever found the revolver?” asked Anthony suddenly.
“You mean the one Prince Michael was shot with? No, I haven’t. Yet it must
be in the house or grounds. I’ll take a hint from you, Mr. Cade, and send
some boys up bird’s-nesting. If I could get hold of the revolver, we might
get forward a bit. That, and the bundle of letters. You say that a letter with
the heading, Chimneys, was amongst them? Depend upon it that was the
last one written. The instructions for finding the diamond are written in
code in that letter.”
“What’s your theory of the killing of Giuseppe?” asked Anthony.
“I should say he was a regular thief, and that he was got hold of, either by
King Victor or by the Comrades of the Red Hand, and employed by them. I
shouldn’t wonder at all if the Comrades and King Victor aren’t working
together. The organization has plenty of money and power, but it isn’t very
strong in brains. Giuseppe’s task was to steal the Memoirs—they couldn’t
have known that you had the letters—it’s a very odd coincidence that you
should have, by the way.”
“I know,” said Anthony. “It’s amazing when you come to think of it.”
“Giuseppe gets hold of the letters instead. Is at first vastly chagrined. Then
sees the cutting from the paper and has the brilliant idea of turning them to
account on his own by blackmailing the lady. He has, of course, no idea of
their real significance. The Comrades find out what he is doing, believe that
he is deliberately double crossing them, and decree his death. They’re very
fond of executing traitors. It has a picturesque element which seems to
appeal to them. What I can’t quite make out is the revolver with ‘Virginia’
engraved upon it. There’s too much finesse about that for the Comrades. As
a rule, they enjoy plastering their Red Hand sign about—in order to strike

terror into other would-be traitors. No, it looks to me as though King Victor
had stepped in there. But what his motive was, I don’t know. It looks like a
very deliberate attempt to saddle Mrs. Revel with the murder, and, on the
surface, there doesn’t seem any particular point in that.”
“I had a theory,” said Anthony. “But it didn’t work out according to plan.”
He told Battle of Virginia’s recognition of Michael. Battle nodded his head.
“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very
high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.”
“That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full
warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing Memoirs
before Wednesday next.”
“You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle.
“Y—es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.”
Battle nodded.
“Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece
of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and
they know where to look.”
Both men were on the point of passing out of the room.
“In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back.
“Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to
run a pretty risk trying to get it.”
“I suppose,” said Anthony, “that you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of
yours?”
Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent.
Then, very slowly, he winked.
“Want my help?” asked Anthony.
“I do. And I shall want some one else’s.”
“Who is that?”
“Mrs. Revel’s. You may not have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who
has a particularly beguiling way with her.”

“I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony.
He glanced at his watch.
“I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a
hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded
his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing-gown and a bath towel.
Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing-table, staring at the
object that reposed demurely in front of the looking-glass.
For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it
closely. Yes, there was no mistake.
It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one
was missing.
Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.
“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of
what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a
damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing-table? Why?”
And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.

21
Mr. Isaacstein’s Suit-case
At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were
breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful.
“Father,” she said at last.
Lord Caterham, absorbed in The Times, did not reply.
“Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply.
Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare
books, looked up absent-mindedly.
“Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?”
“Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?”
She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were
all expectant.
“Oh, what’s-his-name.”
“Fat Iky?”
Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend
each other’s somewhat misleading observations.
“That’s it.”
“Did I see you talking to the detective this morning before breakfast?”
Lord Caterham sighed.
“Yes, he buttonholed me in the hall. I do think the hours before breakfast
should be sacred. I shall have to go abroad. The strain on my nerves——”
Bundle interrupted unceremoniously.
“What did he say?”
“Said every one who wanted to could clear out.”

“Well,” said Bundle, “that’s all right. That’s what you’ve been wanting.”
“I know. But he didn’t leave it at that. He went on to say that nevertheless
he wanted me to ask every one to stay on.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bundle, wrinkling her nose.
“So confusing and contradictory,” complained Lord Caterham. “And before
breakfast too.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I agreed, of course. It’s never any good arguing with these people.
Especially before breakfast,” continued Lord Caterham, reverting to his
principal grievance.
“Who have you asked so far?”
“Cade. He was up very early this morning. He’s going to stop on. I don’t
mind that. I can’t quite make the fellow out; but I like him—I like him very
much.”
“So does Virginia,” said Bundle, drawing a pattern on the table with her
fork.
“Eh?”
“And so do I. But that doesn’t seem to matter.”
“And I asked Isaacstein,” continued Lord Caterham.
“Well?”
“But fortunately he’s got to go back to town. Don’t forget to order the car
for the 10.40, by the way.”
“All right.”
“Now if I can only get rid of Fish too,” continued Lord Caterham, his spirits
rising.
“I thought you liked talking to him about your mouldy old books.”
“So I do, so I do. So I did, rather. But it gets monotonous when one finds
that one is always doing all the talking. Fish is very interested, but he never
volunteers any statements of his own.”

“It’s better than doing all the listening,” said Bundle. “Like one does with
George Lomax.”
Lord Caterham shuddered at the remembrance.
“George is all very well on platforms,” said Bundle. “I’ve clapped him
myself, though of course I know all the time that he’s talking balderdash.
And anyway I’m a Socialist——”
“I know, my dear, I know,” said Lord Caterham hastily.
“It’s all right,” said Bundle. “I’m not going to bring politics into the house.
That’s what George does—public speaking in private life. It ought to be
abolished by Act of Parliament.”
“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham.
“What about Virginia?” asked Bundle. “Is she to be asked to stop on?”
“Battle said everybody.”
“Says he firmly! Have you asked her to be my stepma yet?”
“I don’t think it would be any good,” said Lord Caterham mournfully.
“Although she did call me a darling last night. But that’s the worst of these
attractive young women with affectionate dispositions. They’ll say
anything, and they mean absolutely nothing by it.”
“No,” agreed Bundle. “It would have been much more hopeful if she’d
thrown a boot at you or tried to bite you.”
“You modern young people seem to have such unpleasant ideas about love-
making,” said Lord Caterham plaintively.
“It comes from reading The Sheik,” said Bundle. “Desert love. Throw her
about, etc.”
“What is The Sheik?” asked Lord Caterham simply. “Is it a poem?”
Bundle looked at him with commiserating pity. Then she rose and kissed
the top of his head.
“Dear old Daddy,” she remarked, and sprang lightly out of the window.
Lord Caterham went back to the Sale Rooms.

He jumped when addressed suddenly by Mr. Hiram Fish, who had made his
usual noiseless entry.
“Good morning, Lord Caterham.”
“Oh, good morning,” said Lord Caterham. “Good morning. Nice day.”
“The weather is delightful,” said Mr. Fish.
He helped himself to coffee. By way of food, he took a piece of dry toast.
“Do I hear correctly that the embargo is removed?” he asked after a minute
or two. “That we are all free to depart?”
“Yes—er—yes,” said Lord Caterham. “As a matter of fact, I hoped, I mean
that I shall be delighted”—his conscience drove him on—“only too
delighted if you will stay on for a little.”
“Why, Lord Caterham——”
“It’s been a beastly visit, I know,” Lord Caterham hurried on. “Too bad.
Shan’t blame you for wanting to run away.”
“You misjudge me, Lord Caterham. The associations have been painful, no
one could deny that point. But the English country life, as lived in the
mansions of the great, has a powerful attraction for me. I am interested in
the study of those conditions. It is a thing we lack completely in America. I
shall be only too delighted to accept your vurry kind invitation and stay
on.”
“Oh, well,” said Lord Caterham, “that’s that. Absolutely delighted, my dear
fellow, absolutely delighted.”
Spurring himself on to a false geniality of manner, Lord Caterham
murmured something about having to see his bailiff and escaped from the
room.
In the hall, he saw Virginia just descending the staircase.
“Shall I take you into breakfast?” asked Lord Caterham tenderly.
“I’ve had it in bed, thank you. I was frightfully sleepy this morning.”
She yawned.
“Had a bad night, perhaps?”

“Not exactly a bad night. From one point of view decidedly a good night.
Oh, Lord Caterham”—she slipped her hand inside his arm and gave it a
squeeze—“I am enjoying myself. You were a darling to ask me down.”
“You’ll stop on for a bit, then, won’t you? Battle is lifting the—the
embargo, but I want you to stay particularly. So does Bundle.”
“Of course I’ll stay. It’s sweet of you to ask me.”
“Ah!” said Lord Caterham.
He sighed.
“What is your secret sorrow?” asked Virginia. “Has anyone bitten you?”
“That’s just it,” said Lord Caterham mournfully.
Virginia looked puzzled.
“You don’t feel, by any chance, that you want to throw a boot at me? No, I
can see you don’t. Oh, well, it’s of no consequence.”
Lord Caterham drifted sadly away, and Virginia passed out through a side
door into the garden.
She stood there for a moment, breathing in the crisp October air which was
infinitely refreshing to one in her slightly jaded state.
She started a little to find Superintendent Battle at her elbow. The man
seemed to have an extraordinary knack of appearing out of space without
the least warning.
“Good morning, Mrs. Revel. Not too tired, I hope?”
Virginia shook her head.
“It was a most exciting night,” she said. “Well worth the loss of a little
sleep. The only thing is, to-day seems a little dull after it.”
“There’s a nice shady place down under that cedar tree,” remarked the
superintendent. “Shall I take a chair down to it for you?”
“If you think it’s the best thing for me to do,” said Virginia solemnly.
“You’re very quick, Mrs. Revel. Yes, it’s quite true, I do want a word with
you.”

He picked up a long wicker chair and carried it down the lawn. Virginia
followed him with a cushion under her arm.
“Very dangerous place, that terrace,” remarked the detective. “That is, if
you want to have a private conversation.”
“I’m getting excited again, Superintendent Battle.”
“Oh, it’s nothing important.” He took out a big watch and glanced at it.
“Half-past ten. I’m starting for Wyvvern Abbey in ten minutes to report to
Mr. Lomax. Plenty of time. I only wanted to know if you could tell me a
little more about Mr. Cade.”
“About Mr. Cade?”
Virginia was startled.
“Yes, where you first met him, and how long you’ve known him and so
forth.”
Battle’s manner was easy and pleasant enough. He even refrained from
looking at her, and the fact that he did so made her vaguely uneasy.
“It’s more difficult than you think,” she said at last. “He did me a great
service once——”
Battle interrupted her.
“Before you go any further, Mrs. Revel, I’d just like to say something. Last
night, after you and Mr. Eversleigh had gone to bed, Mr. Cade told me all
about the letters and the man who was killed in your house.”
“He did?” gasped Virginia.
“Yes, and very wisely too. It clears up a lot of misunderstanding. There’s
only one thing he didn’t tell me—how long he had known you. Now I’ve a
little idea of my own about that. You shall tell me if I’m right or wrong. I
think that the day he came to your house in Pont Street was the first time
you had ever seen him. Ah! I see I’m right. It was so.”
Virginia said nothing. For the first time she felt afraid of this stolid man
with the expressionless face. She understood what Anthony had meant
when he said there were no flies on Superintendent Battle.

“Has he ever told you anything about his life?” the detective continued.
“Before he was in South Africa, I mean. Canada? Or before that, the Sudan?
Or about his boyhood?”
Virginia merely shook her head.
“And yet I’d bet he’s got something worth telling. You can’t mistake the
face of a man who’s led a life of daring and adventure. He could tell you
some interesting tales if he cared to.”
“If you want to know about his past life, why don’t you cable to that friend
of his, Mr. McGrath?” Virginia asked.
“Oh, we have. But it seems he’s up country somewhere. Still, there’s no
doubt Mr. Cade was in Bulawayo when he said he was. But I wondered
what he’d been doing before he came to South Africa. He’d only had that
job with Castle’s about a month.” He took out his watch again. “I must be
off. The car will be waiting.”
Virginia watched him retreat to the house. But she did not move from her
chair. She hoped that Anthony might appear and join her. Instead came Bill
Eversleigh, with a prodigious yawn.
“Thank God, I’ve got a chance to speak to you at last, Virginia,” he
complained.
“Well, speak to me very gently, Bill darling, or I shall burst into tears.”
“Has some one been bullying you?”
“Not exactly bullying me. Getting inside my mind and turning it inside out.
I feel as though I’d been jumped on by an elephant.”
“Not Battle?”
“Yes, Battle. He’s a terrible man really.”
“Well, never mind Battle. I say, Virginia, I do love you so awfully——”
“Not this morning, Bill. I’m not strong enough. Anyway, I’ve always told
you the best people don’t propose before lunch.”
“Good Lord,” said Bill. “I could propose to you before breakfast.”
Virginia shuddered.

“Bill, be sensible and intelligent for a minute. I want to ask your advice.”
“If you’d once make up your mind to it, and say you’d marry me, you’d feel
miles better, I’m sure. Happier, you know, and more settled down.”
“Listen to me, Bill. Proposing to me is your idée fixe. All men propose
when they’re bored and can’t think of anything to say. Remember my age
and my widowed state, and go and make love to a pure young girl.”
“My darling Virginia—Oh, blast! here’s that French idiot bearing down on
us.”
It was indeed M. Lemoine, black-bearded and correct of demeanour as ever.
“Good morning, madame. You are not fatigued, I trust?”
“Not in the least.”
“That is excellent. Good morning, Mr. Eversleigh.”
“How would it be if we promenaded ourselves a little, the three of us?”
suggested the Frenchman.
“How about it, Bill?” said Virginia.
“Oh, all right,” said the unwilling young gentleman by her side.
He heaved himself up from the grass, and the three of them walked slowly
along. Virginia between the two men. She was sensible at once of a strange
undercurrent of excitement in the Frenchman, though she had no clue as to
what caused it.
Soon, with her usual skill, she was putting him at his ease, asking him
questions, listening to his answers, and gradually drawing him out.
Presently he was telling them anecdotes of the famous King Victor. He
talked well, albeit with a certain bitterness, as he described the various ways
in which the detective bureau had been outwitted.
But all the time, despite the real absorption of Lemoine in his own
narrative, Virginia had a feeling that he had some other object in view.
Moreover, she judged that Lemoine, under cover of his story, was
deliberately striking out his own course across the park. They were not just
strolling idly. He was deliberately guiding them in a certain direction.

Suddenly, he broke off his story and looked round. They were standing just
where the drive intersected the park before turning an abrupt corner by a
clump of trees. Lemoine was staring at a vehicle approaching them from the
direction of the house.
Virginia’s eyes followed his.
“It’s the luggage cart,” she said, “taking Isaacstein’s luggage and his valet
to the station.”
“Is that so?” said Lemoine. He glanced down at his own watch and started.
“A thousand pardons. I have been longer here than I meant—such charming
company. Is it possible, do you think, that I might have a lift to the village?”
He stepped out on to the drive, and signalled with his arm. The luggage cart
stopped, and after a word or two of explanation Lemoine climbed in behind.
He raised his hat politely to Virginia, and drove off.
The other two stood and watched the cart disappearing with puzzled
expressions. Just as the cart swung round the bend, a suit-case fell off into
the drive. The cart went on.
“Come on,” said Virginia to Bill. “We’re going to see something interesting.
That suit-case was thrown out.”
“Nobody’s noticed it,” said Bill.
They ran down the drive towards the fallen piece of luggage. Just as they
reached it, Lemoine came round the corner of the bend on foot. He was hot
from walking fast.
“I was obliged to descend,” he said pleasantly. “I found that I had left
something behind.”
“This?” said Bill, indicating the suit-case.
It was a handsome case of heavy pigskin, with the initials H. I. on it.
“What a pity!” said Lemoine gently. “It must have fallen out. Shall we lift it
from the road?”
Without waiting for a reply, he picked up the suit-case, and carried it over to
the belt of trees. He stooped over it, something flashed in his hand, and the
lock slipped back.

He spoke, and his voice was totally different, quick and commanding.
“The car will be here in a minute,” he said. “Is it in sight?”
Virginia looked back towards the house.
“No.”
“Good.”
With deft fingers he tossed the things out of the suit-case. Gold-topped
bottle, silk pyjamas, a variety of socks. Suddenly his whole figure stiffened.
He caught up what appeared to be a bundle of silk underwear, and unrolled
it rapidly.
A slight exclamation broke from Bill. In the centre of the bundle was a
heavy revolver.
“I hear the horn,” said Virginia.
Like lightning, Lemoine repacked the suit-case. The revolver he wrapped in
a silk handkerchief of his own, and slipped into his pocket. He snapped the
locks of the suit-case, and turned quickly to Bill.
“Take it. Madame will be with you. Stop the car, and explain that it fell off
the luggage cart. Do not mention me.”
Bill stepped quickly down to the drive just as the big Lanchester limousine
with Isaacstein inside it came round the corner. The chauffeur slowed down,
and Bill swung the suit-case up to him.
“Fell off the luggage cart,” he explained. “We happened to see it.”
He caught a momentary glimpse of a startled yellow face as the financier
stared at him, and then the car swept on again.
They went back to Lemoine. He was standing with the revolver in his hand,
and a look of gloating satisfaction in his face.
“A long shot,” he said. “A very long shot. But it came off.”

22
The Red Signal
Superintendent Battle was standing in the library at Wyvvern Abbey.
George Lomax, seated before a desk overflowing with papers, was
frowning portentously.
Superintendent Battle had opened proceedings by making a brief and
business-like report. Since then, the conversation had lain almost entirely
with George, and Battle had contented himself with making brief and
usually monosyllabic replies to the other’s questions.
On the desk, in front of George, was the packet of letters Anthony had
found on his dressing-table.
“I can’t understand it at all,” said George irritably, as he picked up the
packet. “They’re in code, you say?”
“Just so, Mr. Lomax.”
“And where does he say he found them—on his dressing-table?”
Battle repeated, word for word, Anthony Cade’s account of how he had
come to regain possession of the letters.
“And he brought them at once to you? That was quite proper—quite proper.
But who could have placed them in his room?”
Battle shook his head.
“That’s the sort of thing you ought to know,” complained George. “It
sounds to me very fishy—very fishy indeed. What do we know about this
man Cade anyway? He appears in a most mysterious manner—under highly
suspicious circumstances—and we know nothing whatever about him. I
may say that I, personally, don’t care for his manner at all. You’ve made
inquiries about him, I suppose?”
Superintendent Battle permitted himself a patient smile.

“We wired at once to South Africa, and his story has been confirmed on all
points. He was in Bulawayo with Mr. McGrath at the time he stated.
Previous to their meeting, he was employed by Messrs. Castle, the Tourist
Agents.”
“Just what I should have expected,” said George. “He has the kind of cheap
assurance that succeeds in a certain type of employment. But about these
letters—steps must be taken at once—at once——”
The great man puffed himself out and swelled importantly.
Superintendent Battle opened his mouth, but George forestalled him.
“There must be no delay. These letters must be decoded without any loss of
time. Let me see, who is the man? There is a man—connected with the
British Museum. Knows all there is to know about ciphers. Ran the
department for us during the War. Where is Miss Oscar? She will know.
Name something like Win—Win——”
“Professor Wynward,” said Battle.
“Exactly. I remember perfectly now. He must be wired to, immediately.”
“I have done so, Mr. Lomax, an hour ago. He will arrive by the 12.10.”
“Oh, very good, very good. Thank Heaven, something is off my mind. I
shall have to be in town to-day. You can get along without me, I suppose?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Well, do your best, Battle, do your best. I am terribly rushed just at
present.”
“Just so, sir.”
“By the way, why did not Mr. Eversleigh come over with you?”
“He was still asleep, sir. We’ve been up all night, as I told you.”
“Oh, quite so. I am frequently up nearly the whole night myself. To do the
work of thirty-six hours in twenty-four, that is my constant task! Send Mr.
Eversleigh over at once when you get back, will you, Battle?”
“I will give him your message, sir.”

“Thank you, Battle. I realize perfectly that you had to repose a certain
amount of confidence in him. But do you think it was strictly necessary to
take my cousin, Mrs. Revel, into your confidence also?”
“In view of the name signed to those letters, I do, Mr. Lomax.”
“An amazing piece of effrontery,” murmured George, his brow darkened as
he looked at the bundle of letters. “I remember the late King of
Herzoslovakia. A charming fellow, but weak—deplorably weak. A tool in
the hands of an unscrupulous woman. Have you any theory as to how these
letters came to be restored to Mr. Cade?”
“It’s my opinion,” said Battle, “that if people can’t get a thing one way—
they try another.”
“I don’t quite follow you,” said George.
“This crook, this King Victor, he’s well aware by now that the Council
Chamber is watched. So he’ll let us have the letters, and let us do the
decoding, and let us find the hiding-place. And then—trouble! But Lemoine
and I between us will attend to that.”
“You’ve got a plan, eh?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’ve got a plan. But I’ve got an idea. It’s a
very useful thing sometimes, an idea.”
Thereupon Superintendent Battle took his departure.
He had no intention of taking George any further into his confidence.
On the way back, he passed Anthony on the road and stopped.
“Going to give me a lift back to the house?” asked Anthony. “That’s good.”
“Where have you been, Mr. Cade?”
“Down to the station to inquire about trains.”
Battle raised his eyebrows.
“Thinking of leaving us again?” he inquired.
“Not just at present,” laughed Anthony. “By the way what’s upset
Isaacstein? He arrived in the car just as I left, and he looked as though
something had given him a nasty jolt.”

“Mr. Isaacstein?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t say, I’m sure. I fancy it would take a good deal to jolt him.”
“So do I,” agreed Anthony. “He’s quite one of the strong silent yellow men
of finance.”
Suddenly Battle leant forward and touched the chauffeur on the shoulder.
“Stop, will you? And wait for me here.”
He jumped out of the car, much to Anthony’s surprise. But in a minute or
two, the latter perceived M. Lemoine advancing to meet the English
detective, and gathered that it was a signal from him which had attracted
Battle’s attention.
There was a rapid colloquy between them, and then the superintendent
returned to the car and jumped in again, biding the chauffeur drive on.
His expression had completely changed.
“They’ve found the revolver,” he said suddenly and curtly.
“What?”
Anthony gazed at him in great surprise.
“Where?”
“In Isaacstein’s suit-case.”
“Oh, impossible!”
“Nothing’s impossible,” said Battle. “I ought to have remembered that.”
He sat perfectly still, tapping his knee with his hand.
“Who found it?”
Battle jerked his head over his shoulder.
“Lemoine. Clever chap. They think no end of him at the Sûreté.”
“But doesn’t this upset all your ideas?”
“No,” said Superintendent Battle very slowly. “I can’t say it does. It was a
bit of a surprise, I admit, at first. But it fits in very well with one idea of

mine.”
“Which is?”
But the superintendent branched off on to a totally different subject.
“I wonder if you’d mind finding Mr. Eversleigh for me, sir? There’s a
message for him from Mr. Lomax. He’s to go over to the Abbey at once.”
“All right,” said Anthony. The car had just drawn up at the great door. “He’s
probably in bed still.”
“I think not,” said the detective. “If you’ll look, you’ll see him walking
under the trees with Mrs. Revel.”
“Wonderful eyes you have, haven’t you, Battle?” said Anthony as he
departed on his errand.
He delivered the message to Bill, who was duly disgusted.
“Damn it all,” grumbled Bill to himself, as he strode off to the house, “why
can’t Codders sometimes leave me alone? And why can’t these blasted
Colonials stay in their Colonies? What do they want to come over here for,
and pick out all the best girls? I’m fed to the teeth with everything.”
“Have you heard about the revolver?” asked Virginia breathlessly, as Bill
left them.
“Battle told me. Rather staggering, isn’t it? Isaacstein was in a frightful
state yesterday to get away, but I thought it was just nerves. He’s about the
one person I’d have pitched upon as being above suspicion. Can you see
any motive for his wanting Prince Michael out of the way?”
“It certainly doesn’t fit in,” agreed Virginia thoughtfully.
“Nothing fits in anywhere,” said Anthony discontentedly. “I rather fancied
myself as an amateur detective to begin with, and so far all I’ve done is to
clear the character of the French governess at vast trouble and some little
expense.”
“Is that what you went to France for?” inquired Virginia.
“Yes, I went to Dinard and had an interview with the Comtesse de Breteuil,
awfully pleased with my own cleverness, and fully expecting to be told that
no such person as Mademoiselle Brun had ever been heard of. Instead of

which I was given to understand that the lady in question had been the
mainstay of the household for the last seven years. So, unless the Comtesse
is also a crook, that ingenious theory of mine falls to the ground.”
Virginia shook her head.
“Madame de Breteuil is quite above suspicion. I know her quite well, and I
fancy I must have come across Mademoiselle at the chateau. I certainly
know her face quite well—in that vague way one does know governesses
and companions and people one sits opposite to in trains. It’s awful, but I
never really look at them properly. Do you?”
“Only if they’re exceptionally beautiful,” admitted Anthony.
“Well, in this case——” she broke off. “What’s the matter?”
Anthony was staring at a figure which detached itself from the clump of
trees and stood there rigidly at attention. It was the Herzoslovakian, Boris.
“Excuse me,” said Anthony to Virginia, “I must just speak to my dog a
minute.”
He went across to where Boris was standing.
“What’s the matter? What do you want?”
“Master,” said Boris, bowing.
“Yes, that’s all very well, but you mustn’t keep following me about like
this. It looks odd.”
Without a word, Boris produced a soiled scrap of paper, evidently torn from
a letter, and handed it to Anthony.
“What’s this?” said Anthony.
There was an address scrawled on the paper, nothing else.
“He dropped it,” said Boris. “I bring it to the Master.”
“Who dropped it?”
“The foreign gentleman.”
“But why bring it to me?”
Boris looked at him reproachfully.

“Well, anyway, go away now,” said Anthony. “I’m busy.”
Boris saluted, turned sharply on his heel, and marched away. Anthony
rejoined Virginia, thrusting the piece of paper into his pocket.
“What did he want?” she asked curiously. “And why do you call him your
dog?”
“Because he acts like one,” said Anthony, answering the last question first.
“He must have been a retriever in his last incarnation, I think. He’s just
brought me a piece of a letter which he says the foreign gentleman dropped.
I suppose he means Lemoine.”
“I suppose so,” acquiesced Virginia.
“He’s always following me round,” continued Anthony. “Just like a dog.
Says next to nothing. Just looks at me with his big round eyes. I can’t make
him out.”
“Perhaps he meant Isaacstein,” suggested Virginia. “Isaacstein looks foreign
enough, Heaven knows.”
“Isaacstein,” muttered Anthony impatiently. “Where the devil does he come
in?”
“Are you ever sorry that you’ve mixed yourself up in all this?” asked
Virginia suddenly.
“Sorry? Good Lord, no. I love it. I’ve spent most of my life looking for
trouble, you know. Perhaps, this time, I’ve got a little more than I bargained
for.”
“But you’re well out of the wood now,” said Virginia, a little surprised by
the unusual gravity of his tone.
“Not quite.”
They strolled on for a minute or two in silence.
“There are some people,” said Anthony, breaking the silence, “who don’t
conform to the signals. An ordinary well-regulated locomotive slows down
or pulls up when it sees the red light hoisted against it. Perhaps I was born
colour blind. When I see the red signal—I can’t help forging ahead. And in

the end, you know, that spells disaster. Bound to. And quite right really.
That sort of thing is bad for traffic generally.”
He still spoke very seriously.
“I suppose,” said Virginia, “that you have taken a good many risks in your
life?”
“Pretty nearly every one there is—except marriage.”
“That’s rather cynical.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. Marriage, the kind of marriage I mean, would be the
biggest adventure of the lot.”
“I like that,” said Virginia, flushing eagerly.
“There’s only one kind of woman I’d want to marry—the kind who is
worlds removed from my type of life. What would we do about it? Is she to
lead my life, or am I to lead hers?”
“If she loved you——”
“Sentimentality, Mrs. Revel. You know it is. Love isn’t a drug that you take
to blind you to your surroundings—you can make it that, yes, but it’s a pity
—love can be a lot more than that. What do you think the King and his
beggar maid thought of married life after they’d been married a year or
two? Didn’t she regret her rags and her bare feet and her care-free life? You
bet she did. Would it have been any good renouncing his Crown for her
sake? Not a bit of good, either. He’d have made a damned bad beggar, I’m
sure. And no woman respects a man when he’s doing a thing thoroughly
badly.”
“Have you fallen in love with a beggar maid, Mr. Cade?” inquired Virginia
softly.
“It’s the other way about with me, but the principle’s the same.”
“And there’s no way out?” asked Virginia.
“There’s always a way out,” said Anthony gloomily. “I’ve a theory that one
can always get anything one wants if one will pay the price. And do you
know what the price is, nine times out of ten? Compromise. A beastly thing,
compromise, but it steals upon you as you near middle age. It’s stealing

upon me now. To get the woman I want I’d—I’d even take up regular
work.”
Virginia laughed.
“I was brought up to a trade, you know,” continued Anthony.
“And you abandoned it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“A matter of principle.”
“Oh!”
“You’re a very unusual woman,” said Anthony suddenly, turning and
looking at her.
“Why?”
“You can refrain from asking questions.”
“You mean that I haven’t asked you what your trade was?”
“Just that.”
Again they walked on in silence. They were nearing the house now, passing
close by the scented sweetness of the rose garden.
“You understand well enough, I dare say,” said Anthony, breaking the
silence. “You know when a man’s in love with you. I don’t suppose you
care a hang for me—or for anyone else—but, by God, I’d like to make you
care.”
“Do you think you could?” asked Virginia, in a low voice.
“Probably not, but I’d have a damned good try.”
“Are you sorry you ever met me?” she said suddenly.
“Lord no. It’s the red signal again. When I first saw you—that day in Pont
Street, I knew I was up against something that was going to hurt like fun.
Your face did that to me—just your face. There’s magic in you from head to
foot—some women are like that, but I’ve never known a woman who had
so much of it as you have. You’ll marry some one respectable and

prosperous, I suppose, and I shall return to my disreputable life, but I’ll kiss
you once before I go—I swear I will.”
“You can’t do it now,” said Virginia softly. “Superintendent Battle is
watching us out of the library window.”
Anthony looked at her.
“You’re rather a devil, Virginia,” he said dispassionately. “But rather a dear
too.”
Then he waved his hand airily to Superintendent Battle.
“Caught any criminals this morning, Battle?”
“Not as yet, Mr. Cade.”
“That sounds hopeful.”
Battle, with an agility surprising in so stolid a man, vaulted out of the
library window and joined them on the terrace.
“I’ve got Professor Wynward down here,” he announced in a whisper. “Just
this minute arrived. He’s decoding the letters now. Would you like to see
him at work?”
His tone suggested that of the showman speaking of some pet exhibit.
Receiving a reply in the affirmative, he led them up to the window and
invited them to peep inside.
Seated at a table, the letters spread out in front of him and writing busily on
a big sheet of paper was a small red-haired man of middle age. He grunted
irritably to himself as he wrote, and every now and then rubbed his nose
violently until its hue almost rivalled that of his hair.
Presently he looked up.
“That you, Battle? What you want me down here to unravel this tomfoolery
for? A child in arms could do it. A baby of two could do it on its head. Call
this thing a cipher? It leaps to the eye, man.”
“I’m glad of that, Professor,” said Battle mildly. “But we’re not all so clever
as you are, you know.”

“It doesn’t need cleverness,” snapped the Professor. “It’s routine work. Do
you want the whole bundle done? It’s a long business, you know—requires
diligent application and close attention, and absolutely no intelligence. I’ve
done the one dated ‘Chimneys’ which you said was important. I might as
well take the rest back to London and hand ’em over to one of my
assistants. I really can’t afford the time myself. I’ve come away now from a
real teaser, and I want to get back to it.”
His eyes glistened a little.
“Very well, Professor,” assented Battle. “I’m sorry we’re such small fry. I’ll
explain to Mr. Lomax. It’s just this one letter that all the hurry is about.
Lord Caterham is expecting you to stay for lunch, I believe.”
“Never have lunch,” said the Professor. “Bad habit, lunch. A banana and a
water biscuit is all any sane and healthy man should need in the middle of
the day.”
He seized his overcoat, which lay across the back of a chair. Battle went
round to the front of the house, and a few minutes later Anthony and
Virginia heard the sound of a car driving away.
Battle rejoined them, carrying in his hand the half-sheet of paper which the
Professor had given him.
“He’s always like that,” said Battle, referring to the departed Professor. “In
the very deuce of a hurry. Clever man, though. Well, here’s the kernel of
Her Majesty’s letter. Care to have a look at it?”
Virginia stretched out a hand, and Anthony read it over her shoulder. It had
been, he remembered, a long epistle, breathing mingled passion and despair.
The genius of Professor Wynward had transformed it into an essentially
business-like communication.
Operations carried out successfully, but S. double crossed us. Has removed
stone from hiding-place. Not in his room. I have searched. Found following
memorandum which I think refers to it: “Richmond Seven Straight Eight
Left Three Right.”
“S.?” said Anthony. “Stylptitch, of course. Cunning old dog. He changed
the hiding-place.”

“Richmond,” said Virginia thoughtfully. “Is the diamond concealed
somewhere at Richmond, I wonder?”
“It’s a favourite spot for Royalties,” agreed Anthony.
Battle shook his head.
“I still think it’s a reference to something in this house.”
“I know,” cried Virginia suddenly.
Both men turned to look at her.
“The Holbein portrait in the Council Chamber. They were tapping on the
wall just below it. And it’s a portrait of the Earl of Richmond!”
“You’ve got it,” said Battle, and slapped his leg.
He spoke with an animation quite unwonted.
“That’s the starting-point, the picture, and the crooks know no more than
we do what the figures refer to. Those two men in armour stand directly
underneath the picture, and their first idea was that the diamond was hidden
in one of them. The measurements might have been inches. That failed, and
their next idea was a secret passage or stairway, or a sliding panel. Do you
know of any such thing, Mrs. Revel?”
Virginia shook her head.
“There’s a Priest’s Hole, and at least one secret passage, I know,” she said.
“I believe I’ve been shown them once, but I can’t remember much about
them now. Here’s Bundle, she’ll know.”
Bundle was coming quickly along the terrace towards them.
“I’m taking the Panhard up to town after lunch,” she remarked. “Anyone
want a lift? Wouldn’t you like to come, Mr. Cade? We’ll be back by dinner-
time.”
“No, thanks,” said Anthony. “I’m quite happy and busy down here.”
“The man fears me,” said Bundle. “Either my driving or my fatal
fascination! Which is it?”
“The latter,” said Anthony. “Every time.”

“Bundle, dear,” said Virginia, “is there any secret passage leading out of the
Council Chamber?”
“Rather. But it’s only a mouldy one. Supposed to lead from Chimneys to
Wyvvern Abbey. So it did in the old, old days, but it’s all blocked up now.
You can only get along it for about a hundred yards from this end. The one
upstairs in the White Gallery is ever so much more amusing, and the
Priest’s Hole isn’t half bad.”
“We’re not regarding them from an artistic standpoint,” explained Virginia.
“It’s business. How do you get into the Council Chamber one?”
“Hinged panel. I’ll show you after lunch if you like.”
“Thank you,” said Superintendent Battle. “Shall we say at 2.30?”
Bundle looked at him with lifted eyebrows.
“Crook stuff?” she inquired.
Tredwell appeared on the terrace.
“Luncheon is served, my lady,” he announced.

23
Encounter in the Rose Garden
At 2.30 a little party met together in the Council Chamber: Bundle,
Virginia, Superintendent Battle, M. Lemoine and Anthony Cade.
“No good waiting until we can get hold of Mr. Lomax,” said Battle. “This is
the kind of business one wants to get on with quickly.”
“If you’ve got any idea that Prince Michael was murdered by some one who
got in this way, you’re wrong,” said Bundle. “It can’t be done. The other
end’s blocked completely.”
“There is no question of that, milady,” said Lemoine quickly. “It is quite a
different search that we make.”
“Looking for something, are you?” asked Bundle quickly. “Not the historic
what-not, by any chance?”
Lemoine looked puzzled.
“Explain yourself, Bundle,” said Virginia encouragingly. “You can when
you try.”
“The thingummybob,” said Bundle. “The historic diamond of purple
princes that was pinched in the dark ages before I grew to years of
discretion.”
“Who told you this, Lady Eileen?” asked Battle.
“I’ve always known. One of the footmen told me when I was twelve years
old.”
“A footman,” said Battle. “Lord! I’d like Mr. Lomax to have heard that!”
“Is it one of George’s closely guarded secrets?” asked Bundle. “How
perfectly screaming! I never really thought it was true. George always was
an ass—he must know that servants always know everything.”
She went across to the Holbein portrait, touched a spring concealed
somewhere at the side of it, and immediately, with a creaking noise, a

section of the panelling swung inward, revealing a dark opening.
“Entrez, Messieurs et Mesdames,” said Bundle dramatically. “Walk up,
walk up, dearies. Best show of the season, and only a tanner.”
Both Lemoine and Battle were provided with torches. They entered the dark
aperture first, the others close on their heels.
“Air’s nice and fresh,” remarked Battle. “Must be ventilated somehow.”
He walked on ahead. The floor was of rough uneven stone, but the walls
were bricked. As Bundle had said, the passage extended for a bare hundred
yards. Then it came to an abrupt end with a fallen heap of masonry. Battle
satisfied himself that there was no way of egress beyond, and then spoke
over his shoulder.
“We’ll go back, if you please. I wanted just to spy out the land, so to
speak.”
In a few minutes they were back again at the panelled entrance.
“We’ll start from here,” said Battle. “Seven straight, eight left, three right.
Take the first as paces.”
He paced seven steps carefully, and bending down examined the ground.
“About right, I should fancy. At one time or another, there’s been a chalk
mark made here. Now then, eight left. That’s not paces, the passage is only
wide enough to go Indian file anyway.”
“Say it in bricks,” suggested Anthony.
“Quite right, Mr. Cade. Eight bricks from the bottom or the top on the left-
hand side. Try from the bottom first—it’s easier.”
He counted up eight bricks.
“Now three to the right of that. One, two, three—Hullo—— Hullo, what’s
this?”
“I shall scream in a minute,” said Bundle, “I know I shall. What is it?”
Superintendent Battle was working at the brick with the point of his knife.
His practised eye had quickly seen that this particular brick was different

from the rest. A minute or two’s work, and he was able to pull it right out.
Behind was a small dark cavity. Battle thrust in his hand.
Every one waited in breathless expectancy.
Battle drew out his hand again.
He uttered an exclamation of surprise and anger.
The others crowded round and stared uncomprehendingly at the three
articles he held. For a moment it seemed as though their eyes must have
deceived them.
A card of small pearl buttons, a square of coarse knitting and a piece of
paper on which were inscribed a row of capital E’s!
“Well,” said Battle. “I’m—I’m danged! What’s the meaning of this?”
“Mon Dieu,” muttered the Frenchman. “Ça, c’est un peu trop fort!”
“But what does it mean?” cried Virginia, bewildered.
“Mean?” said Anthony. “There’s only one thing it can mean. The late Count
Stylptitch must have had a sense of humour! This is an example of that
humour. I may say that I don’t consider it particularly funny myself.”
“Do you mind explaining your meaning a little more clearly, sir?” said
Superintendent Battle.
“Certainly. This was the Count’s little joke. He must have suspected that his
memorandum had been read. When the crooks came to recover the jewel,
they were to find instead this extremely clever conundrum. It’s the sort of
thing you pin on to yourself at Book Teas, when people have to guess what
you are.”
“It has a meaning, then?”
“I should say, undoubtedly. If the Count had meant to be merely offensive,
he would have put a placard with ‘Sold’ on it, or a picture of a donkey or
something crude like that.”
“A bit of knitting, some capital E’s, and a lot of buttons,” muttered Battle
discontentedly.
“C’est inoui,” said Lemoine angrily.

“Cipher No. 2,” said Anthony. “I wonder whether Professor Wynward
would be any good at this one?”
“When was this passage last used, milady?” asked the Frenchman of
Bundle.
Bundle reflected.
“I don’t believe anyone’s been into it for over two years. The Priest’s Hole
is the show exhibit for Americans and tourists generally.”
“Curious,” murmured the Frenchman.
“Why curious?”
Lemoine stooped and picked up a small object from the floor.
“Because of this,” he said. “This match has not lain here for two years—not
even for two days.”
Battle looked at the match curiously. It was of pink wood, with a yellow
head.
“Any of you ladies or gentlemen drop this, by any chance?” he asked.
He received a negative all round.
“Well, then,” said Superintendent Battle, “we’ve seen all there is to see. We
might as well get out of here.”
The proposal was assented to by all. The panel had swung to, but Bundle
showed them how it was fastened from the inside. She unlatched it, swung
it noiselessly open, and sprang through the opening, alighting in the Council
Chamber with a resounding thud.
“Damn!” said Lord Caterham, springing up from an arm-chair in which he
appeared to have been taking forty winks.
“Poor old father,” said Bundle. “Did I startle you?”
“I can’t think,” said Lord Caterham, “why nobody nowadays ever sits still
after a meal. It’s a lost art. God knows Chimneys is big enough, but even
here there doesn’t seem to be a single room where I can be sure of a little
peace. Good Lord, how many of you are there? Reminds me of the

Pantomimes I used to go to as a boy when hordes of demons used to pop up
out of trapdoors.”
“Demon No. 7,” said Virginia, approaching him, and patting him on the
head. “Don’t be cross. We’re just exploring secret passages, that’s all.”
“There seems to be a positive boom in secret passages to-day,” grumbled
Lord Caterham, not yet completely mollified. “I’ve had to show that fellow
Fish round them all this morning.”
“When was that?” asked Battle quickly.
“Just before lunch. It seems he’d heard of the one in here. I showed him
that, and then took him up to the White Gallery, and we finished up with the
Priest’s Hole. But his enthusiasm was waning by that time. He looked bored
to death. But I made him go through with it.” Lord Caterham chuckled at
the remembrance.
Anthony put a hand on Lemoine’s arm.
“Come outside,” he said softly. “I want to speak to you.”
The two men went out together through the window. When they had gone a
sufficient distance from the house, Anthony drew from his pocket the scrap
of paper that Boris had given him that morning.
“Look here,” he said. “Did you drop this?”
Lemoine took it and examined it with some interest.
“No,” he said. “I have never seen it before. Why?”
“Quite sure?”
“Absolutely sure, Monsieur.”
“That’s very odd.”
He repeated to Lemoine what Boris had said. The other listened with close
attention.
“No, I did not drop it. You say he found it in that clump of trees?”
“Well, I assumed so, but he did not actually say so.”
“It is just possible that it might have fluttered out of M. Isaacstein’s suit-
case. Question Boris again.” He handed the paper back to Anthony. After a

minute or two he said: “What exactly do you know of this man Boris?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“I understood he was the late Prince Michael’s trusted servant.”
“It may be so, but make it your business to find out. Ask some one who
knows, such as the Baron Lolopretjzyl. Perhaps this man was engaged but a
few weeks ago. For myself, I have believed him honest. But who knows?
King Victor is quite capable of making himself into a trusted servant at a
moment’s notice.”
“Do you really think——”
Lemoine interrupted him.
“I will be quite frank. With me, King Victor is an obsession. I see him
everywhere. At this moment even I ask myself—this man who is talking to
me, this M. Cade, is he, perhaps, King Victor?”
“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”
“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of
Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard
whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one purpose
only, to capture King Victor and to capture him red-handed. Nothing else
matters.”
“Think you’ll do it?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.
“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the
French window in a wooden attitude.
“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He
paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M.
Lemoine.”
“In what ways, M. Cade?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note
down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite

conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”
Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight
smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white
shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”
“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”
He joined Superintendent Battle.
“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.
“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”
“Yes, I expect you have.”
“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”
“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst
comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty
footprints to fall back upon, remember.”
But the superintendent did not smile.
“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.
“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied Anthony
lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest vegetables.
Why?”
“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or
rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”
“About me?”
Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from his
pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting
were the words:
“Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.”
Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.
“That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a King in disguise, you know.”
He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as he
entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed. It

grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared moodily
at the floor.
“Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must be
done about it. It’s all damned awkward....”
He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a moment
or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became suddenly
focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened.
“Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.”
He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He
approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate at
either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial which
was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden.
Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another occupant
of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him.
“I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said Anthony
gently.
“Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.”
They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their
opponents’ strength.
“So am I,” said Anthony.
“Is that so?”
“In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily.
A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips and at the same time
Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax.
“Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stooping to point out a
particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be. Yes, I
am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau Carl Drusky.
They have, I believe, renamed it. Over sensitive, perhaps but truly patriotic.
The La France is always popular. Do you care for red roses at all, Mr.
Cade? A bright scarlet rose now——”

Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out of
a first-floor window.
“Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.”
“Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?”
Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared.
“Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good after
luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match, have
you?”
Mr. Fish handed him a match-box. Anthony helped himself, and handed
back the box with a word of thanks.
“Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel particularly
horticultural this afternoon.”
With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.
A thundering noise sounded from just outside the house.
“Pretty powerful engine she’s got in that car of hers,” remarked Anthony.
“There, off she goes.”
They had a view of the car speeding down the long drive.
Anthony yawned again, and strolled towards the house.
He passed in through the door. Once inside, he seemed as though changed
to quicksilver. He raced across the hall, out through one of the windows on
the farther side, and across the park. Bundle, he knew, had to make a big
détour by the lodge gates, and through the village.
He ran desperately. It was a race against time. He reached the park wall just
as he heard the car outside. He swung himself up and dropped into the road.
“Hi!” cried Anthony.
In her astonishment, Bundle swerved half across the road. She managed to
pull up without accident. Anthony ran after the car, opened the door, and
jumped in beside Bundle.
“I’m coming to London with you,” he said. “I meant to all along.”

“Extraordinary person,” said Bundle. “What’s that you’ve got in your
hand?”
“Only a match,” said Anthony.
He regarded it thoughtfully. It was pink, with a yellow head. He threw away
his unlighted cigarette, and put the match carefully into his pocket.

24
The House at Dover
“You don’t mind, I suppose,” said Bundle after a minute or two, “if I drive
rather fast? I started later than I meant to do.”
It had seemed to Anthony that they were proceeding at a terrific speed
already, but he soon saw that that was nothing compared to what Bundle
could get out of the Panhard if she tried.
“Some people,” said Bundle, as she slowed down momentarily to pass
through a village, “are terrified of my driving. Poor old father, for instance.
Nothing would induce him to come up with me in this old bus.”
Privately, Anthony thought Lord Caterham was entirely justified. Driving
with Bundle was not a sport to be indulged in by nervous, middle-aged
gentlemen.
“But you don’t seem nervous a bit,” continued Bundle approvingly, as she
swept round a corner on two wheels.
“I’m in pretty good training, you see,” explained Anthony gravely. “Also,”
he added, as an afterthought, “I’m rather in a hurry myself.”
“Shall I speed her up a bit more?” asked Bundle kindly.
“Good Lord, no,” said Anthony hastily. “We’re averaging about fifty as it
is.”
“I’m burning with curiosity to know the reason of this sudden departure,”
said Bundle, after executing a fanfare upon the Klaxon which must
temporarily have deafened the neighbourhood. “But I suppose I mustn’t
ask? You’re not escaping from justice, are you?”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Anthony. “I shall know soon.”
“That Scotland Yard man isn’t as much of a rabbit as I thought,” said
Bundle thoughtfully.
“Battle’s a good man,” agreed Anthony.

“You ought to have been in diplomacy,” remarked Bundle. “You don’t part
with much information, do you?”
“I was under the impression that I babbled.”
“Oh! Boy! You’re not eloping with Mademoiselle Brun, by any chance?”
“Not guilty!” said Anthony with fervour.
There was a pause of some minutes during which Bundle caught up and
passed three other cars. Then she asked suddenly:
“How long have you known Virginia?”
“That’s a difficult question to answer,” said Anthony, with perfect truth. “I
haven’t actually met her very often, and yet I seem to have known her a
long time.”
Bundle nodded.
“Virginia’s got brains,” she remarked abruptly. “She’s always talking
nonsense, but she’s got brains all right. She was frightfully good out in
Herzoslovakia, I believe. If Tim Revel had lived he’d have had a fine career
—and mostly owing to Virginia. She worked for him tooth and nail. She did
everything in the world she could for him—and I know why, too.”
“Because she cared for him?” Anthony sat looking very straight ahead of
him.
“No, because she didn’t. Don’t you see? She didn’t love him—she never
loved him, and so she did everything on earth she could to make up. That’s
Virginia all over. But don’t you make any mistake about it. Virginia was
never in love with Tim Revel.”
“You seem very positive,” said Anthony, turning to look at her.
Bundle’s little hands were clenched on the steering wheel, and her chin was
stuck out in a determined manner.
“I know a thing or two. I was only a kid at the time of her marriage, but I
heard one or two things, and knowing Virginia I can put them together
easily enough. Tim Revel was bowled over by Virginia—he was Irish, you
know, and most attractive, with a genius for expressing himself well.
Virginia was quite young—eighteen. She couldn’t go anywhere without

seeing Tim in a state of picturesque misery, vowing he’d shoot himself or
take to drink if she didn’t marry him. Girls believe these things—or used to
—we’ve advanced a lot in the last eight years. Virginia was carried away by
the feeling she thought she’d inspired. She married him—and she was an
angel to him always. She wouldn’t have been half as much of an angel if
she’d loved him. There’s a lot of the devil in Virginia. But I can tell you one
thing—she enjoys her freedom. And anyone will have a hard time
persuading her to give it up.”
“I wonder why you tell me all this?” said Anthony slowly.
“It’s interesting to know about people, isn’t it? Some people, that is.”
“I’ve wanted to know,” he acknowledged.
“And you’d never have heard from Virginia. But you can trust me for an
inside tip from the stables. Virginia’s a darling. Even women like her
because she isn’t a bit of a cat. And anyway,” Bundle ended, somewhat
obscurely, “one must be a sport, mustn’t one?”
“Oh, certainly,” Anthony agreed. But he was still puzzled. He had no idea
what had prompted Bundle to give him so much information unasked. That
he was glad of it, he did not deny.
“Here are the trams,” said Bundle, with a sigh. “Now, I suppose, I shall
have to drive carefully.”
“It might be as well,” agreed Anthony.
His ideas and Bundle’s on the subject of careful driving hardly coincided.
Leaving indignant suburbs behind them, they finally emerged into Oxford
Street.
“Not bad going, eh?” said Bundle, glancing at her wrist watch.
Anthony assented fervently.
“Where do you want to be dropped?”
“Anywhere. Which way are you going?”
“Knightsbridge way.”
“All right, drop me at Hyde Park Corner.”

“Good-bye,” said Bundle, as she drew up at the place indicated. “What
about the return journey?”
“I’ll find my own way back, thanks very much.”
“I have scared him,” remarked Bundle.
“I shouldn’t recommend driving with you as a tonic for nervous old ladies,
but personally I’ve enjoyed it. The last time I was in equal danger was when
I was charged by a herd of wild elephants.”
“I think you’re extremely rude,” remarked Bundle. “We’ve not even had
one bump to-day.”
“I’m sorry if you’ve been holding yourself in on my account,” retorted
Anthony.
“I don’t think men are really very brave,” said Bundle.
“That’s a nasty one,” said Anthony. “I retire, humiliated.” Bundle nodded
and drove on. Anthony hailed a passing taxi. “Victoria Station,” he said to
the driver as he got in.
When he got to Victoria he paid off the taxi and inquired for the next train
to Dover. Unfortunately he had just missed one.
Resigning himself to a wait of something over an hour, Anthony paced up
and down, his brows knit. Once or twice he shook his head impatiently.
The journey to Dover was uneventful. Arrived there, Anthony passed
quickly out of the station, and then, as though suddenly remembering, he
turned back again. There was a slight smile on his lips as he asked to be
directed to Hurstmere, Langly Road.
The road in question was a long one, leading right out of the town.
According to the porter’s instructions, Hurstmere was the last house.
Anthony trudged along steadily. The little pucker had reappeared between
his eyes. Nevertheless there was a new elation in his manner, as always
when danger was near at hand.
Hurstmere was, as the porter had said, the last house in Langly Road. It
stood well back, enclosed in its own grounds, which were ragged and
overgrown. The place, Anthony judged, must have been empty for many

years. A large iron gate swung rustily on its hinges, and the name on the
gatepost was half obliterated.
“A lonely spot,” muttered Anthony to himself, “and a good one to choose.”
He hesitated a minute or two, glanced quickly up and down the road—
which was quite deserted—and then slipped quietly past the creaking gate
into the overgrown drive. He walked up it a little way, and then stood
listening. He was still some distance from the house. Not a sound could be
heard anywhere. Some fast yellowing leaves detached themselves from one
of the trees overhead and fell with a soft rustling sound that was almost
sinister in the stillness. Anthony started; then smiled.
“Nerves,” he murmured to himself. “Never knew I had such things before.”
He went on up the drive. Presently, as the drive curved, he slipped into the
shrubbery and so continued his way unseen from the house. Suddenly he
stood still, peering out through the leaves. Some distance away a dog was
barking, but it was a sound nearer at hand that had attracted Anthony’s
attention.
His keen hearing had not been mistaken. A man came rapidly round the
corner of the house, a short square, thickset man, foreign in appearance. He
did not pause but walked steadily on, circling the house and disappearing
again.
Anthony nodded to himself.
“Sentry,” he murmured. “They do the thing quite well.”
As soon as he had passed, Anthony went on, diverging to the left, and so
following in the footsteps of the sentry.
His own footsteps were quite noiseless.
The wall of the house was on his right, and presently he came to where a
broad blur of light fell on the gravelled walk. The sound of several men
talking together was clearly audible.
“My God! what double-dyed idiots,” murmured Anthony to himself. “It
would serve them right to be given a fright.”
He stole up to the window, stooping a little so that he should not be seen.
Presently he lifted his head very carefully to the level of the sill and looked

in.
Half a dozen men were sprawling round a table. Four of them were big
thickset men, with high cheek-bones, and eyes set in Magyar slanting
fashion. The other two were rat-like little men with quick gestures. The
language that was being spoken was French, but the four big men spoke it
with uncertainty and a hoarse guttural intonation.
“The Boss?” growled one of these. “When will he be here?”
One of the smaller men shrugged his shoulders.
“Any time now.”
“About time, too,” growled the first man. “I have never seen him, this Boss
of yours, but, oh, what great and glorious work might we not have
accomplished in these days of idle waiting!”
“Fool,” said the other little man bitingly. “Getting nabbed by the police is
all the great and glorious work you and your precious lot would have been
likely to accomplish. A lot of blundering gorillas?”
“Aha!” roared another big thickset fellow. “You insult the Comrades? I will
soon set the sign of the Red Hand round your throat.”
He half rose, glaring ferociously at the Frenchman, but one of his
companions pulled him back again.
“No quarreling,” he grunted. “We’re to work together. From all I heard this
King Victor doesn’t stand for being disobeyed.”
In the darkness, Anthony heard the footsteps of the sentry coming his round
again, and he drew back behind a bush.
“Who’s that?” said one of the men inside.
“Carlo—going his rounds.”
“Oh! What about the prisoner?”
“He’s all right—coming round pretty fast now. He’s recovered well from
the crack on the head we gave him.”
Anthony moved gently away.

“God! what a lot,” he muttered. “They discuss their affairs with an open
window, and that fool Carlo goes his round with the tread of an elephant,
and the eyes of a bat. And to crown all, the Herzoslovakians and the French
are on the point of coming to blows. King Victor’s headquarters seem to be
in a parlous condition. It would amuse me, it would amuse me very much,
to teach them a lesson.”
He stood irresolute for a minute, smiling to himself.
From somewhere above his head came a stifled groan.
Anthony looked up. The groan came again.
Anthony glanced quickly from left to right. Carlo was not due round again
just yet. He grasped the heavy Virginia creeper and climbed nimbly till he
reached the sill of a window. The window was shut, but with a tool from his
pocket he soon succeeded in forcing up the catch.
He paused a minute to listen, then sprang lightly inside the room. There was
a bed in the far corner and on that bed a man was lying, his figure barely
discernible in the gloom.
Anthony went over to the bed, and flashed his pocket torch on the man’s
face. It was a foreign face, pale and emaciated, and the head was swathed in
heavy bandages.
The man was bound hand and foot. He stared up at Anthony like one dazed.
Anthony bent over him, and as he did so he heard a sound behind him and
swung round, his hand travelling to his coat pocket.
But a sharp command arrested him.
“Hands up, sonny. You didn’t expect to see me here, but I happened to catch
the same train as you at Victoria.”
It was Mr. Hiram Fish who was standing in the doorway. He was smiling
and in his hand was a big blue automatic.

25
Tuesday Night at Chimneys
Lord Caterham, Virginia and Bundle were sitting in the library after dinner.
It was Tuesday evening. Some thirty hours had elapsed since Anthony’s
rather dramatic departure.
For at least the seventh time Bundle repeated Anthony’s parting words, as
spoken at Hyde Park Corner.
“I’ll find my own way back,” repeated Virginia thoughtfully. “That doesn’t
look as though he expected to be away as long as this. And he’s left all his
things here.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“No,” said Virginia, looking straight in front of her. “He told me nothing.”
After this, there was a silence for a minute or two. Lord Caterham was the
first to break it.
“On the whole,” he said, “keeping an hotel has some advantages over
keeping a country house.”
“Meaning——?”
“That little notice they always hang up in your room. Visitors intending
departure must give notice before twelve o’clock.”
Virginia smiled.
“I dare say,” he continued, “that I am old-fashioned and unreasonable. It’s
the fashion, I know, to pop in and out of a house. Same idea as an hotel—
perfect freedom of action, and no bill at the end!”
“You are an old grouser,” said Bundle. “You’ve had Virginia and me. What
more do you want?”
“Nothing more, nothing more,” Lord Caterham assured them hastily.
“That’s not it at all. It’s the principle of the thing. It gives one such a
restless feeling. I’m quite willing to admit that it’s been an almost ideal

twenty-four hours. Peace—perfect peace. No burglaries or other crimes of
violence, no detectives, no Americans. What I complain of is that I should
have enjoyed it all so much more if I’d felt really secure. As it is, all the
time I’ve been saying to myself ‘One or other of them is bound to turn up in
a minute.’ And that spoilt the whole thing.”
“Well, nobody has turned up,” said Bundle. “We’ve been left severely alone
—neglected, in fact. It’s odd the way Fish disappeared. Didn’t he say
anything?”
“Not a word. Last time I saw him he was pacing up and down the Rose
Garden yesterday afternoon, smoking one of those unpleasant cigars of his.
After that he seems to have just melted into the landscape.”
“Somebody must have kidnapped him,” said Bundle hopefully.
“In another day or two, I expect we shall have Scotland Yard dragging the
lake to find his dead body,” said her father gloomily. “It serves me right. At
my time of life, I ought to have gone quietly abroad and taken care of my
health, and not allowed myself to be drawn into George Lomax’s wild-cat
schemes. I——”
He was interrupted by Tredwell.
“Well,” said Lord Caterham irritably, “what is it?”
“The French detective is here, my lord, and would be glad if you could
spare him a few minutes.”
“What did I tell you?” said Lord Caterham. “I knew it was too good to last.
Depend upon it, they’ve found Fish’s dead body doubled up in the goldfish
pond.”
Tredwell, in a strictly respectful manner, steered him back to the point of
issue.
“Am I to say that you will see him, my lord?”
“Yes, yes. Bring him in here.”
Tredwell departed. He returned a minute or two later announcing in a
lugubrious voice:
“Monsieur Lemoine.”

The Frenchman came in with a quick, light step. His walk, more than his
face, betrayed the fact that he was excited about something.
“Good evening, Lemoine,” said Lord Caterham. “Have a drink, won’t
you?”
“I thank you, no.” He bowed punctiliously to the ladies. “At last I make
progress. As things are, I felt that you should be acquainted with the
discoveries—the very grave discoveries that I have made in the course of
the last twenty-four hours.”
“I thought there must be something important going on somewhere,” said
Lord Caterham.
“My lord, yesterday afternoon one of your guests left this house in a curious
manner. From the beginning, I must tell you, I have had my suspicions.
Here is a man who comes from the wilds. Two months ago he was in South
Africa. Before that—where?”
Virginia drew a sharp breath. For a moment the Frenchman’s eyes rested on
her doubtfully. Then he went on:
“Before that—where? None can say. And he is just such a one as the man I
am looking for—gay, audacious, reckless, one who would dare anything. I
send cable after cable, but I can get no word as to his past life. Ten years
ago he was in Canada, yes, but since then—silence. My suspicions grow
stronger. Then I picked up one day a scrap of paper where he has lately
passed along. It bears an address—the address of a house in Dover. Later, as
though by chance, I drop that same piece of paper. Out of the tail of my eye,
I see this Boris, this Herzoslovakian, pick it up and take it to his master. All
along I have been sure that this Boris is an emissary of the Comrades of the
Red Hand. We know that the Comrades are working in with King Victor
over this affair. If Boris recognized his Chief in Mr. Anthony Cade, would
he not do just what he has done—transferred his allegiance? Why should he
attach himself otherwise to an insignificant stranger? It was suspicious, I
tell you, very suspicious.
“But almost I am disarmed, for Anthony Cade brings this same paper to me
at once and asks me if I have dropped it. As I say, almost I am disarmed—
but not quite! For it may mean that he is innocent, or it may mean that he is
very, very clever. I deny, of course, that it is mine or that I dropped it. But in

the meantime I have set inquiries on foot. Only to-day I have news. The
house at Dover has been precipitately abandoned, but up till yesterday
afternoon it was occupied by a body of foreigners. Not a doubt but that it
was King Victor’s headquarters. Now see the significance of these points.
Yesterday afternoon, Mr. Cade clears out from here precipitately. Ever since
he dropped that paper, he must know that the game is up. He reaches Dover
and immediately the gang is disbanded. What the next move will be, I do
not know. What is quite certain is that Mr. Anthony Cade will not return
here. But knowing King Victor, as I do, I am certain that he will not
abandon the game without having one more try for the jewel. And that is
when I shall get him!”
Virginia stood up suddenly. She walked across to the mantelpiece and spoke
in a voice that rang cold like steel.
“You are leaving one thing out of account, I think, M. Lemoine,” she said.
“Mr. Cade is not the only guest who disappeared yesterday in a suspicious
manner.”
“You mean, Madame——?”
“That all you have said applies equally well to another person. What about
Mr. Hiram Fish?”
“Oh, Mr. Fish!”
“Yes, Mr. Fish. Did you not tell us that first night that King Victor had
lately come to England from America? So has Mr. Fish come to England
from America. It is true that he brought a letter of introduction from a very
well-known man, but surely that would be a simple thing for a man like
King Victor to manage. He is certainly not what he pretends to be. Lord
Caterham has commented on the fact that when it is a question of the first
editions he is supposed to have come here to see he is always the listener,
never the talker. And there are several suspicious facts against him. There
was a light in his window the night of the murder. Then take that evening in
the Council Chamber. When I met him on the terrace he was fully dressed.
He could have dropped the paper. You didn’t actually see Mr. Cade do so.
Mr. Cade may have gone to Dover. If he did it was simply to investigate. He
may have been kidnapped there. I say that there is far more suspicion
attaching to Mr. Fish’s actions than to Mr. Cade’s.”

The Frenchman’s voice rang out sharply:
“From your point of view, that well may be, Madame. I do not dispute it.
And I agree that Mr. Fish is not what he seems.”
“Well, then?”
“But that makes no difference. You see, Madame, Mr. Fish is a Pinkerton’s
man.”
“What?” cried Lord Caterham.
“Yes, Lord Caterham. He came over here to trail King Victor.
Superintendent Battle and I have known this for some time.”
Virginia said nothing. Very slowly she sat down again. With those few
words the structure that she had built up so carefully was scattered in ruins
about her feet.
“You see,” Lemoine was continuing, “we have all known that eventually
King Victor would come to Chimneys. It was the one place we were sure of
catching him.”
Virginia looked up with an odd light in her eyes, and suddenly she laughed.
“You’ve not caught him yet,” she said.
Lemoine looked at her curiously.
“No, Madame. But I shall.”
“He’s supposed to be rather famous for outwitting people, isn’t he?”
The Frenchman’s face darkened with anger.
“This time, it will be different,” he said between his teeth.
“He’s a very attractive fellow,” said Lord Caterham. “Very attractive. But
surely—why, you said he was an old friend of yours, Virginia?”
“That is why,” said Virginia composedly, “I think M. Lemoine must be
making a mistake.”
And her eyes met the detective’s steadily, but he appeared in no wise
discomfited.
“Time will show, Madame,” he said.

“Do you pretend that it was he who shot Prince Michael?” she asked
presently.
“Certainly.”
But Virginia shook her head.
“Oh, no!” she said. “Oh, no! That is one thing I am quite sure of. Anthony
Cade never killed Prince Michael.”
Lemoine was watching her intently.
“There is a possibility that you are right, Madame,” he said slowly. “A
possibility, that is all. It may have been the Herzoslovakian, Boris, who
exceeded his orders and fired that shot. Who knows, Prince Michael may
have done him some great wrong, and the man sought revenge.”
“He looks a murderous sort of fellow,” agreed Lord Caterham. “The house-
maids, I believe, scream when he passes them in the passages.”
“Well,” said Lemoine. “I must be going now. I felt it was due to you, my
lord, to know exactly how things stand.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Lord Caterham. “Quite certain you won’t
have a drink? All right then. Good night.”
“I hate that man with his prim little black beard and his eyeglasses,” said
Bundle, as soon as the door had shut behind him. “I hope Anthony does
snoo him. I’d love to see him dancing with rage. What do you think about it
all, Virginia?”
“I don’t know,” said Virginia. “I’m tired. I shall go up to bed.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Lord Caterham. “It’s half-past eleven.”
As Virginia was crossing the wide hall, she caught sight of a broad back that
seemed familiar to her discreetly vanishing through a side door.
“Superintendent Battle,” she called imperiously.
The superintendent, for it was indeed he, retraced his steps with a shade of
unwillingness.
“Yes, Mrs. Revel?”

“M. Lemoine has been here. He says—— Tell me, is it true, really true, that
Mr. Fish is an American detective?”
Superintendent Battle nodded.
“That’s right.”
“You have known it all along?”
Again Superintendent Battle nodded.
Virginia turned away towards the staircase.
“I see,” she said. “Thank you.”
Until that minute she had refused to believe.
And now——?
Sitting down before her dressing-table in her own room, she faced the
question squarely. Every word that Anthony had said came back to her
fraught with a new significance.
Was this the “trade” that he had spoken of?
The trade that he had given up. But then——
An unusual sound disturbed the even tenor of her meditations. She lifted her
head with a start. Her little gold clock showed the hour to be after one.
Nearly two hours she had sat here thinking.
Again the sound was repeated. A sharp tap on the window-pane. Virginia
went to the window and opened it. Below on the pathway was a tall figure
which even as she looked stooped for another handful of gravel.
For a moment Virginia’s heart beat faster—then she recognized the massive
strength and square-cut outline of the Herzoslovakian, Boris.
“Yes,” she said in a low tone. “What is it?”
At the moment it did not strike her as strange that Boris should be throwing
gravel at her window at this hour of the night.
“What is it?” she repeated impatiently.
“I come from the Master,” said Boris in a low tone which nevertheless
carried perfectly. “He has sent for you.”

He made the statement in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone.
“Sent for me?”
“Yes, I am to bring you to him. There is a note. I will throw it up to you.”
Virginia stood back a little, and a slip of paper, weighted with a stone, fell
accurately at her feet. She unfolded it and read:
“My dear (Anthony had written),—I’m in a tight place, but I mean to win
through. Will you trust me and come to me?”
For quite two minutes Virginia stood there, immovable, reading those few
words over again and again.
She raised her head, looking round the well-appointed luxury of the
bedroom as though she saw it with new eyes.
Then she leaned out of the window again.
“What am I to do?” she asked.
“The detectives are the other side of the house, outside the Council
Chamber. Come down and out through this side door. I will be there. I have
a car waiting outside in the road.”
Virginia nodded. Quickly she changed her dress for one of fawn tricot, and
pulled on a little fawn leather hat.
Then, smiling a little, she wrote a short note, addressed it to Bundle and
pinned it to the pincushion.
She stole quietly downstairs and undid the bolts of the side door. Just a
moment she paused, then, with a little gallant toss of the head, the same toss
of the head which her ancestors had gone into action in the Crusades, she
passed through.

26
The 13th of October
At ten o’clock on the morning of Wednesday, the 13th of October, Anthony
Cade walked into Harridge’s Hotel and asked for Baron Lolopretjzyl who
was occupying a suite there.
After suitable and imposing delay, Anthony was taken to the suite in
question. The Baron was standing on the hearthrug in a correct and stiff
fashion. Little Captain Andrassy, equally correct as to demeanour, but with
a slightly hostile attitude, was also present.
The usual bows, clicking of heels, and other formal greetings of etiquette
took place. Anthony was, by now, thoroughly conversant with the routine.
“You will forgive this early call I trust, Baron,” he said cheerfully, laying
down his hat and stick on the table. “As a matter of fact, I have a little
business proposition to make to you.”
“Ha! Is that so?” said the Baron.
Captain Andrassy, who had never overcome his initial distrust of Anthony,
looked suspicious.
“Business,” said Anthony, “is based on the well-known principle of supply
and demand. You want something, the other man has it. The only thing left
to settle is the price.”
The Baron looked at him attentively, but said nothing.
“Between a Herzoslovakian nobleman and an English gentleman the terms
should be easily arranged,” said Anthony rapidly.
He blushed a little as he said it. Such words do not rise easily to an
Englishman’s lips, but he had observed on previous occasions the enormous
effect of such phraseology upon the Baron’s mentality. True enough, the
charm worked.
“That is so,” said the Baron approvingly, nodding his head. “That is entirely
so.”

Even Captain Andrassy appeared to unbend a little, and nodded his head
also.
“Very good,” said Anthony. “I won’t beat about the bush any more——”
“What is that, you say?” interrupted the Baron. “To beat about the bush? I
do not comprehend?”
“A mere figure of speech, Baron. To speak in plain English, you want the
goods, we have them! The ship is all very well, but it lacks a figurehead. By
the ship, I mean the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia. At the present minute
you lack the principal plank of your political programme. You are minus a
Prince! Now supposing—only supposing, that I could supply you with a
Prince?”
The Baron stared.
“I do not comprehend you in the least,” he declared.
“Sir,” said Captain Andrassy, twirling his moustache fiercely, “you are
insulting!”
“Not at all,” said Anthony. “I’m trying to be helpful. Supply and demand,
you understand. It’s all perfectly fair and square. No Princes supplied unless
genuine—see trademark. If we come to terms, you’ll find it’s quite all right.
I’m offering you the real genuine article—out of the bottom drawer.”
“Not in the least,” the Baron declared again, “do I comprehend you.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” said Anthony kindly. “I just want you to get used
to the idea. To put it vulgarly, I’ve got something up my sleeve. Just get
hold of this. You want a Prince. Under certain conditions, I will undertake
to supply you with one.”
The Baron and Andrassy stared at him. Anthony took up his hat and stick
again and prepared to depart.
“Just think it over. Now, Baron, there is one thing further. You must come
down to Chimneys this evening—Captain Andrassy also. Several very
curious things are likely to happen there. Shall we make an appointment?
Say in the Council Chamber at nine o’clock? Thank you, gentlemen, I may
rely upon you to be there?”
The Baron took a step forward and looked searchingly in Anthony’s face.

“Mr. Cade,” he said, not without dignity, “it is not, I hope, that you wish to
make fun of me?”
Anthony returned his gaze steadily.
“Baron,” he said, and there was a curious note in his voice, “when this
evening is over, I think you will be the first to admit that there is more
earnest than jest about this business.”
Bowing to both the men, he left the room.
His next call was in the City where he sent in his card to Mr. Herman
Isaacstein.
After some delay, Anthony was received by a pale and exquisitely dressed
underling with an engaging manner, and a military title.
“You wanted to see Mr. Isaacstein, didn’t you?” said the young man. “I’m
afraid he’s most awfully busy this morning—board meetings and all that
sort of thing, you know. Is it anything that I can do?”
“I must see him personally,” said Anthony, and added carelessly. “I’ve just
come up from Chimneys.”
The young man was slightly staggered by the mention of Chimneys.
“Oh!” he said doubtfully. “Well, I’ll see.”
“Tell him it’s important,” said Anthony.
“Message from Lord Caterham?” suggested the young man.
“Something of the kind,” said Anthony, “but it’s imperative that I should
see Mr. Isaacstein at once.”
Two minutes later, Anthony was conducted into a sumptuous inner sanctum
where he was principally impressed by the immense size and roomy depths
of the leather-covered arm-chairs.
Mr. Isaacstein rose to greet him.
“You must forgive my looking you up like this,” said Anthony. “I know that
you’re a busy man, and I’m not going to waste more of your time than I can
help. It’s just a little matter of business that I want to put before you.”

Isaacstein looked at him attentively for a minute or two out of his beady
black eyes.
“Have a cigar,” he said unexpectedly, holding out an open box.
“Thank you,” said Anthony. “I don’t mind if I do.”
He helped himself.
“It’s about this Herzoslovakian business,” continued Anthony, as he
accepted a match. He noted the momentary flickering of the other’s steady
gaze. “The murder of Prince Michael must have rather upset the applecart.”
Mr. Isaacstein raised one eyebrow, murmured “Ah?” interrogatively and
transferred his gaze to the ceiling.
“Oil,” said Anthony, thoughtfully surveying the polished surface of the
desk. “Wonderful thing, oil.”
He felt the slight start the financier gave.
“Do you mind coming to the point, Mr. Cade?”
“Not at all. I imagine, Mr. Isaacstein, that if those Oil concessions are
granted to another company you won’t be exactly pleased about it?”
“What’s the proposition?” asked the other, looking straight at him.
“A suitable claimant to the throne, full of pro-British sympathies.”
“Where have you got him?”
“That’s my business.”
Isaacstein acknowledged the retort by a slight smile, his glance had grown
hard and keen.
“The genuine article? I can’t stand for any funny business.”
“The absolute genuine article.”
“Straight?”
“Straight.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You don’t seem to take much convincing?” said Anthony, looking
curiously at him.
Herman Isaacstein smiled.
“I shouldn’t be where I am now if I hadn’t learnt to know whether a man is
speaking the truth or not,” he replied simply. “What terms do you want?”
“The same loan, on the same conditions, that you offered to Prince
Michael?”
“What about yourself?”
“For the moment, nothing, except that I want you to come down to
Chimneys to-night.”
“No,” said Isaacstein, with some decision. “I can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“Dining out—rather an important dinner.”
“All the same, I’m afraid you’ll have to cut it out—for your own sake.”
“What do you mean?”
Anthony looked at him for a full minute before he said slowly:
“Do you know that they’ve found the revolver, the one Michael was shot
with? Do you know where they found it? In your suit-case.”
“What?”
Isaacstein almost leapt from his chair. His face was frenzied.
“What are you saying? What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Very obligingly, Anthony narrated the occurrences in connection with the
finding of the revolver. As he spoke the other’s face assumed a greyish tinge
of absolute terror.
“But it’s false,” he screamed out, as Anthony finished. “I never put it there.
I know nothing about it. It is a plot.”
“Don’t excite yourself,” said Anthony soothingly. “If that’s the case you’ll
easily be able to prove it.”

“Prove it? How can I prove it?”
“If I were you,” said Anthony gently, “I’d come to Chimneys to-night.”
Isaacstein looked at him doubtfully.
“You advise it?”
Anthony leant forward and whispered to him. The financier fell back in
amazement, staring at him.
“You actually mean——”
“Come and see,” said Anthony.

27
The 13th of October (contd.)
The clock in the Council Chamber struck nine.
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, with a deep sigh. “Here they all are, just like
little Bo Peep’s flock, back again and wagging their tails behind them.”
He looked sadly round the room.
“Organ grinder complete with monkey,” he murmured, fixing the Baron
with his eye. “Nosy Parker of Throgmorton Street——”
“I think you’re rather unkind to the Baron,” protested Bundle, to whom
these confidences were being poured out. “He told me that he considered
you the perfect example of English hospitality amongst the haute noblesse.”
“I daresay,” said Lord Caterham. “He’s always saying things like that. It
makes him most fatiguing to talk to. But I can tell you I’m not nearly as
much of the hospitable English gentleman as I was. As soon as I can, I shall
let Chimneys to an enterprising American, and go and live in an hotel.
There, if anyone worries you, you can just ask for your bill and go.”
“Cheer up,” said Bundle. “We seem to have lost Mr. Fish for good.”
“I always found him rather amusing,” said Lord Caterham, who was in a
contradictory temper. “It’s that precious young man of yours who has let me
in for this. Why should I have this Board meeting called in my house? Why
doesn’t he rent The Larches or Elmhurst, or some nice villa residence like
that at Streatham, and hold his company meetings there?”
“Wrong atmosphere,” said Bundle.
“No one is going to play any tricks on us, I hope?” said her father
nervously. “I don’t trust that French fellow, Lemoine. The French police are
up to all sorts of dodges. Put India-rubber bands round your arm, and then
reconstruct the crime and make you jump, and it’s registered on a
thermometer. I know that when they call out ‘Who killed Prince Michael?’ I

shall register a hundred and twenty-two, or something perfectly frightful,
and they’ll haul me off to gaol at once.”
The door opened and Tredwell announced:
“Mr. George Lomax. Mr. Eversleigh.”
“Enter Codders, followed by faithful dog,” murmured Bundle.
Bill made a bee-line for her, whilst George greeted Lord Caterham in the
genial manner he assumed for public occasions.
“My dear Caterham,” said George, shaking him by the hand, “I got your
message, and came over, of course.”
“Very good of you, my dear fellow, very good of you. Delighted to see
you.” Lord Caterham’s conscience always drove him on to an excess of
geniality when he was conscious of feeling none. “Not that it was my
message, but that doesn’t matter at all.”
In the meantime, Bill was attacking Bundle in an undertone.
“I say. What’s it all about? What’s this I hear about Virginia bolting off in
the middle of the night? She’s not been kidnapped, has she?”
“Oh, no,” said Bundle. “She left a note pinned to the pincushion in the
orthodox fashion.”
“She’s not gone off with anyone, has she? Not with that Colonial Johnny? I
never liked the fellow and, from all I hear, there seems to be an idea floating
around that he himself is the super crook. But I don’t quite see how that can
be?”
“Why not?”
“Well, this King Victor was a French fellow, and Cade’s English enough.”
“You don’t happen to have heard that King Victor was an accomplished
linguist, and, moreover, was half Irish?”
“Oh, Lord! Then that’s why he’s made himself scarce, is it?”
“I don’t know about his making himself scarce. He disappeared the day
before yesterday, as you know. But this morning we got a wire from him,
saying he would be down here at 9 p.m. to-night, and suggesting that

Codders should be asked over. All these other people have turned up as well
—asked by Mr. Cade.”
“It is a gathering,” said Bill, looking round. “One French detective by
window, one English ditto by fireplace. Strong foreign element. The Stars
and Stripes don’t seem to be represented?”
Bundle shook her head.
“Mr. Fish has disappeared into the blue. Virginia’s not here either. But every
one else is assembled, and I have a feeling in my bones, Bill, that we are
drawing very near to the moment when somebody says ‘James, the
footman,’ and everything is revealed. We’re only waiting now for Anthony
Cade to arrive.”
“He’ll never show up,” said Bill.
“Then why call this company meeting, as Father calls it?”
“Ah, there’s some deep idea behind that. Depend upon it. Wants us all here
while he’s somewhere else—you know the sort of thing.”
“You don’t think he’ll come, then?”
“No fear. Run his head into the lion’s mouth? Why, the room’s bristling
with detectives and high officials.”
“You don’t know much about King Victor, if you think that would deter
him. By all accounts, it’s the kind of situation he loves above all, and he
always manages to come out on top.”
Mr. Eversleigh shook his head doubtfully.
“That would take some doing—with the dice loaded against him. He’ll
never——”
The door opened again and Tredwell announced:
“Mr. Cade.”
Anthony came straight across to his host.
“Lord Caterham,” he said, “I’m giving you a frightful lot of trouble, and
I’m awfully sorry about it. But I really do think that to-night will see the
clearing up of the mystery.”

Lord Caterham looked mollified. He had always had a secret liking for
Anthony.
“No trouble at all,” he said heartily.
“It’s very kind of you,” said Anthony. “We’re all here, I see. Then I can get
on with the good work.”
“I don’t understand,” said George Lomax weightily. “I don’t understand in
the least. This is all very irregular. Mr. Cade has no standing—no standing
whatever. The position is a very difficult and delicate one. I am strongly of
the opinion——”
George’s flood of eloquence was arrested. Moving unobtrusively to the
great man’s side, Superintendent Battle whispered a few words in his ear.
George looked perplexed and baffled.
“Very well, if you say so,” he remarked grudgingly. Then added in a louder
tone, “I’m sure we are all willing to listen to what Mr. Cade has to say.”
Anthony ignored the palpable condescension of the other’s tone.
“It’s just a little idea of mine, that’s all,” he said cheerfully. “Probably all of
you know that we got hold of a certain message in cipher the other day.
There was a reference to Richmond, and some numbers.” He paused. “Well,
we had a shot at solving it—and we failed. Now in the late Count
Stylptitch’s Memoirs (which I happen to have read) there is a reference to a
certain dinner—a ‘Flower’ dinner which every one attended wearing a
badge representing a flower. The Count himself wore the exact duplicate of
that curious device we found in the cavity in the secret passage. It
represented a Rose. If you remember, it was all rows of things—buttons,
letter E’s, and finally rows of knitting. Now, gentlemen, what is there in this
house that is arranged in rows? Books, isn’t that so? Add to that, that in the
catalogue of Lord Caterham’s library there is a book called The Life of the
Earl of Richmond, and I think you will get a very fair idea of the hiding-
place. Starting at the volume in question, and using the numbers to denote
shelves and books, I think you will find that the—er—object of our search
is concealed in a dummy book, or in a cavity behind a particular book.”
Anthony looked round modestly, obviously waiting for applause.
“Upon my word, that’s very ingenious,” said Lord Caterham.

“Quite ingenious,” admitted George condescendingly. “But it remains to be
seen——”
Anthony laughed.
“The proof of the pudding’s in the eating—eh? Well, I’ll soon settle that for
you.” He sprang to his feet. “I’ll go to the library——”
He got no further. M. Lemoine moved forward from the window.
“Just one moment, Mr. Cade. You permit, Lord Caterham?”
He went to the writing-table and hurriedly scribbled a few lines. He sealed
them up in an envelope, and then rang the bell. Tredwell appeared in answer
to it. Lemoine handed him the note.
“See that that is delivered at once, if you please.”
“Very good, sir,” said Tredwell.
With his usual dignified tread he withdrew.
Anthony, who had been standing, irresolute, sat down again.
“What’s the big idea, Lemoine?” he asked gently.
There was a sudden sense of strain in the atmosphere.
“If the jewel is where you say it is—well, it has been there for over seven
years—a quarter of an hour more does not matter.”
“Go on,” said Anthony. “That wasn’t all you wanted to say?”
“No, it was not. At this juncture, it is—unwise to permit any one person to
leave the room. Especially if that person has rather questionable
antecedents.”
Anthony raised his eyebrows, and lighted a cigarette.
“I suppose a vagabond life is not very respectable,” he mused.
“Two months ago, Mr. Cade, you were in South Africa. That is admitted.
Where were you before that?”
Anthony leaned back in his chair, idly blowing smoke rings.
“Canada. Wild North West.”

“Are you sure you were not in prison? A French prison?”
Automatically, Superintendent Battle moved a step nearer the door, as if to
cut off a retreat that way, but Anthony showed no signs of doing anything
dramatic.
Instead, he stared at the French detective, and then burst out laughing.
“My poor Lemoine. It is a monomania with you! You do indeed see King
Victor everywhere. So you fancy that I am that interesting gentleman?”
“Do you deny it?”
Anthony brushed a fleck of ash from his coat sleeve.
“I never deny anything that amuses me,” he said lightly. “But the accusation
is really too ridiculous.”
“Ah! you think so?” The Frenchman leant forward. His face was twitching
painfully, and yet he seemed perplexed and baffled—as though something
in Anthony’s manner puzzled him. “What if I tell you, Monsieur, that this
time—this time—I am out to get King Victor, and nothing shall stop me!”
“Very laudable,” was Anthony’s comment. “You’ve been out to get him
before, though, haven’t you, Lemoine? And he’s got the better of you.
Aren’t you afraid that that may happen again? He’s a slippery fellow, by all
accounts.”
The conversation had developed into a duel between the detective and
Anthony. Every one else in the room was conscious of the tension. It was a
fight to a finish between the Frenchman, painfully in earnest, and the man
who smoked so calmly and whose words seemed to show that he had not a
care in the world.
“If I were you, Lemoine,” continued Anthony, “I should be very, very
careful. Watch your step, and all that sort of thing.”
“This time,” said Lemoine grimly, “there will be no mistake.”
“You seem very sure about it all,” said Anthony. “But there’s such a thing as
evidence, you know.”
Lemoine smiled, and something in his smile seemed to attract Anthony’s
attention. He sat up and stubbed out his cigarette.

“You saw that note I wrote just now?” said the French detective. “It was to
my people at the inn. Yesterday I received from France the fingerprints and
the Bertillon measurements of King Victor—the so-called Captain O’Neill.
I have asked for them to be sent up to me here. In a few minutes we shall
know whether you are the man!”
Anthony stared steadily at him. Then a little smile crept over his face.
“You’re really rather clever, Lemoine. I never thought of that. The
documents will arrive, you will induce me to dip my fingers in the ink, or
something equally unpleasant, you will measure my ears and look for my
distinguishing marks. And if they agree——”
“Well,” said Lemoine, “if they agree—eh?”
Anthony leaned forward in his chair.
“Well, if they do agree,” he said very gently, “what then?”
“What then?” The detective seemed taken aback. “But—I shall have proved
then that you are King Victor!”
But for the first time, a shade of uncertainty crept into his manner.
“That will doubtless be a great satisfaction to you,” said Anthony. “But I
don’t quite see where it’s going to hurt me. I’m not admitting anything, but
supposing, just for the sake of argument, that I was King Victor—I might be
trying to repent, you know.”
“Repent?”
“That’s the idea. Put yourself in King Victor’s place, Lemoine. Use your
imagination. You’ve just come out of prison. You’re getting on in life.
You’ve lost the first fine rapture of the adventurous life. Say, even, that you
meet a beautiful girl. You think of marrying and settling down somewhere
in the country where you can grow vegetable marrows. You decide from
henceforth to lead a blameless life. Put yourself in King Victor’s place.
Can’t you imagine feeling like that?”
“I do not think that I should feel like that,” said Lemoine with a sardonic
smile.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t,” admitted Anthony. “But then you’re not King
Victor, are you? You can’t possibly know what he feels like.”

“But it is nonsense, what you are saying there,” spluttered the Frenchman.
“Oh, no, it isn’t. Come now, Lemoine, if I’m King Victor, what have you
against me after all? You could never get the necessary evidence in the old,
old days, remember. I’ve served my sentence, and that’s all there is to it. I
suppose you could arrest me for the French equivalent of ‘Loitering with
intent to commit a felony,’ but that would be poor satisfaction, wouldn’t it?”
“You forget,” said Lemoine. “America! How about this business of
obtaining money under false pretences, and passing yourself off as Prince
Nicholas Obolovitch?”
“No good, Lemoine,” said Anthony, “I was nowhere near America at the
time. And I can prove that easily enough. If King Victor impersonated
Prince Nicholas in America, then I’m not King Victor. You’re sure he was
impersonated? That it wasn’t the man himself?”
Superintendent Battle suddenly interposed.
“The man was an impostor all right, Mr. Cade.”
“I wouldn’t contradict you, Battle,” said Anthony. “You have such a habit of
being always right. Are you equally sure that Prince Nicholas died in the
Congo?”
Battle looked at him curiously.
“I wouldn’t swear to that, sir. But it’s generally believed.”
“Careful man. What’s your motto? Plenty of rope, eh? I’ve taken a leaf out
of your book. I’ve given M. Lemoine plenty of rope. I’ve not denied his
accusations. But, all the same, I’m afraid he’s going to be disappointed. You
see I always believe in having something up one’s sleeve. Anticipating that
some little unpleasantness might arise here, I took the precaution to bring a
trump card along with me. It—or rather he—is upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” said Lord Caterham, very interested.
“Yes, he’s been having rather a trying time of it lately, poor fellow. Got a
nasty bump on the head from some one. I’ve been looking after him.”
Suddenly the deep voice of Mr. Isaacstein broke in:
“Can we guess who he is?”

“If you like,” said Anthony, “but——”
Lemoine interrupted with sudden ferocity:
“All this is foolery. You think to outwit me yet again. It may be true what
you say—that you were not in America. You are too clever to say it if it
were not true. But there is something else. Murder! Yes, murder. The
murder of Prince Michael. He interfered with you that night as you were
looking for the jewel.”
“Lemoine, have you ever known King Victor to do murder?” Anthony’s
voice rang out sharply. “You know as well—better than I do, that he has
never shed blood.”
“Who else but you could have murdered him?” cried Lemoine. “Tell me
that!”
The last word died on his lips, as a shrill whistle sounded from the terrace
outside. Anthony sprang up, all his assumed nonchalance laid aside.
“You ask me who murdered Prince Michael?” he cried. “I won’t tell you—
I’ll show you. That whistle was the signal I’ve been waiting for. The
murderer of Prince Michael is in the library now.”
He sprang out through the window, and the others followed him as he led
the way round the terrace, until they came to the library window. He pushed
the window, and it yielded to his touch.
Very softly he held aside the thick velvet curtain, so that they could look
into the room.
Standing by the bookcase was a dark figure, hurriedly pulling out and
replacing volumes, so absorbed in the task that no outside sound was
heeded.
And then, as they stood watching, trying to recognize the figure that was
vaguely silhouetted against the light of the electric torch it carried, some
one sprang past them with a sound like the roar of a wild beast.
The torch fell to the ground, was extinguished, and the sounds of a terrific
struggle filled the room. Lord Caterham groped his way to the lights and
switched them on.

Two figures were swaying together. And as they looked the end came. The
short sharp crack of a pistol shot, and the smaller figure crumpled up and
fell. The other figure turned and faced them—it was Boris, his eyes alight
with rage.
“She killed my Master,” he growled. “Now she tries to shoot me. I would
have taken the pistol from her and shot her, but it went off in the struggle.
St. Michael directed it. The evil woman is dead.”
“A woman?” cried George Lomax.
They drew nearer. On the floor, the pistol still clasped in her hand, and an
expression of deadly malignity on her face, lay—Mademoiselle Brun.

28
King Victor
“I suspected her from the first,” explained Anthony. “There was a light in
her room on the night of the murder. Afterwards, I wavered. I made
inquiries about her in Brittany, and came back satisfied that she was what
she represented herself to be. I was a fool. Because the Comtesse de
Breteuil had employed a Mademoiselle Brun and spoke highly of her, it
never occurred to me that the real Mademoiselle Brun might have been
kidnapped on her way to her new post, and that it might be a substitute
taking her place. Instead I shifted my suspicions to Mr. Fish. It was not until
he had followed me to Dover, and we had had a mutual explanation that I
began to see clearly. Once I knew that he was a Pinkerton’s man, trailing
King Victor, my suspicions swung back again to their original object.
“The thing that worried me most was that Mrs. Revel had definitely
recognized the woman. Then I remembered that it was only after I had
mentioned her being Madame de Breteuil’s governess. And all she had said
was that that accounted for the fact that the woman’s face was familiar to
her. Superintendent Battle will tell you that a deliberate plot was formed to
keep Mrs. Revel from coming to Chimneys. Nothing more nor less than a
dead body, in fact. And though the murder was the work of the Comrades of
the Red Hand, punishing supposed treachery on the part of the victim, the
staging of it, and the absence of the Comrades’ sign manual, pointed to
some abler intelligence directing operations. From the first, I suspected
some connection with Herzoslovakia. Mrs. Revel was the only member of
the house party who had been to the country. I suspected at first that some
one was impersonating Prince Michael, but that proved to be a totally
erroneous idea. When I realized the possibility of Mademoiselle Brun’s
being an impostor, and added to that the fact that her face was familiar to
Mrs. Revel, I began to see daylight. It was evidently very important that she
should not be recognized, and Mrs. Revel was the only person likely to do
so.”
“But who was she?” said Lord Caterham. “Some one Mrs. Revel had
known in Herzoslovakia?”

“I think the Baron might be able to tell us,” said Anthony.
“I?” The Baron stared at him, then down at the motionless figure.
“Look well,” said Anthony. “Don’t be put off by the make-up. She was an
actress once, remember.”
The Baron stared again. Suddenly he started.
“God in heaven,” he breathed, “it is not possible.”
“What is not possible?” asked George. “Who is the lady? You recognize
her, Baron?”
“No, no, it is not possible.” The Baron continued to mutter. “She was killed.
They were both killed. On the steps of the Palace. Her body was
recovered.”
“Mutilated and unrecognizable,” Anthony reminded him. “She managed to
put up a bluff. I think she escaped to America, and has spent a good many
years lying low in deadly terror of the Comrades of the Red Hand. They
promoted the Revolution, remember, and, to use an expressive phrase, they
always had it in for her. Then King Victor was released, and they planned to
recover the diamond together. She was searching for it that night when she
came suddenly upon Prince Michael, and he recognized her. There was
never much fear of her meeting him in the ordinary way of things. Royal
guests don’t come in contact with governesses, and she could always retire
with a convenient migraine, as she did the day the Baron was here.
“However, she met Prince Michael face to face when she least expected it.
Exposure and disgrace stared her in the face. She shot him. It was she who
placed the revolver in Isaacstein’s suit-case, so as to confuse the trail, and
she who returned the letters.”
Lemoine moved forward.
“She was coming down to search for the jewel that night, you say,” he said.
“Might she not have been going to meet her accomplice, King Victor, who
was coming from outside? Eh? What do you say to that?”
Anthony sighed.
“Still at it, my dear Lemoine? How persistent you are! You won’t take my
hint that I’ve got a trump card up my sleeve?”

But George, whose mind worked slowly, now broke in.
“I am still completely at sea. Who was this lady, Baron? You recognize her,
it seems?”
But the Baron drew himself up and stood very straight and stiff.
“You are in error, Mr. Lomax. To my knowledge I have not this lady seen
before. A complete stranger she is to me.”
“But——”
George stared at him—bewildered.
The Baron took him into a corner of the room, and murmured something
into his ear. Anthony watched, with a good deal of enjoyment, George’s
face turning slowly purple, his eyes bulging, and all the incipient symptoms
of apoplexy. A murmur of George’s throaty voice came to him.
“Certainly ... certainly ... by all means ... no need at all ... complicate
situation ... utmost discretion.”
“Ah!” Lemoine hit the table sharply with his hand. “I do not care about all
this! The murder of Prince Michael—that was not my affair. I want King
Victor.”
Anthony shook his head gently.
“I’m sorry for you, Lemoine. You’re really a very able fellow. But, all the
same, you’re going to lose the trick. I’m about to play my trump card.”
He stepped across the room and rang the bell. Tredwell answered it.
“A gentleman arrived with me this evening, Tredwell.”
“Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.”
“Quite so. Will you kindly ask him to join us here as soon as possible?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tredwell withdrew.
“Entry of the trump card, the mysterious Monsieur X,” remarked Anthony.
“Who is he? Can anyone guess?”

“Putting two and two together,” said Herman Isaacstein, “what with your
mysterious hints this morning, and your attitude this afternoon, I should say
there was no doubt about it. Somehow or other you’ve managed to get hold
of Prince Nicholas of Herzoslovakia.”
“You think the same, Baron?”
“I do. Unless yet another impostor you have put forward. But that I will not
believe. With me, your dealings most honourable have been.”
“Thank you, Baron. I shan’t forget those words. So you are all agreed?”
His eyes swept round the circle of waiting faces. Only Lemoine did not
respond, but kept his eyes fixed sullenly on the table.
Anthony’s quick ears had caught the sound of footsteps outside in the hall.
“And yet, you know,” he said with a queer smile, “you’re all wrong!”
He crossed swiftly to the door and flung it open.
A man stood on the threshold—a man with a neat black beard, eyeglasses,
and a foppish appearance slightly marred by a bandage round the head.
“Allow me to present you to the real Monsieur Lemoine of the Sûreté.”
There was a rush and a scuffle, and then the nasal tones of Mr. Hiram Fish
rose bland and reassuring from the window.
“No, you don’t, Sonny—not this way. I have been stationed here this whole
evening for the particular purpose of preventing your escape. You will
observe that I have you covered well and good with this gun of mine. I
came over to get you, and I’ve got you—but you sure are some lad!”

29
Further Explanations
“You owe us an explanation, I think, Mr. Cade,” said Herman Isaacstein,
somewhat later in the evening.
“There’s nothing much to explain,” said Anthony modestly. “I went to
Dover and Fish followed me under the impression that I was King Victor.
We found a mysterious stranger imprisoned there, and as soon as we heard
his story we knew where we were. The same idea again, you see. The real
man kidnapped, and the false one—in this case King Victor himself—takes
his place. But it seems that Battle here always thought there was something
fishy about his French colleague, and wired to Paris for his fingerprints and
other means of identification.”
“Ah!” cried the Baron. “The fingerprints. The Bertillon measurements that
that scoundrel talked about?”
“It was a clever idea,” said Anthony. “I admired it so much that I felt forced
to play up. Besides, my doing so puzzled the false Lemoine enormously.
You see, as soon as I had given the tip about the ‘rows’ and where the jewel
really was, he was keen to pass on the news to his accomplice, and at the
same time to keep us all in that room. The note was really to Mademoiselle
Brun. He told Tredwell to deliver it at once, and Tredwell did so by taking it
upstairs to the schoolroom. Lemoine accused me of being King Victor, by
that means creating a diversion and preventing anyone from leaving the
room. By the time all that had been cleared up and we adjourned to the
library to look for the stone, he flattered himself that the stone would be no
longer there to find!”
George cleared his throat.
“I must say, Mr. Cade,” he said pompously, “that I consider your action in
that matter highly reprehensible. If the slightest hitch had occurred in your
plans, one of our national possessions might have disappeared beyond the
hope of recovery. It was foolhardy, Mr. Cade, reprehensibly foolhardy.”

“I guess you haven’t tumbled to the little idea, Mr. Lomax,” said the
drawling voice of Mr. Fish. “That historic diamond was never behind the
books in the library.”
“Never?”
“Not on your life.”
“You see,” explained Anthony, “that little device of Count Stylptitch’s stood
for what it had originally stood for—a Rose. When that dawned upon me on
Monday afternoon, I went straight to the Rose Garden. Mr. Fish had already
tumbled to the same idea. If, standing with your back to the sundial, you
take seven paces straight forward, then eight to the left and three to the
right, you come to some bushes of a bright red rose called Richmond. The
house has been ransacked to find the hiding-place, but nobody has thought
of digging in the garden. I suggest a little digging party to-morrow
morning.”
“Then the story about the books in the library—”
“An invention of mine to trap the lady. Mr. Fish kept watch on the terrace,
and whistled when the psychological moment had arrived. I may say that
Mr. Fish and I established martial law at the Dover house, and prevented the
Comrades from communicating with the false Lemoine. He sent them an
order to clear out, and word was conveyed to him that this had been done.
So he went happily ahead with his plans for denouncing me.”
“Well, well,” said Lord Caterham cheerfully, “everything seems to have
been cleared up most satisfactorily.”
“Everything but one thing,” said Mr. Isaacstein.
“What is that?”
The great financier looked steadily at Anthony.
“What did you get me down here for? Just to assist at a dramatic scene as
an interested onlooker.”
Anthony shook his head.
“No, Mr. Isaacstein. You are a busy man whose time is money. Why did you
come down here originally?”

“To negotiate a loan.”
“With whom?”
“Prince Michael of Herzoslovakia.”
“Exactly. Prince Michael is dead. Are you prepared to offer the same loan
on the same terms to his cousin Nicholas?”
“Can you produce him? I thought he was killed in the Congo?”
“He was killed all right. I killed him. Oh, no, I’m not a murderer. When I
say I killed him, I mean that I spread the report of his death. I promised you
a Prince, Mr. Isaacstein. Will I do?”
“You?”
“Yes, I’m the man. Nicholas Sergius Alexander Ferdinand Obolovitch.
Rather long for the kind of life I proposed to live, so I emerged from the
Congo as plain Anthony Cade.”
Little Captain Andrassy sprang up.
“But this is incredible—incredible,” he spluttered. “Have a care, sir, what
you say.”
“I can give you plenty of proofs,” said Anthony quietly. “I think I shall be
able to convince the Baron here.”
The Baron lifted his hand.
“Your proofs I will examine, yes. But of them for me there is no need. Your
word alone sufficient for me is. Besides, your English mother you much
resemble. All along have I said: ‘This young man on one side or the other
most highly born is’.”
“You have always trusted my word, Baron,” said Anthony. “I can assure
you that in the days to come I shall not forget.”
Then he looked over at Superintendent Battle whose face had remained
perfectly expressionless.
“You can understand,” said Anthony with a smile, “that my position has
been extremely precarious. Of all those in the house I might be supposed to
have the best reason for wishing Michael Obolovitch out of the way, since I

was the next heir to the Throne. I’ve been extraordinarily afraid of Battle all
along. I always felt that he suspected me, but that he was held up by lack of
motive.”
“I never believed for a minute that you’d shot him, sir,” said Superintendent
Battle. “We’ve got a feeling in such matters. But I knew that you were
afraid of something, and you puzzled me. If I’d known sooner who you
really were, I dare say I’d have yielded to the evidence, and arrested you.”
“I’m glad I managed to keep one guilty secret from you. You wormed
everything else out of me all right. You’re a damned good man at your job,
Battle. I shall always think of Scotland Yard with respect.”
“Most amazing,” muttered George. “Most amazing story I ever heard. I—I
can really hardly believe it. You are quite sure, Baron, that——”
“My dear Mr. Lomax,” said Anthony, with a slight hardness in his tone, “I
have no intention of asking the British Foreign Office to support my claim
without bringing forward the most convincing documentary evidence. I
suggest that we adjourn now, and that you, the Baron, Mr. Isaacstein and
myself discuss the terms of the proposed loan.”
The Baron rose to his feet, and clicked his heels together.
“It will be the proudest moment of my life, sir,” he said solemnly, “when I
see you King of Herzoslovakia.”
“Oh, by the way, Baron,” said Anthony carelessly, slipping his hand through
the other’s arm, “I forgot to tell you. There’s a string tied to this. I’m
married, you know.”
The Baron retreated a step or two. Dismay overspread his countenance.
“Something wrong I knew there would be,” he boomed. “Merciful God in
Heaven! He has married a black woman in Africa!”
“Come, come, it’s not so bad as all that,” said Anthony, laughing. “She’s
white enough—white all through, bless her.”
“Good. A respectable morganatic affair it can be, then.”
“Not a bit of it. She’s to play Queen to my King. It’s no use shaking your
head. She’s fully qualified for the post. She’s the daughter of an English
peer who dates back to the time of the Conqueror. It’s very fashionable just

now for Royalties to marry into the aristocracy—and she knows something
of Herzoslovakia.”
“My God!” cried George Lomax, startled out of his usual careful speech.
“Not—not—Virginia Revel?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “Virginia Revel.”
“My dear fellow,” cried Lord Caterham, “I mean—sir, I congratulate you, I
do indeed. A delightful creature.”
“Thank you, Lord Caterham,” said Anthony. “She’s all you say and more.”
But Mr. Isaacstein was regarding him curiously.
“You’ll excuse my asking your Highness, but when did this marriage take
place?”
Anthony smiled back at him.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I married her this morning.”

30
Anthony Signs on for a New Job
“If you will go on, gentlemen, I will follow you in a minute,” said Anthony.
He waited whilst the others filed out, and then turned to where
Superintendent Battle was standing apparently absorbed in examining the
panelling.
“Well, Battle? Want to ask me something, don’t you?”
“Well, I do, sir, though I don’t know how you knew I did. But I always
marked you out as being specially quick in the uptake. I take it that the lady
who is dead was the late Queen Varaga?”
“Quite right, Battle. It’ll be hushed up, I hope. You can understand what I
feel about family skeletons.”
“Trust Mr. Lomax for that, sir. No one will ever know. That is, a lot of
people will know, but it won’t get about.”
“Was that what you wanted to ask me about?”
“No, sir—that was only in passing. I was curious to know just what made
you drop your own name—if I’m not taking too much of a liberty?”
“Not a bit. I’ll tell you. I killed myself from the purest motives, Battle. My
mother was English, I’d been educated in England, and I was far more
interested in England than in Herzoslovakia. And I felt an absolute fool
knocking about the world with a comic opera title tacked on to me. You see,
when I was very young, I had democratic ideas. Believed in the purity of
ideals, and the equality of all men. I especially disbelieved in Kings and
Princes.”
“And since then?” asked Battle shrewdly.
“Oh, since then, I’ve travelled and seen the world. There’s damned little
equality going about. Mind you, I still believe in democracy. But you’ve got
to force it on people with a strong hand—ram it down their throats. Men
don’t want to be brothers—they may some day, but they don’t now. My

final belief in the Brotherhood of Man died the day I arrived in London last
week, when I observed the people standing in a Tube train resolutely refuse
to move up and make room for those who entered. You won’t turn people
into angels by appealing to their better natures just yet awhile—but by
judicious force you can coerce them into behaving more or less decently to
one another to go on with. I still believe in the Brotherhood of Man, but it’s
not coming yet awhile. Say another ten thousand years or so. It’s no good
being impatient. Evolution is a slow process.”
“I’m very interested in these views of yours, sir,” said Battle with a twinkle.
“And if you’ll allow me to say so, I’m sure you’ll make a very fine King
out there.”
“Thank you, Battle,” said Anthony with a sigh.
“You don’t seem very happy about it, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I dare say it will be rather fun. But it’s tying oneself
down to regular work. I’ve always avoided that before.”
“But you consider it your duty, I suppose, sir?”
“Good Lord, no! What an idea. It’s a woman—it’s always a woman, Battle.
I’d do more than be a King for her sake.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“I’ve arranged it so that the Baron and Isaacstein can’t kick. The one wants
a King and the other wants oil. They’ll both get what they want, and I’ve
got—Oh, Lord, Battle, have you ever been in love?”
“I am much attached to Mrs. Battle, sir.”
“Much attached to Mrs.—Oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about! It’s
entirely different!”
“Excuse me, sir, that man of yours is waiting outside the window.”
“Boris? So he is. He’s a wonderful fellow. It’s a mercy that pistol went off
in the struggle and killed the lady. Otherwise Boris would have wrung her
neck as sure as Fate, and then you would have wanted to hang him. His
attachment to the Obolovitch dynasty is remarkable. The queer thing was
that as soon as Michael was dead he attached himself to me—and yet he
couldn’t possibly have known who I really was.”

“Instinct,” said Battle. “Like a dog.”
“Very awkward instinct I thought it at the time. I was afraid it might give
the show away to you. I suppose I’d better see what he wants.”
He went out through the window. Superintendent Battle, left alone, looked
after him for a minute, then apparently addressed the panelling.
“He’ll do,” said Superintendent Battle.
Outside, Boris explained himself.
“Master,” said he, and led the way along the terrace.
Anthony followed him, wondering what was forward.
Presently Boris stopped and pointed with his forefinger. It was moonlight,
and in front of them was a stone seat on which sat two figures.
“He is a dog,” said Anthony to himself. “And what’s more, a pointer!”
He strode forward. Boris melted into the shadows.
The two figures rose to meet him. One of them was Virginia—the other
——
“Hullo, Joe,” said a well remembered voice. “This is a great girl of yours.”
“Jimmy McGrath, by all that’s wonderful,” cried Anthony. “How in the
name of fortune did you get here?”
“That trip of mine into the interior went phut. Then some Dagos came
monkeying round. Wanted to buy that manuscript off me. Next thing I as
near as nothing got a knife in the back one night. That made me think that
I’d handed you out a bigger job than I knew. I thought you might need help,
and I came along after you by the very next boat.”
“Wasn’t it splendid of him?” said Virginia. She squeezed Jimmy’s arm.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me how frightfully nice he was? You are, Jimmy,
you’re a perfect dear.”
“You two seem to be getting along all right,” said Anthony.
“Sure thing,” said Jimmy. “I was snooping round for news of you, when I
connected with this dame. She wasn’t at all what I thought she’d be—some
swell haughty Society lady that’d scare the life out of me.”

“He told me all about the letters,” said Virginia. “And I feel almost ashamed
not to have been in real trouble over them when he was such a knight-
errant.”
“If I’d known what you were like,” said Jimmy gallantly, “I’d not have
given him the letters. I’d have brought them to you myself. Say, young man,
is the fun really over? Is there nothing for me to do?”
“By Jove,” said Anthony, “there is! Wait a minute.”
He disappeared into the house. In a minute or two he returned with a paper
package which he cast into Jimmy’s arms.
“Go round to the garage and help yourself to a likely looking car. Beat it to
London and deliver that parcel at 17, Everdean Square. That’s Mr.
Balderson’s private address. In exchange he’ll hand you a thousand
pounds.”
“What? It’s not the Memoirs? I understood that they’d been burnt.”
“What do you take me for?” demanded Anthony. “You don’t think I’d fall
for a story like that, do you? I rang up the publishers at once, found out that
the other was a fake call, and arranged accordingly. I made up a dummy
package as I’d been directed to do. But I put the real package in the
Manager’s safe and handed over the dummy. The Memoirs have never been
out of my possession.”
“Bully for you, my son,” said Jimmy.
“Oh, Anthony,” cried Virginia. “You’re not going to let them be published?”
“I can’t help myself. I can’t let a pal like Jimmy down. But you needn’t
worry. I’ve had time to wade through them, and I see now why people
always hint that bigwigs don’t write their own reminiscences but hire some
one to do it for them. As a writer, Stylptitch is an insufferable bore. He
proses on about statecraft, and doesn’t go in for any racy and indiscreet
anecdotes. His ruling passion of secrecy held strong to the end. There’s not
a word in the Memoirs from beginning to end to flutter the susceptibilities
of the most difficult politician. I rang up Balderson to-day, and arranged
with him that I’d deliver the manuscript to-night before midnight. But
Jimmy can do his own dirty work now that’s he’s here.”

“I’m off,” said Jimmy. “I like the idea of that thousand pounds—especially
when I’d made up my mind I was down and out.”
“Half a second,” said Anthony. “I’ve got a confession to make to you,
Virginia. Something that every one else knows, but that I haven’t yet told
you.”
“I don’t mind how many strange women you’ve loved so long as you don’t
tell me about them.”
“Women!” said Anthony, with a virtuous air. “Women indeed? You ask
James here what kind of women I was going about with last time he saw
me.”
“Frumps,” said Jimmy solemnly. “Utter frumps. Not one a day under forty-
five.”
“Thank you, Jimmy,” said Anthony, “you’re a true friend. No, it’s much
worse than that. I’ve deceived you as to my real name.”
“Is it very dreadful?” said Virginia, with interest. “It isn’t something silly
like Pobbles, is it? Fancy being called Mrs. Pobbles.”
“You are always thinking the worst of me.”
“I admit that I did once think you were King Victor, but only for about a
minute and a half.”
“By the way, Jimmy, I’ve got a job for you—gold prospecting in the rocky
fastnesses of Herzoslovakia.”
“Is there gold there?” asked Jimmy eagerly.
“Sure to be,” said Anthony. “It’s a wonderful country.”
“So you’re taking my advice and going there?”
“Yes,” said Anthony. “Your advice was worth more than you knew. Now for
the confession. I wasn’t changed at nurse, or anything romantic like that,
but nevertheless I am really Prince Nicholas Obolovitch of Herzoslovakia.”
“Oh, Anthony,” cried Virginia. “How perfectly screaming! And I have
married you! What are we going to do about it?”