Richard Frencham Altar awoke betimes—as a fact he had been disturbed when the four o'clock patrol came round but subsequently slept for another spell. In the shuffle up he had changed the order of his companions and as he opened his eyes for the second time he found himself beside an old lady, generously skirted and shawled, who wore a hat from which the bare quills of several ostrich feathers pointed this way and that in raffish confusion. In her lap was a sack containing her various possessions. Richard watched dreamily as she emptied its contents upon the pavement and sorted them out in some kind of order. The proceeding was vaguely reminiscent of a barrack room kit inspection. So far as he could judge she was separating wardrobe from larder, the two having become painfully confused during the preceding day's march. To one inexpert in such matters it would have been hard to decide which was eatable and which wearable, and Richard observed the operation with a mixture of amusement and disgust. Having discovered her breakfast and selected a piece of rag to act as napkin, tablecloth, and subsequently a face towel, the old lady restored the remainder of her effects to the 'valise' and fell to. Noticing Richard was awake she addressed him in a singularly soprano voice.
"I'm up a bit early today," she remarked and added "Lovely air, isn't it?"
The unexpected aestheticism of the remark robbed him of speech. Ho had looked for mutterings or execrations but instead here was amiability and appreciation overriding adversity. A powerful desire possessed him to shake hands with his new acquaintance, but he did not risk it, being unacquainted with the proper etiquette of the benches. Recovering his composure he agreed about the pleasant quality of the air and threw in a word of praise for the sparrows.
"Dear little things," said the old lady over the grey crust to which she was applying a single tooth. Having gnawed off a corner she threw a glance at him. "Just come down?" she questioned.
Richard nodded.
"My first night," he said, "and I've rarely spent a better, though I confess I should enjoy a shave and a wash."
"There's a bit of mirror in the tobacconist," she nodded over her shoulder. "I often freshen up in front of it when the mood takes me. Many's the hat I've changed before that glass. But then I don't bother much these days." Once again her critical glance came in his direction. "After a time one loses interest, y'know."
The sentiment struck Richard chillily.
"And yet," he said, "you appear to have kept in touch with cheerfulness."
"Ah, but I'm old," she answered, "and to old people one thing's as good as another. But if I was you I wouldn't be content."
"I've no intention of being content," he said. "I just happen to have hit the rocks but I'll get sailing again one of these days."
"Well I'm glad to hear you say so, and now I must toddle along."
He asked what employment could engage her at so early an hour.
"I'm going to pick over the dustbins in Bond Street," she returned, and added "You never know what you'll find. Only you must be early. Goo' morning." And with a sunny smile the disreputable old thing shuffled away warbling a snatch of song as she went.
"By Jove," said Richard, "I suppose that's about what I'm doing—picking over dustbins and wondering what I shall find."
He looked across the park to where the golden orb of the sun was rising over the tree tops and lifted his hat in salutation.
"Good morning, day," he said. "Your servant to command. Gad! but I could do with some breakfast."
He rose and walked briskly toward Knightsbridge. The coffee stall by Hyde Park Corner attracted his attention. A few early carters and an occasional loafer were gathered about it and the smell of victuals was tempting. Richard noticed the driver of a large dray was leaning against the railings pouring tea into the saucer of his cup. He was a big man and his apparel was conspicuous by the fact that he wore a collar but no tie. The omission suggested an idea.
"Do you want a tie by any chance?" Richard asked and listened to a highly decorated ambition to know what he was talking about.
"Only this," he answered. "I've a notion I could do with some breakfast and it occurred to me as you might like to buy me one in exchange for a perfectly good Etonian tie."
For a space the driver examined Richard's necktie in thoughtful silence and his expression softened.
"I reckon that 'ud suit me," he observed judicially.
"It would," said Richard, "and a hard boiled egg would suit me with a cup of coffee to moisten it."
Somehow the absence of a tie seemed to ease the passage of the simple fare down his gullet and Richard felt twice his own man as he turned jubilantly into the park and swung along the lower walk. The breakfast had heartened him and he was ready to face the future with a bold front.
"I'll take a bit of a constitutional," he said, "and later on roll round to a labour bureau and see what's doing."
He paused for a moment by the rails of Rotten Row and watched some early horsemen canter by. In one of them he recognised an old acquaintance and instinctively covered the lower half of his face with his hand. His chin felt prickly to the touch for his beard had grown rapidly during the night. As a scrupulous twice-a-day shaver his senses rebelled at the notion of weed upon his face. However, it was useless to lament over trifles like that.
"I know," he said to himself. "A dip in the Serpentine."
A quarter of an hour later he was cutting through the water with long powerful strokes. On returning to the shore he had the good fortune to borrow a cake of soap from another bather who appeared, from the modesty of his folded garments, to be in equally hazardous financial circumstances.
"To tell the honest truth," his new acquaintance confided, "I bagged that bit of soap from a Great Eastern Railway carriage. Managed to nip in and collar it when no one was looking. Suppose I'm a thief of sorts but a man loses self respect if he doesn't wash."
They sat side by side until the pale sunlight had partially dried them.
"You broke?" Richard queried.
The man shook his head seriously.
"No, I'm a millionaire," he replied, "only I haven't any money—not a bean. Spent it all making myself rich. Look at this."
He untied a string that circled his neck. (Richard had noticed the string and a small linen bag it supported.) He opened the bag and produced a piece of yellow metal about the size of a lump of sugar.
"It's gold," he said.
Richard agreed that it looked like gold and asked where he found it.
"I made it," came the astonishing reply. "You needn't worry, it is gold all right. Bear any test." He restored it to the bag. "Seems stupid," he went on, "that here am I, with the knowledge to command millions, and I haven't a sou in my pocket. Cheap process, too, once you've got the plant. Dirt cheap. 'Course it's getting the plant's the trouble. No one'll believe me. Disheartening. Took that sample to the Bank of England—they asked me where I bought it—bought it! Lord! Oh well—one of these days, I suppose. Meet again perhaps. G'bye."
And with a cheery wave of the hand he vaulted the railings and ran lightly across the grass.
"I'm damned," said Richard. "If a fellow like that can make gold it follows to reason I ought to be able to make good."
It was after nine o'clock when Richard turned down the Earl's Court Road. He stopped before a small sweet stuff shop, attracted by a card in the window which read, "Letters may be addressed here, 1d."
"I suppose a man, even in my circumstances, ought to have a town address," he argued. "After all, one never knows."
Accordingly he entered and registered under the modest name of John Tidd. To the little old lady who wrote it down in a small laundry book devoted to the purpose, he said he was probably going abroad and later might send a request to forward correspondence. It was a dignified and pleasant transaction although he was conscious of a feeling that he would have created a more agreeable impression had he retained his necktie.
Coming out of the shop he fell into line with the tide of city workers moving southward to the underground station. These were the nobility of commerce who picked up the reins of office at nine forty-five—persons of substance in no way to be confused with the eight-thirty worker. It was an honourable association to walk down the Earl's Court Road in such company. Richard swung along at an even gait with an important looking individual in a hard felt hat to the right of him and a stout gentleman with a King Edward beard to the left. The three entered Earl's Court Station abreast and approached the barrier, where Richard stepped aside and let them pass through. Leaning against the grill gates was a man reading a folded copy of theDaily Sketch. He looked at Richard for an instant, then looked again searchingly. The repeated action attracted Richard's notice and their eyes met.
"Hardly worth while, is it?" said the man.
"I beg your pardon," Richard returned.
"Oh, that's quite all right—but I really wouldn't bother with it." He pointed at the opening of Richard's waistcoat and smiled. "That's rather a sound notion—no tie—distracts the eye from looking too keenly at the face. You nearly passed me."
"To be perfectly frank," Richard answered, "I shouldn't have bought crêpe if I had."
The man laughed.
"Getting pretty sick of it, aren't you?" he queried.
A sure conviction possessed Richard that he was in the presence of a lunatic.
"On the contrary," he replied, "I'm just beginning to enjoy myself."
"Well, well, there's no accounting for tastes. But I should have thought you'd have had enough of railway stations. Better go home and stay there."
Richard shook his head sympathetically.
"Try taking a little more soda in it," he suggested. "You'd be a different man inside a week. So long."
The watcher by the gate was smiling pleasantly to himself as Richard turned away.
It was nearly one o'clock when his wanderings brought him back to the neighbourhood of Piccadilly. He had spent the intervening hours, with little enough success, at the labour bureau in Westminster. From there he had walked across the Mall and found an empty bench under the trees in Green Park looking up Park Lane. He had hardly seated himself when he saw a man come out of a big doorway opposite and hurry eastward in the direction of Piccadilly Circus. Even at the distance Richard had no difficulty in recognising the diner who overnight had nodded to him at the Berkeley.
"Half a mind to give him a shout," he thought, but on reflection "I don't know though, he seems in the deuce of a hurry and I can't imagine he's any work to give away."
It would have saved Cranbourne a lot of trouble if he had followed his first inclination.
Not a word had been received from Cranbourne. From the moment he left Lord Almont's flat he disappeared completely. That was Cranbourne's way, for once an idea started in his brain he rested not until it has been realised or disproved. He had given himself three days to find a human duplicate of Barraclough and among a population of seven millions the task was no easy one. His quarry had dined at the Berkeley on the twenty-fourth instant but beyond that point information languished. The redoubtable Brown, prince of head waiters, who knew the affairs of most of his customers as intimately as his own, was able to offer little or no assistance. He remembered the gentleman who had dined alone in a tweed suit and had said something about having no dress clothes. He believed he had seen him in uniform during the earlier parts of the war but couldn't recall the regiment. Had an impression he paid for his dinner with the last of the notes in his pocket but that might mean nothing. "A pleasant gentleman, spoke crisply and had a smile." John, of the cloakroom, recalled a half crown thrown on his little counter in return for a soft hat—"Wait a bit, sir, by a Manchester hatter I believe," and a rainproof coat "rather thinnish and brown."
The Manchester hat stuck in Cranbourne's throat a trifle since it widened the circle of enquiry.
The porter at the revolving door believed the gentleman had gone toward Piccadilly—walking. Yes, he was sure he hadn't taken a cab. Gave him a shilling and five coppers.
Cranbourne thanked them and spent the rest of the day passing in and out of every well known grill room in London. It was sound enough reasoning but it brought no results. At twelve o'clock the same night he paid a flying visit to all the dancing rooms—Murray's, Giro's, Rector's, The Embassy, Savoy and half a dozen others. At three o'clock he rang up Daimler's, hired a car and drove to Brighton because many men come up from Brighton by day and bring no evening clothes. Besides the time of his departure from the Berkeley plus a walk to Victoria Station more or less synchronised with the down train to Brighton. He spent the best part of the following day racing through hotel lists and looking up visitors at Brighton, Eastbourne, Hastings and Folkestone. He was back in Town again by 7.30, at the Theatre Library, where he bought a single ticket for twelve musical plays and revues selecting them from the class of entertainment Barraclough himself would have been likely to attend. It was a restless evening, dashing from one place to another and sorting over the audiences in the narrow margin of time allowed by intervals. Afterwards he spent an hour by the fountain in Piccadilly Circus keenly examining the thousands of passers-by.
It was very late indeed when he struck one hand against the other and cried out,
"Oh, my Lord, what a fool I am."
A new significance had suddenly suggested itself as a result of Brown's repetition of the mysterious diner's remark, "I repeat I have no evening clothes." Cranbourne had taken it to imply that there had been no time to dress but why not accept it literally.
Two whole days wasted looking at men in white shirt fronts and black coats!
"Lord, what an idiot I am. Alter your line of thought and alter it quick."
He began to walk briskly, muttering to himself as he strode along.
"No dress clothes—deuce of an appetite. Chap who had scraped up a few guineas perhaps to do himself well—on the bust. No, that won't do. Ordered his dinner too well for that. Had the air of a man accustomed to the best places. Brown said so. A shilling and five coppers to the porter. Queer kind of tip! What in blazes was the fellow doing? What sort of company does he keep?"
Cranbourne jumped into a taxi and returned to the Berkeley. It was closed but a night porter admitted him.
"Look here, I want to get hold of Brown," he said.
"You're in luck, sir," the man returned. "One of our visitors 'as been giving a supper and Mr. Brown was in charge. If 'e 'asn't gone I'll try and get him for you."
He returned a moment later with Brown following.
"Tremendously sorry," said Cranbourne, "but I want to ask you a few more questions about that fellow I spoke of."
"I've been thinking about him myself, sir, and one or two things have come to mind. Remembered his tie for instance."
"Yes."
"Old Etonian colours," said Brown.
Cranbourne nodded enthusiastically.
"Anything else?"
"I was looking over his bill this afternoon and it seems to me he did himself too well to be natural. Rare for a man by himself to order a long dinner like that. Then again he looked at the prices on the menu just as if he meant to spend up to a certain amount. Something odd in that—unusual. But I'm pretty sure it was in his mind, sir."
"And you believe he spent the last of his notes."
"Certain of it."
"What's your idea?"
"He was very hungry—eat everything put before him. I should say—'course it's only a guess——"
"Well?"
"He'd gone a bit short and was wanting that meal."
"Did he seem depressed?"
"Not a bit. Rather amused. But it struck me when he got up he looked like a man saying goodbye to his mother."
"How old should you think?"
"Thirty-two or three."
"Old Etonian tie?"
"Yes."
"You're a man of experience, Brown," said Cranbourne. "Ever known a case of a chap who's on the point of going under, blueing the last of his cash on one big dinner?"
"I should just think so. There's a type does that sort of thing."
"His type?"
"Or one very like it."
"Many thanks. You've helped me no end. Now I'll get a taxi and drive to Windsor. Goodnight."
Just beyond the Ritz he found a taxi willing to undertake the journey.It was a pity he found it so easily for a hundred yards further downthe slope the man he sought was sleeping fitfully on a bench facingGreen Park.
It was not a lucky drive since it included three punctures and some engine trouble. They came into Windsor about 7.30 in the morning. Cranbourne made a hurried breakfast and set out to interview the photographers of the town. The particular one he sought did not arrive until nearly nine but on being questioned proved himself amiable and anxious to help. He produced Eton school groups of fifteen years antiquity and Cranbourne spent an hour anxiously scanning the faces of the boys in the hope of tracing a likeness to Barraclough. But boys are very much alike and very dissimilar from the men they grow into and though there were several dozen who might well have passed for Barraclough in infancy no particular one could have been selected with positive assurance. Cranbourne made a list of twenty names and Frencham Altar's was not among them.
Rather despondent he said goodbye to the photographer and entered the taxi.
"Think I'll go back by the Bath Road," said the driver, "it's a better surface."
"Please yourself," said Cranbourne and settled himself within.
He was beginning to feel a trifle done. His eyes had the sense of having been sand papered and his lips were dry and parched from want of rest. He glanced at his watch and shook his head.
"Only thirteen hours left," he said and closed his eyes.
Sleep comes very suddenly to the weary—like a pistol shot out of the dark. Cranbourne's head pitched forward against his chest and his hands slithered inertly from his knees.
He awoke with a start to the sound of smashing glass, a sharp rattle of imprecations and a sense of being turned upside down. The front nearside wheel of the taxi was in a ditch, the wind screen broken and a large dray horse was trying to put its fore hoof through the buckled bonnet. The taxi driver had fallen out and lay cursing gently on the grass slope to the left, one of his legs was up to the knee in water. Through the offside window Cranbourne caught a glimpse of the man in charge of the dray horses—a powerful person, high perched, his weight thrown bask against the tightened reins—his face purple with effort. From his mouth came an admirable flow of oaths, choicely adjusted to suit the occasion. Then Cranbourne saw something else. Beneath the man's vibrating jaw showed the pleasant colours of an Old Etonian tie. There could be no mistaking it—neither could there be any reason why the driver of a Covent Garden dray should exhibit such an ensign.
Cranbourne let the window down with a bang, stuck out his head and shouted,
"Where the devil did you get that tie?"
It is not hard to believe that this remark, apparently so irrelevant, did little to calm an already excited situation. The driver loosed his hold upon the reins, seized his whip and slashed it at Cranbourne's head. Cranbourne caught the whistling thong and tugged hard, with the result that the driver, who held on to the butt, lost his balance, pitched forward on to the flank of the nearside dray horse and rolled harmlessly on to the road. Cranbourne embraced the opportunity to get out, seized the bit rings of both horses and backed them away from the debris of the taxi.
Meanwhile the driver picked himself up and removed his coat as a proper preliminary to engagement.
"Put 'em up," he invited Cranbourne. "Put 'um up, you——" but the descriptive titles he employed do not affect the narrative.
Cranbourne shook his head and tugged a note case from his pocket.
"Five pounds," he said, "if you answer my question. Where did you get it?"
The driver exhibited some sample upper cuts and left hooks and beseeched Cranbourne to guard himself. But Cranbourne detached a fiver from its fellows and extended it temptingly.
"Don't you see I'm in earnest, man?"
The tone of his voice had a sobering effect and the amateur pugilist ceased manoeuvring.
"Why do you want to know?" he demanded.
"Never mind that—take the money and tell me."
"I got it," said the driver, "from a blame fool at the coffee stall by Hyde Park Corner. Bought 'im a doorstep and a ball of chalk b'way of return."
"When was this?"
"Day before yesterday—six o'clock in the morning."
"And what was he like?"
The answer clinched it.
"Was he shaved?"
"No."
"Broke?"
"I reckon. Been sleepin' out by the looks of 'im."
"Seen him since?"
"Couldn't be sure. Maybe it was 'im I saw sleepin' on the bench by the Shelter 'Ouse in Piccadilly 'bout four this morning. There was a bloke there with a soft 'at and a brown coat."
Cranbourne produced another fiver and pushed it into the man's hand.
"You're the best fellow I've met in years," he said. Then turning to the taxi driver, "Get home as best you can. I'm going to look for a lift. Here's my card. I'll stand your losses on this."
He looked over his shoulder at the sound of a persistent croaking. A long grey Vauxhall car with a special body was coming down the road at speed. Cranbourne ran forward in its track, waving his arms. The man at the wheel looked over and braked. The big car did a double two way skid, tore serpentine ruts on the metalled road surface and stopped.
"Trying to get killed?" asked its owner sweetly. "'Cos you seem to have got the right idea of doing it."
"I want to get to Town and get there quick," said Cranbourne.
"So do I," said the man at the wheel, grinning amiably, "but it's a daily habit of mine. In you get!"
"By gad," said Cranbourne, leaping in as the car began to move, "I believe you come straight from heaven."
"I come from the Slough Trading Company as a matter of fact," said the young man, running through his gears from first to top like a pianist playing a scale. "Hope you don't mind a bit of noise. She talks some when she's moving."
He trod hard on the accelerator and somewhere behind a machine gun opened fire, at first articulately and then, as the pace increased, becoming an inarticulate solid roar. The beat of the engine, the sense of speed and the rush of the wind past his ears infected Cranbourne with a fierce exhilaration.
"Bless your heart," he shouted, "keep her at it."
"You bet," came the response.
"Gad, she can move. You must have pretty urgent business to push her along like this."
"Want to buy some collars as a matter of fact," said the young man."No point wasting time on a job of that kind."
At the flat in Albemarle Street Anthony Barraclough sat alone devouring a grilled steak. He was reticent of speech and every now and then he shot a glance at the clock. In the golden shadows beyond the rays of the table lamp, Doran, his servant, stood in silent attention to his master's wants.
Doran was a person of understanding and one of the few people in the world who shared a measure of Barraclough's confidence. A late corporal of the Black Watch, he had reverted to act as Barraclough's batman throughout the major portion of the war. Rather a curious mixture was Doran. He had a light hand for an omelette and a heavy fist in a mix up, a sense of humour in adversity and a seriousness in ordinary affairs of daily life, a shrewd observer, a flawless servant and a staunch ally. Very little got past Frederic Doran.
Barraclough shook his head at a bundle of cheese straws and lit a cigarette.
"Get those things for me?" he asked.
"They're in the dressing room, sir."
"Let's have a look."
Doran retired and returned almost immediately with a complete fireman's outfit. Barraclough tried on the helmet and nodded approvingly.
"Good enough. Stick 'em somewhere out of sight." And while Doran obeyed he added, "Damn silly idea, isn't it?"
"I haven't heard it, sir."
"Oh, it has its points, I suppose. See, I've got to get clear of here tonight and if—well—another scheme fails—I'm going to have a shot at it this way. At eleven forty-five you'll go out and ring up some fire engines."
"Just so, sir."
"I shall burn brown paper in that grate with the register closed. Windows open at the bottom—plenty of smoke—effect of flames produced by switching off and on the electric light. It ought to be good for a crowd of about ten thousand. Soon as the engines roll up I go out dressed as a fireman. Car at the top of St. James's Street. Coal train in a siding at Addison Road which pulls out at twelve five. Me under a tarpaulin somewhere. Whoosh! Gone!"
"And after that, sir?"
"Ah!" said Barraclough, "that's another story."
"Do you fancy it much yourself, sir?"
"Lord knows! The crowd ought to help. Reduces the odds in my favour a bit."
"At quarter to twelve, sir?"
"Um. That'll be after the gentlemen have gone. Clear away this stuff and put out some drinks. They'll be here at ten thirty. I'm going to change into something thinner, that won't brush up under that fireman gear. Got those notes?"
"Here, sir."
Doran produced a bulky package of bank notes.
"Good man."
He nodded and entered the bedroom to which there was a door below the fireplace.
A little later the bell rang imperatively, followed by a tattoo on the knocker.
"Who's that?" came from Barraclough's voice behind the closed door.
"Don't know, sir."
"What's time?"
"Ten past."
"They can't have arrived yet. Say I'm out."
Doran withdrew and returned almost immediately.
"Sir, there's——"
Barraclough threw open the door and came into the room. He was in trousers and a shirt and was fastening a tie.
"Well?"
"It's Miss Irish, sir. I said you were out but she didn't believe me.Insisted on coming in."
"Lord, that's awkward. Where did you leave her?"
"The smoking room."
"Say what she wanted?"
"To see you, sir—very imperative."
Barraclough bit his moustache and glanced at the clock.
"Hm! I've ten minutes. Yes, all right. If the gentlemen arrive meanwhile put 'em in the smoking room. Get a coat. Shan't be a second."
He disappeared into the bedroom and Doran went out to fetch Isabel.
"If you'll take a chair, miss, he won't keep you a moment. The evening paper?"
"No," she said, "no."
It was a very different Isabel from the curled up little person who sat on the cushions. Her face was white and tense—her mouth drawn in a line of determination. She shook her head at the offer of a chair and waved Doran to go away.
"Tony," she called as soon as the door had closed. "Tony."
He came into the room buttoning his coat.
"I say, my dear, you shouldn't have come here—really—really you shouldn't," he said.
"I had to—had to," she repeated.
"You mustn't stay—these people'll be here directly."
"Horrible money people," she returned, "and you'd send me away for them."
"I told you——" he began.
"You told me they'd found an easy way for you to get out—a safe way.It isn't true."
"How do you know?" was startled from him.
"I found out tonight from Lord Almont. Danced with him—made a fool of him—pretended I knew all about it—pretended I was sorry there was not going to be any excitement in the thing. Said I really only cared for men who tackled danger. Looked at him as though I thought he was wonderful."
"I'll smash that fellow's head," said Barraclough grimly.
"You needn't—he's loyal enough. Thought he was doing you a good turn—both of us a good turn. Said it wasn't going to be quite so easy as you'd expected. So now I know you see—know it's going to be horridly, hideously dangerous."
"Oh, my dear," he said, "why didn't you leave it alone?"
"I'm not the sort," she answered. "Where I love, Tony, I—I protect."
"You've a life time ahead to protect me in," he said.
"I'm going to do it now," said she. "You're not going, Tony."
"Listen," said Barraclough very earnestly, "there can't be any interference in this. A false move now might ruin everything. If they knew I was making a dash tonight——"
"They will know."
"How?"
"I shall tell them."
He shook his head. "Hardly, my dear. Besides I don't think you know who to tell."
"You forget the letter you showed me. Mr. Van Diest might be interested."
"I showed you that letter in confidence. You wouldn't betray——"
"Oh, wouldn't I? I'd betray any confidence that would keep you safe."
"It's lovely of you," he began.
"And I shall do it too," she cut in.
"Oh, very well," said Barraclough coldly.
Her arms went round his neck and drew his cheek to hers.
"Would you stop loving me if I did?"
"I couldn't stop loving you whatever happened."
"Oh, Tony, take me with you. I wouldn't mind then. I've promised to share my life with you—aren't I good to share a single danger?"
"Much too good."
She released her hold and stood away.
"So it's as grave as all that," said she. "Very well, if you refuse I shan't marry you."
"You don't mean that?"
"Give me a bible—I'll swear it."
"Isabel!"
"You have two alternatives. Take me with you or tell me where this place is."
"What use would the knowledge be to you?"
"All the use. If they got you I know very well they'd never make you speak. You—you wouldn't."
He nodded gravely at that.
"But I should. It 'ud give me the power to bail you out. Do you understand now?"
"I understand I should be every sort of a coward if I told you on those terms."
"Oh, you man—you man," she cried. "Well, you've the choice."
"To tell or lose you?"
"Yes."
In the silence that followed an electric bell rang sharply.
"There they are," he exclaimed.
"Be quick, I'm waiting," she said.
"Can't you accept my word that it's better you shouldn't know?"
"You've the choice," she repeated.
Anthony Barraclough looked round him desperately, then he spoke very fast.
"If I tell you you'll do nothing—say nothing till eleven o'clock this day three weeks?"
"I promise."
The words that followed rattled out like a hail of shrapnel.
"Brewster's Series nineteen. Map twenty-four. Square F. North twenty-seven. West thirty-three."
"I'll write it down."
"No, no, you won't," he cried. "I've fulfilled my part of the bargain and you've forgotten it already."
She fixed him with her clear blue eyes, square lidded and earnest.
"Brewster's Series nineteen. Map twenty-four. Square F. North twenty-seven. West thirty-three," she said.
He looked at her in sheer amazement.
"You wonder! You absolute wonder!" he gasped.
"If I were dead I should remember that," she said. "It's stuck for good." She touched her forehead, then quite suddenly her body went limp and tilted against him. "Oh, but if only it were over," she whispered huskily. "If only it were all—all over. Kiss me, please."
"Never fear," he said, his arms tightening round her. "Never fear. I couldn't fail with you waiting for me."
He kissed her again and again.
"Dear blessed beautiful little love of mine! Look, I'll take one of your flowers as a mascot."
"Hedge rose," she said and started. "It means hope, Tony."
"Hope it is, my dear. God bless you."
They stood apart as the door opened and Doran came in to announce the arrival of the gentlemen.
"All right. Attend to the front door. Miss Irish is going."
Doran went out and Barraclough turned to Isabel.
"Will you grin for me just once?" he begged.
The small face went pluckily into lines of humour.
"Not a very nice grin, Tony."
"The best in the world," said he and hugged her close.
They passed out of the room together.
When Barraclough returned Mr. Torrington was leaning on his arm.Nugent Cassis and Lord Almont Frayne followed in the rear.
"I was sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Torrington," he apologised.
"Waiting? No, no. We were early. My train arrived at Waterloo this morning one minute ahead of time. It has put me out all day." The old gentleman lowered himself by sections into an elbow chair. "Heard from Cranbourne?"
Barraclough shook his head.
"Never expected you would," said Cassis shortly. "The whole scheme was waste of time. We don't live in Ruritania where doubles walk about arm in arm. Cranbourne has a bee in his bonnet."
"A whole hive," Lord Almont interjected.
"Perhaps," Mr. Torrington smiled, "but let us at least do him the justice to admit that they buzz very merrily."
Cassis shrugged his shoulders.
"Buzzing is of no value in the present circumstances."
Mr. Torrington continued to smile.
"Except so far as it helps our young friend here to buzz off," he said.
The modern slang on the lips of the octogenarian made Barraclough laugh. But the nerves of Nugent Cassis were frayed and laughter was an irritant.
"Let us keep to the point," he insisted. "Did you follow out those instructions I suggested?"
Barraclough nodded. The idea of the false fire came from Cassis and, like most of his schemes, suffered from complexity of detail. He began enumerating the points to be sure that all was in order.
Mr. Torrington shook his head and interrupted.
"A silly idea," he said, "clever but silly."
"If you have a better——"
Mr. Torrington put his fingers together and continued slowly.
"My method would be to go out through the main entrance wearing no hat and carrying a few letters for the post. There might be a cab waiting at the pillar box—to be exact there is, I ordered one."
"That's the idea," cried Almont. "Sweet and simple."
"That cab would dodge about the streets a while and eventually make its way to Wimbledon. At Wimbledon it would deposit Barraclough at Number 14a, Medina Road. He would enter the house and change into running shorts and a vest having appointed himself underneath with rather a large pneumatic stomach. Also he would wear a beard and a perfectly bald head. This done he would emerge from the house and start running in the middle of the road in whatever direction he likes with a man on a push bicycle pedalling behind him.
"But I can't see——" Cassis began.
"Precisely," said Mr. Torrington, "and nor could anyone else. Nobody sees the extraordinary individuals who run at night, they only laugh at them."
"If you ask me," said Cassis, drumming his fingers on the mantelpiece, "I am of opinion that we are merely losing time with all this talk and the sooner we get Barraclough away the better."
Mr. Torrington's eyes looked him coldly up and down.
"You should know me well enough, Cassis, to realise that when I lose time I lose it purposely. I am waiting for Cranbourne."
"Cranbourne's ideas are altogether too fantastic."
"We agreed to do nothing until eleven o'clock and it wants ten minutes to the hour."
"Not a very substantial margin to find Barraclough's double."
"It is as easy to find a man in ten minutes as in ten years—a mere matter of chance. For my own part I always favoured indifferent odds."
"By Jove, sir," exclaimed Barraclough, "you're my man. Damn the opposition. Damn the odds. We'll do it, what."
A measure of his enthusiasm infected the old man.
"We'll have a damn good try anyway."
"And if it comes to a rough and tumble——"
"Hit first and hit hardest."
An electric bell swizzed.
"He's there."
"Failed," grunted Cassis.
But Mr. Torrington's eyes were on the clock.
"Since he is five minutes ahead of time I imagine he has succeeded."
Doran came in.
"Mr. Cranbourne, sir."
"Alone?" Cassis rapped out the question like a pistol shot, but before there was time to answer Cranbourne burst into the room, his face aglow with excitement.
"I've done it," he said. "It's all right—terrific."
Lord Almont sprang to his feet.
"You don't mean?"
"Yes, I do."
"The real Mackay?"
"Alike as two postage stamps."
"Where've you got him?"
"Here, in your bathroom—changing."
"Changing?"
"Of course. Couldn't bring him as he was. They'd have spotted him for certain. So I draped him in a nurse's cloak and cap over his ordinary gear. Looked fine under a veil with his face painted pretty and pink. He's washing it off now."
"Is he like me?" said Barraclough.
"Like you!"
"How's he talk?"
"As you do. I'd have been here earlier only he was hungry—devilish hungry. He'd not eaten for best part of three days."
"But you saw him at the Berkeley."
"I know, that made it a bit difficult."
"Come on," said Barraclough, "let's hear all about it."
"Take too long. Had almost given up hope this morning, then I had a stroke of luck—hit a red hot trail—spent the day chasing through the West End staring at every man I saw. Got a glimpse of him at last in Clarges Street 'bout nine o'clock. Taxi with a heap of luggage drove up to a house and this chap came racing after it."
Cassis threw up his hands.
"Good heavens," he exclaimed, "a cab runner."
"Not he—down and out, that's all. I might easily have missed him for he'd grown a bit of a scrub on his chin during the last few days but when I saw the way he had of standing and that same trick of the head you've got I was sure enough. He's a sportsman, that chap, for he was wanting food and yet some decent restraint stopped him coming forward to help with the boxes. He'd meant to but at the last moment he shirked it. I could see him wrestling with himself—a step forward, then hesitating. At last the driver asked him to lend a hand with the biggest trunk and he shouldered it and carried it into the house. When he came out the fare was fumbling in his pocket for six-pences. It must have been the sight of this cut into his pride. He hadn't a cent of his own but something inside him rebelled. 'No, I'll be damned if I can,' he said and made off down the street. I picked him up on the bench by the cabbies' shelter ten minutes later. Made myself affable and asked if he'd care to turn an honest fifty. In fact I gave fifty as a bona fide. Told him to get himself shaved and roll round to Clarkson's to be fixed up in the nurse's gear—and get some food too."
"That was risky," remarked Lord Almont, "you might never have seen the jolly old bird again."
"I told you he was a gentleman, didn't I?"
Mr. Torrington leaned forward.
"Does he know what we want of him?"
"Roughly. I said it was to occupy a flat for three weeks."
"Ah! Barraclough, I am disposed to think you would do wisely to retire into the next room while we interview this young gentleman. The less he knows the better."
"Quite."
"There isn't a cupboard, I suppose, where you could fix yourself up with an easy chair until—well until the kidnapping is over."
"There's a wine cupboard."
"Excellent. We'll have a word together before you go."
There was a knock and Doran came in and addressed Cranbourne.
"The gentleman wishes to have a word with you, sir."
"Half a second," said Barraclough. "I'll slip out through the bedroom.There's a second door into the hall. Righto, Doran."
He disappeared, closing the door after him.
"The gentleman, sir," Doran announced.
Richard Frencham Altar came into the room. The privations of the preceding three days had paled him a trifle. His eyes glittered brightly and there was a hint of nervousness in the tenseness of his lower lip.
Doran went out. Richard closed the door and turned to face the company. Mr. Torrington leaned forward and as though by accident twitched down the table lamp shade that the light might be thrown on the newcomer's face. Lord Almont gasped and even Cassis was startled by the phenomenal likeness. Mr. Torrington nodded approval.
Richard's eyes went quickly from one to another. Then his hand moved to his throat and covered the empty space where his tie should have been. No one spoke and under the battery of glances his muscles tightened resentfully and his head jerked slightly to one side.
"Anything so very peculiar about my appearance?" he demanded.
Mr. Torrington was first to recover his composure and he rose with difficulty.
"You justly reproach our manners, Mr.—er——"
"Anything you like," said Richard, then with a flash of memory, "Oh, my name is Tidd—John Tidd."
"By gad, it's amazing," gasped Lord Almont.
Mr. Torrington waved his hand toward a chair but Richard shook his head.
"No, thanks—won't sit down. I came because I promised this gentleman to do so—but——"
"I find it a little trying to stand," said Mr. Torrington.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir. For a minute then."
With an air of unwillingness he occupied a chair.
"A little whiskey and soda?" Lord Almont suggested.
"Not for me."
"Cigarette?"
"Ah! I'm a pernicious smoker." He lighted a cigarette, turned to Mr.Torrington and nodded over his shoulder in the direction of Cranbourne."I'm afraid, sir, this gentleman took me at a disadvantage. To befrank, I was hungry."
Mr. Torrington shook his head despondently.
"As the senior member of a firm of dyspeptics, established for over fifty years, I envy you."
"You needn't, sir,—it was pretty crucial. He offered me fifty quid to occupy this flat for twenty-one days and to say 'no' to any question that might be asked. I wasn't myself at the time—I accepted. Since then I've had a good meal and that alters things. I hope, gentleman, I shall cause you no inconvenience if I recall my promise." No one replied and he went on. "My grub cost three and a bender and I spent a bob in cigarettes." He fished some notes and silver from his pocket and planked them on the table. "That's your change, gentlemen, if someone would be good enough to count it over. You don't mind, I hope, if I return the margin when I'm in a better position to do so. Goodnight, gentlemen." He rose, nodded to the company and walked to the door.
Mr. Torrington did not look in his direction. He spoke gently as though addressing an electric fitting on the wall facing him.
"I am sorry, Mr. Tidd, you are indisposed to remain. My friend had no thought of offending when he offered the temporary accommodation you have just returned. It was our intention to reward the services of whoever assisted us in this matter with a sum that a gentleman might have no embarrassment in accepting. We should have been pleased to place five thousand pounds to your account."
Richard span round sharply.
"Five thousand—for being a caretaker—you—you're joking—rather unkindly."
"On the contrary I am speaking very earnestly indeed." The tone of voice was sincere.
Again Richard looked from one to another.
"You're a funny crowd," he laughed. "Ha! damn funny. S'pose you're getting some sort of satisfaction out of it, but a man with a hole in the sole of his boot doesn't much fancy having his leg pulled. Goodnight."
But Nugent Cassis intervened between Richard and the door.
"We give you our word, Mr. Tidd, the sum mentioned will be at your disposal tomorrow three weeks if you agree to remain."
"Your words," said Richard with a touch of irony. "I suppose you wouldn't care to give me your names as a guarantee?"
"Assuredly," Mr. Torrington replied. "It was a mere oversight that we have hitherto neglected to do so." And in the courtliest manner he introduced the company by name.
"The devil," said Richard, "I knew who you were all right, but I didn't imagine you'd tell me. That—that makes a difference." He hesitated, then sat down abruptly. "Well, come along, gentlemen, what is it you want me to do?"
Nugent Cassis, as the specialist of detail, briefly outlined their requirements. He spoke coldly and without emphasis. The programme was simple. Mr. Tidd would assume the name of Barraclough, he would occupy these chambers, or wherever else circumstance might happen to take him, for a period of three weeks. At the end of that time he might reveal his identity or not as he pleased. It was understood, was it not, that he would refuse to answer any questions that might be put to him. This was a point of considerable importance since there was a likelihood that pressure might be employed to induce him to speak.
"I'm pretty close when I mean to be," said Richard. "But what is the answer?"
"As to that," Cassis replied, "I must ask you to contain your curiosity."
"Well, it shouldn't be hard to say I don't know."
Cassis hoped so devoutly.
"To tell the truth," said Mr. Torrington very sweetly, "we don't know the answer ourselves."
Richard shot a doubtful glance at him, but the seamed old face betrayed nothing of the purpose it concealed.
"It's all very mysterious," said Richard, "and I'm not sure I like the look of it."
"If you are nervous——" began Cassis icily.
"Nervous be damned," he retorted. "I'm not easily scared, but I'd like you to know this. I may have slipped down the ladder a bit, gentlemen, but I'm not altogether an outsider."
Lord Almont and Mr. Torrington made a duet with "My dear fellar!" and"We have already realised that, Mr. Tidd."
"So, if there's anything shady in the transaction?"
"Nothing."
Richard fixed on Cranbourne. "Political?"
"No."
"You've stirred my curiosity, gentlemen."
Mr. Torrington leant forward and laid a hand on his arm,
"To this extent we can satisfy it," he said. "We three are engaged upon an operation of considerable magnitude."
"I guessed that much, sir. When three men like yourselves forgather one can generally look for balloons in the sky."
"Just so. A gentleman in whom we are interested requires latitude to conduct certain important activities with freedom from observation. To provide latitude it is necessary we should persuade our opponents that the gentleman is peaceably residing at his own home."
"Half a minute. You want to get Barraclough out of the country or somewhere and I'm to fill his place."
Mr. Torrington nodded. "Am I like Barraclough?"
"Remarkably so."
Suddenly Richard sprang to his feet and brought his hands together. "Tell me," he cried. "These opponents—have they made a blockade—to prevent him getting away."
"A most effectual blockade."
Richard threw up his head and laughed.
"Lord, so that was it. They tried to stop me at Earl's Court Station day before yesterday. Oh, this is great, gentlemen. Come on, I'm your man."
"You consent?"
"I consent all right."
The three men exchanged glances of satisfaction.
"Then if you will kindly ring the bell," said Cassis, "your servant,Doran, will correct the details of your wardrobe."
"So I have a servant."
"You have everything this flat contains and five thousand pounds at the end of three weeks."
"Oh, what a lark," said Richard gaily.
"I only hope it will prove so," said Mr. Torrington.
"Was wondering where I'd sleep tonight."
"I wonder where you will."
"All right, gentlemen, you can leave it to me. I shan't let you down. If you'll excuse me I'm going to have a bath. In the event of our not meeting again you might post that cheque to care of Porters, Confectioners, 106b, Earl's Court Road—my town address." He stopped at the room door and grinned. "Please help yourselves to a drink or anything you fancy. My entire resources are at your disposal. Goodnight."
The door closed and a moment later came the sound of water splashing into the bath.
"Well, what do you think?" Cranbourne demanded enthusiastically.
"A nice boy," Mr. Torrington returned. "Straight. I'm wondering how much he will have to go through in the next three weeks."
"Yes, but from our point of view?"
"Ah, from our point of view I think we might declare a dividend. If you would lend me an arm, Lord Almont, we will speak a word of farewell to Barraclough through the wine cellar door."