Man wearing a fez looking into a box"SUDDENLY HE ROSE, TOOK THE DRAFT OF THE TREATY, WENT TO THE DESPATCH BOXES, AND PLACED IT IN ONE OF THEM."(p. 175.)
(p. 175.)
"Not by Hasan Kuli," sneered the Prince. "Please save yourself useless declamation. You may as well know my terms at once. The price of my acquiescence in this matter is one million roubles."
The Vizier gasped.
"One million roubles!" he exclaimed. "Does money grow?"
"So far as I know, it does not," replied the Prince acidly. "But you may as well spare yourself unnecessary questions. These are my terms. Arrange with Moranoff to-morrow, or take it from your own profit—I care not which; but unless a portion of the money is forthcoming before we leave this cursed land I will——"
"You will betray us?"
"I do not explain my intentions to Viziers," replied the young man haughtily. "You understand me, I hope. Here is your treaty." He tossed the document on the table and left.
The Vizier threw himself on a sofa, and groaned aloud. He lay there long—so long that Rivers, behind the curtain, was stiff and weary. And there was the Vizier, nowapparently dozing at intervals—perhaps going to make a night of it.
Suddenly he rose, took the draft of the treaty, went to the despatch boxes, and placed it in one of them. His body intervened between Rivers' view of them, but the watcher followed his movements as best he could. Then the Vizier turned to the door, and clicked out the light as he passed through.
Rivers stretched himself, but he did not venture to stir from behind the curtain for some time. At length he stepped out, turned on his portable electric light, crossed the room, and stood before the despatch boxes.
There were three, all exactly alike. One held the insignia of the Lion and the Sun. That was—yes, that was the bottom one. The treaty was in the middle one. The top one was unimportant. Rivers lifted out the middle one, and essayed to open it with his keys, but in vain. Then he tried the bottom one—that containing the Persian Order—but with no better success. The box would have to be forced open elsewhere. Yet he dare not carry it across the hall. Other means had to be found for getting it out of the room, and the way had occurred to him as he stood behind the curtain.
One box he might pass safely through this instrumentality, but only one. Two would court defeat. Which box was he to take—the one that held the Order of the Lion and the Sun, the object of all his scheming, or the other, in which lay the treaty?
Rivers' mind had taken its resolve at the instant he had seen the draft placed therein. Since Moranoff had appeared, he had lost all immediate interest in the Burglars' Club. Whether he became a member or not was of little moment, but it was a matter of national importance that the Foreign Secretary should see the draft of the treaty. The Earl of Ancoats was hard to convince of anyone's dishonesty. His own honour was so untarnished that he refused to believe less of others. He had declined to take hints about the former treaty between Russia and Persia, and now, with the Shah's Mission at his door, he would probably refuse to believe that this was but another blind, covering a further and bolder intrigue. Lord Ancoats must see the treaty.
Rivers took the middle box across to the window, then drew up the blind and waited. The red-coated sentry passed. Could he manage it before the soldier was round again?
Ah! here was his chance.
He opened the window gently. "Hi!" he called out to the passing hansom. The man pulled up, got down, and came to the window.
"I want you to take this box straight to Lord Ancoats. He lives in Eaton Square. Tell him Mr. Birket Rivers sent it, and he must open it at once. I will see him in the morning about it. Here's a sovereign. If Lord Ancoats gets it within an hour, I'll give you another sovereign to-morrow. Here you are. Cut along. Drive like blazes."
As the man mounted his seat, the sentry came round the corner. Rivers cautiously closed the window, and drew the blind. He then pulled a chair behind the curtain, and went to sleep on it till four o'clock, when he made his way to his own room.
First thing in the morning he sent a message to John Parker, who turned up in good health at ten o'clock, and claimed his post back.
Half an hour later Rivers left, assured of Mr. Bradshaw's offer of the next vacancy in the household. He drove straight to the Albany, and then to Eaton Square. The Earl was at the Foreign Office. Within the hour his lordship received him.
"Well, Mr. Rivers," said Lord Ancoats, producing the despatch box from a safe. "What is the meaning of this?"
Two men looking into a box"INSTEAD OF THE DRAFT, THERE, ON A PURPLE VELVET CUSHION, WAS THE GLITTERING ORDER OF THE LION AND THE SUN."(p. 178.)
(p. 178.)
"It explains itself, my lord."
"Indeed," said the statesman drily. "What do you think it contains?"
"The draft of a new treaty between Russia and Persia."
"Open it."
Rivers did so, and, instead of the draft, there on a purple velvet cushion was the glittering Order of the Lion and the Sun!
Rivers was stupefied.
"Was there nothing else?" he asked in bewilderment.
"No, sir; and perhaps you will now explain how you came into possession of this, and why you sent it to me. It is surely the property of the Persian Mission."
Lord Ancoats' demeanour was not reassuring, but Rivers plunged boldly into the matter.
"Last night, at Denton House, Count Moranoff visited the Persian Vizier," he commenced.
"How do you know that?"
"I saw him. I was present at the interview—unknown, of course. He brought withhim the draft of a treaty supplementing the last one. It had chiefly reference to the acquisition of a Russian port in the Persian Gulf."
"Ah!" said Lord Ancoats, "that's a bold move. Go on, please."
"The Vizier placed the draft in one of three despatch boxes like this. I thought this was the one, and I sent it here so that your lordship could read the treaty for yourself. I deeply regret that I made a mistake in the box, but I can give the gist of the treaty from memory."
"Please do so now."
Rivers' memory was good, and the words of the treaty had burnt themselves on his brain. He recited the terms without hesitation. The minister heard him in silence, making notes.
"Thank you, Rivers," he said at the end. "You will please let me have that in writing in time for to-morrow's Cabinet." Then he got up and paced the room. "It is an unfortunate situation. I think we shall be able to meet the political side of it, but the investiture takes place at Windsor to-morrow, and this discovery is, to say the least, embarrassing. However, we have to thank youfor being forewarned. You evidently anticipated this move."
"I'm afraid not, sir. It was as much luck as anything else on my part."
"But you were at Denton House?"
"I was there on other business," said Rivers frankly.
Lord Ancoats looked grave. "Well, Mr. Rivers," he said, "I will not inquire too closely what that other business was. You have rendered a service to the State which will not be forgotten. Now, what about this?" pointing to the box.
"I will see that the Vizier gets it."
"At once?"
Rivers hesitated. Only then did he remember he now had in his possession what he wanted. He could pay his entrance fee.
"I will see that it is at Denton House by the morning," he said.
Lord Ancoats watched him intently.
"Does the Burglars' Club meet to-night?" he said quietly.
"I—I beg your pardon," stammered Rivers.
Lord Ancoats laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. "I was only told of that institution within the hour," he said, "andtill a moment ago I didn't believe the information. Take my advice, Rivers, and leave it. Its existence, you see, is known to some of the outside world. As a friend I warn you that you will be watched to-night. Don't spoil your career. Why did you leave the Service? Oh, I remember; but you're not satisfied with merely killing time, are you? Will you come back to us? The First Secretaryship at Vienna is vacant. Would you take it?"
Rivers' face beamed. "I'd jump at it, my lord."
"Then be ready to start in a week. Never mind thanks. I am still your debtor. Now about this box? You might be unable to restore it. We must adopt other means."
Lord Ancoats opened the door of an adjoining room with, "Come forward, please." And the little detective whom Rivers had last seen at Denton House that very morning entered briskly.
"I believe you have met before?" said Lord Ancoats.
Rivers was too astonished to reply.
"Yes, I have met James Finny—I beg pardon—Mr. Birket Rivers," said the detective drily.
"Mr. Rivers has explained the mystery very satisfactorily, Marvell," said Lord Ancoats. "The box should be restored without delay. Will you do this, please?"
Mr. Marvell tried to look pleased, but signally failed in the attempt.
"Certainly, my lord," he replied.
There was a knock at the door, and a clerk appeared with a card in his hand.
"I must leave you now," said the Minister. "Rivers, next week, remember. I am much obliged for your assistance, Mr. Marvell."
With this the Secretary for Foreign Affairs left the room.
The detective took up the box.
"How on earth did you come into this matter, Mr. Marvell?" asked Rivers.
"Very simply, sir. When Lord Ancoats got the box he telephoned to Scotland Yard, and I was sent for at once. As a matter of fact, I opened the box for his lordship. You're sure you wouldn't like to restore it yourself? The Vizier is ill in bed, and it won't be wanted till to-morrow."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Marvell," Rivers laughed; "but I'm sure it's safer in your hands."
Mr. Marvell nodded grimly. "Sooner or later, sir. Sooner or later," he said, as he walked to the door; "but don't try to be a footman next time."
With these enigmatical remarks the interview terminated.
On the following day the investiture of the Lion and the Sun took place at Windsor. After the ceremony Prince Ali Azim and the Vizier had a private interview with the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was noted at the time that the Persians emerged looking singularly subdued.
That evening, in reply to a friendly question addressed by the Leader of the Opposition, Lord Ancoats took the opportunity to assure the House that the paramount influence of England in the Persian Gulf would be maintained at any cost, and a month later the Union Jack floated by the side of the Arab Sultan's flag on the castle towers of Muscat.
This was the answer given to the Russian intrigue. That it was so effective and complete was owing to the action of Mr. Birket Rivers, sometime a cadet member of the Burglars' Club.
THE HORSESHOE AND THE PEPPERCORN.
ThePresident rose and read: "'March 29th is the anniversary of the Battle of Towton. For valour on that desperate field John de Mallaby received from Edward IV. the Barony of Tadcaster, and an appropriate grant of land in Yorkshire, at a yearly rental of a peppercorn and a golden horseshoe. That rent is still paid by the Barons—now Earls—of Tadcaster. His late lordship used to bring his annual acknowledgment to town in a state coach with outriders, but the present peer takes it to his Sovereign by motor-car, attended only by a chauffeur.'
"In this paragraph, my lords and gentlemen," continued the Duke, "we see indicated the quest of our distinguished fellow member Captain Prescott Cunningham, whose subscription is now due."
"What is the quest, Mr. President?" inquired Cunningham. "Am I to capture the peer or the motor-car?"
"Neither, sir," replied his Grace ofDorchester. "You will kindly produce the horseshoe and the peppercorn intended for the King on the 29th. Our meeting is arranged for the 28th, so that we may return the trophies in question, and enable his lordship of Tadcaster to continue in possession of his remarkably low-rented estate."
The Right Honourable John de Mallaby, D.L., F.R.S., M.A., Eighteenth Baron and Seventh Earl of Tadcaster, lived chiefly at his Westmorland seat, Kirkdale Castle, which an ancestress in the time of George the First had obligingly brought into the family in addition to her own good looks.
A certain Mr. Shaw arrived one day of March last at the Golden Lion Inn, Kirkdale, and there spent a few days, talking much with the landlord and frequenters of the inn, and taking walks in the neighbourhood of the Castle. On the latter occasions he might have been seen gazing somewhat disconsolately at the battlemented walls which had several times defied an army.
Once when he was so occupied, a thin, grizzly, stooping gentleman had passed, and with him a handsome dark-eyed girl. Helearnt that this was the Earl himself, a scientific and somewhat eccentric widower, and his only child Eva, adébutanteof last season.
Prescott Cunningham—for so was this Mr. Shaw designated in the more accurate books of the Registrar-General—soon gave up any idea of entering the Castle in his quest of the peppercorn and horseshoe. The task of finding them there was too big. He had learnt that on these annual occasions Lord Tadcaster, accompanied by his chauffeur, left the castle in his motor-car four days before the King received him. He also learnt full particulars of the route followed and of the halting places, and it was his final plan of campaign to waylay his lordship on the road, and, unashamed, to rob him of the articles desired.
Having spent three days in coming to this conclusion, Cunningham moved on to Bolton Abbey, through which village he knew that his lordship would pass on his way to Harrogate, where he would spend the night of the 25th.
At five o'clock on the day in question, the Tadcaster Panhard drew up at the Devonshire Arms at Bolton Abbey, andCunningham saw to his amazement that, instead of the Earl and his chauffeur, it contained his lordship and a lady—his daughter.
Cunningham groaned in spirit. To tackle two men single-handed might be counted sporting, but a woman—hang it all!
Mine host hurried to the door to assist his guests.
"Has your lordship lost Mr. Ackill?" he asked.
"I hope not," replied the Earl. "Achille hurt his hand with a backfire this morning, and I sent him on by train to Harrogate to have it attended to. You got my note? Dinner at six?"
"To the minute, my lord."
The intervening time was chiefly spent by the Earl in confidential communion with his motor, through the intermediary of a spanner and an oil can.
While he was so engaged, and Cunningham was lounging near the door, reflecting on his bad luck, another car drove up, and two loudly-dressed men emerged from their wraps. They entered the hotel, drank thirstily, and talked without restraint.
Lady Eva de Mallaby passed through the hall soon afterwards. Struck by herbeauty, one of the motorists, with the comradeship of one sportsman to another, addressed some remark to her, with a generous smile and a casual hat-lift.
Lady Eva, showing a trace of surprise, stared icily at the man and passed on.
"Hoity, toity," said the motorist, without any sign of shame. "But I'd like to have the breaking-in of you, Miss. Wouldn't you, Sammy?" addressing his companion.
"Too expensive," said Sammy. "Give me a four-year-old, like I bought to-day from Sir William, an' I'm 'appy."
"You're a bloomin' materialist, that's what you are, Sammy," retorted the other—"a bloomin' materialist." He lingered lovingly over the rounded phrase, and drained his glass again.
Twenty minutes later the sound of a gramophone percolated the house.
Lord Tadcaster was at dinner.
It was his daily custom to dine to the accompaniment of music. When at home his private band officiated; when he was on his travels a musical-box or gramophone supplied the necessary melody.
This was an eccentricity of the peer, who had decided, after long and reconditediagnosis, that music assists the digestion, and that certain music is more suited to a particular food than another. Therefore he swallowed his soup to a dreamy prelude, his fish to a fugue. Theentréewas expedited by Beethoven, the joint disappeared to a triumphal march. Sweets demanded a waltz, cheese nothing more than a negro melody; but with wine and dessert were combined all the possibilities of Grand Opera.
Cunningham had learnt particulars of all this when at Kirkdale, and now he listened to the programme emanating from the private dining-room. No doubt owing to the absence of Achille, the music occasionally gave out, but by the intermittent tunes Cunningham was still able to gauge the progress of the meal. The omission of a sonata denoted limitation of the repast, and when the strains of "Lucia di Lammermoor" throbbed on the air Cunningham mounted his motor-cycle, and took the road that led through Blubber-houses.
A run of three-quarters of an hour brought him to the confines of Haverah Park, almost within sight of Harrogate. It was here that he had decided to waylay the motor-car.
It was a lonely spot indeed. Moorland,grim pasture land, lean fir trees, stone walls and limestone road, was all that met the eye. All was cold and stern. Cold and stern was his business that night; and there, close to the wood granted by John o' Gaunt to one Haverah, and tenanted since Doomsday by the winds of the centuries, he waited.
The air was springlike, but the wait was long and weary. The only satisfactory thing about it was that he had time to note the small amount of traffic on the road. A solitary dogcart was all that passed in an hour.
The moon rose in cold splendour. The stars appeared. Cunningham knew only one of them by name—Betelgeuse, a red star, the apex of a triangle of which three stars formed the base. The name had struck him as remarkable, and he once had called a bull pup after it. For a moment he thought of his dog's untimely end.
But was the Panhard never coming? Perhaps there had been a puncture, and in the absence of a chauffeur Lord Tadcaster was stranded. Possibly he had returned to Bolton Abbey, or taken train forward, or, since he was short-handed, he might havealtered his route and gone by the easier road through Otley. In that case, he, Prescott Cunningham, was lost to the Burglars' Club.
Ah! There was the toot of a motor in the far distance, again repeated. It was the Tadcaster toot—a base twentieth century substitute for the cry that on the field of Towton in 1461 led another John de Mallaby to a barony and an estate.
Cunningham recovered his cycle, be-straddled it, and gently mounted the rise in front. The Panhard dashed up the hill, its acetylene lamps glaring like man-o'-war searchlights.
Cunningham advanced his spark. The motor responded, and sprang eagerly after the car. They were leaving him behind. He slowly opened his throttle valve. Now he was making pace. He was gaining on them yard by yard, hand over fist. He was only a hundred yards behind now—fifty—twenty-five. Could he do it? The psychological moment had come.
He drew his revolver and aimed at the near back tyre of the car in front. Ah! he had missed. He hit it with his second shot. It split with a rousing bang. The car listed and dragged. It swerved acrossthe road in violent curves, but Cunningham saw by the slowing of the speed that the driver had thrown out his clutch. At last it stopped.
Man holding gun on two men in an automobile"'SOFTLY, MY LORD,' SAID CUNNINGHAM; 'I AM COVERING YOU, YOU OBSERVE.'"(p. 192.)
(p. 192.)
"What's the meaning of this outrage, you scoundrel?" cried the infuriated motorist.
"Softly, my lord," said Cunningham, now on his feet, and advancing with revolver in hand. "I am covering you, you observe!"
"A highwayman, by George!" exclaimed the peer. "And Edward VII. on the throne. A highwayman on castors!"
"Your lordship evidently recognises the situation," said Cunningham. "This will save time and trouble, I hope."
"I suppose you want my purse?" replied the peer. "This comes of travelling without my chauffeur," he added plaintively. "By George, if Achille were here, he'd worry you. If I were ten years younger I'd tackle you myself."
"Regrets are futile, my lord," said Cunningham, "but a purse will not satisfy me."
"Oh, you want two, do you? Eva, I'm afraid you'll have to give him yours as well. Shockin' luck for this to happen the firsttime we've travelled alone. I oughtn't to have let you come."
"Don't worry, dad, please," said Lady Eva. "I'm sorry I haven't got a purse, highwayman," she continued contemptuously, throwing back her thick veil to see what manner of man this could be, "but the few loose sixpences I have in my pocket are quite at your service."
"You may keep them, madam," Cunningham replied, with as much dignity as the occasion would permit. "I do not ask for money. I simply want the loan of a peppercorn and golden horseshoe until the 29th."
"By George, he must be an antiquarian highwayman or a curio-collector gone mad," said his lordship. "D'ye think, sir, I'll give you what I'm taking to the King?"
"His Majesty shall have them, and from your hands, on the proper day. I simply ask for the loan of them till then."
"You must think that I'm a fool," said the Earl. In an instant he had grabbed the hoop of one of the heavy acetylene lamps, and pulled it from its socket. "Take that, you blackguard!" he yelled, flinging it with all his force at the cyclist.
Cunningham dodged the missile, whichcrashed to the ground with light extinguished.
"Hands up, my lord," he shouted, "or I fire."
The discomfited peer obeyed him.
"You are quite at my mercy," said Cunningham sternly. "The peppercorn and horseshoe at once, if you please, or I shall have to use force. I trust you will avoid a scene before your daughter. You may lower your right hand to your pocket."
The Earl did as he was bid, drew out the precious packet, and handed it to Cunningham.
"Thank you, my lord," he replied. "You are wise. I promise you they shall be returned on the morning of the 29th. To what address?"
"I don't believe you," retorted the peer. "But I stay at Claridge's. Now, if you've anything of a sportsman about you, you'll go on to the Queen Hotel at Harrogate and tell my chauffeur, Achille Petibon, to come with a repairer at once. We can't spend the night here. I've got a spare cover and tube in the tonneau, but I can no more fit them than fly. My finger-nails are far too brittle."
"I will convey your message with thegreatest pleasure, my lord," replied Cunningham. "I sincerely regret the inconvenience I have caused, though you may not think so."
For a moment there was a pause, and Cunningham could have gone. Yet he hesitated.
The moon shone down upon a desolate moorland glade, lighting up the green sward by the trees. The excitement of the adventure, the flush of victory, a pair of bright eyes, and the memory of some half-forgotten romance stirred his blood.
"One final favour, my lord," he said.
"No more, sir. By George, if I were ten years younger——"
"You carry a gramophone with you."
"You are remarkably well informed as to my luggage, sir. I do, but it's too bulky for you to carry away. They're cheap enough. A man of taste like yourself ought to be able to afford one of his own."
"I don't want to take it away, my lord. I simply want the favour of a dance tune and a lady's hand."
For a moment the Earl looked puzzled. Then he exclaimed: "By George! Claude Duval up to date! No, sir, I'll be hanged if——" His lordship stopped suddenly. He was keen of hearing, and as he spoke hehad heard, or thought he heard, a distant car. Even if it meant a dance with his daughter, he would detain the man until assistance arrived. In a moment he had altered his voice.
"On second thoughts, sir," he said, "I don't know. After all, it's a tradition of your—er—profession. Perhaps you will oblige the gentleman, Eva." As he spoke he pressed the girl's hand so that she might know that something lay behind his words. "Where's the gramophone?" he asked. While searching for the instrument his lordship actually started whistling, lest the highwayman should also hear the car.
"Ah, here it is," he said aloud. Then, in a whisper to his daughter, "Car coming. Distract his attention." In his anxiety his lordship even hummed as he hurriedly manipulated the instrument, inserting the first record that came to hand.
He wound up the toy, and a baritone voice sang raucously:—
"Egypt! my Cleopatra! I ain't no flatt'rer,But dis is true,(I'm a-goin' to tell her)Egypt! if you don't want me. . . .
In a trice Lady Eva had found a moresuitable record, and after a momentary pause the instrument struck up "The Darkie Cake Walk," as played by the New York Municipal Band, at Manhattan Beach, Long Island, U.S.A.
"May I have the honour?" asked Cunningham, hat in hand, with a low bow.
Lady Eva inclined coldly, and took off her wraps. The man was certainly polite. He led her as though she were a princess, and any misgivings were soon at rest.
It was a quaint scene. It is doubtful if Betelgeuse had ever looked down upon a quainter. The firs formed a sombre background. The moon illuminated the green sward in front, and on it a highwayman and a lady motorist stepped to a catching dance tune, emanating from a gramophone on a Panhard motor, controlled by a peer of the realm. The light of an acetylene lamp shone like a gigantic foot-light illuminating the front of the green stage.
The floor was not an ideal one, though cattle had cropped it close and the winds had swept it dry, but the pair were accomplished dancers. Thrice had they paced the length of the floor. Now they turnedagain, hand in hand, with heads thrown back, and uplifted feet. There was the unmistakable sound of an approaching car. Cunningham must have heard it, but recklessly he continued the dance.
Man and woman dancing in front of a car; man seated next to victrola in car; man in car looking behind him"THERE WAS THE UNMISTAKABLE SOUND OF AN APPROACHING CAR."(p. 198.)
(p. 198.)
With a toot it hove into sight, and Lord Tadcaster turned his own horn into a prolonged howl, signifying unimaginable trouble. This, and the unusual scene at the side, brought up the oncoming car to a smart halt. They backed abreast of the Panhard.
"Robbery! Help!" cried the Earl.
The two occupants of the new car hardly heard him. They were lost in astonishment. As the dancers reached the verge of the road in the full flare of the light, they were greeted with a round of applause. With a snap Lord Tadcaster turned off the gramophone.
"Well, I'm jiggered!" said one of the newcomers. "If it ain't little Hoity Toity!"
The peer had jumped from the Panhard. "Help me to secure this highwayman," he said, pointing to Cunningham. "He has robbed me."
The man who had just spoken also got down, but his companion remained on the car, stolidly surveying the scene.
"Come along," said the peer to his recruit."I think we can manage him between us."
"Stow it, old man," said the motorist. "You collar the highwayman, and I'll look after the lady."
He brushed past the Earl, and, with proffered arm, smirked, "May I have the next dance, Miss?"
Lady Eva drew back. The man came still nearer. Instinctively she touched Cunningham's arm for protection.
"Stand back, sir!" he commanded.
"Who the juggins are you?" sneered the man. "This old buffer says you're a highwayman, but you seem to think you're a bloomin' bobby. You git, and let me have my partner for the high-kick lancers."
"If you come one step nearer I'll thrash you," said Cunningham.
The man needed no further encouragement. He even dared to touch the lady's arm. A second later he measured his length on the turf.
His friend tumbled from his seat with anxious chivalry.
"'Ere, you leave my pal alone," he said, rolling up to Cunningham.
"Shut up, Sammy," said the other, risingslowly to his feet. "Now, look you here, Mr. Highwayman," he continued vindictively. "You've had your score, now I'll have mine. Either this lady has a hop with me to my own time and tune, and gives me a kiss at the end, or——"
"Or what?"
"Or I ride on to Harrogate, and give the police information of highway robbery."
"There's your car," said Cunningham. "Ride on."
"He's not likely to wait for the arrival of the police," said the Earl ruefully, yet anxious for the departure of these impossible helpers.
"I shall be back with a bobby in twenty minutes," the man rejoined, "and we'll telephone to every town in the district so that he can't escape. I'm not in fightin' form myself to-night, so I'd rather do it in proper legal style. I'll bring a solicitor if I can find one. Now, young feller," he continued, "you'd better consider well. It'll be a twelve months' touch for you for robbery and six for 'sault and battery. Are you going to let your friend sacrifice himself on the altar of nonsense, Miss? I think our steps 'ud soot each other amazing."
Cunningham advanced on him threateningly. "If you dare to speak another word to the lady you'll find yourself on the ground again," he said.
The man retreated before him, and Sammy fled. "Right 'o," said the former. "You've had your choice. It's plank and skilly for you now. Get up, Sammy." He bundled his friend into his seat, himself followed, let in the clutch, and they disappeared.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," said the girl.
"Please don't worry about it," replied Cunningham. "The whole thing is the result of my own folly. It serves me jolly well right if I suffer for it."
"Hadn't you better try to escape now?" she asked, only remembering his protection of her.
Cunningham shook his head. "I think not," he replied. "It's probably all a ruse on his part to get me away. Then he might return and—and annoy you."
Lady Eva was silent.
"By George, sir," said the Earl, "I like your spirit. What the deuce do you want with that peppercorn and shoe? Give me 'em back and I'll say no more about it all."
Cunningham smiled a little sadly. "I'm afraid I can't. But you shall have them on the morning of the 29th without fail. Perhaps you'll believe me now." Then, after a pause, he added: "I'll make a dash for it if they aren't back in a quarter of an hour. In that case, I shall conclude that they really have gone to give the alarm."
The minutes passed. Lady Eva bit her lips in thought. Cunningham looked alternately from her to Betelgeuse and the moon. The peer stared stolidly into space.
"Look here," said Cunningham suddenly. "Aren't we wasting time? Why wait for assistance? I think I can put on a new tyre, if you will allow me. Where are your spare tubes and covers, and your jack?"
His lordship accepted the offer with alacrity, and the two men were soon busy round the wheel.
Cunningham ceased work for a moment to take Lady Eva her furs, and assist her into them. She sat down on a tree stump, holding the remaining lamp, and turning its light on the work.
She did this mechanically. All the while she was thinking gravely. Suddenly a smilepassed over her face, and she nodded approvingly.
The men were so busy that they did not pause at the sound of the returning car. Sammy's friend was better than his word. They had barely been gone fifteen minutes.
"That's the highwayman—that young feller. Arrest him for robbery!" shouted the motorist, as he brought his car to a standstill, and a policeman sprang down.
"Is that the charge, sir?" said the policeman to Lord Tadcaster.
What the Earl would have replied is uncertain, for before he could answer Lady Eva had intervened.
"Robbery! What in the world do you mean?" she cried, standing up, and flashing the light on the policeman.
"That gentleman has taken me off my beat to arrest a man for highway robbery."
"That gentleman is mistaken," replied the girl. "We've had a breakdown. Surely that is the person who promised to send assistance from Harrogate. We want a repairer, not a policeman."
"Don't you believe her!" cried the motorist. "Ask the old 'un."
"Is that so, sir?" inquired the officer.
"You have heard my daughter," replied the Earl, astonished but loyal. "Of course it is so."
The motorist's mouth opened, but no words came forth. He was absolutely speechless at this change of front.
"Anyway, there's an assault an' battery," said his friend hopefully. "'E knocked 'im down," pointing to the protagonists of the drama.
"For insulting a lady, I think," said Cunningham.
"Gor!" snorted the driver, recovering his speech. "Sold again, Sammy!" And with a frightful hoot they passed into the night.
"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the policeman, with intense disgust. "And 'ere I am, miles off my beat."
"My friends won't be long before they are ready to start again, officer," said Cunningham, "and they'll no doubt give you a lift to Harrogate. In the meantime you might relieve the lady of the trouble of directing the light. Thank you," he whispered to Lady Eva, as he took the lamp from her. Her eyes met his and smiled.
The new tyre was at last adjusted. The Earl, Lady Eva, and the policeman got on board and sped away, Cunningham accompanying them on his motor-cycle.
In the outskirts of Harrogate the policeman resumed his interrupted beat, the richer by an unusual experience and a sovereign.
At the town itself Cunningham said his adieus.
"A thousand thanks for your generosity, my lord," he added. "You will not find it misplaced," and with a low bow to Lady Eva he took the road to the right.
The Earl watched him go regretfully, for after all he had the horseshoe and peppercorn. What Lady Eva's feelings were she could not have stated precisely.
The Earl of Tadcaster and his daughter arrived at their hotel in time to stop a relief expedition, organised by the anxious Achille; and under his care they resumed their journey the next day.
On the evening of the 28th, Captain Prescott Cunningham renewed his subscription to the Burglars' Club; and at 9 a.m. on the 29th there was delivered at Claridge's Hotel a registered packet containing a peppercornand a golden horseshoe, which the eighteenth Baron Tadcaster presented to his sovereign that afternoon at Buckingham Palace.
Later on in the day a couple of new tyres, "With Mr. Duval's compliments and apologies," also reached the peer.
Here the story ends—for the present. This happened last March. Cunningham now attends every possible dance, dinner, and reception, hoping that some day Lady Eva and he may meet again; and as for Lady Eva, does she not dream daily of witching moonlight, a greensward dance, and a brave and gallant partner?
THE HOLBEIN MINIATURE.
Mr. Adolph Meyer, the friend of nations, the associate of kings, and the hope of the impecunious, had built himself a house on St. George's Island, off the coast of Hampshire.
As Mr. Meyer's origin was German, and the country of his adoption was England, it was perhaps natural that he should have gone to Tuscany for the architecture of his marine residence. Its boldly projecting cornices, its rusticated base and quoins, the consoles of its upper windows, all betrayed its Florentine birth; but the lower windows, reaching to the ground, were such as we associate with the name of France, and were doubtless intended as a compliment to the great and gay nation living directly across the water.
To the south, a terrace, bounded by a low wall set with dogs, apparently petrified by their own ugliness, separated the villa from the beach.
To the west were the orchid houses.To the north, before the front of the house, lay the bowling green; beyond it a wood, through which ran the path leading to the landing-stage and the neighbouring island of Great Britain.
A spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as opportunity offered, Mr. Meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the satellites of Jupiter, the canals on Mars, and other eccentricities of the heavens.
There was, of course, a fountain—between the bowling green and the cypress trees. There was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of Socrates, Pallas, Homer, and other appropriate notabilities.
Inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a millionaire.
Meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone enough to see him through till the following Saturday, and maturing Titanic schemes for the Federation of the World and the confounding of rival financiers.
Once only had he brought a guest with him—an African Pro-Consul—who had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his outward-bound ship from Meyer's electric launch.
Each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired. Occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back. Other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of the lord of the island.
One day last April a stranger with a camera rowed across from England. At the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business with Mr. Meyer. This was telephoned to the house.
"What business?" came the reply.
"Particular business," said the newcomer.
"What particular business?"
"Pictures," was the answer.
This was transmitted, and the reply taken.
"You can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "Straight up the path, and through the woods. Turn to the left at the busk of 'Omer."
Ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in which Mr.Meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic folio.
He was a short, podgy man, with black curly hair, a rounded nose, and bright eyes. His moustache and imperial did not conceal the extraordinary firmness of his mouth and jaw.
He rose as his visitor entered. He was, as usual, attired in a frock-coat and grey trousers. Once he had been in flannels when an emergency had arisen demanding City attire, which was not immediately forthcoming. Mr. Meyer had lost an opportunity in life through carelessness. Therefore on land he ever afterwards wore a frock-coat, except when in evening dress or pyjamas. The occasion should never again find him wanting.
"You wished to see me on business?" he asked. "What is it?"
His visitor, who was cast in a finer, less decided mould—a good-looking, clean-shaven man of something over thirty—replied:
"I came to ask for permission to photograph the inside of your place."
"You are not from Mr. Holzmann, den?" said Meyer, curtly.
"No."
"You said your business was imbortant."
"So it is—to myself."
Meyer looked sharply at him. "Why do you want to photokraph my place?"
"For insertion in a magazine."
"Which makkazine?"
"Any that will take the article—I am not proud. It is important that I should make some money. I have seen many interesting reproductions of interiors of the stately homes of England in the periodicals, but never one of your house. Hence my appearance. I hope I may have your permission."
"Why should I krant you bermission?" said Meyer. "I live here in solitude. I do not bring visitors. I do not want dem. Your intrusion is imbertinent."
His visitor flushed. "Sorry if I have annoyed you," he said; "but it did not seem such a great favour to ask. Most people are glad to have pictures of themselves and their houses in the papers."
"Most people are fools, as Dommas Carlyle said. Have you a family?"
"I am not married."
"Dere is no excuse for a sinkle man taking pictures of people's interiors. It isnot de work for a man like you. I shall not encourage such tomfoolery. No, I do not give you bermission. But stay. Dere is an orkit from de mittle of Africa of which I should like to have a picture—deCypripedium Meyeri—a new species which I have had de satisfaction to detect. Berhaps you would be kind enough to photokraph it for me, and your journey would not be altokedder lost. Come along. What is your name, please?"
His visitor handed him a card on which was printed "John Lucas, 140, Brixton Gardens, London, W."
"You have come a long way," Mr. Meyer observed.
"A very long way, sir. Perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me look round your house, even if I may not photograph it. I am interested in domestic architecture and—er—curios."
Mr. Meyer looked intently at his visitor.
"Yes, Mr. Lucas," he said slowly, "I will also show you round my house, since you have come so far, and are interested in domestic architecture and curios. I have blenty of both. Den we will photokraph de orkit."
Mr. Meyer led the photographer through his villa, pointing out its architectural beauties, and indicating the various treasures which it contained.
Mr. Lucas was profuse in his expressions of appreciation. "Are you not afraid of burglars?" he asked.
"I am afraid of noding," replied Mr. Meyer. "Odderwise I should not be here to-day in dis Tuscan Villa. I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation."
They had made a tour of the rooms, had ascended the heights of the observatory and inspected the electric plant at its base.
"Is dere anyting else you would like to see?" asked Mr. Meyer politely.
"I believe that you collect miniatures. Might I look at them?"
"Come dis way."
In a corner of the marble hall there was a cabinet facing a window. Meyer stood before it. "See," he said; "I bress dis button, and it releases de trawers. So."
The shutter flew back, and the drawers were free. Meyer opened them, one by one, and indicated their contents. "Dey are all choice examples of de best masters. Deseare Gosways. Dis is an Engleheart," and so on. He went through the collection till he had shown the last drawer but one. He was about to close the cabinet when Mr. Lucas asked: "Have you any Holbeins?"
"One," replied Meyer, "and dere was I necklecting to show it to you. Dis last trawer is de most imbortant of de lot." He opened it and drew forth a small square frame. "Here is de latest addition to my collection. A krand Holbein. You notice de blue backkround, characteristic of dat kreat master, and de wonderful thin bainting. You can almost see through it. It is a bortrait of Meyer of Basle, berhaps a relation of mine, berhaps not. It does not matter. It is a fine picture. Don't you tink so?"
Lucas handed it back. "I envy you," he said.
"Dere is no need," Mr. Meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'Enfy no man till he is dead,' said de old Kreek philosopher, and I am very much alife. Now come to de orkit house, and photokraph deCypripedium Meyeri."
An hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every point of the compass, Mr. Lucas made his way to thelanding-stage, and from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to Bournemouth.
On the following Monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully beached on the south shore of St. George's Island. Under the protection of the trees its occupant—none other, indeed, than Mr. John Lucas—stealthily approached the Tuscan Villa, which stood out in bold relief in the vivid moonlight.
He gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the balustrade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the one at which Mr. Meyer was sitting on the preceding Saturday.
There is no use disguising the fact any longer. Mr. Lucas was a burglar, and he now proceeded to act after the manner of his craft. After affixing some adhesive material to the pane, he began to cut out a square of the window. The glass was thick, so the process was long, but Mr. Lucas toiled at it with a patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause. Only once did he desist—to follow the suggestion of a sudden impulse, and try allthe windows of the house. But each was fastened, and Mr. Lucas resumed his original labour.
It was fully an hour before he drew out the square of glass which enabled him to undo the catch inside. Then nearly as long passed before the removal of a second square at the foot allowed him to unscrew the bottom fastening.
The window was open at last, and Lucas stepped inside.
It was the second burglary of his life, and he reflected that so far all that had happened was greatly to the credit of his professional abilities. A moment afterwards he was chilled by the later thought that nothing in particular had happened so far, and that the possibilities of the near future were very great indeed.
With his stealthy entry into Mr. Meyer's villa the personality of that gentleman had suddenly oppressed him. At Bournemouth all that day, with the sun shining, and the band playing popular airs, Mr. Meyer had occurred to him merely as an eccentric German gentleman; but now, at something after midnight, in the deathly stillness of his villa, Mr. Lucas only remembered theTeuton's sharp, decisive utterances, his piercing glances, and his large general reputation for unpleasantness as an enemy. Perhaps it was the sight of Mr. Meyer's empty chair that had brought this train of thought to his mind. The big folio he had been reading was still at its side. Lucas flashed his electric pocket light on the open page. "Love's Labour's Lost" met his eyes. This struck him as ominous.
Lucas pulled himself together. What had he to do with empty chairs, and old folios, and omens? He was a burglar, out for the night on urgent business. Let him attend to it, and keep his dreams and soliloquies for the daytime. He walked across the polished floor, his rubber soles being absolutely noiseless. He raised the heavy curtain, and passed beneath it through the archway.
There in front of him was the marble hall, bathed in coloured moonlight. The fountain played softly to the tones of gold, azure and red cast from the stained-glass window. If Mr. Lucas had been conversant with Keats he would doubtless have thought of St. Agnes' Eve; but presumably Mr. Lucas did not, for, keeping well to the wall,he stole quickly across to where stood the case containing the miniatures.