Anthony paused in the act of blowing out his match, and he dropped it with a quick jerk of the wrist as it burned his finger.
“Chimneys?” he said. “That’s rather extraordinary.”
“Why, do you know it?”
“It’s one of the stately homes of England, my dear James. A place where Kings and Queens go for weekends, and diplomatists forgather and diplome.”
“That’s one of the reasons why I’m so glad that you’re going to England instead of me. You know all these things,” said Jimmy simply. “A josser like myself from the backwoods of Canada would be making all sorts of bloomers. But some one like you who’s been to Eton and Harrow——”
“Only one of them,” said Anthony modestly.
“Will be able to carry it through. Why didn’t I send them to her, you say? Well, it seemed to me dangerous. From what I could make out, she seemed to have a jealous husband. Suppose he opened the letter by mistake. Where would the poor dame be then? Or she might be dead—the letters looked as though they’d been written some time. As I figured it out, the only thing was for some one to take them to England and put them into her own hands.”
Anthony threw away his cigarette, and coming across to his friend clapped him affectionately on the back.
“You’re a real knight-errant, Jimmy,” he said. “And the backwoods of Canada should be proud of you. I shan’t do the job half as prettily as you would.”
“You’ll take it on then?”
“Of course.”
McGrath rose, and going across to a drawer took out a bundle of letters and threw them on the table.
“Here you are. You’d better have a look at them.”
“Is it necessary? On the whole, I’d rather not.”
“Well, from what you say about this Chimneys place, she may have been staying there only. We’d better look through the letters and see if there’s any clue as to where she really hangs out.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
They went through the letters carefully, but without finding what they had hoped to find. Anthony gathered them up again thoughtfully.
“Poor little devil,” he remarked. “She was scared stiff.”
Jimmy nodded.
“Do you think you’ll be able to find her all right?” he asked anxiously.
“I won’t leave England till I have. You’re very concerned about this unknown lady, James?”
Jimmy ran his finger thoughtfully over the signature.
“It’s a pretty name,” he said apologetically. “_Virginia Revel._”
3
Anxiety in High Places
“Quite so, my dear fellow, quite so,” said Lord Caterham.
He had used the same words three times already, each time in the hope that they would end the interview and permit him to escape. He disliked very much being forced to stand on the steps of the exclusive London club to which he belonged and listen to the interminable eloquence of the Hon. George Lomax.
Clement Edward Alistair Brent, ninth Marquis of Caterham, was a small gentleman, shabbily dressed, and entirely unlike the popular conception of a Marquis. He had faded blue eyes, a thin melancholy nose, and a vague but courteous manner.
The principal misfortune of Lord Caterham’s life was to have succeeded his brother, the eighth Marquis, four years ago. For the previous Lord Caterham had been a man of mark, a household word all over England. At one time Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, he had always bulked largely in the counsels of the Empire, and his country seat, Chimneys, was famous for its hospitality. Ably seconded by his wife, a daughter of the Duke of Perth, history had been made and unmade at informal week-end parties at Chimneys, and there was hardly anyone of note in England—or indeed in Europe—who had not, at one time or another, stayed there.
That was all very well. The ninth Marquis of Caterham had the utmost respect and esteem for the memory of his brother. Henry had done that kind of thing magnificently. What Lord Caterham objected to was the assumption that he was bound to follow in his brother’s footsteps, and that Chimneys was a National possession rather than a private country house. There was nothing that bored Lord Caterham more than politics—unless it was politicians. Hence his impatience under the continued eloquence of George Lomax. A robust man, George Lomax, inclined to _embonpoint_, with a red face and protuberant eyes, and an immense sense of his own importance.
“You see the point, Caterham? We can’t—we simply can’t afford a scandal of any kind just now. The position is one of the utmost delicacy.”
“It always is,” said Lord Caterham, with a flavour of irony.
“My dear fellow, I’m in a position to _know_!”
“Oh, quite so, quite so,” said Lord Caterham, falling back upon his previous line of defence.
“One slip over this Herzoslovakian business and we’re done. It is most important that the Oil concessions should be granted to a British company. You must see that?”
“Of course, of course.”
“Prince Michael Obolovitch arrives the end of the week, and the whole thing can be carried through at Chimneys under the guise of a shooting party.”
“I was thinking of going abroad this week,” said Lord Caterham.
“Nonsense, my dear Caterham, no one goes abroad in early October.”
“My doctor seems to think I’m in rather a bad way,” said Lord Caterham, eyeing a taxi that was crawling past with longing eyes.
He was quite unable to make a dash for liberty, however, since Lomax had the unpleasant habit of retaining a hold upon a person with whom he was engaged in serious conversation—doubtless the result of long experience. In this case, he had a firm grip of the lapel of Lord Caterham’s coat.
“My dear man, I put it to you imperially. In a moment of national crisis, such as is fast approaching——”
Lord Caterham wriggled uneasily. He felt suddenly that he would rather give any number of house parties than listen to George Lomax quoting from one of his own speeches. He knew by experience that Lomax was quite capable of going on for twenty minutes without a stop.
“All right,” he said hastily, “I’ll do it. You’ll arrange the whole thing, I suppose.”
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to arrange. Chimneys, quite apart from its historic associations, is ideally situated. I shall be at the Abbey, less than seven miles away. It wouldn’t do, of course, for me to be actually a member of the house party.”
“Of course not,” agreed Lord Caterham, who had no idea why it would not do, and was not interested to learn.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind having Bill Eversleigh, though. He’d be useful to run messages.”
“Delighted,” said Lord Caterham, with a shade more animation. “Bill’s quite a decent shot, and Bundle likes him.”
“The shooting, of course, is not really important. It’s only the pretext, as it were.”
Lord Caterham looked depressed again.
“That will be all, then. The Prince, his suite, Bill Eversleigh, Herman Isaacstein——”
“Who?”
“Herman Isaacstein. The representative of the syndicate I spoke to you about.”
“The all British syndicate?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing—nothing—I only wondered, that’s all. Curious names these people have.”
“Then, of course, there ought to be one or two outsiders—just to give the thing a _bona fide_ appearance. Lady Eileen could see to that—young people, uncritical, and with no idea of politics.”
“Bundle would attend to that all right, I’m sure.”
“I wonder now.” Lomax seemed struck by an idea.
“You remember the matter I was speaking about just now?”
“You’ve been speaking about so many things.”
“No, no, I mean this unfortunate _contretemps_”—— he lowered his voice to a mysterious whisper—“the memoirs—Count Stylptitch’s memoirs.”
“I think you’re wrong about that,” said Lord Caterham, suppressing a yawn. “People _like_ scandal. Damn it all, I read Reminiscences myself—and enjoy ’em too.”
“The point is not whether people will read them or not—they’ll read them fast enough—but their publication at this juncture might ruin everything—everything. The people of Herzoslovakia wish to restore the Monarchy, and are prepared to offer the Crown to Prince Michael who has the support and encouragement of His Majesty’s Government——”
“And who is prepared to grant concessions to Mr. Ikey Hermanstein & Co. in return for the loan of a million or so to set him on the throne——”
“Caterham, Caterham,” implored Lomax in an agonized whisper. “Discretion, I beg of you. Above all things, discretion.”
“And the point is,” continued Lord Caterham, with some relish, though he lowered his voice in obedience to the other’s appeal, “that some of Stylptitch’s Reminiscences may upset the apple cart. Tyranny and misbehaviour of the Obolovitch family generally, eh? Questions asked in the House. Why replace the present broad-minded and democratic form of Government by an obsolete tyranny? Policy dictated by the blood-sucking Capitalists. Down with the Government. That kind of thing—eh?”
Lomax nodded.
“And there might be worse still,” he breathed. “Suppose—only suppose that some reference should be made to—to that unfortunate disappearance—you know what I mean.”
Lord Caterham stared at him.
“No, I don’t. What disappearance?”
“You must have heard of it? Why, it happened while they were at Chimneys. Henry was terribly upset about it. It almost ruined his career.”
“You interest me enormously,” said Lord Caterham. “Who or what disappeared?”