Part II. THE DUKE DEPARTS
Years ago I discovered that truth was indeed stranger than fiction – that curious and amazing things happened daily that caused one to say, "If I had read this in a book I should have said that it was impossible." Following upon this discovery, I have observed that all the best chroniclers, exercise unusual caution in dealing with unexpected situations, carefully and laboriously laying solid foundations on which to build their literary coincidences. Fortunately Sir Harry saves me the trouble, for his first words explained his presence.
"Ah, Alicia," he pecked at her, "let me introduce our good friend Slewer – just arrived from the United States of America with a letter of introduction from the gentleman in charge of my affairs in Denver."
Alicia regarded the new arrival with polite interest.
Mr. Bill Slewer, in a ready-made suit of clothing that fitted him badly, in a soft grey shirt and a ready-made tie, shuffled uneasily under the scrutiny.
He was a tall man, with shoulders a trifle bowed and long arms that hung awkwardly. But it was his face that fascinated the girl. Scarred and seamed and furrowed till it seemed askew, what held her, were his eyes. They were pale blue and large, and in the setting of his mahogany skin he looked for all the world like one sightless. Two white discs that shifted here and there when she spoke, but which never once looked toward her.
"Mr. Slewer," Sir Harry went on, with an air of quiet triumph, "can serve you, Alicia."
"Me?" The girl's eyes opened in astonishment.
Sir Harry nodded and chuckled.
"I don't think you are likely to be annoyed with your neighbour after to-day," he said, "eh, Mr. Slewer?"
Mr. Slewer, seated on the edge of a settee, twisting his hat awkwardly by the brim and staring at a gilt clock on the mantelpiece, shifted something he had in his mouth from one cheek to the other, and said huskily and laconically —
"Naw."
"This gentleman" – Sir Harry waved his hand like a showman indicating his prize exhibit – "has been most disgracefully treated by – er – the Duke."
Alicia regarded Mr. Slewer with renewed interest and an unaccountable feeling of irritation.
"The Duke in fact," the magnate went on impressively, "fled from America to avoid the – er – just retribution that awaited him. Fled in a most cowardly fashion, eh, Mr. Slewer?"
"Yep," said the other, fingering his long yellow moustache.
"Mr. Slewer came to Denver knowing this – er – duke has property or," corrected Sir Harry carefully, "thinks he has property there, and found him gone. As I have large interests in the mining industry in that city, it was only natural that Mr. Slewer should be directed to me as being likely to know the whereabouts of – this chartered libertine."
There was a grain of truth in this story, for the astute lawyer, who was Sir Harry's agent in Denver city, had most excellent reason for wishing to know the Duke's present address. The coming of Big Bill Slewer, ripe for murder and with the hatred he had accumulated during his five years' imprisonment, played splendidly into his hands.
The girl had risen at Sir Harry's last words, and stood with a perplexed frown facing her uncle.
"Chartered libertine?" She was used to Sir Harry's hackneyed figures of speech and usually attached no importance to them.
"What has he done to this man?"
Sir Harry glanced at Mr. Slewer and that worthy gentleman shifted awkwardly. He did not immediately reply, then —
"This Jukey," he said, "went an' run away wid me wife."
She took a step backward.
"Ran away with your wife?" she repeated.
"Sure," said Mr. Slewer.
"You see?" said Sir Harry enjoying the sensation.
The girl nodded slowly.
"I see," she replied simply.
"I'm going to fix up Mr. Slewer for the night," said Sir Harry, "and to-morrow I will confront him with his victim."
Young Mr. Tanneur, an interested and silent listener, had an inspiration, "I say, governor," he blurted, "I've got a ripping idea!"
His father smiled.
"Trust you, Hal," he said admiringly.
"There's a soirée or concert to-morrow night," said the ingenious Hal, "this fellow is going to sing, why not wait till then? I can get you a couple of seats in the first row – it would be awful fun to see his face when he spots Mr. Slewer."
"Oh no!" protested the girl.
"Why not?" demanded Sir Harry? "I think it is an excellent idea."
"But – "
"Please don't interfere, Alicia," said the knight testily, "we are doing all this for your sake: there will be no fuss. As soon as the man sees this poor fellow he will skip and there will be no bother or disturbance – isn't that so, Mr. Slewer?"
"Yep," said the untruthful Bill, who had followed the conversation with interest. Such a finale was in harmony with his tastes. He wanted an audience for the act he contemplated. His ideas about the English law were of the haziest, but he did not doubt his ability to escape the consequence of his vengeance.
One question the girl put to him before his departure.
She found a surprising difficulty in putting it into words.
"Where – where is the wom – your wife now, Mr. Slewer?" she asked in a low voice.
This well-nigh proved the undoing of Mr. Slewer, whose inventive faculty was not the strongest part of his intellectual equipment. He was standing on the doorstep when she put the question, and she saw him wriggle a little in his embarrassment.
"She," he hesitated, "oh, I guess he's got her with him all right, all right." Then he remembered that this could not be so without her knowledge, and he hastened to add, "or else he's put her down and out."
"Killed her?" comprehended the girl with a gasp.
"Yep," said Mr. Slewer nodding his head. "Jukey's a mighty bad man – yes, sir."
Sir Harry was at the gate directing the cabman and young Mr. Tanneur was with him. Bill looked round and then edged closer to the girl.
"Say," he whispered, "dat Jukey feller – do youse wanter do him dirt?"
"I – I don't understand," she faltered.
He nodded his head sagely did this product of Cherry Hill, who had gone West in '93.
"To-morrer," he said, "I'm goin' to put it outer him – proper!"
He left her as a novelist would say, a prey to conflicting emotions.
I do not profess to understand anything about the legal procedure of the United States Courts, or for the matter of that of English Courts either. Occasionally there comes to me a document beginning "Edward, by the Grace of God, King of Great Britain." I have noticed idly enough that it used to be subscribed "Halsbury"; and that lately it has borne the name of "Loreburn," so I gather there have been changes made, and that the other man has lost his job.
When Sir Harry's business-like agent in Denver decided to contest the title of the Silver Mine, he acted in a perfectly straightforward manner and issued a writ or its equivalent, calling upon the holder of the title to immediately surrender the same. There was a difficulty in serving this notice on the defendant, and there was also a great danger. For the appearance of the defendant in court would have established beyond any doubt whatever that Sir Harry's friends were no more entitled to the property than the mythical man in the moon. Therefore the clever lawyer in Denver made no attempt to serve it, indeed he was anxious to preserve as a secret the fact that such a writ was contemplated.
It was therefore strange that he decided to take the course he did; which was to advertise, in other words, affect substituted service, in three daily newspapers.
The advertisement came to the Minnehaha Magnet in the ordinary way of business, accompanied by a treasury note for fifty dollars. An hour previous to the paper being issued, an alert young man interviewed the editor and proprietor.
He wished to purchase the whole issue of the paper, a simple proposition, but an awkward one for the proprietor of a mining camp newspaper, for there were subscribers to be considered. The young man persisted and offered a price. No one ever saw a copy of that day's issue except the young man who carried away a few copies after superintending the distribution of the whole of the type.
The next day the editor announced that owing to a break down after 2,000 copies of the journal had been printed, many of his subscribers had been disappointed etc. etc. The normal circulation of the Minnehaha Magnetis 1,200, but the editorial bluff may be allowed to pass.
There is little doubt that a similar explanation may be offered for the non-appearance, for one day only, of the Silver Syren, and the Paddly Post Herald. This much is certain: the proprietor of the Silver Streak Mine had, in the eyes of the law, been as successfully "writted" as though a process server had placed the document in his hands. And there was the advantage that he knew nothing about it.
Sir Harry was informed of the progress made by the capable gentleman of Denver on the morning of the day of the concert.
He had found his letters waiting for him at No. 66 when he called that morning – he always stayed at an hotel in town – it had been forwarded from Hydeholm.
It may be doubted that he knew the means adopted by his representative; it may safely be assumed that he made no inquiries. He took the newspaper cuttings from the suppressed editions and read them carefully. Then he whistled.
"Oho!" he said, for until now the Silver Streak had had the inanimate existence of a corporation; of the names of its controllers he had been ignorant. He whistled again and folded the cutting.
He was so thoughtful during his short stay, and moreover so absent-minded that Alicia, who had made up her mind to dissuade her uncle from including Mr. Slewer in his party, could get no opportunity of speaking to him. When he had left with Hal, she went into the garden to think.
"Good morning," said a cheerful voice.
She looked up to meet the smiling eyes of the Duke.
A recollection of this man's despicable crime gave her a feeling akin to sickness but she kept her eyes fixed on him.
"Getting ready for the concert?" he asked, but she made up her mind quickly and cut his pleasantly short.
"I would advise you to forget about to-night's concert," she said.
He looked a little surprised.
"It's a strange thing you should say that," he replied, "for the fact is I've been trying to forget about it – I'm in an awful funk."
Should she warn him?
"Is that unusual experience for you?" she questioned drily. She marvelled to find herself engaged in a conversation with him.
"Unusual? Rather! I am as brave as a lion," he said frankly. "Hank says I am about three ounces short of a hero."
He met her scornful gaze unwillingly.
"And a gallant also, I hear!" she retorted with a curl of her lip. He made no reply to this charge, and she misread his silence.
"You do not deny that, M'sieur le Duc," she went on, "and why should you? You must be aware that the reputation of as great a man as yourself is more or less public property. The greatness that excuses his eccentricities and turns his impertinences into amusing foibles may perhaps leniently gloss over his sordid affaires, and give them the value of romance."
All the time she spoke the lines between his eyes were deepening into a frown, but he made no attempt at replying until she had finished.
"May I respectfully demand which of my affaires you are referring to at the moment?" he asked.
"Are they so many," she flamed.
"Hundreds," he said sadly, "was it the affaire with the Princess de Gallisitru, or the affaire of the premiere denseuse, or the affaireof – who else does one have affaires with?"
"You cannot laugh this away," she said, and then before she could stop herself she demanded with an emphasis that was almost brutal —
"What have you done with Mrs. Slewer?"
If she expected her question to create a sensation, she must have been satisfied, for at the name he started back so that he almost lost his balance. Then he recovered himself and for a moment only was silent.
"Mrs. Slewer," he repeated softly, "what have I done with Mrs. Slewer – Mrs. Bill Slewer, of course?" he asked.
She did not speak.
"Of Four Ways, Texas?"
Still she made no response.
"A big bent chap with white eyes" – his voice had recovered its flippancy – "and hands that hang like a 'rang-a-tang?"
She recognized the description.
"So I ran away – do you mind if I consult a friend? You'll admit that this is a crisis in my affairs?"
She affected not to hear him and strolled to the other side of the garden.
"Hank!" She heard his voice and another responding from the house. "Hank," said the muffled voice of the duke. "I ran away with Mrs. Slewer – Big Bill's wife."
"Eh?"
"I ran away with Mrs. Bill, and Bill is naturally annoyed, so Bill is looking me up – in fact Bill – "
She could not catch the rest; she thought she heard Hank make a reference to "hell," but she hoped she was mistaken.
By and by the Duke's head appeared above the wall.
"I suppose," he said, "now that you know the worst, you will tell me this – when is Mr. Slewer going to call?"
She spoke over her shoulder, a convenient chrysanthemum with a pathetic droop claiming her attention.
"I know nothing of Mr. Slewer's plans," said she distantly.
It was such a long time before he spoke again that she thought he must have gone away, and she ventured a swift glance at the wall.
But he was still there with his mocking eyes fixed on hers.
"Perhaps we shall see him at the concert?" he suggested, "sitting in the front row with his tragic and accusing eyes reproaching me?"
"How can you jest?" – she turned on him in a fury – "how can you turn this terrible wrong into a subject for amusement? Surely you are not completely lost to shame."
He rested his elbow on the top of the wall and dropped his chin between his hands. When he spoke, it was less to her than to himself.
"Ran away with his wife, eh? Come, that's not so bad, but Bill couldn't have thought of that himself. He's got a scar along the side of his head – did you notice that Miss Terrill? No? Well, I did that," he said complacently. "Yet Bill didn't mention it, that's his forgiving nature. Did he tell you I jailed him for promiscuous shooting? Well, I did, and when the governor revised the sentence of death passed upon him, I organized a lynching party to settle with Bill for keeps.
"They smuggled him out of the gaol before my procession arrived. Bill never told you about that episode. H'm! that's his modesty. I suppose he's forgotten all these little acts of unfriendliness on my part. The only thing that worries him now is —put up your hands – quick!"
She saw the Duke's face suddenly harden, his eyes narrow, and heard his lazy drawl change in an instant to a sharp metallic command. Most important of all his right hand held a wicked looking revolver. She was standing before the conservatory door as the duke was speaking and apparently the revolver was pointed at her. A voice behind her reassured her.
"Say, Jukey," it drawled, "put down your gun – there's nothin' doin'."
She turned to face Mr. Slewer with his hands raised protestingly above his head, injured innocence in every line of his face, and hanging forward from the inside pocket of his jacket the butt of a Colt's revolver, half drawn.
"Come further into the garden," invited the Duke with his most winning smile, "that's right, Bill. Now just take that gun out of your pocket and drop it into the grass. If the muzzle comes this way poor Mrs. Slewer will be a widow. Thank you. You heard what I said about Mrs. Slewer?" he asked.
Bill, unabashed, made no reply, but looked up at the smiling face of the man he hated, with passionless calm.
The girl, fascinated by the deadly play, watched.
"How long have you been married?" asked the Duke. "Can these things be arranged in State's prison?"
"Say," said the unperturbed Mr. Slewer, "you're fresh ain't ye, – what's the use of gay talk anyways – I'm layin' for you, Jukey."
"And I ran away, did I?" said the other, ignoring Mr. Slewer's speech, and dropping his voice, "scared of Bill Slewer of Four Ways?"
"Seems like it," said the man coolly.
"Are you the only cattle thief I ever jailed?" asked the Duke; then of a sudden he let go the mask of languor and the words came like the passionless click of machinery.
"Get out of England, you Bill!" he breathed, "because I'm going to kill you else! What! you threaten me? Why, man, I'd have given a thousand dollars to know you were shoot-at-able! Do you think we've forgotten Ed. Carter – "
He stopped short looking at the girl. Her eyes had not left his face. Astonishment, interest and fear were written plainly, and these checked the bitter stream of words that sprang to his lips. For her part she marvelled at the intensity of this insolent young man, who could so suddenly drop the pretence of badinage, into whose face had come the pallor of wrath and whose laughing eyes had grown of a sudden so stern and remorseless. He recovered himself quickly and laughed.
"Hey, Bill," he said, "it is no use your coming to Brockley, S.E. with any fool bad-man tricks. You're out of the picture here. Just wait till we're both back again in the land of Freedom and Firearms. Is it a bet?"
"Sure," said Bill and stooped leisurely to pick up his revolver.
He stood for a moment toying with it, looking at the Duke with sidelong glances. The Duke's pistol had disappeared into his pocket.
"Jukey," drawled Bill, polishing the slim barrel of his weapon on the sleeve of his coat, "you'se has lost your dash."
"Think so?"
"Yes, sir," said the confident Bill, "because why? It stands for sense I didn't come all the way from God's country to do cross talk – don't it?"
The Duke nodded and ostentatiously examined his empty hands.
"Say," said Bill, "them's nice pretty hands of your'n, Jukey, you just keep 'em right there where we – all can admire 'em – see? I've gotten a few words to say to you'se, an' there's plenty of time to say 'em."
Alicia saw the snaky glitter in the man's cruel eyes, and took an involuntary step forward. Slewer did not look at her, but his left hand shot out and arrested her progress.
"You'se ain't in this, Cissy," he said gruffly, "it's me and Jukey." He pushed her backward with such force that she nearly fell. When she looked at the Duke again his face was grey and old-looking, but he made no comment.
"I guess I've not been thinkin' of this particular occasion for some years, no, sir!" said Bill carefully, "not been sitting in me stripes, thinkin' out what I'd say to Mr. Jukey when me an' him hit the same lot."
The man on the wall chuckled, but his face was still pale. Bill observed this fact.
"You'se can be the laughin' coon all right," he sneered, "but I guess two inches o' looking glass'd put you wise to yourself."
"Am I pale?" drawled the man on the wall; "it's this fear of you Bill, the fear of you that made me sick. Oh, please don't wag your gun. You don't suppose I'd have trusted you with it, unless I was absolutely sure of you."
Bill scowled suspiciously and thumbed back the hammer of the revolver.
"Sure?" he grated. "By God, Jukey – "
The Duke turned his head never so slightly. Bill followed the direction of his eyes, then he dropped his pistol like a hot coal and threw up his hands. At an upper window of the Duke's house stood the watchful Hank. In the corner of the American's mouth was a cigar, in his hands was a Winchester rifle and its business-like muzzle covered Bill unwaveringly, as it had for the past ten minutes.
All this happened in Brockley, S.E. on one bright autumn morning whilst Kymott Crescent (exclusive of numbers 64 and 66) pursued its placid course. Whilst milkmen yelled in the streets and neat butcher's carts stood waiting at servants' entrances, whilst Mrs. Coyter practised most assiduously the pianoforte solo that was against her name in the programme of the evening, and Mr. Roderick Nape paced the concrete floor of his study delivering to an imaginary audience a monologue (specially written by a friend not unconnected with The Lewisham Borough News) entitled "The Murder of Fairleigh Grange."
That rehearsal will ever be remembered by Mr. Roderick Nape, because it was whilst he was in the middle of it that there came to him his First Case.
In this monologue, the character, a detective of supernatural perception, is engaged in hounding down a clever and ruthless criminal. Mr. Roderick Nape had got to the part where an "agony" in the Morning Post had aroused the suspicion of the detective genius. Perhaps it would be best to give the extract.
"Can it be Hubert Wallingford? No, perish the thought! Yet – come let me read the paper again (takes newspaper cutting from his pocket and reads) —
'To whom it may concern: information regarding P.L. is anxiously awaited by H.W.'
Can it be Hubert! (sombrely) – It would seem a voice from the grave that says – "
"The gent from 66 wants to see you, sir."
Mr. Nape stopped short and faced the diminutive maid of all work.
"Is it a case? he asked severely.
"I shouldn't wonder, sir," replied the cheerful little girl.
It was the invariable question and answer, as invariable as Philip of Spain's morning inquiry in relation to Gibraltar – "Is it taken?"
"Show him in."
The greenhouse which an indulgent parent had converted into a study for the scientific investigations of crime, admitted of no extravagant furnishing. A big basket chair in which the detective might meditate, a genuine Persian rug where he might squat and smoke shag (it was birds-eye, really), a short bench littered with test tubes and Bunsen burners, these were the main features of Mr. Nape's laboratory.
Mr. Hal Tanneur was visibly impressed by the test tubes, and accepted the one chair the apartment boasted with the comforting thought that Mr. Nape might not be the silly young fool that people thought him. Happily Mr. Nape was no thought-reader.
"You wish to consult me," suggested the amateur detective wearily. You might have thought Mr. Nape was so weighed with the secret investigations and the detection of crime that he regarded any new case with resentment.
"Ye-es," confessed Ha he was not overburdened with tact. "You see I wanted a chap to do something for me, and I didn't want to go to one of those rotten detective agencies – their charges are so devilishly high."
Mr. Nape dismissed the assumption of his cheapness with a mystical smile.
"Alicia – that's my cousin ye know – was talking about you the other night, and it struck me you were the very chap for me."
Half the art of detection lies in preserving a discreet silence at the right moment and allow the other man to talk: this much Mr. Nape had learnt.
"Now what I want to know is this: can you find out something about this Duke fellow – the man at 64? I'm pretty sure he's a rotter, and I'm absolutely certain that he has documents in his house that would prove, beyond any doubt, what an out and out rotter he is."
It was a task after the detective's heart: internally he was ecstatically jubilant; outwardly he was seemingly unaffected. He walked to his little desk, and with a great display of keys opened a drawer, taking therefrom a locked book. Again the flourish of keys and the volume was opened.
A fluttering of leaves and —
"Ha! here it is," said the detective gravely, "I have already noted him: George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier, Marquis Poissant Lens, Baron (of the Roman Empire) de Piento – "
"Oh, I know all that," interrupted the practical Hal, "you've copied it out of the Almanac de Gotha."
Mr. Nape was disconcerted, but dignified. He tried to think of some crushing rejoinder, but, failing, he contented himself with a slight bow.
"It isn't the question of who he was or who his father was," said Hal testily, "any fool could find that out."
Mr. Nape bowed again.
"What we – I, do want information about is" – Hal hesitated – "well, as a matter of fact, this is how the matter stands. We want to know what he is going to do – that's it!"
Mr. Nape looked thoughtful as this tribute to his prescience was paid.
"For a week or two at any rate we would like him watched, and if he shows any attempt at leaving the country I wish to be immediately informed."
Mr. Nape was relieved that the services required did not verge upon the practice of black magic, for Mr. Nape was a strict churchman.
"We thought," continued Hal, "of employing an ordinary detective but, as I say, their charges are so high, and this duke person would be pretty sure to notice a strange man hanging about, so we have decided to ask you to take on the job. He would never suspect you."
Mr. Roderick Nape was on the point of indignantly refuting this suggestion of his obscurity: it was at the tip of his tongue to inform Mr. Hal Tanneur that his fame was widespread through Brockley, Lewisham, Eltham, Lee, to the utmost limits of Catford, and it was next to impossible for him to walk along the Lewisham High Road without somebody nudging somebody else, and saying audibly, if ungrammatically, "That's him!" But he forbore.
"Here's my address." Hal pulled a handful of letters from his pocket in his search for a card case. "If you see this chap getting ready to bolt, send me a wire, and you had better have some money for expenses."
Mr. Nape closed his eyes pleasantly, and waited for the conventional bag of gold to fall heavily upon the desk, or to hear the thud of a thick roll of notes.
"Here's ten shillings," said Hal generously; "you won't want all that, but I don't want you to stint yourself. Take a cab if you want to, but motor buses go almost everywhere nowadays."
Mr. Nape had had visions of special trains, but no matter.
He picked up the ten shillings with a contemptuous smile, and flicked it carelessly into the air, catching it again with no mean skill.
"You'll remember," said Hal at parting, "I want him watched so that he cannot get out of the country without my knowing."
"It shall be done," said Mr. Nape coldly and professionally. He said "good-bye," to his visitor on the doorstep and walked back to his "laboratory" slowly and importantly.
He found the scattered manuscript of his monologue and mechanically tidied it together. He missed the dummy newspaper "agony" and looked round for it. He saw a cutting on the floor, picked it up and put it away with the manuscript. Then he sat down to plan out his campaign.
He had a number of disguises in his room upstairs…
Two hours later a grimy workman with a heavy moustache and a bag of tools called, at 64 "to examine the gas fittings."
The Duke looked at the workman tinkering awkwardly with a pendant. The "workman" in his inmost soul was fervently praying that this would be the last job. For an hour and a half he had sweated and toiled. The Duke had received him on his arrival, figuratively speaking, with open arms.
"You are just the man we want," he said enthusiastically, and had put him through a short catechism. Did he know anything about plumbing? Yes, said the workman doubtfully; and glazing and fixing water pipes, and gardening? added Hank.
The workman who was not quite sure whether all these accomplishments were comprehended in the profession of gas-fitter, thought however that it would be wisest to be on the safe side, and had answered "Yes."
So the Duke had led him to the little cellar, where he laboured hotly at a refractory electric battery, and Hank had pushed him up through a trap door out of the roof, where he, trembling, fixed a misplaced slate, and the Duke had insisted upon the ground being opened in the garden so that a defective drain-pipe might be repaired. After digging industriously, if unskilfully, for half an hour, it was discovered that the drain-pipe was in another part of the garden altogether.
Then he was taken into the common-room to fix the gas. Between the fear that his excessive exertions and their attendant perspiration, would melt the wax that affixed his noble moustache and the desire for information, Mr. Nape was more than ordinarily embarrassed. For there is little one may learn in a four-foot excavation, and the news whispered abroad on suburban housetops is scarcely worth remembering. Therefore he welcomed the adjournment to the common-room. Whilst he tinkered, the men talked, and at their first words Roderick pricked up his ears.
"Duke," said Hank, "I want to ask you something."
"Wait till the man is out of the room," said the Duke warningly.
Hank shrugged his broad shoulders.
"He's too interested in his work," he said, "and besides – "
He shrugged again.
"Well, what is it you want?"
"Isn't it time," asked Hank with sinister emphasis, "that you and I shared out the swag?"
The Duke rose and agitatedly paced up and down.
"Let us go into the next room," he said.
The front drawing-room, from the back was divided by a pair of light folding doors. Mr. Nape descended from the chair, and crept noiselessly towards the partition.
"Duke," said Hank's voice, "or 'Jim Duke,' to give you your right name – "
"Hush," said the Duke's voice appealingly.
"Jim Duke," continued the other callously, "as you are known in Pentonville and Sing Sing, it's time for a share out."
"How much do you want," sullenly.
"I don't know," said Hank's voice, "it ought to be considerable. There's the Countess of B – 's diamond necklace, the Princess of Saxony's tiara, and the proceeds of the Hoxton Bank robbery."
Mr. Nape could scarcely contain himself.
He heard the Duke's footfall as he strode up and down the room, then he heard him speak,
"I will give you twenty thousand pounds," he said shortly.
Mr. Nape heard a sharp laugh.
"Twenty thousand! why I'll get that for turning King's evidence – about the Lylham Hall affair!"
There was a pause.
"If I killed him, you were an accessory," said the Duke.
"I helped to bury him, if that's what you mean," said Hank coolly, "and that was against my wishes; you will remember that I suggested that he should be chucked into the river."
"True," said the Duke moodily, "it has always been my cursed failing, this burying business – you forget I was intended for the Church."
"You didn't bury the Earl," said Hank significantly, and they both laughed boisterously.
As for Mr. Nape, his blood froze and his teeth started chattering.
He was left in doubt as to the dreadful end of the unfortunate nobleman, for the Duke changed the subject.
"Look here, Hank, will you be content if I hand over the necklace, and the tiara, and a cheque for £5,000?"
"A crossed cheque?" asked the cautious Hank.
"A crossed cheque," said the Duke firmly, "on the London and South Western Bank."
There was another pause whilst Hank considered the proposition.
"Yes," he agreed, "on condition you give me a paper exonerating me from any knowledge of the scuttling of the Prideaux Castle."
"Oh, that," said the Duke carelessly, "that was a private matter entirely between the captain and myself, and I shall be very pleased to give you the paper."
"Very good," said Hank's voice, "when that paper is in my possession duly signed and witnessed and stamped at Somerset House, the partnership is dissolved."
Mr. Nape, almost fainting in his excitement, had time to get back to his chair, when the two men returned.
The Duke glanced at the pendant.
"Finished?" he asked politely.
"Yes, sir," muttered Mr. Nape unsteadily.
"Well, I don't think there is anything else we want done – do we?"
Hank shook his head.
Mr. Nape stole a glance at him and saw the gloomy frown. "It was the face" (I quote Mr. Nape's secret diary) "of a man haunted with the memory of his black past."
With great solemnity the Duke tipped the workman half a crown and led him to the door. When he returned he found Hank doubled up on the divan.
"Ill?" he asked anxiously, "poisoned, by any chance?"
But Hank continued to laugh till he subsided into helpless chuckles.
Curiously enough the Duke, whose sense of humour was of the keenest, did not share in his friend's amusement. He smiled once or twice as he paced the room. Then —
"Hank," he said seriously, "do you think young Sherlock Raffles came here entirely out of curiosity?"
"Sure," said the exhausted Hank.
The Duke shook his head doubtingly.
"There's some little game on that I do not quite fathom. Do you know that the concert has been postponed?"
"No."
"Well, it has – and who do you think is responsible? Sir Harry Tanneur."
Hank jerked his head inquiringly in the direction of 66.
"Yes," said the Duke seriously, "for some unaccountable reason he has prevailed upon the vicar to change the date. I've just had a note from the vicar to tell me this. Tanneur is paying all the expenses incidental to the change, the printing and the advertisements, and that is not like Sir Harry, from what I know of him."
"To-day is Tuesday," meditated, Hank, "and to-morrow is Wednesday."
"You're a devil of a chap for finding things out," said the Duke with amused irritation. "You'd put Jacko out of business in a week."
In their less serious moments, the tenants of 64 invariably referred to Roderick as "Jacko Napes."
"I can see no connexion between Jacko and the concert," said Hank, "can you?"
The Duke shook his head.
"It is an instinct," he said seriously, "a premonition of some sort of danger – the sort of thing that turns you creepy just before cattle stampede."
"Run away and play," said the unimaginative Hank, "go into the garden and lasso worms – you're losing your nerve."
The Duke stood undecided.
"I want something and yet I don't know exactly what I want. I need a moral tonic."
"You'll find the step ladder in the greenhouse," suggested Hank.
A few moments later the Duke from his accustomed elevation was conducting his erratic courtship.
It was not perhaps so much of a coincidence, that he seldom failed to discover Alicia in the mornings. She was an enthusiastic gardener. It was a hobby she had only recently taken up. It is said by the people of 70 – their back windows overlooked the garden and they were notoriously uncharitable – that the gardening craze, which rightly should come with the spring, did not show in her until after the Duke's arrival; that until then her visits to the garden had been few and far between, and her interest of a perfunctory character.
This morning she was not as self-possessed as usual. Indeed she appeared to be a little nervous, but she made no pretence of avoiding him.
"How is the cat?" he asked.
It was his gambit.
"Poor Tibs is as serviceable as the weather," she smiled.
She saw his eyes shift to the conservatory.
"Don't be afraid," she bantered, "Mr. Slewer is not there; he came in the other day without my knowledge," she hastened to add, "the servant showed him into the drawing-room and he took the unpardonable liberty of walking through into the garden."
"Bill has no drawing-room manners," he said regretfully, "he heard my voice and it lured him: you'd never suspect me of being syrenish, would you?"
She raised her grave eyes to his.
"You frightened me dreadfully," she said. "Were you men in earnest?"
"Not a bit," he lied cheerfully, "we were just rehearsing a little play."
"But you were," she persisted, "you looked dreadful and that wretched man's face was devilish."
"S-sh!" he reproved, "the poor chap was a bit upset, and very naturally. One cannot lose one's wife without – "
"Please don't be horrid," she begged, flushing. "I thought that you were not looking as happy as you are usually," she added with a touch of malice.
"I was in the bluest of funks," he confessed, "especially when he pushed you back. You see Hank was covering him and Hank is a terribly short-tempered man. I was wondering how we could explain away Bill's dead body without creating a scandal."
In spite of his matter-of-fact tone, she knew he was offering a true explanation for his pallor – only she substituted his name for Hank's, and felt she was nearer the truth.
"You're a strange man" – her pretty forehead was wrinkled with perplexity – "suppose all this that happened here yesterday had occurred in – Texas."
"It could not have occurred in Texas," he said instantly. "You would have missed the light flow of talk and the interplay of pleasant compliments. There would be only one thing to do. Down in Texas they recognize that fact. Don't you know the story of the sheriff who tried to arrest Black Ike of Montana? The sheriff pulled a gun on Ike, but Ike got first shot. The sheriff was mightily popular, and the folks were grieved but philosophical. They lynched Black Ike and put a splendid monument over the sheriff. In one line they apostrophized his life, ambition and splendid failure – and the inevitability of it all. It ran —
She was shocked but she laughed —
"So in Texas – "
"I should have killed him," he said with confidence.
"Or else – ?" she shivered.
"Or else – exactly," he said cheerfully.
"It's very dreadful," she said with a troubled face. "Thank goodness, that that sort of thing cannot happen here."
"Thank goodness," he repeated without heartiness.
"Do you think it can?" She shot a suspicious glance at him.
"Good heavens, no!" he denied, his vigour a little overdone.
"You do!" she cried, "you believe he will try, please, please tell me."
The eyes of the man were very tender, there was a curious sadness in them when he looked at her; she dropped hers before them.
"You must not think of such things," he said gently, so unlike his usual self that she, for some unfathomable reason, was near to tears, "why, I scarcely deserve your thought. I who have vexed you so, and hurt you so, though God knows I only acted as I did in an impetuosity that was born of a great and an abiding love."
Her heart went racing, like the screw of a liner, and she felt choking. There were other sensations which she had no time to analyse. Her eyes sought the ground and her hands plucked idly at the flowers within her reach.
"Please remember that, Alicia." With an odd thrill she recognized the masterful touch in this calm appropriation of her name. "What may have seemed impertinence, was really sincerity. The world would say that I have not known you long enough, that the hideous formalities and conventional preliminaries were essential, and that to ask a girl to marry you for no other reason than because you had seen her and loved her, without balancing this virtue against that failing, was an outrageous and unprecedented thing."
She raised her eyes up shyly but did not speak.
The old look was coming back into his face. The old mocking was in his voice when he went on.
"Alicia, I was prepared to take you without a character – and do not forget that I am a suburban householder – without even so much as a line from your last place – did you ever have a last place?" he added suspiciously. She shook her head.
"You – you," she faltered, "are the only master I have ever had!"
Then she fled into the house, and Hank, looking through the back drawing-room window, saw the duke turning somersaults on the lawn – and drew his own conclusions.
The postponement of a concert is a very serious matter. There are pretty certain to be amongst the audience, those who could come on Tuesday but find Wednesday impossible, or Wednesday agreeable and Thursday obnoxious. Similarly with artistes, some of whom cannot fix in the altered date, and some, the more amateurish, who have screwed their courage up for Tuesday's ordeal and find it a physical and mental impossibility to sustain the tension for another twenty-four hours. In this latter case we find Mr. Roderick Nape, who, with the added mental burden of his tremendous discovery, found no pleasure in the fictitious trials of the hero of "The Murder at Fairleigh Grange."
It was written in the book of fate that he should be relieved of one half of his care. On the day eventually fixed for the concert the duke was "at home."
I pass over the propriety of a bachelor being "at home." There was no precedent for the function, but then there was no precedent for a duke living in Kymott Crescent. What the response would have been in ordinary circumstances, need not be discussed. As it happened, the grave man-servant was kept busy the whole of the afternoon announcing new arrivals, and the two waiters, hired for the day from Whiteley's, distributed tea, thin bread and butter, and ladylike sandwiches from 4 till 6.30.
The neighbourhood accepted the invitation because it gave the neighbourhood an opportunity of meeting and abusing the vicar for postponing the soirée – and then of course there was the Duke.
"Come?" said Hank answering that gentleman's doubts, "of course they'll come: you're a two headed donkey, an ancient ruin, a cause célèbre and the scene of a tragedy."
"I take you, sir," said the Duke gratefully; "in other words – "
"They will come out of morbid curiosity," said Hank. "They'll come to the concert to-night, but that's different. You'll be removed from most of 'em. Here they can get near you, prod you and guess what your weight is, look at your teeth an' tell your age; they'll come all right!"
Amongst those present, as the junior reporter hath it, was Mr. Roderick Nape in his private clothes, in other words without disguise. Yet in a sense he was there on business. He wanted to see how these men behaved in public.
He pushed his way through the crowded little room, little knowing that he stalked to his professional doom.
"How do you do?" asked the Duke in his most engaging manner, then he gave a dramatic start and stepped back.
He looked at Hank, then again at Mr. Nape.
"Why, Mr. Nape," stammered the Duke, "you quite startled me."
All eyes were riveted on Mr. Nape, and he enjoyed it.
"What have you been doing to your face!" asked the Duke. It was a rude question, but Mr. Nape saw nothing more significant in the query than a hint of smut, and searched for his handkerchief.
"What have you done with your moustache," asked the Duke reprovingly.
Mr. Nape looked his astonishment.
"I have never had a moustache," he said haughtily, for he had heard a little titter.
"Strange," mused the Duke, "and yet I could have sworn that the last time we met – forgive me, I must have been mistaken."
"By the way, Mr. Nape," drawled the tired voice of Hank, "that electric battery you repaired don't work worth a cent."
The great and appalling truth came to Mr. Nape slowly. In a dazed way he managed to reached the outskirts of the throng about his host and sank into a chair.
His moustache! the electric battery! he groaned in spirit.
"Say, Mr. Nape," – Hank was by his side – "you'll keep the matter dark – you know. What you heard this morning – we'll split the tiara or I'll toss you for the diamond necklace."
Roderick rose with dignity.
"Mr. Hankey, you are an American and you cannot understand my feelings, but I consider I have been treated most – "
"Mrs. and Miss Terrill," announced the grave man-servant, and Hank lost all interest in Mr. Roderick Nape.
He gave a quick glance at the Duke and grinned, for the scarlet-faced young man for the first and last time in his life lost his head and grew incoherent.
"Oh, yes, America is a lovely country – close to New York you know, beautiful sunsets every night at 10. I mean fireworks in Madison Square Gardens. Yes, I knew President Lincoln intimately. How do you do, Miss Terrill? this is very pluc – kind of you."
Mrs. Terrill has been treated with scant courtesy in these pages, but the part she played in this story is analogous to the part she played in life. She was one of those women who live in the everlasting background – none the worse for that, but no better. The Duke had looked forward to the meeting with a vague dread. When he saw her he experienced a great relief, when she spoke he was grateful. He found an opportunity to speak with her alone.
"My daughter has told me," she said simply. "I'm afraid I ought to be more prejudiced against you than I am, and I'm sure you were not looking forward with any eagerness to meet me."
His smiling denial she waved aside. She was a pretty woman of fifty. She looked no less, yet she was pretty. For beauty is not of any age, any more than it is of any colour. The Duke with his quick sympathies saw behind the laughter in her eyes the shadow of suffering. He had lived too near to sorrow to mistake its evidence. Secretly, he wondered why this woman with her ready wit and her unquestionable charm had played no greater part in life – for unerringly and instinctively he had estimated her place in the world.
She had an embarrassing way of reading one's thoughts.
"You are wondering why I am the Shadowy Lady," she asked with a glint of amusement in her eyes, "yet you must remember a time – did I not overhear you claiming acquaintance with Lincoln? – when it was woman's prerogative to retire: when her virtues were concomitant with her obscurity. Some women rebelled and reached fame by way of the law courts, some women rebelled and died, some acquiesced, waiting for the fashion to change. I was one of those, and when the fashion changed I was satisfied with the old order and remained behind the curtain, peaceably."
He looked at her and nodded.
"I understand," he said, for there was sufficient of the woman in his heart to understand sacrifice. She walked away and sent him Alicia.
They were exchanging banalities for the benefit of the surrounding audience when Hank came looking preternaturally solemn. "That custard, Duke."
His friend stared.
"What about it?"
"She's gone."
The Duke waited.
"That custard," said Hank impressively, "we made her, boiled her, stuck eggs all over her, and put her outside on the window-ledge to cool off."
The Duke said nothing, but his lips quivered.
"That custard was surely great," Hank went on, growing melancholy, "we copied her out of an evenin' paper, and whisked her and frisked her till she sizzled – and she's gone."
There was a solemn pause; the spectators held their breath, out of respect for Hank's grief.
"Whilst there was a sound of revelry downstairs, there came a thief," said Hank oracularly, "she clomb up the rare-old-ivy-green and started in to sample that custard."
The Duke leant forward.
"Not Tibs?" he asked breathlessly.
"Oh, not Tibs?" pleaded the girl.
"Tibs, it was surely," said Hank bitterly, "I saw that kinky tail of hers goin' over the wall."
The Duke had secured a few minutes alone with the girl. The remainder of the guests had departed, and Hank was keeping Mrs. Terrill mildly amused with an exposition of his philosophy.
It was a memorable day in the Duke's life, for amongst other unique experiences, he felt a diffidence amounting to shyness.
Remarkably enough it was the girl who was cool and self-possessed. He tried to carry off the matter with a high hand, but, as Hank so expressively put it, "he wilted some."
"Alicia," he began huskily – his throat-clearing cough was a confession of weakness.
"Did you like mother?" she asked. He could see she had no fear of the verdict. As he spoke of her he gained courage and took her hand, inanely enough, and she laughed a low, happy, amused laugh.
He laughed too, but sheepishly.
"Courage, mon enfant," she said boldly.
"Alicia," he said earnestly, "don't you wonder at me – and aren't you sorry for me struck dumb by your nearness? There was a man in Texas City once, who told me my bumps; and he said my two principal characteristics were modesty and courage, and said that I suffered from having too poor an opinion of myself. I have tried to get over that latter fault," he said bravely. "People pointed out the difficulty of reducing the modesty bump owing to the mystery of its location. Hank said, he guessed it was like one of those disappearing islands, that bob up and down in the Western Pacific, and every time I hit Modesty Hill, he made a careful survey and found I'd struck into Mount Nerve or Vanity Point. In the end he guessed the phrenologist was pulling my leg, and that one of the fellows had put him up to it. But I rather thought he was genuine, and the modesty bump he had located, was one I got through being thrown from a bronco when showing off before some girls in Texas. Now my respect for the phrenologist has gone up points. I feel – I feel like a little tame cat."
She let him find his way out, as best he could.
"This is the first time you and I have been alone," he said desperately, "and – and – "
"Go on," she said calmly.
It was a terrible experience for the Duke. He felt his grasp upon the situation slipping: he summoned his courage. They were in the deserted conservatory, which was twelve feet by eight feet and open to the gaze of the world on three sides.
"Have you seen my Japanese ferns?" he asked recklessly.
Now here is a curious problem that I present to the reader, whose greater knowledge of worldly affairs may help him to a solution. As the Duke spoke he indicated the screened side of the conservatory, which was as innocent of Japanese ferns as indeed of any forms of growth vegetable or horticultural as the dome of St. Paul's. Unless she imagined that the ferns might be discoverable in a microscopic crack in the wall it is difficult to understand why she replied, "I should like to see them," and walked innocently towards the screened corner. Then suddenly the Duke's arms were about her and his lips laid on hers.
She freed herself gently and raised her shining eyes to his.
"I didn't know you were going to do that," she said, but she made no inquiries about the Japanese ferns.
The room was crowded, there was a hum of talk, a scraping of chairs, a high nervous laugh or so, and in some adjoining room the clatter of coffee cups. The Rev. Arthur had arranged the hall on a new plan, he said, and everybody agreed that it was an excellent plan. At one end of the room was a draped platform; on the floor, in place of the phalanx of benches, were scattered little tables with seats for four. It was a unique arrangement, some went so far as to defy the grammarian and say it was "most unique," but as a matter of fact neither the enthusiast nor the vulgarian were correct, for the Rev. Arthur – a most excellent Christian, overflowing with worldly wisdom – had modelled his arrangements after those obtaining at the wicked Cafe Chantant. Tea and coffee were to be served between the items, and a pleasurable evening seemed assured.
Without in any way desiring to anticipate the events of the night, I will go so far as to say, that the soirée might have been an unqualified success had "№ 4" on the programme been "No. 15" – which would have been the last. "No. 4," by the new arrangement, was:
Dramatic Monologue: Mr. Roderick Nape"The Murder at Fairleigh Grange" (Anon.).
When the Duke and Hank arrived every seat had been taken, and the heated organizers of the entertainment were pressing into service the schoolroom forms.
Somebody had reserved two seats at one of the tables. Sir Harry Tanneur and his amiable son had taken for granted that the seats had been reserved for them. Alicia tactfully pointed out that Sir Harry's proper place was at the vicar's table, since he had borne no small part of the cost of the postponed concert. Sir Harry and his son agreed, the latter grudgingly. When, a few minutes later, the Duke person and his friend arrived and calmly appropriated the reserved seats Hal started to his feet with an exclamation of annoyance; when Alicia welcomed them with a sweet smile he collapsed into his chair; and when, in shaking hands, the Duke held the girl's in his for an unjustifiable space of time, Mr. Hal Tanneur said something to himself which was quite out of harmony with the tone of the proceedings.
"Did you see that, governor?" he said beneath his breath, "did you see that wretched bounder – by Jove, I've half a mind to go over and break the fellow's head."
Sir Harry had seen "the bounder;" he had breathed a sigh of relief on seeing him. The Duke was the first man he had looked for when he entered the hall. Sir Harry's anxiety was mainly a matter of dates. For instance to-day was the 20th. Twenty plus eight=28. And the Ironic did not call at Queenstown. Sir Harry was happy in the thought that on this auspicious day the "Redhelm Line" and the "Nord Deutscher Line," had begun their famous record-breaking race across the Atlantic. The Ironichad the advantage of twelve hours' start. She left Liverpool at four o'clock that afternoon (she does not call at Queenstown, repeated Sir Harry mentally), the Kron Prinz Olaf, was due to leave Hamburg at 7 p.m. but she had distance to make up.
With these reflections to occupy his mind he paid little heed to his son's expressions of indignation. Instead he asked abruptly – "You have that cutting, Hal?"
"Which cutting?" demanded Hal aggressively.
"The order of the court – you can call upon our friend to-morrow and show it to him," he chuckled.
Strangely enough, the subject of the Atlantic race was under discussion at another table. It came à propos of the postponed concert.
"It would have been jolly inconvenient if this concert had occurred next week," said the Duke.
"Why?" she looked at him over her tiny fan.
"Because next week – next Wednesday as ever is, I must leave you," he said tragically.
She made no disguise of her disappointment.
"Bear up," he encouraged her, "I shall be away a fortnight."
"To America?"
A shadow of alarm fell on her face.
"Thinking of Bill Slewer?" he bantered, "Big Bad Bill?"
"Yes," she confessed.
"Oh, it isn't vendetta that takes me away," he said lightly, "something less romantic. When a man's single," he said sententiously, "he can afford to let money go hang, but when he has a wife – did you speak?"
"No," she said, and looked at her programme.
"When a man has a wife who is pretty certain to be extravagant – you're sure you didn't speak?"
She shook her head.
"Well, in that case, one has to look around one's silver mines, and floating investments and besides – "
Something in his tone made her look up; she saw a look half puzzled, half amused.
"Well – I've got feelings, Hank laughs at 'em, says it's all your fault."
"What kind of feeling?"
"A dread," he said slowly, "a sort of uneasiness about my property – a sort of – I don't know." He ended weakly and she thought irritably.
She looked at him steadily and silently, and Hank found an opening.
"Suppose this concert had come along next week, Duke – you could have still gone. Caught the midnight from Euston."
There must have been telepathic communication between Sir Harry and the Duke, for he replied —
"The Ironic does not call at Queenstown."
"S – sh!"
There was tremendous applause for the vicar. His audience smiled at him proprietorially and approvingly.
He was very pleased, he said, to see so many there that evening. He was afraid the postponement might have seriously jeopardized the success of the soirée, but our friend Sir Harry Tanneur (applause), whose name he should imagine was a household word throughout England (he ventured daringly), had been so anxious to be present and so munificent withal, that he had acceded to his wishes.
As this seemed the proper place to applaud, the audience dutifully applauded.
They were there primarily to assist an excellent cause. It was an open secret that the organ debt had seriously engaged the attention of those excellent gentlemen who administered the church funds (hear, hear, from the audience and "poor old organ" from the Duke), and it has been suggested that this entertainment should be provided with a view to the debt's reduction. Now as to the splendid fare that was to be set before them to-night, they had their friend the noble Duc de Montvillier (cheers), a gentleman who had always proved himself a ready and willing helper in church matters.
The girl looked at the Duke to see how he would take this gracious fiction. With folded arms and grave self-appreciation on every line of his face he accepted the undeserved tribute as his right.
"What a humbug you are," she murmured.
"Aren't I?" he said unabashed.
The Duc was to sing: then they had a unique entertainment promised by an American gentleman, who would give an exhibition of fancy pistol shooting (loud applause from the young men). This Mr. Slewer was a gentleman who had spent many years in the Wild West of America. And there were other performances of song and speech that would be found of equal fascination. The first item on the programme (he said, consulting his paper, though he might have taken the fact for granted) was a pianoforte solo by Mrs. Coyter (applause).
Whilst "The Moonlight on the Danube" was bathing Brockley in noisy effulgence, Hank moved his chair closer to the Duke.
"Fancy shootin's another word for accidental death," he said laconically, "you'll quit before then?"
It was half a question and the Duke shook his head.
"When Bill is doing his circus tricks I shall be sitting right here," he said emphatically.
"You won't," said Hank.
The Duke's intentions were sound, but Hank's predictions were inspired.
The Duke was not there when "fancy shooting" came on, neither for the matter of that was Bill Slewer, and it all came about on account of Mr. Roderick Nape and his thrilling monologue. That young gentleman was facing his audience with no great assurance. Certain disturbing events had taken his mind from the monologue. In the language of the turf he was "short of a few gallops," and he sat a prey to gloomy forebodings, cursing his folly, that he had not made himself word perfect and regretting with some bitterness the lost opportunities for rehearsal.
Too soon came the fatal announcement, "Mr. Roderick Nape will recite a dramatic monologue, 'The Murder at Fairleigh Grange,'" and he stumbled up on the platform clutching his manuscript tightly. He began huskily the opening lines.
"It is now many years since I became a detective, and care has whitened my locks, yet it seems but yesterday," etc., etc.
He slurred his lines horribly. He somehow missed the exact qualities of tragedy as he unfolded his gory tale.
The audience sat quiet and behaved decorously, but it refused to be thrilled. Mr. Nape recognized his failure and boggled his lines horribly, and the Duke was genuinely sorry for him. He came to the part of the story where he sees the agony advertisement. He was looking forward to this part, as the desert traveller anticipates the oasis. For here he had excuse for a pause, and a pause might help him to collect his scattered thoughts. So his utterance grew steadier as with trembling fingers he drew from his waistcoat pocket the little clipping.
"Come (he quavered), let me read the paper again;" he held it up and read – yes, actually read, although he ought to have remembered that this cutting had no reference whatever to the plot of his one-man melodrama. But Mr. Nape was beyond the point of reasoning.
"To whom it may concern," he read, then paused.
The audience was curious and silent, and Mr. Nape went on: —
"In the district court of Nevada."
Hank's arm gripped the Duke's.
"Take notice George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier, that a writ has been issued at the instance of Henry Sleaford of Colorado Springs, Henry B. Sant of New York and Sir Harry Tanneur of Montleigh, England, calling upon you to establish your title to the Silver Streak – "
"Stop!"
Sir Harry, his face purple, the veins of his temples swollen, was on his feet.
"Go on, Mr. Nape, please."
It was the Duke's gentle voice. In a dream Mr. Nape obeyed. In his not unnatural agitation he skipped a few lines. "… therefore I call upon you, the aforesaid George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier to appear before me at 10 o'clock in the forenoon of the 28th day of October, 1907."
"The twenty-eighth!" gasped Hank, "to-day's the twentieth, the boat has sailed – "
He heard Tanneur's laugh, harsh and triumphant.
"The Ironic doesn't call at Queenstown," he said and laughed again.
"No, but the German boat will be passing through the Straits of Dover in two hours' time," said the Duke.
Outside in the vestibule the Duke looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past nine.
The girl by his side was quiet, but her eyes never left his face.
"I'm going to do it," he said grimly. He looked at her and of a sudden took her face between his hands and kissed her.
"You're worth it," he said simply.
St. John's station was ten minutes walk from the hall.
The three (for Hank led the way) reached there in five. The station inspector was on the platform, a courteous man with a cheerful eye and a short grey beard. Hank was to the point.
"I want you to flag the Continental," he said.
"That's an Americanism, isn't it," smiled the inspector. "You want me to put the signal against the Continental Mail." Hank nodded.
"I won't say it cannot be done," said the inspector, "but there will have to be a very urgent reason."
"That," said the admiring Hank, "is the kind of talk I like to hear;" and he told the official the whole story. The inspector nodded. "Next platform," he said shortly and ran for the signal box.
As they reached the platform the green light that gave "road clear" to the Continental swung up to red.
"Here's all the money I have," said Hank quickly: he emptied his pockets into the Duke's hands. "I'll get the Dover 'phone busy, charter a tug – you'll have to take your chance about the boat. She'll pull up if you signal her. I'll send you some money by wireless – here she comes."
She came – the noisy Continental reluctantly slowing down, steaming and snorting and whistling at the indignity.
The Duke bustled in, the starting signal fell…
"Look after the house!" shouted the Duke from the window. The train was on the move, when a man came flying down the steps.
"Stop you!" yelled Hank.
"Bang! bang! bang!.."
A group of porters surrounded the recumbent figure of Mr. Bill Slewer of Four Ways, who lay with a bullet in his leg cursing in a strange language.
Bill's revolver had fallen on to the metals, but Hank's slim Smith-Wesson hung in his hand still smoking.
"You must do the 'phoning," he said to the white-faced girl. "I shall have to stay and explain away William."
In the meantime the tail-lights of the Continental had disappeared round the curve.