This etext was prepared by Theresa Armao of Albany, NY.
THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE
By
E. Phillips Oppenheim
CONTENTS
I Mr. Hamilton Fynes, Urgent
II The End of the Journey
III An Incident and an Accident
IV Miss Penelope Morse
V An Affair of State
VI Mr. Coulson Interviewed
VII A Fatal Despatch
VIII An Interrupted Theatre Party
IX Inspector Jacks Scores
X Mr. Coulson Outmatched
XI A Commission
XII Penelope Intervenes
XIII East and West
XIV An Engagement
XV Penelope Explains
XVI Concerning Prince Maiyo
XVII A Gay Night in Paris
XVIII Mr. Coulson is Indiscreet
XIX A Momentous Question
XX The Answer
XXI A Clue
XXII A Breath From the East
XXIII On the Trail
XXIV Prince Maiyo Bids High
XXV Hobson's Choice
XXVI Some Farewells
XXVII A Prisoner
XXVIII Patriotism
XXIX A Race
XXX Inspector Jacks Importunate
XXXI Good-Bye!
XXXII Prince Maiyo Speaks
XXXIII Unafraid
XXXIV Banzai
CHAPTER I. MR. HAMILTON FYNES, URGENT
There was a little murmur of regret amongst the five hundred and
eighty-seven saloon passengers on board the steamship Lusitania,
mingled, perhaps, with a few expressions of a more violent
character. After several hours of doubt, the final verdict had at
last been pronounced. They had missed the tide, and no attempt
was to be made to land passengers that night. Already the engines
had ceased to throb, the period of unnatural quietness had
commenced. Slowly, and without noticeable motion, the great liner
swung round a little in the river.
A small tug, which had been hovering about for some time, came
screaming alongside. There was a hiss from its wave-splashed
deck, and a rocket with a blue light flashed up into the sky. A
man who had formed one of the long line of passengers, leaning
over the rail, watching the tug since it had come into sight, now
turned away and walked briskly to the steps leading to the
bridge. As it happened, the captain himself was in the act of
descending. The passenger accosted him, and held out what seemed
to be a letter.
"Captain Goodfellow," he said, "I should be glad if you would
glance at the contents of that note."
The captain, who had just finished a long discussion with the
pilot and was not in the best of humor, looked a little
surprised.
"What, now?" he asked.
"If you please," was the quiet answer. "The matter is urgent."
"Who are you?" the captain asked.
"My name is Hamilton Fynes," the other answered. "I am a saloon
passenger on board your ship, although my name does not appear in
the list. That note has been in my pocket since we left New York,
to deliver to you in the event of a certain contingency
happening."
"The contingency being?" the captain asked, tearing open the
envelope and moving a little nearer the electric light which
shone out from the smoking room.
"That the Lusitania did not land her passengers this evening."
The captain read the note, examined the signature carefully, and
whistled softly to himself.
"You know what is inside this?" he asked, looking into his
companion's face with some curiosity.
"Certainly," was the brief reply.
"Your name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, the Mr. Hamilton Fynes
mentioned in this letter?"
"That is so," the passenger admitted.
The captain nodded.
"Well," he said, "you had better get down on the lower deck, port
side. By the bye, have you any friends with you?"
"I am quite alone," he answered.
"So much the better," the captain declared. "Don't tell any one
that you are going ashore if you can help it."
"I certainly will not, sir," the other answered. "Thank you very
much."
"Of course, you know that you can't take your luggage with you?"
the captain remarked.
"That is of no consequence at all, sir," Mr. Hamilton Fynes
answered. "I will leave instructions for my trunk to be sent on
after me. I have all that I require, for the moment, in this
suitcase."
The captain blew his whistle. Mr. Hamilton Fynes made his way
quietly to the lower deck, which was almost deserted. In a very
few minutes he was joined by half a dozen sailors, dragging a
rope ladder. The little tug came screaming around, and before any
of the passengers on the deck above had any idea of what was
happening, Mr. Hamilton Fynes was on board the Anna Maria, and on
his way down the river, seated in a small, uncomfortable cabin,
lit by a single oil lamp.
No one spoke more than a casual word to him from the moment he
stepped to the deck until the short journey was at an end. He was
shown at once into the cabin, the door of which he closed without
a moment's delay. A very brief examination of the interior
convinced him that he was indeed alone. Thereupon he seated
himself with his back to the wall and his face to the door, and
finding an English newspaper on the table, read it until they
reached the docks. Arrived there, he exchanged a civil good-night
with the captain, and handed a sovereign to the seaman who held
his bag while he disembarked.
For several minutes after he had stepped on to the wooden
platform, Mr. Hamilton Fynes showed no particular impatience to
continue his journey. He stood in the shadow of one of the sheds,
looking about him with quick furtive glances, as though anxious
to assure himself that there was no one around who was taking a
noticeable interest in his movements. Having satisfied himself at
length upon this point, he made his way to the London and North
Western Railway Station, and knocked at the door of the
station-master's office. The station-master was busy, and
although Mr. Hamilton Fynes had the appearance of a perfectly
respectable transatlantic man of business, there was nothing
about his personality remarkably striking, - nothing, at any rate,
to inspire an unusual amount of respect.
"You wished to see me, sir?" the official asked, merely glancing
up from the desk at which he was sitting with a pile of papers
before him.
Mr. Hamilton Fynes leaned over the wooden counter which separated
him from the interior of the office. Before he spoke, he glanced
around as though to make sure that he had not forgotten to close
the door.
"I require a special train to London as quickly as possible," he
announced. "I should be glad if you could let me have one within
half an hour, at any rate."
The station-master rose to his feet.
"Quite impossible, sir," he declared a little brusquely.
"Absolutely out of the question!"
"May I ask why it is out of the question?" Mr. Hamilton Fynes
inquired.
"In the first place," the station-master answered, "a special
train to London would cost you a hundred and eighty pounds, and
in the second place, even if you were willing to pay that sum, it
would be at least two hours before I could start you off. We
could not possibly disorganize the whole of our fast traffic. The
ordinary mail train leaves here at midnight with sleeping-cars."
Mr. Hamilton Fynes held out a letter which he had produced from
his breast pocket, and which was, in appearance, very similar to
the one which he had presented, a short time ago, to the captain
of the Lusitania.
"Perhaps you will kindly read this," he said. "I am perfectly
willing to pay the hundred and eighty pounds."
The station-master tore open the envelope and read the few lines
contained therein. His manner underwent at once a complete
change, very much as the manner of the captain of the Lusitania
had done. He took the letter over to his green-shaded writing
lamp, and examined the signature carefully. When he returned, he
looked at Mr. Hamilton Fynes curiously. There was, however,
something more than curiosity in his glance. There was also
respect.
"I will give this matter my personal attention at once, Mr.
Fynes," he said, lifting the flap of the counter and coming out.
"Do you care to come inside and wait in my private office?"
"Thank you," Mr. Hamilton Fynes answered; "I will walk up and
down the platform."
"There is a refreshment room just on the left," the
station-master remarked, ringing violently at a telephone. "I
dare say we shall get you off in less than half an hour. We will
do our best, at any rate. It's an awkward time just now to
command an absolutely clear line, but if we can once get you past
Crewe you'll be all right. Shall we fetch you from the
refreshment room when we are ready?"
"If you please," the intending passenger answered.
Mr. Hamilton Fynes discovered that place of entertainment without
difficulty, ordered for himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich,
and drew a chair close up to the small open fire, taking care,
however, to sit almost facing the only entrance to the room. He
laid his hat upon the counter, close to which he had taken up his
position, and smoothed back with his left hand his somewhat thick
black hair. He was a man, apparently of middle age, of middle
height, clean-shaven, with good but undistinguished features,
dark eyes, very clear and very bright, which showed, indeed, but
little need of the pince-nez which hung by a thin black cord from
his neck. His hat, low in the crown and of soft gray felt, would
alone have betrayed his nationality. His clothes, however, were
also American in cut. His boots were narrow and of unmistakable
shape. He ate his sandwich with suspicion, and after his first
sip of coffee ordered a whiskey and soda. Afterwards he sat
leaning back in his chair, glancing every now and then at the
clock, but otherwise manifesting no signs of impatience. In less
than half an hour an inspector, cap in hand, entered the room and
announced that everything was ready. Mr. Hamilton Fynes put on
his hat, picked up his suitcase, and followed him on to the
platform. A long saloon carriage, with a guard's brake behind and
an engine in front, was waiting there.
"We've done our best, sir," the station-master remarked with a
note of self-congratulation in his tone. "It's exactly twenty-two
minutes since you came into the office, and there she is. Finest
engine we've got on the line, and the best driver. You've a clear
road ahead too. Wish you a pleasant journey, sir."
"You are very good, sir," Mr. Hamilton Fynes declared. "I am sure
that my friends on the other side will appreciate your attention.
By what time do you suppose that we shall reach London?"
The station-master glanced at the clock.
"It is now eight o'clock, sir," he announced. "If my orders down
the line are properly attended to, you should be there by twenty
minutes to twelve."
Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded gravely and took his seat in the car.
He had previously walked its entire length and back again.
"The train consists only of this carriage?" he asked. "There is
no other passenger, for instance, travelling in the guard's
brake?"
"Certainly not, sir," the station-master declared. "Such a thing
would be entirely against the regulations. There are five of you,
all told, on board, - driver, stoker, guard, saloon attendant, and
yourself."
Mr. Hamilton Fynes nodded, and appeared satisfied.
"No more luggage, sir?" the guard asked.
"I was obliged to leave what I had, excepting this suitcase, upon
the steamer," Mr. Hamilton Fynes explained. "I could not very
well expect them to get my trunk up from the hold. It will follow
me to the hotel tomorrow."
"You will find that the attendant has light refreshments on
board, sir, if you should be wanting anything," the
station-master announced. "We'll start you off now, then.
Good-night, sir!"
Mr. Fynes nodded genially.
"Good-night, Station-master!" he said. "Many thanks to you."
CHAPTER II. THE END OF THE JOURNEY
Southward, with low funnel belching forth fire and smoke into the
blackness of the night, the huge engine, with its solitary saloon
carriage and guard's brake, thundered its way through the night
towards the great metropolis. Across the desolate plain, stripped
bare of all vegetation, and made hideous forever by the growth of
a mighty industry, where the furnace fires reddened the sky, and
only the unbroken line of ceaseless lights showed where town
dwindled into village and suburbs led back again into town. An
ugly, thickly populated neighborhood, whose area of twinkling
lights seemed to reach almost to the murky skies; hideous, indeed
by day, not altogether devoid now of a certain weird
attractiveness by reason of low-hung stars. On, through many
tunnels into the black country itself, where the furnace fires
burned oftener, but the signs of habitation were fewer. Down the
great iron way the huge locomotive rushed onward, leaping and
bounding across the maze of metals, tearing past the dazzling
signal lights, through crowded stations where its passing was
like the roar of some earth-shaking monster. The station-master
at Crewe unhooked his telephone receiver and rang up Liverpool.
"What about this special?" he demanded.
"Passenger brought off from the Lusitania in a private tug.
Orders are to let her through all the way to London."
"I know all about that," the station-master grumbled. "I have
three locals on my hands already, - been held up for half an hour.
Old Glynn, the director's, in one of them too. Might be General
Manager to hear him swear."
"Is she signalled yet?" Liverpool asked.
"Just gone through at sixty miles an hour," was the reply. "She
made our old wooden sheds shake, I can tell you. Who's driving
her?"
"Jim Poynton," Liverpool answered. "The guvnor took him off the
mail specially."
"What's the fellow's name on board, anyhow?" Crewe asked. "Is it
a millionaire from the other side, trying to make records, or a
member of our bloated aristocracy?"
"The name's Fynes, or something like it," was the reply. "He
didn't look much like a millionaire. Came into the office
carrying a small handbag and asked for a special to London.
Guvnor told him it would take two hours and cost a hundred and
eighty pounds. Told him he'd better wait for the mail. He
produced a note from some one or other, and you should have seen
the old man bustle round. We started him off in twenty minutes."
The station-master at Crewe was interested. He knew very well
that it is not the easiest thing in the world to bring influence
to bear upon a great railway company.
"Seems as though he was some one out of the common, anyway," he
remarked. "The guvnor didn't let on who the note was from, I
suppose?"
"Not he," Liverpool answered. "The first thing he did when he
came back into the office was to tear it into small pieces and
throw them on the fire. Young Jenkins did ask him a question, and
he shut him up pretty quick."
"Well, I suppose we shall read all about it in the papers
tomorrow," Crewe remarked. "There isn't much that these reporters
don't get hold of. He must be some one out of the common - some
one with a pull, I mean, - or the captain of the Lusitania would
never have let him off before the other passengers. When are the
rest of them coming through?"
"Three specials leave here at nine o'clock tomorrow morning," was
the reply. "Good night."
The station-master at Crewe hung up his receiver and went about
his duties. Twenty miles southward by now, the special was still
tearing its way into the darkness. Its solitary passenger had
suddenly developed a fit of restlessness. He left his seat and
walked once or twice up and down the saloon. Then he opened the
rear door, crossed the little open space between, and looked into
the guard's brake. The guard was sitting upon a stool, reading a
newspaper. He was quite alone, and so absorbed that he did not
notice the intruder. Mr. Hamilton Fynes quietly retreated,
closing the door behind him. He made his way once more through
the saloon, passed the attendant, who was fast asleep in his
pantry, and was met by a locked door. He let down the window and
looked out. He was within a few feet of the engine, which was
obviously attached direct to the saloon. Mr. Hamilton Fynes
resumed his seat, having disturbed nobody. He produced some
papers from his breast pocket, and spread them out on the table
before him. One, a sealed envelope, he immediately returned,
slipping it down into a carefully prepared place between the
lining and the material of his coat. Of the others he commenced
to make a close and minute investigation. It was a curious fact,
however, that notwithstanding his recent searching examination,
he looked once more nervously around the saloon before he settled
down to his task. For some reason or other, there was not the
slightest doubt that for the present, at any rate, Mr. Hamilton
Fynes was exceedingly anxious to keep his own company. As he drew
nearer to his journey's end, indeed, his manner seemed to lose
something of that composure of which, during the earlier part of
the evening, he had certainly been possessed. Scarcely a minute
passed that he did not lean sideways from his seat and look up
and down the saloon. He sat like a man who is perpetually on the
qui vive. A furtive light shone in his eyes, he was manifestly
uncomfortable. Yet how could a man be safer from espionage than
he!
Rugby telephoned to Liverpool, and received very much the same
answer as Crewe. Euston followed suit.
"Who's this you're sending up tonight?" the station-master asked.
"Special's at Willington now, come through without a stop. Is
some one trying to make a record round the world?"
Liverpool was a little tired of answering questions, and more
than a little tired of this mysterious client. The station-master
at Euston, however, was a person to be treated with respect.
"His name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, sir," was the reply. "That is
all we know about him. They have been ringing us up all down the
line, ever since the special left."
"Hamilton Fynes," Euston repeated. "Don't know the name. Where
did he come from?"
"Off the Lusitania, sir."
"But we had a message three hours ago that the Lusitania was not
landing her passengers until tomorrow morning," Euston protested.
"They let our man off in a tug, sir," was the reply.
"It went down the river to fetch him. The guvnor didn't want to
give him a special at this time of night, but he just handed him
a note, and we made things hum up here. He was on his way in half
an hour. We have had to upset the whole of the night traffic to
let him through without a stop."
Such a client was, at any rate, worth meeting. The station-master
brushed his coat, put on his silk hat, and stepped out on to the
platform.
CHAPTER III. AN INCIDENT AND AN ACCIDENT
Smoothly the huge engine came gliding into the station - a dumb,
silent creature now, drawing slowly to a standstill as though
exhausted after its great effort. Through the windows of the
saloon the station-master could see the train attendant bending
over this mysterious passenger, who did not seem, as yet, to have
made any preparations for leaving his place. Mr. Hamilton Fynes
was seated at a table covered with papers, but he was leaning
back as though he had been or was still asleep. The
station-master stepped forward, and as he did so the attendant
came hurrying out to the platform, and, pushing back the porters,
called to him by name.
"Mr. Rice," he said, "If you please, sir, will you come this
way?"
The station-master acceded at once to the man's request and
entered the saloon. The attendant clutched at his arm nervously.
He was a pale, anaemic-looking little person at any time, but his
face just now was positively ghastly.
"What on earth is the matter with you?" the station-master asked
brusquely.
"There's something wrong with my passenger, sir," the man
declared in a shaking voice. "I can't make him answer me. He
won't look up, and I don't - I don't think he's asleep. An hour
ago I took him some whiskey. He told me not to disturb him
again - he had some papers to go through."
The station-master leaned over the table. The eyes of the man who
sat there were perfectly wide-open, but there was something
unnatural in their fixed stare, - something unnatural, too, in the
drawn grayness of his face.
"This is Euston, sir," the station-master began, - "the
terminus - "
Then he broke off in the middle of his sentence. A cold shiver
was creeping through his veins. He, too, began to stare; he felt
the color leaving his own cheeks. With an effort he turned to the
attendant.
"Pull down the blinds," he ordered, in a voice which he should
never have recognized as his own. "Quick! Now turn out those
porters, and tell the inspector to stop anyone from coming into
the car."
The attendant, who was shaking like a leaf, obeyed. The
station-master turned away and drew a long breath. He himself was
conscious of a sense of nausea, a giddiness which was almost
overmastering. This was a terrible thing to face without a
second's warning. He had not the slightest doubt but that the man
who was seated at the table was dead!
At such an hour there were only a few people upon the platform,
and two stalwart station policemen easily kept back the loiterers
whose curiosity had been excited by the arrival of the special. A
third took up his position with his back to the entrance of the
saloon, and allowed no one to enter it till the return of the
station-master, who had gone for a doctor. The little crowd was
completely mystified. No one had the slightest idea of what had
happened. The attendant was besieged by questions, but he was
sitting on the step of the car, in the shadow of a policeman,
with his head buried in his hands, and he did not once look up.
Some of the more adventurous tried to peer through the windows at
the lower end of the saloon. Others rushed off to interview the
guard. In a very few minutes, however, the station-master
reappeared upon the scene, accompanied by the doctor. The little
crowd stood on one side and the two men stepped into the car.
The doctor proceeded at once with his examination. Mr. Hamilton
Fynes, this mysterious person who had succeeded, indeed, in
making a record journey, was leaning back in the corner of his
seat, his arms folded, his head drooping a little, but his eyes
still fixed in that unseeing stare. His body yielded itself
unnaturally to the touch. For the main truth the doctor needed
scarcely a glance at him.
"Is he dead?" the station-master asked.
"Stone-dead!" was the brief answer.
"Good God!" the station-master muttered. "Good God!"
The doctor had thrown his handkerchief over the dead man's face.
He was standing now looking at him thoughtfully.
"Did he die in his sleep, I wonder?" the station-master asked.
"It must have been horribly sudden! Was it heart disease?"
The doctor did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be thinking
out some problem.
"The body had better be removed to the station mortuary," he said
at last. "Then, if I were you, I should have the saloon shunted
on to a siding and left absolutely untouched. You had better
place two of your station police in charge while you telephone to
Scotland Yard."
"To Scotland Yard?" the station-master exclaimed.
The doctor nodded. He looked around as though to be sure that
none of that anxious crowd outside could overhear.
"There's no question of heart disease here," he explained. "The
man has been murdered!"
The station-master was horrified, - horrified and blankly
incredulous.
"Murdered!" he repeated. "Why, it's impossible! There was no one
else on the train except the attendant - not a single other
person. All my advices said one passenger only."
The doctor touched the man's coat with his finger, and the
station-master saw what he had not seen before, - saw what made
him turn away, a little sick. He was a strong man, but he was not
used to this sort of thing, and he had barely recovered yet from
the first shock of finding himself face to face with a dead man.
Outside, the crowd upon the platform was growing larger. White
faces were being pressed against the windows at the lower end of
the saloon.
"There is no question about the man having been murdered," the
doctor said, and even his voice shook a little. "His own hand
could never have driven that knife home. I can tell you, even,
how it was done. The man who stabbed him was in the compartment
behind there, leaned over, and drove this thing down, just
missing the shoulder. There was no struggle or fight of any sort.
It was a diabolical deed!"
"Diabolical indeed!" the station-master echoed hoarsely.
"You had better give orders for us to be shunted down on to a
siding just as we are," the doctor continued, "and send one of
your men to telephone to Scotland Yard. Perhaps it would be as
well, too, not to touch those papers until some one comes. See
that the attendant does not go home, or the guard. They will
probably be wanted to answer questions."
The station-master stepped out to the platform, summoned an
inspector, and gave a few brief orders. Slowly the saloon was
backed out of the station again on to a neglected siding, a sort
of backwater for spare carriages and empty trucks, - an
ignominious resting place, indeed, after its splendid journey
through the night. The doors at both ends were closed and two
policemen placed on duty to guard them. The doctor and the
station-master seated themselves out of sight of their gruesome
companion, and the station-master told all that he knew about the
despatch of the special and the man who had ordered it. The
attendant, who still moved about like a man in a dream, brought
them some brandy and soda and served them with shaking hand. They
all three talked together in whispers, the attendant telling them
the few incidents of the journey down, which, except for the dead
man's nervous desire for solitude, seemed to possess very little
significance. Then at last there was a sharp tap at the window. A
tall, quietly dressed man, with reddish skin and clear gray eyes,
was helped up into the car. He saluted the doctor mechanically.
His eyes were already travelling around the saloon.
"Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard, sir," he announced. "I have
another man outside. If you don't mind, we'll have him in."
"By all means," the station-master answered. "I am afraid that
you will find this rather a serious affair. We have left
everything untouched so far as we could."
The second detective was assisted to clamber up into the car. It
seemed, however, as though the whole force of Scotland Yard could
scarcely do much towards elucidating an affair which, with every
question which was asked and answered, grew more mysterious. The
papers upon the table before the dead man were simply circulars
and prospectuses of no possible importance. His suitcase
contained merely a few toilet necessaries and some clean linen.
There was not a scrap of paper or even an envelope of any sort in
his pockets. In a small leather case they found a thousand
dollars in American notes, five ten-pound Bank of England notes,
and a single visiting card on which was engraved the name of Mr.
Hamilton Fynes. In his trousers pocket was a handful of gold. He
had no other personal belongings of any sort. The space between
the lining of his coat and the material itself was duly noticed,
but it was empty. His watch was a cheap one, his linen unmarked,
and his clothes bore only the name of a great New York retail
establishment. He had certainly entered the train alone, and both
the guard and attendant were ready to declare positively that no
person could have been concealed in it. The engine-driver, on his
part, was equally ready to swear that not once from the moment
when they had steamed out of Liverpool Station until they had
arrived within twenty miles of London, had they travelled at less
than forty miles an hour. At Willington he had found a signal
against him which had brought him nearly to a standstill, and
under the regulations he had passed through the station at ten
miles an hour. These were the only occasions, however, on which
he had slackened speed at all. The train attendant, who was a
nervous man, began to shiver again and imagine unmentionable
things. The guard, who had never left his own brake, went home
and dreamed that his effigy had been added to the collection of
Madame Tussaud. The reporters were the only people who were
really happy, with the exception, perhaps of Inspector Jacks, who
had a weakness for a difficult case.
Fifteen miles north of London, a man lay by the roadside in the
shadow of a plantation of pine trees, through which he had
staggered only a few minutes ago. His clothes were covered with
dust, he had lost his cap, and his trousers were cut about the
knee as though from a fall. He was of somewhat less than medium
height, dark, slender, with delicate features, and hair almost
coal black. His face, as he moved slowly from side to side upon
the grass, was livid with pain. Every now and then he raised
himself and listened. The long belt of main road, which passed
within a few feet of him, seemed almost deserted. Once a cart
came lumbering by, and the man who lay there, watching, drew
closely back into the shadows. A youth on a bicycle passed,
singing to himself. A boy and girl strolled by, arm in arm,
happy, apparently, in their profound silence. Only a couple of
fields away shone the red and green lights of the railway track.
Every few minutes the goods-trains went rumbling over the metals.
The man on the ground heard them with a shiver. Resolutely he
kept his face turned in the opposite direction. The night mail
went thundering northward, and he clutched even at the nettles
which grew amongst the grass where he was crouching, as though
filled with a sudden terror. Then there was silence once
more - silence which became deeper as the hour approached
midnight. Passers-by were fewer; the birds and animals came out
from their hiding places. A rabbit scurried across the road; a
rat darted down the tiny stream. Now and then birds moved in the
undergrowth, and the man, who was struggling all the time with a
deadly faintness, felt the silence grow more and more oppressive.
He began even to wonder where he was. He closed his eyes. Was
that really the tinkling of a guitar, the perfume of almond and
cherry blossom, floating to him down the warm wind? He began to
lose himself in dreams until he realized that actual
unconsciousness was close upon him. Then he set his teeth tight
and clenched his hands. Away in the distance a faint,
long-expected sound came travelling to his ears. At last, then,
his long wait was over. Two fiery eyes were stealing along the
lonely road. The throb of an engine was plainly audible. He
staggered up, swaying a little on his feet, and holding out his
hands. The motor car came to a standstill before him, and the man
who was driving it sprang to the ground. Words passed between
them rapidly, - questions and answers, - the questions of an
affectionate servant, and the answers of a man fighting a grim
battle for consciousness. But these two spoke in a language of
their own, a language which no one who passed along that road was
likely to understand.
With a groan of relief the man who had been picked up sank back
amongst the cushioned seats, carefully almost tenderly, aided by
the chauffeur. Eagerly he thrust his hand into one of the leather
pockets and drew out a flask of brandy. The rush of cold air, as
the car swung round and started off, was like new life to him. He
closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they had come to a
standstill underneath a red lamp.
"The doctor's!" he muttered to himself, and, staggering out, rang
the bell.
Dr. Spencer Whiles had had a somewhat dreary day, and was
thoroughly enjoying a late rubber of bridge with three of his
most agreeable neighbors. A summons into the consulting room,
however, was so unexpected a thing that he did not hesitate for a
moment to obey it, without even waiting to complete a deal. When
he entered the apartment, he saw a slim but determined-looking
young man, whose clothes were covered with dust, and who,
although he sat with folded arms and grim face, was very nearly
in a state of collapse.
"You seem to have met with an accident," the doctor remarked.
"How did it happen?"
"I have been run over by a motor car," his patient said, speaking
slowly and with something singularly agreeable in his voice
notwithstanding its slight accent of pain. "Can you patch me up
till I get to London?"
The doctor looked him over.
"What were you doing in the road?" he asked.
"I was riding a bicycle," the other answered. "I dare say it was
my own fault; I was certainly on the wrong side of the road. You
can see what has happened to me. I am bruised and cut; my side is
painful, and also my knee. A car is waiting outside now to take
me to my home, but I thought that I had better stop and see you."
The doctor was a humane man, with a miserable practice, and he
forgot all about his bridge party. For half an hour he worked
over his patient. At the end of that time he gave him a brandy
and soda and placed a box of cigarettes before him.
"You'll do all right now," he said. "That's a nasty cut on your
leg, but you've no broken bones."
"I feel absolutely well again, thank you very much," the young
man said. "I will smoke a cigarette, if I may. The brandy, I
thank you, no!"
"Just as you like," the doctor answered. "I won't say that you
are not better without it. Help yourself to the cigarettes. Are
you going back to London in the motor car, then?"
"Yes!" the patient answered. "It is waiting outside for me now,
and I must not keep the man any longer. Will you let me know, if
you please, how much I owe you?"
The doctor hesitated. Fees were a rare thing with him, and the
evidences of his patient's means were somewhat doubtful. The
young man put his hand into his pocket.
"I am afraid," he said, "that I am not a very presentable-looking
object, but I am glad to assure you that I am not a poor man. I
am able to pay your charges and to still feel that the obligation
is very much on my side."
The doctor summoned up his courage.
"We will say a guinea, then," he remarked with studied
indifference.
"You must allow me to make it a little more than that," the
patient answered. "Your treatment was worth it. I feel perfectly
recovered already. Good night, sir!"
The doctor's eyes sparkled as he glanced at the gold which his
visitor had laid upon the table.
"You are very good, I'm sure," he murmured. "I hope you will have
a comfortable journey. With a nerve like yours, you'll be all
right in a day or so."
He let his patient out and watched him depart with some
curiosity, watched until the great motor-car had swung round the
corner of the street and started on its journey to London.
"No bicycle there," he remarked to himself, as he closed the
door. "I wonder what they did with it."
CHAPTER IV. MISS PENELOPE MORSE
It was already a little past the customary luncheon hour at the
Carlton, and the restaurant was well filled. The orchestra had
played their first selection, and the stream of incoming guests
had begun to slacken. A young lady who had been sitting in the
palm court for at least half an hour rose to her feet, and,
glancing casually at her watch, made her way into the hotel. She
entered the office and addressed the chief reception clerk.
"Can you tell me," she asked, "if Mr. Hamilton Fynes is staying
here? He should have arrived by the Lusitania last night or early
this morning."
It is not the business of a hotel reception clerk to appear
surprised at anything. Nevertheless the man looked at her, for a
moment, with a curious expression in his eyes.
"Mr. Hamilton Fynes!" he repeated. "Did you say that you were
expecting him by the Lusitania, madam?"
"Yes!" the young lady answered. "He asked me to lunch with him
here today. Can you tell me whether he has arrived yet? If he is
in his room, I should be glad if you would send up to him."
There were several people in the office who were in a position to
overhear their conversation. With a word of apology, the man came
round from his place behind the mahogany counter. He stood by the
side of the young lady, and he seemed to be suffering from some
embarrassment.
"Will you pardon my asking, madam, if you have seen the
newspapers this morning?" he inquired.
Without a doubt, her first thought was that the question savored
of impertinence. She looked at him with slightly upraised
eyebrows. She was slim, of medium complexion, with dark brown
hair parted in the middle and waving a little about her temples.
She was irreproachably dressed, from the tips of her patent shoes
to the black feathers in her Paris hat.
"The newspapers!" she repeated. "Why, no, I don't think that I
have seen them this morning. What have they to do with Mr.
Hamilton Fynes?"
The clerk pointed to the open door of a small private office.
"If you will step this way for one moment, madam," he begged.
She tapped the floor with her foot and looked at him curiously.
Certainly the people around seemed to be taking some interest in
their conversation.
"Why should I?" she asked. "Cannot you answer my question here?"
"If madam will be so good," he persisted.
She shrugged her shoulders and followed him. Something in the
man's earnest tone and almost pleading look convinced her, at
least, of his good intentions. Besides, the interest which her
question had undoubtedly aroused amongst the bystanders was, to
say the least of it, embarrassing. He pulled the door to after
them.
"Madam," he said, "there was a Mr. Hamilton Fynes who came over
by the Lusitania, and who had certainly engaged rooms in this
hotel, but he unfortunately, it seems, met with an accident on
his way from Liverpool."
Her manner changed at once. She began to understand what it all
meant. Her lips parted, her eyes were wide open.
"An accident?" she faltered.
He gently rolled a chair up to her. She sank obediently into it.
"Madam," he said, "it was a very bad accident indeed. I trust
that Mr. Hamilton Fynes was not a very intimate friend or a
relative of yours. It would perhaps be better for you to read the
account for yourself."
He placed a newspaper in her hands. She read the first few lines
and suddenly turned upon him. She was white to the lips now, and
there was real terror in her tone. Yet if he had been in a
position to have analyzed the emotion she displayed, he might
have remarked that there was none of the surprise, the blank,
unbelieving amazement which might have been expected from one
hearing for the first time of such a calamity.
"Murdered!" she exclaimed. "Is this true?"
"It appears to be perfectly true, madam, I regret to say," the
clerk answered. "Even the earlier editions were able to supply
the man's name, and I am afraid that there is no doubt about his
identity. The captain of the Lusitania confirmed it, and many of
the passengers who saw him leave the ship last night have been
interviewed."
"Murdered!" she repeated to herself with trembling lips. "It
seems such a horrible death! Have they any idea who did it?" she
asked. "Has any one been arrested?"
"At present, no, madam," the clerk answered. "The affair, as you
will see if you read further, is an exceedingly mysterious one."
She rocked a little in her chair, but she showed no signs of
fainting. She picked up the paper and found the place once more.
There were two columns filled with particulars of the tragedy.