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The Illustrious Prince

by E. Phillips Oppenheim · English · Gutenberg #1447 · 505,718 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Illustrious Prince

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim


        
Release date: September 1, 1998 [eBook #1447]
                Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1447

Credits: Produced by Theresa Armao, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE ***

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.

“Where can I be alone and read this?” she asked.

“Here, if you please, madam,” the clerk answered. “I must go back to my
desk. There are many arrivals just now. Will you allow me to send you
something--a little brandy, perhaps?”

“Nothing, thank you,” she answered. “I wish only to be alone while I
read this.”

He left her with a little sympathetic murmur, and closed the door behind
him. The girl raised her veil now and spread the newspaper out on
the table before her. There was an account of the tragedy; there were
interviews with some of the passengers, a message from the captain. In
all, it seemed that wonderfully little was known of Mr. Hamilton Fynes.
He had spoken to scarcely a soul on board, and had remained for the
greater part of the time in his stateroom. The captain had not even
been aware of his existence till the moment when Mr. Hamilton Fynes
had sought him out and handed him an order, signed by the head of his
company, instructing him to obey in any respect the wishes of this
hitherto unknown passenger. The tug which had been hired to meet him had
gone down the river, so it was not possible, for the moment, to say by
whom it had been chartered. The station-master at Liverpool knew nothing
except that the letter presented to him by the dead man was a personal
one from a great railway magnate, whose wishes it was impossible to
disregard. There had not been a soul, apparently, upon the steamer
who had known anything worth mentioning of Mr. Hamilton Fynes or his
business. No one in London had made inquiries for him or claimed his few
effects. Half a dozen cables to America remained unanswered.

That papers had been stolen from him--papers or money--was evident from
the place of concealment in his coat, where the lining had been torn
away, but there was not the slightest evidence as to the nature of these
documents or the history of the murdered man. All that could be done was
to await the news from the other side, which was momentarily expected.

The girl went through it all, line by line, almost word by word.
Whatever there might have been of relationship or friendship between her
and the dead man, the news of his terrible end left her shaken, indeed,
but dry-eyed. She was apparently more terrified than grieved, and now
that the first shock had passed away, her mind seemed occupied with
thoughts which may indeed have had some connection with this tragedy,
but were scarcely wholly concerned with it. She sat for a long while
with her hands still resting upon the table but her eyes fixed out of
the window. Then at last she rose and made her way outside. Her friend
the reception clerk was engaged in conversation with one or two men, a
conversation of which she was obviously the subject. As she opened the
door, one of them broke off in the midst of what he was saying and would
have accosted her. The clerk, however, interposed, and drew her a step
or two back into the room.

“Madam,” he said, “one of these gentlemen is from Scotland Yard, and
the others are reporters. They are all eager to know anything about Mr.
Hamilton Fynes. I expect they will want to ask you some questions.”

The girl opened her lips and closed them again.

“I regret to say that I have nothing whatever to tell them,” she
declared. “Will you kindly let them know that?”

The clerk shook his head.

“I am afraid you will find them quite persistent, madam,” he said.

“I cannot tell them things which I do not know myself,” she answered,
frowning.

“Naturally,” the clerk admitted; “yet these gentlemen from Scotland Yard
have special privileges, of course, and there remains the fact that you
were engaged to lunch with Mr. Fynes here.”

“If it will help me to get rid of them,” she said, “I will speak to the
representative of Scotland Yard. I will have nothing whatever to say to
the reporters.”

The clerk turned round and beckoned to the foremost figure in the little
group. Inspector Jacks, tall, lantern-jawed, dressed with the quiet
precision of a well-to-do-man of affairs, and with no possible
suggestion of his calling in his manner or attire, was by her side
almost at once.

“Madam,” he said, “I understand that Mr. Hamilton Fynes was a friend of
yours?”

“An acquaintance,” she corrected him.

“And your name?” he asked.

“I am Miss Morse,” she replied,--“Miss Penelope Morse.”

“You were to have lunched here with Mr. Hamilton Fynes,” the detective
continued. “When, may I ask, did the invitation reach you?”

“Yesterday,” she told him, “by marconigram from Queenstown.”

“You can tell us a few things about the deceased, without doubt,” Mr.
Jacks said,--“his profession, for instance, or his social standing?
Perhaps you know the reason for his coming to Europe?”

The girl shook her head.

“Mr. Fynes and I were not intimately acquainted,” she answered. “We
met in Paris some years ago, and when he was last in London, during the
autumn, I lunched with him twice.”

“You had no letter from him, then, previous to the marconigram?” the
inspector asked.

“I have scarcely ever received a letter from him in my life,” she
answered. “He was as bad a correspondent as I am myself.”

“You know nothing, then, of the object of his present visit to England?”

“Nothing whatever,” she answered.

“When he was over here before,” the inspector asked, “do you know what
his business was then?”

“Not in the least,” she replied.

“You can tell us his address in the States?” Inspector Jacks suggested.

She shook her head.

“I cannot,” she answered. “As I told you just now, I have never had a
letter from him in my life. We exchanged a few notes, perhaps, when we
were in Paris, about trivial matters, but nothing more than that.”

“He must at some time, in Paris, for instance, or when you lunched with
him last year, have said something about his profession, or how he spent
his time?”

“He never alluded to it in any way,” the girl answered. “I have not the
slightest idea how he passed his time.”

The inspector was a little nonplussed. He did not for a moment believe
that the girl was telling the truth.

“Perhaps,” he said tentatively, “you do not care to have your name come
before the public in connection with a case so notorious as this?”

“Naturally,” the girl answered. “That, however, would not prevent my
telling you anything that I knew. You seem to find it hard to believe,
but I can assure you that I know nothing. Mr. Fynes was almost a
stranger to me.”

The detective was thoughtful.

“So you really cannot help us at all, madam?” he said at length.

“I am afraid not,” she answered.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “after you have thought the matter over,
something may occur to you. Can I trouble you for your address?”

“I am staying at Devenham House for the moment,” she answered.

He wrote it down in his notebook.

“I shall perhaps do myself the honor of waiting upon you a little later
on,” he said. “You may be able, after reflection, to recall some small
details, at any rate, which will be interesting to us. At present we are
absurdly ignorant as to the man’s affairs.”

She turned away from him to the clerk, and pointed to another door.

“Can I go out without seeing those others?” she asked. “I really have
nothing to say to them, and this has been quite a shock to me.”

“By all means, madam,” the clerk answered. “If you will allow me, I will
escort you to the entrance.”

Two of the more enterprising of the journalists caught them up upon the
pavement. Miss Penelope Morse, however, had little to say to them.

“You must not ask me any more questions about Mr. Hamilton Fynes,” she
declared. “My acquaintance with him was of the slightest. It is true
that I came here to lunch today without knowing what had happened. It
has been a shock to me, and I do not wish to talk about it, and I will
not talk about it, for the present.”

She was deaf to their further questions. The hotel clerk handed her into
a taximeter cab, and gave the address to the driver. Then he went back
to his office, where Inspector Jacks was still sitting.

“This Mr. Hamilton Fynes,” he remarked, “seems to have been what you
might call a secretive sort of person. Nobody appears to know anything
about him. I remember when he was staying here before that he had
no callers, and seemed to spend most of his time sitting in the palm
court.”

The inspector nodded.

“He was certainly a man who knew how to keep his own counsel,” he
admitted. “Most Americans are ready enough to talk about themselves and
their affairs, even to comparative strangers.”

The hotel clerk nodded.

“Makes it difficult for you,” he remarked.

“It makes the case very interesting,” the inspector declared,
“especially when we find him engaged to lunch with a young lady of such
remarkable discretion as Miss Penelope Morse.”

“You know her?” the clerk asked a little eagerly.

The inspector was engaged, apparently, in studying the pattern of the
carpet.

“Not exactly,” he answered. “No, I have no absolute knowledge of Miss
Penelope Morse. By the bye, that was rather an interesting address that
she gave.”

“Devenham House,” the hotel clerk remarked. “Do you know who lives
there?”

The inspector nodded.

“The Duke of Devenham,” he answered. “A very interesting young lady, I
should think, that. I wonder what she and Mr. Hamilton Fynes would have
talked about if they had lunched here today.”

The hotel clerk looked dubious. He did not grasp the significance of the
question.



CHAPTER V. AN AFFAIR OF STATE

Miss Penelope Morse was perfectly well aware that the taxicab in which
she left the Carlton Hotel was closely followed by two others. Through
the tube which she found by her side, she altered her first instructions
to the driver, and told him to proceed as fast as possible to Harrod’s
Stores. Then, raising the flap at the rear of the cab, she watched the
progress of the chase. Along Pall Mall the taxi in which she was seated
gained considerably, but in the Park and along the Bird Cage Walk both
the other taxies, risking the police regulations, drew almost alongside.
Once past Hyde Park Corner, however, her cab again drew ahead, and when
she was deposited in front of Harrod’s Stores, her pursuers were out of
sight. She paid the driver quickly, a little over double his fare.

“If any one asks you questions,” she said, “say that you had
instructions to wait here for me. Go on to the rank for a quarter of an
hour. Then you can drive away.”

“You won’t be coming back, then, miss?” the man asked.

“I shall not,” she answered, “but I want those men who are following
me to think that I am. They may as well lose a little time for their
rudeness.”

The chauffeur touched his hat and obeyed his instructions. Miss Penelope
Morse plunged into the mazes of the Stores with the air of one to
whom the place is familiar. She did not pause, however, at any of the
counters. In something less than two minutes she had left it again by a
back entrance, stepped into another taxicab which was just setting down
a passenger, and was well on her way back towards Pall Mall. Her ruse
appeared to have been perfectly successful. At any rate, she saw nothing
more of the occupants of the two taxicabs.

She stopped in front of one of the big clubs and, scribbling a line on
her card, gave it to the door keeper.

“Will you find out if this gentleman is in?” she said. “If he is, will
you kindly ask him to step out and speak to me?”

She returned to the cab and waited. In less than five minutes a tall,
broad-shouldered young man, clean-shaven, and moving like an athlete,
came briskly down the steps. He carried a soft hat in his hand, and
directly he spoke his transatlantic origin was apparent.

“Penelope!” he exclaimed. “Why, what on earth--”

“My dear Dicky,” she interrupted, laughing at his expression, “you need
not look so displeased with me. Of course, I know that I ought not to
have come and sent a message into your club. I will admit at once that
it was very forward of me. Perhaps when I have told you why I did so,
you won’t look so shocked.”

“I’m glad to see you, anyway,” he declared. “There’s no bad news, I
hope?”

“Nothing that concerns us particularly,” she answered. “I simply want to
have a little talk with you. Come in here with me, please, at once. We
can ride for a short distance anywhere.”

“But I am just in the middle of a rubber of bridge,” he objected.

“It can’t be helped,” she declared. “To tell you the truth, the matter I
want to talk to you about is of more importance than any game of cards.
Don’t be foolish, Dicky. You have your hat in your hand. Step in here by
my side at once.”

He looked a little bewildered, but he obeyed her, as most people did
when she was in earnest. She gave the driver an address somewhere in the
city. As soon as they were off, she turned towards him.

“Dicky,” she said, “do you read the newspapers?”

“Well, I can’t say that I do regularly,” he answered. “I read the New
York Herald, but these London journals are a bit difficult, aren’t they?
One has to dig the news out,--sort of treasure-hunt all the time.”

“You have read this murder case, at any rate,” she asked, “about the man
who was killed in a special train between Liverpool and London?”

“Of course,” he answered, with a sudden awakening of interest. “What
about it?”

“A good deal,” she answered slowly. “In the first place, the man who was
murdered--Mr. Hamilton Fynes--comes from the village where I was brought
up in Massachusetts, and I know more about him, I dare say, than any
one else in this country. What I know isn’t very much, perhaps, but it’s
interesting. I was to have lunched with him at the Carlton today; in
fact, I went there expecting to do so, for I am like you--I scarcely
ever look inside these English newspapers. Well, I went to the Carlton
and waited and he did not come. At last I went into the office and asked
whether he had arrived. Directly I mentioned his name, it was as though
I had thrown a bomb shell into the place. The clerk called me on one
side, took me into a private office, and showed me a newspaper. As
soon as I had read the account, I was interviewed by an inspector from
Scotland Yard. Ever since then I have been followed about by reporters.”

The young man whistled softly.

“Say, Penelope!” he exclaimed. “Who was this fellow, anyhow, and what
were you doing lunching with him?”

“That doesn’t matter,” she answered. “You don’t tell me all your
secrets, Mr. Dicky Vanderpole, and it isn’t necessary for me to tell you
all mine, even if we are both foreigners in a strange country. The poor
fellow isn’t going to lunch with any one else in this world. I suppose
you are thinking what an indiscreet person I am, as usual?”

The young man considered the matter for a moment.

“No,” he said; “I didn’t understand that he was the sort of person
you would have been likely to have taken lunch with. But that isn’t my
affair. Have you seen the second edition?”

The girl shook her head.

“Haven’t I told you that I never read the papers? I only saw what they
showed me in at the Carlton.”

“The Press Association have cabled to America, but no one seems to be
able to make out exactly who the fellow is. His letter to the captain of
the steamer was from the chairman of the company, and his introduction
to the manager of the London and North Western Railway Company was from
the greatest railway man in the world. Mr. Hamilton Fynes must have
been a person who had a pretty considerable pull over there. Curiously
enough, though, only the name of the man was mentioned in them; nothing
about his business, or what he was doing over on this side. He was
simply alluded to as ‘Mr. Hamilton Fynes--the gentleman bearing this
communication.’ I expect, after all, that you know more about him than
any one.”

She shook her head.

“What I know,” she said, “or at least most of it, I am going to
tell you. A few years ago he was a clerk in a Government office in
Washington. He was steady in those days, and was supposed to have a
head. He used to write me occasionally. One day he turned up in London
quite unexpectedly. He said that he had come on business, and whatever
his business was, it took him to St. Petersburg and Berlin, and then
back to Berlin again. I saw quite a good deal of him that trip.”

“The dickens you did!” he muttered.

Miss Penelope Morse laughed softly.

“Come, Dicky,” she said, “don’t pretend to be jealous. You’re an
outrageous flirt, I know, but you and I are never likely to get
sentimental about one another.”

“Why not?” he grumbled. “We’ve always been pretty good pals, haven’t
we?”

“Naturally,” she answered, “or I shouldn’t be here. Do you want to hear
anything more about Mr. Hamilton Fynes?”

“Of course I do,” he declared.

“Well, be quiet, then, and don’t interrupt,” she said. “I knew London
well and he didn’t. That is why, as I told you before, we saw quite
a great deal of one another. He was always very reticent about his
affairs, and especially about the business which had taken him on the
Continent. Just before he left, however, he gave me--well, a hint.”

“What was it?” the young man asked eagerly.

She hesitated.

“He didn’t put it into so many words,” she said, “and I am not sure,
even now, that I ought to tell you, Dicky. Still, you are a fellow
countryman and a budding diplomatist. I suppose if I can give you a lift
I ought to.”

The taxi was on the Embankment now, and they sped along for some time in
silence. Mr. Richard Vanderpole was more than a little puzzled.

“Of course, Penelope,” he said, “I don’t expect you to tell me anything
which you feel that you oughtn’t to. There is one thing, however, which
I must ask you.”

She nodded.

“Well?”

“I should like to know what the mischief my being in the diplomatic
service has to do with it?”

“If I explained that,” she answered, “I should be telling you everything
I haven’t quite made up my mind to do that yet.”

“Tell me this?” he asked. “Would that hint which he dropped when he was
here last help you to solve the mystery of his murder?”

“It might,” she admitted.

“Then I think,” he said, “apart from any other reason, you ought to tell
somebody. The police at present don’t seem to have the ghost of a clue.”

“They are not likely to find one,” she answered, “unless I help them.”

“Say, Penelope,” he exclaimed, “you are not in earnest?”

“I am,” she assured him. “It is exactly as I say. I believe I am one of
the few people who could put the police upon the right track.”

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?” he asked.

“That’s just what I can’t make up my mind about,” she told him.
“However, I have brought you out with me expecting to hear something,
and I am going to tell you this. That last time he came to England--the
time he went to St. Petersburg and twice to Berlin--he came on
government business.”

The young man looked, for a moment, incredulous.

“Are you sure of that, Pen?” he asked. “It doesn’t sound like our
people, you know, does it?”

“I am quite sure,” she declared confidently. “You are a very youthful
diplomat, Dicky, but even you have probably heard of governments who
employ private messengers to carry despatches which for various reasons
they don’t care to put through their embassies.”

“Why, that’s so, of course, over on this side,” he agreed. “These
European nations are up to all manner of tricks. But I tell you frankly,
Pen, I never heard of anything of the sort being done from Washington.”

“Perhaps not,” she answered composedly. “You see, things have developed
with us during the last twenty-five years. The old America had only
one foreign policy, and that was to hold inviolate the Monroe doctrine.
European or Asiatic complications scarcely even interested her. Those
times have passed, Dicky. Cuba and the Philippines were the start of
other things. We are being drawn into the maelstrom. In another ten
years we shall be there, whether we want to be or not.”

The young man was deeply interested.

“Well,” he admitted, “there’s a good deal in what you say, Penelope. You
talk about it all as though you were a diplomat yourself.”

“Perhaps I am,” she answered calmly. “A stray young woman like myself
must have something to occupy her thoughts, you know.”

He laughed.

“That’s not bad,” he asserted, “for a girl whom the New York Herald
declared, a few weeks ago, to be one of the most brilliant young women
in English society.”

She shrugged her shoulders scornfully.

“That’s just the sort of thing the New York Herald would say,” she
remarked. “You see, I have to get a reputation for being smart and
saying bright things, or nobody would ask me anywhere. Penniless
American young women are not too popular over here.”

“Marry me, then,” he suggested amiably. “I shall have plenty of money
some day.”

“I’ll see about it when you’re grown up,” she answered. “Just at
present, I think we’d better return to the subject of Hamilton Fynes.”

Mr. Richard Vanderpole sighed, but seemed not disinclined to follow her
suggestion.

“Harvey is a silent man, as you know,” he said thoughtfully, “and he
keeps everything of importance to himself. At the same time these little
matters get about in the shop, of course, and I have never heard of any
despatches being brought across from Washington except in the usual way.
Presuming that you are right,” he added after a moment’s pause, “and
that this fellow Hamilton Fynes really had something for us, that would
account for his being able to get off the boat and securing his special
train so easily. No one can imagine where he got the pull.”

“It accounts, also,” Penelope remarked, “for his murder!”

Her companion started.

“You haven’t any idea--” he began.

“Nothing so definite as an idea,” she interrupted. “I am not going so
far as to say that. I simply know that when a man is practically the
secret agent of his government, and is probably carrying despatches
of an important nature, that an accident such as he has met with, in a
country which is greatly interested in the contents of those despatches,
is a somewhat serious thing.”

The young man nodded.

“Say,” he admitted “you’re dead right. The Pacific cruise, and our
relations with Japan, seem to have rubbed our friends over here
altogether the wrong way. We have irritations enough already to smooth
over, without anything of this sort on the carpet.”

“I am going to tell you now,” she continued, leaning a little towards
him, “the real reason why I fetched you out of the club this afternoon
and have brought you for this little expedition. The last time I lunched
with Mr. Hamilton Fynes was just after his return from Berlin. He
intrusted me then with a very important mission. He gave me a letter to
deliver to Mr. Blaine Harvey.”

“But I don’t understand!” he protested. “Why should he give you the
letter when he was in London himself?”

“I asked him that question myself, naturally,” she answered. “He told me
that it was an understood thing that when he was over here on business
he was not even to cross the threshold of the Embassy, or hold any
direct communication with any person connected with it. Everything had
to be done through a third party, and generally in duplicate. There
was another man, for instance, who had a copy of the same letter, but I
never came across him or even knew his name.”

“Gee whiz!” the young man exclaimed. “You’re telling me things, and no
mistake! Why this fellow Fynes made a secret service messenger of you!”

Penelope nodded.

“It was all very simple,” she said. “The first Mrs. Harvey, who was
alive then, was my greatest friend, and I was in and out of the place
all the time. Now, perhaps, you can understand the significance of
that marconigram from Hamilton Fynes asking me to lunch with him at the
Carlton today.”

Mr. Richard Vanderpole was sitting bolt upright, gazing steadily ahead.

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “what has become of the letter which he was
going to give you!”

“One thing is certain,” she declared. “It is in the hands of those whose
interests would have been affected by its delivery.”

“How much of this am I to tell the chief?” the young man asked.

“Every word,” Penelope answered. “You see, I am trying to give you
a start in your career. What bothers me is an entirely different
question.”

“What is it?” he asked.

She laid her hand upon his arm.

“How much of it I shall tell to a certain gentleman who calls himself
Inspector Jacks!”



CHAPTER VI. MR. COULSON INTERVIEWED

The Lusitania boat specials ran into Euston Station soon after three
o’clock in the afternoon. A small company of reporters, and several
other men whose profession was not disclosed from their appearance, were
on the spot to interview certain of the passengers. A young fellow from
the office of the Evening Comet was, perhaps, the most successful, as,
from the lengthy description which had been telegraphed to him from
Liverpool, he was fortunate enough to accost the only person who had
been seen speaking to the murdered man upon the voyage.

“This is Mr. Coulson, I believe?” the young man said with conviction,
addressing a somewhat stout, gray-headed American, with white moustache,
a Homburg hat, and clothes of distinctly transatlantic cut.

That gentlemen regarded his interlocutor with some surprise but without
unfriendliness.

“That happens to be my name, sir,” he replied. “You have the advantage
of me, though. You are not from my old friends Spencer & Miles, are
you?”

“Spencer & Miles,” the young man repeated thoughtfully.

“Woollen firm in London Wall,” Mr. Coulson added. “I know they wanted to
see me directly I arrived, and they did say something about sending to
the station.”

The young man shook his head, and assumed at the same time his most
engaging manner.

“Why, no, sir!” he admitted. “I have no connection with that firm at
all. The fact is I am on the staff of an evening paper. A friend of
mine in Liverpool--a mutual friend, I believe I may say,” he
explained--“wired me your description. I understand that you were
acquainted with Mr. Hamilton Fynes?”

Mr. Coulson set down his suitcase for a moment, to light a cigar.

“Well, if I did know the poor fellow just to nod to,” he said, “I don’t
see that’s any reason why I should talk about him to you newspaper
fellows. You’d better get hold of his relations, if you can find them.”

“But, my dear Mr. Coulson,” the young man said, “we haven’t any idea
where they are to be found, and in the meantime you can’t imagine what
reports are in circulation.”

“Guess I can figure them out pretty well,” Mr. Coulson remarked with a
smile. “We’ve got an evening press of our own in New York.”

The reporter nodded.

“Well,” he said, “They’d be able to stretch themselves out a bit on
a case like this. You see,” he continued confidentially, “we are up
against something almost unique. Here is an astounding and absolutely
inexplicable murder, committed in a most dastardly fashion by a person
who appears to have vanished from the face of the earth. Not a single
thing is known about the victim except his name. We do not know whether
he came to England on business or pleasure. He may, in short, have been
any one from a millionaire to a newspaper man. Judging from his special
train,” the reporter concluded with a smile, “and the money which was
found upon him, I imagine that he was certainly not the latter.”

Mr. Coulson went on his way toward the exit from the station, puffing
contentedly at his big cigar.

“Well,” he said to his companion, who showed not the slightest
disposition to leave his side, “it don’t seem to me that there’s much
worth repeating about poor Fynes,--much that I knew, at any rate. Still,
if you like to get in a cab with me and ride as far as the Savoy, I’ll
tell you what I can.”

“You are a brick, sir,” the young man declared. “Haven’t you any
luggage, though?”

“I checked what I had through from Liverpool to the hotel,” Mr. Coulson
answered. “I can’t stand being fussed around by all these porters, and
having to go and take pot luck amongst a pile of other people’s baggage.
We’ll just take one of these two-wheeled sardine tins that you people
call hansoms, and get round to the hotel as quick as we can. There are a
few pals of mine generally lunch in the cafe there, and they mayn’t all
have cleared out if we look alive.”

They started a moment or two later. Mr. Coulson leaned forward and,
folding his arms upon the apron of the cab, looked about him with
interest.

“Say,” he remarked, removing his cigar to the corner of his mouth in
order to facilitate conversation, “this old city of yours don’t change
any.”

“Not up in this part, perhaps,” the reporter agreed. “We’ve some fine
new buildings down toward the Strand.”

Mr. Coulson nodded.

“Well,” he said, “I guess you don’t want to be making conversation. You
want to know about Hamilton Fynes. I was just acquainted with him, and
that’s a fact, but I reckon you’ll have to find some one who knows a
good deal more than I do before you’ll get the stuff you want for your
paper.”

“The slightest particulars are of interest to us just now,” the reporter
reminded him.

Mr. Coulson nodded.

“Hamilton Fynes,” he said, “so far as I knew him, was a quiet,
inoffensive sort of creature, who has been drawing a regular salary from
the State for the last fifteen years and saving half of it. He has been
coming over to Europe now and then, and though he was a good, steady
chap enough, he liked his fling when he was over here, and between you
and me, he was the greatest crank I ever struck. I met him in London a
matter of three years ago, and he wanted to go to Paris. There were
two cars running at the regular time, meeting the boat at Dover. Do you
think he would have anything to do with them? Not he! He hired a special
train and went down like a prince.”

“What did he do that for?” the reporter asked.

“Why, because he was a crank, sir,” Mr. Coulson answered confidentially.
“There was no other reason at all. Take this last voyage on the
Lusitania, now. He spoke to me the first day out because he couldn’t
help it, but for pretty well the rest of the journey he either kept
down in his stateroom or, when he came up on deck, he avoided me and
everybody else. When he did talk, his talk was foolish. He was a good
chap at his work, I believe, but he was a crank. Seemed to me sometimes
as though that humdrum life of his had about turned his brain. The
last day out he was fidgeting all the time; kept looking at his watch,
studying the chart, and asking the sailors questions. Said he wanted to
get up in time to take a girl to lunch on Thursday. It was just for that
reason that he scuttled off the boat without a word to any of us, and
rushed up to London.”

“But he had letters, Mr. Coulson,” the reporter reminded him, “from
some one in Washington, to the captain of the steamer and to the
station-master of the London and North Western Railway. It seems rather
odd that he should have provided himself with these, doesn’t it?”

“They were easy enough to get,” Mr. Coulson answered. “He wasn’t a
worrying sort of chap, Fynes wasn’t. He did his work, year in and year
out, and asked no favors. The consequence was that when he asked a queer
one he got it all right. It’s easier to get a pull over there than it is
here, you know.”

“This is all very interesting,” the reporter said, “and I am sure I’m
very much obliged to you, Mr. Coulson. Now can you tell me of anything
in the man’s life or way of living likely to provoke enmity on the part
of any one? This murder was such a cold-blooded affair.”

“There I’m stuck,” Mr. Coulson admitted. “There’s only one thing I can
tell you, and that is that I believe he had a lot more money on him than
the amount mentioned in your newspapers this morning. My own opinion is
that he was murdered for what he’d got. A smart thief would say that a
fellow who takes a special tug off the steamer and a special train
to town was a man worth robbing. How the thing was done I don’t
know--that’s for your police to find out--but I reckon that whoever
killed him did it for his cash.”

The reporter sighed. He was, after all, a little disappointed. Mr.
Coulson was obviously a man of common sense. His words were clearly
pronounced, and his reasoning sound. They had reached the courtyard of
the hotel now, and the reporter began to express his gratitude.

“My first drink on English soil,” Mr. Coulson said, as he handed his
suitcase to the hall-porter, “is always--”

“It’s on me,” the young man declared quickly. “I owe you a good deal
more than drinks, Mr. Coulson.”

“Well, come along, anyway,” the latter remarked. “I guess my room is all
right, porter?”--turning to the man who stood by his side, bag in hand.
“I am Mr. James B. Coulson of New York, and I wrote on ahead. I’ll come
round to the office and register presently.”

They made their way to the American bar. The newspaper man and his
new friend drank together and, skillfully prompted by the former, the
conversation drifted back to the subject of Hamilton Fynes. There was
nothing else to be learned, however, in the way of facts. Mr. Coulson
admitted that he had been a little nettled by his friend’s odd manner
during the voyage, and the strange way he had of keeping to himself.

“But, after all,” he wound up, “Fynes was a crank, when all’s said and
done. We are all cranks, more or less,--all got our weak spot, I mean.
It was secretiveness with our unfortunate friend. He liked to play at
being a big personage in a mysterious sort of way, and the poor chap’s
paid for it,” he added with a sigh.

The reporter left his new-made friend a short time afterwards, and took
a hansom to his office. His newspaper at once issued a special edition,
giving an interview between their representative and Mr. James B.
Coulson, a personal friend of the murdered man. It was, after all,
something of a scoop, for not one of the other passengers had been found
who was in a position to say anything at all about him. The immediate
effect of the interview, however, was to procure for Mr. Coulson a
somewhat bewildering succession of callers. The first to arrive was a
gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Jacks, and whose card, sent
back at first, was retendered in a sealed envelope with Scotland Yard
scrawled across the back of it. Mr. Coulson, who was in the act of
changing his clothes, interviewed Mr. Jacks in his chamber.

“Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector said, “I am visiting you on behalf of
Scotland Yard. We understand that you had some acquaintance with Mr.
Hamilton Fynes, and we hope that you will answer a few questions for
us.”

Mr. Coulson sat down upon a trunk with his hairbrushes in his hand.

“Well,” he declared, “you detectives do get to know things, don’t you?”

“Nothing so remarkable in that, Mr. Coulson,” Inspector Jacks remarked
pleasantly. “A newspaper man had been before me, I see.”

Mr. Coulson nodded.

“That’s so,” he admitted. “Seems to me I may have been a bit indiscreet
in talking so much to that young reporter. I have just read his account
of my interview, and he’s got it pat, word by word. Now, Mr. Jacks, if
you’ll just invest a halfpenny in that newspaper, you don’t need to ask
me any questions. That young man had a kind of pleasant way with him,
and I told him all I knew.”

“Just so, Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector answered. “At the same time
nothing that you told him throws any light at all upon the circumstances
which led to the poor fellow’s death.”

“That,” Mr. Coulson declared, “is not my fault. What I don’t know I
can’t tell you.”

“You were acquainted with Mr. Fynes some years ago?” the Inspector
asked. “Can you tell me what business he was in then?”

“Same as now, for anything I know,” Mr. Coulson answered. “He was a
clerk in one of the Government offices at Washington.”

“Government offices,” Inspector Jacks repeated. “Have you any idea what
department?”

Mr. Coulson was not sure.

“It may have been the Excise Office,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I did
hear, but I never took any particular notice.”

“Did you ever form any idea as to the nature of his work?” Inspector
Jacks asked.

“Bless you, no!” Mr. Coulson replied, brushing his hair vigorously. “It
never entered into my head to ask him, and I never heard him mention it.
I only know that he was a quiet-living, decent sort of a chap, but, as I
put it to our young friend the newspaper man, he was a crank.”

The Inspector was disappointed. He began to feel that he was wasting his
time.

“Did you know anything of the object of his journey to Europe?” he
asked.

“Nary a thing,” Mr. Coulson declared. “He only came on deck once or
twice, and he had scarcely a civil word even for me. Why, I tell
you, sir,” Mr. Coulson continued, “if he saw me coming along on the
promenade, he’d turn round and go the other way, for fear I’d ask him to
come and have a drink. A c-r-a-n-k, sir! You write it down at that, and
you won’t be far out.”

“He certainly seems to have been a queer lot,” the Inspector declared.
“By the bye,” he continued, “you said something, I believe, about his
having had more money with him than was found upon his person.”

“That’s so,” Mr. Coulson admitted. “I know he deposited a pocketbook
with the purser, and I happened to be standing by when he received it
back. I noticed that he had three or four thousand-dollar bills, and
there didn’t seem to be anything of the sort upon him when he was
found.”

The Inspector made a note of this.

“You believe yourself, then, Mr. Coulson,” he said, closing his
pocketbook, “that the murder was committed for the purpose of robbery?”

“Seems to me it’s common sense,” Mr. Coulson replied. “A man who goes
and takes a special train to London from the docks of a city like
Liverpool--a city filled with the scum of the world, mind you--kind of
gives himself away as a man worth robbing, doesn’t he?”

The Inspector nodded.

“That’s sensible talk, Mr. Coulson,” he acknowledged. “You never heard,
I suppose, of his having had a quarrel with any one?”

“Never in my life,” Mr. Coulson declared. “He wasn’t the sort to make
enemies, any more than he was the sort to make friends.”

The Inspector took up his hat. His manner now was no longer
inquisitorial. With the closing of his notebook a new geniality had
taken the place of his official stiffness.

“You are making a long stay here, Mr. Coulson?” he asked.

“A week or so, maybe,” that gentleman answered. “I am in the machinery
patent line--machinery for the manufacture of woollen goods mostly--and
I have a few appointments in London. Afterwards I am going on to Paris.
You can hear of me at any time either here or at the Grand Hotel, Paris,
but there’s nothing further to be got out of me as regards Mr. Hamilton
Fynes.”

The Inspector was of the same opinion and took his departure. Mr.
Coulson waited for some little time, still sitting on his trunk and
clasping his hairbrushes. Then he moved over to the table on which stood
the telephone instrument and asked for a number. The reply came in a
minute or two in the form of a question.

“It’s Mr. James B. Coulson from New York, landed this afternoon from the
Lusitania,” Mr. Coulson said. “I am at the Savoy Hotel, speaking from my
room--number 443.”

There was a brief silence--then a reply.

“You had better be in the bar smoking-room at seven o’clock. If nothing
happens, don’t leave the hotel this evening.”

Mr. Coulson replaced the receiver and rang off. A page-boy knocked at
the door.

“Young lady downstairs wishes to see you, sir,” he announced.

Mr. Coulson took up the card from the tray.

“Miss Penelope Morse,” he said softly to himself. “Seems to me I’m
rather popular this evening. Say I’ll be down right away, my boy.”

“Very good, sir,” the page answered. “There’s a gentleman with her, sir.
His card’s underneath the lady’s.”

Mr. Coulson examined the tray once more. A gentleman’s visiting card
informed him that his other caller was Sir Charles Somerfield, Bart.

“Bart,” Mr. Coulson remarked thoughtfully. “I’m not quite catching on to
that, but I suppose he goes in with the young lady.”

“They’re both together, sir,” the boy announced.

Mr. Coulson completed his toilet and hurried downstairs



CHAPTER VII. A FATAL DESPATCH

Mr. Coulson found his two visitors in the lounge of the hotel. He had
removed all traces of his journey, and was attired in a Tuxedo dinner
coat, a soft-fronted shirt, and a neatly arranged black tie. He wore
broad-toed patent boots and double lines of braid down the outsides of
his trousers. The page boy, who was on the lookout for him, conducted
him to the corner where Miss Penelope Morse and her companion were
sitting talking together. The latter rose at his approach, and Mr.
Coulson summed him up quickly,--a well-bred, pleasant-mannered,
exceedingly athletic young Englishman, who was probably not such a fool
as he looked,--that is, from Mr. Coulson’s standpoint, who was not used
to the single eyeglass and somewhat drawling enunciation.

“Mr. Coulson, isn’t it?” the young man asked, accepting the other’s
outstretched hand. “We are awfully sorry to disturb you, so soon after
your arrival, too, but the fact is that this young lady, Miss Penelope
Morse,”--Mr. Coulson bowed,--“was exceedingly anxious to make your
acquaintance. You Americans are such birds of passage that she was
afraid you might have moved on if she didn’t look you up at once.”

Penelope herself intervened.

“I’m afraid you’re going to think me a terrible nuisance, Mr. Coulson!”
 she exclaimed. Mr. Coulson, although he did not call himself a lady’s
man, was nevertheless human enough to appreciate the fact that the young
lady’s face was piquant and her smile delightful. She was dressed
with quiet but elegant simplicity. The perfume of the violets at her
waistband seemed to remind him of his return to civilization.

“Well, I’ll take my risks of that, Miss Morse,” he declared. “If you’ll
only let me know what I can do for you--”

“It’s about poor Mr. Hamilton Fynes,” she explained. “I took up the
evening paper only half an hour ago, and read your interview with the
reporter. I simply couldn’t help stopping to ask whether you could give
me any further particulars about that horrible affair. I didn’t dare to
come here all alone, so I asked Sir Charles to come along with me.”

Mr. Coulson, being invited to do so, seated himself on the lounge by
the young lady’s side. He leaned a little forward with a hand on either
knee.

“I don’t exactly know what I can tell you,” he remarked. “I take it,
then, that you were well acquainted with Mr. Fynes?”

“I used to know him quite well,” Penelope answered, “and naturally I am
very much upset. When I read in the paper an account of your interview
with the reporter, I could see at once that you were not telling him
everything. Why should you, indeed? A man does not want every detail of
his life set out in the newspapers just because he has become connected
with a terrible tragedy.”

“You’re a very sensible young lady, Miss Morse, if you will allow me to
say so,” Mr. Coulson declared. “You were expecting to see something of
Mr. Fynes over here, then?”

“I had an appointment to lunch with him today,” she answered. “He sent
me a marconigram before he arrived at Queenstown.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Coulson exclaimed. “Well, well!”

“I actually went to the restaurant,” Penelope continued, “without
knowing anything of this. I can’t understand it at all, even now. Mr.
Fynes always seemed to me such a harmless sort of person, so unlikely
to have enemies, or anything of that sort. Don’t you think so, Mr.
Coulson?”

“Well,” that gentleman answered, “to tell you the honest truth, Miss
Morse, I’m afraid I am going to disappoint you a little. I wasn’t over
well acquainted with Mr. Fynes, although a good many people seemed
to fancy that we were kind of bosom friends. That newspaper man, for
instance, met me at the station and stuck to me like a leech; drove down
here with me, and was willing to stand all the liquor I could drink.
Then there was a gentleman from Scotland Yard, who was in such a hurry
that he came to see me in my bedroom. _He_ had a sort of an idea that I
had been brought up from infancy with Hamilton Fynes and could answer
a sheaf of questions a yard long. As soon as I got rid of him, up comes
that page boy and brings your card.”

“It does seem too bad, Mr. Coulson,” Penelope declared, raising her
wonderful eyes to his and smiling sympathetically. “You have really
brought it upon yourself, though, to some extent, haven’t you, by
answering so many questions for this Comet man?”

“Those newspaper fellows,” Mr. Coulson remarked, “are wonders. Before
that youngster had finished with me, I began to feel that poor old Fynes
and I had been like brothers all our lives. As a matter of fact, Miss
Morse, I expect you knew him at least as well as I did.”

She nodded her head thoughtfully.

“Hamilton Fynes came from the village in Massachusetts where I was
brought up. I’ve known him all my life.”

Mr. Coulson seemed a little startled.

“I didn’t understand,” he said thoughtfully, “that Fynes had any very
intimate friends over this side.”

Penelope shook her head.

“I don’t mean to imply that we have been intimate lately,” she said.
“I came to Europe nine years ago, and since then, of course, I have not
seen him often. Perhaps it was the fact that he should have thought
of me, and that I was actually expecting to have lunch with him today,
which made me feel this thing so acutely.”

“Why, that’s quite natural,” Mr. Coulson declared, leaning back a little
and crossing his legs. “Somehow we seem to read about these things in
the papers and they don’t amount to such a lot, but when you know the
man and were expecting to see him, as you were, why, then it comes right
home to you. There’s something about a murder,” Mr. Coulson concluded,
“which kind of takes hold of you if you’ve ever even shaken hands with
either of the parties concerned in it.”

“Did you see much of the poor fellow during the voyage?” Sir Charles
asked.

“No, nor any one else,” Mr. Coulson replied. “I don’t think he was
seasick, but he was miserably unsociable, and he seldom left his cabin.
I doubt whether there were half a dozen people on board who would have
recognized him afterwards as a fellow-passenger.”

“He seems to have been a secretive sort of person,” Sir Charles
remarked.

“He was that,” Mr. Coulson admitted. “Never seemed to care to talk about
himself or his own business. Not that he had much to talk about,” he
added reflectively. “Dull sort of life, his. So many hours of work, so
many hours of play; so many dollars a month, and after it’s all over, so
many dollars pension. Wouldn’t suit all of us, Sir Charles, eh?”

“I fancy not,” Somerfield admitted. “Perhaps he kicked over the traces
a bit when he was over this side. You Americans generally seem to find
your way about--in Paris, especially.”

Mr. Coulson shook his head doubtfully.

“There wasn’t much kicking over the traces with poor old Fynes,” he
said. “He hadn’t got it in him.”

Somerfield scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at Penelope.

“Scarcely seems possible, does it,” he remarked, “that a man leading
such a quiet sort of life should make enemies.”

“I don’t believe he had any,” Mr. Coulson asserted.

“He didn’t seem nervous on the way over, did he?” Penelope asked,--“as
though he were afraid of something happening?”

Mr. Coulson shook his head.

“No more than usual,” he answered. “I guess your police over here aren’t
quite so smart as ours, or they’d have been on the track of this thing
before now. But you can take it from me that when the truth comes out
you’ll find that our poor friend has paid the penalty of going about the
world like a crank.”

“A what?” Somerfield asked doubtfully.

“A crank,” Mr. Coulson repeated vigorously. “It wasn’t much I knew
of Hamilton Fynes, but I knew that much. He was one of those nervous,
stand-off sort of persons who hated to have people talk to him and
yet was always doing things to make them talk about him. I was over in
Europe with him not so long ago, and he went on in the same way. Took
a special train to Dover when there wasn’t any earthly reason for it;
travelled with a valet and a courier, when he had no clothes for the
valet to look after, and spoke every European language better than
his courier. This time the poor fellow’s paid for his bit of vanity.
Naturally, any one would think he was a millionaire, travelling like
that. I guess they boarded the train somehow, or lay hidden in it when
it started, and relieved him of a good bit of his savings.”

“But his money was found upon him,” Somerfield objected.

“Some of it,” Mr. Coulson answered,--“some of it. That’s just about
the only thing that I do know of my own. I happened to see him take his
pocketbook back from the purser, and I guess he’d got a sight more money
there than was found upon him. I told the smooth-spoken gentleman from
Scotland Yard so--Mr. Inspector Jacks he called himself--when he came to
see me an hour or so ago.”

Penelope sighed gently. She found it hard to make up her mind concerning
this quondam acquaintance of her deceased friend.

“Did you see much of Mr. Fynes on the other side, Mr. Coulson?” she
asked him.

“Not I,” Mr. Coulson answered. “He wasn’t particularly anxious to make
acquaintances over here, but he was even worse at home. The way he went
on, you’d think he’d never had any friends and never wanted any. I met
him once in the streets of Washington last year, and had a cocktail
with him at the Atlantic House. I had to almost drag him in there. I was
pretty well a stranger in Washington, but he didn’t do a thing for me.
Never asked me to look him up, or introduced me to his club. He just
drank his cocktail, mumbled something about being in a hurry, and made
off.

“I tell you, sir,” Mr. Coulson continued, turning to Somerfield, “that
man hadn’t a thing to say for himself. I guess his work had something to
do with it. You must get kind of out of touch with things, shut up in an
office from nine o’clock in the morning till five in the afternoon. Just
saving up, he was, for his trip to Europe. Then we happened on the same
steamer, but, bless you, he scarcely even shook hands when he saw me.
He wouldn’t play bridge, didn’t care about chess, hadn’t even a chair on
the deck, and never came in to meals.”

Penelope nodded her head thoughtfully.

“You are destroying all my illusions, Mr. Coulson,” she said. “Do you
know that I was building up quite a romance about poor Mr. Fynes’ life?
It seemed to me that he must have enemies; that there must have been
something in his life, or his manner of living, which accounted for such
a terrible crime.”

“Why, sure not!” Mr. Coulson declared heartily. “It was a cleverly
worked job, but there was no mystery about it. Some chap went for him
because he got riding about like a millionaire. A more unromantic figure
than Hamilton Fynes never breathed. Call him a crank and you’ve finished
with him.”

Penelope sighed once more and looked at the tips of her patent shoes.

“It has been so kind of you,” she murmured, “to talk to us. And yet, do
you know, I am a little disappointed. I was hoping that you might have
been able to tell us something more about the poor fellow.”

“He was no talker,” Mr. Coulson declared. “It was little enough he had
to say to me, and less to any one else.”

“It seems strange,” she remarked innocently, “that he should have
been so shy. He didn’t strike me that way when I knew him at home in
Massachusetts, you know. He travelled about so much in later years, too,
didn’t he?”

Penelope’s eyes were suddenly upraised. For the first time Mr. Coulson’s
ready answers failed him. Not a muscle of his face moved under the
girl’s scrutiny, but he hesitated for a short time before he answered
her.

“Not that I know of,” he said at length. “No, I shouldn’t have called
him much of a traveller.”

Penelope rose to her feet and held out her hand.

“It has been very nice indeed of you to see us, Mr. Coulson,” she said,
“especially after all these other people have been bothering you. Of
course, I am sorry that you haven’t anything more to tell us than we
knew already. Still, I felt that I couldn’t rest until we had been.”

“It’s a sad affair, anyhow,” Mr. Coulson declared, walking with them to
the door. “Don’t you get worrying your head, young lady, though, with
any notion of his having had enemies, or anything of that sort. The poor
fellow was no hero of romance. I don’t fancy even your halfpenny papers
could drag any out of his life. It was just a commonplace robbery, with
a bad ending for poor Fynes. Good evening, miss! Good night, sir! Glad
to have met you, Sir Charles.”

Mr. Coulson’s two visitors left and got into a small electric brougham
which was waiting for them. Mr. Coulson himself watched them drive off
and glanced at the clock. It was already a quarter past six. He went
into the cafe and ordered a light dinner, which he consumed with much
obvious enjoyment. Then he lit a cigar and went into the smoking room.
Selecting a pile of newspapers, he drew up an easy chair to the fire and
made himself comfortable.

“Seems to me I may have a longish wait,” he said to himself.

As a matter of fact, he was disappointed. At precisely seven o’clock,
Mr. Richard Vanderpole strolled into the room and, after a casual glance
around, approached his chair and touched him on the shoulder. In his
evening clothes the newcomer was no longer obtrusively American. He was
dressed in severely English fashion, from the cut of his white waistcoat
to the admirable poise of his white tie. He smiled as he patted Coulson
upon the shoulder.

“This is Mr. Coulson, I’m sure,” he declared,--“Mr. James B. Coulson
from New York?”

“You’re dead right,” Mr. Coulson admitted, laying down his newspaper and
favoring his visitor with a quick upward glance.

“This is great!” the young man continued. “Just off the boat, eh? Well,
I am glad to see you,--very glad indeed to make your acquaintance, I
should say.”

Mr. Coulson replied in similar terms. A waiter who was passing through
the room hesitated, for it was a greeting which generally ended in a
summons for him.

“What shall it be?” the newcomer asked.

“I’ve just taken dinner,” Mr. Coulson said. “Coffee and cognac’ll do me
all right.”

“And a Martini cocktail for me,” the young man ordered. “I am dining
down in the restaurant with some friends later on. Come over to this
corner, Mr. Coulson. Why, you’re looking first-rate. Great boat, the
Lusitania, isn’t she? What sort of a trip did you have?”

So they talked till the drinks had been brought and paid for, till
another little party had quitted the room and they sat in their
lonely corner, secure from observation or from any possibility of
eavesdropping. Then Mr. Richard Vanderpole leaned forward in his chair
and dropped his voice.

“Coulson,” he said, “the chief is anxious. We don’t understand this
affair. Do you know anything?”

“Not a d----d thing!” Coulson answered.

“Were you shadowed on the boat?” the young man asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Coulson answered. “Fynes was in his stateroom six
hours before we started. I can’t make head nor tail of it.”

“He had the papers, of course?”

“Sewn in the lining of his coat,” Coulson muttered. “You read about that
in tonight’s papers. The lining was torn and the space empty. He had
them all right when he left the steamer.”

The young man looked around; the room was still empty.

“I’m fresh in this,” he said. “I got some information this afternoon,
and the chief sent me over to see you on account of it. We had better
not discuss possibilities, I suppose? The thing’s too big. The chief’s
almost off his head. Is there any chance, do you think, Coulson, that
this was an ordinary robbery? I am not sure that the special train
wasn’t a mistake.”

“None whatever,” Coulson declared.

“How do you know?” his companion asked quickly.

“Well, I’ve lied to those reporters and chaps,” Coulson admitted,--“lied
with a purpose, of course, as you people can understand. The money found
upon Fynes was every penny he had when he left Liverpool.”

The young man set his teeth.

“It’s something to know this, at any rate,” he declared. “You did right,
Coulson, to put up that bluff. Now about the duplicates?”

“They are in my suitcase,” Coulson answered, “and according to the way
things are going, I shan’t be over sorry to get rid of them. Will you
take them with you?”

“Why, sure!” Vanderpole answered. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“You had better wait right here, then,” Coulson said, “I’ll fetch them.”

He made his way up to his room, undid his dressing bag, which was
fastened only with an ordinary lock, and from between two shirts drew
out a small folded packet, no bigger than an ordinary letter. It was a
curious circumstance that he used only one hand for the search and with
the other gripped the butt of a small revolver. There was no one around,
however, nor was he disturbed in any way. In a few minutes he returned
to the bar smoking room, where the young man was still waiting, and
handed him the letter.

“Tell me,” the latter asked, “have you been shadowed at all?”

“Not that I know of,” Coulson answered.

“Men with quick instincts,” Vanderpole continued, “can always tell when
they are being watched. Have you felt anything of the sort?”

Coulson hesitated for one moment.

“No,” he said. “I had a caller whose manner I did not quite understand.
She seemed to have something at the back of her head about me.”

“She! Was it a woman?” the young man asked quickly.

Coulson nodded.

“A young lady,” he said,--“Miss Penelope Morse, she called herself.”

Mr. Richard Vanderpole stood quite still for a moment.

“Ah!” he said softly. “She might have been interested.”

“Does the chief want me at all?” Coulson asked.

“No!” Vanderpole answered. “Go about your business as usual. Leave here
for Paris, say, in ten days. There will probably be a letter for you at
the Grand Hotel by that time.”

They walked together toward the main exit. The young man’s face had lost
some of its grimness. Once more his features wore that look of pleasant
and genial good-fellowship which seems characteristic of his race after
business hours.

“Say, Mr. Coulson,” he declared, as they passed across the hall, “you
and I must have a night together. This isn’t New York, by any manner of
means, or Paris, but there’s some fun to be had here, in a quiet way.
I’ll phone you tomorrow or the day after.”

“Sure!” Mr. Coulson declared. “I’d like it above all things.”

“I must find a taxicab,” the young man remarked. “I’ve a busy hour
before me. I’ve got to go down and see the chief, who is dining
somewhere in Kensington, and get back again to dine here at half past
seven in the restaurant.”

“I guess you’ll have to look sharp, then.” Mr. Coulson remarked. “Do you
see the time?”

Vanderpole glanced at the clock and whistled softly to himself.

“Tell you what!” he exclaimed, “I’ll write a note to one of the friends
I’ve got to meet, and leave it here. Boy,” he added, turning to a page
boy, “get me a taxi as quick as you can.”

The boy ran out into the Strand, and Vanderpole, sitting down at the
table, wrote a few lines, which he sealed and addressed and handed to
one of the reception clerks. Then he shook hands with Coulson and threw
himself into a corner of the cab which was waiting.

“Drive down the Brompton Road,” he said to the man. “I’ll direct you
later.”

It was a quarter past seven when he left the hotel. At half past a
policeman held up his hand and stopped the taxi, to the driver’s
great astonishment, as he was driving slowly across Melbourne Square,
Kensington.

“What’s the matter?” the man asked. “You can’t say I was exceeding my
speed limit.”

The policeman scarcely noticed him. His head was already through the cab
window.

“Where did you take your fare up?” he asked quickly.

“Savoy Hotel,” the man answered. “What’s wrong with him?”

The policeman opened the door of the cab and stepped in.

“Never you mind about that,” he said. “Drive to the South Kensington
police station as quick as you can.”



CHAPTER VIII. AN INTERRUPTED THEATRE PARTY

Seated upon a roomy lounge in the foyer of the Savoy were three
women who attracted more than an average amount of attention from the
passers-by. In the middle was the Duchess of Devenham, erect, stately,
and with a figure which was still irreproachable notwithstanding her
white hair. On one side sat her daughter, Lady Grace Redford, tall,
fair, and comely; on the other, Miss Penelope Morse. The two girls were
amusing themselves, watching the people; their chaperon had her eye upon
the clock.

“To dine at half-past seven,” the Duchess remarked, as she looked around
the _entresol_ of the great restaurant through her lorgnettes, “is
certainly a little trying for one’s temper and for one’s digestion, but
so long as those men accepted, I certainly think they ought to have been
here. They know that the play begins at a quarter to nine.”

“It isn’t like Dicky Vanderpole in the least,” Penelope said. “Since he
began to tread the devious paths of diplomacy, he has brought exactness
in the small things of life down to a fine art.”

“He isn’t half so much fun as he used to be,” Lady Grace declared.

“Fun!” Penelope exclaimed. “Sometimes I think that I never knew a more
trying person.”

“I have never known the Prince unpunctual,” the Duchess murmured. “I
consider him absolutely the best-mannered young man I know.”

Lady Grace smiled, and glanced at Penelope.

“I don’t think you’ll get Penelope to agree with you, mother,” she said.

“Why not, my dear?” the Duchess asked. “I heard that you were quite rude
to him the other evening. We others all find him so charming.”

Penelope’s lip curled slightly.

“He has so many admirers,” she remarked, “that I dare say he will not
notice my absence from the ranks. Perhaps I am a little prejudiced.
At home, you know, we have rather strong opinions about this fusion of
races.”

The Duchess raised her eyebrows.

“But a Prince of Japan, my dear Penelope!” she said. “A cousin of the
Emperor, and a member of an aristocracy which was old before we were
thought of! Surely you cannot class Prince Maiyo amongst those to whom
any of your country people could take exception.”

Penelope shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“Perhaps,” she said, “my feeling is the result of hearing you all praise
him so much and so often. Besides, apart from that, you must remember
that I am a patriotic daughter of the Stars and Stripes, and there isn’t
much friendship lost between Washington and Tokio just now.”

The Duchess turned away to greet a man who had paused before their couch
on his way into the restaurant.

“My dear General,” she said, “it seems to me that one meets every one
here! Why was not restaurant dining the vogue when I was a girl!”

General Sherrif smiled. He was tall and thin, with grizzled hair and
worn features. Notwithstanding his civilian’s clothes, there was no
possibility of mistaking him anywhere, or under any circumstances, for
anything but a soldier.

“It is a delightful custom,” he admitted. “It keeps one always on the
_qui vive_; one never knows whom one may see. Incidentally, I find it
interferes very much with my digestion.”

“Digestion!” the Duchess murmured. “But then, you soldiers lead such
irregular lives.”

“Not always from choice,” the General reminded her. “The Russo-Japanese
war finished me off. They kept us far enough away from the fighting,
when they could, but, by Jove, they did make us move!”

“We are waiting now for Prince Maiyo,” the Duchess remarked. “You know
him?”

“Know him!” the General answered. “Duchess, if ever I have to write
my memoirs, and particularly my reminiscences of this war, I fancy you
would find the name of your friend appear there pretty frequently. There
wasn’t a more brilliant feat of arms in the whole campaign than his
flanking movement at Mukden. I met most of the Japanese leaders, and I
have always said that I consider him the most wonderful of them all.”

The Duchess turned to Penelope.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

Penelope smiled.

“The Fates are against me,” she declared. “If I may not like, I shall at
least be driven to admire.”

“To talk of bravery when one speaks of that war,” the General remarked,
“seems invidious, for it is my belief that throughout the whole of the
Japanese army such a thing as fear did not exist. They simply did not
know what the word meant. But I shall never forget that the only piece
of hand-to-hand fighting I saw during the whole time was a cavalry
charge led by Prince Maiyo against an immensely superior force of
Russians. Duchess,” the General declared, “those Japanese on their queer
little horses went through the enemy like wind through a cornfield. That
young man must have borne a charmed life. I saw him riding and cheering
his men on when he must have had at least half a dozen wounds in his
body. You will pardon me, Duchess? I see that my party are waiting.”

The General hurried away. The Duchess shut up her lorgnettes with a
snap, and held out her hand to a newcomer who had come from behind the
palms.

“My dear Prince,” she exclaimed, “this is charming of you! Some one told
me that you were not well,--our wretched climate, of course--and I was
so afraid, every moment, that we should receive your excuses.”

The newcomer, who was bowing over her hand, was of medium height or a
trifle less, dark, and dressed with the quiet exactness of an English
gentleman. Only a slight narrowness of the eyes and a greater
alertness of movement seemed to distinguish him in any way, as regards
nationality, from the men by whom he was surrounded. His voice, when
he spoke, contained no trace of accent. It was soft and singularly
pleasant. It had, too, one somewhat rare quality--a delightful ring of
truth. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Prince Maiyo was just
then, amongst certain circles, one of the most popular persons in
Society.

“My dear Duchess,” he said, “my indisposition was nothing. And as for
your climate, I am beginning to delight in it,--one never knows what
to expect, or when one may catch a glimpse of the sun. It is only the
grayness which is always the same.”

“And even that,” the Duchess remarked, smiling, “has been yellow for the
last few days. Prince, you know my daughter Grace, and I am sure that
you have met Miss Penelope Morse? We are waiting for two other men, Sir
Charles Somerfield and Mr. Vanderpole.”

The Prince bowed, and began to talk to his hostess’ daughter,--a tall,
fair girl, as yet only in her second season.

“Here comes Sir Charles, at any rate!” the Duchess exclaimed. “Really, I
think we shall have to go in. We can leave a message for Dicky; they all
know him at this place. I am afraid he is one of those shocking young
men who entertain the theatrical profession here to supper.”

A footman at that moment brought a note to the Duchess, which she tore
open.

“This is from Dicky!” she exclaimed, glancing it through
quickly,--“Savoy notepaper, too, so I suppose he has been here. He says
that he may be a few minutes late and that we are not to wait. He will
pick us up either here or at the theatre. Prince, shall we let these
young people follow us? I haven’t heard your excuses yet. Do you know
that you were a quarter of an hour late?”

He bent towards her with troubled face.

“Dear Duchess,” he said, “believe me, I am conscious of my fault. An
unexpected matter, which required my personal attention, presented
itself at the last moment. I think I can assure you that nothing of
its sort was ever accomplished so quickly. It would only weary you if I
tried to explain.”

“Please don’t,” the Duchess begged, “so long as you are here at last.
And after all, you see, you are not the worst sinner. Mr. Vanderpole has
not yet arrived.”

The Prince walked on, for a few steps, in silence.

“Mr. Vanderpole is a great friend of yours, Duchess?” he asked.

The Duchess shook her head.

“I do not know him very well,” she said. “I asked him for Penelope.”

The Prince looked puzzled.

“But I thought,” he said, “that Miss Morse and Sir Charles--”

The Duchess interrupted him with a smile.

“Sir Charles is very much in earnest,” she whispered, “but very very
slow. Dicky is just the sort of man to spur him on. He admires Penelope,
and does not mind showing it. She is such a dear girl that I should love
to have her comfortably settled over here.”

“She is very intelligent,” the Prince said. “She is a young lady,
indeed, for whom I have a great admiration. I am only sorry,” he
concluded, “that I do not seem able to interest her.”

“You must not believe that,” the Duchess said. “Penelope is a little
brusque sometimes, but it is only her manner.”

They made their way through the foyer to the round table which had been
reserved for them in the centre of the restaurant.

“I suppose I ought to apologize for giving you dinner at such an hour,”
 the Duchess remarked, “but it is our theatrical managers who are to
blame. Why they cannot understand that the best play in the world is
not worth more than two hours of our undivided attention, and begin
everything at nine or a quarter-past, I cannot imagine.”

The Prince smiled.

“Dear Duchess,” he said, “I think that you are a nation of sybarites.
Everything in the world must run for you so smoothly or you are not
content. For my part, I like to dine at this hour.”

“But then, you take no luncheon, Prince,” Lady Grace reminded him.

“I never lunch out,” the Prince answered, “but I have always what is
sufficient for me.”

“Tell me,” the Duchess asked, “is it true that you are thinking of
settling down amongst us? Your picture is in the new illustrated paper
this week, you know, with a little sketch of your career. We are given
to understand that you may possibly make your home in this country.”

The Prince smiled, and in his smile there seemed to be a certain
mysticism. One could not tell, indeed, whether it came from some
pleasant thought flitting through his brain, or whether it was that the
idea itself was so strange to him.

“I have no plans, Duchess,” he said. “Your country is very delightful,
and the hospitality of the friends I have made over here is too
wonderful a thing to be described; but one never knows.”

Lady Grace bent towards Sir Charles, who was sitting by her side.

“I can never understand the Prince,” she murmured. “Always he seems as
though he took life so earnestly. He has a look upon his face which I
never see in the faces of any of you other young men.”

“He is a bit on the serious side,” Sir Charles admitted.

“It isn’t only that,” she continued. “He reminds me of that man whom we
all used to go and hear preach at the Oratory. He was the same in
the pulpit and when one saw him in the street. His eyes seemed to see
through one; he seemed to be living in a world of his own.”

“He was a religious Johnny, of course,” Sir Charles remarked. “They do
walk about with their heads in the air.”

Lady Grace smiled.

“Perhaps it is religion with the Prince,” she said,--“religion of a
sort.”

“I tell you what I do think,” Sir Charles murmured. “I think his
pretence at having a good time over here is all a bluff. He doesn’t
really cotton to us, you know. Don’t see how he could. He’s never
touched a polo stick in his life, knows nothing about cricket, is
indifferent to games, and doesn’t even understand the meaning of the
word ‘Sportsman.’ There’s no place in this country for a man like that.”

Lady Grace nodded.

“I think,” she said, “that his visit to Europe and his stay amongst
us is, after all, in the nature of a pilgrimage. I suppose he wants to
carry back some of our civilization to his own people.”

Penelope, who overheard, laughed softly and leaned across the table.

“I fancy,” she murmured, “that the person you are speaking of would not
look at it in quite the same light.”

“Has any one seen the evening paper?” the Duchess asked. “It is there
any more news about that extraordinary murder?”

“Nothing fresh in the early editions,” Sir Charles answered.

“I think,” the Duchess declared, “that it is perfectly scandalous. Our
police system must be in a disgraceful state. Tell me, Prince,--could
anything like that happen in your country?”

“Without doubt,” the Prince answered, “life moves very much in the East
as with you here. Only with us,” he added a little thoughtfully, “there
is a difference, a difference of which one is reminded at a time like
this, when one reads your newspapers and hears the conversation of one’s
friends.”

“Tell us what you mean?” Penelope asked quickly.

He looked at her as one might have looked at a child,--kindly, even
tolerantly. He was scarcely so tall as she was, and Penelope’s attitude
towards him was marked all the time with a certain frigidity. Yet he
spoke to her with the quiet, courteous confidence of the philosopher who
unbends to talk to a child.

“In this country,” he said, “you place so high a value upon the gift of
life. Nothing moves you so greatly as the killing of one man by another,
or the death of a person whom you know.”

“There is no tragedy in the world so great!” Penelope declared.

The Prince shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

“My dear Miss Morse,” he said, “it is so that you think about life and
death here. Yet you call yourselves a Christian country--you have a very
beautiful faith. With us, perhaps, there is a little more philosophy and
something a little less definite in the trend of our religion. Yet we do
not dress Death in black clothes or fly from his outstretched hand. We
fear him no more that we do the night. It is a thing that comes--a thing
that must be.”

He spoke so softly, and yet with so much conviction, that it seemed hard
to answer him. Penelope, however, was conscious of an almost feverish
desire either to contradict him or to prolong the conversation by some
means or other.

“Your point of view,” she said, “is well enough, Prince, for those who
fall in battle, fighting for their country or for a great cause. Don’t
you think, though, that the horror of death is a more real thing in
a case like this, where a man is killed in cold blood for the sake of
robbery, or perhaps revenge?”

“One cannot tell,” the Prince answered thoughtfully. “The battlefields
of life are there for every one to cross. This mysterious gentleman who
seems to have met with his death so unexpectedly--he, too, may have been
the victim of a cause, knowing his dangers, facing them as a man should
face them.”

The Duchess sighed.

“I am quite sure, Prince,” she said, “that you are a romanticist. But,
apart from the sentimental side of it, do things like this happen in
your country?”

“Why not?” the Prince answered. “It is as I have been saying: for a
worthy cause, or a cause which he believed to be worthy, there is no
man of my country worthy of the name who would not accept death with
the same resignation that he lays his head upon the pillow and waits for
sleep.”

Sir Charles raised his glass and bowed across the table.

“To our great allies!” he said, smiling.

The Prince drank his glass of water thoughtfully. He drank wine only
on very rare occasions, and then under compulsion. He turned to the
Duchess.

“A few days ago,” he said, “I heard myself described as being much
too serious a person. Tonight I am afraid that I am living up to my
reputation. Our conversation seems to have drifted into somewhat gloomy
channels. We must ask Miss Morse, I think, to help us to forget. They
say,” he continued, “that it is the young ladies of your country who
hold open the gates of Paradise for their menkind.”

He was looking into her eyes. His tone was half bantering, half serious.
From across the table Penelope knew that Somerfield was watching her
closely. Somehow or other, she was irritated and nervous, and she
answered vaguely. Sir Charles intervened with a story about some of
their acquaintances, and the conversation drifted into more ordinary
channels.

“Some day, I suppose,” the Duchess remarked, as the service of dinner
drew toward a close, “you will have restaurants like this in Tokio?”

The Prince assented.

“Yes,” he said without enthusiasm, “they will come. Our heritage from
the West is a sure thing. Not in my days, perhaps, or in the days of
those that follow me, but they will come.”

“I think that it is absolutely wicked of Dicky,” the Duchess declared,
as they rose from the table. “I shall never rely upon him again.”

“After all, perhaps, it isn’t his fault,” Penelope said, breathing a
little sigh of relief as she rose to her feet. “Mr. Harvey is not always
considerate, and I know that several of the staff are away on leave.”

“That’s right, my dear,” the Duchess said, smiling, “stick up for your
countrymen. I suppose he’ll find us sometime during the evening. We can
all go to the theatre together; the omnibus is outside.”

The little party passed through the foyer and into the hall of the
hotel, where they waited while the Duchess’ carriage was called. Mr.
Coulson was there in an easy chair, smoking a cigar, and watching
the people coming and going. He studied the passers-by with ah air of
impersonal but pleased interest. Penelope and Lady Grace were certainly
admirable foils. The latter was fair, with beautiful complexion--a
trifle sunburnt, blue eyes, good-humored mouth, and features excellent
in their way, but a little lacking in expression. Her figure was good;
her movements slow but not ungraceful; her dress of white ivory satin a
little extravagant for the occasion. She looked exactly what she was,--a
well-bred, well-disposed, healthy young Englishwoman, of aristocratic
parentage. Penelope, on the other hand, more simply dressed, save
for the string of pearls which hung from her neck, had the look of a
creature from another world. She had plenty of animation; a certain
nervous energy seemed to keep her all the time restless. She talked
ceaselessly, sometimes to the Prince, more often to Sir Charles. Her
gray-green eyes were bright, her cheeks delicately flushed. She spoke
and looked and moved as one on fire with the joy of life. The Prince,
noticing that Lady Grace had been left to herself for the last
few moments, moved a little towards her and commenced a courteous
conversation. Sir Charles took the opportunity to bend over his
companion.

“Penelope,” he said, “you are queer tonight. Tell me what it is? You
don’t really dislike the Prince, do you?”

“Why, of course not,” she answered, looking back into the restaurant and
listening, as though interested in the music. “He is odd, though, isn’t
he? He is so serious and, in a way, so convincing. He is like a being
transplanted into an absolutely alien soil. One would like to laugh at
him, and one can’t.”

“He is rather an anomaly,” Sir Charles said, humming lightly to himself.
“I suppose, compared with us matter-of-fact people, he must seem to your
sex quite a romantic figure.”

“He makes no particular appeal to me at all,” Penelope declared.

Somerfield was suddenly thoughtful.

“Sometimes, Penelope,” he said, “I don’t quite understand you,
especially when we speak about the Prince. I have come to the conclusion
that you either like him very much, or you dislike him very much, or you
have some thoughts about him which you tell to no one.”

She lifted her skirts. The carriage had been called.

“I like your last suggestion,” she declared. “You may believe that that
is true.”

On their way out, the Prince was accosted by some friends and remained
talking for several moments. When he entered the omnibus, there seemed
to Penelope, who found herself constantly watching him closely, a
certain added gravity in his demeanor. The drive to the theatre was a
short one, and conversation consisted only of a few disjointed remarks.
In the lobby the Prince laid his hand upon Somerfield’s arm.

“Sir Charles,” he said, “if I were you, I would keep that evening paper
in your pocket. Don’t let the ladies see it.”

Somerfield looked at him in surprise.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“To me personally it is of no consequence,” the Prince answered, “but
your womenfolk feel these things so keenly, and Mr. Vanderpole is of the
same nationality, is he not, as Miss Morse? If you take my advice, you
will be sure that they do not see the paper until after they get home
this evening.”

“Has anything happened to Dicky?” Somerfield asked quickly.

The Prince’s face was impassive; he seemed not to have heard. Penelope
had turned to wait for them.

“The Duchess thinks that we had better all go into the box,” she said.
“We have two stalls as well, but as Dicky is not here there is really
room for five. Will you get some programmes, Sir Charles?”

Somerfield stopped for a minute, under pretence of seeking some change,
and tore open his paper. The Prince led Penelope down the carpeted way.

“I heard what you and Sir Charles were saying,” she declared quietly.
“Please tell me what it is that has happened to Dicky?”

The Prince’s face was grave.

“I am sorry,” he replied. “I did not know that our voices would travel
so far.”

“It was not yours,” she said. “It was Sir Charles’. Tell me quickly what
it is that has happened?”

“Mr. Vanderpole,” the Prince answered, “has met with an accident,--a
somewhat serious one, I fear. Perhaps,” he added, “it would be as well,
after all, to break this to the Duchess. I was forgetting the prejudices
of your country. She will doubtless wish that our party should be broken
up.”

Penelope was suddenly very white. He whispered in her ear.

“Be brave,” he said. “It is your part.”

She stood still for a moment, and then moved on. His words had had a
curious effect upon her. The buzzing in her ears had ceased; there was
something to be done--she must do it! She passed into the box, the door
of which the attendant was holding open.

“Duchess,” she said, “I am so sorry, but I am afraid that something has
happened to Dicky. If you do not mind, I am going to ask Sir Charles to
take me home.”

“But my dear child!” the Duchess exclaimed.

“Miss Morse is quite right,” the Prince said quietly. “I think it would
be better for her to leave at once. If you will allow me, I will explain
to you later.”

She left the box without another word, and took Somerfield’s arm.

“We two are to go,” she murmured. “The Prince will explain to the
Duchess.”

The Prince closed the box door behind them. He placed a chair for the
Duchess so that she was not in view of the house.

“A very sad thing has happened,” he said quietly. “Mr. Vanderpole met
with an accident in a taxicab this evening. From the latest reports, it
seems that he is dead!”



CHAPTER IX. INSPECTOR JACKS SCORES

There followed a few days of pleasurable interest to all Englishmen
who travelled in the tube and read their halfpenny papers. A great
and enlightened Press had already solved the problem of creating the
sensational without the aid of facts. This sudden deluge, therefore, of
undoubtedly tragical happenings became almost an embarrassment to
them. Black headlines, notes of exclamation, the use of superlative
adjectives, scarcely met the case. The murder of Mr. Hamilton Fynes was
strange enough. Here was an unknown man, holding a small position in his
own country,--a man apparently without friends or social position. He
travelled over from America, merely a unit amongst the host of other
passengers; yet his first action, on arriving at Liverpool, was to make
use of privileges which belonged to an altogether different class of
person, and culminated in his arrival at Euston in a special train with
a dagger driven through his heart! Here was material enough for a least
a fortnight of sensations and countersensations, of rumored arrests and
strange theories. Yet within the space of twenty-four hours the affair
of Mr. Hamilton Fynes had become a small thing, had shrunk almost into
insignificance by the side of the other still more dramatic, still more
wonderful happening. Somewhere between the Savoy Hotel and Melbourne
Square, Kensington, a young American gentleman of great strength, of
undoubted position, the nephew of a Minister, and himself secretary to
the Ambassador of his country in London, had met with his death in a
still more mysterious, still more amazing fashion. He had left the hotel
in an ordinary taxicab, which had stopped on the way to pick up no
other passenger. He had left the Savoy alone, and he was discovered
in Melbourne Square alone. Yet, somewhere between these two points,
notwithstanding the fact that the aggressor must have entered the cab
either with or without his consent, Mr. Richard Vanderpole, without
a struggle, without any cry sufficiently loud to reach the driver or
attract the attention of any passer-by, had been strangled to death by
a person who had disappeared as though from the face of the earth. The
facts seemed almost unbelievable, and yet they were facts. The driver
of the taxi knew only that three times during the course of his drive he
had been caught in a block and had had to wait for a few seconds--once
at the entrance to Trafalgar Square, again at the junction of Haymarket
and Pall Mall, and, for a third time, opposite the Hyde Park Hotel. At
neither of these halting places had he heard any one enter or leave the
taxi. He had heard no summons from his fare, even though a tube, which
was in perfect working order, was fixed close to the back of his head.
He had known nothing, in fact, until a policeman had stopped him, having
caught a glimpse of the ghastly face inside. There was no evidence which
served to throw a single gleam of light upon the affair. Mr. Vanderpole
had called at the Savoy Hotel upon a travelling American, who had
written to the Embassy asking for some advice as to introducing American
patents into Great Britain and France. He left there to meet his chief,
who was dining down in Kensington, with the intention of returning
at once to join the Duchess of Devenham’s theatre party. He was in no
manner of trouble. It was not suggested that any one had any cause for
enmity against him. Yet this attack upon him must have been carefully
planned and carried out by a person of great strength and wonderful
nerve. The newspaper-reading public in London love their thrills, and
they had one here which needed no artificial embellishments from the
pens of those trained in an atmosphere of imagination. The simple truth
was, in itself, horrifying. There was scarcely a man or woman who drove
in a taxicab about the west end of London during the next few days
without a little thrill of emotion.

The murder of Mr. Richard Vanderpole took place on a Thursday night.
On Monday morning a gentleman of middle age, fashionably but quietly
dressed, wearing a flower in his buttonhole, patent boots, and a
silk hat which he had carefully deposited upon the floor, was sitting
closeted with Miss Penelope Morse. It was obvious that that young lady
did not altogether appreciate the honor done to her by a visit from so
distinguished a person as Inspector Jacks!

“I am sorry,” he said, “that you should find my visit in the least
offensive, Miss Morse. I have approached you, so far as possible, as an
ordinary visitor, and no one connected with your household can have any
idea as to my identity or the nature of my business. I have done this
out of consideration to your feelings. At the same time I have my duty
to perform and it must be done.”

“What I cannot understand,” Penelope said coldly, “is why you should
bother me about your duty. When I saw you at the Carlton Hotel, I told
you exactly how much I knew of Mr. Hamilton Fynes.”

“My dear young lady,” Inspector Jacks said, “I will not ask for your
sympathy, for I am afraid I should ask in vain; but we are just now,
we people at Scotland Yard, up against one of the most extraordinary
problems which have ever been put before us. We have had two murders
occurring in two days, which have this much, at least, in common--that
they have been the work of so accomplished a criminal that at the
present moment, although I should not like to tell every one as much, we
have not in either case the ghost of a clue.”

“That sounds very stupid of you,” Penelope remarked, “but I still ask--”

“Don’t ask for a minute or two,” the Inspector interrupted. “I think
I remarked just now that these two crimes had one thing in common, and
that was the fact that they had both been perpetrated by a criminal of
unusual accomplishments. They also have one other point of similitude.”

“What is that?” Penelope asked.

“The victim in both cases was an American,” the Inspector said.

Penelope sat very still. She felt the steely eyes of the man who had
chosen his seat so carefully, fixed upon her face.

“You do not connect the two affairs in any way?” she asked.

“That is what we are asking ourselves,” Mr. Jacks continued. “In the
absence of any definite clue, coincidences such as this are always
interesting. In this case, as it happens, we can take them even a little
further. We find that you, for instance, Miss Penelope Morse, a young
American lady, celebrated for her wit and accomplishments, and well
known in London society, were to have lunched with Mr. Hamilton Fynes
on the day when he made his tragical arrival in London; we find too,
curiously enough, that you were one of the party with whom Mr. Richard
Vanderpole was to have dined and gone to the theatre on the night of his
decease.”

Penelope shivered, and half closed her eyes.

“Don’t you think,” she said, “that the shock of this coincidence, as
you call it, has been quite sufficient, without having you come here to
remind me of it?”

“Madam,” Mr. Jacks said, “I have not come here to gratify any personal
curiosity. I have come here in the cause of justice. You should find
me a welcome visitor, for both these men who have lost their lives were
friends of yours.”

“I should be very sorry indeed,” Penelope answered, “to stand in the
way of justice. No one can hope more fervently than I do that the
perpetrator of these deeds will be found and punished. But what I cannot
understand is your coming here and reopening the subject with me. I tell
you again that I have no possible information for you.”

“Perhaps not,” the Inspector declared, “but, on the other hand, there
are certain questions which you can answer me,--answer them, I mean, not
grudgingly and as though in duty bound,--answer them intelligently, and
with some apprehension of the things which lie behind.”

“And what is the thing that lies behind them?” she asked.

“A theory, madam,” the Inspector answered,--“no more. But in this case,
unfortunately, we have not passed the stage of theories. My theory, at
the present moment, is that the murderer of these two men was the same
person.”

“You have evidence to that effect,” she said, suddenly surprised to find
that her voice had sunk to a whisper.

“Very little,” Mr. Jacks admitted; “but, you see, in the case of
theories one must build them brick by brick. Then if, after all, as
we reach the end, the foundation was false, well, we must watch them
collapse and start again.”

“Supposing we leave these generalities,” Penelope remarked, “and get on
with those questions which you wish to ask me. My aunt, as you may have
heard, is an invalid, and although she seldom leaves her room, this is
one of the afternoons when she sometimes sits here for a short time. I
should not care to have her find you.”

The Inspector leaned back in his chair. It was a very pleasant drawing
room, looking out upon the Park. A little French clock, a masterpiece of
workmanship, was ticking gayly upon the mantelpiece. Two toy Pomeranians
were half hidden in the great rug. The walls were of light blue, soft,
yet full of color, and the carpet, of some plain material, was of the
same shade. The perfume of flowers--the faint sweetness of mimosa and
the sicklier fragrance of hyacinths--seemed almost overwhelming, for the
fire was warm and the windows closed. By the side of Penelope’s chair
were a new novel and a couple of illustrated papers, and Mr. Jacks
noticed that although a paper cutter was lying by their side the leaves
of all were uncut.

“These questions,” he said, “may seem to you irrelevant, yet please
answer them if you can. Mr. Hamilton Fynes, for instance,--was he, to
your knowledge, acquainted with Mr. Richard Vanderpole?”

“I have never heard them speak of one another,” Penelope answered. “I
should think it very unlikely.”

“You have no knowledge of any common pursuit or interest in life
which the two men may have shared?” the Inspector asked. “A hobby, for
instance,--a collection of postage stamps, china, any common aim of any
sort?”

She shook her head.

“I knew little of Mr. Fynes’ tastes. Dicky--I mean Mr. Vanderpole--had
none at all except an enthusiasm for his profession and a love of polo.”

“His profession,” the Inspector repeated. “Mr. Vanderpole was attached
to the American Embassy, was he not?”

“I believe so,” Penelope answered.

“Mr. Hamilton Fynes,” the Inspector continued, “might almost have been
said to have followed the same occupation.”

“Surely not!” Penelope objected. “I always understood that Mr. Fynes was
employed in a Government office at Washington,--something to do with the
Customs, I thought, or forest duties.”

Mr. Jacks nodded thoughtfully.

“I am not aware, as yet,” he said, “of the precise nature of Mr. Fynes’
occupation. I only knew that it was, in some shape or form, Government
work.”

“You know as much about it,” she answered, “as I do.”

“We have sent,” the Inspector continued smoothly, “a special man out
to Washington to make all inquiries that are possible on the spot, and
incidentally, to go through the effects of the deceased, with a view
to tracing any complications in which he may have been involved in this
country.”

Penelope opened her lips, but closed them again.

“I am not, however,” the Inspector continued, “very sanguine of success.
In the case of Mr. Vanderpole, for instance, there could have been
nothing of the sort. He was too young, altogether too much of a boy,
to have had enemies so bitterly disposed towards him. There is another
explanation somewhere, I feel convinced, at the root of the matter.”

“You do not believe, then,” asked Penelope, “that robbery was really the
motive?”

“Not ordinary robbery,” Mr. Jacks answered. “A man who was capable of
these two crimes is capable of easier and greater things. I mean,”
 he explained, “that he could have attempted enterprises of a far more
remunerative character, with a prospect of complete success.”

“Will you forgive me,” she said, “if I ask you to go on with your
questions, providing you have any more to ask me? Notwithstanding the
excellence of your disguise,” she remarked with a faint curl of the
lips, “I might find it somewhat difficult to explain your presence if my
aunt or any visitors should come in.”

“I am sorry, Miss Morse,” the Inspector said quietly, “to find you so
unsympathetic. Had I found you differently disposed, I was going to ask
you to put yourself in my place. I was going to ask you to look at these
two tragedies from my point of view and from your own at the same time,
and I was going to ask you whether any possible motive suggested itself
to you, any possible person or cause, which might be benefited by the
removal of these two men.”

“If you think, Mr. Jacks,” Penelope said, “that I am keeping anything
from you, you are very much mistaken. Such sympathy as I have would
certainly be with those who are attempting to bring to justice the
perpetrator of such unmentionable crimes. What I object to is the
unpleasantness of being associated with your inquiries when I am
absolutely unable to give you the least help, or to supply you with any
information which is not equally attainable to you.”

“As, for instance?” the Inspector asked.

“You are a detective,” Penelope said coldly. “You do not need me to
point out certain things to you. Mr. Hamilton Fynes was robbed and
murdered--an American citizen on his way to London. Mr. Richard
Vanderpole is also murdered, after a call upon Mr. James B. Coulson,
the only acquaintance whom Mr. Fynes is known to have possessed in this
country. Did Mr. Fynes share secrets with Mr. Coulson? If so, did Mr.
Coulson pass them on to Mr. Vanderpole, and for that reason did Mr.
Vanderpole meet with the same death, at the same hands, as had befallen
Mr. Fynes?”

Inspector Jacks moved his head thoughtfully.

“It is admirably put,” he assented, “and to continue?”

“It is not my place to make suggestions to you,” Penelope said. “If you
are able to connect Mr. Fynes with the American Government, you arrive
at the possibility of these murders having been committed for some
political end. I presume you read your newspapers?”

Inspector Jacks smiled, picked up his hat and bowed, while Penelope,
with a sigh of relief, moved over to the bell.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “you do not understand how important even
the point of view of another person is to a man who is struggling to
build up a theory. Whether you have helped me as much as you could,”
 he added, looking her in the face, “you only can tell, but you have
certainly helped me a little.”

The footman had entered. The Inspector turned to follow him. Penelope
remained as she had been standing, the hand which had touched the bell
fallen to her side, her eyes fixed upon him with a new light stirring
their quiet depths.

“One moment, Morton,” she said. “Wait outside. Mr. Jacks,” she added, as
the door closed, “what do you mean? What can I have told you? How can I
have helped you?”

The Inspector stood very still for a brief space of time, very still and
very silent. His face, too, was quite expressionless. Yet his tone, when
he spoke, seemed to have taken to itself a note of sternness.

“If you had chosen,” he said slowly, “to have become my ally in this
matter, to have ranged yourself altogether on the side of the law, my
answer would have been ready enough. What you have told me, however, you
have told me against your will and not in actual words. You have told
me in such a way, too,” he added, “that it is impossible for me to doubt
your intention to mislead me. I am forced to conclude that we stand
on opposite sides of the way. I shall not trouble you any more, Miss
Morse.”

He turned to the door. Penelope remained motionless for several moments,
listening to his retreating footsteps.



CHAPTER X. MR. COULSON OUTMATCHED

Mr. James B. Coulson settled down to live what was, to all appearance,
a very inoffensive and ordinary life. He rose a little earlier than was
customary for an Englishman of business of his own standing, but he made
up for this by a somewhat prolonged visit to the barber, a breakfast
which bespoke an unimpaired digestion, and a cigar of more than ordinary
length over his newspaper. At about eleven o’clock he went down to the
city, and returned sometimes to luncheon, sometimes at varying hours,
never later, however, than four or five o’clock. From that time until
seven, he was generally to be found in the American bar, meeting old
friends or making new ones.

On the sixth day of his stay at the Savoy Hotel the waiter who looked
after the bar smoking room accosted him as he entered at his usual time,
a little after half past four.

“There’s a gentleman here, Mr. Coulson, been asking after you,” he
announced. “I told him that you generally came in about this time.
You’ll find him sitting over there.”

Mr. Coulson glanced in the direction indicated. It was Mr. Jacks who
awaited him in the cushioned easy chair. For a single moment, perhaps,
his lips tightened and the light of battle flashed in his face. Then
he crossed the room apparently himself again,--an undistinguished,
perfectly natural figure.

“It’s Mr. Jacks, isn’t it?” he asked, holding out his hand. “I thought I
recognized you.”

The Inspector rose to his feet.

“I am sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Coulson,” he said, “but if you
could spare me just a minute or two, I should be very much obliged.”

Mr. Coulson laughed pleasantly.

“You can have all you want of me from now till midnight,” he declared.
“My business doesn’t take very long, and I can only see the people I
want to see in the middle of the day. After that, I don’t mind telling
you that I find time hangs a bit on my hands. Try one of these,” he
added, producing a cigar case.

The Inspector thanked him and helped himself. Mr. Coulson summoned the
waiter.

“Highball for me,” he directed. “What’s yours, Mr. Jacks?”

“Thank you very much,” the Inspector said. “I will take a little Scotch
whiskey and soda.”

The two men sat down. The corner was a retired one, and there was no one
within earshot.

“Say, are you still on this Hamilton Fynes business?” Mr. Coulson asked.

“Partly,” the Inspector replied.

“You know, I’m not making reflections,” Mr. Coulson said, sticking
his cigar in a corner of his mouth and leaning back in a comfortable
attitude, “but it does seem to me that you are none too rapid on this
side in clearing up these matters. Why, a little affair of that sort
wouldn’t take the police twenty minutes in New York. We have a big
city, full of alien quarters, full of hiding places, and chock full of
criminals, but our police catch em, all the same. There’s no one going
to commit murder in the streets of New York without finding himself in
the Tombs before he’s a week older. No offence, Mr. Jacks.”

“I am not taking any, Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector answered. “I must
admit that there’s a great deal of truth in what you say. It is rather
a reflection upon us that we have not as yet even made an arrest, but I
think you will also admit that the circumstances of those murders were
exceedingly curious.”

Mr. Coulson knocked the ash from his cigar.

“Well, as to that,” he said, “and if we are to judge only by what we
read in the papers, they are curious, without a doubt. But I am not
supposing for one moment that you fellows at Scotland Yard don’t know
more than you’ve let on to the newspapers. You keep your discoveries out
of the Press over here, and a good job, too, but you wouldn’t persuade
me that you haven’t some very distinct theory as to how that crime was
worked, and the sort of person who did it. Eh, Mr. Jacks?”

“We are perhaps not quite so ignorant as we seem,” the Inspector
answered, “and of course you are right when you say that we have a few
more facts to go by than have appeared in the newspapers. Still, the
affair is an extremely puzzling one,--as puzzling, in its way,” Mr.
Jacks continued, “as the murder on the very next evening of this young
American gentleman.”

Mr. Coulson nodded sympathetically. The drinks were brought, and he
raised his glass to his guest.

“Here’s luck!” he said--“luck to you with your game of human chess, and
luck to me with my woollen machinery patents! You were speaking of that
second murder,” he remarked, setting down his glass. “I haven’t noticed
the papers much this morning. Has any arrest been made yet?”

“Not yet,” the Inspector admitted. “To tell you the truth, we find it
almost as puzzling an affair as the one in which Mr. Hamilton Fynes was
concerned.”

Mr. Coulson nodded. He seemed content, at this stage in their
conversation, to assume the role of listener.

“You read the particulars of the murder of Mr. Vanderpole, I suppose?”
 the Inspector asked.

“Every word,” Mr. Coulson answered. “Most interesting thing I’ve seen in
an English newspaper since I landed. Didn’t sound like London somehow.
Gray old law-abiding place, my partner always calls it.”

“I am going to be quite frank with you, Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector
continued. “I am going to tell you exactly why I have come to see you
again tonight.”

“Why, that’s good,” Mr. Coulson declared. “I like to know everything a
man’s got in his mind.”

“I have come to you,” the Inspector said, “because, by a somewhat
curious coincidence, I find that, besides your slight acquaintance with
and knowledge of Mr. Hamilton Fynes, you were also acquainted with this
Mr. Richard Vanderpole,--that you were,” he continued, knocking the
ash off his cigar and speaking a little more slowly, “the last person,
except the driver of the taxicab, to have seen him alive.”

Mr. Coulson turned slowly around and faced his companion.

“Now, how the devil do you know that?” he asked.

The Inspector smiled tolerantly.

“Well,” he said, “that is very simple. The taxicab started from here.
Mr. Vanderpole had been visiting some one in the hotel. There was not
the slightest difficulty in ascertaining that the person for whom he
asked, and with whom he spent some twenty minutes in this very room, was
Mr. James B. Coulson of New York.”

“Seated on this very couch, sir!” Mr. Coulson declared, striking the arm
of it with the flat of his hand,--“seated within a few feet of where you
yourself are at this present moment.”

The Inspector nodded.

“Naturally,” he continued, “when I became aware of so singular an
occurrence, I felt that I must lose no time in coming and having a few
more words with you.”

Mr. Coulson became meditative.

“Upon my word, when you come to think of it,” he said, “it is a
coincidence, sure! Two men murdered within twenty-four hours, and I seem
to have been the last person who knew them, to speak to either. Tell
you what, Mr. Jacks, if this goes on I shall get a bit scared. I think I
shall let the London business alone and go on over to Paris.”

The Inspector smiled.

“I fancy your nerves,” he remarked, “are quite strong enough to bear the
strain. However, I am sure you will not mind telling me exactly why Mr.
Richard Vanderpole, Secretary to the American Embassy here, should have
come to see you on Thursday night.”

“Why, that’s easy,” Mr. Coulson replied. “You may have heard of my
firm, The Coulson & Bruce Company of Jersey City. I’m at the head of a
syndicate that’s controlling some very valuable patents which we want to
exploit on this side and in Paris. Now my people don’t exactly know how
we stand under this new patent bill of Mr. Lloyd George’s. Accordingly
they wrote across to Mr. Blaine-Harvey, putting the matter to him, and
asking him to give me his opinion the moment I arrived on this side. You
see, it was no use our entering into contracts if we had to build the
plant and make the stuff over here. We didn’t stand any earthly show of
making it pay that way. Well, Mr. Harvey cabled out that I was just to
let him know the moment I landed, and before I opened up any business.
Sure enough, I called him up on the telephone, an hour or so after I got
here, and this young man came round. I can tell you he was all right,
too,--a fine, upstanding young fellow, and as bright as they make em.
He brought a written opinion with him as to how the law would affect our
proceedings. I’ve got it in my room if you’d care to see it?”

Mr. Jacks listened to his companion’s words with unchanged face.

“If it isn’t troubling you,” he said, “it would be of some interest to
me.”

Mr. Coulson rose to his feet.

“You sit right here,” he declared. “I’ll be back in less than five
minutes.”

Mr. Coulson was as good as his word. In less than the time mentioned he
was seated again by his companion’s side with a square sheet of foolscap
spread out upon the round table. The Inspector ran it through hurriedly.
The paper was stamped American Embassy,’ and it was the digest of
several opinions as to the effect of the new patent law upon the import
of articles manufactured under processes controlled by the Coulson &
Bruce syndicate. At the end there were a few lines in the Ambassador’s
own handwriting, summing up the situation. Mr. Coulson produced another
packet of letters and documents.

“If you’ve an hour or so to spare, Mr. Jacks,” he said, “I’d like to go
right into this with you, if it would interest you any. It’s my business
over here, so naturally I am glad enough of an opportunity to talk it
over.”

Mr. Jacks passed back the paper promptly.

“I am extremely obliged to you,” he said. “I am sure I should find it
most interesting. Another time I should be very glad indeed to look
through those specifications, but just now I have this affair of my
own rather on my mind. About this Mr. Richard Vanderpole, Mr. Coulson,
then,” he added. “Do I understand that this young man came to you as a
complete stranger?”

“Absolutely,” Mr. Coulson answered. “I never saw him before in my life.
As decent a young chap as ever I met with, all the same,” he went on,
“and comes of a good American stock, too. They tell me there’s going to
be an inquest and that I shall be summoned, but I know nothing more than
what I’ve told you. If I did, you’d be welcome to it.”

Mr. Jacks leaned back in his chair. Certainly the situation increased in
perplexity! The man by his side was talking now of the adaptation of
one of his patents to some existing machinery, and Jacks watched him
covertly. He considered himself, to some extent, a physiognomist. He
told himself it was not possible that this man was playing a part. Mr.
James B. Coulson sat there, the absolute incarnation of the genial man
of affairs, interested in his business, interested in the great subject
of dollar-getting, content with himself and his position,--a person
apparently of little imagination, for the shock of this matter
concerning which they had been talking had already passed away. He was
doing his best to explain with a pencil on the back of an illustrated
paper some new system of wool-bleaching.

“Mr. Coulson,” the Inspector said suddenly, “do you know a young lady
named Miss Penelope Morse?”

It was here, perhaps, that Mr. Coulson sank a little from the heights of
complete success. He repeated the name, and obviously took time to think
before he answered.

“Miss Penelope Morse,” the Inspector continued. “She is a young American
lady, who lives with an invalid aunt in Park Lane, and who is taken
everywhere by the Duchess of Devenham, another aunt, I believe.”

“I suppose I may say that I am acquainted with her,” Mr. Coulson
admitted. “She came here the other evening with a young man--Sir Charles
Somerfield.”

“Ah!” the Inspector murmured.

“She’d read that interview of mine with the Comet man,” Mr. Coulson
said, “and she fancied that perhaps I could tell her something about
Hamilton Fynes.”

“First time you’d met her, I suppose?” the Inspector remarked.

“Sure!” Mr. Coulson answered. “As a matter of fact, I know very few of
my compatriots over here. I am an American citizen myself, and I haven’t
too much sympathy with any one, man or woman, who doesn’t find America
good enough for them to live in.”

The Inspector nodded.

“Quite so,” he agreed. “So you hadn’t anything to tell this young lady?”

“Not a thing that she hadn’t read in the Comet,” Mr. Coulson replied.
“What brought her into your mind, anyway?”

“Nothing particular,” the Inspector answered carelessly. “Well, Mr.
Coulson, I won’t take up any more of your time. I am convinced that you
have told me all that you know, and I am afraid that I shall have to
look elsewhere to find the loose end of this little tangle.”

“Stay and have another drink,” Mr. Coulson begged. “I’ve nothing to do.
There are one or two boys coming in later who’ll like to meet you.”

The Inspector shook his head.

“I must be off,” he said. “I want to get into my office before six
o’clock. I dare say I shall be running across you again before you go
back.”

He shook hands and turned away. Then Mr. Coulson made what was, perhaps,
his second slight mistake.

“Say, Mr. Jacks,” he exclaimed, “what made you mention that young lady’s
name, anyway? I’m curious to know.”

The Inspector looked thoughtfully at the end of the fresh cigar which he
had just lit.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know that there was anything definite in my
mind, only it seems a little strange that you and Miss Penelope Morse
should both have been acquainted with the murdered man and that you
should have come across one another.”

“Sort of bond between us, eh?” Mr. Coulson replied. “She seemed a very
charming young lady. Cut above Fynes, I should think.”

The detective smiled.

“All your American young ladies who come over here are charming,” he
said. “Goodbye, Mr. Coulson, and many thanks!”

The Inspector passed out, and the man whom he had come to visit, after a
moment’s hesitation, resumed his seat.

“These aren’t American methods,” he muttered to himself. “I don’t
understand them. That man Jacks is either a simpleton or he is too
cunning for me.”

He crossed to a writing table and scribbled an unnecessary note,
addressing it to a firm in the city. Then he rang for a messenger boy
and handed it to him for delivery. A few minutes afterwards he strolled
out into the hall. The boy was in the act of handing the note to one of
the head porters, who carefully copied the address. Mr. Coulson returned
to the smoking room, whistling softly to himself.



CHAPTER XI. A COMMISSION

Mr. Robert Blaine-Harvey, American Ambassador and Plenipotentiary
Extraordinary to England, was a man of great culture, surprising
personal gifts, and with a diplomatic instinct which amounted almost to
genius. And yet there were times when he was puzzled. For at least half
an hour he had been sitting in his great library, looking across the
Park, and trying to make up his mind on a very important matter. It
seemed to him that he was face to face with what amounted almost to a
crisis in his career. His two years at the Court of St. James had been
pleasant and uneventful enough. The small questions which had presented
themselves for adjustment between the two countries were, after all, of
no particular importance and were easily arranged. The days seemed to
have gone by for that over-strained sensitiveness which was continually
giving rise to senseless bickerings, when every trilling breeze seemed
to fan the smouldering fires of jealousy. The two great English-speaking
nations appeared finally to have realized the absolute folly of
continual disputes between countries whose destiny and ideals were so
completely in accord and whose interests were, in the main, identical. A
period of absolute friendliness had ensued. And now there had come this
little cloud. It was small enough at present, but Mr. Harvey was not the
one to overlook its sinister possibilities. Two citizens of his country
had been barbarously murdered within the space of a few hours, one in
the heart of the most thickly populated capital in the world, and there
was a certain significance attached to this fact which the Ambassador
himself and those others at Washington perfectly well realized. He
glanced once more at the most recent letter on the top of this pile
of correspondence and away again out into the Park. It was a difficult
matter, this. His friends at Washington did not cultivate the art of
obscurity in the words which they used, and it had been suggested to
him in black and white that the murder of these two men, under the
particular circumstances existing, was a matter concerning which he
should speak very plainly indeed to certain August personages. Mr.
Harvey, who was a born diplomatist, understood the difficulties of such
a proceeding a good deal more than those who had propounded it.

There was a knock at the door, and a footman entered, ushering in a
visitor.

“The young lady whom you were expecting, sir,” he announced discreetly.

Mr. Harvey rose at once to his feet.

“My dear Penelope,” he said, shaking hands with her, “this is charming
of you.”

Penelope smiled.

“It seems quite like old times to feel myself at home here once more,”
 she declared.

Mr. Harvey did not pursue the subject. He was perfectly well aware
that Penelope, who had been his first wife’s greatest friend, had never
altogether forgiven him for his somewhat brief period of mourning. He
drew an easy chair up to the side of his desk and placed a footstool for
her.

“I should not have sent for you,” he said, “but I am really and honestly
in a dilemma. Do you know that, apart from endless cables, Washington
has favored me with one hundred and forty pages of foolscap all about
the events of the week before last?”

Penelope shivered a little.

“Poor Dicky!” she murmured, looking away into the fire. “And to think
that it was I who sent him to his death!”

Mr. Harvey shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I do not think that you need reproach yourself with
that. As a matter of fact, I think that I should have sent Dicky in
any case. He is not so well known as the others, or rather he wasn’t
associated so closely with the Embassy, and he was constantly at the
Savoy on his own account. If I had believed that there was any danger in
the enterprise,” he continued, “I should still have sent him. He was as
strong as a young Hercules. The hand which twisted that noose around his
neck must have been the hand of a magician with fingers of steel.”

Penelope shivered again. Her face showed signs of distress.

“I do not think,” she said, “that I am a nervous person, but I cannot
bear to think of it even now.”

“Naturally,” Mr. Harvey answered. “We were all fond of Dicky, and such a
thing has never happened, so far as I am aware, in any European country.
My own private secretary murdered in broad daylight and with apparent
impunity!”

“Murdered--and robbed!” she whispered, looking up at him with a white
face.

The frown on the Ambassador’s forehead darkened.

“Not only that,” he declared, “but the secrets of which he was robbed
have gone to the one country interested in the knowledge of them.”

“You are sure of that?” she asked hoarsely.

“I am sure of it,” Mr. Harvey answered.

Penelope drew a little breath between her teeth. Her thoughts flashed
back to a recent dinner party. The Prince was once more at her side.
Almost she could hear his voice--low, clear, and yet with that note of
inexpressible, convincing finality. She heard him speak of his country
reverently, almost prayerfully; of the sacrifices which true patriotism
must always demand. What had been in his mind, she wondered, at the back
of his inscrutable eyes, gazing, even at that moment, past the banks
of flowers, across the crowded room with all its splendor of light and
color, through the walls,--whither! She brushed the thought away. It was
absurd, incredible! She was allowing herself to be led away by her old
distrust of this man.

“I remarked just now,” Mr. Harvey continued, “that such a thing had
never happened, so far as I was aware, in any European country. My own
words seem to suggest something to me. These methods are not European.
They savor more of the East.”

“I think you had better go on,” she said quietly. “There is something in
your mind. I can see that. You have told me so much that you had better
tell me the rest.”

“The contents of those despatches,” Mr. Harvey continued, “intrusted
in duplicate, as you have doubtless surmised, to Fynes and to Coulson,
contained an assurance that the sending of our fleet to the Pacific
was in fact, as well as in appearance, an errand of peace. It was a
demonstration, pure and simple. Behind it there may have lain, indeed,
a masterful purpose, the determination of a great country to affirm
her strenuous existence in a manner most likely to impress the nations
unused to seeing her in such a role. It became necessary, in view of
certain suspicions, for me to be able to prove to the Government here
the absolutely pacific nature of our great enterprise. Those despatches
contained such proof. And now listen, Penelope. Before the murder
of poor Dicky Vanderpole, we know for a fact that a great nation who
chooses to consider herself our enemy in Eastern waters was straining
every nerve to prepare for war. Today those preparations have slackened.
A great loan has been withdrawn in Paris, an invitation cabled to our
fleet to visit Yokohama. These things have a plain reading.”

“Plain, indeed,” Penelope assented, and she spoke in a low tone because
there was fear in her heart. “Why have you told me about them? They
throw a new light upon everything,--an awful light!”

“I have known you,” the Ambassador said quietly, “since you were a baby.
Every member of your family has been a friend of mine. You come of a
silent race. I know very well that you are a person of discretion. There
are certain small ways in which a government can occasionally be served
by the help of some one outside its diplomatic service altogether, some
one who could not possibly be connected with it. You know this very
well, Penelope, because you have already been of service to us on more
than one occasion.”

“It was a long time ago,” she murmured.

“Not so very long,” he reminded her. “But for the first of these
tragedies, Fynes’ despatches would have reached me through you. I am
going to ask your help even once more.”

In the somewhat cold spring sunlight which came streaming through the
large window, Penelope seemed a little pallid, as though, indeed, the
fatigue of the season, even in this its earlier stages, were leaving
its mark upon her. There were violet rims under her eyes. A certain
alertness seemed to have deserted her usually piquant face. She sat
listening with the air of one half afraid, who has no hope of hearing
pleasant things.

“It has been remarked,” Mr. Harvey continued, “or rather I may say that
I myself have noticed, that you are on exceedingly friendly terms with
a very distinguished nobleman who is at present visiting this country--I
mean, of course, Prince Maiyo.”

Her eyebrows were slowly elevated. Was that really the impression people
had! Her lips just moved.

“Well?” she asked.

“I have met Prince Maiyo myself,” Mr. Harvey continued, “and I have
found him a charming representative of his race. I am not going to say a
word against him. If he were an American, we should be proud of him. If
he belonged to any other country, we should accept him at once for what
he appears to be. Unfortunately, however, he belongs to a country
which we have some reason to mistrust. He belongs to a country in whose
national character we have not absolute confidence. For that reason, my
dear Penelope, we mistrust Prince Maiyo.”

“I do not know him so well as you seem to imagine,” Penelope said
slowly. “We are not even friends, in the ordinary acceptation of the
word. I am, to some extent, prejudiced against him. Yet I do not believe
that he is capable of a dishonorable action.”

“Nor do I,” the Ambassador declared smoothly. “Yet in every country,
almost in every man, the exact standard of dishonor varies. A man will
lie for a woman’s sake, and even in the law courts, certainly at
his clubs and amongst his friends, it will be accounted to his
righteousness. A patriot will lie and intrigue for his country’s sake.
Now I believe that to Prince Maiyo Japan stands far above the whole
world of womankind. I believe that for her sake he would go to very
great lengths indeed.”

“Go on, please,” Penelope murmured.

“The Prince is over here on some sort of an errand which it isn’t our
business to understand,” Mr. Harvey said. “I have heard it rumored
that it is a special mission entirely concerned with the renewal of the
treaty between England and Japan. However that may be, I have sat here,
and I have thought, and I have come to this conclusion, ridiculous
though it may seem to you at first. I believe that somewhere behind the
hand which killed and robbed Hamilton Fynes and poor Dicky stood the
benevolent shadow of our friend Prince Maiyo.”

“You have no proof?” she asked breathlessly.

“No proof at all,” the Ambassador admitted. “I am scarcely in a position
to search for any. The conclusion I have come to has been simply arrived
at through putting a few facts together and considering them in the
light of certain events. In the first place, we cannot doubt that the
secret of those despatches reached at once the very people whom we
should have preferred to remain in ignorance of them. Haven’t I told
you of the sudden cessation of the war alarm in Japan, when once she
was assured, by means which she could not mistrust, that it was not the
intention of the American nation to make war upon her? The subtlety of
those murders, and the knowledge by which they were inspired, must have
come from some one in an altogether unique position. You may be sure
that no one connected with the Japanese Embassy here would be permitted
for one single second to take part in any such illegal act. They know
better than that, these wily Orientals. They will play the game from
Grosvenor Place right enough. But Prince Maiyo is here, and stands apart
from any accredited institution, although he has the confidence of
his Ambassador and can command the entire devotion of his own secret
service. I have not come to this conclusion hastily. I have thought it
out, step by step, and in my own mind I am now absolutely convinced that
both these murders were inspired by Prince Maiyo.”

“Even if this were so,” Penelope said, “what can I do? Why have you sent
for me? The Prince and I are not on especially friendly terms. It is
only just lately that we have been decently civil to one another.”

The Ambassador looked at her with some surprise.

“My dear Penelope,” he said, “I have seen you together the last three or
four evenings. The Prince looks at no one else while you are there. He
talks to you, I know, more freely than to any other woman.”

“It is by chance,” Penelope protested. “I have tried to avoid him.”

“Then I cannot congratulate you upon your success,” Mr. Harvey said
grimly.

“Things have changed a little between us, perhaps,” Penelope said. “What
is it that you really want?”

“I want to know this,” the Ambassador said slowly. “I want to know how
Japan became assured that America had no intention of going to war with
her. In other words, I want to know whether those papers which were
stolen from Fynes and poor Dicky found their way to the Japanese Embassy
or into the hands of Prince Maiyo himself.”

“Anything else?” she asked with a faint note of sarcasm in her tone.

“Yes,” Mr. Harvey replied, “there is something else. I should like to
know what attitude Prince Maiyo takes towards the proposed renewal of
the treaty between his country and Great Britain.”

She shook her head.

“Even if we were friends,” she said, “the very closest of friends, he
would never tell me. He is far too clever.”

“Do not be too sure,” Mr. Harvey said. “Sometimes a man, especially an
Oriental, who does not understand the significance of your sex in these
matters, can be drawn on to speak more freely to a woman than he would
ever dream of doing to his best friend. He would not tell you in as many
words, of course. On the other hand, he might show you what was in his
mind.”

“He is going back very shortly,” Penelope remarked.

Mr. Harvey nodded.

“That is why I sent for you to come immediately. You will see him
tonight at Devenham House.”

“With all the rest of the world,” she answered, “but a man is not likely
to talk confidentially under such conditions.”

Mr. Harvey rose to his feet.

“It is only a chance, of course,” he admitted, “but remember that you
know more than any other person in this country except myself. It would
be impossible for the Prince to give you credit for such knowledge. A
casual remark, a word, perhaps, may be sufficient.”

Penelope held out her hand. The servant for whom the Ambassador had rung
was already in the room.

“I will try,” she promised. “Ask Mrs. Harvey to excuse my going up to
see her this afternoon. I have another call to make, and I want to rest
before the function tonight.”

The Ambassador bowed, and escorted her to the door.

“I have confidence in you, Penelope,” he said. “You will try your best?”

“Oh, yes!” she answered with a queer little laugh, “I shall do that. But
I don’t think that even you quite understand Prince Maiyo!”



CHAPTER XII. PENELOPE INTERVENES

The perfume of countless roses, the music of the finest band in Europe,
floated through the famous white ballroom of Devenham House. Electric
lights sparkled from the ceiling, through the pillared way the ceaseless
splashing of water from the fountains in the winter garden seemed like
a soft undernote to the murmur of voices, the musical peals of laughter,
the swirl of skirts, and the rhythm of flying feet.

Penelope stood upon the edge of the ballroom, her hand resting still
upon her partner’s arm. She wore a dress of dull rose-color, a soft,
clinging silk, which floated about her as she danced, a creation of
Paquin’s, daring but delightful. Her eyes were very full and soft. She
was looking her best, and knew it. Nevertheless, she was just at the
moment, a little _distrait_. She was watching the brilliant scene with a
certain air of abstraction, as though her interest in it was, after all,
an impersonal thing.

“Jolly well every one looks tonight,” her partner, who was Sir Charles,
remarked. “All the women seem to be wearing smart frocks, and some of
those foreign uniforms are gorgeous.”

“Even the Prince,” Penelope said thoughtfully, “must find some
reflection of the philosophy of his own country in such a scene as this.
For the last fortnight we have been surfeited with horrors. We have
had to go through all sorts of nameless things,” she added, shivering
slightly, “and tonight we dance at Devenham House. We dance, and drink
champagne, and marvel at the flowers, as though we had not a care in the
world, as though life moved always to music.”

Sir Charles frowned a little.

“The Prince again!” he said, half protesting. “He seems to be a great
deal in your thoughts lately, Penelope.”

“Why not?” she answered. “It is something to meet a person whom one is
able to dislike. Nowadays the whole world is so amiable.”

“I wonder how much you really do dislike him,” he said.

She looked at him with a mysterious smile.

“Sometimes,” she murmured softly, “I wonder that myself.”

“Leaving the Prince out of the question,” he continued, “what you say is
true enough. Only a few days ago, you had to attend that awful inquest,
and the last time I saw dear old Dicky Vanderpole, he was looking
forward to this very dance.”

“It seems callous of us to have come,” Penelope declared. “And yet, if
we hadn’t, what difference would it have made? Every one else would have
been here. Our absence would never have been noticed, and we should have
sat at home and had the blues. But all the same, life is cruel.”

“Can’t say I find much to grumble at myself,” Sir Charles said
cheerfully. “I’m frightfully sorry about poor old Dicky, of course, and
every other decent fellow who doesn’t get his show. But, after all, it’s
no good being morbid. Sackcloth and ashes benefit no one. Shall we have
another turn?”

“Not yet,” Penelope replied. “Wait till the crowd thins a little. Tell
me what you have been doing today?”

“Pretty strenuous time,” Sir Charles remarked. “Up at nine, played
golf at Ranelagh all morning, lunched down there, back to my rooms and
changed, called on my tailor, went round to the club, had one game of
billiards and four rubbers of bridge.”

“Is that all?” Penelope asked.

The faint sarcasm which lurked beneath her question passed unnoticed.
Sir Charles smiled good-humoredly.

“Not quite,” he answered. “I dined at the Carlton with Bellairs and some
men from Woolwich and we had a box at the Empire to see the new ballet.
Jolly good it was, too. Will you come one night, if I get up a party?”

“Oh, perhaps!” she answered. “Come and dance.”

They passed into the great ballroom, the finest in London, brilliant
with its magnificent decorations of real flowers, its crowd of uniformed
men and beautiful women, its soft yet ever-present throbbing of
wonderful music. At the further end of the room, on a slightly raised
dais, still receiving her guests, stood the Duchess of Devenham.
Penelope gave a little start as they saw who was bowing over her hand.

“The Prince!” she exclaimed.

Sir Charles whispered something a little under his breath.

“I wonder,” she remarked with apparent irrelevance, “whether he dances.”

“Shall I go and find out for you?” Sir Charles asked.

She had suddenly grown absent. She had the air of scarcely hearing what
he said.

“Let us stop,” she said. “I am out of breath.”

He led her toward the winter garden. They sat by a fountain, listening
to the cool play of the water.

“Penelope,” Somerfield said a little awkwardly, “I don’t want to
presume, you know, nor to have you think that I am foolishly jealous,
but you have changed towards me the last few weeks, haven’t you?”

“The last few weeks,” she answered, “have been enough to change me
toward any one. All the same, I wasn’t conscious of anything particular
so far as you are concerned.”

“I always thought,” he continued after a moment’s hesitation, “that
there was so much prejudice in your country against--against all Asiatic
races.”

She looked at him steadfastly for a minute.

“So there is,” she answered. “What of it?”

“Nothing, except that it is a prejudice which you do not seem to share,”
 he remarked.

“In a way I do share it,” she declared, “but there are exceptions,
sometimes very wonderful exceptions.”

“Prince Maiyo, for instance,” he said bitterly. “Yet a fortnight ago I
could have sworn that you hated him.”

“I think that I do hate him,” Penelope affirmed. “I try to. I want to.
I honestly believe that he deserves my hatred. I have more reason for
feeling this way than you know of, Sir Charles.”

“If he has dared--” Somerfield began.

“He has dared nothing that he ought not to,” Penelope interrupted. “His
manners are altogether too perfect. It is the chill faultlessness of the
man which is so depressing. Can’t you understand,” she added, speaking
in a tone of greater intensity, “that that is why I hate him? Hush!”

She gripped his sleeve warningly. There was suddenly the murmur of
voices and the trailing of skirts. A little party seemed to have invaded
the winter garden--a little party of the principal guests. The Duchess
herself came first, and her fingers were resting upon the arm of Prince
Maiyo. She stopped to speak to Penelope, and turned afterwards to
Somerfield. Prince Maiyo held out his hand for Penelope’s programme.

“You will spare me some dances?” he pleaded. “I come late, but it is not
my fault.”

She yielded the programme to him without a word.

“Those with an X,’” she said, “are free. One has to protect oneself.”

He smiled as he wrote his own name, unrebuked, in four places.

“Our first dance, then, is number 10,” he said. “It is the next but one.
I shall find you here, perhaps?”

“Here or amongst the chaperons,” she answered, as they passed on.

“You admire Miss Morse?” the Duchess asked him.

“Greatly,” the Prince answered. “She is natural, she has grace, and she
has what I do not find so much in this country--would you say charm?”

“It is an excellent word,” the Duchess answered. “I am inclined to agree
with you. Her aunt, with whom she lives, is a confirmed invalid, so she
is a good deal with me. Her mother was my half-sister.”

The Prince bowed.

“She will marry, I suppose?” he said.

“Naturally,” the Duchess answered. “Sir Charles, poor fellow, is a
hopeless victim. I should not be surprised if she married him, some day
or other.”

The Prince looked behind for a moment; then he stopped to admire a
magnificent orchid.

“It will be great good fortune for Sir Charles Somerfield,” he said.

Somerfield scarcely waited until the little party were out of sight.

“Penelope,” he exclaimed, “you’ve given that man four dances!”

“I am afraid,” she answered, “that I should have given him eight if he
had asked for them.”

He rose to his feet.

“Will you allow me to take you back to your aunt?” he asked.

“No!” she answered. “My aunt is quite happy without me, and I should
prefer to remain here.”

He sat down, fuming.

“Penelope, what do you mean by it?” he demanded.

“And what do you mean by asking me what I mean by it?” she replied. “You
haven’t any especial right that I know of.”

“I wish to Heaven I had!” he answered with a noticeable break in his
voice.

There was a short silence. She turned away; she felt that she was
suddenly surrounded by a cloud of passion.

“Penelope,” he pleaded,--

She stopped him.

“You must not say another word,” she declared. “I mean it,--you must
not.”

“I have waited for some time,” he reminded her.

“All the more reason why you should wait until the right time,” she
insisted. “Be patient for a little longer, do. Just now I feel that I
need a friend more than I have ever needed one before. Don’t let me lose
the one I value most. In a few weeks’ time you shall say whatever you
like, and, at any rate, I will listen to you. Will you be content with
that?”

“Yes!” he answered.

She laid her fingers upon his arm.

“I am dancing this with Captain Wilmot,” she said. “Will you come and
bring me back here afterwards, unless you are engaged?”

The Prince found her alone in the winter garden, for Somerfield, when he
had seen him coming, had stolen away. He came towards her quickly,
with the smooth yet impetuous step which singled him out at once as
un-English. He had the whole room to cross to come to her, and she
watched him all the way. The corners of his lips were already curved in
a slight smile. His eyes were bright, as one who looks upon something
which he greatly desires. Slender though his figure was, his frame was
splendidly knit, and he carried himself as one of the aristocrats of
the world. As he approached, she scanned his face curiously. She became
critical, anxiously but ineffectively. There was not a feature in his
face with which a physiognomist could have found fault.

“Dear young lady,” he said, bowing low, “I come to you very humbly, for
I am afraid that I am a deceiver. I shall rob you of your pleasure,
I fear. I have put my name down for four dances, and, alas! I do not
dance.”

She made room for him by her side.

“And I,” she said, “am weary of dancing. One does nothing else, night
after night. We will talk.”

“Talk or be silent,” he answered softly. “Myself I believe that you
are in need of silence. To be silent together is a proof of great
friendship, is it not?”

She nodded.

“It seems to me that I have been through so much the last fortnight.”
 she said.

“You have suffered where you should not have suffered,” he assented
gravely. “I do not like your laws at all. At what they called the
inquest your presence was surely not necessary! You were a woman and had
no place there. You had,” he added calmly, “so little to tell.”

“Nothing,” she murmured.

“Life to me just now,” he continued, “is so much a matter of comparison.
It is for that, indeed, that I am here. You see, I have lived nearly all
my life in my own country and only a very short time in Europe. Then my
mother was an English lady, and my father a Japanese nobleman. Always
I seem to be pulled two different ways, to be struggling to see things
from two different points of view. But there is one subject in which I
think I am wholly with my own country.”

“And that?” she asked.

“I do not think,” he said, “that the rougher and more strenuous paths of
life were meant to be trodden by your sex. Please do not misunderstand
me,” he went on earnestly. “I am not thinking of the paths of literature
and of art, for there the perceptions of your sex are so marvellously
acute that you indeed may often lead where we must follow. I am speaking
of the more material things of life.”

She was suddenly conscious of a shiver which seemed to spread from her
heart throughout her limbs. She sat quite still, gripping her little
lace handkerchief in her fingers.

“I mean,” he continued, “the paths which a man must tread who seeks
to serve his country or his household,--the every-day life in which
sometimes intrigue or force is necessary. Do you agree with me, Miss
Morse?”

“I suppose so,” she faltered.

“That is why,” he added, “it was painful to me to see you stand there
before those men, answering their questions,--men whose walk in life was
different, of an order removed from yours, who should not even have
been permitted to approach you upon bended knees. Do not think that I
am suggesting any fault to you--do not think that I am forcing your
confidence in any way. But these are the thoughts which came to me only
a little time ago.”

She was silent. They listened together to the splashing of the water.
What was the special gift, she wondered, which gave this man such
insight? She felt her heart beating; she was conscious that he was
looking at her. He knew already that it was through her medium that
those despatches which never reached London were to have been handed on
to their destination! He must know that she was to some extent in the
confidence of her country’s Ambassador! Perhaps he knew, too, those
other thoughts which were in her mind,--knew that it had been her
deliberate intent to deceive him, to pluck those secrets which he
carried with him, even from his heart! What a fool she had been to
dream, for a moment, of measuring her wits against his!

He began to speak again, and his voice seemed pitched in lighter key.

“After all,” he said, “you must think it strange of me to be so
egotistical--to speak all the time so much of my likes and dislikes. To
you I have been a little more outspoken than to others.”

“You have found me an interesting subject for investigation perhaps?”
 she asked, looking up suddenly.

“You possess gifts,” he admitted calmly, “which one does not find
amongst the womenfolk of my country, nor can I say that I have found
them to any extent amongst the ladies of the English Court.”

“Gifts of which you do not approve when possessed by my sex,” she
suggested.

“You are a law to yourself, Miss Morse,” he said. “What one would not
admire in others seems natural enough in you. You have brains and
you have insight. For that reason I have been with you a little
outspoken,--for that reason and another which I think you know of. You
see, my time over here grows nearer to an end with every day. Soon I
must carry away with me, over the seas, all the delightful memories,
the friendships, the affections, which have made this country such a
pleasant place for me.”

“You are going soon?” she asked quickly.

“Very soon,” he answered. “My work is nearly finished, if indeed I may
dignify it by the name of work. Then I must go back.”

She shrank a little away from him, as though the word were distasteful
to her.

“Do you mean that you will go back for always?” she asked.

“There are many chances in life,” he answered. “I am the servant of the
Emperor and my country.”

“There is no hope, then,” she continued, “of your settling down here
altogether?”

For once the marble immobility of his features seemed disturbed. He
looked at her in honest amazement.

“Here!” he exclaimed. “But I am a son of Japan!”

“There are many of your race who do live here,” she reminded him.

He smiled with the air of one who is forced to humor a person of limited
vision.

“With them it is, alas! a matter of necessity,” he said. “It is very
hard indeed to make you understand over here how we feel about such
things,--there seems to be a different spirit amongst you Western races,
a different spirit or a lack of spirit--I do not know which I should
say. But in Japan the love of our country is a passion which seems to
throb with every beat of our hearts. If we leave her, it is for her
good. When we go back, it is our reward.”

“Then you are here now for her good?” she asked.

“Assuredly,” he answered.

“Tell me in what way?” she begged. “You have been studying English
customs, their methods of education, their political life, perhaps?”

He turned his head slowly and looked into her eyes. She bore the ordeal
well, but she never forgot it. It seemed to her afterwards that he must
have read every thought which had flashed through her brain. She felt
like a little child in the presence of some mysterious being, thoughts
of whom had haunted her dreams, now visible in bodily shape for the
first time.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “please do not ask me too much, for I
love to speak the truth, and there are many things which I may not tell.
Only you must understand that the country I love--my own country--must
enter soon upon a new phase of her history. We who look into the future
can see the great clouds gathering. Some of us must needs be pioneers,
must go forward a little to learn our safest, and best course. May I
tell you that much?”

“Of course,” she answered softly.

“And now,” he added, leaving his seat as though with reluctance, “the
Duchess reminded me, above all things, that directly I found you I was
to take you to supper. One of your royal princes has been good enough to
signify his desire that we should sit at the same table.”

She rose at once.

“Does the Duchess know that you are taking me?” she asked.

“I arranged it with her,” he answered. “My time draws soon to an end and
I am to be spoilt a little.”

They crossed the ballroom together and mounted the great stairs.
Something--she never knew quite what it was--prompted her to detain him
as they paused on the threshold of the supper room.

“You do not often read the papers, Prince,” she said. “Perhaps you
have not seen that, after all, the police have discovered a clue to the
Hamilton Fynes murder.”

The Prince looked down upon her for a moment without reply.

“Yes?” he murmured softly.

She understood that she was to go on--that he was anxious for her to go
on.

“Some little doctor in a village near Willington, where the line passes,
has come forward with a story about attending to a wounded man on the
night of the murder,” she said.

He was very silent. It seemed to her that there was something strange
about the immovability of his features. She looked at him wonderingly.
Then it suddenly flashed upon her that this was his way of showing
emotion. Her lips parted. The color seemed drawn from her cheeks. The
majordomo of the Duchess stood before them with a bow.

“Her Grace desires me to show your Highness to your seats,” he
announced.

Prince Maiyo turned to his companion.

“Will you allow me to precede you through the crush?” he said. “We are
to go this way.”



CHAPTER XIII. EAST AND WEST

After the supper there were obligations which the Prince, whose sense of
etiquette was always strong, could not avoid. He took Penelope back to
her aunt, reminding her that the next dance but one belonged to him.
Miss Morse, who was an invalid and was making one of her very rare
appearances in Society, watched him curiously as he disappeared.

“I wonder what they’d think of your new admirer in New York, Penelope,”
 she remarked.

“I imagine,” Penelope answered, “that they would envy me very much.”

Miss Morse, who was a New Englander of the old-fashioned type, opened
her lips, but something in her niece’s face restrained her.

“Well, at any rate,” she said, “I hope we don’t go to war with them.
The Admiral wrote me, a few weeks ago, that he saw no hope for anything
else.”

“It would be a terrible complication,” the Duchess sighed, “especially
considering our own alliance with Japan. I don’t think we need consider
it seriously, however. Over in America you people have too much common
sense.”

“The Government have, very likely,” Miss Morse admitted, “but it isn’t
always the Government who decide things or who even rule the country.
We have an omnipotent Press, you know. All that’s wanted is a weak
President, and Heaven knows where we should be!”

“Of course,” the Duchess remarked, “Prince Maiyo is half an Englishman.
His mother was a Stretton-Wynne. One of the first intermarriages, I
should think. Lord Stretton-Wynne was Ambassador to Japan.”

“I think,” said Penelope, “that if you could look into Prince Maiyo’s
heart you would not find him half an Englishman. I think that he is more
than seven-eighths a Japanese.”

“I have heard it whispered,” the Duchess remarked, leaning forward,
“that he is over here on an exceedingly serious mission. One thing is
quite certain. No one from his country, or from any other country, for
that matter, has ever been so entirely popular amongst us. He has the
most delightful manners of any man I ever knew of any race.”

Sir Charles came up, with gloomy face, to claim a dance. After it was
over, he led Penelope back to her aunt almost in silence.

“You are dancing again with the Prince?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she answered. “Here he comes.”

The Prince smiled pleasantly at the young man, who towered like a giant
above him, and noticed at once his lack of cordiality.

“I am selfish!” he exclaimed, pausing with Penelope’s hand upon his coat
sleeve. “I am taking you too much away from your friends, and spoiling
your pleasure, perhaps, because I do not dance. Is it not so? It is your
kindness to a stranger, and they do not all appreciate it.”

“We will go into the winter garden and talk it over,” she answered,
smiling.

They found their old seats unoccupied. Once more they sat and listened
to the fall of the water.

“Prince,” said Penelope, “there is one thing I have learned about you
this evening, and that is that you do not love questions. And yet there
is one other which I should like to ask you.”

“If you please,” the Prince murmured.

“You spoke, a little time ago,” she continued, “of some great crisis
with which your country might soon come face to face. Might I ask you
this: were you thinking of war with the United States?”

He looked at her in silence for several moments.

“Dear Miss Penelope,” he said,--“may I call you that? Forgive me if I am
too forward, but I hear so many of our friends--”

“You may call me that,” she interrupted softly.

“Let me remind you, then, of what we were saying a little time ago,”
 he went on. “You will not take offence? You will understand, I am sure.
Those things that lie nearest to my heart concerning my country are the
things of which I cannot speak.”

“Not even to me?” she pleaded. “I am so insignificant. Surely I do not
count?”

“Miss Penelope,” he said, “you yourself are a daughter of that country
of which we have been speaking.”

She was silent.

“You think, then,” she asked, “that I put my country before everything
else in the world?”

“I believe,” he answered, “that you would. Your country is too young to
be wholly degenerate. It is true that you are a nation of fused races--a
strange medley of people, but still you are a nation. I believe that in
time of stress you would place your country before everything else.”

“And therefore?” she murmured.

“And therefore,” he continued with a delightful smile, “I shall not
discuss my hopes or fears with you. Or if we do discuss them,” he went
on, “let us weave them into a fairy tale. Let us say that you are indeed
the Daughter of All America and that I am the Son of All Japan. You know
what happens in fairyland when two great nations rise up to fight?”

“Tell me,” she begged.

“Why, the Daughter of All America and the Son of All Japan stand hand
in hand before their people, and as they plight their troth, all bitter
feelings pass away, the shouts of anger cease, and there is no more talk
of war.”

She sighed, and leaned a little towards him. Her eyes were soft and
dusky, her red lips a little parted.

“But I,” she whispered, “am not the Daughter of All America.”

“Nor am I,” he answered with a sigh, “the Son of all Japan.”

There was a breathless silence. The water splashed into the basin, the
music came throbbing in through the flower-hung doorways. It seemed to
Penelope that she could almost hear her heart beat. The blood in her
veins was dancing to the one perfect waltz. The moments passed. She
drew a little breath and ventured to look at him. His face was still and
white, as though, indeed, it had been carved out of marble, but the fire
in his eyes was a living thing.

“We have actually been talking nonsense,” she said, “and I thought that
you, Prince, were far too serious.”

“We were talking fairy tales,” he answered, “and they are not nonsense.
Do not you ever read the history of your country as it was many hundreds
of years ago, before this ugly thing they call civilization weakened the
sinews of our race and besmirched the very face of duty? Do you not like
to read of the times when life was simpler and more natural, and there
was space for every man to live and grow and stretch out his hands
to the skies,--every man and every woman? They call them, in your
literature, the days of romance. They existed, too, in my country. It
is not nonsense to imagine for a little time that the ages between have
rolled away and that those days are with us?”

“No,” she answered, “it is not nonsense. But if they were?”

He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. The touch of his
hand, the absolute delicacy of the salute itself, made it unlike any
other caress she had ever known or imagined.

“The world might have been happier for both of us,” he whispered.

Somerfield, sullen and discontented, came and looked at them, moved
away, and then hesitatingly returned.

“Willmott is waiting for you,” he said. “The last was my dance, and this
is his.”

She rose at once and turned to the Prince.

“I think that we should go back,” she said. “Will you take me to my
aunt?”

“If it must be so,” he answered. “Tell me, Miss Penelope,” he added,
“may I ask your aunt or the Duchess to bring you one day to my house to
see my treasures? I cannot say how long I shall remain in this country.
I would like you so much to come before I break up my little home.”

“Of course we will,” she answered. “My aunt goes nowhere, but the
Duchess will bring me, I am sure. Ask her when I am there, and we can
agree about the day.”

He leaned a little towards her.

“Tomorrow?” he whispered.

She nodded. There were three engagements for the next day of which she
took no heed.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Come and let us arrange it with the Duchess.”

Prince Maiyo left Devenham House to find the stars paling in the
sky, and the light of an April dawn breaking through the black clouds
eastwards. He dismissed his electric brougham with a little wave of
the hand, and turned to walk to his house in St. James’s Square. As he
walked, he bared his head. After the long hours of artificially heated
rooms, there was something particularly soothing about the fresh
sweetness of the early spring morning. There was something, it seemed
to him, which reminded him, however faintly, of the mornings in his own
land,--the perfume of the flowers from the window-boxes, perhaps, the
absence of that hideous roar of traffic, or the faint aromatic scent
from the lime trees in the Park, heavy from recent rain. It was the
quietest hour of the twenty-four,--the hour almost of dawn. The night
wayfarers had passed away, the great army of toilers as yet slumbered.
One sad-eyed woman stumbled against him as he walked slowly up
Piccadilly. He lifted his hat with an involuntary gesture, and her laugh
changed into a sob. He turned round, and emptied his pockets of silver
into her hand, hurrying away quickly that his eyes might not dwell upon
her face.

“A coward always,” he murmured to himself, a little wearily, for he knew
where his weakness lay,--an invincible repugnance to the ugly things
of life. As he passed on, however, his spirits rose again. He caught a
breath of lilac scent from a closed florist’s shop. He looked up to the
skies, over the housetops, faintly blue, growing clearer every moment.
Almost he fancied that he looked again into the eyes of this strange
girl, recalled her unexpected yet delightful frankness, which to him,
with his love of abstract truth, was, after all, so fascinating. Oh,
there was much to be said for this Western world!--much to be said for
those whose part it was to live in it! Yet, never so much as during
that brief night walk through the silent streets, did he realize how
absolutely unfitted he was to be even a temporary sojourner in this vast
city. What would they say of him if they knew,--of him, a breaker of
their laws, a guest, and yet a sinner against all their conventions; a
guest, and yet one whose hand it was which would strike them, some
day or other, the great blow! What would she think of him? He wondered
whether she would realize the truth, whether she would understand.
Almost as he asked himself the question, he smiled. To him it seemed a
strange proof of the danger in which a weaker man would stand of
passing under the yoke of this hateful Western civilization. To dream of
her--yes! To see her face shining upon him from every beautiful place,
to feel the delight of her presence with every delicious sensation,--the
warmth of the sunlight, the perfume of the blossoms he loved! There was
joy in this, the joy of the artist and the lover. But to find her in his
life, a real person, a daughter of this new world, whose every instinct
would be at war with his--that way lay slavery! He brushed the very
thought from him.

As he reached the door of his house in St. James’ Square, it opened
slowly before him. He had brought his own servants from his own country,
and in their master’s absence sleep was not for them. His butler spoke
to him in his own language. The Prince nodded and passed on. On his
study table--a curious note of modernism where everything seemed to
belong to a bygone world--was a cablegram. He tore it open. It consisted
of one word only. He let the thin paper fall fluttering from his
fingers. So the time was fixed!

Then Soto came gliding noiselessly into the room, fully dressed, with
tireless eyes but wan face,--Soto, the prototype of his master, the most
perfect secretary and servant evolved through all the years.

“Master,” he said, “there has been trouble here. An Englishman came with
this card.”

The Prince took it, and read the name of Inspector Jacks.

“Well?” he murmured.

“The man asked questions,” Soto continued. “We spoke English so badly
that he was puzzled. He went away, but he will come again.”

The Prince smiled, and laid his hand almost caressingly upon the other’s
shoulder.

“It is of no consequence, Soto,” he said,--“no consequence whatever.”



CHAPTER XIV. AN ENGAGEMENT

“Your rooms, Prince, are wonderful,” Penelope said to him. “I knew
that you were a man of taste, but I did not know that you were also a
millionaire.”

He laughed softly.

“In my country,” he answered, “there are no millionaires. The money
which we have, however, we spend, perhaps a little differently. But,
indeed, none of my treasures here have cost me anything. They have come
to me through more generations than I should care to reckon up. The
bronze idol, for instance, upon my writing case is four hundred years
old, to my certain knowledge, and my tapestries were woven when in this
country your walls went bare.”

“What I admire more than anything,” the Duchess declared, “is your
beautiful violet tone.”

“I am glad,” he answered, “that you like my coloring. Some people have
thought it sombre. To me dark colors indoors are restful.”

“Everything about the whole place is restful,” Penelope said,--“your
servants with their quaint dresses and slippered feet, your thick
carpets, the smell of those strange burning leaves, and, forgive me if I
say so, your closed windows. I suppose in time I should have a headache.
For a little while it is delicious.”

The Prince sighed.

“Fresh air is good,” he said, “but the air that comes from your streets
does not seem to me to be fresh, nor do I like the roar of your great
city always in my ears. Here I cut myself off, and I feel that I can
think. Duchess, you must try those preserved fruits. They come to me
from my own land. I think that the secret of preserving them is not
known here. You see, they are packed with rose leaves and lemon plant.
There is a golden fig, Miss Penelope,--the fruit of great knowledge, the
magical fruit, too, they say. Eat that and close your eyes and you can
look back and tell us all the wonders of the past. That is to say,” he
added with a faint smile, “if the magic works.”

“But the 

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