The Illustrious Prince
by E. Phillips Oppenheim
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

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
thought 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 is. 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 privileged, 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 magic never does work," she protested with a little
sigh, "and I am not in the least interested in the past. Tell me
something about the future?"

"Surely that is easier," he answered. "Over the past we have lost
our control,--what has been must remain to the end of time. The
future is ours to do what we will with."

"That sounds so reasonable," the Duchess declared, "and it is so
absolutely false. No one can do what they will with the future.
It is the future which does what it will with us."

The Prince smiled tolerantly.

"It depends a good deal, does it not," he said, "upon ourselves?
Miss Penelope is the daughter of a country which is still young,
which has all its future before it, and which, has proclaimed to
the world its fixed intention of controlling its own destinies.
She, at any rate, should have imbibed the national spirit. You
are looking at my curtains," he added, turning to Penelope. "Let
me show you the figures upon them, and I will tell you the
allegory."

He led her to the window, and explained to her for some moments
the story of the faded images which represented one chapter out
of the mythology of his country. And then she stopped him.

"Always," she said, "you and I seem to be talking of things that
are dead and past, or of a future which is out of our reach.
Isn't it possible to speak now and then of the present?"

"Of the actual present?" he asked softly. "Of this very moment?"

"Of this very moment, if you will," she answered. "Your fairy
tale the other night was wonderful, but it was a long way off."

The Prince was summoned away somewhat abruptly to bid farewell to
a little stream of departing guests. Today, more than ever, he
seemed to belong, indeed to the world of real and actual things,
for a cousin of his mother's, a Lady Stretton-Wynne, was helping
him receive his guests--his own aunt, as Penelope told herself
more than once, struggling all the time with a vague incredulity.
When he was able to rejoin her, she was examining a curious
little coffer which stood upon an ivory table.

"Show me the mystery of this lock," she begged. "I have been
trying to open it ever since you went away. One could imagine
that the secrets of a nation might be hidden here."

He smiled, and taking the box from her hands, touched a little
spring. Almost at once the lid flew open.

"I am afraid," he said, "that it is empty."

She peered in.

"No," she exclaimed, "there is something there! See!" She thrust
in her hand and drew out a small, curiously shaped dagger of fine
blue steel and a roll of silken cord. She held them up to him.

"What are these?" she asked. "Are they symbols--the cord and the
knife of destiny?"

He took them gently from her hand and replaced them in the box.
She heard the lock go with a little click, and looked into his
face, surprised at his silence.

"Is there anything the matter?" she asked. "Ought I not to have
taken them up?"

Almost as the words left her lips, she understood. His face was
inscrutable, but his very silence was ominous. She remembered a
drawing in one of the halfpenny papers, the drawing of a dagger
found in a horrible place. She remembered the description of that
thin silken cord, and she began to tremble.

"I did not know that anything was in the box," he said calmly. "I
am sorry if its contents have alarmed you."

She scarcely heard his words. The room seemed wheeling round with
her, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. The atmosphere of the
place had suddenly become horrible,--the faint odor of burning
leaves, the pictures, almost like caricatures, which mocked her
from the walls, the grinning idols, the strangely shaped weapons
in their cases of black oak. She faltered as she crossed the
room, but recovered herself.

"Aunt," she said, "if you are ready, I think that we ought to
go."

The Duchess was more than ready. She rose promptly. The Prince
walked with them to the door and handed them over to his
majordomo.

"It has been so nice of you," he said to the Duchess, "to honor
my bachelor abode. I shall often think of your visit."

"My dear Prince," the Duchess declared, "it has been most
interesting. Really, I found it hard to believe, in that charming
room of yours, that we had not actually been transported to your
wonderful country."

"You are very gracious," the Prince answered, bowing low.

Penelope's hands were within her muff. She was talking some
nonsense--she scarcely knew what, but her eyes rested everywhere
save on the face of her host. Somehow or other she reached the
door, ran down the steps and threw herself into a corner of the
brougham. Then, for the first time, she allowed herself to look
behind. The door was already closed, but between the curtains
which his hands had drawn apart, Prince Maiyo was standing in the
room which they had just quitted, and there was something in the
calm impassivity of his white, stern face which seemed to madden
her. She clenched her hands and looked away.

"Really, I was not so much bored as I had feared," the Duchess
remarked composedly. "That Stretton-Wynne woman generally gets on
my nerves, but her nephew seemed to have a restraining effect
upon her. She didn't tell me more than once about her husband's
bad luck in not getting Canada, and she never even mentioned her
girls. But I do think, Penelope," she continued, "that I shall
have to talk to you a little seriously. There's the best-looking
and richest young bachelor in London dying to marry you, and you
won't have a word to say to him. On the other hand, after
starting by disliking him heartily, you are making yourself
almost conspicuous with this fascinating young Oriental. I admit
that he is delightful, my dear Penelope, but I think you should
ask yourself whether it is quite worth while. Prince Maiyo may
take home with him many Western treasures, but I do not think
that he will take home a wife."

"If you say another word to me, aunt," Penelope exclaimed, "I
shall shriek!"

The Duchess, being a woman of tact, laughed the subject away and
pretended not to notice Penelope's real distress. But when they
had reached Devenham House, she went to the telephone and called
up Somerfield.

"Charlie," she said,--

"Right o'!" he interrupted. "Who is it?"

"Be careful what you are saying," she continued, "because it
isn't any one who wants you to take them out to supper."

"I only wish you did," he answered. "It's the Duchess, isn't it?"

"The worst of having a distinctive voice," she sighed. "Listen. I
want to speak to you."

"I am listening hard," Somerfield answered. "Hold the instrument
a little further away from you,--that's better."

"We have been to the Prince's for tea this afternoon--Penelope
and I," she said.

"I know," he assented. "I was asked, but I didn't see the fun of
it. It puts my back up to see Penelope monopolized by that
fellow," he added gloomily.

"Well, listen to what I have to say," the Duchess went on.
"Something happened there--I don't know what--to upset Penelope
very much. She never spoke a word coming home, and she has gone
straight up to her room and locked herself in. Somehow or other
the Prince managed to offend her. I am sure of that, Charlie!"

"I'm beastly sorry," Somerfield answered. "I meant to say that I
was jolly glad to hear it."

The Duchess coughed.

"I didn't quite hear what you said before," she said severely.
"Perhaps it is just as well. I rang up to say that you had better
come round and dine with us tonight. You will probably find
Penelope in a more reasonable frame of mind."

"Awfully good of you," Somerfield declared heartily. "I'll come
with pleasure."

Dinner at Devenham House that evening was certainly a domestic
meal. Even the Duke was away, attending a political gathering.
Penelope was pale, but otherwise entirely her accustomed self.
She talked even more than usual, and though she spoke of a
headache, she declined all remedies. To Somerfield's surprise,
she made not the slightest objection when he followed her into
the library after dinner.

"Penelope," he said, "something has gone wrong. Won't you tell me
what it is? You look worried."

She returned his anxious gaze, dry-eyed but speechless.

"Has that fellow, Prince Maiyo, done or said anything--"

She interrupted him.

"No!" she cried. "No!" don't mention his name, please! I don't
want to hear his name again just now."

"For my part," Somerfield said bitterly, "I never want to hear it
again as long as I live!"

There was a short silence. Suddenly she turned towards him.

"Charlie," she said, "you have asked me to marry you six times."

"Seven," he corrected. "I ask you again now--that makes eight."

"Very well," she answered, "I accept--on one condition."

"On any," he exclaimed, his voice trembling with joy. "Penelope,
it sounds too good to be true. You can't be in earnest"

"I am," she declared. "I will marry you if you will see that our
engagement is announced everywhere tomorrow, and that you do not
ask me for anything at all, mind, not even--not anything--for
three months' time, at least. Promise that until then you will
not let me hear the sound of the word marriage?"

"I promise," he said firmly. "Penelope, you mean it? You mean
this seriously?"

She gave him her hands and a very sad little smile.

"I mean it, Charlie," she answered. "I will keep my word."

CHAPTER XV. PENELOPE EXPLAINS

Once more Penelope found herself in the library of the great
house in Park Lane, where Mr. Blaine-Harvey presided over the
interests of his country. This time she came as an uninvited,
even an unexpected guest. The Ambassador, indeed, had been
fetched away by her urgent message from the reception rooms,
where his wife was entertaining a stream of callers. Penelope
refused to sit down.

"I have not much to say to you, Mr. Harvey," she said. "There is
just something which I have discovered and which you ought to
know. I want to tell it you as quickly as possible and get away."

"A propos of our last conversation?" he asked eagerly.

She bowed her head.

"It concerns Prince Maiyo," she admitted.

"You are sure that you will not sit down?" he persisted. "You
know how interesting this is to me."

She smiled faintly.

"To me," she said, "it is terrible. My only desire is to tell you
and have finished with it. You remember, when I was here last,
you told me that it was your firm belief that somewhere behind
the hand which murdered Hamilton Fynes and poor Dicky stood the
shadow of Prince Maiyo."

"I remember it perfectly," he answered.

"You were right," Penelope said.

The Ambassador drew a little breath. It was staggering, this,
even if expected.

"I have talked with the Prince several times since our
conversation," Penelope continued. "So far as any information
which he gave me or seemed likely to give me, I might as well
have talked in a foreign language. But in his house, the day
before yesterday, in his own library, hidden in a casket which
opened only with a secret lock, I found two things."

"What were they?" the Ambassador asked quickly.

"A roll of silken cord," Penelope said, "such as was used to
strangle poor Dicky, and a strangely shaped dagger exactly like
the picture of the one with which Hamilton Fynes was stabbed."

"Did he know that you found them?" Mr. Blaine-Harvey asked.

"He was with me," Penelope answered. "He even, at my request,
opened the casket. He must have forgotten that they were there."

"Perhaps," the Ambassador said thoughtfully, "he never knew."

"One cannot tell," Penelope answered.

"Did he say anything when you discovered them?" the Ambassador
asked.

"Nothing," Penelope declared. "It was not necessary. I saw his
face. He knows that I understand. It may have been some one else
connected with the house, of course, but the main fact is beyond
all doubt. Those murders were instigated, if they were not
committed, by the Prince."

The Ambassador walked to the window and back again.

"Penelope," he said, "you have only confirmed what I felt must be
so, but even then the certainty of it is rather a shock."

She gave him her hand.

"I have told you the truth," she said. "Make what use of it you
will. There is one other thing, perhaps, which I ought to tell
you. The Prince is going back to his own country very shortly."

Mr. Harvey nodded.

"I have just been given to understand as much," he said. "At
present he is to be met with every day. I believe that he is even
now in my drawing rooms."

"Where I ought to be," Penelope said, turning toward the door,
"only I felt that I must see you first."

"I will not come with you," Mr. Harvey said. "There is no need
for our little conference to become the subject of comment. By
the bye," he added, "let me take this opportunity of wishing you
every happiness. I haven't seen Somerfield yet, but he is a lucky
fellow. As an American, however, I cannot help grudging another
of our most popular daughters to even the best of Englishmen."

Penelope's smile was a little forced.

"Thank you very much," she said. "It is all rather in the air, at
present, you know. We are not going to be married for some time."

"When it comes off," the Ambassador said, "I am going to talk to
the Duchess and Miss Morse. I think that I ought to give you
away."

Penelope made her way into Mrs. Blaine-Harvey's reception rooms,
crowded with a stream of guests, who were sitting about, drinking
tea and listening to the music, passing in and out all the time.
Curiously enough, almost the first person whom she saw was the
Prince. He detached himself from a little group and came at once
towards her. He took her hand in his and for a moment said
nothing. Notwithstanding the hours of strenuous consideration,
the hours which she had devoted to anticipating and preparing for
this meeting, she felt her courage suddenly leaving her, a
sinking at the knees, a wild desire to escape, at any cost. The
color which had been so long denied her streamed into her cheeks.
There was something baffling, yet curiously disturbing, in the
manner of his greeting.

"Is it true?" he asked.

She did not pretend to misunderstand him. It was amazing that he
should ignore that other tragical incident, that he should think
of nothing but this! Yet, in a way, she accepted it as a natural
thing.

"Is it true that I am engaged to Sir Charles Somerfield," she
answered.

"I must wish you every happiness," he said slowly. "Indeed, that
wish comes from my heart, and I think that you know it. As for
Sir Charles Somerfield, I cannot imagine that he has anything
left in the world to wish for."

"You are a born courtier, Prince," she murmured. "Please remember
that in my democratic country one has never had a chance of
getting used to such speeches."

"Your country," he remarked, "prides itself upon being the
country where truth prevails. If so, you should have become
accustomed by now to hearing pleasant things about yourself. So
you are going to marry Sir Charles Somerfield!"

"Why do you say that over to yourself so doubtfully?" she asked.
"You know who he is, do you not? He is rich, of old family,
popular with everybody, a great sportsman, a mighty hunter. These
are the things which go to the making of a man, are they not?"

"Beyond a doubt," the Prince answered gravely. "They go to the
making of a man. It is as you say."

"You like him personally, don't you?" she asked.

"Sir Charles Somerfield and I are almost strangers," the Prince
replied. "I have not seen much of him, and he has so many tastes
which I cannot share that it is hard for us to come very near
together. But if you have chosen him, it is sufficient. I am
quite sure that he is all that a man should be."

"Tell me in what respect your tastes are so far apart?" she
asked. "You say that as though there were something in the manner
of his life of which you disapproved."

"We are sons of different countries, Miss Penelope," the Prince
said. "We look out upon life differently, and the things which
seem good to him may well seem idle to me. Before I go," he added
a little hesitatingly, "we may speak of this again. But not now."

"I shall remind you of that promise, Prince," she declared.

"I will not fail to keep it," he replied. "You have, at least,"
he added after a moment's pause, "one great claim upon happiness.
You are the son and the daughter of kindred races."

She looked at him as though not quite understanding.

"I was thinking," he continued simply, "of my own father and
mother. My father was a Japanese nobleman, with the home call of
all the centuries strong in his blood. He was an enlightened man,
but he saw nothing in the manner of living or the ideals of other
countries to compare with those of the country of his own birth.
I sometimes think that my mother and father might have been
happier had one of them been a little more disposed to yield to
the other I think, perhaps, that their union would have been a
more successful one. They were married, and they lived together,
but they lived apart."

"It was not well for you, this," she remarked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Do not mistake me," he begged. "So far as I am concerned, I am
content. I am Japanese. The English blood that is in my veins is
but as a drop of water compared to the call of my own country.
And yet there are some things which have come to me from my
mother--things which come most to the surface when I am in this,
her own country--which make life at times a little sad. Forgive
me if I have been led on to speak too much of myself. Today one
should think of nothing but of you and of your happiness."

He turned to accept the greeting of an older woman who had
lingered for a moment, in passing, evidently anxious to speak to
him. Penelope watched his kindly air, listened to the courteous
words which flowed from his lips, the interest in his manner,
which his whole bearing denoted, notwithstanding the fact that
the woman was elderly and plain, and had outlived the friends of
her day and received but scanty consideration from the present
generation. It was typical of him, too, she realized. It was
never to the great women of the world that he unbent most
thoroughly. Gray hairs seemed to inspire his respect, to command
his attentions in a way that youth and beauty utterly failed to
do. These things seemed suddenly clear to Penelope as she stood
there watching him. A hundred little acts of graceful kindness,
which she had noticed and admired, returned to her memory. It was
this man whom she had lifted her hand to betray! It was this man
who was to be accounted guilty, even of crime! There came a
sudden revulsion of feeling. The whole mechanical outlook upon
life, as she had known it, seemed, even in those few seconds, to
become a false and meretricious thing. Whatever he had done or
countenanced was right. She had betrayed his hospitality. She had
committed an infamous breach of trust. An overwhelming desire
came over her to tell him everything. She took a quick step
forward and found herself face to face with Somerfield. The
Prince was buttonholed by some friends and led away. The moment
had passed.

"Come and talk to the Duchess," Somerfield said. "She has
something delightful to propose."

CHAPTER XVI. CONCERNING PRINCE MAIYO

The Duchess looked up from her writing table and nodded to her
husband, who had just entered.

"Good morning, Ambrose!" she said. "Do you want to talk to me?"

"If you can spare me five minutes," the Duke suggested. "I don't
think that I need keep you longer."

The Duchess handed her notebook to her secretary, who hastened
from the room. The Duke seated himself in her vacant chair.

"About our little party down in Hampshire next week," he began.

"I am waiting to hear from you before I send out any
invitations," the Duchess answered.

"Quite so," the Duke assented. "To tell you the truth, I don't
want anything in the nature of a house party. What I should
really like would be to get Maiyo there almost to ourselves."

His wife looked at him in some surprise.

"You seem particularly anxious to make things pleasant for this
young man," she remarked. "If he were the son of the Emperor
himself, no one could do more for him than you people have been
doing these last few weeks."

The Duke of Devenham, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, whose
wife entertained for his party, and whose immense income, derived
mostly from her American relations, was always at its disposal,
was a person almost as important in the councils of his country
as the Prime Minister himself. It sometimes occurred to him that
the person who most signally failed to realize this fact was the
lady who did him the honor to preside over his household.

"My dear Margaret," he said, "you can take my word for it that we
know what we are about. It is very important indeed that we
should keep on friendly terms with this young man,--I don't mean
as a personal matter. It's a matter of politics--perhaps of
something greater, even, than that."

The Duchess liked to understand everything, and her husband's
reticence annoyed her.

"But we have the Japanese Ambassador always with us," she
remarked. "A most delightful person I call the Baron Hesho, and I
am sure he loves us all."

"That is not exactly the point, my dear," the Duke explained.
"Prince Maiyo is over here on a special mission. We ourselves
have only been able to surmise its object with the aid of our
secret service in Tokio. You can rest assured of one thing,
however. It is of vast importance to the interests of this
country that we secure his goodwill."

The Duchess smiled good humoredly.

"Well, my dear Ambrose," she said, "I don't know what more we can
do than feed him properly and give him pleasant people to talk
to. He doesn't go in for sports, does he? All I can promise is
that we will do our best to be agreeable to him."

"I am sure of it, my dear," the Duke said. "You haven't committed
yourself to asking any one, by the bye?"

"Not a soul," his wife answered, "except Sir Charles. I had to
ask him, of course, for Penelope."

"Naturally," the Duke assented. "I am glad Penelope will be
there. I only wish that she were English instead of American, and
that Maiyo would take a serious fancy to her."

"Perhaps," the Duchess said dryly, "you would like him to take a
fancy to Grace?"

"I shouldn't mind in the least," her husband declared. "I never
met a young man whom I respected and admired more."

"Nor I, for that matter," the Duchess agreed. "And yet, somehow
or other--"

"Somehow or other?" the Duke repeated courteously.

"Well, I never altogether trust these paragons," his wife said.
"In all the ordinary affairs of life the Prince seems to reach an
almost perfect standard. I sometimes wonder whether he would be
as trustworthy in the big things. Nothing else you want to talk
about, Ambrose?"

"Nothing at all," the Duke said, rising to his feet. "I only
wanted to make it plain that we don't require a house party next
week."

"I shan't ask a soul," the Duchess answered. "Do you mind ringing
the bell as you pass? I'll have Miss Smith back again and send
these letters off."

"Good!" the Duke declared. "I'm going down to the House, but I
don't suppose there'll be anything doing. By the bye, we shall
have to be a little feudal next week. Japan is a country of many
ceremonies, and, after all, Maiyo is one of the Royal Family. I
have written Perkins, to stir him up a little."

The Duke drove down to the House, but called first in Downing
Street. He found the Prime Minister anxious to see him.

"You've arranged about Maiyo coming down to you next week?" he
asked.

"That's all right," the Duke answered. "He is coming, for
certain. One good thing about that young man--he never breaks an
engagement."

The Prime Minister consulted a calendar which lay open before
him.

"Do you mind," he asked, "if I come, too, and Bransome?"

"Why, of course not," the Duke replied. "We shall be delighted.
We have seventy bedrooms, and only half a dozen or so of us. But
tell me--is this young man as important as all that?"

"We shall have to have a serious talk," the Prime Minister said,
"in a few days' time. I don't think that even you grasp the exact
position of affairs as they stand today. Just now I am bothered
to death about other things. Heseltine has just been in from the
Home Office. He is simply inundated with correspondence from
America about those two murders."

The Duke nodded.

"It's an odd thing," he remarked, "that they should both have
been Americans."

"Heseltine thinks there's something behind this correspondence,"
the Prime Minister said slowly. "Washington was very secretive
about the man Fynes' identity. I found that out from Scotland
Yard. Do you know, I'm half inclined to think, although I can't
get a word out of Harvey, that this man Fynes--"

The Prime Minister hesitated.

"Well?" the Duke asked a little impatiently.

"I don't want to go too far," his chief said. "I am making some
fresh inquiries, and I am hoping to get at the bottom of the
matter very shortly. One thing is very certain, though, and that
is that no two murders have ever been committed in this city with
more cold-blooded deliberation, and with more of what I should
call diabolical cleverness. Take the affair of poor young
Vanderpole, for instance. The person who entered his taxi and
killed him must have done so while the vehicle was standing in
the middle of the road at one of the three blocks. Not only that,
but he must have been a friend, or some one posing as a
friend--some one, at any rate, of his own order. Vanderpole was
over six feet high, and as muscular as a young bull. He could
have thrown any one out into the street who had attempted to
assault him openly."

"It is the most remarkable case I ever heard of in my life," the
Duke admitted, helping himself to a cigarette from a box which he
had just discovered.

"There is another point," the Prime Minister continued. "There
are features in common about both these murders. Not only were
they both the work of a most accomplished criminal, but he must
have been possessed of an iron nerve and amazing strength. The
dagger by which Hamilton Fynes was stabbed was driven through the
middle of his heart. The cord with which Vanderpole was strangled
must have been turned by a wrist of steel. No time for a word
afterwards, mind, or before. It was a wonderful feat. I am not
surprised that the Americans can't understand it."

"They don't suggest, I suppose," the Duke asked, "that we are not
trying to clear the matter up?"

"They don't suggest it," his chief answered, "but I can't quite
make out what's at the back of their heads. However, I won't
bother you about that now. If I were to propound Heseltine's
theory to you, you would think that he had been reading the works
of some of our enterprising young novelists. Things will have
cleared up, I dare say, by next week. I am coming round to the
House for a moment if you're not in a hurry."

The Duke assented, and waited while the secretary locked up the
papers which the Prime Minister had been examining, and prepared
others to be carried into the House. The two men left the place
together, and the Duke pointed toward his brougham.

"Do you mind walking?" the Prime Minister said. "There is another
matter I'd like to talk to you about, and there's nowhere better
than the streets for a little conversation. Besides, I need the
air."

"With pleasure," the Duke answered, who loathed walking.

He directed his coachman to precede them, and they started off,
arm in arm.

"Devenham," the Prime Minister said, "we were speaking, a few
minutes ago, of Prince Maiyo. I want you to understand this, that
upon that young man depends entirely the success or failure of my
administration."

"You are serious?" the Duke exclaimed.

"Absolutely," the Prime Minister answered. "I know quite well
what he is here for. He is here to make up his mind whether it
will pay Japan to renew her treaty with us, or whether it would
be more to her advantage to enter into an alliance with any other
European power. He has been to most of the capitals in Europe. He
has been here with us. By this time he has made up his mind. He
knows quite well what his report will be. Yet you can't get a
word out of him. He is a delightful young fellow, I know, but he
is as clever as any trained diplomatist I have ever come across.
I've had him to dine with me alone, and I've done all that I
could to make him talk. When he went away, I knew just exactly as
much as I did before he came."

He seems pleased enough with us," the Duke remarked.

"I am not so sure," the Prime Minister answered. "He has
travelled about a good deal in England. I heard of him in
Manchester and Sheffield, Newcastle and Leicester, absolutely
unattended. I wonder what he was doing there."

"From my experience of him," the Duke said, "I don't think we
shall know until he chooses to tell us."

"I am afraid you are right," the Prime Minister declared. "At the
same time you might just drop a hint to your wife, and to that
remarkably clever young niece of hers, Miss Penelope Morse. Of
course, I don't expect that he would unbosom himself to any one,
but, to tell you the truth, as we are situated now, the faintest
hint as regards his inclinations, or lack of inclinations,
towards certain things would be of immense service. If he
criticised any of our institutions, for instance, his remarks
would be most interesting. Then he has been spending several
months in various capitals. He would not be likely to tell any
one his whole impressions of those few months, but a phrase, a
word, even a gesture, to a clever woman might mean a great deal.
It might also mean a great deal to us."

"I'll mention it," the Duke promised, "but I am afraid my
womenfolk are scarcely up to this sort of thing. The best plan
would be to tackle him ourselves down at Devenham."

"I thought of that," the Prime Minister assented. "That is why I
am coming down myself and bringing Bransome. If he will have
nothing to say to us within a week or so of his departure, we
shall know what to think. Remember my words, Devenham,--when our
chronicler dips his pen into the ink and writes of our
government, our foreign policy, at least, will be judged by our
position in the far East. Exactly what that will be depends upon
Prince Maiyo. With a renewal of our treaty we could go to the
country tomorrow. Without it, especially if the refusal should
come from them, there will be some very ugly writing across the
page."

The Duke threw away his cigarette.

"Well," he said, "we can only do our best. The young man seems
friendly enough."

The Prime Minister nodded.

"It is precisely his friendliness which I fear," he said.

CHAPTER XVII. A GAY NIGHT IN PARIS

Mr. James B. Coulson was almost as much at home at the Grand
Hotel, Paris, as he had been at the Savoy in London. His
headquarters were at the American Bar, where he approved of the
cocktails,patronized the highballs, and continually met
fellow-countrymen with whom he gossiped and visited various
places of amusement. His business during the daytime he kept to
himself, but he certainly was possessed of a bagful of documents
and drawings relating to sundry patents connected with the
manufacture of woollen goods, the praises of which he was always
ready to sing in a most enthusiastic fashion.

Mr. Coulson was not a man whose acquaintance it was difficult to
make. From five to seven every afternoon, scorning the
attractions of the band outside  and the generally festive air
which pervaded the great tea rooms, he sat at the corner of the
bar  upon an article of furniture which resembled more than
anything else an office stool, dividing  his attention between
desultory conversation with any other gentleman who might be
indulging in a drink, and watching the billiards in which some of
his compatriots were usually competing. It was not, so far as one
might judge, a strenuous life which Mr. Coulson was leading. He
had been known once or twice to yawn, and he had somewhat the
appearance of a man engaged in an earnest but at times not
altogether successful attempt to kill time. Perhaps for that
reason he made acquaintances with a little more than his
customary freedom. There was a young Englishman, for instance,
whose name, it appeared, was Gaynsforth, with whom, after a drink
or two at the bar, he speedily became on almost intimate terms.

Mr. Gaynsforth was a young man, apparently of good breeding and
some means. He was well dressed, of cheerful disposition, knew
something about the woollen trade, and appeared to take a
distinct liking to his new friend. The two men, after having
talked business together for some time, arranged to dine together
and have what they called a gay evening. They retired to their
various apartments to change, Mr. Gaynsforth perfectly well
satisfied with his progress, Mr. James B. Coulson with a broad
grin upon his face.

After a very excellent dinner, for which Mr. Gaynsforth insisted
upon paying, they went to the Folies Bergeres, where the
Englishman developed a thirst which, considering the coolness of
the evening, was nothing short of amazing. Mr. Coulson, however,
kept pace with him steadily, and toward midnight their
acquaintance had steadily progressed until they were certainly on
friendly if not affectionate terms. A round of the supper places,
proposed by the Englishman, was assented to by Mr. Coulson with
enthusiasm. About three o'clock in the morning Mr. Coulson had
the appearance of a man for whom the troubles of this world are
over, and who was realizing the ecstatic bliss of a temporary
Nirvana. Mr. Gaynsforth, on the other hand, although half an hour
ago he had been boisterous and unsteady, seemed suddenly to have
become once more the quiet, discreet-looking young Englishman who
had first bowed to Mr. Coulson in the bar of the Grand Hotel and
accepted with some diffidence his offer of a drink. To prevent
his friend being jostled by the somewhat mixed crowd in which
they then were, Mr. Gaynsforth drew nearer and nearer to him. He
even let his hand stray over his person, as though to be sure
that he was not carrying too much in his pockets.

"Say, old man," he whispered in his ear,--they were sitting side
by side now in the Bal Tabarin,--"if you are going on like this,
Heaven knows where you'll land at the end of it all! I'll look
after you as well as I can,--where you go, I'll go--but we can't
be together every second of the time. Don't you think you'd be
safer if you handed over your pocketbook to me?"

"Right you are!" Mr. Coulson declared, falling a little over on
one side. "Take it out of my pocket. Be careful of it now.
There's five hundred francs there, and the plans of a loom which
I wouldn't sell for a good many thousands."

Mr. Gaynsforth possessed himself quickly of the pocketbook, and
satisfied himself that his friend's description of its contents
was fairly correct.

"You've nothing else upon you worth taking care of?" he
whispered. "You can trust me, you know. You haven't any papers,
or anything of that sort?"

Then Mr. James B. Coulson, who was getting tired of his part,
suddenly sat up, and a soberer man had never occupied that
particular chair in the Bal Tabarin.

"And if I have, my young friend," he said calmly, "what the devil
business is it of yours?"

Mr. Gaynsforth was taken aback and showed it. He recovered
himself as quickly as possible, and realized that he had been
living in a fool's paradise so far as the condition of his
companion was concerned. He realized, also, that the first move
in the game between them had been made and that he had lost.

"You are too good an actor for me, Mr. Coulson," he said.
"Suppose we get to business."

"That's all right," Mr. Coulson answered. "Let's go somewhere
where we can get some supper. We'll go to the Abbaye Theleme, and
you shall have the pleasure of entertaining me."

Mr. Gaynsforth handed back the pocketbook and led the way out of
the place without a word. It was only a few steps up the hill,
and they found themselves then in a supper place of a very
different class. Here Mr. Coulson, after a brief visit to the
lavatory, during which he obliterated all traces of his recent
condition, seated himself at one of the small flower-decked
tables and offered the menu to his new friend.

"It's up to you to pay," he said, "so you shall choose the
supper. Personally, I'm for a few oysters, a hot bird, and a cold
bottle."

Mr. Gaynsforth, who was still somewhat subdued, commanded the
best supper procurable on these lines. Mr. Coulson, having waved
his hand to a few acquaintances and chaffed the Spanish dancing
girls in their own language,--not a little to his companion's
astonishment,--at last turned to business.

"Come," he said, "you and I ought to understand one another. You
are over here from London either to pump me or to rob me. You are
either a detective or a political spy or a secret service agent
of some sort, or you are on a lay of your own. Now, put it in a
business form, what can I do for you? Make your offer, and let's
see where we are."

Mr. Gaynsforth began to recover himself. It did not follow,
because he had made one mistake, that he was to lose the game.

"I am neither a detective, Mr. Coulson," he said, "nor a secret
service agent,--in fact, I am nothing of that sort at all. I have
a friend, however, who for certain reasons does not care to
approach you himself, but who is nevertheless very much
interested in a particular event, or rather incident, in which
you are concerned."

"Good!" Mr. Coulson declared. "Get right on."

"That friend," Mr. Gaynsforth continued calmly, "is prepared to
pay a thousand pounds for full information and proof as to the
nature of those papers which were stolen from Mr. Hamilton Fynes
on the night of March 22nd."

"A thousand pounds," Mr. Coulson repeated. "Gee whiz!"

"He is also," the Englishman continued, "prepared to pay another
thousand for a satisfactory explanation of the murder of Mr.
Richard Vanderpole on the following day.

"Say, your friend's got the stuff!" Mr. Coulson remarked
admiringly.

"My friend is not a poor man," Mr. Gaynsforth admitted. "You see,
there's a sort of feeling abroad that these two things are
connected. I am not working on behalf of the police. I am not
working on behalf of any one who desires the least publicity. But
I am working for some one who wants to know and is prepared to
pay."

"That's a very interesting job you're on, and no mistake," Mr.
Coulson declared. "I wonder you waste time coming over here on
the spree when you've got a piece of business like that to look
after.""I came over here," Mr. Gaynsforth replied, "entirely on
the matter I have mentioned to you."

"What, over here to Paris?" Mr. Coulson exclaimed.

"Not only to Paris," the other replied dryly, "but to discover
one Mr. James B. Coulson, whose health I now have the pleasure of
drinking."

Mr. Coulson drained the glass which the waiter had just filled.

"Well, this licks me!" he exclaimed. "How any one in their senses
could believe that there was any connection between me and
Hamilton Fynes or that other young swell, I can't imagine."

"You knew Hamilton Fynes," Mr. Gaynsforth remarked. "That fact
came out at the inquest. You appeared to have known him better
than most men. Mr. Vanderpole had just left you when he was
murdered,--that also came out at the inquest."

"Kind of queer, wasn't it," Mr. Coulson remarked meditatively,
"how I seemed to get hung up with both of them? You may also
remember that at the inquest Mr. Vanderpole's business with me
was testified to by the chief of his department."

"Certainly," Mr. Gaynsforth answered. "However, that's neither
here nor there. Everything was properly arranged, so far as you
were concerned, of course. That doesn't alter my friend's
convictions. This is a business matter with me, and if the two
thousand pounds don't sound attractive enough, well, the amount
must be revised, that's all. But I want you to understand this,
Mr. Coulson, I represent a man or a syndicate, or call it what
you will."

"Call it a Government," Mr. Coulson muttered under his breath.

"Call it what you will," Mr. Gaynsforth continued, with an air of
not having heard the interruption, "we have the money and we want
the information. You can give it to us if you like. We don't ask
for too much. We don't even ask for the name of the man who
committed these crimes. But we do want to know the nature of
those papers, exactly what position Mr. Hamilton Fynes occupied
in the Stamp and Excise Duty department at Washington, and,
finally, what the mischief you are doing over here in Paris."

"Have you ordered the supper?" Mr. Coulson inquired anxiously.

"I have ordered everything you suggested," Mr. Gaynsforth
answered,--"some oysters, a chicken en casserole, lettuce salad,
some cheese, and a magnum of Pommery."

"It is understood that you are my host?" Mr. Coulson insisted.

"Absolutely," his companion declared. "I consider it an honor."

"Then," Mr. Coulson said, pointing out his empty glass to the
SOMMELIER, "we may as well understand one another. To you I am
Mr. James B. Coulson, travelling in patents for woollen
machinery. If you put a quarter of a million of francs upon that
table, I am still Mr. James B. Coulson, travelling in woollen
machinery. And if you add a million to that, and pile up the
notes so high that they touch the ceiling, I remain Mr. James B.
Coulson, travelling in patents for woollen machinery. Now, if
you'll get that firmly into your head and stick to it and believe
it, there's no reason why you and I shouldn't have a pleasant
evening."

Mr. Gaynsforth, although he was an Englishman and young, showed
himself to be possessed of a sense of humor. He leaned back in
his seat and roared with laughter.

"Mr. Coulson," he said, "I congratulate you and your employers.
To the lower regions with business! Help yourself to the oysters
and pass the wine."

CHAPTER XVIII. MR. COULSON IS INDISCREET

On the following morning Mr. Coulson received what he termed his
mail from America. Locked in his room on the fifth floor of the
hotel, he carefully perused the contents of several letters. A
little later he rang and ordered his bill. At four o'clock he
left the Gare du Nord for London.

Like many other great men, Mr. Coulson was not without his
weakness. He was brave, shrewd, and far-seeing. He enjoyed
excellent health, and he scarcely knew the meaning of the word
nerves. Nevertheless he suffered from seasickness. The first
thing he did, therefore, when aboard the boat at Boulogne, was to
bespeak a private cabin. The steward to whom he made his
application shook his head with regret. The last two had just
been engaged. Mr. Coulson tried a tip, and then a larger tip,
with equal lack of success. He was about to abandon the effort
and retire gloomily to the saloon, when a man who had been
standing by, wrapped in a heavy fur overcoat, intervened.

"I am afraid, sir," he said, "that it is I who have just secured
the last cabin. If you care to share it with me, however, I shall
be delighted. As a matter of fact, I use it very little myself.
The night has turned out so fine that I shall probably promenade
all the time."

"If you will allow me to divide the expense," Mr. Coulson
replied, "I shall be exceedingly obliged to you, and will accept
your offer. I am, unfortunately, a bad sailor."

"That is as you will, sir," the gentleman answered. "The amount
is only trifling."

The night was a bright one, but there was a heavy sea running,
and even in the harbor the boat was rocking. Mr. Coulson groaned
as he made his way across the threshold of the cabin.

"I am going to have a horrible time," he said frankly. "I am
afraid you'll repent your offer before you've done with me."

His new friend smiled.

"I have never been seasick in my life," he said, "and I only
engage a cabin for fear of wet weather. A fine night like this I
shall not trouble you, so pray be as ill as you like."

"It's nothing to laugh at," Mr. Coulson remarked gloomily.

"Let me give you a little advice," his friend said, "and I can
assure you that I know something of these matters, for I have
been on the sea a great deal. Let me mix you a stiff brandy and
soda. Drink it down and eat only a dry biscuit. I have some
brandy of my own here."

"Nothing does me any good," Mr. Coulson groaned.

"This," the stranger remarked, producing a flask from his case
and dividing the liquor into equal parts, "may send you to sleep.
If so, you'll be across before you wake up. "Here's luck!"

Mr. Coulson drained his glass. His companion was in the act of
raising his to his lips when the ship gave a roll, his elbow
caught the back of a chair, and the tumbler slipped from his
fingers.

"It's of no consequence," he declared, ringing for the steward.
"I'll go into the smoking room and get a drink. I was only going
to have some to keep you company. As a matter of fact, I prefer
whiskey."

Mr. Coulson sat down upon the berth. He seemed indisposed for
speech.

"I'll leave you now, then," his friend said, buttoning his coat
around him. "You lie flat down on your back, and I think you'll
find yourself all right."

"That brandy," Mr. Coulson muttered, "was infernally--- strong."

His companion smiled and went out. In a quarter of an hour he
returned and locked the door. They were out in the Channel now,
and the boat was pitching heavily. Mr. James B. Coulson, however,
knew nothing of it. He was sleeping like one who wakes only for
the Judgment Day. Over his coat and waistcoat the other man's
fingers travelled with curious dexterity. The oilskin case in
which Mr. Coulson was in the habit of keeping his private
correspondence was reached in a very few minutes. The stranger
turned out the letters and read them, one by one, until he came
to the one he sought. He held it for a short time in his hand,
looked at the address with a faint smile, and slipped his fingers
lightly along the gummed edge of the envelope.

"No seal," he said softly to himself. "My friend Mr. Coulson
plays the game of travelling agent to perfection."

He glided out of the cabin with the letter in his hand. In about
ten minutes he returned. Mr. Coulson was still sleeping. He
replaced the letter, pressing down the envelope carefully.

"My friend," he whispered, looking down upon Mr. Coulson's uneasy
figure, "on the whole, I have been perhaps a little premature. I
think you had better deliver this document to its proper
destination. If only there was to have been a written answer, we
might have met again! It would have been most interesting."

He slipped the oilskin case back into the exact position in which
he had found it, and watched his companion for several minutes in
silence. Then he went to his dressing bag and from a phial mixed
a little draught. Lifting the sleeping man's head, he forced it
down his throat.

"I think," he said, "I think, Mr. Coulson, that you had better
wake up."

He unlocked the door and resumed his promenade of the deck. In
the bows he stood for some time, leaning with folded arms against
a pillar, his eyes fixed upon the line of lights ahead. The great
waves now leaped into the moonlight, the wind sang in the rigging
and came booming across the waters, the salt spray stung his
cheeks. High above his head, the slender mast, with its Marconi
attachment, swang and dived, reached out for the stars, and fell
away with a shudder. The man who watched, stood and dreamed until
the voyage was almost over. Then he turned on his heel and went
back to see how his cabin companion was faring.

Mr. Coulson was sitting on the edge of his bunk. He had awakened
with a terrible headache and a sense of some hideous
indiscretion. It was not until he had examined every paper in his
pocket and all his money that he had begun to feel more
comfortable. And in the meantime he had forgotten altogether to
be seasick.

"Well, how has the remedy worked?" the stranger inquired.

Mr. Coulson looked him in the face. Then he drew a short breath
of relief. He had been indiscreet, but he had alarmed himself
unnecessarily. There was nothing about the appearance of the
quiet, dark little man, with the amiable eyes and slightly
foreign manner, in the least suspicious.

"It's given me a brute of a headache," he declared, "but I
certainly haven't been seasick up till now, and I must say I've
never crossed before without being ill."

The stranger laughed soothingly.

"That brandy and soda would keep you right." He said. "When we
get to Folkestone, you'll be wanting a supper basket. Make
yourself at home. I don't need the cabin. It's a glorious night
outside. I shouldn't have come in at all except to see how you
were getting on."

"How long before we are in?" Mr. Coulson asked.

"About a quarter of an hour," was the answer. "I'll come for you,
if you like. Have a few minute's nap if you feel sleepy."

Mr. Coulson got up.

"Not I!" he said. "I am going to douse my head in some cold
water. That must have been the strongest brandy and soda that was
ever brewed, to send me off like that."

His friend laughed as he helped him out on to the deck.

"I shouldn't grumble at it, if I were you," he said carelessly.
"It saved you from a bad crossing."

Mr. Coulson washed his face and hands in the smoking room
lavatory, and was so far recovered, even, as to be able to drink
a cup of coffee before they reached the harbor. At Folkestone he
looked everywhere for his friend, but in vain. At Charing Cross
he searched once more. The little dark gentleman, with the
distinguished air and the easy, correct speech, who had mixed his
brandy and soda, had disappeared.

"And I owe the little beggar for half that cabin," Mr. Coulson
thought with a sensation of annoyance. "I wonder where he's
hidden himself!"

CHAPTER XIX. A MOMENTOUS QUESTION

The Duke paused, in his way across the crowded reception rooms,
to speak to his host, Sir Edward Bransome, Secretary of State for
Foreign Affairs.

"I have just written you a line, Bransome," he said, as they
shook hands. "The chief tells me that he is going to honor us
down at Devenham for a few days, and that we may expect you
also."

"You are very kind, Duke," Bransome answered. "I suppose Haviland
explained the matter to you."

The Duke nodded.

"You are going to help me entertain my other distinguished
visitor," he remarked. "I fancy we shall be quite an interesting
party."

Bransome glanced around.

"I hope most earnestly," he said, "that we shall induce our young
friend to be a little more candid with us than he has been. One
can't get a word out of Hesho, but I'm bound to say that I don't
altogether like the look of things. The Press are beginning to
smell a rat. Two leading articles this morning, I see, upon our
Eastern relations."

The Duke nodded.

"I read them," he said. "We are informed that the prestige and
success of our ministry will entirely depend upon whether or not
we are able to arrange for the renewal of our treaty with Japan.
I remember the same papers shrieking themselves hoarse with
indignation when we first joined hands with our little friends
across the sea!"

His secretary approached Bransome and touched him on the
shoulder.

"There is a person in the anteroom, sir," he said, "whom I think
that you ought to see."

The Duke nodded and passed on. The Secretary drew his chief on
one side.

"This man has just arrived from Paris, sir," he continued, "and
is the bearer of a letter which he is instructed to deliver into
your hands only."

Bransome nodded.

"Is he known to us at all?" he asked. "From whom does the letter
come?"

The young man hesitated.

"The letter itself, sir, has nothing to do with France, I
imagine," he said. "The person I refer to is an American, and
although I have no positive information, I believe that he is
sometimes intrusted with the carrying of despatches from
Washington to his Embassy. Once or twice lately I have had it
reported to me that communications from the other side to Mr.
Harvey have been sent by hand. It seems as though they had some
objection to committing important documents to the post."

Bransome walked through the crowded rooms by the side of his
secretary, stopping for a moment to exchange greetings here and
there with his friends. His wife was giving her third reception
of the session to the diplomatic world.

"Washington has certainly shown signs of mistrust lately," he
remarked, "but if communications from them are ever tampered
with, it is more likely to be on their side than ours. They have
a particularly unscrupulous Press to deal with, besides political
intriguers. If this person you speak of is really the bearer of a
letter from there," he added, "I think we can both guess what it
is about."

The secretary nodded.

"Shall I ring up Mr. Haviland, sir?" He asked.

"Not yet," Bransome answered. "It is just possible that this
person requires an immediate reply, in which case it may be
convenient for me not to be able to get at the Prime Minister.
Bring him along into my private room, Sidney."

Sir Edward Bransome made his way to his study, opened the door
with a Yale key, turned on the electric lights, and crossed
slowly to the hearthrug. He stood there, for several moments,
with his elbow upon the mantelpiece, looking down into the fire.
A darker shadow had stolen across his face as soon as he was
alone. In his court dress and brilliant array of orders, he was
certainly a very distinguished-looking figure. Yet the last few
years had branded lines into his face which it was doubtful if he
would ever lose. To be Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to
the greatest power which the world had as yet known must
certainly seem, on paper, to be as brilliant a post as a man's
ambition could covet. Many years ago it had seemed so to Bransome
himself. It was a post which he had deliberately coveted, worked
for, and strived for. And now, when in sight of the end, with two
years of office only to run, he was appalled at the ever-growing
responsibilities thrust upon his shoulders. There was never,
perhaps, a time when, on paper, things had seemed smoother, when
the distant mutterings of disaster were less audible. It was only
those who were behind the curtain who realized how deceptive
appearances were.

In a few minutes his secretary reappeared, ushering in Mr. James
B. Coulson. Mr. Coulson was still a little pale from the effects
of his crossing, and he wore a long, thick ulster to conceal the
deficiencies of his attire. Nevertheless his usual breeziness of
manner had not altogether deserted him. Sir Edward looked him up
and down, and finding him look exactly as Mr. James B. Coulson of
the Coulson & Bruce Syndicate should look, was inclined to wonder
whether his secretary had made a mistake.

"I was told that you wished to see me," he said. "I am Sir Edward
Bransome."

Mr. James B. Coulson nodded appreciatively.

"Very good of you, Sir Edward," he said, "to put yourself out at
this time of night to have a word or two with me. I am sorry to
have troubled you, anyway, but the matter was sort of urgent."

Sir Edward bent his head.

"I understand, Mr. Coulson," he said, "that you come from the
United States."

"That is so, sir," Mr. Coulson replied. "I am at the head of a
syndicate, the Coulson & Bruce Syndicate, which in course of time
hope to revolutionize the machinery used for spinning wool all
over the world. Likewise we have patents for other machinery
connected with the manufacture of all varieties of woollen goods.
I am over here on a business trip, which I have just concluded."

"Satisfactorily, I trust?" Sir Edward remarked.

"Well, I'm not grumbling, sir," Mr. Coulson assented. "Here and
there I may have missed a thing, and the old fashioned way of
doing business on this side bothers me a bit, but on the whole
I'm not grumbling."

Bransome bowed. Perhaps, after all, the man was not a fool!

"I have a good many friends round about Washington," Mr. Coulson
continued, "and sometimes, when they know I am coming across, one
or the other of them finds it convenient to hand me a letter. It
isn't the postage stamp that worries them," he added with a
little laugh, "but they sort of feel that anything committed to
me is fairly safe to reach its right destination."

"Without disputing that fact for one moment, Mr. Coulson," Sir
Edward remarked, "I might also suggest that the ordinary mail
service between our countries has reached a marvellous degree of
perfection."

"The Post Office," Mr. Coulson continued meditatively, "is a
great institution, both on your side and ours, but a letter
posted in Washington has to go through a good many hands before
it is delivered in London."

Sir Edward smiled.

"It is a fact, sir," he said, "which the various Governments of
Europe have realized for many years, in connection with the
exchange of communications one with the other. Your own great
country, as it grows and expands, becomes, of necessity, more in
touch with our methods. Did I understand that you have a letter
for me, Mr. Coulson?"

Mr. Coulson produced it.

"Friend of mine you may have heard of," he said, "asked me to
leave this with you. I am catching the Princess Cecilia from
Southampton tomorrow. I thought, perhaps, if I waited an hour or
so, I might take the answer back with me."

"It is getting late, Mr. Coulson," Sir Edward reminded him,
glancing at the clock.

Mr. Coulson smiled.

"I think, Sir Edward," he said, "that in your line of business
time counts for little."

Sir Edward motioned his visitor to a chair and touched the bell.

"I shall require the A3X cipher, Sidney," he said to his
secretary.

Mr. Coulson looked up.

"Why," he said, "I don't think you'll need that. The letter
you've got in your hand is just a personal one, and what my
friend has to say to you is written out there in black and
white."

Sir Edward withdrew the enclosure from its envelope and raised
his eyebrows.

"Isn't this a trifle indiscreet?" he asked.

"Why, I should say not," Mr. Coulson answered. "My friend--Mr.
Jones we'll call him--knew me and, I presume, knew what he was
about. Besides, that is a plain letter from the head of a
business firm to--shall we say a client? There's nothing in it to
conceal."

"At the same time," Sir Edward remarked, "it might have been as
well to have fastened the flap of the envelope."

Mr. Coulson held out his hand.

"Let me look," he said.

Sir Edward gave it into his hands. Mr. Coulson held it under the
electric light. There was no indication in his face of any
surprise or disturbance.

"Bit short of gum in our stationery office," he remarked.

Sir Edward was looking at him steadily.

"My impressions were," he said, "when I opened this letter, that
I was not the first person who had done so. The envelope flew
apart in my fingers."

Mr. Coulson shook his head.

The document has never been out of my possession, sir," he said.
"It has not even left my person. My friend Mr. Jones does not
believe in too much secrecy in matters of this sort. I have had a
good deal of experience now and am inclined to agree with him. A
letter in a double-ended envelope, stuck all over with sealing
wax, is pretty certain to be opened in case of any accident to
the bearer. This one, as you may not have noticed, is written in
the same handwriting and addressed in the same manner as the
remainder of my letters of introduction to various London and
Paris houses of business."

Sir Edward said no more. He read the few lines written on a
single sheet of notepaper, starting a little at the signature.
Then he read them again and placed the document beneath a paper
weight in front of him. When he leaned across the table, his
folded arms formed a semicircle around it.

"This letter, Mr. Coulson," he said, "is not an official
communication."

"It is not," Mr. Coulson admitted. "I fancy it occurred to my
friend Jones that anything official would be hardly in place and
might be easier to evade. The matter has already cropped up in
negotiations between Mr. Harvey and your Cabinet, but so far we
are without any definite pronouncement,--at least, that is how my
friend Mr. Jones looks at it."

Sir Edward smiled.

"The only answer your friend asks for is a verbal one," he
remarked.

"A verbal one," Mr. Coulson assented, "delivered to me in the
presence of one other person, whose name you will find mentioned
in that letter."

Sir Edward bowed his head. When he spoke again, his manner had
somehow changed. It had become at once more official,--a trifle
more stilted.

"This is a great subject, Mr. Coulson," he said. "It is a subject
which has occupied the attention of His Majesty's Ministers for
many months. I shall take the opinion of the other person whose
name is mentioned in this letter, as to whether we can grant Mr.
Jones' request. If we should do so, it will not, I am sure, be
necessary to say to you that any communication we may make on the
subject tonight will be from men to a man of honor, and must be
accepted as such. It will be our honest and sincere conviction,
but it must also be understood that it does not bind the
Government of this country to any course of action."

Mr. Coulson smiled and nodded his head.

"That is what I call diplomacy, Sir Edward," he remarked. "I
always tell our people that they are too bullheaded. They don't
use enough words. What about that other friend of yours?"

Sir Edward glanced at his watch.

"It is possible," he said, "that by this time Mr.----- Mr. Smith,
shall we call him, to match your Mr. Jones?--is attending my
wife's reception, from which your message called me. If he has
not yet arrived, my secretary shall telephone for him."

Mr. Coulson indicated his approval.

"Seems to me," he remarked, "that I have struck a fortunate
evening for my visit."

Sir Edward touched the bell and his secretary appeared.

"Sidney," he said, "I want you to find the gentleman whose name I
am writing upon this piece of paper. If he is not in the
reception rooms and has not arrived, telephone for him. Say that
I shall be glad if he would come this way at once. He will
understand that it is a matter of some importance."

The secretary bowed and withdrew, after a glance at the piece of
paper which he held in his hand. Sir Edward turned toward his
visitor.

"Mr. Coulson," he said, "will you allow me the privilege of
offering you some refreshment?"

"I thank you, sir," Mr. Coulson answered. "I am in want of
nothing but a smoke."

Sir Edward turned to the bell, but his visitor promptly stopped
him.

"If you will allow me, sir," he said, "I will smoke one of my
own. Home-made article, five dollars a hundred, but I can't stand
these strong Havanas. Try one."

Sir Edward waved them away.

"If you will excuse me," he said, "I will smoke a cigarette.
Since you are here, Mr. Coulson, I may say that I am very glad to
meet you. I am very glad, also, of this opportunity for a few
minutes' conversation upon another matter."

Mr. Coulson showed some signs of surprise.

"How's that?" he asked.

"There is another subject," Sir Edward said, "which I should like
to discuss with you while we are waiting for Mr. Smith."

CHAPTER XX. THE ANSWER

Mr. Coulson moved his cigar into a corner of his mouth, as though
to obtain a clear view of his questioner's face. His expression
was one of bland interest.

"Well, I guess you've got me puzzled, Sir Edward," he said. "You
aren't thinking of doing anything in woollen machinery, are you?"

Sir Edward smiled.

"I think not, Mr. Coulson," he answered. "At any rate, my
question had nothing to do with your other very interesting
avocation. What I wanted to ask you was whether you could tell me
anything about a compatriot of yours--a Mr. Hamilton Fynes?"

"Hamilton Fynes!" Mr. Coulson repeated thoughtfully. "Why, that's
the man who got murdered on the cars, going from Liverpool to
London."

"That is so," Sir Edward admitted.

Mr. Coulson shook his head.

"I told that reporter fellow all I knew about him," he said. "He
was an unsociable sort of chap, you know, Sir Edward, and he
wasn't in any line of business."

"H'm! I thought he might have been," the Minister answered,
glancing keenly for a moment at his visitor. "To tell you the
truth, Mr. Coulson, we have been a great deal bothered about that
unfortunate incident, and by the subsequent murder of the young
man who was attached to your Embassy here. Scotland Yard has
strained every nerve to bring the guilty people to justice, but
so far unsuccessfully. It seems to me that your friends on the
other side scarcely seem to give us credit for our exertions.
They do not help us in the least. They assure us that they had no
knowledge of Mr. Fynes other than has appeared in the papers.
They recognize him only as an American citizen going about his
legitimate business. A little more confidence on their part
would, I think, render our task easier."

Mr. Coulson scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "I can understand their feeling a bit sore about
it. I'm not exactly given to brag when I'm away from my own
country--one hears too much of that all the time--but between you
and me, I shouldn't say that it was possible for two crimes like
that to be committed in New York City and for the murderer to get
off scot free in either case."

"The matter," Sir Edward declared, "has given us a great deal of
anxiety, and I can assure you that the Home Secretary himself has
taken a strong personal interest in it, but at the same time, as
I have just pointed out to you, our investigations are rendered
the more difficult from the fact that we cannot learn anything
definite concerning this Mr. Hamilton Fynes or his visit to this
country. Now, if we knew, for instance," Sir Edward continued,
"that he was carrying documents, or even a letter, similar to the
one you have just handed to me, we might at once discover a
motive to the crime, and work backwards until we reached the
perpetrator."

Mr. Coulson knocked the ash from his cigar.

"I see what you are driving at," he said. "I am sorry I can be of
no assistance to you, Sir Edward."

"Neither in the case of Mr. Hamilton Fynes or in the case of Mr.
Richard Vanderpole?" Sir Edward asked.

Mr. Coulson shook his head.

"Quite out of my line," he declared.

"Notwithstanding the fact," Sir Edward reminded him quietly,
"that you were probably the last person to see Vanderpole alive?
He came to the Savoy to call upon you before he got into the
taxicab where he was murdered. That is so, isn't it?"

"Sure!" Mr. Coulson answered. "A nice young fellow he was, too.
Well set up, and real American manners,--Hail, fellow, well met!'
with you right away."

"I suppose, Mr. Coulson," the Minister suggested smoothly, "it
wouldn't answer your purpose to put aside that bluff about
patents for the development of the woollen trade for a few
moments, and tell me exactly what passed between you and Mr.
Vanderpole at the Savoy Hotel, and the object of his calling upon
you? Whether, for instance, he took away with him documents or
papers intended for the Embassy and which you yourself had
brought from America?"

"You do think of things!" Mr. Coulson remarked admiringly.
"You're on the wrong track this time, though, sure. Still,
supposing I were able to tell you that Mr. Vanderpole was
carrying papers of importance to my country, and that Mr.
Hamilton Fynes was also in possession of the same class of
document, how would it help you? In what fresh direction should
you look then for the murderers of these two men?"

"Mr. Coulson," Sir Edward said, "we should consider the nature of
those documents, and we should see to whose advantage it was that
they were suppressed."

Mr. Coulson's face seemed suddenly old and lined. He spoke with a
new vigor, and his eyes were very keen and bright under his bushy
eyebrows.

"And supposing it was your country's?" he asked. "Supposing they
contained instructions to our Ambassador which you might consider
inimical to your interests? Do you mean that you would look at
home for the murderer? You mean that you have men so devoted to
their native land that they were willing to run the risk of death
by the hangman to aid her? You mean that your Secret Service is
perfected to that extent, and that the scales of justice are held
blindfolded? Or do you mean that Scotland Yard would have its
orders, and that these men would go free?"

"I was not thinking of my own country," Sir Edward admitted. "I
must confess that my thoughts had turned elsewhere."

"Let me tell you this, sir," Mr. Coulson continued. "I should
imagine that the trouble with Washington, if there is any, is
simply that they will not believe that your police have a free
hand. They will not believe that you are honestly and genuinely
anxious for the discovery of the perpetrator of these crimes. I
speak without authority, you understand? I am no more in a
position to discuss this affair than any other tourist from my
country who might happen to come along."

Sir Edward shrugged his shoulders.

"Can you suggest any method," he asked a little dryly, "by means
of which we might remove this unfortunate impression?"

Mr. Coulson flicked the ash once more from the end of his cigar
and looked at it thoughtfully.

"This isn't my show," he said, "and, you understand, I am giving
the views of Mr. James B. Coulson, and nobody but Mr. James B.
Coulson, but if I were in your position, and knew that a friendly
country was feeling a little bit sore at having two of her
citizens disposed of so unceremoniously, I'd do my best to prove,
by the only possible means, that I was taking the matter
seriously."

"The only possible means being?" Sir Edward asked.

"I guess I'd offer a reward," Mr. Coulson admitted.

Sir Edward did not hesitate for a moment.

"Your idea is an excellent one, Mr. Coulson," he said. "It has
already been mooted, but we will give it a little emphasis.
Tomorrow we will offer a reward of one thousand pounds for any
information leading to the apprehension of either murderer."

"That sounds bully," Mr. Coulson declared.

"You think that it will have a good effect upon your friends in
Washington?"

"Me?" Mr. Coulson asked. "I know nothing about it. I've given you
my personal opinion only. Seems to me, though, it's the best way
of showing that you're in earnest."

"Before we quit this subject finally, Mr. Coulson," Sir Edward
said, "I am going to ask you a question which you have been asked
before."

"Referring to Hamilton Fynes?" Mr. Coulson asked.

"Yes!"

"Get your young man to lay his hand on that copy of the Comet,"
Mr. Coulson begged earnestly. "I told that pushing young
journalist all I knew and a bit more. I assure you, my
information isn't worth anything."

"Was it meant to be worth anything?" Sir Edward asked.

Mr. Coulson remained imperturbable.

"If you don't mind, Sir Edward," he said, "I guess we'll drop the
subject of Mr. Hamilton Fynes. We can't get any forwarder. Let it
go at that."

There was a knock at the door. Sir Edward's secretary ushered in
a tall, plainly dressed gentleman, who had the slightly aggrieved
air of a man who has been kept out of his bed beyond the usual
time.

"My dear Bransome," he said, shaking hands, "isn't this a little
unreasonable of you? Business at this hour of the night! I was in
the midst of a most amusing conversation with a delightful
acquaintance of your wife's, a young lady who turned up her nose
at Hegel and had developed a philosophy of her own. I was just
beginning to grasp its first principles. Nothing else, I am quite
sure, would have kept me awake."

Sir Edward leaned across the table towards Mr. Coulson. Mr.
Coulson had risen to his feet.

"This gentleman," he said, "is Mr. Smith."

The newcomer opened his lips to protest, but Sir Edward held out
his hand.

"One moment," he begged. "Our friend here--Mr. J. B. Coulson from
New York--has brought a letter from America. He is sailing
tomorrow,--leaving London somewhere about eight o'clock in the
morning, I imagine. He wishes to take back a verbal reply. The
letter, you will understand, comes from a Mr. Jones, and the
reply is delivered in the presence of--Mr. Smith. Our friend here
is not personally concerned in these affairs. As a matter of
fact, I believe he has been on the Continent exploiting some
patents of his own invention."

The newcomer accepted the burden of his altered nomenclature and
took up the letter. He glanced at the signature, and his manner
became at once more interested. He accepted the chair which Sir
Edward had placed by his side, and, drawing the electric light a
little nearer, read the document through, word by word. Then he
folded it up, and glanced first at his colleague and afterwards
at Mr. Coulson.

"I understand," he said, "that this is a private inquiry from a
private gentleman, who is entitled, however, to as much courtesy
as it is possible for us to show him."

"That is exactly the position, sir," Mr. Coulson replied.
"Negotiations of a more formal character are naturally conducted
between your Foreign Office and the Foreign Office of my country.
These few lines come from man to man. I think that it occurred to
my friend that it might save a great deal of trouble, a great
deal of specious diplomacy, and a great many hundred pages of
labored despatches, if, at the bottom of it all, he knew your
true feelings concerning this question. It is, after all, a
simple matter," Mr. Coulson continued, "and yet it is a matter
with so many ramifications that after much discussion it might
become a veritable chaos."

Mr. Smith inclined his head gently.

"I appreciate the situation," he said. "My friend here--Sir
Edward Bransome--and I have already discussed the matter at great
length. We have also had the benefit of the advice and help of a
greater Foreign Minister than either of us could ever hope to
become. I see no objection to giving you the verbal reply you ask
for. Do you, Bransome?"

"None whatever, sir."

"I leave it to you to put it in your own words," Mr. Smith
continued. "The affair is within your province, and the policy of
His Majesty's Ministers is absolutely fixed."

Sir Edward turned toward their visitor.

"Mr. Coulson," he said, "we are asked by your friend, in a few
plain words, what the attitude of Great Britain would be in the
event of a war between Japan and America. My answer--our
answer--to you is this,--no war between Japan and America is
likely to take place unless your Cabinet should go to
unreasonable and uncalled-for extremes. We have ascertained,
beyond any measure of doubt, the sincere feeling of our ally in
this matter. Japan does not desire war, is not preparing for it,
is unwilling even to entertain the possibility of it. At the same
time she feels that her sons should receive the same
consideration from every nation in the world as the sons of other
people. Personally it is our profound conviction that the good
sense, the fairness, and the generous instincts of your great
country will recognize this and act accordingly. War between your
country and Japan is an impossible thing. The thought of it
exists only in the frothy vaporings of cheap newspapers, and the
sensational utterances of the catch politician who must find an
audience and a hearing by any methods. The sober possibility of
such a conflict does not exist."

Mr. Coulson listened attentively to every word. When Sir Edward
had finished, he withdrew his cigar from his mouth and knocked
the ash on to a corner of the writing table.

"That's all very interesting indeed, Sir Edward," he declared.
"I am very pleased to have heard what you have said, and I shall
repeat it to my friend on the other side, who, I am sure, will be
exceedingly obliged to you for such a frank exposition of your
views. And now," he continued, "I don't want to keep you
gentlemen up too late, so perhaps you will be coming to the
answer of my question."

"The answer!" Sir Edward exclaimed. "Surely I made myself clear?"

"All that you have said, " Mr. Coulson admitted, "has been
remarkably clear, but the question I asked you was this,--what is
to be the position of your country in the event of war between
Japan and America?"

"And I have told you," Sir Edward declared, "that war between
Japan and America is not a subject within the scope of practical
politics."

"We may consider ourselves--my friend Mr. Jones would certainly
consider himself," Mr. Coulson affirmed,--"as good a judge as
you, Sir Edward, so far as regards that matter. I am not asking
you whether it is probable or improbable. You may know the
feelings of your ally. You do not know ours. We may look into the
future, and we may see that, sooner or later, war between our
country and Japan is a necessity. We may decide that it is better
for us to fight now than later. These things are in the clouds.
They only enter into the present discussion to this extent, but
it is not for you to sit here and say whether war between the
United States and Japan is possible or impossible. What Mr. Jones
asks you is--what would be your position if it should take place?
The little diatribe with which you have just favored me is
exactly the reply we should have expected to receive formally
from Downing Street. It isn't that sort of reply I want to take
back to Mr. Jones."

Mr. Smith and his colleague exchanged glances, and the latter
drew his chief on one side.

"You will excuse me for a moment, I know, Mr. Coulson," he said.

"Why, by all means," Mr. Coulson declared. "My time is my own,
and it is entirely at your service. If you say the word, I'll go
outside and wait."

"It is not necessary," Sir Edward answered.

The room was a large one, and the two men walked slowly up and
down, Mr. Smith leaning all the time upon his colleague's
shoulder. They spoke in an undertone, and what they said was
inaudible to Mr. Coulson. During his period of waiting he drew
another cigar from his pocket, and lit it from the stump of the
old one. Then he made himself a little more comfortable in his
chair, and looked around at the walls of the handsomely furnished
but rather sombre apartment with an air of pleased curiosity. It
was scarcely, perhaps, what he should have expected from a man in
a similar position in his own country, but it was, at any rate,
impressive. Presently they came back to him. This time it was Mr.
Smith who spoke.

"Mr. Coulson," he said, "we need not beat about the bush. You ask
us a plain question and you want a plain answer. Then I must tell
you this. The matter is not one concerning which I can give you
any definite information. I appreciate the position of your
friend Mr. Jones, and I should like to have met him in the same
spirit as he has shown in his inquiry, but I may tell you that,
being utterly convinced that Japan does not seek war with you,
and that therefore no war is likely, my Government is not
prepared to answer a question which they consider based upon an
impossibility. If this war should come, the position of our
country would depend entirely upon the rights of the dispute. As
a corollary to that, I would mention two things. You read your
newspapers, Mr. Coulson?"

"Sure!" that gentleman answered.

"You are aware, then," Mr. Smith continued, "of the present
position of your fleet. You know how many months must pass before
it can reach Eastern waters. It is not within the traditions of
this country to evade fulfillment of its obligations, however
severe and unnatural they may seem, but in three months' time,
Mr. Coulson, our treaty with Japan will have expired."

"You are seeking to renew it!" Mr. Coulson declared quickly.

Mr. Smith raised his eyebrows.

"The renewal of that treaty," he said, "is on the knees of the
gods. One cannot tell. I go so far only as to tell you that in
three months the present treaty will have expired."

Mr. Coulson rose slowly to his feet and took up his hat.

"Gentlemen both," he said, "that's what I call plain speaking. I
suppose it's up to us to read between the lines. I can assure you
that my friend Mr. Jones will appreciate it. It isn't my place to
say a word outside the letter which I have handed to you. I am a
plain business man, and these things don't come in my way. That
is why I feel I can criticize,--I am unprejudiced. You are
Britishers, and you've got one eternal fault. You seem to think
the whole world must see a matter as you see it. If Japan has
convinced you that she doesn't seek a war with us, it doesn't
follow that she's convinced us. As to the rights of our dispute,
don't rely so much upon hearing one side only. Don't be dogmatic
about it, and say this thing is and that thing isn't. You may bet
your last dollar that America isn't going to war about trifles.
We are the same flesh and blood, you know. We have the same
traditions to uphold. What we do is what we should expect you to
do if you were in our place. That's all, gentlemen. Now I wish
you both good night! Mr. Smith, I am proud to shake hands with
you. Sir Edward, I say the same to you."

Bransome touched the bell and summoned his secretary.

"Sidney, will you see this gentleman out?" he said. "You are
quite sure there is nothing further we can do for you, Mr.
Coulson?"

"Nothing at all, I thank you, sir," that gentleman answered. "I
have only got to thank you once more for the pleasure of this
brief interview. Good night!"

"Good night, and bon voyage!" Sir Edward answered.

The door was closed. The two men looked at one another for a
moment. Mr. Smith shrugged his shoulders and helped himself to a
cigarette.

"I wonder," he remarked thoughtfully, "how our friends in Japan
convinced themselves so thoroughly that Mr. Jones was only
playing ships!"

Sir Edward shook his head.

"It makes one wonder," he said.

CHAPTER XXI. A CLUE

By midday on the following morning London was placarded with
notices, the heading of which was sensational enough to attract
observation from every passer-by, young or old, rich or poor. One
thousand pounds' reward for the apprehension of the murderer of
either Hamilton Fynes or Richard Vanderpole! Inspector Jacks, who
was amongst the first to hear the news, after a brief interview
with his chief put on his hat and walked round to the Home
Office. He sought out one of the underlings with whom he had some
acquaintance, and whom he found ready enough, even eager, to
discuss the matter.

"There wasn't a word about any reward," Inspector Jacks was told,
"until this morning. We had a telephone message from the chief's
bedroom and phoned you up at once. It's a pretty stiff amount,
isn't it?"

"It is," the Inspector admitted. "Our chief seems to be taking
quite a personal interest in the matter all at once."

"I'll lay two to one that some one was on to him at Sir Edward
Bransome's reception last night," the other remarked. "I know
very well that there was no idea of offering a reward yesterday
afternoon. We might have come out with a hundred pounds or so, a
little later on, perhaps, but there was nothing of this sort in
the air. I've no desire to seem censorious, you know, Jacks," the
young man went on, leaning back in his chair and lighting a
cigarette, "but it does seem a dashed queer thing that you can't
put your finger upon either of these fellows."

Inspector Jacks nodded gloomily.

"No doubt it seems so to you," he admitted. "You forget that we
have to have a reasonable amount of proof before we can tap a man
on the shoulder and ask him to come with us. It isn't so abroad
or in America. There they can hand a man up with less than half
the evidence we have to be prepared with, and, of course, they
get the reputation of being smarter on the job. We may learn
enough to satisfy ourselves easily, but to get up a case which we
can put before a magistrate and be sure of not losing our man,
takes time."

"So you've got your eye on some one?" The young man asked
curiously.

"I did not say so," the Inspector answered warily. "By the bye,
do you think there would be any chance of five minutes' interview
with your chief?"

The young man shook his head slowly.

"What a cheek you've got, Jacks!" he declared. "You're not
serious, are you?"

"Perfectly," Inspector Jacks answered. "And to tell you the
truth, my young friend, I am half inclined to think that when he
is given to understand, as he will be by you, if he doesn't know
it already, that I am in charge of the investigations concerning
these two murders, he will see me."

The young man was disposed to consider the point.

"Well," he remarked, "the chief does seem plaguy interested, all
of a sudden. I'll pass your name in. If you take a seat, it's
just possible that he may spare you a minute or two in about an
hour's time. He won't be able to before then, I'm sure. There's a
deputation almost due, and two other appointments before luncheon
time."

The Inspector accepted a newspaper and an easy chair. His young
friend disappeared and returned almost immediately, looking a
little surprised.

"I've managed it for you," he explained. "The chief is going to
spare you five minutes at once. Come along and I'll show you in."

Inspector Jacks took up his hat and followed his acquaintance to
the private room of the Home Secretary. That personage nodded to
him upon his entrance and continued to dictate a letter. When he
had finished, he sent his clerk out of the room and, motioning
Mr. Jacks to take a seat by his side, leaned back in his own
chair with the air of one prepared to relax for a moment. He was
a man of somewhat insignificant presence, but he had keen gray
eyes, half the time concealed under thick eyebrows, and flashing
out upon you now and then at least expected moments.

"From Scotland Yard, I understand, Mr. Jacks?" he remarked.

"At your service, sir," the Inspector answered. "I am in charge
of the investigations concerning these two recent murders."

"Quite so," the Home Secretary remarked. "I am very glad to meet
you, Mr. Jacks. So far, I suppose, you are willing to admit that
you gentlemen down at Scotland Yard have not exactly
distinguished yourselves."

"We are willing to admit that," Inspector Jacks said.

"I do not know whether the reward will help you very much," the
Home Secretary continued. "So far as you people personally are
concerned, I imagine that it will make no difference. The only
point seems to be that it may bring you outside help which at the
present time is being withheld."

"The offering of the reward, sir," Inspector Jacks said, "can do
no harm, and it may possibly assist us very materially."

"I am glad to have your opinion, Mr. Jacks," the Home Secretary
said.

There was a moment's pause. The Minister trifled with some papers
lying on the desk before him. Then he turned to his visitor and
continued,--

"You will forgive my reminding you, Mr. Jacks, that I am a busy
man and that this is a busy morning. You had some reason, I
presume, for wishing to see me?"

"I had, sir," the Inspector answered. "I took the liberty of
waiting upon you, sir, to ask whether the idea of a reward for so
large a sum came spontaneously from your department?"

The Home Secretary raised his eyebrows.

"Really, Mr. Jacks," he began,--

"I hope, sir," the Inspector protested, "that you will not think
I am asking this question through any irrelevant curiosity. I am
beginning to form a theory of my own as to these two murders, but
it needs building up. The offering of a reward like this, if it
emanates from the source which I suspect that it does, gives a
solid foundation to my theories. I am here, sir, in the interests
of justice only, and I should be exceedingly obliged to you if
you would tell me whether the suggestion of this large reward did
not come from the Foreign Office?"

The Minister considered for several moments, and then slowly
inclined his head.

"Mr. Jacks," he said, "your question appears to me to be a
pertinent one. I see not the slightest reason to conceal from you
the fact that your surmise is perfectly accurate."

A flash of satisfaction illuminated for a moment the detective's
inexpressive features. He rose and took up his hat.

"I am very much obliged to you, sir," he said. "The information
which you have given me is extremely valuable."

"I am glad to hear you say so," the Home Secretary declared. "You
understand, of course, that it is within the province of my
department to assist at all times and in any possible way the
course of justice. Is there anything more I can do for you?"

Inspector Jacks hesitated.

"If you would not think it a liberty, sir," he said, "I should be
very glad indeed if you would give me a note which would insure
me an interview with Sir Edward Bransome."

"I will give it you with pleasure," the Secretary answered,
"although I imagine that he would be quite willing to see you on
your own request."

He wrote a few lines and passed them over. Inspector Jacks
saluted, and turned towards the door.

"You'll let me know if anything turns up?" the Home Secretary
said.

"You shall be informed at once, sir," the Inspector assured him,
a as he left the room.

Sir Edward Bransome was just leaving his house when Inspector
Jacks entered the gate. The latter, who knew him by sight,
saluted and hesitated for a moment.

"Did you wish to speak to me?" Sir Edward asked, drawing back
from the step of his electric brougham.

The Inspector held out his letter. Sir Edward tore it open and
glanced through the few lines which it contained. Then he looked
keenly for a moment at the man who stood respectfully by his
side.

"So you are Inspector Jacks from Scotland Yard," he remarked.

"At your service, sir," the detective answered.

"You can get in with me, if you like," Sir Edward continued,
motioning toward the interior of his brougham. "I am due in
Downing Street now, but I dare say you could say what you wish to
on the way there."

"Certainly, sir," Inspector Jacks answered. "It will be very good
of you indeed if you can spare me those few minutes."

The brougham glided away.

"Now, Mr. Jacks," Sir Edward said, "what can I do for you? If you
want to arrest me, I shall claim privilege."

The Inspector smiled.

"I am in charge, sir," he said, "of the investigations concerning
the murder of Mr. Hamilton Fynes and Mr. Richard Vanderpole. The
news of the reward came to us at Scotland Yard this morning. Its
unusual amount led me to make some injuries at the Home Office. I
found that what I partly expected was true. I found, sir, that
your department has shown some interest in the apprehension of
these two men."

Sir Edward inclined his head slowly.

"Well?" he said.

"Sir Edward Bransome," the Inspector continued, "I have a theory
of my own as to these murders, and though it may take me some
time to work it out, I feel myself day by day growing nearer the
truth. These were not ordinary crimes. Any one can see that. They
were not even crimes for the purpose of robbery--not, that is to
say, for robbery in the ordinary sense of the word. That is
apparent even to those who write for the Press. It has been
apparent to us from the first. It is beginning to dawn upon me
now what the nature of the motive must be which was responsible
for them. I have in my possession a slight, a very slight clue.
The beginning of it is there, and the end. It is the way between
which is tangled."

Sir Edward lit a cigarette and leaned back amongst the cushions.
With a little gesture he indicated his desire that Inspector
Jacks should proceed.

"My object in seeking for a personal interview with you, sir,"
Inspector Jacks continued, "is to ask you a somewhat peculiar
question. If I find that my investigations lead me in the
direction which at present seems probable, it is no ordinary
person whom I shall have to arrest when the time comes. The
reward which has been offered is a large one, and it is not for
me to question the bona fide nature of it. I would not presume,
sir, even to ask you whether it was offered by reason of any
outside pressure, but there is one question which I must ask. Do
you really wish, sir, that the murderer or murderers of these two
men shall be brought to justice?"

Sir Edward looked at his companion in steadfast amazement.

"My dear Inspector," he said, "what is this that you have in your
mind? I hold no brief for any man capable of such crimes as
these. Representations have been made to us by the American
Government that the murder of two of her citizens within the
course of twenty-four hours, and the absence of any arrest, is
somewhat of a reflection upon our police service. It is for your
assistance, and in compliment to our friends across the Atlantic,
that the reward was offered."

Inspector Jacks seemed a little at a loss.

"It is your wish, then, sir," he said slowly, "that the guilty
person or persons be arrested without warning, whoever they may
be?"

"By all means," Sir Edward affirmed. "I cannot conceive,
Inspector, what you have in your mind which could have led you
for a moment to suspect the contrary."

The brougham had come to a standstill in front of a house in
Downing street. Inspector Jacks descended slowly. It was hard for
him to decide on the spot how far to take into his confidence a
person whose attitude was so unsympathetic.

"I am exceedingly obliged to you for your answer to my question,
sir," he said, saluting. "I hope that in a few days we shall have
some news for you."

Sir Edward watched him disappear as he mounted the steps of the
Prime Minister's house.

"I wonder," he said to himself thoughtfully, "what that fellow
can have in his mind!"

Inspector Jacks did not at once return to Scotland Yard. On his
way there he turned into St. James' Square, and stood for several
moments looking at the corner house on the far side. Finally,
after a hesitation which seldom characterized his movements, he
crossed the road and rang the bell. The door was opened almost at
once by a Japanese butler.

"Is your master at home?" the Inspector asked.

"His Highness does not see strangers," the man replied coldly.

"Will you take him my card?" the Inspector asked.

The man bowed, and showed him into an apartment on the ground
floor. Then with the card in his hand, he turned reluctantly
away.

"His Highness shall be informed that you are here," he said. "I
fear, however, that you waste your time. I go to see."

Inspector Jacks subsided into a bamboo chair and looked out of
the window with a frown upon his forehead. It was certain that he
was not proceeding with altogether his usual caution. As a matter
of tactics, this visit of his might very well be fatal!

CHAPTER XXII. A BREATH FROM THE EAST

Inspector Jacks was a man who had succeeded in his profession
chiefly on account of an average amount of natural astuteness,
and also because he was one of those favored persons whose
nervous system was a whole and perfect thing. Yet, curiously
enough, as he sat in this large, gloomy apartment into which he
had been shown, a room filled with art treasures whose appearance
and significance were entirely strange to him, he felt a certain
uneasiness which he was absolutely unable to understand. He was
somewhat instinctive in his likes and dislikes, and from the
first he most heartily disliked the room itself,--its vague
perfumes, its subdued violet coloring, the faces of the grinning
idols, which seemed to meet his gaze in every direction, the
pictures of those fierce-looking warriors who brandished
two-edged swords at him from the walls. They belonged to the
period when Japanese art was perhaps in its crudest state, and
yet in this uncertain atmosphere they seemed to possess an
extraordinary vitality, as though indeed they were prepared at a
moment's notice to leap from their frames and annihilate this
mysterious product of modern days, who in black clothes and silk
hat, unarmed and without physical strength, yet wielded the
powers of life and death as surely as they in their time had
done.

The detective rose from his seat and walked around the room. He
made a show of examining the arms against the walls, the brocaded
hangings with their wonderful design of faded gold, the ivory
statuettes, the black god who sat on his haunches and into whose
face seemed carved some dumb but eternal power. Movement was in
some respects a solace, but the sound of a hansom bell tinkling
outside was a much greater relief. He crossed to the windows and
looked out over the somewhat silent square. A hurdy-gurdy was
playing in the corner opposite the club, just visible from where
he stood. The members were passing in and out. The commissionaire
stood stolidly in his place, raising every now and then his cab
whistle to his lips. A flickering sunlight fell upon the
wind-shaken lilac trees in the square enclosure. Inspector Jacks
found himself wishing that the perfume of those lilacs might
reach even to where he stood, and help him to forget for a moment
that subtler and to him curiously unpleasant odor which all the
time became more and more apparent. So overpowering did he feel
it that he tried even to open the window, but found it an
impossible task. The atmosphere seemed to him to be becoming
absolutely stifling.

He turned around and walked uneasily toward the door. He decided
then that this was some sort of gruesome nightmare with which he
was afflicted. He was quite certain that in a few minutes he
would wake in his little iron bedstead with the sweat upon his
forehead and a reproachful consciousness of having eaten an
indiscreet supper. It could not possibly be a happening in real
life! It could not be true that his knees were sinking beneath
the weight of his body, that the clanging of iron hammers was
really smiting the drums of his ears, that the purple of the room
was growing red, and that his veins wee strained to bursting! He
threw out his arms in a momentary instinct of fiercely struggling
consciousness. The idols on the walls jeered at him. Those
strangely clad warriors seemed to him now to be looking down upon
his discomfiture with a satanic smile, mocking the pygmy who had
dared to raise his hand against one so jealously guarded. Clang
once more went the blacksmith's hammers, and then chaos! . ..

The end of the nightmare was not altogether according to
Inspector Jacks' expectations. He found himself in a small back
room, stretched upon a sofa before the open French-windows,
through which came a pleasant vision of waving green trees and a
pleasanter stream of fresh air. His first instinct was to sniff,
and a sense of relief crept through him when he realized that
this room, at any rate, was free from abnormal odors. He sat up
on the couch. A pale-faced Japanese servant stood by his side
with a glass in his hand. A few feet away, the man whom he had
come to visit was looking down upon him with an expression of
grave concern in his kindly face.

"You are better, I trust, sir?" Prince Maiyo said.

"I am better," Inspector Jacks muttered. "I don't know--I can't
imagine what happened to me."

"You were not feeling quite well, perhaps, this morning," the
Prince said soothingly. "A little run down, no doubt. Your
profession--I gather from your card that you come from Scotland
Yard--is an arduous one. I came into the room and found you lying
upon your back, gasping for breath."

Inspector Jacks was making a swift recovery. He noticed that the
glass which the man-servant was holding was empty. He had a dim
recollection of something having been forced through his lips.
Already he was beginning to feel himself again.

"I was absolutely and entirely well," he declared stoutly, "both
when I left home this morning and when I entered that room to
wait for you. I don't know what it was that came over me," he
continued doubtfully, "but the atmosphere seemed suddenly to
become unbearable."

Prince Maiyo nodded understandingly.

"People often complain," he admitted. "So many of my hangings in
the room have been wrapped in spices to preserve them, and my
people burn dead blossoms there occasionally. Some of us, too,"
he concluded, "are very susceptible to strange odors. I should
imagine, perhaps, that you are one of them."

Inspector Jacks shook his head.

"I call myself a strong man," he said, "and I couldn't have
believed that anything of the sort would have happened to me."

"I shouldn't worry about it," the Prince said gently. "Go and see
your doctor, if you like, but I have known many people, perfectly
healthy, affected in the same way. I understood that you wished
to have a word with me. Do you feel well enough to enter upon
your business now, or would you prefer to make another
appointment?"

"I am feeling quite well again, thank you," the Inspector said
slowly. "If you could spare me a few minutes, I should be glad to
explain the matter which brought me here."

The Prince merely glanced at his servant, who bowed and glided
noiselessly from the room. Then he drew an easy chair to the side
of the couch where Mr. Jacks was still sitting.

"I am very much interested to meet you, Mr. Inspector Jacks," he
remarked, with a glance at the card which he was still holding in
his fingers. "I have studied very many of your English
institutions during my stay over here with much interest, but it
has not been my good fortune to have come into touch at all with
your police system. Sir Goreham Briggs--your chief, I
believe--has invited me several times to Scotland Yard, and I
have always meant to avail myself of his kindness. You come to
me, perhaps, from him?"

The Inspector shook his head.

"My business, Prince," he said, "is a little more personal."

Prince Maiyo raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed?" he said. "Well, whatever it is, let us hear it. I trust
that I have not unconsciously transgressed against your laws?"

Inspector Jacks hesitated. After all, his was not so easy a task.

"Prince," he said, "my errand is not in any way a pleasant one,
and I should be very sorry indeed to find myself in the position
of bringing any annoyance upon a stranger and a gentleman who is
so highly esteemed. At the same time there are certain duties in
connection with my every-day life which I cannot ignore. In
England, as I dare say you know, sir, the law is a great
leveller. I have heard that it is not quite so in your country,
but over here we all stand equal in its sight."

"That is excellent," the Prince said. "Please believe, Mr.
Inspector Jacks, that I do not wish to stand for a single moment
between you and your duty, whatever it may be. Let me hear just
what you have to say, as though I were an ordinary dweller here.
While I am in England, at any rate," he added with a smile, "I am
subject to your laws, and I do my best to obey them."

"It has fallen to my lot," Inspector Jacks said, "to take charge
of the investigations following upon the murder of a man named
Hamilton Fynes, who was killed on his way from Liverpool to
London about a fortnight ago."

The Prince inclined his head.

"I believe," he said amiably, "that I remember hearing the matter
spoken of. It was the foundation of a debate, I recollect, at a
recent dinner party, as to the extraordinarily exaggerated value
people in your country seem to claim for human life, as compared
to us Orientals. But pray proceed, Mr. Inspector Jacks," the
Prince continued courteously. "The investigation, I am sure, is
in most able hands."

"You are very kind, sir," said the Inspector. "I do my best, but
I might admit to you that I have never found a case so difficult
to grasp. Our methods perhaps are slow, but they are,  in a
sense, sure. We are building up our case, and we hope before long
to secure the criminal, but it is not an easy task."

The Prince bowed. This time he made no remark.

"The evidence which I have collected from various sources,"
Inspector Jacks continued, "leads me to believe that the person
who committed this murder was a foreigner."

"What you call an alien," the Prince suggested. "There is much
discussion, I gather, concerning their presence in this country
nowadays."

"The evidence which I possess," the detective proceeded, "points
to the murderer belonging to the same nationality as Your
Highness."

The Prince raised his eyebrows.

"A Japanese?" he asked.

The Inspector assented.

"I am sorry," the Prince said, with a touch of added gravity in
his manner, "that one of my race should have committed a
misdemeanor in this country, but if that is so, your way, of
course, is clear. You must arrest him and deal with him as an
ordinary English criminal. He is here to live your life, and he
must obey your laws."

"In time, sir," Inspector Jacks said slowly, "we hope to do so,
but over here we may not arrest upon suspicion. We have to
collect evidence, and build and build until we can satisfy any
reasonable individual that the accused person is guilty."

The Prince sighed sympathetically.

"It is not for me," he said, "to criticize your methods."

"I come now," Inspector Jacks said slowly, "to the object of my
call upon Your Highness. Following upon what I have just told
you, certain other information has come into my possession to
this effect--that not only was this murderer a Japanese, but we
have evidence which seems to suggest that he was attached in some
way to your household."

"To my household!" the Prince repeated.

"To this household, Your Highness," the detective repeated.

The Prince shook his head slowly.

"Mr. Jacks," he said, "you are, I am sure, a very clever man. Let
me ask you one question. Has it ever fallen to your lot to make a
mistake?"

"Very often indeed," the Inspector admitted frankly.

"Then I am afraid," the Prince said, "that you are once more in
that position. I have attached to my household fourteen Japanese
servants, a secretary, a majordomo, and a butler. It may interest
you, perhaps, to know that during my residence in this country
not one of my retinue, with the exception of my secretary, who
has been in Paris for some weeks, has left this house."

The Inspector stared at the Prince incredulously.

"Never left the house?" he repeated. "Do you mean, sir, that they
do not go out for holidays, for exercise, to the theatre?"

The Prince shook his head.

"Such things are not the custom with us," he said. "They are my
servants. The duty of their life is service. London is a world
unknown to them--London and all these Western cities. They have
no desire to be made mock of in your streets. Their life is given
to my interests. They do not need distractions."

Inspector Jacks was dumfounded. Such a state of affairs seemed to
him impossible.

"Do you mean that they do not take exercise," he asked, "that
they never breathe the fresh air?"

The Prince smiled.

"Such fresh air as your city can afford them," he said, "is to be
found in the garden there, into which I never penetrate and which
is for their use. I see that you look amazed, Mr. Inspector
Jacks. This thing which I have told you seems strange, no doubt,
but you must not confuse the servants of my country with the
servants of yours. I make no comment upon the latter. You know
quite well what they are; so do I. With us, service is a
religion,--service to country and service to master. These men
who perform the duties of my household would give their lives for
me as cheerfully as they would for their country, should the
occasion arise."

"But their health?" the Inspector protested. "It is not, surely,
well for them to be herded together like this?"

The Prince smiled.

"I am not what is called a sportsman in this country, Mr.
Inspector Jacks," he said, "but you shall go to the house of any
nobleman you choose, and if you will bring me an equal number of
your valets or footmen or chefs, who can compete with mine in
running or jumping or wrestling, then I will give you a prize
what you will--a hundred pounds, or more. You see, my servants
have learned the secret of diet. They drink nothing save water.
Sickness is unknown to them."

The Inspector was silent for some time. Then he rose to his
feet.

"Prince," he said, "what should you declare, then, if I told you
that a man of obvious Japanese extraction was seen to enter your
house on the morning after the murder, and that he was a person
to whom certain circumstances pointed as being concerned in that
deed?"

"Mr. Inspector Jacks," the Prince said calmly, "I was the only
person of my race who entered my house that morning."

The Inspector moved toward the door.

"Your Highness," he said gravely, "I am exceedingly obliged to
you for your courteous attention, and for your kindness after my
unfortunate indisposition."

The Prince smiled graciously.

"Mr. Inspector Jacks," he said, "your visit has been of great
interest to me. If I can be of any further assistance, pray do
not hesitate to call upon me."

CHAPTER XXIII. ON THE TRAIL

Inspector Jacks studied the brass plate for a moment, and then
rang the patients' bell. The former, he noticed was very much in
want of cleaning, and for a doctor's residence there was a
certain lack of smartness about the house and its appointments
which betokened a limited practice. The railing in front was
broken, and no pretence had been made at keeping the garden in
order. Inspector Jacks had time to notice these things, for it
was not until after his second summons that the door was opened
by Dr. Whiles himself.

"Good morning!" the latter said tentatively. Then, with a slight
air of disappointment, he recognized his visitor.

"Good morning, doctor!" Inspector Jacks replied. "You haven't
forgotten me, I hope? I came down to see you a short time ago,
respecting the man who was knocked down by a motor car and
treated by you on a certain evening."

The doctor nodded.

"Will you come in?" he asked.

He led the way into a somewhat dingy waiting room. A copy of the
FIELD, a month old, a dog-eared magazine, and a bound volume of
GOOD WORDS were spread upon the table. The room itself, except
for a few chairs, was practically bare.

"I do not wish to take up too much of your time, Dr. Whiles," the
Inspector began,--

The doctor laughed shortly.

"You needn't bother about that," he said. "I'm tired of making a
bluff. My time isn't any too well occupied."

The Inspector glanced at his watch,--it was a few minutes past
twelve.

"If you are really not busy," he said, "I was about to suggest to
you that you should come back to town with me and lunch. I do not
expect, of course, to take up your day for nothing," he
continued. "You will understand, as a professional man, that when
your services are required by the authorities, they expect and
are willing to pay for them."

"But what use can I be to you?" the doctor asked. "You know all
about the man whom I fixed up on the night of the murder. There's
nothing more to tell you about that. I'd as soon go up to town
and lunch with you as not, but if you think that I've anything
more to tell you, you'll only be disappointed."

The Inspector nodded.

"I'm quite content to run the risk of that," he said. "Of
course," he continued, "it does not follow in the least that this
person was in any way connected with the murder. In fact, so far
as I can tell at present, the chances are very much against it.
But at the same time it would interest my chief if you were able
to identify him."

The doctor nodded.

"I begin to understand," he said.

"If you will consider a day spent up in town equivalent to the
treatment of twenty-five patients at your ordinary scale,"
Inspector Jacks said, "I shall be glad if you would accompany me
there by the next train. We will lunch together first, and look
for our friend later in the afternoon."

The doctor did not attempt to conceal the fact that he found this
suggestion entirely satisfactory. In less than half an hour, the
two men were on their way to town.

Curiously enough, Penelope and Prince Maiyo met that morning for
the first time in several days. They were both guests of the
Duchess of Devenham at a large luncheon party at the Savoy
Restaurant. Penelope felt a little shiver when she saw him coming
down the stairs. Somehow or other, she had dreaded this meeting,
yet when it came, she knew that it was a relief. There was no
change in his manner, no trace of anxiety in his smooth,
unruffled face. He seemed, if possible, to have grown younger, to
walk more buoyantly. His eyes met hers frankly, his smile was
wholly unembarrassed. It was not possible for a man to bear
himself thus who stood beneath the great shadow!

So far from avoiding her, he came over to her side directly he
had greeted his hostess.

"This morning," he said, "I heard some good news. You are to be a
fellow guest at Devenham."

"I am afraid," she admitted, "that of my two aunts I impose most
frequently upon the one where my claims are the slightest. The
Duchess is so good-natured."

"She is charming," the Prince declared. "I am looking forward to
my visit immensely. I think I am a little weary of London. A
visit to the country seems to me most delightful. They tell me,
too, that your spring gardens are wonderful. What London suffers
from, I think, at this time of the year, is a lack of flowers. We
want something to remind us that the spring is coming, besides
these occasional gleams of blue sky and very occasional bursts of
sunshine."

"You are a sentimentalist, Prince," she declared, smiling.

"No, I think not," he answered seriously. "I love all beautiful
things. I think that there are many men as well as women who are
like that. Shall I be very rude and say that in the matter of
climate and flowers one grows, perhaps, to expect a little more
in my own country."

An uncontrollable impulse moved her. She leaned a little towards
him.

"Climate and flowers only?" she murmured. "What about the third
essential?"

"Miss Penelope," he said under his breath, "I have to admit that
one must travel further afield for Heaven's greatest gift. Even
then one can only worship. The stars are denied to us."

The Duchess came sailing over to them.

"Every one is here," she said. "I hope that you are all hungry.
After lunch, Prince, I want you to speak to General Sherrif. He
has been dying to meet you, to talk over your campaign together
in Manchuria. There's another man who is anxious to meet you,
too,--Professor Spenlove. He has been to Japan for a month, and
thinks about writing a book on your customs. I believe he looks
to you to correct his impressions."

"So long as he does not ask me to correct his proofs!" the Prince
murmured.

"That is positively the most unkind thing I have ever heard you
say," the Duchess declared. "Come along,  you good people. Jules
has promised me a new omelet, on condition that we sit down at
precisely half-past one. If we are five minutes late, he declines
to send it up."

They took their places at the round table which had been reserved
for the Duchess of Devenham,--not very far, Penelope remembered,
from the table at which they had sat for dinner a little more
than a fortnight ago. The recollection of that evening brought
her a sudden realization of the tragedy which seemed to have
taken her life into its grip. Again the Prince sat by her side.
She watched him with eyes in which there was a gleam sometimes
almost of horror. Easy and natural as usual, with his pleasant
smile and simple speech, he was making himself agreeable to one
of the older ladies of the party, to whom, by chance, no one had
addressed more than a word or so. It was always the same--always
like this, she realized, with a sudden keen apprehension of this
part of the man's nature. If there was a kindness to be done, a
thoughtful action, it was not only he who did it but it was he
who first thought of it. The papers during the last few days had
been making public an incident which he had done his best to keep
secret. He had signalized his arrival in London, some months ago,
by going overboard from a police boat into the Thames to rescue a
half-drunken lighterman, and when the Humane Society had voted
him their medal, he had accepted it only on condition that the
presentation was private and kept out of the papers. It was not
one but fifty kindly deeds which stood to his credit. Always with
the manners of a Prince--gracious, courteous, and genial--never a
word had passed his lips of evil towards any human being. The
barriers today between the smoking room and the drawing room are
shadowy things, and she knew very well that he was held in a
somewhat curious respect by men, as a person to whom it was
impossible to tell a story in which there was any shadow of
indelicacy. The ways of the so-called man of world seemed in his
presence as though they must be the ways of some creature of a
different and a lower stage of existence. A young man whom he had
once corrected had christened him, half jestingly, Sir Galahad,
and certainly his life in London, a life which had to bear all
the while the test of the limelight, had appeared to merit some
such title. These thoughts chased one another through her mind as
she looked at him and marvelled. Surely those other things must
be part of a bad nightmare! It was not possible that such a man
could be associated with wrong-doing--such manner of wrong-doing!

Even while these thoughts passed through her brain, he turned to
talk to her, and she felt at once that little glow of pleasure
which the sound of his voice nearly always evoked.

"I am looking forward so much," he said, "to my stay at Devenham.
You know, it will not be very much longer that I shall have the
opportunity of accepting such invitations."

"You mean that the time is really coming when we shall lose you?"
she asked suddenly.

"When my work is finished, I return home," he answered. "I fancy
that it will not be very long now."

"When you do leave England," she asked after a moment's pause,
"do you go straight to Japan?"

He bowed.

"With the Continent I have finished," he said. "The cruiser which
His Majesty has sent to fetch me waits even now at Southampton."

"You speak of your work," she remarked, "as though you had been
collecting material for a book."

He smiled.

"I have been busy collecting information in many ways," he
said,--"trying to live your life and feel as you feel, trying to
understand those things in your country, and in other countries
too, which seem at first so strange to us who come from the other
side of the East."

"And the end of it all?" she asked.

His eyes gleamed for a moment with a light which she did not
understand. His smile was tolerant, even genial, but his face
remained like the face of a sphinx.

"It is for the good of Japan I came," he said, "for her good that
I have stayed here so long. At the same time it has been very
pleasant. I have met with great kindness."

She leaned a little forward so as to look into his face. The
impassivity of his features was like a wall before her.

"After all," she said, "I suppose it is a period of probation.
You are like a schoolboy already who is looking forward to his
holidays. You will be very happy when you return."

"I shall be very happy indeed," he admitted simply. "Why not?" I
am a true son of Japan, and, for every true son of his country,
absence from her is as hard a thing to be borne as absence from
one's own family."

Somerfield, who was sitting on her other side, insisted at last
upon diverting her attention.

"Penelope," he declared, lowering his voice a little, "it isn't
fair. You never have a word to say to me when the Prince is
here."

She smiled.

"You must remember that he is going away very soon, Charlie," she
reminded him.

"Good job, too!" Somerfield muttered, sotto voce.

"And then," Penelope continued, with the air of not having heard
her companion's last remark, "he possesses also a very great
attraction. He is absolutely unlike any other human being I ever
met or heard of."

Somerfield glanced across at his rival with lowering brows.

"I've nothing to say against the fellow," he remarked, "except
that it seems queer nowadays to run up against a man of his birth
who is not a sportsman,--in the sense of being fond of sport, I
mean," he corrected himself quickly.

"Sometimes I wonder," Penelope said thoughtfully, "whether such
speeches as the one which you have just made do not indicate
something totally wrong in our modern life. You, for instance,
have no profession, Charlie, and you devote your life to a
systematic course of what is nothing more or less than
pleasure-seeking. You hunt or you shoot, you play polo or golf,
you come to town or you live in the country, entirely according
to the seasons. If any one asked you why you had not chosen a
profession, you would as good as tell them that it was because
you were a rich man and had no need to work for your living. That
is practically what it comes to. You Englishmen work only if you
need money. If you do not need money, you play. The Prince is
wealthy, but his profession was ordained for him from the moment
when he left the cradle. The end and aim of his life is to serve
his country, and I believe that he would consider it sacrilege if
he allowed any slighter things to divert at any time his mind
from its main purpose. He would feel like a priest who has broken
his ordination vows."

"That's all very well," Somerfield said coolly, "but there's
nothing in life nowadays to make us quite so strenuous as that."

"Isn't there?" Penelope answered. "You are an Englishman, and you
should know. Are you convinced, then, that your country today is
at the height of her prosperity, safe and sound, bound to go on
triumphant, prosperous, without the constant care of her men?"

Somerfield looked up at her in growing amazement.

"What on earth's got hold of you, Penelope?" he asked. "Have you
been reading the sensational papers, or stuffing yourself up with
jingoism, or what?"

She laughed.

"None of those things, I can assure you," she said. "A man like
the Prince makes one think, because, you see, every standard of
life we have is a standard of comparison. When one sees the sort
of man he is, one wonders. When one sees how far apart he is from
you Englishmen in his ideals and the way he spends his life, one
wonders again.

Somerfield shrugged his shoulders.

"We do well enough," he said. "Japan is the youngest of the
nations. She has a long way to go to catch us up."

"We do well enough!" she repeated under her breath. "There was a
great city once which adopted that as her motto,--people dig up
mementoes of her sometimes from under the sands."

Somerfield looked at her in an aggrieved fashion.

"Well," he said, "I thought that this was to be an amusing
luncheon party."

"You should have talked more to Lady Grace," she answered. "I am
sure that she is quite ready to believe that you are perfection,
and the English army the one invincible institution in the world.
You mustn't take me too seriously today, Charlie. I have a
headache, and I think that it has made me dull." . . .

They trooped out into the foyer in irregular fashion to take
their coffee. The Prince and Penelope were side by side.

"What I like about your restaurant life," the Prince said, "is
the strange mixture of classes which it everywhere reveals."

"Those two, for instance," Penelope said, and then stopped short.

The Prince followed her slight gesture. Inspector Jacks and Dr.
Spencer Whiles were certainly just a little out of accord with
their surroundings. The detective's clothes were too new and his
companion's too old. The doctor's clothes indeed were as shabby
as his waiting room, and he sat where the sunlight was merciless.

"How singular," the Prince remarked with a smile, "that you
should have pointed those two men out! One of them I know, and,
if you will excuse me for a moment, I should like to speak to
him."

Penelope was not capable of any immediate answer. The Prince,
with a kindly and yet gracious smile, walked over to Inspector
Jacks, who rose at once to his feet.

"I hope you have quite recovered, Mr. Inspector," the Prince
said, holding out his hand in friendly fashion. "I have felt very
guilty over your indisposition. I am sure that I keep my rooms
too close for English people."

"Thank you, Prince," the Inspector answered, "I am perfectly well
again. In fact, I have not felt anything of my little attack
since."

The Prince smiled.

"I am glad," he said. "Next time you are good enough to pay me a
visit, I will see that you do not suffer in the same way."

He nodded kindly and rejoined his friends. The Inspector resumed
his seat and busied himself with relighting his cigar. He
purposely did not even glance at his companion.

"Who was that?" the doctor asked curiously. "Did you call him
Prince?"

Inspector Jacks sighed. This was a disappointment to him!

"His name is Prince Maiyo," he said slowly. "He is a Japanese.

The doctor looked across the restaurant with puzzled face.

"It's queer," he said, "how all these Japanese seem to one to
look so much alike, and yet--"

He broke off in the middle of his sentence.

"You are thinking of your friend of the other night?" the
Inspector remarked.

"I was," the doctor admitted. "For a moment it seemed to me like
the same man with a different manner."

Inspector Jacks was silent. He puffed steadily at his cigar.

"You don't suppose," he asked quietly, "that it could have been
the same man?"

The doctor was still looking across the room.

"I could not tell," he said. "I should like to see him again. I
wasn't prepared, and there was something so altered in his tone
and the way he carried himself. And yet--"

The pause was expressive. Inspector Jacks' eyes brightened. He
hated to feel that his day had been altogether wasted.

CHAPTER XXIV. PRINCE MAIYO BIDS HIGH

Inspector Jacks was in luck at last. Eleven times he had called
at St. Thomas's Hospital and received the same reply. Today he
was asked to wait. The patient was better--would be able to see
him. Soon a nurse in neat uniform came quietly down the corridor
and took charge of him.

"Ten minutes, no more," she insisted good-humoredly.

The Inspector nodded.

"One question, if you please, nurse," he asked. "Is the man going
to live?"

"Not a doubt about it," she declared. "Why?"

" A matter of depositions," the Inspector exclaimed. "I'd rather
let it go, though, if he's sure to recover."

"It's a simple case," she answered, "and his constitution is
excellent. There isn't the least need for your to think about
depositions. Here he is. Don't talk too long."

The Inspector sat down by the bedside. The patient, a young man,
welcomed him a little shyly.

"You have come to ask me about what I saw in Pall Mall and
opposite the Hyde Park Hotel?" he said, speaking slowly and in a
voice scarcely raised above a whisper. "I told them all before
the operation, but they couldn't send for you then. There wasn't
time."

The Inspector nodded.

"Tell me your own way," he said. "Don't hurry. We can get the
particulars later on. Glad you're going to be mended."

"It was touch and go," the young man declared with a note of awe
in his tone. "If the omnibus wheel had turned a foot more, I
should have lost both my legs. It was all through watching that
chap hop out of the taxicab, too."

The Inspector inclined his head gravely.

"You saw him get in, didn't you?" he asked.

"That's so," the patient admitted. "I was on my way--Charing
Cross to the Kensington Palace Hotel, on a bicycle. There was a
block--corner of Pall Mall and Haymarket. I caught hold--taxi in
front--to steady me."

The nurse bent over him with a glass in her hand. She raised him
a little with the other arm.

"Not too much of this, you know, young man," she said with a
pleasant smile. "Here's something to make you strong."

"Right you are!"

He drained the contents of the glass and smacked his lips.

"Jolly good stuff," he declared. "Where was I, Mr. Inspector?"

"Holding the back of a taxicab, corner of Regent Street and
Haymarket," Inspector Jacks reminded him.

The patient nodded.

"There was an electric brougham," he continued, drawn up
alongside the taxi. While we were there, waiting, I saw a chap
get out, speak to some one through the window of the taxi, open
the door, and step in. When we moved on, he stayed in the taxi.
Dark, slim chap he was," the patient continued, "a regular
howling swell,--silk hat, white muffler, white kid gloves,--all
the rest of it."

"And afterwards?" the Inspector asked.

"I kept behind the taxi," the youth continued. "We got blocked
again at Hyde Park Corner. I saw him step out of the taxi and
disappear amongst the vehicles. "A moment or two later, I passed
the taxi and looked in--saw something had happened--the fellow
was lying side-ways. It gave me a bit of a start. I skidded, and
over I went. Sort of had an idea that every one in the world had
started shouting to me, and felt that I was half underneath an
omnibus. Woke up to find myself here."