Kate plus 10
to-day.”
She might have added that Sir Ralph was also at Seahampton, but, for
reasons of her own, she kept that information to herself because Sir
Ralph was not a subject which she had found it necessary to discuss.
She looked at her companion approvingly.
“You are ever so much more presentable than I have ever seen you,
before,” she said, “and you have actually shaved! You are getting less
and less like an artist every day.”
He had a peculiarly sweet smile and a laugh which was all bubbling
youth and happiness. He laughed like a girl, indeed it nearly
approached a giggle. He laughed now as the train sped through the
suburban stations, stretched out his feet on the cushions opposite and
searched for a cigarette. She watched him with glee as he produced,
not the ornate case in which the men of her acquaintance carried the
expensive products of Egypt and Syria, but a gaudy yellow carton
containing fifty of the cheapest cigarettes that ever brought
discredit to the fair State of Virginia.
“Do you like those things?” she asked.
“These ‘yellow perils’? Rather!”
“Your taste is awfully uncultivated, isn’t it?” she bantered; “why
don’t you--” she abruptly attempted to change the subject by an
incoherent reference to a cow which was gazing in a field by the side
of the line.
“Why don’t I smoke gold-laced Machinopolos through an amber and
diamond cigarette holder?” he suggested. “Because, little Moya, I am a
poor hard-working artist who has been saving up all the week for this
bust.”
“I am so sorry,” she said; “I am awfully thoughtless. Won’t you
forgive me?”
“I won’t forgive you,” he said, “unless you keep in your mind the big
fact that I am as immensely poor, as you are immensely rich.”
“Why should I keep that in my mind?” she asked.
“Because,” he said slowly, “until you are immensely poor or I am
immensely rich we shall meet very occasionally and indulge in very
infrequent busts.”
“But what difference does money make?” she faltered.
She found it difficult to speak plainly or even clearly. There was a
lump in her throat which made her voice sound unnaturally hoarse. She
had a strange sinking feeling within her and to her amazement she
found the hand that she put up to brush back a stray curl trembling.
She had never experienced any such sensation before. Her heart was
thumping quickly; she was breathless, hot and cold by turns.
He did not answer. She was seated by his side and she could only see
his face out of the corner of her eyes, then she felt his arm slipping
about her and before she knew what had happened, his lips were pressed
to hers.
This happened in a first-class railway carriage on a non-stop train.
It had happened before to quite common people (as Moya had heard), but
she never thought it would possibly happen to her, or that so vulgar a
proceeding could be so wonderfully sweet.
Sir Ralph and Lord Flanborough had met the local authorities. There
had been a lunch and speeches in which Sir Ralph had distinguished
himself by likening the forthcoming arrival of the Austral-African
mail ship to the return of Ulysses and the landing of the Pilgrim
Fathers. A wireless message from the ship stated that she did not
expect to make harbour until nine o’clock in the evening, and this
explained the earlier festivities. That they were of a sober and
restricted nature, was explained by the fact that the day was Sunday.
Later, it was intended that the sailings of the Austral-African line
from Cape Town should be timed to bring the ships to port on the
Saturday, but there had been no time to alter the arrangements for the
_Charter Queen_ had sailed before Lord Flanborough and Sir Ralph had
definitely decided the date on which the new service should be
inaugurated.
A few press-men who had come down from London for the purpose, with
certain directors and their wives, were shown over the docks; the new
trains were admired and particularly two brand new trucks, the
peculiar character of which was exhibited by Sir Ralph to a select few
of his fellow directors. A safe on wheels was an excellent description
for one of these. Specially strengthened under-carriages, each truck
supported by two bogies, they were designed to carry a tremendous
weight.
“I am sure Lord Flanborough doesn’t mind my telling you,” said Sir
Ralph to the little party, “that this will carry twenty tons of bar
gold to-night.”
“What will be the value of that?” asked one of the interested
audience.
“£2,867,200,” said Sir Ralph impressively; “representing six months’
output of the whole of Lord Flanborough’s gold properties.”
The directors made appropriate noises to signify their astonishment.
There were visitors to Seahampton interested in this great
transportation, who were not invited to participate in the function.
One of these, a dark foreign looking man, went no nearer to the docks
than a little public house in the ancient High Street. He was visited
by a man who was pallid of face and laconic of speech.
“It’s all up!” he said under his breath.
“What is wrong?” said the other in the same tone.
“It is quite impossible to get the driver or the fireman. They are two
old servants of the company, both have money saved and would no more
think of accepting a bribe than Flanborough himself.”
“You didn’t press the matter, I hope?” asked the other quickly.
The pallid man shook his head.
“I went as far as I dared with the driver,” he said. “I found out he
had a son in the army in India and I told him that I had met the boy
and got quite friendly with the old chap--but he is a sea-green
incorruptible, Gregori.”
“I will get on the ’phone to Kate,” said the other. “I suppose we
shall have to hold up the train somewhere--I don’t want to do any
shooting if it can be avoided. Are the drivers armed?”
“It is funny you should ask that,” said the pallid man, sipping his
beer. “The old man is armed for the first time in his life. He was
full of it and quite proud of his ability to loose off a gun.”
Gregori looked very serious.
“Kate must be prepared with the alternative scheme,” he said. “Anyway,
you will join me here with Cunningham at eight o’clock. I am perfectly
prepared for almost all contingencies. Millet has given me a dozen
authorities to meet almost any developments. Did you see the train?”
“I couldn’t get near it,” said the other. “I left just before Sapson
brought his party to make their inspection.”
Sir Ralph had carried his guests from the siding to the engine shed
and shown them the brand new Atlantic locomotive which was to draw the
train to London.
“They don’t seem to have finished it yet,” said one of the guests, and
pointed to a workman busily drilling a hole in the front plate.
Ralph laughed.
“They omitted to put a bracket for the lamp. You see, I wanted three
green lights in a line for the Gold Train--it is very necessary that
it should be very accurately and easily distinguished and signalled.
By some chance only two of the brackets were in place when the engine
came from the works. It is all the more annoying, because I had
already given definite instructions upon that point, but we shall not
go wrong for a lamp,” he said humorously.
It is agreed that the three hours between two and five on a Sunday
afternoon are the three dullest in the hundred and sixty-eight which
constitute a week. After the guests had left for London Sir Ralph and
Lord Flanborough remained at the little station hotel--Ralph had
already projected a more palatial establishment to meet the increased
traffic--for it had been arranged that they should greet the _Charter
Queen_ on her arrival.
At three o’clock that afternoon Ralph burst unceremoniously into Lord
Flanborough’s private sitting room where his lordship sat dozing.
“Have you had a wire?” he said.
He held a pink form in his own hand.
“A wire! What about?” asked Lord Flanborough startled.
“Read this.”
The telegram was signed “Michael,” and read:
“Simultaneous attempt made to burgle your strong room at
Austral-African office and Flanborough’s safe at headquarters of
mining corporation. Both unsuccessful. Both doors blown out by
nitro-gelatine. Will confirm by ’phone.”
Lord Flanborough looked at the other open-mouthed.
“This is very serious,” he said.
“I have ordered a special to take us to town. We will wait till we get
the ’phone message through.”
Ten minutes after they were in communication with Michael.
“Both doors have been blown out,” he repeated, “and there are one or
two very puzzling features about the burglaries. Nobody could have
been present in either office when the explosions occurred. There was
no fire and, so far as I can see, nothing has been taken away. You had
better come up and examine things for yourself.”
“It is rather awkward,” said Sir Ralph thoughtfully as he hung up the
receiver; “my ‘special’ driver is also the driver of the gold
special.”
“It doesn’t require any great genius to drive a gold special,” snapped
Flanborough; “put another man on to work to-night’s train and let us
get up to town as soon as we can.”
The special was waiting in the station by the time they had reached
the platform. Sir Ralph stayed long enough to give a few instructions
to the superintendent and then boarded the train and was soon flying
northward.
That Sunday morning had been an interesting one for Michael. He had
been aroused by telephone at five o’clock only to learn from an
apologetic operator that the wrong number had been called. Although it
was two hours before he usually rose, he had his bath and dressed and
not waking his servants made himself some coffee.
It was a bright morning, such as so often precedes a day of rain, when
he turned into the deserted street. He had no particular aim or
destination but he was in that mood which invites exercise. He walked
down the Marylebone Road and through Portland Place without meeting
anybody save an occasional policeman and so came to Piccadilly Circus
where he bought a Sunday newspaper from an early vendor and passed
down through Waterloo Place to the Park.
The gates had only just been opened and beyond the park-keepers and a
slouching tramp he met nobody. He sat on one of the garden seats by
the side of the lake, pulled his overcoat about his legs for the
morning was chilly and began to scan the headlines in the newspaper.
There was nothing startling here, but he read the columns
conscientiously.
There was nothing in life which did not interest Michael Pretherston.
He might have taken for his motto _homo sum_; _humani nihil a me
alienum puto_. It was a saying of T.B. Smith’s that Michael could even
write a readable volume on the psychology of dog-fights. Every little
larceny, however sordid, every tiny embezzlement however paltry, every
swindle whether it was carried out by the great confidence men who
“worked London” or by the smaller fry in the half-crown line of
business gave him food for reflection and some little scrap of
information which he stored away for future use.
He was in the midst of a long account of an East End arson charge when
he heard his name called softly and looked up. He jumped to his feet.
“Why, Kate,” he said, “haven’t you got any home?”
The girl was standing a few feet from him with an odd look on her
face.
“I think it must be fate that brought me out this morning,” she said;
“sit down, Mike, and tell me all the news.”
She showed no sign of resentment of his uncavalier treatment.
“Did you follow me here, or did I follow you?”
“I tell you it was fate,” she said. “I could not sleep and I drove my
Mercedes down.”
“And how is the Princess Bacheffski?” he asked as she seated herself
by his side.
“The Princess--?”
“Bacheffski--poor old Ralph! What a thing to put over him!”