The dangerous game
recommended on grounds which are confidential.”
“H’m!” remarked the novelist, as he slowly signed the paper which put
an end to his friend’s career with a certain British Mission in
Germany. “That’s curious. Something more behind that, I’m sure! Find
out, Bennett, and report to me. I know him well.”
And he passed on to the examination of a long document, in rather
faulty English, concerning the strained political relations between
Italy and England.
Upon that polished dining-table lay a pile of secret documents dealing
with the innermost juggling of European diplomacy, secrets concerning
the intrigues of foreign statesmen and financiers, which would have
horrified them had they but known that they were in the hands of the
ubiquitous Seton Darville, the head of that great, outspread,
octopus-like organization which, with its secret headquarters, was the
eyes and ears of Britain throughout the world--the Secret Service.
The British public and the world at large never suspected that the
clean-shaven, round-faced ever-smiling man in pince-nez, who lived a
wandering life of apparently careless ease and affluence, was the man
in whom the British Cabinet placed its trust, and who on more than one
occasion had been brought into secret consultation concerning enemy
intrigues.
Until far into the night the two men sat together, discussing various
matters. Ever and anon the novelist sat back in his chair and dictated
instructions to the various agents abroad--his “lambs,” as he called
them--which the ex-naval commander took down in shorthand, to be
afterwards put into code and telegraphed to the European capitals.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning before Bennett swallowed a
final whisky and soda, and, replacing all the papers in his case,
locked it and rose to go.
“Better leave that here to-night,” remarked Darville. “It’s too late
to take it to the office. Send round for it in the morning. It’s safe
here.”
Both men laughed. That leather case contained secrets which certain
foreign Governments would pay a very big price to obtain, hence they
were safer in Darville’s flat than being carried through the London
streets at that hour.
So Bennett took his departure, and, Darville’s man having gone to bed
a couple of hours before, he was left alone.
He lit a fresh cigarette and stood with his back to the dying fire,
thinking deeply.
Suddenly he crossed to the table, on which lay the dispatch-case, and,
taking a tiny key from the bunch upon his watch-chain--the master-key
of all the big range of black, steel dispatch-boxes at the secret
headquarters of the confidential department of the Government--he
unlocked it, and, searching through the papers, at last found the slip
whereon was reported the delinquency of Karl Weiss, and his dismissal,
to which he had agreed by appending his signature.
“Poor Karl!” he exclaimed aloud. “At present he knows nothing of this!
I’m sorry for him, for he’s one of the best of fellows. After all,
every young man may be forgiven a flirtation or two. But--well, I’m
sorry. He’ll have some difficulty in getting another job, now that he
is dismissed in ignominy.”
Then he tossed back the papers, relocked the case, and carried it into
his bedroom, where he placed it in the wardrobe, and afterwards
retired to bed.
Next morning Bennett called for it, and at eleven Darville went out to
his club.
Three days went by--days in which he puzzled his brain, vainly trying
to devise some plan by which he could run to earth the fugitives from
Corfu. His powers of invention were amazing, and he seemed to possess
an uncanny but unerring instinct where secret inquiries were
concerned. Crafty and cunning by nature, his wide experience of men
and women rendered him suspicious, elusive, and full of astounding
duplicity. He never wavered when once he had arrived at any decision,
but persevered towards the end he sought, undeterred by any untoward
circumstance that might arise.
He intended to find Joan Caborn, and he had made up his mind to do so
at whatever cost.
On the fourth morning after his arrival in London, he found among his
letters one from Edris Temperley. He recognized the firm, bold
handwriting. It was dated from Stagsden Hall, Leicestershire--her
home--and ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Darville,--You have not answered my last letter. I heard
from the hall-porter at your club that you were abroad. I wonder if
you are back again? I am coming up to London with mother next Friday
to do some shopping. We shall stay, as usual, at the Berkeley. I would
so much like to see you, and know if you are going to Switzerland
again this season. Our ski-ing parties would not be the same without
you. Kindest regards.
“Yours very sincerely,
“Edris Temperley.”
As he ate his breakfast he read the letter through twice. It was too
bad not to have replied to her, and as he sat there alone a vision of
her sweet, regular features, her great, gray, wondering eyes, her
dark, shingled hair, and her unconventional attractiveness and chic in
her winter-sports costume, arose before him.
A whole year had passed since their little snow romance. He had first
admired her and then, finding himself fond of her, had cut himself
adrift deliberately, and gone out of her life, because he felt, first,
that there was too great a difference in their ages, and, secondly, he
knew that she loved a younger man.
Those few weeks spent in the snow-clad Alps in the previous winter had
been most delightful ones, but they were now only a memory. Yet that
memory was the sweetest one he possessed, for it was the first and
only time that he had ever experienced affection for any woman.
But he now hesitated to repeat the experience, fearing lest he should
be the cause of her unhappiness.
On rising from the table he held her letter in his hand.
“I wonder, Edris,” he exclaimed aloud in a hard, choked voice. “I
wonder if you still love him? If you still remember----?”
He did not finish his sentence, but stood looking down into the London
street, dismal and wet on that winter’s morning.
And as he did so a sudden thought flashed across his mind--a sudden
inspiration which roused him to instant activity.
There was, after all, one way by which Joan Caborn could be found! He
held the solution of the problem. It would mean the exercise of all
his wits and innate cunning. But he meant to find her, and it was,
after all, in his power to do so, if he understood human nature
aright.
Therefore he rushed to the telephone and asked Paton to come round to
him immediately.
CHAPTER VI.
THE HOUSE OF SUSPICION
In Earl’s Court Road, at the corner of Longridge Road, a tall,
fair-haired man, with a hard, clean-shaven face, and wearing a shabby,
soft felt hat, idled, as though awaiting a friend.
It was half-past eleven o’clock in the morning, dull and rainy, and
tradesmen’s boys were hurrying to and fro on cycles up and down the
quiet, respectable Kensington thoroughfare. In the Earl’s Court Road
passed to and fro the usual procession of motor buses, with all their
vibration and racket, while Longridge Road remained quiet, being just
off the main road.
Ever and anon the shabby, fair-haired man glanced down the
thoroughfare of dull respectability, most of the houses of which were
gray and of uniform architecture, each having its view of “over the
way.”
Sandy Paton of the Special Branch--for it was he--was keeping keen
surveillance upon one of those high, inartistic houses with deep
basements. He had strolled along there at ten o’clock, and was still
waiting there in patience, pretending, however, to be quite
uninterested in his surroundings. He lit a cigarette, and pulled a
picture paper from the pocket of his faded overcoat. His appearance
was that of an unemployed lounger--a man who took his dole, and spent
it mainly upon drink. Now and then he moved a little way along the
Earl’s Court Road, so as not to remain in the same spot sufficiently
long to attract attention, but, whenever he did so, his place was
taken by a clean-shaven, thickset man in a seedy khaki-colored
raincoat and golf cap. It was Seton Darville. The pair were acting
together upon a very curious and interesting errand.
They assisted each other in keeping surveillance upon the house in
question until noon, when suddenly Paton saw the door open, and a
well-dressed, elderly man of military appearance, with a
close-clipped, gray mustache, descended the steps, and, having glanced
quickly up and down the road, started to walk in his direction. The
man wore a hard felt hat, a smart dark-blue overcoat, and
well-polished, brown shoes. His somewhat sinister face was furrowed,
speaking mutely of hardships, endured probably in hot climates abroad,
though the truth was that he had recently been released from a long
period of imprisonment in the French convict prison at Toulon.
As soon as he appeared, Paton drew back, and mingled with a small
crowd waiting for a motor bus, while Darville, realizing the truth
from his friend’s quick movement, turned upon his heel and hurried
away. Paton, having watched the occupant of the house of suspicion
turn the corner and walk up the Earl’s Court Road in the direction of
Kensington High Street, hurried round to an unfrequented by-street,
where, in a mews, stood the delivery-van of a well-known firm of
parcel agents, the horse being in charge of one of the uniformed
servants. Entering the van, Paton found a coat and cap of the same
uniform, which he assumed, and then, tying on an old apron made of
sacking, he took from a shelf in the van a small brown-paper parcel,
heavily sealed, and with many labels upon it, together with a number
of yellow forms upon which the receivers of parcels scribbled their
receipts.
“Come on,” he said to the driver. “Let’s go round there. I want to get
rid of this as soon as possible,” he added, indicating the parcel.
His disguise as a delivery-man was, indeed, perfect. He presented a
type of the hard-worked man who spends his life going from door to
door with parcels large and small for which he collects money and
signatures.
In a few minutes the van drew up before the door of the house in
question, and Paton descended with the parcel, leaving the other man
to sit with the reins.
When a red-haired maid opened the door in response to his ring, he
asked:
“Is Mrs. Caborn at home? I’ve got a parcel here for her.”
“She don’t live here,” was the maid’s prompt reply. “I don’t know the
name.”
“But the parcel is addressed care of Mr. Peke O’Brien,” Paton said,
glancing at the label. “He lives here, don’t he?”
“Yes. If it’s for him, I’ll take it.”
“I’m very sorry, miss,” Paton replied. “But it contains jewelry, and
is insured for four hundred pounds. When will Mr. O’Brien be back?”
“Not till this evening. He’s generally home about eight o’clock. But
can’t you leave the parcel?” asked the girl.
“Sorry, I can’t,” was the firm answer. “But will you tell Mr. O’Brien
when he comes in that I’ve got a parcel of jewelry for Mrs. Caborn,
and that I’ll call at eight to-night?”
“All right,” said the good-looking maid. “I’ll tell him,” and she
closed the door, whereupon Paton mounted into the van and drove away.
Back again in the mews the inspector of the Special Branch divested
himself of the apron, coat, and cap, and resumed his coat and
overcoat. Then, after wrapping the valuable parcel in a piece of brown
paper, he said good-by to the driver, and, descending, soon joined
Darville in the bustle of the Earl’s Court Road.
In a few brief sentences he described what had happened.
“Exactly as it should be,” laughed Darville. “The jewelry worth four