The Gay Adventure: A Romance
well as physical he turned himself upon the axis of the door-post and
blinked in the other direction. Here the figure of a man rewarded him,
walking steadily but without hurry toward the inn. "One of they golfing
chaps from the station," was the landlord's first thought; "he must be
mortal keen to come so early." His mild surprise changed to blank
amazement as the stranger drew near. "Top hat, gloves, et setterer," he
muttered. "A swell an' all! What's he doing of here?" He was still
ruminating when the stranger halted, surveyed the tavern sign, and
entered. The landlord followed him into the parlor.
"A quart of beer, please," said Lionel, sitting down with relish on the
nearest bench. The landlord, his surprise in no way lessened by the
order, went and drew the beer. He placed it before his customer, and
then said, "You're early astir, sir."
"Ten o'clock early?" said Lionel. "I thought that country people called
that late."
"Not if you come by train, sir, as I suppose you did. A friend o'
mine--Jeggs the farmer--drove by here twenty minutes agone. He said that
the first train, the five o'clock, had only just come in, being delayed
by the strikers. I suppose you came by that?"
"Yes," said Lionel, "I did."
"And did you see anything of the strike, sir?"
"No," said Lionel; "I stayed in the train--in fact, I slept all the way,
being tired."
The landlord, seeing that the other was in no communicative mood,
withdrew, after begging him to ring the bell if he wanted further
refreshment. Lionel, left to the kindly solitude of the parlor, put up
his legs on the bench with a sigh of relief, took a draught of the beer,
and lighted a pipe.
He was very tired, in spite of the sleep he had spoken of. With the
exception of that brief and disturbed period in the train he had not
slept for some twenty-six hours, and in addition, he had been through
sundry diverting experiences. The successful burglary had been a strain,
and after he and Beatrice had got back to the flat they had spent the
next three hours in discussing and planning. They had searched every
room, nook and cranny for some trace of Mizzi, some clew as to where she
might have flown. Of course it was useless: not a scrap of paper--not a
single compromising document rewarded their efforts. Only some blackened
ashes in the bedroom grate hinted at possibilities. She had left nearly
all her clothes and personal belongings, and her boxes were unlocked as
if to invite inspection. She had simply disappeared--gone, like one in a
melodrama, "out into the night."
It was of the utmost importance to trace her, but what could be done? It
was obvious that detectives should not be employed, for a hint of
official interference might mean the death of Lukos. Beatrice and Lionel
must do their own detection, and they spent their brains on the problem,
apparently so hopeless.
Even the cause of Mizzi's disloyalty was anything but clear. It might be
that she was in the pay of the sultan, or it might be that she wished to
be revenged. But why revenge? Beatrice, with a twinkle that made Lionel
feel qualms of conscience, suggested jealousy; but the suggestion was
thrown out in such an airy spirit that he felt she did not really
believe in it. He himself preferred to believe, and did believe, that
the more sensational hypothesis should be adopted. She must be a spy,
who meant to get a good price for the famous papers. But why had she not
stolen them before? Perhaps she had been in treaty with the enemy but
had failed to get the terms she wanted. It did not seem adequate, but it
was the only solution they could suggest.
Assuming, then, that she had stolen the papers to make money, what would
be her first step? Beatrice--and Lionel agreed with her--thought that
she was too clever to deal with underlings: she would go as near to the
fountainhead as she could, to the Turkish ambassador himself, for he was
a known adherent of the old regime. She would go as soon as possible,
the next morning--_i.e._, about the present, what time Lionel was
drinking beer in The Happy Heart,--but a dim recollection was beating in
the brain of Beatrice that she had seen something of importance in the
society news of a few days past. They searched the flat for every
newspaper, and at last found the sheet they wanted. Hope beating at the
doors, they scanned the column that Lionel never read, but that Beatrice
studied first. Yes! there it was--the justification of her memory for
seeming trivialities. "His excellency the Turkish ambassador has gone
for a few days' golf to Shereling." Beatrice threw the paper away in
flushed triumph, thought deeply for a few moments, and then said, "You
must go there. Mizzi may follow and try to succeed at Shereling. Watch
and do the best you can. I shall stay in London in case I am wrong, and
keep an eye on the embassy. If she is at Shereling, try to get the
treaty. I must leave you to work on your own lines. If I hear anything I
shall wire to the local inn. Will you?"
Of course he said, "Yes. Is there anything else?"
"Money. No--do not protest. This is life and death, and both cost
money." She ran to a little safe and returned, her hands full. "Here are
notes for a hundred pounds or more. You may have to bribe. Do not
refuse--it is for Lukos!"
Lionel longed to say, "Madam, my life and fortune are at your disposal.
Let there be no mention of money between us." But seeing that his stock
of ready cash had dwindled to twopence-halfpenny (he had bought a packet
of ten cigarettes the day before, and now cursed the extravagance), he
could only say, "As you will."
"Thank you," she said softly, and laid her hand on his head. He
thrilled, and she administered a necessary antidote. "It is for Lukos!"
"Oh, hang Lukos!" he groaned in spirit; and then in swift repentance his
thoughts mumbled, "No, no! Bless Lukos--dear old Lukos! Poor old chap!"
After this there had been nothing but idle conversation until the hour
of his departure approached. Once Beatrice fell into a fit of musing and
presently she said, "What a fool I was to tell Mizzi!" A younger man
might have said, "Not at all: it was perfectly natural." Lionel, older,
more self-reliant, and more honest, replied simply, "We all make
mistakes," for he thought her folly almost incredible. She felt
this--they were more than _sympathiques_--and said, "Ah! if you knew! I
was very lonely one night ... lonely and sad ... I had to talk to some
one, and believed her a true friend. You can imagine my self-reproach."
He could, and felt himself more than justified in pressing her hand.
Presently there had been some suspense, for when the time came for him
to leave the flat, at half past four, Beatrice had peeped from the
window and imagined that she saw a man watching the house. Lionel
peeped too, but could see nothing. Nevertheless they had waited another
ten minutes, as long as they dared if he was to catch the first train.
But at length he resolved to risk a spy, and after a brief, tense, but
outwardly calm "good-by" he had left the house. By taking a cab he
reached Euston in time, and at last was established in the train. So far
as he knew, he had not been followed: the only stranger he had noticed
had been a man who was in the train before he was on the platform, so
from him there could be nothing to fear.
And now he was in The Happy Heart, resting after a dusty three-mile walk
from Shereling station, drinking good English beer, far from all thought
of Oriental craft and scheming. He was in Shereling, on the second stage
of his fond adventure. What was to be the first step?
In spite of the rest and beer he felt discontented, and glumly wished
that Beatrice were at hand. To what end? To advise, direct, console, or
soothe? He hardly knew, but darkly suspected that it was for the weaker
reason. Idly he allowed himself to remember the touch of her delightful
fingers, cool, nervous and alluring: the seduction of her hair, the
brilliant command of her eyes. But it was not these only that inspired
his grateful remembrance: it was also her lovely personality, her
courage, her charm, herself. Of course it could not be love; that was
absurd. It was a flame kindled by the sympathy of a comrade--the kind of
comrade he had never known. Possibly the fact that he had not enjoyed
any extensive woman-friendships during the recent years had made him
exaggerate her qualities: she might be rare, but could she be so rare as
he thought her? Supposing he met some other delightful woman soon, might
not the pleasant image of Beatrice lose something of its luster? He
shook himself impatiently; it was a foolish thought. Other women might
be delightful, charming, desirable, but there could only be a single
Beatrice. How pretty she was! How--and here the figure of Lukos beckoned
a grim warning: "It is time you put your shoulder to the wheel, my ...
_friends_!"
"All right, old chap--_all right_!" said Lionel petulantly to the shade.
"Don't be in such a beastly hurry. It's not love ... it's not love, I
tell you. Just a superlative esteem for your splendid wife.... Your
_wife_," he added with a martyr's sigh. And then he raised the tankard,
feeling that it ought to hold Tokay. "Here's to her!" he murmured,
drinking deep. He put the pewter down, but raised it again. "And to you,
old chap!" he added generously. "... Hullo! there's none left. Beg
pardon."
As he finished, the door opened and admitted a chubby little clergyman,
who sat down with a courteous "Good morning!" Lionel made haste to
remove his legs from the bench. The landlord followed close upon the
heels of the newcomer. "Morning, sir," said the landlord respectfully.
"Will you take anything?"
"Draught cider. Half a pint," said the clergyman briskly. The landlord
disappeared, and he turned, smiling. "You should try the cider of The
Happy Heart," he said--"that is, if you have not done so already. I
allow myself that as a concession to the flesh."
"And a sensible concession, too," replied Lionel heartily. He was
pleased that a gentleman in Holy Orders did not think it undignified to
drink in a common "pub." "I have been drinking beer, and very good it
is--or was. But I must try the cider, if I remain here."
"Staying long?" asked the other pleasantly. And when Lionel said,
guardedly, that he had not quite settled yet, the clergyman did not
pursue the question, but passed on to other themes. "I am the local
parson," he said chattily. "My name is Peters." As he spoke the landlord
came back with the clerical cider and a telegram.
"Does your name happen to be Mortimer, sir?" he asked. "Because if so,
this here telegram is for you."
"It is," said Lionel in some surprise. The wire could only be from
Beatrice, but he had not expected any communication from her as yet.
With a brief apology he opened the yellow envelope and read its
contents. It was all he could do to keep from betraying his
astonishment. The wire read as follows:--
"Hope you had pleasant journey. My suspicions deepen. Try stay
Arkwright twin. Suspect even her. Wait further wire.--BLAIR."
He read the telegram three times, but it was not till the third reading
that he grasped the import of "Arkwright twin." He knew no one of the
name of Arkwright, nor had he ever claimed acquaintance with a twin.
"The nearest I could do is triplets," he thought. "Johnson of the House
was a triplet, I remember, but that's no good to me.... Who on
earth...?" And then he recalled Beatrice saying that she had a twin
sister who had disapproved of her stage career. Of course it must be
she. He had been so accustomed to think of his preceptress as Beatrice
Blair that he had almost forgotten it must be a stage name. And so she
was really an Arkwright--rather a pretty name on the whole, though