The Secret of Chimneys
moment with the tea urn, he was saved from having to express his
outraged feelings. When tea had been brought in, and Virginia’s deft
fingers were manipulating the heavy silver teapot, she spoke again on
the subject.
“I had another motive too, George—a brighter and better one. We women
are usually supposed to be cats, but at any rate I’d done another woman
a good turn this afternoon. This man isn’t likely to go off looking
for another Virginia Revel. He thinks he’s found his bird all right.
Poor little devil, she was in a blue funk when she wrote that letter.
Mr. Blackmailer would have had the easiest job of his life there.
Now, though he doesn’t know it, he’s up against a tough proposition.
Starting with the great advantage of having led a blameless life, I
shall toy with him to his undoing—as they say in books. Guile, George,
lots of guile.”
George still shook his head.
“I don’t like it,” he persisted. “I don’t like it.”
“Well, never mind, George dear. You didn’t come here to talk about
blackmailers. What did you come here for, by the way? Correct answer:
‘To see _you_!’ Accent on the you, and press her hand with significance
unless you happen to have been eating heavily buttered muffin, in which
case it must all be done with the eyes.”
“I did come to see you,” replied George seriously. “And I am glad to
find you alone.”
“Oh, George, this is so sudden,” says she, swallowing a currant.
“I wanted to ask a favour of you. I have always considered you,
Virginia, as a woman of considerable charm.”
“Oh, George!”
“And also a woman of intelligence!”
“Not really? How well the man knows me.”
“My dear Virginia, there is a young fellow arriving in England
to-morrow whom I should like you to meet.”
“All right, George, but it’s your party—let that be clearly
understood.”
“You could, I feel sure, if you chose, exercise your considerable
charm.”
Virginia cocked her head a little on one side.
“George, dear, I don’t ‘charm’ as a profession, you know. Often I like
people—and then, well, they like me. But I don’t think I could set
out in cold blood to fascinate a helpless stranger. That sort of thing
isn’t done, George, it really isn’t. There are professional sirens who
would do it much better than I should.”
“That is out of the question, Virginia. This young man, he is a
Canadian, by the way, of the name of McGrath——”
“A Canadian of Scotch descent,” says she, deducing brilliantly.
“Is probably quite unused to the higher walks of English society. I
should like him to appreciate the charm and distinction of a real
English gentlewoman.”
“Meaning me?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said why? You don’t boom the real English gentlewoman with every
stray Canadian who sets foot upon our shores. What is the deep idea,
George? To put it vulgarly, what do _you_ get out of it?”
“I cannot see that that concerns you, Virginia.”
“I couldn’t possibly go out for an evening and fascinate, unless I knew
all the whys and wherefors.”
“You have a most extraordinary way of putting things, Virginia. Anyone
would think——”
“Wouldn’t they? Come on, George, part with a little more information.”
“My dear Virginia, matters are likely to be a little strained shortly
in a certain Central European nation. It is important, for reasons
which are immaterial, that this—Mr.—er McGrath should be brought
to realize that the restoring of the Monarchy in Herzoslovakia is
imperative to the peace of Europe.”
“The part about the peace of Europe is all bosh,” said Virginia calmly,
“but I’m all for Monarchies every time, especially for a picturesque
people like the Herzoslovakians. So you’re running a King in the
Herzoslovakian States, are you? Who is he?”
George was reluctant to answer, but did not see his way to avoid the
question. The interview was not going at all as he had planned. He
had foreseen Virginia as a willing, docile tool, receiving his hints
gratefully, and asking no awkward questions. This was far from being
the case. She seemed determined to know all about it and this George,
ever doubtful of female discretion, was determined at all costs to
avoid. He had made a mistake. Virginia was not the woman for the
part. She might, indeed, cause serious trouble. Her account of her
interview with the blackmailer had caused him grave apprehension. A
most undependable creature, with no idea of treating serious matters
seriously.
“Prince Michael Obolovitch,” he replied, as Virginia was obviously
waiting for an answer to her question. “But please let that go no
further.”
“Don’t be absurd, George. There are all sort of hints in the papers
already, and articles cracking up the Obolovitch dynasty and talking
about the murdered Nicholas IV as though he were a cross between
a Saint and a hero instead of a stupid little man besotted by a
third-rate actress.”
George winced. He was more than ever convinced that he had made a
mistake in enlisting Virginia’s aid. He must stave her off quickly.
“You are right, my dear Virginia,” he said hastily, as he rose to his
feet to bid her farewell. “I should not have made the suggestion I did
to you. But we are anxious for the Dominions to see eye to eye with us
on this Herzoslovakian crisis, and McGrath has, I believe, influence in
journalistic circles. As an ardent Monarchist, and with your knowledge
of the country, I thought it a good plan for you to meet him.”
“So that’s the explanation, is it?”
“Yes, but I dare say you wouldn’t have cared for him.”
Virginia looked at him for a second and then she laughed.
“George,” she said, “you’re a rotten liar.”
“Virginia!”
“Rotten, absolutely rotten! If I had had your training, I could
have managed a better one than that—one that had a chance of being
believed. But I shall find out all about it, my poor George. Rest
assured of that. The Mystery of Mr. McGrath. I shouldn’t wonder if I
got a hint or two at Chimneys this week-end.”
“At Chimneys? You are going to Chimneys?”
George could not conceal his perturbation. He had hoped to reach Lord
Caterham in time for the invitation to remain unissued.
“Bundle rang up and asked me this morning.”
George made a last effort.
“Rather a dull party, I believe,” he said. “Hardly in your line,
Virginia.”
“My poor George, why didn’t you tell me the truth and trust me? It’s
still not too late.”
George took her hand and dropped it again limply.
“I have told you the truth,” he said coldly, and he said it without a
blush.
“That’s a better one,” said Virginia approvingly. “But it’s still
not good enough. Cheer up, George, I shall be at Chimneys all right,
exerting my considerable charm—as you put it. Life has become suddenly
very much more amusing. First a blackmailer, and then George in
diplomatic difficulties. Will he tell all to the beautiful woman who
asks for his confidence so pathetically? No, he will reveal nothing
until the last chapter. Good-bye, George. One last fond look before you
go? No? Oh, George, dear, don’t be sulky about it!”
Virginia ran to the telephone as soon as George had departed with a
heavy gait through the front door.
She obtained the number she required and asked to speak to Lady Eileen
Brent.
“Is that you, Bundle? I’m coming to Chimneys all right to-morrow. What?
Bore me? No, it won’t. Bundle, wild horses wouldn’t keep me away! So
there!”
7
Mr. McGrath Refuses an Invitation
The letters were gone!
Having once made up his mind to the fact of their disappearance, there
was nothing to do but accept it. Anthony realized very well that he
could not pursue Giuseppe through the corridors of the Blitz Hotel. To
do so was to court undesired publicity, and in all probability to fail
in his object all the same.
He came to the conclusion that Giuseppe had mistaken the packet of
letters, enclosed as they were in the other wrappings, for the Memoirs
themselves. It was likely therefore that when he discovered his mistake
he would make another attempt to get hold of the Memoirs. For this
attempt Anthony intended to be fully prepared.
Another plan that occurred to him was to advertize discreetly for the
return of the package of letters. Supposing Giuseppe to be an emissary
of the Comrades of the Red Hand, or, which seemed to Anthony more
probable, to be employed by the Loyalist party, the letters could have
no possible interest for either employer and he would probably jump at
the chance of obtaining a small sum of money for their return.
Having thought out all this, Anthony returned to bed and slept
peacefully until morning. He did not fancy that Giuseppe would be
anxious for a second encounter that night.
Anthony got up with his plan of campaign fully thought out. He had
a good breakfast, glanced at the papers which were full of the new
discoveries of oil in Herzoslovakia, and then demanded an interview
with the manager, and, being Anthony Cade, with a gift for getting his
own way by means of quiet determination, he obtained what he asked for.
The manager, a Frenchman with an exquisitely suave manner, received him
in his private office.
“You wished to see me, I understand, Mr.—er—McGrath?”
“I did. I arrived at your hotel yesterday afternoon, and I had dinner
served to me in my own rooms by a waiter whose name was Giuseppe.”
He paused.
“I dare say we have a waiter of that name,” agreed the manager
indifferently.
“I was struck by something unusual in the waiter’s manner, but thought
nothing more of it at the time. Later, in the night, I was awakened by
the sound of some one moving softly about the room. I switched on the
light, and found this same Giuseppe in the act of rifling my leather
suit-case.”
The manager’s indifference had completely disappeared now.
“But I have heard nothing of this,” he exclaimed. “Why was I not
informed sooner?”
“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife by the
way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”
“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”
“I examined the contents of my suit-case.”
“Had anything been taken?”
“Nothing of—importance,” said Anthony slowly.
The manager leaned back with a sigh.
“I am glad of that,” he remarked. “But you will allow me to say, Mr.
McGrath, that I do not quite understand your attitude in the matter.
You made no attempt to arouse the hotel? To pursue the thief?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing of value had been taken, as I tell you. I am aware, of
course, that strictly speaking it is a case for the police——”
He paused, and the manager murmured without any particular enthusiasm:
“For the police—of course——”
“In any case, I was fairly certain that the man would manage to make
good his escape, and since nothing was taken why bother with the
police?”
The manager smiled a little.
“I see that you realize, Mr. McGrath, that I am not at all anxious
to have the police called in. From my point of view it is always
disastrous. If the newspapers can get hold of anything connected with
a big fashionable hotel such as this, they always run it for all it is
worth, no matter how insignificant the real subject matter may be.”
“Quite so,” agreed Anthony. “Now I told you that nothing of value had
been taken, and that was perfectly true in a sense. Nothing of any
value to the thief was taken, but he got hold of something which is of
considerable value to me.”
“Ah?”
“Letters, you understand.”
An expression of superhuman discretion, only to be achieved by a
Frenchman, settled down upon the manager’s face.
“I comprehend,” he murmured. “But perfectly. Naturally, it is not a
matter for the police.”
“We are quite agreed upon that point. But you will understand that
I have every intention of recovering these letters. In the part of