“If you want to know,” she laughed, making a spirited attempt to throw off her mood, “when you came along just now, I was shivering.”
He swung her adroitly round a vacillating couple who appeared likely to impede their smooth progress. “What’s been happening since I left you?” he inquired. “May an old friend inquire without appearing too inquisitive?”
“Nothing of any consequence,” she rejoined. “I just feel disturbed—that’s the best word I can think of.”
“Telling me that tends to disturb me,” he replied with quiet sympathy, “and I refuse to allow that to happen. Come—dance your very best.”
When it had finished, he thanked her and piloted her back to her seat.
“Daphne has been looking very beautiful to-night,” she said. “Aren’t you proud of your niece?”
He looked at her curiously, “She has an extra special reason to look nice to-night.” Then he changed the subject. “If you come now, I’ll motor you home, being a bachelor has some advantages—there’s nobody else here to-night about whom I need worry.”
“I should love it, Major,”—she accepted his offer of service with genuine enthusiasm—“Pinkie will be waiting up for me.”
“How is Pinkie these days—hale and hearty?”
“Wonderful—for her age—she’s over sixty, you know—nobody could look after me like Pinkie does.”
He drove her home. As they turned the corner of the High Street—where the Grand Hotel stood—the newsboys were calling an extra-special edition—late though the hour was.
“What is it?” she said clutching at her arm, “it must be something frightfully important.”
He checked the car and listened. Then he turned back to her as the shouts became intelligible to his ears. “Bank Frauds’ Sensation—suicide of Sir Felix Warburton—in his cell.” He accelerated immediately. “Pretty rotten business that,” he declared with anxiety, “and the Chief Constable glad-ragging it at the Hunt Ball. I shall be in the soup properly if I’m not careful.”
But Sheila Delaney’s sympathy was not entirely for him. “Suicide,” she whispered, half to herself, “how awful.”
They drove home quietly—neither saying much. As she ran down the garden path of her bungalow, Carruthers called out to her. “I’ll come round before Easter, Sheila—and take you for a spin—may I—are you on?”
“Of course,” she sang back. “Good night.” But she never rode with him again. On a wet night during the following month of March, Major Carruthers was motoring home, when his car skidded badly and overturned… when that happened Sheila Delaney lost a good friend and the public service a very gallant gentleman.
Chapter II
Mr. Bathurst receives a distinguished visitor
Anthony Bathurst propped the letter against the side of the matutinal coffee-pot and read it carefully for the fourth time since he had received it less than half an hour before. As he finished it he grimaced deliberately and removed the brown top of his second egg somewhat absent-mindedly. The letter and envelope were a heavy cream-laid notepaper—extremely strong and stiff. The heading was “Hotel Florizel, W.” The letter read as follows: “There will call upon you to-day—between 11.30 and 12 o’clock—a gentleman who desires to lay before you a matter of urgent and peculiar importance. Besides this importance it possesses an exceedingly delicate significance which will entail your strictest discretion. This gentleman, who is also the writer of this letter, is aware—upon unimpeachable authority—that in this last respect you may be thoroughly relied upon inasmuch as your unique ability is matched by your tact and integrity. Your services in any circumstances, will be handsomely rewarded—particularly so in the event of your bringing the affair in question to a successful conclusion. The writer thoroughly understands that it is not your practice to undertake work of this kind professionally—yet hopes to awaken your interest in his case sufficiently intensely for you to render him the assistance he requires.”
“H’m,” grunted Anthony. “He does, does he?” He pushed his plate on one side, pulled at his top lip and lit a cigarette. “I wonder who’s been singing my praises to this gentleman who writes so enigmatically? I can hardly suppose that he has had any immediate connection with Scotland Yard that has caused him to run across Detective-Inspector Goodall—and I haven’t heard that Baddeley has reached the Metropolis yet—still—after all—it’s a small world and sometimes people link up quite unexpectedly.” He looked at his watch. It showed the time at half-past nine. “The two hours before my unknown caller arrives.” He walked to the bookcase and took down what he always described as his “Encyclopaedia of London.” Turning to the section dealing with hotels—he found the “Florizel” and rapidly read through the particulars given. “The tariff was extremely high—in every particular—and it quickly became obvious to him that the hotel concerned could only be within the range of the comparatively wealthy. He took the letter from the table again—and gave it yet another close inspection. The paper was not the hotel notepaper, the address “Hotel Florizel, W.” having been written at the top by the writer of the letter. He held the notepaper up to the light—without tangible reward. The writing was firm and bold—somewhat florid in style and letter-formation—yet withal—the writing of an educated man. If it had any special feature it lay in the somewhat ornate formation of the capital letters. The three “T’s” the “B,” and the “Y”—looked un-English somehow. There was an ornamentation about them that gave Anthony much food for consideration. “‘German,’ in my opinion,” he murmured to himself after a moment or two, “possibly a German professor who has mislaid his science notebook containing the recipe for diamond-making. That would account for the heavy demands to be made upon my powers of discretion! Still—I’m making a mistake theorising with precious little data to build upon. I’ll go for a stroll till the time comes for me to receive my mysterious client.” He put on his hat and went out. He was a firm believer in as much walking exercise as was humanly possible, as a sure means to physical
