At twenty minutes to twelve—or to be absolutely accurate—at eleven-thirty-eight, Bathurst heard a car draw up outside his flat. He quickly walked to the window that commanded the street and looked down. “Rolls-Royce, eh,” he said to himself, “I’m moving in more illustrious circles than ever.” A minute or two later there came a rather peremptory tap upon the door of his room.
“Come in,” he called. His visitor entered at the invitation.
“Have I the pleasure to address Mr. Anthony Bathurst?” he interrogated.
“You have,” replied that gentleman—indicating the arm-chair with a graceful gesture—“won’t you sit down?”
The visitor hesitated for a moment—then accepted the proffered seat. Mr. Bathurst waited imperturbably for him to continue the proceedings. This was a habit of Mr. Bathurst—he generally found it profitable. After a second or two that seemed to suggest a certain amount of uneasiness the caller looked across at Anthony and proceeded.
“Before I state my case, Mr. Bathurst,” he remarked with an air that may be best described as one of dignified arrogance—“I should like to preface it with the information that it is my intention to conceal from you my real identity—it will make no appreciable difference as far as I can see, to your handling of the case—and it will be a precaution that will serve to protect many highly-influential interest. To you, I should prefer to be known as Mr. Lucius,” he paused as he uttered the name, as though to divine if possible the effect of his announcement upon the man who listened. Save for a slight suspicion of the guttural, his English was as faultless as his dress. The lounge-suit he wore, unmistakably betokened the craft of Savile Row—whilst his shoes, socks, tie and collar were in complete harmony and equally irreproachable taste. Mr. Bathurst smiled.
“In that case then,” he said softly, walking again to the window, “I shall be in a position to continue—almost immediately—a most interesting little brochure that I have here, upon the habits of that particular Nematoid worm believed to be the cause of Trichiniasis.”
A bright colour flooded the cheeks of the visitor and the strong line of his jaw set even more strongly and rigidly. He half-rose to his feet from the luxurious depths of Mr. Bathurst’s arm-chair, and a wave of anger took possession of his features. Only momentarily—however. He sat down again; then with a strong effort succeeded in controlling himself. “I am to understand, then,” he declared with considerable hauteur, “that you decline to accept my case?”
“Under those conditions,” replied Mr. Bathurst in honeyed tones, “most certainly!”
“Nothing, I presume, that I could offer you in the shape of an inducement would persuade you to take a different view of the matter?” The suggestion came with an undoubted amount of eagerness.
“I am quite unable to contradict you,” responded Mr. Bathurst.
His visitor allowed an exclamation of impatience to escape his lips—then rose again from his chair and paced the room nervously. For a brief period there was silence.
“You will see, I am sure,” continued Anthony, “that it would be worse than useless for me to undertake the case—with any hope of bringing it to a successful conclusion—if the identity of my principal were to be a secret to me. It is tantamount to asking me to fight somebody with one hand tied behind my back.”
His visitor paused in his pacing—abruptly; then wheeled round upon Anthony with a vehement gesture.
“You are right,” he declared impulsively, “I ask your pardon, it was wrong of me to consider even, such a possibility. Wrong—and equally foolish! I quite understand that in dealing with a case of this kind—complete confidence must exist between principal and agent.” He thought for a moment—then went on. “After all, I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed.” Anthony waved him to the arm-chair again and pulled up the chair opposite for himself.
“You are aware, I know,” he said quietly, “that I am not a professional inquiry agent. Your letter this morning told me as much. At the same time I shall be pleased to hear your story, and if at all possible, to help you in the matter. Consider me at your service.”
His companion inclined his head—then raised it again and looked Bathurst directly in the eyes. “It may interest you to know, Mr. Bathurst,” he commenced, “that you have been addressing The Crown Prince of Clorania.”
Anthony accepted the intimation with becoming reserve. “I am honoured,” he murmured. His Royal Highness went on quickly:
“I am not sure whether you are a close student of European history. That fact, perhaps, is somewhat beside the point. Let it be sufficient for the moment for me to tell you that in December next I am marrying the Princess Imogena of Natalia. This union, it is confidently believed by all who are competent to judge, will bind Clorania and Natalia, in an irrevocable alliance. It is also, I may inform you, a love-match.” He coughed, looked at his hearer, then continued—without stopping to hear any comments that were tolerably certain in his own opinion to be superfluous and beside the point. “The princess is as charming as she is beautiful and I may tell you that she is considered by many excellent judges to be one of the six most beautiful girls in Europe. In other words she is worthy of me, and I am bound to regard myself as very fortunate to have won the hand of so fair a bride. There are many also who think that the Princess herself has been equally fortunate—and I, for one—ahem—will not contest that opinion.”
Once again he cast a shrewdly-quick glance in Anthony’s direction only to discover thereby that his story was being received with impassive attention. When he chose, Mr. Bathurst’s face could be supremely enigmatic. He chose at this moment! The result was that the Crown Prince seemed less sure of himself than ever.
“What I
