point. If he is definitely identified take no action until you have my instructions. We have contrived to silence the newspapers about his disappearance. But he is probably coming to New York to take Prescott’s place at Carnegie Hall—ifPrescott fails to arrive. This would ruin our plans. . . . All right—good-bye.”
He hung up the receiver.
In the vestibule of a small country hotel two men sat over their coffee before a crackling log fire. Outside, a storm raged. The howling of the wind could be heard in the chimney, and whenever the main door was opened a veil of sleet might be seen in the light shining out from inside. It was a wild night.
The men seated before the fire were an odd couple. One, of slight but wiry build, clean-shaven and fresh coloured, lean-faced, his hair greying, wore a tweed suit with plus fours, thick woollen stockings and brown brogues. A monocle glittered in the firelight as he bent to refill his pipe. His companion, a clergyman equally lean of feature, watched him, blinking his eyes in the way of one shortsighted. A close observer might have noted a physical but not a spiritual resemblance.
“I mean to say,” said the man with the monocle, stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his briar, “it’s a bad time to see America. I agree; but I couldn’t help myself, if you see what I mean. It had to be now or never sort of thing. People have been awfully nice——” he paused to strike a match—”I am the silly ass; nobody else to blame. Thanks to you, I know it would be stupid to push on to-night.”
“I am told,” said the priest, his gentle voice a contrast to that of the other speaker, “that Colonel Challoner lives some twenty miles from here. For my own part I have no choice.”
“What!” The man with the monocle, in the act of lighting his pipe, paused, looking up. “You’re pushing on?”
“Duty demands.”
“Oh, I see, sir. A sick call, I take it?”
The clergyman watched him silently for a few moments.
“A sick call—yes. . . .”
The outer door opened, admitting a blast of icy air. Three men came in, the last to enter closing the door behind him. They were useful-looking men, thick set and hard.
“In luck at last!” one of them exclaimed.
All three were watching the man with the monocle. One, who was evidently the leader of the party, square- jawed and truculent, raised his hand as if to silence the others, and stepped forward. As he did so the proprietor of the hotel appeared through an inner doorway. The man paused, glanced at him.
“Find some Scotch,” he ordered—”real Scotch. Not here— inside, some place. Me and these boys have business to talk over.”
The proprietor, a taciturn New Englander, nodded and disappeared. The speaker, not removing his hat, stood staring down at the man with the eye-glass. His companions were looking in the same direction. The focus of attention, pipe between his teeth, gazed at the three in blank astonishment.
“Don’t want to intrude——” the leader gave a cursory nod to the clergyman—”real sorry to interrupt; but I must ask
“What the deuce d’you mean?”
“I’m a government agent, and I’m on urgent business. Just a couple o’questions.”
“I never heard such balderdash in my life.” The other declared. He turned to the clergyman. “Did you?”
“It will probably save trouble in the long run if you assist the officer.”
“Right-oh. I’m obliged for the tip. Very funny and odd. But still. . . .”
Pipe firmly clenched between his teeth, he walked out followed by the leader of the party, the other two members of which bought up the rear. They found themselves in a small back hall from which arose a stair communicating with upper floors. On a table stood a bottle of whisky, glasses and a pitcher of ice water.
“No need to go farther,” said the agent; “we’re all set here.” He stared hard at the man in plus fours. “Listen, Abbot: why the fancy dress?”
“What d’you mean, Abbot?” was the angry reply. “My name’s not Abbot, and if it were you’d have a damned cheek to address me in that way!”
“Cut the funny lines. They ain’t funny. I’m here on business. What’s the name that goes with the eye- window?”
“I’m tempted,” said the man addressed, speaking with a cold anger which his amiably vacant manner would not have led one to anticipate, “to tell you to go to hell.” He focussed an icy stare in turn upon each of the three grim faces. “You’ve stepped off with the wrong foot, my friends.”
He plunged to an inside pocket. Instantly three steel barrels covered him. He ignored them, handing a British passport to the leader of the party. There was a minute of ominous silence, during which the man scrutinized the passport and the photograph, comparing the latter with its subject. At last:
“Boys!”—he turned to his satellites—”we’re up the wrong gum tree. We’ve got hold of Captain the Honourable George Fosdyke-Fosdyke of the Grenadier Guards! Schultz, jump to the phone. Notify Base and ask for President’s instructions. . .”
Some ten minutes later the Honourable George Fosdyke-Fosdyke found himself in sole possession of the little vestibule. The three federal officers had gone. He had had a glimpse through the driving sleet of a powerful car drawn up before the door. The amiable clergyman had gone. He was alone, mystified, irritated.
“Well, I’m damned!” he said.
At which moment, and while through the howling of the storm the purr of the departing car might still be heard, came the roar of a second even more powerful engine. Again the door was thrown open, and two men came in. Fosdyke-Fosdyke turned and faced them.
