The Thirty-Nine Steps

something to wake me up. I’m ready, Mr Hannay.”

       I noticed with a start that he called me by my proper name.

       I began at the very beginning. I told of my boredom in London, and the night I had come back to find Scudder gibbering on my doorstep. I told him all Scudder had told me about Karolides and the Foreign Office conference, and that made him purse his lips and grin. Then I got to the murder, and he grew solemn again. He heard all about the milkman and my time in Galloway, and my deciphering Scudder’s notes at the inn.

       “You’ve got them here?” he asked sharply, and drew a long breath when I whipped the little book from my pocket.

       I said nothing of the contents. Then I described my meeting with Sir Harry, and the speeches at the hall. At that he laughed uproariously.

       “Harry talked dashed nonsense, did he? I quite believe it. He’s as good a chap as ever breathed, but his idiot of an uncle has stuffed his head with maggots. Go on, Mr Hannay.”

       My day as roadman excited him a bit. He made me describe the two fellows in the car very closely, and seemed to be raking back in his memory. He grew merry again when he heard of the fate of that ass Jopley.

       But the old man in the moorland house solemnized him. Again I had to describe every detail of his appearance.

       “Bland and bald-headed and hooded his eyes like a bird . . . He sounds a sinister wild-fowl! And you dynamited his hermitage, after he had saved you from the police. Spirited piece of work, that!”

       Presently I reached the end of my wanderings. He got up slowly, and looked down at me from the hearthrug.

       “You may dismiss the police from your mind,” he said. “You’re in no danger from the law of this land.”

       “Great Scot!” I cried. “Have they got the murderer?”

       “No. But for the last fortnight they have dropped you from the list of possibles.”

       “Why?” I asked in amazement.

       “Principally because I received a letter from Scudder. I knew something of the man, and he did several jobs for me. He was half crank, half genius, but he was wholly honest. The trouble about him was his partiality for playing a lone hand. That made him pretty well useless in any Secret Service—a pity, for he had uncommon gifts. I think he was the bravest man in the world, for he was always shivering with fright, and yet nothing would choke him off. I had a letter from him on the 31st of May.”

       “But he had been dead a week by then.”

       “The letter was written and posted on the 23rd. He evidently did not anticipate an immediate decease. His communications usually took a week to reach me, for they were sent under cover to Spain and then to Newcastle. He had a mania, you know, for concealing his tracks.”

       “What did he say?” I stammered.

       “Nothing. Merely that he was in danger, but had found shelter with a good friend, and that I would hear from him before the 15th of June. He gave me no address, but said he was living near Portland Place. I think his object was to clear you if anything happened. When I got it I went to Scotland Yard, went over the details of the inquest, and concluded that you were the friend. We made inquiries about you, Mr Hannay, and found you were respectable. I thought I knew the motives for your disappearance—not only the police, the other one too—and when I got Harry’s scrawl I guessed at the rest. I have been expecting you any time this past week.”

       You can imagine what a load this took off my mind. I felt a free man once more, for I was now up against my country’s enemies only, and not my country’s law.

       “Now let us have the little note-book,” said Sir Waiter.

       It took us a good hour to work through it. I explained the cipher, and he was jolly quick at picking it up. He attended my reading of it on several points, but I had been fairly correct on the whole. His face was very grave before he had finished, and he sat silent for a while.

       “I don’t know what to make of it,” he said at last. “He is right about one thing—what is going to happen the day after to-morrow. How the devil can it have got known? That is ugly enough in itself. But all this about war and the Black Stone,—it reads like some wild melodrama. If only I had more confidence in Scudder’s judgment. The trouble about him was that he was too romantic. He had the artistic temperament, and wanted a story to be better than God meant it to be. He had a lot of odd biases too. Jews, for example, made him see red. Jews and the high finance.

       “The Black Stone,” he repeated. “Der Schwarzestein. It’s like a penny novelette. And all this stuff about Karolides. That is the weak part of the tale, for I happen to know that the virtuous Karolides is likely to outlast us both. There is no State in Europe that wants him gone. Besides, he has just been playing up to Berlin and Vienna and giving my Chief some uneasy moments. No! Scudder has gone off the track there. Frankly, Hannay, I don’t believe that part of his story. There’s some nasty business afoot, and he found out too much and lost his life over it. But I am ready to take my oath that it is ordinary spy work. A certain great European Power makes a hobby of her spy system, and her methods are not too particular. Since she pays by piecework her blackguards are not likely to stick at a murder or two. They want our naval dispositions for their collection at the Marineamt; but they will be pigeon-holed—nothing more.”

       Just then the butler entered the room.

       “There’s a trunk call from London, Sir Walter. It’s Mr ’Eath, and he wants to speak to you personally.”

       My host went off to the telephone.

       He returned in five minutes with a whitish face. “I apologize to the shade of Scudder,” he said. “Karolides was shot dead this evening at a few minutes after seven.”

CHAPTER EIGHT