I found my friend and his father in a summerhouse upon the lawn. Both appeared unaffectedly glad to see me, and equally sorry to hear that I had come to bid them goodbye. Mr. Baxter was not visible, and it was with no little surprise I learned that he, too, was contemplating a trip to the metropolis.
“I hope, if ever you visit Bournemouth again, you will come and see us,” said the Duke as I rose to leave.
“Thank you,” said I, “and I hope if ever your son visits Australia you will permit me to be of some service to him.”
“You are very kind. I will bear your offer in mind.”
Shaking hands with them both, I bade them goodbye, and went out through the gate.
But I was not to escape without an interview with my clerical friend after all. As I left the grounds and turned into the public road I saw a man emerge from a little wicket gate some fifty yards or so further down the hedge. From the way he made his appearance, it was obvious he had been waiting for me to leave the house.
It was, certainly enough, my old friend Baxter. As I came up with him he said, with the same sanctimonious grin that usually encircled his mouth playing round it now:
“A nice evening for a stroll, Mr. Hatteras.”
“A very nice evening, as you say, Mr. Baxter.”
“May I intrude myself upon your privacy for five minutes?”
“With pleasure. What is your business?”
“Of small concern to you, sir, but of immense importance to me. Mr. Hatteras, I have it in my mind that you do not like me.”
“I hope I have not given you cause to think so. Pray what can have put such a notion into your head?”
I half hoped that he would make some allusion to the telegram he had dispatched for me that morning, but he was far too cunning for that. He looked me over and over out of his small ferrety eyes before he replied:
“I cannot tell you why I think so, Mr. Hatteras, but instinct generally makes us aware when we are not quite all we might be to other people. Forgive me for speaking in this way to you, but you must surely see how much it means to me to be on good terms with friends of my employer’s family.”
“You are surely not afraid lest I should prejudice the Duke against you?”
“Not afraid, Mr. Hatteras! I have too much faith in your sense of justice to believe that you would willingly deprive me of my means of livelihood—for of course that is what it would mean in plain English.”
“Then you need have no fear. I have just said goodbye to them. I am going away tomorrow, and it is very improbable that I shall ever see either of them again.”
“You are leaving for Australia?”
“Very shortly, I think.”
“I am much obliged to you for the generous way you have treated me. I shall never forget your kindness.”
“Pray don’t mention it. Is that all you have to say to me? Then good evening!”
“Good evening, Mr. Hatteras.” He turned back by another gate into the garden, and I continued my way along the cliff, reflecting on the curious interview I had just passed through. If the truth must be known, I was quite at a loss to understand what he meant by it! Why had he asked that question about Australia? Was it only chance that had led him to put it, or was it done designedly, and for some reason connected with that mysterious “Train” mentioned in his telegram?
I was to find out later, and only too thoroughly!
VI
I Meet Dr. Nikola Again
It is strange with what ease, rapidity, and apparent unconsciousness the average man jumps from crisis to crisis in that strange medley he is accustomed so flippantly to call his life. It was so in my case. For two days after my return from Bournemouth I was completely immersed in the toils of Hatton Garden, had no thought above the sale of pearls and the fluctuations in the price of shell; yet, notwithstanding all this, the afternoon of the third day found me kicking my heels on the pavement of Trafalgar Square, my mind quite made up, my passage booked, and my ticket for Australia stowed away in my waistcoat pocket.
As I stood there the grim, stone faces of the lions above me were somehow seen obscurely, Nelson’s monument was equally unregarded, for my thoughts were far away with my mind’s eye, following an ocean mail-steamer as she threaded her tortuous way between the Heads and along the placid waters of Sydney Harbour.
So wrapped up was I in the folds of this agreeable reverie, that when I felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder and heard a masculine voice say joyfully in my ear, “Dick Hatteras, or I’m a Dutchman,” I started as if I had been shot.
Brief as was the time given me for reflection, it was long enough for that voice to conjure up a complete scene in my mind. The last time I had heard it was on the bridge of the steamer Yarraman, lying in the landlocked harbour of Cairns, on the Eastern Queensland coast; a canoeful of darkies were jabbering alongside, and a cargo of bananas was being shipped aboard.
I turned and held out my hand.
“Jim Percival!” I cried, with as much pleasure as astonishment. “How on earth does it come about that you are here?”
“Arrived three days ago,” the good-looking young fellow replied. “We’re lying in the river just off the West India Docks. The old man kept us at it like galley slaves till I began to think we should never get the cargo out. Been up to the office this morning, coming back saw you standing here looking as if you were thinking of something ten thousand miles away. I tell you I nearly
