Was that Dr. Fortune? Would he come to Boldrewood at once—at once. The Archduke had been knocked down by a motorcar and picked up unconscious.
“Poor old pater!” Reggie grinned, as he put his tools together. The pater would never forgive himself for being out of this. He loved a lord, did the pater, and since he had been called in to remove a fish bone from the archducal throat he could not keep the Archduke out of his conversation. The royal geniality of the Archduke, the royal disdain of the Archduchess—Dr. Fortune had been much gratified thereby, and Reggie was prepared to loathe their Royal Highnesses. Thank Heaven, the pater was safe on his holiday! If his head swelled so over an archducal fish bone, he would have burst over an archduke knocked down.
Reggie was practical, if without sympathy; he made haste in his neat way, and the sedate chauffeur of Dr. Fortune was horrified by instructions to let the car rip. The streets of Westhampton are not adapted to this. The district has tried hard to keep itself rural still, and its original narrow winding lanes remain ill-lighted and overhung by trees. Boldrewood stands high, and its grounds border upon Westhampton Heath, across which there is one lamp per furlong. Just as Reggie’s car swung round to the heath it was stopped with a jerk.
“What’s the trouble, Gorton?” Reggie said to the chauffeur.
Gorton was leaning sideways and peering into the gloom of the gutter. A gleam from the sidelight winked at a body which lay still. “Give me a turn,” Gorton muttered. His face showed white. Reggie jumped out, but Gorton was quicker. “Lumme, it’s the Archduke!” he said, and his voice went up high.
“Don’t be futile, Gorton.” Reggie bent over the body. “Get the lamps on him.”
Gorton backed the car and the body came into the light. Its face was crushed. Gorton gasped and swallowed. “But it’s not him neither,” he muttered.
After a minute Reggie stood up. “He was a fine chap about an hour ago,” he said gently.
“All over, sir?” Reggie nodded. “Some hog done him in?”
“As you say, Gorton. Running-down case. Big car. Took him in the back. Went over his head. But I don’t see how he got into the gutter.” He walked round the body, moved it a little, and picked up two matches—unusual matches in England—very thin vestas with dark blue heads. “Why did you think he was the Archduke, Gorton?”
“Such a big chap, sir. Not many his measure. And there’s something about the make of the poor chap that’s very like. But thank God’s it’s not the Archduke, anyway.”
“Why?” said Reggie, who was without reverence for Archdukes. “Well, let’s take him along.”
They brought the dead man to the lodge at the main gates of Boldrewood, and there left him with a message to be telephoned to the police.
The hall at Boldrewood is in the Victorian baronial style, absurd but comfortable. Reggie was still blinking at the light when a woman ran at him. His first notion of the Archduchess Ianthe was vehemence. She came upon him, a great fur cloak falling away from her speed, panting, black eyes glowing, and then stopped short, and her pale face was distorted with passion. “Dr. Fortune! You are not Dr. Fortune!” she cried.
“Dr. Fortune, Junior, madame. My father is away, and I am in charge of his practice.” She muttered something in a language he did not know, and looked as if she was going to kill him. His second notion of her was that she was wickedly beautiful. A Greek perfection in the pale face, but, Lord, what a temper! The daintiest grace of body, but it moved and quivered like a whip lash.
“My dear Ianthe!” A man came smiling from behind the screen by the fire. He was tall and slight and dandyish: a lot of colour in his clothes, an odd absence of colour in him. A bright blue tie with an emerald in it, a bright blue handkerchief hanging half out of the pocket of the silver-grey coat. But his face had a waxy pallor, his hair, his moustache, and little pointed beard were so fair that they looked like patches of paint on a mask. “We are much obliged by Dr. Fortune’s coming so quickly.”
The Archduchess whirled round. “He is too young,” she said in German. “Look at him. He is a boy.”
“I beg your pardon, madame,” said Reggie in the same language. “May I see the patient?”
The man laughed. “I am sure we have every confidence in your skill, Dr. Fortune.” All the laughter was smoothed out of his face. “And your discretion,” he said in a lower voice. “I am the Archduke Leopold. You may be frank with me. And rely upon my help.”
Reggie bowed. “How did the accident happen, sir?”
The Archduke turned to his sister-in-law. “You know that I do not know,” she cried. “I was out in the car.”
“As my sister says, Dr. Fortune, she was out in the car.” The Archduke paused. “She drives herself. It is with her a little passion. My brother was out walking alone.”
“Those long walks! How I hate them!” the Archduchess broke out.
“Again, it is with him a little passion. Well, he did not come back. I grew anxious. I am staying here, you understand. My sister was late too. I sent out servants. My brother was found lying in the road not far from the gate of the lodge. He remains unconscious. I fear—” He spread out his hands.
“You—you always fear!” the Archduchess cried. They exchanged glances like blows.
“May I go up, madame?” Reggie said solemnly. She whirled round and rushed away.
“The Archduchess is much agitated,” said the Archduke.
“It is most natural,” Reggie murmured.
“Most natural. Pray follow me, Dr. Fortune. I will take you to my brother.”
The Archduke
