“It may be so, but make it your business to find out. Ask someone who knows, such as the Baron Lolopretjzyl. Perhaps this man was engaged but a few weeks ago. For myself, I have believed him honest. But who knows? King Victor is quite capable of making himself into a trusted servant at a moment’s notice.”
“Do you really think—”
Lemoine interrupted him.
“I will be quite frank. With me, King Victor is an obsession. I see him everywhere. At this moment even I ask myself—this man who is talking to me, this M. Cade, is he, perhaps, King Victor?”
“Good Lord,” said Anthony, “you have got it badly.”
“What do I care for the diamond? For the discovery of the murderer of Prince Michael? I leave those affairs to my colleague of Scotland Yard whose business it is. Me, I am in England for one purpose, and one purpose only, to capture King Victor and to capture him red-handed. Nothing else matters.”
“Think you’ll do it?” asked Anthony, lighting a cigarette.
“How should I know?” said Lemoine, with sudden despondency.
“H’m!” said Anthony.
They had regained the terrace. Superintendent Battle was standing near the French window in a wooden attitude.
“Look at poor old Battle,” said Anthony. “Let’s go and cheer him up.” He paused a minute, and said, “You know, you’re an odd fish in some ways, M. Lemoine.”
“In what ways, M. Cade?”
“Well,” said Anthony, “in your place, I should have been inclined to note down that address that I showed you. It may be of no importance—quite conceivably. On the other hand, it might be very important indeed.”
Lemoine looked at him for a minute or two steadily. Then, with a slight smile, he drew back the cuff of his left coat sleeve. Pencilled on the white shirt-cuff beneath were the words “Hurstmere, Langly Road, Dover.”
“I apologize,” said Anthony. “And I retire worsted.”
He joined Superintendent Battle.
“You look very pensive, Battle,” he remarked.
“I’ve got a lot to think about, Mr. Cade.”
“Yes, I expect you have.”
“Things aren’t dovetailing. They’re not dovetailing at all.”
“Very trying,” sympathized Anthony. “Never mind, Battle, if the worst comes to the worst, you can always arrest me. You’ve got my guilty footprints to fall back upon, remember.”
But the superintendent did not smile.
“Got any enemies here that you know of, Mr. Cade?” he asked.
“I’ve an idea that the third footman doesn’t like me,” replied Anthony lightly. “He does his best to forget to hand me the choicest vegetables. Why?”
“I’ve been getting anonymous letters,” said Superintendent Battle. “Or rather an anonymous letter, I should say.”
“About me?”
Without answering Battle took a folded sheet of cheap notepaper from his pocket, and handed it to Anthony. Scrawled on it in an illiterate handwriting were the words:
“Look out for Mr. Cade. He isn’t wot he seems.”
Anthony handed it back with a light laugh.
“That’s all? Cheer up, Battle. I’m really a king in disguise, you know.”
He went into the house, whistling lightly as he walked along. But as he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, his face changed. It grew set and stern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared moodily at the floor.
“Things are getting serious,” said Anthony to himself. “Something must be done about it. It’s all damned awkward. …”
He sat there for a minute or two, then strolled to the window. For a moment or two he stood looking out aimlessly, and then his eyes became suddenly focused on a certain spot, and his face lightened.
“Of course,” he said. “The Rose Garden! That’s it! The Rose Garden.”
He hurried downstairs again and out into the garden by a side door. He approached the Rose Garden by a circuitous route. It had a little gate at either end. He entered by the far one, and walked up to the sundial which was on a raised hillock in the exact centre of the garden.
Just as Anthony reached it, he stopped dead and stared at another occupant of the Rose Garden who seemed equally surprised to see him.
“I didn’t know that you were interested in roses, Mr. Fish,” said Anthony gently.
“Sir,” said Mr. Fish, “I am considerably interested in roses.”
They looked at each other warily, as antagonists seek to measure their opponents’ strength.
“So am I,” said Anthony.
“Is that so?”
“In fact, I dote upon roses,” said Anthony airily.
A very slight smile hovered upon Mr. Fish’s lips and at the same time Anthony also smiled. The tension seemed to relax.
“Look at this beauty now,” said Mr. Fish, stooping to point out a particularly fine bloom. “Madame Abel Chatenay, I pressoom it to be. Yes, I am right. This white rose, before the war, was known as Frau Carl Drusky. They have, I believe, renamed it. Over sensitive, perhaps but truly patriotic. The La France is always popular. Do you care for red roses at all, Mr. Cade? A bright scarlet rose now—”
Mr. Fish’s slow, drawling voice was interrupted. Bundle was leaning out of a first-floor window.
“Care for a spin to town, Mr. Fish? I’m just off.”
“Thank you, Lady Eileen, but I am vurry happy here.”
“Sure you won’t change your mind, Mr. Cade?”
Anthony laughed and shook his head. Bundle disappeared.
“Sleep is more in my line,” said Anthony, with a wide yawn. “A good after luncheon nap!” He took out a cigarette. “You haven’t got a match, have you?”
Mr. Fish handed him a matchbox. Anthony helped himself, and handed back the box with a word of thanks.
“Roses,” said Anthony, “are all very well. But I don’t feel particularly horticultural this afternoon.”
With a disarming smile, he nodded cheerfully.
A thundering noise sounded from just outside the house.
“Pretty powerful engine she’s got in that car of hers,” remarked Anthony. “There, off she goes.”
They had a view of the car speeding down the long drive.
Anthony yawned again, and strolled towards the house.
He passed in through the door. Once inside, he seemed as though changed to quicksilver. He raced across the hall, out through one of the windows on the farther side, and across the park. Bundle, he
