“I have only had one experience,” said Kate. “It was with a young man with a horribly weak chin. He had studied in both schools, for his ‘Good evening’ was followed by a request for information upon my immediate plans and I let him walk with me. I expected something very dreadful but he talked mostly about his mother and the difficulties he had about getting a latchkey. He wanted to take my arm but I told him it wasn’t done and then he suggested that I should meet him on Sunday. By this time I had learnt all about his family, his mother and the girl he was prepared to sacrifice to retain a continuation of our intimacy. I also discovered his name was Ernest and that he was the cleverest man in his office.”
“He wanted to kiss you, I’ll be bound,” said the Colonel.
“I think he did,” admitted the girl, “but he didn’t say so. All he said was that he hoped it didn’t rain and asked if he might write to me. I told him he might, but, unfortunately, he forgot to ask me my address—” she broke off suddenly, “what is Gregori kicking about?”
“That Madrid affair didn’t go off as well as it might,” said the Colonel, avoiding her eye.
She nodded.
“I know; and Gregori blames me, I presume.”
“Gregori never blames you,” said the Colonel, “I think Gregori would knife anybody who said a word against you.”
“No,” she said, nodding her head, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, “the Madrid affair went badly, in spite of the fact that there were forty-two sheets of manuscript in Spanish and English giving the most elaborate directions. It was a month’s work for me and it was all wasted and the greater part of a hundred thousand pesetas because Gregori’s trusted Señor Rahboulla thought he could improve upon my instructions and joined the train at Cordova in a light grey suit when I told him to wear the conventional black of the madrilleno and when I insisted upon his making his entrance to Madrid from Toledo. I knew that Cordova was watched by the French and Spanish police and I knew too that they would be looking for a stranger. Rahboulla advertised himself, was arrested and the chain, which I had carefully pieced together, was broken. By the time he had shaken off the police and arrived in Madrid the closing hour of the Prado had been advanced from six to five and the consequence is, that the Velasquez is still in the picture gallery and we are a hundred thousand pesetas the poorer.”
The Colonel shook his head.
“You are a wonderful girl and I will admit you are right. Heavens! the patience required to work out these details!”
“The ideal criminal is a strategist,” said the girl. “He foresees every move of the enemy and forestalls him. He makes a diversion at one point and his real attack at another. He prepares the way for retreat at the same time as he is preparing his advance. It took me six months to obtain all the information I wanted and it took six minutes for Rahboulla to upset our plans.”
She laughed.
“If things go wrong, you blame the general,” she said. “Three years ago, Gregori the Kicker introduced an Italian into one of our schemes—the business of the Nottingham Post Office. That went wrong, too.”
“There I admit you were right,” the Colonel hurried to say; “Tolmini made a mess of it.”1
“And tried to drag us all into it when he was caught,” said the girl; “he went to prison under the impression that I had led him into a trap—though the fool was told the mail bags were not to be touched until the night shift came on duty.”
“Why do you mention him now with such emphasis?” asked the Colonel curiously.
“Because he’s out of prison—and he’ll be kicking, too,” she replied, “just as Gregori kicks!”
“ ‘Let the dead past bury the dead,’ ” quoted the Colonel. “And how is the new scheme?”
“Much farther advanced than you think. There are still one or two roads to be made smooth, one or two outposts to be rushed, some barbed wire to be cut.”
“By Gad!” cried the Colonel admiringly. “You ought to have been a soldier, Kate.”
She leant back in the chair with her hands clasped behind her head and looked at him searchingly.
“You were once a gentleman, uncle,” she said in that direct way of hers and Colonel Westhanger flushed and frowned.
“Well, my dear uncle,” she expostulated, “you are not a gentleman by the ordinary code now are you?”
“I have certain instincts,” protested the Colonel gruffly; “hang it all, Kate, you don’t let a fellow down very lightly.”
“I suppose you are still something of a gentleman,” said the girl reflectively; “the mere fact that you are annoyed at the suggestion that you are not proves that. But what I mean to say is this: there was a time when you obeyed another code, when you thought stealing was a disgraceful thing and robbery under arms a crime. You must have associated with men on whose word you could rely and who would never commit a dishonest or a mean action—men who were prepared in battle to give their lives for you. And you must have commanded men who had the same views and have punished soldiers who stepped aside from the straight path and committed little crimes which, compared with yours, were as pinheads to the dome of St. Paul’s.”
“I can’t see why you want to talk about the past,” said the Colonel irritably. He was still a fine figure of a man, grey-moustached, broad of shoulder, tall and straight of back and had about him that indefinable something which men who have commanded men never entirely lose.
“I am merely comparing you with me,” she said; “you have the advantage of having seen both sides. Tell me, which is the better?”
“Which do you think?” he demanded suspiciously.
She tossed her
