“The very man!” said Jack, “if he really will take the thing up. He’s in it with the best kind of bigwig for our purpose. And I rather think the idea might appeal to his sense of humour. Anyhow, I’ll see him tonight when I get back to town, and failing him I’ll try someone else.”
And that was the abrupt end of those restful days, dozing in a deck chair listening to the cawing rooks at Winterdean Hall Convalescent Hospital.
II
A Little Dinner
On the Tuesday evening, just four days later, I hobbled up the steps of my Uncle’s club and put the same question I had so often put before to the same sleek benignant hall porter.
“Sir Francis Merton?”
He was as benignant as ever, but he handed me over to an attractive war worker with a detached air that showed he was quite unconscious of ever having seen me before. For an instant I was chilled, and then I realised the happiness of the omen. If my beard alone so changed me, there would be no fear of recognition when art had reinforced nature.
The only other guest had already arrived:—Commander John Whiteclett. My uncle was talking to him confidentially before the fire, and at the sight of that familiar upstanding figure with the dominating nose above the determined mouth and the fresh complexion and snow-white hair and genial eyes, all just the same as ever, I felt a sudden sense of confidence in the issue of my adventure. With such an ally at my back, the chances of failure seemed almost negligible.
“Well, Roger,” he cried in his bluff strong voice (though I noticed it was discreetly lowered while there was anyone within earshot), “I hear you’ve taken to liquor so badly that your friends have got to remove you from society! We always did think it would come to something of this kind; eh, Jack?”
“He always was a bad egg, sir,” said my cousin. “I don’t mind betting he hasn’t brushed his beard.”
“And that limp!” added Sir Francis. “Gad, I believe he’s been kicked downstairs by an indignant husband!”
However, he pressed my arm as he laughed, and it was not a critical pressure.
“I can’t shave owing to my shaky hand,” I explained, “and the limp is port in the big toe.”
“Port?” exclaimed my uncle. “No, no, my dear fellow, it’s whisky poisoning you suffer from. You began in secret in your sixteenth year and have been a trouble to your friends since you were twenty-one. However, I’ve got all the particulars written out for you, and mind you get ’em into your head and don’t contradict yourself or me when you go to live with that doctor fellow.”
Jack winked at me from the shelter of our respected uncle’s back and I hid a responsive smile. With all his virtues, Sir Francis Merton had never been fond of playing second fiddle, and this masterful seizure of our scheme and dictation of all the details was exceedingly characteristic. At the same time he was as shrewd as he was peremptory and I felt satisfied his details would be sound.
“It’s all right so long as he doesn’t insist on disguising himself too and coming with me,” I whispered to Jack as we went into dinner.
“What I’m afraid of is that he’ll go instead of you!” said Jack. “I never saw him keener about an idea.”
We dined at a corner table whence we could see at once if anyone approached too near, and I think my uncle must have arranged that neither of the nearest tables should he occupied; so he was able to get to work with the soup.
“I’ve arranged everything, Roger,” he said, “you are on furlough so long as this job lasts. No questions will be asked and you’ll have a free hand. Only of course Jack will always keep an eye on you, and I shall be able to advise both of you according to circumstances.”
Jack winked again hurriedly, and said with as much deference as though he were speaking to an Admiral,
“That’s very good of you, sir. I shall keep you in touch with the situation, for I take it it will be safer for Roger not to write more letters than necessary.”
I glanced my thanks at him, and our Uncle, after frowning for a moment dubiously, agreed that he feared he must be content with hearing from the Commander only.
“But there will be no harm in my writing to you, Roger, now and then,” he added.
“No harm at all,” I agreed.
“Well then,” continued our host, “we come to the specific arrangements. Only two persons at the Admiralty know of this scheme, but they are quite powerful enough to get you into this island of yours all right. Of course people who happen to hear of it may open their eyes a bit and talk of the slackness of our Naval Authorities, and it will do no harm, Jack, if you damn them a bit yourself—confidentially, you know, in case anyone asks you how the devil this drunken fellow here has got into the place.”
“If I simply give ’em my candid opinion of the drunken fellow’s character,” said Jack, “no one will dream for an instant we’re supposed to be friends.”
“They may guess we’re near relations however, old fellow,” I suggested.
Sir Francis guffawed.
“I wonder if Roger will be as witty after a few weeks teetotal diet?” he chuckled. “Mind you, Roger, you’ve got to play the game properly. No bringing a flask in your baggage or any humbug of that sort!”
“Don’t you think an occasional relapse would add a touch of realism?” I suggested.
“Oh, if you can find liquor in the place, relapse by all means, so long as you don’t give yourself away in your cups. But you’ve got to arrive without bottle, flask, or cup in your possession.”
“It might be rather a happy touch, sir, if I
