‘That’s Leonard Johnson,’ Lavendale muttered.
‘The case of Leonard Johnson has, I believe, been cited, ‘the Personage admitted, ‘but your association with a certain member of the French Secret Service has led you, I am informed, into further enterprises not entirely in accordance with your position as an American official.’
‘Am I to understand that you wish me to resign, sir?’ Lavendale asked.
‘Nothing,’ the Personage replied cheerfully, ‘is further from my intentions. I wish you to reform. Remember you are an American, that’s all. Now go and pay us a visit on the other side. I am coming in to do a little hand-shaking myself presently.’
Lavendale put behind him what he felt might be one of the crises of his life, and made his way to the ambassadorial reception rooms. He paid his respects to his Chief’s wife and family and talked for a while to one of the junior secretaries. A clean-shaven man, tall and slim, with gold spectacles and smooth hair, came up to them presently with a smile.
‘I hope you haven’t quite forgotten me, Mr. Lavendale,’ he said. ‘I’m Anthony Silburn. Four years before your time, but we’ve met once or twice in New York.’
‘Of course,’ Lavendale assented. ‘As a matter of fact, we are connections, aren’t we? You married my cousin, Lydia Green.’
They sat in a corner and talked for some time of common acquaintances. Mr. Anthony Silburn, besides having the advantage of a frank and engaging manner and a distinct sense of humour, was, as Lavendale very well knew, one of the wealthiest and most enlightened of American millionaires.
‘I tell you what it is, young fellow,’ Mr. Silburn declared, as they parted, ‘you’ll have to come down and spend a week-end with us, any time you like. I’ve got a real old country house in Norfolk—leased it before the war broke out—Hookam Court, near Wells. Bring your guns down. Well, I’m off now to catch the five o’clock train home.’
He departed, with a little farewell nod. Lavendale looked after him thoughtfully.
‘One of the most successful men in America,’ somebody by his side remarked. ‘I wonder what he thinks about the war. He was educated in Germany—-I am not sure that he wasn’t born there.’
Lavendale made his adieux a little later and walked thoughtfully towards the Milan Court. He sent his name up, but there was no reply from Suzanne’s rooms.
‘Miss de Freyne went out on Monday night,’ the hall-porter told him. ‘She was motoring, I think, but she had very little luggage. She hasn’t been back since. We’ve had a great many telephone messages for her.’
The circumstance was not in itself unusual, but Lavendale was conscious of a queer little feeling of uneasiness, Suzanne never left town without letting him know and she had been engaged to dine with him that night.
‘I think I’ll go up and speak to her maid,’ he said.
The man pointed towards the lift.
‘There she is, sir, just come in.’
Lavendale crossed the hall and touched the woman on the shoulder. She was a dark-visaged, melancholy-looking person of middle age, with an extraordinary gift for taciturnity.
‘Do you know where your mistress is, Anne?’ he asked.
The woman appeared to recognize him with some relief. She evaded a direct reply, however.
‘Would you be so kind as to come upstairs, sir?’ she invited.
Lavendale followed her to Suzanne’s suite. She stood on one side for him to enter and closed the door carefully.
‘Monsieur,’ she began, ‘my mistress once told me that if there was trouble I was to come to you.’
‘Quite right,’ Lavendale assented quickly. ‘What is it?’
‘Mademoiselle left me at six o’clock on Monday night,’ the maid proceeded. ‘I know nothing as to her destination except that her journey was decided upon quite suddenly and that she had a motor ride of over a hundred miles. She expected to be back the next day. If not, she promised to send me some instructions. Since then I have heard nothing of her.’
Lavendale reflected for a moment.
‘How much are you in your mistress’ confidence?’ he inquired.
‘She has trusted me often with her life,’ was the quiet reply.
‘You understand her real position?
‘But naturally.’
‘Then do you know,’ Lavendale went on, ‘if there is any headquarters of the French Secret Service in this country—any one from whom we could get any idea as to her mission?’
The woman shook her head.
‘There are others working often with Mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘I know no names—only this. In case of the very deepest anxiety, but only in extremes, I have a telephone number here which I could ring up.’
She opened her purse and drew out a slip of paper.
‘It is, I believe, a private number,’ she continued, ‘and not in the book. I made up my mind that if Mademoiselle had not returned this afternoon, I would ring up.’
‘Let us do so at once,’ Lavendale suggested.
‘If monsieur would be so kind,’ she begged, pointing to the instrument. ‘My English is not good, and I do not know with whom I should speak.’
‘Whom am I to ask for?’ Lavendale inquired.
‘No names are to be mentioned,’ the woman replied, ‘and the number can only be rung up between five and seven. It is six o’clock now,’ she added.
Lavendale took off the receiver and asked for the number. There was a moment’s pause. Then a remarkably clear voice answered him.
‘Well?’
‘It is a friend of Mademoiselle de Freyne who speaks,’ Lavendale said.
‘That is well,’ the voice replied. ‘Continue.’
‘Miss de Freyne left her rooms at the Milan Court last Monday night, on secret business. She promised to communicate with her maid the next day. She has not done so. She left in a motor-car and with very little luggage. She made the remark that she had a ride of over a hundred miles.’
‘That is all you know, Mr. Lavendale?’
Lavendale started a little at the sound of his own name.
‘It is all,’ he assented.
‘Kindly go and repeat what you have told me to Major Elwell, room 17, number 33, Whitehall.’
Lavendale replaced the receiver and turned to Anne.
‘I am instructed,’ he said, ‘to apply to a man whom I know to be in the English Secret Service.’
‘It would be well,’ the maid advised, ‘if monsieur applied there at once.’
Lavendale walked briskly out of the Milan by the back exit, through the Gardens, along the Embankment and into Whitehall. He found number 33 a long, narrow, private house taken over by the Government. Number 17 consisted of a small office in which two men were busy writing, and an inner room. Lavendale made his inquiry and was told that Major Elwell would be back in an hour. He scribbled a note, making an appointment, and walked back to his own rooms. He let himself in, paused to speak for a moment with his servant, who was laying out his clothes, and turned towards the sitting-room. As he opened the door the telephone bell began to ring insistently. He crossed the room, took up the receiver, and tapped the instrument.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Hullo? Hullo?’
Somewhere in the distance he heard a voice say faintly—‘Trunk call’—and for a moment he was patient. Then he gave a little start. A familiar voice, yet unfamiliar, shaking with something like fear, tremulous, hysterical, terrified, murmured his name. His heart leapt with quick sympathy, his fingers shook.
‘Ambrose! Ambrose! Is that you? Speak quickly!’
‘I am here, Suzanne,’ he cried. ‘Where are you?’
Suddenly he seemed to hear turmoil and confusion, a man’s voice, a woman’s shriek.
‘At Hook—’
Then there was silence. The connection had been broken. Lavendale rang up furiously. At last he got the exchange. The young man who answered his inquiry could tell him nothing. He rang through to the inquiry office with little better resu
lt. They would make inquiries and let him know from whence the call came. They believed that it was from a call office. He could gain no further information. He set down the instrument at last in despair and walked up and down the room, She was in trouble, danger. ‘Hook—?’ ‘Hook—?’ What was there familiar to him in the commencement of that word? He repeated it feverishly. Then he remembered—Hookam Court—Anthony Silburn, whom he had met that afternoon at the Embassy. It was hard to discover any connection, however. He drove back to the Milan Court and found Anne.
‘Is there any news, monsieur?’ she asked anxiously.
‘None at present,’ Lavendale replied. ‘I cannot see Major Elwell for another half-hour. Tell me, have you ever heard your mistress mention any place of which the first syllable is “Hook”?’
”Ook,’ Anne repeated dubiously. ‘No, monsieur!’
‘Hookam Court,’ Lavendale went on, ‘Anthony Silburn—Norfolk—-none of that is familiar?’
‘But no, monsieur!’
He kept the secret of the telephone message to himself and made his way round once more to Whitehall. Major Elwell was seated in his office and received him at once. There was nothing unusual about the place except a large array of telephones. Lavendale told his story quickly. The Major listened without comment.
‘Well?’ Lavendale asked eagerly, when he had finished.
Major Elwell was occupied in drawing small diagrams with his pencil on the edge of the blotting-paper.
‘We must see what can be done,’ he remarked at last. ‘Hook—that is absolutely all you heard?’
‘Absolutely,’ Lavendale assured him.
‘And you have a friend who lives at Hookam Court in Norfolk—Mr. Anthony Silburn?’ he said meditatively. ‘A very remarkable man, Silburn—likely to be President some day, they tell me.’
‘Who cares about that!’ Lavendale exclaimed, a little curtly. ‘What can we do, Major Elwell? I dare say you know as much as I do, and more. Miss de Freyne has been very successful during the last few months, and there is no doubt they’d give anything they could to get hold of her on the other side. But in England—surely there can’t be any organization over here strong enough for actual mischief!’
‘Scarcely,’ Major Elwell agreed. ‘Scarcely. H—double O—K,’ he went on meditatively. ‘You see, there are about fifty places in the United Kingdom beginning like that.’
Lavendale felt his courage slipping away. There was something curiously unimpressive in the carefully-dressed, imperturbable Englishman, who was occupied now in polishing his eyeglass.
‘Isn’t there anything we can be doing instead of sitting here talking?’ he asked impatiently.
‘Always a mistake,’ Major Elwell declared, ‘to do things in a hurry. Have a cigarette,’ he went on, offering his case. ‘I think I’ll stroll out and talk with a friend over this little matter,’
‘Isn’t there a thing I can do?’ Lavendale persisted.
‘Well,’ Major Elwell said thoughtfully, ‘you spoke of an invitation to visit your friend Mr. Anthony Silburn at Hookam Court. Why not motor down there to-morrow? It’s one of the places in the country that your call might have come from, at any rate.’
A derisive reply quivered upon Lavendale’s lips. Then, for some reason or other, he changed his mind and remained silent. Major Elwell, without any appearance of hurrying him, was holding the door open.
‘All right,’ Lavendale agreed, ‘I’ll motor down there to-morrow.’
Lavendale was conscious of a queer sensation of unreality as late on the following afternoon he followed the butler across the white-flagged entrance hall of Hookam Court. He felt as though he were an unwilling actor in a play of which the setting was all too perfect. The little party of guests, still in shooting clothes and lounging before the great wood fire, brought into their surroundings a vivid note of flamboyant artificiality. The high walls, with their ecclesiastically-curved frescoes, the row of family portraits, the armour standing in the recesses, even the little local touch afforded by the game-keeper in brown whipcord and gaiters, standing waiting in a distant corner, seemed to him like part of some cinema production in which the men and women were supers and the setting tinsel.
His host’s greeting was all that it should have been. He advanced across the hall with outstretched hand, quietly but sincerely cordial.
‘Good man, Lavendale!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was delighted to get your telegram.’
‘Very nice of you,’ Lavendale murmured. ‘I hadn’t any idea of being at a loose end so soon when you were kind enough to ask me.’
‘It couldn’t have happened more fortunately,’ Mr. Anthony Silburn assured him. ‘I’ve another man coming down to-night, but I’ve room for two more guns. Now let me introduce you to those of your fellow-guests whom you don’t know. Mr. Lavendale—Lady Marsham, Mr. Kindersley, Mr. Barracombe, Sir Julius Marsham, Mr. Henry D. Steinletter.’
Lavendale bowed, individually to the women and collectively to the men. Lady Marsham, a stout, dark-haired lady with a heavy jaw, made room for him by her side.
‘It is quite a treat, Mr. Lavendale,’ he declared, ‘to see a young man. One feels that he must be either an American or a hopeless invalid. You are an American, aren’t you?’
Lavendale admitted the fact and rose to welcome his hostess, who was coming down the stairs. She suddenly recognized Lavendale and stopped short. For the first time he was conscious of something which freed him from that sense of being part of a carefully concerted picture. There was something absolutely human, entirely spontaneous in his cousin’s expression as she recognized him. Her fingers gripped the oak banisters, her lips were parted, her eyes were filled with something which was scarcely a welcoming light. It all passed in a moment and she came into the picture naturally and easily.
‘My dear Ambrose, how delightful to see you again! Does Tony know?’
Lavendale advanced to meet her and took her hands.
‘He asked me down for a few days only yesterday, when I met him in town, and I wired to say that I was coming to-day. I am afraid I didn’t give him a chance to turn me down, but I meant to say, although he hasn’t given me an opportunity yet, that if it’s at all inconvenient I could go on to Norwich and look up some friends near there.’
For a single moment she hesitated. Her little laugh was not altogether natural. Again Lavendale had a queer fancy that there was a leaven of insincerity in her welcome—that if it had been possible she would even have sent him away.
‘Don’t be foolish, Ambrose. Of course we are delighted. I see you people have had tea,’ she went on. ‘I really couldn’t resist a bath and tea-gown.’
‘And I was much too lazy,’ Lady Marsham yawned, lighting a cigarette. ‘I shall go up and change early for dinner.’
Mr. Silburn’s voice was heard from the other end of the hall. He was dismissing the gamekeeper with a few parting instructions.
‘I’ll have another covering stand at the long wood, Reynolds,’ he was saying. ‘You can put it on the extreme left, near the old oak. I’ll take that myself, and Mr. Lavendale will shoot from number three. You’ve got your guns, Lavendale?’ he added, strolling up to them.
‘They are in the car,’ Lavendale replied, ‘but I warn you that I haven’t shot for two years.’
‘I don’t think my pheasants will bother you any,’ Mr. Silburn promised him. ‘Barracombe here finds them on the slow side. We had a very good day to-day—over a thousand head altogether. Sure you won’t have some tea or a whisky-and-soda?’
‘Nothing, thanks.’
‘Then I’ll show you your rooms,’ his host continued, ‘if you’ll come this way.’
Lydia Silburn, who had been standing a little irresolutely on the other side of the round tea-table, suddenly turned towards her husband.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Tony, that Ambrose was coming?’ she inquired.
‘I meant to,’ her husband admitted. ‘As it happens, however, I haven’t seen much of you to-day
, have I? Come along, young fellow. Did you bring a servant, by-the-by? No? Well. I’ve quite a smart second boy who can look after you. We dine at eight. And, Lavendale, just one word,’ he concluded, as he glanced around the spacious rooms into which he had ushered his guest, ‘we have a sort of unwritten rule to which every one subscribes here. It saves so much unpleasant argument on a subject where our opinions are a little divided. We don’t mention the war until half-past ten.’
‘Very sound,’ Lavendale remarked, ‘but why half-past ten?’
‘After dinner,’ Mr. Silburn promised, ‘I will explain that to you. We have a little conversazione sometimes—but just wait.’
* * * * *
Again, an hour or so later, when Lavendale stood once more in the hall talking to one or two of the men, whilst a footman was passing round cocktails upon a tray, he felt oppressed by that curious sense of unreality. He took himself severely to task for it. He told himself that it must lie simply in the innate incongruity of this occupation of a ducal home by an American millionaire. In every other respect the men and women were obviously fitting figures. One or two of them were even known to him by reputation. The whole atmosphere of their conversation was natural and spontaneous. And then, as he turned resolutely to continue a discussion about wild pheasants with Barracombe—Barracombe, whom he knew well to be a great scientific traveller, a man of distinction—it was then that the climax came, the dramatic note which alone was needed to convince him of the spuriousness of his surroundings. He had turned his head quite naturally towards the broad, western corridor on hearing the soft rustling of a woman’s skirts—and he talked no more of wild pheasants! It was Suzanne, in a black evening gown and carrying a handful of pink roses in her hand, who was coming slowly across the hall.
‘Suzanne! Miss de Freyne!’ he exclaimed, taking a quick step forward.
He was conscious of many things in those few seconds, conscious of his host’s strenuous regard, of Suzanne’s unnatural pallor, of the warning in her eyes. His rush of joy at seeing her, however, was all-conquering. He took her hands in his and held them tightly.
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