“I should be perfectly content never to see one of them again,” declared Dominey, with perfect truth.
“That, of course, is impossible,” the lawyer protested. “You must go and see the Duchess, at any rate. She was always your champion.”
“The Duchess was always very kind to me,” Dominey admitted doubtfully, “but I am afraid she was rather fed up before I left England.”
Mr. Mangan smiled. He was enjoying a very excellent lunch, which it seemed hard to believe was ordered by a man just home from the wilds of Africa, and he thoroughly enjoyed talking about duchesses.
“Her Grace,” he began—
“Well?”
The lawyer had paused, with his eyes glued upon the couple at a neighbouring table. He leaned across towards his companion.
“The Duchess herself, Sir Everard, just behind you, with Lord St. Omar.”
“This place must certainly be the rendezvous of all the world,” Dominey declared, as he held out his hand to a man who had approached their table. “Seaman, my friend, welcome! Let me introduce you to my friend and legal adviser, Mr. Mangan—Mr. Seaman.”
Mr. Seaman was a short, fat man, immaculately dressed in most conventional morning attire. He was almost bald, except for a little tuft on either side, and a few long, fair hairs carefully brushed back over a shining scalp. His face was extraordinarily round except towards his chin, where it came to a point; his eyes bright and keen, his mouth the mouth of a professional humourist. He shook hands with the lawyer with an empressement which was scarcely English.
“Within the space of half an hour,” Dominey continued, “I find a princess who desires to claim my acquaintance; a cousin,” he dropped his voice a little, “who lunches only a few tables away, and the man of whom I have seen the most during the last ten years amidst scenes a little different from these, eh, Seaman?”
Seaman accepted the chair which the waiter had brought and sat down. The lawyer was immediately interested.
“Do I understand, then,” he asked, addressing the newcomer, “that you knew Sir Everard in Africa?”
Seaman beamed. “Knew him?” he repeated, and with the first words of his speech the fact of his foreign nationality was established. “There was no one of whom I knew so much. We did business together—a great deal of business—and when we were not partners, Sir Everard generally got the best of it.”
Dominey laughed. “Luck generally comes to a man either early or late in life. My luck came late. I think, Seaman, that you must have been my mascot. Nothing went wrong with me during the years that we did business together.”
Seaman was a little excited. He brushed upright with the palm of his hand one of those little tufts of hair left on the side of his head, and he laid his plump fingers upon the lawyer’s shoulder.
“Mr. Mangan,” he said, “you listen to me. I sell this man the controlling interests in a mine, shares which I have held for four and a half years and never drew a penny dividend. I sell them to him, I say, at par. Well, I need the money and it seems to me that I had given the shares a fair chance. Within five weeks—five weeks, sir,” he repeated, struggling to attune his voice to his civilised surroundings, “those shares had gone from par to fourteen and a half. To-day they stand at twenty. He gave me five thousand pounds for those shares. To-day he could walk into your stock market and sell them for one hundred thousand. That is the way money is made in Africa, Mr. Mangan, where innocents like me are to be found every day.”
Dominey poured out a glass of wine and passed it to their visitor.
“Come,” he said, “we all have our ups and downs. Africa owes you nothing, Seaman.”
“I have done well in my small way,” Seaman admitted, fingering the stem of his wineglass, “but where I have had to plod, Sir Everard here has stood and commanded fate to pour her treasures into his lap.”
The lawyer was listening with a curious interest and pleasure to this half bantering conversation. He found an opportunity now to intervene.
“So you two were really friends in Africa?” he remarked, with a queer and almost inexplicable sense of relief.
“If Sir Everard permits our association to be so called,” Seaman replied. “We have done business together in the great cities—in Johannesburg and Pretoria, in Kimberley and Cape Town—and we have prospected together in the wild places. We have trekked the veldt and been lost to the world for many months at a time. We have seen the real wonders of Africa together, as well as her tawdry civilisation.”
“And you, too,” Mr. Mangan asked, “have you retired?”
Seaman’s smile was almost beatific.
“The same deal,” he said, “which brought Sir Everard’s fortune to wonderful figures brought me that modest sum which I had sworn to reach before I returned to England. It is true. I have retired from money-making. It is now that I take up again my real life’s work.”
“If you are going to talk about your hobby,” Dominey observed, “you had better order them to serve your lunch here.”
“I had finished my lunch before you came in,” his friend replied. “I drink another glass of wine with you, perhaps. Afterwards a liqueur—who can say? In this climate one is favoured, one can drink freely. Sir Everard and I, Mr. Mangan, have been in places where thirst is a thing to be struggled against, where for months a little weak brandy and water was our chief dissipation.”
“Tell me about this hobby?” the lawyer enquired.
Dominey intervened promptly. “I protest. If he begins to talk of that, he’ll be here all the afternoon.”
Seaman held out his hands and rolled his head from side to side.
“But I am not so unreasonable,” he objected. “Just one word—so? Very well, then,” he proceeded quickly, with the air of one fearing interruption. “This must be clear to you, Mr. Mangan. I am a German by birth, naturalised in England for the sake of my business, loving Germany, grateful to England. One third of my life I have lived in Berlin, one third at Forest Hill here in London, and in the city, one third in Africa. I have watched the growth of commercial rivalries and jealousies between the two nations. There is no need for them. They might lead to worse things. I would brush them all away. My aim is to encourage a league for the promotion of more cordial social and business relations between the people of Great Britain and the people of the German Empire. There! Have I wasted much of your time? Can I not speak of my hobby without a flood of words?”
“Conciseness itself,” Mangan admitted, “and I compliment you most heartily upon your scheme. If you can get the right people into it, it should prove a most valuable society.”
“In Germany I have the right people. All Germans who live for their country and feel for their country loathe the thought of war. We want peace, we want friends, and, to speak as man to man,” he concluded, tapping the lawyer upon the coat sleeve, “England is our best customer.”
“I wish one could believe,” the latter remarked, “that yours was the popular voice in your country.”
Seaman rose reluctantly to his feet.
“At half-past two,” he announced, glancing at his watch, “I have an appointment with a woollen manufacturer from Bradford. I hope to get him to join my council.”
He bowed ceremoniously to the lawyer, nodded to Dominey with the familiarity of an old friend, and made his bustling, good-humoured way out of the room.
“A sound business man, I should think,” was the former’s comment. “I wish him luck with his League. You yourself, Sir Everard, will need to develop some new interests. Why not politics?”
“I really expect to find life a little difficult at first,” admitted Dominey, with a shrug of his shoulders. “I have lost many of the tastes of my youth, and I am very much afraid that my friends over here will call me colonial. I can’t fancy myself doing nothing down in Norfolk all the rest of my days. Perhaps I shall go into Parliament.”
“You must forgive my saying,” his companion declared impulsively, “that I never knew ten years
make such a difference in a man in my life.”
“The colonies,” Dominey pronounced, “are a kill or cure sort of business. You either take your drubbing and come out a stronger man, or you go under. I had the very narrowest escape from going under myself, but I just pulled together in time. To-day I wouldn’t have been without my hard times for anything in the world.”
“If you will permit me,” Mr. Mangan said, with an inherited pomposity, “on our first meeting under the new conditions, I should like to offer you my hearty congratulations, not only upon what you have accomplished but upon what you have become.”
“And also, I hope,” Dominey rejoined, smiling a little seriously and with a curious glint in his eyes, “upon what I may yet accomplish.”
The Duchess and her companion had risen to their feet, and the former, on her way out, recognising her solicitor, paused graciously.
“How do you do, Mr. Mangan?” she said. “I hope you are looking after those troublesome tenants of mine in Leicestershire?”
“We shall make our report in due course, Duchess,” Mangan assured her. “Will you permit me,” he added, “to bring back to your memory a relative who has just returned from abroad—Sir Everard Dominey?”
Dominey had risen to his feet a moment previously and now extended his hand. The Duchess, who was a tall, graceful woman, with masses of fair hair only faintly interspersed with gray, very fine brown eyes, the complexion of a girl, and, to quite her own confession, the manners of a kitchen maid, stared at him for a moment without any response.
“Sir Everard Dominey?” she repeated. “Everard? Ridiculous!”
Dominey’s extended hand was at once withdrawn, and the tentative smile faded from his lips. The lawyer plunged into the breach.
“I can assure your Grace,” he insisted earnestly, “that there is no doubt whatever about Sir Everard’s identity. He only returned from Africa during the last few days.”
The Duchess’s incredulity remained, wholly good-natured but ministered to by her natural obstinacy.
“I simply cannot bring myself to believe it,” she declared. “Come, I’ll challenge you. When did we meet last?”
“At Worcester House,” was the prompt reply. “I came to say good-bye to you.”
The Duchess was a little staggered. Her eyes softened, a faint smile played at the corners of her lips. She was suddenly a very attractive looking woman.
“You came to say good-bye,” she repeated, “and?”
“I am to take that as a challenge?” Dominey asked, standing very upright and looking her in the eyes.
“As you will.”
“You were a little kinder to me,” he continued, “than you are to-day. You gave me—this,” he added, drawing a small picture from his pocketbook, “and you permitted—”
“For heaven’s sake, put that thing away,” she cried, “and don’t say another word! There’s my grown-up nephew, St. Omar, paying his bill almost within earshot. Come and see me at half-past three this afternoon, and don’t be a minute late. And, St. Omar,” she went on, turning to the young man who stood now by her side, “this is a connection of yours—Sir Everard Dominey. He is a terrible person, but do shake hands with him and come along. I am half an hour late for my dressmaker already.”
Lord St. Omar chuckled vaguely, then shook hands with his new-found relative, nodded affably to the lawyer and followed his aunt out of the room. Mangan’s expression was beatific.
“Sir Everard,” he exclaimed, “God bless you! If ever a woman got what she deserved! I’ve seen a duchess blush—first time in my life!”
CHAPTER V
Table of Contents
Worcester House was one of those semi-palatial residences set down apparently for no reason whatever in the middle of Regent’s Park. It had been acquired by a former duke at the instigation of the Regent, who was his intimate friend, and retained by later generations in mute protest against the disfiguring edifices which had made a millionaire’s highway of Park Lane. Dominey, who was first scrutinised by an individual in buff waistcoat and silk hat at the porter’s lodge, was interviewed by a major-domo in the great stone hall, conducted through an extraordinarily Victorian drawing-room by another myrmidon in a buff waistcoat, and finally ushered into a tiny little boudoir leading out of a larger apartment and terminating in a conservatory filled with sweet-smelling exotics. The Duchess, who was reclining in an easy-chair, held out her hand, which her visitor raised to his lips. She motioned him to a seat by her side and once more scrutinised him with unabashed intentness.
“There’s something wrong about you, you know,” she declared.
“That seems very unfortunate,” he rejoined, “when I return to find you wholly unchanged.”
“Not bad,” she remarked critically. “All the same, I have changed. I am not in the least in love with you any longer.”
“It was the fear of that change in you,” he sighed, “which kept me for so long in the furthest corners of the world.”
She looked at him with a severity which was obviously assumed.
“Look here,” she said, “it is better for us to have a perfectly clear understanding upon one point. I know the exact position of your affairs, and I know, too, that the two hundred a year which your lawyer has been sending out to you came partly out of a few old trees and partly out of his own pocket. How you are going to live over here I cannot imagine, but it isn’t the least use expecting Henry to do a thing for you. The poor man has scarcely enough pocket money to pay his travelling expenses when he goes lecturing.”
“Lecturing?” Dominey repeated. “What’s happened to poor Henry?”
“My husband is an exceedingly conscientious man,” was the dignified reply. “He goes from town to town with Lord Roberts and a secretary, lecturing on national defence.”
“Dear Henry was always a little cranky, wasn’t he?” Dominey observed. “Let me put your mind at rest on that other matter, though, Caroline. I can assure you that I have come back to England not to borrow money but to spend it.”
His cousin shook her head mournfully. “And a few minutes ago I was nearly observing that you had lost your sense of humour!”
“I am in earnest,” he persisted. “Africa has turned out to be my Eldorado. Quite unexpectedly, I must admit, I came in for a considerable sum of money towards the end of my stay there. I am paying off the mortgages at Dominey at once, and I want Henry to jot down on paper at once those few amounts he was good enough to lend me in the old days.”
Caroline, Duchess of Worcester, sat perfectly still for a moment with her mouth open, a condition which was entirely natural but unbecoming.
“And you mean to tell me that you really are Everard Dominey?” she exclaimed.
“The weight of evidence is rather that way,” he murmured.
He moved his chair deliberately a little nearer, took her hand and raised it to his lips. Her face was perilously near to his. She drew a little back—and too abruptly.
“My dear Everard,” she whispered, “Henry is in the house! Besides—Yes, I suppose you must be Everard. Just now there was something in your eyes exactly like his. But you are so stiff. Have you been drilling out there or anything?”
He shook his head.
“One spends half one’s time in the saddle.”
“And you are really well off?” she asked again wonderingly.
“If I had stayed there another year,” he replied, “and been able to marry a Dutch Jewess, I should have qualified for Park Lane.”
She sighed.
“It’s too wonderful. Henry will love having his money back.”
“And you?”
She looked positively distressed.
“You’ve lost all your manners,” she complained. “You make love like a garden rake. You should have leaned towards me with a quiver in your voice when you said those last two words, and instead of that you look as though you were sitting at attention, with a positive glint of steel in your eyes.”
“One sees a woman once in a blue moon out there,” he pleaded.
She shook her head. “You’ve changed. It was a sixth sense with you to make love in exactly the right tone, to say exactly the right thing in the right manner.”
“I shall pick it up,” he declared hopefully, “with a little assistance.”
She made a little grimace.
“You won’t want an old woman like me to assist you, Everard. You’ll have the town at your feet. You’ll be able to frivol with musical comedy, flirt with our married beauties, or—I’m sorry, Everard, I forgot.”
“You forgot what?” he asked steadfastly.
“I forgot the tragedy which finally drove you abroad. I forgot your marriage. Is there any change in your wife?”
“Not much, I am afraid.”
“And Mr. Mangan—he thinks that you are safe over here?”
“Perfectly.”
She looked at him earnestly. Perhaps she had never admitted, even to herself, how fond she had been of this scapegrace cousin.
“You’ll find that no one will have a word to say against you,” she told him, “now that you are wealthy and regenerate. They’ll forget everything you want them to. When will you come and dine here and meet all your relatives?”
“Whenever you are kind enough to ask me,” he answered. “I thought of going down to Dominey to-morrow.”
She looked at him with a new thing in her eyes—something of fear, something, too, of admiration.
“But—your wife?”
“She is there, I believe,” he said. “I cannot help it. I have been an exile from my home long enough.”
“Don’t go,” she begged suddenly. “Why not be brave and have her removed. I know how tender-hearted you are, but you have your future and your career to consider. For her sake, too, you ought not to give her the opportunity—”
Dominey could never make up his mind whether the interruption which came at that moment was welcome or otherwise. Caroline suddenly broke off in her speech and glanced warningly towards the larger room. A tall, grey-haired man, dressed in old-fashioned clothes and wearing a pince-nez, had lifted the curtains. He addressed the Duchess in a thin, reedy voice.
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 23