“They both are,” Hamel replied. “The man who is driving is wearing a peaked hat. He looks like a police inspector. The man by his side is an ordinary policeman.”
Mr. Fentolin sighed gently.
“It is very interesting,” he said. “Let us hope that we shall not see an arrest under my roof. I should feel it a reflection upon my hospitality. I trust, I sincerely trust, that this visit does not bode any harm to Mr. John P. Dunster.”
Gerald rose impatiently to his feet and swung across the terrace. Mr. Fentolin, however, called him back.
“Gerald,” he advised, “better not go away. The inspector may desire to ask you questions. You will have nothing to conceal. It was a natural and delightful impulse of yours to bring the man who had befriended you, and who was your companion in that disaster, straight to your own home for treatment and care. It was an admirable impulse, my boy. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Shall I tell him, too—” Gerald began.
“Be careful, Gerald.”
Mr. Fentolin’s words seemed to be charged with a swift, rapier-like note. The boy broke off in his speech. He looked at Hamel and was silent.
“Dear me,” Mrs. Fentolin murmured, “I am sure there is no need for us to talk about this poor man as though anybody had done anything wrong in having him here. This, I suppose, must be the Inspector Yardley whom Lord Saxthorpe spoke of.”
“A very intelligent-looking officer, I am sure,” Mr. Fentolin remarked. “Gerald, go and meet him, if you please. I should like to speak to him out here.”
The dog-cart had drawn up at the front door, and the inspector had already alighted. Gerald intervened as he was in the act of questioning the butler.
“Mr. Fentolin would like to speak to you, inspector,” he said, “if you will come this way.”
The inspector followed Gerald and saluted the little group solemnly. Mr. Fentolin held out his hand.
“You got my telephone message, inspector?” he asked.
“We have not received any message that I know of, sir,” the inspector replied. “I have come over here in accordance with instructions received from headquarters—in fact from Scotland Yard.”
“Quite so,” Mr. Fentolin assented. “You’ve come over, I presume, to make enquiries concerning Mr. John P. Dunster?”
“That is the name of the gentleman, sir.”
“I only understood to-day from my friend Lord Saxthorpe,” Mr. Fentolin continued, “that Mr. Dunster was being enquired about as though he had disappeared. My nephew brought him here after the railway accident at Wymondham, since when he has been under the care of my own physician. I trust that you have nothing serious against him?”
“My first duty, sir,” the inspector pronounced, “is to see the gentleman in question.”
“By all means,” Mr. Fentolin agreed. “Gerald, will you take the inspector up to Mr. Dunster’s rooms? Or stop, I will go myself.”
Mr. Fentolin started his chair and beckoned the inspector to follow him. Meekins, who was waiting inside the hall, escorted them by means of the lift to the second floor. They made their way to Mr. Dunster’s room. Mr. Fentolin knocked softly at the door. It was opened by the nurse.
“How is the patient?” Mr. Fentolin enquired.
Doctor Sarson appeared from the interior of the room.
“Still unconscious,” he reported. “Otherwise, the symptoms are favourable. He is quite unfit,” the doctor added, looking steadily at the inspector, “to be removed or questioned.”
“There is no idea of anything of the sort,” Mr. Fentolin explained. “It is Inspector Yardley’s duty to satisfy himself that Mr. Dunster is here. It is necessary for the inspector to see your patient, so that he can make his report at headquarters.”
Doctor Sarson bowed.
“That is quite simple, sir,” he said. “Please step in.”
They all entered the room, which was large and handsomely furnished. Through the open windows came a gentle current of fresh air. Mr. Dunster lay in the midst of all the luxury of fine linen sheets and embroidered pillow-cases. The inspector looked at him stolidly.
“Is he asleep?” he asked.
The doctor shook his head.
“It is the third day of his concussion,” he whispered. “He is still unconscious. He will remain in the same condition for another two days. After that he will begin to recover.”
Mr. Fentolin touched the inspector on the arm.
“You see his clothing at the foot of the bed,” he pointed out. “His linen is marked with his name. That is his dressing-case with his name painted on it.”
“I am quite satisfied, sir,” the inspector announced. “I will not intrude any further.”
They left the room. Mr. Fentolin himself escorted the inspector into the library and ordered whisky and cigars.
“I don’t know whether I am unreasonably curious,” Mr. Fentolin remarked, “but is it really true that you have had enquiries from Scotland Yard about the poor fellow up-stairs?”
“We had a very important enquiry indeed, sir,” the inspector replied. “I have instructions to telegraph all I have been able to discover, immediately.”
“Pardon my putting it plainly,” Mr. Fentolin asked, “but is our friend a criminal?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as that, sir,” the inspector answered. “I know of no charge against him. I don’t know that I have the right to say so much,” he added, sipping his whisky and soda, “but putting two and two together, I should rather come to the conclusion that he was a person of some political importance.”
“Not a criminal at all?”
“Not as I know of,” the inspector assented. “That isn’t the way I read the enquiries at all.”
“You relieve me,” Mr. Fentolin declared. “Now what about his possessions?”
“There’s a man coming down shortly from Scotland Yard,” the inspector announced, a little gloomily. “My orders were to touch nothing, but to locate him.”
“Well, you’ve succeeded so far,” Mr. Fentolin remarked. “Here he is, and here I think he will stay until some days after your friend from Scotland Yard can get here.”
“It does seem so, indeed,” the inspector agreed. “To me he looks terrible ill. But there’s one thing sure, he’s having all the care and attention that’s possible. And now, sir, I’ll not intrude further upon your time. I’ll just make my report, and you’ll probably have a visit from the Scotland Yard man sometime within the next few days.”
Mr. Fentolin escorted the inspector to his dog-cart, shook hands with him, and watched him drive off. Only Mrs. Seymour Fentolin remained upon the terrace. He glided over to her side.
“My dear Florence,” he asked, “where are the others?”
“Mr. Hamel and Esther have gone for a walk,” she answered. “Gerald has disappeared somewhere. Has anything—is everything all right?”
“Naturally,” Mr. Fentolin replied easily. “All that the inspector desired was to see Mr. Dunster. He has seen him. The poor fellow was unfortunately unconscious, but our friend will at least be able to report that he was in good hands and well cared for.”
“Unconscious,” Mrs. Fentolin repeated. “I thought that he was better.”
“One is always subject to those slight relapses in an affair of concussion,” Mr. Fentolin explained.
Mrs. Fentolin laid down her work and leaned a little towards her brother-in-law. Her hand rested upon his. Her voice had fallen to a whisper.
“Miles,” she said, “forgive me, but are you sure that you are not getting a little out of your depth? Remember that there are some risks which are not worth while.”
“Quite true,” he answered. “And there are some risks, my dear Florence, which are worth every drop of blood in a man’s body, and every breath of life. The peace of Europe turns upon that man up-stairs. It is worth taking a little risk for, worth a little danger. I have made my plans, and I mean to carry them through. Tell me, when I was up-stairs, this fell
ow Hamel—was he talking confidentially to Gerald?”
“Not particularly.”
“I am not sure that I trust him,” Mr. Fentolin continued. “He had a telegram yesterday from a man in the Foreign Office, a telegram which I did not see. He took the trouble to walk three miles to send the reply to it from another office.”
“But after all,” Mrs. Fentolin protested, “you know who he is. You know that he is Peter Hamel’s son. He had a definite purpose in coming here.”
Mr. Fentolin nodded.
“Quite true,” he admitted. “But for that, Mr. Hamel would have found a little trouble before now. As it is, he must be watched. If any one comes between me and the things for which I am scheming to-day, they will risk death.”
Mrs. Fentolin sighed. She was watching the figures of Esther and Hamel far away in the distance, picking their way across the last strip of marshland which lay between them and the sea.
“Miles,” she said earnestly, “you take advice from no one. You will go your own way, I know. And yet, it seems to me that life holds so many compensations for you without your taking these terrible risks. I am not thinking of any one else. I am not pleading to you for the sake of any one else. I am thinking only of yourself. I have had a sort of feeling ever since this man was brought into the house, that trouble would come of it. To me the trouble seems to be gathering even now.”
Mr. Fentolin laughed softly, a little contemptuously.
“Presentiments,” he scoffed, “are the excuses of cowards. Don’t be afraid, Florence. Remember always that I look ahead. Do you think that I could stay here contented with what you call my compensations—my art, the study of beautiful things, the calm epicureanism of the sedate and simple life? You know very well that I could not do that. The craving for other things is in my heart and blood. The excitement which I cannot have in one way, I must find in another, and I think that before many nights have passed, I shall lie on my pillow and hear the guns roar, hear the footsteps of the great armies of the world moving into battle. It is for that I live, Florence.”
She took up her knitting again. Her eyes were fixed upon the sky-line. Twice she opened her lips, but twice no words came.
“You understand?” he whispered. “You begin to understand, don’t you?”
She looked at him only for a moment and back at her work.
“I suppose so,” she sighed.
CHAPTER XX
Table of Contents
In the middle of that night Hamel sat up in bed, awakened with a sudden start by some sound, only the faintest echo of which remained in his consciousness. His nerves were tingling with a sense of excitement. He sat up in bed and listened. Suddenly it came again—a long, low moan of pain, stifled at the end as though repressed by some outside agency. He leaped from his bed, hurried on a few clothes, and stepped out on to the landing. The cry had seemed to him to come from the further end of the long corridor—in the direction, indeed, of the room where Mr. Dunster lay. He made his way there, walking on tiptoe, although his feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet. A single light was burning from a bracket in the wall, insufficient to illuminate the empty spaces, but enough to keep him from stumbling. The corridor towards the south end gradually widened, terminating in a splendid high window with stained glass, a broad seat, and a table. On the right, the end room was Mr. Dunster’s apartment, and on the left a flight of stairs led to the floor above. Hamel stood quite still, listening. There was a light in the room, as he could see from under the door, but there was no sound of any one moving. Hamel listened intently, every sense strained. Then the sound of a stair creaking behind diverted his attention. He looked quickly around. Gerald was descending. The boy’s face was white, and his eyes were filled with fear. Hamel stepped softly back from the door and met him at the foot of the stairs.
“Did you hear that cry?” he whispered.
Gerald nodded.
“It woke me up. What do you suppose it was?” Hamel shook his head.
“Some one in pain,” he replied. “I don’t understand it. It came from this room.”
“You know who sleeps there?” Gerald asked hoarsely.
Hamel nodded.
“A man with concussion of the brain doesn’t cry out like that. Besides, did you hear the end of it? It sounded as though some one were choking him. Hush!”
They had spoken only in bated breath, but the door of the room before which they were standing was suddenly opened. Meekins stood there, fully dressed, his dark, heavy face full of somber warning. He started a little as he saw the two whispering together. Gerald addressed him almost apologetically.
“We both heard the same sound, Meekins. Is any one ill? It sounded like some one in pain.”
The man hesitated. Then from behind his shoulder came Mr. Fentolin’s still, soft voice. There was a little click, and Meekins, as though obeying an unseen gesture, stepped back. Mr. Fentolin glided on to the threshold. He was still dressed. He propelled his chair a few yards down the corridor and beckoned them to approach.
“I am so sorry,” he said softly, “that you should have been disturbed, Mr. Hamel. We have been a little anxious about our mysterious guest. Doctor Sarson fetched me an hour ago. He discovered that it was necessary to perform a very slight operation, merely the extraction of a splinter of wood. It is all over now, and I think that he will do very well.”
Notwithstanding this very plausible explanation, Hamel was conscious of the remains of an uneasiness which he scarcely knew how to put into words.
“It was a most distressing cry,” he observed doubtfully, “a cry of fear as well as of pain.”
“Poor fellow!” Mr. Fentolin remarked compassionately. “I am afraid that for a moment or two he must have suffered acutely. Doctor Sarson is very clever, however, and there is no doubt that what he did was for the best. His opinion is that by to-morrow morning there will be a marvellous change. Good night, Mr. Hamel. I am quite sure that you will not be disturbed again.”
Hamel neither felt nor showed any disposition to depart.
“Mr. Fentolin,” he said, “I hope that you will not think that I am officious or in any way abusing your hospitality, but I cannot help suggesting that as Dr. Sarson is purely your household physician, the relatives of this man Dunster might be better satisfied if some second opinion were called in. Might I suggest that you telephone to Norwich for a surgeon?”
Mr. Fentolin showed no signs of displeasure. He was silent for a moment, as though considering the matter.
“I am not at all sure, Mr. Hamel, that you are not right,” he admitted frankly. “I believe that the case is quite a simple one, but on the other hand it would perhaps be more satisfactory to have an outside opinion. If Mr. Dunster is not conscious in the morning, we will telephone to the Norwich Infirmary.”
“I think it would be advisable,” Hamel agreed.
“Good night!” Mr. Fentolin said once more. “I am sorry that your rest has been disturbed.”
Hamel, however, still refused to take the hint. His eyes were fixed upon that closed door.
“Mr. Fentolin,” he asked, “have you any objection to my seeing Mr. Dunster?”
There was a moment’s intense silence. A sudden light had burned in Mr. Fentolin’s eyes. His fingers gripped the side of his chair. Yet when he spoke there were no signs of anger in his tone. It was a marvellous effort of self-control.
“There is no reason, Mr. Hamel,” he said, “why your curiosity should not be gratified. Knock softly at the door, Gerald.”
The boy obeyed. In a moment or two Doctor Sarson appeared on the threshold.
“Our guest, Mr. Hamel,” Mr. Fentolin explained in a whisper, “has been awakened by this poor fellow’s cry. He would like to see him for a moment.”
Doctor Sarson opened the door. They all passed in on tiptoe. The doctor led the way towards the bed upon which Mr. Dunster was lying, quite still. His head was bandaged, and his eyes closed. His face was ghastly. Gerald gave vent to a little
muttered exclamation. Mr. Fentolin turned to him quickly.
“Gerald!”
The boy stood still, trembling, speechless. Mr. Fentolin’s eyes were riveted upon him. The doctor was standing, still and dark, a motionless image.
“Is he asleep?” Hamel asked.
“He is under the influence of a mild anaesthetic,” Doctor Sarson explained. “He is doing very well. His case is quite simple. By to-morrow morning he will be able to sit up and walk about if he wishes to.”
Hamel looked steadily at the figure upon the bed. Mr. Dunster’s breathing was regular, and his eyes were closed, but his colour was ghastly.
“He doesn’t look like getting up for a good many days to come,” Hamel observed.
The doctor led the way towards the door.
“The man has a fine constitution,” he said. “I feel sure that if you wish you will be able to talk to him to-morrow.”
They separated outside in the passage. Mr. Fentolin bade his guest a somewhat restrained good night, and Gerald mounted the staircase to his room. Hamel, however, had scarcely reached his door before Gerald reappeared. He had descended the stair-case at the other end of the corridor. He stood for a moment looking down the passage. The doors were all closed. Even the light had been extinguished.
“May I come in for a moment, please?” he whispered.
Hamel nodded.
“With pleasure! Come in and have a cigarette if you will. I shan’t feel like sleep for some time.”
They entered the room, and Gerald threw himself into an easy-chair near the window. Hamel wheeled up another chair and produced a box of cigarettes.
“Queer thing your dropping across that fellow in the way you did,” he remarked. “Just shows how one may disappear from the world altogether, and no one be a bit the wiser.”
The boy was sitting with folded arms. His expression was one of deep gloom.
“I only wish I’d never brought him here,” he muttered. “I ought to have known better.”
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 173