“Major Thomson?” Lady Conyers gasped.
“Hugh?” Geraldine echoed.
The Admiral smiled.
“We passed on,” he continued, “and I said to his lordship—’Wasn’t that Thomson, the Inspector of Field Hospitals?’ He simply laughed at me. ’My dear Conyers,’ he said, ’surely you knew that was only a blind? Thomson is head of the entire Military Intelligence Department. He has the rank of a Brigadier-General waiting for him when he likes to take it. He prefers to remain as far as possible unknown and unrecognised, because it helps him with his work.’ Now listen! You’ve read in all the papers of course, that we had warning of what was coming last night, that the reason we were so successful was because every light in London had been extinguished and every gun-station was doubly manned? Well, the warning we received was due to Thomson and no one else!”
“And to think,” Lady Conyers exclaimed “that we were half afraid to tell your father that Hugh was coming to dinner!”
Geraldine had slipped from the room. The Admiral blew his nose.
“I hope Geraldine’s going to be sensible,” he said. “I’ve always maintained that Thomson was a fine fellow, only Geraldine seemed rather carried away by that young Granet. Poor fellow! One can’t say anything about him now, but he was just the ordinary type of showy young soldier, not fit to hold a candle to a man like Thomson.”
Lady Conyers was a little startled.
“You have such sound judgement, Seymour,” she murmured.
Thomson was a few minutes late for dinner but even the Admiral forgave him.
“Just ourselves, Thomson,” he said, as they made their way into the dining-room. “What a shock the Chief gave me to-day! You’ve kept things pretty dark. Inspector of Hospitals, indeed!”
Thomson smiled.
“That was my excuse,” he explained, “for running backwards and forwards between France and England at the beginning of the war. There’s no particular secret about my position now. I’ve had a very hard fight to keep it, a very hard fight to make it a useful one. Until last night, at any rate, it hasn’t seemed to me that English people realised that we were at war. Now, I hope at last that we are going to take the gloves off. Do you know,” he went on, a little later, “that in France they think we’re mad. Honestly, in my position, if I had had the French laws at my back I believe that by to-day the war would have been over. As it is, when I started even my post was a farce. We had to knuckle under the whole of the time, to the civil authorities. They wanted to fine a spy ten shillings or to bind him over to keep the peace! I’ve never had to fight for anything so hard in my life as I’ve had to fight once or twice for my file of men at the Tower. At the beginning of the war we’d catch them absolutely red-handed. All they had to do was to surrender to the civil authorities, and we had a city magistrate looking up statutes to see how to deal with them.”
“There are a good many things which will make strange reading after the war is over,” the Admiral said grimly. “I fancy that my late department will provide a few sensations. Still, our very mistakes are our justification. We were about as ready for war as Lady Conyers there is to play Rugby football for Oxford.”
“It has taken us the best part of a year to realise what war means,” Thomson assented. “Even now there are people whom one meets every day who seem to be living in abstractions.”
“Last night’s raid ought to wake a few of them up,” the Admiral grunted. “I should like to have shown those devils where to have dropped a few of their little toys. There are one or two men who were making laws not so long ago, who’d have had a hole in their roofs.”
Geraldine laughed softly.
“I really think that dad feels more bloodthirsty when he talks about some of our politicians than he does about the Germans,” she declared.
“Some of our worst enemies are at home, any way,” Sir Seymour insisted, “and we shall never get on with the war till we’ve weeded them out.”
“Where did the nearest bomb to you drop?” Thomson inquired.
“The corner of St. James’s Street,” Sir Seymour replied. “There were two houses in Berkeley Street alight, and a hole in the roof of a house in Hay Hill. The bomb there didn’t explode, though. Sad thing about young Granet, wasn’t it? He seems to be the only service man who suffered at all.”
Lady Conyers shivered sympathetically.
“It was perfectly ghastly,” she murmured.
“A very promising young officer, I should think,” the Admiral continued, “and a very sad death. Brings things home to you when you remember that it was only yesterday he was here, poor fellow!”
Geraldine and her mother rose from their places, a few minutes later. The latter looked up at Thomson as he held open the door.
“You won’t be long, will you?” she begged.
“You can take him with you, if you like,” the Admiral declared, also rising to his feet. “He doesn’t drink port and the cigarettes are in your room. I have to take the Chair at a recruiting meeting at Holborn in a quarter of an hour. The car’s waiting now. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Thomson?”
“Of course,” the latter assented. “I must leave early myself. I have to go back to the War Office.”
Geraldine took his arm and led him into the little morning-room.
“You see, I am carrying you off in the most bare-faced fashion,” she began, motioning him to a seat by her side, “but really you are such an elusive person, and only this morning, in the midst of that awful thunder of bombs, when we stood on the roof and looked at London breaking out into flames, I couldn’t help thinking—remembering, I mean—how short a time it is since you and I were face to face with the other horror and you saved my life. Do you know, I don’t think that I have ever said ’thank you’—not properly?”
“I think the words may go,” he answered, smiling. “It was a horrible time while it lasted but it was soon over. The worst part of it was seeing those others, whom we could not help, drifting by.”
“I should have been with them but for you,” she said quietly. “Don’t think that I don’t know it. Don’t think that I don’t regret sometimes, Hugh, that I didn’t trust you a little more completely. You are right about so many things. But, Hugh, will you tell me something?”
“Of course!”
“Why were you so almost obstinately silent when father spoke of poor Captain Granet’s death?”
“Because I couldn’t agree with what he said,” Thomson replied. “I think that Granet’s death in exactly that fashion was the best thing that could possibly have happened for him and for all of us.”
She shivered as she looked at him.
“Aren’t you a little cruel?” she murmured.
“I am not cruel at all,” he assured her firmly. “Let me quote the words of a greater man—’I have no enemies but the enemies of my country, and for them I have no mercy.’”
“You still believe that Captain Granet—”
“There is no longer any doubt as to his complete guilt. As you know yourself, the cipher letter warning certain people in London of the coming raid, passed through his hands. He even came here to warn you. There were other charges against him which could have been proved up to the hilt. While we are upon this subject, Geraldine, let me finish with it absolutely. Only a short time ago I confronted him with his guilt, I gave him ten days during which it was my hope that he would embrace the only honourable course left to him. I took a risk leaving him free, but during the latter part of the time he was watched day and night. If he had lived until this morning, there isn’t any power on earth could have kept him from the Tower, or any judge, however merciful, who could have saved him from being shot.”
“It is too awful,” she faltered, “and yet—it makes me so ashamed, Hugh, to think that I could not have trusted you more absolutely.”
He opened his pocket-book and a little flush of colour came suddenly into her cheeks. He drew out the ring silently.
“Will yo
u trust yourself now and finally, Geraldine?” he asked.
She held out her finger.
“I shall be so proud and so happy to have it again,” she whispered. “I do really feel as though I had behaved like a foolish child, and I don’t like the feeling at all, because in these days one should be more than ordinarily serious, shouldn’t one? Shall I be able to make it up to you, Hugh, do you think?”
He stooped to meet her lips.
“There is an atonement you might make, dear,” he ventured. “Do you remember a suggestion of mine at one of those historic luncheons of Lady Anselman’s?”
She laughed into his eyes for a moment and then looked away.
“I was wondering whether you had forgotten that,” she confessed.
THE END
THE ILLUSTRIOUS PRINCE
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
I. Mr. Hamilton Fynes, Urgent
II. The End Of The Journey
III. An Incident And An Accident
IV. Miss Penelope Morse
V. An Affair Of State
VI. Mr. Coulson Interviewed
VII. A Fatal Despatch
VIII. An Interrupted Theatre Party
IX. Inspector Jacks Scores
X. Mr. Coulson Outmatched
XI. A Commission
XII. Penelope Intervenes
XIII. East And West
XIV. An Engagement
XV. Penelope Explains
XVI. Concerning Prince Maiyo
XVII. A Gay Night In Paris
XVIII. Mr. Coulson Is Indiscreet
XIX. A Momentous Question
XX. The Answer
XXI. A Clue
XXII. A Breath From The East
XXIII. On The Trail
XXIV. Prince Maiyo Bids High
XXV. Hobson’s Choice
XXVI. Some Farewells
XXVII. A Prisoner
XXVIII. Patriotism
XXIX. A Race
XXX. Inspector Jacks Importunate
XXXI. Goodbye!
XXXII. Prince Maiyo Speaks
XXXIII. Unafraid
XXXIV. Banzai!
I. MR. HAMILTON FYNES, URGENT
Table of Contents
There was a little murmur of regret amongst the five hundred and eighty-seven saloon passengers on board the steamship Lusitania, mingled, perhaps, with a few expressions of a more violent character. After several hours of doubt, the final verdict had at last been pronounced. They had missed the tide, and no attempt was to be made to land passengers that night. Already the engines had ceased to throb, the period of unnatural quietness had commenced. Slowly, and without noticeable motion, the great liner swung round a little in the river.
A small tug, which had been hovering about for some time, came screaming alongside. There was a hiss from its wave-splashed deck, and a rocket with a blue light flashed up into the sky. A man who had formed one of the long line of passengers, leaning over the rail, watching the tug since it had come into sight, now turned away and walked briskly to the steps leading to the bridge. As it happened, the captain himself was in the act of descending. The passenger accosted him, and held out what seemed to be a letter.
“Captain Goodfellow,” he said, “I should be glad if you would glance at the contents of that note.”
The captain, who had just finished a long discussion with the pilot and was not in the best of humor, looked a little surprised.
“What, now?” he asked.
“If you please,” was the quiet answer. “The matter is urgent.”
“Who are you?” the captain asked.
“My name is Hamilton Fynes,” the other answered. “I am a saloon passenger on board your ship, although my name does not appear in the list. That note has been in my pocket since we left New York, to deliver to you in the event of a certain contingency happening.”
“The contingency being?” the captain asked, tearing open the envelope and moving a little nearer the electric light which shone out from the smoking room.
“That the Lusitania did not land her passengers this evening.”
The captain read the note, examined the signature carefully, and whistled softly to himself.
“You know what is inside this?” he asked, looking into his companion’s face with some curiosity.
“Certainly,” was the brief reply.
“Your name is Mr. Hamilton Fynes, the Mr. Hamilton Fynes mentioned in this letter?”
“That is so,” the passenger admitted.
The captain nodded.
“Well,” he said, “you had better get down on the lower deck, port side. By the bye, have you any friends with you?”
“I am quite alone,” he answered.
“So much the better,” the captain declared. “Don’t tell any one that you are going ashore if you can help it.”
“I certainly will not, sir,” the other answered. “Thank you very much.”
“Of course, you know that you can’t take your luggage with you?” the captain remarked.
“That is of no consequence at all, sir,” Mr. Hamilton Fynes answered. “I will leave instructions for my trunk to be sent on after me. I have all that I require, for the moment, in this suitcase.”
The captain blew his whistle. Mr. Hamilton Fynes made his way quietly to the lower deck, which was almost deserted. In a very few minutes he was joined by half a dozen sailors, dragging a rope ladder. The little tug came screaming around, and before any of the passengers on the deck above had any idea of what was happening, Mr. Hamilton Fynes was on board the Anna Maria, and on his way down the river, seated in a small, uncomfortable cabin, lit by a single oil lamp.
No one spoke more than a casual word to him from the moment he stepped to the deck until the short journey was at an end. He was shown at once into the cabin, the door of which he closed without a moment’s delay. A very brief examination of the interior convinced him that he was indeed alone. Thereupon he seated himself with his back to the wall and his face to the door, and finding an English newspaper on the table, read it until they reached the docks. Arrived there, he exchanged a civil good-night with the captain, and handed a sovereign to the seaman who held his bag while he disembarked.
For several minutes after he had stepped on to the wooden platform, Mr. Hamilton Fynes showed no particular impatience to continue his journey. He stood in the shadow of one of the sheds, looking about him with quick furtive glances, as though anxious to assure himself that there was no one around who was taking a noticeable interest in his movements. Having satisfied himself at length upon this point, he made his way to the London and North Western Railway Station, and knocked at the door of the station-master’s office. The station-master was busy, and although Mr. Hamilton Fynes had the appearance of a perfectly respectable transatlantic man of business, there was nothing about his personality remarkably striking,—nothing, at any rate, to inspire an unusual amount of respect.
“You wished to see me, sir?” the official asked, merely glancing up from the desk at which he was sitting with a pile of papers before him.
Mr. Hamilton Fynes leaned over the wooden counter which separated him from the interior of the office. Before he spoke, he glanced around as though to make sure that he had not forgotten to close the door.
“I require a special train to London as quickly as possible,” he announced. “I should be glad if you could let me have one within half an hour, at any rate.”
The station-master rose to his feet.
“Quite impossible, sir,” he declared a little brusquely. “Absolutely out of the question!”
“May I ask why it is out of the question?” Mr. Hamilton Fynes inquired.
“In the first place,” the station-master answered, “a special train to London would cost you a hundred and eighty pounds, and in the second place, even if you were willing to pay that sum, it would be at least two hours before I could start you off. We could not possibly disorganize the whole of our f
ast traffic. The ordinary mail train leaves here at midnight with sleeping-cars.”
Mr. Hamilton Fynes held out a letter which he had produced from his breast pocket, and which was, in appearance, very similar to the one which he had presented, a short time ago, to the captain of the Lusitania.
“Perhaps you will kindly read this,” he said. “I am perfectly willing to pay the hundred and eighty pounds.”
The station-master tore open the envelope and read the few lines contained therein. His manner underwent at once a complete change, very much as the manner of the captain of the Lusitania had done. He took the letter over to his green-shaded writing lamp, and examined the signature carefully. When he returned, he looked at Mr. Hamilton Fynes curiously. There was, however, something more than curiosity in his glance. There was also respect.
“I will give this matter my personal attention at once, Mr. Fynes,” he said, lifting the flap of the counter and coming out. “Do you care to come inside and wait in my private office?”
“Thank you,” Mr. Hamilton Fynes answered; “I will walk up and down the platform.”
“There is a refreshment room just on the left,” the station-master remarked, ringing violently at a telephone. “I dare say we shall get you off in less than half an hour. We will do our best, at any rate. It’s an awkward time just now to command an absolutely clear line, but if we can once get you past Crewe you’ll be all right. Shall we fetch you from the refreshment room when we are ready?”
“If you please,” the intending passenger answered.
Mr. Hamilton Fynes discovered that place of entertainment without difficulty, ordered for himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and drew a chair close up to the small open fire, taking care, however, to sit almost facing the only entrance to the room. He laid his hat upon the counter, close to which he had taken up his position, and smoothed back with his left hand his somewhat thick black hair. He was a man, apparently of middle age, of middle height, clean-shaven, with good but undistinguished features, dark eyes, very clear and very bright, which showed, indeed, but little need of the pince-nez which hung by a thin black cord from his neck. His hat, low in the crown and of soft gray felt, would alone have betrayed his nationality. His clothes, however, were also American in cut. His boots were narrow and of unmistakable shape. He ate his sandwich with suspicion, and after his first sip of coffee ordered a whiskey and soda. Afterwards he sat leaning back in his chair, glancing every now and then at the clock, but otherwise manifesting no signs of impatience. In less than half an hour an inspector, cap in hand, entered the room and announced that everything was ready. Mr. Hamilton Fynes put on his hat, picked up his suitcase, and followed him on to the platform. A long saloon carriage, with a guard’s brake behind and an engine in front, was waiting there.
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