The Vanished Messenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER V

  Accustomed though he was to the sight which he was about to face,Gerald shivered slightly as he opened the door of Mr. Fentolin's room.A strange sort of fear seemed to have crept into his bearing andexpression, a fear of which there had been no traces whatever duringthose terrible hours through which he had passed--not even during thatlast reckless journey across the marshes. He walked with hesitatingfootsteps across the spacious and lofty room. He had the air of somefrightened creature approaching his master. Yet all that was visible ofthe despot who ruled his whole household in deadly fear was the kindlyand beautiful face of an elderly man, whose stunted limbs and body weremercifully concealed. He sat in a little carriage, with a rug drawnclosely across his chest and up to his armpits. His beautifully shapedhands were exposed, and his face; nothing else. His hair was a silverywhite; his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colourless. Hiseyes were a soft shade of blue. His features were so finely cut andchiselled that they resembled some exquisite piece of statuary. Hesmiled as his nephew came slowly towards him. One might almost havefancied that the young man's abject state was a source of pleasure tohim.

  "So you are back again, my dear Gerald. A pleasant surprise, indeed, butwhat is the meaning of it? And what of my little commission, eh?"

  The young man's face was dark and sullen. He spoke quickly but withoutany sign of eagerness or interest in the information he vouchsafed.

  "The storm has stopped all the trains," he said. "The boat did not crosslast night, and in any case I couldn't have reached Harwich. As for yourcommission, I travelled down from London alone with the man you told meto spy upon. I could have stolen anything he had if I had been used tothe work. As it was--I brought the man himself."

  Mr. Fentolin's delicate fingers played with the handle of his chair.The smile had passed from his lips. He looked at his nephew in gentlebewilderment.

  "My dear boy," he protested, "come, come, be careful what you aresaying. You have brought the man himself! So far as my informationgoes, Mr. John P. Dunster is charged with a very important diplomaticcommission. He is on his way to Cologne, and from what I know about theman, I think that it would require more than your persuasions to inducehim to break off his journey. You do not really wish me to believe thatyou have brought him here as a guest?"

  "I was at Liverpool Street Station last night," Gerald declared. "I hadno idea how to accost him, and as to stealing any of his belongings, Icouldn't have done it. You must hear how fortune helped me, though. Mr.Dunster missed the train; so did I--purposely. He ordered a special.I asked permission to travel with him. I told him a lie as to how I hadmissed the train. I hated it, but it was necessary."

  Mr. Fentolin nodded approvingly.

  "My dear boy," he said, "to trifle with the truth is always unpleasant.Besides, you are a Fentolin, and our love of truth is proverbial. Butthere are times, you know, when for the good of others we must sacrificeour scruples. So you told Mr. Dunster a falsehood."

  "He let me travel with him," Gerald continued. "We were all nightgetting about half-way here. Then--you know about the storm, I suppose?"

  Mr. Fentolin spread out his hands.

  "Could one avoid the knowledge of it?" he asked. "Such a sight has neverbeen seen."

  "We found we couldn't get to Harwich," Gerald went on. "They telegraphedto London and got permission to bring us to Yarmouth. We were on our wayto Norwich, and the train ran off the line."

  "An accident?" Mr. Fentolin exclaimed.

  Gerald nodded.

  "Our train ran off the line and pitched down an embankment. Mr. Dunsterhas concussion of the brain. He and I were taken to a miserable littleinn near Wymondham. From there I hired a motor-car and brought himhere."

  "You hired a motor-car and brought him here," Mr. Fentolin repeatedsoftly. "My dear boy--forgive me if I find this a little hard tounderstand. You say that you have brought him here. Had he nothing tosay about it?"

  "He was unconscious when we picked him up," Gerald explained. "Heis unconscious now. The doctor said he would remain so for at leasttwenty-four hours, and it didn't seem to me that the journey would dohim any particular harm. The roof had been stripped off the inn wherewe were, and the place was quite uninhabitable, so we should have hadto have moved him somewhere. We put him in the tonneau of the car andcovered him up. They have carried him now into a bedroom, and Sarson islooking after him."

  Mr. Fentolin sat quite silent. His eyes blinked once or twice, and therewas a curious curve about his lips.

  "You have done well, my boy," he pronounced slowly. "Your scheme ofbringing him here sounds a little primitive, but success justifieseverything."

  Mr. Fentolin raised to his lips and blew softly a little gold whistlewhich hung from a chain attached to his waistcoat. Almost immediatelythe door opened. A man entered, dressed somberly in black, whose bearingand demeanour alike denoted the servant, but whose physique was thephysique of a prize-fighter. He was scarcely more than five feet six inheight, but his shoulders were extraordinarily broad. He had a short,bull neck and long, mighty arms. His face, with the heavy jaw and smalleyes, was the face of the typical fighting man, yet his features seemedto have become disposed by habit into an expression of gentle, almostservile civility.

  "Meekins," Mr. Fentolin said, "a visitor has arrived. Do you happen tohave noticed what luggage he brought?"

  "There is one small dressing-case, sir," the man replied; "nothing elsethat I have seen."

  "That is all we brought," Gerald interposed.

  "You will bring the dressing-case here at once," Mr. Fentolin directed,"and also my compliments to Doctor Sarson, and any pocket-book or paperswhich may help us to send a message to the gentleman's friends."

  Meekins closed the door and departed. Mr. Fentolin turned back towardshis nephew.

  "My dear boy," he said, "tell me why you look as though there wereghosts flitting about the room? You are not ill, I trust?"

  "Tired, perhaps," Gerald answered shortly. "We were many hours in thecar. I have had no sleep."

  Mr. Fentolin's face was full of kindly sympathy.

  "My dear fellow," he exclaimed, "I am selfish, indeed! I should not havekept you here for a moment. You had better go and lie down."

  "I'll go directly," Gerald promised. "Can I speak to you for one momentfirst?"

  "Speak to me," Mr. Fentolin repeated, a little wonderingly. "My dearGerald, is there ever a moment when I am not wholly at your service?"

  "That fellow Dunster, on the platform, the first moment I spoke to him,made me feel like a cur," the boy said, with a sudden access of vigourin his tone. "I told him I was on my way to a golf tournament, and hepointed to the news about the war. Is it true, uncle, that we may be atwar at any moment?"

  Mr. Fentolin sighed.

  "A terrible reflection, my dear boy," he admitted softly, "but, alas!the finger of probability points that way."

  "Then what about me?" Gerald exclaimed. "I don't want to complain, butlisten. You dragged me home from a public school before I could evenjoin my cadet corps. You've kept me banging around here with a tutor.You wouldn't let me go to the university. You've stopped my enteringeither of the services. I am nineteen years old and useless. Do you knowwhat I should do to-morrow if war broke out? Enlist! It's the only thingleft for me."

  Mr. Fentolin was shocked.

  "My dear boy!" he exclaimed. "You must not talk like that! I am quitesure that it would break your mother's heart. Enlist, indeed! Nothing ofthe sort. You are part of the civilian population of the country."

  "Civilian population be d----d!" the boy suddenly cried, white with rage."Uncle, forgive me, I have stood all I can bear. If you won't let me goin for the army--I could pass my exams to-morrow--I'm off. I'll enlistwithout waiting for the war. I can't bear this idle life any longer."

  Mr. Fentolin leaned a little forward in his chair.

  "Gerald!" he said softly.

  The boy turned his head, turned it unwillingly. He had the air ofa caged anima
l obeying the word of his keeper. A certain savageuncouthness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few minutes.There was something almost like a snarl in his expression.

  "Gerald!" Mr. Fentolin repeated.

  Then it was obvious that there was something between those two, somememory or some living thing, seldom, if ever, to be spoken of, and yetalways present. The boy began to tremble.

  "You're a little overwrought, Gerald," Mr. Fentolin declared. "Sitquietly in my easy-chair for a few moments. Wait until I have examinedMr. Dunster's belongings. Ah! Meekins has been prompt, indeed."

  There was a stealthy tap at the door. Meekins entered with the smalldressing-case in his hand. He brought it over to his master's chair. Mr.Fentolin pointed to the floor.

  "Open it there, Meekins," he directed. "I fancy that the pocket-book youare carrying will prove more interesting. We will just glance throughthe dressing-case first. Thank you. Yes, you can lay the things upon thefloor. A man of Spartan-like life, I should imagine Mr. Dunster. Aspare toothbrush, though, I am glad to see. Pyjamas of most unattractivepattern. And what a taste in shirts! Nothing but wearing apparel andsingularly little of that, I fancy."

  The dressing-case was empty, its contents upon the floor. Mr. Fentolinheld out his hand and took the pocket-book which Meekins had beencarrying. It was an ordinary morocco affair, similar to those issued byAmerican banking houses to enclose letters of credit. One side of it wasfilled with notes. Mr. Fentolin withdrew them and glanced them through.

  "Dear me!" he murmured. "No wonder our friend engages special trains! Hetravels like a prince, indeed. Two thousand pounds, or near it, in thislittle compartment. And here, I see, a letter, a sealed letter with noaddress."

  He held it out in front of him. It was a long commercial envelope ofordinary type, and although the flap was secured with a blob of sealingwax, there was no particular impression upon it.

  "We can match this envelope, I think," Mr. Fentolin said softly. "Theseal we can copy. I think that, for the sake of others, we must discoverthe cause for this hurried journey on the part of Mr. John P. Dunster."

  With his long, delicate forefinger Mr. Fentolin slit the envelope andwithdrew the single sheet of paper which it contained. There werea dozen lines of written matter, and what appeared to be a dozensignatures appended. Mr. Fentolin read it, at first with ordinaryinterest. Then a change came. The look of a man drawn out of himself,drawn out of all knowledge of his surroundings or his present state,stole into his face. Literally he became transfixed. The delicatefingers of his left hand gripped the sides of his little carriage.His eyes shone as though those few written lines upon which they wereriveted were indeed some message from an unknown, an unimagined world.Yet no word ever passed his lips. There came a time when the tensionseemed a little relaxed. With fingers which still trembled, he folded upthe sheet and replaced it in the envelope. He guarded it with bothhis hands and sat quite still. Neither Gerald nor his servant moved.Somehow, the sense of Mr. Fentolin's suppressed excitement seemed tohave become communicated to them. It was a little tableau, broken atlast by Mr. Fentolin himself.

  "I should like," he said, turning to Gerald, "to be alone. It mayinterest you to know that this document which Mr. Dunster has broughtacross the seas, and which I hold in my hands, is the most amazingmessage of modern times."

  Gerald rose to his feet.

  "What are you going to do about it?" he asked abruptly. "Do you want anyone in from the telegraph room?"

  Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly.

  "At present," he announced, "I am going to reflect. Meekins, my chairto the north window--so. I am going to sit here," he went on, "and I amgoing to look across the sea and reflect. A very fortunate storm, afterall, I think, which kept Mr. John P. Dunster from the Harwich boat lastnight. Leave me, Gerald, for a time. Stand behind my chair, Meekins, andsee that no one enters."

  Mr. Fentolin sat in his chair, his hands still gripping the wonderfuldocument, his eyes travelling over the ocean now flecked with sunlight.His eyes were fixed upon the horizon. He looked steadily eastward.