The Honourable Algernon Knox, Detective E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

This is a very clever collection of linked stories by E. Phillips Oppenheim written in 1913. Algernon Knox, pretty young, dapper, seemingly silly, has failed at everything. Although wealthy, he fails when he stands for parliament. By chance he becomes involved in a blackmail against his uncle, who is a diplomat. Knox foils the plot, and a new career is born, the gentleman detective. In some ways, the young man carries out increasingly dangerous and cleaver missions against criminals and foreign spies. Haunted by the beautiful but foreign Adele de Hagon, Knox finds his career and fortunes on the rise. An enjoyable read!

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE INDISCRETION OF LORD TAMWORTH

II. THE MAN WHO DISAPPEARED

III. THE TRAGEDY AT NO. 16 HENDON STREET

IV. THE FRENCH CIPHER CASE

V. THE AMAZING AFFAIR OF MISS DE HAGON AND THE AUSTRIAN ENVOY

VI. THE REMARKABLE DISAPPEARANCE OF JOHN GRINEN

VII. MISS DE HAGON'S INFORMATION

VIII. THE UNHAPPY LADY

IX. THE INCONSIDERATE TRAVELLERS

X. THE DOMINANT KNOX

XI. THE TREASURE OF COUNT DEL BUTOLANNI

XII. THE SERIOUS DILEMMA OF MR. HOGGE

I. THE INDISCRETION OF LORD TAMWORTH

THE Honourable Algernon Knox strolled from his uncle’s house in Grosvenor Square to Piccadilly, and entered his club in a very bad temper. He summoned one of his friends to join him at the small luncheon-table which he had selected, with a gesture which was almost peremptory.

“Hullo, Algy!” his friend remarked, as he seated himself. “What’s wrong? I perceive a cloud upon your seraphic countenance.”

The Honourable Algernon laid down the menu which he had been studying. “Everything is wrong,” he declared firmly. “Look at me.”

His friend obeyed him literally. An expression of gentle sympathy overspread his features. “I am doing it, old chap,” he said. “Tell me when I can leave off. What is it you want to know?”

“Do I or do I not look like a fool?” the Honourable Algernon Knox demanded portentously.

His vis-à-vis sighed. “Without going so far as to make a definite statement, Algy,” he said, “I would yet feel inclined to swear upon my oath–that you’re not such a fool as you look.”

Algernon Knox rose deliberately to his feet and walked to a mirror at the further end of the room, where he stood for a moment as though his object were to rearrange his tie. He was a young man of not uncommon type–tall, inclined to be pale, with rather large, blue eyes, a budding brown mustache, and a forehead which certainly did recede a little, an effect which was perhaps heightened by his carefully brushed-back hair. His features might have been called pleasant, but they might also have been called vapid. There was nothing about him which denoted intellectuality.

He returned to his seat.

“Sammy,” he announced, “I am about sick of it!”

His friend, who was hungry and whose mouth was full, nodded sympathetically.

“We all feel like that sometimes,” he remarked, as soon as circumstances permitted him.

“Every one of my asinine relatives,” Algernon Knox continued, “seems to have his knife into me. I begin to think that it must be my unfortunate appearance. I have been down, as you know, into Staffordshire. Tried to get into Parliament. Not an earthly chance! Got the knock from the first start.”

“Had to read a newspaper one day in the train,” Sammy Forde confessed. “I read you weren’t exactly a hit there.”

“Nature,” Algernon Knox insisted firmly, “never meant me to stand up and address a lot of yokels and tradespeople. It never gave me the knack of explaining to them things I don’t understand myself, nor any other fellow. I suppose I made a mull of it. But what knocked me was that the newspapers on the other side, instead of attacking my politics, all the time made fun of me. They ridiculed my clothes, although I tried them in everything except my pyjamas and evening kit. They ridiculed my speeches, although I never said a word that the agent hadn’t written out for me. Then when I came back, my venerated uncle goes for me. I’ve just had it out with him. ‘In our younger days,’ he said pompously, ‘the fool of the family entered the Church. Nowadays, we can’t even get him into Parliament!’”

“Oh, that was nasty!” his friend admitted, shaking his head. “Cheerful old bluffer, your uncle.”

“I have made up my mind,” Algernon Knox declared firmly, “to treat my family–for the present, at any rate–coolly. I will take no more advice from any of them. I will not enter Parliament; I shall think no more of the diplomatic service, and if I am a fool, I am not bally fool enough to go among the sharks on the stock exchange. I will not sell wine or cigarettes, nor will I engage myself out as a gentleman chauffeur.”

Sammy Forde nodded sympathetically.

“Quite right to take a firm stand, Algy,” he agreed, “but what about your allowance? Isn’t that in your uncle’s hands until you are twenty-five?”

“It is,” Algernon Knox assented. “Furthermore, the silly old ass declared his intention this morning of reducing it by half.”

“Then what will you do?” Sammy Forde asked.

“If we should happen to meet this evening,” Algernon Knox replied, “I may tell you. I am going a little way into the country, and I am going to think.”

Samuel Forde whistled softly.

“Milan Grill-Room for supper, I suppose?”

“I am not sure,” Algernon Knox answered. “Some of these habits of ours become almost a tyranny. I may go to Imano’s.”

His friend stared at him blankly. “By Jove, Algy,” he remarked, “you are in earnest! New leaf altogether, eh?”

“You wait!” was the significant reply. . . .

“HALF an hour later, in his small one-seated motor-car, shaped like a torpedo, grey, and close-hung to the ground, Algernon Knox sped off into the country. Mile after mile the machine seemed to eat up, and all the time he sat with the steering-wheel in his hand, thinking.

“Damned hard luck on anyone,” he muttered more than once, “to have all these silly professions shoved down one’s throat because one happens to have an uncle who’s an earl and a cabinet minister, and a father who led the House of Lords! I hate politics, anyway.”

The remainder of his reflections were obscured by an incident for which he was scarcely to blame. It was on his homeward way, when he was still about thirty-five miles from London and the light was beginning to fail, that he crashed into a motor-car emerging from an avenue on the wrong side of the road. His next recollection was of coming to himself in a most charmingly furnished sitting-room, with the strangest-looking woman he had ever seen in his life bending over the easy-chair in which he was reclining.

“You are better?” she asked anxiously, speaking very slowly and with a distinctly foreign accent.

He sat up and looked around him in dazed fashion.

“You ran into my motor-car,” she explained. “My man admits that he was on the wrong side. Please do not worry. Sit here quietly for a little time. If you would like to let your friends know, there is the telephone.”

“Awfully good of you,” he said. “I don’t think I’m hurt at all.”

“I do not think that you are,” she agreed. “Perhaps–do you think that in half an hour you would be well enough to go? Your car is uninjured.”

It was not only her words but a strange sort of anxiety, traces of which he seemed to see in her face, which puzzled him. He looked at her more closely. She was intensely pale, with eyes which at first had seemed black, but which now he saw to be blue. Her eyelashes were very long, her eyebrows black and silky. Her hair was arranged in an unusual manner. At first he had thought her too thin. Now, as she bent over the easy-chair a little, he found her figure perfection. But her face puzzled him. It was like a painting he had seen somewhere.

“I’m awfully sorry if I’m in the way at all,” he faltered. “I am quite sure I’ll be able to leave in half an hour.”

"I’m awfully sorry if I’m in the way at all,” Knox faltered.”

She seemed a little troubled.

“It isn’t that I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured softly. “It’s really only for your own sake. I have some people coming down shortly. The house will be full–they might make a noise. You ought to be quiet.”

“Say the word,” he begged, “and I’ll go. Queer thing how my head buzzes. Could I have a brandy and soda, do you think?”

She pointed to a table. “You see, I had heaps of things brought in. I will mix one for you.”

He watched her at her task. Her fingers were slim and white, but, to his mind, overmanicured and overloaded with rings. As she handed him the tumbler, he suddenly changed his mind about her, as many others in the world had done before him. She was beautiful. Her lips, even if they were thin, were scarlet and shapely. Yet he knew that she was no ordinary woman. She was either very cruel or–she caught him looking at her and smiled. He decided that she was not cruel at all, and rose to his feet.

“You would like to telephone?” she asked, pointing to the instrument.

He shook his head. “May I ask your name?” he suggested.

She hesitated. “Tell me yours first?” she suggested.

“Knox–Algernon Knox. By the bye,” he added suddenly, “do you think that I look like a fool?”

She was a little startled. Then she laughed at him. When she laughed, she was charming. “Why do you ask me so foolish a question?”

“It’s like this,” he explained, sitting up. “My uncle’s got some clever sons and he’s awfully proud of them–bar, army, and Parliament, you know–all doing well. I’ve just tried to get into Parliament, and failed. They said I couldn’t speak and that I lacked intelligence. When I tried for the diplomatic service, it was about the same. They told me my appearance was against me. Seems to me there’s nothing you can do in this world unless you’ve got what they call a thoughtful face and piercing eyes.”

She laughed heartily.

“If only you had brains,” she remarked, “you could certainly make your fortune as a diplomatist. Those beautiful eyes of yours, and that gently inquiring expression....”

“Then you do think I look a fool?” he interrupted.

“To be candid,” she declared, “you do not look as though you were over-burdened with brains. You look as though you could ride and shoot, and make love to theatrical young ladies like a great many other young English gentlemen. But–”

“You needn’t go on,” he interrupted again, this time a little huffily. “By the bye, I’ve told you my name. What about yours?”

She had drawn a little back. She raised her hands suddenly above her head, her lips parted. Her poise seemed suddenly familiar. She glanced at him expectantly.

“Vera Custeneiff!” he exclaimed.

“The Princess Vera Custeneiff,” she corrected.

He made her a little bow. “Madame,” he said, “I have worshiped from a distance for a long time. I offer you my homage. Every opera-goer in London is your slave.”

She smiled. “For a foolish young man,” she murmured, “you express yourself rather well. Hush!”

Her fingers had suddenly gripped his arm. There was the sound of a motor-horn in the avenue. Something very much like fear blanched her face.

“It is my uncle, Baron Ernstoff!” she exclaimed. “He is bringing a friend down with him.”

“You wish me to go?” he suggested.

“Do you mind?” she begged. “My uncle is very sensitive about my being on the stage. He visits here only occasionally. He would dislike very much to be seen here.”

“Tell me exactly what you would like me to do and I will do it,” he promised.

There was a loud ringing at the front-door bell. Her fingers tightened upon his arm. Her agitation was unmistakable.

“Wait here, please,” she begged. “Wait here until you hear us all in the next room. Then leave the house by the front door. You will find your car in the stable-yard. And farewell!”

“It is permitted, then, never to return?” he asked, a little ruefully.

She shook her head. “I do not receive visitors, sir!”

She flashed a farewell glance at him from the door. Then she passed out into the hall. The young man steadied himself for a moment against a piece of furniture. He was still feeling a little shaken and giddy. He heard a deep voice welcoming Vera Custeneiff, a few words in a language which was strange to him, and then some reference, apparently, to a Mr. Smith, who seemed also to be present. Knox was scarcely conscious of listening. It was simply that standing there, waiting for his opportunity to depart, it was almost impossible to avoid having his attention attracted by the voices in the hall. Then suddenly he received what was certainly one of the greatest surprises he had ever had in his life. Mr. Smith spoke, and his voice was the voice of the Earl of Tamworth, cabinet minister, who, among many other social and religious distinctions, enjoyed also the privilege of being the uncle and guardian of the Honourable Algernon Knox! He was for a moment stupefied. The sense of the words he heard failed to reach him. And then, only a few feet away, the telephone bell began to ring. Almost unconsciously he took off the receiver. He had scarcely raised it to his ear, however, before the door was hastily pushed open and Vera Custeneiff entered. She reached his side with what seemed to be a single movement. She snatched the receiver from his hand.

“What do you mean?” she demanded, her eyes flashing. “How dare you!”

Knox felt the back of his head. He was still a little dizzy.

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said, “if I’ve done wrong. The beastly thing was ringing, and I was just going to answer it as though I were a servant–say I’d fetch you and that sort of thing.”

She looked at him fixedly, and her face relaxed. She smiled–he seemed so like a frightened boy.

“Close the door,” she directed. “I was an idiot.”

He obeyed promptly. It was quite impossible to avoid overhearing her conversation. After the first sentence she spoke in French, but although his accomplishments were few indeed. French had always been one of the necessities of his existence.

“Ah, yes!... At Dover, then.... Yes, I understand. You are at Dover.... No, you must not come! It is impossible.... To-night? Dear friend, how could I?”

She was silent for a moment.

“But, dear,” she said, “this is not Paris. Whom could I ask? Whom, indeed, could I trust to perform such a service? There is no one–”

She broke off in the middle of her sentence. Her eyes were fixed upon the young man, who was vainly endeavouring to appear unconscious. She looked at him fixedly, her lips parted, her eyes bright. Compared with the men whom she had in her mind, he represented the typical nincompoop. Perhaps, after all, heaven had been kind to her!

“Supposing I can,” she went on, “supposing it were possible–how could you reach Paris?... Yes?... Ah!”

She nodded several times. Once more she looked at Knox as though fascinated by something in his expression.

“Very well,” she said at last, “I will do my best.... Yes, I understand. Not the Lord Warden; the George the Third, High Street.... Very well. If it can be done, it shall be.”

She replaced the receiver. Then she turned to Knox. “Do you understand French?” she asked.

He sighed. “Jolly little,” he replied. “Queer thing, I never seemed to be any good at languages at school, and they’re no use afterwards, nowadays. One never speaks anything but English abroad.”

She laughed softly. Then she stood, for a moment, listening. She moved across the room and held open the door. From the other side of the hall came the sound of a piano.

“I have sent them into the music-room,” she whispered. “Mr. Knox, I am going to ask you a great thing. Dare I, I wonder? She looked at him strangely. Knox was conscious that her demeanor toward him had changed. She was leaning a little forward. It was the alluring Vera Custeneiff, première danseuse in the great ballet, who smiled upon him. He played swiftly up to her altered attitude.

“Dear lady,” he declared, “there isn’t anything–upon my word, there isn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do for you. I have admired you since the first moment–”

“Yes, yes!” she interrupted. “But listen. Are you just one of these empty-headed young men who admire a woman because she has gifts; because, perhaps, she is beautiful; because she is, in her way, a personage? Or have you more character? Would you do something? Would you really do something–not easy, not pleasant–for my sake?”

“Try me,” he begged.

Once more she held open the door, for a moment, and listened. The music was still audible. “I have a friend at Dover,” she continued quickly, “a friend who, not for criminal but for political reasons, is in hiding. There is a package I want to send to him. I want him to get it to-night–or rather during the night–before morning. I want a messenger.”

“I’m your man,” he declared.

“But are you strong enough? I want some one to go quite independently, some one to go alone.”

“If my car’s all right,” he assured her, “I’ll do it.”

She held out her hands. “You mean it?”

“Upon my honour,” he promised. “When shall I start?”

“Not yet,” she whispered. “It isn’t ready yet. You must stay here and rest–not in this room. Hush!”

Once more she held open the door. The piano was silent. They could hear distinctly the voices of two men talking.

“Perhaps you had better stay here,” she decided, a little reluctantly. “There are all sorts of things to drink on the table, and cigarettes. Before you start, I will give you some dinner.”

“Couldn’t be getting along now, could I?” he suggested.

“Impossible!” she declared. “The packet isn’t ready. I want you to stay here. If you don’t mind, I want to lock the door.”

"I want you to stay here,” said Vera. “If you don’t mind, I want to lock the door.”

“The deuce!” he exclaimed uneasily.

“Simply that I don’t want either of my visitors to discover you unexpectedly,” she explained. “My uncle is very suspicious, and the friend he has brought with him pays me many attentions. He does me the honour to be jealous! If either of them found you here, they would think–they would think–”

Once more she was Vera Custeneiff, the great actress. Her eyes laughed understandingly into his.

She passed out, and he heard the key turn on the outside of the lock. Her last look was not for him. It was directed toward a little curtained alcove at the corner of the room. Knox stretched himself out. He was feeling a little dazed.

“Seems to me,” he murmured, “I’m in for a bit of an adventure. I wonder!”

He walked round the room–a very pleasant morning-room, with water-colours on the wall, a cottage piano in the corner, many easy-chairs, photographs of very distinguished people, quaint knick-knacks and ornaments, great bowls of flowers. The little recess in the corner he left till the last. He listened at the door–there was no one crossing the hall. Then he hesitated.

“I think,” he said to himself, “that in a house where my uncle poses as Mr. Smith, a little latitude is allowable.”

He pushed the screen of the recess to one side. A little mahogany instrument, with a mouthpiece which seemed to disappear through the wall into the next room stood there. He looked at it, for a moment, puzzled. Then he replaced the screen.

“Queer place, this,” he sighed, mixing a mild brandy and soda. “My head’s still buzzy. I’ll sit down for a bit.”

He threw himself into an easy-chair. Soon he heard the sound of footsteps crossing the hall. The door of the adjoining room was opened. A slight grin came into his face as he recognized Mr. Smith’s impressive voice. The words themselves were inaudible, but the tone and pitch were everything.

“Old Nunky’s going it strong!” he muttered to himself.

The voices died away and then became more distinct. Vera Custeneiff’s uncle was taking his departure. Knox heard some brief farewells. Then the great danseuse and his uncle entered the room on the other side of the folding doors. They seemed to have seated themselves close to the screened recess. Presently Knox started. A queer little purring noise, just faintly audible, reached him from behind the screen. He whistled softly. Half an hour passed, most of which time Knox spent studying the illustrated papers which he found on the table. Then he heard the opening of the door in the next room, footsteps in the hall. Almost immediately afterward, the key was turned in the door of his room. Vera Custeneiff entered quickly.

“It has seemed a long time?” she asked, with a glance toward the screen.

“Naturally,” he replied. “Do you know, I am dying of curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

“Queer sort of noise now and then from behind that screen,” he remarked–“sort of little purr. I couldn’t make out what it was.”

She laughed. “It’s a little electric massage affair,” she explained carelessly. “It’s connected with the electric wires, and very often when the lights are lit in the next room, it starts. Do you mean to tell me,” she added, “that you really were not sufficiently curious to look behind and discover for yourself what it was?”

“So jolly comfortable here,” he told her. “I was feeling a bit chippy, and with a brandy and soda and a cigarette and a paper–well, I thought I’d wait till you came.”

She smiled. “I don’t believe you’re a bit enterprising,” she declared. “You are the most typical young Englishman I ever knew.”

“Suppose we are slow starters,” he confessed, sighing.

She came over to his side. “I am not going to admit anything that isn’t nice about you,” she asserted. “As a matter of fact, I am really a little sick of clever men. Now I want you to come with me I am going to give you some dinner. Afterwards, I must start for London, and you, if you really mean it–”

“I for Dover,” he interrupted cheerfully. She led him across the hall into a small room on the other side, where a dinner-table was laid for one. A dark-faced man-servant was standing by the sideboard.

“You do not dine yourself?” Knox asked.

She shook her head. “How can one? I never eat for five hours before I dance. I have supper served in my room before I come down here. While you have your dinner, I am going to prepare the packet and change myself for town. Au revoir!”

She glided away. Knox was served with a very excellent dinner and some very wonderful wine. He was just sipping his coffee when his hostess reappeared. She was dressed from head to foot now in sables. She carried in her hand a small brown paper parcel about a foot long, tied up with string and sealed. She had become paler again. The servant, at a sign from her, disappeared.

Knox was just sipping his coffee when his hostess appeared.

“Mr. Knox,” she said, “I have been so uneasy. I do not know why I trust you with this.”

He looked at the parcel. “Of course,” he began, “if it’s anything frightfully valuable, or anything that goes off–”

She shook her head impatiently. “No, it isn’t that!” she interrupted. “Only, so much depends upon whether it reaches the hands of the person for whom it is intended, safely.”

“Oh, he’ll get it all right,” Knox declared cheerfully. “Don’t you be nervous about that.”

Again she looked at him, and as she looked she seemed to be reassured. “Believe me,” she said, “it is nothing which will get you into trouble, nothing in any way compromising. I shall trust you. Now I leave. You will follow me?”

He rose to his feet. “Had the dinner of my life,” he assured her. “I am feeling fit for a hundred-mile ride, if necessary.”

She held out her hands. Suddenly she paused to listen. The front-door bell was ringing. She held up her finger. They heard the butler’s leisurely footsteps across the hall, heard the door open and the sound of voices. She gave a little exclamation.

“Wait!” she cried. She hurried out, leaving the door open. Knox remained with the brown paper parcel a few feet away from him. In the hall he could hear the voices of the newcomers–there seemed to be two of them–excited, explanatory, amicable. All three were talking together in French. Presently Vera Custeneiff swept into the room. Her eyes were sparkling.

“Ah!” she exclaimed. “Dear friend, I shall no longer require from you that service. Two of my trusted friends are here. They feared that it might embarrass me to send the packet. They will see to it. It is finished.”

She picked up the brown paper parcel from the table before him. Knox’s face was expressionless. His eyes, however, followed it, rested upon it still as she stood there with it under her arm.

“They came down in a taxicab from town,” she explained. “My dear friend, you must come and see me at the theater some day. I will write to you. And now, good-by! Your car is at the door. I am so thankful that your accident was not more serious.”

Knox was helped into his coat by the butler. His small torpedo-shaped car was waiting outside. In front of it was Vera Custeneiff’s huge limousine, the electric lights lit inside and out, piled with white cushions, a bowl of flowers upon the table, a little temple of luxury. A few yards away was a taxicab. Vera Custeneiff had paused to speak to her two visitors.

“It is best,” Knox heard her say, “that you do not come with me. Mr. Smith is not in the least suspicious, but one never knows. One need chance nothing.”

“Best, without a doubt, dear Vera,” one of the two men replied. “You are sure–you are quite sure that there is no mistake this time about our little enterprise?”

Her reply was in a distinctly lower tone. Knox could only just catch the words. “He was absolutely unsuspicious,” she assured them. “I have always professed to take no interest at all in these matters. It was he himself who provided the opening. He believes, even now, that I am taking an interest in the situation chiefly because I read his speeches and follow his policy.”

One of the men laughed softly. “You women,” he exclaimed; “you find your way through the chinks somehow! In Paris and St. Petersburg they believe in the man–an astute and great diplomatist!”

“Hush!” she whispered. “I must go back to him now. He is impatient to start.”

Knox took his place in his car and drove very slowly down the avenue. A moment or two later, Vera Custeneiff, with his uncle by her side, shot past him and turned into the London Road, traveling at a great speed. Knox followed in her wake for a little over a mile. Then he slowed down and finally came to a standstill at the cross-roads. Straight on was the main road to London; on the left, the Canterbury and Dover Road. He carefully extinguished all his lights, and leaving his car, with the engine still going, on the extreme left-hand side of the road, stood for a moment and listened. There was no sound of any approaching vehicle. It seemed curious to him afterwards that without any conscious making up his mind, without any definite idea, even, as to his ultimate object, he was completely obsessed with one idea–the brown paper packet was to be obtained at all costs. There seemed to be no room in his mind for any other thought. The fact that he was about to commit a highway robbery never occurred to him. He walked slowly a few yards down the Dover Road and deliberately turned his short fur coat inside out. With an electric torch in his hand, which he carried always in the tool-box of his car, he stood waiting. Even in those few moments when he had nothing to do but think; it never occurred to him that his action was in any way preposterous.

The sound of the approaching taxicab became audible at last. The driver blew his horn as he reached the cross-roads. Knox stood in the middle of the road, about twenty paces down, his electric torch blazing.

“Hi!” he shouted. “Stop!”

With an exclamation from the driver and a grinding of the brakes, the taxicab came to a standstill. Knox sprang lightly to the side of the vehicle. The window was hastily pulled down. One of the two men leaned out.

“What is the matter?” he asked sharply. “What has happened? Why do you stop us like this?”

“My car’s broken down,” Knox replied. “Sorry, but I want some help.”

The man who had spoken stepped at once out on to the road. His manner was courteous but peremptory. “We are sorry,” he declared, “but it is quite impossible for us to offer you any assistance. Get on at once, driver. We will take you to Canterbury or anywhere upon the Dover Road, if you like to sit outside with the driver, but we are in a hurry.”

“So am I,” Knox replied, “so here goes!”

He tripped the man up, who had been on the point of re-entering the taxicab, and threw him rather heavily. Then, as he thrust his head and shoulders into the cab, he felt his cheek suddenly scorched and his eardrum almost broken as the fire from a pistol flashed past him. His right hand reached the throat of his assailant, however, while with his left he knocked the pistol up. In that moment of absolute confusion, he saw the brown paper packet upon the vacant seat. With a sudden movement he seized it and sprang back, just as the chauffeur, who had tumbled down from his box, intervened.

“Don’t let him get away with that!” the man called from the road, as he staggered up. “Do you hear?”

The chauffeur did his best, but he was heavy on his feet, and Knox, who had been considered a dodgy forward in his not too far distant football days, shot past him and leaped into his car. All three men were now in pursuit of him. He slipped in his second speed, and his car glided off down the hill. His pursuers gained at first. The taller man was almost within reach. He seized the back of the car. Knox, turning around, dealt his fingers a tremendous blow with the electric torch. A bullet whistled past him in the darkness, and he was more than ever thankful that he was running without lights. Another struck the back of the car, which by this time was gathering speed, and a moment later a perfect volley whizzed past him. Then, apparently, they abandoned the pursuit and returned to the taxicab. He heard the shout of one of the men.

“Fifty pounds, driver, if you catch that car!”

Knox smiled as he slipped in his fourth speed. The idea of catching him was absurd. His only trouble was that before very long he absolutely must stop to light his lamps. He slipped through the first village, which was fairly empty, surprising only one or two wayfarers by his noiseless approach. At the top of the hill on the other side he paused and sprang out. He lit his lamps with trembling fingers. In the distance he could hear the beating of the engine from the taxicab, and behind he could see it coming down the hill, the twin lights swaying from side to side of the road in dangerous fashion. He breathed a satisfied smile as he climbed once more into the driving seat. His flaring headlights showed him the road clean and bright before him. He glided smoothly off, and slackened speed only when he reached the suburbs of London.

He drove straight to the lordly mansion of his uncle, the Earl of Tamworth.

“His lordship is not in at present,” the butler told him.

Knox nodded. “I’ll wait,” he said. Knox was ushered into the library and, drawing an easy-chair up to the fire, opened the evening paper. As soon as the man had departed, however, he threw it down and undid the parcel. Its contents were soon disclosed–a brown tube of some hard, waxen material. Knox held it in his hands for a moment, a very slight smile upon his lips. Then he made his way to a corner of the study, where stood his uncle’s latest toy, a phonograph. After some time he succeeded in starting the instrument. He slipped on the cylinder he had brought, adjusted the reproducer, and waited. At first there was only a slight buzzing. Then he gave a little start. The conversation which began to unfold itself was almost uncanny in its distinctness. His uncle’s voice was quite unmistakable.

“My dear young lady–my dear Vera, since you permit it–I am glad, believe me I am glad to find that you are beginning to take some interest in my work and the problems with which we are associated day by day. In a general way, nothing gives me greater pleasure than to discuss these with you, but there are things which in my official position it is better for me to discuss with no one.”

Her little laugh was amazingly natural.

“You are so wise, so cautious. All great statesmen are like that, I know. Yet with me, how different it is. It is so little I ask. It is you who have made me curious.”

There was an inaudible sentence, and her soft laugh, then Lord Tamworth’s voice again, a trifle reluctant.

“It is true, my dear child, as you say, that we are alone, and that within a week the whole world will know the policy upon which we decided last night. Very well, I will give you its outline. Then you can follow everything which happens. You will understand my speech to-morrow night. The policy of the cabinet is to prevent France, at all costs, from joining with Russia if the latter should move against Austria. France is bound to her ally, but she is also, in a sense, dependent upon England. Our understanding with Russia is apparently a cordial one, but it is not the policy of the government to allow France to be drawn into this war, or to be drawn in herself. The reply to be given to the French ambassador on Thursday–”

Knox stopped the machine and leaned back in his chair. He heard his uncle’s ponderous footsteps outside. A moment or two later, Lord Tamworth came in, frowning slightly.

“What, here again, Algernon?” he exclaimed. “May I ask what business you can have of sufficient importance to keep you waiting around here for me? I am due at Westminster almost at once.”