Chapter II

Mr. Bathurst Receives a Distinguished Visitor

Anthony Bathurst propped the letter against the side of the matutinal coffee-pot and read it carefully for the fourth time since he had received it less than half an hour before. As he finished it he grimaced deliberately and removed the brown top of his second egg somewhat absent-mindedly. The letter and envelope were of heavy cream-laid notepaper—extremely strong and stiff. The heading was “Hotel Florizel, W.” The letter read as follows: “There will call upon you to-day—between 11.30 and 12 o’clock—a gentleman who desires to lay before you a matter of urgent and peculiar importance. Besides this importance it possesses an exceedingly delicate significance which will entail your strictest discretion. This gentleman, who is also the writer of this letter, is aware—upon unimpeachable authority—that in this last respect you may be thoroughly relied upon inasmuch as your unique ability is matched by your tact and integrity. Your services in any circumstances, will be handsomely rewarded—particularly so in the event of your bringing the affair in question to a successful conclusion. The writer thoroughly understands that it is not your practice to undertake work of this kind professionally—yet hopes to awaken your interest in his case sufficiently intensely for you to render him the assistance he requires.”

“H’m,” grunted Anthony. “He does, does he?” He pushed his plate on one side, pulled at his top lip and lit a cigarette. “I wonder who’s been singing my praises to this gentleman who writes so enigmatically? I can hardly suppose that he has had any immediate connection with Scotland Yard that has caused him to run across Detective-Inspector Goodall—and I haven’t heard that Baddeley has reached the Metropolis yet—still—after all—it’s a small world and sometimes people link up quite unexpectedly.” He looked at his watch. It showed the time at half-past nine. “Two hours before my unknown caller arrives.” He walked to the bookcase and took down what he always described as his “Encyclopædia of London.” Turning to the section dealing with hotels—he found the “Florizel” and rapidly read through the particulars given. The tariff was extremely high—in every particular—and it quickly became obvious to him that the hotel concerned could only be within the range of the comparatively wealthy. He took the letter from the table again—and gave it yet another close inspection. The paper was not the hotel notepaper, the address “Hotel Florizel, W.” having been written at the top by the writer of the letter. He held the notepaper up to the light—without tangible reward. The writing was firm and bold—somewhat florid in style and letter-formation—yet withal—the writing of an educated man. If it had any special feature it lay in the somewhat ornate formation of the capital letters. The three “T’s” the “B,” and the “Y”—looked un-English somehow. There was an ornamentation about them that gave Anthony much food for consideration. “‘German,’ in my opinion,” he murmured to himself after a moment or two, “possibly a German professor who has mislaid his science notebook containing the recipe for diamond-making. That would account for the heavy demands to be made upon my powers of discretion! Still—I’m making a mistake theorising with precious little data to build upon. I’ll go for a stroll till the time comes for me to receive my mysterious client.” He put on his hat and went out. He was a firm believer in as much walking exercise as was humanly possible, as a sure means to physical fitness. In his case physical fitness coincided completely with mental fitness; he was a splendid example of the “_Mens sana_” doctrine.

At twenty minutes to twelve—or to be absolutely accurate—at eleven-thirty-eight, Bathurst heard a car draw up outside his flat. He quickly walked to the window that commanded the street and looked down. “Rolls-Royce, eh,” he said to himself, “I’m moving in more illustrious circles than ever.” A minute or two later there came a rather peremptory tap upon the door of his room.

“Come in,” he called. His visitor entered at the invitation.

“Have I the pleasure to address Mr. Anthony Bathurst?” he interrogated.

“You have,” replied that gentleman—indicating the arm-chair with a graceful gesture—“won’t you sit down?”

The visitor hesitated for a moment—then accepted the proffered seat. Mr. Bathurst waited imperturbably for him to continue the proceedings. This was a habit of Mr. Bathurst—he generally found it profitable. After a second or two that seemed to suggest a certain amount of uneasiness the caller looked across at Anthony and proceeded.

“Before I state my case, Mr. Bathurst,” he remarked with an air that may be best described as one of dignified arrogance—“I should like to preface it with the information that it is my intention to conceal from you my real identity—it will make no appreciable difference as far as I can see, to your handling of the case—and it will be a precaution that will serve to protect many highly-influential interests. To you, I should prefer to be known as Mr. Lucius,” he paused as he uttered the name, as though to divine if possible the effect of his announcement upon the man who listened. Save for a slight suspicion of the guttural, his English was as faultless as his dress. The lounge-suit he wore, unmistakably betokened the craft of Savile Row—whilst his shoes, socks, tie and collar were in complete harmony and equally irreproachable taste. Mr. Bathurst smiled.

“In that case then,” he said softly, walking again to the window, “I shall be in a position to continue—almost immediately—a most interesting little brochure that I have here, upon the habits of that particular Nematoid worm believed to be the cause of Trichiniasis.”

A bright colour flooded the cheeks of the visitor and the strong line of his jaw set even more strongly and rigidly. He half-rose to his feet from the luxurious depths of Mr. Bathurst’s arm-chair, and a wave of anger took possession of his features. Only momentarily—however. He sat down again; then with a strong effort succeeded in controlling himself. “I am to understand, then,” he declared with considerable hauteur, “that you decline to accept my case?”

“Under those conditions,” replied Mr. Bathurst in honeyed tones, “most certainly!”

“Nothing, I presume, that I could offer you in the shape of an inducement would persuade you to take a different view of the matter?” The suggestion came with an undoubted amount of eagerness.

“I am quite unable to contradict you,” responded Mr. Bathurst.

His visitor allowed an exclamation of impatience to escape his lips—then rose again from his chair and paced the room nervously. For a brief period there was silence.

“You will see, I am sure,” continued Anthony, “that it would be worse than useless for me to undertake a case—with any hope of bringing it to a successful conclusion—if the identity of my principal were to be a secret from me. It is tantamount to asking me to fight somebody with one hand tied behind my back.”

His visitor paused in his pacing—abruptly; then wheeled round upon Anthony with a vehement gesture.

“You are right,” he declared impulsively, “I ask your pardon, it was wrong of me to consider even, such a possibility. Wrong—and equally foolish! I quite understand that in dealing with a case of this kind—complete confidence must exist between principal and agent.” He thought for a moment—then went on. “After all, I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed.” Anthony waved him to the arm-chair again and pulled up the chair opposite for himself.

“You are aware, I know,” he said quietly, “that I am not a professional inquiry agent. Your letter this morning told me as much. At the same time I shall be pleased to hear your story, and if at all possible, to help you in the matter. Consider me at your service.”

His companion inclined his head—then raised it again and looked Bathurst directly in the eyes. “It may interest you to know, Mr. Bathurst,” he commenced, “that you have been addressing The Crown Prince of Clorania.”

Anthony accepted the intimation with becoming reserve. “I am honoured,” he murmured. His Royal Highness went on quickly:

“I am not sure whether you are a close student of European history. That fact, perhaps, is somewhat beside the point. Let it be sufficient for the moment for me to tell you that in December next I am marrying the Princess Imogena of Natalia. This union, it is confidently believed by all who are competent to judge, will bind Clorania and Natalia, in an irrevocable alliance. It is also, I may inform you, a love-match.” He coughed, looked at his hearer, then continued—without stopping to hear any comments that were tolerably certain in his own opinion to be superfluous and beside the point. “The Princess is as charming as she is beautiful and I may tell you that she is considered by many excellent judges to be one of the six most beautiful girls in Europe. In other words she is worthy of me, and I am bound to regard myself as very fortunate to have won the hand of so fair a bride. There are many also who think that the Princess herself has been equally fortunate—and I, for one—ahem—will not contest that opinion.”

Once again he cast a shrewdly-quick glance in Anthony’s direction only to discover thereby that his story was being received with impassive attention. When he chose, Mr. Bathurst’s face could be supremely enigmatic. He chose at this moment! The result was that the Crown Prince seemed less sure of himself than ever.

“What I have to say now is not at all easy for me. In fact I am quite prepared to admit that I find it extremely difficult. The Reigning House of Natalia, I need hardly tell you, would not tolerate for one moment a marriage for their only daughter, with a Prince whose ‘shield was not stainless’—like the Tunstall of your wonderful literature. Her husband must be ‘_sans peur et sans reproche_’ and his blood of the very purest. They favoured my suit from the first—fulfilling as I did these vitally necessary obligations. Judge of my annoyance then, Mr. Bathurst to find myself the recipient of these most insufferable letters, which I will confess, it was not my original intention to show you.” He took from his breast-pocket a packet of letters. “There are five of them in all and they date from nine weeks ago until now—the latest you will observe according to the post-mark on the envelope is dated June 22nd—a week ago. Perhaps you would read this last one, first of all.”

Anthony extended his hand for the letter in question. “Westhampton post-mark,” he observed—scrutinising the somewhat blurred stamp on the envelope. His visitor nodded in agreement. Anthony took out the letter itself. It was undated and bore no address. He read it. The handwriting spoke of education and culture. “The disinclination of His Royal Highness to reply to the four letters that he has already received is neither to his credit nor will it be to his advantage. At this period of negotiations he should realise that the writer is not penning these communications simply ‘_pour passer le temps_’. Unless the £50,000 already demanded is forthcoming by the 9th of next month the writer will be reluctantly compelled to add yet another Royal personage to his circle of epistolary acquaintance—the Princess Imogena of Natalia. But he assures His Royal Highness that the course of conduct thus indicated would occasion him extreme regret. His Royal Highness is fully aware that he is still allowed to choose his own method of transmitting the required sum—provided that such method is communicated to the writer through the ‘Agony Column’ of the ‘Times.’” Bathurst wrinkled his brows, “This doesn’t tell me all,” he exclaimed. “May I look at the first letter of the series?” He extended his hand. The Crown Prince looked through his packet of envelopes and handed over the required letter. “Tranfield post-mark this time,” declared Anthony. “What date is this?” He looked at the post-mark very carefully. “April twenty-third—‘Tranfield.’ Let me think for a moment—Tranfield is only a few miles from Westhampton, I fancy.”

“You are right,” replied his Royal visitor, “nine—to be precise.”

The opening letter of the batch was much less shadowy—and far more to the point. “My dear Crown Prince,” it ran with cavalier camaraderie, “you are entering the matrimonial state next December. That is to say—perhaps—for ‘there’s many a slip!’ What would the Princess Imogena of Natalia say to a full story of your disgraceful ‘_affaire_’ of the last year or so with a certain lady, whose identity for the time being need not be disclosed. However, my gay and gallant lover, there is no especial need for uneasiness on your part. £50,000 will seal eternally my rosebud lips.” Similar directions to those in the letter that Anthony had just previously read were laid down concerning the transmission of the money. Bathurst looked at his client with judicial thoughtfulness.

“Far be it from me,” he murmured, “to trespass on Your Highness’s—shall we say—confidence”—he tapped the letter with his forefinger interrogatively . . . waiting quietly—yet with determination. Mr. Bathurst was nothing, if not delicate in affairs of this nature.

A dull red colour suffused the cheeks of the Crown Prince. “I am a man,” he declared with a touch of petulant anger in his tone, “who has always proved a strong and irresistible attraction to the opposite sex. But believe me, I am no Lothario. This incident—for I have no doubt in my mind that I know the ‘_affaire_’ to which reference is made here—was perhaps unfortunate but certainly cannot with truth be termed ‘disgraceful.’ The lady and I parted upon perfectly agreeable terms some months ago now and upon that happening I imagined that the incident was permanently closed. I trust that you will not find it necessary to ask the lady’s name. I am a man of honour.”

Anthony pulled at his lip. “Are there any—er—documentary indiscretions relative to the affair still in existence?”

The Prince moved uneasily in his chair. “The lady may have kept the letters,” he responded, “women are notoriously careless in these matters.”

“Anything else?” queried Anthony.

“There was a photograph,” replied His Highness, lamely.

“Of you?”

“Of the two of us—taken together—unfortunately.”

“Dear me,” ventured Anthony, “how indiscreet of you—that does complicate matters, to be sure!” He held out his hand for the three remaining letters and read each one through with care. “These three bear the London post-mark, I notice,” he declared, “there’s nothing to help me much there, Your Highness! Westhampton and Tranfield as we agreed, are adjoining. It is quite feasible therefore that the starting-point of our investigation may lie in that district. Have you any reason to believe that this may be so? Possibly, if you are frank, you can help me.”

His visitor hesitated a moment or two before framing his reply. “Mr. Bathurst,” he declared, “I want you to ferret out this dirty blackmailer and put matters right for me. I realise therefore that it is incumbent upon me to be _quite_ frank. In reply to your question then—as to whether I can help you. I have only been to Westhampton once in my life. That was a year ago last February. I attended the Hunt Ball there—but my incognito was strictly maintained. To Tranfield I have never been!”

Anthony went straight to the point. “Did the lady in question accompany you?”

“No,” replied the Crown Prince, “she did not. But I——” he stopped—seemingly at a momentary loss for words.

“Was she there?” asked Anthony, quick to seize the point. The Crown Prince bowed his head in assent. “It would appear then—that, as I foreshadowed—the root of the matter lies at Westhampton? Do you agree?” He eye the Crown Prince with intentness.

“It may—very possibly,” came the answer. “On the other hand it may be merely a coincidence. I visited many more places with the lady than Westhampton—as I stated, I have only been in that particular place once.”

“You may be right, of course,” conceded Anthony. “Where was the photograph taken?”

“At Seabourne—last summer.”

“By——?”

“A gentleman who was staying in the same hotel. With my own camera. He obliged me by taking it. It was a wish of the lady.”

“Can you recollect this gentleman’s name?”

The Crown Prince of Clorania frowned as though he found the questions distasteful and disconcerting. “I think it was a Captain Willoughby. I’m not altogether sure. Naturally I wasn’t taking a prominent part in the social life of the hotel at the time.”

“What was the name of the Hotel?”

“The Cassandra.”

“Your Highness still desires to keep the identity of the lady a secret?”

“I have no option.”

“Very well,” said Anthony. “Leave these letters with me and I will do my best for you. Firstly, however, will you permit me to make a suggestion?”

“Yes, certainly!”

“Set a trap for your unknown correspondent. Lure him into it—then leave him to the tender mercies of Scotland Yard.”

The Crown Prince shook his head. “I’ve thought of that, but I fear the consequences. Some of the story would be certain to become public. I cannot afford it to. I must avoid that at all costs.”

“Pay the sum demanded, then,” ventured Anthony.

“Fifty thousand pounds?” exclaimed his client in amazement, anger conflicting with incredulity in his voice. “You must be unaware of my very limited resources. Comparatively speaking, Mr. Bathurst, I am a poor man.”

“You will give me ‘_carte blanche_’ naturally?” said Anthony.

“As long as you maintain the strictest secrecy—you may act in whatever way you choose. Personally, I shall let nothing stand in my way. And if you are successful—rest assured that your services will never be forgotten. I am a Vilnberg—we have long memories for those who serve us well. Only remember—time is getting short. December is not so very far ahead.”

He bowed, turned pompously and Anthony heard his decisive step descending the stairs.

Walking to the window, Bathurst watched the magnificently-liveried chauffeur open the door of the car—usher his master to his seat therein with perfect obsequiousness, then drive off quickly and almost noiselessly. With a semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders Anthony returned to his desk. Then he read through the five threatening letters again—with even more care and attention than before. After a little time thus expended, one fact began to stand out clearly from the correspondence and make a deep impression upon his mind. The threats contained in the letters were all indefinite—limited to the “telling of a story,” to “forwarding information of a most interesting and important nature,” “to acquainting a certain Royal lady with highly-important facts,” “to extending a circle of epistolary acquaintance.” He was unable to find any mention whatever of the possession for instance, of such a definite thing as a photograph—also there was no hint of the existence of compromising letters. “Seems to me,” muttered Anthony to himself, “that the strongest weapon this letter-writing gentleman possesses is the Crown Prince’s conscience—and he probably knows it.” He reached down for his A.B.C. and quickly flicked the pages for Westhampton. Then he turned back to Tranfield, which place he discovered was served at intervals by a local train service from Westhampton. “I can’t run down before next Friday,” he said to himself after consulting his diary, “it’s impossible for me to touch it till then.” He filled the bowl of his pipe and watched the flame of the match curl fiercely round the brown shreds of tobacco, “What happened exactly,” he asked himself, “at the Hunt Ball at Westhampton a year ago last February?”