“I had a theory,” said Anthony. “But it didn’t work out according to plan.”
He told Battle of Virginia’s recognition of Michael. Battle nodded his head.
“Oh, yes, no doubt as to his identity. By the way, that old Baron has a very high opinion of you. He speaks of you in most enthusiastic terms.”
“That’s very kind of him,” said Anthony. “Especially as I’ve given him full warning that I mean to do my utmost to get hold of the missing memoirs before Wednesday next.”
“You’ll have a job to do that,” said Battle.
“Y-es. You think so? I suppose King Victor and Co. have got the letters.”
Battle nodded.
“Pinched them off Giuseppe that day in Pont Street. Prettily planned piece of work, that. Yes, they’ve got ’em all right, and they’ve decoded them, and they know where to look.”
Both men were on the point of passing out of the room.
“In here?” said Anthony, jerking his head back.
“Exactly, in here. But they haven’t found the prize yet, and they’re going to run a pretty risk trying to get it.”
“I suppose,” said Anthony. “That you’ve got a plan in that subtle head of yours?”
Battle returned no answer. He looked particularly stolid and unintelligent. Then, very slowly, he winked.
“Want my help?” asked Anthony.
“I do. And I shall want someone else’s.”
“Who is that?”
“Mrs. Revel’s. You may have noticed it, Mr. Cade, but she’s a lady who has a particularly beguiling way with her.”
“I’ve noticed it all right,” said Anthony.
He glanced at his watch.
“I’m inclined to agree with you about bed, Battle. A dip in the lake and a hearty breakfast will be far more to the point.”
He ran lightly upstairs to his bedroom. Whistling to himself, he discarded, his evening clothes, and picked up a dressing gown and a bath towel.
Then suddenly he stopped dead in front of the dressing table, staring at the object that reposed demurely in front of the looking glass.
For a moment he could not believe his eyes. He took it up, examined it closely. Yes, there was no mistake.
It was the bundle of letters signed Virginia Revel. They were intact. Not one missing.
Anthony dropped into a chair, the letters in his hand.
“My brain must be cracking,” he murmured. “I can’t understand a quarter of what is going on in this house. Why should the letters reappear like a damned conjuring trick? Who put them on my dressing table? Why?”
And to all these very pertinent questions he could find no satisfactory reply.
Twenty-one
MR. ISAACSTEIN’S SUITCASE
At ten o’clock that morning, Lord Caterham and his daughter were breakfasting. Bundle was looking very thoughtful.
“Father,” she said at last.
Lord Caterham, absorbed in The Times, did not reply.
“Father,” said Bundle again, more sharply.
Lord Caterham, torn from his interested perusal of forthcoming sales of rare books, looked up absentmindedly.
“Eh?” he said. “Did you speak?”
“Yes. Who is it who’s had breakfast?”
She nodded towards a place that had evidently been occupied. The rest were all expectant.
“Oh, what’s-his-name.”
“Fat Iky?”
Bundle and her father had enough sympathy between them to comprehend each other’s somewhat misleading observations.
“That’s it.”
“Did I see you talking to the detective this morning before breakfast?”
Lord Caterham sighed.
“Yes, he buttonholed me in the hall. I do think the hours before breakfast should be sacred. I shall have to go abroad. The strain on my nerves—”
Bundle interrupted unceremoniously.
“What did he say?”
“Said everyone who wanted to could clear out.”
“Well,” said Bundle, “that’s all right. That’s what you’ve been wanting.”
“I know. But he didn’t leave it at that. He went on to say that nevertheless he wanted me to ask everyone to stay on.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bundle, wrinkling her nose.
“So confusing and contradictory,” complained Lord Caterham. “And before breakfast too.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I agreed, of course. It’s never any good arguing with these people. Especially before breakfast,” continued Lord Caterham, reverting to his principal grievance.
“Who have you asked so far?”
“Cade. He was up very early this morning. He’s going to stop on. I don’t mind that. I can’t quite make the fellow out; but I like him—I like him very much.”
“So does Virginia,” said Bundle, drawing a pattern on the table with her fork.
“Eh?”
“And so do I. But that doesn’t seem to matter.”
“And I asked Isaacstein,” continued Lord Caterham.
“Well?”
“But fortunately he’s got to go back to town. Don’t forget to order the car for the 10:50, by the way.”
“All right.”
“Now if I can only get rid of Fish too,” continued Lord Caterham, his spirits rising.
“I thought you liked talking to him about your mouldy old books.”
“So I do, so I do. So I did, rather. But it gets monotonous when one finds that one is always doing all the talking. Fish is very interested, but he never volunteers any statements of his own.”
“It’s better than doing all the listening,” said Bundle. “Like one does with George Lomax.”
Lord Caterham shuddered at the remembrance.
“George is all very well on platforms,” said Bundle. “I’ve clapped him myself, though of course I know all the time that he’s talking balderdash. And anyway, I’m a Socialist—”
“I know, my dear, I know,” said Lord Caterham hastily.
“It’s all right,” said Bundle. “I’m not going to bring politics into the home. That’s what George does—public speaking in private life. It ought to be abolished by Act of Parliament.”
“Quite so,” said Lord Caterham.
“What about Virginia?” asked Bundle. “Is she to be asked to stop on?”
“Battle said everybody.”
“Says he firmly! Have you asked her to be my stepma yet?”
“I don’t think it would be any good,” said Lord Caterham mournfully. “Although she did call me a darling last night. But that’s the worst of these attractive young women with affectionate dispositions. They’ll say anything, and they mean absolutely nothing by it.”
“No,” agreed Bundle. “It would have been much more hopeful if she’d thrown a boot at you or tried to bite you.”
“You modern young people seem to have such unpleasant ideas about lovemaking,” said Lord Caterham plaintively.
“It comes from reading The Sheik,” said Bundle. “Desert love. Throw her about, etc.”
“What is The Sheik?” asked Lord Caterham simply. “Is it a poem?”
Bundle looked at him with commiserating pity. Then she rose and kissed the top of his head.
“Dear old Daddy,” she remarked, and sprang lightly out of the window.
Lord Caterham went back to the salerooms.
He jumped when addressed suddenly by Mr. Hiram Fish, who had made his usual noiseless entry.
“Good morning, Lord Caterham.”
“Oh, good morning,” said Lord Caterham. “Good morning. Nice day.”