“Yes,” said Anthony. “Virginia Revel.”
“My dear fellow,” cried Lord Caterham, “I mean—sir, I congratulate you. I do indeed. A delightful creature.”
“Thank you, Lord Caterham,” said Anthony. “She’s all you say and more.”
But Mr. Isaacstein was regarding him curiously.
“You’ll excuse my asking your Highness, but when did this marriage take place?”
Anthony smiled back at him.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I married her this morning.”
Thirty
ANTHONY SIGNS ON FOR A NEW JOB
“If you will go on, gentlemen, I will follow you in a minute,” said Anthony.
He waited while the others filed out, and then turned to where Superintendent Battle was standing apparently absorbed in examining the panelling.
“Well, Battle? Want to ask me something, don’t you?”
“Well, I do, sir, though I don’t know how you knew I did. But I always marked you out as being specially quick in the uptake. I take it that the lady who is dead was the late Queen Varaga?”
“Quite right, Battle. It’ll be hushed up, I hope. You can understand what I feel about family skeletons.”
“Trust Mr. Lomax for that, sir. No one will ever know. That is, a lot of people will know, but it won’t get about.”
“Was that what you wanted to ask me about?”
“No, sir—that was only in passing. I was curious to know just what made you drop your own name—if I’m not taking too much of a liberty?”
“Not a bit of it. I’ll tell you. I killed myself for the purest motives, Battle. My mother was English, I’d been educated in England, and I was far more interested in England than in Herzoslovakia. And I felt an absolute fool knocking about the world with a comic-opera title tacked on to me. You see, when I was very young, I had democratic ideas. Believed in the purity of ideals, and the equality of all men. I especially disbelieved in kings and princes.”
“And since then?” asked Battle shrewdly.
“Oh, since then, I’ve travelled and seen the world. There’s damned little equality going about. Mind you, I still believe in democracy. But you’ve got to force it on people with a strong hand—ram it down their throats. Men don’t want to be brothers—they may some day, but they don’t now. My belief in the brotherhood of man died the day I arrived in London last week, when I observed people standing in a Tube train resolutely refuse to move up and make room for those who entered. You won’t turn people into angels by appealing to their better natures just yet awhile—but by judicious force you can coerce them into behaving more or less decently to one another to go on with. I still believe in the brotherhood of man, but it’s not coming yet awhile. Say another ten thousand years or so. It’s no good being impatient. Evolution is a slow process.”
“I’m very interested in these views of yours, sir,” said Battle with a twinkle. “And if you’ll allow me to say so, I’m sure you’ll make a very fine king out there.”
“Thank you, Battle,” said Anthony with a sigh.
“You don’t seem very happy about it, sir?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I daresay it will be rather fun. But it’s tying oneself down to regular work. I’ve always avoided that before.”
“But you consider it your duty, I suppose, sir?”
“Good Lord, no! What an idea. It’s a woman—it’s always a woman, Battle. I’d do more than be a king for her sake.”
“Quite so, sir.”
“I’ve arranged it so that the Baron and Isaacstein can’t kick. The one wants a king, and the other wants oil. They’ll both get what they want, and I’ve got—oh, Lord, Battle, have you ever been in love?”
“I am much attached to Mrs. Battle, sir.”
“Much attached to Mrs.—oh, you don’t know what I’m talking about! It’s entirely different!”
“Excuse me, sir, that man of yours is waiting outside the window.”
“Boris? So he is. He’s a wonderful fellow. It’s a mercy that pistol went off in the struggle and killed the lady. Otherwise Boris would have wrung her neck as sure as Fate, and then you would have wanted to hang him. His attachment to the Obolovitch dynasty is remarkable. The queer thing was that as soon as Michael was dead he attached himself to me—and yet he couldn’t possibly have known who I really was.”
“Instinct,” said Battle. “Like a dog.”
“Very awkward instinct I thought it at the time. I was afraid it might give the show away to you. I suppose I’d better see what he wants.”
He went out through the window. Superintendent Battle, left alone, looked after him for a minute, then apparently addressed the panelling.
“He’ll do,” said Superintendent Battle.
Outside Boris explained himself.
“Master,” he said, and led the way along the terrace.
Anthony followed him, wondering what was forward.
Presently Boris stopped and pointed with his forefinger. It was moonlight, and in front of them was a stone seat on which sat two figures.
“He is a dog,” said Anthony to himself. “And what’s more a pointer!”
He strode forward. Boris melted into the shadows.
The two figures rose to meet him. One of them was Virginia—the other—
“Hullo, Joe,” said a well-remembered voice. “This is a great girl of yours.”
“Jimmy McGrath, by all that’s wonderful,” cried Anthony. “How in the name of fortune did you get here?”
“That trip of mine into the interior went phut. Then some dagos came monkeying around. Wanted to buy that manuscript off me. Next thing I as near as nothing got a knife in the back one night. That made me think that I’d handed you out a bigger job than I knew. I thought you might need help, and I came along after you by the very next boat.”
“Wasn’t it splendid of him?” said Virginia. She squeezed Jimmy’s arm. “Why didn’t you ever tell me how frightfully nice he was? You are, Jimmy, you’re a perfect dear.”
“You two seem to be getting along all right,” said Anthony.
“Sure thing,” said Jimmy. “I was snooping round for news of you, when I connected with this dame. She wasn’t at all what I thought she’d be—some swell haughty society lady that’d scare the life out of me.”
“He told me all about the letters,” said Virginia. “And I feel almost ashamed not to have been in real trouble over them when he was such a knight-errant.”
“If I’d known what you were like,” said Jimmy gallantly, “I’d not have given him the letters. I’d have brought them to you myself. Say, young man, is the fun really over? Is there nothing for me to do?”
“By Jove,” said Anthony, “there is! Wait a minute.”
He disappeared into the house. In a minute or two he returned with a paper package which he cast into Jimmy’s arms.
“Go round to the garage and help yourself to a likely looking car. Beat it to London and deliver that parcel at 17 Everdean Square. That’s Mr. Balderson’s private address. In exchange he’ll hand you a thousand pounds.”
“What? It’s not the memoirs? I understood that they’d been burnt.”
“What do you take me for?” demanded Anthony.
“You don’t think I’d fall for a story like that, do you? I rang up the publishers at once, found out that the other was a fake call, and arranged accordingly. I made up a dummy package as I’d been directed to do. But I put the real package in the manager’s safe and handed over the dummy. The memoirs have never been out of my possession.”
“Bully for you, my son,” said Jimmy.
“Oh, Anthony,” cried Virginia. “You’re not going to let them be published?”
“I can’t help myself. I can’t let a pal like Jimmy down. But you needn’t worry. I’ve had time to wade through them, and I see now why people always hint that bigwigs don’t write their own reminiscences but hire someone to do it for them. As a writer, Stylptitch is an insufferable bore. He proses
on about statecraft, and doesn’t go in for any racy and indiscreet anecdotes. His ruling passion of secrecy held strong to the end. There’s not a word in the memoirs from beginning to end to flutter the susceptibilities of the most difficult politician. I rang up Balderson today, and arranged with him that I’d deliver the manuscript tonight before midnight. But Jimmy can do his own dirty work now that he’s here.”
“I’m off,” said Jimmy. “I like the idea of that thousand pounds—especially when I’d made up my mind it was down and out.”
“Half a second,” said Anthony. “I’ve got a confession to make to you, Virginia. Something that everyone else knows, but that I haven’t yet told you.”
“I don’t mind how many strange women you’ve loved so long as you don’t tell me about them.”
“Women!” said Anthony, with a virtuous air. “Women indeed? You ask James here what kind of women I was going about with the last time he saw me.”
“Frumps,” said Jimmy solemnly. “Utter frumps. Not one a day under forty-five.”
“Thank you, Jimmy,” said Anthony, “you’re a true friend. No, it’s much worse than that. I’ve deceived you as to my real name.”
“Is it very dreadful?” said Virginia, with interest. “It isn’t something silly like Pobbles, is it? Fancy being called Mrs. Pobbles.”
“You are always thinking the worst of me.”