The latter glared his enmity, refusing to budge, but Tony took no heed.

All trace of boredom gone, his eyes aglow with eagerness, he gesticulated for silence. The strikers, not wholly recovered from their surprise, postponed, at least for the time being, the suggested vivisection, and waited for Tony to justify himself. He was a fluent speaker, and lost no time in beginning.

"Comrades!" he cried, "you see me as I am! I am in the unhappy position of being without a hat and in evening dress. Unlooked-for events put me in a train this morning, and it was not until the train had started that I realized my absurd costume. What was I to do? Chance settled the question. Chance brought me here into your delightful neighborhood, and what do I find? A good fairy, as it were, distributing clothes for nothing!" At this point a voice called for "Cheers for the----fairy!"

which were heartily given. The fairy, unused to badinage, retired from the rostrum, and Tony was quick to jump up. "You see, comrades, that I got a rise: may you soon get the same--may you get what you are asking for!" A tornado of cheers covered his corollary, "viz., six months hard," uttered in an undertone. Feeling was shifting a little in his favor now, and he swept on. "Here, I thought, is my opportunity! I am an outcast, dressed in the ridiculous garb civilization imposes on her sons--the pampered scions of the aristocracy! You have seen me discard my allegiance to the dukes: the crushing of the hat was symbolical. I hate the petty trammels of the curled and scented darlings of the rich!

If you wish--if you will allow me to annex one of the admirable and useful suits of reach-me-downs--nine and elevenpence ha'penny off the peg--I will discard the remnants of an obsolete feudalism. My coat shall go! My waistcoat! Even my----"

A prude cried "Shame!" Tony seized upon the word liked a practised ranter.

"Yes!" he cried warmly, "it _is_ a shame that I should be forced to wear these loathsome garments when self-respect urges me to a.s.sume a manlier garb. May I take it that I have your a.s.sent? I put it to the meeting that I forthwith st--take what I want." He paused for breath, but they were dumb before this extraordinary creature. He hurried on. "Carried unanimously. Thank you, comrades, for this mark of appreciation and esteem. Behold!" He tore off his coat and waistcoat and trod upon them.

"See how I trample the badge of servitude! Observe!" He discarded his nether apparel, knowing that he could not stick at trifles: the crowd's mood might turn if he gave it time. Luckily, his audacity was rewarded, for the audience roared with brutal joy at Tony's remarkable appearance.

Without hesitation he s.n.a.t.c.hed a suit from several that hung at hand, selecting the quietest he could see, talking furiously as he put it on.

"And what now? See! a transformation! A man clothed in sensible dress!

Hurrah for the social revolution! Hurrah for communizing the means of production and distribution--especially distribution! And all the rest of the dear old claptrap," he added sotto voce as he leaped nimbly down.

In the thunderous applause that followed the impa.s.sioned harangue Tony slipped his arms through Mr. Hedderwick's, and they were allowed to make good their escape. They walked in silence till they were clear of the crowd, and then Robert paused.

"Mr. Wild, you were simply splendid!" he said in awestruck tones.

"You're one of the best chaps I've ever met."

Tony chuckled, tired but pleased.

"Not a bad effort, was it? But, by jove! I was in a funk half the time."

"So was I," confessed Robert. "I began to think I might have to use this." He pulled a revolver out of his pocket and showed it. Tony crowed with pure joy.

"Good lord, man! You've got a _pistol_! How perfectly splendid! What on earth do you carry a pistol for? Do tell me--_please_!"

Mr. Hedderwick walked on in silence for a minute, evidently weighing some problem. Presently he gave a gulp of decision.

"Mr. Wild," he said, "I haven't known you very long, but I seem to have known you for years. What I've seen has interested me--impressed me, and I like you. You know a little about me, that I'm off for a holiday on unusual lines, but unless you agree to my proposal I shan't tell you any more. You, it appears, are a free agent, young, with nothing to do. I think we might enjoy ourselves much more together than apart. In any case, if we found it didn't suit we could separate. If you feel like adventuring for a few days I think there may be a little fun. I can't promise it, but I think so. If you agree, I'll tell you the rest when we get to The Happy Heart."

"One question," said Tony, "and don't be offended. Do you want any money?"

Mr. Hedderwick thought for a moment and frowned. Then he smiled.

"I have two and eightpence in my pocket," he said frankly. "I came out in a hurry. I could get more if I wanted, but I don't mean to try, for I have no wish to be traced yet. I'm not a cadger or a confidence-trickster. If you care to finance me till we return, so much the better for me. If not, well, I'll do without and rough it somehow. I don't mean to miss my holiday."

Tony smiled. This Hedderwick seemed an admirable fellow.

"What and where is The Happy Heart?" he asked.

"An inn at Shereling where I mean to stay."

"Forward, then, to The Happy Heart. I wish I'd bagged some boots, too.

These pumps are simply cruel."

They set out once more toward the station.

CHAPTER XI

AT THE HAPPY HEART

The landlord of The Happy Heart stood leaning against his door-post, smoking a churchwarden. He was enjoying his tobacco and the summer morning, and occasionally directing a bovine thought to the ident.i.ty of the solitary guest at present lying in bed up-stairs. The said guest had arrived two days before with a view to golf, for the Shereling links were well known. The Happy Heart was rarely without a golf enthusiast, since it was the only inn in Shereling, the local squire (at present yachting) owning most of the land in the neighborhood, and refusing to let "his" village become an abiding-place for tourists. Wherefore the neighboring town of Dallingham, six miles distant, reaped a golden harvest, and its hotels were out of all proportion to its population.

The guest up-stairs, to return to the landlord's vaguely moving thoughts, was a man well over seventy, but active for his age. An olive complexion hinted that he was no Briton, but the testimony of the green-keepers went to prove that his English was "floont"; and of the magnitude of his tips the odd-job man of The Happy Heart could not say enough. A man of seventy may be excused for showing reserve or desiring quiet, and the landlord did not think it curious that the visitor divided his time between the links and his bedroom: the man was certainly a gentleman, perhaps an aristocrat, and there was no doubt that his money was good. The only thing that bothered the landlord was--why had he brought no servant? It did not occur to him that solitude to the great may be worth more than the benignities of a valet.

The landlord shaded his eyes with a browned hand and looked down the road. There was nothing to be seen. With an effort that was mental as well as physical he turned himself upon the axis of the door-post and blinked in the other direction. Here the figure of a man rewarded him, walking steadily but without hurry toward the inn. "One of they golfing chaps from the station," was the landlord's first thought; "he must be mortal keen to come so early." His mild surprise changed to blank amazement as the stranger drew near. "Top hat, gloves, et setterer," he muttered. "A swell an' all! What's he doing of here?" He was still ruminating when the stranger halted, surveyed the tavern sign, and entered. The landlord followed him into the parlor.

"A quart of beer, please," said Lionel, sitting down with relish on the nearest bench. The landlord, his surprise in no way lessened by the order, went and drew the beer. He placed it before his customer, and then said, "You're early astir, sir."

"Ten o'clock early?" said Lionel. "I thought that country people called that late."

"Not if you come by train, sir, as I suppose you did. A friend o'

mine--Jeggs the farmer--drove by here twenty minutes agone. He said that the first train, the five o'clock, had only just come in, being delayed by the strikers. I suppose you came by that?"

"Yes," said Lionel, "I did."

"And did you see anything of the strike, sir?"

"No," said Lionel; "I stayed in the train--in fact, I slept all the way, being tired."

The landlord, seeing that the other was in no communicative mood, withdrew, after begging him to ring the bell if he wanted further refreshment. Lionel, left to the kindly solitude of the parlor, put up his legs on the bench with a sigh of relief, took a draught of the beer, and lighted a pipe.

He was very tired, in spite of the sleep he had spoken of. With the exception of that brief and disturbed period in the train he had not slept for some twenty-six hours, and in addition, he had been through sundry diverting experiences. The successful burglary had been a strain, and after he and Beatrice had got back to the flat they had spent the next three hours in discussing and planning. They had searched every room, nook and cranny for some trace of Mizzi, some clew as to where she might have flown. Of course it was useless: not a sc.r.a.p of paper--not a single compromising doc.u.ment rewarded their efforts. Only some blackened ashes in the bedroom grate hinted at possibilities. She had left nearly all her clothes and personal belongings, and her boxes were unlocked as if to invite inspection. She had simply disappeared--gone, like one in a melodrama, "out into the night."

It was of the utmost importance to trace her, but what could be done? It was obvious that detectives should not be employed, for a hint of official interference might mean the death of Lukos. Beatrice and Lionel must do their own detection, and they spent their brains on the problem, apparently so hopeless.

Even the cause of Mizzi's disloyalty was anything but clear. It might be that she was in the pay of the sultan, or it might be that she wished to be revenged. But why revenge? Beatrice, with a twinkle that made Lionel feel qualms of conscience, suggested jealousy; but the suggestion was thrown out in such an airy spirit that he felt she did not really believe in it. He himself preferred to believe, and did believe, that the more sensational hypothesis should be adopted. She must be a spy, who meant to get a good price for the famous papers. But why had she not stolen them before? Perhaps she had been in treaty with the enemy but had failed to get the terms she wanted. It did not seem adequate, but it was the only solution they could suggest.

a.s.suming, then, that she had stolen the papers to make money, what would be her first step? Beatrice--and Lionel agreed with her--thought that she was too clever to deal with underlings: she would go as near to the fountainhead as she could, to the Turkish amba.s.sador himself, for he was a known adherent of the old regime. She would go as soon as possible, the next morning--_i.e._, about the present, what time Lionel was drinking beer in The Happy Heart,--but a dim recollection was beating in the brain of Beatrice that she had seen something of importance in the society news of a few days past. They searched the flat for every newspaper, and at last found the sheet they wanted. Hope beating at the doors, they scanned the column that Lionel never read, but that Beatrice studied first. Yes! there it was--the justification of her memory for seeming trivialities. "His excellency the Turkish amba.s.sador has gone for a few days' golf to Shereling." Beatrice threw the paper away in flushed triumph, thought deeply for a few moments, and then said, "You must go there. Mizzi may follow and try to succeed at Shereling. Watch and do the best you can. I shall stay in London in case I am wrong, and keep an eye on the emba.s.sy. If she is at Shereling, try to get the treaty. I must leave you to work on your own lines. If I hear anything I shall wire to the local inn. Will you?"

Of course he said, "Yes. Is there anything else?"

"Money. No--do not protest. This is life and death, and both cost money." She ran to a little safe and returned, her hands full. "Here are notes for a hundred pounds or more. You may have to bribe. Do not refuse--it is for Lukos!"

Lionel longed to say, "Madam, my life and fortune are at your disposal.

Let there be no mention of money between us." But seeing that his stock of ready cash had dwindled to twopence-halfpenny (he had bought a packet of ten cigarettes the day before, and now cursed the extravagance), he could only say, "As you will."

"Thank you," she said softly, and laid her hand on his head. He thrilled, and she administered a necessary antidote. "It is for Lukos!"

"Oh, hang Lukos!" he groaned in spirit; and then in swift repentance his thoughts mumbled, "No, no! Bless Lukos--dear old Lukos! Poor old chap!"

After this there had been nothing but idle conversation until the hour of his departure approached. Once Beatrice fell into a fit of musing and presently she said, "What a fool I was to tell Mizzi!" A younger man might have said, "Not at all: it was perfectly natural." Lionel, older, more self-reliant, and more honest, replied simply, "We all make mistakes," for he thought her folly almost incredible. She felt this--they were more than _sympathiques_--and said, "Ah! if you knew! I was very lonely one night ... lonely and sad ... I had to talk to some one, and believed her a true friend. You can imagine my self-reproach."

He could, and felt himself more than justified in pressing her hand.