He read the letter through rapidly, and then, turning back to the beginning, he read it slowly through again.
My dear Box X10—
I don’t know whether your advertisement was a joke. I suppose it must have been. But I read it this morning, and it’s just possible, X10, just possible, that you mean it. And if you do, you’re the man I want. I can offer you excitement and probably crime.
I’m up against it, X10. For a girl I’ve bitten off rather more than I can chew. I want help—badly. Will you come to the Carlton for tea tomorrow afternoon? I want to have a look at you and see if I think you are genuine. Wear a white flower in your buttonhole.
Drummond laid the letter down, and pulled out his cigarette-case. “Tomorrow, James,” he murmured. “That is today—this very afternoon. Verily I believe that we have impinged upon the goods.” He rose and stood looking out of the window thoughtfully. “Go out, my trusty fellow, and buy me a daisy or a cauliflower or something white.”
“You think it’s genuine, sir?” said James thoughtfully.
His master blew out a cloud of smoke. “I know it is,” he answered dreamily. “Look at that writing; the decision in it—the character. She’ll be medium height, and dark, with the sweetest little nose and mouth. Her colouring, James, will be—”
But James had discreetly left the room.
II
At four o’clock exactly Hugh Drummond stepped out of his two-seater at the Haymarket entrance to the Carlton. A white gardenia was in his buttonhole; his grey suit looked the last word in exclusive tailoring. For a few moments after entering the hotel he stood at the top of the stairs outside the dining-room, while his eyes travelled round the tables in the lounge below.
A brother-officer, evidently taking two country cousins round London, nodded resignedly; a woman at whose house he had danced several times smiled at him. But save for a courteous bow he took no notice; slowly and thoroughly he continued his search. It was early, of course, yet, and she might not have arrived, but he was taking no chances.
Suddenly his eyes ceased wandering, and remained fixed on a table at the far end of the lounge. Half hidden behind a plant a girl was seated alone, and for a moment she looked straight at him. Then, with the faintest suspicion of a smile, she turned away, and commenced drumming on the table with her fingers.
The table next to her was unoccupied, and Drummond made his way towards it and sat down. It was characteristic of the man that he did not hesitate; having once made up his mind to go through with a thing, he was in the habit of going and looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Which, incidentally, was how he got his D.S.O.; but that, as Kipling would say, is another story.
He felt not the slightest doubt in his mind that this was the girl who had written to him, and, having given an order to the waiter, he started to study her face as unobtrusively as possible. He could only see the profile but that was quite sufficient to make him bless the moment when more as a jest than anything else he had sent his advertisement to the paper.
Her eyes, he could see, were very blue; and great masses of golden brown hair coiled over her ears, from under a small black hat. He glanced at her feet—being an old stager; she was perfectly shod. He glanced at her hands, and noted, with approval, the absence of any ring. Then he looked once more at her face, and found her eyes fixed on him.
This time she did not look away. She seemed to think that it was her turn to conduct the examination, and Drummond turned to his tea while the scrutiny continued. He poured himself out a cup, and then fumbled in his waistcoat pocket. After a moment he found what he wanted, and taking out a card he propped it against the teapot so that the girl could see what was on it. In large block capitals he had written “Box X-10”. Then he added milk and sugar and waited.
She spoke almost at once. “You’ll do, X-10,” she said, and he turned to her with a smile.
“It’s very nice of you to say so,” he murmured. “If I may, I will return the compliment. So will you.”
She frowned slightly. “This isn’t foolishness, you know. What I said in my letter is literally true.”
“Which makes the compliment even more returnable,” he answered. “If I am to embark on a life of crime, I would sooner collaborate with you than—shall we say?—that earnest eater over there with the tomato in her hat.”
He waved vaguely at the lady in question and then held out his cigarette-case to the girl. “Turkish on this side—Virginia on that,” he remarked. “And as I appear satisfactory, will you tell me who I’m to murder?”
With the unlighted cigarette held in her fingers she stared at him gravely. “I want you to tell me,” she said at length, and there was no trace of jesting in her voice, “tell me, on your word of honour, whether that advertisement was bona fide or a joke.”
He answered her in the same vein. “It started more or less as a joke. It may now be regarded as absolutely genuine.”
She nodded as if satisfied. “Are you prepared to risk your life?”
Drummond’s eyebrows went up and then he smiled. “Granted that the inducement is sufficient,” he returned slowly, “I think that I may say that I am.”
She nodded again. “You won’t be asked to do it in order to obtain a halfpenny bun,” she remarked. “If you’ve a match, I would rather like a light.”
Drummond apologised. “Our talk on trivialities engrossed me for the moment,” he murmured. He held the lighted match for her, and as he did so he saw that she was staring over his shoulder at someone behind his back.
“Don’t look round,” she ordered, “and tell me your name quickly.”
“Drummond—Captain Drummond, late of the Loamshires.” He leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette himself.
“And are you going to Henley this year?” Her voice was a shade louder than before.
“I don’t know,” he answered casually. “I may run down for a day possibly, but—”
“My dear Phyllis,” said a voice behind his back, “this is a pleasant surprise. I had no idea that you were in London.”
A tall, clean-shaven man stopped beside the table, throwing a keen glance at Drummond.
“The world is full of such surprises, isn’t it?” answered the girl lightly. “I don’t suppose you know Captain Drummond, do you? Mr. Lakington—art connoisseur and—er—collector.”
The two men bowed slightly, and Mr. Lakington smiled. “I do not remember ever having heard my harmless pastimes more concisely described,” he remarked suavely. “Are you interested in such matters?”
“Not very, I’m afraid,” answered Drummond. “Just recently I have been rather too busy to pay much attention to art.”
The other man smiled again, and it struck Hugh that rarely, if ever, had he seen such a cold, merciless face.
“Of course, you’ve been in France,” Lakington murmured. “Unfortunately a bad heart kept me on this side of the water. One regrets it in many ways—regrets it immensely. Sometimes I cannot help thinking how wonderful it must have been to be able to kill without fear of consequences. There is art in killing, Capt Drummond—profound art. And as you know, Phyllis,” he turned to the girl, “I have always been greatly attracted by anything requiring the artistic touch.” He looked at his watch and sighed: “Alas! I must tear myself away. Are you returning home this evening?”
The girl, who had been glancing round the restaurant, shrugged her shoulders. “Probably,” she answered. “I haven’t quite