The cook looked puzzled and a little frightened.
“Will you allow them to outrage your kitchen—an Embassy kitchen, too—without your consent?” I said.
“What have you done?” he asked in French.
“Only what your patron will approve,” I replied in the same tongue. “Messieurs les assassins have a grudge against me.”
He still hesitated, while the young footman advanced on me. He was fingering something in his trousers-pocket which I did not like.
Now was the time when, as they say in America, I should have got busy with my gun; but alas! I had no gun. I feared supports for the enemy, for the footman at the first sight of me had run back the way he had come, and I had heard a low whistle.
What might have happened I do not know, had not the god appeared from the machine in the person of Hewins, the butler.
“Hewins,” I said, “you know me. I have often dined here, and you know that I am a friend of Monsieur Felix. I am on my way to see him on an urgent matter, and for various reasons I had to enter by Monsieur Alphonse’s kitchen. Will you take me at once to Monsieur Felix?”
Hewins bowed, and on his imperturbable face there appeared no sign of surprise. “This way, sir,” was all he said.
As I followed him I saw the footman plucking nervously at the something in his trousers-pocket. Lumley’s agents apparently had not always the courage to follow his instructions to the letter, for I made no doubt that the order had been to take me alive or dead.
I found Felix alone, and flung myself into an arm-chair. “My dear chap,” I said, “take my advice and advise his Excellency to sack the red-haired footman.”
From that moment I date that sense of mastery over a situation which drives out fear. I had been living for weeks under a dark pall, and suddenly the skies had lightened. I had found sanctuary. Whatever happened to me now the worst was past, for I had done my job.
Felix was looking at me curiously, for, jaded, scarlet, dishevelled, I was an odd figure for a London afternoon. “Things seem to have been marching fast with you,” he said.
“They have, but I think the march is over. I want to ask several favours. First, here is a document which sets out certain facts. I shall ring up Macgillivray at Scotland Yard and ask him to come here at 9.30 this evening. When he comes I want you to give him this and ask him to read it at once. He will know how to act on it.”
Felix nodded. “And the next?”
“Give me a telegraph form. I want a wire sent at once by someone who can be trusted.” He handed me a form and I wrote out a telegram to Lumley at the Albany, saying that I proposed to call upon him that evening at eight sharp, and asking him to receive me.
“Next?” said Felix.
“Next and last, I want a room with a door which will lock, a hot bath, and something to eat about seven. I might be permitted to taste Monsieur Alphonse’s new casserole dish.”
I rang up Macgillivray, reminded him of his promise, and told him what awaited him at 9.30. Then I had a wash, and afterwards at my leisure gave Felix a sketch of the day’s doings. I have never felt more completely at my ease, for whatever happened I was certain that I had spoiled Lumley’s game. He would know by now that I had reached the Embassy, and that any further attempts on my life and liberty were futile. My telegram would show him that I was prepared to offer terms, and I would certainly be permitted to reach the Albany unmolested. To the meeting with my adversary I looked forward without qualms, but with the most lively interest. I had my own theories about that distinguished criminal, and I hoped to bring them to the proof.
Just before seven I had a reply to my wire. Mr Lumley said he would be delighted to see me. The telegram was directed to me at the Embassy, though I had put no address on the one I sent. Lumley, of course, knew all my movements. I could picture him sitting in his chair, like some Chief of Staff, receiving every few minutes the reports of his agents. All the same, Napoleon had fought his Waterloo.
VIII.
THE POWER-HOUSE
I left Belgrave Square about a quarter to eight and retraced my steps along the route which for me that afternoon had been so full of tremors. I was still being watched—a little observation told me that—but I would not be interfered with, provided my way lay in a certain direction. So completely without nervousness was I that at the top of Constitution Hill I struck into the Green Park and kept to the grass till I emerged into Piccadilly opposite Devonshire House. A light wind had risen, and the evening had grown pleasantly cool. I met several men I knew going out to dinner on foot, and stopped to exchange greetings. From my clothes they thought I had just returned from a day in the country.
I reached the Albany as the clock was striking eight. Lumley’s rooms were on the first floor, and I was evidently expected, for the porter himself conducted me to them and waited by me till the door was opened by a manservant.
You know those rococo, late Georgian, Albany rooms, large, square, clumsily corniced. Lumley’s was lined with books, which I saw at a glance were of a different type from those in his working library at his country house. This was the collection of a bibliophile, and in the light of the summer evening the rows of tall volumes in vellum and morocco lined the walls like some rich tapestry.
The valet retired and shut the door, and presently from a little inner chamber came his master. He was dressed for dinner, and wore more than ever the air of the eminent diplomat. Again I had the old feeling of incredulity. It was the Lumley I had met two nights before at dinner, the friend of Viceroys and Cabinet Ministers. It was hard to connect him with Antioch Street or the red-haired footman with a pistol. Or with Tuke? Yes, I decided, Tuke fitted into the frame. Both were brains cut loose from the decencies that make life possible.
“Good evening, Mr Leithen,” he said pleasantly. “As you have fixed the hour of eight, may I offer you dinner?”
“Thank you,” I replied, “but I have already dined. I have chosen an awkward time, but my business need not take long.”
“So?” he said. “I am always glad to see you at any hour.”
“And I prefer to see the master rather than the subordinates who have been infesting my life during the past week.”
We both laughed. “I am afraid you have had some annoyance, Mr Leithen,” he said. “But remember, I gave you fair warning.”
“True. And I have come to do the same kindness to you. That part of the game, at any rate, is over.”
“Over?” he queried, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, over,” I said, and took out my watch. “Let us be quite frank with each other, Mr Lumley. There is really very little time to waste. As you have doubtless read the paper which you stole from my friend this morning, you know more or less the extent of my information.”
“Let us have frankness by all means. Yes, I have read your paper. A very creditable piece of work, if I may say so. You will rise in your profession, Mr Leithen. But surely you must realise that it carries you a very little way.”
“In a sense you are right. I am not in a position to reveal the full extent of your misdeeds. Of the Power-House and its doings I can only guess. But Pitt-Heron is on his way home, and he will be carefully safeguarded on that journey. Your creature, Saronov, has confessed. We shall know more very soon, and meantime I have clear evidence which implicates you in a conspiracy to murder.”
He did not answer, but I wished