“What is the matter?” he asked.
“A prisoner has escaped,” said the sentry.
“Escaped — by aeroplane?” asked T.X.
“I don’t know anything about aeroplanes, sir. All I know is that one of the working party got away.”
The car came to the gates of the prison and T.X. sprang out, followed by his assistant. He had no difficulty in finding the Governor, a greatly perturbed man, for an escape is a very serious matter.
The official was inclined to be brusque in his manner, but again the magic card produced a soothing effect.
“I am rather rattled,” said the Governor. “One of my men has got away. I suppose you know that?”
“And I am afraid another of your men is going away, sir,” said T.X. , who had a curious reverence for military authority. He produced his paper and laid it on the governor’s table.
“This is an order for the release of John Lexman, convicted under sentence of fifteen years penal servitude.”
The Governor looked at it.
“Dated last night,” he said, and breathed a long sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord! — that is the man who escaped!”
Chapter VIII
Two years after the events just described, T.X. journeying up to London from Bath was attracted by a paragraph in the Morning Post. It told him briefly that Mr. Remington Kara, the influential leader of the Greek Colony, had been the guest of honor at a dinner of the Hellenic Society.
T.X. had only seen Kara for a brief space of time following that tragic morning, when he had discovered not only that his best friend had escaped from Dartmoor prison and disappeared, as it were, from the world at a moment when his pardon had been signed, but that that friend’s wife had also vanished from the face of the earth.
At the same time — it might, as even T.X. admitted, have been the veriest coincidence that Kara had also cleared out of London to reappear at the end of six months. Any question addressed to him, concerning the whereabouts of the two unhappy people, was met with a bland expression of ignorance as to their whereabouts.
John Lexman was somewhere in the world, hiding as he believed from justice, and with him was his wife. T.X. had no doubt in his mind as to this solution of the puzzle. He had caused to be published the story of the pardon and the circumstances under which that pardon had been secured, and he had, moreover, arranged for an advertisement to be inserted in the principal papers of every European country.
It was a moot question amongst the departmental lawyers as to whether John Lexman was not guilty of a technical and punishable offence for prison breaking, but this possibility did not keep T.X. awake at nights. The circumstances of the escape had been carefully examined. The warder responsible had been discharged from the service, and had almost immediately purchased for himself a beer house in Falmouth, for a sum which left no doubt in the official mind that he had been the recipient of a heavy bribe.
Who had been the guiding spirit in that escape — Mrs. Lexman, or Kara?
It was impossible to connect Kara with the event. The motor car had been traced to Exeter, where it had been hired by a “foreign-looking gentleman,” but the chauffeur, whoever he was, had made good his escape. An inspection of Kara’s hangars at Wembley showed that his two monoplanes had not been removed, and T.X. failed entirely to trace the owner of the machine he had seen flying over Dartmoor on the fatal morning.
T.X. was somewhat baffled and a little amused by the disinclination of the authorities to believe that the escape had been effected by this method at all. All the events of the trial came back to him, as he watched the landscape spinning past.
He set down the newspaper with a little sigh, put his feet on the cushions of the opposite seat and gave himself up to reverie. Presently he returned to his journals and searched them idly for something to interest him in the final stretch of journey between Newbury and Paddington.
Presently he found it in a two column article with the uninspiring title, “The Mineral Wealth of Tierra del Fuego.” It was written brightly with a style which was at once easy and informative. It told of adventures in the marshes behind St. Sebastian Bay and journeys up the Guarez Celman river, of nights spent in primeval forests and ended in a geological survey, wherein the commercial value of syenite, porphyry, trachite and dialite were severally canvassed.
The article was signed “G. G.” It is said of T.X. that his greatest virtue was his curiosity. He had at the tip of his fingers the names of all the big explorers and author-travellers, and for some reason he could not place “G. G,” to his satisfaction, in fact he had an absurd desire to interpret the initials into “George Grossmith.” His inability to identify the writer irritated him, and his first act on reaching his office was to telephone to one of the literary editors of the Times whom he knew.
“Not my department,” was the chilly reply, “and besides we never give away the names of our contributors. Speaking as a person outside the office I should say that “G. G,” was ‘George Gathercole’ the explorer you know, the fellow who had an arm chewed off by a lion or something.”
“George Gathercole!” repeated T.X. “What an ass I am.”
“Yes,” said the voice at the other end the wire, and he had rung off before T.X. could think of something suitable to say.
Having elucidated this little sideline of mystery, the matter passed from the young Commissioner’s mind. It happened that morning that his work consisted of dealing with John Lexman’s estate.
With the disappearance of the couple he had taken over control of their belongings. It had not embarrassed him to discover that he was an executor under Lexman’s will, for he had already acted as trustee to the wife’s small estate, and had been one of the parties to the antenuptial contract which John Lexman had made before his marriage.
The estate revenues had increased very considerably. All the vanished author’s books were selling as they had never sold before, and the executor’s work was made the heavier by the fact that Grace Lexman had possessed an aunt who had most in inconsiderately died, leaving a considerable fortune to her “unhappy niece.”
“I will keep the trusteeship another year,” he told the solicitor who came to consult him that morning. “At the end of that time I shall go to the court for relief.”
“Do you think they will ever turn up?” asked the solicitor, an elderly and unimaginative man.
“Of course, they’ll turn up!” said T.X. impatiently; “all the heroes of Lexman’s books turn up sooner or later. He will discover himself to us at a suitable moment, and we shall be properly thrilled.”
That Lexman would return he was sure. It was a faith from which he did not swerve.
He had as implicit a confidence that one day or other Kara, the magnificent, would play into his hands.
There were some queer stories in circulation concerning the Greek, but on the whole they were stories and rumours which were difficult to separate from the malicious gossip which invariably attaches itself to the rich and to the successful.
One of these was that Kara desired something more than an Albanian chieftainship, which he undoubtedly enjoyed. There were whispers of wider and higher ambitions. Though his father had been born a Greek, he had indubitably descended in a direct line from one of those old Mprets of Albania, who had exercised their brief authority over that turbulent land.
The man’s passion was for power. To this end he did not spare himself. It was said that he utilized