Ambrose Lavendale, Diplomat. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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СКАЧАТЬ helped his guest bountifully. He had hard work, however, to keep the trend of the conversation away from the subject of Mr. Somers-Keyne's early triumphs upon the stage, which it appeared were numerous and remarkable. With every tumblerful of whisky and soda, indeed, he seemed to grow more forgetful of his home across the way. As he expanded he grew more untidy. His tie slipped, his collar had flown open, his waistcoat was spotted with the liquid which had fallen from the glass in his unsteady efforts to lift it to his lips. His pasty face had become mottled. Lavendale, who had been watching his guest closely, fired a sudden question at him.

      'You don't happen to know a Miss de Freyne, do you?' he inquired innocently.

      The change in the man was wonderful. From a state of maudlin amiability he seemed to be stricken with an emotion of either fear or anger. His eyes narrowed. He set his glass down almost steadily, although he was obliged to breathe heavily several times before he spoke.

      'Miss de Freyne,' he repeated. 'What about her?'

      Lavendale pointed towards the window behind them.

      'Nothing except that when I was in here an hour ago I saw Miss de Freyne's face at the window of that empty suite next to yours,' he said.

      Mr. Somers-Keyne rose to his feet. A splendid dignity guided his footsteps and kept his voice steady.

      'Sir,' he pronounced, 'I am able to surmise now the reason for your excessive hospitality. I wish you good morning!'

      He turned towards the door.

      'Mr. Somers-Keyne,' Lavendale began, rising hastily to his feet——

      The dramatist waved him away. His gesture, if a little theatrical, was final. The honours remained with him. …

      Lavendale, a few minutes later, on his way to his luncheon-table in the grill-room, threw his accustomed glance across the room towards the corner which was still possessed of a peculiar interest for him. He paused in the act of taking his place. At her same table, with a little pile of manuscript propped up in front of her, Miss de Freyne was seated, studying the luncheon menu. For a moment he hesitated. Then he rose to his feet and, crossing the room, addressed her.

      'Miss de Freyne!'

      She glanced up in some surprise. She seemed, indeed, scarcely to recognize him.

      'You have not forgotten me, I hope?' he continued. 'My name is Lavendale.'

      'Of course,' she assented slowly. 'You were the friend of that strange little creature with the marvellous invention, weren't you?'

      'I was scarcely his friend,' Lavendale corrected, 'but I did my best to help him.'

      She made a pencil mark in the margin of the manuscript and laid it face downwards upon the table. Then she leaned back in her chair and looked at him.

      'Tell me what happened?' she begged. 'I was obliged to leave London the next day and I have only just returned. Was it suicide or murder?'

      'The man was murdered, without a doubt,' Lavendale replied.

      'Is that so, really?' she asked gravely. 'Tell me, had he given over his formula to the War Office?'

      Lavendale sighed.

      'Unfortunately no! He was to have handed it over at eleven o'clock the next morning.'

      'Was it found amongst his effects?'

      'Not a written line of any sort.'

      'Is any one suspected?' she inquired, dropping her voice a little.

      Lavendale hesitated and glanced cautiously around.

      'Scarcely that,' he answered, 'but you remember the man Jules, the maîtres d'hôtel here?'

      She nodded.

      'A Swiss, wasn't he? I was just wondering what had become of him.

      'During the investigations the next day,' Lavendale continued, 'it was discovered that his papers were forged and that he was in reality an Austrian. He was interned at once, of course, and I believe there was a certain amount of secrecy about his movements on that night. So far as I know, though, nothing has been discovered.'

      She raised her eyebrows deprecatingly.

      'The detective system over here,' she remarked, 'is sometimes hopeless, isn't it?'

      'Yet in one respect,' Lavendale pointed out, 'they certainly were prompt on that night. I understand that Jules was interned within an hour of the discovery of the murder.'

      Miss de Freyne drew her manuscript towards her with a little shrug of the shoulders.

      'They failed to find the formula, though,' she reminded him.

      Lavendale, accepting his dismissal, returned to his place, finished his lunch and made his way round to the Milan Mansions. A caretaker was established now in his office in the hall. He was a small and rather melancholy-looking man, who hastily concealed a blackened pipe as Lavendale entered.

      'I understand that you have a suite to let,' the latter began, 'upon the third floor?'

      The man pulled out a list.

      'We have several suites to let, sir,' he replied; 'nothing upon the third floor, though.'

      'What about number thirty-two?'

      The caretaker shook his head.

      'Number thirty-two is let, sir.'

      'Are you sure?' Lavendale persisted. 'I called this morning and was allowed to look over it by Mr. Somers-Keyne, who had the keys.'

      'It was taken by a young lady just before one o'clock, at our head office,' the man told him. 'With regard to the other suites, sir——'

      'Could you tell me the young lady's name?' Lavendale interrupted.

      'I haven't heard it yet,' the man answered shortly. 'With regard to the other suites——'

      Lavendale slipped a coin into his hand.

      'Thank you,' he said, 'there is no other suite in which I am interested for the moment.'

      He stepped out. Almost on the threshold he met Miss de Freyne, face to face.

      'Are you coming,' he asked, raising his hat, 'to take possession of your new abode?'

      She was entirely at her ease. She looked at him, however, a little curiously. It was as though she were trying to make an appreciative estimate of him in her mind.

      'I suppose,' she observed, with a little sigh, 'that we are playing at cross-purposes. You are an American, are you not, Mr. Lavendale?'

      'I am,' he answered.

      'German-American?'

      'No!'

      'English-American?'

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