CHAPTER XVI
AN ARTISTIC FORGERY
Spalding drew back the curtains with that slightly sacerdotal gravity that distinguished all his professional actions, and then turned towards Tony.
"Mr. Oliver asked me to inform you, sir, that he will not be having breakfast with you. He has to leave the house early on business."
Tony arranged himself more comfortably amongst the pillows. "In that case, Spalding," he said, "I think I shall break my good resolutions, and have a cup of tea up here. I can't face the Times and a poached egg single-handed."
"Very good, sir," observed Spalding, and retiring deftly to the lower regions, he returned in a few minutes with a tray containing the desired refreshment, a couple of letters, and a copy of the Sportsman.
Tony took a sip of the tea, lighted himself a cigarette from the big silver box beside his bed, and then proceeded to investigate his correspondence.
The first letter was of a philanthropic character. It was from a gentleman named Douglas Gordon, apparently of Scottish extraction, offering to lend him any sum from £1,000 to £50,000 on his note of hand alone. Laying it one side he picked up the other, which was addressed in a solid, straightforward handwriting that he recognized immediately as that of his skipper—Captain Simmons of the Betty. Having as yet had no communication from the yacht, except for a wire in reply to his, Tony opened it with some interest.
It ran as follows:
May 7th,
S. Y. Betty,
SOUTHAMPTON.
DEAR SIR ANTONY CONWAY:
On receipt of your telegram I sent off a reply informing you that we could be ready for sea any day after Thursday next. I trust this duly came to hand, and that it will not be inconvenient to you to wait until the date in question. Not expecting that you would be needing the Betty for some weeks I had given instructions for one or two small jobs to be done in the engine-room, and the same were in hand at the time of writing.
In connection with this something rather curious has happened, which I feel it my duty to bring to your notice. Two days ago a gentleman came on board and asked to see me. He informed me that his name was Hemmingway, and that he was a friend of yours. He presented one of your cards with instructions written across it, apparently in your handwriting, that he was to be allowed to look over the yacht.
I showed him round, but in the middle of this I was called away to speak with the harbour-master with reference to our moorings. While I was engaged he continued his inspection of the vessel, visiting the engine-room, which at that time was unoccupied. One of the crew saw him go in, but knowing that I had been showing him over the ship, didn't attach any importance to the matter.
Later on, after he had gone ashore, Mr. McEwen discovered, almost by chance, that an attempt had apparently been made to tamper with the engines. Without going into details I may say that if they had been started as they were, the damage would probably have been bad enough to keep us in port for at least an extra week.
I have gone fully into the matter, and it seems impossible that any one else could have been responsible except this gentleman. I thought therefore you ought to hear about it.
I can only suppose that knowing nothing of marine engines he was under the impression that he was performing some sort of a practical joke. If so, and you will excuse my saying so, it seems to me to have been an uncommon stupid and dangerous one. I don't suppose he realizes what would have happened to him if Mr. McEwen or the second engineer had happened to catch him in the act. I fancy he wouldn't have wanted to be funny with any more engines—not this side of the grave.
Everything is now ready for sea, or will be by the date I gave you. The necessary stores are coming on board, and some extra cases have arrived from Harrod's and Fortnum and Mason's, which I suppose you have ordered yourself in London.
Hoping that you are keeping well, and with my respectful regards to yourself and Mr. Oliver,
I have the honour to remain,
Yours truly,
JOHN SIMMONS.
Tony laid down the letter on the bed, took a thoughtful pull or two at his cigarette, and then, reaching up, pressed the electric bell, which was answered almost immediately by Spalding.
"Has Mr. Oliver gone out yet?" he inquired.
"He left the house a minute or two ago, Sir Antony. I could perhaps overtake him if you wished it."
Tony shook his head. "You had better not try, Spalding," he said. "You might drop dead from heart disease, and that would be very inconvenient."
"Quite so, sir," assented Spalding gravely.
"You can turn on my bath instead," observed Tony. "I have to go to Southampton." He threw back the bed-clothes and prepared to get out. "You might tell Bugg and Jennings that I shall want to see them as soon as I am dressed," he added.
Gathering up the tray, Spalding departed on his errand, and in a surprisingly short time for him Tony had completed his toilet, and was descending the staircase. As he reached the hall the door at the back opened, and Bugg appeared on the threshold. He came forward in that noiseless fashion which had won him his famous soubriquet.
"Mornin', Sir Ant'ny. Mr. Spalding says as you wanted to see me."
"That's right, Bugg," said Tony. "Are you a good sailor?"
"I dunno, sir," observed "Tiger" simply. "I ain't never tried—'cept once at the Welsh 'Arp."
"I am told that it can be very rough there at times," said Tony. He paused, and looked thoughtfully at his devoted henchman. "How would you like to come to South America on the Betty?" he inquired.
Bugg's blue eyes lit up. "Not 'arf, sir."
"Do you know where it is?"
Bugg nodded. "Yes, sir. Where they gets the cocoanuts."
"That's right," said Tony. "Well, we are going next week, at least I hope so. Just four of us. Lady Jocelyn, Miss Francis, Mr. Oliver and myself. There's plenty of room on board for you. Bring a set of gloves, and we can have some sparring on the way over. It's just possible we might be able to fix up a match in Buenos Ayres and pay the expenses of the trip. I believe there are some very rash people there, and they seem to have plenty of money."
Bugg went off, beaming with satisfaction, and leaving the house, Tony made his way up to the garage, where he found Jennings surrounded by various portions of the Hispano's interior. It was an exceptional morning when Jennings did not partially dismantle one or other of his charges.
"It had better be the Rolls, sir," he observed gloomily, on learning that Tony desired to go to Southampton. "Both the others are pulling something sickening. D'you want me to come too, sir?"
"I think it would cheer me up," said Tony. "Besides, wouldn't you like to see the yacht?"
"Just as you please, sir," observed Jennings indifferently. "I don't take much stock in boats meself. The dry land's good enough for me."
Tony seated himself on the running-board of the Peugot, which was also outside in the yard. "You have a happy and contented temperament, Jennings," he observed. "I often envy you."
Not receiving any reply to this compliment, he leaned back against the door of the car, and lighting another cigarette watched Jennings gathering up the fragments of the Hispano with that cold stoicism of one unjustly afflicted by the Fates. He had been enjoying this pleasant spectacle for several minutes, when a sudden sound of footsteps attracted his attention. A moment later Spalding emerged into sight round the corner of the bushes and advanced to where he was sitting.
"A gentleman has called, Sir Antony, and wishes to see you immediately. I told him that I would ascertain whether you were at home."
"That was very tactful of you, Spalding," said Tony. "Who is it?"
"Another foreign gentleman, sir. A Mr. Congosta."
Tony got up at once. "Oh, yes," he said, "I will see him certainly. Where is he?"
"Not knowing the gentleman, Sir Antony, I thought it best to leave him in the hall."
Tony nodded his approval. "We'll be off as soon as you are ready, Jennings," he said. "I may stay the night, so you had better bring your things with you."
Then, accompanied by Spalding, he made his way back down the drive, and re-entered the front door outside which an empty taxi was ticking away with remorseless energy.
Señor Congosta, who was seated in one of the big leather chairs scattered about the hall, rose up at their entrance. He bowed to Tony, who at once came forward and greeted him with a hearty handshake, while Spalding withdrew discreetly through the door at the back.
"I have been expecting to see or hear from you," said Tony in his friendliest manner. "I have all sorts of interesting things to talk to you about."
Congosta cast a rapid glance round the hall, as if to make certain that they were alone.
"Her Royal Highness?" he demanded quickly. "She is safe?"
"Safe as a church," replied Tony. "At least she was when I rang her up last night."
"But she is not with you. She has gone from where she was living?"
"That's right," said Tony reassuringly. "Da Freitas found out the address, so I thought a change of air would be beneficial. She is staying with some friends of mine in Chester Square. They are taking excellent care of her."
A look of relief flashed into the Livadian's face.
"It is well," he said, nodding his head. "I knew that we might trust you."
Tony pulled up a chair. "Sit down," he said, "and let's hear your side of the story. I have been dying to know what's going on behind the scenes."
Congosta glanced swiftly at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Many things have happened," he replied, "but there is not much time for telling them. In a few minutes I must leave you again."
"Well, one can tell quite a lot in a few minutes if one talks quickly," remarked Tony hopefully.
Congosta lowered his voice to a whisper. "The hour has struck," he said. "Even now, while we stand here, the streets of Portriga may be running in blood."
"By Jove!" said Tony with interest. "Whose blood?"
Congosta raised his hands in an expressive gesture. "There will be much fighting. All over Livadia men will die for one cause or the other. It will be the greatest civil war in the history of my unhappy country."
"That's saying something too, isn't it?" observed Tony. He paused to offer his guest a cigar. "How do you know all this?" he asked. "Have you heard from Colonel Saltero?"
"Every day I have news," replied Congosta a little proudly. "We have friends in many places—in the post-office, among the frontier guards, everywhere! It is easy to send a cable of which the government knows nothing."
"Well, what has happened—exactly?" demanded Tony.
Congosta took a long breath. "Da Freitas has given the signal. For three days his followers have been making ready. All through the North they have been arming themselves and collecting together in the principal towns. It is the same with our people in the South."
"But how about the Republican government?" inquired Tony. "Haven't they anything to say to these happy gatherings?"
"They have said what they could," replied Congosta grimly. "Half a dozen of Da Freitas' agents have been seized and shot in Portriga, and yesterday they arrested General Carmel da Silva, our chief supporter and the richest man in Livadia. It was with his money that we were making our preparations."
"That's a nasty knock," said Tony sympathetically. "What are you going to do about it?"
"There is nothing to do," admitted Congosta with a fatalistic shrug. "Fortunately we have a fair supply of arms and ammunition—for the rest we must manage as best we can. In a few days there will be many rifles without owners in Livadia."
"And how about Pedro and Da Freitas?" demanded Tony. "Are they joining in the fun or are they going to sit tight at Richmond and see what happens?"
Again Congosta glanced at the clock. "It is because I want the answer to that question that I must leave you. Two days ago Da Freitas bought or hired Lord Northfield's steam yacht, the Vivid. She is lying off the Tower Bridge now, and so far as I know she is ready to sail at any moment. One of my men is watching her, but I dare not trust wholly anybody but myself. It is necessary that our people should be informed the very moment that Da Freitas leaves England."
"Then you think he is going?" said Tony. "You think he has given up the idea of getting back the Princess?"
Congosta indulged in another shrug of the shoulders. "I cannot tell. It may be that the revolution has come against his will—that he is unable to control it longer. Even in that case I do not think he will easily give up his idea of the marriage. It is one thing to overthrow a government: it is another to take its place. It's only as the husband of Don Francisco's daughter that Southern Livadia could ever be persuaded to acknowledge Pedro." He paused. "You are quite sure that you were not followed when you took the Princess away?"
"I am never quite sure of anything," said Tony, "especially with people who purr and smile like Da Freitas does. All the same I think we managed to dodge them. I took her a twenty-mile run in the car first, and she has not been outside the house since she got to Chester Square."
"You have done well," observed Congosta with a kind of stately approval. "Should our hopes be fulfilled your name will be honoured for ever in Livadian history."
"That will be jolly," said Tony; and then, as Congosta gathered up his hat from the table, he added casually: "You will let me know at once, I suppose, if there should be any news. I may possibly be out of town to-night, but I shall be back in good time to-morrow. My cousin, Guy Oliver, will be here in any case. You can speak to him as freely as you would to me."
Congosta nodded; and after shaking hands again warmly in the doorway, entered the taxi, which disappeared rapidly down the drive.
For a moment or two after his visitor had departed Tony remained wrapped in meditation. Then crossing the hall he pressed the electric bell for Spalding.
"I am going to Southampton as soon as Jennings is agreeable," he said. "You might put some pyjamas in a bag for me and shove them in the car."
Spalding departed on his errand, and walking thoughtfully to the telephone, Tony asked the girl at the Exchange for Lady Jocelyn's number. After waiting for several minutes, he was informed by a contemptuous voice that it was engaged, and hanging up the receiver he sat down at an old oak writing-table which filled up one of the bay windows. Then, selecting a piece of paper and a pencil, he wrote the following note to Guy.
MY DEAR GUY:
I wish you wouldn't get up at such ridiculous hours. It's a very unhealthy habit, and apart from that you brush all the dew off the lawn, and leave me without any one to ask advice from. I wanted your advice this morning badly.
In the first place when I woke up, I got the enclosed letter from Captain Simmons. I don't know how it strikes you, but it looks fishy to me—very fishy. I have never heard of any one called Hemmingway, and I have no recollection of writing such instructions on one of my cards. Of course I might have done it when I was slightly intoxicated, but then I haven't been even slightly intoxicated for quite a long time. There are one or two pleasant fools among my friends, but no one I can think of who would be quite such an idiot as to try and break up the engines of the Betty.
The alternative is what you might call an ugly one—Da Freitas! It hardly seems possible, especially in view of my other news which I am going to tell you in a moment, and yet who the devil else could it be? If he has really dropped on to our notion of taking Isabel away, it's a serious business—so serious that I am going to motor down to Southampton straight away and find out all I can. Of course it isn't the least likely that Da Freitas would have shown up in the business himself, but I might get some useful information out of Simmons, and anyway I can at least make certain that everything will be all right for us on Thursday.
My other news comes from Congosta. In spite of all the bitter and unkind things you have said about him, he turned up here faithfully this morning to report progress. It was some report too. According to him the whole of Livadia by this time ought to be up to its ankles in gore. Things began to move two days ago, and although there has been nothing in the English papers yet, the odds are that the entire crowd of them—Royalists, Franciscans, and Republicans—are now pleasantly and usefully occupied in slitting each other's throats.
Of course I asked him at once about Pedro and Da Freitas. They haven't left England yet, but it seems that they have bought Lord Northfield's steam yacht, the Vivid—and a beauty she is too—and that she is lying in the Thames ready to push off at a moment's notice.
I admit that this doesn't look as if they could have had anything to do with the Betty affair, and yet it would a devilish odd coincidence if anyone had tried such a trick. Besides, who on earth would try it? Everybody loves me—apart from Da Freitas and Jennings.
I have told Congosta as much as I thought was good for him. He knows that Isabel is now in Chester Square with some friends of mine, though I haven't given him the actual number. He seemed so pleased and contented I thought it was a pity to drag in anything about our South American idea in case he didn't approve of it. Also of course I haven't said a word to him about Molly. I mention this because if anything exciting happens while I am away, I have told him to roll up and inform you.
Jennings has just appeared outside with the car, and is scowling at me so horribly through the window that I can't write any more. You might, however, ring up Aunt Fanny and Isabel as soon as you come in and give them my love, and let them know what's happened. I tried to get on to them just now, but the girl at the telephone laughed me to scorn.
Your neglected and overworked cousin,
TONY.
Having fastened this up, with Captain Simmons' letter enclosed, Tony handed it to Spalding with instructions that he was to give it to Guy as soon as the latter came in. Then getting into his coat, he sauntered out through the porch and took his place at the wheel of the car, Jennings settling himself sombrely in the seat alongside.
The exact length of the journey from London to Southampton is stated by the Motor Guide to be seventy-four and a half miles. This, however, must be due to an error of measurement on the part of the editor, since with an hour for lunch at Basingstoke, Tony covered the distance in three hours and fifty-two minutes, a feat which is clearly impossible in view of the present speed limit of twenty miles an hour.
He pulled up at that excellent hotel, the Victoria, where he engaged a couple of rooms for the night, and with the aid of a hot bath and a large whisky and soda, removed such portions of the roadway as had accumulated outside and inside his person. Then, leaving Jennings to perform a similar service to the car, he lighted a cigar and started off through the town in the direction of the Docks.
The Betty was lying out in the Roads, some little distance from the shore. With her graceful lines, her snowy white paint, and her gleaming brass-work, she presented as charming a picture as the eye of an owner could desire to gaze upon. Tony contemplated her with pride for a moment or two, and then availing himself of the services of one of the small cluster of ancient mariners, who had been hovering interrogatively round him, he set off in a dinghy, across the intervening stretch of water.
His advent was soon observed on board the yacht, and by the time he arrived alongside, Captain Simmons was standing at the head of the accommodation ladder waiting to receive him. The skipper, a short, square-shouldered, grey-bearded man with honest blue eyes, greeted his employer with a blend of pleasure and concern.
"Well, I am glad to see you, Sir Antony, but why ever didn't you let me know you were coming? I'd have had the gig ashore ready for you."
Tony shook hands warmly with him, and then turned to greet Mr. McEwen, the chief engineer, who came shambling up from below with a gleam of welcome showing through a forest of red whiskers.
"I don't like having the gig waiting for me," explained Tony. "It always makes me feel as if I was Sir Thomas Lipton."
They remained chatting for a moment or two, and then moved off across the deck, Tony stopping to exchange a word or two with various members of the crew, who all saluted him with the friendly grin of old acquaintance. It was not often that there was a new hand on board the Betty.
Captain Simmons led the way to his own cabin, where the time honoured ceremony of drinking a toast to the ensuing season having been duly discharged, he proceeded to add some further details to the brief report of his preparations that he had already sent along by post.
"I think you'll find everything nice and shipshape by Thursday, Sir Antony," he finished with a touch of self-pride. "Not knowing exactly where we were bound for I may have allowed a bit too much margin on the stores, but then I wasn't expecting those packages you sent from London."
"It's an error in the right dimension," observed Tony contentedly. "We are thinking of going to Buenos Ayres to start with, and I always find the Atlantic very stimulating to one's appetite."
"Buenos Ayres!" repeated the skipper with interest. "And a very nice run too, sir." He turned to the chief engineer. "Just about twenty days out—eh, Mr. McEwen?"
The latter shifted his cigar to the corner of his mouth, and nodded gravely.
"Aye," he remarked; "though it might have been another tale if we hadna' found out the fule's work that veesitor friend o' yours was up to in the engine-room, Sir Antony.'
"Ah!" said Tony: "that's one of the things I wanted to ask about. What sort of a person was he?"
There was a moment's pause.
"What sort of a person!" repeated the skipper. "Do you mean that you don't know him—that you didn't give him that card?"
"I have never heard of him in my life," said Tony tranquilly.
With a strange noise, such as a tiger would probably make if somebody trod upon his toe, Mr. McEwen turned to the skipper.
"Did I no tell ye that the mon was an impostor?" he demanded excitedly.
Fumbling in his waistcoat pocket, Captain Simmons produced a dirty and crumpled visiting card, which he held out to Tony.
"It's only a chance that I didn't tear it up," he observed rather grimly.
Tony took the card which, despite its dilapidated appearance, had every appearance of being one of his own. He was just able to make out the following half obliterated message scribbled across it in pencil.
Mr. Hemmingway is a friend of mine.
Please allow him to look over the Betty.
A.C.
"I don't wonder it took you in," he said, with a tinge of admiration. "It's a most artistic forgery."
Mr. McEwen drew a deep breath. "My God!" he said softly; "I'm wishing I'd found him in the engine-room. I'd have broken him in twa."
"It's a pity you didn't," said Tony. "I should probably have been able to recognize one or other of the bits." He turned to Captain Simmons. "What was he like, and what did he do—exactly?"
The skipper, who was a man of slow speech, pondered for a moment before replying.
"He was right enough to look at in a way—well dressed and all that sort of thing. A youngish, darkish sort of fellow—might have had a touch of the Dago about him, but he spoke English as well as you or me. As for what he did—well, Mr. McEwen can tell you that best."
"I'd had the head off one o' the cylinders," burst out the Scotchman, "an' there she was put back in her place, but no screwed down. What did the black-hearted Jezebel do, but drop in a spanner, a nine-inch steel spanner that would ha' jarred the head o' the cylinder to Gehenna if so be we'd screwed her doon wi'oot takin' a look inside."
"Have you any idea who he was, Sir Antony?" inquired the skipper anxiously.
"I think I know where he came from," replied Tony. He got up from his seat, and for a moment or two stared thoughtfully out of the skipper's port-hole.
It seemed evident beyond doubt that the mysterious "Mr. Hemmingway" could have been none other than an agent of Da Freitas, and for the first time since he had light-heartedly entered upon his adventure Tony felt a sudden slight sense of misgiving. There was a touch about this latest effort of the Marquis that suggested unpleasant depths of knowledge and resource on that gentleman's part. It seemed hardly probable that he would have instigated an attempt upon the Betty's engines, unless he had a very shrewd idea of the use to which that vessel was shortly to be put. If this were so, the situation was some way from being as simple and safe as it had previously appeared, and with a sudden determination Tony resolved to take his companions into his confidence.
"I think you ought to know the facts of the case—both of you," he said. "It's quite on the cards I might be running you into trouble or even danger, and I don't think we included that in our agreements, did we?"
The skipper stroked his beard. "One can't include everything," he remarked; "eh, Mr. McEwen?"
"I'm no sayin' I've any great objection to eether," observed the latter cautiously; "not in good company."
"Well, you shall hear," said Tony; "and then you can judge for yourselves."
In as few words as possible he gave them a brief outline of the situation, starting from his original meeting with Isabel in Long Acre, and bringing the story down to Congosta's visit to Hampstead that morning. As a convincing narrative it gained rather than lost by this compression, for the mere facts, however crudely stated, had a dramatic grip about them that needed no embellishment or elaboration.
Both the skipper and Mr. McEwen listened to him with silent attention. It was a story which any one might have been pardoned for receiving with a certain amount of surprise or even incredulity, but neither of their faces showed any trace of their natural emotions. On the contrary they appeared to accept the entire narrative as though it were the sort of thing that might reasonably be expected to happen to any yacht owner of average experience.
It was Mr. McEwen who was the first to break the ensuing silence.
"I'm thinkin' that ye've done a guid act," he said gravely. "'Tis no business for a young lassie to be stuck up on a throne over a parcel o' murderin' Dagoes."
Captain Simmons nodded his assent. "You can rest your mind easy about the yacht, Sir Antony. There'll be no one else come on board—not till you arrive yourself."
"How about the crew?" suggested Tony. "Ought they to be told anything?"
"I'm inclined to think it would be injudeecious," put in Mr. McEwen. "Not that they would be makin' any deeficulties—they would gae to Hell to oblige you, Sir Antony—but mebbe 'twould gie 'em a sense o' their own importance that's no desirable in a crew. What do you say, Captain Simmons?"
Again the skipper nodded.
"Well, that all seems satisfactory enough," observed Tony cheerfully. "I am sure I am very much obliged to you both." He poured himself out another drink and lifted the glass. "Here's to the voyage," he said, "and may every owner have as sporting a lot of officers as I've got."
"Here's to the voyage, sir," said Captain Simmons, following his example, "and proud and glad to be of any assistance to you."
Very gravely Mr. McEwen reached for the whisky bottle. "Here's to the voyage, gentlemen," he repeated, "and God send that we meet the mon who put that spanner in my cylinder."
* * * * * * *
It was close on eight o'clock by the time Tony returned to the hotel. He had some dinner in the big, sparsely populated restaurant, and then sending out a message by the waiter to Jennings, invited that sunny-souled mechanic to come up and play him a game of snooker in the billiard-room.
With the exception of backing losers, snooker was Jennings' only human weakness, and on occasions when he and Tony were away together at a hotel he would so far relax his dignity as to oblige his employer in this unprofessional fashion. They played two games, both of which Jennings won—a circumstance which caused him so much satisfaction that he received Tony's instructions to have the car ready at eleven the next morning with what only just escaped being an amiable bow.
Despite the somewhat disquieting manner in which his suspicions about the attempt on the Betty had been confirmed, Tony managed to pass a very comfortable night. He dressed himself leisurely in the morning and strolled down to the dining-room about ten o'clock, where he instructed the waiter to bring him some China tea and a grilled sole.
A copy of the Daily Mail was lying on the table beside his plate, and in the casual fashion of one who is waiting for breakfast he opened it out in front of him at the centre page. As he did so a series of bold, heavily-leaded headlines leaped into view that brought an involuntary exclamation from his lips.
REVOLUTION IN LIVADIA
FIERCE FIGHTING AT PORTRIGA
REPORTED FLIGHT OF PRESIDENT
In a second the grilled sole and everything else had vanished out of his mind and he was eagerly scanning the following announcement.
By a cable from Paris received shortly before going to press, we learn that yesterday evening a revolution broke out in Livadia, which appears already to have attained wide-spread proportions. So far, information is scanty, for the telegraph wire