Array Sapper - The Complete Works of H. C. McNeile Sapper

"Everyone does not know it," remarked Sir Bryan quietly. "However, you did quite right to come to me. What are your plans during the next few days?"

"I am going out of London to-morrow to stay with Lady Manton near Sheffield," answered Latter. "A semi-political house party. Good heavens! What's that?" With a snort Hugh sat up blinking.

"So sorry, old lad," he burbled. "I snored: know I did. Late hours are the devil, aren't they?" He heaved himself out of his chair, and grinned pleasantly at Latter, who frowned disapprovingly.

"I don't go in for them myself. Well, Sir Bryan."

"This matter shall be attended to, Mr. Latter. I will see to it. Good afternoon. I will keep this note."

"And who was that little funny-face?" said Hugh as the door closed behind Mr. Latter.

"Member of Parliament for a north country constituency," answered Sir Bryan, still staring at the piece of paper in his hand. "Lives above his income. Keenly ambitious. But I thought he was all right."

The other two stared at him in surprise. "What do you mean, sir?" asked McIver at length.

"Our unknown friends do not think so, Mac," answered the chief, handing his subordinate the note left by Latter. "They are beginning to interest me, these gentlemen."

"You need a rest, Charles Latter," read McIver slowly. "We have established a home for people like you where several of your friends await you. In a few days you will join them."

"There are two things which strike one, McIver," remarked Sir Bryan thoughtfully, lighting cigarette. "First and most important: that message and the one you found this morning were written on the same typewriter—the letter 's' is distorted in each case. And, secondly, Mr. Charles Latter appears to have inside information concerning the recent activities of our masked friends which it is difficult to see how he came by. Unless "—he paused and stared out of the window with a slight frown—"unless they are far more conversant with his visiting list than I am."

McIver's great jaw stuck out as if made of granite. "It proves my theory, sir," he grunted, "but if these jokers try that game on with Mr. Latter they won't catch me a second time."

A terrific blow on the back made him gasp and splutter. "There speaks my hero—boy," cried Hugh. "Together we will outwit the knaves. I will write and cancel a visit: glad of the chance. Old Julia Manton—face like a horse: house at Sheffield: roped me in, Tumkins—positively stunned me with her verbosity. Ghastly house—but reeks of boodle."

Sir Bryan looked at him surprised. "Do you mean to say you are going to Lady Manton's?"

"I was. But not now. I will stick closer than a brother to Mr. McIver."

"I think not, old man. You go. If you'd been awake you'd have heard Latter say that he was going there too. You can be of use sooner than I thought."

"Latter going to old Julia?" Hugh stared at him amazed. "My dear old Tum- tum, what a perfectly amazing coincidence."

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Hugh Drummond strolled slowly along Whitehall in the direction of Trafalgar Square. His face wore its habitual look of vacuous good humour, and at intervals he hummed a little tune under his breath. It was outside the Carlton that he paused as a car drew up by his side, and a man and a girl got out.

"Algy, my dear old boy," he murmured, taking off his hat, "are we in good health to-day?"

"Passable, old son," returned Algy Longworth, adjusting his quite unnecessary eye-glass. "The oysters wilted a bit this morning, but I'm trying again to-night. By the way, do you know Miss Farreydale?"

Hugh bowed. "You know the risk you run, I suppose, going about with him?"

The girl laughed. "He seems harmless," she answered lightly.

"That's his guile. After a second cup of tea he's a perfect devil. By the same token, Algy, I am hibernating a while in the country. Going to dear old Julia Manton's for a few days. Up Sheffield way."

Miss Farreydale looked at him with a puzzled frown. "Do you mean Lady Manton—Sir John's wife?"

"That's the old dear," returned Hugh. "Know her?"

"Fairly well. But her name isn't Julia. And she won't love you if you call her old."

"Good heavens! Isn't it? And won't she? I must be mixing her up with someone else."

"Dorothy Manton is a well-preserved woman of—shall we say—thirty-five? She was a grocer's daughter: she is now a snob of the worst type. I hope you'll enjoy yourself."

"Your affection for her stuns me," murmured Hugh. "I appear to be in for a cheerful time."

"When do you go, Hugh?" asked Algy.

"To-morrow, old man. But I'm keeping you from your tea. Keep the table between you after the second cup, Miss Farreydale."

He lifted his hat and walked on up the Haymarket, only to turn back suddenly.

"'Daisy,' you said, didn't you?"

"No. Dorothy," laughed the girl. "Come on, Algy, I want my tea."

She passed into the Carlton, and for a moment the two men were together on the pavement.

"Lucky she knows the Manton woman," murmured Hugh.

"Don't you?" gasped Algy.

"Not from Eve, old son. Don't fix up anything in the near future. We shall be busy. I've joined the police and shall require help."

With a cheery nod he strolled off, and after a moment's hesitation Algy Longworth followed the girl into the Carlton.

"Mad, isn't he—your friend?" she remarked as he came up.

"Absolutely," he answered. "Let's masticate an eclair."

A quarter of an hour later Hugh let himself into his house in Brook Street. On the hall table were three telegrams which he opened and read. Then, having torn them into tiny fragments, he went on into his study and rang the bell.

"Beer, Denny," he remarked, as his servant came in. "Beer in a mug. I am prostrate. And then bring me one of those confounded books which people have their names put in followed by the usual lies."

"Who's Who, sir," said Denny.

"You've got it," said his master. "Though who is who in these days, Denny, is a very dark matter. I am rapidly losing my faith in my brother man—rapidly. And then after that we have to write a letter to Julia—no, Dorothy Manton—erstwhile grocer's daughter with whom I propose to dally for a few days."

"I don't seem to know the name, sir."

"Nor did I, Denny, until about an hour ago. But I have it on reliable authority that she exists."

"But how, sir..." began the bewildered Denny.

"At the moment the way is dark," admitted Drummond. "The fog of war enwraps me. Beer, fool, beer."

Accustomed to the little vagaries of his master, Denny left the room to return shortly with a large jug of beer which he placed on a small table beside Drummond's chair. Then he waited motionless behind his chair with a pencil and writing-block in his hand.

"A snob, Denny; a snob," said Drummond at length, putting down his empty glass. "How does one best penetrate into the life and home of a female snob whom one does not even know by sight? Let us reason from first principles. What have we in our repertoire that would fling wide the portals of her house, revealing to our awestruck gaze all the footmen ranged in a row?" He rose suddenly. "I've got it, Denny; at least some of it. We have old Turnip- top. Is he not a cousin of mine?"

"You mean Lord Stavely, sir," said Denny diffidently.

"Of course I do, you ass. Who else?" Clasping his replenished glass of beer, Hugh strode up and down the room. "Somehow or other we must drag him in."

"He's in Central Africa, sir," reminded Denny cautiously.

"What the devil does that matter? Julia—I mean Dorothy—won't know. Probably never heard of the poor old thing. Write, fool; take your pen and write quickly.

"'Dear Lady Manton,

"'I hope you have not forgotten the pleasant few days we spent together at Wiltshire Towers this spring.'"