‘I don’t suppose she’ll stay after this,’ said Pagett.
‘You always were a cheerful fellow,’ I said.
I expect I shall have to go back to England. Pagett clearly intends that I shall. And there is Caroline to pacify.
Three days later.
It is incredible to me that anyone who can get away from England in winter does not do so! It is an abominable climate. All this trouble is very annoying. The house-agents say it will be next to impossible to let the Mill House after all the publicity. Caroline has been pacified—with double pay. We could have sent her a cable to that effect from Cannes. In fact, as I have said all along, there was no earthly purpose to serve by our coming over. I shall go back tomorrow.
One day later.
Several very suprising things have occurred. To begin with, I met Augustus Milray, the most perfect example of an old ass the present Government has produced. His manner oozed diplomatic secrecy as he drew me aside in the Club into a quiet corner. He talked a good deal. About South Africa and the industrial situation there. About the growing rumours of a strike on the Rand. Of the secret causes actuating that strike. I listened as patiently as I could. Finally, he dropped his voice to a whisper and explained that certain documents had come to light which ought to be placed in the hands of General Smuts.
‘I’ve no doubt you’re quite right,’ I said, stifling a yawn.
‘But how are we to get them to him? Our position in the matter is delicate—very delicate.’
‘What’s wrong with the post?’ I said cheerfully. ‘Put a twopenny stamp on and drop ’em in the nearest letter-box.’
He seemed quite shocked at the suggestion.
‘My dear Pedler! The common post!’
It has always been a mystery to me why Governments employ King’s Messengers and draw such attention to their confidential documents.
‘If you don’t like the post, send one of your young Foreign Office fellows. He’ll enjoy the trip.’
‘Impossible,’ said Milray, wagging his head in a senile fashion. ‘There are reasons, my dear Pedler—I assure you there are reasons.’
‘Well,’ I said, rising, ‘all this is very interesting, but I must be off—’
‘One minute, my dear Pedler, one minute, I beg of you. Now tell me, in confidence, is it not true that you intend visiting South Africa shortly yourself? You have large interests in Rhodesia, I know, and the question of Rhodesia joining in the Union is one in which you have a vital interest.’
‘Well, I had thought of going out in about a month’s time.’
‘You couldn’t possibly make it sooner? This month? This week, in fact?’
‘I could,’ I said, eyeing him with some interest. ‘But I don’t know that I particularly want to.’
‘You would be doing the Government a great service—a very great service. You would not find them—er—ungrateful.’
‘Meaning, you want me to be the postman?’
‘Exactly. Your position is an unofficial one, your journey is bona fide. Everything would be eminently satisfactory.’
‘Well,’ I said slowly, ‘I don’t mind if I do. The one thing I am anxious to do is to get out of England again as soon as possible.’
‘You will find the climate of South Africa delightful—quite delightful.’
‘My dear fellow, I know all about the climate. I was out there shortly before the war.’
‘I am really much obliged to you, Pedler. I will send you round the package by messenger. To be placed in General Smuts’s own hands, you understand? The Kilmorden Castle sails on Saturday—quite a good boat.’
I accompanied him a short way along Pall Mall, before we parted. He shook me warmly by the hand, and thanked me again effusively.
I walked home reflecting on the curious by-ways of Governmental policy.
It was the following evening that Jarvis, my butler, informed me that a gentleman wished to see me on private business, but declined to give his name. I have always a lively apprehension of insurance touts, so told Jarvis to say I could not see him. Guy Pagett, unfortunately, when he might for once have been of real use, was laid up with a bilious attack. These earnest, hard-working young men with weak stomachs are always liable to bilious attacks.
Jarvis returned.
‘The gentleman asked me to tell you, Sir Eustace, that he comes to you from Mr Milray.’
That altered the complexion of things. A few minutes later I was confronting my visitor in the library. He was a well-built young fellow with a deeply tanned face. A scar ran diagonally from the corner of his eye to the jaw, disfiguring what would otherwise have been a handsome though somewhat reckless countenance.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘what’s the matter?’
‘Mr Milray sent me to you, Sir Eustace. I am to accompany you to South Africa as your secretary.’
‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘I’ve got a secretary already. I don’t want another.’
‘I think you do, Sir Eustace. Where is your secretary now?’
‘He’s down with a bilious attack,’ I explained.
‘You are sure it’s only a bilious attack?’
‘Of course it is. He’s subject to them.’
My visitor smiled.
‘It may or may not be a bilious attack. Time will show. But I can tell you this, Sir Eustace, Mr Milray would not be surprised if an attempt were made to get your secretary out of the way. Oh, you need have no fear for yourself’—I suppose a momentary alarm had flickered across my face—‘you are not threatened. Your secretary out of the way, access to you would be easier. In any case, Mr Milray wishes me to accompany you. The passage-money will be our affair, of course, but you will take the necessary steps about the passport, as though you had decided that you needed the services of a second secretary.’
He seemed a determined young man. We stared at each other and he stared me down.
‘Very well,’ I said feebly.
‘You
