shrewd suspicion that I am polyandrous. If you really love me, Bill, take me out to lunch quickly.’
Chapter 5
First Night in London
There is often a flaw in the best-laid plans. George Lomax had made one mistake–there was a weak spot in his preparations. The weak spot was Bill.
Bill Eversleigh was an extremely nice lad. He was a good cricketer and a scratch golfer, he had pleasant manners, and an amiable disposition, but his position in the Foreign Office had been gained, not by brains, but by good connexions. For the work he had to do he was quite suitable. He was more or less George’s dog. He did no responsible or brainy work. His part was to be constantly at George’s elbow, to interview unimportant people whom George didn’t want to see, to run errands, and generally to make himself useful. All this Bill carried out faithfully enough. When George was absent, Bill stretched himself out in the biggest chair and read the sporting news, and in so doing he was merely carrying out a time-honoured tradition.
Being accustomed to send Bill on errands, George had dispatched him to the Union Castle offices to find out when the Granarth Castle was due in. Now, in common with most well-educated young Englishmen, Bill had a pleasant but quite inaudible voice. Any elocution master would have found fault with his pronunciation of the word Granarth. It might have been anything. The clerk took it to be Carnfrae.
The Carnfrae Castle was due in on the following Thursday. He said so. Bill thanked him and went out. George Lomax accepted the information and laid his plans accordingly. He knew nothing about Union Castle liners, and took it for granted that James McGrath would duly arrive on Thursday.
Therefore, at the moment he was buttonholing Lord Caterham on the steps of the club on Wednesday morning, he would have been greatly surprised to learn that the Granarth Castle had docked at Southampton the preceding afternoon. At two o’clock that afternoon Anthony Cade, travelling under the name of Jimmy McGrath, stepped out of the boat train at Waterloo, hailed a taxi, and after a moment’s hesitation, ordered the driver to proceed to the Blitz Hotel.
‘One might as well be comfortable,’ said Anthony to himself as he looked with some interest out of the taxi windows.
It was exactly fourteen years since he had been in London.
He arrived at the hotel, booked a room, and then went for a short stroll along the Embankment. It was rather pleasant to be back in London again. Everything was changed of course. There had been a little restaurant there–just past Blackfriars Bridge–where he had dined fairly often, in company with other earnest lads. He had been a Socialist then, and worn a flowing red tie. Young–very young.
He retraced his steps back to the Blitz. Just as he was crossing the road, a man jostled against him, nearly making him lose his balance. They both recovered themselves, and the man muttered an apology, his eyes scanning Anthony’s face narrowly. He was a short, thick-set man of the working classes, with something foreign in his appearance.
Anthony went on into the hotel, wondering, as he did so, what had inspired that searching glance. Nothing in it probably. The deep tan of his face was somewhat unusual looking amongst these pallid Londoners and it had attracted the fellow’s attention. He went up to his room and, led by a sudden impulse, crossed to the looking-glass and stood studying his face in it. Of the few friends of the old days–just a chosen few–was it likely that any of them would recognize him now if they were to meet him face to face? He shook his head slowly.
When he had left London he had been just eighteen–a fair, slightly chubby boy, with a misleadingly seraphic expression. Small chance that that boy would be recognized in the lean, brown-faced man with the quizzical expression.
The telephone beside the bed rang, and Anthony crossed to the receiver.
‘Hullo!’
The voice of the desk clerk answered him.
‘Mr James McGrath?’
‘Speaking.’
‘A gentleman has called to see you.’
Anthony was rather astonished.
‘To see me?’
‘Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.’
‘What’s his name?’
There was a slight pause, and then the clerk said:
‘I will send up a page-boy with his card.’
Anthony replaced the receiver and waited. In a few minutes there was a knock on the door and a small page appeared bearing a card upon a salver.
Anthony took it. The following was the name engraved upon it.
Baron Lolopretjzyl
He now fully appreciated the desk clerk’s pause.
For a moment or two he stood studying the card, and then made up his mind.
‘Show the gentleman up.’
‘Very good, sir.’
In a few minutes the Baron Lolopretjzyl was ushered into the room, a big man with an immense fan-like black beard and a high, bald forehead.
He brought his heels together with a click, and bowed.
‘Mr McGrath,’ he said.
Anthony imitated his movements as nearly as possible.
‘Baron,’ he said. Then, drawing forward a chair, ‘Pray sit down. I have not, I think had the pleasure of meeting you before?’
‘That is so,’ agreed the Baron, seating himself. ‘It is my misfortune,’ he added politely.
‘And mine also,’ responded Anthony, on the same note.
‘Let us now to business come,’ said the Baron. ‘I represent in London the Loyalist party of Herzoslovakia.’
‘And represent it admirably, I am sure,’ murmured Anthony.
The Baron bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘You are too kind,’ he said stiffly. ‘Mr McGrath, I will not from you conceal anything. The moment has come for the restoration of the monarchy, in abeyance since the martyrdom of His Most Gracious Majesty King Nicholas IV of blessed memory.’
‘Amen,’ murmured Anthony. ‘I mean hear, hear.’
‘On the throne will be placed His Highness Prince Michael, who the support of the British Government has.’
‘Splendid,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s very kind of you to tell me all this.’
‘Everything arranged is–when you come here to trouble make.’
The Baron fixed him with a stern eye.
‘My dear Baron,’ protested Anthony.
‘Yes, yes, I know what I am talking about. You have with you the memoirs of the
