Miss Taylor kept by his side, and resumed her catechism.
‘Is it a long time since you saw your friend?’
‘Just over seven years.’
‘Was it in Africa you knew him?’
‘Yes, not this part, though. The first time I ever saw Jimmy McGrath he was all trussed up ready for the cooking pot. Some of the tribes in the interior are cannibals, you know. We got there just in time.’
‘What happened?’
‘Very nice little shindy. We potted some of the beggars, and the rest took to their heels.’
‘Oh, Mr Cade, what an adventurous life you must have led.’
‘Very peaceful, I assure you.’
But it was clear that the lady did not believe him.
It was about ten o’clock that night when Anthony Cade walked into the small room where Jimmy McGrath was busy manipulating various bottles.
‘Make it strong, James,’ he implored. ‘I can tell you, I need it.’
‘I should think you did, my boy. I wouldn’t take on that job of yours for anything.’
‘Show me another, and I’ll jump out of it fast enough.’
McGrath poured out his own drink, tossed it off with a practised hand and mixed a second one. Then he said slowly:
‘Are you in earnest about that, old son?’
‘About what?’
‘Chucking this job of yours if you could get another?’
‘Why? You don’t mean to say that you’ve got a job going begging? Why don’t you grab it yourself?’
‘I have grabbed it–but I don’t much fancy it, that’s why I’m trying to pass it on to you.’
Anthony became suspicious.
‘What’s wrong with it? They haven’t engaged you to teach in a Sunday school, have they?’
‘Do you think anyone would choose me to teach in a Sunday school?’
‘Not if they knew you well, certainly.’
‘It’s a perfectly good job–nothing wrong with it whatsoever.’
‘Not in South America by any lucky chance? I’ve rather got my eye on South America. There’s a very tidy little revolution coming off in one of those little republics soon.
McGrath grinned.
‘You always were keen on revolutions–anything to be mixed up in a really good row.’
‘I feel my talents might be appreciated out there. I tell you, Jimmy, I can be jolly useful in a revolution –to one side or the other. It’s better than making an honest living any day.’
‘I think I’ve heard that sentiment from you before, my son. No, the job isn’t in South America–it’s in England.’
‘England? Return of hero to his native land after many long years. They can’t dun you for bills after seven years, can they, Jimmy?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, are you on for hearing more about it?’
‘I’m on all right. The thing that worries me is why you’re not taking it on yourself.’
‘I’ll tell you. I’m after gold, Anthony–far up in the interior.’
Anthony whistled and looked at him.
‘You’ve always been after gold, Jimmy, ever since I knew you. It’s your weak spot–your own particular little hobby. You’ve followed up more wild-cat trails than anyone I know.’
‘And in the end I’ll strike it. You’ll see.’
‘Well, every one his own hobby. Mine’s rows, yours is gold.’
‘I’ll tell you the whole story. I suppose you know all about Herzoslovakia?’
Anthony looked up sharply.
‘Herzoslovakia?’ he said, with a curious ring in his voice.
‘Yes. Know anything about it?’
There was quite an appreciable pause before Anthony answered. Then he said slowly:
‘Only what everyone knows. It’s one of the Balkan States, isn’t it? Principal rivers, unknown. Principal mountains, also unknown, but fairly numerous. Capital, Ekarest. Population, chiefly brigands. Hobby, assassinating kings and having revolutions. Last king, Nicholas IV, assassinated about seven years ago. Since then it’s been a republic. Altogether a very likely spot. You might have mentioned before that Herzoslovakia came into it.’
‘It doesn’t except indirectly.’
Anthony gazed at him more in sorrow than in anger.
‘You ought to do something about this, James,’ he said. ‘Take a correspondence course, or something. If you’d told a story like this in the good old Eastern days, you’d have been hung up by the heels and bastinadoed or something equally unpleasant.’
Jimmy pursued this course quite unmoved by these strictures.
‘Ever heard of Count Stylptitch?’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Anthony. ‘Many people who have never heard of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch. The Grand Old Man of the Balkans. The Greatest Statesman of Modern Times. The biggest villain unhung. The point of view all depends on which newspaper you take in. But be sure of this, Count Stylptitch will be remembered long after you and I are dust and ashes, James. Every move and counter-move in the Near East for the last twenty years has had Count Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a patriot and a statesman–and nobody knows exactly what he has been, except that he’s been a perfect king of intrigue. Well, what about him?’
‘He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia–that’s why I mentioned it first.’
‘You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no importance at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a birthplace and a post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?’
‘So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you about happened some years ago.’
‘The question is,’ said Anthony, ‘what are you telling me about?’
Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on.
‘It was like this. I was in Paris–just four years ago, to be exact. I was walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a dozen French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I hate a one-sided show, so I promptly butted
