smiled, “in spite of my alarming question, but I’m in rather a quandary. I’ve a friend — well, not exactly a friend — but I have business with Miss Dominguez, and—”
“Here’s the postman,” she interrupted. A quick step sounded in the passage, and the bearer of the king’s mails, with a flat parcel in his hand and his eyes searching the door numbers, stopped before them.
“Hyatt?” he asked, glancing at the address.
“Yes,” said the girl; “ — is that my parcel?”
“Yes, miss; will you sign?”
“Hyatt?” murmured Van Ingen; “what an extraordinary coincidence. You are not by any chance related to the unfortunate young man the story of whose sad death has been filling the newspapers?”
She flushed and her lip trembled.
“He was my brother; did you know him?”
“I knew of him,” said Van Ingen quietly, “but I did not know you lived in London!”
“Nor do I,” said the girl; “it is only by the great kindness of Miss Dominguez that I am here.”
There was no time for delicate finesse.
“Will you let me come in and talk with you?”
Van Ingen said; then, as he saw again the evidence of her suspicion, “What I have to ask you is of the greatest importance to you and to me.”
She hesitated, then led the way into a handsomely furnished sittingroom.
“First of all,” said Van Ingen quietly, “you must tell me how Miss Dominguez found you.”
“She came to Falmouth and sought me out. It was not difficult. I have a little millinery establishment there, and my name is well known. She came one morning, eight days — no — yes, it was seven days ago, and—”
“What did she want?”
“She said she had known Charles; he had some awfully swagger friends; that is what got him into trouble at the post-office; it was a great blow to us, because—”
“What did she want?” asked Van Ingen, cutting short the loquacity.
“She said that Charles had something of hers — a book which she had lent him, years before. Now, the strange thing was that on the very day poor Charles was killed I had a telegram which ran: ‘ If anything happens, tell Escoltier book is at Antaxia, New York.’ It was unsigned, and I did not connect it with Charles. You see, I hadn’t heard from him for years.
“She was a great friend of Charles’ — the Spanish lady — and she came down especially about the book. She said Charles had got into trouble and she wanted the book to save him. Then I showed her the telegram. I was confused, but I wanted to help Charles.” She gulped down a sob. “I asked her who Escoltier was.”
“Yes?” asked Van Ingen quickly.
“She said he was a friend of hers who was interested in the book. She went away, but came back soon afterwards and told me that ‘Antaxia’ was the telegraphic address of a safe deposit in New York. She was very nice and offered to pay for a cable to the deposit. So I wired: ‘Please forward by registered post the book deposited by Charles Hyatt’; and I signed it ‘Eva Hyatt’ and gave my address. By the evening the reply came: ‘Forwarded; your previous wire did not comply with our instructions.’—”
“I see,” said Van Ingen.
“Well, that is more than I can,” said the girl, with a smile, “because only one wire was sent. Miss Dominguez was surprised, too, and a little annoyed, and said: ‘ How foolish it was of me not to ask you your Christian name.’ Well, then she insisted upon my coming to stay with her till the book came. I came expecting I should find Charles, but — but—”
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“I read in a newspaper that he was dead. It was the first thing I saw in London, the bill of a newspaper—”
Van Ingen gave her time to recover her voice.
“And Miss Dominguez?”
“She took this furnished flat near to hers,” said the girl; “she lives here—”
“Does she?” asked Van Ingen artlessly. He took up the registered parcel which she had put on the table.
It was fairly light.
“Now, Miss Hyatt,” he said, very gently. “I want you to do something for me; and I must tell you that, although I ask it as a favour, I can enforce my wishes as a right.”
“I will do anything,” said the girl eagerly.
“Very well; you must let me take this book away.”
“But it is not mine; it belongs to Miss Dominguez,” she protested; “and it is to save my brother’s name—”
“Miss Hyatt,” said Van Ingen, “I must take this book which has so providentially come into my hands, not to save your brother’s name, but to bring to justice the men who took his life.” As he spoke there came a knock at the door; and, hastily drying her eyes, the girl opened it.
A porter handed her a telegram, and she came back into the light of the room to open it. She read it, and reread it; then looked at Van Ingen with bewilderment written on her face.
“What does this mean?” she said. He took the telegram from her hand; it had been readressed from Falmouth and ran:
BY WIRELESS FROM PORT SYBIL. DO NOT PART WITH BOOK TO ANYBODY ON ANY ACCOUNT. CATHERINE DOMINGUEZ.
He handed the telegram back.
“It means,” he said, “that our friend is just two minutes too late.”
20. At the Admiralty
“This business is a little too hot to hold,” said the editor in a final interview with T.B., who had persuaded him to keep back his story, until he had bagged the “Nine Men.” “Tonight I must tell the whole of the affair.”
T.B. nodded.
“Tonight,” said T.B., “you can tell what you like. I shall have played my stake for good or ill.
“I have been talking with Escoltier; we have got him lodged in Scotland Yard — though you needn’t mention that fact in your account — and I think we know enough now to trap the ‘Nine Men.’”
“Who are they and what does the ‘ C.’ stand for in ‘ N.H.C.’?”
“I can only guess,” said T.B. cautiously. “Do you know anything about wireless telegraphy?”
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