The Burglars' Club Part 26

"Is that so, sir?" inquired the officer.

"You have heard my daughter," replied the Earl, astonished but loyal.

"Of course it is so."

The motorist's mouth opened, but no words came forth. He was absolutely speechless at this change of front.

"Anyway, there's an a.s.sault an' battery," said his friend hopefully. "'E knocked 'im down," pointing to the protagonists of the drama.

"For insulting a lady, I think," said Cunningham.

"Gor!" snorted the driver, recovering his speech. "Sold again, Sammy!"

And with a frightful hoot they pa.s.sed into the night.

"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the policeman, with intense disgust. "And 'ere I am, miles off my beat."

"My friends won't be long before they are ready to start again, officer," said Cunningham, "and they'll no doubt give you a lift to Harrogate. In the meantime you might relieve the lady of the trouble of directing the light. Thank you," he whispered to Lady Eva, as he took the lamp from her. Her eyes met his and smiled.

The new tyre was at last adjusted. The Earl, Lady Eva, and the policeman got on board and sped away, Cunningham accompanying them on his motor-cycle.

In the outskirts of Harrogate the policeman resumed his interrupted beat, the richer by an unusual experience and a sovereign.

At the town itself Cunningham said his adieus.

"A thousand thanks for your generosity, my lord," he added. "You will not find it misplaced," and with a low bow to Lady Eva he took the road to the right.

The Earl watched him go regretfully, for after all he had the horseshoe and peppercorn. What Lady Eva's feelings were she could not have stated precisely.

The Earl of Tadcaster and his daughter arrived at their hotel in time to stop a relief expedition, organised by the anxious Achille; and under his care they resumed their journey the next day.

On the evening of the 28th, Captain Prescott Cunningham renewed his subscription to the Burglars' Club; and at 9 a.m. on the 29th there was delivered at Claridge's Hotel a registered packet containing a peppercorn and a golden horseshoe, which the eighteenth Baron Tadcaster presented to his sovereign that afternoon at Buckingham Palace.

Later on in the day a couple of new tyres, "With Mr. Duval's compliments and apologies," also reached the peer.

Here the story ends--for the present. This happened last March.

Cunningham now attends every possible dance, dinner, and reception, hoping that some day Lady Eva and he may meet again; and as for Lady Eva, does she not dream daily of witching moonlight, a greensward dance, and a brave and gallant partner?

X.

THE HOLBEIN MINIATURE.

MR. ADOLPH MEYER, the friend of nations, the a.s.sociate of kings, and the hope of the impecunious, had built himself a house on St. George's Island, off the coast of Hamps.h.i.+re.

As Mr. Meyer's origin was German, and the country of his adoption was England, it was perhaps natural that he should have gone to Tuscany for the architecture of his marine residence. Its boldly projecting cornices, its rusticated base and quoins, the consoles of its upper windows, all betrayed its Florentine birth; but the lower windows, reaching to the ground, were such as we a.s.sociate with the name of France, and were doubtless intended as a compliment to the great and gay nation living directly across the water.

To the south, a terrace, bounded by a low wall set with dogs, apparently petrified by their own ugliness, separated the villa from the beach.

To the west were the orchid houses. To the north, before the front of the house, lay the bowling green; beyond it a wood, through which ran the path leading to the landing-stage and the neighbouring island of Great Britain.

A spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as opportunity offered, Mr. Meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the satellites of Jupiter, the ca.n.a.ls on Mars, and other eccentricities of the heavens.

There was, of course, a fountain--between the bowling green and the cypress trees. There was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of Socrates, Pallas, Homer, and other appropriate notabilities.

Inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a millionaire.

Meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone enough to see him through till the following Sat.u.r.day, and maturing t.i.tanic schemes for the Federation of the World and the confounding of rival financiers.

Once only had he brought a guest with him--an African Pro-Consul--who had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his outward-bound s.h.i.+p from Meyer's electric launch.

Each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired.

Occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back.

Other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of the lord of the island.

One day last April a stranger with a camera rowed across from England.

At the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business with Mr. Meyer. This was telephoned to the house.

"What business?" came the reply.

"Particular business," said the newcomer.

"What particular business?"

"Pictures," was the answer.

This was transmitted, and the reply taken.

"You can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "Straight up the path, and through the woods. Turn to the left at the busk of 'Omer."

Ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in which Mr. Meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic folio.

He was a short, podgy man, with black curly hair, a rounded nose, and bright eyes. His moustache and imperial did not conceal the extraordinary firmness of his mouth and jaw.

He rose as his visitor entered. He was, as usual, attired in a frock-coat and grey trousers. Once he had been in flannels when an emergency had arisen demanding City attire, which was not immediately forthcoming. Mr. Meyer had lost an opportunity in life through carelessness. Therefore on land he ever afterwards wore a frock-coat, except when in evening dress or pyjamas. The occasion should never again find him wanting.

"You wished to see me on business?" he asked. "What is it?"

His visitor, who was cast in a finer, less decided mould--a good-looking, clean-shaven man of something over thirty--replied:

"I came to ask for permission to photograph the inside of your place."

"You are not from Mr. Holzmann, den?" said Meyer, curtly.

"No."

"You said your business was imbortant."