The Four Invisibles/Chapter 3

OW, Landlord, I believe this will cover my shot. I'll not trouble you for a reckoning,” said the young man, with a cheeriness perhaps a little forced, placing a guinea upon the table which Mr. Daniells was laying out for breakfast.

The majordomo pocketed the coin, smiling shamefacedly.

“Since you will have your little joke about landlords, sir. I am sure Sir Jasper”

“Mr. Daniells, that will be a point to settle between you and Sir Jasper. It was your hospitality I enjoyed, not his. No doubt you can oblige me further—in the matter of a conveyance. Surely you can find something that will carry me and my bag as far as Blandford or Salisbury—any place where I can get coach for London.”

“Salisbury?” The captain's voice rang hearty and guttural as he put in an appearance in the dining-room. “I am for Salisbury myself—London, too, for that matter, I hope—tonight. My dear sir, why not take your seat with me? Nay, nay, no ceremony! I have drawn blank at my old friend's; let me have in compensation a day in the company of my new one—if you will permit me so to call Mr. Fendall—of whom I have by no means seen as much as I would like. Yes? It must be yes. So—that is pleasant. Pray,” turning to the majordomo, “warn the post boy and my servant to be round at ten with the chaise. That is settled,” he went on, to bear down any remains of hesitation on the Englishman's part.

Thus it came to pass that, an hour later, the two guests of chance were bowling along the white road between the folds of the downs on their way to London together.

The last words of the captain to the majordomo, who, although generously tipped, bowed them disconsolately enough out of Stanton Manor, had been exuberantly optimistic:

“Tell Sir Jasper when he does return, as I trust he will soon, that I shall be in London till the fifteenth and that I hope to hear from him before that. I shall be at Long's Hotel, Bond Street.”

Not content, however,with verbal instructions, he had with Teutonic thoroughness taken the precaution to hand the servant a slip of paper with the address and the date clearly written.

Then he had settled himself down with great show of comfort in his seat and selected a cigar from his traveling-case.

“Well, my dear Mr. Fendall,” he began, between two puffs, “we are”

“One moment, Baron,” interrupted the young man. “Now that we are free of that excellent but rather foolish fellow's presence and that I am, as it seems, to pursue the pleasure of your acquaintance, it is necessary that I should clear myself at once of the discourtesy of sailing in your company under assumed colors.”

The Hanoverian paused in his puffing, the tinder-box still poised in the air, and shot at his companion a smiling, inquisitive glance.

“My name is not Fendall, but Ferrars. The house in which we have spent the night is that of my father.”

“So? Most interesting. Gad, this is indeed charming! Quite picturesque. Romantic—in the style of our Kotzebue's dramas. The wandering heir returning to the deserted ancestral mansion. Do you know, my dear sir, I had something of a vague idea, last night—some glimmering—as I saw you so pensive at the supper-table, gazing with a kind of melancholy abstraction at the old family pictures whilst I was rattling with my yarns. Yes, and again in front of that delicious portrait—but pray, pray go on,” he urged, as the other made a deprecating gesture.

“I have a rooted dislike to talking of myself and my own affairs,” the Englishman resumed gravely. “You will, I am sure, forgive me if I only say just as much as will explain my presence in a house which I thought I would never enter again. And you will, I hope, excuse the deception to which I deemed it advisable to have recourse. You knew, possibly, that Sir Jasper had a son.”

“I knew there was a son somewhere in the world. Yes. And I knew there was an estrangement, for, on making inquiries as to the heir of my friend's beautiful estate such as civility demanded, Sir Jasper gave me to understand it was a subject which he declined to enter upon. I gathered, however, that he knew absolutely nothing of your whereabouts and did not wish to know.”

“Estrangement!” murmured Mr. Ferrars with bitterness. “I will not enter into details; it was one of those horrible tragedies that are only known to the son who has had to protect his mother against the cold cruelty of his father. She died of it at last—that sweet creature you found me gazing at. But enough of that. When she died, there rose between my father and me one of those quarrels which might easily end in murder.

“It did not so end, thank God! But it ended in my leaving the home of my people for ever—aye, and even the land of my birth, until yesterday—disinherited, of course, to the last shilling. All this is common knowledge in the county, and I have no scruple in speaking of it.”

“Yes,” said the Brunswicker with deep sympathy. “And, I may tell you now, I had heard as much.”

“Then the subject is closed. Now, as to my return and my presence at Stanton under an assumed name. A letter reached me in France some days ago from the attorney who looks after my affairs over here—I mean the little money settled upon me from my mother's side, a modest pittance enough, on which, however, I am able to live—a letter telling me of the incomprehensible disappearance of my father.

“Stay—I may as well show it to you, though it throws little light upon the matter, because, oddly enough, there is in it a reference, perfectly mysterious to me, to that date which you mentioned just now to Daniells as that of your own departure. Here it is,” he added, pulling out a paper from his pocketbook.

HE captain laid down his cigar, unfolded the sheet and read out under his voice:

“Singular,” murmured the captain, after the perusal. Then, looking steadily into his traveling companion's eyes. “And you have no idea of the business to be transacted on the fifteenth?”

“Not the remotest,” answered Ferrars, taking back the letter. “But, so long as I am fully assured that I shall not be brought face to face with my father, I shall of course attend if called upon.”

The other fell back into his seat and resumed his cigar, musingly.

“That letter,” pursued Ferrars, “reached me three days ago in Normandy. I was near Cherbourg. On inquiring about any boat likely to sail for England, I heard of one bound for Poole. It gave me the idea of passing through Dorset on my way to Lon don and finding out discreetly, for myself, what was known of my father's movements. I meant to take my quarters last night at a certain little inn near Stanton, where the people and I had been on a friendly footing in the old days.

“It turned out the inn was no longer there. The rest you heard: how that fellow Daniells, my father's present butler—the old one whom I remembered from a child left when my mother died—so whimsically offered me hospitality in what had been and ought still to be my own home. And now you will understand how, being discovered there in such irregular circumstances by a friend of Sir Jasper, I thought it wiser, both for Daniells' sake and for my own, to give the first name that suggested itself as fitting the initials on my portmanteau. No further apology is needed, I trust?” he added, marking, with a slight frown, the abstraction into which his companion seemed to have fallen.

“Ah, non certes!” cried the other, starting from his reverie. “Forgive my French—I am apt to think in different languages, though by rights it ought always to be in German. No, no; the whole thing, about this bizarre meeting of ours, is quite clear. Clear as crystal. My dear Mr. Ferrars, I am a friend of your father's—I know you will not expect me to pass any judgment on him. But I trust you will allow me the pleasure of shaking hands, knowingly now, with his son.”

The ceremony being performed, with great cordiality on the foreigner's part and indulgent compliance on that of the Englishman, the subject of family affairs was by tacit accord dropped for the rest of the journey. Dinner at the Black Horse, Salisbury, a pint of Madeira at the Fleur-de-Lys, Winchester, a quart of old ale and biscuits at the White Hart, Bagshot, broke the ten hours of steady posting which brought them at last to town.

“Where, by the way, shall I deposit you?” had asked the captain, as a kind of conclusion to a prolonged spell of meditation, as they crossed Kingston Bridge. “I have my own quarters at Long's. But, unless you have bespoken a room there, I doubt”

Mr. Ferrars had thought to detect a hint and answered:

“I used to patronize the Piazza Hotel, in Covent Garden. If you don't mind going a trifle out of your way.”

“The Piazza, by all means, my dear sir.” And leaning out of the chaise the baron had given the order to the post-boy.

When they parted under the ancient dimly-lit arcades of Inigo Jones, at the door of the hostelry so dear to the wit and fashion of the late century, now wearing into respectable decadence, the Brunswicker remarked at his most genial:

“Let me hope, my dear Mr. Ferrars, that we are gens de revue, as the French have it. I, myself, have much to do, and, as for you, tomorrow will doubtless prove a busy day. But you conceive my interest. May I not come and—say, smoke a cigar with you in the evening and hear what fortune you have met with in your inquiries?”

Mr. Ferrars pondered a moment.

“If you will partake of a quiet dinner with me, I shall be delighted. I have no great hopes, being, as you know, so trammeled. But we may consult. And, meanwhile, I remain greatly obliged to you.”

T SEVEN on the following day Baron von Hanstedt was ushered into the dining-room of the Piazza—a notable dandy, whose brilliant appearance and manner distinctly raised the modest visitor of the small valise in the manager's estimation.

“I will not conceal my anxiety,” he said, from the moment of unfolding his napkin as they sat down in a remote corner of the somber dining-room. “Any news of Sir Jasper?”

“None that would appear to bring us nearer a solution of the mystery,” said the son in a tone of some weariness. “The only satisfactory thing I was able to find out is that there is, after all, reason to believe that my father's prolonged absence is not necessarily the result of any fatal accident.”

“Aha—so?” The baron paused, with his glass half-way to his lips. There was a glint of intense interest in his eye. He added promptly, “Well, that is at least a comfort. A great comfort. But the reason, the welcome reason”

“I called at the bank. The manager, naturally enough, was disinclined to reveal anything concerning a customer's affairs. But, on my urging the anxiety I felt that there might be some sinister meaning to that total disappearance, he consented to reassure me by saying that the absence was presumably intentional. For it appears that in May last, the date mentioned by Daniells, Sir Jasper had hurriedly called at the bank and drawn a considerable sum. And this might well look, said the manager, as if he had contemplated a prolonged absence, a journey, perhaps. And then, as I still felt doubtful, he advised me to dismiss all serious anxiety at least until the fifteenth.”

“Ah, bah! The fifteenth again,” murmured the Brunswicker, sipping his wine with half-closed eyes.

“For,” went on the Englishman, “that was a date on which Sir Jasper's attendance at the bank would be a matter of importance. But, if he was not heard of by that time, there might indeed be cause for some alarm. Then, the manager said, advice might with propriety be sought from Bow Street. But he confidently trusted that would not be required.”

“? Gad, no, no; let us also trust there will be no need—and is that all?”

“That is all. For Mr. Wapshot, on whom I had called previously, had no more to tell than what was mentioned in his letter. Nor could I gather anything from Mr. Johnstone—my father's own lawyer—whom I thought it wiser also to visit. He seemed, it is true, rather concerned; but he pointed out, rightly enough, that, considering the peculiar relation in which I stood now with his client, he was not at liberty to discuss his affairs and movements with me. Nevertheless, when, after a very brief interview, I was taking my departure, he reminded me, though with some hesitation, of the advisability of my being within reach of summons on the morning of the fifteenth.”

“The fifteenth,” repeated von Hanstedt with an air of intense mystification. “A red-letter day, it would seem, in Sir Jasper's diary! Well, I see nothing for either you or me to do than to wait for that fifteenth.”

“There is, of course, the alternative of applying at once to Bow Street. In fact I had almost made up my mind to go there in the morning.”

The other looked up quickly with an air of grave concern.

“So? Well, you are the son. I am, at best, but a new friend. I would not take on myself to advise. But isn't there an old saw about thrusting fingers between the bark and the tree? The banker and this Mr. Johnstone, sound men of business, they both suggested waiting for a few days. I think—yes, I think their opinion is reassuring. Once set the Bow Street Red-breasts on the run and God knows where they may lead you!

“Perhaps face to face with a man full of ill-feeling against his son—a man furious, possibly, to find himself run down when his purpose, only known to himself, was to be left alone till a certain date. However, as I said, it is not for me to advise.”

And with his man-of-the-world air, the air of one who knows the right moment to drop a topic, the, baron led the talk into new channels. When he took his leave at a discreetly early hour, he remarked in a tone of affectionate interest:

“We shall, I fear, not meet again for some time. I am much engaged. But a note, should you have occasion, sent to Long's, will always reach me. Should you have any news, I need scarce say how interested I shall be.”

This might be interpreted as a polite farewell. Mr. Ferrars, at any rate, when he returned to his table, after escorting his guest to the door under the arcades, and, toying with a final glass of wine, gave himself up to doubtful meditations upon his future course, came to the conclusion that he had seen the last of Baron von Hanstedt.

HE next morning, however, brought a prompt denial to that rash conclusion. After a night of uneasy wakefulness he was aroused from a late slumber by the entrance of a waiter:

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said the man, “there is a gentleman here, who says he must see you at once. Most important he says. And though I told him”

A lusty voice was heard from the passage.

“Never mind; I will explain. May I come in, Mr. Ferrars?” And, without waiting for the permission, the baron strode in with the well-known click of spurs. “The matter is one of such moment, I know you will forgive this rude intrusion.”

He gave an imperious nod to the waiter, who, after leering curiously at the gentleman caught still abed, obediently departed—firmly convinced that here was a coming instance of pistols for two that day.

“The fact is, my dear sir,” went on the visitor, “I have the most extraordinary news.”

“For me?” said Ferrars, with no great display of interest.

In truth, in his still drowsy state what he chiefly felt was resentment. He sat up, bare legs dangling over the bedside, and perfunctorily indicated a chair. The baron, however, remained standing, his attitude manifesting an evident state of excitement.

“For you,” he said, pulling out some papers from his breast pocket. “This disappearance of your father”

“Ah, my father still.”

“Yes—there is after all a mystery about it. But I think we are near solving it.”

“We, Baron?”

“We, I said; but it will rather be you, or so I hope. And I am thankful I was able to find you in time, for the matter appears pressing. Very pressing. Now listen—or rather, read this first. It is from the butler at Stanton. I found it last night at my hotel.”

The young man took an ill-scrawled sheet and read:

He handed back the note and took another that was held out to him. It was penned in a slender foreign hand. And this is what he read, in French:

The letter was signed in another hand, larger and trembling. The young man looked up in blank dismay.

“Yes,” he said in a low voice, “this is my father's signature. And, after examining it again for a spell, “He was indeed in a weak state when he signed this. What is to be done? What will you do”

“What would I do,” said the baron excitedly, “if I were free—but I am not. Why, post to Paris at once, obtain police aid, meet the messenger, find out the house—and the rest à la grāce de Dieu! My poor old friend! But it is quite impossible for me to leave England just now. I have business of too great importance. I was in despair. Then I thought of you. You, his son, singularly met by Providential chance. His son, for all your estrangement, you are here; you will—you must—act in my stead. You will have even more power than a stranger.

“There is no time to spare. Nay, listen to me—and let me urge you to dress, as quickly as you can. I shall, if you will allow me, even serve with a valet. Yes, I have thought the whole matter out. I called on my way here at the Golden Cross. The Dover coach had already left, but it can still be done by posting. I ascertained that the packet leaves harbor at six in the morning. Let me ring for your shaving-water. Yes, here is the bell. So. By posting, I say; I have ordered a chaise for eleven.

“With good luck you can be in Dover before midnight. Then for Calais—and without a stop to Paris. And my servant will see to everything for you; I have warned him, just as for myself—a clever fellow, a Frenchman and knows Paris. Within forty-eight hours you shall alight at the Bureau de la Sûreté, take chief of police's sanction—and act. Act without loss of an hour! Already a day has been wasted.

“As for expense—it will be a trifle to what I should lose by absenting myself—you will, of course, let me discharge that. You need not scruple; if, as I hope to God, we rescue Sir Jasper, he will repay the debt. Here are the traveling funds.”

He produced a bundle of bank-notes which he slapped upon the table.

“Should you require more, you can write to me. You see I have thought of everything. You have your passports?”

While the Brunswicker rattled on sanguine, voluble, Ferrars—awake now with a vengeance—flung the letter on the table and sprang out of bed; he submitted to his friend's ministrations, in non-committal silence.

“My father, in truth, was in dire state when he wrote his name after that mysterious message. Something must be done. I have no doubt,” he said, as he accepted the razor which the other had been stropping for him, “that Sir Jasper would rather remain indebted to you than to me for his rescue—if it is to prove a rescue. Did you not yourself advise me against intermeddling?”

“Nay, nay. This is an appeal, a piteous appeal. It must be answered. I am tied here, as I told you, and you are your own master. And, whatever has happened between you, in such a case as this, you, the son, can not refuse.”

“I will go,” said Ferrars quietly.

At which the baron gave a noisy sigh of relief.

The young man completed his toilet and packed his valise, listening without further comment to suggestions and advice about his journey. At last he took up the notes, counted them and consigned them, together with the letter, to his wallet.

“I will account for this on my return,” he said simply. “Without it I could scarce have left this day.”

“Ah, my dear fellow, never mind such details. The journey is for you a labor of duty. As for me, I can not tell you what a relief it is—a service for which, happen what may, I shall ever be grateful.”