Part 9

"No, sir; and perhaps you will now explain how you came into possession of this, and why you sent it to me. It is surely the property of the Persian Mission."

Lord Ancoats' demeanour was not reassuring, but Rivers plunged boldly into the matter.

"Last night, at Denton House, Count Moranoff visited the Persian Vizier," he commenced.

"How do you know that?"

"I saw him. I was present at the interview--unknown, of course. He brought with him the draft of a treaty supplementing the last one. It had chiefly reference to the acquisition of a Russian port in the Persian Gulf."

"Ah!" said Lord Ancoats, "that's a bold move. Go on, please."

"The Vizier placed the draft in one of three despatch boxes like this. I thought this was the one, and I sent it here so that your lordship could read the treaty for yourself. I deeply regret that I made a mistake in the box, but I can give the gist of the treaty from memory."

"Please do so now."

Rivers' memory was good, and the words of the treaty had burnt themselves on his brain. He recited the terms without hesitation. The minister heard him in silence, making notes.

"Thank you, Rivers," he said at the end. "You will please let me have that in writing in time for to-morrow's Cabinet." Then he got up and paced the room. "It is an unfortunate situation. I think we shall be able to meet the political side of it, but the investiture takes place at Windsor to-morrow, and this discovery is, to say the least, embarrassing. However, we have to thank you for being forewarned. You evidently anticipated this move."

"I'm afraid not, sir. It was as much luck as anything else on my part."

"But you were at Denton House?"

"I was there on other business," said Rivers frankly.

Lord Ancoats looked grave. "Well, Mr. Rivers," he said, "I will not inquire too closely what that other business was. You have rendered a service to the State which will not be forgotten. Now, what about this?" pointing to the box.

"I will see that the Vizier gets it."

"At once?"

Rivers hesitated. Only then did he remember he now had in his possession what he wanted. He could pay his entrance fee.

"I will see that it is at Denton House by the morning," he said.

Lord Ancoats watched him intently.

"Does the Burglars' Club meet to-night?" he said quietly.

"I--I beg your pardon," stammered Rivers.

Lord Ancoats laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. "I was only told of that institution within the hour," he said, "and till a moment ago I didn't believe the information. Take my advice, Rivers, and leave it. Its existence, you see, is known to some of the outside world. As a friend I warn you that you will be watched to-night. Don't spoil your career. Why did you leave the Service? Oh, I remember; but you're not satisfied with merely killing time, are you? Will you come back to us? The First Secretaryship at Vienna is vacant. Would you take it?"

Rivers' face beamed. "I'd jump at it, my lord."

"Then be ready to start in a week. Never mind thanks. I am still your debtor. Now about this box? You might be unable to restore it. We must adopt other means."

Lord Ancoats opened the door of an adjoining room with, "Come forward, please." And the little detective whom Rivers had last seen at Denton House that very morning entered briskly.

"I believe you have met before?" said Lord Ancoats.

Rivers was too astonished to reply.

"Yes, I have met James Finny--I beg pardon--Mr. Birket Rivers," said the detective drily.

"Mr. Rivers has explained the mystery very satisfactorily, Marvell," said Lord Ancoats. "The box should be restored without delay. Will you do this, please?"

Mr. Marvell tried to look pleased, but signally failed in the attempt.

"Certainly, my lord," he replied.

There was a knock at the door, and a clerk appeared with a card in his hand.

"I must leave you now," said the Minister. "Rivers, next week, remember. I am much obliged for your assistance, Mr. Marvell."

With this the Secretary for Foreign Affairs left the room.

The detective took up the box.

"How on earth did you come into this matter, Mr. Marvell?" asked Rivers.

"Very simply, sir. When Lord Ancoats got the box he telephoned to Scotland Yard, and I was sent for at once. As a matter of fact, I opened the box for his lordship. You're sure you wouldn't like to restore it yourself? The Vizier is ill in bed, and it won't be wanted till to-morrow."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Marvell," Rivers laughed; "but I'm sure it's safer in your hands."

Mr. Marvell nodded grimly. "Sooner or later, sir. Sooner or later," he said, as he walked to the door; "but don't try to be a footman next time."

With these enigmatical remarks the interview terminated.

* * * * *

On the following day the investiture of the Lion and the Sun took place at Windsor. After the ceremony Prince Ali Azim and the Vizier had a private interview with the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was noted at the time that the Persians emerged looking singularly subdued.

That evening, in reply to a friendly question addressed by the Leader of the Opposition, Lord Ancoats took the opportunity to assure the House that the paramount influence of England in the Persian Gulf would be maintained at any cost, and a month later the Union Jack floated by the side of the Arab Sultan's flag on the castle towers of Muscat.

This was the answer given to the Russian intrigue. That it was so effective and complete was owing to the action of Mr. Birket Rivers, sometime a cadet member of the Burglars' Club.

IX.

THE HORSESHOE AND THE PEPPERCORN.

THE President rose and read: "'March 29th is the anniversary of the Battle of Towton. For valour on that desperate field John de Mallaby received from Edward IV. the Barony of Tadcaster, and an appropriate grant of land in Yorkshire, at a yearly rental of a peppercorn and a golden horseshoe. That rent is still paid by the Barons--now Earls--of Tadcaster. His late lordship used to bring his annual acknowledgment to town in a state coach with outriders, but the present peer takes it to his Sovereign by motor-car, attended only by a chauffeur.'

"In this paragraph, my lords and gentlemen," continued the Duke, "we see indicated the quest of our distinguished fellow member Captain Prescott Cunningham, whose subscription is now due."

"What is the quest, Mr. President?" inquired Cunningham. "Am I to capture the peer or the motor-car?"

"Neither, sir," replied his Grace of Dorchester. "You will kindly produce the horseshoe and the peppercorn intended for the King on the 29th. Our meeting is arranged for the 28th, so that we may return the trophies in question, and enable his lordship of Tadcaster to continue in possession of his remarkably low-rented estate."

The Right Honourable John de Mallaby, D.L., F.R.S., M.A., Eighteenth Baron and Seventh Earl of Tadcaster, lived chiefly at his Westmorland seat, Kirkdale Castle, which an ancestress in the time of George the First had obligingly brought into the family in addition to her own good looks.

* * * * *

A certain Mr. Shaw arrived one day of March last at the Golden Lion Inn, Kirkdale, and there spent a few days, talking much with the landlord and frequenters of the inn, and taking walks in the neighbourhood of the Castle. On the latter occasions he might have been seen gazing somewhat disconsolately at the battlemented walls which had several times defied an army.

Once when he was so occupied, a thin, grizzly, stooping gentleman had passed, and with him a handsome dark-eyed girl. He learnt that this was the Earl himself, a scientific and somewhat eccentric widower, and his only child Eva, a _débutante_ of last season.

Prescott Cunningham--for so was this Mr. Shaw designated in the more accurate books of the Registrar-General--soon gave up any idea of entering the Castle in his quest of the peppercorn and horseshoe. The task of finding them there was too big. He had learnt that on these annual occasions Lord Tadcaster, accompanied by his chauffeur, left the castle in his motor-car four days before the King received him. He also learnt full particulars of the route followed and of the halting places, and it was his final plan of campaign to waylay his lordship on the road, and, unashamed, to rob him of the articles desired.

Having spent three days in coming to this conclusion, Cunningham moved on to Bolton Abbey, through which village he knew that his lordship would pass on his way to Harrogate, where he would spend the night of the 25th.

At five o'clock on the day in question, the Tadcaster Panhard drew up at the Devonshire Arms at Bolton Abbey, and Cunningham saw to his amazement that, instead of the Earl and his chauffeur, it contained his lordship and a lady--his daughter.

Cunningham groaned in spirit. To tackle two men single-handed might be counted sporting, but a woman--hang it all!

Mine host hurried to the door to assist his guests.

"Has your lordship lost Mr. Ackill?" he asked.

"I hope not," replied the Earl. "Achille hurt his hand with a backfire this morning, and I sent him on by train to Harrogate to have it attended to. You got my note? Dinner at six?"

"To the minute, my lord."

The intervening time was chiefly spent by the Earl in confidential communion with his motor, through the intermediary of a spanner and an oil can.

While he was so engaged, and Cunningham was lounging near the door, reflecting on his bad luck, another car drove up, and two loudly-dressed men emerged from their wraps. They entered the hotel, drank thirstily, and talked without restraint.

Lady Eva de Mallaby passed through the hall soon afterwards. Struck by her beauty, one of the motorists, with the comradeship of one sportsman to another, addressed some remark to her, with a generous smile and a casual hat-lift.

Lady Eva, showing a trace of surprise, stared icily at the man and passed on.

"Hoity, toity," said the motorist, without any sign of shame. "But I'd like to have the breaking-in of you, Miss. Wouldn't you, Sammy?" addressing his companion.

"Too expensive," said Sammy. "Give me a four-year-old, like I bought to-day from Sir William, an' I'm 'appy."

"You're a bloomin' materialist, that's what you are, Sammy," retorted the other--"a bloomin' materialist." He lingered lovingly over the rounded phrase, and drained his glass again.

Twenty minutes later the sound of a gramophone percolated the house.

Lord Tadcaster was at dinner.

It was his daily custom to dine to the accompaniment of music. When at home his private band officiated; when he was on his travels a musical-box or gramophone supplied the necessary melody.

This was an eccentricity of the peer, who had decided, after long and recondite diagnosis, that music assists the digestion, and that certain music is more suited to a particular food than another. Therefore he swallowed his soup to a dreamy prelude, his fish to a fugue. The _entrée_ was expedited by Beethoven, the joint disappeared to a triumphal march. Sweets demanded a waltz, cheese nothing more than a negro melody; but with wine and dessert were combined all the possibilities of Grand Opera.

Cunningham had learnt particulars of all this when at Kirkdale, and now he listened to the programme emanating from the private dining-room. No doubt owing to the absence of Achille, the music occasionally gave out, but by the intermittent tunes Cunningham was still able to gauge the progress of the meal. The omission of a sonata denoted limitation of the repast, and when the strains of "Lucia di Lammermoor" throbbed on the air Cunningham mounted his motor-cycle, and took the road that led through Blubber-houses.

A run of three-quarters of an hour brought him to the confines of Haverah Park, almost within sight of Harrogate. It was here that he had decided to waylay the motor-car.

It was a lonely spot indeed. Moorland, grim pasture land, lean fir trees, stone walls and limestone road, was all that met the eye. All was cold and stern. Cold and stern was his business that night; and there, close to the wood granted by John o' Gaunt to one Haverah, and tenanted since Doomsday by the winds of the centuries, he waited.

The air was springlike, but the wait was long and weary. The only satisfactory thing about it was that he had time to note the small amount of traffic on the road. A solitary dogcart was all that passed in an hour.

The moon rose in cold splendour. The stars appeared. Cunningham knew only one of them by name--Betelgeuse, a red star, the apex of a triangle of which three stars formed the base. The name had struck him as remarkable, and he once had called a bull pup after it. For a moment he thought of his dog's untimely end.

But was the Panhard never coming? Perhaps there had been a puncture, and in the absence of a chauffeur Lord Tadcaster was stranded. Possibly he had returned to Bolton Abbey, or taken train forward, or, since he was short-handed, he might have altered his route and gone by the easier road through Otley. In that case, he, Prescott Cunningham, was lost to the Burglars' Club.

Ah! There was the toot of a motor in the far distance, again repeated. It was the Tadcaster toot--a base twentieth century substitute for the cry that on the field of Towton in 1461 led another John de Mallaby to a barony and an estate.

Cunningham recovered his cycle, be-straddled it, and gently mounted the rise in front. The Panhard dashed up the hill, its acetylene lamps glaring like man-o'-war searchlights.

Cunningham advanced his spark. The motor responded, and sprang eagerly after the car. They were leaving him behind. He slowly opened his throttle valve. Now he was making pace. He was gaining on them yard by yard, hand over fist. He was only a hundred yards behind now--fifty--twenty-five. Could he do it? The psychological moment had come.

He drew his revolver and aimed at the near back tyre of the car in front. Ah! he had missed. He hit it with his second shot. It split with a rousing bang. The car listed and dragged. It swerved across the road in violent curves, but Cunningham saw by the slowing of the speed that the driver had thrown out his clutch. At last it stopped.

"What's the meaning of this outrage, you scoundrel?" cried the infuriated motorist.

"Softly, my lord," said Cunningham, now on his feet, and advancing with revolver in hand. "I am covering you, you observe!"

"A highwayman, by George!" exclaimed the peer. "And Edward VII. on the throne. A highwayman on castors!"

"Your lordship evidently recognises the situation," said Cunningham. "This will save time and trouble, I hope."

"I suppose you want my purse?" replied the peer. "This comes of travelling without my chauffeur," he added plaintively. "By George, if Achille were here, he'd worry you. If I were ten years younger I'd tackle you myself."

"Regrets are futile, my lord," said Cunningham, "but a purse will not satisfy me."

"Oh, you want two, do you? Eva, I'm afraid you'll have to give him yours as well. Shockin' luck for this to happen the first time we've travelled alone. I oughtn't to have let you come."

"Don't worry, dad, please," said Lady Eva. "I'm sorry I haven't got a purse, highwayman," she continued contemptuously, throwing back her thick veil to see what manner of man this could be, "but the few loose sixpences I have in my pocket are quite at your service."

"You may keep them, madam," Cunningham replied, with as much dignity as the occasion would permit. "I do not ask for money. I simply want the loan of a peppercorn and golden horseshoe until the 29th."

"By George, he must be an antiquarian highwayman or a curio-collector gone mad," said his lordship. "D'ye think, sir, I'll give you what I'm taking to the King?"

"His Majesty shall have them, and from your hands, on the proper day. I simply ask for the loan of them till then."

"You must think that I'm a fool," said the Earl. In an instant he had grabbed the hoop of one of the heavy acetylene lamps, and pulled it from its socket. "Take that, you blackguard!" he yelled, flinging it with all his force at the cyclist.

Cunningham dodged the missile, which crashed to the ground with light extinguished.

"Hands up, my lord," he shouted, "or I fire."

The discomfited peer obeyed him.

"You are quite at my mercy," said Cunningham sternly. "The peppercorn and horseshoe at once, if you please, or I shall have to use force. I trust you will avoid a scene before your daughter. You may lower your right hand to your pocket."

The Earl did as he was bid, drew out the precious packet, and handed it to Cunningham.

"Thank you, my lord," he replied. "You are wise. I promise you they shall be returned on the morning of the 29th. To what address?"

"I don't believe you," retorted the peer. "But I stay at Claridge's. Now, if you've anything of a sportsman about you, you'll go on to the Queen Hotel at Harrogate and tell my chauffeur, Achille Petibon, to come with a repairer at once. We can't spend the night here. I've got a spare cover and tube in the tonneau, but I can no more fit them than fly. My finger-nails are far too brittle."

"I will convey your message with the greatest pleasure, my lord," replied Cunningham. "I sincerely regret the inconvenience I have caused, though you may not think so."

For a moment there was a pause, and Cunningham could have gone. Yet he hesitated.

The moon shone down upon a desolate moorland glade, lighting up the green sward by the trees. The excitement of the adventure, the flush of victory, a pair of bright eyes, and the memory of some half-forgotten romance stirred his blood.

"One final favour, my lord," he said.

"No more, sir. By George, if I were ten years younger----"

"You carry a gramophone with you."

"You are remarkably well informed as to my luggage, sir. I do, but it's too bulky for you to carry away. They're cheap enough. A man of taste like yourself ought to be able to afford one of his own."

"I don't want to take it away, my lord. I simply want the favour of a dance tune and a lady's hand."

For a moment the Earl looked puzzled. Then he exclaimed: "By George! Claude Duval up to date! No, sir, I'll be hanged if----" His lordship stopped suddenly. He was keen of hearing, and as he spoke he had heard, or thought he heard, a distant car. Even if it meant a dance with his daughter, he would detain the man until assistance arrived. In a moment he had altered his voice.

"On second thoughts, sir," he said, "I don't know. After all, it's a tradition of your--er--profession. Perhaps you will oblige the gentleman, Eva." As he spoke he pressed the girl's hand so that she might know that something lay behind his words. "Where's the gramophone?" he asked. While searching for the instrument his lordship actually started whistling, lest the highwayman should also hear the car.

"Ah, here it is," he said aloud. Then, in a whisper to his daughter, "Car coming. Distract his attention." In his anxiety his lordship even hummed as he hurriedly manipulated the instrument, inserting the first record that came to hand.

He wound up the toy, and a baritone voice sang raucously:--

"Egypt! my Cleopatra! I ain't no flatt'rer, But dis is true, (I'm a-goin' to tell her) Egypt! if you don't want me. . . .

In a trice Lady Eva had found a more suitable record, and after a momentary pause the instrument struck up "The Darkie Cake Walk," as played by the New York Municipal Band, at Manhattan Beach, Long Island, U.S.A.

"May I have the honour?" asked Cunningham, hat in hand, with a low bow.

Lady Eva inclined coldly, and took off her wraps. The man was certainly polite. He led her as though she were a princess, and any misgivings were soon at rest.

It was a quaint scene. It is doubtful if Betelgeuse had ever looked down upon a quainter. The firs formed a sombre background. The moon illuminated the green sward in front, and on it a highwayman and a lady motorist stepped to a catching dance tune, emanating from a gramophone on a Panhard motor, controlled by a peer of the realm. The light of an acetylene lamp shone like a gigantic foot-light illuminating the front of the green stage.

The floor was not an ideal one, though cattle had cropped it close and the winds had swept it dry, but the pair were accomplished dancers. Thrice had they paced the length of the floor. Now they turned again, hand in hand, with heads thrown back, and uplifted feet. There was the unmistakable sound of an approaching car. Cunningham must have heard it, but recklessly he continued the dance.

With a toot it hove into sight, and Lord Tadcaster turned his own horn into a prolonged howl, signifying unimaginable trouble. This, and the unusual scene at the side, brought up the oncoming car to a smart halt. They backed abreast of the Panhard.

"Robbery! Help!" cried the Earl.

The two occupants of the new car hardly heard him. They were lost in astonishment. As the dancers reached the verge of the road in the full flare of the light, they were greeted with a round of applause. With a snap Lord Tadcaster turned off the gramophone.

"Well, I'm jiggered!" said one of the newcomers. "If it ain't little Hoity Toity!"

The peer had jumped from the Panhard. "Help me to secure this highwayman," he said, pointing to Cunningham. "He has robbed me."

The man who had just spoken also got down, but his companion remained on the car, stolidly surveying the scene.

"Come along," said the peer to his recruit. "I think we can manage him between us."

"Stow it, old man," said the motorist. "You collar the highwayman, and I'll look after the lady."

He brushed past the Earl, and, with proffered arm, smirked, "May I have the next dance, Miss?"

Lady Eva drew back. The man came still nearer. Instinctively she touched Cunningham's arm for protection.

"Stand back, sir!" he commanded.

"Who the juggins are you?" sneered the man. "This old buffer says you're a highwayman, but you seem to think you're a bloomin' bobby. You git, and let me have my partner for the high-kick lancers."

"If you come one step nearer I'll thrash you," said Cunningham.

The man needed no further encouragement. He even dared to touch the lady's arm. A second later he measured his length on the turf.

His friend tumbled from his seat with anxious chivalry.

"'Ere, you leave my pal alone," he said, rolling up to Cunningham.

"Shut up, Sammy," said the other, rising slowly to his feet. "Now, look you here, Mr. Highwayman," he continued vindictively. "You've had your score, now I'll have mine. Either this lady has a hop with me to my own time and tune, and gives me a kiss at the end, or----"

"Or what?"

"Or I ride on to Harrogate, and give the police information of highway robbery."

"There's your car," said Cunningham. "Ride on."

"He's not likely to wait for the arrival of the police," said the Earl ruefully, yet anxious for the departure of these impossible helpers.

"I shall be back with a bobby in twenty minutes," the man rejoined, "and we'll telephone to every town in the district so that he can't escape. I'm not in fightin' form myself to-night, so I'd rather do it in proper legal style. I'll bring a solicitor if I can find one. Now, young feller," he continued, "you'd better consider well. It'll be a twelve months' touch for you for robbery and six for 'sault and battery. Are you going to let your friend sacrifice himself on the altar of nonsense, Miss? I think our steps 'ud soot each other amazing."

Cunningham advanced on him threateningly. "If you dare to speak another word to the lady you'll find yourself on the ground again," he said.