Part 17

“So I am given to understand. Doubtless it would not be sound business, sir, but I think that if the title had been a little worse, and the appearance of the grounds a little better, I should have felt more secure. But what really concerned me is that the house is being talked about.”

“Talked about?”

“Yes. It is in a secluded position, but there are some old-fashioned cottages near and these people notice things, sir. It is not difficult to induce them to talk. Refreshments are procurable at one of the cottages and I had tea there. I have since thought, from a remark made to me on leaving, that the idea may have got about that I was connected with the Scotland Yard authorities. I had no apprehension at the time of creating such an impression, sir, but I wished to make a few casual inquiries.”

Carrados nodded. “Quite so,” he murmured encouragingly.

“It was then that I discovered what I have alluded to. These people, having become suspicious, watch all that is to be seen at Strathblane Lodge--as it is called--and talk. They do not know what goes on there.”

“That must be very disheartening for them.”

“Well, sir, they find it trying. Up to less than a year ago the house was occupied by a commercial gentleman and everything was quite regular. But with the new people they don’t know which are the family and who are the servants. Two or three men having the appearance of mechanics seem to be there continually, and sometimes, generally in the evening, there are visitors of a class whom one would not associate with the unpretentious nature of the establishment. Gentlemen for the most part, but occasionally ladies, I was told, coming in taxis or private motor cars and generally in evening dress.”

“That ought to reassure these neighbours--the private cars and evening dress.”

“I cannot say that it does, sir. And what I heard made me a little nervous also.”

Something was evidently on the ingenuous creature’s mind. The blind man’s face wore a faintly amused smile, but he gauged the real measure of his servant’s apprehension.

“Nervous of what, Parkinson?” he inquired kindly.

“Some thought that it might be a gambling-house, but others said it looked as if a worse business was carried on there. I should not like there to be any scandal or exposure, sir, and perhaps the mortgage forfeited in consequence.”

“But, good heavens, man! you don’t imagine that a mortgage is like a public-house licence, to be revoked in consequence of a rowdy tenant, surely?”

Parkinson’s dubious silence made it increasingly plain that he had, indeed, associated his security with some such contingency, a conviction based, it appeared, when he admitted his fears, on a settled belief in the predatory intentions of a Government with whom he was not in sympathy.

“Don’t give the thing another thought,” counselled his employer. “If Lethbridge recommended the investment you may be sure that it is all right. As for what goes on there--that doesn’t matter two straws to you, and in any case it is probably idle chatter.”

“Thank you, sir. It is a relief to have your assurance. I see now that I ought to have paid no attention to such conversation, but being anxious--and seeing Sir Fergus Copling go there----”

“Sir Fergus Copling? You saw him there?”

“Yes, sir. I thought that I remembered a car that was waiting for the gate to be opened. Then I recognised Sir Fergus: it was the small dark blue car that he has come here in. And just after what I had been hearing----”

“But Sir Fergus Copling! He’s a testimonial of propriety. Do you know what you are talking about, Parkinson?”

The excellent man looked even more deeply troubled than he had been about his money.

“Not in that sense, sir,” he protested. “I only understood that he was a gentleman of position and a very large income, and after just listening to what was being said----”

Carrados’s scepticism was intelligible. Copling was the last man to be associated with a scandal of fast life. He had come into his baronetcy quite unexpectedly a few years previously while engaged in the drab but apparently congenial business of teaching arithmetic at a public school. The chief advantage of the change of fortune, as it appeared to the recipient, was that it enabled him to transfer his attention from the lower to the higher mathematics. Without going out of his way to flout the conventions, he set himself a comparatively simple standard of living. He was too old and fixed, he said, to change much--forty and a bachelor--and the most optimistic spinster in town had reluctantly come to acquiesce.

Carrados had not forgotten this conversation when next he encountered Sir Fergus a week or so later. He knew the man well enough to be able to lead up to the subject and when an identifiable footstep fell on his ear in the hall of the Metaphysical (the dullest club in Europe, it was generally admitted) he called across to the baronet, who, as a matter of fact, had been too abstracted to notice him or anyone else.

“You aren’t a member, are you?” asked Copling when they had shaken hands. “I didn’t know that you went in for this sort of thing.” The motion of his head indicated the monumental library which he had just quitted, but it might possibly be taken as indicating the general atmosphere of profound somnolence that enveloped the Metaphysical.

“I am not a member,” admitted Carrados. “I only came to gather some material.”

“Statistics?” queried Copling with interest. “We have a very useful range of works.” He suddenly remembered his acquaintance’s affliction. “By the way, can I be of any use to you?”

“Yes, if you will,” said Carrados. “Let me go to lunch with you. There is an appalling bore hanging about and he’ll nab me if I don’t get past under protection.”

Copling assented readily enough and took the blind man’s arm.

“Where, though?” he asked at the door. “I generally”--he hesitated, with a shy laugh--“I generally go to an A.B.C. tea-shop myself. It doesn’t waste so much time. But, of course----”

“Of course, a tea-shop by all means,” assented Carrados.

“You are sure that you don’t mind?” persisted the baronet anxiously.

“Mind? Why, I’m a shareholder!” chuckled Carrados.

“This suits me very well,” remarked the ex-schoolmaster when they were seated in a remote corner of a seething general room. “Fellows used to do their best to get me into the way of going to swell places, but I always seem to drift back here. I don’t mind the prices, Carrados, but hang me if I like to pay the prices simply to be inconvenienced. Yes, _hot_ milk, please.”

Carrados endorsed this reasonable philosophy. Carlton or Coffee-house, the Ritz or the tea-shop, it was all the same to him--life, and very enjoyable life at that. He sat and, like the spider, drew from within himself the fabric of the universe by which he was surrounded. In that inexhaustible faculty he found perfect content: he never required “to be amused.”

“No, not statistics,” he said presently, returning to the unfinished conversation of the club hall. “Scarcely that. More in the nature of topography, perhaps. Have you considered, Copling, how everything is specialised nowadays? Does anyone read the old-fashioned, unpretentious _Guide-book to London_ still? One would hardly think so to see how the subject is cut up. We have ‘Famous London Blind-alleys,’ ‘Historical West-Central Door-Knockers,’ ‘Footsteps of Dr Johnson between Gough Square and John Street, Adelphi,’ ‘The Thames from Hungerford Bridge to Charing Cross Pier,’ ‘Oxford Street Paving Stones on which De Quincey sat,’ and so on.”

“They are not familiar to me,” said Sir Fergus simply.

“Nor to me; yet they sound familiar. Well, I touched journalism myself once, years ago. What do you say to ‘Mysterious Double-fronted Houses of the outer Northern Suburbs’? Too comprehensive?”

“I don’t know. The subject must be limited. But do you seriously contemplate such a work?”

“If I did,” replied Carrados, “what could you tell me about Strathblane Lodge, Highgate?”

“Oh!” A slow smile broke on Copling’s face. “That is rather extraordinary, isn’t it? Do you know old Spinola? Have you been there?”

“So far I don’t know the venerable Mr Spinola and I have not been there. What is the peculiarity?”

“But you know of the automatic card-player?”

The words brought a certain amount of enlightenment. Carrados had heard more than once casual allusions to a wonderful mechanical contrivance that played cards with discrimination. He had not thought anything more of it, classing it with Kempelen’s famous imposture which had for a time mystified and duped the chess world more than a century ago. So far, also, some reticence appeared to be observed about the modern contrivance, as though its inventor had no desire to have it turned into a popular show: at all events not a word about it had appeared in the Press.

“I have heard something, but not much, and I certainly have not seen it. What is it--a fraud, surely?”

Copling replied with measured consideration between the process of investigating his lightly boiled egg. It was plain that the automaton had impressed him.

“I naturally approached the subject with scepticism,” he admitted, “but at the end of several demonstrations I am converted to a position of passive acquiescence. Spinola, at all events, is no charlatan. His knowledge of mathematics is profound. As you know, Carrados, the subject is my own and I am not likely to be imposed on in that particular. It was purely the scientific aspect of the invention that attracted me, for I am not a gambler in the ordinary sense. Spinola’s explanation of the principles of the contrivance, when he found that I was capable of following them, was lucid and convincing. Of course he does not disclose all the details of the mechanism, but he shows enough.”

“It is a gamble, then, not a mere demonstration?”

“He has spent many years on the automaton, and it must have cost thousands of pounds in experiment and construction. He makes no secret of hoping to reimburse his outlay.”

“What do you play?”

“Piquet--rubicon piquet. The figure could, he claims, be set to play any game by changing or elaborating the mechanism. He had to construct it for one definite set of chances and he selected piquet as a suitable medium.”

“It wins?”

“Against me invariably in the end.”

“Why should it win, Copling? In a game that is nine-tenths chance, why should it win?”

“I am an indifferent player. If the tactics of the game have been reduced to machinery and the combinations are controlled by a dispassionate automaton, the one-tenth would constitute a winning factor.”

“And against expert players?”

Sir Fergus admitted that to the best of his knowledge the figure still had the advantage. In answer to Carrados’s further inquiry he estimated his losses at two or three hundred pounds. The stakes were whatever the visitor suggested--Spinola was something of a grandee, one inferred--and at half-crown points Sir Fergus had found the game quite expensive enough.

“Why do people go if they invariably lose?” asked the blind man.

“My dear fellow, why do they go to Monte Carlo?” was the retort, accompanied by a tolerant shrug. “Besides, I don’t positively say that they always lose. One hears of people winning, though I have never seen it happen. Then I fancy that the novelty has taken with a certain set. It is a thing at the moment to go up there and have the rather bizarre experience. There is an element of the creep in it, you know--sitting and playing against that serene and unimpressionable contrivance.”

“What do the others do? There is quite a company, I gather.”

“Oh yes, sometimes. Occasionally one may find oneself alone. Well, the others often watch the play. Sometimes sets play bridge on their own. Then there is coffee and wine. Nothing formal, I assure you.”

“Rowdy ever?”

“Oh no. The old man has a presence; I doubt if anyone would feel encouraged to go too far under Spinola’s eye. Yet practically nothing seems to be known of him, not even his nationality. I have heard half-a-dozen different tales from as many cocksure men--he is a South American Spaniard ruined by a revolution; a Jesuit expelled from France through politics; an Irishman of good family settled in Warsaw, where he stole the plans from a broken-down Polish inventor; a Virginia military man, supposed to have a dash of the negroid, who suddenly found that he was dying from cancer and is doing this to provide a fortune for an only and beautiful daughter, and so on.”

“Is there a beautiful daughter?”

“Not that I have ever seen. No, the man just cropped up, as odd people do in great capitals. Nobody really knows anything about him, but his queer salon has caught on to a certain extent.”

Now any novel phase of life attracted Carrados. The mixed company that Spinola’s enterprise was able to draw to an out-of-the-way suburb--the peculiar blend of science and society--was not much in itself. The various constituents could be met elsewhere to more advantage, but the assemblage might engender piquancy. And the man himself and his machine? In any case they should repay attention.

“How does one procure the entrée?” he inquired.

Copling raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“You also?” he replied. “Oh, I see; you think----Well, if you are going to discover any sleight-of-hand about the business I don’t mind----”

“Yes?” prompted Carrados, for Sir Fergus had pulled up on an obvious afterthought.

“I did not intend going up again,” said Copling slowly. “As a matter of fact, I have seen all that interests me. And--I suppose I may as well tell you, Carrados--I made someone a sort of promise to have nothing to do with gambling. She feels very strongly on the subject.”

“She is very wise,” commented the blind man.

Elation mingled with something faintly apologetic in the abrupt bestowal of the baronet’s unexpected confidence.

“It was really quite a sudden and romantic happening,” he continued, led on by the imperceptible encouragement of his companion’s attitude. “She is called Mercia. She does not know who I am--not that that’s anything,” he added modestly. “She is an orphan and earns her own living. I was able to be of some slight service to her in the science galleries at South Kensington, where she was collecting material for her employer. Then we met there again and had lunch together, and so on.”

“At tea-shops?”

“Oh yes. Her tastes are very simple. She doesn’t like shows and society and all that.”

“I congratulate you. When is it to be?”

“It? Oh! Well, we haven’t settled anything like that yet. Of course this is all in confidence, Carrados.”

“Absolutely--though the lady has done me rather an ill turn.”

“How?”

“Well, weren’t you going to introduce me to Mr Spinola?”

“True,” assented Sir Fergus. “And I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” he added valiantly. “I need not play, and if there is any bunkum about the thing I should certainly like to see how it is done. What evening will suit you?”

An early date had suited both, and shortly after eight o’clock--an hour at which they were likely to find few guests before them--Carrados’s car drew up at Strathblane Lodge. By arrangement he had picked up Copling, who lived--“of all places in the world,” as people had said when they heard of it--in an unknown street near Euston. Parkinson, out of regard for the worthy man’s feelings, had been left behind on the occasion and in ignorance of his master’s destination.

The appearance of the place was certainly not calculated to reassure a nervous investor. The entirely neglected garden seemed to convey a hint that the tenant might be contemplating a short occupation and a hasty flight. Nor did the exterior of the house do much to remove the unfortunate impression. Only a philosopher or an habitual defaulter would live in such a state.

The venerable Mr Spinola received them in the salon set apart for the display of the automaton and for cards in general. It was a room of fair proportions--doubtless the largest in the house--and quite passably furnished, though in a rather odd and incongruous style. But probably any furniture on earth would have seemed incongruous to the strange, idol-like presence which the inventor had thought fit to adapt to the uses of his mechanism. The figure was placed on a low pedestal, sufficiently raised from the carpet on four plain wooden legs for all the space underneath to be clearly visible. The body was a squat, cross-legged conception, typical of an Indian deity, the head singularly life-like through the heavy gilding with which the face was covered, and behind the merely contemplative expression that dominated the golden mask the carver had by chance or intention lined a faint suggestion of cynical contempt.

“You have come to see my little figure--Aurelius, as we call him among ourselves?” said the bland old gentleman benignly. “That is right; that is right.” He shook hands with them both, and received Mr Carrados, on Sir Fergus’s introduction, as though he was a very dear friend from whom he had long been parted. It was difficult indeed for Max to disengage himself from the effusive Spinola’s affection without a wrench.

“Mr Carrados happens to be blind, Mr Spinola,” interposed Copling, seeing that their host was so far in ignorance of the fact.

“Impossible! Impossible!” exclaimed Spinola, riveting his own very bright eyes on his guest’s insentient ones. “Yet,” he added, “one would not jest----”

“It is quite true,” was the matter-of-fact corroboration. “My hands must be my eyes, Mr Spinola. In place of seeing, will you permit me to touch your wonderful creation?”

The old man’s assent was immediate and cordial. They moved across the room towards the figure, the inventor modestly protesting:

“You flatter me, my dear sir. After all, it is but a toy in large; nothing but a toy.”

A weary-looking youth, the only other occupant of the room, threw down the illustrated weekly that he had picked up on the new arrivals’ entrance and detained Copling.

“Yes, I had been toying a little before you arrived,” he remarked flippantly. “I came early to cut Dora Lascelle off from the idle crowd and the silly little rabbit isn’t coming, it appears. I didn’t want to play, because, for a fact, I have no money, but the old thing bored me to hysterics. Good God! how he can talk so little on anything really entertaining, like _The Giddy Flappers_ or Trixie Fluff’s divorce, and so much about strange, unearthly things that no other living creature has ever seen even in a dream, baffles my imagination. What’s an ‘integral calculus,’ Copling? No, don’t tell me, after all. Let me forget the benumbing episode as soon as possible.”

“Do you wish for a game, Sir Fergus?” broke in Spinola’s soft voice from across the room. “Doubtless Mr Carrados might like to follow someone else’s play before he makes the experiment.”

Copling hesitated. He had not come to play, as he had already told his friend, but Max gave no sign of coming to his assistance.

“Perhaps you, Crediton?” said the mathematician; but young Crediton shook his head and smiled wisely: Copling was too easy-going to stand out. He crossed the room and sat down at the automaton’s table.

“And the stake?”

“Suppose we merely have a guinea on the game?” suggested the visitor.

Spinola acquiesced with the air of one to whom a three-penny bit or a kingdom would have been equally indifferent. The deal fell to Copling and the automaton therefore had the first “elder hand,” with the advantage of a discard of five cards against its opponent’s three.

Carrados had already been shown the theory of the contrivance. He now followed Spinola’s operations as the game proceeded. The old man picked up the twelve cards dealt to the automaton and carefully arranged them in their proper places on a square shield that was connected with the front of the figure. As each fell into its slot it registered its presence on the delicate mechanism that the figure contained.

“The discard,” remarked Spinola, and moved a small lever. The left hand of the automaton was raised, came over the shield which hid its cards from the opponent, touched one with an extended finger, and affixing it by suction, lifted the selected card from the slot and dropped it face downwards on the table.

“A little slow, a little cumbersome,” apologised the inventor as the motions were repeated until five cards had been thrown out. “The left hand is used for the discard alone, as a different movement is necessary.” He picked up the five new cards from the stock and arranged them as he had done the hand. “Now we proceed to the play.”

Crediton strolled across to watch the game. He stood behind Copling, while Carrados remained near the automaton. Spinola opened the movements.

“Aurelius has no voice, of course,” he said, studying the display of cards, “so I--point of five.”

“Good,” conceded the opponent.

Spinola registered the detail on one of an elaborate set of dials that produced a further development in the machinery.

“Spades,” he announced, declaring the suit that he had won the “point” on. “Tierce major.”

“Quart to the queen--hearts,” claimed Copling, and Spinola moved another dial to register the opponent’s advantage.

“Three kings.”

“Good,” was the reply.

“Three tens,” added the senior player, as his three kings, being good against the other hand, enabled him to count the lower trio also. “Five for the point and two trios--eleven.” Every detail of the scoring and of the ensuing play was registered as the other things had been.

This finished the preliminaries and the play of the hands began. The automaton, in response to the release of the machinery, moved its right arm with the same deliberation that had marked its former action and laid a card face upwards on the table. For the blind man’s benefit each card was named as it was played. At the end of the hand Copling had won “the cards”--a matter of ten extra points--with seven tricks to five and the score stood to his advantage at 27--17.

“Not bad for the junior hand,” commented Crediton. “Do you know”--he addressed the inventor--“there is a sort of ‘average,’ as they call it, that you are supposed to play up to? I forget how it goes, but 27 is jolly high for the minor hand, I know.”

“I have heard of it,” replied Spinola politely. Crediton could not make out why the other two men smiled broadly.

The succeeding hands developed no particular points of interest. The scoring ruled low and in the end Copling won by 129 to 87. Spinola purred congratulation.

“I am always delighted to see Aurelius lose,” he declared, paying out his guinea with a princely air.

“Why?” demanded Crediton.

“Because it shows that I have succeeded beyond expectation, my dear young sir: I have made him almost human. Now, Mr Carrados----”

“With pleasure,” assented the blind man. “Though I am afraid that I shall not afford you the delight of losing, Mr Spinola.”

“One never knows, one never knows,” beamed the old man. “Shall we say----”

“Half-crown points--for variety?”

“Very good. Ah, our deal.” He dealt the hands and proceeded to dispose the twelve that fell to the automaton on the shield. There was a moment of indecision. “Pray, Mr Carrados, do you not arrange your cards?”

“I have done so.” He had, in fact, merely spread out his hand in the usual fan formation and run an identifying finger once round the upper edges. The cards remained as they had been dealt, face downwards.

“Wonderful! And that enables you to distinguish them?”

“The ink and the impression on a plain surface--oh yes.” He threw out the full discard as he spoke and took in the upper five of the stock.

“You overwhelm us; you accentuate the tiresome deliberation of poor Aurelius.” Spinola was hovering about the external fittings of the figure with unusual fussiness. When at length he released the left hand it seemed for an almost perceptible moment that the action hung. Then the arm descended and carried out the discard.