Part 3

The clerk glanced across his shoulder at the rack. “Your name's Mr. Hindwood, isn't it?” He raised his hand to a pigeonhole lettered “H”. “You can see for yourself, sir. There's nothing in it.”

“Then perhaps it was a verbal message. She would be certain to leave me her address.”

The clerk turned to the night-porter. “Did she?” The night-porter beamed with satisfaction. “She did not.”

He had achieved his dramatic effect.

X

He was the last passenger to squeeze through the barrier. As he scrambled into his carriage, the train was on the point of moving. Spreading one of his many papers on his knees, he lit a cigarette. He believed he was behaving as though nothing had happened. “That I can take it like this proves that she was nothing to me,” he assured himself.

Ten minutes later he discovered that he had not read a line and that the cigarette had gone out.

“I suppose I'm a bit upset,” he admitted, “though goodness knows why I should be. The matter's ended exactly as I wanted.”

But had it? What had he wanted? Does a man ever know what he wants where a woman is concerned? He desires most the thing which he most dreads. During the voyage he had wanted to win her from Prince Rogovich. On the tug he had wanted to forget her. In the cab he had wanted to go on kissing her forever. That morning he had wanted to save his freedom. On the station, like a maddened schoolboy, his terror had been lest he might lose her.

As a result he had lost her. Somewhere through the sunny lanes of Devon she was speeding with the gentleman who “couldn't speak no English” and wore goggles. In which direction and for what purpose he could not guess.

He smiled bitterly. It was a situation which called for mirth. He had accused her of having trapped him at a time when she herself had been escaping from him. He had complained that her affection was too ardently obvious at a moment when she was proving herself most coldly elusive. While he had been resenting the way in which he was being hunted, she had already abandoned him to hunt to his heart's content.

His reflections were broken in upon by a weakeyed old clergyman seated opposite to him in the far corner.

“Excuse me, but I see by your labels that you've just landed. May I ask whether your vessel was the _Ryndam_?”

“It was.”

“Then there's an item in the local paper which should interest you. It has to do with Prince Rogovich, the great Polish patriot. He was your fellow passenger, if I'm not mistaken.”

Hindwood was disinclined for conversation. He made his tone brusk that he might discourage further questions. “You're not mistaken, and I guess I know what you're going to tell me: that after all the preparations made for his reception, the Prince didn't land at Plymouth but, without notifying any one, traveled on either to Boulogne or Rotterdam.”

“But that wasn't what I was going to tell you,” the old gentleman continued in his benevolent pulpit manner. “Oh, no, I was going to tell you something quite different. After the _Ryndam_ left Plymouth, the Captain had her searched from stem to stern. Not a trace of the Prince could be found.”

“Extraordinary! I suppose the news was received by wireless. Does the paper suggest an explanation?”

“None whatsoever. I thought you'd be interested. Perhaps you'd like to read for yourself.”

The paper contained the bare fact as the clergyman had stated it. “A complete search was made. All his personal belongings were found intact, but of the Prince himself not a trace.”

Hindwood closed his eyes and pretended to sleep that he might protect himself from further intrusions. He wanted to argue his way through this problem and to acquit Santa of any share in what had happened. And yet, if an investigation were held and he himself had to tell all he knew, things would look black for her. Was that why----?

He tried to crush the ugly thought, but it clamored to be expressed. Was that why she had made love to him--that her kiss might seal his lips with silence?

The train was slowing down. He opened his eyes. In the cheerfulness of sunshine life took on a more normal aspect. Towering above crowded roofs of houses, a tall cathedral pricked the blueness of the sky.

“Where are we?”

The clergyman was collecting his bundles. “Exeter--where I alight.”

As soon as he had the carriage to himself, before any one could enter, he reached up to the rack and quickly removed the _Ryndam_ labels from his bag. Having done that, he stepped to the platform and went in search of papers. The torn labels were still in his hand. Surreptitiously he dropped them between the train and the platform, some distance lower down than his own carriage. He realized the stealth he had employed only when Exeter was left behind.

“Ridiculous!” he shrugged his shoulders. “It's getting on my nerves.”

In his most recently acquired batch of papers he found no reference to the topic which absorbed him. At the time when the London press had been published, the disappearance of the Prince had not been known to the world.

Throughout the journey, at every fresh stopping-place, he repeated the performance, dashing down platforms in quest of newsboys and purchasing copies of every journal on sale. He caught himself continually eyeing his bag to make sure that he really had removed all labels. He began to feel as if he himself were the criminal. In his intentions he was already an accessory after the fact. Whether Santa was innocent or guilty, at all costs he had determined to shield her.

Through the late summer afternoon, as he drew nearer to London, his suspense began to die. He was getting the later editions now; none of them so much as mentioned the affair. In Plymouth and Bristol it had probably been of local importance. He took courage to smile. What a coward dread can make of an honest man!

Afternoon was fading into the gold of evening when they steamed into Paddington. By making haste he could just reach the American Embassy before closing time. It was likely that several communications had been addressed to him there. He had cabled ahead to the Ritz for a reservation. It wouldn't take him far out of his direction to call at the Embassy on the way to his hotel.

In the stir and bustle of familiar London, the nightmare of the voyage grew vague. He stepped from the carriage like a man awaking. It thrilled him with happy surprise to discover the old gray city, plumed with smoke and smiling, waiting unchanged beneath his feet to welcome him. The very smell of mingled gasoline and horses from the cab-ranks was reassuring. Every sight that his eyes encountered made him feel respectable.

“Any luggage, sir?” It was a porter accosting him.

“Yes. Two trunks. At least, I guess they're on this train.”

“Which van, sir?”

“The one from Plymouth.” Then, with conscious bravado, he added: “I'm from the _Ryndam_. You'll recognize them by the Holland-American tags.”

The porter had gone to secure a barrow. While Hindwood waited, gazing about him idly, his eyes were startled by a news-placard bearing the following legend:

DISAPPEARANCE OF A PRINCE

FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED

He swayed, as though he had been struck by a bullet. He glanced round feverishly, fearing lest he might espy another placard stating, “Santa Gorlof Arrested.” But no--for the moment she was safe. He thanked God for the touring-car and the forethought of the foreign gentleman who could speak no English.

Quickly he began to readjust his plans. If he went to claim his trunks, there was no telling by whom he might be met--newspaper men, detectives, officials from the Foreign Office. Moreover, Santa's trunks were in the van. When he had explained himself, he might be called upon to account for her absence. There was only one thing for him to do: for her sake he must get out of England. If he delayed, he might be prevented. It would be unwise for him to go to the Ritz; he must spend the night at some obscure hotel. The only place to which he might be traced was the Embassy; but he would have to risk that--it was of the utmost importance that he should pick up his communications.

He was on the point of making good his escape, when the porter trundled up with his barrow.

“Hi, mister! Where are you goin'? I'll be needin' you to identify 'em.”

“I know you will.” Hindwood turned on him a face which was flustered. “But I've just remembered I have an engagement. I'll send for them later. It'll make no difference to you; here's what I should have paid you.”

The man, having inspected it carefully, pocketed the half-crown. “It won't take long,” he suggested; “me and the barrow's ready. And it won't cost you nothink, seein' as how you've paid me.”

“No time.”

Without more ado, he made a dash for the nearest taxi. “As fast as you like,” he told the driver; “the faster, the bigger your fare.”

He fled out of the station at a forbidden rate, but after half a mile the taxi halted against the curb. Lowering the window, he looked out.

“What's the matter? Something wrong with your engine?”

“We ain't been follered. You can calm down,” the driver assured him soothingly. “Wot's wrong is that you ain't told me no address.”

“Stupid of me! The American Embassy.”

At the Embassy, having explained his errand, he was requested to wait. Then, rather to his surprise, instead of having his letters handed to him, he was shown into a handsome room where, at the far end, a gray-haired man was seated, sorting papers behind a large mahogany table.

Hindwood crossed the room and held out his hand.

“I'm Philip Hindwood, the railroad expert. I guess you've heard of me. I called in case there was some mail for me. I had no intention of troubling you personally.”

“I'm glad you've come,” said the gray-haired man gravely. “If you hadn't troubled me, I should have had to trouble you. There have been inquiries for you. They have to do with a woman who goes by the name of Santa Gorlof. The police thought you might know something about her. It seems she's wanted.”

CHAPTER THE SECOND--THE RETURN OF SANTA GORLOF

I

SO Santa was “wanted!” Why she was wanted Hindwood did not dare to question. And the police thought he could tell them something! He could, but it would be something to put them off her track. After kissing a woman, it wasn't likely he'd betray her. She might have committed every crime on the calendar; it would make no difference. He had learned his code of honor on the outskirts of civilization, where law is more often defied than obeyed. By his standards of chivalry, after what had passed between them, he had no option but to play the game by her. What did they think he knew? Why should they think he knew anything?

He masked his anxiety with seeming unconcern. Without his assistance, they could make little headway. He must let fall no hint that would suggest a sentimental interest in her fortunes. He would be spied on--probably he had been spied on already. For all he knew, the clergyman in the train, the porter at Paddington, the taxi-driver who had assured him that he wasn't followed, were detectives. Henceforward he must live his life normally and in public, doing everything to disarm suspicion. Any divergence from his usual habits, such as staying in obscure quarters or canceling engagements that he might escape to the Continent, would create the impression that he was possessed of guilty knowledge. If he had to speak of her, he must refer to her as a charming acquaintance and profess horror that such a charge should have been brought against her.

Following this line, he left the Embassy with the promise that he would consult with the police at their earliest convenience. From there he drove to the Ritz, adhering to arrangements made before this sinister thing had happened. To avoid being waylaid, he went straight to his rooms, having ordered his trunks to be fetched from the station and his dinner to be served in his apartment.

The suite allotted him was one which he had occupied on several previous occasions. It soothed his ruffled pride to discover that his preferences had been remembered. From the front windows he could gaze down Piccadilly; from the side he could watch the green park, a lake of jade, imprisoned between walls of granite. In the panes facing westward a fairy city hung poised, tipped with flame and ensanguined by the sunset.

Leisurely he set to work to bathe and shave, stretching out the ritual and reveling in the recovery of his self-respect. Slowly the sunset faded. Before he had made an end, the golden September dusk was drifting down. In the twilight he stretched himself on the bed, waiting for his trunks with his wardrobe to arrive. He felt that he could face the police with much more calmness if he was clad in the respectability of evening dress.

He must have dozed, for the room was completely dark when he was brought to his feet by the sharp ringing of the telephone. As he fumbled for the receiver, he thought, “Well, I've a good reason for not seeing them. Pajamas aren't dignified.”

Aloud he said: “Yes. Quite correct--Mr. Hind-wood. Yes, the Mr. Hindwood who's just landed from the _Ryndam_. You traced me by my trunks! You were expecting I'd claim them in person! The man from the Ritz is there! That's all right. Thank you for telling me. What was my reason?--Certainly not. I was avoiding no one. What did you say you were?--A newspaper-man!--I guess not. I've nothing to tell--no. That's final.”

He had scarcely hung up when the bell commenced ringing again. The next half-hour was spent in refusing to be interviewed by invisible persons. It seemed as though every journalist in London were waiting in queue to get on to him. Some were suave, some bullying; all were persistent. Didn't he know that he owed it to the public to say something? If a list of questions was submitted to him, would he make a written statement?

To cut the clamor short, he instructed the hotel operator to allow no one to speak with him who would not state his business. For the rest of the evening he was “out” to any one who had to do with the press. After that the telephone grew quiet.

He switched on the lights. As he did so, he noticed that he was trembling with excitement. He was furious. This assault had made him aware of the unseen wall of hostility by which he and Santa were surrounded. She hadn't a chance; the whole of organized society was against her. The odds were brutally unfair. Nothing that she had done could warrant such unsportsmanly cruelty. So far it had not been proved that she had done anything, yet every one was willing to prejudge her. The pursuit was cowardly. Whether he loved her did not matter. It was a problem in knight-errantry: to protect her he was willing to risk all that he was and had.

The arrival of his trunks gave him something else to think about. When he was dressed, he felt ready for every emergency. After all, he was not the criminal.

He had his dinner spread against a window from which he could watch the arc-lights of Piccadilly strung across the night like a rope of pearls. He tried to be persuaded that he was enjoying himself. If the police didn't call on him within the hour, he would saunter out to a music-hall and rub shoulders with the crowd.

But would he? To what purpose? He would have to go alone, as he always went. It would be different if she were with him. The last nine days had spoiled him for loneliness; they had taught him the romance of a woman's friendship. And yet, not friendship--she had asked for his affection. All his life he had craved to give his love to some woman. Until he had met Santa, his craving had been denied. No woman had seemed to care. Because of that, in spite of success, he had reckoned himself a failure. He had attained everything--power, position, wealth--everything except his desire. There had been moments on the voyage when it had seemed to him that his goal was in sight.

If she were to tap on his door, how would he greet her? If she did, it would be like her; she could always be counted on to do the unexpected. He told himself that he would ask her no questions. He would not upbraid her. He would comfort her in the way that she understood best. When the police came to interrogate him, he would place his arm about her and answer:

“Gentlemen, if it is Santa Gorlof you are seeking, she is here. I have asked her to be my wife.” The scene as he conjured it was worthy of Dumas; he was thrilled by the gallantry of his imagination. His ponderings were cut short by a sharp rap. He sprang to his feet; it almost seemed that his dream was to be realized. The rap was repeated. Outside the door a page was standing.

“There's a gentleman downstairs. He won't give his name. He says you left word, sir, at the American Embassy, that you would be willing to see him.”

“Show him up.”

II

Leaving the door ajar, he drew a chair to his desk and commenced rummaging through a pile of documents. He planned to create the impression that he regarded this visit as of small importance. He was anxious, even at the risk of appearing vulgar, to be discovered in the rôle of an American money-lord, every second of whose time represented dollars--the kind of man who was too influential to be bulldozed by the police methods of a country whose citizenship he did not share. He urged himself into a mood of contempt by recalling the beefy caricatures which pass currency in English fiction for veracious portraits of Scotland Yard detectives. This fellow would look like a constable off duty. When he sat down, he would bulge at the neck and mop his forehead with a multicolored handkerchief. He would be awed by elegance into sulky stupidity--but would become pompously affable when offered a cigar.

“May I enter?” The door creaked.

“Surely. Come in. But you must excuse me for a moment.” Hindwood spoke without turning. He pretended to be sorting the last of his documents. The cultured tone of the voice had surprised him. Perhaps, after all, his guest might not be a detective.

“Sorry to keep you. Time's valuable. My stay in England is short. There, that's finished. What can I do for you?” He pushed back his chair and rose to face his guest.

If the man's intonation had surprised him, his appearance amazed him still more. He could have passed for the colonel of a crack cavalry regiment. His bearing was erect and dapper. His dark lounge suit, with the light stripes running through it, was so smartly tailored that one was apt to suspect that he was corseted. His hair was white, his cheeks tanned, his manner cheerful and commanding. He was of less than medium height. With his bristling mustache and pointed imperial he bore a distinct resemblance to Lord Roberts of Kandahar.

Hindwood held out his hand with undisguised relief. “Won't you sit down, sir? I'm afraid I must have seemed discourteous. The truth is, I was expecting some one quite different. The boy didn't announce your name or business.”

The stranger accepted his hand with an ironic smile. He did not sit down. Instead he asked a question. “Wouldn't it be wise to shut the door?” Without waiting for permission, he went to the door and closed it. Before he closed it, he glanced out into the passage. Having regained the middle of the room, he gazed searchingly about him.

“No one here who can listen?”

Again taking matters into his own hands, he made a swift and thorough investigation, peering into the bathroom, stabbing draperies with his cane as with a sword, feeling behind clothes in cupboards. He left no corner uninspected in which an eavesdropper might be secreted. Last of all he approached the window near which Hindwood had dined. For a few seconds he stood there, staring down into the well of blackness and the mysterious fairyland of shifting lights. Laying aside his hat and gloves, but still retaining his cane, he remarked:

“Beautiful! Very beautiful! Exquisite with the witchery of a woman's face, which masks a hidden wickedness!”

Hindwood had been regarding him in silence. “I have yet to learn your name and business,” he reminded him.

The stranger chuckled. “My name! I have almost forgotten it. I assume so many. As for my business, I'm a secret service agent in the employ of the British Government.”

“Have you credentials?”

“A letter.”

He produced from his breast pocket an envelope, containing this message, typed on American Embassy notepaper, “This will serve to introduce the gentleman who is anxious to consult you on the subject of which we spoke this afternoon.”

“Satisfactory?”

“Quite. Perhaps now you'll be seated. If you smoke, I can recommend these cigars.”

Again the stranger, with unruffled urbanity, betrayed his alert independence. “If you have no objection, I prefer my own.”

“As you like.” Hindwood was determined to conduct the interview along the lines of social politeness. Selecting a cigar himself, he notched the end. “I'm entirely at your disposal. There's little I can tell. I suppose the subject on which you're anxious to consult me is what happened on the _Ryndam_?”

“Yes and no.” The stranger puffed leisurely for a few moments. “The answer is yes, if by 'what happened on the _Ryndam_ you mean Santa Gorlof.”

III

Santa Gorlof?” Hindwood feigned surprise. “A very charming lady!”

The shrewd face puckered in a smile. The gray eyes grew piercing beneath the beetling, white brows. “So I've been given to understand. She has a way with the men, has our Santa. Even Prince Rogovich, old hand that he was, fell for her. I believe that's your expressive phrase in America. He fell for her in every sense, especially when she pushed him overboard.”

Hindwood frowned. He realized that a cat-and-mouse game had commenced, in which he had been allotted the rôle of mouse. He resented the levity with which Santa's name had been mentioned. If the man was in earnest, the matter was too terrible for jest. Though he had harbored the same suspicion, to hear it stated as a fact appalled him. The charge sounded dastardly, spoken in that pleasant voice by this courtly English gentleman who was old enough to be her father.

With an effort he kept command of his composure. “Of course you're joking?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then, in plain American, you're accusing a beautiful and fascinating woman of murder.”

“Of what else?”

Hindwood shrugged his shoulders. “Pardon my density. I didn't catch on. It was your appearance misled me; you look so much a gentleman.”

“I flatter myself that there are occasions when I am.”

“Then I guess we'll have to reckon this occasion an exception. I might remind you that it's a woman you're accusing and that the penalty for murder is death. Scarcely a subject to make merry over with a play upon words!”

“And you're reminding me,” the stranger added gently, “that, if she's a woman, you and I are men. You're trying to tell me that, if my supposition is correct, then all that ravishing caprice that we know as Santa Gorlof will have to be ruthlessly blotted out. Possibly you're picturing, as so many of her victims have pictured before you, the wealth of happiness that might be yours if you could win her for yourself.”

Hindwood's hand trembled as he flicked his ash. “My dear sir,” he drawled, “I'm not twenty. I'm a hard-bitten man of the world. You credit me with too much romance. In your profession you're trained to spin theories. Please leave me out; stick to your assertion. You come to me, accusing a woman of my acquaintance--I can hardly call her a friend--of having committed murder. The charge sounds preposterous. Why you should come to me at all I can not guess. Before we go further, I have a right to ask a question: is this mere conjecture or can you prove it?”

“I can prove it.” The stranger paused, studying the despair his words had caused. “I can prove it.” Then he added, “If you'll help.”