"Sure."

"Then tell him to meet me at Paddington tomorrow morning 9.50."

"Right."

"And you might lend me that bunch of spring-lock keys."

"Going to have a squint at that guide book?" queried Bolt shrewdly as he turned over the contents of a table drawer in search of the keys.

"Going to have a try," came the answer.

Bolt rippled out a fat, greasy chuckle.

"Pleasure to work with you, Smith," said he. "Yes indeed. Though it's a bit risky putting one over on the Dutchman." He fell into a thick, guttural "S'bad--s'bad pizness. Dese servants wa.s.s ver' insubordinate.

S'bad. Well, good luck, ole boy."

They shook hands cordially.

The Commercial Road was deserted when Harrison Smith came out of the narrow byway. The chance of finding a conveyance was small but his practical sense suggested turning into the West India Dock Road where, at the gates of the dock, he had the good fortune to secure a dilapidated four-wheeler. Progress was painfully slow and hours seemed to pa.s.s before they finally turned out of the broad cobbled highway and pa.s.sed through the silent empty city. Two o'clock was striking when he dismissed the cab in Piccadilly. At his own rooms in Crown Court, St.

James's, he changed into ordinary clothes and proceeded on foot to Albemarle Street. Before the entrance to Crest Chambers Harrison Smith stopped and broke into a torrent of imprecation. He had forgotten that the downstairs door would be shut. It was of heavy mahogany and secured by an ordinary variety of lock against which the bunch of keys in his pocket were of no service whatsoever. He was shaking his fist angrily when the sound of footsteps accompanied by a s.n.a.t.c.h of song attracted his attention. A young man in evening dress, wearing an opera hat at a raffish angle and carrying his hands in his trousers pockets turned out of the adjoining side street and approached the spot where he was standing. A single glance was enough to convince Harrison Smith that the young man was in a state of spiritual exaltation bordering on ecstasy. The words of a song he sang sounded unnaturally clear--like music from another planet.

"I'm one of the ruins that Cromwell knocked about a bit," he sang over and over again as though the words contained relish enough to justify any limit of repet.i.tion. Coming abreast of Harrison Smith he halted abruptly and, rocking on his heels, broke into a cherubic smile.

"Goo' man," he said. "Les-see, it's ol' Petersh, ishn't it?"

"That's it," said Harrison Smith, "old Peters."

With startling suddenness the young man produced a latch key and thrust it into Harrison Smith's palm.

"Ope' th' door, ol' top. Ope' door an' we'll have a quick lil' spot together."

Here was unlooked for good fortune of which Harrison Smith lost no time in availing himself. Lending a trifling support to his impromptu host they entered the building and ascended in the electric lift to the fourth floor. There was a bra.s.s plate on the front door which informed the curious that the owner of the flat was called Royston.

"Just a quick one," said Smith as they entered a comfortable sitting room adorned by photographs of lovely ladies. "I've had a trying day and want to turn in."

"T'h.e.l.l with that," said Royston. "Wha's matter with seein' in the dawn?"

He produced a bottle of whiskey and two gla.s.ses--not without casualties among their fellows--set them on a coffin stool and fell into a deep arm chair.

"Help 'self and help me--'cos I'm ver' tired--ov' tired."

Harrison Smith embraced the opportunity of pouring out a perfect deadener for his host into which he discreetly added a pinch of cigar ash from a convenient stump (a concoction which in the absence of more potent drugs will produce very gratifying results).

While he was so employed Mr. Royston descanted freely on the subject of lovely women in the choice of which he declared himself to be an epicure.

"See that one--pho' frame--piano. Tho'bred--perfect tho'bred--a darling--love 'er--love 'em all."

"That's the talk," said Harrison Smith who was cursing the enforced delay. "Drink her health, old man, and no heel taps."

Mr. Royston rose n.o.bly to the occasion and swallowed the contents of his gla.s.s at a single gulp.

"Blesh 'em!" he said. "Blesh 'em."

He seized the arm of his chair while the room spun round him in a dizzy whirl.

"Blast you, Petersh," he cried. "Thash pre-war whiskey. Sh-shot me clean through the brain pan. C-caught in the brewersh web."

He swayed a little and settled down on the floor by sections. Harrison Smith stooped and put a cushion beneath his head.

"All ri' soon--qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous groan.

A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on the landing below. The fourth key on the bunch turned the latch and silently as a cat he slipped into the hall. A quick observation of the chambers above had given him a fair idea of which room was which and he had no trouble in locating the study door in the dark. Before turning on a light he a.s.sured himself that the window curtains were drawn. He realised the need to be very silent in all his actions since Barraclough's servant was in all probability sleeping on the premises and ex-service men of the regular army have an awkward knack of sleeping lightly. He closed the door without even a click from the latch, then turned up a standard lamp that stood on the writing table.

In the pen tray beneath the lamp was a blue pencil--a new one--since obviously it had never been sharpened and the chalk point was scarcely worn at all. The other end of the pencil had been deeply bitten in a dozen places, a circ.u.mstance which Harrison Smith noted with satisfaction. The other pencils and pens in the tray bore no teeth marks. It was reasonable, therefore, to surmise that its owner had been engaged in some knotty and puzzling problem at the time of use.

"I believe the girl was on the right track," he muttered to himself and turned his attention to the bookshelves. One of the cases was given over entirely to a collection of local guide books surprisingly complete in map and detail. There were four volumes dealing with Cornwall and it was only the matter of a moment to find the one to which Isabel had referred. Bringing it to the light Harrison Smith hastily turned over the pages until he came to the squared map that showed the village of Polperro. But here disappointment awaited him--for not a sign of the blue pencil mark showed upon the page. He was on the point of closing the book when he made a discovery.

The light striking across the paper revealed the fact that the surface in places bore a polished appearance. The reason was significant.

Barraclough, leaving nothing to chance, had erased the pencil marks with indiarubber. If anything could emphasise the value of his discovery surely it was this and Harrison Smith fairly tingled with excitement. He picked up a magnifying gla.s.s and closely examined the eras.e.m.e.nt. There had been a line drawn round the village and on the outskirts, where three cottages cl.u.s.tered together, was the impression of a single dot. At roughly a mile inland from the village where a footpath converged with the road was another dot, seemingly situated in the middle of a clump of trees.

Harrison Smith was satisfied. He hastily dropped the book into his pocket, restored its fellows to their former position on the shelves and tiptoed across the room to extinguish the light. Thus far Fortune had favoured him, but she is a capricious lady wont to change her allegiance with startling suddenness. If there had been a length of yellow flex to the electric standard the accident would never have happened. It is simply asking for trouble to use red flex on a red carpet. Harrison Smith's foot tangled in the wire and down came the table lamp with a crash. Simultaneously there came a shout from another part of the flat. For a second Harrison Smith stood spellbound at the disaster he had caused--robbed of the power of action.

It was the sound of bare feet pattering on the parquet of the hall that restored his senses and as the door of the room flew open he stamped on the still burning electric bulb lying at his feet. The detonation as it flew into fragments came simultaneously with the sharp, stinging report of a small calibre pistol. The room was plunged into utter darkness in which could be heard the sound of two men breathing and the zinging of the mantelpiece bra.s.ses from the double explosion. Then silence--no movement--and the mind of Harrison Smith worked like a streak of lightning. His hand was on the back of a heavy arm chair and the touch of it suggested an idea.

He gave a thin, whispering sigh and cried out in a high pitched voice.

"My G.o.d! You've killed me!"

Then he tilted back the arm chair and allowed it to fall with a soft thud to the floor.

Another silence, then the sound of a man moving forward. Harrison Smith side stepped and, keeping in touch with the wall, navigated through the darkness toward the door.

"Serve you d.a.m.n well right," said Doran in a voice that was startlingly near.

Harrison Smith's luck had returned. He found the door and pa.s.sed through it and down the hall as quietly as a draught. He heard a click as Doran switched up the lights, followed by an oath. Then he streaked down the main stairway with a flight and a half start. A second was lost at the hall door fumbling for the latch and in that second Doran fired again but missed. As Harrison Smith shot out into Albemarle Street he collided heavily with a constable, attracted to the scene by the noise of the shots, but him he overturned to such good effect that he was crossing Piccadilly before the blast of the inevitable whistle screeched through the night. There was no further opposition to his progress and in St. James's Street he fell into a walk and finally entered his own apartment un.o.bserved.

A little breathless but entirely satisfied he flung himself on the bed for a couple of hours' sleep.

CHAPTER 21.

THE CORNISH RIVIERA.

In the summer time all the best people, and many who fall short of perfection, go westward to the Cornish Riviera. It is the thing to do.

The taxi, the station 'bus, the private automobile, and even the almost extinct four-wheeler, high laden with luggage, by common consent roll down the slope into Paddington and deliver up their cargoes. Long are the queues at the booking offices, thronged the platforms, and loud the voices of those who command. Each little party of voyagers would seem to have its own alarums as an inevitable adjunct to excursion. The genius for organising is manifest on all sides with resultant chaos.

Orders and injunctions are flung broadcast--misinterpreted and sometimes abused. The germ of panic infects the mult.i.tude.