Men of Affairs Part 29

"But to a woman like you."

"I believe something struck me--they puckered at the corners a bit--rather attractively."

"That's it," said Harrison Smith. "That's exactly it. Lord, I wish I could understand."

"What's troubling you?"

"Just a crazy idea--probably it's nonsense. By the way, I've had orders from our employers to leave it alone so you'd do me a kindness by saying nothing of this visit."

"All right," she replied listlessly. "But I don't see----"

"It's solid in my head that a muddle has been made--and between you and me, I'm going to sift it out."

"I shouldn't," said Auriole. "You won't be thanked for disobeying orders."

"Must take a chance of that," he answered. "Only learnt yesterday what it was all about and the size of the deal has got me gasping."

"Pretty tremendous, isn't it?"

"Big enough to be worth taking some private trouble over. You don't imagine Barraclough would have deputed anyone else to get the concession?"

She shook her head.

"Neither do I. But if it isn't that why does his crowd sit still and grin?"

"I suppose they don't know of his capture."

"Maybe. 'Tany rate, it's what our folk believe. I have my own views."

"Tell me."

"They're a trifle too fantastic for publication yet awhile." He rose and b.u.t.toned his gloves. "There's to be a meeting at Lord Almont's flat this morning. I'm going to hang about and study character."

"Better not be seen."

"Trust me. I'll take cover in the motor show rooms on the street level and watch 'em as they come out."

"Hm! Goodbye." And she held out her hand.

"Au 'voir. You look a bit down this morning."

"Don't feel up to much."

He scanned her face quizzically.

"Those tender feelings haven't revived, have they?"

"What do you mean?"

"For friend Barraclough?"

"Idiot," she retorted. "As if I had any feelings."

"He's a decent looking chap."

"Oh, go away," she said.

And he went--smiling.

Auriole waited until the front door closed, then picked up the telephone receiver and gave a number.

"I want to speak to Lord Almont Frayne. Oh, is it? Good morning.

Yes, that's right. A. B. was kidnapped last night at twelve thirty.

They've taken him to Laurence's house in Totteridge. What? Yes, perfectly satisfied. One of their agents, a man named Harrison Smith, has been here a minute ago. He seems to be suspicious about something.

Thinks you all seem too contented. He'll be hanging about outside your flat this morning. Yes, that's all. Oh, Lord Almont, wish you'd explain the situation to me--can't understand it at all. Wouldn't make any difference. No, but what was to be gained by letting Anthony Barraclough be kidnapped? If you won't say it doesn't matter but it seems stupid not to trust one's own side. Oh, Mr. Ca.s.sis. I doubt if he'd trust himself. 'Bye!"

She hung up the receiver with a little gesture of annoyance and crossed to the writing table. From a small drawer above the pigeon holes she took a photograph of a man in flannels. It was signed "Yours for keeps, Tony." She read the inscription and smiled--and it was not a very kindly smile.

Harrison Smith, as a prospective buyer, proved extremely tiresome to the staff of the Motor Show Rooms in Park Lane. He shilly-shallied from one car to another asking rather stupid questions for the best part of two hours. The exquisitely dressed salesman poured forth his eulogies in vain. Nothing could make Mr. Smith decide. He would listen attentively to long recitals of the respective virtues of this make and that and then would gaze out into the street as though lost in contemplation. In the midst of listening to a highly technical discourse on the subject of cantilever springs, without a word of warning he leapt into the interior of a big Siddeley Saloon and closed the door behind him. The salesman looked at Mr. Smith in amazement but Mr. Smith was looking into the street along which three very serious-looking men were slowly progressing. Two of them supported the third who was very old and very bent. His face was set in an expression of acute anguish. They helped him into a waiting automobile, shook their heads at each other and proceeded in different directions. The automobile started up and moved away. The old man's head was sunk upon his chest.

When all three were out of view Harrison Smith emerged from the Siddeley Saloon, glanced at his watch, thanked the salesman, said he would call again and pa.s.sed out of the showrooms. On the pavement he halted and, like the three gentlemen who had occupied his attention, he too shook his head.

"They seem pretty well in the depths now," he reflected. "Wonder if I'm making a fool of myself."

He would have wondered even more acutely had he seen Mr. Torrington straighten up and smile as the big ear turned into the Park through Stanhope Gate. Every trace of anguish had gone from the old man's face. To speak the truth he looked extremely well pleased with himself.

Harrison Smith walked slowly down Piccadilly debating in his mind whether or no he should abandon his investigations.

He stopped at the bottom of Clarges Street to allow a taxi, laden with luggage, to pa.s.s. The taxi had its cover down and inside he had a glimpse of a girl with a happy, smiling face. The girl was Isabel Irish and the brief glimpse decided him.

"One more cast," he said and jumped into an empty cab that was coming down the slope.

"Follow that chap in front," he cried. "The one with box on top.

Don't lose sight of him whatever happens."

He slammed the door and settled down on the cushions. Pursuer and pursued threaded their way through the traffic to Waterloo Station.

CHAPTER 14.

"OFF THE BEATEN TRACK."

Anthony Barraclough's mother was seventy-eight and still a sport. She loved her garden, she loved her son and she loved adventure. She was very fond of life, of punctuality, of the church, and of good manners.

She was deeply attached to the memory of her late husband and her late sovereign, Queen Victoria, upon whom, with certain reservations, she patterned herself. The reservations were a taste for stormy literature and a habit of wearing her ice-white hair bobbed. The bobbing of her hair, and it used to be waist long, was a tribute to patriotism. She sacrificed her "ends" in 1914 to give a lead to hesitating girls of the neighbourhood. This she conceived to be a duty and one that would materially expedite the close of hostilities.