The Secret of the Silver Car Part 39

_ANTHONY THE TRIUMPHANT_

The butler tapped upon Trent's door before nine next morning.

"I've just taken a telephone message for you, Mr. Anthony, very important if I may judge."

"Come in and tell me about it," the American said. He could not imagine who knew his whereabouts. It must be Maitland, he supposed, who had promised to see him before he joined his destroyer again if it were possible.

"It's from the American Emba.s.sy," the butler informed him.

"What?" Trent demanded. "Are you sure?"

The American Emba.s.sy! What had he to do with that? Once behind the doors he was on American soil and subject to her jurisdiction.

"It was a message saying that the amba.s.sador must see you at once. I took the liberty of saying I thought you could get there by half past nine. A motor will be waiting when you have dressed."

Anthony Trent sat on the edge of his bed and saw all his high hopes dashed to earth. Someone must have told the amba.s.sador of this young fellow countryman of his who was on intimate terms with a cabinet minister. And the amba.s.sador with the aid of his intelligence department must have run him to earth.

For a moment he wondered whether it would not be wiser to make a run for it. Maitland now a.s.sured of his _bona fides_ would not hesitate to take him with him and land him at some lonely spot on the Italian coast by night. He had money and his wits. It would be beginning life over again but it would be better than disgrace here in London.

Then his fighting side a.s.serted itself. He would not be frightened into flight before he was convinced flight was necessary.

There was another visitor in the American amba.s.sador's waiting room, a man of middle age who smoked an excellent cigar. He turned as Trent entered.

"Morning," said Trent morosely. He was annoyed to find that he had to speak. It was the publisher of a chain of magazines for one of which Trent used to write when engaged in the manufacture of light fiction. He had often smoked one of the millionaire's celebrated cigars.

"Good morning," said the publisher graciously. "It's a long time since I saw you."

"The amba.s.sador keeps extraordinary hours," Trent commented.

"He's a business man," the other explained, "Not bred to the old time diplomacy, just a plain, business man."

"What have you done that he sent for you?"

"You don't seem to understand," the publisher said mildly.

"I only understand," Trent said, still irritably, "that I'm being kept waiting. He was to see me at nine thirty and it's now twenty minutes to breakfast."

"He was on the minute," the other laughed, "Where have you been not to know I'm the amba.s.sador?"

"You!" said Trent in amazement.

"And I'm making a d.a.m.ned good one," the diplomat said, "even if I do get up hours before the rest of 'em."

"What am I here for?" Trent demanded.

"Congratulations mainly," said the amba.s.sador. "I was waked out of sleep at after midnight by the prime minister. He wanted to know if I had heard of an American called Anthony Trent. I said 'Sure. He used to write for me. Anthony Trent is all right.' The way these Londoners keep up half the night is something shocking."

"I still don't see why you've sent for me, Mr. Hill."

"I'll explain," said the amba.s.sador. His manner was serious, so serious indeed that Anthony Trent was infinitely perturbed. "You may not know it but you've rendered your country a considerable service. Over here in the Birthday or New Year honours list you'll find decorations awarded men the public knows nothing about. Trent, sometimes they are given for work like you have done. We don't give orders or decorations or grants of money. If we did you'd have one coming to you. What you've done won't even come before Congress. You'll be a mute inglorious Milton, but--if the day comes when you need help, if you should ever be in a tight place, remember you've got something to trade with. I'm not going to mention this again but you bear it in mind."

"I certainly will," Trent said gratefully. Then he spoke a little hesitatingly. "Be frank with me, Mr. Hill. I ask this as a personal favor. Had you anything at the back of your mind when you spoke about my being in a tight place or needing help?"

"No," the amba.s.sador said after a mental reaction which could be measured in seconds. "But you've made enemies here. Some of 'em have sent in asking what you do for your livelihood. Of course I remembered that Australian uncle. He certainly must have cut up rich."

"He did," Anthony Trent said sombrely. He had invented an Australian uncle years before to account for possession of the large sums of money his professional work netted him. Oddly enough the memory gave him little pleasure now.

"I was able to a.s.sure the inquisitive," the diplomat declared, "that I had known you for years."

Enemies! Castoon perhaps, who hated him on sight, and possibly the Colonel Langley who was now his friend. What others unknown to him might there not be! And there was Lady Polruan sister of Willoughby Maitland.

She probably would be influenced by her favorite brother and receive him on a friendly footing if they met again. These people he knew. But it was the unknowns who bothered him.

"Was Rudolph Castoon one of them?" he inquired.

"The Chancellor of the Exchequer?" Hill laughed. "My boy you have certainly got right into the top-hole set here. The inquisitive ones were your own countryfolk who were jealous that a man not even in the Social Register got in on intimate terms with the great families. Maybe they wanted to get your formula. Nothing serious. I've got a busy morning. Lunch with me at one tomorrow?"

"Gladly," Anthony Trent returned, his manner brighter. Never had he shaken hands so heartily with his old publisher.

"It's done me good to see you," he exclaimed.

The friendly butler informed Trent in confidence that Lady Daphne was not yet down. His lordship was already riding in the Row.

"Her ladyship has not been informed of your arrival," said the butler.

"She is expected down in a few minutes. I have ordered kidneys and bacon _en brochette_ for you, sir."

"This feels like being really at home," the American said. "I have wanted that for breakfast every morning I've been away and never once had the luck to get it."

Below stairs the butler informed the housekeeper, who later retailed it to maids, that Mr. Anthony seemed very nervous. A footman openly rejoiced when he overheard the butler's conversation with the housekeeper that his duties would enable him to witness the meeting of his mistress and the American.

"There will be n.o.body in the breakfast room when her ladyship enters but Mr. Anthony," his superior said firmly. "Haven't you got any romance in you, Simpkins?"

"Yes," answered the footman simply, "that's why I want to see them."

Anthony Trent was sitting in a big winged chair by the fire when Daphne entered. She walked to the table and picked up some letters without seeing him. At every mail she expected to hear from him and now was another of these continual disappointments. Invitations, letters from friends and relatives, but never a one from the man she loved.

Watching her Anthony Trent was a victim to many emotions. The rumor which he had confidently disputed that she was engaged to Rudolph Castoon now a.s.sumed a guise of probability. Why not? He had left her expecting never to see her again. He had convinced her of the unsurmountable barrier between them, a barrier which still existed. What a fool he had been to twist the earl's statement about Arthur into something that spelled hope when none was intended.

That he was here was due to the feeling on Lord Rosecarrel's part that he deserved courtesy at the hands of the Grenvils. Before leaving for Croatia he had a.s.sured the elder man that he would not claim a reward.

And here he was within a few feet of Daphne. What he should have done was to call and greet her in a friendly fashion, a fashion which would have told her that he realized there could no longer be any pretence of intimacy between them. Instead he was hiding in a deep chair and must presently disclose himself.

He noticed anxiously that she was looking frail and tired. There was a sadness on her face which he had not seen there before. It was, he decided, a hopelessness, a lack of the vivacity which had always distinguished her.

It was when the butler had decided time enough had elapsed for greeting that Simpkins was allowed to bear in silver dishes of food.

It was the footman's entrance which made the girl look up from her unopened collection of letters. She did not see Simpkins. She saw only the man in the chair, the tall, slim man who rose almost awkwardly when he met her wide-open eyes.