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Updated: June 10, 2025
To this sanctuary of mid-Victorian calm Isabel Irish came in the late afternoon of the day following Anthony's departure into the unknown. To wait in London for three weeks without word or message was more than she could tolerate. Accordingly she sent a wire to Mrs. Barraclough and followed close upon its heels. Of the presence of Mr.
The action was deliberate since he desired to find out who might possibly be concealed in the inner room and its advantages were immeasurable for at the very moment his back was turned Anthony Barraclough, dusty and spent, stumbled in through the French window.
"Any suggestions?" said Barraclough. "Yes. I suggest under the seal of confidence you inform us of the exact location of this field and we dispatch a trustworthy servant to carry out the necessary negotiations." Barraclough remained silent. "If you refuse to adopt that view all I can see for it is either to drop the whole thing or to let Van Diest come in and split the profit."
Isabel rang her up during the morning a trunk call with the brave intention of expressing firm and unshakable optimism but the effort was pathetically tremulous and finally petered out with inarticulate sobs and chokings. "Oh, dear, dear! That will never do," said Mrs. Barraclough, mastering a powerful desire to kiss the microphone into which she spoke.
They neither knew where it came from nor whither it went and there is a strong rumour that one or two quite important persons got into severe trouble for their want of information. The one thing that is positively known is that Barraclough arrived in and disappeared from Southampton in a single day, but whether he went North, South, East or West is a matter for speculation.
"But I would like to know what all this is about." "So would a good many other people," said Barraclough and pressed the third floor button of the electric lift. The meeting of the directors had been arranged to take place at Lord Almont Frayne's house in Park Lane. Nugent Cassis was first to arrive. It was part of his scheme of life to be five minutes early for appointments.
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.
He, Barraclough, was a made man, every newspaper in the country would send its reporters to clamour at his doors, every charity seek his aid when the story and the magnitude of his find became known. From an ordinary commonplace individual, he would be transformed into a figure of the age, the observed of all eyes, the target of every tongue.
"You remember me, Barraclough, old fellow," he said, swinging his pistol as though it were a cane. "I'm a terror for forgetting trifles," Richard replied sweetly. "Remind me." "Oliver Laurence. Met you in '11 at old Dick Harris' place." "Good old Dick," said Richard in the spirit of the scene. "But as I was about to remark, here we all are, gentlemen, and what happens next?"
The message was simple enough. "'Saw Barraclough Polperro this morning. Been following all day. Escaped in Panhard, probably will enter London by Portsmouth or Great Western Road. Am pursuing in Ford car. Obstruct. Harrison Smith." It was handed in at eight o'clock and postmarked Wimborne. "Saw Barraclough!" repeated Hipps. "Harrison Smith's gone crazy."
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