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Updated: May 31, 2025
In the café, that afternoon, he had cut a mildly incongruous figure, unpretending but alien to that atmosphere; here, in the plain evening-dress livery of his station, he blended perfectly into the picture. Karslake gave his hat and stick to the man, then opened one wing of a great double doorway, and with a bow invited Sofia to precede him.
His real name is James Monroe Herndon; his profession that of government scout. Notify Mrs. Herndon, Trinidad, New Mexico. "The writer is Arthur Staples Karslake, dark hair, height five feet eleven, body will be found near that of Herndon. "Luis Estorijo, Mexican "Later. Two more cartridges. "Five-thirty. Estorijo dead. "It is half-past five in the afternoon of April fifteenth.
A circumstance which had treated Sofia to many a moment of covert entertainment and not a few that threatened to shatter what slender illusions had survived eighteen years of Mama Thérèse. Now it so happened that Mr. Karslake had never before sat at that particular table. The language spoken at it to-day intrigued Sofia extravagantly. It was rich in labials, gutturals, and odd sibilances.
In my absence you will be guided by such further instructions as I may leave with you. These failing, consider the man Sturm, my personal representative. In the contingency you know of, Sturm will warn you in time to clear the house." "Of everybody?" "Of all servants except those whom you may need to guard the man Karslake.
Without augmented fears, then, though still on the alert for anything that might seem questionable, and more agitated with excitement than she let him suspect, Sofia permitted Mr. Karslake to conduct her to the door. He had barely touched the bell-button when this door opened, revealing a vista of spacious entrance-hall.
"Not a syllable." Sofia opened her lips to protest, but delayed to study Karslake's face intently. He didn't try to escape her scrutiny, he even seemed to court it; but there was a curious, quizzical look in his eyes, those half-smiling lips had a whimsical droop. "Mr. Karslake!" Sofia announced, severely, "you're fibbing." "Nice thing to say to me." "You do speak Chinese confess."
Karslake announcing, in English, with every evidence of satisfaction: "Good! Then that's settled." To this the older man dissented tolerantly. "Pardon: nothing is settled; it is proposed, merely." "Well," said Karslake with a little laugh that to Sofia sounded empty, "at all events it ought to be amusing." The other lifted one eyebrow and smiled remotely. "You think so?"
So I left Karslake to wind up loose ends in London, and posted back with my heart in my mouth for fear I'd be too late." "Too late?" Sofia queried with arching brows. "Need I remind you where we are?" A sweep of Lanyard's hand indicated the boudoir; and Sofia started sharply in perplexity and alarm. "Where we are!" she echoed in a frightened whisper.
Into these conferences, Sofia observed, Karslake was never summoned. She wondered why.
The murmur of their talk meant nothing to her after that, and she forgot them entirely till they got up to leave, and then wasted only a moment in wondering why Mr. Karslake, if he were, as he seemed to be, engaging a butler for some friend or employer, should have arranged to meet the man in a café of Soho. But it didn't matter, and she dismissed the incident from her mind.
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