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"This is a coincidence," Reginald Kinsley declared, lighting a cigarette. "I think, if I were you, Dick, I'd go down and claim my property." "Tired of me already?" Hamel asked, smiling. Reginald Kinsley knocked the ash from his cigarette. "It isn't that. The fact is, that job I was speaking to you about was simply this.
I am telling you what is a pretty open secret when I tell you that there is a conference due to be held this week at some place or another on the continent I don't know where, myself which will have a very important bearing upon our future. We know just as much as that and not much more." "A conference between whom?" Hamel asked. Kinsley dropped his voice almost to a whisper.
"In any case, it will be just the few days' holiday I was looking forward to." Kinsley helped himself to whisky and soda and turned towards his friend. "Here's luck to you, Dick! Take care of yourself. All sorts of things may happen, you know. Old man Fentolin may take a fancy to you and tell you secrets that any statesman in Europe would be glad to hear.
This seems all the more singular since that class has since produced a large number of prominent journalists, and among these George Washburne Smalley, the most eminent, by far, among American newspaper correspondents of our time; Evarts Greene, a leading editor of Worcester; Delano Goddard, late editor of the ``Boston Advertiser''; Kinsley Twining, for a considerable time an editor of the ``Independent''; Isaac Bromley, who for years delighted the Republican party with his contributions to the editorial page of the ``Tribune''; Dr.
Ryan expressed his thanks briefly and left the room. Kinsley watched him from over the top of a newspaper. "So that is one of Mr. Fentolin's creatures, too," he remarked. "Keeping his eye on you in Norwich, eh? Tell me, Dick, by-the-by, how do you get on with the rest of Mr. Fentolin's household, and exactly of whom does it consist?" "There is his sister-in-law," Hamel replied, "Mrs.
Say, when Florry Kinsley and me she was the girl I roomed with would get home at night, often we'd just lie down and laugh and cry, we were so tired, and our feet hurt so. We were too used up sometimes to get up and cook supper on the little stove we had. And sitting around a back bedroom all evening was worse than Madison. We'd go out, tired as we were, and walk the streets."
I feel sure the name was Fentolin." Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass. "Is your St. David's Tower anywhere near a place called Salthouse?" he asked reflectively. "That's the name of the village," Hamel admitted. "My father used to spend quite a lot of time in those parts, and painted at least a dozen pictures down there."
Kinsley glanced at the clock and rose to his feet. "Walk down to the station with me," he suggested. "I needn't tell you, I am sure," he went on, as they left the hotel a few minutes later, "that if anything does turn up, or if you get the glimmering of an idea, you'll let me know? We've a small army looking for the fellow, but it does seem as though he had disappeared off the face of the earth.
David's Hall." Kinsley, for a moment, was singularly and eloquently profane. "That's why Mr. Fentolin let him go, then. If Saxthorpe had only held his tongue, or if those infernal police hadn't got chattering with the magistrates, we might have made a coup. As it is, the game's up. Mr. Dunster left for Yarmouth, you say, yesterday morning?" "I saw him go myself.
"I don't suppose he could help receiving them," Hamel remarked. "He could help decoding them and sending them through to Germany, though," Kinsley retorted grimly. "The worst of it is, he has a private telephone wire in his house to London. If he isn't up to mischief, what does he need all these things for private telegraph line, private telephone, private wireless?
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