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You know that our banks are behind the times and our post offices not greatly trusted. We have therefore a class of messengers." Hillyard nodded. "I know of them." "Good. They are not educated. Most of them can neither read nor write. They are simply peasants. Yet they are trusted to carry the most important letters and great sums of money in gold and silver from place to place.
It pursued a French steamer between Minorca and Mallorca. It spoke to a fishing boat! What did it not do? Señor, there was no submarine yesterday in the channel between Minorca and Mallorca. If there had been I must have known." And he sat back as though the subject were disposed of. "But submarines do visit these waters, Señor Medina, and they do sink ships," replied Hillyard.
She gazed into the fire without moving, seeking to piece together a picture in the coals of that unknown country which held all for which she yearned. "I shall travel slowly up the White Nile to Renk," Hillyard continued, blissfully. He was delighted at the interest which Mrs. Croyle was taking in his itinerary. She was clearly a superior person.
Graham lifted the mouthpiece to his lips again. "Wait a bit, A.C. Hillyard saw the man in London on Monday afternoon." Again A.C. spoke at the other end from an office in Scotland Yard. Graham put down the instrument with a bang and hung up the receiver. "He vanished yesterday. Could he have seen you?" Hillyard shook his head. "I think not." "Oh, we'll get him, of course.
As a rule, my memory is not at fault. But on this occasion yes." Through the apology ran a wariness, some fear of a trick, some hint of an incredulity. "Yet we have met." "Señor, it must be so." "Do you remember, Señor José, your first venture?" asked Hillyard. "Surely." "A single sailing-felucca beached at one o'clock in the morning on the flat sand close to Benicassim."
I am Joan Whitworth, and make my home here with my aunt. They are all at Goodwood, of course, but they should be back at any moment." She rang the bell and ordered tea. Somewhere Hillyard realised he had seen the girl before.
The sheet of paper which he held in his hand was inscribed with a message that Martin Hillyard would leave Alexandria in a week's time on the s.s. Himalaya. And the message strangely enough was not addressed to Paul Bendish at all. It was headed, "For Commodore Graham. Admiralty." The great Summons had in fact come, although Hillyard knew it not. He travelled in consequence leisurely by sea.
The attendant seemed very pleased that this fool of a tourist who thought of nothing but his infirmities should safely bolt the door of the compartments numbers 11 and 12; and very pleased, too, to bring to this churlish, discontented traveller his coffee in the morning, so that he need not leave compartments numbers 11 and 12 unguarded. Hillyard chuckled as the attendant moved away.
Before the clocks of London had struck eight he was travelling westwards along the King's Road. Hillyard was afraid. He did not formulate his fears. He was not sure of what he feared. But he was afraid terribly afraid; and for the first time anger rose up in his heart against his friend. Luttrell! Harry Luttrell!
Once or twice, as the hours passed, he heard a stealthy footstep in the corridor outside, and once the faintest possible little click told that the latch of his door had been lifted to make sure that the bolt was still shot home in its socket. Hillyard smiled. "You are safe, my friend," he breathed the words towards the anxious one in the corridor. "No one can get in. The door is locked.
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