Part 55 (1/2)
Through the crowd a big red-faced man was forging, and behind him a glimpse might be had of the shrivelled shape of John Jacob Oppner.
”Hallo,” grunted Rohscheimer, ”here's Inspector Sheffield, from Scotland Yard!”--and apprehensively he fingered tie-pin and watch-chain, and furtively counted the rings upon his fat fingers. ”What's up?”
The shrewd but not unkindly eyes of the C. I. D. man were scanning the packed rooms, over the heads of the crowd--keenly, suspiciously. With a brief nod he pa.s.sed the group, and pressed on his way. Mr. Oppner halted.
”What's the trouble, Oppner?” inquired Rohscheimer thickly. ”Is there a thief here or something?”
”Worse!” drawled the other. ”Severac Bablon's here!”
”Oh, Lord!” groaned Rohscheimer, and surrept.i.tiously slipped all his rings off and into his trousers pocket. ”Let's get out before we're all held up!”
”He don't figure on a hold-up,” replied Oppner; ”it ain't a strong line at a matinee. A hop-parade is the time for the crystals. We don't know what he's layin' for, but it's a cinch he's here.”
”How do you know?” asked a brother officer of Haredale's, who had joined the group.
Mr. Oppner took a cigarette-case from his tail-pocket and held up between finger and thumb a cigarette stump of an unusual yellow colour.
”We've got on his trail at last!” he said. ”He sheds these cigs. like a moulting chicken sheds feathers. This one was in the tray inside a taxi--and the taxi dropped his fare right here!”
He returned the cigarette stump to the case, the case to his pocket, and pushed on after Sheffield. As his stooping form disappeared from view Sheard entered the room. Immediately he was claimed by Mr. Rohscheimer.
”Hallo, Sheard!” called the financier, and for the moment even the imminence of the Severac Bablon peril was forgotten--”what's the latest?
Is war declared?”
”There was nothing official up to the time I left,” replied the pressman; ”but we are expecting it every minute. Mr. Belford and Lord Evershed have just been summoned to Buckingham Palace. I met them going as I came in.”
Rohscheimer confidently seized the lapel of the journalist's coat.
”What do you think that means, now?” he asked cunningly.
”It means,” replied Sheard, ”that within the hour Europe may be in arms!
Haredale is on duty this evening--so there will be no honeymoon!
Everything is at sixes and sevens. I have a couple of cubs watching; and if Baron Hecht, when he leaves the conference at the Palace, proceeds home, there may be no war. If he starts for Victoria Station--war is declared!”
An excited young lady wearing pince-nez, through which she peered anxiously in quest of someone, tapping her rather prominent front teeth the while with an HB pencil, sighted Sheard.
”Oh, there you are!” she cried, in evident relief. ”Really, Mr. Sheard, I was despairing of finding _anyone_ to tell me--but you always know everything.”
Sheard bowed ironically. The lady represented one of the oldest families in Warwichs.h.i.+re and the Fas.h.i.+onable Intelligence of quite the smartest morning journal in London.
”Sir Richard's best man----” she began again.
”Didn't you know?” burst in Lord Vignoles. ”Bally nuisance--I mean to say, inconsiderate of Roxborough; he could have sent some other messenger, and need not have picked Anerly.”
”Oh! I know all about that!” snapped the lady impatiently; ”but who was the distinguished-looking man who took Maurice's place?”
The Hon. Maurice Anerly, who should have officiated as best man, had received instructions an hour before the ceremony to proceed to the capital of the Power with whom Britain was on the verge of war. Sheard would have given a hundred pounds for a glimpse of the dispatch he carried.