Part 37 (1/2)

When we ascended into Leicester Square again we found the pavements congested, for Daly's, the Empire, and the Alhambra had just disgorged their throngs.

As he walked with me he turned, and suddenly asked:

”Since you've been in London has old Van Nierop visited the Baron?”

I started in quick surprise, but in an instant recollected my master's injunctions.

”Van Nierop!” I echoed. ”Whom do you mean?”

But he only laughed knowingly, exclaiming:

”All right. You'll deny all knowledge of him, of course. But, my dear d.i.c.kson, take the advice of one who knows, and be ever watchful. Take care of your own self. Good night!”

And my friend, who seemed to possess some secret knowledge, vanished in the crowd.

Once or twice he ascended and called upon me, and we sometimes used to spend our evenings together in that illicit little gaming-room behind a shop in Old Compton Street, a place much frequented by foreign servants.

I noticed, however, though he was very inquisitive regarding the Baron and his movements, he would never give me any reason. He sometimes warned me mysteriously that I was in danger. But to me his words appeared absurd.

One evening, in the third week of December, he and I were in the Baron's room chatting, when a ring came at the door, and I found the Baron himself, looking very tired and f.a.gged. He almost staggered into his sitting-room, brus.h.i.+ng past Karl on his way. He was dressed in different clothes, and I scarcely recognised him at first.

”Who's that, d.i.c.kson?” he demanded sharply. ”I thought I told you I forbade visitors here! Send him away. I want to talk to you.”

I obeyed, and when he heard the door close the Baron, who I noticed was travel-worn and dirty, with a soiled collar and many days' growth of beard, said:

”Don't have anybody here--not even your best friend, d.i.c.kson. You'd admit no stranger here if you knew the truth,” he added, with a meaning look. ”Fortunately, perhaps you don't.”

Then, after he had gulped down the cognac I had brought at his order, he went on:

”Now, listen. In a little more than a week it will be New Year's day. On that day there will arrive for me a card of greeting. You will open all my letters on that morning, and find it. Either it will be perfectly plain and bear the words 'A Happy New Year' in frosted letters, or else it will be a water-colour snow scene--a house, bare trees, moonlight, you know the kind of thing--with the words 'The Compliments of the Season.' Upon either will be written in violet ink, in a woman's hand, the words in English, 'To dear Heinrich.' You understand, eh?”

”Perfectly, sir.”

”Good,” he said. ”Now, I gave you two telegrams before I left. If the card is a plain one, burn it and despatch the first telegram; if coloured, then send the second message. Do you follow?”

I replied in the affirmative, when, to my surprise he rose, and instead of entering his bedroom to wash, he simply swallowed a second gla.s.s of brandy, sighed, and departed, saying:

”Remember, you know nothing--nothing whatever. If there should be any inquiries about me, keep your mouth closed.”

Twice my friend Stieber called in the days that followed, but I flattered myself that from me he learnt nothing.

On the morning of New Year's day five letters were pushed through the box. Eagerly I tore them open. The last, bearing a Dutch stamp, with the postmark of Utrecht, contained the expected card, with the inscription ”To dear Heinrich,” a small hand-painted scene upon celluloid, with forget-me-nots woven round the words ”With the Compliments of the Season.”

Half an hour later, having burned the card according to my instructions, I despatched the mysterious message to Manchester.

That evening, about ten o'clock, Stieber called for me to go for a stroll and drink a New Year health. But as we turned from Clarges Street into Piccadilly I could have sworn that a man we pa.s.sed in the darkness was old Van Nierop. I made no remark, however, because I did not wish to draw my companion's attention to the shuffling old fellow.

Had the telegram, I wondered, brought him to London?

Ten minutes later, in the Cafe Monico, my friend Karl lifted his gla.s.s to me, saying: