Part 4 (1/2)

Fuller's expression indicated curiosity; but he had been with Ashton-Kirk a number of years and had grown to know that his utterances were not always meant to be heard. The secret agent took up a bit of brown rice paper and a bulging pinch of tobacco; as he delicately manipulated these, he said to Fuller:

”Do you recall the name of Okiu?”

”It seems familiar,” replied the a.s.sistant, after a moment's thought.

Then suddenly: ”Wasn't he one of----”

”Look in the cabinet,” said Ashton-Kirk.

Fuller went to the filing system and pulled open the drawer marked ”OK.”

After a search of a few moments he turned.

”Yes,” said he, eagerly. ”Here he is, and underscored in red. The details are in Volume X.”

Ashton-Kirk touched one of a row of bells. A buzzer made reply; through a tube the secret agent said:

”Bring up Volume X at once.”

He threw himself into the big chair, stretched his legs contentedly and drew at the cigarette. In a little while Stumph entered, bearing a huge canvas-covered book; this he laid upon a small table, which he then pushed toward his employer. The latter looked at his watch.

”I'm not to be disturbed again to-day,” said he. ”And I'll dine earlier--at five o'clock.”

”Anything more?” asked Fuller, when Stumph had left the room.

”Look up the trains stopping at Eastbury after seven o'clock. And stand ready to go with me. I may need you.”

Fuller went out; and Ashton-Kirk, with a cloud of blue smoke hovering about his head, opened the canvas-covered volume, found the name he sought, and at once plunged into the finely written pages. The minutes went by, and the hours followed; cigar succeeded cigarette and pipe followed cigar; the table became littered with burnt matches, ash, and impossibly short ends. When Stumph finally knocked to announce dinner, he found tottering mountains of books, maps and newspaper cuttings everywhere and in the midst of them was the investigator, lying back in his chair with closed eyes; the only indication that he was awake being that a thin column of smoke was ascending from the pipe.

At seven-twenty that evening a local paused at Eastbury Station; and among those who got off were Ashton-Kirk, and the brisk looking Fuller.

The station lamps were lighted, but were pale as yet, for deep splashes of reddish gold piled high on the horizon line, and long, shaking lines of light shot down the spa.r.s.ely built streets.

Fordham Road was one of the newest of these latter; its asphalted length showed hardly a trace of travel and its grading was as level as that of a billiard table. The buildings were even fewer here than elsewhere in the suburb; and upon the vacant s.p.a.ces huge signs reared themselves, announcing the sale of choice sites.

Number 2979 was a brick and brown-stone house with a wide veranda and a smooth lawn which ran all around it. Skirting the lawn was a hedge fence; and a cemented path led to the front door. A tall, angular old woman opened this in answer to the ring. Her eyes were sharp and gray; her face was severe--crossed and recrossed by a thousand minute wrinkles; her hands were large and the veins were blue and swollen.

”Is Mr. Warwick at home?” asked Ashton-Kirk.

The sharp, gray eyes seemed to become partly veiled, the thin lips only moved a trifle when she spoke.

”You would see him?”

Ashton-Kirk nodded; and as the old woman admitted them, he said:

”You are not English, then?”

For an instant she seemed to bristle with indignation; her eyes, wide open now, snapped.

”Englis.h.!.+ No; I am a French woman, thank G.o.d!”