Part 8 (2/2)

”It's no use,” said Sir Tancred. ”I might smuggle you out of the hotel; but there isn't any sort of vessel, steamer, steam yacht, or launch to take you across.”

”Let's go to Dover in my car!”

”What's the use? The detectives would follow in theirs.”

The financier groaned, and some large tears ran down his face. He bent his head to hide them; and for all that he was not pleasant to look upon, Tinker felt sorry for him.

”Cheer up, man,” said Sir Tancred. ”You can always begin again!”

But the financier would not be heartened. He made a wretched dinner; after it he followed Sir Tancred into the billiard room, and steadily drinking brandies and sodas, watched him play pool. At eleven he went to bed. Tinker had gone to bed long before, but his door was just open, and he saw the financier go into his room. Five minutes later he stole across the corridor, and, without knocking, opened the door and went in. The financier was sitting at a table, gazing through a mist of tears at a nice, new nickel-plated revolver. He had no real intention of blowing his brains out, but with the childlike, emotional spirit of his race, he had persuaded himself that he had, and was luxuriating in his woe.

”What do you want?” he moaned.

”I've come to show you a way of getting to Paris,” said Tinker, closing the door softly.

”Mein Gott!” cried the millionaire, relapsing into his vernacular in his excitement. ”How? How?”

”By Herr Schlugst's flying-machine.”

”A flying-machine! Is the boy mad?”

”No, I'm not. I've been with Herr Schlugst on three trial trips; and the last two he let me work it most of the time. It's as easy as winking, once you know how to do it, and he says I understand it as well as he does. It's all ready for the journey. We've only got to get into it without waking him; and he sleeps like a log.”

”Mein Gott! Mein Gott! What a plan! I'm to fly in the air with a little boy! Oh, good gracious me! Good gracious me! What am I to do?” And he stamped up and down, wringing his hands.

”It's that or the revolver,” said Tinker sweetly.

The financier clutched at his hair and raved: fear and avarice, conflicting, tore at his vitals. He owed his millions to no genuine force of character, but to luck, industry, and dishonesty. In this great crisis of his life he was helpless. Tinker, trained from babyhood by his wise father to study his fellow creatures, understood something of this, and began to goad him to the effort.

”It's a lot of money to lose,” said he thoughtfully.

”The sweat of my brow! The sweat of my brow!” groaned the financier, who had really made it by the nimbleness of his tongue.

”And it seems a pity to blow your brains out, which hurts a good deal, before you've tried every chance,” said Tinker.

The financier groaned.

”At any rate, if we did come a cropper, you'd be no worse off.”

”Ah!” cried the financier, stopping short. ”Why shouldn't I wake Herr Schlugst, and get him to take me?”

”Because he won't,” said Tinker quietly. ”He told me that nothing would induce him to try a flight in the night. He's all right in the daytime, but the darkness funks him. Foreigners are like that; they'll go to a certain point all right, but there they stop. That's what I've noticed. I notice these things, you know.” He spoke indulgently.

It never occurred to the financier to doubt him; he was already a little under the influence of the cooler head. He walked up and down a little longer; and Tinker said no more. He had been taught to leave people to themselves when he saw them beginning to come to his way of thinking.

At last, with a horrible grimace which showed the depth of his agony, the financier cried, ”I'll come! I'll come! I'll trust my life--oh, my precious life--to you. After all, you rescued the Kernaby child; and you had to fight to do it! I'll risk it! Oh, my money! My money!”

”Very good,” said Tinker. ”I'll come for you at half-past twelve. Put on your warmest great-coat. It'll be cold.” And he slipped gently out of the room.

Five minutes later the distracted financier rang his bell, and ordered a bottle of 1820 liqueur brandy. It was the best thing he could have done: a private detective, who was sitting on guard in a room lower down the corridor to see that he did not go downstairs again, believed him to have thrown up the sponge, and to be drowning his sorrow, and allowed himself to become immersed in the current number of the _Family Herald_.

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