The Lost Ambassador, E. Phillips Oppenheim [motivational books for women txt] 📗

stood by my side, superintending the efforts of his myrmidons.

"You had better send my letters on," I told him. "I am going down into Norfolk for several weeks,—perhaps longer."

"Very good, sir," he answered. "By the bye," he added, turning away, "this morning's letters have just arrived. There was one for you, I think."

He handed it to me, and I tore it open as I stepped on to the pavement. It was written from Feltham Court, Norfolk, and dated the previous day.

My Dear Austen,
 
I send you a hurried line in case you should be thinking of coming
down here. I have decided to come up to London for a few weeks,
and have lent the Court to Lady Mary, with the exception of the
shooting, which is reserved for you. If you are in town, do look
me up at Claridge's.
 
Ever yours,
 
Ralph.

I was on the point of having the cab unloaded and reconsidering my plans. Suddenly, however, like an inspiration there flashed into my mind the thought that it would not, perhaps, be such a very bad thing if, under the circumstances, I kept my altered plans to myself. So I stuffed the letter into my pocket and stepped into the four-wheeler.

"You understand, Ashley?" I said. "Send everything on to Feltham Court,—cards, letters, or anything."

"Perfectly, sir," the man answered. "I hope you will have a pleasant time, sir."

"Tell the cabman Liverpool Street," I ordered, and got in.

We rolled out of the courtyard, and I drove all the way to Liverpool Street as though to catch my train. Arrived there, however, I deposited my luggage in the cloak-room and drove back to Claridge's in a hansom. I found that my brother was installed in a suite of rooms there, and his servant, who came into the sitting-room to me at once, told me that he believed they were up for at least a month.

"His Lordship has nearly finished dressing, sir," he added. "He will be in, in a few minutes."

I took up the morning paper, but found nothing of interest there. Then my brother came in, leaning heavily on two sticks, and moving slowly. He was not more than ten years older than I was, but the shock of his accident and subsequent sufferings had aged him terribly. His hair had gone prematurely gray, and his face was deeply lined. I stepped forward and took him by the hand.

"My dear Ralph," I said, "this is really first-class. The last time I saw you, you scarcely expected to be out of your bath-chair in six months."

"I am getting on, Austen," he answered, "thanks! I am getting on. I will sit in that easy-chair for a few minutes. Thanks! Then we will have some breakfast."

"I was starting for Feltham this morning," I told him, "when I got your letter."

"When did you get back from Paris?" he asked.

"Three or four days ago," I answered.

He raised his eyebrows.

"I know that I ought to have come at once," I said, "but there were several things in London. I found it hard to get away."

"Well?" he said.

"I met Tapilow face to face at a little French café," I told him. "They tell me that he will recover, but he is maimed and scarred for life."

My brother showed no excitement—scarcely, even, any interest in my information. His face, however, had darkened.

"I am glad that you did not kill him outright," he said. "Tell me, are you likely to get into any trouble for this?"

"No!" I assured him. "The affair happened in a very dubious sort of place. I don't think I shall hear anything more about it unless from Tapilow himself."

Ralph nodded.

"We will close the chapter," he said.

"You have no news—"

"None!" he interrupted me, shortly. "We will close the chapter."

So I spoke to him no more on his own affairs. His servant brought in the letters and papers, poked the fire, and announced that breakfast was ready.

"You will have something, Austen?" he asked.

"I have only had a continental breakfast," I answered. "I dare say I can manage to eat something."

"I have a letter from Dicky," he remarked, later on. "Asks me to be civil, if I can, to some people who have been remarkably kind to him out in Brazil. They have an estate there."

I nodded.

"Dicky doing all right?" I asked.

"Seems to be," Ralph answered.

Dicky was our younger brother, and rather a wanderer.

"What is the name of the people who are coming over?" I asked.

"Some odd name," Ralph answered,—"Delora, I think."

Ralph had drawn the Times towards him, and he did not notice my start. I sat looking at him in blank amazement.

"Ralph!" I said presently.

My brother looked up.

"Have you got Dicky's letter on you?" I asked.

He passed it over to me. I skimmed through the first part until I came to the sentence which interested me.

I have been out staying at an awfully fine estate here, right on
the Pampas. It belongs to some people called Delora. One of the
brothers is just off to Europe, on some Government business, and
will be in London for a few days with his niece, I expect. He is
going to stay at the Milan Hotel, and it would be awfully good of
you if you would look him up, or drop him a line. They really have
been very kind to me out here.

I pushed the letter back to Ralph.

"Have you done anything yet," I asked, "about this?"

Ralph shook his head.

"I thought you would not mind calling for me," he remarked. "I would like to be civil to any one who has done anything for Dicky. If he shoots, you might take him down to the Court. Mary's there, of course, but that would not matter. There is the whole of the bachelor wing at your disposal."

I nodded.

"I will look after it for you," I said. "You can leave it in my hands. It is rather an odd thing, but I believe that I have met this man in Paris."

My brother was not much interested. I was glad of the excuse to bury myself in the pages of the Daily Telegraph. Here at last, then, was something definite. The man Delora was not a fraud. He was everything that he professed to be—a wealthy man, without a doubt. I suddenly began to see things differently. What a coward I had been to think of running away! After all, there might be some explanation, even, of that meeting between the girl and Louis.

We finished our breakfast, and my brother hobbled over to the window. For several minutes he remained there, looking out upon the street with the aimless air of a man who scarcely knows what to do with his day.

"What are you thinking of doing, Austen?" he asked me.

"I had no plans," I answered. "Some part of the day I thought I would look up these people—the Deloras."

Ralph nodded and turned to his servant.

"Goreham," he said, "I will have the motor in an hour. Come and dine with me, will you, Austen?" he said, turning to me. "I don't suppose you will go down to Feltham for a day or two."

"I will come, with pleasure," I answered. "Where are you going to motor to?"

Ralph answered a little vaguely. He had some calls to make, and he was not altogether sure. I left him in a few minutes and descended to the street. I turned westward and walked for some little distance, when suddenly I was attracted by the sight of a familiar figure issuing from the door of a large, gray stone house. We came face to face upon the pavement. It was the man whose life I had probably saved only a few hours ago.

He lifted his hat, and his dark eyes sought mine interrogatively.

"You were not, by chance, on the way to call upon me?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Not only," I answered, "was I ignorant of where you lived, but I do not even know your name."

"Both matters," he remarked quietly, "are unimportant."

I glanced at the house from which he had issued.

"It would seem," I remarked, "that you have diplomatic connections."

"Why not?" he answered. "Indeed," he continued thoughtfully, "I do not see, Captain Rotherby, why my name should remain a secret to you."

He drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to me. I read it with ill-concealed curiosity.

MR. ALFONSE LAMARTINE
Brazilian Legation.
12, Porchester Square.

"You are a South American?" I asked quickly.

"By birth," he answered. "I have lived chiefly in Paris, and here in London."

"You knew Mr. Delora at Brazil, then?" I asked.

"I know the family quite well," he answered. "They are very influential people. I have told you my name, Captain Rotherby," he continued, "because I see no reason why we two should not be frank with one another. I am of necessity interested in the movements and doings of Mr. Delora and his niece. You," he continued, "appear to have been drawn a little way into the mesh of intrigue by which they are surrounded."

I drew my arm through his. We were walking now side by side.

"Look here," I said, "you were quite right in what you said. There is no reason why we should have secrets from one another. Tell me about these people, and why on earth they have any connections at all with persons of the class of Louis and those others."

My companion spread out his hand. He stopped short on the pavement, and gesticulated violently.

"It is you who ask me these things!" he exclaimed. "Yet it is from you I hoped to obtain information. I know nothing,—absolutely nothing! Simply my instructions were to meet Mr. Delora on his arrival in London, to show him every possible civility, and to assist him in any purpose where my help would be useful. I go to meet him—he has disappeared! I haunt his rooms—he has not returned! His niece knows nothing. I try to force my way into his rooms, and my life is attempted!"

"Wait a moment," I said. "You spoke of instructions. From whom do you receive them?"

"From my government," he answered a little shortly. "Mr. Delora has some private business of importance here in England, in which they are interested."

"Do you know anything of his niece?" I asked.

"Nothing whatever," the young man answered, "except that she seems a very charming young lady, and will, I believe, inherit a great fortune."

"Do you know of any enemies that he might have?" I asked. "For instance, is this business of his connected with any affairs which might bring him into touch with such people as Louis and his associates?"

"I will be frank with you," the young man said. "I do not know what his business was. Neither, curiously enough, does my chief. My instructions simply were to meet him, and to see him day by day. You yourself can judge how well I have succeeded!"

"Have you been to the police?" I asked.

"I have not," Lamartine answered. "We have written out to Brazil explaining the circumstances, and asking for a cablegram in reply. By the bye," he continued, a little diffidently, "did it strike you last night that Miss Delora must have been associated with that blackguard Louis in his little attempt upon me?"

"I do not believe anything of the sort!" I answered shortly.

The young man smiled cynically.

"It is perhaps natural," he answered.

"You are not seriously suggesting," I asked, "that a young lady in the position of Miss Delora would descend to scheming with a head-waiter?"

"Captain Rotherby," my companion said, "I do not know anything. I do not understand anything. I only know that the Delora business has puzzled me,—has puzzled my chief. We have important communications for Mr. Delora, and he cannot be found."

"It is not possible," I declared, "for a man to disappear in London."

"A man may disappear anywhere," Lamartine said dryly, "when such people as Louis are interested in him! However, we do no good by comparing notes when we neither of us know anything. If I should gain any information of Mr. Delora's whereabouts—"

I gave him my card quickly.

"We will exchange our news," I assured him.