Okewood of the Secret Service [102]
at his rooms. The rest of the day he devoted to walking about the streets of Campden Hill and setting on foot discreet inquiries after Mrs. Malplaquet amongst the local tradespeople.
For three or four days he carried out this arrangement without the slightest success. He dogged the footsteps of more than one gray-haired lady of distinguished appearance without lighting upon his quarry. He bestowed largesse on the constable on point duty, on the milkman and the baker's young lady; but none of them had ever heard of Mrs. Malplaquet or recognized her from Desmond's description.
On the morning of the fourth day Desmond returned to lunch, dispirited and heart-sick. He had half a mind to abandon his quest altogether and to go and make his peace with the Chief and ask to be sent back to France. He ate his lunch and then, feeling that it would be useless to resume his aimless patrol of the streets, lit a cigar and strolled out into the little back-garden.
It was a fine, warm afternoon, and already the crocuses were thrusting their heads out of the neat flower-beds as if to ascertain whether the spring had really arrived. There was, indeed, a pleasant vernal scent in the air.
"A fine day!" said a voice.
Desmond looked up. At the open window of the summerhouse of the garden backing on Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe's, his elbows resting on the pitch-pine frame, was a middle-aged man. A cigarette was in his mouth and from his hands dangled a newspaper. He had a smooth-shaven, heavily-jowled face and a large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles on his nose.
Desmond remembered to have seen the man already looking out of a window opposite his on one of the upper floors of the house. In reply to a casual inquiry, Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe had informed him that the house was a nursing home kept by a Dr. Radcombs, a nerve specialist.
"It is quite like spring!" replied Desmond, wondering if this were the doctor. Doctors get about a good deal and Dr. Radcombe might be able to tell him something about Mrs. Malplaquet.
"I think we have seen one another in the mornings sometimes," said the heavily-fowled man, "though I have noticed that you are an earlier riser than I am. But when one is an invalid--"
"You are one of Dr. Radcombe's patients, then!" said Desmond.
"I am," returned the other, "a great man, that, any dear sir. I doubt if there is his equal for diagnosis in the kingdom."
"He has lived here for some years, I suppose?"
"Oh yes!" answered the man, "in fact, he is one of the oldest and most-respected residents of Kensington, I believe!"
"I am rather anxious to find some friends of mine who live about here," Desmond remarked, quick to seize his opportunity, "I wonder whether your doctor could help me..."
"I'm sure he could," the man replied, "the doctor knows everybody..."
"The name--" began Desmond, but the other checked him.
"Please don't ask me to burden my memory with names," he protested. "I am here for a complete rest from over-work, and loss of memory is one of my symptoms. But look here; why not come over the wall and step inside the house with me? Dr. Radcombe is there and will, I am sure, be delighted to give you any assistance in his power!"
Desmond hesitated.
"Really," he said, "it seems rather unconventional. Perhaps the doctor would object..."
"Object" said the heavily-fowled man, "tut, tut, not at all. Come on, I'll give you a hand up!"
He thrust out a large, white hand. Desmond was about to grasp it when he saw gleaming on the third finger a gold snake ring with emerald eyes--the ring that Mrs. Malplaquet had given Bellward. He was about to draw back but the man was too quick for him. Owing to the slope of the ground the window of the summer-house was on a level with Desmond's throat. The man's two hands shot out simultaneously. One grasped Desmond's wrist in a steel grip whilst the other fastened itself about the young man's throat, squeezing the very breath out of his body. It was done so quickly that he had no time to struggle, no time to shout. As Bellward seized him, another
For three or four days he carried out this arrangement without the slightest success. He dogged the footsteps of more than one gray-haired lady of distinguished appearance without lighting upon his quarry. He bestowed largesse on the constable on point duty, on the milkman and the baker's young lady; but none of them had ever heard of Mrs. Malplaquet or recognized her from Desmond's description.
On the morning of the fourth day Desmond returned to lunch, dispirited and heart-sick. He had half a mind to abandon his quest altogether and to go and make his peace with the Chief and ask to be sent back to France. He ate his lunch and then, feeling that it would be useless to resume his aimless patrol of the streets, lit a cigar and strolled out into the little back-garden.
It was a fine, warm afternoon, and already the crocuses were thrusting their heads out of the neat flower-beds as if to ascertain whether the spring had really arrived. There was, indeed, a pleasant vernal scent in the air.
"A fine day!" said a voice.
Desmond looked up. At the open window of the summerhouse of the garden backing on Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe's, his elbows resting on the pitch-pine frame, was a middle-aged man. A cigarette was in his mouth and from his hands dangled a newspaper. He had a smooth-shaven, heavily-jowled face and a large pair of tortoise-shell spectacles on his nose.
Desmond remembered to have seen the man already looking out of a window opposite his on one of the upper floors of the house. In reply to a casual inquiry, Mrs. Viljohn-Smythe had informed him that the house was a nursing home kept by a Dr. Radcombs, a nerve specialist.
"It is quite like spring!" replied Desmond, wondering if this were the doctor. Doctors get about a good deal and Dr. Radcombe might be able to tell him something about Mrs. Malplaquet.
"I think we have seen one another in the mornings sometimes," said the heavily-fowled man, "though I have noticed that you are an earlier riser than I am. But when one is an invalid--"
"You are one of Dr. Radcombe's patients, then!" said Desmond.
"I am," returned the other, "a great man, that, any dear sir. I doubt if there is his equal for diagnosis in the kingdom."
"He has lived here for some years, I suppose?"
"Oh yes!" answered the man, "in fact, he is one of the oldest and most-respected residents of Kensington, I believe!"
"I am rather anxious to find some friends of mine who live about here," Desmond remarked, quick to seize his opportunity, "I wonder whether your doctor could help me..."
"I'm sure he could," the man replied, "the doctor knows everybody..."
"The name--" began Desmond, but the other checked him.
"Please don't ask me to burden my memory with names," he protested. "I am here for a complete rest from over-work, and loss of memory is one of my symptoms. But look here; why not come over the wall and step inside the house with me? Dr. Radcombe is there and will, I am sure, be delighted to give you any assistance in his power!"
Desmond hesitated.
"Really," he said, "it seems rather unconventional. Perhaps the doctor would object..."
"Object" said the heavily-fowled man, "tut, tut, not at all. Come on, I'll give you a hand up!"
He thrust out a large, white hand. Desmond was about to grasp it when he saw gleaming on the third finger a gold snake ring with emerald eyes--the ring that Mrs. Malplaquet had given Bellward. He was about to draw back but the man was too quick for him. Owing to the slope of the ground the window of the summer-house was on a level with Desmond's throat. The man's two hands shot out simultaneously. One grasped Desmond's wrist in a steel grip whilst the other fastened itself about the young man's throat, squeezing the very breath out of his body. It was done so quickly that he had no time to struggle, no time to shout. As Bellward seized him, another