The Duke in the Suburbs. Edgar Wallace

next words were not so happily chosen.

      "You might tell me what She's like," she added thoughtfully.

      To the disgust of Willie, the van did not arrive at 64 until dusk. He had kept the vigil the whole day to no purpose. It was a small van, damnably small, and I do not use the adverb as an expletive, but to indicate how this little pantechnicon, might easily have ineffaceably stamped the penury of the new tenants.

      And there was no She.

      Two men came after the van had arrived.

      They were both tall, both dressed in grey, but one was older than the other.

      The younger man was clean-shaven, with a keen brown face and steady grey eyes that had a trick of laughing of themselves. The other might have been ten years older. He too was clean-shaven, and his skin was the hue of mahogany.

      A close observer would not have failed to notice, that the hands of both were big, as the hands of men used to manual labour.

      They stood on either side of the tiled path that led through the strip of front garden to the door, and watched in silence, the rapid unloading of their modest property.

      Willie Outram, frankly a reporter, mentally noted the absence of piano, whatnot, mirror and all the paraphernalia peculiar to the Kymott Crescent drawing-room. He saw bundles of skins, bundles of spears, tomahawks (imagine his ecstasy!) war drums, guns, shields and trophies of the chase. Bedroom furniture that would disgrace a servant's attic, camp bedsteads, big lounge chairs and divans. Most notable absentee from the furnishings was She—a fact which might have served as food for discussion for weeks, but for the more important discovery he made later.

      A man-servant busied himself directing the removers, and the elder of the two tenants, at last said—

      "That's finished, Duke."

      He spoke with a drawling, lazy, American accent.

      The young man nodded, and called the servant.

      "We shall be back before ten," he said in a pleasant voice.

      "Very good, m'lord," replied the man with the slightest of bows.

      The man looked round and saw Willie.

      "Hank," he said, "there's the information bureau—find out things."

      The elder jerked his head invitingly, and Willie sidled into the garden.

      "Bub," said Hank, with a hint of gloom in his voice, "Where's the nearest saloon?"

      He did not quite comprehend.

      Willie gasped.

      "Saloon, sir!"

      "Pub," explained the young man, in a soft voice.

      "Public-house, sir?" Willie faltered correctly.

      Hank nodded, and the young man chuckled softly.

      "There is," said the outraged youth, "a good-pull-up-for-carmen, at the far end of Kymott Road, the far end," he emphasized carefully.

      "At the far end, eh?" Hank looked round at his companion, "Duke, shall we walk or shall we take the pantechnicon?"

      "Walk," said his grace promptly.

      Willie saw the two walking away. His young brain was in a whirl. Here was an epoch-making happening, a tremendous revolutionary and unprecedented circumstance—nay, it was almost monstrous, that there should come into the ordered life of Kymott Crescent so disturbing a factor.

      The agitated youth watched them disappearing, and as the consciousness of his own responsibility came to him, he sprinted after them.

      "I say!"

      They turned round.

      "You—here I say!—you're not a duke, are you—not a real duke?" he floundered.

      Hank surveyed him kindly.

      "Sonny," he said impressively, "this is the realest duke you've ever seen: canned in the Dukeries an' bearin' the government analyst's certificate."

      "But—but," said the bewildered boy, "no larks—I say, are you truly a duke?"

      He looked appealingly at the younger man whose eyes were dancing.

      He nodded his head and became instantly grave.

      "I'm a truly duke," he said sadly, "keep it dark."

      He put his hand in his pocket, and produced with elaborate deliberation a small card case. From this he extracted a piece of paste-board, and handed to Willie who read—

      "THE DUC DE MONTVILLIER,"

      and in a corner "San Pio Ranch, Tex."

      "I'm not," continued the young man modestly, "I'm not an English duke: if anything I'm rather superior to the average English duke: I've got royal blood in my veins, and I shall be very pleased to see you at No. 64."

      "From 10 till 4," interposed the grave Hank.

      "From 10 till 4," accepted the other, "which are my office hours."

      "For duking," explained Hank.

      "Exactly—for duking," said his grace.

      Willie looked from one to the other.

      "I say!" he blurted, "you're pulling my leg, aren't you? I say! you're rotting me."

      "I told you so," murmured the Duke resentfully, "Hank, he thinks I'm rotting—he's certain I'm pulling his leg, Hank."

      Hank said nothing.

      Only he shook his head despairingly, and taking the other's arm, they continued their walk, their bowed shoulders eloquent of their dejection.

      Willie watched them for a moment, then turned and sped homeward with the news.

      II

      The Earl of Windermere wrote to the Rev. Arthur Stayne, M.A., vicar of St. Magnus, Brockley—

      "I have just heard that your unfortunate parish is to be inflicted with young de Montvillier. What process of reasoning led him to fix upon Brockley I cannot, dare not, fathom. You may be sure that this freak of his has some devilishly subtle cause—don't let him worry your good parishioners. He was at Eton with my boy Jim. I met him cow punching in Texas a few years ago when I was visiting the States, and he was of some service to me. He belongs to one of the oldest families in France, but his people were chucked out at the time of the Revolution. He is as good as gold, as plucky as they make 'em, and, thanks to his father (the only one of the family to settle anywhere for long), thoroughly Anglicized in sympathies and in language. He is quite 'the compleat philosopher,' flippant, audacious and casual. His pal Hank, who is with him, is George Hankey, the man who discovered silver in Los Madeges. Both of them have made and lost fortunes, but I believe they have come back to England with something like a competence. Call on them. They will probably be very casual with you, but they are both worth cultivating."

      The Rev. Arthur Stayne called and was admitted into the barely-furnished hall by the deferential man-servant.

      "His grace will see you in the common-room," he said, and ushered the clergyman into the back parlour.

      The Duke rose with a smile, and came toward him with outstretched hand.

      Hank got up from his lounge chair, and waved away the cloud of smoke that hovered about his head.

      "Glad to see you, sir," said the Duke, with a note of respect in his voice, "this is Mr. Hankey."

      The vicar, on his guard against a possibility of brusqueness, returned Hank's friendly grin with relief.

      "I've had a letter from Windermere," he explained. The Duke looked puzzled for a moment and he turned to his companion.

      "That's the guy that fell off the