Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

be a person of some importance.

      “What is a commission agent?” she asked.

      Peter Ruff shook his head.

      “It might mean anything,” he declared. “Never trust any one who is not a little more explicit as to his profession. I am afraid that this Mr. Vincent Cawdor, for instance, is a bad lot.”

      “I am sure he is,” Miss Brown declared.

      “Looks after a pretty girl, coughs in the lift—all that sort of thing, eh?” Peter Ruff asked.

      She nodded.

      “Disgusting!” she exclaimed, with emphasis.

      Peter Ruff sighed, and glanced at the clock. The existence of Mr. Vincent Cawdor seemed to pass out of his mind.

      “It is nearly one o’clock,” he said. “Where do you usually lunch, Violet?”

      “It depends upon my appetite,” she answered, carelessly. “Most often at an A B C.”

      “To-day,” Peter Ruff said, “you will be extravagant—at my expense.”

      “I had a poor breakfast,” Miss Brown remarked, complacently.

      “You will leave at once,” Peter Ruff said, “and you will go to the French Cafe at the Milan. Get a table facing the courtyard, and towards the hotel side of the room. Keep your eyes open and tell me exactly what you see.”

      She looked at him with parted lips. Her eyes were full of eager questioning.

      “Mere skirmishing,” Peter Ruff continued, “but I think—yes, I think that it may lead to something.”

      “Whom am I to watch?” she asked.

      “Any one who looks interesting,” Peter Ruff answered. “For instance, if this person Vincent Cawdor should be about.”

      “He would recognize me!” she declared.

      Peter Ruff shrugged his shoulders.

      “One must hold the candle,” he remarked.

      “I decline to flirt with him,” she declared. “Nothing would induce me to be pleasant to such an odious creature.”

      “He will be too busy to attempt anything of the sort. Of course he may not be there. It may be the merest fancy on my part. At any rate, you may rely upon it that he will not make any overtures in a public place like the Milan. Mr. Vincent Cawdor may be a curious sort of person, but I do not fancy that he is a fool!”

      “Very well,” Miss Brown said, “I will go.”

      “Be back soon after three,” Peter Ruff said. “I am going up to my room to do my exercises.”

      “And afterwards?” she asked.

      “I shall have my lunch sent in,” he answered. “Don’t hurry back, though. I shall not expect you till a quarter past three.”

      It was a few minutes past that time when Miss Brown returned. Peter Ruff was sitting at his desk, looking as though he had never moved. He was absorbed by a book of patterns sent in by his new tailor, and he only glanced up when she entered the room.

      “Violet,” he said, earnestly, “come in and sit down. I want to consult you. There is a new material here—a sort of mouse-coloured cheviot. I wonder whether it would suit me?”

      Violet was looking very handsome and a little flushed. She raised her veil and came over to his side.

      “Put that stupid book away, Peter,” she said. “I want to tell you about the Milan.”

      He leaned back in his chair.

      “Ah!” he said. “I had forgotten! Was Mr. Vincent Cawdor there?”

      “Yes!” she answered, still a little breathless. “There was some one else there, too, in whom you are still more interested.”

      He nodded.

      “Go on,” he said.

      “Mr. Vincent Cawdor,” she continued, “came in alone. He looked just as objectionable as ever, and he stared at me till I nearly threw my wine glass at him.”

      “He did not speak to you?” Peter Ruff asked.

      “I was afraid that he was going to,” Miss Brown said, “but fortunately he met a friend who came to his table and lunched with him.”

      “A friend,” Ruff remarked. “Good! What was he like?”

      “Fair, slight, Teutonic,” Miss Brown answered. “He wore thick spectacles, and his moustache was positively yellow.”

      Ruff nodded.

      “Go on,” he said.

      “Towards the end of luncheon,” she continued, “an American came up to them.”

      “An American?” Peter Ruff interrupted. “How do you know that?”

      Miss Brown smiled.

      “He was clean-shaven and he wore neat clothes,” she said. “He talked with an accent you could have cut with a knife and he had a Baedeker sticking out of his pocket. After luncheon, they all three went away to the smoking room.”

      Peter Ruff nodded.

      “Anything else?” he asked.

      The girl smiled triumphantly.

      “Yes!” she declared. “There was something else—something which I think you will find interesting. At the next table to me there was a man—alone. Can you guess who he was?”

      “John Dory,” Ruff said, calmly.

      The girl was disappointed.

      “You knew!” she exclaimed.

      “My dear Violet,” he said, “I did not send you there on a fool’s errand.”

      “There is something doing, then?” she exclaimed.

      “There is likely,” he answered, grimly, “to be a great deal doing!”

      The two men who stood upon the hill, and Peter Ruff, who lay upon his stomach behind a huge boulder, looked upon a new thing.

      Far down in the valley from out of a black shed—the only sign of man’s handiwork for many miles—it came—something grey at first, moving slowly as though being pushed down a slight incline, then afloat in the air, gathering speed—something between a torpedo with wings and a great prehistoric insect. Now and then it described strange circles, but mostly it came towards them as swift and as true as an arrow shot from a bow. The two men looked at one another—the shorter, to whose cheeks the Cumberland winds had brought no trace of colour, gave vent to a hoarse exclamation.

      “He’s done it!” he growled.

      “Wait!” the other answered.

      Over their heads the thing wheeled, and seemed to stand still in the air. The beating of the engine was so faint that Peter Ruff from behind the boulder, could hear all that was said. A man leaned out from his seat—a man with wan cheeks but blazing eyes.

      “Listen,” he said. “Take your glasses. There—due north—can you see a steeple?”

      The men turned their field glasses in the direction toward which the other pointed. “Yes!” they answered. “It is sixteen miles, as the crow flies, to Barnham Church—thirty-two miles there and back. Wait!”

      He swung round, dived till he seemed about to touch the hillside, then soared upwards and straight away. Peter Ruff took out his watch. The other two men gazed with fascinated eyes after the disappearing speck.

      “If he does it—” the shorter one muttered.