The Vanished Messenger. E. Phillips Oppenheim

towards their country.”

      “You mean to say,” Hamel asked, “that you seriously believe that a conference is on the point of being held at which France and Russia are to be invited to consider suggestions like this?”

      “I am afraid there’s no doubt about it,” Kinsley declared. “Their ambassadors in London profess to know nothing. That, of course, is their reasonable attitude, but there’s no doubt whatever that the conference has been planned. I should say that to-night we are nearer war, if we can summon enough spirit to fight, than we have been since Fashoda.”

      “Queer if I have returned just in time for the scrap,” Hamel remarked thoughtfully. “I was in the Militia once, so I expect I can get a job, if there’s any fighting.”

      “I can get you a better job than fighting—one you can start on to-morrow, too,” Kinsley announced abruptly, “that is if you really want to help?”

      “Of course I do,” Hamel insisted. “I’m on for anything.”

      “You say that you are entirely your own master for the next six months?”

      “Or as much longer as I like,” Hamel assented. “No plans at all, except that I might drift round to the Norfolk coast and look up some of the places where the governor used to paint. There’s a queer little house—St. David’s Tower, I believe they call it—which really belongs to me. It was given to my father, or rather he bought it, from a man who I think must have been some relative of your friend. I feel sure the name was Fentolin.”

      Reginald Kinsley set down his wine-glass.

      “Is your St. David’s Tower anywhere near a place called Salthouse?” he asked reflectively.

      “That’s the name of the village,” Hamel admitted. “My father used to spend quite a lot of time in those parts, and painted at least a dozen pictures down there.”

      “This is a coincidence,” Reginald Kinsley declared, lighting a cigarette. “I think, if I were you, Dick, I’d go down and claim my property.”

      “Tired of me already?” Hamel asked, smiling.

      Reginald Kinsley knocked the ash from his cigarette.

      “It isn’t that. The fact is, that job I was speaking to you about was simply this. We want some one to go down to Salthouse—not exactly as a spy, you know, but some one who has his wits about him. We are all of us very curious about this man Fentolin. There are no end of rumours which I won’t mention to you, for they might only put you off the scent. But the man seems to be always intriguing. It wouldn’t matter so much if he were our friend, or if he were simply a financier, but to tell you the truth, we have cause to suspect him.”

      “But he’s an Englishman, surely?” Hamel asked. “The Fentolin who was my father’s friend was just a very wealthy Norfolk squire—one of the best, from all I have heard.”

      “Miles Fentolin is an Englishman,” Kinsley admitted. “It is true, too, that he comes of a very ancient Norfolk family. It doesn’t do, however, to build too much upon that. From all I can learn of him, he is a sort of Puck, a professional mischief-maker. I don’t suppose there’s anything an outsider could find out which would be really useful to us, but all the same, if I had the time, I should certainly go down to Norfolk myself.”

      The conversation drifted away for a while. Mutual acquaintances entered, there were several introductions, and it was not until the two found themselves together in Kinsley’s rooms for a few minutes before parting that they were alone again. Hamel returned then once more to the subject.

      “Reggie,” he said, “if you think it would be of the slightest use, I’ll go down to Salthouse to-morrow. I am rather keen on going there, anyway. I am absolutely fed up with life here already.”

      “It’s just what I want you to do,” Kinsley said. “I am afraid Fentolin is a little too clever for you to get on the right side of him, but if you could only get an idea as to what his game is down there, it would be a great help. You see, the fellow can’t have gone into all this sort of thing blindfold. We’ve lost several very useful agents abroad and two from New York who’ve gone into his pay. There must be a method in it somewhere. If it really ends with his financial operations—why, all right. That’s very likely what it’ll come to, but we should like to know. The merest hint would be useful.”

      “I’ll do my best,” Hamel promised. “In any case, it will be just the few days’ holiday I was looking forward to.”

      Kinsley helped himself to whisky and soda and turned towards his friend.

      “Here’s luck to you, Dick! Take care of yourself. All sorts of things may happen, you know. Old man Fentolin may take a fancy to you and tell you secrets that any statesman in Europe would be glad to hear. He may tell you why this conference is being held and what the result will be. You may be the first to hear of our coming fall. Well, here’s to you, anyway! Drop me a line, if you’ve anything to report.”

      “Cheero!” Hamel answered, as he set down his empty tumbler. “Astonishing how keen I feel about this little adventure. I’m perfectly sick of the humdrum life I have been leading the last week, and you do sort of take one back to the Arabian Nights, you know, Reggie. I am never quite sure whether to take you seriously or not.”

      Kinsley smiled as he held his friend’s hand for a moment.

      “Dick,” he said earnestly, “if only you’d believe it, the adventures in the Arabian Nights were as nothing compared with the present-day drama of foreign politics. You see, we’ve learned to conceal things nowadays—to smooth them over, to play the part of ordinary citizens to the world while we tug at the underhand levers in our secret moments. Good night! Good luck!”