The Wheel O' Fortune Part 4

The chestnut threw up his head, and pranced excitedly, having been warned that a gallop was imminent.

"No, you don't," laughed Irene. "If we Fenshawes do not forget, we also stick together. By-by. See you at lunch."

And she was gone, sitting her horse with the ease and sureness of one of those Arabs in whom her grandfather placed such confidence.

CHAPTER III

A CHANGE OF SKY, BUT NOT OF HABIT

Royson had time and to spare for the a.n.a.lysis of events during the remainder of the day. In spite of von Kerber's repudiation of luck, he believed that the fickle jade sometimes favored a man, and he counted himself thrice fortunate in having met with an adventure leading to such an unforeseen opening. He realized too, that had he been better dressed--were his words and manners modeled on smooth convention--he would not have received the offer of employment on board the _Aphrodite_. Looked at in cold blood, there was nothing sinister in von Kerber's wish to keep his business affairs private. If the Baron were mixed up in a quarrel with some unknown Italian, his a.s.sociation with people like Mr. Fenshawe and his granddaughter supplied a valid excuse for observing a certain secrecy.

To guess the nature of the yacht's mission was more difficult. Any reader of newspapers was aware that Morocco, Montenegro and Armenia, not to mention the political volcanoes of Finland, Poland, and Carlist centers in Spain, provided scope for international intrigue even in these prosaic days. But it was a vain thing to imagine that the Fenshawes would be involved in any wild-cat scheme of that sort. The natural sequel to this thought was--who were they? and the nearest Free Library answered promptly:

"Fenshawe, Hiram, C.M.G., 2d Cla.s.s Osmanieh Hon. Fellow of Caius College, Cambridge, landowner and colliery proprietor, an enthusiastic Egyptologist, vice-President of Upper Egypt Exploration Society; has devoted immense sums of money and many years of his life to Egyptian archaeological research. His private collection of coins, pottery, gold, silver and bronze ornaments, and other works of art having special reference to the Roman occupation of Egypt, is probably unequaled.... Born at Liverpool, March 20, 1830; married, June 10, 1854. Hilda, daughter of Sir Adolphus Livingston, Nairn. Only son, Hildebrand, born April 27, 1856; married, December 20, 1880. Irene, 2d daughter of the late Dr. Alfred Stowell, LL.D., Master of Trinity Hall, Cambridge.... Mr. and Mrs. Hildebrand Fenshawe were lost in the wreck of the P. & O. liner _Bokhara_, off the Pescadores Islands, 1892, leaving one daughter, Irene Hildegarde, born February 11, 1882."

The book supplied other details, but Royson obtained from the foregoing extracts a sufficiently clear idea of the ident.i.ty of the two people whom he had encountered in the park. Of course, he set his wits to work instantly to construct new avenues for the promised activity of the _Aphrodite_, but, these imaginings being as hopelessly mistaken as are most other human peeps into futurity, they served only to keep him on tenterhooks until he revisited the outfitters' establishment. There he was handed the keys of two large steel trunks, canvas-covered, and requested to a.s.sure himself that they contained all the articles set forth on a list. The manager also gave him a first-cla.s.s ticket for Ma.r.s.eilles, and a typewritten instruction that he was to travel by the nine o'clock train from Victoria that evening. On arriving at the French port he would find the _Aphrodite_ moored in No. 3. Basin, and he was requested not to wear any portion of his uniform until on board the yacht.

The nature of the arrangements, the prodigal supply of clothing, rather took d.i.c.k's breath away. Even the initials, "R. K.," were painted on the trunks and st.i.tched on to the canvas.

"My employer seems to have done things pretty thoroughly," he could not help saying.

The shopman dug a compliment out of the remark.

"Our house has a reputation to maintain," he answered, "and Mr.

Fenshawe is one of our best and oldest customers."

There was no mention of Count von Kerber, which added a ripple to the wave of astonishment in Royson's breast. He took his baggage to Charing Cross in a cab, and deposited it there. Meanwhile, he learned from a further scrutiny of the list that his own few belongings were hardly wanted. He had not been so well equipped since he left Heidelberg to rush to his mother's death-bed. Nevertheless, having already gathered in a valise some books, photographs, letters, and other odds and ends, he went to Brixton to obtain them.

While giving a farewell glance around his dingy room, an old envelope, thrown aside overnight, reminded him of a half-formed idea, which appealed to him strongly now that he knew his port of departure.

So he wrote a short letter:

Dear Mr. Forbes:

"You were kind to me four years ago, as kind as Sir Henry Royson would permit you to be towards one who had wilfully and irreparably insulted him. My feelings with regard to him have undergone no change. He may be dead, for all I know, or care. But you, I suppose, are still the trusted solicitor of the Cuddesham estate, and Sir Henry Royson, if alive, may have remained unmarried. In that event, I am heir to a barren t.i.tle, and it may save you some trouble if I inform you that I am leaving England. For reasons of no consequence, I am pa.s.sing under the name of Richard King. If I return, or settle down in some other land, I will write to you, say, after the lapse of a year. Please regard this note as strictly private, and do not interpret it as foreshadowing any attempt on my part to arrive at a reconciliation with Sir Henry Royson."

He was about to add the briefest announcement of his new career, but he checked himself; had not von Kerber forbidden the giving of any information?

He signed the letter, and addressed it to the senior partner of a firm of solicitors in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Then, indeed, he felt that he had snapped the last slender link that bound him to the dull life of the city. Like Kent, he vowed that "freedom lies hence, and banishment is here." And he had always hated Brixton, which was unjust to that pleasant suburb, but the days of his sojourn there had been days of bondage.

He was among the first to secure a seat in the Continental mail. Having registered those superb trunks through to Ma.r.s.eilles, and reserved a comfortable corner by depositing his valise there, he strolled up and down the platform, and quietly scrutinized his fellow pa.s.sengers. So far as he could judge, none of the earlier arrivals were prospective s.h.i.+pmates. Two bronzed men, of free gait, with that trick of carrying the hands back to front which singles out the sailor from the rest of humanity, drew him like a lodestone. But he soon discovered that they were P. & O. officers, bidding farewell to a friend bound for Egypt.

At last he came upon a man and a woman, a remarkable pair under any circ.u.mstances, but specially interesting to him, seeing that the man gripped an ancient carpet bag on which was pasted a label with the glaring superscription: "Captain John Stump, yacht _Aphrodite_, Marsails." The address was half written, half printed, and the quaintly phonetic spelling of the concluding word betrayed a rugged independence of thought which was certainly borne out by Captain John Stump's appearance. The written label might be wrong; not so that stamped by Neptune on a weather-beaten face and a figure like a capstan. Little more than five feet in height, he seemed to be quite five feet wide. If it be true that a poet is born, not made, Captain Stump was a master mariner from his cradle. Royson had never before seen such a man. Drawn out to Royson's stature he would yet have remained the broader of the two. The lady with him, evidently Mrs. Stump, was mated for him by happy chance. Short mean usually marry tall women, and your sons of Anak will select wives of fairy-like proportions. But Mrs. Stump was even shorter than her husband, and so plump withal, that a tape measure round her shoulders might have given her the prize for girth.

Captain Stump was examining the interior of each carriage suspiciously when he set eyes on the P. & O. officers.

"Port yer helium, Becky," he growled, and the two turned to the right- about. It happened that he entered Royson's compartment. There were not many first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers that night, so Royson promptly took possession of his own corner, lit a pipe, and un.o.btrusively watched his future commander. This was not difficult, as Stump stood near the open door, and each word he uttered was audible.

"Don't want to berth alongside sailor-men to-night, Becky," he said, after sizing up d.i.c.k in a comprehensive glance. "Them's my sailin'

orders. 'Hoist no colors,' sez he, 'until you bring to at Ma.r.s.eilles.'"

"What's your first port of call, John?" asked his wife.

"Dunno. I'll send you a wire."

A pause. Then Mrs. Stump:

"Will you be long in Ma.r.s.eilles, John?"

d.i.c.k thought that this would be impossible anywhere, but Stump answered:

"Mebbe half an hour, mebbe a week. You know all that I know, Becky."

"It's funny."

Captain Stump spat, and agreed that it was--emphatically funny. A ticket inspector approached.

"Going on, sir?" he asked.

"Goin' on? Of course I am. What in thunder d'ye think I'm stannin' here for?" demanded the captain.

"But if you stand there, sir, you'll get left," said the official good- humoredly.

"Better get in, John, an' don't argy with the gentleman," said Mrs.

Stump.

Her husband obeyed, grudgingly. The inspector examined his ticket, and Royson's, and locked the door.

"Nice thing!" grumbled Stump. "I can't give you a good-by hug now, Becky."

This was literally true. The captain's breadth of beam had never been contemplated by the designers of South-Eastern railway carriages. Even when the door was open, he had to enter sideways, and the bra.s.s rail across the window rendered it a physical impossibility to thrust head and shoulders outside.

The shrill whistle of a guard was answered by a colleague.

"Take care of yourself, John," said Becky.

"No fear! And mind you wait till the 'bus stops to-night. The other evening--"

Royson never learnt what had befallen Mrs. Stump on that other evening.

At the moment the train began to move, he saw a man peeping into the carriage as if he were looking for some one. He believed it was the private inquiry agent whom he had shaken off so effectively in Hyde Park. The gloom of the station, and the fact that the man's face was in shadow, made him doubtful, but as the train gathered speed, the watcher on the platform nodded to him and smiled derisively. Captain Stump had quick eyes. He turned to Royson.

"Beg pardon, mister, but is that a friend of yours?" he asked.

"No," said d.i.c.k.