CHAPTER 1

old man, you’re growing as close as an oyster. This is twice this week you have dined out, leaving me solitary, and refused to tell me what you are up to. I wonder what it is you have got up your sleeve?”

  Two young men were strolling down the lovely Promenade des Anglais at Nice. The elder, the Honourable Hugh Craig, was twenty-seven; Leonard Lydon, his companion, about six months younger.

  They had been fast friends at Harrow, where Craig had risen to be the Head of the School, and afterwards at Balliol, and the friendship had continued after they left Oxford till the present time.

  Craig, the youngest son of Viscount Clandon, was a member of an old aristocratic family which, for generations, had been closely connected with the government of the country. Several of the heads of it had sat in the Cabinets of their day and generation; other members had filled high civil and military posts in England and its Dependencies. Hugh himself was in the diplomatic service, and was enjoying a brief holiday with his friend on the lovely Côte d’Azur.

Leonard Lydon was of humbler stock than his aristocratic companion. His father, a wealthy Liverpool merchant, had risen from small beginnings. He had laid the foundations of his fortune very early in his career, so that he was able to give his numerous family the advantage of a liberal education. Each of his five sons was sent to a public school, and subsequently either to Cambridge or Oxford.

The Liverpool merchant had died a couple of years ago, leaving behind him a handsome fortune, half of which was left to his widow for life, the other half divided between the five sons and four daughters.

The two elder sons inherited the business, as well as their share of the private fortune. As there were nine persons to divide the half of the total amount, nobody received a very huge sum, but enough to bring in a comfortable income.

After taking his degree at Oxford, Leonard had become deeply interested in wireless research, and had studied until he became a full-blown radio engineer, a profession which he followed in the Admiralty during the later years of the War. After peace he joined an American Wireless Communication Company which had a branch in England. At the time this story opens, he had been appointed this Company’s chief engineer and designer. As he was in receipt of a handsome salary, his financial position was a very comfortable one.

His friend, Hugh Craig, was not so well off as himself. His family, though very ancient, was poor for its position. He was still in the lower grades of the diplomatic service, and his private income was a small one. But the Clandon influence would later on be sure to secure for him a snug post. He was, however, better off than a good many members of impoverished families, as he had been left a moderate legacy of a few thousands by a near relative.

When his friend rallied him upon his secretive mien, Hugh gave one of his disarming and diplomatic smiles.

“I expect you’ll learn all about it in good time, my dear fellow. You know I was always rather a reticent sort of chap, fond of making a mystery of small things.”

Lydon laughed. “That’s one of the truest things you have ever said, Hugh, and nobody who didn’t know you thoroughly, like myself, would ever guess it. On the surface, you give the impression of being one of the frankest men living. That appearance of yours will be one of the greatest assets to you in your career. How easily it will enable you to hoodwink people when you want to!”

Hugh Craig smiled in his turn. “From all I can learn this peculiar characteristic has run in the Clandon family for generations. I suppose that is why so many of us have taken so readily to statecraft and diplomacy.”

That evening, Leonard Lydon dined by himself at the Hôtel Royal, as he had done a couple of nights ago. During the progress of his solitary meal, he speculated a good deal upon the cause of his friend’s absence. Of an ordinary man, the man whose type he had met in scores, he would have said there was undoubtedly a woman at the bottom of it.

But Hugh Craig, good-looking, self-possessed and débonnaire, with that smiling, charming manner, was by no means an ordinary man. Even as a boy he had been a complex character, and the transition to manhood had deepened the complexity.

Intimately associated as they had been all these years, Lydon was forced to confess that he knew very little of the inner personality of his friend, the part which he hid so successfully from the world under that smiling, débonnaire mask.

Did he care greatly about women? Did he care at all about them? For the life of him, Leonard could not give a definite answer to that question. As was natural on the part of such young men, they had often lightly discussed the other sex together. But out of these conversations nothing of a hidden vein of romance had been revealed by Craig. His comments might have been those of a rather cynical philosopher of twice his age.

Only once had he made any remark bearing directly upon himself, which might be taken to represent his well-considered opinions on the subject, and on this occasion he had spoken with more gravity than was his wont when the conversation touched upon the themes of love and marriage.

“No man who intends to make a career for himself should ever commit the folly of falling in love,” he had said. “Because the chances are ten to one that he will fall in love with the wrong person. Marry for sound, sensible reasons perhaps. Even then I think I should postpone the step as long as possible, so far as I am individually concerned.”

Lydon, whose temperament was rather of the romantic kind, looked the surprise he felt.

“But surely you will marry some day, Hugh? Not too early perhaps, but when you have got a comfortable post?”

The answer came very deliberately. “It might be an absolute necessity of the position. But putting that on one side, I feel no great yearning for the married state. If I were the eldest son, it would be necessary for me to provide an heir; but the Clandons are so prolific, they are not likely to die out for want of representatives.”

On the whole, Lydon would have said, from these and other remarks dropped by the calm, smiling young diplomatist, that Hugh Craig was very little attracted by women, and the last man in the world to be capable of a grand passion.

But he was not at all sure. During the long term of their friendship, Hugh had so often surprised him by sudden revelations of a side of his character totally unsurmised, that he could not reckon upon him with any degree of certainty.

It was just on the cards that he had suddenly met a woman who had the power to stir his languid pulses. And Lydon had always suspected that, deep down under that placid exterior, there was something volcanic slumbering which would one day burst into flame. If Hugh ever did love, it was more than probable he would love with an unreasoning ardour.

If there was a woman, who was she? Where had they met? The two young men had been so much together during their stay at Nice, that opportunity did not seem to have offered itself very abundantly. And one thing was quite certain. If Hugh had a serious love affair, nobody would be told about it till the very last moment. Secretiveness about his personal concerns was the keynote of his character.

Having finished his dinner, Lydon went into the lounge. He had not been there long when the Stormont family came in. It consisted of Howard Stormont, a stout, rubicund, clean-shaven man of about fifty, who bore his years gaily; his niece, Gloria, a pretty, blue-eyed, fair-haired girl with a slender, graceful figure, and his widowed sister, Mrs. Maud Barnard, a woman who dressed in a rather extravagant style.

They had struck up a slight acquaintance with the two young men, chiefly with Lydon, who was a very cosmopolitan fellow. Craig had not taken greatly to the party, being a person of very fastidious taste. When he talked them over with his friend, he admitted that Gloria was a remarkably pretty girl, “would have been quite worth cultivating if she had possessed different relatives.” The rubicund Howard Stormont he declared to be an aggressive type of profiteer, and Mrs. Barnard he evidently considered to be an unrefined, over-dressed woman.

Lydon did not take this severe view of the uncle and aunt. Mrs. Barnard was a trifle flamboyant in dress perhaps, but she was also exceedingly amiable and good-natured. Stormont’s manners were possibly too hearty for perfect refinement, but he was a genial, cheery fellow, and full of a shrewd wit.

As for Gloria, Leonard though he had never come across a more charming girl. In the few chats they had enjoyed together when Craig happened to be absent, she had told him a good deal about herself. Her parents lived in China, where her father held a high position in one of the European banks. As the climate did not suit her, she had made her home with her uncle, the rubicund Howard Stormont and his widowed sister, at Effington in Surrey.

He also learned that, like many modern young women, she was an athletic girl, passionately fond of all outdoor games and sports. As he was no mean athlete himself, he admired her the more for this fact, which rather surprised him, as her appearance did not suggest any particular robustness, but rather the reverse.

Presently Mr. Stormont went away to write some letters, and soon after Mrs. Barnard followed him. The young people were left alone.

“What has become of your friend, Mr. Craig?” the girl asked him. “This is the second time this week he has left you to dine in solitary state. I feel quite sorry for you.”

She had a very sweet, musical voice. In fact Lydon thought everything about her was dainty and refined, far above the average.

The young man smiled. “Yes, Craig has been very mysterious the last few days. He goes off on his own, and he won’t tell me a word about it. He parries all hints with his usual diplomatic ability and sang-froid. You can’t ruffle him, you know.”

“I should say it would be quite impossible,” was Miss Stormont’s answer. “You are very great friends, are you not? I have often wondered why.”

“What is it that causes you to wonder?” asked Leonard.

Miss Stormont blushed a little at being called upon to explain her rather unguarded remark.

“You seem such exact opposites. You are perfectly open, impulsive, not to say impetuous. If asked for your opinion, you blurt it out at once, sometimes without very deep thought, if you will forgive me for saying so, as I have often known you to alter or modify it as you go along. Mr. Craig is so different. Behind that smiling urbanity is an intense reserve, a profound caution. Somehow, if you ask him a straightforward question, his answer is so fenced about with subtleties that you don’t feel satisfied.”

Lydon laughed heartily. The girl was very frank, even to the point of indiscretion. But she had certainly judged his friend pretty shrewdly. Even those who loved him and admired his very considerable gifts were forced to admit that there was a good deal of the Jesuit about this young descendant of diplomatic ancestors.

They had the longest talk they had ever enjoyed together that evening in the almost empty lounge.

As she prattled gaily along, with that frankness which was natural to her, he learned a good deal about the rubicund Howard Stormont himself. He was engaged in business, a very busy man and possessed of boundless energy. He was not fond of London life, and so far as was compatible with his business interests, played with great gusto the rôle of country gentleman. He had purchased a charming place some five years ago, and was never happier than when strolling around Effington village in his country tweeds, and chatting familiarly with the inhabitants.

This estate had been acquired from an impoverished and hard-living young sprig of the nobility, a grandson of the Earl of Sedgemere, who had originally owned the fine seat known as Effington Hall. Under his short tenure, the revenues which should have gone to the upkeep of the property had been diverted to gambling and riotous living. The once big estate had been disposed of bit by bit.

Stormont, the wealthy man of business, had soon altered this. The mansion and estate had been vastly improved, and pretty Effington village had been renovated out of all recognition. Upon the completion of his purchase, he had given a donation of five hundred pounds towards the restoration of the exquisite thirteenth-century church with its grey square tower, such a well-known landmark in the Surrey landscape. In the “county” he was highly respected for his generosity and magisterial work, for very soon after his purchase of Effington he had been put upon the roll of Justices of the Peace for the county of Surrey.

So, somewhat to his surprise, Lydon learned that this homely, rather commonplace-looking man, whom his friend Craig described as an aggressive profiteer, was a person of importance in business circles, and not altogether undistinguished in the more select sphere of county life.

“I enjoy travelling very much,” she told the young man, after she had furnished him with these details of her uncle’s biography. “But my happiest time is at Effington with the dear dogs and horses. I know everybody in the place, and the hours seem to go as if they were minutes.”

“You seem to me rather a lucky girl,” remarked her companion, “and I expect you are spoiled by both uncle and aunt.”

Miss Stormont admitted with a pretty smile that he was not very far out in his guess. Howard Stormont was one of the most generous and easy-going men alive, and nobody could be more indulgent towards youth than Mrs. Barnard. She was very young in spirit herself, and preferred the society of her juniors to more staid company. They indulged her in every reasonable wish, and kept open house and practised an almost lavish hospitality.

No wonder, thought Lydon, that the county had taken them to its bosom. And although Craig had conceived a quite pronounced dislike for both the man and his sister, Lydon, less fastidious and critical, thought them very delightful people. Stormont was probably a self-made man, but he detected in neither him nor his sister any offensive signs of the newly-rich. He was not a snob, as affable to a waiter as he would have been to a duke, and never bragged. Mrs. Barnard was perhaps a trifle too flamboyant and juvenile in her attire for a woman of her years, but this, after all, was a very venial weakness.

The tall, elegant girl he considered perfection; he could not see in her anything that he would have wished altered. And so she was the adopted daughter of a wealthy man! It was not much use allowing his feelings to stray in that direction. Howard Stormont would certainly have different views for her future. His friend Craig perhaps, with that fine old family record behind him, might have been considered favourably. But what had he, Leonard Lydon, a man of moderate income and no particular position, to offer such a peerless girl? Better put the idea out of his head with the least possible delay.

Still, it was very delightful sitting there and chatting to her. She talked to him as if she had known him for years, and there was not the faintest symptom of coquetry about her. She seemed a perfectly frank and open girl and quite free from conceit, unconscious that her undeniable personal charms were bound to work havoc on the opposite sex. She was not one of those sophisticated modern maidens who are always out for conquest and admiration.

They sat there for a long time, as neither Howard nor his sister reappeared. Presently Craig returned from his mysterious visit and came into the lounge in search of his friend. It struck Lydon, who could read him more easily than most people, that, in spite of the urbane mask which he so rarely removed, he was preoccupied and gloomy.

Craig was too well-bred a gentleman to be absolutely rude to anybody, much less to an attractive young woman. He addressed a few polite remarks to Miss Stormont, but it was not difficult to see his mind was elsewhere while he was making them. His presence seemed to have a rather chilling influence on both young people. Miss Stormont evidently was affected by it, for, after a very brief interval, she rose and bade them good night, saying that she must go and look after her relatives.

The young men smoked together for about half an hour, and during this time the conversation between them was desultory and fitful. Lydon was more sure than ever that his friend had something on his mind, but in spite of their close intimacy he did not venture to question him. Craig had a chilling manner of repelling confidences which it required a very callous man to put up with. If he did not think fit to unbosom himself, wild horses would not drag anything from him. When he had finished his cigar, he rose and rather abruptly intimated he was going to bed. Lydon stayed a little longer, thinking of Gloria Stormont and her exquisite charm, and then followed his example.

In the morning he came down rather late to breakfast, and was surprised to see the Stormont family in the hall, in the act of departure. The portly man addressed him in his usual breezy and genial manner.

“Glad to have a chance of saying good-bye to you. Amongst my letters this morning, I found one summoning me back to England on urgent business that brooks no delay. Very pleased to have come across you. The world is small, I expect we shall meet again some day. Come along, Maud. Gloria, hurry up.”

There were hasty hand-shakes. Gloria smiled very sweetly and flushed just a little as she bade him farewell. Lydon felt his spirits sinking very low at her departure. He went into the dining-room and found Craig half-way through his breakfast. He imparted the news to his friend.

Craig made the very briefest comment. “I suppose you will miss her. You seemed on very good terms when I came upon you last night. Well, my dear chap, perhaps it is better. A very undesirable family, although I admit the girl is vastly different from her uncle and that overdressed aunt.”

Leonard did not make any reply to this unkind speech. He knew his friend too well. He was not a man of violent likes or dislikes; but when once he formed an unfavourable opinion of anybody, nothing would ever alter or modify it. Howard Stormont and his widowed sister were anathema to him, and anathema they would remain till the end of the chapter.

They were staying on for the best part of another week, and during that period the young men were together the greater part of the time. But on several occasions Craig absented himself for short intervals, giving no explanation of his movements.

And one day, by the merest chance, Leonard saw him in a side street, engaged in conversation with a shabby, rather furtive-looking foreigner. As they were too occupied to notice him, he soon removed himself from their neighbourhood.

He had come across a few acquaintances at Nice, and Craig a great many. But this shabby furtive-looking foreigner was not the sort of companion suitable for the fastidious young diplomatist. Clearly there was some mystery going on, which his friend was carefully hiding from him. Probably it might be connected with his diplomatic business, but Lydon had an uncanny idea that a woman was at the bottom of it, whatever it was.

Never did he forget that early morning of the day which they had fixed for their departure. In the evening, Craig had gone out to dinner for the third time during their stay. Lydon went to the masked ball at the Casino, and returned early in the morning. He concluded that Craig had come home and gone to bed, knowing that his friend would not leave the Casino till late.

He was about to undress when he was called to the telephone by the police, who gave him alarming news. Would he go at once to the Villa des Cyclamens at Mont Boron, as his friend Mr. Craig was dangerously ill?

He had felt a little nettled the last few days by what he considered Craig’s unfriendly reticence; but when he received this message, all his old affection for the staunch comrade of so many years returned in full force. As soon as possible he was at the Villa des Cyclamens of which he now heard for the first time.