rose and paced up and down the room. His brow was slightly wrinkled, and it was some minutes before he spoke.
'Jimmy,' he said at last. 'Stylptitch died in Paris. What's the point of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?'
Jimmy shook his head helplessly
'I don't know.'
'Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?'
'Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.'
'Of course,' continued Anthony, 'I know that kings and queens and government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King's Messengers and all that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of open sesame. “The King's Ring! Pass, my lord!” And usually it was the other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the expedient of copying the ring - making a dozen or so, and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle Ages.'
Jimmy yawned.
'My remarks on the Middle Ages don't seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been barmy.'
'You'd think so, wouldn't you?'
Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.
'Have you read the thing at all?' he asked suddenly.
'Read what?'
'The manuscript.'
'Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?'
Anthony smiled.
'I just wondered, that's all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been close as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you're a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?'
Jimmy shook his head.
'It's difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn't know where to look.'
'And he didn't say anything interesting when he was drunk?'
Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.
'He said he knew where the Kohinoor was,' he volunteered doubtfully.
'Oh, well,' said Anthony, 'we all know that. They keep it in the Tower, don't they? Behind thick plate-glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don't pinch anything.'
'That's right,' agreed Jimmy.
'Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?'
Jimmy shook his head.
'Hm!' said Anthony.
He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the room.
'You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?' he threw out presently.
'Not very often,' said McGrath simply. 'They're not about anything that interests me as a rule.'
'Thank heaven I'm more civilized. There have been several mentions of Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a royalist restoration.'
'Nicholas IV didn't leave a son,' said Jimmy. 'But I don't suppose for a minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably shoals of young 'uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and third cousins once removed.'
'So that there wouldn't be any difficulty in finding a king?'
'Not in the least, I should say,' replied Jimmy. 'You know, I don't wonder at their getting tired of republican institutions. A full-blooded, virile people like that must find it awfully tame to pot at presidents after being used to kings. And talking of kings, that reminds me of something else old Stylptitch let out that
'Jimmy,' he said at last. 'Stylptitch died in Paris. What's the point of sending a manuscript from Paris to London via Africa?'
Jimmy shook his head helplessly
'I don't know.'
'Why not do it up in a nice little parcel and send it by post?'
'Sounds a damn sight more sensible, I agree.'
'Of course,' continued Anthony, 'I know that kings and queens and government officials are prevented by etiquette from doing anything in a simple, straightforward fashion. Hence King's Messengers and all that. In medieval days you gave a fellow a signet ring as a sort of open sesame. “The King's Ring! Pass, my lord!” And usually it was the other fellow who had stolen it. I always wonder why some bright lad never hit on the expedient of copying the ring - making a dozen or so, and selling them at a hundred ducats apiece. They seem to have had no initiative in the Middle Ages.'
Jimmy yawned.
'My remarks on the Middle Ages don't seem to amuse you. Let us get back to Count Stylptitch. From France to England via Africa seems a bit thick even for a diplomatic personage. If he merely wanted to ensure that you should get a thousand pounds he could have left it you in his will. Thank God neither you nor I are too proud to accept a legacy! Stylptitch must have been barmy.'
'You'd think so, wouldn't you?'
Anthony frowned and continued his pacing.
'Have you read the thing at all?' he asked suddenly.
'Read what?'
'The manuscript.'
'Good Lord, no. What do you think I want to read a thing of that kind for?'
Anthony smiled.
'I just wondered, that's all. You know a lot of trouble has been caused by memoirs. Indiscreet revelations, that sort of thing. People who have been close as an oyster all their lives seem positively to relish causing trouble when they themselves shall be comfortably dead. It gives them a kind of malicious glee. Jimmy, what sort of a man was Count Stylptitch? You met him and talked to him, and you're a pretty good judge of raw human nature. Could you imagine him being a vindictive old devil?'
Jimmy shook his head.
'It's difficult to tell. You see, that first night he was distinctly canned, and the next day he was just a high-toned old boy with the most beautiful manners overwhelming me with compliments till I didn't know where to look.'
'And he didn't say anything interesting when he was drunk?'
Jimmy cast his mind back, wrinkling his brows as he did so.
'He said he knew where the Kohinoor was,' he volunteered doubtfully.
'Oh, well,' said Anthony, 'we all know that. They keep it in the Tower, don't they? Behind thick plate-glass and iron bars, with a lot of gentlemen in fancy dress standing round to see you don't pinch anything.'
'That's right,' agreed Jimmy.
'Did Stylptitch say anything else of the same kind? That he knew which city the Wallace Collection was in, for instance?'
Jimmy shook his head.
'Hm!' said Anthony.
He lit another cigarette, and once more began pacing up and down the room.
'You never read the papers, I suppose, you heathen?' he threw out presently.
'Not very often,' said McGrath simply. 'They're not about anything that interests me as a rule.'
'Thank heaven I'm more civilized. There have been several mentions of Herzoslovakia lately. Hints at a royalist restoration.'
'Nicholas IV didn't leave a son,' said Jimmy. 'But I don't suppose for a minute that the Obolovitch dynasty is extinct. There are probably shoals of young 'uns knocking about, cousins and second cousins and third cousins once removed.'
'So that there wouldn't be any difficulty in finding a king?'
'Not in the least, I should say,' replied Jimmy. 'You know, I don't wonder at their getting tired of republican institutions. A full-blooded, virile people like that must find it awfully tame to pot at presidents after being used to kings. And talking of kings, that reminds me of something else old Stylptitch let out that
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