“Pray, sir,” I struck in, scanning the thing from a lawyer’s view, “how could you hope that upon attainder of the traitor the estates could be yours, and not the King’s?”
Lord Frederic grinned sourly.
“ ’Twas worth the risk. I have friends in the right places.”
“Well, well,” said Dr. Johnson, “a word to the wise and I have done. These proceedings shall be our secret, as long as the Duke of Argyle guards his new-found loyalty, and as long as the Dune’s son has his health in London as in Argyle.”
“Sir!” cried Lord Frederic, stung. “Do you say that Lady Mary—”
“I say nothing, sir. The boy’s indisposition may have given hope for this contrivance; it may be part of it. I say only, if you tender your brother’s friendship, tender also his son’s life.”
Lord Frederic’s haughty stare was a failure; his eyes fell, and he bowed his head.
“I perceive,” said Dr. Johnson, “that we understand one another.”
The adventures of Romney Pringle:
The Foreign Office Despatch
by Clifford Ashdown
Just to remind you: In the January 1947 issue of EQMM we brought you the first adventure of Romney Pringle ever published in the United States. It derived from the rarest book, of detective-crime short stories issued in the Twentieth Century — a fabulous volume published in 1902 of which only four copies are known to exist (although it is now probable that a fifth copy has been discovered in South Africa). The author s identity is only half-known: Clifford Ashdown was a pseudonym used jointly by R. Austin Freeman, creator of Dr. Thomdyke, and a medical confrere; there is some hope, we learn, that P. M. Stone of Waltham, Massachusetts, has succeeded in unmasking Dr. Freeman’s collaborator. As for the character of Romney Pringle himself you will recall that he is a “gentleman crook” who hides behind the respectable front of “literary agent.” A suave and charming scoundrel, addicted to an artificial port-wine mark on his right cheek, Mr. Pringle found fortune, if not fame, at his very beck and call and eventually retired to a life of ease and comfort at Sandwich where, of course, he wrote his memoirs — of which “The Foreign Office Despatch” is the second to appear in America.
“Rien ne va plus — the ball rolls!”
The silence was only broken by the rattle of the ivory ball over the diamond shaped studs around the circumference of the disc. Every now and then there was a sharp click, as it struck a partition between two numbers and was viciously jerked on to the studs again.
Round and round the ball went. It was only for a minute, but to the men gathered by the green cloth it seemed a century. Suddenly the noise ceased. The disc continued to revolve, but the ball lay snug in one of the little pens.
The tailleur placed his finger on the capstan and stopped the disc.
“Twelve — rouge — manque — pair,” he intoned monotonously. Then he raked the stakes off the spaces painted on the green cloth. The table had won for the eighth time in succession, with payment to hardly a single player. A kind of suppressed groan ran round the board, and the fleeced ones crowded to the bar at the end of the room for consolation.
The life at the marble caravanserais which largely do duty now for clubs was repellent to Mr. Romney Pringle and, doubtless on Pope’s principle that “the proper study of mankind is MAN,” the “Chrysanthemum Club” had many attractions for him. As to the club itself, while election was a process rather more exacting than a mere scrutiny by the hall-porter, the “Chrysanthemum” was not too exclusive; and, although situated in a fashionable street off Piccadilly, the subscription was a nominal one.
As Romney Pringle inhaled his cigarette and watched the last disastrous success of the table, a young man got up from the board and flung himself abruptly into a low chair opposite. Presently a waiter placed on the marble table at his elbow a bottle of Moet and Chandon, to which he applied himself assiduously. There was nothing in his appearance to differentiate him from any of the thousands of well-dressed and well-groomed men who frequent Clubland, but somehow or other, as they sat opposite one another, his eye continually caught that of Pringle, who at length rose and crossed the room. The club was not so large that a member need consider himself insulted did a stranger address him without a previous introduction, and the other displayed no emotion when Pringle sat down beside him and entered into conversation.
“The table seems to be having all the luck tonight,” he remarked.
“That’s true,” agreed the youth frankly. “I never heard of such luck.”
“Been playing long?” inquired Pringle sympathetically.
“I’m not a member, you know. I was introduced as a visitor for the first time tonight.” Then, growing confidential as the wine circulated in his brain, he continued, “I cashed a check for eighty pounds when I began to play, and I staked ten every time.”
“So you lost it all?”
“Lost it all,” the youth echoed gloomily.
“But why not go on? Professor Bond calculates that the chances in favor of the Bank are only thirty-seven to thirty-five.”
“Fact is, my last sovereign went there,” he tapped the bottle. “Think I’d better go now.” And he rose somewhat unsteadily. His libations to Fortune had evidently commenced very early in the evening.
“Try your luck again,” persuaded Pringle. “Allow me the pleasure of helping you to get your revenge,” and he produced a handful of gold from his pocket.
“You’re really very good, but—”
“Not at all! The luck’s sure to turn by this time,” urged the tempter.
“Well, I Ml take eight pounds, and thanks awfully, Mr— Really I don’t know your name; mine’s Redmile.”
“Mine is James,” said Pringle. “Now in and win!”
Once more Redmile took his seat at the green board and watched the play eagerly. The table was no longer winning, and the interest in the game had revived. After a few turns he ventured a sovereign on the pair or even numbers. “Twenty-six” was called, and he was richer by as much more. Still cautious, he placed three sovereigns below the first column of figures. “Nineteen” was the winning number, and six more sovereigns were added to his three.
“I congratulate you!” whispered Pringle behind him. “Didn’t I say the luck would change?”
“A good guess,” laughed Redmile. “Only let me win enough to redeem that check, and I shall be contented.”
“Try the twelves,” Pringle suggested.
Redmile arranged five sovereigns on the space allotted to the first twelve numbers.
“Thirty-one!” the tailleur called. Pringle shrugged his shoulders as the money was raked into the bank.
Without looking round, but breathing heavily, Redmile placed a sovereign on rouge, another on impair, and after a second’s hesitation dropped two more on twenty-one. Even as he withdrew his hand the tailleur uttered his parrot-cry “Rien ne va plus” and, spinning the disc, reversed the ball against it. “Twenty-one — rouge — passe — impair,” he droned, as the ball rested.
Redmile had won seventy-two pounds at one stroke! He rose from the table and vigorously shook hands with Pringle.
“I’ve got eighty-two pounds altogether with me, and I must get that check back from the manager,” he said, “Do you mind coming round to my rooms? Only as far as Dover Street, and I’ll give you a check for what you so kindly lent me.”