Mr. Wilson drew a deep breath, rather sadly.
“I fear the idea is not mine,” he went on. “It was tried out a few years ago by a very eminent American. He simply could not stand all the handshaking.”
Wilhelmina Wilson intervened loyally.
“But you were the only one who saw its commercial possibilities,” she cried, and sat down on the edge of his desk as though to defend him. She somewhat spoiled the effect of this by winking at Colonel March.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Wilson. He turned back to his guests.
“Our fees, of course, are considerable,” he added apologetically. “But you have no idea of the difficulties. Once I had to send all the way to South Africa to get a passable double for... well, well, again we mustn’t be indiscreet!” He closed his eyes and smiled happily. “Then there is the question of elocution, voice-training, and so on. On the whole, I am proud of my handiwork. The next time you go to a cinema and see a newsreel, watch very closely! You may see something that will surprise you.”
Inspector Roberts was getting his breath back.
“Then Mr. Hale—” he began.
“Ah, yes,” murmured the proprietor of the Agency, brushing his dry palms together and frowning at Colonel March. “Mr. Hale! I imagine you saw a discrepancy when Mr. Hale’s double, a promising young actor named Gabriel Fisk, got drunk at that banquet?”
“A discrepancy,” said Colonel March; “but probably not the discrepancy you mean. Wasn’t that rather rash of him, by the way?”
“Perhaps,” admitted Mr. Wilson sadly. “But the lesser of two evils. You see, we hadn’t known that Mr. Hale’s fiancée was to be present; otherwise we should not have risked it. So, in case Fisk made a bad slip of some kind, he had to have an excuse for making a slip. Mr. Hale is a notorious and genuine teetotaller. But then (I thought) even a teetotaller can change his mind.”
Colonel March chuckled.
“He can change his mind,” said the colonel. “What he can’t change is his digestive system. He can’t work his way through a huge wine-list, from cocktails to brandy, without either becoming ill or going to sleep. In a man who has never taken a drink in his life, I submit that it’s a physical impossibility. When I heard of that little performance, I said to myself: ‘It is magnificent; but it isn’t Hale.’ And, speaking of his fiancée...”
Wilhelmina Wilson stiffened.
Throughout this conversation, she had several times seemed on the point of speaking. She still sat on the edge of her uncle’s desk, staring moodily at the toe of her slipper. When Colonel March spoke, she looked at her uncle as though with appeal.
But Mr. Wilson remained unruffled.
“Ah, yes!” he said. “That unfortunate affair yesterday morning!”
“What was unfortunate about it?” the girl demanded, with sudden passion.
“Tush!” said her uncle, raising a gentle but admonitory forefinger. He looked distressed. “Colonel March, my niece is — impulsive. Like her poor mother, my sister. And she is very fond of young Gabriel Fisk.
“You understand now what happened, I hope? That suit of clothes, with the notecase and watch and the rest of it, has nothing to do with the case. It’s a supernumerary. Mr. Hale provided us with an exact duplicate of his possessions. I am an artist, sir, or I am nothing. Neither the suit nor its contents has been worn for a week. Fisk left it hanging there in the locker when he changed in that cloakroom after appearing at the Muswell Hill Flower Show last Tuesday week.
“Yesterday Fisk, in his ordinary clothes, came in for instructions. He and my niece—” Mr. Wilson coughed. “It was unfortunate that Lady Patricia Mortlake walked in when she did. Fisk, of course, simply slipped out when her back was turned. Unfortunately, Lady Patricia is a strong-minded person. She ransacked the place, found the suit, and suspected I hate to think what.”
“And Hale?” asked Colonel March, without batting an eyelid. “The real Hale? Where is he now?”
Again Mr. Wilson was apologetic.
“At his country place, with his head under the bedclothes, until he can think up an excuse to explain his supposed conduct. Even if he tells the truth, I’m afraid Lady Patricia will not like it. And I shall probably... er... lose a client. Life,” said Mr. Wilson, shaking his head, “is difficult.”
“Yes.”
“In any case, as I said before, you will respect our little secret? Our racket, as you prefer to call it?” Colonel March got to his feet. Always an impressive figure, he now seemed to fill the room. He put on his soft hat at a more rakish angle than was seemly, and picked up his silver-headed stick. His speckled face was aglow.
“Candidly,” he said, “I can’t do anything else. You’ve got me. If I understand the situation, to show up this racket would be to wreck half the public reputations in England. We can’t have that. The public demands to be deceived. By gad, it shall be deceived! So, if Miss Wilson vouches for the truth of this story—?”
“Yes,” said the girl, with her eyes on the floor.
“Then there’s nothing more to be said. Sir, good day to you!”
“And to you, Colonel March,” beamed Mr. Wilson. “Wilhelmina, my dear, will you show these gentlemen out?”
Wilhelmina did show them out. Yet she did not appear to be happy about anything. For the first time her manner displayed a trace of nervousness. In the outer office she suddenly stopped, and whirled round on them.
“You old—” she began explosively, and then broke off to laugh; or cry — Colonel March was not sure which. “What are you thinking?”
“Thinking?” repeated Colonel March, with massive innocence.
“Yes, you were! You know you were! I could see it in your face. What’s the matter? Don’t you believe our story even now? I swear to you that that suit of clothes hasn’t been touched for a week!”
“Oh, that?” said the colonel, as though enlightened. “I believe that.”
“Then what is it? What were you thinking?”
“Well,” said Colonel March, “since you ask, I was thinking about the dog.”
“Dog?” she echoed blankly.
“Lady Patricia Mortlake’s dog. An objectionable dog. But then I don’t like Pekes.” Colonel March reflected. “It had one quality, though, that I did notice. The dog Flopit took absolutely no interest in strangers. You could show it the whole personnel of Scotland Yard, and it never so much as opened an eye — let alone barking. It’s the sort of dog which barks only when it scents or senses someone it knows very well. So, if it was Gabriel Fisk who was here with you yesterday, I only wondered why Flopit set up the clamour that drew Lady Patricia Mortlake’s attention to you both.”
While the blue eyes never left him, and an expression of impish animation survived even the embarrassed colour of her face, Colonel March added a last word.
“Stick to him,” he advised in an even lower voice. “You’ll be much better for him than that high-born shrew who’s got his life planned out to the last musicale and reception.”
“I’ve been in love with Frank Hale for a long time,” the girl confessed. “But I thought it might be better for him if we said—”
“There’s no reason for you and your uncle to lie in order to please her,” said Colonel March. “As for Hale, there are still a few gleams of humanity in him. Under you, please God, he may yet develop into a statesman. Good afternoon, Miss Wilson. Come, Roberts. We must go and find some more queer complaints.”