“Supposing it is in mine?” she suggested.
“I might sell it to them.”
“I’d trust you all the time,” he
laughed lightheartedly. “I can’t see
you giving a leg up to the Huns.... Will you lunch
with me at one o’clock to-morrow, please?”
“Certainly not,” she replied. “You
must attend to your work, whatever it is.”
“That’s all very well,” he grumbled,
“but every one has an hour off for luncheon.”
“People who win wars don’t lunch,”
she declared severely. “Here’s Jimmy—I
can hear his voice—and he’s brought
some one up with him. I’ll—let
you know about lunch.”
The door opened. James Van Teyl and Fischer entered
together.
The first few seconds after the entrance of the two
men were monopolised by the greetings of Pamela with
her brother. Fischer stood a little in the background,
his eyes fixed upon Lutchester. His brain was
used to emergencies, but he found himself here confronted
by an unanswerable problem.
“Say, this is Mr. Lutchester, isn’t it?”
he inquired, holding out his hand.
“The same,” Lutchester assented politely.
“We met at Henry’s some ten days ago,
didn’t we?”
“Mr. Lutchester has brought us a letter from
Dicky Green, Jimmy,” Pamela explained, as she
withdrew from her brother’s arms. “Quite
unnecessary, as it happens, because I met him in London
just before we sailed.”
“Very glad to meet you, Mr. Lutchester,”
Jimmy declared, wringing his hand with American cordiality.
“Dicky’s an old pal of mine—one
of the best. We graduated in the same year from
Harvard.”
Conversation for a few minutes was platitudinous.
Van Teyl, although he showed few signs of his recent
excesses, was noisy and boisterous, clutching at this
brief escape from a situation which he dreaded.
Fischer on the other hand, remained in the back-ground,
ominously silent, thinking rapidly, speculating and
theorising as to the coincidence, if it were coincidence,
of finding Lutchester and Pamela together. He
listened to the former’s polite conversation,
never once letting his eyes wander from his face.
All his thoughts were concentrated upon one problem.
The mysterious escape of Sandy Graham, which had sent
him flying from the country, remained unsolved.
Of Pamela’s share in it he had already his suspicions.
Was it possible that Lutchester was the other and
the central figure in that remarkable rescue?
He waited his opportunity, and, during a momentary
lull in the cheerful conversation, broke in with his
first question.
“Say, Mr. Lutchester, you haven’t any
twin brother, have you?”
“No brother at all,” Lutchester admitted.
“Then, how did you get over here? You were
at Henry’s weren’t you, on the night the
Lapland sailed? You didn’t cross
with us, and there’s no other steamer due for
two days.”
“Then I can’t be here,” Lutchester
declared. “The thing’s impossible.”
