“Yes, miss, will you sign!”
“Hyatt!” murmured T.B., “what an extraordinary coincidence. You are not by any chance related to the unfortunate young man, the story of whose sad death has been rilling the newspapers!”
She flushed and her lip trembled.
“He was my brother; did you know him!”
“I knew of him,” said T.B. quietly, “but I did not know you lived in London!”
“Nor do I,” said the girl; “it is only by the great kindness of Senora Silinski that I am here.”
There was no time for delicate finesse. He slid his card-case from his pocket.
“Will you let me come in and talk with you,” he said; then, as he saw again the evidence of her suspicion, “I am a police-officer, and what I have to ask you is of the greatest importance to you and to me.”
She took the pasteboard, and, as T.B. had anticipated, fell into a flutter of agitation.
“Oh, please come in! Was it wrong to come to London? The Senora was so anxious that nobody should know I was here. I’ve been so worried about her—”
She led the way into a handsomely furnished sittingroom.
“First of all,” said T.B. quietly, “you must tell me how the Senora found you.”
“She came to Falmouth and sought me out. It was not difficult. I have a little millinery establishment there, and my name is well known. She came one morning, eight days — no — yes, it was seven days ago, and—”
“What did she want?”
“She said she had known Charles, he had some awfully swagger friends; that is what got him into trouble at the post office; it was a great blow to us because—”
“What did she want?” asked T.B., cutting short the loquacity.
“She said that Charles had something of hers — a book which she had lent him, years before. Now, the strange thing was that on the very day poor Charles was killed I had a telegram which ran: ‘If anything happens, tell Escoltier book is at Antaxia, New York.’ It was unsigned, and I did not connect it with Charles. You see, I hadn’t heard from him for years.
“She was a great friend of Charles’ — the Sen-ora — and she came down especially about the book. She said Charles had got into trouble and she wanted the book to save him. Then I showed her the telegram. I was confused, but I wanted to help Charles.” She gulped down a sob. “I asked her who Escoltier was.”
“Yes!” asked T.B. quickly.
“She said he was a friend of hers who was interested in the book. She went away, but came back soon afterwards and told me that ‘Antaxia’ was the telegraphic address of a safe deposit in New York. She was very nice and offered to pay for a cable to the deposit. So I wired: ‘Please forward by registered post the book deposited by Charles Hyatt’; and I signed it ‘Eva Hyatt’ and gave my address. By the evening the reply came: ‘Forwarded; your previous wire did not comply with our instructions.’”
“I see,” said T.B.
“Well, that is more than I can,” said the girl, with a smile, “because only one wire was sent. The Senora was surprised, too, and a little annoyed, and said: ‘How foolish it was of me not to ask you your Christian name.’ Well, then the Senora insisted upon my coming to stay with her till the book came. I came expecting I should find Charles, but — but—”
Her eyes were filled with tears.
“I read in a newspaper that he was dead. It was the first thing I saw in London, the bill of a newspaper—”
T.B. gave her time to recover her voice.
“And the Senora!”
“She took this furnished flat near to hers,” said the girl; “she lives here—”
“Does she?” asked T.B. artlessly. He took up the registered parcel which she had put on the table.
It was fairly light.
“Now, Miss Hyatt,” he said, “I want you to do something for me; and I must tell you that, although I ask it as a favour, I can enforce my wishes as a right.”
“I will do anything,” said the girl eagerly.
“Very well; you must let me take this book away.”
“But it is not mine; it belongs to the Senora,” she protested; “and it is to save my brother’s name—”
“Miss Hyatt,” said T.B. gently, “I must take this book which has so providentially come into my hands, not to save your brother’s name, but to bring to justice the men who took his life.”
As he spoke there came a knock at the door; and, hastily drying her eyes, the girl opened it.
A porter handed her a telegram, and she came back into the light of the room to open it.
She read it, and re-read it; then looked at T.B. with bewilderment written on her face.
“What does this mean?” she said.
T.B. took the telegram from her hand; it had been readdressed from Falmouth, and ran:
“By wireless from Port Sybil. Do not part with book to anybody on any account,
“Catherine Silinski.”
T.B. handed the telegram back. “It means,” he said, “that our friend is just two minutes too late.”
XX. At the Admiralty
Wherever men met they spoke of one thing; they had one subject of conversation; in train or in clubroom; in bar or meeting-place, in barristers’ robing-room; in prisoners’ waiting hall — the Castilia, and Spain.
Small doubt but that there were demands, irresponsible demands for satisfaction, after satisfaction had been given. But tangible satisfaction was needed. Spain had dared… insult to the might and majesty of Britain — war must be a logical outcome — and the like.
These outpourings appeared in many newspapers under the heading, “Letters to the Editor.” Some newspapers would not print them because of a curious resemblance between them.
The Editor of the London Journal made this discovery.
The Journal is a newspaper controlled by a great syndicate which owns a newspaper in every one of the great centres of industry throughout Great Britain. It has a system of exchanging confidences, and, as a result, it was found that a letter addressed to The Northern Journal and Times was identical, word for word, with a letter addressed to the London paper. With this difference, that whilst one was signed “J.Y. Bayer,” the other bore the magnificent signature of “Orlando T. Sabout.” The editor sent both letters to T.B. Smith, and T.B. grinned unpleasantly, but with some admiration for the completeness of the Nine Men’s organization.
On top of these letters, was revived a form of publicity which had long since fallen into desuetude — the pamphlet was mooked.
Three pamphlets were shot suddenly into the market. This was the second day after the sinking of the Castilia.
One, the more virulent, was called “A Blow at Protestantism,” and was an invitation to England to sweep Europe clear of the “Catholic menace.’ 9
Neither pamphlet could have been written in two days. They must have been prepared a fortnight to a month in advance of the disaster. They bore no publisher’s imprint or printer’s advertisement.
“This