The Princess Galva - David Whitelaw

Скачать книгу

my travelling to England, although I have promised myself the trip many times in the past few years. And now I feel that I shall never take it, and that the doctor here, who gives me two weeks to live, speaks the truth. Well, I've had a good innings, and, as they say over here, 'there's no kick coming.' I leave only one regret, and it is with regard to this that I venture to write to you. If you would do a dying man a kindness, and at the same time right a wrong, the chance is now yours. My state of health will not allow of my writing my request in full—and I ask you to promise nothing until you know all. This you can do by calling upon Mr. Abraham Nixon, 5A, St. Mary Axe, in the City of London.

      "This gentleman will tell you a story so remarkable that it may seem to you incredible.

      "But it is true every word of it. You will then act as you see fit. But I conjure you, by our past friendship, to do as Mr. Nixon asks.

      "Your bona fide will consist of the crest torn from the head of this notepaper, which please send in to Mr. Nixon with these words written on it in red ink—

      'MR. SYDNEY re GALVA'

      "If you follow these instructions to the letter, Mr. Nixon will at once put you in complete possession of all the facts of the case.

      "With my last breath I shall pray for you and the success of the mission.

      "Yours, "HUBERT BAXENDALE.

      "P.S.—You will see that Mr. Nixon will know you as Mr. Sydney. Not knowing whether you would like to undertake what I ask in your own name, I thought it wiser that in this matter you should be known simply as 'Mr. Sydney.'

      "H. B."

      Edward read the letter through many times before he finally folded it and replaced it in its envelope. Then he sat for a long time thinking on what he had read. There was no way of corresponding with Mr. Kyser for a month, and by that time the wrong that the letter spoke of might be past the righting.

      Would it not be better if he were to act, as it were, for Mr. Kyser, and, under the name of Sydney, gather what information he could from Mr. Nixon? He would then be able to judge more clearly what it were best to do.

      Of course, in his own mind, Edward knew well that to act as he suggested to himself was taking a most unwarrantable liberty with another's affairs; but he was hardly himself. The excitement of the last few days had had anything but a salutary effect upon his moral balance; he had been living in a hot-bed of lies, and his discriminating powers of right and wrong had deteriorated sadly.

      Who could say but that in this letter was a way out of the hideous mess he had made of things up at Adderbury Cottage? There was nothing against his going to St. Mary Axe. The letter plainly showed that Mr. Kyser and Mr. Nixon were unacquainted. There would be nothing to tell him from the real Mr. Sydney. It would at least fill in the time during which he must remain away from the cottage.

      Edward Povey called the waiter and borrowed a time-table. He consulted this, then made his way to the writing-room, where he found a bottle of red ink. From the head of Mr. Baxendale's letter he tore the crest and heading, and across it he wrote the words mentioned in the letter. This he folded and placed in his pocket-book.

      At half-past three the same afternoon Mr. Edward Povey, alias, for the moment, Mr. Sydney, pushed open the swing doors of Mr. Abraham Nixon's office in St. Mary Axe—and came to grips with Romance.

       Table of Contents

      AN ECHO OF A TRAGEDY AND THE DRAINAGE OF A COTTAGE

      As Edward was, after sending in his slip of paper, ushered into the private office, a tall, gaunt man of unmistakable solicitor type rose from his desk and crossed over to him with extended hand. Edward put his out also and winced somewhat as it was tightly engulfed by the bony fingers of the solicitor.

      "Mr. Sydney, I understand."

      Edward Povey bowed, he had no great liking for telling lies and he preferred to act them where possible.

      Mr. Abraham Nixon handed a chair to his visitor, and, reseating himself at his desk, picked up a telephone receiver and inquired for Mr. Crooks, asking that gentleman to kindly be sure that they were not disturbed for at least one hour.

      At this Edward grew cold with apprehension. It seemed to him that there was something of an ordeal in front of him. Mr. Nixon's first words, however, somewhat reassured him.

      "I understand from Mr. Baxendale that you are entirely ignorant of the subject referred to in his letter, Mr. Sydney."

      "Entirely, Mr. Nixon, and it is perhaps better to say at once that, however much I desire to help my old friend and to fall in with his wishes, I cannot hold myself liable in any way—cannot commit myself."

      Mr. Nixon held up a thin hand.

      "A very sensible remark, Mr. Sydney, and one that I should have made myself had I been placed as you are. You are not in any way bound by what I am telling you except in the event of your refusal; in which case I shall enjoin you to secrecy. Pray excuse me a moment."

      Selecting a flat key from a ring he took from his pocket, Mr. Nixon left the room, returning in a few minutes with a small deed-box on which was painted in white letters—

      GALVA—BAXENDALE

      This, Mr. Nixon placed upon a small side table, and selecting a flat key from the bunch on his ring inserted it in the lock.

      "It is a curious story that I have to tell you, Mr. Sydney," he began as he pushed open the creaking lid. "I suppose I'm the only person to whom Mr. Baxendale told it. A very reserved and secretive man, Mr. Sydney."

      "Very," answered Edward Povey, much relieved to hear it. Then he kept silent as he watched the solicitor remove from the box a few small articles, each carefully sealed up and docketed in a neat handwriting, the purport of which Edward could not make out at the distance. These articles arranged in a row upon his desk, Mr. Nixon leant back in his chair, and, placing the tips of his thin fingers together, began his tale.

      "Perhaps you will remember, Mr. Sydney, the era of bloodshed and murder which attacked the little island kingdom of San Pietro some years back, I think in the autumn of '93. It was, in its way, as virulent as the Paris revolution, but San Pietro is a small kingdom, and although quite independent was not able to withstand the pressure of her more powerful neighbours. Spain, being the nearest, has always had a word to say in the San Pietro politics. The result was that the crisis was as short-lived as it was terrible. The reigning family had been put to death at the outburst of the revolution. The king, rather a pleasure-loving sort of person, had enjoyed some popularity among his subjects, but his marriage with an actress whom he had met in Vienna inflamed the ladies of the court, and, through them, their husbands.

      "Most of these were officers standing high at court or in the army, and considering their wives insulted by the presence of an actress upon the throne, planned the assassination under the cloak of politics. The result was the terrible doings at the Palace at Corbo on that night in October.

      "Baxendale, then a middle-aged man, traveling on business in Spain at the time, took ship across to San Pietro, intending to send first-hand news to a paper he was interested in in New York. Once arrived, however, he found more difficulty in returning. The Dictator whom the people had set up was very rigid in the matter of censorship, and not only could poor Baxendale get no news through, but he himself was politely but firmly told he could not leave the island.

      "One afternoon about three or four days after the massacre he was taking a walk through the Sebastin Park, which I understand is on the edge of the capital, and merges from cultivation to the wild track of forest land which lies to the north. Baxendale had walked further than he had intended and was surprised to find of a sudden that the

Скачать книгу