"No, my lord. But the young man you sent down from London to inspect your typewriter came about six o'clock."
Essenden nodded slowly.
He dismissed the servant, and when the door had closed again, he went to another bookcase and extracted a couple of dusty volumes. Reaching into the cavity behind the other books, he brought out an automatic pistol and a box of cartridges. The books he replaced. Carrying the gun over to the table, he first carefully tested the action and then loaded the magazine, bringing the first cartridge into the chamber and then thumbing in the safety catch.
With the gun in his pocket he experienced a slight feeling of relief.
But for hours afterwards he sat in the study, staring at the embers of the dying fire, sipping brandy and smoking cigarette after cigarette, till the fire died altogether, and he began to shiver as the room grew colder. And thus, alone, through those hours, he pondered fact upon fact, and formed and reviewed and discarded plan after plan, until at last he had shaped an idea with which his weary brain could at the moment find no fault.
It was a wild and desperate scheme, the kind of scheme which a man only forms after a sleepless night fortified with too many cigarettes and too much strong drink taken alone and in fear; but it was the only answer he could find to his problem. He was quite calm and decided about that. When at last he dragged himself to bed, he was more calm and cold and decided than he had ever been before in all his life, was Lord Essenden, that fussy and peevish little man.
2
Simon Templar picked up the sheet of paper on which he had been working spasmodically during the return from Paris, and cleared his throat.
"We understand," he said, "that the following lines have been awarded the Dumbbell Prize for Literature:
"The King sits in the silent town, Sipping his China tea: 'And where shall I find a fearless knight To bear a sword for me? 'The beasts are leagued about my gates, The vultures seek the slain, Till a perfect knight shall rise and ride To find the Grail again.' Then up and spake a Minister, Sat at the King's right knee: 'Basil de Bathmat Dilswipe Boil Has a splendid pedigree. 'His brother is Baron de Bathmat Boil, Who owns the Daily Squeal, And everybody knows he is Impeccably genteel.' 'Has he been with my men-at-arms, Has he borne scars for me, That I should take this Basil Boil Among my chivalry?' 'Sire, in a war some years ago You called him to the fray, And he would have served you loyally, But his conscience bade him nay. 'And they took him before the judges, Because he did rebel, And he lay a year in prison To save his soul from hell.' 'Then what have I for a portent, What bring you me for a sign, That I should take this coistril To be a knight of mine?' 'Sire, we are bringing in a bill Which the Daily Squeal could foil, And it might be wise to wheedle Baron de Bathmat Boil.' Then the King rose up in anger And seared them with his gaze: 'You have taken the wine and the laughter, The pride and the grace of days; 'The last fair woman is faded, And the last man dead for shame, But a dog from the gutter shall serve me Before this man you name.' They heard, and did not answer; They heard, and did not bend; And he saw their frozen stillness And knew it was the end. Basil de Bathmat Dilswipe Boil They brought upon a day, And the King gave him the accolade And turned his face away. And saw beyond his windows The tattered flags unfurled; And on his brow was a crown of iron And the weariness of the world."