“Where to, sir?” he asked.
“London,” I replied and, a moment later, felt the Kawa veer toward the great English city.
Fate in her inscrutable way was to end my search almost before it had begun. Eight weeks later I sat in the tea room of the Ritz-Carlton in London. Opening my paper I scanned the headlines dealing with cable despatches, racing news and financial exchange until an item, brutal in its brevity, assaulted my attention as with a hammer stroke.
“Lady Sarah Wimpole Dead.”
The room swam about me. After a tremendous effort at self mastery I was able to read what followed.
“The death of Lady Sarah Wimpole, nee Alleyne, of Alleyne House and Wimpole Manor, Nottinghamshire, will come as a shock to her many friends. Her medical advisors, Dr. Keech and Dr. McGilvray, confess themselves as much mystified by the nature of the malady which has proved fatal. In all respects the symptoms were those of hydrophobia, which is not an admissible diagnosis since Lady Wimpole had but just recently landed from her yacht, the Undine, upon which she and Lord Wimpole have been cruising in Eastern waters. It is suspected that the disease may have been conveyed by a parrot of which the defunct Peeress was very fond and the bird—very wisely in our opinion—has been destroyed.”
SAD MEMORIES
“The smooth flowing Nile retains her reflection.”
