Over an excellent grouse, followed by mushrooms on toast, and illuminated by a bottle of Chablis, I leisurely reviewed the situation. So far, about thirteen hours had elapsed since I had parted from Northcote at the Milan, and if they had contained one or two disconcerting experiences, I decided that I might certainly consider myself lucky to have emerged as successfully as I had. I was still alive; I had ten thousand pounds in my pocket; and so far I had apparently played my part without arousing the faintest suspicion.
There was a reverse side to this attractive picture, of course. In the first place, I now had ample evidence that Northcote's dread of assassination was neither a joke nor a delusion. My own animated interview with Mercia, and the present condition of the luckless Milford, made it very plain that during the next three weeks any Insurance Company which knew the facts of the case would politely but firmly decline to accept my life at less than a hundred per cent. Of Mercia herself I was no longer afraid, but the mysterious Guarez, and possibly other gentlemen with equally suggestive names, were apparently still hanging around, waiting to carry on the good work which she had so unsuccessfully attempted to inaugurate.
Then there was this visit to Maurice. Somehow or other, I felt very uneasy about my hospitable cousin. Even if Northcote had not warned me against him, his personality would have been quite enough to put me on my guard. All the time I had been with him I had had a curious feeling that underneath his easy manner there lurked a bitter and dangerous hostility. Why he should dislike me, or rather Northcote, I had no idea, and I was equally ignorant as to whether there was any possibility of his being connected with my other unknown friends.
Under the circumstances, it seemed like asking for trouble to have accepted his invitation. I haven't got that sort of nature, however, that can sit down patiently under a mystery—especially when my life is at stake—and I was determined to get to the bottom of things as rapidly and effectually as I could. A week at Maurice's country retreat appeared to offer considerable possibilities in this line, and I was cheerfully prepared to accept any extra risk which might be involved in the process.
If I had only had some pal in whom I could place absolute trust, I think I should have felt perfectly contented. It was more the loneliness of my situation than the prospect of being murdered at a moment's notice that disturbed my natural equanimity.
I was just pondering over this problem when suddenly, like a flash of light, a brilliant idea leaped into my mind. I brought my hand down on the arm of my chair with a bang that made a respectable old gentleman at the next table nearly jump out of his skin.
Billy Logan!
Of course! What a double-blanked idiot I had been. If he had not fixed up his business with Seatons, Billy was exactly the man for my purpose. True as steel, tough as whipcord, and game for any conceivable mischief that the world could offer, he would be a fitting partner for the mad business to which I had pledged myself.
I hastily ran through my pockets for the address which he had given me. A horrible doubt seized me that I might perhaps have left it in my blue suit, but just as I was giving up hope, I found it securely tucked away in the flap of my pocket-book:
W. G. LOGAN,
34 VAUXHALL ROAD, S. W.