CHAPTER VIII
THE CAT’S TOOTH
That night I went to my room at about ten minutes before midnight, and waited for the appearance of my secret visitor.
Just as midnight struck the handle of the door slowly turned and a well-dressed, dark-mustached man of about thirty-five entered silently and bowed.
“Mr. Hargreave?” he asked with a foreign accent. “Or is it Cottingham?”
“Which you please,” I replied in a low voice, laughing.
“I have this to hand to you,” he said as he produced the portion of the visiting-card which I found fitted exactly to that which I had received from Rayne.
“Well?” I asked, inviting him to a chair and afterwards turning the key in the door. “What message have you for me?” Then I noticed for the first time that he bore in his hand a small brown leather attaché-case.
“I know you well by name, Mr. Hargreave,” he said. “You are one of us, I know. Therefore ‘The Golden Face’ sends you a message.”
“Have you seen him?” I asked.
“No,” was his reply. “Though we have been in association for several years, I always receive messages through Vincent Duperré.”
I knew that only too well. Rudolph Rayne took the most elaborate precautions to preserve a clean pair of hands himself, no matter what dirty work he planned to be carried out by others.
“Duperré saw me in London yesterday, gave me that piece of card, and told me to come here and explain matters,” the Italian went on in a low voice. “You see this case. I am to hand it to you,” and as he took it, he touched the bottom, which I saw was hinged and fell inwards in two pieces, both of which sprang back again into their places by means of strong springs. My small collar-box stood upon the dressing-table.
“You see how it works,” he said, and placing the attaché-case over the collar-box, he snatched it up and the collar-box had disappeared inside! It was an old invention of thieves and possessed no originality. I wondered that Rayne’s friends employed such a contrivance, which, of course, was useful when it became necessary that valuable objects should disappear.
“Well, and what of it?” I asked, as, opening the case, he took out my collar-box and replaced it upon the table.
“I am told that you are on very friendly terms with Lady Lydbrook. Our friend old Hesketh has been here and watched your progress – a grey-mustached man with a slight limp. I dare say you may have noticed him.”
I recollected the silent watcher who I had feared might be a detective, and who had recently left the hotel. So Rayne had set secret watch upon my movements – a fact which irritated me.
“Yes. I know Sir Owen’s wife,” I said. “Why?”
“Possibly you don’t know that she has in a small dark-green morocco case a rope of pearls worth twenty thousand, as well as some other magnificent jewels. Haven’t you seen her wearing her pearls?”
“I have,” I said, “but I put them down as artificial ones.”
“No – every one of them is real! They were a present to her from her husband on her marriage,” said the foreigner, his dark eyes glowing as he spoke. “We want them,” he whispered eagerly. “And as you know her, you’ll have to get them.”
“I shall do no such thing!” I protested quickly. “I may be employed by Mr. Rayne, but I’m not paid to commit a theft.”
My visitor looked me very straight in the face with his searching eyes, and after a moment’s pause, asked:
“Is that really your decision? Am I to report that to Duperré – that you refuse?”
“If you want to steal the woman’s pearls why don’t you do it yourself?” I suggested.
“Because I am not her friend. You have called at her room for her, Hesketh has reported. You would not be suspected, being her friend,” he added with sly persuasiveness.
“No. Tell them I refuse!” I cried, furious that such a proposition should be put to me.
The foreigner, in whom I now recognized a polished international crook, shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows. Then he asked:
“Will you not reconsider your decision, Signor Hargreave? I fear this refusal will mean a great deal to you. When ‘The Golden Face’ becomes hostile he always manages to put those who disobey him into the hands of the police. And I have knowledge that he intends you to act in this case as he directs, or – well, I fear that some unpleasantness will arise for you!”
“What do you threaten?” I demanded angrily. “I don’t know who you are – and I don’t care! One fact is plain, that you, like myself, are an agent of the man of abnormal brain known as ‘The Golden Face,’ but I tell you I refuse to become a jewel-thief.”
“Very well, if that is your irrevocable decision I will return to-morrow and report,” he answered in very good English, though he was typically Italian. “But I warn you that mischief is meant if you do not obey. Duperré told me so. Like myself you are paid to act as directed and to keep a silent tongue. Only six months ago Jean Durand, in Paris, refused to obey a demand, and to-day he is in the convict prison in Toulon serving a sentence of seven years. He attempted to reveal facts concerning ‘The Golden Face,’ but the judge at the Seine Assizes ridiculed the idea of our head director living respected and unsuspected in England. You may believe yourself safe and able to adopt a defiant attitude, but I, for one, can tell you that such a policy can only bring upon you dire misfortune. Once one becomes a servant of ‘The Golden Face’ one remains so always, extremely well paid and highly prosperous providing one is alert and shrewd, but ruined and imprisoned if one either makes a slip or grows defiant. I hope you will understand me, signor. I have been given a master-key to the hotel. It will open Lady Lydbrook’s door. Here it is.”
“But I really cannot accede to this!” I declared. “Though I have fallen into a clever trap and have assisted in certain schemes, yet I have never acted as the actual thief.”
“‘The Golden Face,’ whose marvelous activity and influence we must all admire, has decided that you must do so in this case,” he said inexorably.
I craved time to consider the matter, and after some further conversation told him I would meet him near the bandstand on the sea-front at noon next day, for we did not want to be associated in the hotel.
That night I slept but little, for I realized that if I refused I must assuredly be cast into the melting-pot as one who might, in return, give Rayne away. I thought of Lola with whom I was so madly in love, and whom I intended to eventually rescue from the criminal atmosphere in which, though innocent, she was compelled to live.
I hated to take such a downward step, though the innocent-looking little attaché-case with the steel grips and spring bottom was there by my bedside ready for use. I was torn between the path of honesty from which, alas! I had been slowly slipping ever since I had made that accursed compact with Rudolph Rayne, and my love for Lola, who had, I knew, every confidence in me, while at the same time she was growing highly suspicious of her father.
The reader will readily realize my feelings that night. I had taken a false step, and to withdraw would mean arrest, conviction and imprisonment, notwithstanding any disclosures I might make. Rudolph Rayne remained always with clean hands, the rich country gentleman and personal friend of certain Justices of the Peace, officials, and others, with whom he played golf and invited to his shooting parties on the Yorkshire moors which he rented with money stolen in divers ways and in various cities.
So, to cut a long story short, I met the mysterious Italian crook next day – and I fell, for I took the master-key and agreed to attempt the theft of Lady Lydbrook’s pearls!
I now saw through Rayne’s devilish plot. I was to be used still further as his cat’s-paw, and he had planned that because of my friendship with the pretty young woman, at his orders I was to steal her property.
I felt myself alone and in a cleft stick. That afternoon, as I sat at tea in the lounge with the woman whose jewels I was ordered to steal, I was torn by a thousand emotions, yet I pretended to be my usual self, and at my invitation she went out for a motor run between tea and dinner.
Though I laughed at my foolishness, I somehow suspected that she now viewed me with distinct misgiving. It now became necessary for me to prospect for the little morocco case in which I knew she kept her pearls. Therefore I at last summoned courage, and one evening, just before half-past seven, while she was dressing for dinner, I knocked and made excuse to ask her if she would go to the theater with me.
“Do come in,” she cried, for she was already dressed in a bright sapphire-colored gown which greatly heightened her beauty. As she admitted me, I saw the little jewel-case standing upon a tiny side-table near the window. She was not wearing her beautiful rope of pearls, therefore they were, without a doubt, safe in the case.
She thanked me and accepted, so I quickly went downstairs and told the hall porter to telephone for two stalls.
That night, on arrival back at the hotel, it occurred to me that if the little jewel-case had been left where it was my chance had now arrived. I was being forced against my will to become a thief. Rayne, the man who held me in his grip, had driven me to it and had placed the means at my disposal. To refuse would mean arrest and the loss of Lola.
We sat down in the lounge and I called for drinks – she was thirsty and would like a lemon squash, she said. Before the waiter brought them, I made leisurely excuse to go to the bureau to see if there were any letters. Instead, I rushed up to my own room, obtained the “trick” attaché-case, and carrying it along to Lady Lydbrook’s room, stealthily opened the door with the master-key which Ansaldi had given me.
All was dark within. I switched on the light, when, before me, upon the little table, I saw the small green jewel-box.
In an instant I placed the attaché-case over it and next second it had disappeared.
But as I did so, I heard a movement behind me, and, on turning, to my breathless horror saw, standing before me, the pretty, fair-haired young woman whom I had robbed!
“Well, Mr. Cottingham – or whatever your name is,” she exclaimed in a hard, altered voice as, closing the door behind her, she advanced to me with a fierce light in her eyes. “And what are you doing here, pray?”
Then, glancing at the table and noticing her jewel-case missing, she added:
“I see! You have scraped acquaintance with me in order to steal my jewels. You have them in that case in your hand!”
I stammered something. What it was I have no recollection. I only know that my words infuriated her, and she dashed out into the corridor to raise the alarm, leaving me in possession of the trick bag with the jewel-case inside.
I dashed after her, seizing her roughly by the waist as she ran down the corridor.
“Listen!” I whispered fiercely into her ear. “Listen one moment. You surely won’t give me away? Listen to what I have to tell you. Do – I – implore you,” I said. “I am no thief! I will tell you everything – and ask your advice. No harm has been done. Your pearls are here.”
“Yes,” she said, turning back upon me. “But you – the man I liked and trusted – are a common thief!”
“I admit it,” I said hoarsely as I dragged her back to her room, her dress being torn in the struggle. “I have been forced against my will into robbing you, as I will explain.”
Back in her bedroom she assumed a very serious attitude. She invited me to sit down, after I had handed back her jewel-case, and then, also seating herself in an arm-chair, she said in determination:
“Now look here, George Hargreave … you see, I know your real name. I know your game. By a word I can have you arrested, while, on the other hand, my silence would give you your liberty.”
“You will remain silent, Lady Lydbrook – I beg of you! I know that I have committed an unpardonable crime for which there is no excuse.” I thought of that strange midnight scene I had witnessed and it was on the tip of my tongue to mention it. But would it further infuriate her? So I refrained from alluding to it.
Her attitude towards me had completely altered. She was hard-mouthed and indignant, which, after all, was but natural.
“My whole future is in your hands,” I added.
She still hesitated. A word from her and not only would I be arrested, but Rayne would probably be exposed and arrested also. She seemed, I feared, to be aware of the whole organization, hence she was one of the last persons who should have been marked down as a victim. Rayne had evidently committed a fatal error.
“Well,” she said at last, “I am open to remain silent, and the matter shall never be mentioned between us – but on one condition.”
“And what is that?” I asked anxiously.
“I am in want of someone to help me. Will you do so?”
“I will do anything to serve you if you give me my liberty,” I said, much ashamed.
“Very well, then. Listen,” she said in a hard, strained voice. “If you resolve, in return for my silence, to assist me, you will be compelled to act at my orders without seeking for any motive, but in blind obedience.”
“I quite understand,” I replied. “I agree.”
No doubt she desired me to act against her enemy – the young fellow who had extracted fifty pounds from her by threat.
“You must say nothing to a soul but meet me in secret in Paris. Stay at the Hôtel Continental where I shall stay on the night of the twenty-fourth. That is next Wednesday. At ten o’clock I shall be on the terrace of the Café Vachette in the Boulevard St. Michel. Remember the day and hour, and meet me there. Then I will tell you what service I require of you. I shall leave here to-morrow, and I suppose you will leave also.” And she opened her jewel-case to reassure herself that her pearls and other ornaments were safe.
So she forgave me, shook my hand, and I went out of the room with the cold perspiration still upon me.
I made no report of my failure to Rayne, but on the following Wednesday night, after taking a room at the Continental, in Paris, an hotel which I knew well, I crossed the Seine at about half-past nine, and at ten o’clock sauntered up the boulevard to the popular, and rather Bohemian, Café Vachette, where at a little table in the corner, set well back from the pavement, I found her seated alone. She was wearing the same dark cloth coat in which I had seen her when she met the mysterious stranger at night at Eastbourne.
“Well? So you’ve kept the appointment, Mr. Cottingham!” she laughed cheerily as I sank into a chair beside her. “You’ll order a drink and pay for mine, eh?” she laughed.
Then when I had swallowed my liqueur, she suggested that we should stroll down the boulevard and talk.
This we did. The proposition which she made without much preliminary held me aghast.
“Though I like you very much, Mr. Cottingham,” she said as we conversed in low voices, “I cannot conceal from myself that you are a thief. Well, now to be perfectly frank, I want a thief’s help – and I know that, as we are friends, you will assist me. You know my inordinate love of jewels. Indeed, I wouldn’t have married Owen if he had not given me my pearls. And you know the other ornaments I have – which I might very well never have seen again, eh?”
“I know,” I said.
“Well, now, at the Continental there is at the present moment staying a Madame Rodanet, the widow of the millionaire chocolate manufacturer. She possesses among her jewels the famous Dent du Chat – the Cat’s Tooth Ruby. It is called so because it is a perfect stone and curiously pointed, the only one of its kind in the world. I want it, and you must get it for me – as the price of my silence regarding the affair at Eastbourne.”
I held my breath.
Her suggestion appalled me. I was to commit a second theft as the price of the first! The pretty wife of the great Sheffield ironmaster was a thief herself at heart! Truly, the situation was a strange and bewildering one.
I protested, and pointed out the risk and difficulties, but she met all my arguments with remarkable cleverness.
“I know Madame,” she said. “I will make your path smooth for you, and I myself will spirit the jewel out of France so that no possible suspicion can attach to you,” was her reply. “Will you leave it all to me?”
We walked on down the well-lit boulevard, my brain a-whirl, until at last, pressed hard by her, I consented to act as she directed.
I found, in the course of the next three days, that Lady Lydbrook’s whole life was centered upon the possession of jewels of great value, and I was amazed to discover how very cleverly she plotted the coup which I was to carry out.
One evening, after dinner, she introduced me casually to the rich widow, an ugly overdressed old woman who was wearing as a pendant the famous Dent du Chat. It was, to say the least, a wonderful gem. But I passed as a person of no importance.
Next night with Lady Lydbrook’s help I was, however, able to get into the old woman’s bedroom and carry out my contract for the preservation of silence concerning the affair at Eastbourne.
I shall always recollect the moment when I slipped the pendant into Lady Lydbrook’s soft hand as she stood in déshabille at the half-opened door of her bedroom and her quick whispered words:
“I shall be away by the first train. Stay here to-morrow and cross to London the next day. Au revoir! Let us meet again soon!” And she gripped my hand warmly in hers and closed her door noiselessly.
Ah! A week later I learned how, by Rayne’s devilish cunning, I had been tricked. When I knew the truth, I bit my lips to the blood.
The widow Rodanet had, it appeared, been staying at the Palais, in Biarritz, when Duperré and I had been there. She had been marked down by Rayne as a victim, for the Dent du Chat was a stone of enormous value.
The planned robbery had, however, gone wrong and we had been compelled to return to London. Then Rayne had conceived the sinister idea of sending me to Lady Lydbrook – who was not Sir Owen’s wife at all but one of his agents like myself, and whose real name was Betty Tressider – a girl-thief whose chief possession was a rope of imitation pearls.
I, alas! dropped into the trap, whereupon she, on her part, compelled me to steal old Madame Rodanet’s wonderful ruby; and thus, though I confess it to my shame, I became an actual thief and one of Rudolph Rayne’s active agents. What happened to me further I will now tell you.
CHAPTER IX
LOLA IS AGAIN SUSPICIOUS
The devilish cunning of Rudolph Rayne was indeed well illustrated by the clever trap which he had set for me by the instrumentality of that pretty woman-thief, Betty Tressider, who called herself Lady Lydbrook.
I now realized by Rayne’s overbearing attitude that he had, by a ruse, succeeded in his object in compelling me to become an active accomplice of the gang.
When back again once more in Yorkshire, I was delighted to find that Lola had returned from her visit to Devonshire. She was just as sweet and charming as ever, but just a trifle too inquisitive regarding my visits to Eastbourne and Paris. I was much ashamed of the theft I had been forced to commit in order to preserve secrecy regarding my first downfall, hence rather awkwardly, I fear, I evaded all her questions.
Nevertheless, we were a great deal in each other’s company, and had many confidential chats. I loved her, yet somehow I could not be frank and open. How could I without revealing the secret of her father?
One spring afternoon we had been playing tennis and were sitting together in the pretty arbor at the end of the well-kept lawn, both smoking cigarettes after a strenuous game, when suddenly she turned to me, saying:
“Do you know, Mr. Hargreave, I don’t like the look of things at all! Mr. Duperré is not playing a straight game – of that I’m sure!”
“Oh – why?” I asked with affected ignorance.
“I have again overheard something. Yesterday I was just going into the morning-room, the door of which stood ajar, when I heard father warning Duperré of something – I couldn’t quite catch what it was. Only he said that he didn’t approve of such drastic measures, and that ‘the old man might lose his life.’ To that Duperré replied: ‘And if he did, nobody would be any wiser.’ What can it mean?”
“I fear I am just as ignorant as yourself,” I replied, looking the arch-crook’s pretty daughter full in the face.
“Well,” she said, “I know I can trust you, Mr. Hargreave. I have only you in whom I can confide.”
“Yes,” I assured her, bending across to her. “You can trust me implicitly. I, too, am just as puzzled as yourself.”
“I know they have some business schemes together, Madame has often told me so,” went on the girl. “But while I was away at Keswick I purposely got into conversation with an old gentleman named Lloyd at Madame’s suggestion, as she told me our acquaintanceship would be useful to some business scheme of Vincent’s. It appears that he wanted to become acquainted with Mr. Lloyd.”
“And you acted upon her suggestion?” I asked, horrified that she was becoming the decoy of that circle of super-crooks.
“Yes, though it was against my will,” was her reply. “I contrived to allow him to have an opportunity to chat with me, and I afterwards introduced Madame as my companion.”
“And what followed?” I asked eagerly.
“Oh, he was very often with us, and took us for rides in his car all through the Lakes. The hotel was full of smart people, and I think they envied us.”
I was silent for a moment.
“Have you any idea who Mr. Lloyd may be?” I asked.
“No, except that Madame told me that he is immensely rich. A few days later father came over to Keswick and stayed a few days and met him. But the whole affair was most mysterious. I can’t make it out,” declared the girl. “Mr. Duperré never met him after all.”
“We must remain patient and watch,” I urged.
This we did, and very soon there came a strange development of that carefully planned introduction.
One day, on entering Rayne’s study, I found him in conversation with a tall, dark, fashionably dressed foreign woman – Spanish, I believed her to be. As I went in unexpectedly she seemed to have risen and assumed a fierce defiant attitude, while he, seated at his writing-table, was smoking one of his favorite expensive cigars and contemplating her with amusement.
“My dear Madame,” he said, laughing, “pray sit down and let us discuss the matter coolly. I do not wish you to act in any way to jeopardize yourself. I have made certain plans; it is for you and your friends to carry them out. And I know how clever is your friend Louis Larroca. So there is no need for apprehension. Besides, if you trust me, as you have done hitherto, you will find the whole affair works quite easily – and without the least risk to yourselves.”
Next second he realized that I had entered, and turning to me, said quite quietly:
“I’m engaged just now, Hargreave.”
So I was forced to withdraw, full of wonder as to the nature of the latest conspiracy.
I found that a hired car from a garage at Thirsk was awaiting the lady, who, I learned from the young footman, had given her name as Madame Martoz.
A quarter of an hour later she drove away without, so far as I could discern, having seen either Duperré or his wife.
Next day Rayne, whom I drove into York in the new two-seater Vauxhall, told me as we went along that he was having a small house-party on the following Thursday.
“Just a few personal friends,” he added.
I smiled within myself, for I knew the character of the personal friends of “The Golden Face.”
Yet to my surprise, when Thursday came I found assembled half a dozen perfectly honest and respectable men and their wives, and in some cases their daughters. One was a London barrister, another a well-known member of Parliament, a third a rich Leeds manufacturer, while the others were more or less well known, and certainly all of the highest respectability. When Rayne gave a house-party he always did the thing well, and the days passed in a round of well-ordered enjoyment, motoring, golf, tennis and visits to neighbors to the full delight of everyone. In the evening there were dancing and billiards, Duperré being the life and soul of the smart party.
On the fourth day, about twelve o’clock, Lola, who had made friends with Enid Claverton, the barrister’s daughter, who was about the same age as herself, came to me in the garage, and said:
“Mr. Lloyd, whom we met at Keswick, has just arrived. He’s come on a visit. Father told me nothing about it. Did he tell you?”
“Not a word,” I replied, wondering why the person in question had been enticed into the spider’s parlor. No doubt the highly respectable house-party had been invited to form a suitable setting for some secret villainy.
I met the new guest just before luncheon and found him a white-bearded, bald-headed, fresh-complexioned and rather dapper little man, whose merry eyes and easy-going manner marked him as a bon vivant and something after Rayne’s own style.
He greeted me when in the big hall with its long armorial windows, its old family portraits, and the many trophies of the chase that had been secured by the noble family who were previous owners of the Hall. Rayne introduced me as his secretary.
I looked into the smartly dressed old fellow’s blue eyes and wondered what foul plot against him had emanated from the abnormal brain of the arch-criminal who was his host. I smiled when I reflected on the horror of those guests did they but know who Rudolph Rayne really was. But in their ignorance they enjoyed his unbounded hospitality and voted him a real good sort – as outwardly he was.
My time was occupied mostly in driving the Rolls, but when at home I watched narrowly yet was utterly unable to discern why the friendship of Mr. Gordon Lloyd, whose profession or status I failed to discover, had been so cleverly secured and carefully cultivated until he had now become a welcome guest under Rayne’s roof.
There was a sinister design somewhere, but in what direction? Rudolph Rayne never lifted a finger or smiled upon a stranger without some evil intent by which to enrich himself. Usurers in the City have always been clever people backed by capital, but this super-crook had, I learned, risen in a few years from a small bookmaker in Balham to control the biggest combine of Thiefdom ever known in the annals of our time.
One day I drove Mr. Lloyd with Lola and a Mrs. Charlesworth, one of the guests, into Ripon to see the cathedral. We had inspected the fine transepts, the choir and the famous Saxon crypt – of which there is only one other in England – and had gone to the old Unicorn to tea.
We had sat down when, chancing to glance around, I saw, to my surprise, seated in a corner alone, the handsome Madame Martoz, who had had that confidential interview with Lola’s father some days before. Our recognition was mutual, I saw, for she lowered her dark eyes and busied herself with the teapot before her. Yet I noticed that with covert glances she was still regarding us with some curiosity.
Ten minutes later a tall, swarthy-faced man with well-trimmed black mustache, a typical Spaniard, lounged in and sat at her table, while she gave him tea. Mr. Lloyd, Lola and Mrs. Charlesworth were busily chatting, but I noted that the Spanish woman whispered some words to her companion which caused him to glance in our direction. Afterwards they both rose and went out.
Later, when we had finished our tea, I went to the office in order to pay – for on such excursions I always paid on Rayne’s behalf – and when doing so, I asked casually:
“Have you a Spanish gentleman staying here – a Mr. Larroca?”
“No, sir,” replied the rather stout, pleasant bookkeeper. “We have a Mr. Bellido, a Spanish gentleman. He’s just gone out with Madame Calleja, who is also Spanish, though they both speak English well.”
I thanked her and rejoined my party. At least I had ascertained the names under which they were known, for Larroca was no doubt the real name of Bellido.
What mischief was intended? It was evident that we had been purposely sent by Rayne to that hotel in Ripon in order that Madame and her accomplice should see us, so that we could be identified again. Certainly it was unnecessary for them to see Lola, Mrs. Charlesworth or myself. We had, I felt convinced, made that excursion in order that old Mr. Lloyd should be seen and known to the mysterious pair.
Two days afterwards our guests dispersed, but Mr. Lloyd, pressed by Madame Duperré, remained behind.
To me he seemed one of those wealthy, rather faddy men whom one encounters sometimes in the best hotels, men who move up and down the country aimlessly during the spring and summer and in winter go abroad for a few months; men with piles of well-battered and be-labelled baggage whose home is always in hotels and whose chief object in life is to dress in the fashion of the younger generation, to be seen everywhere, to give cosy little luncheon and dinner-parties, and be the “fairy” uncle of any pretty girl they may come across.
We have lots of such in England to-day. Ask the chef-de-réception of any of our smartest hotels, and they will reel off the names of half a dozen or so elderly bachelors, widowers or wife-quarrelers with huge incomes who prefer to pass along the line of least resistance in domesticity – the private suite in an up-to-date hotel.
Mr. Gordon Lloyd was one of such, and it seemed that Rudolph Rayne, who now treated me with the greatest intimacy because he saw that he had drawn me so completely into his net, had become his dearest friend.
On the night when the last guest had departed I sat with the pair over the port, after Lola and Madame had left the dinner-table.
“Really,” said the merry old gentleman with his glass of ’74 poised in his hand, “I don’t know whether I shall go back to Colwyn Bay again this winter – or go abroad. I’ve no ties, and I’m getting fed up. I haven’t been abroad since the war.”
“Go abroad, my dear fellow,” said Rayne. “The change would certainly do you good – go somewhere in the south. The Riviera is played out. Why not go to Sicily?”