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Inspector Jacks studied the
brass plate for a moment, and
then rang the patients' bell.
The former, he noticed was very
much in want of cleaning, and
for a doctor's residence there
was a certain lack of smartness
about the house and its appointments
which betokened a limited practice.
The railing in front was broken,
and no pretence had been made
at keeping the garden in order.
Inspector Jacks had time to notice
these things, for it was not
until after his second summons
that the door was opened by Dr.
Whiles himself.
"Good morning!" the
latter said tentatively. Then,
with
a slight air of disappointment,
he recognized his visitor.
"Good morning, doctor!" Inspector
Jacks replied. "You haven't forgotten
me, I hope? I came down to see
you a short time ago, respecting
the man who was knocked down
by a motor car and treated by
you on a certain evening."
The doctor nodded.
"Will you come in?" he
asked.
He led the way into a somewhat
dingy waiting room. A copy of
the FIELD, a month old, a dog-eared
magazine, and a bound volume
of GOOD WORDS were spread upon
the table. The room itself, except
for a few chairs, was practically
bare.
"I do not wish to take up too
much of your time, Dr. Whiles," the
Inspector began,--
The doctor laughed shortly.
"You needn't bother about that," he
said. "I'm tired of making a
bluff. My time isn't any too
well occupied."
The Inspector glanced at his
watch,--it was a few minutes
past twelve.
"If you are really not busy," he
said, "I was about to suggest
to you that you should come back
to town with me and lunch. I
do not expect, of course, to
take up your day for nothing," he
continued. "You will understand,
as a professional man, that when
your services are required by
the authorities, they expect
and are willing to pay for them."
"But what use can I be to you?" the
doctor asked. "You know all about
the man whom I fixed up on the
night of the murder. There's
nothing more to tell you about
that. I'd as soon go up to town
and lunch with you as not, but
if you think that I've anything
more to tell you, you'll only
be disappointed."
The Inspector nodded.
"I'm quite content to run the
risk of that," he said. "Of course," he
continued, "it does not follow
in the least that this person
was in any way connected with
the murder. In fact, so far as
I can tell at present, the chances
are very much against it. But
at the same time it would interest
my chief if you were able to
identify him."
The doctor nodded.
"I begin to understand," he
said.
"If you will consider a day
spent up in town equivalent to
the treatment of twenty-five
patients at your ordinary scale," Inspector
Jacks said, "I shall be glad
if you would accompany me there
by the next train. We will lunch
together first, and look for
our friend later in the afternoon."
The doctor did not attempt
to conceal the fact that he found
this suggestion entirely satisfactory.
In less than half an hour, the
two men were on their way to
town.
Curiously enough, Penelope
and Prince Maiyo met that morning
for the first time in several
days. They were both guests of
the Duchess of Devenham at a
large luncheon party at the Savoy
Restaurant. Penelope felt a little
shiver when she saw him coming
down the stairs. Somehow or other,
she had dreaded this meeting,
yet when it came, she knew that
it was a relief. There was no
change in his manner, no trace
of anxiety in his smooth, unruffled
face. He seemed, if possible,
to have grown younger, to walk
more buoyantly. His eyes met
hers frankly, his smile was wholly
unembarrassed. It was not possible
for a man to bear himself thus
who stood beneath the great shadow!
So far from avoiding her, he
came over to her side directly
he had greeted his hostess.
"This morning," he said, "I
heard some good news. You are
to be a fellow guest at Devenham."
"I am afraid," she admitted, "that
of my two aunts I impose most
frequently upon the one where
my claims are the slightest.
The Duchess is so good-natured."
"She is charming," the Prince
declared. "I am looking forward
to my visit immensely. I think
I am a little weary of London.
A visit to the country seems
to me most delightful. They tell
me, too, that your spring gardens
are wonderful. What London suffers
from, I think, at this time of
the year, is a lack of flowers.
We want something to remind us
that the spring is coming, besides
these occasional gleams of blue
sky and very occasional bursts
of sunshine."
"You are a sentimentalist,
Prince," she declared, smiling.
"No, I think not," he answered
seriously. "I love all beautiful
things. I think that there are
many men as well as women who
are like that. Shall I be very
rude and say that in the matter
of climate and flowers one grows,
perhaps, to expect a little more
in my own country."
An uncontrollable impulse moved
her. She leaned a little towards
him.
"Climate and flowers only?" she
murmured. "What about the third
essential?"
"Miss Penelope," he said under
his breath, "I have to admit
that one must travel further
afield for Heaven's greatest
gift. Even then one can only
worship. The stars are denied
to us."
The Duchess came sailing over
to them.
"Every one is here," she said. "I
hope that you are all hungry.
After lunch, Prince, I want you
to speak to General Sherrif.
He has been dying to meet you,
to talk over your campaign together
in Manchuria. There's another
man who is anxious to meet you,
too,--Professor Spenlove. He
has been to Japan for a month,
and thinks about writing a book
on your customs. I believe he
looks to you to correct his impressions."
"So long as he does not ask
me to correct his proofs!" the
Prince murmured.
"That is positively the most
unkind thing I have ever heard
you say," the Duchess declared. "Come
along, you good people. Jules
has promised me a new omelet,
on condition that we sit down
at precisely half-past one. If
we are five minutes late, he
declines to send it up."
They took their places at the
round table which had been reserved
for the Duchess of Devenham,--not
very far, Penelope remembered,
from the table at which they
had sat for dinner a little more
than a fortnight ago. The recollection
of that evening brought her a
sudden realization of the tragedy
which seemed to have taken her
life into its grip. Again the
Prince sat by her side. She watched
him with eyes in which there
was a gleam sometimes almost
of horror. Easy and natural as
usual, with his pleasant smile
and simple speech, he was making
himself agreeable to one of the
older ladies of the party, to
whom, by chance, no one had addressed
more than a word or so. It was
always the same--always like
this, she realized, with a sudden
keen apprehension of this part
of the man's nature. If there
was a kindness to be done, a
thoughtful action, it was not
only he who did it but it was
he who first thought of it. The
papers during the last few days
had been making public an incident
which he had done his best to
keep secret. He had signalized
his arrival in London, some months
ago, by going overboard from
a police boat into the Thames
to rescue a half-drunken lighterman,
and when the Humane Society had
voted him their medal, he had
accepted it only on condition
that the presentation was private
and kept out of the papers. It
was not one but fifty kindly
deeds which stood to his credit.
Always with the manners of a
Prince--gracious, courteous,
and genial--never a word had
passed his lips of evil towards
any human being. The barriers
today between the smoking room
and the drawing room are shadowy
things, and she knew very well
that he was held in a somewhat
curious respect by men, as a
person to whom it was impossible
to tell a story in which there
was any shadow of indelicacy.
The ways of the so-called man
of world seemed in his presence
as though they must be the ways
of some creature of a different
and a lower stage of existence.
A young man whom he had once
corrected had christened him,
half jestingly, Sir Galahad,
and certainly his life in London,
a life which had to bear all
the while the test of the limelight,
had appeared to merit some such
title. These thoughts chased
one another through her mind
as she looked at him and marvelled.
Surely those other things must
be part of a bad nightmare! It
was not possible that such a
man could be associated with
wrong-doing--such manner of wrong-doing!
Even while these thoughts passed
through her brain, he turned
to talk to her, and she felt
at once that little glow of pleasure
which the sound of his voice
nearly always evoked.
"I am looking forward so much," he
said, "to my stay at Devenham.
You know, it will not be very
much longer that I shall have
the opportunity of accepting
such invitations."
"You mean that the time is
really coming when we shall lose
you?" she asked suddenly.
"When my work is finished,
I return home," he answered. "I
fancy that it will not be very
long now."
"When you do leave England," she
asked after a moment's pause, "do
you go straight to Japan?"
He bowed.
"With the Continent I have
finished," he said. "The cruiser
which His Majesty has sent to
fetch me waits even now at Southampton."
"You speak of your work," she
remarked, "as though you had
been collecting material for
a book."
He smiled.
"I have been busy collecting
information in many ways," he
said,--"trying to live your life
and feel as you feel, trying
to understand those things in
your country, and in other countries
too, which seem at first so strange
to us who come from the other
side of the East."
"And the end of it all?" she
asked.
His eyes gleamed for a moment
with a light which she did not
understand. His smile was tolerant,
even genial, but his face remained
like the face of a sphinx.
"It is for the good of Japan
I came," he said, "for her good
that I have stayed here so long.
At the same time it has been
very pleasant. I have met with
great kindness."
She leaned a little forward
so as to look into his face.
The impassivity of his features
was like a wall before her.
"After all," she said, "I
suppose it is a period of probation.
You are like a schoolboy already
who is looking forward to his
holidays. You will be very happy
when you return."
"I shall be very happy indeed," he
admitted simply. "Why not?" I
am a true son of Japan, and,
for every true son of his country,
absence from her is as hard a
thing to be borne as absence
from one's own family."
Somerfield, who was sitting
on her other side, insisted at
last upon diverting her attention.
"Penelope," he declared, lowering
his voice a little, "it isn't
fair. You never have a word to
say to me when the Prince is
here."
She smiled.
"You must remember that he
is going away very soon, Charlie," she
reminded him.
"Good job, too!" Somerfield
muttered, sotto voce.
"And then," Penelope continued,
with the air of not having heard
her companion's last remark, "he
possesses also a very great attraction.
He is absolutely unlike any other
human being I ever met or heard
of."
Somerfield glanced across at
his rival with lowering brows.
"I've nothing to say against
the fellow," he remarked, "except
that it seems queer nowadays
to run up against a man of his
birth who is not a sportsman,--in
the sense of being fond of sport,
I mean," he corrected himself
quickly.
"Sometimes I wonder," Penelope
said thoughtfully, "whether such
speeches as the one which you
have just made do not indicate
something totally wrong in our
modern life. You, for instance,
have no profession, Charlie,
and you devote your life to a
systematic course of what is
nothing more or less than pleasure-seeking.
You hunt or you shoot, you play
polo or golf, you come to town
or you live in the country, entirely
according to the seasons. If
any one asked you why you had
not chosen a profession, you
would as good as tell them that
it was because you were a rich
man and had no need to work for
your living. That is practically
what it comes to. You Englishmen
work only if you need money.
If you do not need money, you
play. The Prince is wealthy,
but his profession was ordained
for him from the moment when
he left the cradle. The end and
aim of his life is to serve his
country, and I believe that he
would consider it sacrilege if
he allowed any slighter things
to divert at any time his mind
from its main purpose. He would
feel like a priest who has broken
his ordination vows."
"That's all very well," Somerfield
said coolly, "but there's nothing
in life nowadays to make us quite
so strenuous as that."
"Isn't there?" Penelope answered. "You
are an Englishman, and you should
know. Are you convinced, then,
that your country today is at
the height of her prosperity,
safe and sound, bound to go on
triumphant, prosperous, without
the constant care of her men?"
Somerfield looked up at her
in growing amazement.
"What on earth's got hold of
you, Penelope?" he asked. "Have
you been reading the sensational
papers, or stuffing yourself
up with jingoism, or what?"
She laughed.
"None of those things, I can
assure you," she said. "A man
like the Prince makes one think,
because, you see, every standard
of life we have is a standard
of comparison. When one sees
the sort of man he is, one wonders.
When one sees how far apart he
is from you Englishmen in his
ideals and the way he spends
his life, one wonders again.
Somerfield shrugged his shoulders.
"We do well enough," he said. "Japan
is the youngest of the nations.
She has a long way to go to catch
us up."
"We do well enough!" she repeated
under her breath. "There was
a great city once which adopted
that as her motto,--people dig
up mementoes of her sometimes
from under the sands."
Somerfield looked at her in
an aggrieved fashion.
"Well," he said, "I
thought that this was to be
an amusing
luncheon party."
"You should have talked more
to Lady Grace," she answered. "I
am sure that she is quite ready
to believe that you are perfection,
and the English army the one
invincible institution in the
world. You mustn't take me too
seriously today, Charlie. I have
a headache, and I think that
it has made me dull." . . .
They trooped out into the foyer
in irregular fashion to take
their coffee. The Prince and
Penelope were side by side.
"What I like about your restaurant
life," the Prince said, "is the
strange mixture of classes which
it everywhere reveals."
"Those two, for instance," Penelope
said, and then stopped short.
The Prince followed her slight
gesture. Inspector Jacks and
Dr. Spencer Whiles were certainly
just a little out of accord with
their surroundings. The detective's
clothes were too new and his
companion's too old. The doctor's
clothes indeed were as shabby
as his waiting room, and he sat
where the sunlight was merciless.
"How singular," the Prince
remarked with a smile, "that
you should have pointed those
two men out! One of them I know,
and, if you will excuse me for
a moment, I should like to speak
to him."
Penelope was not capable of
any immediate answer. The Prince,
with a kindly and yet gracious
smile, walked over to Inspector
Jacks, who rose at once to his
feet.
"I hope you have quite recovered,
Mr. Inspector," the Prince said,
holding out his hand in friendly
fashion. "I have felt very guilty
over your indisposition. I am
sure that I keep my rooms too
close for English people."
"Thank you, Prince," the Inspector
answered, "I am perfectly well
again. In fact, I have not felt
anything of my little attack
since."
The Prince smiled.
"I am glad," he said. "Next
time you are good enough to pay
me a visit, I will see that you
do not suffer in the same way."
He nodded kindly and rejoined
his friends. The Inspector resumed
his seat and busied himself with
relighting his cigar. He purposely
did not even glance at his companion.
"Who was that?" the doctor
asked curiously. "Did you call
him Prince?"
Inspector Jacks sighed. This
was a disappointment to him!
"His name is Prince Maiyo," he
said slowly. "He is a Japanese.
The doctor looked across the
restaurant with puzzled face.
"It's queer," he said, "how
all these Japanese seem to one
to look so much alike, and yet--"
He broke off in the middle
of his sentence.
"You are thinking of your friend
of the other night?" the Inspector
remarked.
"I was," the doctor admitted. "For
a moment it seemed to me like
the same man with a different
manner."
Inspector Jacks was silent.
He puffed steadily at his cigar.
"You don't suppose," he asked
quietly, "that it could have
been the same man?"
The doctor was still looking
across the room.
"I could not tell," he said. "I
should like to see him again.
I wasn't prepared, and there
was something so altered in his
tone and the way he carried himself.
And yet--"
The pause was expressive. Inspector
Jacks' eyes brightened. He hated
to feel that his day had been
altogether wasted.
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