The Box with Broken Seals | Page 9

"What is it? Speak quickly, please."
"You seem rather nervy up there. I'm off to Europe to-morrow on the
City of Boston, and I should like to see you before I go."
There was a moment's silence.
"Why don't you come up here, then?"

"I'd rather not," Jocelyn Thew observed laconically. "The fact of it is, I
have a friend around who doesn't seem to care about losing sight of me.
If you are going to be anywhere around near Jimmy's, about seven
o'clock--"
"That goes," was the somewhat agitated reply. "Ring off now. There's
some one else waiting to speak."
Jocelyn Thew paid for his telephone call and walked leisurely out of
the hotel with a smile upon his lips. The stimulus of danger was like
wine to him. The little man was choosing a cigar at the stall. As he
leaned down to light it, Jocelyn Thew's practiced eye caught the shape
of a revolver in his hip pocket.
"English," he murmured softly to himself. "Probably one of Crawshay's
lot, preparing a report for him when he returns from Chicago."
With an anticipatory smile, he entered upon the task of shaking off his
unwelcome follower. He passed with the confident air of a member into
a big club situated in an adjoining block, left it almost at once by a side
entrance, found a taxicab, drove to a subway station up-town, and
finally caught an express back again to Fourteenth Street. Here he
entered without hesitation a small, foreign-looking restaurant which
intruded upon the pavement only a few yards from the iron staircase by
which he descended from the station. There were two faded evergreen
shrubs in cracked pots at the bottom of the steps, soiled muslin curtains
drawn across the lower half of the windows, dejected-looking green
shutters which, had the appearance of being permanently nailed against
the walls, and a general air of foreign and tawdry profligacy. Jocelyn
Thew stepped into a room on the right-hand side of the entrance and,
making his way to the window, glanced cautiously out. There was no
sign anywhere of the little man. Then he turned towards the bar, around
which a motley group of Italians and Hungarians were gathered. The
linen-clad negro who presided there met his questioning glance with a
slight nod, and the visitor passed without hesitation through a curtained
opening to the rear of the place, along a passage, up a flight of narrow
stairs until he arrived at a door on the first landing. He knocked and
was at once bidden to enter. For a moment he listened as though to the

sounds below. Then he slipped into the room and closed the door
behind him.
The apartment was everything which might have been expected, save
for the profusion of flowers. The girl who greeted him, however, was
different. She was of medium height and dark, with dark brown hair
plaited close back from an almost ivory-coloured forehead. Her grey
eyes were soft and framed in dark lines. Her eyebrows were noticeable,
her mouth full but shapely. Her discontented expression changed
entirely as she held out both her hands to her visitor. Her welcome was
eager, almost passionate.
"Mr. Thew!" she exclaimed.
He held up his hand as though to check further speech, and listened for
a moment intently.
"How are things here?" he asked.
"Quiet," she assured him. "You couldn't have come at a better time.
Every one's away. Is there anything wrong?"
"I am being followed," he told her, "and I don't like it--just now, at any
rate."
"Any one else coming?" she enquired.
"Rentoul," he told her. "He is in a mortal fright at having to come. They
found his wireless, and they are watching his house. I must see him,
though, before I go away."
"Going away?" she echoed. "When? When are you going?"
"To-morrow," he replied, "I sail for London."
She seemed for a moment absolutely speechless, consumed by a sort of
silent passion that found no outlet in words. She gripped a fancy mat
which covered an ornate table by her side, and dragged a begilded vase
on to the floor without even noticing it. She leaned towards him. The

little lines at the sides of her eyes were suddenly deep-riven like scars.
Her eyes themselves were smouldering with fire.
"You are going to England!"
"That is what I propose," he assented. "I am sailing on the City of
Boston to-morrow afternoon."
"But the risk!" she faltered. "I thought that you dared not set foot in
England."
"There is risk," he admitted. "It is not easy to amuse oneself anywhere
without it. I have been offered a hundred thousand pounds to
superintend the conveyance of certain documents and a certain letter to
Berlin. The adventure appeals to me, and I have undertaken