The Vanished Messenger | Page 4

a natural
sullenness was added now the nervous distaste of one who approaches
a disagreeable task.
"I want, if I may, to ask you a favour," he continued. "If you don't feel
like granting it, please say no and I'll be off at once. I am on my way to
The Hague. I was to have gone by the boat train which left half an hour
ago. I had taken a seat, and they assured me that the train would not
leave for at least ten minutes, as the mails weren't in. I went down the
platform to buy some papers and stood talking for a moment or two
with a man whom I know. I suppose I must have been longer than I
thought, or they must have been quicker than they expected with the

mailbags. Anyhow, when I came back the train was moving. They
would not let me jump in. I could have done it easily, but that fool of an
inspector over there held me."
"They are very strict in this country, I know."
Mr. Dunster agreed, without change of expression. "Please go on."
"I saw you arrive - just too late for the train. While I was swearing at
the inspector, I heard you speak to the station-master. Since then I have
made inquiries. I understand that you have ordered a special train to
Harwich."
Mr. John P. Dunster said nothing, only his keen, clear eyes seemed all
the time to be questioning this gloomy-looking but apparently harmless
young man.
"I went to the station-master's office," the latter continued, "and tried to
persuade them to let me ride in the guard's van of your special, but he
made a stupid fuss about it, so I thought I'd better come to you. Can I
beg a seat in your compartment, or anywhere in the train, as far as
Harwich?"
Mr. Dunster avoided, for the moment, a direct reply. He had the air of a
man who, whether reasonably or unreasonably, disliked the request
which had been made to him.
"You are particularly anxious to cross to-night?" he asked.
"I am," the youth admitted emphatically. "I never ought to have risked
missing the train. I am due at The Hague to-morrow."
Mr. John P. Dunster moved his position a little. The light from a
rain-splashed gas lamp shone now full upon the face of his suppliant: a
boy's face, which would have been pleasant and even handsome but for
the discontented mouth, the lowering forehead, and a shadow in the
eyes, as though, boy though he certainly was in years, he had already,
at some time or another, looked upon the serious things of life. His

nervousness, too, was almost grotesque. He had the air of disliking
immensely this asking a favour from a stranger. Mr. Dunster
appreciated all these things, but there were reasons which made him
slow in granting the young man's request.
"What is the nature of your pressing business at The Hague?" he asked.
The youth hesitated.
"I am afraid," he said grimly, "that you will not think it of much
importance. I am on my way to play in a golf tournament there."
"A golf tournament at The Hague!" Mr. Dunster repeated, in a slightly
altered tone. "What is your name?"
"Gerald Fentolin."
Mr. Dunster stood quite still for a moment. He was possessed of a
wonderful memory, and he was conscious at that moment of a subtle
appeal to it. Fentolin! There was something in the name which seemed
to him somehow associated with the things against which he was on
guard. He stood with puzzled frown, reminiscent for several minutes,
unsuccessful. Then he suddenly smiled, and moving underneath the gas
lamp, shook open an evening paper which he had been carrying. He
turned over the pages until he arrived at the sporting items. Here, in
almost the first paragraph, he saw the name which had happened to
catch his eye a moment or two before:
GOLF AT THE HAGUE
Among the entrants for the tournament which commences to-morrow,
are several well-known English players, including Mr. Barwin, Mr.
Parrott, Mr. Hillard and Mr. Gerald Fentolin.
Mr. Dunster folded up the newspaper and replaced it in his pocket. He
turned towards the young man.
"So you're a golfer, are you?"

"I play a bit," was the somewhat indifferent reply.
Mr. Dunster turned to another part of the paper and pointed to the great
black head-lines.
"Seems a queer thing for a young fellow like you to be worrying about
games," he remarked. "I haven't been in this country more than a few
hours, but I expected to find all the young men getting ready."
"Getting ready for what?"
"Why, to fight, of course," Mr. Dunster replied. "Seems pretty clear
that there's an expeditionary force being