The Wheel O Fortune | Page 6

he looked up at the sky. "Is there
a new moon?" he asked himself, gravely. "Am I cracked? Why did I
pitch into that chap? If I'm not careful, I shall get myself into trouble
to-day. I wonder if Jack Seymour will lend me enough to take me to
South Africa? They say that war is brewing there. That is what I
want--gore, bomb-shells, more gore. If I stay in London--"
Then he encountered a procession coming up Northumberland Avenue.

Police, mounted and on foot, headed it. Behind marched the
unemployed, thousands of them.
"If I stay in London," he continued, quite seriously, "I shall pick out a
beefy policeman and fight him. Then I shall get locked up, and my
name will be in the papers, and my uncle will see it, and have a fit, and
die. I don't want my uncle to have a fit, and die, or I shall feel that I am
responsible for his death. So I must emigrate."
Suddenly he recalled the words and manner of the Baron von Kerber.
They came to him with the vividness of a new impression. He sought
for the card in his pocket. "Baron Franz von Kerber, 118, Queen's Gate,
W.," it read.
"Sounds like an Austrian name," he reflected. "But the girl was English,
a thoroughbred, too. What was it he said? 'Work of the right sort, for a
man with brains and pluck.' Well, I shall give this joker a call. If he
wants me to tackle anything short of crime, I'm his man. Failing him, I
shall see Jack to-morrow, when he is off duty."
A red banner was staggering up Northumberland Avenue, and he
caught a glimpse of a fat man in the midst of the lean ones.
"Oh, dash those fellows, they give me the hump," he growled, and he
turned his back on them a second time. But no military pomp or startled
horses offered new adventure that day. He wandered about the streets,
ate a slow luncheon, counted his money, seventeen shillings all told,
went into the British Museum, and dawdled through its galleries until
he was turned out. Then he bought a newspaper, drank some tea, and
examined the shipping advertisements.
His mind was fixed on South Africa. Somehow, it never occurred to
him that the fur-clothed Baron might find him suitable employment.
Nevertheless, he went to 118, Queen's Gate, at seven o'clock. The
footman who opened the door, seemed to be expecting him.
"Mr. King?" said the man.

This struck Royson as distinctly amusing.
"Something like that," he answered, but the footman had the face of a
waxen image.
"This way, Mr. King."
And Royson followed him up a wide staircase, marveling at the aptness
of the name.
CHAPTER II
THE COMPACT
The Baron Franz von Kerber was in evening dress. He was engrossed
in the examination of a faded, or discolored, document when Royson
was shown into an apartment, nominally the drawing-room, which the
present tenant had converted into a spacious study. An immense map of
the Red Sea littoral, drawn and colored by hand, hung on one of the
walls; there were several chart cases piled on a table; and a goodly
number of books, mainly ancient tomes, were arranged on shelves or
stacked on floor and chairs. This was the room of a worker. Von
Kerber's elegant exterior was given a new element of importance by his
surroundings.
That was as much as Royson could note before the Baron looked up
from the letter he was reading. It demanded close scrutiny, because it
was written in Persi-Arabic.
"Ah, glad to see you, Mr. King," he said affably. "Sit there," and he
pointed to an empty chair. Dick knew that this seat in particular was
selected because it would place him directly in front of a cluster of
electric lights. He waited until the door was closed.
"By the way," he said, "why do you call me 'King'? That is not my
name, but it is rather extraordinary that you should have hit on it,
because it is part of a nickname I had at school."

He was fully at ease now. Poverty and anxiety can throw even a
Napoleon out of gear, but Richard Royson was hard as granite in some
ways, and the mere decision to go to South Africa had driven the day's
distempered broodings from his mind.
"I thought I heard the officer who spoke to you in Buckingham Palace
Road address you as King," explained von Kerber.
"Yes, that is true," admitted Royson. He felt that it would savor of the
ridiculous, in his present circumstances, were he to state his nickname
in full and explain the significance of it. In fact, he was resolved to
accept the five-pound note which the Baron would