The Mystery of the Blue Train

‘It is the rubies, I suppose?’ asked Zia.

Her father nodded.

‘What do you think, my little one?’ he inquired, with a hint of amusement in his beady black eyes.

‘Of M. le Marquis?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think,’ said Zia slowly, ‘that it is a very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman who speaks French as well as that.’

‘Ah!’ said M. Papopolous, ‘so that is what you think.’

As usual, he did not commit himself, but he regarded Zia with benign approval.

‘I thought, too,’ said Zia, ‘that his head was an odd shape.’

‘Massive,’ said her father—‘a trifle massive. But then that effect is always created by a wig.’

They both looked at each other and smiled.

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_2ea0a96b-625b-5836-bcda-e46f0eccdb80)

Heart of Fire (#ulink_2ea0a96b-625b-5836-bcda-e46f0eccdb80)

Rufus Van Aldin passed through the revolving doors of the Savoy, and walked to the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a respectful greeting.

‘Pleased to see you back again, Mr Van Aldin,’ he said.

The American millionaire nodded his head in a casual greeting.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in the suite now.’

Van Aldin nodded again.

‘Any mail?’ he vouchsafed.

‘They have all been sent up, Mr Van Aldin. Oh! wait a minute.’

He dived into a pigeon-hole, and produced a letter.

‘Just come this minute,’ he explained.

Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman’s flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed. The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He looked a different man. He walked across to the lift with the letter in his hand and the smile still on his lips.

In the drawing-room of his suite, a young man was sitting at a desk nimbly sorting correspondence with the ease born of long practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.

‘Hallo, Knighton!’

‘Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good time?’

‘So so!’ said the millionaire unemotionally. ‘Paris is rather a one-horse city nowadays. Still—I got what I went over for.’

He smiled to himself rather grimly.

‘You usually do, I believe,’ said the secretary, laughing.

‘That’s so,’ agreed the other.

He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the desk.

‘Anything urgent?’

‘I don’t think so, sir. Mostly the usual stuff. I have not quite finished sorting it out.’

Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man who seldom expressed either blame or praise. His methods with those he employed were simple; he gave them a fair trial and dismissed promptly those who were inefficient. His selections of people were unconventional. Knighton, for instance, he had met casually at a Swiss resort two months previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it the explanation of the limp with which he walked. Knighton had made no secret of the fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the young man’s complete astonishment when he had been offered the post of secretary to the great man himself.

‘But—but I have no experience of business,’ he had stammered.

‘That doesn’t matter a cuss,’ Van Aldin had replied. ‘I have got three secretaries already to attend to that kind of thing. But I am likely to be in England for the next six months, and I want an Englishman who—well, knows the ropes—and can attend to the social side of things for me.’

So far, Van Aldin had found his judgement confirmed. Knighton had proved quick, intelligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct charm of manner.

The secretary indicated three or four letters placed by themselves on the top of the desk.

‘It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you glanced at these,’ he suggested. ‘The top one is about the Colton agreement—’

But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting hand.

‘I am not going to look at a durned thing tonight,’ he declared. ‘They can all wait till the morning. Except this one,’ he added, looking down at the letter he held in his hand. And again that strange transforming smile stole over his face.

Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.

‘Mrs Kettering?’ he murmured. ‘She rang up yesterday and today. She seems very anxious to see you at once, sir.’

‘Does she, now!’

The smile faded from the millionaire’s face. He ripped open the envelope which he held in his hand and took out the enclosed sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall Street knew so well, and his brows knit themselves ominously. Knighton turned tactfully away, and went on opening letters and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the table sharply.

‘I’ll not stand for this,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Poor little girl, it’s a good thing she has her old father behind her.’

He walked up and down the room for some minutes, his brows drawn together in a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from the chair where he had thrown it.

‘Are you going out again, sir?’

‘Yes, I’m going round to see my daughter.’