Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril

He would speak the truth, and expose that man who was so cleverly luring the Empire to its doom.

He passed before the little pigeonhole of the booking-office and took his ticket – an action which was destined to have a greater bearing upon our national defence than any person even with knowledge of the facts could ever dream.

Chapter Three.

The House in Wimpole Street

Just before eleven o’clock that night Jack Sainsbury stopped at a large, rather severe house half-way up Wimpole Street – a house the door of which could be seen in the daytime to be painted a royal blue, thus distinguishing it from its rather dingy green-painted neighbours.

In response to his ring at the visitors’ bell, a tall, middle-aged, round-faced manservant opened the door.

“Is Dr Jerrold in?” Jack inquired.

“Yes, sir,” was the man’s quick reply; and then, as Sainsbury entered, he added politely: “Nice evening, sir.”

“Very,” responded the visitor, laying-down his hat and stick and taking off his overcoat in the wide, old-fashioned hall.

Dr Jerome Jerrold, though still a young man, was a consulting physician of considerable eminence, and, in addition, was Jack’s most intimate friend. Their fathers had been friends, living in the same remote country village, and, in consequence, ever since his boyhood he had known the doctor.

Jack was a frequent visitor at the doctor’s house, Jerrold always being at home to him whenever he called. The place was big and solidly furnished, a gloomy abode for a bachelor without any thought of marrying. It had belonged to Jerrold’s aunt, who had left it to him by her will, together with a comfortable income; hence her nephew had found it, situated as it was in the centre of the medical quarter of London, a most convenient, if dull, place of abode.

On the ground floor was the usual depressing waiting-room, with its big round table littered with illustrated papers and magazines; behind it the consulting-room, with its businesslike writing-table – whereon many a good man’s death-warrant had been written in that open case-book – its heavy leather-covered furniture, and its thick Turkey carpet, upon which the patient trod noiselessly.

Above, in the big room on the first floor, Jerome Jerrold had his cosy library – for he was essentially a studious man, his literary mind having a bent for history, his “History of the Cinquecento” being one of the standard works upon that period. Indeed, while on the ground floor all was heavy, dull and gloomy, well in keeping with the dismal atmosphere which all the most famous West-End doctors seem to cultivate, yet, on the floor above, one passed instantly into far brighter, more pleasant and more artistic surroundings.

Without waiting for the servant, Thomasson, to conduct him upstairs, Jack Sainsbury ran lightly up, as was his habit, and tried the door of the doctor’s den, when, to his surprise, he found it locked.

He twisted the handle again, but it was certainly firmly fastened.

“Jerome!” he cried, tapping at the door. “Can I come in? It’s Jack!”

But there was no reply. Sainsbury strained his ears at the door, but could detect no movement within.

A taxicab rushed past; then a moment later, when the sound had died away, he cried again —

“Jerome! I’m here! I want to see you, old fellow. Open the door.”

Still there was no answer.

Thomasson, standing at the foot of the wide, old-fashioned stairs, heard his master’s visitor, and asked —

“Is the door locked, sir?”

“Yes,” Jack shouted back.

“That’s very strange?” remarked the man. “I’ve let nobody in since Mr Trustram, of the Admiralty, went away – about a quarter of an hour ago.”

“Has he been here?” Jack asked. “I met him here the other day. He struck me as being a rather surly man, and I didn’t like him at all,” declared Sainsbury, with his usual frankness.

“Neither do I, sir, strictly between ourselves,” replied Thomasson quite frankly. “He’s been here quite a lot lately. His wife consulted the master about three months ago, and that’s how they first met, I believe. But can’t you get in?”

“No. Curious, isn’t it?”

“Very. The doctor never locks his door in the usual way,” Thomasson said, ascending the stairs with Sainsbury, and himself trying the handle.

He knocked loudly, asking —

“Are you in there, sir?” But still no response was given.

“I can’t make this out, Mr Sainsbury,” exclaimed the man, turning to him with anxiety on his pale face. “The key’s in the lock – on the inside too! He must be inside, and he’s locked himself in. Why, I wonder?”

Jack Sainsbury bent and put his eye to the keyhole. The room within was lit, for he could see the well-filled bookcase straight before him, and an empty chair was plainly visible.

Instantly he listened, for he thought in the silence – at that moment there being an absence of traffic out in the street – that he heard a slight sound, as though of a low, metallic click.

Again he listened, holding his breath. He was not mistaken. A slight but quite distinct sharp click could be heard, as though a piece of metal had struck the window-pane. Once – twice – it was repeated, afterwards a long-drawn sigh.

Then he heard no more.

“Open the door, Jerrold!” he cried impatiently. “Don’t play the fool. What’s the matter, old chap?”

“Funny – very funny – isn’t it!” Thomasson exclaimed, his brows knit in mystification.

“Most curious,” declared Sainsbury, now thoroughly anxious. “How long was Mr Trustram here?”

“He dined out with the doctor – at Prince’s, I think – and they came back together about half-past nine. While Mr Trustram was here he was on the telephone twice or three times. Once he was rung up by Mr Lewin Rodwell.”

“Mr Lewin Rodwell!” echoed Sainsbury. “Did you happen to hear anything of their conversation?”

“Well, not much, sir,” was the servant’s discreet reply. “I answered the ’phone at first, and it was Mr Rodwell speaking. He told me who he was, and then asked if Mr Trustram was with the doctor. I said he was, and at once went and called him.”

“Did Mr Trustram appear to be on friendly terms with Mr Rodwell?” asked the young man eagerly.

“Oh! quite. I heard Mr Trustram laughing over the ’phone, and saying ‘All right – yes, I quite understand. It’s awfully good of you to make the suggestion. I think it excellent. I’ll propose it to-morrow – yes, at the club to-morrow at four.’”

Suggestion? What suggestion had Lewin Rodwell made to that official of the Transport Department – Lewin Rodwell, of all men!

Jack Sainsbury stood before that locked door, for the moment unable to think. He was utterly dumbfounded.

Those words he had heard in the boardroom in the City that afternoon had burned themselves deeply into his brain. Lewin Rodwell was, it seemed, a personal friend of Charles Trustram, the well-known and trusted official to whose push-and-go the nation had been so deeply indebted – the man who had transported so many hundreds of thousands of our Expeditionary Force across the Channel, with all their guns, ammunition and equipment, without a single mishap. It was both curious and startling. What could it all mean?

Thomasson again hammered upon the stout old-fashioned door of polished mahogany.

“Speak, sir! Do speak!” he implored. “Are you all right?”

Still there was no reply.

“He may have fainted!” Jack suggested. “Something may have happened to him!”