“Now you’re talking,” said Anthony. “Many people who have never heard
of Herzoslovakia would brighten at the mention of Count Stylptitch.
The Grand Old Man of the Balkans. The Greatest Statesman of Modern
Times. The biggest Villain unhung. The point of view all depends on
which newspaper you take in. But be sure of this, Count Stylptitch will
be remembered long after you and I are dust and ashes, James. Every
move and counter move in the Near East for the last twenty years has
had Count Stylptitch at the bottom of it. He’s been a dictator and a
patriot and a statesman—and nobody knows exactly what he has been,
except that he’s been a perfect King of intrigue. Well, what about him?”

“He was Prime Minister of Herzoslovakia—that’s why I mentioned it
first.”

“You’ve no sense of proportion, Jimmy. Herzoslovakia is of no
importance at all compared to Stylptitch. It just provided him with a
birthplace and a post in public affairs. But I thought he was dead?”

“So he is. He died in Paris about two months ago. What I’m telling you
about happened some years ago.”

“The question is,” said Anthony, “what _are_ you telling me about?”

Jimmy accepted the rebuke and hastened on.

“It was like this. I was in Paris—just four years ago, to be exact. I
was walking along one night in rather a lonely part, when I saw half a
dozen French toughs beating up a respectable-looking old gentleman. I
hate a one-sided show, so I promptly butted in and proceeded to beat
up the toughs. I guess they’d never been hit really hard before. They
melted like snow!”

“Good for you, James,” said Anthony softly. “I’d like to have seen that
scrap.”

“Oh, it was nothing much,” said Jimmy modestly. “But the old boy was
no end grateful. He’d had a couple, no doubt about that, but he was
sober enough to get my name and address out of me, and he came along
and thanked me next day. Did the thing in style too. It was then that I
found out it was Count Stylptitch I’d rescued. He’d got a house up by
the Bois.”

Anthony nodded.

“Yes, Stylptitch went to live in Paris after the assassination of King
Nicholas. They wanted him to come back and be President later, but he
wasn’t taking any. He remained sound to his Monarchical principals,
though he was reported to have his finger in all the backstairs pies
that went on in the Balkans. Very deep, the late Count Stylptitch.”

“Nicholas IV was the man who had a funny taste in wives, wasn’t he?”
said Jimmy suddenly.

“Yes,” said Anthony. “And it did for him too, poor beggar. She was some
little guttersnipe of a music hall artiste in Paris—not even suitable
for a morganatic alliance. But Nicholas had a frightful crush on her,
and she was all out for being a Queen. Sounds fantastic, but they
managed it somehow. Called her the Countess Popoffsky, or something,
and pretended she had Romanoff blood in her veins. Nicholas married her
in the Cathedral at Ekarest with a couple of unwilling Arch-bishops to
do the job, and she was crowned as Queen Varaga. Nicholas squared his
Ministers, and I suppose he thought that was all that mattered—but
he forgot to reckon with the populace. They’re very aristocratic and
reactionary in Herzoslovakia. They like their Kings and Queens to be
the genuine article. There were mutterings and discontent, and the
usual ruthless suppressions, and the final uprising which stormed the
Palace, murdered the King and Queen, and proclaimed a Republic. It’s
been a Republic ever since—but things still manage to be pretty lively
there, so I’ve heard. They’ve assassinated a President or two, just to
keep their hand in. But _revenons à nos moutons_. You had got to where
Count Stylptitch was hailing you as his preserver.”

“Yes. Well, that was the end of that business. I came back to
Africa and never thought of it again until about two weeks ago I
got a queer-looking parcel which had been following me all over the
place for the Lord knows how long. I’d seen in a paper that Count
Stylptitch had recently died in Paris. Well, this parcel contained his
Memoirs—or Reminiscences, or whatever you call the things. There was
a note enclosed to the effect that if I delivered the manuscript at a
certain firm of publishers in London on or before October 13 they were
instructed to hand me a thousand pounds.”

“A thousand pounds? Did you say a thousand pounds, Jimmy?”

“I did, my son. I hope to God it’s not a hoax. Put not your trust in
Princes or Politicians, as the saying goes. Well, there it is. Owing
to the way the manuscript had been following me around, I had no time
to lose. It was a pity, all the same. I’d just fixed up this trip to
the interior, and I’d set my heart on going. I shan’t get such a good
chance again.”

“You’re incurable, Jimmy. A thousand pounds in the hand is worth a lot
of mythical gold.”

“And supposing it’s all a hoax? Anyway, here I am, passage booked and
everything, on the way to Cape Town—and then you blow along!”

Anthony got up and lit a cigarette.

“I begin to perceive your drift, James. You go gold hunting as planned,
and I collect the thousand pounds for you. How much do I get out of it?”

“What do you say to a quarter?”

“Two hundred and fifty pounds free of income tax, as the saying goes?”

“That’s it.”

“Done, and just to make you gnash your teeth I’ll tell you that I would
have gone for a hundred! Let me tell you, James McGrath, _you_ won’t
die in your bed counting up your bank balance.”

“Anyway, it’s a deal?”

“It’s a deal all right. I’m on. And confusion to Castle’s Select Tours.”

They drank the toast solemnly.

A Lady in Distress

“So that’s that,” said Anthony, finishing off his glass and replacing
it on the table. “What boat were you going on?”

“_Granarth Castle._”