The Girl Philippa. Chambers Robert William
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there is more romance in realism than in fairy tales?"
Warner, considerably diverted, nodded:
"I know. You belong to the modern school, I take it."
"Very modern. So modern, in fact, that my work concerns tomorrow rather than today."
Warner nodded again:
"I see. You are a futurist – opportunist. There are a lot of clever men working on those lines in England… Still – " he glanced amusedly at Halkett " – that scarcely explains your rather unusual request. Why should I take charge of an envelope for you?"
"My dear fellow, I can't answer that… Still – I may say this much; I'm hard put to it – rather bewildered – had a rotten time of it in the Grand Duchy and in Belgium – so to speak – "
"What do you mean by a rotten time?"
"Rows."
"I don't understand. You'll have to be more explicit."
"Well – it had to do with this envelope I carry. Some chaps of sorts wanted to get it away from me. Do you see? … I had a lively time, and I rather expect to have another before I get home – if I ever get there."
Warner looked at him out of clear, sophisticated eyes:
"See here, my ingenuous British friend," he said, "play square with me, if you play at all."
"I shan't play otherwise."
"Very well, then; why are you afraid to carry that envelope?"
"Because," said Halkett, coolly, "if I'm knocked on the head and that envelope is found in my clothing and is stolen, the loss of my life would be the lesser loss to my friends."
"Is anybody trying to kill you?"
Halkett shrugged his shoulders; but there seemed to be neither swagger nor bravado in his careless gesture of assent. He said:
"Listen; here's my case in brief. I saw you in the crowd yonder, and I made up my mind concerning you. I have to think quickly sometimes; I took a good look at you and – " He waved one hand. "You look like a soldier. I don't know whether you are or not. But I am ready to trust you. That's all."
"Do you mean to say that you are in any real personal danger?"
"Yes. But that doesn't count. I can look out for myself. What worries me is this envelope. Couldn't you take charge of it? I'd be very grateful."
"How long do you expect me to carry it about?"
"I don't know. I don't know whether anything is likely to happen to me today in this town – or tomorrow on the train – or in Paris – I have no means of knowing. I merely want to get to Paris, if I can, and send a friend back here for that envelope."
"I thought you were to return for it yourself."
"Maybe. Maybe I'll send you a letter by a friend – just a line for him to give you, saying it's all right."
"Mr. Halkett, you have rather a disconcerting way of expressing unlimited confidence in me – "
"Yes, I trust you."
"But why?"
"You look right."
"That's no reason!"
"My dear chap, I'm in a corner, and instinct rules, not reason! You see, I – I'm rather afraid they may get me before I can clear out."
"Who'll get you?" demanded Warner impatiently.
"That's the worst of it; I don't know these fellows by sight. The same chaps never try it on twice."
Warner said quietly:
"What is this very dramatic mess you're in? Can't you give me a hint?"
"I'm sorry."
"Shall I give you a hint?"
"If you like."
"Are the police after you?"
"No."
"You're sure of that?"
"Quite sure. I don't blame you for asking. It looks that way. But it isn't."
"But you are being followed across Europe by people who want this envelope of yours?"
"Oh, yes."
"You expect personal violence from them?"
Halkett nodded and gazed absently down the almost deserted boulevard.
"Then why don't you appeal to the police – if your conscience is clear?" demanded Warner bluntly.
Halkett's quick smile broke out.
"My dear chap," he said, "I'd do so if I were in England. I can't, as matters stand. The French police are no use to me."
"Why don't you go to your consulate?"
"I did. The Consul is away on his vacation. And I didn't like the looks of the vice-consul."
"What?"
"No. I didn't like his name, either."
"What do you mean?"
"His name is Schmidt. I – didn't care for it."
Warner laughed, and Halkett looked up quickly, smiling.
"I'm queer. I admit it. But you ought to have come to some conclusion concerning me by this time. Do you think me a rotter, or a criminal, or a lunatic, or a fugitive from justice? Or will you chance it that I'm all right, and will you stand by me?"
Warner laughed again:
"I'll take a chance on you," he said. "Give me your envelope, you amazing Britisher!"
CHAPTER II
Halkett cast a rapid glance around him; apparently he saw nothing to disturb him. Then he whipped out from his pocket a long, very thin envelope and passed it to Warner, who immediately slipped it into the breast pocket of his coat.
"That's very decent of you," said Halkett in a low voice. His attractive face had grown serious and a trifle pale. "I shan't forget this," he said.
Warner laughed.
"You're a very convincing Englishman," he said. "I can't believe you're not all right."
"I'm right enough. But you are all white. What is your name?"
"I had better write it out for you."
"No. If things go wrong with me, I don't want your name and address discovered in my pockets. Tell it to me; I'll remember."
Warner looked at him rather gravely for a moment, then:
"James Warner is my name. I'm a painter. My present address is La Pêche d'Or at Saïs."
"By any chance," asked Halkett, "are you the military painter, James Warner, whose pictures we know very well in England?"
"I don't know how well my pictures are known in England. I usually paint military subjects."
"I knew you were right!" exclaimed Halkett. "Any man who paints the way you paint must be right! Fancy my actually knowing the man who did 'Lights Out' and 'The Last Salute'!"
Warner laughed, coloring a little.
"Did you really like those pictures?"
"Everybody liked them. I fancy every officer in our army owns a colored print of one or more of your pictures. And to think I should run across you in this God-forsaken French town! And to think it should be you who is willing to stand by me at this pinch! Well – I judged you rightly, you see."
Warner smiled, then his features altered.
"Listen, Halkett," he said, dropping instinctively the last trace of formality with a man who, honest or otherwise, was plainly of his own caste. "I have tried to size you up and I can't. You say you are a writer, but you look to me more like a soldier. Anyway, I've concluded that you're straight. And, that being my conviction, can't I do more for you than carry an envelope about for you?"
"That's very decent of you, Warner. No, thanks,