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Page 86
Now, as he sat alone before the fire in the colony room of the
Empire Club and thought about it, the thing did seem
inexplicable. Why should the metropolitan police care who
imported horses, or in what port a shipload of them was landed?
The war was over. Nobody was concerned about the importation of
horses. Why should Sir Henry be so disturbed about it? But he
was disturbed; and he had rushed off to Paris to see an expert on
ciphers. That seemed a tremendous lot of trouble to take. The
Baronet knew the horses were on the sea coming from America, he
said. If he knew that much, how could he fail to discover the
boat on which they were carried and the port at which they would
arrive? Nobody could conceal nine hundred horses!
Hargrave was thinking about that, idly, before the glow of the
coal fire, when the second episode in this extraordinary affair
arrived.
A steward entered.
"Visitor, please," he said, "to see Mr. Hargrave."
Then he presented his tray with a card. The jewel dealer took
the card with some surprise. Everybody knew that he was at the
Empire Club. It is a colony thing with chambers for foreign
guests. A list of arrivals is always printed. He saw at a
glance that it was not a man's card; the size was too large.
Then he turned it over before the light of the fire. The name
was engraved in script, an American fashion at this time.
The woman's card had surprised him; but the name on it brought
him up in his chair - "Mrs. A. B. Farmingham." It was not a name
that he knew precisely; but he knew its genera, the family or
group to which it belonged. Mr. Jefferson removed titles of
nobility in the American republic, but his efforts did not
eliminate caste zones. It only made the lines of cleavage more
pronounced. One knew these zones by the name formation.
Everybody knew "Alfa Baba" Farmingham, as the Sunday Press was
accustomed to translate his enigmatical initials. Some wonderful
Western bonanza was behind the man. Mrs. "Alfa Baba" Farmingham
would be, then, one of the persons that Hargrave's house was
concerned to reach. He looked again at the card. In the corner
the engraved address, "Point View, Newport," was marked out with
a pencil and "The Ritz" written over it.
He got his coat and hat and followed the steward out of the club.
There was a carriage at the curb. A footman was holding the door
open, and a woman, leaning over in the seat, was looking out.
She was precisely what Hargrave expected to see, one of those
dominant, impatient, aggressive women who force their way to the
head of social affairs in America. She shot a volley of
questions at him the moment he was before the door.
"Are you Douglas Hargrave, the purchasing agent for Bartholdi &
Banks?"
The man said that he was, and at her service, and so forth. But
she did not stop to listen to any reply.
"You look mighty young, but perhaps you know your business. At
any rate, it's the best I can do. Get in."
Hargrave got in, the footman closed the door, and the carriage
turned into Piccadilly Circus. The woman did not pay very much
attention to him. She made a laconic explanation, the sort of
explanation one would make to a shopkeeper.
"I want your opinion on some jewels," she said. "I have a lot to
do - no time to fool away. When I found that I could see the
jewels to-night I concluded to pick you up on my way down. I
didn't find out about it in time to let you know."
Hargrave told her that he would be very glad to give her the
benefit of his experience.
"Glad, nonsense!" she said. "I'll pay your fee. Do you know a
jewel when you see it?"
"I think I do, madam," he replied.
She moved with energy.
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