Things began to piece themselves together. I went up to interview George. There was going to be another job for persuasive Alfred. Voules’s mind had got to be eased as Stella’s had been. I couldn’t afford to lose a fellow with his genius for preserving a trouser-crease.
I found George on the foredeck. What is it Shakespeare or somebody says about some fellow’s face being sicklied o’er with the pale cast of care? George’s was like that. He looked green.
“Finished with your uncle?” I said.
He grinned a ghostly grin.
“There isn’t any uncle,” he said. “There isn’t any Alfred. And there isn’t any money.”
“Explain yourself, old top,” I said.
“It won’t take long. The old crook has spent every penny of the trust money. He’s been at it for years, ever since I was a kid. When the time came to cough up, and I was due to see that he did it, he went to the tables in the hope of a run of luck, and lost the last remnant of the stuff. He had to find a way of holding me for a while and postponing the squaring of accounts while he got away, and he invented this twin-brother business. He knew I should find out sooner or later, but meanwhile he would be able to get off to South America, which he has done. He’s on his way now.”
“You let him go?”
“What could I do? I can’t afford to make a fuss with that man Sturgis around. I can’t prove there’s no Alfred when my only chance of avoiding prison is to be Alfred.”
“Well, you’ve made things right for yourself with Stella Vanderley, anyway,” I said, to cheer him up.
“What’s the good of that now? I’ve hardly any money and no prospects. How can I marry her?”
I pondered.
“It looks to me, old top,” I said at last, “as if things were in a bit of a mess.”
“You’ve guessed it,” said poor old George.
I spent the afternoon musing on Life. If you come to think of it, what a queer thing Life is! So unlike anything else, don’t you know, if you see what I mean. At any moment you may be strolling peacefully along, and all the time Life’s waiting around the corner to fetch you one. You can’t tell when you may be going to get it. It’s all dashed puzzling. Here was poor old George, as well-meaning a fellow as ever stepped, getting swatted all over the ring by the hand of Fate. Why? That’s what I asked myself. Just Life, don’t you know. That’s all there was about it.
It was close on six o’clock when our third visitor of the day arrived. We were sitting on the afterdeck in the cool of the evening—old Marshall, Denman Sturgis, Mrs. Vanderley, Stella, George, and I—when he came up. We had been talking of George, and old Marshall was suggesting the advisability of sending out search-parties. He was worried. So was Stella Vanderley. So, for that matter, were George and I, only not for the same reason.
We were just arguing the thing out when the visitor appeared. He was a well-built, stiff sort of fellow. He spoke with a German accent.
“Mr. Marshall?” he said. “I am Count Fritz von Coeslin, equerry to His Serene Highness”—he clicked his heels together and saluted—“the Prince of Saxburg-Leignitz.”
Mrs. Vanderley jumped up.
“Why, Count,” she said, “what ages since we met in Vienna! You remember?”
“Could I ever forget? And the charming Miss Stella, she is well, I suppose not?”
“Stella, you remember Count Fritz?”
Stella shook hands with him.
“And how is the poor, dear Prince?” asked Mrs. Vanderley. “What a terrible thing to have happened!”
“I rejoice to say that my high-born master is better. He has regained consciousness and is sitting up and taking nourishment.”
“That’s good,” said old Marshall.
“In a spoon only,” sighed the Count. “Mr. Marshall, with your permission I should like a word with Mr. Sturgis.”
“Mr. Who?”
The gimlet-eyed sportsman came forward.
“I am Denman Sturgis, at your service.”
“The deuce you are! What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Sturgis,” explained the Count, “graciously volunteered his services——”