Chapter XVII: M. Nicol Hendry

Franklin Marmion sat down and began to think the situation over. It was not an easy one, for, as it appeared to him, it would be very difficult, if not impossible, for Nitocris and himself to help in the elucidation of the Zastrow mystery, and the prevention of any European complications that might arise out of it, on both the higher and the lower planes of existence. Of course, it would have been perfectly easy to do so in one sense, for now, practically nothing in human affairs was impossible of achievement to them; but, on the other hand, it would never do to allow people on the lower plane to become aware of their extra-human powers. This was out of the question for many reasons, not the least of which was that they had their lives to live under the ordinary conditions of time and space and among their fellow-mortals, every one of whom would shun them in fear, perhaps even horror, if they knew their secret. What, for instance, would happen to Nitocris in her temporal state if even only Merrill came to know it? No, the idea was certainly beyond the possibility of consideration.

At the same time, it was to some extent necessary that they should work on both planes if they were to reap the full advantage of their recently acquired powers, and out of this dilemma there appeared to be only one way open to the Professor: he must have the assistance of others to do on the lower plane the work that he would, as it were, direct from the higher. The question was, who? Obviously it must be some one upon whose discretion absolute reliance could be placed. He must be highly skilled in police work, and have a reputation to enhance or lose as the result might decide. Suddenly a name occurred to him. A short time ago his friend the President had been telling him the inner story of a very intricate case which had involved a scandal of two Courts. Only the most meagre details had obviously been permitted to appear in the papers, but His Lordship had told him that it had been solved and settled almost entirely by the skill and diplomacy of a M. Nicol Hendry, who held the little advertised but highly responsible position of Head of the English Department of the International Police Bureau.

“That’s the very man,” he said, “the very man, and I shouldn’t wonder if he’s engaged on this particular case. It’s too late to wire, and, besides, that would look suspicious. I could telephone to Scotland Yard, but I don’t want even the police to know I want him until I’ve seen him. No, I’ll write a note: it will go by the early post, and no one will know where it comes from.”

Just as lunch was over the next day the front door bell tingled, and presently the parlour-maid knocked, and came in with a card on a silver salver:

“I have shown the gentleman into the drawing-room, sir. He says that he has an appointment with you for half-past two.”

“Very well: I will be up in a moment, Annie.” Then, as she closed the door, he gave Nitocris the card, and continued: “Our ally on the lower plane that may be. You say you wouldn’t care to be present and help me with your opinion?”

“Oh no, Dad. I don’t want any one to know that I am taking any part in this little adventure. But if you will introduce him afterwards, I’ll tell you what I think. You know, women generally judge other people that way.”

“Very well,” laughed her father, as he turned to the door, “that will be best. If everything goes right and I think I can work with him, I shall bring him upstairs and you can give him a cup of tea. If I don’t, you will know that he won’t do.”

“Good-bye, then, for the present,” she smiled, “and don’t frighten the poor man, if you can help it. I dare say he’s only an exaggerated policeman, after all.”

But it was a very different sort of person whom Franklin Marmion greeted in the drawing-room. M. Nicol Hendry was a slimly but strongly-built man of about forty. His high, somewhat narrow forehead was framed with close-cut, crinkly, reddish-brown hair. Under well-defined brown eyebrows shone a pair of alert steel-grey eyes of almost startling brilliancy. His nose was a trifle long and slightly aquiline. A carefully-trained golden-brown moustache half-concealed firm, thinly-cut lips, and a closely-trimmed, pointed beard just revealed the strength of the chin beneath. He was dressed in a dark grey frock-coat suit, and wore a pinky-red wild rose, which he had plucked on the Common, in his button-hole. As he shook hands with him the Professor made a mental note of him as an embodiment of strength, keenness, and quiet inflexibility: a summing-up which was pretty near the truth.

“Good afternoon, M. Hendry,” he said, as the hands and eyes met.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” returned the other in a gentle voice, and almost perfect English. “May I ask to what happy circumstance--at least, I hope it is a happy one--I owe the honour of making the acquaintance of the gentleman who has succeeded in mystifying all the mathematicians of Europe?”

“Well,” said Franklin Marmion with a smile, “I don’t know whether there is so very much honour about that, but I do know that your time is very valuable and that I have already taken up a good deal of it by bringing you all the way out here, so I will come to the point at once. But wait a moment. Come down into my study. We can talk more comfortably there.” When the Professor had given his guest a cigar and lit his pipe, he said quite abruptly: “It is about the Zastrow affair.”

If he had said it was about the last Grand Ducal plot in the Peterhof, M. Hendry could not have been inwardly more astonished. Outwardly the Professor might have mentioned the last commonplace murder. Only his eyelids lifted a little as he replied:

“Ah, indeed? Well, really, Professor, you must forgive me for saying that that is about the very last matter I should have expected you to have brought up. All the world knows you as one of its most distinguished men of science, now, of course, more distinguished than ever; but I hardly think any one would have expected you to interest yourself in political mysteries. I have a recollection of hearing or reading somewhere that politics were your pet aversion.”

“So they are,” replied Franklin Marmion, with a short laugh. “I consider ordinary politics--juggling with phrases to delude the ignorance and flatter the prejudices of the mob, and bartering principles for place and power--to be about the most contemptible vocation a man can descend to, but those are low politics in more senses than one. Now high politics, as a psychological study, to an outsider are a very different matter. But I am digressing. I did not invite you here to discuss trivialities like these. I want to ask you--of course, you will not answer me unless you like--whether you are connected, professionally or otherwise, with the Zastrow affair?”

M. Hendry looked down at the toes of his perfectly-shaped boots for a moment or two. Then he raised his head and said good-humouredly:

“Professor, I know that there is no more honourable man in the world than you, but even from you I must ask frankly your reasons for asking that question?”

“You have a perfect right to do that, my dear sir,” was the quiet reply. “If you say ‘yes,’ I am anxious to help you: if you say ‘no,’ I should like you to help me: if you don’t care to answer, there is an end of the matter. Those are my reasons.”