Greenmantle by John Buchan (snow like ashes series .txt) 📕

z3998:fiction"> II The Gathering of the Missionaries

I wrote out a wire to Sandy, asking him to come up by the two-fifteen train and meet me at my flat.

“I have chosen my colleague,” I said.

“Billy Arbuthnot’s boy? His father was at Harrow with me. I know the fellow⁠—Harry used to bring him down to fish⁠—tallish, with a lean, high-boned face and a pair of brown eyes like a pretty girl’s. I know his record, too. There’s a good deal about him in this office. He rode through Yemen, which no white man ever did before. The Arabs let him pass, for they thought him stark mad and argued that the hand of Allah was heavy enough on him without their efforts. He’s blood-brother to every kind of Albanian bandit. Also he used to take a hand in Turkish politics, and got a huge reputation. Some Englishman was once complaining to old Mahmoud Shevkat about the scarcity of statesmen in Western Europe, and Mahmoud broke in with, ‘Have you not the Honourable Arbuthnot?’ You say he’s in your battalion. I was wondering what had become of him, for we tried to get hold of him here, but he had left no address. Ludovick Arbuthnot⁠—yes, that’s the man. Buried deep in the commissioned ranks of the New Army? Well, we’ll get him out pretty quick!”

“I knew he had knocked about the East, but I didn’t know he was that kind of swell. Sandy’s not the chap to buck about himself.”

“He wouldn’t,” said Sir Walter. “He had always a more than Oriental reticence. I’ve got another colleague for you, if you like him.”

He looked at his watch. “You can get to the Savoy Grill Room in five minutes in a taxicab. Go in from the Strand, turn to your left, and you will see in the alcove on the right-hand side a table with one large American gentleman sitting at it. They know him there, so he will have the table to himself. I want you to go and sit down beside him. Say you come from me. His name is Mr. John Scantlebury Blenkiron, now a citizen of Boston, Mass., but born and raised in Indiana. Put this envelope in your pocket, but don’t read its contents till you have talked to him. I want you to form your own opinion about Mr. Blenkiron.”

I went out of the Foreign Office in as muddled a frame of mind as any diplomatist who ever left its portals. I was most desperately depressed. To begin with, I was in a complete funk. I had always thought I was about as brave as the average man, but there’s courage and courage, and mine was certainly not the impassive kind. Stick me down in a trench and I could stand being shot at as well as most people, and my blood could get hot if it were given a chance. But I think I had too much imagination. I couldn’t shake off the beastly forecasts that kept crowding my mind.

In about a fortnight, I calculated, I would be dead. Shot as a spy⁠—a rotten sort of ending! At the moment I was quite safe, looking for a taxi in the middle of Whitehall, but the sweat broke on my forehead. I felt as I had felt in my adventure before the war. But this was far worse, for it was more cold-blooded and premeditated, and I didn’t seem to have even a sporting chance. I watched the figures in khaki passing on the pavement, and thought what a nice safe prospect they had compared to mine. Yes, even if next week they were in the Hohenzollern, or the Hairpin trench at the Quarries, or that ugly angle at Hooge. I wondered why I had not been happier that morning before I got that infernal wire. Suddenly all the trivialities of English life seemed to me inexpressibly dear and terribly far away. I was very angry with Bullivant, till I remembered how fair he had been. My fate was my own choosing.

When I was hunting the Black Stone the interest of the problem had helped to keep me going. But now I could see no problem. My mind had nothing to work on but three words of gibberish on a sheet of paper and a mystery of which Sir Walter had been convinced, but to which he couldn’t give a name. It was like the story I had read of Saint Teresa setting off at the age of ten with her small brother to convert the Moors. I sat huddled in the taxi with my chin on my breast, wishing that I had lost a leg at Loos and been comfortably tucked away for the rest of the war.

Sure enough I found my man in the Grill Room. There he was, feeding solemnly, with a napkin tucked under his chin. He was a big fellow with a fat, sallow, clean-shaven face. I disregarded the hovering waiter and pulled up a chair beside the American at the little table. He turned on me a pair of full sleepy eyes, like a ruminating ox.

“Mr. Blenkiron?” I asked.

“You have my name, Sir,” he said. “Mr. John Scantlebury Blenkiron. I would wish you good morning if I saw anything good in this darned British weather.”

“I come from Sir Walter Bullivant,” I said, speaking low.

“So?” said he. “Sir Walter is a very good friend of mine. Pleased to meet you, Mr.⁠—or I guess it’s Colonel⁠—”

“Hannay,” I said; “Major Hannay.” I was wondering what this sleepy Yankee could do to help me.

“Allow me to offer you luncheon, Major. Here, waiter, bring the carte. I regret that I cannot join you in sampling the efforts of the management of this hotel. I suffer, Sir, from dyspepsia⁠—duodenal dyspepsia. It gets me two hours after a meal and gives me hell just below the breastbone. So I am obliged to adopt a diet. My nourishment is fish, Sir, and boiled milk and a little dry toast. It’s a melancholy