Once a Week by A. A. Milne

  THE ADVENTURER

  Lionel Norwood, from his earliest days, had been marked out for a lifeof crime. When quite a child he was discovered by his nurse killingflies on the window-pane. This was before the character of the house-flyhad become a matter of common talk among scientists, and Lionel (likeall great men, a little before his time) had pleaded hygiene in vain. Hewas smacked hastily and bundled off to a preparatory school, where hisaptitude for smuggling sweets would have lost him many a half-holidayhad not his services been required at outside-left in the hockey eleven.With some difficulty he managed to pass into Eton, and three yearslater--with, one would imagine, still more difficulty--managed to getsuperannuated. At Cambridge he went down-hill rapidly. He would thinknothing of smoking a cigar in academical costume, and on at least oneoccasion he drove a dogcart on Sunday. No wonder that he was requested,early in his second year, to give up his struggle with the Little-go andbetake himself back to London.

  London is always glad to welcome such people as Lionel Norwood. In noother city is it so simple for a man of easy conscience to earn a livingby his wits. If Lionel ever had any scruples (which, after a perusal ofthe above account of his early days, it may be permitted one to doubt)they were removed by an accident to his solicitor, who was run over inthe Argentine on the very day that he arrived there with what was leftof Lionel's money. Reduced suddenly to poverty, Norwood had no choicebut to enter upon a life of crime.

  Except, perhaps, that he used slightly less hair-oil than most, heseemed just the ordinary man about town as he sat in his dressing-gownone fine summer morning and smoked a cigarette. His rooms were furnishedquietly and in the best of taste. No signs of his nefarious professionshowed themselves to the casual visitor. The appealing letters from thePrincess whom he was blackmailing, the wire apparatus which shot the twoof spades down his sleeve during the coon-can nights at the club, thethimble and pea with which he had performed the three-card trick sosuccessfully at Epsom last week--all these were hidden away from thecommon gaze. It was a young gentleman of fashion who lounged in hischair and toyed with a priceless straight-cut.

  There was a tap at the door, and Masters, his confidential valet, camein.

  "Well," said Lionel, "have you looked through the post?"

  "Yes, sir," said the man. "There's the usual cheque from Her Highness, arequest for more time from the lady in Tite Street with twopence to payon the envelope, and banknotes from the Professor as expected. The younggentleman of Hill Street has gone abroad suddenly, sir."

  "Ah!" said Lionel, with a sudden frown. "I suppose you'd better crosshim off our list, Masters."

  "Yes, sir. I had ventured to do so, sir. I think that's all, except thatMr. Snooks is glad to accept your kind invitation to dinner and bridgeto-night. Will you wear the hair-spring coat, sir, or the metal clip?"

  Lionel made no answer. He sat plunged in thought. When he spoke it wasabout another matter.

  "Masters," he said, "I have found out Lord Fairlie's secret at last. Ishall go to see him this afternoon."

  "Yes, sir. Will you wear your revolver, sir, as it's a first call?"

  "I think so. If this comes off, Masters, it will make our fortune."

  "I hope so, I'm sure, sir." Masters placed the whisky within reach andleft the room silently.

  Alone, Lionel picked up his paper and turned to the Agony Column.

  As everybody knows, the Agony Column of a daily paper is not actually sodomestic as it seems. When "Mother" apparently says to "Floss," "Comehome at once. Father gone away for week. Bert and Sid longing to seeyou," what is really happening is that Barney Hoker is telling JudBatson to meet him outside the Duke of Westminster's little place at 3a.m. precisely on Tuesday morning, not forgetting to bring his jemmy anda dark lantern with him. And Floss's announcement next day, "Coming homewith George," is Jud's way of saying that he will turn up all right, andhalf thinks of bringing his automatic pistol with him too, in case ofaccidents.

  In this language--which, of course, takes some little learning--LionelNorwood had long been an expert. The advertisement which he was nowreading was unusually elaborate:

  "Lost, in a taxi between Baker Street and Shepherd's Bush, a gold-mounted umbrella with initials 'J. P.' on it. If Ellen will return to her father immediately all will be forgiven. White spot on foreleg. Mother very anxious and desires to return thanks for kind enquiries. Answers to the name of Ponto. _Bis dat qui cito dat._"

  What did it mean? For Lionel it had no secrets. He was reading therevelation by one of his agents of the skeleton in Lord Fairlie'scupboard!

  Lord Fairlie was one of the most distinguished members of the Cabinet.His vein of high seriousness, his lofty demeanour, the sincerity of hismanner endeared him not only to his own party, but even (astounding asit may seem) to a few high-minded men upon the other side, who admitted,in moments of expansion which they probably regretted afterwards, thathe might, after all, be as devoted to his country as they were. Foryears now his life had been without blemish. It was impossible tobelieve that even in his youth he could have sown any wild oats;terrible to think that these wild oats might now be coming home toroost.

  "What do you require of me?" he said courteously to Lionel, as thelatter was shown into his study.

  Lionel went to the point at once.

  "I am here, my lord," he said, "on business. In the course of myordinary avocations"--the parliamentary atmosphere seemed to beaffecting his language--"I ascertained a certain secret in your pastlife which, if it were revealed, might conceivably have a not undamagingeffect upon your career. For my silence in this matter I must demand asum of fifty thousand pounds."

  Lord Fairlie had grown paler and paler as this speech proceeded.

  "What have you discovered?" he whispered. Alas! he knew only too wellwhat the damning answer would be.

  "_Twenty years ago_," said Lionel, "_you wrote a humorous book_."

  Lord Fairlie gave a strangled cry. His keen mind recognized in a flashwhat a hold this knowledge would give his enemies. _Shafts of Folly_,his book had been called. Already he saw the leading articles of thefuture:--

  "We confess ourselves somewhat at a loss to know whether Lord Fairlie's speech at Plymouth yesterday was intended as a supplement to his earlier work, _Shafts of Folly_, or as a serious offering to a nation impatient of levity in such a crisis...."

  "The Cabinet's jester, in whom twenty years ago the country lost an excellent clown without gaining a statesman, was in great form last night...."

  "Lord Fairlie has amused us in the past with his clever little parodies; he may amuse us in the future; but as a statesman we can only view him with disgust...."

  "Well?" said Lionel at last. "I think your lordship is wise enough tounderstand. The discovery of a sense of humour in a man of youreminence----"

  But Lord Fairlie was already writing out the cheque.