The Great Impersonation

The trouble from which great events were to come began when Everard Dominey, who had been fighting his way through the scrub for the last three quarters of an hour towards those thin, spiral wisps of smoke, urged his pony to a last despairing effort and came crashing through the great oleander shrub to pitch forward on his head in the little clearing. It developed the next morning, when he found himself for the first time for many months on the truckle bed, between linen sheets, with a cool, bamboo-twisted roof between him and the relentless sun. He raised himself a little in the bed.

“Where the mischief am I?” he demanded.

A black boy, seated cross-legged in the entrance of the banda, rose to his feet, mumbled something and disappeared. In a few moments the tall, slim figure of a European, in spotless white riding clothes, stooped down and came over to Dominey’s side.

“You are better?” he enquired politely.

“Yes, I am,” was the somewhat brusque rejoinder. “Where the mischief am I, and who are you?”

The newcomer’s manner stiffened. He was a person of dignified carriage, and his tone conveyed some measure of rebuke.

“You are within half a mile of the Iriwarri River, if you know where that is,” he replied⁠—“about seventy-two miles southeast of the Darawaga Settlement.”

“The devil! Then I am in German East Africa?”

“Without a doubt.”

“And you are German?”

“I have that honour.”

Dominey whistled softly.

“Awfully sorry to have intruded,” he said. “I left Marlinstein two and a half months ago, with twenty boys and plenty of stores. We were doing a big trek after lions.

Mr. Mangan, on their way into the grill room, loitered for a few minutes in the small reception room, chatting with some acquaintances, whilst his host, having spoken to the maître d’hôtel and ordered a cocktail from a passing waiter, stood with his hands behind his back, watching the inflow of men and women with all that interest which one might be supposed to feel in one’s fellows after a prolonged absence. He had moved a little to one side to allow a party of young people to make their way through the crowded chamber, when he was conscious of a woman standing alone on the topmost of the three thickly carpeted stairs. Their eyes met, and hers, which had been wandering around the room as though in search of some acquaintance, seemed instantly and fervently held. To the few loungers about the room, ignorant of any special significance in that studied contemplation of the man on the part of the woman, their two personalities presented an agreeable, almost a fascinating study. Dominey was six feet two in height and had to its fullest extent the natural distinction of his class, together with the half military, half athletic bearing which seemed to have been so marvellously restored to him. His complexion was no more than becomingly tanned; his slight moustache, trimmed very close to the upper lip, was of the same ruddy brown shade as his sleekly brushed hair. The woman, who had commenced now to move slowly towards him, save that her cheeks, at that moment, at any rate, were almost unnaturally pale, was of the same colouring. Her red-gold hair gleamed beneath her black hat.

He, too, made his farewells. A servant in the hall handed him his hat and coat, and he took his place in the car by Stephanie’s side. She touched the electric switch as they glided off. The car was in darkness.

“I think,” she murmured, “that I could not have borne another moment of this juggling with words. Leopold⁠—we are alone!”

He caught the flash of her jewels, the soft brilliance of her eyes as she leaned towards him. His voice sounded, even to himself, harsh and strident.

“You mistake, Princess. My name is not Leopold. I am Everard Dominey.”

“Oh, I know that you are very obstinate,” she said softly, “very obstinate and very devoted to your marvellous country, but you have a soul, Leopold; you know that there are human duties as great as any your country ever imposed upon you. You know what I look for from you, what I must find from you or go down into hell, ashamed and miserable.”

He felt his throat suddenly dry.

“Listen,” he muttered, “until the hour strikes, I must remain to you as to the world, alone or in a crowd⁠—Everard Dominey. There is one way and one way only of carrying through my appointed task.”

For the first few tangled moments of nightmare, slowly developing into a live horror, Dominey fancied himself back in Africa, with the hand of an enemy upon his throat. Then a rush of awakened memories⁠—the silence of the great house, the mysterious rustling of the heavy hangings around the black oak four-poster on which he lay, the faint pricking of something deadly at his throat⁠—these things rolled back the curtain of unreality, brought him acute and painful consciousness of a situation almost appalling. He opened his eyes, and although a brave and callous man he lay still, paralysed with the fear which forbids motion. The dim light of a candle, recently lit, flashed upon the bodkin-like dagger held at his throat. He gazed at the thin line of gleaming steel, fascinated. Already his skin had been broken, a few drops of blood were upon the collar of his pyjamas. The hand which held that deadly, assailing weapon⁠—small, slim, very feminine, curving from somewhere behind the bed curtain⁠—belonged to some unseen person. He tried to shrink farther back upon the pillow. The hand followed him, displaying glimpses now of a soft, white-sleeved arm. He lay quite still, the muscles of his right arm growing tenser as he prepared for a snatch at those cruel fingers. Then a voice came⁠—a slow, feminine and rather wonderful voice.

“If you move,” it said, “you will die. Remain quite still.”

Dominey was fully conscious now, his brain at work, calculating his chances with all the cunning of the trained hunter who seeks to avoid death.

“Later on,” Stephanie whispered to her host, with a little tremble in her voice, “I have a surprise for you.”

After dinner, Dominey’s guests passed naturally enough to the relaxations which each preferred. There were two bridge tables, Terniloff and the Cabinet Minister played billiards, and Seaman, with a touch which amazed everyone, drew strange music from the yellow keys of the old-fashioned grand piano in the drawing-room. Stephanie and her host made a slow progress through the hall and picture gallery. For some time their conversation was engaged solely with the objects to which Dominey drew his companion’s attention. When they had passed out of possible hearing, however, of any of the other guests, Stephanie’s fingers tightened upon her companion’s arm.

“I wish to speak to you alone,” she said, “without the possibility of anyone overhearing.”

Dominey hesitated and looked behind.

“Your guests are well occupied,” she continued a little impatiently, “and in any case I am one of them. I claim your attention.”

Dominey threw open the door of the library and turned on a couple of the electric lights. She made her way to the great open fireplace, on which a log was burning, looked down into the shadows of the room and back again at her host’s face.

“For one moment,” she begged, “turn on all the lights. I wish to be sure that we are alone.”

Dominey did as he was bidden. The furthermost corners of the room, with its many wings of book-filled shelves, were illuminated. She nodded.

“Now turn them all out again except this one,” she directed, “and wheel me up an easy-chair. No, I choose this settee. Please seat yourself by my side.”

“Is this going to be serious?” he asked, with some slight disquietude.