HE afternoon boat from Kingstown to Holyhead was furnished that day with a bigger complement of passengers than usual. It was the day after the wind-up of Punchestown Races, and a goodly proportion of English sporting visitors were returning. A good many had already gone by the early morning boat; those who had lingered in Dublin until noon were chiefly of the leisured class, to whom a few hours’ difference in travelling is of no importance. I myself, having had business to transact at a country house near Kingstown, had motored out from the Shelbourne Hotel before noon, and I was on the boat when the train from Westland Row came alongside Kingstown Pier. Leaning over the rail, I lazily regarded the passengers bound for England—they were chiefly sporting folk of degree, varying from peers to fashionable jockeys. There were Society leaders, well known at Newmarket and Ascot; bookmakers, whom you would find at Tattersall’s; trainers, who were in evidence on an English racecourse on Wednesday, and at Chantilly or Longchamps the following Sunday; there was also the evidence of that curious, indefinite element which seems to drift wherever horse-racing is going on. And amongst all these people, as they streamed over the gangway and distributed themselves about the steamer, I recognised the tall figure and good-humoured, indolent, slightly-bored face of his Grace the Duke of Craye.
The Duke of Craye, as every one knows who knows him, is something of a character. He is immensely rich, he is an unusually good and popular landlord, he is a statesman and a sportsman, and he communicates the idea of being the laziest and most easy-going man in Europe. He has been known to yawn in the middle of an important speech in the House of Lords, and to nod, if not actually to fall asleep, in the stand at Epsom when one of his own horses was running in the Derby—wherever he is seen, he always looks as if he declined to be hurried or flurried. His imperturbability is celebrated; nothing can ruffle or disturb him, and the probability is that if his man woke him in the middle of the night, with news of an earthquake in Berkeley Square, he would ask to have further information supplied with his morning cup of tea, and go instantly to sleep again.
So far as I could see, the Duke, who was attired in his usual inconspicuous, not to say almost shabby fashion—a suit of tweeds and much-worn overcoat—was unattended. He was carrying a bag or valise, which, from its ancient appearance, had no doubt been in his possession since his schooldays at Eton, and he took it and himself below as soon as he stepped aboard. Folks of much less degree were travelling with great fuss and many servants; the Duke of Craye loved to go about unobtrusively, being, in fact, a great lover of his own personal liberty. He hated the trammels and conventions of high rank, and he was never so happy as when he was down at Craye, and could chat easily and unaffectedly with one of his tenant-farmers. I myself had had some experience of his simple manners, for he had once employed me to get a certain young relative of his out of a scrape, and I had been obliged to interview him personally several times.
In a few minutes after the train from Dublin had come alongside we were off, and as soon as we were clear of the harbour I went down to the saloon for luncheon. And at the foot of the stairway I came face to face with the Duke of Craye, and, for at least once in his life, his Grace looked somewhat disturbed out of his usual phlegmatic condition. In short, he looked as if something had upset him.
The Duke recognised me in the same moment in which I encountered him, and it seemed to me that his expression changed to one of relief. At any rate, he smiled quietly and he held out his hand.
“Ah, Campenhaye!” he said. “This is odd, but I was just thinking of you.”
“I am proud to be remembered in your Grace’s thoughts,” I said.
“Oh, well, I thought of you because something has occurred which made me reflect that you might be useful,” he remarked in his usual off-hand way. “Look here!—have you got a minute to spare?”
“As many as your Grace desires,” I replied.
“Come along here, then—I’ve got a cabin somewhere,” he said. “Not that I want it, or mean to use it, but these people seem to think that a duke must needs have separate accommodation, and be put in a sort of cattle-pen. Here we are—walk in, Campenhaye. Now, look here,” continued his Grace, when we were inside the private cabin and had the door closed on us. “Look here—I’ve been robbed.”
“Robbed?” I exclaimed. “When—where?”