Call Mr. Fortune

It is presumed that he had never wanted anything he had not gotten. Old Dr. Fortune possessed a small fortune and a rich practice, and Reggie enjoyed the proceeds and proposed to inherit both. The practice lay in that pleasant outer suburb of London called Westhampton, a region of commons and a large park, sacred to the well-to-do and still boasting one or two houses inhabited by what auctioneers call the nobility.

In Boldrewood, the best of these places, there lived at this moment in Reggie Fortune’s existence the Archduke Maurice, the heir-apparent to the Emperor of Bohemia. You may remember that the Archduke came to live in England shortly after his marriage. However, as the scandal reported, it is not true that his uncle, the Emperor, sent him into exile. There is reason to believe that the Archduchess, a woman equally vehement and beautiful, was not liked in several European courts. On her return from the honeymoon, she made a booby trap for that drill sergeant of a king, Maximilian of Swabia, and for some weeks the Central Powers were threatening to mobilize. But she was a Serene Highness of the house of Erbach-Wittelsbach, which traces its descent to Odin and had an independent realm of nearly two square miles, with parliament and army complete, and even the Emperor of Bohemia could not pretend that Maurice had married beneath him. History will affirm the simple truth that the Archduke and the Archduchess sought seclusion in England because they were bored to death by the Bohemian court, which was perpetually occupied with demonstrating that you can be very dull without being in the least respectable. The Archduke Maurice was a man of geniality and extraordinarily natural tastes. His garden – a long walk – a pint of beer in one of the old Westhampton inns made him a happy day. The Archduchess was not so simple; she loved driving her ferocious car. But Archduchesses may not do that in Bohemia.

Having eaten all the muffins, Reggie lit his pipe and meditated on the cases left by his father. Old Mrs Smythe had her autumn influenza, old Talbot Browne had his autumn gout, and the little Robinsons were putting in their whooping cough. A kindly world! … He was dozing in the dark when the telephone bell rang. Was that Dr. Fortune? Would he come to Boldrewood at once—at once? The Archduke had been knocked down by a motor car and picked up unconscious.

“Poor old Pater!” Reggie grinned as he put his tools together. The pater would never forgive himself for being out of this.