The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mysterious Mr. Sabin, by E. Phillips Oppenheim This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Mysterious Mr. Sabin Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim Release Date: March 23, 2011 [EBook #35661] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN *** Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) THE WORKS OF E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN McKinlay, Stone & Mackenzie NEW YORK Copyright, 1905, By Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved “The girl’s face shone like a piece of delicate statuary” (page 37). [Frontispiece. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. A SUPPER PARTY AT THE “MILAN” 7 II. A DRAMA OF THE PAVEMENT 13 III. THE WARNING OF FELIX 22 IV. AT THE RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR’S 30 V. THE DILEMMA OF WOLFENDEN 39 VI. VI. A COMPACT OF THREE 46 VII. WHO IS MR. SABIN? 52 VIII. A MEETING IN BOND STREET 61 IX. THE SHADOWS THAT GO BEFORE 69 X. THE SECRETARY 76 XI. THE FRUIT THAT IS OF GOLD 83 XII. WOLFENDEN’S LUCK 92 XIII. A GREAT WORK 104 XIV. THE TEMPTING OF MR. BLATHERWICK 111 XV. THE COMING AND GOING OF MR. FRANKLIN WILMOT 118 XVI. GENIUS OR MADNESS? 126 XVII. THE SCHEMING OF GIANTS 132 XVIII. “HE HAS GONE TO THE EMPEROR!” 141 XIX. WOLFENDEN’S LOVE-MAKING 146 XX. FROM A DIM WORLD 155 XXI. HARCUTT’S INSPIRATION 167 XXII. FROM THE BEGINNING 177 XXIII. MR. SABIN EXPLAINS 186 XXIV. THE WAY OF THE WOMAN 193 XXV. A HANDFUL OF ASHES 199 XXVI. MR. BLATHERWICK AS ST. ANTHONY 207 XXVII. BY CHANCE OR DESIGN 213 XXVIII. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 220 XXIX. “IT WAS MR. SABIN” 227 XXX. THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-STORM 234 XXXI. “I MAKE NO PROMISE” 242 XXXII. THE SECRET OF MR. SABIN’S NIECE 253 XXXIII. MR. SABIN TRIUMPHS 263 XXXIV. BLANCHE MERTON’S LITTLE PLOT 269 XXXV. A LITTLE GAME OF CARDS 276 XXXVI. THE MODERN RICHELIEU 287 XXXVII. FOR A GREAT STAKE 295 XXXVIII. THE MEN WHO SAVED ENGLAND 304 XXXIX. THE HEART OF THE PRINCESS 314 XL. THE WAY TO PAU 319 XLI. MR. AND MRS. WATSON OF NEW YORK 327 XLII. A WEAK CONSPIRATOR 333 XLIII. THE COMING OF THE “KAISER WILHELM” 341 XLIV. THE GERMANS ARE ANNOYED 346 XLV. MR. SABIN IN DANGER 353 XLVI. MR. WATSON IS ASTONISHED 358 XLVII. A CHARMED LIFE 363 XLVIII. THE DOOMSCHEN 368 XLIX. MR. SABIN IS SENTIMENTAL 374 L. A HARBOUR TRAGEDY 378 LI. THE PERSISTENCE OF FELIX 383 LII. MRS. JAMES B. PETERSON, OF LENOX 388 MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN ——◆—— CHAPTER I A SUPPER PARTY AT THE “MILAN.” “To all such meetings as these!” cried Densham, lifting his champagne glass from under the soft halo of the rose-shaded electric lights. “Let us drink to them, Wolfenden—Mr. Felix!” “To all such meetings!” echoed his vis-à-vis, also fingering the delicate stem of his glass. “An excellent toast!” “To all such meetings as these!” murmured the third man, who made up the little party. “A capital toast indeed!” They sat at a little round table in the brilliantly-lit supper-room of one of London’s most fashionable restaurants. Around them were the usual throng of well dressed men, of women with bare shoulders and flashing diamonds, of dark-visaged waiters, deft, silent, swift-footed. The pleasant hum of conversation, louder and more unrestrained as the hour grew towards midnight, was varied by the popping of corks and many little trills of feminine laughter. Of discordant sounds there were none. The waiters’ feet fell noiselessly upon the thick carpet, the clatter of plates was a thing unheard of. From the balcony outside came the low, sweet music of a German orchestra played by master hands. As usual the place was filled. Several late-comers, who had neglected to order their table beforehand, had already, after a disconsolate tour of the room, been led to one of the smaller apartments, or had driven off again to where the lights from the larger but less smart Altoné flashed out upon the smooth, dark waters of the Thames. Only one table was [Pg 7] [Pg 8] as yet unoccupied, and that was within a yard or two of the three young men who were celebrating a chance meeting in Pall Mall so pleasantly. It was laid for two only, and a magnificent bunch of white roses had, a few minutes before, been brought in and laid in front of one of the places by the director of the rooms himself. A man’s small visiting-card was leaning against a wineglass. The table was evidently reserved by some one of importance, for several late-comers had pointed to it, only to be met by a decided shake of the head on the part of the waiter to whom they had appealed. As time went on, this empty table became the object of some speculation to the three young men. “Our neighbours,” remarked Wolfenden, “are running it pretty fine. Can you see whose name is upon the card, Densham?” The man addressed raised an eyeglass to his left eye and leaned forward. Then he shook his head, he was a little too far away. “No! It is a short name. Seems to begin with S. Probably a son of Israel!” “His taste in flowers is at any rate irreproachable,” Wolfenden remarked. “I wish they would come. I am in a genial mood, and I do not like to think of any one having to hurry over such an excellent supper.” “The lady,” Densham suggested, “is probably theatrical, and has to dress after the show. Half-past twelve is a barbarous hour to turn us out. I wonder——” “Sh-sh!” The slight exclamation and a meaning frown from Wolfenden checked his speech. He broke off in the middle of his sentence, and looked round. There was the soft swish of silk passing his chair, and the faint suggestion of a delicate and perfectly strange perfume. At last the table was being taken possession of. A girl, in a wonderful white dress, was standing there, leaning over to admire the great bunch of creamy-white blossoms, whilst a waiter respectfully held a chair for her. A few steps behind came her companion, an elderly man who walked with a slight limp, leaning heavily upon a stick. She turned to him and made some remark in French, pointing to the flowers. He smiled, and passing her, stood for a moment leaning slightly upon the back of his chair, waiting, with a courtesy which was obviously instinctive, until she should have seated herself. During the few seconds which elapsed before they were settled in their places he glanced around the room with a smile, slightly cynical, but still good-natured, parting his thin, well-shaped lips. Wolfenden and Densham, who were looking at him with frank curiosity, he glanced at carelessly. The third young man of the party, Felix, was bending low over his plate, and his face was hidden. The buzz of conversation in their immediate vicinity had been temporarily suspended. Every one who had seen them enter had been interested in these late-comers, and many curious eyes had followed them to their seats. Briefly, the girl was beautiful and the man distinguished. When they had taken their places, however, the hum of conversation recommenced. Densham and Wolfenden leaned over to one another, and their questions were almost simultaneous. “Who are they?” “Who is she?” Alas! neither of them knew; neither of them had the least idea. Felix, Wolfenden’s guest, it seemed useless to ask. He had only just arrived in England, and he was a complete stranger to London. Besides, he did not seem to be interested. He was proceeding calmly with his supper, with his back directly turned upon the new-comers. Beyond one rapid, upward glance at their entrance he seemed almost to have avoided looking at them. Wolfenden thought of this afterwards. “I see Harcutt in the corner,” he said. “He will know who they are for certain. I shall go and ask him.” He crossed the room and chatted for a few minutes with a noisy little party in an adjacent recess. Presently he put his question. Alas! not one of them knew! Harcutt, a journalist of some note and a man who prided himself upon knowing absolutely everybody, was as helpless as the rest. To his humiliation he was obliged to confess it. “I never saw either of them before in my life,” he said. “I cannot imagine who they can be. They are certainly foreigners.” “Very likely,” Wolfenden agreed quietly. “In fact, I never doubted it. An English girl of that age—she is very young by the bye—would never be so perfectly turned out.” “What a very horrid thing to say, Lord Wolfenden,” exclaimed the woman on whose chair his hand was resting. “Don’t you know that dressing is altogether a matter of one’s maid? You may rely upon it that that girl has found a treasure!” “Well, I don’t know,” Wolfenden said, smiling. “Young English girls always seem to me to look so dishevelled in evening dress. Now this girl is dressed with the art of a Frenchwoman of mature years, and yet with the simplicity of a child.” The woman laid down her lorgnettes and shrugged her shoulders. “I agree with you,” she said, “that she is probably not English. If she were she would not wear such diamonds at her age.” [Pg 9] [Pg 10] “By the bye,” Harcutt remarked with sudden cheerfulness, “we shall be able to find out who the man is when we leave. The table was reserved, so the name will be on the list at the door.” His friends rose to leave and Harcutt, making his adieux, crossed the room with Wolfenden. “We may as well have our coffee together,” he said. “I ordered Turkish and I’ve been waiting for it ten minutes. We got here early. Hullo! where’s your other guest?” Densham was sitting alone. Wolfenden looked at him inquiringly. “Your friend Felix has gone,” he announced. “Suddenly remembered an engagement with his chief, and begged you to excuse him. Said he’d look you up to-morrow.” “Well, he’s an odd fellow,” Wolfenden remarked, motioning Harcutt to the vacant place. “His looks certainly belie his name.” “He’s not exactly a cheerful companion for a supper party,” Densham admitted, “but I like his face. How did you come across him, Wolfenden, and where does he hail from?” “He’s a junior attaché at the Russian Embassy,” Wolfenden said, stirring his coffee. “Only just been appointed. Charlie Meynell gave him a line of introduction to me; said he was a decent sort, but mopish! I looked him up last week, met him in Pall Mall just as you came along, and asked you both to supper. What liqueurs, Harcutt?” The conversation drifted into ordinary channels and flowed on steadily. At the same time it was maintained with a certain amount of difficulty. The advent of these two people at the next table had produced an extraordinary effect upon the three men. Harcutt was perhaps the least affected. He was a young man of fortune and natural gifts, who had embraced journalism as a career, and was really in love with his profession. Partly on account of his social position, which was unquestioned, and partly because his tastes tended in that direction, he had become the recognised scribe and chronicle of smart society. His pen was easy and fluent. He was an inimitable maker of short paragraphs. He prided himself upon knowing everybody and all about them. He could have told how much a year Densham, a rising young portrait painter, was making from his profession, and exactly what Wolfenden’s allowance from his father was. A strange face was an annoyance to him; too, a humiliation. He had been piqued that he could not answer the eager questions of his own party as to these two people, and subsequently Wolfenden’s inquiries. The thought that very soon at any rate their name would be known to him was, in a sense, a consolation. The rest would be easy. Until he knew all about them he meant to conceal so far as possible his own interest. CHAPTER II A DRAMA OF THE PAVEMENT The pitch of conversation had risen higher, still mingled with the intermittent popping of corks and the striking of matches. Blue wreaths of cigarette smoke were curling upwards—a delicate feeling of “abandon” was making itself felt amongst the roomful of people. The music grew softer as the babel of talk grew in volume. The whole environment became tinged with a faint but genial voluptuousness. Densham was laughing over the foibles of some mutual acquaintance; Wolfenden leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigarette and sipping his Turkish coffee. His eyes scarcely left for a moment the girl who sat only a few yards away from him, trifling with a certain dainty indifference with the little dishes, which one after the other had been placed before her and removed. He had taken pains to withdraw himself from the discussion in which his friends were interested. He wanted to be quite free to watch her. To him she was certainly the most wonderful creature he had ever seen. In every one of her most trifling actions she seemed possessed of an original and curious grace, even the way she held her silver fork, toyed with her serviette, raised her glass to her lips and set it down again—all these little things she seemed to him to accomplish with a peculiar and wonderful daintiness. Of conversation between her companion and herself there was evidently very little, nor did she appear to expect it. He was enjoying his supper with the moderation and minute care for trifles which denote the epicure, and he only spoke to her between the courses. She, on the other hand, appeared to be eating scarcely anything. At last, however, the waiter set before her a dish in which she was evidently interested. Wolfenden recognised the pink frilled paper and smiled. She was human enough then to care for ices. She bent over it and shrugged her shoulders—turning to the waiter who was hovering near, she asked a question. He bowed and removed the plate. In a moment or two he reappeared with another. This time the paper and its contents were brown. She smiled as she helped herself—such a smile that Wolfenden wondered that the waiter did not lose his head, and hand her pepper and salt instead of gravely filling her glass. She took up her spoon and deliberately tasted the contents of her plate. Then she looked across the table, and spoke the first words in English which he had heard from her lips— “Coffee ice. So much nicer than strawberry!” The man nodded back. “Ices after supper are an abomination,” he said. “They spoil the flavour of your wine, and many other things. But after [Pg 11] [Pg 12] [Pg 13] [Pg 14] all, I suppose it is waste of time to tell you so! A woman never understands how to eat until she is fifty.” She laughed, and deliberately finished the ice. Just as she laid down the spoon, she raised her eyes quietly and encountered Wolfenden’s. He looked away at once with an indifference which he felt to be badly assumed. Did she know, he wondered, that he had been watching her like an owl all the time? He felt hot and uncomfortable—a veritable schoolboy at the thought. He plunged into the conversation between Harcutt and Densham—a conversation which they had been sustaining with an effort. They too were still as interested in their neighbours, although their positions at the table made it difficult for either to observe them closely. When three men are each thinking intently of something else, it is not easy to maintain an intelligent discussion. Wolfenden, to create a diversion, called for the bill. When he had paid it, and they were ready to depart, Densham looked up with a little burst of candour— “She’s wonderful!” he exclaimed softly. “Marvellous!” Wolfenden echoed. “I wonder who on earth they can possibly be,” Harcutt said almost peevishly. Already he was being robbed of some part of his contemplated satisfaction. It was true that he would probably find the man’s name on the table-list at the door, but he had a sort of presentiment that the girl’s personality would elude him. The question of relationship between the man and the girl puzzled him. He propounded the problem and they discussed it with bated breath. There was no likeness at all! Was there any relationship? It was significant that although Harcutt was a scandalmonger and Wolfenden somewhat of a cynic, they discussed it with the most profound respect. Relationship after all of some sort there must be. What was it? It was Harcutt who alone suggested what to Wolfenden seemed an abominable possibility. “Scarcely husband and wife, I should think,” he said thoughtfully, “yet one never can tell!” Involuntarily they all three glanced towards the man. He was well preserved and his little imperial and short grey moustache were trimmed with military precision, yet his hair was almost white, and his age could scarcely be less than sixty. In his way he was quite as interesting as the girl. His eyes, underneath his thick brows, were dark and clear, and his features were strong and delicately shaped. His hands were white and very shapely, the fingers were rather long, and he wore two singularly handsome rings, both set with strange stones. By the side of the table rested the stick upon which he had been leaning during his passage through the room. It was of smooth, dark wood polished like a malacca cane, and set at the top with a curious, green, opalescent stone, as large as a sparrow’s egg. The eyes of the three men had each in turn been arrested by it. In the electric light which fell softly upon the upper part of it, the stone seemed to burn and glow with a peculiar, iridescent radiance. Evidently it was a precious possession, for once when a waiter had offered to remove it to a stand at the other end of the room, the man had stopped him sharply and drawn it a little closer towards him. Wolfenden lit a fresh cigarette, and gazed thoughtfully into the little cloud of blue smoke. “Husband and wife,” he repeated slowly. “What an absurd idea! More likely father and daughter!” “How about the roses?” Harcutt remarked. “A father does not as a rule show such excellent taste in flowers!” They had finished supper. Suddenly the girl stretched out her left hand and took a glove from the table. Wolfenden smiled triumphantly. “She has no wedding-ring,” he exclaimed softly. Then Harcutt, for the first time, made a remark for which he was never altogether forgiven—a remark which both the other men received in chilling silence. “That may or may not be a matter for congratulation,” he said, twirling his moustache. “One never knows!” Wolfenden stood up, turning his back upon Harcutt and pointedly ignoring him. “Let us go, Densham,” he said. “We are almost the last.” As a matter of fact his movement was made at exactly the right time. They could scarcely have left the room at the same moment as these two people, in whom manifestly they had been taking so great an interest. But by the time they had sent for their coats and hats from the cloak-room, and Harcutt had coolly scrutinised the table-list, they found themselves all together in a little group at the head of the stairs. Wolfenden, who was a few steps in front, drew back to allow them to pass. The man, leaning upon his stick, laid his hand upon the girl’s sleeve. Then he looked up at the man, and addressed Wolfenden directly. “You had better precede us, sir,” he said; “my progress is unfortunately somewhat slow.” Wolfenden drew back courteously. “We are in no hurry,” he said. “Please go on.” The man thanked him, and with one hand upon the girl’s shoulder and with the other on his stick commenced to [Pg 15] [Pg 16] [Pg 17] descend. The girl had passed on without even glancing towards them. She had twisted a white lace mantilla around her head, and her features were scarcely visible—only as she passed, Wolfenden received a general impression of rustling white silk and lace and foaming tulle as she gathered her skirts together at the head of the stairs. It seemed to him, too, that the somewhat close atmosphere of the vestibule had become faintly sweet with the delicate fragrance of the white roses which hung by a loop of satin from her wrist. The three men waited until they had reached the bend of the stairs before they began to descend. Harcutt then leaned forward. “His name,” he whispered, “is disenchanting. It is Mr. Sabin! Whoever heard of a Mr. Sabin? Yet he looks like a personage!” At the doors there was some delay. It was raining fast and the departures were a little congested. The three young men still kept in the background. Densham affected to be busy lighting a cigarette, Wolfenden was slowly drawing on his gloves. His place was almost in a line with the girl’s. He could see the diamonds flashing in her fair hair through the dainty tracery of the drooping white lace, and in a moment, through some slight change in her position, he could get a better view of her face than he had been able to obtain even in the supper-room. She was beautiful! There was no doubt about that! But there were many beautiful women in London, whom Wolfenden scarcely pretended to admire. This girl had something better even than supreme beauty. She was anything but a reproduction. She was a new type. She had originality. Her hair was dazzlingly fair; her eyebrows, delicately arched, were high and distinctly dark in colour. Her head was perfectly shaped—the features seemed to combine a delightful piquancy with a somewhat statuesque regularity. Wolfenden, wondering of what she in some manner reminded him, suddenly thought of some old French miniatures, which he had stopped to admire only a day or two before, in a little curio shop near Bond Street. There was a distinct dash of something foreign in her features and carriage. It might have been French, or Austrian—it was most certainly not Anglo-Saxon! The crush became a little less, they all moved a step or two forward—and Wolfenden, glancing carelessly outside, found his attention immediately arrested. Just as he had been watching the girl, so was a man, who stood on the pavement side by side with the commissionaire, watching her companion. He was tall and thin; apparently dressed in evening clothes, for though his coat was buttoned up to his chin, he wore an opera hat. His hands were thrust into the loose pockets of his overcoat, and his face was mostly in the shadows. Once, however, he followed some motion of Mr. Sabin’s and moved his head a little forward. Wolfenden started and looked at him fixedly. Was it fancy, or was there indeed something clenched in his right hand there, which gleamed like silver—or was it steel—in the momentary flash of a passing carriage-light? Wolfenden was puzzled. There was something, too, which seemed to him vaguely familiar in the man’s figure and person. He was certainly waiting for somebody, and to judge from his expression his mission was no pleasant one. Wolfenden who, through the latter part of the evening, had felt a curious and unwonted sense of excitement stirring his blood, now felt it go tingling through all his veins. He had some subtle prescience that he was on the brink of an adventure. He glanced hurriedly at his two companions; neither of them had noticed this fresh development. Just then the commissionaire, who knew Wolfenden by sight, turned round and saw him standing there. Stepping back on to the pavement, he called up the brougham, which was waiting a little way down the street. “Your carriage, my lord,” he said to Wolfenden, touching his cap. Wolfenden, with ready presence of mind, shook his head. “I am waiting for a friend,” he said. “Tell my man to pass on a yard or two.” The man bowed, and the danger of leaving before these two people, in whom his interest now was becoming positively feverish, was averted. As if to enhance it, a singular thing now happened. The interest suddenly became reciprocal. At the sound of Wolfenden’s voice the man with the club foot had distinctly started. He changed his position and, leaning forward, looked eagerly at him. His eyes remained for a moment or two fixed steadily upon him. There was no doubt about the fact, singular in itself though it was. Wolfenden noticed it himself, so did both Densham and Harcutt. But before any remark could pass between them a little coupé brougham had drawn up, and the man and the girl started forward. Wolfenden followed close behind. The feeling which prompted him to do so was a curious one, but it seemed to him afterwards that he had even at that time a conviction that something unusual was about to happen. The girl stepped lightly across the carpeted way and entered the carriage. Her companion paused in the doorway to hand some silver to the commissionaire, then he too, leaning upon his stick, stepped across the pavement. His foot was already upon the carriage step, when suddenly what Wolfenden had been vaguely anticipating happened. A dark figure sprang from out of the shadows and seized him by the throat; something that glittered like a streak of silver in the electric light flashed upwards. The blow would certainly have fallen but for Wolfenden. He was the only person not wholly unprepared for something of the sort, and he was consequently not paralysed into inaction as were the others. He was so near, too, that a single step forward enabled him to seize the uplifted arm in a grasp of iron. The man who had been attacked was the next to recover himself. Raising his stick he struck at his assailant violently. The blow missed his head, but grazed his temple and fell upon his shoulder. The man, released from Wolfenden’s grasp by his convulsive start, went staggering back into the roadway. [Pg 18] [Pg 19] [Pg 20] There was a rush then to secure him, but it was too late. Wolfenden, half expecting another attack, had not moved from the carriage door, and the commissionaire, although a powerful man, was not swift. Like a cat the man who had made the attack sprang across the roadway, and into the gardens which fringed the Embankment. The commissionaire and a loiterer followed him. Just then Wolfenden felt a soft touch on his shoulder. The girl had opened the carriage door, and was standing at his side. “Is any one hurt?” she asked quickly. “No one,” he answered. “It is all over. The man has run away.” Mr. Sabin stooped down and brushed away some grey ash from the front of his coat. Then he took a match-box from his ticket-pocket, and re-lit the cigarette which had been crumpled in his fingers. His hand was perfectly steady. The whole affair had scarcely taken thirty seconds. “It was probably some lunatic,” he remarked, motioning to the girl to resume her place in the carriage. “I am exceedingly obliged to you, sir. Lord Wolfenden, I believe?” he added, raising his hat. “But for your intervention the matter might really have been serious. Permit me to offer you my card. I trust that some day I may have a better opportunity of expressing my thanks. At present you will excuse me if I hurry. I am not of your nation, but I share an antipathy with them—I hate a row!” He stepped into the carriage with a farewell bow, and it drove off at once. Wolfenden remained looking after it, with his hat in his hand. From the Embankment below came the faint sound of hurrying footsteps. CHAPTER III THE WARNING OF FELIX The three friends stood upon the pavement watching the little brougham until it disappeared round the corner in a flickering glitter of light. It would have been in accordance with precedent if after leaving the restaurant they had gone to some one of their clubs to smoke a cigar and drink whisky and apollinaris, while Harcutt retailed the latest society gossip, and Densham descanted on art, and Wolfenden contributed genial remarks upon things in general. But to-night all three were inclined to depart from precedent. Perhaps the surprising incident which they had just witnessed made anything like normal routine seem unattractive; whatever the reason may have been, the young men were of a sudden not in sympathy with one another. Harcutt murmured some conventional lie about having an engagement, supplemented it with some quite unconvincing statement about pressure of work, and concluded with an obviously disingenuous protest against the tyranny of the profession of journalism, then he sprang with alacrity into a hansom and said goodbye with a good deal less than his usual cordiality. Densham, too, hailed a cab, and leaning over the apron delivered himself of a farewell speech which sounded rather malignant. “You are a lucky beast, Wolfenden,” he growled enviously, adding, with a note of venom in his voice, “but don’t forget it takes more than the first game to win the rubber,” and then he was whirled away, nodding his head and wearing an expression of wisdom deeply tinged with gloom. Wolfenden was surprised, but not exactly sorry that the first vague expression of hostility had been made by the others. “Both of them must be confoundedly hard hit,” he murmured to himself; “I never knew Densham turn nasty before.” And to his coachman he said aloud, “You may go home, Dawson. I am going to walk.” He turned on to the embankment, conscious of a curious sense of exhilaration. He was no blasé cynic; but the uniformly easy life tends to become just a trifle monotonous, and Lord Wolfenden’s somewhat epicurean mind derived actual pleasure from the subtle luxury of a new sensation. What he had said of his friends he could have said with equal truth of himself: he was confoundedly hard hit. For the first time in his life he found the mere memory of a woman thrilling; his whole nature vibrated in response to the appeal she made to him, and he walked along buoyantly under the stars, revelling in the delight of being alive. Suddenly he stopped abruptly. Huddled up in the corner of a seat was a man with a cloth cap pulled forward screening his face: at that moment Lord Wolfenden was in a mood to be extravagantly generous to any poor applicant for alms, lavishly sympathetic to any tale of distress. But it was not ordinary curiosity that arrested his progress now. He knew almost at the first glance who it was that sat in this dejected attitude, although the opera hat was replaced by the soft cloth cap, and in other details the man’s appearance was altered. It was indeed the Mr. Felix who had supped with him at the “Milan” and subsequently behaved in so astonishing a fashion. He knew that he was recognised, and sat up, looking steadfastly at Wolfenden, although his lips trembled and his eyes gleamed wildly. Across his temples a bright red mark was scored. Lord Wolfenden broke the silence. “You’re a nice sort of fellow to ask out to supper! What in the name of all that’s wonderful were you trying to do?” “I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious,” the man replied bitterly. “I tried to kill him, and I failed. Well, why [Pg 21] [Pg 22] [Pg 23] [Pg 24] don’t you call the police? I am quite ready. I shall not run again.” Wolfenden hesitated, and then sat down by the side of this surprising individual. “The man you went for didn’t seem to care, so I don’t see why I should. But why do you want to kill him?” “To keep a vow,” the other answered; “how and why made I will not tell you.” “How did you escape?” Wolfenden asked abruptly. “Probably because I didn’t care whether I escaped or not,” Felix replied, with a short, bitter laugh. “I stood behind some shrubs just inside the garden, and watched the hunt go by. Then I came out here and sat down.” “It all sounds very simple,” said Wolfenden, a trifle sarcastically. “May I ask what you are going to do next?” Felix’s face so clearly intimated that he might not ask anything of the kind, or that if he did his curiosity would not be satisfied, that Wolfenden felt compelled to make some apology. “Forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but I find the situation a little unusual. You were my guest, you see, and had it not been for my chance invitation you might not have met that man at all. Then again, had it not been for my interference he would have been dead now and you would have been in a fair way to be hanged.” Felix evinced no sign of gratitude for Wolfenden’s intervention. Instead he said intensely, “Oh, you fool! you fool!” “Well, really,” Wolfenden protested, “I don’t see why——” But Felix interrupted him. “Yes, you are a fool,” he repeated, “because you saved his life. He is an old man now. I wonder how many there have been in the course of his long life who desired to kill him? But no one—not one solitary human being—has ever befriended him or come to his rescue in time of danger without living to be sorry for it. And so it will be with you. You will live to be sorry for what you have done to-night; you will live to think it would have been far better for him to fall by my hand than for yourself to suffer at his. And you will wish passionately that you had let him die. Before heaven, Wolfenden, I swear that that is true.” The man was so much in earnest, his passion was so quietly intense, that Wolfenden against his will was more than half convinced. He was silent. He suddenly felt cold, and the buoyant elation of mind in which he had started homewards vanished, leaving him anxious and heavy, perhaps just a little afraid. “I did what any man would do for any one else,” he said, almost apologetically. “It was instinctive. As a matter of fact, that particular man is a perfect stranger to me. I have never seen him before and it is quite possible that I shall never see him again.” Felix turned quickly towards him. “If you believe in prayer,” he said, “go down on your knees where you are and pray as you have never prayed for anything before that you may not see him again. There has never been a man or a woman yet who has not been the worse for knowing him. He is like the pestilence that walketh in the darkness, poisoning every one that is in the way of his horrible infection.” Wolfenden pulled himself together. There was no doubt about his companion’s earnestness, but it was the earnestness of an unbalanced mind. Language so exaggerated as his was out of keeping with the times and the place. “Tell me some more about him,” he suggested. “Who is he?” “I won’t tell you,” Felix answered, obstinately. “Well, then, who is the lady?” “I don’t know. It is quite enough for me to know that she is his companion for the moment.” “You do not intend to be communicative, I can see,” said Wolfenden, after a brief pause, “but I wish I could persuade you to tell me why you attempted his life to-night.” “There was the opportunity,” said Felix, as if that in itself were sufficient explanation. Then he smiled enigmatically. “There are at least three distinct and separate reasons why I should take his life,—all of them good. Three, I mean, why I should do it. But I have not been his only victim. There are plenty of others who have a heavy reckoning against him, and he knows what it is to carry his life in his hand. But he bears a charmed existence. Did you see his stick?” “Yes,” said Wolfenden, “I did. It had a peculiar stone in the handle; in the electric light it looked like a huge green opal.” Felix assented moodily. “That is it. He struck me with a stick. He would not part with it for anything. It was given him by some Indian fakir, and it is said that while he carries it he is proof against attack.” [Pg 25] [Pg 26] “Who says so?” Wolfenden inquired. “Never mind,” said Felix. “It’s enough that it is said.” He relapsed into silence, and when he next spoke his manner was different. His excited vehemence had gone and there was nothing in his voice or demeanour inconsistent with normal sanity. Yet his words were no less charged with deep intention. “I do not know much about you, Lord Wolfenden,” he said; “but I beg you to take the advice I am offering you. No one ever gave you better in your life. Avoid that man as you would avoid the plague. Go away before he looks you up to thank you for what you did. Go abroad, anywhere; the farther the better; and stay away for ever, if that is the only means of escaping his friendship or even his acquaintance.” Lord Wolfenden shook his head. “I’m a very ordinary, matter of fact Englishman,” he said, “leading a very ordinary, matter of fact life, and you must forgive me if I consider such a sweeping condemnation a little extravagant and fantastic. I have no particular enemies on my conscience, I am implicated in no conspiracy, and I am, in short, an individual of very little importance. Consequently I have nothing to fear from anybody and am afraid of nobody. This man cannot have anything to gain by injuring me. I believe you said you did not know the lady?” “The lady?” Felix repeated. “No, I do not know her, nor anything of her beyond the fact that she is with him for the time being. That is quite sufficient for me.” Wolfenden got up. “Thanks,” he said lazily. “I only asked you for facts. As for your suggestion—you will be well advised not to repeat it.” “Oh!” exclaimed Felix, scornfully, “how blind and pig-headed you English people are! I have told you something of the man’s reputation. What can hers be, do you suppose, if she will sup alone with him in a public restaurant?” “Good-night,” said Wolfenden. “I will not listen to another word.” Felix rose to his feet and laid his hand upon Lord Wolfenden’s arm. “Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “you are a very decent fellow: do try to believe that I am only speaking for your good. That girl——” Wolfenden shook him off. “If you allude to that young lady, either directly or indirectly,” he said very calmly, “I shall throw you into the river.” Felix shrugged his shoulders. “At least remember that I warned you,” was all he ventured to say as Lord Wolfenden strode away. Leaving the embankment Wolfenden walked quickly to Half Moon Street, where his chambers were. His servant let him in and took his coat. There was an anxious expression upon his usually passive face and he appeared to be rather at a loss for words in which to communicate his news. At last he got it out, accompanying the question with a nervous and deprecating cough. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but were you expecting a young lady?” “A what, Selby?” Wolfenden exclaimed, looking at him in amazement. “A lady, my lord: a young lady.” “Of course not,” said Wolfenden, with a frown. “What on earth do you mean?” Selby gathered courage. “A young lady called here about an hour ago, and asked for you. Johnson informed her that you might be home shortly, and she said she would wait. Johnson, perhaps imprudently, admitted her, and she is in the study, my lord.” “A young lady in my study at this time of night!” Wolfenden exclaimed, incredulously. “Who is she, and what is she, and why has she come at all? Have you gone mad, Selby?” “Then you were not expecting her?” the man said, anxiously. “She gave no name, but she assured Johnson that you did.” “You are a couple of idiots,” Wolfenden said angrily. “Of course I wasn’t expecting her. Surely both you and Johnson have been in my service long enough to know me better than that.” “I am exceedingly sorry, my lord,” the man said abjectly. “But the young lady’s appearance misled us both. If you will allow me to say so, my lord, I am quite sure that she is a lady. No doubt there is some mistake; but when you see her I [Pg 27] [Pg 28] [Pg 29] think you will exonerate Johnson and me from——” His master cut his protestations short. “Wait where you are until I ring,” he said. “It never entered my head that you could be such an incredible idiot.” He strode into the study, closing the door behind him, and Selby obediently waited for the bell. But a long time passed before the summons came. CHAPTER IV AT THE RUSSIAN AMBASSADOR’S The brougham containing the man who had figured in the “Milan” table list as Mr. Sabin, and his companion, turned into the Strand and proceeded westwards. Close behind it came Harcutt’s private cab—only a few yards away followed Densham’s hansom. The procession continued in the same order, skirting Trafalgar Square and along Pall Mall. Each in a different manner, the three men were perhaps equally interested in these people. Geoffrey Densham was attracted as an artist by the extreme and rare beauty of the girl. Wolfenden’s interest was at once more sentimental and more personal. Harcutt’s arose partly out of curiosity, partly from innate love of adventure. Both Densham and Harcutt were exceedingly interested as to their probable destination. From it they would be able to gather some idea as to the status and social position of Mr. Sabin and his companion. Both were perhaps a little surprised when the brougham, which had been making its way into the heart of fashionable London, turned into Belgrave Square and pulled up before a great, porticoed house, brilliantly lit, and with a crimson drugget and covered way stretched out across the pavement. Harcutt sprang out first, just in time to see the two pass through the opened doorway, the man leaning heavily upon his stick, the girl, with her daintily gloved fingers just resting upon his coat-sleeve, walking with that uncommon and graceful self-possession which had so attracted Densham during her passage through the supper-room at the “Milan” a short while ago. Harcutt looked after them, watching them disappear with a frown upon his forehead. “Rather a sell, isn’t it?” said a quiet voice in his ear. He turned abruptly round. Densham was standing upon the pavement by his side. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed testily. “What are you doing here?” Densham threw away his cigarette and laughed. “I might return the question, I suppose,” he remarked. “We both followed the young lady and her imaginary papa! We were both anxious to find out where they lived—and we are both sold!” “Very badly sold,” Harcutt admitted. “What do you propose to do now? We can’t wait outside here for an hour or two!” Densham hesitated. “No, we can’t do that,” he said. “Have you any plan?” Harcutt shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.” They were both silent for a moment. Densham was smiling softly to himself. Watching him, Harcutt became quite assured that he had decided what to do. “Let us consider the matter together,” he suggested, diplomatically. “We ought to be able to hit upon something.” Densham shook his head doubtfully. “No,” he said; “I don’t think that we can run this thing in double harness. You see our interests are materially opposed.” Harcutt did not see it in the same light. “Pooh! We can travel together by the same road,” he protested. “The time to part company has not come yet. Wolfenden has got a bit ahead of us to-night. After all, though, you and I may pull level, if we help one another. You have a plan, I can see! What is it?” Densham was silent for a moment. “You know whose house this is?” he asked. [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] Harcutt nodded. “Of course! It’s the Russian Ambassador’s!” Densham drew a square card from his pocket, and held it out under the gas-light. From it, it appeared that the Princess Lobenski desired the honour of his company at any time that evening between twelve and two. “A card for to-night, by Jove!” Harcutt exclaimed. Densham nodded, and replaced it in his pocket. “You see, Harcutt,” he said, “I am bound to take an advantage over you! I only got this card by an accident, and I certainly do not know the Princess well enough to present you. I shall be compelled to leave you here! All that I can promise is, that if I discover anything interesting I will let you know about it to-morrow. Good-night!” Harcutt watched him disappear through the open doors, and then walked a little way along the pavement, swearing softly to himself. His first idea was to wait about until they came out, and then follow them again. By that means he would at least be sure of their address. He would have gained something for his time and trouble. He lit a cigarette, and walked slowly to the corner of the street. Then he turned back and retraced his steps. As he neared the crimson strip of drugget, one of the servants drew respectfully aside, as though expecting him to enter. The man’s action was like an inspiration to him. He glanced down the vista of covered roof. A crowd of people were making their way up the broad staircase, and amongst them Densham. After all, why not? He laughed softly to himself and hesitated no longer. He threw away his cigarette and walked boldly in. He was doing a thing for which he well knew that he deserved to be kicked. At the same time, he had made up his mind to go through with it, and he was not the man to fail through nervousness or want of savoir faire. At the cloak-room the multitude of men inspired him with new confidence. There were some, a very fair sprinkling, whom he knew, and who greeted him indifferently, without appearing in any way to regard his presence as a thing out of the common. He walked up the staircase, one of a little group; but as they passed through the ante-room to where in the distance Prince and Princess Lobenski were standing to receive their guests, Harcutt adroitly disengaged himself— he affected to pause for a moment or two to speak to an acquaintance. When he was left alone, he turned sharp to the right and entered the main dancing-salon. He was quite safe now, and his spirits began to rise. Yonder was Densham, looking very bored, dancing with a girl in yellow. So far at least he had gained no advantage. He looked everywhere in vain, however, for a man with a club foot and the girl in white and diamonds. They must be in one of the inner rooms. He began to make a little tour. Two of the ante-chambers he explored without result. In the third, two men were standing near the entrance, talking. Harcutt almost held his breath as he came to an abrupt stop within a yard or two of them. One was the man for whom he had been looking, the other—Harcutt seemed to find his face perfectly familiar, but for the moment he could not identify him. He was tall, with white hair and moustaches. His coat was covered with foreign orders, and he wore English court dress. His hands were clasped behind his back; he was talking in a low, clear tone, stooping a little, and with eyes steadfastly fixed upon his companion. Mr. Sabin was leaning a little forward, with both hands resting upon his stick. Harcutt was struck at once with the singular immobility of his face. He did not appear either interested or amused or acquiescent. He was simply listening. A few words from the other man came to Harcutt’s ears, as he lingered there on the other side of the curtain. “If it were money—a question of monetary recompense—the secret service purse of my country opens easily, and it is well filled. If it were anything less simple, the proposal could but be made. I am taking the thing, you understand, at your own computation of its worth! I am taking it for granted that it carries with it the power you claim for it. Assuming these things, I am prepared to treat with you. I am going on leave very shortly, and I could myself conduct the negotiations.” Harcutt would have moved away, but he was absolutely powerless. Naturally, and from his journalistic instincts, he was one of the most curious of men. He had recognised the speaker. The interview was pregnant with possibilities. Who was this Mr. Sabin, that so great a man should talk with him so earnestly? He was looking up now, he was going to speak. What was he going to say? Harcutt held his breath. The idea of moving away never occurred to him now. “Yet,” Mr. Sabin said slowly, “your country should be a low bidder. The importance of such a thing to you must be less than to France, less than to her great ally. Your relations here are close and friendly. Nature and destiny seemed to have made you allies. As yet there has been no rift—no sign of a rift.” “You are right,” the other man answered slowly; “and yet who can tell what lies before us? In less than a dozen years the face of all Europe may be changed. The policy of a great nation is, to all appearance, a steadfast thing. On the face of it, it continues the same, age after age. Yet if a change is to come, it comes from within. It develops slowly. It grows from within, outwards, very slowly, like a secret thing. Do you follow me?” “I think—perhaps I do,” Mr. Sabin admitted deliberately. The Ambassador’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, and but for its singularly penetrating quality Harcutt would have heard no more. As it was, he had almost to hold his breath, and all his nerves quivered with the tension of listening. [Pg 33] [Pg 34] [Pg 35] “Even the Press is deceived. The inspired organs purposely mislead. Outside to all the world there seems to be nothing brewing; yet, when the storm bursts, one sees that it has been long in gathering—that years of careful study and thought have been given to that hidden triumph of diplomacy. All has been locked in the breasts of a few. The thing is full- fledged when it is hatched upon the world. It has grown strong in darkness. You understand me?” “Yes; I think that I understand you,” Mr. Sabin said, his piercing eyes raised now from the ground and fixed upon the other man’s face. “You have given me food for serious thought. I shall do nothing further till I have talked with you again.” Harcutt suddenly and swiftly withdrew. He had stayed as long as he dared. At any moment his presence might have been detected, and he would have been involved in a situation which even the nerve and effrontery acquired during the practice of his profession could not have rendered endurable. He found a seat in an adjoining room, and sat quite still, thinking. His brain was in a whirl. He had almost forgotten the special object of his quest. He felt like a conspirator. The fascination of...