The General walked towards the party very much with the air of one who had come to make some casual inquiry. It was only when he was recognized that a little interested murmur stole around the room. He walked to within a few feet of the Frenchman and his right hand seemed to have disappeared for a moment.
'Gentlemen,' he said, without unduly raising his voice but with curious distinctness, 'the man whom you are entertaining here as an emissary from our French allies, is an impostor, a German and a spy. He cost me, a few weeks ago, the lives of two thousand of my men. A far smaller thing, he is responsible for the ruin of my reputation. This is less than he deserves.'
With hand as steady as a rock, the General held his revolver out before him and deliberately fired three times at the man whom he had accused, and who had fallen forward now, his outstretched hands sweeping the wineglasses from in front of him—stone dead. The General watched his victim without emotion. He even leaned forward to make sure that the wounds were mortal. Then he walked deliberately out into the garden, heedless of the shrieking of the women, the crowd of diners who had sprung to their feet, the passing of the paralysis which had seemed to keep every one in the room seated and silent.
*****
They found the proofs upon his body that night—horrifying, stupefying proofs—and the censor's hand came down. No word of that tragedy ever appeared under any sensational headline in any newspaper. In the face of that grim silence, even many of those who had been present found themselves wondering whether that lightning tragedy had not been a nightmare of the brain. To Suzanne de Freyne, however, it remained always one of the tense moments of her life. The General, with the revolver still in his hand, turned towards her with a polite gesture and a happy smile as he led the way into the garden. He tossed the weapon into a bed of geraniums and seemed utterly indifferent to the turmoil around.
'You were right, young lady,' he said. 'That was the man.'
There was a vigour in her walk, a determination in her face, which made Lavendale pause for an instant before he crossed the street to accost Suzanne de Freyne. It was perfectly clear to him that she was bound upon a serious errand. She was dressed with her usual subdued elegance but with more, even, than her usual simplicity. In her black tailor-made costume, her small hat and neat patent shoes, she looked like the Rue de la Paix at four o'clock in the afternoon during its halcyon days. He was forced to quicken his pace to intercept her.
'Good morning, Miss de Freyne!'
She turned quickly around and held out her left hand. Her greeting was cordial enough, but her air of abstraction did not altogether disappear.
'Where have you been hiding for the last few days?' she asked.
'I came back from Holland last night,' he replied. 'I have been in Germany again.'
'Any news?' she asked quickly.
'Nothing very wonderful. I needn't ask how things are with you. I can tell that you have something on hand. Can I help?'
She laughed.
'You are right in a way, but I don't think you can help,' she told him. 'This is quite an important morning—it is Celia's sale.'
He was a little staggered. Her manner was convincing.
'You mean that you are going to a millinery sale?'
'Don't be silly,' she answered. 'The first morning of Celia's sale is the most important event of the season. We have printed cards of invitation, and policemen outside the door to keep away intruders. This isn't any ordinary bargain hunting, you know. This is our one chance to provide ourselves with the elegancies of life at a reasonable cost.'
'For the moment, I gather,' he went on, falling into step with her, 'the affairs of the nation are in the background.'
'Naturally,' she assented.
'At what hour,' he inquired, 'will this function be over?'
She glanced at him suspiciously.
'If I thought you were making fun——'
'Never entered into my head,' he assured her.
'Then you can give me some lunch at one o'clock,' she promised.
'That's exactly what I was hoping for. And, Miss de Freyne?'
'Well?'
'Would you mind very much if I brought an acquaintance?'
She glanced at him in some surprise.
'Of course not,' she answered, 'only it must be a grill-room luncheon, please. I am dressed for a scrimmage.'
'At one o'clock at the Milan Grill,' he told her, raising his hat.
He strolled slowly away southwards, crossed Pall Mall, and let himself in by a side entrance to the American Embassy. Here he spent a few minutes in the outer offices and passed on, a little later, into a more private apartment. An elderly man with a clean-shaven face, grey hair brushed back from his forehead, and tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, looked up from his roll-topped desk and waved his visitor to a seat.
'Hullo, Ambrose! Anything fresh?'
Lavendale drew up a chair and grasped the hand which the other offered him.
'There is plenty going on, if one could get to understand it, Mr. Washburn,' he said. 'Berlin had me puzzled.'
'When did you get back?'
'Last night.'
'See anything of our friend?'
'He crossed with me.'
'Get acquainted with him?'
'Oh! I knew him before in Washington and in New York,' Lavendale replied. 'I took care to remind him of it, too. Yes, he was quite friendly. All the same, he was secretive. He didn't tell me the one thing I discovered of the greatest interest in connection with his trip, and that was that the Kaiser sent his private car three hundred miles and met him at the Western Headquarters. They spent the best part of the day together. Has he been in here?'
Mr. Washburn shook his head.
'He neither reported before he left, nor has he been in since he got back. Kind of giving us the cold shoulder, isn't it?'
'He hasn't had much time yet,' Lavendale remarked thoughtfully, 'but it certainly doesn't look exactly like the behaviour of a loyal American.'
Mr. Washburn turned in his place, removed his spectacles from his eyes and rubbed them carefully with his handkerchief. A slight weariness was apparent in his face and tone.
'That's our great trouble, Ambrose,' he said. 'Germany's a mighty country. She holds her sons in a closer grip than any other nation in the world. A German-American is a German first and an American afterwards, and don't you forget it. That's what makes us such a polyglot, indiscriminate race. Are you going to make a report?'
'Not at present,' Lavendale replied. 'I haven't yet pieced together the scraps I was able to pick up. Let it be for a day or two. What I am anxious to find out is whether Kessner reports here or not, and what account he gives, if any, of his journey to Germany.'
'I'll send you word directly he shows up, if he comes at all,' Mr. Washburn promised. 'I hear there are half-a-dozen more of his gang in London.'
Lavendale nodded.
'They've some sort of a show on. Kessner as good as admitted it to me.'
'Where do you stand with him?' Mr. Washburn asked curiously.
'I'm all right up to the present,' Lavendale asserted. 'He believes I went over on a mission about the British prisoners, 'and he's inclined to fancy I may be useful to him. Anyway, he is lunching with me to-day.'
Mr. Washburn smiled.
'If you think you'll get much out of him, young fellow,' he said, 'I fancy you're looking for disappointment. The brains that made twenty million in Wall Street and control an organization so secret that we can't even put a finger upon it——'
'Yes, I know,' Lavendale interrupted, rising, 'but, you know, there's always chance to be reckoned with, and I've one card up my sleeve, anyway. I know all about him and he doesn't suspect me yet.' ...
'Exactly why am I asked to this festive lunch?' Suzanne de Freyne inquired, as she leaned back upon a settee in the small lounge which led into the Milan grill-room, at a few minutes before one o'clock that morning.
'Because I am up against a cul-de-sac,' Lavendale confessed, 'and I want your woman's wit to show me the way out.'
'You seem to be taking it for granted that we are allies,' she remarked.
'We are to a certain extent,' he pleaded. 'You must admit that a Germanized United States would be bad for you, and that is what we have to fight against.'
A waiter set down two cocktails upon a small table in front of them. She sipped hers deliberately.
'Tell me, what is the trouble with this man Kessner?' she asked. 'Of what is it that you really suspect him?'
'I wish I knew,' Lavendale groaned. 'These are the bald facts. Washington and New York, during the last six months, have been the scene of the most desperate efforts of German diplomacy and political manoeuvring, with one sole aim—that of preventing the export of munitions of war to England or France. Money has been spent like water but the progress has been too slow. Germany has gained adherents to her point of view, but not enough. America is in a position to be of immense use to the Allies and none whatever to Germany or Austria, and up to the present she shows no signs of ceasing to supply England and France and Russia with all the munitions she can turn out. The German Party in America have taken stock of these things. They have measured their weakness and tasted defeat. Everything up to this point has been above-board. We understood perfectly well what they were fighting for, and to a certain extent admitted their grievance.'
'They had no grievance,' Miss de Freyne interposed.
'Perhaps not a logical one,' Lavendale admitted, 'but you see it is perfectly true that while they are supplying munitions on an immense scale to the Allies, they are supplying none at all to Germany and Austria. That is, of course, owing to England's control of the sea, but it is galling to Germany and Austria to know that a neutral country is providing her enemies with the means of waging warfare against her. From their point of view it is not ideal neutrality, is it?'
'America is perfectly ready to supply Germany and Austria as well,' she reminded him. 'Besides, Germany and Austria both supplied England during the Boer War.'
'That, of course, is what makes America's position logical,' he went on, 'but listen. Kessner and his friends have obviously come to an end of their intriguing in the direction of stopping supplies. They have dropped their newspaper campaign. They have shrugged their shoulders and apparently accepted the inevitable. No one who knows them would believe them capable of anything of the sort. Kessner has been over here for a month. He was in Germany when I was. He spent a week with the Chancellor and a long time with the Kaiser himself. Heyl and both the Hindemanns are over here, too. They have also been in Germany. You see, they are all entitled to call themselves Americans, although they are Germans at heart.'
'You think that there is some fresh scheme on?' she asked.
'I am perfectly certain there is,' he said firmly. 'Not only that, but I have an idea as to its bearing.... This is our friend. If you don't know him by sight, prepare for a shock.'
A small man, dressed in plain black clothes, with broad-toed shoes and a tie almost clerical in its simplicity, had entered the place and was handing his bowler hat to an attendant. His complexion was sallow, his general air one of complete insignificance. Suzanne watched the greeting between the two with intense interest. It was hard to realize that this was Ludwig Kessner, twenty times a millionaire.
The little man's speech and manners wholly belied his appearance. His assurance was unlimited. He talked easily and with confidence.
'Well, young fellow,' he exclaimed, 'so we are back in London, eh? Not late, am I?'
'Not a moment,' Lavendale assured him. 'I want to present you, if I may, to Miss de Freyne, who is lunching with us. Miss de Freyne,' he added, 'this is Mr. Kessner.'
She rose with a charming little smile and shook hands with him. Mr. Kessner seemed to see no reason why he should conceal his admiration. He walked close to her side as they entered the luncheon-room.
'Our young friend and I,' he remarked, 'were hanging over the side of a steamer, looking out for submarines, this time yesterday. Not particularly good for the appetite, that sort of thing.'
'I think it is very brave of you to have really crossed the North Sea,' Suzanne declared. 'I should have been terrified to death.'
'Business is business,' Mr. Kessner observed, 'and I am something of a fatalist myself. I go about what I have to do and take my chances. Same with Mr. Lavendale, I expect, only these diplomatists are used to it. Troublous times, Miss de Freyne, times such as I never dreamed we should see in our days. By the by, are you French or English?'
'French, English, and Austrian,' she told him, smiling, as they took their places at the table, 'so you see I represent neutrality in my own person. My grandmother was Austrian, and I have never been so happy as when I lived in Vienna.'
He nodded approvingly.
'Do you know,' he said, 'I am glad you are not altogether English. I don't know which way your sympathies may be in this trouble, and I don't know as it matters. We each of us have a right to our feelings, whatever they may be. I am an American first and foremost, like our friend here, only he has British blood in his veins behind it, and I have German. We can keep good friends for all that, though.'
'I think,' she sighed, 'that I am in a most trying position. I adore Austria and I have many relations there. I am very fond of France and I have some good friends in England. I am torn every way. After all, though,' she went on reflectively, 'it cannot be as hard for me as for you. You really are German, are you not, and yet you have to sit still and see America doing an enormous lot to help the Allies.'
He glanced at her keenly. Her sincerity was undoubted. Before he replied he looked also at the occupants of the next two tables, young people from the land of musical comedy with their khaki-clad escorts, intellectually negligible. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice a little as he answered.
'You are quite right, Miss de Freyne. It is one of the hardest nuts we have to crack, we German-Americans. We are honest and above-board about it, you see. We have worked like slaves to direct the policy of America our own way, and we've failed.'
'Is there nothing more you can do?' she asked earnestly.
There was a moment's silence. Mr. Kessner, with his napkin tucked in underneath his chin, was settling down to his luncheon like a man. Nevertheless, he again glanced searchingly at his neighbour.
'It is hard to see what can be done,' he said calmly. 'I have been in Germany to visit some of my relatives. It is very wonderful to hear them all talk there. There is no pessimism, no doubt whatever, no shadow of misgiving. Germany must win—that is in their hearts. They have not a single doubt. And here in London, whether the people deceive themselves or not, they say the same thing. They go about their business with even more assurance, and they indulge in pleasures far more freely.'
'Which is going to win?' she asked.
'Neither,' he replied. 'Neither has the preponderance of strength to smash the other. It will be a drawn fight. There will be a period of peace, nominal peace. Germany knows now what she has to face—a world in arms against her. When the next time comes, she will be ready.'
'There will be a next time, then?'
'Germany is not yet at the end of her resources,' he assured her. 'There are other ways in which she can make herself felt. But let us leave for a little time these serious subjects. This champagne, I know, my friend Lavendale, is a compliment to me. You English-Americans do not drink champagne in the middle of the day. Believe me, you are wrong. I drink your very good health, Miss de Freyne, and yours, Lavendale. And I drink also,' he added, his eyes lightening a little as he looked across the room, 'the unspoken toast!'
He set his glass down empty.
'There is an unspoken toast close to the heart of all of us, Miss de Freyne,' he remarked, 'one little secret we keep at the back of our thoughts. Now tell me. I sail on Saturday. On Friday night you and our friend Lavendale will give me the honour of your company at dinner, eh? It is arranged. At the Ritz at eight o'clock.'
'You are very kind,' they both murmured
He selected a cigar from a box which had been passed him, and rose a little abruptly.
'I go to speak with a friend,' he said—'a matter of business. For your excellent luncheon I thank you very much, and for the privilege of having met Miss de Freyne,' he added with a little bow, 'I thank you even more. Till Friday, then.'
He shuffled across the room, an ill-dressed, undignified figure, yet with a confidence which surpassed conceit. They saw him greet a compatriot and seat himself at the latter's table.
'That man,' Lavendale said, as he toyed with his coffee spoon, 'has at the back of his head some new scheme. It may not be directed against your people. I have an idea that it is more likely to be directed against mine.'
'But he is an American himself,' she protested.
'He is a German-American,' Lavendale replied, 'which means that he is very much a German and very little an American.'
'Whatever his new scheme may be,' she sighed, 'I do not think that he is disposed to talk about it.'
'Whatever it may be,' Lavendale replied, 'it is my business to find it out. One thing is absolutely certain. No American would receive the attentions of the Kaiser—in war time, too—and come back here without a word to say about it, unless there was something in the background, something he meant to keep secret.'
They strolled out into the entrance hall and Lavendale departed in search of his hat. A waiter came hurriedly out to Suzanne's side.
'For madame,' he whispered, slipping a little note into her hand.
Her fingers closed upon it quickly. She glanced around. Lavendale was still talking to some acquaintances. She opened it and read the few hastily pencilled lines:—
'It would give me a great deal of pleasure to see you again before Friday. I am in flat 74 in the Court here. Shall be alone all this afternoon.'
She crumpled up the note in her hand. Lavendale was coming towards her.
'Can I take you anywhere?' he asked. 'The car will be outside.'
She shook her head.
'Don't bother about me,' she said. 'I am going up to my room to write some letters.'
*****
'Come in!'
Suzanne turned the handle of number seventy-four, closed the door behind her and entered the sitting-room. Mr. Kessner turned around in his chair from before a mass of papers. He looked at Suzanne for an instant in surprise, an expression which, as he recognized her, changed quickly into one of satisfaction. He rose to his feet and came towards her.
'This is a great pleasure, my dear young lady,' he said. 'I scarcely dared to hope——'
He took her hands, but she evaded him with a little smile.
'You see, we are neighbours almost,' she explained. 'I have an apartment here when I am in London. I thought I would call in and see you on the way to my room. But, please—do you mind?'
She pushed him gently away from her. For a moment his face darkened. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he threw himself into the easy-chair opposite, a shapeless, ill-dressed little morsel of humanity, with a queer intelligence shining out of his narrowed eyes, suggested, too, in the square forehead and puckered brows.
'Listen, young lady,' he said. 'Do you know why I asked you to come and see me?'
She raised her eyebrows and laughed at him.
'Because you like me, I hope,' she replied. 'For myself, I love making fresh acquaintances amongst clever men.'
'Acquaintances?' he repeated slowly.
She nodded several times.
'I am not one of those,' she said, 'who can gather the whole world in without a pause. I like to make acquaintances. Sometimes an acquaintance may become a friend. Sometimes—but that takes time.'
She felt the steely light of his eyes upon her and looked modestly down upon the carpet.
'Well,' he went on, 'there were two reasons why I sent for you. One I think you have surmised, and you keep it there at the back of your pretty little head. The other—well, you are a young person of intelligence and mixed nationality. I thought it possible that you might be of use to me.'
'But in what manner?' she demanded.
'I was frank with you at luncheon-time,' he said. 'You know where my sympathies lie. Yours, I gathered, are divided. Would it be possible, I wonder, to induce you to look my way?'
'But you yourself admitted,' she reminded him, 'that the cause of Germany in America is lost. What more is there to be done?'
'Young lady,' he replied, 'the cause of Germany in America may be lost for the moment so far as regards our efforts to induce the present administration to carry into effect an ethical neutrality. But the great source of Germany's greatness is her capacity for looking ahead. If one cause is lost, then in that day a new one is born. If Germany had not foreseen and prepared for this war for forty years, she would have been crushed to-day. Now we who are her sons in foreign countries, our eyes, too, are fixed upon the future.'
'Then you have a new scheme,' she said quietly.
'We have a new scheme,' he admitted, 'but what that may be it is not my intention to tell you at present.'
She pouted at once.
'Of course, if you are not going to trust me——'
'You must not be a foolish child,' he interrupted. 'You would think little of me if I did, and besides,' he added, rising to his feet, 'I am not sure yet that I do trust you. Wait.'
He touched the bell. Almost immediately the door of the sitting-room was opened. She gave a little start. An immense coloured man in dark clothes stood respectfully in the doorway.
'George,' his master directed, 'if any one rings, I am engaged. See that I am not disturbed on any pretext.'
'Very good, Mr. Kessner!
The man closed the door with wonderful softness. Even his footsteps, as he retreated into the bedroom, were inaudible. Kessner's elbow was propped against the mantelpiece, his head supported in his thin, yellow-stained fingers. He looked down at her.
'If you do not trust me,' she persisted, 'how can I be of help to you?'
'I might put you to the test,' he said slowly.
There was nothing distinctly threatening in his tone, and yet all at once she was afraid. The thought of that black Hercules loitering outside, something in the downward droop of the eyes of this man all the time edging a little nearer to her, seemed suddenly to become terrifying. Nevertheless, she refused to flinch.
'I do not like riddles,' she declared. 'Perhaps you had better think over more definitely what you want to say to me, before Friday night, or send a note up to my room.'
'There is no necessity,' he replied. 'What I have to say to you is already quite clear in my mind.'
He moved still nearer, stood over the couch by her side. Then the outside bell rang. He paused to listen. Her heart gave a little jump as a familiar voice asked for Mr. Kessner.
'It is Mr. Lavendale!' she exclaimed under her breath. 'Don't let him find me here!'
His features relaxed. He laughed and patted her hand. She could have said nothing to inspire him with more confidence.
'Of course not,' he replied indulgently. 'Don't be afraid. George would tell him that I was engaged. He had my orders to let no one in.'
'But I heard him say that he would wait!' she persisted anxiously. 'Cannot I hide somewhere for a moment while you see him and send him away?'
George made a discreet appearance.
'A gentleman inquiring for you, sir,' he said. 'He is waiting outside in the corridor. I told him that you would be a long time.'
Mr. Kessner considered for a moment.
'Would you mind stepping into my sleeping apartment?' he asked Suzanne.
She sprang up at once.
'You will get rid of him quickly?' she begged.
He pressed her hand affectionately. She endured his touch without flinching. He handed her over to George and pointed to the door of his room.
'Give the young lady a chair inside,' he ordered. 'I will see Mr. Lavendale.'
She was ushered into a bedroom and a moment or two later she heard Lavendale announced. Then George returned, handed her some American papers and disappeared into the bathroom beyond. She rose to her feet as he closed the door. The sound of Lavendale's voice was muffled and inaudible. She glanced around the room. It was tastefully but very plainly furnished. There was nothing about on the mantelpiece or bureau likely to be of the slightest interest. Suddenly her heart gave a little jump. George came out of the bathroom with a coat upon his arm, threw open the bureau and searched there for something. As he stood there, a thin, black silk pocket-book slipped from the breast-pocket of the coat and fell unnoticed on to the carpet. A moment later he closed the bureau, laid the coat carefully out upon the bed and withdrew into the bathroom, closing the door. Suzanne held her breath for a single moment. Then she stole across the floor, seized the pocket-book, opened the bedroom door stealthily, and with a little gulp of relief passed out into the corridor. She ran up the stairs to her own room, gripping the pocket-book in her hand. Arrived there, she locked the door, took up the telephone and spoke to the hall-porter.
'Please don't let Mr. Lavendale go out,' she directed. 'When he comes downstairs send him up to my room—say that I wish to see him at once.'
She slipped the pocket-book into the bosom of her dress and waited. In a few minutes there was a ring at the bell. Lavendale stood outside.
'Come in at once,' she begged.
He hesitated, but she dragged him in.
'Do not be foolish!' she exclaimed. 'Shut the door. You have just left Mr. Kessner?'
'Yes,' he admitted.
'Why did you go there?'
'To see if you were getting yourself into any trouble,' he answered grimly.
'You knew?'
He nodded.
'Yes, I knew!'
She drew the pocket-book from the bosom of her gown.
'Listen,' she said, 'I am terrified. I picked this up from the bedroom. It slipped out of the pocket of his dinner-coat. I haven't even dared to look inside.'
He moved to the door and locked it, came back and shook the contents out on to the table. There was a great roll of notes, some visiting cards, some notes copied from a German time-table, a long list of names, and a single letter on thick, cream paper. Suzanne stole to the door on tiptoe and stood there, listening. There was no sound in the corridor, no sound in the apartment at all except a smothered exclamation or two from Lavendale. Presently he called to her. He was holding the papers in his hand.
'Miss de Freyne,' he whispered, 'listen.'
She caught him by the sleeve. There was a ponderous knocking at the door, the shrill summons of the bell rang through the room. Lavendale hesitated for a moment. Then he slipped the book into his inside pocket and threw open the door. Mr. Kessner's black servant was standing outside.
'The master has sent his compliments,' he said, 'and would be glad to know——'
He glanced at Suzanne. It was obvious that Lavendale's presence in the room embarrassed him. Then he was suddenly pushed on one side and back into the corridor. Mr. Kessner himself came quietly in and closed the door behind him. There was a queer little gleam in his eyes, but his manner was unruffled. He tried the handle of the door to be sure that it was closed. Then he turned towards Suzanne.
'Will a million dollars,' he asked, 'buy me back my pocket-book?'
Lavendale drew it from his pocket and promptly handed it across.
'My dear Mr. Kessner,' he remonstrated, 'you are surely not serious! Miss de Freyne was just explaining her little escapade to me and I was coming in search of you.'
Mr. Kessner took no notice of either of them for several moments. He ran through the contents of the pocket-book, then he slowly thrust it into his pocket.
'I shall have the pleasure,' he said, 'on Friday night? You will not forget—the Ritz at eight o'clock?'
'Charmed,' Lavendale murmured.
'Delighted,' Suzanne faltered.
He made a little bow—an ugly, awkward bow—and left the room. There was nothing in his manner to indicate what his sensations were. Lavendale and Suzanne looked at one another.
'Was there anything very important there?' she asked.
He laughed.
'Nothing from your point of view, but everything from mine,' he told her. 'There was a list of forty-two names of German-Americans, each giving a million dollars towards a specific purpose. There was a plan of a few remaining estates in a certain part of Brazil, still to be purchased to establish what at some seasonable juncture should be declared to be a German colony. Some slight trouble with the Government of Brazil, a German gunboat, and behold!—German South America and to Hell with the Monroe Doctrine! A very admirable scheme, only——'
'Only what?'
'I don't fancy that, thanks to you, those estates will ever come into the market,' he remarked dryly, 'not for a German purchaser, at any rate.'
She glanced uneasily towards the door.
'Mr. Lavendale,' she said earnestly 'I am terrified!'
'Why?'
'I am afraid of Mr. Kessner,' she confessed. 'He took it much too quietly.'
Lavendale shrugged his shoulders.
'A man of his temperament,' he said, 'seldom wastes his time or his emotions. He was playing for a great stake which he knows now that he will lose. At the same time, he has lost purely through accident.'
She suddenly smiled.
'I wonder,' she exclaimed, 'whether he really expects us to dine with him at the Ritz on Friday night!'
'We'll go and see, at any rate,' Lavendale declared.
Lavendale glanced at his thin gold watch and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket.
'Three minutes past eight,' he remarked. 'Half a dozen pairs of gloves for me, I think. Shall I go in and see about a table or would you rather dine somewhere else?'
Suzanne made a little grimace. They were in the foyer of the Ritz Hotel, and she was wearing a wonderful new gown.
'It is most disappointing,' she declared. 'I had made up my mind to conquest.'
'I am very impressionable,' Lavendale assured her.
She shook her head petulantly.
'It is not you whom I wish to subjugate.'
'I am too easy a victim, I suppose,' Lavendale sighed. 'I am afraid that to-night, however, you will have to be content with me.'
Her face suddenly changed, a brilliant smile parted her lips, she glanced at him triumphantly. Lavendale looked over his shoulder. Mr. Kessner was crossing the lounge towards them with outstretched hand.
'You've lost your gloves,' Suzanne murmured under her breath.
Mr. Kessner greeted his two guests in the most matter-of-fact fashion.
'I must apologize for being a few moments late,' he said. 'It is rather crowded here to-night, and I thought it best to go and see that no mistake had been made about my table. I should like, if I may, to introduce to you Mr. Courlander, a friend of mine from New York. Mr. Courlander is dining with us.'
The two young people murmured something suitable. Mr. Courlander turned out to be a dark, heavy-browed man, clean-shaven, and of a taciturn disposition. The little party made their way in to dinner. They were ushered to a small round table in the best quarter of the room, a table lavishly arranged with flowers and flanked with a couple of ice-pails, from which gold-foiled bottles were protruding. Suzanne gave a little sigh of content as she sank into her chair, and looked around her appreciatively.
'I have always observed,' she said softly, 'that the men of your country, Mr. Kessner, know so well how to entertain.'
'And also,' Mr. Kessner remarked, blinking slightly, 'how to select their guests.'
The service of dinner proceeded. Mr. Kessner, in his dress-suit, which seemed several sizes too large for him, appeared somehow to have become a more insignificant person than ever. In this ultra-fashionable restaurant, full of well-set-up men and soldiers in uniform, he seemed almost like some by-product, something not altogether human. His very insignificance compelled a certain amount of notice; conferred upon him, perhaps, an air of distinctiveness if not of distinction. He was Kessner, the multi-millionaire, probably over to secure contracts from the Government. The aroma of wealth hovered around his table. The term 'German-American' was unused—to few people there did it convey any significance. The little party talked of every subject under the sun except the war. Mr. Courlander, notwithstanding his heavy appearance, was an excellent raconteur. Dinner was more than half-way through before their host changed his attitude.
'You two young people did not, by any chance, expect me to break my appointment for this evening, did you?' he asked.
'We had a bet about it,' Suzanne admitted.
'Tell me who wagered in my favour and I will tell you which is the cleverer of the two?' he offered.
Suzanne laughed.
'It was I who thought that you would come,' she declared.
He bowed.
'After all,' he argued, 'why not? Listen,' he went on, leaning across the table. 'Courlander here does not count. He is in my confidence. He was, indeed, at one time my private secretary. To the world I am an American. To our young friend here,' he went on, indicating Lavendale, 'who appears to have partly discarded his diplomatic career for an excursion into the secret service of his country, I am a German-American. He follows me to Germany. He knows that I have a conference with the Kaiser. He is all agog with the importance of it. He comes back. He consults with you, my dear young lady, and with marvellous subtlety he asks me to lunch and exposes me most unfairly to the trial of your charms. I succumb—what more natural?'
He leaned back in his chair while a portlymaîtres d'hôtelsuperintended the filling of their glasses with champagne and explained to him the mysteries of the course which was being served. Neither Suzanne nor Lavendale found it easy to continue their meal unmoved. Their eyes were fixed upon this insignificant little man who spoke with such deliberation, such a queer little curl of the lips, such obvious enjoyment of his own thoughts.
'Your deep-laid scheme,' he went on, 'was crowned with complete success. The poor little American was robbed of his secret. By this time it is probably known in Washington. There is only one little fly in the ointment. A private intimation has already been given through our ambassador in Washington to the American Government, that unless America at once abandons her position of favouring the Allies at the expense of Germany and Austria, Germany will refuse now and for always henceforth to respect and accept the Monroe Doctrine.'
There was a moment's breathless silence. Then Lavendale drained his glass.
'You mean that that pronouncement has already been made?' he murmured.
'It has already been made,' Mr. Kessner assented. 'Further, you can understand quite easily, I am sure, that the exact locality in which this break should take place, although interesting, is not of vital importance. I do not wish to dispirit you. Yours was, without doubt, an excellent stroke of work, and I, the poor victim, am compelled to droop a diminished head. Yet I offer you this explanation so that you can see the reason why I am able to accept my defeat gracefully, to welcome you both here as my guests, to raise my glass to your beautiful eyes, mademoiselle, and to wish you, Mr. Lavendale, the further success in your profession which such subtlety and finesse demand.'
'Say, he's eloquent to-night, isn't he?' Mr. Courlander remarked. 'Quite an epic little meeting, this. I can assure you all that I consider it an immense privilege to have been asked to join your little party this evening.'
'My subtle friend,' Mr. Kessner continued, setting his glass down empty, 'is now wondering why you were asked to join it.'
'Not at all,' Lavendale replied. 'The fame of Mr. Courlander is well known to me.'
Their host for a single moment seemed disturbed. He recovered himself, however, almost immediately.
'Mr. Courlander,' he went on, 'as I have told you was once my secretary. Since then, for a brief space of time, he became a criminologist. Disgusted with the coarse tendencies of crime as practised in more modern cities he abandoned that profession to become what I might call a diplomatic detective. He is the terror of our loose-living public men and our ambitious but dishonest politicians.'
'Our friend's career in America,' Lavendale remarked dryly, 'must of necessity be a strenuous one!'
Mr. Kessner for a moment smiled. There was no effort of humour about the gesture. It was simply a slow, sideways parting of the lips, an index of thoughts travelling backwards along a road lined with grotesque memories. He drew a heavy gold pencil from his pocket and signed the bill. Then he rose to his feet.
'We will take our coffee outside,' he suggested. 'Afterwards, if it meets with your approval, I have a box at one of the music halls—I am not sure which.'
They lingered only a few minutes over their coffee. While they sat there, however, Mr. Kessner's secretary, a middle-aged man with gold spectacles and abstracted manner, brought in a note. Mr. Kessner opened it, read it carefully and tore it into small pieces. He rose, a few minutes later, joined his secretary, who was waiting on the outskirts of the little group, and walked with him twice down the entrance hall. Then he returned.
'The car is waiting,' he announced, 'if you are ready. Won't you, my Machiavellian young friend,' he added, glancing at the scraps of paper which he had left upon the coffee table, 'try and put those fragments together? I promise that you would find them interesting—more intrigue, and a very interesting one, I can assure you.'
Lavendale found it hard to forgive himself later for the impulse which prompted his answer. The temptation, however, was irresistible.
'I have no need to put them together to know the source of your message,' he replied.
'No?' Mr. Kessner remarked politely, as he lingered for a moment over adjusting Suzanne's coat. 'There are a good many millions of people in London, are there not? Shall I give you a hundred thousand to one against naming the writer?'
'In dollars, if you like,' Lavendale replied carelessly. 'I won't take your money, but I'll start, then, with Baron Niko Komashi.'
Mr. Kessner, who had half turned away, watching the result of his attentions to Suzanne, became suddenly motionless. His lips were a little parted, he seemed almost paralysed. When he turned slowly around there was a new look in his eyes. Courlander, on the other hand, did not attempt to restrain an exclamation of wonder.
'Baron Niko Komashi,' Kessner repeated. 'Who is he?'
Lavendale laughed easily. He was already bitterly regretting his momentary lapse.
'Heaven knows!' he exclaimed. 'The odds dazzled me.'
They walked out to the car almost in silence. A new spirit seemed to have come to Kessner. He looked and talked differently throughout the rest of the evening's entertainment. He seemed somehow to have lost his air of half bantering confidence. When the time came for farewells, he looked long and earnestly into Lavendale's face.
'We must know one another better, young man,' was all he said....
On their way back to her rooms, Suzanne gripped Lavendale by the arm and asked him a question.
'What does it all mean?' she demanded. 'Why did you guess Niko? Why were they both so thunderstruck?'
'Because,' he replied, 'Niko happened to be the writer of that little epistle.'
Her large eyes gleamed at him through the semi-darkness, filled with wonder.
'But how could you possibly know that?'
He smiled.
'It is your responsibility,' he explained. 'I noticed the perfume directly he drew the note from the envelope.'
She laughed softly—softly at first and then heartily.
'Why, it is most amusing!' she exclaimed. 'He thinks you a necromancer. He is, I believe, a little afraid of you. And that other man, all through the performance he scarcely took his eyes off you.'
'At any rate,' Lavendale observed, 'it has given me something to think about.'
II
Lavendale found his way to the American Embassy early on the following morning, and interviewed his friend Mr. Washburn.
'Anything from Washington?' he inquired.
'I have only had a formal acknowledgment,' Mr. Washburn replied, 'except that they added a code word they don't often make use of, and which I take to indicate a pat on the back for you.'
'Is it true,' Lavendale continued, dragging a chair up to the side of Mr. Washburn's desk, 'that Berlin has given Washington to understand that unless she changes her attitude toward the Allies and withdraws her objection to submarine warfare, she will no longer respect the Monroe Doctrine?'
'Pourparlersto that effect,' Mr. Washburn confessed, 'have passed. How did you come to hear of them?'
Lavendale smiled a little grimly, yet with some self-satisfaction.
'I am getting on the track of something else which promises to be even more interesting,' he went on. 'Tell me, how do we stand with Japan just now?'
Mr. Washburn knitted his brows.
'Still friction—always friction,' he admitted. 'The whole thing is too ridiculous. Personally, I consider our Western States are very much to blame. We have never before raised the cry 'America for the Americans only,' and it's too late to do it now. And the fact of it is you see, the Western States simply decline to fall in with Washington Policy. Then the trouble comes. Any particular reason for asking?'
'I don't know yet,' Lavendale replied. 'There's a Japanese fellow named Komashi in my line of business, seems to be very busy just lately. I only caught on to it last night, though. Chief well?'
'We are all overworked,' Washburn replied. 'We have had to send Barclay over to Berlin to get a personal report about the prisoners' camps there. Then we get enough questions from Germany ourselves, about their prisoners here, to swamp the place.'
Lavendale took up his hat.
'I'll see you later,' he promised.
He walked down the steps from Spring Gardens into St. James's Park and sat for a time upon a seat. Exactly in front of him, the upper floors of one of the big houses in Carlton Terrace had been turned into a hospital, and he could see the soldiers lying about in long chairs, a few of them entertaining guests. Behind him was the long row of huts built by the Admiralty. A troop of soldiers swung along the broad road, a loudly playing band heralded the approach of a little company of recruits. Save for these things, London seemed as usual. From where he sat, the hum and the roar of the great city came as insistently as ever to his ears. His thoughts had travelled back to New York. How long, he wondered? ...
It was one of the chances of a lifetime which brought Lavendale face to face that afternoon with Baron Niko Komashi in a quiet street near St. James's Square. Niko would have passed on without even a sign of recognition but Lavendale stopped him.
'Good afternoon!' he said.
'Good afternoon!' the other replied gravely.
'I should like a few minutes' conversation with you,' Lavendale proceeded.
Niko was perplexed but acquiescent.
'If it pleases,' he answered a little vaguely.
Lavendale marched him along the street.
'There is a little bridge club to which I belong, close at hand,' he said. 'Come into the sitting-room there for a few moments. We shall be quite alone at this hour of the afternoon.'
Niko suffered himself to be passively led in the direction which his companion indicated. In a few moments they were seated in the comfortable parlour of a well-known bridge club. They were quite alone and Lavendale closed the door.
'Well,' he asked, 'how goes it with your new ally?'
Niko's face betrayed nothing but mild wonder. Lavendale smiled.
'Listen,' he said, 'I may be making a mistake about you. I do not think that I am. I think that you represent for your country what I do for mine. You are intensely patriotic. So am I. You realize the need for a certain amount of diplomatic insight into the workings of her constitution and her future. So do I. The only trouble is that you are for Japan and I am for America.'
Niko assented very gravely. His soft brown eyes were watching Lavendale's lips as though they would read upon them even the unuttered words. His finger-tips, soft and pliant as velvet, were pressed together.
'You are not to be bought, my friend,' Lavendale went on. 'Neither am I. When we walk together, you hedge yourself around with restraint because you believe that I am one of those who could bear your country ill-will. That is where you are wrong. That is where there is a cloud between us which ought to be driven away. Japan and America naturally, industrially and geographically, should be friends, not enemies.'
'The causes of ill-feeling which lie between us,' Niko observed suavely, 'are not of our making.'
'Nor of ours—not of the true American,' Lavendale answered promptly. 'It is the desire of Washington, official Washington, that the sons of your country who come to us should be treated as our own sons. What we have to contend with, and you, is local feeling. The only sentiment that exists against Japan in my country is that local feeling, and the people who have shown themselves most virulently possessed of it are the compatriots of the man who only within the last few weeks has sought to pave the way for a disgraceful compact with your country.'
Niko's face was a little whiter, his eyes were filled with wonder. Slowly he nodded his head.
'You surprise me with your knowledge of things which I had imagined secret,' he said. 'Secret they have remained so far as I am concerned. Such information as you have gained can have come but from one source, so I will speak thus far. The sword of Japan shall be drawn in defence of her honour, and for no other cause. The alliance which you suggest would be hateful and dishonouring to my country. Nor,' he concluded, 'would Japan at any time commence a war with a treasonable ally.'
'What answer have you made to Kessner?' Lavendale asked bluntly.
His companion gently raised his eyebrows.
'Who is that gentleman—Mr. Kessner?' he inquired.
Lavendale shrugged his shoulders.
'Ah! I forgot,' he said. 'Those would not be your methods. Yet we know quite well that the person whose name I have mentioned has made overtures to you which could not, under present circumstances, emanate from Berlin. Japan from the west, and Germany on the east, might well embarrass a country so criminally unprepared for war as mine. I take it, however, that that combination is not to be feared.'
Niko rose from his place. He had a habit of ending a discussion exactly at the period he chose.
'Not in your time or mine,' he answered simply....
Lavendale, notwithstanding a nervous system almost unexampled, was possessed of curiously sensitive instincts. Before he reached Pall Mall, he was obsessed with an idea that he was being followed. He turned rather abruptly around. A tall, broad-shouldered man in dark clothes, wearing a Homburg hat and with a cigar in the corner of his mouth, waved his stick in friendly greeting.
'This is Mr. Lavendale, isn't it?' he remarked. 'Kind of forgotten me, perhaps? My name's Courlander. Met you with Mr. Kessner the other night.'
'I remember you perfectly,' Lavendale acknowledged. 'Very pleasant dinner we had.'
Mr. Courlander fell into step with his companion, who had turned eastwards.
'There are few things in the world that Ludwig Kessner doesn't understand,' he continued, 'from the placing of a loan to the ordering of a dinner. He isn't much use at eating it, poor fellow, but that's the fault of his digestion. Too much ice-water, I tell him.'
Lavendale nodded affably. He had no objection whatever to discussing Mr. Kessner.
'Kind of misunderstood over here, the boss,' Courlander went on. 'People think because he's of German extraction that his sympathies are altogether that way. As a matter of fact, I can tell you, Mr. Lavendale, that people are dead wrong. At the present moment—I wouldn't have every one know this, but you're an American, too—Mr. Kessner is making proposals for a very large purchase of British War Loan.'
'Is he indeed!' Lavendale observed, in a tone as colourless as he could make it.
Courlander glanced at him curiously. They were passing the Carlton and he drew his arm through Lavendale's.
'Just one cocktail,' he suggested.
Lavendale hesitated for a moment, inspired by an instinctive dislike of his companion. Policy, however, intervened. He accepted the invitation and followed Courlander into the smoke-room. They found two easy-chairs and the latter gave the order.
'I was talking about the boss,' he went on. 'There are others besides you who have misunderstood him some, but they'll learn the truth before the war's over.'
'When is Mr. Kessner returning to America?' Lavendale asked.
'As soon as he can find a safe steamer,' Courlander replied. 'He is a trifle nervous about the Atlantic. Say, that tastes good!'
Mr. Courlander leaned back and sipped his cocktail. Lavendale, with a word of excuse, rose to his feet and strolled across the room to speak to an acquaintance. He returned in less than a minute. Mr. Courlander was leaning back in his chair, American from tip to toe. He wore a dark grey suit of some smooth material. His square-toed boots, the little flag in his buttonhole, his prim tie, his air of genial confidence, were all eloquently and convincingly typical of his nationality. Lavendale was followed by a waiter bearing two more glasses upon a tray.
'Try my sort,' he invited.
Mr. Courlander glanced at Lavendale's glass, which was still three-quarters full.
'You haven't finished your first one yet,' he remarked.
'A little too dry for me,' Lavendale replied, placing it upon the tray and taking the full glass. 'Here's luck!'
The two men looked at one another. In Courlander's hard brown eyes, a little narrowed by his drooping eyebrows, there was an air of fierce though latent questioning. Then with an abrupt gesture he took the glass from the tray and drank off its contents.
'You'll forgive me if I hurry away,' Lavendale went on. 'We shall meet again, I dare say, before Mr. Kessner leaves.'
'Sure!' Mr. Courlander murmured, as he picked up his hat. 'I am generally to be found round about the Milan. Like to have you come and dine with me one night.'
The two men parted at the hotel entrance. Lavendale got into a taxi and drove to his rooms. As he changed his clothes, he glanced through his correspondence. There was a note from Suzanne which he read over twice:—
'Dear Friend,—
'I want to see you at once. I shall be in from seven till eight. Please call.'
Lavendale glanced at the clock, hurried with his toilet, and found himself ringing the bell at the entrance door of Suzanne's suite at half-past seven. She admitted him herself and ushered him into the little sitting-room, which had been transformed almost into a bower of deep red roses.
'Mr. Kessner,' she exclaimed, pointing around, 'with a carte de visite! You see what he says?—'"From a forgiving enemy!"'
Lavendale glanced at them with a frown upon his forehead.
'I'd like to throw them out of the window,' he declared frankly.
'Do not be foolish,' she laughed. 'Listen. You are dining somewhere?'
'At our own shop,' he replied. 'They ask me about once in every two months, to fill up.'
'I wanted to speak to you about that man Courlander,' she went on.
'Well?'
'Lawrence Dowell—the American newspapers woman, you know—was in here yesterday and stayed to lunch. We saw Mr. Courlander in the distance and she told me about him. Do you know that he was convicted of murder?—that it was only through Mr. Kessner's influence that he was taken out of Sing-Sing? He was a police-sergeant and his name was Drayton. They say that there were several cases against him of having men put out of the way who had made themselves obnoxious to Tammany Hall. The sentence against him was quite clear, yet Mr. Kessner not only managed to have him released but made him his private secretary.'
Lavendale stood for a moment looking out of the window with his hands in his pockets. Then he turned slowly around.
'About an hour ago,' he said, 'this fellow Courlander tried to doctor a cocktail I was drinking in the Carlton smoking-room.'
'What?' she exclaimed.
'I met him at the corner of St. James's Street,' he went on. 'I had been in the club with Niko Komashi, and I am perfectly certain that he had been dogging me. We walked along Pall Mall and he pressed me to go in and have a cocktail. I happened to cross the room to speak to Willoughby and on the way glanced into the mirror. I saw Courlander's hand suddenly flash over my glass. It was so quick that even though I saw it myself, I could scarcely believe it, and I'm certain that no one else in the room could have noticed it. When I got back, I made some excuse and ordered another cocktail.'
She seemed suddenly to lose some part of that serenity which as yet he had never seen even ruffled. She was distinctly paler.
'You must be careful—please promise that you will be careful,' she begged.
'This isn't New York,' he reminded her.
'But that man is a perfect devil,' she persisted earnestly. 'He is a professional murderer. He has no feeling, no mercy, and he is so cunning. And behind him there is Kessner and all his millions.'
Lavendale shrugged his shoulders.
'All the millions that were ever owned,' he said, 'wouldn't help a man over here against the law. I am not afraid of Courlander. There is nothing he could try which I am not prepared for, and if it comes to a hand-to-hand struggle, I don't think I have anything to fear from him.'
'I don't like it,' she told him frankly. 'You will be on your guard, won't you?'
His voice softened.
'Of course I will, but, Miss de Freyne—Suzanne—why don't you like it? Why do you worry about me at all?'
She was silent for a moment. She had turned a little towards the window, her eyes had lost their usual directness. He took a step forward.
'It isn't because you care a little about me, by any chance, is it?' he asked.
She gave him her hand. Then she turned around and he saw that her eyes were soft with tears.
'Suzanne!' he faltered.
She turned towards him. There was something very sweet about her little gesture, something yielding and yet restraining.
'Won't you please forget all this for just a little time?' she pleaded. 'To tell you the truth, I feel almost like a traitress when I even let myself think of such things now that my country is in such agony, when everything that is dear to me in life seems imperilled. You have your work, too, and I have mine. Perhaps the end may be happy.'
He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
'I will obey,' he promised, turning towards the door.
'And you will be careful—please be careful,' she begged, as she let him out and squeezed his arm for a moment. 'There! Now you must go to your dinner. You look very nice, and I am sure you will sit next some one altogether charming, and perhaps you will forget. But I shall like to think of this evening.' ...
Practical, hard-headed, and with a sound hold upon the every-day episodes of life, Lavendale nevertheless passed through the remainder of that evening with his head in the clouds. He was vaguely conscious of the other twenty-three guests who shared with him the hospitality of the Ambassador—a few diplomats, a professor from Harvard University and his wife, two other distinguished Americans, with a sprinkling of their English connections. He sat next a distant relative of his own, an American girl who had married an Englishman, and his abstraction was perhaps ministered to by the fact that conversation from him was entirely unlooked for. In the reception rooms afterwards he found himself able to speak for a moment with Washburn.
'Have you seen anything of Mr. Kessner?' he asked.
The other made a little grimace.
'Very little,' he replied. 'The Chief and he don't exactly hit it off. I heard a rumour the other day that he might be going back to Germany.'
Lavendale played a couple of rubbers of bridge and was invited to take a cigar in the library before he left. It was shortly after one o'clock before he stepped into the taxicab which a servant had summoned for him.
'17 Sackville Street,' Lavendale directed.
He threw himself back in the corner of the vehicle, and they glided off. A drizzling rain was falling and the streets were almost empty. He leaned forward in his place to light a cigarette. That fact and his habits of observation probably saved his life. He realized suddenly that this was no ordinary taxicab in which he was travelling. It conformed to none of the usual types. The cushions were more luxurious, the appointments unusual. He sat for a moment thinking. The chauffeur was driving at a fair pace, but he had taken a somewhat circuitous route. Lavendale tried the doors, first on one side, then on the other. They were both fast, secured with some sort of spring lock. Suddenly alert, he rose softly to his feet, crouched for a moment upon the back seat and thrust his head and shoulders through the window. It was easy enough to wriggle out, to descend and allow the vehicle to proceed to its destination, wherever that might be, without its passenger, but the love of adventure was upon him. He set his teeth, sank back once more in his corner, half closed his eyes. To all appearance he might have been a tired diner-out prematurely asleep. As a matter of fact, every nerve and sense was keenly on the alert, and his right fingers were locked around the butt of a small revolver. Without protest or comment, he saw himself conducted by a roundabout way into a maze of quiet streets. Then, with a little thrill of anticipation, he saw a man who had been loitering near an entry turn and follow the vehicle, which at his coming had slackened speed. The man was wearing some sort of rubber-soled shoes and his footsteps upon the street were noiseless. Through his half-closed eyes, Lavendale was nevertheless conscious of his approach, realized his soft spring on to the footboard of the car, was more than prepared for the sudden flick in his face of a sodden towel, reeking with chloroform. His right fist shot out, the figure on the footboard went reeling back into the street. Even then, prepared though he had been, Lavendale for a moment gasped for breath. The car, with a sudden grinding of the brakes, came to a standstill. They were at the top of a darkly-lit street and not a soul was in sight. Lavendale thrust his foot through the glass in front of him, shattering it all around the driver. The man half sprang to his feet, but Lavendale's swift speech arrested him.
'Sit where you are,' he ordered. 'Never mind about that other fellow. Drive me to the Milan Hotel. You know the way, so do I. If you go a yard out of it, feel this!'
He suddenly dug the muzzle of his revolver into the man's neck. The man, with an oath, crouched forward.
'Do as I tell you,' Lavendale thundered, 'or I'll shoot you where you sit! Remember you're not in New York. Do as I tell you.'
Once more the car glided off. They turned almost immediately into Piccadilly, across Leicester Square, passed up the Strand and drew up at the Milan. Lavendale put his head through the window as the porter came out from the Court entrance.
'I can't open this door,' he said. 'Ask the fellow in front how to do it.'
The porter stared with surprise at the shattered glass. The driver slipped down, touched a spring on the outside and the door flew open. He had pulled his cap deeper over his face. Lavendale looked at him for a moment steadfastly.
'Wait for me,' he ordered.
He walked into the Court, rang for the lift and ascended to the fourth floor. He stepped out and rang the bell at number seventy-four. For a moment there was no answer. He rang it again. Then a light suddenly flashed up in the room and Mr. Kessner, fully dressed, stood upon the threshold. He gazed, speechless, at Lavendale, who pushed forward across the threshold, holding the door open with one hand.
'Mr. Kessner,' he said, 'your thug with the chloroform is lying on his back somewhere near Sackville Street. I shouldn't wonder if his spine wasn't broken. Your sham chauffeur is downstairs with his sham taxicab. I made him bring me here. You understand?'
The tip of Mr. Kessner's tongue had moistened his lips. His lined yellow face seemed more than ever like the face of some noxious animal.
'You are drunk, young man,' he said.
Lavendale raised his arm and Mr. Kessner stepped back.
'Don't be afraid,' Lavendale went on scornfully. 'I am not going to shoot you. When the day of reckoning comes between you and me, if ever it does, I shall take you by the throat and wring the life out of your body. But I am here now to tell you this. Before I sleep, a full account of this night's adventure, instigated by you and your assassin Courlander, will be written down and deposited in a safe place. If anything happens to me, if I disappear even for a dozen hours, that paper will be opened. You may get me, even now, you and Courlander between you, only you'll have to pay the price. See? In England it's a damned ugly price!'
Mr. Kessner sucked the breath in between his teeth. Then, as though with some super-human effort, he recovered himself.
'Say, young fellow, won't you come in and talk this out?' he invited.
Lavendale laughed dryly.
'"Won't you walk into my parlour?"' he quoted mockingly. 'No, thank you, Mr. Kessner! You know where we stand now. Let me give you a word of warning. London isn't New York. A very little of this sort of thing and you'll find the hand of a law that can't be bought or bribed or evaded in any way, tapping upon your shoulders. You understand?'
Mr. Kessner yawned.
'You are a foolish young man,' he said, 'and you've been reading a little too much modern fiction.'
He slammed the door and Lavendale descended to the street. The courtyard was empty.
'The car didn't wait for me, I suppose?' he inquired of the porter.
'The fellow drove off directly you went upstairs, sir. I shouted after him but he took no notice. Shall I get you a taxi, sir?'
Lavendale fumbled in his pocket, found a cigarette and lit it.
'Thank you,' he replied, 'I think I'll walk.'