Wolfenden was careful to reach the hall before the dinner gong had sounded. His father greeted him warmly, and Wolfenden was surprised to see so little outward change in him. He was carefully dressed, well groomed in every respect, and he wore a delicate orchid in his button-hole.
During dinner he discussed the little round of London life and its various social events with perfect sanity, and permitted himself his usual good-natured grumble at Wolfenden for his dilatoriness in the choice of a profession.
He did not once refer to the subject of his own weakness until dessert had been served, when he passed the claret to Wolfenden without filling his own glass.
“You will excuse my not joining you,” he said to his son, “but I have still three or four hours’ writing to do, and such work as mine requires a very clear head—you can understand that, I daresay.”
Wolfenden assented in silence. For the first time, perhaps, he fully realised the ethical pity of seeing a man so distinguished the victim of a hopeless and incurable mania. He watched him sitting at the head of his table, courteous, gentle, dignified; noted too the air of intellectual abstraction which followed upon his last speech, and in which he seemed to dwell for the rest of the time during which they sat together. Instinctively he knew what disillusionment must mean for him. Sooner anything than that. It mustnever be. Never! he repeated firmly to himself as he smoked a solitary cigar later on in the empty smoking-room. Whatever happens he must be saved from that. There was a knock at the door, and in response to his invitation to enter, Mr. Blatherwick came in. Wolfenden, who was in the humour to prefer any one’s society to his own, greeted him pleasantly, and wheeled up an easy chair opposite to his own.
“Come to have a smoke, Blatherwick?” he said. “That’s right. Try one of these cigars; the governor’s are all right, but they are in such shocking condition.”
Mr. Blatherwick accepted one with some hesitation, and puffed slowly at it with an air of great deliberation. He was a young man of mild demeanour and deportment, and clerical aspirations. He wore thick spectacles, and suffered from chronic biliousness.
“I am much obliged to you, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “I seldom smoke cigars—it is not good for my sight. An occasional cigarette is all I permit myself.”
Wolfenden groaned inwardly, for his regalias were priceless and not to be replaced; but he said nothing.
“I have taken the liberty, Lord Wolfenden,” Mr. Blatherwick continued, “of bringing for your inspection a letter I received this morning. It is, I presume, intended for a practical joke, and I need not say that I intend to treat it as such. At the same time as you were in the house, I imagined that no—er—harm would ensue if I ventured to ask for your opinion.”
He handed an open letter to Wolfenden, who took it and read it through. It was dated “—— London,” and bore the postmark of the previous day.
“Mr. Arnold Blatherwick.“Dear Sir,—The writer of this letter is prepared to offer you one thousand pounds in return for a certainservice which you are in a position to perform. The details of that service can only be explained to you in a personal interview, but broadly speaking it is as follows:—“You are engaged as private secretary to the Earl of Deringham, lately an admiral in the British Navy. Your duties, it is presumed, are to copy and revise papers and calculations having reference to the coast defences and navy of Great Britain. The writer is himself engaged upon a somewhat similar task, but not having had the facilities accorded to Lord Deringham, is without one or two important particulars. The service required of you is the supplying of these, and for this you are offered one thousand pounds.“As a man of honour you may possibly hesitate to at once embrace this offer. You need not! Lord Deringham’s work is practically useless, for it is the work of a lunatic. You yourself, from your intimate association with him, must know that this statement is true. He will never be able to give coherent form to the mass of statistics and information which he has collected. Therefore you do him no harm in supplying these few particulars to one who will be able to make use of them. The sum you are offered is out of all proportion to their value—a few months’ delay and they could easily be acquired by the writer without the expenditure of a single halfpenny. That, however, is not the point.“I am rich and I have no time to spare. Hence this offer. I take it that you are a man of common sense, and I take it for granted, therefore, that you will not hesitate to accept this offer. Your acquiescence will be assumed if you lunch at the Grand Hotel, Cromer, between one and two, on Thursday following the receipt of this letter. You will then be put in full possession of all the information necessary to the carrying out of the proposals made to you. Youare well known to the writer, who will take the liberty of joining you at your table.”
“Mr. Arnold Blatherwick.
“Dear Sir,—The writer of this letter is prepared to offer you one thousand pounds in return for a certainservice which you are in a position to perform. The details of that service can only be explained to you in a personal interview, but broadly speaking it is as follows:—
“You are engaged as private secretary to the Earl of Deringham, lately an admiral in the British Navy. Your duties, it is presumed, are to copy and revise papers and calculations having reference to the coast defences and navy of Great Britain. The writer is himself engaged upon a somewhat similar task, but not having had the facilities accorded to Lord Deringham, is without one or two important particulars. The service required of you is the supplying of these, and for this you are offered one thousand pounds.
“As a man of honour you may possibly hesitate to at once embrace this offer. You need not! Lord Deringham’s work is practically useless, for it is the work of a lunatic. You yourself, from your intimate association with him, must know that this statement is true. He will never be able to give coherent form to the mass of statistics and information which he has collected. Therefore you do him no harm in supplying these few particulars to one who will be able to make use of them. The sum you are offered is out of all proportion to their value—a few months’ delay and they could easily be acquired by the writer without the expenditure of a single halfpenny. That, however, is not the point.
“I am rich and I have no time to spare. Hence this offer. I take it that you are a man of common sense, and I take it for granted, therefore, that you will not hesitate to accept this offer. Your acquiescence will be assumed if you lunch at the Grand Hotel, Cromer, between one and two, on Thursday following the receipt of this letter. You will then be put in full possession of all the information necessary to the carrying out of the proposals made to you. Youare well known to the writer, who will take the liberty of joining you at your table.”
The letter ended thus somewhat abruptly. Wolfenden, who had only glanced it through at first, now re-read it carefully. Then he handed it back to Blatherwick.
“It is a very curious communication,” he said thoughtfully, “a very curious communication indeed. I do not know what to think of it.”
Mr. Blatherwick laid down his cigar with an air of great relief. He would have liked to have thrown it away, but dared not.
“It must surely be intended for a practical joke, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “Either that, or my correspondent has been ludicrously misinformed.”
“You do not consider, then, that my father’s work is of any value at all?” Wolfenden asked.
Mr. Blatherwick coughed apologetically, and watched the extinction of the cigar by his side with obvious satisfaction.
“You would, I am sure, prefer,” he said, “that I gave you a perfectly straightforward answer to that question. I—er—cannot conceive that the work upon which his lordship and I are engaged can be of the slightest interest or use to anybody. I can assure you, Lord Wolfenden, that my brain at times reels—positively reels—from the extraordinary nature of the manuscripts which your father has passed on to me to copy. It is not that they are merely technical, they are absolutely and entirely meaningless. You ask me for my opinion, Lord Wolfenden, and I conceive it to be my duty to answer you honestly. I am quite sure that his lordship is not in a fit state of mind to undertake any serious work.”
“The person who wrote that letter,” Wolfenden remarked, “thought otherwise.”
“The person who wrote that letter,” Mr. Blatherwickretorted quickly, “if indeed it was written in good faith, is scarcely likely to know so much about his lordship’s condition of mind as I, who have spent the greater portion of every day for three months with him.”
“Do you consider that my father is getting worse, Mr. Blatherwick?” Wolfenden asked.
“A week ago,” Mr. Blatherwick said, “I should have replied that his lordship’s state of mind was exactly the same as when I first came here. But there has been a change for the worse during the last week. It commenced with his sudden, and I am bound to say, unfounded suspicions of Miss Merton, whom I believe to be a most estimable and worthy young lady.”
Mr. Blatherwick paused, and appeared to be troubled with a slight cough. The smile, which Wolfenden was not altogether able to conceal, seemed somewhat to increase his embarrassment.
“The extraordinary occurrence of last night, which her ladyship has probably detailed to you,” Mr. Blatherwick continued, “was the next development of what, I fear, we can only regard as downright insanity. I regret having to speak so plainly, but I am afraid that any milder phrase would be inapplicable.”
“I am very sorry to hear this,” Wolfenden remarked gravely.
“Under the circumstances,” Mr. Blatherwick said, picking up his cigar which was now extinct, and immediately laying it down again, “I trust that you and Lady Deringham will excuse my not giving the customary notice of my desire to leave. It is of course impossible for me to continue to draw a—er—a stipend such as I am in receipt of for services so ludicrously inadequate.”
“Lady Deringham will be sorry to have you go,” Wolfenden said. “Couldn’t you put up with it a little longer?”
“I would much prefer to leave,” Mr. Blatherwick saiddecidedly. “I am not physically strong, and I must confess that his lordship’s attitude at times positively alarms me. I fear that there is no doubt that he committed an unprovoked assault last night upon that unfortunate keeper. There is—er—no telling whom he might select for his next victim. If quite convenient, Lord Wolfenden, I should like to leave to-morrow by an early train.”
“Oh! you can’t go so soon as that,” Wolfenden said. “How about this letter?”
“You can take any steps you think proper with regard to it,” Mr. Blatherwick answered nervously. “Personally, I have nothing to do with it. I thought of going to spend a week with an aunt of mine in Cornwall, and I should like to leave by the early train to-morrow.”
Wolfenden could scarcely keep from laughing, although he was a little annoyed.
“Look here, Blatherwick,” he said, “you must help me a little before you go, there’s a good fellow. I don’t doubt for a moment what you say about the poor old governor’s condition of mind; but at the same time it’s rather an odd thing, isn’t it, that his own sudden fear of having his work stolen is followed up by the receipt of this letter to you? There is some one, at any rate, who places a very high value upon his manuscripts. I must say that I should like to know whom that letter came from.”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Blatherwick said, “that I have not the faintest idea.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Wolfenden assented, a little impatiently. “But don’t you see how easy it will be for us to find out? You must go to the Grand Hotel on Thursday for lunch, and meet this mysterious person.”
“I would very much rather not,” Mr. Blatherwick declared promptly. “I should feel exceedingly uncomfortable; I should not like it at all!”
“Look here,” Wolfenden said persuasively “I must find out who wrote that letter, and can only do so with your help. You need only be there, I will come up directly I have marked the man who comes to your table. Your presence is all that is required; and I shall take it as a favour if you will allow me to make you a present of a fifty-pound note.”
Mr. Blatherwick flushed a little and hesitated. He had brothers and sisters, whose bringing up was a terrible strain upon the slim purse of his father, a country clergyman, and a great deal could be done with fifty pounds. It was against his conscience as well as his inclinations to remain in a post where his duties were a farce, but this was different.
He sighed.
“You are very generous, Lord Wolfenden,” he said. “I will stay until after Thursday.”
“There’s a good fellow,” Wolfenden said, much relieved. “Have another cigar?”
Mr. Blatherwick rose hastily, and shook his head. “You must excuse me, if you please,” he said. “I will not smoke any more. I think if you will notmind——”
Wolfenden turned to the window and held up his hand.
“Listen!” he said. “Is that a carriage at this time of night?”
A carriage it certainly was, passing by the window. In a moment they heard it draw up at the front door, and some one alighted.
“Odd time for callers,” Wolfenden remarked.
Mr. Blatherwick did not reply. He, too, was listening. In a moment they heard the rustling of a woman’s skirts outside, and the smoking-room door opened.
Both men looked up as Lady Deringham entered the room, carefully closing the door behind her. She had a card in her hand, and an open letter.
“Wolfenden,” she said. “I am so glad that you are here. It is most fortunate! Something very singular has happened. You will be able to tell me what to do.”
Mr. Blatherwick rose quietly and left the room.
Wolfenden was all attention.
“Some one has just arrived,” he remarked.
“A gentleman, a complete stranger,” she assented. “This is his card. He seemed surprised that his name was not familiar to me. He was quite sure that you would know it.”
Wolfenden took the card between his fingers and read it out.
“Mr. Franklin Wilmot.”
He was thoughtful for a moment. The name was familiar enough, but he could not immediately remember in what connection. Suddenly it flashed into his mind.
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “He is a famous physician—a very great swell, goes to Court and all that!”
Lady Deringham nodded.
“He has introduced himself as a physician. He has brought this letter from Dr. Whitlett.”
Wolfenden took the note from her hand. It was writtenon half a sheet of paper, and apparently in great haste:—
“Dear Lady Deringham,—My old friend, Franklin Wilmot, who has been staying at Cromer, has just called upon me. We have been having a chat, and he is extremely interested in Lord Deringham’s case, so much so that I had arranged to come over with him this evening to see if you would care to have his opinion. Unfortunately, however, I have been summoned to attend a patient nearly ten miles away—a bad accident, I fear—and Wilmot is leaving for town to-morrow morning. I suggested, however, that he might call on his way back to Cromer, and if you would kindly let him see Lord Deringham, I should be glad, as his opinion would be of material assistance to me. Wilmot’s reputation as the greatest living authority on cases of partial mania is doubtless known to you, and as he never, under any circumstances, visits patients outside London, it would be a great pity to lose this opportunity.“In great haste and begging you to excuse this scrawl,“I am, dear Lady Deringham,“Yours sincerely,“John Whitlett.“P.S.—You will please not offer him any fee.”
“Dear Lady Deringham,—My old friend, Franklin Wilmot, who has been staying at Cromer, has just called upon me. We have been having a chat, and he is extremely interested in Lord Deringham’s case, so much so that I had arranged to come over with him this evening to see if you would care to have his opinion. Unfortunately, however, I have been summoned to attend a patient nearly ten miles away—a bad accident, I fear—and Wilmot is leaving for town to-morrow morning. I suggested, however, that he might call on his way back to Cromer, and if you would kindly let him see Lord Deringham, I should be glad, as his opinion would be of material assistance to me. Wilmot’s reputation as the greatest living authority on cases of partial mania is doubtless known to you, and as he never, under any circumstances, visits patients outside London, it would be a great pity to lose this opportunity.
“In great haste and begging you to excuse this scrawl,
“I am, dear Lady Deringham,“Yours sincerely,“John Whitlett.
“P.S.—You will please not offer him any fee.”
Wolfenden folded up the letter and returned it.
“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” he said. “It’s an odd time, though, to call on an errand of this sort.”
“So I thought,” Lady Deringham agreed; “but Dr. Whitlett’s explanation seems perfectly feasible, does it not? I said that I would consult you. You will come in and see him?”
Wolfenden followed his mother into the drawing-room. A tall, dark man was sitting in a corner, under a palm tree.In one hand he held a magazine, the pictures of which he seemed to be studying with the aid of an eyeglass, the other was raised to his mouth. He was in the act of indulging in a yawn when Wolfenden and his mother entered the room.
“This is my son, Lord Wolfenden,” she said. “Dr. Franklin Wilmot.”
The two men bowed.
“Lady Deringham has explained to you the reason of my untimely visit, I presume?” the latter remarked at once.
Wolfenden assented.
“Yes! I am afraid that it will be a little difficult to get my father to see you on such short notice.”
“I was about to explain to Lady Deringham, before I understood that you were in the house,” Dr. Wilmot said, “that although that would be an advantage, it is not absolutely necessary at present. I should of course have to examine your father before giving a definite opinion as to his case, but I can give you a very fair idea as to his condition without seeing him at all.”
Wolfenden and his mother exchanged glances.
“You must forgive us,” Wolfenden commenced hesitatingly, “but really I can scarcely understand.”
“Of course not,” their visitor interrupted brusquely. “My method is one which is doubtless altogether strange to you, but if you read theLancetor theMedical Journal, you would have heard a good deal about it lately. I form my conclusions as to the mental condition of a patient almost altogether from a close inspection of their letters, or any work upon which they are, or have been, recently engaged. I do not say that it is possible to do this from a single letter, but when a man has a hobby, such as I understand Lord Deringham indulges in, and has devoted a great deal of time to real or imaginary work in connection with it,I am generally able, from a study of that work, to tell how far the brain is weakened, if at all, and in what manner it can be strengthened. This is only the crudest outline of my theory, but to be brief, I can give you my opinion as to Lord Deringham’s mental condition, and my advice as to its maintenance, if you will place before me the latest work upon which he has been engaged. I hope I have made myself clear.”
“Perfectly,” Wolfenden answered. “It sounds very reasonable and very interesting, but I am afraid that there are a few practical difficulties in the way. In the first place, my father does not show his work or any portion of it to any one. On the other hand he takes the most extraordinary precautions to maintain absolute secrecy with regard to it.”
“That,” Dr. Wilmot remarked, “is rather a bad feature of the case. It is a difficulty which I should imagine you could get over, though. You could easily frame some excuse to get him away from his study for a short time and leave me there. Of course the affair is in your hands altogether, and I am presuming that you are anxious to have an opinion as to your father’s state of health. I am not in the habit of seeking patients,” he added, a little stiffly. “I was interested in my friend Whitlett’s description of the case, and anxious to apply my theories to it, as it happens to differ in some respects from anything I have met with lately. Further, I may add,” he continued, glancing at the clock, “if anything is to be done it must be done quickly. I have no time to spare.”
“You had better,” Wolfenden suggested, “stay here for the night in any case. We will send you to the station, or into Cromer, as early as you like in the morning.”
“Absolutely impossible,” Dr. Wilmot replied briefly. “I am staying with friends in Cromer, and I have a consultation in town early to-morrow morning. You mustreally make up your minds at once whether you wish for my opinion or not.”
“I do not think,” Lady Deringham said, “that we need hesitate for a moment about that!”
Wolfenden looked at him doubtfully. There seemed to be no possibility of anything but advantage in accepting this offer, and yet in a sense he was sorry that it had been made.
“In case you should attach any special importance to your father’s manuscripts,” Dr. Wilmot remarked, with a note of sarcasm in his tone, “I might add that it is not at all necessary for me to be alone in the study.”
Wolfenden felt a little uncomfortable under the older man’s keen gaze. Neither did he altogether like having his thoughts read so accurately.
“I suppose,” he said, turning to his mother, “you could manage to get him away from the library for a short time?”
“I could at least try,” she answered. “Shall I?”
“I think,” he said, “that as Dr. Wilmot has been good enough to go out of his way to call here, we must make an effort.”
Lady Deringham left the room.
Dr. Wilmot, whose expression of absolute impassiveness had not altered in the least during their discussion, turned towards Wolfenden.
“Have you yourself,” he said, “never seen any of your father’s manuscripts? Has he never explained the scheme of his work to you?”
Wolfenden shook his head.
“I know the central idea,” he answered—“the weakness of our navy and coast defences, and that is about all I know. My father, even when he was an admiral on active service, took an absolutely pessimistic view of both. You may perhaps remember this. The Lords of the Admiraltyused to consider him, I believe, the one great thorn in their sides.”
Dr. Wilmot shook his head.
“I have never taken any interest in such matters,” he said. “My profession has been completely absorbing during the last ten years.”
Wolfenden nodded.
“I know,” he remarked, “that I used to read the newspapers and wonder why on earth my father took such pains to try and frighten everybody. But he is altogether changed now. He even avoids the subject, although I am quite sure that it is his one engrossing thought. It is certain that no one has ever given such time and concentrated energy to it before. If only his work was the work of a sane man I could understand it being very valuable.”
“Not the least doubt about it, I should say,” Dr. Wilmot replied carelessly.
The door opened and Lady Deringham reappeared.
“I have succeeded,” she said. “He is upstairs now. I will try and keep him there for half an hour. Wolfenden, will you take Dr. Wilmot into the study?”
Dr. Wilmot rose with quiet alacrity. Wolfenden led the way down the long passage which led to the study. He himself was scarcely prepared for such signs of unusual labours as confronted them both when they opened the door. The round table in the centre of the room was piled with books and a loose heap of papers. A special rack was hung with a collection of maps and charts. There were nautical instruments upon the table, and compasses, as well as writing materials, and a number of small models of men-of-war. Mr. Blatherwick, who was sitting at the other side of the room busy with some copying, looked up in amazement at the entrance of Wolfenden and a stranger upon what was always considered forbidden ground.
Wolfenden stepped forward at once to the table. A sheetof paper lay there on which the ink was scarcely yet dry. Many others were scattered about, almost undecipherable, with marginal notes and corrections in his father’s handwriting. He pushed some of them towards his companion.
“You can help yourself,” he said. “This seems to be his most recent work.”
Dr. Wilmot seemed scarcely to hear him. He had turned the lamp up with quick fingers, and was leaning over those freshly written pages. Decidedly he was interested in the case. He stood quite still reading with breathless haste—the papers seemed almost to fly through his fingers. Wolfenden was a little puzzled. Mr. Blatherwick, who had been watching the proceedings with blank amazement, rose and came over towards them.
“You will excuse me, Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “but if the admiral should come back and find a stranger with you looking over his work, hewill——”
“It’s all right, Blatherwick,” Wolfenden interrupted, the more impatiently since he was far from comfortable himself. “This gentleman is a physician.”
The secretary resumed his seat. Dr. Wilmot was reading with lightning-like speed sheet after sheet, making frequent notes in a pocket-book which he had laid on the table before him. He was so absorbed that he did not seem to hear the sound of wheels coming up the avenue.
Wolfenden walked to the window, and raising the curtain, looked out. He gave vent to a little exclamation of relief as he saw a familiar dogcart draw up at the hall door, and Dr. Whitlett’s famous mare pulled steaming on to her haunches.
“It is Dr. Whitlett,” he exclaimed. “He has followed you up pretty soon.”
The sheet which the physician was reading fluttered through his fingers. There was a very curious look in his face. He walked up to the window and looked out.
“So it is,” he remarked. “I should like to see him at once for half a minute—then I shall have finished. I wonder whether you would mind going yourself and asking him to step this way?”
Wolfenden turned immediately to leave the room. At the door he turned sharply round, attracted by a sudden noise and an exclamation from Blatherwick. Dr. Wilmot had disappeared! Mr. Blatherwick was gazing at the window in amazement!
“He’s gone, sir! Clean out of the window—jumped it like a cat!”
Wolfenden sprang to the curtains. The night wind was blowing into the room through the open casement. Fainter and fainter down the long avenue came the sound of galloping horses. Dr. Franklin Wilmot had certainly gone!
Wolfenden turned from the window to find himself face to face with Dr. Whitlett.
“What on earth is the matter with your friend Wilmot?” he exclaimed. “He has just gone off through the window like a madman!”
“Wilmot!” the doctor exclaimed. “I never knew any one of that name in my life. The fellow’s a rank impostor!”
For a moment Wolfenden was speechless. Then, with a presence of mind which afterwards he marvelled at, he asked no more questions, but stepped up to the writing-table.
“Blatherwick,” he said hurriedly, “we seem to have made a bad mistake. Will you try and rearrange these papers exactly as the admiral left them, and do not let him know that any one has entered the room or seen them.”
Mr. Blatherwick commenced his task with trembling fingers.
“I will do my best,” he said nervously. “But I am not supposed to touch anything upon this table at all. If the admiral finds me here, he will be very angry.”
“I will take the blame,” Wolfenden said. “Do your best.”
He took the country doctor by the arm and hurried him into the smoking-room.
“This is a most extraordinary affair, Dr. Whitlett,” he said gravely. “I presume that this letter, then, is a forgery?”
The doctor took the note of introduction which Wilmot had brought, and adjusting his pince-nez, read it hastily through.
“A forgery from the beginning to end,” he declared, turning it over and looking at it helplessly. “I have never known any one of the name in my life!”
“It is written on notepaper stamped with your address,” Wolfenden remarked. “It is also, I suppose, a fair imitation of your handwriting, for Lady Deringham accepted it as such?”
The doctor nodded.
“I will tell you,” he said, “all that I know of the affair. I started out to pay some calls this evening about six o’clock. As I turned into the main road I met a strange brougham and pair of horses being driven very slowly. There was a man who looked like a gentleman’s servant sitting by the side of the coachman, and as I passed them the latter asked a question, and I am almost certain that I heard my name mentioned. I was naturally a little curious, and I kept looking back all along the road to see which way they turned after passing my house. As a matter of fact, although I pulled up and waited in the middle of the road, I saw no more of the carriage. When at last I drove on, I knew that one of two things must have happened. Either the carriage must have come to a standstill and remained stationary in the road, or it must have turned in at my gate. The hedge was down a little higher up the road, and I could see distinctly that they had not commenced to climb the hill. It seemed very odd to me, but I had an important call to make, so I drove on and got through as quickly as I could. On my way home I passed your north entrance, and, looking up the avenue, I saw the same brougham on its way up to the house. I had half a mind to run in then—I wish now that I had—but instead of doing so I drove quickly home. There I found that a gentleman had called a few minutes after I had left home, and finding me out had asked permission to leave a note. The girl had shown him into the study, and he had remained there about ten minutes. Afterwards he had let himself out and driven away. When I looked for the note for me there was none, but the writing materials had beenused, and a sheet of notepaper was gone. I happened to remember that there was only one out. The whole thing seemed to me so singular that I ordered the dogcart out again and drove straight over here.”
“For which,” Wolfenden remarked, “we ought to feel remarkably grateful. So far the thing is plain enough! But what on earth did that man, whoever he was, expect to find in my father’s study that he should make an elaborate attempt like this to enter it? He was no common thief!”
Dr. Whitlett shook his head. He had no elucidation to offer. The thing was absolutely mysterious.
“Your father himself,” he said slowly, “sets a very high value upon the result of his researches!”
“And on the other hand,” Wolfenden retorted promptly, “you, and my mother, Mr. Blatherwick, and even the girl who has been copying for him, have each assured me that his work is rubbish! You four comprise all who have seen any part of it, and I understand that you have come to the conclusion that, if not insane, he is at least suffering from some sort of mania. Now, how are we to reconcile this with the fact of an attempted robbery this evening, and the further fact that a heavy bribe has been secretly offered to Blatherwick to copy only a few pages of his later manuscripts?”
Dr. Whitlett started.
“Indeed!” he exclaimed. “When did you hear of this?”
“Only this afternoon,” Wolfenden answered. “Blatherwick brought me the letter himself. What I cannot understand is, how these documents could ever become a marketable commodity. Yet we may look upon it now as an absolute fact, that there are persons—and no ordinary thieves either!—conspiring to obtain possession of them.”
“Wolfenden!”
The two men started round. The Countess was standing in the doorway. She was pale as death, and her eyes were full of fear.
“Who was that man?” she cried. “What has happened?”
“He was an impostor, I am afraid,” Wolfenden answered. “The letter from Dr. Whitlett was forged. He has bolted.”
She looked towards the doctor.
“Thank God that you are here!” she cried. “I am frightened! There are some papers and models missing, and the admiral has found it out! I am afraid he is going to have a fit. Please come into the library. He must not be left alone!”
They both followed her down the passage and through the half-opened door. In the centre of the room Lord Deringham was standing, his pale cheeks scarlet with passion, his fists convulsively clenched. He turned sharply round to face them, and his eyes flashed with anger.
“Nothing shall make me believe that this room has not been entered, and my papers tampered with!” he stormed out. “Where is that reptile Blatherwick? I left my morning’s work and two models on the desk there, less than half an hour ago; both the models are gone and one of the sheets! Either Blatherwick has stolen them, or the room has been entered during my absence! Where is that hound?”
“He is in his room,” Lady Deringham answered. “He ran past me on the stairs trembling all over, and he has locked himself in and piled up the furniture against the door. You have frightened him to death!”
“It is scarcely possible——” Dr. Whitlett began.
“Don’t lie, sir!” the admiral thundered out. “You are a pack of fools and old women! You are as ignorant as rabbits! You know no more than the kitchenmaids whathas been growing and growing within these walls. I tell you that my work of the last few years, placed in certain hands, would alter the whole face of Europe—aye, of Christendom! There are men in this country to-day whose object is to rob me, and you, my own household, seem to be crying them welcome, bidding them come and help themselves, as though the labour of my life was worth no more than so many sheets of waste paper. You have let a stranger into this room to-day, and if he had not been disturbed, God knows what he might not have carried away with him!”
“We have been very foolish,” Lady Deringham said pleadingly. “We will set a watch now day and night. We will run no more risks! I swear it! You can believe me, Horace!”
“Aye, but tell me the truth now,” he cried. “Some one has been in this room and escaped through the window. I learnt as much as that from that blithering idiot, Blatherwick. I want to know who he was?”
She glanced towards the doctor. He nodded his head slightly. Then she went up to her husband and laid her hand upon his shoulders.
“Horace, you are right,” she said. “It is no use trying to keep it from you. A man did impose upon us with a forged letter. He could not have been here more than five minutes, though. We found him out almost at once. It shall never happen again!”
The wisdom of telling him was at once apparent. His face positively shone with triumph! He became quite calm, and the fierce glare, which had alarmed them all so much, died out of his eyes. The confession was a triumph for him. He was gratified.
“I knew it,” he declared, with positive good humour. “I have warned you of this all the time. Now perhaps you will believe me! Thank God that it was not Duchesnehimself. I should not be surprised, though, if it were not one of his emissaries! If Duchesne comes,” he muttered to himself, his face growing a shade paler, “God help us!”
“We will be more careful now,” Lady Deringham said. “No one shall ever take us by surprise again. We will have special watchmen, and bars on all the windows.”
“From this moment,” the admiral said slowly, “I shall never leave this room until my work is ended, and handed over to Lord S——’s care. If I am robbed England is in danger! There must be no risks. I will have a sofa-bedstead down, and please understand that all my meals must be served here! Heggs and Morton must take it in turns to sleep in the room, and there must be a watchman outside. Now will you please all go away?” he added, with a little wave of his hand. “I have to reconstruct what has been stolen from me through your indiscretion. Send me in some coffee at eleven o’clock, and a box of cartridges you will find in my dressing-room.”
They went away together. Wolfenden was grave and mystified. Nothing about his father’s demeanour or language had suggested insanity. What if they were all wrong—if the work to which the best years of his life had gone was really of the immense importance he claimed for it? Other people thought so! The slight childishness, which was obvious in a great many of his actions, was a very different thing from insanity. Blatherwick might be deceived—Blanche was just as likely to have looked upon any technical work as rubbish. Whitlett was only a country practitioner—even his mother might have exaggerated his undoubted eccentricities. At any rate, one thing was certain. There were people outside who made a bold enough bid to secure the fruit of his father’s labours. It was his duty to see that the attempt, if repeated, was still unsuccessful.
At very nearly the same moment as the man who had called himself Dr. Wilmot had leaped from the library window of Deringham Hall, Mr. Sabin sat alone in his sanctum waiting for a visitor. The room was quite a small one on the ground floor of the house, but was furnished with taste and evident originality in the Moorish fashion. Mr. Sabin himself was ensconced in an easy chair drawn close up to the fire, and a thin cloud of blue smoke was stealing up from a thick, Egyptian cigarette which was burning away between his fingers. His head was resting upon the delicate fingers of his left hand, his dark eyes were fixed upon the flaming coals. He was deep in thought.
“A single mistake now,” he murmured softly, “and farewell to the labour of years. A single false step, and goodbye to all our dreams! To-night will decide it! In a few minutes I must say Yes or No to Knigenstein. I think—I am almost sure I shall say Yes! Bah!”
The frown on his forehead grew more marked. The cigarette burned on between his fingers, and a long grey ash fell to the floor. He was permitting himself the luxury of deep thought. All his life he had been a schemer; a builder of mighty plans, a great power in the destinies of great people. To-night he knew that he had reached the crisis of a career, in many respects marvellous. To-night he would take the first of those few final steps on to thedesire of his life. It only rested with him to cast the die. He must make the decision and abide by it. His own life’s ambition and the destinies of a mighty nation hung in the balance. Had he made up his mind which way to turn the scale? Scarcely even yet! There were so many things!
He sat up with a start. There was a knock at the door. He caught up the evening paper, and the cigarette smoke circled about his head. He stirred a cup of coffee by his side. The hard lines in his face had all relaxed. There was no longer any anxiety. He looked up and greeted pleasantly—with a certain deference, too—the visitor who was being ushered in. He had no appearance of having been engaged in anything more than a casual study of theSt. James’s Gazette.
“A gentleman, sir,” the stolid-looking servant had announced briefly. No name had been mentioned. Mr. Sabin, when he rose and held out his hand, did not address his visitor directly. He was a tall, stout man, with an iron-grey moustache and the remains of a military bearing. When the servant had withdrawn and the two men were alone, he unbuttoned his overcoat. Underneath he wore a foreign uniform, ablaze with orders. Mr. Sabin glanced at them and smiled.
“You are going to Arlington Street,” he remarked.
The other man nodded.
“When I leave here,” he said.
Then there was a short silence. Each man seemed to be waiting for the other to open the negotiations. Eventually it was Mr. Sabin who did so.
“I have been carefully through the file of papers you sent me,” he remarked.
“Yes!”
“There is no doubt but that, to a certain extent, the anti-English feeling of which you spoke exists! I have made other inquiries, and so far I am convinced!”
“So! The seed is sown! It has been sprinkled with a generous hand! Believe me, my friend, that for this country there are in store very great surprises. I speak as one who knows! I do know! So!”
Mr. Sabin was thoughtful. He looked into the fire and spoke musingly.
“Yet the ties of kindred and common origin are strong,” he said. “It is hard to imagine an open rupture between the two great Saxon nations of the world!”
“The ties of kindred,” said Mr. Sabin’s visitor, “are not worth the snap of a finger! So!”
He snapped his fingers with a report as sharp as a pistol-shot. Mr. Sabin started in his chair.
“It is the ties of kindred,” he continued, “which breed irritability, not kindliness! I tell you, my friend, that there is a great storm gathering. It is not for nothing that the great hosts of my country are ruled by a war lord! I tell you that we are arming to the teeth, silently, swiftly, and with a purpose. It may seem to you a small thing, but let me tell you this—we are a jealous nation! And we have cause for jealousy. In whatever part of the world we put down our foot, it is trodden on by our ubiquitous cousins! Wherever we turn to colonise, we are too late; England has already secured the finest territory, the most fruitful of the land. We must either take her leavings or go a-begging! Wherever we would develope, we are held back by the commercial and colonising genius—it amounts to that—of this wonderful nation. The world of to-day is getting cramped. There is no room for a growing England and a growing Germany! So! one must give way, and Germany is beginning to mutter that it shall not always be her sons who go to the wall. You say that France is our natural enemy. I deny it! France is our historical enemy—nothing else! In military circles to-day a war with England would be wildly, hysterically popular; and sooner orlater a war with England is as certain to come as the rising of the sun and the waning of the moon! I can tell you even now where the first blow will be struck! It is fixed! It is to come! So!”
“Not in Europe,” Mr. Sabin said.
“Not in Europe or in Asia! The war-torch will be kindled in Africa!”
“The Transvaal!”
Mr. Sabin’s visitor smiled.
“It is in Africa,” he said, “that English monopoly has been most galling to my nation. We too feel the burden of over-population; we too have our young blood making itself felt throughout the land, eager, impetuous, thirsting for adventure and freedom. We need new countries where these may develop, and at once ease and strengthen our fatherland. I have seen it written in one of the great English reviews that my country has not the instinct for colonisation. It is false! We have the instinct and the desire, but not the opportunity. England is like a great octopus. She is ever on the alert, thrusting out her suckers, and drawing in for herself every new land where riches lay. No country has ever been so suitable for us as Africa, and behold—it is as I have said. Already England has grabbed the finest and most to be desired of the land—she has it now in her mind to take one step further and acquire the whole. But my country has no mind to suffer it! We have played second fiddle to a weaker Power long enough. We want Africa, my friend, and to my mind and the mind of my master, Africa is worth having at all costs—listen—even at the cost of war!”
Mr. Sabin was silent for a moment. There was a faint smile upon his lips. It was a situation such as he loved. He began to feel indeed that he was making history.
“You have convinced me,” he said at last. “You have taught me how to look upon European politics with neweyes. But there remains one important question. Supposing I break off my negotiations in other quarters, are you willing to pay my price?”
The Ambassador waved his hand! It was a trifle!
“If what you give fulfils your own statements,” he said, “you cannot ask a price which my master would not pay!”
Mr. Sabin moved a little in his chair. His eyes were bright. A faint tinge of colour was in his olive cheeks.
“Four years of my life,” he said, “have been given to the perfecting of one branch only of my design; the other, which is barely completed, is the work of the only man in England competent to handle such a task. The combined result will be infallible. When I place in your hands a simple roll of papers and a small parcel, the future of this country is absolutely and entirely at your mercy. That is beyond question or doubt. To whomsoever I give my secret, I give over the destinies of England. But the price is a mighty one!”
“Name it,” the Ambassador said quietly. “A million, two millions? Rank? What is it?”
“For myself,” Mr. Sabin said, “nothing!”
The other man started. “Nothing!”
“Absolutely nothing!”
The Ambassador raised his hand to his forehead.
“You confuse me,” he said.
“My conditions,” Mr. Sabin said, “are these. The conquest of France and the restoration of the monarchy, in the persons of Prince Henri and his cousin, Princess Helène of Bourbon!”
“Ach!”
The little interjection shot from the Ambassador’s lips with sharp, staccato emphasis! Then there was a silence—a brief, dramatic silence! The two men sat motionless, the eyes of each fastened upon the other. The Ambassadorwas breathing quickly, and his eyes sparkled with excitement. Mr. Sabin was pale and calm, yet there were traces of nervous exhilaration in his quivering lips and bright eyes.
“Yes, you were right; you were right indeed,” the Ambassador said slowly. “It is a great price that you ask!”
Mr. Sabin laughed very softly.
“Think,” he said. “Weigh the matter well! Mark first this fact. If what I give you has not the power I claim for it, our contract is at an end. I ask for nothing! I accept nothing. Therefore, you may assume that before you pay my price your own triumph is assured. Think! Reflect carefully! What will you owe to me! The humiliation of England, the acquisition of her colonies, the destruction of her commerce, and such a war indemnity as only the richest power on earth could pay. These things you gain. Then you are the one supreme Power in Europe. France is at your mercy! I will tell you why. The Royalist party have been gaining strength year by year, month by month, minute by minute! Proclaim your intentions boldly. The country will crumble up before you! It would be but a half-hearted resistance. France has not the temperament of a people who will remain for ever faithful to a democratic form of government. At heart she is aristocratic. The old nobility have a life in them which you cannot dream of. I know, for I have tested it. It has been weary waiting, but the time is ripe! France is ready for the cry of ‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Monarchie!’ I who tell you these things have proved them. I have felt the pulse of my country, and I love her too well to mistake the symptoms!”
The Ambassador was listening with greedy ears—he was breathing hard through his teeth! It was easy to see that the glamour of the thing had laid hold of him. He foresaw for himself an immortal name, for his country a greatnessbeyond the wildest dreams of her most sanguine ministers. Bismarck himself had planned nothing like this! Yet he did not altogether lose his common sense.
“But Russia,” he objected, “she would never sanction a German invasion of France.”
Mr. Sabin smiled scornfully.
“You are a great politician, my dear Baron, and you say a thing like that! You amaze me! But of course the whole affair is new to you; you have not thought it out as I have done. Whatever happens in Europe, Russia will maintain the isolation for which geography and temperament have marked her out. She would not stir one finger to help France. Why should she? What could France give her in return? What would she gain by plunging into an exhausting war? To the core of his heart and the tips of his finger-nails the Muscovite is selfish! Then, again, consider this. You are not going to ruin France as you did before; you are going to establish a new dynasty, and not waste the land or exact a mighty tribute. Granted that sentiments of friendship exist between Russia and France, do you not think that Russia would not sooner see France a monarchy? Do you think that she would stretch out her little finger to aid a tottering republic and keep back a king from the throne of France?Mon Dieu!Never!”
Mr. Sabin’s face was suddenly illuminated. A fire flashed in his dark eyes, and a note of fervent passion quivered lifelike in his vibrating voice. His manner had all the abandon of one pleading a great cause, nursed by a great heart. He was a patriot or a poet, surely not only a politician or a mere intriguing adventurer. For a moment he suffered his enthusiasm to escape him. Then the mask was as suddenly dropped. He was himself again, calm, convincing, impenetrable.
As the echoes of his last interjection died away there was a silence between the two men. It was the Ambassadorat last who broke it. He was looking curiously at his companion.
“I must confess,” he said slowly, “that you have fascinated me! You have done more, you have made me see dreams and possibilities which, set down upon paper, I should have mocked at. Mr. Sabin, I can no longer think of you as a person—you are a personage! We are here alone, and I am as secret as the grave; be so kind as to lift the veil of your incognito. I can no longer think of you as Mr. Sabin. Who are you?”
Mr. Sabin smiled a curious smile, and lit a cigarette from the open box before him.
“That,” he said, pushing the box across the table, “you may know in good time if, in commercial parlance, we deal. Until that point is decided, I am Mr. Sabin. I do not even admit that it is an incognito.”
“And yet,” the Ambassador said, with a curious lightening of his face, as though recollection had suddenly been vouchsafed to him, “I fancy that if I were to callyou——”
Mr. Sabin’s protesting hand was stretched across the table.
“Excuse me,” he interrupted, “let it remain between us as it is now! My incognito is a necessity for the present. Let it continue to be—Mr. Sabin! Now answer me. All has been said that can be said between us. What is your opinion?”
The Ambassador rose from his seat and stood upon the hearthrug with his back to the fire. There was a streak of colour upon his sallow cheeks, and his eyes shone brightly underneath his heavy brows. He had removed his spectacles and was swinging them lightly between his thumb and forefinger.
“I will be frank with you,” he said. “My opinion is a favourable one. I shall apply for leave of absence to-morrow. In a week all that you have said shall be laid before my master. Such as my personal influence is, it willbe exerted on behalf of the acceptance of your scheme. The greatest difficulty will be, of course, in persuading the Emperor of its practicability—in plain words, that what you say you have to offer will have the importance which you attribute to it.”
“If you fail in that,” Mr. Sabin said, also rising, “send for me! But bear this in mind, if my scheme should after all be ineffective, if it should fail in the slightest detail to accomplish all that I claim for it, what can you lose? The payment is conditional upon its success; the bargain is all in your favour. I should not offer such terms unless I held certain cards. Remember, if there are difficulties send for me!”
“I will do so,” the Ambassador said as he buttoned his overcoat. “Now give me a limit of time for our decision.”
“Fourteen days,” Mr. Sabin said. “How I shall temporise with Lobenski so long I cannot tell. But I will give you fourteen days from to-day. It is ample!”
The two men exchanged farewells and parted. Mr. Sabin, with a cigarette between his teeth, and humming now and then a few bars from one of Verdi’s operas, commenced to carefully select a bagful of golf clubs from a little pile which stood in one corner of the room. Already they bore signs of considerable use, and he handled them with the care of an expert, swinging each one gently, and hesitating for some time between a wooden or a metal putter, and longer still between the rival claims of a bulger and a flat-headed brassey. At last the bag was full; he resumed his seat and counted them out carefully.
“Ten,” he said to himself softly. “Too many; it looks amateurish.”
Some of the steel heads were a little dull; he took a piece of chamois leather from the pocket of the bag and began polishing them. As they grew brighter he whistled softly to himself. This time the opera tune seemed to have escaped him; he was whistling the “Marseillaise!”
The Ambassador, when he left Mr. Sabin’s house, stepped into a hired hansom and drove off towards Arlington Street. A young man who had watched him come out, from the other side of the way, walked swiftly to the corner of the street and stepped into a private brougham which was waiting there.
“To the Embassy,” he said. “Drive fast!”
The carriage set him down in a few minutes at the house to which Densham and Harcutt had followed Mr. Sabin on the night of their first meeting with him. He walked swiftly into the hall.
“Is his Excellency within?” he asked a tall servant in plain dress who came forward to meet him.
“Yes, Monsieur Felix,” the man answered; “he is dining very late to-night—in fact, he has not yet risen from the table.”
“Who is with him?” Felix asked.
“It is a very small party. Madame la Princesse has just arrived from Paris, and his Excellency has been waiting for her.”
He mentioned a few more names; there was no one of importance. Felix walked into the hall-porter’s office and scribbled a few words on half a sheet of paper, which he placed in an envelope and carefully sealed.
“Let his Excellency have this privately and at once,” he said to the man; “I will go into the waiting room.”
The man withdrew with the note, and Felix crossed the hall and entered a small room nearly opposite. It was luxuriously furnished with easy chairs and divans; there were cigars, and cigarettes, and decanters upon a round table. Felix took note of none of these things, nor did he sit down. He stood with his hands behind him, looking steadily into the fire. His cheeks were almost livid, save for a single spot of burning colour high up on his cheek-bone. His fingers twitched nervously, his eyes were dry and restlessly bright. He was evidently in a state of great excitement. In less than two minutes the door opened, and a tall, distinguished-looking man, grey headed, but with a moustache still almost black, came softly into the room. His breast glittered with orders, and he was in full Court dress. He nodded kindly to the young man, who greeted him with respect.
“Is it anything important, Felix?” he asked; “you are looking tired.”
“Yes, your Excellency, it is important,” Felix answered; “it concerns the man Sabin.”
The Ambassador nodded.
“Well,” he said, “what of him? You have not been seeking to settle accounts with him, I trust, after our conversation, and your promise?”
Felix shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I gave my word and I shall keep it! Perhaps you may some day regret that you interfered between us.”
“I think not,” the Prince replied. “Your services are valuable to me, my dear Felix; and in this country, more than any other, deeds of violence are treated with scant ceremony, and affairs of honour are not understood. No, I saved you from yourself for myself. It was an excellent thing for both of us.”
“I trust,” Felix repeated, “that your Excellency mayalways think so. But to be brief. The report from Cartienne is to hand.”
The Ambassador nodded and listened expectantly.
“He confirms fully,” Felix continued, “the value of the documents which are in question. How he obtained access to them he does not say, but his report is absolute. He considers that they justify fully the man Sabin’s version of them.”
The Prince smiled.
“My own judgment is verified,” he said. “I believed in the man from the first. It is good. By the bye, have you seen anything of Mr. Sabin to-day?”
“I have come straight,” Felix said, “from watching his house.”
“Yes?”
“The Baron von Knigenstein has been there alone, incognito, for more than an hour. I watched him go in—and watched him out.”
The Prince’s genial smile vanished. His face grew suddenly as dark as thunder. The Muscovite crept out unawares. There was a fierce light in his eyes, and his face was like the face of a wolf; yet his voice when he spoke was low.
“So ho!” he said softly. “Mr. Sabin is doing a little flirting, is he? Ah!”
“I believe,” the young man answered slowly, “that he has advanced still further than that. The Baron was there for an hour. He came out walking like a young man. He was in a state of great excitement.”
The Prince sat down and stroked the side of his face thoughtfully.
“The great elephant!” he muttered. “Fancy such a creature calling himself a diplomatist! It is well, Felix,” he added, “that I had finished my dinner, otherwise you would certainly have spoilt it. If they have met likethis, there is no end to the possibilities of it. I must see Sabin immediately. It ought to be easy to make him understand that I am not to be trifled with. Find out where he is to-night, Felix; I must follow him.”
Felix took up his hat.
“I will be back,” he said, “in half an hour.”
The Prince returned to his guests, and Felix drove off. When he returned his chief was waiting for him alone.
“Mr. Sabin,” Felix announced, “left town half an hour ago.”
“For abroad!” the Prince exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “He has gone to Germany!”
Felix shook his head.
“On the contrary,” he said; “he has gone down into Norfolk to play golf.”
“Into Norfolk to play golf!” the Prince repeated in a tone of scornful wonder. “Did you believe a story like that, Felix? Rubbish!”
Felix smiled slightly.
“It is quite true,” he said. “Labanoff makes no mistakes, and he saw him come out of his house, take his ticket at King’s Cross, and actually leave the station.”
“Are you sure that it is not a blind?” the Prince asked incredulously.
Felix shook his head.
“It is quite true, your Excellency,” he said. “If you knew the man as well as I do, you would not be surprised. He is indeed a very extraordinary person—he does these sort of things. Besides, he wants to keep out of the way.”
The Prince’s face darkened.
“He will find my way a little hard to get out of,” he said fiercely. “Go and get some dinner, Felix, and then try and find out whether Knigenstein has any notion of leaving England. He will not trust a matter like this to correspondence.Stay—I know how to manage it. I will write and ask him to dine here next week. You shall take the invitation.”
“He will be at Arlington Street,” Felix remarked.
“Well, you can take it on to him there,” the Prince directed. “Go first to his house and ask for his whereabouts. They will tell you Arlington Street. You will not know, of course, the contents of the letter you carry; your instructions were simply to deliver it and get an answer. Good! you will do that.”
The Prince, while he talked, was writing the note.
Felix thrust it into his pocket and went out. In less than half an hour he was back. The Baron had returned to the German Embassy unexpectedly before going to Arlington Street, and Felix had caught him there. The Prince tore open the answer, and read it hastily through.