CHAPTER XLVII

The night was still enough, but piled-up masses of black clouds obscured a weakly moon, and there were only now and then uncertain gleams of glimmering light. There was no fog, nor any sign of any. The captain slept in his room, and on deck the steamer was utterly deserted. Only through the black darkness she still bounded on, her furnaces roaring, and the black trail of smoke leaving a long clear track behind her. It seemed as though every one were sleeping on board the steamer except those who fed her fires below and the grim, silent figure who stood in the wheelhouse.

Mr. Sabin, who, muffled up with rugs, was reclining in a deck chair, drawn up in the shadow of the long boat, was already beginning to regret that he had attached any importance at all to Mrs. Watson’s warning. It wanted only an hour or so of dawn. All night long he had sat there in view of the door of his deck cabin and shivered. To sleep had been impossible, his dozing was only fitful and unrestful. His hands were thrust deep down into the pockets of his overcoat—the revolver had long ago slipped from his cold fingers. More than once he had made up his mind to abandon his watch, to enter his room, and chance what might happen. And then suddenly therecame what he had been waiting for all this while—a soft footfall along the deck: some one was making their way now from the gangway to the door of his cabin.

The frown on his forehead deepened; he leaned stealthily forward watching and listening intently. Surely that was the rustling of a silken gown, that gleam of white behind the funnel was the fluttering of a woman’s skirt. Suddenly he saw her distinctly. She was wearing a long white dressing-gown, and noiseless slippers of some kind. Her face was very pale and her eyes seemed fixed and dilated. Once, twice she looked nervously behind her, then she paused before the door of his cabin, hesitated for a moment, and finally passed over the threshold. Mr. Sabin, who had been about to spring forward, paused. After all perhaps he was safer where he was.

There was a full minute during which nothing happened. Mr. Sabin, who had now thoroughly regained his composure, lingered in the shadow of the boat prepared to wait upon the course of events, but a man’s footstep this time fell softly upon the deck. Some one had emerged from the gangway and was crossing towards his room. Mr. Sabin peered cautiously through the twilight. It was Mr. Watson, of New York, partially dressed, with a revolver flashing in his hand. Then Mr. Sabin perceived the full wisdom of having remained where he was.

Under the shadow of the boat he drew a little nearer to the door of the cabin. There was absolute silence within. What they were doing he could not imagine, but the place was in absolute darkness. Thoroughly awake now he crouched within a few feet of the door listening intently. Once he fancied that he could hear a voice, it seemed to him that a hand was groping along the wall for the knob of the electric light. Then the door was softly opened and the woman came out. She stood for a moment leaning a little forward, listening intently ready to make her retreatimmediately she was assured that the coast was clear! She was a little pale, but in a stray gleam of moonlight Mr. Sabin fancied that he caught a glimpse of a smile upon her parted lips. There was a whisper from behind her shoulder; she answered in a German monosyllable. Then, apparently satisfied that she was unobserved, she stepped out, and, flitting round the funnel, disappeared down the gangway. Mr. Sabin made no attempt to stop her or to disclose his presence. His fingers had closed now upon his revolver—he was waiting for the man. The minutes crept on—nothing happened. Then a hand softly closed the window looking out upon the deck, immediately afterwards the door was pushed open and Mr. Watson, with a handkerchief to his mouth, stepped out.

He stood perfectly still listening for a moment. Then he was on the point of stealing away, when a hand fell suddenly upon his shoulder. He was face to face with Mr. Sabin.

He started back with a slight but vehement guttural interjection. His hand stole down towards his pocket, but the shining argument in Mr. Sabin’s hand was irresistible.

“Step back into that room, Mr. Watson; I want to speak to you.”

He hesitated. Mr. Sabin reaching across him opened the door of the cabin. Immediately they were assailed with the fumes of a strange, sickly odour! Mr. Sabin laughed softly, but a little bitterly.

“A very old-fashioned device,” he murmured. “I gave you credit for more ingenuity, my friend. Come, I have opened the window and the door you see! Let us step inside. There will be sufficient fresh air.”

Mr. Watson was evidently disinclined to make the effort. He glanced covertly up the deck, and seemed to be preparing himself for a rush. Again that little argument of steel and the grim look on Mr. Sabin’s face prevailed.They both crossed the threshold. The odour, though powerful, was almost nullified by the rushing of the salt wind through the open window and door which Mr. Sabin had fixed open with a catch. Reaching out his hand he pulled down a little brass hook—the room was immediately lit with the soft glare of the electric light.

Mr. Sabin, having assured himself that his companion’s revolver was safely bestowed in his hip pocket and could not be reached without warning, glanced carefully around his cabin.

He looked first towards the bed and smiled. His little device, then, had succeeded. The rug which he had rolled up under the sheets into the shape of a human form was undisturbed. In the absence of a light Mr. Watson had evidently taken for granted that the man whom he had sought to destroy was really in the room. The two men suddenly exchanged glances, and Mr. Sabin smiled at the other’s look of dismay.

“It was not like you,” he said gently; “it was really very clumsy indeed to take for granted my presence here. I have great faith in you and your methods, my friend, but do you think that it would have been altogether wise for me to have slept here alone with unfastened door—under the circumstances?”

Mr. Watson admitted his error with a gleam in his dark eyes, which Mr. Sabin accepted as an additional warning.

“Your little device,” he continued, raising an unstopped flask from the table by the side of the bed, “is otherwise excellent, and I feel that I owe you many thanks for arranging a death that should be painless. You might have made other plans which would have been not only more clumsy, but which might have caused me a considerable amount of personal inconvenience and discomfort. Your arrangements, I see, were altogether excellent. You arranged for my—er—extermination asleep or awake. Ifawake the little visit which your charming wife had just paid here was to have provided you at once with a motive for the crime and a distinctly mitigating circumstance. That was very ingenious. Pardon my lighting a cigarette, these fumes are a little powerful. Then if I was asleep and had not been awakened by the time you arrived—well, it was to be a drug! Supposing, my dear Mr. Watson, you do me the favour of emptying this little flask into the sea.”

Mr. Watson obeyed promptly. There were several points in his favour to be gained by the destruction of this evidence of his unsuccessful attempt. As he crossed the deck holding the little bottle at arm’s length from him a delicate white vapour could be distinctly seen rising from the bottle and vanishing into the air. There was a little hiss like the hiss of a snake as it touched the water, and a spot of white froth marked the place where it sank.

“Much too strong,” Mr. Sabin murmured. “A sad waste of a very valuable drug, my friend. Now will you please come inside with me. We must have a little chat. But first kindly stand quite still for one moment. There is no particular reason why I should run any risk. I am going to take that revolver from your pocket and throw it overboard.”

Mr Watson’s first instinct was evidently one of resistance. Then suddenly he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver upon his forehead.

“If you move,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “you are a dead man. My best policy would be to kill you; I am foolish not to do it. But I hate violence. You are safe if you do as I tell you.”

Mr. Watson recognised the fact that his companion was in earnest. He stood quite still and watched his revolver describe a semi-circle in the darkness and a fall with a little splash in the water. Then he followed Mr. Sabin into his cabin.

“I suppose,” Mr. Sabin began, closing the door of the cabin behind him, “that I may take it—this episode—as an indication of your refusal to accept the proposals I made to you?”

Mr. Watson did not immediately reply. He had seated himself on the corner of a lounge and was leaning forward, his head resting moodily upon his hands. His sallow face was paler even than usual, and his expression was sullen. He looked, as he undoubtedly was, in an evil humour with himself and all things.

“It was not a matter of choice with me,” he muttered. “Look out of your window there and you will see that even here upon the ocean I am under surveillance.”

Mr. Sabin’s eyes followed the man’s forefinger. Far away across the ocean he could see a dim green light almost upon the horizon. It was the German man-of-war.

“That is quite true,” Mr. Sabin said. “I admit that there are difficulties, but it seems to me that you have overlooked the crux of the whole matter. I have offered you enough to live on for the rest of your days, without ever returning to Europe. You know very well that you can step off this ship arm-in-arm with me when we reach Boston, even though your man-of-war be alongside thedock. They could not touch you—you could leave your—pardon me—not too honourable occupation once and for ever. America is not the country in which one would choose to live, but it has its resources—it can give you big game and charming women. I have lived there and I know. It is not Europe, but it is the next best thing. Come, you had better accept my terms!”

The man had listened without moving a muscle of his face. There was something almost pitiable in its white, sullen despair. Then his lips parted.

“Would to God I could!” he moaned. “Would to God I had the power to listen to you!”

Mr. Sabin flicked the ash off his cigarette and looked thoughtful. He stroked his grey imperial and kept his eyes on his companion.

“The extradition laws,” the other interrupted savagely.

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders. “By all means,” he murmured. “Personally I have no interest in them; but if you would talk like a reasonable man and tell me where your difficulty lies I might be able to help you.”

The man who had called himself Watson raised his head slowly. His expression remained altogether hopeless. He had the appearance of a man given wholly over to despair.

“Have you ever heard of the Doomschen?” he asked slowly.

Mr. Sabin shuddered. He became suddenly very grave. “You are not one of them?” he exclaimed.

The man bowed his head.

“I am one of those devils,” he admitted.

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet and walked up and down the little room.

“Of course,” he remarked, “that complicates matters, but there ought to be a way out of it. Let me think for a moment.”

The man on the lounge sat still with unchanging face.In his heart he knew that there was no way out of it. The chains which bound him were such as the hand of man had no power to destroy. The arm of his master was long. It had reached him here—it would reach him to the farthermost corner of the world. Nor could Mr. Sabin for the moment see any light. The man was under perpetual sentence of death. There was no country in the world which would not give him up, if called upon to do so.

“What you have told me,” Mr. Sabin said, “explains, of course to a certain extent, your present indifference to my offers. But when I first approached you in this way you certainly led me tothink——”

“That was before that cursedKaiser Wilhelmcame up,” Watson interrupted. “I had a plan—I might have made a rush for liberty at any rate!”

“But surely you would have been marked down at Boston,” Mr. Sabin said.

“The only friend I have in the world,” the other said slowly, “is the manager of the Government’s Secret Cable Office at Berlin. He was on my side. It would have given me a chance, but now”—he looked out of the window—“it is hopeless!”

Mr. Sabin resumed his chair and lit a fresh cigarette. He had thought the matter out and began to see light.

“It is rather an awkward fix,” he said, “but ‘hopeless’ is a word which I do not understand. As regards our present dilemma I think that I see an excellent way out of it.”

A momentary ray of hope flashed across the man’s face. Then he shook his head.

“It is not possible,” he murmured.

Mr. Sabin smiled quietly.

“My friend,” he said, “I perceive that you are a pessimist! You will find yourself in a very short time a free man with the best of your life before you. Take myadvice. Whatever career you embark in do so in a more sanguine spirit. Difficulties to the man who faces them boldly lose half their strength. But to proceed. You are one of those who are called ‘Doomschen.’ That means, I believe, that you have committed a crime punishable by death,—that you are on parole only so long as you remain in the service of the Secret Police of your country. That is so, is it not?”

The man assented grimly. Mr. Sabin continued—

“If you were to abandon your present task and fail to offer satisfactory explanations—if you were to attempt to settle down in America, your extradition, I presume, would at once be applied for. You would be given no second chance.”

“I should be shot without a moment’s hesitation,” Watson admitted grimly.

“Exactly; and there is, I believe, another contingency. If you should succeed in your present enterprise, which, I presume, is my extermination, you would obtain your freedom.”

The man on the lounge nodded. A species of despair was upon him. This man was his master in all ways. He would be his master to the end.

“That brings us,” Mr. Sabin continued, “to my proposition. I must admit that the details I have not fully thought out yet, but that is a matter of only half an hour or so. I propose that you should kill me in Boston Harbour and escape to your man-of-war. They will, of course, refuse to give you up, and on your return to Germany you will receive your freedom.”

“But—but you,” Watson exclaimed, bewildered, “you don’t want to be killed, surely?”

“I do not intend to be—actually,” Mr. Sabin explained. “Exactly how I am going to manage it I can’t tell you just now, but it will be quite easy. I shall be dead to thebelief of everybody on board here except the captain, and he will be our accomplice. I shall remain hidden until yourKaiser Wilhelmhas left, and when I do land in America—it shall not be as Mr. Sabin.”

Watson rose to his feet He was a transformed man. A sudden hope had brightened his face. His eyes were on fire.

“It is a wonderful scheme!” he exclaimed. “But the captain—surely he will never consent to help?”

“On the contrary,” Mr. Sabin answered, “he will do it for the asking. There is not a single difficulty which we cannot easily surmount.”

“There is my companion,” Watson remarked; “she will have to be reckoned with.”

“Leave her,” Mr. Sabin said, “to me. I will undertake that she shall be on our side before many hours are passed. You had better go down to your room now. It is getting light and I want to rest.”

Watson paused upon the threshold. He pointed in some embarrassment to the table by the side of the bed.

“Is it any use,” he murmured in a low tone, “saying that I am sorry for this?”

“You only did—what—in a sense was your duty,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I bear no malice—especially since I escaped.”

Watson closed the door and Mr. Sabin glanced at the bed. For a moment or two he hesitated, although the desire for sleep had gone by. Then he stepped out on to the deck and leaned thoughtfully over the white railing. Far away eastwards there were signs already of the coming day. A soft grey twilight rested upon the sea; darker and blacker the waters seemed just then by contrast with the lightening skies. A fresh breeze was blowing. There was no living thing within sight save that faint green light where the rolling sea touched the clouds. Mr. Sabin’s eyes grewfixed. A curious depression came over him in that half hour before the dawn when all emotion is quickened by that intense brooding stillness. He was passing, he felt, into perpetual exile. He who had been so intimately in touch with the large things of the world had come to that point when after all he was bound to write his life down a failure. For its great desire was no nearer consummation. He had made his grand effort and he had failed. He had been very near success. He had seen closely into the Promised Land. Perhaps it was such thoughts as these which made his non-success the more bitter, and then, with the instincts of a philosopher, he asked himself now, surrounded in fancy by the fragments of his broken dreams, whether it had been worth while. That love of the beautiful and picturesque side of his country which had been his first inspiration, which had been at the root of his passionate patriotism, seemed just then in the grey moments of his despair so weak a thing. He had sacrificed so much to it—his whole life had been moulded and shaped to that one end. There had been other ways in which he might have found happiness. Was he growing morbid, he wondered, bitterly but unresistingly, that her face should suddenly float before his eyes. In fancy he could see her coming towards him there across the still waters, the old brilliant smile upon her lips, the lovelight in her eyes, that calm disdain of all other men written so plainly on the face which should surely have been a queen’s.

Mr. Sabin thought of those things which had passed, and he thought of what was to come, and a moment of bitterness crept into his life which he knew must leave its mark for ever. His head drooped into his hands and remained buried there. Thus he stood until the first ray of sunlight travelling across the water fell upon him, and he knew that morning had come. He crossed the deck, and entering his cabin closed the door.

Mr. Sabin found it a harder matter than he had anticipated to induce the captain to consent to the scheme he had formulated. Nevertheless, he succeeded in the end, and by lunch time the following day the whole affair was settled. There was a certain amount of risk in the affair, but, on the other hand, if successfully carried out, it set free once and for ever the two men mainly concerned in it. Mr. Sabin, who was in rather a curious mood, came out of the captain’s room a little after one o’clock feeling altogether indisposed for conversation of any sort, ordered his luncheon from the deck steward, and moved his chair apart from the others into a sunny, secluded corner of the boat.

It was here that Mrs. Watson found him an hour later. He heard the rustle of silken draperies across the deck, a faint but familiar perfume suddenly floated into the salt, sunlit air. He looked around to find her bending over him, a miracle of white—cool, dainty, and elegant.

“And why this seclusion, Sir Misanthrope?”

He laughed and dragged her chair alongside of his.

“Come and sit down,” he said. “I want to talk to you. I want,” he added, lowering his voice, “to thank you for your warning.”

They were close together now and alone, cut off from theother chairs by one of the lifeboats. She looked up at him from amongst the cushions with which her chair was hung.

“You understood,” she murmured.

“Perfectly.”

“You are safe now,” she said. “From him at any rate. You have won him over.”

“I have found a way of safety,” Mr. Sabin said, “for both of us.”

She leaned her head upon her delicate white fingers, and looked at him curiously.

“Your plans,” she said, “are admirable; but what of me?”

Mr. Sabin regarded her with some faint indication of surprise. He was not sure what she meant. Did she expect a reward for her warning, he wondered. Her words would seem to indicate something of the sort, and yet he was not sure.

“I am afraid,” he said kindly, “we have not considered you very much yet. You will go on to Boston, of course. Then I suppose you will return to Germany.”

“Never,” she exclaimed, with suppressed passion. “I have broken my vows. I shall never set foot in Germany again. I broke them for your sake.”

Mr. Sabin looked at her thoughtfully.

“I am glad to hear you say that,” he declared. “Believe me, my dear young lady, I have seen a great deal of such matters, and I can assure you that the sooner you break away from all association with this man Watson and his employers the better.”

“It is all over,” she murmured. “I am a free woman.”

Mr. Sabin was delighted to hear it. Yet he felt that there was a certain awkwardness between them. He was this woman’s debtor, and he had made no effort to discharge his debt. What did she expect from him? He looked at her through half-closed eyes, and wondered.

“If I can be of any use to you,” he suggested softly, “in any fresh start you may make in life, you have only to command me.”

She kept her face averted from him. There was land in sight, and she seemed much interested in it.

“What are you going to do in America?”

Mr. Sabin looked out across the sea, and he repeated her question to himself. What was he going to do in this great, strange land, whose ways were not his ways, and whose sympathies lay so far apart from his?

“I cannot tell,” he murmured. “I have come here for safety. I have no country nor any friends. This is the land of my exile.”

A soft, white hand touched his for a moment. He looked into her face, and saw there an emotion which surprised him.

“It is my exile too,” she said. “I shall never dare to return. I have no wish to return.”

“But your friends?” Mr. Sabin commenced. “Your family?”

“I have no family.”

Mr. Sabin was thoughtful for several moments, then he took out his case and lit a cigarette. He watched the blue smoke floating away over the ship’s side, and looked no more at the woman at his elbow.

“If you decide,” he said quietly, “to settle in America, you must not allow yourself to forget that I am very much your debtor.I——”

“Your friendship,” she interrupted, “I shall be very glad to have. We may perhaps help one another to feel less lonely.”

Mr. Sabin gently shook his head.

“I had a friend of your sex once,” he said. “I shall—forgive me—never have another.”

“Is she dead?”

“If she is dead, it is I who have killed her. I sacrificed her to my ambition. We parted, and for months—for years—I scarcely thought of her, and now the day of retribution has come. I think of her, but it is in vain. Great barriers have rolled between us since those days, but she was my first friend, and she will be my only one.”

There was a long silence. Mr. Sabin’s eyes were fixed steadily seawards. A flood of recollections had suddenly taken possession of him. When at last he looked round, the chair by his side was vacant.

The voyage of theCaliphacame to its usual termination about ten o’clock on the following morning, when she passed Boston lights and steamed slowly down the smooth waters of the harbour. The seven passengers were all upon deck in wonderfully transformed guise. Already the steamer chairs were being tied up and piled away; the stewards, officiously anxious to render some last service, were hovering around. Mrs. Watson, in a plain tailor gown and quiet felt hat, was sitting heavily veiled apart and alone. There were no signs of either Mr. Watson or Mr. Sabin. The captain was on the bridge talking to the pilot. Scarcely a hundred yards away lay theKaiser Wilhelm, white and stately, with her brass work shining like gold in the sunlight, and her decks as white as snow.

TheCaliphawas almost at a standstill, awaiting the doctor’s brig, which was coming up to her on the port side. Every one was leaning over the railing watching her. Mr. Watson and Mr. Sabin, who had just come up the gangway together, turned away towards the deserted side of the boat, engaged apparently in serious conversation. Suddenly every one on deck started. A revolver shot, followed by two heavy splashes in the water, rang outclear and crisp above the clanking of chains and slighter noises. There was a moment’s startled silence—every one looked at one another—then a rush for the starboard side of the steamer. Above the little torrent of minor exclamations, the captain’s voice sang out like thunder.

“Lower the number one boat. Quartermaster, man a crew.”

The seven passengers, two stewards, and a stray seaman arrived on the starboard side of the gangway at about the same moment. There was at first very little to be seen. A faint cloud of blue smoke was curling upwards, and there was a strong odour of gunpowder in the air. On the deck were lying a small, recently-discharged revolver and a man’s white linen cap, which, from its somewhat peculiar shape, every one recognised at once as belonging to Mr. Sabin. At first sight, there was absolutely nothing else to be seen. Then, suddenly, some one pointed to a man’s head about fifty yards away in the water. Every one crowded to the side to look at it. It was hard at that distance to distinguish the features, but a little murmur arose, doubtful at first, but gaining confidence. It was the head of Mr. Watson. The murmur rather grew than increased when it was seen that he was swimming, not towards the steamer, but away from it, and that he was alone. Where was Mr. Sabin?

A slight cry from behind diverted attention for a moment from the bobbing head. Mrs. Watson, who had heard the murmurs, was lying in a dead faint across a chair. One of the women moved to her side. The others resumed their watch upon events.

A boat was already lowered. Acting upon instructions from the captain, the crew combined a search for the missing man with a leisurely pursuit of the fugitive one. The first lieutenant stood up in the gunwale with a hook in his hand, looking from right to left, and the men pulledwith slow, even strokes. But nowhere was there any sign of Mr. Sabin.

The man who was swimming was now almost out of sight, and the first lieutenant, who was in command of the little search party, reluctantly gave orders for the quickening of his men’s stroke. But almost as the men bent to their work, a curious thing happened. The fugitive, who had been swimming at a great pace, suddenly threw up his arms and disappeared.

“He’s done, by Jove!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “Row hard, you chaps. We must catch him when he rises.”

But to all appearance, Mr. J. B. Watson, of New York, never rose again. The boat was rowed time after time around the spot where he had sunk, but not a trace was to be found of him. The only vessel anywhere near was theKaiser Wilhelm. They rowed slowly up and hailed her.

An officer came to the railing and answered their inquiries in execrable English. No, they had not seen any one in the water. They had not picked any one up. Yes, if Herr Lieutenant pleased, he could come on board, but to make a search—no, without authority. No, it was impossible that any one could have been taken on board without his knowledge. He pointed down the steep sides of the steamship and shrugged his shoulders. It was indeed an impossible feat. The lieutenant of theCaliphasaluted and gave the order to his men to backwater. Once more they went over the ground carefully. There was no sign of either of the men. After about three-quarters of an hour’s absence, they reluctantly gave up the search and returned to theCalipha.

The first lieutenant was compelled to report both men drowned. The captain was in earnest conversation with an official in plain dark livery. The boat of the harbour police was already waiting below. The whole particulars of the affair were scanty enough. Mr. Sabin and Mr. Watsonwere seen to emerge from the gangway together, engaged in animated conversation. They had at first turned to the left, but seeing the main body of the passengers assembled there, had stepped back again and emerged on the starboard side which was quite deserted. After then, no one except the captain had even a momentary glimpse of them, and his was so brief that it could scarcely be called more than an impression. He had been attracted by a slight cry, he believed from Mr. Sabin, and had seen both men struggling together in the act of disappearing in the water. He had seen none of the details of the fight; he could not even say whether Mr. Sabin or Mr. Watson had been the aggressor, although on that subject there was only one opinion. Mrs. Watson was absolutely overcome, and unable to answer any questions, but as regards the final quarrel and struggle between the two men, it was impossible for her to have seen anything of it, as she was sitting in a steamer chair on the opposite side of the boat. There was at present absolutely no further light to be thrown upon the affair. The sergeant of police signalled for his boat and went off to make his report. TheCaliphaat half-speed steamed slowly for the dock.

Arrived there her passengers, crew and officers became the natural and recognised prey of the American press-man. The captain sternly refused to answer a single question, and in peremptory fashion ordered every stranger off his ship. But nevertheless his edict was avoided in the confusion of landing, and the Customs House effectually barred flight on the part of their victims. Somehow or other, no one exactly knew how or from what source they came, strange rumours began to float about. Who was Mr. J. B. Watson of New York, yacht owner and millionaire? No one had ever heard of him, and he did not answer in the least to the description of any known Watson. The closely veiled features of his widow were eagerlyscanned—one by one the newspaper men confessed themselves baffled. No one had ever seen her before. One man, the most daring of them, ventured upon a timid question as she stepped down the gangway. She passed him by with a swift look of contempt. None of the others ventured anything of the sort—but, nevertheless, they watched her, and they made note of two things. The first was that there was no one to meet her—the second that instead of driving to a railway depôt, or wiring to any friends, she went straight to an hotel and engaged a room for the night.

The press-men took counsel together, and agreed that it was very odd. They thought it odder still when one of their number, calling at the hotel later in the day, was informed that Mrs. Watson, after engaging a room for the week, had suddenly changed her mind, and had left Boston without giving any one any idea as to her destination. They took counsel together, and they found fresh food for sensation in her flight. She was the only person who could throw any light upon the relations between the two men, and she had thought fit to virtually efface herself. They made the most of her disappearance in the thick black head-lines which headed every column in the Boston evening papers.

Of all unhappy men he is assuredly the most unhappy who, ambitious, patient, and doggedly persevering, has chosen the moment to make his supreme venture and having made it has reaped failure instead of success. The gambler while he lives may play again; the miser, robbed, embark once more upon his furtive task of hoarding money; even the rejected lover need not despair of some day, somewhere finding happiness, since no one heart has a monopoly of love. But to him who aspires to shape the destiny of nations, to control the varying interests of great powers and play upon the emotions of whole peoples, there is never vouchsafed more than one opportunity. And failure then does more than bring upon the schemer the execration of the world he would have controlled: it clears eyes into which he had thrown dust, awakens passions he had lulled to sleep, provokes hostility where he had made false peace, and renders for ever impossible the recombination of conditions under which alone he could, if at all, succeed. For such an one life has lost all its savour. Existence may perhaps be permitted to him, but no more. He stakes his all upon one single venture, and, win or lose, he has no second throw. Failure is absolute, and spells despair.

In such unhappy state was Mr. Sabin. More than ten days had passed since the tragedy in Boston Harbour, and now he sat alone in a private room in a small but exclusivehotel in New York. He had affected no small change in his appearance by shaving off his imperial and moustache, but a far more serviceable disguise was provided for him by the extreme pallor of his face and the listlessness of his every movement. He had made the supreme effort of his life and had failed; and failure had so changed his whole demeanour that had any of his recent companions on theCaliphabeen unexpectedly confronted with him it is doubtful if they would have recognised him.

For a brief space he had enjoyed some of the old zest of life in scheming for the freedom of his would-be murderer, in outwitting the police and press-men, and in achieving his own escape; but with all this secured, and in the safe seclusion of his room, he had leisure to look within himself and found himself the most miserable of men, utterly lonely, with failure to look back upon and nothing for which to hope.

He had dreamed of being a minister to France; he was an exile in an unsympathetic land. He had dreamed of restoring dynasties and readjusting the balance of power; he was an alien refugee in a republic where visionaries are not wanted and where opulence gives control. America held nothing for him; Europe had no place; there was not a capital in the whole continent where he could show himself and live. And his mind dwelt upon the contrast between what might have been and what was, he tasted for the first time the full bitterness of isolation and despair. To his present plight any alternative would be preferable—even death. He took the little revolver which lay near him on the table and thoughtfully turned it over and over in his hand. It was as it were a key with which he could unlock the portal to another world, where weariness was unknown, and where every desire was satisfied, or unfelt: and even if there were no other existence beyond this, extinction was not an idea that repelled him now. It would be an “accident”;so easy to come by; so little painful to endure. Should he? Should he not? Should he?

He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he did not hear the soft knock at the door nor the servant murmuring the name of a visitor; but becoming conscious of the presence of some one in the room, he looked up suddenly to see a lady by his side.

“Is there not some mistake?” he said, rising to his feet. “I do not think I have the pleasure——”

She laughed and raised her veil.

“Does it make so much difference?” she asked lightly. “Yet, really, Mr. Sabin, you are more changed than I.”

“I must apologize,” he said; “golden hair is—most becoming. But sit down and tell me how you found me out and why.”

She sank into the chair he brought for her and looked at him thoughtfully.

“It does not matter how I found you, since I did. Why I came is easily explained. I have had a cablegram from Mr. Watson.”

“Good news, I hope,” he said politely.

“I suppose it is,” she answered indifferently. “At least your conspiracy seems to have been successful. It is generally believed that you are dead, and Mr. Watson has been pardoned and reinstated in all that once was his. And now he has sent me this cablegram asking me to join him in Germany and marry him.”

Dejected as Mr. Sabin was he had not yet lost all his sense of humour. He found the idea excessively amusing.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you,” he said, his twinkling eyes belying the grave courtesy of his voice. “It is the conventional happy end to a charming romance.”

“Are you never serious?” she protested.

“Indeed, yes,” he answered. “Forgive me for seemingto be flippant about so serious a matter as a proposal of marriage. I presume you will accept it.”

“Am I to do so?” she asked gravely. “It was to ask your advice that I came here to-day.”

“I have no hesitation in giving it,” he declared. “Accept the proposal at once. It means emancipation for you—emancipation from a career of espionage which has nothing to recommend it. There cannot be two opinions on such a point: give up this unwholesome business and make this man, and yourself too, happy. You will never regret it.”

“I wish I could be as sure of that,” she said wistfully.

Mr. Sabin, with his training and natural power of seeing through the words to the heart of the speaker, could not misunderstand her, and he spoke with a gentle earnestness very moving.

“Believe me, my dear lady, when I say that to every one once at least in his life there comes a chance of happiness, although every one is not wise enough to take it. I had my chance, and I threw it away: there has never been an hour in my life since then that I have not regretted it. Let me help you to be wiser than I was. I am an old man now; I have played for high stakes and have had my share of winning; I have been involved in great affairs, I have played my part in the making of history. And I speak from experience; security lies in middle ways, and happiness belongs to the simple life. To what has my interest in things of high import brought me? I am an exile from my country, doomed to pass the small remainder of my days among a people whom I know not and with whom I have nothing in common.

“I have a heart and now I am paying the penalty for having treated badly the one woman who had power to touch it; so bitter a penalty that I would I could save you from the experiencing the like. You come to me foradvice; then be advised by me. Leave meddling with affairs that are too high for you. Walk in those middle ways where safety is, and lead the simple life where alone happiness is. And let me part from you knowing that to one human being at least I have helped to give what alone is worth the having. Need I say any more?”

She took his hands and pressed them.

“Goodbye,” she said. “I shall start for Germany to-morrow.”

So Mr. Sabin was left free to return to his former melancholy mood; but it was not long before fresh interruption came. A servant brought a cablegram.

“Be sure you deliver my letter to Lenox,” it ran, and the signature was “Felix.”

He rolled the paper into a little ball and threw it on one side, and presently went into his dressing-room to change for dinner. As he came into the hall another servant brought him another cablegram. He opened it and read—

“Deliver my letter at once.—Felix.”

He tore the paper carefully into little pieces, and went into the dining-room for dinner. He dined leisurely and well, and lingered over his coffee, lost in meditation. He was still sitting so when a third servant brought him yet another cablegram—

“Remember your promise.—Felix.”

Then Mr. Sabin rose.

“Will you please see that my bag is packed,” he said to the waiting man, “and let my account be prepared and brought to me upstairs. I shall leave by the night train.”

Mr. Sabin found himself late on the afternoon of the following day alone on the platform of a little wooden station, watching the train which had dropped him there a few minutes ago snorting away round a distant curve. Outside, the servant whom he had hired that morning in New York was busy endeavouring to arrange for a conveyance of some sort in which they might complete their journey. Mr. Sabin himself was well content to remain where he was. The primitiveness of the place itself and the magnificence of his surroundings had made a distinct and favourable impression upon him. Facing him was a chain of lofty hills whose foliage, luxuriant and brilliantly tinted, seemed almost like a long wave of rich deep colour, the country close at hand was black with pine trees, through which indeed a winding way for the railroad seemed to have been hewn. It was only a little clearing which had been made for the depôt; a few yards down, the line seemed to vanish into a tunnel of black foliage, from amongst which the red barked tree trunks stood out with the regularity of a regiment of soldiers. The clear air was fragrant with a peculiar and aromatic perfume, so sweet and wholesome that Mr. Sabin held the cigarette which he had lighted at arm’s length, that he might inhale this, the mostfascinating odour in the world. He was at all times sensitive to the influence of scenery and natural perfumes, and the possibility of spending the rest of his days in this country had never seemed so little obnoxious as during those few moments. Then his eyes suddenly fell upon a large white house, magnificent, but evidently newly finished, gleaming forth from an opening in the woods, and his brows contracted. His former moodiness returned.

“It is not the country,” he muttered to himself, “it is the people.”

His servant came back presently, with explanations for his prolonged absence.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said, “but I made a mistake in taking the tickets.”

Mr. Sabin merely nodded. A little time ago a mistake on the part of a servant was a thing which he would not have tolerated. But those were days which seemed to him to lie very far back in the past.

“You ought to have alighted at the last station, sir,” the man continued. “Stockbridge is eleven miles from here.”

“What are we going to do?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“We must drive, sir. I have hired a conveyance, but the luggage will have to come later in the day by the cars. There will only be room for your dressing-bag in the buggy.”

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

“The drive will be pleasant,” he said, “especially if it is through such country as this. I am not sure that I regret your mistake, Harrison. You will remain and bring the baggage on, I suppose?”

“It will be best, sir,” the man agreed. “There is a train in about an hour.”

They walked out on to the road where a one-horse buggy was waiting. The driver took no more notice of them thanto terminate, in a leisurely way, his conversation with a railway porter, and unhitch the horse.

Mr. Sabin took the seat by his side, and they drove off.

It was a very beautiful road, and Mr. Sabin was quite content to lean back in his not uncomfortable seat and admire the scenery. For the most part it was of a luxuriant and broken character. There were very few signs of agriculture, save in the immediate vicinity of the large newly-built houses which they passed every now and then. At times they skirted the side of a mountain, and far below them in the valley the river Leine wound its way along like a broad silver band. Here and there the road passed through a thick forest of closely-growing pines, and Mr. Sabin, holding his cigarette away from him, leaned back and took long draughts of the rosinous, piney odour. It was soon after emerging from the last of these that they suddenly came upon a house which moved Mr. Sabin almost to enthusiasm. It lay not far back from the road, a very long two-storied white building, free from the over-ornamentation which disfigured most of the surrounding mansions. White pillars in front, after the colonial fashion, supported a long sloping veranda roof, and the smooth trimly-kept lawns stretched almost to the terrace which bordered the piazza. There were sun blinds of striped holland to the southern windows, and about the whole place there was an air of simple and elegant refinement, which Mr. Sabin found curiously attractive. He broke for the first time the silence which had reigned between him and the driver.

“Do you know,” he inquired, “whose house that is?”

The man flipped his horse’s ears with the whip.

“I guess so,” he answered. “That is the old Peterson House. Mrs. James B. Peterson lives there now.”

Mr. Sabin felt in his breast pocket, and extracted therefrom a letter. It was a coincidence undoubtedly, but thefact was indisputable. The address scrawled thereon in Felix’s sprawling hand was:—

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