“To Lord Wolfenden,“Deringham Hall,“Norfolk.“I cannot send for you as I promised. Farewell—Helène.”
“To Lord Wolfenden,“Deringham Hall,“Norfolk.
“I cannot send for you as I promised. Farewell—Helène.”
Wolfenden, who had bought no paper on his way up from Norfolk, gazed with something approaching amazement at the huge placards everywhere displayed along the Strand, thrust into his cab by adventurous newsboys, flaunting upon every lamp-post. He alighted near Trafalgar Square, and purchased aGlobe. The actual facts were meagre enough, but significant when considered in the light of a few days ago. A vacancy had occurred upon the throne of one of England’s far off dependencies. The British nominee had been insulted in his palace by the German consul—a rival, denounced as rebel by the authorities, had been carried off in safety on to a German gunboat, and accorded royal honours. The thing was trivial as it stood, but its importance had been enhanced a thousandfold by later news. The German Emperor had sent a telegram, approving his consul’s action and forbiddinghim to recognise the new sovereign. There was no possibility of misinterpreting such an action; it was an overt and deliberate insult, the second within a week. Wolfenden read the news upon the pavements of Pall Mall, jostled from right to left by hurrying passers by, conscious too, all the while, of that subtle sense of excitement which was in the air and was visibly reflected in the faces of the crowd. He turned into his club, and here he found even a deeper note of the prevailing fever. Men were gathered around the tape in little clusters, listening to the click click of the instrument, and reading aloud the little items of news as they appeared. There was a burst of applause when the Prime Minister’s dignified and peremptory demand for an explanation eked out about four o’clock in the afternoon—an hour later it was rumoured that the German Ambassador had received his papers. The Stock Exchange remained firm—there was enthusiasm, but no panic. Wolfenden began to wish that he, too, were a soldier, as he passed from one to another of the eager groups of young men about his own age, eagerly discussing the chances of the coming campaign. He walked out into the streets presently, and made his way boldly down to the house which had been pointed out to him as the town abode of Mr. Sabin and his niece. He found it shut up and apparently empty. The servant, who after some time answered his numerous ringings, was, either from design or chance, more than usually stupid. He could not tell where Mr. Sabin was or when he would return—he seemed to have no information whatever as regards the young lady. Wolfenden turned away in despair and walked slowly back towards Pall Mall. At the bottom of Piccadilly he stopped for a moment to let a little stream of carriages pass by; he was about to cross the road when a large barouche, with a pair of restive horses, again blocked the way. Attracted by an unknown coronet upon the panel, and the quietmagnificence of the servants’ liveries, he glanced curiously at the occupants as the carriage passed him. It was one of the surprises of his life. The woman nearest to him he knew well by sight; she was the Duchess de Montegarde, one of the richest and most famous of Frenchwomen—a woman often quoted as exactly typical of the old French nobility, and who had furthermore gained for herself a personal reputation for delicate and aristocratic exclusiveness, not altogether shared by her compeers in English society. By her side—in the seat of honour—was Helène, and opposite to them was a young man with a dark, fiercely twisted moustache and distinctly foreign appearance. They passed slowly, and Wolfenden remained upon the edge of the pavement with his eyes fixed upon them.
He was conscious at once of something about her which seemed strange to him—some new development. She leaned back in her seat, barely pretending to listen to the young man’s conversation, her lips a little curled, her own face the very prototype of aristocratic languor! All the lines of race were in her delicately chiselled features; the mere idea of regarding her as the niece of the unknown Mr. Sabin seemed just then almost ridiculous. The carriage went by without her seeing him—she appeared to have no interest whatever in the passers-by. But Wolfenden remained there without moving until a touch on the arm recalled him to himself.
He turned abruptly round, and to his amazement found himself shaking hands vigorously with Densham!
“Where on earth did you spring from, old chap?” he asked. “Dick said that you had gone abroad.”
Densham smiled a little sadly.
“I was on my way,” he said, “when I heard the war rumours. There seemed to be something in it, so I came back as fast as express trains and steamers would bring me. I only landed in England this morning. I amapplying for the post of correspondent to theLondon News.”
Wolfenden sighed.
“I would give the world,” he said, “for some such excitement as that!”
Densham drew his hand through Wolfenden’s arm.
“I saw whom you were watching just now,” he said. “She is as beautiful as ever!”
Wolfenden turned suddenly round.
“Densham,” he said, “you know who she is—tell me.”
“Do you mean to say that you have not found out?”
“I do! I know her better, but still only as Mr. Sabin’s niece!”
Densham was silent for several moments. He felt Wolfenden’s fingers gripping his arm nervously.
“Well, I do not see that I should be betraying any confidence now,” he said. “The promise I gave was only binding for a short time, and now that she is to be seen openly with the Duchess de Montegarde, I suppose the embargo is removed. The young lady is the Princess Helène Frances de Bourbon, and the young man is her betrothed husband, the Prince of Ortrens!”
Piccadilly became suddenly a vague and shadowy thoroughfare to Wolfenden. He was not quite sure whether his footsteps even reached the pavement. Densham hastened him into the club and, installing him into an easy chair, called for brandies and soda.
“Poor old Wolf!” he said softly. “I’m afraid you’re like I was—very hard hit. Here, drink this! I’m beastly sorry I told you, but I certainly thought that you would have had some idea.”
“I have been a thick-headed idiot!” Wolfenden exclaimed. “There have been heaps of things from which I might have guessed something near the truth, at any rate. What a fool she must have thought me!”
The two men were silent. Outside in the street there was a rush for a special edition, and a half cheer rang in the room. A waiter entered with a handful of copies which were instantly seized upon. Wolfenden secured one and read the headings.
“Densham, do you realise that we are really in for war?”
Densham nodded.
“I don’t think there can be any doubt about it myself. What a thunderbolt! By the bye, where is your friend, Mr. Sabin?”
Wolfenden shook his head.
“I do not know; I came to London partially to see him. I have an account to settle when we do meet; at present he has disappeared. Densham!”
“Well!”
“If Miss Sabin has become the Princess Helène of Bourbon, who is Mr. Sabin?”
“I am not sure,” Densham answered, “I have been looking into the genealogy of the family, and if he is really her uncle, there is only one man whom he can be—the Duke de Souspennier!”
“Souspennier! Wasn’t he banished from France for something or other—intriguing for the restoration of the Monarchy, I think it was?”
Densham nodded.
“Yes, he disappeared at the time of the Commune, and since then he is supposed to have been in Asia somewhere. He has quite a history, I believe, and at different times hasbeen involved in several European complications. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he isn’t our man. Mr. Sabin has rather the look of a man who has travelled in the East, and he is certainly an aristocrat.”
Wolfenden was suddenly thoughtful.
“Harcutt would be very much interested in this,” he declared. “What’s up outside?”
There had been a crash in the street, and the sound of a horse plunging; the two men walked to the windows. Thedébrisof a hansom was lying in the road, with one wheel hopelessly smashed, a few yards off. A man, covered with mud, rose slowly up from the wreck. Densham and Wolfenden simultaneously recognised him.
“It is Felix,” Wolfenden exclaimed. “Come on!”
They both hurried out into the street. The driver of the hansom, who also was covered with mud, stood talking to Felix while staunching the blood from a wound in his forehead.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he was saying, “I hope you’ll remember as it was your orders to risk an accident, sooner than lose sight of t’other gent. Mine’s a good ’oss, but what is he against a pair and a light brougham? and Piccadilly ain’t the place for a chase of this sort! It’ll cost me three pun ten, sir, to say nothing of thewheel——”
Felix motioned him impatiently to be silent, and thrust a note into his hand.
“If the damage comes to more than that,” he said, “ask for me at the Russian Embassy, and I will pay it. Here is my card.”
Felix was preparing to enter another cab, but Wolfenden laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Won’t you come into my club here, and have a wash?” he suggested. “I am afraid that you have cut your cheek.”
Felix raised his handkerchief to his face, and found it covered with blood.
“Thank you, Lord Wolfenden,” he said, “I should be glad to; you seem destined always to play the part of the Good Samaritan to me!”
They both went with him into the lavatory.
“Do you know,” he asked Wolfenden, when he had sponged his face, “whom I was following?”
Wolfenden shook his head.
“Mr. Sabin?” he suggested.
“Not Mr. Sabin himself,” Felix answered, “but almost the same thing. It was Foo Cha, his Chinese servant who has just arrived in England. Have you any idea where Mr. Sabin is?”
They both shook their heads.
“I do not know,” Wolfenden said, “but I am very anxious to find out. I have an account to settle with him!”
“And I,” Felix murmured in a low tone, “have a very much longer one against him. To-night, if I am not too late, there will be a balance struck between us! I have lost Foo Cha, but others, better skilled than I am, are in search of his master. They will succeed, too! They always succeed. What have you against him, Lord Wolfenden?”
Wolfenden hesitated; yet why not tell the man the truth? He had nothing to gain by concealment.
“He forced himself into my father’s house in Norfolk and obtained, either by force or craft, some valuable papers. My father was in delicate health, and we fear that the shock will cost him his reason.”
“Do you want to know what they were?” Felix said. “I can tell you! Do you want to know what he required them for? I can tell you that too! He has concocted a marvellous scheme, and if he is left to himself for another hour or two, he will succeed. But I have no fear; I have set working a mightier machinery than even he can grapple with!”
They had walked together into the smoke-room; Felix seemed somewhat shaken and was glad to rest for a few minutes.
“Has he outstepped the law, been guilty of any crime?” Wolfenden asked; “he is daring enough!”
Felix laughed shortly. He was lighting a cigarette, but his hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the match.
“A further reaching arm than the law,” he said, dropping his voice, “more powerful than governments. Even by this time his whereabouts is known. If we are only in time; that is the only fear.”
“Cannot you tell us,” Wolfenden asked, “something of this wonderful scheme of his—why was he so anxious to get those papers and drawings from my father—to what purpose can he possibly put them?”
Felix hesitated.
“Well,” he said, “why not? You have a right to know. Understand that I myself have only the barest outline of it; I will tell you this, however. Mr. Sabin is the Duc de Souspennier, a Frenchman of fabulous wealth, who has played many strange parts in European history. Amongst other of his accomplishments, he is a mechanical and strategical genius. He has studied under Addison in America, one subject only, for three years—the destruction of warships and fortifications by electrical contrivances unknown to the general world. Then he came to England, and collected a vast amount of information concerning your navy and coast defences in many different ways—finally he sent a girl to play the part of typist to your father, whom he knew to be the greatest living authority upon all naval matters connected with your country. Every line he wrote was copied and sent to Mr. Sabin, until by some means your father’s suspicions were aroused, and the girl was dismissed. The last portion of your father’s work consistedof a set of drawings, of no fewer than twenty-seven of England’s finest vessels, every one of which has a large proportion of defective armour plating, which would render the vessels utterly useless in case of war. These drawings show the exact position of the defective plates, and it was to secure these illustrations that Mr. Sabin paid that daring visit to your father on Tuesday morning. Now, what he professes broadly is that he has elaborated a scheme, by means of which, combined with the aid of his inventions, a few torpedo boats can silence every fort in the Thames, and leave London at the mercy of any invaders. At the same time his plans include the absolutely safe landing of troops on the east and south coast, at certain selected spots. This scheme, together with some very alarming secret information affecting the great majority of your battleships, will, he asserts with absolute confidence, place your country at the mercy of any Power to whom he chooses to sell it. He offered it to Russia first, and then to Germany. Germany has accepted his terms and will declare war upon England the moment she has his whole scheme and inventions in her possession.”
Wolfenden and Densham looked at one another, partly incredulous, partly aghast. It was like a page from the Arabian Nights. Surely such a thing as this was not possible. Yet even that short silence was broken by the cry of the newsboys out in the street—
Mr. Sabin leaned back in his chair with a long, deep sigh of content. The labour of years was concluded at last. With that final little sketch his work was done. A pile of manuscripts and charts lay before him; everything was in order. He took a bill of lading from his letter-case, and pinned it carefully to the rest. Then he glanced at his watch, and, taking a cigarette-case from his pocket, began to smoke.
There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Sabin, who had recognised the approaching footsteps, glanced up carelessly.
“What is it, Foo Cha? I told you that I would ring when I wanted you.”
The Chinaman glided to his side.
“Master,” he said softly, “I have fears. There is something not good in the air.”
Mr. Sabin turned sharply around.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Foo Cha was apologetic but serious.
“Master, I was followed from the house of the German by a man, who drove fast after me in a two-wheeled cab. He lost me on the way, but there are others. I have been into the street, and I am sure of it. The house is being watched on all sides.”
Mr. Sabin drew a quiet, little breath. For a moment his haggard face seemed almost ghastly. He recovered himself, however, with an effort.
“We are not in China, Foo Cha,” he said. “I have done nothing against the law of this country; no man can enter here if we resist. If we are really being watched, it must be by persons in the pay of the Russian. But they can do nothing; it is too late; Knigenstein will be here in half an hour. The thing will be settled then, once and for ever.”
Foo Cha was troubled still.
“Me afraid,” he admitted frankly. “Strange men this end and that end of street. Me no like it. Ah!”
The front door bell rang softly; it was a timid, hesitating ring, as though some one had but feebly touched the knob. Foo Cha and his master looked at one another in silence. There was something almost ominous in that gentle peal.
“You must see who it is, Foo Cha,” Mr. Sabin said. “It may be Knigenstein come early; if so, show him in at once. To everybody else the house is empty.”
Foo Cha bowed silently and withdrew. He struck a match in the dark passage, and lit the hanging gas-lamp. Then he opened the door cautiously.
One man alone was standing there. Foo Cha looked at him in despair; it was certainly not Knigenstein, nor was there any sign of his carriage in the street. The stranger was a man of middle height, squarely built and stout. He wore a long black overcoat, and he stood with his hands in his pockets.
“What you want?” Foo Cha asked. “What you want with me?”
The man did not answer at once, but he stepped inside into the passage. Foo Cha tried to shut the door in his face, but it was like pushing against a mountain.
“Where is your master?” he asked.
“Master? He not here,” Foo Cha answered, with glib and untruthful earnestness. “Indeed he is not here—quite true. He come to-morrow; I preparing house for him. What do you want? Go away, or me call policeman.”
The intruder smiled indulgently into the Chinaman’s earnest, upturned face.
“Foo Cha,” he said, “that is enough. Take this card to your master, Mr. Sabin.”
Foo Cha was ready to begin another torrent of expostulations, but in the gas-light he met the new-comer’s steadfast gaze, and he was silent. The stranger was dressed in the garb of a superior working man, but his speech and manner indicated a very different station. Foo Cha took the card and left him in the passage. He made his way softly into the sitting-room, and as he entered he turned the key in the lock behind him; there, at any rate, was a moment or two of respite.
“Master,” he said, “there is a man there whom we cannot stop. When me tell him you no here, he laugh at me. He will see you; he no go way. He laugh again when I try shut the door. He give me card; I no understand what on it.”
Mr. Sabin stretched out his hand and took the card from the Chinaman’s fingers. There seemed to be one or two words upon it, traced in a delicate, sloping handwriting. Mr. Sabin had snatched at the little piece of pasteboard with some impatience, but the moment he had read those few words a remarkable change came over him. He started as though he had received an electric shock; the pupils of his eyes seemed hideously dilated; the usual pallor of his face was merged in a ghastly whiteness. And then, after the first shock, came a look of deep and utter despair; his hand fell to his side, a half-muttered imprecation escaped from his trembling lips, yet he laid the card gently, even with reverence, upon the desk before him.
“You can show him in, Foo Cha,” he directed, in a low tone; “show him in at once.”
Foo Cha glided out disappointed. Something had gone terribly wrong, he was sure of that. He went slowly downstairs, his eyes fixed upon the dark figure standing motionless in the dimly-lit hall. He drew a sharp breath, which sounded through his yellow, protuberant teeth like a hiss. A single stroke of that long knife—it would be so easy. Then he remembered the respect with which Mr. Sabin had treated that card, and he sighed. Perhaps it would be a mistake; it might make evil worse. He beckoned to the stranger, and conducted him upstairs.
Mr. Sabin received his visitor standing. He was still very pale, but his face had resumed its wonted impassiveness. In the dim lamp-lit room he could see very little of his visitor, only a thick-set man with dark eyes and a closely-cropped black beard. He was roughly dressed, yet held himself well. The two men eyed one another steadily for several moments, before any speech passed between them.
“You are surprised,” the stranger said; “I do not wonder at it. Perhaps—you have been much engrossed, it is said—you had even forgotten.”
Mr. Sabin’s lips curled in a bitter smile.
“One does not forget those things,” he said. “To business. Let me know what is required of me.”
“It has been reported,” the stranger said, “that you have conceived and brought to great perfection a comprehensive and infallible scheme for the conquest of this country. Further, that you are on the point of handing it over to the Emperor of Germany, for the use of that country. I think I may conclude that the report is correct?” he added, with a glance at the table. “We are not often misinformed.”
“The report,” Mr. Sabin assented, “is perfectly correct.”
“We have taken counsel upon the matter,” the stranger continued, “and I am here to acquaint you with our decision.The papers are to be burnt, and the appliances to be destroyed forthwith. No portion of them is to be shown to the German Government or any person representing that country, nor to any other Power. Further, you are to leave England within two months.”
Mr. Sabin stood quite still, his hands resting lightly upon the desk in front of him. His eyes, fixed on vacancy, were looking far out of that shabby little room, back along the avenues of time, thronged with the fragments of his broken dreams. He realised once more the full glory of his daring and ambitious scheme. He saw his country revelling again in her old splendour, stretching out her limbs and taking once more the foremost place among her sister nations. He saw the pageantry and rich colouring of Imperialism, firing the imagination of her children, drawing all hearts back to their allegiance, breaking through the hard crust of materialism which had spread like an evil dream through the land. He saw himself great and revered, the patriot, the Richelieu of his days, the adored of the people, the friend and restorer of his king. Once more he was a figure in European history, the consort of Emperors, the man whose slightest word could shake the money markets of the world. He saw all these things, as though for the last time, with strange, unreal vividness; once more their full glory warmed his blood and dazzled his eyes. Then a flash of memory, an effort of realisation chilled him; his feet were upon the earth again, his head was heavy. That thick-set, motionless figure before him seemed like the incarnation of his despair.
“I shall appeal,” he said hoarsely; “England is no friend of ours.”
The man shrugged his shoulders.
“England is tolerant at least,” he said; “and she has sheltered us.”
“I shall appeal,” Mr. Sabin repeated.
The man shook his head.
“It is the order of the High Council,” he said; “there is no appeal.”
“It is my life’s work,” Mr. Sabin faltered.
“Your life’s work,” the man said slowly, “should be with us.”
“God knows why I ever——”
The man stretched out a white hand, which gleamed through the semi-darkness. Mr. Sabin stopped short.
“You very nearly,” he said solemnly, “pronounced your own death-sentence. If you had finished what you were about to say, I could never have saved you. Be wise, friend. This is a disappointment to you; well, is not our life one long torturing disappointment? What of us, indeed? We are like the waves which beat ceaselessly against the sea-shore, what we gain one day we lose the next. It is fate, it is life! Once more, friend, remember! Farewell!”
Mr. Sabin was left alone, a martyr to his thoughts. Already it was past the hour for Knigenstein’s visit. Should he remain and brave the storm, or should he catch the boat-train from Charing Cross and hasten to hide himself in one of the most remote quarters of the civilised world? In any case it was a dreary outlook for him. Not only had this dearly cherished scheme of his come crashing about his head, but he had very seriously compromised himself with a great country. The Emperor’s gracious letter was in his pocket—he smiled grimly to himself as he thought for a moment of the consternation of Berlin, and of Knigenstein’s disgrace. And then the luxury of choice was suddenly denied him; he was brought back to the present, and a sense of its paramount embarrassments by a pealing ring at the bell, and the trampling of horse’s feet in thestreet. He had no time to rescind his previous instructions to Foo Cha before Knigenstein himself, wrapped in a great sealskin coat, and muffled up to the chin with a silk handkerchief, was shown into the room.
The Ambassador’s usually phlegmatic face bore traces of some anxiety. Behind his spectacles his eyes glittered nervously; he grasped Mr. Sabin’s hand with unwonted cordiality, and was evidently much relieved to have found him.
“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “this is a great occasion. I am a little late, but, as you can imagine, I am overwhelmed with work of the utmost importance. You have finished now, I hope. You are ready for me?”
“I am as ready for you,” Mr. Sabin said grimly, “as I ever shall be!”
“What do you mean?” Knigenstein asked sharply. “Don’t tell me that anything has gone amiss! I am a ruined man, unless you carry out your covenant to the letter. I have pledged my word upon your honour.”
“Then I am afraid,” Mr. Sabin said, “that we are both of us in a very tight place! I am bound hand and foot. There,” he cried, pointing to the grate, half choked with a pile of quivering grey ashes, “lies the work of seven years of my life—seven years of intrigue, of calculation, of unceasing toil. By this time all my American inventions, which would have paralysed Europe, are blown sky high! That is the position, Knigenstein; we are undone!”
Knigenstein was shaking like a child; he laid his hand upon Mr. Sabin’s arm, and gripped it fiercely.
“Souspennier,” he said, “if you are speaking the truth I am ruined, and disgraced for ever. The Emperor will never forgive me! I shall be dismissed and banished. I have pledged my word for yours; you cannot mean to play me false like this. If there is any personal favour or reward, which the Emperor can grant, it is yours—I willanswer for it. I will answer for it, too, that war shall be declared against France within six months of the conclusion of peace with England. Come, say that you have been jesting. Good God! man, you are torturing me. Why, have you seen the papers to-night? The Emperor has been hasty, I own, but he has already struck the first blow. War is as good as declared. I am waiting for my papers every hour!”
“I cannot help it,” Mr. Sabin said doggedly. “The thing is at an end. To give up all the fruits of my work—the labour of the best years of my life—is as bitter to me as your dilemma is to you! But it is inevitable! Be a man, Knigenstein, put the best face on it you can.”
The utter impotence of all that he could say was suddenly revealed to Knigenstein in Mr. Sabin’s set face and hopeless words. His tone of entreaty changed to one of anger; the veins on his forehead stood out like knotted string, his mouth twitched as he spoke, he could not control himself.
“You have made up your mind,” he cried. “Very well! Russia has bought you, very well! If Lobenski has bribed you with all the gold in Christendom you shall never enjoy it! You shall not live a year! I swear it! You have insulted and wronged our country, our fatherland! Listen! A word shall be breathed in the ears of a handful of our officers. Where you go, they shall go; if you leave England you will be struck on the cheek in the first public place at which you show yourself. If one falls, there are others—hundreds, thousands, an army! Oh! you shall not escape, my friend. But if ever you dared to set foot inGermany——”
“I can assure you,” Mr. Sabin interrupted, “that I shall take particular care never to visit your delightful country. Elsewhere, I think I can take care of myself. But listen, Knigenstein, all your talk about Russia and playing youfalse is absurd. If I had wished to deal with Lobenski, I could have done so, instead of with you. I have not even seen him. A greater hand than his has stopped me, a greater even than the hand of your Emperor!”
Knigenstein looked at him as one looks at a madman.
“There is no greater hand on earth,” he said, “than the hand of his Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Germany.”
Mr. Sabin smiled.
“You are a German,” he said, “and you know little of these things, yet you call yourself a diplomatist, and I suppose you have some knowledge of what this means.”
He lifted the lamp from the table and walked to the wall opposite to the door. Knigenstein followed him closely. Before them, high up as the fingers of a man could reach, was a small, irregular red patch—something between a cross and a star. Mr. Sabin held the lamp high over his head and pointed to the mark.
“Do you know what that means?” he asked.
The man by his side groaned.
“Yes,” he answered, with a gesture of abject despair, “I know!”
Mr. Sabin walked back to the table and set down the lamp.
“You know now,” he said coolly, “who has intervened.”
“If I had had any idea,” Knigenstein said, “that you were one of them I should not have treated with you.”
“It was many years ago,” Mr. Sabin said with a sigh. “My father was half a Russian, you know. It served my purpose whilst I was envoy at Teheran; since then I had lost sight of them; I thought that they too had lost sight of me. I was mistaken—only an hour ago I was visited by a chief official. They knew everything, they forbade everything. As a matter of fact they have saved England!”
“And ruined us,” Knigenstein groaned. “I must go and telegraph. But Souspennier, one word.”
Mr. Sabin looked up.
“You are a brave man and a patriot; you want to see your country free. Well, why not free it still? You and I are philosophers, we know that life after all is an uncertain thing. Hold to your bargain with us. It will be to your death, I do not deny that. But I will pledge the honour of my country, I will give you the holy word of the Emperor, that we will faithfully carry out our part of the contract, and the whole glory shall be yours. You will be immortalised; you will win fame that shall be deathless. Your name will be enshrined in the heart of your country’s history.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.
“My dear Knigenstein,” he said “pray don’t misunderstand me. I do not cast the slightest reflection upon your Emperor or your honour. But if ever there was a country which required watching, it is yours. I could not carry your pledges with me into oblivion, and there is no one to whom I could leave the legacy. That being the case, I think that I prefer to live.”
Knigenstein buttoned up his coat and sighed.
“I am a ruined man, Souspennier,” he said, “but I bear you no malice. Let me leave you a little word of warning, though. The Nihilists are not the only people in the world who have the courage and the wit to avenge themselves. Farewell!”
Mr. Sabin broke into a queer little laugh as he listened to his guest’s departing footsteps. Then he lit a cigarette, and called to Foo Cha for some coffee.
When Wolfenden opened his paper on Saturday morning, London had already drawn a great breath, partly of relief partly of surprise, for the black head-lines which topped the columns of the papers, the placards in the streets, and the cry of the newsboys, all declared a most remarkable change in the political situation.
Wolfenden, in common with most of his fellow-countrymen, could scarcely believe his eyes; yet there it was in plain black and white. The dogs of war had been called back. Germany was climbing down—not with dignity; she had gone too far for that—but with a scuffle. Wolfenden read the paper through before he even thought of his letters Then he began to open them slowly. The first was from his mother. The Admiral was distinctly better; the doctors were more hopeful. He turned to the next one; it was in a delicate, foreign handwriting, and exhaled afaint perfume which seemed vaguely familiar to him. He opened it and his heart stood still.
“14,Grosvenor Square,“London, W“Will you come and see me to-day about four o’clock? —Helène.”
“14,Grosvenor Square,“London, W
“Will you come and see me to-day about four o’clock? —Helène.”
He looked at his watch—four o’clock seemed a very long way off. He decided that he would go out and find Felix; but almost immediately the door was opened and that very person was shown in.
Felix was radiant; he appeared to have grown years younger. He was immaculately dressed, and he wore an exquisite orchid in his button-hole.
Wolfenden greeted him warmly.
“Have you seen the paper?” he asked. “Do you know the news?”
Felix laughed.
“Of course! You may not believe it, but it is true that I am the person who has saved your country! And I am quits at last with Herbert de la Meux, Duc de Souspennier!”
“Meaning, I suppose, the person whom we have been accustomed to call—Mr. Sabin?” Wolfenden remarked.
“Exactly!”
Wolfenden pushed an easy chair towards his visitor and produced some cigarettes.
“I must say,” he continued, “that I should exceedingly like to know how the thing was done.”
Felix smiled.
“That, my dear friend,” he said, “you will never know. No one will ever know the cause of Germany’s suddenly belligerent attitude, and her equally speedy climb-down! There are many pages of diplomatic history which theworld will never read, and this is one of them. Come and lunch with me, Lord Wolfenden. My vow is paid and without bloodshed. I am a free man, and my promotion is assured. To-day is the happiest of my life!”
Wolfenden smiled and looked at the letter on the table before him; might it not also be the happiest day of his own life!
And it was! Punctually at four o’clock he presented himself at Grosvenor Square and was ushered into one of the smaller reception rooms. Helène came to him at once, a smile half-shy, half-apologetic upon her lips. He was conscious from the moment of her entrance of a change in her deportment towards him. She held in her hand a small locket.
“I wanted to ask you, Lord Wolfenden,” she said, drawing her fingers slowly away from his lingering clasp, “does this locket belong to you?”
He glanced at it and shook his head at once.
“I never saw it before in my life,” he declared. “I do not wear a watch chain, and I don’t possess anything of that sort.”
She threw it contemptuously away from her into the grate.
“A woman lied to me about it,” she said slowly. “I am ashamed of myself that I should have listened to her, even for a second. I chanced to look at it last night, and it suddenly occurred to me where I had seen it. It was on a man’s watch-chain, but not on yours.”
“Surely,” he said, “it belongs to Mr. Sabin?”
She nodded and held out both her hands.
“Will you forgive me?” she begged softly, “and—and—I think—I promised to send for you!”
They had been together for nearly an hour when the door opened abruptly, and the young man whom Wolfendenhad seen with Helène in the barouche entered the room. He stared in amazement at her, and rudely at Wolfenden. Helène rose and turned to him with a smile.
“Henri,” she said, “let me present to you the English gentleman whom I am going to marry. Prince Henri of Ortrens—Lord Wolfenden.”
The young man barely returned Wolfenden’s salute. He turned with flashing eyes to Helène and muttered a few hasty words in French—
“A kingdom and my betrothed in one day! It is too much! We will see!”
He left the room hurriedly. Helène laughed.
“He has gone to find the Duchess,” she said, “and there will be a scene! Let us go out in the Park.”
They walked about under the trees; suddenly they came face to face with Mr. Sabin. He was looking a little worn, but he was as carefully dressed as usual, and he welcomed them with a smile and an utter absence of any embarrassment.
“So soon!” he remarked pleasantly. “You Englishmen are as prompt in love as you are in war, Lord Wolfenden! It is an admirable trait.”
Helène laid her hand upon his arm. Yes, it was no fancy; his hair was greyer, and heavy lines furrowed his brow.
“Uncle,” she said, “believe me that I am sorry for you, though for myself—I am glad!”
He looked at her kindly, yet with a faint contempt.
“The Bourbon blood runs very slowly in your veins, child,” he said. “After all I begin to doubt whether you would have made a queen! As for myself—well, I am resigned. I am going to Pau, to play golf!”
“For how long, I wonder,” she said smiling, “will you be able to content yourself there?”
“For a month or two,” he answered; “until I have lostthe taste of defeat. Then I have plans—but never mind; I will tell you later on. You will all hear of me again! So far as you two are concerned at any rate,” he added, “I have no need to reproach myself. My failure seems to have brought you happiness.”
He passed on, and they both watched his slim figure lost in the throng of passers-by.
“He is a great man,” she murmured. “He knows how to bear defeat.”
“He is a great man,” Wolfenden answered; “but none the less I am not sorry to see the last of Mr. Sabin!”
The way to Pau which Mr. Sabin chose may possibly have been the most circuitous, but it was certainly the safest. Although not a muscle of his face had moved, although he had not by any physical movement or speech betrayed his knowledge of the fact, he was perfectly well aware that his little statement as to his future movements was overheard and carefully noted by the tall, immaculately dressed young man who by some strange chance seemed to have been at his elbow since he had left his rooms an hour ago. “Into the lion’s mouth, indeed,” he muttered to himself grimly as he hailed a hansom at the corner and was driven homewards. The limes of Berlin were very beautiful, but it was not with any immediate idea of sauntering beneath them that a few hours later he was driven to Euston and stepped into an engaged carriage on the Liverpool express. There, with a travelling cap drawn down to his eyes and a rug pulled up to his throat, he sat in the far corner of his compartment apparently enjoying an evening paper—as a matter of fact anxiously watching the platform. He had taken care to allow himself only a slender margin of time. In two minutes the train glided out of the station.
He drew a little sigh of relief—he, who very seldom permitted himself the luxury of even the slightest revelation ofhis feelings. At least he had a start. Then he unlocked a travelling case, and, drawing out an atlas, sat with it upon his knee for some time. When he closed it there was a frown upon his face.
“America,” he exclaimed softly to himself. “What a lack of imagination even the sound of the place seems to denote! It is the most ignominious retreat I have ever made.”
“You made the common mistake,” a quiet voice at his elbow remarked, “of many of the world’s greatest diplomatists. You underrated your adversaries.”
Mr. Sabin distinctly started, and clutching at his rug, leaned back in his corner. A young man in a tweed travelling suit was standing by the opposite window. Behind him Mr. Sabin noticed for the first time a narrow mahogany door. Mr. Sabin drew a short breath, and was himself again. Underneath the rug his fingers stole into his overcoat pocket and clasped something cold and firm.
“One at least,” he said grimly, “I perceive that I have held too lightly. Will you pardon a novice at necromancy if he asks you how you found your way here?”
Felix smiled.
“A little forethought,” he remarked, “a little luck and a sovereign tip to an accommodating inspector. The carriage in which you are travelling is, as you will doubtless perceive before you reach your journey’s end, a species of saloon. This little door”—touching the one through which he had issued—“leads on to a lavatory, and on the other side is a non-smoking carriage. I found that you had engaged a carriage on this train, by posing as your servant. I selected this one as being particularly suited to an old gentleman of nervous disposition, and arranged also that the non-smoking portion should be reserved for me.”
Mr. Sabin nodded. “And how,” he asked, “did you know that I meant to go to America?”
Felix shrugged his shoulders and took a seat.
“Well,” he said, “I concluded that you would be looking for a change of air somewhere, and I really could not see what part of the world you had left open to yourself. America is the only country strong enough to keep you! Besides, I reckoned a little upon that curiosity with regard to undeveloped countries which I have observed to be one of your traits. So far as I am aware, you have never resided long in America.”
“Neither have I even visited Kamtchatka or Greenland,” Mr. Sabin remarked.
“I understand you,” Felix remarked, nodding his head. “America is certainly one of the last places one would have dreamed of looking for you. You will find it, I am afraid, politically unborn; your own little methods, at any rate, would scarcely achieve popularity there. Further, its sympathies, of course, are with democratic France. I can imagine that you and the President of the United States would represent opposite poles of thought. Yet there were two considerations which weighed with me.”
“This is very interesting,” Mr. Sabin remarked. “May I know what they were? To be permitted a glimpse into the inward workings of a brain like yours is indeed a privilege!”
Felix bowed with a gratified smile upon his lips. The satire of Mr. Sabin’s dry tone was apparently lost upon him.
“You are most perfectly welcome,” he declared. “In the first place I said to myself that Kamtchatka and Greenland, although equally interesting to you, would be quite unable to afford themselves the luxury of offering you an asylum. You must seek the shelter of a great and powerful country, and one which you had never offended, and save America, there is none such in the world. Secondly, you are a Sybarite, and you do not withoutvery serious reasons place yourself outside the pale of civilisation. Thirdly, America is the only country save those which are barred to you where you could play golf!”
“You are really a remarkable young man,” Sabin declared, softly stroking his little grey imperial. “You have read me like a book! I am humiliated that the course of my reasoning should have been so transparent. To prove the correctness of your conclusions, see the little volume which I had brought to read on my way to Liverpool.”
He handed it out to Felix. It was entitled, “The Golf Courses of the World,” and a leaf was turned down at the chapter headed, “United States.”
“I wish,” he remarked, “that you were a golfer! I should like to have asked your opinion about that plan of the Myopia golf links. To me it seems cramped, and the bunkers are artificial.”
Felix looked at him admiringly.
“You are a wonderful man,” he said. “You do not bear me any ill-will then?”
“None in the least,” Mr. Sabin said quietly. “I never bear personal grudges. So far as I am concerned, I never have a personal enemy. It is fate itself which vanquished me. You were simply an instrument. You do not figure in my thoughts as a person against whom I bear any ill-will. I am glad, though, that you did not cash my cheque for £20,000!”
Felix smiled. “You went to see, then?” he asked.
“I took the liberty,” Mr. Sabin answered, “of stopping payment of it.”
“It will never be presented,” Felix said “I tore it into pieces directly I left you.”
Mr. Sabin nodded.
“Quixotic,” he murmured.
The express was rushing on through the night. Mr.Sabin thrust his hand into his bag and took out a handful of cigars. He offered one to Felix, who accepted, and lit it with the air of a man enjoying the reasonable civility of a chance fellow passenger.
“You had, I presume,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “some object in coming to see the last of me? I do not wish to seem unduly inquisitive, but I feel a little natural interest, or shall we say curiosity as to the reason for this courtesy on your part?”
“You are quite correct,” Felix answered. “I am here with a purpose. I am the bearer of a message to you.”
“May I ask, a friendly message, or otherwise?”
His fingers were tightening upon the little hard substance in his pocket, but he was already beginning to doubt whether after all Felix had come as an enemy.
“Friendly,” was the prompt answer. “I bring you an offer.”
“From Lobenski?”
“From his august master! The Czar himself has plans for you!”
“His serene Majesty,” Mr. Sabin murmured, “has always been most kind.”
“Since you left the country of the Shah,” Felix continued, “Russian influence in Central Asia has been gradually upon the wane. All manner of means have been employed to conceal this, but the unfortunate fact remains. You were the only man who ever thoroughly grasped the situation and attained any real influence over the master of western Asia! Your removal from Teheran was the result of an intrigue on the part of the English. It was the greatest misfortune which ever befel Russia!”
“And your offer?” Mr. Sabin asked.
“Is that you return to Teheran not as the secret agent, but as the accredited ambassador of Russia, with an absolutely free hand and unlimited powers.”
“Such an offer,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “ten years ago would have made Russia mistress of all Asia.”
“The Czar,” Felix said, “is beginning to appreciate that. But what was possible then is possible now!”
Mr. Sabin shook his head. “I am ten years older,” he said, “and the Shah who was my friend is dead.”
“The new Shah,” Felix said, “has a passion for intrigue, and the sands around Teheran are magnificent for golf.”
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“Too hard,” he said, “and too monotonous. I am peculiar perhaps in that respect, but I detest artificial bunkers. Now there is a little valley,” he continued thoughtfully, “about seven miles north of Teheran, where something might be done! Iwonder——”
“You accept,” Felix asked quietly.
Mr. Sabin shook his head.
“No, I decline.”
It was a shock to Felix, but he hid his disappointment.
“Absolutely?”
“And finally.”
“Why?”
“I am ten years too old!”
“That is resentment!”
Mr. Sabin denied it.
“No! Why should I not be frank with you, my friend? What I would have done for Russia ten years ago, I would not do to-day! She has made friends with the French Republic. She has done more than recognise the existence of that iniquitous institution—she has pressed her friendship upon the president—she has spoken the word of alliance. Henceforth my feeling for Russia has changed. I have no object to gain in her development. I am richer than the richest of her nobles, and there is no title in Europe for which I would exchange my own. You see Russia has absolutely nothing to offer me. On the otherhand, what would benefit Russia in Asia would ruin England, and England has given me and many of my kind a shelter, and has even held aloof from France. Of the two countries I would much prefer to aid England. If I had been the means of destroying her Asiatic empire ten years ago it would have been to me to-day a source of lasting regret. There, my friend, I have paid you the compliment of perfect frankness.”
“If,” Felix said slowly, “the price of your success at Teheran should be the breach of our covenants with France—what then? Remember that it is the country whose friendship is pleasing to us, not the government. You cannot seriously doubt but that an autocrat, such as the Czar, would prefer to extend his hand to an Emperor of France than to soil his fingers with the clasp of a tradesman!”
Mr. Sabin shook his head softly. “I have told you why I decline,” he said, “but in my heart there are many other reasons. For one, I am no longer a young man. This last failure of mine has aged me. I have no heart for fresh adventures.”
Felix sighed.
“My mission to you comes,” he said, “at an unfortunate time. For the present, then, I accept defeat.”
“The fault,” Mr. Sabin murmured, “is in no way with you. My refusal was a thing predestined. The Czar himself could not move me.”
The train was slowing a little. Felix looked out of the window.
“We are nearing Crewe,” he said. “I shall alight then and return to London. You are for America, then?”
“Beyond doubt,” Mr. Sabin declared.
Felix drew from his pocket a letter.
“If you will deliver this for me,” he said, “you will do me a kindness, and you will make a pleasant acquaintance.”
Mr. Sabin glanced at the imprescription. It was addressed to—