She laughed in Crow's face.
“It was hardly necessary for the captain to give you any orders, seeing that he gave certain instructions to me. He said that as there was no other woman in the house it would be my place to take Lady Kathleen anything that she actually needed. I am going to take up her breakfast now. Give me the key.”
Crow hesitated a moment, but finally handed over the key. Madame put it on the breakfast tray and went upstairs.
Kathleen, as she heard the bolts drawn back and the key turned in the lock, suffered fresh apprehension. For she had caught the rustle of Madame's skirts outside, and she would rather have faced Melun than the woman.
With very little apology Mme. Estelle entered, and, setting the breakfast down, immediately withdrew. Her impatience to ask the question was great, but she schooled herself to waiting.
In half an hour's time she went up for the tray, and then she faced Kathleen boldly and looked her in the eyes.
“Lady Kathleen,” she said,“I am really ashamed to have brought you here in such a treacherous way. I will not ask you to forgive me, for you will not understand. I can only tell you that I am a very loving and jealous woman.”
Mme. Estelle paused, and was conscious that Kathleen looked at her in great surprise.
“I want,” she continued, “to ask you a question which means much to me. Is it, or is it not, one of Captain Melun's conditions that you shall marry him before he returns your father's secret?”
“Yes,” answered Kathleen, very quietly, “it is.”
Madame's rather flushed face grew white, and her eyes blazed with passion. She clenched her fists and beat the air with them.
“Oh, the liar!” she cried, “the liar! Oh! it is hard to be treated like this when I have done so much for him.”
Kathleen drew back, startled and amazed.
“I assure you that you need have no fear so far as I am concerned. Both my father and myself have refused to comply with that condition, and we shall refuse to the end.”
Madame, however, paid but little heed to Kathleen; she was beside herself with rage.
“Ah, ah!” she cried, “wait till he returns! I'll kill him! I'll kill him!”
So distorted with fury was the woman's face that Kathleen became alarmed for her sanity. She drew near to her and endeavoured to catch her hands in her own, imploring her to be calm.
By-and-by Mme. Estelle listened to her, and in a sudden revulsion of feeling fell on her knees, sobbing bitterly.
Kathleen bent over her, doing her best to console her, and presently, as the woman grew calmer, she endeavoured to turn the situation to her own and her father's advantage.
“The best way to defeat Captain Melun's scheme, so far as I am concerned,” she urged, “is to release me.”
But at that Mme. Estelle leaped to her feet again and her face was hideous in its cunning.
“Ah! not that,” she cried, “not that! If I distrust him, I distrust you still more. Your pretty face may look sad and sorrowful, and you may declare to me that you will never consent; but I will wait and see. I'll wait until Melun returns and confront you with him. Then perhaps I shall learn the real truth.”
Kathleen made a little despairing gesture with her hands; argument, she saw, would be useless.
Gathering herself together, Madame blundered, half blind with tears, out of the room, and Kathleen with a sinking heart heard the bolts drawn again.
All through the day Madame sat brooding, sending Kathleen's lunch and tea up to her by Crow.
All the evening she still sat and brooded, until as eleven o'clock drew near and there were still no signs of the captain she had worked herself up into a hysteria of rage.
Twelve o'clock struck, and still the captain was absent. Another half-hour dragged slowly by, and then she heard his car grating its way up the hill-side.
She was at the door to meet him, and would have plunged straightway into the matter which absorbed her but for the sight of his face.
It was haggard and pale as death. His eyes were blazing in their sockets, and his straggling hair lent him altogether a distraught and terrifying aspect.
“Melun!” cried the woman, stretching out her hand, “what is it?”
“I don't know,” he said hoarsely; “I wish I did, but the Premier's gone.”
“Gone! What do you mean?”
“He is lost. Westerham kidnapped him.”
“Impossible!”
“Impossible, you fool!” shouted the captain, irritably. “It's true—perfectly true!”
He walked into the hall and sank exhausted into a chair. “As for me,” he grumbled, “I have had the narrowest escape I ever had.”
“So that's all, is it?” cried Mme. Estelle, remembering her own grievance. “So that's all!
“But what of me? What do you think I have gone through? What do you think I have suffered? What do you think I have found out?”
Melun rose unsteadily from his chair and looked at her in alarm.
“Is it Lady Kathleen?” he asked; “is she safe?”
“Safe! Oh, yes, she is safe,” she cried, with a peal of uncanny laughter. “Safe for your kisses and for your caresses. Oh, you liar! you liar! I have been true to you in all respects, and you have been false to me in everything that mattered. So you will marry the pretty Lady Kathleen, will you? Oh, but you won't! Never! Never!”
She rushed at Melun as though to strike him, but Melun, jaded though he was, was quick and strong.
He caught her brutally, as he might a dog, by the neck, and threw her into the dining-room, the door of which stood open, and, utterly careless asto what harm he might do to her, sent the unhappy woman sprawling on to the floor. In a second he had banged the door to and turned the key in the lock. He sank down on to the bench trembling and exhausted.
He heard Marie pick herself up and hurl herself in blind and impotent fury against the door.
He listened, shaking like a leaf, as shriek after shriek of frenzy reached his ears.
Up in the tower Kathleen heard these shrieks too, and shuddered. A horrible fear took possession of her heart that there was murder being done below.
She sat on the edge of her bed with her hands pressed to her heart, listening in fascinated horror.
The shrieks died away, and there was complete silence in the house for full half an hour.
Then Kathleen heard a sudden shout, a crashing of glass and a scrambling, tearing noise, the hideous bay of the boarhounds in the courtyard, a scream, and a thud.
Stabbing the other noise with sharp precision came the sound of shots.
“Out of evil cometh good.” Had Westerham caught the eye of Kathleen as the two motor cars passed each other at the corner of Whitehall Kathleen herself would have been spared much suffering and several men would not have gone to their account. But a meeting at that moment would have so changed the whole course of events that far greater trouble would have befallen, and the whole earth might have become involved in a disaster which would have grown, without question, into Armageddon.
It was, however, in happy ignorance of both the greater and the lesser evil that Westerham, in what were really most excellent spirits, drew up the car which he had borrowed from Dunton at No. 10 Downing Street.
With him came Mendip, the younger of the two men whom he had met in such curious circumstances at the gaming club on the night when Kathleen had staked her father's honour against the bank and, for the time, lost.
Mendip was one of those strange, tired men who appear to do nothing and yet accomplish much. He was slow of speech, but quick in action when occasion demanded; silent, serious, and of a character built to bear with resolution any temptation or trial which might arise.
Dunton trusted him implicitly, and, in spite of his short acquaintance with him, Westerham trusted him too.
A third person had been necessary for the enterprise, and had been found in the person of Tom Lowther, a good-natured young giant, who laughed his way through what, to him, was a laughing world.
It was with an immense grin of satisfaction that he had taken on his shoulders the task of driving the car in which Westerham set out on his desperate enterprise.
Dunton had left his chambers early in the morning, so that about eleven o'clock all the men who had been selected to drag the Premier's secret from him had gathered in Dunton's rooms.
There, half humorously, Westerham had explained the project to them, basing his argument upon a lesson drawn from an abortive raid which certain suffragettes had made upon the official residence not long before.
What woman could attempt, he had argued, man could decidedly accomplish.
So the plan was mapped out; and according to the arrangements which Westerham made, Lowther backed the car round in Downing Street and drew it up alongside the curb, so that its head pointed towards Whitehall, and, as Westerham hoped, the high road of escape.
It was astonishing that, in spite of the suffragettes' attempt on Downing Street, more precautions were not taken. For all he knew, Westerham might have had to encounter worse opposition than he did. But he was prepared for all emergencies,and, moreover, determined not to spare drastic measures if it came to a tight corner.
As he drew up to the door, Westerham hoped that the immaculate Dunton might play his part as well as he intended to play his own. Dunton had gone down to Chichester, and had ordered his yacht to await him in the fair way off Selsey Bill.
It was to Dunton's yacht that Westerham determined to take the Premier.
As the car came to a standstill, Westerham and Mendip alighted quickly, and without hesitation pulled the little brass knob at No. 10. As they expected, the door was pulled open quickly, and the head, followed by the figure, of the Premier's official door-keeper appeared in the entry.
Westerham was first up the steps, with Mendip hard at his heels.
He pushed the man aside, and had slammed the door to in the twinkling of an eye. He thrust the man back into the deep, cane-hooded chair in which he was wont to sit and dream away his official hours, and had him gagged before he had time to cry out. Then, by means of the straps with which he had provided himself, he and Mendip securely lashed the man's feet together, tying his hands behind his back.
This work done, they paused and listened; but, in spite of the scuffle there had been, there was no sound of approaching footsteps, nor, indeed, any sign that they had been overheard.
Without a word, Westerham grasped the man by the shoulders, and Mendip took him by the heels; and so they carried him through the red-baizeswing-doors which formed the entrance to the passage leading to the council chamber.
There, with no ceremony at all, they dropped him on the ground, and ran quickly down the corridor.
At the bottom of this there stood a door, which opened easily as Westerham turned the handle.
They then found themselves in a somewhat ellipse-shaped vestibule, which, as a matter of fact, was the outer lobby of the room where the Cabinet Council was being held.
That the door of the council chamber would be locked Westerham knew full well; but he had come prepared to overcome any difficulty of this kind.
Nevertheless, he turned the handle, only to find, as he had expected, that the key on the inner side had been turned.
When in America, Westerham had found it necessary to force more than one door; and now he pursued the tactics which he had found efficacious on previous occasions.
Swiftly he drew his own revolver from his hip-pocket and held out his other hand for Mendip's. Mendip, with his eyes beaming, passed his own weapon to Westerham without a word.
He then placed the noses of both the six-shooters on the woodwork just above the lock, pointing them downwards so that no damage might be done to the ministers within. He pulled the triggers simultaneously, and the sound of splintered woodwork and riven iron followed instantaneously on the double report.
The door all about the lock was shattered intomatchwood, and Westerham, thrusting his foot forward, pushed it open.
Mendip sprang back in fear lest his face should be recognised by any of the startled ministers, while Westerham strode calmly into the room.
The Cabinet Council was in full session about a long oval table.
The Premier, who sat opposite the door, had risen from his seat, and with a white face was staring directly into Westerham's eyes.
The other ministers had thrust back their chairs, and were now upon their feet. There was complete silence.
Westerham had not the slightest fear of any of them being armed, and without a pause walked over to the table and knocked sharply with the butt of his revolver on the polished wood.
“Lord Penshurst,” he said quietly, “I wish to speak to you.”
The Prime Minister's jaw opened and closed spasmodically, so that his white beard wagged upon his breast. He made no answer.
Silently the other ministers drew aside into two groups, leaving Westerham and the Premier facing each other in the centre of the room.
With an effort, Lord Penshurst got the better of his agitated nerves and rapped out a sharp “What do you want?”
“Lord Penshurst,” said Westerham, calmly,“you know who I am. You know on what mission I am here. If you refuse to come round the table to speak to me instantly and speak to me alone I cannot be held responsible for the consequences.”
The Premier, without a word and with trailing steps began to make the circuit of the long table. As he approached, Westerham drew back so that now he was at the entrance to the council chamber. He beckoned Lord Penshurst still nearer.
When the Premier was quite close to him he stooped and whispered into his ear so that none of the other ministers could by any chance catch his words.
“If you want to save Lady Kathleen and yourself, you must come with me at once.”
Lord Penshurst said, “It's impossible!”
“Don't argue,” urged Westerham, almost roughly. “I regret to treat you with so much disrespect, but the crisis for which you have been waiting has now come. If you lose, you know what it will mean. But you need not lose if you will follow me now.”
During this conversation the startled ministers had drawn together, and there was considerable outcry as Lord Penshurst turned to look at them with a white face.
“Be quick,” said Westerham; “you must keep them quiet for about five minutes. Five minutes will do, but we must have that start. Don't fail, everything depends upon it.”
“Gentlemen,” said the Premier, slowly and painfully, as a man speaking in a dream;“gentlemen, I must apologise for this interruption, but I assure you that the fault must not be laid at the door of this gentleman, but at mine. In five minutes I will return. In the meantime I have to discuss more important business than any which could detain me here.”
The ministers looked at each other, utterly aghast. It was fortunate that Westerham's entry had been so swift and so volcanic that they were still partially dazed. Otherwise it might have been necessary for Westerham to take steps entailing consequences which no influence, however great, could possibly have averted.
As it was, they gazed at the Premier and the tall form of Westerham, sullenly and stupidly.
One of them, a younger man than the rest, suddenly remembered and cried out: “By George, it is the man who saved us all at the dance!”
The other ministers looked at their colleague, with inquiry; but it was an inquiry as to the meaning of the stranger's presence, and not as to his exclamation. For the raid on Trant Hall was now a matter of public knowledge and consuming public interest.
Doubtless, but for the unimpeachable reputation of the Premier, some of them would have cried out that this was a traitorous piece of work. But in spite of all the appearances against him, Lord Penshurst's colleagues were silent on this point.
Seeing that the Premier had practically given his consent, Westerham grasped him by the arm and at a rapid rate half dragged him down the corridor.
As they passed the bound and gagged porter, who looked up with wondering and bewildered eyes at his master as he was dragged past him, the Premier could not refrain from uttering a little cry.
“Never mind the man,” said Westerham in his ear, and hurried him on. He left him standing bythe red-baize door for a moment as he dashed back to turn the key in the lock of the inner vestibule. But before the Premier had an opportunity of protesting against this, Westerham was back at his side and hastening him across the hall.
In the hall Westerham looked rapidly about him. It struck him that the appearance of the Prime Minister being rushed hatless across the pavement to the motor-car might arouse curiosity on the part of the policeman who was slouching up and down along the pavement.
He saw Lord Penshurst's hat, snatched it up, jammed it on the Premier's head, and then, again stifling every protest on the part of the old man by curtly ordering him to be silent, ran him down the steps and across the pavement to the car.
By a miracle the policeman's back was, for the moment, turned to No. 10, so that it was without the slightest let or hindrance that Westerham and Mendip bundled the Premier into the car and that Lowther started the motor on its long journey.
So swift and overwhelming had been Westerham's attack that the aged Premier was still too overcome to demand any explanation or to ask any questions. He leant back against the upholstery, looking crushed and frail, so frail that Westerham's heart smote him for the violence that he had been forced to use. But he nerved himself to carry the thing through, comforting himself with the reflection that what he did must prove the salvation of Kathleen.
The car which Lowther drove was a hired one, but he was an expert driver, and made good speeddown Victoria Street to the Buckingham Palace Road and over the Albert Bridge. In less than fifteen minutes he had reached Battersea Park.
Here he pulled up in a quiet spot and Westerham, opening the door of the motor-car, turned to Lord Penshurst.
“I'm sorry,” he said, “that I am obliged to ask you to walk, but you see, although it is no more than a quarter of an hour since we left Downing Street, the whole of London and Scotland Yard will by this time be searching for you in all directions. And if there is to be any hope of my being able to help you out of your difficulties, you must not be recognised.”
The Premier mumbled in his beard, but was still too dazed to make any resistance. He followed Westerham out of the car, and suffered Mendip to take his arm.
A fourth man had been idling by the side of the path when the car was brought to a standstill. This was a friend of Lowther's, who had been pledged to secrecy. He had further promised to take the car back to the garage, and, if necessary, to swear that it had been handed over to him by Lowther on the Barnet Road.
Westerham's subtle mind indeed had thought out arrangements which practically precluded the possibility of their track being picked up and followed with success; though naturally the chances of escape were very strong against him, for, if ever the police had worked, they would of a surety work now.
Westerham led the way through the bushes to another roadway, on which was waiting a secondcar, driven by a second friend of Lowther's on whom reliance could be placed.
Westerham bundled Mendip and Lord Penshurst into it, while Lowther climbed up beside his friend. They lost no time, but drove boldly and rapidly back along the same route by which they had come until they arrived at Victoria.
There Lowther gave his friend instructions to make for Buckingham Palace. Thence they raced up Constitution Hill into Piccadilly.
Lowther had rooms in Stratton Street, which was immensely in favour of Westerham's hopes, inasmuch as few pedestrians and fewer vehicles frequented that aristocraticcul-de-sac.
The street when they drew up was fortunately quite deserted, and Westerham's plans were further aided by the lucky fact that Lowther's apartments were on the ground floor. Lowther had given them free use of his rooms, and as the Premier was hastily conducted into them he nodded to Westerham in intimation that his part of the business was nearly done.
He went out into the street again, and mounting the car drove away. It had been arranged that he should make for Salisbury in case he, too, was followed, and he had immediately agreed to the proposal, tiresome though it was.
Mendip did not enter the house, but walked rapidly into Piccadilly, and turning westward, made for the Automobile Club. There his low-built, yellow-painted racing motor-car was waiting for him, and, as he had often done, he took it over from the charge of his man, and, making a detour by way of Curzon Street and Piccadilly, got backto Stratton Street just as Westerham was ready for him.
In the interval the Premier had somewhat recovered from the dazed state into which he had been thrown, and indignantly demanded of Westerham the meaning of all his manœuvres.
“If you will be good enough to sit down for a few minutes, Lord Penshurst,” Westerham said, “I think I shall be able to make matters a little clearer than they are at present.
“As I told you at Trant, I have no notion what hold Melun has over you. I can only see that it must be a hard and a very heavy one. You declined to believe that I was in reality Sir Paul Westerham. I cannot prove it to you yet until we find Lord Dunton. In the meantime, however, I will ask you if you think that the men who have assisted me to-day would be willing to do my bidding if they for a moment suspected that I was in league with any band of scoundrels.
“With your own eyes you have seen Lowther and Mendip. Both men are known to you, both men are gentlemen, and I think you should take it for granted that if they are so kind as to assist me they are satisfied that I am doing what I should.”
Lord Penshurst wrinkled up his brows. He could not quite understand how it had come about that such men as Lowther and Mendip were apparently working hand-in-glove with Westerham.
“I trust,” he said, “that you have not been so indiscreet as to make mention of my affairs to these gentlemen?”
“None whatever. They have taken the steps they have because they both trust Dunton to the utmost. And however much they may have been influenced by the hope of some fun, they were at least persuaded that there was a good and serious purpose at the back of this seemingly harum-scarum adventure.”
Lord Penshurst could do nothing but gaze about him in a most distressed way, and Westerham sought to give him back his confidence as best he could.
“I assure you, Lord Penshurst,” said Westerham, “that your only hope is to place yourself entirely in my hands. There is only one way out of your troubles; you must tell me the whole of your story, for I alone can save you. I alone know Melun, understand him, and know how to deal with him.”
Again the Premier gazed about him wearily. “But Dunton,” he asked, “where is he? It is all very well for me to see Lowther and Mendip with you, but I must have Dunton's word that you are really the man you say you are.”
“Good,” said Westerham; “I had already arranged, thinking that possibly you would prefer to be out of London, to take you down to Lord Dunton's yacht which is lying off Selsey Bill. However, if you prefer it, I will send for Dunton to come here.”
“Very well,” said the Premier, “I think I would prefer that.”
It was ten o'clock at night when Dunton arrived and was shown into Lowther's rooms. Dunton's story of Westerham was brief and to the point.
At its conclusion the Premier bowed his head.“I capitulate, Sir Paul,” he said, “and I will tell you my secret.”
Dunton nodded approval and walked out of the room, leaving Westerham and the Prime Minister alone.
I have to confess that quite unintentionally I did my Government and my country a great wrong. In spite of all my very considerable experience, I did not see at the time the danger into which I was drifting, and I had gone too far to draw back when I realised with a shock the awful position in which I had placed myself.
As you know, I was drafted into the Ministry through an rather unusual channel. It is not often that a diplomat forsakes diplomacy to take part in politics. An extraordinary combination of events, however, contrived to place me in a curious position, with the result that great influence was brought to bear on me to give up the Embassy of which I was in charge, and return to England to take up a minor position in the Cabinet.
Probably, in spite of the influence which was exerted, I should never have consented to do this but for the fact that I knew the minor position I was offered was merely a temporary one. I was given to understand clearly that it was but a stepping-stone to the Premiership. So I decided to accept the office.
Now the country from which I returned was Russia. I was, as you may possibly remember, Ambassador at St. Petersburg.
I was there for many years, and enjoyed an unusually close and intimate friendship with theCzar. That was at once the beginning of my ambitions and troubles. It was, indeed, that friendship which, to a great extent, induced me to transfer my labours from St. Petersburg to London.
I do not know what acquaintance you may have of Russian affairs, nor what knowledge you may have of the Emperor himself. I can only assure you that, in spite of all that may be said against him, his Majesty is absolutely sincere and honest in his desire for universal peace. He suffered untold agonies of mind during the struggle with Japan, and since peace was arranged has made use of every diplomatic means to bring about a general disarmament by the Powers.
In this aim he met, of course, with most violent opposition. Some of the Imperial family went so far as to accuse their kinsman and nominal ruler of being a traitor to his country.
However, in spite of all opposition, he persevered; and, as he believed that England was also sincere in her desire for peace, he cultivated my acquaintance to a marked degree.
Unfortunately, in an evil hour, it suddenly dawned upon me that my name might be handed down to posterity, jointly with that of the Czar's, as the man who paved the way to universal peace.
But my ideas were different from those of the Czar. His Majesty wished to work along the line of least resistance, and was quite prepared to spend years of patient effort in bringing about his dream of the millennium.
For my part, I was, I suppose, an old man in a hurry. I could not afford to wait for years to see the triumph of my schemes. I was getting on inlife, and it seemed to me that if I did not hasten I might die without my ambition being realised.
I therefore set to work entirely to remodel the Czar's ideas, and as a result ultimately worked out the most daring plan for compelling Europe to lay down its arms that had ever been conceived.
When that plan was fully perfected I was to take it to my own King and ask for his consent to it. I knew his Majesty was as genuinely desirous for peace as the Czar, and I really foresaw no difficulty in being able to persuade him to sanction the scheme which I had drawn up.
It is quite unnecessary to go into its full details here, but perhaps I had better give you a glimpse of the outline. Briefly, England was to make use of theentente cordialeto compel France, by means of an ultimatum which would expire at the end of twenty-four hours, to consent to stand in with Great Britain and Russia in a demand that Germany's military force should be whittled down to the limits of the Swiss Militia. It was also to be stipulated that Germany's naval programme should always be one-half of the combined programmes of Great Britain, Russia, and France.
Thanks to the treaty with Great Britain made some years ago with the Scandinavian States, the Netherlands, Belgium, Portugal, and Spain and Italy, Germany would have been speedily isolated. She would have awakened one morning to find herself absolutely friendless, except, perhaps, for Austria. It would have been doubtful, too, whether even Austria would have remained faithful to her pushful friend when she saw the whole of Europe allied against the Fatherland.
It was certainly a daring scheme, but one which, I think, must have met with instantaneous success. Every aspect of it had been considered, and even the contingency provided for by the Czar and myself.
Naturally it was impossible to carry the details of so complicated a piece of business in one's head. I was half-afraid to commit them to writing myself, and so the Czar suggested that he should, with his own hand, draw up the lines of the agreement which we proposed to foist on Europe.
I brought a copy of the document, made by the Czar himself, back to this country, and for three years I waited impatiently for an opportunity to present the scheme to his Majesty, and, if possible, persuade him to put it into operation.
Those were three years of terrible anxiety. I carried the papers with me both day and night. A hundred times a day I would clap my hands to my breast-pocket to see if they were safe, and a score of times I would start up in my bed at night feverishly to ascertain if I still had them in my possession.
But, in spite of all my care, I lost them. I kept the papers in a thin morocco-leather case, which bore the Imperial arms of Russia. One day I was looking through them in my room in Downing Street when I was suddenly informed that I was wanted at the telephone. Unfortunately, at that time I had no extension to my room.
I need not particularise as to from whom the telephone message came. Suffice it to say that it was a summons which I could not disregard. I hastily gathered the papers together and, as Ithought, thrust them into the breast-pocket of my coat.
Instead of doing so, however, I must have missed the pocket in my haste, and let the case drop to the floor.
I was detained longer than I expected at the telephone, and on going back to my room some quarter of an hour later, I instinctively felt in my coat to see if the papers were there.
To my horror they were gone!
I did not dare to excite my household too much, lest the affair should come to the ears of my colleagues, and they should begin to wonder what secret I was keeping to myself.
Nor, indeed, was it necessary to make many inquiries. I asked if there had been any visitors, and was told that Captain Melun had called, and had waited some five minutes in my room, but that he had left before my return, saying that he was pressed for time just then, but would call later in the day.
From that moment I had not the slightest doubt as to where the documents had gone.
I sent for Melun and taxed him with the theft. He did not deny it.
You may think it rather strange that such a man as he should have been allowed to enter my house, but I must explain that I had found his services exceedingly useful in several matters. He was without scruple of any kind, and it is often, I regret to say, convenient for a minister to have some unscrupulous agent at his disposal.
I ordered Melun to give the papers up, and he laughed in my face. He told me that he hadmastered their contents, and quite appreciated what they involved.
Indeed, he at once made the most insolent demands. He told me that I could well afford to pay him a quarter of a million sterling to get the papers back. He knew that my wealth was great, and did not hesitate to blackmail me to the fullest extent.
In the course of long and angry negotiations I was compelled to agree to pay over this sum. Indeed I dared not refuse.
He was not, however, content with this rapacious request. He wanted, he said, to rehabilitate himself properly in society, and to that end he had the colossal impudence to demand Lady Kathleen's hand in marriage.
I tell you frankly, Sir Paul, that I was so furious at this that I leaped out of my chair, and, old man though I am, struck Melun across his face.
It was an action which I deeply repented, for, as compensation, he demanded another fifty thousand pounds, and again impudently insisted upon his marriage with my daughter.
This, however, I steadily declined to consider for a moment. It seemed to me impossible for a man of Melun's description to fail to be contented with three hundred thousand pounds. To my dismay, I found I was mistaken. He repeated over and over again that I should ultimately consent to his marrying Lady Kathleen, and threatened me with exposure and ruin if I still held to my refusal.
Now I would have gladly faced exposure and ruin rather than have sacrificed my daughter tosuch a despicable hound as this. But, unfortunately, it was not only my ruin which was involved.
Of a certainty it meant the ruin of British diplomacy, if not complete disaster to the British Empire.
Disturbances in Russia alarmed the Czar. I sent Lady Kathleen over to St. Petersburg, and she urged him to make a personal appeal to our King to put the plan which I had prepared into instant action.
At the critical moment the Czar became thoroughly afraid of what the consequences might be, and declined to make any move. Moreover, he wrote me a letter saying that, even at the cost of Kathleen's marriage to Melun, the papers must be recovered and returned to him.
All this, of course, occasioned great delay, and Melun began to press me hard. I made every effort, most of them legitimate, but some, I fear, not quite legal, to get the papers back. I had his rooms searched, and I had the man himself seized and searched in my presence.
I had his friends and himself all searched on the same day and at the same hour. It was all to no purpose. I could not get the faintest clue as to the whereabouts of the papers.
Then Melun became more menacing than ever. He demanded £10,000 down and complete immunity from observation.
And to these requests I had to accede, because he told me frankly that if I were obstinate he would at once open up negotiations with Germany. This, of course, was what I had been dreading.
I knew that if a breath of this business reached the Kaiser's ears it would be the beginning of the end. I knew his Imperial Majesty too well to harbour any hope that he would not strike while Russia and ourselves were still in disagreement as to our course of action.
The situation, indeed, was all the more of a nightmare to me because I had acted without the knowledge or consent of my King or my colleagues, and the whole brunt of the blame would have to be borne by myself.
And what blame it would be! What everlasting shame and disgrace and misery—not only for myself, but for this country!
I am no child in diplomatic matters, and I saw full well that the moment Germany came into possession of the facts, the last great fight among the nations would begin.
That, then, is my story. Four days ago I was given a week's grace by the Czar in which to recover the papers or consent to Melun's conditions. I dare not disobey the Czar's commands, nor is it possible for me any longer to ignore Melun's request. At my earnest prayer the Czar sent a special emissary to me to meet Lady Kathleen at Rouen.
His Majesty knew that in this matter I had been compelled to take my daughter into my confidence. He quite appreciated the necessity for this, and was indeed most kind about the matter, though he remained insistent in his terms.
You may judge how terribly concerned he was when I tell you that the representative he sent was a member of the Imperial family. And even hewas not informed of the contents of the papers.
You may realise, too, how desperate my position is, when I say that I have at last accepted your offer of help much as a drowning man clutches at a straw.
Westerham had listened to Lord Penshurst's long recital with great attention. From time to time he raised his eyebrows, but for the rest he gave no sign of astonishment.
As the Premier concluded Westerham rose and held out his hand.
“We have not much time before us, Lord Penshurst,” he said, “but I think I can promise you that you shall have the papers back before the three days are out.
“Meantime,” he continued, “let us get back to Downing Street at once, and in spite of the sensation that your continued disappearance will cause, I think you had better not let it be known that you are back at your official residence. To do that would be to allow Melun to suppose that I had failed in my purpose, and if he thinks that—then we shall fail indeed.”
The return to Downing Street was made in Lowther's car, and the Premier entered No. 10 by the back door. There they were met by the news of Lady Kathleen's disappearance, and the aged and much-shaken Premier was utterly prostrated with grief.
The situation, of course, was not only painful, but dangerous. The news of the disappearanceof the Prime Minister had created a profound sensation, not only in England, but abroad, and the cables all over the world were humming with the news of the astounding event.
Downing Street had at once been cleared of the public, but, seeking to allay alarm as far as possible, those in authority had permitted the representatives of various newspapers to wait about the house for tidings. As it was close on midnight and the newspapers were nearing the approach of the next day's issue, the reporters were clamouring for some word.
Westerham therefore decided to take a bold course, and he issued a short statement to the effect that the Premier and his daughter had merely left town for a few days, and that there was not the slightest cause for public anxiety.
The public, of course, knew better, for practically every detail of the breaking open of the Cabinet Council Chamber had been passed from mouth to mouth. The episode, indeed, was already the wonder of the age.
Late as was the hour of their return to Downing Street, Westerham decided on immediate action in his search for Lady Kathleen, and summoned help from Scotland Yard. When the inevitable Mr. Rookley presented himself, Westerham, despite the terrible anxiety of the moment, could not restrain a little smile.
Rookley started back as he saw him and his face blanched. Westerham's explanation, though not wholly satisfactory to the detective, was to the point.
“I think it would have been better if you had told me before, Sir Paul,” the detective grumbled.
“Never mind about that,” said Westerham, shortly, “we must get to work.”
And so, though he was intensely weary, Westerham and Rookley, together with Dunton and Mendip, started for Madame Estelle's villa in St. John's Wood. Repeated pulls at the bell produced no response, and so they decided to burst open the garden gate. This they did, only to find the house shuttered and in darkness. There was no time for scruples and, obtaining entrance to the house, they searched the place from ceiling to roof. There was no sign of any life.
“Limehouse!” cried Westerham. “We must try Limehouse!”
“Limehouse?” demanded Rookley. “What do you mean?”
In a few words Westerham gave Rookley the history of the crime club and his connection with it.
“Really, Sir Paul,” grumbled Rookley, “I think we had better engage your services at the Yard; you seem to know a good deal more about London than we do.”
“I am afraid I do,” said Westerham, bitterly.
They started for Limehouse, but on the way Westerham came to the conclusion that they would be too late to serve any purpose. It was three o'clock, and by this time the place would be closed.
Nothing remained, therefore, but to return to Downing Street and seek a few hours' rest. Westerham, fully dressed, flung himself on his bed, but could not sleep.
At nine o'clock he went to visit the Premier inhis room, and was shocked to see how aged and white and shaky Lord Penshurst looked.
Westerham cheered him as best he could, and then, summoning Rookley, set out to look for Bagley, the smug banker of Herne Hill.
They brought Bagley a prisoner back to Downing Street, but in spite of every inducement and every threat, he declared that he knew nothing whatsoever of the whereabouts of Melun.
Half maddened with terror as to Kathleen's fate, Westerham next turned his search in the direction of the gaming house. But Melun had covered his tracks well. The house was as silent and devoid of any clue as had been the villa in St. John's Wood. There was nothing to do but wait till night and perfect the arrangements for the raid on Limehouse.
The arrangements which Rookley made were complete, and worked smoothly. So overwhelming was the force of constables that surrounded the house that resistance on the part of the members of the crime club was rendered quite impossible.
In the little room in the front of the house Westerham established a species of impromptu police-court. One by one the members of the club were brought in to him, and one by one they satisfied him that they had no knowledge of Melun's whereabouts.
Still, Westerham had them safely kept under lock and key. It was noon when this curious inquisition was over, and then he immediately returned to Downing Street and sought the Premier's room.
As Westerham entered he looked up with asmile which he fondly imagined was cheerful. His words were gloomy enough, and to Westerham seemed to have a certain amount of reproach in them.
“Do you realise,” he said, “that we have practically only twenty-four hours left in which to find Lady Kathleen and to recover the papers?”
Westerham straightened himself up and looked squarely at the Premier.
“The time is short,” he said quietly, “but I have no fear that we shall not succeed.
“You must remember,” he went on, “that up to the present it is we who have made all the efforts. What is Melun doing? It is very strange that he should have remained quiet so long. It is my opinion that he has put off communication until the last possible moment in order to make his claims all the more effective.”
“Do you really think that is so?” cried Lord Penshurst eagerly. “For my part, I was beginning to fear that, despairing of being able to move us, he had crossed to Germany in hopes of making terms there.”
Westerham shook his head in dissent at this view of the question, though, as a matter of fact, he was growing terribly anxious himself lest Melun should after all have transferred his efforts to Prussia.
“No, no!” he said to the Premier,“I am perfectly certain that he will turn up just in the nick of time. Otherwise, why should he hold Lady Kathleen as hostage for so long? You may, I think, rest assured that he would not still be detaining her if he had abandoned all hope of being able to reduce us to surrender.”
The afternoon wore painfully away, and for the first time Westerham learned how time can drag. Up to the point at which he found himself completely foiled in his search for Lady Kathleen he had scarcely counted the hours or even the days. Incident had been crowded on incident, and action upon action.
But now that he found himself faced with the necessity of waiting for the slightest sign that could send him on the trail again, he had to meet and endure the greatest trial that he had ever known.
It was such a helpless and almost hopeless position. Still it was not without some hope, and hope helped considerably to mitigate his sufferings between the hours of noon and three o'clock.
And then, just as he had predicted—just as he had calculated it must come to pass—the expected message came. It came in the shape of a telegram addressed to the Premier, which read as follows:
“If you accept my terms, wire, not later than four o'clock, to Smith-Brown-Smith, care of Poste Restante, St Martin's-le-Grand. This is final.—M.”
“If you accept my terms, wire, not later than four o'clock, to Smith-Brown-Smith, care of Poste Restante, St Martin's-le-Grand. This is final.—M.”
The receipt of this wire threw the Premier into a state of great agitation, and he was for answering it at once.
“The offer must be refused finally,” he cried. “Don't you see, Sir Paul, that, after all that's been said and done, I cannot possibly accept it? It is not in my power to do so, and there appears to be no way out of the difficulty.
“Surely,” he went on in a wailing voice,“no man was ever in worse straits. It is a question of my daughter or Armageddon!”
Westerham restrained him, pointing out that in such a matter as this an answer could not be made on the spur of the moment. It was a matter, he urged, that required considerable thought.
Quietly and concisely he constructed in his own mind a theory which accounted for the despatch of the telegram, and, as he thought it over, he became convinced that, in spite of its bold statement, the telegram was unreliable. He became certain that the offer which was made them was by no means final.
He said as much to the Prime Minister, and explained his reasons.
“It is ridiculous to suppose,” he argued, “that Melun is such a fool as to think that we shall agree to his terms in this way.
“In the first place, we have no assurance that Lady Kathleen is to be restored to us even for a time, and in the second place, Melun is not the type of man to take anything on trust. Whatever risks he may run in regard to Lady Kathleen he would certainly not leave the handing over of the money to chance.
“No! Let us by all means send a reply to the address he gives, but instead of accepting or not accepting his terms let us word it in this way: ‘Cannot accept any terms by wire. Make appointment at which matters can be discussed. Will guarantee your immunity from disagreeable consequences.’”
The Premier clutched feverishly at this suggestion. “Yes, yes!” he cried.“I see now that it is the better way. Let's send the telegram at once.”
So the telegram was despatched, and Westerham and the Premier sat down to wait again.
Lord Penshurst had suggested that the post-office should be watched in order that Smith-Brown-Smith or his messenger might be watched and followed home.
But Westerham argued against such a course, pointing out that in broad daylight it would be practically impossible for even the most astute of followers to avoid the notice of the pursued.
“Believe me,” he urged, “that such a step would be most unwise, and at the best we should only succeed in arousing Melun's suspicions. And if he thought we intended to try to catch him tripping, it would merely drive him to extremes. Remember that we have to consider not only Lady Kathleen's safety, but the guarding of the secret. We must not push Melun to the point of throwing him into the arms of Germany.”
Somewhat against his will, the Premier finally gave in to this argument. For the next two hours he sat with Westerham alert, anxious, and watchful.
Towards four o'clock the answer to the wire came, but in a form so unlooked for and so terrible that even Westerham was for a time unnerved.
It came not in the shape of a telegram, but in the form of a small square cardboard box, neatly wrapped in brown paper and addressed to the Prime Minister.
It was brought by a District Messenger boy, who, in response to inquiries whence the package came, could only say that it had been handed in at the Oxford Street office by a gentleman of distinctly foreign appearance.
Though the parcel was addressed to Lord Penshurst, Westerham took it from the attendant and with his own hands laid it carefully and softly down on the Premier's table.
For a moment Westerham looked reflectively at the Prime Minister. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “if this parcel comes from Melun?”
Lord Penshurst was all eagerness. “Let's open it at once and see,” he said.
But Westerham pushed the Prime Minister's hands away from the package.
“Leave it alone,” he said, “we don't know what it may contain.”
Lord Penshurst glanced at him sharply. “Good Heavens!” he cried, “you don't mean to tell me that you think Melun would dare to send me a bomb or something of that sort?”
“One never knows,” said Westerham, thoughtfully. “I think we had better send for Rookley.”
Rookley came and surveyed the mysterious package with a suspicious gaze. He picked it up gently, and then almost smiled as he laid it down again.
“I don't think you need fear its containing anything in the nature of an explosive,” he said; “certainly not an infernal machine. It is much too light.”
Westerham nodded, and without a word drew a knife from his pocket and cut the string. Unfolding the paper, he laid bare a brown cardboard box.
Both the Premier and Rookley were leaning eagerly over Westerham's shoulders as he raised the lid.
Then the three men cried out together and stood rigid as though frozen with horror.
Lord Penshurst gave a second cry, and reeling backwards would have fallen had not Westerham caught him in his arms.
For lying on the top of a little pile of shavings was a human ear. It was the small, round ear of a woman, and against the blood-stained lobe glittered a single diamond.
“Oh, God!” cried the Premier, turning away his ashen face. “It's my daughter's!”
Lord Penshurst was beside himself with grief, and clung to Westerham as a child might, weeping passionately in his arms. Rookley, with a miserable face, had slipped out of the room.
It was a quarter of an hour before Westerham succeeded in bringing Lord Penshurst back to a coherent frame of mind. Then he helped him to his room, and left him dazed and piteous on his bed.
Of the three men who had made the dread discovery Westerham was perhaps the hardest hit, but he walked back to the little box and its horrible contents with set lips and grim face.
It was not, however, without a little shudder that he lifted the lid and looked inside again. He had anticipated that such an awful token would not be sent unaccompanied by a message, and an examination of the box proved his conjecture right.
Tucked into the lid was a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out carefully, and was then able to read the following message:—
“This should be a sign that we are in earnest. You will be given one more chance. Send to the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral at nine o'clock to-night. Man will meet you there, and things can be discussed. Understand clearly that this man must not be tampered with. His arrest will lead not only to worse befalling Lady Kathleen, but to your secret passing immediately to Germany. The same results will follow if any attempt is made to buy the man's assistance.”
“This should be a sign that we are in earnest. You will be given one more chance. Send to the steps of St. Paul's Cathedral at nine o'clock to-night. Man will meet you there, and things can be discussed. Understand clearly that this man must not be tampered with. His arrest will lead not only to worse befalling Lady Kathleen, but to your secret passing immediately to Germany. The same results will follow if any attempt is made to buy the man's assistance.”
Westerham read this message through three times, until at last he could repeat every word of it by heart. He folded it up, and placing it in his waistcoat-pocket, shut the lid of the box and placed it in a drawer of the Premier's writing-table.
Next he went back to Lord Penshurst's room, which he entered without knocking. The broken old man lay on the bed, his face buried in the pillows, so entirely wrapped up in his grief that he scarcely heeded the hand which Westerham placed on his shoulder.
But presently Westerham persuaded him to look up, and then drawing a chair to the bedside, he sat down.
“I want you to forget, Lord Penshurst,” he said, “what you saw just now. It is unnecessary to remember it. It is a horrible thing, but the man who did such an awful deed shall suffer for it.”
He looked away with a set face, which boded no good for Melun when he found him.
“There is, however, one comfort to be extracted from our distress,” he continued.“At last we have a clue. The opportunity which I was certain must come is in our hands now.
“Before nine o'clock, however, there is much to be done. You are scarcely able to take charge of matters yourself, and you had better leave them to me. I have already taken measures which ought to prove effective, though we shall have to act very carefully and cautiously.”
Lord Penshurst dragged himself up into a sitting posture and turned his blurred and scared old eyes to Westerham's resolute face.
He clenched his fists and beat excitedly on the coverlet.
“Don't let that fiend escape! Oh! if I had the strength I could kill him! I could kill him myself!”
Westerham did his best to soothe him.
“Have no fear,” he said, “that I shall let him slip through my fingers this time. And Heaven judge between us when I do meet him!”
The Premier clutched at his hands in an appealing and childish way.
“Don't spare him! Don't spare him!” he cried.
“There's no fear of that,” said Westerham, and he rose up to go.
When he regained the Prime Minister's study he sent for a map of London, and for some minutes studied it with close attention.
He guessed that a man who was risking so much as the emissary appointed by Melun would take good care to provide himself with sure and certain means of escape. It was doubtful if he would trust to the swiftness of his feet, to the chance of catching a passing omnibus, or to losing himself in the underground. In all likelihood, though he might walk to the actual place of appointment, he would probably drive to some neighbouring spot in a motor-car.
It was upon this very reasonable assumption that Westerham based his plans. The difficulty was,as he knew full well, that a score of little streets and alleys led into St. Paul's churchyard, and any and all of these would be open to Melun's ambassador.
Westerham did his best to place himself in the position of the man whom Melun was sending to the cathedral steps. And arguing the matter out from this point of view, he came to the conclusion that he would drive to Queen Victoria Street or Newgate Street by car, and then proceed to the meeting-place on foot.
He ruled the junction of Newgate Street and Cheapside out of court, as not offering sufficient opportunities of shelter. That the man would choose the point at which Queen Victoria Street ran into Cannon Street was equally unlikely.
That left only one other route of escape—namely, the open thoroughfare of Ludgate Hill.
This also Westerham set aside as being unnecessary to consider. That any man should attempt to escape down that broad street at a time of night when it would be almost empty was too ridiculous to contemplate.
He decided, therefore, that two motor-cars would be sufficient for his purpose, and having ordered them, he sent for Lowther and Mendip, to whom he explained his plans.
He himself, he said, intended to go to St. Paul's by omnibus, so as to reach the cathedral as nearly as possible on the stroke of nine.
By that time Mendip was to be in waiting in Queen Victoria Street, almost opposite the headquarters of the Salvation Army.
Lowther he instructed to wait at the corner ofAngel Lane. For though the man might choose one of the four alleys leading from the churchyard up to Newgate Street, he must reach the main thoroughfare either just to the east, or just to the west, of Angel Lane.
Whether the man would be so bold as to adopt either of the courses which Westerham decided that he himself would choose was an open question. It was a risk, however, which had to be taken, be the consequences what they might.
Westerham saw that whatever line of country the man might take at the close of the interview, the task of following his steps would devolve upon himself. He could trust no man on that mission, though he saw that he would at the best make but a poor shadower. His bulk was much against him.
Sir Paul, however, had an alternative scheme in mind should it fall out that the man discovered he was followed. But of this he said nothing to the others.
At a quarter past eight he set out eastwards, travelling slowly by horse omnibus along the Strand, down Fleet Street, and up Ludgate Hill.
He arrived at the appointed place a few minutes before time, and, entering the tobacconist's shop at the south-west corner of St. Paul's churchyard, he purchased a cigar. This he lit slowly and carefully, and afterwards made a pretence of choosing a pipe. In this way he spent five minutes.
After five minutes he made his way out of the shop, and, keeping well in the lee of the houses, he edged his way to the corner of Dean's Yard. Therehe drew back into the shadows, and while the clock struck nine he watched the cathedral steps closely.
Three or four minutes passed before he observed a man cross the road from the direction of Amen Court, and, passing the statue of Queen Anne, slowly mount the steps of St Paul's.
As he stood upon the steps, the man looked first to the south and then to the westward down Ludgate Hill. Finally he turned and closely examined the shadows about the doorways of the drapers' stores to the north.
No sooner was the man's back turned towards him than Westerham shot out from the opening of Dean's Yard, made a slight detour, and walked boldly up towards the steps as if he had just hurried up from Ludgate Hill.
Though he was certain in his own mind that the man waiting on the steps was the messenger whom he was eager to meet, he took the precaution of showing not the slightest sign of curiosity as he strolled towards him.
But as he came abreast of the man he saw that this precaution was wholly unnecessary—for the man who waited was Patmore!
Not by any means the Patmore whom he had seen at the club in Limehouse and had good reason to guess was one of Melun's close confederates. But a different Patmore altogether!
His clothes were no longer rough and his hair no longer tumbled. He was dressed in a frock-coat and top-hat, and his whole appearance was sleek and rather suggested the prosperous commercial traveller.
“Well, Patmore?” said Westerham, quietly.
Patmore started. “You've keen eyes, Sir Paul,” he said.
Westerham nodded. “I find it very necessary,” he returned.
Without another word, Patmore took him by the arm and led him higher up the steps. At the top of them he turned and walked into the shadows thrown by the columns which support the north end of the façade.
Then he took one quick look about him, and having satisfied himself that no one was within earshot, came direct to the point.
“Do you agree?” he asked.
For answer Westerham took out his pocket-book and counted out a pile of notes which Dunton had secured for him.
“Here,” he said in a conversational voice, “are twenty thousand pounds. They are yours if you can tell me where to find Lady Kathleen.”
Patmore laughed scornfully. “I am afraid, Sir Paul,” he said, “that on this occasion you have made a mistake. Fifty times that sum would be a little nearer my figure.”
Westerham stroked his chin thoughtfully and fixed Patmore with his keen eyes.
“Well,” he said slowly, “even that might not be too much.”
The man shot a quick, keen glance at him, and gave another little laugh.
“I daresay,” he said, “but still I don't believe you.”
“That is rather foolish of you,” said Westerham,“considering how little I ask. I don't want to embroil you; I ask for nothing better than to be told where I can find Lady Kathleen.”
For a few moments the man seemed to be considering the proposal. But finally he pushed the notes with an impatient gesture of his hand towards Westerham.
“No,” he said, “it's not worth the risk. The other way the money's certain. You may be a mug, but not such a mug as to pay over a cool million for information of that sort. Besides, it can't be done. The sum is too big, and what is more, as I said just now, I don't trust you.”
Westerham gathered the notes up and replaced them in his pocket. “Very well,” he said, “what do you suggest?”
“If you ask me,” replied Patmore, “Melun's making a fool of himself. He is crazy after the girl, and he is crazy after cutting a fine figure in society. He still insists upon having a quarter of a million and a marriage with Lady Kathleen. What's more, it's got to be settled to-night. You hand over the dibs in the morning, and we will tell you where the girl is in the afternoon. But no hank! I tell you frankly again that I consider Melun is a fool. He is prepared to take your word for it that no questions shall be asked and that the business goes no further. The question is whether I am going to get your word?”
Westerham knew well enough what his answer must be, but he stood for some moments with his eyes cast on the ground, as though he were weighing the matter carefully.
At last he said:“It is impossible for me to agree unless I can settle things personally with Melun. You see, as the thing stands, I have no guarantee at all that you have come from him.”
Patmore swore angrily. “You ought not to have much doubt after this afternoon,” he said coarsely.