Pachmann jerked round with an oath. At the first glance, he thought it was the Prince who stood there, though it had not been the Prince's voice. A second glance undeceived him. There was, it is true, a certain puzzling resemblance to the Prince, but this man was more strongly built, more graceful—and the Prince could never smile like that! And then, with a little bow, the newcomer removed the broad-brimmed hat which shadowed his face, and, with a sudden feeling of sickness, Pachmann recognised him.
But the Admiral was a brave man, with a nerve not easily shaken; besides, the odds were all in his favour! Yet he realised the need for all his resource, all his self control. At the end of a moment, he rose slowly, almost carelessly.
"Who are you, sir?" he demanded.
"Do you not know me?" laughed the stranger. "Surely, yes! I saw your eyes penetrate this slight disguise. I crossed with you on theOttilie, Admiral, as André Chevrial. I believe you even did me the honour to convince yourself that that was really myname. I am, however, better known in Paris as Crochard, L'Invincible!"
"Ah," said Pachmann, with a tightening of the brows, "a spy, then?"
"No, Admiral; a patriot like yourself."
"And your business here?"
"I have already stated it: to accept for France the services of this incomparable man."
Something flashed in Pachmann's hand, but even as he jerked up his arm, there was a soft impact, and a revolver clattered to the floor. Crochard sprang for it, seized it, and slipped it into his pocket.
"I was expecting that," he said, still smiling. "Now we can talk more at our ease," and he came into the bedroom, closed the door, placed a chair against it, and sat down. "Pray be seated, M. Vard," he added courteously to the inventor. "And you, Admiral."
Pachmann, white with pain, was nursing a numbed and nerveless hand. He sat down slowly, his eyes on the face of his antagonist.
"You should admire this weapon, Admiral," Crochard went on, extending for his inspection what looked like an ordinary revolver. "It is a most useful toy, of my own invention—or, perhaps, I would better say adapted by me from an invention of that ingenious Sieur Hyacinthe, who was pistol-maker to the Great Louis. Should you ever visit Paris, Ishould be charmed to show you the original at the Carnavalet. This embodies some improvements of my own. It can, as you have seen, discharge, almost noiselessly, a disabling ball; it can also, not quite so noiselessly, discharge a bullet which will penetrate your body, and which no bone will stop or turn aside. Should you open your mouth to shout, I can, still with this little implement, fling into your face a liquid which will strike you senseless before your shout can come, or a poison a single breath of which means death. And I assure you, my dear Admiral, that I shall hesitate no more than you to use any of these Agencies which may be necessary."
Pachmann listened, glowering; but, he told himself, he was not yet defeated; and he sat rubbing his hand and measuring his adversary.
"What do you imagine to be the exact nature of the services of which you speak?" he asked, at last.
"Their nature? Why, their nature will be of the same sort as those already offered to your Emperor."
"Yes?"
"The position of leader in the movement for world-wide disarmament," said Crochard, and smiled as Pachmann's lips whitened. "Ah, my dear Admiral, your Emperor is too selfish, too ambitious—he has, as an English poet puts it, that ambition which overleaps itself. He should have accepted the arrangement which M. Vard proposed. That wouldhave been glory enough. But no; he must dream of being a greater than Napoleon, of world-empire; and in consequence he will lose that which he already has. But I foresaw it; I foresaw it from the moment M. Vard stipulated that Alsace-Lorraine must be returned to France. I knew that your Emperor was not great enough—that he has too small a soul—to consent to that restitution!"
Pachmann raised his head slowly.
"So it was you who listened at the door, that night?" he said.
"Yes, it was I. And it was I who discovered that you and a companion whom I will not name waited for sunrise, one Monday morning, on the quay at Toulon. For that, France must have revenge."
Crochard's eyes were gleaming now, and there was no smile upon his lips. Instead there was in his face a deadly earnestness, a fierce hatred, before which Pachmann shrank a little.
"She shall have it!" cried a voice from the bed, where Vard had been bending forward, drinking in every word. "She shall have it!"
"You hear?" said Crochard, and then he smiled again. "Ah, my dear Admiral, it was a mistake to insist upon that test! It could have been made, just as well, upon some old hulk of your own—and then France would have had nothing for which to exact vengeance! I pity you; for it is you and you alone,who have brought this retribution to your country. From first to last, you have behaved like a fool in this affair. It was you who betrayed her!"
"I?" stammered Pachmann. "I? In what way? By what means?"
"By means of the hundred-franc note with which you paid your reckoning at Toulon. That was careless, Admiral; it was not like you. You should have carried gold, not paper—that would have told no secrets. But bank notes are numbered. And then, when you gave our friend here a packet of similar notes—I do not see how you could expect to escape, after that!"
Pachmann struck his forehead heavily with his open hand.
"So it was that!" he groaned. "So it was that! Yes, I was a fool!"
There was pity in the gaze which Crochard bent upon him. He could guess what this good German suffered at that moment.
"That was not your fault," he said, "so much as that of the person who supplied you with those notes, after getting them directly from the Bank of France. But, at this end of the journey, how clumsy you were! All that haste, all that circling—and for nothing!"
"You followed us, then?"
"Why no!" laughed Crochard. "I had no needto follow you. I had only to be at your consulate at seven o'clock."
Pachmann could only stare.
"The appointment was made on the open deck," said Crochard; "I was expecting it, and my ears are sharp! Well I was there at that hour, as well as M. Webster—and you led me straight here! That was careless! That was clumsy! After that, you deserved to fail!"
"How did you enter here?" asked Pachmann, hoarsely. "My men—are they—"
"They are on guard below, no doubt. But their eyes are not so keen as yours nor their ears so sharp—and then my imitation of the Prince's voice and manner was very good. I admit I kept my face somewhat in the shadow. They passed me without question."
Pachmann, with sudden intentness, scanned the other's garments.
"Yes, they, at least, are genuine," laughed Crochard. "The Prince was most indignant at having to remove them. My heart bled for him—but there was no other way. Beyond a little tightness across the shoulders, and a little looseness about the waist, they do very well."
"The Prince is a prisoner?" Pachmann asked.
"A hostage—to be released when I give theword. You should warn him to choose his cabs more carefully—never, in a strange city, to take the first that offers!"
"Then," said Pachmann, his face livid, "you have confederates—you are not alone!"
"I have friends," Crochard assented, "who were happy to oblige me by taking charge of the Prince. More than that I did not ask of them."
"You mean," asked Pachmann, almost in a whisper, "that you are alone here?"
"Quite alone, my dear Admiral," Crochard assured him, and smiled pleasantly.
Pachmann regarded the speaker for another moment; then he drew a deep breath, and a little colour crept back into his cheeks.
"M. Crochard," he said, "or whatever may be your name, I admire your dexterity and your daring. I wish Germany possessed a few such men as you. Nothing, I suppose would tempt you—no wealth, no position?"
"I am a Frenchman, monsieur," answered Crochard, quietly.
Pachmann sighed.
"I see I must abandon that project. I am sorry. For, let me warn you, all your dexterity, all your daring, cannot get you alive out of this house. If the Prince is a hostage for your safety, then he must be sacrificed. So far as my own life is concerned,it is nothing. I have two men below who, at a shout from me, or at the report of the shot which kills me, will shoot you down as you attempt to descend the stair. That is my order. There is from this house but one way out—the door by which you entered. You may kill me—I shall welcome that!—but you yourself will infallibly be killed a moment later."
"That may be," said Crochard lightly, "but I am not so sure of it. At any rate, if M. Vard is ready, I am prepared to make the trial."
"I am ready!" cried the inventor, and sprang to his feet.
Crochard rose and moved the chair from before the door. Pachmann, with a steady eye, measured the distance between himself and the Frenchman.
But Vard, his eyes blazing, stepped in front of the Admiral.
"So this is your reward!" he sneered. "You, who would have betrayed me, who would have made me infamous, shall yourself be infamous! Now it is France's turn—for her I will produce a new instrument—"
"That is not necessary, M. Vard," broke in Crochard. "There need not be even that small delay. I have the old one here," and he tapped the pocket of his coat.
"The old one!" echoed Vard. "But Kasia destroyed it!"
"It was not destroyed. I will explain. Are you quite ready? Then pass out before me and await me in the outer room."
Still staring, Vard opened the door. Then he sprang to the table with a glad cry, and caught up the box which stood there.
"It is complete again!" he cried. "It is—"
With a hoarse shout, Pachmann leaped at Crochard's throat. But, in midair, a spatter of liquid broke against his face, and his body hurtled onward to the floor.
And then, from the floor below, came an answering shout, a shot, the clatter of heavy feet....
With shining eyes, Crochard dropped on one knee beside his adversary, and bent for a moment above the body. Then he sprang to his feet and switched off the light.
"Stand here!" he said, snatched the inventor to one side, and stood facing the outer door.
But it did not open. No further sound reached them.
"Cowards!" muttered Crochard. "They wait in ambush! Well, let us see," and, stealing to the door, he opened it softly, softly, bracing his knee against it.
Still there was no sound.
Cautiously he peered out. The hall was empty.
Noiselessly he crawled to the stair-head and lookeddown. He could see no one. But where were Pachmann's men—hiding somewhere in the hall below, waiting for him to appear....
He drew back with a little exclamation, for from somewhere below came the groan of a man in pain.
For a moment Crochard sat with bewildered face, trying to understand. Then he sprang to his feet and went rapidly from door to door in the upper hall. All of them were armed with heavy outside bolts, but only one was fastened. He drew the bolts and opened the door a crack.
"Is any one here?" he asked.
There was no response, and, feeling for the switch, he turned on the lights and looked in. The room was empty. But in an instant his eye had seen three details—the shattered furniture, the disordered bed, the open window.
At the window, the corner of a sheet was tied securely to a hinge of the heavy shutter, which had been pried open. Crochard touched it thoughtfully and nodded. Then he peered down into the well-like court on which the window opened. But he could see no movement there.
He retraced his steps to the hall, and again peered cautiously from the stair-head, and again heard that dismal groaning.
"Come," he murmured; "there is not much tofear from that fellow!" and he resolutely descended, eyes alert, pistol in hand. Halfway down, he stopped in amazement, for the front door swung wide open. But at last he finished the descent and looked about him.
Against the wall back of the stairs sat a burly figure, one hand pressed to his shoulder. A red stream oozed between his fingers, and his dull eyes showed that he was only half-conscious. He was groaning spasmodically with each breath. Across from him was an open door, and looking cautiously through it, Crochard perceived on the floor of the room beyond a second burly figure, motionless on its back.
"Upon my word!" he commented. "That young fellow does his work well! A charming exploit! But we must not be found here!" And without waiting to see more, he sprang back up the stair. Vard was standing where he had left him, his beloved box clasped tightly against his breast, his eyes staring straight before him, vacant and expressionless.
"Come," said Crochard, and took his hand. "The way is clear. But we must hasten."
Vard went with him down the stair; but at the foot he paused.
"And Kasia?" he asked.
"She is safe. Come. We will go to her."
Obediently as a child, the white-haired man followed his companion out into the night.
That evening remains in Dan Webster's memory as the most crowded and most glorious of his life. Its supreme moment was when Kasia Vard gave herself into his arms and raised her lips to his in confession and surrender, and it left them both dazzled and breathless; but at last they were able to speak coherently.
"So you are a prisoner, too?" Dan asked.
"Yes."
"I suspected it. How splendid that I have found you!"
"It was silly of me to be frightened—I might have known it was you!"
"How could you have known?"
"Admiral Pachmann told me he had set a trap for you."
Dan glanced about the room quickly.
"They must not know I am here," he said, lowering his voice.
Kasia sprang to the switch and snapped out the lights. Then she took him by the hand and led him to a couch in one corner of the room.
"If we sit here," she said, "and speak very low, no one can hear us."
They sat down, but some moments passed before the conversation was resumed.
"Now we must be sensible," she said, drawing away from him. "They may go into your room at any moment, or come in here."
"That's true," Dan agreed. And then he remembered. "Kasia," he said, hoarsely, "some one stole the box, after all!"
He heard her quick gasp of dismay.
"Not Pachmann!" she cried.
"No, not Pachmann; I don't know who it could have been, unless it was that fellow Chevrial," and he rapidly told her the whole story. "I know I was an awful chump to let Chevrial put it over me like that," he concluded. "Once we're out of here, I'm going to scour New York for him."
"Don't take it so to heart!" she protested, pressing his hand. "It wasn't any fault of yours; and besides it doesn't matter so much, since it wasn't Pachmann. Perhaps we can get it back—if we can't, why father will make another! Come," she added, rising, "the first thing is to escape. Can we get over the wall?"
"It looked pretty formidable; but I don't see what else we can do. We can't fight our way out—I haven't anything to fight with."
"No; that is too dangerous," agreed Kasia, quickly. "There's a regular giant of a man on guard out there."
"Two of them," said Dan. "I was an infant in their hands. Did you hear me smashing things? There isn't much of the furniture left in that room upstairs—and it did me good!"
"I did some smashing myself," laughed Kasia; "there are the pieces of a chair over there by the wall."
Dan laughed in sympathy, with a heart surprisingly light. After all, it was impossible to be either worried or frightened with her there beside him!
"I'll go down and reconnoitre the wall," he said. "How far is the pavement below your window?"
"Ten or twelve feet."
"I'll need more rope."
"My bed-clothes!" she cried. "We can make a rope from them."
She ran into the bedroom, drew the blind at the window, and then turned on the light.
"No one can see us in here," she said, and began to strip the covers from the bed. "Come in and shut the door, and they can't hear us either."
Dan paused an instant at the threshold; then, ashamed of his hesitation, he entered and closed the door.
"We can make a perfectly lovely rope of these,"went on Kasia, her face shining. "I happen to know how—we teach plaiting in our kindergarten on the East side. First we must tear them into strips."
At this Dan helped her, and then the plaiting began. In twenty minutes as many feet of rough but serviceable rope was done.
"Suppose I take a look around the court," Dan suggested, "while you finish the plaiting. We'll need a lot of rope, if we have to go over the wall, but perhaps there's some other way out."
She went with him to the window, watched him as he tied the rope to the shutter-hinge, tested it to make sure that it was safe, and kissed him before he swung himself off. Then she leaned far over the sill and looked down into his upturned face, all her love in her eyes. A moment he hung there, gazing raptly up at her, then slipped down into the darkness; and Kasia, with brimming heart, returned to her task.
A very few minutes sufficed for Dan to convince himself that the only way of escape from the court lay over the wall. He found the door opening into the basement of the house, but it was a strong one and securely bolted, as a pressure of the shoulder proved; and there was no other entrance. The wall itself was not encouraging, for it was at least twelve feet high, and at the top was that formidable iron defence. It might be possible to throw their ropeover one of the barbed points, pull himself up, and draw Kasia up after him. Men had accomplished far more difficult things than that to gain freedom!
He groped for the rope, found it, and mounted hand-over-hand to the window-sill, threw his arm over it, drew himself up—and hung there, paralysed, staring at what lay within.
Through the open door of the bedroom poured a stream of light, and beyond, on the bed, sat Kasia, her head bent, her fingers busy with the strips of cloth; and in the darkness of the outer room, peering in at her, was dimly outlined a huge and threatening figure. Dan could see the profile of the bearded face, half-turned away from him; could guess at the leer upon it, the evil light in its eyes. Then slowly, slowly, it drew closer to the bedroom door....
With teeth set and heart flaming, Dan drew himself quickly upon the sill, stepped lightly into the room, and crouched in the shadow of the table. Had the giant heard? He peeped out cautiously. No, he was still intent upon the working girl. But a weapon—he must have a weapon—and Dan's agonised glance, sweeping the room, fell upon the débris of the broken chair. Quickly he crept to it, and his fingers closed about one of the heavy legs.
Then, as he turned to seek the shelter of the table, Kasia glanced up and saw that bearded face. Terror froze the smile upon her lips; terror drainedthe strength from her limbs; terror strangled the cry in her throat....
"Dan—Dan—Dan!"
And Dan, flaming with such rage as he had never known before, sprang upright, sprang forward, and rising on tiptoe to get the whole weight of his body into it, brought his club whirring down upon that shaggy head.
Like a log the man fell, with a crash that echoed through the house, and instantly from the hallway came a hoarse shout, the rush of heavy feet....
In that instant, Dan was possessed by a curious clairvoyance; he could see Kasia, he could see his victim, he could see the room behind him, he could see the hall with the other guard running along it; he knew somehow that there was a pistol in the belt of the man who lay at his feet, and, without conscious will of his own, his hand found it and jerked it out.
That other figure had reached the threshold, and Dan was conscious of his red face and staring eyes and open mouth. He was conscious of a hairy hand closing on a pistol-butt, and, again without willing it, he jerked his own hand up and fired....
And the next moment, with one arm about Kasia, he threw back the bolts of the front door, flung it open, and fled down the steps into the street.
That was all Dan ever remembered of those fierceinstants. They appeared to him afterwards as a series of tableaux, each standing distinctly by itself, unconnected with the past or with the future, and he felt himself to be, not an actor in them, but a puppet moved by wires. It was as though his brain had leaped from one mountain-top to another, across intervening valleys buried in fog.
But the instant his feet touched the pavement, the instant the fight was won, his will asserted itself and his brain began again to work connectedly. And the first thing he remembered doing was holding up his hand and staring at it, astonished that it did not hold a pistol. He had no recollection of having dropped it.
"We must get help!" Kasia panted. "My father is there!"
"The Prince and Pachmann are there, too," said Dan; "perhaps others." He looked up and down the street. "I wonder where we are? There's the elevated. Come along!"
Together they sped to the nearest corner. It proved to be Ninth Avenue, and there, in the shadow of the elevated, they found a policeman on duty.
It is true that Dan was not as coherent as he might have been and that the story he told sounded like a pipe-dream; but the policeman was undeniably slow of comprehension. At first he smiled good-naturedly.
"Aw, youse run along home now," he said. "I'm onto youse!"
"But, look here," Dan protested, "this is serious. I'm not drunk—I'm just excited and scared. Now listen. There's a man held prisoner back yonder by a lot of Germans, and I shot one of them and knocked another down—and we've got to get him free...."
"Tut, tut!" said the officer, and then he looked at Dan closely, and then he looked at Kasia, and then he took off his helmet and scratched his head. "See here, now," he said, finally, "I'll call headquarters, if you say so—but if you are stringin' me...."
"I'm not stringing you!" Dan cried. "And for heaven's sake be quick! Every minute we waste...."
The passers-by had begun to stop and stare curiously, and the thought flashed through Dan's mind that he might collect a posse....
But the patrolman had made up his mind.
"Come along with me," he said, and led the way into the rear room of the corner drugstore and telephoned to his station for instructions. He enlarged somewhat upon the perils of the expedition, as Dan had recounted them, and when he came out of the booth, it was with a distinctly relieved air.
"The sergeant says for us to wait here," he said,"and he'll rush some detectives up right away."
"But we can't stay here!" Dan cried. "We've got to get back!"
"When the sergeant tells me to do a thing, I do it," said the officer composedly. "So I'm goin' to stay right here."
Dan glared at him for a moment, and started to speak his mind, but thought better of it.
"Any objection to my waiting in front of the house?" he asked.
The officer pondered a moment.
"No, I guess not. Right down this street, you said?"
"Yes; I didn't notice the number, but it's about half-way of the block. I'll be waiting."
"All right. Skip along."
"I'm going too," said Kasia.
Dan started to object—the danger was not over yet—but she was already at the door.
"Take the other side of the street," he called.
She nodded, crossed the street, and sped along in the shadow. In a moment they were opposite the house. Nothing apparently had changed there. The front door stood open as they had left it, with the light from the hall streaming out over the steps. The hall, so far as they could see, was empty. There was no one on the stairs.
Dan gazed at all this; then he shivered a little;he did not understand the emptiness and silence; and he was suffering with the reaction from those crowded moments.
"I don't like it," he said. "Where's Pachmann?"
"Perhaps he's not there."
Dan stood staring a moment longer, then swung round at her.
"I'm going to see," he said. "It was foolish to run away like that. I'm ashamed of myself. Wait for me here."
He crossed the street and mounted the steps. As he stepped into the hall, a groan arrested him. In a moment, he perceived the man whom he had shot lying, half conscious, against the wall. In the room beyond, the other man was sitting up, rubbing his head and staring stupidly about him. Dan took one look at him, then closed the door and bolted it.
"Andthat'sall right!" he said, and turned to find Kasia at his elbow. He glared at her sternly. "I thought I told you to wait outside!"
"With you in danger! What do you take me for?"
Dan took one look into the shining eyes, then put his arm about her, dragged her to him, and kissed her fiercely.
"Refreshment for the heroic warrior on the fieldof battle," he explained, before she could protest. "I don't think there's much danger; but just the same you'll stay well in the rear, like a good girl! If Pachmann's upstairs, we'll surely hear from him. He's certain to be annoyed!"
"Can't we do something for this poor fellow?" she asked, her eyes large with pity for the groaning man.
"The police will call an ambulance," said Dan. "There's nothing we can do." On the floor beside the wounded man lay his revolver, and Dan stooped and picked it up. "Now, remember, Gunga Din!" he added, "your place is fifty paces right flank rear!"
He started up the stair, cautiously at first, but more boldly as no sound came from the upper floor. At the stair-head he hesitated. The upper hall was empty, but just opposite him an open door disclosed a dark room beyond. Still there was no sound, and, after a moment, he stepped to the door and peered inside.
"That was where they put my father," said Kasia. "He was lying on the bed in there."
Before he could stop her, she brushed past him and sped across the room. Then with a frightened cry, she started back. Dan was by her side in an instant.
"Look!" she gasped, and pointed at the floor.
Dan saw a dim shape stretched across the inner threshold; then he perceived that it was the body of a man. Pushing Kasia before him, he returned to the outer door, fumbled for the switch and turned it. Yes, it was the body of a man, lying on its face, its arms thrown above its head. A strange odour greeted him as he bent above it—an odour which made him curiously dizzy—but he managed to turn the body over.
"Why, it's Pachmann!" he cried, and stared down at him with starting eyes.
It was not a pleasant sight. The Admiral's face was distorted with rage, his lips curled savagely away from his teeth, his eyes were only half-closed, his hands were clenched—and with it all, he was breathing slowly and regularly, as though asleep.
"He isn't dead, anyway," said Dan, and rubbed his eyes, for strange clouds floated before them. "And he doesn't seem to be hurt," he added, looking again. "I wonder what happened to him—he isn't a pretty sight, is he? And where's your father?"
"He's not here," said Kasia, and following her gesture, Dan saw that the bed was empty.
Together they hastened back to the hall and looked into the other rooms. They were all empty.
"Well, it beats me!" said Dan, at last, and stared down into the girl's frightened face. "Yourfather isn't here, that's sure. It looks like he either gave Pachmann his quietus with a solar plexus, or else Pachmann just fell over on his face and went to sleep. Anyway, your father seems to have escaped. But where's the Prince? Did they elope together?"
"Why didn't father stop and look for me?" demanded Kasia.
And then a light broke over Dan's face.
"He did—and found you gone. Don't you see," he went on, excitedly, "it must have been while we were fussing with that thick-headed cop. And probably, when he didn't find you, he hurried on home...."
But Kasia had already started for the stairs.
Dan paused for a last look at the recumbent figure. Suppose the man should die—suppose something had happened to the Prince—there would be the German Empire to be reckoned with, and the reckoning would be a serious one—serious for himself, for Kasia, above all for Vard! Very thoughtfully he turned away, followed Kasia down the stair, passed along the hall and through the open door. On the top step he paused and looked up and down the street. The police were not yet in sight.
With a little smile, Dan turned and pulled the door shut. Then he ran down the steps after his companion.
"Let's go the other way," he said, as she turned toward Ninth Avenue. "We may as well keep out of this. We can get the Subway just below here."
And in another moment, they had turned the corner.
Wherefore it happened that, when the patrolman, in company with three detectives, who had been torn away from a game of pinocle and who were consequently in no very pleasant humour, reached the centre of the block, some minutes later, there was no one in sight.
"He said he'd wait for us," said the patrolman, helplessly.
The detectives looked about them, but there was no evidence of anything unusual about any of the houses.
"Which side of the street was it on?" one of them asked.
"He didn't say," answered the patrolman.
"Well, whatdidhe say?"
"Blamed if I know, exactly. He was so worked up—with his eyes stickin' out, and his jaw shakin', and the girl hangin' on to his arm—but it was something about kidnappin', and shootin' a man, and there bein' another prisoner to rescue...."
He stopped, for there was frank incredulity in the three pairs of eyes fastened upon him.
"He was stringin' you," said one of the detectives, at last.
"Or else he had a jag," said another.
"Dope, more likely," suggested the third. "Look here, Hennessey, don't you ever git us up here again with no such cock-and-bull story! Come on, boys!"
They left Hennessey rubbing his head helplessly and staring at the houses, one after another. He wasn't at all convinced that the strange youth had been "stringing" him—his excitement had too evidently been genuine; but if he was on the square, why had he run away?
"Oh, hell!" said Hennessey, finally, and returned to his post at the corner.
And it was about that time that the 'phone at the German consulate rang, and a pleasant voice advised that a physician be sent at once to the house just off Ninth Avenue, as his services were badly needed there.
When Paris opened her eyes on the morning of Thursday, the twelfth of October, it was to rejoice at one of those soft and beautiful days of autumn which make of every house a dungeon to be escaped at the first possible moment. Even as early as nine o'clock, a perceptible tide had set in toward the Bois de Boulogne, or, rather, innumerable little tides, which converged at the Place de la Concorde and rolled on along the Champs-Elysées in one mighty torrent.
Against this torrent, a sturdy and energetic figure fought its way across the square; a figure carefully arrayed in black morning-coat and grey trousers, and looking alertly about with a pair of very bright eyes magnified by heavy glasses. The haughtiest of the carriage-crowd felt honoured by his bow, for it was none other than that great diplomat, Théophile Delcassé, Minister of Marine.
M. Delcassé was not in the habit of being abroad so early; it was a full hour before his usual time; but he had an appointment to keep which he regarded as most important, so he strode rapidly across thesquare, entered the handsome building to the north of it, and mounted to the first floor, where, on the corner overlooking the square on one side and the Rue Royale on the other, he had his office.
Early as it was, he found awaiting him the man whom he wished to see—a thin wisp of a man, with straggling white beard and a shock of white hair and a face no wider than one's hand, but lighted by the keenest eyes in the world—in a word, Louis Jean Baptiste Lépine, Prefect of Police, to whom full justice has not been done in this story—nor in any other. M. Lépine had not found the hour early; to him, all hours were the same, for he was a man who slept only when he found the time, which was often not at all.
"Good morning, my dear Prefect," said Delcassé, drawing off his gloves. "I trust I have not kept you waiting?"
"I but just arrived," Lépine assured him; "and I know of no better place to pass one's idle moments than at this window of yours."
Beyond it stretched the great square, with its obelisk and circle of statues, its pavilions and balustrades; beautiful now, and peaceful, but peopled with ghastly memories—for it was here the Revolution set up its guillotine, and it was here that some four thousand men and women, high and low, looked their last upon this earth, mounted the scaffold andpassed under the knife. Surely, if any spot on earth be haunted, it is this!
Something of this, perhaps, was in the minds of these two men, as they stood for a moment looking down into the square, for their faces were very thoughtful; then Delcassé's eyes travelled from one to another of the heroic figures representing the great towns of France—Lyons, Marseilles, Brest, Rouen, Bordeaux, Nantes, Lille—and came to rest upon the last one, Strasbourg, hung with black and piled with mourning garlands, in memory of the lost Alsace. Every morning, before he turned to the day's work, M. Delcassé, standing at this window, gazed at that statue, while he registered anew the vow that those garlands should one day be replaced by wreaths of victory! That vow was his orison.
His lips moved silently as he made it now, then he turned to his desk.
"Be seated, my dear Lépine," he said. "I have much to discuss with you, as you may guess. First aboutLa Liberté. My Board of Inquiry will be ready to report by Saturday. It has decided that the explosion was caused by the spontaneous combustion of the 'B' powder, as was the case with theJena."
"That theory will do as well as any other," said Lépine, curtly. "But you and I know that it is not the true one."
Delcassé looked at him quickly.
"Have you any news?" he asked.
"None," answered Lépine, with a frown. "The man we sought has vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him. I have found no trace of him since he left the office of the Messrs. Cook, with two passages for America in his pocket. I cannot understand it."
"Have the tickets been returned?"
"They have not been returned, and the Messrs. Cook, making inquiry at my suggestion, have a report from the steamship company that they have not been used."
Delcassé turned this over in his mind.
"Perhaps the man and his daughter have met with some accident."
"We should have heard of it," Lépine objected. "I have scrutinised every report—viewed every body which at all resembled him."
"Then," said Delcassé, "he has been suppressed, as one who knew too much."
"My own opinion is," said the Prefect, "that he has sought refuge in Germany, until he can prepare for another demonstration against France."
The Minister moved uneasily in his chair.
"I have thought of that," he said, "and I am doing everything I can to render such an attempt impossible—but it is a hard task—one can neverbe sure. There is another thing I wished to ask you. Where is Crochard?"
"I do not know, sir. I have not seen him since that morning at Toulon when we parted outside the Hotel du Nord."
"Then he, too, has disappeared?"
"Yes, sir, completely."
"Has it never occurred to you, Lépine, to connect these two disappearances?"
"Yes, I did connect them. You will remember in the note he left for me he stated that he hoped soon to have some good news for us. But when more than two weeks elapse and we hear nothing, I am forced to conclude that he, too, has been baffled."
"Yes, it was for me a hope, also—almost my only one," said Delcassé. "I did not believe that he could fail. And if he has failed, do you know what it means for France, Lépine? It means destruction. Oh, I have spent sleepless nights, I have racked my brain! Germany's attitude is that of a nation which desires war and which is ready to provoke it. You know, of course, how strained the situation is?"
"About Morocco?"
"Yes. It has come to this: France and Germany are like two duellists, face to face, sword in hand. Either they must fight, or one must retreat—and with dishonour!"
"France cannot retreat," murmured Lépine.
"I have said the same thing a hundred times; and yet, at the bottom of my heart, I know we cannot fight—not while this cloud of uncertainty hangs over us. To fight, with this power in the hands of Germany, would mean more than defeat—it would mean annihilation. There would be other statues to be draped with black!"
Delcassé's face was livid; he removed his glasses and polished them with a shaking hand, and, for the first time, Lépine saw his bloodshot eyes. Delcassé noticed his glance, and laughed grimly.
"Only to you, Lépine, do I dare to show them," he said. "Before others, I must crush this fear in my heart, bite it back from my lips; I must appear unconcerned, confident of the issue. Only to you may I speak freely. That is one reason I called you here. I felt that Imustspeak with some one. Lépine, I foresee for France a great humiliation."
Lépine looked at his companion with real concern.
"You exaggerate," he said. "You have been brooding over it too long."
Delcassé shook his head.
"I do not exaggerate. This thing is so terrible that it cannot be exaggerated. Even at this moment, Germany is preparing the blow. For the past week, she has been extraordinarily active. Her fleets have coaled hurriedly and put out to sea—for manœuvres,it is said; but this is not the season for manœuvres. Her shipyards have been cleared of all civilians, and a cordon of troops posted about each one. The garrison of every fortress along the frontier has been at least doubled, and the most rigid patrol established. The police regulations are being enforced with the greatest severity. Every city of the frontier swarms with spies; even here in Paris we are not safe from them—my desk was rifled two nights ago. I live in dread that any day, any hour, may bring the news of some fresh disaster!"
"And do our men learn nothing?"
"Nothing! Nothing! All they can tell me is that something is preparing, some blow, some surprise. Whatever the secret, it is well kept; so well that it can be known only to the Emperor and one or two of his ministers. We have tried every means, we have exhausted every resource, all in vain. We know, in part, what is being done; of the purpose back of it we know nothing. But we can guess—the purpose is war; it can be nothing else!"
Lépine sat silent and contemplated the rugged face opposite him—the face which told by its lined forehead, its worried eyes, its savage mouth, of the struggles, rebuffs, and disappointments of thirty years. Always, out of disaster, this man had risen unconquered. Upon his shoulders now was placed the whole of this terrific burden. He alone, of thewhole cabinet, was fit to bear it; beside him, the others were mere pigmies: Premier Caillaux, an amiable financier; Foreign Minister de Selves, a charming amateur of the fine arts; War Minister Messimy, an obscure army officer with a love for uniforms; Minister of Commerce Couyba, a minor poet, tainted with decadence—above all these, Delcassé loomed as a Gulliver among Lilliputians. But greatness has its penalties. While the Minister of Foreign Affairs spent his days in collecting plaques, and the Minister of War his in strutting about the boulevards, and the Minister of Commerce his in composing verses, Delcassé laboured to save his country—laboured as a colossus labours, sweating, panting, throwing every fibre of his being into the struggle—which was all the more trying, all the more terrific, because he felt that it must go against him!
"What would you suggest, Lépine?" Delcassé asked, at last. "Is there any source of information which you can try?"
Lépine shook his head doubtfully.
"It is not a question of expense," Delcassé went on, rapidly. "A million francs would not be too much to pay for definite information. We have spent that already! We have had a Prince babbling in his cups; we have had I know not how manyadmirals and generals and diplomats confiding in their suddenly complaisant mistresses; we have searched their hearts, shaken them inside out—but they know nothing. Such and such orders have been issued; they obey the orders, but they do not know their purpose. They all talk war, shout war—Germany seems mad for war—and the government encourages them. Their inspired journals assert over and over that Germany cannot recede—that its position is final—that hereafter it must be paramount in Morocco. And to-day—or to-morrow at the latest—France must send her ultimatum."
"What will it be?"
"God knows!" and Delcassé tugged at his ragged moustache. "If it were not for one thing, Lépine, I should not hesitate, I should not fear war. France is ready, and England is at least sympathetic. But there isLa Liberté. What if Germany can treat our other battleships as she treated that one? Yes, and England's, too! And if our battleships, why not our forts, our arsenals ... Lépine," and Delcassé's lips were twitching, "I say to you frankly that, for the first time in my life, I have fear!" He fell a moment silent, playing nervously with a paper-knife he had snatched up from his desk. "What would you suggest?" he asked again.
And again Lépine shook his head.
"WhatcanI suggest!" he protested. "Where you have failed, what is there I can do?"
The knife snapped in Delcassé's fingers, and he hurled the fragments to the floor.
"There is one thing you can do," he said. "Find Crochard and bring him to me."
Lépine arose instantly.
"I will do my best," he said, reaching for his hat. "If he is in France, rest assured...."
There was a tap at the door, and it opened softly.
"I am not to be disturbed!" snapped the Minister, and then he stopped, staring.
For there appeared on the threshold the immaculate figure, the charming and yet impressive countenance, for a sight of which the great Minister had been longing; and then his heart leaped suffocatingly, for with the first figure was a second—a man with white hair and flaming eyes and thin, eager face....
As Delcassé sprang to his feet, Crochard stepped forward.
"M. Delcassé," he said, "it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you a gentleman whom I know you will be most glad to meet——Ignace Vard."