Chapter Twenty Four.Reveals a Scheme.This, in a few words, was my scheme.For my own part, I was certain that one or other of the many parties who were after the deeds—the Foreign Office, the Jesuits, the representatives of Spain, or the company promoters—would, somehow, make a desperate effort to seize them. Therefore our first duty was clear—to hide them so effectually that none could find them.Where, then, should they be placed? Both Cooper-Nassington and José Casteno had various suggestions to make in this respect. One was in favour of secreting them under a certain tree in the garden of St. Bruno’s. The other suggested that they should be tied to the clapper in the great iron bell that hung in a dome on the roof. But in the end, for good or for evil, my notion was adopted. We all repaired to the entrance hall, which happened, luckily, to be quite deserted, and there, at the back of the statue of the poor misguided idol of the founder, in a little opening in the pedestal which the base of the figure left uncovered, we bestowed those most precious documents.Afterwards we returned to the study, and then I produced those three most excellent forgeries of the real deeds which Paul Zouche had made at the hunchback’s request, and by which that precious pair of worthies hoped to throw all unpleasantly close inquirers off the scent when the chase got too hot at the curiosity shop in Westminster.“It’s a pity that these should not have a chance of showing what they can do in the direction of baffling the inquisitive and the unprincipled,” I observed, with a sly smile, adding the particulars of how and when I got possession of them. “What do you say to labelling these quite openly: ‘DocumentsreSacred Lake,’ and placing them in the safe of the Order of St. Bruno, the first place thieves will search if they have come after the deeds?”“A most excellent suggestion!” exclaimed Cooper-Nassington, with an approving nod.“And I move,” added Casteno, “that we act on it at once.”So we did. The Prior himself fetched a lantern, which he lit, and with many a merry smile and jest we three monk-like figures, our black habits making us appear in that dim radiance like ghostly visitants from another sphere, took our way down the flight of stone steps that led from the main corridor of the building to the cellars, where a strong room had been built to hold the archives of the Order. In a whisper, my companion showed me where the keys of the inner door (I had the outer on my armlet), were always hung ready for any member who chose to go and take them down to inspect the contents of the treasure-room. Also they explained that the word to which the lock was always set was “Clytie,” the name of the lady of the statue, as the Council of Three felt certain that only the initiated would remember the circumstances of that lady’s career and her rather occult association with the destinies of the Order.The door swung open quite easily, and as the Prior deposited the forgeries in a rather accessible position I caught a glimpse of the interior, with its row upon row of huge brass-bound ledgers, its bundle upon bundle of deeds and share certificates and documents in parchment, with many heavily-sealed bags of leather, which, I was told, contained gold or precious stones. Of the increasing value of the latter, I was told, Bruno Delganni had a quite childish faith, hence his investments in them.Cases, too, were piled on the floor. These contained bullion direct from the Bank of England, to be used only when it was necessary for any political or other purposes to send remittances to the branch houses in Delhi, Sydney, or any other far-off corner of the earth, where transactions through a local bank might attract an unnecessary amount of attention and speculation.Later, we returned upstairs, and there I expounded what was, after all, the crucial point in my plan—the reconciliation of the principal different interests that were now fighting us with so much deadly bitterness and precision.“What I suggest,” I said, gazing very determinedly at the two men in front of me, “is nothing more and nothing less than a round-table conference between the lot of us—Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, Earl Fotheringay, the Napiers, the hunchback, ourselves!”“Why, that’s preposterous!” snapped the Prior, and his eyes flashed, but I would not be gainsaid.“I am sure it is not,” I retorted with great firmness. “After all, what is it, really, that makes them all so bitter against us? It is no mere dream of making themselves rich—no stupid desire to rob anyone. It is simply pride, when the whole facts are reduced to their proper level, mistaken pride, and, being that, I am convinced it can, in a full and free discussion, be eliminated from this contest between us.”“I will never meet Cuthbertson,” interposed the Member of Parliament, “never! You forget: our cause of difference is too deep for words to remove!”“That may be,” I reasoned; “but, after all, are you not patriots first, and men with mere human passions like jealousy and revenge afterwards?”“And I will not meet Peter Zouche,” declared José, drawing himself up to his full height and folding his arms. “He is my father, but he has not been a father to me. He drove me from my home, and made me a wanderer all over the earth, because I loved England and things English and rejoiced in the fact that, because I was born here, I was able to claim the rights of an Englishman.”“More than that,” artfully added the Prior, “you, Glynn, forget how badly Fotheringay has treated you. He has made use of you, taken you up and flung you down, and finally had you carted about, as though you were a piece of furniture in his drawing-room. You could not say to him, like I sent word to Casteno, ‘In reparation’ for old unkindnesses with which I treated him when first he wanted to join the Order, and, later, to wed that charming little ward of mine, Camille Velasquon, who, by the way, I myself in panic abducted from you at Vauxhall Station.”“Indeed I could,” I answered boldly. “We are not one of us as black as the others pretend to make out. Naturally, perhaps, we all want to shine and to become famous over the discovery and translation of those manuscripts. But at present we are all engaged in the amiable task of cutting each other’s throats. Why go on? After all, if England is going to get hold of all those millions and millions now lying in treasure at the bottom of that sacred lake, we must really pull together. The task, even from the diplomatic standpoint, is no easy one. It will test us all to the uttermost. Then why fight amongst ourselves?”“We sha’n’t,” corrected the Prior; “they will fight us!”“No, they won’t. They will all come to my round-table conference,” I said gaily. “You see? Now how shall we manage it?” I pretended to stop for a moment to think, and then I went on. “Oh, I see. Its simple enough. We Avili call the gathering together at my office to-morrow night at half-past ten, when we three ringleaders will assemble. For 10:45 we invite Cuthbertson. In half-an-hour we ought to persuade him that his interest lies in the same direction as ours, so at 11:15 we will bid the hunchback to the conference. Give him half-an-hour too, for he is a stubborn old man,” I observed, with a jocular nod in the direction of Casteno, “and then issue invitations to Colonel Napier and his daughter for 11:30, and Lord Fotheringay, who really seems to have less to do with the business than anyone, for 11:45.”“And, pray, how,” queried Casteno, with obvious incredulity, “shall you communicate with them? Call on them, and ask them? Why, not one of them will see you, or, if he does, he will do it only to discover whether he can’t have you arrested for one or other of our recent pranks.”“Why, we will telegraph, of course,” I cried snatching up some forms that happened to lie on a davenport close within my reach. “Look here, both of you, how will this do, to be sent to each one’s last known place of address?” And I bent down and scribbled rapidly the following invitation:—“Please come to-morrow night to the Glynn’s Inquiry Offices, Stanton Street, WC. Manuscripts have been found and decoded. Will put before you a scheme that will ensure success for all.—John Cooper—Nassington, José Casteno, Hugh Glynn.”“There!” I added. “All we’ve got to do now is to make four copies of these and address each one to the different conspirators, and in each instance put the time we have fixed for our interview with them.”“I’ll be hanged if I put my name to a meek and mild bread-and-butter come-and-let-us-all-be-friends message like that,” roared the Prior.“And I’ll be shot if I bribe the pater to do anything for me!” stormed Casteno.But even then I would not be gainsaid. In the end I carried my point, and the telegrams were despatched by special messenger to St. Martins-le-Grand, so that the recipients could not guess their place of origin.Then, worn out with the adventures of the day, we all retired to our beds, and not until the morning was far advanced did José come to my room, and, whilst I struggled on the border line between sleep and consciousness, shake me violently by the shoulder.“Wake up, wake up, thou sluggard!” he cried with a gaiety that was most refreshing and infectious. “While thou art dozing all manner of strange things are happening at these monastery gates. Wake up, I say, and devour this breakfast of hot coffee and grilled chops that one of the lay brethren has brought you. In truth, you will need all the physical support it is possible for man to receive from a well-lined stomach, for outside some most tremendous surprises await you.”“What the dickens do you mean?” I growled, sitting suddenly bolt upright in the bed and gazing at him with the most rueful countenance. “Why puzzle with riddles a man that is but half aroused? What’s up?” And I made a grab for the cup of coffee that stood on the tray on a chair by the side of my bed, and took therefrom a tremendous draught.None the less, Casteno would not give in. He perched himself in his monk’s robes at the foot of my bed, and with the aid of many a merry jest and joke at my expense he induced me to devour the good things that had been brought so thoughtfully to the room for me. It was not, indeed, till I had bolted to the bathroom, had a most refreshing tub, and arrayed myself in my own ordinary clothes that he would be persuaded to speak about the events that lay nearest to our hearts. Then he caught me affectionately by the arm and half led, half dragged me down a long corridor to a large lancet-shaped window at the end. This commanded a view of the Chantry Road, the only public thoroughfare that gave any access to St. Bruno’s, and also a sight of some of the fields that were ranged around the monastery grounds.“Now, my brother Hugh,” he said, with a comprehensive theatrical gesture, “just take some observations for yourself, will you? Then tell me if when I came to you first I exaggerated the gravity of the situation!”Without a word I turned and gazed over the scene upon which a bright morning sun, aided by a clear sky and the gentlest of breezes, poured down its wealth of golden light. At regular intervals I espied the figures of men who had been posted there, right round the house, for some very obvious purpose. Some were strolling aimlessly up and down, as though they were strangers taking the morning breeze for the good of their healths. Others, according to their character and mood, were lurking behind trees or hedges, or half concealed behind neighbouring walls. But all alike bore the stamp—the same brand of Cain that literally shouted their occupation to the most careless of observers. They could not, any one of them, rid themselves of their military gait or bearing, and I saw at once, just as Casteno had, that they were policemen in plain clothes.“Humph! Detectives!” I observed, turning away from my post of observation with a shrug.“Quite so, brother Hugh, quite so,” repeated Casteno, with a triumphant grin. “You have guessed the melancholy truth the first time. They are detectives, engaged in preventing anyone leaving this noble mansion without their knowledge and permission. If you had remained at the window a trifle longer you would doubtless have seen for yourself their most noble leader. As a matter of fact, he is a friend of yours—”“And pray who is that?” I snapped, for I felt too tired to join in this vein of merriment. “What friend have I in the force?” I asked.“A gentleman named Naylor, very much at your service,” replied Casteno.“How? What do you mean?”“Oh! nothing, nothing at all,” airily continued my companion. “Only at 5 AM he rang the bell at our gate, and after courteously wishing our janitor a very nice ‘good-morning’ he ventured to inquire whether you, brother Hugh, were within. On being told, with our customary truth, that you were he promptly disavowed all desire to interfere with your beauty sleep, and blandly offered to wait outside till it should please the fates to restore to you a sense of your own importance and the necessity for action. Our gate custodian, being a bit of a humourist, agreed that, on the whole, he would find it nicer and warmer outside St. Bruno’s than it was in, but vouchsafed to promise that, when you did arise, he would certainly inform you that so noble and so illustrious-looking a gentleman desired the honour of a few minutes private conversation with you.”“Oh I shut up that rubbish,” I retorted pettishly, for I saw that Casteno’s florid periods really covered a move of a very grave and far-reaching importance. “The point is not a joke as you pretend. What we have got to decide is the best thing for me to do now Scotland Yard has put these men on my heels! I don’t want this round-table conference to-night to go wrong. I want to be free to be present at it. Indeed, we don’t want any scandal or newspaper publicity just at present. We should be able to imitate moles—moles that work in the dark.”“That is true,” said a voice suddenly behind me, and wheeling round I found that we had been joined by the Prior. “Would you care to slip off?” he queried after a moment’s painful pause. “I could find you a good disguise as a woman, with a thick black veil, too. We have a passage that runs from this house to a little clump of bushes in a distant field. You could easily dart through that and make your way off without being caught.”“I am afraid that would only leave you all here in a worse pickle,” I replied after some reflection. “Naylor, after all, will only wait a certain length of time, and if he finds then that I don’t materialise, as our brother at the gate promised, he will be quite wild enough to organise a raid on the place; and remember, after all, it does contain those three precious manuscripts. No; it looks as though I must face the worst after all.”“But what on earth can he want with you?” cried Casteno petulantly.“That’s just it,” I said. “I have got to go out and see. Well, it’s no good beating about the bush. If I have to face this unpleasant and inquisitive individual, I have to, I suppose, and the sooner I get it over the better for all of us. You two must keep a sharp watch on me, that’s all, and if you find I am hauled off to the police station on any pretence you must follow me up and try to bail me out.”“And, failing all else, I will go down to the House of Commons this very afternoon and make a personal appeal for you to both Cuthbertson and the Home Secretary,” cried the Member of Parliament vigorously, for now he too seemed to be quite upset at the line things were taking.“All right,” I said bravely. “I won’t thank you. We are all now too good friends, and too closely allied, to make use of conventional expressions of gratitude. I trust you—that’s sufficient—and I’ll step out and meet this turn of affairs with all the courage I can muster.”With a curt nod I turned and left them and made my way down the staircase to the hall, and thence I passed rapidly to the door that shut off the monastery grounds from the public thoroughfare. This last was thrown open at my approach, and I proceeded to the roadway, which for a moment after I entered it looked quite deserted. Determined to carry the interview through with a high hand, however, I stepped out promptly, as though Whitehall at least was my destination, and then it was that Naylor, as I expected, found himself compelled to step from behind a tree and to show himself, which he did with an ugly twinkle of triumph in his small beady black eyes.“Ah, you’ve come, then?” he said with a grunt, disdaining all conventional expressions of greeting.“Yes; I’ve come,” I answered with equal discourtesy. “What do you want, eh?” And I stepped quite close to him and faced him.
This, in a few words, was my scheme.
For my own part, I was certain that one or other of the many parties who were after the deeds—the Foreign Office, the Jesuits, the representatives of Spain, or the company promoters—would, somehow, make a desperate effort to seize them. Therefore our first duty was clear—to hide them so effectually that none could find them.
Where, then, should they be placed? Both Cooper-Nassington and José Casteno had various suggestions to make in this respect. One was in favour of secreting them under a certain tree in the garden of St. Bruno’s. The other suggested that they should be tied to the clapper in the great iron bell that hung in a dome on the roof. But in the end, for good or for evil, my notion was adopted. We all repaired to the entrance hall, which happened, luckily, to be quite deserted, and there, at the back of the statue of the poor misguided idol of the founder, in a little opening in the pedestal which the base of the figure left uncovered, we bestowed those most precious documents.
Afterwards we returned to the study, and then I produced those three most excellent forgeries of the real deeds which Paul Zouche had made at the hunchback’s request, and by which that precious pair of worthies hoped to throw all unpleasantly close inquirers off the scent when the chase got too hot at the curiosity shop in Westminster.
“It’s a pity that these should not have a chance of showing what they can do in the direction of baffling the inquisitive and the unprincipled,” I observed, with a sly smile, adding the particulars of how and when I got possession of them. “What do you say to labelling these quite openly: ‘DocumentsreSacred Lake,’ and placing them in the safe of the Order of St. Bruno, the first place thieves will search if they have come after the deeds?”
“A most excellent suggestion!” exclaimed Cooper-Nassington, with an approving nod.
“And I move,” added Casteno, “that we act on it at once.”
So we did. The Prior himself fetched a lantern, which he lit, and with many a merry smile and jest we three monk-like figures, our black habits making us appear in that dim radiance like ghostly visitants from another sphere, took our way down the flight of stone steps that led from the main corridor of the building to the cellars, where a strong room had been built to hold the archives of the Order. In a whisper, my companion showed me where the keys of the inner door (I had the outer on my armlet), were always hung ready for any member who chose to go and take them down to inspect the contents of the treasure-room. Also they explained that the word to which the lock was always set was “Clytie,” the name of the lady of the statue, as the Council of Three felt certain that only the initiated would remember the circumstances of that lady’s career and her rather occult association with the destinies of the Order.
The door swung open quite easily, and as the Prior deposited the forgeries in a rather accessible position I caught a glimpse of the interior, with its row upon row of huge brass-bound ledgers, its bundle upon bundle of deeds and share certificates and documents in parchment, with many heavily-sealed bags of leather, which, I was told, contained gold or precious stones. Of the increasing value of the latter, I was told, Bruno Delganni had a quite childish faith, hence his investments in them.
Cases, too, were piled on the floor. These contained bullion direct from the Bank of England, to be used only when it was necessary for any political or other purposes to send remittances to the branch houses in Delhi, Sydney, or any other far-off corner of the earth, where transactions through a local bank might attract an unnecessary amount of attention and speculation.
Later, we returned upstairs, and there I expounded what was, after all, the crucial point in my plan—the reconciliation of the principal different interests that were now fighting us with so much deadly bitterness and precision.
“What I suggest,” I said, gazing very determinedly at the two men in front of me, “is nothing more and nothing less than a round-table conference between the lot of us—Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, Earl Fotheringay, the Napiers, the hunchback, ourselves!”
“Why, that’s preposterous!” snapped the Prior, and his eyes flashed, but I would not be gainsaid.
“I am sure it is not,” I retorted with great firmness. “After all, what is it, really, that makes them all so bitter against us? It is no mere dream of making themselves rich—no stupid desire to rob anyone. It is simply pride, when the whole facts are reduced to their proper level, mistaken pride, and, being that, I am convinced it can, in a full and free discussion, be eliminated from this contest between us.”
“I will never meet Cuthbertson,” interposed the Member of Parliament, “never! You forget: our cause of difference is too deep for words to remove!”
“That may be,” I reasoned; “but, after all, are you not patriots first, and men with mere human passions like jealousy and revenge afterwards?”
“And I will not meet Peter Zouche,” declared José, drawing himself up to his full height and folding his arms. “He is my father, but he has not been a father to me. He drove me from my home, and made me a wanderer all over the earth, because I loved England and things English and rejoiced in the fact that, because I was born here, I was able to claim the rights of an Englishman.”
“More than that,” artfully added the Prior, “you, Glynn, forget how badly Fotheringay has treated you. He has made use of you, taken you up and flung you down, and finally had you carted about, as though you were a piece of furniture in his drawing-room. You could not say to him, like I sent word to Casteno, ‘In reparation’ for old unkindnesses with which I treated him when first he wanted to join the Order, and, later, to wed that charming little ward of mine, Camille Velasquon, who, by the way, I myself in panic abducted from you at Vauxhall Station.”
“Indeed I could,” I answered boldly. “We are not one of us as black as the others pretend to make out. Naturally, perhaps, we all want to shine and to become famous over the discovery and translation of those manuscripts. But at present we are all engaged in the amiable task of cutting each other’s throats. Why go on? After all, if England is going to get hold of all those millions and millions now lying in treasure at the bottom of that sacred lake, we must really pull together. The task, even from the diplomatic standpoint, is no easy one. It will test us all to the uttermost. Then why fight amongst ourselves?”
“We sha’n’t,” corrected the Prior; “they will fight us!”
“No, they won’t. They will all come to my round-table conference,” I said gaily. “You see? Now how shall we manage it?” I pretended to stop for a moment to think, and then I went on. “Oh, I see. Its simple enough. We Avili call the gathering together at my office to-morrow night at half-past ten, when we three ringleaders will assemble. For 10:45 we invite Cuthbertson. In half-an-hour we ought to persuade him that his interest lies in the same direction as ours, so at 11:15 we will bid the hunchback to the conference. Give him half-an-hour too, for he is a stubborn old man,” I observed, with a jocular nod in the direction of Casteno, “and then issue invitations to Colonel Napier and his daughter for 11:30, and Lord Fotheringay, who really seems to have less to do with the business than anyone, for 11:45.”
“And, pray, how,” queried Casteno, with obvious incredulity, “shall you communicate with them? Call on them, and ask them? Why, not one of them will see you, or, if he does, he will do it only to discover whether he can’t have you arrested for one or other of our recent pranks.”
“Why, we will telegraph, of course,” I cried snatching up some forms that happened to lie on a davenport close within my reach. “Look here, both of you, how will this do, to be sent to each one’s last known place of address?” And I bent down and scribbled rapidly the following invitation:—
“Please come to-morrow night to the Glynn’s Inquiry Offices, Stanton Street, WC. Manuscripts have been found and decoded. Will put before you a scheme that will ensure success for all.—John Cooper—Nassington, José Casteno, Hugh Glynn.”
“There!” I added. “All we’ve got to do now is to make four copies of these and address each one to the different conspirators, and in each instance put the time we have fixed for our interview with them.”
“I’ll be hanged if I put my name to a meek and mild bread-and-butter come-and-let-us-all-be-friends message like that,” roared the Prior.
“And I’ll be shot if I bribe the pater to do anything for me!” stormed Casteno.
But even then I would not be gainsaid. In the end I carried my point, and the telegrams were despatched by special messenger to St. Martins-le-Grand, so that the recipients could not guess their place of origin.
Then, worn out with the adventures of the day, we all retired to our beds, and not until the morning was far advanced did José come to my room, and, whilst I struggled on the border line between sleep and consciousness, shake me violently by the shoulder.
“Wake up, wake up, thou sluggard!” he cried with a gaiety that was most refreshing and infectious. “While thou art dozing all manner of strange things are happening at these monastery gates. Wake up, I say, and devour this breakfast of hot coffee and grilled chops that one of the lay brethren has brought you. In truth, you will need all the physical support it is possible for man to receive from a well-lined stomach, for outside some most tremendous surprises await you.”
“What the dickens do you mean?” I growled, sitting suddenly bolt upright in the bed and gazing at him with the most rueful countenance. “Why puzzle with riddles a man that is but half aroused? What’s up?” And I made a grab for the cup of coffee that stood on the tray on a chair by the side of my bed, and took therefrom a tremendous draught.
None the less, Casteno would not give in. He perched himself in his monk’s robes at the foot of my bed, and with the aid of many a merry jest and joke at my expense he induced me to devour the good things that had been brought so thoughtfully to the room for me. It was not, indeed, till I had bolted to the bathroom, had a most refreshing tub, and arrayed myself in my own ordinary clothes that he would be persuaded to speak about the events that lay nearest to our hearts. Then he caught me affectionately by the arm and half led, half dragged me down a long corridor to a large lancet-shaped window at the end. This commanded a view of the Chantry Road, the only public thoroughfare that gave any access to St. Bruno’s, and also a sight of some of the fields that were ranged around the monastery grounds.
“Now, my brother Hugh,” he said, with a comprehensive theatrical gesture, “just take some observations for yourself, will you? Then tell me if when I came to you first I exaggerated the gravity of the situation!”
Without a word I turned and gazed over the scene upon which a bright morning sun, aided by a clear sky and the gentlest of breezes, poured down its wealth of golden light. At regular intervals I espied the figures of men who had been posted there, right round the house, for some very obvious purpose. Some were strolling aimlessly up and down, as though they were strangers taking the morning breeze for the good of their healths. Others, according to their character and mood, were lurking behind trees or hedges, or half concealed behind neighbouring walls. But all alike bore the stamp—the same brand of Cain that literally shouted their occupation to the most careless of observers. They could not, any one of them, rid themselves of their military gait or bearing, and I saw at once, just as Casteno had, that they were policemen in plain clothes.
“Humph! Detectives!” I observed, turning away from my post of observation with a shrug.
“Quite so, brother Hugh, quite so,” repeated Casteno, with a triumphant grin. “You have guessed the melancholy truth the first time. They are detectives, engaged in preventing anyone leaving this noble mansion without their knowledge and permission. If you had remained at the window a trifle longer you would doubtless have seen for yourself their most noble leader. As a matter of fact, he is a friend of yours—”
“And pray who is that?” I snapped, for I felt too tired to join in this vein of merriment. “What friend have I in the force?” I asked.
“A gentleman named Naylor, very much at your service,” replied Casteno.
“How? What do you mean?”
“Oh! nothing, nothing at all,” airily continued my companion. “Only at 5 AM he rang the bell at our gate, and after courteously wishing our janitor a very nice ‘good-morning’ he ventured to inquire whether you, brother Hugh, were within. On being told, with our customary truth, that you were he promptly disavowed all desire to interfere with your beauty sleep, and blandly offered to wait outside till it should please the fates to restore to you a sense of your own importance and the necessity for action. Our gate custodian, being a bit of a humourist, agreed that, on the whole, he would find it nicer and warmer outside St. Bruno’s than it was in, but vouchsafed to promise that, when you did arise, he would certainly inform you that so noble and so illustrious-looking a gentleman desired the honour of a few minutes private conversation with you.”
“Oh I shut up that rubbish,” I retorted pettishly, for I saw that Casteno’s florid periods really covered a move of a very grave and far-reaching importance. “The point is not a joke as you pretend. What we have got to decide is the best thing for me to do now Scotland Yard has put these men on my heels! I don’t want this round-table conference to-night to go wrong. I want to be free to be present at it. Indeed, we don’t want any scandal or newspaper publicity just at present. We should be able to imitate moles—moles that work in the dark.”
“That is true,” said a voice suddenly behind me, and wheeling round I found that we had been joined by the Prior. “Would you care to slip off?” he queried after a moment’s painful pause. “I could find you a good disguise as a woman, with a thick black veil, too. We have a passage that runs from this house to a little clump of bushes in a distant field. You could easily dart through that and make your way off without being caught.”
“I am afraid that would only leave you all here in a worse pickle,” I replied after some reflection. “Naylor, after all, will only wait a certain length of time, and if he finds then that I don’t materialise, as our brother at the gate promised, he will be quite wild enough to organise a raid on the place; and remember, after all, it does contain those three precious manuscripts. No; it looks as though I must face the worst after all.”
“But what on earth can he want with you?” cried Casteno petulantly.
“That’s just it,” I said. “I have got to go out and see. Well, it’s no good beating about the bush. If I have to face this unpleasant and inquisitive individual, I have to, I suppose, and the sooner I get it over the better for all of us. You two must keep a sharp watch on me, that’s all, and if you find I am hauled off to the police station on any pretence you must follow me up and try to bail me out.”
“And, failing all else, I will go down to the House of Commons this very afternoon and make a personal appeal for you to both Cuthbertson and the Home Secretary,” cried the Member of Parliament vigorously, for now he too seemed to be quite upset at the line things were taking.
“All right,” I said bravely. “I won’t thank you. We are all now too good friends, and too closely allied, to make use of conventional expressions of gratitude. I trust you—that’s sufficient—and I’ll step out and meet this turn of affairs with all the courage I can muster.”
With a curt nod I turned and left them and made my way down the staircase to the hall, and thence I passed rapidly to the door that shut off the monastery grounds from the public thoroughfare. This last was thrown open at my approach, and I proceeded to the roadway, which for a moment after I entered it looked quite deserted. Determined to carry the interview through with a high hand, however, I stepped out promptly, as though Whitehall at least was my destination, and then it was that Naylor, as I expected, found himself compelled to step from behind a tree and to show himself, which he did with an ugly twinkle of triumph in his small beady black eyes.
“Ah, you’ve come, then?” he said with a grunt, disdaining all conventional expressions of greeting.
“Yes; I’ve come,” I answered with equal discourtesy. “What do you want, eh?” And I stepped quite close to him and faced him.
Chapter Twenty Five.Held in Bondage.Long afterwards, when the bitterness of that moment had ceased to rankle in my heart, the Prior and Casteno related how eagerly they had watched me from that long lancet-shaped window while I boldly advanced to the detective. For their own part, they were sure Naylor meant mischief to me, but as to the means he would employ they were all at sea, and so they were for the time all strain and attention.Luckily, I, too, was well on my guard, and so I did not show any undignified haste in the negotiations. Indeed, I purposely asked the inspector to explain why he had sent so earnest a message to me, and, finally cornered, he began the serious part of the conversation.“I suppose you guess,” he said, looking aimlessly first to one side of him and then to the other, “why I’ve brought a posse of men with me and surrounded that queer place I found you in?” And with a wave of the hand he indicated the monastery.“In truth, I don’t,” I answered promptly, “unless,” and here I paused rather effectively, “unless, Naylor, you have taken leave of your senses.”The man tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort, foredoomed to failure.“Ah,” he observed, “you always were a hot ’un, Mr Glynn, in any game of ‘bluff’ but it won’t do this time—you’ve gone a bit too far for your own comfort—and we’re going to see you worsted.”“Well, that’s all right,” I responded cheerfully. “You won’t object to that, will you? It isn’t love for me that’s making you look so precious uneasy, now, is it? Well, then, get on with your work, I shan’t object.” And producing my cigarette case I opened it and passed it carelessly to my companion, who pushed it rather petulantly on one side.“I don’t want to smoke—I am much too serious for that,” he snapped.“Oh,” I rejoined. “Well, I am not.” And I struck a match and lit a cigarette.“I don’t think I ought to beat about the bush any longer,” he proceeded after an irritated glance at my magnificent assumption of carelessness. “The fact is just this, I hold warrants for the arrest of yourself and that young Spanish adventurer, José Casteno, or to give him his proper name, Joseph Zouche.”“Indeed,” said I, trying to look politely interested, “that’s news if you like. On what charge, pray?”“Robbery, with violence, on Worcester Racecourse—three old manuscripts, the property of Mr Peter Zouche, the hunchback, who held them as bailee!”“You surprise me,” I remarked. “Really, you do. Where does Worcester happen to be?” And I gave him a look of mild and innocent inquiry that I believe would have done credit to a child of six.“You will find out all the geography you care to learn in the police station,” he said, stiffly repressing a very obvious temptation to swear roundly; “for the present you must consider yourself under arrest.” And he beckoned one of his men from a distance and told him to go to St. Bruno’s and to ask for José Casteno, who joined us a few moments later, clad in ordinary clothes, and was then told of the charge against us, whilst I perched myself on the root of a fallen tree and went on puffing away at my cigarette.“Now,” said Naylor in conclusion, much impressed by the manner of his own eloquence, “if you two gentlemen don’t mind, one of my mates will fetch a four-wheeler, and we’ll drive off to Bow Street.”“Do,” I put in, “it will be warmer there than it is here.” And I pretended to shiver as I added: “It seems to me, Naylor, there is always a cold streak in the air on Hampstead Heath; don’t you think so?”The man shot me a look charged with malice and uncharitableness. But he did not take the bait. “I have,” he went on with a certain amount of hesitation, “a search warrant, duly executed to go over that house there—St. Bruno’s. Of course, I don’t want to make myself needlessly unpleasant, so if you would like to hand over the manuscripts, the subjects of the charge against you, I will not put it into execution.”José looked at me, and I looked at him. We would both of us have dearly liked to have palmed off those forgeries upon this short-tempered individual; but it would not do.“We know nothing about your business,” I said slowly, and, taking my cue, my friend nodded in support. “You must do really what strikes you as the best; but,” and the inspector’s eyes glittered, expecting some concession or admission, “don’t—don’t ask us any questions,” I added sweetly, “for that is beyond your duty and outside your place.”With a muffled curse Naylor turned on his heel and despatched a messenger for the cab he had mentioned. Then he summoned two or three other constables, handed them certain documents, and whispered to them quickly certain instructions. Afterwards a four-wheeler drove up, and giving our words that we would make no effort to escape, the three of us stepped inside, and began that long and tedious journey to Bow Street.The most weary rides, however, come to an end some time—and so did this. At length the police station was reached, and we all walked boldly into the charge office, where the warrant was read over to us, to which we made no reply, of course; and, pending our formal remand by a magistrate, I begged and obtained permission that we should be both placed in the same cell. In answer to the usual question: Did we wish to communicate with any legal advisers or friends? both Casteno and I said: “Yes.” After a whispered consultation we decided on this plan of action. I sent this telegram:“Cooper-Nassington,House of Commons, SW.“Casteno and I have been arrested on extraordinary charge of robbery with violence, and lodged at Bow Street. Please see hunchback and explain error, and do your best to secure our immediate release.—Hugh Glynn.”“It will not, then, be my fault if the round-table conference fails to come off,” I reasoned. But at the bottom of my heart, I own, I felt strangely disturbed at the turn affairs had taken. I could not rid myself of some curious suspicion that Lord Fotheringay and his friends had got some new trick to work, and that, after all, we might be now, quite unconsciously, riding for a nasty fall.Casteno himself elected to appeal to Lord Cyril, and after we had been both searched and had all our valuables taken from us he was permitted to take a sheet of notepaper and to write as follows:—“Bow Street Police Station.“Dear Lord Cyril,—The matter is too serious for me to stand on any ceremony with you, and, therefore, I write quite straightforwardly to you, to report what you will doubtless hear in the course of your official duties—that Mr Hugh Glynn, the Secret Investigator, and myself have been arrested, and are now detained at the above address on some trumped-up charge of stealing certain manuscripts from my father on Worcester Racecourse.“This action of the authorities, of course, quite precludes all chance of our meeting you and Colonel and Miss Napier and Lord Fotheringay at Stanton Street to-night. I put it to you now quite pointedly whether it is to the welfare of England that this interview should not take place?“I suggest that you see the Home Secretary and get this action quashed. Otherwise, please regard our offer to treat with you as withdrawn, and, if necessary, we shall appeal to His Majesty the King himself, to see that there is no party jugglery with so vital a national issue as this recovery of the sacred lake of Tangikano. As to the charge of theft and assault, that, of course, is absurd, and must fail.“Yours obediently, José Zouche Casteno.”This note was read very carefully by the officers in charge of the station. But they had evidently received some secret instructions about us, for they pretended to treat it quite as an ordinary and commonplace communication, and permitted Casteno himself to enclose it in an envelope and hand it to a constable to carry to the Foreign Office.Then we were conducted to a cell and left to our own devices, and for a time we kept ourselves lively enough, speculating on what would be the issue of the strong commanding line we had taken.But as hour after hour slipped by and we received no sign from the outer world our hearts began to sink within us. Maybe, too, the atmosphere of that small, tightly-barred cell, with its narrow walls and depressing suggestions, had its baneful effect upon us. At all events, a sensation of fear seemed to seize us. We felt caged—bound—removed from the live, throbbing world of action to which we had grown so accustomed, and then, thus deprived of movement, we insensibly began to languish. All at once we realised what freedom really means—that it yields of itself a thousand pleasures, as a fish is surrounded by the unconscious sustenances of the sea.Finally, as the night began to close in, a heavy step was heard in the whitewashed passage outside, and the wicket door was thrust open.“Here is tea for two,” cried a gruff voice, “also a letter for José Casteno.” And I hastened to the entrance and received a tray on which stood two coarse mugs of tea and three or four huge slabs of real police-station bread and butter.Trembling with excitement Casteno seized the letter that had been brought for him and tore open the envelope, on the flap of which was embossed in red the Royal Arms, with the words “Foreign Office” let into the outer circle. Then he unfolded the note, which, in response to a gesture from him, I read over his shoulder.“Foreign Office, Whitehall, SW.“Sir,—I am desired by His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to acknowledge your letter of this day’s date and to inform you that the subject-matter thereof has no connection with him in either a personal or official capacity.“I have the honour to remain, Sir, Your most obedient servant, Reginald Wyke, Assistant Secretary.“ToJosé Zouche Casteno, The Police Station, Bow Street, WC.”“What a terrible snub,” I cried, pushing the tray on to the wooden bedstead. “What can it mean?”“They’ve done us, that’s all,” panted Casteno, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Either they’ve got hold of the manuscripts when they searched St. Bruno’s, or we’ve been sold in some fashion we least expect.”“Is it Cooper-Nassington?” I hazarded. “Remember, I have had no reply to my telegram!”“I don’t know,” said the Spaniard, gloomily beginning to pace up and down the cell. “We must wait, I suppose, before we can see. At present we’ve played our cards to the bitter end, and we’ve got nowhere.”“How about the king?” I queried nervously.“We can do nothing there until we see what Cooper-Nassington has developed into.” He relapsed into moody reflection. For a few minutes we did not exchange a word, and then, stopping his restless promenade suddenly, he gripped me excitedly by the arm. “I’ve got it,” he cried, “I’ve got it. Deserted by all, we’ll try the Jesuits.”“And sell England, I suppose,” I answered coldly. “Not a bit of it.”“Oh no. We shall thus procure even more powerful adherents for England than even Lord Cyril is. We will strike a bargain with them, to side with us.”“You won’t succeed,” I said.“I will,” he thundered, and he caught the chain attached to a prisoner’s bell and rung it violently.“Mind,” I returned impressively, “you do this thing against my better judgment, and when you know for a fact that the Jesuits have been as keen almost to get hold of these documents as we have. Bad as our plight is now, I am sure it will be a thousand times worse after you have entrusted our secrets to these subtle sons of St. Ignatius. Make no mistake. Understand you have been warned, and that you do this thing with your eyes wide open.”“I understand perfectly,” he rejoined. “But I am at the last ditch. I shall turn now and fight ruffians of the stamp of Cuthbertson with his own weapons. He has insulted me grossly in that last letter of his, penned by an assistant secretary, I see, and I will repay him ‘a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, burning for burning’!” And his hands clenched, and upon his features there glowered a look of diabolical rage.I would have said more, but just then a police sergeant answered his summons, and at his request brought him a fresh sheet of notepaper and an envelope, as well as pad, pen, ink, and blotting paper. Thereon he sat down once again on the side of the bed and wrote as under:“Bow Street Police Station, Cell 12,973.“ToThe Rev. Father Provincial of the Society of Jesus, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street, Berkeley Square, W.“Rev. Father,—As one who was for some years as a small boy educated at your society’s Stoneyhurst College, I beg to crave your assistance. A friend and I have been arrested on a perfectly frivolous and futile charge for grave purposes of the State, connected with the disappearance of three manuscripts relating to the sacred lake of Tangikano, in which I understand your society has a very real and vital interest. Can you, therefore, make it convenient to come and see me on the matter, or at least send a representative to me who is capable of giving me the best and most disinterested advice at this juncture? If so, words will fail to express my gratitude to you.“Your distracted servant, José Zouche Casteno.”“Please have that sent at once,” he said, passing the letter open for the officer to read.“Any answer?” replied the man, taking the note and preparing to leave.“Yes; pray tell the constable to wait,” returned Casteno, and the sergeant disappeared, and once more we were alone.For my own part, I was too disgusted then to wrangle any further with the Spaniard. In a swift comprehensive fashion I realised that it was too late to upbraid, the mischief now was done, and that all I could do was to stand by and fight as best I could for the welfare of my own country independent of any adventurers like Cuthbertson on the one hand or of the Jesuits on the other.After all, I saw, if I became too vocal, Casteno was in no mood to brook lectures from me. He always had a remedy against me—he could ask to be placed in a separate cell, and then I should be in a worse position than ever. I should know nothing of what he was doing to injure England, nothing at all.
Long afterwards, when the bitterness of that moment had ceased to rankle in my heart, the Prior and Casteno related how eagerly they had watched me from that long lancet-shaped window while I boldly advanced to the detective. For their own part, they were sure Naylor meant mischief to me, but as to the means he would employ they were all at sea, and so they were for the time all strain and attention.
Luckily, I, too, was well on my guard, and so I did not show any undignified haste in the negotiations. Indeed, I purposely asked the inspector to explain why he had sent so earnest a message to me, and, finally cornered, he began the serious part of the conversation.
“I suppose you guess,” he said, looking aimlessly first to one side of him and then to the other, “why I’ve brought a posse of men with me and surrounded that queer place I found you in?” And with a wave of the hand he indicated the monastery.
“In truth, I don’t,” I answered promptly, “unless,” and here I paused rather effectively, “unless, Naylor, you have taken leave of your senses.”
The man tried to smile, but it was a sickly effort, foredoomed to failure.
“Ah,” he observed, “you always were a hot ’un, Mr Glynn, in any game of ‘bluff’ but it won’t do this time—you’ve gone a bit too far for your own comfort—and we’re going to see you worsted.”
“Well, that’s all right,” I responded cheerfully. “You won’t object to that, will you? It isn’t love for me that’s making you look so precious uneasy, now, is it? Well, then, get on with your work, I shan’t object.” And producing my cigarette case I opened it and passed it carelessly to my companion, who pushed it rather petulantly on one side.
“I don’t want to smoke—I am much too serious for that,” he snapped.
“Oh,” I rejoined. “Well, I am not.” And I struck a match and lit a cigarette.
“I don’t think I ought to beat about the bush any longer,” he proceeded after an irritated glance at my magnificent assumption of carelessness. “The fact is just this, I hold warrants for the arrest of yourself and that young Spanish adventurer, José Casteno, or to give him his proper name, Joseph Zouche.”
“Indeed,” said I, trying to look politely interested, “that’s news if you like. On what charge, pray?”
“Robbery, with violence, on Worcester Racecourse—three old manuscripts, the property of Mr Peter Zouche, the hunchback, who held them as bailee!”
“You surprise me,” I remarked. “Really, you do. Where does Worcester happen to be?” And I gave him a look of mild and innocent inquiry that I believe would have done credit to a child of six.
“You will find out all the geography you care to learn in the police station,” he said, stiffly repressing a very obvious temptation to swear roundly; “for the present you must consider yourself under arrest.” And he beckoned one of his men from a distance and told him to go to St. Bruno’s and to ask for José Casteno, who joined us a few moments later, clad in ordinary clothes, and was then told of the charge against us, whilst I perched myself on the root of a fallen tree and went on puffing away at my cigarette.
“Now,” said Naylor in conclusion, much impressed by the manner of his own eloquence, “if you two gentlemen don’t mind, one of my mates will fetch a four-wheeler, and we’ll drive off to Bow Street.”
“Do,” I put in, “it will be warmer there than it is here.” And I pretended to shiver as I added: “It seems to me, Naylor, there is always a cold streak in the air on Hampstead Heath; don’t you think so?”
The man shot me a look charged with malice and uncharitableness. But he did not take the bait. “I have,” he went on with a certain amount of hesitation, “a search warrant, duly executed to go over that house there—St. Bruno’s. Of course, I don’t want to make myself needlessly unpleasant, so if you would like to hand over the manuscripts, the subjects of the charge against you, I will not put it into execution.”
José looked at me, and I looked at him. We would both of us have dearly liked to have palmed off those forgeries upon this short-tempered individual; but it would not do.
“We know nothing about your business,” I said slowly, and, taking my cue, my friend nodded in support. “You must do really what strikes you as the best; but,” and the inspector’s eyes glittered, expecting some concession or admission, “don’t—don’t ask us any questions,” I added sweetly, “for that is beyond your duty and outside your place.”
With a muffled curse Naylor turned on his heel and despatched a messenger for the cab he had mentioned. Then he summoned two or three other constables, handed them certain documents, and whispered to them quickly certain instructions. Afterwards a four-wheeler drove up, and giving our words that we would make no effort to escape, the three of us stepped inside, and began that long and tedious journey to Bow Street.
The most weary rides, however, come to an end some time—and so did this. At length the police station was reached, and we all walked boldly into the charge office, where the warrant was read over to us, to which we made no reply, of course; and, pending our formal remand by a magistrate, I begged and obtained permission that we should be both placed in the same cell. In answer to the usual question: Did we wish to communicate with any legal advisers or friends? both Casteno and I said: “Yes.” After a whispered consultation we decided on this plan of action. I sent this telegram:
“Cooper-Nassington,House of Commons, SW.
“Casteno and I have been arrested on extraordinary charge of robbery with violence, and lodged at Bow Street. Please see hunchback and explain error, and do your best to secure our immediate release.—Hugh Glynn.”
“It will not, then, be my fault if the round-table conference fails to come off,” I reasoned. But at the bottom of my heart, I own, I felt strangely disturbed at the turn affairs had taken. I could not rid myself of some curious suspicion that Lord Fotheringay and his friends had got some new trick to work, and that, after all, we might be now, quite unconsciously, riding for a nasty fall.
Casteno himself elected to appeal to Lord Cyril, and after we had been both searched and had all our valuables taken from us he was permitted to take a sheet of notepaper and to write as follows:—
“Bow Street Police Station.
“Dear Lord Cyril,—The matter is too serious for me to stand on any ceremony with you, and, therefore, I write quite straightforwardly to you, to report what you will doubtless hear in the course of your official duties—that Mr Hugh Glynn, the Secret Investigator, and myself have been arrested, and are now detained at the above address on some trumped-up charge of stealing certain manuscripts from my father on Worcester Racecourse.
“This action of the authorities, of course, quite precludes all chance of our meeting you and Colonel and Miss Napier and Lord Fotheringay at Stanton Street to-night. I put it to you now quite pointedly whether it is to the welfare of England that this interview should not take place?
“I suggest that you see the Home Secretary and get this action quashed. Otherwise, please regard our offer to treat with you as withdrawn, and, if necessary, we shall appeal to His Majesty the King himself, to see that there is no party jugglery with so vital a national issue as this recovery of the sacred lake of Tangikano. As to the charge of theft and assault, that, of course, is absurd, and must fail.
“Yours obediently, José Zouche Casteno.”
This note was read very carefully by the officers in charge of the station. But they had evidently received some secret instructions about us, for they pretended to treat it quite as an ordinary and commonplace communication, and permitted Casteno himself to enclose it in an envelope and hand it to a constable to carry to the Foreign Office.
Then we were conducted to a cell and left to our own devices, and for a time we kept ourselves lively enough, speculating on what would be the issue of the strong commanding line we had taken.
But as hour after hour slipped by and we received no sign from the outer world our hearts began to sink within us. Maybe, too, the atmosphere of that small, tightly-barred cell, with its narrow walls and depressing suggestions, had its baneful effect upon us. At all events, a sensation of fear seemed to seize us. We felt caged—bound—removed from the live, throbbing world of action to which we had grown so accustomed, and then, thus deprived of movement, we insensibly began to languish. All at once we realised what freedom really means—that it yields of itself a thousand pleasures, as a fish is surrounded by the unconscious sustenances of the sea.
Finally, as the night began to close in, a heavy step was heard in the whitewashed passage outside, and the wicket door was thrust open.
“Here is tea for two,” cried a gruff voice, “also a letter for José Casteno.” And I hastened to the entrance and received a tray on which stood two coarse mugs of tea and three or four huge slabs of real police-station bread and butter.
Trembling with excitement Casteno seized the letter that had been brought for him and tore open the envelope, on the flap of which was embossed in red the Royal Arms, with the words “Foreign Office” let into the outer circle. Then he unfolded the note, which, in response to a gesture from him, I read over his shoulder.
“Foreign Office, Whitehall, SW.
“Sir,—I am desired by His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs to acknowledge your letter of this day’s date and to inform you that the subject-matter thereof has no connection with him in either a personal or official capacity.
“I have the honour to remain, Sir, Your most obedient servant, Reginald Wyke, Assistant Secretary.
“ToJosé Zouche Casteno, The Police Station, Bow Street, WC.”
“What a terrible snub,” I cried, pushing the tray on to the wooden bedstead. “What can it mean?”
“They’ve done us, that’s all,” panted Casteno, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Either they’ve got hold of the manuscripts when they searched St. Bruno’s, or we’ve been sold in some fashion we least expect.”
“Is it Cooper-Nassington?” I hazarded. “Remember, I have had no reply to my telegram!”
“I don’t know,” said the Spaniard, gloomily beginning to pace up and down the cell. “We must wait, I suppose, before we can see. At present we’ve played our cards to the bitter end, and we’ve got nowhere.”
“How about the king?” I queried nervously.
“We can do nothing there until we see what Cooper-Nassington has developed into.” He relapsed into moody reflection. For a few minutes we did not exchange a word, and then, stopping his restless promenade suddenly, he gripped me excitedly by the arm. “I’ve got it,” he cried, “I’ve got it. Deserted by all, we’ll try the Jesuits.”
“And sell England, I suppose,” I answered coldly. “Not a bit of it.”
“Oh no. We shall thus procure even more powerful adherents for England than even Lord Cyril is. We will strike a bargain with them, to side with us.”
“You won’t succeed,” I said.
“I will,” he thundered, and he caught the chain attached to a prisoner’s bell and rung it violently.
“Mind,” I returned impressively, “you do this thing against my better judgment, and when you know for a fact that the Jesuits have been as keen almost to get hold of these documents as we have. Bad as our plight is now, I am sure it will be a thousand times worse after you have entrusted our secrets to these subtle sons of St. Ignatius. Make no mistake. Understand you have been warned, and that you do this thing with your eyes wide open.”
“I understand perfectly,” he rejoined. “But I am at the last ditch. I shall turn now and fight ruffians of the stamp of Cuthbertson with his own weapons. He has insulted me grossly in that last letter of his, penned by an assistant secretary, I see, and I will repay him ‘a tooth for a tooth, an eye for an eye, burning for burning’!” And his hands clenched, and upon his features there glowered a look of diabolical rage.
I would have said more, but just then a police sergeant answered his summons, and at his request brought him a fresh sheet of notepaper and an envelope, as well as pad, pen, ink, and blotting paper. Thereon he sat down once again on the side of the bed and wrote as under:
“Bow Street Police Station, Cell 12,973.
“ToThe Rev. Father Provincial of the Society of Jesus, Church of the Immaculate Conception, Farm Street, Berkeley Square, W.
“Rev. Father,—As one who was for some years as a small boy educated at your society’s Stoneyhurst College, I beg to crave your assistance. A friend and I have been arrested on a perfectly frivolous and futile charge for grave purposes of the State, connected with the disappearance of three manuscripts relating to the sacred lake of Tangikano, in which I understand your society has a very real and vital interest. Can you, therefore, make it convenient to come and see me on the matter, or at least send a representative to me who is capable of giving me the best and most disinterested advice at this juncture? If so, words will fail to express my gratitude to you.
“Your distracted servant, José Zouche Casteno.”
“Please have that sent at once,” he said, passing the letter open for the officer to read.
“Any answer?” replied the man, taking the note and preparing to leave.
“Yes; pray tell the constable to wait,” returned Casteno, and the sergeant disappeared, and once more we were alone.
For my own part, I was too disgusted then to wrangle any further with the Spaniard. In a swift comprehensive fashion I realised that it was too late to upbraid, the mischief now was done, and that all I could do was to stand by and fight as best I could for the welfare of my own country independent of any adventurers like Cuthbertson on the one hand or of the Jesuits on the other.
After all, I saw, if I became too vocal, Casteno was in no mood to brook lectures from me. He always had a remedy against me—he could ask to be placed in a separate cell, and then I should be in a worse position than ever. I should know nothing of what he was doing to injure England, nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty Six.The Words of Father Ganton.The answer to his letter, too, came much sooner than I expected. I don’t believe the note had been despatched half-an-hour before the clatter of several men was heard outside the cell again. The door was thrust open, and the sergeant announced: “A father from the Jesuits’ house in Farm Street.”It was something more than idle curiosity that prompted me to turn as the Jesuit father entered and to examine his features closely. After all, I was bound to admit to myself, although I had read a lot and had heard a lot about the members of the redoubtable Society of Jesus, I had never hitherto to my knowledge seen one in the flesh. Of course, I had a vague idea of what one of their priests would be like—tall and thin and sleek, pallid, austere, mysterious, with eyes that never looked straight at you, and a voice so carefully modulated that it never failed to give the precise shade of meaning, so precise, indeed, that it left nothing to the imagination at all.Nevertheless, I welcomed the opportunity of examining one of these cunning ministers of the papacy for myself. With a pardonable touch of egotism, I preferred my own estimate of strangers to other people’s, and I wanted to discover for myself what there was in a Jesuit’s education, discipline, and code of ethics that made them such powerful and resourceful soldiers of the Vatican, while at the same time they were, in practically every country on the globe, objects of such intense suspicion, jealousy, or most active dislike.“Benedicamus Domino,” said the priest, with a grave salutation to us both as the heavy iron door of the cell closed upon him.“Deo gratias,” responded Casteno, and at once I saw the effect of his Stoneyhurst training in the way in which he pulled himself together and assumed a bearing of reverent submissiveness I had never known him exhibit to any other person.As for the Jesuit himself, I admit I was completely astounded at his appearance. As he bent down and fumbled in his pocket for the letter which Casteno had sent to the Father Provincial I had a splendid opportunity of examining his features, for then the light from the high tightly-barred window streamed full upon him.To my surprise I discovered in this man of fifty, with the square shoulders, the unblinking eye, the clean-shaven mouth that expressed kindness, mirth, as well as iron resolution, none of the littleness I had credited him with. His broad forehead and black hair, now rapidly turning white, showed that he must have studied and studied hard, but not in any narrow sectarian school; his chin and lower jaw, too, were broad and massive but never cruel; while his hands were strong but also frank and free in movement; and his smile, as he searched his pockets through for the letter he had evidently forgotten, was one of the brightest and sunniest things we had seen in our prison-house. Finally, with a half foreign gesture of apology, he gave up his quest.“I am so sorry,” he said at length, “but I quite forgot to bring with me your letter which the Father Provincial handed to me. As a matter of fact, I must introduce myself too. I am Father Ganton, one of the priests attached to the Farm Street Church of the Immaculate Conception.”We both of us bowed gravely. And he went on: “Of course, we read your letter with great grief that any Stoneyhurst lad should get into a trouble such as this, but, really, we were astounded that any one of our pupils could make so ludicrous a blunder as you seem to have done about us. You, my son,” turning to Casteno, “must have mixed with many and strange folks since you were under the care of our priests in Lancashire to get the odd and crazy notion into your head that we are conspirators and politicians, and all that silly nonsense some papers delight to print about us. I can assure you both that all that stupid idea that we mix ourselves up in government, or schemes of government, is fudge—mere fudge. We are simply a strong militant Order for the Church of Rome, and, broadly speaking, we don’t care who is in power so long as we are free to practise our religion, and religious interests don’t suffer.”“Now about those manuscripts I wrote about—the manuscripts that are supposed to relate to the sacred lake of Tangikano,” questioned Casteno. “What about those?”“You can’t deny you have made most strenuous efforts,” cried I in triumph, “to get hold of those!”“I don’t know,” said the Jesuit readily. “It all depends, too, what you call ‘strenuous’ efforts. I will tell you quite frankly all we know about them. Centuries ago I understand our Order in Mexico did try to get hold of this sacred lake, but the treasure in it was not the ultimate object. We had had such grievous representations made to us by Catholic missionaries in the district of the evil effect of that heathen practice of casting treasure into that sacred water, with that ceremonial of a pagan pontiff, that we primarily desired to drain the lake right away and only leave in its place barren land. As a matter of fact, few of us nowadays ever gave a thought to the custom, until the other day a well-known dealer in manuscripts came to our house in Farm Street and told us that three most valuable documents affecting the history of our Order in Mexico were about to come under the hammer in London. He asked us to bid for them, knowing that many of our fathers were historians of no mean eminence and that the archives of our society were richly endowed with precious manuscripts that went right back into the twilight of civilised history. Then he gave a hint that they were supposed to relate to the lake, and so after some haggling and discussion we authorised him to bid up to sixty pounds—”“Sixty pounds,” echoed Casteno. “Oh, never!”“Yes; that was as much as we could afford, and as much as we desired to give,” returned Father Ganton. “Doubtless, the man made a great fuss about the commission to frighten other people off and to advertise his own importance; but that, as he will tell you, was our limit. One thing, however, I ought to put right at once, and I hope if either of you gentlemen gets the chance you will do this for the Society of Jesus in England. Had we had any ghost of a suspicion at the time that that dealer came to us that those manuscripts had any diplomatic importance whatever we should not have arranged to offer one penny for them. Our work, as our founder, St. Ignatius, lays down in the first of his spiritual exercises, is the salvation of souls, not the ‘sick hurry, the divided arms, the hearts o’ertaxed, the palsied arms,’ as Matthew Arnold points out, of the man of the world, eager only about fortune. We don’t want, we would not have, any distractions from this object; and I beg you to believe that, and so in your small way help to put public opinion right about the Jesuits of England.”“One question,” I interrupted earnestly as the priest held out his hand in farewell to us. “Don’t be annoyed, please, if I ask it. I admit it may sound horribly rude, but, indeed, I don’t mean it to be so in that way at all. Why are you Jesuits so heartily disliked, not only in England, but in Italy, in Spain, in France, in Germany, and also in South America?”The priest turned and looked at me with a frank and sincere expression.“Excuse me,” he said, “but do you ask that question as a man without any sectarian bias, as one with a genuine desire for information, and to learn only the truth?”“Indeed I do,” I returned, and I gazed at him straight in the face.“Well, I will answer it, then,” he responded, “and I will answer it in the way which we Jesuits answer it when we fall to talking about the hostility we read about but really seldom encounter. The point admits of two solutions, and of two solutions alone. One, either we are bad, mischievous people, who deserve expulsion and hatred; or, two, God really did answer that early prayer of our founder, St. Ignatius of Loyola, that we should be a persecuted and misunderstood Order as long as time should last, so that we should be always kept united, resolute, and efficient. Now of those two replies you can take your choice. Each one is sufficient in itself—each will give you an excellent and a thoroughly adequate reason—and in both Christian and heathen will find their points of view meet with equal consideration and tolerance!” And with a grave bow to me and a hand that made the sign of the cross over Casteno he turned away and left our cell.For some minutes afterwards we neither of us uttered a word. Both sat and looked at each other, and I am sure I don’t know who was the more puzzled or confounded.“That rules the Jesuits out,” I said at length, kicking the bedstead viciously with my foot.“Quite,” said Casteno. “Unfortunately, it also limits our possibilities of assistance.” Then after a pause he added: “I wonder if Miss Napier will hear of the hole we are in!”“Why?” I queried fiercely, flushing rosy crimson, for deep in my heart, alas! all my thoughts were still of her.“Oh! nothing,” he answered.“That’s rubbish,” I interposed rudely. “You meant something. What was it?”“Only this: Miss Napier is the kind of champion we want just now,” said Casteno humbly. “You see, we can’t get about for ourselves. We’re cornered. We need somebody with brain and charm to approach people in high places!”“What about Cooper-Nassington,” I said sternly. “You sent me to him. You relied on him. Look at the result!”“You forget, though, that he may be in prison like ourselves! Remember, Naylor had a warrant to search St. Bruno’s. Well, as likely as not, he had orders to take up some of the leaders of the Order too. Indeed, at a pinch, they might have arrested the lot of them.”That was quite possible. I saw it immediately the Spaniard had spoken, and I did not attempt to controvert it.“We shall have to wait, that’s all,” said Casteno at length, with something uncommonly like a groan.And wait we did—but certainly not as long as we expected—for just when ten o’clock was about to strike we caught the sounds of a loud scuffling in the corridor, a burst of jovial laughter, and the next second the door of our cell was flung violently open, and two people literally raced into our prison—no other than Doris herself and Cooper-Nassington.“Joy! joy!” cried the burly legislator, waving a pile of documents and newspapers. “Lord Cyril has suddenly resigned from the Government, and my old friend the Marquis of Penarth has taken his place; more than that, I’ve put the whole matter of the sacred lake before the marquis, and not only have I got an order from the Home Office for the immediate release of both of you, but I’ve arranged such terms that England will win—win at every point.”And, laughing and crying with excitement, Doris sprang to my arms.
The answer to his letter, too, came much sooner than I expected. I don’t believe the note had been despatched half-an-hour before the clatter of several men was heard outside the cell again. The door was thrust open, and the sergeant announced: “A father from the Jesuits’ house in Farm Street.”
It was something more than idle curiosity that prompted me to turn as the Jesuit father entered and to examine his features closely. After all, I was bound to admit to myself, although I had read a lot and had heard a lot about the members of the redoubtable Society of Jesus, I had never hitherto to my knowledge seen one in the flesh. Of course, I had a vague idea of what one of their priests would be like—tall and thin and sleek, pallid, austere, mysterious, with eyes that never looked straight at you, and a voice so carefully modulated that it never failed to give the precise shade of meaning, so precise, indeed, that it left nothing to the imagination at all.
Nevertheless, I welcomed the opportunity of examining one of these cunning ministers of the papacy for myself. With a pardonable touch of egotism, I preferred my own estimate of strangers to other people’s, and I wanted to discover for myself what there was in a Jesuit’s education, discipline, and code of ethics that made them such powerful and resourceful soldiers of the Vatican, while at the same time they were, in practically every country on the globe, objects of such intense suspicion, jealousy, or most active dislike.
“Benedicamus Domino,” said the priest, with a grave salutation to us both as the heavy iron door of the cell closed upon him.
“Deo gratias,” responded Casteno, and at once I saw the effect of his Stoneyhurst training in the way in which he pulled himself together and assumed a bearing of reverent submissiveness I had never known him exhibit to any other person.
As for the Jesuit himself, I admit I was completely astounded at his appearance. As he bent down and fumbled in his pocket for the letter which Casteno had sent to the Father Provincial I had a splendid opportunity of examining his features, for then the light from the high tightly-barred window streamed full upon him.
To my surprise I discovered in this man of fifty, with the square shoulders, the unblinking eye, the clean-shaven mouth that expressed kindness, mirth, as well as iron resolution, none of the littleness I had credited him with. His broad forehead and black hair, now rapidly turning white, showed that he must have studied and studied hard, but not in any narrow sectarian school; his chin and lower jaw, too, were broad and massive but never cruel; while his hands were strong but also frank and free in movement; and his smile, as he searched his pockets through for the letter he had evidently forgotten, was one of the brightest and sunniest things we had seen in our prison-house. Finally, with a half foreign gesture of apology, he gave up his quest.
“I am so sorry,” he said at length, “but I quite forgot to bring with me your letter which the Father Provincial handed to me. As a matter of fact, I must introduce myself too. I am Father Ganton, one of the priests attached to the Farm Street Church of the Immaculate Conception.”
We both of us bowed gravely. And he went on: “Of course, we read your letter with great grief that any Stoneyhurst lad should get into a trouble such as this, but, really, we were astounded that any one of our pupils could make so ludicrous a blunder as you seem to have done about us. You, my son,” turning to Casteno, “must have mixed with many and strange folks since you were under the care of our priests in Lancashire to get the odd and crazy notion into your head that we are conspirators and politicians, and all that silly nonsense some papers delight to print about us. I can assure you both that all that stupid idea that we mix ourselves up in government, or schemes of government, is fudge—mere fudge. We are simply a strong militant Order for the Church of Rome, and, broadly speaking, we don’t care who is in power so long as we are free to practise our religion, and religious interests don’t suffer.”
“Now about those manuscripts I wrote about—the manuscripts that are supposed to relate to the sacred lake of Tangikano,” questioned Casteno. “What about those?”
“You can’t deny you have made most strenuous efforts,” cried I in triumph, “to get hold of those!”
“I don’t know,” said the Jesuit readily. “It all depends, too, what you call ‘strenuous’ efforts. I will tell you quite frankly all we know about them. Centuries ago I understand our Order in Mexico did try to get hold of this sacred lake, but the treasure in it was not the ultimate object. We had had such grievous representations made to us by Catholic missionaries in the district of the evil effect of that heathen practice of casting treasure into that sacred water, with that ceremonial of a pagan pontiff, that we primarily desired to drain the lake right away and only leave in its place barren land. As a matter of fact, few of us nowadays ever gave a thought to the custom, until the other day a well-known dealer in manuscripts came to our house in Farm Street and told us that three most valuable documents affecting the history of our Order in Mexico were about to come under the hammer in London. He asked us to bid for them, knowing that many of our fathers were historians of no mean eminence and that the archives of our society were richly endowed with precious manuscripts that went right back into the twilight of civilised history. Then he gave a hint that they were supposed to relate to the lake, and so after some haggling and discussion we authorised him to bid up to sixty pounds—”
“Sixty pounds,” echoed Casteno. “Oh, never!”
“Yes; that was as much as we could afford, and as much as we desired to give,” returned Father Ganton. “Doubtless, the man made a great fuss about the commission to frighten other people off and to advertise his own importance; but that, as he will tell you, was our limit. One thing, however, I ought to put right at once, and I hope if either of you gentlemen gets the chance you will do this for the Society of Jesus in England. Had we had any ghost of a suspicion at the time that that dealer came to us that those manuscripts had any diplomatic importance whatever we should not have arranged to offer one penny for them. Our work, as our founder, St. Ignatius, lays down in the first of his spiritual exercises, is the salvation of souls, not the ‘sick hurry, the divided arms, the hearts o’ertaxed, the palsied arms,’ as Matthew Arnold points out, of the man of the world, eager only about fortune. We don’t want, we would not have, any distractions from this object; and I beg you to believe that, and so in your small way help to put public opinion right about the Jesuits of England.”
“One question,” I interrupted earnestly as the priest held out his hand in farewell to us. “Don’t be annoyed, please, if I ask it. I admit it may sound horribly rude, but, indeed, I don’t mean it to be so in that way at all. Why are you Jesuits so heartily disliked, not only in England, but in Italy, in Spain, in France, in Germany, and also in South America?”
The priest turned and looked at me with a frank and sincere expression.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but do you ask that question as a man without any sectarian bias, as one with a genuine desire for information, and to learn only the truth?”
“Indeed I do,” I returned, and I gazed at him straight in the face.
“Well, I will answer it, then,” he responded, “and I will answer it in the way which we Jesuits answer it when we fall to talking about the hostility we read about but really seldom encounter. The point admits of two solutions, and of two solutions alone. One, either we are bad, mischievous people, who deserve expulsion and hatred; or, two, God really did answer that early prayer of our founder, St. Ignatius of Loyola, that we should be a persecuted and misunderstood Order as long as time should last, so that we should be always kept united, resolute, and efficient. Now of those two replies you can take your choice. Each one is sufficient in itself—each will give you an excellent and a thoroughly adequate reason—and in both Christian and heathen will find their points of view meet with equal consideration and tolerance!” And with a grave bow to me and a hand that made the sign of the cross over Casteno he turned away and left our cell.
For some minutes afterwards we neither of us uttered a word. Both sat and looked at each other, and I am sure I don’t know who was the more puzzled or confounded.
“That rules the Jesuits out,” I said at length, kicking the bedstead viciously with my foot.
“Quite,” said Casteno. “Unfortunately, it also limits our possibilities of assistance.” Then after a pause he added: “I wonder if Miss Napier will hear of the hole we are in!”
“Why?” I queried fiercely, flushing rosy crimson, for deep in my heart, alas! all my thoughts were still of her.
“Oh! nothing,” he answered.
“That’s rubbish,” I interposed rudely. “You meant something. What was it?”
“Only this: Miss Napier is the kind of champion we want just now,” said Casteno humbly. “You see, we can’t get about for ourselves. We’re cornered. We need somebody with brain and charm to approach people in high places!”
“What about Cooper-Nassington,” I said sternly. “You sent me to him. You relied on him. Look at the result!”
“You forget, though, that he may be in prison like ourselves! Remember, Naylor had a warrant to search St. Bruno’s. Well, as likely as not, he had orders to take up some of the leaders of the Order too. Indeed, at a pinch, they might have arrested the lot of them.”
That was quite possible. I saw it immediately the Spaniard had spoken, and I did not attempt to controvert it.
“We shall have to wait, that’s all,” said Casteno at length, with something uncommonly like a groan.
And wait we did—but certainly not as long as we expected—for just when ten o’clock was about to strike we caught the sounds of a loud scuffling in the corridor, a burst of jovial laughter, and the next second the door of our cell was flung violently open, and two people literally raced into our prison—no other than Doris herself and Cooper-Nassington.
“Joy! joy!” cried the burly legislator, waving a pile of documents and newspapers. “Lord Cyril has suddenly resigned from the Government, and my old friend the Marquis of Penarth has taken his place; more than that, I’ve put the whole matter of the sacred lake before the marquis, and not only have I got an order from the Home Office for the immediate release of both of you, but I’ve arranged such terms that England will win—win at every point.”
And, laughing and crying with excitement, Doris sprang to my arms.
Chapter Twenty Seven.At the Present Moment.Overjoyed at this news, the four of us swept out of the police station. Even the inspectors and sergeants seemed to catch some of our enthusiasm, or was it the sight of Mr Cooper-Nassington and of the order from the Home Secretary that brought about so miraculous a change in their manner towards us? At all events, they led us quite in triumph out into Bow Street, and from thence, at a word from the Member of Parliament, we took our way to the Hotel Cecil, where, in a private room where a delightful supper had been spread, we found Colonel Napier awaiting us, apparently none the worse in temper or appearance for his bewildering experiences on the racecourse at Worcester.Then, as we discussed the meal, with many a merry jest and many a toast in the best champagne the hotel could produce, all the news poured about us like an avalanche.“First,” said Cooper-Nassington, who by unanimous request had taken the head of the table, with Doris and I on his right hand and Casteno on his left and the colonel to the front of him, “you are both, no doubt, literally dying to know how Lord Cyril came to tumble from his pinnacle as Foreign Secretary in a day as it were. Well, don’t trouble to look at the papers. They are full of lies, as usual. They pretend it is failing health, that the strain of European complications has been too much for him, that he’s threatened with softening of the brain; but all that is really nonsense. I got at the great man myself, and Imadehim resign!” And, swelling with pride and importance, the Member of Parliament rose and gazed delightedly upon us.“You actually did!” we cried in a breath; but he waved our dissent aside.“Yes; I contrived it all,” he went on. “As a matter of fact, I did it by bluff, sheer bluff; but I knew my man, and I knew where to hit him. He had tried to crush us, and I recognised that the time had come when, if we didn’t wish to be totally exterminated, we must fall upon him and demolish him.”And we both nodded, recalling that cruel letter of his to José.The Member of Parliament paused for a moment theatrically, and then went on in a more grave and earnest tone. At the bottom we could see he was really profoundly touched by the turn events had taken and by our own good fortune, but, British like, he sought to hide it by a jocularity and levity he was very far, indeed, from feeling.“I got a private interview with him at the Foreign Office this afternoon,” he said, “just after he had announced to a delighted House all about the wonderful discovery he had made of documents that proved that the sacred lake belonged to England, and that a mission would be despatched forthwith to take possession of it. This he did on the strength of the forged manuscripts which Naylor found in the safe when he searched St. Bruno’s from top to bottom. ‘Cuthbertson,’ I began very firmly, ‘you’ve been fooled, fooled completely. Those are not the documents you want at all. They are forgeries, as your experts will rapidly discover; forgeries made by the hunchback’s good-for-nothing second son.’ He stormed and he raved, and he sent for old Peter Zouche and his son Paul, who, of course, had to admit the truth of what I said, and then he lost nerve completely, begged my pardon, and tried to come to terms with me. ‘Let me have the real things,’ he pleaded, ‘and I’ll release your friends. I’ll give you a share of the credit of the discovery, and at the first opportunity I have I’ll find you a snug place in the Government.’“Now,” proceeded the Member of Parliament, “tempting as those terms were, I refused them. For one thing, I knew my man, and I knew he was but a pinchbeck, unstable, untruthful kind of genius. For another, I realised that, as Foreign Secretary, he was a terrible danger to England, so I stuck to the line I had marked out for myself, without any thought or hope of my own advancement. ‘You’ve got to resign,’ I returned—‘nothing else will satisfy me or save you from the ridicule I have arranged to pour upon you. I have prepared a careful account of the whole business as we know it from the inside, ay, even of the way you must have helped Fotheringay to send those sham nurses, and to-morrow I shall telegraph it to every newspaper of importance. I will swear an affidavit of its truth, and join the opposition, and between us we will contrive to literallylaughyou out of power.’ A terrible scene, of course, followed. He grew abusive, he tried more bribes, he threatened to have me flung into prison like yourselves—there wasn’t, in fact, a trick or a dodge which a man in his powerful position could resort to that he didn’t in turn practise on me.“Luckily, I am pretty obstinate,” he went on, “and I won, hands down. Straight away he got two or three doctor friends together, and they cooked up a certificate about the state of his health; he rushed off to Buckingham Palace and handed over his resignation to the king, who, fortunately, happened to be in town; and, after various audiences, the Premier about an hour ago appointed the Marquis of Penarth in his place. In the Cabinet it is pretty well known how I managed it, but nobody regrets Cuthbertson’s downfall. He was too proud, too overbearing, too insolent for the position, and all the members of the House whom I have spoken to seem to be relieved at his resignation and hurried departure to that old castle of his up in Galloway.”“And what,” asked José, “has become of my father and brother?” And his face was pale and his eyes full of tears.“I am sorry to say they have both bolted. The Home Secretary sent after them regarding the loss of certain plans from the Woolwich Arsenal, but they took fright over the forgeries and Cuthbertson’s threats and slipped off to Greenwich, from which they got a tramp steamer to take them to some foreign port, whence they can flee up country and gain a quasi kind of protection, which it won’t pay England to fight—probably in Portugal or Spain, or even in Greece, with which country, I understand, we have no extradition treaty whatever.”“And you, colonel,” I asked, turning to Napier. “How did you come to forgive us?” I queried.The old soldier broke into a hearty laugh. “Oh! that wasn’t difficult when such a magician as Cooper-Nassington set to work. He told me the whole of the facts, whereas Fotheringay had only explained to me half!”And under the table-cloth Doris’ small hand found mine, and gave me a sweet little token of satisfaction, trust, and content. Already I felt more than repaid for the misunderstanding I had suffered.Little more remains to be told.Only next day the papers came out with the true account of Bernard Delganni’s suicide, and there is no doubt in my mind now that he was the man who stabbed the colonel’s spaniel, which was said to sleep usually in the colonel’s room.Soon after this the expedition to Mexico set sail, and now any day we may hear that, with the aid of the old Jesuits’ chart and the information contained in the yellow parchments, Beckworth’s sacred lake has actually been drained off and England in possession of a practically inexhaustible mine of wealth. Every day I open my newspaper I look for this welcome intelligence, and every day I am certain brings us nearer the consummation of this discovery. One day before long the sacred lake, which is already located and has been sounded, will be run dry by a tunnel which is being cut through a small mountain, and when this is accomplished it will bring joy and solid relief to the heart of every taxpayer and Englishman. The wealth known to be in the bed of the lake is enormous, and some of the gems and gold ornaments recovered are already in London. That Fotheringay has got a place in the expedition gives me no concern. He was never really bad, and chances of redemption should be given to all, although Casteno has really never forgiven him that trick with the sham nurses.The Order of St. Bruno still flourishes under Mr Cooper-Nassington’s guidance, and anyone who desires to join it should address my friend, the Member of Parliament, at the House of Commons. I have but thinly disguised his identity in these chapters, and any serious patriot could discover his real name by a little judicious inquiry, say from the chairman of the Press Gallery, who knows twice as much of the secret history of our legislative establishment as, notwithstanding what croakers over press morality assert, ever finds its way into print.The Order has, I am compelled to record, lost two of its active members. One, José Casteno, who has married that very charming girl, Camille Velasquon, and set sail for Mexico, hot on the heels of the British expedition to Tangikano, and also to see that Fotheringay goes straight. The other, my poor, graceless self, who, now that Doris has become my wife, no longer figures in Stanton Street, WC, as a secret investigator, but lives out at Redhill, and goes daily to his chambers in the Temple—Lawyers’ Land—to lay the foundation of a barrister’s practice, aided by poor Naylor, who was retired compulsorily from Scotland Yard upon a small pension, but who, I find, makes an admirable clerk when it comes to a hand-to-hand tussle with solicitors, who ever want more than their true pound of flesh.And so for the present, with the others, I must make my adieu!When England is startled, as she will be one day ere long, by the announcement of the recovery of the enormous treasure of Tangikano, the emeralds and rubies unequalled in the world, and the wonderful images and utensils of solid gold that have been hidden for ages in the slime beneath those silent waters, then will you, perhaps, recollect the chapters of an eventful history which I have recorded in the foregoing pages, and remember what part in the modern drama of London life was played by the man once known to connoisseurs and collectors as the Hunchback of Westminster.
Overjoyed at this news, the four of us swept out of the police station. Even the inspectors and sergeants seemed to catch some of our enthusiasm, or was it the sight of Mr Cooper-Nassington and of the order from the Home Secretary that brought about so miraculous a change in their manner towards us? At all events, they led us quite in triumph out into Bow Street, and from thence, at a word from the Member of Parliament, we took our way to the Hotel Cecil, where, in a private room where a delightful supper had been spread, we found Colonel Napier awaiting us, apparently none the worse in temper or appearance for his bewildering experiences on the racecourse at Worcester.
Then, as we discussed the meal, with many a merry jest and many a toast in the best champagne the hotel could produce, all the news poured about us like an avalanche.
“First,” said Cooper-Nassington, who by unanimous request had taken the head of the table, with Doris and I on his right hand and Casteno on his left and the colonel to the front of him, “you are both, no doubt, literally dying to know how Lord Cyril came to tumble from his pinnacle as Foreign Secretary in a day as it were. Well, don’t trouble to look at the papers. They are full of lies, as usual. They pretend it is failing health, that the strain of European complications has been too much for him, that he’s threatened with softening of the brain; but all that is really nonsense. I got at the great man myself, and Imadehim resign!” And, swelling with pride and importance, the Member of Parliament rose and gazed delightedly upon us.
“You actually did!” we cried in a breath; but he waved our dissent aside.
“Yes; I contrived it all,” he went on. “As a matter of fact, I did it by bluff, sheer bluff; but I knew my man, and I knew where to hit him. He had tried to crush us, and I recognised that the time had come when, if we didn’t wish to be totally exterminated, we must fall upon him and demolish him.”
And we both nodded, recalling that cruel letter of his to José.
The Member of Parliament paused for a moment theatrically, and then went on in a more grave and earnest tone. At the bottom we could see he was really profoundly touched by the turn events had taken and by our own good fortune, but, British like, he sought to hide it by a jocularity and levity he was very far, indeed, from feeling.
“I got a private interview with him at the Foreign Office this afternoon,” he said, “just after he had announced to a delighted House all about the wonderful discovery he had made of documents that proved that the sacred lake belonged to England, and that a mission would be despatched forthwith to take possession of it. This he did on the strength of the forged manuscripts which Naylor found in the safe when he searched St. Bruno’s from top to bottom. ‘Cuthbertson,’ I began very firmly, ‘you’ve been fooled, fooled completely. Those are not the documents you want at all. They are forgeries, as your experts will rapidly discover; forgeries made by the hunchback’s good-for-nothing second son.’ He stormed and he raved, and he sent for old Peter Zouche and his son Paul, who, of course, had to admit the truth of what I said, and then he lost nerve completely, begged my pardon, and tried to come to terms with me. ‘Let me have the real things,’ he pleaded, ‘and I’ll release your friends. I’ll give you a share of the credit of the discovery, and at the first opportunity I have I’ll find you a snug place in the Government.’
“Now,” proceeded the Member of Parliament, “tempting as those terms were, I refused them. For one thing, I knew my man, and I knew he was but a pinchbeck, unstable, untruthful kind of genius. For another, I realised that, as Foreign Secretary, he was a terrible danger to England, so I stuck to the line I had marked out for myself, without any thought or hope of my own advancement. ‘You’ve got to resign,’ I returned—‘nothing else will satisfy me or save you from the ridicule I have arranged to pour upon you. I have prepared a careful account of the whole business as we know it from the inside, ay, even of the way you must have helped Fotheringay to send those sham nurses, and to-morrow I shall telegraph it to every newspaper of importance. I will swear an affidavit of its truth, and join the opposition, and between us we will contrive to literallylaughyou out of power.’ A terrible scene, of course, followed. He grew abusive, he tried more bribes, he threatened to have me flung into prison like yourselves—there wasn’t, in fact, a trick or a dodge which a man in his powerful position could resort to that he didn’t in turn practise on me.
“Luckily, I am pretty obstinate,” he went on, “and I won, hands down. Straight away he got two or three doctor friends together, and they cooked up a certificate about the state of his health; he rushed off to Buckingham Palace and handed over his resignation to the king, who, fortunately, happened to be in town; and, after various audiences, the Premier about an hour ago appointed the Marquis of Penarth in his place. In the Cabinet it is pretty well known how I managed it, but nobody regrets Cuthbertson’s downfall. He was too proud, too overbearing, too insolent for the position, and all the members of the House whom I have spoken to seem to be relieved at his resignation and hurried departure to that old castle of his up in Galloway.”
“And what,” asked José, “has become of my father and brother?” And his face was pale and his eyes full of tears.
“I am sorry to say they have both bolted. The Home Secretary sent after them regarding the loss of certain plans from the Woolwich Arsenal, but they took fright over the forgeries and Cuthbertson’s threats and slipped off to Greenwich, from which they got a tramp steamer to take them to some foreign port, whence they can flee up country and gain a quasi kind of protection, which it won’t pay England to fight—probably in Portugal or Spain, or even in Greece, with which country, I understand, we have no extradition treaty whatever.”
“And you, colonel,” I asked, turning to Napier. “How did you come to forgive us?” I queried.
The old soldier broke into a hearty laugh. “Oh! that wasn’t difficult when such a magician as Cooper-Nassington set to work. He told me the whole of the facts, whereas Fotheringay had only explained to me half!”
And under the table-cloth Doris’ small hand found mine, and gave me a sweet little token of satisfaction, trust, and content. Already I felt more than repaid for the misunderstanding I had suffered.
Little more remains to be told.
Only next day the papers came out with the true account of Bernard Delganni’s suicide, and there is no doubt in my mind now that he was the man who stabbed the colonel’s spaniel, which was said to sleep usually in the colonel’s room.
Soon after this the expedition to Mexico set sail, and now any day we may hear that, with the aid of the old Jesuits’ chart and the information contained in the yellow parchments, Beckworth’s sacred lake has actually been drained off and England in possession of a practically inexhaustible mine of wealth. Every day I open my newspaper I look for this welcome intelligence, and every day I am certain brings us nearer the consummation of this discovery. One day before long the sacred lake, which is already located and has been sounded, will be run dry by a tunnel which is being cut through a small mountain, and when this is accomplished it will bring joy and solid relief to the heart of every taxpayer and Englishman. The wealth known to be in the bed of the lake is enormous, and some of the gems and gold ornaments recovered are already in London. That Fotheringay has got a place in the expedition gives me no concern. He was never really bad, and chances of redemption should be given to all, although Casteno has really never forgiven him that trick with the sham nurses.
The Order of St. Bruno still flourishes under Mr Cooper-Nassington’s guidance, and anyone who desires to join it should address my friend, the Member of Parliament, at the House of Commons. I have but thinly disguised his identity in these chapters, and any serious patriot could discover his real name by a little judicious inquiry, say from the chairman of the Press Gallery, who knows twice as much of the secret history of our legislative establishment as, notwithstanding what croakers over press morality assert, ever finds its way into print.
The Order has, I am compelled to record, lost two of its active members. One, José Casteno, who has married that very charming girl, Camille Velasquon, and set sail for Mexico, hot on the heels of the British expedition to Tangikano, and also to see that Fotheringay goes straight. The other, my poor, graceless self, who, now that Doris has become my wife, no longer figures in Stanton Street, WC, as a secret investigator, but lives out at Redhill, and goes daily to his chambers in the Temple—Lawyers’ Land—to lay the foundation of a barrister’s practice, aided by poor Naylor, who was retired compulsorily from Scotland Yard upon a small pension, but who, I find, makes an admirable clerk when it comes to a hand-to-hand tussle with solicitors, who ever want more than their true pound of flesh.
And so for the present, with the others, I must make my adieu!
When England is startled, as she will be one day ere long, by the announcement of the recovery of the enormous treasure of Tangikano, the emeralds and rubies unequalled in the world, and the wonderful images and utensils of solid gold that have been hidden for ages in the slime beneath those silent waters, then will you, perhaps, recollect the chapters of an eventful history which I have recorded in the foregoing pages, and remember what part in the modern drama of London life was played by the man once known to connoisseurs and collectors as the Hunchback of Westminster.