An elderly New Yorker, a man of fashion, renowned for his social perceptions, pressed his companion's arm at the entrance to Central Park and pointed to Pamela.
"There goes a typical New York girl," he said, "and the best-looking I've seen for many a long day. You can go all round Europe, Freddie, and not see a girl with a face and figure like that. She had that frank way, too, of looking you in the eyes."
"I know," the other assented. "Gibson's girls all had it. Kind of look which seems to say—'I know you find me nice and I don't mind. I wonder whether you're nice, too.'"
Pamela strolled along the park with Fischer by her side. She wore a tailor-made costume of black and white tweed, and a smart hat, in which yellow seemed the predominating colour. Her shoes, her gloves, the little tie about her throat, were all the last word in the simple elegance of suitability. Fischer walked by her side—a powerful, determined figure in a carefully-pressed blue serge suit and a brown Homburg hat. He wore a rose in his buttonhole, and he carried a cane—both unusual circumstances. After fifty years of strenuous living, Mr. Fischer seemed suddenly to have found a new thing in the world.
"This is a pleasant idea of yours, Miss Van Teyl," he said.
"I haven't disturbed your morning, I hope?" she asked.
"I guess, if you have, it isn't the way you mean," he replied. "You've disturbed a good deal of my time and thoughts lately."
"Well, you've had your own way now," she sighed, looking at him out of the corner of her eyes. "I suppose you always get your own way in the end, don't you, Mr. Fischer?"
"Generally," he admitted. "I tell you, though, Miss Van Teyl," he went on earnestly, "if you're alluding to last night's affair, I hated the whole business. It was my duty, and the opportunity was there, but with what I have I am satisfied. With reference to that little debt of your brother's—"
"Please don't say a word, Mr. Fischer," she interrupted. "You will find that all put right as soon as you get down to Wall Street. Tell me, what have you done with your prize?"
Mr. Fischer looked very humble.
"Miss Van Teyl," he said, "for certain reasons I am going to tell you the truth. Perhaps it will be the best in the long run. We may even before long be working together. So I start by being honest with you. The pocketbook is by now on its way to Germany."
"To Germany?" she exclaimed. "And after all your promises!"
"Ah, but think, Miss Van Teyl," he pleaded. "I throw aside all subterfuge. In your heart you know well what I am and what I stand for. I deny it no longer. I am a German-American, working for Germany, simply because America does not need my help. If America were at war with any country in the world, my brains, my knowledge, my wealth would be hers. But now it is different. Germany is surrounded by many enemies, and she calls for her sons all over the world to remember the Fatherland. You can sympathise a little with my unfortunate country, Miss Van Teyl, and yet remain a good American. You are not angry with me?"
"I suppose I ought to be, but I am not in the least," she assured him."I never had any doubt as to the destination of that packet."
"That," he admitted, "is a relief to me. Let us wipe the matter from our memories, Miss Van Teyl."
"One word," she begged, "and that only of curiosity. Did you examine the contents of the pocketbook?"
He turned his head and looked at her. For a moment he had lost the greater spontaneity of his new self. He was again the cold, calculating machine.
"No," he answered, "except to take out and destroy what seemed to be a few private memoranda. There was a bill for flowers, a note from a young lady—some rubbish of that sort. The remaining papers were all calculations and figures, chemical formulae."
"Are you a chemist, Mr. Fischer?" she inquired.
"Not in the least," he acknowledged. "I recognised just enough of the formulae on the last page to realise that there were entirely new elements being dealt with."
She nodded.
"I only asked out of curiosity. I agree. Let us put it out of our thoughts. You see, I am generous. We have fought a battle, you and I, and I have lost. Yet we remain friends."
"It is more than your friendship that I want, Miss Van Teyl," he pleaded, his voice shaking a little. "I am years older than you, I know, and, by your standards, I fear unattractive. But you love power, and I have it. I will take you into my schemes. I will show you how those live who stand behind the clouds and wield the thunders."
She looked at him with genuine surprise. It was necessary to readjust some of her impressions of him. Oscar Fischer was, after all, a human being.
"What you say is all very well so far as it goes," she told him. "I admit that a life of scheming and adventure attracts me. I love power. I can think of nothing more wonderful than to feel the machinery of the world—the political world—roar or die away, according to the touch of one's fingers. Oh, yes, we're alike so far as that is concerned! But there is a very vital difference. You are only an American by accident. I am one by descent. For me there doesn't exist any other country. For you Germany comes first."
"But can't you realise," he went on eagerly, "that even this is for the best? America to-day is hypnotised by a maudlin, sentimental affection for England, a country from whom she never received anything but harm. We want to change that. We want to kill for ever the misunderstandings between the two greatest nations in the world. My creed of life could be yours, too, without a single lapse from your patriotism. Friendship, alliance, brotherhood, between Germany and America. That would be my text."
"Shall I be perfectly frank?" Pamela asked.
"Nothing else is worth while," was the instant answer.
"Well, then," she continued, "I can quite see that Germany has everything to gain from America's friendship, but I cannot see the quid pro quo."
"And yet it is so clear," Fischer insisted. "Your own cloud may not be very large just now, but it is growing, and, before you know it, it will be upon you. Can you not realise why Japan is keeping out of this war? She is conserving her strength. Millions flow into her coffers week by week. In a few years time, Japan, for the first time in her history, will know what it is to possess solid wealth. What does she want it for, do you think? She has no dreams of European aggression, or her soldiers would be fighting there now. China is hers for the taking, a rich prize ready to fall into her mouth at any moment. But the end and aim of all Japanese policy, the secret Mecca of her desires, is to repay with the sword the insults your country has heaped upon her. It is for that, believe me, that her arsenals are working night and day, her soldiers are training, her fleet is in reserve. While you haggle about a few volunteers, Japan is strengthening and perfecting a mighty army for one purpose and one purpose only. Unless you wake up, you will be in the position that Great Britain was in two years ago. Even now, work though you may, you will never wholly make up for lost time. The one chance for you is friendship with Germany."
"Will Germany be in a position to help us after the war?" Pamela asked.
"Never doubt it," Fischer replied vehemently. "Before peace is signed the sea power of England will be broken. Financially she will be ruined. She is a country without economic science, without foresight, without statesmen. The days of her golden opportunities have passed, frittered away. Unless we of our great pity bind up her wounds, England will bleed to death before the war is over."
"That, you must remember," Pamela said practically, "is your point of view."
"I could tell you things—" he began.
"Don't," she begged. "I know what your outlook is now. Be definite.Leaving aside that other matter, what is your proposition to me?"
Fischer walked for a while in silence. They had turned back some time since, and were once more nearing the Plaza.
"You ask me to leave out what is most vital," he said at last. "I have never been married, Miss Van Teyl. I am wealthy. I am promised great honours at the end of this war. When that comes, I shall rest. If you will be my wife, you can choose your home, you can choose your title."
She shook her head.
"But I am not sure that I even like you, Mr. Fischer," she objected. "We have fought in opposite camps, and you have had the bad taste to be victorious. Besides which, you were perfectly brutal to James, and I am not at all sure that I don't resent your bargain with me. As a matter of fact, I am feeling very bitter towards you."
"You should not," he remonstrated earnestly. "Remember that, after all, women are only dabblers in diplomacy. Their very physique prevents them from playing the final game. You have brains, of course, but there are other things—experience, courage, resource. You would be a wonderful helpmate, Miss Van Teyl, even if your individual and unaided efforts have not been entirely successful."
She sighed. Pamela just then was a picture of engaging humility.
"It is so hard for me," she murmured, "I do not want to marry yet. I do not wish to think of it. And so far as you are concerned, Mr. Fischer—well, I am simply furious when I think of your attitude last night. But I love adventures."
"I will promise you all the adventures that can be crammed into your life," he urged.
"But be more definite," she persisted. "Where should we start? You are over here now on some important mission. Tell me more about it?"
"I cannot just yet," he answered. "All that I can promise you is that, if I am successful, it will stop the war just as surely as Captain Graham's new explosive."
"I thought you were going to make a confidante of me," she complained.
He suddenly gripped her arm. It was the first time he had touched her, and she felt a queer surging of the blood to her head, a sudden and almost uncontrollable repulsion. The touch of his long fingers was like flame; his eyes, behind their sheltering spectacles, glowed in a curious, disconcerting fashion.
"To the woman who was my pledged wife," he said, "I would tell everything. From the woman who gave me her hand and became my ally I would have no secrets. Come, I have a message, more than a message, to the American people. I am taking it to Washington before many hours have passed. If it is your will, it should be you to whom I will deliver it."
Pamela walked on with her head in the air. Fischer was leaning a little towards her. Every now and then his mouth twitched slightly. His eyes seemed to be seeking to reach the back of her brain.
"Please go now," she begged. "I can't think clearly while you are here, and I want to make up my mind. I will send to you when I am ready."
Pamela sat that afternoon on the balcony of the country club at Baltusrol and approved of her surroundings. Below her stretched a pleasant vista of rolling greensward, dotted here and there with the figures of the golfers. Beyond, the misty blue background of rising hills.
"I can't tell you how peaceful this all seems, Jimmy," she said to her brother, who had brought her out in his automobile. "One doesn't notice the air of strain over on the Continent, because it's the same everywhere, but it gets a little on one's nerves, all the same. I positively love it here."
"It's fine to have you," was the hearty response. "Gee, that fellow coming to the sixteenth hole can play some!"
Pamela directed her attention idly towards the figure which her brother indicated—a man in light tweeds, who played with an easy and graceful swing, and with the air of one to whom the game presented no difficulties whatever. She watched him drive for the seventeenth—a long, raking ball, fully fifty yards further than his opponent's— watched him play a perfect mashie shot to the green and hole out in three.
"A birdie," James Van Teyl murmured. "I say, Pamela!"
She took no notice. Her eyes were still following the figure of the golfer. She watched him drive at the last hole, play a chip shot on to the green, and hit the hole for a three. The frown deepened upon her forehead. She was looking very uncompromising when the two men ascended the steps.
"I didn't know, Mr. Lutchester, that there were any factories down this way," she remarked severely, as he paused before her in surprise.
For a single moment she fancied that she saw a flash of annoyance in his eyes. It was gone so swiftly, however, that she remained uncertain. He held out his hand, laughing.
"Fairly caught out, Miss Van Teyl," he confessed. "You see, I was tempted, and I fell."
His companion, an elderly, clean-shaven man, passed on. Pamela glanced after him.
"Who is your opponent?" she asked.
"Just some one I picked up on the tee," Lutchester explained. "How is our friend Fischer this morning?"
"I walked with him for an hour in the Park," Pamela replied. "He seemed quite cheerful. I have scarcely thanked you yet for returning the pocketbook, have I?"
His face was inscrutable.
"Couldn't keep a thing that didn't belong to me, could I?" he observed.
"You have a marvellous gift for discovering lost property," she murmured.
"For discovering the owners, you mean," he retorted, with a little bow.
"You're some golfer, I see, Mr. Lutchester," Van Teyl interposed.
"I was on my game to-day," Lutchester admitted. "With a little luck at the seventh," he continued earnestly, "I might have tied the amateur record. You see, my ball—but there, I mustn't bore you now. I must look after my opponent and stand him a drink. We shall meet again, I daresay."
Lutchester passed on, and Pamela glanced up at her brother.
"Is he a sphinx or a fool?" she whispered.
"Don't ask me," Van Teyl replied. "Seems to me you were a bit rough on him, anyway. I don't see why the fellow shouldn't have a day's holiday before he gets to work. If I had his swing, it would interfere with my career, I know that, well enough."
"Did you recognise the man with whom he was playing?" Pamela inquired.
"Can't say that I did. His face seems familiar, too."
"Go and see if you can find out his name," Pamela begged. "It isn't ordinary curiosity. I really want to know."
"That's easy enough," Van Teyl replied, rising from his place. "AndI'll order tea at the same time."
Pamela leaned a little further back in her chair. Her eyes seemed to be fixed upon the pleasant prospect of wooded slopes and green, upward-stretching sward. As a matter of fact, she saw only two faces— Fischer's and Lutchester's. Her chief impulse in life for the immediate present seemed to have resolved itself into a fierce, almost a passionate curiosity. It was the riddle of those two brains which she was so anxious to solve. … Fischer, the cold, subtle intriguer, with schemes at the back of his mind which she knew quite well that, even in the moment of his weakness, he intended to keep to himself; and Lutchester, with his almost cynical devotion to pleasure, yet with his unaccountable habit of suggesting a strength and qualities to which he neither laid nor established any claim. Of the two men it was Lutchester who piqued her, with whom she would have found more pleasure in the battle of wits. She found herself alternately furious and puzzled with him, yet her uneasiness concerning him possessed more disquieting, more fascinating possibilities than any of the emotions inspired by the other man.
Van Teyl returned to her presently, a little impressed.
"Thought I knew that chap's face," he observed. "It's Eli Hamblin—Senator Hamblin, you know."
"A friend and confidant of the President," she murmured. "A Westerner, too. I wonder what he's doing here … Jimmy!"
"Hallo, Sis?"
"You've just got to be a dear," Pamela begged. "Go to the caddy master, or professional, or some one, and find out whether Mr. Lutchester met him here by accident or whether they arrived together."
"You'll turn me into a regular sleuthhound," he laughed. "However, here goes."
He strolled off again, and Pamela found herself forced to become mundane and frivolous whilst she chatted with some newly-arrived acquaintances. It was not until some little time after her brother's return that she found herself alone with him.
"Well?" she asked eagerly.
"They arrived within a few minutes of one another," Van Teyl announced. "Senator Hamblin bought a couple of new balls and made some inquiries about the course, but said nothing about playing. Lutchester, who appears not to have known him, came up later and asked him if he'd like a game. That's all I could find out."
Pamela pointed to a little cloud of dust in the distance.
"And there they go," she observed, "together."
Van Teyl threw himself into a chair and accepted the cup of tea which his sister handed him.
"Well," he inquired, "what do you make of it?"
"There's more in that question than you think, James," Pamela replied."All the same, I think I shall be able to answer it in a few days."
Another little crowd of acquaintances discovered them, and Pamela was soon surrounded by a fresh group of admirers. They all went out presently to inspect the new tennis courts. Pamela and her brother were beset with invitations.
"You positively must stay down and dine with us, and go home by moonlight," Mrs. Saunders, a lively young matron with a large country house close by, insisted. "Jimmy's neglected me terribly these last few months, and as for you, Pamela, I haven't seen you for a year."
"I'd love to if we can," Pamela assured her, "but Jimmy will have to telephone first."
"Then do be quick about it," Mrs. Saunders begged, "It doesn't matter a bit about clothes. We've twenty people staying in the house now, and half of us won't change, if that makes you more comfortable. Jimmy, if you fail at that telephone I'll never forgive you."
But Van Teyl, who had caught the little motion of his sister's head towards the city, proved equal to the occasion. He returned presently, driving the car.
"Got to go," he announced as he made his farewells. "Can't be helped,Pamela. Frightfully sorry, Mrs. Saunders, we are wanted up in NewYork."
Pamela sighed.
"I was so afraid of it," she regretted as she waved her adieux. . . . .
An hour or so later the city broke before them in murky waves. Pamela, who had been leaning back in the car, deep in thought, sat up.
"You are a perfect dear, James," she said. "Do you think you could stand having Mr. Fischer to dinner one evening this week?"
"Sure!" he replied, a little curiously. "If you want to keep friends with him for any reason, I don't bear him any ill-will."
"I just want to talk to him," Pamela murmured, "that's all."
There was a ripple of interest and a good deal of curiosity that afternoon, in the lounge and entrance hall of the Hotel Plaza, when a tall, grey-moustached gentleman of military bearing descended from the automobile which had brought him from the station, and handed in his name at the desk, inquiring for Mr. Fischer.
"Will you send my name up—the Baron von Schwerin," he directed.
The clerk, who had recognised the newcomer, took him under his personal care.
"Mr. Fischer is up in his rooms, expecting you, Baron," he announced."If you'll come this way, I'll take you up."
The Baron followed his guide to the lift and along the corridor to the suite of rooms occupied by Mr. Fischer and his young friend, James Van Teyl. Mr. Fischer himself opened the door. The two men clasped hands cordially, and the clerk discreetly withdrew.
"Back with us once more, Fischer," Von Schwerin exclaimed fervently. "You are wonderful. Tell me," he added, looking around, "we are to be alone here?"
"Absolutely," Fischer replied. "The young man I share these apartments with—James Van Teyl—has taken his sister out to Baltusrol. They will not be back until seven o'clock. We are sure of solitude."
"Good!" Von Schwerin exclaimed. "And you have news—I can see it in your face."
Fischer rolled up easy chairs and produced a box of cigars.
"Yes," he assented, with a little glitter in his eyes, "I have news. Things have moved with me. I think that, with the help of an idiotic Englishman, we shall solve the riddle of what our professors have called the consuming explosive. I sent the formula home to Germany, by a trusty hand, only a few hours ago."
"Capital!" Von Schwerin declared. "It was arranged in London, that?"
"Partly in London and partly here," Fischer replied.
Von Schwerin made a grimace.
"If you can find those who are willing to help you here, you are fortunate indeed," he sighed. "My life's work has lain amongst these people. In the days of peace, all seemed favourable to us. Since the war, even those people whom I thought my friends seem to have lost their heads, to have lost their reasoning powers."
"After all," Fischer muttered, "it is race calling to race. But come, we have more direct business on hand. Nikasti is here."
Von Schwerin nodded a little gloomily.
"Washington knows nothing of his coming," he observed. "I attended theBaron Yung's reception last week, informally. I threw out very broadhints, but Yung would not be drawn. Nikasti represents the SecretService of Japan, unofficially and without responsibility."
"Nevertheless," Fischer pointed out, "what he says will reach the ear of his country, and reach it quickly. You've gone through the papers I sent you?"
"Carefully," Von Schwerin replied. "And the autograph letter?"
"That I have," Fischer announced. "I will fetch Nikasti."
He crossed the room and opened the door leading into the bedchambers.
"Are you there, Kato?" he cried.
"I am coming, sir," was the instant reply.
Nikasti appeared, a few moments later. He was carrying a dress coat on his arm, and he held a clothes brush in his hand. It was obvious that he had studied with nice care the details of his new part.
"You can sit down, Nikasti," Fischer invited. "This is the Baron vonSchwerin. He has something to say to you."
Nikasti bowed very low. He declined the chair, however, to whichFischer pointed.
"I am your valet and the valet of Mr. Van Teyl," he murmured. "It is not fitting for me to be seated. I listen."
Von Schwerin drew his chair a little nearer.
"I plunge at once," he said, "into the middle of things. There is always the fear that we may be disturbed."
Nikasti inclined his head.
"It is best," he agreed.
"You are aware," Von Schwerin continued, "that the Imperial Government of Germany has already made formal overtures, through a third party, to the Emperor of Japan with reference to an alteration in our relations?"
"There was talk of this in Tokio," Nikasti observed softly. "Japan, however, is under obligations—treaty obligations. Her honour demands that these should be kept."
"The honour of a country," Baron von Schwerin acknowledged, "is, without doubt, a sacred charge upon her rulers, but above all things in heaven or on earth, the interests of her people must be their first consideration. If a time should come when the two might seem to clash, then it is the task of the statesman to recognise this fact."
Nikasti bowed.
"It is spoken," he confessed, "like a great man."
"Your country," Von Schwerin continued, "is at war with mine because it seemed to her rulers that her interests lay with the Allies rather than with Germany. I will admit that my country was at fault. We did not recognise to its full extent the value of friendship with Japan. We did not bid high enough for your favours. Asia concerned us very little. We looked upon the destruction of our interests there in the same spirit as that with which we contemplated the loss of our colonies. All that might happen would be temporary. Our influence in Asia, our colonies, will remain with us or perish, according to the result of the war in Europe. But our statesmen overlooked one thing."
"Our factories," Nikasti murmured.
"Precisely! We have had our agents all over the world for years. Some are good, a few are easily deceived. There is no country in the world where apparently so much liberty is granted to foreigners as in Japan. There is no country where the capacity for manufacture and output has been so grossly underestimated by our agents, as yours."
Nikasti smiled.
"I had something to do with that," he announced. "It was Karl Neumann, was it not, on whom you relied? I supplied him with much information."
Von Schwerin's face clouded for a moment.
"You mean that you fooled him, I suppose," he said. "Well, it is all part of the game. That is over now. We want your exports to Russia stopped."
"Ah!" Nikasti murmured reflectively. "Stopped!"
"We ask no favours," Von Schwerin continued. "The issue of the war is written across the face of the skies for those who care to read."
Nikasti looked downwards at the dress coat which he was carrying. Then he glanced up at Von Schwerin.
"Perhaps our eyes have been dazzled," he said. "Will you not interpret?"
"The end of the war will be a peace of exhaustion," Von Schwerin explained. "Our loftier dreams of conquest we must abandon. Germany has played her part, but Austria, alas! has failed. Peace will leave us all very much where we were. Very well, then, I ask you, what has Japan gained? You answer China? I deny it. Yet even if it were true, it will take you five hundred years to make a great country of China. Suppose for a moment you had been on the other side. What about Australia?… New Zealand?"
"Are those things under present consideration?" Nikasti queried.
"Why not?" Von Schwerin replied. "Listen. Close your exports to Russia within the next thirty days. Build up for yourselves a stock of ammunition, add to your fleet, and prepare. Within a year of the cessation of war, there is no reason why your national dream should not be realised. Your fleet may sail for San Francisco. The German fleet shall make a simultaneous attack upon the eastern coast of Massachusetts and New York."
"The German fleet," Nikasti repeated. "And England?"
Von Schwerin's eyes flashed for a moment.
"If the English fleet is still in being," he declared, "it will be a crippled and defeated fleet, but, for the sake of your point of view, I will assume that it exists. Even then there will be nothing to prevent the German fleet from steaming in what waters it pleases. If our shells fall upon New York on the day when your warships are sighted off the Californian coast, do you suppose that America could resist? With her seaboard, her fleet is contemptible. For her wealth, her army is a farce. She has neglected for a great many years to pay her national insurance. She is the one country in the world who can be bled for the price of empires."
Fischer, who had been smoking furiously, spat out the end of a fresh cigar.
"It will be a just retribution," he interposed, with smothered fierceness. "Under the guise of neutrality, America has been responsible for the lives of hundreds of thousands of my countrymen. That we never can, we never shall, forget. The wealth which makes these people fat is blood-money, and Germany will take her vengeance."
"For whom do you speak?" Nikasti inquired.
Von Schwerin rose from his place.
"For the greatest of all."
"Do I take anything but words to Tokio?" the Japanese asked softly.
Fischer unfolded a pocketbook and drew from it a parchment envelope.
"You take this letter," he said, "which I brought over myself from Berlin, signed and written not more than three weeks ago. I ask you to believe in no vague promises. I bring you the pledged faith of the greatest ruler on earth. What do you say, Nikasti? Will you accept our mission? Will you go back to Tokio and see the Emperor?"
Nikasti bowed.
"I will go back," he promised. "I will sail as soon as I can make arrangements. But I cannot tell you what the issue may be. We Japanese are not a self-seeking nation. Above and higher than all things are our ideals and our honour. I cannot tell what answer our Sovereign may give to this."
"These are the days when the truest patriotism demands the most sublime sacrifices," Von Schwerin declared. "Above all the ethics of individuals comes the supreme necessity of self-preservation."
The Japanese smiled slightly.
"Ah!" he said, "there speaks the philosophy of your country, Baron, the paean of materialism."
"The destinies of nations," Baron von Schwerin exclaimed, "are above the man-made laws of a sentimental religion! One needs, nowadays, more than to survive. It is necessary to flourish."
Nikasti stood suddenly to attention.
"It is Mr. Van Teyl who returns," he warned them.
He glided from the room, shaking out a little the dress coat which he had been carrying. The two men looked after him. Fischer threw his cigar savagely away and lit another.
"Curse these orientals!" he muttered. "They listen and listen, and one never knows. Van Teyl won't be here for hours. That was just an excuse to get away."
But there was a smile of triumph on Von Schwerin's lips.
"I know them better than you do, Fischer," he declared. "Nikasti is our man!"
High up in one of the topmost chambers of the Hotel Plaza, Nikasti, after his conference with Von Schwerin and Fischer, sought solitude. He opened the high windows, out of which he could scarcely see, dragged up a chest of drawers and perched himself, Oriental fashion, on the top, his long yellow fingers intertwined around his knees, his soft brown eyes gazing over the wooded slopes of the Park. He was away from the clamour of tongues, from the poisoned clouds of sophistry, even from the disturbance of his own thoughts, incited by specious arguments to some form of reciprocity. Here he sat in the clouds and searched for the true things. His eyes seemed to be travelling over the battlefields of Europe. He saw the swaying fortunes of mighty armies, he looked into council chambers, he seemed to feel the pulses of the great world force which kept going this most amazing Juggernaut. He saw the furnaces of Japan, blazing by night and day; saw the forms of hundreds of thousands of his fellow creatures bent to their task; saw the streams of ships leaving his ports, laden down with stores; saw the great guns speeding across Siberia, the endless trains of ammunition, the rifles, food for the famine-stricken giants who beat upon the air with empty fists. He saw the gold come streaming back. He saw it poured into the banks, the pockets of the merchants, the homes of his people. He saw brightening days throughout the land. He saw the slow but splendid strength of the nation rejoicing in its new possibilities. And beyond that, what? Wealth was the great means towards the great end, but if the great end were once lost sight of, there was no more hideous poison than that stream of enervating prosperity. He remembered his own diatribes concerning the decadence of England; how he had pointed to the gold poison, to the easy living of the poor, the blatant luxury of the rich. He had pointed to the soft limbs, the cities which had become pools of sensuality, to the daily life which, calling for no effort, had seen the passing of the spirit and the triumph of the gross. And what about his own people? Mankind was the same the world over. The gold which was bringing strength and life to the nation might very soon exude the same poisonous fumes, might very soon be laying its thrall upon a people to whom living had become an easier thing. However it might be for other, the Western nations, for his own he firmly believed that war alone, with its thousand privations, its call to the chivalry of his people, was the one great safeguard. China! The days had gone by when the taking of China could inspire. It was to greater things they must look. Australia. New Zealand! Had any Western race the right to flaunt her Empire's flag in Asiatic seas? And America! Once again he felt the slow rising of wrath as he recalled the insults of past years … the adventurous sons of his country treated like savages and negroes by that uncultured, strong-limbed race of coarse-fibered, unimaginative materialists. There was a call, indeed, to the soul of his country to avenge, to make safe, the homes and lives of her colonists. Across the seas he looked into the council chambers of the wise men of his race. He saw the men whose word would tell. He watched their faces turned towards him, waiting; heard the beginning of the conflict of thoughts and minds—blind fidelity to the cause which they had espoused, or a rougher, more splendid, more selfish stroke for the greatness of Japan and Japan only. "If we break our faith we lose our honour," one murmured. "There is no honour save the care of my people," he heard one of his greatest countrymen reply.
So he sat and thought, revolved in his mind arguments, morals, philosophy. It was the problem which had confronted the great Emperor, his own ancestor, who had lived for three months on the floor of the Temple, asking but one question of the Silent Powers: "Through what gate shall I lead my nation to greatness?"
The senses of the man who crouched in his curious attitude, with his eyes still piercing the heavens, were mobile and extraordinary things. No disturbing sounds had reached him from outside. His isolation seemed complete and impregnable. Yet, without turning his head, he was perfectly conscious of the slow opening of the door. His whole frame stiffened. He was conscious for one bitter second of a lapse from the careful guarding of his ways. That second passed, however, and left him prepared even for danger, his brain and muscles alike tense. He turned his head. The expression of slow surprise, which even parted his lips and narrowed his eyes, was only half assumed.
"What do you wish?" he asked.
Lutchester did not for a moment reply. He had closed the door behind him carefully, and was looking around the room now with evident interest. Its bareness of furniture and decoration were noteworthy, but on the top of the ugly chest of drawers was a great bowl of roses, a queer little ivory figure set in an arched frame of copper—a figure almost sacerdotal, with its face turned towards the east—and a little shower of rose leaves, which could scarcely have fallen there by accident, at the foot of the pedestal. Lutchester inclined his head gravely, as he looked towards it, a gesture entirely reverential, almost an obeisance. Nikasti's eyes were clouded with curiosity. He slipped down to the ground.
"I have travelled in your country," Lutchester said gravely, as though in explanation. "I have visited your temples. I may say that I have prayed there."
"And now?" Nikasti asked.
"I am for my country what you are for yours," Lutchester proceeded. "You see, I know when it is best to speak the truth. I am in New York because you are in New York, and if you leave on Saturday for Japan it may happen—of this I am not sure—but I say that it may happen that I shall accompany you."
"I shall be much honoured," Nikasti murmured.
"You came here," Lutchester continued, "to meet an emissary from Berlin. Your country, which could listen to no official word from any one of her official enemies, can yet, through you, learn what is in their minds. You have seen to-day Fischer and the Baron von Schwerin. Fischer has probably presented to you the letter which he has brought from Berlin. Von Schwerin has expounded further the proposition and the price which form part of his offer."
Nikasti's face was imperturbable, but there was trouble in his eyes.
"You have found your way to much knowledge,", he muttered.
"I must find my way to more. I must know what Germany offers you. I must know what is at the back of your mind when you repeat this offer in Tokio."
"You can make, then, the unwilling speak?" Nikasti demanded.
"Even that is amongst the possibilities," Lutchester affirmed. "Strange things have been done for the cause which such as you and I revere."
Nikasti showed his white teeth for a moment in a smile meant to be contemptuous.
"It is a great riddle, this, which we toss from one to the other," he observed. "I am the simple valet of two gentlemen living in the hotel. You have listened, perhaps, to fairy tales, or dreamed them yourself, sir."
"It is no fairy tale," Lutchester rejoined, "that you are Prince Nikasti, the third son of the great Marquis Ato, that you and I met more than once in London when you were living there some years ago; that you travelled through our country, and drew up so scathing an indictment of our domestic and industrial position that, but for their clumsy diplomacy, your country would probably have made overtures to Germany. Ever since those days I have wondered about you. I have wondered whether you are with your country in her friendship towards England."
"I have no friends but my country's friends," Nikasti declared, "no enemies save her enemies. But to-day those things of which you have spoken do not concern me. I am the Japanese valet of Mr. Fischer and Mr. Van Teyl."
Lutchester, as though by accident, came a step further into the room. Nikasti's eyes never left his face. Perhaps at that moment each knew the other's purpose, though their tongues clung to the other things.
"Will you talk to me, Japan?" Lutchester asked calmly. "You have listened to Germany. I am England."
"If you have anything to say," Nikasti replied, "Baron Yung is atWashington."
"You and I know well," Lutchester continued, "that ambassadors are but the figureheads in the world's history. Speak to me of the things which concern our nations, Nikasti. Tell me of the letter you bear to the Emperor. You have nothing to lose. Sit down and talk to me, man to man. You have heard Germany. Hear England. Tell me of the promises made to you within the last hour, and I will show you how they can never be kept. Let us talk of your country's future. You and I can tell one another much."
"A valet knows nothing," Nikasti murmured.
Lutchester came a step nearer. Nikasti, in retreating, was now almost in a corner of the room.
"Listen," Lutchester went on, "for many years I have suspected that you are an enemy of my country. That is the reason why, when our Intelligence Department learnt of your mission, I chose to come myself to meet you. And now we meet, Nikasti, face to face, and all that you are willing to do for your country, I am willing to do for mine, and unless you sit down and talk this matter out with me as man to man, you will not leave New York."
The arm of the Japanese stole with the most perfect naturalness inside his coat, and Lutchester knew then that the die was cast. The line of blue steel flashed out too late. The hand which gripped the strangely-shaped little knife was held as though in a vice, and Lutchester's other arm was suddenly thrown around the neck of his assailant, his fingers pressed against his windpipe.
"Drop the knife," he ordered.
It fell clattering on to the hard floor. Nikasti, however, twisted himself almost free, took a flying leap sideways, and seized his adversary's leg. In another moment he came down upon the floor with a crash. Lutchester's grip upon him, a little crueller now, was like a band of steel.
"There are many ways of playing this game. It is you who have chosen this one," he said. "It's no use, Nikasti. I know as much of your own science as you do. You're my man now until I choose to let you free, and before I do that I am going to read the letter which you are taking to Japan."
Nikasti's eyes were red with fury, but every movement was torture. Lutchester held him easily with one hand, felt over him with the other, drew the letter from his vest, and, shaking it free from its envelope, held it out and read it. When he had finished, he replaced it in the envelope and pushed it back into the other's breast pocket.
"Now," he directed, "you can get up."
Nikasti scrambled to his feet. There were livid marks under his eyes. For a moment he had lost all his vitality, he was like a beaten creature.
"You would never have done this," he muttered, "ten years ago, I grow old."
"So that is the letter which you are taking to your Emperor!"Lutchester said. "You think it worth while! You can really see theGerman fleet steaming past the British Isles, out into the Atlantic,and bombarding New York!"
Nikasti made no reply. Lutchester looked at him for a moment thoughtfully. There was a light once more in the beaten man's eyes—a queer, secretive gleam. Lutchester stooped down and picked up the knife from the floor.
"Nikasti," he enjoined, "listen to me, for your country's sake. The promise contained in that letter is barely worth the paper it is written on, so long as the British fleet remains what it is. But, apart from that, I tell you here, of my own profound conviction—and I will prove it to you before many days are past—Germany does not intend to keep this promise."
Nikasti made no reply. His face was expressionless.
"Germany has but one idea," Lutchester continued. "She means to play you and America off against one another. I have found out her offer to you. All I can say is, if you take it seriously you are not the man I think you. Now I will tell you what I am going to do. I am going to find out her offer to America. I will bring that to you, and you shall see the two side by side. Then you shall know how much you can rely upon a country whose diplomacy is bred and born of lies, who cheats at every move of the game, who makes you a deliberate offer here which she never has the least intention of keeping. Have you anything to say to me, Nikasti?"
Nikasti raised his eyes for one moment.
"I have nothing to say," he replied. "I am the valet of Mr. Fischer andMr. Van Teyl. These things are not of my concern."
Lutchester shrugged his shoulders.
"Whatever you may be," he concluded, "and however much you may resent all that has happened, I know that you will wait. I might go direct to Washington, but I prefer to come to you, if it remains possible. Before you leave this country we will meet again, and, when you have heard me, you will tear that letter which you are treasuring next your heart into small pieces."
Lutchester turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. Nikasti crouched in his place without movement. The ache in his heart seemed to be shining out of his face. He turned slowly towards the little figure of black ivory, his head drooped lower—he was filled with a great shame.
Fischer raised his eyebrows in mild surprise to find Nikasti waiting for him in the sitting room that evening, with his overcoat and evening hat. He closed the door of the bedroom from which he had issued carefully behind him.
"You don't need to go on with this business now that we have had our little talk," he remonstrated.
"I cannot leave until the twentieth," Nikasti replied. "I think it best that I remain here. Your cocktail, sir."
Fischer accepted the glass with a good-humoured little laugh.
"Well," he said, "I suppose you know what you want to do, but it seems to me unnecessary. Say, is anything wrong with you? You seem shaken, somehow."
"I am quite well," Nikasti declared gravely. "I am very well indeed."
Fischer stared at him searchingly from behind his spectacles.
"You don't look it," he observed. "If you'll take my advice, you'll get away from here and rest somewhere quietly for a few days. Why don't you try one of the summer hotels on Long Island?"
Nikasti shook his head.
"Until I sail," he decided, "I stay here. It is better so."
"You know best, of course," Fischer replied. "Where's Mr. Van Teyl?"
"He has gone out with his sister, sir—the young lady in the next suite," Nikasti announced.
Fischer sighed for a moment. Then he finished his cocktail, drew on his gloves, and turned towards the door.
"Well, good night," he said. "Perhaps you are wise to stay here.Remember always what it is that you carry about with you."
"I shall remember," Nikasti promised.
Fischer entered his automobile and drove to a fashionable restaurant in the neighbourhood of Fifth Avenue. Arrived here, he made his way to a room on the first floor, into which he was ushered by one of the head waiters. Von Schwerin was already there, talking with a little company of men.
"Ah, our friend Fischer!" the latter exclaimed. "That makes our number complete."
A waiter handed around cocktails. Fischer smiled as he raised his glass to his lips.
"It is something, at least," he confided, "to be back in a country where one can speak freely. I raise my arm. Von Schwerin and gentlemen—'To the Fatherland!'"
They all drank fervently and with a little guttural murmur. VonSchwerin set down his empty glass. He was looking a little glum.
"In many ways, my dear Fischer," he said, "one sympathises with that speech of yours; but the truth is best, and it is to talk truths that we have met this evening. We are gaining no ground here. I am not sure that we are not losing."
There was a moment's disturbed and agitated silence.
"It is bad to hear," one little man acknowledged, with a sigh, "but who can doubt it? There is a fever which has caught hold of this country, which blazes in the towns and smoulders in the country places, and that is the fever of money-making. Men are blinded with the passion of it. They tell me that even Otto Schmidt in Milwaukee has turned his great factories into ammunition works."
Von Schwerin's eyes flashed.
"Let him be careful," he muttered, "that one morning those are not blackened walls upon which he looks! We go to dinner now, gentlemen, and, until we are alone afterwards, not one word concerning the great things."
The partition doors leading into the dining room were thrown back and the little company of men sat down to dine. There were fourteen of them, and their names were known throughout the world. There was a steel millionaire, half-a-dozen Wall Street magnates, a clothing manufacturer, whose house in Fifth Avenue was reputed to have cost two millions. There was not one of them who was not a patriot—to Germany. They ate and drank through the courses of an abnormally long dinner with the businesslike thoroughness of their race. When at last the coffee and liqueurs had been served, the waiters by prearrangement disappeared, and with a little flourish Von Schwerin locked the door. Once more he raised his glass.
"To the Kaiser and the Fatherland!" he cried in a voice thick with emotion.
For a moment a little flash of something almost like spirituality lightened the gathering. They were at least men with a purpose, and an unselfish purpose.
"Oscar Fischer," Von Schwerin said, "my friends, all of you, you know how strenuous my labours have been during the last year. You know that three times the English Ambassador has almost demanded my recall, and three times the matter has hung in the balance. I have watched events in Washington, not through my own but through a thousand eyes. My fingers are on the pulse of the country, so what I say to you needs nothing in the way of substantiation. The truth is best. Notwithstanding all my efforts, and the efforts of every one of you, the great momentum of public feeling, from California to Massachusetts, has turned slowly towards the cause of our enemies. Washington is hopelessly against us. The huge supplies which leave these shores day by day for England and France will continue. Fresh plants are being laid down for the manufacture of weapons and ammunition to be used against our country. The hand of diplomacy is powerless. We can struggle no longer. Even those who favour our cause are drunk with the joy of the golden harvest they are reaping. This country has spoken once and for all, and its voice is for our most hated enemy."
There were a variety of guttural and sympathetic ejaculations. A dozen earnest faces turned towards Von Schwerin.
"Diplomacy," Von Schwerin continued, "has failed. We come to the next step. There have been isolated acts of self-sacrifice, splendid in themselves but systemless. Only the day before yesterday a great factory at Detroit was burned to the ground, and I can assure you, gentlemen, I who know, that a thousand bales of cloth, destined for France, lie in a charred, heap amongst the ruins. That fire was no accident."
There was a brief silence. Fischer nodded approvingly. Von Schwerin filled his glass.
"This," he went on, "was the individual act of a brave and faithful patriot. The time has come for us, too, to remember that we are at war. I have striven for you with the weapons of diplomacy and I have failed. I ask you now to face the situation with me—to make use of the only means left to us."
No one hesitated. Possibly ruin stared them in the face, but not one flinched. Their heads drew closer together. They discussed the ways and means of the new campaign.
"We must add largely to our numbers," Von Schwerin said, "and we had better have a fund. So far as regards money, I take it for granted—"
There was a little chorus of fierce whispers. Five million dollars were subscribed by men who were willing, if necessary, to find fifty.
"It is enough," their leader assured them. "Much of our labours will be amongst those to whom money is no object. Only remember, all of you, this. We shall be a society without a written word, with no roll of membership, without documents or institution, for complicity in the things which follow will mean ruin. You are willing to face that?"
Again that strange, passionate instinct of unanimity prevailed. To all appearance it was a gathering of commonplace, commercialised and bourgeois, easy-living men, but the touch of the spirit was there. Fischer leaned a little forward.
"In two months' time," he said, "every factory in America which is earning its blood money shall be in danger. There will be a reign of terror. Each State will operate independently and secretly."
"Our friend Fischer," Von Schwerin told them, "has promised to stay over here for the present to organise this undertaking. I, alas! am bound to remain always a little aloof, but the time may come, and very soon, too, when I shall be a free lance. On that day I shall throw my lot in with yours, to the last drop of my blood and the last hour of my liberty. Until then, trust Oscar Fischer. He has done great deeds already. He will show you the way to more."
Fischer took off his spectacles and wiped them.
"Our first proceeding," he said, "sounds paradoxical. It must be that we cease to exist. There can be no longer any meetings amongst us who stand in this country for Germany. Gatherings of this sort are finished. We meet, one or two of us, perhaps, by accident, in the clubs and in the streets, in our houses and perhaps in the restaurants, but the bond which unites us, and which no human power could ever sever because it is of the spirit, that bond from to-night is intangible. Wait, all of you, for a message. The task given to each shall not be too great."
Mr. Max H. Bookam, a little black-bearded man who had started life tailoring in a garret, and was now a multi-millionaire, raised his glass.
"No task shall seem too great," he muttered. "No risk shall make us afraid. Even the exile shall take up his burden."
Mr. Fischer's business later on that night led him into unsavoury parts. He left his car at the corner of Fourteenth Street, and, after a moment's reflection, as though to refresh his memory, he made his way slowly eastwards. He wore an unusually shabby overcoat, and a felt hat drawn over his eyes, both of which garments he had concealed in the automobile. Even then, however, his appearance made him an object of some comment. A little gang of toughs first jostled him and then turned and followed in his footsteps. A man came out of the shadows, and they broke away with an oath.
"That cop'll get his head broke some day," Fischer heard one of them mutter, with appropriate adjectives.
There were others who looked curiously at him. One man's hand he felt running over his pockets as he pushed past him. A couple of women came screaming down the street and seized him by the arms. He shook himself free, and listened without a word to their torrent of abuse. The lights here seemed to burn more dimly. Even the flares from the drinking dens seemed secretive, and the shadowy places impenetrable. It was before a saloon that at last he paused, listened for a moment to the sound of a cracked piano inside, and entered. The place was packed, and, fortunately for him, a scrap of some interest between two villainous-looking Italians in a distant corner was occupying the attention of many of the patrons. A man with white, staring face was banging at a crazy piano without a movement of his body, his whole energies apparently directed towards drowning the tumult of oaths and hideous execrations which came from the two combatants. A drunken Irishman, rolling about on the floor, kicked at him savagely as he passed. An undersized little creature, with the face of an old man but the figure of a boy, marked him from a distant corner and crept stealthily towards his side. Fischer reached the counter at last and stood there for a moment, waiting. Two huge, rough-looking negroes, in soiled linen clothes, were dispensing the drinks. As one of them passed, Fischer struck the counter with his forefinger, six or seven times, observing a particular rhythm. The negro started, turned his heavily-lidded, repulsive eyes upon Fischer, and nodded slightly. He handed out the drink he had in his hand, and leaned over the counter.
"Want the boss?" he demanded.
Fischer assented. The negro lifted the flap of the counter and opened a trapdoor, leading apparently into a cellar beneath.
"Step right down," he muttered. "Don't let the boys catch on. Get out of that, Tim," he added thickly to the dwarflike figure, whose slender fingers were suddenly nearing Fischer's neck.
The creature seemed to melt away. Fischer dived and descended a dozen steps or so into another bare looking apartment, the door of which was half open. There were three men seated at the solitary deal table, which was almost the only article of furniture to be seen. One, sombrely dressed in legal black, with a pale face and fiercely inquiring eyes, half rose to his feet as the newcomer entered. Another's hand went to his hip pocket. The man who was sitting between the two, however—a great red-headed Irishman—rose to his feet and pushed them back to their places.
"There's no cause for alarm, now, boys," he declared. "This is a friend of mine. I won't make you acquainted, because we're all better friends strangers down in these parts. Hop it off, you two. Sit down here, Mr. Stranger."
The two men stole away. The Irishman poured out a glassful of neat whisky and passed it to his visitor.
"Clients of mine," he explained. "Tim Crooks is in politics. Got your message, boss. What's the figure?"
"Two thousand!"
The Irishman whistled and looked thoughtfully down at the table.
"Isn't it enough?" Fischer asked.
"Enough?" was the hoarse reply. "Why, there isn't one of my toughs that wouldn't go rat-hunting for a quarter of that. If it's any one in these parts, twelve hours is all I want."
"It isn't!"
The Irishman's face fell.
"Some swell, I suppose? Fifth Avenue way and the swagger parts, eh?"
Fischer assented silently. His host poured himself out some whisky and drank it as though it were water.
"You see, boss," he pointed out, "it's no use sending greenhorns out on a job like that, because they only squeak if they're pinched, and pinched they're sure to be; and all my regulars are what we call in sanctuary."
"You mean they are hiding already?"
"That's some truth," was the grim admission. "The cops ain't going to trouble to come after 'em, so long as they keep here, but they'd nab 'em fast enough if they showed their noses beyond the end of Fourteenth. Still, I'd like to oblige you, guv'nor. I don't know who you are, and don't want, but my boys speak fine of you. You know Ed Swindles?"
"Not by name," Fischer confessed.
"He did that little job up at Detroit," the Irishman went on, dropping his voice a little. "I tell you he's a genius at handling a bomb, is Ed. Blew that old factory into brick-ends, he did. He's in the saloon upstairs—got his girl with him. They've been doing a round of the dancing saloons."
"That's all right, but what about this job?" Fischer inquired, a little impatiently.
The Irishman glanced behind him. Then he dropped his voice a little.
"Look here, guv'nor," he said, "I've some idea, if it pans out. You've heard of the Heste case?"
"You mean the girl who was murdered?"
"Yes! Well, the chap that did it is within a few feet of where we're sitting."
Fischer took off his spectacles and rubbed them. In the dim light his face looked more grim and powerful than ever.
"Isn't that a little dangerous?" he observed. "The police mean having him."
"You're dead right," the Irishman replied. "They've got to have him, and he knows it. They'd keep their hands off any one in these parts if they could, but this bloke's different. He done it too thick, and he's got the public squealing. Now if we could get him out for long enough, he's the man for your job. Come right along, boss."
He rose heavily to his feet, crossed the room, and threw open the door of what was little more than a cupboard at the further end. The place was in darkness, but a human form sprang suddenly upright. His white face and glaring eyes were the only visible objects in a shroud of darkness.
"That's all right, kid," the Irishman said soothingly. "No cops yet.This is a gentleman on business. Wait till I fix a light."
He stepped back, and brought a candle from the table at which he had been seated. Fischer helped him light it, and by degrees the interior of the little apartment was illuminated. Its contents were almost negligible—there was simply a foul piece of rug in the corner, and a broken chair. With his back to the wall crouched a slim, apparently young man, with a perfectly bloodless face and black eyes under which were blue lines. His clothes were torn and covered with dust, as though he had dragged himself about the floor, and one of his hands was bleeding.
"The gentleman's on business, Jake," his host repeated.
"Give me some whisky," the young man mumbled.
The Irishman shaded his eyes.
"Holy Moses! why, you've finished that bottle!" he exclaimed.
"It's like water," the fugitive replied in a hot whisper, "I drink and I feel nothing; I taste nothing—I forget nothing! Give me something stronger."
He tossed off without hesitation the tumbler half full of whisky which his guardian fetched him. Then he came out.
"I'm sick of this," he declared. "I'll sit at your table. It's no use talking to me of jobs," he went on. "I couldn't get out of here. I made for the docks, but they headed me off. They know where I am. They'll have me sooner or later."
"Yes, they'll have you right enough," the Irishman assented; "but if there was any chance in the world, this gent could give it to you. He's got a job he wants done up amongst the swells in Fifth Avenue, and there's money enough in it to buy Anna herself, if you want her. Anna's our real toff down here," he explained, turning to Fischer, "and all the boys are crazy about her."
Jake shook his head, unimpressed. He fixed his eyes upon Fischer, moistened his lips a little, and spoke in a sort of croaky whisper.
"Money's no use to me," he said, "nor women either—I'm through with them. You know what I done? I killed my girl. That's what I'm going to the chair for. But if I could get out of this, I'd do your job. I'm kind of hating people. I can't get my girl's face out of my mind. Perhaps if I did your job I'd have another one to think about."
"Pleasant company, ain't he?" the Irishman grunted. "He's the real goods."
Fischer stared at the young man as though fascinated. He seemed beyond and outside human comprehension. Their host was sitting with his hands in his pockets and his feet on another chair. The braces hung from his shoulders upon the floor, his collarless shirt had fallen a little open. His face, with its little tuft of red side whiskers and unshaven chin, was reminiscent of the forests.
"If you want this job fixed, Mr. Stranger," he said, "I don't know as Jake here couldn't take it on. It'd have to be done like this. Jake's a real toney chauffeur—drive anything. If you had your automobile at a spot I could tell you of one evening, just at dusk, I might get him that far, in a set of chauffeur's clothes. Once on the box of your auto, he'd be out of this and could give 'em the slip for a bit. It's the only way I can think of, to get him near the game."
"The arrangement would suit me," Fischer admitted.
Jake suddenly showed a gleaming set of unexpectedly white teeth. His eyes stared more than ever.
"I'm game! I'm on to this," he cried fiercely. "You can have all there is coming to me, Sullivan, if I get nabbed, but I'm going to take my risk. I hate this hole! It's a rat's den."
"Then get you back to your cupboard, Jake," the Irishman enjoined."I've got to talk business to the gent."
The young man rose to his feet. He took the bottle of whisky under his arm. His face was still ashen, but his tone was steady. He gripped Fischer by the arm.
"I will do your job," he promised. "I will do it thoroughly."
He slouched across the floor, entered his cupboard, and disappeared. Fischer was suddenly aware of the moisture upon his forehead. There was something animallike, absolutely inhuman, about this creature with whom he had made his murderous bargain.
"I have no money here, of course," he reminded his companion.
"Don't know as I blame you, guv'nor," the other observed with a grin. "I saw my toughs lay out a guy only the other day for flashing a smaller wad than you'd carry. You know the rules, and I guess I'll ring up the bank to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock. Does that go?"
"You'll find the deposit there," Fischer promised. "You'd better let me know when he's ready to take the job on."
The Irishman walked to the foot of the steps with his visitor.
"Give Joe the double knock on the trapdoor," he directed, "and get out of the saloon as quick as you can. There's a Dago about there keeps our hands full. Got anything with you?"
Fischer nodded. His hand stole out of his overcoat pocket.