Lady Carey suddenly dropped her partner’s arm. She had seen a man standing by himself with folded arms and moody face at the entrance to the ball-room. She raised her lorgnettes. His identity was unquestionable.
“Will you excuse me for a moment, Captain Horton,” she said to her escort. “I want particularly to speak to Mr. Brott.”
Captain Horton bowed with the slight disappointment of a hungry man on his way to the supper-room.
“Don’t be long,” he begged. “The places are filling up.”
Lady Carey nodded and walked swiftly across to where Brott was standing. He moved eagerly forward to meet her.
“Not dancing, Mr. Brott?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“This sort of thing isn’t much in my way,” he answered. “I was rather hoping to see the Countess here. I trust that she is not indisposed.”
She looked at him steadily.
“Do you mean,” she said, “that you do not know where she is?”
“I?” he answered in amazement. “How should I? I have not seen her at all this evening. I understood that she was to be here.”
Lady Carey hesitated. The man was too honest to be able to lie like this, even in a good cause. She stood quite still for a moment thinking. Several of her dearest friends had already told her that she was looking tired and ill this evening. At that moment she was positively haggard.
“I have been down at Ranelagh this afternoon,” she said slowly, “and dining out, so I have not seen Lucille. She was complaining of a headache yesterday, but I quite thought that she was coming here. Have you seen the Duchess?”
He shook his head.
“No. There is such a crowd.”
Lady Carey glanced towards her escort and turned away.
“I will try and find out what has become of her,” she said. “Don’t go away yet.”
She rejoined her escort.
“When we have found a table,” she said, “I want you to keep my place for a few moments while I try and find some of my party.”
They passed into the supper-room, and appropriated a small table. Lady Carey left her partner, and made her way to the farther end of the apartment, where the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer was supping with half a dozen men and women. She touched him on the shoulder.
“I want to speak to you for a moment, Ferdinand,” she whispered.
He rose at once, and she drew him a little apart.
“Brott is here,” she said slowly.
“Brott here!” he repeated. “And Lucille?”
“He is asking for her—expected to find her here. He is downstairs now, looking the picture of misery.”
He looked at her inquiringly. There was a curious steely light in her eyes, and she was showing her front teeth, which were a little prominent.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that she has deceived us?”
“What else? Where are the Dorsets?”
“The Duchess is with the Earl of Condon, and some more people at the round table under the balcony.”
“Give me your arm,” she whispered. “We must go and ask her.”
They crossed the room together. Lady Carey sank into a vacant chair by the side of the Duchess and talked for a few minutes to the people whom she knew. Then she turned and whispered in the Duchess’s ear.
“Where is Lucille?”
The Duchess looked at her with a meaning smile.
“How should I know? She left when we did.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. It was all understood, wasn’t it?”
Lady Carey laughed unpleasantly.
“She has fooled us,” she said. “Brott is here alone. Knows nothing of her.”
The Duchess was puzzled.
“Well, I know nothing more than you do,” she answered. “Are you sure the man is telling the truth?”
“Of course. He is the image of despair.”
“I am sure she was in earnest,” the Duchess said. “When I asked her whether she should come on here she laughed a little nervously, and said perhaps or something of that sort.”
“The fool may have bungled it,” Lady Carey said thoughtfully. “I will go back to him. There’s that idiot of a partner of mine. I must go and pretend to have some supper.”
Captain Horton found his vis-a-vis a somewhat unsatisfactory companion. She drank several glasses of champagne, ate scarcely anything, and rushed him away before he had taken the edge off his appetite. He brought her to the Duchess and went back in a huff to finish his supper alone. Lady Carey went downstairs and discovered Mr. Brott, who had scarcely moved.
“Have you seen anything of her?” she asked.
He shook his head gloomily.
“No! It is too late for her to come now, isn’t it?”
“Take me somewhere where we can talk,” she said abruptly. “One of those seats in the recess will do.”
He obeyed her, and they found a retired corner. Lady Carey wasted no time in fencing.
“I am Lucille’s greatest friend, Mr. Brott, and her confidante,” she said.
He nodded.
“So I have understood.”
“She tells me everything.”
He glanced towards her a little uneasily.
“That is comprehensive!” he remarked.
“It is true,” she answered. “Lucille has told me a great deal about your friendship! Come, there is no use in our mincing words. Lucille has been badly treated years ago, and she has a perfect right to seek any consolation she may find. The old fashioned ideas, thank goodness, do not hold any longer amongst us. It is not necessary to tie yourself for life to a man in order to procure a little diversion.”
“I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Lady Carey,” he said gravely, “but I must decline to discuss the Countess of Radantz in connection with such matters.”
“Oh, come!” she declared impatiently; “remember that I am her friend. Yours is quite the proper attitude, but with me it doesn’t matter. Now I am going to ask you a plain question. Had you any engagement with Lucille to-night?”
She watched him mercilessly. He was colouring like a boy. Lady Carey’s thin lips curled. She had no sympathy with such amateurish love-making. Nevertheless, his embarrassment was a great relief to her.
“She promised to be here,” he answered stiffly.
“Everything depends upon your being honest with me,” she continued. “You will see from my question that I know. Was there not something said about supper at your rooms before or after the dance?”
“I cannot discuss this matter with you or any living person,” he answered. “If you know so much why ask me?”
Lady Carey could have shaken the man, but she restrained herself.
“It is sufficient!” she declared. “What I cannot understand is why you are here—when Lucille is probably awaiting for you at your rooms.”
He started from his chair as though he had been shot.
“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “She was to—”
He stopped short. Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, written you or something, I suppose!” she exclaimed. “Trust an Englishman for bungling a love affair. All I can tell you is that she left Dorset House in a hansom without the others, and said some thing about having supper with some friends.”
Brott sprang to his feet and took a quick step towards the exit.
“It is not possible!” he exclaimed.
She took his arm. He almost dragged her along.
“Well, we are going to see,” she said coolly. “Tell the man to call a hansom.”
They drove almost in silence through the Square to Pall Mall. Brott leaped out onto the pavement directly the cab pulled up.
“I will wait here,” Lady Carey said. “I only want to know that Lucille is safe.”
He disappeared, and she sat forward in the cab drumming idly with her forefingers upon the apron. In a few minutes he came back. His appearance was quite sufficient. He was very pale. The change in him was so ludicrous that she laughed.
“Get in,” she said. “I am going round to Dorset House. We must find out if we can what has become of her.”
He obeyed without comment. At Dorset House Lady Carey summoned the Duchess’s own maid.
“Marie,” she said, “you were attending upon the Countess Radantz to-night?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“At what time did she leave?”
“At about, eleven, my lady.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lady Carey looked steadily at the girl.
“Did she take anything with her?”
The girl hesitated. Lady Carey frowned.
“It must be the truth, remember, Marie.”
“Certainly, my lady! She took her small dressing-case.”
Lady Carey set her teeth hard. Then with a movement of her head she dismissed the maid. She walked restlessly up and down the room. Then she stopped short with a hard little laugh.
“If I give way like this,” she murmured, “I shall be positively hideous, and after all, if she was there it was not possible for him—”
She stopped short, and suddenly tearing the handkerchief which she had been carrying into shreds threw the pieces upon the floor, and stamped upon them. Then she laughed shortly, and turned towards the door.
“Now I must go and get rid of that poor fool outside,” she said. “What a bungler!”
Brott was beside himself with impatience.
“Lucille is here,” she announced, stepping in beside him. “She has a shocking headache and has gone to bed. As a matter of fact, I believe that she was expecting to hear from you.”
“Impossible!” he answered shortly. He was beginning to distrust this woman.
“Never mind. You can make it up with her to-morrow. I was foolish to be anxious about her at all. Are you coming in again?”
They were at Carmarthen House. He handed her out.
“No, thanks! If you will allow me I will wish you good-night.”
She made her way into the ball-room, and found the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer, who was just leaving.
“Do you know where Lucille is?” she asked.
He looked up at her sharply. “Where?”
“At the Carlton Hotel—with him.”
He rose to his feet with slow but evil promptitude. His face just then was very unlike the face of an angel. Lady Carey laughed aloud.
“Poor man,” she said mockingly. “It is always the same when you and Souspennier meet.”
He set his teeth.
“This time,” he muttered, “I hold the trumps.”
She pointed at the clock. It was nearly four. “She was there at eleven,” she remarked drily.
Duson stood away from the door with a low bow. The Prince—in the buttonhole of whose frock-coat was a large bunch of Russian violets, passed across the threshold. Mr. Sabin rose slowly from his chair.
“I fear,” the Prince said suavely, “that I am an early visitor. I can only throw myself upon your indulgence and plead the urgency of my mission.”
His arrival appeared to have interrupted a late breakfast of the Continental order. The small table at which Lucille and Mr. Sabin were seated was covered with roses and several dishes of wonderful fruit. A coffee equipage was before Lucille. Mr. Sabin, dressed with his usual peculiar care and looking ten years younger, had just lit a cigarette.
“We have been anticipating your visit, Prince,” Mr. Sabin remarked, with grim courtesy. “Can we offer you coffee or a liqueur?”
“I thank you, no,” the Prince answered. “I seldom take anything before lunch. Let me beg that you do not disturb yourselves. With your permission I will take this easy-chair. So! That is excellent. We can now talk undisturbed.”
Mr. Sabin bowed.
“You will find me,” he said, “an excellent listener.”
The Prince smiled in an amiable manner. His eyes were fixed upon Lucille, who had drawn her chair a little away from the table. What other woman in the world who had passed her first youth could sit thus in the slanting sunlight and remain beautiful?
“I will ask you to believe,” the Prince said slowly, “how sincerely I regret this unavoidable interference in a domestic happiness so touching. Nevertheless, I have come for the Countess. It is necessary that she returns to Dorset House this morning.”
“You will oblige me,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “by remembering that my wife is the Duchesse de Souspennier, and by so addressing her.”
The Prince spread out his hands—a deprecating gesture.
“Alas!” he said, “for the present it is not possible. Until the little affair upon which we are now engaged is finally disposed of it is necessary that Lucille should be known by the title which she bears in her own right, or by the name of her late husband, Mr. James B. Peterson.”
“That little affair,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “is, I presume, the matter which you have come to explain to me.”
The Prince smiled and shook his head.
“Explain! My dear Duke, that is not possible. It is not within your rights to ask questions or to require any explanation as to anything which Lucille is required to do by us. You must remember that our claim upon her comes before yours. It is a claim which she cannot evade or deny. And in pursuance of it, Countess, I deeply regret having to tell you that your presence at Dorset House within the next hour is demanded.”
Lucille made no answer, but looked across the table at Mr. Sabin with a little grimace.
“It is a comedy,” she murmured. “After all, it is a comedy!”
Mr. Sabin fingered his cigarette thoughtfully.
“I believe,” he said, “that the Duchess realises her responsibilities in this matter. I myself have no wish to deny them. As ordinary members we are both pledged to absolute obedience. I therefore place no embargo upon the return of my wife to Dorset House. But there are certain conditions, Prince, that considering the special circumstances of the case I feel impelled to propose.”
“I can recognise,” the Prince said, “no conditions.”
“They are very harmless,” Mr. Sabin continued calmly. “The first is that in a friendly way, and of course under the inviolable law of secrecy, you explain to me for what part Lucille is cast in this little comedy; the next that I be allowed to see her at reasonable intervals, and finally that she is known by her rightful name as Duchesse de Souspennier.”
The forced urbanity which the Prince had assumed fell away from him without warning. The tone of his reply was almost a sneer.
“I repeat,” he said, “that I can recognise no conditions.”
“It is perhaps,” Mr. Sabin continued, “the wrong word to use. We submit to your authority, but you and I are well aware that your discretionary powers are large. I ask you to use them.”
“And I,” the Prince said, “refuse. Let me add that I intend to prevent any recurrence of your little adventure of last night. Lucille shall not see you again until her task is over. And as for you, my dear Duke, I desire only your absence. I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but your name has been associated in the past with too many failures to inspire us with any confidence in engaging you as an ally. Countess, a carriage from Dorset House awaits you.”
But Lucille sat still, and Mr. Sabin rose slowly to his feet.
“I thank you, Prince,” he said, “for throwing away the mask. Fighting is always better without the buttons. It is true that I have failed more than once, but it is also true that my failures have been more magnificent than your waddle across the plain of life. As for your present authority, I challenge you to your face that you are using it to gain your private ends. What I have said to you I shall repeat to those whose place is above yours. Lucille shall go to Dorset House, but I warn you that I hold my life a slight thing where her welfare is concerned. Your hand is upon the lever of a great organization, I am only a unit in the world. Yet I would have you remember that more than once, Prince, when you and I have met with the odds in your favour the victory has been mine. Play the game fairly, and you have nothing to fear from me but the open opposition I have promised you. Bring but the shadow of evil upon her, misuse your power but ever so slightly against her, and I warn you that I shall count the few years of life left to me a trifle—of less than no account—until you and I cry quits.”
The Prince smiled, a fat, good-natured smile, behind which the malice was indeed well hidden.
“Come, come, my dear Souspennier,” he declared. “This is unworthy of you. It is positively melodramatic. It reminds me of the plays of my Fatherland, and of your own Adelphi Theatre. We should be men of the world, you and I. You must take your defeats with your victories. I can assure you that the welfare of the Countess Lucille shall be my special care.”
Lucille for the first time spoke. She rose from her chair and rested her hands affectionately upon her husband’s shoulder.
“Dear Victor,” she said, “remember that we are in London, and, need I add, have confidence in me. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer and I understand one another, I believe. If we do not it is not my fault. My presence here at this moment should prove to you how eagerly I shall look forward to the time when our separation is no longer necessary.”
She passed away into the inner room with a little farewell gesture tender and regretful. Mr. Sabin resumed his seat.
“I believe, Prince,” he said, “that no good can come of any further conference between you and me. We understand one another too well. Might I suggest therefore that you permit me to ring?”
The Prince rose to his feet.
“You are right,” he said. “The bandying of words between you and me is a waste of time. We are both of us too old at the game. But come, before I go I will do you a good turn. I will prove that I am in a generous mood.”
Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.
“If anything in this world could inspire me with fear,” he remarked, “it would be the generosity of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer.”
The Prince sighed.
“You always misunderstand me,” he murmured. “However, I will prove my words. You spoke of an appeal.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I intend to impeach you for making use of the powers entrusted to you for your own private ends—in other words, for making an arbitrary misuse of your position.”
The Prince nodded.
“It is very well put,” he said. “I shall await the result of your appeal in fear and trembling. I confess that I am very much afraid. But, come now, I am going to be generous. I am going to help you on a little. Do you know to whom your appeal must be made?”
“To the Grand Duke!” Mr. Sabin replied.
The Prince shook his head.
“Ah me!” he said, “how long indeed you have been absent from the world. The Grand Duke is no longer the head of our little affair. Shall I tell you who has succeeded him?”
“I can easily find out,” Mr. Sabin answered.
“Ah, but I warned you that I was in a generous mood,” the Prince said, with a smile. “I will save you the trouble. With your permission I will whisper the name in your ear. It is not one which we mention lightly.”
He stepped forward and bent his head for a moment. Afterwards, as he drew back, the smile upon his lips broadened until he showed all his teeth. It was a veritable triumph. Mr. Sabin, taken wholly by surprise, had not been able to conceal his consternation.
“It is not possible,” he exclaimed hoarsely. “He would not dare.”
But in his heart he knew that the Prince had spoken the truth.
“After all,” said the Prince, looking up from the wine list, “why cannot I be satisfied with you? And why cannot you be satisfied with me? It would save so much trouble.”
Lady Carey, who was slowly unwinding the white veil from her picture hat, shrugged her shoulders.
“My dear man,” she said, “you could not seriously expect me to fall in love with you.”
The Prince sipped his wine—a cabinet hock of rare vintage—and found it good. He leaned over towards his companion.
“Why not?” he asked. “I wish that you would try—in earnest, I mean. You are capable of great things, I believe—perhaps of the great passion itself.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured derisively.
“And yet,” he continued, “there has always been in our love-making a touch of amateurishness. It is an awkward word, but I do not know how better to explain myself.”
“I understand you perfectly,” she answered. “I can also, I think, explain it. It is because I never cared a rap about you.”
The Prince did not appear altogether pleased. He curled his fair moustache, and looked deprecatingly at his companion. She had so much the air of a woman who has spoken the truth.
“My dear Muriel!” he protested.
She looked at him insolently.
“My good man,” she said, “whatever you do don’t try and be sentimental. You know quite well that I have never in my life pretended to care a rap about you—except to pass the time. You are altogether too obvious. Very young girls and very old women would rave about you. You simply don’t appeal to me. Perhaps I know you too well. What does it matter!”
He sighed and examined a sauce critically. They were lunching at Prince’s alone, at a small table near the wall.
“Your taste,” he remarked a little spitefully, “would be considered a trifle strange. Souspennier carries his years well, but he must be an old man.”
She sipped her wine thoughtfully.
“Old or young,” she said, “he is a man, and all my life I have loved men,—strong men. To have him here opposite to me at this moment, mine, belonging to me, the slave of my will, I would give—well, I would give—a year of my life—my new tiara—anything!”
“What a pity,” he murmured, “that we cannot make an exchange, you and I, Lucille and he!”
“Ah, Lucille!” she murmured. “Well, she is beautiful. That goes for much. And she has the grand air. But, heavens, how stupid!”
“Stupid!” he repeated doubtfully.
She drummed nervously upon the tablecloth with her fingers.
“Oh, not stupid in the ordinary way, of course, but yet a fool. I should like to see man or devil try and separate us if I belonged to him—until I was tired of him. That would come, of course. It comes always. It is the hideous part of life.”
“You look always,” he said, “a little too far forward. It is a mistake. After all, it is the present only which concerns us.”
“Admirable philosophy,” she laughed scornfully, “but when one is bored to death in the present one must look forward or backward for consolation.”
He continued his lunch in silence for a while.
“I am rebuked!” he said.
There came a pause in the courses. He looked at her critically. She was very handsomely dressed in a walking costume of dove-coloured grey. The ostrich feathers which drooped from her large hat were almost priceless. She had the undeniable air of being a person of breeding. But she was paler even than usual, her hair, notwithstanding its careful arrangement, gave signs of being a little thin in front. There were wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. She knew these things, but she bore his inspection with indifference.
“I wonder,” he said reflectively, “what we men see in you. You have plenty of admirers. They say that Grefton got himself shot out at the front because you treated him badly. Yet—you are not much to look at, are you?”
She laughed at him. Hers was never a pleasant laugh, but this time it was at least natural.
“How discriminating,” she declared. “I am an ugly woman, and men of taste usually prefer ugly women. Then I am always well dressed. I know how to wear my clothes. And I have a shocking reputation. A really wicked woman, I once heard pious old Lady Surbiton call me! Dear old thing! It did me no end of good. Then I have the very great advantage of never caring for any one more than a few days together. Men find that annoying.”
“You have violent fancies,” he remarked, “and strange ones.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted. “They concern no one except myself.”
“This Souspennier craze, for instance!”
She nodded.
“Well, you can’t say that I’m not honest. It is positively my only virtue. I adore the truth. I loathe a lie. That is one reason, I daresay, why I can only barely tolerate you. You are a shocking—a gross liar.”
“Muriel!”
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she exclaimed irritably. “You must hear the truth sometimes. And now, please remember that I came to lunch with you to hear about your visit this morning.”
The Prince gnawed his moustache, and the light in his eyes was not a pleasant thing to see. This woman with her reckless life, her odd fascination, her brusque hatred of affectations, was a constant torment to him. If only he could once get her thoroughly into his power.
“My visit,” he said, “was wholly successful. It could not well be otherwise. Lucille has returned to Dorset House. Souspennier is confounded altogether by a little revelation which I ventured to make. He spoke of an appeal. I let him know with whom he would have to deal. I left him nerveless and crushed. He can do nothing save by open revolt. And if he tries that—well, there will be no more of this wonderful Mr. Sabin.”
“Altogether a triumph to you,” she remarked scornfully. “Oh, I know the sort of thing. But, after all, my dear Ferdinand, what of last night. I hate the woman, but she played the game, and played it well. We were fooled, both of us. And to think that I—”
She broke off with a short laugh. The Prince looked at her curiously.
“Perhaps,” he said, “you had some idea of consoling the desolate husband?”
“Perhaps I had,” she answered coolly. “It didn’t come off, did it? Order me some coffee, and give me a cigarette, my friend. I have something else to say to you.”
He obeyed her, and she leaned back in the high chair.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I have nothing whatever to do with you and Lucille. I suppose you will get your revenge on Souspennier through her. It won’t be like you if you don’t try, and you ought to have the game pretty well in your own hands. But I won’t have Souspennier harmed. You understand?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Souspennier,” he said, “must take care. If he oversteps the bounds he must pay the penalty.”
She leaned forward. There was a look in her face which he knew very well.
“You and I understand one another,” she said coolly. “If you want me for an enemy you can have me. Very likely I shall tell you before long that you can do what you like with the man. But until I do it will be very dangerous for you if harm comes to him.”
“It is no use,” he answered doggedly. “If he attacks he must be silenced.”
“If he attacks,” she answered, “you must give me twenty-four hours clear notice before you move a hand against him. Afterwards—well, we will discuss that.”
“You had better,” he said, looking at her with an ugly gleam in his eyes, “persuade him to take you for a little tour on the Continent. It would be safer.”
“If he would come,” she said coolly, “I would go to-morrow. But he won’t—just yet. Never mind. You have heard what I wanted to say. Now shall we go? I am going to get some sleep this afternoon. Everybody tells me that I look like a ghost.”
“Why not come to Grosvenor Square with me?” he leaning a little across the table. “Patoff shall make you some Russian tea, and afterwards you shall sleep as long as you like.”
“How idyllic!” she answered, with a faint sarcastic smile. “It goes to my heart to decline so charming an invitation. But, to tell you the truth, it would bore me excessively.”
He muttered something under his breath which startled the waiter at his elbow. Then he followed her out of the room. She paused for a few moments in the portico to finish buttoning her gloves.
“Many thanks for my lunch,” she said, nodding to him carelessly. “I’m sure I’ve been a delightful companion.”
“You have been a very tormenting one,” he answered gloomily as he followed her out on to the pavement.
“You should try Lucille,” she suggested maliciously.
He stood by her side while they waited for her carriage, and looked at her critically. Her slim, elegant figure had never seemed more attractive to him. Even the insolence of her tone and manner had an odd sort of fascination. He tried to hold for a moment the fingers which grasped her skirt.
“I think,” he whispered, “that after you Lucille would be dull!”
She laughed.
“That is because Lucille has morals and a conscience,” she said, “and I have neither. But, dear me, how much more comfortably one gets on without them. No, thank you, Prince. My coupe is only built for one. Remember.”
She flung him a careless nod from the window. The Prince remained on the pavement until after the little brougham had driven away. Then he smiled softly to himself as he turned to follow it.
“No!” he said. “I think not! I think that she will not get our good friend Souspennier. We shall see!”
A barely furnished man’s room, comfortable, austere, scholarly. The refuge of a busy man, to judge by the piles of books and papers which littered the large open writing-table. There were despatch boxes turned upside down, a sea of parchment and foolscap. In the midst of it all a man deep in thought.
A visitor, entering with the freedom of an old acquaintance, laid his hand upon his shoulder and greeted him with an air of suppressed enthusiasm.
“Planning the campaign, eh, Brott? Or is that a handbook to Court etiquette? You will need it within the week. There are all sorts of rumours at the clubs.”
Brott shook himself free from his fit of apathetic reflection. He would not have dared to tell his visitor where his thoughts had been for the last half hour.
“Somehow,” he said, “I do not think that little trip to Windsor will come just yet. The King will never send for me unless he is compelled.”
His visitor, an ex-Cabinet Minister, a pronounced Radical and a lifelong friend of Brott’s, shrugged his shoulders.
“That time,” he said, “is very close at hand. He will send for Letheringham first, of course, and great pressure will be brought to bear upon him to form a ministry. But without you he will be helpless. He has not the confidence of the people.”
“Without me,” Brott repeated slowly. “You think then that I should not accept office with Letheringham?”
His visitor regarded him steadily for a moment, open-mouthed, obviously taken aback.
“Brott, are you in your right senses?” he asked incredulously. “Do you know what you are saying?”
Brott laughed a little nervously.
“This is a great issue, Grahame,” he said. “I will confess that I am in an undecided state. I am not sure that the country is in a sufficiently advanced state for our propaganda. Is this really our opportunity, or is it only the shadow of what is to come thrown before? If we show our hand too soon all is lost for this generation. Don’t look at me as though I were insane, Grahame. Remember that the country is only just free from a long era of Conservative rule.”
“The better our opportunity,” Grahame answered vigorously. “Two decades of puppet government are enervating, I admit, but they only pave the way more surely to the inevitable reaction. What is the matter with you, Brott? Are you ill? This is the great moment of our lives. You must speak at Manchester and Birmingham within this week. Glasgow is already preparing for you. Everything and everybody waits for your judgment. Good God, man, it’s magnificent! Where’s your enthusiasm? Within a month you must be Prime Minister, and we will show the world the way to a new era.”
Brott sat quite still. His friend’s words had stirred him for the moment. Yet he seemed the victim of a curious indecision. Grahame leaned over towards him.
“Brott, old friend,” he said, “you are not ill?”
Brott shook his head.
“I am perfectly well,” he said.
Grahame hesitated.
“It is a delicate thing to mention,” he said. “Perhaps I shall pass even the bounds of our old comradeship. But you have changed. Something is wrong with you. What is it?”
“There is nothing,” Brott answered, looking up. “It is your fancy. I am well enough.”
Grahame’s face was dark with anxiety.
“This is no idle curiosity of mine,” he said. “You know me better than that. But the cause which is nearer my heart than life itself is at stake. Brott, you are the people’s man, their promised redeemer. Think of them, the toilers, the oppressed, God’s children, groaning under the iniquitous laws of generations of evil statesmanship. It is the dawn of their new day, their faces are turned to you. Man, can’t you hear them crying? You can’t fail them. You mustn’t. I don’t know what is the matter with you, Brott, but away with it. Free yourself, man.”
Brott sighed wearily, but already there was a change in him. His face was hardening—the lines in his face deepened. Grahame continued hastily—eagerly.
“Public men,” he said, “are always at the mercy of the halfpenny press, but you know, Brott, your appearance so often in Society lately has set men’s tongues wagging. There is no harm done, but it is time to stop them. You are right to want to understand these people. You must go down amongst them. It has been slumming in Mayfair for you, I know. But have done with it now. It is these people we are going to fight. Let it be open war. Let them hear your programme at Glasgow. We don’t want another French Revolution, but it is going to be war against the drones, fierce, merciless war! You must break with them, Brott, once and for ever. And the time is now.”
Brott held out his hand across the table. No one but this one man could have read the struggle in his face.
“You are right, Grahame. I thank you. I thank you as much for what you have left unsaid as for what you have said. I was a fool to think of compromising. Letheringham is a nerveless leader. We should have gone pottering on for another seven years. Thank God that you came when you did. See here!”
He tossed him over a letter. Grahame’s cheek paled as he read.
“Already!” he murmured.
Brott nodded.
“Read it!”
Grahame devoured every word. His eyes lit up with excitement.
“My prophecy exactly,” he exclaimed, laying it down. “It is as I said. He cannot form the ministry without you. His letter is abject. He gives himself away. It is an entreaty. And your answer?”
“Has not yet gone,” Brott said. “You shall write it yourself if you like. I am thankful that you came when you did.”
“You were hesitating?” Grahame exclaimed.
“I was.”
Grahame looked at him in wonder, and Brott faced him sturdily.
“It seems like treason to you, Grahame!” he said. “So it does to me now. I want nothing in the future to come between us,” he continued more slowly, “and I should like if I can to expunge the memory of this interview. And so I am going to tell you the truth.” Grahame held out his hand.
“Don’t!” he said. “I can forget without.”
Brott shook his head.
“No,” he said. “You had better understand everything. The halfpenny press told the truth. Yet only half the truth. I have been to all these places, wasted my time, wasted their time, from a purely selfish reason—to be near the only woman I have ever cared for, the woman, Grahame!”
“I knew it,” Grahame murmured. “I fought against the belief, I thought that I had stifled it. But I knew it all the time.”
“If I have seemed lukewarm sometimes of late,” Brott said, “there is the cause. She is an aristocrat, and my politics are hateful to her. She has told me so seriously, playfully, angrily. She has let me feel it in a hundred ways. She has drawn me into discussions and shown the utmost horror of my views. I have cared for her all my life, and she knows it. And I think, Grahame, that lately she has been trying constantly, persistently, to tone down my opinions. She has let me understand that they are a bar between us. And it is a horrible confession, Grahame, but I believe that I was wavering. This invitation from Letheringham seemed such a wonderful opportunity for compromise.”
“This must never go out of the room,” Grahame said hoarsely. “It would ruin your popularity. They would never trust you again.”
“I shall tell no one else,” Brott said.
“And it is over?” Grahame demanded eagerly.
“It is over.”
The Duke of Dorset, who entertained for his party, gave a great dinner that night at Dorset House, and towards its close the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer, who was almost the only non-political guest, moved up to his host in response to an eager summons. The Duke was perturbed.
“You have heard the news, Saxe Leinitzer?”
“I did not know of any news,” the Prince answered. “What is it?”
“Brott has refused to join with Letheringham in forming a ministry. It is rumoured even that a coalition was proposed, and that Brott would have nothing to do with it.”
The Prince looked into his wineglass.
“Ah!” he said.
“This is disturbing news,” the Duke continued. “You do not seem to appreciate its significance.”
The Prince looked up again.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “You shall explain to me.”
“Brott refuses to compromise,” the Duke said. “He stands for a ministry of his own selection. Heaven only knows what mischief this may mean. His doctrines are thoroughly revolutionary. He is an iconoclast with a genius for destruction. But he has the ear of the people. He is to-day their Rienzi.”
The Prince nodded.
“And Lucille?” he remarked. “What does she say?”
“I have not spoken to her,” the Duke answered. “The news has only just come.”
“We will speak to her,” the Prince said, “together.”
Afterwards in the library there was a sort of informal meeting, and their opportunity came.
“So you have failed, Countess,” her host said, knitting his grey brows at her.
She smilingly acknowledged defeat.
“But I can assure you,” she said, “that I was very near success. Only on Monday he had virtually made up his mind to abandon the extreme party and cast in his lot with Letheringham. What has happened to change him I do not know.”
The Prince curled his fair moustache.
“It is a pity,” he said, “that he changed his mind. For one thing is very certain. The Duke and I are agreed upon it. A Brott ministry must never be formed.”
She looked up quickly.
“What do you mean?”
The Prince answered her without hesitation.
“If one course fails,” he said, “another must be adopted. I regret having to make use of means which are somewhat clumsy and obvious. But our pronouncement on this one point is final. Brott must not be allowed to form a ministry.”
She looked at him with something like horror in her soft full eyes.
“What would you do?” she murmured.
The Prince shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, “we are not quite medieval enough to adopt the only really sensible method and remove Mr. Brott permanently from the face of the earth. We should stop a little short of that, but I can assure you that Mr. Brott’s health for the next few months is a matter for grave uncertainty. It is a pity for his sake that you failed.”
She bit her lip.
“Do you know if he is still in London?” she asked.
“He must be on the point of leaving for Scotland,” the Duke answered. “If he once mounts the platform at Glasgow there will be no further chance of any compromise. He will be committed irretrievably to his campaign of anarchy.”
“And to his own disaster,” the Prince murmured.
Lucille remained for a moment deep in thought. Then she looked up.
“If I can find him before he starts,” she said hurriedly, “I will make one last effort.”