He turned away, leaving Courtledge alone, for a minute or two, on the threshold of the card room. The secretary’s attention was riveted upon the table near the wall, and the frown on his face deepened. Just as he was moving off, the Baron de Grost rose and joined him.
“They are playing a little high in here this evening,” the latter remarked quietly.
Courtledge frowned.
“I wish I had been in the club when they started,” he said, gloomily. “My task is all the more difficult now.”
The Baron de Grost looked pensively, for a moment, at the cigarette which he was carrying.
“By the bye, Mr. Courtledge,” he asked, with apparent irrelevance, “what was the name of the tall man with whom you were talking just now?”
“Count von Hern. He was brought in by one of the attaches at the German Embassy.”
Baron de Grost passed his arm through the secretary’s and led him a little way through the corridor.
“I thought I recognized our friend,” he remarked. “His presence here this evening is quite interesting.”
“Why this evening?”
Baron de Grost avoided the question.
“Mr. Courtledge,” he said, “I think that you will allow me to ask you something without thinking me impertinent. You know that my wife and I have taken some interest in Prince Albert. It is on his account, is it not, that you look so gloomy to-night, as though you had an execution in front of you?”
Courtledge nodded.
“I am afraid,” he announced, “that we have come to the end of our tether with that young man. It’s a pity, too, for he isn’t a bad sort, and it will do the club no good if it gets about. But he hasn’t settled up for a fortnight, and the matter came before the committee this afternoon. He owes one man over seven hundred pounds.”
The Baron de Grost listened gravely.
“Are you going to speak to him to-night?” he asked.
“I must. I am instructed by the committee to ask him not to come to the club again until he has discharged his obligations.”
De Grost smoked thoughtfully for a few moments.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose there is no getting out of it. Don’t rub it in too thick, though. I mean to have a talk with the boy afterwards, and if I am satisfied with what he says, the money will
be all right.”
Courtledge raised his eyebrows.
“You know, of course, that he has a very small income and no expectations?”
“I know that,” Baron de Grost answered. “At the same time, it is hard to forget that he really is a member of the royal house, even though the kingdom is a small one.”
“Not only is the kingdom a small one,” Courtledge remarked, “but there are something like five lives between him and the succession. However, It’s very good-natured of you, Baron, to think of lending him a hand. I’ll let him down as lightly as I can. You know him better than any one; I wonder if you could make an excuse to send him out of the room? I’d rather no one saw me talking to him.”
“Quite easy,” said the Baron. “I’ll manage it.”
The rubber was just finishing as De Grost re-entered the room. He touched the young man, who had been the subject of their conversation, upon the shoulder.
“My wife would like to speak to you for a moment,” he said. “She is in the other room.”
Prince Albert rose to his feet. He was looking very pale, and the ash-tray in front of him was littered with cigarette ends.
“I will go and pay my respects to the Baroness,” he declared. “It will change my luck, perhaps. Au revoir!”
He passed out of the room and all eyes followed him.
Has the Prince been losing again to-night?” the Baron asked.
One of the three men at the table shrugged his shoulders.
“He owes me about five hundred pounds,” he said, “and to tell you the truth, I’d really rather not play any more. I don’t mind high points, but his doubles are absurd.”
“Why not break up the table?” the Baron suggested. “The boy can scarcely afford such stakes.”
He strolled out of the room in time to meet the Prince, who was standing in the corridor. A glance at his face was sufficient – the secretary had spoken. He would have hurried off, but the Baron intercepted him.
“You are leaving, Prince?” he asked.
“Yes!” was the somewhat curt reply.
“I will walk a little way with you, if I may,” De Grost continued. “My wife brought Lady Brownloe, and the brougham only holds two comfortably.”
Prince Albert made no reply. He seemed just then scarcely capable of speech. When they had reached the pavement, however, the Baron took his arm.
“My young friend,” he inquired, “how much does it all amount to?”
The Prince turned towards him with darkening face.
“You knew, then,” he demanded, “that Mr. Courtledge was going to speak to me of my debts?”
“I was sorry to hear that it had become necessary,” the Baron answered. “You must not take it too seriously. You know very well that at a club like the Berkeley, which has such a varied membership, card debts must be settled on the spot.”
“Mine will be settled before mid-day to-morrow,” the young man declared, sullenly. “I am not sure that it may not be to-night.”
De Grost was silent for a moment. They had turned into Piccadilly. He summoned a taxicab.
“Do you mind coming round to my house and talking to me, for a few minutes?” he asked.
The young man hesitated.
“I’ll come round later on,” he suggested. “I have a call to make first.”
De Grost held open the door of the taxicab.
“I want a talk with you,” he said, “before you make that call.”
“You speak as though you knew where I was going, the Prince remarked.
His companion made no reply, but the door of the taxicab was still open and his hand had fallen ever so slightly upon the other’s shoulder. The Prince yielded to the stronger will. He stepped inside.
They drove in silence to Porchester Square. The Baron led the way through into his own private sanctum, and closed the door carefully. Cigars, cigarettes, whiskey and soda, and liqueurs were upon the sideboard.
“Help yourself, Prince,” he begged, “and then, if you don’t mind, I am going to ask you a somewhat impertinent question.”
The Prince drank the greater part of a whiskey and soda and lit a cigarette. Then he set his tumbler down and frowned.
“Baron de Grost,” he said, “you have been very kind to me since I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance. I hope you will not ask me any question that I cannot answer.”
“On the contrary,” his host declared, “the question which I shall ask will be one which it will be very much to your advantage to answer. I will put it as plainly as possible. You are going, as you admit yourself, to pay your card debts to-night or to-morrow morning, and you are certainly not going to pay them out of your income. Where is the money coming from?”
Albert of Trent seemed suddenly to remember that after all he was of royal descent. He drew himself up and bore himself, for a moment, as a Prince should.
“Baron de Grost,” he said, “you pass the limits of friendship when you ask such a question. I take the liberty of wishing you good-night.”
He moved towards the door. The Baron, however, was in the way – a strong, motionless figure, and his tone, when he spoke again, was convincing.
“Prince,” he declared, “I speak in your own interests. You have not chosen to answer my question. Let me answer it for you. The money to pay your debts, and I know not how much besides, was to come from the Government of a country with whom none of your name or nationality should willingly have dealings.”
The Prince started violently. The shock caused him to forget his new-found dignity.
“How, in the devil’s name, do you know that?” he demanded.
“I know more,” the Baron continued. “I know the consideration which you were to give for this money.”
Then the Prince began plainly to show the terror which had crept into his heart – the terror and the shame. He looked at his host like a man dazed with hearing strange things.
“It comes to nothing,” he said, in a hard, unnatural tone. “It is a foolish bargain, indeed. Between me and the throne are four lives. My promise is not worth the paper it is written upon. I shall never succeed.”
“That, Prince, is probably where you are misinformed,” the Baron replied. “You are just now in disgrace with your family, and you hear from them only what the newspapers choose to tell.”
“Has anything been kept back from me?” the Prince asked.
“Tell me this first,” De Grost insisted. “Am I not right in assuming that you have signed a solemn undertaking that, in the event of your succeeding to the throne of your country, you will use the whole of your influence towards concluding a treaty with a certain Power, one of the provisions of which is that that Power shall have free access to any one of your ports in the event of war with England?”
There was a moment’s silence. The Prince clutched the back of the chair against which he was leaning.
“Supposing it were true?” he muttered. “It is, after all, an idle promise.
The Baron shook his head slowly.
“Prince,” he said, “it is no such idle promise as it seems. The man who is seeking to trade upon your poverty knew more than he would tell you. You may have read in the newspapers that your two cousins are confined to the palace with slight colds. The truth has been kept quiet, but it is none the less known to a few of us. The so-called cold is really a virulent attack of diphtheria, and, according to to-night’s reports, neither Prince Cyril nor Prince Henry are expected to live.”
“Is this true?” the Prince gasped.
“It is true,” his host declared. “My information can be relied upon.”
The Prince sat down suddenly. He was looking whiter than ever, and very scared.
“Even then,” he murmured, “there is John.”
“You have been out of touch with your family for some months,” De Grost reminded his visitor. “One or two of us, however, know what you, probably, will soon hear. Prince John has taken the vows and solemnly resigned, before the Archbishop, his heirship. He will be admitted into the Roman Catholic Church in a week or two, and will go straight to a monastery.”
“It’s likely enough,” the Prince gasped. “He always wanted to be a monk.”
“You see now,” the Baron continued, “that your friend’s generosity was not so wonderful a thing. Count von Hern was watching you to-night at the Bridge Club. He has gone home; he is waiting now to receive you. Apart from that, the man Nisch, with whom you have played so much, is a confederate of his, a political tout, not to say a spy.”
“The brute!” Prince Albert muttered. “I am obliged to you, Baron, for having warned me,” he added, rising slowly to his feet. “I shall sign nothing. There is another way.”
De Grost shook his head.
“My young friend,” he said, “there is another way, indeed, but not the way you have in your mind at this moment. I offer you an alternative. I will give you notes for the full amount you owe to-night, so that you can, if you will, go back to the club direct from here and pay everything – on one condition.”
“Condition!”
“You must promise to put your hand to no document which the Count von Hern may place before you, and pledge your word that you have no further dealings with him.”
“But why should you do this for me?” the Prince exclaimed. “I do not know that I shall ever be able to pay you.”
“If you succeed to the throne, you will pay me,” the Baron de Grost said. “If you do not succeed, remember that I am a rich man, and that I shall miss this money no more than the sixpence which you might throw to a crossing-sweeper.”
The Prince was silent. His host unlocked a small cabinet and took from it a bundle of notes.
“Tell me the whole amount you owe,” he insisted, “every penny, mind.”
“Sixteen hundred pounds,” was the broken reply.
De Grost counted a little roll and laid it upon the table.
“There are two thousand pounds,” he said. “Listen, Prince. A name such as you bear carries with it certain obligations. Remember that, and try and shape your life accordingly. Take my advice – go back to your own country and find some useful occupation there, even if you only rejoin your regiment and wear its uniform. The time may come when your country will require you, for her work comes sooner or later to every man. You are leading a rotten life over here, a life which might have led to disaster and dishonor, a life, as you know, which might have ended in your rooms to-night with a small bullet hole in your forehead. Brave men do not die like that. Take up the money, please.”
The Baron de Grost sent a cipher dispatch to Paris that night, and received an answer which pleased him.
“It is a small thing,” he read, “but it is well done. Particulars of a matter of grave importance will reach you to-morrow.” letter.
CHAPTER III
THE AMBASSADOR’S WIFE
Alone in his study, with fast-locked door, Peter, Baron de Grost, sat reading, word by word, with zealous care the despatch from Paris which had just been delivered into his hands. From the splendid suite of reception rooms which occupied the whole of the left-hand side of the hall came the faint sound of music. The street outside was filled with automobiles and carriages setting down their guests. Madame was receiving to-night a gathering of very distinguished men and women, and it was only for a few moments, and on very urgent business indeed, that her husband had dared to leave her side.
The room in which he sat was in darkness except for the single heavily shaded electric lamp which stood by his elbow. Nevertheless, there was sufficient illumination to show that Peter had achieved one, at least, of his ambitions. He was wearing court dress, with immaculate black silk stockings and diamond buckles upon his shoes. A red ribbon was in his buttonhole and a French order hung from his neck. His passion for clothes was certainly amply ministered to by the exigencies of his new position. Once more he read those last few words of this unexpectedly received despatch, read them with a frown upon his forehead and the light of trouble in his eyes. For three months he had done nothing but live the life of an ordinary man of fashion and wealth. His first task, for which, to tell the truth, he had been anxiously waiting, was here before him, and he found it little to his liking. Again, he read slowly to himself the last paragraph of Sogrange’s.
As ever, dear friend, one of the greatest sayings which the men of my race have ever perpetrated once more justifies itself – “Cherchez la femme!” Of Monsieur we have no manner of doubt. We have tested him in every way. And to all appearance Madame should also be above suspicion. Yet those things of which I have spoken have happened. For two hours this morning I was closeted with Picon here. Very reluctantly he has placed the matter in my hands. I pass it on to you. It is your first undertaking, cher Baron, and I wish you bon fortune. A man of gallantry, as I know you are, you may regret that it should be a woman, and a beautiful woman, too, against whom the finger must be pointed. Yet, after all, the fates are strong and the task is yours.
SOGRANGE.
The music from the reception rooms grew louder and more insistent. Peter rose to his feet, and moving to the fireplace, struck a match and carefully destroyed the letter which he had been reading. Then he straightened himself, glanced for a moment at the mirror, and left the room to join his guests.
“Monsieur le Baron jests,” the lady murmured.
The Baron de Grost shook his head.
“Indeed, no, Madame!” he answered earnestly. “France has offered us nothing more delightful in the whole history of our entente than the loan of yourself and your brilliant husband. Monsieur de Lamborne makes history among us politically, while Madame – “
The Baron sighed, and his companion leaned a little towards him; her dark eyes were full of sentimental regard.
“Yes?” she murmured. “Continue. It is my wish.”
“I am the good friend of Monsieur de Lamborne,” the Baron said, and in his tone there seemed to lurk some far-away touch of regret, “yet Madame knows that her conquests here have been many.”
The Ambassador’s wife fanned herself and remained silent for a moment, a faint smile playing at the corners of her full, curving lips. She was, indeed, a very beautiful woman – elegant, a Parisienne to the finger-tips, with pale cheeks, but eyes dark and soft, eyes trained to her service, whose flash was an inspiration, whose very droop had set beating the hearts of men less susceptible than the Baron de Grost. Her gown was magnificent, of amber satin, a color daring, but splendid; the outline of her figure, as she leaned slightly back in her seat, might indeed have been traced by the inspired finger of some great sculptor. De Grost, whose reputation as a man of gallantry was well established, felt the whole charm of her presence – felt, too, the subtle indications of preference which she seemed inclined to accord to him. There was nothing which eyes could say which hers were not saying during those few minutes. The Baron, indeed, glanced around a little nervously. His wife had still her moments of unreasonableness; it was just as well that she was engaged with some of her guests at the farther end of the apartments.
“You are trying to turn my head,” his beautiful companion whispered. “You flatter me.”
“It is not possible,” he answered.
Again the fan fluttered for a moment before her face. She sighed.
“Ah. Monsieur!” she continued, dropping her voice until it scarcely rose above a whisper, “there are not many men like you. You speak of my husband and his political gifts. Yet what, after all, do they amount to? What is his position, indeed, if one glanced behind the scenes, compared with yours?”
The face of the Baron de Grost became like a mask. It was as though suddenly he had felt the thrill of danger close at hand, danger even in that scented atmosphere wherein he sat.
“Alas, Madame!” he answered, “it is you, now, who are pleased to jest. Your husband is a great and powerful ambassador. I, unfortunately, have no career, no place in life save the place which the possession of a few millions gives to a successful financier.”
She laughed very softly, and again her eyes spoke to him. “Monsieur,” she murmured, “you and I together could make a great alliance, is it not so?”
“Madame,” he faltered, doubtfully, “if one dared hope -“
Once more the fire of her eyes, this time not only voluptuous. Was the man stupid, she wondered, or only cautious?
“If that alliance were once concluded,” she said, softly, “one might hope for everything.”
“If it rests only with me,” he began, seriously, “oh, Madame!”
He seemed overcome. Madame was gracious, but was he really stupid or only very much in earnest?
“To be one of the world’s money kings,” she whispered, “it is wonderful – that. It is power – supreme, absolute power. There is nothing beyond, there is nothing greater.”
Then the Baron, who was watching her closely, caught another gleam in her eyes, and he began to understand. He had seen it before among a certain type of her countrywomen – the greed of money. He looked at her jewels and he remembered that, for an ambassador, her husband was reputed to be a poor man. The cloud of misgiving passed away from him; he settled down to the game.
“If money could only buy the desire of one’s heart,” he murmured. “Alas!”
His eyes seemed to seek out Monsieur de Lamborne among the moving throngs. She laughed softly, and her hand brushed his.
“Money and one other thing, Monsieur le Baron,” she whispered in his ear, “can buy the jewels from a crown – can buy, even, the heart of a woman – “
A movement of approaching guests caught them up, and parted them for a time. The Baroness de Grost was at home from ten till one, and her rooms were crowded. The Baron found himself drawn on one side, a few minutes later, by Monsieur de Lamborne himself.
“I have been looking for you, De Grost,” the latter declared. “Where can we talk for a moment?”
His host took the ambassador by the arm and led him into a retired corner. Monsieur de Lamborne was a tall, slight man, somewhat cadaverous looking, with large features, hollow eyes, thin but carefully arranged gray hair, and a pointed gray beard. He wore a frilled shirt, and an eye-glass suspended by a broad black ribbon hung down upon his chest. His face, as a rule, was imperturbable enough, but he had the air, just now, of a man greatly disturbed.
“We cannot be overheard here,” De Grost remarked. “It must be an affair of a few words only, though.”
Monsieur de Lamborne wasted no time in preliminaries. “This afternoon,” he said, ” I received from my Government papers of immense importance, which I am to hand over to your Foreign Minister at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning.”
The Baron nodded.
“Well?”
De Lamborne’s thin fingers trembled as they played nervously with the ribbon of his eye-glass.
“Listen,” he continued, dropping his voice a little. “Bernadine has undertaken to send a copy of their contents to Berlin by to-morrow night’s mail.”
“How do you know that?”
The ambassador hesitated.
“We, too, have spies at work,” he remarked, grimly. “Bernadine wrote and sent a messenger with the letter to Berlin, The man’s body is drifting down the Channel, but the letter is in my pocket.”
“The letter from Bernadine?”
“Yes.”=20
“What does he say?”
“Simply that a verbatim copy of the document in question will be despatched to Berlin to-morrow evening, without fail.”
“There are no secrets between us,” De Grost declared, smoothly. “What is the special importance of this document?”
De Lamborne shrugged his shoulders.
“Since you ask,” he said, “I will tell you. You know of the slight coolness which there has been between our respective Governments. Our people have felt that the policy of your ministers in expending all their energies and resources in the building of a great fleet to the utter neglect of your army is a wholly one-sided arrangement, so far as we are concerned. In the event of a simultaneous attack by Germany upon France and England, you would be utterly powerless to render us any measure of assistance. If Germany should attack England alone, it is the wish of your Government that we should be pledged to occupy Alsace-Lorraine. You, on the other hand, could do nothing for us, if Germany’s first move were made against France.”
The Baron was deeply interested, although the matter was no new one to him.
“Go on,” he directed. “I am waiting for you to tell me the specific contents of this document.”
“The English Government has asked us two questions: first, how many complete army corps we consider she ought to place at our disposal in this eventuality; and, secondly, at what point should we expect them to be concentrated. The despatch which I received to-night contains the reply to these questions.”
“Which Bernadine has promised to forward to Berlin to-morrow night,” the Baron remarked, softly.
De Lamborne nodded.
“You perceive,” he said, “the immense importance of the affair. The very existence of that document is almost a casus belli.”
“At what time did the despatch arrive,” the Baron asked, “and what has been its history since?”
“It arrived at six o’clock, and went straight into the inner pocket of my coat; it has not been out of my possession for a single second. Even while I talk to you I can feel it.”
“And your plans? How are you intending to dispose of it to-night?”
“On my return to the Embassy I shall place it in the safe, lock it up, and remain watching it until morning.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much chance for Bernadine,” the Baron remarked, thoughtfully.
“But there must be no chance – no chance at all,” Monsieur de Lamborne asserted, with a note of passion in his thin voice. “It is incredible, preposterous, that he should even make the attempt. I want you to come home with me and share my vigil. You shall be my witness in case anything happens. We will watch together.”
De Grost reflected for a moment.
“Bernadine makes few mistakes,” he said, thoughtfully. Monsieur de Lamborne passed his hand across his forehead.
“Do I not know it?” he muttered. “In this instance, though, it seems impossible for him to succeed. The time is so short and the conditions so difficult. I may count upon your assistance, Baron?”
The Baron drew from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper.
“I received a telegram from headquarters this after noon,” he said, “with instructions to place myself entirely at your disposal.”
“You will return with me, then, to the Embassy?” Monsieur de Lamborne asked, eagerly.
The Baron de Grost did not at once reply. He was standing in one of his characteristic attitudes, his hands clasped behind him, his head a little thrust forward, watching with every appearance of courteous interest the roomful of guests, stationary just now, listening to the performance of a famous violinist. It was, perhaps, by accident that his eyes met those of Madame de Lamborne, but she smiled at him subtly, more, perhaps, with her wonderful eyes than her lips themselves. She was the centre of a very brilliant group, a most beautiful woman holding court, as was only right and proper, among her admirers. The Baron sighed.
“No,” he said, “I shall not return with you, De Lamborne. I want you to follow my suggestions, if you will.”
“But, assuredly!”
“Leave here early and go to your club. Remain there until one, then come to the Embassy. I shall be there awaiting your arrival.”
“You mean that you will go there alone? I do not understand,” the ambassador protested. “Why should I go to my club? I do not at all understand.”
“Nevertheless, do as I say,” De Grost insisted. “For the present, excuse me. I must look after my guests.”
The music had ceased, there was a movement toward the supper-room. The Baron offered his arm to Madame de Lamborne, who welcomed him with a brilliant smile. Her husband, although, for a Frenchman, he was by no means of a jealous disposition, was conscious of a vague feeling of uneasiness as he watched them pass out of the room together. A few minutes later he made his excuses to his wife and with a reluctance for which he could scarcely account left the house. There was something in the air, he felt, which he did not understand. He would not have admitted it to himself, but he more than half divined the truth. The vacant seat in his wife’s carriage was filled that night by the Baron de Grost.
At one o’clock precisely Monsieur de Lamborne returned to his house and heard with well-simulated interest that Monsieur le Baron de Grost awaited his arrival in the library. He found De Grost gazing with obvious respect at the ponderous safe let into the wall.
“A very fine affair – this,” he remarked, motioning with his head toward it.
“The best of its kind,” Monsieur de Lamborne admitted. “No burglar yet has ever succeeded in opening one of its type. Here is the packet,” he added, drawing the document from his pocket. “You shall see me place it in safety myself.”
The Baron stretched out his hand and examined the sealed envelope for a moment closely. Then he moved to the writing-table, and, placing it upon the letter scales, made a note of its exact weight. Finally, he watched it deposited in the ponderous safe, suggested the word to which the lock was set, and closed the door. Monsieur de Lamborne heaved a sigh of relief.
“I fancy this time,” he said, “that our friends at Berlin will be disappointed. Couch or easy-chair, Baron?”
“The couch, if you please,” De Grost replied, “a strong cigar, and a long whiskey and soda. So! Now, for our vigil.”
The hours crawled away. Once De Grost sat up and listened.
“Any rats about?” he inquired.
The ambassador was indignant.
“I have never heard one in my life,” he answered. “This is quite a modern house.”
De Grost dropped his match-box and stooped to pick it up.
“Any lights on anywhere, except in this room?” he asked.
“Certainly not,” Monsieur de Lamborne answered. “It is past three o’clock, and every one has gone to bed.”
The Baron rose and softly unbolted the door. The passage outside was in darkness. He listened intently, for a moment, and returned, yawning.
“One fancies things,” he murmured, apologetically.
“For example?” De Lamborne demanded.
The Baron shook his head.
“One mistakes,” he declared. “The nerves become over sensitive.”
The dawn broke and the awakening hum of the city grew louder and louder. De Grost rose and stretched himself.
“Your servants are moving about in the house,” he remarked. “I think that we might consider our vigil at an end.”
Monsieur de Lamborne rose with alacrity.
“My friend,” he said, “I feel that I have made false pretenses to you. With the day I have no fear. A thousand pardons for your sleepless night.”
“My sleepless night counts for nothing,” the Baron assured him, “but, before I go, would it not be as well that we glance together inside the safe?”
De Lamborne shook out his keys.
“I was about to suggest it,” he replied.
The ambassador arranged the combination and pressed the lever. Slowly the great door swung back. The two men peered in.
“Untouched!” De Lamborne exclaimed, a little note of triumph in his tone.
De Grost said nothing, but held out his hand.
“Permit me,” he interposed.
De Lamborne was conscious of a faint sense of uneasiness. His companion walked across the room and carefully weighed the packet.
“Well?” De Lamborne cried. “Why do you do that? What is wrong?”
The Baron turned and faced him.
“My friend,” he said, “this is not the same packet.” The ambassador stared at him incredulously.
“You are jesting!” he exclaimed. “Miracles do not happen. The thing is impossible.”
“It is the impossible, then, which has happened,” De Grost replied, swiftly. “This packet can scarcely have gained two ounces in the night. Besides, the seal is fuller. I have an eye for these details.”
De Lamborne leaned against the back of the table. His eyes were a little wild, but he laughed hoarsely.
“We fight, then, against the creatures of another world,” he declared. “No human being could have opened that safe last night.”
The Baron hesitated.
“Monsieur de Lamborne,” he said, “the room adjoining is your wife’s.”
“It is the salon of Madame,” the ambassador admitted.
“What are the electrical appliances doing there?” the Baron demanded. “Don”t look at me like that, De Lamborne. Remember that I was here before you arrived.”
“My wife takes an electric massage every day,” Monsieur de Lamborne answered, in a hard, unnatural voice. “In what way is Monsieur le Baron concerned in my wife’s doings?”
“I think that there need be no answer to that question,” De Grost said, quietly. “It is a greater tragedy which we have to face.”
Quick as lightning, the Frenchman’s hand shot out. De Grost barely avoided the blow.
“You shall answer to me for this, sir,” De Lamborne cried. “It is the honor of my wife which you assail.”
“I maintain only,” the Baron answered, “that your safe was entered from that room. A search will prove it.”
“There will be no search there,” De Lamborne declared, fiercely. “I am the Ambassador of France, and my power under this roof is absolute. I say that you shall not cross that threshold.”
De Grost’s expression did not change. Only his hands were suddenly outstretched with a curious gesture – the four fingers were raised, the thumbs depressed. Monsieur De Lamborne collapsed.
“I submit,” he muttered. “It is you who are the master. Search where you will.”
“Monsieur has arrived?” the woman demanded, breathlessly.
The proprietor of the restaurant himself bowed a reply. His client was evidently well-known to him. He answered her in French – French, with a very guttural accent.
“Monsieur has ascended some few minutes ago. Myself, I have not had the pleasure of wishing him bon aperitif, but Fritz announced his coming.”
The woman drew a little sigh of relief. A vague misgiving had troubled her during the last few hours. She raised her veil as she mounted the narrow staircase which led to the one private room at the Hotel de Lorraine. She entered, without tapping, the room at the head of the stairs, pushing open the ill-varnished door with its white-curtained top. At first she thought that the little apartment was empty.
“Are you there?” she exclaimed, advancing a few steps.
The figure of a man glided from behind the worn screen close by her side, and stood between her and the door.
“Madame!” De Grost said, bowing low.
Even then she scarcely realized that she was trapped. “You?” she cried. “You, Baron? But I do not understand. You have followed me here?”
“On the contrary, Madame,” he answered. “I have preceded you.”
Her colossal vanity triumphed over her natural astuteness. The man had employed spies to watch her! He had lost his head. It was an awkward matter, this, but it was to be arranged. She held out her hands.
“Monsieur,” she said, “let me beg you now to go away. If you care to, come and see me this evening. I will explain everything. It is a little family affair which brings me here.”
“A family affair, Madame, with Bernadine, the enemy of France,” De Grost declared, gravely.
She collapsed miserably, her fingers grasping at the air, the cry which broke from her lips harsh and unnatural. Before he could tell what was happening, she was on her knees before him.
Spare me,” she begged, trying to seize his hands.
“Madame,” De Grost answered, “I am not your judge. You will kindly hand over to me the document which you are carrying.”
She took it from the bosom of her dress. De Grost glanced at it, and placed it in his breast-pocket.
“And now?” she faltered.
De Grost sighed – she was a very beautiful woman.
“Madame,” he said, “the career of a spy is, as you have doubtless sometimes realized, a dangerous one.”
“It is finished,” she assured him, breathlessly. “Monsieur le Baron, you will keep my secret? Never again, I swear it, will I sin like this. You, yourself, shall be the trustee of my honor.”
Her eyes and arms besought him, but it was surely a changed man -=20 this. There was none of the suaveness, the delicate responsiveness of her late host at Porchester House. The man who faced her now possessed the features of a sphinx. There was not even pity in his face.
“You will not tell my husband?” she gasped.
“Your husband already knows, Madame,” was the quiet reply. “Only a few hours ago I proved to him whence had come the leakage of so many of our secrets lately.”
She swayed upon her feet.
“He will never forgive me,” she cried.
“There are others,” De Grost declared, “who forgive more rarely, even, than husbands.”
A sudden illuminating flash of horror told her the truth. She closed her eyes and tried to run from the room.
“I will not be told,” she screamed. “I will not hear. I do not know who you are. I will live a little longer.”
“Madame,” De Grost said, “the Double-Four wages no war with women, save with spies only. The spy has no sex. For the sake of your family, permit me to send you back to your husband’s house.”
That night, two receptions and a dinner party were postponed. All London was sympathizing with Monsieur de Lamborne, and a great many women swore never again to take a sleeping draught. Madame de Lamborne lay dead behind the shelter of those drawn blinds, and by her side an empty phial.
CHAPTER IV
THE MAN PROM THE OLD TESTAMENT
Bernadine, sometimes called the Count von Hern, was lunching at the Savoy with the pretty wife of a Cabinet Minister, who was just sufficiently conscious of the impropriety of her action to render the situation interesting.
“I wish you would tell me, Count von Hern,” she said, soon after they had settled down in their places, “why my husband seems to object to you so much. I simply dared not tell him that we were going to lunch together, and as a rule he doesn’t mind what I do in that way.”
Bernadine smiled slowly.
“Ah, well,” he remarked, “your husband is a politician and a very cautious man. I dare say he is like some of those others, who believe that, because I am a foreigner and live in London, therefore I am a spy.”
“You a spy,” she laughed. “What nonsense!”
“Why nonsense?”
She shrugged her shoulders. She was certainly a very pretty woman, and her black gown set off to fullest advantage her deep red hair and fair complexion.
“I suppose because I can’t imagine you anything of the sort,” she declared. “You see, you hunt and play polo, and do everything which the ordinary Englishmen do. Then one meets you everywhere. I think, Count von Hern, that you are much too spoilt, for one thing, to take life seriously.”
“You do me an injustice,” he murmured.
“Of course,” she chattered on, “I don’t really know what spies do. One reads about them in these silly stories, but I have never felt sure that as live people they exist at all. Tell me, Count, what could a foreign spy do in England?”
Bernadine twirled his fair moustache and shrugged his shoulders.
“Indeed, my dear lady,” he admitted, “I scarcely know what a spy could do nowadays. A few years ago, you English people were all so trusting. Your fortifications, your battleships, not to speak of your country itself, were wholly at the disposal of the enterprising foreigner who desired to acquire information. The party who governed Great Britain then seemed to have some strange idea that these things made for peace. To-day, however, all that is changed.”
“You seem to know something about it,” she remarked.
“I am afraid that mine is really only the superficial point of view,” he answered, “but I do know that there is a good deal of information, which seems absolutely insignificant in itself, for which some foreign countries are willing to pay. For instance, there was a Cabinet Council yesterday, I believe, and some one was going to suggest that a secret, but official, visit be paid to your new harbor works up at Rosyth. An announcement will probably be made in the papers during the next few days as to whether the visit is to be undertaken or not. Yet there are countries who are willing to pay for knowing even such an insignificant item of news as that, a few hours before the rest of the world.”
Lady Maxwell laughed.
“Well, I could earn that little sum of money,” she declared gayly, “for my husband has just made me cancel a dinner-party for next Thursday, because he has to go up to the stupid place.”
Bernadine smiled. It was really a very unimportant matter, but he loved to feel, even in his idle moments, that he was not altogether wasting his time.
“I am sorry,” he said,” that I am not myself acquainted with one of these mythical personages that I might return you the value of your marvelous information. If I dared think, however, that it would be in any way acceptable, I could offer you the diversion of a restaurant dinner-party for that night. The Duchess of Castleford has kindly offered to act as hostess for me and we are all going on to the Gaiety afterwards.”
“Delightful!” Lady Maxwell exclaimed. “I should love to come.”
Bernadine bowed.
“You have, then, dear lady, fulfilled your destiny,” he said. “You have given secret information to a foreign person of mysterious identity, and accepted payment.”
Now, Bernadine was a man of easy manners and unruffled composure. To the natural insouciance of his aristocratic bringing up, he had added the steely reserve of a man moving in the large world, engaged more often than not in some hazardous enterprise. Yet, for once in his life, and in the midst of the idlest of conversations, he gave himself away so utterly that even this woman with whom he was lunching – a very butterfly lady, indeed could not fail to perceive it. She looked at him in something like astonishment. Without the slightest warning his face had become set in a rigid stare, his eyes were filled with the expression of a man who sees into another world. The healthy color faded from his cheeks, he was white even to the parted lips, the wine dripped from his raised glass onto the tablecloth.
“Why, whatever is the matter with you?”she demanded. “Is it a ghost that you see?”
Bernadine’s effort was superb, but he was too clever to deny the shock.
“A ghost, indeed,” he answered, “the ghost of a man whom every newspaper in Europe has declared to be dead.”
Her eyes followed his. The two people who were being ushered to a seat in their immediate vicinity were certainly of somewhat unusual appearance. The man was tall, and thin as a lath, and he wore the clothes of the fashionable world without awkwardness, yet with the air of one who was wholly unaccustomed to them. His cheek-bones were remarkably high, and receded so quickly towards his pointed chin that his cheeks were little more than hollows. His eyes were dry and burning, flashing here and there as though the man himself were continually oppressed by some furtive fear. His thick black hair was short cropped, his forehead high and intellectual. He was a strange figure, indeed, in such a gathering, and his companion only served to accentuate the anachronisms of his appearance. She was, above all things, a woman of the moment – fair, almost florid, a little thick-set, with tightly-laced, yet passable figure. Her eyes were blue, her hair light-colored. She wore magnificent furs, and, as she threw aside her boa, she disclosed a mass of jewelry around her neck and upon her bosom, almost barbaric in its profusion and setting.
“What an extraordinary couple!” Lady Maxwell whispered.
Bernadine smiled.
“The man looks as though he had stepped out of the Old Testament,” he murmured.
Lady Maxwell’s interest was purely feminine, and was riveted now upon the jewelry worn by the woman. Bernadine, under the mask of his habitual indifference, which had easily reassumed, seemed to be looking away out of the restaurant into the great square of a half-savage city, looking at that marvelous crowd, numbered by their thousands, even by their hundreds of thousands, of men and women whose arms flashed out toward the snow-hung heavens, whose lips were parted in one chorus of rapturous acclamation; looking beyond them to the tall, emaciated form of the bare-headed priest in his long robes, his wind-tossed hair and wild eyes, standing alone before that multitude, in danger of death, or worse, at any moment – their idol, their hero. And again, as the memories came flooding into his brain, the scene passed away, and he saw the bare room with its whitewashed walls and blocked-up windows; he felt the darkness, lit only by those flickering candles. He saw the white, passion-wrung faces of the men who clustered together around the rude table, waiting; he heard their murmurs, he saw the fear born in their eyes. It was the night when their leader did not come.
Bernadine poured himself out a glass of wine and drank it slowly. The mists were clearing away now. He was in London, at the Savoy Restaurant, and within a few yards of him sat the man with whose name all Europe once had rung – the man hailed by some as martyr, and loathed by others as the most fiendish Judas who ever drew breath. Bernadine was not concerned with the moral side of this strange encounter. How best to use his knowledge of this man’s identity was the question which beat upon his brain. What use could be made of him, what profit for his country and himself? And then a fear – a sudden, startling fear. Little profit, perhaps, to be made, but the danger – the danger of this man alive with such secrets locked in his bosom! The thought itself was terrifying, and even as he realized it a significant thing happened – he caught the eye of the Baron de Grost, lunching alone at a small table just inside the restaurant.
“You are not at all amusing,” his guest declared. “It is nearly five minutes since you have spoken.”
“You, too, have been absorbed,” he reminded her.
“It is that woman’s jewels,” she admitted. “I never saw anything more wonderful. The people are not English, of course. I wonder where they come from.”
“One of the Eastern countries, without a doubt,” he replied, carelessly.
Lady Maxwell sighed.
“He is a peculiar-looking man,” she said, “but one could put up with a good deal for jewels like that. What are you doing this afternoon – picture-galleries or your club?”
“Neither, unfortunately,” Bernadine answered. “I have promised to go with a friend to look at some polo ponies.”
“Do you know,” she remarked, “that we have never been to see those Japanese prints yet?”
“The gallery is closed until Monday,” he assured her, falsely. “If you will honor me then, I shall be delighted.”
She shrugged her shoulders but said nothing. She had an idea that she was being dismissed, but Bernadine, without the least appearance of hurry, gave her no opportunity for any further suggestions. He handed her into the automobile, and returned at once into the restaurant. He touched Baron de Grost upon the shoulder.
“My friend, the enemy!” he exclaimed, smiling.
“At your service in either capacity,” the Baron replied. Bernadine made a grimace and accepted the chair which De Grost had indicated.
“If I may, I will take my coffee with you,” he said. “I am growing old. It does not amuse me so much to lunch with a pretty woman. One has to entertain, and one forgets the serious business of lunching. I will take my coffee and cigarettes in peace.
De Grost gave an order to the waiter and leaned back in his chair.
“Now,” he suggested, ” tell me exactly what it is that has brought you back into the restaurant?”
Bernadine shrugged his shoulders.
“Why not the pleasure of this few minutes’ conversation with you?” he asked.
The Baron carefully selected a cigar, and lit it.
“That,” he said, “goes well, but there are other things.”
“As, for instance?”
De Grost leaned back in his chair, and watched the smoke of his cigar curl upwards.
“One talks too much,” he remarked. “Before the cards are upon the table, it is not wise.”
They chatted upon various matters. De Grost himself seemed in no hurry to depart, nor did his companion show any signs of impatience. It was not until the two people whose entrance had had such a remarkable effect upon Bernadine, rose to leave, that the mask was, for a moment, lifted. De Grost had called for his bill and paid it. The two men strolled out together.
“Baron,” Bernadine said, suavely, linking his arm through the other man’s as they passed into the foyer, “there are times when candor even among enemies becomes an admirable quality.”
“Those times, I imagine,” De Grost answered, grimly, “are rare. Besides, who is to tell the real thing from the false?”
“You do less than justice to your perceptions, my friend,” Bernadine declared, smiling.
De Grost merely shrugged his shoulders. Bernadine persisted.
“Come,” he continued, “since you doubt me, let me be the first to give you a proof that on this occasion, at any rate, I am candor itself. You had a purpose in lunching at the Savoy to-day. That purpose I have discovered by accident. We are both interested in those people.” The Baron de Grost shook his head slowly.
“Really,” he began –
“Let me finish,” Bernadine insisted. “Perhaps when you have heard all that I have to say, you may change your attitude. We are interested in the same people, but in different ways. If we both move from opposite directions, our friend will vanish – he is clever enough at disappearing, as he has proved before. We do not want the same thing from him, I am convinced of that. Let us move together and made sure that he does not evade us.”
“Is it an alliance which you are proposing?” De Grost asked, with a quiet smile.
“Why not? Enemies have united before to-day against a common foe.”
De Grost looked across the palm court to where the two people who formed the subject of their discussion were sitting in a corner, both smoking, both sipping some red-colored liqueur.
“My dear Bernadine,” he said, “I am much too afraid of you to listen any more. You fancy because this man’s presence here was an entire surprise to you, and because you find me already on his track, that I know more than you do and that an alliance with me would be to your advantage. You would try to persuade me that your object with him would not be my object. Listen. I am afraid of you – you are too clever for me. I am going to leave you in sole possession.”
De Grost’s tone was final and his bow valedictory. Bernadine watched him stroll in a leisurely way through the foyer, exchanging greetings here and there with friends, watched him enter the cloakroom, from which he emerged with his hat and overcoat, watched him step into his automobile and leave the restaurant. He turned back with a clouded face, and threw himself into an easy chair.
Ten minutes passed uneventfully. People were passing backwards and forwards all the time, but Bernadine, through his half-closed eyes, did little save watch the couple in whom he was so deeply interested. At last the man rose, and, with a word of farewell to his companion, came out from the lounge, and made his way up the foyer, turning toward the hotel. He walked with quick, nervous strides, glancing now and then restlessly about him. In his eyes, to those who understood, there was the furtive gleam of the hunted man. It was the passing of one who was afraid.
The woman, left to herself, began to look around her with some curiosity. Bernadine, to whom a new idea had occurred, moved his chair nearer to hers, and was rewarded by a glance which certainly betrayed some interest. A swift and unerring judge in such matters, he came to the instant conclusion that she was not unapproachable. He acted immediately and upon impulse. Rising to his feet, he approached her, and bowed easily but respectfully.
“Madame,” he said, “it is impossible that I am mistaken. I have had the pleasure, have I not, of meeting you in St. Petersburg?”
Her first reception of his coming was reassuring enough. At his mention of St. Petersburg, however, she frowned.
“I do not think so,” she answered, in French. “You are mistaken. I do not know St. Petersburg.”
“Then it was in Paris,” Bernadine continued, with conviction. “Madame is Parisian, without a doubt.”
She shook her head, smiling.
“I do not think that I remember meeting you, Monsieur,” she replied, doubtfully, “but perhaps – “
She looked up, and her eyes dropped before his. He was certainly a very personable looking man, and she had spoken to no one for so many months.
“Believe me, Madame, I could not possibly be mistaken,” Bernadine assured her, smoothly. “You are staying here for long?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Heaven knows!” she declared. “My husband he has, I think, what you call the wander fever. For myself, I am tired of it. In Rome we settle down, we stay five days, all seems pleasant, and suddenly my husband’s whim carries us away without an hour’s notice. The same thing at Monte Carlo, the same in Paris. Who can tell what will happen here? To tell you the truth, Monsieur,” she added, a little archly, “I think that if he were to come back at this moment, we should probably leave England to-night.”
“Your husband is very jealous?” Bernadine whispered, softly.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Partly jealous, and partly, he has the most terrible distaste for acquaintances. He will not speak to strangers himself, or suffer me to do so. It is sometimes – oh! it is sometimes very triste.”
“Madame has my sympathy,” Bernadine assured her. “It is an impossible life – this. No husband should be so exacting.”
She looked at him with her round, blue eyes, a touch of added color in her cheeks.
“If one could but cure him!” she murmured.
“I would ask your permission to sit down,” Bernadine remarked, “but I fear to intrude. You are afraid, perhaps, that your husband may return.”
She shook her head.
“It will be better that you do not stay,” she declared. “For a moment or two he is engaged. He has an appointment in his room with a gentleman, but one never knows how long he may be.”
“You have friends in London, then,” Bernadine remarked, thoughtfully.
“Of my husband’s affairs,” the woman said, “there is no one so ignorant as I. Yet since we left our own country, this is the first time I have known him willingly speak to a soul.”
“Your own country,” Bernadine repeated, softly. “That was Russia, of course. Your husband’s nationality is very apparent.”
The woman looked a little annoyed with herself. She remained silent.
“May I not hope,” Bernadine begged, “that you will give me the pleasure of meeting you again?”
She hesitated for a moment.
“He does not leave me,” she replied. “I am not alone for five minutes during the day.”
Bernadine scribbled the name by which he was known in that locality, on a card, and passed it to her.
“I have rooms in St. James’s Street, quite close to here,” he said. “If you could come and have tea with me to-day or to-morrow, it would give me the utmost pleasure.”
She took the card, and crumpled it in her hand. All the time, though, she shook her head.
“Monsieur is very kind,” she answered. “I am afraid – I do not think that it would be possible. And now, if you please, you must go away. I am terrified lest my husband should return.”
Bernadine bent low in a parting salute.
“Madame,” he pleaded, “you will come?”
Bernadine was a handsome man, and he knew well enough how to use his soft and extraordinarily musical voice. He knew very well, as he retired, that somehow or other she would accept his invitation. Even then, he felt dissatisfied and ill at ease, as he left the place. He had made a little progress, but, after all, was it worth while? Supposing that the man with whom her husband was even at this moment closeted, was the Baron de Grost! He called a taxicab and drove at once to the Embassy of his country.
Even at that moment, De Grost and the Russian – Paul Hagon he called himself – were standing face to face in the latter’s sitting-room. No conventional greetings of any sort had been exchanged. De Grost had scarcely closed the door behind him before Hagon addressed him breathlessly, almost fiercely.
“Who are you, sir,” he demanded, “and what do you want with me?”
“You had my letter?” De Grost inquired.
“I had your letter,” the other admitted. “It told me nothing. You speak of business. What business have I with any here?”
“My business is soon told,” De Grost replied, “but in the first place, I beg that you will not unnecessarily alarm yourself. There is, believe me, no need for it, no need whatever, although, to prevent misunderstandings, I may as well tell you at once that I am perfectly well aware who it is that I am addressing.”
Hagon collapsed into a chair. He buried his face in his hands and groaned.
“I am not here necessarily as an enemy,” De Grost continued. “You have very excellent reasons, I make no doubt, for remaining unknown in this city, or wherever you may be. As yet, let me assure you that your identity is not even suspected, except by myself and one other. Those few who believe you alive, believe that you are in America. There is no need for any one to know that Father -“
“Stop!” the man begged, piteously. “Stop!”
De Grost bowed.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Now tell me,” the man demanded, “what is your price? I have had money. There is not much left. Sophia is extravagant and traveling costs a great deal. But why do I weary you with these things?” he added. “Let me know what I have to pay for your silence.”
“I am not a blackmailer,” De Grost answered, sternly. “I am myself a wealthy man. I ask from you nothing in money – I ask you nothing in that way at all. A few words of information, and a certain paper, which I believe you have in your possession, is all that I require.”
“Information,” Hagon repeated, shivering.
“What I ask,” De Grost declared, “is really a matter of justice. At the time when you were the idol of all Russia and the leader of the great revolutionary party, you received funds from abroad.”
“I accounted for them,” Hagon muttered. “Up to a certain point I accounted for everything.”
“You received funds from the Government of a European power,” De Grost continued, “funds to be applied towards developing the revolution. I want the name of that Power, and proof of what I say.”
Hagon remained motionless for a moment. He had seated himself at the table, his head resting upon his hand and his face turned away from De Grost.
“You are a politician, then?” he asked, slowly.
“I am a politician,” De Grost admitted. “I represent a great secret power which has sprung into existence during the last few years. Our aim, at present, is to bring closer together your country and Great Britain. Russia hesitates because an actual rapprochement with us is equivalent to a permanent estrangement with Germany.”
Hagon nodded.
“I understand,” he said, in a low tone. “I have finished with politics. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I trust,” De Grost persisted, suavely, “that you will be better advised.”
Hagon turned round and faced him.
“Sir,” he demanded, “do you believe that I am afraid of death?”
De Grost looked at him steadfastly.
“No,” he answered, “you have proved the contrary.”
“If my identity is discovered,” Hagon continued, “I have the means of instant death at hand. I do not use it because of my love for the one person who links me to this world. For her sake I live, and for her sake I bear always the memory of the shameful past. Publish my name and whereabouts, if you will. I promise you that I will make the tragedy complete. But for the rest, I refuse to pay your price. A great power trusted me, and whatever its motives may have been, its money came very near indeed to freeing my people. I have nothing more to say to you, sir.
The Baron de Grost was taken aback. He had scarcely contemplated refusal.
“You must understand,” he explained, “that this is not a personal matter. Even if I myself would spare you, those who are more powerful than I will strike. The society to which I belong does not tolerate failure. I am empowered even to offer you its protection, if you will give me the information for which I ask.”
Hagon rose to his feet, and, before De Grost could foresee his purpose, had rung the bell.
“My decision is unchanging,” he said. “You can pull down the roof upon my head, but I carry next my heart an instant and unfailing means of escape.”
A waiter stood in the doorway.
“You will take this gentleman to the lift,” Hagon directed.
There was once more a touch in his manner of that half divine authority which had thrilled the great multitude of his believers. De Grost was forced to admit defeat.
“Not defeat,” he said to himself, as he followed the man to the lift, “only a check.”
Nevertheless, it was a serious check. He could not, for the moment, see his way further. Arrived at his house, he followed his usual custom and made his way at once to his wife’s rooms. Violet was resting upon a sofa, but laid down her book at his entrance.
“Violet,” he declared, “I have come for your advice.”
“He refuses, then?” she asked, eagerly.
“Absolutely. What am I to do? Bernadine is already upon the scent. He saw him at the Savoy to-day, and recognized him.”
“Has Bernadine approached him yet?” Violet inquired.
“Not yet. He is half afraid to move. I think he realizes, or will very soon, how serious this man’s existence may be for Germany.”
Violet was thoughtful for several moments, then she looked up quickly.
“Bernadine will try the woman,” she asserted. “You say that Hagon is infatuated?”
“Blindly,” De Grost replied. “He scarcely lets her out of his sight.”
“Your people watch Bernadine?”
“Always.”
“Very well, then,” Violet went on, “you will find that he will attempt an intrigue with the woman. The rest should be easy for you.”
De Grost sighed as he bent over his wife.
“My dear,” he said, “there is no subtlety like the subtlety of a woman.”
Bernadine’s instinct had not deceived him, and the following afternoon his servant, who had already received orders, silently ushered Madame Hagon into his apartments. She was wrapped in magnificent sables and heavily veiled. Bernadine saw at once that she was very nervous and wholly terrified. He welcomed her in as matter-of-fact a manner as possible.
“Madame,” he declared, “this is quite charming of you. You must sit in my easy-chair here, and my man shall bring us some tea. I drink mine always after the fashion of your country, with lemon, but I doubt whether we make it so well. Won’t you unfasten your jacket? I am afraid that my rooms are rather warm.”
Madame had collected herself, but it was quite obvious that she was unused to adventures of this sort. Her hand, when he took it, trembled, and more than once she glanced furtively toward the door.
“Yes, I have come,” she murmured. “I do not know why. It is not right for me to come. Yet there are times when I am weary, times when Paul seems fierce and when I am terrified. Sometimes I even wish that I were back – “
“Your husband seems very highly strung,” Bernadine remarked. “He has doubtless led an exciting life.”
“As to that,” she replied, gazing around her now and gradually becoming more at her ease, “I know but little. He was a student professor at Moschaume, when I met him. I think that he was at one of the universities in St. Petersburg.”
Bernadine glanced at her covertly. It came to him as an inspiration that the woman did not know the truth.
“You are from Russia, then, after all,” he said, smiling. “I felt sure of it.”
“Yes,” reluctantly. “Paul is so queer in these things. He will not let me talk of it. He prefers that we are taken for French people. Indeed, it is not I who desire to think too much of Russia. It is not a year since my father was killed in the riots, and two of my brothers were sent to Siberia.”
Bernadine was deeply interested.
“They were among the revolutionaries?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Yes,” she answered.
“And your husband?”
“He, too, was with them in sympathy. Secretly, too, I believe that he worked among them. Only he had to be careful. You see, his position at the college made it difficult.”
Bernadine looked into the woman’s eyes and he knew then that she was speaking the truth. This man was, indeed, a great master; he had kept her in ignorance!
“Always,” Bernadine said, a few minutes later, as he passed her tea, “I read with the deepest interest of the people’s movement in Russia. Tell me, what became eventually of their great leader – the wonderful Father Paul?”
She set down her cup untasted, and her blue eyes flashed with a fire which turned them almost to the color of steel.
“Wonderful indeed!” she exclaimed “Wonderful Judas! It was he who wrecked the cause. It was he who sold the lives and liberty of all of us for gold.”
“I heard a rumor of that,” Bernadine remarked, “but I never believed it.”
“It was true,” she declared passionately.
“And where is he now?” Bernadine asked.
“Dead!” she answered fiercely. “Torn to pieces, we believe, one night in a house near Moscow. May it be so!”
She was silent for a moment, as though engaged in prayer. Bernadine spoke no more of these things. He talked to her kindly, keeping up always his role of respectful but hopeful admirer.
“You will come again soon?” he begged, when, at last, she insisted upon going.
She hesitated.
“It is so difficult,” she murmured. “If my husband knew – “
Bernadine laughed, and touched her fingers caressingly.
“Need one tell him?” he whispered. “You see, I trust you. I pray that you will come-“
Bernadine was a man rarely moved towards emotion of any sort. Yet even he was conscious of a certain sense of excitement, as he stood looking out upon the Embankment from the windows of Paul Hagon’s sitting-room, a few days later. Madame was sitting on the sofa, close at hand. It was for her answer to a certain question that he waited.
“Monsieur,” she said at last, turning slowly towards him, “it must be no. Indeed, I am sorry, for you have been very charming to me, and without you I should have been dull. But to come to your rooms and dine alone to-night, it is impossible.”
“Your husband cannot return before the morning, Bernadine reminded her.
“It makes no difference,” she answered. “Paul is sometimes fierce and rough, but he is generous, and all his life he has worshiped me. He behaves strangely at times, but I know that he cares – all the time more, perhaps, than I deserve.”
“And there is no one else,” Bernadine asked softly, “who can claim even the smallest place in your heart?”
“Monsieur,” the woman begged, “you must not ask me that. I think that you had better go away.”
Bernadine stood quite still for several moments. It was the climax towards which he had steadfastly guided the course of this mild intrigue.
“Madame,” he declared, “you must not send me away. You shall not.”
She held out her hand.
“Then you must not ask impossible things,” she answered.
Then Bernadine took the plunge. He became suddenly very grave.
“Sophia,” he said, “I am keeping a great secret from you and I can do it no longer. When you speak to me of your husband you drive me mad. If I believed that you really loved him, I would go away and leave it to chance whether or not you ever discovered the truth. As it is – “
“Well?” she interposed breathlessly.
“As it is,” he continued, “I am going to tell you now. Your husband has deceived you – he is deceiving you every moment.”
She looked at him incredulously.
“You mean that there is another woman?”
Bernadine shook his head.
“Worse than that,” be answered. “Your husband stole even your love under false pretenses. You think that his life is a strange one, that his nerves have broken down, that he flies from place to place for distraction, for change of scene. It is not so. He left Rome, he left Nice, he left Paris, for one and the same reason. He left because he was in peril of his life. I know little of your history, but I know as much as this. If ever a man deserved the fate from which he flees, your husband deserves it.”
“You are mad,” she faltered.
“No, I am sane,” he went on. “It is you who are mad, not to have understood. Your husband goes ever in fear of his life. His real name is one branded with ignominy throughout the world. The man whom you have married, to whom you are so scrupulously faithful, is the man who sent your father to death and your brothers to Siberia.”
“Father Paul!” she screamed.
“You have lived with him, you are his wife,” Bernadine declared.
The color had left her cheeks; her eyes, with their penciled brows, were fixed in an almost ghastly stare; her breath was coming in uneven gasps. She looked at him in silent terror.
“It is not true,” she cried at last; “it cannot be true.”
“Sophia,” he said, “you can prove it for yourself. I know a little of your husband and his doings. Does he not carry always with him a black box which he will not allow out of his sight?”
“Always,” she assented. “How did you know? By night his hand rests upon it. By day, if he goes out, it is in my charge.”
“Fetch it now,” Bernadine directed, “and I will prove my words.”
She did not hesitate for a moment. She disappeared into the inner room; and came back, only a few moments absent, carrying in her hand a black leather despatch-box.
“You have the key?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered, looking at him and trembling, “but I dare not – oh, I dare not open it!”
“Sophia,” he said, “if my words are not true, I will pass out of your life for always. I challenge you. If you open that box you will know that your husband is, indeed, the greatest scoundrel in Europe.”
She drew a key from a gold chain around her neck.
“There are two locks,” she told him. “The other is a combination, but I know the word. Who’s that?”
She started suddenly. There was a loud tapping at the door. Bernadine threw an antimacassar half over the box, but he was too late. De Grost and Hagon had crossed the threshold. The woman stood like some dumb creature. Hagon, transfixed, stood with his eyes riveted upon Bernadine, His face was distorted with passion, he seemed like a man beside himself with fury. De Grost came slowly forward into the middle of the room.
“Count von Hern,” he said, “I think that you had better leave.”
The woman found words.
“Not yet,” she cried, “not yet! Paul, listen to me. This man has told me a terrible thing.”
The breath seemed to come through Hagon’s teeth like a hiss.
“He has told you!”
“Listen to me,” she continued. “It is the truth which you must tell now. He says that you – you are Father Paul.”
Hagon did not hesitate for a second.
“It is true,” he admitted.
Then there was a silence – short, but tragical. Hagon seemed suddenly to have collapsed. He was like a man who has just had a stroke. He stood muttering to himself.
“It is the end – this – the end!” he said, in a low tone. “Sophia!”
She shrank away from him. He drew himself up. Once more the great light flashed in his face.
“It was for your sake,” he said simply, “for your sake, Sophia. I came to you poor and you would have nothing to say to me. My love for you burned in my veins like fever. It was for you I did it -=20 for your sake I sold my honor, the love of my country, the freedom=20 of my brothers. For your sake I risked an awful death. For your sake I have lived like a hunted man, with the cry of the wolves always in my ears, and the fear of death and of eternal torture with me day by day. No other man since the world was made has done more. Have pity on me!”
She was unmoved; her face had lost all expression. No one noticed in that rapt moment that Bernadine had crept from the room.
“It was you,” she cried, “who killed my father, and sent my brothers into exile.”
“God help me!” he moaned.
She turned to De Grost.
“Take him away with you, please,” she said. “I have finished with him.”
“Sophia!” he pleaded.
She leaned across the table and struck him heavily upon the cheek.
“If you stay here,” she muttered, “I shall kill you myself … “
That night, the body of an unknown foreigner was found in the attic of a cheap lodging-house in Soho. The discovery itself and the verdict at the inquest occupied only a few lines in the morning newspapers. Those few lines were the epitaph of one who was very nearly a Rienzi. The greater part of his papers De Grost mercifully destroyed, but one in particular he preserved. Within a week the much delayed treaty was signed at Paris, London and St. Petersburg.
CHAPTER V
THE FIRST SHOT
De Grost and his wife were dining together at the corner table in a fashionable but somewhat Bohemian restaurant. Both had been in the humor for reminiscences, and they had outstayed most of their neighbors.
“I wonder what people really think of us,” Violet remarked pensively. “I told Lady Amershal, when she asked us to go there this evening, that we always dined together alone somewhere once a week, and she absolutely refused to believe me. ‘With your own husband, my dear?’ She kept on repeating.”
“Her Ladyship’s tastes are more catholic,” the Baron declared dryly. “Yet, after all, Violet, the real philosophy of married life demands something of this sort.”
Violet smiled and fingered her pearls for a minute.
“What the real philosophy of married life may he I do not know,” she said, “but I am perfectly content with our rendering of it. What a fortunate thing, Peter, with your intensely practical turn of mind, that nature endowed you with so much sentiment.”
De Grost gazed reflectively at the cigarette which he had just selected from his case.
“Well,” he remarked, “there have been times when I have cursed myself for a fool, but, on the whole, sentiment keeps many fires burning.”
She leaned towards him and dropped her voice a little. “Tell me,” she begged, “do you ever think of the years we spent together in the country? Do you ever regret?”
He smiled thoughtfully.
“It is a hard question, that,” he admitted. “There were days there which I loved, but there were days, too, when the restlessness came, days when I longed to hear the hum of the city and to hear men speak whose words were of life and death and the great passions. I am not sure, Violet, whether, after all, it is well for one who has lived to withdraw absolutely from the thrill of life.”
She laughed, Softly but gayly.
“I am with you,” she declared, “absolutely. I think that the fairies must have poured into my blood the joy of living for its own sake. I should be an ungrateful woman indeed, if I found anything to complain of, nowadays. Yet there is one thing that troubles me,” she went on, after a moment’s pause.
“And that?” he asked.
“The danger,” she said, slowly. “I do not want to lose you, Peter. There are times when I am afraid.”
De Grost flicked the ash from his cigarette.
“The days are passing,” he remarked, “when men point revolvers at one another, and hire assassins to gain their ends. Now, it is more a battle of wits. We play chess on the board of Life still, but we play with ivory pieces instead of steel and poison. Our brains direct and not our muscles.”
She sighed.
“It is only the one man of whom I am afraid. You have outwitted him so often and he does not forgive.”
De Grost smiled. It was an immense compliment – this.
“Bernadine,” he murmured, softly, “otherwise, our friend the Count von Hern.”
“Bernadine!” she repeated. “All that you say is true, but when one fails with modern weapons, one changes the form of attack. Bernadine at heart is a savage.”
“The hate of such a man,” De Grost remarked complacently, “is worth having. He has had his own way over here for years. He seems to have found the knack of living in a maze of intrigue and remaining untouchable. There were a dozen things before I came upon the scene which ought to have ruined him. Yet there never appeared to be anything to take hold of. Even the Criminal Department once thought they had a chance. I remember John Dory telling me in disgust that Bernadine was like one of those marvelous criminals one only reads about in fiction, who seem, when they pass along the dangerous places, to walk upon the air, and, leave no trace behind.”
“Before you came,” she said, “he had never known a failure. Do you think that he is a man likely to forgive?”
“I do not,” De Grost answered grimly. “It is a battle, of course, a battle all the time. Yet, Violet, between you and me, if Bernadine were to go, half the savor of life for me would depart with him.”
Then there came a curious and wholly unexpected interruption. A man in dark, plain clothes, still wearing his overcoat, and carrying a bowler hat, had been standing in the entrance of the restaurant for a moment or two, looking around the room as though in search of some one. At last he caught the eye of the Baron de Grost and came quickly toward him.
“Charles,” the Baron remarked, raising his eyebrows. “I wonder what he wants.”
A sudden cloud had fallen upon their little feast. Violet watched the coming of her husband’s servant, and the reading of the note which he presented to his master, with an anxiety which she could not wholly conceal. The Baron read the note twice, scrutinizing a certain part of it closely with the aid of the monocle which he seldom used. Then he folded it up and placed it in the breast pocket of his coat.
“At what hour did you receive this, Charles?”he asked.
“A messenger brought it in a taxicab about ten minutes ago, sir,” the man replied. “He said that it was of the utmost importance, and that I had better try and find you.”
“A district messenger?”
“A man in ordinary clothes, Charles answered. “He looked like a porter in a warehouse, or something of that sort. I forgot to say that you were rung up on the telephone three times previously by Mr. Greening.”
The Baron nodded.
“You can go,” he said. “There is no reply.”
The man bowed and retired. De Grost called for his bill.
“Is it anything serious?” Violet inquired.
“No, not exactly serious,” he answered. “I do not understand what has happened, but they have sent for me to go – well, where it was agreed that I should not go except as a matter of urgent necessity “
Violet knew better than to show any signs of disquietude.
“It is in London?” she asked.
“Certainly,” her husband replied. “I shall take a taxicab from here. I am sorry, dear, to have one of our evenings disturbed in this manner. I have always done my best to avoid it, but this summons is urgent.”
She rose and he wrapped her cloak around her.
“You will drive straight home, won’t you?” he begged. “I dare say that I may be back within an hour myself.”
“And if not?” she asked, in a low tone.
“If not, there is nothing to be done.”
Violet bit her lip, but, as he handed her into the small electric brougham which was waiting, she smiled into his face.
“You will come back, and soon, Peter,” she declared, confidently. “Wherever you go I am sure of that. You see, I have faith in my star which watches over you.”
He kissed her fingers and turned away. The commissionaire had already called him a taxicab.
“To London Bridge,” he ordered, after a moment’s hesitation, and drove off.
The traffic citywards had long since finished for the day, and he reached his destination within ten minutes of leaving the restaurant. Here he paid the man, and, entering the station, turned to the refreshment room and ordered a liqueur brandy. While he sipped it, he smoked a cigarette and carefully reread in a strong light the note which he had received. The signature especially he pored over for some time. At last, however, he replaced it in his pocket, paid his bill, and, stepping out once more on to the platform, entered a telephone booth. A few minutes later he left the station, and, turning to the right, walked slowly as far as Tooley Street. He kept on the right-hand side until he arrived at the spot where the great arches, with their scanty lights, make a gloomy thoroughfare into Bermondsey, In the shadow of the first of these he paused, and looked steadfastly across the street. There were few people passing and practically no traffic. In front of him was a row of warehouses, all save one of which was wrapped in complete darkness. It was the one where some lights were still burning which De Grost stood and watched.
The lights, such as they were, seemed to illuminate the ground floor only. From his hidden post he could see the shoulders of a man apparently bending over a ledger, diligently writing. At the next window a youth, seated upon a tall stool, was engaged in presumably the same occupation. There was nothing about the place in the least mysterious or out of the way. Even the blinds of the offices had been left undrawn, The man and the boy, who were alone visible, seemed, in a sense, to be working under protest. Every now and then the former stopped to yawn, and the latter performed a difficult balancing feat upon his stool. De Grost, having satisfied his curiosity, came presently from his shelter, almost running into the arms of a policeman, who looked at him closely. The Baron, who had an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, stopped to ask for a light, and his appearance at once set at rest any suspicions the policeman might have had.
“I have a warehouse myself down in these parts,” he remarked, as he struck the match, “but I don’t allow my people to work as late as that.”
He pointed across the way, and the policeman smiled.
“They are very often late there, sir,” he said. “It’s a Continental wine business, and there’s always one or two of them over time.”
“It’s bad business, all the same,” De Grost declared pleasantly. “Good night, policeman!”
“Good night, sir!
De Grost crossed the road diagonally, as though about to take the short cut across London Bridge, but as soon as the policeman was out of sight he retraced his steps to the building which they had been discussing, and turning the battered brass handle of the door, walked calmly in. On his right and left were counting houses framed with glass; in front, the cavernous and ugly depths of a gloomy warehouse. He knocked upon the window-pane on the right and passed forward a step or two, as though to enter the office. The boy, who had been engaged in the left-hand counting house, came gliding from his place, passed silently behind the visitor and turned the key of the outer door. What followed seemed to happen as though by some mysteriously directed force. The figures