Peter Ruff and the Double-Four by E. Phillips Oppenheim (page 6)

of men came stealing out from the hidden places. The clerk who had been working so hard at his desk calmly divested himself of a false mustache and wig, and, assuming a more familiar appearance, strolled out into the warehouse. De Grost looked around him with absolutely unruffled composure. He was the centre of a little circle of men, respectably dressed, but every one of them hard-featured, with something in their faces which suggested not the ordinary toiler, but the fighting animal – the man who lives by his wits and knows something of danger. On the outskirts of the circle stood Bernadine.

“Really,” De Grost declared, “this is most unexpected. In the matter of dramatic surprises, my friend Bernadine, you are certainly in a class by yourself.”

Bernadine smiled.

“You will understand, of course,” he said, “that this little entertainment is entirely for your amusement – well stage-managed, perhaps, but my supers are not to be taken seriously. Since you are here, Baron, might I ask you to precede me a few steps to the tasting office?

“By all means,” De Grost answered cheerfully. “It is this way, I believe.”

He walked with unconcerned footsteps down the warehouse, on either side of which were great bins and a wilderness of racking, until he came to a small, glass-enclosed office, built out from the wall. Without hesitation he entered it, and removing his hat, selected the more comfortable of the two chairs. Bernadine alone of the others followed him inside, closing the door behind. De Grost, who appeared exceedingly comfortable, stretched out his hand and took a small black bottle from a tiny mahogany racking fixed against the wall by his side.

“You will excuse me, my dear Bernadine,” he said, “but I see my friend Greening has been tasting a few wines. The ‘XX’ upon the label here signifies approval. With your permission.”

He half filled a glass and pushed the bottle toward Bernadine.

“Greening’s taste is unimpeachable,” De Grost declared, setting down his glass empty. “No use being a director of a city business, you know, unless one interests oneself personally in it. Greening’s judgment is simply marvelous. I have never tasted a more beautiful wine. If the boom in sherry does come,” he continued complacently, we shall be in an excellent position to deal with it.”

Bernadine laughed softly.

“Oh, my friend – Peter Ruff, or Baron de Grost, or whatever you may choose to call yourself,” he said, “I am indeed wise to have come to the conclusion that you and I are too big to occupy the same little spot on earth!”

De Grost nodded approvingly.

“I was beginning to wonder,” he remarked, “whether you would not soon arrive at that decision.”

“Having arrived at it,” Bernadine continued, looking intently at his companion, “the logical sequence naturally occurs to you.”

“Precisely, my dear Bernadine,” De Grost asserted. “You say to yourself, no doubt, ‘One of us two must go!’ Being yourself, you would naturally conclude that it must be I. To tell you the truth, I have been expecting some sort of enterprise of this description for a considerable time.”

Bernadine shrugged his shoulders.

“Your expectations,” he said, “seem scarcely to have provided you with a safe conduct.”

De Grost gazed reflectively into his empty glass.

“You see,” he explained, “I am such a lucky person. Your arrangements to-night, however, are, I perceive, unusually complete.”

“I am glad you appreciate them,” Bernadine remarked dryly.

“I would not for a moment,” De Grost continued, “ask an impertinent or an unnecessary question, but I must confess that I am rather concerned to know the fate of my manager – the gentleman whom you yourself with the aid, I presume, of Mr. Clarkson, so ably represented.”

Bernadine sighed.

“Alas!” he said, “your manager was a very obstinate person.”

“And my clerk?”

“Incorruptible, absolutely incorruptible. I congratulate you, De Grost. Your society is one of the most wonderful upon the face of this earth. I know little about it, but my admiration is very sincere. Their attention to details, and the personnel of their staff, is almost perfect. I may tell you at once that no sum that could be offered, tempted either of these men.”

“I am delighted to hear .it,” De Grost replied, “but I must plead guilty to a little temporary anxiety as to their present whereabouts.”

“At this moment,” Bernadine remarked, “they are within a few feet of us, but, as you are doubtless aware, access to your delightful river is obtainable from these premises. To be frank with you, my dear Baron, we are waiting for the tide to rise.”

“So thoughtful about these trifles,” De Grost murmured. “But their present position? They are, I trust, not uncomfortable?”

Bernadine stood up and moved to the further end of the office. He beckoned his companion to his side and, drawing an electric torch from his pocket, flashed the light into a dark corner behind an immense bin. The forms of a man and a youth, bound with ropes and gagged, lay stretched upon the floor. De Grost sighed.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that Mr. Greening, at any rate, is most uncomfortable.”

Bernadine turned off the light.

“At least, Baron,” he declared, “if such extreme measures should become necessary, I can promise you one thing – you shall have a quicker passage into Eternity than they.”

De Grost resumed his seat.

“Has it really come to that?” he asked. “Will nothing but so crude a proceeding as my absolute removal satisfy you?”

“Nothing else is, I fear, practicable,” Bernadine replied, “unless you decide to listen to reason. Believe me, my dear friend, I shall miss you and our small encounters exceedingly, but, unfortunately, you stand in the way of my career. You are the only man who has persistently balked me. You have driven me to use against you means which I had grown to look upon as absolutely extinct in the upper circles of our profession.”

De Grost peered through the glass walls of the office.

“Eight men, not counting yourself,” he remarked, “and my poor manager and his faithful clerk lying bound and helpless. It is heavy odds, Bernadine.”

“There is no question of odds, I think,” Bernadine answered smoothly. “You are much too clever a person to refuse to admit that you are entirely in my power.”

“And as regards terms? I really don’t feel in the least anxious to make my final bow with so little notice,” De Grost said. “To tell you the truth, I have been finding life quite interesting lately.”

Bernadine eyed his prisoner keenly. Such absolute composure was in itself disturbing. He was, for the moment, aware of a slight sensation of uneasiness, which his common sense, however, speedily disposed of.

“There are two ways,” he announced, “of dealing with an opponent. There is the old-fashioned one – crude, but in a sense eminently satisfactory – which sends him finally to adorn some other sphere.”

“I don’t like that one,” De Grost interrupted. “Get on with the alternative.”

“The alternative,” Bernadine declared, “is when his capacity for harm can be destroyed.”

“That needs a little explanation,” De Grost murmured.

“Precisely. For instance, if you were to become absolutely discredited, I think that you would be effectually out of my way. Your people do not forgive.”

“Then discredit me, by all means,” De Grost begged. “It sounds unpleasant, but I do not like your callous reference to the river.”

Bernadine gazed at his ancient opponent for several moments. After all, what was this but the splendid bravado of a beaten man, who is too clever not to recognize defeat?

“I shall require,” he said, “your code, the keys of your safe, which contains a great many documents of interest to me, and a free entry into your house.”

De Grost drew a bunch of keys reluctantly from his pocket and laid them upon the desk.

“You will find the code bound in green morocco leather,” he announced, “on the left-hand side, underneath the duplicate of a proposed Treaty between Italy and some other Power. Between ourselves, Bernadine, I really expect that that is what you are after.”

Bernadine’s eyes glistened.

“What about the safe conduct into your house?” he asked.

De Grost drew his case from his pocket and wrote few lines on the back of one of his cards.

“This will insure you entrance there,” he said, “and access to my study. If you see my wife, please reassure her as to my absence.”

“I shall certainly do so,” Bernadine agreed, with a faint smile.

“If I may be pardoned for alluding to a purely personal matter,” De Grost continued, “what is to become of me?”

“You will be bound and gagged in the same manner as your manager and his clerk,” Bernadine replied, smoothly. “I regret the necessity, but you see, I can afford to run no risks. At four o’clock in the morning, you will be released. It must be part of our agreement that you allow the man who stays behind the others for the purpose of setting you free, to depart unmolested. I think I know you better than to imagine you would be guilty of such gaucherie as an appeal to the police.”

“That, unfortunately,” De Grost declared, with a little sigh, “is, as you well know, out of the question. You are too clever for me, Bernadine. After all, I shall have to go back to my farm.”

Bernadine opened the door and called softly to one of his men. In less than five minutes De Grost was bound hand and foot. Bernadine stepped back and eyed his adversary with an air of ill-disguised triumph.

“I trust, Baron,” he said, “that you will be as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances.”

De Grost lay quite still. He was powerless to move or speak.

“Immediately,” Bernadine continued, “I have presented myself at your house, verified your safe conduct, and helped myself to certain papers which I am exceedingly anxious to obtain,” he went on, “I shall telephone here to the man whom I leave in charge and you will be set at liberty in due course. If, for any reason, I meet with treachery and I do not telephone, you will join Mr. Greening and his young companion in a little – shall we call it aquatic recreation? I wish you a pleasant hour and success in the future, Baron – as a farmer.”

Bernadine withdrew and whispered his orders to his men. Soon the electric light was turned out and the place was in darkness. The front door was opened and closed; the group of confederates upon the pavement lit cigarettes and wished one another good night with the brisk air of tired employees, released at last from long labors. Then there was silence.

It was barely eleven when Bernadine reached the west end of London. His clothes had become a trifle disarranged and he called for a few minutes at his rooms in St. James’s Street. Afterwards, he walked to Porchester House and rang the bell. To the servant who answered it, he handed his master’s card.

“Will you show me the way to the library?” he asked. “I have some papers to collect for the Baron de Grost.”

The man hesitated. Even with the card in his hand, it seemed a somewhat unusual proceeding.

“Will you step inside, sir?” he begged. “I should like to show this to the Baroness. The master is exceedingly particular about any one entering his study.”

“Do what you like so long as you do not keep me waiting,” Bernadine replied. “Your master’s instructions are clear enough.”

Violet came down the great staircase a few moments later, still in her dinner gown, her face a little pale, her eyes luminous. Bernadine smiled as he accepted her eagerly offered hand. She was evidently anxious. A thrill of triumph warmed his blood. Once she had been less kind to him than she seemed now.

“My husband gave you this!” she exclaimed.

“A few minutes ago,” Bernadine answered. “He tried to make his instructions as clear as possible. We are jointly interested in a small matter which needs immediate action.”

She led the way to the study.

“It seems strange,” she remarked, “that you and he should be working together. I always thought that you were on opposite sides.”

“It is a matter of chance,” Bernadine told her. “Your husband is a wise man, Baroness. He knows when to listen to reason.”

She threw open the door of the study, which was in darkness;

“‘If you will wait a moment,” she said, closing the door, “I will turn on the electric light.”

She touched the knobs in the wall and the room was suddenly flooded with illumination. At the further end of the apartment was the great safe. Close to it, in an easychair, his evening coat changed for a smoking jacket, with a neatly tied black tie replacing his crumpled white cravat, the Baron de Grost sat awaiting his guest. A fierce oath broke from Bernadine’s lips. He turned toward the door only in time to hear the key turn. Violet tossed it lightly in the air across to her husband.

“My dear Bernadine,” the latter remarked, “on the whole, I do not think that this has been one of your successes. My keys, if you please.”

Bernadine stood for a moment, his face dark with passion. He bit his lip till the blood came, and the veins at the back of his clenched hands were swollen and thick. Nevertheless, when he spoke he had recovered in great measure his self-control.

“Your keys are here, Baron de Grost,” he said, placing them upon the table. “If a bungling amateur may make such a request of a professor, may I inquire how you escaped from your bonds, passed through the door of a locked warehouse and reached here before me?”

The Baron de Grost smiled as he pushed the cigarettes across to his visitor.

“Really,” he said, “you have only to think for yourself for a moment, my dear Bernadine, and you will understand. In the first place, the letter you sent me signed ‘Greening’ was clearly a forgery. There was no one else anxious to get me into their power, hence I associated it at once with you. Naturally, I telephoned to the chief of my staff – I, too, am obliged to employ some of these un-uniformed policemen, my dear Bernadine, as you may be aware. It may interest you to know, further, that there are seven entrances to the warehouse in Tooley Street. Through one of these something like twenty of my men passed and were already concealed in the place when I entered. At another of the doors a motor-car waited for me. If I had chosen to lift my finger at any time, your men would have been overpowered and I might have had the pleasure of dictating terms to you in my own office. Such a course did not appeal to me. You and I, as you know, dear Count von Hern, conduct our peculiar business under very delicate conditions, and the least thing we either of us desire is notoriety. I managed things, as I thought, for the best. The moment you left the place my men swarmed in. We kindly, but gently, ejected your guard, released Greening and my clerk, and I passed you myself in Fleet Street, a little more comfortable, I think, in my forty-horsepower motor-car than you in that very disreputable hansom. As to my presence here, I have an entrance from the street there which makes me independent of my servants. The other details are too absurdly simple; one need not enlarge upon them.”

Bernadine turned slowly to Violet.

“You knew?” he muttered. “You knew when you brought me here?”

“Naturally,” she answered. “We have telephones in every room in the house.”

“I am at your service,” Bernadine declared, calmly.

De Grost laughed.

“My dear fellow,” he said, “need I say that you are free to come or go, to take a whiskey and soda with me, or to depart at once, exactly as you feel inclined? The door was locked only until you restored to me my keys.”

He crossed the room, fitted the key in the lock and turned it.

“We do not make war as those others,” he remarked, smiling.

Bernadine drew himself up.

“I will not drink with you,” he said, “I will not smoke with you. But some day this reckoning shall come.”

He turned to the door. De Grost laid his finger upon the bell.

“Show Count von Hern out,” he directed the astonished servant who appeared a moment or two later.

CHAPTER VI

THE SEVEN SUPPERS OF ANDREA KORUST

Peter, Baron de Grost, was enjoying what he had confidently looked forward to as an evening’s relaxation, pure and simple. He sat in one of the front rows of the stalls of the Alhambra, his wife by his side and an excellent cigar in his mouth. An hour or so ago he had been in telephonic communication with Paris, had spoken with Sogrange himself, and received his assurance of a calm in political and criminal affairs amounting almost to stagnation. It was out of season, and, though his popularity was as great as ever, neither he nor his wife had any social engagements; hence this evening at a music hall, which Peter, for his part, was finding thoroughly amusing.

The place was packed – some said owing to the engagement of Andrea Korust and his brother, others to the presence of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire in her wonderful danse des apaches. The violinist that night had a great reception. Three times he was called before the curtain; three times he was obliged to reiterate his grateful but immutable resolve never to yield to the nightly storm which demanded more from a man who has given of his best. Slim, with the worn face and hollow eyes of a genius, he stood and bowed his thanks, but when he thought the time had arrived, he disappeared, and though the house shook for minutes afterwards, nothing could persuade him to reappear.

Afterwards came the turn which, notwithstanding the furore caused by Andrea Korust’s appearance, was generally considered to be equally responsible for the packed house – the apache dance of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire. Peter sat slightly forward in his chair as the curtain went up. For a time he seemed utterly absorbed by the performance. Violet glanced at him once or twice curiously. It began to occur to her that it was not so much the dance as the dancer in whom her husband was interested.

“You have seen her before – this Mademoiselle Celaire?” she whispered.

“Yes,” said Peter, nodding, “I have seen her before.”

The dance proceeded. It was like many others of its sort, only a little more daring, a little more finished. Mademoiselle Celaire, in her tight-fitting, shabby black frock, with her wild mass of hair, her flashing eyes, her seductive gestures, was, without doubt, a marvelous person. Peter, Baron de Grost, watched her every movement with absorbed attention. When the curtain went down he forgot to clap. His eyes followed her off the stage. Violet shrugged her shoulders. She was looking very handsome herself in a black velvet dinner gown, and a hat so exceedingly Parisian that no one had had the heart to ask her to remove it.

“My dear Peter,” she remarked, reprovingly, “a moderate amount of admiration for that very agile young lady I might, perhaps, be inclined to tolerate; but, having watched you for the last quarter of an hour, I am bound to confess that I am becoming jealous.”

“Of Mademoiselle Celaire?” he asked.

“Of Mademoiselle Sophie Celaire.”

He leaned a little towards her. His lips were parted; he was about to make a statement or a confession. Just then a tall commissionaire leaned over from behind and touched him on the shoulder.

“For Monsieur le Baron de Grost,” he announced, handing Peter a note.

Peter glanced towards his wife.

“You permit me?” he murmured, breaking the seal.

Violet shrugged her shoulders, ever so slightly. Her husband was already absorbed in the few lines hastily scrawled across the sheet of notepaper which he held in his hand.

MONSIEUR LE BARON DE GHOST. Dear Monsieur le Baron,
4 Come to my dressing-room, without 4 fail, as soon as you receive this. SOPHIE CELAIRE.

Violet looked over his shoulder.

“The hussy!” she exclaimed, indignantly. Her husband raised his eyebrows. With his forefinger he merely tapped the two numerals.

“The Double-Four!” she gasped.

He looked around and nodded. The commissionaire was waiting. Peter took up his silk hat from under the seat.

“If I am detained, dear,” he whispered, “you’ll make the best of it, won’t you? The car will be here and Frederick will be looking out for you.”

“Of course,” she answered, cheerfully. “I shall be quite all right.”

She nodded brightly and Peter took his departure. He passed through a door on which was painted “Private,” and through a maze of scenery and stage hands and ballet ladies by a devious route to the region of the dressing-rooms. His guide conducted him to the door of one of these and knocked.

“Entrez, monsieur,” a shrill feminine voice replied.

Peter entered and closed the door behind him. The commissionaire remained outside. Mademoiselle Celaire turned to greet her visitor.

“It is a few words I desire with you as quickly as possible, if you please, Monsieur le Baron,” she said, advancing towards him. “Listen.”

She had brushed out her hair and it hung from her head straight and a little stiff, almost like the hair of an Indian woman. She had washed her face, too, free of all cosmetics and her pallor was almost waxen. She wore a dressing gown of green silk. Her discarded black frock lay upon the floor.

“I am entirely at your service, mademoiselle,” Peter answered, bowing. “Continue, if you please.”

“You sup with me to-night – you are my guest.”

He hesitated.

“I am very much honored,” he murmured. “It is an affair of urgency, then? Mademoiselle will remember that I am not alone here.”

She threw out her hands scornfully.

“They told me in Paris that you were a genius!” she exclaimed. “Cannot you feel, then, when a thing is urgent? Do you not know it without being told? You must meet me with a carriage at the stage door in forty minutes. We sup in Hamilton Place with Andrea Korust and his brother.”

“With whom?” Peter asked, surprised.

“With the Korust Brothers,” she repeated. “I have just been talking to Andrea. He calls himself a Hungarian. Bah! They are as much Hungarian, those young men, as I am!”

Peter leaned slightly against the table and looked thoughtfully at his companion. He was trying to remember whether he had ever heard anything of these young men.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “the prospect of partaking of any meal in your company is in itself enchanting, but I do not know your friends, the Korust Brothers. Apart from their wonderful music, I do not recollect ever having heard of them before in my life. What excuse have I, then, for accepting their hospitality? Pardon me, too, if I add that you have not as yet spoken as to the urgency of this affair.”

She turned from him impatiently and, throwing herself back into the chair from which she had risen at his entrance, she began to exchange the thick woolen stockings which she had been wearing upon the stage for others of fine silk.

“Oh, la, la!” she exclaimed. “You are very slow, Monsieur le Baron. It is, perhaps, my stage name which has misled you. I am Marie Lapouse. Does that convey anything to you?”

“A great deal,” Peter admitted, quickly. “You stand very high upon the list of my agents whom I may trust.”

“Then stay here no longer,” she begged, “for my maid waits outside and I need her services. Go back and make your excuses to your wife. In forty minutes I shall expect you at the stage door.”

“An affair of diplomacy, this, or brute force?” he inquired.

“Heaven knows what may happen!” she replied. “To tell you the truth, I do not know myself. Be prepared for anything, but, for Heaven’s sake, go now! I can dress no further without my maid, and Andrea Korust may come in at any moment. I do not wish him to find you here.”

Peter made his way thoughtfully back to his seat. He explained the situation to his wife so far as he could, and sent her home. Then he waited about until the car returned, smoking a cigarette and trying once more to remember if he had ever heard anything from Sogrange of Andrea Korust or his brother. Punctually at the time stated he was outside the stage door of the music-hall, and a few minutes later Mademoiselle Celaire appeared, a dazzling vision of fur and smiles and jewelry imperfectly concealed. A small crowd pressed around to see the famous Frenchwoman. Peter handed her gravely across the pavement into his waiting car. One or two of the loungers gave vent to a groan of envy at the sight of the diamonds which blazed from her neck and bosom. Peter smiled as he gave the address to his servant and took his place by the side of his companion.

“They see only the externals, this mob,” he remarked. “They picture to themselves, perhaps, a little supper for two. Alas!”

Mademoiselle Celaire laughed at him softly.

“You need not trouble to assume that most disconsolate of expressions, my dear Baron,” she assured him. “Your reputation as a man of gallantry is beyond question; but remember that I know you also for the most devoted and loyal of husbands. We waste no time in folly, you and I. It is the business of the Double-Four.”

Peter was relieved, but his innate politeness forbade his showing it.

“Proceed,” he said.

“The Brothers Korust,” she went on, leaning towards him, “have a week’s engagement at the Alhambra. Their salary is six hundred pounds. They play very beautifully, of course, but I think that it is as much as they are worth.”

Peter agreed with her fervently. He had no soul for music.

“They have taken the furnished house belonging to one of your dukes, in Hamilton Place, for which we are now bound; taken it, too, at a fabulous rent,” Mademoiselle Celaire continued. “They, have installed there a chef and a whole retinue of servants. They are here for seven nights; they have issued invitations for seven supper parties.”

“Hospitable young men they seem to be,” Peter murmured. “I read in one of the stage papers that Andrea is a Count in his own country, and that they perform in public only for the love of their music and for the sake of the excitement and travel.”

“A paragraph wholly inspired and utterly false,” Mademoiselle Celaire declared, firmly, sitting a little forward in the car, and laying her hand, ablaze with jewels, upon his coat sleeve. “Listen. They call themselves Hungarians. Bah! I know that they are in touch with a great European court, both of them, the court of the country to which they belong. They have plans, plans and schemes connected with their visit here, which I do not understand. I have done my best with Andrea Korust, but he is not a man to be trusted. I know that there is something more in these seven supper parties than idle hospitality. I and others like me, artistes and musicians, are invited, to give the assembly a properly Bohemian tone; but there are to be other guests, attracted there, no doubt, because the papers have spoken of these gatherings.”

“You have some idea of what it all means, in your mind?” Peter suggested.

“It is too vague to put into words,” she declared, shaking her head. “We must both watch. Afterwards, we will, if you like, compare notes.”

The car drew up before the doors of a handsome house in Hamilton Place. A footman received Peter and relieved him of his hat and overcoat. A trim maid performed the same office for Mademoiselle Celaire. They met, a moment or two later, and were ushered into a large drawing-room in which a dozen or two of men and women were already assembled, and from which came a pleasant murmur of voices and laughter. The apartment was hung with pale green satin; the furniture was mostly Chippendale, upholstered in the same shade. A magnificent grand piano stood open in a smaller room, just visible beyond. Only one thing seemed strange to the two newly arrived guests. The room was entirely lit with shaded candles, giving a certain mysterious but not unpleasant air of obscurity to the whole suite of apartments. Through the gloom, the jewels and eyes of the women seemed to shine with a new brilliance. Slight eccentricities of toilette, for a part of the gathering was distinctly Bohemian, were softened and subdued. The whole effect was somewhat weird, but also picturesque.

Andrea Korust advanced from a little group to meet his guests. Off the stage he seemed at first sight frailer and slighter than ever. His dress coat had been exchanged for a velvet dinner jacket, and his white tie for a drooping black bow. He had a habit of blinking nearly all the time, as though his large brown eyes, which he seldom wholly opened, were weaker than they appeared to be. Nevertheless, when he came to within a few paces of his newly arrived visitors, they shone with plenty of expression. Without any change of countenance, however, he held out his hand.

“Dear Andrea,” Mademoiselle Celaire exclaimed, “you permit me that I present to you my dear friend, well known in Paris – alas! many years ago – Monsieur le Baron de Grost. Monsieur le Baron was kind enough to pay his respects to me this evening, and I have induced him to become my escort here.”

“It was my good fortune,” Peter remarked, smiling, “that I saw Mademoiselle Celaire’s name upon the bills this evening – my good fortune, since it has procured for me the honor of an acquaintance with a musician so distinguished.”

“You are very kind, Monsieur le Baron,” Korust replied.

“You stay here, I regret to hear, a very short time?”

“Alas!” Andrea Korust admitted, “it is so. For myself I would that it were longer. I find your London so attractive, the people so friendly. They fall in with my whims so charmingly. I have a hatred, you know, of solitude. I like to make acquaintances wherever I go, to have delightful women and interesting men around, to forget that life is not always gay. If I am too much alone, I am miserable, and when I am miserable I am in a very bad way indeed. I cannot then make music.

Peter smiled gravely and sympathetically.

“And your brother? Does he, too, share your gregarious instincts?”

Korust paused for a moment before replying. His eyes were quite wide open now. If one could judge from his expression, one would certainly have said that the Baron de Grost’s attempts to ingratiate himself with his host were distinctly unsuccessful.

“My brother has exactly opposite instincts,” he said slowly. “He finds no pleasure in society. At the sound of a woman’s voice, he hides.”

“He is not here, then?” Peter asked, glancing around.

Andrea Korust shook his head.

“It is doubtful whether he joins us this evening at all,” he declared. “My sister, however, is wholly of my disposition. =20 Monsieur le Baron will permit that I present him.”

Peter bowed low before a very handsome young woman with flashing black eyes, and a type of features undoubtedly belonging to one of the countries of eastern Europe. She was picturesquely dressed in a gown of flaming red silk, made as though in one piece, without trimming or flounces, and she seemed inclined to bestow upon her new acquaintance all the attention that he might desire. She took him at once into a corner and seated herself by his side. It was impossible for Peter not to associate the empressement of her manner with the few words which Andrea Korust had whispered into her ear at the moment of their introduction.

“So you,” she murmured, “are the wonderful Baron de Grost. I have heard of you so often.”

“Wonderful!” Peter repeated, with twinkling eyes. “I have never been called that before. I feel that I have no claims whatever to distinction, especially in a gathering like this.”

She shrugged her shoulders and glanced carelessly across the room.

“They are well enough,” she admitted, “but one wearies of genius on every side of one. Genius is not the best thing in the world to live with, you know. It has whims and fancies. For instance, look at these rooms – the gloom, the obscurity – and I love so much the light.”

Peter smiled.

“It is the privilege of genius,” he remarked, “to have whims and to indulge in them.”

She sighed.

“To do Andrea justice,” she said, “it is, perhaps, scarcely a whim that he chooses to receive his guests in semi-darkness. He has weak eyes and he is much too vain to wear spectacles. Tell me, you know every one here?”

“No one,” Peter declared. “Please enlighten me, if you think it necessary. For myself,” he added, dropping his voice a little, “I feel that the happiness of my evening is assured, without making any further acquaintances.”

“But you came as the guest of Mademoiselle Celaire,” she reminded him, doubtfully, with a faint regretful sigh and a provocative gleam in her eyes.

“I saw Mademoiselle Celaire to-night for the first time for years,” Peter replied. “I called to see her in her dressing-room and she claimed me for an escort this evening. I am, alas! a very occasional wanderer in the pleasant paths of Bohemia.”

“If that is really true,” she murmured, “I suppose I must tell you something about the people, or you will feel that you have wasted your opportunity.”

“Mademoiselle,” Peter whispered.

She held out her hand and laughed into his face.

“No!” she interrupted. “I shall do my duty. Opposite you is Mademoiselle Trezani, the famous singer at Covent Garden. Do I need to tell you that, I wonder? Rudolf Maesterling, the dramatist, stands behind her there in the corner. He is talking to the wonderful Cleo, whom all the world knows. Monsieur Guyer there, he is manager, I believe, of the Alhambra; and talking to him is Marborg, the great pianist. One of the ladies talking to my brother is Esther Braithwaite, whom, of course, you know by sight; she is leading lady, is she not, at the Hilarity? The other is Miss Ransome; they tell me that she is your only really great English actress.”

Peter nodded appreciatively.

“It is all most interesting,” he declared. “Now tell me, please, who is the military person with the stiff figure and sallow complexion, standing by the door? He seems quite alone.”

The girl made a little grimace.

“I suppose I ought to be looking after him,” she admitted, rising reluctantly to her feet. “He is a soldier just back from India – a General Noseworthy, with all sorts of letters after his name. If Mademoiselle Celaire is generous, perhaps we may have a few minutes’ conversation later on,” she added, with a parting smile.

“Say, rather, if Mademoiselle Korust is kind,” De Grost replied, bowing. “It depends upon that only.”

He strolled across the room and rejoined Mademoiselle Celaire a few moments later. They stood apart in a corner.

“I should like my supper,” Peter declared.

“They wait for one more guest,” Mademoiselle Celaire announced.

“One more guest! Do you know who it is?”

“No idea,” she answered. “One would imagine that it was some one of importance. Are you any wiser than when you came, dear master?” she added, under her breath.

“Not a whit,” he replied, promptly.

She took out her fan and waved it slowly in front of her face.

“Yet you must discover what it all means to-night or not at all,” she whispered. “The dear Andrea has intimated to me most delicately that another escort would be more acceptable if I should honor him again.”

“That helps,” he murmured. “See, our last guest arrives.

A tall, – spare-looking man was just being announced. They heard his name as Andrea presented him to a companion –

“Colonel Mayson!”

Mademoiselle Celaire saw a gleam in her companion’s eyes.

“It is coming – the idea?” she whispered.

“Very vaguely,” he admitted.

“Who is this Colonel Mayson?”

“Our only military aeronaut,” Peter replied.

She raised her eyebrows.

“Aeronaut!” she repeated, doubtfully. “I see nothing in that. Both my own country and Germany are years ahead of poor England in the air. Is it not so?”

Peter smiled and held out his arm.

“See,” he said, “supper has been announced. Afterwards, Andrea Korust will play to us, and I think that Colonel Mayson and his distinguished brother officer from India will talk. We shall see.”

They passed into a room whose existence had suddenly been revealed by the drawing back of some beautiful brocaded curtains. Supper was a delightful meal, charmingly served. Peter, putting everything else out of his head for the moment, thoroughly enjoyed himself, and, remembering his duty as a guest, contributed in no small degree towards the success of the entertainment. He sat between Mademoiselle Celaire and his hostess, both of whom demanded much from him in the way of attention. But he still found time to tell stories which were listened to by every one, and exchanged sallies with the gayest. Only Andrea Korust, from his place at the head of the table, glanced occasionally towards his popular guest with a curious, half-hidden expression of distaste and suspicion.

The more the Baron de Grost shone, the more uneasy he became. The signal to rise from the meal was given almost abruptly. Mademoiselle Korust hung on to Peter’s arm. Her own wishes and her brother’s orders seemed absolutely to coincide. She led him towards a retiring corner of the music room. On the way, however, Peter overheard the introduction which he had expected.

“General Noseworthy is just returned from India, Colonel Mayson,” Korust said, in his usual quiet, tired tone. “You will, perhaps, find it interesting to talk together a little. As for me, I play because all are polite enough to wish it, but conversation disturbs me not in the least.”

Peter passed, smiling, on to the corner pointed out by his companion, which was the darkest and most secluded in the room. He took her fan and gloves, lit her cigarette, and leaned back by her side.

“How does your brother, a stranger to London, find time to make the acquaintance of so many interesting people?” he asked.

“He brought many letters,” she replied. “He has friends everywhere.”

“I have an idea,” Peter remarked, “that an acquaintance of my own, the Count von Hern, spoke to me once about him.”

She took her cigarette from her lips and turned her head slightly. Peter’s expression was one of amiable reminiscence. His cheeks were a trifle flushed, his appearance was entirely reassuring. She laughed at her brother’s caution. She found her companion delightful.

“Yes, the Count von Hern is a friend of my brother’s,” she admitted, carelessly.

“And of yours?” he whispered, his arm slightly pressed against hers.

She laughed at him silently and their eyes met. Decidedly Peter, Baron de Grost, found it hard to break away from his old weakness! Andrea Korust, from his place near the piano, breathed a sigh of relief as he watched. A moment or two later, however, Mademoiselle Korust was obliged to leave her companion to receive a late but unimportant guest, and almost simultaneously Colonel Mayson passed by on his way to the farther end of the apartment. Andrea Korust was bending over the piano to give some instructions to his accompanist. Peter leaned forward and his face and tone were strangely altered.

“You will find General Noseworthy of the Indian Army a little inquisitive, Colonel,” he remarked.

The latter turned sharply round. There was meaning in those few words, without doubt! There was meaning, too, in the still, cold face which seemed to repel his question. He passed on thoughtfully. Mademoiselle Korust, with a gesture of relief, came back and threw herself once more upon the couch.

“We must talk in whispers,” she said, gayly. “Andrea always declares that he does not mind conversation, but too much noise is, of course, impossible. Besides, Mademoiselle Celaire will not spare you to me for long.”

“There is a whole language,” he replied, “which was made for whispers. And as for Mademoiselle Celaire -“

“Well?”

He laughed softly.

“Mademoiselle Celaire is, I think, more your brother’s friend than mine,” he murmured. “At least, I will be generous. He has given me a delightful evening. I resign my claims upon Mademoiselle Celaire.”

“It would break your heart,” she declared.

His voice sank even below a whisper. Decidedly, Peter, Baron de Grost, did not improve!

He rose to leave precisely at the right time, neither too early nor too late. He had spent altogether a most amusing evening. There were one or two little comedies which bad diverted him extremely. At the moment of parting, the beautiful eyes of Mademoiselle Korust had been raised to his very earnestly.

“You will come again very soon – to-morrow night?” she had whispered. “Is it necessary that you bring Mademoiselle Celaire?”

“It is altogether unnecessary,” Peter replied.

“Let me try and entertain you instead, then!”

It was precisely at that instant that Andrea had sent for his sister. Peter watched their brief conversation with much interest and intense amusement. She was being told not to invite him there again and she was rebelling! Without a doubt, he had made a conquest! She returned to him flushed and with a dangerous glitter in her eyes.

“Monsieur le Baron,” she said, leading him on one side, “I am ashamed and angry.”

“Your brother is annoyed because you have asked me here to-morrow night?” he asked, quickly.

“It is so,” she confessed. “Indeed, I thank you that you have spared me the task of putting my brother’s discourtesy into words. Andrea takes violent fancies like that sometimes. I am ashamed, but what can I do?”

“Nothing, mademoiselle,” be admitted, with a sigh. “I obey, of course. Did your brother mention the source of his aversion to me?”

“He is too absurd sometimes,” she declared. “One must treat him like a great baby.”

“Nevertheless, there must be a reason,” Peter persisted, gently.

“He has heard some foolish thing from Count von Hern,” she admitted, reluctantly. “Do not let us think anything more about it. In a few days it will have passed. And meanwhile – “

She paused. He leaned a little towards her. She was looking intently at a ring upon her finger.

“If you would really like to see me,” she whispered, and if you are sure that Mademoiselle Celaire would not object, could you not ask me to tea to-morrow – or the next day?”

“To-morrow,” Peter insisted, with a becoming show of eagerness. “Shall we say at the Canton at five?”

She hesitated.

“Isn’t that rather a public place?” she objected.

“Anywhere else you like.”

She was silent for a moment. She seemed to be waiting for some suggestion from him. None came, however.

“The Carlton at five,” she murmured. “I am angry with Andrea. I feel, even, that I could break his wonderful violin in two!”

Peter sighed once more.

“I should like to twist von Hern’s neck,” he declared. “Lucky for him that he’s in St. Petersburg! Let us forget this unpleasant matter, mademoiselle. The evening has been too delightful for such memories.”

Mademoiselle Celaire turned to her escort eagerly as soon as they were alone together in the car.

“As an escort, let me tell you, my dear Baron,” she exclaimed, with some pique, “that you are a miserable failure! For the rest – “

“For the rest, I will admit that I am puzzled,” Peter said. “I need to think. I have the glimmerings of an idea – no more.”

“You will act? It is an affair for us – for the Double-Four?”

“Without a doubt – an affair and a serious one,” Peter assured her. “I shall act; exactly how I cannot say until after to-morrow.”

“To-morrow?” she repeated, inquiringly.

“Mademoiselle Korust takes tea with me,” he explained.

In a quiet sort of way, the series of supper parties given by Andrea Korust became the talk of London. The most famous dancer in the world broke through her unvarying rule and night after night thrilled the distinguished little gathering. An opera singer, the “star” of the season, sang, a great genius recited, and Andrea himself gave always of his best. Apart from this wonderful outpouring of talent, Andrea Korust himself seemed to possess the peculiar art of bringing into touch with one another people naturally interested in the same subjects. On the night after the visit of Peter, Baron de Grost, His Grace the Duke of Rosshire was present, the man in whose hands lay the destinies of the British Navy; and, curiously enough, on the same night, a great French writer on naval subjects was present, whom the Duke had never met, and with whom he was delighted to talk for some time apart. On another occasion, the Military Secretary to the French Embassy was able to have a long and instructive chat with a distinguished English general on the subject of the recent maneuvers, and the latter received, in the strictest confidence, some very interesting information concerning the new type of French guns. On the following evening, the greatest of our Colonial statesmen, a red-hot Imperialist, was able to chat about the resources of the Empire with an English politician of similar views whom he chanced never to have previously met. Altogether, these parties seemed to be the means of bringing together a series of most interesting people, interesting not only in themselves, but in their relations to one another. It was noticeable, however, that from this side of his little gatherings Andrea Korust remained wholly apart. He frankly admitted that music and cheerful companionship were the only two things in life he cared for. Politics or matters of world import seemed to leave him unmoved. If a serious subject of conversation were started at supper time, he was frankly bored, and took no particular pains to hide the fact. It is certain that whatever interesting topics were alluded to in his presence, he remained entirely outside any understanding of them. Mademoiselle Celaire, who was present most evenings, although with other escorts, was entirely puzzled. She could see nothing whatever to account for the warning which she had received, and which she had passed on, as was her duty, to the Baron de Grost. She failed, also, to understand the faint but perceptible enlightenment to which Peter himself had admittedly attained after that first evening. Take that important conversation, for instance, between the French military attach, and the English general. Without a doubt it was of interest, and especially so to the country which she was sure claimed his allegiance, but it was equally without doubt that Andrea Korust neither overheard a word of that conversation nor betrayed the slightest curiosity concerning it. Mademoiselle Celaire was a clever woman and she had never felt so hopelessly at fault….

The seventh and last of these famous supper parties was in full swing. Notwithstanding the shaded candles, which left the faces of the guests a little indistinct, the scene was a brilliant one. Mademoiselle Celaire was wearing her famous diamonds, which shone through the gloom like pin-pricks of fire. Garda Desmaines, the wonderful Garda, sat next to her host, her bosom and hair on fire with jewels, yet with the most wonderful light of all glowing in her eyes. A famous actor, who had thrown his proverbial reticence to the winds, kept his immediate neighbors in a state of semi-hysterical mirth. The clink of wine glasses, the laughter of beautiful women, the murmur of cultivated voices, rising and swelling through the faint, mysterious gloom, made a picturesque, a wonderful scene. Pale as a marble statue, with the covert smile of the gracious host, Andrea Korust sat at the head of his table, well pleased with his company, as indeed he had the right to be. By his side was a great American statesman, who was traveling around the world and yet had refused all other invitations of this sort. He had come for the pleasure of meeting the famous Dutch writer and politician, Mr. Van Jool. The two were already talking intimately. It was at this point that tragedy, or something like it, intervened. A impatient voice was heard in the hall outside, a voice which grew louder and louder, more impatient, finally more passionate. People raised their heads to listen. The American statesman, who was, perhaps, the only one to realize exactly what was coming, slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped something cold and hard. Then the door was flung open. An apologetic and much disturbed butler made the announcement which had evidently been demanded of him.

“Mr. Von Tassen!”

A silence followed – breathless – the silence before the bursting of the storm. Mr. Von Tassen was the name of the American statesman, and the man who rose slowly from his place by his host’s side was the exact double of the man who stood now upon the threshold, gazing in upon the room. The expression of the two alone was different. The newcomer was furiously angry, and looked it. The sham Mr. Von Tassen was very much at his ease. It was he who broke the silence, and his voice was curiously free from all trace of emotion. He was looking his double over with an air of professional interest.

“On the whole,” he said, calmly, “very good. A little stouter, I perceive, and the eyebrows a trifle too regular. Of course, when you make faces at me like that, it is hard to judge of the expression. I can only say that I did the best I could.”

“Who the devil are you, masquerading in my name?” the newcomer demanded, with emphasis. “This man is an impostor!” he added, turning to Andrea Korust. “What is he doing at your table?”

Andrea leaned forward and his face was an evil thing to look upon.

“Who are you?” he hissed out.

The sham Mr. Von Tassen turned away for a moment and stooped down. The trick has been done often enough upon the stage, often in less time, but seldom with more effect. The wonderful wig disappeared, the spectacles, the lines in the face, the make-up of diabolical cleverness. With his back to the wall and his fingers playing with something in his pocket, Peter, Baron de Grost, smiled upon his host.

“Since you insist upon knowing – the Baron de Grost, at your service!” he announced.

Andrea Korust was, for the moment, speechless. One of the women shrieked. The real Mr. Von Tassen looked around him helplessly.

“Will some one be good enough to enlighten me as to the meaning of this?” he begged. “Is it a roast? If so, I only want to catch on. Let me get to the joke, if there is one. If not, I should like a few words of explanation from you, sir,” he added, addressing Peter.

“Presently,” the latter replied. “In the meantime, let me persuade you that I am not the only impostor here.”

He seized a glass of water and dashed it in the face of Mr. Van Jool. There was a moment’s scuffle, and no more of Mr. Van Jool. What emerged was a good deal like the shy Maurice Korust, who accompanied his brother at the music hall, but whose distaste for these gatherings had been Andrea’s continual lament. The Baron de Grost stepped back once more against the wall. His host was certainly looking dangerous. Mademoiselle Celaire was leaning forward, staring through the gloom with distended eyes. Around the table every head was turned towards the centre of the disturbance. It was Peter again who spoke.

“Let me suggest, Andrea Korust,” he said, “that you send your guests – those who are not immediately interested in this affair – into the next room. I will offer Mr. Von Tassen then the explanation to which he is entitled.”

Andrea Korust staggered to his feet. The nerve had failed. He was shaking all over. He pointed to the music room.

“If you would be so good, ladies and gentlemen?” he begged. “We will follow you immediately.”

They went with obvious reluctance. All their eyes seemed focussed upon Peter. He bore their scrutiny with calm cheerfulness. For a moment he had feared Korust, but that moment had passed. A servant, obeying his master’s gesture, pulled back the curtains after the departing crowd. The four men were alone.

“Mr. Von Tassen,” Peter said, easily, “you are a man who loves adventures. To-night you experience a new sort of one. Over in your great country, such methods are laughed at as the cheap device of sensation mongers. Nevertheless, they exist. To-night is a proof that they exist.”

“Get on to facts, sir,” the American admonished. “You’ve got to explain to me what you mean by passing yourself off as Thomas Von Tassen, before you leave this room.”

Peter bowed.

“With much pleasure, Mr. Von Tassen,” he declared. “For your information, I might tell you that you are not the only person in whose guise I have figured. In fact, I have had quite a busy week. I have been – let me see – I have been Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel on the night when our shy friend, Maurice Korust, was playing the part of General Henderson. I have also been His Grace the Duke of Rosshire when my friend Maurice here was introduced to me as Francois Defayal, known by name to me as one of the greatest writers on naval matters. A little awkward about the figure I found His Grace, but otherwise I think that I should have passed muster wherever he was known. I have also passed as Sir William Laureston, on the evening when my rival artist here sang the praises of Imperial England.”

Andrea Korust leaned forward with venomous eyes.

“You mean that it was you who was here last night in Sir William Laureston’s place?” he almost shrieked.

“Most certainly,” Peter admitted, “but you must remember that, after all, my performances have been no more difficult than those of your shy but accomplished brother. Whenever I took to myself a strange personality I found him there, equally good as to detail, and with his subject always at his finger tips. We settled that little matter of the canal, didn’t we?” Peter remarked, cheerfully, laying his hand upon the shoulder of the young man.

They stared at him, those two white-faced brothers, like tiger-cats about to spring. Mr. Von Tassen was getting impatient.

“Look here,” he protested, “you may be clearing matters up so far as regards Mr. Andrea Korust and his brother, but I’m as much in the fog as ever. Where do I come in?”

“Your pardon, sir,” Peter replied. “I am getting nearer things now. These two young men – we will not call them hard names – are suffering from an excess of patriotic zeal. They didn’t come and sit down on a camp stool and sketch obsolete forts, as those others of their countrymen do when they want to pose as the bland and really exceedingly ignorant foreigner. They went about the matter with some skill. It occurred to them that it might be interesting to their country to know what Sir William Laureston thought about the strength of the Imperial Navy, and to what extent his country was willing to go in maintaining their allegiance to Great Britain. Then there was the Duke of Rosshire. They thought they’d like to know his views as to the development of the Navy during the next ten years. There was that little matter, too, of the French guns. It would certainly be interesting to them to know what Monsieur le Marquis de Beau Kunel had to say about them. These people were all invited to sit at the hospitable board of our host here. I, however, had an inkling on the first night of what was going on, and I was easily able to persuade those in authority to let me play their several parts. You, sir, Peter added, turning to Mr. Von Tassen, “you, sir, floored me. You were not an Englishman, and there was no appeal which I could make. I simply had to risk you. I counted upon your not turning up. Unfortunately, you did. Fortunately, you are the last guest. This is the seventh supper.”

Mr. Von Tassen glanced around at the three men and made up his mind.

“What do you call yourself?” he asked Peter.

“The Baron de Grost,” Peter replied.

“Then, my friend the Baron de Grost,” Von Tassen said, “I think that you and I had better get out of this. So I was to talk about Germany with Mr. Van Jool, eh?”

“I have already explained your views,” Peter declared, with twinkling eyes. “Mr. Van Jool was delighted.”

Mr. Von Tassen shook with laughter.

“Say,” he exclaimed, “this is a great story! If you’re ready, Baron de Grost, lead the way to where we can get a whiskey and soda and a chat.”

Mademoiselle Celaire came gliding out to them.

“I am not going to be left here,” she whispered, taking Peter’s arm.

Peter looked back from the door.

“At any rate, Mr. Andrea Korust,” he said, “your first supper was a success. Colonel Mayson was genuine. Our real English military aeronaut was here, and he has disclosed to you, Maurice Korust, all that he ever knew. Henceforth, I presume your great country will dispute with us for the mastery of the air.

“Queer country, this!” Mr. Von Tassen remarked, pausing on the step to light a cigar. “Seems kind of humdrum after New York, but there’s no use talking. Things do happen over here, anyway!”

CHAPTER VII

MAJOR KOSUTH ‘5 MISSION

His host, very fussy as he always was on the morning of his big shoot, came bustling towards Peter, Baron de Grost, with a piece of paper in his hand. The party of men had just descended from a large brake and were standing about on the edge of the common, examining cartridges, smoking a last cigarette before the business of the morning, and chatting together over the prospects of the day’s sport. In the distance, a cloud of dust indicated the approach of a fast traveling motor-car.

“My dear Baron,” Sir William Bounderby said, “I want you to change your stand to-day. I must have a good man at the far corner as the birds go off my hand from there, and Addington was missing them shockingly yesterday. Besides, there is a new man coming on your left and I know nothing of his shooting – nothing at all!”

Peter smiled.

“Anywhere you choose to put me, Sir William,” he assented. “They came badly for Addington yesterday, and well for me. However, I’ll do my best.”

“I wish people wouldn’t bring strangers, especially to the one shoot where I’m keen about the bag. I told Portal he could bring his brother-in-law, and he ‘s bringing this foreign fellow instead. Don’t suppose he can shoot for nuts! Did you ever hear of him, I wonder? The Count von Hern, he calls himself.”

The motor-car had come to a standstill by this time. From it descended Mr. Portal himself, a large neighboring land owner, a man of culture and travel. With him was Bernadine, in a very correct shooting suit and Tyrolese hat. On the other side of Mr. Portal was a short, thick set man, with olive complexion, keen black eyes, black mustache and imperial, who was dressed in city clothes. Sir William’s eyebrows were slightly raised as he advanced to greet the party. Peter was at once profoundly interested.

Mr. Portal introduced his guests.

“You will forgive me, I am sure, for bringing a spectator, Bounderby,” he said. “Major Kosuth, whom I have the honor to present – Major Kosuth, Sir William Bounderby – is high up in the diplomatic service of a country with whom we must feel every sympathy – the young Turks. The Count von Hern, who takes my brother-in-law’s place, is probably known to you by name.”

Sir William welcomed his visitors cordially.

“You do not shoot, Major Kosuth?”he asked.

“Very seldom,” the Turk answered. “I come to-day with my good friend, Count von Hern, as a spectator, if you permit.”

“Delighted,” Sir William replied. “We will find you a safe place near your friend.”

The little party began to move toward the wood. It was just at this moment that Bernadine felt a touch upon his shoulder, and, turning around, found Peter by his side.

“An unexpected pleasure, my dear Count,” the latter declared, suavely. “I had no idea that you took interest in such simple sports.”

The manners of Count von Hern were universally quoted as being almost too perfect. It is a regrettable fact, however, that at that moment he swore – softly, perhaps, but with distinct vehemence. A moment later he was exchanging the most cordial of greetings with his old friend.

“You have the knack, my dear De Grost,” he remarked, “of turning up in the most surprising places. I certainly did not know that among your many accomplishments was included a love for field sports.”

Peter smiled quietly. He was a very fine shot, and knew it.

“One must amuse oneself these days,” he said. “There is little else to do.”

Bernadine bit his lip.

“My absence from this country, I fear, has robbed you of an occupation.”

“It has certainly deprived life of some of its savor,” Peter admitted, blandly. “By the bye, will you not present me to your friend? I have the utmost sympathy with the intrepid political party of which he is a member.”

Von Hern performed the introduction with a reluctance which he wholly failed to conceal. The Turk, however, had been walking on his other side, and his hat was already lifted. Peter had purposely raised his voice.

“It gives me the greatest pleasure, Major Kosuth,” Peter said, “to welcome you to this country. In common, I believe, with the majority of my country people, I have the utmost respect and admiration for the movement which you represent.”

Maj or Kosuth smiled slowly. His features were heavy and unexpressive. There was something of gloom, however, in the manner of his response.

“You are very kind, Baron,” he replied, “and I welcome very much this expression of your interest in my party. I believe that the hearts of your country people are turned towards us in the same manner. I could wish that your country’s political sympathies were as easily aroused.”

Bernadine intervened promptly.

“Major Kosuth has been here only one day,” he remarked, lightly. “I tell him that he is a little too impatient. See, we are approaching the wood. It is as well here to refrain from conversation.”

“We will resume it later,” Peter said, softly. “I have interests in Turkey, and it would give me great pleasure to have a talk with Major Kosuth.”

“Financial interests?” the latter inquired, with some eagerness.

Peter nodded.

“I will explain after the first drive,” he said, turning away.

Peter walked rather quickly until he reached a bend in the wood, and overtaking his host, paused for a moment.

“Lend me a loader for half an hour, Sir William,” he begged. “I have to send my servant to the village with a telegram.”

“With pleasure!” Sir William answered. “There are several to spare. I’ll send one to your stand. There’s Von Hern going the wrong way!” he exclaimed, in a tone of annoyance.

Peter was just in time to stop the whistle from going to his mouth.

“Do me another favor, Sir William,” he pleaded. “Give me time to send off my telegram before the Count sees what I’m doing. He’s such an inquisitive person,” he went on, noticing his host’s look of blank surprise. “Thank you ever so much.”

Peter hurried on to his place. It was round the corner of the wood and for the moment out of sight of the rest of the party. He tore a sheet from his pocket-book and scribbled out a telegram. His man had disappeared and a substitute taken his place by the time von Hern arrived. The latter was now all amiability. It was hard to believe, from his smiling salutation, that he and the man to whom he waved his hand in so airy a fashion had ever declared war to the death!

The shooting began a few minutes later. Major Kosuth, from a campstool a few yards behind his friend, watched with somewhat languid interest. He gave one, indeed, the impression that his thoughts were far removed from this simple country party, the main object of whose existence for the present seemed to be the slaying of a certain number of inoffensive birds. He watched the indifferent performance of his friend and the remarkably fine shooting of his neighbor on the left, with the same lack-luster eye and want of enthusiasm. The beat was scarcely over before Peter, resigning his smoking guns, lit a cigarette and strolled across to the next stand. He plunged at once into a conversation with Kosuth, notwithstanding Bernadine’s ill-concealed annoyance.

“Major Kosuth,” he began, “I sympathize with you. It is a hard task for a man whose mind is centered upon great events, to sit still and watch a performance of this sort. Be kind to us all and remember that this represents to us merely a few hours of relaxation. We, too, have our more serious moments.”

“You read my thoughts well,” Maj or Kosuth declared. “I do not seek to excuse them. For half a life-time we Turks have toiled and striven, always in danger of our lives, to help forward those things which have now come to pass. I think that our lives have become tinged with somberness and apprehension. Now that the first step is achieved, we go forward, still with trepidation. We need friends, Baron de Grost.”

“You cannot seriously doubt but that you will find them in this country,” Peter remarked. “There has never been a time when the English nation has not sympathized with the cause of liberty.”

“It is not the hearts of your people,” Major Kosuth said, “which I fear. It is the antics of your politicians. Sympathy is a great thing, and good to have, but Turkey to-day needs more. The heart of a nation is big, but the number of those in whose hands it remains to give practical expression to its promptings, is few.”

Bernadine, who had stood as much as he could, seized forcibly upon his friend.

“You must remember our bargain, Kosuth,” he insisted no politics to-day. Until to-morrow evening we rest. Now I want to introduce you to a very old friend of mine – the Lord-Lieutenant of the county.”

No man was better informed in current political affairs, but Peter, instead of joining the cheerful afternoon tea party at the close of the day, raked out a file of the Times from the library, and studied it carefully in his room. There were one or two items of news concerning which he made pencil notes. He had scarcely finished his task before a servant brought in a dispatch. He opened it with interest and drew pencil and paper towards him. It was from Paris, and in the code which he had learned by heart, no written key of which existed. Carefully he transposed it on to paper and read it through. It was dated from Paris a few hours back.

Kosuth left for England yesterday. Envoy from new Turkish Government. Requiring loan one million pounds. Asked for guarantee that it was not for warlike movement against Bulgaria, declined to give same. Communicated with English Ambassador and informed Kosuth yesterday that neither government would sanction loan unless undertaking were given that the same was not to be applied for war against Bulgaria. Turkey is under covenant to enter into no financial obligations with any other Power while the interest of former loans remains in abeyance. Kosuth has made two efforts to obtain loan privately, from prominent English financier and French Syndicate. Both have declined to treat on representations from government. Kosuth was expected return direct to Turkey. If, as you say, he is in England with Bernadine, we commend the affair to your utmost vigilance. Germany exceedingly anxious enter into close relations with new=20 government of Turkey. Fear Kosuth’s association with Bernadine proof of bad faith. Have had interview with Minister for foreign=20 affairs, who relies upon our help. French Secret Service at your disposal, if necessary.

Peter read the message three times with the greatest care. He was on the point of destroying it when Violet came into the room. She was wearing a long tea jacket of sheeny silk. Her beautiful hair was most becomingly arranged, her figure as light and girlish as ever. She came into the room humming gayly and swinging a gold purse upon her finger.

“Won three rubbers out of four, Peter,” she declared, “and a compliment from the Duchess. Am I a pupil to be proud of?”

She stopped short. Her lips formed themselves into the shape of a whistle. She knew very well the signs. Her husband’s eyes were kindling, there was a firm set about his lips, the palm of his hand lay flat upon that sheet of paper.

“It was true?” she murmured. “It was Bernadine who was shooting to-day?”

Peter nodded.

“He was on the next stand,” he replied.

“Then there is something doing, of course,” Violet continued. “My dear Peter, you may be an enigma to other people. To me you have the most expressive countenance I ever saw. You have had a cable which you have just transcribed. If I had been a few minutes later, I think you would have torn up the result. As it is, I think I have come just in time to hear all about it.”

Peter smiled, grimly but fondly. He uncovered the sheet of paper and placed it in her hands.

“So far,” he said, “there isn’t much to tell you. Von Hern turned up this morning with a Major Kosuth, who was one of the leaders of the revolution in Turkey. I wired Paris and this is the reply.”=20

She read the message through thoughtfully and handed it back. Peter lit a match, and standing over the fireplace calmly destroyed it.

“A million pounds is not a great sum of money,” Violet remarked. “Why could not Kosuth borrow it for his country from a private individual?”

“A million pounds is not a large sum to talk about,” Peter replied, “but it is an exceedingly large sum for any one, even a multi-millionaire, to handle in cash. And Turkey, I gather, wants it at once. Besides, considerations which might be a security from a government, are no security at all as applied to a private individual.”

She nodded.

“Do you think that Kosuth means to go behind the existing treaty and borrow from Germany?”

Peter shook his head.

“I can’t quite believe that,” he said. “It would mean the straining of diplomatic relations with both countries. It is out of the question.”

“Then where does Bernadine come in?”

“I do not know,” Peter answered.

Violet laughed.

“What is it that you are going to try and find out?” she asked.

“I am trying to discover who it is that Bernadine and Kosuth are waiting to see,” Peter replied. “The worst of it is, I daren’t leave here. I shall have to trust to the others.”

She glanced at the clock.

“Well, go and dress,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ve a little of your blood in me, after all. Life seems more stirring when Bernadine is on the scene.”

The shooting party broke up two days later and Peter and his wife returned at once to town. The former found the reports which were awaiting his arrival disappointing. Bernadine and his guest were not in London, or if they were they had carefully avoided all the usual haunts. Peter read his reports over again, smoked a very long cigar alone in his study, and finally drove down to the city and called upon his stockbroker, who was also a personal friend. Things were flat in the city, and the latter was glad enough to welcome an important client. He began talking the usual market shop until his visitor stopped him.

“I have come to you, Edwardes, more for information than anything,” Peter declared, “although it may mean that I shall need to sell a lot of stock. Can you tell me of any private financier who could raise a loan of a million pounds in cash within the course of a week?”

The stockbroker looked dubious.

“In cash,” he repeated. “Money isn’t raised that way, you know. I doubt whether there are many men in the whole city of London who could put up such an amount with only a week’s notice.”

“But there must be some one,” Peter persisted. “Think! It would probably be a firm or a man not obtrusively English. I don’t think the Jews would touch it, and a German citizen would be impossible.”

“Semi-political, eh?”

Peter nodded.

“It is rather that way,” he admitted.

“Would your friend Count von Hern be likely to be concerned in it?”

“Why?”Peter asked, with immovable face.

“Nothing, only I saw him coming out of Heseltine-Wrigge’s office the other day,” the stockbroker remarked, carelessly.

“And who is Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge?”

“A very wealthy American financier,” the stockbroker replied, “not at all an unlikely person for a loan of the sort you mention.”

“American citizen?” Peter inquired.

“Without a doubt. Of German descent, I should say, but nothing much left of it in his appearance. He settled over here in a huff because New York society wouldn’t receive his wife.”

“I remember all about it,” Peter declared. “She was a chorus girl, wasn’t she? Nothing particular against her, but the fellow had no tact. Do you know him, Edwardes?”

“Slightly,” the stockbroker answered.

“Give me a letter to him,” Peter said. “Give my credit as good a leg as you can. I shall probably go as a borrower.”

Mr. Edwardes wrote a few lines and handed them to his client.

“Office is nearly opposite,” he remarked. “Wish you luck, whatever your scheme is.”

Peter crossed the street and entered the building which his friend had pointed out. He ascended in the lift to the third floor, knocked at the door which bore Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge’s name, and almost ran into the arms of a charmingly dressed little lady, who was being shown out by a broad-shouldered, typical American. Peter hastened to apologize.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, raising his hat. “I was rather in a hurry and I quite thought I heard some one say ‘Come in.'”

The lady replied pleasantly. Her companion, who was carrying his hat in his hand, paused reluctantly.

“Did you want to see me?” he asked.

“If you are Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, I did,” Peter admitted. “I am the Baron de Grost, and I have a letter of introduction to you from Mr. Edwardes.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge tore open the envelope and glanced through the contents of the note. Peter, meanwhile, looked at his wife with genuine but respectfully cloaked admiration. The lady obviously returned his interest.

“Why, if you’re the Baron de Grost,” she exclaimed, “didn’t you marry Vi Brown? She used to be at the Gaiety with me, years ago.”

“I certainly did marry Violet Brown,” Peter confessed, “and, if you will allow me to say so, Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge, I should have recognized you anywhere from your photographs.”

“Say, isn’t that queer?” the little lady remarked, turning to her husband. “I should love to see Vi again.”

“If you will give me your address,” Peter declared, promptly, “my wife will be delighted to call upon you.”

The man looked up from the note.

“Do you want to talk business with me, Baron?” he asked.

“For a few moments only,” Peter answered. “I am afraid I am a great nuisance, and if you wish it I will come down to the city again.”

“That’s all right,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge replied. “Myra won’t mind waiting a minute or two. Come through here.”

He turned and led the way into a quiet-looking suite of offices, where one or two clerks were engaged writing at open desks. They all three passed into an inner room.

“Any objections to my wife coming in?” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge asked. “there’s scarcely any place for her out there.”

“Delighted,” Peter answered.

She glanced at the clock.

“Remember we have to meet the Count von Hern at half past one at Prince’s, Charles,” she reminded him.

Her husband nodded. There was nothing in Peter’s expression to denote that he had already achieved the first object of his visit!

“I shall not detain you,” he said. “Your name has been mentioned to me, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, as a financier likely to have a large sum of money at his disposal. I have a scheme which needs money. Providing the security is unexceptionable, are you in a position to do a deal?”

“How much do you want?” Mr Heseltine-Wrigge asked.

“A million to a million and a half,” Peter answered.

“Dollars? =20

“Pounds.”

It was not Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge’s pose to appear surprised. Nevertheless, his eyebrows were slightly raised. =20
“Say, what is this scheme?” he inquired.

“First of all,” Peter replied, “I should like to know whether there’s any chance of business if I disclose it.”

“Not an atom,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge declared. “I have just committed myself to the biggest financial transaction of my life and it will clean me out.”

“Then I won’t waste your time,” Peter announced, rising.

“Sit down for a moment,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge invited, biting the end off a cigar and passing the box toward Peter. “that’s all right. My wife doesn’t mind. Say, it strikes me as rather a curious thing that you should come in here and talk about a million and a half, when that’s just the amount concerned in my other little deal.”

Peter smiled.

“As a matter of fact, it isn’t at all queer,” he answered. “I don’t want the money. I came to see whether you were really interested in the other affair – the Turkish loan, you know.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge withdrew his cigar from his mouth and looked steadily at his visitor.

“Say, Baron,” he declared, “you’ve got a nerve!”

“Not at all,” Peter replied. “I’m here as much in your interests as my own.”

“Whom do you represent, anyway?” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge inquired.

“A company you have never heard of,” Peter replied. “Our offices are in the underground places of the world, and we don’t run to brass plates. I am here because I am curious about that loan. Turkey hasn’t a shadow of security to offer you. Everything which she can pledge is pledged, to guarantee the interest on existing loans to France and England. She is prevented by treaty from borrowing in Germany. If you make a loan without security, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, I suppose you understand your position. The loan may be repudiated at any moment.”

“Kind of a philanthropist, aren’t you, Baron?” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge remarked quietly.

“Not in the least,” Peter assured him. “I know there is some tricky work going on and I haven’t brains enough to get to the bottom of it. That’s why I’ve come blundering in to you, and why I suppose you’ll be telling the whole story to the Count von Hern at luncheon in an hour’s time.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge smoked in silence for a moment or two,

“This transaction of mine,” he said at last, “Isn’t one I can talk about. I guess I’m on to what you want to know, but I simply can’t tell you. The security is unusual, but it’s good enough for me.”

“It seems so to you, beyond a doubt,” Peter replied. “Still, you have to do with a remarkably clever young man in the Count von Hern. I don’t want to ask you any questions you feel I ought not to, but I do wish you’d tell me one thing.”

“Go right ahead,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge invited. “Don’t be shy.”

“What day are you concluding this affair?”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully and glanced at his diary. “Well, I’ll risk that,” he decided. “A week to-day I hand over the coin.”

Peter drew a little breath of relief. A week was an immense time! He rose to his feet.

“That ends our business, then, for the present,” he said. “Now I am going to ask both of you a favor. Perhaps I have no right to, but as a man of honor, Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, you can take it from me that I ask it in your interests as well as my own. Don’t tell the Count von Hern of my visit to you.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge held out his hand.

“That’s all right,” he declared. “You hear, Myra?”

“I’ll be dumb, Baron,” she promised. “Say, when do you think Vi can come and see me?”

Peter was guilty of snobbery. He considered it quite a justifiable weapon.

“She is at Windsor this afternoon,” he remarked.

“What, at the Garden-Party?” Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge almost shrieked.

Peter nodded.

“I believe there’s some fete or other to-morrow,” he said, “but we’re alone this evening. Why won’t you dine with us, say at the Carlton?”

“We’d love to,” the lady assented, promptly.

“At eight o’clock,” Peter said, taking his leave.

The dinner party was a great success. Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge found herself among the class of people with whom it was her earnest desire to become acquainted, and her husband was well satisfied to see her keen longing for society likely to be gratified. The subject of Peter’s call at the office in the city was studiously ignored. It was not until the very end of the evening, indeed, that the host of this very agreeable party was rewarded by a single hint. It all came about in the most natural manner. They were speaking of foreign capitals.”

“I love Paris,” Mrs. Heseltine-Wrigge told her host. “Just adore it. Charles is often there on business and I always go along.”

Peter smiled. There was just a chance here.

“Your husband does not often have to leave London though,” he remarked, carelessly.

She nodded.

“Not often enough,” she declared. “I just love getting about. Last week we had a perfectly horrible trip, though. We started off for Belfast quite unexpectedly, and I hated every minute of it.”

Peter smiled inwardly, but he said never a word. His companion was already chattering on about something else. Peter crossed the hall a few minutes later, to speak to an acquaintance, slipped out to the telephone booth and spoke to his servant.

“A bag and a change,” he ordered, “at Euston Station at twelve o’clock, in time for the Irish mail. Your mistress will be home as usual.”

An hour later the dinner party broke up. Early the next morning, Peter crossed the Irish Channel. He returned the following day and crossed again within a few hours. In five days the affair was finished, except for the denouement.

Peter ascended in the lift to Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge’s office the following Thursday, calm and unruffled as usual, but nevertheless a little exultant. It was barely half an hour since he had become finally prepared for this interview. He was looking forward to it now with feelings of undiluted satisfaction. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge was in, he was told, and he was at once admitted to his presence. The financier greeted him with a somewhat curious smile.

“Say, this is very nice of you to look me up again!” he exclaimed. “Still worrying about that loan, eh?”

Peter shook his head.

“No, I’m not worrying about that any more,” he answered, accepting one of his host’s cigars. “The fact of it is that if it were not for me, you would be the one who would have to do the worrying.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge stopped short in the act of lighting his cigar.

“I’m not quite on,” he remarked. “What’s the trouble?”

“There is no trouble, fortunately” Peter replied. “Only a little disappointment for our friends the Count von Hern and Major Kosuth. I have brought you some information which I think will put an end to that affair
of the loan.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge sat quite still for a moment. He brows were knitted, he showed no signs of nervousness.

“Go right on,” he said.

“The security upon which you were going to advance a million and a half to the Turkish Government,” Peter continued, “consisted of two Dreadnoughts and a cruiser, being built to the order of that country by Messrs. Shepherd & Hargreaves at Belfast.”

“Quite right,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge admitted, quietly. “I have been up and seen the boats. I have seen the shipbuilders, too.”

“Did you happen to mention to the latter,” Peter inquired, “that you were advancing money upon those vessels?”

“Certainly not,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge replied. “Kosuth wouldn’t hear of such a thing. If the papers got wind of it, there’d be the devil to pay. All the same, I have got an assignment from the Turkish Government.”

“Not worth the paper it’s written on,” Peter declared, blandly.

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge rose unsteadily to his feet. He was a strong, silent man, but there was a queer look about his mouth.

“What the devil do you mean?” he demanded.

“Briefly, this,” Peter explained. “The first payment, when these ships were laid down, was made not by Turkey but by an emissary of the German Government, who arranged the whole affair in Constantinople. The second payment was due ten months ago, and not a penny has been paid. Notice was given to the late government twice and absolutely ignored. According to the charter, therefore, these ships reverted to the shipbuilding companies who retained possession of the first payment as indemnity against loss. The Count von Hern’s position was this. He represents the German Government. You were to find a million and a half of money with the ships as security. You also have a contract from the Count von Hern to take those ships off your hands provided the interest on the loan became overdue, a state of affairs which I can assure you would have happened within the next twelve months. Practically, therefore, you were made use of as an independent financier to provide the money with which the Turkish Government, broadly speaking, have sold the ships to Germany. You see, according to the charter of the shipbuilding company, these vessels cannot be sold to any foreign government without the consent of Downing Street. That is the reason why the affair had to be conducted in such a roundabout manner.”

“All this is beyond me,” Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge said, hoarsely. “I don’t care a d-n who has the ships in the end so long as I get my money!”

“But you would not get your money,” Peter pointed out, “because there will be no ships. I have had the shrewdest lawyers in the world at work upon the charter, and there is not the slightest doubt that these vessels are, or rather were, the entire property of Messrs. Shepherd & Hargreaves. To-day they belong to me. I have bought them and paid two hundred thousand pounds deposit. I can show you the receipt and all the papers.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge, said only one word, but that word was profane.

“I am sorry, of course, that you have lost the business,” Peter concluded, “but surely it’s better than losing your money?”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge struck the table fiercely with his fist. There was a gray and unfamiliar look about his face.

“D-n it, the money’s gone!” he declared, hoarsely. “They changed the day. Kosuth had to go back. I paid it twenty-four hours ago.”

Peter whistled softly.

“If only you had trusted me a little more!” he murmured. “I tried to warn you.”

Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge snatched up his hat.

“They don’t leave till the two-twenty,” he shouted. “We’ll catch

them at the Milan. If we don’t, I’m ruined! By God, I’m ruined!”

They found Major Kosuth in the hall of the hotel. He was wearing a fur coat and was otherwise attired for traveling. His luggage was already being piled upon a cab. Mr. Heseltine-Wrigge wasted no words upon him.

“You and I have got to have a talk, right here and now,” he declared. “Where’s the Count?”

Major Kosuth frowned gloomily.

“I do not understand you,” he said, shortly. “Our business is concluded and I am leaving by the two-twenty train.”