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The Yellow Crayon

by E. Phillips Oppenheim · English · Gutenberg #1849 · 441,658 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Yellow Crayon

Author: E. Phillips Oppenheim


        
Release date: August 1, 1999 [eBook #1849]
                Most recently updated: October 11, 2016

Language: English

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THE YELLOW CRAYON

By E. Phillips Oppenheim




CHAPTER I

It was late summer-time, and the perfume of flowers stole into the
darkened room through the half-opened window. The sunlight forced its
way through a chink in the blind, and stretched across the floor in
strange zigzag fashion. From without came the pleasant murmur of bees
and many lazier insects floating over the gorgeous flower beds, resting
for a while on the clematis which had made the piazza a blaze of purple
splendour. And inside, in a high-backed chair, there sat a man, his arms
folded, his eyes fixed steadily upon vacancy. As he sat then, so had he
sat for a whole day and a whole night. The faint sweet chorus of glad
living things, which alone broke the deep silence of the house, seemed
neither to disturb nor interest him. He sat there like a man turned to
stone, his forehead riven by one deep line, his straight firm mouth set
close and hard. His servant, the only living being who had approached
him, had set food by his side, which now and then he had mechanically
taken. Changeless as a sphinx, he had sat there in darkness and in
light, whilst sunlight had changed to moonlight, and the songs of the
birds had given place to the low murmuring of frogs from a lake below
the lawns.

At last it seemed that his unnatural fit had passed away. He stretched
out his hand and struck a silver gong which had been left within his
reach. Almost immediately a man, pale-faced, with full dark eyes and
olive complexion, dressed in the sombre garb of an indoor servant, stood
at his elbow.

“Duson.”

“Your Grace!”

“Bring wine--Burgundy.”

It was before him, served with almost incredible despatch--a small
cobwebbed bottle and a glass of quaint shape, on which were beautifully
emblazoned a coronet and fleur-de-lis. He drank slowly and deliberately.
When he set the glass down it was empty.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“You will pack my things and your own. We shall leave for New York this
evening. Telegraph to the Holland House for rooms.”

“For how many days, your Grace?”

“We shall not return here. Pay off all the servants save two of the most
trustworthy, who will remain as caretakers.”

The man’s face was as immovable as his master’s.

“And Madame?”

“Madame will not be returning. She will have no further use for her
maid. See, however, that her clothes and all her personal belongings
remain absolutely undisturbed.”

“Has your Grace any further orders?”

“Take pencil and paper. Send this cablegram. Are you ready?”

The man’s head moved in respectful assent.

     “To Felix,
       “No 27, Rue de St.  Pierre,
         “Avenue de L’Opera, Paris.
    “Meet me at Sherry’s Restaurant, New York, one month to-day, eleven
     p.m.--V.  S.”

“It shall be sent immediately, your Grace. The train for New York leaves
at seven-ten. A carriage will be here in one hour and five minutes.”

The man moved towards the door. His master looked up.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“The Duc de Souspennier remains here--or at the bottom of the lake--what
matters! It is Mr. Sabin who travels to New York, and for whom you
engage rooms at the Holland House. Mr. Sabin is a cosmopolitan of
English proclivities.”

“Very good, sir!”

“Lock this door. Bring my coat and hat five minutes before the carriage
starts. Let the servants be well paid. Let none of them attempt to see
me.”

The man bowed and disappeared. Left to himself, Mr. Sabin rose from his
chair, and pushing open the windows, stood upon the verandah. He leaned
heavily upon his stick with both hands, holding it before him. Slowly
his eyes traveled over the landscape.

It was a very beautiful home which he was leaving. Before him stretched
the gardens--Italian in design, brilliant with flowers, with here and
there a dark cedar-tree drooping low upon the lawn. A yew hedge bordered
the rose-garden, a fountain was playing in the middle of a lake. A
wooden fence encircled the grounds, and beyond was a smooth rolling
park, with little belts of pine plantations and a few larger trees here
and there. In the far distance the red flag was waving on one of the
putting greens. Archie Green was strolling up the hillside,--his pipe
in his mouth, and his driver under his arm. Mr. Sabin watched, and the
lines in his face grew deeper and deeper.

“I am an old man,” he said softly, “but I will live to see them suffer
who have done this evil thing.”

He turned slowly back into the room, and limping rather more than was
usual with him, he pushed aside a portiere and passed into a charmingly
furnished country drawing-room. Only the flowers hung dead in their
vases; everything else was fresh and sweet and dainty. Slowly he
threaded his way amongst the elegant Louis Quinze furniture, examining
as though for the first time the beautiful old tapestry, the Sevres
china, the Chippendale table, which was priceless, the exquisite
portraits painted by Greuze, and the mysterious green twilights and
grey dawns of Corot. Everywhere treasures of art, yet everywhere the
restraining hand of the artist. The faint smell of dead rose leaves hung
about the room. Already one seemed conscious of a certain emptiness as
though the genius of the place had gone. Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon
his stick, and his head drooped lower and lower. A soft, respectful
voice came to him from the other room.

“In five minutes, sir, the carriage will be at the door. I have your
coat and hat here.”

Mr. Sabin looked up.

“I am quite ready, Duson!” he said.

      *           *           *           *           *

The servants in the hall stood respectfully aside to let him pass. On
the way to the depot he saw nothing of those who saluted him. In the car
he sat with folded arms in the most retired seat, looking steadfastly
out of the window at the dying day. There were mountains away westwards,
touched with golden light; sometimes for long minutes together the train
was rushing through forests whose darkness was like that of a tunnel.
Mr. Sabin seemed indifferent to these changes. The coming of night did
not disturb him. His brain was at work, and the things which he saw were
hidden from other men.

Duson, with a murmur of apology, broke in upon his meditations.

“You will pardon me, sir, but the second dinner is now being served. The
restaurant car will be detached at the next stop.”

“What of it?” Mr. Sabin asked calmly.

“I have taken the liberty of ordering dinner for you, sir. It is thirty
hours since you ate anything save biscuits.”

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

“You are quite right, Duson,” he said. “I will dine.”

In half-an-hour he was back again. Duson placed before him silently a
box of cigarettes and matches. Mr. Sabin smoked.

Soon the lights of the great city flared in the sky, the train stopped
more frequently, the express men and newspaper boys came into evidence.
Mr. Sabin awoke from his long spell of thought. He bought a newspaper,
and glanced through the list of steamers which had sailed during the
week. When the train glided into the depot he was on his feet and ready
to leave it.

“You will reserve our rooms, Duson, for one month,” he said on the way
to the hotel. “We shall probably leave for Europe a month to-morrow.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You were Mrs. Peterson’s servant, Duson, before you were mine!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have been with her, I believe, for many years. You are doubtless
much attached to her!”

“Indeed I am, sir!”

“You may have surmised, Duson, that she has left me. I desire to ensure
your absolute fidelity, so I take you into my confidence to this extent.
Your mistress is in the hands of those who have some power over her. Her
absence is involuntary so far as she is concerned. It has been a great
blow to me. I am prepared to run all risks to discover her whereabouts.
It is late in my life for adventures, but it is very certain that
adventures and dangers are before us. In accompanying me you will
associate yourself with many risks. Therefore--”

Duson held up his hand.

“I beg, sir,” he exclaimed, “that you will not suggest for a moment my
leaving your service on that account. I beg most humbly, sir, that you
will not do me that injustice.”

Mr. Sabin paused. His eyes, like lightning, read the other’s face.

“It is settled then, Duson,” he said. “Kindly pay this cabman, and
follow me as quickly as possible.”

Mr. Sabin passed across the marble hall, leaning heavily upon his stick.
Yet for all his slow movements there was a new alertness in his eyes and
bearing. He was once more taking keen note of everybody and everything
about him. Only a few days ago she had been here.

He claimed his rooms at the office, and handed the keys to Duson, who by
this time had rejoined him. At the moment of turning away he addressed
an inquiry to the clerk behind the counter.

“Can you tell me if the Duchess of Souspennier is staying here?” he
inquired.

The young man glanced up.

“Been here, I guess. Left on Tuesday.”

Mr. Sabin turned away. He did not speak again until Duson and he were
alone in the sitting-room. Then he drew out a five dollar bill.

“Duson,” he said, “take this to the head luggage porter. Tell him to
bring his departure book up here at once, and there is another waiting
for him. You understand?”

“Certainly, sir!”

Mr. Sabin turned to enter his bed-chamber. His attention was attracted,
however, by a letter lying flat upon the table. He took it up. It was
addressed to Mr. Sabin.

“This is very clever,” he mused, hesitating for a moment before opening
it. “I wired for rooms only a few hours ago--and I find a letter. It is
the commencement.”

He tore open the envelope, and drew out a single half-sheet of
note-paper. Across it was scrawled a single sentence only.

“Go back to Lenox.”

There was no signature, nor any date. The only noticeable thing about
this brief communication was that it was written in yellow pencil of a
peculiar shade. Mr. Sabin’s eyes glittered as he read.

“The yellow crayon!” he muttered.

Duson knocked softly at the door. Mr. Sabin thrust the letter and
envelope into his breast coat pocket.



CHAPTER II

“This is the luggage porter, sir,” Duson announced. “He is prepared to
answer any questions.”

The man took out his book. Mr. Sabin, who was sitting in an easy-chair,
turned sideways towards him.

“The Duchess of Souspennier was staying here last week,” he said. “She
left, I believe, on Thursday or Friday. Can you tell me whether her
baggage went through your hands?”

The man set down his hat upon a vacant chair, and turned over the leaves
of his book.

“Guess I can fix that for you,” he remarked, running his forefinger
down one of the pages. “Here we are. The Duchess left on Friday, and
we checked her baggage through to Lenox by the New York, New Haven &
Hartford.”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “She would probably take a carriage to the
station. It will be worth another ten dollars to you if you can find me
the man who drove her.”

“Well, we ought to manage that for you,” the man remarked encouragingly.
“It was one of Steve Hassell’s carriages, I guess, unless the lady took
a hansom.”

“Very good,” Mr. Sabin said. “See if you can find him. Keep my inquiries
entirely to yourself. It will pay you.”

“That’s all right,” the man remarked. “Don’t you go to bed for
half-an-hour, and I guess you’ll hear from me again.”

Duson busied himself in the bed-chamber, Mr. Sabin sat motionless in
his easy chair. Soon there came a tap at the door. The porter reappeared
ushering in a smart-looking young man, who carried a shiny coachman’s
hat in his hand.

“Struck it right fust time,” the porter remarked cheerfully. “This is
the man, sir.”

Mr. Sabin turned his head.

“You drove a lady from here to the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot
last Friday?” he asked.

“Well, not exactly, sir,” the man answered. “The Duchess took my cab,
and the first address she gave was the New York, New Haven &
Hartford Depot, but before we’d driven a hundred yards she pulled the
check-string and ordered me to go to the Waldorf. She paid me there, and
went into the hotel.”

“You have not seen her since?”

“No, sir!”

“You knew her by sight, you say. Was there anything special about her
appearance?”

The man hesitated.

“She’d a pretty thick veil on, sir, but she raised it to pay me, and I
should say she’d been crying. She was much paler, too, than last time I
drove her.”

“When was that?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“In the spring, sir,--with you, begging your pardon. You were at the
Netherlands, and I drove you out several times.”

“You seem,” Mr. Sabin said, “to be a person with some powers of
observation. It would pay you very well indeed if you would ascertain
from any of your mates at the Waldorf when and with whom the lady in
question left that hotel.”

“I’ll have a try, sir,” the man answered. “The Duchess was better known
here, but some of them may have recognised her.”

“She had no luggage, I presume?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Her dressing-case and jewel-case only, sir.”

“So you see,” Mr. Sabin continued, “it is probable that she did not
remain at the Waldorf for the night. Base your inquiries on that
supposition.”

“Very good, sir.”

“From your manners and speech,” Mr. Sabin said, raising his head, “I
should take you to be an Englishman.”

“Quite correct, sir,” the man answered. “I drove a hansom in London for
eight years.”

“You will understand me then,” Mr. Sabin continued, “when I say that I
have no great confidence in the police of this country. I do not wish
to be blackmailed or bullied. I would ask you, therefore, to make your
inquiries with discretion.”

“I’ll be careful, sir,” the man answered.

Mr. Sabin handed to each of them a roll of notes. The cabdriver lingered
upon the threshold. Mr. Sabin looked up.

“Well?”

“Could I speak a word to you--in private, sir?”

Mr. Sabin motioned Duson to leave the room. The baggage porter had
already departed.

“When I cleaned out my cab at night, sir, I found this. I didn’t reckon
it was of any consequence at first, but from the questions you have been
asking it may be useful to you.”

Mr. Sabin took the half-sheet of note-paper in silence. It was the
ordinary stationery of the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, and the following
words were written upon it in a faint delicate handwriting, but in
yellow pencil:--

                                                  “Sept.  10th.
  “To LUCILLE, Duchesse de SOUSPENNIER.--
  “You will be at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in the main corridor
   at four o’clock this afternoon.”

The thin paper shook in Mr. Sabin’s fingers. There was no signature,
but he fancied that the handwriting was not wholly unfamiliar to him. He
looked slowly up towards the cabman.

“I am much obliged to you,” he said. “This is of interest to me.”

He stretched out his hand to the little wad of notes which Duson had
left upon the table, but the cabdriver backed away.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “You’ve given me plenty. The letter’s of no
value to me. I came very near tearing it up, but for the peculiar colour
pencil it’s written with. Kinder took my fancy, sir.”

“The letter is of value,” Mr. Sabin said. “It tells me much more than I
hoped to discover. It is our good fortune.”

The man accepted the little roll of bills and departed. Mr. Sabin
touched the bell.

“Duson, what time is it?”

“Nearly midnight, sir!”

“I will go to bed!”

“Very good, sir!”

“Mix me a sleeping draught, Duson. I need rest. See that I am not
disturbed until ten o’clock to-morrow morning.”



CHAPTER III

At precisely ten o’clock on the following morning Duson brought
chocolate, which he had prepared himself, and some dry toast to his
master’s bedside. Upon the tray was a single letter. Mr. Sabin sat up in
bed and tore open the envelope. The following words were written upon
a sheet of the Holland House notepaper in the same peculiar coloured
crayon.

“The first warning addressed to you yesterday was a friendly one. Profit
by it. Go back to Lenox. You are only exposing yourself to danger and
the person you seek to discomfort. Wait there, and some one shall come
to you shortly who will explain what has happened, and the necessity for
it.”

Mr. Sabin smiled, a slow contemplative smile. He sipped his chocolate
and lit a cigarette.

“Our friends, then,” he said softly, “do not care about pursuit and
inquiries. It is ridiculous to suppose that their warning is given out
of any consideration to me. Duson!”

“Yes, sir!”

“My bath. I shall rise now.”

Mr. Sabin made his toilet with something of the same deliberation which
characterised all his movements. Then he descended into the hall, bought
a newspaper, and from a convenient easy-chair kept a close observation
upon every one who passed to and fro for about an hour. Later on he
ordered a carriage, and made several calls down town.

At a few minutes past twelve he entered the bar of the Fifth Avenue
Hotel, and ordering a drink sat down at one of the small tables. The
room was full, but Mr. Sabin’s attention was directed solely to one
group of men who stood a short distance away before the counter drinking
champagne. The central person of the group was a big man, with an
unusually large neck, a fat pale face, a brown moustache tinged with
grey, and a voice and laugh like a fog-horn. It was he apparently who
was paying for the champagne, and he was clearly on intimate terms with
all the party. Mr. Sabin watched for his opportunity, and then rising
from his seat touched him on the shoulder.

“Mr. Skinner, I believe?” he said quietly.

The big man looked down upon Mr. Sabin with the sullen offensiveness of
the professional bully.

“You’ve hit it first time,” he admitted. “Who are you, anyway?”

Mr. Sabin produced a card.

“I called this morning,” he said, “upon the gentleman whose name you
will see there. He directed me to you, and told me to come here.”

The man tore the card into small pieces.

“So long, boys,” he said, addressing his late companions. “See you
to-night.”

They accepted his departure in silence, and one and all favoured Mr.
Sabin with a stare of blatant curiosity.

“I should be glad to speak with you,” Mr. Sabin said, “in a place where
we are likely to be neither disturbed nor overheard.”

“You come right across to my office,” was the prompt reply. “I guess we
can fix it up there.”

Mr. Sabin motioned to his coachman, and they crossed Broadway. His
companion led him into a tall building, talking noisily all the time
about the pals whom he had just left. An elevator transported them to
the twelfth floor in little more than as many seconds, and Mr. Skinner
ushered his visitor into a somewhat bare-looking office, smelling
strongly of stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Skinner at once lit a cigar, and
seating himself before his desk, folded his arms and leaned over towards
Mr. Sabin.

“Smoke one?” he asked, pointing to the open box.

Mr. Sabin declined.

“Get right ahead then.”

“I am an Englishman,” Mr. Sabin said slowly, “and consequently am not
altogether at home with your ways over here. I have always understood,
however, that if you are in need of any special information such as we
should in England apply to the police for, over here there is a quicker
and more satisfactory method of procedure.”

“You’ve come a long way round,” Mr. Skinner remarked, spitting upon the
floor, “but you’re dead right.”

“I am in need of some information,” Mr. Sabin continued, “and
accordingly I called this morning on Mr.--”

Mr. Skinner held up his hand.

“All right,” he said. “We don’t mention names more than we can help.
Call him the boss.”

“He assured me that the information I was in need of was easily to be
obtained, and gave me a card to you.”

“Go right on,” Mr. Skinner said. “What is it?”

“On Friday last,” Mr. Sabin said, “at four o’clock, the Duchess of
Souspennier, whose picture I will presently show you, left the Holland
House Hotel for the New York, New Haven & Hartford Depot, presumably for
her home at Lenox, to which place her baggage had already been checked.
On the way she ordered the cabman to set her down at the Waldorf-Astoria
Hotel, which he did at a few minutes past four. The Duchess has not
returned home or been directly heard from since. I wish to ascertain her
movements since she arrived at the Waldorf.”

“Sounds dead easy,” Mr. Skinner remarked reassuringly. “Got the
picture?”

Mr. Sabin touched the spring of a small gold locket which he drew
from an inside waistcoat pocket, and disclosed a beautifully painted
miniature. Mr. Skinner’s thick lips were pursed into a whistle. He
was on the point of making a remark when he chanced to glance into Mr.
Sabin’s face. The remark remained unspoken.

He drew a sheet of note-paper towards him and made a few notes upon it.

“The Duchess many friends in New York?”

“At present none. The few people whom she knows here are at Newport or
in Europe just now.”

“Any idea whom she went to the Waldorf to see? More we know the better.”

Mr. Sabin handed him the letter which had been picked up in the cab. Mr.
Skinner read it through, and spat once more upon the floor.

“What the h---‘s this funny coloured pencil mean?”

“I do not know,” Mr. Sabin answered. “You will see that the two
anonymous communications which I have received since arriving in New
York yesterday are written in the same manner.”

Mr. Sabin handed him the other two letters, which Mr. Skinner carefully
perused.

“I guess you’d better tell me who you are,” he suggested.

“I am the husband of the Duchess of Souspennier,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“The Duchess send any word home at all?” Mr. Skinner asked.

Mr. Sabin produced a worn telegraph form. It was handed in at Fifth
Avenue, New York, at six o’clock on Friday. It contained the single word
‘Good-bye.’

“H’m,” Mr. Skinner remarked. “We’ll find all you want to know by
to-morrow sure.”

“What do you make of the two letters which I received?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Bunkum!” Mr. Skinner replied confidently.

Mr. Sabin nodded his head.

“You have no secret societies over here, I suppose?” he said.

Mr. Skinner laughed loudly and derisively.

“I guess not,” he answered. “They keep that sort of rubbish on the other
side of the pond.”

“Ah!”

Mr. Sabin was thoughtful for a moment. “You expect to find, then,” he
remarked, “some other cause for my wife’s disappearance?”

“There don’t seem much room for doubt concerning that, sir,” Mr. Skinner
said; “but I never speculate. I will bring you the facts to-night
between eight and eleven. Now as to the business side of it.”

Mr. Sabin was for a moment puzzled.

“What’s the job worth to you?” Mr. Skinner asked. “I am willing to pay,”
 Mr. Sabin answered, “according to your demands.”

“It’s a simple case,” Mr. Skinner admitted, “but our man at the Waldorf
is expensive. If you get all your facts, I guess five hundred dollars
will about see you through.”

“I will pay that,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“I will bring you the letters back to-night,” Mr. Skinner said. “I guess
I’ll borrow that locket of yours, too.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“That,” he said firmly, “I do not part with.” Mr. Skinner scratched his
ear with his penholder. “It’s the only scrap of identifying matter
we’ve got,” he remarked. “Of course it’s a dead simple case, and we can
probably manage without it. But I guess it’s as well to fix the thing
right down.”

“If you will give me a piece of paper,” Mr. Sabin said, “I will make you
a sketch of the Duchess. The larger the better. I can give you an idea
of the sort of clothes she would probably be wearing.”

Mr. Skinner furnished him with a double sheet of paper, and Mr. Sabin,
with set face and unflinching figures, reproduced in a few simple
strokes a wonderful likeness of the woman he loved. He pushed it away
from him when he had finished without remark. Mr. Skinner was loud in
its praises.

“I guess you’re an artist, sir, for sure,” he remarked. “This’ll fix the
thing. Shall I come to your hotel?”

“If you please,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I shall be there for the rest of
the day.”

Mr. Skinner took up his hat.

“Guess I’ll take my dinner and get right to work,” he remarked. “Say,
you come along, Mr. Sabin. I’ll take you where they’ll fix you such a
beefsteak as you never tasted in your life.”

“I thank you very much,” Mr. Sabin said, “but I must beg to be excused.
I am expecting some despatches at my hotel. If you are successful this
afternoon you will perhaps do me the honour of dining with me to-night.
I will wait until eight-thirty.”

The two men parted upon the pavement. Mr. Skinner, with his small bowler
hat on the back of his head, a fresh cigar in the corner of his mouth,
and his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, strolled along Broadway
with something akin to a smile parting his lips, and showing his yellow
teeth.

“Darned old fool,” he muttered. “To marry a slap-up handsome woman like
that, and then pretend not to know what it means when she bolts. Guess
I’ll spoil his supper to-night.”

Mr. Sabin, however, was recovering his spirits. He, too, was leaning
back in the corner of his carriage with a faint smile brightening his
hard, stern face. But, unlike Mr. Skinner, he did not talk to himself.



CHAPTER IV

R. Sabin, who was never, for its own sake, fond of solitude, had ordered
dinner for two at eight-thirty in the general dining-room. At a few
minutes previous to that hour Mr. Skinner presented himself.

Mr. Skinner was not in the garb usually affected by men of the world
who are invited to dine out. The long day’s exertion, too, had had its
effect upon his linen. His front, indeed, through a broad gap,
confessed to a foundation of blue, and one of his cuffs showed a marked
inclination to escape from his wrist over his knuckles. His face
was flushed, and he exhaled a strong odour of cigars and cocktails.
Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin was very glad to see him, and to receive the
folded sheet of paper which he at once produced.

“I have taken the liberty,” Mr. Sabin remarked, on his part, “of adding
a trifle to the amount we first spoke of, which I beg you will accept
from me as a mark of my gratitude for your promptness.”

“Sure!” Mr. Skinner answered tersely, receiving the little roll of
bills without hesitation, and retreating into a quiet corner, where
he carefully counted and examined every one. “That’s all right!” he
announced at the conclusion of his task. “Come and have one with me now
before you read your little billet-doux, eh?”

“I shall not read your report until after dinner,” Mr. Sabin said,
“and I think if you are ready that we might as well go in. At the
head-waiter’s suggestion I have ordered a cocktail with the oysters,
and if we are much later he seemed to fear that it might affect the
condition of the--I think it was terrapin, he said.”

Mr. Skinner stopped short. His tone betrayed emotion.

“Did you say terrapin, sir?”

Mr. Sabin nodded. Mr. Skinner at once took his arm.

“Guess we’ll go right in,” he declared. “I hate to have a good meal
spoiled.”

They were an old-looking couple. Mr. Sabin quietly but faultlessly
attired in the usual evening dinner garb, Mr. Skinner ill-dressed,
untidy, unwashed and frowsy. But here at least Mr. Sabin’s incognito
had been unavailing, for he had stayed at the hotel several times--as he
remembered with an odd little pang--with Lucille, and the head-waiter,
with a low bow, ushered them to their table. Mr. Skinner saw the
preparations for their repast, the oysters, the cocktails in tall
glasses, the magnum of champagne in ice, and chuckled. To take supper
with a duke was a novelty to him, but he was not shy. He sat down and
tucked his serviette into his waistcoat, raised his glass, and suddenly
set it down again.

“The boss!” he exclaimed in amazement.

Mr. Sabin turned his head in the direction which his companion had
indicated. Coming hastily across the room towards them, already out of
breath as though with much hurrying, was a thick-set, powerful man, with
the brutal face and coarse lips of a prizefighter; a beard cropped so
short as to seem the growth of a few days only covered his chin, and his
moustache, treated in the same way, was not thick enough to conceal
a cruel mouth. He was carefully enough dressed, and a great diamond
flashed from his tie. There was a red mark round his forehead where his
hat had been, and the perspiration was streaming from his forehead. He
strode without hesitation to the table where Mr. Sabin and his guest
were sitting, and without even a glance at the former turned upon his
myrmidon.

“Where’s that report?” he cried roughly. “Where is it?”

Mr. Skinner seemed to have shrunk into a smaller man. He pointed across
the table.

“I’ve given it to him,” he said. “What’s wrong, boss?”

The newcomer raised his hand as though to strike Skinner. He gnashed his
teeth with the effort to control himself.

“You damned blithering idiot,” he said hoarsely, gripping the side of
the table. “Why wasn’t it presented to me first?”

“Guess it didn’t seem worth while,” Skinner answered. “There’s nothing
in the darned thing.”

“You ignorant fool, hold your tongue,” was the fierce reply.

The newcomer sank into a chair and wiped the perspiration from his
streaming forehead. Mr. Sabin signaled to a waiter.

“You seem upset, Mr. Horser,” he remarked politely. “Allow me to offer
you a glass of wine.”

Mr. Horser did not immediately reply, but he accepted the glass which
the waiter brought him, and after a moment’s hesitation drained its
contents. Then he turned to Mr. Sabin.

“You said nothing about those letters you had had when you came to see
me this morning!”

“It was you yourself,” Mr. Sabin reminded him, “who begged me not
to enter into particulars. You sent me on to Mr. Skinner. I told him
everything.”

Mr. Horser leaned over the table. His eyes were bloodshot, his tone was
fierce and threatening. Mr. Sabin was coldly courteous. The difference
between the demeanour of the two men was remarkable.

“You knew what those letters meant! This is a plot! Where is Skinner’s
report?”

Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows. He signaled to the head-waiter.

“Be so good as to continue the service of my dinner,” he ordered. “The
champagne is a trifle too chilled. You can take it out of the cooler.”

The man bowed, with a curious side glance at Horser.

“Certainly, your Grace!”

Horser was almost speechless with anger.

“Are you going to answer my questions?” he demanded thickly.

“I have no particular objection to doing so,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but
until you can sit up and compose yourself like an ordinary individual, I
decline to enter into any conversation with you at all.”

Again Mr. Horser raised his voice, and the glare in his eyes was like
the glare of a wild beast.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Mr. Sabin looked at him coolly, and fingered his wineglass.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve a shocking memory for names, but yours is--Mr.
Horser, isn’t it? I heard it for the first time this morning, and my
memory will generally carry me through four-and-twenty hours.”

There was a moment’s silence. Horser was no fool. He accepted his defeat
and dropped the bully.

“You’re a stranger in this city, Mr. Sabin, and I guess you aren’t
altogether acquainted with our ways yet,” he said. “But I want you
to understand this. The report which is in your pocket has got to be
returned to me. If I’d known what I was meddling with I wouldn’t have
touched your business for a hundred thousand dollars. It’s got to be
returned to me, I say!” he repeated in a more threatening tone.

Mr. Sabin helped himself to fish, and made a careful examination of the
sauce.

“After all,” he said meditatively, “I am not sure that I was wise in
insisting upon a sauce piquante. I beg your pardon, Mr. Horser. Please
do not think me inattentive, but I am very hungry. So, I believe, is my
friend, Mr. Skinner. Will you not join us--or perhaps you have already
dined?”

There was an ugly flush in Mr. Horser’s cheeks, but he struggled to keep
his composure.

“Will you give me back that report?”

“When I have read it, with pleasure,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Before, no.”

Mr. Horser swallowed an exceedingly vicious oath. He struck the table
lightly with his forefinger.

“Look here,” he said. “If you’d lived in New York a couple of years,
even a couple of months, you wouldn’t talk like that. I tell you that
I hold the government of this city in my right hand. I don’t want to be
unpleasant, but if that paper is not in my hands by the time you leave
this table I shall have you arrested as you leave this room, and the
papers taken from you.”

“Dear me,” Mr. Sabin said, “this is serious. On what charge may I ask
should I be exposed to this inconvenience?”

“Charge be damned!” Mr. Horser answered. “The police don’t want
particulars from me. When I say do a thing they do it. They know that if
they declined it would be their last day on the force.”

Mr. Sabin filled his glass and leaned back in his chair.

“This,” he remarked, “is interesting. I am always glad to have the
opportunity of gaining an insight into the customs of different
countries. I had an idea that America was a country remarkable for the
amount of liberty enjoyed by its inhabitants. Your proposed course of
action seems scarcely in keeping with this.”

“What are you going to do? Come, I’ve got to have an answer.”

“I don’t quite understand,” Mr. Sabin remarked, with a puzzled look,
“what your official position is in connection with the police.”

Mr. Horser’s face was a very ugly sight. “Oh, curse my official
position,” he exclaimed thickly. “If you want proof of what I say you
shall have it in less than five minutes. Skinner, be off and fetch a
couple of constables.”

“I really must protest,” Mr. Sabin said. “Mr. Skinner is my guest, and
I will not have him treated in this fashion, just as the terrapin is
coming in, too. Sit down, Mr. Skinner, sit down. I will settle this
matter with you in my room, Mr. Horser, after I have dined. I will not
even discuss it before.”

Mr. Horser opened his mouth twice, and closed it again. He knew that his
opponent was simply playing to gain time, but, after all, he held the
trump card. He could afford to wait. He turned to a waiter and ordered a
cigar. Mr. Sabin and Mr. Skinner continued their dinner.

Conversation was a little difficult, though Mr. Sabin showed no signs of
an impaired appetite. Skinner was white with fear, and glanced every now
and then nervously at his chief. Mr. Horser smoked without ceasing, and
maintained an ominous silence. Mr. Sabin at last, with a sigh, rose,
and lighting a cigarette, took his stick from the waiter and prepared to
leave.

“I fear, Mr. Horser,” he remarked, “that your presence has scarcely
contributed to the cheerfulness of our repast. Mr. Skinner, am I to be
favoured with your company also upstairs?”

Horser clutched that gentleman’s arm and whispered a few words in his
ear.

“Mr. Skinner,” he said, “will join us presently. What is your number?”

“336,” Mr. Sabin answered. “You will excuse my somewhat slow progress.”

They crossed the hall and entered the elevator. Mr. Horser’s face
began to clear. In a moment or two they would be in Mr. Sabin’s
sitting-room-alone. He regarded with satisfaction the other’s slim,
delicate figure and the limp with which he moved. He felt that the
danger was already over.



CHAPTER V

BUT, after all, things did not exactly turn out as Mr. Horser had
imagined. The sight of the empty room and the closed door were
satisfactory enough, and he did not hesitate for a moment.

“Look here, sir,” he said, “you and I are going to settle this matter
quick. Whatever you paid Skinner you can have back again. But I’m going
to have that report.”

He took a quick step forward with uplifted hand--and looked into the
shining muzzle of a tiny revolver. Behind it Mr. Sabin’s face, no longer
pleasant and courteous, had taken to itself some very grim lines.

“I am a weak man, Mr. Horser, but I am never without the means of
self-defence,” Mr. Sabin said in a still, cold tone. “Be so good as to
sit down in that easy-chair.”

Mr. Horser hesitated. For one moment he stood as though about to carry
out his first intention. He stood glaring at his opponent, his face
contracted into a snarl, his whole appearance hideous, almost bestial.
Mr. Sabin smiled upon him contemptuously--the maddening, compelling
smile of the born aristocrat.

“Sit down!”

Mr. Horser sat down, whereupon Mr. Sabin followed suit.

“Now what have you to say to me?” Mr. Sabin asked quietly.

“I want that report,” was the dogged answer.

“You will not have it,” Mr. Sabin answered. “You can take that for
granted. You shall not take it from me by force, and I will see that you
do not charm it out of my pocket by other means. The information which
it contains is of the utmost possible importance to me. I have bought it
and paid for it, and I shall use it.”

Mr. Horser moistened his dry lips.

“I will give you,” he said, “twenty thousand dollars for its return.”

Mr. Sabin laughed softly.

“You bid high,” he said. “I begin to suspect that our friends on the
other side of the water have been more than ordinarily kind to you.”

“I will give you--forty thousand dollars.”

Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows.

“So much? After all, that sounds more like fear than anything. You
cannot hope to make a profitable deal out of that. Dear me! It seems
only a few minutes ago that I heard your interesting friend, Mr.
Skinner, shake with laughter at the mention of such a thing as a secret
society.”

“Skinner is a blasted fool,” Horser exclaimed fiercely. “Listen here,
Mr. Sabin. You can read that report if you must, but, as I’m a living
man you’ll not stir from New York if you do. I’ll make your life a hell
for you. Don’t you understand that no one but a born fool would dare
to quarrel with me in this city? I hold the prison keys, the police
are mine. I shall make my own charge, whatever I choose, and they shall
prove it for me.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“This sounds very shocking,” he remarked. “I had no idea that the
largest city of the most enlightened country in the world was in such a
sorry plight.”

“Oh, curse your sarcasm,” Mr. Horser said. “I’m talking facts, and
you’ve got to know them. Will you give up that report? You can find out
all there is in it for yourself. But I’m going to give it you straight.
If I don’t have that report back unread, you’ll never leave New York.”

Mr. Sabin was genuinely amused.

“My good fellow,” he said, “you have made yourself a notorious person in
this country by dint of incessant bullying and bribing and corruption of
every sort. You may possess all the powers you claim. Your only
mistake seems to be that you are too thick-headed to know when you are
overmatched. I have been a diplomatist all my life,” Mr. Sabin said,
rising slowly to his feet, and with a sudden intent look upon his face,
“and if I were to be outwitted by such a novice as you I should deserve
to end my days--in New York.”

Mr. Horser rose also to his feet. A smile of triumph was on his lips.

“Well,” he said, “we-- Come in! Come in!” The door was thrown open.
Skinner and two policemen entered. Mr. Sabin leaned towards the wall,
and in a second the room was plunged in darkness.

“Turn on the lights!” Skinner shouted. “Seize him! He’s in that
corner. Use your clubs!” Horser bawled. “Stand by the door one of you.
Damnation, where is that switch?”

He found it with a shout of triumph. Lights flared out in the room. They
stared around into every corner. Mr. Sabin was not there. Then Horser
saw the door leading into the bed-chamber, and flung himself against it
with a hoarse cry of rage.

“Break it open!” he cried to the policemen.

They hammered upon it with their clubs. Mr. Sabin’s quiet voice came to
them from the other side.

“Pray do not disturb me, gentlemen,” he said. “I am reading.”

“Break it open, you damned fools!” Horser cried. They battered at it
sturdily, but the door was a solid one. Suddenly they heard the key turn
in the lock. Mr. Sabin stood upon the threshold.

“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “These are my private apartments. Why this
violence?”

He held out the paper.

“This is mine,” he said. “The information which it contains is bought
and paid for. But if the giving it up will procure me the privilege of
your departure, pray take it.”

Horser was purple with rage. He pointed with shaking fist to the still,
calm figure.

“Arrest him,” he ordered. “Take him to the cells.”

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.

“I am ready,” he said, “but it is only fair to give you this warning. I
am the Duke of Souspennier, and I am well known in England and France.
The paper which you saw me hand to the porter in the hall as we stepped
into the elevator was a despatch in cipher to the English Ambassador at
Washington, claiming his protection. If you take me to prison to-night
you will have him to deal with to-morrow.”

Mr. Horser bore himself in defeat better than at any time during the
encounter. He turned to the constables.

“Go down stairs and wait for me in the hall,” he ordered. “You too,
Skinner.”

They left the room. Horser turned to Mr. Sabin, and the veins on his
forehead stood out like whipcord.

“I know when I’m beaten,” he said. “Keep your report, and be damned to
you. But remember that you and I have a score to settle, and you can ask
those who know me how often Dick Horser comes out underneath in the long
run.”

He followed the others. Mr. Sabin sat down in his easy-chair with
a quiet smile upon his lips. Once more he glanced through the brief
report. Then his eyes half closed, and he sat quite still--a tired,
weary-looking man, almost unnaturally pale.

“They have kept their word,” he said softly to himself, “after many
years. After many years!”

      *           *           *           *           *

Duson came in to undress him shortly afterwards. He saw signs of the
struggle, but made no comment. Mr. Sabin, after a moment’s hesitation,
took a phial from his pocket and poured a few drops into a wineglassful
of water.

“Duson,” he said, “bring me some despatch forms and a pencil.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Sabin wrote for several moments. Then he placed the forms in an
envelope, sealed it, and handed it to Duson.

“Duson,” he said, “that fellow Horser is annoyed with me. If I should
be arrested on any charge, or should fail to return to the hotel within
reasonable time, break that seal and send off the telegrams.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Sabin yawned.

“I need sleep,” he said. “Do not call me to-morrow morning until I ring.
And, Duson!”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Campania will sail from New York somewhere about the tenth of
October. I wish to secure the whole of stateroom number twenty-eight. Go
round to the office as soon as they open, secure that room if possible,
and pay a deposit. No other will do. Also one for yourself.”

“Very good, sir.”



CHAPTER VI

“Here’s a lady inquiring for you, sir--just gone up to your room in the
elevator,” the hotel clerk remarked to Mr. Sabin as he paused on his way
to the door to hand in his key. “Shall I send a boy up?”

Mr. Sabin hesitated.

“A lady?” he remarked tentatively.

The hotel clerk nodded.

“Yes. I didn’t notice the name, but she was an Englishwoman. I’ll send
up.”

“Thank you, I will return,” Mr. Sabin said. “If I should miss her on the
way perhaps you will kindly redirect her to my rooms.”

He rang for the elevator, and was swiftly transported to his own floor.
The door of his sitting-room was open. Duson was talking to a tall fair
woman, who turned swiftly round at the sound of his approach.

“Ah, they found you, then!” she exclaimed, coming towards him with
outstretched hands. “Isn’t this a strange place and a strange country
for us to meet once more in?”

He greeted her gallantly, but with a certain reserve, of which she was
at once aware.

“Are there any countries in the world left which are strange to so great
a traveler as Lady Muriel Carey?” he said. “The papers here have been
full of your wonderful adventures in South Africa.”

She laughed.

“Everything shockingly exaggerated, of course,” she declared. “I have
really been plagued to death since I got here with interviewers, and
that sort of person. I wonder if you know how glad I am to see you
again?”

“You are very kind, indeed,” he said. “Certainly there was no one whom
I expected less to see over here. You have come for the yacht races, I
suppose?”

She looked at him with a faint smile and raised eyebrows.

“Come,” she said, “shall we lie to one another? Is it worth while?
Candour is so much more original.”

“Candour by all means then, I beg,” he answered.

“I have come over with the Dalkeiths, ostensibly to see the yacht races.
Really I have come to see you.”

Mr. Sabin bowed.

“I am delightfully flattered,” he murmured.

“I don’t exactly mean for the pleasure of gazing into your face once
more,” she continued. “I have a mission!”

Mr. Sabin looked up quickly.

“Great heavens! You, too!” he exclaimed.

She nodded.

“Why not?” she asked coolly. “I have been in it for years, you know,
and when I got back from South Africa everything seemed so terribly slow
that I begged for some work to do.”

“And they sent you here--to me?”

“Yes,” she answered, “and I was here also a few weeks ago, but you must
not ask me anything about that.”

Mr. Sabin’s eyebrows contracted, his face darkened. She shrank a little
away from him.

“So it is you who have robbed me of her, then,” he said slowly. “Yes,
the description fits you well enough. I ask you, Lady Carey, to remember
the last time when chance brought you and me together. Have I deserved
this from you?”

She made a little gesture of impotence.

“Do be reasonable!” she begged. “What choice had I?”

He looked at her steadfastly.

“The folly of women--of clever women such as you,” he said, “is
absolutely amazing. You have deliberately made a slave of yourself--”

“One must have distraction,” she murmured.

“Distraction! And so you play at this sort of thing. Is it worth while?”

Her eyes for a moment clouded over with weariness.

“When one has filled the cup of life to the brim for many years,” she
said, “what remains that is worth while?”

He bowed.

“You are a young woman,” he said. “You should not yet have learned to
speak with such bitterness. As for me--well, I am old indeed. In youth
and age the affections claim us. I am approaching my second childhood.”

She laughed derisively, yet not unkindly. “What folly!” she exclaimed.

“You are right,” he admitted. “I suppose it is the fault of old
associations.”

“In a few minutes,” she said, smiling at him, “we should have become
sentimental.”

“I,” he admitted, “was floundering already.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“You talk as though sentiment were a bog.”

“There have been worse similes,” he declared.

“How horrid! And do you know, sir, for all your indignation you have not
yet even inquired after your wife’s health.”

“I trust,” he said, “that she is well.”

“She is in excellent health.”

“Your second visit to this country,” he remarked, “follows very swiftly
upon your first.”

She nodded.

“I am here,” she said, “on your account.”

“You excite my interest,” he declared. “May I know your mission?”

“I have to remind you of your pledge,” she said, “to assure you of
Lucille’s welfare, and to prevent your leaving the country.”

“Marvelous!” he exclaimed, with a slight mocking smile. “And may I ask
what means you intend to employ to keep me here?”

“Well,” she said, “I have large discretionary powers. We have a very
strong branch over on this side, but I would very much rather induce you
to stay here without applying to them.”

“And the inducements?” he asked.

She took a cigarette from a box which stood on the table and lit one.

“Well,” she said, “I might appeal to your hospitality, might I not? I am
in a strange country which you have made your home. I want to be shown
round. Do you remember dining with me one night at the Ambassador’s? It
was very hot, even for Paris, and we drove afterwards in the Bois. Ask
me to dine with you here, won’t you? I have never quite forgotten the
last time.”

Mr. Sabin laughed softly, but with undisguised mirth.

“Come,” he said, “this is an excellent start. You are to play the Circe
up to date, and I am to be beguiled. How ought I to answer you? I do
remember the Ambassador’s, and I do remember driving down the Bois in
your victoria, and holding--I believe I am right--your hand. You have no
right to disturb those charming memories by attempting to turn them into
bathos.”

She blew out a little cloud of tobacco smoke, and watched it
thoughtfully.

“Ah!” she remarked. “I wonder who is better at that, you or I? I may not
be exactly a sentimental person, but you--you are a flint.”

“On the contrary,” Mr. Sabin assured her earnestly, “I am very much in
love with my wife.”

“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “You carry originality to quixoticism. I have
met several men before in my life whom I have suspected of such a thing,
but I never heard any one confess it. This little domestic contretemps
is then, I presume, disagreeable to you!”

“To the last degree,” Mr. Sabin asserted. “So much so that I leave for
England by the Campania.”

She shook her head slowly.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why not?”

Lady Carey threw away the end of her cigarette, and looked for a moment
thoughtfully at her long white fingers glittering with rings. Then she
began to draw on her gloves.

“Well, in the first place,” she said, “Lucille will have no time
to spare for you. You will be de trop in decidedly an uncomfortable
position. You wouldn’t find London at all a good place to live in just
now, even if you ever got there--which I am inclined to doubt. And
secondly, here am I--”

“Circe!” he murmured.

“Waiting to be entertained, in a strange country, almost friendless.
I want to be shown everything, taken everywhere. And I am dying to see
your home at Lenox. I do not think your attitude towards me in the least
hospitable.”

“Come, you are judging me very quickly,” he declared. “What
opportunities have I had?”

“What opportunities can there be if you sail by the Campania?”

“You might dine with me to-night at least.”

“Impossible! The Dalkeiths have a party to meet me. Come too, won’t you?
They love dukes--even French ones.”

He shook his head.

“There is no attraction for me in a large party,” he answered. “I am
getting to an age when to make conversation in return for a dinner seems
scarcely a fair exchange.”

“From your host’s point of view, or yours?”

“From both! Besides, one’s digestion suffers.”

“You are certainly getting old,” she declared. “Come, I must go. You
haven’t been a bit nice to me. When shall I see you again?”

“It is,” he answered, “for you to say.”

She looked at him for a moment thoughtfully.

“Supposing,” she said, “that I cried off the yacht race to-day. Would
you take me out to lunch?”

He smiled.

“My dear lady,” he said, “it is for Circe to command--and for me to
obey.”

“And you’ll come and have tea with me afterwards at the Waldorf?”

“That,” Mr. Sabin declared, “will add still further to my happiness.”

“Will you call for me, then--and where shall we have lunch, and at
what time? I must go and develop a headache at once, or that tiresome
Dalkeith boy will be pounding at my door.”

“I will call for you at the Waldorf at half-past one,” Mr. Sabin said.
“Unless you have any choice, I will take you to a little place downtown
where we can imagine ourselves back on the Continent, and where we shall
be spared the horror of green corn.”

“Delightful,” she murmured, buttoning her glove. “Then you shall take
me for a drive to Fifth Avenue, or to see somebody’s tomb, and my woman
shall make some real Russian tea for us in my sitting-room. Really, I
think I’m doing very well for the first day. Is the spell beginning to
work?”

“Hideously,” he assured her. “I feel already that the only thing I dread
in life are these two hours before luncheon.”

She nodded.

“That is quite as it should be. Don’t trouble to come down with me. I
believe that Dalkeith pere is hanging round somewhere, and in view of my
headache perhaps you had better remain in the background for the moment.
At one-thirty, then!”

Mr. Sabin smiled as she passed out of the room, and lit a cigarette.

“I think,” he said to himself, “that the arrival of Felix is opportune.”



CHAPTER VII

They sat together at a small table, looking upon a scene which was
probably unique in the history of the great restaurant. The younger man
was both frankly interested and undoubtedly curious. Mr. Sabin, though
his eyes seemed everywhere, retained to the full extent that nonchalance
of manner which all his life he had so assiduously cultivated.

“It is wonderful, my dear Felix,” he said, leisurely drawing his
cigarette-case from his pocket, “wonderful what good fellowship can
be evolved by a kindred interest in sport, and a bottle or so of good
champagne. But, after all, this is not to be taken seriously.”

“Shamrock the fourth! Shamrock the fourth!”

A tall young American, his thick head of hair, which had once been
carefully parted in the middle, a little disheveled, his hard, clean-cut
face flushed with enthusiasm, had risen to his feet and stood with a
brimming glass of champagne high over his head. Almost every one in the
room rose to their feet. A college boy sprang upon a table with extended
arms. The Yale shout split the room. The very glasses on the table
rattled.

“Columbia! Columbia!”

It was an Englishman now who had leaped upon a vacant table with
upraised glass. There was an answering roar of enthusiasm. Every one
drank, and every one sat down again with a pleasant thrill of excitement
at this unique scene. Felix leaned back in his chair and marveled.

“One would have imagined,” he murmured, “that America and England
together were at war with the rest of the world and had won a great
victory. To think that this is all the result of a yacht race. It is
incredible!”

“All your life, my dear Felix,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “you have underrated
the sporting instinct. It has a great place amongst the impulses of the
world. See how it has brought these people together.”

“But they are already of the same kin,” Felix remarked. “Their interests
and aims are alike. Their destinies are surely identical.”

Mr. Sabin, who had lit his cigarette, watched the blue smoke curl
upwards, and was thoughtful for a moment.

“My dear Felix!” he said. “You are very, very young. The interests of
two great nations such as America and England can never be alike. It is
the language of diplomacy, but it is also the language of fools.”

Their conversation was for the moment interrupted by a fresh murmur of
applause, rising above the loved hum of conversation, the laughter of
women, and the popping of corks. A little troop of waiters had just
wheeled into the room two magnificent models of yachts hewn out of
blocks of solid ice and crowned with flowers. On the one were the Stars
and Stripes, on the other the Shamrock and Thistle. There was much
clapping of hands and cheering. Lady Carey, who was sitting at the next
table with her back to them, joined in the applause so heartily that
a tiny gold pencil attached to her bracelet became detached and rolled
unobserved to Mr. Sabin’s side. Felix half rose to pick it up, but was
suddenly checked by a quick gesture from his companion.

“Leave it,” Mr. Sabin whispered. “I wish to return it myself.”

He stooped and picked it up, a certain stealthiness apparent in his
movement. Felix watched him in amazement.

“It is Lady Carey’s, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes. Be silent. I will give it back to her presently.”

A waiter served them with coffee. Mr. Sabin was idly sketching something
on the back of his menu card. Felix broke into a little laugh as the man
retired.

“Mysterious as ever,” he remarked.

Mr. Sabin smiled quietly. He went on with his sketch.

“I do not want,” Felix said, “to seem impatient, but you must remember
that I have come all the way from Europe in response to a very urgent
message. As yet I have done nothing except form a very uncomfortable
third at a luncheon and tea party, and listen to a good deal of
enigmatic conversation between you and the charming Lady Carey. This
evening I made sure that I should be enlightened. But no! You have given
me a wonderful dinner--from you I expected it. We have eaten terrapin,
canvas-back duck, and many other things the names of which alone were
known to me. But of the reason for which you have summoned me here--I
know nothing. Not one word have you spoken. I am beginning to fear from
your avoidance of the subject that there is some trouble between you and
Lucille. I beg that you will set my anxiety at rest.”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“It is reasonable,” he said. “Look here!”

He turned the menu card round. On the back he had sketched some sort of
a device with the pencil which he had picked up, and which instead of
black-lead contained a peculiar shade of yellow crayon. Felix sat as
though turned to stone.

“Try,” Mr. Sabin said smoothly, “and avoid that air of tragedy. Some of
these good people might be curious.”

Felix leaned across the table. He pointed to the menu card.

“What does that mean?” he muttered.

Mr. Sabin contemplated it himself thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I
rather thought that you might be able to explain that to me. I have
an idea that there is a society in Europe--sort of aristocratic
odd-fellows, you know--who had adopted it for their crest. Am I not
right?”

Felix looked at him steadfastly.

“Tell me two things,” he said. “First, why you sent for me, and
secondly, what do you mean--by that?”

“Lucille,” Mr. Sabin said, “has been taken away from me.”

“Lucille! Great God!”

“She has been taken away from me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without a single
word of warning.”

Felix pointed to the menu card.

“By them?” he asked.

“By them. It was a month ago. Two days before my cable.”

Felix was silent for several moments. He had not the self-command of his
companion, and he feared to trust himself to speech.

“She has been taken to Europe,” Mr. Sabin continued. “I do not know, I
cannot even guess at the reason. She left no word. I have been warned
not to follow her.”

“You obey?”

“I sail to-morrow.”

“And I?” Felix asked.

Mr. Sabin looked for, a moment at the drawing on the back of the menu
card, and up at Felix. Felix shook his head.

“You must know,” he said, “that I am powerless.”

“You may be able to help me,” Mr. Sabin said, “without compromising
yourself.”

“Impossible!” Felix declared. “But what did they want with Lucille?”

“That,” Mr. Sabin said, “is what I am desirous of knowing. It is what I
trust that you, my dear Felix, may assist me to discover.”

“You are determined, then, to follow her?”

Mr. Sabin helped himself to a liqueur from the bottle by his side.

“My dear Felix,” he said reproachfully, “you should know me better than
to ask me such a question.”

Felix moved uneasily in his chair.

“Of course,” he said, “it depends upon how much they want to keep you
apart. But you know that you are running great risks?”

“Why, no,” Mr. Sabin said. “I scarcely thought that. I have understood
that the society was by no means in its former flourishing condition.”

Felix laughed scornfully.

“They have never been,” he answered, “richer or more powerful. During
the last twelve months they have been active in every part of Europe.”

Mr. Sabin’s face hardened.

“Very well!” he said. “We will try their strength.”

“We!” Felix laughed shortly. “You forget that my hands are tied. I
cannot help you or Lucille. You must know that.”

“You cannot interfere directly,” Mr. Sabin admitted. “Yet you are
Lucille’s brother, and I am forced to appeal to you. If you will be my
companion for a little while I think I can show you how you can help
Lucille at any rate, and yet run no risk.”

The little party at the next table were breaking up at last. Lady Carey,
pale and bored, with tired, swollen eyes--they were always a little
prominent--rose languidly and began to gather together her belongings.
As she did so she looked over the back of her chair and met Mr. Sabin’s
eyes. He rose at once and bowed. She cast a quick sidelong glance at her
companions, which he at once understood.

“I have the honour, Lady Carey,” he said, “of recalling myself to your
recollection. We met in Paris and London not so very many years ago. You
perhaps remember the cardinal’s dinner?”

A slight smile flickered upon her lips. The man’s adroitness always
excited her admiration.

“I remember it perfectly, and you, Duke,” she answered. “Have you made
your home on this side of the water?”

Mr. Sabin shook his head slowly.

“Home!” he repeated. “Ah, I was always a bird of passage, you remember.
Yet I have spent three very delightful years in this country.”

“And I,” she said, lowering her tone and leaning towards him, “one very
stupid, idiotic day.”

Mr. Sabin assumed the look of a man who denies any personal
responsibility in an unfortunate happening.

“It was regrettable,” he murmured, “but I assure you that it was
unavoidable. Lucille’s brother must have a certain claim upon me, and it
was his first day in America.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she turned abruptly towards the door.
Her friends were already on the way.

“Come with me,” she said. “I want to speak to you.”

He followed her out into the lobby. Felix came a few paces behind. The
restaurant was still full of people, the hum of conversation almost
drowning the music. Every one glanced curiously at Lady Carey, who was a
famous woman. She carried herself with a certain insolent indifference,
the national deportment of her sex and rank. The women whispered
together that she was “very English.”

In the lobby she turned suddenly upon Mr. Sabin.

“Will you take me back to my hotel?” she asked pointedly.

“I regret that I cannot,” he answered. “I have promised to show Felix
some of the wonders of New York by night.”

“You can take him to-morrow.”

“To-morrow,” Mr. Sabin said, “he leaves for the West.”

She looked closely into his impassive face.

“I suppose that you are lying,” she said shortly.

“Your candour,” he answered coldly, “sometimes approaches brutality.”

She leaned towards him, her face suddenly softened.

“We are playing a foolish game with one another,” she murmured. “I offer
you an alliance, my friendship, perhaps my help.”

“What can I do,” he answered gravely, “save be grateful--and accept?”

“Then--”

She stopped short. It was Mr. Sabin’s luck which had intervened. Herbert
Daikeith stood at her elbow.

“Lady Carey,” he said, “they’re all gone but the mater and I. Forgive my
interrupting you,” he added hastily.

“You can go on, Herbert,” she added. “The Duc de Souspennier will bring
me.”

Mr. Sabin, who had no intention of doing anything of the sort, turned
towards the young man with a smile.

“Lady Carey has not introduced us,” he said, “but I have seen you at
Ranelagh quite often. If you are still keen on polo you should have a
try over here. I fancy you would find that these American youngsters can
hold their own. All right, Felix, I am ready now. Lady Carey, I shall do
myself the honour of waiting upon you early to-morrow morning, as I have
a little excursion to propose. Good-night.”

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly as she turned away. Mr.
Sabin smiled--faintly amused. He turned to Felix.

“Come,” he said, “we have no time to lose.”



CHAPTER VIII

“I regret,” Mr. Sabin said to Felix as they sat side by side in the
small coupe, “that your stay in this country will be so brief.”

“Indeed,” Felix answered. “May I ask what you call brief?”

Mr. Sabin looked out of the carriage window.

“We are already,” he said, “on the way to England.”

Felix laughed.

“This,” he said, “is like old times.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“The system of espionage here,” he remarked, “is painfully primitive. It
lacks finesse and judgment. The fact that I have taken expensive rooms
on the Campania, and that I have sent many packages there, that my
own belongings are still in my rooms untouched, seems to our friends
conclusive evidence that I am going to attempt to leave America by that
boat. They have, I believe, a warrant for my arrest on some ridiculous
charge which they intend to present at the last moment. They will not
have the opportunity.”

“But there is no other steamer sailing to-morrow, is there?” Felix
asked.

“Not from New York,” Mr. Sabin answered, “but it was never my intention
to sail from New York. We are on our way to Boston now, and we sail in
the Saxonia at six o’clock to-morrow morning.”

“We appear to be stopping at the Waldorf,” Felix remarked.

“It is quite correct,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Follow me through the hall
as quickly as possible. There is another carriage waiting at the other
entrance, and I expect to find in it Duson and my dressing-case.”

They alighted and made their way though the crowded vestibules. At
the Thirty-fourth Street entrance a carriage was drawn up. Duson was
standing upon the pavement, his pale, nervous face whiter than ever
under the electric light. Mr. Sabin stopped short.

“Felix,” he said, “one word. If by any chance things have gone wrong
they will not have made any arrangements to detain you. Catch the
midnight train to Boston and embark on the Saxonia. There will be
a cable for you at Liverpool. But the moment you leave me send this
despatch.”

Felix nodded and put the crumpled-up piece of paper in his pocket.
The two men passed on. Duson took off his hat, but his fingers were
trembling. The carriage door was opened and a tall, spare man descended.

“This is Mr. Sabin?” he remarked.

Mr. Sabin bowed.

“That is my name,” he admitted, “by which I have been generally called
in this democratic country. What is your business with me?”

“I rather guess that you’re my prisoner,” the man answered. “If you’ll
step right in here we can get away quietly.”

“The suggestion,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “sounds inviting, but I am
somewhat pressed for time. Might I inquire the nature of the charge you
have against me?”

“They’ll tell you that at the office,” the man answered. “Get in,
please.”

Mr. Sabin looked around for Felix, but he had disappeared. He took out
his cigarette-case.

“You will permit me first to light a cigarette,” he remarked.

“All right! Only look sharp.”

Mr. Sabin kept silence in the carriage. The drive was a long one. When
they descended he looked up at Duson, who sat upon the box.

“Duson,” he said, and his voice, though low, was terrible, “I see that I
can be mistaken in men. You are a villain.”

The man sprung to his feet, hat in hand. His face was wrung with
emotion.

“Your Grace,” he said, “it is true that I betrayed you. But I did it
without reward. I am a ruined man. I did it because the orders which
came to me were such as I dare not disobey. Here are your keys, your
Grace, and money.”

Mr. Sabin looked at him steadily.

“You, too, Duson?”

“I too, alas, your Grace!”

Mr. Sabin considered for a moment.

“Duson,” he said, “I retain you in my service. Take my luggage on board
the Campania to-morrow afternoon, and pay the bill at the hotel. I shall
join you on the boat.”

Duson was amazed. The man who was standing by laughed.

“If you take my advice, sir,” he remarked, “you’ll order your clothes
to be sent here. I’ve a kind of fancy the Campania will sail without you
to-morrow.”

“You have my orders, Duson,” Mr. Sabin said. “You can rely upon seeing
me.”

The detective led the way into the building, and opened the door leading
into a large, barely furnished office.

“Chief’s gone home for the night, I guess,” he remarked. “We can fix up
a shakedown for you in one of the rooms behind.”

“I thank you,” Mr. Sabin said, sitting down in a high-backed wooden
chair; “I decline to move until the charge against me is properly
explained.”

“There is no one here to do it just now,” the man answered. “Better make
yourself comfortable for a bit.”

“You detain me here, then,” Mr. Sabin said, “without even a sight of
your warrant or any intimation as to the charge against me?”

“Oh, the chief’ll fix all that,” the man answered. “Don’t you worry.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

In a magnificently furnished apartment somewhere in the neighbourhood of
Fifth Avenue a small party of men were seated round a card table piled
with chips and rolls of bills. On the sideboard there was a great
collection of empty bottles, spirit decanters and Vichy syphons. Mr.
Horser was helping himself to brandy and water with one hand and holding
himself up with the other. There was a knock at the door.

A man who was still playing looked up. He was about fifty years of age,
clean shaven, with vacuous eyes and a weak mouth. He was the host of the
party.

“Come in!” he shouted.

A young man entered in a long black overcoat and soft hat. He looked
about him without surprise, but he seemed to note Mr. Horser’s presence
with some concern. The man at the table threw down his cards.

“What the devil do you want, Smith?”

“An important despatch from Washington has just arrived, sir. I have
brought it up with the codebook.”

“From Washington at this time of the night,” he exclaimed thickly. “Come
in here, Smith.”

He raised the curtains leading into a small anteroom, and turned up the
electric light. His clerk laid the message down on the table before him.

“Here is the despatch, Mr. Mace,” he said, “and here is the
translation.”

“English Ambassador demands immediate explanation of arrest of Duke
Souspennier at Waldorf to-night. Reply immediately what charge and
evidence. Souspennier naturalised Englishman.”

Mr. Mace sprang to his feet with an oath. He threw aside the curtain
which shielded the room from the larger apartment.

“Horser, come here, you damned fool!”

Horser, with a stream of magnificent invectives, obeyed the summons. His
host pointed to the message.

“Read that!”

Mr. Horser read and his face grew even more repulsive. A dull purple
flush suffused his cheeks, his eyes were bloodshot, and the veins on his
forehead stood out like cords. He leaned for several moments against the
table and steadily cursed Mr. Sabin, the government at Washington, and
something under his breath which he did not dare to name openly.

“Oh, shut up!” his host said at last. “How the devil are we going to get
out of this?”

Mr. Horser left the room and returned with a tumbler full of brandy and
a very little water.

“Take a drink yourself,” he said. “It’ll steady you.”

“Oh, I’m steady enough,” Mr. Mace replied impatiently. “I want to know
how you’re going to get us out of this. What was the charge, anyhow?”

“Passing forged bills,” Horser answered. “Parsons fixed it up.”

Mr. Mace turned a shade paler.

“Where the devil’s the sense in a charge like that?” he answered
fiercely. “The man’s a millionaire. He’ll turn the tables on us nicely.”

“We’ve got to keep him till after the Campania sails, anyhow,” Horser
said doggedly.

“We’re not going to keep him ten minutes,” Mace replied. “I’m going to
sign the order for his release.”

Horser’s speech was thick with drunken fury. “By --- I’ll see that you
don’t!” he exclaimed.

Mace turned upon him angrily.

“You selfish fool!” he muttered. “You’re not in the thing, anyhow. If
you think I’m going to risk my position for the sake of one little job
you’re wrong. I shall go down myself and release him, with an apology.”

“He’ll have his revenge all the same,” Horser answered. “It’s too late
now to funk the thing. They can’t budge you. We’ll see to that. We hold
New York in our hands. Be a man, Mace, and run a little risk. It’s fifty
thousand.”

Mace looked up at him curiously.

“What do you get out of it, Horser?”

Horser’s face hardened.

“Not one cent!” he declared fiercely. “Only if I fail it might be
unpleasant for me next time I crossed.”

“I don’t know!” Mace declared weakly. “I don’t know what to do. It’s
twelve hours, Horser, and the charge is ridiculous.”

“You have me behind you.”

“I can’t tell them that at Washington,” Mace said.

“It’s a fact, all the same. Don’t be so damned nervous.”

Mace dismissed his clerk, and found his other guests, too, on the point
of departure. But the last had scarcely left before a servant entered
with another despatch.

“Release Souspennier.”

Mace handed it to his companion.

“This settles it,” he declared. “I shall go round and try and make my
peace with the fellow.”

Horser stood in the way, burly, half-drunk and vicious. He struck his
host in the face with clenched fist. Mace went down with scarcely a
groan. A servant, hearing the fall, came hurrying back.

“Your master is drunk and he has fallen down,” Horser said. “Put him to
bed--give him a sleeping draught if you’ve got one.”

The servant bent over the unconscious man.

“Hadn’t I better fetch a doctor, sir?” he asked. “I’m afraid he’s hurt.”

“Not he!” Horser answered contemptuously. “He’s cut his cheek a little,
that’s all. Put him to bed. Say I shall be round again by nine o’clock.”

Horser put on his coat and left the house. The morning sunlight was
flooding the streets. Away down town Mr. Sabin was dozing in his
high-backed chair.



CHAPTER IX

Felix, after an uneventful voyage, landed duly at Liverpool. To his
amazement the first person he saw upon the quay was Mr. Sabin, leaning
upon his stick and smoking a cigarette.

“Come, come, Felix!” he exclaimed. “Don’t look at me as though I were a
ghost. You have very little confidence in me, after all, I see.”

“But--how did you get here?”

“The Campania, of course. I had plenty of time. It was easy enough for
those fellows to arrest me, but they never had a chance of holding me.”

“But how did you get away in time?”

Mr. Sabin sighed.

“It was very simple,” he said. “One day, while one of those wonderful
spies was sleeping on my doormat I slipped away and went over to
Washington, saw the English Ambassador, convinced him of my bonafides,
told him very nearly the whole truth. He promised if I wired him that I
was arrested to take my case up at once. You sent the despatch, and he
kept his word. I breakfasted on Saturday morning at the Waldorf, and
though a great dray was driven into my carriage on the way to the boat,
I escaped, as I always do--and here I am.”

“Unhurt!” Felix remarked with a smile, “as usual!”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“The driver of my carriage was killed, and Duson had his arm broken,”
 he said. “I stepped out of the debris without a scratch. Come into the
Customs House now and get your baggage through. I have taken a coupe on
the special train and ordered lunch.”

Before long they were on the way to London. Mr. Sabin, whilst luncheon
was being served, talked only of the lightest matters. But afterwards,
when coffee was served and he had lit a cigarette, he leaned over
towards Felix.

“Felix,” he said, “your sister is dear to you?”

“She is the only creature on earth,” Felix said, “whom I care for. She
is very dear to me, indeed.”

“Am I right,” Mr. Sabin asked, “in assuming that the old enmity between
us is dead, that the last few years has wiped away the old soreness.

“Yes,” Felix answered. “I know that she was happy with you. That is
enough for me.”

“You and I,” Mr. Sabin continued, “must work out her salvation. Do not
be afraid that I am going to ask you impossibilities. I know that our
ways must lie apart. You can go to her at once. It may be many, many
months before I can catch even a glimpse of her. Never mind. Let me
feel that she has you within the circle, and I without, with our lives
devoted to her.”

“You may rely upon that,” Felix answered. “Wherever she is I am going. I
shall be there. I will watch over her.”

Mr. Sabin sighed.

“The more difficult task is mine,” he said, “but I have no fear of
failure. I shall find her surrounded by spies, by those who are now my
enemies. Still, they will find it hard to shake me off. It may be that
they took her from me only out of revenge. If that be so my task will be
easier. If there are other dangers which she is called upon to face, it
is still possible that they might accept my service instead.”

“You would give it?” Felix exclaimed.

“To the last drop of blood in my body,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Save for my
love for her I am a dead man upon the earth. I have no longer politics
or ambition. So the past can easily be expunged. Those who must be her
guiding influence shall be mine.”

“You will win her back,” Felix said. “I am sure of it.”

“I am willing to pay any price on earth,” Mr. Sabin answered. “If they
can forget the past I can. I want you to remember this. I want her to
know it. I want them to know it. That is all, Felix.”

Mr. Sabin leaned back in his seat. He had left this country last a
stricken and defeated man, left it with the echoes of his ruined schemes
crashing in his ears. He came back to it a man with one purpose only,
and that such a purpose as never before had guided him--the love of a
woman. Was it a sign of age, he wondered, this return to the humanities?
His life had been full of great schemes, he had wielded often a gigantic
influence, more than once he had made history. And now the love of these
things had gone from him. Their fascination was powerless to quicken by
a single beat his steady pulse. Monarchy or republic--what did he care?
It was Lucille he wanted, the woman who had shown him how sweet even
defeat might be, who had made these three years of his life so happy
that they seemed to have passed in one delightful dream. Were they dead,
annihilated, these old ambitions, the old love of great doings, or did
they only slumber? He moved in his seat uneasily.

At Euston the two men separated with a silent handshake. Mr. Sabin
drove to one of the largest and newest of the modern hotels de luxe. He
entered his name as Mr. Sabin--the old exile’s hatred of using his title
in a foreign country had become a confirmed habit with him--and mingled
freely with the crowds who thronged into the restaurant at night. There
were many faces which he remembered, there were a few who remembered
him. He neither courted nor shunned observation. He sat at dinner-time
at a retired table, and found himself watching the people with a stir
of pleasure. Afterwards he went round to a famous club, of which he had
once been made a life member, but towards midnight he was wearied of the
dull decorum of his surroundings, and returning to the hotel, sought
the restaurant once more. The stream of people coming in to supper was
greater even than at dinner-time. He found a small table, and ordered
some oysters. The sight of this bevy of pleasure-seekers, all apparently
with multitudes of friends, might have engendered a sense of loneliness
in a man of different disposition. To Mr. Sabin his isolation was a
luxury. He had an uninterrupted opportunity of pursuing his favourite
study.

There entered a party towards midnight, to meet whom the head-waiter
himself came hurrying from the further end of the room, and whose
arrival created a little buzz of interest. The woman who formed the
central figure of the little group had for two years known no rival
either at Court or in Society. She was the most beautiful woman in
England, beautiful too with all the subtle grace of her royal descent.
There were women upon the stage whose faces might have borne comparison
with hers, but there was not one who in a room would not have sunk
into insignificance by her side. Her movements, her carriage were
incomparable--the inherited gifts of a race of women born in palaces.

Mr. Sabin, who neither shunned nor courted observation, watched her with
a grim smile which was not devoid of bitterness. Suddenly she saw him.
With a little cry of wonder she came towards him with outstretched
hands.

“It is marvelous,” she exclaimed. “You? Really you?”

He bowed low over her hands.

“It is I, dear Helene,” he answered. “A moment ago I was dreaming. I
thought that I was back once more at Versailles, and in the presence of
my Queen.”

She laughed softly.

“There may be no Versailles,” she murmured, “but you will be a courtier
to the end of your days.”

“At least,” he said, “believe me that my congratulations come from my
heart. Your happiness is written in your face, and your husband must be
the proudest man in England.”

He was standing now by her side, and he held out his hand to Mr. Sabin.

“I hope, sir,” he said pleasantly, “that you bear me no ill-will.”

“It would be madness,” Mr. Sabin answered. “To be the most beautiful
peeress in England is perhaps for Helene a happier fate than to be the
first queen of a new dynasty.”

“And you, uncle?” Helene said. “You are back from your exile then. How
often I have felt disposed to smile when I thought of you, of all men,
in America.”

“I went into exile,” Mr. Sabin answered, “and I found paradise. The
three years which have passed since I saw you last have been the
happiest of my life.”

“Lucille!” Helene exclaimed.

“Is my wife,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“Delightful!” Helene murmured. “She is with you then, I hope. Indeed, I
felt sure that I saw her the other night at the opera.”

“At the opera!” Mr. Sabin for a moment was silent. He would have been
ashamed to confess that his heart was beating strongly, that a crowd
of eager questions trembled upon his lips. He recovered himself after a
moment.

“Lucille is not with me for the moment,” he said in measured tones. “I
am detaining you from your guests, Helene. If you will permit me I will
call upon you.”

“Won’t you join us?” Lord Camperdown asked courteously. “We are only
a small party--the Portuguese Ambassador and his wife, the Duke of
Medchester, and Stanley Phillipson.”

Mr. Sabin rose at once.

“I shall be delighted,” he said.

Lord Camperdown hesitated for a moment.

“I present Monsieur le Due de Souspennier, I presume?” he remarked,
smiling.

Mr. Sabin bowed.

“I am Mr. Sabin,” he said, “at the hotels and places where one travels.
To my friends I have no longer an incognito. It is not necessary.”

It was a brilliant little supper party, and Mr. Sabin contributed at
least his share to the general entertainment. Before they dispersed he
had to bring out his tablets to make notes of his engagements. He stood
on the top of the steps above the palm-court to wish them good-bye,
leaning on his stick. Helene turned back and waved her hand.

“He is unchanged,” she murmured, “yet I fear that there must be
trouble.”

“Why? He seemed cheerful enough,” her husband remarked.

She dropped her voice a little.

“Lucille is in London. She is staying at Dorset House.”



CHAPTER X

Mr. Sabin was deep in thought. He sat in an easy-chair with his back to
the window, his hands crossed upon his stick, his eyes fixed upon the
fire. Duson was moving noiselessly about the room, cutting the morning’s
supply of newspapers and setting them out upon the table. His master
was in a mood which he had been taught to respect. It was Mr. Sabin who
broke the silence.

“Duson!”

“Your Grace!”

“I have always, as you know, ignored your somewhat anomalous position as
the servant of one man and the slave of a society. The questions which
I am about to ask you you can answer or not, according to your own
apprehensions of what is due to each.”

“I thank your Grace!”

“My departure from America seemed to incite the most violent opposition
on the part of your friends. As you know, it was with a certain amount
of difficulty that I reached this country. Now, however, I am left
altogether alone. I have not received a single warning letter. My
comings and goings, although purposely devoid of the slightest secrecy,
are absolutely undisturbed. Yet I have some reason to believe that your
mistress is in London.”

“Your Grace will pardon me,” Duson said, “but there is outside a
gentleman waiting to see you to whom you might address the same
questions with better results, for compared with him I know nothing. It
is Monsieur Felix.”

“Why have you kept him waiting?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Your Grace was much absorbed,” Duson answered.

Felix was smoking a cigarette, and Mr. Sabin greeted him with a certain
grim cordiality.

“Is this permitted--this visit?” he asked, himself selecting a cigarette
and motioning his guest to a chair.

“It is even encouraged,” Felix answered.

“You have perhaps some message?”

“None.”

“I am glad to see you,” Mr. Sabin said. “Just now I am a little puzzled.
I will put the matter to you. You shall answer or not, at your own
discretion.”

“I am ready,” Felix declared.

“You know the difficulty with which I escaped from America,” Mr. Sabin
continued. “Every means which ingenuity could suggest seemed brought to
bear against me. And every movement was directed, if not from here, from
some place in Europe. Well, I arrived here four days ago. I live quite
openly, I have even abjured to some extent my incognito. Yet I have not
received even a warning letter. I am left absolutely undisturbed.”

Felix looked at him thoughtfully.

“And what do you deduce from this?” he asked.

“I do not like it,” Mr. Sabin answered drily.

“After all,” Felix remarked, “it is to some extent natural. The very
openness of your life here makes interference with you more difficult,
and as to warning letters--well, you have proved the uselessness of
them.”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Sabin answered. “At the same time, if I were a
superstitious person I should consider this inaction ominous.”

“You must take account also,” Felix said, “of the difference in the
countries. In England the police system, if not the most infallible
in the world, is certainly the most incorruptible. There was never a
country in which security of person and life was so keenly watched over
as here. In America, up to a certain point, a man is expected to look
after himself. The same feeling does not prevail here.”

Mr. Sabin assented.

“And therefore,” he remarked, “for the purposes of your friends I should
consider this a difficult and unpromising country in which to work.”

“Other countries, other methods!” Felix remarked laconically.

“Exactly! It is the new methods which I am anxious to discover,” Mr.
Sabin said. “No glimmering of them as yet has been vouchsafed to me. Yet
I believe that I am right in assuming that for the moment London is the
headquarters of your friends, and that Lucille is here?”

“If that is meant for a question,” Felix said, “I may not answer it.”

Mr. Sabin nodded.

“Yet,” he suggested, “your visit has an object. To discover my plans
perhaps! You are welcome to them.”

Felix thoughtfully knocked the ashes off his cigarette.

“My visit had an object,” he admitted, “but it was a personal one. I am
not actually concerned in the doings of those whom you have called my
friends.”

“We are alone,” Mr. Sabin reminded him. “My time is yours.”

“You and I,” Felix said, “have had our periods of bitter enmity. With
your marriage to Lucille these, so far as I am concerned, ended for
ever. I will even admit that in my younger days I was prejudiced against
you. That has passed away. You have been all your days a bold and
unscrupulous schemer, but ends have at any rate been worthy ones. To-day
I am able to regard you with feelings of friendliness. You are the
husband of my dear sister, and for years I know that you made her very
happy. I ask you, will you believe in this statement of my attitude
towards you?”

“I do not for a single moment doubt it,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“You will regard the advice which I am going to offer as disinterested?”

“Certainly!”

“Then I offer it to you earnestly, and with my whole heart. Take the
next steamer and go back to America.”

“And leave Lucille? Go without making any effort to see her?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Sabin was for a moment very serious indeed. The advice given in such
a manner was full of forebodings to him. The lines from the corners of
his mouth seemed graven into his face.

“Felix,” he said slowly, “I am sometimes conscious of the fact that I am
passing into that period of life which we call old age. My ambitions are
dead, my energies are weakened. For many years I have toiled--the time
has come for rest. Of all the great passions which I have felt there
remains but one--Lucille. Life without her is worth nothing to me. I am
weary of solitude, I am weary of everything except Lucille. How then
can I listen to such advice? For me it must be Lucille, or that little
journey into the mists, from which one does not return.”

Felix was silent. The pathos of this thing touched him.

“I will not dispute the right of those who have taken her from me,” Mr.
Sabin continued, “but I want her back. She is necessary to me. My purse,
my life, my brains are there to be thrown into the scales. I will buy
her, or fight for her, or rejoin their ranks myself. But I want her
back.”

Still Felix was silent. He was looking steadfastly into the fire.

“You have heard me,” Mr. Sabin said.

“I have heard you,” Felix answered. “My advice stands.”

“I know now,” Mr. Sabin said, “that I have a hard task before me. They
shall have me for a friend or an enemy. I can still make myself felt as
either. You have nothing more to say?”

“Nothing!”

“Then let us part company,” Mr. Sabin said, “or talk of something more
cheerful. You depress me, Felix. Let Duson bring us wine. You look like
a death’s head.”

Felix roused himself.

“You will go your own way,” he said. “Now that you have chosen I will
tell you this. I am glad. Yes, let Duson bring wine. I will drink to
your health and to your success. There have been times when men have
performed miracles. I shall drink to that miracle.”

Duson brought also a letter, which Mr. Sabin, with a nod towards Felix,
opened. It was from Helene.

     “15 Park Lane, London,
     “Thursday Morning.

     “My DEAR UNCLE,--

     “I want you to come to luncheon to-day.  The Princess de Catelan is
     here, and I am expecting also Mr. Brott, the Home Secretary--our
     one great politician, you know.  Many people say that he is the
     most interesting man in England, and must be our next Prime Minister.
     Such people interest you, I know.  Do come.

                                                  “Yours sincerely,
                                                       “HELENE.”

Mr. Sabin repeated the name to himself as he stood for a moment with the
letter in his hand.

“Brott! What a name for a statesman! Well, here is your health, Felix. I
do not often drink wine in the morning, but--”

He broke off in the middle of his sentence. The glass which Felix had
been in the act of raising to his lips lay shattered upon the floor, and
a little stream of wine trickled across the carpet. Felix himself seemed
scarcely conscious of the disaster. His cheeks were white, and he leaned
across the table towards Mr. Sabin.

“What name did you say--what name?”

Mr. Sabin referred again to the letter which he held in his hand.

“Brott!” he repeated. “He is Home Secretary, I believe.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Nothing,” Mr. Sabin answered. “My niece, the Countess of Camperdown,
asks me to meet him to-day at luncheon. Explain yourself, my young
friend. There is a fresh glass by your side.”

Felix poured himself out a glass and drank it off. But he remained
silent.

“Well?”

Felix picked up his gloves and stick.

“You are asked to meet Mr. Brott at luncheon to-day?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going?”

“Certainly!”

Felix nodded.

“Very good,” he said. “I should advise you to cultivate his
acquaintance. He is a very extraordinary man.”

“Come, Felix,” Mr. Sabin said. “You owe me something more lucid in the
way of explanations. Who is he?”

“A statesman--successful, ambitious. He expects to be Prime Minister.”

“And what have I to do with him, or he with me?” Mr. Sabin asked
quietly.

Felix shook his head.

“I cannot tell you,” he said. “Yet I fancy that you and he may some time
be drawn together.”

Mr. Sabin asked no more questions, but he promptly sat down and accepted
his niece’s invitation. When he looked round Felix had gone. He rang the
bell for Duson and handed him the note.

“My town clothes, Duson,” he ordered. “I am lunching out.”

The man bowed and withdrew. Mr. Sabin remained for a few moments in deep
thought.

“Brott!” he repeated. “Brott! It is a singular name.”



CHAPTER XI

So this was the man! Mr. Sabin did not neglect his luncheon, nor was he
ever for a moment unmindful of the grey-headed princess who chatted away
by his side with all the vivacity of her race and sex. But he watched
Mr. Brott.

A man this! Mr. Sabin was a judge, and he appraised him rightly. He saw
through that courteous geniality of tone and gesture; the ready-made
smile, although it seemed natural enough, did not deceive him.
Underneath was a man of iron, square-jawed, nervous, forceful. Mr. Brott
was probably at that time the ablest politician of either party in the
country. Mr. Sabin knew it. He found himself wondering exactly at what
point of their lives this man and he would come into contact.

After luncheon Helene brought them together.

“I believe,” she said to Mr. Brott, “that you have never met my UNCLE.
May I make you formally acquainted? UNCLE, this is Mr. Brott, whom
you must know a great deal about even though you have been away for so
long--the Duc de Souspennier.”

The two men bowed and Helene passed on. Mr. Sabin leaned upon his stick
and watched keenly for any sign in the other’s face. If he expected to
find it he was disappointed. Either this man had no knowledge of who he
was, or those things which were to come between them were as yet unborn.

They strolled together after the other guests into the winter gardens,
which were the envy of every hostess in London. Mr. Sabin lit a
cigarette, Mr. Brott regretfully declined. He neither smoked nor drank
wine. Yet he was disposed to be friendly, and selected a seat where they
were a little apart from the other guests.

“You at least,” he remarked, in answer to an observation of Mr. Sabin’s,
“are free from the tyranny of politics. I am assuming, of course, that
your country under its present form of government has lost its hold upon
you.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“It is a doubtful boon,” he said. “It is true that I am practically an
exile. Republican France has no need of me. Had I been a soldier I could
still have remained a patriot. But for one whose leanings were towards
politics, neither my father before me nor I could be of service to our
country. You should be thankful,” he continued with a slight smile,
“that you are an Englishman. No constitution in the world can offer so
much to the politician who is strong enough and fearless enough.”

Mr. Brott glanced towards his twinkling eyes.

“Do you happen to know what my politics are?” he asked.

Mr. Sabin hesitated.

“Your views, I know, are advanced,” he said. “For the rest I have
been abroad for years. I have lost touch a little with affairs in this
country.”

“I am afraid,” Mr. Brott said, “that I shall shock you. You are an
aristocrat of the aristocrats, I a democrat of the democrats. The people
are the only masters whom I own. They first sent me to Parliament.”

“Yet,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “you are, I understand, in the Cabinet.”

Mr. Brott glanced for a moment around. The Prime Minister was somewhere
in the winter gardens.

“That,” he declared, “is an accident. I happened to be the only man
available who could do the work when Lord Kilbrooke died. I am telling
you only what is an open secret. But I am afraid I am boring you. Shall
we join the others?”

“Not unless you yourself are anxious to,” Mr. Sabin begged. “It is
scarcely fair to detain you talking to an old man when there are so many
charming women here. But I should be sorry for you to think me hidebound
in my prejudices. You must remember that the Revolution decimated my
family. It was a long time ago, but the horror of it is still a live
thing.”

“Yet it was the natural outcome,” Mr. Brott said, “of the things
which went before. Such hideous misgovernment as generations of your
countrymen had suffered was logically bound to bring its own reprisal.”

“There is truth in what you say,” Mr. Sabin admitted. He did not want to
talk about the French Revolution.

“You are a stranger in London, are you not?” Mr. Brott asked.

“I feel myself one,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I have been away for a few
years, and I do not think that there is a city in the world where social
changes are so rapid. I should perhaps except the cities of the country
from which I have come. But then America is a universe of itself.”

For an instant Mr. Brott gave signs of the man underneath. The air of
polite interest had left his face. He glanced swiftly and keenly at his
companion. Mr. Sabin’s expression was immutable. It was he who scored,
for he marked the change, whilst Mr. Brott could not be sure whether he
had noticed it or not.

“You have been living in America, then?”

“For several years--yes.”

“It is a country,” Mr. Brott said, “which I am particularly anxious to
visit. I see my chances, however, grow fewer and fewer as the years go
by.”

“For one like yourself,” Mr. Sabin said, “whose instincts and sympathies
are wholly with the democracy, a few months in America would be very
well spent.”

“And you,” Mr. Brott remarked, “how did you get on with the people?”

Mr. Sabin traced a pattern with his stick upon the marble floor.

“I lived in the country,” he said, “I played golf and read and rested.”

“Were you anywhere near New York?” Mr. Brott asked.

“A few hours’ journey only,” Mr. Sabin answered. “My home was in a very
picturesque part, near Lenox.”

Mr. Brott leaned a little forward.

“You perhaps know then a lady who spent some time in that
neighbourhood--a Mrs. James Peterson. Her husband was, I believe, the
American consul in Vienna.”

Mr. Sabin smiled very faintly. His face betrayed no more than a natural
and polite interest. There was nothing to indicate the fact that his
heart was beating like the heart of a young man, that the blood was
rushing hot through his veins.

“Yes,” he said, “I know her very well. Is she in London?”

Mr. Brott hesitated. He seemed a little uncertain how to continue.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I believe that she has reasons for
desiring her present whereabouts to remain unknown. I should perhaps not
have mentioned her name at all. It was, I fancy, indiscreet of me. The
coincidence of hearing you mention the name of the place where I believe
she resided surprised my question. With your permission we will abandon
the subject.”

“You disappoint me,” Mr. Sabin said quietly. “It would have given
me much pleasure to have resumed my acquaintance with the lady in
question.”

“You will, without doubt, have an opportunity,” Mr. Brott said, glancing
at his watch and suddenly rising. “Dear me, how the time goes.”

He rose to his feet. Mr. Sabin also rose.

“Must I understand,” he said in a low tone, “that you are not at liberty
to give me Mrs. Peterson’s address?”

“I am not at liberty even,” Mr. Brott answered, with a frown, “to
mention her name. It will give me great pleasure, Duke, to better my
acquaintance with you. Will you dine with me at the House of Commons one
night next week?”

“I shall be charmed,” Mr. Sabin answered. “My address for the next
few days is at the Carlton. I am staying there under my family name of
Sabin--Mr. Sabin. It is a fancy of mine--it has been ever since I became
an alien--to use my title as little as possible.”

Mr. Brott looked for a moment puzzled.

“Your pseudonym,” he remarked thoughtfully, “seems very familiar to me.”

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.

“It is a family name,” he remarked, “but I flattered myself that it was
at least uncommon.”

“Fancy, no doubt,” Mr. Brott remarked, turning to make his adieux to his
hostess.

Mr. Sabin joined a fresh group of idlers under the palms. Mr. Brott
lingered over his farewells.

“Your UNCLE, Lady Camperdown,” he said, “is delightful. I enjoy meeting
new types, and he represents to me most perfectly the old order of
French aristocracy.”

“I am glad,” Helene said, “that you found him interesting. I felt sure
you would. In fact, I asked him especially to meet you.”

“You are the most thoughtful of hostesses,” he assured her. “By the bye,
your UNCLE has just told me the name by which he is known at the hotel.
Mr. Sabin! Sabin! It recalls something to my mind. I cannot exactly
remember what.”

She smiled upon him. People generally forgot things when Helene smiled.

“It is an odd fancy of his to like his title so little,” she remarked.
“At heart no one is prouder of their family and antecedents. I have
heard him say, though, that an exile had better leave behind him even
his name.”

“Sabin!” Mr. Brott repeated. “Sabin!”

“It is an old family name,” she murmured.

His face suddenly cleared. She knew that he had remembered. But he took
his leave with no further reference to it.

“Sabin!” he repeated to himself when alone in his carriage. “That was
the name of the man who was supposed to be selling plans to the German
Government. Poor Renshaw was in a terrible stew about it. Sabin! An
uncommon name.”

He had ordered the coachman to drive to the House of Commons. Suddenly
he pulled the check-string.

“Call at Dorset House,” he directed.

      *          *            *          *            *

Mr. Sabin lingered till nearly the last of the guests had gone. Then he
led Helene once more into the winter gardens.

“May I detain you for one moment’s gossip?” he asked. “I see your
carriage at the door.”

She laughed.

“It is nothing,” she declared. “I must drive in the Park for an hour.
One sees one’s friends, and it is cool and refreshing after these heated
rooms. But at any time. Talk to me as long as you will, and then I will
drop you at the Carlton.”

“It is of Brott!” he remarked. “Ah, I thank you, I will smoke. Your
husband’s taste in cigarettes is excellent.”

“Perhaps mine!” she laughed.

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.

“In either case I congratulate you. This man Brott. He interests me.”

“He interests every one. Why not? He is a great personality.”

“Politically,” Mr. Sabin said, “the gauge of his success is of course
the measure of the man. But he himself--what manner of a man is he?”

She tapped with her fingers upon the little table by their side.

“He is rich,” she said, “and an uncommon mixture of the student and the
man of society. He refuses many more invitations than he accepts, he
entertains very seldom but very magnificently. He has never been known
to pay marked attentions to any woman, even the scandal of the clubs has
passed him by. What else can I say about him, I wonder?” she continued
reflectively. “Nothing, I think, except this. He is a strong man. You
know that that counts for much.”

Mr. Sabin was silent. Perhaps he was measuring his strength in some
imagined encounter with this man. Something in his face alarmed Helene.
She suddenly leaned forward and looked at him more closely.

“UNCLE,” she exclaimed in a low voice, “there is something on your mind.
Do not tell me that once more you are in the maze, that again you have
schemes against this country.”

He smiled at her sadly enough, but she was reassured.

“You need have no fear,” he told her. “With politics--I have finished.
Why I am here, what I am here for I will tell you very soon. It is to
find one whom I have lost--and who is dear to me. Forgive me if for
to-day I say no more. Come, if you will you shall drive me to my hotel.”

He offered his arm with the courtly grace which he knew so well how to
assume. Together they passed out to her carriage.



CHAPTER XII

“After all,” Lady Carey sighed, throwing down a racing calendar
and lighting a cigarette, “London is the only thoroughly civilized
Anglo-Saxon capital in the world. Please don’t look at me like that,
Duchess. I know--this is your holy of holies, but the Duke smokes
here--I’ve seen him. My cigarettes are very tiny and very harmless.”

The Duchess, who wore gold-rimmed spectacles, and was a person of
weight in the councils of the Primrose League, went calmly on with her
knitting.

“My dear Muriel,” she said, “if my approval or disapproval was of the
slightest moment to you, it is not your smoking of which I should first
complain. I know, however, that you consider yourself a privileged
person. Pray do exactly as you like, but don’t drop the ashes upon the
carpet.”

Lady Carey laughed softly.

“I suppose I am rather a thorn in your side as a relative,” she
remarked. “You must put it down to the roving blood of my ancestors. I
could no more live the life of you other women than I could fly. I must
have excitement, movement, all the time.”

A tall, heavily built man, who had been reading some letters at the
other end of the room, came sauntering up to them.

“Well,” he said, “you assuredly live up to your principles, for you
travel all over the world as though it were one vast playground.”

“And sometimes,” she remarked, “my journeys are not exactly successful.
I know that that is what you are dying to say.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “I do not blame you at all for this last
affair. You brought Lucille here, which was excellent. Your failure as
regards Mr. Sabin is scarcely to be fastened upon you. It is Horser whom
we hold responsible for that.”

She laughed.

“Poor Horser! It was rather rough to pit a creature like that against
Souspennier.”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Horser,” he said, “may not be brilliant, but he had a great
organisation at his back. Souspennier was without friends or influence.
The contest should scarcely have been so one-sided. To tell you the
truth, my dear Muriel, I am more surprised that you yourself should have
found the task beyond you.”

Lady Carey’s face darkened.

“It was too soon after the loss of Lucille,” she said, “and besides,
there was his vanity to be reckoned with. It was like a challenge to
him, and he had taken up the glove before I returned to New York.”

The Duchess looked up from her work.

“Have you had any conversation with my husband, Prince?” she asked.

The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer twirled his heavy moustache and sank into a
chair between the two women.

“I have had a long talk with him,” he announced. “And the result?” the
Duchess asked.

“The result I fear you would scarcely consider satisfactory,” the Prince
declared. “The moment that I hinted at the existence of--er--conditions
of which you, Duchess, are aware, he showed alarm, and I had all that
I could do to reassure him. I find it everywhere amongst your
aristocracy--this stubborn confidence in the existence of the reigning
order of things, this absolute detestation of anything approaching
intrigue.”

“My dear man, I hope you don’t include me,” Lady Carey exclaimed.

“You, Lady Muriel,” he answered, with a slow smile, “are an exception to
all rules. No, you are a rule by yourself.”

“To revert to the subject then for a moment,” the Duchess said stiffly.
“You have made no progress with the Duke?”

“None whatever,” Saxe Leinitzer admitted. “He was sufficiently emphatic
to inspire me with every caution. Even now I have doubts as to whether
I have altogether reassured him. I really believe, dear Duchess, that we
should be better off if you could persuade him to go and live upon his
estates.”

The Duchess smiled grimly.

“Whilst the House of Lords exists,” she remarked, “you will never
succeed in keeping Algernon away from London. He is always on the point
of making a speech, although he never does it.”

“I have heard of that speech,” Lady Carey drawled, from her low seat.
“It is to be a thoroughly enlightening affair. All the great social
questions are to be permanently disposed of. The Prime Minister will
come on his knees and beg Algernon to take his place.”

The Duchess looked up over her knitting.

“Algernon is at least in earnest,” she remarked drily. “And he has the
good conscience of a clean living and honest man.”

“What an unpleasant possession it must be,” Lady Carey remarked sweetly.
“I disposed of my conscience finally many years ago. I am not sure, but
I believe that it was the Prince to whom I entrusted the burying of it.
By the bye, Lucille will be here directly, I suppose. Is she to be told
of Souspennier’s arrival in London?”

“I imagine,” the Prince said, with knitted brows, “that it will not be
wise to keep it from her. It is impossible to conceal her whereabouts,
and the papers will very shortly acquaint her with his.”

“And,” Lady Carey asked, “how does the little affair progress?”

“Admirably,” the Prince answered. “Already some of the Society papers
are beginning to chatter about the friendship existing between a Cabinet
Minister and a beautiful Hungarian lady of title, etc., etc. The fact of
it is that Brott is in deadly earnest. He gives himself away every time.
If Lucille has not lost old cleverness she will be able to twist him
presently around her little finger.”

“If only some one would twist him on the rack,” the Duchess murmured
vindictively. “I tried to read one of his speeches the other day. It was
nothing more nor less than blasphemy. I do not think that I am naturally
a cruel woman, but I would hand such men over to the public executioner
with joy.”

Lucille came in, as beautiful as ever, but with tired lines under her
full dark eyes. She sank into a low chair with listless grace.

“Reginald Brott again, I suppose,” she remarked curtly. “I wish the man
had never existed.”

“That is a very cruel speech, Lucille,” the Prince said, with a
languishing glance towards her, “for if it had not been for Brott we
should never have dared to call you out from your seclusion.”

“Then more heartily than ever,” Lucille declared, “I wish the man had
never been born. You cannot possibly flatter yourself, Prince, that your
summons was a welcome one.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I shall never, be able to believe,” he said, “that the Countess
Radantz was able to do more than support existence in a small American
town--without society, with no scope for her ambitions, detached
altogether from the whole civilized world.”

“Which only goes to prove, Prince,” Lucille remarked contemptuously,
“that you do not understand me in the least. As a place of residence
Lenox would compare very favourably with--say Homburg, and for
companionship you forget my husband. I never met the woman yet who did
not prefer the company of one man, if only it were the right one, to the
cosmopolitan throng we call society.”

“It sounds idyllic, but very gauche,” Lady Carey remarked drily. “In
effect it is rather a blow on the cheek for you, Prince. Of course you
know that the Prince is in love with you, Lucille?”

“I wish he were,” she answered, looking lazily out of the window.

He bent over her.

“Why?”

“I would persuade him to send me home again,” she answered coldly.

The Duchess looked up from her knitting. “Your husband has saved you the
journey,” she remarked, “even if you were able to work upon the Prince’s
good nature to such an extent.”

Lucille started round eagerly.

“What do you mean?” she cried.

“Your husband is in London,” the Duchess answered.

Lucille laughed with the gaiety of a child. Like magic the lines from
beneath her eyes seemed to have vanished. Lady Carey watched her with
pale cheeks and malevolent expression.

“Come, Prince,” she cried mockingly, “it was only a week ago that you
assured me that my husband could not leave America. Already he is in
London. I must go to see him. Oh, I insist upon it.”

Saxe Leinitzer glanced towards the Duchess. She laid down her knitting.

“My dear Countess,” she said firmly, “I beg that you will listen to me
carefully. I speak to you for your own good, and I believe I may add,
Prince, that I speak with authority.”

“With authority!” the Prince echoed.

“We all,” the Duchess continued, “look upon your husband’s arrival as
inopportune and unfortunate. We are all agreed that you must be kept
apart. Certain obligations have been laid upon you. You could not
possibly fulfil them with a husband at your elbow. The matter will be
put plainly before your husband, as I am now putting it before you. He
will be warned not to attempt to see or communicate with you as your
husband. If he or you disobey the consequences will be serious.”

Lucille shrugged her shoulders.

“It is easy to talk,” she said, “but you will not find it easy to keep
Victor away when he has found out where I am.”

The Prince intervened.

“We have no objection to your meeting,” he said, “but it must be as
acquaintances. There must be no intermission or slackening in your task,
and that can only be properly carried out by the Countess Radantz and
from Dorset House.”

Lucille smothered her disappointment.

“Dear me,” she said. “You will find Victor a little hard to persuade.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then the Prince spoke slowly, and watching
carefully the effect of his words upon Lucille.

“Countess,” he said, “it has been our pleasure to make of your task so
far as possible a holiday. Yet perhaps it is wiser to remind you that
underneath the glove is an iron hand. We do not often threaten, but
we brook no interference. We have the means to thwart it. I bear no
ill-will to your husband, but to you I say this. If he should be so mad
as to defy us, to incite you to disobedience, he must pay the penalty.”

A servant entered.

“Mr. Reginald Brott is in the small drawing-room, your Grace,” he
announced. “He enquired for the Countess Radantz.”

Lucille rose. When the servant had disappeared she turned round for a
moment, and faced the Prince. A spot of colour burned in her cheeks, her
eyes were bright with anger.

“I shall remember your words, Prince,” she said. “So far from mine
being, however, a holiday task, it is one of the most wearisome and
unpleasant I ever undertook. And in return for your warnings let me tell
you this. If you should bring any harm upon my husband you shall answer
for it all your days to me. I will do my duty. Be careful that you do
not exceed yours.”

She swept out of the room. Lady Carey laughed mockingly at the Prince.

“Poor Ferdinand!” she exclaimed.



CHAPTER XIII

He had been kept waiting longer than usual, and he had somehow the
feeling that his visit was ill-timed, when at last she came to him. He
looked up eagerly as she entered the little reception room which he had
grown to know so well during the last few weeks, and it struck him for
the first time that her welcome was a little forced, her eyes a little
weary.

“I haven’t,” he said apologetically, “the least right to be here.”

“At least,” she murmured, “I may be permitted to remind you that you are
here without an invitation.”

“The worse luck,” he said, “that one should be necessary.”

“This is the one hour of the day,” she remarked, sinking into a large
easy-chair, “which I devote to repose. How shall I preserve my fleeting
youth if you break in upon it in this ruthless manner?”

“If I could only truthfully say that I was sorry,” he answered, “but I
can’t. I am here--and I would rather be here than anywhere else in the
world.”

She looked at him with curving lips; and even he, who had watched her
often, could not tell whether that curve was of scorn or mirth.

“They told me,” she said impressively, “that you were different--a
woman-hater, honest, gruff, a little cynical. Yet those are the speeches
of your salad days. What a disenchantment!”

“The things which one invents when one is young,” he said, “come perhaps
fresh from the heart in later life. The words may sound the same, but
there is a difference.”

“Come,” she said, “you are improving. That at any rate is ingenious.
Suppose you tell me now what has brought you here before four o’clock,
when I am not fit to be seen?”

He smiled. She shrugged her shoulders.

“I mean it. I haven’t either my clothes or my manners on yet. Come,
explain.”

“I met a man who interested me,” he answered. “He comes from America,
from Lenox!”

He saw her whiten. He saw her fingers clutch the sides of her chair.

“From Lenox? And his name?”

“The Duke of Souspennier! He takes himself so seriously that he even
travels incognito. At the hotel he calls himself Mr. Sabin.”

“Indeed!”

“I wondered whether you might not know him?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“And in connection with this man,” Brott continued, “I have something in
the nature of a confession to make. I forgot for a moment your request.
I even mentioned your name.”

The pallor had spread to her cheeks, even to her lips. Yet her eyes were
soft and brilliant, so brilliant that they fascinated him.

“What did he say? What did he ask?”

“He asked for your address. Don’t be afraid. I made some excuse. I did
not give it.”

For the life of him he could not tell whether she was pleased or
disappointed. She had turned her shoulder to him. She was looking
steadily out of the window, and he could not see her face.

“Why are you curious about him?” she asked.

“I wish I knew. I think only because he came from Lenox.”

She turned her face slowly round towards him. He was astonished to see
the dark rings under her eyes, the weariness of her smile.

“The Duke of Souspennier,” she said slowly, “is an old and a dear friend
of mine. When you tell me that he is in London I am anxious because
there are many here who are not his friends--who have no cause to love
him.”

“I was wrong then,” he said, “not to give him your address.”

“You were right,” she answered. “I am anxious that he should not know
it. You will remember this?” He rose and bowed over her hand.

“This has been a selfish interlude,” he said. “I have destroyed your
rest, and I almost fear that I have also disturbed your peace of mind.
Let me take my leave and pray that you may recover both.”

She shook her head.

“Do not leave me,” she said. “I am low-spirited. You shall stay and
cheer me.”

There was a light in his eyes which few people would have recognised.
She rose with a little laugh and stood leaning towards the fire, her
elbow upon the broad mantel, tall, graceful, alluring. Her soft crimson
gown, with its wealth of old lace, fell around her in lines and curves
full of grace. The pallor of her face was gone now--the warmth of the
fire burned her cheeks. Her voice became softer.

“Sit down and talk to me,” she murmured. “Do you remember the old days,
when you were a very timid young secretary of Sir George Nomsom, and
I was a maid-of-honour at the Viennese Court? Dear me, how you have
changed!”

“Time,” he said, “will not stand still for all of us. Yet my memory
tells me how possible it would be--for indeed those days seem but as
yesterday.”

He looked up at her with a sudden jealousy. His tone shook with passion.
No one would have recognised Brott now. In his fiercest hour of debate,
his hour of greatest trial, he had worn his mask, always master of
himself and his speech. And now he had cast it off. His eyes were
hungry, his lips twitched.

“As yesterday! Lucille, I could kill you when I think of those days. For
twenty years your kiss has lain upon my lips--and you--with you--it has
been different.”

She laughed softly upon him, laughed more with her eyes than with her
lips. She watched him curiously.

“Dear me!” she murmured, “what would you have? I am a woman--I have been
a woman all my days, and the memory of one kiss grows cold. So I will
admit that with me--it has been different. Come! What then?”

He groaned.

“I wonder,” he said, “what miserable fate, what cursed stroke of fortune
brought you once more into my life?”

She threw her head back and laughed at him, this time heartily,
unaffectedly.

“What adorable candour!” she exclaimed. “My dear friend, how amiable you
are.”

He looked at her steadfastly, and somehow the laugh died away from her
lips.

“Lucille, will you marry me?”

“Marry you? I? Certainly not.”

“And why not?”

“For a score of reasons, if you want them,” she answered. “First,
because I think it is delightful to have you for a friend. I can never
quite tell what you are going to do or say. As a husband I am almost
sure that you would be monotonous. But then, how could you avoid it?
It is madness to think of destroying a pleasant friendship in such a
manner.”

“You are mocking me,” he said sadly.

“Well,” she said, “why not? Your own proposal is a mockery.”

“A mockery! My proposal!”

“Yes,” she answered steadily. “You know quite well that the very
thought of such a thing between you and me is an absurdity. I abhor your
politics, I detest your party. You are ambitious, I know. You intend to
be Prime Minister, a people’s Prime Minister. Well, for my part, I hate
the people. I am an aristocrat. As your wife I should be in a perfectly
ridiculous position. How foolish! You have led me into talking of this
thing seriously. Let us forget all this rubbish.”

He stood before her--waiting patiently, his mouth close set, his manner
dogged with purpose.

“It is not rubbish,” he said. “It is true that I shall be Prime
Minister. It is true also that you will be my wife.”

She shrank back from him--uneasily. The fire in his eyes, the ring in
his tone distressed her.

“As for my politics, you do not understand them. But you shall! I will
convert you to my way of thinking. Yes, I will do that. The cause of the
people, of freedom, is the one great impulse which beats through all the
world. You too shall hear it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I have no wish to hear it. I do not believe in
what you call freedom for the people. I have discovered in America how
uncomfortable a people’s country can be.”

“Yet you married an American. You call yourself still the Countess
Radantz... but you married Mr. James B. Peterson!”

“It is true, my friend,” she answered. “But the American in question
was a person of culture and intelligence, and at heart he was no more
a democrat than I am. Further, I am an extravagant woman, and he was a
millionaire.”

“And you, after his death, without necessity--went to bury yourself in
his country.”

“Why not?”

“I am jealous of every year of your life which lies hidden from me,” he
said slowly.

“Dear me--how uncomfortable!”

“Before you--reappeared,” he said, “I had learnt, yes I had learnt to do
without you. I had sealed up the one chapter of my life which had in
it anything to do with sentiment. Your coming has altered all that. You
have disturbed the focus of my ambitions. Lucille! I have loved you for
more than half a lifetime. Isn’t it time I had my reward?”

He took a quick step towards her. In his tone was the ring of mastery,
the light in his eyes was compelling. She shrank back, but he seized one
of her hands. It lay between his, a cold dead thing.

“What have my politics to do with it?” he asked fiercely. “You are not
an Englishwoman. Be content that I shall set you far above these gods of
my later life. There is my work to be done, and I shall do it. Let me
be judge of these things. Believe me that it is a great work. If you are
ambitious--give your ambitions into my keeping, and I will gratify them.
Only I cannot bear this suspense-these changing moods. Marry me-now at
once, or send me back to the old life.”

She drew her fingers away, and sank down into her easy-chair. Her head
was buried in her hands. Was she thinking or weeping? He could not
decide. While he hesitated she looked up, and he saw that there was no
trace of tears upon her face.

“You are too masterful,” she said gently. “I will not marry you. I will
not give myself body and soul to any man. Yet that is what you ask. I am
not a girl. My opinions are as dear to me in their way as yours are to
you. You want me to close my eyes while you drop sugar plums into my
mouth. That is not my idea of life. I think that you had better go away.
Let us forget these things.”

“Very well,” he answered. “It shall be as you say.” He did not wait for
her to ring, nor did he attempt any sort of farewell. He simply took
up his hat, and before she could realise his intention he had left the
room. Lucille sat quite still, looking into the fire.

“If only,” she murmured, “if only this were the end.”



CHAPTER XIV

Duson entered the sitting-room, noiseless as ever, with pale,
passionless face, the absolute prototype of the perfect French servant,
to whom any expression of vigorous life seems to savour of presumption.
He carried a small silver salver, on which reposed a card.

“The gentleman is in the ante-room, sir,” he announced.

Mr. Sabin took up the card and studied it.

“Lord Robert Foulkes.”

“Do I know this gentleman, Duson?” Mr. Sabin asked.

“Not to my knowledge, sir,” the man answered.

“You must show him in,” Mr. Sabin said, with a sigh. “In this country
one must never be rude to a lord.”

Duson obeyed. Lord Robert Foulkes was a small young man, very carefully
groomed, nondescript in appearance. He smiled pleasantly at Mr. Sabin
and drew off his gloves.

“How do you do, Mr. Sabin?” he said. “Don’t remember me, I daresay. Met
you once or twice last time you were in London. I wish I could say that
I was glad to see you here again.”

Mr. Sabin’s forehead lost its wrinkle. He knew where he was now.

“Sit down, Lord Robert,” he begged. “I do not remember you, it is
true, but I am getting an old man. My memory sometimes plays me strange
tricks.”

The young man looked at Mr. Sabin and laughed softly. Indeed, Mr. Sabin
had very little the appearance of an old man. He was leaning with
both hands clasped upon his stick, his face alert, his eyes bright and
searching.

“You carry your years well, Mr. Sabin. Yet while we are on the subject,
do you know that London is the unhealthiest city in the world?”

“I am always remarkably well here,” Mr. Sabin said drily.

“London has changed since your last visit,” Lord Robert said, with a
gentle smile. “Believe me if I say--as your sincere well-wisher--that
there is something in the air at present positively unwholesome to you.
I am not sure that unwholesome is not too weak a word.”

“Is this official?” Mr. Sabin asked quietly.

The young man fingered the gold chain which disappeared in his trousers
pocket.

“Need I introduce myself?” he asked.

“Quite unnecessary,” Mr. Sabin assured him. “Permit me to reflect for
a few minutes. Your visit comes upon me as a surprise. Will you smoke?
There are cigarettes at your elbow.”

“I am entirely at your service,” Lord Robert answered. “Thanks, I will
try one of your cigarettes. You were always famous for your tobacco.”

There was a short silence. Mr. Sabin had seldom found it more difficult
to see the way before him.

“I imagined,” he said at last, “from several little incidents which
occurred previous to my leaving New York that my presence here was
regarded as superfluous. Do you know, I believe that I could convince
you to the contrary.”

Lord Robert raised his eyebrows.

“Mr. dear Mr. Sabin,” he said, “pray reflect. I am a messenger. No more!
A hired commissionaire!”

Mr. Sabin bowed.

“You are an ambassador!” he said.

The young man shook his head.

“You magnify my position,” he declared. “My errand is done when I remind
you that it is many years since you visited Paris, that Vienna is as
fascinating a city as ever, and Pesth a few hours journey beyond. But
London--no, London is not possible for you. After the seventh day from
this London would be worse than impossible.”

Mr. Sabin smoked thoughtfully for a few moments.

“Lord Robert,” he said, “I have, I believe, the right of a personal
appeal. I desire to make it.”

Lord Robert looked positively distressed.

“My dear sir,” he said, “the right of appeal, any right of any sort,
belongs only to those within the circle.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Sabin agreed. “I claim to belong there.”

Lord Roberts shrugged his shoulders.

“You force me to remind you,” he said, “of a certain decree--a decree of
expulsion passed five years ago, and of which I presume due notification
was given to you.”

Mr. Sabin shook his head very slowly.

“I deny the legality of that decree,” he said. “There can be no such
thing as expulsion.”

“There was Lefanu,” Lord Robert murmured.

“He died,” Mr. Sabin answered. “That was reasonable enough.”

“Your services had been great,” Lord Robert said, “and your fault was
but venial.”

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Sabin said, “the one was logical, the other is not.”

“You claim, then,” the young man said, “to be still within the circle?”

“Certainly!”

“You are aware that this is a very dangerous claim?”

Mr. Sabin smiled, but he said nothing. Lord Robert hastened to excuse
himself.

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should have known better than to have
used such a word to you. Permit me to take my leave.”

Mr. Sabin rose.

“I thank you, sir,” he said, “for the courteous manner in which you have
discharged your mission.”

Lord Robert bowed.

“My good wishes,” he said, “are yours.”

Mr. Sabin when alone called Duson to him.

“Have you any report to make, Duson?” he asked.

“None, sir!”

Mr. Sabin dismissed him impatiently.

“After all, I am getting old. He is young and he is strong--a worthy
antagonist. Come, let us see what this little volume has to say about
him.”

He turned over the pages rapidly and read aloud.

“Reginald Cyril Brott, born 18--, son of John Reginald Brott, Esq.,
of Manchester. Educated at Harrow and Merton College, Cambridge, M.A.,
LL.D., and winner of the Rudlock History Prize. Also tenth wrangler.
Entered the diplomatic service on leaving college, and served as junior
attache at Vienna.”

Mr. Sabin laid down the volume, and made a little calculation. At the
end of it he had made a discovery. His face was very white and set.

“I was at Petersburg,” he muttered. “Now I think of it, I heard
something of a young English attache. But--”

He touched the bell.

“Duson, a carriage!”

At Camperdown House he learned that Helene was out--shopping, the
hall porter believed. Mr. Sabin drove slowly down Bond Street, and was
rewarded by seeing her brougham outside a famous milliner’s. He waited
for her upon the pavement. Presently she came out and smiled her
greetings upon him.

“You were waiting for me?” she asked.

“I saw your carriage.”

“How delightful of you. Let me take you back to luncheon.”

He shook his head.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I should be poor company. May I drive home
with you, at any rate, when you have finished?”

“Of course you may, and for luncheon we shall be quite alone, unless
somebody drops in.”

He took his seat beside her in the carriage. “Helene,” he said, “I am
interested in Mr. Brott. No, don’t look at me like that. You need have
no fear. My interest is in him as a man, and not as a politician. The
other days are over and done with now. I am on the defensive and hard
pressed.”

Her face was bright with sympathy. She forgot everything except her
old admiration for him. In the clashing of their wills the victory had
remained with her. And as for those things which he had done, the cause
at least had been a great one. Her happiness had come to her through
him. She bore him no grudge for that fierce opposition which, after all,
had been fruitless.

“I believe you, UNCLE,” she said affectionately. “If I can help you in
any way I will.”

“This Mr. Brott! He goes very little into society, I believe.”

“Scarcely ever,” she answered. “He came to us because my husband is one
of the few Radical peers.”

“You have not heard of any recent change in him--in this respect?”

“Well, I did hear Wolfendon chaffing him the other day about somebody,”
 she said. “Oh, I know. He has been going often to the Duchess of
Dorset’s. He is such an ultra Radical, you know, and the Dorsets are
fierce Tories. Wolfendon says it is a most unwise thing for a good
Radical who wants to retain the confidence of the people to be seen
about with a Duchess.”

“The Duchess of Dorset,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “must be, well--a
middle-aged woman.”

Helene laughed.

“She is sixty if she is a day. But I daresay she herself is not the
attraction. There is a very beautiful woman staying with her--the
Countess Radantz. A Hungarian, I believe.”

Mr. Sabin sat quite still. His face was turned away from Helene. She
herself was smiling out of the window at some acquaintances.

“I wonder if there is anything more that I can tell you?” she asked
presently.

He turned towards her with a faint smile.

“You have told me,” he said, “all that I want to know.”

She was struck by the change in his face, the quietness of his tone was
ominous.

“Am I meant to understand?” she said dubiously “because I don’t in the
least. It seems to me that have told you nothing. I cannot imagine what
Mr. Brott and you have in common.”

“If your invitation to lunch still holds good,” he said, “may I accept
it? Afterwards, if you can spare me a few minutes I will make things
quite clear to you.”

She laughed.

“You will find,” she declared, “that I shall leave you little peace for
luncheon. I am consumed with curiosity.”



CHAPTER XV

Nevertheless, Mr. Sabin lunched with discretion, as usual, but with no
lack of appetite. It chanced that they were alone. Lord Camperdown was
down in the Midlands for a day’s hunting, and Helene had ensured their
seclusion from any one who might drop in by a whispered word to the
hall porter as they passed into the house. It seemed to her that she had
never found Mr. Sabin more entertaining, had never more appreciated his
rare gift of effortless and anecdotal conversation. What a marvelous
memory! He knew something of every country from the inside. He had been
brought at various times during his long diplomatic career into contact
with most of the interesting people in the world. He knew well how
to separate the grain from the chaff according to the tastes of
his listener. The pathos of his present position appealed to her
irresistibly. The possibilities of his life had been so great, fortune
had treated him always so strangely. The greatest of his schemes had
come so near to success, the luck had turned against him only at the
very moment of fruition. Helene felt very kindly towards her UNCLE as
she led him, after luncheon, to a quiet corner of the winter garden,
where a servant had already arranged a table with coffee and liqueurs
and cigarettes. Unscrupulous all his life, there had been an element of
greatness in all his schemes. Even his failures had been magnificent,
for his successes he himself had seldom reaped the reward. And now in
the autumn of his days she felt dimly that he was threatened with some
evil thing against which he stood at bay single-handed, likely perhaps
to be overpowered. For there was something in his face just now which
was strange to her.

“Helene,” he said quietly, “I suppose that you, who knew nothing of
me till you left school, have looked upon me always as a selfish,
passionless creature--a weaver of plots, perhaps sometimes a dreamer of
dreams, but a person wholly self-centred, always self-engrossed?”

She shook her head.

“Not selfish!” she objected. “No, I never thought that. It is the wrong
word.”

“At least,” he said, “you will be surprised to hear that I have loved
one woman all my life.”

She looked at him half doubtfully.

“Yes,” she said, “I am surprised to hear that.”

“I will surprise you still more. I was married to her in America within
a month of my arrival there. We have lived together ever since. And I
have been very happy. I speak, of course, of Lucille!”

“It is amazing,” she murmured. “You must tell me all about it.”

“Not all,” he answered sadly. “Only this. I met her first at Vienna
when I was thirty-five, and she was eighteen. I treated her shamefully.
Marriage seemed to me, with all my dreams of great achievements, an act
of madness. I believed in myself and my career. I believed that it was
my destiny to restore the monarchy to our beloved country. And I wanted
to be free. I think that I saw myself a second Napoleon. So I won her
love, took all that she had to give, and returned nothing.

“In the course of years she married the son of the American Consul at
Vienna. I was obliged, by the bye, to fight her brother, and he carried
his enmity to me through life. I saw her sometimes in the course
of years. She was always beautiful, always surrounded by a host of
admirers, always cold. When the end of my great plans here came, and I
myself was a fugitive, her brother found me out. He gave me a letter to
deliver in America. I delivered it--to his sister.

“She was as beautiful as ever, and alone in the world. It seemed to me
that I realised then how great my folly had been. For always I had loved
her, always there had been that jealously locked little chamber in my
life. Helene, she pointed no finger of scorn to my broken life. She
uttered no reproaches. She took me as I was, and for three years our
life together has been to me one long unbroken harmony. Our tastes were
very similar. She was well read, receptive, a charming companion. Ennui
was a word of which I have forgotten the meaning. And it seemed so with
her, too, for she grew younger and more beautiful.”

“And why is she not with you?” Helene cried. “I must go and see her. How
delightful it sounds!”

“One day, about three months ago,” Mr. Sabin continued, “she left me to
go to New York for two days. Her milliner in Paris had sent over, and
twice a year Lucille used to buy clothes. I had sometimes accompanied
her, but she knew how I detested New York, and this time she did not
press me to go. She left me in the highest spirits, as tender and
gracefully affectionate as ever. She never returned.”

Helene started in her chair.

“Oh, UNCLE!” she cried.

“I have never seen her since,” he repeated.

“Have you no clue? She could not have left you willingly. Have you no
idea where she is?”

He bowed his head slowly.

“Yes,” he said, “I know where she is. She came to Europe with Lady
Carey. She is staying with the Duchess of Dorset.”

“The Countess Radantz?” Helene cried.

“It was her maiden name,” he answered.

There was a moment’s silence. Helene was bewildered.

“Then you have seen her?”

He shook his head slowly.

“No. I did not even know where she was until you told me.”

“But why do you wait a single moment?” she asked. “There must be some
explanation. Let me order a carriage now. I will drive round to Dorset
House with you.”

She half rose. He held out his hand and checked her.

“There are other things to be explained,” he said quickly. “Sit down,
Helene.”

She obeyed him, mystified.

“For your own sake,” he continued, “there are certain facts in
connection with this matter which I must withhold. All I can tell you
is this. There are people who have acquired a hold upon Lucille so great
that she is forced to obey their bidding. Lady Carey is one, the Duchess
of Dorset is another. They are no friends of mine, and apparently
Lucille has been taken away from me by them.”

“A--a hold upon her?” Helene repeated vaguely.

“It is all I can tell you. You must suppose an extreme case. You may
take my word for it that under certain circumstances Lucille would have
no power to deny them anything.”

“But--without a word of farewell. They could not insist upon her leaving
you like that! It is incredible!”

“It is quite possible,” Mr. Sabin said.

Helene caught herself looking at him stealthily. Was it possible that
this wonderful brain had given way at last? There were no signs of it
in his face or expression. But the Duchess of Dorset! Lady Carey! These
were women of her own circle--Londoners, and the Duchess, at any rate,
a woman of the very highest social position and unimpeached
conventionality.

“This sounds--very extraordinary, UNCLE!” she remarked a little lamely.

“It is extraordinary,” he answered drily. “I do not wonder that you find
it hard to believe me. I--”

“Not to believe--to understand!”

He smiled.

“We will not distinguish! After all, what does it matter? Assume, if
you cannot believe, that Lucille’s leaving me may have been at the
instigation of these people, and therefore involuntary. If this be so
I have hard battle to fight to win her back, but in the end I shall do
it.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“I am sure,” she said, “that you will not find it difficult. Tell me,
cannot I help you in any way? I know the Duchess very well indeed--well
enough to take you to call quite informally if you please. She is a
great supporter of what they call the Primrose League here. I do not
understand what it is all about, but it seems that I may not join
because my husband is a Radical.”

Mr. Sabin looked for a moment over his clasped hands through the faint
blue cloud of cigarette smoke, and sundry possibilities flashed through
his mind to be at once rejected. He shook his head.

“No!” he said firmly. “I do not wish for your help at present, directly
or indirectly. If you meet the Countess I would rather that you did not
mention my name. There is only one person whom, if you met at Dorset
House or anywhere where Lucille is, I would ask you to watch. That is
Mr. Brott!”

It was to be a conversation full of surprises for Helene. Mr. Brott!
Her hand went up to her forehead for a moment, and a little gesture of
bewilderment escaped her.

“Will you tell me,” she asked almost plaintively, “what on earth Mr.
Brott can have to do with this business--with Lucille--with you--with
any one connected with it?”

Mr. Sabin shrugged his shoulders.

“Mr. Brott,” he remarked, “a Cabinet Minister of marked Radical
proclivities, has lately been a frequent visitor at Dorset House,
which is the very home of the old aristocratic Toryism. Mr. Brott was
acquainted with Lucille many years ago--in Vienna. At that time he
was, I believe, deeply interested in her. I must confess that Mr. Brott
causes me some uneasiness.”

“I think--that men always know,” Helene said, “if they care to. Was
Lucille happy with you?”

“Absolutely. I am sure of it.”

“Then your first assumption must be correct,” she declared. “You cannot
explain things to me, so I cannot help you even with my advice. I am
sorry.”

He turned his head towards her and regarded her critically, as though
making some test of her sincerity.

“Helene,” he said gravely, “it is for your own sake that I do not
explain further, that I do not make things clearer to you. Only I wanted
you to understand why I once more set foot in Europe. I wanted you to
understand why I am here. It is to win back Lucille. It is like that
with me, Helene. I, who once schemed and plotted for an empire, am once
more a schemer and a worker, but for no other purpose than to recover
possession of the woman whom I love. You do not recognise me, Helene. I
do not recognise myself. Nevertheless, I would have you know the truth.
I am here for that, and for no other purpose.”

He rose slowly to his feet. She held out both her hands and grasped his.

“Let me help you,” she begged. “Do! This is not a matter of politics or
anything compromising. I am sure that I could be useful to you.”

“So you can,” he answered quietly. “Do as I have asked you. Watch Mr.
Brott!”



CHAPTER XVI

Mr. Brott and Mr. Sabin dined together--not, as it happened, at the
House of Commons, but at the former’s club in Pall Mall. For Mr. Sabin
it was not altogether an enjoyable meal. The club was large, gloomy and
political; the cooking was exactly of that order which such surroundings
seemed to require. Nor was Mr. Brott a particularly brilliant host. Yet
his guest derived a certain amount of pleasure from the entertainment,
owing to Brott’s constant endeavours to bring the conversation round to
Lucille.

“I find,” he said, as they lit their cigarettes, “that I committed an
indiscretion the other day at Camperdown House!”

Mr. Sabin assumed the puzzled air of one endeavouring to pin down an
elusive memory.

“Let me see,” he murmured doubtfully. “It was in connection with--”

“The Countess Radantz. If you remember, I told you that it was her
desire just now to remain incognito. I, however, unfortunately forgot
this during the course of our conversation.”

“Yes, I remember. You told me where she was staying. But the Countess
and I are old acquaintances. I feel sure that she did not object to your
having given me her address. I could not possibly leave London without
calling upon her.”

Mr. Brott moved in his chair uneasily.

“It seems presumption on my part to make such a suggestion perhaps,” he
said slowly, “but I really believe that the Countess is in earnest with
reference to her desire for seclusion just at present. I believe that
she is really very anxious that her presence in London, just now should
not be generally known.”

“I am such a very old friend,” Mr. Sabin said. “I knew her when she was
a child.”

Mr. Brott nodded.

“It is very strange,” he said, “that you should have come together again
in such a country as America, and in a small town too.”

“Lenox,” Mr. Sabin said, “is a small place, but a great center. By the
bye, is there not some question of an impending marriage on the part of
the Countess?”

“I have heard--of nothing of the sort,” Mr. Brott said, looking up
startled. Then, after a moment’s pause, during which he studied closely
his companion’s imperturbable face, he added the question which forced
its way to his lips.

“Have you?”

Mr. Sabin looked along his cigarette and pinched it affectionately. It
was one of his own, which he had dexterously substituted for those which
his host had placed at his disposal.

“The Countess is a very charming, a very beautiful, and a most
attractive woman,” he said slowly. “Her marriage has always seemed to me
a matter of certainty.”

Mr. Brott hesitated, and was lost.

“You are an old friend of hers,” he said. “You perhaps know more of her
recent history than I do. For a time she seemed to drop out of my life
altogether. Now that she has come back I am very anxious to persuade her
to marry me.”

A single lightning-like flash in Mr. Sabin’s eyes for a moment
disconcerted his host. But, after all, it was gone with such amazing
suddenness that it left behind it a sense of unreality. Mr. Brott
decided that after all it must have been fancy.

“May I ask,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “whether the Countess appears to
receive your suit with favour?”

Mr. Brott hesitated.

“I am afraid I cannot go so far as to say that she does,” he said
regretfully. “I do not know why I find myself talking on this matter to
you. I feel that I should apologise for giving such a personal turn to
the conversation.”

“I beg that you will do nothing of the sort,” Mr. Sabin protested. “I
am, as a matter of fact, most deeply interested.”

“You encourage me,” Mr. Brott declared, “to ask you a question--to me a
very important question.”

“It will give me great pleasure,” Mr. Sabin assured him, “if I am able
to answer it.”

“You know,” Mr. Brott said, “of that portion of her life concerning
which I have asked no questions, but which somehow, whenever I think of
it, fills me with a certain amount of uneasiness. I refer to the last
three years which the Countess has spent in America.”

Mr. Sabin looked up, and his lips seemed to move, but he said nothing.
Mr. Brott felt perhaps that he was on difficult ground.

“I recognise the fact,” he continued slowly, “that you are the friend
of the Countess, and that you and I are nothing more than the merest
acquaintances. I ask my question therefore with some diffidence. Can you
tell me from your recent, more intimate knowledge of the Countess
and her affairs, whether there exists any reason outside her own
inclinations why she should not accept my proposals of marriage?”

Mr. Sabin had the air of a man gravely surprised. He shook his head very
slightly.

“You must not ask me such a question as that, Mr. Brott,” he said. “It
is not a subject which I could possibly discuss with you. But I have no
objection to going so far as this. My experience of the Countess is that
she is a woman of magnificent and effective will power. I think if she
has any desire to marry you there are or could be no obstacles existing
which she would not easily dispose of.”

“There are obstacles, then?”

“You must not ask me that,” Mr. Sabin said, with a certain amount of
stiffness. “The Countess is a very dear friend of mine, and you must
forgive me now if I say that I prefer not to discuss her any longer.”

A hall servant entered the room, bearing a note for Mr. Brott. He
received it at first carelessly, but his expression changed the moment
he saw the superscription. He turned a little away, and Mr. Sabin
noticed that the fingers which tore open the envelope were trembling.
The note seemed short enough, but he must have read it half a dozen
times before at last he turned round to the messenger.

“There is no answer,” he said in a low tone.

He folded the note and put it carefully into his breast pocket. Mr.
Sabin subdued an insane desire to struggle with him and discover, by
force, if necessary, who was the sender of those few brief lines. For
Mr. Brott was a changed man.

“I am afraid,” he said, turning to his guest, “that this has been a very
dull evening for you. To tell you the truth, this club is not exactly
the haunt of pleasure-seekers. It generally oppresses me for the first
hour or so. Would you like a hand at bridge, or a game of billiards? I
am wholly at your service--until twelve o’clock.”

Mr. Sabin glanced at the clock.

“You are very good,” he said, “but I was never much good at indoor
games. Golf has been my only relaxation for many years. Besides, I too
have an engagement for which I must leave in a very few minutes.”

“It is very good of you,” Mr. Brott said, “to have given me the pleasure
of your company. I have the greatest possible admiration for your niece,
Mr. Sabin, and Camperdown is a thundering good fellow. He will be our
leader in the House of Lords before many years have passed.”

“He is, I believe,” Mr. Sabin remarked, “of the same politics as
yourself.”

“We are both,” Mr. Brott answered, with a smile, “I am afraid outside
the pale of your consideration in this respect. We are both Radicals.”

Mr. Sabin lit another cigarette and glanced once more at the clock.

“A Radical peer!” he remarked. “Isn’t that rather an anomaly? The
principles of Radicalism and aristocracy seem so divergent.”

“Yet,” Mr. Brott said, “they are not wholly irreconcilable. I have often
wished that this could be more generally understood. I find myself at
times very unpopular with people, whose good opinion I am anxious to
retain, simply owing to this too general misapprehension.”

Mr. Sabin smiled gently.

“You were referring without doubt--” he began.

“To the Countess,” Brott admitted. “Yes, it is true. But after all,” he
added cheerfully, “I believe that our disagreements are mainly upon the
surface. The Countess is a woman of wide culture and understanding. Her
mind, too, is plastic. She has few prejudices.”

Mr. Sabin glanced at the clock for the third time, and rose to his feet.
He was quite sure now that the note was from her. He leaned on his
stick and took his leave quietly. All the time he was studying his host,
wondering at his air of only partially suppressed excitement.

“I must thank you very much, Mr. Brott,” he said, “for your
entertainment. I trust that you will give me an opportunity shortly of
reciprocating your hospitality.”

The two men parted finally in the hall. Mr. Sabin stepped into his hired
carriage.

“Dorset House!” he directed.



CHAPTER XVII

“This little difference of opinion,” the Prince remarked, looking
thoughtfully through the emerald green of his liqueur, “interests me.
Our friend Dolinski here thinks that he will not come because he will
be afraid. De Brouillac, on the contrary, says that he will not come
because he is too sagacious. Felix here, who knows him best, says that
he will not come because he prefers ever to play the game from outside
the circle, a looker-on to all appearance, yet sometimes wielding an
unseen force. It is a strong position that.”

Lucille raised her head and regarded the last speaker steadily.

“And I, Prince!” she exclaimed, “I say that he will come because he is a
man, and because he does not know fear.”

The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer bowed low towards the speaker.

“Dear Lucille,” he said, so respectfully that the faint irony of his
tone was lost to most of those present, “I, too, am of your opinion.
The man who has a right, real or fancied, to claim you must indeed be
a coward if he suffered dangers of any sort to stand in the way. After
all, dangers from us! Is it not a little absurd?”

Lucille looked away from the Prince with a little shudder. He laughed
softly, and drank his liqueur. Afterwards he leaned back for a moment
in his chair and glanced thoughtfully around at the assembled company as
though anxious to impress upon his memory all who were present. It was a
little group, every member of which bore a well-known name. Their host,
the Duke of Dorset, in whose splendid library they were assembled, was,
if not the premier duke of the United Kingdom, at least one of those
whose many hereditary offices and ancient family entitled him to a
foremost place in the aristocracy of the world. Raoul de Brouillac,
Count of Orleans, bore a name which was scarcely absent from a single
page of the martial history of France. The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer kept
up still a semblance of royalty in the State which his ancestors had
ruled with despotic power. Lady Muriel Carey was a younger daughter of
a ducal house, which had more than once intermarried with Royalty. The
others, too, had their claims to be considered amongst the greatest
families of Europe.

The Prince glanced at his watch, and then at the bridge tables ready set
out.

“I think,” he said, “that a little diversion--what does our hostess
say?”

“Two sets can start at least,” the Duchess said. “Lucille and I will
stay out, and the Count de Brouillac does not play.”

The Prince rose.

“It is agreed,” he said. “Duke, will you honour me? Felix and Dolinski
are our ancient adversaries. It should be an interesting trial of
strength.”

There was a general movement, a re-arrangement of seats, and a little
buzz of conversation. Then silence. Lucille sat back in a great chair,
and Lady Carey came over to her side.

“You are nervous to-night, Lucille,” she said.

“Yes, I am nervous,” Lucille admitted. “Why not? At any moment he may be
here.”

“And you care--so much?” Lady Carey said, with a hard little laugh.

“I care so much,” Lucille echoed.

Lady Carey shook out her amber satin skirt and sat down upon a low
divan. She held up her hands, small white hands, ablaze with jewels, and
looked at them for a moment thoughtfully.

“He was very much in earnest when I saw him at Sherry’s in New York,”
 she remarked, “and he was altogether too clever for Mr. Horser and our
friends there. After all their talk and boasting too. Why, they are
ignorant of the very elements of intrigue.”

Lucille sighed.

“Here,” she said, “it is different. The Prince and he are ancient
rivals, and Raoul de Brouillac is no longer his friend. Muriel, I am
afraid of what may happen.”

Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.

“He is no fool,” she said in a low tone. “He will not come here with a
magistrate’s warrant and a policeman to back it up, nor will he attempt
to turn the thing into an Adelphi drama. I know him well enough to be
sure that he will attempt nothing crude. Lucille, don’t you find it
exhilarating?”

“Exhilarating? But why?”

“It will be a game played through to the end by masters, and you, my
dear woman, are the inspiration. I think that it is most fascinating.”

Lucille looked sadly into the fire.

“I think,” she said, “that I am weary of all these things. I seem to
have lived such a very long time. At Lenox I was quite happy. Of my own
will I would never have left it.”

Lady Carey’s thin lips curled a little, her blue eyes were full of
scorn. She was not altogether a pleasant woman to look upon. Her cheeks
were thin and hollow, her eyes a little too prominent, some hidden
expression which seemed at times to flit from one to the other of her
features suggested a sensuality which was a little incongruous with her
somewhat angular figure and generally cold demeanour. But that she was a
woman of courage and resource history had proved.

“How idyllic!” she exclaimed. “Positively medieval! Fancy living with
one man three years.”

Lucille smiled.

“Why, not? I never knew a woman yet however cold however fond of change,
who had not at some time or other during her life met a man for whose
sake she would have done--what I did. I have had as many admirers--as
many lovers, I suppose, as most women. But I can truthfully say that
during the last three years no thought of one of them has crossed my
mind.”

Lady Carey laughed scornfully.

“Upon my word,” she said. “If the Prince had not a temper, and if they
were not playing for such ruinous points, I would entertain them all
with these delightful confidences. By the bye, the Prince himself was
once one of those who fell before your chariot wheels, was he not? Look
at him now--sideways. What does he remind you of?”

Lucille raised her eyes.

“A fat angel,” she answered, “or something equally distasteful. How I
hate those mild eyes and that sweet, slow smile. I saw him thrash a poor
beater once in the Saxe Leinitzer forests. Ugh!”

“I should not blame him for that,” Lady Carey said coldly. “I like
masterful men, even to the point of cruelty. General Dolinski there
fascinates me. I believe that he keeps a little private knout at home
for his wife and children. A wicked little contrivance with an ivory
handle. I should like to see him use it.”

Lucille shuddered. This tete-a-tete did not amuse her. She rose and
looked over one of the bridge tables for a minute. The Prince, who was
dealing, looked up with a smile.

“Be my good angel, Countess,” he begged. “Fortune has deserted me
to-night. You shall be the goddess of chance, and smile your favours
upon me.”

A hard little laugh came from the chair where Lady Carey sat. She turned
her head towards them, and there was a malicious gleam in her eyes.

“Too late, Prince,” she exclaimed. “The favours of the Countess are all
given away. Lucille has become even as one of those flaxen-haired dolls
of your mountain villages. She has given her heart away, and she is
sworn to perpetual constancy.”

The Prince smiled.

“The absence,” he said, glancing up at the clock, “of that most
fortunate person should surely count in our favour.”

Lucille followed his eyes. The clock was striking ten. She shrugged her
shoulders.

“If the converse also is true, Prince,” she said, “you can scarcely have
anything to hope for from me. For by half-past ten he will be here.”

The Prince picked up his cards and sorted them mechanically.

“We shall see,” he remarked. “It is true, Countess, that you are here,
but in this instance you are set with thorns.”

“To continue the allegory, Prince,” she answered, passing on to the next
table, “also with poisonous berries. But to the hand which has no fear,
neither are harmful.”

The Prince laid down his hand.

“Now I really believe,” he said gently, “that she meant to be rude.
Partner, I declare hearts!”

Felix was standing out from the next table whilst his hand was being
played by General Dolinski, his partner. He drew her a little on one
side.

“Do not irritate Saxe Leinitzer,” he whispered. “Remember, everything
must rest with him. Twice to-night you have brought that smile to his
lips, and I never see it without thinking of unpleasant things.”

“You are right,” she answered; “but I hate him so. He and Muriel Carey
seem to have entered into some conspiracy to lead me on to say things
which I might regret.”

“Saxe Leinitzer,” he said, “has never forgotten that he once aspired to
be your lover.”

“He has not failed to let me know it,” she answered. “He has even
dared--ah!”

There was a sudden stir in the room. The library door was thrown open.
The solemn-visaged butler stood upon the threshold.

“His Grace the Duke of Souspennier!” he announced.



CHAPTER XVIII

There was for the moment a dead silence. The soft patter of cards no
longer fell upon the table. The eyes of every one were turned upon the
newcomers. And he, leaning upon his stick, looked only for one person,
and having found her, took no heed of any one else.

“Lucille!”

She rose from her seat and stood with hands outstretched towards him,
her lips parted in a delightful smile, her eyes soft with happiness.

“Victor, welcome! It is like you to have found me, and I knew that you
would come.”

He raised her fingers to his lips--tenderly--with the grace of a prince,
but all the affection of a lover. What he said to her none could hear,
for his voice was lowered almost to a whisper. But the colour stained
her cheeks, and her blush was the blush of a girl.

A movement of the Duchess recalled him to a sense of his social duty. He
turned courteously to her with extended hand.

“I trust,” he said, “that I may be forgiven my temporary fit of
aberration. I cannot thank you sufficiently, Duchess, for your kind
invitation.”

Her answering smile was a little dubious.

“I am sure,” she said “that we are delighted to welcome back amongst us
so old and valued a friend. I suppose you know every one?”

Mr. Sabin looked searchingly around, exchanging bows with those whose
faces were familiar to him. But between him and the Prince of Saxe
Leinitzer there passed no pretense at any greeting. The two men eyed one
another for a moment coldly. Each seemed to be trying to read the other
through.

“I believe,” Mr. Sabin said, “that I have that privilege. I see,
however, that I am interrupting your game. Let me beg you to continue.
With your permission, Duchess, I will remain a spectator. There are many
things which my wife and I have to say to one another.”

The Prince of Saxe Leinitzer laid his cards softly upon the table. He
smiled upon Mr. Sabin--a slow, unpleasant smile.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that our game must be postponed. It is a
pity, but I think it had better be so.”

“It must be entirely as you wish,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I am at your
service now or later.”

The Prince rose to his feet.

“Monsieur le Due de Souspennier,” he said, “what are we to conclude from
your presence here this evening?”

“It is obvious,” Mr. Sabin answered. “I claim my place amongst you.”

“You claim to be one of us?”

“I do!”

“Ten years ago,” the Prince continued, “you were granted immunity from
all the penalties and obligations which a co-membership with us might
involve. This privilege was extended to you on account of certain great
operations in which you were then engaged, and the object of which
was not foreign to our own aims. You are aware that the period of that
immunity is long since past.”

Mr. Sabin leaned with both hands upon his stick, and his face was like
the face of a sphinx. Only Lucille, who knew him best of all those
there, saw him wince for a moment before this reminder of his great
failure.

“I am not accustomed,” Mr. Sabin said quietly, “to shirk my share of the
work in any undertaking with which I am connected. Only in this case I
claim to take the place of the Countess Lucille, my wife. I request that
the task, whatever it may be which you have imposed upon her, may be
transferred to me.”

The Prince’s smile was sweet, but those who knew him best wondered what
evil it might betoken for his ancient enemy.

“You offer yourself, then, as a full member?”

“Assuredly!”

“Subject,” he drawled, “to all the usual pains and privileges?”

“Certainly!”

The Prince played with the cards upon the table. His smooth, fair face
was unruffled, almost undisturbed. Yet underneath he was wondering
fiercely, eagerly, how this might serve his ends.

“The circumstances,” he said at last, “are peculiar. I think that we
should do well to consult together--you and I, Felix, and Raoul here.”

The two men named rose up silently. The Prince pointed to a small
round table at the farther end of the apartment, half screened off by a
curtained recess.

“Am I also,” Mr. Sabin asked, “of your company?”

The Prince shook his head.

“I think not,” he said. “In a few moments we will return.”

Mr. Sabin moved away with a slight enigmatic gesture. Lucille gathered
up her skirts, making room for him by her side on a small sofa.

“It is delightful to see you, Victor,” she murmured. “It is delightful
to know that you trusted me.”

Mr. Sabin looked at her, and the smile which no other woman had ever
seen softened for a moment his face.

“Dear Lucille,” he murmured, “how could you ever doubt it? There was a
day, I admit, when the sun stood still, when, if I had felt inclined to
turn to light literature, I should have read aloud the Book of Job. But
afterwards--well, you see that I am here.”

She laughed.

“I knew that you would come,” she said, “and yet I knew that it would
be a struggle between you and them. For--the Prince--” she murmured,
lowering her voice, “had pledged his word to keep us apart.”

Mr. Sabin raised his head, and his eyes traveled towards the figure of
the man who sat with his back to them in the far distant corner of the
room.

“The Prince,” he said softly, “is faithful to his ancient enmities.”

Lucille’s face was troubled. She turned to her companion with a little
grimace.

“He would have me believe,” she murmured, “that he is faithful to other
things besides his enmities.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“I am not jealous,” he said softly, “of the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer!”

As though attracted by the mention of his name, which must, however,
have been unheard by him, the Prince at that moment turned round and
looked for a moment towards them. He shot a quick glance at Lady Carey.
Almost at once she rose from her chair and came across to them.

“The Prince’s watch-dog,” Lucille murmured. “Hateful woman! She is bound
hand and foot to him, and yet--”

Her eyes met his, and he laughed.

“Really,” he said, “you and I in our old age might be hero and heroine
of a little romance--the undesiring objects of a hopeless affection!”

Lady Carey sank into a low chair by their side. “You two,” she said,
with a slow, malicious smile, “are a pattern to this wicked world. Don’t
you know that such fidelity is positively sinful, and after three years
in such a country too?”

“It is the approach of senility,” Mr. Sabin answered her. “I am an old
man, Lady Muriel!”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“You are like Ulysses,” she said. “The gods, or rather the goddesses,
have helped you towards immortality.”

“It is,” Mr. Sabin answered, “the most delicious piece of flattery I
have ever heard.”

“Calypso,” she murmured, nodding towards Lucille, “is by your side.”

“Really,” Mr. Sabin interrupted, “I must protest. Lucille and I
were married by a most respectable Episcopalian clergyman. We have
documentary evidence. Besides, if Lucille is Calypso, what about
Penelope?”

Lady Carey smiled thoughtfully.

“I have always thought,” she said, “that Penelope was a myth. In your
case I should say that Penelope represents a return to sanity--to the
ordinary ways of life.”

Mr. Sabin and Lucille exchanged swift glances. He raised his eyebrows.

“Our little idyll,” he said, “seems to be the sport and buffet of
every one. You forget that I am of the old world. I do not understand
modernity.”

“Ulysses,” she answered, “was of the old world, yet he was a wanderer in
more senses of the word than one. And there have been times--”

Her eyes sought his. He ignored absolutely the subtlety of meaning which
lurked beneath the heavy drooping eyelids.

“One travels through life,” he answered, “by devious paths, and a little
wandering in the flower-gardens by the way is the lot of every one.
But when the journey is over, one’s taste for wandering has gone--well,
Ulysses finished his days at the hearth of Penelope.”

She rose and walked away. Mr. Sabin sat still and watched her as though
listening to the soft sweep of her gown upon the carpet.

“Hateful woman!” Lucille exclaimed lightly. “To make love, and such
love, to one’s lawful husband before one’s face is a little crude, don’t
you think?”

He shook his head.

“Too obvious,” he answered. “She is playing the Prince’s game. Dear me,
how interesting this will be soon.”

She nodded. A faint smile of bitterness had stolen into her tone.

“Already,” she said, “you are beginning to scent the delight of the
atmosphere. You are stiffening for the fight. Soon--”

“Ah, no! Don’t say it,” he whispered, taking her hand. “I shall never
forget. If the fight seems good to me it is because you are the prize,
and after all, you know, to fight for one’s womenkind is amongst the
primeval instincts.”

Lady Carey, who had been pacing the room restlessly, touching an
ornament here, looking at a picture there, came back to them and stood
before Mr. Sabin. She had caught his last words.

“Primeval instincts!” she exclaimed mockingly. “What do you know about
them, you of all men, a bundle of nerves and brains, with a motor for
a heart, and an automatic brake upon your passions? Upon my word, I
believe that I have solved the mystery of your perennial youth. You have
found a way of substituting machinery for the human organ, and you are
wound up to go for ever.”

“You have found me out,” he admitted. “Professor Penningram of Chicago
will supply you too with an outfit. Mention my name if you like. It is a
wonderful country America.”

The Prince came over to them, fair and bland with no trace upon his
smooth features or in his half-jesting tone of any evil things.

“Souspennier,” he said, holding out his hand, “welcome back once more to
your old place. I am happy to say that there appears to be no reason why
your claim should not be fully admitted.”

Mr. Sabin rose to his feet.

“I presume,” he said, “that no very active demands are likely to be made
upon my services. In this country more than any other I fear that the
possibilities of my aid are scanty.”

The Prince smiled.

“It is a fact,” he said, “which we all appreciate. Upon you at present
we make no claim.”

There was a moment’s intense silence. A steely light glittered in Mr.
Sabin’s eyes. He and the Prince alone remained standing. The Duchess of
Dorset watched them through her lorgnettes; Lady Carey watched too
with an intense eagerness, her eyes alight with mingled cruelty and
excitement. Lucille’s eyes were so bright that one might readily believe
the tears to be glistening beneath.



CHAPTER XIX

“I will not pretend,” Mr. Sabin said, “to misunderstand you. My help is
not required by you in this enterprise, whatever it may be, in which you
are engaged. On the contrary, you have tried by many and various ways to
keep me at a distance. But I am here, Prince--here to be dealt with and
treated according to my rights.”

The Prince stroked his fair moustache.

“I am a little puzzled,” he admitted, “as to this--shall I not call it
self-assertiveness?--on the part of my good friend Souspennier.”

“I will make it quite clear then,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Lucille, will
you favour me by ringing for your maid. The carriage is at the door.”

The Prince held out his hand.

“My dear Souspennier,” he said, “you must not think of taking Lucille
away from us.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Sabin answered coolly. “Why not?”

“It must be obvious to you,” the Prince answered, “that we did not
send to America for Lucille without an object. She is now engaged in an
important work upon our behalf. It is necessary that she should remain
under this roof.”

“I demand,” Mr. Sabin said, “that the nature of that necessity should be
made clear to me.”

The Prince smiled with the air of one disposed to humour a wilful child.

“Come!” he said. “You must know very well that I cannot stand here
and tell you the bare outline, much less the details of an important
movement. To-morrow, at any hour you choose, one from amongst us
shall explain the whole matter--and the part to be borne in it by the
Countess!”

“And to-night?” Mr. Sabin asked.

The Prince shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the clock.

“To-night, my dear friend,” he said, “all of us, I believe, go on to a
ball at Carmarthen House. It would grieve me also, I am sure, Duke, to
seem inhospitable, but I am compelled to mention the fact that the hour
for which the carriages have been ordered is already at hand.”

Mr. Sabin reflected for a few moments.

“Did I understand you to say,” he asked, “that the help to be given to
you by my wife, Lucille, Duchess of Souspennier, entailed her remaining
under this roof?”

The Prince smiled seraphically.

“It is unfortunate,” he murmured, “since you have been so gallant as
to follow her, but it is true! You will understand this
perfectly--to-morrow.”

“And why should I wait until to-morrow?” Mr. Sabin asked coolly.

“I fear,” the Prince said, “that it is a matter of necessity.”

Mr. Sabin glanced for a moment in turn at the faces of all the little
company as though seeking to discover how far the attitude of his
opponent met with their approval. Lady Carey’s thin lips were curved
in a smile, and her eyes met his mockingly. The others remained
imperturbable. Last of all he looked at Lucille.

“It seems,” he said, smiling towards her, “that I am called upon to pay
a heavy entrance fee on my return amongst your friends. But the Prince
of Saxe Leinitzer forgets that he has shown me no authority, or given me
no valid reason why I should tolerate such flagrant interference with my
personal affairs.”

“To-morrow--to-morrow, my good sir!” the Prince interrupted.

“No! To-night!” Mr. Sabin answered sharply. “Lucille, in the absence of
any reasonable explanation, I challenge the right of the Prince of Saxe
Leinitzer to rob me even for an hour of my dearest possession. I appeal
to you. Come with me and remain with me until it has been proved, if
ever it can be proved, that greater interests require our separation. If
there be blame I will take it. Will you trust yourself to me?”

Lucille half rose, but Lady Carey’s hand was heavy upon her shoulder.
As though by a careless movement General Dolinski and Raoul de Brouillac
altered their positions slightly so as to come between the two. The
Duke of Dorset had left the room. Then Mr. Sabin knew that they were all
against him.

“Lucille,” he said, “have courage! I wait for you.”

She looked towards him, and her face puzzled him. For there flashed
across the shoulders of these people a glance which was wholly out of
harmony with his own state of barely subdued passion--a glance half
tender, half humorous, full of subtle promise. Yet her words were a blow
to him.

“Victor, how is it possible? Believe me, I should come if I could.
To-morrow--very soon, it may be possible. But now. You hear what the
Prince says. I fear that he is right!”

To Mr. Sabin the shock was an unexpected one. He had never doubted but
that she at least was on his side. Her words found him unprepared, and
a moment he showed his discomfiture. His recovery however, was swift and
amazing. He bowed to Lucille, and by the time he raised his head even
the reproach had gone from his eyes.

“Dear lady,” he said, “I will not venture to dispute your decision.
Prince, will you appoint a time to-morrow when this matter shall be more
fully explained to me?”

The Prince’s smile was sweetness itself, and his tone very gentle. But
Mr. Sabin, who seldom yielded to any passionate impulse, kept his teeth
set and his hand clenched, lest the blow he longed to deal should escape
him.

“At midday to-morrow I shall be pleased to receive you,” he said.
“The Countess, with her usual devotion and good sense, has, I trust,
convinced you that our action is necessary!”

“To-morrow at midday,” Mr. Sabin said, “I will be here. I have the
honour to wish you all good-night.”

His farewell was comprehensive. He did not even single out Lucille for a
parting glance. But down the broad stairs and across the hall of Dorset
House he passed with weary steps, leaning heavily upon his stick. It was
a heavy blow which had fallen upon him. As yet he scarcely realised it.

His carriage was delayed for a few moments, and just as he was entering
it a young woman, plainly dressed in black, came hurrying out and
slipped a note into his hand.

“Pardon, monsieur,” she exclaimed, with a smile. “I feared that I was
too late.”

Mr. Sabin’s fingers closed over the note, and he stepped blithely
into the carriage. But when he tore it open and saw the handwriting he
permitted himself a little groan of disappointment. It was not from her.
He read the few lines and crushed the sheet of paper in his hand.

  “I am having supper at the Carlton with some friends on our way
  to C. H.  I want to speak to you for a moment.  Be in the Palm
  Court at 12.15, but do not recognise me until I come to you.  If
  possible keep out of sight.  If you should have left my maid will
  bring this on to your hotel.
                                                           “M. C.”

Mr. Sabin leaned back in his carriage, and a frown of faint perplexity
contracted his forehead.

“If I were a younger man,” he murmured to himself, “I might believe
that this woman was really in earnest, as well as being Saxe Leinitzer’s
jackal. We were friendly enough in Paris that year. She is unscrupulous
enough, of course. Always with some odd fancy for the grotesque or
unlikely. I wonder--”

He pulled the check-string, and was driven to Camperdown House. A great
many people were coming and going. Mr. Sabin found Helene’s maid, and
learnt that her mistress was just going to her room, and would be alone
for a few minutes. He scribbled a few words on the back of a card, and
was at once taken up to her boudoir.

“My dear UNCLE,” Helene exclaimed, “you have arrived most opportunely.
We have just got rid of a few dinner people, and we are going on to
Carmarthen House presently. Take that easy-chair, please, and, light a
cigarette. Will you have a liqueur? Wolfendon has some old brandy which
every one seems to think wonderful.”

“You are very kind, Helene,” Mr. Sabin said. “I cannot refuse anything
which you offer in so charming a manner. But I shall not keep you more
than a few minutes.”

“We need not leave for an hour,” Helene said, “and I am dressed except
for my jewels. Tell me, have you seen Lucille? I am so anxious to know.”

“I have seen Lucille this evening,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“At Dorset House!”

“Yes.”

Helene sat down, smiling.

“Do tell me all about it.”

“There is very little to tell,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“She is with you--she returns at least!”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “She remains at Dorset House.”

Helene was silent. Mr. Sabin smoked pensively a moment or two, and
sipped the liqueur which Camperdown’s own servant had just brought him.

“It is very hard, Helene,” he said, “to make you altogether understand
the situation, for there are certain phases of it which I cannot discuss
with you at all. I have made my first effort to regain Lucille, and it
has failed. It is not her fault. I need not say that it is not mine. But
the struggle has commenced, and in the end I shall win.”

“Lucille herself--” Helene began hesitatingly.

“Lucille is, I firmly believe, as anxious to return to me as I am
anxious to have her,” Mr. Sabin said.

Helene threw up her hands.

“It is bewildering,” she exclaimed.

“It must seem so to you,” Mr. Sabin admitted.

“I wish that Lucille were anywhere else,” Helene said. “The Dorset House
set, you know, although they are very smart and very exclusive, have
a somewhat peculiar reputation. Lady Carey, although she is such a
brilliant woman, says and does the most insolent, the most amazing
things, and the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer goes everywhere in Europe by
the name of the Royal libertine. They are powerful enough almost to
dominate society, and we poor people who abide by the conventions are
absolutely nowhere beside them. They think that we are bourgeois because
we have virtue, and prehistoric because we are not decadent.”

“The Duke--” Mr. Sabin remarked.

“Oh, the Duke is quite different, of course,” Helene admitted. “He is a
fanatical Tory, very stupid, very blind to anything except his beloved
Primrose League. How he came to lend himself to the vagaries of such a
set I cannot imagine.”

Mr. Sabin smiled.

“C’est la femme toujours!” he remarked. “His Grace is, I fear,
henpecked, and the Duchess herself is the sport of cleverer people. And
now, my dear niece, I see that the time is going. I came to know if you
could get me a card for the ball at Carmarthen House to-night.”

Helene laughed softly.

“Very easily, my dear UNCLE. Lady Carmarthen is Wolfendon’s cousin, you
know, and a very good friend of mine. I have half a dozen blank cards
here. Shall I really see you there?”

“I believe so,” Mr. Sabin answered.

“And Lucille?”

“It is possible.”

“There is nothing I suppose which I can do in the way of intervention,
or anything of that sort?”

Mr. Sabin shook his head.

“Lucille and I are the best of friends,” he answered. “Talk to her, if
you will. By the bye, is that twelve o’clock? I must hurry. Doubtless we
shall meet again at the ball.”

But Carmarthen House saw nothing of Mr. Sabin that night.



CHAPTER XX

Mr. Sabin from his seat behind a gigantic palm watched her egress from
the supper-room with a little group of friends.

They came to a halt in the broad carpeted way only a few feet from him.
Lady Carey, in a wonderful green gown, her neck and bosom ablaze with
jewels, seemed to be making her farewells.

“I must go in and see the De Lausanacs,” she exclaimed. “They are in
the blue room supping with the Portuguese Ambassador. I shall be
at Carmarthen House within half an hour--unless my headache becomes
unbearable. Au revoir, all of you. Good-bye, Laura!”

Her friends passed on towards the great swing doors. Lady Carey
retraced her steps slowly towards the supper-room, and made some languid
inquiries of the head waiter as to a missing handkerchief. Then she came
again slowly down the broad way and reached Mr. Sabin. He rose to his
feet.

“I thank you very much for your note,” he said. “You have something, I
believe, to say to me.”

She stood before him for a moment in silence, as though not unwilling
that he should appreciate the soft splendour of her toilette. The jewels
which encircled her neck were priceless and dazzling; the soft material
of her gown, the most delicate shade of sea green, seemed to foam about
her feet, a wonderful triumph of allegoric dressmaking. She saw that
he was studying her, and she laughed a little uneasily, looking all the
time into his eyes.

“Shockingly overdressed, ain’t I?” she said. “We were going straight to
Carmarthen House, you know. Come and sit in this corner for a moment,
and order me some coffee. I suppose there isn’t any less public place!”

“I fear not,” he answered. “You will perhaps be unobserved behind this
palm.”

She sank into a low chair, and he seated himself beside her. She sighed
contentedly.

“Dear me!” she said. “Do men like being run after like this?”

Mr. Sabin raised his eyebrows.

“I understood,” he said, “that you had something to say to me of
importance.”

She shot a quick look up at him.

“Don’t be horrid,” she said in a low tone. “Of course I wanted to see
you. I wanted to explain. Give me one of your cigarettes.”

He laid his case silently before her. She took one and lit it, watching
him furtively all the time. The man brought their coffee. The place was
almost empty now, and some of the lights were turned down.

“It is very kind of you,” he said slowly, “to honour me by so much
consideration, but if you have much to say perhaps it would be better
if you permitted me to call upon you to-morrow. I am afraid of depriving
you of your ball--and your friends will be getting impatient.”

“Bother the ball--and my friends,” she exclaimed, a certain strained
note in her tone which puzzled him. “I’m not obliged to go to the thing,
and I don’t want to. I’ve invented a headache, and they won’t even
expect me. They know my headaches.”

“In that case,” Mr. Sabin said, “I am entirely at your service.”

She sighed, and looked up at him through a little cloud of tobacco
smoke.

“What a wonderful man you are,” she said softly. “You accept defeat with
the grace of a victor. I believe that you would triumph as easily with
a shrug of the shoulders. Haven’t you any feeling at all? Don’t you know
what it is like to feel?”

He smiled.

“We both come,” he said, “of a historic race. If ancestry is worth
anything it should at least teach us to go about without pinning our
hearts upon our sleeves.”

“But you,” she murmured, “you have no heart.”

He looked down upon her then with still cold face and steady eyes.

“Indeed,” he said, “you are mistaken.”

She moved uneasily in her chair. She was very pale, except for a faint
spot of pink colour in her cheeks.

“It is very hard to find, then,” she said, speaking quickly, her bosom
rising and falling, her eyes always seeking to hold his. “To-night you
see what I have done--I have, sent away my friends--and my carriage.
They may know me here--you see what I have risked. And I don’t care.
You thought to-night that I was your enemy--and I am not. I am not your
enemy at all.”

Her hand fell as though by accident upon his, and remained there. Mr.
Sabin was very nearly embarrassed. He knew quite well that if she were
not his enemy at that moment she would be very shortly.

“Lucille,” she continued, “will blame me too. I cannot help it. I want
to tell you that for the present your separation from her is a certain
thing. She acquiesces. You heard her. She is quite happy. She is at the
ball to-night, and she has friends there who will make it pleasant for
her. Won’t you understand?”

“No,” Mr. Sabin answered.

She beat the ground with her foot.

“You must understand,” she murmured. “You are not like these fools
of Englishmen who go to sleep when they are married, and wake in the
divorce court. For the present at least you have lost Lucille. You heard
her choose. She’s at the ball to-night--and I have come here to be with
you. Won’t you, please,” she added, with a little nervous laugh, “show
some gratitude?”

The interruption which Mr. Sabin had prayed for came at last. The
musicians had left, and many of the lights had been turned down. An
official came across to them.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Sabin, “but we are
closing now, unless you are a guest in the hotel.”

“I am staying here,” Mr. Sabin answered, rising, “but the lady--”

Lady Carey interrupted him.

“I am staying here also,” she said to the man.

He bowed at once and withdrew. She rose slowly to her feet and laid her
fingers upon his arm. He looked steadily away from her.

“Fortunately,” he said, “I have not yet dismissed my own carriage.
Permit me.”

      *          *            *           *           *

Mr. Sabin leaned heavily upon his stick as he slowly made his way along
the corridor to his rooms. Things were going ill with him indeed. He was
not used to the fear of an enemy, but the memory of Lady Carey’s white
cheeks and indrawn lips as she had entered his carriage chilled him.
Her one look, too, was a threat worse than any which her lips could
have uttered. He was getting old indeed, he thought, wearily, when
disappointment weighed so heavily upon him. And Lucille? Had he any
real fears of her? He felt a little catch in his throat at the bare
thought--in a moment’s singular clearness of perception he realised that
if Lucille were indeed lost the world was no longer a place for him. So
his feet fell wearily upon the thickly carpeted floor of the corridor,
and his face was unusually drawn and haggard as he opened the door of
his sitting-room.

And then--a transformation, amazing, stupefying. It was Lucille who
was smiling a welcome upon him from the depths of his favourite
easy-chair--Lucille sitting over his fire, a novel in her hand, and
wearing a delightful rose-pink dressing-gown. Some of her belongings
were scattered about his room, giving it a delicate air of femininity.
The faint odour of her favourite and only perfume gave to her undoubted
presence a wonderful sense of reality.

She held out her hands to him, and the broad sleeves of her
dressing-gown fell away from her white rounded arms. Her eyes were
wonderfully soft, the pink upon her cheeks was the blush of a girl.

“Victor,” she murmured, “do not look so stupefied. Did you not believe
that I would risk at least a little for you, who have risked so much for
me? Only come to me! Make the most of me. All sorts of things are sure
to happen directly I am found out.”

He took her into his arms. It was one of the moments of his lifetime.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “how have you dared to do this?”

She laughed.

“You know the Prince and his set. You know the way they bribe. Intrigues
everywhere, new and old overlapping. They have really some reason for
keeping you and me apart, but as regards my other movements, I am free
enough. And they thought, Victor--don’t be angry--but I let them
think it was some one else. And I stole away from the ball, and they
think--never mind what they think. But you, Victor, are my intrigue,
you, my love, my husband!”

Then all the fatigue and all the weariness, died away from Mr. Sabin’s
face. Once more the fire of youth burned in his heart. And Lucille
laughed softly as her lips met his, and her head sank upon his shoulder.



CHAPTER XXI

Lady Carey suddenly dropped her partner’s arm. She had seen a man
standing by himself with folded arms and moody face at the entrance
to the ball-room. She raised her lorgnettes. His identity was
unquestionable.

“Will you excuse me for a moment, Captain Horton,” she said to her
escort. “I want particularly to speak to Mr. Brott.”

Captain Horton bowed with the slight disappointment of a hungry man on
his way to the supper-room.

“Don’t be long,” he begged. “The places are filling up.”

Lady Carey nodded and walked swiftly across to where Brott was standing.
He moved eagerly forward to meet her.

“Not dancing, Mr. Brott?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“This sort of thing isn’t much in my way,” he answered. “I was rather
hoping to see the Countess here. I trust that she is not indisposed.”

She looked at him steadily.

“Do you mean,” she said, “that you do not know where she is?”

“I?” he answered in amazement. “How should I? I have not seen her at all
this evening. I understood that she was to be here.”

Lady Carey hesitated. The man was too honest to be able to lie like
this, even in a good cause. She stood quite still for a moment thinking.
Several of her dearest friends had already told her that she was looking
tired and ill this evening. At that moment she was positively haggard.

“I have been down at Ranelagh this afternoon,” she said slowly, “and
dining out, so I have not seen Lucille. She was complaining of a
headache yesterday, but I quite thought that she was coming here. Have
you seen the Duchess?”

He shook his head.

“No. There is such a crowd.”

Lady Carey glanced towards her escort and turned away.

“I will try and find out what has become of her,” she said. “Don’t go
away yet.”

She rejoined her escort.

“When we have found a table,” she said, “I want you to keep my place for
a few moments while I try and find some of my party.”

They passed into the supper-room, and appropriated a small table. Lady
Carey left her partner, and made her way to the farther end of the
apartment, where the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer was supping with half a
dozen men and women. She touched him on the shoulder.

“I want to speak to you for a moment, Ferdinand,” she whispered.

He rose at once, and she drew him a little apart.

“Brott is here,” she said slowly.

“Brott here!” he repeated. “And Lucille?”

“He is asking for her--expected to find her here. He is downstairs now,
looking the picture of misery.”

He looked at her inquiringly. There was a curious steely light in
her eyes, and she was showing her front teeth, which were a little
prominent.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that she has deceived us?”

“What else? Where are the Dorsets?”

“The Duchess is with the Earl of Condon, and some more people at the
round table under the balcony.”

“Give me your arm,” she whispered. “We must go and ask her.”

They crossed the room together. Lady Carey sank into a vacant chair by
the side of the Duchess and talked for a few minutes to the people whom
she knew. Then she turned and whispered in the Duchess’s ear.

“Where is Lucille?”

The Duchess looked at her with a meaning smile.

“How should I know? She left when we did.”

“Alone?”

“Yes. It was all understood, wasn’t it?”

Lady Carey laughed unpleasantly.

“She has fooled us,” she said. “Brott is here alone. Knows nothing of
her.”

The Duchess was puzzled.

“Well, I know nothing more than you do,” she answered. “Are you sure the
man is telling the truth?”

“Of course. He is the image of despair.”

“I am sure she was in earnest,” the Duchess said. “When I asked her
whether she should come on here she laughed a little nervously, and said
perhaps or something of that sort.”

“The fool may have bungled it,” Lady Carey said thoughtfully. “I will
go back to him. There’s that idiot of a partner of mine. I must go and
pretend to have some supper.”

Captain Horton found his vis-a-vis a somewhat unsatisfactory companion.
She drank several glasses of champagne, ate scarcely anything, and
rushed him away before he had taken the edge off his appetite. He
brought her to the Duchess and went back in a huff to finish his supper
alone. Lady Carey went downstairs and discovered Mr. Brott, who had
scarcely moved.

“Have you seen anything of her?” she asked.

He shook his head gloomily.

“No! It is too late for her to come now, isn’t it?”

“Take me somewhere where we can talk,” she said abruptly. “One of those
seats in the recess will do.”

He obeyed her, and they found a retired corner. Lady Carey wasted no
time in fencing.

“I am Lucille’s greatest friend, Mr. Brott, and her confidante,” she
said.

He nodded.

“So I have understood.”

“She tells me everything.”

He glanced towards her a little uneasily.

“That is comprehensive!” he remarked.

“It is true,” she answered. “Lucille has told me a great deal about your
friendship! Come, there is no use in our mincing words. Lucille has
been badly treated years ago, and she has a perfect right to seek any
consolation she may find. The old fashioned ideas, thank goodness, do
not hold any longer amongst us. It is not necessary to tie yourself for
life to a man in order to procure a little diversion.”

“I will not pretend to misunderstand you, Lady Carey,” he said gravely,
“but I must decline to discuss the Countess of Radantz in connection
with such matters.”

“Oh, come!” she declared impatiently; “remember that I am her friend.
Yours is quite the proper attitude, but with me it doesn’t matter. Now
I am going to ask you a plain question. Had you any engagement with
Lucille to-night?”

She watched him mercilessly. He was colouring like a boy. Lady Carey’s
thin lips curled. She had no sympathy with such amateurish love-making.
Nevertheless, his embarrassment was a great relief to her.

“She promised to be here,” he answered stiffly.

“Everything depends upon your being honest with me,” she continued.
“You will see from my question that I know. Was there not something said
about supper at your rooms before or after the dance?”

“I cannot discuss this matter with you or any living person,” he
answered. “If you know so much why ask me?”

Lady Carey could have shaken the man, but she restrained herself.

“It is sufficient!” she declared. “What I cannot understand is why you
are here--when Lucille is probably awaiting for you at your rooms.”

He started from his chair as though he had been shot.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “She was to--”

He stopped short. Lady Carey shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, written you or something, I suppose!” she exclaimed. “Trust an
Englishman for bungling a love affair. All I can tell you is that she
left Dorset House in a hansom without the others, and said some thing
about having supper with some friends.”

Brott sprang to his feet and took a quick step towards the exit.

“It is not possible!” he exclaimed.

She took his arm. He almost dragged her along.

“Well, we are going to see,” she said coolly. “Tell the man to call a
hansom.”

They drove almost in silence through the Square to Pall Mall. Brott
leaped out onto the pavement directly the cab pulled up.

“I will wait here,” Lady Carey said. “I only want to know that Lucille
is safe.”

He disappeared, and she sat forward in the cab drumming idly with
her forefingers upon the apron. In a few minutes he came back. His
appearance was quite sufficient. He was very pale. The change in him was
so ludicrous that she laughed.

“Get in,” she said. “I am going round to Dorset House. We must find out
if we can what has become of her.”

He obeyed without comment. At Dorset House Lady Carey summoned the
Duchess’s own maid.

“Marie,” she said, “you were attending upon the Countess Radantz
to-night?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“At what time did she leave?”

“At about, eleven, my lady.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Lady Carey looked steadily at the girl.

“Did she take anything with her?”

The girl hesitated. Lady Carey frowned.

“It must be the truth, remember, Marie.”

“Certainly, my lady! She took her small dressing-case.”

Lady Carey set her teeth hard. Then with a movement of her head she
dismissed the maid. She walked restlessly up and down the room. Then she
stopped short with a hard little laugh.

“If I give way like this,” she murmured, “I shall be positively hideous,
and after all, if she was there it was not possible for him--”

She stopped short, and suddenly tearing the handkerchief which she had
been carrying into shreds threw the pieces upon the floor, and stamped
upon them. Then she laughed shortly, and turned towards the door.

“Now I must go and get rid of that poor fool outside,” she said. “What a
bungler!”

Brott was beside himself with impatience.

“Lucille is here,” she announced, stepping in beside him. “She has a
shocking headache and has gone to bed. As a matter of fact, I believe
that she was expecting to hear from you.”

“Impossible!” he answered shortly. He was beginning to distrust this
woman.

“Never mind. You can make it up with her to-morrow. I was foolish to be
anxious about her at all. Are you coming in again?”

They were at Carmarthen House. He handed her out.

“No, thanks! If you will allow me I will wish you good-night.”

She made her way into the ball-room, and found the Prince of Saxe
Leinitzer, who was just leaving.

“Do you know where Lucille is?” she asked.

He looked up at her sharply. “Where?”

“At the Carlton Hotel--with him.”

He rose to his feet with slow but evil promptitude. His face just then
was very unlike the face of an angel. Lady Carey laughed aloud.

“Poor man,” she said mockingly. “It is always the same when you and
Souspennier meet.”

He set his teeth.

“This time,” he muttered, “I hold the trumps.”

She pointed at the clock. It was nearly four. “She was there at eleven,”
 she remarked drily.



CHAPTER XXII

“His Highness, the Prince of Saxe Leinitzer!”

Duson stood away from the door with a low bow. The Prince--in the
buttonhole of whose frock-coat was a large bunch of Russian violets,
passed across the threshold. Mr. Sabin rose slowly from his chair.

“I fear,” the Prince 

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