A Cabinet Secret
by Guy Boothby · English · Gutenberg #36892 · 364,317 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Cabinet Secret
Author: Guy Boothby
Illustrator: Arthur Wallis Mills
Release date: July 29, 2011 [eBook #36892]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36892
Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell, Martin Pettit and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CABINET SECRET ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
A Cabinet Secret
[Illustration: SHE STOOPED OVER ME. 'A Cabinet Secret.'
_Page 118._ (_Frontispiece_.)]
A Cabinet Secret
By Guy Boothby
Author of "Dr Nikola," "The Beautiful White Devil,"
"Pharos the Egyptian," "A Sailor's Bride," etc., etc.
With Illustrations by A. Wallis Mills
London
F. V. White & Co.
14 Bedford Street, Strand, W.C.
1901
INTRODUCTION
The Author deems it right to preface his work with the remark, that
while the War between England and the South African Republics forms the
basis of the story, the characters and incidents therein described are
purely fictional, and have no sort of resemblance, either intended or
implied, with living people. The Author's only desire is to show what,
under certain, doubtless improbable, conditions, might very well have
happened, had a secret power endeavoured to harass the Empire by taking
advantage of her temporary difficulties.
A CABINET SECRET
INTRODUCTION
Night was falling, and Naples Harbour, always picturesque, appeared even
more so than usual in the warm light of the departing day. The city
itself, climbing up the hillside, almost from the water's edge, was
coloured a pale pink by the sunset, and even old Vesuvius, from whose
top a thin column of black smoke was issuing, seemed somewhat less
sombre than usual. Out Ischiawards, the heavens were a mass of gold and
crimson colouring, and this was reflected in the calm waters of the Bay,
till the whole world was a veritable glow. Taken altogether, a more
beautiful evening could scarcely have been desired. And yet it is not
with the city, the mountain, or the sunset, that we have to do, but
with the first movement of a conspiracy that was destined ultimately to
shake one of the greatest Empires, the earth has ever seen, to the very
foundations of its being.
Though the world was not aware of it, and would not, in all human
probability, have concerned itself very much about it even if it had,
the fact remains that for some hours past two men, from a house situated
on one of the loftiest pinnacles of the city, had been concentrating
their attention, by means of powerful glasses, upon the harbour, closely
scrutinizing every vessel that entered and dropped her anchor inside the
Mole.
"Can anything have happened that she does not come?" asked the taller of
the pair, as he put down his glasses, and began to pace the room. "The
cable said most distinctly that the steam yacht, _Princess
Badroulbadour_ passed through the Straits of Messina yesterday at seven
o'clock. Surely they should be here by this time?"
"One would have thought so," his companion replied. "It must be borne in
mind, however, that the _Princess_ is a private yacht, and it is more
likely, as the wind is fair, that the owner is sailing in order to save
his fuel."
"To the devil with him, then, for his English meanness," answered the
other angrily. "He does not know how anxious we are to see her."
"And, everything taken into consideration, it is just as well for us and
for the safety of his passengers that he does not," his friend retorted.
"If he did, his first act after he dropped anchor would be to hand them
over to the tender mercies of the Police. In that case we should be
ruined for ever and a day. Perhaps that aspect of the affair has not
struck you?"
"It is evident that you take me for a fool," the other answered angrily.
"Of course, I know all that; but it does not make me any the less
anxious to see them. Consider for a moment what we have at stake. Never
before has there been such a chance of bringing to her knees one of the
proudest nations of the earth. And to think that if that vessel does not
put in an appearance within the next few hours, all our preparations may
be in vain!"
"She will be here in good time, never fear," his companion replied
soothingly. "She has never disappointed us yet."
"Not willingly, I will admit," the other returned; "but in this matter
she may not be her own mistress. She is a beautiful woman, and for all
we know to the contrary, this English _milord_ may be prolonging the
voyage in order to enjoy her society. Who knows but that he may carry
her off altogether?"
"In that case his country should erect a memorial to him, similar to the
Nelson Monument," said the smaller man. "For it is certain he will have
rendered her as great a service as that empty-sleeved Hero ever did."
The other did not reply, but, after another impatient glance at the
Harbour, once more began to pace the room. He was a tall, handsome
fellow, little more than thirty years of age, and carried himself with
soldierly erectness. The most casual observer would have noticed that he
was irreproachably dressed, and that his manners were those of one
accustomed to good society. His companion, on the other hand, was short
and stout, with a round bullet head, and closely cropped hair. He was
also the possessor of a pair of small twinkling eyes, and a neck so
thick, that one instinctively thought of apoplexy and sudden death in
connection with its owner. The room they occupied was strangely at
variance with the appearance of the younger and taller man. It was
little more than a garret, very dirty, and furnished in the poorest
fashion. But it had one advantage: it commanded a splendid view of
Naples Harbour, and, after all, that was what its present occupants
required. At last, the younger man, tired of his sentry-go up and down
the room, threw himself into a chair and lit a cigarette. For some
minutes not a word passed between them; all the time, however, the
shorter man remained at the window, his glass turned seaward, watching
for the smallest sign of the vessel they were so eagerly expecting.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation which caused the other to spring to
his feet.
"What is it?" cried the latter; "what do you see?"
"I fancy she is coming up now," his friend replied. "If you run your
glass along the sky-line, I fancy you will be able to detect a white
speck, with a tiny column of smoke above it."
The other followed the directions given him, and, after a careful
scrutiny, gave it as his opinion that what his companion had said was
correct. Nearly an hour elapsed, however, before they could be quite
certain upon the subject. At last the matter was settled beyond doubt,
and when a magnificent white yacht rounded the Mole and came to its
anchorage in the Mercantile Harbour, they prepared to make their way
down to the water-side in order to board her. Before they started,
however, the elder of the two men effected sundry changes in his attire.
"Forgive the mummery," he remarked, as he took a somewhat clerical hat
and cloak from a peg, "but, as they say upon the stage, 'the unities
must be observed.' If our beautiful Countess has played her cards
carefully, Monseigneur should be of great benefit to us hereafter. It
would be a thousand pities to scare him away at the beginning. For this
reason it will be as well for you to remember that I am her Excellency's
lawyer, who has hastened to Naples in order to confer with her on a
matter of considerable importance, connected with her Styrian estates.
No suspicion will then be excited."
By the time he had finished speaking he had donned the hat and cloak,
and when he had given another expression to his face--for the man was a
consummate actor--he was satisfied that he looked the part he was about
to play. After that they descended the narrow, rickety stairs together,
and passed out into the street. It was a warm afternoon, and in
consequence Naples was in her most unsavoury humour. The two men,
however, did not appear to trouble themselves very much about it. Side
by side they made their way through the crowded streets, almost in
silence. Each was thinking of the approaching interview, and of what was
to result from it. Reaching the Harbour, they chartered a boat and bade
the rower convey them to the white yacht which had just dropped her
anchor. The man obeyed, and in less than five minutes they were lying
alongside one of the most beautiful pleasure vessels that has ever
upheld the shipbuilding honour of the Clyde. The Port formalities had
already been complied with, and now the accommodation ladder was hanging
at the side in readiness for visitors. When they drew up at its foot,
the tall man, addressing the quartermaster on duty at the gangway,
enquired whether Madame la Comtesse de Venetza were aboard, and, if so,
whether she would permit visitors to pay their respects to her.
It was noticeable that he spoke excellent English, with scarcely a touch
of foreign accent.
The man departed with the message, to presently return with the report
that Madame would be pleased to see the gentleman if they would "come
aboard." They accordingly climbed the ladder, and followed the
quartermaster along the deck to a sumptuous saloon under the bridge. The
owner of the beautiful craft was in the act of leaving the cabin as they
approached it.
"Won't you come in?" he said, pausing to open the door for them. "The
Countess will be very pleased to see you."
As he said this he glanced sharply at the two men, with an Englishman's
innate distrust of foreigners. He saw little in them, however, to
criticise, and nothing to dislike. They, on their side, found him a
tall, stalwart Englishman of the typical standard--blue eyes, ruddy
cheeks, close cropped hair, the latter a little inclined to be curly,
well, but not over dressed, and carrying with him an air of latent
strength that, in spite of his good-humoured expression, would have made
most people chary of offending him. When the two men entered the cabin,
he closed the door behind them and ran lightly up the ladder to the
bridge.
After his departure there was a momentary, but somewhat embarrassing,
silence. A long shaft of sunlight streamed in through one of the
windows (for they resembled windows more than port-holes) and revealed
the fact that the lady, who was reclining in a long easy-chair, was
extremely beautiful. Despite the cordial message she had sent, her
visitors could scarcely have been welcome, for she did not even take the
trouble to rise to receive them, but allowed a tall grey-haired man, who
might very well have passed for her father, to do the honours for her.
"My dear Luigi--my dear Conrad," he said, offering his right hand to the
smaller of the two men and his left to the other. "It is indeed kind of
you to be so quick to welcome us. The Countess is a little tired this
afternoon, but she is none the less delighted to see you."
The scornful curl of the lady's lips not only belied this assertion, but
indicated that _miladi_ was in a by no means pleasant temper. The
impatient movement of the little foot, peeping from beneath her dress,
said as much, as plainly as any words could speak.
"We have been waiting for you all day," the younger man began. "There is
news of the greatest importance to communicate. Every hour that passes
is now so much time wasted."
Then, for the first time during the interview, the lady spoke.
"You infer that I might have been quicker?" she said, with a touch of
scorn in her voice. "You evidently forget that, had it not been for this
English _milord's_ kindness, I should not be here even now."
It looked as if the younger man, while really uncomfortable, were trying
to act as if he were not afraid of her.
"Is there not such a thing as the Oriental Express?" he asked. "Had you
used that, we might have met at Turin, and have saved a great deal of
trouble and valuable time."
The lady turned impatiently from him to his companion.
"What form does your news take?" she enquired. "Is it contained in a
letter?"
"No, _Excellenza_, it was to be delivered by word of mouth," the other
replied. "The Council, who were in Prague at the time, paid me the
compliment of trusting to my discretion, and despatched me immediately
to you. We heard that you were in Constantinople, and the Secretary
undertook to have a message transmitted to you there. Our friend, Conrad
here, is perhaps not aware that the Oriental Express is occasionally an
impossible medium. But, while condoling with you on that score, I must
congratulate your Excellency in having pressed the Duke of Rotherhithe
into your service."
"Pray spare yourself the trouble," the lady replied. "I do not know that
I am particularly fond of obtaining hospitality, such as his, under
false pretences. It is sufficient for your purposes, is it not, that I
am here, and ready to do the Council's bidding, whatever that may be.
Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what is expected of me?"
"Is it safe for me to tell you here?" Luigi enquired, and as he said it
he looked anxiously about him, as if he feared the presence of
eavesdroppers.
"As safe as it will be anywhere," the lady answered. "It is an
Englishman's yacht, and, whatever we may say of them, they are not in
the habit of listening at keyholes. Now what have you to tell me?"
The man hesitated once more before he replied. He was the chosen
mouth-piece of one of the most powerful organisations in Europe, and ere
now affairs involving death, and worse than death, had been entrusted to
him, and he had brought them to a satisfactory issue. As a rule, and
certainly when dealing with men, he did not know what fear was. In this
lady's presence, however, he was strangely nervous.
"Come," she said, "you are a long time telling me. Is it so very
difficult to explain? Or am I to anticipate a repetition of the Palermo
Incident?"
Whatever the Palermo Incident may have been, it was certainly not a
pleasant recollection to either of the men before her; the elder man
became uncomfortable, while the younger moved uneasily in his seat.
"You hit hard, madam," the elder man returned; "but, thank goodness, I
am not thin-skinned. That the Palermo affair was a mistake, I am quite
prepared to admit; it is possible, however, the success which will
doubtless attend this affair, will make ample amends for it."
"You have not told me what the affair is," the lady replied. "Unless you
make haste, I fear I shall not be able to hear it to-night. It would be
as well for you to remember that I am not my own mistress, and that, in
return for his hospitality, my host has at least some claim upon my
society."
"I will not detain you longer than is absolutely necessary," the other
replied. "With your permission I will now explain my mission. Of
course, your Excellency is aware that the British Empire is on the eve
of a serious struggle with the two South African Republics. The
Republics in question have been arming for several years, and there can
be no sort of doubt that the war, which is now about to begin, will make
the most enormous demands upon the resources and capabilities of even
that great Empire. That the country, at least so far as its military
organisation is concerned, is not properly prepared for such an
encounter, admits of no doubt. Her armament is well known to be
deficient, if not defective; she possesses but few Generals whose
experience entitles them to the right of leading her troops as they
should be led against a foe which will have in its ranks some of the
best fighting men in the world; while the nature of the country in which
she will have to fight, and the peculiar tactics of the enemy, are
unfavourable to her in the highest degree. Apart from this, it has been
her boast that she occupies an isolated position in Europe, if not in
the world. France, Russia, Germany and Holland are avowedly
unfavourable; Spain remembers Great Britain's sympathy with America in
the Cuban affair; Portugal will wait to see what turn events take
before she commits herself; while America will stand strictly neutral.
We all remember that the larger Republic has beaten her before: it is
possible that it may do so again. All these things having been taken
into consideration, it must be quite clear to an observant mind that if
England is ever to be humiliated, now is the time to do it. With this
end in view, the Council was summoned hastily to meet in Prague. The
result of their deliberations was the drawing up of a plan of action,
and as soon as this had been agreed upon, I was ordered to place myself
in communication with you. You were in Constantinople, and, as I have
said, a message was immediately despatched by the Secretary to you."
"I received it, and am here. What am I to do?"
"I can tell you no more than that you are to make your way to England at
once, _via_ Rome and Paris. Von Rosendell is in Rome. He will meet you,
and give you full particulars of the scheme which has been proposed."
"And when am I to leave Naples in order to meet him?"
"As soon as possible," the other replied; "there is no time to waste. I
was to invite you to make your arrangements at once, and to telegraph
the hour of your departure in the usual way."
"In that case I need not detain you any longer," she answered with
chilling politeness. "Should it be necessary for me to communicate with
you, I presume the usual address will find you?"
"But----"
"But what? Is there anything else I am to hear?"
"There is this--that I am to go with you," the younger man put in,
almost apologetically. "I received my orders from the Council this
morning. I hope you do not disapprove?"
He looked at her almost beseechingly; the expression upon her face,
however, betrayed neither pleasure nor annoyance. Do what he would, he
could not prevent a sigh from escaping him as he became aware of it. All
day he had been hoping that she would be pleased when she heard that he
was to co-operate with her; now, however, his heart sank like lead. It
was just the sort of enterprise he liked. It was daring, reckless to a
degree; they would carry their lives in their hands, as they had so
often done before; indeed, the mere fact that he was to share the
dangers with her had been the greatest pleasure he had known for months
past.
"If you are to accompany us," she said, scarcely looking at him, "you
had better hold yourself in readiness. It will be safer if we travel
apart during the time we are in Italy, and afterwards other arrangements
can be made so that we----"
"We will leave you and return to the shore," interrupted the man called
Luigi, who did not altogether approve the turn affairs were taking. "I
have carried out my instructions, and so far as I am concerned,
individually, the matter is at an end."
Five minutes later they had left the yacht, and the Countess de Venetza
was apologizing to the Duke of Rotherhithe for the intrusion of her
lawyer people on his yacht.
"It is really too hard," she said pathetically; "they give me no peace.
When my husband died and I inherited his estates, he had no thought of
the trouble and anxiety the management of them would cause me. My
lawyers are perpetually grumbling because they cannot obtain interviews
with me. I often think that they look upon me as a sort of
Will-o'-the-Wisp, flickering about Europe, and impossible to catch. Why
they could not have transacted the business with my father instead of
bothering me with it, I cannot imagine. However, you will forgive me,
will you not?"
The Duke, who by the way, was extremely susceptible, looked unutterable
things. He had first met the Countess in Algiers a year before, and had
fallen desperately in love with her before he had known her twenty-four
hours. The mere fact that she did not encourage his attentions only
served to attract him the more. They met at Cairo six months later--and
now, when he discovered that it was in his power to do her a service by
conveying her from Constantinople to Naples, he was only too glad to
avail himself of the opportunity.
"It is a shame, indeed, that they should worry you so," he said
sympathetically, looking as he spoke into his fair friend's eyes in a
manner that would have carried consternation into the hearts of not a
few mothers in England. "They worry me at home in much the same way. As
I say to them, what's the use of employing lawyers and Estate Agents,
and all those sort of people, if they cannot do their work without your
assistance? You might just as well do it yourself in the first instance,
and save their salaries. But then, you see, I am not so clever as you
are, Countess, and that makes all the difference."
"What makes you think I am so clever, pray?" she enquired, looking up at
him with innocent eyes.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied; "I've noticed it on lots of occasions.
Do you remember the day that plausible Greek beggar worried us so in
Constantinople, and you whispered something to him that sent him off
about his business like a shot out of a gun. And in Algiers, when that
Frenchman made himself so objectionable and you managed to send him to
the right-about after a few moments' conversation. How you did it I
never could understand, but it was jolly clever all the same."
The Countess regarded him attentively for a moment. Was he really as
innocent as he made out to be, or had he noticed anything else? No; one
moment's examination was sufficient to convince her that, so far as he
was concerned, all was as it should be. Strolling to the port side of
the bridge, she looked down at the boat-load of musicians who were
strumming guitars, and bawling "_Finiculi Finicula_," with all the
strength of their Southern lungs.
"What a way in which to spend one's life," said the Duke, as he joined
her, and tossed some silver into the boat. "Fancy shouting that wretched
thing, week after week, and year after year! Italy is a funny
country--all bandits, soldiers, beggars and musicians. I suppose, if the
truth were known, each of those men belongs to some secret society or
another. Either the Cammoristi, or the Mafia, or some such organisation.
How would you like to be a conspirator, Countess, and be always in
terror of being caught?"
The Countess's hand clenched the bar before her, and, for a moment, her
face turned deathly pale.
"What an extraordinary question to ask," she began, fighting hard for
her self-possession. "Do you want to frighten me out of my wits? I am
afraid I should make the poorest conspirator imaginable. I should be too
deficient in courage."
"I am not inclined to believe that," said the Duke, reflectively. "I
think you would have plenty of courage when it was required."
"I am afraid you must think me an altogether remarkable person," she
returned. "If you go on in this way, I shall scarcely have presence of
mind enough to remain in your company. Seriously, however, Duke, I
don't know how to thank you for the services you have rendered my father
and myself. But for your assistance we should not be in Naples now, in
which case we should have been too late to have joined the party with
whom I am proceeding to England."
"You are going to England then after all?" he cried in great
astonishment and delight. "I thought you were only going as far as
Rome?"
"That was our original intention," she replied. "However, some letters
that we received to-night have altered our plans. But why do you look so
astonished? Are we poor foreigners not to be allowed to enter your
country?"
"It is not that," he said. "I was so pleased to hear that you intend
honouring us with a visit. When do you think you will reach England, and
where will you stay while you are there?"
She shook her head.
"Those are questions I cannot at present answer," she said. "It will
depend upon circumstances. As our arrangements stand at present, I think
it is extremely likely that we shall be in London in less than a week's
time."
"And will there be any means of learning your whereabouts?" he asked.
"You will surely not be cruel enough to visit England without permitting
me to call upon you?"
"Call by all means," she answered. "At present, however, I cannot tell
you what our address will be, for the reason that I do not know it
myself."
"But perhaps when you are settled you will let me know. You know my
house, I think?"
"I will do so with pleasure," she replied. "Then you will come and see
me, and I shall be able to thank you again for the kindness you have
shown my father and myself in our present trouble."
"It has been a very great pleasure to me," he said, "and I cannot thank
you sufficiently for honouring my yacht as you have done."
At that moment the elder man, to whom she had referred as her father,
made his appearance on the bridge and came towards them.
"My dear," he began, "has it not struck you that it is time for us to be
thinking of bidding His Grace farewell? Remember we have to start for
Rome by the early train to-morrow morning. It behoves us, therefore, to
make our preparations as soon as possible."
The Duke, however, would not hear of their leaving the yacht before
dinner, and in consequence it was quite dark when the Countess de
Venetza and her father, or, to be more correct, her reputed father, were
rowed ashore by four stalwart yachtsmen, steered by the Duke of
Rotherhithe himself. He would have accompanied them to their hotel, but
this the Countess would not permit.
"You have done too much for us already," she said; "we cannot let you do
more. We will not say _adieu_, but _au revoir_, since, in all
probability, it will not be long before we meet again."
"I hope, with all my heart, it may not be," he replied, and then the cab
they had engaged rattled away over the stones and was soon lost to view.
The Countess's stay in Naples was a short one, for next morning she left
by an early train for Rome. According to the plan he had prepared, His
Grace of Rotherhithe, having made enquiries as to the trains leaving
Naples for the capital, was present on the platform when the first took
its departure. With an eagerness that could only be accounted for by his
infatuation, he scanned the faces of the passengers, but the lady for
whom he had been so anxiously waiting was not among them. Greatly
disappointed by his discovery, he went off in search of breakfast, only
to return a quarter of an hour before the next train was due to leave.
Unfortunately, on this occasion, he was no more successful than before.
The train was well filled, but among the passengers there was not one
who bore any sort of resemblance to the lady he was hoping to see. So
anxious was he to make sure that he did not miss her, that, just before
the train started, he came within an ace of being run into by an invalid
chair, in which was seated a man closely muffled up with shawls. By the
side of the chair walked a nurse in English hospital uniform, who wore
large blue glasses, and carried more wraps and a couple of cushions upon
her arm. Even had he been aware of their identity, the Duke would have
found it difficult to recognise in the pair his guests of the previous
day. It was not the first time in their careers that they had been
compelled to adopt such disguises, and only that morning news had
reached them to the effect that, if they desired to get safely out of
Naples, disguises such as they had assumed would be imperative
necessities. A carriage, it appeared, had been reserved for the invalid
Englishman, and towards it they made their way. Having seated the old
gentleman in one corner, the nurse took her seat opposite him, and
busied herself preparing for the journey. It was not until Naples was
far behind, however, that she removed her spectacles and the invalid
discarded his wraps.
"That was as narrow an escape as we have ever had," said the former.
"The Head of the Police was upon the platform, and I recognised two
detectives in the crowd. However, all is well that ends well, and if
Luigi's arrangements have been properly made, we should be in Paris
before they know we have left Naples, and in London forty-eight hours
afterwards."
"Then you still feel certain that they were aware of our presence in
Naples?"
"Luigi's message said there was no doubt about it. Though he did not
know it, they must have been watching him, and have followed him to the
yacht. It was foolish of him to run such a risk. Let us hope, however,
he will be able to get out of Naples without their laying hands upon
him."
Shortly after one o'clock the train reached Rome and they alighted from
it. Such travellers as had witnessed the arrival of the invalid at the
Neapolitan railway station, would have observed now that he seemed
greatly fatigued by the journey. He was even more muffled up than
before, while the nurse was, if possible, more assiduous in her
attentions than she had been at the southern station. It was noticeable
also that she was a poor Italian scholar. Indeed, her pronunciation of
such words as she _did_ know was of the most erratic and elementary
description.
* * * * *
Later in the day, just as dusk was falling, an artist's model, in the
picturesque dress of the country, might have been observed making her
way slowly down the Via Sistina in the direction of the Piazza S.
Trinita de' Monti. She appeared to be familiar with the neighbourhood,
though, on the other hand, no one seemed to have any acquaintance with
her. She had reached the Casa Zuccheri, when she was stopped by a tall
artistic-looking man, who walked with great uprightness, and carried a
portfolio beneath his arm. For the benefit of the passers by, he
enquired in broken Italian, whether the girl could inform him as to the
locality of a certain artist's studio, whereupon she personally offered
to conduct him to it. He thanked her courteously, and proceeded with
her in the direction indicated. They had no sooner left the vicinity of
the Via Sistina, however, than he turned to her and said, in the purest
Italian: "I was afraid you were not coming. You are very late."
"I am aware of that," the girl replied. "I had a suspicion that I was
being watched. Now, what have you to tell me?"
"You saw Luigi in Naples, I believe?"
"He met me there, with Conrad," the girl answered. "I could not help
thinking that it was an imprudence on his part."
"Luigi is always imprudent; and yet I cannot help feeling that he is
safer in his folly than we are in our care. He told you of the scheme
the Council had originated?"
The girl nodded an assent.
"He gave me to understand, however, that you would furnish me with full
particulars," she said.
"I am prepared to do so now," her companion replied.
As he said this, he led her from the main street into a dark alley,
where, having convinced himself that they had not been followed, he set
to work and told his tale. So anxious was he that there should be no
mistake about the matter, that when he had finished it he began it
again, only to repeat it a third time. The woman listened with rapt
attention.
"In conclusion," said he, "I might add that the money will be paid to
your credit at whatever London Bank you may select. One of the most
handsome residences, replete with all the necessaries, has been taken
for you in a fashionable quarter, and on your arrival in London you will
be left to act as your knowledge of the situation and the dictates of
the Council may determine. It is needless to caution you as to the risks
you may be called upon to run. The Council has, moreover, authorised me
to say that it places implicit trust in your discretion. Should you
require further advice, it will be furnished you at once, with any help
that may be considered needful."
"In the meantime, Paris is the first stage," the girl answered. "You are
quite certain that this Englishman, Sir George Manderville, has not yet
returned to England?"
"No, he is still there," her companion replied. "We have learnt,
however, that he will cross the channel on Friday next."
"On Friday next?" she repeated. "In that case there is no time to lose.
At first glance it would appear that he is the key to the situation."
"That is exactly the opinion of the Council," the man answered. "Now,
farewell, and may good luck attend you!"
So saying they retraced their steps to the main street. At the entrance
to the alley they separated, the girl returning to the Via Sistina--the
man going off in an opposite direction.
By the first train next morning the Countess de Venetza made an
unostentatious departure from Rome, for Paris, accompanied by her father
and her cousin, Conrad, Count Reiffenburg.
CHAPTER I
As a preface, I might explain that I have had the pleasure of knowing
Paris and De Belleville for more than twenty years. Both are, therefore,
old friends, the city and the man. The fact, however, remains, that De
Belleville, though a most charming companion, has one fault. Few people
would be prepared to admit it, but unfortunately, I am not only
compelled to recognise it, but to proclaim it to the world. As a friend,
he has not his equal--at least so far as I am concerned; he is certainly
not punctual, however. It is of that I complain. I have remonstrated
with him on the subject times out of number, but it makes no sort of
difference. If one has an appointment with him, he is invariably late,
but when he does put in an appearance, he will greet you with such
charming assurance, that you feel angry with yourself for having been
led into commenting upon the lapse of time.
On the particular afternoon which I am now about to describe to you, we
had arranged to meet at my hotel and then to go on together to call upon
the D'Etrebilles, who were just off to Cairo and the Upper Nile. He had
promised to be with me at three o'clock, and, as usual, at twenty
minutes past the hour he had not put in an appearance. Now, I flatter
myself that I am a punctual man in every respect, and when one is ready
to go out, a twenty minutes' wait is an annoyance calculated to test the
serenest temper. In my case it was certainly so, and, as I sat in the
picturesque courtyard of the hotel, you may be sure I called down the
reverse of blessings upon De Belleville's handsome head. Carriage after
carriage drove up, but not one of them contained my friend. I took a
third cigarette from my case and lit it, and as I did so, lay back in my
chair and amused myself watching my neighbours.
To my thinking, there are few places more interesting (that is, of
course, provided one has a weakness for studying character) than a hotel
courtyard. In sheer idleness I speculated as to the nationality and
relationship of the various people about me. There were several probable
Russians, one or two undoubted Germans, two whom I set down as
Italians, one might have been a Greek, but the majority were undoubtedly
English. And that reminds me that, as I waited, I was the witness of an
amusing altercation between a cabman and an English lady of considerable
importance and mature years. Both were playing at cross purpose, and it
was not until the Hotel Commissionaire, the _deus ex machina_, so to
speak, appeared upon the scene and interposed, that the matter at issue
was satisfactorily adjusted.
"Your pardon, Madame," he said, bowing low, "but ze man meant no harm.
It was his misfortune that he did not comprehend the words what Madame
said to him."
For a person who prided himself upon his tact, the poor fellow could
scarcely have said a more unfortunate thing. The matter of the
overcharge, Madame could have understood and have forgiven, but to be
informed in so many words that her knowledge of the French tongue was
deficient, was an insult not only to her intelligence, and to her
experience, but also to the money that had been spent upon her
education. Casting a withering glance at the unhappy functionary, she
departed into the hotel, every hair of her head bristling with
indignation, while the Commissionaire, shrugging his shoulders, went
forward to receive a tall, picturesque individual, who at that moment
had driven up.
The new-comer interested me exceedingly. In my own mind I instantly set
him down as a _dilettante_ Englishman of good birth and education. He
looked the sort of being who would spend the greater part of his time in
foreign picture-galleries and cathedrals; who would carry his Ruskin
continually in his pocket, and who would probably end by writing a
volume of travels "_for private circulation only_." I should not have
been surprised had I been told that he dabbled a little in
water-colours, or to have heard that he regarded Ruskin as the greatest
writer, and Turner as the greatest painter, of our era. One thing at
least was self-evident, and that was the fact that he was a person of
considerable importance at this particular hotel. The Commissionaire
bowed before him as if he were a foreign potentate, while the _maitre
d'hotel_ received him with as much respect as if he had been an American
millionaire. When he in his turn disappeared into the building, I
beckoned the Commissionaire to my side.
"Who is that gentleman that has just entered the hotel?" I enquired.
"Is it possible that Monsieur does not know him?" the man replied, with
an expression of wonderment upon his face.
His answer more than ever convinced me that the other was a very great
man, at least a German princeling, perhaps an Austrian archduke.
"No," I said, "I do not know him. As a matter of fact, I do not remember
ever having seen him before. Who is he?"
"He is Monsieur Dickie Bucks," answered the Commissionaire, with as much
respect as if he were talking of the Czar of all the Russias.
My illusion vanished in a trice. "Dickie Bucks,--Dickie Bucks," I
repeated to myself. "Gracious heavens! what a name for such a man! And
pray who is Mr Dickie Bucks, for I assure you his fame has not yet
reached me?"
"Monsieur surely knows the great bookmaker," said the man, with an air
of incredulity. "He is the great bookmaker, the very greatest, perhaps,
in all England. Monsieur is not perhaps aware that there are races at
Auteuil to-morrow."
And so my _dilettante_ Englishman, my artist, my amateur author, was,
after all, nothing more than a famous betting man, who, had I spoken to
him of Ruskin, would probably have offered to lay me five to one against
him for the Lincolnshire Handicap, and would have informed me that there
was a general opinion in Sporting Circles that "Sesame and Lilies" was
not the stayer she was popularly supposed to be. Well, well, it only
proves how little our judgment is to be trusted, and how important it is
that we should not pin our faith upon externals.
I was still moralising in this fashion when a smart equipage drove up to
the steps, and the Commissionaire once more went forward to do his duty.
In the carriage a lady and gentleman were seated, and it was evident,
from the fact that a man,--who until that moment had been sitting near
the hotel door--hastened forward to greet them, that their arrival had
been expected by one person in the hotel at least. As the trio I am now
about to describe to you are destined to play an extraordinary part in
the story I have to tell, I may, perhaps, be excused if I bestow upon
them a little more attention than I should otherwise feel justified in
doing. Out of gallantry, if for no other reason, it is only proper that
I should commence with the lady.
That she was not English was quite certain. It was difficult to say,
however, to what European nation she belonged. Her face, from the moment
I first saw it, interested me strangely. And yet, while it was
beautiful, it was not that which altogether attracted me. I say
_altogether_, for the reason that it owed more, perhaps, to its general
expression than to the mere beauty of any individual feature. It was a
countenance, however, that once seen would not be likely to be
forgotten. The eyes were large and thoughtful, and of a darkness that
suggested Southern birth. The mouth was small, but exquisitely moulded,
the lips full, and the teeth, when they showed themselves, delightfully
white and even. Her hair was black and, what is not commonly the case
with hair of that colour, was soft and wavy. Though it would have been
difficult to find fault with her attire, a fastidious critic might have
observed that it was not of the very latest fashion. In London, it is
possible it might have passed muster, but in Paris it was just one
pin-prick behind the acme of the prevailing mode. As I looked at her I
wondered who she might be. The eyes, at a hazard, might have been set
down as Italian, the hair as Spanish, the nose had a suggestion of the
Greek, while the sum total spoke for Southern France, or, at any rate a
country bordering upon the Mediterranean.
As I have already said, her companions were two in number. The elder,
who had driven up with the lady I have been endeavouring to describe,
was a tall and handsome man of a little past middle age. He carried
himself with considerable erectness, might very well have once been a
soldier, and was possibly the lady's father. When he descended from the
carriage, I noticed that he was a little lame on his left leg, and that
he walked with a stick. Like his companion he was the possessor of dark
eyes, but with the difference that they looked out upon the world from
beneath white bushy eyebrows, a fact which, combined with his fierce
grey moustache, produced a most singular effect. He also was fashionably
attired, that is to say, he wore the regulation frock coat and silk hat,
but, as was the case with the lady, there was the suggestion of being
just a trifle behind the times.
As much could not be said of the second man, the individual who had been
seated near the door awaiting their coming. So far as outward
appearances were concerned he was the pink of fashion, and not only of
fashion, but of everything else. Tall, lithe, handsome, and
irreproachably turned out, from the curl of his dainty moustache to his
superbly shod feet, he appeared at first glance to be a typical
_boulevardier_. Yet when one looked more closely at him, he did not
strike one as being the sort of man who would idle his life away on the
pavements or in the clubs. I could very well imagine his face looking
out from beneath a helmet or _kepi_, under a _tarbush_ with Arabi, or a
_sombrero_ with Balmaceda--anywhere, in point of fact, where there was
vigorous life and action. He would certainly be a good shot, and, I
reflected, not very particular what he shot at, that is to say, whether
it was at man or beast, or both. For the moment, however, he was content
to hand his fair friend from her carriage with the most fastidious
politeness. They stood for a moment talking at the foot of the steps.
Then they ascended, and, entering the hotel, were lost to my sight;
whereupon I resettled myself in my chair with the reflection that they
were the most interesting people I should be likely to see that
afternoon, and then went on to wonder why De Belleville did not put in
an appearance. Then another carriage drove up, and a moment later he
stood before me.
"I must offer you ten thousand pardons, _cher ami_," said he, as we
shook hands. "I fear I have kept you waiting an unpardonable time.
Forgive me, I implore you; I am prostrated with sorrow."
The words were apologetic enough, but the face belied the assertion. A
more cheerful countenance could scarcely have been discovered in all
Paris. I had promised myself that I would give him a good rating for his
unpunctuality, but, as usual, I found that when he _did arrive_ it was
impossible for me to be angry with him. De Belleville, as I have already
remarked, boasts the most ingratiating manners I know; is an ideal
companion, for the reason that he is never put out or, apart from his
unpunctuality, puts others out. He is one of the best hosts in Europe,
and regards life as life regards him, that is to say, with invariable
cheerfulness and goodfellowship.
Having taken our places in the carriage, we set off for the
D'Etrebilles' residence in the Faubourg St Germain. Throughout the drive
my companion rattled on continually. He was well up, none better, in the
gossip of the day, and could use his knowledge to the wittiest effect.
Fortunately, the D'Etrebilles were at home, and appeared delighted to
see us. They were, moreover, kind enough to congratulate me upon my
acceptance of my new position in the English Cabinet.
"As you are strong, be merciful," said D'Etrebille, with a smile.
"Remember, the peace of Europe is in your hands, and at the end of your
term of office we shall require it of you again intact."
"A life-long study of European politics," said De Belleville, "has
convinced me that the peace of Europe is never so much assured as when
the various nations are struggling to be at each other's throats. This
is a point of which so many people, renowned for their political
perspicuity, seem to lose sight. Our very good friend and visitor, the
Czar, would have us disarm and turn our swords into ploughshares. By
this time, however, he must agree that, if only from a humanitarian
point of view, he has made a mistake. It may appear paradoxical, but
there is certainly nothing that promotes peace so much as war. I never
feel sure in my own mind that the next year will be a quiet one until I
am told that the military bloodhounds are about to be unchained. By the
way, what do you think of your country's prospects of war in South
Africa?"
"If I am to judge the situation by your own theory, I should say that
the possibilities are remote," I replied. "From my own stand-point,
however, I am by no means so optimistic. The look-out is undoubtedly a
grave one, and, while I have the greatest faith in our strength to
assert our own supremacy, I cannot help thinking that matters may in the
end prove somewhat different to our expectations."
Without wishing to pose as a prophet after the event, on looking back on
all that has happened, I cannot help being struck by the aptness of my
prophecy. This, however, is no place for such reflections. What I have
to do is to tell my story as quickly and concisely as possible, and,
above all, to avoid undue digressions.
Strange indeed is the way in which a face or a voice once seen or heard,
if only for a moment, has the power of seizing and taking possession of
the memory, when there is little or no reason that it should not be
forgotten. It was certainly so in my case on this particular afternoon,
for, during the time I was with the D'Etrebilles, during our drive in
the Bois afterwards, and in fact for the remainder of the evening, the
face of the woman I had seen entering my hotel a few hours before,
haunted me continually.
It went to the Opera with me, accompanied me to a supper at the
Amphitryon Club afterwards, and returned with me again to my hotel. The
memory of a pair of beautiful eyes, such as hers undoubtedly were, might
appear to many men a light burden to have placed upon them. By some
strange irony of Fate, however, it was otherwise with me. Instead of
being charmed by them, I dreaded them with a fear that was as
inexplicable as it was unpleasant. I laughed at myself for my folly,
ascribed my absurd condition to indigestion, and endeavoured by every
means in my power to drive the matter from my mind. I went to bed and
tried to sleep. I was not successful, however. When I closed my eyes,
the eyes of the woman were still there, gazing at me with a
steadfastness that produced a sensation almost describable as hypnotic.
I tried to picture other scenes, recalled the events of the day--De
Belleville's prophecies for the future--his witty remarks on Paris
topics--but without success. At last, unable to bear it any longer, I
rose from my bed, turned on the electric light, and, having donned a
dressing-gown, began to pace the room. I had drunk scarcely any wine
that evening, so that my condition could not be ascribed to that source.
Nevertheless, an ill defined, yet none the less real, fear was steadily
taking possession of me. I could not remember ever having been affected
in this way before. Could it be that I had not the same power over my
intellect as of yore? In other words, was this the beginning of some
brain trouble that would eventually land me in a lunatic asylum? I knew
in my inmost heart that such was not the case. Yet how to account for
the eyes that haunted me so peculiarly, I could not say. Until I had
seen the woman's face that afternoon, I had been as rational and evenly
balanced a man as could have been discovered in the French capital. No!
it was all nonsense! My internal economy was a little out of gear, my
nerves and brain were indirectly affected, and this illusion was the
result. In that case the eyes, haunting as they were, would disappear
before the magic wand of Calomel.
Being too wide awake to return to bed, I seated myself in a chair and
took up a book on the Eastern Question which I had been reading during
the day, and in which I was greatly interested. The fact that I did not
entertain the same views with regard to the Russo-Chinese-Japanese
_entente_ as the author only added to my enjoyment of the work. I
remembered that when I had taken it up in the morning I had found it
difficult to lay it aside again; now, however, though I glued my eyes to
the pages by sheer will pressure, I was scarcely conscious of the
printed words before me. As I read, or rather tried to read, it appeared
to me that somebody was standing in the room, a few paces from my chair,
intently regarding me. More than once I involuntarily looked up, only to
find, as it is needless to state, that there was no one there. At last I
put down the book in despair, went to the window and, leaning my arms
upon the sill, looked out. Sleeping Paris lay before and around me,
scarcely a sound was to be heard; once the roll of distant
carriage-wheels, from the Rue de Rivoli, came up to me, then the
irregular striking of the clocks in the neighbourhood announcing the
hour of three.
As I stood at the window, I thought of the crisis which England was
approaching. Many years had elapsed since she had been involved in a
great war. In these days epoch succeeds epoch with incredible rapidity,
and public opinion has the knack of changing with each one. The
stolidity, the self-reserve, the faculty of being able to take the hard
knocks and yet continue the fight, that had characterised us at the time
of Waterloo and the Crimea, did that still exist? Then again, were we as
fully prepared as we might be? Were our Generals as competent as of
yore, or had the long spell of peace wrought a change in them also? They
were weighty questions, and a man might very well have been pardoned had
he asked them of himself with an anxious heart. Our "splendid isolation"
had been the jeer and taunt of the world. Would that very isolation
prove our downfall, if by any evil chance matters took a wrong turn with
us? For a moment I could see England as she would be were her armies to
be defeated in the present struggle. The croaking prophecies of her
enemies would have proved too true, and she would be at the mercy of the
yelping mob that had once only dared to bark and snap at her from a
distance. "O God! grant that such a thing may never come to pass," I
muttered, and, as the prayer escaped my lips, there shaped themselves in
the darkness in front of me, the eyes that had haunted me all the
afternoon and evening. As I gazed into their soulless depths, a
sensation of icy coldness passed over me.
"This will never do," I said to myself. "If I go on like this I shall
have to see a doctor; and yet how ridiculous it is. Why that woman's
eyes should haunt me so I cannot understand. In all probability I shall
never see her again, and if I do, it will only be to discover that she
is very beautiful, but in no respect different to other people."
But while I endeavoured to convince myself that it was all so absurd, I
had the best of reasons for knowing that it was not so silly as I was
anxious to suppose. At any rate, I did not go to bed again, and when,
some hours later, my servant came to call me, he found me seated at my
table, busily engaged writing letters. Years seemed to have elapsed
since I had bade him good-night.
The last day of my stay in Paris had dawned, and, after my experience of
the night, I began to think that I was not altogether sorry for it. A
cold tub, however, somewhat revived me, and when I left my room I was,
to all intents and purposes, myself once more.
It is one of those little idiosyncrasies in my character which afford my
friends such an excellent opportunity for making jokes at my expense,
that when I go to Rome, Paris, Berlin, St Petersburg, or any other city
I may be in the habit of visiting, that I invariably stay at the same
hotel and insist on being given the same bedroom I have occupied on
previous occasions. For some reason a strange room is most obnoxious to
me. In Paris, worthy Monsieur Frezmony is good enough to let me have a
suite of apartments at the end of a long corridor on the first floor.
They boast an excellent view from the windows, of the gardens of the
Tuileries, and the whole suite is, above all, easy of access at any hour
of the day or night. On this particular occasion, having dressed, I left
my room and passed along the corridor in order to descend to the hall
below. I was only a few paces from the head of the stairs when a door
directly opposite opened, and a lady emerged and descended the stairs in
front of me. She was dressed for going out, but, for the reason that my
letters had just been handed to me and I was idly glancing at the
envelopes, beyond noticing this fact, I bestowed but little more
attention on her. She had reached the first landing, and I was some few
steps behind her, when the chink of something falling caught my ears.
Surely enough when I, in my turn, reached the landing I discovered a
small bracelet lying upon the carpet. I immediately picked it up with
the intention of returning it. But the lady was too quick for me and had
reached the courtyard before I could set foot in the hall. A carriage
was awaiting her coming at the foot of the steps, and she had already
taken her place in it when I approached her. For the reason that she was
putting up her parasol, it was impossible for me to see her face, but
when she lifted it on hearing my voice, I discovered, to my amazement,
that she was none other than the lady whose arrival I had witnessed on
the previous afternoon, and whose eyes had had such a strange effect
upon me ever since.
"Permit me to ask if this is your property, madam?" I began, holding out
the bracelet as I spoke. "I had the good fortune to discover it on the
stairs just after you passed."
"Ah, yes, it is mine," she answered in excellent French, and in a voice
that was low and musical. "I would not have lost it for anything. It was
careless of me to have dropped it. I thank you most heartily."
She bowed, and at a signal from the Commissionaire, the coachman started
his horses, and a moment later the carriage had left the courtyard.
For some moments after it had passed out of sight I stood looking in the
direction it had taken. Then turning to the Commissionaire who stood
before me, I enquired if it were in his power to tell me the name of the
lady to whom I had rendered so small a service.
"She is Madame la Comtesse de Venetza," the man replied.
"The Countess de Venetza?" said I to myself, "that tells me nothing. It
sounds Italian. At the same time it might be almost anything else."
Circumstances forbade me that I should question the man further, though
the temptation was sufficiently great. Nothing remained, therefore, but
to withdraw and to derive what consolation I could from the fact that I
had spoken to her and knew her name.
"The Countess de Venetza," I repeated, as I made my way up the steps
once more. The name had suddenly come to have a strange fascination for
me. I found myself repeating it again and again, each time deriving a
new sensation from it.
Having procured a morning paper, I returned to the verandah, seated
myself in the place I had occupied on the previous afternoon, when I
had first seen the Countess, and turned my attention to the English
news. If the information set forth there were to be believed, there
could be no sort of doubt that we were distinctly nearer the trouble
which had been brewing for so long. The wildest rumours were afloat, and
the versions printed in the Parisian papers were not of a nature
calculated to allay my fears. If what they said were correct there could
be no doubt that England was standing face to face with one of the
greatest dangers that had threatened her in her life as a nation. And
yet it was impossible to believe that the Might, Majesty, Dominion, and
power of Great Britain could be successfully defied by a rabble horde
such as we knew the Boers to be. But had we not the remembrance of '81
continually with us to remind us that on another lamentable occasion we
had been too sanguine? This time, I told myself, it was vitally
necessary that it should be all going forward and no drawing back. If we
set our hands to the plough, it must be with a rigorous determination
not to remove them until the task we had set ourselves should be
accomplished.
At last I threw down my paper in disgust. An overwhelming desire to
thrash every journalistic cur who yelped at the heels of the British
Lion was fast taking possession of me. For the first time since I had
known her, Paris was positively distasteful to me.
"Perhaps monsieur will pardon me if I ask permission to glance at the
paper he has just thrown down," said a polite voice at my elbow. "I have
tried to obtain one at the hotel, but without success."
Turning, I saw beside me the taller of the two men I had seen with the
Countess de Venetza on the preceding afternoon--the man with the bushy
eyebrows who had driven up with her in the carriage, and who was lame.
"Take it by all means," I replied, handing it to him as I spoke. "I
doubt, however, if you will find anything in it but a series of insults
to England and her soldiers. That seems to be the _metier_ of the
Parisian Press just now."
"It is a thousand pities," the stranger replied, slowly and solemnly;
"and the more to be regretted for the reason that it does not voice the
public sentiment."
I had no desire to be drawn into a political controversy with a man who,
for all I knew to the contrary, might be an anarchist, a police spy, or
an equally undesirable acquaintance. I accordingly allowed him to seat
himself at some little distance from me and to peruse his paper in
peace. He was still reading it when a carriage drove up, bringing the
Countess de Venetza back to the hotel. Seeing her friend she approached
him, whereupon he rose to greet her, still retaining the newspaper in
his hand.
A few moments later another carriage drove up, and, when it came to a
standstill, the well-dressed individual who had waited in the verandah
on the previous afternoon, alighted. That he was much agitated could be
seen at first glance. I noticed also that he was doing his best to
conceal the fact. As he approached his friends, he raised his hat with
ceremonious politeness. Then he said something in an undertone which
would have been inaudible more than a few paces away. The effect upon
his comrades was electrical. The man gave a start of astonishment and
horror, while the woman turned deathly pale, and for a moment looked as
if she were about to faint. With an effort, however, she recovered her
self-possession, and as she did so I noticed out of the corner of my eye
(for the life of me I could not help watching them), that the man who
had brought this disconcerting intelligence turned quickly round as if
to satisfy himself that her agitation had not been noticed by any one
near at hand. Next moment they were walking slowly towards the main
entrance, the woman's hands clenching and unclenching at every step. It
was no business of mine, of course, but I felt as certain that the drama
I had seen acted in front of me was of vital importance to the trio, but
more especially so far as the woman was concerned. Had I known what the
communication was, it is just possible I might have been able to avert
what promised to be a great National calamity, and one which even now I
can scarcely contemplate without a shudder.
How I came to know these things and how innocently I walked into the
trap that had been so artfully laid for me, you shall hear. Believe me,
if I say, without conceit, that the story is an exceedingly interesting
one.
CHAPTER II
My arrangements were completed, and in spite of De Belleville's entreaty
that I should remain for at least another day, I was adamant in my
determination to leave Paris for England that night. In view of the
existing state of affairs there, it would be a truism to say that there
was much to be done before the assembling of Parliament; it behoved us
all, we knew, to put our shoulders to the wheel and to do our utmost to
help our country in her hour of need. Accordingly, the appointed moment
found me at the railway station, whither my servant had preceded me.
Williams is the best courier as well as the best servant in existence,
and when I reached the platform it was to find my compartment reserved
for me, my books and papers spread out to my hand, my cap and travelling
rug in readiness, and the faithful man himself on guard at the door. It
only wanted three minutes to starting time, and already the various
functionaries were busying themselves with intending passengers.
"It looks as if we shall have a full train, Williams," I said, as I
stood at the door gazing down the platform. "Let us hope we shall have a
good crossing!"
"The weather report is favourable, sir," he replied.
I returned to the other end of the carriage to look for my cigar-case
and was in the act of cutting a weed when I heard Williams' voice raised
as if in expostulation.
"I must beg your pardon, sir," he was saying in his curious French, that
no experience ever makes any better or any worse, "but this is a
reserved compartment."
"But, my good fellow, there is no more room in the train," said a voice
I instantly recognised. "Pray speak to your master and I am sure he will
not deny our request."
I walked to the door where this conversation was being carried on, to
discover the lady and the two men who have already figured so
prominently in my narrative, standing upon the platform.
"I am afraid we are taking an unwarrantable liberty in asking such a
favour from you," the elder man began, "but by our carelessness we are
placed in a dilemma. We omitted to secure a compartment, and now the
train is so full that we cannot procure seats. It is most necessary for
us to cross to London to-night, and unless you will go so far out of
your way as to permit us to share your carriage with you, I fear we must
remain behind. The train is about to start even now."
Though I had no desire for their company, courtesy forbade that I should
insist upon my rights. Nothing remained for it, therefore, but for me to
submit with as much graciousness as I could assume.
"Pray step in," I said. "It is the fault of the Railway Authorities who
should provide sufficient accommodation for travellers. May I ask which
seat you prefer, madame?"
With an expression of her thanks she chose the corner at the further end
of the compartment, and opposite the corner Williams had prepared for
me. Her companions followed her, and a moment later the train moved
slowly out of the station and our journey had commenced. That journey
will be remembered by two of our number, at least, so long as they can
recollect anything. I am not going to pretend that I felt at my ease for
the first part of it. Far from it. I fancy the Countess must have
noticed this, for she did not address me for some time, vouchsafing me
an opportunity of becoming accustomed to the novelty of the situation.
Then, feeling that it was incumbent on me to do the honours of the
compartment, I offered her her choice of papers. She chose one, and,
when she had opened it, assured me that I was at liberty to smoke,
should I care to do so. Her companions had also made themselves at home,
so that by the time our train ran through Ailly-sur-Noye we might have
been said to have been on comparatively intimate terms with each other.
"I have an idea that my father and I have had the pleasure of meeting an
old friend of yours lately," said the Countess, when the station to
which I have just referred was a thing of the past and we were speeding
on towards the sea.
"Really!" I replied, with some little astonishment. "Pray, who might
that friend be?"
"The Duke of Rotherhithe," she returned, and, as she said it, she neatly
folded the paper she had been reading and laid it on the seat beside
her.
"A friend of mine, indeed," I answered. "I fancied, however, that he
was yachting in the Mediterranean?"
"Exactly! He was! We met him quite by chance in Constantinople, and,
finding that we were anxious to reach Naples as quickly as possible, he
offered to convey us thither in his yacht. I remember that he spoke most
kindly of you."
"The dear fellow!" I replied. "We were at school together and afterwards
at the 'Varsity."
So easily impressed is the human mind by former associations, that the
mere fact that the Countess de Venetza and her father had lately been
the guests of my old friend, Rotherhithe, was sufficient to make me
treat them in an entirely different fashion to what I had hitherto done.
Until that time I had rather prided myself upon being a somewhat
sceptical man of the world, but, now I was giving splendid proofs of my
peculiar susceptibility. There was, however, a grain of suspicion still
lingering about me. I accordingly proceeded to indirectly question her
concerning my friend, and, as I noticed that she answered without
hesitation or any attempt at concealment, my doubts faded away until
they vanished altogether. We talked of the _Princess Balroubadour_ with
the familiarity of old friends; Rotherhithe's antipathy to those whom he
described as "foreigners" afforded us conversation for another five
minutes; while the Malapropisms, if I may coin a word, of his head
steward, were sufficient to carry us through two more stations without a
single break in the conversation. We discussed the various Ports of the
Mediterranean, ran up to Assuan in a _dahabiyeh_, and afterwards made a
pilgrimage to Sinai together. The Countess was a witty conversationalist
and, as I discovered, a close observer of all that went on around her.
Her father and cousin, beyond putting in a word now and again, scarcely
spoke, but seemed absorbed in their books and papers.
At last we reached Calais, and it became necessary for us to leave the
train. It was a beautiful evening; the sea was as smooth as glass, while
there was not enough wind to stir the pennant on the steamer's masthead.
"I am sure we cannot thank you enough for permitting us to share your
carriage," said the Countess as we left the train and prepared to go on
board the steamer. "Had it not been for your kindness, I fear we should
still be in Paris, instead of being well on our way to England."
I returned something appropriate to this remark, then, side by side, we
boarded the steamer.
"Since you have been yachting with the Duke of Rotherhithe," I said,
when we had gained the deck, "it is only fair to suppose that you are a
good sailor, Countess?"
"Oh, yes!" she answered, with a little laugh; "I am an excellent sailor.
But--forgive my asking the question--how did you become aware of my
identity?"
"I happened to hear your name at the hotel this morning," I replied. "It
was told me after I had restored the bangle you so nearly lost."
At this moment her father put in an appearance and caused a diversion by
enquiring after the safety of her jewel-case, which, it appeared, stood
in continual danger of being lost. A few seconds later the boat was
under weigh and we had said good-bye to French soil. As we left the
place of embarkation it seemed to me that my companion gave a little
sigh, and noticing that it was followed by a slight shiver, I enquired
whether she felt cold. She replied in the negative, though at the same
time she drew her furs a little closer round her.
"I wonder whether certain places affect you as they do me," she said,
when the French port lay well astern and we were heading for the white
cliffs of England. "It is strange that I never leave Calais without
undergoing a decided feeling of depression. I don't know why it should
be so; it is a fact, nevertheless."
"I hope it is not the thought of visiting England that causes it?" I
replied with an attempt at jocularity. "You have visited our country
before, of course?"
"Very often," she answered; "we have many friends in England."
"In the list of whom I hope you will permit me some day to number
myself?" I continued with an eagerness that was not at all usual with
me.
"I shall be very pleased," she returned quietly, and then looked away
across the still water to where a French pilot cutter lay becalmed half
a mile or so away.
An hour later we reached Dover.
Just as we were entering the harbour, the Countess's father approached
me and thanked me effusively for my kindness in permitting them to share
my carriage from Paris.
"But you must not let my generosity, such as it is, cease there!" I
replied. "I hope you will also share my carriage to London, that is to
say if the Countess is not already too tired of my society."
"It would be ungenerous to say so if I were," she answered with a smile.
"But if you, on your side, do not feel that we have trespassed too far
already, I am sure we shall be only too glad to accept your kind offer."
The Custom authorities having been satisfied as to the innocence of our
baggage, we took our seats in the carriage which had been reserved for
me. My indispensable Williams made his appearance with an armful of
papers, and then we started upon the last stage of our journey. When I
had handed the Countess a copy of the _Globe_, I selected a _Pall Mall_
for myself, and turned to the page containing the latest war news. From
what I found there, there could be no doubt that the situation was
hourly increasing in danger. There were complications on every side, and
the position was not rendered easier by the fact that a certain number
of prominent politicians were endeavouring to make capital out of the
difficulties of the Government.
"I suppose there can now be no doubt as to the probability of war?"
said Count Reiffenburg, looking up from his paper as he spoke.
"None whatever, I should say," I answered. "If the papers are to be
believed the clouds are blacker and heavier than they have yet been. I
fear the storm must burst ere long."
The Countess did not take any part in our conversation, but I fancied
that she was listening. Not feeling any desire to continue the
discussion with the younger man, I returned to my paper, leaving him to
follow my example. A few minutes later the Countess put down her
_Globe_, and sat looking out upon the country through which we were
passing.
"I see they have captured another notorious anarchist in Naples," I
said, after we had been sitting in silence for some minutes. "So far as
can be gathered from the report given here, the arrest is likely to
prove important in more respects than one."
"Indeed," said the Countess, looking steadily at me as she spoke. "The
police are certainly becoming more expeditious in the matter of arrests.
The only difficulty they experience is the finding of any substantial
crime against their victims when they have brought about their capture.
Pray, who is this particular man?"
"An individual rejoicing in the romantic name of Luigi Ferreira," I
answered. "It appears that they have been endeavouring to lay their
hands upon him for some time past. Until now, however, he has managed to
slip through their fingers."
"Poor fellow!" said the Countess, still in the same even voice. "I hope
it will not prejudice you against me, but I cannot help feeling a little
sympathy for people--however misguided they may be--who imperil their
own safety for the sake of bringing about what they consider the
ultimate happiness of others."
Then, as though the matter no longer interested her, she returned to the
perusal of her paper. Her cousin had all this time been drumming with
his fingers in an impatient manner, so I thought, upon the glass of the
window beside which he sat. For my own part, I scarcely knew what to
make of this young man. Though he did not show it openly, I could not
help thinking that he was jealous of the attention I was paying his fair
cousin. As the idea crossed my mind I remembered the previous afternoon,
when I had sat in the portico of the hotel, speculating as to the
nationality and lives of the people about me. How little I had thought
then that twenty-four hours later would find me seated with them in an
English railway carriage, discussing the fortune of another man with
whom neither I, nor they, for the matter of that--at least, so I then
supposed--had even the remotest connection.
It was not until we were approaching the end of our journey that I spoke
to my _vis-a-vis_ concerning her stay in London.
"We shall in all probability remain in London for some three or four
months," she said. "I hope, if you can spare the time, that you will
call upon me. I have taken Wiltshire House, by the way, and shall be
most pleased to see you."
I must confess that her announcement caused me a considerable amount of
surprise. All things considered, it was rather a strange coincidence,
for, only that morning, I had received a letter from my sister Ethelwyn,
who, as you are doubtless aware, is the Countess of Brewarden, in which
occurred the following significant passage (Ethelwyn, I might here
remark, is somewhat given to the florid style):--
"Existence is now altogether a blank! the dream of my
life--Wiltshire House--has vanished. Some rich foreigner has taken
it, and in consequence George (my brother-in-law) and I have
quarrelled desperately. He declares it is a good thing it is let,
as he couldn't think of it. He moreover avers that it would cost a
king's ransom to keep up. Nevertheless, I shall detest the
foreigner whoever she or he may be."
I can scarcely say how I derived the impression, but, until that moment,
I had not supposed my fair friend to be the possessor of any great
wealth. It was the more surprising, therefore, to hear that she was not
only a rich woman, but also that she was to be the temporary mistress of
one of the most beautiful and expensive dwellings in the Metropolis.
Needless to say, I did not let her become aware of the surprise she had
given me, but contented myself with thanking her and expressing the hope
that shortly I should be able to do myself the honour of calling upon
her.
"You won't allow your public duties to make you forget your promise to
come and see me, I hope," said the Countess, as we shook hands.
"You may be quite sure that I shall not," I replied.
"Then, _au revoir_, and many thanks for the kindness you have shown us."
"It has given me the greatest possible pleasure," I answered, and, as I
said it, I had a guilty remembrance of my uncharitable feelings that
morning, when I had discovered that my privacy was destined to be
disturbed. Yet so pleasantly had the time passed, that I felt as if I
had known the Countess for years instead of hours.
When I reached my house it was to find everything just as I had left it.
A cheerful fire blazed in my study, the latest evening papers lay, cut
and folded, upon a table beside my favourite chair; a subdued light
shone above the table in the dining-room adjoining, and everything
denoted the care and comfort which a master possessing good servants has
a right to expect. Having removed the stains of travel, and changed my
attire, I sat down to dinner, afterwards spent an hour skimming my
correspondence, then, to fill up the time, I ordered a cab and drove to
my favourite Club.
Though I had only been absent from England a short time, and had not
been further than Paris, I discovered that I had a vast amount of news
to hear. Men imparted their information to me as if I had that day
returned from Central Africa or the Australian Bush. Young Paunceford,
the member for Banford, for which place his father had sat before him,
was good enough to give me his views on the Crisis. His complaint was
that no one would listen to him, and, in consequence, he was only too
glad to find some one who required bringing up to date. That I happened
to be a Cabinet Minister as well as an old friend made no sort of
difference.
"By Jove, I envy you," he said, as he lit a fresh cigar. "I can tell
you, if you play your cards carefully, you'll be no end of a swell over
this business. Why on earth couldn't I have had such an opportunity?"
"For the simple reason that you know too much, my boy," said a man in
the Guards, who happened to be sitting near. "Haven't you heard that a
little knowledge is a dangerous thing? They know Manderville's safe on a
secret, so they gave him the job. What's the use of a secret unless
there's some mystery about it. By the way, talking of mysteries, what's
this about Wiltshire House? Somebody tells me that it has been let to
the prettiest woman in Europe. Do any of you know anything about her?"
Paunceford was as well informed upon this as upon all other subjects.
"Of course," he replied; "the news is as old as the hills. I heard it
from Bill Kingsbury, who was in the agent's shop, or office--whatever
they call it--when the business was being arranged. But it's all
nonsense about her being the prettiest woman in Europe. Hailed from
Jamaica, I believe; has to own to curly hair and to just one touch of
the tar-brush."
"Paunceford seems to know all about her," said another man. "He always
is well informed, however, upon any matter, whatever it may be. If
there's going to be a war the House ought to vote a sum sufficient to
send him out, in order that he may keep the Authorities posted on the
progress of affairs. You've missed your vocation, Paunceford; you'd make
an ideal War Correspondent."
"Too much imagination," said the man in the Guards; "military matters
must be taken seriously. But nobody has answered my question yet. Who is
this lady who has taken Wiltshire House?"
"I have already told you," said Paunceford sulkily. "I never came across
such a set of unbelievers."
"Elderly, coloured, and of West Indian origin?" said the Guardsman. "It
doesn't sound well."
I could stand it no longer.
"For goodness sake," I put in, "don't go about the town spreading that
report. I assure you Paunceford is, as usual, altogether out of it."
"How do you know that?" asked Paunceford suspiciously.
"Because I happen to have had the good-fortune to travel with the lady
from Paris to-day," I replied, with just that little touch of
satisfaction the position warranted.
"And yet you kept quiet about it," said another man. "Well, you are a
reticent beggar, I must say. Don't you know this has been one of the
mysteries of the town. My goodness, man, you shan't escape from this
room until you have told us all about her! Who is she? What is she? What
is her name? How much money has she? Above all, is she pretty?"
"She is the Countess de Venetza," I replied. "Italian, I should say;
rich--since she has taken Wiltshire House; and as for her personal
appearance--well, when you see her, you will be able to judge of that
for yourselves."
"Excellent!" said the Guardsman. "I prefer Manderville's report to
yours, Paunceford. Is she married?"
"A widow, I fancy," I replied.
"Still better! If she is kind to me I will make her reputation, and
Wiltshire House shall be the smartest caravanserai in London. Not
shooting in your wood, Manderville, I hope?"
"I wish to goodness you men wouldn't spend your time so much in
inventing new slang," I answered. "But some of you seem to have nothing
else to do. Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, I shall go home to
bed. The early bird catches the early news. In these days one lives for
the morning papers."
Paunceford saw another opportunity.
"Talking of morning papers----" he began, but before he had finished the
sentence I had left the room.
Being tired when I reached home I went straight to bed. Remembering my
experience of the previous night, I was determined that this one should
make up for it. To my disappointment, however, I discovered that, tired
though I was, sleep would not visit my eyelids. I was as wide awake when
I had been two hours in bed as I was when I entered my room. Once more,
as on the previous night, I was haunted with the remembrance of the
Countess's eyes; do what I would, I could not get them out of my mind.
Tired at last of tumbling and tossing, and thoroughly angry with myself,
and the world in general, I rose, donned a dressing-gown, and went into
the small study that adjoins my bedroom. The fire was not quite
extinguished, and with some little coaxing I was able to induce it to
burn again. Taking a book I drew up my chair, seated myself in it, and
tried to read. I must have done so to some purpose, for after a time I
fell asleep. Possibly it may have been due to the fact that I had had no
rest on the previous night, and that my mind was naturally much occupied
with the gravity of England's situation, and the part I had to play in
the coming strife; at any rate, my dreams were not only vivid but
decidedly alarming. I dreamt that I was in a transport _en route_ to the
Cape, and that the vessel struck a rock, and sank with all the troops on
board. There was no time to get out the boats, and, in company with some
hundreds of others, I was precipitated into the water. While we were
still struggling with the waves, a life-boat made her appearance, and,
to my intense astonishment, standing in the bows was no less a person
than the Countess De Venetza. What was stranger still, she carried in
her hand a heavy spear, or harpoon, with which, whenever a drowning man
approached the boat, she stabbed him in the back, laughing as she did
so. Then, by means of that wonderful mechanical ingenuity with which the
theatres of the land of dreams are furnished, the scene changed to a
lonely plain at the foot of a rugged mountain-range. A battle had been
fought upon it, and the dead and wounded still lay where they had
fallen. So real did it appear to me, that when I recognised here and
there the faces of friends, I found myself wondering what I should say
to their loved ones when I returned to England. Suddenly, in the weird
light, for the moon was shining above the mountain-peaks, there appeared
from among the rocks on the further side of the plain a woman, whose
face I instantly recognised. With stealthy steps she left her
hiding-place and descended to where the wounded lay thickest. In her
hand she carried the same spear that I remembered in my previous dream,
and with it she stabbed every man who remained alive. So terrible was
the expression upon her face as she did so, that I turned away from her
in loathing and disgust. When I looked again she was bending over the
body of a man who still lived, but who was bleeding from a deep wound
in his side. Picture my consternation when I discovered that he was none
other than the Guardsman who had been so persistent in his inquiries
that night concerning her. As I watched, for I was unable to move hand
or foot to save him, a low moan escaped his lips, followed by an appeal
for water. With the same expression of fiendish rage upon her face that
I had noticed before, she raised the spear, and was about to plunge it
into his breast, when with a cry I awoke, to find the sun streaming into
the room, and my respectable Williams standing before me.
"Good gracious, Williams, how you startled me!" I said. "What on earth
am I doing here? Ah, I remember! I could not sleep, so I came in to get
a book. I suppose I must have fallen asleep over it. What news is there
this morning?"
There was an air of mystery about Williams that I knew heralded the
announcement of some extraordinary information.
"Yes, sir," he said, "there is some important news. The papers do say
that 'War is declared.'"
CHAPTER III
During the week which followed my return to London, events followed
thick and fast upon each other. The now famous Ultimatum issued by the
enemy, though surprising enough at the time, was not altogether
unexpected. Its presumptuous tone, however, was the cause of general
comment. As a matter of fact, it was not until it became known that the
enemy, instead of waiting to be attacked in their own territory, had
invaded that of Her Majesty the Queen, that the first feeling of
amazement changed to one of anger, and, if the truth must be told, to
one of no little anxiety. Our Force at the front was well known to be
inadequate, and, as we had the best of reasons for being aware, a
considerable time would have to elapse before it would be possible for
it to be supplemented.
In my new capacity as a member of the Cabinet, my knowledge of the
country in which we were about to fight stood me in good stead;
consequently, I was kept busily employed after my return to England. The
situation, as I have already said, was one of considerable anxiety, but
as soon as it was announced that that popular soldier, Sir William
Woller, had been selected to proceed to the South, in order to take up
the Chief Command, the public fears were in a great measure allayed.
With perhaps but three exceptions, no more popular choice could have
been made, and I do not think I am breaking faith with my colleagues
when I say that we were all agreed upon this point. The decision was
arrived at on Wednesday afternoon, and orders were issued that the
General in question should sail from Southampton on the following
Saturday. On the Friday morning he was to be present at an important
Council at the War Office; in the afternoon he was to be received in
Audience at Windsor, and at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning he was
due to leave Waterloo for Southampton Docks.
Now, Woller and I had been friends for many years, and immediately his
appointment was made known, I hastened to write him a letter of
congratulation. In it I said that if he should have sufficient time at
his disposal to allow me a chance of seeing him, before he left London,
I should like to shake him by the hand and wish him God-speed. He
replied to the effect that he would be dining with the
Commander-in-Chief on Friday evening, and informed me that I was to be
one of the party. In confirmation of this the next post brought me an
invitation which I hastened to accept.
In due course Friday evening arrived, and the appointed hour found me at
the Commander-in-Chief's residence in Bruton Street. I had already been
informed that it was to be quite a small and friendly affair--as a
matter of fact, the guest of the evening, myself, and two other friends,
constituted the party. I was the first to arrive, Sir George Brandon
followed me, Berkeley Burroughes came next, and as soon as he had put in
an appearance, we only required Woller to make the number complete. He
was late, however. Eight o'clock struck, and still there was no sign of
him. Our host, in apologising for the delay, reminded us that, owing to
the multitudinous claims upon Sir William's time, it might be impossible
for him to avoid being just a little late. When, however, the clock upon
the mantel-piece stood at half-past eight, we began to look at each
other and to wonder what could have become of him. At last the
Commander-in-Chief was unable to bear the suspense any longer.
"If you will excuse me," he said, "I will telephone to his house, and
find out at what time he left there. Woller is such a punctual man that
this delay is, to say the least of it, extraordinary."
He left the room, and during his absence we kept up that desultory kind
of conversation with which one endeavours to cover the uneasiness caused
by the non-arrival of an anticipated guest. A few moments later the
Commander-in-Chief returned with a puzzled expression upon his face.
"It becomes more inexplicable every minute," said he. "From what I can
gather Woller has not been seen at his house since he left it for
Windsor. It is really most singular, and I am at a loss to know what
construction to put upon it. However, if you have no objection, we will
give him another quarter of an hour's grace, and if he is not here then,
go into dinner."
We waited the allotted time with what patience we could command, and
when it had expired, left the drawing-room and proceeded to the
dining-room, where we sat down to the long-delayed meal.
I cannot pretend for a moment that the meal was a success. The
non-appearance of our old friend, the man who on the morrow was to leave
England on one of the most important errands she has ever intrusted to a
son, sat like a wet blanket upon us. If at the last moment he had been
prevented from coming, how was it that he had not sent a note of apology
and explanation to his host? Had he met with an accident, or been taken
suddenly ill, he would at least have given instructions that a telegram
should be sent. Woller, as we were well aware, was the pink of
politeness; he was also a strict disciplinarian, not only of others, but
also of himself. That he would, therefore, have treated with discourtesy
a man who besides being his senior officer was also his old friend, was
the most unlikely thing in the world. There were special reasons that
prevented us discussing the matter in all its bearings just then, but
that we were all equally disquieted by his absence was quite certain. I
was the first to leave the house, and I can remember that it was exactly
a quarter past eleven when the front door closed behind me. Up to that
moment no word of apology, excuse, or explanation had been received from
the missing man.
"It's just possible that I may find a message from him awaiting me when
I reach home," I said to myself as I took my place in my brougham.
I was destined to be disappointed, however.
There were several letters and two telegrams lying upon my table, but
not one of any sort from Woller.
"Are you quite sure that no messenger has called from Sir William
Woller?" I asked Williams, when he came to my dressing-room, a quarter
of an hour later.
"No, sir, I am quite sure of that," he replied; "had any one called I
should have been informed of it."
With that assurance I was perforce compelled to be content. I can give
you my word, however, that I was by no means easy in my mind concerning
Sir William's silence.
Next morning, when I was in the middle of my breakfast, a note was
handed me from the Commander-in-Chief. It ran as follows:--
"DEAR MANDERVILLE,--Could you spare me ten minutes as soon as
possible after your receipt of this? I would call upon you myself,
but for various reasons, which I will explain to you when I see
you, I am unable to leave the house until I go down to Pall Mall."
Here followed an assurance that the writer was very truly mine, his
signature, and a postscript to the effect that the bearer would wait for
an answer. I scribbled a hasty reply, saying that I would come round to
Bruton Street at once, and as soon as I had made my toilet, called a cab
and set off. On my arrival there I was shown direct to the
Commander-in-Chief's study, where I found him awaiting my coming with
considerable impatience.
"It is very good of you to come so promptly," he said. "To tell you the
truth, I am very uneasy, and as we are both old friends of the man, I
thought I would consult you in an _ex-officio_ capacity, before going to
the Secretary of State for War."
"I am to gather from this, I suppose, that up to the present, you have
not heard anything of Woller," I answered, with a little sinking of the
heart, for I made sure that morning would dispel the mystery that
enveloped his behaviour.
"You have guessed correctly," he said. "I have caused the most careful
enquiries to be made, and have learnt that he left Windsor by the 3.25
train, reached Paddington at 4.2, entered a cab there, and has not
since been heard of. Unfortunately, as nobody seems to have been aware
of his identity, the number of the cab was not taken, and, so far as we
are able to ascertain, none of the drivers in the station-yard at the
time appear to be able to recollect whose vehicle it was that he
employed. If you reflect that it has been arranged that he shall leave
London for Southampton at eleven o'clock this morning, and that an
enormous crowd will be at the station to see him off, it will at once
become evident to you that his non-appearance will be far from making a
good impression upon the public mind."
"But what has become of him? He can't have vanished into space."
"There are many other ways in which he might disappear," said my
companion gloomily.
"Surely you don't suppose he has been the victim of foul play?"
I put the question hesitatingly, for I knew the thoughts that were in my
own mind.
"I scarcely know what to think," the other replied. "I can only confess
that I am alarmed, seriously alarmed, by his prolonged absence. Woller,
as you know, is a man who realises to the full the responsibilities
entailed by his present position. Duty with him is more than duty, it
is a matter of life and death; he knows that the eyes of England, of
Europe, and I might even say of the whole world, are upon him, and for
that reason alone I feel sure he would not cause us so much anxiety of
his own free will."
"In that case, what do you intend doing?" I enquired, for I could well
foresee the terrible trouble to which the situation would give rise. "It
is now a quarter to ten, and in little more than an hour he will be
expected at Waterloo. If the crowd don't see him they will begin to
wonder, the man in the street will begin to talk, the newspapers will
take up the tale, and in a few hours we shall have entered on a new
phase of the situation."
The Commander-in-Chief rose and began to pace the room.
"I have already sent a special messenger with a letter to the Secretary
of State," he replied. "In it I have told him what I fear and also what
I have done. I shall consult the various heads of Departments as soon as
I reach Pall Mall, on the bare chance that one of them may be able to
elucidate the mystery.
"At the same time I should communicate with the railway authorities, if
I were you," I continued. "I should inform them that, owing to the fact
of his being detained by matters of the greatest importance, it is
possible that Woller may not be able to travel by that particular
train."
"That is a good idea," the Commander-in-Chief replied; "I will act upon
it at once. In the event of our receiving no news, that should be
sufficient to give us time to arrange some other plan. It will mean
delaying the vessel at Southampton, however, and--good gracious
me!--what a pile of difficulties it will land us in! The Colonial
Secretary must be informed, and the matter must come before the Cabinet.
As you said just now, if by any chance it should leak out and the Press
get hold of it, there is no telling where it will end."
"You have communicated with Scotland Yard, of course?"
"I sent a messenger to them shortly after midnight, that is to say, as
soon as I had found out that Woller had left Windsor, and that he had
not been to his Club, or to his own house. Their best men are at work
upon it, but so far without any satisfactory result."
"And can his own servants throw any light upon the matter?"
"None whatever!" the Commander-in-Chief replied. "When he left for
Windsor he informed them he should be back early, in order to dress for
my dinner in the evening. They say he appeared to be in the best of
health and spirits, and seemed greatly pleased with the arrangements
made for his journey to-day. Lord Laverstock accompanied him from the
Castle, and was the last to speak to him at Windsor Station. From the
conversation I have had with him by telephone, I gathered that Woller
was looking forward to his dinner with us last night. The guard of the
train corroborates the fact that he travelled to Paddington. For the
reason that the Railway Authorities expected him by the next train,
there was no crowd upon the platform to witness his arrival. On
alighting he simply called a cab and drove away. After that he vanishes
completely."
"There is no way, I suppose, in which we can make further enquiries
concerning him?"
"There is nothing so far as I can see. We are doing all that is
possible, but our position in the meantime is a most anxious and
unpleasant one. Now I shall hasten along to see the Secretary of State
for War, and hear what he thinks of the situation. He will doubtless
consider it necessary to call an immediate meeting of the Council, when
the situation can be discussed in all its bearings."
"Let us hope that he may be heard of before very long," I replied.
So saying I left him and drove home again, feeling sadly upset by the
untoward turn events had taken. What could have become of poor Woller?
Had he been decoyed into some slum and murdered? A hundred fears for his
safety assailed me, each one equally probable and equally cruel.
When I reached my house I found that the letters had arrived, and were
spread out upon my study table. Still thinking of Woller, I opened the
envelopes and scanned their contents. One was larger than the others,
and on opening it I found that it contained a card, upon which the
following words were printed:--
"The Countess de Venetza at Home on Wednesday, November the 21st,
from nine until eleven o'clock."
In the bottom left-hand corner was the address, "Wiltshire House."
As I stood with the card in my hand, the memory of my first meeting with
the Countess came back to me. So rapidly had events moved of late, that
it seemed as if a year had elapsed since I had last seen her. I recalled
the impression her dark haunting eyes had made upon me, and,
discourteous though it may be to say so, I must confess that a shudder
passed over me at the recollection. I placed the card upon my
mantel-piece, and, for the time being, thought no more about it. There
were other and more weighty matters than an invitation from a pretty
woman to be considered that day.
Every one who has followed the progress of the war--and there are few
who have not--will recall the wave of consternation and dismay that
swept over England when the news became known that Sir William Woller,
the newly-appointed Commander-in-Chief for South Africa, had
disappeared, and could not be found. A thousand rumours, all of them
equally sensational, and all equally wide of the mark, flew about the
country; but despite the efforts of the police, the jibes of the Press,
the scarcely veiled sneers of Little Englanders and the openly-expressed
contempt of our Continental neighbours, not a trace of the missing man
could be discovered. A meeting of the Cabinet was immediately summoned,
with the result that General Grey-Mortimer, a gallant gentleman and an
experienced soldier, was at once despatched to the front, in temporary
command. In the meantime, the wildest excitement prevailed in England.
Transports were leaving the various ports every day, the Reservists were
called up, the Militia and Volunteers were being equipped and drilled,
if necessary, for active service. Plainly the heart of the country was
stirred to the very centre of its being.
Such was the Public Temper at the time that few entertainments were
given by Society. Such as there were, and to which I was invited, I, for
the most part, declined. An exception was made, however, where the
Countess de Venetza was concerned. The temptation to see her play the
part of a hostess was more than I could resist, and for this reason, ten
o'clock on the night set forth upon her card found me mounting the
magnificent staircase of Wiltshire House. From the number of arrivals
and the crowding of the stairs, it was plain, despite the excitement of
that period, that her "At Home" was likely to be a crowded one. Her
beauty, her wealth, the fact that she was for the time being the
possessor of Wiltshire House, her famous team of black Orloffs, behind
which she drove in the Park, had combined to make her one of the year's
sensations. The grandeur of her entertainments had quickly become
proverbial, and in consequence, to admit that one had not the _entree_
to Wiltshire House, was to argue oneself unknown. Ascending the
staircase by my side, cool, calm and collected, as if the enormous
weight of responsibility he was then carrying were of no account, was no
less a person than the Colonial Secretary. When the history of the
century, and of this war in particular, shall come to be written, the
character of the Honourable Benjamin Castellan will shine prominently
out. The possessor of a serene imperturbability that nothing could
disturb, a keen observer, a born leader of men, and boasting that most
necessary of all qualifications, a firm belief in himself, a better man
for the arduous post he occupied could not have been discovered.
"I was not aware that you knew the Countess," I said, as we climbed the
stairs together.
"Nor did I that until a few days ago," he answered. "May I ask where you
made her acquaintance?"
"In Paris," I replied. "We stayed at the same hotel. She and her father
had just returned from a yachting trip in the Mediterranean with the
Duke of Rotherhithe."
[Illustration: WE WERE RECEIVED BY THE COUNTESS.
_To face page 89._]
Now, I am sorry to have to confess it, but that little speech of mine
was destined to work an incalculable amount of harm. Castellan has
confessed to me since that he was at first inclined to be somewhat
distrustful of the Countess. When I informed him, however, that our
hostess had been the guest of such a well-known personage as the Duke of
Rotherhithe she figured in his eyes in a different light, with what
result you shall presently hear.
On the broad landing at the head of the staircase we were received by
the Countess. A more beautiful figure than she presented at that moment
it would have been difficult to find. Perfectly dressed, carrying
herself with a graceful assurance as to the manner born, she made an
ideal hostess. If further evidence of her wealth were wanting, it might
have been found in the magnificent diamond tiara she wore upon her head,
in the broad collet of the same precious stones about her neck, and in
the beautiful bracelets that encircled her wrists. Only once before
could I recall such a display, and then the wearer was an Emperor's
escort. As you may remember, when I first saw her in Paris, it had
struck me that her attire was just one little point behind the
"prevailing mode." Now, however, it was as near perfection as it was
possible for human hands to make it. She greeted Castellan first.
"It is indeed kind of you, Mr Castellan, to come to me when every moment
of your time is of such value," she said, as she shook hands with him.
"I follow your doings with the greatest eagerness, and marvel that you
should have the strength to accomplish so much."
"Have you ever discovered that stress of work promotes growth of power,"
said the Colonial Secretary. Then, with one of his inscrutable smiles,
he added: "Pardon me, Countess, I had forgotten for the moment that your
power does not depend upon your work!"
"Ah! I fear you intend a compliment," returned the lady with a smile.
"Must it remain for a foreigner to remind you of your own Milton?
'What is strength without a double share
Of wisdom? vast, unwieldly, burdensome,
Proudly secure, yet liable to fall
By weakest subtilities; not made to rule,
But to subserve where wisdom bears command.'"
It was not difficult to see that the aptness of the quotation
astonished the Colonial Secretary. The purity of the Countess's English
was also a surprise to me; but for certain unmistakable indications it
would not have been thought that she was a foreigner. When Castellan had
passed on his way, she turned to me with a little gesture, as if she
were pleased to welcome an old friend.
"Ah! Sir George," she said, "I am so pleased to see you. But I think I
should give you a scolding for not having been before."
I hastened to excuse myself on the plea of over-work, and, having
obtained forgiveness and promised to amend my conduct in the future, I
passed on to shake hands with her father. When I had been again thanked
for my kindness in the matter of the French train, I followed the
Colonial Secretary into the ball-room. I had not been there many minutes
before I was greeted by a voice, which I instantly recognised, saying:
"How do you do, Sir George," and turning, I found myself face to face
with the handsome young Count Reiffenburg, Madame's cousin.
"And how do you like London?" I enquired, after the usual polite
salutations had passed between us. "I think I understood you to say, on
the occasion of our crossing from Paris, that this was your first
visit?"
"I like it very much," he replied, "but, to be candid, not so much as
Paris. I trust that is not a rude thing to say in London?"
"Every one is entitled to express his own opinion," I answered, somewhat
coldly, for I had taken an instinctive dislike to this young fellow.
"You must remember that you are seeing England at her worst just now.
The times are too anxious for us to be very gay."
"You refer to the war, I suppose?" he answered. Then he added with what
I could not help thinking was intended for a sneer: "The war is the
sensation of the moment."
"It naturally would be," I replied. "Though proverbially phlegmatic, we
still have sufficient feeling left to be patriotic; but perhaps your
sympathies are with the other side?"
"One can scarcely help feeling some sympathy----"
"My dear Conrad," said the Countess, who had come upon us unperceived,
"I really cannot let you talk politics in my ball-room. Go away and find
your partner at once. Prove to her that you have learned to valse in
Vienna."
She tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan, but for my own part I
could not help thinking that her words were not meant to be taken as
lightly as she had spoken them. At any rate, the young man muttered
something under his breath and left us.
"Conrad is a foolish but a warm-hearted boy," said the Countess, looking
after him. "Because Messieurs les Boers don't wear uniforms, and are not
nice to look at, he calls them patriots fighting for their country, and
honours them as such."
"I fear there are many like him," I replied. "I trust, however,
Countess, that we have the good fortune to possess your sympathy?"
"Could any one help sympathising with the handsome British officers?"
she answered. "I have no doubt----"
At that moment a sudden buzz of excitement ran through the room, and she
stopped without completing her sentence. It began near the door, and
quickly spread from group to group. Whatever the news was, it caused a
look of consternation to appear on every face.
"What can be the matter?" asked the Countess. "I wonder what they are
all talking about?"
As she finished speaking the Colonial Secretary came up to us.
"I hope that you are not the bearer of evil tidings," said my companion
to him. At the same moment I noticed that her face was very white, and
that there was a frightened look in her eyes.
"We have just received terrible intelligence," he replied. "The steamer,
_Sultan of Sedang_, with Sir Grey-Mortimer, his staff, and the first
Midlandshire Regiment on board, has been blown up at Madeira, and only
three men saved."
The shock was so terrible, that for a moment I stood as if tongue-tied.
"And Grey-Mortimer?" I asked, when I could speak.
"Killed," was the reply.
"Good Heavens! how terrible!" I said. "Are you quite sure it is true?
How did you hear the news?"
"A message has just reached me from the Office," he replied. "There can
be no doubt about it!"
"Woller first, now Grey-Mortimer," I said to myself. "What can it mean?
I shall go to the Admiralty and obtain full particulars."
"I will accompany you," said the Colonial Secretary. "Good-night,
Countess, and many thanks for your hospitality. I am sorry indeed that
this news should have reached us at such a time."
"And I too," she answered. Then, turning to me, she continued: "I hope
you will come and see me again, Sir George?"
As she said it, she looked into my face with a glance that would have
set many hearts, less susceptible than mine, beating with unusual
vigour. The memory of that look accompanied me down the stairs and
remained with me for some time after I was seated in the Colonial
Secretary's brougham. Then we set off to the Admiralty to learn the
details of the disaster. Alas! as Castellan had said, it proved only too
true. The steamship _Sultan of Sedang_ had reached Madeira safely, and
had anchored in the Bay. Nothing of a suspicious nature occurred, nor
was any boat seen near the ship after dark. Suddenly a terrific
explosion was heard, and the great vessel was blown to pieces, the only
men who escaped with their lives being a stoker, a sergeant in the
Midlandshire regiment, and an officer's servant. At the time of
telegraphing, boats were out searching the Bay, while the most careful
investigation as to the cause of the disaster was proceeding on shore.
The Colonial Secretary and I left the Admiralty when we had heard all
there was to be told, and proceeded into the street once more. The
coachman had been ordered not to wait, as we had decided to walk on
home.
Late as the hour was the alarming intelligence had spread like wildfire
through London, and already a considerable crowd had collected in
Whitehall. Fortunately, Castellan and I were able to slip out
unrecognised, and then we set off in the direction of Trafalgar Square.
The Colonial Secretary's residence, as all the world is aware, is in
Carlton House Terrace. At the corner of the small thoroughfare that
winds its way from Cockspur Street into Carlton House Terrace, we
stopped, and stood for some moments conversing there together. Then we
wished each other good-night, Castellan going down the narrow street of
which I have spoken, while I proceeded along Pall Mall and Piccadilly in
the direction of my own abode. My thoughts were the reverse of pleasant
as I strode along. A Cabinet Council had been summoned for the following
morning, and, with this sad intelligence to be brought before it, there
could be no doubt that it was likely to be a gloomy one.
Next morning I rose early. I had a large amount of work to get through
before the meeting, which was to take place at eleven o'clock. At a
quarter to that hour I drove down to Whitehall, and made my way to the
Foreign Office.
"This is terrible news indeed, Manderville," said the Prime Minister, as
we shook hands. "Poor Grey-Mortimer and all those gallant men! I
scarcely like to think of the effect it will produce upon the country.
First, that succession of disastrous defeats, then Woller's
extraordinary disappearance, and now this new catastrophe. However, as
we shall have to discuss that directly, I will say no more at present.
Are we all here?"
There was only one person who had not arrived, the Colonial Secretary.
"It's not like Castellan to be unpunctual," said the Prime Minister.
"Doubtless, however, it won't be long before he puts in an appearance."
When ten minutes had elapsed and still he did not come, a messenger was
despatched to the Colonial Office in search of him. It was not long
before he returned with the information that Castellan had not yet
arrived at his office. Close upon the heels of this message came another
from Mrs Castellan anxiously inquiring for her husband, who, it
appeared, had not come home on the previous night, nor had any
communication been received from him. As I heard this a great fear took
possession of me. I had said good-night to him in Cockspur Street, only
a few paces from his own front door, and had seen him walk in that
direction. How was it, then, that he had not reached it? Was he the
victim of a plot? Had he disappeared like Woller, never to be heard of
again?
CHAPTER IV
Some idea of the wave of consternation which swept over England, when it
became known that the Right Honourable Benjamin Castellan, Secretary of
State for the Colonies had disappeared as mysteriously as Sir William
Woller had done before him, will be derived when I say that edition
after edition of the evening papers had been sold by three o'clock in
the afternoon. It was in every sense a grave national calamity, for, as
we all know, at this particular juncture in the country's history,
Benjamin Castellan, of all others, was the man who could least be
spared.
"You are sure, I suppose, Sir George, that Castellan intended going home
after you parted in Cockspur Street," the Prime Minister enquired,
looking at me along the table.
"As certain as I am of anything," I replied. "He complained of feeling
tired, and laughingly declared his intention of going to bed early, in
order that he might be fresh for our meeting this morning."
"He did not seem depressed in any way, I suppose?" put in the First Lord
of the Admiralty.
"He was naturally extremely downcast by the news we had received
concerning the _Sultan of Sedang_, but in no other sense," I answered.
"I am sorry now that I did not walk with him to his door as I originally
intended doing."
"It is, perhaps, as well that you did not," asserted one of the others,
"for in that case we might have lost you too. Surely my Lord," he
continued, addressing the Prime Minister, "the Police Authorities should
be able to obtain some clue respecting his disappearance? Deserted as
the passage usually is at that hour of the night, for I have passed
through it myself, there _must_ have been some one in the main
thoroughfares at either end who would have given the alarm had they
noticed anything out of the common."
"It is not altogether certain that the crime, if crime it is--and of
that we have as yet no evidence--was perpetrated in the passage of which
you speak," said the Prime Minister; "but wherever, or however, the
deed was committed, the Police I am sure will do their utmost to unravel
the mystery. The mere fact that General Woller's disappearance has not
yet been accounted for is giving rise to a vast amount of uneasiness.
That the same fate should have befallen Mr Castellan will not be likely
to add to the public peace of mind. I am sure the Secretary of State for
the Home Department will do all that lies in his power to see that no
time is lost in bringing the offenders to justice."
When the meeting broke up I made my way with all haste to Carlton House
Terrace, in order to assure my friend's wife of my sympathy, and to help
her in any way that lay in my power. Prostrated with grief though she
was, she consented to see me, and I was accordingly admitted to her
presence.
"Oh, Sir George!" she cried, hastening forward to greet me, "is it
possible that you bring news of him? Ah! I can see you do not."
She threw herself into a chair with a little cry of despair, and for a
moment I scarcely knew what to say to comfort her.
"We must hope for the best, Mrs Castellan," I said at last, and then
added with an assurance that my heart was far from sharing--"no one
knows what the next few hours may bring forth."
"But where can he be?" she cried--"and who can have been base enough to
harm him? I know that he has enemies, as every man who has made a great
name for himself must have, but I cannot think of one who would go so
far as to rob me of him. Oh! it is too cruel! too cruel!"
We were still talking when news reached us that two members of the
Police Department had arrived, and were anxious for an interview.
"I cannot see them," the poor lady declared. "I can tell them nothing
that they do not know!"
"Then let me see them for you," I said. "I think I can answer any
questions they may ask, and at the same time it will spare you the pain
such an interview would entail."
"God bless you for your kindness! You are a true friend."
I thereupon left her, and followed my colleague's secretary along the
hall in the direction of the study.
"This is a sad affair indeed, Mr Gedge," I said, after we had left the
morning-room. "I presume you have never heard Mr Castellan say anything
as to his being shadowed by any one?"
"Never," he replied; "though I will confess that I have suggested to him
on numerous occasions the advisability of having a companion with him
when he walked home late at night from the House. That, you remember,
was a favourite habit of his. He used to say that the fresh air revived
him after a long debate."
"And he was quite right," I replied. "Now let us hear what the police
have to say."
The two members of the Detective Force, who had been detailed to take
charge of the case, rose as we entered the room. They seemed somewhat
surprised at seeing me, but upon my informing them how I came to be
connected with the matter, willingly excused Mrs Castellan from
attendance.
"Do I understand you to say that you were the last of his friends to see
Mr Castellan before his disappearance?" asked the taller of the two men,
who looked more like a burly Yorkshire farmer than a member of the
Scotland Yard Detective Force.
"It would appear so," I replied. "We left Wiltshire House on hearing
the news of the disaster to the _Sultan of Sedang_, drove to the
Admiralty to learn the latest particulars, and then, having dismissed
the carriage, strolled as far as Cockspur Street in each other's
company."
"And you parted at the passage that leads from Cockspur Street into
Carlton House Terrace, I believe?" said the other man. "You did not
happen to notice whether any person was following you, I suppose?"
"I don't fancy either of us looked round during the whole distance," I
answered, with an inward wish that I had been suspicious enough to have
taken that simple precaution. "We had too much to occupy our thoughts
without observing the actions of other people."
"And how long did you remain on the pavement? I should be obliged if you
would endeavour to be as accurate as possible, sir, in your answer to
this question."
I considered a moment before I replied.
"Between eight and ten minutes I should say, certainly not more. I
remember comparing my watch with a clock above the shop window at the
corner, and remarking as I did so that I was nearly three minutes slow."
"In that case you should be able to fix the time of his leaving you to
within a minute or two," said the elder of the two men, taking a
note-book and pencil from his pocket as he spoke.
"I can do so exactly. It was five minutes past twelve when we bade each
other good-night."
"Was any one near you on the pavement while you were standing talking?"
"No one, the street was almost deserted."
"I notice that you say _almost_ deserted, sir. Then there were other
people in sight. Do you happen to remember if any one was standing near
you--that is to say, within fifty feet or so?"
"I recollect that there was a policeman on the opposite side of the
road. Two youths in evening dress, both far from sober, passed at the
moment that we stopped. Stay, now I come to think of it, there was an
old woman near us just before we said good-night to each other, and, if
my memory serves me, she disappeared down the narrow passage. It is
strange that I should have forgotten the circumstance."
"An old woman? Can you give me a rather more detailed description of
her? Of what class was she?"
"Of the very poorest, I should say, and half witted. She was in rags,
and was muttering some gibberish to herself. I am afraid I cannot tell
you any more about her."
"That is rather a pity," said his companion. "I should like to have a
little conversation with that good lady."
"You surely don't think she had anything to do with the Colonial
Secretary's disappearance?" I replied with some surprise. "Why, she
couldn't have had sufficient strength to harm a child, much less a
strong, active man such as Mr Castellan was."
"Perhaps not, sir; it's just possible, however, that she may have had
friends to do the work for her. I don't say, of course, that she _had_
anything to do with it, but it is our duty to look after every detail,
and my experience has taught me that the most unexpected places often
provide the most likely clues. Let us suppose, for instance, that she
was only the decoy bird, and that the real perpetrators of the crime
were concealed in the passage. As soon as she had discovered Mr
Castellan, she passed into the lane and bade her confederates be on the
alert; then, when he appeared, they would be ready to effect his
capture. Doesn't that plot seem feasible enough, sir?"
"Very feasible," I felt compelled to admit; "but your case, like the
proverbial figures, can be made to prove anything. However, if you think
the old woman had anything to do with it, what action do you propose to
take?"
"I shall try the street first, and endeavour to discover whether any one
heard a scuffle or cries for help last night. Then it's possible the
police on the beat may know something of the old woman, and be able to
give us an insight into her character and identity. In the meantime, if
Mrs Castellan will permit it, I will interview the servants and
endeavour to discover whether they noticed any suspicious characters
loitering about near the house."
"I am sure Mrs Castellan will be only too pleased if you will do what
you deem necessary," I replied.
The man thanked me, and the necessary orders were given for the servants
to be ushered into the room. One by one they were subjected to a
rigorous cross-examination at the hands of the two detectives. Neither
the butler nor any of the men-servants had noticed anything suspicious
in the front of the house, nor had they seen any old woman, answering to
my description, hanging about the premises. The housekeeper and cook
were equally positive in their assertions; indeed, the only person who
had noticed anything peculiar was a young housemaid, who declared that
she had seen two well-dressed men pass the house on three different
occasions during the day. Each time they used the small passage to which
reference has been so often made. When pressed to describe them more
accurately, she was unable to do so.
"They were just ordinary gentlemen," she said, "dressed in frock coats
and silk hats, and they might have, or might not have, carried umbrellas
in their hands." Further than this she declared she could not go, not if
her life depended upon it.
"What makes you so sure that they passed three times?" asked the smaller
of the two detectives.
"Because I saw them first after breakfast, sir," the girl replied, "then
in the middle of the morning, and the last time just before dinner."
This being all that could be extracted from her, the girl was dismissed
from the room, and Mr Castellan's valet was recalled. From him an exact
description of the clothes the missing man was wearing, and a record of
the jewellery he had about his person, was obtained.
"This is no ordinary case of robbery," said the elder detective, "but it
is always as well to know these things. One never knows how useful they
may prove later on."
After asking a few more questions, they thanked me for the information I
had given them and prepared to leave the house.
"You will be sure to acquaint Mrs Castellan with any discovery you may
make?" I said. "I should like to be able to assure her of that?"
"You may, sir. She shall know directly we hear of anything."
Then they bowed themselves out, and I was at liberty to make my missing
colleague's wife acquainted with the result of our interview. I found
her still prostrated with grief and anxiety, a prey to the most
agonising thoughts. I did what I could to comfort her, though I felt
that my ministrations could do her no good. In my own heart I was quite
certain that Castellan had been spirited away by the same mysterious
agency that had deprived us of Woller. What that agency was, however,
was more than I, or any one of us, could determine. When I left Carlton
House Terrace I drove to the Foreign Office, where I had a consultation
with the Prime Minister which lasted upwards of an hour, after which I
returned to my residence.
I had intended going into the country that afternoon, but, in the light
of this new calamity, I changed my mind and resolved to remain in Town.
Accordingly, after lunch I drove to my office, and remained there until
towards evening. By three o'clock, as I have already said, the terrible
intelligence was known all over the town. In all my experience I cannot
remember a scene of greater excitement. Downing Street, in particular,
was filled with an enormous crowd, eager to learn the latest news. In
the public mind Castellan's disappearance figured as the work of an
enemy, very probably by reason of the prominent part he had played in
the history and development of the war. The wildest rumours were afloat
concerning the affair, and every edition of the evening papers contained
some new item connected with it. At four o'clock I bade my secretary
telephone to Scotland Yard and enquire whether they had any information
to impart. The reply was to the effect that their labours had so far
been entirely fruitless. As in poor Woller's case, not a trace of the
missing man could be discovered. Castellan could not have vanished more
completely had he been caught up to the sky at the very moment that I
had said "good-bye" to him.
"It is really most uncomfortable for every one concerned," my secretary
remarked. "If this sort of thing is to continue, one does not know who
the next victim may be."
He was quite right; one certainly _did not_ know. This much, however,
was quite certain: whoever the persons might be who perpetrated the
crime, they were past masters of their art. Their arrangements and the
general conduct of the affair was perfection itself, and against such
science it was almost impossible to guard. For my own part--and I don't
think my worst enemies can accuse me of cowardice--I must confess to a
distinct feeling of uneasiness when I reflected that this mysterious
individual, or band, might possibly try his, or their, hand upon me. The
suggestion emanating from Scotland Yard to the effect that we should
avail ourselves of the offer of police protection, I politely, but
firmly declined. The idea of being shadowed night and day by detectives
was more than distasteful to me.
"Yet we do not desire to lose you, Sir George," said the Prime Minister
later, and in saying it he was kind enough to pay me a compliment which
my modesty will not permit me to repeat here. I owe him an apology in
this matter, however, for I now see that he was right. If I should have
to go through it all again, however, I feel that I should act as I did
then.
At half-past four o'clock I left the office--by the back door this time,
for I had no desire to be recognised by the crowd--and when I had
crossed the Horse Guards Parade, set off in the direction of Marlborough
House. As I walked along I thought of Castellan and of our meeting on
the previous night. How little he had dreamt when he had carried on his
airy badinage with Madame de Venetza that in less than three hours he
would be gone from the sight of men! This naturally led me to think of
the Countess. I recalled the expression upon her face, and the look in
her eyes, when she had invited me to visit her again, and though, as I
have said before, I do not in any way consider myself a lady's man, I am
willing to confess that the recollection of her condescension gave me
considerable satisfaction.
Not feeling in the humour for Piccadilly, and the raucous voices of the
newsboys shouting--
"DISAPPEARANCE OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE
FOR THE COLONIES:
DISAPPEARANCE OF MR CASTELLAN!"
I continued my walk across the green Park in the direction of Hyde Park
Corner. It was a beautiful evening, and in the twilight the Park
presented as peaceful a scene as the soul of man could desire. Reaching
the exit opposite Hamilton Place, I stood for a moment wondering whether
I should cross into Hyde Park or stroll leisurely home. What it was I
cannot say, but for some reason or another I had a strange desire for
the companionship of my fellow men or women. It may have been that the
sudden disappearance of Castellan had upset me more than I supposed. At
any rate, I was far from being myself. As I stood there an idea struck
me, and I wondered why it had not occurred to me before. What was there
to prevent my visiting the Countess that evening? She had declared that
she would be very glad to see me whenever I might call.
My mind was no sooner made up than I crossed the road and steered a
course for Wiltshire House. On the way many friends would have stopped
me had I permitted them to do so, but I strode resolutely along, paying
no heed to them beyond returning their salutations. At last I reached
the Countess's house and learnt that she was not only at home but would
receive visitors. I found her in her boudoir seated before a bright
fire, though the day had been comparatively warm.
"It is kind indeed of you to take pity upon my loneliness, Sir George,"
she said, as she rose to receive me. "No one could be more welcome. I
have been feeling so very sad this afternoon, and now your society will
cheer me up."
"You have heard of Mr Castellan's disappearance, I suppose?" I remarked,
as I seated myself in the chair she indicated. "It has shocked you as it
has done all of us!"
"Have you any way of accounting for it?" she asked.
"None whatever," I replied. "The whole affair is shrouded in mystery.
The police are unable to discover the faintest clue to work upon."
"It will have a very serious effect upon the country, will it not?" she
enquired. "He has played such a conspicuous part in politics of late!"
"He will be missed, I fear," I answered, and stopped there, for I had no
desire to discuss current politics just then.
Putting the topics of the day on one side, we at last came to the
duration of her stay in London.
"I scarcely know how long we shall remain," she said. "I fancy my father
is growing tired of London already. The war is perhaps accountable for
it, but England is too sad just now. I do not like sad places. I prefer
the sun, the warmth, the glitter, and to have smiling faces about me. I
am afraid I must be peculiarly constituted, for the least thing is
sufficient to raise or depress me." Then suddenly brightening up, she
continued: "But there; what a foolish hostess I am to talk to you in
this fashion. I shall frighten you away, and then you will not come and
see me any more. I have no desire to lose so good a friend."
Man of the world though I was, the compliment tickled my vanity, and I
hastened to reply in a suitable fashion. Then I congratulated her upon
the success which had attended her "At Home" on the previous evening.
"In the matter of an 'At Home' it is not so very difficult to be
successful," she replied. "One has only to give _carte blanche_ to one's
cook and house-steward, dress oneself in one's best, and stand at the
head of the stairs to receive one's guests with a conventional smile
upon one's face. A dinner is a somewhat more difficult affair, and
there, I think, without vanity, I may justly pride myself upon my
ability. A cosy little dinner for, let us say, not more than eight
people, each to be most carefully selected. Will you make one of them?"
"I shall be delighted," I replied. "But may it not be a competition? My
man has ambition. Why not let me try to equal your effort, even if I
cannot excel it?"
"Try, by all means. And the prize?"
"The knowledge of success! What prize could be more worth winning?"
"It is settled then?" she returned. "We are each to give a dinner and to
endeavour to outdo each other. I shall make my arrangements
accordingly."
After that we drifted into a discussion upon books, pictures, and, by
the natural transition of things, came at last to music. On this
subject she was as well informed as upon every other.
"It is my passion," she said in explanation. "My piano is the greatest
treasure I possess. I could not live without it."
"I felt certain from the first that you were a musician," I replied. "I
wonder if I could induce you to play to me?"
"I will do so with pleasure if you wish it?" she answered, and
accordingly crossed the room to the corner where the piano stood.
Prepared as I was to find her a good _pianiste_, I did not dream for a
moment that her talent was so great. As it was, she fascinated me from
the moment that her fingers touched the keys. In explanation I might
here remark that I am particularly susceptible to music, and now, under
her influence, I sat spell-bound. The work was Saint Saen's "Danse
Macabre," and in her hands the fierce madness of that remarkable
composition was brought out with more than its usual _diablerie_.
In order to understand what is to follow, it must be remembered that I
was seated near the fire-place, and that her piano was at the further
end of the room, so that, placed as I was, I could not see my hostess.
Having once felt the divine _afflatus_, she played on and on, without
stopping to enquire whether I was tired, wandering from master to master
as the fancy seized her. Such was the effect of the music upon me, that
in a short time I became scarcely conscious of mundane affairs. A
delicious languor was stealing over me, and little by little I felt my
eyes closing. The music appeared to be growing gradually fainter, until
it could scarcely be heard. I tried to rouse myself, but was unable to
do so. At last, even the inclination to battle with the feeling of
drowsiness left me, and I abandoned myself to my fate.
Whether I fell asleep and dreamt what I am about to describe, or whether
the Countess, in the exercise of a deadly power which I feel convinced
she possessed, had hypnotized me, I cannot say. The fact remains, that
in my mind's eye, for my eyes were closed, I saw her rise from the
instrument and approach me. Then, she came closer, stopped, and stooped
over me until her eyes were close to mine. There was a light in them
that pierced my eyelids and penetrated to the centre of my brain.
"It is useless for you to strive with me," she said; "you are mine, and
must do my bidding."
Then she began to question me on certain matters connected with the war
and with European politics. I appeared to be telling her secrets, so
vital in their importance, that to have breathed them aloud to the world
would have been to run the risk of causing the most serious
international complications. Yet, still powerless to resist, I answered
the questions as they were put to me, keeping nothing back. When she had
learnt all that she wanted to know, she moved away from me, and returned
to the piano. Then once more she began to play, the music growing louder
and more distinct as it progressed. Then I woke, to find her still
playing the same piece as when I had closed my eyes. When she had
finished it, she rose from her seat.
"I think of all the great masters, I prefer Chopin," she said, as she
crossed the room. "Yes, I am certain that he stands first in my
admiration."
Her manner was so open, so sincere, that the suspicion I had been
tempted to entertain against her vanished in a trice. It was all
imagination, I told myself. Under the influence of her music I must have
fallen asleep and dreamt it all. Had I not good proof of this? Had it
really happened, it would have taken nearly a quarter of an hour for me
to impart the information she had asked of me. Yet the long hand of the
clock upon the mantel-piece had only advanced three minutes since I had
last looked at it. How comforting this assurance was to me I must leave
you to understand. It was the most singularly vivid dream, however, I
had had in my life, and, but for the evidence of the clock, and the
sincerity of the Countess's manner, I could have sworn that the incident
I have just described had really occurred. Yet there was another side to
the question. I had fallen asleep while paying an afternoon call, and
the idea disquieted me more than I cared to admit. Then a servant
entered with tea, and under the influence of the Countess's Pekoe and
fashionable chit-chat my powers of conversation returned to me. At last
I rose to take leave.
"I fear I have paid you an unconscionably long visit," I said. "Your
beautiful music, however, must be blamed for my over-stepping the bounds
of politeness. I hope you will forgive me?"
"It has been a pleasure to me to play to you," she answered. "One does
not always have such a sympathetic audience."
With that I left her, and on reaching the street turned in the direction
of the Park.
"I should have just time enough for a sharp walk before I dress," I said
to myself, and took my watch from my pocket and glanced at the dial. The
clock on the mantel-piece of the Countess's boudoir, when I had said
good-bye to her, had pointed to half-past five. My watch showed a
quarter to six. This was very singular, for I remembered looking at my
watch as I stood in the portico, after ringing the bell, and also my
laughing remark to the Countess to the effect that I was glad to have
found her at home at such an hour, glancing at the clock as I did so.
Yet now there was a difference of rather more than a quarter of an hour
between the two? What did this signify? Could the Countess's clock have
stopped while she was playing and then have gone on again of its own
accord? It was scarcely likely that, while I was asleep, she had risen
from the piano and had set it going, for going it certainly was when I
bade her good-bye. The remembrance of the dream I had had still weighed
heavily upon my mind, and, do what I would, I could not throw it off.
Yet how absurd it was. Moreover, though I had more than once suspected
her of taking an interest in European politics, she had always denied
the fact to me. Besides, even if this were so, and granted that she had
the power, what reason could she possibly have had for extracting
secrets from me? At this point the remembrance of her eyes and the
singular influence they had had over me in Paris, returned to me.
"What does it all mean?" I asked myself, as if in despair of arriving at
a definite conclusion.
I was to find that out, however, in good time!
CHAPTER V
You will remember that in the preceding chapter I described to you the
conflicting emotions with which I viewed my now famous call at Wiltshire
House. Beyond remarking that I was quite at a loss to account for it,
and that the passing of time did not throw any further light upon the
mystery, I need say no more about it. There is so much to tell of vital
importance, that it behoves me to be economical of space. Needless to
say, the Colonial Secretary's disappearance continued to attract its
full measure of public attention. Despite the endeavours of the police,
however, no clue of any sort could be discovered, either as to his
present whereabouts, or as to the manner of his departure. Enormous
rewards were offered, but without success. He was gone, and that was all
that could be said about it.
Meanwhile, the most alarming telegrams were being received from the
Front. Day after day the news of reverses filled the columns of the
Public Press, until it began to look as if the prestige of England would
be destroyed for ever and a day. Parliament had by this time assembled,
and questions innumerable were addressed to the Secretary of State for
War as to the reasons for the deplorable condition of affairs at the
Front. Public opinion was at fever heat, and only a small spark was
needed to bring about an explosion. Troops were pouring out of England
by every available boat, while the Home Defence Force was being
increased to its utmost limit. Never since the Crimea had such a state
of affairs been known, and never had the resources of the Empire been so
severely taxed. Then came the news of the loss of another transport at
sea, a catastrophe ascribed to the presence on board of a clock-work
infernal machine; this was followed by the stranding of the _Son of
Neptune_, with the 36th Lancers on board, at Las Palmas, by which the
horses and men, so badly needed at the seat of war, were detained on the
Island inactive until another vessel could be sent from England to pick
them up and convey them to their destination.
By this time every one, save those whom the most visible proof would
not convince, had arrived at the conclusion that we were fighting, not
only our ostensible and declared enemies, the two South African
Republics, but also another powerful yet mysterious foe, whose
machinations were responsible for the disappearance of Woller and the
Colonial Secretary, for the blowing up of the _Sultan of Sedang_, the
destruction of the _Son of Neptune_, and sundry other occurrences so
vividly and painfully impressed upon the public mind. Then, for upwards
of a fortnight, a respite was given us, and the British taxpayer was
able to take up his paper without finding the news of some new
misfortune, for which he would eventually be called upon to pay for both
in money and self-esteem, described in its columns. It was fortunate
that we could not foretell the even greater troubles that were still in
store for us.
One memorable Friday morning, exactly a fortnight after my call at
Wiltshire House, a rumour ran through the town to the effect that
Woolwich Arsenal had been destroyed. Knowing the precautions that were
taken at that splendid institution to guard against such a thing, the
report was at first discredited. It was soon found, however, to be only
too true. A terrific explosion had taken place, a large number of
employees had been killed and wounded, while the works, then so vitally
necessary, were placed at a complete standstill. The lamentable
occurrence was reported to the House by the Home Secretary that
afternoon, and, as usual, the authorities declared there was no clue to
guide the police in their search for the author of the dastardly deed.
It was in vain that questions were asked in the House; in vain that
public orators demanded of the authorities that they should exercise
more care in guarding their institutions; in vain that the man in the
street forwarded his theories, and suggested remedies, to the Press.
England had a mysterious enemy who could think as well as act, and who,
when he has finished his work, left no trace behind to lead to his
identification.
In consequence of the excitement caused by the last disaster, the guards
upon all the public buildings were doubled, no precaution was omitted
that wisdom could dictate, and then we waited to see where the next blow
would fall. In this fashion another fortnight went by, during which an
incident of no small importance occurred. Quite by chance an explanation
was forthcoming as to how the news of the series of disasters that had
been our portion in South Africa during the last few weeks reached our
shores. It was discovered that the cable, the only one then working, had
been cleverly tampered with, the wires milked, to use an American
expression, and a doctored version sent home for consumption. This was
corroborated by the mail reports, and despatches describing the course
of events in South Africa. Henceforth the most rigid precautions were
taken to guard against a repetition of this practice, and then once more
we sat down to wait.
I had seen nothing of the Countess for some time. The fright I had
received on the last occasion that I had called upon her, was still
sufficiently impressed upon my memory to make me a little chary of
allowing her to obtain so much influence over me. As will doubtless be
agreed, this was a somewhat contradictory decision on my part, for in
arriving at it, I had no excuse to offer, save that I entertained for
her a mixture of admiration and, I might almost say, of innate distrust.
The admiration was easily accounted for; the distrust was somewhat more
difficult to explain. Was she not the bosom friend of many of the
greatest people in the land? She was to be met everywhere, and was as
well known a personage in London Society as Royalty itself. Her father,
it appeared, had left England for the Continent, and it was doubtful
when he would return. Her cousin was still with her, and was to be
encountered at every social gathering of importance. Young, handsome,
and the reported possessor of considerable wealth, it was small wonder
that he found himself in request, when so many young men were absent
from England. I have stated that I did not care for the young Count
Reiffenburg, and now I will go even further by saying that the more I
saw of him the less I liked him.
At this point in my story it is necessary for me to describe a
circumstance, which, though at the time it puzzled me considerably, can
now be very easily explained. It occurred on a night when the House sat
scarcely so late as usual. As a matter of fact it was but little after
midnight when I set off to walk home. For a time after the disappearance
of the Colonial Secretary, I had declined to be shadowed by a detective,
but now, hearkening to the voice of Prudence, I had consented to be
shadowed by a detective whenever I took my walk abroad. Since I am fond
of walking, particularly at night, I am afraid my own particular shadow
had rather a hard time of it. He never complained, however, but,
faithful to his duty, kept me continually in view, obtruding himself
upon my notice as little as possible. The feeling engendered by the
knowledge that a man is continually behind one, watching all one does,
is the reverse of pleasant. However, like everything else in life, one
gets used to it, and after a time I took no notice of it. On this
particular occasion, the night being so beautiful, the moon was full, I
remember, I strolled leisurely home, my thoughts centred on the debate
that had taken place that night. There is a solemnity about Trafalgar
Square at midnight, particularly when viewed by the light of the moon,
that is far from being its principal characteristic by day. As I passed
the spot where I had said good-bye to poor Castellan a few weeks before,
I could not suppress a shudder.
Leaving Cockspur street behind me, I passed on to Piccadilly, afterwards
proceeding by way of Berkeley Square to my abode. By the time I reached
my own door I was in the full enjoyment of the night. It seemed a pity
to shut oneself up in the house when it was so lovely outside. I
therefore waited until my faithful follower came up to me, and then
informed him that I intended going on for a further stroll.
"There is not the least necessity for you to come," I said. "You may go
home to bed as soon as you like."
"I think I would prefer to accompany you, sir," the man replied. "I am
on duty all night, and if anything were to happen to you, it would be my
fault."
"Very well, then," I answered, "come along."
So saying, we resumed our walk, with the difference that on this
occasion I kept the man beside me. He proved an interesting companion,
having seen life under a variety of aspects, and in so doing had
naturally come in contact with many strange characters. What was more,
he had the faculty of being able to put them before you in a novel and
interesting light. He had been three times to America in search of
criminals, once to India, and once to Australia.
By the time I had heard his experiences in the last-named country we had
reached Park Lane, and were drawing near Wiltshire House. At the corner
we called a halt, while I felt in my pocket for a match for my cigar. We
were standing in deep shadow, Wiltshire House being on the further side
of the road, and in the full light of the moon. Having found a match, I
was about to strike it, when the figure of a man on the opposite side of
the street attracted my attention. The moonlight was so bright that I
could see him quite distinctly. He was of the poorest class, evidently a
street loafer of the description to be seen any night stretched out on
the grass of the Park. My astonishment may be imagined, therefore, when
I saw him deliberately ascend the three steps leading to the side door
of Wiltshire House. He paused for a moment, then the door was softly
opened to him, and he passed inside. Scarcely able to believe the
evidence of my eyes, I turned to the man beside me and enquired if he
had noticed it? He admitted that he had.
"What does it mean?" I asked. "Is it a case of burglary, do you think?"
"It looks like it, sir," he replied. "Whatever it is, he has got a
confederate inside."
"What do you think had better be done?" I enquired. "The Countess de
Venetza is a personal friend, and I cannot allow her house to be robbed
without making an effort to prevent it."
"We had better call the policeman on the beat," the man replied; "after
that we can arouse the household. There shouldn't be much difficulty in
securing the fellow. If you wouldn't mind keeping your eye on that door
for a few minutes, sir, I'll go off and find the constable."
I willingly agreed to watch the door, and the detective departed on his
errand. In something less than five minutes he returned, bringing two
policemen with him. The men had evidently been informed of my identity,
for they saluted respectfully, and one of them enquired what I wished
done in the matter.
"I think the better plan would be to call up the house-steward and
inform him of what we have seen," I replied. "You will then be able to
search the house and effect the capture of the burglar."
Leaving us to guard the door through which the old man had entered, one
of the policemen went round to the front of the house. The other
ascended the steps and rang the bell. To his first summons there was no
response, so he rang again. The bell echoed in the basement of the great
house, this time to some purpose, for a few minutes later a shuffling
footstep was heard within. Then the key turned in the lock and the door
was opened on the chain to the extent of a few inches.
"Who's there?" asked a man's voice.
"Police," answered the officer. "I'm here to warn you that there's a man
has just got into the house. Somebody let him in at this door."
"Man got into the house?" was the alarmed response. "You don't mean
that, I hope, policeman?"
"I do," replied the constable. "You had better let us come in and have a
look round. We've been watching the house and he hasn't come out yet. My
mate's round at the front, and there's a detective officer here. Get a
candle and we'll go through the rooms with you."
The thought that he was to be called upon to assist in the arrest of a
burglar was too much for the old man. He tremblingly invited the officer
to lead the way down the stairs to the basement. While they were absent
we remained at the door, expecting every minute to hear the sound of a
scuffle from within. Five minutes or so later they ascended once more
and the constable shook his head.
"Wherever else he is, sir," he said, addressing me, "he's not down
there."
The words had scarcely left his lips before the door at the further end
of the passage opened, and the Countess herself stood before us. Much to
my astonishment I saw that she was in full evening dress. Her appearance
was so entirely unexpected that I could only stare at her in surprise.
"What does this mean?" she enquired, with a haughtiness that sat well
upon her. "Why, surely it is Sir George Manderville! What can have
happened? This is rather a late hour for a call, Sir George!"
I explained what had occurred, told her of the man I had seen enter by
the side door, and whom I was perfectly certain had not come forth
again.
"Then he must be in the house now," she cried in a voice of alarm. "Who
can it be, and who could possibly have let him in?"
"Some dishonest member of your household," I replied. "It would be as
well if you were to find out who that person is. In the meantime, let me
beg of you to permit the officers to search the house."
To this she willingly assented, at the same time bidding the steward
rouse the housekeeper.
"While the search is proceeding won't you come to my boudoir, Sir
George?" she said. "I have been sitting there reading since I returned
from the theatre, and I am quite sure that the wretch, whoever he may
be, is not in that part of the building."
I followed her to the room in question, which was on the other side of
the house, and we were about to enter it, when the sound of a footstep
upon the stairs attracted my attention, and I looked up, to see her
cousin, Count Reiffenburg, descending towards us.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Why, Sir George Manderville, I did not
expect to find _you_ here!"
I briefly explained the situation to him, whereupon he remarked, with
that curious smile upon his face:--"It seems that you are destined
always to prove our benefactor. But while we are talking here the man
may make his escape. I think I will go round with the police, and see if
I can be of any assistance to them."
He left us, and for something like ten minutes the Countess and I waited
for the sound that was to proclaim the capture of the intruder. But no
such good fortune rewarded us. If the man were in the house--and of this
I had no doubt--he had managed to conceal himself so effectually that
the police could not find him. In the meantime the housekeeper had put
in an appearance, and was despatched to interrogate the female
domestics, and discover, if possible, who it was that had opened the
door. She returned with the information that she had found all the
maid-servants in bed and asleep, while the steward was equally certain
that none of the men under his charge had anything to do with the
occurrence. At last, after searching the house, the police were
compelled to confess that they were at a loss to understand what had
become of him.
"But there can be no doubt about his being here," I declared; "I
distinctly saw him enter. He was an old man, very ragged, with long grey
hair, and stooped as he walked. The detective officer who was with me at
the time can also corroborate what I say, if necessary."
"That is not necessary, for of course we accept your word," said
Reiffenburg with elaborate politeness. "The question is: if, as you say,
he entered, where is he now? He cannot have vanished into space, and we
have searched every corner without success."
"Then he must have an accomplice in the house who is hiding him," I
returned. "If both exits have been guarded, he cannot have got out."
By this time I was beginning to wish that I had had nothing to do with
the matter. The Countess, however, was profuse in her thanks to me, for
what she described as "a most considerate and friendly act."
Seeing that I could be of no further use to her, I apologized for my
intrusion and bade them good-night.
"Should we by any chance manage to secure the fellow, I will let you
know," said Reiffenburg, as we stood together at the front door. "I
fear, however, _we shall not be so fortunate_."
There was a sneer in his voice, for which I could have kicked him.
However, I kept my temper, and murmuring something to the effect that I
was glad to have been of service, I took my departure, and the door
closed behind me.
"That was one of the most extraordinary affairs I have ever known," I
said to the detective, as we turned our faces homewards. "I am quite at
a loss to account for it."
The detective stopped suddenly and looked at me.
"The lady and gentleman are particular friends of yours, sir, I
understand, and I don't know in that case whether I ought to tell you
what is in my mind. But I fancy I could throw a rather unexpected light
upon the affair."
"Speak out, then, by all means," I answered. "What was it you noticed?"
"This, sir," he said, and as he spoke he took from his pocket a small
piece of black matter about half the size of a pea. He handed it to me
and asked if I had seen it before. I informed him that I was quite sure
I had not.
"It only bears out, sir, what I was saying as we came down Park Lane,
just before we reached Wiltshire House. If it weren't for little things,
that they overlook, we shouldn't be able to lay our hands on half the
criminals we want. Now mind you, sir, I don't mean to infer by that that
your friend Count Reiffenburg is a criminal. Not at all; that would be a
very wrong thing to say. He's probably been playing a practical joke, as
gentlemen will. The fact, however, remains that he gave himself away
with that little lump of black stuff, just as surely as Bill Coakes of
the Minories did when he gave his sweetheart the silk handkerchief that
he picked up in old Mrs Burgiss's bedroom. He didn't think it was of any
importance, but she wore it, quarrelled with a girl over it, the police
came to hear of it, and Bill was caught. So it was just that slip that
brought him to the gallows."
"I do not understand you," I replied, still holding the tiny bit of
black stuff in my hand. "What is the connection between this substance
and Count Reiffenburg?"
"It's the key to the whole puzzle, sir," he said, and took it from me.
Turning his face away, he put his hand to his mouth, and then wheeling
round again, parted his lips and showed me his teeth. The eye-tooth on
the right-hand side was missing. He put up his hand once more, and lo!
it was restored to its place.
"That's what I mean, sir," he said. "Now I noticed, when the gentleman
came downstairs, that one of his eye-teeth were missing. He wanted to
make himself look old, I suppose, and when he had taken off the other
pieces, had forgotten to remove that one. Then he must have remembered
it, for his hand went up to his mouth, and next minute it was on the
floor, where I managed to get hold of it."
"Do you mean to infer that the old man we saw enter the house was the
Count Reiffenburg?" I asked, aghast.
"That is my belief, sir," said the man; "and I feel certain that if I
were allowed to search his bedroom, I should find my suspicions
corroborated."
"But what possible reason could he have for masquerading as a pauper
outcast, and who let him in?"
"As to his reason, sir, I can hazard no sort of guess," he continued.
"But it was the lady herself who let him in."
"How on earth do you know that?"
"By a process of simple reasoning, sir. Did you happen to notice that,
when we returned to the hall after our search of the first section of
the house, the gentleman carried a book in his hand?"
"Now that you mention the fact I _do_ remember it," I answered. "But
what has the book to do with it?"
"A great deal," he answered. "You may not be aware of the fact, but
there's a small sitting-room near that side door--a tiny place where the
housekeeper does her accounts. The book, when we first searched the
room, was lying upon the table."
"May not the housekeeper have been reading it before she went to bed?"
"The housekeeper is an Englishwoman, sir, and not very well educated. I
should call it remarkable if she knew Italian, and little short of
marvellous if she read Dante in the original. Now, sir, when Count
Reiffenburg entered the lady's boudoir, he brought that book with him
and placed it on one of the tables. He wouldn't have done that if it had
been the property of the housekeeper, would he? No, sir! Count
Reiffenburg was out, and the young lady, who is his cousin, I think I
understood you to say, sir, sat up for him in order to be near the door.
That's the way I read the riddle."
"And I must confess that you have a certain amount of probability on
your side," I answered. "At the same time, if I were you, I should say
nothing about the discovery. It can serve no good purpose to bruit it
abroad. Do you think the two policemen noticed anything of the kind?"
The detective gave a scornful little laugh. "I don't think you need have
much fear on that score, sir," he answered. "I doubt very much whether
the man who went round with me noticed the book at all. His theory was
that the fellow we saw enter was one of the servants who had been out
late, and not a burglar at all."
By this time we had reached my own residence, and I bade the man
good-night upon the steps. Having let myself in, I went to my study to
deposit some papers I had brought with me from the House, then to my
bedroom and to bed. The incident at Wiltshire House annoyed me, if only
for the reason that I could not understand it. What could the young
Count Reiffenburg have been doing--if it were he, as the detective
declared--wandering about London in that attire? That in itself was bad
enough, but it was made much worse by the knowledge that his beautiful
cousin had been conniving at his escapade. One thing was quite certain;
if I had entertained a dislike for Reiffenburg before, it was doubled
now. At last, tired by my long day and the events that had concluded it,
I fell asleep, and did not wake until I opened my eyes to find Williams
standing beside my bed, overcome with excitement and horror.
"What is the matter, man?" I cried. "What makes you look like that?"
"There's terrible news, sir," he faltered. "There's been a lot lately,
but this is the worst of all."
"What is the matter, man?" I cried for the second time. "Don't stand
there trembling. Tell me what has happened."
"I scarcely know how to tell you, sir," he answered, his voice almost
failing him.
"Then give me the paper and let me look for myself," I said, and took it
from him. On the page before me, in large type, was an announcement that
made me feel sick and giddy:--
"ASSASSINATION OF THE PRIME MINISTER!"
My horror was greater even than Williams's had been. I read the heavy
black lines over and over again, as if unable to grasp their meaning.
The Prime Minister dead! My old friend and Chief murdered! Could it be
possible?
When I had recovered my composure a little, I took up the paper, and
tried to read the account there set forth. There had only been time for
the insertion of a short paragraph, but its importance was such that it
would ring throughout the world. It ran as follows:--
"It is with a sorrow that cannot be expressed in words, that we
record the fact that the Right Honourable, the Earl of Litford,
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, and Prime Minister of
England, was assassinated soon after midnight. The Prime Minister
was last seen alive by his private secretary, in the study at his
residence at Grosvenor Square. He had left the House of Lords
early, but, with the exception of a slight headache, appeared to be
in the best of health and spirits. The presumption is that he was
stabbed in the back, but how the wound was inflicted, and by whom,
are matters which, at present, cannot be explained."
I could find no words to express my horror and surprise. It was only a
few hours since he had congratulated me upon my speech in answer to the
accusations of certain members of the Little Englander Party; now
England was bereft, by as foul an act as had ever been committed in the
annals of crime, of one of her greatest statesmen and of one of her
noblest sons.
Craving further particulars, I dressed with all speed, and then drove to
his residence in Grosvenor Square. Leaving my cab, I walked towards the
well-known house, before which a large number of people had collected.
Recognising me, they allowed me to pass, and so I gained the front door
of the house I had so often entered as the friend and colleague of the
dead man. I was shown into the morning-room, where presently I was
joined by the secretary, who, as the newspapers had reported, had been
the last to see him before the tragedy took place.
"Tell me about it," I said, after we had greeted each other.
From his narrative I gathered that the dead man, on his return from the
House, after spending half-an-hour with his wife, went to his study. His
secretary followed him there, to ascertain if he could be of any further
assistance to him. He found him seated at the table writing, and was
informed by him that he required nothing more, and that it would not be
very long before he himself retired to rest.
"Was the window in the study open?" I asked.
"No," he answered; "it was closed, and the shutters were barred. That
was at half-past eleven. At half-past twelve, wondering why her husband
did not come upstairs, Lady Litford went in search of him. Her horror
may be pictured when she discovered him, seated in his chair, quite
dead. He had been stabbed to the heart from behind."
"And were there no traces of any one having entered the room?"
"Not one. The police have taken possession of it, but so far they have
been unable to discover any trace of the assassin's entry or the means
by which he effected his departure."
"And Lady Litford? How does she bear up under the blow?"
"So bravely, that it makes one's heart ache to see her."
Then, at my request, he conducted me upstairs, and I was permitted to
gaze upon the face of the dead man. It was as peaceful as in life's
serenest moments, calm and dignified--the face of a man who has done his
duty to his Sovereign and his country, and whose life has been given in
her service. Then, with a sorrow in my heart greater than I had known
for many years, I looked my last upon the face of the dead, and I left
the room.
When I had sent a message of deepest sympathy to the widow, I bade the
secretary good-bye, and left the house. So awe-struck was the crowd by
the magnitude of the tragedy, that scarcely a sound came from it,
though, as if in proof of sympathy, here and there a hand was stretched
out to me.
"He was a good man and a proper gentleman," said a burly costermonger.
"It's a pity we hadn't more like him."
It seemed to me that that homely speech was as fine an eulogium of the
dead as could have been spoken by the most cultured tongue.
I often wonder now what I should have done, had I known the part I had
unconsciously played in that terrible drama. At that moment, lying, no
one knew where--perhaps in the crevice of some paving-stone, or carried
into the water-table by a passing shower--was a small piece of black
wax, which, could it have spoken, would have been able to tell a tale
without its equal for treachery and villainy in all the world. How I
became aware of this, you will learn as my story progresses.
CHAPTER VI
The catalogue of woes, which it has been my ill-fortune to be compelled
to chronicle, is indeed a long one, but of all the items I have set
down, none had had such a terrible effect upon the public mind as the
assassination of the Prime Minister. Expressions of genuine sorrow
poured forth from every side, and party feeling, for the time being at
least, was forgotten. Even the most antagonistic of the Continental
journals, though perhaps rejoicing in their hearts at Great Britain's
misfortune, admitted that she was passing through a time of severe
trial, and while they prophesied our ultimate downfall, showed very
plainly their admiration for our fortitude. Indeed the self-control of
the nation at this particular period was a little short of marvellous.
The war was draining her of her best blood; those at the helm of the
Ship of State were being one by one mysteriously done away with; she had
been the victim of a vast scheme of false intelligence, her great
arsenal had been blown up and the supply of munitions of war thereby
seriously imperilled at the most critical juncture; a large proportion
of her army were prisoners in the enemy's hands, and three other
portions were locked up in beleaguered towns. Yet, with it all, she
continued the struggle with as much determination as she had first
entered upon it. The bull-dog tenacity permeated all classes; it was
shared by the peer, the country squire, the small farmer, the tradesman
and the artizan; it was voiced by the Prime Minister, and echoed by the
costermonger. Whatever it might cost, England was resolved to win in the
end. That end, however, was still far off, and much blood would have to
be spilt and a large amount of money spent before we should be able to
call ourselves the victors.
Meanwhile, troops were still pouring out of England, and more were
hastening to her assistance from Australia and Canada. Even in these
loyal portions of the Empire, however, strenuous efforts were being made
by some mysterious power, upon which it was impossible to lay hands, to
undermine their affection for the mother country. Treasonable pamphlets
were distributed broadcast; an infernal machine was discovered on board
a troop-ship on the point of sailing from a Queensland port; another was
discovered on board a transport in Sydney harbour; while a third vessel,
owing to the wilful carelessness of the captain, who was afterwards
arraigned on a charge of High Treason, but was acquitted for want of
sufficient evidence, was put ashore, with all her troops on board, on
the coast of South Australia. It was in Canada, however, that the
trouble was worst. Its proximity to the United States favoured the
Fenian propaganda, and, despite the loyalty of the French Canadians--of
which no one felt a doubt--an attempt was made to induce them to swerve
in their allegiance to the Empire. Such was the state of affairs when
Lord Litford's successor took up the reins of office.
It must not be thought that, because they achieved no result, the police
were lax in their attempts to discover the perpetrator or perpetrators
of that cruel crime. To employ again that well-worn phrase, not a stone
was left unturned to arrive at an understanding of the manner in which
the deed was done. One thing was quite certain, it had been carefully
planned; but then so had the disappearance of Woller and the Colonial
Secretary. The destruction of Woolwich Arsenal was a work of devilish
ingenuity; while the blowing up of the transport _Sultan of Sedang_ at
Madeira was arranged to a nicety. In the case of the Prime Minister, the
servants and members of his household were interrogated, but were all
dismissed from the case as being beyond suspicion. They unitedly
declared that, to the best of their belief, no stranger had entered the
house up to the time of their going to bed, nor had any suspicious
person been seen in its vicinity during the day. Moreover, the police on
duty in the Square had been instructed to keep a watchful eye upon the
house, and they were able to affirm that they had seen no one loitering
near the Prime Minister's residence from the earliest hours of morning
until the time that the news of the tragedy was made known. Yet the fact
remained that some one _had_ entered the house, and had been able to
make his way unobserved to the library, where the crime was committed,
and afterwards to get out again undiscovered. Needless to say, a large
reward was offered by the authorities for any information which would
lead to a conviction; but though a multitude of communications were
received in answer to it, from all sorts and conditions of people, not
one was of any value.
On the Friday following the assassination of the Prime Minister, and
the day before the funeral, according to custom I took a constitutional
in the Park before going down to my office. As a matter of fact I was
somewhat earlier than usual, and for that reason, with the exception of
a few riders in the Row, and the customary bicycle contingent, the Park
was comparatively empty. I entered by the Grosvenor Gate, walked as far
as the Barracks, and then retraced my steps towards Piccadilly, passing
along the north bank of the Serpentine. I had several difficult problems
to work out that day, and one of them was occupying my mind as I walked
beside the lake. Suddenly a voice I recognised fell upon my ear, and I
looked up to find, seated a few paces distant from me, no less a person
than the Countess de Venetza. She was engaged in an earnest conversation
with a dark, foreign-looking individual, an Italian, without the shadow
of a doubt. The Countess did not see me at first, but, as soon as she
did, she said something hurriedly to the man beside her and came forward
to greet me.
"You are out early, Sir George," she began. "The Park is delightful at
this time of the day, is it not?"
"Delightful indeed," I replied. "I did not expect, however, to have the
pleasure of meeting you in it."
"I walk here almost every morning," she answered. And then, after we had
uttered a few commonplaces, she continued: "And now, while I think of
it, let me apologize to you for my rudeness in having omitted to thank
you again for the great service you rendered us on the occasion of the
burglary at Wiltshire House. Had it not been for your prompt action, we
should have been more seriously robbed, while it is quite possible that
something worse might have happened."
"You say that you might have been '_more seriously robbed'?_" I
returned. "Am I to understand, then, that the man was found in the house
after all?"
"He was not found _in the house_," she replied. "But we have discovered
by what means he effected his escape from it. While Conrad and the
police were looking for him downstairs, he was hidden in a dressing-room
adjoining that which used to be my father's apartment, at the back of
the house. When they ascended the stairs he opened the window and
lowered himself down to a roof below. Then he must have made his way
through the mews at the back and reached safety again. In proof of this
a small silver ornament, one of the few missing things, was found next
day in the guttering of the roof."
If this were so, then the detective's statement to the effect that the
man who had entered the house was none other than young Reiffenburg was
altogether beyond the mark, and would only serve to show the folly of
judging by purely circumstantial evidence.
"In that case, who do you suspect of having admitted him to the house?"
I enquired, for this was a point of considerable importance.
"An under-footman," she replied, "who has since been discharged. His
behaviour struck Conrad as being rather suspicious at the time, but it
was not until other things were found to be missing, that we derived a
real knowledge of his character."
"I am rejoiced to know that the mystery has been solved," I said. "But
pray forgive me, Countess; see, I have driven your friend away."
She gave a start before she replied.
"He is not my friend," she answered somewhat hurriedly, "merely a
begging compatriot. The poor fellow is a teacher of music, who puts
forward his art as a claim upon my bounty. He is anxious to return to
Italy, but cannot do so for want of means."
Now there was one point about this speech that I did not understand. As
I had approached the seat, I distinctly heard the foreigner say
authoritatively in Italian: "It is the order of the Council and must be
obeyed." Of course the words might have meant anything, but the tone was
certainly one of authority. It struck me as being peculiar that an
impoverished music-master, soliciting the Countess's assistance, should
address her in such a tone. Why I should have bothered myself with the
fellow's affairs I cannot say. The impulse, however, was irresistible.
"To be stranded in a strange country is a hard fate," I said. "Since I
am also a devotee of his beautiful art, will you not permit me to assist
you in your work of benevolence. If you will furnish me with the man's
name and address, I will see that he is helped to attain his object."
As I said this I could not help thinking that I detected a frightened
look in her face.
"Oh, no, you must not do that," she said hurriedly. "He is a very proud
man, and would only accept help from me because I am a compatriot and
happen to know something of his family. I feel sure that he would be
extremely angry with me if he knew that I had said anything to you upon
the subject."
"I am sorry that you will not let me assist him," I said. "I have no
desire, however, to hurt his feelings. Forget that I said anything about
it."
"Ah! now I have offended you," she continued, with a look of pain upon
her face. "Forgive me, I am very thoughtless. Had we been speaking my
own Italian it would have been different. Your English is so hard, so
unsympathetic."
Her voice was so full of entreaty, her whole demeanour so expressive of
sorrow, that I almost repented me of the trick I had endeavoured to play
upon her. What did it matter to me whether the man were an old friend,
or only the stranger she had represented him to be? I accordingly begged
her to say no more upon the subject, assuring her that I was not in the
least hurt at her declining my offer. This seemed to soothe her, and
presently, when we had walked some little distance beside the water, her
cheerfulness returned. She had been amusing herself of late, so she
informed me, by working out a sketch for the dinner-party to which she
had invited me. It was to be an unique affair of its kind.
"All that remains to be settled is, when shall it be?" she asked. "How
would Thursday next suit you?"
"Impossible, I am afraid," I answered. "I have promised to go to
Aldershot on Wednesday, to be present next day at an inspection of the
men who are to sail on Saturday for the South."
"Then would the Wednesday following suit you?"
"Admirably," I replied. "It would be more convenient for a variety of
reasons."
"Then it is settled that we are to dine together on Wednesday week at
eight o'clock. You will not forget?"
"Is it likely that I should be guilty of such rudeness?" I asked, and
then added, with what was for me unusual gallantry, "I shall count the
days that must elapse before the time can arrive."
"I am hopeful of being able to get the Duke of Rotherhithe to meet you,"
she said. "Do you know that he is in England?"
"I was not aware of it," I answered; "but I am very glad to hear it,
nevertheless."
I did not say that one of my reasons for being glad was that I hoped to
be able to obtain from him some particulars concerning my fair friend. I
remembered the statement she had made during our journey from Paris
together, to the effect that she and her father had been yachting with
Rotherhithe in the Mediterranean. If they were on such intimate terms it
was more than likely that my old friend would know more about her than
any one else in our world of fashion would be likely to do.
When we reached Hyde Park Corner we paused for a few moments. I do not
think she could ever have looked more beautiful than she did then,
certainly never more dangerous.
"I wonder if, after we part, we shall ever meet again?" she said, with
what was almost a touch of sadness in her voice.
"Are you, then, thinking of leaving England soon?" I asked in some
surprise, for until that moment she had not spoken of terminating her
visit.
"I do not think we shall remain very much longer," she replied. "I have
duties abroad that are calling for my attention."
"I hope when you go that you will be able to say you have enjoyed your
stay with us?" I said.
"I should have," she replied, "had it not been for this dreadful war.
But as things are, how could one enjoy oneself?"
Had I known then all that I now know, I should have realized the double
meaning contained in her remark. But more of that anon.
At last we bade each other good-bye, and separated, she crossing the
Park in the direction of Wiltshire House, while I passed out and made my
way over Constitution Hill towards Pall Mall.
On the Wednesday following the event I have just described, I
accompanied the Commander-in-Chief and several other members of the
Government to Aldershot, to inspect the large body of troops then about
to leave for the front. We were to be the guests of Lord Beckingdale
during the time we were there, and were to return to London on the
Thursday evening after the inspection. We accordingly left Waterloo
together, proceeded by train to Farnborough, and then drove to Lord
Beckingdale's residence by coach. It was a glorious afternoon, and the
change from London to the country was delightful. I commented upon this,
whereupon Beckingdale, who is one of my oldest friends, began to rally
me on my preference for the Metropolis.
"I thought you would get over it in time," he said with one of his
hearty laughs. "Why don't you marry, George, and settle down in the
country? You would make an ideal Squire."
"I should be bored to death in a week," I replied. "Besides, who is
there that would take pity on me? I am not so young as I was, and I am
afraid that I have had my liberty too long to make a good husband."
As I said this the image of the Countess rose before my mind's eye,
though why it should have done so at this particular moment is more than
I can say. Though I admired her intensely, my admiration went no
further. She was a delightful hostess and an exceedingly clever woman,
but I should no more have thought of making her Lady Manderville than I
should have tried to jump from the Clock Tower of the Houses of
Parliament into the river.
At that moment we were descending a steep hill, through a closely-wooded
plantation. We were half-way down, when I happened to catch sight of a
man standing among the trees, some fifty yards or so from the road.
Strange to say, he was watching us through a pair of field-glasses, and
was evidently much interested in our movements, though it looked as if
he himself had no desire to attract attention. Then he disappeared
amongst the brushwood, and, for the time being, I thought no more about
him.
On reaching the Park, we were most cordially received by Lady
Beckingdale, and partook of afternoon tea with her in the hall, which is
one of the most charming features of that beautiful house. A stroll
round the grounds, and a visit to the stud farm afterwards, wiled away
the time until the dressing gong sounded. Then we returned to the house,
and made our way to our various rooms. Before commencing to dress I went
to the windows and looked out. The gardens on that particular side of
the house slope upwards until they reach the small paddock which
separates them from the woods behind. Now I have a fairly sharp eye, and
a faculty of noticing, which sometimes stands me in good stead. On this
particular occasion I was watching the evening light upon the trees in
the plantation opposite, when suddenly I saw a brace of pheasants fly
quickly out, followed by half-a-dozen more. They had evidently been
disturbed by some human being.
"Just give me my glasses for a moment, Williams," I said, and in a trice
he had handed me the pair I had brought down for the inspection next
day. Seating myself in the window, I brought them to bear upon the spot
where the birds had flown out. For a moment I could see nothing. Then I
thought I could detect what looked like a grey trouser-leg, peeping out
beneath the branches of a fir. I called Williams to my side and handed
him the glasses, directing him where to look.
"What do you make of it?" I asked.
"It looks as if there's somebody hiding there, sir," he answered. "Yes,
sir, I'm sure of it," he added a few moments later. "If you will look
now, you will be able to see him creeping away."
I took the glasses again and once more turned them upon the spot. What
he had said was quite correct; the figure of a man dressed in a grey
suit could just be distinguished disappearing into the deeper part of
the wood. It immediately occurred to me that the man I had seen that
afternoon, when we were on our way to the Park, had also been dressed
in grey. Could this be the individual who had watched us then? And if
so, what were his reasons for behaving in this mysterious fashion? I did
not like the idea of it, remembering as I did the dangerous condition of
the times, and the manner in which so many of my friends had been
attacked.
"Keep what you have seen to yourself, Williams," I said; "I will speak
to Lord Beckingdale myself about it when I go downstairs. If the man is
a poacher, or has any dishonest reason for being there, he will know
what to do in the matter."
Williams promised to obey my instructions, and when I had dressed, I
made my way downstairs to find our host and the Commander-in-Chief
standing before the fire-place, in which a cheerful fire was burning.
"By the way, Beckingdale," I said, when I had answered the remark one of
them made to me as I descended the stairs, "who is the man in your
plantation with the grey suit and field-glasses."
"Man with grey suit and field-glasses?" he repeated, with a look of
surprise on his face. "I have many friends who are the happy possessors
of both articles. But what makes you ask me such a question at the
present moment?"
"For a good and sufficient reason," I replied, and went on to tell him
of the two occasions that afternoon upon which I had seen the person in
question.
"What a singular thing!" he said, when I had finished. "I wonder who the
fellow is, and what his idea can be in watching the house? As you are
aware, the place is being patrolled by police to-night, and I think I
had better inform them of the circumstance. After the terrible events of
the last few weeks it does not do to run any risks. Can you describe the
man?"
I furnished him with as accurate a description of the fellow as it was
possible to give, whereupon he departed in search of the officer in
command of the police. When he returned we joined the ladies in the
drawing-room, and then went in to dinner. It was not until the ladies
had withdrawn and cigarettes were lighted, that the subject of the grey
man was introduced. A small piece of paper was handed to our host by the
butler. He glanced at it and then looked across the table to where I
sat.
"Here is the police report," he said. "It informs me that they have
scoured all the plantations round the estate with the assistance of the
keepers, but have not been successful in discovering the man you saw. No
doubt he was some prying celebrity hunter, who has taken himself off, to
Aldershot probably, where he will have no opportunity of seeing you
to-morrow."
This brought a round of questions from the others, who, with the
exception of the Commander-in-Chief, had not heard of the incident. When
each man had settled the question to his own satisfaction, the subject
was dropped, and we rose from the table to return to the drawing-room.
Here we indulged in music and conversation until half-past ten o'clock,
smoked in the billiard-room for another hour, and at half-past eleven
bade each other good-night in the gallery that ran round the hall, and
retired to our respective rooms. By this time the character of the night
had changed. A boisterous wind had risen, and heavy rain was driven
tempestuously against the window-panes. It certainly did not look very
promising for the inspection on the morrow. I inquired from Williams
whether anything further had been heard concerning the man we had both
seen in the plantation opposite the house.
"Not that I know of, sir," he replied; "I did not hear it mentioned. But
there's one thing that's been on my mind ever since you spoke to me
about it to-night, and I must own that it puzzles me. I don't say it's
right, of course; at the same time I've got a feeling that I'm not so
very far wrong."
"What is it?" I enquired with interest, for Williams is a staid and
circumspect individual, and is not in the habit of committing himself to
a rash statement.
"It is just this, sir. When you sent me down to the Commander-in-Chief's
residence with that note this morning, there was a man walking on the
opposite side of the street who, to the best of my belief, was dressed
just as this man was--that is to say, in a grey suit and a soft black
hat."
"There is nothing very remarkable in that," I answered, a little
disappointed. "You would probably find a dozen men dressed in a similar
fashion in a short walk through the West End."
"I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought the coincidence worth
mentioning," Williams replied in rather a crestfallen way. Then he bade
me good-night and I retired to rest.
That night I slept like a top, and did not wake until Williams entered
my room next morning. He informed me that the rain had passed off, that
it was a fine day, and then busied himself with preparations for my
toilet. These were barely accomplished, and I was in the act of
commencing to shave, when the handle of my door turned, and Beckingdale,
almost beside himself with excitement, entered the room.
"Great Heavens! Manderville," he cried in a voice which, had I not seen
him, I should scarcely have recognised as his, "a most awful thing has
happened. The Commander-in-Chief is missing."
"Missing?" I echoed, as if I scarcely understood the meaning of the
word. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that his valet came to my man, Walters, about half an hour ago,
and told him that he had knocked repeatedly on the door of his master's
bedroom and could get no reply. My man came to me with the story, and
when I had tried the door myself with the same result, I gave orders
that it should be broken in. You may imagine our feelings when we
discovered the room to be empty. The bed had been slept in, it is true,
but there was not a trace of the man we wanted. What was more, the
windows were shut. The police are now searching in all directions. What
on earth shall we do? The inspection is at eleven o'clock, and it is
most unlikely that we shall have the good fortune to find him before
then."
Terrible as the situation was, I could not help recalling the fact that
I had taken part in just such another interview on the morning of
Woller's disappearance, when the Commander-in-Chief had asked my advice
as to what should be done to find the missing man before that identical
hour.
"Help me if you possibly can," cried Beckingdale, who, like myself, was
quite overwhelmed by the magnitude of the misfortune. "Though I know I
am not to blame, I cannot help reproaching myself for having permitted
this to happen in my house. How can it have been managed, and who can
have done it?"
I shook my head.
"The same mysterious power that is responsible for Woller's
disappearance and for the Prime Minister's death," I said. "But who is
there amongst us who can say what that power is. Good Heavens!" I
cried, as the consequences rose before me, "the Commander-in-Chief gone!
I can scarcely credit it. Surely some one must have heard something?
What room is beneath his bedroom?"
"The dining-room, unfortunately," Beckingdale replied, "and as ill luck
would have it, the room adjoining it on the right is empty, while
M'Innister occupies that on the left. The latter says he heard nothing
suspicious, but that's easily accounted for, by reason of his deafness
and the storm we had. But what on earth can have become of him? I would
give anything to have him before me now. How cheerful he was last night,
and how sanguine as to the ultimate end of the war! This will prove
another bitter blow to the nation."
"And it has had enough already," I replied. "We had better telegraph to
the War Office and Scotland Yard at once."
"I have already done that," he said. "I have also sent a special
messenger to the commanding officer down here, informing him of the
occurrence, and asking him to send out troops to scour the country in
the hope of discovering some trace of the missing man. I do not see
what else we can do at the present."
Then a thought struck me. What about the grey man whom Williams declared
he had seen on the previous morning near the Commander-in-Chief's
residence, whom I had seen watching us through field-glasses, on our way
to Beckingdale Park, and whom Williams and I had both seen in the
plantation opposite the house when I went up to dress for dinner? I
recalled the fact of his presence to Beckingdale.
"I have not forgotten him," he said. "Directly I heard that they could
not get into his room, a suspicion of what might be in store for us
flashed through my mind, and I said to myself, 'If anything has happened
to him, I shall say that Manderville's grey man is mixed up in the
business.' As soon as the worst was apparent, I spoke to the police upon
the subject, and they have once more made an effort to find him or to
hear of him, without success. The grey man is as mysteriously missing as
the Commander-in-Chief himself, and as to the part he played in the
other's disappearance, it seems to me that we are likely to remain as
ignorant as we are of everything else. Now, dress as quickly as you
can, there's a good fellow, and come down to my study. We must hold a
council together, and see what's to be done."
I did as he desired, and when I was ready I made my way to his study.
When I reached it I found Beckingdale and the one other guest awaiting
my coming. The terrible effect that had been produced by the news of the
morning was to be seen on their faces. For upwards of an hour we
discussed the question in all its bearings, but eager as we were to do
all that lay in our power to render assistance to the missing man, we
were obliged to confess that we were unable to do anything. By this time
wires were pouring in from all parts, and it is quite certain that the
powers of the little village telegraph office had never been so severely
taxed before. At ten o'clock it was decided, by unanimous consent, that
the inspection should be abandoned in the absence of the Commander-in
Chief, and accordingly, at half-past ten, we returned to town. It is
needless for me to say that it was a miserable journey. Our spirits were
as low as it was possible for the spirits of human beings to be. On
reaching Waterloo we drove direct to the Foreign Office, where a
Cabinet Council had been hastily called together. When it was over I
drove home. The streets echoed to the cries of the newsboys:--
"DISAPPEARANCE OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!
DISAPPEARANCE OF THE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!"
That evening a new sensation was added to the already long list when it
was known that the notorious anarchist, Luigi Ferreira, had managed to
escape from prison some days before, and was supposed to have crossed
the Channel and to be in London. Had I only known then that he was the
man I had seen talking so excitedly to the Countess in the Park, a few
mornings before, and that at that very moment he was occupying a room at
Wiltshire House, as a supposed invalid, how speedily might retribution
have descended upon him.
Unfortunately, however, I did not know!
CHAPTER VII
The state of mind into which England was plunged by the news of the
disappearance of the Commander-in-Chief cannot be fittingly described by
a pen so weak as mine. It was not that we had lost anything of our
former courage, or that we had resigned all hope of coming out victors
in the struggle. We were as resolved as ever to carry this war through
to the bitter end, yet the news clanged like a death knell upon a
thousand hearts. Of my own feelings I will not speak. That expressed by
the nation voices my own. I was sad, how sad few can guess, but despite
my sorrow I declared that the war must go on--that the end should be
reached. And now to turn to a brighter subject.
On the Tuesday before the day I was due to dine at Wiltshire House, I
had the good fortune to receive a visit from an old friend. He was none
other than the Duke of Rotherhithe, the gentleman who had been obliging
enough to convey the Countess de Venetza and her father from
Constantinople to Naples on a certain memorable occasion, and who was
known to entertain a great admiration for her. Having had a somewhat
busy morning, I did not reach home until after two o'clock. I had
scarcely sat down to lunch, before Thompson, my butler, informed me that
the Duke of Rotherhithe was anxious to see me.
"My dear fellow, this is friendly of you," I said, as we shook hands a
few moments later. "You are just in time for lunch. I have only this
minute commenced."
"You couldn't offer me anything better," he replied. "I have eaten
nothing all the morning. By Jove! how good it is to see your face again,
old man, and what a swell you have become, to be sure, since I saw you
last--Cabinet Minister, and I don't know what else besides. You'll be
Premier before you've done."
"Not quite so high as that," I answered. "I have my ambitions, I will
admit, but I am afraid that the Premiership is scarcely the one that
will be likely to be realised."
One thing was quite certain: Rotherhithe was in the most excellent
spirits. His honest, manly face was wreathed in smiles, and had an
artist been present he might have used it for the personification of
Happiness. Throughout the meal he laughed and joked continually,
recalled old days, old escapades, long since forgotten on my side, and
vowed that we were both of us growing younger instead of older. That
there was something unusual about it all I could plainly see, but what
that something was I had not then the least idea. My suspicions,
however, were aroused very soon.
"By the way," I said, when we had finished lunch, "let me tell you that
I have lately had the pleasure to be of some service to an old friend of
yours."
"An old friend of mine?" he said, with what I could not help thinking
was pretended surprise. "Who is the friend?"
"The Countess de Venetza," I replied. "The lady whose wealth and beauty
have made her such a prominent figure in London Society of late. She
told me that she had been yachting with you in the Mediterranean, and
spoke quite feelingly of your kindness to herself and her father. Do you
mean to tell me that you don't recollect her?"
"Recollect her? of course I do," he said, still with the same sheepish
look upon his face. "Oh yes, I remember her well enough. And so you've
been kind to her, have you?"
Here he laughed in a foolish fashion to himself.
"Umph!" I said to myself, "surely he cannot have been idiotic enough to
have----"
I stopped myself abruptly. I knew very well that I should hear all the
news he had to tell quite soon enough.
At last Thompson and the men left the room, and an expression of great
solemnity took possession of my friend's countenance. What was more, he
drew his chair a little closer to mine.
"My dear old fellow," he said, laying his hand on my arm, "we have been
friends many years. In point of fact I don't know of a man whose good
wishes I should so thoroughly appreciate. By Jove, old fellow, I am the
happiest being in the world! So happy, in fact, that I'm dashed if I
know whether I am standing on my head or my heels!"
"Let me reassure you then," I said dryly. "You are standing on your
heels at the present moment."
"Confou
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